Chapter 11

Joan of Arc never was grander in her mail of battle, than this Philadelphia maid

Washington Chronicle

November 1862

The Fall River train screeches into the Harrison Square Depot and slows. I look up from

rooting in my carpet bag and peer out the window as faces flash by: a workman with

pockmarked skin, a freshly shaved soldier sporting a new uniform, a sad-eyed black woman

underdressed for the weather, and there, a balding man with a sharp New England nose and

piercing eyes encircled by round wire-rimmed spectacles who resembles the portrait of William

Lloyd Garrison hanging on the Motts’ wall.

I abandon my bag and kneel on the seat for a closer look. It is Garrison, the Lion of

Abolition, and behind him stands his son, Wendell Phillips’s namesake, more studious looking

than the last time I saw him, his face a calmer version of his father’s with the same heavy-lidded

eyes and strong, straight nose. They have come for me—a noteworthy welcoming committee.

I am expected and valued. The inner cold from my encounter with Floyd Burns lessens.

But the sharp ache left by Lisbeth’s accusation remains and the poet John Greenleaf Whittier

holds the key. Somewhere I have the note with Whittier’s direction. The one my mother pressed

on me at the last minute.

Ignoring the lurching of the train, I search through the scattered ticket stubs, balled up

stockings, and crumpled papers littering the seat. He lives to the north on the New Hampshire

border. I glance out the window. I will need Garrison’s help to get there. But that can be dealt

with later. Right now, my future is standing on the train platform. I stuff the detritus back in my

satchel, toss in my dog-eared copy of Leaves of Grass, snap it closed, and dash down the aisle.

At the top of the steps, I stop, survey the crowd. No dandified newsman stands with pad

and pencil waiting to call in his debt. Mr. Fine-and-Fancy probably spent the trip from Rhode

Island in the smoking car, imbibing the Devil’s brew. Too much to hope he or some other

noisome reporter would record my grand arrival in Boston for Lisbeth and Marmee to read. For a

second, I feel adrift. Then I straighten my cape, set my focus on my host, and with my lips

trimmed up in a smile, descend.

“Miss Dickinson,” William Lloyd Garrison says stepping forward and helping me down

the steps. “It is a pleasure to welcome your blooming face with all its youthful optimism back to

Boston. You remember my son, Wen?”

I grasp Garrison’s hand firmly. “Good to be back. I cannot thank you enough for

arranging this speaking tour for me.”

He searches behind me. “You’ve come alone? I’d hoped a companion—perhaps, your

sister—might make the trip with you.”

Unease slithers down my spine. It is as if Lisbeth’s hopes and wishes have trailed after

me. I gather my thoughts. “I would have loved to have Lisbeth join me, but my mother is getting

on in years.” I grip the handle of my bag tighter. “However, w We felt one of us should stay and

care for her.”

“Your sister is a good-hearted woman.” Garrison rubs his chin. “We’ll just have to make

sure people meet you at the stations and find respectable families to put you up.” He takes the

bag from me. “So are you ready to inspire the hearts and minds of New England?”

“Of course.” I form my lips into a sassy smile and point to a stack of luggage. “I could

start right now with this crowd in the station, if you give me a hand.”

Garrison laughs. “Hold on to that enthusiasm. You’ll get plenty of opportunity to speak.

But first, relax from your travels, tell us about your summer. Helen and Fanny have planned a

welcome dinner. We’ve invited Wendell Phillips. He’s been asking after you constantly.”

“I believe George is coming around too,” Wen says. He turns to his father. “We best be

going, Papa. Anna, do you have a trunk?”

“Of course, she doesn’t,” his father says.

“But I do.” I reach into my pocket and extract the baggage tag.

Garrison grins. “But you don’t look anything like an elephant.”

I laugh.

Wen groans. “Oh, Papa. That schoolyard joke. You’ve embarrassed her.”

“Anna’s no stranger. She knows we don’t stand on formality, us Garrisons.” His face

breaks into a smile so much like my long-gone father’s that I blink, and for a fleeting moment,

my father stands by me, a jealous ghost. Love this!

“I apologize,” Wen says. “Papa loves a joke, but that has to be one of his worst. He’d

never get away with it at home.” He takes the baggage tag from my hand.

“It is very kind of your family to take me in.”

Wen laughs. “We’re a regular stopping place for all father’s friends and protégés. At least

this time, mother knows you are coming and has something in for dinner. When Miss Anthony

and Mrs. Stanton were here last, there was no food in the house. Poor papa had to dash off to the

shops while they sat in the parlor, and Fanny and I entertained them.”

“Oh, I do hope I’m not putting your family out.”

“Oh, no. Everyone is thrilled to have you back, even if Mama said it felt like a tornado

came to visit the last time you were here. Most of our guests are elderly and serious. Rather

boring to tell the truth. But now we have you back.” Wen gives me a heated look. “And you’re

fun.”

I close my eyes and concentrate on my task—to win friendship and assistance, nothing

more. I do not want to juggle another man’s heart, especially this one. His father is my

staunchest supporter—and the kindest.

“Let me see if I have something for the carter.” I search in my pocket for a coin, but find

it as empty as my desire for Wendell Garrison. After paying with the largess from the Purvises

and the Motts for my new wardrobe, and for the tickets for the train and the steamer, I am down

to Dickinson pennies—the last of my savings from my job at the Mint and a reluctant donation

from Lisbeth’s stipend. The hundred dollars I will get from my ten lectures will have to pay for

the rest of the trip in addition to supporting Marmee and the boys. I glance at Wen. “I seem to be

short on funds.”

He spins the tag in his hand. “No matter. I’ll take care of it.” He turns on his heel and

heads down the platform.

Garrison watches him stride away. “I believe Wen is going to follow in my footsteps. He

wants to write. Been putting time in on the Liberator. It is one bright spark in the darkness of this

conflagration? Who’d have thought there’d come a war over succession? That men would kill to

defend slaveholding? Such violence is abhorrent to me, and yet, I see no other way to end

slavery.”

“We will win. Righteousness is on our side.”

He pats my head. “We will win because we have you, my little firebrand.”

“Have you found any places for me to speak at besides the lecture series? Maybe in New

Hampshire and Vermont?”

“The weather gets a mite nasty this time of year. But if that is your intent, the Anti-

Slavery Society will probably be able to line something up for you. Although with the war

dragging on, everyone’s attention is on the soldiers, not the slaves.”

“My speech is nominally about the soldiers. It’s called Hospital Life. I force my listeners

to question what our dear boys are sacrificing themselves for.”

“Clever, very clever.” He winks. “You are our secret weapon in this battle to free the

slaves. Just wait till the people hear you speak.”

“Success.” Wen says, coming alongside me. “Luckily your trunk was stacked at the top.

Let’s go. Fanny is waiting for our star visitor, and you know how she gets.”

Garrison loops his arm with mine and leads me outside into the wind. Bitter cold rushes

under my cloak, and I pull closer to him, warmth and peace seeping into me. How could

someone write such thundering words in the Liberator and yet be so good-hearted and fun-loving

in person? I glance at Wen, his father’s bright hope, and wish his father mine, not the cold

figment I never knew. A damp gust whips down the street and paws at my skirts. I let out an icy

breath and tighten my grip on the sturdy arm. For the moment, I belong.

****

The feeling clings through supper and afterward. Stomachs full, the family gathers in the

parlor. I pick up the newspaper and wave it at my hosts. “Did you read this today? It says

Lincoln has appointed General Burnside to command the Army of the Potomac. A disaster in the

making.”

Fanny leans over my shoulders and tugs on the paper. “Oh, stop being so serious. You’re

not on the platform yet.”

I tighten my hold on the paper. “The man moved slow as mud at Antietam. Four hundred

rebels held back his twelve thousand. It says here—,”

“Enough already. It’s too depressing to think about. Let’s do something fun.” Fanny

seizes the paper from me, rolls it into a long tube. “I know. With Uncle Wendell and you here we

have six players. Let’s do a reading of Shakespeare. Something with lots of action.” She wields

the rolled- up paper like a sword and pokes me in the belly. “En garde.”

I grab the tube from Fanny’s hands, spin around, and whack her on the head. Fanny turns

her face sharply, as if I have hit her with a rock not a rolled-up newspaper. I blink, my breath

tight in my chest. But then she smiles. She is not a beautiful girl. Not like the plates in a Godey’s

fashion magazine. Her bun is coming undone. Wisps of mousey brown hair frame her ball of a

face. She has her mother’s pulpy nose and the high forehead of her father. But her eyes are an

earthy brown and there is a quality to her smile that draws me in and dispels the emptiness inside

me. It is delight, perhaps. Or a deep abiding joy for life.

I want to kiss her, hug her, so I can soak in that joy and feel warm again. Instead, I bop

her again with the paper roll. “That’s a fine idea.”

“You have such a terrific voice.” Fanny brushes the hair from her face and glances over

at her father sitting on the settee beside her mother. “Hamlet. Please Papa, it must be Hamlet.”

She dances around the room. “We have three copies of the play, I think. Wen, can you go

unearth them? One is on my nightstand.” She turns to me. “Who would you like to play?”

“Hamlet, of course,” I say, swishing the paper sword. “The Dark Prince of Denmark.”

Wendell Phillips butts in. “That’s what I like—a young lady who knows what she wants

and seizes hold of it before anyone else.,” He mocks Fanny’s loss with a turned down mouth.

“Your favorite role has been taken by your guest, my dear. Who will you play?”

Fanny kisses my cheek. “I’ll play Laertes. We shall do each other in with treachery and

poison.” She claps her hands. “Uncle Wendell and Mama will be king and queen. Papa will be

Polonius. He knows the part by heart.” She wags a finger at her father. “But do try to be serious.

The last time we did Hamlet, Papa kept changing the words and making us laugh. We didn’t get

farther than the first act. Oh,”—Fanny stops in mid-swing—“we need props—it’s always better

with props.” She pulls a runner off the piano and drapes it over her arm like a cloak. “Now we

need swords. Lots more swords. Anna, use the rest of the newspaper and make another sword.”

“But I have not read it all yet.”

Fanny laughs. “The play’s the thing.”

Wen sneaks up behind and swipes the roll from my hands, pokes me in the nose. “There

now you have to make one.”

I spin around and make a grab for it. He holds it over my head out of reach. I jump.

From his arm chair by the parlor stove, Wendell Phillips slaps his thigh. “That’s my girl.

You show him.”

I jump again. Success. My fingers clamp around the tube, but Wen yanks it free and

tosses it to his sister, leaving me empty handed.

“No fair two against one. Children, take it easy on our guest.” Helen calls across.

“Apologies, Anna. For a radical peace family, my children are shockingly blood thirsty.”

I glance at Fanny’s mother, her husband’s arm wrapped over her shoulder in a loving

embrace, her knitting in her lap. If only I’d had such loving parents when I was growing up, so

many things would have been different. I would have been different. I glance back at Fanny’s

lightning bright eyes. It is easy to be joyful , when you are accepted and cherished, no matter

what outrageous actions you take or words you say.

“Now for the crowns.” Wen reaches under the side table and pulls out three cardboard

crowns, creased and battered from long use, and passes one to me.

I slap the crown on my head, kick off my slippers, and turning sideways seize the paper

sword from Fanny’s hands. Narrowing my eyes, I lunge forward, brandishing my paper sword in

fine imitation of a duelist. In my deepest voice I shout, “My fate cries out.”

“Whoa ho, Sir Hamlet. I’m on your side,” Fanny says, sidestepping me.

Off balance, I topple on to my bottom in a windfall of petticoats and striped hosiery.

“It’s not time to wax desperate yet,” Wen says. Amidst good-natured laughter, he gives

me a hand up. “Are you all right, Sir Prince?”

I wave him off. “I hate skirts.” I yank the offending garment from under my feet and lift

it aloft exposing more leg than my mother would consider seemly. But the Garrisons seem not to

care. Wen is rolling more swords. Her father, an orange tabby cat on his shoulder, is whispering

in Helen’s ear. The great orator Wendell Phillips sits head back, legs spread, a fat old man who’s

eaten too much.

“I have something better.” Fanny says, grasping me by the hand. “Come upstairs. You

can wear the bloomers from my gymnasium outfit.”

Wear bloomers? My sister would be outraged. My mother would swoon. I leap up the

steps following Fanny’s dashing feet. I can’t wait.

Fanny’s attic room is narrow, slant ceilinged, and cluttered with odd pieces of

misappropriated furniture. I had not been invited up here on my last visit. I can see why. The

Garrisons are far from wealthy, their income dependent on ever fluctuating Liberator

subscriptions. Fanny has made do.

A scratched-up kitchen table with a wired-together split leg serves as a desk. A broken-

sided crib overflows with books and papers. Clothing hangs from oddly placed nails. A carked

mirror graces the back of the door.

“Sorry it’s so cold,” Fanny says, her breath visible. “Quick get under the covers.” I

burrow into the mess of bedcovers thick with Fanny’s scent, warm and yeasty and enticing. I

inhale deeply and wish I could sleep here, tucked up with Fanny, instead of in Helen’s showcase

guest room on whose damp pillows have rested the greasy heads of abolition’s great men and

women. I curl my stocking feet under me. “You are lucky to have a room all to yourself.”

Fanny stops rummaging in her trunk and glances at the crib. “Benefit of being the only

surviving girl.” She bends her head over. “I was only four when Elizabeth died. Brothers are all

right, but I miss having someone to share with.”

I bite my lip, weighing dead infants against autocratic elder sisters. I rise from the bed,

drape my arms over Fanny’s shoulders, and clasp my hands in front. “We can be sisters.”

Fanny pats the back of my hand. “Of course. We are all sisters.” She shakes me off.

“Here.” She holds up a pair of baggy pants. “The infamous bloomers. The matching overdress is

on the wall hook.”

I shrug out of my Quaker plain dress and shove one leg and then the other into the

worsted wool. Fanny buttons the side placket closed, but the too-wide waistband slips down

around my hips. The cloth puddles around my feet.

Fanny laughs. “I forgot how tiny you are. We’ll have to belt and pin everything up. You

won’t be able to piddle until the play is over.”

Oh, how I like this girl. Lisbeth would never let the word piddle pass her dry lips. Fanny

hoists the legging material above my knees and ties a garter on each. Then I hold up my arms

and Fanny slips the overdress over my head, cinching the waist with a scarf, gathering in the

fullness with a belt.

“What do you think?” She steps aside so I can move around the small space.

Hands on my hips I twist around to see the back. “Better than a skirt.” I kick out a leg.

“But still too much cloth.” I stand on my toes and mince about in a circle, my arms snaking over

my head. “I feel like I belong in one of Miss Pardoe’s Arabian romances. Really. Why do we

women put up with these nonsensical clothes? Have you ever worn men’s trousers, Fanny?”

Eyes bright, she smothers a giggle with her fingers. “My brother’s once.”

“Me too. I felt light, like I could fly. I wanted to run, leap like a stag. But I was afraid to

leave the bedroom.” I press a hand to my stomach. Is the fear still there? Could I sit with men,

one leg crossed over the other and fool them all without trembling?

Fanny swishes her plaid merino skirt. “I know what you mean, but I do like a pretty

dress.”

“So do men. Makes it hard to outrun them.” I lift the overskirt and tug the bloomers

higher. “What would happen if I wore a men’s suit to my next lecture?”

Fanny’s eyes widen. “You are not serious, are you? It would destroy your career. The

biddies out in the countryside would run you out of town. The men—well—the men would say

one of two things.”

“Susan Anthony wore bloomers for over a year. And Stanton,” I counter.

“Yes, but they abandoned them. Attracted all the wrong kind of attention. They were

followed everywhere by lewd men. Took the focus off their cause. Anna, what you say on the

platform is outrageous enough. Papa says you get away with it because you look so young and

girlish. People hear all that fire spout out and call you a child prodigy.”

I pull in my chin and cock my head, pitch my voice higher. “Just a poor babe in a man’s

world.”

“There,” Fanny says. “That’s the expression that does it. Cultivate that pouty little girl

look. Be Jean d’Arc, the virgin maiden like the papers proclaim, and you will be the greatest

woman in America. I just know it. Then you can change women’s fashions all you want.”

“It’s the men who have to change. Still—” I peer in the battered mirror hanging on the

door, brush my fingers over the bones of my cheek and jaw, press my hair flat. “Just once, I

would like to walk down the street dressed as a man. George Sand does it.”

“She’s French.”

I stick out my tongue. “And French women are braver than us?”

Fanny’s round open face bobs in the reflection behind me, full of sympathetic glee. I grin

back at her. We are of like mind. Nothing shocks her. A wild idea strikes me. Could I spirit

Fanny away on my speaking tour of New England as my companion? I almost ask. Instead, I

whirl around, and throw my arms around her. “Oh, Fanny. Why were we born women?”

Entwined length to length, warmth to warmth, Fanny’s heart beats against mine. I rest my

head in the curve of her neck, trail my fingers along the hairline, feather the stray wisps. It would

take no more than a brief twist to bring my face in line with Fanny’s, to set my mouth against

hers. Instead, I press my lips to the nape of her neck where her scent is strongest. Heat sears

through me in a way I have never felt before.

For a second, I am stunned. Then I spring back, heart thumping, face burning. Fear

tiptoes up my spine on cold little feet. How can a kiss feel so right and be so wrong?

I cringe and wait for her draw away. But Fanny is her usual self. “Don’t you wonder

sometimes what it is like to be kissed by a man? All that prickly hair on their lips? Ugh.”

I shrug. Kissing men holds no interest for me. But kissing Fanny does—this time on the

lips. My face heats at the thought.

She touches my cheek, eyes suddenly sharp. “Oh ho. Look at that blush. You have been

kissed by a man. You’ve a beau, Anna? Tell all.”

I avoid her eyes. I avoid the truth. “Nothing serious. A childhood playmate.” I gather the

bloomers and swing open the door. “Your family is waiting for us. We should go down.”

Fanny snatches my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Come then. Be Hamlet—make me

believe you’re a man by your acting alone.”

I trail Fanny down the stairs, wads of cloth swishing between my legs, my spine rigid, my

blood thrumming through my veins. I’d always wanted to be an actress. Now I have my wish.

****

The play is winding to a close when the front door flies open, and a young man strides in

without ceremony, accompanied by a blast of cold. I glance up from where I lie sprawled on the

carpet playing dead, Fanny draped atop. The young visitor is clearly another of the Garrison

offspring, tall and balding.

“What’s going on?” he says, divesting himself of his snow-dusted overcoat and hat.

“Ut-oh, it’s George, come home to roost. Always trouble when you show up.” Fanny

says, tipping back her head to glare up at him. George gives her a toothy grin. She waves her

paper sword at him. “We’re concluding a reading of Hamlet. Give us Fortinbras’s last line,

brother. You have the voice for it.”

He stretches his arms wide. “Go bid the soldiers shoot—” He halts and comes closer.

“I’d best make sure Hamlet is dead first.” He pretends to put his foot on his sister’s stomach.

“No, you don’t.” She rolls off me and springs to her feet. “Now you’ve gone and spoiled

the ending, and we had such a grand duel to the death.”

He snaps his fingers under his sister’s chin. “Don’t be petulant, Hamlet. It’s unprincely.”

She knocks away his hand. “I’m not Hamlet. Anna is.”

George peers down. From my position on the carpet, I waggle my eyebrows at him. He

tips his head. “My grand apologies, Miss Dickinson, forgive me for not recognizing you. Stole

the starring role from my sister, did you?” He offers his hand and helps me up.

“Of course. The better man won,” I say with a wink in Fanny’s direction. I pinch out the

short overskirt and makes a curtsey.

Helen rises from the loveseat and crosses the room. She puts a hand on George’s arm. “It

is a shame you missed supper and the reading. Anna was brilliant. I could hardly keep my mind

on my own lines.”

“Here! Here! I second that,” Wendell Phillips says pushing to his feet with a grunt.

“Edwin Booth has some competition in the wings. Anna, your voice is a magnificent. That

melodic aria of sound. I’ve never heard the like on stage or platform. And from one so young. It

is a true gift.”

Garrison slaps him on the shoulder. “Wendell, you’re going to puff up her head so much

it will float right out of the room like one of Professor Lowe’s hot air balloons.” He turns to

George. “Speaking of hot air. You shouldn’t have said you were coming to dinner, and then not

shown. Mama was not pleased.”

“Lloyd,” Helen says. “We’re none so formal. I’m sure he had his reasons. Come, George,

I saved you a piece of the apple pie.”

“Wait. Papa. Mama.” George peers down at her, his face rigid except for a tremor

beneath his left eye. “I’ve been tramping the streets for hours. I—I’ve come to a decision, and I

fear you’ll not approve.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to enlist in the army.” Garrison’s

mouth opens. “No, let me speak, Papa. I’ve a letter from my dear friend Robert Shaw. He’s been

asked to start a regiment. The Fifty-Fourth. The first Massachusetts regiment of colored troops.

These black men, freemen and former slaves, deserve the right to join the fight to end slavery.

But they must have training, so they can prove they’re as good as any white troops. They are

looking for white officers to lead them. I want to be part of it either in Robert’s regiment or

another.”

“Of course, that is just what we need be doing,” I say. “Surely—” I peer around. Helen’s

face is the color of thin milk. Garrison sways slightly, his cheery countenance colorless as a frost

stung leaf. Wendell Phillips grasps his arm, supporting him. Fanny has lost her sparkle.

Garrison shakes off Phillips and approaches his son. His eyes glisten with unshed tears.

“Have you thought this through, Son? War is human brutality at its worst. Soldiers kill.” He

covers his face with his hands. “This is my fault. I started this conflagration.”

George rushes forward, grips his father’s shoulder. “You aren’t to blame, Papa. Everyone

knows you abhor violence. You didn’t want war. But that’s what we have—war. And slavery

will only end when it’s won.” With his other hand, he draws his mother to his side. “You taught

me well. I must do what has to be done for the black man.”

Anna steps aside as George’s family surround him with their love. Wen pats him on the

back, trying to look supportive. Fanny throws her arms around him and kisses him on the lips.

Helen twists her fingers in his hair. Garrison buries his son in a bear hug. Even Wendell Phillips

is pulled into the family circle, pressing his hand to Helen’s back in support.

I stand in the shadows, forgotten. I picture the hospital wards full of broken men, the

black wreaths on so many doors. I should clasp Helen to my breast. I should wipe away the tears

on Garrison’s cheek and scrub away the brave strain in Wen and Fanny’s eyes. But I have

nothing to give them that they do not already have.

I grab the lopsided pasteboard crown off my head and toss it to the rug. Real tragedy does

not need a paper Hamlet reading lines. It does not need me. I am merely a voice on the sidelines

suckling the teat of other people’s pathos and making it mine.

Chapter 12

How fine her gestures are. Did you see her with three waves of her pretty hand, hang a

rebel? It was an admirable piece of acting.

Evening Post

November 1862

I gaze out over the audience. Waltham is my first stop on the ten-lecture circuit of small-

town New England. The venue is dark, stuffy, and insalubrious. I don’t care. This is my moment

to prove myself to my mentors and supporters. If I do well here, my speaking tour will be

guaranteed success and Lisbeth will be proved wrong. I am our father’s daughter.

By the time I have spoken for over two hours, I know I have done it. With a glance, I

glue the young men who’ve come to mock me to their seats. With a fluid sweep of my hand, I

gather to my side every brave woman who has dared cross the threshold in contradiction to their

husband’s wishes. I do not know who this incarnation on the stage is, but it isn’t the Anna

Dickinson who’d spent a sleepless night curled in a ball, stomach cramped, petrified I would fail

to live up to the expectations of the Garrisons and their supporters and who would be sent home

in disgrace.

In the breathing silence, I move to the center the platform. Time to bring the speech to a

close. I spread my arms wide as eagle wings. My staid chestnut brown dress flames red in the

flickering gaslight. I lift my voice in triumph, each word a tap of a drum beat. “This battle of

today is a battle, not for Union simply, not for Government simply, not for subjugation at all, but

a battle for the people who are enslaved, for the very cause of liberty.” I lower my arms and

exhale, my curls falling about my face. I push them back behind my ears as if I have run a race

and peer out at the crowd. “The oppressed are crying out and praying.”

I fall silent, my body rigid as a marble statute. I should feel exhausted. I have spoken for

two hours. Instead, the fire is there still, spiraling through the core of me, driving out the chill. I

think of George Garrison gone a soldier and raise my fists. I shout the words, “Oh men and

women of the North! Oh. great loyal heart of the American nation! Represented, gathered here

within these walls tonight. Will you be found fighting for the flag, suffering for the flag, crying

out with dying lips for the flag that at last represents liberty, truth, and justice? Or will you be

found careless and listless—will you be found giving underhand aid to the Rebels—or will you

be found as the drummer boy was found out in the West with his flag wrapped around him, with

his coat torn, and the white skin bare, and the lifeblood ebbing out, making even in death—the

red, white, and blue?” I whisper in a voice that reaches every corner of the hall. “Will you be

found there?”

I gaze down as if that boy’s body, with George’s face, lies at my feet. My voice rises like

a kettle drum sounding the call to arms. “We must honor this sacrifice. Only then will our nation

be made whole again in true liberty. It is not enough to hem a shirt or throw a dime in the

donation box. Rise up and tell our president to free all the slaves! That is the way to win this

war.” Deafening applause rocks the hall. I wing out my skirt and bow deeply.

It is over.

I blink my eyes and survey the stunned townspeople of Waltham staring up at me with

rapt faces. I have guessed rightly. The war is the way to fame and fortune. My first lecture on

Hospital Life for the Boston Fraternity is a grand success. When I stepped on stage, I feared all

reason would evaporate from my mind like so much smoke. I would say the wrong thing and be

sent home without the promised hundred dollars to face my sister’s sneer. But now, I am truly

Joan of Arc. No one will ever drive me from the platform. I own it.

I smack my hands together. “And one more thing.” I point to Fanny, standing at the back

of the hall holding up paper and pen. “Please, before leaving, sign the emancipation petition to

Lincoln tonight.” I step down, drawn to Fanny’s beaming face.

“I’ll sign, darling,” a masculine voice whispers in my ear.

No need to look. I recognize the familiar blend of bergamot, tobacco, and male sweat

assaulting my nostrils. Floyd Burns is after me again. But I am not afraid, not with Joan of Arc’s

courage still burning in my veins, and Fanny and her family waiting for me with open arms.

I speak to the air. “Mr. Burns, I am heading to the table by the door. You may sign the

petition there along with everyone else.”

He brushes up against me. “Of course, as soon as you let me know when I can interview

you for the New York papers.” He is so close his breath ruffles my hair. “An exclusive. Just the

two of us. After the crowd dies down.”

I turn, struck again by Burn’s diminutive stature, only inches taller than my own five feet,

and his prissy suit. Had I really been frightened of him on the ship? The man seems harmless

enough, except for the flickering in his eyes.

He waves the notebook at me, I hesitate between a small kindness and a snub and choose

politeness. After all, I need my name in the New York papers. “Mr. Burns, your dedication to my

career is commendable, but an interview tonight is impossible. I’m exhausted. Perhaps another

time.” I pin a closed-mouth smile on my face. Now if he is a decent man, he will go away.

I do not wait to find out, but wheel abruptly into the throng and trip, my feet tangled with

a cane. Like a beached fish, I come to rest in a reeking sea of muddy boots and wet hems. I

swallow a curse and struggle to rise without getting my fingers crushed under a wayward foot.

On the platform, I am a giant. In a crowd, I am a smidgeon of a girl, easily crushed.

Hands grasp me under the arms and lift me gently to my feet. “I seem to be the daunting

hero. Again,” Floyd says drawing me against his body. He lowers his voice. “What do you think

of this headline? Heroic reporter saves young orator from being trampled by her adoring public.”

I spin out of his grasp. “I am most grateful for your assistance, sir.” I avoid his laughing

eyes and give my attention instead to the elderly woman with the wanton cane. “I apologize for

my clumsiness, ma’am. Are you all right?”

“Helped him catch you, I did,” the woman titters. She tips her feathered head toward

Floyd. “Such a handsome gent. Transfixed by that girl on the stage, he was. Good talker that

Dickinson woman—plenty loud—but she shouldn’t be flaunting herself in public like that.

Enticing war. Not fitting. Not at all. And she a Quaker.” The old woman pokes me in the ribs.

“And her an ugly thing. Don’t see the attraction. You’re much prettier than that girl on the

stage.” She points her cane at Floyd. “Now this young man—I’d take him home with me in a

minute if I were young as you.”

The woman is crazy. I take a step back. “But—”

Floyd whispers in my ear. “Blind as a bat, but the old thing has the right of it.” He tips his

hat. “My gratitude knows no bounds, madam.” He pulls me away before I mount a protest. “Now

for my interview.”

I wave towards Fanny. “First the petition.”

“Of course, Miss Dickinson. Business first. Pleasure to follow.” He offers his arm.

I drop a hand lightly on his elbow. Infernal man. I cannot fault his manners, merely his

way with words.

He guides me to the table and stops in front of my buddy who is bouncing up and down

in excitement, waving a paper. “Look at all the signatures. You are a grand success, Anna. I

think—,” She notices my companion and halts mid-word. “Sir?”

I yank my hand off his sleeve. “Frances. Meet Floyd Burns, a New York reporter come to

cover my speech.”

“Bravo,” Fanny says, clapping her hands. “To come all the way from New York City to

such a small venue. And braving the cold and snow for our dear Anna.”

Mr. Fine-and-Fancy gives me his most tender look. “I would do anything for our rising

star.”

I slap a pen in his hand. “Then sign the petition.”

He steps forward and in a surprisingly fine Copperplate script snakes his name across the

bottom. He ends with a flourish. “And now the promised interview, my dear.”

And off I go, my hand pressed to my stomach. I can feel the nausea starting already.

Chapter 13

She is a decided brunette, with the power of expression in her vital organs not uncommon

in the passionate beauties of the land of figs and brigands.

The Evening Post

December 1862

The train out of Boston rumbles and shakes, wheels squealing as it rounds another curve

on its way north. I am thrown against the armrest. The letter I am reading flies out of my hand

and flutters to the mud-trod floor. I close my eyes and rest my head on the seatback.

I am exhausted. Ten lectures in six weeks is enough to tire even me. Still, it is a good

tiredness. I have won hearts and changed minds. Give me the lecture platform any day over a

schoolroom full of brainless brats—I glance down at the letter slowly absorbing the muck of

travelers’ feet—or the demands of my family.

“Here you go, Miss,” the conductor says, wiping the letter on his trouser leg and handing

me the smeared paper.

I pluck it with my fingertips and wave it in the smoke-clogged air in a vague attempt to

render it dry. Not that it matters. The letter is so creased from constant refolding that the words

are broken.

“Have you sent the money, yet?” my sister writes.

“Go see my dear friend Whittier,” my mother reminds me.

I wad the mess back into my pocket alongside an odd assortment of Indian heads,

worthless patriotics, a handful of wrinkled greenbacks, and an envelope of pasteless stamps I got

in change from the meat pie peddler at the last stop.

I’ve held nothing back, not even enough for return train fare to Boston. I sent all my

earnings home like a dutiful daughter. I curl my hands in my lap. Surely, that will satisfy

Lisbeth.

Now I am on my way to fulfill my mother’s wishes. Somewhere ahead lies the town of

Amesbury and the home of John Greenleaf Whittier. I kneel on the prickly horsehair seat and

peer out the window. Through the trail of cinders and smoke, snow-draped hills fly past,

untethering me from all I know. My mother has sent her city-bred daughter into a cold, empty

place.

I rub my forehead. What need have I to meet some old acquaintance of my mother when I

could be curled up at the Garrison’s reciting Shakespeare or arguing for the removal of

Burnside? The next station, no matter what, I will get off and return to Boston. Back to Fanny.

My petticoat hem presses cold against my shins. My throat tightens. Sewn inside, are six silver

dollars, Fanny’s parting gift to use in an emergency. I kick at the cloth. I’d rather have had

Fanny.

I plop down on the seat. But I cannot. Fanny’s largess ought not to pay for my cowardice.

I dig in my carpet bag and pull out the list of abolitionist societies Wen has given me. Surely,

Whittier will help me set up some assemblies in the area. I have Garrison’s letter of introduction

and my mother’s assurance the poet is a treasured friend.

I shiver and draw my cape more closely around me. The problem is John Greenleaf

Whittier doesn’t know I’m coming. With Christmas holidays in a few days, his house may be full

of guests. He might be away. Or—I bite the inside of my cheek—he might slam the door in a

poor stranger’s face. Fanny says he is not the most welcoming of men.

Despite my worries, the next stop turns out to be my destination, Amesbury, another drab

New England mill town. I gather my belongings and shuffle my way to the door. I will soon

know how I will be received.

****

By the time I trudge from the station, my feet are ice and my clothes soaked, my skin raw

from the knife-edge sleet. I no longer care whether my reception is friendly or not. All I want is a

chance to warm up and dry out. I climb the steps and huddle under the portico of Whittier’s

white clapboard house on Friend Street.

I extract my hand from my pocket and knock. The door opens a crack. An asymmetrical

face with bulbous eyes glowers down. I have seen his portrait on the Motts’ wall. Only Whittier

has eyes like those.

He looks me over. “What does thee want?”

Needles of ice pelt my neck. “I’m Anna Dickinson. Come to visit.”

“Go home. I’m about to sit my supper.” The door closes.

“Friend Whittier, wait.” I step into the frail beam of light squeezing through the crack.

“Garrison gave me a letter for thee.”

The door muffles his voice. “Everyone has a letter from Garrison.”

“Close the door, brother. Shall we never have any peace from thy admirers?” a female

voice complains from behind. “Now they come even in the midst of a blizzard.”

“I’m Anna Dickinson from Philadelphia,” I yell, pushing back my hood so my face is

exposed. “A member of the Society of Friends.”

The man hesitates. “Don’t know thee.”

Surely, the celebrated poet reads the newspapers? “I am an abolitionist, an orator. They

call me Joan of Arc. Thee must have heard of me?”

The man’s wild eyebrows rise. “Saint Joan of Arc?” He looks over my shoulder.

“Where’s thy army?”

“Oh please, I’ll deal with it, John.” The door opens wide again, and a face with the same

protruding eyes, broad forehead, and square jaw, peers out. “I’m John’s sister, Elizabeth. What

does thee want on this miserable night?”

I hand the woman the letter from Garrison, crinkled and damp from my pocket. “Sorry to

trouble thee. I’ve just come on the cars from the Garrison’s in Boston. I was hoping on lecturing

around the area. Please could I step inside and warm a bit? The walk from the depot was bitter.

Then I’ll freely depart and find myself a room in town.” I smile up at the woman, praying I will

not need to spend one of Fanny’s dollars tonight.

Elizabeth Whittier pinches her lips together. “Come in then. Leave the boots here and

follow me into the kitchen. We’ve a fine fire.” She drops the letter on the hall table.

Thank the Lord. Shedding icy water, I stumble in, struggling with my bag and grateful I

left my trunk behind in Boston,

My fingers are so numb they refuse to move so Elizabeth helps me unbutton my coat.

“Poor thing. Thee is soaked to the bone, and it’s too cold to send you out again. I’ll put a brazier

of embers in the guest room upstairs to take off some of the chill. Thee can stay the night, and

then we’ll see about the morrow.”

I stand in front of the fire, my hems dripping puddles on the Whittiers’ well-polished

floor. I say a silent thank you to my hostess and rub my hands together. Success. I have made it

inside.

A damp draft sweeps the room and crawls down my back. I glance over my shoulder.

Whittier stands in the kitchen doorway, his face clouded with shadows, Garrison’s letter, a white

flag dangling from his hand.

He glares at me. “Thee is but a child. How old are thee?”

Anger rolls off him as if I have trampled his most precious possession. It is better to play

the innocent. I drop my hands and peek up from under my damp curls. “I turned twenty in

October. I was born in forty-two.”

“Humph. Look younger. Who’s thy mother?”

“Mary Edmundson, widow of John Dickinson. I believe thee knew her.”

“Humph.”

For a gifted poet, the man is mighty monosyllabic. Still, my mother would wish me to be

respectful. “It is kind of thee to give me shelter from the storm.”

He raises his eyebrows. “We’re Friends here. We do not turn away those in need.”

Humbug. If it had not been for his sister, I would still be out in the storm. I control my

expression and nod in agreement. “Of course.”

His head bobs up and down. “Feed her well, Lizzy.” The door closes.

“Forgive my brother his rudeness,” Elizabeth says. “We get so many people chasing after

him for autographs and such.” She takes the lid off the pot simmering on the back of the cook

stove. The aroma of beef stew fills the room. My stomach rumbles in hope. “Then again the

Hutchinson Family Singers have been singing his hymn to the troops—the one set to ‘Oh Mighty

Fortress is Our God.’ Caused a riot when the officers banned them from performing. Now

Lincoln has said it is the right kind of song and given the Hutchinsons their permit back. Riled

up the Copperheads round here. When strangers knock on the door, they’re likely to be throwing

rotten eggs.” She flashes me a warning. “He’s become wary of newcomers.”

I stop pulling off my wet stockings and lift my head. “I heard about the Hutchinsons.

Garrison told me the story is going to be printed in the next Liberator. Supposedly, Lincoln told

a war correspondent Friend Whittier’s words encouraged him to sign the preliminary

Emancipation Proclamation.”

“My brother’s words and actions have a great deal to do with this war. It is distressing for

us as followers of George Fox’s peaceful ways.” Elizabeth ladles chunks of meat and potatoes

into a bowl and puts it on the table. “Come eat, while it’s hot.

I cannot resist. I slide into the chair and take a spoonful. Unsalted and watery, the stew

slides down my throat and warms my insides, dissolving the last of my fears. For now, I am

warm and safe, and tomorrow, I will ask Whittier to help me set up a lecture series.

I take another spoonful of stew. Silent as a sentry on patrol, John Whittier slips into the

seat opposite me. His sister places a steaming bowl before him, and he bends over and lifts the

spoon to his mouth with uncalled- for elegance.

A log settles in the fireplace, sending out a shower of sparks. Our spoons scrape against

china in symmetrical rhythm. Our heads bend reverently in silence. A thought flashes through

me like the snap of the flames, and I smile. I am inside a Whittier poem.

I turn the idea around, digest it, and enjoy my own cleverness. I sit back and contemplate

the poet, his large dark eyes, strong nose, and powerful chin and gasp at the matching symmetry

of features and bend of neck. If I were male and old, Whittier would be my mirror. This is what

my sister meant. Such a resemblance cannot be accidental.

I drop my spoon. Not a poem then.

A tragedy.

****

I do not linger at the table or query Whittier about speaking engagements. Instead, I plead

exhaustion and scurry off to bed. Curled on my side on the cold sheets, I pull the feather

comforter up to my neck and curse my own foolishness. I should never have come. Never have

met the man who could be my father. Is my father. Somewhere deep inside, I know it to be the

truth. Everything fits.

The last glowing embers in the brazier darken and film over into pale ash. I close my eyes

and stifle the sobs that press against my heart. Everything I believed is false. There is no

righteousness in the world, no God, no heaven, no hell, and I will not cry for the loss. All those

fine words and moral exhalations are no more than the dust of betrayal.

Tight-fisted, I turn and twist in the pinched dark of the house, my body refusing to fit the

depression in the mattress left behind by the myriad pilgrims to the granite man. Why has my

mother urged me on this quest for an unholy grail? Did she think me rock-blind?

I squeeze my eyes. No, not my mother. Dash it all, my coming here is my sister’s work.

I flip over onto my back, stretch my arms above my head, and grasp the iron bars of the

bedstead to keep from being swept into a morass of debauched imaginings better taken to the

grave. It did not matter what the grand beauty and the militant poet did. I will not go beneath my

lying mother’s skirts.

There were letters—poems—Lisbeth said. They must be destroyed. No one must ever

know Joan of Arc’s mother was an adulteress.

A tear forms in one eye, wells over, chills in the unheated air, and trickles down to nestle

beside my ear, an icy pinprick that sends pain roaring up the side of my head. I blink back the

rest. Tears like these are better kept inside. I will not leave a pillow wet with my pain for the

poet’s guardian angel to find in the morning.

I wish for sleep—the innocent sleep of childhood and the recurrent dream of the man,

whom it seems, is not my father. He comes dressed in his black evening jacket, smelling of my

mother’s strong coffee, on the way to speak out against slavery.

In the dark of our bedroom, the man-shaped shadow stands over me and my sister, a wary

ghost, fondling our hair, and kissing us good night, his mustache brushing across my eyelids as I

pretend to sleep.

When he is gone, the waking nightmare follows. A foot comes slowly across the sheet

and presses hard. Lisbeth’s toenails bite into the tender skin of my thigh, pushing until my

toddler hands cling to the edge of the mattress.

Perched on the brink of nothingness, I hear my sister hiss, Go ‘way. He’s not thy papa,

he’s mine.

That father is all Lisbeth’s now.

A distant creak of floorboard echoes. Someone treads the narrow stairs. Another step and

creak. My eyes snap open, blind in the dark. I sample the air like prey scenting the passing of a

hunter and squint at the nearly invisible door, hoping I latched it closed. Surely, it is the poet’s

sister in the room next door rising to use the chamber pot.

I wait for the rush of urine—my own bowels cramping. But I hear only the pelting sleet

on the roof. I hold my breath. This is not a house for sleep. Guilt prowls.

My body trembles. How would it feel to have a man, hard and lean, hanging over me,

touching me with hairy hands? I close my eyes and imagine being pressed into the smothering

folds of the bedclothes, held down by foreign bones and sinews.

With cold-stiffened fingers, I push aside the comforter and unbutton my high-necked

nightgown, then ruthlessly shove down my shift and under-drawers until I can see the length of

my body, ephemerally white in the darkness. My body warmth and animal scent flee before the

sleet-filled wind blowing under the window sash. And in the chill, my nipples harden and peak.

I let my fingers slowly tipple over my breasts and down my stomach, followed by a trail

of goose bumps and something more. My fingertips reached the thatch of hair between my thighs

and slide into the forbidden warmth. The place only a husband should touch. The sensation

surprises. Cold turns to heat turns to flame. I take a deep breath—

There is a knock on the door, and I freeze. Have I made noise? I pull the comforter over

me and cringe beneath it. The latch rattles. My body solidifies.

“Miss Dickinson.” It is the poet’s watchful sister.

I sit. “Yes.”

“Thee must go now. The dairyman’s boy has come. He’ll drop you at the station.”

“Of course,” I answer. Of course, I must go. No hearth-fire burns under this roof for

deluded maidens with broken morals.

Outside the sky is as black as my future. Dawn lies hours away. I climb up next to the

slump-shouldered boy and face into the wind. I will head somewhere north.

North. Where I can freeze my heart solid. Where Joan of Arc can go insane, and no one

will ever know.