by Lisa Klein
“Lizzie, do you think you could find some linens?” came Annie Baumann’s voice. “We are plumb out of bandages.”
Tired half-circles looped under her eyes. She looked as if she had not slept at all.
“I don’t think there’s a single piece of cloth left in the house,” I said.
“Well then, we’ll just have to reuse the soiled ones,” she said.
“That’s disgusting,” I blurted out. “Give them to me and I’ll wash them out in the creek.” The job did not appeal to me, but it had to be done. I followed Annie and saw the surgeon’s table sitting outside the barn with a canopy over it.
“Why is this out here?” I asked.
“Because the light is better, and the air can circulate freely, which is more wholesome,” said Annie, sounding knowledgeable. “Stay here and I’ll get the bandages.”
A man climbed onto the table, holding one hand close to him. He was smiling and appeared to be joking with the assistants. The surgeon opened his case and examined his instruments. Annie came back and set the box of soiled bandages on the ground.
“This isn’t a serious case. Just a few fingers,” she said. Then she added in a whisper, “He’s a handsome one, too, and not married. I think he fancies me!”
“Wait, I thought you liked my brother.”
“Ye-e-s,” she said. “But this one’s an officer.”
“Annie Baumann, how dare you think you’re better than my brother?” I jammed my fists against my hips. “You know, I was beginning to think that I had misjudged you, but now I know I had it right all along. You are an insufferable snob.”
I grabbed the box of bandages and marched off without looking back. At the creek I splashed cool water on my face, then plunged the bandages into the water and watched the blood dissolve and swirl away. I used a rock to scrub the remaining stains until the bandages were mostly clean, then laid the wet cloths on rocks and bushes in a sunny clearing. I felt a twinge of hunger and decided a bowl of porridge with some berries or sugar would taste grand.
I leaped to my feet. I had forgotten Mr. Hartmann! I ran all the way back to the shed. At the spot where he had lain, there was only a rumpled blanket and a tin cup.
“Where … did he go?” Panting, I appealed to a man lying nearby. “Last night I sat and talked to a man right here.” I pointed to the spot.
“They come with a stretcher real early and took some fellow away. He wasn’t moving,” the man said. “Asleep in Jesus, I reckon.”
“No, this man wasn’t dying,” I protested. “He told me he wasn’t badly hurt.”
“Well, I sure am. Can you get me some morphine?” he begged.
I shook my head, then glanced around. Of course! He had been taken to see a doctor. I ran into the barn, almost colliding with Annie. Though she was the last person I wanted to see, I grabbed her arm and began describing Mr. Hartmann.
“Please help me find him here,” I pleaded with her.
“Why, is he someone you fancy?” she asked coolly.
“No! Is that all you ever think about? He is my cousin Margaret’s beau.”
“Ask the assistant surgeon over there,” she said, pulling away from me.
I waited while the surgeon checked his list. He shook his head. I asked him to check again.
“I record each soldier’s name, rank, and injury when he is admitted to the hospital. He’s not here, miss.”
I turned and shouted into the thick, putrid air of the barn, “Frederick Hartmann? Are you here? It’s me, Lizzie!”
The surgeon took my arm and propelled me from the barn.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I stood blinking in the sun. What if the numbness in Mr. Hartmann’s legs had gone away and he had walked off to rejoin his regiment? I set off along Taneytown Road, asking the soldiers I passed if anyone had seen a cavalryman with blue eyes and a big mustache. They all shrugged or shook their heads. Soon the futility of my search struck me. I had as much chance of finding him as I did a single leaf in the autumn woods.
I sat down on a rock and ground the heels of my hands into my eyes, berating myself for breaking such a simple promise. How could I have been so distracted by the stupid bandages? Now Frederick Hartmann was gone. What must he think of me? I trudged back up the road, hearing the intermittent firing of cannons somewhere near Culp’s Hill. I wondered how many tons of gunpowder, lead bullets, and cannonballs had been used in the last two days, and how many thousands of men had been injured or killed. At least Mr. Hartmann was alive somewhere. Martin would help me search every cot and corner of the barn until we found him. Buoyed with this small hope, I picked up my pace.
Along the road near the Weigels’ drive, I saw the stack of boxes. Long and narrow, they were made of rough pine and scrap lumber. They had been placed there recently, for they were not yet covered with the dust stirred by the passing traffic. I counted ten of them. With a start, I realized they were coffins, and I knew in my heart that Frederick Hartmann hadn’t wandered off—he was dead.
I walked down to the creek and scrubbed bandages until my fingers were raw and my hands and arms ached. When Martin came up to me, I tried to hide the tears that slipped silently down my cheeks.
“There you are, Lizzie. Stop what you’re doing for a minute. Listen.”
Two redbirds called to each other from the branches of a nearby tree. Crickets chirped lazily. The leaves overhead rustled. The wet cloth in my hand dripped into the water.
“The fighting has stopped,” he said.
“Then I can go home,” I said, thinking of Mama. But then the face of Frederick Hartmann came to mind, and I started to sob loudly.
“Great golly,” Martin said. He shifted from one leg to the other. “Why are you crying?”
“A soldier … died … because I didn’t feed him!” It took me a while to choke out the words
“That happens, Lizzie. There are too many of them for us to help.”
“But I knew this one. He was our friend. He helped rescue Grace, and he was in love with Margaret.” I stared into the water. Upstream, someone was stirring the creek, for it flowed by murkily. “Of all the men who were killed yesterday, only this one makes me cry,” I mused. “Isn’t that selfish?”
“Maybe you are crying for all of them,” he said.
“Well, I’ll stop for now, because it sure doesn’t do any good,” I said, trying to smile. I didn’t want Martin to think I was one of those weepy, emotional girls.
I sat down on the trunk of a tree that had fallen across the water. Martin sat next to me and the tree bounced gently under our weight. I gripped the trunk with my legs, afraid I would lose my balance. Then Martin put his arm around my back and rested a hand on my shoulder. I felt myself relax against him. His other hand reached for my right hand and gave it a squeeze.
“Lizzie, you can’t worry about the dead. You have to think about the living.”
Martin turned his head toward me and took a breath as if he intended to say more. His face was inches from my own. Tensing, I sprang up from the log.
“That reminds me, Grace had her baby last night!” I exclaimed.
Good heavens, had Martin been about to kiss me? I was thinking.
“I know, I came to tell you,” he said.
“Well, I want to see how she is doing,” I said, gathering up the bandages that were dry.
“My ma and aunts are fussing around her and the baby like they are African royalty. Let’s stay here a bit longer,” he pleaded.
I was afraid to sit down on the log again. Martin would know I wanted to be kissed. So I gathered up the bandages that were dry and started back to the house. With a sigh, Martin followed.
I found Grace lying in the bed, nursing the baby, who had a wrinkled face and fuzzy black hair. His toes looked like tiny peas inside a freshly opened pod. Grace looked up, beaming, until she saw my tear-streaked face.
“You been cryin’, Miss Lizzie,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,
I’m just tired,” I lied. I could not tell her about Frederick Hartmann and cut into her joy. “The fighting stopped. I’ll take you and the baby home today, so Mama can look after you.”
Grace shook her head. “First you bounce me down here an’ brought on this baby, an’ now you want to bounce me home again, sore as I am? No, we stayin’ here. But you go on, and if Amos is back—”
“I’ll give him the news, of course,” I said.
I went to the kitchen to tell Mrs. Weigel that I was going home. She and Martin were drinking coffee and eating flatbread, for the yeast was used up.
“Going back to Gettysburg! With soldiers and rebels everywhere shooting at each other? Martin, sie ist verrückt!”
I guessed that Mrs. Weigel believed I was crazy, and Martin looked as if he agreed with her.
“The fighting seems to be over now. And Grace needs clean clothes and linens for the baby,” I said.
Mrs. Weigel gave a dismissive snort. “That baby needs nothing but his mother.”
“Well, I want to see my mother. And Margaret will be worried about her children.”
“You cannot take the little ones! It is not safe yet.”
“Well I am going. You can’t stop me!” I tried to sound firm but my voice wavered.
Martin pushed back his chair and stood up.
“How about if I go along, Ma? I’ll see her home and then come back. The rebels won’t waste their ammunition on us.”
I stared at Martin in surprise, while he watched his mother, waiting for her decision. She pursed her lips, frowned, and shook her head, but finally she gave in. She spoke sternly to Martin in German, and he replied in a reassuring tone, kissed her on the cheek, and dashed out.
Mrs. Weigel grasped me by the shoulders. “Be careful, Lizzie dear. Greet your liebe Mutti for me.” Then she embraced me as if she thought she would never see me alive again.
Lizzie
Chapter 40
I retrieved the rifle John Ray gave me and slung the cartridge box diagonally across my chest so that it rested on my hip. I was standing in the drive when Martin reappeared with a knapsack and two canteens filled with water.
“Bad news,” he said. “The cart you came in is being used as an ambulance, and your horse ran off.”
“Then I’ll walk,” I said, taking a canteen from Martin and fixing it to the leather strap of the cartridge box. Martin tied the other one to his belt.
“No, don’t,” I said gently. “I’m going by myself. I’m not very useful here, but you are badly needed.”
“I want to come with you,” he said.
“Then you would have to come back alone. I can manage on my own,” I insisted. I lifted the rifle over my shoulder as Martin’s eyes widened in alarm. “Don’t worry, I don’t even know how to use it.”
“Well, you’d better learn,” he said, a bit sharply. He took the gun from me and whistled. “This is no squirrel shooter. It’s a Springfield. Where’d you get it?”
“From a soldier lying in Mama’s front hall.” I told him about John Ray and Zimmer, too. “Seems like that happened two weeks ago, not two days ago.”
Martin continued to admire the rifle. “Don’t tell Ma, but a sergeant showed me how to load these. Hand me a cartridge and a cap.”
I fumbled in the pouch and drew out a wrapped cartridge about the size of my forefinger and a cap smaller than a thimble. Martin bit open the cartridge and spit out the paper.
“This here contains powder and a ball. You ram it into the barrel using this rod, then lift the rifle to firing position. Now insert this little percussion cap. Cock the hammer, and aim.” He squinted down the barrel. “You do this for each shot. A quick soldier can get off three shots every minute.”
Martin’s long fingers worked nimbly. The muscles in his forearm stood out beneath the skin. I had trouble concentrating on his instructions. He handed me the gun and I shouldered it as he had.
“Don’t fire it now!” he warned, laying a hand on my arm.
I lowered the gun and took a step away from him. “I’m not stupid,” I said, while my heart beat faster with excitement.
“Lizzie, back there by the creek, I only meant to comfort you, not to scare you,” Martin said softly, his eyes pleading.
“I wasn’t scared,” I said, but that was a lie. I couldn’t even meet his eyes.
“Here, before you go, take this,” he said, setting his hat on my head. It was too big for me, but it was wide-brimmed and shaded my face from the sun.
I thanked him and walked away quickly. It was about noon. Home was five miles up the road. I figured it would take me less than two hours to cover the distance. But the going proved rough, with all the debris scattered on the road and the ruts that threatened to turn my ankles. The sun beat hotly down and I was grateful for Martin’s hat. An ambulance pulled by two weary horses passed me, and the dust almost made me choke. A soldier riding in the back, his arm in a sling, tipped his cap to me and I waved back. To my left, the green hills of Cemetery Ridge rose up, and I wondered if the Union soldiers were still entrenched there, or if they had moved on in the night.
North of the Hummelbaugh homestead, I saw a group of soldiers in dirty blue jackets approaching on the road. Their officer was using his rifle to prod a man who shuffled before him with his head down. I yielded the road and waited for them to pass.
“Hey there, Billy, you don’t fool me none,” called out one of the soldiers, whose face was almost hidden by his huge beard. “Take off the skirt!”
When I realized the soldier was addressing me, I was afraid they meant to harm me. So I climbed over the stone fencerow and ran across a field. The rifle, cartridge box, and canteen banged against me, slowing me down. I looked back and the bearded man was close behind me.
“Stop or I’ll shoot ya!” he yelled. “Put down yer rifle!”
I stopped, let the rifle drop, and reached up instinctively to protect my head, knocking off Martin’s hat.
“Why, I’ll be durned, it’s a lady!” he said. Another soldier ran up and grabbed the bearded man and cuffed him.
“Beg yer pardon, miss. Bernie here’s an idiot.”
“Ow!” said Bernie, shrugging off the other soldier. “We thought you was a straggler or a deserter, like that cowardly bag of bones we found in yonder shed,” he said by way of apology.
The second soldier picked up my rifle and escorted me back to the road, where the officer waited.
“Corporal Bingham. Third Minnesota.” He introduced himself without taking his gun off the captured deserter. “Don’t think they’re allowin’ women into the army just yet. Shouldn’t you go home, miss?”
“I am going home. I live in Gettysburg.”
“Then be careful. There’s still rebel snipers up there. If you’re determined to go, be sure and take off that hat before you get near. Let them see that long yellow hair of yours, so they don’t take you for one of us.”
“Yes, sir, thank you,” I said.
“No hard feelings, miss?” asked Bernie. Looking contrite, he held out a square biscuit. I took it with a small nod. The soldiers began to move on, shoving their reluctant captive before them, but the corporal hesitated.
“I’m not sure you ought to be toting that rifle,” he said to me.
“Sir, I may come upon someone who intends to harm me,” I replied, looking pointedly at Bernie. The officer laughed.
“If you do, be sure you don’t shoot yourself by mistake,” he said.
A bold impulse, or maybe it was a foolish one, made me raise the rifle, cock it as Martin had shown me, and take aim at a boulder about fifty yards away. Bracing for the recoil, I pulled the trigger. The crack of the rifle made my ears ring, and the butt struck my shoulder hard, but the bullet hit the rock, leaving a charred black spot. The officer raised his eyebrows and whistled.
“I see you can take care of yourself,” he said. “We’d better skedaddle, men.”
When they had left, I realized that my knees were shaking un
controllably. I had actually fired a rifle! Even more amazing, I had hit my target. I ran my hand down the barrel, which was still hot. Slowly it cooled, and I reloaded exactly as Martin had shown me.
When my legs felt solid, I set out walking again. I was hungry and realized I had not eaten anything all day. So I took a bite of the biscuit the soldier had given me and almost broke a tooth. So this was the hardtack Luke had written about! I took a sip of water and held it in my mouth until it softened the biscuit so that I could chew it. The heat grew more intense, and sweat tricked down my back and between my breasts until my dress was soaked. I was halfway home. What would I do if Mama and Margaret were not there?
In a field beside the road, Union soldiers on horseback circled a hundred or more gray-clad soldiers, rounding them up like cattle. The men, weaponless, trudged with their heads down. Thinking of Papa, I pitied them, even if they were rebels. Then it dawned on me that the sight of so many prisoners must mean that the rebels had lost the battle. Filled with hope, I quickened my pace. My heavy rifle felt as light as a toy.
Then, with no warning, an explosion tore the silence, followed by another and another, like a giant boulder rumbling down a hallway in the heavens. Instinct drove me from the open road to the protection of a stone wall running alongside it. I pressed my hands against my ears and peered up at the hills, expecting to see trees and rocks tumbling down toward me. Then the answering fire came and it was, if possible, even louder. I saw smoke rising over the treetops and realized that the guns on Cemetery Ridge were firing back at the rebels. The ground rocked as if it would break open and swallow me. Then from out of the cumulative thunder came a whirring sound, ascending to a shriek, followed by a loud crack. I felt the stone wall shift and dirt and pebbles rain on my back. When I dared to look up again, I saw that an oak tree not fifty yards away had been broken in half like a stick of firewood, leaving a jagged trunk. The top of the tree lay on the ground, its branches still shuddering from the impact.
I scrambled to my feet and ran as if pursued by demons.
Rosanna
Chapter 41