Land of the Brave and the Free (Journals of Corrie Belle Hollister Book 7)

by Michael Phillips

  I know you sent her to me, Lord—perhaps as a reminder that life is a good and precious thing to seek, even if I have often felt alone in the quest. Help me, Father, to never stop looking for the depths of life in the faces I pass by every day. Give me your words to speak, your smiles to smile, your hands of help and encouragement with which to bring your salt to the earth, and, above all, your eyes to see deeply into all men and women—most of all into myself!—into those innermost regions where you see them and you see me. Give me eyes to see as you see, Father! I desire to see into hearts and to love with a love that is yours, whether or not those I see and those I love know and see with your eyes.

  Again my eyes scanned the sleeping face. It was not, I suppose, a noteworthy or remarkable face in the way the world considers remarkable. But the world’s eyes look only to the surface of things, and what is a face but the outward means by which a man or woman’s inner being rises to the surface and escapes into the atmosphere of relationships? Men look to the outer, and, if they are satisfied to probe no deeper, then interact with that outer shell—dare I even call it a facade?—thinking it is all there is. Thus they rarely approach the region of true personhood in their approach with other individuals with whom they have to do.

  But a face for me is far more, a gateway into the regions where personhood dwells. And when I gaze upon a face long enough, what but love can sprout and grow within my bosom! For each man or woman’s personhood is a precious and wondrous thing—created by the hand of Love like no other in all the universe! The eyes are the windows. Try as they might to shut their houses tight against unwanted intrusions, every face has two wide, glorious, beautiful, radiant windows whose purpose, I believe with all my heart, is only partially to enable us to see out, but equally to allow others to see in.

  The face before me was full, to my eyes, of personality and adventure! Though the windows were for a time closed, I could surmise that it had been many places and had seen and known and experienced much about which I could only guess. It was a tall face, and I liked that immediately. A tall forehead above the tan eyebrows, and a chin that extended a good way down below the mouth. It was a face with room, without limitations. I found myself hoping that perhaps the owner to whom the face belonged was like that, too—large of soul, expansive, able to reach high but at the same time able to feel deeply in the low valleys of life as well. I hoped it was a tall, growing, unbounded spirit.

  The eyes, though closed, were wide-set above a perfectly straight nose. This also boded well, for they appeared to be eyes well out toward the surface rather than deep-set. They would not, I was sure, be prone to squinting and narrowness of vision. I had a feeling they would be hungering, probing, inquisitive, outlooking eyes, not inward, tight, self-focused. Oh, how I desired to see the eyes themselves!

  The cheeks were full, though not plump. High cheekbones were visible, pale now from the loss of blood and the struggle for life. But I had the distinct feeling that those cheeks were well-acquainted with exertion and capable of high color. The lips I already had more than a passing acquaintance with in the struggle to get liquids into her mouth and down her throat. They were full lips. From the shape of her mouth, I got the impression that this young lady knew how to express herself and communicate and probably found no trouble laughing as well. Unless I was gravely mistaken, here was one in whom life was indeed developing. Perhaps it was another of the reasons I so desperately besought the Lord on behalf of her recovery. I knew there was something here too vital and alive and wonderful to allow this war to snuff out before God’s time. Light brown hair falling below the shoulders filled out the top and surrounded the face. It had been dirty and full of bits of leaves and twigs, but I had done my best to wash it as she lay there, as I had, with Mrs. Timms’ help, the rest of her clothes and person.

  I sat a few moments longer.

  I removed my hand from the forehead. The movement and twitching of its muscles had stopped. The eyes had similarly grown quiet. Again she seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

  Then suddenly another change began to come. The eyes twitched again, but this time it was not in response to a dream. It was the twitch of a blink, then another, struggling to blink hard enough that the reflex motion would carry the lips upward.

  Then—wonder of wonders!—the moment came! The lids slowly rose, cautious at first against the sudden infusion of light. They came up halfway, then shut again, seemingly resting for the final effort.

  And then, all at once . . . the windows opened fully, and the light poured in!

  Such eyes they were!

  My heart bounded with indescribable delight! The unknown face was suddenly alive with depths of being at which I had only till then been able to faintly guess. Such love flooded through me just at the wondrous sight! How could God put such love for others of humankind within my breast!

  The light brown could not have been more perfectly suited to the hair that flowed from above it, and the dainty light brown eyebrows resting calmly above the two shining orbs.

  For a moment I could tell the eyes were unfocused, as if the sleep yet lingered. They were blank and indicated no awareness in either direction—inward or outward. Then again came a crinkling of the forehead and the tiniest hint of confusion in the eyes. A blink followed. At last her gaze came to rest on my face, then found my own eyes returning their questioning gaze.

  “Hello,” I said softly. “My name is Christopher Braxton. I’m afraid you’ve had a rather serious accident.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” the voice faltered. “Where am I?”

  To call the sound musical to my ears might seem trite or hollow. But what else could I call it but music? The music of a brook dancing and splashing and gurgling over stones, the music of wind through treetops racing moments ahead of the wind, the music of giant ocean waves crashing against a rocky shore—what are even these compared with the rich timbrelled variety of a human voice? And the sound of this one, which had, with her eyes, been asleep so long, instantly set the many-toned chords of my heart vibrating all at once. I could scarcely control the excitement in my own voice sufficiently to respond in a calm enough manner so as not to alarm her.

  “You are safe and well,” I answered.

  “But where?” she asked, her eyes moving slowly about the room. “I . . . I recognize nothing.” Her gaze drifted back and again came to rest on me.

  “Yes, I know.” I smiled. “And you do not recognize me either.” She nodded and seemed for a moment trying to smile, but the bewilderment she felt was even stronger and kept the upper hand.

  “You are in my own room, not far outside Midlothian. This is a farming community, but I merely board here. You need have no fear of me—the matron of the house is in the next room.”

  “But why . . . what happened to me . . . why am I here?”

  “You do not remember?”

  “No, I remember nothing.”

  “You were apparently shot—in the back, just under your right shoulder blade.”

  Her right hand came out from under the blanket, and immediately her face winced in pain. Her left followed, crossing over her chest where she lay on her back, trying to feel the wound. She could not reach it, however, but the hand discovered the bandages and splint with which I had attempted to make her shoulder immobile.

  “You lost a great deal of blood,” I said. “I thank God I discovered you when I did.”

  “Where did you find me?”

  “Alongside the road to Richmond, about half a mile from here. There was no sign of horse or anyone else. My first thought was that you had been somehow wounded in a skirmish from the Union siege. But there has been no fighting anywhere near here. What happened . . . do you know?”

  “I’m sorry, I . . .”

  Her brow wrinkled once more, and her eyes closed tightly in what I knew was an intense effort.

  “No, I’m afraid I just can’t recollect anything of what happened,” she said after a moment, opening her eyes again.
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  “No matter, Miss Hollister,” I said. “I’m certain it will all come back once we get some solid food inside you. It’s been hard enough, unconscious as you were, to get broth and water into your mouth—”

  “Excuse me,” she interrupted.

  I stopped.

  “That name you just said?”

  “Hollister?”

  “Yes. Who did you mean?”

  “Why . . . you, of course, Miss Hollister. There was a letter in your pocket. It’s over there on the dressing table.”

  Her whole face mirrored back only bewilderment with my words. “I . . . I’m afraid I don’t know that name,” she said.

  I returned her troubled and inquisitive gaze. “I suppose I simply assumed from the envelope that the letter had been sent to you.”

  I rose, went to the dressing table, and returned with the letter. I handed it to her.

  She reached up from the bed, took it with her left hand, and stared for several moments at the writing on the envelope. At last she read the name aloud, though softly.

  “Corrie . . . Corrie Belle Hollister.”

  A few seconds more she looked at it, then up to me, her eyes watery and pleading.

  “Please, you’ve got to tell me,” she said. “Who is this Corrie Hollister? Why . . . why was I carrying a letter addressed to her?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied.

  She looked down again at the envelope, then dug with her fingers for the letter inside.

  “What does the letter say?” she asked.

  “It was not mine to read,” I answered.

  She looked quickly over it, read half of the first page, then let it fall from her hand to the bed.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “None of it makes any sense to me.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “May I see it?” I asked.

  She handed it to me.

  I turned the single sheet over, looking for the signature at the bottom.

  “It’s signed Almeda,” I said. “Do you know someone by that name?”

  Again she shook her head. “No. I don’t reckon I ever even heard the name before.”

  “Not the kind of name you’d forget,” I said.

  “Not likely,” she said.

  “Well, then,” I said cheerfully. “If we can’t clear up the mysteries of the letter or your wound, at least you can tell me one thing so I’ll know what to call you. What is your name?”

  A long silence followed. When at last I saw her lips trying to speak, they quivered and her eyes filled. The tears were in earnest this time, and from their midst the large brown eyes flitted about in growing panic. I could see a great cloud of fear begin to engulf her as she spoke.

  “I don’t know,” she said, then closed her eyes and began to weep softly.

  When I reentered the bedroom about five minutes later, I had a cup of tea and a bowl of warm chicken soup on a tray. I thought it best to let her shed her initial tears of grief, shock, and bewildered dismay alone. She did not know me nearly so well as I knew her. She had been conscious now for a mere ten or fifteen minutes, and it would take some time for her to become accustomed to these strange surroundings.

  “Well,” I said, “I’m sure we will untangle the mystery of your identity and the letter and everything else well before evening. But in the meantime, we must get you eating again! You have no idea what I’ve been through keeping you alive!”

  She looked up, wiped away the tears with the handkerchief I had left with her, then attempted the first smile I had yet seen. And the sight was worth the wait!

  “I am sorry to have been such a bother to you,” she said.

  “Did I say you were a bother?” I rejoined. “Not at all! I only said it was a difficult challenge to get water and broth into your stomach! And now that you are awake, I want to lose no time in getting something more substantial into you. There is a great deal of strength to be regained, besides just your memory.”

  “Will I remember?” she asked, in a tone of deep worry and doubt.

  “Of course you will. You are probably just not altogether awake yet, besides no doubt being famished. Everything will come back to you very soon, I am sure. But it does perhaps explain the large lump I found on your head, in addition to the wound. From everything I was able to determine, I think you were riding a horse at the time. You were probably thrown and struck your head. There was a large rock not far from where you lay.”

  “And you found me there, just along the roadside?”

  “Off to the side, in some brush, near the rock, as I said. It can’t have been long after it happened when I came by because the blood was still wet underneath you where it was soaking into the grass.”

  I saw her give an involuntary shudder at the words.

  “I’m sorry. This is hardly the kind of talk to give you an appetite, is it!”

  I set the tray down and proceeded to prop her up to a sitting position with several pillows behind her. I took the cup of tea and handed it to her. Then I sat down beside her on the bed, the bowl of soup in my hand. “Now you may not like this,” I said, “but I’m not sure I trust that left hand of yours yet, and I don’t want to lose a drop of this good soup of Mrs. Timms’. So I’m going to feed you.”

  She smiled and took the first spoonful willingly, then followed it with a sip of tea.

  “That is good,” she said. “I reckon you’re right . . . I am hungry.”

  I refilled the spoon and sent its contents after the first.

  “But how do you know I’m not left-handed?” she said.

  “Simple,” I replied. “Because of the calluses and ink stains on the fingers of your right hand.”

  She glanced down, turned her right fingers over, and seemed to take in my observation with interest.

  “I also know that you are a writer,” I said. “Of letters, perhaps . . . I don’t know. But the calluses and stains are too deep and permanent to have been made from mere occasional correspondence. And you are much too old to still be in school, although I have wondered if perhaps you are a teacher, for that could account for it.”

  “Why do you think this is from writing?” she asked, holding up the fingers as much as she was able without pain.

  “The signs are unmistakable. I know them too well.” I showed her the first three fingers of my own right hand, bearing all the same signs of black ink and thick pads of flesh. “I write too.”

  She sighed deeply, then took another spoonful of the soup.

  “Perhaps you are right,” she said. “But I recall nothing of how these marks got here any more than why my shoulder hurts.”

  She ate awhile longer in silence. I knew she was thinking, but I had not so much as a guess where her thoughts might be. How lonely her perplexity must have been in those first hours of wakefulness! At length the bowl was empty. I was delighted with her appetite. All signs pointed to the fact that this was a healthy young woman.

  “Do you think I am this Corrie Hollister?” she said as I placed the empty bowl on the tray.

  “I think that it may be likely,” I answered. “Why else would you be carrying a letter addressed to her?”

  “Maybe I’m the Almeda who wrote the letter to Corrie Hollister.”

  “That could hardly be. The letter was already postmarked, all the way from California. Are you from California?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Again she was silent. “Was there nothing but the letter?” she asked after a minute.

  “No, that was all you had,” I answered. What other suspicions I harbored would keep. I had given her enough to ponder for one day, and it would be better for her memory to come back to itself of its own volition. If I needed to show her what else I possessed, the time for such a revelation would have to be just right.

  “I’m sorry, but that lump on my head must be worse than either of us thought. I’ve already forgotten your na
me, and at least one of us should know who the other is.”

  I was delighted to see that she had a sense of humor too! “Christopher Braxton,” I said, laughing.

  “And what do you want me to call you?”

  “Believe it or not, some people used to call me Rev. Braxton, but I never could get used to that.”

  “Reverend! Are you a minister?”

  “I once thought I wanted to be, but I’m not so sure anymore. I used to be pastor of a church. But it seems a long time ago now. I suppose, if you want to know, I’m in the process of trying to figure out who I am too, and what I want to be now that the ministry to which I had given my heart is no longer open to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I am too. But new doors in life are constantly opening before us. And so I anticipate the future eagerly, even though I may not know any more of where I am going than you know where you have been.”

  “You still haven’t told me what to call you?”

  “Well, now that we’ve dispensed with the Reverend, there’s always Mr. Braxton, which Mrs. Timms very respectfully addresses me as. But there again, there is a discomfort in that too.”

  “How so?”

  “I never felt anyone had a right to be Mister Braxton except my father. So I suppose we’re left with the name he gave me—Christopher—which I suppose I like best of all.”

  “You don’t consider it too informal for a stranger to call you by your given name?”

  “You forget, you’re hardly a stranger. I’ve known you for over two weeks.”

  “But I am a stranger. You don’t know who I am!” The chicken soup was already doing its work of restoration. A sparkle of fun danced in her eyes where the tears had been only a short time before.

  I laughed. “Well, it would seem you have me there!” I said. “But to answer you, no—I do not consider it too informal at all. I have never been one to stand on pretenses, and I have never been accused of being formal.”