Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  They woke Tuesday morning to the sound of rain pattering on the motor home’s roof, but they did not mind the change in the weather, since they had planned to head back that day anyway. Only as they crossed the Illinois border did Sylvia feel melancholy creeping into her thoughts. Although every bit of the heat and humidity felt like summer, the northern Wisconsin forest they had left behind had already begun changing into autumnal hues. She didn’t like the reminder that within weeks summer would soon end, and Elm Creek Quilt Camp would conclude for the season. Although Sylvia wasn’t as involved with the day-to-day operations as she had once been, she would miss the campers’ presence, and the way they filled her home with their laughter and energy.

  Andrew spread the drive home to Waterford over three days, giving them plenty of time for sight-seeing along the way. They pulled into the parking lot behind the manor just in time for supper on Thursday evening. In honor of their return, all the Elm Creek Quilters stayed for the meal. It was almost like old times again, back when their business was new, when each day of camp presented unexpected challenges and they were never quite sure if they would survive until the campers left after breakfast on Saturday. Back then they had assured one another that eventually they would fall into a smooth, well-functioning routine, but now that they had, Sylvia occasionally felt nostalgic for the odd calamity that forced them to create solutions out of little more than inspiration and hope.

  After supper, she agreed to act as master of ceremonies for the campers’ talent show. Of all the evening entertainment programs, this was Sylvia’s favorite, for it allowed her guests to express their interests beyond quilting. The shows never failed to be highly entertaining, with musical acts, skits, and other performances that defied classification, delivered with widely varying degrees of talent and polish. New campers put together their acts on the spot, while veterans of previous years often prepared ahead of time. Four members of a quilting guild from Des Moines dramatized a scene from Little Women, while three veteran campers, who had discovered a shared interest in the accordion at last year’s camp, brought their instruments and performed a medley of Bach cantatas. Best of all, however, was a new camper whose gift for mimicry rendered them helpless with laughter at her impersonations of some of the camp’s more vivid personalities. The evening was the best welcome-home present Sylvia could have imagined.

  But the talent show was not all that had awaited her.

  When she finally bid her friends good night, kissed Andrew, and retired to her room, she found her mail stacked neatly on her bedside dresser. She crawled into bed, snuggled beneath her blue and gold LeMoyne Star quilt, and thumbed through the envelopes. A return address from South Carolina caught her eye, and she realized it was a letter from Margaret Alden.

  Apprehensive, Sylvia set the other letters aside and opened the envelope.

  August 13, 2001

  Dear Sylvia,

  I hope this letter finds you and your friend Andrew well. Your program for the Silver Lake Quilters’ Guild received rave reviews. We all hope you’ll consider returning someday to share more of your quilts with us.

  Since we spoke that evening, I’ve increased my efforts to learn more about the Elm Creek Quilt. While I still haven’t conclusively determined who made it, I have learned a few details about its history that I thought might interest you.

  My aunt Mary, my mother’s younger sister, says she believes the quilt was completed shortly before the War of Secession began. This would follow what my mother told me, that during the war itself, the women of the family rarely made any new quilts, but made do with what they had. They could no longer obtain fabric from the Northern mills, and since Southern cotton gins and textile mills were frequently attacked as military targets, thread sometimes became scarce. Eventually they resorted to spinning their own thread on a spinning wheel and conserving it for the most necessary sewing projects, such as blankets, bandages, and other items for the soldiers.

  According to my aunt, it’s something of a miracle the quilt survived the war at all. The plantation was frequently overrun by troops from both sides, depending upon who controlled the territory at the time, and the soldiers scavenged food and supplies from people whose resources were already scarce. Sometimes the troops offered receipts for what they took, but more often they did not, though there was little likelihood of redeeming the receipts, anyway.

  In order to protect their valuables, my grandmother’s grand-mother hid the family silver and other heirlooms under her daughter’s mattress. When the family heard soldiers arriving, her daughter would dash upstairs, climb into bed, and pull the Birds in the Air quilt over herself. Then she would groan and toss about as if suffering from some terrible illness, while her mother pretended to care for her. When the soldiers entered the house and were told that the daughter was afflicted with typhus, they would not enter the room. My grandmother’s grandmother made sure to leave items of lesser value elsewhere in the house, so the soldiers would not suspect they had a hidden cache, and grow angry and destructive at the prospect of leaving empty-handed.

  This scheme preserved their property for nearly the entire duration of the war, but when their region was finally overwhelmed by Federal troops, the family was forced to flee. They took what they could carry and bundled the rest in the Birds of the Air quilt, which they buried on their property. Previous attempts to hide their valuables had taught them that scavenging soldiers knew to look for recently overturned soil, so again my grandmother’s grandmother devised a deception. She placed the quilt at the bottom of a deep hole, covered it up with several feet of dirt, then on top laid the remains of her beloved dog, which had been shot only days earlier by a scavenger. After filling in the hole, she remarked that her faithful friend was a loyal guardian for the family even in death.

  When they finally were able to return to the plantation months later, they found most of the house an utter ruin. The soil over the hiding place had been disturbed, but their valuables were still there at the bottom of the hole. Whoever had searched the site in their absence must have struck the dog’s bones and decided they had found only a grave, and gone no further.

  I think this at least partially accounts for the quilt’s dilapidated condition, wouldn’t you agree? It certainly explains the water stains in the middle of the top row.

  When I told my aunt it was a shame they buried the quilt, though, she told me that was the only reason the quilt remained within the family at all. When they fled their home, they took the fancier quilts with them, including a broderie perse wedding quilt and a whole-cloth trapunto coverlet they used only for company. At some point during their flight, they were robbed on the road, and the thieves took the quilts along with everything else. So only because the Elm Creek Quilt had been considered utilitarian rather than fine did it survive the war—and if you ask me, those fancy silk quilts wouldn’t have survived burial as well as the Birds in the Air quilt did, with its sturdy linsey-woolsey and muslin. I wonder, though, if those two stolen quilts became some other family’s heirlooms. More likely they were used as horse blankets or cut up to patch worn shoes. It’s unlikely a thief would appreciate all the time, effort, and affection that went into those quilts.

  I hope this new information will shed more light on the history of the Elm Creek Quilt, although we must keep in mind that it’s only as accurate as my aunt Mary’s memory of old family stories. Why didn’t more women document their quilts with a tag or at least their signature? I suppose they never imagined the frustrations they were creating for their descendants.

  Please keep me posted about your own research. I’m eager to hear from you, whether you have good news or bad, or no news at all.

  Sincerely,

  Margaret Alden

  Sylvia read the letter a second time, then folded it carefully and returned it to its envelope. Why, indeed, didn’t women document each and every quilt they made? As the Alden family story proved, sometimes the everyday quilts rather than the painstakingly stitched maste
rpieces were the ones to endure for future generations.

  But of course, quilters didn’t often think their creations deserved documentation. In Sylvia’s opinion, they valued themselves—and the work of their hands—too lightly. If a quilt was worthy of the thread that held it together, it was surely worthy of a simple appliquéd tag identifying the quilter, her geographic location, and the date of completion. More details would be even better, but Sylvia would settle for those.

  She placed Margaret’s letter on top of the others and returned the stack to the top of her dresser, then switched off the light and settled into bed. She closed her eyes and tried to still her thoughts, but images from the Birds in the Air quilt’s perilous journey through the years played in her mind.

  Suddenly a phrase from the letter jolted her memory. Quickly Sylvia groped for the lamp switch and snatched up the letter and her glasses. She scanned the lines until she reached the third to the last paragraph, where she spotted the familiar words. Linsey-woolsey. Grace had mentioned that type of fabric years ago in one of her lectures. Sylvia could not remember the exact context, but she knew it was significant.

  She glanced at the clock and had a moment of dismay before remembering the three-hour time difference between Pennsylvania and California. She threw back the quilt, pulled on her dressing gown and slippers, and within moments was hurrying down the hallway, Margaret’s letter in hand. Too many telemarketers had spoiled perfectly good naps for her to consider keeping a phone in her room, and the nearest was in the library.

  Grace answered on the second ring. Sylvia barely gave her friend a chance to say hello before she launched into a summary of Margaret’s tale. “Linsey-woolsey,” Sylvia repeated when she finished. “When I saw the quilt, I assumed it was wool and muslin. I didn’t think to inquire if it was something else.”

  “It would be easy to mistake them if you didn’t know what to look for,” said Grace. “Linsey-woolsey was woven using a cotton warp and a wool weft. It was a rough and uncomfortable cloth, but cheap and durable.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Sylvia, triumphant. “There’s our proof that this so-called Elm Creek Quilt has nothing to do with the quilts I found in my attic. Not a scrap of linsey-woolsey appears in any of them. They were pieced from silks, cottons, chintzes—just about everything but linsey-woolsey. Anneke used scraps from her dressmaking, remember? And much of that fabric was the fine imported material Hans’s parents sent as a wedding gift.”

  “Sylvia,” said Grace, “the presence of identical fabric in all three quilts could have proven a connection, but the absence of identical material doesn’t disprove one. Do all of your quilts contain one common fabric?”

  “What a silly question.” But Sylvia hesitated and admitted, “No. Of course not.”

  “The quiltmaker could have resorted to linsey-woolsey when her better fabric scraps ran out. During the Civil War, many Southern families resorted to homespun when other fabric became too difficult to obtain. On the other hand . . .”

  “Yes?” prompted Sylvia.

  “Homespun was a common fabric used for slaves’ clothing.” Sylvia could not speak.

  “I’m sorry, Sylvia. I knew you wouldn’t like to hear that. But since Margaret Alden believes the quilt was finished before the Civil War began . . .”

  “Someone must have been wearing that homespun, and it probably wasn’t the mistress of a plantation.” Sylvia took a deep breath. “So. You believe my ancestors were slave owners.”

  “Not necessarily your ancestors. Margaret Alden’s, and we knew that about her already. We don’t know that one of your ancestors pieced Margaret Alden’s quilt. We still don’t know that the Bergstroms have any connection to the Aldens. The presence of homespun in the quilt changes nothing.”

  “I simply cannot imagine Gerda the mistress of a plantation, wearing fine silks and ordering people about.” And then, with a sudden flash of insight, Sylvia nearly laughed aloud from relief. “And that’s not all she wouldn’t do.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Gerda hated to quilt. She hated anything to do with sewing, but she did understand fine fabric. She wouldn’t have spent all that time and energy quilting elaborate images from Elm Creek Farm into a top pieced from homespun.”

  “It does seem rather incongruent, for any quilter,” mused Grace. “Any quilter who had access to better fabric, anyway.”

  Sylvia hardly heard her, so pleased was she with her new realization. “Thank you, Grace. You’ve put my mind at ease.”

  Grace laughed. “You’re quite welcome, although I don’t think I really did all that much.”

  Sylvia laughed, too, her heart light. Gerda could not have made Margaret Alden’s quilt. Anneke surely had not, either, because family stories after the Civil War placed her right where she should have been, at Elm Creek Farm. And Hans, too, could be ruled out, for that same reason, and because he probably never lifted a needle in his life.

  Whoever made the Alden family’s heirloom, the unknown quilter could not have been a Bergstrom.

  When Sylvia returned to the memoir the next morning, it was with renewed confidence that her ancestors’ reputation for courage and goodness would yet be proven true.

  January 1859—

  what the New Year brought

  By the first days of January, Anneke could no longer hide what I had suspected: She and Hans were expecting a child.

  I embraced Anneke with great joy when my persistent questioning at last compelled her to reveal the truth. I was nearly overcome with delight to know that a tiny baby boy or girl would be joining our family, although I admit I pitied Anneke the pains of childbirth she would experience, and considered myself fortunate to be spared them. If Jonathan had married me, however, I am sure I would have felt differently.

  As the winter snows fell outside the windows of our happy home, Hans fashioned a cradle from trees felled on our own land, and Anneke pieced tiny baby quilts from the soft fabrics my father had sent from Germany. Perhaps I need not explain how Anneke’s glad news brought me comfort from my own grief. The promise of new life brought me hope, and I knew I would find solace in the hard work that would be required of me as Anneke’s confinement approached and my niece or nephew entered the world.

  It seemed that nothing would diminish the pleasure of our anticipation, but troubled times awaited us.

  For one, Anneke was loath to give up her position at Mrs. Engle’s dress shop, which brought her not only wages but also work she enjoyed and friends. She was certain Mrs. Engle would dismiss her when her condition became too obvious. She put off telling Mrs. Engle the news as long as she could, and when she finally summoned up enough courage, she begged me to accompany her.

  Only for Anneke’s sake, and that of my niece or nephew, would I agree to voluntarily subject myself to that woman’s company. I even promised to be cordial. But we had not even entered the shop when I realized I would not be able to keep my vow.

  For nailed to a post just outside the door was a handbill, which I preserved, since naturally I tore it down, and have enclosed here.

  Sylvia turned the page, and in the fold of the book she discovered a brittle, yellowed piece of paper. It was torn along one edge, and it seemed so fragile that Sylvia almost didn’t dare to unfold it, but she couldn’t resist. As carefully as she could, she laid it on top of her desk and gingerly peeled back the corners.

  $20 REWARD!

  For the capture and return of a Negro woman, runaway or stolen from me two days after Christmas. She is of medium height and build; she may attempt to pass as White or Free but you will know her by the fresh mark of a flatiron, which I made on her right cheek. She is an expert with the needle and may have in her possession a silver thimble and needle case, which belonged to my late Mother and which the Negress has stolen. The above reward of twenty dollars will be given upon return of the said Negress to me or my agents, and an additional ten dollars will be provided for the restoration of my stolen goods. Josiah Chester, W
entworth County, Virginia, December 29, 1858.

  A shiver ran down Sylvia’s spine. She set the handbill aside and quickly returned to the memoir.

  As I gazed upon the deplorable announcement, my indignation quickly turned to white-hot outrage. The nerve of Mrs. Engle, to permit such a posting on her property!

  “My goodness.” Beside me, Anneke was staring at the hand-bill with shocked intrigue. “The mark of a flatiron upon her cheek. Can you imagine it?”

  I could imagine it all too well. “If I burned a woman’s face with a flatiron, I would not be so quick to boast of it.” And with that, I snatched the handbill right off the nail and crumpled it into my pocket.

  Anneke looked around, fearful someone had seen. “You can’t do that.”

  “I most certainly can, and I believe I just did,” said I. “Twenty dollars for a woman. Ten for a thimble and a needle case.”

  “They’re silver,” explained my sister-in-law.

  I was too angry to reply, so I returned to my seat on the wagon, determined to wait for Anneke outside despite the cold. After a moment Anneke entered the shop, and after a frigid half hour passed, she returned outside carrying a bundle of sewing.

  “She said I may continue to work for her as long as my condition is not apparent to the customers,” said Anneke in a subdued voice as we rode off. “After the child is born, if I wish to, I may resume my work.”

  I merely nodded. The anger that had reduced to a simmer now resumed a steady boil. How could Anneke even think of prolonging her association with Mrs. Engle now? I had faith that the decent people of Creek’s Crossing would assist a fugitive slave if the opportunity arose, but there were others in our town of weaker character who would be tempted by the promised reward into betraying that unfortunate woman. If she were delivered to her owner because of that handbill, the shame and the sin would be Mrs. Engle’s.