The Union Quilters (35 page)

For a moment, Dorothea could only stare at her, and then, despite everything, she laughed. “You certainly have an interesting way of comforting the grieving widow.”

Anneke seemed completely dumbfounded by Dorothea’s laughter. “Well, all my other efforts have obviously failed, and your way doesn’t seem to be making you feel any better.”

The idea that anything could possibly make her feel better, ever again, struck Dorothea as a curious puzzle. “I’ll come,” she said, though she did not stir from her chair. “Give me a moment to dress.”

Anneke nodded and left the room.

Soon they were on their way. When they arrived at Union Hall and entered the upstairs gallery, Dorothea’s friends hurried to meet her, surprised and delighted to see her again, sympathetic and solicitous, full of questions about how she felt and whether there was anything they could do for her. She smiled and thanked them, for there was no point in replying with the truth, that she needed Thomas and there was nothing they could do. Their concern and attentiveness should have brought her comfort, but their oppressive consolations threatened to suffocate her.

As Anneke led the meeting, Dorothea pieced Nine-Patch blocks and half listened to reports of fund-raisers and soaring Loyal Union Sampler subscriptions and new literature drives for the 49th and the 6th. Suddenly a particular name caught her attention, and she interrupted Anneke to ask, “Who sent us a letter?”

“Two ladies representing the Woman’s National Loyal League,” said Anneke. “A Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton and a Miss Susan B. Anthony. They read about us in
Harper’s Weekly
, and apparently the creation of Union Hall and our success at maintaining control of it impressed them. As I was saying, they’d like us to help them obtain one million signatures on a petition they intend to submit to Congress calling for them to free all the slaves at the earliest practicable day.”

“And as
I
was saying,” Mrs. Claverton broke in, “I don’t see why this petition is necessary. Hasn’t Mr. Lincoln already freed the slaves?”

“Indeed not,” said Mary. “The Emancipation Proclamation frees the slaves in the Confederacy only in principle and not in fact, because presently the Union has no control over those states.”

“And it does nothing for the slaves in loyal border states,” said Constance. “I hate to say this about Mr. Lincoln, but his proclamation’s less than it should be.”

“How will this petition fare any better?” asked Mrs. Claverton. “It seems to me that it would carry even less authority in the Confederacy than Mr. Lincoln’s proclamation did.”

“True, but it may convince Congress that the people support the complete and immediate abolition of slavery everywhere,” said Anneke. “That might embolden them to abolish slavery in the border states or make other laws to promote the cause of freedom.”

Mrs. Barrows shook her head. “I don’t know if this petition is any business of ours. Isn’t our purpose to support our men at the front? If we’re out collecting signatures for a petition that might not accomplish any practical good, then we aren’t collecting food or making quilts or doing any number of other useful things that will increase the men’s comfort.”

“Our purpose isn’t only to provide for these individual men but also to support the greater cause,” Dorothea heard herself say, and all eyes shifted to her. “This war is as much about ending the great evil of slavery as it is about preserving the Union. The Union cannot be preserved half slave and half free. To save one, we must end the other.”

“Hear, hear,” said Lorena.

Dorothea thanked her mother with a smile. “I believe that supporting this petition as a group is well within our mission as established in our charter. However, if we aren’t unanimous in our support, those of us willing to sign the petition and collect other signatures may do so as individuals.”

“Let’s take a vote,” said Gerda. “Secret ballot or show of hands?”

“A show of hands should do,” said Mrs. Claverton. “If we haven’t learned by now to speak our minds and own up to our opinions without worrying about offending one another, I have very little hope for us.”

A ripple of laughter went around the circle, and all agreed that a show of hands would suffice. The Union Quilters unanimously agreed to support the Woman’s National Loyal League petition and to seek additional signatures from friends and neighbors throughout the valley.

“Dorothea, dear,” said Lorena, “since you were the one to convince us that this measure deserves our support, I believe you should take charge of it.”

Her friends promptly chimed in their agreement, and they were so loud and profuse in their praise that if Dorothea didn’t know them better, she might have feared they would riot if she refused. She understood the impetus for their enthusiasm and was faintly, fondly amused that they thought she wouldn’t realize why they wanted her to take on a new cause. They were relieved to see her out of the house, determined not to let her shut herself away again, and willing to try anything to restore her to her old self again. She knew what they could never imagine about strong, courageous Dorothea—that their efforts would be in vain. Her heart had died with Thomas, and if not for Abigail, she would have willingly followed him into the dark. However—to ease their worries, and because she admired Miss Anthony and Mrs. Stanton, and because the cause was indeed worthwhile, she would accept the role.

She asked her mother, Gerda, Mary, Prudence, and Constance to assist her, and as Anneke moved on to the next item on the agenda, Dorothea’s thoughts lingered on her new task. She would surely come up with more and better ideas later, but to start, she thought they could divide the valley into regions, pair up, assign a region to each pair, and over the course of a few weeks, take copies of the petition around to all the households in each region. They could also set up a table in the foyer of Union Hall and solicit signatures as guests arrived for events. Perhaps the famous G. A. Bergstrom could write a piece for the
Water’s Ford Register
explaining why the petition was necessary and how it compensated for weaknesses in the Emancipation Proclamation. Perhaps Thomas would be willing to—

She took a deep, shaky breath and blinked the tears from her eyes.

After the meeting, while waiting for Anneke to finish discussing the group’s finances with Prudence, the acting treasurer, Dorothea caught Constance by the arm as she was leaving the gallery. “Constance, how is Abel?” She had seen him only once since his return from the military hospital, and suddenly her absence seemed neglectful.

Constance managed a smile. “He’s all right, I suppose. His . . . stump is healing all right, but sometimes he wakes up in the night complaining of pain shooting up his right arm. It’s gone and yet it still torments him.”

Dorothea nodded. She had heard of such things from other returning veterans, and she was sorry Abel was afflicted with those inexplicable pains. “I understand Abel is in great distress, spiritual as well as physical,” she said. “I hope in time his suffering will ease.”

“Thank you,” said Constance, her smile faltering. “It’s good for you to think of him, when your loss is so much greater.”

Dorothea pressed her lips together and nodded her thanks. She could not think of her loss or she would break down completely. “You’re very kind. I—I wondered, how has Abel been managing around the farm? Perhaps we could ask some of the other returned veterans who have suffered a similar injury to visit him. They’ve had time to learn how to work around a farm with only one arm. Abel could benefit from their experience.”

“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.