“I can do it—please, teach me. If you work late into the night, I will too.”
“We’ll see. I can’t let you neglect your studies.” He tried to look stern, but a quirk at his lip gave him away. She could tell he was pleased to think of having her company while he worked. Maybe he would relent. He returned to his bench and picked up his chisel again.
Her mind spun with questions—she must find Rachel, because now everything would be set right if they only found her.
Her aunt had suggested she take a walk. Maybe that would give her uncle time to relent, and he would teach her some of his craft later today. Now his dark eyes were narrowed, his keen attention on the strap in his hands. She watched him with secret affection. Flesh might sag and hair might whiten, but his stubborn goodness was the same as she had always known.
She would walk, then, while he was absorbed in his work. She must have faith in the children’s return, that there would be beauty and order again and all would be as it should. In fact, she would go look for flowers to use as models for the paper ones. She would need a blue flower. Blue vervain, perhaps . . . they were in bloom now, most likely to grow by water. “Uncle, I think I will walk to the creek.”
“That’s a good walk.” He was only half listening, lost in his work.
She took a sheet of her blue paper and borrowed a pencil off the table.
The heat was still oppressive, but the sunlight lifted her spirits. Better hot and sunny than hot and gloomy. She walked briskly, feeling her blood pump through her limbs, not minding the moisture that gathered on her skin. She passed the shops and turned onto the college avenue.
Where could she look for Rachel? She turned over the possibilities in her mind.
After crossing through the college quadrangle and beyond, she reached the path to Alum Creek, on the west side of town. Water glinted through the trees.
The banks were still green, nourished even in the summer heat by the water in the soil, though the creek looked shrunken and had left a muddy flat at its edge. As she had predicted, a whole host of blue vervains collected near the bridge. Verbena hastata. The Latin name sprang to mind as she scrambled down the bank beside the bridge, clutching the blue paper. The children would love this flower, and it would be very challenging to reconstruct. Perfect.
In her handbag she kept a little pair of scissors for just this reason.
Taking her scissors in thumb and finger, she stepped to the patch of blue flowers and began to hunt for the perfect specimen. Hopeful lyrics crept into her thoughts, a hymn, and as she walked between the long stems, she began to hum. The song quieted her soul and strengthened her resolve.
She would not give up—she would make this flower template because she expected right to prevail in the end. And she would do her utmost to ensure it did.
Johann strode along the path to the dairy farm. Time to gather some local opinion on the saloon, and he knew just where to get it.
The surrounding trees thinned into open air as he crossed the creek bridge. What was that sound rising from below? Someone was humming—it was a melody he knew, a hymn. He looked over the rail. A young woman in a straw hat and plain green dress stood with her back to him, her trim form surrounded by tall candelabras of tiny blue flowers. She looked as if she had walked into a French country painting. At the sound of his steps, she looked over her shoulder.
It was the temperance girl—Miss Hanby.
Not again! Her opinion of him made no difference. He should not react with any kind of embarrassment, but the sting of her accusations returned at the sight of her. He looked away and walked on: he did not want to endure another attack.
“Mr. Giere.”
To his surprise, she climbed up the bank toward him, still holding a bunch of the blue flowers and a pair of scissors. She might try to stab him with those scissors—it wouldn’t be a surprise. Still, he couldn’t help but appreciate her beauty, the hazy mystery of her green eyes. But her face was unusually rosy— from heat, or was she about to fly into another fit of anger?
Trying not to show his reluctance, he paused and braced himself for whatever might come. “Yes, Miss Hanby? May I assist you in some way?”
She shuffled and looked down at the flowers she clutched. They were spiky wands with bursts of blue blossoms along their length. “I would like to apologize.” She did not raise her head or look at him. “I was very rude to you on the train. Though I still detest your business, that is no excuse for me to abandon all consideration.”
“Thank you, Miss Hanby. I admire your candor.” And he did. A humble apology was a sign of grace and maturity many could not muster.
Silence strained the air.
“That is all.” She turned without meeting his gaze, but he glimpsed the shine of tears in her eyes as she moved away. He felt sorry for her now. Clearly something was troubling her to make this young woman so mercurial. She did not seem harsh by her nature, and she had a conscience.
“Miss Hanby.”
She turned over her shoulder, blinking the tears away.
He followed her by a few steps. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing down there?”
“I am on a botanical quest.” She said it with such seriousness that he restrained his urge to smile.
“Oh yes? You are a botanist?”
“An amateur.”
“And have you found what you sought?”
“Verbena hastata.” She held up the blue flower wands.
“What will you do with it?”
“Take it apart, piece by piece, and study its structure.”
He liked the matter-of-fact way she said it, as if it were not at all unusual to dissect a flower instead of putting it in a vase. She was an intelligent girl, if a little eccentric. “I see,” he said. “Is that the chief appeal of flowers for you, study?”
“Flowers always follow universal principles by which God has designed them, Mr. Giere. They have much to teach us.”
He rose to the slight challenge in her tone. “They are a moral lesson? Aren’t they beautiful as well?”
“That is the moral lesson. Their adherence to heavenly principle is what gives them their beauty—it deepens the beauty we can see on the surface.”
“Until you cut them to pieces, of course.”
She almost smiled. “But I’ll make a new flower of paper modeled after the first.”
This conversation was growing odder at every turn. “Why?”
She paused for a long moment, her expression shifting through several cryptic changes. She held the flowers close to her bodice and took a quick breath. “I must ask you once more, Mr. Giere—please don’t help the saloonkeeper by supplying him with beer.”
Why on earth must she go back to the subject when they had just managed an interesting, if awkward, exchange? Apparently her apology would not restrict her single-minded crusade, even if it improved her manners. He couldn’t hide the annoyance that colored his tone. “That’s not my decision to make, Miss Hanby. You will need to address Mr. Corbin, not me.”
Her eyes went cold and opaque as jade. “Good day, Mr. Giere.” She turned her back and walked down the bank again to her patch of flowers, her green skirt swaying. He stole a glance around the end of the bridge as he continued on his way.
She seemed to have forgotten him already. She pulled one of the lush floral spikes close on its stem and examined its blue blossoms with wide eyes and an intent, analytical stare.
She was prickly and opinionated, but what an interesting mix in her character—sometimes cool, scientific, but also tenderhearted. Still, it was plain that he and she would never be on good terms.
That was for the best. If Westerville provided him with his news story, Susanna Hanby was sure to be in the thick of the action, judging from her vehemence.
For now, he needed to go meet his friend.
Mr. Bergen, a widower, lived on the far west side of the creek, where he kept his small herd of dairy cattle. He welcomed Johann in, opening t
he red farmhouse door wide. “Ach, mein Freund, it has been too long. You did not bring your father to visit me?” He beckoned Johann into the kitchen.
“Not today, Herr Bergen.”
The stocky man in overalls gestured toward the table and Johann took a seat at it. “I’m here to seek your opinion.”
“For the Westbote? Am I so famous?” He grinned.
Johann smiled back. “Your opinion about Westerville. You’ve lived here a decade, you should have a feel for the town, yes?”
The farmer sat down opposite him and leaned back on his chair. “Ja.”
“Will there be a story in this saloon opening, or will it all blow over in a week or so?
Mr. Bergen raised his brows to his hairline. “Oh, nein, there will be no blowing over. The people of this town are good people, but some are very stubborn. There will be big trouble when the saloon opens tomorrow. Everyone says so.”
Johann pondered. “Then perhaps I’ll stay in town this evening.”
Mr. Bergen wiped his brow, which was moistening in the afternoon heat. “Mark my words, son—this will be something no newspaperman would want to miss.”
Eight
A THUNDEROUS CLANG STARTLED JOHANN FROM HIS sleep. He scrambled out of bed, blinking in the morning light. Where was he? The din dazed him in his bleary state. Bells. It was the sound of church bells, resonant, deafening, echoing through the walls.
The sight of the four-poster bed and simple porcelain washstand brought him back to his senses. He was in Westerville, at the Commercial House Hotel. He had stayed overnight to see what would happen to Corbin’s new stock of beer. And he had succumbed to sleep when he meant to stay up and watch the street. Some big-city reporter he would make.
He looked out his second-floor window, wincing at the volume of the pealing bells. It sounded like every church in town was ringing an alarm. Across the rooftops he could see bells swinging away in three steeples. Below in the street, men and women hurried to the intersection of College and State, which was rapidly clogging with scores of pedestrians.
He had to get down to the scene, whatever was happening. He pulled on his trousers and buttoned them, then checked himself in the looking glass and brushed pillow-lint off the trace of blond stubble on his face. No time to shave. He grabbed his hat and ran down several flights of stairs to the main doors of the hotel.
Outside, a buzz of excited and angry voices joined the clamoring bells. He descended the hotel steps and blended in with the crowd. They had gathered outside the Widow Clymer’s building, only a block from his lodgings. State Street was so packed he could make progress only by sidling close to the windows of the confectionery and the timepiece store. Finally he reached a good vantage point—he was only yards from the door of Corbin’s saloon, standing in an alley where the saloonkeeper would not be able to see him. Johann didn’t want to be called upon for support and exposed as some kind of ally—it would ruin his story-gathering. He had already done his duty to his father by delivering the lager—he had no duty to the crude proprietor of the new saloon. Now he could be a reporter.
“Henry Corbin, show your face!” a man in a black hat and clerical collar called from where he stood front and center of the crowd, directly across from the saloon. The clergyman appeared to be in his midforties, ruddy, square-shouldered.
“We’re not leaving, Corbin,” another man shouted behind him. “Open up and account for yourself.”
No response came from the shuttered windows.
The minister addressed the crowd still expanding behind him. “He appears to be ashamed to answer for his actions. Perhaps his shame will encourage him to pack up his whiskey and leave.” He appeared determined but in good humor.
“You tell him, Reverend Robertson,” a man cried. A few women echoed with “Amen!” and “Hear, hear.”
Hundreds thronged Main Street. If it wasn’t the whole town, it was all the able-bodied adults. Johann began to run through headlines in his mind. “Temperance Town Takes to Streets Against Saloon.” Not a crime headline for the New York job, perhaps, but a dramatic story for the Westbote.
“Come out, Corbin!” the reverend repeated to the window.
The crowd cheered and whistled again. Across the street, under the sign for Dusenberry’s Shoes, Johann noticed a slender figure in a pale yellow bustle dress and straw hat, standing beside a familiar white-haired gentleman. The Hanbys.
Miss Susanna Hanby was not cheering. She had her arms wrapped around herself, a handbag dangling, forgotten, from one wrist, her forehead creased in worry. No doubt she would continue to blame him for Corbin, for drunkenness in America, and for ruined families, despite the fact that he didn’t even want to be a brewer. But there was nothing he could do to change her mind, or alter the opinion of anyone else who thought Germans were Sabbath-breaking corrupters of public morals. He could hardly take her to church and show her his family at worship, and he should not need to do so. Prejudice was an ugly thing, even in a beautiful woman.
But perhaps he was unfair. She had said nothing about Germans—only appeared single-mindedly committed to her cause, which she believed to be good. The fervor for pursuing good was not wrong; her passionate belief would be attractive, if it were not so adversarial.
The red saloon door opened and Corbin stepped out, a horse pistol in each hand, the gun barrels pointed at the sky. He elbowed the door shut and grimly faced the throng, showing no reaction as he scanned its expanse from left to right. A silence fell over the street.
“You won’t bully me,” Corbin said in his flat, rough voice, “be there a hundred of you or a thousand. With my lawful right to bear arms, I will defend my right to open a legal business in this town.” He brandished the pistols.
The reverend in his clerical collar fell back a step, and the crowd murmured.
“Put away your guns.” A calm voice came from the back. William Hanby limped through the crowd, which parted as if he were Moses with a staff, not an old man with a walking cane. “Corbin, these people are not brutes. They simply wish you to hear them.”
Corbin looked uncertain and lowered his pistols, but he did not holster them.
“Your business threatens the existence of Otterbein College,” Mr. Hanby said evenly. “Many families here gave their life savings to rebuild the college after the fire. This college is the lifeblood of Westerville. And for twenty years, churchgoing parents have trusted Otterbein because there is no drinking establishment in town where innocent sons can be led astray in deadly habits.”
“Men make their own choice to walk through a saloon’s door,” Corbin said. “I will not be dragging them. And before I fret about the children of others, I take care of my own children. They need to eat, and this is how I will put food on my table.”
“You’re a selfish man, Corbin,” a guttural voice called. “Get out of our town!”
Mr. Hanby turned toward the interrupter, as if to hush him, and Corbin’s face tightened.
“We’ll fight you to our last breath,” a woman cried. Johann looked around to see a hysterical-looking plump woman waving a round fist at Corbin. The rules of propriety had rushed away with the sound of the bells.
“He won’t listen to us,” another man said to the rest. The crowd murmured and moved toward Corbin like a wave, some faces worried, some angry, some looking as if they were pushed along on the tide and would really rather go home.
Corbin raised his pistols, cocked them with two loud clicks, and waved them toward the crowd. Some shifted nervously as the dark holes of the barrels wandered past them.
“You’re a bunch of zealots,” Corbin gritted out. “And I won’t back down to the likes of you. You knock-kneed, hymnchanting hypocrites and un-American thugs! You self-righteous, narrow-minded sons of . . .” The stream of insults continued and grew profane, and men looked at their wives in consternation. Johann darted a surreptitious glance at Susanna Hanby, who had gone pink over her delicate cheekbones. He fought the instinct to step forward and tell
Corbin to shut his filthy mouth in the presence of ladies.
With a last curse, Corbin went back inside and slammed his door. Locks thudded into place.
Abashed by the profanity, the men and women looked around in the hush.
“It doesn’t appear he’s going to listen to you, Mr. Hanby,” one matron finally said.
“I say we go in and throw him out by force,” a young man yelled to a handful of amens.
William Hanby held up his hands. “Let’s not be hasty. None of us should lay hands on any other man—we are called to peace.”
At this, some looked relieved and others grumbled.
The pastor spoke up. “The power of prayer is mighty. We should do nothing without it.”
“Amen!” a man said. The crowd stirred and rumbled.
“Let’s go have a meeting at the Methodist church, sisters!” a handsome, middle-aged woman said to the assembled group. “We’ll pray and we’ll sing until we convince all Ohio to boycott this saloon.”
“Men, you heard the ladies! We can do no less,” Reverend Roberson urged. “All men to the Presbyterian church for a prayer meeting and discussion! All men are welcome, regardless of creed.” Some men moved through the crowd toward him.
The handsome matron linked arms with another woman next to her and walked up the street. She opened her mouth and sang in a rich alto: “Come friends and sisters all unite, hurrah! Hurrah!. . .”
He knew this tune—everybody did, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” But apparently many of the townspeople knew a new set of words. “Come out and take the Pledge tonight, hurrah! Hurrah!” Twenty others joined in, “Come out and join our Temperance band, and nobly to our colors stand!” Now half the crowd was singing, moving their feet to the rhythm like a small army, men and women separating into clusters like leaves on the surface of a pond, milling toward the steeples at the end of the street. They did not seem angry now, but joyful and determined.
The men were going to the Presbyterian church. Johann should be able to fit in quite easily, given that there would be several hundred men there. He followed the crowd as it flowed on, but he did not sing, though the pulse of the music pulled at him and the melody swirled in his head. He didn’t know the new words, and even if he did, he wouldn’t pretend to be an ardent teetotaler just to get a story.
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