So it was decided that James would live in Bedford as Nate and Hattie’s son. The wedding took place on a cold day in February, 1865, in the Bedford Presbyterian Church. James stood up beside his uncle for the ceremony, looking older than his almost nine years. When it came time to paint a new sign for Nate’s store, the wording was thus: Redfield and Schilling, Dry Goods.
One morning in April, Rebecca came running up the orchard, her skirts hiked like she was being chased by demons. I met her on the porch, fearing the worst. “It’s over! The war is over! Lee surrendered yesterday down in Virginia!” Her face was flushed, her eyes alight. I hugged her, and we danced around the porch for joy. Amos heard the goings on and came in from the barn.
“Papa! Papa!” I cried. “The Rebels surrendered. The war is won!”
Amos stood speechless, head down, in the middle of the yard, thinking of a return to peace and pacifism, I guessed.
It was five days later that Rebecca was back, walking slowly this time, her face ashen. “Oh, Ann. They’ve gone and killed Mr. Lincoln.”
I stared at her. “He was such a kind man, just what the country needed to help it heal,” Rebecca lamented. We sat down on a bench under the newly budding grape arbor to try and make sense of it.
One tragedy on the heels of another. So much news in so little time. It took some getting used to.
My mind wandered to the former slaves still in the south. Now Negroes walked freely on the streets of Bedford with barely a notice. For me it felt a little strange—like I was no longer needed. I thanked God for Rachel’s babies. Without them, I might have lacked a reason to live.
I wrote to Josiah, told him of my joy that the war was finally over and my hope that the former slaves would now know the joy of freedom. The Railroad was passing into history, and I reflected on my role in it with quiet satisfaction.
Josiah, free for ten years now, wrote that he was skeptical about the lot of free blacks in the South. For him, the bitter and complete southern defeat and the appalling ignorance of most slaves was a recipe for exploitation and discrimination. Still, he rejoiced in freedom for his people and worked harder to bring more of them to Canada, where the future looked brighter than in the south.
With Nate’s wedding, the number around the Redfield table was again reduced by two. In some ways it felt like a little family. Grandfather Amos, Mother Ann, Father Preston, and two children. A fantasy family, to be sure, but still all I had ever wanted in life.
Preston came and went between our house and Ben’s farm, asking little and working hard. Rebecca said he’d saved Ben’s back and his sanity. I was grateful for that, but it was another side of Preston that interested me. He was a man of the world in my eyes. He’d often traveled to Philadelphia and Baltimore to attend Yearly Meetings, and he opened my eyes to the wider world of the Quaker faith. The Society of Friends might be losing ground in these western counties, but it was alive and well in the east and in far flung places like Indiana and Iowa, even California.
“You should go to Yearly Meeting, Ann. You’d meet interesting people and learn how wide the Friends’ influence is,” he told me.
The idea was appealing, but I hesitated. Why was he asking me? Would he have extended the same courtesy to anyone? I put my doubts aside, and decided to join him and a small group from Dunning’s Creek Meeting for the trip to Baltimore. I still loved the Quaker faith, was proud of the pacifism, equality, moderation, and self-restraint it stood for. I’d once dreamed of attending Yearly Meeting at Elias Finley’s side. Now I understood how the answer to some dreams was, ‘Wait’. Going at Preston Neff’s side was a far more worthy dream.
I sought a favor from Deborah Finley. “Can Ellen and John stay with you while I go to Yearly Meeting?”
“Of course! Ellen and Sarah will be happy playmates for a few days, and John loves to play big brother to my Elias. What about Amos?”
“Rebecca says he can take his meals with them.”
“Yearly Meeting! Aren’t you excited, Ann?”
“Oh, yes! I can hardly wait, though I’ve never been before. I don’t really know what to expect.”
“I’d love to go,” Deborah said, starry eyed.
“Your turn will come,” I assured her with a pat on the hand. “Life isn’t over for you yet.”
Thus freed of responsibility, Preston and I met the group at the Meeting House and traveled to Hagerstown, where we boarded the train to Frederick. We spent the first night in Quaker homes there and continued on the train the next day to Baltimore. Preston escorted me to the home of his uncle, Robert Neff, where I was introduced to Robert’s wife, Susan, and his daughters, Mariah and Miranda. We four women fell together like old friends, talking about the issues that confronted the Society.
“You’ll love Yearly Meeting, Ann,” Susan Neff assured me. “Women’s rights will be on the agenda this year, and high time!”
Such talk awakened interests I didn’t know I had. The Neff women were open and outspoken. Their animated conversation kept me up late every night. I’d never experienced such intellectual stimulation, and I reveled in it, thriving on the energy it awakened in me.
“I’ve heard of these issues before—of Seneca Falls and the Declaration—but only vaguely. This is the first time I’ve met anyone with intention to act upon them,” I told Susan Neff as we sat in the parlor one evening. Preston and Robert were still engaged in Society business and wouldn’t return until late.
The next day, I listened in rapt attention as a parade of Quaker women addressed the conference, modestly self-congratulatory for the victories of abolition and the Underground Railroad, and exhorting the group to new action in the area of women’s rights. “What good,” they asked, “does it do black women to shed the bonds of slavery only to retain the bonds of gender? Why should any person be deprived of rights others enjoy simply by accident of birth?”
My head was still spinning three days later when Preston and I boarded the train for the trip home. At first, I was shy about addressing the topic of women’s rights with him, but he brought the subject up.
“What did you think of my girl cousins?” he asked. “And their confrontational attitude on Women’s Rights?”
“I loved it!” I blurted, in spite of myself. “I’ve always felt that women needed to assert themselves more, and I’ve certainly met some kindred souls!”
Preston laughed. “I knew a trip to Baltimore would unleash some tumult in the Redfield house!”
He wasn’t at all threatened by the prospect of associating with a strong woman, for that is what I was – had always been. Now I was confident enough not to hide it away. We talked almost all the way back to Bedford, finding ourselves in delighted agreement on many points. I was giddy with the excitement of new ideas and new horizons, and, though I tried, I couldn’t keep myself from hoping that a true union of souls might still be in store for me.
When we got home, it didn’t take long for my new found inspiration to find a voice. The very next First Day, I stood at Meeting and preached—yes, preached—my first testimony on equal rights for women.
“You can not profess to believe in equal rights and still deprive the women in your own family of the right to a voice in government and a share in the decision making.”
The ideas weren’t new, but my call to action stirred some underlying discontent among the women and opened the way for serious discussion across the aisle.
Preston, on his side, supported me and pressured the men to put into action the equality they professed belief in. It was the liveliest Meeting in recent memory—at least since before the war, when abolition held sway. People stood outside talking in small groups well into the afternoon. I visited with Rebecca and her sister Hannah, but my eyes scanned the crowd for Preston, ever conscious of his whereabouts.
Try as I would to resist, I felt myself drawn to him. My cautious nature made me wary. Elias’ treachery still lingered in memory. It was coming up on a year since Preston had appeared in our lives
, and my good opinion of him had grown steadily. Still I tried to keep a tight rein on my feelings, this time not revealing to anyone that I saw him as a dream postponed, even though I guessed there was talk. There is always talk.
The summer came in full blown. Life at Redfield Farm was routine but never boring. My newfound interest in Women’s Rights flourished, and I was soon the center of a small but determined group of female Friends who shared the writings of women like Lucretia Mott and Elizabeth Cady Stanton over canning, preserving, or quilting. I spoke up with more courage and frequency at Meeting. One cause is won and another takes its place. Life goes on. It is ever thus.
One evening in July after helping me wipe the dishes Preston whispered, “Let’s go for a walk along the creek.”
I untied my apron and patted my hair. I noted the children playing on the porch with Amos, and followed Preston across the yard and down over the hill to Dunning’s Creek. As we walked, he took my hand. He’d never actually touched me before, beyond rubbing shoulders in a crowded coach or offering a hand to help me up or down. His touch sent an impulse through me, and I shuddered involuntarily.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“No. Someone just stepped on my grave.” I spoke lightly, determined to mask my joy.
We walked hand in hand down over the hill to the creek in the July twilight. We stood looking into the clear water, keenly aware of each other. He turned to face me, taking both of my hands in his. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Really? About what?”
“About us.”
“Us?”
“Yes. You and me.”
“What about us?” Now my heart was pounding so hard I was afraid he could hear it.
“Well, I was thinking maybe we could marry. Raise these two children. Maybe have one or two of our own,” he said, hopefully. “I’ve learned to love you, Ann.”
My hands began to shake and I pulled away. Love! He’d said he loved me! No one, not even Josiah, had ever said that. How could I be worthy?
“Preston, there is much you don’t know,” I faltered.
“What? I know all about it. Josiah. Sam. All of it.”
“How? How do you know?”
“People talk, Ann. They talk all the time—about everyone. I picked it up from my sister Melissa, from Deborah Finley, from Ben and Rebecca. You’d be surprised how free they are with information when they think you already know. But it doesn’t matter.”
My eyes searched his. I felt myself carried away by an irresistible current. Too weak to stand, I sank to the ground. “How can a man like you love me? What do you see in me?” I asked.
“I see a woman whose dreams were dashed but who rose to the responsibilities life placed in her way. I see a woman whose life has been spent in sacrifice, who has taken risks many men would have shrunk from.” He was kneeling at my side, holding my shoulders from behind. Slowly he lifted me, guiding me gently along the path until we came to the same woodlot where Jesse and I had met the two slaves twenty-eight years before. We sat on a fallen log, watching the creek bubble along, listening to the frog chorus.
Preston straddled the log, facing me. “I want you to be my wife, Ann. I won’t have it any other way.” He pulled me to him and kissed me.
I leaned against his chest, my head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent. It felt so good to be there. Tears filled my eyes. I’d waited so long.
“Marry me?” he asked.
“Yes. Gladly.”
So the intention to marry for Ann Redfield and Preston Neff was declared at Second Meeting, Eighth Month, and the ceremony was witnessed by family and friends in September, 1865.
I was thirty-seven, and, having had only one encounter before this, I felt compelled to waste no more of my life in chastity. From our first coupling on the creek bank until our marriage, we indulged ourselves daily, adroitly avoiding Amos’ watchful eye. That made it all the more delicious and the need more pressing. I fully expected to be with child on my wedding day. In fact, I wanted it that way.
Christmas of 1865 should have been the most joyful in years, but as I knew well, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Preston, Amos, and I agreed to make a special Christmas for Ellen, John and James.
Amos set out early on the afternoon of the 20th to cut a Christmas tree but did not return by supper time. I knew instinctively something was amiss. Preston and I bundled up the children and took them over to Ben’s. Unaware of my fears, Ellen and John immediately fell to playing with their cousins while Preston and I enlisted Ben’s help in the search. We found Amos dead in the snow up on the hill behind the house, beside a half-chopped evergreen.
Preston held me close while Ben picked up the ax and, without a word, finished chopping down the tree. Then he and Ben laid Amos on the sled. Ben and I pulled the heartbreaking burden home while Preston followed, dragging the tree.
Chapter 36
1866
Amos’s will directed that his estate be settled and the proceeds divided evenly among his six surviving children, Rachel’s in equal shares to James, Ellen and John. In letters back and forth to Indiana, the brothers and sisters agreed that Preston and I should keep the farm, buying out my siblings’ shares. Preston left the negotiations to me, encouraging me to oversee my own financial arrangements. I was grateful for that. Once the estate was settled, we made a few modest changes to bring the place up to date.
The farm is rocky and hilly, so I set aside only a few acres for planting corn and oats. On the rest, we grew hay and pastured Ben and Preston’s horses. The barn stored hay and provided shelter for our cow and a few more horses, the overflow from Ben’s. Even now I sometimes stand in the barn and look up at the hay loft, remembering the people who passed through. It always seemed to me there were ghosts in there.
Slowly, the community—as the nation—returned to normal after the war, but it would never be the same. Too many men and boys had gone away, never to return. Too many had returned scarred or maimed. Some of the scars were invisible, but they played themselves out in unforeseen ways. Ways which couldn’t be clearly blamed on the war. But I always thought bad behavior—abuse and insensitivity to others’ pain—had its roots there.
In July, 1866, I gave birth to a baby girl whose name, Patience, was promptly shortened to Polly. Preston’s joy in having a child again was as deep and wide as mine. Her name was testament to my view of life: good things come to those who wait.
October brought a long anticipated visit from Jesse and Abby, come east to buy more nursery stock. Their family now numbered five: little Margaret Ann, named for her maternal grandmother and her ‘favorite aunt’, and twin boys, Jesse and Josiah, the pride of their father’s heart.
“I wouldn’t have moved west if I’d realized how important it would be for these little ones to know their cousins,” Jesse told me. I listened with hope. I still wished he’d never left.
Timed to coincide with Jesse’s visit, but unbeknownst to me, was a visit from another place. One evening as we all sat down to supper, four adults and six children, there came a knock at the door. A look passed between Jesse and Preston, as Jesse said, “Ann, you’re closest. Would you see who it is?”
I rose and crossed the room, brushing off my apron, and opened the door. There stood a tall, handsome Negro boy of about eleven. He smiled broadly and said, “Hello, Ann Redfield. Remember me?”
With a cry, I reached out and gathered him to me. “Sam! Where did you come from?”
Sam was joined by Josiah, Lettie, Ann, Athena, and Amanda, (or the “Three As,” as Sam called them). Now sixteen people crowded around the table; introductions were made and more food brought forth. It was better than Christmas.
“I’d no idea you were coming,” I told Josiah.
“I know. That was the plan Jesse and I put together.”
I looked from Josiah to my brother. “I might have known!”
We made beds to accommodate six adults and ten children. When the children were finally bed
ded down all over the parlor floor and up in the nursery, Preston and I, Josiah and Lettie, and Jesse and Abby sat around the stove in the kitchen, talking long into the night. There was so much to catch up on that letters couldn’t tell.
Once the children were asleep, I took Preston aside. “Are you sure this is all right with you? Their being here, I mean.”
He smiled and kissed me on the forehead. “No need to worry yourself, wife. Your joy is my joy.”
Reassured, I basked in the happiness of reunion and pride in my son.
The company stayed for a week, and the walls of the old house nearly burst with the strain of youthful exuberance. Children everywhere, from Sam on down to Polly, and when Ben’s children and Betsy’s boys came to visit, it seemed the whole world was full of noisy, raucous fun. Mary and Noah Poole brought their family from Osterburg after Meeting, and Nathaniel and Hattie came out from Bedford with young James and the announcement that they would soon add another grandchild to the flock.
It was Indian Summer, a brief respite before the coming winter, and we women congregated on the back porch to watch the rip, race, and tear of the bigger boys contrasted with the quiet pretend games of the girls.
“Wouldn’t Mother and Father love this?” I asked no one in particular. “Twenty-two grandchildren! We have certainly flourished and multiplied!”
“I love a reunion,” Rebecca reflected. “It’s neither a beginning nor an ending, but a touchstone between the past and the future.”
I nodded, satisfied with my part in it. We were strong, hard working, responsible people, the kind the earth needed more of. Amos and Martha were not there to see it, but that in no way diminished their role.
I sought out Preston one evening, longing to touch him and re-establish our bond. It was not threatened—no, it was strengthened by exposure to the broad texture of my family and my life before him. I simply needed to touch him—physically and spiritually—before going out among them again.
Redfield Farm Page 28
