The Union Quilters, page 28
“That’s a fine idea,” said Constance. “He tries do to his chores like always, but at the moment, he relies on our sons for the most difficult work. I’m sure he’d like to be more independent.”
“I’ll ask Mr. Goodwin to call on Abel tomorrow,” Dorothea promised. “When Abel can resume his normal work, I think his spirits will rise accordingly. I also hope he’ll find some comfort in the pride that surely must come from sacrificing so much in service of his country.”
“Oh, yes, he’s proud, all right,” said Constance. “For all the good it does him. For all his grateful nation cares.”
Her friend’s sudden bitterness startled Dorothea. “What do you mean?”
“Abel’s always cared more for his country than it’s cared for him,” said Constance scathingly. “He was willing to lay down his life for his country, and he lost an arm to this war, and still he wants to do more. He would, but his country don’t need him now.”
Dorothea didn’t understand. “He was honorably discharged because of his injury. He surely didn’t expect to be returned to his regiment.”
Constance shook her head. “No, no, not that. You’ve heard of the Veteran Reserve Corps?”
“Of course.” Several men from the Elm Creek Valley who had been wounded so severely that they could no longer serve on the front lines with the 49th had been appointed to the corps. Though no longer able to fight, they could perform other necessary duties, freeing up more able-bodied men for field duty. A few of the men from Water’s Ford had been assigned to the 1st Battalion, which meant they could still hold a rifle and withstand the rigors of guard duty. From their letters home, Dorothea knew that these men often served as guards at prison camps or railroads, or as details for provost marshals escorting new recruits and prisoners to and from the front. The 2nd Battalion was comprised of men who had been more seriously injured, like Abel, and they generally served as cooks, orderlies, or nurses. It was honorable service, benefiting both the country and the patriotic men who remained eager to serve the Union despite their disabilities. “Does Abel wish to join the Veteran Reserve Corps?”
“He wanted to, but he was refused.”
“Because his wound has not sufficiently healed?”
Constance looked as if she couldn’t believe Dorothea needed it explained. “Because he’s colored.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. He served on the front lines, he and thousands of other colored troops. Why not in the reserves?”
“You tell me,” retorted Constance. “These good, brave men of color, they spill their blood on the battlefield, in trenches, in craters, on beaches, and it’s still not enough. They prove themselves again and again, and their country still considers them less fit than a white soldier. Abel wanted to serve his country; he still wants to serve. And what does his country say? ‘No thank you, boy, go back to your farm.ʹʺ
Appalled, Dorothea embraced her friend. “I’m so sorry, Constance, I had no idea.”
Constance shook with anger, but she would not let a single tear fall. “I’m glad my husband is home. I don’t want him to leave again. But if he wants to stir a pot of stew or mop floors at a military hospital in Washington City for his country’s sake, I would let him go. He’s the hero of Wright’s Pass. He faced down enemy shells and bullets and the Lord knows what else with the sixth. He dragged a half-dozen men out of that Petersburg crater to safety before taking that bullet. I think he can handle a mop. I know he earned the right to try!”
Dorothea shook her head, dismayed and sickened. She had no words to offer in her country’s defense, not a single word.
Anneke spread a quilt in the shade of the tall oaks and let the children take turns on the swing. Her arms tired out before their enthusiasm did, so she promised them more rides later after she rested. Abigail wandered about picking wildflowers, her golden hair in two neat braids down her back, while Stephen and David played tag and wrestled, sturdy and quick, as alike as any two brothers ever were. Albert stayed close by, resting his head in her lap, drowsy and overdue for his nap.
Two Bears Farm was at the peak of its mid-October beauty, the fields ripe and golden, the trees alive with birdsong and the humming of insects. A wistful sadness lingered upon the house, though, and Anneke longed for her own home. She missed her rocking chair by the fireplace, the musical burbling of Elm Creek as it wound through the leafy wood, the proud beauty of the horses in the corral and stable, her own quilts spread over her own bed, and Hans. She missed him most of all. Thomas was dead, Abel was terribly injured, Jonathan was languishing in prison, and many more husbands and sweethearts were lost and mourned throughout the Elm Creek Valley. Anneke knew her dearest friends would do anything to have the men they loved restored to them whole and sound. When Anneke thought of how bravely her friends persevered in their grief and worry, she was ashamed that she had willingly left the husband who loved her so dearly. The disagreement that had filled her with such anger and compelled her to leave home seemed inconsequential now. How childishly she had behaved, storming off with the children and refusing to return until Hans vowed to protect them. Foolishly, she had expected him to come after her within a day, but now, after much time for reflection and remorse, she understood why he had not. He was not going to change, and he would not pretend otherwise. He would not make promises to her that he could not keep, and he had too much integrity to persuade her with lies. If she could not love and accept him as he was, she should not return home.
She understood at last, but she still could not return—not because she feared for her safety or resented that he would put principle before her, but because she was ashamed and embarrassed, and no longer certain that he wanted her back. The reassurances that Gerda and Dorothea offered were secondhand, and therefore doubtful. If only Hans would come and tell her himself—but since he had not yet, he probably never would.
A wave of loneliness and remorse swept over her. Sitting on the quilt, she buried her face in her hands and struggled to compose herself, the children’s playful laughter throwing her grief into sharp contrast. She inhaled deeply, fighting back tears, and suddenly she heard horses’ hooves on the road. She looked up sharply—somehow, despite everything, expecting Hans—but it was Dorothea, returning from an outing with her mother to collect signatures for the Woman’s National Loyal League petition.
“Success,” Dorothea proclaimed after she took care of the horses and joined Anneke on the quilt, setting her basket of papers aside. “We collected twenty-six more signatures today, for a total of two hundred forty-seven. If our other friends have equally good fortune this week, the total for the Union Quilters may surpass four thousand.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Anneke, but something in Dorothea’s expression conveyed worry. “Did you have another incident with a Copperhead?”
“Oh, no, not this time. After Mr. Beck threatened to set his dogs loose on us, we became more selective in the houses we visit.” Dorothea shuddered, remembering. “Your records from the opportunity quilt ticket sales helped us tremendously. We knew where we were likely to receive a friendly welcome and where we were likely to be turned away—or threatened.”
“If your day went well, what’s troubling you?”
Dorothea sighed and frowned, her gaze on the children as they played on the grass. “I just came from Elm Creek Farm, where I delivered bad news to Gerda.”
Anneke’s heart thumped. “Is Jonathan—”
“Oh, no, it has nothing to do with Jonathan.” Dorothea managed a wan smile as if to say that if she had lost another person dear to her, there would have been no mistaking her grief. “I’m afraid G. A. Bergstrom’s secret is out.”
She took a folded newspaper from her basket and handed it to Anneke. “The latest Democratic Watchman?ʺ Anneke noted, reading the masthead. “Oh, dear. What has that dreadful Mr. Meek written now?”
Dorothea lay back upon the quilt and flung an arm over her eyes. “No summary I could offer would do it justice.”
Thus forewarned, Anneke steeled herself and began to read.
THE MEDUSA REVEALED!
Mendacity, Thy Name Is Woman!
Faithful readers of the Watchman have seen within these pages many an insightful refutation of the infamous G. A. Bergstrom, who has for the past two years been stirring men’s minds to blood and carnage, and who has desired nothing less than to convince the decent people of Pennsylvania that Abraham Lincoln is the chosen instrument of the Almighty, substituting extreme abolitionist ambitions, perceptions, and bigotry for the gospel of peace. No lover of truth can forget G. A. Bergstrom’s notorious report about Libby Prison, which created consternation in the halls of local government and brought forth new and unnecessary proclamations, all without containing more than a smattering of factual details and the rest pure fiction. This editor knows this for a certainty, because as constant and loyal readers will recall, last year a spinster lady strolled into the Watchman offices seeking information about that very prison and undoubtedly also desiring to deceive the editor into betraying illicit communications with an editorial counterpart in the Confederate capital. Since no information was furnished to the spinster lady, who at the time was suspected to be in the employ of G. A. Bergstrom, that hapless scribe would have been obliged to invent such fantastical details as would most incite outrage and dismay. This was indeed what transpired, more to the shame of the newspaper that printed the report.
But as in the words of Shakespeare, “in the end truth will out,” no matter how devious the weaver of lies may be, and “the devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape.” In an act both foolish and rash, the spinster lady identified herself as Miss Gerda Bergstrom before fleeing the Watchman offices, her mission thwarted. Once in possession of that information, it was a small matter to discover the suspected agent of G. A. Bergstrom was none other than the “man himself.” As contemptible as Mr. Bergstrom was in his love for slander and deception, his female incarnation is nothing less than an unwomanly monstrosity, the Lady Macbeth of Union Hall, responsible for the cancellation of the lecture by prominent Ohio congressman Clement Vallandigham and the manipulative force behind the suppression of free speech in our beloved state. Beating the drum of war, knowing that as a childless spinster she need not fear sacrificing any of her loved ones to the cannons and grapeshot, her hands have become indelibly stained with the blood of the flower of Pennsylvania manhood. Brazen readers will consider the rumors that suggest the attribution “childless spinster” is correct only by half, but the editor will leave it to Watchman readers to ruminate upon this fragment of public opinion and decide which half is which.
Sadly, this Medusa whose pen drips with the ink of lies and feminine hysteria brings shame upon her brother, Hans Bergstrom, a known good Democrat who declined citizenship rather than participate in Mr. Lincoln’s abolitionist war, and who has contributed none of his prosperity to the Lincoln demagoguery beyond a few quilts sewn by his wife and given to Union soldiers with the guileless compassion of a true woman’s heart. If the editor were to fault Mr. Bergstrom in any way, it would be to question why he permitted such untruths to be composed beneath his own roof, or, if his spinster sister scribbled her hawkish drivel without his knowledge, why he was unaware of the clandestine activities carried out within his household. However, such blame is disingenuous, for “G. A. Bergstrom” fooled many people for many months, including this editor. One can only hope that once he is aware of his favorite authorʹs identity, the editor of the Register will take away Miss Bergstrom’s pen and urge her to follow her dutiful sister-in-law’s example and take up a needle instead.
“Oh, my heavens.” Feeling faint, Anneke closed her eyes and cast the paper aside. To think those vile, ugly, repulsive words had been written about someone she dearly loved. “What did Gerda think of this?”
“She was disappointed to have her identity exposed, and she’s concerned that Mr. Schultz won’t publish her writing anymore now that his readers know she’s a woman. I’m worried too, but I’m hopeful that Mr. Schultz would rather offend a few readers than take Mr. Meek’s advice.”
“I think at least half of the Elm Creek Valley already knew she was G. A. Bergstrom,” said Anneke dismissively, but she felt sick to her stomach. “There aren’t enough Bergstroms in the Elm Creek Valley to make it much of a mystery. Gerda said nothing else?”
Dorothea allowed a small smile. “She commended Mr. Meek on his deft use of Shakespeare to give his claptrap an erudite gloss, and found his needless repetition of ‘childless spinster’ amusing. She wondered why, if it was but a ‘small matter’ to discover her identity, it took him nearly a year after meeting her to do so. She was also indignant that you were so maligned.”
“Me? How was I maligned?”
“By the suggestion that you’ve done little more for the Union cause than stitch a few quilts. Without you, there would have been no Loyal Union Sampler, and therefore no Union Hall, and you’ve led countless other fund-raisers and projects and drives. Mr. Meek greatly underestimated your contributions.”
Anneke was rather relieved that he had, for she would be crushed to read such terrible things about herself as he had written about Gerda. “What about Hans?” she asked hesitantly. “How does he feel about what Mr. Meek wrote about him?”
Dorothea sighed and sat up, and absently stroked Albert’s tousled hair while he slept on the quilt. “He made a joke about how Mr. Meek damned him with faint praise. He wondered how he could be called a good, loyal Democrat on so little evidence that he was any more Democratic than Republican.” She paused. “He was also relieved that Mr. Meek was apparently unaware that you had left him and why, because Mr. Meek surely would have written terrible things about you had he known, and Hans could not have borne that.”
With a moan of dismay, Anneke drew her knees up to her chest and lowered her head. She had not considered that word of her estrangement from Hans would leave the circle of her friends and family. To think of the shame she might have brought upon Hans and her sons—might still bring upon them, if the war of words between Gerda and Peter Gray Meek escalated. But even that was not as troubling as Mr. Meek’s praise, which unwittingly painted Hans as a disloyal Copperhead. “Mr. Meek says Hans declined citizenship rather than enlist, and that he has done nothing to support the Union cause,” said Anneke anxiously. “That’s not true, or at least, it’s not the whole truth, but people will believe it, and I fear that doesn’t bode well for my husband, surrounded as we are by loyal Unionists.”
Dorothea squeezed her hand. “Those who know Hans know the truth, and you shouldn’t care about the opinions of the ill-informed.”
“It’s not their opinions that worry me.”
Dorothea made no reply, but the look of stark concern in her eyes told Anneke that her friend shared her unease.
Gerda stood at the kitchen table, paring apples with such force that it was a wonder she left any of the fruit unbruised. Hawkish drivel, indeed. She flung the peels and cores into the slop pail for the pigs and vigorously sliced the juicy, white fruit, tossing the pieces into a bowl. Hapless scribe. She seized her knife and thrust it at an imaginary foe. “I’ll show you some feminine hysteria, you—you—shrill little mountebank.”
“Sheathe your sword, unfeminine monstrosity!”
She whirled around to find Hans grinning at her from the doorway. When her heart stopped racing, she said, “You shouldn’t sneak up on me when I’m contemplating blood and carnage.”
Hans eyed her paring knife. “I see that. Tell me, is that apple juice on your blade or the ink of lies?”
She touched her finger to the knife, then to her lips, tasting. “Apple juice, this time.” She set down the knife on the cutting board and leaned upon the table, suddenly weary. “Oh, Hans, this isn’t funny.”
“No?” He mulled that over. “I think it is, from a certain point of view.”
“What skewed point of view is that?” Gerda sighed and brushed a strand of loose hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. “How will I ever show my face in town again?”
“How will you not?” Her brother looked genuinely bewildered. “Nothing Meek wrote is worse than what’s been whispered about you for five years.”
“That’s different. I started those rumors myself to protect an innocent child, and the people closest to me know the truth.”
“The people closest to you know the truth this time too. What are you making?”
“Pork roast with apples, and your clumsy attempt to change the subject has not gone unnoticed.”
“Alas, I don’t have your gift for subtle words.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Have I told you recently that you’re my favorite sister within a hundred miles?”
“I’m your only sister on the entire continent. You are incorrigible. You do realize that, don’t you?”
He grinned naughtily and was about to retort when they heard horses’ hooves pounding on the road. They went to the window, and through the autumn foliage Gerda glimpsed four, perhaps five, men on horseback milling about near the upper entrance to the banked barn on the other side of Elm Creek. A man bellowed something Gerda couldn’t discern, and a second man shouted something that might have been Hans’s name, and then another dismounted and entered the barn.
“Something’s wrong,” said Hans, immediately somber.
Gerda quickly wiped her hands on her apron and followed him to the door. “Who is it?”
“I couldn’t tell, but they must have news from town. Bad news, from the sound of it.” He hesitated. “Maybe you should wait here.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Gerda snatched off her apron, tossed it on the table, and hurried after him.
Not finding Hans in the barn, the four riders had already crossed the bridge over Elm Creek and were approaching the house, each armed with a rifle. Gerda recognized one of the men from the construction crew that had built Union Hall and the eldest as a farmer whose land lay adjacent to the Morlan farm in the foothills of the Four Brothers Mountains in the north end of the valley. The other two she did not recognize.
