Two Girls of Gettysburg

by Lisa Klein

  Then Martin drove up in the cart and called out, “We have a delivery to make today. Let’s go. It won’t take long.”

  “I don’t recall scheduling anything for today,” I said, climbing reluctantly onto the seat beside him.

  Martin hollered to Ben, “Toss that sled in the back and climb in yourself!”

  The three of us set out, heading down Taneytown Road. A ridge of white hills marked with vertical black trees rose to our right. We stopped at the Hummelbaughs, and it took Martin, with Ben’s help, all of five minutes to unload the cart and collect payment.

  “This could have waited until tomorrow,” I said.

  “But now it’s done and we can have some fun. Ben, want to try out a good sledding hill?”

  “Of course. That’s why I came!”

  “Lizzie?” asked Martin.

  I nodded, not wanting to spoil the fun.

  Martin drove on until we came to a two-story stone farmhouse that sat at an angle to the road and near an even larger barn made of stone and wood. Behind the house and barn rose the ridge we had been following all the way from town. Two hills marked the endpoint of the ridge, sloping together in the middle like a snow-covered saddle.

  “This is a nice farm. Who lives here?” I asked.

  “I do,” Martin said with pride. Seeing the direction of my gaze, he added, “We call those hills Little Round Top, behind the house, and Big Round Top, to the south. Good for hunting rabbits and deer.”

  “But not for sledding,” said Ben, sounding disappointed as he looked at the thickly wooded hills.

  “Just wait,” said Martin. He jumped down from the cart and went into the house, returning with a jug of hot cider. We backtracked a short way, then tethered the horse to a tree, and Martin showed us a path that led through the woods and up the smaller hill. We skirted the hilltop, Ben dragging his sled through the brush, until we came around to the west side of the hill, which was lit by the afternoon sun. Above us, the hill was studded with huge boulders, but the lower slope had been cleared of trees, and icy paths snaked between the remaining stumps. Screaming, a boy whizzed past on a strip of oilcloth and two others slid downhill on a long plank slicked with tallow.

  “My cousins,” Martin said. They were delighted to see Ben and his sled, and soon the four boys were taking turns shooting down the hill and into the air after skimming the top of a flat rock.

  “Come back up. It’s our turn now!” called Martin. The way he said “it’s our turn,” as if we were together in this, made me suddenly shy.

  “It’s so steep. I know I’ll get hurt,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Come on, you’ll be fine. I’ll steer,” he said, taking my hand. Even through the layers of our gloves, I felt his touch. It was both compelling and reassuring. I nodded, and he sat down on the sled. Somewhat clumsily I sat behind him, crossed my legs, and laid my hands on his shoulders.

  “You’d better hold tighter than that or I’ll lose you for sure,” he said. I barely had time to grab his waist before we were sliding, picking up speed, and I was screaming into the back of his coat. Martin leaned from side to side as we hurtled downhill, throwing up sprays of snow. At the bottom of the hill we took a tumble and rolled in the wet snow.

  “That was so much fun. Let’s go again!” I said, laughing. By the third time I was feeling reckless. “Over the flat rock this time!” I cried, and Martin guided the sled so that it skimmed the surface of the rock and hovered in the air for an instant before hitting the ground. Next I went alone and guided the sled down the icy course without crashing. It was a thrilling adventure.

  Then one of Martin’s cousins hit his head on a tree stump and we all realized our fingers and toes were numb. We drank up the rest of the cider, which had cooled, and went back to where the horse and cart were hitched to a tree. Martin and his cousins went back to his house, while Ben and I drove home in the cart, cold and tired. I ached all over and my wrist throbbed, though I didn’t remember spraining it. But it seemed a small price to pay for such fun. I recalled how Martin and I had brushed snow from each other. How broad and strong his back was. How we had laughed together, our breath condensing in the air. His face was full of light and his whole person seemed changed when he smiled at me there on that snowy hillside.

  I decided I was ready to have a beau, and Martin Weigel would do just fine.

  Rosanna

  Chapter 22

  1863

  January 1, 1863 Camp Petersburg, Virginia

  We have turned the page to a new year. And here the conviction grows that in 1863, the tide of war will turn and a Southern victory be sealed. Winning Fredericksburg brought a store of hope and good spirits that lasted through Christmas, a festive occasion despite the cold and snow. The townspeople supplied brandy and cakes for the men, while Mrs. Throckmorton and I baked pies. I gave John a worsted shirt that I sewed by hand, a flawed but worthy effort. His present to me was a heart pendant fashioned out of melted lead, which I wear around my neck, close to my heart.

  A storm last night buried the camp under two feet of snow. This morning the men engaged in a snowball fight of such intensity that it resulted in several minor cuts and sprains, which kept me busy most of the day.

  January 6, 1863 Richmond

  At our staff meeting, Dr. Walker noted my “growing competence in nursing” (his precise words!) and asked me to visit the hospitals in Richmond on his behalf. The city is only twenty-five miles from Camp Petersburg. Excited by the prospect of touring the newest hospitals in the country, I readily agreed. Besides, I feel a duty to visit my parents, and I do long for the comforts of home.

  Arrived on the 4th to find Mother and Father quite disconsolate, for Margaret had decided it was too dangerous to travel at Christmas. Father said they would have slain the fatted calf for me, if there were any calves left in the city, which is more deprived than ever before. Poor Father hardly suspects how apt was his joke; indeed I am his prodigal daughter, unable to confess my wrongdoing.

  January 7, 1863 Richmond

  Mother fusses and frets over me until I want to scream. She says I should eat more, that my hair looks dull and my skin rough. Am I really losing all my looks? I know that cultivating beauty does not matter, and is hardly even possible, while living in a military camp. But nonetheless I have no wish to look like an old wife. Father took my side, saying I have never looked healthier, though I wonder about his judgment. He looks, if possible, more frail.

  I have sent inquiries to several hospitals hoping for news of Mary Ward.

  I miss John. We have been apart four days now.

  January 8, 1863 Richmond

  Wearing a fresh dress, Mother’s good cloak, and fine shoes, I visited Chimborazo Hospital today. With Dr. Walker’s letter of introduction in hand, I was given a personal tour by the matron, Mrs. Phoebe Pember. Compared to our field hospitals, Chimborazo is a modern wonder, with its heated cabins of whitewashed pine and the rows upon rows of medicine bottles on neat shelves. The wards have actual beds and the nurses wear starched white aprons. There is a central bakery from which fresh bread is distributed daily. Each division has its own laundry, kitchen, and bathhouse. The sick and wounded receive superior care; only one in five men dies, Mrs. Pember informed me. We discussed improvements I would like to institute in the field. Mrs. Pember observed that clean bandages and instruments seem to reduce the likelihood of infection, so washing them is desirable, but admittedly not always practical. I also learned that in certain cases, gangrene is less likely to spread once the skin is cut away. Why this should be interests me greatly.

  In the evening I visited Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox, who have been consumed with worry for their son. Sparing them the more frightening details of John’s injuries and illness, I assured them that he was well. Their household, including the Negroes, seems content and serene despite the upheavals of war. John’s parents were generous to a fault, bestowing gifts and money (over my protests), and demonstrating affection. How happy they will be whe
n we give them grandchildren, after the war!

  January 10, 1863 Richmond

  I received a reply to my inquiries about Mary Ward, a letter stating that she was treated at Bellevue Hospital and released on December 29. There was no address listed, so I cannot hope to reach her, but at least she is alive and well. Today I return to Camp Petersburg.

  February 1, 1863 Richmond

  My purpose in visiting Richmond this time is to collect medical supplies and items for the soldiers. Our neighbors have given several dozen books from their libraries and the congregations have also been generous. Now there will be no lack of books for the soldiers to read (even if half of them are Bibles). People have donated precious bottles of quinine and iodine, and the Wilcoxes’ largesse and my own salary enabled me to purchase ipecac and sulfates.

  All of Richmond is angry about Mr. Lincoln’s proclamation concerning the slaves. President Davis said it proves that the North has always intended to abolish slavery and thereby ruin the South. In Richmond, Father informed me, almost half of those who work in the factories, ironworks, and mills are slaves, hired out by their owners. Even the hospitals, I have observed, depend on the labor of Negroes. If they went free, the Confederacy and its economy would collapse. I wondered aloud whether the Negro should be forced to support a system that denies him freedom. At this my father became so agitated I was afraid his heart would fail him.

  By declaring the Negroes emancipated, President Lincoln has waved a red flag before a bull. The South cannot help but charge it. Any hope of a truce or compromise grows faint. I fear a terrible and decisive confrontation is inevitable, and I hope to be far from that field of death.

  Mother gave me two petticoats she sewed from bedsheets after she saw how ripped and stained my old ones were. I have clean, fresh underwear for John, too. He will be so grateful.

  February 4, 1863 Richmond

  Today while I was departing for Camp Petersburg, Mother tried again to dissuade me, this time summoning the authority of Richmond society!

  “Mrs. Sullivan and the ladies simply do not approve of what you are doing. It is difficult for me, too,” she fretted. “Why not stay home and attend the sick in a decent hospital here in the city?”

  “Tell Mrs. Sullivan,” I said, choosing my words with care, “that our country desperately needs nurses in the field. Attending the sick, the wounded, and dying there is a duty and a calling of which my husband approves.” There! I had cited the authority of my husband and my country.

  “But how can you live in a cold tent with no privacy?” replied Mother, her mind on simpler matters. “And in the company of so many rude men?”

  I explained that I shared a room in the camp headquarters with a stove and a good matronly woman and that I kept company with General Gordon’s wife (a detail I thought would impress the Richmond ladies). Before Mother could summon any more objections, I said a firm farewell. But as I passed through the parlor with my valise in hand, I noticed a letter on the table and, recognizing Margaret’s writing, touched it longingly.

  Mother urged me to read it, making me suspect she had planted it there to waylay me. Dated Christmas Day, the letter described their holiday dinner, their gifts, the children’s cleverness, and the weather. Margaret also wrote of her feelings for a cavalry officer, one Captain Hartmann. So my sister had a new beau! I wondered if he was handsome. Was he much older? Her letter didn’t say, but its closing made tears spring into my eyes, and I seemed to hear her voice, exasperated but affectionate: “Though I know not where my sister is, nor if she be well, I pray for her safety and happiness daily.”

  On the table next to the letter was a framed picture of my sister with Jack and Clara, who had on their little matching uniforms.

  “Margaret sent that to me at Christmas,” Mother said, handing it to me. “But you may have it.”

  “I have nowhere to put it to keep it from breaking,” I said, setting it down again. Oh, I wanted the photograph and would have treasured it. But their dear faces rebuked my selfishness. And Margaret had not meant it for me.

  Once outside, having closed the door behind me, I gave way to sobbing.

  February 10, 1863 Camp Petersburg

  I believe John is keeping his word not to gamble, even though he is often in the company of Hiram Watt. I overhead a conversation between them in which Hiram was holding forth about the “natural inferiority” of the “rebellious Negro,” while John did not contradict him. I can no longer postpone a discussion of this sensitive matter, namely John’s views on slavery. If only I knew how to broach the subject without provoking a quarrel.

  February 13, 1863

  Today while we were taking a walk, the opportunity presented itself.

  John mentioned something Tom had done for him, and I said, “Your valet is a man of virtue and intelligence. I am becoming fond of him.”

  “Yes, he is,” agreed John, taking my arm to help me over a log in the path.

  “I hope you do not hold the opinion that Negroes are our inferiors,” I said mildly. “For I don’t agree with those who say that they must be subjugated for their good and for our safety. Can you imagine Tom raising his hand against any person without just cause?”

  “He would not, for he is a loyal family retainer. But he is exceptional among Negroes,” John replied, not granting me any ground yet.

  “Indeed, you treat him as kindly as if he were your brother, to your great credit.”

  “Yes, he is like one of the family,” said John nodding, justly pleased with himself.

  “Shouldn’t your brother have the same freedom that you enjoy?”

  John pursed his lips. “Tom does not desire his freedom.”

  I pulled my cloak tightly around me as the wind picked up. “How do you know? Have you asked him?”

  “No. What would he do with it?” John was growing irritated at my questioning, but having brought the matter this far, I could not be silent until it was settled.

  “Why, the same thing that you do. Make choices and act upon them.”

  “But he would simply choose what I wanted, for that is what he has always done.”

  “That is no reason he must continue to do so.” I met each of his denials with gentleness, hoping to make him relent.

  “Darn you, Rosanna,” he said, running his hands through his hair until it stood wildly on end. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to cross your husband so often? I will have things my way!”

  “John, this is not about you and me—”

  “Of course it is!”

  “No, it is about Tom and his right to freedom.”

  “When I die, he will belong to you and you can do what you want with him!”

  “Don’t talk like that, please,” I said, touching his lips. “I am sorry if I angered you,” he said.

  He took several deep breaths that condensed in the air between us. “I forgive you,” he said.

  “John, I do not want us to own slaves. When the war is over, will you grant Tom his freedom?”

  John raised his head and looked up into the bare trees. A lone red cardinal perched there, repeating its song. In the distance, tin mess-ware clanged, signaling mealtime.

  “Rosanna, what did I do to deserve you?” I don’t know what he meant by the question, but at least he managed to smile at me. “Upon my death, or at the end of the war, whichever comes first, Tom shall be free, as you wish.”

  “Not because I wish it, but because it is right,” I whispered, feeling no triumph, only gratitude.

  “It may be,” he said, and turning around, he retraced the path to camp, seemingly deep in thought. I followed in silence.

  February 27, 1863 Camp Petersburg

  I am thoroughly sick of camp life and all its discomforts. Above all the lack of cleanliness disgusts me. One who has not been in a camp cannot imagine the smell of a barracks full of men who have not bathed in months. John is a little less revolting because I launder his clothes, and our patients are lucky in that they are kept a
s clean as can be, under the circumstances.

  As for myself, I have not bathed since I was in Richmond over three weeks ago! I am wearing all my clothes in order to stay warm. My hair is flat and shiny with oil. I am ashamed for my own husband to see me. Surely none of my friends in Gettysburg would recognize me in such a state. Lizzie and I once joked that I could not survive a single day in camp; well, it has been nearly six months! And for the last five weeks we have had to melt snow to drink because the stream was fouled from the camp latrines.

  But I have chosen this course and will persevere. Now I am able to treat wounds of all sorts and even set simple fractures. I know how to treat the ague and typhoid, and when to let nature run her course, for good or ill. Measles have broken out, and in some cases the infection progresses to the lungs or brain. I had the disease as a child, but John may not be immune, so I have instructed him to avoid anyone with signs of a fever or rash.

  Good news! Mrs. Throckmorton has just interrupted my writing to announce that she has water boiling and a washtub at hand, and Mrs. Gordon has stoked up the fire, so we are going to wash our hair and take turns bathing. My spirits are already revived.