“But I didn’t put anyone else in danger,” Jordana protested. “And it isn’t fair—”
Brenton put his finger to her lips. “Shhh. It doesn’t matter.” He glanced beyond her and pointed. “She’s coming back.”
The woman came back to her desk, her face ashen. The fire was gone from her eyes, and her tight-lipped expression had taken on a look of stunned confusion.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Brenton questioned, quickly coming to his feet.
“It would seem this debate must wait for another day.” Mistress Deighton’s lips trembled as she spoke. “There has been a major battle in the war at a place called Shiloh. There have been many casualties.”
Brenton and Jordana looked at the woman as if she weren’t serious. Though the Civil War had been going on for a year, there had been hardly any major conflicts since the previous summer. Many had been lulled into thinking the war would fade away.
Jordana spoke first. “How can this be?”
The older woman waved them off. “Go now. We will discuss your punishment later.”
Jordana reached out to take hold of her brother’s hand, but Brenton, ever full of compassion, would not be moved. “Might I bring you a glass of water or call someone to sit with you, Mistress Deighton?”
The headmistress looked up and then shook her head. “No. Just take your leave.”
Brenton nodded and followed Jordana from the room. Outside the door, one of the school’s teachers stood waiting.
“Mistress Smythe,” Jordana said and curtsied in acknowledgment.
“Miss Baldwin. Mr. Baldwin,” the teacher responded.
“Mistress Deighton seems quite disturbed,” Brenton said, turning to the teacher.
“Yes, her youngest brother was at Shiloh. She has been notified that he was wounded. She has no idea how seriously.”
Jordana felt instant pangs of conscience. “Poor Mistress,” she murmured.
“I’ll take care of her,” the teacher promised.
Brenton ushered Jordana out of the building, neither one saying a word until they’d reached the front walk.
“Brenton,” Jordana finally said, looking to her older brother for wisdom on the matter, “we all thought the war would be over soon. It’s been so long since anything has happened.”
Brenton shook his head slowly in disbelief. “It would seem we have been mistaken.”
2
After a volatile evening of discussing war and Jordana’s foolish behavior, a very exhausted Brenton returned to his boardinghouse. The world had turned upside down and put him on his ear. Or so it appeared. Nothing seemed right.
“Good evening, Mr. Baldwin,” his landlady, Mrs. Clairmont, said with a warm smile. “And did you have a good supper with your sister?”
Brenton smiled tolerantly. Mrs. Clairmont was by far the nosiest woman he had ever known. Without a doubt her next question would be concerning where they had chosen to take their dinner and whether they saw anyone of real importance while out on the town. But rather than await her barrage of questions, Brenton spoke first.
“Have you heard the news?”
Mrs. Clairmont pursed her lips and considered this a moment. “If you mean about the battle just fought, I did. I heard those traitorous Rebels attacked General Grant’s troops in their sleep.”
Brenton nodded. “There were heavy casualties on both sides.”
“I am thankful now I had no sons,” Mrs. Clairmont commented. She seemed very content that Brenton had bothered to make conversation with her. “But in your opinion, Mr. Baldwin, must it mean the war will not end as soon as expected?”
“My opinion is hardly worth the salt on your table,” he replied. “I’m only eighteen and certainly nowhere near my majority. People tend to ignore my opinion.”
She tutted his words. “Now, you are well beyond your years in intelligence and consideration. Your mother raised a fine son, and your father should be proud to call you a man.”
“My parents are among the few who consider me an adult,” Brenton countered and added, “and, of course, I have your good opinion.”
The woman nodded. “That you do. So sit with me a moment and tell me of this war. You are from the South, so perhaps you know better the Confederate intent in this matter.”
Brenton laughed and followed her into the deserted front parlor. “We are alone this evening?”
“Well, it is nearly nine o’clock. Most everyone has taken themselves to bed.”
“I should also be going,” Brenton said, looking at his pocket watch as if for emphasis.
“Surely you can spare a few minutes with an old woman,” Mrs. Clairmont replied.
For as long as Brenton had lived in this quiet brownstone building, the widowed Mrs. Clairmont had seemed anything but old. She fussed over everyone as any good mother would do, but she exhibited boundless energy, constantly cleaning her house from top to bottom, and could often be found making many repairs herself when necessary. She ran a quiet Christian house, as she put it, and required that all her boarders attend church with her on Sunday. If a person was not inclined to agree with this requirement, they simply did not rent a room. Brenton thought her a quirky woman with nosy interests and bossy habits. But frankly, he liked her well enough.
Giving her mousy brown hair a pat, Mrs. Clairmont took a seat in her favorite high-backed chauffeuse after pulling it close to the blazing hearth. The chair, designed to sit very low to the floor, made the woman appear almost childlike. Brenton thought her a most peculiar woman indeed.
“Sit. Sit,” she ordered, motioning to a straight-backed chair with a horsehair cushion.
Brenton did as she directed, then gave a weak smile. What should he say in regard to the war that he hadn’t already discussed with his sister? The entire matter was like a nightmare from his childhood. Since the beginning of the war he had been able to remain aloof because of his age, but since he’d turned eighteen a few months ago, the matter had pressed upon him.
“So the South is unhappy with us here in the North,” Mrs. Clairmont began. “I say good riddance to them. Let them secede and take their troubles with them.”
Brenton sighed. “Although I hail from Baltimore originally and grew up most of my years in Virginia,” he began, “I am not in agreement with the decision on the part of the southern states to pull apart and form their own country. I believe we will find ourselves considerably weakened should this situation not be resolved and the Union restored.”
“I say, if they don’t want to be a part of this wonderful country, let them go.”
“But of course,” Brenton replied, “what seems the most obvious answer is not always the most productive, nor the most advantageous.”
The older woman considered this for a moment. Again she pursed her lips as she was wont to do when contemplating a matter of extreme importance. “I cannot abide slavery,” she finally stated.
“Neither can I,” Brenton replied. “My mother was raised with slaves but as an adult would have no part in owning them.”
“That’s good. I don’t know that I could hold with having a boarder who harbored slavery as an acceptable condition. Even as much as I cherish your company, Mr. Baldwin.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Brenton said, giving the woman a courteous nod. “I believe, sadly enough, you will find this country torn apart over more than the issue of slavery. I believe this war is more one of testing the strength we have as a nation. It will deal with the states and their rights, the issues of slavery, immigration, importation and exploration, as well as settling of the vast country we call America.”
“My, but you are a brilliant young man,” Mrs. Clairmont said, clapping her hands together.
“I am merely well-read,” Brenton countered. “I keep informed of events through the newspapers, but also my father and mother are good to send me letters detailing their thoughts on the matter.”
“Does your father see a lengthy war?”
“I believe my fat
her thought cooler heads would rule the day. He likened America’s troubles to a rebellious child with growing pains. Coming of age is never easy, he told me, not for people, nor for countries. Still, he imagined there would be nothing more than a few skirmishes and the South would come to its senses. He would never have ventured abroad had he not been of that opinion. However, it was difficult for him to refuse in any case, as he was offered good money to render his expertise and aid to the Russian government.”
“And what would your father be doing to aid them?”
Brenton smiled. “He is helping them build a railroad, of course. The railroad is his second love—his first being my mother. At any rate, their absence is the reason I have been left in charge of my sister Jordana. She is attending a wonderful school here in the city.”
“Yes, you mentioned that she attends Deighton. Good people,” she murmured.
“Yes, but my sister tries their patience, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, but this is youth. Young women are not as reserved as they were in my day.”
“I suppose that is true,” Brenton agreed.
At the sound of the clock chimes, he took out his pocket watch. “I really must retire,” he told her, sounding as though the thought disappointed him.
“Before you go,” Mrs. Clairmont said, getting to her feet, “I must give you this parcel.” She went to an artistically carved cabinet and opened one of the beveled-glass doors. “It came by post.”
Brenton followed her to the cabinet. Smiling, he took the package. “My humble thanks, ma’am.”
“Perhaps it will be good news from home,” she said, eyeing the package enviously. “It’s from Baltimore.”
“Yes,” Brenton nodded. “Our solicitor is good to forward our mail.”
She looked for a moment as though she might expect him to open it there and then, but Brenton merely bowed and bid her good evening. Without waiting for her reply, he hurried from the parlor and bounded up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.
His room was on the second floor, a lucky strike for him as, given his line of business, there was often a great deal of equipment to carry up and down the stairs. He had come to New York to apprentice with a renowned photographer, and even after a year of grueling training, Brenton loved it. On occasion, he would bring his camera and other materials home with him from the shop. This was usually only in the event that he had some assignment to perform in keeping with his training. The camera and tripod, glass negatives, and chemicals were heavy and delicate, and transporting them for more than the utmost necessity was offset by the idea that something might end up broken or, worse yet, cause an explosion. And given the fact that he’d not yet paid back his father for the loan that had enabled him to purchase top-of-the-line equipment, Brenton was determined to keep the items safe and whole.
In the hall outside his room a lamp gave off a pale amber light. Yawning, unable to suppress his exhaustion, he dug around in his pocket for the key to his room. Shifting the package from one hand to the other, Brenton fished out the key and made his way inside.
If not for the parcel, Brenton might not have lighted a lamp. He much preferred the idea of collapsing on the bed for a long, deep sleep. The day had been a trying one, first with multiple orders for studio photographs, then arriving at Jordana’s school to find her hanging from the third-story ledge, and finally the dinner and discussion of their future regarding an honest-to-goodness war. Of course, Mrs. Clairmont’s desire for companionship hadn’t helped his state of exhaustion. But now the parcel demanded his attention, and Brenton quickly realized that retiring for the night must be put off for just a while longer.
He lit his lamp, then took the package to the small corner desk and opened it. Inside were letters from his family’s solicitor, Mr. Marcum, his uncle York, Able Stewart—a good friend in Baltimore—and a belated birthday gift for Jordana from their aunt Virginia.
Ever the business minded, Brenton took up the solicitor’s letter first. Inside he read of the upkeep and expenses of the family house in Baltimore, and of bank drafts issued to provide funds for himself and Jordana. Furthermore, the solicitor had it on the best authority that the city and surrounding areas continued to be in a state of great unrest, and it was his advice that Brenton and Jordana refrain from planning any visits home or to his mother’s family in Virginia.
Frowning, Brenton realized the situation would only get worse. The war was rapidly taking on a more personal nature. His uncle’s letter confirmed much of what Mr. Marcum’s missive had stated. It was York’s opinion and suggestion that Brenton and Jordana remain as far away from Virginia and Washington City as possible. Uncle York was seriously considering vacating Oakbridge for the duration. There was bound to be trouble, York declared, and only sheer good fortune and Washington connections had kept Oakbridge safe thus far. How foolish they had been to believe the war was winding down. Brenton thought of the ashen-faced headmistress of Deighton. There was certain to be a reckoning after the Battle of Shiloh. On the way home tonight, Brenton had already heard heated discussions on the street. The fevered pitch at the beginning of the war seemed to be growing again.
As he picked up the letter from his friend, another letter fell onto the table. It had apparently been stuck to the back side of Able’s envelope. Looking it over, Brenton realized the post had come from Ireland and was addressed to his mother and father. Knowing his brother-in-law Kiernan’s family hailed from this poverty-ridden country, Brenton quickly opened the letter, praying that no one had died or fallen ill.
Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin,
We humbly beg your forgiveness in being so bold as to put our problems at your door. Our youngest sister, Caitlan O’Connor, is in need of your hospitality in America. She has suffered cruelly at the hands of a nearby landlord and has felt the need to depart her home. She will arrive in New York aboard the ship Water Willow in the month of May. We humbly ask for your assistance in getting her to our brother Kiernan in California.
Ever Your Servant,
Bridgett O’Connor Kildare
Brenton ran a hand through his hair. This news was startling and most definitely a cause for worry. He pulled his glasses off in order to rub his tired eyes. What was he to do? With his parents away, the responsibility for the matter rested squarely upon him. He had written them shortly after the start of the war last April with assurances for them not to worry or rush home. He and Jordana were safely in New York and the war was far away. It had seemed a simple matter then to take responsibility. But suddenly things were growing extremely complicated.
Too tired to deal with the remaining letters, Brenton saved the rest for the morning and quickly disrobed. He blew out the lamp flame and crawled into the cool, crisp sheets of his narrow bed. It was only after settling here that Brenton realized how angry he felt.
“It isn’t fair,” he whispered in the stillness of the night.
His entire world had centered around his love of photography, and now a nation at war would no doubt make the pursuit of his own dreams an impossibility. Now that he was eighteen his family might well expect him to take up arms. It was something he had put off considering since his birthday in November because he’d still had his apprenticeship to fulfill, a commitment he had felt honor bound to complete. He would finish that in a matter of two months. He had to face the war squarely now. The dilemma would be in deciding to which side he should state his allegiance. He had family in the Confederate state of Virginia. Most of his relatives hailed from just outside of Falls Church and Washington City. No doubt some of them would take up arms against the Federal troops.
Of course, he had no love of slavery. In fact, he despised it. No man should own another. But the whole issue seemed a world away, a matter that never really required his attention. He had often listened to his parents talk of national politics and the many issues threatening the sovereignty of the country, but until now none of it had touched him personally. Now he wondered how he could avoid it and how he could
protect those entrusted to his care.
His thoughts returned to the letter from Ireland. Kiernan O’Connor had married Brenton’s older sister, Victoria, some seven years back. Deciding to seek their fortunes in the rich goldfields of California, the two had taken off for the West a year later without giving much consideration to the effect it would have on the family. Of course, Kiernan’s plan had been noble. He had hoped to gather enough money on his own to bring his extensive Irish family to America.
Brenton thought highly of his brother-in-law and the sacrifice he was making for his loved ones. The man had no formal education and was only able to read because Victoria had taught him. That his wealthy sister had married a poor Irishman had never caused Brenton reason for grief. However, the attitude of his uncle and aunts toward their union was another matter entirely. And now Kiernan’s youngest sister would be arriving, and he had no idea to whom he could turn for help. Even if a war was not a factor in their lives, Brenton knew his very prejudiced family would think twice about offering shelter to Caitlan O’Connor. If his mother and father were here it would be simple enough, but there was likely no chance of their early return.
With a sigh, Brenton tried to pray. “Lord,” he whispered, an undeniable restlessness in his soul, “I don’t know what to do. I am torn by my loyalties and obligations. I am overwhelmed by my uncertainties and disgusted at my own selfishness. That I should worry about my desires and dreams of photography while a nation stands torn apart is unthinkable. Forgive me for such a sinful nature and show me what I am to do about this matter and also about the issue of Caitlan O’Connor.”
3
Victoria O’Connor pushed back an errant strand of dark chestnut hair and sighed. Mindful of her surroundings, she refused to focus on the side pork sizzling in the pan, refused also to remember they had eaten little but this and potatoes for over a year. She desired nothing more than a change of diet, a hot bath, and an honest-to-goodness bed to sleep in. Instead, she had a grubby, smelly tent in a California mining camp with no bath but that which could be had from a dishpan, and for sleeping, a pallet on the hard dirt floor.
Westward the Dream Page 2