Two Girls of Gettysburg

by Lisa Klein

  I found my voice and released a shout as a company of blue-clad soldiers ran between the Weigel barn and the foot of Little Round Top, trying to cut off the rebels. But when the shooting erupted not a hundred yards from where I stood, I dropped to my hands and knees and pulled Grace with me into a corner of the porch. The low stone wall barely shielded us. Grace curled into a ball, her arms around her stomach. The sharp rifle fire made my ears throb with pain. I longed to see if Luke was among the soldiers but dared not lift my head to look.

  The skirmish lasted only a few minutes. After the last shots had been fired, I peered over the ledge of the porch. Two rebels lay facedown in the grass and a third had fallen backward, his arm flung over his head. Another dragged himself toward the barn. The Pennsylvania soldiers had disappeared into the thickets of Little Round Top, and I guessed by the scattered rifle shots that they were chasing the last of the rebels back over the hill.

  “Help me up, Lizzie. I’m goin’ inside,” said Grace. “You best come too.”

  “I will, in a minute.”

  But with the danger past, every ounce of strength had flowed out of me, and it was easier just to sink down onto the porch. So I sat there with my back against the stone house, thinking about the men who lay dead only yards away from me. Somewhere in the South, a girl my age would learn that her brother had been killed at a farmhouse near Gettysburg, and a mother would weep for her son. I wanted my papa and Luke to come home alive. Didn’t these soldiers also deserve to live?

  An orderly finally came out and dragged the three dead rebels away. Dusk gave way to darkness and the fireflies began to flicker randomly, like tiny soundless explosions. Still I sat, not even bothering to wipe away the tears that rolled down my face and tickled my neck as I thought of my family. We had been thrown like grain to the four winds. Would we ever find our way together again? And where was Martin? Had he now joined the ranks of soldiers who might never return alive, leaving behind only women to mourn them?

  Rosanna

  Chapter 37

  July 2, 1863 camp south of Lutheran Seminary, west of Gettysburg

  The army made slow progress toward Gettysburg, so I was able to pick a large sack of blackberries without falling behind. I was also lucky enough to find a satchel thrown down by some overburdened soldier, containing a decent pair of field glasses. I expect they will prove useful.

  It was nearly dusk when I saw the first evidence of battle, the smoldering remains of a barn and a house with only the brick chimney left standing. We crossed Willoughby Run, all mud and murky water littered with the debris of battle. Dead horses blocked the road, and a thick cloud of fat blueflies swarmed around them. Though I held a handkerchief over my nose, it was not enough to keep away the stench. At least the dead and wounded men have been removed from the field.

  Above the trees I could see the cupola of the Lutheran Seminary crowning Oak Ridge. But I was denied my much-anticipated view of the town beyond, for I was obliged to follow the troops as they bore southward behind the ridge. It was dark when I reached the grove of trees that served as a camp. Tom had already put up a tent for me using saplings and canvas. It was thoughtful of him, though I do not expect to sleep much tonight.

  I helped the cook dish up supper for the men of John’s company. The stew featured some chickens that Hiram Watt claimed to find running loose. No one believed him. I mixed some berries with a little sugar in a frying pan and, pouring a thin batter over them, cooked it on the coals until the berries bubbled and sent up the most divine smell. I made several batches of this cobbler and the men licked every bit of it up.

  Reports of today’s battle come in fragments. The federals hold Culp’s Hill, the cemetery, and the hills all along Taneytown Road. Their General Sickles was shot through the leg and forced to yield his ground, while our General Barksdale was mortally wounded. Though our losses were great, the men anticipate a victory tomorrow, for General Pickett inspires them with his bravado and fierce energy. I judge him quite handsome, with his wavy beard and long, curling hair. But he is said to be completely enamored of the young beauty to whom he is engaged.

  This afternoon General Jeb Stuart and his cavalry finally arrived on the field, several days later than expected. Stuart’s raids around Carlisle (Pennsylvania) netted a hundred or more wagons and teams, but Lee is not impressed. He wanted Stuart to scout the enemy’s location. I heard one officer say that had Stuart arrived even two days earlier with the needed information, Lee could have pulled his army together, surprised the federals, and victory would already be ours. Possibly the battle would have occurred at some other place, sparing Gettysburg. But such speculation is pointless.

  A while ago battle resumed about a mile to the east. What kind of fury makes men blaze away at each other in pitch darkness? All fires in camp were put out so that our position would not be revealed. In the dark I nearly tripped over men who had fallen asleep where weariness overtook them and lay in positions resembling death itself. Shaken, I returned to my tent and began to repack my haversacks with bandages, iodine, and whiskey, when Tom appeared out of the darkness and crouched next to me.

  “Are you fixin’ to leave?” he asked.

  I said I was only preparing for tomorrow and admitted to being frightened.

  “We’re in the lion’s den all right, an’ no one but God Almighty can keep us from his jaws,” he said, shaking his head. “You find somewhere safe to stay during the battle. Mastuh John would wish it.”

  “I won’t do anything foolish, Tom. But I’m not going to hide. I aim to keep as many men as I can from dying.”

  “An’ I’ll be nearby, handlin’ a team o’ horses with the artillery.”

  “Why, Tom?” I asked. “Why are you staying? You are free to go.”

  “Same as you, Miz Rosanna, I made a choice. I decided to help them that have been good to me.”

  Tom’s words brought tears to my eyes. No less than John, he was an honorable gentleman.

  “I have a favor to ask, Tom,” I said, showing him my journal. “I always carry this book with me. It will be in my knapsack. If something should happen to me, please take it to my cousin Lizzie Allbauer in Gettysburg.”

  He promised and we parted, offering no false assurances for tomorrow. So in the event that I never write here again, these last words are for you, Lizzie, penned in my canvas lean-to in this copse of trees, and lit by the guttering flame of my small lamp:

  You have been my dearest friend. I love you and daily regret the circumstances of war that have separated us. I know you will forgive all my frailties. Remember me, Lizzie.

  Lizzie

  Chapter 38

  I was dreaming about rocking in a boat on a dark sea. Someone was calling my name and shaking me. I opened my eyes. It was dark and I was still on the Weigels’ front porch. My cheeks felt stiff with dried tears and my head hurt from leaning against the rock.

  “You scared me, Lizzie, lying here and not moving.”

  “Martin? Is that you?” I sat up, blinking, then recognized his shape more than his face. “So you didn’t run off!” I said, sighing with relief.

  “Why would I do that? You must have been dreaming,” said Martin gently. “But try to wake up now.”

  “Why? What has happened?” I said, struggling to sit up. Worry filled me. “Is it Luke?”

  “No, but we really need your help, Lizzie. Even if you just go around with a bucket of water. You don’t have to come into the hospital.”

  That’s when I saw the wounded men lying in the yard and propped against the house, dozens of them, and heard their moaning.

  “Where did they all come from?” I asked, still dazed with sleep.

  “From the battle on Little Round Top, mostly.”

  “Of course I’ll help,” I said with a sick feeling. “Let me find a lamp.”

  In the kitchen, army nurses were preparing coffee and broth while Bonnie Weigel stirred the pots and Louisa stoked the oven fire.

  “Louisa, was machst du?
Das Brot wird gebrennt werden!” cried Martin’s mother, opening the oven door and fanning away the smoke. “There you are, Lizzie. I sent the children upstairs. Es ist schrecklich!— too terrible for their eyes. They should have stayed in town!”

  I went to check on the children and found Grace pacing the hallway, grimacing.

  “Do you need a doctor now?” I asked in alarm.

  “No, I be fine. Go ‘long with you now,” she said, waving me away.

  I found a lamp and went back to the kitchen, where someone handed me a pot of broth. I stepped off the porch carrying the heavy pot and stumbled over a man lying on the ground. His arms were crossed over his stomach, and his eyes were closed. The smell of sweat and rancid blood rose from him. Buzzing flies settled on his clothes. I thought of the back room of the butcher shop at the end of a busy workday. The man stirred. I crouched beside him.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked timidly.

  “Nothing. I’m dying,” the man replied. He lifted his elbows enough for me to see his torn flesh and glistening innards. I let out a cry and fell back on my rear. Afraid I was going to be sick, I squeezed my eyes shut tightly.

  “I’ll have something to drink, miss.”

  My eyes flew open. A man with a bloodied sash wrapped around his head was beckoning to me. I scrambled over to him.

  “An’ a little smile with that, if you please. That’s better.”

  Embarrassed that he had seen my reaction to the dying man, I gave him a big smile as he requested. After I dribbled broth into his mouth, he lay back with a deep sigh. I moved on to another soldier, having realized it was easier if I looked into their eyes, not at their wounds. When I saw someone badly injured, I called out to one of the surgeons, who came over to determine whether the man should be operated on. Then Martin or his father would carry him into the hospital.

  Some of the men told rambling stories like they were fevered. One man swore he could have walked across the wheat field without touching the ground, the dead lay so thick there. I heard that General Sickles had lost the peach orchard and been shot in the leg at the Trostle farm, where dead horses lay in heaps.

  It was a soldier from Maine with a gash in his leg who told me about the battle’s climax, the struggle for Little Round Top. The rebels had attacked again and again and had almost won the hill when the few remaining defenders fixed their bayonets to the end of their rifles, charged the rebels, and sent them flying in retreat. One more rebel attack, he said, would have done them in. But they had held on to the hill and kept the Union’s southern flank from collapsing.

  I asked an ambulance driver waiting by the barn if he had seen or heard anything of Luke’s regiment.

  “The First Pennsylvania Reserves, Thirtieth Regiment?” he repeated thoughtfully. “I b’lieve they’re the ones still standing watch over the batteries on the hill. Lyin’ down rather, if they’re smart. Them rebel sharpshooters are like coons, they can see in the dark.”

  The news that Luke’s regiment was standing guard on Little Round Top filled me with hope. He was nearby, protecting us. Then a darker thought occurred to me.

  “Have you brought in any casualites from that regiment?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, miss, but I’ve come back empty-handed. It’s too dangerous to pick up the injured because pickets on both sides are firing wildly at anything that moves.”

  All at once I feared that Luke might be lying in the woods, wounded and in danger of losing his life during the night. Numbly I went back into the house, where Mrs. Weigel was nursing two wounded officers in the parlor. One gritted his teeth while she bandaged his chest. The other propped his legs on the good settee, still wearing his boots. His head was wrapped in what looked like an old apron, and he smoked a cigar that filled the room with thick smoke. The sight was almost comical, but I was too worried about Luke even to smile.

  “Lizzie, take a pot of broth to the hungrige Menschen by the shed,” called Mrs. Weigel.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  In the kitchen, a single pot of thin broth simmered on the stove. There were no potatoes or onions left, so I stirred in some flour to thicken it. With the pot in one hand and a lamp in the other, I made my way to the shed. I ladled broth into a tin cup and handed it to a man half reclining on a bedroll. He inserted the cup under his long brushy mustache and sipped loudly. There was something familiar about his powder-blackened face. He raised his head and the light shone into the unmistakable blue eyes of Frederick Hartmann.

  “Why, my dear Miss Allbauer, what a pleasure.”

  “Mr. Hartmann? Is it really you?” I said stupidly.

  “The same.” He nodded. “Although you’re taller since I last saw you.”

  “That was—last October. I haven’t grown that much. Anyway, how can you tell if I’m taller if I’m not even standing up?” There I went, sounding coy again.

  “Not only taller, but prettier, and witty, too,” he said, winking at me.

  I knew why Margaret was so sweet on him. Quickly, to cover up my confusion, I said, “Are you hurt? Let me find a doctor to look at you.”

  “No, I don’t need a sawbones,” he said with a wave of his hand. It shook, however, as he lowered it to his chest. “I hope to live a while longer.”

  I looked him over and was relieved to see he was all in one piece.

  “Well, can you get up and come inside then?”

  “Not quite. I took some shrapnel in my back. The bleeding’s stopped, but my legs are still numb. I don’t need anything but another cup of that broth.”

  “How long have you been here? Where’s your horse?” I asked, refilling his cup.

  “Running wild somewhere, like I wish I was. Our cavalry just came up from Emmitsburg and caught the end of today’s battle. Those rebels almost got the better of us. But enough about me. I’d rather talk about you. And your lovely cousin, Mrs. Roth, of course.”

  So I told him all about Margaret. When I described her grabbing the kitchen knife to fend off the soldiers, he tried to laugh but it turned into a groan.

  “Now, don’t let me keep you from your work any longer, Miss Allbauer. But promise you’ll come by in the morning with some ink and paper. I’d like to write a letter to Mrs. Roth.”

  “Of course. And I will bring you some hot porridge too. I’ll make it myself.”

  “My dear Miss Allbauer, you have given me something to live for.” He sighed and closed his blue eyes.

  It was reassuring to see that a man could be injured in battle and remain so jaunty. I doled out the rest of the broth cheerfully until the pot was empty. It was surely long after midnight when I trudged up the stairs to bed, bone weary. I eased the door open. Jack and Clara were fast asleep on a mattress on the floor.

  At the sight of Grace, however, I froze. She crouched on the floor, clutching the bedstead. By the light of a candle burning on the wash-stand, I saw beads of moisture on her forehead. Sweat had soaked her dress, which was gathered up under her arms. She grimaced, showing her teeth, and a deep groan escaped her. Her eyes were closed. She did not know I was there. Her knees trembled and her huge belly almost touched the floor as she strained. She had folded a rug beneath her to catch the blood and water that spilled from between her legs.

  “Grace, hold on, I’ll get a doctor,” I said, but at that moment she groaned again, gave a great heave, and a glistening baby slipped from her body into her own hands. She eased it onto a folded blanket, wiped it clean with her skirt, and sucked the fluid from its mouth and nose. The baby gasped and gave a thin cry. Grace slumped over and let out a sigh.

  “How can I help?” I said, finally venturing into the room.

  Grace looked up, not showing any surprise to see me. Her whole body shook with exhaustion. She motioned weakly toward a pair of scissors lying nearby. I picked them up and cut the baby’s cord and tied it with string. Clumsily I wrapped him in a clean apron. Grace had obviously prepared everything beforehand.

  “You have a boy,” I
whispered, placing him in her arms.

  Grace’s eyes brimmed, but she smiled.

  “His name is Lincoln,” she said proudly, her tears spilling onto the baby as if baptizing him.

  Lizzie

  Chapter 39

  Grace wouldn’t allow me to fetch a doctor or disturb the Weigel sisters. So I brought up a bucket of water and helped her clean up and put on an old dress I had found by rummaging in a hall cupboard. The baby started to cry, waving his tiny fists, but Grace put him to her breast and he was quiet. I made Grace lie in the bed, while I slept on the floor and did not stir until morning, when the light coming through a crack in the shutters fell on my eyes.

  Grace was still asleep, curled around Lincoln as if he were still inside her. The air in the room was stale, so I opened the window, but the air outside was no less thick and humid. I heard the clank of mess kits, the sound of a fiddle, and the eager voices of Jack and Clara down in the kitchen. From a distance came the booming of artillery.

  I got up to relieve myself and found the privy so full that it made me gag. On the way back I had to avert my eyes from a soldier crouching near the fence with his trousers down. When I went to pump water to splash on my face, not even a trickle came out. Martin passed by with a yoke over his shoulders, carrying two full pails of water.

  “Well’s dry. We’re fetching water from the creek,” he called.

  I decided to wash up later, after I had taken porridge to Mr. Hartmann, along with ink and paper so he could write to Margaret. I would also tell him the good news about Grace’s baby.