American Struggle Read online

  “Slave owners in the White House again,” he groaned. “What a fine kettle of fish that will be. The South has all the power.”

  The morning following the announcement, he was still complaining loudly. Though Mama told him to shush since there was nothing he could do about it, he continued to mutter.

  A skiff of snow had fallen, and Meg now wore woolen underthings beneath her heavier winter dresses. Pulling on her heavy cloak, she went out to feed the chickens and gather what few eggs there might be.

  Cold weather meant the hens were laying fewer eggs. It also meant they were more contrary about getting off their nests. But Meg had finished her thick mitt and kept it hidden behind the nesting boxes. Every morning she scattered the chicken feed, pulled on her mitt, and lifted those stubborn critters right off their nests. No more scars on her hands from the beaks of mean old hens. One time, she’d even used the mitt when she had to tackle Mr. Cock and put him where he belonged.

  In the henhouse she fetched her thick mitt and was removing the contrary hens from their nests when Fred stepped inside the door.

  “I’ve been wondering why you never complained about the old hens anymore,” he said. “Now I know. You stole Mama’s cloth scraps to make yourself a mitt.”

  “I wouldn’t steal anything from Mama, Fred. You know that.”

  He stomped across the henhouse and grabbed the mitt from her hand. “We’ll just see about this.” Off he went toward the house.

  Meg gathered the eggs, laid them carefully in the wicker basket, and followed her brother, wondering what Mama would have to say. By the time she came inside the warm kitchen, Mama was holding the mitt.

  “What about this, Margaret? You took scraps without asking?” Julia stopped setting the table and looked around. Papa had just entered the kitchen. Meg felt as though she were on display.

  “Well?” Mama said.

  Carefully, Meg explained how the idea came to her after being pecked so many times and after falling over the basket and breaking the eggs. “It was the bandage that first gave me the idea. I told Susannah about it, and she offered to give me the scraps I needed.”

  “You asked the Hendrickses before you asked your mama?” Mama seemed almost hurt.

  Meg was puzzled. She just supposed everyone would laugh at her idea if she had asked.

  “I didn’t ask her, Mama. I simply told Susannah my idea, and she offered.”

  Papa walked over to Mama’s side. “Let’s see that thing,” he said. He took it, turned it over, and felt its thickness.

  He smiled. “Have you been pecked since you’ve been wearing this?” he asked Meg.

  “No, sir,” she answered. “Not once.”

  “Seems like a pretty smart idea to me.” He handed the mitt back to her. “Next time, though, ask your mama first.”

  “Yes, sir,” Meg answered. But she still wasn’t sure Mama would have agreed. After all, Meg knew how picky Mama was about her scrap bag.

  Fred’s scowl never left his face all through breakfast. Meg wasn’t sure if he was more upset over the elections or over not getting her in trouble about the mitt.

  As she prepared to leave for school that morning, she had her completed sketch of Damon folded up and tucked inside her arithmetic book. Susannah was dying to see it.

  Recently, she’d found it difficult to work on her sketches. Since the cold weather had set in, Meg felt tired much of the time and could barely stay awake after Julia fell asleep late at night. But more than that, it was nearly impossible to make her fingers work in the cold, unheated upstairs bedroom.

  Susannah was in awe of Meg’s drawing when Meg showed it to her before school took up for the day. “It’s so lifelike,” she said. “You’re a good artist, Meg. I just wish someone in your family could see it and help you.”

  Meg shook her head. “There’s no sense wishing for what cannot be. If my mind dwelt on that, I’d be feeling sorry for myself all the time.” Tucking the picture back into her book, she added, “I just try to be thankful for the little I can do. Perhaps one day it will be more.”

  Meg and Susannah told one another almost everything. When Susannah learned about Meg’s secret trip to the art gallery, she was pleased. “I don’t see how it can be wrong to follow your heart.”

  But Meg didn’t tell her the part about seeing Damon in the garden or that he’d called out for her to stop. She couldn’t bring herself to share that secret.

  By the time school was out, Meg’s nagging little headache was back. She couldn’t wait to get home. She and Susannah were saying good-bye at the schoolyard gate when Fred came up behind Meg and bumped her on purpose. Her books and papers went flying all over the frozen snowy ground.

  “Frederick Buehler!” Susannah cried. “You stop treating your sister like that.”

  “Aw, I didn’t mean to. She was just in my way.”

  Meg stooped down to pick up her books and papers. Blowing up against the fence was her picture of Damon. Immediately Fred saw the sketch and grabbed it.

  “Well, well, what’s this? A picture of a boy. Meg’s drawing pictures of boys,” he taunted as he waved it in the air.

  Julia had joined the group, and she wanted to see the picture. “Is that Meg’s fella?”

  Fred looked at the picture again. “Hey, I’ve seen him. He was at the institute. Meg’s in love with the boy at the institute.”

  “Give me that,” Meg pleaded. “Fred, that’s mine. Give it back.”

  “Try and make me,” he said. “Meggie’s in love. Lovesick, lovesick Meggie,” he jeered.

  Just then Stephen came up from behind, grabbed Fred firmly by the arm, and snatched the picture away. “When are you ever going to learn to leave your sister alone?” Stephen said.

  He looked at the drawing before handing it back to Meg. “Excellent drawing, Meg. What a splendid talent you have.”

  Meg gave a weak smile and thanked him. How she wished she could trade brothers with Susannah. She tucked the picture back into her book.

  “I’m sorry,” Susannah came up and whispered to her. “It was all because of me that you brought it.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Meg said. “But thank you anyway. Your encouragement helps so much.”

  Susannah and Stephen set out for the store, and the Allertons went down Liberty Street toward home. They hadn’t gone far when up ahead they saw one of the sixth-grade boys teasing the German girls, Hulga and Ida.

  “Here,” Fred said to Julia, “take my book.”

  “Fred,” Meg said, “where are you going?”

  “He has no right to tease those girls.”

  Meg watched as Fred ran right up to the boy and demanded that he leave the girls alone. With the boy distracted, the two girls fled like frightened deer. But the boy got in a couple of good punches before Fred was able to break free. Then Fred ran as well.

  Meg and Julia caught up with him a block or so from home. He’d ducked down a few alleys on the way. A cut above his eye was turning a nasty color.

  “Fred, you know Mama doesn’t want you picking a fight,” Meg told him.

  Fred dabbed at the cut with his handkerchief, then took his schoolbook from Julia. “That’s all right,” he said. “She doesn’t want you drawing pictures, either. You don’t tell, and I won’t tell,” he added smugly.

  Meg could hardly believe his brazen attitude.

  When they arrived home, Fred told Mama that a bigger boy had picked on him. Meg hated to hear him lie, but then she remembered that she hadn’t told Mama the truth about the day Fred locked her out. It made her feel wretched. Would God forgive her for holding untruths in her heart?

  When Papa came home and saw Fred’s eye, he was more upset than Mama. “I want a son who will grow up to be temperate,” he said firmly, “not a man who resorts to fisticuffs.”

  Although Fred didn’t dare talk back, Meg knew her brother felt very strongly that what he’d done was right.

  Meg didn’t feel well that evening, but if she let up o
n her part of the work, Fred would accuse her of pretending to be sick. It was important that she not let anyone know how badly she felt.

  After supper, during family prayers, Meg worried over the awful feelings she held in her heart against Fred. Why couldn’t he see that he was no different than the boy who was teasing Hulga and Ida? Silently she prayed to be able to forgive Fred. But she also needed forgiveness. Confusion churned inside her.

  The following Saturday night, the Buehler family gathered at the Hendrickses’ home. As they sat around the heating stove in the elegant parlor, conversation ranged from the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday to the expected arrival of William Lloyd Garrison.

  Uncle John reported that work had already begun on the free-labor store, and stock was arriving daily. People in the community were divided about the venture. Many opposed it, but a few seemed to welcome such a statement against slavery.

  Meg sat with Susannah on the soft carpet near the stove. Both were working on their knitting, their needles making friendly clicking noises. The freestanding heating stove put out more heat than the fireplace in the Buehlers’ home. Waves of tiredness swept over Meg as the conversation droned about her, and the heat from the stove made her drowsy.

  As the men talked, Meg heard undercurrents of division between them. Papa felt that Mr. Garrison was far too radical. “He’s hardhanded and bullheaded,” Papa said. “That can cause hard feelings. People get hurt around Garrison. Not all antislavery thinkers agree with that man.”

  “Now, Ben,” Uncle John argued, “if you’ll remember correctly, ten years ago, no one was speaking out against slavery. It took a determined, single-minded man like Garrison to wake us up.”

  “Maybe so,” Papa said. “But he still rubs me the wrong way.”

  Later, as the Buehlers prepared to leave for home, Susannah asked if Meg could stay the night. Aunt Lucy quickly echoed the request. “Oh yes, Emma,” Mama’s friend said. “Could Meg stay? We’d love to have her.”

  Mama looked at Papa. Even though Meg and Susannah were close friends, they seldom stayed with one another. Mama always had work for Meg to do. To Meg’s delight, Papa nodded.

  “She doesn’t have her church dress,” Mama protested.

  Aunt Lucy gave a wave of her hand. “It’s so cold in church, she will never unloose her cloak. No one will ever know the difference. And besides, the dress she has on is good enough for church.”

  “Very well, she may stay,” Mama said.

  Meg didn’t care what she wore to church. She was just pleased to be able to stay around the Hendrickses. They always seemed so happy.

  After the family had left, Aunt Lucy asked, “Would you girls like to sleep down here in the parlor on the floor?”

  “Oh yes,” Susannah said with a squeal. “What fun!”

  They found an extra flannel nightgown for Meg, and then the three of them laughed and joked as Aunt Lucy helped the girls pile quilts on the parlor floor. After the makeshift bed was made, Aunt Lucy sat down in the midst of the blankets with the girls. She was in her gown and wrapper, and her long chestnut-colored hair was loosed and tied with a ribbon at the nape of her neck.

  “Something tells me you aren’t feeling well this evening,” she said to Meg. “Is everything all right?”

  Meg was surprised at Aunt Lucy’s comment. How could she tell? Neither Mama nor Papa ever noticed. “It’s nothing,” she said.

  “I just get a little tired.”

  But Aunt Lucy persisted. “Tired like you’re sleepy? Or tired like your body is weary?”

  Again, Meg was amazed that her hostess could be so perceptive. “My whole body gets weary. Especially now in the cold weather.” She rubbed at the back of her neck. “And it hurts a little right here.”

  “Turn around,” Aunt Lucy said. “Let me give you a good neck rub.”

  Meg sat cross-legged as Aunt Lucy rubbed the tight muscles in her neck and shoulders.

  “You’re not exactly made like your mama,” Aunt Lucy said.

  “What do you mean?” Meg asked. She knew it was true, but it seemed so wrong to be so different.

  “God made you like a delicate flower, while your mama is more like a strong oak tree.”

  Meg thought about that for a moment. “Won’t I ever be a strong oak?”

  “I highly doubt it. I’ve yet to see a flower grow into an oak. But I’ve seen many beautiful flowers in my day. And in God’s plan, there is need for both.”

  Susannah was lying on her back, watching the two of them and listening.

  “You’re gentle and sensitive, Meg,” Aunt Lucy went on. “Don’t despise who you are. To the Lord you are like the bruised reed that He says He will not break.”

  “I know that verse,” Susannah said. “It’s in Isaiah.”

  “You mean it’s all right that I’m not as strong as everyone else?” Meg asked quietly.

  Suddenly a large log inside the stove settled with a soft crunching noise, making them jump. Susannah giggled.

  Aunt Lucy finished the neck rub, then put her arms about Meg and held her for a moment. “It’s all right to be who you are. Period. Remember, Meg, there’s more than one way to be strong. Now, if you have just a little bit of energy left, would you draw a picture for me?”

  “You want me to draw for you?”

  Aunt Lucy stood and went to the secretary in the corner of the parlor. “Mm-hm,” she answered. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Meg heard herself giggle. Right out loud, she giggled. What a wonderfully delightful question—to ask if she minded drawing a picture.

  In just a few short minutes, she whipped out a light sketch of Susannah and her mother sitting on the blankets with their arms about one another’s shoulders. They loved it.

  Though Meg still felt achy in her joints, she was delirious with joy. She slept on the floor of the Hendrickses’ parlor without waking once.

  CHAPTER 12

  Meeting Damon

  Somehow things became a little easier for Meg after what Lucy told her. She still worked very hard. She still couldn’t tell Mama how she felt, but it didn’t bother her as much as it had before. No matter if she were carrying heavy buckets of hot water for the laundry or scrubbing the floors or mending Papa’s heavy work trousers, she determined to keep up with Mama as best she could.

  Lucy and John Hendricks had invited the Buehlers to their home for a big Thanksgiving dinner, but Mama felt their family should be with Oma and Opa Schiller in Germantown. Meg was terribly disappointed. Thanksgiving didn’t seem like Thanksgiving at Oma’s house. Opa didn’t like turkey. Instead they planned to roast a suckling pig.

  Early that morning Meg and her family boarded the omnibus a few blocks from their house and rode the horse-drawn bus to Germantown. Each of them was laden with a basket or parcel of some size. The driver spoke with an Irish brogue and wished them a happy Thanksgiving day.

  Meg hoped against hope that Papa would decide to stop by the Hendrickses’ that evening. But nothing was said, and late that afternoon, they boarded another omnibus that took them straight home. Although Meg tried to be thankful, she felt it had been a rather dreary Thanksgiving.

  On a cold night early in December, Meg was sitting next to Papa in the front room, knitting another pair of woolen stockings for Fred. He seemed to wear his out almost as quickly as she and Mama could knit them. Mama had gone to fetch more yarn, Julia was in the kitchen, and Fred was out splitting kindling.

  Papa had unfolded his newspaper and sat quietly reading. After a moment or two, he mumbled something under his breath. Meg could have sworn she heard the name “Damon.”

  “What did you say, Papa?” she asked softly.

  “Oh, nothing. Just an article here in the paper.”

  “What does the article say?”

  “Odd name, Damon Pollard. It says here that the young child prodigy, Damon Pollard, has been brought to Cincinnati by his uncle, John P. Foote, president of the Ohio Mechanic’s Institute, to study under the famous blac
k artist, Robert Scott Duncanson. There’ll be a special showing at the institute beginning this week, featuring this young man’s art.”

  Meg’s breath caught in her throat. Nephew of President Foote. Child prodigy. Damon truly was a special person. Somehow she’d known it all along.

  Papa read a little further. “What do you know about this? His parents died of yellow fever.” More softly, her father added, “Just like my mother and father died.”

  Meg’s mind was spinning. How long would the showing of Damon’s work be held? A few days … weeks? She had to see his work. But how? And what if she missed the showing altogether?

  The next day she shared her newest secret with Susannah.

  Susannah’s eyes grew wide. “So he’s President Foote’s nephew, is he? That means he must live on the grounds.”

  “I wonder what it would be like to be at the institute every day, walking among all the wonderful paintings,” Meg said.

  “Will you try to go see his showing?”

  Meg shook her head. “I don’t see how I can.”

  The two were standing out in the cold, waiting for one of the teachers to clang the morning bell.

  “Won’t your mama be sending you to see your oma?”

  “We don’t go as often in winter. Only if the day breaks clear.”

  “Well, that’s simple then. We’ll just pray for clearing weather.”

  Meg wasn’t even sure if she should pray about going to see Damon Pollard’s art showing. It was frightening to think of doing something without Mama’s knowledge.

  Amazingly, the next Saturday dawned as clear and sunny as a spring day. Of course it was sharply cold, but it was clear. Fred went off with Papa, and then Mama decided that Meg should walk to Oma’s. Meg could scarcely believe what she was hearing.

  Had the Lord answered Susannah’s prayer?

  Mama even allowed Meg to leave just before lunchtime so she could come back before dark. Julia complained that she wanted to go as well. Meg held her breath as Mama paused before answering her little sister’s pleas. Finally Mama said, “Margaret and Frederick were both nine before walking to Oma’s was allowed for them. You must wait your turn.”