The Union Quilters (42 page)

“Of course you could, if you wished,” she replied, her charming smile never wavering. “Aren’t you the commandant? What’s one prisoner more or less to the Confederacy?”

“There are protocols of military order to follow. I don’t have the authority to release a prisoner of war to his wife.” He glanced at Charlotte. “No matter how impressed I might be by the great distance she has traveled to reach him.”

“Well, if you aren’t authorized to make such decisions, you should be,” said Miss Van Lew staunchly. “Who would know better than you when it is prudent to release a prisoner or move him to another cell or transfer him to another prison? Dr. Granger is scheduled to be sent to Macon soon, isn’t that right?”

Charlotte drew in a shaky breath, and the major, watching her, hesitated before replying. “Yes, that is so, although the exact date has not been set.”

Miss Van Lew tapped her chin with a forefinger, thoughtfully. “When I consider the overcrowded conditions and the expense of feeding and transporting even a single soldier, it seems to me that the Confederate army would be glad to be relieved of the burden of Dr. Granger.” She fixed her gaze on the major. “If you should benefit as well, what would be the harm?”

The major sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, resting his right ankle on his left knee. He studied Miss Van Lew, and then let his gaze rest upon Charlotte, whose tearful brown eyes were fixed on him beseechingly. His eyes flicked to Gerda for a moment, and Gerda felt herself summarily dismissed as he returned his attention to Miss Van Lew. “You make a fair point,” he said evenly. “But the benefit must be great indeed, considering the significance of the favor and the risk to myself.”

Charlotte clasped her hands so tightly that her knuckles whitened. She was trembling, and her voice shook as she said, “Major Turner, sir, I am prepared to offer you a token of my esteem and gratitude in exchange for my husband’s freedom.” She reached into her purse and placed a small sack on the desk before him. It hit the surface with a musical, metallic clinking.

The major did not examine it. “What is this, my dear?”

Charlotte sat ramrod straight, clutching her empty purse in her lap. “It is two hundred dollars in gold and silver coins.”

The major looked genuinely regretful. “I’m very sorry, but that will not suffice. I’m sure you have no idea what consequences I might face if my superiors discover that I’ve released your husband without going through the proper channels or you would not have asked me to do so much for so little.”

“That’s not Confederate script in that bag,” Miss Van Lew reminded him. “Come what may, gold and silver will remain valuable currency.”

Major Turner’s thick eyebrows rose. “Are you suggesting the Confederacy might not emerge victorious from this conflict?”

“I think we both know which way the wind blows. It may indeed be time to batten down one’s own hatches.”

The major frowned and stroked his beardless chin. For a moment, Gerda held her breath, praying that he would agree, but then he shook his head. “This will buy you two hours with your husband,” he told Charlotte, and then indicated the basket with a nod. “I will arrange a private room, and you may enjoy Miss Van Lew’s gift in the solace of each otherʹs company. I will also offer you my assurances that I will see that your husband henceforth receives preferential treatment.”

Charlotte’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Is there nothing more you can do for me?”

The major rose, shaking his head. “I’m very sorry, my dear.”

“Major Turner,” said Miss Van Lew reprovingly. “Two hours with her husband, after risking such a long and hazardous journey and giving you her life savings, with nothing left over for herself and her children? You do realize, don’t you, that by keeping her husband and sending him on to Georgia, you are both dooming her to widowhood and leaving her nothing to live on?”

Charlotte buried her face in her hands and shook with sobs. The major hesitated and sank back into his chair. Gerda smoldered with silent fury. How dare that little man barter for Jonathan’s life and freedom? How dare he play God, that arrogant boy, deciding all of their fates based upon his own whims?

“How much?” Gerda snapped. “What’s the price for Dr. Grangerʹs freedom?”

The major regarded her as if he had forgotten she was there or had not realized she could speak. “Why, you truly are a Yankee woman. No social niceties from you, just straight to the point.”

She knew that, not too far beneath the surface, he didn’t want sweet manners; he wanted to fatten his purse. “You must have a price, so name it.”

The major studied her. “I couldn’t possibly release him for less that one thousand dollars.”

Miss Van Lew drew in a breath sharply. “Major Turner, let us at least be reasonable—”

“Would you avert your eyes, sir?” interrupted Gerda, rising.

The majorʹs brow furrowed as he looked up at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Avert your eyes. Or turn around.” She traced circles in the air to indicate the motion he should emulate. “Yes, turning around would be best, I think.”

Hesitantly, he did as she bade him. The moment his back was turned, Gerda reached under her skirts, unpinned the heavy purse, withdrew three hundred dollars, and slipped them into her pockets. Then she emptied the rest of the purse onto the major’s desk in a shower of gold and silver coins and Union greenbacks. All the while she silently prayed for the Lord to deliver Joanna from slavery through some other means, because Gerda would no longer be able to purchase her freedom.

Startled, the major turned and stared for one brief moment of shock before hastily damming the flood of money with his arms to prevent it from spilling onto the floor.

“You may count it if you wish,” said Gerda crisply.

“No,” he said, glancing at the door as he swept coins and bills into a desk drawer. “I don’t believe that will be necessary.”

“We have a buggy waiting. Shall we fetch Dr. Granger ourselves?” inquired Miss Van Lew.

“I have to prepare his papers.” The major stuffed the last bills into the drawer and quickly shut it. “He will be escorted to the main gate in fifteen minutes.”

“We will be waiting.” Miss Van Lew rose and gestured for Gerda and Charlotte to do the same. Charlotte breathlessly murmured her thanks, and then they quickly departed.

“What if they don’t bring him?” asked Gerda as they hurried down the hall to the front door.

“Oh, they’ll bring him, all right,” said Miss Van Lew, smiling in satisfaction. She nodded to the guards as they crossed the yard, and soon they had passed through the gate and were hurrying down the street to the waiting buggy. As they climbed on board, she urged her driver to pull up to the front gate, explaining to the sentries that they were following Major Turnerʹs express commands.

The minutes passed, each interminably long. Charlotte could not stop shaking. Without realizing she did it, Gerda reached for her hand and squeezed it. Charlotte squeezed back even harder, her eyes fixed on the front door of the prison.

And then it opened, and then two soldiers stepped out, a gaunt man in tattered Union blue stumbling between them, his beard unkempt, his head bowed, squinting in the sunlight. With a sob, Charlotte burst from the buggy and ran to meet him. Gerda and Miss Van Lew quickly followed, and together the three women supported him across the yard, through the gate, and into the buggy. The door was not yet closed when Miss Van Lew ordered her driver to hurry away with all haste. He nodded and cracked his whip, and the horse leapt away. Jonathan collapsed into Charlotte’s embrace as the buggy sped six blocks to Miss Van Lew’s home, where she disembarked and urged them not to stop until they reached the Whitehall residence outside the city.

“Thank you,” Charlotte told her, reaching through the window to clasp her hand. “Thank you with all my heart.”

“It was my great pleasure.” Then Miss Van Lew turned to Gerda, her eyes twinkling. “When you reached beneath your skirts back there in the majorʹs office, I thought you might produce a revolver.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Gerda. “Perhaps next time.”

Miss Van Lew’s laughter rang out until it was lost in the clattering of the horse’s hooves as they raced off.

In the jolting carriage, Jonathan lay across Charlotte’s lap, eyes closed, arms clasped about her slender waist. “My darling,” he murmured hoarsely. “Oh, how I missed you, my love. This must be a dream.”

Charlotte stroked his hair and bent to kiss him. “It’s no dream, my darling. I’m here. We’re going home.”

Throat constricting, Gerda turned her face to the window.

Jonathan had not spared one glance for her, not one. He clung to Charlotte as if he had feared he would never see her again and could not believe his good fortune to be in her arms again. He murmured her name as if to him her presence was all the evidence he needed to believe in the goodness and grace of God. There was no pretense or artifice in his love for her, or in her devotion to him. Perhaps it was something new, borne of his long months of suffering. Perhaps it had always been there, but Gerda had not allowed herself to see it.

But it was there, and having seen it in its most unadorned form, she could not deny its existence.

She watched through a veil of tears as the city gave way to countryside. Jonathan was safe, and restored to his beloved, just as she had prayed he would be, not knowing what that would mean for her.

Whatever happened between North and South in the days to come, her own long-standing war with the truth was over. She had lost, and she had won.

S
now clung to the meadows, but already buds had appeared on the tall elms along the banks of Elm Creek and upon the slender branches of the young apple trees Gerda had planted west of the new barn. Anneke hoped they would thrive, and that someday David, Stephen, and Albert would climb in their branches, and Lydia would adorn herself with a crown of their fragrant blossoms. Gerda had often proclaimed that her delicious apple strudel would taste even better if made from fruit grown on their own soil. Hans always teased that she was welcome to make as many of the tender pastries as she needed to prove her theory, and he would do his part by eating them.

Balancing seven-month-old Lydia on her hip, Anneke peered out the window toward the corral, where the nine-year-old twins were holding ropes and harnesses for their father and listening intently to his instructions. Little Albert, all of six, had climbed the fence for a better view. Anneke could not see his scowl from that distance, but she knew he could not be happy, ordered to remain outside the corral for his own safety until Hans could closely watch him. Stubborn, sturdy Albert had too much of his father in him to bear even a brief exclusion well, but Hans had been obliged to lay down the law the previous autumn when he had gone to the barn at dawn to do his morning chores only to discover his youngest son happily trotting around the corral bareback on a colt that had not yet been broken to ride. Hans had been proud to discover his son’s natural gift with horses but had also been alarmed enough to fix a bolt on the stable door out of the boys’ reach.

“Poor Albert,” said Anneke, shifting Lydia to her other hip. “Why don’t we go outside and keep him company? What do you think, darling?”

The baby beamed, showing her two new bottom teeth, so Anneke took that as assent. She bundled them up in their warm wraps, because the day was chilly despite the thin sunshine of early spring. Singing nursery rhymes as they went, Anneke carried Lydia across the bridge over Elm Creek and past the barn. Hans and their neighbors had built it upon the foundation of the barn that had been destroyed three and a half years before, as soon as the scoundrels who had burned it had paid their court-ordered restitution. Rather, the three eldest had paid; the youngest had died within weeks of joining the cavalry, and the Bergstroms had asked the court not to seek payment of the debt from his grieving family. Restitution and six months in jail was a lighter sentence than Anneke thought the men deserved, but the judge had blamed their rash actions on an excess of loyalty to the Union and had been inclined to show mercy. The Bergstrom’s stolen cows, discovered in the eldest raiderʹs pasture, had been returned, but the horses had been swallowed up in the war, never to be found. Only the generosity of their friends, neighbors, and distant loyal customers had allowed Hans to save Bergstrom Thoroughbreds. Gifts of foals born of the horses Hans had sold them enabled him to fill his rebuilt stables, and after three difficult years, Hans’s confidence that Bergstrom Thoroughbreds would recover had finally returned. Hans often declared that necessity had obliged him to breed the horses differently than he would have otherwise, resulting in better, faster, healthier offspring. The farm was stronger than ever after passing through the forge of adversity, he claimed. He said this about many things, including their nation, three years past the war but still struggling to rebuild. He said this about their marriage, which, Anneke believed, fared much better than the nation.

Albert spotted them as they approached, jumped down from the fence, and came to meet them, his boots crunching as they broke through the thin, icy crust on top of the snow. His lower lip was thrust out, and his fair hair tumbled over a furrowed brow. “Father won’t let me ride unless he holds the bridle,” he complained. “He says I have to wait until he’s done with David and Stephen.”

“I’m sure it won’t be much longer,” Anneke assured him.

“David and Stephen can ride by themselves. Why can’t I?”

“They’re older than you, darling.”

Albert sighed heavily. In sympathy, Lydia reached out to him, and as he patiently held still so she could pat his face with her mittened hands, on a sudden impulse, she grabbed his knitted cap and threw it to the ground. Albert tried not to smile, but he grinned as he picked up the hat and tugged it back on his head. “Silly baby sister,” he said.