OGH page 4
MORE scenes, writings, pieces, premises, what-not ...
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 19. 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 unfurled a small dark green parasol.
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 beak up the time.
A middle aged 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
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 19. 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 unfurled a small dark green parasol.
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 beak up the time.
A middle aged 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!!
of PROMINENT UTICA FINANCIER EXHIBITS EXTREME
HEROISM IN FACE of GRAVE DANGER!!
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 a pink rose arbor 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 mansion itself 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 jardiničre 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 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
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 a pink rose arbor 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 mansion itself 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 jardiničre 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 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
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.
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
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
***************
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