“You can?”
“Yes. I have had the same difficulty.”
She offered him a questioning glance. “Then how is it you are able to concentrate on your work?”
“Work is different. It’s—” He shrugged. “Well, I don’t know, exactly. It’s just something I seem to lose myself in.”
The look of curiosity settled to a knowing smile. “You always wanted to be a newspaperman, didn’t you? I remember the conversations we’d have in those rare times at the hospital when the workload was light.”
They had talked about what they would do when the war was over. She’d eagerly awaited her brother’s return. He’d spoken of Boston. Elizabeth would listen to his descriptions of the city with great interest. He cherished every one of those moments. It did his heart good to know she remembered them.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve wanted to write since I was a boy. I feel like it’s what I’m meant to do. It may sound silly, but it is almost as if I feel God’s pleasure when I write.”
“It doesn’t sound silly. I see the excitement in your eyes when you talk about your work, especially the series of articles about the upcoming vote.”
“I imagine at one time sketching must have brought you similar enjoyment.”
She looked surprised. “How do you know that?” she asked.
“I saw it in the portraits. You have God-given talent, Elizabeth. You are a fine artist.” He wanted to renew his offer for her to accompany him while he covered the slave vote, but he did not dare. He wouldn’t push her into doing something she was not ready for, or try to coerce her into spending time with him. His compliment had drawn a pleasant color to her cheeks. That was enough. He considered it a victory just to see her smile.
* * *
Elizabeth appreciated his words of praise. She hadn’t picked up a stick of charcoal since Jeremiah’s passing, but David was right. Sketching had always brought her enjoyment, a measure of peace. In those moments of watching faces take shape on paper, God seemed close.
She missed Him as much as she missed Jeremiah.
“I will never leave thee or forsake thee...”
Even before Jeremiah died, Elizabeth hadn’t been able to formulate thoughts into prayers for a very long time. But she had been able to do so with her drawing pencils. Could she once again find God in the pages of her sketchbook? She didn’t know.
But perhaps...
They continued toward her house. She asked about his interview with delegates Nash and Van der Geld.
“It went well,” he said. “The article on both is to appear in tomorrow’s edition.”
Elizabeth nodded. “The vote on slavery is, what, two weeks away?”
“Less than that.”
“And if there are enough votes, the institution will be finally outlawed?”
“Unfortunately, no,” David said. “At least, not yet. This first vote is only to give the legislators permission to rewrite the state constitution.”
“Oh. But if they are given permission, then they will outlaw slavery?”
“If they can agree on how it should be done.”
She sighed. “That could take months.”
“Unfortunately, yes, and then the people will still have to vote on whatever changes are made. That probably wouldn’t happen until late summer, maybe even fall.”
“Are you to write an article for each day until then?” Elizabeth asked.
“Only until the April 6th vote, for now.”
“How does that work, exactly? Are you assigned a specific subject for each day?”
“No,” David said. “At least not for this series. Peter is leaving that up to me. He wants me to show all sides of the issue. I would like to present the slaves’ viewpoint in my next article, but I don’t have anyone particular in mind as of yet. I may start with the master’s perspective—perhaps one of the local textile merchants. I’m not certain.”
Why she asked her next question she was not sure, yet out it came. “Have you hired an artist?”
David blinked. A hint of a grin emerged on his face. “No, we have not,” he said. “Why do you ask? Are you reconsidering my offer?”
Elizabeth swallowed. For a moment she was about to respond with a firm no, but the look on his face was so pleasant that she could not bring herself to do so.
“I’m not certain...”
The grin shifted to a gentle smile. “That’s a safe answer.”
Indeed, Elizabeth thought. She was torn. For although she was apprehensive about taking pencil in hand again, she did so wish to try, and she hadn’t wanted to try anything for months. Sitting at home is accomplishing nothing. And if he is only covering a few textile merchants tomorrow, I need not fear.
“I’m not saying I would like to offer any sketches to your editor, but I would appreciate the opportunity to draw. I think...it may help.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Your idea is a capital one. You needn’t doubt your ability, but have no fear, I won’t try to persuade you to submit anything to Peter if that is not your wish.”
She appreciated his graciousness. “We will simply have ourselves an outing.”
“Yes. Simply an opportunity to take pencil in hand.”
That I can manage. “Are you certain, though, I would not be a hindrance to you?”
“Of course not,” he said decidedly. “I should be very pleased to have you accompany me.”
Pleased. Even after all the foot dragging I’ve done. “Thank you, David. I appreciate that.”
“It is my pleasure. I am expected at the paper first thing in the morning, but after that I will head out. I should be around to collect you, say, ten. Will that be acceptable?”
“Yes. Quite.”
They had arrived at her front gate. She asked if he would like to come inside for a bite to eat, but he declined. “I don’t want to impose, especially with your mother feeling ill.” With that he lifted his hat and smiled. “Until tomorrow, then.”
Elizabeth thanked him once more for his kindness, then she turned for the house. Trudy was just coming down the staircase when she stepped inside. Her color was better than it had been previously.
“How are you feeling?” Elizabeth asked.
“Much better, as is Mother. She is dressing and will be down shortly.”
Elizabeth was relieved to hear that.
“Where is David?” Trudy asked. “Could he not stay for dinner?”
“I invited him but he declined. He said he did not wish to be an imposition.”
Her sister smiled. “He is such a considerate man.” She then noticed the Bible. “Did he give you that?”
“Yes.” Elizabeth explained to whom it had once belonged.
“Oh, how gracious of him. Did you see the girls?”
“Yes. They were most kind, as well. By the way, Julia is bringing soup tonight.”
“Wonderful. Dare I say that it looks as though you enjoyed the service?”
Elizabeth wouldn’t go that far, but she was relieved to have finally faced her friends. She told her sister so and then mentioned her and David’s planned outing.
Trudy squealed with excitement. “Oh, how wonderful, Beth! You have wanted to be an artist since we were little! Oh, wait till Mother hears of this! My sister is a sketch artist for the Free American!” She turned, ready to run upstairs and tell the news. Elizabeth stopped her.
“I am not an artist for the Free American,” she corrected. “It’s only an outing. Just an opportunity to draw. I won’t actually be showing anything to David’s editor.”
“Not yet,” Trudy said with an impish grin. “I knew spending time together would be good for the two of you. You can help each other heal.”
Heal? Elizabeth knew Trudy meant well, so she did not say
anything contrary. Yes, David was sympathetic and considerate, and she appreciated this opportunity to accompany him, even if it was for experience alone. His presence had indeed been a comfort this morning as she took her first tentative steps back into life.
But it is still a life without Jeremiah.
She might learn to pray again. She might reenter society. She might even eventually get through a day without crying, but deep down, Elizabeth knew her heart would never heal.
Chapter Six
William Fish, the former provost marshal of Baltimore, had been convicted of his crimes and was on his way to a federal prison camp in New York. David finished up the article, then handed it over to Peter.
“Good,” the man said. “This will be front page, tomorrow’s edition.”
David smiled to himself. Front page.
“Where are you headed now?” his editor asked as he picked up another reporter’s work and began to read.
“Out to cover the slave vote.”
The man stopped reading. “A reminder,” he said pointedly. “Whichever side you choose to feature first, make certain you keep your opinions out of it.”
David nodded. “Don’t editorialize.”
“Exactly. You will have to be extra vigilant because you’ve just profiled delegates Nash and Van der Geld. The latter, you know, is one of those Unconditionals. Just the mention of the word is enough to make some men’s blood boil.”
Unconditionals were members of the National Union Party, and they now occupied a sizeable portion of the statehouse. While not every Unionist in Maryland believed loyalty to the federal government should come without question, the party had garnered votes in the previous election by making abolition a major plank. People who would have otherwise never voted to support candidates committed to strengthening the power of Washington were willing to lay down some personal liberties temporarily for the sake of outlawing a cause they so detested.
David, of course, wanted slavery to end and the country reunited, but he didn’t want the principles of freedom and democracy this nation had been founded on to be shredded in the process. He hoped that the more moderate politicians would keep the Unconditionals in check.
“Some readers will try to peg you,” Peter said. “They will speculate which side you represent. Tell the truth and tell it passionately, but do so in context, with sensibility and without bias.”
David understood. Politics could overshadow freedom. If he didn’t write carefully he would lose the opportunity for people to see the viewpoint of the slave.
With that warning, he left his editor’s office and returned to his desk. He gathered his journal and hat, then headed outside. As eager as David was to begin, the responsibility weighed heavily upon him. For one split second he wished he was back in Boston, fetching sandwiches and covering subjects no one cared to read about, anyway.
Give me courage, Lord. Give me the right words.
He also needed more direction. Yesterday he had considered starting with a master’s perspective, telling the effect the end of slavery could have on his business. Today, however, he felt he should clearly begin with that of the slave.
But where will I find a man or woman currently enslaved, brave enough to talk with me?
He stepped to the edge of the street. Baltimore was bustling on this early-spring morning. Buckboard wagons delivering goods to and from the harbor jockeyed with carriages of all shapes and sizes. While David waited for them to pass, he glanced at his watch.
I promised to meet Elizabeth at ten, but I had hoped to at least have a plan before doing so.
And with that, he knew what the real problem was. It had nothing to do with the Unconditionals or the slave-supporting voters. Elizabeth wasn’t even with him, yet already she was a distraction.
She was waiting in the foyer when he arrived, sketchbook in hand. The black dress bore witness to a woman still in mourning, but the white collar and cuffs showed her first attempts at moving forward. Uncertainty filled her eyes, but she offered him a timid smile.
David swallowed hard. Why did she have to look so beautiful?
“Are you ready?” he asked, hoping she did not detect the nervousness in his voice.
“Yes. I believe I am.”
Her bonnet was lying on the table. He offered it to her, then held the sketchbook while she tied a bow beneath her chin.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He said the most logical location he could think of. “The harbor.”
She blinked, cocked her head slightly to the side. “You aren’t going to the textile mill?”
“I have changed my mind,” he said. “I feel as though I should start with the slave’s perspective after all.”
“I see.” Now it was she who sounded nervous.
“Don’t worry,” he said, thinking she feared difficulty sketching a new subject. “Remember, this is just an outing. There is no pressure to perform.”
She nodded, but the look on her face told him she wasn’t entirely convinced of that. Even so, she slid her delicate hand into the crook of his elbow. David was surprised at how quickly he was becoming accustomed to having it there.
Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea, he thought, but it was too late to do anything about it now.
Elizabeth said very little as they walked down Charles Street. David took the opportunity to try and gather his thoughts. By the time they reached the waterfront, however, he was no closer to an article than he had been when he’d left the paper.
It wasn’t for lack of material.
The harbor was as busy as always. Nets of fish and crates full of cargo swung to and fro as workers saw to the various goods. Scattered about were bales of Southern-grown cotton, shipped from plantations and ports now under control of the US Army. The bales were awaiting transport to the various local mills where the raw material would be turned into shirts, hospital bedsheets and other items needed for the Union. Negro laborers, both free and bound, mixed with sailors and soldiers in blue.
Somewhere here there is a specific story to tell. I will find it. I will put it together. But at this moment, with Elizabeth on his arm, he was having great difficulty putting any thoughts together that did not include her.
Notes, David reminded himself. All I need at this point are notes. The article can be written tonight, when I am alone. In order to have notes, though, he had to have a specific subject, and he still didn’t have one.
Elizabeth was surveying the surroundings with a look of great interest—the most interest, in fact, that he’d seen her show in quite a while. “On whom should I be focusing?” she asked.
He removed his hat, scratched his head. There was no point pretending any further. “I confess, I don’t really know. I don’t know where to start.”
She offered him a compassionate smile. That made it even worse.
“Who do you see when you stand here?” she asked.
You, was his first thought. “A lot of choices,” he said.
“I suppose, then, the challenge is for us to find the best choice.” Eyes roving, she counted off the details, “Let’s see...there are two laborers by that cart. Over by the crabbing vessel are—”
Abruptly, she stopped.
David realized where she was looking. To the left of where they stood they could see Union Dock and the General Hospital where they had worked, the place where Jeremiah had died. His heart squeezed.
I’m such a fool, he thought. I shouldn’t have done this.
Elizabeth’s jaw twitched as she struggled to keep her emotions under control. “Perhaps, we should try down past the steamship.”
She turned before he could even offer his arm. David stepped quickly to catch her, for one of the sailors, a scruffy-looking rogue with a tuft of black chest hair, was giving her the ey
e.
“I think we should head back toward Mount Vernon,” he said.
She did not disagree. Features still taut, she immediately turned her back on the murky, dark water. David’s guilt, as well as his frustration, was great. The clock was ticking, a deadline looming, and so far the only thing he had accomplished was to upset Elizabeth while dragging her along on a very fruitless excursion.
Then it struck him that perhaps they were going about this the wrong way. Instead of seeking out a subject, they should allow the subject to come to them. “Why don’t we head over to the park,” he said, “and see what comes our way?”
“If you think that will help.”
That was just it. He didn’t know what would help.
* * *
The late March sunshine was strong, but it did little to warm Elizabeth’s heart. Sorrow had once again wrapped her in its icy shroud. Determined not to break down, she allowed David to lead her back to Monument Square. He was just as heavyhearted as she. She could see it in his eyes.
She wondered if the day would ever come when the two of them could think of Jeremiah without feeling pain. She suspected not. Her mother still deeply missed her father, and he had died four years ago.
I suppose grief is something we must learn to live with.
Reaching the square, they claimed a bench beneath a budding shade tree. She chose one end, he the other, and the sketchbook lay between. Neither of them said anything for a very long time. Elizabeth stared out at the green grass, but from the corner of her eye she saw David bow his head. He appeared to be praying.
She wondered who he was praying for. For himself? For her? For them both? Elizabeth was relieved he had not asked her to join him. She didn’t know what she would say to God, especially with David listening in.
She turned her attention to a robin hopping awkwardly a few yards before her. By his movements, Elizabeth guessed him to be injured. She felt sorry for him, perhaps even felt his pain.
He can no longer fly.
“I apologize for that business at the harbor,” David then said. “That was poor planning on my fault. Please, forgive me.”
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