In the spring of 1845 the issue was finally presented to the town. Clara had labored arduously over the major speech in favor of redistricting. The argument was read by a popular mill owner, “of course as his own,” for as a woman she had no voice in the meeting. Despite her long and respected years of teaching, in matters such as these she sadly recognized that “I was nobody.” The scene was tense as speakers from each side aired their views and emotions rose. Those in favor of redistricting watched anxiously to see if the moderator—Captain Barton—would show any favoritism. But Clara and her brother had canvassed well, and just as the vote was to be taken, eighty-two workers from the local factories marched in and packed the ballot box with a solid block of votes in favor of redistricting.51
That night Clara celebrated at a special dinner cooked by her mother. The whole family assembled to share their triumph and to reconcile the split family views. Captain Barton showed no animosity over defeat at the hands of his children. Wrote Clara, “my father's first hearty toast was to the ‘new fangled folly.’”52
It had been a rewarding effort, the first of many crusades Clara was to fight for the distressed or underprivileged, and she found the habit of altruism addictive. Thus she continued the good work by advising and aiding the redistricting board and undertaking the design of one of the new enlarged district schools. “I had ample opportunity for original design for I had never seen a schoolhouse that in its construction was not nearly as well-adapted to any other ordinary use than a school,” she dryly noted. (Her design called for maps, blackboards, and a clock for teaching purposes, as well as a sloping center aisle to compensate for the uniformly sized desks, which overwhelmed six-year-olds and cramped the older pupils. A few years later Clara proudly described the classroom to a former student as “chang’d indeed…within, without and around.”) This project completed, she embraced yet another social cause—the still-controversial establishment and teaching of the mill school.53
The school was established initially in one of the largest local mills. It was a small, dark pocket whose only light came from a large doorway facing a public street. To provide enough light for reading, the door had to be kept open, and the noise from the road was as constant distraction. Every passing dog and cat skipped in, as well as “goats that searched the neighborhood for dainties.” In addition, there was the problem of the diversity in age and nationality of the students. Clara taught a total of seventy pupils, who ranged from four to twentyfour years of age. There were American-born scholars in the school, but also English, Irish, and French, which resulted in conflicts of language and culture. To keep order under such circumstances, Clara appointed monitors—to be one was deemed a high honor among the students—and arranged classes with an eye to preserving each pupil's self-esteem. By using a combination of “gentle restraint, calm reasoning, confidence and encouragement,” she guided her school to success.54
Those who had doubted the effectiveness of such a school were surprised to find the makeshift classroom abuzz with productive activity. “There was not a minute of the day for me to lose,” Barton acknowledged, noting that her classes studied not only “the 3 R's,” but algebra, bookkeeping, philosophy, chemistry, and ancient and natural history. In one area the school so excelled that it gained a regional reputation. Convinced that reading aloud would improve the language skills of her foreign pupils, Barton encouraged recreational reading and rewarded those who skillfully dramatized their favorite pieces. To her surprise crowds began to gather outside the open doorway on the days when the readings took place. What had originated as a spontaneous and pragmatic exercise charmed the public into recognizing the school's potential, and the mill school became widely known for its distinguished “concert readings.”55
Once she had met the challenge of the mill school successfully, however, Barton became increasingly dissatisfied with the cycle of teaching, which left her with sporadic months of aimless leisure. She was now in her late twenties and had mastered every situation that had been presented to her. She had tamed the unruly boys in countless towns and country schools, fostered the hopes of the area's illiterate mill hands, and helped to bring about educational reforms, which had seemed to her such obvious necessities. In her mind the years of dull routine stretched endlessly before her. With no jobs open to women save teaching or factory work, she could not imagine from what direction she would find new and stimulating work. Instead Barton began to think seriously of leaving the teacher's podium for a pupil's desk, to find, in her words, “a school, the object of which was to teach me something.”56
It was not the first time Clara had considered advanced schooling. She was, however, uncertain about the possibilities open to women and the methods of gaining admission to the few institutions that had opened their doors to gifted females. As early as 1838 she had asked Lucien Burleigh for advice on the subject, questioning him also about her potential for earning money while a student. Burleigh recommended a school in Uxbridge, Hubbell s, and one nearby in Charlestown, “where young ladies have an opportunity of paying their board by their labor.”57 Money problems and indecision stalled her, and nothing came of the idea at this time. Ten years later, with her capital enlarged by scrupulous savings, Barton again began to actively look at colleges and academies. Only two colleges accepted women at this time: Mount Holyoke and Oberlin. Barton seems not to have been at all interested in Mount Holyoke, possibly because the school was close to her home. She was determined to go far enough away that a run of bad luck at an Oxford school would not lure her back. She gave Oberlin, a coeducational school in Ohio, serious consideration, but after talking with a trusted neighbor on the subject, she dropped her plan of going there for reasons which are not altogether clear.58
Barton deliberated her future quietly, telling few people of her plans and continuing to trudge through the day-to-day activities in her school. While she worried over inadequate fuel for heating the classroom and the necessity of expelling two unruly students, her mind wandered to her own educational needs.59 She watched with interest as her brothers enlarged their mill complex until it was “quite a village” of two factories, five dwelling houses, barns, shops, and offices, but she could not really feel a part of it as she had in the past. Her health was good but her mind was dissatisfied, and her spirit tired of “working oneself to death to get a living.”60 Finally, late in 1850, she determined to go to the Clinton Liberal Institute, a well-respected coeducational academy run by the Universalist church in Clinton, New York. For Barton this would be much more than an academic opportunity. Almost two hundred miles from home, the school would broaden her experience beyond the familiar hills of central Hubbell s and entwine her life with friendships that would have a major impact on her growth and aspirations.61
three
On a blustery day at the end of December 1850, Clara Barton tucked herself under the lap robes in her brother Stephen's sleigh and set off for the Worcester train depot. Her heart felt as cold as the frozen ground, for she at last realized that if she was leaving scenes that worried and oppressed her, she was also leaving her family and all that had been familiar and comforting.1 It was, moreover, a bad time to leave Oxford. Her mother had been sick, indeed “quite feeble,” for much of the year and did not sustain much hope of recovering.2 That autumn tragedy had struck her brothers, too. The mill complex had burned again, this time leaving only one wall standing, and the loss was much heavier than the insurance would cover. The distress Clara felt over this incident was heightened by the belief that the fire had been intentionally set, possibly as a result of the Barton brothers’ slightly shady dealings. It was thus with sadness at leaving her distraught family, mingled with relief, that she boarded the train for New York.3
The trip was long and frustrating, delayed by closely missed connections and frozen rivers. Barton met no one along the way, and even late in life she could remember the slow, unsettling journey, which was “passed in silence.”4 The trip to New York City took twenty-five hours, and as she was too late for a morning boat up the Hudson River,