Chapter Twenty

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1871

“Nate.” Meg’s eyes stung at the sight of him. His face was pale from his own recent waterborne sickness, but his eyes were bright as he stood on the front porch, arms full of angular objects draped in linen.

As she realized what he’d brought, her bare left hand went to the gathering tightness in her chest.

He smiled. “I figured you’d be ready for this. May I come in?”

“Of course.” She led him into the reception room, bracing herself.

As she’d suspected, when he withdrew the linen, several blank canvases stared back at her.

He propped them up in a chair. “This size looked like what I remembered you using in your bookstore. Will these work?”

“Yes, of course, thank you. What a kind gesture.” It was a thoughtful, extravagant gift, and equally intimidating. Since Dr. Gilbert had come on Wednesday, she’d spent hours trying to write and sketch. While the effect was better than when she’d first started, it was far from pleasing.

“So you have all you need now, don’t you? To begin painting again?” He seemed so confident, so optimistic.

“A hand that obeys my direction is also helpful. Mine stumbles like a child’s.”

“And like a child, it will learn. You taught your right hand before. Now it’s the left’s turn.” Gently, he took it in both of his.

The top of her hand registered the touch. Her palm did to a lesser degree, giving her a surreal sense of disconnection. But what she did feel spread a balm over her nerves. Like it or not, she lived in a society that judged a woman by three things: the clarity of her complexion, the smallness of her waist, and the beauty of her graceful hands. Meg was freckled. Her waist betrayed a penchant for sweets. And now her hands . . .

But Nate didn’t recoil when he touched her.

“Besides,” he continued, “didn’t Michelangelo say that a man paints with his mind, not with his hands?”

“Easy for the most talented artistic genius of all time to say.” But Meg couldn’t help smiling in acknowledgment. Nate was trying, and she was more grateful than she could trust herself to express. “I’ll paint again soon,” she told him. “If I can manage anything acceptable, I’ll take the portraits to Mr. VanDyke, the gallery owner and art agent who posted that notice in the newspaper. He’s matching artists with wealthy patrons wishing to have their portraits remade after the fire.”

Nate released her hand. “I was hoping you might.”

But not yet. “Today I have other plans.”

With a quiet tap on the doorframe, Sylvie stepped into the reception room, smiling when she saw Nate. “I thought I heard voices. It’s good to see you, Nate. How are you feeling these days?” Glossy brown curls cascaded down her back from where her hair was gathered at the crown of her head. She’d been taking more care with her appearance since Jasper had recovered from the illness.

“Much better,” Nate told her.

“Glad to hear it. Meg, what’s this about you having plans for the day?”

Meg hadn’t thought it would matter to her sister at all. “I’m going to visit the Soldiers’ Home.” She’d already hired Eli to convey her. “There may be some veterans there who knew Hiram. Maybe they know something that could help us.”

The spark left Sylvie’s eyes. “Help us do what?”

“Well, I won’t know that until I learn what they know.”

A sigh fraught with impatience blew from Sylvie’s nose. “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish. The police—”

“Aren’t doing anything,” Meg finished for her. “Maybe they’re looking for Otto Schneider, but even if they catch him, they won’t charge him with Hiram’s murder with only that threatening note to go on.”

“Nor should they,” Nate added. “Visiting the Soldiers’ Home is a good move. The more perspectives we gain, the better. As I said before, we don’t know Schneider did it. We should talk to as many people who knew Hiram as possible.”

“And the neighbors haven’t been helpful.” Meg had covered another block of them since recovering from her illness. It was time to pursue fresh sources.

“I see.” Sylvie folded her porcelain hands in front of her green silk skirt. “I won’t be going with you. And you cannot go on your own.”

“She won’t be.” Nate straightened his hat. “I know several of the men there, since I wrote that series of articles on Chicago’s veterans. I’m happy to make introductions.”

“Of course you are.” Sylvie’s tone bordered on impolite. “Meanwhile, I’ll stay home and do what I can to salvage the bookstore.”

Meg blinked. “What are you doing?” She’d assumed that at this stage, without a building, very little could be done.

“I’m strengthening customer relations. While you’ve been chasing your investigation, I’ve been scouring the papers, making note of changes of address for our customers. Now I’m writing each of them a personal card, assuring them we will reopen when we can, that we appreciate their continued patronage, and that we’d love their input on which volumes they’d like to see in stock. I want to make them feel like they’re part of it. Anything to prevent business from completely drying up before we have a physical presence again.”

“That’s brilliant.” Nate rested one arm on the back of the wing chair and crossed his ankles.

“It is,” Meg agreed. “I’d help you with all that writing—you know I would—if my script were legible. I appreciate what you’re doing for us.”

“I’m not the only one working toward reconstruction. Jasper and his crew of classmates will finish clearing the rubble from our lot today and will be coming here for some refreshment as a token of our gratitude. They did the work at such a reasonable rate that I fear they meant to spare us the true cost. I had hoped you’d be here too. I know you can’t help me in the kitchen much, but you could at least convey your thanks to the men in person.”

“I’ll be sure to thank Jasper as soon as I see him next. Won’t you tell the other men thanks on my behalf?”

Sylvie narrowed her eyes with a look that said she’d been doing quite a lot on Meg’s behalf lately. “Did I tell you they found a small jewelry box under a pile of bricks yesterday? It’s broken, but Flora Spencer’s name is painted on the top. The jewelry is still inside it.”

“I don’t even know where the Spencers have gone.” Meg hadn’t seen their former tenants since the night of the fire.

“You could place a notice in the Tribune for her,” Nate offered. “If they’re still in the city, they can retrieve it. I’ll make sure it gets printed, if you like.”

Sylvie nodded, but her expression was stony, her throat taut.

“You have to believe that what I’m doing—talking to neighbors, visiting the Soldiers’ Home—all of that is for us too,” Meg tried. “Based on how Hiram’s neighbors have treated me, how do you think our bookshop will fare if we never clear Father’s name?”

Her sister’s gaze traveled to the canvases Nate had brought. “You could paint again. Whatever sales you make would help us too. Tangibly and immediately. We need to be earning and saving for reconstruction costs.”

In a hidden fold of her skirt, Meg grazed her thumb over the webbing at the base of her fingers. “I’ll do what I can.”

“But not now.” Sylvie set her jaw, bade Nate good-bye, and marched from the room.

Heat prickled Meg’s neck, from guilt or frustration or both. She looked at Nate for his reaction. “Am I being irresponsible?”

He shook his head. “If you don’t keep digging, who will?”

Exactly.

This was the thought that comforted her during the thirteen-mile ride to the Soldiers’ Home in South Evanston, on the shore of Lake Michigan. Well, that and Nate beside her.

Meg peered through the carriage windows at the limitless blue of the lake beyond. Seagulls squawked as they swooped over the pebbly beach. In the distance, the horizon melted water and sky together.

When she’d gone to the lakeshore as a child for a family picnic, she’d waded into the shocking cold while Sylvie and their mother stayed far enough away to keep dry. “I can’t see the end of it, Papa,” she’d said while standing on the tips of her toes, water pulling at the hem of her dress. “Pick me up, I want to see the end.”

He’d swung her up so she nestled into the crook of his arm, and her wet feet dripped onto his clothes.

Shading her eyes, she’d cried, “The water goes on forever!” She’d felt as though she stood at the edge of the world.

“Not so, little one! Just because we can’t see the opposite shore doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

In a new way, Meg was still searching for the opposite shore, longing to reach the end of the unknown deep spreading before her. Pick me up, Lord, she prayed silently. Let me see the end. Then, thinking better of it, she added, See me to the end, instead.

“Meg? We’re here.” Nate looked at his pocket watch. “The men will be eating now.”

Childhood memory faded as soon as she thanked Eli for the ride and entered the two-story brick building with Nate. A matron in a white uniform greeted them in the parlor before sending them to the dining hall in the basement below. Wide, short windows near the ceiling allowed a little daylight into the space.

Six long tables formed three rows, with benches of men sitting on either side. The air smelled of their lunch: pork chops, gravy, buttered squash, green beans, fresh bread, and coffee. Four women bustled among what looked to be four dozen veterans, rationing sugar into their coffee, pats of butter onto bread.

“Asa Jones!” Nate hailed a man whose ash-blond hair receded from his brow. He might have had the trim figure of a hardened soldier once, but he’d softened and grown thick about his middle. A crutch leaning against the wall drew Meg’s attention to his legs. One of them was gone below the knee. An arm was cut short at the elbow.

With his cheek full of bread, Mr. Jones beckoned them over.

After the basic introductions, Nate added, “This is Stephen Townsend’s daughter. Did you know him?”

Meg and Nate sat across from Mr. Jones, and she braced herself for another negative reaction.

But the veteran’s face relaxed in understanding. “For the six weeks we both trained at Camp Douglas, yes. Then his regiment went a different way than mine. Seems to me he was a gentle soul with more smarts than most. He drew a raw deal, young lady. That ain’t nothing to be ashamed of. That’s just life dealing its cards. It’s a gamble, you know. All a gamble.”

It certainly felt that way at times. And yet what a hopeless philosophy, to think there was not a higher purpose, even if it defied human understanding. Meg had to believe God remained in control even when His children were not. No, especially then.

But all she said was, “It sounds like you’ve read about my father in the Tribune.”

“Starting with the piece Nate here wrote. He wrote about me too.” He wiped his napkin across his face. “But I’m sure you haven’t come to get my autograph.”

Meg rested her forearms on the smooth oak table, preparing her questions. Mr. Jones glanced at her scarred and bandaged hands, then held her gaze with his. He’d seen worse. Survived worse.

“What can I do for you two?” he asked. “Have you got more questions, Nate?”

“I believe Miss Townsend does.” Nate nodded for her to continue.

“You knew my father,” she began. “Did you also happen to know Hiram Sloane? He was a guard at Camp Douglas, part of the Invalid Corps.”

Mr. Jones shook his head. “The prison camp was a separate section from where we trained. I had no call to be there, but I did take a gander at the Johnny Rebs a few times from the Union Observatory. It was a tower fifty feet high near the main gate on Cottage Grove. For five cents, anyone could climb it and see what was going on in the prison yard. Folks thought it great sport.”

Meg bristled. Ruth had never allowed her or Sylvie to go near the camp, concerned about contagious disease spreading from soldiers of either side. So she hadn’t known the prisoners in Chicago had been gawked at by the public, as Stephen had been in Andersonville.

“What did you see?” Nate prompted. Ever the reporter, he took out a pencil and pad of foolscap, ready to take notes.

“Oh.” Mr. Jones grabbed a saltshaker and rolled it back and forth in his hand. “Those Southern boys were made to stand in snow and ice, facing an icy mist coming off the lake, for hours at a time with nary a bite to eat. But if they moved, they’d be shot by one of the guards.”

“Not Hiram, though,” Meg said. “I can’t imagine him being so cruel.”

“Like I said, I didn’t know one guard from the other except by sight. There were other forms of punishment too, things so devious we’d cry foul if such things were done to Yankees down south. There were four guards most notorious for things like that. Big, burly fellows.”

“That doesn’t sound like Hiram Sloane,” Nate said.

“Not at all.” Meg inhaled deeply, ready to move on. “Mr. Jones, you didn’t know which guard was Hiram Sloane, so you couldn’t have known if he had particular enemies. Correct?”

Amusement played at the corner of his mouth. “Well, miss, he was a prison guard in time of war. Thousands of Johnnys were his enemies.”

“Not his personal enemies,” she insisted.

“Maybe from where he was standing. But if you’d asked those prisoners, they’d say it was plenty personal.”

An older veteran shuffled up to the table with a half-filled cup of coffee. “Mind if I join you?” His joints creaked as he folded himself to fit on the bench beside Asa Jones.

Nate reached across the table to shake his hand, then introduced the man to Meg as Elton Burke. “He was a guard at Camp Douglas too. Perhaps you’d be willing to answer a few questions in a moment, Elton?”

He agreed.

Though eager to question Mr. Burke, Meg circled back to the fact that Mr. Jones had known her father. In a way, Stephen was a victim of Hiram’s murder too, for his life had been taken hostage by the false charge.

“Mr. Jones, do you know if my father had any enemies?”

Mr. Jones set the saltshaker aside. “Stephen Townsend? No. I can’t think of a single man who wasn’t cheered by him being around. He ministered to me more than the chaplain did. You tell him that sometime. See if he remembers Asa Jones.”

Meg smiled. “I will, thank you. I have just one more question for you. From what you knew of him, would my father ever shoot an unarmed man in the back?”

“What? Is that what they’re saying your pa did? No, that’s cowardice six ways from Sunday.” Mr. Jones shook his head. “Don’t you believe it.”

“I don’t. Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Jones.”

“My turn?” Mr. Burke’s voice had a distinctive gravelly tone. He set down his coffee with too much force—or too little control—and it sloshed over the rim.

Meg wiped up the spill with a napkin. “Thank you, Mr. Burke. You knew Hiram Sloane?”

He scratched his whiskered cheek. “I did. Not a bad fellow. I never knew him to shoot a prisoner for sport, nothing like that. And as for the more creative punishments that were common to all prison camps North and South, I never saw him direct those either.”

Of course Hiram wouldn’t have done those things. “Do you know of anyone who might have wished him harm? Other than all the prisoners who wanted to escape, that is.” After pausing to allow him to think, she added, “Did he ever mention Otto Schneider?”

Nate nudged her with his elbow. “You’re leading the witness,” he teased.

“Otto Schneider?” Recognition lit Mr. Burke’s watery eyes. “His legal sparring with Hiram was in all the papers. But nothing got Hiram so hot under the collar as the news that came out of Andersonville. He had a friend there, if I’ve got it right.”

“My father,” Meg said. “Stephen Townsend.”

Mr. Burke looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Well, they must have been close. When word reached us about the starving Yankees in Georgia, Hiram zealously enforced the new policy to cut rations for our prisoners up here. Not that our prisoners were getting three squares a day. But if our men were suffering in Andersonville, the Rebs would suffer here too. That was the mindset.”

“Retaliation,” Nate confirmed.

“Exactly.” Mr. Burke slurped from his mug.

Meg shifted on the bench and rearranged her skirt over her knees. “I never knew Hiram to be vengeful.”

“You never knew him like I did, then. He did his duty and then some on account of the plight of his friend held down South. For instance, prisoners were searched upon entering Camp Douglas. Personal items were taken and recorded in a log, to be returned to the prisoner upon his release. But Hiram didn’t stop there. He searched their persons at random in the square. He even searched their barracks, taking them by surprise. Rumor has it that what he found, he didn’t always turn over to his superiors for safekeeping.”

Meg couldn’t believe that. “What are you insinuating, Mr. Burke?”

He smiled, his brow clear of concern. “I’m saying that Hiram Sloane didn’t always play by the rules. The way he figured, our boys in Andersonville suffered far worse degradations. Just because he lacked the stomach for inflicting physical pain didn’t mean he was averse to other methods, like taking personal effects and contraband items. Called it payback. Only the fellow he was paying might have been himself.” He shrugged. “That’s the rumor, anyway.”

Nate put down his pencil. “We’re more interested in facts, Elton. Did you ever see this take place? Did Hiram ever admit to you directly that he’d stolen from the prisoners?”

“We weren’t that close.”

Meg had heard enough. Swallowing her indignation, she thanked Mr. Burke for his time and rose to leave.