Two Girls of Gettysburg Page 17

  “It’s not really possible to put the past entirely behind us, is it?” I mused, more to myself than to Tom, as I caressed the pouch.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Tom, looking close to tears himself. “Well, I’d best be on my way.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “To Richmond, to accompany Mastuh John’s body an’ pay my respects to the elder Mastuh Wilcox and his missus. Then I’m goin’ north.”

  “I will come with you to Richmond,” I said, making my decision that very moment. All my belongings were with me. I bade farewell to Mrs. Throckmorton, asking her to explain to Dr. Walker that without John, I have no reason to remain with the regiment. She regarded me sadly but did not try to stop me from going, only called out a blessing as I veered away.

  May 11, 1863

  Though we were only fifteen miles from Richmond, it took us an entire day to cover the distance. Tom had repaired a battered ammunition wagon to carry John’s coffin, and a wheel broke, delaying us. The road was crowded with soldiers who touched their caps out of respect as we passed. I wished for a veil to hide my naked sorrow from their eyes. To make better time, we detoured along the James River, passing factories and a prison camp for Yankees. Hundreds of tents were visible crowded together on an islet in the river.

  A year ago I fled to Richmond, a foolish girl mourning a Northern boy who never loved her. Today I come home a Southern widow, fully entitled to grieve.

  May 12, 1863 Richmond

  All of Richmond grieves. It was the funeral of General Stonewall Jackson, hailed as the purest, bravest, and noblest of men. He died from wounds inflicted by the mistake of his own men at Chancellorsville, an ironic but nonetheless tragic end. I saw the procession pass, the general’s warhorse with its empty saddle, followed by the black-draped carriage bearing his body. My grief for John flows on the general tide of mourning. Everyone who has lost a brother, husband, son, or father weeps not only for Jackson but for themselves, yet with that crying comes little comfort.

  May 14, 1863

  John’s parents held a small funeral for him in their church. Prayers were spoken and hymns sung without my comprehending them. I have only one question for God: if he is the author of life, then who is responsible for death?

  Tom was seated with the other servants behind the Wilcox family, but we did not speak. I wonder if he knows about my theft? He would lose all respect for me. It is time to bare the secret—to confess to my father and restore the money.

  May 16, 1863

  Alas, I could not bring myself to speak to Father, heaping old shame upon new grief. I tried to write to Margaret but gave up. Mother had already sent the news. Although I long to be in touch with my sister and Lizzie, what can I write that does not seem to beg for their pity?

  Living in my family’s house is like wearing a shoe that pinches my foot unbearably. Nor can I bear to live in the cottage where John and I spent a few happy weeks and where we planned to raise our own family.

  Is there no place that I can call home? Richmond hardly resembles the city I remember. In April women took to the streets and rioted for bread, looting the stores until the militia drove them back. While people are starving, others grow rich running the blockade and parading in the streets like dandies. Everyone talks of slave uprisings, real and imagined. Yankee raiders captured President Davis’s Mississippi plantation and most of his 137 slaves fled after robbing the house. Those who are recaptured will be tortured, maybe killed. This is the unseen consequence of Lincoln’s freedom proclamation and the bitter fruit of secession and war: no one has a safe or proper home anymore.

  May 20, 1863

  I cannot shake off this lethargy. I sit in Mother’s parlor writing, wearing borrowed black crepe, black cuffs, and a black collar. I am too young to be a widow—younger even than Margaret was when Joseph Roth died. Did she feel such guilt and anger as I do? One minute I blame John’s death on the generals and presidents who stirred up this hornet’s nest of war. The next minute I blame myself for being unable to save him. Then my other great character flaw rises up to rebuke me: lack of steadfastness. Once again I have abandoned my responsibilities and run away from the scene of my grief. I had hoped marriage would steady me, but lacking my husband, I bob and drift like a boat without an anchor.

  May 25, 1863

  In a volume of poems in Papa’s library, I happened upon an elegy written by Tennyson on the death of his friend. It contains this memorable verse:

  I hold it true, whate’er befall;

  I feel it, when I sorrow most;

  ’Tis better to have loved and lost

  Than never to have loved at all.

  May this inspire me to put aside my vain regrets and rather dwell upon the brief happiness John and I enjoyed.

  May 26, 1863

  The business of settling John’s affairs is almost complete, the signing of tax documents in the lawyer’s office and the filing of pension requests. Sad indeed, that a man’s life is reduced to a stack of papers.

  Mother tells me that nurses are sorely needed at Chimborazo Hospital. Perhaps next week I will feel more like going there to inquire.

  May 28, 1863

  Today was a day of reckoning.

  I returned the deed to the cottage to Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox. I sold most of its furnishings, taking a loss on everything we had purchased, but that is no matter. I told Mother and Father that I plan to lodge in a respectable rooming house and seek employment. To my surprise, they did not object.

  Then, taking a deep breath, I produced the leather pouch with John’s savings, combined with the money I had gotten from selling our furniture. I began my well-rehearsed explanation, taking care to emphasize my own guilt. I concluded, fighting back tears, “So it wasn’t a matter of impropriety, as you thought. It was worse. I was dishonest and deceitful. I am sorry and I ask your forgiveness.”

  Mother hid her face and began weeping. Father looked at me, a struggle evident on his face. Then he took me in his arms and held me tightly. It has been years since he did so.

  “Rosanna, my dear, that is all water under the bridge. Let it go, let it go. I forgive you,” he kept murmuring, his voice breaking.

  When we had all dried our eyes, Father insisted that I keep the money to establish myself in a new lodging. Mother kissed me and said she loved me. For the first time in years, I am at peace with them.

  June 2, 1863

  I was writing a note to the lawyer when a knock came at the kitchen door, and as the cook was away, I answered it. There stood Tom, dressed plainly but well. I led him into the drawing room, but he seemed uncomfortable there and remained standing. He did not immediately state his business, and I wondered why he had come.

  “Do you need money?” I asked, ashamed of my selfishness. “You must have a portion of John’s legacy, for you served him all his life, while I was his wife not even a year.”

  Tom shook his head, saying Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox had provided for him.

  “At least let me thank you, for everything you ever did for my husband. It has been an honor to know you,” I said, extending my hand. He obliged me by shaking it.

  “You’re welcome an’ all, Miz Wilcox, but I ain’t goin’ nowhere just yet,” he said with a firmness that startled me. “I done promised Mastuh John I would look after you if he was to die, an’ be sure you would get on all right and keep goin’ like you was. An’ with due respect, ma’am, you don’t look like you’re doin’ too well.”

  The tears pooled in my eyes at the compassion in his voice. I looked down at my ill-fitting black dress and clasped my hands to keep them from trembling.

  “What do you mean, ‘keep going like I was?’”

  “John was right proud of you bein’ part of the company and takin’ such good care of all the men that was sick or hurt. For all the suffrin’ he went through with bein’ shot and gettin’ the typhoid and all, I ain’t never seen him so happy as he was since he married you. There, I’ve said my piece.”

&
nbsp; Tom’s words were like a slim ray of light through a dark cloud. I had made John happy! And he had been proud of my work after all.

  “Why, do you think I should return to my duties? That John would wish it?” I asked, more than surprised at the idea.

  “That’s not for me to say, Miz Wilcox.” Tom looked away. “Perhaps I already said too much.”

  “No, Tom. You didn’t.”

  He stood there while I tried to gather my thoughts, which were all in turmoil. Indeed, why should I stop my work on behalf of others because my own husband died? I was a capable nurse, and my services were still needed. Perhaps the work would even help to heal my grief.

  “I will go back!” I said, grasping both his hands. “Tom, you have righted my ship and restored its course. Thank you.”

  To his credit he did not flinch, though I think I embarrassed him.

  “It’d be best if I escorted you,” he offered.

  “My affairs here are almost settled. Give me two days,” I said.

  June 8, 1863 Essex County, along the Rappahannock River

  It took me three days, not two, to finish settling John’s estate and gather what meager provisions I could obtain in this starved city. Mother seemed newly hurt and bewildered, while Father, perceiving my determination, would not allow her to hinder me.

  Tom hitched his horse to the wagon that had brought John’s casket home, and I rode Dolly as before. Once we locate the 1st Virginia, he will continue northward. I wonder how we will find the regiment, but Tom plans to follow the river northwest until we overtake them as they march to meet the rest of Lee’s army.

  June 11, 1863 near Fredericksburg

  Dr. Walker will be pleased. After a number of stops for supplies, I now have a substantial cache of sulfates, laudanum, candles, bandages, soap, and a portable medical kit for my use. I pray we are not robbed. Perhaps I should have brought John’s Enfield rifle rather than leaving it with his father.

  We took a few wrong turns before a farmer directed us to the road we sought. Unmistakably, an army has marched through here recently, strewing swords, mess kits, blankets, and garbage. A film of dirt covers this debris and the fences and fields, due to the clouds of dust stirred up by their passing. Where they pitched camp, the fields are trampled bare and scorched in patches from cooking fires.

  June 13, 1863 south of Culpeper

  Today we came within sight of the army’s rear, and as we approached the hospital wagons, I felt my spirits lift with anticipation. When I embraced Mrs. Throckmorton, she gave me a knowing smile, as if she expected my return.

  “I can’t even count all the soldiers who asked about you and were disappointed that you had gone. As if these old hands of mine weren’t capable enough,” she said with pretended gruffness.

  “I’m back now. I’m sorry for leaving. Only please don’t treat me like a deserter and shoot me,” I said, and we both smiled.

  Dr. Walker seemed surprised to see me and was grateful for the supplies and medicines.

  June 20, 1863 near Winchester

  Last week, following the rendezvous of the armies in Culpeper, we began the march due north. Lee’s army is in three corps under generals Ewell, Hill, and Longstreet, who is in command of the 1st Virginia. Tom changed his mind about going north. For now he remains with the regiment and is being paid to take care of the officers’ horses. It seems that he also has developed unlikely loyalties and affections.

  This morning we struck camp to march due north toward Martinsburg in West Virginia. Rumors about our destination have been flying for days. I hoped it was only the wishful talk of restless soldiers. But today the report is confirmed as true.

  General Lee, with his full army now amassed together, will invade Pennsylvania and bring this laggard, drawn-out war to a head.

  Part 2

  Lizzie

  Chapter 25

  The war was two years old that June of 1863. Children who had been babies when the volunteers went off were now toddling around and starting to talk. Ben had grown about six inches. My mother had more gray hair, Margaret a few new lines around her mouth. I was still ordinary Lizzie Allbauer. I ran a butcher shop and had a liking for a boy who, for all I knew, took no interest in me. I thought about Papa and Luke every day and prayed for their safety. I wondered if Papa would detect anything different about me if he could see me now, at age seventeen and a half. Would he notice the inner strength Mama said I had?

  I doubted I was very strong if I couldn’t even summon the courage to tell Martin Weigel that I liked him. Even worse, he had said nothing to me. Our conversations at work were brief and businesslike. He knew as well as I did that the annual ice-cream social was approaching. I hoped he would ask me to go, but he never mentioned it. Did he have his eye on some other girl? I wondered who she could be and if she was pretty.

  The second Sunday of June arrived. I went to the ice-cream social with Mama, determined to enjoy myself. The grounds of the Theological Seminary on top of Oak Ridge were dotted with white canopies, and trestle tables groaned under the weight of pies, cakes, meat, and fruit. Sure enough, courting couples were everywhere, walking hand in hand or sitting on blankets spread in the shade. Boys and girls lined up to turn the crank on one of the ice-cream freezers. I wanted to join them but felt too old for childish pastimes. So I merely observed the gaiety around me, thinking it strange that life went on as usual in Gettysburg. Despite the war, people were still capable of plain joys.

  In the field Ben and the other boys ran a three-legged race and shouted as they tumbled over each other like a pack of half-grown dogs. Then the older boys took the field, Martin among them. I watched him join in the rituals of back slapping and fist pumping. When the race began, I clapped and cheered as his long legs became a mere blur, and his team finished in first place. I waited to offer my congratulations as he came off the field. Perhaps I would ask if he wanted to go for strawberries and cream. But Martin went off with the other boys, and they loaded up their plates with sausages and potatoes.

  Disappointed, I wandered over to the dessert tents and filled a plate with fresh-picked strawberries. They had been slow to ripen, for spring had come late because winter had lingered until April. Now I savored each berry with its tiny crunchy seeds and soft red flesh and even licked my fingers, for no one was watching me. Ginnie and the other girls were sitting on a blanket, gossipping. Mama and the ladies stood in the shade of an oak tree, cooling themselves with palmetto fans. By the quick and agitated motions of their wrists, I knew they were discussing the war. I moved closer to hear their conversation.

  “I know about the governor’s warning, but I don’t believe an attack on our state is imminent,” Mrs. Pierpont was saying with her usual confidence. “We ought not to worry. Why would the Confederate army come to Gettysburg? Harrisburg or Philadelphia would be their aim.”

  “Well, I am afraid, living along Chambersburg Pike,” said Mrs. Brodhead, showing her irregular teeth. “I have hardly had a good night’s sleep since those rebel cavalry came through last October.”

  “We’ve had so many false alarms,” said Mrs. Wade. “But one of these days it will be the real thing.”

  “I am not so worried about a mere band of lawless Confederates,” said my mother, looking into the distance. I knew she was thinking of Papa in captivity somewhere.

  “Lizzie, come and join us!” It was Ginnie calling. I went and sat next to her, relieved to be included in a group. The girls were complaining about the lack of suitors, since all the young men had enlisted.

  “And who wants to be seen with a mere boy? Why, I’m eighteen now,” Annie was saying, as if her recent birthday were a great accomplishment.

  “I saw Martin leave with those country boys,” Ginnie said to me behind her hand. “That’s too bad for you.”

  I shrugged, pretending not to care.

  “Now, I could fancy that Weigel fellow,” Annie said, apparently overhearing Ginnie. “The way his hair falls over his eyes makes him look dashi
ng.”

  Was she taunting me? No one would describe Martin as “dashing.”

  “Well aren’t you the fickle one, Annie!” I said, matching her light tone. “You’ll break my brother’s heart for sure.” I smiled to show that I meant no offense, but she looked sore anyway.

  “Come, Ginnie,” she said, standing up and smoothing her skirt. “Let’s walk by those two soldiers over there and find out if they are on furlough and for how long.”

  I was relieved to be excluded from Annie’s invitation. I watched her waltz past the soldiers and pause, waiting to be noticed. Ginnie stood by demurely, while Annie preened like a bird. The soldiers nodded politely but moved away, and Annie’s plumage wilted. I felt embarrassed on her behalf. Annie and Ginnie returned with their heads down. I sprang to my feet.

  “I am going to climb up to the cupola in the seminary,” I announced, hurrying off before anyone could join me.

  Inside the building, the marble floors gave off a welcome coolness. My footsteps echoed in the hallways. I found the staircase leading to the cupola, and on the way up passed a girl and her fellow coming down the stairs, holding hands. From four stories above the ground I watched people moving between the tents and blankets and chairs below. In the distance I could see a patchwork of fields divided by fences, an occasional farmhouse, and rolling hills and woodlands extending for miles. To the east clustered the houses, stores, and steepled churches of Gettysburg. I decided it was good to live in an insignificant place where nothing momentous happened. I would wait for love to come to me, if it was meant to, not risk foolishness and hurt by seeking it out.