The Calm and the Strife

by David J. Sloat

  Wes spoke now, his voice low and firm. “Yes.”

  “Wes is right,” said Ben. “We would fight. I hope it doesn’t come to that but, if it does, we’ll be ready.”

  “That sounds like revolution, Ben,” she said in a hushed tone.

  “Right,” he said forcefully, startling her. He smiled broadly, as though she had finally understood. “This country was started by a revolution against tyrants who wanted to tell us what to do. We may just have to have another one to make people remember what we stand for.”

  Julia shook her head. “That’s very frightening.”

  “It is. That’s why I don’t think it’ll go that far,” Ben said. “Now, enough of this talk, we should be rested enough.” He held out his hand to her. She took it slowly, distress still apparent in her eyes. She looked at Wes for a moment before disappearing into the mass of dancers.

  After midnight the ball began to break up. Ben offered to walk with Julia and Wes even though he lived on the opposite side of town. Wes followed behind to give them some privacy. Alone with his thoughts, he wondered if Ginnie was thinking about him, and that made him resolve to write her that night. Watching his sister and his best friend walking together, he felt isolated and lonely.

  Chapter 6

  SKELLY

  Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  December 21, 1860

  The postmaster shook his head when Ginnie walked through the door of the post office. She waved her thanks and turned back to the street, a ritual repeated time and again over the past four years. There had been little mail from Shepherdstown, but the few letters that did come made the long wait bearable. Wes hadn’t been much of a correspondent to begin with and, as the months became years, he seemed even less inclined to write regularly.

  That was why the flurry of mail in the past weeks had been so unusual. Since she had canceled her visit to Shepherdstown, Wes had written almost weekly, telling her how much he had missed her company and assuring her that he knew she had been forbidden to come. The warmth in his letters gave her new hope that the relationship was still solid and full of promise.

  She was glad for this reassurance because that special summer with Wes four years ago seemed to be part of a different lifetime. He had been home only three times, riding the train up for a day or two. Each reunion was increasingly awkward, a meeting between strangers who never had quite enough time to get reacquainted. Every effort to recapture the intimate relationship of that long ago time seemed frustrated, and before she could be certain of their connection, he was gone again, off to pursue what he considered their common dream. She had hoped that her trip to Shepherdstown would allow her to become part of Wes’ new world. But her mother’s refusal to let her go had dashed those thoughts.

  She pulled her wrap closer around her head to combat the bitter chill of this first day of winter. Another year was slowing down into frozen immobility, in the same way that her dreams were stagnating and she was becoming like everyone else in town, resigned to the ordinary.

  She had saved nearly enough for a train ticket to Shepherdstown and by spring, with luck, she would be able to make the trip. Julia was planning a second visit and was anxious to have Ginnie accompany her. Since Julia’s return, Ginnie had questioned her endlessly for information about the trip, but Julia could only talk about a certain gentleman she had met. Ginnie, thrilled to hear about Julia’s new friend, was grateful that she felt compelled to return so soon.

  There remained only the matter of convincing Ginnie’s mother to let her go this time. Ginnie hoped that her faithfulness in the relationship would convince her mother that she was serious about a future with Wes in the South. In any event, she would be eighteen in May and was hoping that her mother would agree that she was old enough to make her own decisions.

  But she was still filled with unspoken doubts: It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be away from Gettysburg or that she didn’t love Wes anymore. It was just that the whole idea seemed to have faded, like the bright red paint on a barn that peels and flakes off as the storms relentlessly wear it out. The innocent plans of a thirteen-year-old seemed more and more childish to the seventeen-year-old she had become.

  She walked slowly down Baltimore Street to the Skelly house to begin her day’s work. During the past summer, she had begun to help the seamstress in Mr. Skelly’s shop with odd jobs. Pushing through the door, Ginnie closed it quickly to keep out the bitter wind. Madeline, the seamstress, looked up from behind the dressmaker’s dummy on which she was fitting a gown.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Madeline called. “Henrietta, here, is rather dull company.”

  Ginnie smiled. They had privately named the dummy after one of their more bothersome customers. Ginnie took off her coat and knelt to assist Madeline. She often wondered about the woman’s age, which could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty. She wore her hair pulled tightly up into a knot which had the disagreeable effect of making her unpleasant features more noticeable. She was unmarried and said quite frankly that she had no desire to be otherwise; her negative attitude toward men was no secret. But she had a sweet nature and she was kind to Ginnie. They talked often about Wes and, while Madeline envied Ginnie her great plans, she made it clear that Wes was not nearly good enough for her.

  “Any mail from the South?” she asked in her habitual greeting, having already read the answer in Ginnie’s face.

  Ginnie shook her head, tied on her smock and sighed. “I wonder sometimes if I’ll always be stuck in this town.”

  Madeline looked up, her eyes squinting. “There are worse places.”

  “I know,” Ginnie said apologetically. “I have some good friends here. It’s not just for the sake of leaving that I want to go.”

  “Oh, dear heart, you don’t have to explain to me. The people here can be atrocious sometimes. But I’ve lived lots more places than you, and they can be atrocious just about everywhere.”

  Ginnie shook her head. “But it seems so much more…romantic in the South.”

  Madeline laughed scornfully. “Romantic is all in your head, Ginnie. Men are men wherever you find them. But hot! It’s miserable there in the summer. And the flies! God o’mercy! That just about finishes any romantic ideas for me, thank you very much.”

  Ginnie frowned. “But you’ve never been there.”

  “No. But my sister moved to Atlanta a few years back and she writes me all the time. I do know about it. I don’t even want to go down there to visit, especially now with all this talk of secession.” Ginnie slumped onto the sofa in the corner, staring numbly at Madeline’s fingers as they flew up and down the dummy with quick, precise movements. A moment later, Madeline stopped and looked at Ginnie. “It’s not the place but the man you should be thinking about. You’re almost of age. When is this great successful man of yours going to come home in his big carriage and carry you off?”

  Ginnie blushed, feeling a little foolish. She hadn’t told many people about that dream, but when she had first shared it with Madeline it had seemed so special. Now it just sounded silly. She shook off her embarrassment by venting her frustration. “It’s been so long, I feel as if I don’t even know him anymore.”

  “You could catch the eye of a good many boys anywhere you went, Ginnie. There’s always a better fish in the next pond. If Wes won’t even write you for months at a time, I wouldn’t expect him to come riding up on no white horse, no time soon. No, ma’am!”

  “I got four letters since Julia went down,” she said somewhat defensively.

  Madeline snorted and shook her head. “He wants something,” she said. “Men never do anything for you unless they think they’ll get something out of it.”

  Ginnie wondered whether Madeline might be right. Mentally, she drifted off, listening to the inner debate all over again. Madeline interrupted her. “At any rate, it’s not a good time for a girl to be going south.”

  Ginnie was suddenly furious. Her mother had been using the same argument for months
and she was tired of it. She didn’t care what a bunch of politicians had to say about slavery or war or secession. But after Mr. Lincoln’s election last month, it seemed to be the only thing anyone could talk about. “That has nothing to do with Wes and me,” Ginnie said with some heat.

  Madeline looked up with raised eyebrows. “Oh, no? You know so much? What if there’s a war? What if you get stuck down there when the shootin’ begins?”

  The question disturbed Ginnie. She covered her annoyance by scoffing, “War? It’ll never come to that.”

  “Haven’t you read the newspapers? This new president, Mr. Lincoln, has made a lot of people in the South very unhappy. So unhappy that they might very well do just that.”

  The door opened quickly and a bundled mass shuffled through, slamming it quickly behind her. As the client turned toward them, Ginnie stood. “Hello, Mrs. Comfort. Nasty day, isn’t it?”

  Maria Comfort unwrapped her heavy cloak, set down the package she carried, and rubbed her cheeks to warm them. Ginnie had known the woman all her life, having lived across the street from her until a few years ago. Mrs. Comfort was a warm, motherly woman who had frequently cared for Ginnie and her sister while their mother was at work. Georgia was still very close friends with her and they visited often.

  “I didn’t realize how bitter it was out,” she muttered, rubbing her hands. “I need my Christmas dress refitted again. I don’t know why it keeps getting smaller every year.” All three of them chuckled as Mrs. Comfort patted her round figure.

  Madeline rose from her work and unwrapped Mrs. Comfort’s package containing the taffeta dress. Leading her into the back room, she helped her put it on. The ladies reappeared a few minutes later and Madeline helped her up onto the fitting stand. Ginnie knelt beside Madeline, handing her pins with which she expertly marked where the dress needed to be let out. Still upset with Madeline, Ginnie held her tongue, listening to Mrs. Comfort talk about the townspeople. The conversation eventually drifted to the subject everyone seemed unable to avoid: politics.

  Mrs. Comfort’s voice drifted down from above. “My husband has been a Democrat all his life. But he says that President Buchanan, even if he is a Pennsylvanian, has not helped this country. So Henry switched parties and voted for Mr. Lincoln.”

  Ginnie could not contain herself. “Do you think there will be a war, Mrs. Comfort?”

  “Mercy, child. I pray not. No, there are too many people trying to stop that from happening. These southern states just want to have their say. They’ll make a little noise and force everyone to listen to their complaints, and then the people in Washington will make some changes and it’ll all be settled. It happens every time.” She continued in a hushed voice, as though she was sharing gossip. “Henry was just reading me the paper this morning – there’s a senator in Washington right now, Critterden or something like that. From Kentucky. He has a plan that’ll settle the whole business. Compromise, that’s the word. We need cool minds to settle this hubbub down. Why, the whole idea’s foolishness. These states that are talking about leaving the union, they know they can’t make it on their own. You mark my words. It’ll be settled before the new year.”

  Madeline glanced meaningfully around the edge of the dress at Ginnie. “But if there is a war, Ginnie dear, Wes would have to come home. Maybe that’s the only thing that’ll get him back here!”

  “Oh, what a horrible thought,” Ginnie exclaimed. Startled by her own vehemence, she explained, “I mean, I’d be glad to have him home, but not if it meant there had to be a war. I mean, it would spoil all our plans.” She shook her head again. “I think Mrs. Comfort is right. I think it’ll all be settled soon.”

  At that moment the door to the house flew open and Mr. Skelly’s son, Jack, came thumping in, holding his arm tenderly. Ginnie looked up and saw that he was covered with granite dust, the gray powder on his face contrasting with his chilled red ears. His left arm was wrapped in a filthy rag soaked dark red with clotted blood. He passed through the hallway, noticed the women, retraced his steps and grinned at them boyishly.

  “Close the door!” Madeline yelled and Jack rewarded her by slamming it loudly. His head was bare, his hair tousled and there was a boyish excitement in his eye.

  “Did you hear? South Carolina has seceded. They voted themselves out of the Union yesterday.” The women paused in their work to look at him, their faces shadowed by a sudden anxiety. Jack pushed them for a response. “Well, what do you think?”

  Ginnie asked, “Is that true?”

  “Yup. It just came over the wire a few minutes ago. I was cutting stone over by the telegraph office when it came through, and old Mr. Holland was hollering so loud you could hear him all over town. So, there’s sure to be a war now.”

  Ginnie frowned and went back to work, wanting to ignore what sounded like terrible news. Maybe Jack was making the whole thing up just to scare them. She knew he liked to play pranks on people.

  “You’re joking,” Ginnie said, trying to ignore him and concentrate on her work.

  “It’s true!” he insisted.

  “Just go about your business, young Jack,” said Madeline in an authoritative tone, “and let us go about ours, if you please.” But he sauntered casually into the room, trying to decide how to irritate them further. Madeline turned her sharp voice in his direction. “Get out of here, Jack! You’re filthy. If your Pa catches you in here, he’ll give you what-for. You’ll get that dust all over everything.”

  Jack suddenly tottered, his eyes rolling back in his head. “I’m bleeding,” he said, feigning dizziness. “They sent me home because I got hurt. I’ve lost a lot of blood. I feel faint. In fact...” and he proceeded to collapse on the floor in front of the startled women.

  Ginnie shouted, “Jack!” and ran to his side. Picking up his injured arm, she touched the large spot of blood on the bandage and found it wet. When she unwrapped the wound she discovered a large, ugly gash that was bleeding freely. “He’s really hurt,” she said, looking up at Madeline who was trying to ignore the whole affair. “There’s a big hole in his arm. He’s bleeding. You go on with the fitting. I’ll take care of him.”

  Jack opened one eye to peer at her secretly, then closed it again when she turned back to him. Slipping a hand under his neck, she leaned down and said, “Jack, do you think you can get up?”

  Letting out a sarcastic laugh, Madeline said, “There’s nothing wrong with that one that a good scrubbing won’t fix.”

  Jack let out a pitiful moan, grabbed his left arm and mumbled, “Oh, the pain. The drill almost went clear through my arm!”

  “Get him out of here, Gin,” Madeline commanded, tired of the game. “The only thing ailing him is this female audience.”

  Ginnie stood up. Jack opened both eyes and stared at her from the floor. “Aren’t you going to patch me up? I’m sure my Pa would be grateful,” he said, his face twisted in theatrical torment.

  “Not while you’re lying on the floor, I’m not,” Ginnie said, smiling in spite of herself.

  Slowly, he picked himself up and headed for the kitchen. “I don’t know how much blood I’ve lost, but you better get this bleeding stopped or I may not make it through the night.” Ginnie laughed, led him to a chair at the kitchen table and sat by him to unwind the soaked bandage.

  “How’d you do this?” she asked.

  “One of the guys has rotten eyesight,” he said, peering at her face from a foot away. “He thought my arm was a block of granite.” He looked sympathetically at his arm which, unwrapped, had begun to bleed again. “I should have taken his chisel and wrapped it around his neck,” he said in disgust, adding, “but that’s kinda hard to do with one hand.”

  Ginnie started to laugh. “I can’t tell if you’re really hurt or if you’re just crazy.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “You think this blood is make-believe? Take a close look at that hole in my arm!” Ginnie glanced at it again, then looked back at him. With an edge to his voice, he said, “That h
urts, if you want to know.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ginnie said. “But you’re so funny. You make me laugh.” She got water and washed the wound, fitting a dressing that neatly stopped the bleeding.

  He inspected his arm. “You’re pretty good,” he said, flashing her a smile. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “I know how to do lots of things,” she said coyly.

  “I’ll bet you do.” He looked at her intently.

  “Is what you said about South Carolina true?”

  He nodded, his face suddenly serious. “Yeah. And you watch. The other states’ll do the same thing. Do you think Wes’ll come back if there’s a fight?”

  The sudden switch caught her off guard. She busied herself wrapping his arm to cover the dressing. “I suppose so. What else could he do?” she asked, feigning indifference.

  “That’s too bad.” He smiled slyly.

  Ginnie continued to work on the wrapping but glanced into Jack’s dark eyes. She realized suddenly that he was very attractive, despite the dust that made his black hair look gray. His chin was solid and his face strong. But it was his eyes that caught her attention. They penetrated into her, warm and intimate, and the wry smile at the corner of his mouth was worldly and teasing.

  “What’s too bad?” She tried to sound casual, but working on his arm put her only inches from his mischievous eyes and she could feel the blush starting to work its way up her face.

  “It’s too bad that you’re with him. There are lots of men in town who wouldn’t mind courting you.”

  She snickered, doubtful. “Oh, sure. Name one.”

  “Me.”

  She looked up too quickly, truly startled. Caught again by his stare, she looked away in embarrassment and quickly finished her work. “There,” she said, standing up and heading for the door, hoping to get away before he said anything else.