Two Girls of Gettysburg Read online

  Lizzie

  Chapter 23

  When the spring thaw came to Gettysburg, my wintertime worries also melted away. The shop had turned a good profit and we were able to pay the first loan installment on time. Mama had gotten through the bitter-cold months without any fevers, nothing worse than a one-week cough. I hadn’t been sick at all, and Ben suffered a lengthy cold but still managed to grow two inches. I was concerned about Grace, however. She was often sick and didn’t have much energy, but she refused to see a doctor. Then the reason she was ailing became clear: she was expecting a baby. She was so slim to begin with that her belly started to show in March with a baby that was due to be born in July. Amos treated her like she was glass, but I could see that she was made out of something more like iron. I thought most women became softer and somewhat dreamy when they were expecting their first babies, but Grace was not like anyone I’d ever known in that regard, or in any way at all.

  Nor was anyone I knew quite like Rosanna, whose friendship was proving hard to replace. Martin and I were no closer to being friends than we were the day we went sledding on Little Round Top. To my disappointment, I seldom saw him, for he had to work on his father’s farm nearly every day. I needed a companion and confidant, and Ginnie Wade seemed the only good prospect. She always greeted me when I saw her in the shops or along Baltimore Street, where she lived with her mother. One day we fell into step together as I was going to Margaret’s house.

  “My sister is expecting her first child this summer,” Ginnie announced. “I expect I’ll be with her a lot.” Georgia Wade had married her fellow, Louis McClellan—who was no relation to the general—when he came home on furlough. Now she lived just a few doors from Margaret.

  “You are lucky. I always wished for an older sister,” I said with a sigh.

  “Oh, don’t. It’s no fun being the younger one. We always bicker.”

  “Grace is also expecting, you know. Since Amos is practically a member of our family now, their baby will be almost like a cousin to me.”

  “Goodness, really?” said Ginnie, raising her eyebrows. Was it disapproval I saw, or only surprise? She changed the subject. “I think Martin Weigel likes you.”

  “No! He does? How do you know?” I replied, all flustered.

  “I saw him watching you in church one day. But maybe he was just distracted. It was a long sermon.”

  “Well, that’s encouraging,” I said with an edge of sarcasm in my tone. I couldn’t tell if Ginnie was teasing me. With Rosanna I would have known at once. I could have told her that I was sweet on Martin, and she would have known what to do next. But Rosanna was no longer my friend.

  “Annie Baumann told me she has been writing to your brother Luke and he has written back,” said Ginnie, changing the subject.

  Ever since the incident with Rosanna’s flag, I had considered Annie mean and insipid. I wished Luke had chosen some other girl to write to. But if I told Ginnie this, she might tell Annie that I disliked her. It was wearying to have to watch every word I said.

  “Annie thinks it’s terribly romantic, your cousin being a field nurse, but her mother says it’s shocking.”

  “Annie thinks so because her mother disapproves!” I blurted out. But I didn’t want to gossip about Rosanna. It was like pressing on a bruise. “Will you and Jack marry when he comes home from the war?” Ginnie’s beau, Jack Skelly, had joined the 87th Regiment, along with many other Gettysburg men.

  Ginnie sighed. “I hope so. I’m almost twenty. It would be so exciting to be married, don’t you think?”

  I didn’t think so at all. But I tried to be agreeable.

  “It is rather dull here in Gettysburg,” I said. “I mean, the war is going on out there, all the men are gone, and you and I are just sitting here.” A new conscription law had been passed, and all men between the ages of twenty and forty-five were being drafted, unless they could produce a three-hundred-dollar bounty.

  “I’m not bored,” she said. “I’m too busy sewing and doing relief work. What else could we do?”

  “We could fight, like the men do,” I said idly, then told Ginnie about the girl from Philadelphia who had cut her hair short and joined a regiment. “I read about it in the newspaper. She wasn’t discovered for a whole year. Then she was shot in the arm and the surgeon who removed the bullet noticed her … well, you can guess what. They drummed her out of the army, but at least she now has a story to tell her children someday.”

  Ginnie looked horrified. Rosanna, would have relished the story.

  “Well, I think it was brave of her,” I said. “And I understand why she did it. She wanted an adventure. I might do it, too, if I could keep from getting shot. Then again, if the rebels come back, you and I might have to learn to use a rifle, because there will be only boys and old men left to defend the town.”

  I said this just to shock poor Ginnie. I knew I could no more fight in a war than pigs could fly out of their pens. I didn’t have the courage of a hero like Frederick Hartmann or even the blind bravery that made Luke pick up that rifle and dash headlong at the enemy, firing again and again. I would have turned and run the other way.

  “Well,” said Ginnie, “you’re almost as wild as your cousin, I reckon. What’s wrong with being a young woman with ordinary desires?”

  “Nothing,” I started to say, but Ginnie had turned in at the gate of her sister’s house. I didn’t even get the chance to ask her if she could find a way to let Martin know I liked him. I would just have to take matters into my own hands.

  I saw my chance on a sunny May day that promised a glorious summer to come. Wildflowers bloomed in the fields and along the roads, raising my spirits. I felt as confident as spring itself. Nothing bad could happen on a day like this. I knew Martin would be coming to the shop to help Amos with a task. While on my way to the post office, I came up with a plan. I would start a conversation, then mention the church ice-cream social in June, and if he failed to pick up on that cue, I would lightly suggest that we attend it together. My stomach fluttered with nervous excitement as I waited in line at the post office. I wondered if I would seem too bold. The postmaster nodded at me. There was a letter for Mama. Now I would have to take it home before going to the shop. If I didn’t hurry, I might miss Martin.

  Mama was in the garden with Ben, planting corn and staking bean seedlings. She had gained some weight and I thought that, like the sun, she grew stronger as spring advanced.

  “A letter from Luke,” I announced brightly. Mama said, “You read it to me, dear. My hands are muddy.”

  Though I was in a hurry, I couldn’t refuse her, so I unfolded it and began to read.

  May 6, 1863

  Camp near Bull Run Creek, Va.

  Dearest Mother and Lizzie and Ben,

  I hope this letter finds you all well though I am sad & discouraged. We received word of our troops being whipped at Chancellorsville though we were greater in numbers by two to one. We do not seem to have a general who can stop the rebels from mowing us down like wheat. But they have lost General “Stonewall” Jackson who was shot by his own men in the confusion of battle.

  Some of the men are afraid (or maybe hopeful) that this defeat will cause the northern newspapers to call for Lincoln to end the war on any terms. I for one cannot bear to lose the war, neither can I stand more fighting.

  Now to my real reason for writing, I have bad news.

  I paused. My heart had started to beat rapidly. I looked uncertainly at Mama. She motioned for me to go on reading. My hands were now shaking, so I sat down on the ground before continuing:

  Last week Papa and a detail of men were sent to rustle up a herd of cattle in the Blue Ridge foothills. It was not expected to be too dangerous but only half their number returned (without the cattle), having been surprised by rebels and several taken prisoner, Papa among them. He was shot at but Devine Bernard who got away believes he was not hit or not seriously injured anyway.

  When I heard, I was desperate to go out and r
escue him but Devine told me not to be a fool and make my mother grieve over both of us. But I will not come home without him!

  We are following the enemy north up the Potomac. Though we are weak from losses and in poor spirits, we are in the good hands of Col. Strong Vincent, his courage matches his name. I have heard that Lee wants to take the war into Pennsylvania. I dont mean to put fear into you, but to give you warning to be prepared.

  Your dutiful son and brother,

  Luke

  Mama had dropped her hoe and was leaning against Ben, moaning. Ben held her up until they reached the porch, then eased her down onto a step. I put my arms around her, and we sat for a long time without speaking. I struggled to take in this new knowledge: that Papa was a prisoner of the Confederates. He might be injured as well. What would happen to him? What if he never—

  “He’s still alive,” said Ben. It sounded almost like a question.

  “Yes, of course he is!” I said quickly. I was worried about Mama. She was sitting motionless with her hands over her face.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Ben in a small voice.

  Mama lifted her head. Her eyes were dry.

  “We will do our work, as usual,” she said, pushing herself off the step and standing up. “Ben, go and finish planting that row.”

  I felt tears coming, and uncontrollable words poured out with them.

  “Why did this happen to Papa? Is God punishing me for complaining? Being hateful to my brothers? Not praying enough?”

  “It’s not any of God’s doing,” Mama said grimly. “War is man’s doing.”

  I swallowed hard. “What should I do?” I asked in a small voice.

  “Please, go tell Margaret. I don’t think I can do it.”

  On the way to Margaret’s house, I saw Mrs. Baumann and Mrs. Pierpont near the courthouse and Ginnie Wade and her mother coming out of the dry goods store. I hurried by without stopping to greet any of them. I couldn’t bear to say the words “my father has been taken prisoner” and see their pitying looks. I did not even consider going to the butcher shop to see Martin, for my own affections no longer seemed important.

  Jack was sitting on the front steps of Margaret’s house, his brown eyes wide with worry, and Clara leaned against him, sucking her thumb. Their sad looks confused me. How could they have already heard the news about Papa?

  “What’s the matter, honey?” I said, absently patting Clara’s head.

  “Our mama is crying. It’s something to do with Aunt Rosie,” said Jack.

  “Now what has she done?” I said, feeling annoyed. It didn’t occur to me that Rosanna might be sick or hurt. It was Papa I worried about.

  In the kitchen, I found Grace trying to comfort Margaret, who was seated at the kitchen table, dabbing at her red eyes with a towel. Grace’s belly stuck out, large and round, momentarily distracting me.

  “Why, Miz Lizzie! How did you know to come just now?” she asked.

  “My mother sent me. We just received a letter—”

  “Then you also know.” Margaret held up a telegram. “Father was able to get this through—oh, my sister, my poor dear Rosanna!” she lamented, wiping the corners of her eyes.

  “For goodness’ sake, what happened to her?” I cried. “She’s not dead, is she?”

  Margaret only sobbed harder, but Grace, with a mournful look, held out a telegram, and I took it and read the simple message that John Wilcox had contracted measles and dysentery and was dead.

  Rosanna

  Chapter 24

  May 6, 1863 somewhere (?) north of Suffolk

  A few days ago I fell asleep, and when I awoke, my world had turned upside down. Oh, it pains me to put down the words no new wife ever thinks to utter:

  My husband is dead.

  When he showed signs of a rash, I thought it only a mild case and was not very concerned. Hadn’t his strength already prevailed over two wounds and typhoid? Then I became sick, and while I was ill, he died. Alas, I blame myself, for if I could have held his hand, I might have pulled him from the jaws of death and nursed him to health again.

  He died on the 3rd of May. I woke up on the 4th in a lurching wagon.

  Mrs. Throckmorton said I had been delirious for two days. “Like a tree struck by lightning, you just toppled over. But you’re strong; you’ll heal.” She cooed over me like a mother over an infant.

  “Where is John? Is he well again?” I asked, still innocent.

  Then she broke the sad news to me. At first I disbelieved her. But her sorrowful look confirmed the truth. She took me to her wide, soft breast while I choked out denials as if they would change the course of fate. I begged to go back, but even sitting up made me dizzy. Mrs. Throckmorton said that Tom would arrange for John’s body to be sent to Richmond.

  “You should have left me behind too,” I cried.

  “I couldn’t let you wake up to find yourself alone and a widow,” she said tenderly.

  “I mean, why not leave me to die as well?” I said, immune to all comfort.

  “You mustn’t ever say such a thing,” she said firmly. “It is a sin against the Lord to wish for death. You were more ill from exhaustion than from measles. You were not about to die.”

  I turned away and lay facing the side of the wagon. Tears seeped from my eyes and the wagon rocked with the broken rhythm of my thoughts: My husband is gone! John lives no more. He is dead.

  I passed the 5th and today sleeping, waking only to cry and sleep again. What will become of me? My face feels leaden, as if it will never lift in a smile again. The act of speaking is a great effort.

  I asked Mrs. Throckmorton if someone was with him when he died, and did he call for me? She said Hiram Watt was with him. She made me sit up and eat, and said tomorrow I must try walking. Then she handed me my journal, saying, “It will do you good to write, empty out all your feelings, and make room inside for God’s healing love.”

  But I am already empty and feel nothing.

  May 7, 1863

  I don’t know where we are. Someone said we are marching to join the rest of Lee’s army after its victory at Chancellorsville. I hardly care.

  Today when we stopped to pitch camp, Hiram Watt and a few fellows came by to pay their respects. I managed to thank Hiram without breaking down in tears. He fiddled with his hat brim and, blinking, said, “John’s last words to me were ‘Tell Rosanna I love her.’ So I’m tellin’ you. Tom was there too, he heard it.” At this I wept anew, but afterward felt a little comforted.

  Then to please Mrs. Throckmorton, I walked around for twenty minutes and it tired me so much I had to lie down again.

  May 8, 1863

  This evening I took a longer walk down a little-used road. Mrs. Throckmorton means well with her prayers and ministration, but I wanted to be alone.

  Robins and sparrows hopped along the path before me, chirping. May apples shaped like umbrellas spread over the shady floor of the woods, while bluebells nodded at its edge. Yet a curtain seemed to separate me from the freshness of nature. Can the flowers decide not to bloom or the birds decline to sing again because the winter was harsh?

  No. But I don’t know how they do it—how they keep growing.

  May 9, 1863 near Petersburg

  Today we forded a creek greatly swollen by the rain. I crossed on Dolly’s back near the end, holding on to a rope secured to a tree on either side of the creek. The banks had been beaten into a muddy mire, and the water was turgid. Midstream, I felt the strong pull of the current and was tempted to let it bear me under and away. Through weakness, I believe, I lost hold of the rope, and as we began to drift, I panicked and screamed, clutching Dolly’s mane. This startled her and she began to flounder, and water washed over her back, drenching me to the chest. I was terrified, certain that we would be drowned. There was a commotion on the bank, much frantic shouting and waving. I urged Dolly to the shore, and moments later her hooves found the muddy bottom. With a great effort she carried us out of the sucking stream.

>   It surprised me to discover that though the mind may yearn toward death, some force in the body surges up and demands to live.

  May 10, 1863

  Still clinging to my steady Dolly, still marching. It matters not where. I scan the ranks of infantry for the bright bandana John always wore around his hat for me. It’s a habit. Then I remember he is gone and feel a dull aching deep in my chest.

  Tom appeared late in the afternoon, riding a horse with bullet-scarred flanks. I was surprised to see him. I had not thought about his loss, I realized with a twinge of guilt. We were partners in grief, but did not speak of it.

  “Did you know you’re a free man, Tom?”

  He nodded somberly. Sadness weighed down his features.

  “Why are you still here, then?”

  “I’m obliged to see Mastuh John’s possessions rightfully bestowed,” he said with formal dignity, handing me John’s haversack and mess kit, his canteen, and his rifle. I hung them over the pommel of my saddle, except for the rifle.

  “You keep this,” I said, unwilling to take the heavy weapon. Tom shook his head firmly.

  “That’d be askin’ for a heap of trouble,” he said.

  “Of course. I wasn’t thinking,” I said.

  “An’ there’s one more thing Mastuh John give me fo’ you,” said Tom, handing me a small leather pouch. I opened it up to find it stuffed with money.

  “Not gambling money!” I said in dismay.

  “No, ma’am. You know Mastuh John gave up gambling. This was all his pay he saved up. Said it was to settle a debt to your father.”

  I sobbed aloud, tears wetting my cheeks. I recalled my rash theft and our mutual shame. To think that John had been planning in secret to make restitution for my wrong! I felt a surge of love and belated longing for my honorable, dear husband.