Annie Sullivan, On Genesee Hill

[fiona]

Next: Sarah's decision.

[dgriffin]

Jan 17, 2010 15:55:52 GMT -5 fiona said:

Next: Sarah's decision.

Indeed! Even though we know the eventual outcome, I can't wait to hear Sarah's internal voice as she ponders this situation. I don't think she was too averse to John, just independent and stubborn. Maybe in the meantime she has re-considered. Maybe she is simply growing lonely.

But such a surprising letter! Out of the blue: "Come and heal the heart of a man you rejected, now that's he's been rejected by the woman who replaced you in his affections."

I can't make up my mind whether I want her to fly to John's side or write back to Mary saying "Tell John to grow up!" Hahaha!

And wouldn't it be interesting if this is where Annie comes from? The Irish maid? A little tension planted as through the rest of the story we wonder just what is the relationship between John and Annie. After all, they're the only two survivors from that flat.

But I like her entrance as we had envisioned, I think.

[dgriffin]

Everything so far is now up on the OGH Workbook Webpage, beginning at:

www.windsweptpress.com/ogh1.htm


We now have three pages, ogh1, ogh2 and ogh3. There are links on each to click through the pages, forward or back.

[fiona]

SARAH'S DECISION


"If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am not for others, what am I? And if not now, when?"

Rabbi Hillel, 1st century BC,AD

Sarah was sitting on a mossy stone bench, under a small grove of plum trees, resting from the opressive heat of the day when a parlor maid brought her the letter from John's sister, Mary. It had been almost a year since she had seen John and what she read surprised her. It was a conundrum, a puzzle. She had thought him well, prosperous and married with perhaps a child on the way. The disarray his life had fallen into was worrisome. "Perhaps", she thought, "If I had accepted his proposal..." But there was no looking back . What was done was done and could not be undone. She folded the letter neatly and tucked it into the pocket of her skirt. Tomorrow, after she had thought it over, was time enough to reply. However, the letter fell from her pocket onto the grass. She picked it up, folded it even smaller again and tucked it in under the basque of her dress, where it worked it's way up into her camisole and the sharp edges of the onion skin scratched her. The letter seemed to be a living thing now, more than paper and ink. It was begging to be read again, the situation asking for her immediate reconsideration. She went up the stairs to her chamber and put the letter in the carved wooden box on her writing desk. On top of the box she placed a heavy silver tray and upon the tray a book. Sarah was not by nature a superstitious person, but the letter was taking on a life of it's own, she felt it in her heart and, she had heard of things like that happening, read about them in father's books. Wanting to take no chances, she locked her chamber door before going down to the back parlor for afternoon tea.

When she went upstairs that evening, box, book and tray were just as she had left them but the letter was lying open upon the desk.

Even though it was mid July and the night was balmy, the cozy little bedroom room seemed to have a coldness about it. Someone, something, had been in here and removed the letter from the box, but it was too much to think about now. She closed the windows, drew the lace curtains and lit a small fire in the marble fireplace, but the chimney didn't draw. A dark curl of smoke came back and choked her. She banked the fire and threw open the windows. The night air scented with flowers, heavy white snowballs, the last of the purple French lilacs, came rushing in and far and away an owl hooted. She lit the oil lamp and sat on her bed in the gathering shadows. Moths flitted in through the open windows and circled the glowing chimney of the lamp. What to do? What to do? Her mind was racing with the possibilities: If she accepted the invitation she may be committing herself to a marriage of convenience - provided John was even interested in her at all, after so long a time. The thought that he could possibly love her did not occur to her. Passion lived for her in penny novels, in books, in dreams. But, if she declined she would be committing herself to a lifetime in this house, for suitors were few for a woman as herself rushing on towards middle age. Either way she was trapped. And then, there was Father.


Rutger B. Miller had never held any of his children back from the fulfillment of their individual destinies. Of course, the boys were expected to carry on in the public arena and the girls to either marry well or keep the home fires stoked. It was a matter of family, fidelity and class distinction. Should she accept the invitation and Father knew she was going to stay at the home of a former beaux, especially if he knew about John's indiscretions, he would be livid. Of course he couldn't stop her from going. She would be a guest of the sister but all the same she would have to deal with him upon her return and - if John rejected her - quite possibly for the rest of Father's life. The social repercussions would be terrible. She would be a spurned woman and would have to retire from polite society, and take up the mantle and don the armor of spinsterhood.

No, she couldn't tell Mother - or Father - where she was going - they could find out later and then it would be too late. Sarah had never defied her father, always been the good daughter, the quiet one, but had gained nothing from it. Blandina was outspoken with her political views and her writings and her community work. She moved easily in the world of men. And Helen. Helen was devoted to Blandina and lived quietly in her shadow. Lost in a tangle of at home days, social calls, church work and polite conversation, she had withered away to nothing. Surely Sarah's individual fate lay somewhere beyond the accepted social milieu. Who would help her, who could she talk too? Mother? No. She deferred every decision to Father. That left only her aunt Julia- Julia Seymour Conkling.

Of course! Aunt Julia! Why hadn't she thought of that in the beginning? Who better to advise her and to travel with her then Julia, a seasoned woman of the world! She would write to her in Utica and then make a social call, whence she would press her case. From there she would process on to Morristown, free from the prying eyes of her sisters. Even if she had to travel alone! Of course, she had never traveled alone, but she had heard that it was done - certain classes of women did so and were tolerably successful at it. She rose up from the bed and paced the room. The moon was up and flooded the chamber with silver light, a little breeze came through, picked up the letter from the desk and whirled it in the air. Sarah leapt up, as much as she could, for she was tightly laced and caught the letter in her hands. For the first time in her life freedom, indeed love... or perhaps just the heady pursuit of ... seemed possible. It was all within her grasp, she had only to step out and place her hand upon it. Her mind whirled with the very idea of it.

[fiona]

Next: the arrow hits it's mark.

[fiona]

The Arrow Finds It's Mark

Sarah heard the old grandfather clock in the downstairs hall chime the hour: Nine o'clock, ten o'clock and still she pondered her situation. The moon rose and set, the only light in her small chamber from the oil lamp on her desk. She paced the floor, letter in hand. At long last she removed her dress and sat at her dressing table in just her petticoats and a shawl. She let down and brushed her luxuriant brown hair, then braided it for the night. The call and response of insects filled the silence and a small brown bat, like a messenger from some other place, some other time, fluttered in, circled the room and fluttered out.

She chose a sheet of creamy white paper; black ink and when she began to write the words flowed like water from the deep well spring of her heart.


July 1, 1873


Miss Sarah Miller,
46 Main Street. Whitesborough, NY

My Dear Sister Mary,

I send this missive from the most humble pen of Miss Sarah
to the accepting heart of Miss Mary in most earnest measure. Please accept these few scribbles as a token of my affection, fidelity & perhaps, if we can be so blessed, family ties to come. I have read your words & accept you as my sister & yes, I will certainly accept your invitation.

I will leave in a few days, as soon as my trunks are packed & travel can be arranged. Thus you may expect me within the upcoming week. I travel to Utica tomorrow, up to The Hill, as we call our old vine covered family home on Rutger Street. I trust John has told you about some of the happy hours we spent there laughing and telling stories by the fire with my Aunt Julia and Uncle Horatio! How John and Uncle Horatio enthralled each other with stories of old New York, Yale, politics and ect. Uncle Horatio is a veritable fount of history and revels in the telling of a decent tale! Once he has your ear you are his captive for an evening! The rooms are quite lovely & spacious, full of friends, laughter & life. Going to visit my Aunt Julia for a day is a full year's worth of happiness.

I am in earnest to impress my Aunt Julia to accompany me to Morristown. I think she will as she is always one for a great adventure & not as retiring as one would think.

As to your offer of a maid, yes, that is acceptable. Good servants are hard to find these days & my sisters & I share one girl & they could not do without her.

Please allow me to offer some scant information about myself. As we have yet to formally meet: Irregardless of what your brother John may have told you, I am not quite that stubborn! I do yield from time to time and can carry a conversation quite well in mixed company. I play both the harp, clavichord, violin & piano & sing passably well. I attended The Utica Seminary For Young Ladies and there I learned to speak both a pretty French and Latin. Three years ago our family toured Italy and I became enamored with the 'ancient statuary and paintings". Thus I have taken up the womanly art of the paintbox and paper. I can sew passably well & embroider in silks & am currently working on a very pretty image of a peacock. Perhaps I shall bring it to share with you.

But. O' how unseemly of me to ramble on and how rude. I apologize. Profusely. However, I must tell you, in all honesty, I am a terrible cook. Do not ask me to clean or truss a chicken! I know nothing of the culinary arts.

To this end, while I am there, if I can de directed as to where to procure a fine harp, I will be eternally grateful. The harp is my delight and I shall endeavor to entertain you of an evening's repose.

Now, I must close as the hour grows late and must ask you to keep the contents of this letter to yourself. It would not do for your brother to think I am " throwing myself at his head." It would be unseemly and quite common of me & as a Christian Woman, must be circumspect in all things. I shall arrive AS OUT OF THE AIR, Dear Sister! AS OUT OF THE AIR! Imagine!

I send you these words of Mr. Longfellow, for they are as they are manna to me:

I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight could not follow in it's flight.

I breathed a song into the air, it fell to earth, I knew not where,
For who has sight so keen and strong, that it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke,
And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend!

I remain,

Your loving sister and friend,

Miss Sarah Miller


She was satisfied with the letter and set it aside to dry. Then she took a little scissors, went to the window, leaned out and cut off a bit of a sprig of green ivy. Having done that she plucked a bit of purple lilac from a vase on her bed side table and layed them both next to the letter. The posies would speak the words she could not bring her pen to write and she was glad of heart for it.

The old clock struck one! Had she really been writing that long?

The silence was broken by a small knock on her chamber door and outside in the hall, a clearing of throats and a shuffling of feet on the carpet. Sarah knew exactly who it was. There was no hiding anything in this house. She lowered her lamp, pulled on a silk wrapper and opened the door a crack.

Blandina and Helen were standing there in white cotton dressing gowns, Blandina in front and Helen behind her, peering past her sister's shoulder. They both had there hair up in curl papers and Helen had slathered her face with night cream. She looked the very visage of a ghost save for her eyes which were large, blue and held a watery sadness.

Blandina shielded her candle with her hand and the shadows danced upon the papered walls. "Are you well, sister Sarah? We were just wondering...? Your lamp burns so late..."

"Yes" Helen chimed in, a small echo. "We were just wondering..."
She craned her neck to peer inside the door, but Sarah blocked the view.

"I am well. You were just percance wandering the hall and happened to see my lamp blazing and you were wondering what I am doing, yes?"

Blandina cleared her throat.

"I am writing a letter to Aunt Julia asking her to send me up a casket of rum to slake my thirst all of a summer's evening. Does that satisfy you?

"My Dear sister. You needn't be so ... so ... obstreperous and vulgar. Father would not approve."

"Hang Father and all his minions too.!" And she shut the door, leaned against it and laughed till she cried.

[fiona]

Coming next: A DAY'S JOURNEY and A LESSON LEARNED

[fiona]

Sarah passed a restless night and in the morning the sullen heat lay on the little town of Whitesborough like a blanket. What had seemed settled the night before was now profoundly confusing.

She went to the white china bowl on the washstand and poured water into it from the pitcher. Some of it she splashed on her face but the water was flat and tepid. It did not refresh or awaken her. The old clock chimed eight. Could it really be that late? It was Sunday and she had overslept. She would be late for church! She put on a floral tea gown and over that a Chinese silk robe. She found some old Moroccan leather slippers under the bed.

Downstairs the house was quiet. There seemed to be no one about. Had they all left so early? She peered into father's study. He wasn't there. The huge ledger books lay on the side table, on the desk placed just so, pens, nibs, inks, rubber stamps, a box of Cuban cigars. A large fern drooped in the corner. She went into the sewing room. Cloth was on the large table, heaps of lace, buttons, a dress ready to cut and stitched but Mother was not there. Nor was she in the kitchen supervising the preparations for Sunday dinner. Cook was standing at the scrubbed wooden table plucking and cleaning a chicken. The room smelled of lye soap. The kitchen girl was cleaning the stove. They both stopped work and greeted Sarah with a quizzical looks. It was unusual for here to be in the kitchen, especially on a Sunday.

"Morning, Miss?" said the kitchen girl and gave a little curtsy, before going back to her work .

"Mornin Miss Sarah", said Cook. "Is it yer breakfast yer wantin? We've cakes and ham and biscuits this mornin and a lovley fruit compote. Ye'd have only to have rung the dinin room bell and the girl would be right there..." There's no need a'tall fer you to come askin after it."

"Yes", it's my breakfast I'm wantin", Sarah replied dreamily, uncounsciously imitating the broughe of Cook. "That would be nice. I'll take it in the library."

"In the library, Miss? Bring your tray to the library? Are you well this mornin?"

" Yes" she replied, "I'm just being obstreperous."

Neither Cook nor the kitchen girl knew what the word meant but they liked it. Sarah was the sweetheart of them all, always kind and respectful. One could not expect to loose one's position about a bit of over fried meat or a pudding that didn't set. Sarah walked to the basket of apples on the floor, chose one and bit down deep. An apple eaten this way was wonderful.

" Why, Miss Sarah", said Cook," That's no way to eat an apple! Let me cut that up for you and get you a fruit set." The fruit sets consisted of pearl handled knives and forks in a velvet lined box, but Sarah declined. An apple eaten this way was delicious and Sarah couldn't remember when she had actually bit into an apple. It was not something ladies did. She giggled and felt like both Eve and Adam at the same time.

Sarah went into the dining room. The long mahogany table with it's starched white Brussels lace tablecloth was empty except for a tall crystal vase of red peonies. It was not set for before church breakfast. Twelve mahogany chairs stood at formation, Father's great chair with the carved arms at the head of the table, mothers straight backed chair facing his at the opposite end, all in their usual places. It was so quiet. Where was everyone?

After some searching she found Blandina on the porch with a watering can tending to the begonias, ferns and vines that hung in baskets from the crossbeams. The day was already too hot. Sarah was perspiring down the front of her wrapper. She sat on a wicker rocker in the shade and munched on her apple. The awnings had been rolled out and looked very pretty in the morning light.

She fanned herself with a folded newspaper. "Good morning Sister." She spoke to Blandina softly, hoping to rectify her remarks of last evening but rectification was not to come. Her sister had set her lower lip and avoided Sarah's gaze.

"Mother, Father and Helen have gone to Lorenzo to visit Aunt Helen Clarissa if you're wondering where everyone is," said Blandina.

"Oh", replied Sarah, concealing her glee at this lucky turn of events. " Is Helen Clarissa ill?"

"No." said her sister. "She is in season." Then realizing what she had said, a crimson blush stained her pale cheeks.

Sarah laughed out loud. It was good to laugh and be gay. "She is in season!! Don't you mean "that she is here for the season?" I must ask you, since Helen Clarissa is in season, does that mean she will replicate of her own kind as in Genesis One?"

Blandina hated being caught on the turn of an inappropriate word or phrase. She spoke back to Sarah a little too loudly, a little to bitterly. "And it is now I who must correct you. Last night you said you wanted a casket of rum. Did you not mean a casque?"

Sarah realized her sister was trying to trip her up, embarrass her. Her mind raced ahead for an appropriate comeback.

" Why, no, dear Sister. I meant a casket, which is what this house is too me! Someone was in my chamber last evening and snooped into my letter box!" She rose and went into the cool shade of the house. The kitchen girl was in the library ringing the breakfast bell.

Blandina followed her down the long hall and into the library. "Wait! Please! Perhaps it was the kitchen girl or Cook! You know the Irish can't be trusted. Wait please. That was cruel of me."

" Cruel is as cruel does, Sister. I am going away for a few days to Utica and I am taking the Victoria and all my trunks and portmanteaus, as I may plan to travel farther if conditions permit."

"You are taking the Victoria? That's one of Fathers best carriages. We only use that for church or social calls! Why, you need his permission..."

"Gaze upon my visage!" cried Sarah, as if she were an actress on a stage." Am I not a grown woman?"

"Of that I have no doubt."

"Then I shall take the Victoria."

Blandina balled up her fists in anger. "I cannot abide by this conversation! Father should have let you go with Clara Barton when you wanted to... during the Glorious War..."

"My God in Heaven! " cried Sarah. "Why bring up that old chestnut?"

Blandina rolled her eyes at the ceiling, studying the prisims of the hanging lamp. "Sister, the Lord will smite you for your evil ways."

"And I cannot abide a snoop! Evil is evil does, my dear. Please leave now and allow me some peace for my breakfast is getting cold and your presence is wearing on me."

At length the trunks and carpet bags and hat boxes were readied. There was a heap of things. Sarah chose, for her final denouement, what she hoped would be her evening of reckoning with John, a pink sateen dinner dress with a slender waistline, a small train, jewel neckline and small puffed sleeves. She paired it with silver brocade slippers.

She dressed for the day in a green sprigged cotton dress with cascading black ribbons and chose a yellow straw hat. To her collar she pinned a cameo she had purchased in Italy and chose small cameo earrings. Her maid smoothed her hair and wrapped it into a neat chignon at the base of her neck.

Though it was hot, it was beautiful day for traveling on the Whitesboro to Utica turnpike. Since there had been no rain, the road would be packed hard, and hopefully not too dusty. It was twelve noon when she set out in the Victoria, with a small wagon loaded with trunks, valises, carpet bags and hat boxes following behind.

Her sister stood at the front door looking dismal. Her heart ached because Sarah had accused her of snooping in her letter box when it was something she would never do. However, she did know who would and possibly had. There was only one other person in the whole house who carried keys to all the rooms, and that person was most likley the culprit!. Blandina's heart ached with the knowledge of what she knew and could never, would never tell. It would be too unseemly and - who would believe her anyhow? Better to let sleeping dogs lie.

The little caravan was circling the front drive. Blandina lifted her hanky to wave good by and wiped away a small tear, but Sarah didn't see her. The wheels from the carriage and the wagon kicked up dust, the matched set of dapple grey's stepped lightly and prettily, the coachman cracked the whip just over the horses ears and they were off, the loaded spring wagon, pulled by a small chestnut mare, following behind. The driver, wearing a large straw hat, spat tobacco juice onto the road. "Gi'yup!" he said and the mare stepped up and out. What a perfect day it was going to be!

Sarah leaned forward in the Victoria and spoke to both the coachman. " It is a beautiful day. The horses know the way. Give them a bit of a light rein. Don't push them. I want to enjoy my holiday. And I need to post a letter in Utica."

"Yes Miss", the coachman said and he smiled down at Sarah. She was so beautiful in all her finery. He would love to have a girl like that but a social gulf, a chasm as wide as an ocean would keep it from ever happening and he knew it.

The sun was crossing the sky when they pulled into the grounds of Old Main, the Utica Insane Asylum, to stop for lunch. The lawn was thick with clover and dandelions and the grass was cool in the shade of the ancient elms that stood like soldiers lining the broad gravel driveway. Off in the distance the massive Greek style pillars of the hospital building glowed softly white.
Sarah sat on the grass on a blanket and a little pillow and the drivers of both carriage and wagon a sat a little ways off. They ate from a wicker basket of sandwiches and cakes and fruit. Sarah thought about the persons who lived there at the hospital and she felt a twinge of pain for them. Too be shut up in such an awful place and never see the sun... She had heard about the things that went on here... in the name of healing... then she thought about Clara Barton. It was so much of a sadness for her, even after all these years. She shouldn't have been so cutting with her sister, but sometimes Blandina's temperament just drove her to distraction.


Clara Barton had come to Utica to recruit nurses for the war effort in the summer of 1864, She had a strong back, a rousing temperament and a fast eye. She was an excellent speaker. She knew what she was about. She had been invited to the ancestral home of Sarah's maternal Grandfather, the late Henry Seymour, to speak and crowds over ran the house, the lawns and the street . Clara could not pass through the mass of people, the waters would not part for her. People ran up to touch her, to clasp her hand, to touch the hem of her gown. She was like a goddess. A female Lincoln. She was lifted into a wagon bed in the street and from there held forth on her glorious mission. To recruit and train young women for the new profession of nursing.

Sarah was only 19. She was to the manor born. She had never seen a woman like Clara Barton. Sarah was expected to marry soon and well. She was engaged to one of her Bleecker cousins from Albany. Her life was to be one long afternoon of drawing rooms and withdrawing rooms. She was chafing at the bit for something else. Clara Barton took afternoon tea away from the crowds in one of the cool parlors. Sarah sat a respectful distance away and studied her from behind her fan. She was too afraid to approach her. Other women were there also and she, Sarah had not yet found an opening.

Clara Barton broke the silence. " I see you are studying me, Miss Miller. Do I meet the necessary qualifications for spinsterhood?"

Sarah's face turned crimson. She twisted the small fan she held on her lap. " I...I.... forgive me, Miss Barton, but you are such an unusual woman... I mean...."

"Let us speak together as women. "said Clara Barton. "Come now, girl, there is no reason to be shy."

"You are a natural healer" said Clara Barton. " I can tell by the cast of your eye and the way you hold your hands."

"Yes." said Sarah.

"And you do not want to be engaged to your cousin?" Clara Barton had been watching Sarah all morning and kept her ear low to the ground for gossip. Recruiting young woman was her specialty. She knew where and when to speak to them and how to draw them out of their shells.

"No."said Sarah in a quiet voice, looking at her skirts.

"We need girls like you, Miss Miller! The hospitals... the prisons are overflowing with cases. I can train you. It will cost you nothing but time. There are others leaving with me tomorrow! Can I count on you?"

"Yes." said Sarah, her blue eyes overflowing with tears.

"And, my dear girl. One must never cry. That is the first rule of nursing. Never let the patient see you weep. It upsets them. Do you understand?

"Yes", said Sarah.

That night Sarah went to her father. She pleaded her case. It was for the soldiers! Men, young boys, are suffering, dying without the necessary care. Miss Barton had told her so! Nursing was her calling and therefore she must go. The train was leaving for Albany in the morning and she had to be on it.

"No." he said. "I have already spoken to Miss Barton. I'll not have any daughter of Rutger B. Miller doing such work, picking lint and rolling bandages in some camp hospital! War is a serious filthy business, for men only. The answer is no."

Sarah was stubborn. She stamped her little foot on the carpet.

"Well, then Father, why did you have here here??"

"It is my civic duty." he said.

"Your civic duty, indeed! Then I shall run away!"

"Daughter, where will you run too?" he asked her and there was no answer.

Sarah cried alone in her chamber. The next day she broke off the engagement to her cousin. She did not love him and declared she would not marry him! She would never marry anyone! Clara Barton processed on to Albany and Sarah never saw her again.

The day was wearing on. It was a memory that was like a stone in her shoe, she may remove the offending pebble, but the memory of the pain would always be there. She packed the picnic basket and soon they were on their way.

They passed down the hill to lower Whitesboro street. They passed though German town and then Jew town. The horses stepped handily, but before the bridge on Hotel Street the coachman brought the team to a halt. The wagon stopped behind. Wagons, coaches, carriages were at a standstill in the road. The street was full of people. Men, boys, some women, all running towards the bridge.

Sarah leaned forward."What is it? What's happened? Why are we stopping?"

"Easy now Miss," said the coachman. "I'll see what's up ahead. Don't trouble yourself ." and he held the horses fast so as not to spook them.

[Clipper]

Very nice Fiona. Easy reading and it drew me into the page as a good book should. It flows nicely and naturally, and Having grown up in the area, and traveled from Whitesboro to Utica many times, I picture the trip back in those days quite easily in my mind. I could smell the grass while she was having her picnic lunch on the Asylum lawn, and picture what the road from there through German town and onward to Hotel St must have looked like in those days. Very enjoyable reading. The story is starting to take on a life of it's own, and to leave those of us reading it with a thirst for the next installment.

[dgriffin]

Fiona, you've done your job well and have us falling in love with Sarah! What a perceptive portrayal of a lovely, spirited woman. I can see her twirl away from Blandina with an imperial air as she asserts herself. Great symbolism, by planting the scene of domestic ennui into a dense, close humid summer morning.

And I see her settled upon a picnic blanket on the front lawn of the Utica Lunatic Asylum. My station at the Boilermaker the past two years has been exactly there, although down to the front on Court Street where Whitesboro Street veers off to the south. This July I'll be sure to turn around often and look up the verdant lawn, just to be sure an attractive woman isn't lunching on the grass as her Victoria and carriage men idle themselves nearby.

By the way, it would be nice to expand on Sarah's toying with the idea of a nursing career. The contrast between such an aimed cannonball like Clara Barton and a trapped (and maybe indecisive) Sarah would be another wonderful way to explore Sarah.

[fiona]

Sarah Finds Her Voice.



Sarah leaned back against the black buttoned leather upholstery of the carriage and unfurled a small dark green parasol.

Even under the cool dark canopy of the Victoria, the heat was oppressive. The ratteling of other conveyances, the sounds and movement of horses, the stink of the canal, the passing of boats, and of people; canalers, shoppers, children calling to and fro, pressed in close. She pulled the cork from a long necked stone bottle, poured some water into a little crystal glass and drank deeply. She swabbed her face and neck with her hankie, then fanned herself with a little ivory fan. The heat was unrelenting. She poured some of the water on her hankie and wiped her face again. What, she wondered, was wrong and how long would she be here? The horses would need water, would need to be attended to. They wouldn't last long out in this blazing sun. She wished she had brought her embroidery, her Bible, a penny novel. Anything to beak up the time.

A middle aged woman driving a fringed surrey with a sleek black horse was stalled next to her. She leaned over companionably and said, "My Dear Sarah!! Why, how nice it is too see you and how lovley you look today! And how are you, my dear? I at once recognized your father's carriage. There's been an accident on the bridge up ahead. They're waiting to clear it. It shan't take long. Are you going up on the Hill? I am going that way myself. Perhaps you would like to take lunch...?" It was Marie Northrup, wife of the local confectioner, manufacturer and commissions merchant, Milton M. Northrup, who owned shops on Liberty and Catherine Streets. Marie was plump and pretty with light hair and blue eyes. The Northrup's were close friends of Sarah 's family and Marie never failed to call and leave a card on at home days.

"Hello!", said Sarah. "I am on a holiday to pass a pleasant evening or two with..." but she never finished her sentence. There came a stillness to the fetid air that made time seem to stop. Everything in the world seemed so small and tight; for an instant it was hard to breath. Then the world exhaled.

The explosions, when they happened, rocked the carriages; the booms echoing up and down Whitesboro Street, reverberating and repeating like the sounds of cannon. Sarah caught her self as the heavy carriage swayed, but the horses held fast. They did not rear up or follow herd instinct and bolt forward. Sarah's coachman was the best and her team chosen not only for their stamina but for their pleasant disposition, patience and general lack of fear.

Sarah looked over at Mrs. Northrup and her mouth made a little "O." Mrs. Northrup's Sunday hat had come loose and was hanging to the side of her head like a black feathered cake. The black horse was straining at the bit and Mrs. Northrup was having trouble handling the reins.

"My God in Heaven! We are under attack!" said Mrs. Northrup and trembling, began to sob convulsively, as she tried to control the horse.

Sarah's coachman clambered down from the box and took the bridle of Mrs. Northrup's horse and attempted to quiet the enerved animal. Sarah had never cursed in her life, but now she repeated a word to herself that she had heard father say when he thought no one was listening. "Shit!" she said out loud! She had her drivers, equipages and own team to think of. They were her responsibility! They had to be led to safety if the Rebels had invaded! She had heard of things like that happening, even years after a war had ended and it had not even been eight years since Appomattox. Uncle Horatio had told her this may happen. "Angry men bide their time...", he had said. "History has shown us that... the vanquished have long memories... "

Sarah had never descended from a carriage by herself. There had always been someone, a gentleman, a driver, there to assist her. Now she had to get out, to help the coachman with the horses, to see to her personal goods, her suitcases. What could she do? She looked out at the goodly distance to the ground, then, shaking but unafraid, gathered up her skirts and swung herself out.

As she alighted, placing her small feet carefully upon the fender, a small man with great yellow moustaches, rude workman's clothing and a battered cap ran up and plucked frantically at her sleeve. "We needs help bad, Ma'am. Man in the crowd name of Griffin, he sent me. Says he knows your coach. Says you knows somethin bout doctorin. Up there on the bridge! Foley boy's like to have busted his head open, he 'as, an his Pa's bad hurt too... come quick 's you can!"

Without thinking, acting on pure instinct, she followed the little man with the great mustaches into the crowd, never stopping to ask why or where they were going. There were other women available, standing about on the sidewalks, gaping, and talking together in frightened little knots, but the man had seemed to make a bee line straight for her. As she approached the bridge there was a parting of the waters. People stepped aside to let her pass. In later years she would reflect back and say that it was surely the "cast of her eye" and nothing else that had made them do so.

[fiona]

Next: What the newspaper said!

[dgriffin]

Hey, neat! I like that. And very true about the war not being over for some. The history books say Appomattox ended it, but that was hardly the case.

Nice cameo of Mrs. Northrup.

What year is this, again?

[fiona]

The exact date is Sunday, July 13th, 1873.

[dgriffin]

So Sarah was about 21 or 22 at this time?

Also, do you know who D.W. Northrup in GF apt. No. 3 might have been? I think Lulu Northrup Latcher was Milton M.'s only child. In the same article, S.D. Latcher is listed in Apt. No. 6.

(Ref: "A Holocaust" Weekly Herald, March 10, 1896; list of tenants.)