The Union Quilters (21 page)

“Indeed,” said Anneke quickly. “We shall all be glad to have our doctor home, even if only for a little while.”

All at once, Charlotte’s frisson of anger dissipated. “If he
is
one of the officers they send,” she said. “If anyone will be able to come now that the Rebels are on our threshold.”

“It’s possible that the Rebels will do little more than raid and skirmish, as they did in Chambersburg,” said Anneke, recalling Hans’s prediction.

Mrs. Claverton’s mouth pinched in worry. “I pray they do no more.”

As the conversation turned to the likelihood that no officers would be sent home on recruiting missions until and unless the current crisis was resolved in favor of the Union, Anneke said a brief, silent, guilty prayer of thankfulness that Gerda’s ongoing disgrace had diverted attention from Hans’s. But she knew her husband had gained only a temporary reprieve in the judgment of his neighbors. His refusal to serve had not been forgotten, nor, she feared, would it be forgiven.

 

The refugees from the southern counties brought alarming reports that confirmed Constance’s worst fears: The Army of Northern Virginia had crossed the Potomac and was surging into Pennsylvania. They occupied towns, terrifying the citizens, capturing prisoners, confiscating horses, tearing down fences and outbuildings for firewood, raiding chicken coops and pigpens, destroying railroads, severing telegraph lines, cleaning out shops and businesses and leaving worthless Confederate scrip behind in payment. The raw recruits of the Pennsylvania Emergency Militia had been no match for the battle-scarred veterans of Lee’s army, and they had scattered or had been captured with little difficulty.

Constance’s heart thudded in her chest as she hurried about Union Hall tending to the refugees, overhearing frightening tales of menacing Rebels and narrow escapes as she directed newcomers to cots, passed out quilts, and distributed bread. In Franklin County, she learned, Major General Jubal Early had burned the Caledonia Iron Works and the workers’ homes despite General Lee’s wellpublicized order not to destroy private property. In York, an elderly veteran of the Mexican War had refused a Confederate sergeant’s order to turn over his horses, and when the sergeant attempted to take them anyway, he seized a rifle and shot four Rebel soldiers before he himself was killed. In some regions the invaders had ordered residents to turn over their guns, demanded cash payments, and threatened to destroy the towns if the people did not comply. The refugees’ vivid descriptions haunted Constance’s thoughts until she could all too clearly imagine the terrifying events occurring on the streets of Water’s Ford.

Intermingled with her apprehension was surprise and confusion, for Constance was astonished by how many of the refugees were men, and not elderly men, either. When Anneke had asked her to help run the Union Hall shelter, she had expected to care for women and children and the infirm, those who dared not stay behind to defend their homes. There were some women and children among the refugees, of course; entire families had evacuated the threatened regions together. But for the most part, those who sought shelter at Union Hall were men who had fled with their families’ livestock and valuables. At first, Constance was appalled to discover that the men had left their wives and children to fend for themselves during the invasion, but as they talked among themselves, she learned that they had done so because they thought their higher duty resided in preserving what they would need to provide for their families after the crisis passed. Without horses, they could not farm crops; without crops, they would not be able to feed their families the next month and the next season and the next year. A temporary absence from their families even in a time of grave peril was preferable to permanent economic ruin. And, the refugees assured one another, their families were in no real danger because the Confederate soldiers were men like themselves and thus the natural protectors of women and children. Though they were traitors to their nation, the Rebels would be compelled by natural law to do the vulnerable no harm. The very enemy soldiers who would steal a man’s horses, cattle, and property would surely be chivalrous enough to refrain from harming his dependents.

Constance, who knew firsthand all about the supposed chivalry of Southern men and their treatment of the most vulnerable, thought that any man who would put his trust in the goodwill and honor of an invading army was out of his mind. She prayed for the women and children whom she imagined cowering in root cellars as gunfire rained down upon their homes, and as she worked in Union Hall, she struggled to conceal her feelings from the men in her care. She did not want to think them cowards, for they seemed to believe they had made a difficult but prudent decision, and most of them were unmistakably anguished and worried as they queried her for news of the invasion. Still, she could not imagine Abel leaving her and their boys to face an enemy army without him even if it meant sacrificing every goat, cow, and horse to his name.

On the last day of June, Constance returned home after a weary day at Union Hall to find an unfamiliar wagon in front of the barn and several horses she did not recognize in the corral with their own. She saw children running through the fields as she rode up the drive, and as she slid down from the back of her mare and led it to the trough, she heard a shout of laughter. She spotted her sons climbing the cherry tree near the house, and a moment later she recognized the seven children with them as her nieces and nephews from Mercersburg. Quickly she finished tending to the mare and hurried into the house, where she found Abel sitting at the kitchen table with his brother, Joshua; Joshua’s wife, Margaret; Abel’s two sisters; and his younger sisterʹs husband, Adam. They looked pensive and angry, and Abel’s elder sister’s face was streaked with tears. She clutched a teacup with a shaking hand and did not look up as Constance entered.

“The Rebels have reached Mercersburg?” she asked breathlessly, untying her bonnet and hanging it on a hook. She saw that Abel had set out bread and cheese for their guests, but she quickly went to the pantry and brought out blueberry preserves and corn relish also, to hold them over until she could prepare supper. “Are you all right? You were right to come to us, and you should stay as long as you need to. Were the children frightened? Where’s Ephraim?”

Abel’s elder sister, Louisa, choked out a sob and embraced her younger sister, burying her face on Frances’s shoulder. Alarmed, Constance looked from one bleak face to another. “Where’s Ephraim?” she repeated.

“Confederate troops have invaded Mercersburg,” said Abel. “They rounded up dozens of colored folks and sent them south under guard.”

“They’re going to be sold into slavery,” said Joshua, his voice brittle with anger. “A few of the people they rounded up were escaped slaves, but most of them were freeborn.”

“Lord save them.” Dizzy, Constance held on to the edge of the table and lowered herself into a chair as she guessed the rest. “Ephraim. They took Ephraim.”

Abel nodded.

“We’re not safe, none of us,” Margaret cried, clutching her husband’s hand. “We’ve got to flee north. Tell them, Joshua.”

Joshua nodded. “We have no choice. Pack only what you need. We’ll leave at daybreak.”

“Yes, of course. We must.” Constance took a deep breath and fought to steady herself. Ephraim. Sweet, funny Ephraim, the kindest and most generous of her brothers-in-law. He had never felt the lash, had never spent a day of his life as anything less than a free man. Slavery would crush him. They would have to find him, to purchase his freedom as Abel had purchased hers, but first—“We have friends north of the Four Brothers Mountains. We’ve known them since our Underground Railroad days. They’ll surely help us. But first we should send word to the other colored families hereabouts. That can’t wait until tomorrow.”

“We’re not going,” said Abel. “We should send word, and let other families do as they must, but we are not going.”

Joshua lifted his hands in frustration and shook his head as if he had already tried, and failed, to change his brotherʹs mind.

Constance stared at Abel, disbelieving. “What do you mean, we’re not going? There’s an army on the way, an army of slavers. Do you want to risk having our boys taken from us and sold into slavery? I would die before I’d let that happen.”

“As would I,” said Abel firmly. “Listen. If we make a run for it, we won’t know what we’re running to and we’ll be leaving our homes and farms to be ransacked. The southern pass is the only route an army could take into the Elm Creek Valley from that direction. If we build defenses there and guard them fiercely, not one single Rebel soldier will set foot on our land or near any of our children. We know the terrain and we’ll hold the high ground. I’m telling you, this is the best way. This is the only way.”

Constance’s thoughts raced. She pictured the southern pass high in the Appalachians, the narrow and treacherous road, and the thick forest where sharpshooters like Abel could hide and pick off any enemies who dared approach. She thought of her sons forced to flee their home, to seek refuge in strange towns like the poor souls she cared for at Union Hall. She had never wanted her boys to become runaways like so many of their people.

Abel was regarding her steadily, awaiting her answer.

“You must do what you think is best,” she told him. “But as for me, I think you’re right. Staying and defending the southern pass is our best hope.”

Pleased, Abel slapped his palms on the table and turned to the others. “What do you say?”

“Whatever they’re doing with contraband down South, they still aren’t ready to put colored men in the army up here in the North,” Margaret said. “They’ll turn you away as they’ve done twice before at Camp Curtin.”

“We don’t need to join the army to defend our families,” said Adam. “I’m with you, Abel.”

“I can’t run anymore,” said Louisa, the eldest sister, her voice thick with grief. “My children are frightened enough with their father taken from us. I trust you, brother. If you say you can hold the pass, I believe you.”

“I do too,” said Frances.

“This is madness,” exclaimed Margaret. “Abel and Adam, you’re both crack shots but the two of you can’t hold off an army.”

“It won’t be just the two of us,” said Abel. “There are men enough within ten miles of here to build fortifications and guard the pass.”

“Then you’d better send word to them right away, because the three of us can’t do it alone,” said Joshua. Margaret pressed her hand to her lips, her eyes filling with tears. “Margaret, don’t you weep. You and the children will be safe here on the farm. I swear to you, we won’t let one single Rebel enter the Elm Creek Valley.”

 

It was almost twilight when Anneke heard a horse’s hooves pounding outside as a rider approached the house; before Hans could peer out the window, a knock sounded on the door. It was Abel Wright, in too much haste to accept their invitation to come inside. Catching his breath, he told them of his plans to construct defenses around the southern pass to forestall the Confederate army’s advance into the Elm Creek Valley. “We need every willing and able man,” he said. “With so many off with the Forty-ninth, our numbers will be few. Will you join us?”

Abel did not seem surprised when Hans offered to lend him whatever tools and supplies the defenders required but declined to join them. Anneke felt her cheeks flush with shame as the two men went outside to the barn. Abel Wright, twice rejected by the Union Army, a colored man denied many rights taken for granted by his white neighbors, was still patriotic enough to take up arms in response to the governor’s call for emergency troops. And what would Hans do, an immigrant who owed all his good fortune and freedom to his adopted country? He would lend tools, nothing more. He would not even take the tools up to the pass himself but would deliver them to the Wright farm while Abel raced off on horseback to seek volunteers from other families.

Anneke put the baby and the twins to bed and returned to her rocking chair, where she lit a lamp and took up her sewing. Sensing her anger, Gerda stayed up with her for a while, reading aloud to her from
Harper’s Weekly
and trying to amuse her into a better humor. Anneke scarcely heard a word her sister-in-law uttered, so outraged and bewildered was she by her husband’s inexplicable behavior. When the war was far distant, it could be easy enough for a man to swear not to harm another, but when it was near, threatening his own wife and children, how could he then refuse to fight?

As the hours passed, Gerda gave up trying to soothe Anneke’s temper, and yawning and stretching, bade her good night. Alone in the front room, the windows open to the still, humid summer air, Anneke brooded and waited for her husband’s return, too angry to sleep. At last she heard the team and wagon on the road outside, heard the door to the stable open, heard Hans guide the horses inside. She put away her sewing and trimmed the lamp, and before long he came inside, tired and bleary-eyed from the hard moonlit drive after a long day in the fields and corral.

“The Wrights have family staying with them,” said Hans as he washed his face and hands in the kitchen basin. He helped himself to a slice of bread and a wedge of cheese. “They were chased out of Mercersburg. Rebel soldiers were rounding up colored folks and sending them south into slavery. Abel’s brother-in-law was one of the men seized.”

For a moment, horror and dismay blotted out Anneke’s anger. “Adam or Ephraim?”

“Ephraim.”

“God help him.” And his wife and his children. “Do they know where he’ll be taken?”

Hans shook his head. “I don’t suppose they’ll be able to inquire after him until the threat passes.”

“This threat won’t pass on its own,” she said, her anger returning. “Brave men like Abel will have to force it away.”

Hans sat down and propped his elbows on the table, cutting himself another slice of bread. “I am truly very sorry that my determination to follow my conscience is such a difficult burden for you to bear.”