by Lisa Klein
When I dressed Tom’s wound this morning I was pleased to see the tissue looking healthier. I told him I was sure that he would eventually regain full use of his arm. With that, he announced it was time for him to go.
“Will you return to the regiment?” I asked.
“No, ma’am. Without you or Mastuh John, I got no one to keep me safe. They wouldn’t mess with me when I was the Wilcoxes’ servant, but on my own, I’m just another nigger. I know men who would just as soon send me down South in leg irons,” he said grimly. “I heard what almost happened to Mr. Amos.”
It had never occurred to me that the steady, capable Tom had relied on John and me for protection. I tried to persuade him to stay, saying Amos would help him find a job. But no, he said, it was time for him to test his freedom. He was leaving to join a regiment of colored troops being mustered at Camp William Penn near Philadelphia.
“Soon I’ll be wearin’ a blue jacket with the gold eagle of freedom on its buttons,” he announced.
The idea of Tom fighting for the Union against the South struck me as a betrayal. I struggled for words to express my disbelief.
“But why? You’re free. You can go—to New York, and earn money, say, as a teamster.”
“That’s right, I’m a free man, an’ I wants all my brothers an’ sisters to be free, too.”
I could not argue with that. I had to respect his choice. But Tom was my link to John, for we both had loved him. He saw that regret in my eyes.
“We sure been through a lot together, Miz Rose. What will you do now?” he asked with sincere concern.
I said I did not know. Indeed I have given no thought to the future.
Tom and I parted. I said that I would always consider him among the finest human beings I had ever known, but I did not carry on praising him, for fear of offending his dignity.
Friday, July 17, 1863
Of late, Gettysburg has been besieged by thousands of visitors and distraught family members seeking news of loved ones killed or wounded here. For three days we had a husband and wife from New York living in the parlor, until they located their son, who was not badly hurt. This heartened us all and took away the sting of so much sorrow. Many who come to town, however, are only gawkers and souvenir hunters who roam the streets all night because all the lodgings are full.
I have been walking into town and back to increase my strength. The streets teem with activity. Fahnestock’s store houses the headquarters for the U.S. Sanitary Commission, and wagons full of supplies come and go constantly. Margaret volunteers for the commission, serving soup and coffee to soldiers waiting for trains. Among them are Union soldiers going to hospitals in Washington, D.C., and Confederates being sent to prison camps.
John’s regiment must be far away by now. My service there is now a closed chapter in my life. Tom’s question repeats itself in my head: what will I do next?
Monday, July 20, 1863
Margaret brought home the news that the Sanitary Commission is erecting a general hospital along York Pike east of town and all the regimental and field hospitals will shut down. Then last night I dreamed about the poor injured man who cried, “Don’t leave me!” as the troops decamped and retreated. I woke up with the thought: someone must care for those sons of the South who were left behind after the battle.
I shall inquire at the new hospital when I am stronger.
Tuesday, July 21, 1863
Today Lizzie confided in me something that has been weighing on her for weeks. Margaret’s beau, whom Lizzie described as a “dashing cavalier,” was at the battle for Little Round Top and the next day died of his wounds. She was still distraught about it as she told me how she had been washing out bandages and forgot to take him his porridge.
“I don’t see how that makes you responsible for his death,” I said gently.
“And I don’t see how you can blame yourself for John Wilcox’s death. But we can’t help how we feel, can we?”
I sighed, for she was right. “I suppose we women will always feel guilty for things that aren’t our fault, simply because we can’t change them. If men would take the blame for killing one another, perhaps they’d come to their senses and stop the war.”
“Well, maybe so, and maybe not. But how shall we tell your sister about Mr. Hartmann?” asked Lizzie. “The longer I keep this secret, the more I feel like a liar.”
“I will tell Margaret myself, when the time is right,” I offered.
Later in the day, to test my sister’s feelings, I asked her, “Have you heard lately from the gentleman who has been courting you?”
“I have not lost my heart, if that is what you are asking,” she said, perhaps thinking of my impulsive marriage. “I am hopeful that he will return.”
I saw by her eyes that her affection for him still runs deep. She deserves a good husband. I wish she could be spared the sad news.
Thursday, July 23, 1863
Yesterday while feeding soldiers at the depot, Margaret learned that many Confederate wounded had been transferred to the new general hospital, Camp Letterman. So this morning I dressed myself very presentably in a borrowed dress, wore a clean white apron, and asked Ben to drive me there. I introduced myself to the superintendent and cited my nursing experience, but the stern Yankee gave me a cool reception. Was it my accent? His wife, however, was proud to show me the camp.
The hospital stretches across a gentle hilltop and consists of hundreds of tents in rows, housing almost three thousand patients. At the entrance to each tent hang cedar boughs to ward off insects and cleanse the air. A fresh, untainted stream flows nearby, and a network of ditches carries foul water away from the camp. A depot is being built, with storage tents to hold provisions and supplies that arrive daily. The trains carry convalescents to permanent hospitals in Philadephia or Baltimore, while ambulances bring in the wounded from all around Gettysburg. The hospital is well organized, with dozens of officials and surgeons.
I said to the superintendent’s wife that I had not seen, except in Richmond, a hospital better outfitted.
“Our nurses and matrons are well trained, and of the plain and sturdy sort,” she replied, regarding my figure with a critical eye. “Mrs. Dix, who supervises the Union army’s nurses, does not accept women who are under thirty or attractive.”
I would have liked to take issue with Mrs. Dix’s views but opted for deference instead.
“Might I assist with the wounded Confederates left behind in the retreat?”
“The rebels are given the same care as our own soldiers, with no distinctions made between them,” she said with a firm gesture of her hand. “However, we have one ward of prisoners that is understaffed.”
She led me to the ward of four tents, where I expected to find my charges sorely neglected. But I saw that the men, numbering perhaps three dozen, were clean and well cared for. The surgeon was finishing his rounds. A woman with steel gray hair fed a man with no arms. She struck me at once as a diligent and compassionate person. Nurse Spradlin introduced herself. She said her men were a grateful bunch, although the camp at large was not so friendly.
“I’ve been called a rebel sympathizer and mocked for doing good among the ‘butternuts’—the name they give Confederates due to the color of their uniforms, you know. But each one of my patients is as brave as any Yankee,” she said proudly.
As Nurse Spradlin described to me the condition of each soldier and the daily routine, she revealed that her father was born in Virginia. I said that I was a Confederate soldier’s widow, and as we talked of our lives, I felt that I had found a kindred spirit.
Before leaving, I wrote several letters for my patients, which helped me become acquainted with them. The long day wearied me, and now I must get some rest.
Tuesday, July 28, 1863
Despite its clean and well-run exterior and the able staff, Camp Letterman is home to incurable grief. Each day, new graves dot the cemetery behind the camp, a reminder that the final cost of the battle is not yet tall
ied. Yesterday a mother who arrived from Alabama in time to watch her son die wept for hours, refusing to let go of his hand. Neither Nurse Spradlin nor I could comfort her, and her piteous cries made all our patients sorrowful. Finally we calmed her with a dose of laudanum and I brought her home to stay for a few days.
Saturday, August 1, 1863
This afternoon I found Margaret sitting quietly in the parlor, her hands resting in her lap. I knelt at her feet and reached up, taking her hands in my own.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, sister,” I began.
She looked at me, but I could see her thoughts were elsewhere at first.
“What is it? Have you fallen for one of your patients already?” She said this with a smile of sad resignation. Does she still think me so flighty?
“No, this is not about me.” I caressed her hand for a long moment. “It’s about your Mr. Hartmann. He was injured at Little Round Top. I’m afraid he is—”
“I already know!” Margaret wailed. Her smooth face crumpled with agony. “I found out yesterday, at the depot. Why do you think I’ve been going there every day? I was hoping, hoping … “
I gathered my sister in my arms and brought her down into my lap and we swayed back and forth together, shedding tears on each other’s cheeks and grasping one another as if death were trying to pull us apart too.
Lizzie
Chapter 47
Gettysburg recovered from the battle like a wounded soldier learning to walk again, step by slow step. First the shops and businesses reopened. Then churches became places of worship again as the wounded soldiers left for the new hospital on York Pike. Eventually all the dead horses were burned, and the air was not so foul smelling anymore. Some farmers replanted their fields, hoping for a mild fall and a decent harvest. People talked cheerfully about life returning to normal again, but we all knew that those three days in July had changed us forever.
One day in the middle of August, Martin came into the shop. I hadn’t seen him for weeks. He said, “Hello,” then ducked his head slightly as if he were embarrassed. I took a rag and rubbed at an imaginary spot on the countertop.
“Have you come to get your job back? I need someone to help bring in new contracts for slaughtering and curing,” I said, trying to sound businesslike.
“Well, no, not exactly.” He took off his hat and toyed with the brim.
I wanted to say that I missed him, that it was good to see him.
“Perhaps I could offer you a higher wage.”
“I’ve been rebuilding fences every day,” he said, holding up his callused hands. “Some of our neighbors lost all their stock, and the rest of us are still rounding up strays and trying to sort out whose sows and cows are whose. I came to say that I can’t work for you, because there’s just too much to be done on the farm.”
“That’s too bad,” I said, trying to hide how disappointed I really felt.
“It’s going to be a tough winter,” he went on. “Almost all the crops were ruined, and farmers around us are afraid to plow their fields, what with all the unexploded shells still lying around. Can you believe it? The battle’s over, but it’s still possible to get killed around here.”
“I know. I’ve threatened my brother with dire punishments if he goes looking for cannonballs again.”
Martin chuckled. He rotated his hat brim between his thumb and forefinger.
“I’m almost done here,” I said, putting down the rag. I hoped he would suggest that we go for a walk.
“Perhaps I could ask my neighbors what prices and terms they can manage and try to talk up some business for you. If Amos could drive the stock to market, that might seal the bargain.”
“Thank you, that would be very helpful,” I said.
Martin shifted his weight to one leg, his hip jutting to the side. He looked confident and manly, until he reached up and tugged at the hair that hung over his forehead.
“You had any news from your pa?”
“No. Mama wrote to our uncle in Richmond, and he wrote back saying there was no record of Papa at Belle Isle or the hospitals. But he allowed there were hundreds of prisoners who were not even processed. That was the word he used. ‘Processed.’ Like cattle. I don’t think he looked very hard for Papa. He was always sore that Mama married a Yankee.”
“Maybe your pa wrote a letter but it never got through.”
“That’s what I tell Mama. She’s living on the hope that he’ll come home as soon as the war is over.”
“That won’t be much longer, now that we won Gettysburg and Vicksburg both.”
“Well, I’ve heard folks say it might be over now, if Meade hadn’t let Lee get away from here after the battle,” I said.
“The situation is always more clear when you look back at it,” Martin said, fixing his eyes on mine.
What did he mean? I knew what I was thinking: that I should have let him kiss me that day by the stream.
“Do you mean, by clearer … the battle?” I asked, my tongue stumbling over the words.
“That too. Well, I should go now,” he said, but he made no move to leave.
Just then Mrs. Brodhead and another woman swept into the shop, and whatever Martin and I would have said to each other next went unsaid.
When I told Mama that night about Martin’s offer, she laid aside her knitting and folded her hands in her lap.
“I’ve been considering this matter, too,” she said, smiling. “And I have decided to assume more responsibility for the daily operation of the shop.”
“Why?” I asked, becoming wary.
“I know how much you regret having to forego your schooling for two years. So I have enrolled you at the Ladies’ Seminary for the fall term!” Mama put up a hand. “Don’t worry how we will manage the tuition. You have more than earned it.”
“I am doing a good job. Why take me away from it?” I blurted out.
“I thought you wanted to go to school and become a teacher,” she said, looking hurt.
“I can do that when the war is over. Right now is a critical time for the business. Demand is high, but people are short of money. If we raise prices, we will lose our customers! Father would be crushed if you let—if that happened.” I saw Mama’s face darken. “It’s not that I don’t trust you to run the business. But I feel responsible for this family too.”
“You can stop trying to prove yourself to me and your father,” Mama said sternly.
My feelings boiled over like a pot of jam cooking on a fast fire.
“Do you think I wanted to run a butcher shop? No! But it makes me feel like there’s something I am good at, something I have control over. Don’t you understand?”
Mama softened. She wasn’t holding a grudge for what I’d said.
“I think I do, Lizzie. But I miss seeing you all dreamy, lost in a story. It used to be that all you cared about was having a good book to carry around with you.”
“Well, I’m using my head for business now. Storybooks don’t seem very useful these days,” I said.
“War or no war, children always need teachers. Perhaps you can attend just the literature classes and continue working at the shop. Mathematics might be useful as well. Shall I speak to Mrs. Pierpont about it?”
Mama’s offer seemed like a good compromise, so I found myself, at last, a student at the Ladies’ Seminary. I was famous, too, for all the girls knew that I had met General Meade, traveled twice through the battle lines, and barely escaped an exploding shell. One girl had even heard that I shot a soldier who tried to molest me, a rumor I quickly stopped. They were less impressed by Annie’s experiences, for several of the girls had helped nurse wounded soldiers. But Ginnie Wade, whom most of the seminary girls would never have considered a friend while she lived, was everyone’s heroine because of her death. Mrs. Pierpont even had us compose poems for a pageant in her honor.
One day in literature class, Annie showed off a silver ring on a chain around her neck. She swept back her perfect ringlets so tha
t it was visible to all.
“The officer I nursed at the Weigels’ gave it to me. He lost only two fingers, fortunately. We’re betrothed!” she announced. She seemed to have forgotten that she ever fancied my brother, and I decided it was just as well, for Luke deserved better.
My eighteenth birthday came that October. Rosanna and I decided to have a picnic at Culp’s Hill, just the two of us. Mama sent along a chocolate cake and a bowl of thick cream. When I went to Margaret’s house to meet Rosanna, she gave me a present, a green silk shawl. Margaret had made a matching bonnet for me.
“It’s exactly right for you; it makes your eyes look even more green,” Rosanna said, draping the shawl around my shoulders.
“I’ve never worn anything so fashionable,” I said, awed, as she led me to the dressing table.
“Now I’ll sweep back your hair, like this.” Rosanna wound up my hair, pinned it, and set the bonnet on top.
“But we are going on a picnic, not to a ball. What if these get soiled?” I fingered the lush silk.
“It is your birthday,” said Rosanna. “It’s no time to be practical.”
As we left, Margaret called out, “Keep Rosanna in your sight, Lizzie, so she doesn’t run off to Richmond again.” I think she was only half teasing.
“We are not going to get on a train for some fancy city, are we?” I asked, regarding my cousin with some suspicion.
“With a chocolate cake and no money? I hardly think so,” she laughed.
As we ambled down the street in no hurry, I told Rosanna all about school, about Annie’s engagement and the upcoming pageant in Ginnie’s memory. We had begun reading Shakespeare, and I described Julius Caesar as a great war story about friendship and betrayal. I even begged Rosanna to come back to the seminary.
“Widows do not go to school, Lizzie,” she said, affecting the manner of one of the Gettysburg matrons.