The Union Quilters (36 page)
Read The Union Quilters Online
Authors: Jennifer Chiaverini
“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?”
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.
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.
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.
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.
As the men approached the house, Gerda braced herself for terrible news from the war, wondering what it could be. Surely not a Union surrender, surely not that. A terrible loss in battle, perhaps, but even that could be overcome. Anything short of losing the war could be overcome. Except for losing Jonathan—She took a deep, steadying breath. No, if Jonathan had died in Libby Prison, the news would not come to her by four men on horseback.
The eldest of the four men, his face lined and sunburned, squinted at Hans as the men brought their horses to a halt in front of the house. “You’re Hans Bergstrom?”
Hans nodded. “That’s right.”
“We read about you in the papers and figured it was only fair to let you speak your piece.”
“What piece would that be?”
“Your defense against the charges,” said the man from the construction crew.
“What charges?” asked Gerda, looking from one stern, smoldering face to another. “My brotherʹs done nothing wrong.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” said the youngest man, who looked to be barely eighteen and rode a black stallion with white fetlocks Gerda recognized as one raised in Hans’s stables. “Maybe you should go back inside.”
Apprehension seized her. “What do you intend to do that you don’t want me to see?”
“You’re accused of being a Copperhead,” said the eldest man to Hans, “of sympathizing with the Confederate Rebels, of refusing to become a naturalized citizen in order to avoid the draft, of neglecting to pay the three hundred dollar fee to pay for a substitute, and of failing to support the Union cause.”
“I’m no Copperhead,” said Hans evenly, “nor am I a Republican.”
“You must be one or the other,” the fourth man spat.
“On the contrary, I don’t, because I’m not, and yet here I stand,” said Hans, seeming indifferent to the men’s scowls at his brash tone. “As for neglecting to pay for a substitute, it was never required of me, since I was never drafted. As for failing to support the Union cause, well, I pay my taxes, amply and on time, and although I don’t know what specific use my share was put to, I’m sure it was enough to purchase a cannon or two.”
Other books
The Doctor Wore Spurs by Leanne Banks
The Duchess War (The Brothers Sinister) by Milan, Courtney
The Polyglots by William Gerhardie
Silent Daughter 3: Owned by Stella Noir, Linnea May
The Hinky Bearskin Rug by Jennifer Stevenson
The Reluctant Cowboy by Ullman, Cherie
No Turning Back by Beverley Naidoo
The Sphinx by Graham Masterton
The Stardroppers by John Brunner
