The Union Quilters (28 page)

“I’ll have no chance to meet him now,” she lamented.

Harriet squeezed her arm in sympathy, but Mr. Reinhart said, “We’ve come too far to give up so soon. Let’s follow Mr. Lincoln and see if we can’t catch up to him.”

Where the president went was to the home of Mr. David Wills, the cemetery organizer and Mr. Lincoln’s host during his stay. A crowd had gathered outside the three-story residence in the center of town, called the Diamond, not far from where the procession had begun earlier that day.

“He’ll have to come out sometime,” Mr. Reinhart remarked. “He’s scheduled to attend an address by the lieutenant governor of Ohio at the Presbyterian church later this afternoon, and his train leaves for Washington City at half past six. If we look sharp, we should be able to catch him coming or going.”

Mr. Reinhart escorted Gerda and Harriet to a comfortable spot on the lawn of the town square, as every bench and chair was already occupied by other visitors, and hurried off to fetch their picnic basket from the carriage. By the time he returned, the women had good news to report: They had overheard that Mr. Lincoln was presently dining in the Wills home with a very large company, but between dinner and the Ohio address, he would receive callers in Mr. Wills’s front hall.

Quickly they ate their simple meal of bread, cheese, sausage, apples, and cider and returned to the Wills residence, where already hundreds of admirers milled about the entire block of York Street awaiting the opportunity to meet the president. At last the door opened and a queue formed. Gerda’s heart pounded with anticipation as she waited her turn, and as she climbed the stairs and entered the Wills home, she could scarcely breathe as she silently rehearsed what she would say.

Mr. Lincoln sat in an armchair with his legs crossed, shaking hands and smiling modestly as he accepted good wishes from one and all. When only three people stood before her in line, Gerda took out the carefully folded newspaper and quickly smoothed out a few wrinkles.

Then it was their turn. Mr. Reinhart introduced himself as the postmaster of Waterʹs Ford, and then introduced his daughter and Gerda. “Miss Bergstrom writes for our local newspaper, the
Water’s Ford Register
,” he said, beaming as proudly as if Gerda were his daughter too. “She’s written a compelling report about the unfortunate circumstances of Union prisoners of war that I’m sure you will want to read.”

“Tell me, Miss Bergstrom,” said Mr. Lincoln, glancing at the paper she carried. “As a fellow toiler in the literary vineyard, what did you make of my remarks today?”

Gerda swallowed and found her voice. “I believe, sir, that you offered the most clear and eloquent summary of the nature of liberty, dedication, sacrifice, and the ideal of democracy that I have ever heard.”

His dark eyebrows rose, and with a trace of dry humor, he said, “The silence that greeted my conclusion suggested that my remarks had fallen upon my listeners like a wet blanket.”

“Indeed not, Mr. President,” she said. “The silence was reverential and contemplative, not disappointed. With all due respect to Mr. Everett, I believe you captured more perfectly in two and a half minutes what he attempted to do in two hours.”

Mr. Lincoln’s mouth quirked as if he were suppressing a smile. “I thank you, madam, but the august Mr. Everett was much better received.”

“Your report,” Harriet reminded her in an undertone.

Gerda held out the paper. “Mr. President, in the spirit of this solemn occasion, I wish to remind you of the many unfortunate Union officers who are, even at this moment, enduring inhumane conditions at Libby Prison in Richmond. I hope that my humble attempt to illuminate their circumstances will move you to obtain their release before they too are obliged to give ‘that last full measure of devotion.ʹʺ

He thanked her and accepted the paper, and then their interview was at an end. They were directed from the hall not the way they had entered but through a door facing the Diamond, where Governor Curtin stood shaking guests’ hands as they departed.

“You did it,” exclaimed Harriet when they were on the street again. “I’m certain Mr. Lincoln will read your article on the train ride home and take action as soon as he reaches Washington.”

“I do hope so,” said Gerda fervently. To think, she had pled her case personally to the president of the United States. If that didn’t hasten Jonathan’s release, she could not imagine what would.

Mr. Reinhart led them back through the town to the home of his fellow postmaster, Mr. David Beuhler, where they were warmly welcomed and shown to their rooms to rest from their long journey and the day’s excitement. Later, over supper, Mr. Buehler told them of his own experiences of the Battle of Gettysburg, which he had spent far from home. “We postmasters had heard General Ewell’s Second Corps were targeting post offices and other federal installations,” he explained, as Mr. Reinhart nodded his concurrence. “The postmasters of Fairfield and Greencastle were captured and are even now languishing in Confederate jails as prisoners of war. So, although I was greatly displeased to leave my family, I packed the most valuable government property in my valise and took the next train to Hanover.”

When Mrs. Wills asked how the Elm Creek Valley had fared during the invasion, Mr. Reinhart described the defense of Wright’s Pass but quickly turned to the subject of Gerda’s plea to Mr. Lincoln. “How the president could fail to be moved by such sincerity and devotion to the Union solider, I do not know,” he declared. “I have no doubt that Miss Bergstrom’s report will accomplish its noble purpose and become the greatest symbol of the Elm Creek Valley’s patriotism to come out of this terrible war, second only to the Forty-ninth Regiment’s service itself.”

“Perhaps third, if you include the Loyal Union Sampler,” teased Mrs. Wills. “After all, it has a head start in the race for fame.”

“You’ve heard of our quilt?” asked Gerda, surprised.

“I should say nearly every lady in the North has by now, and a great many in the South besides.” Mrs. Wills regarded Gerda curiously. “You mean you haven’t seen the article?”

Gerda shook her head, utterly bewildered. Immediately, Mrs. Wills sent a servant to her drawing room to retrieve the latest issue of
Harper’s Weekly
. The maid quickly returned, and a glance at the cover told Gerda that it was a more recent edition than the last she had seen. “It came out only a few days ago,” said Mrs. Wills, leafing through the pages. “Ah. There we are. ‘Pennsylvania Ladies Wield Their Needles for the Union,’ ”she read aloud, and passed the magazine across the table to Gerda.

There, above an article describing the Union Quilters’ triumphant fund-raiser and the subsequent success of the events they had hosted in Union Hall, was a meticulous black-and-white engraving of the Loyal Union Sampler.

T
he engraving was identical in nearly every detail to the photograph displayed in the foyer of Union Hall, so it was a simple matter to determine how the editors of
Harper’s Weekly
had learned about the sampler. Within days of the magazine’s publication, letters began arriving at the Waterʹs Ford post office addressed to the Union Quilters of Union Hall. Many letters simply offered praise and congratulations, but many more requested enlarged drawings of some or all of the blocks, and others requested patterns. Several ladies wrote to explain that the Union Quilters had inspired them to create their own versions of the sampler to raise money to support their own local regiments.

At first, Anneke responded to each letter courteously, providing a sketch of a quilt block if but a single drawing had been requested, and otherwise offering apologies. “I wish we could grant every one of these requests,” she fretted one evening as she and Dorothea sat by the fire at Two Bears Farm. The children had all been put to bed, and as much as Anneke wanted nothing more than to sit and rest before summoning up the energy to climb the stairs to bed, a dozen letters awaited a response.

“I do too,” said Dorothea, glancing up from her knitting. “Especially those from quilters who want to make their own fund-raising samplers. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if women all across the country organized as we have done, built their own Union Halls, and became stewards of important community assets in town after town?”

Anneke preferred to think of their group, their hall, and their quilt as unique. “There is only one Union Hall, and one Loyal Union Sampler.”

“Oh, of course these other groups would need to call their quilts and halls something else, but think of it: Not only would a great deal of money be raised for the Union cause, but hundreds or perhaps even thousands of women would find their public voices. Think of all we have learned to do as we’ve run Union Hall. We’ve managed a thriving enterprise, we’ve faced down political opponents in the form of Mayor Bauer and the town council, we’ve learned negotiation and debate and discussion and how to achieve consensus—”

“Every Ladies’ Aid Society activity can help women acquire those skills,” argued Anneke, realizing even as she spoke that she was helping to prove Dorothea’s claim. “It’s not essential to build a hall.”

“You make a valid point.” Dorothea smiled as she put the last stitch into a warm woolen sock, the first of a pair she intended to send to Jonathan in Libby Prison. “Even if other groups want only to reproduce the sampler as an opportunity quilt and have no plans to build a hall, I wish we could help them do it, as long as the money raised from ticket sales will help the Union cause.”

Anneke could not disagree with that, nor was she content to reply to the ladies’ flattering letters with apologies that the Union Quilters could not provide the patterns. Indeed, why couldn’t they? “Faith Morlan won drawings and templates for all of the blocks as well as the Union Sampler itself,” she said, thinking aloud. “Perhaps she would let us borrow them and make copies—except I believe my hand would fall off if I tried to please every quilter who has written to us.”

“If we begin providing drawings and templates upon request, we can expect more inquiries as word spreads.” Dorothea gestured to the paper and ink bottles Anneke had spread out upon her desk. “Making a single sketch for an occasional quilter is one matter—”

“But making all one hundred twenty-one blocks for even a single quilter is something else entirely. The war would be over before I finished.”

“One can only hope,” said Dorothea with a sigh, casting on stitches for the second sock in the pair.

Anneke wrung her hands and flexed her fingers as if they already ached from the effort. “It’s a pity I can’t turn out these drawings as easily as Mr. Schultz does copies of the
Register
.”

Dorothea laughed sympathetically, but then the clicking of her knitting needles suddenly fell silent. “Couldn’t we?”

A few days later, they approached Mary with their idea to sell the patterns for the Loyal Union Sampler by subscription through Schultz’s Printers. For a fee, subscribers would have a new pattern mailed to them each week, with the last installment offering instructions for arranging and sashing the blocks. Thus they could begin offering the patterns immediately instead of waiting until all one hundred twenty-one patterns were designed. Quilters who discovered the sampler later, after all of the patterns were available, would have the option to purchase them by weekly subscription or pay the total amount and receive them all at once. All the profits minus Mr. Schultz’s production costs would be contributed to the 49th Pennsylvania, the 6th United States Colored Troops, and the Veterans’ Relief Fund for the infirm soldiers of the Elm Creek Valley and their families.

Mary thought it was a wonderful idea and assured them that Schultz’s Printers could handle the work. “We’ll raise money for the Union by selling the patterns, and the quilters who subscribe will raise even more by making their own opportunity quilts,” she said, promising to speak with her father at once. At the next meeting of the Union Quilters, Mary announced that her father supported the plan and had offered to donate advertising space in the
Water’s Ford Register
so they could reach as many potential subscribers as possible. He would also ask other newspaper editors he was acquainted with across the North to do the same.

“I’ll ask Peter Gray Meek,” Gerda volunteered, and her friends dissolved in laughter.

Anneke realized that all their excitement and planning could be for naught if Faith were unwilling to lend them the templates and instructions she had won. Anneke prepared a list of persuasive arguments and rehearsed what she would say when she and Dorothea called on the Morlan farm in the foothills of Four Brothers Mountains in the north of the valley, fearing Faith might be reluctant to have her once unique quilt become merely the first of many duplicates. To her delight and enormous relief, they had barely finished describing their subscription service and all the good it would accomplish before Faith heartily agreed. So pleased were they by Faith’s eager generosity that Anneke and Dorothea held a quick, whispered conference in the front room while Faith hurried off for the bundle of instructions and templates; when their hostess returned, they invited her to join the Union Quilters, taking the place that Eliza Stokey had left empty when she had moved away so many months before.

Faith happily accepted and promised to join them at their next meeting. While Dorothea drove them home, Anneke sorted through the envelopes of templates and instructions, sighing with perfect contentment. She had long wished to have them for herself, imagining the infinite variety of quilts she could make from just those one hundred twenty-one blocks, and now she could, for she intended to purchase the first subscription.

She was so lost in reverie that when Dorothea turned the wagon from the main road up the hill to Two Bears Farm, she exclaimed, “Aren’t you going to take me home?”

She realized her mistake even before Dorothea replied. “I’d be happy to take you home whenever you like,” she said, pulling on the reins to bring the horses to a halt. “Would you like to pick up the boys and your things and go right away?”