by J. F. Collen
Nellie laughed at her sister’s imitation, mimicking her father’s brogue exactly. Anastasia chewed her bottom lip and twisted her face into a scowl. Nellie knew her sister would not let the subject rest until she deduced Nellie’s method of persuasion.
“’Tis true, it took far more calculated cajoling than that simple statement. But I have been pestering them for an overnight stay since last summer—when my visit transpired exactly as I had promised. I established my credibility. Lacking evidence of any tragic incident, or more importantly lacking my conversion to the Methodist faith, I have finally wrested agreement for my overnight stay at the camp... as long as it is properly supervised by trusted aristocratic friends of the family.”
“Harrumph,” said Anastasia, “You should immediately request the permission be extended to allow me to accompany you!”
Nellie smiled but did not rise to the bait.
“Harrumph!” Anastasia said again, and put her hands on her hips. A petulant tone crept into her voice. “My favorite time of year is still winter. I far prefer watching the ice cutter cut a path through the Hudson to watching a camp of singing heretics.”
Nellie laughed. “I still do too,” she said loyally and gave Anastasia a hug.
But when she pictured the dashing young Louisianan gentleman, Hannibal Rufus Calhoun, whom she met at the Eve’n song, she shivered with anticipation. Over the course of the year, he had sent two letters, further sparking her eagerness for this year’s meeting. Rereading Hannibal’s courting words quite literally made her heart throb.
Nellie leaned a little further out her window, watching the motion of the Hudson. She observed a sudden flurry of March snow make the tidal water choppy, and looked through the snowflakes at her memories of last year’s camp. She imagined she could feel the August heat that drove thousands from the hot City. She pictured the tents and cottages, filled to capacity with pilgrims, enjoying the blissful cool of the Sing-Sing woods and listening to hourly scripture readings. A continuous stream of charismatic preachers would delight the faithful with their sermons and anecdotes once again when this summer’s ‘dog days’ rolled around.
Nellie sighed, remembering. The Entwhistle family lived an easy forty-five-minute walk from camp, but she rode in style in the Van Cortlandts’ lavish carriage to the daylong prayer meeting.
The event was a spectacle: impassioned preachers shouting of Fire and Brimstone, promising grim punishment in Hell for the wicked, which moved the faithful to shout Amen and sing Alleluia. Interspersed with the preaching and spirit-moved testimony, the congregation joined in heartfelt singing, and loud praising of the Lord.
It was mesmerizing.
Still, she felt that she missed half the fun by going home right after Even’song. She blushed as she confessed to herself the real reason she had not wanted the day to end. The Louisianan. Were all Southern Gentlemen that dashing, that handsome? She had spied him out of the corner of her eye at the morning welcome session. After exchanging many looks throughout the day, the young gentleman finally approached her for a conversation before Even’song. So smitten by his attention, she barely knew what she said to him. Nellie shook her head, remembering her disappointment at the brevity of the encounter. The important outcome: he had obtained her address, and her permission to correspond.
Her taste of the camp’s carnival atmosphere last year had only whetted Nellie’s appetite for more. She envied the devout Church members who spent weeks there.
If truth be told, Anastasia is right. Mutter only granted permission after I produced the trustworthy Mrs. Van Cortlandt, who vowed to chaperone and keep me safe. Her credentials are impeccable: a most esteemed member of the venerable Methodist family who donated their land for the camp. Even Mutter could not argue when Augusta Van Cortland’s mother promised her supervision. After all, the Campwoods grounds are located at the edge of the Van Cortlandt estate—it’s almost as if I were staying at their house....
This year, I shall stay in one of those darling tents, erected each year for the traveling faithful, Nell dreamed, staring harder through the snow turned to raindrops, trying to remember the stark white canvas of the tents, gleaming in the summer sun, flaps tied invitingly open.
Intuition informed Nellie that Hannibal Rufus would be there this year, even before his letter on Monday confirmed his arrival in August.
The first signs of spring were evident in the warm weather and mud the following Sunday.
The entire Entwhistle family hustled to the warehouse currently housing Saint Augustine’s Catholic Parish. They marched, in bunches, down Water Street to Sunday Mass. Mrs. Entwhistle, leading the group, paused to chat with an acquaintance as she waited for the stragglers to catch up. Nellie, already at her mother’s elbow, heard the woman say their town anticipated an influx of 60,000 people at this summer’s encampment. She could not even imagine that many people in one place at one time. Of course, she reasoned, they would not be gathered exactly at the same time—they would come throughout the course of the summer.
Their walk to worship ended in Doctor Benjamin Brandreth’s storehouse, near the dock of the Brandreth Pill and Porous Plaster Factory. Ever since he was President of Sing Sing, Doctor Brandreth allowed their parish to celebrate Mass in his gas-lit warehouse each Sunday, rent free, while the parishioners raised the funds to build their own Church. Certainly, it was not as fine as attending Mass at the home of John and Bridget O’Brien, but it was a far sight better than having to take a long carriage ride to Verplank to attend Saint Patrick’s, Nellie thought.
After Mass, a woman in an elegant hat chatted with Gertrude Entwhistle, expressing her joy at the expected number of revival attendees. Nellie watched the ships cutting back and forth in the water, and mooring at the dock as she unashamedly eavesdropped.
“The Campwoods is quite the topic of conversation today! What care you of the infidel strangers inhabiting our wood?” demanded Mrs. Entwhistle.
“Not a whit,” assured the woman. “My interest is purely economic. The fashionable ladies last year made quite the fuss at my husband’s millinery shop. The annual pilgrimage to Campwoods engenders a bountiful boost in sales.”
It has engendered a ‘bountiful boost’ for me as well. Nellie giggled at the thought.
That afternoon, curled in a cozy spot on her bed, Nellie finished reading Ivanhoe. She stretched, yawned, and resumed her reverie from her garret window. She cast rhapsodic eyes on the gray swells of the river, rising, and now more gently curling, and breaking on the sandy riverbank in front of her.
Today the misty spring weather softened the majesty of the Hudson. As she watched, the clouds ceased their race across the sky and gathered into one mighty cumulus, obliterating the sun. In a dramatic move, the huge cloud burst, rain immediately pummeling the entire scene. The shower vacillated from rain to snow, and back again. Nellie’s mood fluctuated along with the change of precipitation, alternating from cool anticipation to warm desire and yearning. The black of the naked trees on the shoreline blended into the grey green river, but then revivified in the burnished black of the mountains that hugged its far side. The dreamlike colors corroborated Nellie’s suspicion that the river was holding secrets, just like the characters in Sir Walter Scott’s novel and those in the depths of her own heart.
‘Tis the perfect weather for reading, Nellie concluded, transferring her romantic thoughts back to the Middle Ages. But Ivanhoe should have married Rebecca! Her acumen and attributes were far superior to Rowena’s.
Howsoever, in spite of the less-than-satisfying ending, Sir Walter Scott must also author the next book I read. He is an adroit weaver of tales. What a complex romance!
With a burst of energy, she ran down the back stairs, almost two at a time.
“Where is your sense of decorum?” Mrs. Entwhistle admonished Nellie’s specter streaking through the kitchen.
Nellie closed the door of the library behind her and inhaled. Yummm, the smell of leather bookbindings is almost as intoxicati
ng, and maybe even as enticing, as the smell of the sea!
Nellie looked around the Entwhistle library, filled with their precious books. Although every square inch of these walls are lined with books, from floor to ceiling, I fear I have read most of our offerings. I wonder how many unread books remain?
In a trance of concentration, Nellie climbed the ladder of the track that encircled the bookcases, trying to remember where the rest of Sir Walter Scott’s novels lived. In the process, her hand lingered over The Spy from James Fennimore Cooper, a fiction about the Revolutionary War. Rumor had it, the novel was based on the father of Sing Sing’s Union Hotel’s innkeeper, Enoch Cosby Jr.
I did so enjoy this intrigue too. Perhaps it is more compelling to read a story of contemporary romance, set right here in New York, in our current epoch.
Idly, she put her foot on a shelf and gave herself a little push along the track to allow the wheels to ferry her to the next section of the bookcase.
Suddenly she hurtled forward.
A scream escaped from her startled lips.
The ladder shot down the length of the wall and swung wildly around the corner. Nellie would have fallen off, but for her excellent reflexes. She stuck her foot out to catch a shelf and the ladder screeched to a halt.
Panting, Nellie caught her breath as a laugh peeled from the gloomy recesses of the room.
“Matthias, you little urchin! That was most unfair and most unwelcome,” Nellie said, in a loud authoritative, no nonsense voice.
“Aw, shucks Nell!” the crushed little voice said. “Ya didn’t like it? Warn’t it a grand wild ride?”
Surprised that her brother was not out to cause mischief, but rather to play, Nellie said, “Mercy! I did not even consider whether it was fun. It was too unexpected, too terrifying.”
“I could push you again when you are ready,” offered Matthias.
That vexing little devil! Could he truly only want to engage me?
Nellie smiled. “Perhaps I should let you have a ride first?” she asked.
“Huzzah!” shouted Matthias. “How did you know?”
“You dickens!” exclaimed Nellie. “Did you push me merely to ensure I would push you in return?”
“Well, it did occur to me that I could never garner enough steam to really whip the turns and then come back to center all on one of my own pushes,” said Matthias. “Simple mechanics. Some of the force necessary is lost because I can only push with one foot whilst I balance on the ladder with the other.”
Nellie watched him attach himself to the ladder, arms around a rung, hands clasped.
“Ready, steady, go!” she shouted and pushed with all her might.
She launched her brother down the short end of the wall, past the fireplace, around the first curve, down the entire length of the next wall, around the next curve, and across the back wall. When the ladder reached the end of the track at the back wall, instead of grinding to a halt, it rebounded and rushed back from whence it came, all the way around the first curve, stopping in the middle of the long wall.
“Eureka!” shouted Matthias. “I knew it only needed more force.”
“That should suffice your curiosity. Now let’s stop this foolishness.”
“But you did not have a proper turn.”
Nellie hesitated. She really did want to see if she could ride the ladder all the way around and back on one push. She walked over to the ladder and put her foot up. But Matthias still clung on.
“An even better experiment would be for you to ride with me, to see if we go as far if we both push!” he exclaimed.
After a few tries they figured, if they both pushed off, and then jumped on, Matthias on the inside next to the book lined wall (he was still small enough to squeeze through the corner) and Nellie on the outside, they were able to ride there and back twice.
This is truly exhilarating! Nellie thought, much like sledding down the steep Broad Avenue hill. They tried it one more time.
It was one time too many. Matthias jumped on a bit late and as a result forgot to tuck his tail sufficiently to clear the corner. Crash! His rear end cleared a whole shelf of its contents.
“Gott im Himmel, was ist los mit du? Ach, what is the matter with you?” growled Mrs. Entwhistle from the back doorway.
The children hung there and looked at the books, and then at the wall, anywhere, to avoid meeting their mother’s eyes.
“You will shake the walls from their joists. Pick up those books. What monkey business is this?”
Nellie and Matthias still clung to the ladder, stacked on either side, as if smelted to the rungs.
Mr. Entwhistle came running into the library. When he saw Matthias and Cornelia, he burst out laughing. “For the love o’ Saint Paddy! I’ve nary seen a ride like that. Ye know, I’ve always wanted to give that fancy ladder a go. Mutter, what do ye think?”
“James, you are incorrigible. What kind of an example is that?” Gertrude demanded, hands on her hips.
“A good, scientific one, for our future engineers,” said her husband, eyes twinkling.
“Papa, how did you know? I was trying to discover the correct amount of force required to clear the two turns and also return to the straightaway without derailing from the track.” Matthias jumped down and ran over to his father, while Nellie unhitched herself and began picking up the books.
“Let’s see how much force it takes for me!” said Mr. Entwhistle, stepping up the lowest rung of the ladder. He caught the look his wife threw him. “Now, now, colleen o’ me heart, ‘tis no harm done with a wee bit o’ fun and experimentation.” He gripped the ladder but then stepped down toward Mrs. Entwhistle.
“Yer right, Mutter. What was I thinking?” He ran his hand over his hair in his familiar habitual gesture of contemplation.
Nellie and Matthias hung their heads. “The jig is up.” Nellie whispered to Matthias.
Mrs. Entwhistle looked relieved.
But her husband continued, “Where’s me manners? ‘Tis ladies first!”
Her mother’s face was a battle of emotions. Nellie was not sure whether anger, decorum, or fun would win.
“Come on, Trudy, have a go,” encouraged Mr. Entwhistle.
“Ach, es machts nichts! It doesn’t matter,” she said, smiling at last. “The thought has always intrigued me, ever since I was a little girl.
Nellie and Matthias looked at each other in disbelief.
Matthias whispered to Nellie, “Horsefeathers! Now I want to try Grandmama’s ladder too! Their library is twice as big as ours. Their ladder runs around the whole room, not just three sides like ours.
Nellie whispered back, “If I had my druthers, I would ride their ladder and read all their books!”
The children watched their father hand their mother on to the lowest rung of the ladder and steer her with gentle pushes around the circuit of the track. Mrs. Entwhistle laughed genteelly the whole way around.
Agnes came bursting through the door and stopped still, hands on her hips, her mouth twisted in an unbecoming pucker of disapproval. “Well I never!”
Suddenly she burst out laughing. “Sakes alive!” said Agnes. “I shall inform both my older brothers. Now I needn’t feel guilty for keeping lookout while they surreptitiously rode the ladder.” Their mother gave a startled, disapproving sound but their father pushed her hard. Mrs. Entwhistle giggled as she sped back to the center of the room.
“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” Jonas burst in the room. “We are permitted to ride the ladder? Why was I not invited?”
Chapter 5 – Anticipation
Sing Sing, August 1848
Nellie found it impossible to stay still. She squirmed her way through Latin and piano lessons, checking her watch every couple of minutes, not even bothering to replace it in the breast pocket of her middy shirt. That most prized of all her possessions, her Swiss pocket watch, a special gift from her father, dangled on its gold chain down her bodice. As she raced through her chores, the gold watch bobbed and swung wit
h every move.
“I declare, you will wear that thing out!” said Anastasia, shaking the feather duster at her sister. “Fear not, suppertime approaches, and the carriage will arrive shortly.”
But it would not be soon enough for Cornelia. After the midday supper, she would journey the short distance to The Campwoods Meeting Grounds for her overnight stay at the Methodist Revival.
In a few short hours, she would be listening to that most eloquent of preachers—Reverend Stowe. Impatiently, she wrestled with her embroidery. She squirmed in her seat to see the Grandfather clock in the hallway, twisting her linen out of its frame in the process, her pocket watch swinging wildly. The needles slid off the material and the threads snarled in a vicious tangle, ensnaring her watch.
“Tarnation!” she muttered, angered not by the hopeless tangle of her crewelwork, trapping her watch, and thus her, but because in the gloom of the hallway she could not make out the second hand of the clock.
Bong! Bong! The half hour struck on the hall clock, followed by chimes from some of the surrounding churches. Nellie sighed, wrenched the watch free, and leaned back in her chair in the sunlit sewing room. She lifted her chin, closed her eyes, and stretched her neck back, trying to relieve her tension of excitement. She opened her eyes, her nose still pointed to the ceiling. The dappled light, reflected off the crystal chandelier of the side-room on the second floor, dazzled her eyes and arrested her fanciful mental wanderings.
She loved this room. The windows on its three sides kept the room awash in sunlight for most of the day. ‘Tis a virtual peninsula perched on top of the carriage porch, Nellie thought. One view faced down the hill to the river, the second across the street past the neighbor’s barn to the town, and the third, up the hill in the Campwoods direction. Normally, Nellie looked around the room counting her blessings. It was such a cozy spot to enjoy the company of her mother and sisters. Ordinarily this time was a highlight of a delightfully long summer day. With all its many windows open, its vantage point on the side of the hill, and elevation a story above the street, the room caught all the summer breezes. The tick tock of the grandfather clock was usually calmly reassuring to Nellie. Today, however, its monotone connoted stagnation to Nellie, as if its sound documented time standing still.
