Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt (24 page)

She glanced at the clock and had a moment of dismay before remembering the three-hour time difference between Pennsylvania and California. She threw back the quilt, pulled on her dressing gown and slippers, and within moments was hurrying down the hallway, Margaret’s letter in hand. Too many telemarketers had spoiled perfectly good naps for her to consider keeping a phone in her room, and the nearest was in the library.

Grace answered on the second ring. Sylvia barely gave her friend a chance to say hello before she launched into a summary of Margaret’s tale. “Linsey-woolsey,” Sylvia repeated when she finished. “When I saw the quilt, I assumed it was wool and muslin. I didn’t think to inquire if it was something else.”

“It would be easy to mistake them if you didn’t know what to look for,” said Grace. “Linsey-woolsey was woven using a cotton warp and a wool weft. It was a rough and uncomfortable cloth, but cheap and durable.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Sylvia, triumphant. “There’s our proof that this so-called Elm Creek Quilt has nothing to do with the quilts I found in my attic. Not a scrap of linsey-woolsey appears in any of them. They were pieced from silks, cottons, chintzes—just about everything but linsey-woolsey. Anneke used scraps from her dressmaking, remember? And much of that fabric was the fine imported material Hans’s parents sent as a wedding gift.”

“Sylvia,” said Grace, “the presence of identical fabric in all three quilts could have proven a connection, but the absence of
identical material doesn’t disprove one. Do all of your quilts contain one common fabric?”

“What a silly question.” But Sylvia hesitated and admitted, “No. Of course not.”

“The quiltmaker could have resorted to linsey-woolsey when her better fabric scraps ran out. During the Civil War, many Southern families resorted to homespun when other fabric became too difficult to obtain. On the other hand . . .”

“Yes?” prompted Sylvia.

“Homespun was a common fabric used for slaves’ clothing.” Sylvia could not speak.

“I’m sorry, Sylvia. I knew you wouldn’t like to hear that. But since Margaret Alden believes the quilt was finished before the Civil War began . . .”

“Someone must have been wearing that homespun, and it probably wasn’t the mistress of a plantation.” Sylvia took a deep breath. “So. You believe my ancestors were slave owners.”

“Not necessarily
your
ancestors. Margaret Alden’s, and we knew that about her already. We don’t know that one of your ancestors pieced Margaret Alden’s quilt. We still don’t know that the Bergstroms have any connection to the Aldens. The presence of homespun in the quilt changes nothing.”

“I simply cannot imagine Gerda the mistress of a plantation, wearing fine silks and ordering people about.” And then, with a sudden flash of insight, Sylvia nearly laughed aloud from relief. “And that’s not all she wouldn’t do.”

“Meaning?”

“Gerda hated to quilt. She hated anything to do with sewing, but she did understand fine fabric. She wouldn’t have spent all that time and energy quilting elaborate images from Elm Creek Farm into a top pieced from homespun.”

“It does seem rather incongruent, for any quilter,” mused Grace. “Any quilter who had access to better fabric, anyway.”

Sylvia hardly heard her, so pleased was she with her new realization. “Thank you, Grace. You’ve put my mind at ease.”

Grace laughed. “You’re quite welcome, although I don’t think I really did all that much.”

Sylvia laughed, too, her heart light. Gerda could not have made Margaret Alden’s quilt. Anneke surely had not, either, because family stories after the Civil War placed her right where she should have been, at Elm Creek Farm. And Hans, too, could be ruled out, for that same reason, and because he probably never lifted a needle in his life.

Whoever made the Alden family’s heirloom, the unknown quilter could not have been a Bergstrom.

When Sylvia returned to the memoir the next morning, it was with renewed confidence that her ancestors’ reputation for courage and goodness would yet be proven true.

January 1859—
what the New Year brought

By the first days of January, Anneke could no longer hide what I had suspected: She and Hans were expecting a child.

I embraced Anneke with great joy when my persistent questioning at last compelled her to reveal the truth. I was nearly overcome with delight to know that a tiny baby boy or girl would be joining our family, although I admit I pitied Anneke the pains of childbirth she would experience, and considered myself fortunate to be spared them. If Jonathan had married me, however, I am sure I would have felt differently.

As the winter snows fell outside the windows of our happy home, Hans fashioned a cradle from trees felled on our own
land, and Anneke pieced tiny baby quilts from the soft fabrics my father had sent from Germany. Perhaps I need not explain how Anneke’s glad news brought me comfort from my own grief. The promise of new life brought me hope, and I knew I would find solace in the hard work that would be required of me as Anneke’s confinement approached and my niece or nephew entered the world.

It seemed that nothing would diminish the pleasure of our anticipation, but troubled times awaited us.

For one, Anneke was loath to give up her position at Mrs. Engle’s dress shop, which brought her not only wages but also work she enjoyed and friends. She was certain Mrs. Engle would dismiss her when her condition became too obvious. She put off telling Mrs. Engle the news as long as she could, and when she finally summoned up enough courage, she begged me to accompany her.

Only for Anneke’s sake, and that of my niece or nephew, would I agree to voluntarily subject myself to that woman’s company. I even promised to be cordial. But we had not even entered the shop when I realized I would not be able to keep my vow.

For nailed to a post just outside the door was a handbill, which I preserved, since naturally I tore it down, and have enclosed here.

Sylvia turned the page, and in the fold of the book she discovered a brittle, yellowed piece of paper. It was torn along one edge, and it seemed so fragile that Sylvia almost didn’t dare to unfold it, but she couldn’t resist. As carefully as she could, she laid it on top of her desk and gingerly peeled back the corners.

$20 REWARD!

For the capture and return of a Negro woman, runaway or stolen from me two days after Christmas. She is of medium height and build; she may attempt to pass as White or Free but you will know her by the fresh mark of a flatiron, which I made on her right cheek. She is an expert with the needle and may have in her possession a silver thimble and needle case, which belonged to my late Mother and which the Negress has stolen. The above reward of twenty dollars will be given upon return of the said Negress to me or my agents, and an additional ten dollars will be provided for the restoration of my stolen goods. Josiah Chester, Wentworth County, Virginia, December 29, 1858.

A shiver ran down Sylvia’s spine. She set the handbill aside and quickly returned to the memoir.

As I gazed upon the deplorable announcement, my indignation quickly turned to white-hot outrage. The nerve of Mrs. Engle, to permit such a posting on her property!

“My goodness.” Beside me, Anneke was staring at the hand-bill with shocked intrigue. “The mark of a flatiron upon her cheek. Can you imagine it?”

I could imagine it all too well. “If I burned a woman’s face with a flatiron, I would not be so quick to boast of it.” And with that, I snatched the handbill right off the nail and crumpled it into my pocket.

Anneke looked around, fearful someone had seen. “You can’t do that.”

“I most certainly can, and I believe I just did,” said I. “Twenty dollars for a woman. Ten for a thimble and a needle case.”

“They’re silver,” explained my sister-in-law.

I was too angry to reply, so I returned to my seat on the wagon, determined to wait for Anneke outside despite the cold. After a moment Anneke entered the shop, and after a frigid half hour passed, she returned outside carrying a bundle of sewing.

“She said I may continue to work for her as long as my condition is not apparent to the customers,” said Anneke in a subdued voice as we rode off. “After the child is born, if I wish to, I may resume my work.”

I merely nodded. The anger that had reduced to a simmer now resumed a steady boil. How could Anneke even think of prolonging her association with Mrs. Engle now? I had faith that the decent people of Creek’s Crossing would assist a fugitive slave if the opportunity arose, but there were others in our town of weaker character who would be tempted by the promised reward into betraying that unfortunate woman. If she were delivered to her owner because of that handbill, the shame and the sin would be Mrs. Engle’s.

I yearned to discuss the matter with Jonathan, for I knew he would understand my outrage. Instead I confided in Dorothea, whose compassion for all sorts, even her enemies, left me unsatisfied. Rather than joining me in my denunciation of Mrs. Engle, she urged me to leave the matter to God, to pray that Mrs. Engle would see the light one day, and to ask the Lord to protect the fugitive woman, wherever she was.

I could do the latter, but regarding Mrs. Engle, I was unforgiving and unrepentant. “I simply cannot abide such handbills littering our main streets.”

“Nor can I,” said Dorothea, “but I fear we will soon grow accustomed to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Many routes north through Pennsylvania are obstructed by the Appalachians. The slave catchers know there are only so
many passes through the mountains, and they watch them carefully. Gaps to the east and west of us are so well known to the slave catchers that the slaves have been forced to discover other, more hazardous mountain passes. One that still remains little known lies directly south of Creek’s Crossing.”

This knowledge gave me a thrill of apprehension. “This pass is becoming better known, I think, if slave owners know to post handbills here.”

“I fear you are correct.” Dorothea set down her sewing and gazed out the window. “This woman has avoided capture for several weeks. It is possible she may reach Canada soon, if she is not there already. We must pray for fair weather.”

But I had followed her gaze out the window, and saw as she did that a dark cloud loomed in the southwest, which meant we would have snow before nightfall.

I hurried home, arriving only minutes before the first flakes fell. As the blizzard raged for two days and nights, my thoughts went often to the Negress of the handbill, and I wondered what would have compelled her to flee captivity in winter that could not be endured until spring. Then I recalled the horrors I had read of in Jonathan’s books and heard of from Dorothea’s speakers, and I believed I understood, as well as anyone who had never been a slave could.

At last the storms ended, and suddenly the weather grew as temperate as spring; the January Thaw was upon us. It was a peculiar quirk of the climate in the region that for a few days each January, we enjoyed a brief respite from cold temperatures and snow until winter resumed in full force. Energized by the precious sunshine, Anneke and I flung open the windows and decided to accomplish what spring cleaning we could in the time available. While Anneke scrubbed the floors and beat our few rugs, I washed our quilts and hung them out to dry as
Anneke had taught me: colors in the shade, and whites in the sunlight.

Since the days were not any longer despite this prelude to spring, twilight had descended by suppertime. Hans, Anneke, and I made merry over our supper, our spirits greatly elevated by the day’s fair weather. We laughed and talked so loudly that when the knock came at our door, we could not be certain our unexpected guest had not been trying to get our attention for some time.

Anneke excused herself to answer the door, and when she returned, she looked pale and strange. “It’s a woman,” said she. “I don’t know what she wants. I did not understand her English.”

“Why did she stay outside?” ask Hans.

Anneke glanced over her shoulder and wrung her hands. “I believe . . . I think she may be a Negress.”

Wondering which of our neighbors she had left standing on the doorstep, I said, a trifle sharply, “Why didn’t you invite her in?”

Distractedly, Anneke brushed her right cheek with the back of her fingers. “She has a burn, like a flatiron.”

Hans and I had time to exchange a quick glance before we bolted to our feet and hurried to the door. Just outside, where shadows yet hid her, stood a woman. In the poor light I might have thought her a white woman if not for her clothing, which was fashioned of coarse and soiled cloth, and the haunted look in her eye, which, when our gaze met, struck me with nearly physical force. Her shoulders slumped from exhaustion, and although she stood warily as if prepared to run, there was a determined set to her jaw that convinced me she could just as readily hold her ground if she must.

And upon her cheek blazed the mark of a flatiron, red and blistered and sore. It sickened me to look upon it.

Somehow I knew the woman had expected a much different reception from us. Just as she shifted her weight to hurry away, I called out, “Wait. Come in. You’re safe here.”