The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels) (6 page)

After she took over the inn, she explained, she wanted to discover all she could about its history. The previous owners shared what they knew, but Adele suspected the former single-family residence had a richer and more intriguing story to tell. Since Hunter College was nearby, she contacted its history department for advice. That phone call led to a meeting with Julius, a professor who had written several books on New York history. They fell in love, and a year later, they married.

By that time Adele had settled into her new career. She loved everything about her new life—meeting people from around the world, sending off her guests each morning with a delicious breakfast, introducing them to intriguing places off the usual tourist track, making them feel like true New Yorkers no matter how brief their stay in the city. When she found the time, she continued to research the history of the lovely old brownstone. With Julius’s help, she learned enough about research methods and historical scholarship to qualify for a Master’s degree, if only she had been officially enrolled.

Sylvia, who had heard some of Adele’s stories at Elm Creek Quilt Camp, said, “I do hope you’ll share some of that history with us.”

Adele promised she would, and as soon as their delicious meal was finished, they returned to the inn. “The name 1863 House comes from the year the brownstone was built, as I’m sure you’ve already guessed,” she told them as they climbed the front stairs. Inside, she showed them down a long hallway that had been converted to a gallery, displaying framed enlargements of black-and-white illustrations that appeared to be political cartoons. Sylvia recognized caricatures of Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee in various states of distress, and others of a somber but noble Abraham Lincoln in metaphorical narratives—sewing a divided nation together, visiting his Southern rivals in their nightmares. Other drawings parodied long-forgotten political figures and controversies, while another seemed to mock the simultaneous efforts of both the North and the South to recruit freed slaves for their armies.

“The man who built this residence was an artist and political activist named John Colcraft,” Adele said. “You wouldn’t know it from his political cartoons, but he was a South Carolinian by birth.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that,” Andrew remarked, peering closely at an illustration of a particularly tough-looking Union general wiping his shoes on a map of the Confederate states.

“His family had made its fortune in cotton, and as the second son, John often traveled North on business for his father. On one of those journeys he met a Quaker woman named Harriet Beals, who was born in Chester County, Pennsylvania, to a family of staunch abolitionists. By 1858, John had embraced her faith, renounced slavery, and married her, although not necessarily in that order.”

“I’ve always wondered how a man who owed his livelihood to the exploitation of slave labor managed to win the heart of a dedicated abolitionist,” Julius remarked.

“He must have been a fine talker,” said Adele, with a glance that suggested she knew another man who fit that description. “Don’t forget, he did renounce slavery. He also begged his father to free his slaves, but his father refused and disowned his son. Or the son disowned the father, it isn’t entirely clear. John Colcraft later wrote that on that day he had lost his birthright but regained his soul.”

“Fine words, indeed,” said Sylvia, though her own experiences had made it impossible to consider any familial estrangement without regret, without wondering what might have been.

“The couple settled in Philadelphia for a time, which is where John began his artistic career.” Adele led them down the hall at a pace that allowed them to examine the framed cartoons more carefully. “As a Quaker and a pacifist, he battled the evils he saw in the world around him with a pen rather than a sword. He began with innocuous illustrations for a city neighborhood, but as the Civil War approached, his drawings took on a more editorial slant. As his fame—or in certain circles, notoriety—grew, he moved to New York and became a regular artist for
Harper’s
.”

“Which brought them here,” Sylvia guessed, admiring the front room of the house as Adele and Julius led them inside and invited them to sit.

Adele nodded. “At the end of 1862, John received a considerable inheritance from his mother’s side of the family—‘untainted by the stain of slavery,’ as he put it—and he used it to build this home for Harriet and their two children. They moved into it in the spring of 1863, at a time of rising tensions in the city.”

The Emancipation Proclamation had been in force for several months by then, Adele reminded them. Proslavery organizations responded to the increasing political power of abolitionists by warning working-class New Yorkers of the increased competition for laborers’ jobs that would inevitably follow should slavery be abolished and the freed slaves move North. A new, stricter draft law only fanned the flames of unrest: Every male citizen between the ages of twenty and thirty-five, as well as all unmarried male citizens between thirty-five and forty-five, were considered eligible for military service and could be chosen for duty by lottery. Certain exceptions could be made, however. If a man could hire a substitute to take his place or if he could pay the federal government a three-hundred-dollar exemption fee, he would not have to serve. African-Americans were not subject to the draft because they were not considered citizens.

Working-class men, who would bear the brunt of the new law, were outraged. “Then, as it would now, the conflict played out in the press,” said Adele. “John Colcraft was right in the thick of it, skewering his political opponents and satirizing racism and hypocrisy on both sides.” She gestured to the four walls. “His most significant work was created in this very room. That desk is a reproduction of the one he used, based upon his own sketches of the original.”

Fear, anger, and racial tensions rose throughout the city as spring turned into summer and the first lottery approached, Adele told them. On July 11, the first names were drawn, and for nearly two days the city remained quiet, holding its breath, waiting to see if the danger had passed. But early in the morning of July 13, the tensions erupted in violence and bloodshed. At first the rioters targeted only military and government buildings, which to them represented all that was unfair about the new conscription process. People were safe from attack as long as they did not attempt to interfere with the mob’s destruction. Before long, however, the rioting took an uglier, more sinister turn as the long-simmering racial tensions finally boiled over. Mobs began attacking African-American residents, their businesses, and any other symbol of black community, culture, or political power.

“Even children were not safe,” said Adele. “A mob armed with clubs and bats descended upon the Colored Orphan Asylum at Fifth and Forty-Second, where more than two hundred children lived. They looted the place of anything of value—food, clothing, bedding—and then they burned down the building.”

“They attacked an orphanage?” gasped Sylvia. “Had they no shame?”

“What happened to the children?” asked Andrew.

“The building was a total loss,” said Adele. “Somehow the matron, superintendent, and a handful of volunteers managed to get all the children outside unharmed—but the mob was still there, destroying property, attacking and even killing African-Americans unlucky enough to fall into their hands. The superintendent split the children into two groups to try to lead them through the rioting to safety. Two hundred and thirty-three children followed the matron and superintendent to the police station at Thirty-Fifth Street. The remaining twenty-nine made their way here under Harriet Beals Colcraft’s protection.”

“For five days this house was their sanctuary,” Julius added. “For five days the children were sheltered in these rooms while the worst atrocities you can imagine were carried out in the streets.”

“I’d prefer to only imagine them, if you please,” said Sylvia, when Julius seemed prepared to describe those horrors with a historian’s eye for detail.

“While Harriet cared for the children, she must have been out of her mind with worry,” said Adele. “She had led the orphans to an empty house. John had gone out, perhaps to the newspaper office to check on the safety of friends, perhaps to witness the events unfold so he could draw about them later. Only after the rioting subsided did Harriet receive word that her husband was in the hospital. He had been discovered unconscious and badly beaten on the waterfront, where white longshoremen were attacking black dockworkers and sailors. He must have come between the two sides.”

“Or a political enemy recognized him and took advantage of the uproar and confusion to exact some personal revenge,” said Julius. “That’s my pet theory, anyway.”

“I think it’s more likely he rushed to a victim’s aid only to fall prey to the attackers himself,” said Adele. “He never fully recovered from his injuries, but suffered pain and difficulty walking for the rest of his life. He considered it a blessing that his attackers had struck him on the back and legs and left his arms unscathed so he could still draw, and therefore could still support his family.”

“Some blessing,” said Andrew. “If they had tried to hit him but missed, well,
that
I’d call a blessing.”

“Adele has been entertaining her guests with stories of the Colcraft family ever since,” said Julius. “Almost every time, at the end of the tale, one of her listeners will say, ‘You should write a book.’ ”

“I was going to make that suggestion myself,” remarked Sylvia. “The Colcrafts certainly experienced an interesting chapter of New York history, and you have a gift for words.”

“I thought about it,” said Adele. “Julius has written two books for university presses, and I’ve lost count of how many articles he’s written for academic journals, so I knew something of the publication process. I wanted to tell the Colcrafts’ story, but the thought of writing a book was so daunting. I couldn’t imagine tackling such an enormous project. And what if I couldn’t finish? Or what if I did finish and no one cared? What if every publisher in the world rejected it? What if the writing turned out to be one big waste of time?”

“She found every logical reason not to try,” said Julius. “I tried to encourage her, but—” He shook his head ruefully. “Why listen to me? I’m just her husband.”

“Then last Christmas my mother gave me a book on New York history,” said Adele. “It seems like the perfect gift for a history buff, doesn’t it?”

“It made her miserable,” said Julius.

“But don’t ever tell my mother,” Adele warned them. “She doesn’t know. Anyway, for a few days after Christmas I alternated between reading chapters of the book and moping around the inn in a brood. Whenever our guests couldn’t overhear, I complained to Julius about relevant historical details omitted from the book, other sources that the author should have consulted, and conclusions that didn’t fit the historical record. Again and again I asked, ‘How can this guy get his book published and I can’t?’

“Finally, Julius must have heard enough, because he retorted, ‘How? By having the courage to actually sit down and write his book, and send it out into the world so that people like you could stew in jealousy and gripe about how you could have done better.’ ”

“You said that?” Andrew asked Julius. “How many nights did you have to sleep on the sofa afterward?”

“Not long,” said Julius. “Less than a week.”

“Oh, don’t believe him,” said Adele, laughing. “I knew he was right. And yes, I had been duly chastened. But the task of sitting down and writing an entire book was still too overwhelming to contemplate. Then I had a revelation: I didn’t have to write the entire book in one sitting.”

Everyone laughed.

“That might seem obvious to you,” said Adele, “and anyone else with common sense, but it wasn’t something I had consciously considered before. Finally I realized that the only way I would ever be a published writer was if I sat down and wrote something.”

“That
is
an important part of the process,” said Julius, his mouth quirking in a grin.

“I had to push thoughts of failure out of my mind,” said Adele. “I told myself that even if I never published my book, it was important to record all I had learned about the Colcrafts and the history of this wonderful brownstone. I was sure our guests would enjoy learning what my research had uncovered, even if no publisher thought the story was worth putting on bookstore shelves. So I made a New Year’s resolution: Every day I had to sit down and write a few sentences. I stopped thinking about writing an entire book and instead just focused on those few sentences each day.”

“Did you keep your resolution?” asked Sylvia.

“Even on weekends and holidays,” said Julius proudly, with an affectionate smile for his wife.

“Running the B&B was still my first love, and I have high standards, so it wasn’t easy to find writing time,” said Adele. “But I managed. As the weeks passed, I accumulated more and more pages, I wrote for longer stretches of time, and my confidence increased. I was doing it. I was actually writing my book, something I feared I could never do.”

“She printed out one copy for each guest room in the inn and had them spiral bound,” said Julius. “Our guests read the book, and loved it, and some even asked for autographed copies to take home.”

“I had Julius read through the manuscript before I made the guests’ copies,” Adele hastened to add. “I wanted some editorial oversight, at least. I do have my pride.”