American Struggle Read online

  “Mama always says you never listen,” Fred replied. Her younger brother had shot up in size the past summer, and now, at age ten, stood practically eye-to-eye with her. “Julia, tell your big sister what Mama told us this morning.”

  Julia stood up a little straighter. “Mama said we could stop by only for a short time,” she said, proud that she knew something her older sister did not. “Because Mama is making the sauerkraut today and needs our help. But she wanted us to bring home a ten-pound bag of salt.”

  As soon as Meg heard, she remembered.

  “Oh, good,” Susannah said, hooking her arm in Meg’s. “A few minutes is much better than no visit at all.”

  Susannah’s older brother, Stephen, a seventh grader who towered over all of them, soon joined the little group. They all trudged down the street toward the city’s business district, where Hendricks’ Mercantile was located, chattering as they went.

  Even though Meg enjoyed the store, her favorite part was the fact that it was right next door to Bushnell’s Stationers. Often the stationer’s window displayed art supplies such as colored charcoals, palettes, and large sketchbooks. Mama had taught Meg that it was wrong to covet, but Meg couldn’t resist looking in that window each time she passed by.

  The group arrived at the front door of the mercantile on Vine Street, laughing and talking. Stephen and Frederick discussed whether the coming of the railroad would be any threat to the canals or the riverboats. Fred was positive that the railroad was the answer to everything. Stephen wasn’t so sure. Julia told all the words she’d spelled correctly to win the contest. Meg allowed herself to be carried along by all the friendly talk.

  She enjoyed being around Stephen and Susannah. Fred seemed to act differently when they were with the Hendrickses. One time Stephen heard Fred teasing Meg, and he insisted that Fred stop. Meg wondered if Stephen ever teased his sister. If so, it had never been in her hearing.

  Meg breathed deeply of the wonderful aromas that greeted her in the store—an odd mixture ranging from leather and iron to fabrics and books. Lucy and John Hendricks were busy with customers when they arrived, but Julia didn’t care. She ran right up to Uncle John and gave him her usual friendly greeting. Nothing deterred Julia.

  Stephen went to the back to hang up his hat and coat and put on his apron. Susannah invited Meg to come and see the latest Godey’s Lady’s Book, a magazine with the newest fashion plates on every page.

  Susannah was fortunate to be in a place where new products arrived almost every day. The mercantile didn’t carry many frocks or hats. As her father said, the dressmakers and millinery shops had that market. Yet they did keep a few things in ladies’ fashions, and Susannah got to help her mother put them out on display.

  Meg loved the bolts of lovely, new, printed fabrics. Her favorites were the flowered prints on the calicos and the intricate weave of the bright plaids. Together the girls would try to figure out which fabrics would make up best into the new fashions featured in Godey’s.

  Just then Aunt Lucy joined them. “Afternoon, girls. How was school?”

  Susannah kissed her mother’s cheek. “Today was our field trip to the institute. No one was particularly thrilled about it, except for Meg here.”

  Aunt Lucy smiled. “Of course,” she said in a knowing tone. “What did you think of the galleries, Meg? I’ve heard it’s the finest show this side of the Alleghenies.”

  “I wouldn’t know much about that since I’ve never been on the other side of the Alleghenies, but it was very nice.”

  Susannah gave a little chuckle. “How she understates, Mama. She swooned over every picture. It was all I could do to keep her moving and keep us from being scolded by Mrs. Gravitt and the other teachers.”

  Meg’s face grew warm, but she was pleased she didn’t have to disguise her love of art from Susannah or her mother.

  “I understand some of Robert Scott Duncanson’s landscapes are in the display.”

  Meg shrugged. “We moved so quickly, I hardly had time to see whose work belonged to whom.”

  “Who’s this Mr. Duncanson?” Susannah wanted to know.

  “You remember,” her mama said. “I showed you the article about him in the Daily Gazette. He’s the black artist who came here from New York recently. President Foote hailed him as having great promise. His parents were slaves at one time.”

  “I don’t remember,” Susannah confessed, “but I’m sure Meg does.”

  Meg nodded. She remembered. She couldn’t remember that Mama wanted a bag of salt, but she certainly remembered Aunt

  Lucy showing her the article about the black artist coming to the city. What a strange thing her mind was.

  As they were talking, two little girls entered the store. Meg recognized them as the two sisters who were being teased that afternoon. Aunt Lucy excused herself and went to assist them. In their heavy German accents, the girls went over their list of needs, and Aunt Lucy politely worked with them.

  Fred came back to where Meg and Susannah were poring over the magazine. “I have the salt,” he said. “I suppose we’d better go on home.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to leave so soon,” Susannah said to Meg. “It’s always more fun in the store when you’re here.”

  Just then two older boys appeared near the front door, making fun of the little German girls as they went outside. “Listen to the porkers talk,” they said. The girls pushed past the bigger boys, trying to ignore the onslaught. “Porkers, porkers!” the boys yelled.

  Many of the men in the German community worked at the slaughterhouses and meatpacking plants. Meg had never liked the awful-smelling packing plants and was embarrassed that her opa was part owner of one. But it was no reason to tease the little girls.

  Meg sensed Fred tensing up. “They better stop that,” he muttered under his breath.

  “It’s not your business,” Meg warned.

  “That’s the same as poking fun at my oma and opa and that is my business.” He handed her the bag of salt. “Here,” he said. “Take care of this. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Meg put her hand on his arm. “Fred, don’t do anything foolish.” But he yanked away and stomped out the back door.

  Julia came running up to Meg. “Did you hear those awful boys? They were making fun of the way the German girls talked. I don’t like that.” She looked toward the back door. “Where’s Fred going?”

  “I’m not sure,” Meg said. “Let’s pay for the salt so we’ll be ready to leave when he comes back.”

  “What do you think Fred’ll do?” Susannah asked as she placed the magazine back under the counter.

  “I’m afraid to guess,” Meg replied.

  “I’m going to take a peek.” Susannah stepped to the back door and looked out. “My gracious. He’s down the alleyway throwing rocks at those noisy scalawags.”

  Julia clapped her hands with glee. “Hurrah for Fred!” she cheered in her loudest voice.

  But Meg was upset. What a foolish thing for her brother to do! Those two boys were bigger than he, and if they decided to fight back, Fred wouldn’t have a chance. She paid for the bag of salt, took Julia’s hand, and waited outside the store for Fred to come.

  In a few minutes, Fred came tearing up the street from the opposite direction. Evidently he’d run off and then circled around to lose the other boys, who, as Meg had feared, had decided to attack him. He was panting as though he’d run for miles, but he wasn’t hurt.

  “Frederick Buehler,” Meg scolded. “For shame. What kind of conduct is that for a gentleman?”

  “A gentleman defends his family,” he said proudly.

  “Good for you!” Julia said. “It’s not nice for them to make fun of Oma’s friends. That would hurt Oma’s feelings.”

  Sometimes Meg wished there were no Germans in her family at all.

  Fred pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. “A mite warm for an October afternoon,” he said in jest.

  Meg handed him the bag of salt and started
walking down the street in disgust, but in just a few strides, Fred had caught up with her.

  “You should have seen their faces,” he said, his face lit up with excitement. “I got in a couple nice hits before they started to chase me. But I lost ‘em right quick, weaving in and out of buildings.”

  “What if they hide and wait for you and beat you up?” Meg asked.

  Fred gave a shrug. “It’d still be worth it. I’m not afraid of the likes of those bullies.”

  “Perhaps I should tell Mama what you’ve done.”

  Fred turned to her and grinned. “Perhaps I should tell Mama that you couldn’t even remember we were to bring home the bag of salt.”

  Meg said no more.

  CHAPTER 3

  Attacked by a Rooster

  When they arrived home, Mama was out in the back garden, pulling up the dead bean vines. She wore her cotton sunbonnet and muslin dress with a long shawl over her shoulders. Unlike Meg, Mama wasn’t much interested in bright colors. Though Mama was not tall, she was large-boned and sturdy as a rock wall.

  Meg studied the end-of-season garden. There were still carrots and turnips in the ground where Mama had banked straw to protect them from the early cold. A few tomatoes, which had escaped the first frost, hung on the withering vines, and the pumpkins were nearly large enough to harvest. That meant next week they would be canning the pumpkins. Soon they would pack the tomatoes in hay in the attic.

  While they did not live in the German section of town, their home looked very much like those around Oma’s house. Mama chose to grow a vegetable garden and a small orchard and to keep a flock of chickens, just as many of the German immigrants did. While Meg enjoyed the fresh fruits and vegetables, she didn’t like all the hard work involved in keeping the garden.

  Likewise with the chickens. She was thankful for eggs, but she hated pushing the ill-tempered hens off their nests. And she was terrified of the big rooster. Few of her friends at school had to work in a garden or gather eggs and risk being pecked by an angry hen.

  Julia unhooked the garden gate and ran up to Mama, giving her a quick kiss and talking excitedly about the spelling contest.

  “Das ist gute, Julia. You are learning well. But there is no time to dally about. Cabbages wait for us in the kitchen.”

  “Did you purchase all the cabbages you wanted at the market this morning?” Fred asked.

  “All and more,” Mama answered, pulling up another tangle of vine. “Plenty of sauerkraut we will enjoy through winter, until cabbages are ready once again.”

  Mama grew a few cabbages in her garden, but they had long since been cooked and eaten. At the Pearl Street Market, she purchased from the farmers all she needed for the yearly kraut making.

  Mama straightened up and tucked strands of her sandy hair back beneath the bonnet. Though Meg had inherited her papa’s light blond hair and clear blue eyes, she had Mama’s plain facial features.

  “Fred,” Mama was saying, “the crocks you will bring up from the cellar. Margaret will scrub them after the chickens are fed.”

  Meg wondered why Julia couldn’t feed the chickens. She was plenty old enough. Besides that, Julia wasn’t afraid of the rooster.

  “From your school things you change now.” Mama waved her hand to shoo them, much as she would shoo any chickens that came too close to her back door.

  As Meg followed Julia up the narrow staircase to their shared bedroom, she found herself wishing she could have a long, leisurely talk with Mama. She longed to tell Mama, perhaps over a cup of tea, about the deep stirrings in her soul caused by the paintings hanging in the galleries. She wished Mama’s quiet brown eyes would light up in excitement about something—anything.

  Julia continued to chatter about her friends at school and the games they’d played at recess that day, but Meg barely listened.

  “I’ll help you feed the chickens,” Julia said as they made their way back downstairs after changing into their cotton work dresses. “Thank you, Julia. I’d like that.”

  The bags of grain were in a small storage room at one end of the henhouse. Meg unfolded the top of the muslin bag and scooped out the grain into two pans.

  “Here, chick, chick, chick,” Meg called as she sprinkled the chicken feed on the ground around the henhouse. Julia took her pan and did likewise. The larger hens pushed the younger pullets out of the way as they greedily pecked at the feed, clucking softly as they went.

  “Where’s Mr. Cock?” Julia asked, looking about. Mr. Cock was her pet name for the rooster. “You don’t suppose he’s gotten out again?”

  “I certainly hope not.” Although Papa had built a good pen and Mama had clipped the wings of the hens and the rooster, the birds still managed to get out at times. Meg looked between the henhouse and the back fence. Then she looked underneath the wide back porch. There was no sign of Mr. Cock. She heaved a sigh of impatience. The weariness that sometimes crept over her late in the afternoons was beginning to make its appearance. She tried her best to ignore it and push on with her work.

  “I suppose I’d best look in Mr. Mosby’s yard,” she muttered. “I see him, Meg,” Julia announced. “I see Mr. Cock.” Meg turned to see Julia looking through a knothole in the back fence. Meg made her way through the garden to Julia’s side. Her sister stepped back to give Meg a peek. Sure enough, there was Mr. Cock strutting through Mr. Mosby’s flowers.

  “You’d best hurry and get him before Mama gets impatient waiting for us to come help with the kraut.”

  If Fred were there, he could easily climb over the fence and grab that old rooster. This should be Fred’s job, Meg thought bitterly. But then, she’d never be able to carry heavy crocks up from the cellar.

  “Will you go with me?” Meg asked.

  “You’re not afraid of old Mr. Cock, are you, Meg?” Julia looked up with innocent blue eyes, her wispy brown hair peeking from beneath her bonnet.

  Meg turned to lead the way across the dooryard to the gate. “Of course not. I just thought you’d enjoy coming with me.”

  Julia shrugged. “I guess so.”

  Together they went out to the front walk, around the corner, up the side street, and around to Mr. Mosby’s house. Meg mustered all her courage to knock at the door. Tall Mr. Mosby opened the door and looked down on Meg and Julia. Meg felt tiny as a little ant.

  “Yes? What is it?” he said. “You’ve interrupted my suppertime.”

  “I, uh, we …”

  “Old Mr. Cock’s in your flower bed, Mr. Mosby,” Julia blurted out. “We’ve come to ask permission to enter your backyard.”

  “That blasted rooster in my nasturtiums again? Tell your ma the next time he’s in my yard, I’m gonna make chicken and dumplings out of him.”

  Julia nodded as though the man had told a joke. “We’ll sure tell her, Mr. Mosby, sir. May we go in your yard now?”

  “Go on and be quick about it,” he growled. “And don’t be letting me catch any of you kids climbing any of my fences.”

  His harsh words made Meg cringe. But Julia piped up and said, “Our papa built the back fence, Mr. Mosby. That’s our fence.” Then she added, “Thank you, sir. Come on, Meg. Mr. Cock is waiting.”

  Meg echoed her thanks to their neighbor as well, but the door slammed shut, cutting off her words.

  Julia lifted the latch on the gate and boldly walked into the flower garden. Mr. and Mrs. Mosby had had three children who had died years before in the cholera epidemic. Now it seemed the couple hated all children.

  Julia wasted no time in running toward the back fence where Mr. Cock was scratching and pecking among the golden nasturtiums and marigolds. “Run at him from the other side, Meg,” she said, “and he’ll fly over the fence.”

  Meg wasn’t too sure. But she ran and whooped just as Julia had. But instead of flying back over the fence, the big rooster flew at Meg. She froze in fear as the bird sprang toward her. She knew the pain that the rooster’s long spurs could inflict.

  Suddenly, Julia ran up behind
the unsuspecting rooster, and just as Fred would have done, she grabbed him by his legs. “I got him, Meg!” she cried in delight. “You catch his wings.”

  Shaking herself, Meg willed her feet to move. As Julia instructed, she grabbed the flapping wings, and together they heaved the big fellow back over the fence.

  “We did it!” Julia exclaimed.

  Meg’s mouth was like cotton. She could barely speak. “Let’s get home,” she said.

  “We’ll tell Papa tonight at supper that Mr. Cock needs his wings clipped again.”

  “Yes,” Meg said quietly. “We’ll tell him.”

  Papa usually came home for supper but stayed only long enough to eat. Then he would return to his furniture factory located down near the public landing, where he spent long hours working to make his company one of the best in the area. Handcrafted Buehler highboys, desks, poster beds, and china closets graced the rooms of many plantation mansions all across the South.

  During supper that night, Meg heard the story about Julia winning the spelling contest as it was repeated for Papa’s ears. He smiled his gentle smile and praised her for her accomplishments. Meg stifled a yawn, feeling almost too weary to eat.

  As Meg listened, Goldie the cat rubbed on her legs, then rose up on her hind legs with her front paws on Meg’s lap. Meg stroked the warm, silky head, wishing she could pull the cat into her lap. Goldie, who was the color of Mr. Mosby’s nasturtiums, was Meg’s friend.

  Fred complained about the boring trip to the institute to see “dull old paintings,” as he called them. “On the next trip, we’ll view the industrial exhibits. I’ve heard they have a scale-model, steam-driven locomotive in the display.”

  Fred had read much about Matthias Baldwin’s locomotive called “Old Ironsides.” He often talked about how Baldwin’s inventions had made steam engines safer and more efficient. This particular evening, Fred explained to his papa how a stationary steam engine could power the lathes in the factory.