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I WAS SURPRISED to see Henry in the kitchen. I thought for sure he would have gone back next door to be with Clara most of the day. I peered out the side window at the rain that still drizzled. If it kept up, maybe we’d have our house back to ourselves fairly soon. I was about to close the curtain when I saw a slight movement off to my right. I leaned closer so I could see more of the side porch. The swing.
Reebok was there, and Bob sat on one of the rockers. Why had they gone outside where it was cold? If they’d wanted a private conversation, they could have gone into the office and closed the door. That was the room I’d assigned to Doctor Nathan. The couch was pretty comfortable. Or they could have used Father John’s broom closet.
I got a funny feeling in my gut. Something was wrong, but I had no idea what. I closed the curtain in time to hear Glaze ask, “How was the walking when you went next door, Henry?”
“I had to keep my wits about me and walk really slow. Fell once,” he held up his hand, “but no damage done—other than to my ego.”
Dave razzed him, of course.
We’d almost finished eating by the time Bob and Reebok came in. I looked a question at Bob and got a slight shake of the head in response. I don’t think anybody else noticed. They were too busy discussing the left-handed sickle Ida must have told them about. I hadn’t been paying much attention. I did notice that Bob looked at Henry and raised his eyebrows. Henry just lowered his head. What on earth was all that about?
Amanda finally called a halt by standing up and ferrying a stack of plates to the sink.
“Good idea,” Rebecca Jo said. “Let’s get this cleaned up so we can check out Amanda’s sampler.”
I chuckled when Ralph and Dave looked at each other with that not-a-clue look on their faces.
“If you’re good,” Ida said, patting Ralph on the shoulder as she walked past him, “we’ll tell you all about it. Later.”
“We’re not gonna hold our breath waiting,” Dave said.
I wondered if Pat ever wanted to slug him.
Before we women went back up to the attic, I roped some of the group into helping me move some of the frozen food from the back step into the fridge. We’d certainly cleared out a lot of the fridge in just these three—or was it four?—days. It was getting warm enough outside that the food out there was going to start unfreezing, which meant the outside animals would be able to smell a regular banquet table. No reason to tempt the raccoons unnecessarily.
NO WONDER AMANDA had been so excited about the sampler. It was lovely.
The message was lovely as well. I thought of some of the unreasonable people I’d known. Like Clara Martin. But then I felt rather ashamed of myself. She was so newly widowed. Maybe she’d change.
Then again, maybe she wouldn’t.
~ ~ ~
DECEMBER 1863
GRACE SURRATT HOSKINS looked up from her needlework. She had to complete but the final few stitches on the final n of the final word, and then it would be finished. Arthur’s reflection in the cheval mirror, which he had given her—she did a quick calculation—seven years before, looked pensive. “What worries you so much, my Husband? Is it something in that letter from my sister’s husband?” When he did not answer right away, she asked, “Will you read it to me?”
“Elijah tells me of a speech he learned of only recently, a speech given by the President.”
He said the word with so much respect, Grace knew which president he referred to.
“He did not, of course, call him the President. He simply referred to our finest Leader, and said he learned of it by word of mouth from someone he called a friend.”
“Think you he means someone farther along on the railroad? He must have spoken with someone recently, for the note my sister enclosed for me mentions their niece who married last year.”
“That was clever of your sister to devise such a code to tell you she and her husband had helped someone else closer to freedom.”
Grace smiled broadly. “Dolly mentioned, too, that the niece has a fine baby boy and that both the mother and the child live.” She patted the pocket of her apron where she had tucked the letter until she could re-read it.
Arthur returned her smile. “So, their most recent traveller had a young child with her?”
“I would say so. When I finish this final letter on this sampler of mine, I will read the note to you. But tell me about that speech Elijah mentioned.”
“It was, apparently, delivered last month at the dedication of a battlefield cemetery, although he does not say which one.”
Grace was not surprised. It would be dangerous to give specifics in a letter that might be seized and read. Dolly and Elijah were clever indeed. “Surely there have been graveyard dedications on both sides of this conflict.”
“I do believe Elijah was counting on that,” Arthur said. “He quotes only one small phrase.” He tilted the letter so more of the candlelight shone on it. “They gave the last full measure of devotion,” he read.
Grace’s smile faded. “Irraiah said that young Morgan is still gravely ill from his injuries.” She laid her needlework in her lap and lifted a handkerchief from the small table beside her.
“It was very like a miracle that the boy’s father was able to bring him home while he himself was so badly injured.” Arthur folded the letter and held it as if he knew not what to do with it.
“I pray that Tobe and his son will not be some of the ones who give that last full measure of devotion. How can we do this to our children? Surely there was no need for such a war, as there was no need for the hundreds of years of wrongs that led up to it.”
“You know I agree with you,” Arthur said, “but I hate to see you so distressed.” He set his letter aside. “What is that you are working on?” He nodded toward the embroidered fabric on her lap.
Grace lifted it. “I find it is particularly apt, for all the reason in the world was not enough to avert this national disaster.” She handed it to him. “I have only the final letter to complete.”
“Will you not sign it with your initials?”
Grace thought about it. “I did consider doing so, but I believe the words speak for themselves.” She smiled at her husband. “The two of us know this came from my hands.”
Arthur set down the piece of linen and took Grace’s hands in his own. “And such wonderful strong hands they are, my Bean de Ghrásta.”
It was several hours before Grace completed that last letter. After all, even as old as the two of them were, she and Arthur had ever been able to enjoy each other’s company.
Once the n was complete, Arthur built a simple frame. Together, they hung it above the front door. “So we will remember this thought every time we leave the safety of this house,” Grace said, thinking of the hidden room above them and the young person they had sheltered just three years before, and thinking also of young Morgan Martin, so excited to be a drummer boy when he and his father left town just two years ago. The boy now lay horribly injured after the terrible battle three months before at Chickamauga. She wondered if Irraiah would ever be able to forgive Tobe for having taken their son into battle.
Grace twined her arm with Arthur’s, and together they read the words aloud.
Those who do not live by Reason
cannot be swayed by Reason.
~ ~ ~
“WHAT A MARVELOUS SAYING,” my mom said as she studied the fine stitches.
“I’ve never seen a sampler up close like this,” Pat said.
“It’s not, technically, a sampler,” Maddy said. “Samplers were creations that usually involved the whole alphabet and all the numbers, as well as leaves and flowers and the more common figures found in a lot of embroidery—a sample of each. They were sewn by young girls who were learning their stitches, which is why so many of them have slightly crooked A’s and B’s and C’s, but the work gets more proficient by the time they get farther down the alphabet.”
“Sounds like more of your research has just come to light.” Pat waved her hand at the embroidery. “What would you call this then?”
“It’s just needlework.”
“That’s like saying lava is just hot rock,” Carol said. “True art comes in so many forms, and I’d say this counts as art. Remember, they didn’t have preprinted patterns back then. Whoever did this”—she ran her index finger just above the surface of the meticulous stitching—“planned it out beautifully. Like that embroidered tablecloth we found earlier.”
"You’re right," I said. "Look at how straight the line is. I can hardly do that when I’m writing, much less with a needle."
Pat curled her lip. “Something this nice needs a special name, then. It’s framed and everything, so somebody probably was really proud of it.”
Ida harrumphed. “Then why stuff it up here in the attic?”
I couldn’t think of a single reason.
“Probably,” Melissa said, “whoever put it up here wasn’t a very reasonable person.”
Ida scoffed again. “Ya think?”
“I’d like to take it downstairs,” I said. “Maybe hang it over the front door, on the inside.”
“What if Bob thinks you’re accusing him of being unreasonable?”
I stared at Charlie. I could not figure that woman out for the life of me. “He wouldn’t think that,” I finally said, but it sounded like a pretty lame defense. I set the frame on the step stool that I still hadn’t taken down to the kitchen. Not knowing what else to do, I walked back to my chair, donned my white gloves, and picked up Hubbard’s journal. "He’s writing this on Christmas Day."
Like a school of fish, everyone turned and came back to our circle.
25 December 1745. This holy day is complete for me, for I was able to watch my wife throughout the lengthy church services today. Am I blasphemous to feel thus?
"Of course he isn’t," Maddy said with some heat.
I turned the page, only to find that there was nothing else written, not on that page, not on any of the few remaining in the journal. "He stopped," I said. "Stopped writing."
"Oh dear." The sound came from several throats at once.
~ ~ ~
SUNDAY, 19 JANUARY 1746
SILAS MARTIN AND John Gilman had labored long the night before to hoist the doors into position and cover them carefully. “We cannot let my brother see them before they are unveiled to the community,” he had cautioned John.
This morning, as all the townsfolk gathered before the church, clutching bonnets and hats, pulling shawls and coats closer about them in the raw January wind, Silas hoped that his reasoning had been correct. John had refused to take any recognition for the work. “Your brother could use me as a pretext for denouncing the doors,” he had reasoned, “for I was not of the original company.” While Silas wanted to give John Gilman full credit for his fine craftsmanship, he saw the sense behind Gilman’s words and had let Homer continue with his mistaken assumption that Silas alone had done the carving.
Now, the Reverend Anders Russell stepped up beside Homer. “Let us offer thanks for the fine new doors that our beloved leader, Mister Homer Martin, has just given us.”
Silas was surprised somewhat that Reverend Russell caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. Silas did not respond.
Robert Hastings called out from the center of the crowd, his voice ringing through the frigid air. “Can we not see them first to be sure we can be thankful for them?” His hearty laugh robbed the words of any sting.
Homer, however, as Silas had anticipated, could not let the challenge pass. As soon as Reverend Russell said a few prayerful words, Homer spoke. “When I devised the design for these doors,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the murmurs of the crowd, “I envisioned what this valley was like when we entered it.”
Silas breathed a silent prayer. Please do not mention Moses. That would ruin everything.
“The labor was long on these doors and was done in secret so that their unveiling might be met with delight.”
My brother sounds downright lyrical, Silas thought. He noted that Homer was careful not to say that he himself had done the work, but Silas was sure everyone in the crowd would assume that such was the case. “All you have to do is tug on the corner,” Silas had told Homer this morning when they had first met in the churchyard. “And then accept the thanks of the whole congregation.”
He could still envision Homer’s smirk.
Homer stepped to the corner of the concealing fabric Silas and John had hung so carefully. He lifted the corner of the material, stepped to one side, and turned his back on the doors, most likely so he could see the full impact of the crowd’s reaction. He swirled the length of linen away from the marvelous creation.
He basked for a moment in the wave of admiration from his community.
Silas stepped forward and took his brother’s arm, preventing him from turning to look back at the doors. “Behold, the Metoochie River Valley when we arrived, a veritable Garden of Eden, a veritable Promised Land.”
He felt Homer’s arm stiffen the moment he turned his head and saw the scene—with no Homer-as-Moses—but by that time, all the men of the town had surrounded them. Silas took that moment to slip away back to Louetta’s side.
Willem Breeton’s raspy voice boomed out. “Marvelous work, Homer.”
“Mister Martin,” Nehemiah Garner declared, “you have created a masterpiece.”
Louetta peered up at her husband and slipped her hand into his. He looked at the carefully neutral face of his wife. “You could have been the general of a large army, my Husband. You have maneuvered the enemy into a most untenable position.”
He squeezed her hand gently and nodded gravely. “He cannot now deny the doors since he has already so publicly proclaimed them as his own.”
“Let us go in and give thanks,” she said, “and get out of this cold wind.”
He leaned close to her ear. "I will give thanks indeed that he said nothing of Moses."
Louetta snickered, and tucked her head quickly, turning her laughter into the sound of a cough.
Silas smiled inwardly as he ushered his wife into the church and toward their usual bench. He would wait perhaps a fortnight for the newness of the doors to settle a bit and then would show Louetta the secret S he had joined to a secret L among the carved spring grasses at the base of the left-most door.
Reverend Russell spoke long during his sermon about the need to keep the serpent out of this new Garden of Eden and about the ninth commandment.
Homer smiled and nodded, smiled and nodded, but Silas could see the rigid set of his shoulders.
~ ~ ~
HUBBARD STAYED WELL back and to one side, on the fringe of the crowded assembly. When Homer Martin so clearly claimed the doors as his own creation, he was glad his face, the one expressive side of it, was not visible to the rest of the townspeople. He felt Mother Gilman stiffen beside him as Homer so blatantly lied. He nudged her arm gently although he well knew that she would say nothing.
When the doors were unveiled, Hubbard delighted in seeing the shock on Homer’s face. Served him right, it did.
“What think you, John Gilman?”
Call Surratt’s wide, open face reflected no suspicion, although Hubbard was well aware that Surratt knew “John” had spent his Sundays elsewhere. He studied Call for only a few seconds before he replied, his twisted mouth forming the words carefully. “The doors are truly a work of art, and the finest craftsmen could be proud to have produced such as those.”
Call wrinkled his brow. “I would not have supposed Homer Martin to be capable of such ...”—he groped for the right word—“of such depth. Those doors truly do seem to bring the Garden of Eden here into our valley.”
Hubbard, thinking of the presence of his wife, said, “I do believe Eden was already here when the artist arrived.”
Call cuffed him lightly on the shoulder, an unaccustomed familiarity, but Hubbard took it with good grace, for he thought he understood the intent. Call Surratt knew, or at least suspected, that Homer Martin was taking credit where it was not deserved.