In 2003, the year our youngest daughter married, my husband made both of our girls cedar chests for Christmas. He started with rough cut lumber, planed it himself, painstakingly cut each piece, then glued the boards together before actually constructing the chest. He finished the surfaces, fitted the hardware, and attached commemorative plaques to the inside lids. My donation to the project was an antique china head doll for each of them, purchased on eBay. To better personalize my contribution, I wrote a story to go with each doll. The following tale, MY JOURNEY UP TILL NOW, which I'm posting in two parts, was written to go with the doll given to our youngest daughter, Kimberly, who in 2007, became a mother herself! I hope you enjoy the story and welcome your comments!
My Travels Up Till Now
By Hildegard (the well-traveled doll)
My first memory is of the sun setting on the River Elbe.“Her name is Hildegard,” Herr Hoffmeister announced as my little mistress, 5-year-old Fraulein Johanna, removed me from my tissue wrapping. She and her sister, 8-year-old Analise, gasped in awe as they beheld me.
It was Christmas Day, 1861. The Hoffmeister’s, one of the wealthiest families in Dresden, Germany,were celebrating around the breathtaking fir tree Frau Hoffmeister and her servants had decorated with kugels, (heavy glass ornaments), apples, plums, pears, cookies, popcorn and cranberry chains, and molded pastries that looked like works of art. Bright candles, dozens of them, had been lit by Herr Hoffmeister just before the start of their evening celebration, illuminating each tediously decorated branch. A nearby table was heavily laden with fresh fruit, reisbrei (rice porridge), nuts, marzipan, chocolate, lebkuchen (spice cookies,) and biscuits.
“Das abendkleid!” (“The gown!”) the little girls exclaimed in unison, examining my rich white costume minutely before unceremoniously stripping it from me.
My spirits sank. It was my costume that had evoked their happy cries. Moments later I was laying forlornly in a window seat facing the river, clad only in my chemise and petticoats while Fraulein’s beloved French bebe, Lisette, was carefully clothed in the costume that had been made for me. Lisette whispered, “Es ist voellig toericht.” (“It’s perfectly silly.”) I knew Lisette spoke to me out of kindness and meant to be consoling, but I felt only grief. My travels had just begun and already I had been laid aside. It was an inauspicious beginning, but I did not allow my feelings of sadness to linger.
Fraulein Elke, Frau Hoffmeister’s personal chambermaid, clucked her tongue as she carried me upstairs.“I would have given an arm for a beautiful doll like you when I was a wee one. Do not worry, Hilde. The child only has eyes for her French bebe. I will save you from the dust bin if it comes to that.”
The dust bin? The very idea!
Early the next morning, Johanna retrieved me from the shelf where Fraulein Elke had placed me.
“Let’s play Cinderella. Hilde can be the wicked stepmother,” she told Analise as the older
girl retied the satin ribbons that adorned her long auburn hair.
Analise frowned. “We played Cinderella just yesterday. I want to play school. Hilde can be the headmistress. She looks like a schoolteacher, don’t you think?”
“She looks common. As common as a ragpicker,” Johanna declared.
“Why don’t you like Hilde? I think she’s lovely.”
“Your sister is spoiled,” Frau Hoffmeister spoke sternly from the doorway. “St. Nicholas doesn’t make a habit of visiting ungrateful little girls. You might find coal in your shoes next Christmas, Johanna.”
Johanna’s face fell. “But Mama…”“Come, Girls. Our visitor from America is waiting downstairs.” Johanna grabbed me up from the carpet where she’d dropped me, then hurried down the stairs after her mother.
In the drawing room, the little Fraulein’s curtsied as they were introduced to Herr Hoffmeister’s tall American visitor, Mr. Frederick Emerson.“My goodness,” he exclaimed. “Such lovely young ladies.”
“Jane and the children must miss you terribly. How dreadful to be away during the holidays,” Frau Hoffmeister’s voice was full of sympathy.
“It was very hard leaving my eldest daughter. She was recovering from diphtheria; we almost lost her. The war has made it difficult to be an attentive father.”
“Girls,” Frau Hoffmeister addressed Analise and Johanna, “Mr. Emerson’s eldest daughter’s name is Wren.”
“What a lovely name!” Analise declared. “How old is she?”
“She’ll soon be seven.” He pulled a small gold case from inside his coat as the girls’ crowded him for a closer look. A clear tintype of the gentleman’s family was encased within. “Here’s Wren. And the boys’. The taller is Franklin, our oldest. He’s just turned twelve. Then there’s Thomas. He’s eight. Smart as a tack, but he’s an onery one.”
“What does onery mean?” Johanna asked.
“It means very good at getting into mischief. This is my wife, Jane, holding Laurel. Laurel is two now.”
“They’re all perfectly charming. What a lovely family,” Herr Hoffmeister said kindly. “Perhaps they can accompany you on your next visit to Germany.”
“May I send Wren a little gift, Mother?” Analise asked.
Analise sent a lace handkerchief and a tiny pearl bracelet to the little American girl.
Johanna sent me.
~~~
Like Herr Hoffmeister, Mr. Emerson’s business was textiles. The intensifying war between the states delayed his return to his home in faraway Mississippi by more than two months. In mid-February, we at last boarded the steamship Marie Amelie and began the long voyage to America.
As we steamed south along the Virginia coast on March 9, 1862, the passengers and crew of the Marie Amelie crowded the rail for a better view of the first naval engagement of the sad conflict between the North and the South. Two ironclad ships, the U.S.S. Monitor and the C.S.S. Virginia (formerly the U.S.S. Merrimac), fought to a draw. I heard the panicked voices outside our stateroom door and was ever so glad to be lounging safely in the comfortable little basket Frau Hoffmeister had lined with a lovely appliquéd doll quilt donated by Analise.
Six days later, on March 15, 1862, we arrived by train in Natchez, a picturesque town located on the banks of the Mississippi River. Miss Jane and all of the children were there to greet us when we stepped out of the railroad car. The three older children, Franklin, Thomas, and Wren, ran to Mr. Emerson, whom they called Papa, throwing their arms around him and weeping with joy. They had not seen their dear papa for more than four months! Miss Jane was holding little Laurel who did not recognize Mr. Emerson at first. She tried to push him away when he bent to kiss Miss Jane on the cheek.
“Papa, who is this?” Wren asked excitedly, her bright blue eyes widening as she peered into the basket where I was laying. Her beautiful white-blonde ringlets danced about her head as she jumped up and down joyfully.
“This is Hildegard. She’s come all the way from Germany to live with us.”
~~~
Wren’s home was called Rosalie. A Federal style antebellum mansion, Rosalie sat on a high bluff overlooking the Mississippi River. Rosalie had been built during the years 1820-1823 by Mr. Peter Little and was constructed of handmade brick and bousillage (deer hair and mud), local cypress and imported mahogany. The woodwork throughout the entire house was hand-carved by slave labor. Only the very best materials had gone into the building of the mansion which was graced by wide galleries, Doric columns, and Federal fanlights above the exterior doors. When Mr. Little died without leaving a will, Mr. Emerson bought the property at a public auction.
Before my departure from Germany, Lisette told me southerners like Mr. Emerson owned slaves. It was with great relief I learned that while many former slaves lived and worked on the vast plantation, they were freed men, women and children of color, including some who had been with Miss Jane since she was a very little girl.
~~~
Wren held me tightly, pressing her cheek to mine. “You will be so happy here, Hilde! You shall have a beautiful new wardrobe and a four-poster bed of your very own for your naps. At night you will sleep with me so you won’t be frightened.”
“What is there to be frightened of?” Mr. Emerson asked. The mood of the family changed at once. “What is it?” he repeated.
Miss Jane took him by the hand and told him about the sounds of battle that interrupted their sleep at night, sometimes causing the house to quake.
“I feared as much,” was all Mr. Emerson said, but the expression on his face let me know the news weighed very heavily on his mind.
~~~
The next few weeks were idyllic. True to her word, Wren saw to it I was outfitted with a lovely wardrobe. Most of my day dresses matched hers! When there were callers, as there often were, I wore a tiny hoop slip just as Wren did to receive guests. Beneath our hoops we each wore lacey pantaloons and frilly crinolines. Lovely silk and satin frocks with the dearest ribbons, bows and seed pearls adorned our outfits. Matching hats of straw or tidy little bonnets completed our ensembles.
During the day we played in the garden, skipping along the brick paths with Wren’s best friend, a lovely dark-skinned girl named Eula. Hide-n-Seek with the boys was a favorite game; so was chase. I cared not one whit for those…I preferred playing house.
To my delight, Wren was a most imaginative little girl. She loved nothing better than to pretend she and Eula were Princess Louise and Princess Beatrice, the youngest daughters’ of Queen Victoria. Because she was older, Eula played the part of 13-year-old Princess Louise. Wren would commandeer little Laurel’s pram and she and I would squeeze into it, “Princess Bea”, as Eula referred to Wren, giggling as we were pushed along the garden paths, Eula singing beautiful lullabies her mother had taught her.
When Eula’s older sister, Pansy, wasn’t minding Laurel, she played the part of Princess Helene, so dramatically in fact, it was difficult to believe royal blood wasn’t running through her veins.
“Be a dear and fetch the scones, would you Princess Lou?”
Eula would answer, “Fetch your own bloody scones!” and the girls would tumble to the grass, laughing until they lost their breath.
Mammy Flora, Eula’s mother, worked in the kitchen located in the two-story brick dependency building behind the house. All the food was prepared in the fireplace, then carried in covered dishes through a latticed passage, and handed to dining room servants through a small service window. Wren loved to help make biscuits or sweets and never once forgot to bring my little armchair so I could sit and watch the food preparation. The servants doted on Wren because she was cheerful and considerate, and loved nothing better than to help polish the silver flatware or iron the beautiful table linens.
While Wren had numerous dolls, I was clearly her favorite. She called me Sweet Hilde and told me over and over I looked “just like Miss Odelia”, her former governess. Sadly, Miss Odelia had died during the same diphtheria epidemic that nearly took Wren’s life. A new governess had been sent for, a young woman from far away Pennysylvania. Not only would she be assisting Miss Jane in minding Wren and Laurel, she would be tutoring Wren who was ready to begin her formal education.
A day before the new governess was expected, the Emerson’s sat down with the children to tell them the family would be leaving Natchez in the next few days. “It’s too dangerous to stay,” Mr. Emerson explained. “We’ll return when the war has ended.”
“But Papa,” Franklin protested, “what if the Yanks burn Rosalie to the ground?”
~~~
The next few days were busy ones. Many of the Emerson’s fine furnishings and paintings were hidden in passageways secreted beneath the house that led to old Fort Rosalie, the first settle-ment in the region. Built by the French in 1716 in honor of the Duchess de Pontchartrain, the old fort sat in disrepair on the Emerson’s property.
The tumultuous days of packing worried Wren who spent hours carrying me about, showing me rooms I had never seen, and views from dozens upon dozens of windows I had never gazed through. I knew that she was trying to memorize them herself, fearing she might never return.
“I’m going to be lost in the great city of Chicago, Hilde. Whatever are we to do?”
That very night, Natchez was heavily shelled. Moments after the alarm was sounded, Wren was whisked from her bed by Miss Jane who had Laurel by the hand and the new baby, Priscilla, nestled in the bend of her right arm. I was left behind for several moments, then, Mammy Flora came running and thrust me into a trunk that had been carefully packed with Wren’s things. I was attired in my beautiful traveling clothes, replete with bonnet, but hadn’t anynotion where my travels would soon take me!
Doll time is different from human time. Since we do not age, neither do we count the hours or days or weeks.I know not how long I languished in the trunk, but when I next saw light, it was not Wren’s face peering down at me. A Union soldier, searching the passageways beneath the grounds of Rosalie, discovered the trunk hidden between some old bales of cotton.
“Good morning,” he greeted me, smiling ever so confidently. To my horror, he was smoking one of Mr. Emerson’s pipes!
Someone shouted in the distance, causing the soldier to turn to a comrade who was evidently searching further down the passageway.
“There’s nothing down here but cotton!” he lied, the pipe drooping from his lips. “I’ll be back for you later,” he whispered, pawing through Wren’s clothing a moment before laying me back inside the trunk.
True to his word, the soldier reappeared some time later. He stuffed me inside his jacket along with Wren’s favorite frock, the white one with mulberry flowers Miss Jane had made for her, and the lovely nightgown made for Wren by her late governess.
Hurrying out of doors, the horrible man hurriedly stuffed me and the other items he’d stolen into a soft leather saddlebag.
To my dismay, Rosalie had been commandeered and had been designated Union headquarters. From all appearances, I had been stored in the trunk for some time. I could detect no sign of the Emerson family and knew I had certainly seen them for the last time. I was being abducted!
~~~
I remained in the saddlebag until another soldier pulled me out. The soldier who’d abducted me from Rosalie was lying on the ground, his body lifeless. It was evident from his appearance that a great deal of time had passed since I’d seen him last. Where he’d been clean-shaven before, an unkempt beard now hung to his chest. He had seen many hard months fromthe looks of him. There was no sign whatsoever of Mr. Emerson’s pipe.
While the first soldier had been attired in blue, the second was attired in gray. His hands shook as he examined me. At long last another soldier took him gently by the arm.“We’ve got to move out, Zeke.”
The soldier who held me was silent for several moments longer before saying, “He had this doll and these purty clothes in his saddlebag. Don’t you reckon he has a little daughter waitin’ at home for him?”
“You have three little daughters waitin’ at home for you! These things was pillaged, Zeke!”
When Zeke only stood there, the other soldier became impatient. “Come on, Hill! Stuff them things back inside there. You’ve been without a horse since August. Think you can remember how to ride?”
I was returned to the saddlebag forthwith and it was with this soldier I spent the remainder of the war.
~~~
Corporal Ezekial Hill, as he was called, pulled me out of the saddlebag and looked me over at what seemed frequent intervals. Sometimes he would proudly show me to a comrade, worrying aloud that should he survive the escalating conflict, his daughters’, Constance, Narcissa, and Meredith, were likely to quarrel over me.
“Our girls’ ain’t got much. Rag dolls their mama made from scraps, that’s about it. They’re good girls, but like most young ‘un’s, they fancy things folks like us can’t afford.”
Zeke’s return home in July, 1865, was sad indeed. His wife had died several months earlier, the cause of her demise was unclear. Constance was mortally ill with typhus which had taken 5-year-old Narcissa’s life just a week before. Only the youngest, Meredith, was left.
Zeke’s girls’ had been taken in by his widowed sister, Louella. A month shy of her third birthday, pretty, brown-eyed Meredith took to calling me “Mama”. If not for the tragic circumstances, I would have balked at being called by such a name, but it was clear my presence was a comfort to the child. Meredith only put me down once a week upon the occasion of her Saturday night bath!
~~~
Watch for the conclusion of MY TRAVELS UP TILL NOW in the next few days.
Copyright 2003 Carma Walsh
May not be reproduced without permission of the author.
My Travels Up Till Now
By Hildegard (the well-traveled doll)
My first memory is of the sun setting on the River Elbe.“Her name is Hildegard,” Herr Hoffmeister announced as my little mistress, 5-year-old Fraulein Johanna, removed me from my tissue wrapping. She and her sister, 8-year-old Analise, gasped in awe as they beheld me.
It was Christmas Day, 1861. The Hoffmeister’s, one of the wealthiest families in Dresden, Germany,were celebrating around the breathtaking fir tree Frau Hoffmeister and her servants had decorated with kugels, (heavy glass ornaments), apples, plums, pears, cookies, popcorn and cranberry chains, and molded pastries that looked like works of art. Bright candles, dozens of them, had been lit by Herr Hoffmeister just before the start of their evening celebration, illuminating each tediously decorated branch. A nearby table was heavily laden with fresh fruit, reisbrei (rice porridge), nuts, marzipan, chocolate, lebkuchen (spice cookies,) and biscuits.
“Das abendkleid!” (“The gown!”) the little girls exclaimed in unison, examining my rich white costume minutely before unceremoniously stripping it from me.
My spirits sank. It was my costume that had evoked their happy cries. Moments later I was laying forlornly in a window seat facing the river, clad only in my chemise and petticoats while Fraulein’s beloved French bebe, Lisette, was carefully clothed in the costume that had been made for me. Lisette whispered, “Es ist voellig toericht.” (“It’s perfectly silly.”) I knew Lisette spoke to me out of kindness and meant to be consoling, but I felt only grief. My travels had just begun and already I had been laid aside. It was an inauspicious beginning, but I did not allow my feelings of sadness to linger.
Fraulein Elke, Frau Hoffmeister’s personal chambermaid, clucked her tongue as she carried me upstairs.“I would have given an arm for a beautiful doll like you when I was a wee one. Do not worry, Hilde. The child only has eyes for her French bebe. I will save you from the dust bin if it comes to that.”
The dust bin? The very idea!
Early the next morning, Johanna retrieved me from the shelf where Fraulein Elke had placed me.
“Let’s play Cinderella. Hilde can be the wicked stepmother,” she told Analise as the older
girl retied the satin ribbons that adorned her long auburn hair.
Analise frowned. “We played Cinderella just yesterday. I want to play school. Hilde can be the headmistress. She looks like a schoolteacher, don’t you think?”
“She looks common. As common as a ragpicker,” Johanna declared.
“Why don’t you like Hilde? I think she’s lovely.”
“Your sister is spoiled,” Frau Hoffmeister spoke sternly from the doorway. “St. Nicholas doesn’t make a habit of visiting ungrateful little girls. You might find coal in your shoes next Christmas, Johanna.”
Johanna’s face fell. “But Mama…”“Come, Girls. Our visitor from America is waiting downstairs.” Johanna grabbed me up from the carpet where she’d dropped me, then hurried down the stairs after her mother.
In the drawing room, the little Fraulein’s curtsied as they were introduced to Herr Hoffmeister’s tall American visitor, Mr. Frederick Emerson.“My goodness,” he exclaimed. “Such lovely young ladies.”
“Jane and the children must miss you terribly. How dreadful to be away during the holidays,” Frau Hoffmeister’s voice was full of sympathy.
“It was very hard leaving my eldest daughter. She was recovering from diphtheria; we almost lost her. The war has made it difficult to be an attentive father.”
“Girls,” Frau Hoffmeister addressed Analise and Johanna, “Mr. Emerson’s eldest daughter’s name is Wren.”
“What a lovely name!” Analise declared. “How old is she?”
“She’ll soon be seven.” He pulled a small gold case from inside his coat as the girls’ crowded him for a closer look. A clear tintype of the gentleman’s family was encased within. “Here’s Wren. And the boys’. The taller is Franklin, our oldest. He’s just turned twelve. Then there’s Thomas. He’s eight. Smart as a tack, but he’s an onery one.”
“What does onery mean?” Johanna asked.
“It means very good at getting into mischief. This is my wife, Jane, holding Laurel. Laurel is two now.”
“They’re all perfectly charming. What a lovely family,” Herr Hoffmeister said kindly. “Perhaps they can accompany you on your next visit to Germany.”
“May I send Wren a little gift, Mother?” Analise asked.
Analise sent a lace handkerchief and a tiny pearl bracelet to the little American girl.
Johanna sent me.
~~~
Like Herr Hoffmeister, Mr. Emerson’s business was textiles. The intensifying war between the states delayed his return to his home in faraway Mississippi by more than two months. In mid-February, we at last boarded the steamship Marie Amelie and began the long voyage to America.
As we steamed south along the Virginia coast on March 9, 1862, the passengers and crew of the Marie Amelie crowded the rail for a better view of the first naval engagement of the sad conflict between the North and the South. Two ironclad ships, the U.S.S. Monitor and the C.S.S. Virginia (formerly the U.S.S. Merrimac), fought to a draw. I heard the panicked voices outside our stateroom door and was ever so glad to be lounging safely in the comfortable little basket Frau Hoffmeister had lined with a lovely appliquéd doll quilt donated by Analise.
Six days later, on March 15, 1862, we arrived by train in Natchez, a picturesque town located on the banks of the Mississippi River. Miss Jane and all of the children were there to greet us when we stepped out of the railroad car. The three older children, Franklin, Thomas, and Wren, ran to Mr. Emerson, whom they called Papa, throwing their arms around him and weeping with joy. They had not seen their dear papa for more than four months! Miss Jane was holding little Laurel who did not recognize Mr. Emerson at first. She tried to push him away when he bent to kiss Miss Jane on the cheek.
“Papa, who is this?” Wren asked excitedly, her bright blue eyes widening as she peered into the basket where I was laying. Her beautiful white-blonde ringlets danced about her head as she jumped up and down joyfully.
“This is Hildegard. She’s come all the way from Germany to live with us.”
~~~
Wren’s home was called Rosalie. A Federal style antebellum mansion, Rosalie sat on a high bluff overlooking the Mississippi River. Rosalie had been built during the years 1820-1823 by Mr. Peter Little and was constructed of handmade brick and bousillage (deer hair and mud), local cypress and imported mahogany. The woodwork throughout the entire house was hand-carved by slave labor. Only the very best materials had gone into the building of the mansion which was graced by wide galleries, Doric columns, and Federal fanlights above the exterior doors. When Mr. Little died without leaving a will, Mr. Emerson bought the property at a public auction.
Before my departure from Germany, Lisette told me southerners like Mr. Emerson owned slaves. It was with great relief I learned that while many former slaves lived and worked on the vast plantation, they were freed men, women and children of color, including some who had been with Miss Jane since she was a very little girl.
~~~
Wren held me tightly, pressing her cheek to mine. “You will be so happy here, Hilde! You shall have a beautiful new wardrobe and a four-poster bed of your very own for your naps. At night you will sleep with me so you won’t be frightened.”
“What is there to be frightened of?” Mr. Emerson asked. The mood of the family changed at once. “What is it?” he repeated.
Miss Jane took him by the hand and told him about the sounds of battle that interrupted their sleep at night, sometimes causing the house to quake.
“I feared as much,” was all Mr. Emerson said, but the expression on his face let me know the news weighed very heavily on his mind.
~~~
The next few weeks were idyllic. True to her word, Wren saw to it I was outfitted with a lovely wardrobe. Most of my day dresses matched hers! When there were callers, as there often were, I wore a tiny hoop slip just as Wren did to receive guests. Beneath our hoops we each wore lacey pantaloons and frilly crinolines. Lovely silk and satin frocks with the dearest ribbons, bows and seed pearls adorned our outfits. Matching hats of straw or tidy little bonnets completed our ensembles.
During the day we played in the garden, skipping along the brick paths with Wren’s best friend, a lovely dark-skinned girl named Eula. Hide-n-Seek with the boys was a favorite game; so was chase. I cared not one whit for those…I preferred playing house.
To my delight, Wren was a most imaginative little girl. She loved nothing better than to pretend she and Eula were Princess Louise and Princess Beatrice, the youngest daughters’ of Queen Victoria. Because she was older, Eula played the part of 13-year-old Princess Louise. Wren would commandeer little Laurel’s pram and she and I would squeeze into it, “Princess Bea”, as Eula referred to Wren, giggling as we were pushed along the garden paths, Eula singing beautiful lullabies her mother had taught her.
When Eula’s older sister, Pansy, wasn’t minding Laurel, she played the part of Princess Helene, so dramatically in fact, it was difficult to believe royal blood wasn’t running through her veins.
“Be a dear and fetch the scones, would you Princess Lou?”
Eula would answer, “Fetch your own bloody scones!” and the girls would tumble to the grass, laughing until they lost their breath.
Mammy Flora, Eula’s mother, worked in the kitchen located in the two-story brick dependency building behind the house. All the food was prepared in the fireplace, then carried in covered dishes through a latticed passage, and handed to dining room servants through a small service window. Wren loved to help make biscuits or sweets and never once forgot to bring my little armchair so I could sit and watch the food preparation. The servants doted on Wren because she was cheerful and considerate, and loved nothing better than to help polish the silver flatware or iron the beautiful table linens.
While Wren had numerous dolls, I was clearly her favorite. She called me Sweet Hilde and told me over and over I looked “just like Miss Odelia”, her former governess. Sadly, Miss Odelia had died during the same diphtheria epidemic that nearly took Wren’s life. A new governess had been sent for, a young woman from far away Pennysylvania. Not only would she be assisting Miss Jane in minding Wren and Laurel, she would be tutoring Wren who was ready to begin her formal education.
A day before the new governess was expected, the Emerson’s sat down with the children to tell them the family would be leaving Natchez in the next few days. “It’s too dangerous to stay,” Mr. Emerson explained. “We’ll return when the war has ended.”
“But Papa,” Franklin protested, “what if the Yanks burn Rosalie to the ground?”
~~~
The next few days were busy ones. Many of the Emerson’s fine furnishings and paintings were hidden in passageways secreted beneath the house that led to old Fort Rosalie, the first settle-ment in the region. Built by the French in 1716 in honor of the Duchess de Pontchartrain, the old fort sat in disrepair on the Emerson’s property.
The tumultuous days of packing worried Wren who spent hours carrying me about, showing me rooms I had never seen, and views from dozens upon dozens of windows I had never gazed through. I knew that she was trying to memorize them herself, fearing she might never return.
“I’m going to be lost in the great city of Chicago, Hilde. Whatever are we to do?”
That very night, Natchez was heavily shelled. Moments after the alarm was sounded, Wren was whisked from her bed by Miss Jane who had Laurel by the hand and the new baby, Priscilla, nestled in the bend of her right arm. I was left behind for several moments, then, Mammy Flora came running and thrust me into a trunk that had been carefully packed with Wren’s things. I was attired in my beautiful traveling clothes, replete with bonnet, but hadn’t anynotion where my travels would soon take me!
Doll time is different from human time. Since we do not age, neither do we count the hours or days or weeks.I know not how long I languished in the trunk, but when I next saw light, it was not Wren’s face peering down at me. A Union soldier, searching the passageways beneath the grounds of Rosalie, discovered the trunk hidden between some old bales of cotton.
“Good morning,” he greeted me, smiling ever so confidently. To my horror, he was smoking one of Mr. Emerson’s pipes!
Someone shouted in the distance, causing the soldier to turn to a comrade who was evidently searching further down the passageway.
“There’s nothing down here but cotton!” he lied, the pipe drooping from his lips. “I’ll be back for you later,” he whispered, pawing through Wren’s clothing a moment before laying me back inside the trunk.
True to his word, the soldier reappeared some time later. He stuffed me inside his jacket along with Wren’s favorite frock, the white one with mulberry flowers Miss Jane had made for her, and the lovely nightgown made for Wren by her late governess.
Hurrying out of doors, the horrible man hurriedly stuffed me and the other items he’d stolen into a soft leather saddlebag.
To my dismay, Rosalie had been commandeered and had been designated Union headquarters. From all appearances, I had been stored in the trunk for some time. I could detect no sign of the Emerson family and knew I had certainly seen them for the last time. I was being abducted!
~~~
I remained in the saddlebag until another soldier pulled me out. The soldier who’d abducted me from Rosalie was lying on the ground, his body lifeless. It was evident from his appearance that a great deal of time had passed since I’d seen him last. Where he’d been clean-shaven before, an unkempt beard now hung to his chest. He had seen many hard months fromthe looks of him. There was no sign whatsoever of Mr. Emerson’s pipe.
While the first soldier had been attired in blue, the second was attired in gray. His hands shook as he examined me. At long last another soldier took him gently by the arm.“We’ve got to move out, Zeke.”
The soldier who held me was silent for several moments longer before saying, “He had this doll and these purty clothes in his saddlebag. Don’t you reckon he has a little daughter waitin’ at home for him?”
“You have three little daughters waitin’ at home for you! These things was pillaged, Zeke!”
When Zeke only stood there, the other soldier became impatient. “Come on, Hill! Stuff them things back inside there. You’ve been without a horse since August. Think you can remember how to ride?”
I was returned to the saddlebag forthwith and it was with this soldier I spent the remainder of the war.
~~~
Corporal Ezekial Hill, as he was called, pulled me out of the saddlebag and looked me over at what seemed frequent intervals. Sometimes he would proudly show me to a comrade, worrying aloud that should he survive the escalating conflict, his daughters’, Constance, Narcissa, and Meredith, were likely to quarrel over me.
“Our girls’ ain’t got much. Rag dolls their mama made from scraps, that’s about it. They’re good girls, but like most young ‘un’s, they fancy things folks like us can’t afford.”
Zeke’s return home in July, 1865, was sad indeed. His wife had died several months earlier, the cause of her demise was unclear. Constance was mortally ill with typhus which had taken 5-year-old Narcissa’s life just a week before. Only the youngest, Meredith, was left.
Zeke’s girls’ had been taken in by his widowed sister, Louella. A month shy of her third birthday, pretty, brown-eyed Meredith took to calling me “Mama”. If not for the tragic circumstances, I would have balked at being called by such a name, but it was clear my presence was a comfort to the child. Meredith only put me down once a week upon the occasion of her Saturday night bath!
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Watch for the conclusion of MY TRAVELS UP TILL NOW in the next few days.
Copyright 2003 Carma Walsh
May not be reproduced without permission of the author.
