Two Girls of Gettysburg Page 9

  “I too was in the wrong. But I don’t wish to dwell on that night.”

  “You have moved on, I see,” he said.

  “And you?” I ventured to ask. “Have you kept company with anyone while I was away?” I held my breath, waiting for his reply.

  “Yes,” he confessed. Jealousy twisted my insides. “But,” he went on, “your return has changed that.”

  “Indeed. How?” I prompted, but he offered no explanation. His hand brushed my hair and lingered there.

  “Rosanna, you are as beautiful as ever. May I kiss you?”

  “Please, John,” I said, closing my eyes as I felt his breath on my face. The touch of his lips, familiar even after two years’ absence, made the tears spring to my eyes, and through my head ran the thought: I am home, I am home, I am home.

  Rosanna

  Chapter 14

  July 25, 1862

  Carried on a current of passion, my life rushes headlong like water over slippery rocks. I can no more resist than the stream that flows in its fated course!

  Last night John and I met again at the park. The darkness made me bold and I ventured to kiss him deeply. He responded in kind before pulling back. He let out a low whistle.

  “You do tempt a man, Rosanna,” he said. “But we mustn’t take any risks this time.”

  “We were younger then. Can’t we trust each other now?” I said, wishing for him to draw me close again.

  “Yes, but your parents will never trust me again,” John said with a sigh.

  I was silent. Father and Mother still did not know everything. I never could bring myself to tell them about the stolen money, the gambling debts. It was bad enough that they believed John had seduced their innocent daughter.

  “What can I do to earn their regard?” he asked.

  I feared the answer was “nothing.” But that would not do. I fumbled for more hopeful words.

  “They expect a man to have … some ambition in life. They are quite patriotic, you know, as I am—as are we all—and they tend to look unfavorably on someone who is … not in uniform or doing something for the Southern cause.”

  “I’m just too dashed lazy, I guess. A fellow even tried to talk me into helping the Confederacy by smuggling goods past the blockade, but it seemed like too much work. You see, it’s not money I want, it’s—” He broke off, rubbing his hands through his hair in seeming frustration.

  “What is it you want?” I asked, my voice wavering between hope and fear.

  But John shook his head. “It is late. I’ll see you home before your father realizes you’re gone and sets the law on me.”

  We walked in silence to the corner where we had met. He held my face gently in his hands, and the light from a gas lamp illuminated his face, where a struggle was being played out. It was I who plunged forward, letting the current of emotion carry me.

  “John, I am going to tell Father and Mother that I love you. They cannot forbid me to see you.”

  “Not yet, Rosanna,” he replied with sudden intensity. “Let me call upon you tomorrow afternoon, and we will see if your parents turn me away.”

  With that he kissed me hard, leaving my lips numb, then turned and left. Now I am apprehensive about tomorrow. If I do not sleep now I will look pallid and unwholesome when he comes.

  July 26, 1862

  Today at three o’clock John Wilcox came to our door, wearing a fine gray uniform, a saber at his side. Mother and Father were present as he announced that he had enlisted in the First Regiment of the Virginia Infantry. We were all astonished. Even more so when John dropped to one knee and asked me to be his wife. Without a moment’s hesitation, I consented! Mother fluttered her hands in a gesture of helpless defeat, and I heard Father murmur to her, “The same regiment George Washington once commanded. That ought to make a man out of him.”

  Resplendent is not too strong a word to describe John’s appearance in his uniform. Truly there is something about it that grants him the status of a gentleman, though his family is not of the “old Richmond stock” that my parents value so highly. That he is a soldier is enough to persuade them of his good intentions and preclude mention of his past behavior.

  July 27, 1862

  I still cannot believe the words I say to myself: I am to marry John Wilcox!

  There is no time to prepare for a grand wedding. I will wear my best baize dress (which I had the foresight to bring with me), resewn with some of Mother’s lace, and the quaint bonnet that she wore when she wed Father. I do not think Margaret will regret missing the chance to create me a new gown. We shall be married in the drawing room, with only a few guests attending. It will be the 9th of August.

  I must write to Lizzie. She must be happy for my good fortune, my newfound joy!

  August 1, 1862

  John’s days are busy with military drills and routines, as his regiment is sure to be called to the front soon. Already we seldom see each other, and I am plagued with sudden doubts as I realize that I barely know this man who is to be my husband. What will he expect of a wife? Father has lectured me on obedience, and Mother speaks blushingly of vague “duties,” leaving me none the wiser, only apprehensive.

  August 5, 1862

  Today we went to a military review and watched soldiers march by with admirable precision, the sun glinting on their polished rifles. I swelled with pride to see John among them! We also glimpsed the president on his gray horse. Mr. Davis has a wide and noble brow, wavy hair, and a beard on the underside of his chin. “Richmond can never be taken!” was the defiant boast on every tongue, “Dixie,” the song on everyone’s lips. I felt my individual fears dissolve in the common stream of patriotic feeling. We are not alone in the struggle but borne along and upheld by the strength of others.

  August 10, 1862

  Yesterday I wed John Wilcox. I carried a jasmine bouquet whose fragrance filled the room. John looked splendid in his new uniform. He stood firm as a rock while I felt myself trembling with emotion. A few tears escaped me, but thankfully did not stain my dress. Luckily I did not stumble over my vows, though my heart stuck briefly at the minister’s words, “Wilt thou obey him and serve him?” But I said, “I will,” believing that John would never demand of me anything that I am unwilling to do.

  Then we clasped hands and faced forward together as husband and wife. We are making a new start and have promised to each other not to dwell on what is past, but to live blameless in the future.

  Later we celebrated in private the sweeter ceremonies of marriage. I blush to recall my confusion and shyness, and his tenderness that overcame them. I could happily grow accustomed to such “duties.”

  August 11, 1862

  John’s parents have given us a charming cottage that needs only some furniture to render it cozy and homelike. They also gave me a sleek sorrel mare for riding, named Dolly. They even offered to send one of their Negroes to cook for us! Startled, I thanked them but said we had no need at present, and they had the grace not to seem offended. Then there is the matter of John’s valet, Tom Banks. Without him, John can scarcely dress himself! I had thought that would become my duty, but John is quite particular about how his clothing is arranged. Only Tom’s way will please him.

  The truth is, I do not wish for us to keep slaves. Could this be Lizzie’s influence? Or am I afraid to associate with Negroes? Whatever the reason, I cannot see myself ordering someone to do my bidding. This is a matter John and I will have to discuss in the future.

  August 12, 1862

  Alas, I knew it would happen, but so soon? John’s regiment leaves in four days’ time. I am too distraught to write more today.

  August 13, 1862

  John and I are careful with what we say to each other, that we may have only pleasant memories of these first days of our marriage. Yet there is so much I long to know before we are separated again! In particular, John’s views about the war.

  So this morning I asked him, couching the question in a caress, “Why did you enlist so suddenly?�
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  “How else could I have proved my worth and convinced your parents to let me marry you?” he replied with a smile.

  “Don’t tease me, dear. Did you join because you were about to be conscripted?” I asked sweetly.

  “No, I did it for my love of you,” he said steadily.

  I did not want to hear that he had donned a uniform only for my sake. I hoped he was a man of deeper convictions.

  “And I want you to know that I am proud to have a husband fighting for states’ rights and defending Richmond,” I said, fixing him with a gaze that I hoped conveyed my devotion.

  “To be honest, Rosie,” John said, looking embarrassed, “I didn’t much consider the political aspects while enlisting. But I am trying to live a more honorable life, like a true gentleman would. Being a worthy husband to you is a matter of honor. And keeping the Yankees from meddling in our way of life is also a matter of honor.”

  He paused, regarding me carefully. “I don’t mean to offend you, for I know you have Yankee friends up in Pennsylvania, where they harbor runaways.”

  My first impulse was to deny that my so-called Yankee friends had any influence on me. But I thought of Lizzie pressing me to denounce slavery, and Mrs. Pierpont making us read Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Admittedly I had yearned for Eliza and her baby to reach safety in Ohio. To be free. Yet here I was, married to a man who owned slaves.

  “I do pity the Negro slave who is abused,” I conceded.

  “My family has never abused any of our Negroes.”

  “Oh, I know they would not,” I said in haste. “But surely many slaves are mistreated. My cousin Lizzie’s hired man used to be a slave. He is in South Carolina right now, buying his wife’s freedom with money he’s earned.”

  “Did I marry an abolitionist?” John asked. Although he did not sound angry, he was frowning.

  “No,” I said, “but neither have you married a simpering Richmond belle with no ideas of her own.” I tried to sound lighthearted, for there was nothing I wanted less than an argument, so soon before his departure.

  “You know that’s not what I expected in a wife,” he said, gently kissing me. “But neither do I want one of those bluestockings who defies her husband and goes around speaking up for women’s suffrage and against slavery and the churches.”

  “Why, I’m not that sort of woman at all!” I said with a laugh, and kissed him back. Of course I didn’t want him to regret marrying me.

  But the discovery that John holds such strong opinions unsettles me. Moreover, my own views about the war have grown so mixed and uncertain that it gives me some dismay. In the event of another argument on the subject, I would probably succumb.

  August 16, 1862

  John and I did not sleep at all last night, for we did not want to waste our final hours before his departure. We lay in each other’s arms, exchanging affections, whispering our love, and in the intervening silences storing up every sweet sensation and word. I felt like Juliet, not knowing when she will see her banished Romeo again. “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” she said to him, “that I shall say good night till it be morrow.” But kissing my John again and again did not prevent his going, for he at last pulled himself free and was gone.

  I wept loudly in my little house, for there was no one to hush me, and my crying echoed mournfully in the empty rooms.

  Lizzie

  Chapter 15

  It promised to be a long, dull summer after Rosanna left. The remainder of July was humid and stormy, mirroring the tumult in my own family. It took me a week to convince Mama that I had known nothing about Rosanna’s plan to run away, that she had deceived both Margaret and me. Mama explained to Margaret, who eventually believed me as well. Although I was angry with Rosanna, I hoped she would come back, like a sorry puppy with her tail between her legs, eager to be friends again.

  But Rosanna did not reappear, and it was not until August that I received a letter from her. She was sorry for the way she had left Gettysburg and asked me to forgive her. Then she went on to say that she was going to marry John Wilcox. I dropped the letter as if it were on fire. I could not believe what I was reading. I picked the letter up again, looked at the date, and realized that, in the time it had taken the letter to reach me, Rosanna had become Mrs. John Wilcox. I felt a stab of grief. My best friend was now lost to me, and it was my fault. By telling Rosanna that Henry Phelps did not love her, I had driven her into John Wilcox’s arms. And now she was asking me to rejoice in her newfound happiness! I couldn’t forgive her that much, not yet.

  The news that Rosanna had run off to marry a Confederate soldier made for fertile gossip among the Gettysburg ladies, who all disapproved of her behavior. Annie Baumann was offended that she had not known about “this Richmond fellow” and blamed me for not stopping my cousin. Others said it was Margaret’s fault for failing to control her sister. I could see that this gossip hurt Margaret, but she kept her head up and never discussed Rosanna in public. Privately, however, she complained to Mama that Rosanna was selfish and irresponsible, while Mama tried to soften her bitter mood by reminding Margaret of her own youthful romance. I wished Rosanna could see all the trouble and unhappiness her actions had caused us. She owed us all an apology.

  One person who didn’t agree, however, was Martin. He was unloading supplies from the cart and I was telling him how upset Mama and Margaret were at the news of Rosanna’s marriage.

  “I don’t understand women,” he said, lifting a bag of salt.

  “Well, they think that Rosanna has insulted everything we stand for by marrying a rebel soldier, a man her own parents disapprove of,” I explained, hefting a bag of salt and hurrying after him.

  “It’s nobody’s life but hers. Everyone ought to leave her alone,” Martin said.

  “Well, that sounds simple enough, but don’t you agree people should consider how their actions affect others?” I argued, not willing to let Rosanna off the hook so easily.

  “Well, yes. For instance, you there struggling with that load makes me look lazy,” Martin said. “Let me carry it.”

  “So you think I’m not strong enough?” I turned away, resisting him, then decided to tease him a bit. “It’s nobody’s bag but mine. Leave it alone!”

  Martin laughed, and just then I lost my grip and the bag fell directly on Martin’s foot. He yelped. Then we leaned over at the same moment and my head bumped his shoulder. He lost his balance and fell with his foot pinned under the bag, wrenching his ankle.

  “I’m sorry! Oh, I’m so clumsy!” I freed his foot and he tried to stand up, but I saw him grimace with the effort.

  “Give me your arm,” he said.

  I pulled him up and let him lean on me.

  “You need to come to our house and have Mama fix you up.”

  “Fetch some ice first,” he said through gritted teeth.

  I ran to the icehouse, hammered off a few chunks, and wrapped them in a cloth. Martin climbed into the cart and nestled the ice around his ankle as I drove home.

  Mama said she thought the ankle was only sprained, and she wrapped it up snugly. When she asked how it happened, Martin blamed himself.

  “That’s noble of you, Martin, but it was my fault. I dropped the load on his foot, Mama,” I said.

  “Well, then the least we can do is feed you,” Mama said. “Lizzie, take your guest to the parlor while I finish up supper.”

  Martin did not object. Hobbling into the parlor, he sat in an armchair, resting his foot on a stool. I sat across the room, my hands in my lap. I couldn’t think of anything to say. It was bad enough to have to look at Martin’s swollen foot and be reminded of my clumsiness, harder still to make conversation with him.

  “Pa was having me haul rocks from the field,” he said. “I won’t mind being off my feet for a few days.”

  Ben’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. He peeked in the parlor, then disappeared, and in a moment I heard him say, loud and clear, “Ma, does Lizzie have a fellow now? It’s about time.”
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br />   I saw Martin try to suppress a smile. My face grew hot, but I didn’t want to draw attention by fanning myself. From the kitchen came the clatter of dinnerware and the savory scents of bread and stew. Supper would be an awkward, painful meal. I was no longer even hungry.

  “If you want to help your ma, I’m fine here by myself,” Martin said.

  “She would send me right back,” I replied. “Does your foot hurt much?”

  Martin shook his head.

  A few more minutes ticked away on the parlor clock. I looked around the room as if I might discover some topic of conversation there.

  “Here’s a picture of Papa and Luke taken last Christmas,” I said, reaching for the photograph on the mantel and taking it to him.

  “It’s a good likeness,” he said, nodding.

  I sat back down, holding the photograph. I thought of the photograph I had given Rosanna for her scrapbook. Was it pasted there, between pictures of John Wilcox and Henry Phelps?

  “I had my photograph taken last year,” I said. “You have to sit very still.”

  Martin’s fingertips rested on the arms of his chair. Neither of us moved.

  “We could be having our photographs taken right now,” he said.

  We laughed and I felt my shoulders loosen. But we didn’t have anything more to say on the subject of photography. We listened to a conveyance creak along the street, growing louder as it approached. When it stopped in front of our house, I went to the window, eager for any diversion. A familiar figure was climbing down from a decrepit buggy

  “It’s Frederick Hartmann!” I cried, and ran to the door, nearly colliding with Mama. “And Amos is with him!”

  Then a woman stepped down from the buggy. She was a beauty, with skin and eyes black as jet and round, full lips. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She gazed directly at me, too, without smiling. It was Grace, Amos’s wife.