me. His eyes were gray blue, wide set, and honest looking.
So I introduced him to Amos, who put him to work. Mama was pleased to have Martin working for us, thinking the Weigels and their many kinfolk would be good customers. He worked for eighty cents aday. Three days a week he helped Amos strip hides and hew carcasses into hams and ribs and loins. When Rock Creek froze, they drove out in the cart and returned with huge blocks of ice that they covered with sawdust and hay. The ice would keep fresh meat from spoiling in warm weather. What meat we didn’t sell fresh, I rubbed with salt and placed in barrels of brine and powdered nitrate, which gave the meat a healthy color. I negotiated prices on the hides and had Martin deliver them to the tanner. I tracked orders and deliveries, invoices and payments. But as hard as we worked, business never rose to the level of the year before, when Papa was in charge.
At home, Mama imposed strict measures to conserve butter, sugar, coffee, and candles. She talked about taking in laundry. I didn’t know where we’d find the time to do other people’s washing as well as our own. But fortunately it didn’t come to that, for Ben kept finding odd jobs that brought in fifty cents here and there. One day I saw Amos give Ben a dollar, and I realized that he was turning over some of his own earnings to help buy food. I didn’t say anything, because we badly needed the money. But I don’t believe Mama ever found out.
Nor did she discover that I sometimes still read books at the shop, for Amos was as good as his word and never let on. I finished John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress, which inspired me to bear my trials with more patience, and borrowed Charles Dickens’s Hard Times from Margaret. Some evenings I sat with Rosanna while she studied, hoping to learn something. My cousin was by her own admission a lazy student, and I often ended up helping her. One night in February I found her in a sulky mood, staring at the blank page of a notebook.
“What shall I do, Lizzie? Mrs. Pierpont has assigned us to write another entry about the war. But I don’t have any interest in battles and generals,” she said wearily.
I picked up her notebook. It was titled A History of the War. In it was a paragraph on the fall of Fort Sumter, copied from the newspaper in Rosanna’s flowing hand, a list of Confederate states and the dates of their secession, and a sketch of Rosanna and her friends sewing the flag. I realized that Papa and Luke had not mentioned receiving the flag.
“Why not write a description of camp life in the winter? You said Henry’s letters were full of such anecdotes.”
“Yes, but I doubt that will satisfy Mrs. Pierpont.”
“Isn’t she practically an abolitionist?” I said. The whole town knew of Mrs. Pierpont’s strong opinions. “You could write about Amos and how he plans to free his wife from slavery,” I suggested, looking sideways at Rosanna for her response.
Rosanna clasped her hands. “Oh, yes, she will love that. Margaret told me the story. It’s so romantic, how he loves Grace even though they are so far apart.”
“What’s romantic about Grace being a slave and Amos working so hard just so he can buy her?” I said, frowning at Rosanna. “People shouldn’t be bought and sold.”
Rosanna’s eyebrows shot up. “I declare, Lizzie, this whole business with your hired man is making you an abolitionist!”
“That’s not true,” I shot back. I knew that abolitionists gave wild speeches and sometimes broke into prisons to free captured runaways. I would never do such a thing. But I had to admit that Rosanna was half right. I did want slavery to end. Yes, even if it meant the war would last longer. I felt sad and suddenly older, realizing what others had known for a long time: the war had to go on.
“Rosanna, don’t you believe that slavery is wrong?”
“My father does not own slaves,” she said, avoiding my question.
“But what do you think?” I
So I introduced him to Amos, who put him to work. Mama was pleased to have Martin working for us, thinking the Weigels and their many kinfolk would be good customers. He worked for eighty cents aday. Three days a week he helped Amos strip hides and hew carcasses into hams and ribs and loins. When Rock Creek froze, they drove out in the cart and returned with huge blocks of ice that they covered with sawdust and hay. The ice would keep fresh meat from spoiling in warm weather. What meat we didn’t sell fresh, I rubbed with salt and placed in barrels of brine and powdered nitrate, which gave the meat a healthy color. I negotiated prices on the hides and had Martin deliver them to the tanner. I tracked orders and deliveries, invoices and payments. But as hard as we worked, business never rose to the level of the year before, when Papa was in charge.
At home, Mama imposed strict measures to conserve butter, sugar, coffee, and candles. She talked about taking in laundry. I didn’t know where we’d find the time to do other people’s washing as well as our own. But fortunately it didn’t come to that, for Ben kept finding odd jobs that brought in fifty cents here and there. One day I saw Amos give Ben a dollar, and I realized that he was turning over some of his own earnings to help buy food. I didn’t say anything, because we badly needed the money. But I don’t believe Mama ever found out.
Nor did she discover that I sometimes still read books at the shop, for Amos was as good as his word and never let on. I finished John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress, which inspired me to bear my trials with more patience, and borrowed Charles Dickens’s Hard Times from Margaret. Some evenings I sat with Rosanna while she studied, hoping to learn something. My cousin was by her own admission a lazy student, and I often ended up helping her. One night in February I found her in a sulky mood, staring at the blank page of a notebook.
“What shall I do, Lizzie? Mrs. Pierpont has assigned us to write another entry about the war. But I don’t have any interest in battles and generals,” she said wearily.
I picked up her notebook. It was titled A History of the War. In it was a paragraph on the fall of Fort Sumter, copied from the newspaper in Rosanna’s flowing hand, a list of Confederate states and the dates of their secession, and a sketch of Rosanna and her friends sewing the flag. I realized that Papa and Luke had not mentioned receiving the flag.
“Why not write a description of camp life in the winter? You said Henry’s letters were full of such anecdotes.”
“Yes, but I doubt that will satisfy Mrs. Pierpont.”
“Isn’t she practically an abolitionist?” I said. The whole town knew of Mrs. Pierpont’s strong opinions. “You could write about Amos and how he plans to free his wife from slavery,” I suggested, looking sideways at Rosanna for her response.
Rosanna clasped her hands. “Oh, yes, she will love that. Margaret told me the story. It’s so romantic, how he loves Grace even though they are so far apart.”
“What’s romantic about Grace being a slave and Amos working so hard just so he can buy her?” I said, frowning at Rosanna. “People shouldn’t be bought and sold.”
Rosanna’s eyebrows shot up. “I declare, Lizzie, this whole business with your hired man is making you an abolitionist!”
“That’s not true,” I shot back. I knew that abolitionists gave wild speeches and sometimes broke into prisons to free captured runaways. I would never do such a thing. But I had to admit that Rosanna was half right. I did want slavery to end. Yes, even if it meant the war would last longer. I felt sad and suddenly older, realizing what others had known for a long time: the war had to go on.
“Rosanna, don’t you believe that slavery is wrong?”
“My father does not own slaves,” she said, avoiding my question.
“But what do you think?” I
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