Two Girls of Gettysburg

by Lisa Klein

  “I just figured it was because you’re under eighteen,” I said. “Or because your mother refused to let you go.”

  “You’re right on both counts. But the real reason is that I don’t want to be a soldier.”

  “Why not? I thought all boys wanted a chance to shoot at the rebels. Even Ben wants to join the cavalry.”

  “Well, look what happened to Henry Phelps. And he wasn’t even fighting; he was carrying a stretcher.” Martin drew his eyebrows together. “I don’t believe in this war, Lizzie. Neither side can call themselves Christian. The South wants to keep men in slavery, and the North wants to crush them for it. And after a year of fighting, the slaves still aren’t free. Why, Amos has to go and fetch his own wife and pay for her freedom. That ain’t at all just.”

  Martin’s speech took me aback. I had rarely heard him say more than a few sentences in an entire day of working, let alone speak out about the war.

  I nodded eagerly. “Martin, I didn’t know you felt that way. I agree with you.”

  Martin looked embarrassed. He rubbed his hands on his thighs. We were both sitting on the clean floor, with damp patches drying up around us.

  “But not everybody does.” I sighed. “That’s why I’m afraid Amos might not return. He knows how people feel about him, and that it’s hurting our business.”

  “My mother doesn’t like Negroes,” Martin said. “But she’s never met Amos.”

  “My own cousin defends slavery,” I said, feeling my chest tense up. “I can hardly bear to listen to her.”

  “I bet you’re worried about her, going off down there.”

  I turned to Martin, frowning. “How did you know Rosanna left Gettysburg?”

  “I saw your brother. He told me.”

  “Well, I’m not going to worry about her.” I picked up the scrub brush and tossed it into the bucket. “She led me to believe she would stay here, then ran off to Richmond and made up a story blaming me. That’s not how you treat a friend.”

  “I’d be mad, too, if I were you,” Martin admitted. “But maybe she was just upset about Henry.”

  I thought of Rosanna crying because Henry Phelps might not have loved her.

  “No, my cousin only cares about herself,” I said bitterly. “So, she can take care of herself. I have my own troubles.” I picked up the bucket and broom and shoved them in the corner.

  Martin stood up, wiping his hands on his pants and looking uncertain.

  “Thank you for helping me clean this place,” I said, to show him I was not angry at him.

  “Well, I’ll be off to see about Mr. Beeman’s steers now,” he said, and with that he left.

  Alone in the shop again, my thoughts ran in bitter tracks. I wondered why Rosanna had gone to Richmond, and how she could have lied to me, her best friend. I told myself I did not care if I ever saw her again.

  Rosanna

  Chapter 13

  A History of the War

  My History During the War

  July 15, 1862 Richmond

  I have stolen away from Gettysburg undetected, boarding a train to freedom. I could no longer be happy there, though my sister treated me lovingly and Lizzie patiently listened to my troubles. One day they may forgive me and understand that not even kindness can cure grief.

  The car sways almost like a cradle and the wheels clack in a pleasing rhythm on the rails, but I am too excited to rest. I see the Blue Ridge Mountains marching by in a stately manner. Camps of white tents dot the fields like haystacks, and at every depot soldiers and supply wagons cluster. A handsome Johnnie in light brown pants tips his gray cap to me. I am going home!

  I hope Father and Mother will not be angry with me. I will say that I came home because I missed them and was concerned for their welfare. They would not understand my sorrow for Henry any more than they understood my feelings for John Wilcox.

  Alas, I have had to leave my scrapbook with all its contents at Margaret’s, taking pains to conceal it well. I did not wish to carry along the evidence of my weak and faithless nature. I shall endeavor to better honor Father and Mother and make amends for my past behavior.

  I did find my school notebook among my hastily packed things. Perhaps I shall keep a journal, as I no longer have Lizzie to confide in. So I have given the book a new title, My History During the War.

  July 16, 1862

  I needn’t have worried. Father and Mother were overjoyed to see me, having received an emergency telegraph from Aunt Mary and fearing bad news. Mother was dismayed that I did not bring Margaret and her children, and I felt a brief stab of guilt at deceiving my sister.

  Papa has a new job in the treasury department, a commission from President Jefferson Davis himself. It gave me a start to see the new Confederate banknotes and to realize that we are now citizens of a different country! Prices have soared shockingly, and the government responds by printing more money. Hard times are upon us, Father says, due to the Union blockade of our ports.

  Arriving in Richmond, the first thing I noticed was the presence of wounded and maimed soldiers, many hobbling on crutches. The sight makes me want to turn away. Every church is a hospital, and every other house shelters a recovering soldier. During the recent week-long battle, people rode out in carriages and carts to bring back the injured and dead. Even my parents took in a soldier, a young farm boy from Alabama. Fortunately his wound was as slight as my mother’s nursing skills, and he departed in good health just days before I arrived. But he lay bleeding in my very bed!

  Lizzie’s final words will not leave my mind. Perhaps Henry did not love me. He was not even mine to lose. He was his mother’s—his country’s—loss. What have I lost? Not life nor limb. Not even my heart, really, for that will heal, leaving only the memory of a wound. I think of Margaret, who is still herself despite losing a husband. I did not love Henry that deeply.

  July 18, 1862

  Now that I am in Richmond, my thoughts return again and again to John Wilcox. I dare not ask Mother for news of him. No doubt she believes I have forgotten him after two years. He cannot know I am in town, for I have not gone out except to telegraph Margaret of my arrival. Neither have we had visitors, for Father has a stomach complaint and Mother must tend to him constantly. I will try to persuade her to go to the shops with me tomorrow and see if there is anything to be bought.

  Perhaps I will hear some useful gossip as well.

  July 19, 1862

  Today’s outing revealed more of the startling changes in my home city. At the chemist’s, I gasped at the high prices for medicines, but we had to have the magnesia for Father and a supply of quinine pills. The apothecary gave us a list of medicinal plants to be found in the woods and fields. He warned that most drugs are likely to become even more scarce because of the blockade.

  A simple calico dress now costs ten times what it did before the war. Bonnets cannot be had, nor hoops, so wide skirts have fallen out of fashion. Coffee might as well be a rare Indian spice; Mother and Father allow themselves only a small cup on Sundays, diluted with chicory. They fear a shortage of wood and coal in the winter, not to mention food, now that the farms and fields around Richmond have been ravaged by both armies.

  In spite of these concerns, relief and hope prevail in the city because the Yankees have been driven back. Lincoln has called for more troops, proof that the South has gained the upper hand. Perhaps, Father says, the nations of Europe will now recognize the Confederacy as a nation and send weapons to hasten our victory. It is hard not to get caught up in the fervor and to feel my Virginia blood stirring with pride. Oh, the war is not about slavery, as Lizzie believes, but about our way of life and our right to pursue happiness!

  Alas, did not hear any gossip at all relating to the Wilcoxes.

  July 20, 1862

  Riding home from church in Father’s carriage, the scent of a fresh-baked peach pie from an open window reminded me of Aunt Mary’s kitchen. Lizzie’s honest face came to mind. Perhaps it was wrong of me to leave as I did. But it w
as necessary, for Lizzie would have done anything, even call out the constable, to keep me in Gettysburg.

  Mother has written a harsh letter to Margaret. I am afraid I let her believe that my sister neglected her duty to me. When the letter arrives, Margaret is sure to be upset. But she would have more cause if she knew how Richmond is suffering. To see this beautiful city illtreated by war, the surrounding fields torn up by battles, stirs up my Southern loyalties. The land of Pennsylvania is not trodden to mud by invaders, and the people do not fear their homes will be burned, as we do in Richmond.

  These days I wonder if it was some other girl who cheered at the rally in Gettysburg last year, stitched the Stars and Stripes, and wrote passionate letters to a Union soldier. This morning I whispered to the image in my mirror, “I doubt you ever really loved Henry Phelps,” and it did not contradict me.

  July 22, 1862

  “Everything happens for a purpose,” Mother said at breakfast, looking pleased to see me, then expressed her hope that Margaret would come home as well. Is it not enough that I am home? Seeing that I was sore at her, Mother invited me to stroll in the park with her and Mrs. Sullivan. We go now, so I shall write more later—

  Oh my prophetic mother! Her words at breakfast are the theme of this day!

  In the park I left Mother and Mrs. Sullivan discussing politics and wandered down to the pond. While I gazed over the calm water, feeling dull-spirited and wishing for some pleasant diversion, I heard whistling, and along came a dandy-looking gentleman. He wore a fawn-colored suit and brandished a walking cane, and when he came into the sunlight, I recognized him at once.

  “Is it John Wilcox?” I cried without thinking.

  He approached me, his head tilted to the side questioningly. I noticed that he was taller and, if possible, more handsome, with curly hair, a square jaw, and a bearing more manly than I remembered.

  “My dear Rosanna McGreevey,” he said with surprise and, I believe, some pleasure. He glanced around, as if to ascertain whether we were alone, before taking my hand and kissing it. My entire arm tingled, and I felt my heart begin to pound. I stepped back, suddenly shy.

  We exchanged a few pleasantries about the weather, which was nothing remarkable. Silence fell between us; only the sparrows twittered. The honeysuckle bushes sent up a warm, sweet odor that made me dizzy.

  “How long have you been in Richmond? Why did you not let me know?” he asked, a note of reproach in his voice.

  A faint breeze stirred the curls of John’s hair, making me long to touch them. I said that I was visiting my parents, but declined to reveal more.

  “It is not the best time to take a journey, given the recent hostilities,” he said, searching my face. “Ah, you must have come to see me as well.”

  I admitted I had been thinking about him. Oh, I am sure I blushed!

  With his hand he tilted my chin upward, ever so gently, and asked, “Why did you stop writing to me?”

  Feeling the tears collect in my eyes, I blinked to hold them back.

  “I was confused, John. After what happened between us, I didn’t believe you could love me or forgive me—”

  John suddenly let go of my chin and took a step backward. Mother was upon us, like an insect with its feelers erect, Mrs. Sullivan trailing after her. When Mother recognized John, she looked back and forth between us, suspicion and disapproval written on her face. John seemed ready to bolt, but I was loath to end our meeting while so many questions remained unanswered.

  “Mother,” I said, “Mr. Wilcox happened by this spot just moments ago on his way to an appointment. He wishes to call upon us tomorrow.”

  I sensed John start. Indeed, my daring surprised me, too. Mother hesitated, knowing that to refuse in front of her companion would make her look rude. With forced calm, she named four o’clock as the time. John bowed and took his leave.

  My triumph was short-lived, however, for once we were at home and Mrs. Sullivan had gone, Mother turned on me.

  “I don’t want you to see that Wilcox boy, and you know it.”

  “He is hardly a boy,” I said, indignant. “He is twenty-two. And I will be eighteen.”

  “When he calls, I will say you are indisposed.”

  “Please do not, Mother!” I resorted to pleading. “We have not seen each other in two years. We merely wish to have a conversation.”

  Mother gave a harrumph.

  “You still do not trust me,” I said, summoning hurt and a little defiance to my voice. “Well, then, take the matter to Father, and perhaps you two can send me away to Gettysburg again.”

  My words were cruel, but they did silence her. She glared at me before turning her back to me.

  In the wake of our argument, doubts surged again into my mind. I recalled how finely dressed John had been when I saw him. Was he on his way to meet a woman? Alas, who am I to be jealous? What if he does not come?

  And where will I find something suitable to wear?

  July 23, 1862

  I put on my prettiest day dress, a sprigged calico, and fixed my hair without Mother’s assistance so she would not see how my hands trembled. John arrived precisely on the hour, bearing a bouquet, which he presented to Mother. I thought well of his manners, but she was like a nut, hard to crack. Then, under her watchful eye, John and I sat at opposite ends of the parlor settee, unable to say anything of significance to one another, though we longed to. Instead we talked about blockade runners (their audacity) and the weather (its unpredictability). Mother tartly proclaimed her dislike of both. She asked John, rather sharply, “Are you furthering your education then?” She might as well have said, “Why are you not in uniform like all the other young men?” John admitted to being no scholar and sat tongue-tied after that. It was a most uncomfortable forty minutes.

  When I ushered him to the door, he murmured in a low and hasty voice, “I have not been able to stop thinking about you. May I call again?”

  My heart gave an excited lurch, and I whispered back, “Yes, but do not come here. I will meet you by the giant oak tree in the park tonight.”

  His eyebrows shot up. I realized how accustomed I have grown to the social freedoms of Gettysburg. In Richmond, a well-bred girl does not venture out on the streets unescorted—especially at night, and especially in these dangerous times. In neither place should young ladies make secret assignations! Nonetheless, I named an hour, and he nodded and was gone. Mother did not suspect a thing.

  I went to my room early, pleading a headache, and slipped out using the back stairs. The park was only a few blocks away, surrounded by black iron palings. The trees rustled their leaves like ladies do their silken skirts, and in the distance a nightingale called. Even before I reached the corner, John appeared and fell into step with me. The odor of his sandalwood cologne filled my nostrils.

  “I couldn’t let you walk alone,” he said, taking my arm with assurance.

  It was already a warm night, and his closeness made me flush until I had to open my fan and cool myself. I sought for some harmless topic of conversation and settled on that of his family. I knew that his father was involved in shipping enterprises and his mother was a society lady.

  “The blockade has cost my father dearly. Otherwise my parents are well, though some dastardly sickness has been plaguing our darkies lately.” He shook his head. “Such a lot of responsibility, like having a passel of children to look after.”

  My eyes grew wide to hear John Wilcox speak of his family’s slaves. They own a dozen Negroes, most of whom are house servants or work on the docks. John even has his own valet and is very fond of him. I thought of Lizzie, who is similarly fond of Amos. But she would probably dislike the Wilcoxes because they keep slaves.

  “Are your slaves happy, or do they clamor for freedom?” I asked.

  “What a strange question,” he replied. “They are not mistreated and have no reason to be discontented. Now tell me, Rosanna,” he said, changing the subject, “why did you come back to Richmond? You should not be ga
llivanting around during wartime.”

  I was afraid that he was scolding me, but I saw him smile. Since I had been in Gettysburg, he had grown a small, trim mustache, and his dark brown hair was longer, curling over his collar. Again I put off the desire to reach for it and decided to answer his question levelly.

  “A boy I had been writing to was killed in battle last month. I wanted to go away for a while.”

  We took several more steps before he said, “But you haven’t forgotten him?”

  I listened for a hint of jealousy in his tone, but his voice stayed neutral.

  “I didn’t forget you, not even after two years,” I replied, avoiding his question. I asked how he had been occupying himself, hoping to hear that he was no longer idle but engaged in some honorable activity.

  “I’ve been at my usual pursuits,” he replied lightly. “Riding and hunting. Some gaming in the evenings.”

  I tried to hide my disappointment at hearing that he still gambled. But who is drawn to a person only for his virtues? Is it not worthier to love someone despite his imperfections?

  As we strolled through the grounds, my hand on his arm, I told John about life in Gettysburg, my sister’s family, and my adventures with Lizzie. Then John and I came to a wooded grove within the park. We sat upon the trunk of a fallen oak tree. He was so near that his thigh pressed into my leg. I thought I should move away but did not want to, so remained touching him.

  “Did you love … this soldier who died?” asked John.

  The darkness made it easier to be truthful.

  “I don’t think I did. Not like—” I took a breath and let it out in a rush. “Not like I loved you.” I was surprised to hear the tone of accusation in my words.

  John spoke with difficulty. “I cannot forget that night, Rosanna. I have always regretted … my mistake in putting you in such a position. I wish you could forgive me.”