by Mary Hogan
Until one late afternoon in 1833 when everything changed.
It was a typically striking day in New England. Maple and birch trees were ablaze in flaming orange. In preparation for winter, the Bartons were raising a new barn. As was customary, several men from the village were there to assist. It didn’t matter that the Bartons were odd. When a fellow farmer needed help building a new barn, all able men were on hand to help. Such was the New England way.
The rafters were already up. The long wood slats of the sides had been nailed together on the ground. All that was left to do was raise the sides and affix them to the sturdy frame.
Suddenly eleven-year-old Clara heard shouting through the open window of her bedroom in the house.
“Summon the doctor!” Panic was clear in the baritone voice. Like spatter from a puddle, the family scattered. Mr. Barton raced to the village for the town physician, his wife ran to the cabinet where she kept rudimentary medical supplies. Dorothea pounded her fists against her locked bedroom door. Little Clara dashed outside to the barn. There, she saw a sight she would never forget: the twisted, bloody body of her twenty-five-year-old brother, David. He lay on the ground, writhing in pain.
“He fell from the rafters. One moment he was straddling the center beam, the next . . .” The man’s voice trailed off in despair. Clara dove to her brother’s side.
A throng of men huddled around the injured David Barton. Several tried to shield young Clara from the awful sight of her brother’s broken body, but she refused to leave him until the doctor arrived. Not even when her mother scuttled through the crowd with clean bandages and wringing hands. Only when professional help appeared did Clara stand and melt into the crush of neighbors. Yet, she remained and watched. She saw the doctor calmly assess the damage, gently squeezing the bones in David’s legs and arms. The doctor’s relaxed breathing was a soothing tonic, soon quieting her brother’s moans. Clara noticed the way the doctor firmly hushed everyone when he pressed the ear trumpet to her brother’s chest for auscultation. She saw him take a fold of clean gauze from her mother’s hand and press it to the bloody wound on David’s forehead. Utterly composed. Completely in control. Calling for a stretcher, the physician directed the men to lift David onto the transport so gently the motion would not injure him further. Clara insisted on joining her parents on their way to the hospital. For the first time in her life, she felt unconcerned about herself and her shyness. Her brother’s well-being was all that mattered.
That awful day altered the trajectory of Clara Barton’s life. Her brother would survive, but his injuries would disable him for two years. During that time, he needed around-the-clock care. Little Clara volunteered. Her parents refused. But their young daughter was not to be dissuaded. With care and calm beyond her years, she proved that she was up to the challenge. At eleven, she changed soiled bandages, administered medicine, even applied and removed leeches when doctors suggested “bleeding” David to health. She demonstrated that she could care for her brother as well as any professional nurse. No longer would she be in the way. Clara Barton had found a purpose. At last, she felt useful.
CHAPTER 19
Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association
SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB
Summer 1888
In any semblance of honesty, I cannot claim that I don’t notice the moment James Tottinger enters the clubhouse. Even as my gaze never leaves the book I’m pretending to read. Dressed in my lavender cotton skirt and freshly pressed shirtwaist, with my hair in a flattering frazzle about my face, I’ve positioned myself on a red velvet settee in the clubhouse parlor. The color combination of red and purple is striking. Sunlight from the front window highlights the shine in my dark hair. I feel Mr. Tottinger’s scrutiny upon me in the tingle of my forearms and the flush in my cheeks. My right hand reaches up to turn the page, my neck swivels slowly. Steadying the book’s spine at an appropriate reading distance, I float my gaze from left to right at the speed of reading. In the background I hear chatter through the open windows from women who’ve gathered to visit on the porch.
“. . . oranges all the way from California. By train.”
“What could be more delightful than fresh marmalade in winter?”
Far behind me, on the opposite end of the lakefront veranda, male voices are faintly audible. Not that I need to hear them clearly to know what they are talking about: money. It’s all society men ever talk about when they are assembled with cigars and drink.
“Another careless Hunky burned his hand at the mill, costing me more than a hundred in underproduction.”
The volume of Mr. Tottinger’s presence raises the temperature in the room. I struggle to modulate the rise and fall of my chest. He struts closer to the corner where I sit, posed to perfection. The haylike aroma of his riding tweeds conjures the image of an accomplished equestrian. One who effortlessly leaps onto a steed and communicates his directives with a commanding squeeze of his thighs. Unlike Julian and Oscar, who are scared of a horse’s teeth.
“Is it always so frightfully warm?” James Tottinger asks me. The sound of his voice startles me for a moment, though my bearing betrays nothing save the pink tint on my cheeks and the slight sheen of nervous perspiration along the edge of my temples. Doubtful Mr. Tottinger will notice. He is a man accustomed to people noticing him.
“Pardon me?” I look up with a quizzical expression. My chest burns for want of air.
“The mountains in Europe are almost always cool.”
“Ah. Well. You’re certainly not in Europe now.” Without further comment, I cast my eyes downward and return to the pages of my book. Rude, I know. But following Mother’s strict instructions, I resolve not to engage Mr. Tottinger in conversation until we have been properly introduced. Let Francine Larkin march up to him with her arms outstretched. I will show the audacious man from England that I am no ordinary girl. Even as I couldn’t help but instantly notice his splendid velvet-edged sack coat and the derby bowler atop those playful golden-brown curls. He now stands near enough for me to inhale his ambergris scent.
At that moment, I silently pray that Mr. Tottinger will pivot on the heels of his shiny riding boots and join the men on the veranda so that I might breathe fully. My lungs are screaming for oxygen. Instead, I hear the sounds of his calm respiration. He doesn’t move an inch. With supreme effort, I quiet the quiver in my hand and deliberately turn the page.
Yesterday afternoon at the cottage, Mother sat me down to educate me on matters of the heart. Not that I ever requested such instruction.
“You must give Mr. Tottinger very little, so he will want very much,” she began.
“I have no interest in giving that conceited man anything.”
“My beautiful Elizabeth,” she said, cupping my cheek in the same way she caresses my little brother. “One day you will understand men as I do. They are in constant competition with each other. Remember that reality always. Right now the handsome Mr. Tottinger is not only the desire of your friends, he’s the envy of every young man at the club. And he’s been enticed by you. My darling, if you are able to maintain his interest while he’s here, every other man of means will want you, too.”
Noting the serene smile on Mother’s lips, I asked, “Is that how Father chose you?”
“It is indeed. Now, our goal is a lofty one but I believe you have positioned yourself brilliantly to achieve it.”
“What goal is that, Mother?” I was feeling nettled. I’d had my fun with James Tottinger. Putting him in his place. Though, true, he was blessed with the most pleasing features and a worldly way about him that inspired confidence at first sight. Such magnetism! It emanated from his being and instantly captivated us all. Still, I had no desire to pursue a further acquaintance. He lived an ocean away, for goodness’ sake. Wouldn’t my future be better served by beguiling a suitor closer to home?
“It’s all about choice,” Mother had stated. “Mr. Tottinger must defi
nitively choose you so every other man of his standing will want you as well. There is no better way to secure your place in society.”
I groaned at the ridiculousness of it all. Mother’s disapproving look silenced me. “You are too old to be naive,” she said.
Sadly, that was true as well.
“Before young Mr. Tottinger returns to England in two weeks, he must declare his desire to return for your debutante ball.”
“Mother!” I was aghast. My debut was still a year away. I had only begun the barest musings about whose hand I wanted to feel on my back as it steered me around the dance floor on the biggest night of my life. Since, of course, I already knew all the boys at the club—and had since birth—I was hoping for a newcomer. Every girl does. But an arrogant European? Hardly. I was praying for a New York financier. One whose head was full of numbers instead of the endless squabbles of millworkers or the secret medical woes of their bosses. How lovely to be whisked away from Pittsburgh’s blackened smokestacks for a life filled with daily strolls through the walkways of Central Park.
“We’ve been given an opportunity, Elizabeth, and we mustn’t squander it. Please don’t test my patience with your resistance.”
“But, I simpl—”
“Hush, now.” Mother held up her hand. “Tomorrow you must follow my guidance without question.”
“But—”
“Without question.”
Pouting was useless. On these matters, Mother was resolute. A locomotive steaming its way to the next station. There was no steering her off course. Reluctantly, I agreed.
So, here I sit, staring blindly at the paragraphs in my book, moving my eyes in the speed of reading, fearful that I shall soon expire for lack of sufficient air. Unbelievably, Mr. Tottinger refuses to move away. I sense his amusement. I believe I hear him chuckle. Mother never mentioned how to handle this. My chest is on fire. It takes all my strength to maintain the modulated up-and-down motion of natural respiration. If left to their own devices, my lungs would be pumping air like a fireplace bellows.
Just as I am plotting my escape—a graceful rise to my feet, polite nod to Mr. Tottinger, and elegant exit out the rear clubhouse door to scurry behind the nearest tree and gasp for air behind it—I hear Father’s voice.
“There you are, my dear.”
I raise my head. Father is looming over me with the elder Mr. Tottinger at his side. His stout and sour-faced wife and their bashful daughter stand in his shadow. As Mother arranged, no doubt. James Tottinger takes a small step back to make room for his family. I note the barest wisp of a grin on his nicely plump lips.
“May I present my daughter, Elizabeth,” Father says, extending his hand to assist me to my feet. Setting my book aside, I use the exertion of standing to inhale and exhale as deeply as possible within my corset. As I feared, it isn’t nearly enough oxygen to extinguish the fire in my lungs.
“Elizabeth,” Father continues, “I’d like you to meet the Tottinger family from Great Britain. Mr. and Mrs. Tottinger, their daughter, Ivy, and their son, Mr. Jam—”
“We met yesterday.” James interrupts Father to move forward and extract my palm from Father’s grip. I’m shocked. Taken aback by his insolence, I let my hand go as limp as a stocking left hanging over a chairback. Surely he can’t have the ill manners to consider my fashionable sashay through the clubhouse an introduction. A gentleman would never even mention it. I simply stare as James Tottinger removes his hat, bows, and presses his lips upon my hand. I use the brief moment to inhale and exhale deeply. Once he has lifted his head, I boldly meet his piercing gaze.
“Forgive me, Mr. Tottinger,” I calmly state. “I don’t recall being introduced to you before this moment. But it is a pleasure to meet your family.”
Turning ever so slightly away from him, I pluck my hand from his grip and transfer it to the elder Tottinger and his wife, who appears unable to erase the prunish look on her face. It feels as though my chest will soon ignite.
Observe how a lady displays discomfort. Hearing Mother’s voice in my head, I extend each vertebra in my spine. I ignore the torment my too-shallow breathing continues to cause me. With deliberate dignity, I bow my head to the Tottinger clan.
“I do hope you enjoy your stay in our little mountain retreat,” I say, inhaling. “Ivy, are you fond of croquet?”
The little mouse in the fussy dress blushes and mutters something I can’t comprehend. Her mother’s husky voice reprimands her. “Lift your chin and enunciate, dear. Miss Haberlin asked you a question.”
“I don’t know how to play,” Ivy stammers. Her eyes dart to the door, clearly desiring escape. Seizing the opportunity to escape myself, I gently reach for her hand and give it a soft squeeze. “I shall take it upon myself to teach you personally.”
Ivy beams. I suck in a hearty breath in the guise of my happiness at our upcoming recreation.
Of course, it was Mother’s suggestion that I befriend the shy sister. With her prissy ringlets and ankle-baring skirt, it’s clear that Mrs. Tottinger desires to retain Ivy’s childhood long past its natural demise. Poor little possum. She must be fourteen or fifteen. On the very cusp of womanhood. My heart is warmed by her awkwardness. I’ve always wanted a younger sister to groom in the ways of the world. First, I shall start with her unattractive hair.
“Was it not you in the bushes yesterday, Miss Haberlin?” James persists. I want to grind my heel into the top of his boot.
Father looks alarmed. “The bushes?”
“I’m quite sure we met then.” James Tottinger is obviously enjoying himself. “Although I do concede that it’s unlikely you would consider crouching in the mud a formal introduction.”
“Mud?” Father turns his wide eyes to me as I release Ivy’s hand and set my gaze squarely upon her brother.
“Once again, forgive me, sir. Was that you playing on the sand while I gathered specimens for my botany studies? I was far too absorbed in my educational endeavors to properly notice men at play.”
James Tottinger flings back his head and laughs with abandon. Quite unrequested, he gives us a clear view of his perfectly even molars. Yesterday, as I crouched in the birch thicket, I was too far away to note the alluring creases in his cheeks. Nothing as juvenile as dimples, but certainly far from a wrinkle. The best way to describe the animation in his expression is to say that his smile extends well beyond the limit of his lips to include the whole of his face and head. Even his hair seems amused. His green-blue eyes—not unlike Mother’s—join in the festivities of his enjoyment. They are the color of Lake Conemaugh on the coolest day of summer. James Tottinger’s eyes appear lit from within. At the moment, I can barely breathe at all.
“Might we start our croquet lessons today, Miss Haberlin?”
Stunning us all, Ivy speaks.
I smile broadly. “Only if you call me Elizabeth.” Retaking her hand, I say to the group, “If you will be so kind as to excuse us, Ivy and I have a rendezvous at the sports closet.”
Grinning like a child, Ivy allows me to lead her out of the clubhouse parlor. On our way out, I note Mrs. Tottinger’s initial protest, but her husband silences her with a grip on her arm. Out we go, all smiles. I feel the heat of Ivy’s brother’s approving eyes on me. I purposefully slow my gait and maintain a neck so elongated I sense the proximity of the ceiling. Never before have I been so impressed by Mother’s wisdom. The power surging through my veins supplants the pain in my depleted lungs.
As soon as we are safely behind the closed clubhouse door, I double over and violently suck air into my chest. “Forgive me,” I rasp. “My corset was fastened too tightly this morning.”
“It’s James,” Ivy says, simply.
“Who?” My eyes avert.
“My brother always causes women to lose their air.”
Allowing myself a full minute to regain the cadence of normal breathing, I rise up and smooth my skirt. I smile softly and place one hand on the frilly fabric covering Ivy’s shoulder. “Innocent flower, you
r brother has no such effect on me.”
“You find him unbecoming?”
Perhaps Miss Ivy is less timid than one assumes.
“Certainly his features are well proportioned. And his carriage is the personification of confidence. And his eyes sparkle like moss agate and—” I stop, abruptly aware of yet another quickening in my breath. I take moment to inhale and exhale fully. “Dearest girl, I prefer a man who would rather gaze at me than his own reflection.”
Erupting in giggles, Ivy scoops up my hand and says, “I believe I shall like you enormously!”
CHAPTER 20
WASHINGTON, D.C.
March 4, 1861
Little Clara Barton had come a long way. In spite of her insecurities—or, more likely, because of them—she barreled into adulthood determined to matter. Now forty, she lived in Washington, D.C., and worked at the U.S. Patent Office.
“Doesn’t that spinster have a father?” Her coworkers often whispered behind her back. All male, they resented her presence. Not only had she taken a fine job away from a man, she was an unmarried woman interloping in a married man’s domain. How could they be themselves around her? Since she’d obviously been unable to entice a husband, wasn’t it her father’s responsibility to put a roof over her head? Maintain his daughter’s respectability by putting her to work around the house? Or, at the very least, if Miss Barton insisted on employment outside her father’s home, why didn’t she do something feminine, like teach school?
Clara had taught school and hadn’t liked it. Why did every man assume every woman wanted to spend her days with children?
That day, March 4, 1861, Clara stood shoulder to shoulder with nearly everyone in Washington, D.C. Gray clouds threatened rain. Winter’s frost had barely receded. Yet Clara was happy to join the crowds in the cool air outside. As she waited along Pennsylvania Avenue, in front of the Smithsonian, her heart beat as fast as a thoroughbred’s. The day she had prayed for had finally arrived.
