The Union Quilters, page 4
Caught up in the zeal of the assembly, Anneke waved her flag and cheered as the men marched off down High Street, tears of pride and apprehension in her eyes. The shouts of friends and neighbors and strangers carried on until the enlistees rounded the corner and disappeared. Before long, even the sound of their footfalls on the hardpacked dirt road faded. Only then did the women and old men and children left behind lower their flags and voices, collect themselves, gather up children who had wandered off, and disperse. Some chatted as they departed for houses or farms, others seemed vaguely perplexed, as if they had not considered that they would need to make any other plans for the rest of the day. Eventually, except for the usual traffic of townsfolk with errands at the post office or market, the streets were quiet, littered with trampled flower petals and discarded handbills. The ladies of the sewing circle and their children old enough to assist remained behind to take down the bunting, roll up the banners, and collect the assorted flags, gloves, and other articles dropped in the press of the crowd and forgotten.
Anneke spotted Dorothea on the courthouse steps, thanking the mayor for his speech, which Anneke had found particularly stirring. Often she had been tempted to glance over her shoulder to the lamppost where Hans stood, to see if he had been moved by the impassioned call to arms, but she did not want to draw attention to him. Instead she kept her gaze resolutely fixed on the mayor.
“Perhaps I should pack a rucksack for you just in case you change your mind at the rally,” she had suggested after breakfast earlier that morning. Amused, Hans had assured her that he would not change his mind, not at the rally, not ever, and he was heartily sorry that the thought of his continued presence around the house vexed her so. Stung, she had not spoken another word to him before she departed to prepare for the rally, had not even smiled at his sweet, cajoling attempts to soothe her temper. How could he pretend to misunderstand her on such a serious occasion? Of course she didn’t want him to go, especially in her delicate condition, nor did she doubt his courage. But when all the other men were off fighting for their country, how could he remain safe at home and not worry that their neighbors would consider him a Copperhead— against the Union and willing to concede anything and everything to make peace with the South—or even worse, a coward?
Spotting a pile of cloth near the courthouse door, Anneke lifted her skirts and climbed the stairs to investigate, only to discover several of the sashes she had embroidered so painstakingly, all bearing the names of Southern states. Their wearers had probably discarded them with loyal disgust immediately following the pageant. As Anneke folded the sashes, she spied Charlotte on the grassy corner below, weeping in the arms of her mother, who patted her on the back and murmured words of comfort. Her conversation with the mayor finished, Dorothea hurried over to console her sister-in-law. Poor Dorothea, who had bade farewell to a brother as well as a husband, and yet still attended to another’s comfort before her own. Anneke’s heart went out to her friends, but she felt helpless to offer them condolences when she was not suffering as they were.
“Look at her, sobbing like a child, as if she were the only woman to see a loved one off today,” said Gerda in an undertone, joining Anneke on the portico. Gathering up her skirts in one hand, she stooped down to pick up the last three discarded sashes—Alabama, Texas, and Florida—and briskly folded them. Her long, brown hair, her only beauty, was parted neatly in the middle and gathered in a wide bun at the nape of her neck. The jewel neckline and wide sleeves of her brown wool dress improved her thin, lanky figure—Anneke had sewn it herself—but nothing could ameliorate Gerda’s sharp, narrow features, especially when she was reminded that the man she loved was happily married to someone else. In those moments her eyes, usually bright with intelligence and wit, grew hard, her mouth pinched into a thin, bitter line, and she looked every bit the vinegary spinster Anneke had prayed she would not become. Why Gerda had thrown her youth away on a man who had courted her while secretly engaged to another, and why Jonathan continued to call on Gerda and dine weekly with the Bergstroms as if he were an eligible bachelor, Anneke would never understand. Why Charlotte tolerated such carrying on was another mystery. If Hans paid such attention to another woman—but of course he never would. Hans had adored her from the moment he spotted her fresh off the boat in the immigration depot at Castle Garden in lower Manhattan, just as Anneke had come to adore him.
How foolish her spat with Hans seemed when she considered what a true and steadfast husband he had been to her for so many years. She wished she could go to him that very minute, humbled and contrite, and apologize for implying he should act contrary to his principles merely so the neighbors would not think less of them. But her apologies would have to wait until Hans returned from Lewistown with his friends’ horses. Anneke would have her husband at home tonight, unlike so many of her acquaintance, and he would be home to see the birth of their child, unlike Jonathan when Charlotte delivered.
“Leave Charlotte alone,” she rebuked Gerda quietly. “I would be sobbing twice as hard if I were in her place.”
Gerda opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it and frowned, busying herself with folding the last of the abandoned sashes. Anneke knew that her sister-in-law had almost declared that she was in Charlotte’s place, and she wasn’t making a spectacle of herself with childish tears. The bitter truth was that although Gerda loved Jonathan, she wasn’t in Charlotte’s place and never could be, and that was the defining tragedy of her life.
Or rather, one of two defining tragedies.
“What time does Mrs. Craigmile expect us to collect the children?” asked Gerda, glancing up and down the block as if estimating the amount of work remaining. “I wanted to mail a letter.”
“We have time to stop at the post office,” Anneke assured her, adding her folded sashes to those in Gerda’s basket. Hans had long ago grown exasperated with his sister’s futile ques’t to find Joanna, and even Dorothea worried that her persistent fixation would damage her health. Anneke alone never discouraged her. How could she, when it was her fault Joanna had been recaptured? The guilt and shame would never leave her, although blessedly, Gerda never rebuked her for her betrayal, not since the day Gerda was released from prison and Anneke had begged forgiveness. Now all Anneke could do to atone for her terrible mistake was to love Joanna’s son and raise him as her own, a blessed obligation that grew easier each day, as it seemed less and less likely that he would someday be taken from her by his real mother. Unlike Gerda, she no longer believed Joanna would return to claim her son. Hans and Anneke were his only parents now.
When the trappings of the rally were cleared away, Dorothea gathered the ladies of her sewing circle at the foot of the courthouse stairs, praised them for their hard work, and declared the rally an unqualified success. “Take heart,” she encouraged them as they parted. “We have much to do to support our men and all those who serve our country. We must not give in to loneliness and grief.”
“We won’t all be lonely,” someone muttered. Anneke stiffened but refrained from turning her head to see who had spoken. Who had it been? Eliza, a recent bride? Mrs. Barrows, whose husband had astonishingly shaken off his usual lethargy to enlist with his two eldest sons?
She felt a hand squeeze hers and assumed it was Gerda offering her support, until Constance said in an undertone, “Don’t you mind her. That’s her sorrow talking.”
Anneke nodded. She had expected criticism and envy as word of Hans’s refusal to enlist spread, but not so soon, and not among friends.
Gerda’s errand at the post office took only a moment—no letter from Josiah Chester’s Virginia plantation awaited her, but three out-of-town newspapers did—so Gerda suggested that they stop at Schultz’s Printers to inquire about the fate of their own local paper. Mary, Dorothea’s childhood friend and a founding member of Dorothea’s sewing circle, assured them that her father would not allow the Water’s Ford Register to founder while Abner was away. She managed a wan smile as she caught sight of their nearest competitor’s journal folded in Gerda’s basket beside The New York Times and the Philadelphia Evening Herald. “You won’t like what the Bellefonte Democratic Watchman has to say about Mr. Lincoln,” she warned.
“Gerda never likes anything that paper says,” Anneke replied. “And yet she insists upon reading it, even though it only upsets her.”
“It’s important to know the opposition’s arguments,” said Gerda. “How else will I refute them?”
“Rest assured our newspaper will remain staunchly in favor of the Union,” said Mary. “I also intend to print letters from the soldiers, so if you receive any you wouldn’t mind sharing—not from your husbands, of course, since Hans didn’t go and Gerda doesn’t have one, and both of your sons are too young—I mean, Anneke, your sons are both too young—” She clasped a hand to her forehead, distressed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying. Forgive me. With Abner gone—”
“We understand.” Anneke took Gerda’s arm and nudged her toward the door. “There’s nothing to forgive. We’ll see you at Dorothea’s on Tuesday.”
Mary nodded distractedly as they quickly left the printers. “No one knows quite what to say to us anymore, do they?” mused Gerda. “You, the wife of a wartime pacifist, and me, the spinster adulteress.” Inspired, she dug into her basket and riffled through the sashes. “Perhaps I should wear an embroidered red A upon my bosom. Ah! Alabama will do nicely, if I pick out the other stitches.”
“I don’t see how you can find this amusing,” said Anneke, hastening to the vacant lot behind the church, where they had left the team and wagon. With her longer legs and vigorous constitution, Gerda quickly caught up to her. “You shouldn’t speak of Hans as a ‘wartime pacifist,’ as if he adopted his convictions recently for mere convenience.”
“I’ve known Hans all his life, and he never mentioned these convictions before.”
“Well, when would the subject have come up, except at wartime?” Anneke climbed onto the wagon seat, leaving the care of the horses to Gerda. Didn’t Our Creator tell the people of Moses, ‘Thou shalt not kill’? ʺDidn’t our Lord Jesus tell us, ‘Turn the other cheek?’ We shouldn’t wonder why Hans isn’t going to war but rather question why any true Christian would.”
“I never considered Hans particularly devout.” Gerda seated herself beside Anneke and took up the reins. “I also recall quite clearly several occasions when your peaceful Christian came home with bloody knuckles and black eyes.”
“A boy’s scraps with other boys,” Anneke countered. “Since then, he’s put aside childish things.”
“That may be, but I’ve never heard my brother cite a devotion to the peace of Christ as his reason for refusing to enlist.”
Anneke hadn’t either, if only because Hans had never given her any reason for his choice. “I’m sorry that the thought of his continued presence around the house vexes you so.”
Gerda sighed and chirruped to the horses. “Don’t be petulant. I’m thankful he’ll be safe, and you know it.”
Anneke did know it, and wished that the words had sounded as bitingly witty as when Hans had spoken them.
Soon they were on their way to pick up the children from the kind neighbor who had offered to watch them during the rally, and then onward to home. The horses, a beautifully matched chestnut stallion and mare, knew the route well and needed little direction from Gerda as they followed the road south from Water’s Ford along Elm Creek.
Gerda frowned thoughtfully as they passed Two Bears Farm. The recently harvested fields had been shorn bare of all but broken stalks of corn and barley, giving the white clapboard house at the top of the hill a forlorn look of barren midwinter. Near the barn, one of the Nelsons’ hired hands was watering a horse, suggesting that Dorothea had already returned and was inside the house, alone except for baby Abigail and the housekeeper.
“Dorothea doesn’t want me to offer to buy Joanna’s freedom from Josiah Chester,” said Gerda suddenly.
“Why ever not?”
“She believes that putting money into a slaveholder’s hands rewards him for his evil deeds and endorses the South’s ‘peculiar institution.’ ”
“And what do you believe?”
“I believe that in the absence of simple human decency, avarice can be an effective motivator.” As they rode on, the Nelson house disappeared behind a thick stand of oaks divided by the abrupt zigzag of a worm fence marking the boundary between their land and the Bergstroms’. “However, I told her I’d be willing to debate the issue all she liked once Joanna was safe in the North. She smiled—you know that smile of hers—and reminded me that the best time for debate and discussion is before one takes action. How else will rational people know whether they’ve made the right decision?”
Anneke shrugged. “By the result, of course.”
“That’s what I told her,” said Gerda, “which prompted her to remind me that there are many paths to the same destination, and not all are fit to travel.”
Anneke knew Dorothea had once been a schoolteacher, but did every conversation have to become a lesson? “I think you had it right. Get Joanna free and safe however you must, and debate philosophy later. Josiah Chester will own slaves with or without your money in his pocket. Why shouldn’t you buy Joanna from him, if that’s the best and swiftest way to make her free?”
“But what if Josiah Chester uses my money to buy rifles for Confederate soldiers, prolonging the war and thus slavery for others?”
Suddenly, Anneke understood what was happening, and she fixed Gerda with a level stare. “I realize you miss Jonathan, but don’t think for a moment that I will endure months of acting as his surrogate. Unlike the two of you, I don’t argue for sport.”
Gerda burst out laughing. The mare’s ears flicked in their direction, but the horses were too well trained to shy or break trot. “I’ll remember that,” Gerda gasped as she struggled to compose herself. “You, a replacement for Jonathan, indeed.”
Anneke muffled a sigh and took in the passing scenery.
Hans had told them not to expect him back for hours, so while Anneke tended to her chores and played with the boys in the yard, Gerda fixed a simple supper of potato pancakes and stewed greens, keeping some back to serve her brother later. It was after dusk when he finally returned home. At the sound of the horses’ hooves, Anneke set aside her sewing and Gerda her book and they both carried lanterns out to the barn to meet him.
He was weary from his long journey over the southern pass to Lewistown and back, so after embracing him and kissing him fondly to show that the morning’s argument was forgiven, Anneke refrained from querying him too much while he tended to the horses—his own, Thomas’s, and Jonathan’s. Abel’s was not among them, she noticed. Hans had passed the Wright farm on the way home, and had probably gone ahead and left Abel’s horse there, although the arrangement had been to return the horses the following day. When Gerda did not show Anneke’s restraint and began peppering him with questions, Anneke suggested rather firmly that she go inside and prepare Hans’s supper. As his sister hurried off, Hans thanked Anneke wearily and fell silent, his brow furrowing as he watered and unsaddled the horses. Anneke set down the lantern and fetched the currycomb, wondering if he regretted his decision not to enlist.
Later, after he had eaten and rested, he sighed, pushed his chair back from the table, stretched his legs in front of him, and described what he had seen in Lewistown. Men from all over the county had gathered to sign their names and put on Union blue. The men of the Elm Creek Valley had been assigned to Company L of the 49th Pennsylvania Volunteers, and as a regimental surgeon had already been appointed, Jonathan had been named one of his assistants. The next day they would join up with the rest of the regiment at Camp Curtin in Harrisburg, where they would await orders and prepare for war.
“They’re staying in Harrisburg?” asked Gerda, her face lighting up with hope.
“For now,” said Hans. “I don’t know how long.”
“We could visit them,” Gerda exclaimed. “Dorothea and I, Constance, Mary—all the ladies of the sewing circle. We could carry with us anything they might have left behind or didn’t realize they needed. You saw the camp, Hans. You can advise us what to take.” She touched Anneke on the forearm. “You wouldn’t need to go, of course, not with the boys to mind and Hans here at home, and your delicate condition.”
Anneke nodded, relieved to be spared the trip. “I’ll do whatever else I can to help you prepare. If any of our friends need any sewing or knitting for their husbands finished, or if Constance wants her sons to stay with us while she’s away—that would be all right with you, wouldn’t it, Hans?”
“They’ll likely move on before you could get organized.” Then Hans winced, raked a hand through his thick brown hair, and rested his elbows on his knees. “In any case, Constance wouldn’t need us to watch her sons because she wouldn’t be traveling with you.”
“Why not?” said Anneke. A glance to Gerda showed that she was equally perplexed.
“They didn’t let Abel enlist,” said Hans. “He argued, his friends spoke up for him, but in the end they wouldn’t let him put pen to paper. I don’t want war, you know that, but to turn away a sharpshooter, a brave man, a good loyal Unionist, all because of the color of his skin—” Hans shook his head. “Foolishness, utter foolishness, and it may cost the Union the war.”
Anneke could picture the scene vividly, and yet it was incomprehensible. Until that moment, she had thought the Union cause just and noble, their army led by wise and courageous men, and victory certain. The officers’ hubris shocked her, transformed all her confidence into doubt. How could the Union afford to turn away not only a single willing and able man, but thousands, thereby hindering the very cause they all urgently wanted to serve?
She wondered if Constance were at that very moment praising God for restoring her husband to her so unexpectedly, or if she were cursing the foolish officers who had shamed the man she loved by sending him away.
