Two Girls of Gettysburg

by Lisa Klein

  Soon the sedate and pleasant ice-cream social was a thing of the past. Around noon the very next day, carriages and wagons began to roll into town laden with chickens and pigs and household goods, and people cried, “The rebels are coming! Move out, move out!” Confused travelers headed every which way, for no one knew exactly where the rebels were. Someone said they were raiding Chambersburg again, while others said they were coming up from Mary land. I ran to the depot hoping to learn more. There I saw Annie Baumann’s father and other shopkeepers loading their goods onto railroad cars. Even the bankers had emptied their vaults and were sending the money to Philadelphia for safekeeping.

  Infected by the panic around me, I ran home to find our neighbors piling their furniture into a wagon.

  “Shouldn’t we leave too, Mama?” I realized I was wringing my hands.

  “No, we are staying right here. Grace ought to be resting in bed until her time comes, not bouncing to Baltimore.” If Mama was worried, she hid it well. My own mouth was dry with fear.

  That night I started up from a restless sleep. It was after midnight. I went to the window just as an elderly gentleman ran crookedly by, huffing with each step and crying, “The rebels are on their way here, burning everything in their path!” Up and down the street, neighbors leaned out of their windows and ran outside in their nightclothes. Someone shouted that the sky to the south was orange with flames. All I could see was blackness over the housetops along York Street. I ran to Mama’s room and found her already awake and dressed.

  “So we are leaving?” I said, relieved. “I’ll wake the others.” But Mama seized my hand before I could leave the room.

  “No! Not even the rebels would burn a town full of innocent people,” she said firmly. “Stay here while I go out and see what the commotion is all about.”

  For what seemed like hours I waited, my mind racing with fearful possibilities. In the lamplight, the darkened window reflected my face, a picture of worry.

  When I heard Mama at the door, I rushed to meet her.

  “What did you find out? Why were you gone so long?”

  “I had to wait for the news at the telegraph office. Twenty-seven houses were destroyed by fire in Emmitsburg. It was an accident, not a rebel attack. So I went to reassure Margaret. She was in a panic, watching the glowing sky from her bedroom window.” Mama sat down heavily.

  “Oh, those poor people! But at least it was only a fire.”

  “That’s not all, Lizzie. The rebels did go through Chambersburg again, and this time they took prisoner all the Negroes they could find.” Mama paused. “We must look out for Amos and Grace.”

  I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. When the rising sun turned the sky pink, I got up and sat on the front steps, dazed with tiredness, as a cock crowed.

  The rebels did not appear that day, nor the day after. I felt like a rabbit waiting for a hidden fox to pounce. The governor called for an emergency militia to defend the state. Even Mama decided it was time to take some action.

  “If the Confederates come raiding, we won’t make it easy for them,” she said. She had Amos and Ben lock all the fresh meat in the small cellar beneath the shop with blocks of ice to keep it from spoiling. Then she visited Mrs. Pierpont, who agreed to let us use her large cellar for the rest of our stores. Amos fitted it with a thick door and a heavy lock, and he, Ben, and Martin cleared the smokehouse and moved the cured meat and barrels of pork there. I removed the signs from the butcher shop and hid all the knives and tools and account books so the shop appeared abandoned.

  There remained the matter of the livestock penned behind the warehouse. Mama asked Amos to drive the stock to York for Mr. Schupp to keep until the danger was past. I saw the purpose behind Mama’s request. So did Amos.

  “I’ll do it, Miz Allbauer, but I’m comin’ right back to protect my wife an’ this family, like I promised. I don’t aim to hide out.”

  Mama asked Martin to go along and help Amos, but he said he was needed on the farm. I suspected his mother wouldn’t let him go, and wished he would show some backbone. Ben pleaded that he was old enough to ride with Amos, and to my surprise, Mama agreed. Then I realized her cleverness. If the rebels came through Gettysburg in the next few days, Ben and Amos would both be out of harm’s way. But what about the rest of us?

  It rained the night of June 21 and the roads turned to muck, but by midafternoon of the next day the ground had hardened enough for travel. Amos would herd the dozen head of cattle, while Ben drove the wagon full of pigs. I felt a stab of worry as I watched my little brother climb into the driver’s seat and take the reins. But with manly seriousness, he nodded to me and Mama, then flicked the reins. The pigs poked their snouts through the slats and squealed in protest as the wagon rolled away.

  When Amos and Ben had disappeared, Mama looked in the opposite direction.

  “Mr. Brodhead and a crew of men are riding out Chambersburg Pike today, Sarah told me. They aim to cut enough trees to block the road through the pass. That leaves”—she paused to count—“eight other roads leading into the town.”

  I knew what she was thinking. From which direction would the rebels come into town? Not knowing, how could anyone stop them?

  It stormed again that night. Mama, Grace, and I sat in the parlor while the rain pelted the roof of the house and blew slantwise against the windows. Though Mama was nearby, with Amos, Papa, Luke, and Ben gone, I had never felt more alone.

  Lizzie

  Chapter 26

  On Wednesday, June 24, with still no sign of rebels, Grace set out to do some shopping, and Mama made me go with her. Though her belly was as big as a pumpkin, Grace stepped nimbly along. She clearly didn’t need my help.

  We stopped to watch the new Adams County cavalry drilling on the Diamond. Captain Bell looked like he had his hands full with his men, mostly Mexican War veterans older than Papa and some lads who looked as if they’d never held guns before. I doubted they could do much to protect the town from invading rebels.

  “I wish Amos and Ben would hurry home. I’d feel a lot safer,” I remarked to Grace.

  “Just two more days,” she said.

  “More like three, I’d guess. They’ve got twenty-five miles to cover each way, and that road is bound to be crowded and full of ruts.”

  At South Street near the tannery we saw a family of Negroes laden with bundles. Even the littlest child dragged a burlap sack. Amos had said that many Negroes had taken to hiding from the rebels in the rocky gullies and thick woods of Culp’s Hill.

  “You’ll be safer with Mama and me, especially if the baby comes,” I said, hoping Grace was not thinking of joining them.

  She nodded. “He’s not due for another month yet,” she said.

  At the newspaper office, we heard that the train bringing the new volunteer militia back to Gettysburg had hit a cow and derailed, stranding the troops a good ways from town. They would be useless in case of a rebel attack in the night.

  But the rebels didn’t come that night or the next day. They were thought to be in the mountains to the west, probably raiding farms and driving horses and cattle back to their camp.

  Then Friday morning wagons began to roll back into town from the east; people who had fled to York and Baltimore were coming home, believing the crisis to be over. They reminded me of dogs with their tails between their legs, ashamed for having panicked so easily. But there was no sign of Amos and Ben.

  About noon the whistle of a train sounded, and the news quickly spread that the volunteer militia had finally arrived. I ran to the corner just as they marched by, resplendent in their new uniforms and bearing shiny rifles. Even if they were raw recruits, with less than a week of training, their sheer numbers—nearly seven hundred men—inspired confidence. Half of Gettysburg had turned out to welcome the volunteers with cheers and food. A photographer from Tyson Studios huddled under a black cloth, trying to capture the scene with his boxy camera. I found myself next to Annie Baumann, who was standing with her fathe
r in front of their store. She handed me a small flag to wave.

  “The sight of these boys’ll make the Johnnies run right back over the mountains!” Mr. Baumann predicted as the militia, with Captain Bell’s cavalry in the lead, headed west along Chambersburg Pike. It was comforting to know that hundreds of soldiers were stationed between us and the rebels.

  A light rain began to fall, and I hurried to the butcher shop, but only a few customers stopped in. It must have been about midafternoon when I was startled by the sound of hoofbeats, as if an entire cavalry were galloping through town. I couldn’t see anything from the shop, so I locked up and ran home, thinking of my mother and Grace alone in the house. As I rounded the corner onto York Street, the crack of rifle fire made me halt in my tracks. The sound bounced off the stone and brick houses so that I could not tell where it had come from. Then another shot sounded, and a horse appeared around the corner, whinnying and foaming at the mouth. Its rider wore a faded gray uniform and waved a revolver. When he saw me, he let out a high-pitched holler and fired into the air. The sound stunned my ears.

  The rebels were in Gettysburg!

  The gray-clad soldier passed so near to me that I felt the heat of his horse’s body and smelled acrid sweat. Stumbling through our gate I flung myself against the door, which opened suddenly, pitching me into Mama’s arms.

  “Thank God you’re back! What took you so long? Grace is in the cellar; go and join her.”

  “No, I’m staying with you.” Despite my terror, I wouldn’t leave her.

  “Don’t disobey me, Lizzie!”

  More shots splintered the air. We dropped to our knees so that we were below the level of the windowsill.

  “You have to come with me,” I said, grasping her arm.

  So neither of us moved. Boots tramped in the street, wheels squealed, men shouted, and we waited for the next outburst of gunfire.

  “I thought the militia would defend us,” I said. “What happened?”

  “I suspect those fresh recruits just lost their first battle,” Mama said grimly.

  A sudden knocking startled us. I peeked through the curtains to see four soldiers at the door. They were ragged and dirty, their trousers torn, their hair matted. One of the men raised his gun and rapped the butt against the door, more sharply this time. I felt my heart hammer against my ribs.

  “They’re rebel soldiers, Mama. We must hide! Quickly!”

  “No! If they think no one is home, they will break in and search the house.”

  Before I could protest, she had opened the door and stood facing the soldiers. I decided she was out of her mind and would doom us all.

  The rebels took off their battered hats and the one who had knocked on the door cleared his throat and said, “We’re right hungry, ma’am, and we’d be ever so grateful if you was to spare us sumpin’ to eat.”

  I could barely understand what the man was asking for. He said “raht” for “right,” “may-um” for “ma’am,” and “spay-er” for spare. But he looked Mama in the eye like an honest man.

  Mama hesitated, then motioned for the soldiers to enter. They trailed her almost meekly to the kitchen, where they dropped their knapsacks and rifles on the floor like schoolboys. I noticed their shoes were nothing more than scraps of leather tied to their feet with rags. Mama laid bread and bacon on the table and the soldiers devoured the food like starving men. She told me to fetch a pitcher of fresh water and fill their canteens. My hands shook and I spilled a considerable amount of the water on the floor. One of the soldiers smiled at me, and I stiffened, full of distrust.

  When they were finished, they wiped their mouths on their sleeves and stood up. They looked at each other and around the room. I held my breath, too afraid to move, as one of them laid a hand on the cellar door.

  “The privy is out back,” Mama said, opening the kitchen door. The rebels picked up their gear, nodded their thanks, and left.

  My throat was dry, but I began to chatter like a hoarse jay.

  “They looked pitiful, didn’t they? Their hair must have been full of lice. And they smelled awful, but they were polite. I thought I would die with fear, but really, they weren’t so terrible—”

  I saw Mama sink into a chair, looking pale from the efforts of her hospitality, but after a few deep breaths, she pinked up a bit.

  The cellar door opened and Grace stepped out, carrying an old ax that belonged in the shed.

  “Nex’ time we face the rebs together,” she said, her black eyes flashing. “You ain’t riskin’ yore selves for me.”

  Mama said not to be foolish and made her go back to the cellar. The rest of the day she and I took turns peering out the windows for more rebels, but all was quiet. Just after dark, I stepped into the street where I could hear strains of a band playing “Dixie.”

  “They’re still here,” I called to Mama.

  “Come inside, Lizzie!” Her voice sounded anxious.

  But something had caught my eye, a glow in the sky to the northeast. Were the rebels burning the town? Before raising an alarm, I wanted to be sure. So I dashed toward the depot to get a better look. A small crowd had gathered, looking east along the railroad tracks as the bridge over Rock Creek burned furiously. The flames leaped higher, engulfing one car after another, until the entire bridge with seven burning cars collapsed into the creek bed.

  “Damn rebels just destroyed the railroad!” growled one man.

  “At least it’s not our houses burning,” said another.

  “They cut the telegraph wires too. Now nothing can come in or go out of here—not troops, not news, not food.”

  “We’re in trouble now.”

  I returned home to find Mama pacing the kitchen in agitation.

  “Don’t worry, it’s only the railroad bridge they’ve burned.”

  She turned on me. “Elizabeth Ann Allbauer, I told you to come back, but you ran away instead! Must I put a leash on you to get you to obey me?”

  “I only went to see if we were in danger from the fire!” I shot back, my own temper flaring.

  “Do you think I want to lose all my children and my husband, too? I had no idea where you’d gone,” Mama said, on the verge of tears.

  “I wouldn’t do anything foolish, Mama. You’ve got to trust me more,” I said, putting my arms around her.

  That night we slept on piles of blankets in the cellar, where it was as dark and quiet as a grave. In the morning the streets appeared deserted, and no sound came from the town square.

  “Have they gone away?” Mama wondered aloud

  “I’ll find out,” I offered, pulling on my shoes. “I promise to be careful.”

  First I checked the butcher shop and was relieved to find it undisturbed, though the windows of a nearby store had been broken. Knowing the telegraph was down, I headed to the courthouse as the likeliest place to hear news. About thirty people were listening to Mr. Kendlehart describe the prior day’s events. He said our militia had met up with five thousand Confederates along Chambersburg Pike. Only one soldier was killed, but two hundred had been captured. Then the rebels had released all the prisoners and sent them home! This made me hope they would let Papa go, too.

  After the battle, their General Early had come into town and demanded three tons of bacon, a thousand pairs of shoes, whiskey, and other supplies—or five thousand dollars in cash. Mr. Kendlehart told the general the truth: that all the town’s goods and money had been shipped away. After searching the stores and finding them empty, there was nothing for the rebels to do but to move on.

  “General Early was too late!” said one man, and his joke was greeted with laughter.

  Everyone had a story about the soldiers demanding food or stealing chickens or horses. Not all the rebels were as polite as those who had visited us, but not a single person reported being harmed. We had been shaken up a little, that was all. Ginnie Wade ran up to me with the news that her sister had just given birth to a baby boy. I hugged her and even waved to Annie Baumann. I felt l
ike dancing, I was so relieved. The war had come to Gettysburg and gone away again.

  “Mr. Kendlehart,” called out a voice in the crowd. “Where did the rebels go when they left here?”

  “Why, they headed east, on to York. That was their intent all along,” he replied.

  At once my joy and relief gave way to cold fear. Amos and Ben were traveling on the York Road.

  Lizzie

  Chapter 27

  It was Sunday, June 28, six days since Amos and Ben had left. Mama and I went to St. James, where every pew was full. Reverend Essig preached on the importance of being ready for Judgment Day in order to escape God’s wrath. I would have preferred a more positive theme, in light of what we had just come through.

  All afternoon Mama kept going to the door, where she would stand motionless, listening. Grace rocked in the parlor.

  “Mama, do you think they ran into the rebel cavalry?” I asked.

  She shook her head slowly back and forth. She didn’t know any more than I did.

  “Amos’ll hunker down soon as he senses danger,” said Grace. “I know they’s all right,” she whispered, rubbing her belly.

  That night and all day Monday, rain fell from gray skies. I opened the shop and sat in a chair in the doorway, watching the raindrops plop into muddy puddles in the street. I missed the whistle and rumble of the train and thought of the ruined railroad bridge. With every wooden creak or clop of horse’s feet, I looked up in hope that Amos and Ben had returned, only to be disappointed.

  To my surprise, Martin Weigel came into the shop. He took off his hat and a puddle of rain water formed on the floor around him. I managed a half smile of greeting.

  “There are no deliveries today, Martin.”

  “I know,” he said, still dripping. “I think I’ll just dry off a bit.”

  I wondered why he had come, but, being lonesome, I didn’t want him to leave.