The Union Quilters (25 page)

Weeks passed. Twice, arrangements for Jonathan’s parole fell through mere days before he was to be released. Finally, in September, Gerda received a letter of her own, though she was surprised to discover he had addressed it to G. A. Bergstrom rather than Gerda. “My dearest friend,” he had written in a shaky hand. “Serving in prison hospital. Mr. Pocken, Mr. Skorbut, Mr. Diarrhoe, & Mr. Verhungern my constant companions. Socks and pickles most welcome, thank you. Forgive my silence. Remember my heart. God bless you.”

It was only thirty-five words, and yet she cherished none of his letters more. She knew he was permitted only one letter a week, and each of the six abrupt lines was rich with significance for her alone. He knew how much it had hurt her that he had written to Charlotte several times and never, until now, to her. At last she understood why: His messages had to pass scrutiny by his Confederate wardens, and a letter to an unmarried woman not related to him would provoke unpleasant questions. Moreover, the German words he had used to name his “companions”—smallpox, scurvy, diarrhea, and starvation—revealed ugly truths about Libby Prison that the Confederates would not want decent people of conscience in the North and South alike to know. Jonathan risked much by trusting her with this cruel secret. What other horrors accompanied the afflictions he had named?

She must learn more. She must discover all she could about the inhumane conditions the Union prisoners endured at Libby Prison, and then she must expose the truth in the
Water’s Ford Register.
The public outcry would compel the Lincoln administration to arrange for the men’s release, or, if that proved impossible, to redouble their efforts to seize Richmond and free the suffering prisoners themselves.

Dorothea supported her plan and gave Gerda the address of the sympathetic friend of Thomas’s uncle, a certain Miss Elizabeth Van Lew, in hopes that she would be able to provide more articles from Richmond newspapers. “I confess I hope you discover the prison is not as inhospitable as we fear,” Dorothea told her as she copied out the address, “although that will make a dull story for the
Register
.”

“I suspect we will discover it is worse than we can imagine,” Gerda cautioned her friend, with a pang of guilt, for she had not told Dorothea about her first letter from Jonathan. How could she, with its entreaty to remember his heart? Both Dorothea and Charlotte had read between the lines of his subsequent letters, but only Gerda knew for certain that the prison was rife with disease and hunger.

Gerda wrote to Miss Van Lew, explaining her purpose and asking her to send any Richmond newspaper reports of Libby Prison she could collect, as well as her own personal observations as a resident of the city. Mindful of the hardships Miss Van Lew likely faced in the besieged Southern city, she also included a few federal silver dollars to defray the costs of postage. “How long until this letter reaches Richmond?” she asked Mr. Reinhart anxiously when she posted it.

His brow furrowed in sympathy. “It’s difficult to say. It depends on how amenable the armies are to letting postal carriers cross the lines. Sometimes they’re agreeable on both sides, sometimes battle makes travel impossible, and sometimes the Rebels accuse our carriers of using our deliveries as a pretext to spy.”

“In the latter cases,” Gerda said dryly, “I assume they smile and cheerfully allow the postal carriers to pass through the pickets at will.”

Mr. Reinhart chuckled. “I only wish it were so, Miss Bergstrom.”

Gerda sighed. It could be weeks until her letter reached Richmond, another week for Miss Van Lew to collect relevant newspaper clippings, and weeks more for her reply to reach Waterʹs Ford. “How about the silver dollars I’ve enclosed?” she asked. “Do you think they’ll be safe? Should I have wrapped them in a handkerchief to conceal them?”

“Your money will be safe as long as the United States Postal Service carries it,” Mr. Reinhart replied proudly, lifting his gray-bearded chin. “As for what happens after it crosses into enemy territory, I couldn’t rightly say. Miss Bergstrom, if I may be so forward, what business does a loyal young lady like yourself have sending Union silver into the Confederate capital?”

Despite everything, Gerda almost laughed. Only a kind gentleman twenty years her senior would consider her a “young lady” rather than a tired old spinster. “She’s a friend of the Nelson family and a good Union woman despite her city of residence,” Gerda explained. “She’s helped Mrs. Nelson and the Granger family stay informed about Dr. Granger during his imprisonment, and I’m going to ask her to help me learn more about the conditions at Libby Prison.”

“Ah, yes. Dr. Granger.” The postmaster frowned. “That’s a bad business.”

“Indeed, but precisely how bad, I won’t know until and unless I receive a reply from Miss Van Lew.”

“Miss Bergstrom, if I might offer a suggestion . . .” Mr. Reinhart hesitated. “Your correspondence to Miss Van Lew sounds urgent. Those silver dollars may tempt thieves. You might do well to send a second letter, a duplicate of the first, but without the temptation of silver. It may be more likely to reach its destination, and if the lady is as kind as she seems to be, she won’t require payment to help you.”

Gerda immediately agreed that sending a second letter would be a prudent measure. When she told Mr. Reinhart that she would return as soon as possible with a duplicate but that she would like to post the original immediately, he offered her paper, pen, and ink so she could make a copy without leaving the post office. He even invited her to sit at his own desk in the small office in back, where she could work in much greater comfort than if she stood at the counter. Then, when she finished and gave him both letters to send, he refused to accept payment. “Consider it a token of my admiration for your commitment to the Union cause,” he said, stamping and marking the envelopes.

She thanked him profusely and left the post office for Schultz’s Printers to inquire if Mary had any news of the 49th. Mary had not heard from Abner in more than a week, nor had the most recent casualty lists come in yet. Disappointed, Gerda picked up the latest copy of the
Register
, discussed a new assignment with Mr. Schultz, and returned home.

Then, she waited. She did not wait idly; all the housekeeping had fallen to her since Anneke had moved into Union Hall and then to Two Bears Farm, and her writing for the
Register
occupied her spare moments. She met weekly with the Union Quilters for their ongoing work to raise money for the 49th Pennsylvania and the 6th Regiment of the United States Colored Infantry, which, Abel Wright reported, had moved from Camp William Penn to Fort Monroe and from thence to Yorktown. Twice weekly, Dorothea brought the boys to Elm Creek Farm to visit Hans, where she gently urged him to make peace with Anneke and welcome her home. Gerda doubted that any amount of coaxing would move her intractable brother, and she told Dorothea that if the two would ever reconcile, it would be because Anneke acquiesced first. Dorothea smiled and assured her that back at Two Bears Farm, she was plying Anneke with the same entreaties.

At the end of October, Anneke organized the annual Harvest Dance at Union Hall with a sure hand, raising more money for the 49th and the 6th than any of their previous fund-raisers. For the first time since his arrival in the Elm Creek Valley, Hans did not attend. Letters from Jonathan were brief and rare, though the Union Quilters continued to send him food and clothing, hoping that at least a small fraction of their packages would reach him. Almost daily, Gerda visited the post office but usually left with little more than Mr. Reinhart’s encouragement not to abandon hope.

She could not give up, nor would she as long as Jonathan’s release depended upon her discovering and revealing the inhumane conditions within Libby Prison. Surely if the truth were known, the Union would stop at nothing to see all the prisoners released, either through exchange or liberation by force. She also knew that she could not wait for Miss Van Lew to reply, for Gerda had no way to be certain that the Richmond patriot had received either of her two letters. She would have to seek information from other sources, obtain copies of Richmond newspapers by other means. Regrettably, her own contacts were limited to her friends and family back in Germany, who could not help her in this matter, and her acquaintances in rural central Pennsylvania. Of these, who better to put her in touch with a Southern newspaper than a newspaper editor who sympathized with the South?

Hans questioned the wisdom of appealing to the man who had castigated her time and time again in the pages of his newspaper, but when she pointed out that she would introduce herself as Miss Gerda Bergstrom and not the infamous G.A., he sighed, raked his fingers through his beard, and agreed to escort her. “He’ll have to be a confounded fool not to discover that Gerda and G. A. Bergstrom are one and the same,” he warned as he hitched the team to the phaeton he kept for energetic drives and for impressing customers who wished to put a horse through its paces before purchasing it.

“He believes G.A. to be a man,” said Gerda, taking her seat and resting her basket on her lap. “I expect to be in and out of his offices before there is time to pique his curiosity.”

“A strange woman’s strange request will be enough to do that,” said Hans, but he took the reins and drove them to Bellefonte, the county seat and a prosperous, bustling town for all that it was not yet connected to the railroad. Gerda had chosen a Thursday morning for her errand, thinking that, since the
Democratic Watchman
was published on Fridays, Peter Gray Meek was likely to be in, whipping up a fresh batch of vitriol before firing up the press.

They drove along Water Street and past the Diamond at the center of town, coming to a halt near the entrance to the newspaper office. Gerda remained seated, gathering her thoughts for so long that Hans eventually asked, “Would you like me to come in with you?”

“Heaven forefend,” Gerda declared, clutching her basket and exiting the phaeton. “If I say I am Miss Bergstrom, Mr. Meek is likely to conclude that you are Mr. G. A. Bergstrom, and he may fly into a rage and strike you.”

“Very well, I’ll wait outside. If he gives you any trouble, shriek as loudly as you can.”

“So you may come to my rescue?”

“No, so I can find a better vantage point to view the spectacle of you fleeing the building in a shower of pieces of type.”

“A woman could not ask for a more dutiful brother.” Gerda gave him a cheerful wave. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, sister. You’ll need it for this fool’s errand.”

She laughed to hide her nervousness, strolled to the front entrance with her basket on her arm, glanced at the proud declaration painted on the window—THE BELLEFONTE DEMOCRATIC WATCHMAN, THE INDEPENDENT VOICE OF PENNSYLVANIA—and entered through the front door. The smell of ink and paper reminded her of Schultz’s Printers, but the men bustling about were intent on their tasks, barking orders and jokes to one another, with none of Mr. Schultz’s dignified reserve or Mary’s friendliness.

A young man with his coat draped over a nearby chair and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow spotted her and approached the counter. “May I help you, ma’am?”

“Yes, I do hope so.” She managed a smile as she drew closer, although she felt that each step took her deeper into the lions’ den. “I wondered if I might speak with your editor, Mr. Peter Gray Meek?”

The young man grinned, and she had the sudden impression that he was trying hard not to laugh and remind her that he knew the name of his own editor. “May I ask who wishes to speak with him and on what business?”

The young man had a high forehead, thinning hair, and a cleft chin, and he looked to be little more than twenty. A clerk, she decided, or an apprentice of some sort, and rather impertinent for his position. “My name is Miss Gerda Bergstrom,” she said, carefully enunciating the first two words of her name and slurring the last a trifle. “I’m afraid my business with Mr. Meek is confidential.”

“Really.” He lowered his voice and leaned upon the counter, propping himself up on his elbows. “Do you have top secret information about another Confederate invasion? Or perhaps you wish to place an advertisement requesting correspondence with a soldier?” His eyes widened in feigned alarm. “Or perhaps you’ve come to warn me that the police are on the way and my arrest is imminent, in which case I will thank you and beg your pardon while I finish the latest edition before they take me away.”

It took Gerda a moment to understand. “You’re Peter Gray Meek?” This young man was her radical firebrand nemesis? “You’re just a boy!”

He straightened and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m the proprietor of this establishment, I’ll thank you to know.”

“Yes, of course you are,” she quickly replied. “That is indeed why I come to speak to you. The brother of my dearest friend has been detained in Libby Prison, and I’m afraid his correspondence with her and his wife has been quite limited. As you can imagine, we’ve been filled with the most unbearable dread not knowing what conditions he endures.”

“Perhaps it’s better not to know,” he said. “Such details may be too gruesome for the fairer sex to know, especially in regard to one’s husband or brother.”

“Which is precisely why I’ve come in their stead.” Gerda silently rejoiced in his unwitting gift of a plausible explanation. “I shall discover the facts and share with them only what I believe they can bear to hear.”

His wide brow furrowed. “And you’ve come to me because of my vast knowledge of Virginia military prisons?”

“No, indeed, unless you happen to boast such knowledge. I would consider myself excessively fortunate if you did.”

“Alas, I don’t.”

“I believe, however, that editors of Richmond newspapers do, at least as far as a prison in their own city is concerned,” Gerda replied. “I had hoped that you might be able to introduce me by letter to the editors of the
Richmond Sentinel
and
Gazette
and ask them to provide me with the information I need.”