The Union Quilters (10 page)

“We can’t let that happen to Union Hall.”

“Certainly not, but what can we do?”

Gerda didn’t know, but she was determined to figure out something. “I’ve just been to the post office,” she said. “Have you had any word from Abner?”

Mary shook her head and glanced into Gerda’s basket, which carried only a folded copy of the Bellefonte
Democratic Watchman
. “Not you, either?”

“Nothing. Has your father had any news?” He received the most recent casualty lists by telegraph, but Gerda could not bring herself to ask for that specifically.

But Mary easily guessed. “There were two losses to the regiment, but none from Company L.”

“Praise God,” Gerda breathed. They’d been fortunate thus far, but how much longer would their luck hold out? “On the subject of news, I should warn you, don’t read the most recent
Watchman
unless you have a high tolerance for fools. Mr. Meek is in rare form. He’s hit upon a remarkable combination of sentimentality and disloyalty. I wonder how he can sell a single copy of such Copperhead trash.”

Mary laughed. “You buy it. You’re one of their most avid subscribers. If I were inclined to jealousy, I’d be alarmed that you seem to prefer that paper to ours.”

“I don’t prefer it,” Gerda protested. Indeed, she didn’t even enjoy reading it and only did so out of a strange fascination with Peter Gray Meek’s frenzied criticism of the Lincoln administration. She marveled that anyone would believe his obvious partisan lies, so easily disproven if one cared to examine the facts, and was astounded that his blatant appeals to his readers’ fears and prejudices did not insult their intelligence and prompt them to seek out more objective sources. What disturbed her most of all was that Mr. Meek seemed to be succeeding. If loyal Union papers like the
Register
were willing to resort to lies and dirty tricks, they too could whip the people of central Pennsylvania into a frenzy, but the Schultzes prided themselves on their ethical standards and journalistic principles. As Abner had joked in the months leading up to the war, when the debate over appeasement versus military action was aired in the Northern press, they were “hobbled by their scruples.” Hans had joked back that the Schultzes need not fear becoming rich that way, to which Abner had replied, “That’s what the print shop is for.”

He could joke about such matters because everyone knew that Abner Schultz, like his father-in-law before him, cared more about the truth than the almighty dollar. As far as Gerda could tell, Meek knew only one truth, his own, and cared not a whit if he trampled the facts underfoot as he raced to spread it. During the 1860 election, his zealous rhetoric had cost him his position with the
Watchman
after his vicious attacks on Mr. Lincoln had led to a decline in subscriptions and the loss of advertisers. His firing seemed only to inflame his opposition, for two years later he purchased a half interest in the paper and named himself editor. With far more control over the paper’s content than ever before, Meek indulged his fervent desire to criticize the president in one tirade after another, issue after issue.

“If only Meek’s tactics weren’t so persuasive,” Gerda mourned, sitting down heavily on a stool at the print shop counter. “How can good, loyal, Union journalists hope to compete against that?”

“Indeed. How dare we stand against him, when we’re armed merely with the truth?” asked Mary, amused. “If you disagree with his position so intensely, why don’t you write a rebuttal?”

“Meek would never run it.”

“My father might.”

“Do you think so?”

“If it’s well written, perhaps. Nothing sells papers like controversy.”

“I’ll have something for your father before the week is out,” Gerda declared as she snatched up her basket and left the shop, already making mental notes of her most persuasive arguments.

 

Anneke let Gerda worry about overbearing town council members and unpleasant newspaper editors; as soon as she felt sufficiently recovered from childbirth, she chose to devote her energies to the far more pleasant task of soliciting blocks for the Loyal Union Sampler. She was delighted when, in a unanimous decision, the Union Quilters put her in charge of the project, citing her beautiful handiwork, unequaled talent for arranging disparate blocks into a pleasing pattern, and gift for balancing contrast and color. That she had already sewn half a dozen blocks for the quilt may have swung the vote in her favor; Prudence, the only other woman to express an interest in the role, had sewn only two.

Anneke promptly asked Prudence to be her second in charge, and not only to console her for losing the top role. Organizing an opportunity quilt was too large and too important a task for one person, and Prudence, a professional seamstress, was the obvious choice to assist her. Like Anneke she owned a sewing machine, which would allow them to quickly stitch the blocks into rows, and rows into a top when the time came, and the accuracy of her piecing was exemplary.

Anneke was surprised but agreeable when Constance requested to join their committee. Constance was as good a quilter as any in their circle, but she was already a member of the wool drive, the lint collecting, and the knitting committees, and Anneke worried that she would spread herself too thin. Constance, like Abel, seemed determined to work twice as hard as anyone on the home front to provide for the soldiers, as if to compensate for Abel’s absence from the battlefield. It was no secret that Abel chafed at his exclusion, nor was it a secret that while Constance was relieved Abel was safe, he was eager and determined to fight, and she wanted what he wanted. Anneke did not understand why he was so avid to endure the hardships the men of the 49th wrote home about. The color of his skin had brought him so many hardships; why could he not look upon his exclusion from war as a rare blessing? At least
he
would not be considered a Copperhead for staying out of the fight, and Constance, a Copperhead’s wife.

While Hans alternated days between the Union Hall construction site and his fields and stables, and Gerda composed an epic denunciation of Peter Grey Meek, who had apparently become her sworn enemy although they had never met, Anneke cared for her darling boys, kept house, and sought blocks for the sampler. Their committee printed a letter in the
Water’s Ford Register
and personally asked their neighbors and acquaintances for blocks, but they also distributed handbills at Prudence’s seamstress shop, the dry goods store on First Street, and the library. Occasionally, in pairs or alone, they would visit church groups and other sewing circles to spur interest in the project, which never failed to result in generous donations of bundles of charming blocks and the occasional invitation to call on a new acquaintance at home. Anneke found the whirl of activity and the widening of her social circle so delightful that, except when someone muttered “Copperhead” in her direction at the market, or when Gerda brooded over casualty lists, or when a Union Quilter read aloud a letter from a loved one in the 49th, she could almost forget that the nation was divided by war. She had her husband, a delightful new baby, her darling twins, friends, and pleasant diversions. The farm and stables thrived. Even the work to build the hall could be imagined as an end unto itself and not the means to raise money for the soldiers. The war seemed very far away, as if it were happening in another country, and she did not wish to draw it closer, to pore over articles in the
Atlantic Monthly
as Gerda did in a vain attempt to feel what the soldiers felt. Anneke knew such thoughts were selfish and reprehensible, so she kept them to herself.

Anneke looked forward to every meeting of the Union Quilters. Most of all she enjoyed displaying each new addition to the collection of Loyal Union Sampler blocks and sharing ingenious piecing tricks she learned from reading the contributors’ notes and examining their templates. On one lovely evening in early May, she also displayed blocks made by members of their own circle: one called Memory from Mrs. Claverton, and another named Manassas from Dorothea, who seemed inclined to commemorate the adventures of the 49th in fabric. Her friends admired the new blocks and praised her and her committee for their accomplishments, and as Anneke took her seat to listen to Abel’s construction report, her only disappointment was that the circle was not complete. Charlotte, who had borne a beautiful baby girl on a rainy day in early April, was still recovering from a difficult labor, and Eliza, who ordinarily attended every gathering without fail, was also inexplicably absent. Anneke decided to set the new blocks aside to show them later.

Abel’s report was followed by a brief debate over what to do about Mr. Bauer and the town council, who had ignored their polite demurrals and seemed determined to badger them until they relinquished control of Union Hall out of sheer exhaustion. Dorothea, who seemed unusually troubled even for those circumstances, reported that she had exchanged several letters with a lawyer friend of Thomas’s in Philadelphia. He assured her that the town council probably could not seize the hall even by invoking their power of eminent domain, but he was investigating measures they could take to protect themselves, just in case.

“In the meantime, we will go about our work and refuse to be intimidated.” Dorothea took a deep breath and withdrew from her pocket an envelope, creased and soiled as if it had made a difficult journey to reach her. “I’m sure you’re wondering why Eliza did not join us today.”

Mary bit her lips together and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, which alerted Anneke that she already knew what Dorothea was about to tell them. “Is Thomas all right?” she asked, suddenly nervous.

“Oh, yes,” said Dorothea quickly, indicating the letter. “I received this from him yesterday.”

“Praise God he’s well,” murmured Lorena, although everyone knew the arrival of a letter meant only that the author had been safe at the time of its writing. Anything might have befallen her son-in-law in the interim.

“What is it?” asked Prudence, alarmed. “You look so pale.”

“I can’t—I think I should just read.” Dorothea cleared her throat and began.