Two Girls of Gettysburg

by Lisa Klein

  “You are hardly older than I am,” I pointed out. “And I always wanted us to go to school together. Don’t you agree that it would be fun?”

  “I have outgrown fun, Lizzie,” she said, but she was smiling.

  We had gone as far as the Wagon Hotel at the intersection of Baltimore Road and Emmitsburg Road when Rosanna stopped, clapped her hands together, and said, “Well, look who’s here!”

  It was Sunday, and a few carriages rolled by with folks heading for church or a family dinner. I followed her gaze but didn’t see anyone I knew. A man alighted from a horse and hitched it in front of the hotel, where another man was sitting astride the fence. The second man leaped to the ground and took off his hat, and then I recognized Martin Weigel.

  “Just the two of us, you said?” I hissed at Rosanna.

  “Is it my fault if we happen to encounter a young gentleman on our outing?” she replied, feigning innocence.

  “But what will he think of me, decked out like this?” I whispered as Martin approached.

  “He will think you the picture of loveliness. Now smile.”

  So I smiled. Martin looked fine in trousers with a matching vest, a white shirt, and a loose cravat, as if he had been at church.

  “Isn’t it a grand day for Lizzie’s birthday? Why don’t you come with us for a picnic? I don’t think my cousin would mind, would you, Lizzie?”

  Martin took my arm. I didn’t mind at all. It was a grand day. The autumn leaves blazed gold and red and yellow, plummeting downward with every gust of wind and rustling loudly underfoot.

  I welcomed Rosanna’s chatter, though it went right through my ears. I was conscious of Martin’s closeness. His grasp was firm as he helped me up the rocky slope of Culp’s Hill. Rosanna, too, leaned on him. I was proud of my new shawl and pleased that the bonnet hid my face so he wouldn’t see how flushed I was.

  In the woods, it was sunless and chilly. We had trouble finding our favorite picnic spot near the stream. So much had changed. Broken limbs hung from trees whose trunks were blackened and ridden with bullets. Breastworks made of earth, rocks, and saplings still stood in a zigzagging line. Here and there were mounds of earth topped by simple wooden crosses. I knew they were the graves of soldiers who had been buried where they fell. Holding my picnic basket, I felt as if I had burst into a church with no thought of praying there. By a mutual and silent consent, we retraced our steps out of the woods and sat down on a warm rock in the sun.

  “How could anyone have survived in there, with bullets falling like hail?” I said. It was not a question that had an answer, so no one offered one.

  “Did you see all the dirt scattered about? Who would dare to dig up a grave?” said Rosanna indignantly.

  “Haven’t you heard?” asked Martin. “There is to be a burial ground for Union soldiers beside Evergreen Cemetery. My uncle is on the committee. All the bodies in temporary graves are being dug up and properly buried there.”

  We talked about the difficulty and unpleasantness of such a task.

  Then Martin broke the somber mood. “Isn’t this a birthday party? I’m hungry,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

  We spread out the picnic and shared the tart, red-cheeked apples sent by Margaret. We divided the cake, and Martin ate two pieces for each one that Rosanna and I did. Then Rosanna yawned conspicuously and stood up. She strolled a little ways off, then lay down in the dappled shade of a tree and covered her face with her bonnet. Martin and I were practically alone.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “My cousin is always coming up with one scheme or another.”

  “No, this was my idea,” said Martin, smiling at me.

  I looked at him in surprise. He slid closer to me on the blanket, and we sat as still as two rabbits that have spied a fox.

  “I can’t see your face,” he finally said, reaching over and tugging the ribbon of my bonnet. It came untied.

  Startled, I put up my hands to hold it in place.

  “Do you like it? It’s my birthday present,” I said to hide my confusion.

  “It’s pretty. The green suits you. Let me see your eyes.” He played with the ribbon. I lowered my head to allow him to lift off the bonnet. “The shawl looks nice against the pink of your skin,” he said, touching my neck. His fingers felt cool. “And the sunlight makes your hair look like gold,” he said, smoothing back the wisps that had fallen from the pins.

  I was about to melt into a puddle of soft wax. I grabbed his hands and held them between us. He leaned away from me with a sigh, and I let out my breath too. Glancing over at Rosanna, I saw that she had not stirred.

  “Look!” Martin freed his hands to point overhead, where a hawk with a broad, white-feathered chest perched on a high branch. As we watched, it swooped to the ground, seized a wriggling snake in its talons, and flew away again, its shadow passing over us.

  My own senses sharpened, I heard the thump of walnuts falling from a nearby tree and watched a squirrel turning one in its tiny paws and nibbling away the green husk. Its teeth made a small ticking sound. The browning stalks of coneflowers and goldenrod rustled drily. The goldfinches, who were losing their bright summer plumage, still twittered and hopped among the withered flower heads, picking up seeds.

  Martin broke the silence. “I don’t ask anything more out of life than what it’s given me right here and now,” he said with a sigh of contentment.

  “Does that include me?” I asked, trying to sound lighthearted, though I was in complete earnest.

  “You’re here, now, aren’t you?” he replied, and I nodded. Then he reached into his pocket and brought out a small package wrapped in brown paper.

  “For your birthday. It’s taken me two months, since I ruined several before I was satisfied.”

  So he had been thinking of me ever since the battle! I held the package. It almost didn’t matter what was inside.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  I tore off the paper to reveal a wooden box with a lid that opened with a tiny hinge. On the lid was carved L. A. 1863.

  “I’ll keep this always,” I said in a whisper. “What shall I put in here?”

  “This memory, first of all,” said Martin, reaching over and brushing my cheek with his lips. He stayed there, his breath tickling my skin, silently asking for more. This time I would not lose the opportunity. I turned my face toward him and closed my eyes. Sure enough, his lips, warm and moist, pressed against mine. I opened my mouth just a bit and pressed back. Then, dizzy and out of breath, I pulled free and opened my eyes. Martin was smiling at me. He put both arms around me and leaned backward. I felt like I would fall. I took a deep breath as our lips met and didn’t try to stop myself. In my head, a voice exulted, I am kissing Martin Weigel!

  Lizzie

  Chapter 48

  Martin wanted to walk me home, but I declined, not wanting to face Mama’s inevitable questions. So at the Wagon Hotel we parted ways, and he went off a little disappointed.

  “You managed that quite properly,” said Rosanna.

  “Were you really asleep? Or were you peering at us the whole time?”

  “You’ll never know,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

  “At least tell me what you think of him.”

  “Why, I approve of him.”

  “Is that all you can say?”

  “He will be more handsome when his beard comes in.”

  “He is already handsome!”

  “My, it’s easy to rile you up. Of course he is nice looking. And he seems thoughtful and cautious. Neither of you is likely to lose your head in love.”

  “But what if I want to!” I spun around until I was giddy.

  “Then go ahead,” said Rosanna, laughing and throwing up her hands. “But it’s my obligation as a knowing widow to warn you.”

  “Pish and bother,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Oh, Rosanna, this has been the best birthday ever!” I hugged her, then skipped the rest of the way home, stopping in enough time to compose m
yself before Mama could see me and guess what I had been up to. But she was away at a meeting.

  Alone in my room, I folded my new silk shawl and caressed the fashionable bonnet before putting them away. If I were going to be courted by a fellow, I would need a new dress or two. Would a tartan skirt be too bold? Wearing only my shift, I tilted the mirror on the bureau and stood back to examine myself. I decided I owned a pleasing face and figure—not a beautiful one, certainly, but no longer the awkward, childish body I thought I would always have. I shivered at the memory of Martin’s embrace. How would I react when I saw him again? Would Mama allow Martin to court me, and when Papa came back, would he approve?

  Papa’s absence cut into my joy like a small, sharp knife. I went to bed and prayed that another birthday would not pass before I saw him again. And the very next day, the same providence that brought Luke and Rosanna to Gettysburg delivered a letter from Papa! Though it was dirt-stained and battered, the sight of his unmistakable handwriting brought tears of happiness to my eyes. Mama unfolded the letter with shaking fingers while Ben and I crowded around her. I noticed the date on the letter was almost two months ago.

  Near railroad depot and’ Pamunkey River

  August 30, 1863

  Dear wife and children,

  I suspect the few lines I wrote weeks ago never made it into the post as I had nothing to bribe the guard with. Nor do I now but I will take my chances. I am worried about your welfare after hearing of the battle at Gettysburg, and only a letter from would put me at ease again.

  I am tolerably well at the moment as I have avoided the prison camps thus far. The others taken in the raid were marched away at once. My foot being injured, they kept me behind and more or less forgot me. The ambulance that was to take me to a Richmond hospital never came, so I spent weeks playing checkers and cards with my captors. A good bunch of men, though blind to the evil of rebellion and slavery, and I could not convert their minds.

  When my foot healed somewhat they sent me and others by train to a holding camp along the James River, where we expected an exchange of prisoners that never came to pass. Conditions there were poor. I was given a square of wormy cornbread and 2 oz. of salted meat per day. With no shelter, my clothes and boots rotted on my body. My wound broke open and started to fester again due to damp and filth. A kind Southern doctor finally sent me to a Richmond hospital, where my foot was pronounced gangrenous and the necessary operation conducted at once.

  The good news, at which you should rejoice, is that I am alive and with both my arms, to embrace you when the war is over. I have only lost my lower right leg. In my ward are two men with no legs, and one missing half of his face. When I am back in the good hands of the Union medical corps, I will get a wooden leg that straps on like a harness.

  However, for the time being I expect to be sent to Belle Isle or Libby Prison in Richmond. I don’t mean to scare you if you have heard of the misery in theseplaces. But I must have a letter from you! The hope of seeing your beloved faces again is what keeps me alive. Remember as I do to pray every day for an end to this war and the birth of a lasting peace & freedom.

  Your loving husband and father, Albert

  Albert

  I was too stunned to speak or even to cry.

  “They cut off Papa’s foot, just like that?” cried Ben in disbelief.

  Mama let out a sob, and I put my arm around her shoulder, wondering what I could possibly say to comfort her. But she didn’t need comforting.

  “Dear Jesus, he’s alive! Oh, praise God,” Mama cried. “I must write to him now.”

  “I’ll get a pen and paper for you,” Ben said, jumping up.

  The letter from Papa had bolstered Mama’s hopes, but I couldn’t stop worrying. All the letter assured us was that he had been alive two months ago. Why hadn’t he written since then? I skipped my literature class and went to the shop, where I shuffled pages in the account books while my feelings shifted between hope and despair.

  An hour later Amos pulled up with a cartload of squealing pigs.

  “Why that’s great news ‘bout your pa!” he called out.

  “Yes, it is,” I replied, watching Amos’s nimble, vigorous movements as he wrestled a wandering sow through the gate.

  “Why’re you lookin’ so low spirited, Miz Lizzie?” he asked, wiping his face on a handkerchief.

  “My father will never be able to do that again—what you just did,” I said, trying to keep my voice from wavering, the tears from coming.

  “He don’ need to, ‘cause I kin do it for him.”

  “Oh, Amos, I can’t bear the thought of him being crippled forever!”

  “Your pa still has his head, don’ he? His heart ain’t in his foot, is it?”

  At this I had to smile.

  “Don’ you worry. He ain’t goin’ to be that different at all.”

  “If he ever comes home…” My voice trailed off.

  “Now Miz Lizzie, you got to have faith,” insisted Amos. “That’s what I lived on, an’ look how the Lord rewarded me—I have Grace and baby Lincoln, a freeborn chile, growin’ bigger as we speak.” His face shone with pride at the thought of his son. “You, too, go an’ count up your blessings.”

  I tried. I sat down and wrote a long letter to Papa in which I described the battle for Little Round Top, Luke’s surprising visit, and the excitement of Rosanna’s return. We had all come safely through the battle, I wrote. Business was good. Amos and Grace had a new baby. Martin Weigel had given me a birthday present. By the time I finished the letter, I did feel blessed, and I had hope that Papa would come home.

  I recopied the letter and mailed one to Libby Prison and the other to Belle Isle. Surely one of them would find him. But Papa’s letter reached us first, on the last day of October, when the air bit the skin with the venom of coming winter.

  October 15, 1863 Belle Isle Prison

  Dearest wife and children,

  How I pray that your letters to me are crossing paths with this one.

  I arrived with dozens of other prisoners packed into a roofless boxcar that swayed terribly. I could not stand up, lacking my foot, so mercifully the others letme lie down, but then I was nearly crushed. From the depot we were herded like cattle through the Richmond streets. I hopped on crutches, my stump throbbing. Many in the crowds jeered, while the Negroes simply stared at us, fellow captives, with emotions that must have been extreme and complicated.

  So many prisoners had arrived that we were left on a sandbar in the James River to be baked by the sun for three days. Finally we were sorted out and roughly accommodated at Belle Isle—a mistaken name for this grim, unlovely place. I will not appall you with details of the suffering here: the fevers, miasmas, and mosquitoes. A fellow Pennsylvanian, a young lawyer, contracted septicemia from his infected bites and died. Many starve for lack of food. I am healthier than most, despite being crippled. I was easily able to barter my salt beef ration for the ink and paper to write this..

  There is some cause for hope, however, as sick and wounded prisoners are sometimes released because it is impossible to care for them. They must fend for themselves and agree not to bear arms against the Confederacy again. As a one-legged man I am a good candidate, though I push in vain for my case to be reviewed.

  Two years and four months have passed since I kissed you, dear wife, and beheld the lovely faces of little Benjamin and Lizzie. How much longer must I endure the separation from all I love? Until justice triumphs and God remits His anger against this warring nation.Lray for that event, and yet be patient, as it may take me still longer to yet home to you.

  Ever your loving,

  Albert and Papa

  “At least we know where Papa is, and that he is managing to survive,” I said, as Mama finished the letter and sat in silence. “Surely he has received our letters by now and they will cheer him up.”

  “Maybe Papa’s injury is not such a bad thing, if it means he’ll be freed from that terrible prison,” said Ben, sounding hopef
ul.

  “He simply cannot spend the winter there,” said Mama, and from the look that crossed her face, I knew she was afraid he would die from the cold.

  That very day she wrote again to her brother, insisting that he use his influence to get Papa released, and she paid a courier fifteen dollars to get the letter to Richmond speedily.

  “If I don’t hear something in ten days, I will get on a train and go to the prison myself,” she said.

  The idea of my mother leaving made my stomach clench with fear.

  “But it wouldn’t be safe for you to go alone. At least let me come with you,” I protested.

  “No, Lizzie, you will stay here with Ben.”

  “What good can you do? They’ll just turn you away. And think of all the diseases you might catch. You can’t go,” I said stubbornly.

  Mama’s eyebrows shot up. “I am the head of this household, Lizzie. Do not presume to give me orders. The matter is decided.”

  I barely managed to keep my temper. In the days that followed, a tense mood settled over our house. No letters or telegrams brought news from Richmond. One afternoon in early November a snow squall blew down from a heavy cloud, and for an hour or more you couldn’t see fifty feet in front of you. The snow melted the next day, but my mind was changed. Now I wanted Mama to go to Richmond, the sooner the better. On Wednesday, November 11, she packed her valise.

  “How will we know if you get there safely?” asked Ben, who had taken over the worrying from me. “When will you be back?”

  Mama pulled him to her with one arm, kissing the top of his head.

  “Don’t worry. I will be with your aunt and uncle McGreevey.”

  “You’ll miss the dedication of the Soldier’s National Cemetery next week,” he said. “You won’t get to see President Lincoln when he comes.”

  “That can’t be helped, I’m afraid,” Mama replied. “Now carry this bag.”

  At the depot, Ben played with the stationmaster’s cat while we waited for the train. Mama laid her hand on my arm.

  “Lizzie, when I am gone, you must be careful of what people might say.” She paused and I looked up at her questioningly. “About you and Martin.”