The Union Quilters, page 34
Another man might have been content with that, but Abel, always eager for a challenge, found inspiration in the pages of the Soldier’s Friend, a magazine whose purpose was to help veterans adapt to civilian life. Even before the war ended, the editor, concerned with the plight of soldiers whose amputations prevented them from finding lucrative work, sponsored a penmanship contest for “the Left-Armed Soldiers of the Union.” Members of this Left-Armed Corps were invited to submit a manuscript, either original compositions or copies of other authors’ works such as poetry or political speeches. Cash prizes would be awarded for the finest penmanship, but the ultimate goal was for the winning manuscripts to attract the attention of potential employers.
Constance watched Abel as he mulled over the contest, and she was not at all surprised when, a few days later, he took out pen, ink, and paper and began practicing writing with his left hand, copying over proverbs and psalms. His first attempts were barely legible, but as the weeks passed, his shaky letters grew steadier, his spidery words more solid. Within a few months, his left-handed writing was as clear and precise as his right-handed penmanship had once been, but he would not be satisfied until it surpassed his right-handed writing to become as fluid and elegant as what he figured would be necessary to win the contest. When the time came to create his manuscript, he set the Bible verses aside and wrote a simple but eloquent account of his travails as he tried to enlist in the Union Army. The final sentences, in which he proudly described his first days as a member of the 6th USCT, brought tears to Constance’s eyes. She hoped the judges would be similarly moved.
She should have known better. Within two weeks, the manuscript was returned with a letter expressing the judges’ regrets that Abel had been disqualified from the contest. As the purpose of the contest was to help veteran amputees obtain gainful employment, the organizers were obliged to limit it to veterans who could be hired for clerical positions, and as a man of color, Abel was unlikely to be considered for such work.
Abel had the farm and his carpentry. He had not entered the contest in hopes of finding clerical work but for the prize money, which he could certainly put to good use, and for the challenge of improving himself. Though disgusted by his exclusion, he took heart from another letter that arrived a day later, a personal note from one of the judges condemning the decision to disqualify him, which the judge declared was by no means unanimous. “Your penmanship was as fine as any of the submissions we received,” he wrote, “but if the purpose of the contest was to discover the best example of Prose rather than Penmanship, your manuscript would have ranked among the very best. Your account of your patriotic determination to serve your country was powerful and inspiring, and I would greatly desire to read more of your work if you are inclined to put pen to paper again.”
Abel chuckled and put the letter away, but when Constance mentioned it to Dorothea a few days later to amuse her bookish friend, Dorothea’s eyes widened. The man who had written to Abel was a renowned editor and abolitionist, and if he said Abel’s writing was good, it surely was. “If Abel has any inclination whatsoever to pen his memoirs,” Dorothea said, “he should send the finished manuscript to this gentleman as soon as the ink dries.”
Constance repeated Dorothea’s message to her husband, who laughed and shook his head and said that he was a farmer, not a writer. So Constance enlisted the help of her sons, who urged their father to write down his memories of the war, if for no one else but his family and descendants. Constance reminded him of Frederick Douglass’s narrative and how it had inspired countless thousands of people, white and colored alike, to fight for the abolitionist cause. She reminded him of the battles that remained to be won—not the least of which was securing the right to vote and all the other privileges soldiers like Abel had earned through their service to the country. “Your story could inspire change just as Mr. Douglass’s did,” she told him. “Think of what that would mean to people of color everywhere. Think of what it would mean for our sons.”
Eventually, they won him over. Every evening after supper, and earlier in the afternoon if he finished his chores in good time, he could be found at the desk in the front room, writing, refreshing his memory by perusing letters he had sent home from the front, or staring off into space, lost in reflection. Six months after the war ended, he finished his manuscript and sent it off to the editor in New York. For weeks he heard nothing, and then on one fortuitous day, a telegram arrived with an offer to publish his book.
Recalling that blessed day, Constance watched from the front porch and smiled as she spotted Abel emerging from the barn, the three reporters from Harper’s Weekly in his wake. It was his own private joke to show unsuspecting admirers from the cities how the Hero of Wright’s Pass and the Sage of the 6th Colored really spent his days—not at his desk contemplating political and social theory but milking cows and making cheese. Too many white intellectuals emphasized how Abel differed from other colored men, how his newly discovered literary gifts set him apart, but Abel was wary of the dangers that could come from perceiving him as an anomaly among his race. He wanted everyone to know that he was like every other colored man—a husband, a father, a man desiring to use his God-given talents to support his family, improve himself, and contribute to his community—or rather, that every other colored man was like him. The rights and privileges he had earned, they too deserved.
A few months earlier, an article in The New York Times had lauded Abel’s second book, an account of his Underground Railroad years, as “astonishing and riveting.” These reporters looked rather astonished, Constance thought, as the celebrated writer introduced them to his favorite cows, and they seemed riveted by the desire to scrape the questionable muck from their fine shoes.
She smothered a laugh and waved to her husband, summoning him and their guests in for supper.
Gerda drove the chaise into Waterʹs Ford and stopped by Prudence’s seamstress shop for a chat before making her customary visit to the post office. The postmaster smiled when he saw her enter, but she lingered near the front window until his other customers departed. Then she approached, took two jars of blackberry jam from her basket, and set them on the counter. “Good afternoon, Henry,” she said. “Here’s the delivery I promised, and right on time.”
“Early, in fact,” he said, holding up one of the jars to the light streaming in through the windows, and admiring the color. “My sons will be delighted. Thank you, Gerda.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Gerda liked Henry’s sons very much, and his daughter, Harriet, had become a dear friend, especially after she joined the Union Quilters. Gerda would be the first to admit that she was quite susceptible to flattery, and when his sons had proclaimed that her jam was the best they had ever tasted, they had won themselves a regular supply.
“I have something for you too,” the postmaster said, reaching beneath the counter. “Something I think you’ve wanted for a long time.”
“The vote for women?”
“No, I’m sorry. That’s not within my power to provide.” He set a letter on the counter before her. “This came from Virginia this morning.”
“A letter from Miss Van Lew?” Gerda’s longtime correspondent had fallen on difficult times since the end of the war. After it came out that she had not only cared for the Union prisoners at Libby but had also spied for General Grant throughout the war, the entire city of Richmond had ostracized her. Gerda hoped that if General Grant won the presidential election in the fall, he would find some way to help the brave woman. In Gerda’s opinion, it was an outrage that a good, loyal woman like Miss Van Lew could suffer in the wake of a Union victory, and a cowardly Copperhead like Peter Gray Meek could be rewarded by being elected to the Pennsylvania state assembly even after being arrested five times during the war and accused of disloyalty, running the gamut from publishing improper political statements to high treason. Sometimes justice eluded the just.
Henry shook his head. “See for yourself, my dear. This letter didn’t come from Richmond.”
Gerda glanced at the postmark—and gasped to see that the letter had been sent from Wentworth County, Virginia. Astonished, she looked up at Henry, who seemed almost as eager to learn the letterʹs contents as she was. Quickly she opened the envelope, withdrew a single page, and read it aloud.
February 21, 1868
Dear Miss Bergstrom,
Please accept my sincere apologies for sending but a single letter in response to the great many you have sent to my family. It is unfortunate that your remarkable perseverance and prolificacy as a letter-writer will have been in vain, for I regret that I do not have the answers you seek. I cannot dispute that my husband once kept a servant named Joanna in his service, but I have no idea what became of her after she left us. My husband customarily brought chastened, wayward servants back to our plantation at Greenfields in order to impress upon our other negroes the sad fate of the runaway, but these unfortunate few would remain with us only a short while after that. Since servants proven faithless were useless to him, my husband would be obliged to sell them, usually to our relations in Georgia or South Carolina. I confess that I do not recall whether the servant named Joanna faced these consequences; my husband kept so many negroes that I did not know them all, and I doubt I would have recognized the one in question in any case.
I regret that I am unable to offer you more help in your search. It saddens me to chasten your enthusiasm, but every letter you may send us in the days to come, no matter how heartfelt or elegantly phrased, will meet with the same result. I have nothing to tell you about Joanna, nor shall I in the future. If I may say so, delicately, perhaps the time has come for you to abandon your fruitless quest before the perpetual disappointment takes its toll on your health.
I remain most cordially yours,
Mrs. Josiah Chester
Formerly of Greenfields Plantation
Wentworth County, Virginia
Gerda read the letter over again, silently. “How could she claim to be unable to recognize Joanna?” she asked. “Joanna was a house slave, her own seamstress.”
“Mrs. Chester does seem rather disingenuous,” said Henry. “Do you intend to take her advice?”
“You mean give up my search before it takes its toll on my health?” scoffed Gerda. “Of course not. In fact, this new information might invigorate my quest. It should not be terribly difficult to determine who these Chester relations in Georgia or South Carolina might be. Now that war and slavery are no impediment, I might be able to find Joanna at last.”
“I admire your determination.” Henry gave her a slight bow. “As always, the resources of the United States Postal Service are at your disposal.”
Gerda laughed. “Thank you, Henry.”
“Incidentally, Dr. Granger received a parcel from Alabama yesterday. Do you know what it contained? Could there be a connection to your Joanna?”
Puzzled, Gerda shook her head. “I don’t believe so. Joanna met Dr. Granger only once, and I doubt she caught his name.” Then the full meaning of his words and tone sank in. “Henry. You of all people know that Dr. Granger and I rarely speak, and only when obliged to. How would I know what any parcel of his might contain?”
“Of course,” he said, slightly abashed. “Forgive me a momentary loss of reason.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she assured him. “But really now, is it proper for you to share information about your other postal customers in this way?”
“Only with you, my dear,” he replied. “You know very well that secrets are safe with me.”
“I know.” He had earned her trust, and her trust was not lightly given. “Will we be seeing you and the children at Elm Creek Farm for supper Saturday afternoon?”
“As always. You know we wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“I know,” said Gerda again, and smiled as she left the post office, the long-awaited letter in her basket.
Dorothea sat on the quilt in the shade of the tall oaks, distracted from her writing by the pleasure of watching Abigail soar high into the air on the swing Thomas and Jonathan had hung for her when she was just a baby. She pumped her legs to propel herself forward and back, her long golden braids streaming out behind her, then falling lightly upon her shoulders, again and again.
How Thomas would have adored her.
With a wistful ache in her heart, she returned her attention to the papers on the writing case her brother had given her after the war, saying that she would make much better use of it. “My travels are over,” he had declared as he presented it to her. “I intend to remain close to home for the rest of my life.”
Dorothea indeed traveled more than her brother, far more than she had before the war, to attend rallies and conferences devoted to women’s rights and woman suffrage, but she rarely carried the writing case with her, for she always found a suitable table to use when she wrote letters home. Instead, the writing case served her well on lovely spring days like that one, when warm breezes and sunshine and birdsong called her outside to work and enjoy her beloved daughter at play.
She dipped her pen in the inkwell, eager to finish the first draft of her speech before the next meeting of the Union Quilters. They indulged her by listening to her read her work and offering suggestions for revisions. Their advice never failed to improve her work.
Before she could touch pen to paper again, she heard a buggy coming up the road. “Uncle Jonathan! Aunt Charlotte,” Abigail exclaimed, leaping from the swing in an act of heart-stopping daring. Before Dorothea could beg her to be more careful, the seven-year-old was off and running to meet the buggy. Dorothea tucked her papers into the writing case and followed, wondering what had brought Jonathan and Charlotte for an unexpected visit.
They greeted one another with hugs and kisses. “Where are the children?” asked Dorothea, seeing only the youngest baby in Charlotte’s arms. A box rested on the backseat, where Dorothea had expected to see Abigail’s cousins.
“Home with their grandma,” said Charlotte as Dorothea took the baby so Jonathan could help her from the buggy.
“We won’t be staying long,” Jonathan explained, reaching into the backseat for the box. “We only came to deliver this.”
“What is it?” asked Abigail eagerly. “Is it a present?”
“It’s something that was sent to me but intended for your mother,” her uncle explained, carrying the box to the shade of the front porch. Dorothea threw Charlotte a puzzled glance, but she merely smiled enigmatically and followed her husband to the house. Drawn by curiosity, Dorothea fell in step behind them.
When Jonathan urged her to sit, Dorothea tucked her skirts beneath her and seated herself on a rocking chair. The box was addressed to Jonathan and the seal had been broken. “Are you sure this is for me?” she asked.
“Read the letter first,” said Charlotte, and Jonathan reached into his coat pocket and handed her an envelope. “It came with the parcel.”
With a sudden stir of anxiety, Dorothea hesitated, then steeled herself and took out the letter.
February 10, 1868
Dear Dr Granger,
I write to you on behalf of my husband, Private Satterwhite Wilson, who you tended so kindly in the seminary hospital after the battle of Gettysburg. As you may recall he was terrible injured in the fighting and blinded and thus I take pen in hand as he cannot write so well. He has never forgotten your kindness and credits you with the saving of his life as well as the man married to your sister who carried him several miles off the hill they now call Little Round Top. Your brother in law gave my suffering husband the gift of his quilt upon which after laundering I discovered stitched into it the words, Made by Dorothea Granger Nelson for her beloved husband, Thomas Nelson, in our sixth year of marriage, 1858. Two Bears Farm, Creek’s Crossing, Pennsylvania. Now that there is peace between North and South my husband thought it proper to return it to Mr Nelson who is to us a hero and a true Christian. However our postmaster could not find the town of Creek’s Crossing anywhere on any map so he thinks it must be a very small town. We despaired until my husband thought of you and got your name and town from a GAR post. He asks that you would do him one more kindness and return this quilt which was a great comfort to him in his hour of need to its rightful owner along with his sincere thanks.
Your brother in law may also recollect that my husband told him if he ever comes to Dallas County Alabama he must look up Mr Archibald Hammock who would make him a fine pair of boots. Mr Hammock has since moved to Texas but if Mr Nelson does come to Alabama he will find that my husband has become a fine boot maker in his own right despite his blindness and he would be very happy indeed to make him the best pair of boots he ever wore. He also would like to extend the invitation to you Dr Granger for without you both he surely would have perished in the war.
I add my thanks to you good men for your kindliness to my husband though he was Confederate and you Yankee.
I remain yours most sincerely,
Mrs Malinda Jane Holmes Wilson
Dallas County, Alabama
