The Union Quilters (14 page)

At last the moment came. The band’s lone trumpeter, the other having gone to war, played a fanfare as Anneke took a deep breath and stepped to the podium. She had asked Dorothea to offer the opening remarks, protesting that her accent was sure to render her unintelligible to the crowd, but Dorothea insisted that Anneke accept the honor, since she had organized the creation of the Loyal Union Sampler. Hesitantly at first, but with increasing confidence, Anneke welcomed one and all to the gathering and thanked them for making the Summer Fair and Quilting Bee a success, which she was certain they would. She thanked the various businesses that had donated supplies and services to the cause, praised each founding subscriber by name (and noted that subscriptions were still available for purchase in the East Gallery, where visitors would also discover a variety of tempting refreshments), and complimented the construction crew who had built the hall, and the many quilters who had contributed blocks to the sampler. “I’m sure you will all wish to buy many, many tickets once you see the beautiful quilt you might win,” she added, evoking a ripple of laughter from her listeners.

Finally, Anneke declared Union Hall officially open, and, taking the shears from her pocket, summoned Dorothea and Abel forward to cut the red ribbon. A murmur of surprise went up from the crowd, who, like Constance, had probably expected Dorothea to be summoned, but not Abel. A quick glance exchanged with her husband across the portico told her that he had not expected the honor, either. But why shouldn’t he cut the ribbon? Who would have built the hall if not for him? Hans, all on his own? The other men, with no one to lead them? Abel deserved this recognition as much as Dorothea. Union Hall was a monument to his loyalty and patriotism, his contributions made all the more significant by his nation’s persistent indifference to his willingness to risk his life in battle to preserve it.

Together, Abel’s calloused, weathered farmerʹs hands on Dorothea’s smooth, graceful ones, the two friends cut the ribbon, which fluttered in two red streamers to the floor of the portico. A muted cheer went up from the gathered throng, as if they still were uncertain how they felt about what they had just witnessed. From the podium, Anneke beamed and gestured to welcome guests through the tall double doors into the marble foyer as if she could not imagine that anyone could possibly object to the sight of a colored man and a white woman honored with the distinction of opening what was sure to become a town landmark—and touching hands, no less. Still disconcerted, Constance caught Gerda’s eye only to discover her friend grinning proudly at her sister-in-law. Steeling herself with a deep breath, Constance decided that likely no one would want to spoil the celebration with unpleasantness over Anneke’s spontaneous invitation, so she decided, like Anneke, to pretend that nothing was amiss.

She soon forgot her worries in the whirl of excitement as crowds filled the hall, marveling at each new discovery. Many paused in the foyer to find their own names engraved upon a wall of honor, a tribute to their contributions. Several members of the band had set up their instruments in a corner of the performance hall and kept the visitors entertained with merry jigs and reels. Women filled their baskets with delicacies from the bountifully laded tables arranged along the sides of the room, while others admired the exquisite masterpiece in the quilt frame. Charlotte seemed overwhelmed by the sudden rush to purchase tickets once the people saw what they might win, so Constance quickly stepped in to help her, pausing only occasionally to check on the boys and to observe Abel from a distance, happy to see him accepting congratulations from one and all. The incident at the ribbon cutting had apparently been forgotten, if it had ever seriously concerned anyone but Constance in the first place.

Throughout the day, people came and went, admiring the grand hall, taking a few stitches on the sampler, and shopping at the fair. Hour by hour the quilt neared completion, until finally, shortly after nightfall, the last corner of the border was finished, the gears on the end of the frame loosened one last time, and the quilt removed from the frame. Then the Union Quilters, directed by Anneke, bound the quilt by stitching a narrow strip of bias-cut fabric over the exposed edges of top, batting, and lining.

At last the quilt was finished. The band played another fanfare as Gerda and Constance, the tallest of the Union Quilters, carried the sampler to the stage and held it up for all to admire. Constance had never seen a lovelier quilt, 121 different blocks in a multitude of colors and fabrics, all in harmony despite their differences, held together by an intricate pattern of quilting stitches in scrolls, feathered plumes, and flowers, framed by elegant floral swags fashioned in appliqué. Along the top border, the phrase
Union Forever
was embroidered, and along the bottom,
Water’s Ford, Pa
. As the applause faded, Anneke announced that ticket sales would continue for fifteen minutes more, and in the meantime, the quilt would be draped over a long table on the stage so that everyone could judge for themselves if it was worth an additional ticket or two.

The Union Quilters would have gladly extended the interval if the line at ticket sales warranted, but eventually they squeezed the last dollar from their guests and collected all the ticket stubs in a hopper. They insisted that Dorothea draw the name of the winner, for she had been the impetus behind the entire venture, and not a stitch would have been taken or limestone block set in place without her. The winner was a woman named Faith Morlan, a beloved friend of Mrs. Stokey’s since childhood, whose contribution to the quilt had been a striking block she had named Charley Stokey’s Star. All agreed that it was only right and just that a woman who had sewn a tribute to a fallen hero of Company L should take home the quilt.

The Summer Fair and Quilting Bee was a triumph by any measure. Union Hall was opened to great public acclaim, and the sales from the fair alone earned over four hundred dollars for the Veterans’ Relief Fund. The opportunity quilt raised enough to pay off their outstanding debts, with a healthy amount left over to invest in the bank and draw upon for operating costs.

The glow of their success burned brightly for the next two weeks, with jubilant reviews in the
Register
and a congratulatory as well as conciliatory letter from the town council echoing the praise the Union Quilters heard wherever they went. Abel resumed his usual schedule of dairying and farming, and devoted the hours he had once spent on the construction site at target practice or scrutinizing the
Liberator
and other papers. With one great success behind him, he seemed ever more certain that he would not long be denied the right to serve his country as a soldier. If such hopes, however unlikely to be fulfilled, kept him from sinking into melancholy now that the hall was finished, Constance would say nothing to discourage him.

The Union Quilters were busier than ever, even with the Loyal Union Sampler completed, photographed, and delivered to the lucky winner. In addition to conducting their own fund-raisers, they also entertained requests from other groups to rent the hall. The women found themselves in an unexpected position of authority as they chose between various organizations and events. If an event reflected their own values, such as an enlistment rally or a lecture from a renowned abolitionist orator, the organization was graciously welcomed, but if the sponsoring group’s mission seemed antithetical to their own—such as a lecture by Ohio congressman Clement Vallandigham, an outspoken Copperhead—the request was cordially refused. The pages of the
Watchman
fairly sparked with outrage after the representative’s visit had to be canceled, but as G. A. Bergstrom retorted in the
Register
, the Peace Democrats shouldn’t have invited such an eminent guest until they had secured a venue, but failing that, they were welcome to construct a hall of their own.

Sobering letters from the 49th reminded them how essential the work of the Union Quilters was to the soldiers at the front. Jonathan’s grim letters to Gerda about the wounded men in his care spurred them on to raise money for bandages, medicines, and other supplies, while his more sanguine notes to Charlotte encouraged them to believe that their efforts were improving conditions in the field hospitals. But the details of the battles lingered in Constance’s thoughts and haunted her nightmares. Names of distant towns and battles blurred together in her mind—Second Bull Run, Sugar Loaf Mountain, Crampton’s Pass, South Mountain. The flurry of communications that followed the Battle of Antietam stood out even amidst pages and pages of descriptions of astonishing events, bloodshed, and violence. Thomas wrote first of rumors about a curious incident that he had not been able to confirm, hearsay that in mid-September, a soldier from the 27th Indiana, while crossing a campground recently vacated by the Rebels, had discovered on the ground three cigars wrapped in a piece of paper. Astoundingly, the document turned out to be a copy of General Lee’s battle plan for Maryland, which the soldier promptly turned over to his superiors. Already possessing superior numbers, Union General McClellan—informed of Lee’s plan to divide the Army of Northern Virginia and armed with foreknowledge of the Confederate troop movements—had been handed the opportunity to defeat the separate wings of Lee’s army decisively.

Thomas had ended his letter before the consequences of the Union’s providential discovery had become evident, but other letters from Company L soon followed, describing the Battle of Antietam in stark, horrifying detail that left the women dazed and shocked and sickened. Although the 49th Pennsylvania had come under fire at Antietam, they had been only partially engaged; the 3rd Brigade of the VI Corps had taken the most active role, with the 7th Maine and 20th New York suffering the most severe losses. What their men had not been spared was the grim aftermath of the battle. Thousands upon thousands killed and maimed, hillsides dotted with prostrate corpses clad in blue, sunken roads filled with bodies in butternut and gray mowed down like grain before the scythe. Men frozen in the final acts of their brief lives—a hand gripping a sword hilt as a lieutenant rallied his men, teeth clenched in a last grimace around the bitten end of a cartridge as a corporal reloaded his weapon. Brains and blood splattered on the rich green leaves of corn; bodies bloated in death, fallen alone, in pairs, in clusters amidst the rows of stalks. The men’s horror and anguish poured off the pages, and the women wept as they read or listened, utterly powerless, utterly bereft, unable to comfort their sons and brothers and fathers and sweethearts, stunned by their sudden need to protect their protectors.

Silently, Constance prayed for her friends and their absent loved ones—and thanked God that her husband had been spared the nightmare that would haunt the other men for years to come, perhaps forever. She could not imagine how any man, no matter how strong or valiant, could forget such horrors, once witnessed. She also suspected, though dared not say aloud lest it grieve her friends, that the letters contained only what the men could bring themselves to write about, to share with the women back home. Surely they had seen and heard and smelled and done much more and much worse than they had wanted to sear into the imaginations of their beloved mothers, sisters, and darlings.

Despite the devastating cost, the Union considered the battle of Antietam a victory, for although the overcautious General McClellan did not destroy General Lee’s army, he ended Lee’s invasion of Maryland and forced him to withdraw back into Virginia. Wishing she could not so vividly imagine the scenes the men had described, Constance hoped that some good might yet come of the great sacrifice of men’s lives.

Before the end of September, she had her answer.

She was on the front porch shelling peas when Abel came racing up the road, his horse in a lather. “Constance,” he shouted as he sped toward the barn. Her heart froze in her chest. He had gone into town to discover what news he could of the war; she could not imagine what he had learned. She forced herself to stand, and wondered vaguely if she should call for her sons or pray that they did not overhear whatever it was that had sent Abel racing home.

Abel passed the barn and came right up to the house, where he pulled the horse to a stop and swung down from its back. “Constance,” he said, taking the porch steps two at a time. When he seized her hands, she realized he was beaming. “He’s done it. At last, he’s done it. Mr. Lincoln’s freed the slaves.”

 

Anneke followed Gerda and Dorothea’s explanations as carefully as she could, but they could not dispel her puzzlement. Mr. Lincoln had wanted to free the slaves all along, they said, despite his earlier statements that the war was being fought only to preserve the Union, nothing more and nothing less. He had begun writing his Emancipation Proclamation weeks or even months earlier and had presented it to his Cabinet at the end of July, but he had been obliged to wait until after a decisive Union victory before he could announce the proclamation to the American people. Antietam was that victory.

“But why wait?” Anneke queried them. “He’s the president, isn’t he? If he wanted to end slavery, why not just do it?”

“To make such an announcement after a series of defeats would appear an act of desperation,” said Gerda, but Dorothea said there was more to it than that. Mr. Lincoln had needed to determine whether freeing the slaves was constitutional, and he had come to believe that it was indeed legal for him, by virtue of his war powers as commander in chief, to declare the slaves in areas under rebellion henceforward and forever free.

Dorothea added that Mr. Lincoln had also confronted a delicate situation regarding the slaveholding border states that had remained loyal to the Union. If he had acted too soon, declaring an end to slavery when their loyalties had not yet settled, those states might have been compelled to join the Confederacy. The president instead had encouraged slaveholders in those states to voluntarily emancipate their slaves, promising them government compensation to offset their losses.