The Lost Quilter

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Hiding her bitterness, Joanna counted her blessings and bided her time. Ruthie spoke her first words. Miss Evangeline outgrew her gowns and grew increasingly impatient for her husband’s attention. For the first time, the newlyweds argued; Joanna, Hannah, and the other house slaves hid out in the kitchen listening and waiting for the furor to subside. They flinched at the sound of china shattering as someone, probably the mistress, flung a teacup against the wall. “He married himself a fiery sweetheart but want a docile wife,” Sally said, shaking her head. “Can’t you say something to make her sweet again, or least make her act sweet?”

  The last was directed at Joanna, who regarded the cook with astonishment. “You mean for me to walk into that?”

  “Not now. Later, when you alone. You her maid. You supposed to keep her in a good temper.”

  “She ain’t mad at me,” Joanna pointed out. “I can make her fine dresses and fix her hair pretty, but that won’t make the colonel forget those Union soldiers in the harbor.”

  “Mistress jealous of Major Anderson,” George said in mock sorrow, and the slaves muffled their laughter. Joanna might have laughed more gleefully than the others. She had no interest whatsoever in helping Miss Evangeline cultivate a sweeter disposition. The more Miss Evangeline and the colonel argued, the more likely the mistress was to remember her father’s indulgent affection and the comforts of Oak Grove.

  Winter faded and spring arrived. Miss Evangeline resigned herself to lonely hours and Joanna to remaining in Charleston. Ruthie took her first hesitant, unsteady steps on the lower piazza; Hannah was so delighted that Joanna hoped for a moment that she might speak to praise the younger girl, but she only clapped her hands. Miss Evangeline set Joanna to work on a wholecloth quilt made of her father’s finest Sea Island cotton for her unborn child. Joanna could not put a stitch into it without imagining Ruthie as a young woman, dressing the golden curls of an impetuous young mistress who slapped her if she pulled the comb too hard through a tangle of hair. And that would be the best Joanna could hope for Ruthie in slavery. In her nightmares she saw her daughter the favorite of some insatiable master, sold off far away when the mistress discovered her carrying the master’s child.

  The next time Titus came and stayed the night, the very next time, she would convince him to steal the carriage and they would flee.

  One night she finished her Birds in the Air quilt—large triangles and small, each pointing north to freedom. In whispers after the other slaves had fallen asleep, Joanna traced the quilted images with her fingertip and told Hannah their secret meanings. Hannah listened, wide-eyed and solemn, but if she were curious or eager or frightened, Joanna could only guess. Hannah said nothing, asked no questions. Maybe she had truly lost her voice forever.

  Sometimes, instead of whispering over the quilt, Joanna feigned sleep, her arms curled protectively around her two girls while George lay on his side watching her from around the half-wall partition. She had come to know him better since the day he had first invited her to share his bed, and she had grudgingly come to like him. He was quiet and rarely smiled, but then unexpectedly he would pass by her and murmur a stingingly accurate and disrespectful observation about the colonel or the mistress or their guests that had her biting the inside of her cheeks to stifle laughter. She knew he hoped she would forget Titus and turn to him, and if she had not loved Titus so much, she might have welcomed George’s affection. But she loved Titus completely, and no distance between them could make her love falter. According to the ledger downstairs and the law, she belonged to the Harpers, but in her heart, she belonged only to herself and to Titus. She felt only kindness and sympathy for George, and privately wished he would look to Sally, who lit up whenever he entered the room and always saved him the best parts of the leftovers from the master’s table. The fool man never seemed to notice.

  Sometimes she fell asleep remembering the feel of Titus’s hands upon her, and as she drifted between wakefulness and sleep, she breathed deeply and almost thought his scent lingered on her skin and in her hair. But she knew it was only a memory and not the man.

  For a time the colonel seemed correct about the Union’s willingness to let the rebellious states go easily. Anderson’s occupation of Fort Sumter remained a nagging thorn in the side of the new Confederacy, or so Joanna gathered as she overheard the dinner conversation of the Harpers and their frequent guests. Until Anderson and his men were evacuated, which everyone seemed to believe was the inevitable outcome of their stubborn, slow starvation, the young nation had no credibility with either the North or with foreign powers, who surely wondered why a so-called sovereign nation tolerated another country’s presence on their free and independent soil.

  Then April came, and with it rumors that President Lincoln was sending a fleet of ships to bring food to Anderson’s men. The plans were supposedly secret, but the Courier reprinted stories of troop movements that had appeared in Northern newspapers, so all of Charleston knew of them. Joanna glimpsed headlines on stacks of newspapers on street corners as she ran errands for the household, and invisible as Miss Evangeline’s maid, she listened to heated conversations from the colonel’s study and witnessed all manner of soldiers and messengers and politicians racing to and from Harper Hall day and night. The colonel reassured Miss Evangeline that Lincoln could send an armada of ships but it would make no difference; he and his fellow South Carolina soldiers were merely waiting for Anderson to run out of food so he could surrender honorably. Once Joanna overheard the astonishing suggestion that Anderson was not merely stalling for time until reinforcements could arrive but had fixed the date and time of his upcoming surrender with General Beauregard. Joanna was torn between hoping Anderson would surrender and praying that he and his men could hold out until the Union ships arrived. All around the city, men drilled and paraded in a variety of uniforms; every day brought new ships into the harbor, filled with Confederate troops. If war came, it would bring chaos and bloodshed, it would endanger Ruthie and Hannah—but the frenzy and fire of battle might cover their escape.

  If only Titus would return. If only Marse Chester would send the carriage and insist Miss Evangeline leave for Oak Grove at once, but Joanna could not count on that. She had to make her own plan, a plan for her and her girls.

  A week later, or maybe more, a low boom like a distant roll of thunder shook her awake. In the early morning darkness, she saw George at the small window on the east wall, looking out toward the harbor. As she climbed carefully from bed to avoid rousing the girls, George glanced her way, shook his head, and returned his gaze to the misty, charcoal gray sky outside. “Bet those Union soldiers came at last,” he said. “That’s cannon fire for sure. Marse Colonel had Asa sleep outside his room last night. He know this coming.”

  Shivering, Joanna wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and peered out the window. In the distance she saw flashes of light in the mist, heard more low rumbles, but Harper Hall was too far from the harbor to discern what was happening. But surely the attack had begun; what else could it be?

  Suddenly the low rumbles turned into furious reports, and the sky flashed baleful fire. A shiver of fear and anticipation ran up Joanna’s spine, but before she could crane her neck and try to see what was happening, Miss Evangeline rang the bell for her, a barely audible summons she couldn’t pretend she had not heard, even considering the distance and the din. Miss Evangeline might believe her, but she would punish Joanna for disobedience just the same, and perhaps demand that Joanna sleep on a pallet outside her door in the future, away from her girls.

  The shouts and cannon fire had woken the others. Ruthie sat up, whimpered, and reached for her, but Joanna could spare her only a brief, hasty cuddle before turning her over to Hannah and hurrying downstairs and across the cobblestones to the big house, lips pressed together to hold back bitter recriminations. War had come, and Joanna could not even comfort her baby girl. What need could Miss Evangeline possibly have that was greater than Ruthie’s? Joanna could not bear it,
but she had no choice except to go when and where she was summoned.

  In the Harpers’ bedchamber, Miss Evangeline ordered Joanna to dress her, because sleep was impossible. Joanna helped her into her gown, quickly noting that the colonel and Asa were nowhere to be seen. “To the roof,” Miss Evangeline instructed, mouth in a tight line, hand on her rounded belly. “I must see what is happening.”

  Joanna obeyed, willing to risk the danger of the roof rather than the greater peril of the Battery, relieved that the impetuous mistress had not sent orders for Abner to prepare the carriage. Up the stairs onto the roof they climbed, the young mistress’s awkward gait making Joanna fearful that she would tumble backwards and knock them both to their deaths. At last they reached the top, breathless from alarm and exertion, and looked out over the city to the harbor, which lay shrouded in heavy mist that nearly obscured the outlying islands. Joanna flinched and drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders as the cannon fire increased in fury, but Miss Evangeline’s face was alight with eagerness and alarm.

  The South Carolinians were bombarding Fort Sumter, and as far as Joanna could see, no Union ships were speeding to the rescue.

  On other rooftops throughout the city, others gathered, watching the fierce spectacle. For hours every other fort in the harbor unleashed its fury upon the starving men holed up in Fort Sumter, but not a single shot came from the Battery. More than two hours had passed since the shot that had awakened Joanna, about two and a half hours of constant cannon fire. At daybreak, Anderson’s men struck back, but Joanna could see they were no match for their attackers.

  “Not Fort Moultrie. Not Fort Moultrie,” Miss Evangeline murmured, clutching her hands together as if in prayer.

  Joanna knew at once that the colonel was there. “Maybe you should go back down,” she said. If Fort Moultrie were reduced to rubble, Joanna would not grieve for her dead master, but she didn’t believe Miss Evangeline ought to be there to see it.

  But the young mistress refused to go. She did agree to let Joanna return inside and bring her food and drink, but she kept her gaze fixed on the distant harbor even as she broke her fast. Joanna remained with her, since she had not been given permission to leave. By midday the mists had lifted and Joanna could easily make out three dark shapes off the bay, warships from the North, but they remained out of range of the cannon fire, their captains unwilling or unable to bring relief to Anderson’s men.

  On and on the fighting continued, but it was late afternoon before Joanna could persuade Miss Evangeline to come back into the house. The mistress sat in the parlor brooding, unfinished knitting on her lap. Once she sent George to her aunt’s house for news, but when he returned, he reported only that three Union warships sat out in the harbor, Fort Moultrie seemed undamaged, and Fort Sumter was being hit hard.

  The colonel did not return all that day.

  The next morning Miss Evangeline was determined to take the carriage to the Battery, but Joanna managed to talk her out of it, for her unborn child’s sake. Thus they did not witness the firebombs explode in Fort Sumter and set it aflame, nor were they among the thousands who stood watching and waiting for the three Union ships to enter the harbor and join in the battle. The ships never moved.

  Miss Evangeline learned all this from rumors that flew through the streets of Charleston after the cannons subsided, rumors confirmed when Colonel Harper finally returned home, filthy, exhausted, triumphant, on the same day Major Anderson surrendered. Miss Evangeline waved off Asa—who was just as weary and bedraggled as the colonel, having endured the same harrowing firefight as the man he served—and tugged off her husband’s boots herself, then removed his soiled uniform while Joanna drew him a bath. As he washed off the filth of battle, the colonel recounted the formal evacuation of Fort Sumter, how Anderson and his men had been allowed to withdraw honorably to one of the Union ships sitting in the bay. His voice rang with pride and Miss Evangeline exclaimed in admiration over every detail. Later Abner drove the couple to the Battery, where—as the coachman reported later—South Carolinian buckra of every age and social station, men and women alike, took to boats and filled the harbor to see for themselves the destruction wrought on the former stronghold, to exclaim over the piles of debris that had once been the fort’s upper story, to study the traces of cannon shot on the parapet, to marvel at the smoking ruin.

  It’s begun, Joanna thought wearily as she went about the duties neglected during the young mistress’s vigil. It was impossible to guess how it would end.

  The buckra of Charleston reveled in their glorious victory. Miss Evangeline threw party after party, even as her husband cautioned her that they must now prepare to settle down to the hard business of war. This time his predictions proved true. Soon after Anderson’s surrender, Union warships blockaded the harbor, immediately shutting down the transport of goods and food in and out of the city. Often Joanna found the shelves of the mistress’s favorite shops empty of the items she had been instructed to purchase, and she was forced to search from street to street until she found what was needed rather than return to Harper Hall, basket empty, punishment certain.

  Military camps formed throughout the city; slaves were put to work setting up cannons and barricades and fortifications. Once a pair of soldiers with accents Joanna did not recognize detained her outside the fish market and ordered her to return with them to their encampment to work at the battalion’s laundry.

  “My mistress expect me home,” she gasped as the taller of the two seized her upper arm in an iron grip, nearly lifting her from the ground. “She don’t hire me out. I got a pass in my apron pocket.”

  The soldier grinned, baring yellow teeth. “I’m sure your mistress won’t mind you serving the defense of her city.”

  Joanna struggled and protested, but the pass fell from her pocket and fluttered into an open sewer as the soldier pushed her stumbling along to one of the many encampments that had sprung up along the edge of the city. There the armed soldiers forced her to join three other slave women in bright headscarves toiling over large kettles set upon the fire. Each of the others wore a small, hexagonal copper badge pinned to her blouse with the name of her master and a license number, showing that they had been hired legally. None of the other soldiers milling about with guns slung over their shoulders seemed to notice or care that Joanna had no badge. She was colored, so she would do.

  Joanna’s eyes darted around the encampment as she stirred lye into a bubbling kettle. She knew she could not sneak away yet, not with so many eyes upon her, so she worked without complaint alongside the other women, waiting for the soldiers to relax their guard. As soon as they did, she would flee.

  Before an opportunity came, Abner and George arrived. A familiar wagon pulled to a hasty stop just beyond the last row of tents, and while Abner held the horses steady, George leaped down from the back and quickly approached a group of soldiers polishing their boots not far from the working women. “That there girl needed at home, suh,” George said deferentially, handing one of the soldiers a folded paper.

  “That there wench is busy, boy,” drawled the solider, but he unfolded the paper and read it, frowning. Then his glance darted to Joanna, who feigned obedient disinterest as she hung shirts on the clothesline. “You mean to say she’s Colonel Harper’s wench?”

  “Yes, suh, and Mrs. Harper needs her right now. She say if you don’t let her come home right this minute, I’m to find Marse Colonel and—”

  “No, no, that’s all right. You, there. Girl,” he snapped to Joanna. “Collect your wages for your mistress and get home. Thank her for her trouble and be sure to tell her we treated you fair. Can you remember that? You a sensible wench?”

  Joanna looked at the ground and bobbed a nod, silent. A few minutes later, she was sitting in the back of the wagon beside George, coins jingling in her pocket, heart in her throat. “How did you know?” she managed to ask as the encampment disappeared behind them. If they had not come after her, if they had not found her—
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br />   “Missus Ames’s Jenny saw you picked up by them soldiers. Missus Harper go into a fine fury when she get the news.” George shook his head. “I thought you smarter than that, girl. The missus plenty mad you go off with them soldiers.”

  “I didn’t go off with them! They drag me along all the way from the fish market. Jenny don’t see that?”

  “You shoulda got away. I hear you know how to run.”

  “They had my arm,” Joanna said, but she knew it would do no good. Miss Evangeline was sure to blame her just the same.

  Sure enough, before Joanna could slink in through the back door, Miss Evangeline met her outside and slapped her twice across the face, so hard that Joanna knew her palm stung almost as badly as Joanna’s scarred cheek. “Your duty is to this household,” the young mistress snapped. “If the soldiers need your services so badly, they should consult your master. You are never to go off without my permission ever again, even to serve the Confederacy, is that understood?”

  “Yes, Missus Harper,” Joanna mumbled, eyes downcast to conceal her anger.

  “Take care you remember that.” Miss Evangeline’s blue eyes narrowed. “If you should fail me, I’ll sell your baby and that girl Hannah so quickly it will take your breath away. Do I need to rid you of all distractions so that you’ll remember your duties, or can your sorry little nigger mind carry more than two thoughts simultaneously?”

  Joanna’s heart burned, anger and fear searing her chest. “I can carry as many thoughts as you need me to, missus.”