by their constant visits to the house. They wanted to chat with her, take her on some sort of outing. Trudy and her mother were forced to receive them as Elizabeth simply could not. Not an hour passed that she didn’t spend in tears. Crying was simply a way of life now.
“Oh, Beth, I know it is hard,” her mother said repeatedly, “but you must seek God’s strength. It was the only way I survived your father’s passing.”
Elizabeth tried, but she had no more prayers to offer. I prayed for Father, but he still died. I prayed for my country, and yet war still came. I prayed George would not have to leave, but he did.
Like so many others, her brother had been caught up in the states’ rights fervor that had gripped Baltimore after the riot on Pratt Street. When the Confederacy declared independence, President Lincoln had called for soldiers to force the seceding states back into the Union. Finding the thought of firing upon their fellow countrymen appalling, most men from Maryland, including George, ignored the call. Men from Massachusetts and Pennsylvania, however, answered it expediently. Summoned to Washington to protect the capital, they’d passed through Baltimore one fateful April morning.
As the Northern soldiers had marched to the southbound trains at Camden Street, a small group of citizens gathered around them at Pratt Street. Who started what, the world would probably never know, but insults were exchanged from both sides. Rocks and bottles, in the hands of the locals, began to fly. The Massachusetts men then opened fire. When the musket smoke cleared, eleven Baltimoreans were dead, along with four Northern soldiers. Countless more on both sides had been wounded.
In the days that followed, the federal army seized control of the city. They’d closed newspapers that held any hint of Southern sympathy, arrested anyone suspected of disloyalty to the Union and instituted martial law.
Outraged, Elizabeth’s brother, as well as many other men from her Mount Vernon neighborhood, had slipped out of the city by night and joined Confederate regiments. They’d promised to soon return and deliver Maryland from federal tyranny. Though heartbroken to see him go, Elizabeth had then supported her brother’s decision. She’d loathed those Northern soldiers occupying her city.
Then I fell in love with one. And I prayed for him, as well...
Swallowing back her sobs, she rolled to the opposite side of her bed. Sunlight was pushing its way through the shutter slats, testifying that it was now well past noon. Her mother had met with a local businessman that morning in regard to selling what was left of the family silver.
Elizabeth sighed. I should have accompanied her instead of lying about. As the oldest daughter, even if it is only by a matter of minutes, it is my duty. I shouldn’t be leaving all the housework for Trudy, either.
She forced herself to rise and put her feet to the floor. Going to the washbasin, Elizabeth splashed water on her face, then stared into the looking glass. Her cheeks were hollow, her color pale and sickly.
What would Jeremiah think if he saw me like this?
She tried to ignore the pain the thought provoked, but it was no use. Her tears got the better of her, and she sank to the bed once more.
* * *
David had been back in Baltimore for three days and still couldn’t bring himself to make his relocation known to Elizabeth’s family. Mindful of his duty, though, he passed by their house at least twice each day from the far side of the street and witnessed the coming and going of many friends.
There was little going on with the war at present. The March rains had kept both armies axle deep in mud and unable to fight. All, at least, appeared to be well and safe in Baltimore. David couldn’t shake the feeling, however, that he was supposed to stay.
He’d sought employment in the only area that truly interested him. He’d gone to the Baltimore Sun and a host of other local newspapers, but no one seemed much interested in hiring a man who’d spent most of his time before the war fetching coffee and sandwiches, or covering the few cast-off assignments the feature reporters didn’t want. Then he came to the Free American.
The large brick building not far from Monument Square looked impressive from the outside, but the appearances were deceiving. David stepped inside only to discover the paper occupied just a small portion of the structure. The publisher, a man by the name of Peter Carpenter, served also as the executive editor, the editorial director and a host of other things. It was a struggling publication to be certain, but they were hiring.
I need a job, he reminded himself. And I need one here in Baltimore. If I am careful with the money I saved before the war, I can get by on meager wages, at least for a while.
“So you’re looking for work,” Carpenter said.
The man was older than David, midthirties perhaps. He was curt, to the point, with a military-like manner that reminded David of the officers he’d once served under.
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“Reporter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You got any experience?”
The moment David mentioned he’d held an entry position at the Boston Journal, Carpenter asked to see some of his work. It wasn’t much and it certainly wasn’t very exciting, but the man looked intrigued. David held hopeful expectation.
“You serve in the army?” Carpenter asked.
“Yes, sir. I spent much of the time of service right here in Baltimore.” He told him about the hospital.
The man’s eyes narrowed. His forehead furrowed. “Then you know the lay of the land. Politically speaking, that is.”
“Yes, sir.” David was well aware Baltimore was a divided city. Immigrants and other newcomers favored a strong federal government, but many of the older established families still advocated strong states’ rights. As a Union soldier he’d received his share of derogatory remarks from those who supported the South.
David wondered what view the man before him subscribed to and what position his paper took. He can’t be too sympathetic to the South, though. The city’s outright pro-Southern papers have all been closed. But does he lean too far in the opposite direction? Fearing suspension, many publications now painted the federal government in such a glorious light, it was simply unbelievable. David believed wholeheartedly in the preservation of the Union, but he also believed in freedom of the press. He was impressed when Carpenter then said, “Notice the sign on the door says the Free American. You can’t have a free America without a free press. I don’t care which army occupies this city, or who is vying for control of the statehouse. Here we stick to the facts. We don’t bury or sugarcoat them, and we don’t try to make the local leadership something they are not.” He paused. “If you can check your own political agendas at the door, the job is yours.”
David’s heart skipped a beat. “Thank you, sir.” Then suddenly fearing a return to coffee and sandwiches, he asked, “What exactly is the job?”
“You’ll be handling local news and features.”
He could feel the grin tugging at his lips.
“You’ll report directly to me,” the man said, “and you can start immediately.”
As
