In her book, THE UNION QUILTERS, Jennifer Chiaverini looks
at the founding ladies of the quilting group, women left
behind in the harrowing times of the Civil War and how they
showed their strength and compassion during the struggles
and hardships faced at home during the arduous war.
In 1862, war has come knocking at the door of the community
of Water's Ford, Pennsylvania and as Union supporters the
local men rally to answer the call to enlist. As their men
march off to their unknown fates, the women of Elm Creek
Valley are determined to contribute their share to the war
effort and turn their sewing and quilting skills from home
use to crafting quilts and other necessary items that are
so desperately needed by their menfolk.
The ladies of Water's Ford each face widely varying, yet
common fears as the Civil war that is tearing their country
apart rages on. Constance Wright's husband Abel is an
accepted member of the community, and a skilled rifleman,
but is turned away from enlisting simply because he is
black. Dorothea's pregnant sister-in-law Charlotte Granger
is worried about her husband Dr. Jeremy Granger, who sends
comforting regular updates on the men from home to his
wife, but also sends more detailed letters to his former
love, Gerda Berstrom, causing ill-will and strife between the
two women.
Anneke Bergstrom must face whispers from the town since her
husband refused to enlist, preferring to stay out of the
fray, and Dorothea Granger Nelson worries about her
educated schoolmaster husband Thomas who carried her Dove
In The Window quilt into battle with him, not realizing
that she was pregnant with their second child.
A patriotic project to supply new hospitals in Washington
with quilts bands the women together, and the project turns
into an opportunity for them to show they are capable of
running their lives, their families and their community with
great success. Though tension and worry reign over the
small community, the women do their best to support one
another and hold their families together until their men
come marching home.
The seventeenth book in the Elm Creek Quilts series, THE
UNION QUILTERS is a deeper look at the original group of
women who began the quilting group. With a sharp eye to
detail and historical fact, Chiaverini has combined the
stories of the women left behind during war with how the
art of quilting allowed the women to cope with their
losses. In a word, THE UNION QUILTERS is brilliant.
The New York Times bestselling author of the Elm
Creek Quilts series joins the Dutton list with a Civil
War-era tale of love and sacrifice behind Union lines.
With The Union Quilters, Chiaverini delivers a
powerful story of a remarkable group of women coping with
changing roles and the extraordinary experiences of the
Civil War.
In 1862 Water's Ford, Pennsylvania,
abolitionism is prevalent, even passionate, so the local men
rally to answer Mr. Lincoln's call to arms. Thus the women
of Elm Creek Valley's quilting bee are propelled into the
unknown.
Constance Wright, married to Abel, a skilled
sharpshooter courageous enough to have ventured south to buy
his wife's freedom from a Virginia plantation, knows well
her husband's certainty that all people, enslaved and free,
North and South, need colored men like him to fight for a
greater purpose. Sisters-in-law Dorothea Nelson and
Charlotte Granger wish safe passage for their learned
husbands. Schoolmaster turned farmer Thomas carries
Dorothea's Dove in the Window quilt with him. Charlotte's
husband, Dr. Jonathan Granger, takes more than a doctor's
bag to his post at a field hospital. Alongside the devotion
of his wife, pregnant with their second child, Jonathan
brings the promise he made to his unrequited love, Gerda
Bergstrom: "My first letter will be to you."
Together
with the other members of the circle, the women support one
another through loneliness and fear, and devise an ingenious
business plan to keep Water's Ford functioning. That plan
may forever alter the patchwork of town life in ways that
transcend even the ultimate sacrifices of war.
Excerpt
Chapter One
1861
Dorothea tied up the sack of salt pork and hard bread--
enough for a week if Thomas didn't find some poor soul in
greater need to share with--and pressed the back of her
hand to her forehead, taking a deep breath, fighting to
still the whirl of thoughts. She knew she had forgotten
something, something essential, something her husband would
suffer without on the long marches through hostile lands,
on the cold, lonely nights away from home. If she
remembered what it was after he left the Elm Creek Valley,
after he crossed the pass through Dutch Mountain with the
other brave and patriotic men who had decided to answer Mr.
Lincoln's call to arms, it would do him no good whatsoever.
Though he was the love of her life and her most cherished
friend, she could not follow him into war.
From behind her came the sound of a muffled sob, and Mrs.
Hennessey emerged from the pantry, wiping her eyes with the
corner of her apron. At the sight of the housekeeper's
tears, Dorothea pressed her lips together and inhaled
sharply, briskly tightening the knot on the sack of
provisions. She would not weep; she must not weep. Thomas
had asked her for only that as he held her after they had
made love the night before, that she not mourn him until he
was truly gone. "I have every intention of returning to
you," he had said, kissing her cheeks, her lips, her
forehead, brushing her long brown locks gently off her
face. "You must believe it too. Your hopes will sustain us
both." In the semidarkness she had nodded, not trusting
herself to speak. Thomas was not a superstitious man; he
knew very well that men died in war, and the prayerful
wishes of a devoted wife would offer him no protection from
a Rebel minie ball. But neither would worry, and with baby
Abigail to care for and many friends and neighbors looking
to her in their worry and distress, she must choose
confidence, hope, and determination. She could not, on the
eve of his departure, distract Thomas with worries that she
could not manage without him.
Mrs. Hennessey did not need to disguise her true
feelings. "A man like Mr. Nelson's got no business marching
off to war," she said, her ruddy cheeks flushed with
indignation, frenzied strands of curly gray-streaked auburn
hair escaping the bun at the nape of her neck. A longtime
employee of Thomas's parents, she had cared for Thomas
since he was a boy in Philadelphia and had accompanied him
when he came to Water's Ford to take over Two Bears Farm
and run the town primary school twelve years before. "A man
like him ought to be in Washington City running things, not
risking his life scrapping with the rabble. Don't he have a
farm to look after, and his book to write, and a family
that needs his protection?"
"All the other soldiers have families and livelihoods too,"
Dorothea pointed out, as she had the first dozen times the
proud and protective housekeeper had expressed that
opinion. "They can't all stay home. Nor could Mr. Nelson
both advise the president on matters of state and look
after things around here."
Mrs. Hennessey dismissed that with a wave of her hand, as
if to say a smart man like Thomas Nelson could figure a way
around the impossibility of being in two places at
once. "All I know is you don't want him to go any more than
I do, and he wouldn't, if only you'd tell him about your
condition."
Dorothea nearly dropped the bundle of food she had packed
so carefully. "How did you--" But of course. Every Tuesday
Mrs. Hennessey did the washing. She would know that
Dorothea' was late. "You must not tell him. Promise me.
It's much too early."
"Of course I won't breathe a word. It's not my place." Mrs.
Hennessy gave her apron a vigorous tug, then hesitated,
brushing off imaginary crumbs. "But if telling him would
change his mind--"
"He might go anyway." Thomas believed the Union cause was
just and noble, and he was not a man to sit safely at home
while other men risked their lives for principles he held
sacred. "Would you have him go into battle worried and
distracted?"
"I wouldn't have him go at all, and neither would you."
Mrs. Hennessey regarded her sharply, her blue eyes red and
puffy from tears. "You and your parents, and all them folk
from Drowned Farm--"
"Thrift Farm," Dorothea amended mildly, out of habit. As a
child she had lived with her parents and brother in a
community of Transcendentalist Christians who had been
enlightened ethicists and philosophers but poor farmers.
Though the farm had been lost to a flood years before,
obliging Dorothea's family to move in with her cantankerous
Uncle Jacob, even newcomers to the Elm Creek Valley like
Mrs. Hennessey considered it a fine subject for jokes.
"Pacifists, each and every one of you," Mrs. Hennessey
declared. "Pacifists and abolitionists. You might as well
be Quakers."
"Might as well," Dorothea agreed, setting the bundle of
food beside the rest of the gear Thomas had left near the
front door, wishing she could remember what she had
forgotten to pack for his long and dangerous journey away
from Two Bears Farm.
She found her husband in Abigail's room, standing silently
beside her crib, stroking her soft, downy hair with a touch
as light as a feather. She watched him from the doorway,
his slim, wiry frame as familiar to her as her own limbs,
his sandy hair boyishly thick, his beard neatly trimmed,
bearing only a few threads of gray. His round spectacles
caught a narrow shaft of sunlight that slipped between the
drawn curtains. Blinking back tears, Dorothea came up
behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed
her cheek to his back between his shoulder blades
"I'm tempted to wake her," he murmured, clasping Dorothea's
arms with one hand, resting the other upon Abigail's head,
as pretty and fine as a porcelain doll's. "To say a proper
goodbye, to hear her laugh one last time--"
"It won't be the last time you hear her laugh."
"I know, but my little baby will be gone by the time I
return. She'll be walking, talking, a proper little girl
rather than a babe in arms."
Dorothea almost blurted out her precious secret, but she
had lost a baby early once before, and she was thirty-one,
rather mature to be carrying only her second child. She
could not stuff one last heavy burden of worry into his
pack just before he set out. "The sooner you win this war
for Mr. Lincoln," she said instead, "the younger she'll be
when you come home."
"I'll get right to it, then."
Dorothea tightened her embrace. "There's no hurry."
He laughed softly, amused by her quick contradiction. "We
can't miss the festivities. You and your friends worked too
hard to make sure we had a rousing send-off."
"It was mostly Gerda's doing," said Dorothea. "Anneke too."
Anneke Bergstrom was one of Dorothea's few friends with
cause to celebrate that morning. Her husband, Hans, had no
plans to enlist, and since he had never become a
naturalized citizen after immigrating to the United States
from Germany, he could not be drafted if the state failed
to meet its recruitment quotas with volunteers. Gerda
Bergstrom's emotions, however, were surely conflicted.
Though she was likely relieved that her brother Hans would
be safe, she was thoroughly and irrevocably in love with
Dorothea's brother, Jonathan, who intended to enlist as a
regimental surgeon. The grand farewell in front of the
courthouse in Water's Ford was intended to rally the men's
spirits before they set off for Harrisburg to enlist, but
perhaps it would also serve to stoke the women's courage.
Preparations for the men's departure had occupied their
time and thoughts for two weeks, but after the last notes
of fife and drum faded and the banners and bunting were
taken down and put away, many long, lonely, empty days
would stretch ahead of those left behind.
"My modest beloved," said Thomas dryly, turning to embrace
her. "Always giving the credit to others."
"The rally was Gerda's idea."
"Yes, but you organized the ladies of the town, assigned
tasks according to their abilities, kept everyone on
schedule, and negotiated more than one truce between
squabbling parties. I think Mrs. Hennessy perhaps chose the
wrong Nelson to send to Washington City."
Dorothea smiled, wistfully, at the often-discussed
suggestion, wishing once again that Thomas could go to
Washington rather than to war. "I organized the ladies of
my sewing circle," she acknowledged. "They organized their
own neighbors and sisters and friends. I didn't do
everything on my own."
"The ladies of this town would accomplish little outside
their own homes without you to lead them." Thomas laced his
fingers through hers and kissed the back of her hand. She
loved his hands, their strength and tenderness, the
farmer's calloused palms and the scholar's ink-stained
fingertips. "You have a gift, my dear. Use it well. With
their men gone, many of your friends will be at loose ends.
You could encourage them, help them to be industrious--"
"Yes, I certainly will," she choked out, fighting back
tears, forcing a smile. "I'll be as stern a taskmistress as
I was once a teacher. I won't allow any of my friends a
single idle moment to waste in worry. When you men return,
you'll see how well we women managed in your absence, free
at last of the yoke of male dominion."
His eyebrows rose. "You make me afraid to leave you."
"You may not recognize our town when you return, so
marvelously will we transform it in your absence into a
feminine utopia. When the war is over and you tally our
accomplishments, you will no longer deny us the vote."
"You know very well that I could deny you nothing."
Then don't go, she almost asked, but she knew her arguments
would not persuade him now where they had failed before.
Though he considered himself a humanist, he did not share
her philosophy of non-violence. He was willing to fight and
sacrifice his own life if necessary to defend those he
loved and to protect the noble principles he held most
dear. Dorothea was prepared to give her own life on those
same grounds, but she would not take another's life, and
that was where their opinions diverged. What she dreaded
most of all was that Thomas would not survive the war, but
after that, what she feared most was that he would return
to her entirely changed by the violence he had seen--seen,
and inflicted.
Sighing, Thomas bent to kiss Abigail's cheek and led
Dorothea from the bedroom, leaving the door ajar. Mrs.
Hennessey met them at the foot of the stairs, red-eyed, and
gave Thomas a fierce hug. "I'll say the rosary for you
every night," she vowed. "God bless and keep you safe from
harm." He thanked her quietly and asked her to take care of
his family while he was away. She pressed her lips together
and nodded before fleeing for the kitchen.
With a heavy heart, Dorothea helped Thomas gather his pack
and provisions. She followed him to the barn, and as he
hitched up the horses, she suddenly remembered. How could
she have forgotten something so treasured, so essential to
his comfort?
"I'll be right back," she gasped, hurrying back to the
house. She startled Mrs. Hennessey, who sat at the kitchen
table with her head in her hands, weeping openly, and raced
upstairs, her heeled boots clattering on the wooden
staircase. At the foot of their bed she threw open the lid
to the steamer trunk Uncle Jacob had bequeathed her and
withdrew a quilt she had packed away for the summer. She
draped it over the bed, sparing only a glance for the
painstakingly arranged triangles and squares of Turkey red
and Prussian blue and sun-bleached muslin, some scraps
carefully saved from her household sewing, others shared by
a dressmaker friend and others among her sewing circle. She
folded the quilt in half lengthwise, quickly rolled it up
into a tight bundle, and tied it off with a wide length of
ribbon she had been saving for a hatband. When she returned
outside, Thomas had the horses ready and waiting. He
watched, silent and perplexed, as she placed the quilt into
the back of the wagon with his pack and provisions.
"It's the Dove in the Window," she said, climbing onto the
seat beside him as he gathered the reins. "I know it's your
favorite."
"It's yours as well. I shouldn't take it."
"It's hardly my favorite. I prefer our wedding quilt and
the Delectable Mountains I made for my uncle. But even if
it were, I would rather you had it."
He shook his head. "It's too fine to take on the road. It
could be soiled or torn or lost. Likely the army will issue
us sturdy blankets with our uniforms."
"And if they don't, or if those blankets are delayed?"
Dorothea countered. "You'll be grateful for this quilt when
winter comes, even if you can't appreciate it now."
"I do appreciate it, all the more so because I recall how
hard you worked on it. Think of the conditions we'll face--"
"I am thinking of the conditions you'll face." She felt
wretched, helpless, but she fought to keep her voice
even. "Take the quilt. It's not much to carry, and it'll
comfort me to know that it's keeping you warm when I can't."
He fell silent, his eyes searching her face. "Very well."
He chirruped to the horses. "You're right. If I don't take
it, I'll regret it later."
Unwilling to trust herself to speak, she nodded and pressed
herself against him on the wagon seat, heartsick, resting
her head on his shoulder, imagining she could feel the
warmth of his skin upon hers, his arms around her. She
longed to lay her head on his chest, pull the quilt over
them both, and sleep, sleep until the war passed over them
like a thundercloud, holding the worst of its torrent until
it cleared the mountains.
© 2003-2024 off-the-edge.net
all rights reserved Privacy Policy