That Dickinson Girl: A Novel of the Civil War

By Joan Koster

She's going to be the greatest orator of the Civil War.

Eighteen-year-old Anna Dickinson is nothing like the women around her, and she knows it. Gifted with a powerful voice, a razor-sharp wit, and unbounded energy, the diminutive curly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tidal Waters Press
• Release date: Nov 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781959318088

Joan Koster

Joan Koster is an award-winning author of both fiction and non-fiction who loves mentoring writers. Fascinated by history, mystery, and romance, Joan blends those passions into historical novels about forgotten women, romantic thrillers where finding love is always an adventure, and guides to writing better in the top-selling Write for Success series. Joan blogs about women who should be remembered at JoanKoster.com, about everyday life during the Civil War at American Civil War Voice, about romance at Zara West Romance, and about writing at Zara West's Journal.

Book preview

Dedication

To my sister, Jeanne,

without whose help and encouragement this book could never have been written.

PART 1

1861

An American Girl

"They could punish me all they liked. I would never obey a rule that had not been explained to me, and that wasn’t fair—never! Teachers and mothers were always telling other little girls not to play with me, and I was glad!"

Anna Dickinson, quoted by Kate Dickinson Sweetser

in Ten American Girls from History, 1917

Chapter 1

JULIA PENNINGTON GLANCED at her sister, shivering in the chilly February dawn. Her washed, thin cotton dress was better suited to the heat of a Philadelphia summer, her coat outgrown years ago. Julia would do anything for her, even wait in the frosty shadows for politicians to spout idiocies. But they risked illness by standing here, and they couldn’t afford that.

She touched Gracie’s arm. Lincoln’s late, and you’re cold. I say we go.

Her sister brushed her hand away. No, I want to hear what he has to say; find out if he will be a President we can trust. Someone who’ll do what’s right for this country. Gracie rose on her tiptoes and peered over the shoulders of the two carters in front of them, their mud-splashed coats stiff in the cold. Shouldn’t be much longer—the militia is clearing a space around the platform.

Julia’s empty stomach grumbled. We can read his speech in the paper tomorrow.

That’s not the same. Newsmen twist the truth of things. I need to hear the words from the President-elect’s own lips.

Well, let’s pray he arrives soon. I can’t bear to see you shivering so. Here. She pulled off her shawl and draped the tattered woolen several times around Gracie’s neck, tucking the fringe inside the coat front in a futile attempt to shield her from the raw wind gusting between the buildings surrounding Independence Square. Stand close to me. We’ll keep each other warm.

Julia snuggled her sister’s bone-thin body under her arm and resolved to flirt back the next time Richard Tucker stopped to inspect her loom and leaned in too close, no matter that the idea of marriage turned her stomach. Not all men were like her father.

Cold slithered down her neck and seeped beneath her stays. Overhead, the sky lightened, and the first rays of the sun struck the cupola of Independence Hall. She wrapped her arms tightly around the person whom she loved most in the world and waited as bright fingers of warmth inched closer, chasing away the long indigo shadows of the night and illuminating the wispy exhalations of broken-backed laborers and slump-shouldered clerks, hovering freedmen and posturing merchants, hoop-skirted housewives and nimble-fingered beggars, all come to celebrate the twenty-ninth anniversary of Washington’s birthday and to calculate the worth of their new leader-in-chief.

Finally, sunlight splashed over her, but it did nothing to relieve the cold inside. She nuzzled her chin in Gracie’s hair, soft and fine as cotton sliver, and inhaled the fresh, buttery scent of childhood that clung, despite the years of hard living.

Her sister deserved more than a bleak future working for pennies in the mill, inhaling the lint and dust that had stolen their mother’s breath and laid her in a Potter’s Field. It was time to stop waiting for ghosts to come to their rescue.

Gracie would finish school and go on to medical college, even if it meant Julia must marry a man she could never love. She’d promised her mother to care for her sister, no matter what, and she kept her promises.

She tugged her sister closer and whispered in her ear, I’ve been thinking. I want you to stay in school. Finish out the year and apply to the Female Medical College of Pennsylvania, like Mama wanted.

Gracie jerked away. What? That’s impossible. The college charges tuition. And there’s the books. And the carfare. We can’t afford that on what you earn. We barely survive now. She tucked her hands into her sleeves and tipped up her chin. I’m nearly sixteen; older than you when you quit school and started working. It’s not the end of the world. You do it. Mama did it.

It killed Mama.

Mama was already sick when Papa abandoned us. I’m strong and healthy.

So am I, but a body can’t do that work forever. The noise is deafening. Fingers get crushed every day. You suck in cotton until every breath is agony. There’s no future in it. Listen, all I am asking is for you to graduate and then apply. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll have a turn of luck. At worst, with a diploma from Girls’ High, you could teach.

Gracie looked at her. Oh, Julia, I can hear your stomach growling. If you get any thinner, you’ll disappear. It’s not worth being hungry. She held out her hands, the fingertips reddened from the cold, and studied them. Mama always said I’ve the healing touch, but I can do any work I set my mind to. She dropped them to her sides. Not all dreams come true. Not Mama’s. Not Papa’s. So, why mine? Anyway, if someone’s dream ought to come true, it should be yours. You’ve sacrificed too much for my schooling already.

Julia untied her bonnet ribbons then retied them tighter. Don’t be ridiculous. I have no dreams.

Those were merely lies, then, that you whispered in my ear at night when we were growing up? To help free the slaves? Start a school? Recompense for Papa’s foul deed?

I was a child. Julia pushed away the memory of her father reading to her the adventures of The Swiss Family Robinson and The Three Musketeers. That coddled child had thought the world full of heroes, heroines, and happy endings. She’d never imagined she’d be forced to drop out of school to care for a dying mother and a twelve-year-old sister.

A lump gathered in the back of her throat, bitter and thick with the dregs of the mill.

A Black laundress stood in front of her, clad in a stained dress, the cloth threadbare across the shoulders, the hem unraveled. The woman’s hands, cracked and raw, slid up and down her arms in a vain attempt to warm herself.

Julia swallowed hard. She had no right to complain. Life could be much worse. And soon, it would be better.

She turned back to her sister. The floor manager’s sweet on me. I’m thinking he might propose.

Gracie popped her head up. "Propose? You have a beau and never told me? She grabbed Julia’s hands and squeezed. Finally, my sister in love."

Julia yanked herself away. It’s not like that.

Gracie’s smile disappeared. Not like what?

Like a Southworth romance. Like those sonnets of Browning’s you’re always reading.

Gracie pursed her lips. Marriage is forever. There has to be love.

Don’t be naïve. Richard Tucker’s an upstanding man with a good income. He’ll take care of us. That’s all that matters.

I see. Gracie moved away and kicked at a clump of frozen grass. Another sacrifice so I can finish school and become a doctor.

"A doctor? A noble ambition," a woman said, filling the yawning space between them like a shadow that the sun had forgotten.

Julia eyed the intruder. Half a head shorter, more girl than woman, she wore a drab dress under a plain cloak. No ribbon or jewel relieved the narrow white collar. No ruffle or crinoline spoiled the fall of the skirt. Her upright stance and the quality of cloth reeked of the morality and righteousness Julia knew all too well. A Quaker, for sure.

Their eyes met. She glimpsed a smooth cheek and long; dark lashes; a wide, smiling mouth; and a square chin partially hidden beneath black curls cut so short that she could see the girl’s neck peeking above the stiff collar, pink as the dawn-tinted clouds. She wanted to rest her palm on that vulnerable bit of skin, pull her close, and steal her warmth.

Julia pressed the pendant she hid beneath her dress, the sting of cold metal against her racing heart suitable punishment for her wayward thoughts.

The stranger lifted her skirt and gave a sideways bow like an actress at the Arch Theater. Anna Dickinson, at your service. She swung her attention to Gracie. And who is this who wants to become a doctor?

Julia twisted her fingers in the faded ribbon of her bonnet and stifled the impulse to drag Gracie away. Her independent sister would hate that. Besides, it didn’t matter; Little Miss Quaker would be gone as soon as she heard their last name. Every member of the Society of Friends knew the sordid tale of the man who’d stolen money from Arch Street Meeting.

Her sister stuck out her hand. Gracie Pennington.

Julia waited for the girl’s smile to fade and that oh-so-respectable personage to flee.

Instead, the Quaker wrapped both hands around Gracie’s and smiled. A do-gooder then, set on some charitable work for a ragged schoolgirl with aspirations beyond her station in life. Julia knew where that would end.

She stepped closer. "And I’m Julia. Julia Pennington."

Ah yes, the vigilant older sister. Don’t worry; I won’t steal her. She tapped Gracie on the nose. So, what’s stopping you from pursuing an illustrious medical career?

Gracie toyed with the unraveling fringe of the shawl. We’ve no money—

Is that all? the girl said. A mere pebble in your road, my child. If you truly want something, you’ll find a way, no matter how many pebbles and rocks they throw at you. We make our own chances in life. Takes hard work, though. A medical degree requires a mind sharper than a milliner’s needle.

Pebbles? Julia scrutinized the thick weave of the girl’s woolen cloak and the toe of the polished half-boot poking out from under her skirts. Little Miss Quaker had to be younger than Julia’s own nineteen years. What experience did this privileged girl have ducking pebbles or piercing cloth with a needle?

She yanked on the interloper’s sleeve. "Gracie’s top of her class. She doesn’t need a busy-body do-gooder sticking her nose into something she doesn’t know beans about. She’s not your child. She’s my sister. I take care of her."

The girl ran a finger down the frayed collar of Gracie’s too-small coat. "Well then, that is a shame. Makes me want to weep, seeing ambition denied—the corners of her mouth turned up—by beans."

Julia latched on to her sister’s arm. Leave her alone. Go do ... whatever you do. We don’t want trouble.

The girl laughed. But trouble is my middle name.

She turned and addressed Gracie, So, is wanting to be a physician when you are poor and female and the stupid Philadelphia Board of Physicians won’t certify women doctors to work in public hospitals. So, young lady, let’s discover how much you will risk to take on a man’s role. I am on my way to join friends of mine. I think they might be of assistance. She held out her kid-gloved hand. Come with me and find out.

Gracie glanced sideways at Julia, hesitated a moment, and then slipped her arm free of her hold. She laid her bare hand in Anna’s.

Right choice. I do so like a bold woman.

Dickinson grinned at Julia. You can come, too. The world belongs to those who take it, you know. Then she set off, a small whirlwind prying her way between the shoulders of the burly men and overdressed women hemming them in. Beside her, Gracie’s bright red head bobbed so close to the black curly one that they looked like lovers sharing a secret.

Julia rushed after them, only to lose sight of them amid the shifting multitude. Heart pounding, she stood on tiptoes and searched the crowd. She had to drag Gracie away from Little Miss Quaker before she met with more disappointment. But would Gracie come with her?

Anna Dickinson might stand half a head shorter and act like an undisciplined schoolgirl, but there was something about her—a curious air of hope and possibility—that made you want to follow her, even if she led you to the pit of hell. Curse the meddling woman. Even now, Julia wished it had been her hand the too bold Quaker had clasped, not her sister’s.

Somewhere up ahead, a snare drum began to beat, the fierce tapping at odds with the thumping of her heart. She tucked her icy hands under her arms and glanced up at the platform. Dignitaries streamed out from the door to the Hall and gathered under the flapping red, white, and blue flags. Militia, standing pencil straight and with white cross belts glowing in the sunlight, formed a cordon around the stage.

Lincoln would be here any minute. If she hurried, she might have enough time amidst the commotion to whisk Gracie away before the Dickinson woman realized she’d dragged a thief’s daughter to her charitable bosom.

With renewed effort, Julia wiggled through the growing press of people. She circled around a mother scolding a mewling child, avoided being trampled under the manure-encrusted boots of a blacksmith twice her size, and ignored a pinch from a broken-nosed tradesman in an apron slathered with grease and oil.

A few rows from the front, she halted. No matter which way she turned, people hemmed her in, trapping her. She would never reach Gracie in time.

There was movement on the platform. A bugle blew. Bells clanged. Windows flew open. Boys dangling from the trees shouted. Huge cheers rose around her.

Lincoln had arrived.

Chapter 2

TRAPPED BETWEEN WAVING arms and craning necks, Julia could only glimpse the President-elect’s head rising above those of the dignitaries fawning around him. He raised his hand, the crowd stilled, and then he began to speak about flags, and stars, and states, his tall, black hat bobbing as he ended each sentence. His voice sounded for all the world like her old schoolmaster teaching a history lesson.

Each additional star added to that flag, he proclaimed, has given additional prosperity and happiness to this country.

Julia shook her head. Such hypocrisy. Happiness? Not for the mill owners who needed southern cotton.

She caught sight of a Black woman holding a small child. Not for the slaves denied their freedom. They were losing states, not gaining them. Seven states had seceded since Lincoln had won the election. They had already formed an independent government.

And prosperity? Not for her.

Julia cursed the precious nickels she had splurged on the Evening Bulletin, more hungry for news than bread; news that had brought them here to run afoul of Miss Dickinson.

Why should she care about what happened to the country? A politician’s promise of a bright future held nothing for her, a Southwark mill girl who worked twelve hours a day and couldn’t earn enough to provide for her sister’s education.

On the platform, Lincoln had stopped speaking and moved to the railing. He yanked on the ropes and, to the roaring acclaim of the audience, raised an enormous flag—the one with the thirty-fourth star representing the free state of Kansas—to the top of the pole wired to the roof of the Hall.

Julia turned away from the patriotic hogwash twisting in the wind and scanned the area. Was that Gracie, the red-haired girl in the thick of the crowd, encircling Lincoln? She skirted around a tree to get a better view. A rowdy mob of trade unionists, their Unities Fraternities emblazoned banners swaying in the breeze, crossed in front of her, hurrying toward the line of march forming for the workman’s parade.

An elbow caught her in the side and threw her off-balance. She stumbled and fell, then got up limping, her skirt torn, her bonnet crushed. She swerved to the side to avoid a boy jumping off a tree branch and rammed into a tall man with flowing white hair and side whiskers.

A merino cape lined with fur slapped across her face. A whiff of expensive cologne fell over her as he spun his head around. With one hand, he checked his pocket. The other flew up as if to seize her. She stiffened. He thought her a pickpocket. She’d seen many in the crowd this morning.

Pardon me, sir. Was an accident, sir, she managed to spit out as she twisted out of reach and backed away. But she moved too quickly. Her feet tangled in her torn hem, and she tripped, landing hard on the frozen ground. Her weakened ankle wrenched beneath her with a crack. Pain radiated up her leg.

The gentleman’s mouth compressed into a rigid line. Miss, are you all right?

Glancing down, Julia realized the stranger was getting a good view of the mud-stained edges of her petticoats, her patched stockings, and the paper-stuffed holes in the bottom of her shoes. He’d never believe she didn’t have quick fingers.

Your hand, he said, offering his own, his voice short and clipped.

Julia ignored the sharp pain in her ankle and grasped his leather-gloved palm. He lifted her to her feet, nodded and turned to leave. But then he saw something. He bent down to pry a round object from the dirt and came up with a penny pinched between his thumb and forefinger. The stranger’s hand turned the copper disk on its side and ran a fingernail across the notches. Counting them.

He glared at her. Yours?

Julia slipped her hand inside her collar and found the ribbon frayed and broken after all the years. Yes, sir.

He closed his fingers over it. How did you get a hold of this?

She glanced around. Policemen hovered on the edges of the crowd. Even for a penny, she could be arrested and thrown in prison for theft. All it took was a single shout from this high-society gentleman. Her stomach clenched—Gracie. What would happen to her sister if she were taken up as a pickpocket?

Answer me, young woman. How?

Her father, the one who’d loved her, whispered from the grave, "The truth is the best that is in you, daughter."

Julia raised her eyes and focused on the storm-cloud gray eyes. My father gave it to me.

And your father is?

Pennington, Rufus Pennington, sir. Please, may I have it back?

Ah ... Pennington. With a firm finger, he lifted her chin up so her face was illuminated by the sun. And you are?

Julia Pennington.

Of the Society of Friends? You’re not dressed like one.

No. Not since she was seven. She buried the vision of Papa holding her and her sister by the hand as they walked to the Arch Street Meeting House every First Day.

He released his grip. I’ve heard of your father.

Julia froze and waited for recriminations to spew from his lips. Instead, he peeled open her clenched fist and gently laid the penny in her palm. One by one, he closed her fingers over it and cradled her trembling hand with his. My name is Robert Purvis. I have a home in Byberry. Do you know where that is?

Julia nodded. Byberry, far to the northeast of the city, way up river. Farm country.

If you are ever in need of help, I want you to come to me.

He might as well offer to make her Queen of England. She could never afford the carfare. And if he lived in Byberry, then she knew who he was—the richest man in Philadelphia, a founder of the Anti-Slavery Society. And he was Black. Had a Black grandmother, gossip said. He was a Black man who looked whiter than most white men, with his light eyes and thin-edged nose. He knew her name. He knew of her father. She’d never go to him.

She dipped her head and feigned a grateful smile.

Robert Purvis didn’t want to help her, not truly. He was being charitable to soothe his conscience. He’d thought her a pickpocket.

There was a rustle behind her, and her sister’s fingers slipped into hers. Guess what? You’re holding the hand that shook Mr. Lincoln’s. Anna helped me get on to the platform as he was leaving. He’s as tall as a lamppost, but he has gentle eyes and—Gracie stifled a giggle—did you hear his voice? So high-pitched for such a giant of a man. Anna and I had to clamp our hands over our mouths to keep from laughing.

Miss Dickinson, Purvis said, tipping his beaver hat. "Did you get to give our Hero of the Hour a piece of your ever-inventive mind?"

Anna wrapped an arm around Gracie’s waist. No, not that I didn’t try. I wanted to ask him how he intends to fulfill the promise he made to us last night from the balcony at the Continental: to restore peace and harmony to the country without addressing the evil of slavery. But he was mobbed by the mayor and all his croaking toads. He saw my young friend, though, and went out of his way to shake her hand. She pulled Gracie closer. I’m pretty jealous of you, young lady, for capturing his attention over mine. She tugged one of Gracie’s braids and laughed. It must have been the pigtails. But not to worry; one day, he is going to listen to me. I will be the one making the speech, and he’ll be in the audience.

Robert Purvis smiled. Miss Dickinson, I admire your confidence. However, first, you have to impress the public; make a name for yourself. If you speak as you did to Dr. Stebbins at the Pennsylvania Anti-Slavery Meeting, you will be a great success. And be sure to include your exemplary stories. That’s the way to reach the common man and get your words into the papers. Use our friend Lincoln as a model. Make them laugh. Make them angry. Make them feel ashamed.

A whistle drew his attention away. Dear ladies, my barouche has arrived, and I dare not let the horses chill. Miss Dickinson, I assure you I will be there next Wednesday in full support. Nothing would make me miss our cause’s rising star’s first public lecture on the rights of women. And Miss Pennington—he gave Julia a studied look—it was a pleasure meeting you. If ever you need assistance, our mutual friend here will know how to contact me. With a tip of his hat, he strode off.

Julia stared after him, and then glanced back at the girl holding her sister too tightly. A rising star, he’d called her. What business did such an exalted personage have with Miss Brazen Quaker?

Robert Purvis. A great man, Anna was saying to Gracie. Saved so many of his people. She laid her hand on Julia’s shoulder. Now come, Big Sister. Meet Hannah and Lucretia before they leave. They’re going to help Gracie go to the medical college.

Who— Julia whirled to face her sister.

Gracie beamed up at her. Anna introduced me to Dr. Hannah Longshore and Lucretia Mott. Hannah teaches anatomy at Women’s Medical College, and Lucretia—she’s on the board. She helped found the school. They’re Anna’s friends.

Not friends of ours. Time to go. She captured Gracie by the arm and took a step. Her ankle wobbled then collapsed, and she found herself on the ground again, blinking away pain, the chill of the earth leeching through her petticoats.

Julia, are you all right? Gracie hung over her, eyes wide.

Twisted my ankle. I’ll be fine. Julia tried to rise. She winced and fell back.

Grab on, Miss Pennington. Anna put a hand around Julia’s waist. We’ll hobble over to my house and put some compresses on it; take the swelling down. Then I’ll find you a ride home. Luckily, they’ve declared Washington’s birthday a national holiday, and I have the day off.

You work? Gracie asked. She bent down on the other side of Julia.

At the Mint. I’m an adjuster, checking for defects in the coins as they are pressed. But come, we can’t leave your sister on the cold ground.

Together, they lifted Julia and helped her stand on her good foot.

Anna turned east. Let’s go. I live on Arch, a square below the Meeting House. Not far. I know all the shortcuts through the back alleys.

Wait. Julia held back. Arch Street Meeting? Some holier-than-thou Quaker, less open-minded than the Dickinson girl, was sure to recognize her and cause a scene. Please help me to the horsecar stop. Gracie will get me home. I can’t impose on your family.

Dickinson grasped her tighter. Of course, you can. That ankle needs attention.

Julia struggled to free herself from the Quaker’s grip, but the girl, despite her small stature, was no weakling, and putting weight on her ankle increased the pain.

Escape impossible, she leaned against the sturdy body, resigned, for now, to hop along in whatever direction Anna Dickinson chose.

Chapter 3

IN FRONT OF THE RED-brick colonial row house she called home, Anna let go of Julia and stepped up on the stoop. She glanced back at the two Pennington girls. The younger one was puffing, and the older one looked like she’d never forgive her for dragging her where she didn’t want to go.

She’d done it again, acted the dictatorial general that her brothers were always accusing her of being. What would her family think of these two lost birds in their bedraggled clothing? Well, one was injured. That should keep them too kind to pry.

With a roll of her shoulders, she set her fingers on the brass handle, pressed the lever down, and pushed in the door, revealing the long tunnel of hallway, fusty with years of close living.

In the kitchen at the back end of the house, the Irish girl cursed in Gaelic, dishes clattered, and the aroma of the dinner’s stew wafted down the corridor. Anna exhaled the breath she’d been holding deep in her chest. She was home. Everything would be all right.

Behind her, Julia started to shuffle away, but Anna grasped an elbow. She couldn’t let her unwilling guest leave yet. Not until she had scratched out her secrets. A mill girl aspiring to send her sister to medical school? Extraordinary.

There’s a horsecar. The Pennington girl tugged her arm free and pointed. Maybe we can catch it.

Anna shielded her eyes from the sun and peered down the street. Better yet, a cabbie is dropping off a patient at the Longshores’ house.

We can’t afford a cab. Our rooms are down in Southwark on Fitzwater.

Today, you can. You cannot walk on that ankle. I will cover the fare. Gracie, run down there and see if he is free. She wrapped an arm around Julia. Come. Put your foot up at least for a few minutes. She tugged Julia up the low step and into the hallway. The light of the transom over the door illuminated the trepidation on the mill girl’s face, a fleck of blood on her lip. Anna could see the girl was beside herself. A friend would let her go.