by Lisa Klein
“Then bring her inside,” she said at last, holding the door open for all of us. Clara stumbled in, half-asleep, while Jack strode like a little man with the rifle and cartridge box. I motioned for him to put them in a corner of the parlor. Mrs. Weigel didn’t notice, she was so busy chattering.
“I put you all in the same room, ja? Frieda Baumann and her Annie came this morning. Then Frieda went back home because she was afraid the house would be geplundert and their furniture wrecked.”
“Why, the Baumanns live on Middle Street, which is barricaded now. The rebels have taken the whole town,” I said.
“Liebe Gott! I said she was foolish. But Annie, she would not go home with her mother. She wanted to stay and help with the soldiers. Ach, how they argued! But she is no more eine kleine Mädchen. You, too, Lizzie, are all grown up. You are more like your mother all the time. Ja?”
I smiled wearily, not minding the comparison. “So there were soldiers here too?”
Mrs. Weigel raised both her hands. “All the day we cooked and pumped water for tausend und aber tausend Soldaten, their throats dry with dust from the long marching. Komm, komm. Sit down.” She poured broth for me and for Grace, then prattled on, preventing me from asking where Martin was. “And from the direction of town came the ones with terrible wounds, some of them almost dead. Ach, how I do run on. The children, are they asleep already? Grace, can you climb the stairs? Du liebe Himmel, goodness, that baby is low in your belly. Well, this is as gut a place as any, with the doctors out there in the barn.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, barely listening. I was just glad that Mrs. Weigel had decided to welcome Grace after all.
“You look tired, Lizzie. Follow me.” She led Grace and me into a room with a stripped-down bed and a mattress on the floor. A wash basin stood in the corner under a cracked mirror. Jack and Clara were already asleep on a rolled-up rug. “Deine Mutti—is she well, your mother?”
“She is worried. We haven’t heard from Ben and Amos in over a week, and I’m afraid … they’ve run into … rebels.” My voice caught like cloth on a thorn bush.
“Sei nicht nervös. Don’t fret yourself, Lizzie. Your Benjamin is a clever one and he can run fast. Oh, to be young and swift again! Gute Nacht. Now, go to sleep. Und Gott sei dank, thank him that you are alive and with all your limbs. Here, you must use your own blankets. All the beds we took apart to use in the barn. Don’t fall asleep before you put out the lamp.”
My eyelids flickered. Her words made little sense to me. Why did she keep referring to the barn?
“Wait, Mrs. Weigel. Did Martin—go anywhere today?”
“Goodness, no! Would I let my boy leave here with a battle going on direkt vor der Nase, under our very noses?” She turned and left the room.
So Martin had not kept his word. No one would be searching for Ben and Amos now. My disappointment, however, was tinged with relief that Martin would not also be in danger. I couldn’t bear the responsibility for that, too. I lay down and thanked God that we had arrived safely at the Weigels’, but the words were like ashes in my mouth. I might be safe for the moment, but what about Amos and Ben? Papa and Luke? Mama and Margaret? And what about the thousands of soldiers, gazing sleeplessly into campfires in anticipation of the next day’s battle? How many of them would die? With a sigh I rested my cheek on a folded quilt that smelled of Mama’s lavender water and, despite my overwhelming worries, soon fell asleep.
Rosanna
Chapter 33
July 1, 1863 Chambersburg
Awakened early this morning to the noisy preparations of General Heth’s men, which resolved into the measured tread of marching, led by fife and drum. For a moment I considered saddling Dolly and galloping to warn Margaret, Lizzie, and everyone to flee to safety. Alas, such an act would make me a traitor!
Mrs. Throckmorton brought me some coffee, a rarity obtained from a sympathetic grocer in the town. “I know you have relatives in that town,” she said, nodding over her shoulder. “I’m sure they will not be harmed.”
Sipping the warm, bitter coffee, I began to tell Mrs. Throckmorton about Margaret, how I missed her though she hated rebels, how Jack and Clara used to hug and kiss me. I told her how much I regretted hurting my best friend, Lizzie, by leaving so suddenly. I confessed like the Catholics do to their priests. “I fear I will never see them again in this life,” I concluded, beginning to weep. The sobs seemed to echo in the emptiness within me left by John’s death.
“I understand, dear,” said Mrs. Throckmorton, taking my hands in her big, fleshy ones. She said one of her prayers full of “thees” and “thou” and “O Lords” and “darkness” and “light.” The stream of words did have a soothing effect.
It is now the blackest hour of the night, no longer the first day of July but not fully the second. Late in the afternoon casualties began to arrive from Gettysburg. Apparently every farmhouse and barn between here and Cashtown overflows with wounded. They came in ambulances and ordnance wagons that had been emptied of ammunition. What minié balls and shells began, often the journey completed. Crowded into wagons and driven over rough, bone-rattling roads, many died from pain and blood loss. It should not have been necessary to carry the wounded so far to receive care. But when I demanded of Dr. Walker why there was not a better-equipped hospital near the field, he had no answer.
Among the wounded, poor Mrs. Throckmorton discovered her own husband. A shell fragment had disfigured his face. But the brave woman merely crossed herself and went to work on him with the same determination she lends to all her patients.
My sorrowful case was an artillery gunner suffering from burns. His companion who carried him in said that a shell had struck an ammunition box, exploding its contents. The man’s skin was black and charred, his hair and beard burned away. Only his upper face, which he had shielded from the blast, remained untouched. He could not even talk though he was conscious. I asked Dr. Walker for a dose of the scarce morphine, which he allowed, seeing the man’s terrible suffering. I had to dissolve the pill in water and dribble it into his mouth. Because his hands were covered with burns, I could touch only his forehead while he quietly expired.
A strange thing happened as I sat beside him, tears running down my cheeks. The emptiness inside me began to fill up, as if a warm liquid were flowing into all my limbs and stirring my heart. A feeling of serenity, even courage, took possession of me, overcoming grief and despair. Can it be that the spirits of the dead have the ability to strengthen the living? Perhaps that is how they earn their reward.
July 2, 1863 Chambersburg
After a brief rest, I arose to find today’s plans in motion and yesterday’s events clarified. General Heth met with unexpected resistance, but aided by General Ewell’s corps, caused the federals to retreat through Gettysburg. However, Ewell did not press on to a victory, a failure for which he is already being maligned. The federals have lost about seven thousand men, including three thousand prisoners. Our losses were somewhat less though our numbers were more, about twenty-five thousand men who fought to their twenty thousand.
Today the remainder of Lee’s army here in Chambersburg will march to Gettysburg to complete yesterday’s unfinished business. As I write I can hear General Pickett, full of confidence, exhorting his men to glory in battle. With a victory, the path to Washington will lie open, and once that city falls, the war must end.
While Mrs. Throckmorton and I were helping load the hospital wagons, Dr. Walker surprised us by declaring that the women would remain in Chambersburg. He said he was obliged to make haste and that he had enough orderlies among the convalescents to assist with the wounded.
“I respectfully disagree, sir,” I found myself saying. “Had there been trained nurses nearer the field yesterday, many of our men might have been cared for sooner. Whose orders are these?”
“General Lee would wish the ladies out of harm’s way,” he replied gruffly.
“Then let General Lee command me himself,” I said (knowing
the general has bigger fish to fry). Mrs. Throckmorton’s eyes grew round.
“My dear Mrs. Wilcox,” replied Dr. Walker, striving for patience, “I have learned to value the skills that women bring to nursing. But today’s encounter will be a terrible one. I cannot vouch for your safety.”
“I no longer care for my safety,” I replied. “How can I hold my life dear when others are willing to lose theirs?”
“Then go! Put on a uniform and march, for all I care! Do what you will,” he shouted, waving his arms to dismiss me.
“You are a brave girl! Go, and do my share as well,” said Mrs. Throckmorton, who was willing enough to stay behind with her husband. Fortunately, he is likely to live.
Tom then brought Dolly to me. I noticed how healthy she looks, thanks to his care. He took the news of my going without a flicker of surprise or disapproval.
“I be nearby you, Miz Wilcox,” was all he said.
I do not always understand my actions. While I did not precisely ask to accompany the medical corps, everything I said conveyed a will to do so. But why am I so determined to be at the scene of today’s battle? I cannot hope to encounter Margaret or Lizzie there. Is it some reckless impulse that stirs me? What sorrowful consequences may result? Whatever they may be, I will face them with calmness and courage.
Lizzie
Chapter 34
The first thing I heard when I awoke was a cock crowing as if trying to raise the dead. More faintly, birds twittered. Downstairs in the kitchen, pans clattered on the iron stove. Lying on the familiar quilt, I drifted in and out of sleep. Had I simply imagined the terrors of the day before? Surely they had been a dream, and I was about to open my eyes to an ordinary, peaceful summer’s day.
But when I sat up and saw Jack and Clara sprawled on a pile of blankets and Grace curled up on a straw mattress, I knew yesterday’s events had been real. My arms ached from driving the cart and my legs were bruised from sitting on the rifle. I stumbled to the washstand and splashed water on my face. With my fingers I combed and rebraided my hair. I could hear in the distance the beat of a drum and a fife trilling above it like the sound of hope. I smoothed my dress, rumpled from being slept in, and hurried downstairs.
In the kitchen Mrs. Weigel and two other women chattered in German while mixing and kneading dough with vigorous thrusts of their sturdy arms. The sideboard was piled with mounds of small cakes. Mrs. Weigel introduced me to her sisters-in-law. Bonnie Weigel was stooped and gray haired, while Louisa was a heavy woman with a thick brown braid down her back.
“Drei Frauen Weigeln in einer Küche,” Louisa Weigel said, and they all laughed. I didn’t understand the joke, but I smiled anyway. “Eat a cake,” she said with a thick accent and nodded in the direction of the sideboard.
Nibbling on the sweet, crumbly bread, I went onto the front porch and nearly choked with surprise when I came face-to-face with Martin. He took a step backward.
“Ma told me you were here. I was waiting for you to get up so I could talk to you,” he said. His hair was rumpled and he looked tired.
“Where were you yesterday?” I asked, unable to keep the disappointment from my voice. “You promised—”
“I know. I’m really sorry,” he interrupted. “I was ready to leave, but everything started to happen here.” He gestured with his arm, and I peered around him to see what I had missed in the darkness: soldiers in bandages lying on the ground and leaning against the barn a mere thirty yards from the house. A flag marked with a red cross hung from the hayloft.
“A field hospital!” I said with quiet amazement. “In your barn?”
Martin nodded. “Early yesterday morning officers came by looking for a location a safe distance from the fighting. The barn’s three times the size of the house. So we cleaned it, and all day Pa and I made cots out of old boards and fence planks. They filled up as fast as we could hammer them together.”
“No wonder you’re tired.”
“You don’t look so fresh yourself.” He regarded me with his head tilted to the side.
I reached up to smooth my hair and looked down at my rumpled dress. Why did Martin always see me at my worst?
“Annie Baumann’s here, too,” he went on quickly. “She and I were up most of the night. Cleaning up, changing bandages, that sort of thing. She’s a hard worker.”
At the mention of Annie, jealousy pinched me. I crossed my arms over my chest.
“Lizzie, I would have gone, but it was impossible,” said Martin softly. “I’ll make it up to you somehow.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” I said in a choked voice, and turned to go inside. But Mrs. Weigel met me at the kitchen door and sent me back out with a platter of cakes and an iron kettle full of hot black coffee.
“ Die Soldaten are still coming up from Taneytown. They have been marching die ganze Nacht, all night, perhaps asleep on their feet. They need Kaffee.”
As I stood near the road, soldiers dropped from the ranks, lined up, and took the cakes, one by one, until they were gone. Clumsily I ladled coffee into their tin cups, apologizing when I spilled some onto their fingers. Every soldier tipped his cap, thanked me, or merely smiled gratefully.
“Where are you from?” I asked a man with graying hair who reminded me of Papa.
“We’re the 17th Maine Infantry, miss.”
This proved an easy question, so I asked it often. The soldiers were from as far away as New Jersey, Michigan, and Illinois. Their speech varied, as did their uniforms, with different shades of blue and styles of jacket: single-breasted, double-breasted, braided, and plain. Some soldiers wore badges on their caps, white gaiters over their shoes, or wide trousers gathered at the ankle. But they all carried rifles and knapsacks, bedrolls and clanking mess kits. They all sweated until tiny rivers of dirty water dripped from their cheeks and soaked their jackets, leaving dark stains and a rank smell, as if they hadn’t bathed in weeks.
The strangest sight was a company dressed in wide red pantaloons, cropped jackets with elaborate braid, and red caps with gold tassels. They looked almost like pictures I had seen of circus performers. With them marched a woman with long dark hair, wearing a bright red skirt over trousers. A wide-brimmed hat partially hid her face.
I thought of Rosanna and dropped my ladle, which splashed into the coffee.
“That’s French Mary. She follows the 114th Pennsylvania, what call themselves Zouaves. She sells cigars and hams and best of all, whiskey,” explained a soldier waiting for coffee. Indeed I saw that she carried a small barrel slung across her chest.
“Are there other Pennsylvania regiments coming? My brother is in the First Reserves; have you seen them?” I asked him.
“I don’t know exactly who’s behind us,” he said with a shrug.
A soldier chewing on a large plug of tobacco spoke up. “Golly, girl, the whole durn army’s heading here by one road or another.” He smiled and I saw that he was missing a few teeth.
It would be an impossible coincidence, I thought, to see my brother marching to Gettysburg along this road. I was pretty sure he was still in Virginia.
As I watched black iron cannons being hauled by teams of horses, there was a sudden explosion and a man was thrown into the air. He landed in a wheat field next to the road. The horses bolted, leaving behind flaming pieces of a wagon and a wooden chest that spilled its load of long, rounded shells. As the man was carried past me toward the porch, I saw his blackened face and felt sick. On the road, the artillery regiment rumbled onward as if nothing unusual had happened.
Mrs. Weigel called for my help with the wounded man. I tried not to look at him. I heard him say, “It is because I forgot to read my Bible today. What will my poor wife say when she hears of this?”
“I’ll run the coffee and cakes to the barn for you,” I said, taking the tray from Mrs. Weigel.
She leaned over the injured man and said, “You are lucky, ein Gluckspilz. It was mostly smoke.”
As I approached the barn, trepidation slo
wed my steps. What awful sights would I find inside? Would I have to step over dying men to find Martin? Just then the door swung outward, nearly knocking me over, and two orderlies hurried out with a stretcher.
“Martin!” I called into the dim cavern of the barn. He came out blinking into the sunlight.
“I’ve brought some coffee and cakes from your mother.”
He gobbled down three cakes in three bites. Then I noticed his shirt and trousers were splattered with blood.
“What happened to you? Are you bleeding?”
“No, I’ve been assisting the surgeons.” He gulped the coffee. “They needed someone to hold the patient while they—they—well, there’s a lot of men who are pretty badly wounded.”
“I know. We took one into our house yesterday,” I said, shuddering at the memory. “Did you hear the explosion just now? There’s an injured man on your porch.” I looked behind me and saw that the orderlies were already tending to him.
“It’s terrible, Lizzie,” said Martin, taking another cake. “There are at least a hundred men here now. Some of them won’t make it.”
“Let me come in and help,” I said, steeling myself. “If Annie Baumann can handle it, so can I.”
“Lizzie, it’s not a pleasant sight—”
Determined, I brushed past Martin and stepped into the barn. The first thing I noticed was the smell, like beef rotting in the heat. When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw men laid end to end on blankets, rough cots, and piles of straw. Annie stepped between them, carrying a basin of water. My gaze traveled to an open stall that had been swept clean. Inside was a table, and on it lay a man, a sheet of blood-splashed canvas partly hiding him from view.
“No, no!” he pleaded until an orderly placed a cloth over his face. He slumped, unconscious. Then I saw the mangled arm hanging down, and before I could even look away, a surgeon applied his saw and with a few swift strokes severed it.