Chapter Three

Clara sat on the pink cushioned settee before the mirrored vanity, a beautifully carved piece of walnut furniture Jeremiah had given her as a wedding present. Her long auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders as she brushed it with the ivory handled horse-hair brush she had brought from home. The pale candlelight glinted in the mirror, through which she could see the reflection of her husband lying in bed, arms folded over the quilt across his chest, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

When she had finished plaiting her hair into a waist-length braid for the night, Clara padded silently across the wood floor in her bare feet and white shift, setting the candle on the nightstand as she slid beneath the blankets warmed by Jeremiah’s body heat. He seemed oblivious of her presence, and she rested her chin on his shoulder as she asked, “What’s on your mind?”

Startled from his reverie, Jeremiah opened his right arm to enfold her against his chest. “I’m sorry, just distracted tonight.”

“What is it?” she pressed, suspecting he was withholding something from her.

His hesitation made her wonder if his reply was only a half-truth as he answered, “I’m worried about Charlie. He’s always been one to act first, then think about it later. I just hope he won’t do anything foolish.”

“I know he’s drilling with the Smallwood Rifles, but you don’t think he would actually join the Confederate Army, do you?” Clara pushed herself up onto her elbow. “And if Maryland secedes, won’t we all be considered rebels anyway?”

Jeremiah’s heavy sigh was answer enough.

Clara studied his strong jaw in the pale light, his lips pressed together in a tense line. She leaned over to extinguish the flame, then sank back into the soft pillow, her hand resting on her husband’s chest. She wished she could push all thoughts of worry and war from her mind, but they refused to let her rest. Finally she fell into a fitful sleep plagued with distorted images that slipped away from memory when she awoke, but left her unsettled and exhausted.

A vague feeling of apprehension accompanied her into the morning. At the table, she learned that General Robert E. Lee had resigned his commission with the United States Army in order to command the Confederate forces of Virginia. Additionally, after the riot in Baltimore and at the request of its Mayor, President Lincoln had rerouted his troops through Annapolis to secure Washington.

Clara felt as though she was holding her breath, waiting for the next development and desperately hoping it wouldn’t spell doom for those she loved. Bent over the stove in the kitchen, her thoughts were drifting on a tide of worry as she absently poured the melted paraffin wax from the saucepan into the candle mold. A sound behind her—no more than the subtle shuffle of feet on the wood floor—made her jump, nearly spilling the hot wax onto herself.

Gasping, she turned to find Mamie’s daughter, Phoebe, regarding her with a dark hand on her slim hip. “You all right, Missus Clara? I just come in the kitchen to see if you need more wax. I awful sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Laughing at her own foolish jitters, Clara assured the young Negro woman, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Phoebe. I was just lost in my own thoughts.”

“All everybody thinks ‘bout now is that war, huh, Missus Clara? I sure hope none of our boys gots to fight,” she added vehemently as she shooed Clara from the stove and took over the business of pouring the hot wax. Clara smiled indulgently, both at Phoebe’s assumption of the work and her reference to the Turner men as “our boys.”

Phoebe had grown up with Jeremiah and Charlie. They had played together as children and matured side by side into adulthood. Although there was a clear distinction between the whites and the blacks, there was also mutual affection and respect.

Behind the big house was a brick building known as “the quarter,” where the slaves resided. Jeremiah told Clara that it was nicer than the original pioneer cabin built on the property, which now served as the kitchen. The slave quarter boasted a fireplace and chimney, plank flooring, and a loft. Although it was snugly occupied, as it housed all seven of the Turner’s slaves, they seemed happy enough to sleep under the same roof.

Ever since Frederick Douglass had published his accounts, rumors of the cruelty against slaves had been widely propagated. Douglass had been owned by a family in Talbot County, on the Eastern Shore, in his early years and later relocated to Baltimore. Although Clara had never read his work and did not doubt the truthfulness or sincerity of his writings, she had not personally witnessed any hostile treatment of slaves either in her family’s home or the Turners.

In fact, Phoebe had become something of a friend. Before she married, Clara had benefited from the companionship of her mother and, most especially her sister, Jane. Once coming to Laurel Hill, she had found herself in an unfamiliar environment dominated by men. Phoebe had taken pity on her and made sure that if there was anything Clara needed, whether it was understanding the workings of the house and the expectations of the mistress, or a pat on the hand when assaulted with homesickness, it was provided. And for her kindness, Clara was grateful.

She guessed Phoebe to be around the same age she was, and as Phoebe was also recently married, they had a lot in common. Her husband, Henry, had been purchased from a neighbor at the request of the young Negro woman, who wanted to marry but also wished to remain with her family.

“I wish there never had to be any fighting,” Clara agreed with Phoebe as she wiped her damp forehead with the edge of her apron. “Why can’t men talk it out in a civilized fashion instead of killing one another?”

“Well ma’am,” Phoebe moved the mold to the table to cool, “I reckon it’s cause every man think he right, and ain’t a one of ‘em willin’ to think maybe he wrong!”

Clara laughed as she nodded in agreement. “Just don’t let them hear you say so!”

Phoebe grinned, her white teeth contrasting against the darkness of her skin. She was as slender as a willow, though where she had inherited these proportions was a mystery. Both her parents, Mamie and Old Joe, were as stout as the old laurel trees in the yard. Her younger sister, Lena, was only reaching her teen years and had yet to leave girlhood behind.

Clara surveyed their handiwork and offered Phoebe another sack of paraffin beads to melt into wax, wanting to make enough candles to last them through the month. She sighed as she considered Phoebe’s conclusion.

What was it that made men so stubborn and prideful? Whenever she and her sister had disagreements, it usually ended in a tearful apology and reconciliation. It didn’t matter who was at fault when both girls were upset and missing one another. It only mattered that they mend the rift and restore their friendship.

Only a few months ago Clara had heard of a man in Baltimore who’d been killed in a duel over some senseless issue which he had considered a question of honor. Why couldn’t a man simply say, “You want to be right? Go your way with that belief and I’ll go my way believing you’re wrong. Life and peace are more important than forcing my opinions.”

Some things were, in fact, worth dying for. But only matters of faith and ethics, neither of which seemed to factor largely into politics.

“You gots to stop thinking about it, ma’am,” Phoebe advised. “Ain’t no use in it. We’s just goin’ to have to live with whatever them men decides for us, nohow. ‘Sides, ain’t a woman’s place to be worryin’ over pol’tics.”

Clara sighed. “Well, I disagree on that point, Phoebe. Though not enough to fight with you,” she added, flashing a grin. “Let’s finish up these candles and then I’d like to visit my parents. Can you ask Eli if he can drive me over?”

“Well, I ain’t going to fight with you either, Missus Clara, long as you knows I right,” Phoebe winked.

~

Jeremiah wielded the hoe in his hand with unnecessary violence. It was as if he took personally the impudence of the weeds that dared to grow in his cornfield. The spring showers and cool breezes of April had yielded to a glaring sun as May moved into the calendar. He removed his felt hat and used his sleeve to mop the sweat from his brow. Breathing heavily, he resumed his attack on the weeds.

It was simply the way of farming to combat the growth of unwanted plants to leave the space and nutrients of the field for the desired crop. Truth be told, Jeremiah was grateful for an avenue to release his pent-up frustrations in useful exercise.

He’d felt a measure of relief when he learned that Governor Hicks and the General Assembly had taken a stance of neutrality, declining secession while at the same time requesting Northern troops vacate the state. While they did not side with the rebellion, they declared that the state of Maryland “desires the peaceful and immediate recognition of the independence of the Confederate States.”

Charlie, however, was furious with this attempt to straddle the lines. “Hicks held the session in Frederick on purpose, because the vote might have been different had it been held in Annapolis! It doesn’t sound like neutrality to me at all—it sounds like cowardice! Since we’re too afraid to take a stand, we’ll just try to stay out of the way. Well, I can promise that it was a failed maneuver. Mark my words, Lincoln will force us to choose sides!”

But Maryland wasn’t really being given the freedom to choose to stay in the Union or secede from it. It had already been chosen for them.

The President had made that much clear when he sent General Butler with a thousand Federal soldiers into Baltimore, setting up position on Federal Hill with their guns trained on the city. Furthermore, General Butler, once taking possession of the city, had declared martial law and assumed control of the local government, ordering its current officials—including the mayor and city council, the police commissioner and the Board of Police, and even Congressman Henry May—imprisoned at Fort McHenry, even though no formal charges were brought against any of them.

Ross Winans, a member of the House of Delegates, had been jailed a second time for his pro-South rhetoric, and was only released after signing an oath declaring his loyalty to the federal government.

Another man, Lieutenant Merryman, had been arrested while executing orders given by Governor Hicks and Mayor Brown of Baltimore to dismantle two state railroad bridges in order to prevent passage of Federal troops moving south. Merryman was charged with treason and duly imprisoned.

When a judge issued a writ of habeas corpus, contesting that the incarceration of the Lieutenant was unlawful, it came to light that the President had suspended the writ in the state of Maryland. Anyone who might be viewed as a threat could be arrested and imprisoned without the necessity of following lawful procedures.

To complicate matters further, Supreme Court Judge Taney ruled that Lincoln’s suspension of the writ was unconstitutional.

Maryland was forcibly under control of the federal government. And while those like Charlie raged against the measures taken to suppress any inclination toward secession—or as it was perceived by the President, “treason”—Jeremiah understood Lincoln’s desire to hold the country together as a unit. The President believed that drastic measures would bring a quick end to the insurrection and the Union would be preserved. But as the cry was against tyranny, Lincolns’ efforts to gain control merely supported the accusation and cost him support.

Striking the weeds with renewed vigor, Jeremiah considered the position of the man who had held office before Lincoln. President Buchanan had determined that “our Union rests upon public opinion, and can never be cemented by the blood of its citizens shed in civil war. If it cannot live in the affections of the people, it must one day perish. Congress may possess many means of preserving it by conciliation, but the sword has not been placed in their hands to preserve it by force.”

Though Jeremiah’s anger may have appeared to be directed at the unruly weeds threatening the fragile green corn stalks, it was in fact directed at the founders of the country and the writers of the Constitution for not being far-sighted enough to consider every eventuality and build guidelines into it which may have prevented civil war.

He was angry at both sides of the political arena, Democrats and Republicans, and all those who fell in between, for not having enough wisdom and humility to find a satisfactory means of compromise. He was angry at his brother, for drilling with the Smallwood Rifles under a flag boldly bearing the “Stars and Bars.”

And perhaps, he had to admit, Jeremiah was also angry at himself for not having a strong position in this conflict which threatened to rend his beloved country in two.

Up until now, the only position he had held was that of peace. But peace was no longer considered a position. There were only two sides: North or South; Union or Confederate. Some would say the choice was between Slavery and Abolition, although such individuals were primarily from the Northern states which only knew about slavery from the likes of Frederick Douglass and Harriet Tubman. But slavery was only one distinction between the North and the South. It wasn’t the true cause of controversy.

Dissension between the two sections had existed for over a decade, the gap between them widening with time instead of narrowing. The cultural differences between the North and the South were as starkly contrasting as the speech of a man from Boston was from that of a man born and bred in Atlanta. The North was industrial in its production and liberal in its thinking. The South’s economy depended on the production of cotton and tobacco, and its mindset was rooted in tradition and old-fashioned concepts of gentility and honor.

Dead center between North and South, Maryland was influenced by both polarities, representing the division of the nation on a smaller scale.

Just as Charlie was passionate for States Rights, Jeremiah’s friend, Will Downes, believed with equal passion that the nation should remain intact. And the Turners weren’t the only family with differing viewpoints under one roof. The Pacas, Goldsboroughs, and Tilghmans were divided in loyalties as well.

His shirt clung to his back with sweat, and Jeremiah paused to lean on the hoe and catch his breath, running a hand over his beard. As the oldest son, he felt a sense of responsibility not only for Laurel Hill, but for Charlie, to protect and guide him. Part of Jeremiah’s frustration and anger stemmed from his utter helplessness.

His hands were tied. Charlie was twenty-five years old and past the age of influence. And while Jeremiah was determined to do all he could to protect his family home, he had no way of predicting what forces would challenge its continuance.

With a ragged sigh, Jeremiah removed his hat and raked his fingers through his damp hair. Perhaps hoeing weeds was the only thing he could accomplish for today. In adjacent fields, Charlie, Old Joe, and Henry were bent over their own swinging hoes, chopping out the threats to their livelihood.

If only life were as simple as farming.