On Genesee Hill

[Dave]

From Fiona:

The Arrow Finds It's Mark

Sarah heard the old grandfather clock in the downstairs hall chime the hour: Nine o'clock, ten o'clock and still she pondered her situation. The moon rose and set, the only light in her small chamber from the oil lamp on her desk. She paced the floor, letter in hand. At long last she removed her dress and sat at her dressing table in just her petticoats and a shawl. She let down and brushed her luxuriant brown hair, then braided it for the night. The call and response of insects filled the silence and a small brown bat, like a messenger from some other place, some other time, fluttered in, circled the room and fluttered out.

She chose a sheet of creamy white paper; black ink and when she began to write the words flowed like water from the deep well spring of her woman's heart.


Miss Sarah Miller,
46 Main Street. Whitesborough, NY

My Dear Sister Mary,

I send this missive from the most humble pen of Miss Sarah
to the accepting heart of Miss Mary in most earnest measure. Please accept these few scribbles as a token of my affection, fidelity & perhaps, if we can be so blessed, family ties to come. I have read your words & accept you as my sister & yes, I will certainly accept your invitation.

I will leave in a few days, as soon as my trunks are packed & travel can be arranged. Thus you may expect me within the upcoming week. I travel to Utica tomorrow, up to The Hill, as we call our old vine covered family home on Rutger Street. I trust John has told you about some of the happy hours we spent there laughing and telling stories by the fire with my Aunt Julia and Uncle Horatio! How John and Uncle Horatio enthralled each other with stories of old New York, Yale, politics and ect. Uncle Horatio is a veritable fount of history and revels in the telling of a decent tale! Once he has your ear you are his captive for an evening! The rooms are quite lovely & spacious, full of friends, laughter & life. Going to visit my Aunt Julia for a day is a full year's worth of happiness.

I am in earnest to impress my Aunt Julia to accompany me to Morristown. I think she will as she is always one for a great adventure & not as retiring as one would think.

As to your offer of a maid, yes, that is acceptable. Good servants are hard to find these days & my sisters & I share one girl & they could not do without her.

Please allow me to offer some scant information about myself. As we have yet to formally meet: Irregardless of what your brother John may have told you, I am not quite that stubborn! I do yield from time to time and can carry a conversation quite well in mixed company. I play both the harp, clavichord, violin & piano & sing passably well. I attended The Utica Seminary For Young Ladies and there I learned to speak both a pretty French and Latin. Three years ago our family toured Italy and I became enamored with the 'ancient statuary and paintings". Thus I have taken up the womanly art of the paintbox and paper. I can sew passably well & embroider in silks & am currently working on a very pretty image of a peacock. Perhaps I shall bring it to share with you.

But. O' how unseemly of me to ramble on and how rude. I apologize. Profusely. However, I must tell you, in all honesty, I am a terrible cook. Do not ask me to clean or truss a chicken! I know nothing of the culinary arts.

To this end, while I am there, if I can de directed as to where to procure a fine harp, I will be eternally grateful. The harp is my delight and I shall endeavor to entertain you of an evening's repose.

Now, I must close as the hour grows late and must ask you to keep the contents of this letter to yourself. It would not do for your brother to think I am " throwing myself at his head." It would be unseemly and quite common of me & as a Christian Woman, must be circumspect in all things. I shall arrive AS OUT OF THE AIR, Dear Sister! AS OUT OF THE AIR! Imagine!

I send you these words of Mr. Longfellow, for they are as they are manna to me:

I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight could not follow in it's flight.

I breathed a song into the air, it fell to earth, I knew not where,
For who has sight so keen and strong, that it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke,
And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend!

I remain,

Your loving sister and friend,

Miss Sarah Miller




She was satisfied with the letter and set it aside to dry. Then she took a little scissors, went to the window, leaned out and cut off a bit of a sprig of green ivy. Having done that she plucked a bit of purple lilac from a vase on her bed side table and layed them both next to the letter. The posies would speak the words she could not bring her pen to write and she was glad of heart for it.

The old clock struck one! Had she really been writing that long?

The silence was broken by a small knock on her chamber door and outside in the hall, a clearing of throats and a shuffling of feet on the carpet. Sarah knew exactly who it was. There was no hiding anything in this house. She lowered her lamp, pulled on a silk wrapper and opened the door a crack.

Blandina and Helen were standing there in white cotton dressing gowns, Blandina in front and Helen behind her, peering past her sister's shoulder. They both had there hair up in curl papers and Helen had slathered her face with night cream. She looked the very visage of a ghost save for her eyes which were large, blue and held a watery sadness.

Blandina shielded her candle with her hand and the shadows danced upon the papered walls. "Are you well, sister Sarah? We were just wondering...? Your lamp burns so late..."

"Yes" Helen chimed in, a small echo. "We were just wondering..."
She craned her neck to peer inside the door, but Sarah blocked the view.

"I am well. You were just percance wandering the hall and happened to see my lamp blazing and you were wondering what I am doing, yes?"

Blandina cleared her throat.

"I am writing a letter to Aunt Julia asking her to send me up a casket of rum to slake my thirst all of a summer's evening. Does that satisfy you?

"My Dear sister. You needn't be so ... so ... obstreperous and vulgar. Father would not approve."

"Hang Father and all his minions too.!" And she shut the door, leaned against it and laughed till she cried.

[Dave]

From Fiona:

Sarah passed a restless night and in the morning the sullen heat lay on the little town of Whitesborough like a blanket. What had seemed settled the night before was now profoundly confusing.

She went to the white china bowl on the washstand and poured water into it from the pitcher. Some of it she splashed on her face but the water was flat and tepid. It did not refresh or awaken her. The old clock chimed 8. Could it really be that late? It was Sunday and she had overslept. She would be late for church! She put on a floral tea gown and over that a Chinese silk robe. She found some old Moroccan leather slippers under the bed.

Downstairs the house was quiet. There seemed to be no one about. Had they all left so early? She peered into father's study. He wasn't there. The huge ledger books lay on the side table, on the desk placed just so, pens, nibs, inks, rubber stamps, a box of Cuban cigars. A large fern drooped in the corner. She went into the sewing room. Cloth was on the large table, heaps of lace, buttons, a dress ready to cut and stitched but Mother was not there. Nor was she in the kitchen supervising the preparations for Sunday dinner. Cook was standing at the scrubbed wooden table plucking and cleaning chickens. The room smelled of hot parrafin and lye soap. The kitchen girl was stoking the stove. They both stopped work and greeted Sarah with a quizzical looks. It was unusual for here to be in the kitchen, especially on a Sunday.

"Morning, Miss?" said the kitchen girl and gave a little curtsy, before going back to her work .

"Mornin Miss Sarah", said Cook. "Is it yer breakfast yer wantin? We've cakes and ham and biscuits this mornin and a lovley fruit compote. Ye'd have only to have rung the dinin room bell and the girl would be right there..." There's no need a'tall fer you to come askin after it."

"Yes", It's my breakfast I'm wantin", Sarah replied dreamily, uncounsciously imitating the brouge of Cook. "That would be nice. I'll take it in the library."

"In the Library Miss? Bring your tray to the library? Are you well this mornin?"

" Yes" she replied, "I'm just being obstreperous."

Neither Cook nor the kitchen girl knew what the word meant but they liked it. Sarah was the sweetheart of them all, always kind and respectful. One could not expect to loose one's position about a bit of over fried meat or a pudding that didn't set. Sarah walked to the basket of apples on the floor, chose one and bit down deep. An apple eaten this way was wonderful.

" Why, Miss Sarah", said Cook," That's no way to eat an apple! Let me cut that up for you and get you a fruit set." The fruit sets consisted of pearl handled knives and forks in a velvet lined box, but Sarah declined. An apple eaten this way was delicious and Sarah couldn't remember when she had actually bit into an apple. It was not something ladies did. She giggled and felt like both Eve and Adam at the same time.

Sarah went into the dining room. The long mahogany table with it's starched white Brussels lace tablecloth was empty except for a tall crystal vase of red peonies. It was not set for before church breakfast. Twelve mahogany chairs stood at formation, Father's great chair with the carved arms at the head of the table, mothers straight backed chair facing his at the opposite end, all in their usual places. It was so quiet. Where was everyone?

After some searching she found Blandina on the porch with a watering can tending to the begonias, ferns and vines that hung in baskets from the crossbeams. The day was already too hot. Sarah was perspiring down the front of her wrapper. She sat on a wicker rocker in the shade and munched on her apple. The awnings had been rolled out and looked very pretty in the morning light.

She fanned herself with a folded newspaper. "Good morning Sister." She spoke to Blandina softly, hoping to rectify her remarks of last evening but rectification was not to come. Her sister had set her lower lip and avoided Sarah's gaze.

"Mother, Father and Helen have gone to Lorenzo to visit Aunt Helen Clarissa if you're wondering where everyone is," said Blandina.

"Oh", replied Sarah, concealing her glee at this lucky turn of events. " Is Helen Clarissa ill?"

"No." said her sister. "She is in season." Then realizing what she had said, a crimson blush stained her pale cheeks.

Sarah laughed out loud. It was good to laugh and be gay. "She is in season!! Don't you mean "that she is here for the season?" I must ask you, since Helen Clarissa is in season, does that mean she will replicate of her own kind as in Genesis One?"

Blandina hated being caught on the turn of an inappropriate word or phrase. She spoke back to Sarah a little too loudly, a little to bitterly. "And it is now I who must correct you. Last night you said you wanted a casket of rum. Did you not mean a casque?"

Sarah realized her sister was trying to trip her up, embarrass her. Her mind raced ahead for an appropriate retort.

" Why, no, dear Sister. I meant a casket, which is what this house is too me! Someone was in my chamber last evening and snooped into my letter box!" She rose and went into the cool shade of the house. The kitchen girl was in the library ringing the breakfast bell.

Blandina followed her down the long hall and into the back parlour. "Wait! Please! Perhaps it was the kitchen girl or Cook! You know the Irish can't be trusted. Wait please. That was cruel of me."

" Cruel is as cruel does, Sister. I am going away for a few days to Utica and I am taking the Victoria and all my trunks and portmanteaus, as I may plan to travel farther if conditions permit."

"You are taking the Victoria? That's one of Fathers best carriages. We only use that for church or social calls! Why, you need his permission..."

"Gaze upon my visage!" cried Sarah, as if she were an actress on a stage." Am I not a grown woman?"

"Of that I have no doubt."

"Then I shall take the Victoria."

Blandina balled up her fists in anger. "I cannot abide by this conversation! Father should have let you go with Clara Barton when you wanted to... during the Glorious War..."

"My God in Heaven! " cried Sarah. "Why bring up that old chestnut?"

Blandina rolled her eyes at the ceiling, studying the prisims of the hanging gas lamp. "Sister, the Lord will smite you for your evil ways."

"And I cannot abide a snoop! Evil is evil does, my dear. Please leave now and allow me some peace for my breakfast is getting cold and your presence is wearing on me."

At length the trunks and carpet bags and hat boxes were readied. There was a heap of things. Sarah chose, for her final denouement, what she hoped would be her evening of reckoning with John, a pink sateen dinner dress with a slender waistline, a small train, jewel neckline and small puffed sleeves. She paired it with silver brocade slippers.

She dressed for the day in a green sprigged cotton dress with cascading black ribbons and chose a yellow straw hat. To her collar she pinned a cameo she had purchased in Italy and chose small cameo earrings. Her maid smoothed her hair and wrapped it into a neat chignon at the base of her neck.

Though it was hot, it was beautiful day for traveling on the Whitesboro to Utica turnpike. Since there had been no rain, the road would be packed hard, and hopefully not too dusty. It was twelve noon when she set out in the Victoria, with a small wagon loaded with trunks, valises, carpet bags and hat boxes following behind.

Her sister stood at the front door looking dismal. The little caravan was circling the front drive. Blandina lifted her hanky to wave good by and wiped away a small tear, but Sarah didn't see her. The wheels from the carriage and the wagon kicked up dust, the matched set of dapple grey's stepped lightly and prettily, the coachman cracked the whip just over the horses ears and they were off. The loaded spring wagon, pulled by a small chestnut mare, followed behind. The driver, wearing a large straw hat, spat tobacco juice onto the road. "Gi'yup!" he said and the mare stepped up and out. What a perfect day it was going to be!

Sarah had spoken previously spoke to the coachman. " It is a beautiful day. The horses know the way. Give them a bit of a light rein. Don't push them. I want to enjoy my holiday. And I need to post a letter in Utica."

"Yes Miss", the coachman said and he smiled down at Sarah. She was so beautiful in all her finery. He would love to have a girl like that, but a social gulf, a chasm as wide as an ocean would keep it from ever happening and he knew it.

The sun was crossing the sky when they pulled into the grounds of Old Main, the Utica Insane Asylum, to stop for lunch. The lawn was thick with clover and dandelions and the grass was cool in the shade of the ancient elms that stood like soldiers lining the broad gravel driveway. Off in the distance the massive Greek style pillars of the hospital building glowed softly white.
- Fiona

[Dave]

From Fiona:

Sarah sat on the grass on a blanket and a little pillow and the drivers of both carriage and wagon a sat a little ways off. They ate from a wicker basket of sandwiches and cakes and fruit. Sarah thought about the persons who lived there at the hospital and she felt a twinge of pain for them. Too be shut up in such an awful place and never see the sun... She had heard about the things that went on here... in the name of healing... then she thought about Clara Barton. It was so much of a sadness for her, even after all these years. She shouldn't have been so cutting with her sister, but sometimes Blandina's temperament just drove her to distraction.


Clara Barton had come to Utica to recruit nurses for the war effort in the summer of 1864, She had a strong back, a rousing temperament and a fast eye. She was an excellent speaker. She knew what she was about. She had been invited to the ancestral home of Sarah's maternal Grandfather, the late Henry Seymour, to speak and crowds over ran the house, the lawns and the street . Clara could not pass through the mass of people, the waters would not part for her. People ran up to touch her, to clasp her hand, to touch the hem of her gown. She was like a goddess. A female Lincoln. She was lifted into a wagon bed in the street and from there held forth on her glorious mission: To recruit and train young women for the new profession of nursing.

Sarah was only nineteen. She was to the manor born. She had never seen a woman like Clara Barton. Sarah was expected to marry soon and well. She was engaged to one of her Bleecker cousins from Albany. Her life was to be one long afternoon of drawing rooms and withdrawing rooms. She was chafing at the bit for something else. Clara Barton took afternoon tea away from the crowds in one of the cool parlors. Sarah sat a respectful distance away and studied her from behind her fan. She was too afraid to approach her. Other women were there also and she, Sarah had not yet found an opening.

Clara Barton broke the silence. " I see you are studying me, Miss Miller. Do I meet the necessary qualifications for spinsterhood?"

Sarah's face turned crimson. She twisted the small fan she held on her lap. " I...I.... forgive me, Miss Barton, but you are such an unusual woman... I mean...."

"Let us speak together as women. "said Clara Barton. "Come now, girl, there is no reason to be shy."

"You are a natural healer" said Clara Barton. " I can tell by the cast of your eye and the way you hold your hands."

"Yes." said Sarah.

"And you do not want to be engaged to your cousin?" Clara Barton had been watching Sarah all morning and kept her ear low to the ground for gossip. Recruiting young woman was her specialty. She knew where and when to speak to them and how to draw them out of their shells.

"No."said Sarah in a quiet voice, looking at her skirts.

"We need girls like you, Miss Miller! The hospitals... the prisons are overflowing with cases. I can train you. It will cost you nothing but time. There are others leaving with me tomorrow! Can I count on you?"

"Yes." said Sarah, her blue eyes overflowing with tears.

"And, my dear girl. One must never cry. That is the first rule of nursing. Never let the patient see you weep. It upsets them. Do you understand?

"Yes", said Sarah.

That night Sarah went to her father. She pleaded her case. It was for the soldiers! Men, young boys, are suffering, dying without the necessary care. Miss Barton had told her so! Nursing was her calling and therefore she must go. The train was leaving for Albany in the morning and she had to be on it.

"No." he said. "I have already spoken to Miss Barton. I'll not have any daughter of Rutger B. Miller doing such work, picking lint and rolling bandages in some camp hospital! War is a serious filthy business, for men only. The answer is no."

Sarah was stubborn. She stamped her little foot on the carpet.

"Well, then Father, why did you have here here??"

"It is my civic duty." he said.

"Your civic duty, indeed! Then I shall run away!"

"Daughter, where will you run too?" he asked her and there was no answer.

Sarah cried alone in her chamber. The next day she broke off the engagement to her cousin. She did not love him and declared she would not marry him! She would never marry anyone! Clara Barton processed on to Albany and Sarah never saw her again.

The day was wearing on. It was a memory that was like a stone in her shoe, she may remove the offending pebble, but the memory of the pain would always be there. She packed the picnic basket and soon they were on their way.

They passed down the hill to lower Whitesboro street. They passed though German town and then Jew town. The horses stepped handily, but before the bridge on Hotel Street the coachman brought the team to a halt. The wagon stopped behind. Wagons, coaches, carriages were at a standstill in the road. The street was full of people. Men, boys, some women, all running towards the bridge.

Sarah leaned forward."What is it? What's happened? Why are we stopping?"

"Easy now Miss," said the coachman. "I'll see what's up ahead. Don't trouble yourself ." and he held the horses fast so as not to spook them.


Sarah Finds Her Voice.

Sarah leaned back against the black buttoned leather upholstery of the carriage and fumbled her heavy skirts.

Even under the cool dark canopy of the Victoria, the heat was oppressive. The ratteling of other conveyances, the sounds and movement of horses, the stink of the canal, the passing of boats, and of people; canalers, shoppers, children calling to and fro, pressed in close. She pulled the cork from a long necked stone bottle, poured some water into a little crystal glass and drank deeply. She swabbed her face and neck with her hankie, then fanned herself with a little ivory fan. The heat was unrelenting. She poured some of the water on her hankie and wiped her face again. What, she wondered, was wrong and how long would she be here? The horses would need water, would need to be attended to. They wouldn't last long out in this blazing sun. She wished she had brought her embroidery, her Bible, a penny novel. Anything to break up the time.

A youngish woman driving a fringed surrey with a sleek black horse was stalled next to her. She leaned over companionably and said, "My Dear Sarah!! Why, how nice it is too see you and how lovley you look today! And how are you, my dear? I at once recognized your father's carriage. There's been an accident on the bridge up ahead. They're waiting to clear it. It shan't take long. Are you going up on the Hill? I am going that way myself. Perhaps you would like to take lunch...?" It was Marie Northrup, wife of the local confectioner, manufacturer and commissions merchant, Milton M. Northrup, who owned shops on Liberty and Catherine Streets. Marie was plump and pretty with light hair and blue eyes. The Northrup's were close friends of Sarah 's family and Marie never failed to call and leave a card on at home days.

"Hello!", said Sarah. "I am on a holiday to pass a pleasant evening or two with..." but she never finished her sentence. There came a stillness to the fetid air that made time seem to stop. Everything in the world seemed so small and tight; for an instant it was hard to breath. Then the world exhaled.

The explosions, when they happened, rocked the carriages; the booms echoing up and down Whitesboro Street, reverberating and repeating like the sounds of cannon. Sarah caught her self as the heavy carriage swayed, but the horses held fast. They did not rear up or follow herd instinct and bolt forward. Sarah's coachman was the best and her team chosen not only for their stamina but for their pleasant disposition, patience and general lack of fear.

Sarah looked over at Mrs. Northrup and her mouth made a little "O." Mrs. Northrup's Sunday hat had come loose and was hanging to the side of her head like a black feathered cake. The black horse was straining at the bit and Mrs. Northrup was having trouble handling the reins.

"My God in Heaven! We are under attack!" said Mrs. Northrup and trembling, began to sob convulsively, as she tried to control the horse.

Sarah's coachman clambered down from the box and took the bridle of Mrs. Northrup's horse and attempted to quiet the enerved animal. Sarah had never cursed in her life, but now she repeated a word to herself that she had heard father say when he thought no one was listening. "Shit!" she said out loud! She had her drivers, equipages and own team to think of. They were her responsibility! They had to be led to safety if the Rebels had invaded! She had heard of things like that happening, even years after a war had ended and it had not even been eight years since Appomattox. Uncle Horatio had told her this may happen. "Angry men bide their time...", he had said. "History has shown us that... the vanquished have long memories... "

Sarah had never descended from a carriage by herself. There had always been someone, a gentleman, a driver, there to assist her. Now she had to get out, to help the coachman with the horses, to see to her personal goods, her suitcases. What could she do? She looked out at the goodly distance to the ground, then, shaking but unafraid, gathered up her skirts and swung herself out.

As she alighted, placing her small feet carefully upon the fender, a small man with great yellow moustaches, rude workman's clothing and a battered cap ran up and plucked frantically at her sleeve. "We needs help bad, Ma'am. Man in the crowd name of Griffin, he sent me. Says he knows your coach. Says you knows somethin bout doctorin. Up there on the bridge! Foley boy's like to have busted his head open, he 'as, an his Pa's bad hurt too... come quick 's you can!"

Without thinking, acting on pure instinct, she followed the little man with the great mustaches into the crowd, never stopping to ask why or where they were going. There were other women available, standing about on the sidewalks, gaping, and talking together in frightened little knots, but the man had seemed to make a bee line straight for her. As she approached the bridge there was a parting of the waters. People stepped aside to let her pass. In later years she would reflect back and say that it was surely the "cast of her eye" and nothing else that had made them do so.






UTICA MORNING HERALD and DAILY GAZETTE - JULY 15, 1873
BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER

of PROMINENT UTICA FINANCIER EXHIBITS EXTREME

HEROISM IN FACE of GRAVE DANGER!!

[Dave]

From Fiona:

A hazy purple dusk was descending upon the city by the time the bridge was cleared and the queue of carriages and wagons allowed to pass. It was almost seven o' clock and the sonorous bells of Grace Church were ringing in the eventide as the carriage and the wagon turned up John Street, heading for The Hill. All the travelers were exhausted, the sound of the horses hooves no longer a sharp clip, but a dull clunk as they trotted along over the brick cobble stones. Sarah, struggling up from her nap, felt curiously light headed, as if she was rising to the top of a from deep dark pond. Roscoe, still curled at her feet, stretched, yawned, scratched a flea on his neck and went back to sleep.

Supper hour was over and the smell of cooking, horse manure and new mown grass hung in the air. The Third Avenue frog chorus, tuning up in the Gulf, would go on continuously rising and falling, until day break. Soft breezes rattled the top most leaves of the tall elms and brought the scent of the Mohawk River and the canal. Later, when the moon was fully up, people would close their windows against the damp odors, the night miasmas, but now they welcomed the little freshets after the long sullen heat of the day.

The coachman, still chewing on the remains of his cigar, had fallen into a type of gentle reverie and was now sure he was in love with Sarah. He loved her for her gentle ways, her breeding, her bravery- her ability to soak her feet in a bucket of water on Hotel street, right in full sight of everyone - and not care what anyone thought ! If he could only hold her in his arms just once, he reasoned, surely she would accept him. After he had proposed , they would go to her Father and ask for his blessing . She would hold his hand and say, in the most heart felt manner:

"Father, Isaac Wilson is a good man. A fine man. He may not be established, but he can work him self up in the world. And I love him… I Love HIM…"

Then she would glance up at him side ways, cooling herself with an ostrich feather fan, and blushing at the thought of their extended wedding tour. Once they were married, he would sit in the library sipping brandy with the other men, smoke a Cuban cigar and sport a fine gold pocket watch. They would have children, many of them, who would gather round his chair, tug on his great mustaches , tickle his chin and call him Pa-Pa and in the evening Sarah would sit by the fire knitting a little cap for his head… she would bring him his pipe and slippers… if only, if only… and he pondered upon it in the most mighty fashion.

The stately red brick homes, fronted by small neat lawns and cast iron fences, slipped slowly by. Oil lamps glowed softly from behind slender lace curtained windows . Children played on the grass and side walks, while servants in long black skirts and white blouses, watched from a discreet distance. A spotted dog chased the wheels of the Victoria, then raced to join a boy in a sailor suit trundling a hoop on the sidewalk. Three small girls in grey taffeta dresses played at tea under an arbor of pink roses and a boy in short pants and a straw hat dug for worms on the lawn. Two well dressed women, in bright summer frocks and Sunday hats, recognized the carriage and called out gay greetings. An old colored woman in a long gingham dress swept a front stoop, grizzled grey head bent to her work. She did not look up. A young girl with blond sausage curls rode a brown pony in the road, harness held tightly by a mustached Pa-Pa in shirt sleeves and striped pants , and a group of Irishmen in rough working clothes, gathered on the corner , tipped their soft caps to the little caravan as it passed.


**************

The carriage jolted across Rutger Street and up the brick drive into the main heart of the estate. The Conkling mansion was a great square mass of a house, the tall windows and main front door standing open to the breeze, the whole of the buildings and grounds sinking into shadow as the sun retreated slowly into the west. A massive overhanging willow guarded the low stone wall that fronted the park, it's
long silvery fronds dusting the lawn. Fragrant peonies, red, pink and white, hung heavy with evening dew. The last of the purple and white lilacs , white snow balls and syringias in thick profusion, formed a dense mass of green against the wall. A tall pine stood to the east and near that, a hoary old shag bark sycamore, planted long ago by Sarah's grandfather, Judge Morris Miller, shaded the portico and threw long dark shadows onto the lawns. Beneath it's welcoming branches sat several cast iron benches, upon which bright colored pillows were tossed in gay abandon and a book, the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, lay open upon the grass, its reader away for just a moment... perhaps in the yard savoring the last of the golden light. In the cool shade between the houses, facing west, giant ferns spilled over the footpath. At the front door, A blue Chinese jardinière sat on a cast iron stand and in that grew a large parlor palm. Someone had placed large pink conch shells on the steps. Fireflies, their minute lamps a small blessing, sparkled over the front lawns; wrens and sparrows were settling in the trees. Above a round window at the far east side of the house, under the eaves, a pair of grey mourning doves billed and cooed, signaling the end of another day.



Thomas Feeney, head gardener and general handyman, was at his usual post by the low stone wall, sweeping the drive, corncob pipe clamped between his teeth. He worked without hurrying, lost in the thorough enjoyment of the task and the quiet warmth of the evening. His wife Eileen was head cook, together they had worked for the Conkling's since the close of the War Between The States. He considered this his home until they planted him in the earth and Julia Conkling the kindest of mistresses. Now that he was so much older , hobbled and arthritic with painful war wounds, she always gave him light duty, and he was grateful for it. He wore his Sunday evening suit, a yellowed frock coat, dark blue pants and a broad brimmed hat, his "seeing in suit for the best of company" those graceful slender waisted ladies and dapper gentlemen in tall silk hats who came to call; for Julia kept an open house and he, the "Ambassador of Rutger Park", as he was called, had to be ever at the ready, for a Senator, a Congressman or maybe even a King!

"Evening Miss! And it's a lovely one, I'm sure!" he called to Sarah as the carriage and wagon rolled into the front yard. Lifting his hat to the coachman and the driver, Thomas bowed low with a sweeping gesture. "Jacob Israel's in the barn tonight. He'll take ye in. Twern’t expectin ye, but there's always room for one more by the fire.. I'll have my Misses put the kettle on."

The coachman swung the carriage around the circular drive to the broad front steps of the house. The horses, in anticipation of a good rub down, a pleasant meal and a nights sleep, stepped up the pace just a bit. Jacob Israel Titus, the colored stable boy, came running around the side of the house to assist with the carriage. He slowed them to a walk and then dipped into his pockets for the sugar lumps he always carried. Tall and thin, with ropey muscles on his dark fore arms, Jacob was only twelve years old, but already a senior stable boy and would be a coach man some day, driving only the best Four-in-Hand. He was sure of it. The horses knew him and gratefully accepted his treats. Slowing to a walk, then a halt, a ripple of pleasure went down their flanks as they showed their teeth over the sugar lumps.

Sarah was home again and felt as giddy as a sixteen year old after a first kiss.


- Fiona

[Dave]

From Fiona:

Sunday, the thirteenth of July dawned bright and hot, a usual summer's day in Our Fair City, but it is a day that will not long be forgotten and that will live on in the memories of Utican's for years hence!!! And it is safe to say that many of the young men on Whitesboro Street that afternoon, will be respectable greybeards and not a few of the young ladies, comfortable matrons, dandling happy grandchildren on their knees, before the heroism of a certain lovely young lady is forgotten!!!

Our story begins thus wise: Miss Sarah Miller, grand daughter of the former Mayor of Our Fair City, the late and estimable Henry Seymour; daughter of prominent Utica financier Rutger B. Miller; niece of our former esteemed Governor, Horatio Seymour and grand niece of Senator Roscoe Conkling by marriage carried on in the family tradition of bravery and selfless public service on Sunday afternoon last!!!

The scene is set and the actors are upon the stage!!

Miss Miller with her team and coachman left Whitesborough in her father's black Victoria early Sunday morning for a pleasant day or two visiting with her Aunt Julia Conkling up on Rutger Hill. The drive was pleasant enough, it being Sunday noon, many of the carriages and equipages upon the Whitesboro turnpike were either coming or going from church, and the crowd was a gay one.
All went well until her arrival at the foot of the bridge over the canal at Hotel Street! There she encountered a scene of mayhem!! The bridge was blocked and carriages fore and aft could not pass. The rise to the bridge and the road leading forwards on either side were a crowd of people and stalled conveyances!!! Imagine the concern of the drivers for the horses, the rising heat of the day, the noise and the confusion if you will. This is the scene the brave Miss Miller came upon while entering her carriage into the quay.!

The action unfolds!!

It would appear, that the day before, Saturday, being one of record heat, the American Hotel had run low on beer and had sent a note ahead to McQuade's for delivery of six more barrels with all possible haste. McQuade sent back a missive that it was not possible to run the teams that evening, as he had been running them all day and the horses and men needed their rest. He would, however, run them the next afternoon, and that day being Sunday, he would have to pay the men double for working their one day of rest, but since he, McQuade, was a man with considerable concern for the plight of the drinking man, as well as an astute business man, he would run the team on Sunday, but one trip only!!

A Bitter Brew!

That one singular trip proved to be a fateful one. It was a hot day and it is felt that perhaps horses did not have ample rest or water, or the driver was fatigued. The lead horse, a massive beast of a Perchon, stumbled and fell, coming onto the bridge and almost tipped the dray onto it's side. The teamster, Tommy Foley, was riding high upon the box with his young son, Timmy, at his side. When the horse went down and the wagon pitched sideways, several of the barrels worked themselves out, rolled onto to the base of the bridge and exploded!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The father leapt down from the box to attend to the team and young Timmy, being a big strong boy, held the reins. Then two incidents happened. When the barrels went the inside horse reared up in fright and kicked the father in the chest, sending him flying through the air
and onto the base of the bridge. At the same time, the force of the explosion threw the young lad from the wagon, in the opposite direction, which probebly saved his life as he may have been trampled by the frightened horse. If he had been riding on the back of the wagon he would have been blown to bits. The debris from the casks rained through the air and the inside horse was impaled through the flank by a long shaft of barrel stave, a fatal injury. A hoggee and his mule were also injured, but not gravley and are not expected to away from their labours for long.


Young Timmy was more dead than alive when the brave Miss Miller arrived upon the scene. His left arm was broken, and he received a deep bleeding gash upon the top of his head, from which he bled copiously.

A call went out: "Is there a doctor available?" but even among that most august crowd, on a Sunday afternoon, there was none to be found. A man standing in the crowd, a local typesetter for this newspaper named Griffin, at once recognized Miss Millers carriage in the quay and knowing she was a Christian woman of excellent temperament, breeding and sterling character, sent a workman to fetch her to the scene. As luck would have it, she was already descending from her carriage and came upon the scene straightaway, giving such assistance as was necessary to save young Timmy's life!!!

People were crowding round the young injured lad, who was stretched out at the base of the bridge, and not giving him air. He was being attended too by several men, one a rough looking canaler and the other a farmer from up near Frankfort. Miss Miller at once espied that they were being rough with the boy and incorrectly attending to his wound. She ordered them away and with shocked faces they stepped back and she attended to her "patient."

While other men worked upon the almost lifeless body of Timmy's father, and others tended to the wagon, the kegs and the horses, knowing full well the danger of further explosions, Miss Miller tended to young Timmy. Without a further thought for her own modesty, she cut away the hem of her own gown to use as a bandage, she proceeded to offer such assistance as was needed. She called for what she wanted: A sharp small knife to cut away his matted hair, a bottle of strong whiskey, a bucket of water and good, clean rags. These goods were soon procured, passed through the crowd hand to hand. She brought the boy around with the spirits which she held to his lips and bade him quaff. That being done she quickly cut away the hair and exposed the wound, cleansing it with the water, then probing it for foreign matter with her own strong fingers, before bandaging it neatly with ties made from the hem of her own gown. Of the arm she did nothing, preferring to leave that to what she said was "a more knowledgeable type of woman." Timmy, a big, strong lad, is expected to make a full recovery. The father, however, was carried off by ambulance to Hospital and it is feared that his injuries may prove fatal.

Miss Miller, when spoken to by this reporter, would say only that she had once been in the presence of Clara Barton and was simply following in her footsteps. When asked why she never balked, fainted or shed a tear at the sight of so much blood and suffering, she replied, " I never let a patient see me cry. It upsets them." A true lady of the old school, she accepted no more thanks and excused herself at once.

The Foley family had just last month arrived at Albany from West of Ireland, and thence traveled up to Utica two weeks ago via the canal, and have taken up residence down by the Gulf, on Third Avenue. They are cousins of the Ennis's, who emigrated here to work on the telegraph lines in 1845. A collection will be taken at the City Hall on Genesee Street and The Hibernian Ladies Aid Society will call upon the family to see what can be done, as the family is a large one.

Miss Miller will be spending some time on the Hill with her aunt. She has not as of yet published her at home days, only lately having arrived from Whitesborough this Sunday last.
- Fiona

[Dave]

From Fiona:




As the carriage rolled around the circular drive, Sarah struggled to rise up from the depths of sleep. Her body felt unusually heavy, as if it belonged to some other woman. Not her. Not Sarah Miller. Yet she also felt most curiously light headed, as if the world were reversed and she were only floating over it, a patient observer of all that was or ever could be. That which was formerly large was now small and inconsequential and that which was small was large and terrifying and when she bent over to adjust her skirts, her poor head spun like a top. Panting, she lay back against the upholstered seat and tried to breathe, but every draught was pure pain. She needed air, the atmosphere in the carriage was sour and fetid. The stays of her undergarments pinched like malicious fingers, petticoats wrapped themselves around her ankles like a hobble. She wanted to rip open the dress, tear it away, but her trembling fingers could only fumble aimlessly with the fastenings. Sarah's hands fell onto her lap and dark thoughts flitted about like malevolent birds: The dress makers, those august prison wardens of fashion were like vultures, always circling, looking for ways to invent bigger skirts, smaller skirts! Higher waistlines, lower waistlines! Ever tighter, ever frillier, more lace, more braid, more gimp! The parade would go on forever without end; women kept in a state of abject slavery by their clothing, eternally marching to the drum of the cruel dictates of fashion. She had pondered on it in the past and now she was sure of it. These clothes, dresses, gowns, shoes, hats, everyday things… why, they were all designed by men! Men who hated women, who lived only too see them suffer. Men who resided, fat and happy, inside their Parisian ateliers, picking their teeth over their repast: the flesh and bones of women forced into clothing bondage! That such a thought would come to her and clarify itself in her attenuated state of mind was at once frightening as well as liberating and she knew that once she was settled into her new life, never again, no never ever again, would she allow her self to be put into such a state of dishabille. She would forego these articles of torture forever! Fashion be dammed!



***************



The coachman jumped down from the box and opened the carriage door. He stood at attention, waiting patiently for Sarah to arrange herself. But when a moment or two had passed and he looked in at her, she was just sitting still, staring into space.



" Why, Miss Miller", he gasped, leaning in to look at her. What was wrong? Was she dead? He called her name. "Miss Miller! Miss Miller! Wake up please, we are here! "



At this she seemed to come around a bit. " Don't trouble your self, Issaic." she said softly. " I will be fine in just a moment."



He breathed a sigh of relief. She was just tired, just plum tired . It had been a long day. He would help her. She would be grateful. Then she would fall in love with him. They would be married…



She slid over on the seat, and put her hands out for assistance, but her world whirled away into cold darkness and she fell from the door into the coachman's arms with a soft "thud." He struggled to hold her upright, but could not. She was dead weight and would pull him down. He shifted about and rested her gently on the soft grass, near the trunk of the massive old sycamore, all the while whispering: "Miss Miller, I do love you. Please marry me." He knelt over her prostrate form and fanned her with his hat.



The gardener dropped his broom and came running. The stable boy leapt onto the box and expertly guided the carriage down the long drive. The heavy front door came flying open and Bessie, Julia's beautiful seventeen year old daughter, bolted down the wooden steps, blond curls flying, the train of her blue summer gown flowing out behind her like water. She was followed by Bridget the parlor girl; Bridget in her Sunday uniform of black dress, short white apron and white mop cap with two long black velvet ribbons. Bridget with jet black hair, bright blue eyes and skin like white cream. Bridget who would not rest until she had married and married well - according to her class - for she had cast her bait for the coachman, Issiac Wilson, and would not be deterred.



"Mon dieu!". Bessie cried aloud. " It 's Aunt Sarah and she has quite fainted away! Bridget! Come quickly! Hurry! You stupid girl! Where are you? Bring sherry and quickly!



The parlor girl stood gaping , staring at the little tableau assembled upon the lawn. She had seen ladies fall out many times. The quality was always fainting. Show them a speck of dirt on the table cloth and they fainted; a collapsed pudding was enough to send them into hysterics. They had no back bone, these women. You could always coo over them and fan them and pass some sharp smelling ammoniated salts under their noses and they eventually came around, all blushing and quivering and contrite. And there was Issaic Wilson, HER Issaic Wilson, kneeling over the Misses Miller, whispering sweet things to her, no doubt! Declarations of Love, no doubt. Bridget clenched her small fists. Oh, he would pay for that. And dearly.



" Why are you staring at me? Bessie addressed Bridget in a sharp tone of voice."Go in the yard and bring Mother and then bring the smelling salts, and the sherry, and cool cloths. Do this at once. Hurry!. Don't just stand there gawping like a ninny. Ninny's never get anything of substance done in the world!"



Bridget turned and ran into the house, hot tears stinging her eyes! A ninny? She was no ninny! These people mumbled like they had mouth full of boiled praties! Yes, she would fetch the mistress and after that…she would leave this house forever. Go away from here. Some where. Anywhere. She didn't care.


*******************



Bessie cradled Sarah's head in her hands. She had long delicate fingers and she touched her aunt's face lightly, her large blue eyes filling with tears.



" Mon Cherie. Whatever has happened to you must have been so terrible. Mother is coming. I am here. Please don't die. Please don't die."



Bessie knelt in the cool grass, in the dark shade beneath the sycamore tree. She looked at Sarah's torn dress, her disheveled hair; her bare feet, the soles brown with dust and dirt. She averted her gaze and locked eyes with the coachman. He stood by passively, fumbling with his hat.



"Issaic. What is this? Whatever has happened?"



The coachman spread his hands in a gesture of futility. " I couldn't stop her, Miss Conkling. She went right to it… the accident. She has a mind of her own."



"The accident?" asked Bessie. "Whatever accident are you speaking of?"



"The accident on the bridge, Miss… she saved…" He was fumbling for words.



Bessie turned on him with a vengeance, her blue eyes narrow with anger and suspicion. She was both her mother and her fathers daughter. Often out spoken, often reserved, often tactful, often tactless, she embodied and straddled the best and the worst of both world's.



" That is enough of your insipient twaddle, Mr. Wilson. We will discuss it later, when father gives you your last pay packet! You may leave us alone now. I have no longer any need for your services."



"Yes ' m, Miss Conkling. As you say." And he turned and went sadly into the stable, head held low with anger and shame.


Fiona

[Dave]

From Fiona:



Julia Conkling sat alone on a cast iron bench under an arbor of pink roses , quietly taking in the warmth of the evening, a half smile on her lips as if she was hiding the most delicious of secrets. Her maid had arranged a pretty setting for her repose: brilliant yellow pillows of Chinese silk embroidered with rampant red dragons, and an upholstered and tasseled hassock, upon which to rest her feet. Thus she, Julia, was quite content. The day had passed most deliciously, softly, with a minimum of after church callers and now she could lean back and finally draw a deep breath. She wore a black silk bombazine of an older style, with white lace ruching at the neck, and her soft brown curls were covered by a cap of exquisite Brussels lace. She looked for all the world the picture of happiness and contentment, surveying the boundaries of her garden with sparkling brown eyes, and for the most part she was. The scent of all the roses combined was intoxicating, musty and spicy, citrusy and clean all at once. She closed her eyes, reveling in the beauty of it all and her thoughts gently whirled back in time in to when she and Mr. Conkling were first engaged. They were so young, so very young and there were roses then too, she just hadn't counted the thorns

They had attended a fancy dress ball one evening just before Christmas in 1853 and he had given her a bouquet to carry, small pink roses in a white lace cone suspended from a black velvet ribbon. Pink roses and black velvet. In a little tussie-mussie. In December. Hot house roses in the depths of bleak December. How she remembered the night.

" Where ever did you get them, my darling? They are lovely." She had lifted the bouquet to her lips in a promise of pleasures to come and he, catching the pregnant meaning of the moment, had whispered as he swept her up in a dance, " Let it be my small secret, my dearest, my little love. For they are as sweet as the blush of your cheek. As sweet as the shell of your delicate ear." Yes, she had trusted, never counting the thorns.




O' So long ago, before all of their troubles… before politics, before Washington, before all these new and vicious rumors about Kate Chase Sprague, rumors that Mr. Conkling was planning yet another assignation, before, before, before. So, it was her wont and her much deserved pleasure to sit here on a Sunday evening late and watch the moon rise, for it gave her nascent hope that each day would be better than the one that was passing away. Tonight the moon would be full, gibbous. Fat white moths circled a trellis of white moon flowers and the sweet plaintive sound of a violin drifted across the gardens. A Stradivarius! It must be Bessie, thought Julia dreamily. She played very prettily and the Strad was so hard to master.. There was no mistaking the elegant clean tone and though she didn't recognize the tune, the perfect high notes curled around her like warm tendrils. And the roses, yes the very roses, bent their velvety heads in awe and admiration. Night singing insects joined in, fireflies flitted on and off, all in time to the music, so that Julia herself was surrounded by music and flickering light. It was the stage she sat on, that very stage which life had set for her in the summer of her 46th year. Destiny had lit for her a small compassionate fire that burned from within and glowed from without. And she was content with it, to be the Lady Of the Manor, Lady Bountiful, devoted to her daughter and her family, all that mattered was all that she had. Her thoughts returned lightly to her husband. She could not bring herself to hate him no matter how hard she tried, ( and she had tried) It was simply not in her nature. Any love he had professed for her had long ago burned itself out, but she simply continued on. Dutiful to the end, even though now he was like a ghost to her, going out of her life ever more slowly, by degrees, until someday he would simply fade away to nothing. But, hate him? No. He came and went in her life like smoke and one could not hate smoke, for it was the remnant of fire and without fire nothing lived. Fire to her was the beginning and end of the world, the remnants of there now passionless relationship, the coals of which would never bloom again. But still she could not bring herself to hate him.

Thus was Julia sitting, quietly absorbed in her memories, the estranged yet ever dutiful wife , when Bridget the parlor maid came running through the hall, cap and apron all askew, bolted across the back porch, down the steps and burst into the quiet of Julia's flowery sanctuary. Julia saw the girl coming and drew a deep breath. What now? Had someone broken a wine glass, shattered another sauce boat on the scullery floor, burned the gravy, had Bessie lost her tortishell comb again, dropped down into the grate behind the dressing table?

"Mrs. Conkling, Ma'am, Mrs. Conkling! O' come quick! Its awful terrible! The Misses Sarah has come calling and fainted dead away on the front lawn! And the coachman Issaic Wilson, he tried to kiss her! I saw it with me own eyes, Mum. Saw it meself I did… himself after trying to take liberties with her and herself trying to fight him off…!" The words came tumbling from the girl's mouth like stones. " An the cat, Mum, they're an awful big yellow cat what's sittin on the Missus Sarah's... well, I can't say just where it's sittin… t'would be unseemly. But, rouse yourself and come quick."

Julia looked quizzically at the parlor girl. Bridget looked hysterical, tears streaming down her cheeks, but she knew the girl could be dramatic to a fault, was given to gossip and was prone to making up stories - all the help in the house loved gossip. And stories, more and more of them. She knew full well that the girl had set her cap for the coachman and even expected her to be leaving soon to be married, though nothing had been announced. But what was this? Sarah fainting on the front lawn? A yellow cat ? The coachman trying to take liberties with her niece? She hadn't been expecting Sarah. And the Coachman? Highly unlikely at best. There was a crisis a minute in this house, always a pot boiling. It was worse than Mrs. Lincoln's Wednesday afternoon drawing room.

"Why Bridget, what ever is wrong? Why are you crying? " Julia asked, trying to make sense of the girls tale. She dusted off the front of her skirt , where a few bright red rose petals had fallen and they drifted to the ground like drops of fresh blood. "Please, my dear girl, you must calm yourself. Such distress is most unseemly in one of my best parlor maids. And your elocution, my dear, you must remember your elocution. Here take my arm and help me up. We'll go together if that will suit you."

"Yes, Mum, I will always remember my 'locution, but hurry now, please. It's terrible bad it is and the Missus Bessie is demandin' the ammonia salts and a bottle of Sherry and cool cloths for the Missus Miller's head… I got the kitchen girl Annabelle to bring 'em. She told me to be after you quick and bring the salts after."

"My daughter, Bessie? Sarah? Oh dear me. These young girls! Is there no rest for the weary?" and she bustled down the long hall, all the while thanking God that whatever the current crisis was, He, God had done excellent work in removing the Senator to Saratoga Springs where he could take the waters, instead of being here to simply muddy them.
- Fiona

[Dave]

From Fiona:

" The heart that truly loves never forgets. "

Julia's pretty brown curls would turn to silver and thence to snow white, ere she ceased the telling of the tale. After the fear and shock had left her and time had smoothed the wrinkles of consternation from her heart, she would ever after recall Sarah's visit and the happy days that followed with much overarching fondness; so much so that Bessie's children made a Sunday afternoon musical out of it. High above Fifth Avenue, well into the prime of their childhood, and Julia's old age, it became the most wonderful of parlor games, complete with a rag time piano piece written by Bessie herself, called appropriately: " Roscoe's Revenge", cooling lemonade in summer, warming hot chocolate in winter, Cook's most wonderful gingerbread cookies and even an impromptu dance or two. There would always be much bickering as to who would play the parlor girl, who would act out Sarah, who would claim the part of the gardener and of course, who would be the cat,( the by then infamous Roscoe, who had long years hence gone to his final reward in the summer kitchen of Sarah's lovely home in Morristown, New Jersey.) One hot August day, with much pomp, circumstance and an awful copious shedding of tears, a small grave was dug beneath a wonderfully wide Persian lilac tree and in a wooden box lined with blue satin, he was laid to rest and over the grave Sarah planted a bouquet of catnip along with a hand lettered sign that read: "Roscoe Conkling Wood: 1873 - 1885. He was A Good Cat. RIP". And thus, for a good many years Julia was entreated to reenact a passable, if not entirely believable cat and with each telling she altered the action ever so slightly, until over time the tale itself became more important than the actual event.

It was family lore, then, the story :

Sarah lying prone upon the lawn with a big orange cat yowling and kneading his paws upon her chest, the gardener yelling and flipping his coat at the cat, and the cat snarling back, refusing to be dislodged. Bessie wielding the broom over her head like a saber; Anna Belle, the kitchen girl standing gape mouthed with her towel, silver tray and bottle of English sherry, Julia coming across the porch and the hapless Bridget, repeatedly making the sign of the cross as she keened: "Ah tis true. Tis true. Tis The Troubles come to call all over again. Surely such is the way of the world. Aoi, Aoi, Aoi."

He had an intimate familiarity with brooms

Roscoe had leapt from the carriage unbeknownst and unseen and had hidden himself under a nearby peony bush, from where he peered out in a silent curious manner: What were they doing to his person? The only person who had shown him kindness in his short life; had lifted him up, stroked his head…even named him! It was too much to bear. He raced across the lawn and flung his small body on his person's chest and like a bullet that had found it's mark, he would not be dislodged. Bessie screamed and went running for he broom, the gardener tore off his jacket and waved it frantically about, but to no avail. Presently, Bessie, all out of breath, came back with the broom and waved it above her head. That was the final straw in a long day. Roscoe froze in place. He had an intimate familiarity with brooms, mops and slop buckets and he would have no truck with such implements of fear and pain. Like a bursting firecracker, he rose straight up in the air, becoming three times larger in the process. Absconding up the trunk of the sycamore , there clung, trembling, to he leafiest of high branches.

" Oh," said Sarah, ever so softly " I am so very lost"

The gardener, fearing the worst, dropped slowly to his knees and made an immediate assessment. He had seen men blown to bits on the battlefield, freeze in fear or simply fall out of rank from sheer exhaustion. Some had apoplectic seizures and he feared this for Sarah. He saw no broken bones, no bruising, no blood that would indicate injury and she was beginning to stir about lightly, a good sign. Yet her color was grey, ashen, a bad sign. He folded his jacket into a pillow and thrust it under her head, gently pulled back her neck and opened her mouth to give her air. Ah! It was as he thought. She had simply fainted. He pulled back her tongue and ran his fingers about the inside of her mouth, feeling for blood or any unusual object - a bit of food perhaps -. There was nothing. Bending low, he listened to her breathing, shallow but regular. She would live.

Bessie passed the salts lightly beneath her nose and Sarah came awake, sputtering and coughing. The gardener softly opened Sarah's eyes. Bright but unfocused. A glass of sherry was passed to Bessie, but the gardener waved it away.

"T' will do her no good, the spirits." He turned her gently on to her side, drew up her legs and began massaging her back. A tremor ran through her spine, she jerked a bit and then lay still again.

Julia came to her side, knelt in the wet sweet grass and kissed Sarah's face. She kissed away the dirt and the tears and the blades of grass that clung to her cheek. "Let us help you. Carry you. Put you to bed. Call the doctor. You are ill."

"Oh." said Sarah, ever so softly, " Where am I? I am so very lost…" then she lifted her poor disheveled head as best she could and said to no one in particular: "Where is Roscoe?"

Julia, not thinking the request unusual, the patrimony of the cat in the tree as yet unknown to her, answered truthfully: "My Dear, he was here last week, but has gone to Saratoga. Did you need to speak with him directly?"

Sarah, groggy as she was and unable to grasp the meaning of her Aunt's reply, spoke haltingly.

"Speak with him… no. I only wanted to pet him…" She opened and then closed her eyes. "I fear he has run off… I shall miss him only..having had him… a short while… I do hope he finds another mistress…"

Julia's small pretty mouth fell open. She and Bessie exchanged surprised glances. Julia composed herself. It was a truly strange evening and she was sure the night would bring more of it.

- Fiona

[Dave]

This is a sketch, just a narrative of an idea that might be used in OGH. There is little or no dialog yet, little description and I have barely gone through it once with a superficial edit. But you're invited to comment in the OGH Comments thread and tell me what you think.

The background for it ... what got me thinking about it ... is in another thread on this board, "Fiona at the library." It began with Jon's post from a newspaper article of a 29 year old black woman who lived on Post St and her evident suicide by jumping into the Erie Canal. My 29 year old young mother is an Irish woman.

==========

Catherine “Katie” Gallagher Quinn at age 29 could have been suffering from post partum depression. The spectre of starving to death along with her babies as her husband tried to find his way back to health and employment would have been frightening. Maybe he was never a steady worker anyway. She could not take the children to her mother's as she had once considered, for now her mother was sick and destitute besides, since the older woman could no longer work as a domestic and had been widowed quite early and left penniless. Her husband, Katie’s father, had been killed when a long leather belt separated on a nearby machine at the Elmira factory where he was employed. A fellow worker heard the gunshot-like sound and looked up to see the belt snap into the air like a 30 foot whip and decapitate the man as he walked toward the stairway on the way to his 15 minute lunch break. Fellow workers brought the body home to Mrs. Gallagher in an old packing sheet and the new widow, unable to afford an undertaker, washed and prepared her husband's body as she cried despondently and tried to keep the man's head from rolling off the kitchen table. Her husband's fellow workers had collected about $5 among them and brought it to her a few days later. She never heard one word from the company.

In Utica, Katie thought the world a pretty sorry place. Over the past decade and a half she had been constantly pregnant, losing all but two of the children. Had she the money to be attended by a doctor even sporadically, the man would have wondered how she had maintained her health, precarious as it was, through all those pregnancies. Her looks had left her by age 24, her energy departed for good only a couple of years later. Her mind kept leaving and wandering back, hardly welcome when it arrived home on the doorstep of her consciousness.

On the evening of her leave-taking, Katie Quinn boiled a few vegetables a neighbor had given her and parsed out the meal to her husband and children, taking very little for herself. She went to the window and looked out at the early evening light, the dirty street almost charming in the golden glow of the lowering sun. Her heart ached as she considered what she pondered what she was about to do. Katie knew her soul would burn in hell, but she didn't care. She didn't want to spend eternity with a God who could be such a monster to have subjected them to this life. When she had voiced that opinion to her parish priest a week ago, he had slapped her hard across the face and further loosened a tooth that came out the next day.

"I'm going out for a few minutes," she said to William as dusk gathered in the part of the sky she could see when she bent down near the window and looked up at a high angle between the buildings. He didn't answer her, but continued to lay back on the bed, his eyes closed in what she was sure was feigned sleep. The poor man had nothing to say anymore, so guilty did he feel for their troubles.

"The children will be fine. Keep an ear for them, please, when they come back from Mrs. O'Brien's." Mrs. O'Brien , a lived down the way and was a young widow who had lost her husband and children to the influenza last year, but had somehow survived with on the small income from her seamstress work. She loved Katie’s children as if they were her own. Katie stepped lightly to where her husband lie. She bent over and kissed him on the forehead. She turned and walked to the door and stopped. Katie took a deep breath, then walked out the door and never returned.

Katie had been quite young when her father was killed, a few weeks before her third grade school year ended. Katie had been pulled from her classes and put to work in a knitting mill in Elmira. Eight years old, she was a serious little girl and responsible enough to do the work assigned to her, which was to constantly patrol the spindles and replace the alternate bobbin just before the thread ran out. Although other girls had lost fingers and one had been killed when her hair caught in the mechanism, Katie kept her wits about her and managed not lose any of her digits.

The job was quite boring, much more so than school had been. As she walked among the clattering machinery during her long day at the mill, she would remember with longing the days spent sitting in her chilly classroom at the brick schoolhouse on Mt. Zoar Street. Katie had to stay on her feet for 11 hours each day with only 3 five minute breaks and 15 minutes for lunch, which usually consisted of a slice of bread with something resembling butter on it. At night she ate boiled vegetables in the summer and a corn mush in the winter.

She crossed the Chemung River each morning and night to and from work, walking briskly from the two rfooms her family kept on West Hudson Street to the knitting mill on West Water Street. There usually wasn't much traffic when she climbed up the incline of the steeply arched narrow bridge. But if a horse and wagon happened to be slowly negotiating it's way on the bridge, Katie always waited for them to come off, so scared was she to be on the flimsy looking structure at the same time. The wagons were usually loaded down so much they sagged and the big brute horses were as large as elephants in her eyes. She worried that their weight would collapse the bridge and she would be plunged with them into the river. Children in the neighborhood often told stories of just such occurrences, although none could ever say exactly how long ago such tragedies had taken place. To Katie, falling into the canal meant certain death.

Her mother sold her at age 12 to a traveling canal merchant who used her and sold her again in Binghamton when his boat arrived there. Her new owner dealt in white slaves and threw some clean clothing at her and took her with him up the Chenango Canal to Utica where she wound up a scullery maid in the estate house of Roscoe Conkling, a rich attorney and US Senator. Conkling would have told himself he was paying a transportation bonus to the dealer and never admitted to himself that he actually bought another human being, but none of the human beings who were caught in that web of slavery were ever free to escape the system. They were destitute, often little more than orphans and also subject to laws that punished them for having no money or place to live.
A real jail would have admittedly been worse than the virtual prison of 15 hours in the kitchen each day and a hard bed to lay upon in the cold attic at night. Rape was common while in the company of flesh dealers. One got used to it. And once ensconced in the fabric of a Victorian household, rape was transmuted into protestations of chivalrous love on the part of the men in the household, presented as a gift no common girl should refuse and veiled in the threat of eviction or worse. But one was never a slave or a victim, of course. Instead, she was a girl paid her wages in room, board and a few pennies each week, plus the unsolicited attentions of every frustrated male in the household.

Katie met William when he came to deliver goods from a local merchant. When the lady of the household had assured herself the girl at 16 was ready to marry, and the men were tired of her, she was sent to the local priest to be interviewed in regard to her suitability for marriage to a local son of the parish. By this time, Katie had learned to eskew a forthright and open manner when dealing with her betters. So in answer to the priests careful questions about her virginity, she answered in the affirmative. Other than her promise to bring their children up in the arms of the Roman Catholic Church, the old prelate seemed interested in nothing else and he dismissed her after only ten minutes with his permission to marry William in St. Patrick’s Church.

As Katie walked down John St. on this fateful evening, she covered terrible feelings of abandoning her two children with the excruciating fear of a person condemned. It had been almost impossible to not turn up the way when she left William to see her boy and girl one more time at Mrs. O’Brien’s. But she knew if she had done so she would have faltered in the consummation of her awful purpose. Instead she turned down the street and now she was approaching Baggs’ Square and the bridge over the canal.

Katie had seldom ventured over any of the canal bridges in Utica, and her assessment of what lie underneath them went back to her childhood crossings of the Chemung River, a roiling corridor of sucking waters that often ate up workmen and children and spit them out downstream, sometimes as far as away as Waverly across the border in Pennsylvania.

But the Erie was a canal, made expressly for canal boats and barges were built to standard dimensions. The waterway was only 4 feet deep with sloped interior sides and in many places less than 40 feet across. Because the system of locks, the canal consisted of a large number of contained water courses and there was very little current, except near any given lock when it was operating. If one was not worried about catching pneumonia or a variety of diseases from the water, a virtual sewer, a person could wade across. There were certainly enough deaths in the canal, but most of its victims were the infirm, the inebriated and the injured. It’s true that jumping from the height of the arched bridge could result in injury if done haphazardly, but overall the Erie Canal was not a place to plan a successful suicide. Katie, afraid of bridges, decided to walk in until the water was over her head the current swept her away.

TO BE CONTINUED

[Dave]

Mrs. F.'s Kitchen

"The long work table was just as she had left it the night before..."

[fiona]

Five o' clock Monday morning came around about the same time as usual for a Monday morning. Mrs. F., as she was wont to be called by the Conkling's, heaved her large body out of her small bed to the chiming of the massive grandfather clock that stood guard at the top of the second floor landing. Mrs. F. hated that clock with it's interminable chimings and gongings, windings and ticking's, oilings and never ending adjustings. Hated it because it was always right. For years it had served like a good soldier, never wavering in its striking of the hour and the hour was always too early or too late depending upon the work to be done. Soft light was already streaming in through the window, through the white lace curtains, onto the polished wood floor. The wash stand with it's painted china bowl, neat towel and pitcher stood out in bright relief. The round braided rug, the iron bed with its fancy head board, over which hung a large crucifix layered with years of old and new Palm Sunday fronds; the dresser with its small statue of the Blessed virgin, the rocking chair with it's comfortable pillow and well thumbed catechism , the deep window sill with it's pots of brilliant red geraniums, all were bathed in the light.

Mrs. F. had the largest and most commodious of all the servants rooms, as befitted her position as head cook and she kept it spotless. Seven identical grey cotton dresses with white lace collars hung from hooks on the wall, seven pairs of black work shoes placed under each dress. Seven black hair nets at the ready, seven long starched aprons, seven white lace mop caps. This was her private domain and woe betide the poor cleaning girl who dared to leave the most miniscule spot of dust on the dresser, who moved the rug a quarter of an inch to the left. Mrs. F. had the eyes of an eagle and no girl escaped unscathed should she not leave the room gleaming , the counterpane turned down at just the right angle, at the end of the day.

Peering into the old silvered mirror on the dresser, Mrs F. brushed and braided her graying hair and wound it back into a thick bun upon which she placed one of the hair nets. It was a rather severe look, she knew and so, her one acquiescence to fashion was a fringe of curled bangs, like a row of corkscrews, that ran the breadth of her forehead.

"Can't muck about gettin me hair into the qualities Beef Wellington now can I?" She laughed a bit to herself, even though she was a woman who wasn't given over to it, she still enjoyed a bit of mirth- a soupcon of it - now and then.

But, she did love a good bit of gossip. God knows there was going to be enough of it about today, what with Bridget the parlor girl accusing the driver Issaic Wilson of laying hands on the Mrs. Conkling's niece, Sarah. That, and the daughter, Bessie, being rude to the coachman. She wondered where that crow would fly as she bustled about, making her morning ablutions, brushing her teeth with the powder, checking her fingernails. Bridget was such a sly bit. Sent by the hiring hall she was, and better off gone she would soon be. She stepped into her grey dress and pulled it up, buttoning it tight over her ample bosoms, then pinned on and adjusted her white cap. No crinolines, bustles or petticoats for her, thank you very much. She even eschewed lacing. The kitchen was too hot. She could not move about quick enough. The Mrs. Conkling had never called her out on it and she was thankful . She put on her long white apron and cotton stockings , which she rolled down just to the top of her ankles. Then she jammed her feet into a pair of heavy black working shoes, of which the toe box had been cut out, so that her numerous and large bunions would not be compressed. The last thing she did was choose a strand of green Connemara rosary beads from the neck of the Statue of the Virgin Mary and wrap them in a hanky. She dropped the rosaries into her pocket and secured them with a long pin. Now she was ready to face the day.

"Thanks be to God," she thought, making the sign of the cross over her bosom, that she still had all her teeth, remembering with no small fondness, her own mother across the water, dead and buried in the church yard in Skibberdeen all these long years. The "auld wans", they called them over there, toothless and bent and worn from child bearing by the age of 30. The last shakings of the bag was what she was, when she came wailing into this world, Ma's last child, and the largest and healthiest of ten. Now at the ripe old age of fifty , she still stood tall and strong, an unusually large woman with a mass of chins set on a thick neck, a thin ribbon of a mouth, ruddy cheeks and small bright blue eyes that saw everything and gave away nothing. A smart woman, she knew that her only saving grace in life was not that she would work hard for the rest of her life, and probably collapse face down in a birthday cake or a cream pie on some distant day, but that she would never have to carry her own can. That there would always be someone beneath her, a lesser servant, a chambermaid, to carry it for her.

" I'll cook, I'll shake the ashes, I'll wait on the quality till I'm dead, but I'll not carry the can! I'll niver carry the can!" she had told her husband Thomas, years ago, when they had both come to the mansion to work. And indeed she never had.

She had a long day ahead of her. The horse cart and the colored man Sam Pell, from the wash house on Post Street would be here soon for last weeks bed linins, and towels, all had to brought up from the basement. Miss Bessie had her piano lesson and then later her French lesson. The Mrs. Conkling would most likely be speaking with the daughter in the library after breakfast, regarding her treatment of the Coachman. Young Bessie had a sharp tongue. There was no denying it. There would be tears and more with the house a buzz and Bessie running up the stairs to her chamber all vaporous and teary eyed. Then there would be the matter of the parlor girl. Mrs. F. had her fingers crossed in hopes that the girl would be dismissed. Lunch would have to be served too, and at three o' clock, tea, to calm everyone down. And the doctor would call this morning for the Misses Sarah and she would have to be fed and attended to. Mac, the housekeeper would be in after lunch, poking her sharp Protestant nose into every corner, for the last weeks accounting of every jot and tittle to the Mrs. Conkling and her brother, Horatio, who managed the household books. Yes it was all ahead of her, and she steeled herself for it.

In the half light, she descended the winding back staircase that led to the kitchens. The first thing she saw was that was that the coal stove was dead. Why hadn't Clara Bell, one of the kitchen girls started the fire? She had set the round kitchen table for breakfast, put out the heavy cups, the iron stone plates and bowls, the milk jugs. The long work table was just as she, Mrs. F. had left it last night, with its big earthenware bowls of straw berries, gooseberries, raspberries , covered with neat towels, flour, sugar, pie tins, lard bucket, all that was needed for the day ahead and more neat and at the ready , but the coal scuttle was untouched, the bucket still full, the stove was cold as the deuce. Clara Bell's sister, Anna Bell, was already in the dining room setting the table for lunch. Mrs. F. could hear the clink of china and silver and crystal, as the girl went briskly about her tasks. Mrs. F. had heard Clara Bell stirring about in her room quite early, humming a lively little song to herself. Where was she?? Mrs. F. looked at the mantle clock atop the high sideboard. She lived her life by clocks. It was almost six . She could feel the blood rushing to her head. Dam that girl to Hell! Where was she? She clomped over to the back door and yanked it open. The screen was unlatched. Someone, most likely the girl, had been here and gone out to the yard. Baskets of brown eggs and fresh produce, squash, early melons, beans, were laid out on the long bench next to the door. And on the porch, more baskets and bins of produce, lettuces, herbs. The butter and egg man had been here early. Were in God's blue blazes was that girl? The Mrs. Conkling liked her breakfast sharp at nine and now, what with her niece Sarah sick, it would be heavy trays and tea up and down stairs all the day; and the Mrs. Conkling would be fluttering about as she always did, peering into the cupboards for teas and nostrums and this or that certain candy, cookie or sweet. Well, she would leave the trays to one of the girls. Her days of toting heavy silver trays up back stairs were over, thank you very much. She had bigger fish to fry this morning, for her special gentlemen friend would soon be arriving, just as he did at the stroke of eight, every Monday morning, spring through fall. Then it would be time to sit down and share a bit of cake, a bit of tea and a bit of gossip, and for a little while, just for an hour or so, she would feel that her life was easier and that was one of the quality too.

He was an early riser, that Horatio Seymour. He always came through the kitchen door and then they would talk like the old friends that they were, share a bit of gossip and a laugh or two, they would, until at the stroke of nine he would disappear into the dining room to share breakfast with his sister .Well, there would be talk aplenty today that was for sure. A gentlemen through and through, he was, that Horatio Seymour, with his curling white hair that curled like a blooming bush of white roses about the top of his skull, which itself was bald and shiny as a smooth mirror. Mrs. F. swore he oiled it, the top of his head, but as to that she couldn't be sure, for though she was tall, he was taller and when he was sitting down it wouldn't do to be studying the top of the former Governor of New York's head. But right now she needed the girl who was gossiping by the half gate, no doubt. If she called for her she would wake up the house. But she didn't have too. Clara Bell suddenly appeared from behind a hedge and walked nonchalantly up the porch steps and into the kitchen. Her face was flushed and her white lace cap and white apron slightly askew.

" Where were you?" Mrs. F. grabbed the girl and pinched her upper arm . " Whist! Start the stove up Missy or I'll bollox yer ears till yer deef! "

Clara Bell pulled away. "Leave off pinching me or I'll scream!

" If you value yer position here, Missy, you'll not be screamin in my kitchen!"

"I was talking to the ice man in the next yard. I meant no harm. Its early, Mum." Clara Bell backed away from the furious Mrs. F., but there was no where to go .

"Well then, how now brown cow… You were talkin to the ice man? " Mrs. F. put her large hands on her hips, and brought her face within an inch of the girls. " Today it's talkin, tomorrow ye'll be struttin yer stuff on Post Street! I run this kitchen, Missy, not you. Forget that and you'll be trimmin the mustache of the Over Seer of the Poor, instead of Scanlon the ice man.!"

"I was only talking, Mum. Surely there's no sin in that!"

" Talkin to the ice man under the shade of the elms were ye?" Mrs. F. laughed aloud. " Then go off with the ice man and have yerself ten howling brats, but for the time that's in it, The Mrs. Conkling pays yer wages, and ye can be a slattern on your own time. Now get to work buildin up that fire before I slap ye.!" And she pinched Clara Belle's other arm as hard as she could.

Fiona