Two Girls of Gettysburg

by Lisa Klein

  Lizzie

  Chapter 19

  From June until September Papa and Luke’s regiment was on the move, skirmishing with the rebels and falling back toward Washington. Papa wrote only a single short letter, sounding weary and discouraged. Hoping to cheer him up, I wrote back that Amos had returned safely. I didn’t mention that Rosanna had run away and married a rebel.

  Then we were all startled by reports of two battles fought not twenty miles from the Pennsylvania state line. Our reserves battled at South Mountain in Maryland, and three men in the regiment were killed. A few days later, they fought again. I read in the newspapers that it had been the bloodiest day in the history of the war that September 17, when almost five thousand men were killed and nearly twenty thousand wounded at Antietam Creek. Mama checked the casualty lists at the telegraph office at least twice a day. Mrs. Pierpont’s son was among the wounded, but Luke and Papa’s names never appeared. Despite my relief, I was afraid that their luck would soon run out. But at least the rebels had withdrawn from Maryland, for that meant they would not be bringing war into Pennsylvania, to be fought in our fields and towns.

  Meanwhile Amos had returned to work at the shop, and Margaret hired Grace to look after Jack and Clara. Martin’s sprained ankle healed quickly, but then Mama reduced his working hours to save money. The shop felt like an unsteady boat that a big wave might capsize, sending us all to the poorhouse. I couldn’t let that happen. All summer, I had been thinking about what to do if Amos didn’t come back—and what to do if he did. With winter and butchering season coming on, it was time to present my plan to Mama.

  But unbeknownst to me, Mama had her own plan. In October, she sat Amos and me down and announced that we would form a partnership with the York butcher. It was a terrible idea, and I could barely contain myself.

  “I’m afraid I don’t agree, Mother,” I said. “I don’t like working with Mr. Schupp. He’s too busy to consider our interests.”

  “Mr. Schupp supplies a good deal of salt beef and pork to the army. It would be to our advantage to share in those profits,” Mama said, sounding determined. “Especially as the war is likely to continue through another winter.”

  “I still don’t think that is the best course,” I insisted. “Papa wrote how much the men hate salted beef, especially when they can easily get fresh meat. As for salt pork, Cincinnati ships it by the ton, and cheaply, too. We can’t possibly sell it at a lower price.”

  Mother raised her eyebrows, but did not interrupt me. Amos regarded me thoughtfully. I continued laying out my plan, piece by piece.

  “When Martin’s neighbor, Mr. Trostle, came to the shop the other day, I heard him say that farmers are afraid that their cattle and hogs will be stolen in the night by Confederate raiders. Or else our government will take them to feed the soldiers. As long as the war continues, no one’s livestock is secure.”

  “And what is your point, Lizzie?” Mama asked.

  “People are worried about losing what they have and not being able to feed themselves. I predict that farmers will want their hogs and cattle butchered early and stocked safely in their larders rather than being left to an uncertain fate. So why not offer them custom meatpacking and preserving? We could do especially well curing hams and smoking beef, if we extend the cellar beneath the shop and build another smokehouse in the back.”

  “How can we possibly afford all that!” Mama exclaimed. It was not even a question.

  “We would need a bank loan,” I admitted. “But even with those expenses, I’ve figured out how we can make a profit sooner than you might think.”

  I handed Mama a sheet of figures and she examined it, lines of worry showing around her eyes.

  “What do you think, Amos?” she asked.

  “I ‘gree,” he said. “A ham in the cellar is safer than a hog in the pen. Miz Lizzie’s plan sounds like a right smart one.”

  Eventually Mama was won over. She visited the banker, and soon Amos began digging a cellar with shelves for curing meat. We hired Martin full time and raised his salary from eighty cents to a dollar a day. Ben skipped some school to wait on customers in the shop, and I helped him with his missed lessons in the evening. I ordered the large quantities of salt, sugar, and powdered nitrate we would need for curing the meat. Mama looked worried as the invoices piled up.

  “Sometimes you have to spend money to make money,” I said as if I knew what I was talking about.

  I took out advertisements in the Sentinel and Compiler. Finally, I decided we needed a new sign for the shop. Full of pride, I showed Mama my sketch:

  ALLBAUER’S CLASSIC AND CUSTOM MEATS

  Albert Allbauer, Owner. M. and E. Allbauer, Proprietors

  Amos Whitman, Master Butcher

  “The M and E stand for us, Mary and Elizabeth, of course,” I explained.

  Mama clapped her hands together. “Why, Lizzie, it’s so … bold, but … yes! We will do it.”

  Soon the orders started coming in, and I was as pleased as I could be. Mama had convinced every woman in the Ladies Aid Society that a ham would make a lovely Christmas present to send to a soldier. I noticed her face had more color and the hollows under her eyes were not so dark.

  “I’m glad you’ve been healthy, Mama,” I said one night as we were peeling apples for pie.

  She put down her knife and grew reflective.

  “You know, Lizzie, before the war, I let all the cares of running the household and caring for you children overwhelm me to the point of illness. Life is even harder now, but it is also simpler. Nothing matters but that we are all alive and well.”

  “I’ve been so afraid that you would get sick again and I wouldn’t be able to manage,” I said in a rush.

  “I’m not worried about that at all. You are quite capable, Lizzie.” She looked at me and here eyes were misty. “You are also strong, here.” She tapped my breastbone. “And that gives me courage, too.”

  I was stunned to think that my mother was inspired by some quality in me that I was not even aware of. Was it enough to make others admire me too? Were boys drawn to girls with inner strength? I wished I were beautiful and charming but decided that being strong would have to suffice.

  So I was pleasantly startled one October afternoon when I was intent upon the accounts and heard a familiar voice say, “Good day, my dear Miss Allbauer. You are the picture of prettiness.”

  I looked up and straight into the clear blue eyes of Frederick Hartmann. I hadn’t seen him since the day Amos came home with Grace. He swept his hat before him and bowed in an extravagant manner. I was suddenly aware of my old dress and ink-stained hands.

  “What, not a word of welcome for your hero?”

  I blushed all the way to the roots of my hair. Fortunately Amos came in, sparing me a reply. He was spattered with grayish mud, for he and Martin had been putting mortar on the chimney of the new smokehouse. Mr. Hartmann clapped Amos on the back.

  “Congratulations, man! Master butcher Amos Whitman.”

  “That was Miz Lizzie’s idea,” said Amos, but I could see he was proud.

  “Won’t you … c-come by the house? To see Mama and Grace,” I stammered. Although Mr. Hartmann had shaved off his beard and trimmed his long hair, he was still the handsomest man I’d ever spoken to.

  Mr. Hartmann said he’d be honored, and his visit turned into a dinner party. Mama put on her Sunday best and allowed me to wear her lace shawl. I rubbed my skin with lemon verbena, hoping to overcome the smell of woodsmoke and brine that always clung to me. Margaret came, bringing Jack and Clara in their little uniforms. She wore a dark blue baize dress that matched her eyes and made her look as lovely as Rosanna. The thought of my cousin was like a sudden sharp pain.

  “Have you any news of Rosanna?” Mama asked her.

  “She does not write to me,” said Margaret with a dismissive wave. “I did hear from Mother and Father that her husband received some slight wound, whereupon she up and left Richmond to follow his regiment.”

&
nbsp; I put my hand to my mouth and gasped. Then I tried to picture Rosanna living in a tent with John Wilcox and marching with the soldiers, but I couldn’t do it. My cousin seemed as remote and mysterious to me as the moon. I thought of Rosanna’s scrapbook hidden beneath us, in the cellar. How much her secrets, if known, would add to everyone’s distress!

  “Let’s not talk about my sister tonight. I intend to have a gay time!” said Margaret, flashing a charming smile as she held out her gloved hand to Mr. Hartmann.

  Grace had insisted on cooking dinner for Mr. Hartmann. She wore a red scarf wrapped around her head as she chopped and stirred and baked, then dished up a pork loin, steaming cornbread, and plum pie. Mr. Hartmann had brought a bottle of wine for the grown-ups. He even poured me a glass. I sipped it slowly, and it stung my throat.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever been waited on at my own table!” exclaimed Mama, slightly flushed from the wine. “I feel like a grand lady.”

  I was afraid that Grace would take offense, but she didn’t seem to notice Mama’s comment. I took an empty platter and set it next to mine, then slid down the bench, wordlessly inviting Grace to eat with us.

  “Hey, watch your elbow!” Ben said as I bumped him.

  Grace sat down at the empty place as if she had intended to do so all along.

  Everyone was eager to discuss the news of President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, which would soon free the slaves in the South.

  In his usual blunt way, Ben said to Amos, “So you traveled all the way to South Carolina and paid that heap of money to free Grace, and if you had only waited a few months, President Lincoln would have freed her and you’d still have your money!”

  “I’d do the very same thing again today. Money ain’t everything, young man,” he said.

  A gentle look passed between him and Grace, who said, “Moses had a devil of a time freein’ his people from the pharoah.” Her voice reminded me of flowing cream.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, curious but hesitant.

  “I mean it ain’t goin to be easy for President Lincoln. Where he goin’ to get the power to free slaves in the states where he ain’t even the president?”

  “But he wouldn’t make a promise he couldn’t keep,” I protested. “Doesn’t he have some way to enforce the new law?”

  “No doubt he hopes that it will make the slaves rise up,” Mr. Hartmann said. “Southern masters have always feared rebellion.”

  Amos shook his head. “All Negroes know they be hanged or shot for takin’ up arms ’gainst their mastuhs. So most be too ’fraid to rise up.”

  “But they could help the Union win the war,” I offered.

  “Miz Lizzie, you an’ I know there’s lots o’ folk in the North, even here in this town, who don’t want to fight jus’ to free a passel o’ slaves. They only wants to teach the rebels a lesson.”

  His point made me think. Would Northerners turn against Lincoln because of his proclamation? Then Mama asked where the Negroes would go, when they were all freed at once, and what I thought was simple good news had become a messy, complicated issue.

  “I think President Lincoln is a great man and a brave one for taking a stand on freedom,” said Margaret, always idealistic.

  “Amen to that,” replied Amos. “Freedom is God’s blessin’ but it don’t always come easy.”

  Then Margaret asked Mr. Hartmann what had brought him back to Gettysburg.

  “I’m on my way to join a cavalry regiment being recruited in Philadelphia. But the female company here is so charming, I just may change my mind and stay.”

  “Why did you shave off your grand mustache, sir?” Had that question really come out of my own mouth? It must have been the wine that made me so flirtatious.

  “Well, more than once I’ve been mistaken for that rebel dandy, General George Pickett. Rather than let myself be captured or shot, I decided it best to alter my appearance,” he said, winking at me. Under his gaze my neck started to prickle again.

  When dinner was over and we left the table to gather in the parlor, Margaret took Mr. Hartmann’s arm and steered him toward the settee so expertly that I was jealous.

  “Won’t you oblige us with the story of how you rescued our dear Grace?” she asked.

  “Well, that’s rightly Mr. Amos’s story,” replied Mr. Hartmann.

  Everyone found a seat and Amos set down his pipe and began the story with their arrival at the plantation. He described a dark place overhung with moss-covered oak trees and an air of misery.

  “Mistuh Johnston came to the door, lookin’ like some wild-haired madman, his wife hidin’ behind him. He denied knowin’ me, though I could see he reco’nized me. I reminded him of our deal three years back. He said Grace were no longer alive, which about killed me to hear. But Mistuh Frederick demanded of Mrs. Johnston whether Grace were there. She nodded, her eyes round as marbles in her head. The old man cursed her, then started complainin’ to us how hard times were. But I didn’t fancy listenin’ to his problems. I jus’ held out my money, one thousand dollars like we agreed upon. Federal dollars, not that worthless Confederate paper. But Johnston said, ‘That gal ain’t for sale no more. I got another one you kin buy instead.’ I said, ‘I’m only here fer Grace, and I ain’t leavin’ till she’s mine.’”

  Amos paused. I could see the emotion rising up in him. Mr. Hartmann took over the story.

  “So I thought I’d put some fear into the old fleshmonger. I said to him, ‘The war ain’t going so well for your side, now, is it? Can’t sell your cotton, can’t come up with enough men or bullets. President Lincoln will free every blessed slave you own, and you won’t get a dime for any of them. You’d best sell now while you can.’”

  “What a clever gamble that was!” said Margaret.

  “Well, the tough old devil replied that her price had gone up an extra five hundred dollars. Amos pulled out his purse again, but I grabbed it before Johnston could and growled, ‘A deal’s a deal. Bring out his wife now.’ Then Johnston turned like he was about to run off, so I grabbed his collar with one hand and held up my pistol in the other and cocked it.”

  I heard Margaret draw in her breath. Mama was fanning herself rapidly. Mr. Hartmann smiled, enjoying the effect of his story.

  “Well? What happened next, Amos?” I demanded.

  “The mistress screamed and Johnston shouted for his manservant but no one came. Mistuh Frederick said, ‘I’ll shoot yer husband ‘less you bring out the girl by the time I count to twenty.’ She moved fast for an old lady, an’ by the time he got to ten, Grace was in my arms, where she’s stayin’.”

  Amos held out his arm and Grace came to him, resting her red-turbaned head on his chest while he finished the tale.

  “Mistuh Frederick counted out the money we first ’greed upon an’ made Johnston sign the papers. Then he said to Mrs. Johnston, most politely, ‘I’m sorry to have to frighten you, ma’am. I know how much cotton costs these days. Buy yourself a new frock.’ An’ he took fifty dollars from his own pocket an’ gave it to her, an’ you could see her jaw drop to her chest, but she pulled it up again an’ took the money with a smile like he jus’ handed her a bouquet of roses.”

  Margaret and Mama laughed and clapped with delight. But a different feeling welled up in me, a deep appreciation for the sacrifices of Mr. Hartmann and Amos. Amos had spent every dollar he owned to redeem Grace from slavery, risking his own freedom to bring about hers. And Frederick Hartmann had put his own life and reputation on the line to aid them. I suddenly longed to do a brave and selfless act that would change someone’s life. Mama said I had inner strength. But could I summon enough courage to undergo danger on another person’s behalf? I wanted to thank Mr. Hartmann for his bravery, but as I started toward him, Margaret came between us, murmuring and dabbing at her eyes with a piece of lace. Mr. Hartmann fixed his eyes on her loveliness, and I, timid and plain, walked right past them, out of the drawing room and into the night.

  But in the streets was an ev
en greater commotion, as people ran around in a panic, calling for the militia and shouting that the rebels were coming to Gettysburg.

  Rosanna

  Chapter 20

  October 15, 1862 Winchester, Virginia

  We have been camped here for several weeks. Mary Ward and I share half of a run-down cabin, while Mrs. Throckmorton occupies the other room. Mrs. Gordon, enjoying the privileges of rank, lodges with her husband. General Lee is reorganizing his army, and new recruits arrive daily to build up the decimated ranks.

  John’s recovery is almost complete, the site of his wound a smooth indentation. His arm is still weak, but he has resumed drilling with his regiment. I showed Tom how to care for the shoulder by kneading it and applying a cold, damp cloth to ease the soreness and swelling. Sadly, we lost three men this week: Doone, from a blood infection following an amputation; Billings, who never regained consciousness after last month’s battle; and Smith, from unchecked gangrene.

  How constantly aware I am of the perilous nature of life! With the speed of an eye blinking, a bullet can shatter the body. In secret, infected blood can course through the veins, bringing unexpected death. It takes but a single step, a mere breath, to cross the threshold between life and death.

  October 18, 1862

  Frost glimmered on the grass this morning, vanishing within a few hours. I dread winter and doubt whether I am hardy enough to endure it under such rough conditions.

  My wardrobe has been in need of some attention. The hems of my skirts were in ruins from tripping in the mud, so I cut them off and took out the fullness to make a more practical dress that falls just below the knee. I bought a sturdy pair of shoes from the sutler, whose tent is a veritable general store, and some cloth, which I made into a pair of long pantaloons to wear underneath my skirt for warmth and modesty. The first time I wore them, Dr. Walker criticized my “abominable dress,” but I simply went about my work and he said nothing more.

  October 19, 1862