My Heart Belongs in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania Read online

  “Oh Mother, heads do not turn.”

  “Yes they do. You never notice because your own head is in the clouds. But, I swear, we could start a windmill to grind grain with all those spinning heads.”

  “Ouch. Not so hard. My head is not in the clouds.”

  “Don’t you want your hair to shine like red gold? Or like fire? What chance will Kyle Forrester have then?”

  Clarissa blushed and laughed. “Oh stop it, Mother. You’re being so silly about he and me. As if my hair color or how it shines makes a difference to him.”

  “Many a man has met his match with green eyes gazing into his. And surrendered. Imagine the effect of scarlet hair and emerald-green eyes in one pretty face. The poor man. All the poor men.”

  Clarissa laughed again. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “I’m not. I know what my red hair and green eyes did to your father.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Brought the poor, proud man to his knees. Everyone said he wouldn’t make up his mind about me in a year. Well, he proposed in less than a month.”

  Clarissa giggled. “Poor, poor Father.”

  Her mother giggled too. “Yes, poor, poor Father.”

  “He still worships you.”

  “He does, doesn’t he? I like it that way.”

  “First God, then thee.”

  “First God, then me.”

  Clarissa sighed. “I wish it would happen that way for me.”

  “Oh my, I don’t know a single man in town who wouldn’t go to his knees for you.”

  “Well, I mean, a man I want.”

  “Yes, even the man you want.”

  Clarissa shook her head and looked at herself critically in the mirror. “He’s too proud. And too caught up in his seminary studies. Him and his Greek verb conjugations. And he’s always off to Philadelphia or Harrisburg. He scarcely notices me.”

  Her mother stopped brushing and looked at her daughter’s reflection in the mirror. “Is that what you think?”

  “It’s what I know.”

  “Then you don’t know much about men. His eyes never leave you when you two are in the same room.”

  “That’s not true … is it?”

  The brushing resumed. “Oh yes, it’s true. But your mind is always elsewhere. That’s why you don’t notice. A young lady knows it when a young man is admiring her from afar. But you are planning your next escape route out of Gettysburg for your friends.”

  “My freedmen. Well, maybe. That’s entirely possible.”

  “Let’s see if we can’t get you to direct your thoughts Godward this morning. And Kyle-ward.”

  Clarissa rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right. I will go to heaven for God and try to come down to earth for Kyle.”

  “Good.”

  “If he’s even there.”

  Her mother nodded and put down the hairbrush. “If he’s even there. Now let’s get you into that six-hoop wonder. The clock is moving right along without paying any attention to us.”

  Not for the first time, as she strode along the snowy street toward Christ’s Church on Chambersburg, Clarissa reflected on her good fortune in having a father who made boots and shoes. His craftsmanship was solid and always in demand, and he also had a contract with the army in Harrisburg. His was a lucrative business that blessed the three of them and the church that received their tithe, and especially her, for she went through a good pair of boots every month it seemed. Except for the ones she wore to church. She’d had them for three years, and she never failed to polish them to a shine. She knew she looked good in them, and it pleased her when she saw eyes wander to her feet. It was so comfortable going on long walks in town with them, and they had a wonderful grip in snow and ice.

  And now they propelled her toward the four white pillars, the brick facade, the wide steps, the two large trees on either side of the steps, and the small white cupola of the English-speaking Lutheran church in Gettysburg. Though she had always said she could learn German in two weeks if they chose to attend St. James, the German-speaking Lutheran church. With its tall tower and its three medieval-looking doors, it looked like a European castle. When she was a girl, she’d often linger at the steps when they went along York Street because she half expected Martin Luther to emerge from one of the old doors.

  “My goodness, Clarissa Avery.” Her mother had laughed. “Why, the man’s been dead for three hundred years.”

  “You didn’t see him die,” Clarissa had asserted, “so you can’t say for sure.”

  “Miss Clarissa Avery. Good Sabbath to you.”

  She actually responded to the unexpected greeting with a huh? For which she kicked herself a thousand times over.

  Lost in her thoughts—My head really was in the clouds, she thought ruefully—she hadn’t even noticed Kyle Forrester’s approach from a side street. Now he was walking right beside her, turning his head briefly to greet her parents who were walking at her back, and then telling her how handsome her green woolen coat and cape and winter bonnet were.

  “You look fetching, Miss Clarissa Avery. If I may be so bold.”

  “Uh … well …” Her tongue would not work. “An early Christmas present … the outfit is … early … an early Christmas present from my mother’s parents in … in … uh … They are in New York.”

  “They have remarkable taste.”

  “So do you. No, I mean, yes, yes they do, thank you very much. Thank you, sir.”

  Her father rescued her.

  “How was your trip to Philadelphia, Mr. Forrester?” he asked. “Did everything go smoothly?”

  Her father and mother came up beside her and Kyle, her mother by her shoulder and her father by his. Clarissa felt a squeeze on her arm from her mother that was unobserved by anyone else. Meanwhile, her father was smiling and chatting with Kyle, and she was surprised to see that her father was at least half a head taller than him.

  “I apologize if the matter of your business trip is confidential,” her father went on.

  “No, no, but it was as you know, church business, Mr. Ross,” Kyle replied. Clarissa saw regret in his handsome face, and that made her feel wonderful. He’d rather be talking alone with her, she was certain of it. “It is all about the issues we struggle with here at the seminary and, I suppose, among our two Lutheran churches in town. Should our faith be expressed in German or English, especially our deeper theology and philosophies? In addition to that, should ours remain a confessional faith, going back to the earliest Confessions of the Lutheran Reformation?”

  “Especially the Augsburg Confession of 1530.”

  “Especially that, yes. It was written in Latin and, of course, German. Certain people think much is lost in translation when it is recited in English. And then there is the whole matter of what some refer to as the Americanizing of the Lutheran faith. Where the debate is not only about the use of English in place of German, but a move away from the Confessions toward an expression of our faith that is more … well, accommodating to the American people.”

  “I believe our professors are not all in agreement about these things.”

  “No, they are not, Mr. Ross. In one case, as you’re probably aware, a professor’s son disagrees with his father about the use of the confessions in our churches.”

  “Yes.”

  “His father wants their role diminished, while the son wishes them to be at the forefront.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, as you can appreciate, sir, an uncomfortable situation.”

  Clarissa’s father nodded. “Compounded by the fact that certain professors and other church leaders feel the Confessions are not without error.”

  “Yes, sir. Some want them treated as if they are sacred scripture. Others feel that while important and historical so far as our faith is concerned, they are in no way on the same level as the Gospels of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  “So long as they keep all this wrangling out of the pulpit,” Clarissa’s mother interrupted. “I si
mply want to worship God.”

  “Amen,” responded Kyle. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ross, I didn’t mean to go on and on.”

  “Not at all. I’m glad young men like yourself, with level heads on their shoulders, are the ones handling all this. I trust you will be certain to ensure everything works out admirably. To a different matter, Mr. Forrester—do you enjoy Cornish hens?”

  “Uh, Cornish hens? Yes, yes I do.”

  “Then will you join us for lunch after church and see if you like them baked with gravy and potatoes?”

  “Why … certainly, certainly, Mrs. Ross. I should like nothing better.”

  “And we can then discuss the matter of the Southern states,” added Mr. Ross, “and if you believe they are going to part ways with our republic and form their own nation.”

  Clarissa’s heart sank like a stone in a deep, dark pond.

  She would have Kyle Forrester in her house for the first time, but her father would first command the conversation at the table and then drag Kyle off into the parlor for coffee and politics for the rest of the afternoon. While she cleaned up. And helped her mother mend clothing. She would hardly see Kyle. And she had done her hair up under her bonnet perfectly. And her jade-green dress was just right. It wasn’t fair.

  “Mrs. Ross?” asked Kyle as they began to mount the steps to the church, all cleared of snow, and to the large white doors, firmly shut against the cold.

  “Yes, Mr. Forrester?”

  “Would it be possible … would you mind … do you think there is time before lunch … if I asked your daughter to take a stroll with me before we sat down to the meal?”

  Mrs. Ross smiled. “Oh, I’m certain there is, Mr. Forrester. Ample time. And if you took her for another stroll after lunch, a long one, why, there might just be a warm supper waiting for you both at the end of that one too.”

  “Truly?” responded Kyle.

  Clarissa watched Kyle’s face light up as if someone had ignited a candle. Seeing his delight, she knew her face lit up too, and she felt warmth rush through her blood.

  “Truly?” he said again.

  “Truly,” Mrs. Ross replied. “Though I suppose you had better get around to asking Clarissa what she thinks about all this.”

  “Yes, yes, oh yes, you’re right.”

  Clarissa watched him blush. Oh my, she had never seen strong, tall, dashing Kyle Forrester blush. And over her. Now the stone that had dropped in the deep, dark pond was sending wonderful and beautiful ripples through her spirit.

  “Miss Ross.” Kyle opened the door to the church for her and her parents. “Clarissa Avery. Would you … could you … might you like to take the long way back to your house after church?”

  She smiled. It was nice to see him get tongue-tied too. “By myself?”

  “Oh … no, no. I meant in my company, Miss Ross. I meant accompanied by me.”

  Her smile widened. “In your company, Mr. Forrester, and yours alone?”

  “Yes, yes, but only if you …”

  “I should like nothing better, Mr. Forrester.”

  Now the smile became what her mother called her daughter’s impish and devilish grin. “I should like nothing better,” she repeated.

  She swept past him and into the warm church but then glanced back over her shoulder and gave him an even larger version of her impish and devilish grin. “Please sit with me at our family pew, Mr. Forrester … if you’d like.”

  Sunday afternoon

  Gettysburg

  Clarissa was in high spirits.

  She’d enjoyed the hymn singing even more than she usually did. The sermon, encouraging people to find heart and hope in their faith, had been particularly inspiring. The men and women who had greeted her that morning—and the children—had been particularly kind. One of the professors who worked with the Underground Railroad and had assisted her on several occasions gave her a meaningful handshake and a nod.

  Something was up. But she wanted something to be up. She wanted to help people get free of slavery and tyranny whether they lived in the North or the South or any of the states in between. Would she like to be trapped or chained or whipped or sold to someone as if she were a cow or a goat? No, and she didn’t think anyone else liked to be in that situation either. So she hoped she would soon be contacted to help on the Freedom Train again, even though she’d just had a long and exhausting night ferrying her passengers through Adams County. True to form, she had bounced back and was ready for more. Her faith and her youth and her red hair—she smiled to herself—they all combined in one fiery mix to keep her engine running day and night.

  “I said, don’t you think so, Clarissa Avery?”

  She blinked. “What?”

  She looked up at Kyle Forrester.

  “Where have you disappeared to?” he asked, smiling a small smile she liked.

  “I was … um … I was thinking about Christmas.”

  “Christmas. About presents?”

  “No, not about presents. About how the church might be decorated. And my room up on the third floor. And what I’d wear to the Christmas Eve service.” She glanced around her. “Where have you brought me?”

  “Well, you said you wanted to stretch your legs.” He pointed. “The snow is already melting on the fields.”

  “And the barn roof.” Clarissa stared. “Doesn’t that land belong to one of your professors?”

  “It’s Samuel Saxon’s all right. He helped found our church too.”

  “I know that. I didn’t see him at the service this morning.”

  “He was at the back and on the left. I think he has begun to rent that pew now.”

  “I don’t walk this way very often, I’ll admit.”

  Which was a lie. I should blush, Clarissa thought to herself. She had been to Professor Saxon’s barn and house many times. He was an outspoken abolitionist who gave shelter to runaway slaves, and she had often gone there to gather up passengers for the Railroad. She knew she shouldn’t bring up the question of slavery, or about getting slaves safely through Adams County and Pennsylvania across the border into Ontario, but now that she finally had Kyle Forrester at her side to converse with at length, well, she wanted to know what he thought about a thousand things, especially what her Amish friends called the Freedom Train.

  “Professor Saxon is quite adamant about putting an end to slavery in America,” she said, gazing at the barn.

  “Yes. Yes he is, Clarissa.”

  “What do you think about all that, Mr. Forrester?”

  “What do I—” Kyle was surprised.

  “It’s not a difficult question I’ve put to you, is it?”

  “No. I’m just not used to discussing the matter with a woman. The fact is, I never have.”

  “Well, so this is your opportunity.”

  “I … well, I approve of the stand Professor Saxon takes against slavery. Indeed, I applaud him for it. I believe it is not only a proper Lutheran thing to do, but a proper Christian thing to do … even a proper human thing to do, whether you are a churchgoer or a Jew or an atheist or whatever your religion or creed happens to be. The Dred Scott decision was, if I may be so blunt, a sin against humanity and against the Republic. Imagine saying people with black skin have no protection under our constitution, not even those who have received their freedom or been born free. Imagine how they have added that to the odious Fugitive Slave Law of 1850—permitting slave catchers to cross the Mason-Dixon Line and capture men and women up here and drag them back to cotton plantations in chains.”

  Clarissa liked what she was hearing but decided to prod him further. “The Dred Scott case was a majority decision by our Supreme Court, Mr. Forrester, a seven-to-two decision, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “It was.”

  “You speak as if you would flout the highest law of the land. I’m surprised.”

  “Are you, Miss Ross?”

  “Almost shocked, sir.” She was deliberately stoking a fire inside him. I’m a devil, but I have to know how
he really feels about all this, how far he would go. “Isn’t it your plan to become a Lutheran pastor?”

  “It is.”

  “Perhaps a leader in the Lutheran Church in America?”

  “If that’s where prayer takes me.”

  “Yet you speak poorly of our Supreme Court.”

  Kyle did not respond.

  Clarissa pushed further. “I’ve heard it said around town that your Professor Saxon harbors fugitive slaves.”

  Kyle’s face and body seemed to grow rigid and cold. “I have no knowledge of that.”

  “That he is … what they call an operator on this so-called Underground Railroad that ferries slaves across our northern border.”

  “I’ve heard of the Railroad, of course.”

  “That slaves hide in his house and barn.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Well, sir, I have it on good authority.”

  Kyle snorted. “It’s nonsense.”

  “You don’t think Professor Saxon is part of the Underground Railroad?”

  “No. No I do not. Nor do I think much of the Railroad.”

  “You don’t?”

  The stone dropped into the deep, dark pond of her heart again.

  Kyle shook his head vigorously. “Such matters are for the judges and courts and Congress to decide. If we do not like their judgments—and no, I do not approve of the Dred Scott decision—then we appeal. We try new cases to get different results that overturn the old ones. We bring new bills into Washington that create new laws. We debate, we argue, we filibuster, we vote, and then we start debating all over again, if we must. We alter things within the framework of the laws and constitution of the Republic, Miss Ross, not outside of them. Do we need a secret and illegal operation like the Underground Railroad? No, we do not. Should Christian ministers, let alone Lutheran ministers, aid and abet such enterprises, no matter how well-meaning? They should not. But ought there to be prayers lifted up for the end of slavery in our republic? Yes. Ought there to be prayers against the slave trade and the slave drivers and the slave catchers and their ilk? Most assuredly. Ought there to be sermons from our pulpits condemning the scourge of human enslavement and echoing Saint Paul’s words ‘If you can gain your freedom, then gain it’? Yes, yes, and yes. But there is no need to break our laws, Miss Ross. We can change them from within in a good Christian manner.” He suddenly smiled. “I trust you are no longer shocked at me, Clarissa Avery?”