Chapter Seven
Clara shifted her position on the hard wooden pew. Behind the pulpit, the preacher pursed his lips as he continued to deliver a message he knew was both unpopular and uncomfortable. Had he been the church’s regular minister, his message would have certainly decreased the number of bodies in the pews in the weeks to come, as well as the money left in the offering plate. But everyone present knew he was only there for the day.
Reverend Miller, whose preaching they were usually blessed to hear, had taken a brief leave of absence to visit his daughter in Tennessee after the birth of her child. The Conference had sent Reverend Webster to fill in, and there was no doubt the man was a Yankee. He unapologetically denounced the practice of slave-holding, which if it counted as a sin, more than ninety percent of the congregation was guilty of committing.
Glancing around the sanctuary, Clara observed the varied responses of those in attendance. Most appeared outraged while some studied their laps intently, and only a small handful nodded their heads in zealous agreement.
The sermon came in the wake of the Battle of Bull Run. With the dead being numbered around eight hundred and fifty, the total of wounded men at well over two and a half thousand, and over a thousand men still missing or captured, the war was at the forefront of everyone’s thoughts. There was still talk of secession, though with Maryland firmly in the grip of Federal soldiers, it no longer seemed like a real possibility. And with the defeat of the Union Army came the call for more volunteers to stop the rebellion.
Since one of the key points of dissention between the North and South was the issue of slavery, it was a subject which the Reverend felt must be addressed during his time in Centreville. His scriptural text was Philemon, a letter written by the apostle Paul to a slave-holder regarding a runaway slave.
Reverend Webster’s booming voice echoed off the plaster walls and wooden beams as he read from the open Bible in front of him about Philemon’s reputation as a man of faith and love. The Reverend explained that it was because of this reputation Paul asked a great favor of the slave-holder. Paul was sending the slave back to his master, but not in accordance to any Fugitive Slave Law or to be punished for having escaped. Paul challenges Philemon to welcome the slave as he would welcome Paul, not as a slave, but as a “brother beloved.”
The Yankee Reverend peered up at the congregation over the rim of his wire glasses. “Yes, the slave was sent back to his master. But the master was instructed to do more than merely treat his slave with kindness. He was instructed to love the slave as a brother. Jesus said, ‘By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one for another.’
“Paul’s request was that Philemon accept this runaway slave back into his household as an equal. If we claim to know God, we must treat people with love, not hold them as property to be bought and sold, to perform labor so that we may profit by it.”
Clara’s jaw slipped open a little at the bold statement. As if in response, Reverend Webster continued, “As this may very well be the last time I darken the doorsteps of this church, I want to say that we are all—every one of us—sinners. One sin is not greater than another. And forgiveness is free to all who ask. So if you are here today in agreement with me, search your heart for that which you must repent of, whether you are showing love to those who do hold humans in bondage.
The Reverend removed his glasses and placed them on the pages of the Bible. “And to those who own slaves, I challenge you to consider the words of William Lloyd Garrison: ‘Enslave the liberty of but one human being and the liberties of the world are put in peril.’”
At the conclusion of the service, Reverend Webster took position at the exit of the sanctuary to shake hands with the parishioners on their way out. After being snubbed repeatedly, he finally folded his hands in front of him and offered a nod to the few who bothered to glance his way.
Clara nodded politely as she brushed past, afraid to hesitate for fear of the censure she would receive if seen associating with him, though her conscience chided her for such poor manners. She noted that the preacher held his head high, apparently undisturbed by the cold reception. Clara suspected he had anticipated such a reaction.
Even within the church, the conclusion on slavery was determined by geographical influence. The Northern abolitionists in the Methodist Church had officially denounced the practice of slave-holding the year previous, and the General Conference had voted to add to the Book of Discipline a new chapter which outlined this position. The local church however, whose congregation associated with the South, had reacted by calling a meeting to evaluate this declaration and determined that it was anti-scriptural, and therefore, null and void.
The committee which thus voted, of which Centerville’s Reverend Miller was chairman, resolved that “the system of slavery as it prevails among us is in its main features but the due degree of subordination of an inferior race to a superior race and that while the two races exist together it is the best adapted to promote the temporal and spiritual welfare of both and particularly of the inferior race.”
Clara had no doubt that the Yankee Reverend would be the topic of conversation in every household represented at the church that morning, and she was curious what the Turner men would have to say about him and his abolitionist message.
“Discretion is the better part of valor,” Francis grumbled as the carriage rolled over the streets on the way home. “I don’t begrudge the Reverend his opinion, but I would say he chose the wrong place to share it.”
Next to him on the seat, facing Clara, Jeremiah nodded his agreement. “I don’t think anyone would hurt a clergyman, but he might want to keep a lookout over his shoulder.”
Clara mulled over the sermon quietly. What if Reverend Webster was right and not Reverend Miller? What if slavery was an abomination in the eyes of Providence, as the abolitionists insisted? It was a disturbing thought.
In support of slavery, Reverend Miller had pointed his congregation to Leviticus twenty-five, which not only granted permission for the Israelites to purchase and own slaves, but specifically referred to them as property. There were numerous passages throughout the Bible which supported the assertion that slavery was a God-given social institution. “Servants, be obedient to your masters…” “Masters, give unto your servants that which is just and equal…”
But the story of Philemon and the runaway slave had planted a seed of doubt in Clara’s mind. Yes, Paul had sent the slave back to his master—validating Philemon’s ownership of him—but he had asked the master to treat him the same way he would treat Paul, as a brother and not as a slave. It wasn’t a conclusive argument, but it merited consideration.
Watching Mamie and Phoebe quietly set the table for the afternoon meal, Clara wondered what they thought of the war and the argument over slavery. She marveled at the good fortune which had allowed her to be born as the daughter of George Collins, with white skin and a privileged future.
Her husband had told Will that inequality and class distinctions had always existed and always would exist. But did that make it right if one had the power to change it?
And, if it could be changed, was war the best means of accomplishing it? So many opposing ideas were circulating that Clara sometimes wondered what the war was really about. Some, like Reverend Webster, seemed of the opinion that the Confederacy was fighting to preserve slavery and the Northern states to abolish it. But Charlie had never once mentioned it as the reason he’d enlisted with the Rebels. It had been about freedom, about preserving the rights of the state, keeping the Federal Government as an umbrella authority and not a dictator.
And no matter what the cause of the war, was it worth the loss of life—almost nine hundred men in one day?
Thankfully, in the days following the battle as the list of casualties poured in, Charlie’s name remained absent. They hoped to receive a letter affirming his safety soon, even though there was no reason to doubt it.
If Jeremiah had seemed distant and preoccupied before the battle of Bull Run, he was even more so afterward. Clara couldn’t begrudge him the ruin of their day out together, but she was bitterly disappointed. He was still at home with her, but she felt as if he was slowly slipping away in front of her eyes. How could she miss him so much when he was lying next to her in bed?
She wished there was a way to tie him to her, to keep him close. But what man wished to be tied by his wife’s apron strings? Clara had no choice but to stand beside him in silence and watch her marriage and her world slowly disintegrate into mere ashes of the dream she had once cherished.
The summer days stretched on. The July humidity dampened her dress with sweat, frizzed the loose tendrils around her face, and brought on an acute case of irritability. The heat from the cast iron stove in the small kitchen as they worked to store fruits and vegetables for the winter did nothing to alleviate it.
Mamie seemed immune to the sweltering discomfort, standing over the stove humming as she stirred the paraffin wax that would be used to seal the glass jars. A large pan of lima beans rested on the table between Phoebe and Clara, who spooned its contents into the containers. Lena worked with Mamie to fill the jars before screwing the zinc lids on tightly and setting them aside.
The tomatoes and carrots had already been canned and stored in the cellar. Next week they would prepare the peach preserves. Using her apron to dry the sweat beading her upper lip, Clara reached for another empty jar to fill.
“You go on out this kitchen an’ get a break, Missus Clara. Get you a drink of water,” Mamie instructed in her maternal way. “You look ‘bout ready to faint.”
“I’ll wait until we’re finished,” Clara insisted. She wished she could be insulted by Mamie’s fussing as if she was weaker than the Negro slaves, but they appeared to be enduring the misery far better than she was.
“I swear I waited all winter for spring to come, and now all I can think about is the fall,” she laughed at her own foolishness. “I guess every season has its worries.”
“Now, I don’t know about that,” Mamie argued, her round face glistening. “I don’t remember hearing you complain in the spring.”
Clara smiled weakly, but lacked the energy for a smart retort. She wished she could pause to take a long drink of cool water, but she didn’t want to stop until the other women did. Even young Lena offered no complaint as sweat trailed from her temples to her neck.
When at last the day’s work was complete, Clara felt a twinge of guilt leaving the women to prepare supper as she retreated to her bedroom to freshen up. She sighed as she mopped her face and neck with a damp handkerchief, relishing the faint breeze which stirred the white lace curtains at the window.
With a sigh, she sank down into the blue velvet armchair by the window. The wedding ring quilt on the bed reminded her of home. Her mother and sister had made it for her as a wedding gift. Against the white background, the circles of colored fabric stood out in cheerful relief.
Naomi and Jane had come calling to inquire after Charlie once the news had spread of his presence at the battle. There was no mention of her brother enlisting, and Clara hoped that such a thought never entered his mind. Although rumor had it that the Rebels won the battle only because of disorganization and miscommunication in the newly formed Union Army, the victory still bolstered the confidence of those who believed in the Southern cause.
Afraid she might drift off if she remained sitting, Clara pulled a clean dress from the armoire and stepped behind the dressing screen. Phoebe appeared just in time to assist with the buttons and help her into an airy muslin the color of jade. Once dressed, Clara sat before the mirror at the oak vanity. Unpinning Clara’s auburn hair, Phoebe ran a brush through the frizz until it could be twisted back into a sleek bun. The result of her efforts was rewarding. Clara looked more like a pretty young woman than a weary kitchen maid.
When the men came in from cultivating the fields, they looked even more wilted than Clara had felt, and dust and soil clung to the dampness of their skin and clothes. Clara waited in the parlor while they went upstairs to wash and change. She wished that just today she could have supper alone with her husband and find something to laugh about.
But as they descended the stairs, and Clara rounded the corner to greet them, she noticed a newspaper in her father-in-law’s hand. To expect the conversation to include anything but politics and the war was clearly hopeless.
“I hope Reverend Webster reads today’s paper,” Francis commented wryly as he turned the page.
“Why’s that?” Jeremiah wondered, his damp hair falling over his forehead.
“Here, read it. Congress has made it official: the war isn’t about slavery.” Francis passed The Centreville Times across the table to his son.
Jeremiah’s thick brows drew together in curiosity. “The Crittenden-Johnson Resolution,” he read aloud. “I take it that this is supposed to be some sort of compromise. Meant, no doubt, to deter any more Southern states from leaving the Union.”
“You guessed it,” Francis replied wryly.
“What does it say?” Clara wondered.
Jeremiah cleared his throat, then read: “’That in this national emergency, Congress, banishing all feelings of mere passion or resentment, will recollect only its duty to the whole country; that this war is not waged on their part in any spirit of oppression, or for any purpose of conquest or subjugation, or purpose of overthrowing or interfering with the rights or established institutions of those States, but to defend and maintain the supremacy of the Constitution, and to preserve the Union with all the dignity, equality, and rights of the several States unimpaired; and that as soon as these objects are accomplished the war ought to cease.’”
“The ‘established institutions’ mean slavery, right?” she verified.
“Yes, exactly,” he nodded. “They’re clarifying their position, making it clear that the Federal Government is fighting only to preserve the Union. As soon as the errant states return like contrite run-aways, war will cease. Slavery has nothing to do with it.”
“The abolitionists will never let this stand,” Francis asserted. “Mark my words.”
“I thought Lincoln was an abolitionist,” Clara commented.
Francis laughed dryly. “He’s a politician, my dear.”
“Everything in politics serves a purpose,” her husband agreed. “This resolution is meant to dissuade the states sitting on the fence. But to those who’ve already left, it means less than the paper it’s printed on. It doesn’t promise States Rights. It merely clarifies that to the Federal Government, the purpose of this war is to restore unity.”
“Isn’t war an odd way to bring about unity?”
“Beautiful and wise,” Jeremiah winked at her.
Clara blushed, appreciating the praise. “But I thought you agreed with them?”
At his father’s scowl, Jeremiah was quick to explain. “I never said I agreed. I believe in States Rights. But I also believe in preserving the Union as it stands, with thirty-four states. Well, I guess it’s thirty-five now, since West Virginia’s been admitted.”
“But killing one another won’t bring the nation together!” Clara insisted.
“No. I don’t think there’s any way to bring the nation together now,” Francis agreed. “We’re between a rock and a hard place.”
Jeremiah released a heavy sigh. “The fact is, the government can coerce legal unity by force even if it can’t command peace among its citizens. The states came together in a sacred compact to become one unified nation. We’re far too diverse to ever agree on matters of religion or politics, but if we stay together, we’re stronger than we are alone. Who says Britain or France will never wage war on us again?”
Clara bit her lip. She didn’t want to contradict or disrespect her husband, especially in front of his father.
But Jeremiah leaned forward and placed a hand over hers. “What do you think?” he asked gently.
“I just don’t understand why it would be such a terrible thing to recognize the Confederate States as a sovereign nation. If Britain or France ever wished to attack, we could join together against them in an alliance of the two American nations. A Union sealed with the blood of its own citizens can never be truly one,” she declared passionately.
“For the record,” Francis jerked a thumb at her, “I agree with your lovely wife.”
Jeremiah leaned back in his chair. “I think the war could have been averted many times over. But it wasn’t. The rightness of it has become almost irrelevant. Now it’s a question of whether or not you regard the joining together of the States as a binding contract or not. And that is all.”
“And you do?” Francis pushed.
“I do,” Jeremiah admitted slowly. “Come what may.”