Chapter two, continued

She squeezed my shoulder and laughed. It was a sound full of compassion and understanding, and there was surprising strength in her hand. In that moment, she won my heart.

Aunt Rachel put Sarah to work frying bacon. When Sarah wanted to know why the servants didn’t cook, Rachel told her that there were no servants in her house. Sarah was working up to pout again, but we didn’t stay to see it.

Aunt Rachel had a two wheeled handcart that she used to move heavy things around the yard. She showed it to me, then walked out to the crossroads and helped me load Sarah’s trunks on board, shaking her head in amazement. I explained how Sarah had lived in one boarding school after another, with no real place to call home. These trunks were her home and her security.

Aunt Rachel listened. She said, “I understand. I don’t like to criticize Thomas because I know he’s your father, but he should have done better by her.”

“He did the best he could!” I replied heatedly.

She said, “Perhaps,” but she wasn’t convinced.

When we got back to the house it was filled with the smell of burned bacon. Rachel said, “Go pick one trunk to take up to your room. Then Matthew will put the rest in the barn until later.”

“I don’t want my trunks in some old barn,” Sarah snapped.

Rachel did not respond to Sarah’s tone of voice. She just said, “Fine. They can stay on the cart, but if it rains this afternoon . . .”

“I want them in my room!”

“All right. When you finish eating, you can carry them up.”

I thought poor Sarah was going to explode. She crossed her arms with offended dignity and said, “You can’t possibly think that I am going to carry my own trunks.”

Rachel lifted the overcooked bacon onto a plate and began breaking eggs into the grease. Over her shoulder, she said, “Who is going to carry them up, then?”

Aunt Rachel busied herself around the kitchen while Sarah thought about it. By the time she had heated a half loaf of bread and put it on the table along with eggs, bacon, jam, and butter, Sarah was ready to say, “I’m sorry, Aunt Rachel.”

Rachel said, “No one expects you to carry your own trunks, because you aren’t big enough. Matthew and I will carry your things up, but not now. Matthew is as tired as you are. I can see it in his eyes. So as soon as you eat, go choose one trunk, like I said, and we will put the cart with the rest of the out of the rain. This evening, after your brother has rested, he and I will take your trunks up.”

“Thank you, Aunt Rachel,” Sarah said, but I wasn’t sure if she was really thankful or not.

Rachel was not through. She sat down and faced Sarah directly. “Sarah,” she said, “I don’t expect you to carry your trunks up because you are too little, but I will expect you to work as long as you stay in my house. I don’t have any servants here. I live alone, cook my own meals, wash my own clothes, and raise my own food. You are welcome to stay here, but it is going to take more work to keep a house going with three people in it than it does for one. You two are going to have to do the extra work. There just isn’t anyone else here to do it.”

Sarah didn’t answer. She turned back to her food with a look that would have curdled milk. Aunt Rachel didn’t seem to mind. I decided then and there that I wouldn’t worry about Sarah as long as our aunt was there to keep her in line.

Chapter two, continued

The door opened on my second knock. I had forgotten how tall she was. She was nearly as tall as Father with a raw-boned pioneer look about her. She looked as if she should have been loading her husband’s flintlock during an Indian attack in Kentucky a hundred years ago.

I had also forgotten how young she was. Her face was clear and unlined and the brown hair tied gracelessly on top of her head was without gray. I did a quick calculation. Aunt Rachel was three years younger than Mother, so she would be thirty-three this year. In my mind, I had made her short, old, and gray, but she was none of those things.

There was a moment of confusion on her face, too, then she smiled and said, “Matthew and Sarah?” I nodded.

She reached out immediately for Sarah’s hand and Sarah curtseyed. Rachel laughed and said, “None of that! Come in; come in.” She ushered us into a hallway that ran the length of the house, saying, “I got a telegram from your father, but it was very short. He said a letter would follow to explain everything, but you seem to have beaten it here, so you will have to tell me what is going on.”

How do you put the changes that have torn your life apart into a few words for a stranger? Rachel saw my distress, and said, “Well, never mind. You can tell me later. How long do you plan to stay?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe a long time.”

Her face suddenly became serious. She nodded and said, “Lincoln’s election, of course. Thomas would see it as a danger. But if he acted this quickly, things must be even worse than I thought.”

“He sees it as a great danger, Ma’m.”

For a moment she had a far-away look in her eye. Then she was all practicality again, asking us how we had come so quickly and where we had slept last night. When she found out that we had slept on the train and had had no breakfast, she started to herd us into the kitchen for some food. I interrupted to say, “I need to get Sarah’s luggage in first.”

“I wondered if you were traveling with just one carpetbag,” she said. “Why don’t you fetch her things in while we start something to eat.”

I hesitated, embarrassed, and then said, “Do you have a wheelbarrow or a cart?”

“Yes. Why?”

I pointed out the front door. She leaned past me and saw the pile of trunks making a small, tumbled mountain at the crossroads. I was cringing inwardly, waiting for her scorn, for I knew that she was a plain woman. 

Instead of making a comment about the pile of trunks, she put her hand on my shoulder and said, “How much of that is yours?”

“It is all hers.”

“You are traveling with one valise and she has all that. You have not been raised together, have you?”

“No, Ma’m.”

She squeezed my shoulder and laughed. It was a sound full of compassion and understanding, and there was surprising strength in her hand. In that moment, she won my heart.

Chapter two, continued

Southern Pennsylvania is a area of rolling hills. The pioneers had cleared much of the forest for fields, but plenty of timber remained. It must have been lovely a month earlier when the hillsides were ablaze with fall colors, but now only a few stubborn brown leaves clung to the oaks, and all the rest of the woods were gray.

The Emmitsburg Road passed southward paralleling Cemetery Ridge and a mile to the south I could see a pair of hills Dreyfus called Round Top and Little Round Top. Once he had warmed up to me, the teamster gave me a running commentary on the local sights, gossip, and politics. By the time we pulled up, I had a beginner’s understanding of the region.

(One of the benefits of historical fiction, particularly of well known times, is the amount of research material available, along with instant recognition by your readers. The flip side of this benefit is the likelihood of getting caught out if you screw up.

Years ago I came across a library book full of photographs taken days after the Gettysburg battle. It was also full of detailed maps, with notations on the maps of where each picture had been taken. I didn’t need the pictures of bodies, but the maps gave me every road, hill, orchard and farmhouse, down to the names of who lived in some of the farmhouses. Rachel Pike’s farmhouse was one of them; its actual occupants were conveniently not named.)

We stacked Sarah’s trunks at the roadside (I was getting mighty tired of those trunks!) and I waved good-bye to Mr. Dreyfus. Sarah was through pouting, but she didn’t wave. I suppose she thought a lady should be above waving to servants, but I had liked the man.

We stood at a crossroad. Behind us, both corners were in grain fields, one plowed and fallow, the other still in ragged stubble. On the corner to our left was an orchard; peaches I thought, from the shape of the naked trunks. Aunt Rachel’s house sat back from the road on the last corner. It was a substantial two story house with a widow’s walk and a wide verandah, flanked by two magnificent oak trees. There was a cluster of outbuildings behind it.

The house had a look of age, and though it had been reasonably well kept up there was just a hint of decay about it. A cracked window pane here, a few boards leaning against the side of the house where some repair had been begun and never finished, and paint that should have been renewed a few years ago – the sum of these little things gave the house a forlorn and haunted look.

Father had written to Aunt Rachel with the details of why he was sending us to her, and had sent a brief telegram in case we arrived before the letter, but of course there had been no time for a reply. It was just possible that Aunt Rachel was not here. I took my carpetbag in one hand and took Sarah’s hand in my other, and we walked up to the house.

I knocked on the door and waited. Sarah had become very quiet. She had never met our aunt. Aunt Rachel and Father had never gotten along, and it had been ten years since I had seen her.

The door opened on my second knock. I had forgotten how tall she was. She was nearly as tall as Father with a raw-boned pioneer look about her. She looked as if she should have been loading her husband’s flintlock during an Indian attack in Kentucky a hundred years ago.

Chapter two, continued

It was a long, uncomfortable night. Every time I fell asleep the swaying coach threatened to throw me to the floor. Fortunately the seat opposite us was empty, so I got Sarah stretched out there and held her in place by sitting with my heels braced against the edge of her seat, with her shoulder wedged against the sole of my boots. I doubt that Mrs. Davison would have approved.

We arrived at Gettysburg late the following morning. Sarah was awake, but irritable. I left her standing on the platform while I watched the porters take her trunks out of the baggage car.

The arrival of the train is a major event in any small town. The brightly colored engine and tender, the noise of the whistle and the rolling steam from the pistons, make a sight that few can resist. Children and dogs rushed wildly about. A teamster stood by the heads of his horses to keep them from panicking when the train pulled out again. I asked him about Aunt Rachel’s house and found out that it was on a farm two miles south of Gettysburg on the Emmitsburg Road.

The teamster’s name was Dreyfus. He looked me over with distaste, and allowed that he was heading down the Emmitsburg Road himself after he had loaded up. I was wearing a dark suit and riding boots, and looked like a Southern gentleman’s son. He was dressed in ragged shirt and trousers, with shoes that might have belonged to someone else before him. He didn’t like me, but he was willing to take my money to let us ride along with him.

When the train had pulled out and he had maneuvered his wagon up to the platform, I hung my coat on the brake lever alongside his battered hat and lent a hand with the loading. There were heavy crates of shovels and hoes, and bags of grain and seed potatoes. I think he was surprised that I chose to help him, and even more surprised that I stood up to the work. At least, when we threw Sarah’s many trunks up on top of his load, he did not make the cutting remarks I had expected.

Sarah, on the other hand, had had enough. She stood with her hands on her hips looking at the teamster’s wagon and refused to go.

“I’ve been on that old train for a whole day and a night, and I’m tired. I hurt all over and I don’t intend to go anywhere in a wagon that smells like – like what cows do! I’m going to stay right here until Aunt Rachel comes to pick us up.”

Dreyfus rolled his eyes and spat tobacco juice. I was tired myself, and in no mood for spoiled brat behavior, so I told her sharply, “Aunt Rachel doesn’t know we are here. I see no reason for Mr. Dreyfus to take your trunks out to the farm and have Aunt Rachel quit whatever she is doing, hitch up a team, and drive out here because you don’t like what his wagon smells like.”

She sat down on the edge of the platform with a theatrical flounce and pouted. All I could think of was Mrs. Davison, and I really hadn’t liked the woman all that much.

I went to the wagon, made a nest for Sarah out of empty feed sacks, and then hoisted her aboard. She squealed in protest, but I paid her no mind, except to say, “If this wagon is good enough for Mr. Dreyfus and for me, it’s good enough for you.”

Half a mile out of town, the teamster spat over the side and laughed. “Mr. Dreyfus! Man, that’s prime.”

Chapter Two

It was a long journey to Pennsylvania. Sarah was excited to be riding a train for the first time, but after hours of clinging to the narrow seat while the coach danced on the uneven track and breathing a heady mixture of soot and cinders, she fell asleep nestled against me.

To be truthful, I was as excited as she was. I had traveled by carriage from Waterside to Washington City several times, and from Washington to Baltimore by horse, but I had never gone toward the west. It was exciting just to know that I could travel by the train all the way to the Mississippi if I were free to do so. I remained alert on into the afternoon, watching the valley of the Potomac slip by at the astonishing rate of twenty miles an hour.

It was nearly nightfall when we reached the great bridge at Harper’s Ferry. On our left as we approached, one half of the bridge carried horses and wagons, while the right side carried the tracks of the railroad. As we passed beneath the roof of the bridge, the smoke from the engine boiling in through our open windows became almost unbearable.

I left Sarah asleep on the seat and stepped out onto the platform to look around. Just a year ago Harper’s Ferry had been the center of the nation’s attention as the crazed abolitionist John Brown raided the Federal arsenal there.

John Brown had not raised the slaves to revolt. He had only killed a few innocent people and they had hanged him three months later. Yet even in failure, he had succeeded. After John Brown’s raid, the South had looked northward with even greater distrust. It had made compromise even harder than before. Now the widening split between the two halves of America had led to the election of the one man the South could not tolerate.

Now, as I looked on the place where the nation’s fate had been sealed, I had no idea that I would return there in so few months. Nor, in my wildest dreams, could I ever have imagined the circumstances that would draw me there.

*****

Historical novels require accuracy, but the bar is somewhat lower than historical non-fiction. Either type of literature is subject to error. Perfection is not possible, and historians are always correcting one another.

It comes down to a balancing act between a desire for accuracy and the needs of the story, refereed by the likelihood of reader catching your error.

In this case, I sent Matt and Sarah’s train through Harper’s Ferry because I wanted to bring it into the story early. The railroad is real; in fact the Harper’s Ferry train and wagon bridge is well known among enthusiasts of early railroads. When I later found an early railroad atlas which showed that the sensible route from Washington to Gettysburg left the B & O before Harper’s Ferry, I retained the error in order to get John Brown into the story early, along with a foreshadowing of coming events.

In point of fact, Matt may not pass through or near Harper’s Ferry in chapters yet unwritten. I know he is going to return to the South on a mission he can’t even imagine at this point of the story, but his route at that point is uncertain to me now. If he doesn’t pass through Harper’s Ferry, it will be a simple thing to come back and make a slight change in this part of the ms.