Beyond All Price

by Carolyn Poling Schriber

  “Wait!” Reverend Browne interrupted. “You were born in 1838? You’re only twenty-three? Daniel, how can that be? You hired a mere child.”

  Daniel Leasure was also somewhat surprised. “I didn’t realize you were that young. Since you had been working with the Twelfth Pennsylvania when we first met, I assumed you were older. You always seemed self-possessed and mature.”

  Once again, Reverend Browne lifted a hand to stop the flow of the story. “So, Daniel, you admit you knew this young woman before she joined our regiment? I find that disturbing.”

  “I knew her only as a nurse attached to Colonel Campbell’s regimental headquarters, Robert. But that’s part of the reason I readily agreed to take her on as our matron. There’s nothing ‘disturbing’ about that. Go on with your story, Nellie.”

  “At home I had been the top scholar at Miss Hutchin’s Academy for Women, the finest school in Windham. When I graduated, I wanted more than anything to go on to the nearby Normal School and prepare to be a teacher. However, my father had different ideas. He refused to pay for any more education—said women didn’t need it. Miss Hutchins offered me a job anyway, teaching the youngest children. That gave me something to do, but it paid next to nothing, and my brothers constantly made fun of their spinster schoolmarm of a sister.

  “My father wanted me to marry our fifty-year-old neighbor, so the two farms might someday be joined. Old Man Jones, as I called him, was willing to take me without a dowry, which appealed to my father’s miserly nature. I had to choose between living at home as the family spinster, or moving next door to marry an old man who made me cringe.

  “Neither choice was as attractive as the charming musician who passed through town about then. He was a little short, stocky in a way that suggested muscular strength, with black curly hair that was usually in need of a cut. His Irish blue eyes could change from sparkle to icy coldness without warning. He was a superb musician, playing French horn, trumpet, and almost any other brass instrument. Of course, I later found out that while he was a charmer, he was also a drunkard, a gambler, a liar, a forger, and a thief. His name, if you want to look him up, is Otis Henry Leath, and he’s from Bangor, Maine, where he was once apprenticed to a shoemaker.

  “He flattered me, pursued me, was charming to my mother and polite to my father, and he promised me the moon and the stars. Once he had me thoroughly smitten, he dropped a bombshell, telling me he must leave town for a job in Bangor. ‘Come with me,’ he offered, and I could not resist. He promised to arrange our marriage with a minister he knew in an adjoining town. And so we eloped. The ceremony was not the kind of wedding I had always wanted. We met the so-called friend in a dirty hotel room. He pulled a ragged Bible out of the bedside table to bolster his authority, had us clasp hands, and declared us wed. As we traveled on toward Bangor, Otis told me of his big plan—we would save our money and buy a hotel. Then he would run the saloon while I did the cooking and cleaning.”

  “And you believed that cock-and-bull story?”

  “I was nineteen, Reverend Browne. I’d never even had a beau. I had no idea what I was getting into. I kept dreaming of a small cottage with a white picket fence. When we reached Bangor, I was expecting to meet his family. Instead, I learned he had only a sister, and she refused to have anything to do with him. We took a room in a seedy hotel above the saloon where he was to work. He suggested I could help pay off the room by taking a job. He even found me a position as a seamstress for a prominent family, but I didn’t last long. I had no experience at fancy needlework. Then he ordered me to start working in the tavern kitchen.

  “One day Mrs. McMurphey, the tavern keeper’s wife, found me weeping on the back porch. She was a motherly little woman, and she soon had me pouring my heart out. I thought I was a failure as a wife, that I knew nothing about how to keep my husband happy, that I had no friends to talk to. As she comforted me, her cat approached, and I reached down absently to pet it. When the cat skittered away, my tears came even harder. ‘See, I don’t even know how to befriend a cat,’ I wailed.

  “When I had cried myself out, Mrs. McMurphey showed me how to hold out a hand without moving, and soon that big old striped tiger cat was purring and weaving around my ankles. Seeing how happy that made me, she gave me one of the kittens from the stables for my own. I named him Pythagoras, and did my best to hide him from Otis. Pythagorus might have only been a kitten, but he was my best friend, and I adored him.

  “Mrs. McMurphey taught me many lessons in the weeks we were there—about how to learn by watching those around me and about trying to give people what they need. I watched her handle her own husband when he was too far gone in his cups, and I saw how she made those around her feel more comfortable. I tried to become a good wife. I really tried. But I knew Otis was not a lovable man.

  “He used his job as a saloon musician to study the customers and watch the local gamblers. He encouraged strangers to buy drinks for him, and he appeared to handle his drinking well, at least for a while. He was in his own element surrounded by card games, flowing liquor, and loose women. He kept me out of sight so I wouldn’t cramp his style. Once he got paid, he used part of his wages to join the poker games. He played on the weaknesses of the other gamblers, and was not above cheating when he could get away with it. But he was also arrogant and took too many risks because of his overconfidence.

  “Soon he was losing large sums of money and had to find other ways to pay his gambling debts. He was a dexterous pickpocket and a sneak thief. If that didn’t work, he tried forging deeds to none-existent pieces of property. When things started going really badly for him, a mean streak appeared. He would comes home drunk and berate me for spending money on food. Eventually he started hitting me.

  “When the sheriff got wind of Otis’s illegal activities, we had to leave town in the middle of the night. We traveled from place to place, always heading west, where law enforcement was less organized. I held on to Pythagoras as my only friend and my emotional shield, although I kept the cat well out of Otis’s way. We moved through New York and Pennsylvania, stopped for a while in Elyria, Ohio, and then moved on toward Pittsburgh. That last leg, however, was dramatically more frightening.

  “One night, when we were fleeing the local sheriff in a stolen wagon, Pythagoras scratched Otis by accident. He grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, spun him around over his head, and hurled him against a tree-trunk. I knew then how dangerous he was. If he could be a cat-killer, he could also kill me.”

  “And how did you escape from this dangerous cat-killer?” Browne asked.

  “Well, I began by convincing a local dry goods merchant to sell me a sewing machine I could pay for a bit at a time. When Otis came home drunk and passed out, I filched money from his pockets. When I had enough for a down payment, I purchased my sewing machine on time and posted an ad at the general store offering to do sewing for people. It was not a terribly bad plan, but lower Pittsburgh was not the best place to try it. People who lived in the Pointe didn’t have much money to spare on a personal seamstress. Eventually Mr. Henderson of the local theater saw my placard and offered me a position as wardrobe mistress. I hesitated at first, knowing theaters had a bad reputation. But then Otis announced we were about to move again. He told me the country was soon going to be consumed by a great civil war, and he intended, not to fight in that war, but to make a profit from it. He wanted to try his luck in Cincinnati because of the high number of troop movements on that part of the Ohio River.

  “I made up my mind. I was too afraid of him to tell him I was leaving him, but in my own mind I knew that was what I was doing. I told him about the new job, manipulating him to see it as money coming in. Money always appealed to him. Then I suggested I could stay in Pittsburgh and work through the end of the theater season, while he went on to Cincinnati and found a place for us there. I would join him, I promised, with a tidy little nest egg. He bought the whole story.

  “Once he was gone, I could breathe again. I found a cheap
room with kitchen privileges in the Guardhouse and began my new job. I didn’t have much contact with the actors, except when they came downstairs with an occasional fitting problem, but I slowly befriended one of the minor actresses who seemed especially shy and lonely.”

  “Is she still there? Could she speak up on your behalf?” the colonel asked.

  “No. I don’t know where she is.”

  “Did you have any other friends in Pittsburgh, anyone else who would give you a good character recommendation?” Nellie only shook her head.

  Reverend Browne spoke up. “Yours is a horrific story, Mrs. Leath, and I’m truly sorry you have had to face this sort of experience. But I don’t see it goes far in justifying your own behaviors. And it certainly does not carry much of a recommendation for your position in this regiment.”

  “Reverend Browne, I want to speak to you privately. Nellie, would you excuse us for a few moments?”

  “Of course.” Nellie slipped quietly from the room, grateful for the respite. She wandered out onto the piazza and stood looking out over the Beaufort River. Even though it was January, the huge live oak trees that surrounded the Leverett House retained their leathery green leaves. The park that extended from the road down to the shoreline where the sea oats took over was also filled with unseasonably green vegetation. The late afternoon sun turned the river beyond the park into a bronzed mirror. The water lay absolutely still, unmarked by the passage of small boats or the intrusions of fishermen. Above, the sky was a deep azure blue, with not a cloud in sight. Nellie breathed in, as if she could somehow absorb the whole scene into her own being.

  This world can be beautiful and peaceful, she thought. Why is it we humans have to keep stirring up trouble? I could stand here forever, content to enjoy this view and appreciate its wonders.

  Then she caught her breath as she realized the direction of her thoughts. What am I thinking? Stay here forever? A few hours ago, I was intent on shaking the sands of Beaufort from my feet once and for all. I thought I wanted nothing more than a chance to escape. Now here I am, on the verge of getting myself fired on moral grounds, and I’m scared to death I will have to leave. I’m perverse! I apparently have no idea what I really want. I manage never to want what I have until someone threatens to take it away.

  Irritated now with her own indecision, she began to pace back and forth on the veranda. I could go back in there and tell the colonel I’m leaving. Refuse to answer any more questions. Refuse to defend myself. Just quit, and be done with it. I’m sure Reverend Browne would be happy to help me pack. But then I’d be running away again. And if I give up on this chance to make a new life for myself, I might never have another. On the other hand, I suppose I’m not going to get a choice. The decision will be made for me. Maybe they’re in there now, trying to decide how to tell me I’m through. Mary said we should live for today. All right. Let’s see what happens next. If I’m going to lose the chance to smell the magnolias and camellias, I’d better enjoy the few moments I have left.

  Inside Colonel Leasure’s office, another sort of discussion was ongoing, as the colonel led the self-righteous chaplain to a position from which he could be persuaded to extend some Christian charity to the young woman pacing outside.

  “Robert, you’ve asked me why I didn’t know more about Nellie before I let her join the regiment. Did you assume I was somehow so smitten by her youthful appearance I lost all good sense?”

  “No, Daniel, I didn’t think that—at least not at first. But you have to admit she does not fit the image one usually has of a nurse provided from the Sanitary Commission.”

  “No, she doesn’t. But I could see she was kind, and caring, and she has a good head on her shoulders. I did check, too. Before we left Pittsburgh, I contacted Colonel Campbell of the Twelfth Regiment. I also sent a letter to Isabel, asking her to look into the young woman’s background. Isabel contacted Robert Moffatt’s relatives there in Pittsburgh, and the Witherows spoke highly of Nellie. They knew nothing of her early background, but they knew she was an honest and reliable employee. More recently, Nellie gave me the name of the man who employed her as a wardrobe mistress in Pittsburgh.”

  “In the theater?” The chaplain was still skeptical.

  “Oh, Robert, you are such a Puritan. Yes, she worked in a theater. It was the New Pittsburgh Theater, an establishment I myself have patronized in the past to see such great performers as Edwin Booth and Charlotte Cushman. Isabel was able to track down Mr. George Henderson, who has since moved up in the world to become manager of the New Opera House. He confirmed Nellie took care of the costumes for the acting company, but he also said she never set foot on the stage. Never even watched a performance. Just did her job and went off home, he reported. Isabel said he was entirely complimentary.

  “Nellie is not an evil woman, Robert. She’s young, and she sometimes makes mistakes in judgment, as the young are wont to do. But in a crisis, she is superb. I would trust her with my life. And I did trust her with your life, I might remind you. It was Nellie who managed your care while you were prostrate with malaria. If it had not been for her constant ministrations, we might not have you with us today.”

  The chaplain was at last taken aback, and he had the grace to show it. Still, he was not ready to accept Nellie with open arms. “I had my friends checking in Pittsburgh, too, Daniel. I’m not waging an unreasonable vendetta against the woman. But I am still concerned. My friends tell me before she joined the regiment, she was living in a deplorable slum that had grown up around the old Arsenal, at the spot where the Allegheny and the Monongahela join to form the Ohio River. I’ve been told some of the tenants remember Nellie as a willful and forward young woman. What’s worse, however, everyone who knew her also remembers she shared her room with an actress, even if she was not one herself. And said actress caused an upheaval by taking an overdose of opium and nearly dying right there in their room. If one is known by the company one keeps, your Nellie has made some pretty poor choices among her friends.”

  “I’ve heard part of that story, Robert, and there’s more to it than you’ve learned. But let’s ask Nellie.”

  Seated once again in what she had come to think of as her “grilling seat,” Nellie launched into the story of her only real friend in Pittsburgh. She pulled out a small photograph showing a fragile-looking blonde girl with elfin features and a tight-lipped small smile. “That’s Belle Morgan,” she explained. “We exchanged pictures shortly before she left Pittsburgh. We promised to keep in touch, but I’ve never heard from her again.

  “Like me, Belle came from a comfortable home situation, but her fortunes deteriorated when her parents died in an accident with a runaway carriage. Belle went to live with a maiden aunt in Cleveland, and there fell in love with a young lawyer. Her maiden aunt would not hear of a romance, claiming Belle was far too young. Secretly the lovers pledged their engagement, but the old aunt thwarted every attempt of the two of them to spend time together. Then the lawyer was offered a new job teaching in a law school some miles from Cleveland. When he moved away, the old aunt made life so miserable for Belle that she ran away. When she could not locate her lover, she went back to Pittsburgh and became a walking lady.”

  “In other words, a prostitute,” Browne sneered.

  “No, not at all. A walking lady in theater terms is a bit player. She walked on and off the stage, for instance during a street scene, to give the audience the impression there were other people around the main characters. But she was never required to say a word. That was a good thing, too, because Belle was so petrified on stage she couldn’t have made a sound. She only took the job when she could find no other way to support herself. And she knew she had cut herself off from the rest of her family, who hated anything to do with the stage. People will do almost anything to save themselves when they are hungry enough, Reverend Browne.

  “Belle’s troubles did not end there. She made only a pittance when she worked, and, because not every play had a need of a walking lady,
she often went penniless. Eventually she agreed to marry a stage-door Johnny who promised her the world. After only a few weeks of marriage, Johnny left her and went off to California to make his fortune, leaving her on the streets once more.

  “That’s when I offered to share my room with her. I didn’t have much, but she had nothing. We did have some experiences in common, as I’m sure you can realize. One day Belle’s husband sent word he had divorced her to marry a wealthy widow who held claim to a gold mine. Her marriage was officially over, just like that. The next week, it was my turn. That’s when I received my own letter from Otis. The letter demanded I join him in Cincinnati, where he had bought an old house and was turning it into a brothel catering to military customers. I was to be his madame, supervising the prostitutes and running the house.