Two Girls of Gettysburg Page 6

  Nor did she discover that I sometimes still read books at the shop, for Amos was as good as his word and never let on. I finished John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress, which inspired me to bear my trials with more patience, and borrowed Charles Dickens’s Hard Times from Margaret. Some evenings I sat with Rosanna while she studied, hoping to learn something. My cousin was by her own admission a lazy student, and I often ended up helping her. One night in February I found her in a sulky mood, staring at the blank page of a notebook.

  “What shall I do, Lizzie? Mrs. Pierpont has assigned us to write another entry about the war. But I don’t have any interest in battles and generals,” she said wearily.

  I picked up her notebook. It was titled A History of the War. In it was a paragraph on the fall of Fort Sumter, copied from the newspaper in Rosanna’s flowing hand, a list of Confederate states and the dates of their secession, and a sketch of Rosanna and her friends sewing the flag. I realized that Papa and Luke had not mentioned receiving the flag.

  “Why not write a description of camp life in the winter? You said Henry’s letters were full of such anecdotes.”

  “Yes, but I doubt that will satisfy Mrs. Pierpont.”

  “Isn’t she practically an abolitionist?” I said. The whole town knew of Mrs. Pierpont’s strong opinions. “You could write about Amos and how he plans to free his wife from slavery,” I suggested, looking sideways at Rosanna for her response.

  Rosanna clasped her hands. “Oh, yes, she will love that. Margaret told me the story. It’s so romantic, how he loves Grace even though they are so far apart.”

  “What’s romantic about Grace being a slave and Amos working so hard just so he can buy her?” I said, frowning at Rosanna. “People shouldn’t be bought and sold.”

  Rosanna’s eyebrows shot up. “I declare, Lizzie, this whole business with your hired man is making you an abolitionist!”

  “That’s not true,” I shot back. I knew that abolitionists gave wild speeches and sometimes broke into prisons to free captured runaways. I would never do such a thing. But I had to admit that Rosanna was half right. I did want slavery to end. Yes, even if it meant the war would last longer. I felt sad and suddenly older, realizing what others had known for a long time: the war had to go on.

  “Rosanna, don’t you believe that slavery is wrong?”

  “My father does not own slaves,” she said, avoiding my question.

  “But what do you think?” I persisted.

  “If all the slaves were freed, who would farm the cotton and tobacco?”

  “Pay them to work. Like Papa pays Amos.”

  “Not everyone agrees with your father,” murmured Rosanna.

  “What do you mean?” I demanded, but Rosanna merely shook her head.

  “Lizzie, I’m glad Amos is free and I hope he and Grace are reunited. I don’t want to defend slavery, but without it, the entire South would collapse. Is that what everyone wants out of this war? To humiliate and destroy us? Well, we won’t let it happen.”

  With that, she grabbed her notebook and swept from the room. I gazed into the sputtering fire as worry gnawed at me. When Rosanna had said “us” and “we,” she sounded like a Southerner.

  Margaret came into the parlor and set about straightening and dusting.

  “I heard your quarrel,” she said, giving me a sympathetic look. “Rosanna’s been upset all week. We got a letter from Mother begging us to come back to Richmond. It had to be smuggled out because there is no post. She writes that there is no food because of the blockade, and the whole of Virginia is a battleground. I would never take the children there.” She paused in her tidying up and sighed. “But I think Rosanna misses our parents.”

  I wondered if it was John Wilcox she was missing. But I merely nodded and picked up my cloak.

  “She’s even touchy with me. I’m so glad she has you for a friend!” said Margaret, kissing me as I took my leave.

  Soon our quarrel seemed forgotten. Rosanna purchased a map of Virginia to assist with her writing assignments. Together we marked the movements of the Pennsylvania volunteers. As we stuck pins at Hunter’s Mill, Alexandria, and Manassas Junction, it was clear that General McClellan was driving the Union army toward Richmond. Soon, it seemed, Company K would face the rebels in battle. But the army was moving at the pace of a snail. It was April, and they had advanced no farther than Fredericksburg.

  “That’s barely thirty-five miles from where they broke camp in March,” I mused to Rosanna. “Why, you and I could walk faster than that.”

  “Not with fifty pounds of gear on our backs,” Rosanna replied. “That’s how much Henry says they carry.”

  “Can you imagine us living in a tent and having to dig our own latrines? I don’t know how Luke can stand it.” I shuddered.

  “No, I wouldn’t survive a single day,” said Rosanna. “Why, who would arrange my hair?” she added primly.

  The thought made us both collapse with laughter.

  “I do wonder what McClellan’s strategy is,” I said, wiping my eyes.

  “He is afraid to attack Richmond,” Rosanna said firmly. “Because he knows that it cannot be taken.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I replied, trying to hide my irritation. I wanted Richmond to fall, for then the war would end, and Papa and Luke could come home.

  “All the Union generals put together aren’t worth one General Lee,” Rosanna declared. “And we will fight harder, because we are defending our country from the Yankees.”

  There it was again—“we”—and Rosanna didn’t mean she and I. I didn’t want to quarrel again. I stood up and put my shawl around me.

  “I think I should leave now.”

  “I’m sorry, Lizzie. Don’t go away angry,” Rosanna said, taking my hand in a beseeching way.

  “I’m not angry,” I said. I could not put it into words, my helpless regret that Rosanna was slipping away from me.

  I heard the steady zzzt, zzzt, zzzt of Margaret’s shears. In the dining room, Ginnie Wade bent over the sewing machine that clicked and whirred like a tiny train while she guided a pair of blue worsted trousers under the needle.

  I nodded to them over the noise as I passed through and almost collided with Jack and Clara. The children had come marching into the room, making pum-pum-pa-dum noises with their mouths. They wore blue uniforms with jacket buttons gleaming in double rows. Clara’s had a wide skirt, while Jack wore tiny trousers. Margaret must have sewn them from scraps.

  Waving a toy sword, Jack shouted, “I’m going to kill all the rebels. Then I’ll free the slaves.” With his lisp, “rebels” sounded like “webels.”

  “No, I will!” cried Clara, fighting her brother for the sword.

  Ginnie laughed and clapped her hands. I glanced at Rosanna, who stood frowning at Margaret.

  “When did they turn into little abolitionists?” Rosanna said.

  “Do not criticize my children,” said Margaret, her voice clipped.

  Ginnie looked down, and I held my breath, embarrassed.

  “Our parents still live in Richmond, in case you had forgotten.” Rosanna’s voice rose with emotion. “Don’t you care that the city might be attacked?”

  “I do care,” replied Margaret. “But Mother and Father—and your John Wilcox—will have to take care of themselves. What do you expect me to do?”

  “You can stop this!” burst out Rosanna, gesturing to the sea of blue cloth and the pile of finished pants. “It’s—it’s disloyal. You’re making money off of the South’s sufferings.”

  “I have little sympathy with the Southern cause,” Margaret said, stressing the word in disdain. “Gettysburg is now my home, and sewing is my livelihood.”

  Rosanna broke into tears and ran from the room. She whirled around in the hallway.

  “And I don’t love John Wilcox anymore, I love Henry!” she cried, and stumbled up the stairs.

  I slipped out of the unhappy house, sick at heart.

  Lizzie

 
Chapter 10

  Ten months after Papa left, I finally learned why business had been so poor. The realization was all the more painful because it involved Amos. He was the one who helped keep a secure roof over our heads. He was Ben’s friend who took him hunting and shared his pride at the first rabbit he brought home for stew. He was almost as capable as Papa himself when it came to butchering a sow or a steer. But to some people in Gettysburg, Amos was just a Negro, and that was too much.

  It was May and the fruit trees were in full bloom. I was feeling thankful that we had made it through the winter without Mama becoming ill, when she came home red faced from a Ladies Aid Society meeting. She threw off her bonnet and collapsed on the sofa. I rushed to her, afraid that she had a fever, but I saw that she was hopping mad.

  “Do you know what Frieda Baumann had the gall to say to me?”

  I couldn’t guess. Mama didn’t particularly like Mrs. Baumann, but she had never had words with her before.

  “I shouldn’t even repeat it, it was so uncharitable.”

  “You brought it up, so now you have to tell me,” I said, knowing she was so heated she wouldn’t be able to keep silent.

  “Well, Frieda and I were side by side packing bandages, and she said, loud enough for the others to hear, ‘I really think a mother ought to watch the sort of folk she allows around her family, especially if she has a daughter.’ And I replied, ‘Martin Weigel is a fine boy, and I trust him completely to work alongside my Lizzie.’”

  “Did you have to say that?” I groaned. “Now people will think we fancy each other.” I didn’t fancy Martin, not at all.

  Mama went on, imitating Mrs. Baumann’s haughty tone, “ ‘It’s not the boy I’m referring to, but that colored man who works in your shop.’”

  “Amos?” I burst out. “Why, he is completely honest! And who does she think she is, giving you advice? Let her worry about her own silly daughter. I can take care of myself.”

  “That’s what I told her, in so many words,” Mama said. “But a woman like that won’t change her narrow mind because of something I say.”

  “What did the other women think?” I asked.

  “Sarah Brodhead kept her head down, but Mrs. Stover had a definite opinion. ‘You’ve taken this Negro into your house, Mary? Do you really think that is suitable?’ “ Mama picked up a small cushion and fanned herself with it. “As if I need to be told by the ladies of this town what is fitting!”

  I realized that Mrs. Stover no longer came into the shop. Nor had the Baumanns contracted with us since before Papa left for the war. I recalled the day Mr. Schmidt berated Amos and refused to pay for what he said was rancid pork.

  “Then Frieda had the gall to say, ‘Some people in this town take this Negro-loving business too far.’”

  I drew in my breath. “What did you say to that?”

  “I told them that Amos was like a member of our family, and I would not suffer their vile insults any longer. Then I walked out. Liddy Pierpont was there and she looked like a tornado about to strike. Heaven knows what she said after I left, but I hope it flattened Frieda like a hot iron.”

  “Mama, I’m so proud of you,” I said. But I was wondering how many other customers had stopped doing business with us because of their prejudice against Amos.

  Suddenly Mama began to cry. “If only Albert were here! Lizzie, whatever shall we do now?”

  “We’ll do what’s right, Mama,” I said, sounding braver than I felt.

  A few days later, I asked Martin to come with me to Mr. Schmidt’s tavern.

  “What is our business with Mr. Schmidt today?” he asked when he brought the cart around. It pleased me the way he said “our business” as if he were proud to be working with us.

  “He owes us money,” I said. “I just need you to stand behind me while I do the talking.”

  “You don’t want me to rough him up?” Martin said with a hint of a smile.

  “Not unless he won’t pay,” I replied with a laugh. But I was nervous. I had no idea what I would say to Mr. Schmidt. When I came face-to-face with him, however, I found the words. I told him that we had, as always, the finest-quality meats in Gettysburg, expertly prepared by Mr. Amos Whitman, and that if he wished to continue receiving them, we expected a full settlement of his account. Then I handed him an invoice.

  Mr. Schmidt looked surprised. He turned to Martin, saying, “Eh, son?”

  Martin hooked his thumbs in his trouser pockets and nodded in my direction, indicating that Mr. Schmidt should address himself to me. Old Schmidt harrumphed and stomped away, coming back in a few minutes with a bank draft for twenty-two dollars.

  With shaking fingers, I wrote out a receipt. I felt like I’d won a battle without even firing a gun.

  “That was well done,” Martin said when we had left the tavern behind. His few words were enough to seal my small victory.

  I soon discovered that the prejudices of Mr. Schmidt and Frieda Baumann were not lost on Amos. One spring night he asked Mama to let him make the trip to South Carolina to free Grace.

  “You don’t need my permission, Amos,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am, but I wouldn’t leave if I thought you couldn’t manage. The livestock pens are all in good order, an’ the smokehouse is full. Martin’s a good worker; he’ll help you while I’m away.”

  Mama nodded. “If we need any slaughtering done, we can ask Matthias Schupp. And when you return, Amos, your job will be here waiting for you.”

  There was a long silence, while the sound of spring peepers filled the night air.

  “P’raps it would be best, given what folks in town is sayin’, if I … if Grace an’ I didn’t come back. If we went somewheres else.”

  A cry of protest escaped me.

  Mama said, in brief but certain words, “Amos, I am not one to heed the opinions of my ignorant neighbors.”

  Amos merely nodded and withdrew a map from his pocket and spread it on the table. With his finger he showed us the way he aimed to take.

  “I don’t think that’s wise,” said Mama. “I’ve heard that both armies are gathered here in northern Virginia. Richmond may soon be under attack.” Using a pencil, she sketched a route that would take Amos westward, then south through the Shenandoah Valley to the gap in the mountains near Roanoke. “You must keep clear of the armies around Richmond,” she cautioned.

  Looking at the map, I saw that Amos would travel through Virginia and North Carolina and well into South Carolina before reaching the red X that marked the plantation where Grace was kept. It was more than five hundred miles, all in rebel territory

  “You’re not going alone?” I had heard about free Negroes being seized by vigilantes and sold back into slavery.

  “I have my papers sayin’ I’m a free man, an’ I bought me a good fast piece o’ horseflesh,” he replied with confidence.

  “Amos, I just had a thought,” said Mama intently. “I know of a Massachusetts man who is an experienced scout. He was injured at Ball’s Bluff and has been recovering with an uncle here in town. He plans to reenlist, but I think he could be persuaded to a different kind of adventure. Shall I arrange for you to meet him?”

  Amos said he would be obliged to her.

  When Frederick Hartmann came to meet Amos a few days later, I thought I had never seen a man so dashing and handsome. He had light brown hair that fell to his shoulders in curls. His blue eyes twinkled as he twirled the ends of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. When I served him coffee after dinner, I couldn’t meet his eyes without blushing. Ben, however, wasn’t at all shy.

  “Can I see your scars, Mr. Hartmann?” he asked. “How did you get shot?”

  “Don’t be rude, Ben,” I murmured.

  Mr. Hartmann just laughed. He tugged his shirt aside so that we could see the purplish dent where a ball the size of a marble had torn through his shoulder. It made me a little queasy to look at it.

  “It was my own darn fault,” he said, leaning back and lighting hi
s pipe. “You see, one night a party of nervous scouts, green as spring twigs, reported a Confederate camp near Ball’s Bluff. So the next morning our raiding party crossed over the Potomac only to find out there wasn’t any camp, just a row of trees, their drooping branches looking like tents in the fog. Well there we were, with nothing to raid. So we poked around closer to Leesburg and ran into some rebels there.” He tapped his pipe, letting the burned tobacco flakes spill onto the step, then blew them away.

  “And then you were shot?” prompted Ben.

  “Not yet, son. They chased us back to the bluff, where we were trapped with our backs to the ravine and the Rebel army coming at us. We’d no idea there was so many of ‘em nearby. Men leaped off the cliff just to get away and others surrendered. I jumped into the river just as a minié ball hit me, but I kept swimming till a buddy fished me out and put me in an ambulance. Lots of men weren’t so lucky; they washed up downriver, near Washington, dead.” He shook his head sadly.

  “Why do you think it was your fault?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of my shyness.

  “Because if I had gone out with the scouts, I could have told a tent from a fir tree, and we never would have set out to raid a copse of trees! About half our men fell that day, nearly eight hundred casualties.”

  “Eight hundred men died?” asked Ben, wide-eyed.

  “No, son, casualties is killed, wounded, missing, or captured. They took five hundred prisoners alone.” He fell silent for a minute, then slapped his hands on his thighs. “Well, Miss Lizzie, how about another slice of that apple pie? I tell you, it’s the best I ever tasted.”

  In an hour, everything was settled. Mr. Hartmann would travel as a Carolina landholder, with Amos as his valet. Once they had freed Grace, she and Amos would pretend to be Hartmann’s slaves until they reached Pennsylvania again. Mr. Wills, a Gettysburg lawyer, had agreed to draw up the free papers for Grace and the false papers necessary for travel. The final matter was that of Mr. Hartmann’s fees.