Two Girls of Gettysburg

by Lisa Klein

  I didn’t see why Margaret had to bring anything at all with her. It took us almost an hour to unload the cart, and I nearly cursed when the sewing machine was set down on my foot. Limping, I led the horse and cart into the alley behind the house, where Jack helped me coax the nervous creature into the shed.

  When another shell exploded nearby, rattling the windows, Mama ordered everyone to the cellar. No one objected. Laden with blankets, food, and water, we descended the narrow steps. The laundry would not get done that day. The fire in the oven would burn down to embers, since no one would be cooking dinner. We were silent, not even speculating how long we would have to remain underground.

  Throughout the afternoon, the earth rumbled and shook around us like a volcano about to erupt. By the flickering light of an oil lamp Mama read her Bible. Margaret mended clothing, her fingers fluttering nervously. Jack and Clara were restless, so Grace sang them a hymn about Moses that finally put them to sleep. I had nothing to read but an old almanac. The irrelevant weather predictions and bits of lore were oddly comforting. During a lull in the fighting, I thought I heard the faint strains of a band but could not make out the tune.

  I glanced over at Grace, her black skin glossy in the faint light, her expression placid. Something about the semidarkness made me bold.

  “Grace, how did you come to know Amos?” I asked softly.

  A long moment passed, while she seemed to be weighing whether or not to reply.

  “I was the new slave at the plantation where Amos lived,” she finally said. “His mother was dyin’ from grief since Mastuh McCarrick sold all her childern. One night I went wif the mistress to help nurse her, an’ I saw the kindness in Amos’s eyes. We was both full of sadness then.”

  “What were you sad about?” I asked.

  Grace shook her head. So I prompted her on to a happier topic.

  “Then you and Amos got married by a preacher who came along doing baptisms?”

  “How do you know that?” she asked, sounding surprised.

  “Amos told me. Then he said you were sold away. But he didn’t say why.”

  “My mistress had some good in her an’ a lot of meanness,” Grace said, shaking her head. “When she found out I had married Amos, she went into a fury. She said that I, bein’ a house nigger, had debased myself by marryin’ a field nigger. You see, she wanted to decide who I married, maybe keep me from havin’ a husband at all, so’s I could take care of her forever.”

  “But what could she do if you and Amos were already married?” I asked.

  “She broke us up by havin’ her husband sell me to that crazy Mastuh Johnston.”

  “So that’s how she punished you for defying her. Now I understand.” I touched Grace’s sleeve. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. She didn’t pull away.

  “If I’d’ve just waited a bit to marry Amos, I’d’ve been free, too. But I guess I was too much in love.” She said this without regret or bitterness. “An’ it don’t matter now, anyhow.”

  After a moment I asked, “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  Grace pressed her full lips together tightly.

  “Don’t ask me no more. I’m tired now.” A look of pain crossed her forehead, and she closed her eyes.

  A sudden barrage of artillery made the jam jars rattle on the shelf and shimmy to the edge. I leaped up and caught one just before it hit the dirt floor near where Rosanna’s scrapbook lay hidden.

  Lizzie

  Chapter 30

  Eventually the guns fell silent, and Mama and I came up from the cellar to have a look. Hearing muffled shouting in the streets and the pounding of feet, we cracked open the shutters on the parlor window and peered out. Union soldiers filled York Street, running pell-mell toward the east, chased by rebels. Shots rang out. A man slammed to the ground just outside our gate, a crimson flower of blood blooming from his back. My hand flew to my mouth and a horrified cry escaped me. Margaret had come up behind me, and at the sight she sank to her knees and gently fainted. I could not take my eyes off the scene in the street. I saw a horse shot from beneath its rider, who was thrown backward into the street as the animal reared up. A high-pitched and wavering yell echoed between the houses, seeming to come from every direction at once. Within minutes, the chaos passed and the street was quiet again.

  “Mama, does this mean the battle is lost?” I whispered.

  “I don’t know, but that man needs help,” she said, moving swiftly to the door. Before I could seize her dress to stop her, she had flung it open and was outside. The sharp smell of burned gunpowder drifted inside, stinging my nose.

  “What are you doing, Mama? Come inside!” I called. Behind me, Margaret stirred. Mama knelt beside the soldier who had been shot in the back and spoke to him. He tried to sit up but failed.

  “Lizzie, help me!” she shouted.

  I tried to obey her but could not get beyond the open door. I felt as if I had been ordered to dive into a flooded river. All my muscles tensed and refused to move.

  “Hurry!” urged Mama.

  Seeing her crouched in the street without any protection finally stirred me into action. But once outside, I paused again as if stricken. Half a dozen soldiers lay in the street, blood pooling around them. A few stirred and groaned, still alive, while others lay motionless, already dead. The ground was littered with hats, blankets, knapsacks, mess kits, and canteens dropped by the fleeing troops. A soldier staggered around the corner of Stratton Street, carrying a man over his shoulder like a rolled-up rug. He climbed the steps of St. James Church, then disappeared. The intersection filled with Union soldiers again. An officer on horseback tried to herd them like cattle.

  “To the Hill! Cemetery Hill! Take the heights and hold them,” he shouted.

  “Lizzie!” Mama called, her voice sharp and urgent.

  I sprang to her side. “You’ve got to come inside. You’ll be trampled or shot.”

  “No. Help me carry him into the house. You lift his legs.”

  I glanced at the soldier. His eyes were closed and he gasped for breath. I lifted his feet, and together Mama and I half carried, half dragged him into the house and laid him in the hall.

  Margaret had revived but still looked pale.

  “Aunt Mary! What are we to do with him?” she asked hoarsely.

  “We will stop his bleeding and keep him alive, that’s what.” Mama took off her apron and tore it into strips, then heaved the man onto his side and pressed the material into the wound. The sight of his blood running over her fingers made my stomach churn. I had to turn away and try very hard not to throw up.

  “That’s the best I can do for now,” said Mama, regarding the roughly bandaged wound.

  Margaret took a scrap of cloth and began to wipe up the blood streaking the floor.

  “Never mind that now,” Mama told her. She leaned back on her heels with a sigh. “We’ll never get him down the stairs. He’ll have to lie here. Margaret, fetch a mattress from the cellar. And tell Grace to keep the children down there with her.”

  Margaret dropped the cloth and hurried away.

  “Are you all right, Lizzie?” Mama asked. “You look pale.”

  “I’m a little shaken up,” I admitted in a wavering voice.

  Mama’s hands were not even trembling. I didn’t know she could be so brave. I forced myself to look at the man’s face. His eyelids fluttered and his forehead was twisted with pain, but he didn’t groan or complain. I took his canteen and held it to his dry lips while he drank.

  “Try to rest now. The bleeding is not so bad now. You’ll be fine,” I said, wondering if I were telling an unforgivable lie. I looked up at Mama. She nodded. I had done all right.

  We had eased the soldier onto a straw mattress and Margaret was rebuilding the fire to heat water for broth when the kitchen door burst open and two soldiers stumbled into the house, clutching rifles with glinting bayonets.

  Margaret screamed and began to fumble about the sideboard, sending bread pans crashing to the fl
oor, until she laid her hands on a knife.

  “What is it now?” cried Mama, running into the kitchen.

  “For gosh sakes, Margaret, put down the knife!” I cried. “They’re our soldiers.” Though torn and crusted with dirt, their uniforms, I could tell, had once been blue.

  “Thank you, miss,” one of the men said to me, removing his tattered slouch hat to reveal a head of wispy hair. The other man leaned against the table, groaned, and slumped into a chair. Margaret dropped the knife into a drawer.

  “Ladies, we regret this rude manner of entering your house,” the first soldier said with exaggerated politeness. “Might we bide some time here? Our alternative is to be taken captive by the rebels, and that ain’t our preference.”

  I hoped Mama would say no. What if the rebels came again and found them and Grace, too? We were all in terrible danger now.

  “You see, my buddy here is wounded, so we can’t exactly outrun the Johnnies,” he added, nodding to his companion.

  “You may stay until it is safe to go,” said Mama. “My husband has been captured by rebels, and I would spare others that fate.”

  She motioned to me to lay out food on the table. The soldier with the wispy hair introduced himself as John Ray, and his friend as Noah Zimmer of the 147th New York Infantry.

  “Let me see that leg, Mr. Zimmer,” Mama said.

  “Goddamn horse stepped on me.” Zimmer gritted his teeth. “Sorry, ma’am, about the swearing,” he said, taking Mama’s frown for disapproval. She took off his shoe and cut away his pant leg at the knee. I watched, ready to avert my eyes, but there was no blood.

  “Looks and feels broken all right,” Mama said. “Lizzie, bring me two short planks—those shelves will do. Margaret, tear up that sheet.”

  As John Ray held the pieces of wood in place, Mama wrapped Zimmer’s leg in a splint. Then she took a jug from deep in the pantry and poured out a dark amber liquid. The sharp smell of spirits filled the room. My eyebrows shot up.

  “I keep this for medicinal purposes,” Mama explained, glancing at me.

  Zimmer downed the whiskey in one gulp and his eyes pleaded for more.

  A sudden explosion made the windows rattle and jarred me from silence.

  “What is happening out there?” I demanded. “If you need to hide here, does that mean the rebels won the battle?”

  “It’s hard to know exactly, miss. We couldn’t hold ‘em on that ridge to the west, so we had to fall back through town. I think what you just heard was one of our guns near the depot aimed at the rebs to the north.”

  “They’re coming from the north, too?” My voice rose and quavered.

  “Damn murderin’ redneck rebels is everywhere,” grumbled Zimmer, gritting his teeth.

  “It’s not a good situation,” admitted John Ray. “You see, we lost General Reynolds early this morning.”

  “General Reynolds?” Margaret cried out. “But he was at my house this morning and I served him coffee. He was such a gentleman. You must be mistaken!”

  “I wish I were, but it’s the truth,” said John Ray. “And now, if you take my advice, you’ll leave here before the fightin’ picks up again. We had to give up some ground, but we ain’t beaten yet. Mark my words, tomorrow this town will be whizzing with bullets.”

  “Mama, Mama, who’s here?” came Jack’s voice as he and Clara burst out of the cellar. Margaret seized their hands and I stepped into the doorway so they would not see the wounded soldier in the hall.

  “It’s all right, Grace,” Mama called down.

  John Ray regarded Jack and Clara with dismay. “Ma’am, this’ll be no place at all for children.” His eyes widened further as Grace emerged from the cellar. “Nor for contraband, neither. Heck, I’d’ve never burdened you with our presence if I’d known there were children and Negroes here. We ought to go now, Zimmer.”

  I was relieved to see him shove his hat onto his head and Zimmer heave himself to a standing position, using his rifle like a crutch.

  “Wait,” said Mama, holding up her hand. “Mr. Zimmer, you are not going anywhere on that leg. Mr. Ray, help him down into the cellar.”

  After considering Mama and each other for a long moment, John Ray and Noah Zimmer obeyed. Wide-eyed, the children trailed them down the steps. Grace stood looking into the front hall where the wounded soldier lay.

  “We must fetch Dr. Horner to get that bullet out,” Mama said, following Grace’s gaze. “Lizzie, will you go?” She put both hands to her forehead. “I’ve had too much excitement.”

  I swallowed hard to keep down the fear rising in me.

  “I’ll come with you,” Margaret offered, and I felt a rush of gratitude. But we were hardly on our way when Margaret quailed at the sight of a dead horse lying stiffly on its side. Flies the size of June bugs buzzed around its flanks. Its blood was turning the dust in the street to mud.

  “Just look away and keep walking,” I said, but Margaret still hesitated.

  “Dr. Horner lives on Chambersburg Street, beyond the Diamond,” she said. “Do you think we ought to go that far?”

  I also had my doubts. I had no wish to encounter rebels in the street. What if they questioned us? We would have to lie or betray everyone in our house.

  “Let’s try the church first,” I suggested. “I saw a wounded soldier go inside earlier. Perhaps there is a doctor here.”

  The steps of St. James Church were spattered with blood. The door opened with a creak. Inside, the setting sun touched only the upper windows, dimly illuminating the forms of soldiers lying in the pews. The familiar odor of beeswax was tinged with the acrid smells of sweat and blood. I heard an unexpected sound: dice rattling in a tin cup and clattering on the wooden pew. The sound echoed from the plastered walls and vaulted ceiling. Two stretcher bearers eased a man into a pew and left again in a hurry.

  “Is there a doctor here?” Margaret called out in a hesitant voice. A ragged chorus rose in response.

  “Nurse? Over here. Water, please!”

  Margaret and I looked at each other helplessly.

  “What do we do now?” Margaret whispered.

  “Pastor Essig? Are you here?” I called.

  The pastor’s familiar gray head appeared over the top of a pew. We hurried over to him, then stopped abruptly, for he was covering a man’s face with a blanket. Then he stood up and held out his hands to grasp ours. I realized he had just prayed for a dead man, and now he calmly welcomed us. But when he heard that we needed a doctor for the wounded soldiers at our house, he shook his head sadly.

  “You see there is no doctor here yet. I can only pray that one will soon arrive. We need those bandages the good ladies rolled and sent away to the front. And now we need their help with the injured.” He gestured around him. “The soldiers at your house are the fortunate ones. Just take care of them, and pray for them.”

  I glanced toward the covered body on the pew and thought of the soldier lying in our hallway.

  “But what if he dies?”

  “Then his soul is God’s,” Pastor Essig said simply.

  Unfortunately I didn’t share the minister’s faith at the moment. I wanted to challenge God. Did he hate war or welcome it for all the souls it brought in? Did he accept into heaven the souls of men who had killed other men in defense of their country? Were the Union and Confederate dead judged equally in that regard? But I sensed that even Pastor Essig did not have the answers to my questions.

  “Pastor, what do you know of the day’s events?” asked Margaret.

  “I was at the seminary this morning and from the cupola I watched the battle unfold,” he said. “What an awesome and terrible sight it was. But I came down quick enough when a minié ball struck the stone just inches from my head. The wounded were pouring into the building already.”

  “Is it safe for us to stay in town with Aunt Mary?”

  He shook his head. “The soldiers coming in here say there are rebels to the west, the north, and northeast. Both sides are putting up de
fenses and barricades. The only clear direction now is to the south. You ought to leave if you can. Tomorrow every church in Gettysburg will be a hospital. Now, go in peace,” he said without irony.

  I felt anything but peaceful as Margaret and I left the church and went home to tell Mama the minister’s news. Her face was drawn and pale.

  “I can’t think what to do,” she said dully. “I don’t know what is best.”

  “I have an idea,” I said. “We can go to the Weigels’ farm. It’s about three miles to the south on Taneytown Road, far enough from the danger here. Mrs. Weigel even invited us.”

  “Yes, I remember,” Mama said, perking up a bit. She looked questioningly at Grace.

  “We be in danger no matter what. I stay—or go—with you all,” said Grace.

  So Mama packed a satchel with some food and water while Margaret and I gathered up blankets and clothing. I didn’t know how long we would be gone. A day? A week? John Ray hitched the horse up to the cart, helped Grace climb in, and lifted Jack and Clara over the sides. Mama made sure Grace was cushioned by plenty of straw and hidden under blankets.

  “Remember, now,” said Mama to the children, “your job is to keep Grace a secret. It’s like a game, but more important.”

  “You drive, Lizzie,” said Margaret. “I can barely control this beast. I’ll sit beside you. Aunt Mary will be more comfortable riding in the cart.”

  I took the reins, but John Ray told us to wait. He went inside and came back with the rifle and cartridge box that belonged to the wounded soldier.

  “I don’t think he’ll have occasion to use this anytime soon,” he said, handing it to Mama.

  “Heavens, I could never fire that thing,” she said. “Show Lizzie how to use it.”

  I gulped. I couldn’t believe I had heard my mother say that. John Ray turned to me and held out the rifle.

  I thought, if the soldier in the hallway would not need his rifle, did that mean he was going to die? I hoped Pastor Essig would send a doctor to care for him. I reached for the rifle. It was heavy, but smooth and cool to the touch. I was afraid of it.

  “If anyone offers you trouble, miss, just lift it to your shoulder and aim, but don’t actually pull the trigger. She’s not loaded. The recoil would give you quite a bruising, maybe knock you flat.”