The Union Quilters (26 page)

“You must believe that all newspaper editors belong to a secret society like the Masons and that our loyalty to our brethren surpasses that to our separate countries.”

“Perhaps not for all newspaper editors, but you, Mr. Meek, given your sympathies to the Southern cause, surely they would accommodate you.”

“I see.” He studied her. “You said your name was Miss Gertrude—”

“Gerda.”

“Miss Gerda—Bergstrom, I believe you said. Are you by any chance related to a Mr. G. A. Bergstrom of Waterʹs Ford?”

Feigning puzzlement, she shook her head. “I can tell you in perfect honesty that I have never met a Mr. G. A. Bergstrom.”

Peter Gray Meek rested his palms on the counter and leaned toward her, eyes narrowing. “Well, Miss Gerda Bergstrom, if that is truly your name, you may tell whoever sent you that he won’t catch me incriminating myself. Does he think me fool enough to admit to a perfect stranger that I habitually commit treason by carrying on correspondence with Rebels and traitors?”

“I—I wasn’t accusing you of any such thing, but your newspaper—you certainly do seem to support the Confederate cause—”

“I believe that totalitarian government and not seceding states are the real threat to our union,” he thundered. “Be sure to tell your employer that. Good day, Miss Bergstrom. I’ll thank you to leave and carry away whatever sordid tales you wish to invent. I have a newspaper to publish.”

Gerda hastily left the shop and hurried down the street to the phaeton. Hans stood nearby leaning against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, hat pulled down over his eyes. At the sound of Gerda’s approach, he looked up. “That was a quick visit. Did you get what you came for?”

“No.” Gerda didn’t wait for his assistance but gathered her skirts and climbed into the phaeton. “He thought it was a trap. Apparently assisting me would be akin to admitting treason.”

Hans climbed in beside her and took up the reins. “I guess he has reason to be suspicious. He’s been arrested for his writings before, and he has a lot of enemies who’d like to see him behind bars.”

“Or at least silenced.” Gerda frowned and leaned back in her seat as Hans chirruped to the horses and sent them on their way. The entire trip had been a waste. The only good to come of it was that she had kept her identity secret, although she could only imagine how Mr. Meek would describe Mr. G. A. Bergstrom’s latest provocation in the pages of the
Watchman
.

Two days later, just when she began to despair of ever learning enough to hasten Jonathan’s release, Mr. Reinhart greeted her at the post office by declaring, “Miss Bergstrom, I do believe your patience has been at last rewarded.”

“I make no pretense to patience,” she said, hurrying to the counter, where the postmaster beamed and handed her a thick envelope. The postmark had smeared, but she could make out the words
Richmond, Va.
Miss Van Lew had at last responded.

She clasped the envelope to her chest and cried, “Thank you, thank you, dear Mr. Reinhart!” She didn’t wait for a reply but flew from the post office and hurried down the street to Union Hall, dodging puddles and mud, to read her letter in private out of the chilly drizzle.

She let herself in through the back door with a key she carried with her whenever she came into town, lit a lamp in the kitchen, and murmured a prayer before breaking the seal. As much as she needed grim details for her report, she would much rather discover that her worries had been unfounded and that the prisoners of war were comfortable, healthy, well-fed, and as content as could be expected under the circumstances.

Stunned by the horrific revelations, Gerda set the letter aside with trembling hands and read the three newspaper clippings Miss Van Lew had enclosed—a description of a Catholic service offered for the prisoners by the Right Reverend Bishop Magill, an account of more than six dray loads of provisions, clothing, and reading material for the prisoners “brought from Yankeeland, by the last truce boat,” a report of three Confederate guards arrested for trading with Yankee prisoners—and understood immediately why Miss Van Lew urged her not to rely upon newspaper accounts alone. Northern writers could not visit the prison to make their own observations, and Confederate writers would be reluctant to reveal their fellow Rebels’ inhumane crimes.

Miss Van Lew’s righteous anger made every line ring with eloquent truth. So powerful did Gerda find her words that her first inclination was to ask Mr. Schultz to print the letter verbatim. Upon further reflection, it occurred to her that she did not have Miss Van Lew’s permission to do so, and in fact, having her name attached to such a condemning report might put the Richmond resident in grave danger. Rebel troops stationed in the city might arrest her or set fire to her house in retaliation—or at the very least, the commandant of Libby Prison would refuse to admit her ever again, and the prisoners would suffer for it.

Resolved, Gerda poured her anger and grief and outrage onto the page, drawing heavily upon Miss Van Lew’s letter but identifying her only as “A Richmond Correspondent” and concealing all incriminating details. No one would expect the author of such a strong indictment to be a woman, Gerda thought with satisfaction. Miss Van Lew would remain anonymous and safe, as safe as any loyal Union woman could be in the Confederate capital, and free to continue her essential work. And as long as she did, she would keep untangled the fragile thread of hope joining Gerda to her beloved Jonathan.

When she delivered the final draft to Schultz’s Printers, Mr. Schultz called her back into his office and asked her to sit while he read. Line by line, his face grew ever more grave, and when he finished, he set down the copy on his desk with a sigh and massaged his brow. “You believe your ‘Richmond Correspondent’ to be a credible source?”

“I do,” she replied. “My correspondent is a loyal Unionist with firsthand knowledge of Libby Prison.”

“A guard or a warden, I presume.” He did not ask, so Gerda did not correct him. “The language encourages me to believe he writes the truth. Liars tend to embellish. I see very little to change in your piece. You have, I presume, warned Dr. Grangerʹs family?”

“Warned them?”

“Prepared them for the distressing details. Surely it would be better for them to learn from a caring friend about the appalling circumstances Dr. Granger is forced to endure. It would be quite a blow to discover them first in the newspaper with no foreknowledge.”

“Of course,” said Gerda, abashed. “I’ll tell them right away.”

“See that you do.” Mr. Schultz rose, so she did as well. “I’ll run your story in our next edition. Fine work, Miss Bergstrom. Fine work indeed.”

The glow of his praise quickly faded as she left Schultz’s Printers. Later that afternoon, she carried an earlier draft of her report to Two Bears Farm, where Dorothea and Anneke listened in horrified silence as she read it aloud. “I’ll share it with my parents and Charlotte,” Dorothea said when she finished, holding out her hand for the page. Gerda gratefully agreed, relieved to be spared the ordeal, well aware that her presence would only augment the Grangers’ pain.

When the next edition of the
Register
was published, the people of the Elm Creek Valley responded to G. A. Bergstrom’s report with shock and outrage. Mayor Bauer and the town council quickly passed a resolution calling for condemnation of the “criminals in charge of Libby Prison” and urging Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton to do all in his power to secure the prisoners’ release. Dorothea and Anneke assisted Gerda as she mailed copies to Secretary Stanton, General Meade, Governor Curtin, and President Lincoln, for good measure. When Gerda took the letters to the post office, Mr. Reinhart read the address for Mr. Lincoln’s copy and remarked, “You could perhaps deliver this to him yourself, you know.”

Gerda smiled. During her frequent visits to the post office through the years, she had become rather fond of the kind gentleman. “Perhaps I should. I’ve always wanted to see Washington City.”

“You wouldn’t need to travel so far. Mr. Lincoln is coming to Pennsylvania next week to dedicate the Soldiers’ National Cemetery at Gettysburg.” His smiled, hopeful. “My eldest daughter and I were planning to attend the ceremony. You’re most welcome to join us. I’m sure Mr. Schultz would be grateful for your firsthand account of the ceremony too.”