The Mapmaker's Children (28 page)

FROM THE
NEW CHARLESTOWN SPECTATOR: A JOURNAL OF CIVILIZATION
, SEPTEMBER 16, 1862
WE ARE CAPTURED.

All residents are hereby ordered to remain in their homes, which are now under the direct command of Confederate General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson. Residents holding slaves must provide the appropriate paperwork for their property and be registered. Without proper registration, all assets will be confiscated and returned to the Southern States.

N
EW
C
HARLESTOWN
, W
EST
V
IRGINIA
A
UGUST
2014

T
hey sold out of the Original Pumpkin by half past noon, when the New Charlestown Humane Society did its Dog Days End walk. Seeing the animals, Eden had announced to the crowd that for every dog adopted, the adopting family would receive a month's worth of CricKet BisKets free. Vee added that they'd be delivered to the families' doorsteps by the Niles ice-cream truck, to boot. The last of the Apple Hill treats sold then, and Cleo took the names and addresses of the adopting families.

By the time trumpets had announced that the judges had the results of the baking contest, all that was left under the CricKet BisKet tent was a book on potty training puppies. Every
Holistic Hound
had sold, and Eden had secretly purchased the complete Detective Spot Mystery series for Cleo. Eden liked the idea of Cleo being able to dog-ear the books' pages without the constraints of a borrowed copy. There was something to possessing without fear of loss that made a thing even more precious. “For keeps” was a powerful notion.

Ms. Silverdash had stashed the collection while Cleo chatted up the Humane Society dogs. When the girl had returned to find them gone, she'd sighed, “I didn't even get to give my book review of
A Diplomatic Dilemma
.”

Eden had hidden her smile, knowing full well that the series was nestled beneath the giant jade plant on the bookstore's checkout desk.

Now Ms. Silverdash taped the
WILL RETURN SHORTLY
sign to the shop window, careful not to obscure the view of her new diorama.

“I can't wait to hear who won,” she said. “Though I'm sure I'll be
hearing about Morris's bellyache for the rest of the night, too. He has no willpower when it comes to pie.”

It was the last event of the Dog Days End: the baking contest awards ceremony. The crowd had gathered before the grandstand. Little Chrissy Smith, the mayor's thirteen-year-old daughter, won in the Crumbles Division for her Coffee-&-Currants Swirl. She skipped up the steps, where her proud mother presented her with the blue ribbon and a hug. Vee's strawberry Creamsicle blondies (a nod to an ice-cream bestseller) took a third in the Dessert Bars Division. Ham Mercy Cheddar Biscuits won in the Biscuits and Rolls. A three-tiered “Hey Diddle Diddle” cake took first in Frosted Cakes. The entire nursery rhyme had been elaborately piped out in buttercream.

“Too pretty to eat,” said Ms. Silverdash, and Cleo remarked, “I'd eat it.”

They quickly went through the Cookies, Candies, Yeast Breads, Muffins, and Cheesecakes in whatever order the corresponding judge caught Mayor Smith's eye. Finally, Mr. Morris was up.

He stood, bloated and sugar-weary, to announce the Pie category. The two women, Mrs. Myra Lemon and Mrs. Peachy Perfect, as Eden had dubbed them, sat front and center, their backs ramrod straight.

Mr. Morris nodded to them, then looked broadly over the crowd as he announced fourth, third, and second. “And the first-place pie for this year is…Suley Hunter and her”—he checked the card in his hand for the correct title—“Ida's Rose Water Cream Pie with Sugar Petals. Unique and delicious.”

“Hans Christian Andersen!” Ms. Silverdash exclaimed.

The fairy tale—“Little Ida's Flowers”! Eden clapped wildly and gave a hoot. Something she'd never done before, but it came out as thrillingly as she'd always imagined.

Suley timidly took the bandstand, her cheeks ablaze. Mr. Morris presented her with the blue ribbon and the fifty-dollar check given to all winners. She stood beside him holding each in hand, stunned by the
snap-flash
of the
New Charlestown Spectator
cameraman. Eden had to bite her
lip to keep from hooting again, but once she'd started, she couldn't hold back. Her joy and pride opened like one of Ida's flowers.

Laura Hunter, your child is a prize
, she thought and beat her palms together until they itched. “Suley!”

The girl locked eyes with her and smiled wide.

When the crowd had subsided to a low chatter, Mayor Smith cleared her throat. “Our last award is for a new division. Truth be told, the baking committee was ashamed that they hadn't thought of it decades ago. It was unanimously voted into all future Dog Days End Festivals and will no doubt become one of our most popular categories. It is my real honor to present the inaugural blue ribbon for the
Dog
Days Baked Good to Ms. Cleo Bronner and Mrs. Eden Anderson for their CricKet BisKets!”

Cleo hollered almost loud enough to break the glass windows up and down the street, and her glee set off a cacophony of cymbals and cheers and clapping. She led the stunned Eden by the elbow to the bandstand, where she shook hands with Mayor Smith, then held up the ribbon at the microphone.

“Thank you, New Charlestown! But we couldn't have made one CricKet BisKet without the help of Mr. Morris and Ms. Silverdash. So I'd like it if they'd come up here, too!”

Mayor Smith's eyes bulged with surprise. Mr. Morris was already on the stage. To compensate for her initial shock, Mayor Smith enthusiastically ushered him forward beside Eden and Cleo while Ms. Silverdash made her way so as not to cause a further fuss.

Before she'd reached them, however, Cleo grabbed the mike once more. “Oh—and Mack and Annemarie! We got our organic ingredients from Milton's Market on special order!” She pointed down into the crowd, where Mack stood bewildered beside a pretty blond woman wearing a Baby Bjorn, the soft head of a sleeping infant mushroomed at her breast.

The crowd chanted, “Miltons, Miltons, Miltons,” but Mack remained rooted until his wife grabbed him by the arm and led him up the steps. The two men hesitated; then Mack extended a hand, and Morris took it. Without waiting a second, Annemarie lifted her son right out of his swaddling and handed him to Morris, who flushed with pride. Mack put
an arm around his father and then, surprising everyone, Ms. Silverdash. The family stood linked across the stage with Cleo at the far end, waving the blue ribbon like a wand.

The crowd cheered even more.

Cleo leaned into Eden's side. “Where's Cricket? He deserves to be up here, too!”

Cricket? In all the busyness of the day, Eden had nearly forgotten the little guy. Concern burst like popcorn in her chest. How careless of her—to neglect him for so long. She chastised herself and ached to leave the stage, hold him close, and cook him the finest
Holistic Hound
dinner in celebration. None of this would've happened without him.

Frantically, she scanned the CricKet BisKet tent from afar and was relieved to spot the pumpkin-colored fur of his tail just where she'd seen it this morning. But even as she was relieved, something about the sight worried her. He slept more than any animal she'd ever seen, but usually he reminded her when it was time to eat, drink, or sniff out some patch of weeds to mark as his own. A whine, bark, nuzzle to the leg, lolling tongue—something to gain her attention. But she couldn't recall him moving an inch today.

Eden made a beeline for the booth, fighting the crowd, which was dispersing with happy chatter. When she reached the empty tent, she knelt by his side and put a hand to his back. “Cricket?”

He turned his head, and for the briefest moment, she thought all was right. Then she saw his stomach, distended to a tight football despite his having had no food or water since early that morning. At lunchtime, Mr. Morris had brought her bottled water from the café. She grabbed it and gingerly poured it into Cricket's mouth. He sputtered and pulled his body away like a beached sea lion. His nose was frigid. His gums, gray as chimney smoke.

He needed a doctor, a veterinarian. She should've taken him to one when they first got him.

Cleo returned. Seeing her distress, she set the winning ribbon aside and came to the ground. “What's wrong?”

Eden moved Cricket's fur to expose the ballooned belly.

Cleo touched it with a gentle finger. “Rock hard. Did he eat a shoe or something?”

Eden shook her head. “Not that I know of. He hasn't moved all day.”

“We need Dr. Wyatt.” Cleo's voice sounded pinched.

Vee came from the throng of people heading to their cars, now that the last festival event was complete. Surveying the scene without saying a word, she pulled out her cell phone. “Hey, Dr. Wyatt, it's Vee Niles. We got an emergency. No, McIntosh and Nutmeg haven't eaten more raisins. It's the Andersons' pup, Cricket. Great. Be over at your place in the hour.” She thumbed it off. “Him and my dad are golf buddies. You'll get stuck in traffic if you try to get your car out with everyone else. They used our truck to block off Main. I'll bring it up.”

“Thank you, Vee,” Eden whispered, grateful for new friends.

She pulled Cricket into her lap, and her own gut panged at his whimpers. “It's okay, baby boy, Dr. Wyatt is going to find the trouble. Don't you worry. Mama's here.”

She rubbed gentle circles up and down the swelling. His soft, dark gaze fixed on her face.

The festival was over. The Presbyterian church's bells rang, heralding the Saturday five o'clock service. But this time Eden didn't bid them be quiet. She prayed. She hadn't prayed in years. Conversations with a doll's head and her dog were totally acceptable, but communication with some superior entity had always fallen a bit too far on the fantastical side. When she and Denny were growing up, their mother had administered prayer as both righteous spells and wicked hexes that never came to pass. So Eden had little faith.

Now, however, she had the overwhelming conviction that someone was listening. She hadn't the practice to make an eloquent speech, like the priests of her mother's church. So she simply prayed,
Make him okay, please
. And hoped it was good enough to rise from the valley to heavenly ears.

NEW CHARLESTOWN POST

New Charlestown, West Virginia, October 6, 1862

Dear Sarah
,

The Rebels are now in control of this region and all correspondence therein. I pray Mr. Silverdash was able to bring this news to your goodly hand. No doubt you have read of the Battle of Harpers Ferry. The Rebels did a sweep of the Federal contraband. We had an hour's lead before they arrived on the streets of New Charlestown. Just enough time for Siby to bring Clyde and Hannah up from the Fishers'. Mr. Fisher refused to abandon his home, and Mrs. Fisher refused to abandon him. So we hid their three children in the root cellar. Mother covered it with her hooked rug and prayed the Rebs would take the pantry foodstuffs and be gone. We should've known they would be greedier. They made no attempt to conceal their repulsive lust
.

They bound me and forced me to the floor, tying Ruth and Mother's hands as well. So when they came at Alice, there was only faithful Gypsy to defend her. I heard the blast of the gun before her growl had settled to the floorboards. The soldier in command shot her straight through the muzzle. She dropped with teeth shattered like bloody kernels of corn. It was a demonic sight, a demonic act
.

Alice gave a banshee cry and came forward—toward Gypsy, I am certain, but the Rebels mistook it as aggression. A young soldier hit Alice over the head with his musket. She fell with her skull open as wide and wet as Gypsy's ruined mouth
.

I try not to hate him—the ignorant boy, terrified by the dog and the fervor of Alice's mourning. He should've been home helping with the harvest crop. We all should've been reaping our fields and preparing wood for winter hearths, but we aren't. We are here, embroiled in this hell. I know I can speak openly with you, Sarah. I cannot with anyone else
.

I failed to protect my family. I see the scenes in my mind like tintype images burned by light. Writing you is my soul's only salvation. Please forgive me for this lack of decorum between married man and unmarried
woman. Though we know each other's secrets well enough. Our old ways are no more. This war has shown the underbelly of humanity. The scales of righteousness have yet to be balanced
.

Raised in churches across the South, these Rebel men left us our “properties”—as they put it—realizing that they had gravely injured the simpleton daughter of a clergyman. Siby has not left Alice's bedside. The head wound seems to have completely unraveled the tapestry of her mind. She speaks in vowels we cannot understand, moaning through the days like an infant. With no physician to give us counsel, we fear that every hour could be her last
.

We continue to hide Hannah and Clyde. They tiptoe about the house like ghosts and spend countless hours in the cellar, playing make-believe with Alice's neglected dolls. The dolls' cropped hair reminds Hannah of her own. With their light skin and light eyes, Mother swears the two children could pass as white. Maybe in another place and time, but here, they are known for what they are and we don't dare take the risk. The best we can safely continue to do is forward your map dolls to southern stations. Your painted templates were made with perfect timing, Sarah, and have since been copied to great success! I thought you ought to know of that small but mighty victory in the light of all this unhappy news and more…

In the roundup, Mr. and Mrs. Fisher were captured and sent south to the slave markets. The Confederates are now using their home as a makeshift storehouse. With no foods to be found in the garden, they slaughtered Tilda—too old to carry a soldier into battle or pull a load of weaponry. They roasted her flanks over a bonfire and feasted as if she were a fatted calf. The smell lingered for days
.

We have not had word from Father since the capture of Harpers Ferry. If you hear news of his whereabouts, we would be eternally grateful
.

I have been consigned to serve as a man of God to the Confederate soldiers in New Charlestown. I shirk at these duties. Ruth daily reminds me that in the end, all men face the heavenly host without uniforms. She is right. But my heart has turned cold as a river rock. It is a weight in my chest. No warmth or rhythm. Just there, until I can find a private
hour to write to you. Only now do I feel a pulse. Only with you, Sarah. Forgive me for being bold, but it is written in Proverbs: “A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend that sticks closer than a brother.” Or sister, as the case may be
.

Love
,

Freddy

Fort Edward Institute, Saratoga, N.Y., November 1, 1862

Dear Annie
,

Yesterday I received word of the Hills in Virginia. It is even more terrible than our worst fears. Oh, sister! I am bereft. I cry and curse the blasted Rebels. I could not hide my grief from Mary Lathbury, so I have shared all of this with her. She graciously reached out to her friends actively involved in bringing information safely across enemy lines. I pray they will provide a good report of Mr. Hill so I might, at the very least, provide the family a bit of solace
.

Give my love to Mama and little Ellen. Keep vigil in North Elba. Those who despise our name will stop at nothing to see us and those we hold dear laid to the grave
.

Your loving sister
,

Sarah

North Elba, New York, November 20, 1862

Dear Sarah
,

The poison of slavery has spread everywhere! I was offered a teaching position in Virginia, but within a week of my acceptance letter,
threats came to our door—in North Elba. Even Father's city on a hill has grown venomous with the spies and bounty hunters! If we are not safe here, how much more danger awaits a Brown in the South. So I've canceled my obligation, though I wonder if the school will receive either letter
.

President Lincoln's preliminary Emancipation Proclamation has proven to be little more than fancy speech. As the Holy Word proclaims, it is not enough to speak of good intentions. One must correspond in deeds. Lincoln is no Father. And we Browns are not guaranteed welfare as we await a deliverer
.

Look to the Hills for example. Shall we sit in our kitchen, baking bread and burning wood, until a rogue guard rides up to steal and murder? No. We would be fools and deserving of a cruel fate. While I grieve for the Hills, I will not wait for a similar doom. We must learn from these friends and move to ensure that our family is protected
.

Mother, brother Salmon, and I have discussed and feel it best if we go west together. She asked that I send this correspondence to you after she had written Mr. Stearns, Mr. Sanborn, and Ms. Lathbury, which she has. It is arranged. You will return to North Elba immediately, and we will set off to our people in Iowa
.

I understand it will be difficult for you to accept this decision with charity. Be mindful that your artistic studies in Saratoga are of trifling substance if your life and the lives of your family members are the cost. Look to Father for example
.

If you fight us, it will only delay our inevitable departure and put all in peril. The sin of vain selfishness will bring ruin, Sarah. I tell you this as a loving sister so that you might be spared heavenly judgment. Be obedient and come home. Remember, you are a Brown. Not a Hill
.

Your faithful sister
,

Annie