The doctor turned and took a knife from a nearby table. Lifting the officer’s leg, he sliced quickly through the flesh, circling the leg above the knee as Wes watched, horrified. Leaving a flap of skin to cover the stump, he picked up a large silver saw. Quickly – he had obviously done the same thing many times before – he lined up the teeth of the saw in the cut he had just made and yanked back firmly. Wes winced at the sound of metal against bone, turning away as his stomach started to rebel at the sight.
When the sawing stopped, he watched the assistant take the man’s lower leg and toss it deftly over several occupied cots onto a pile of severed limbs in a corner of the room. The doctor was busy probing into the bloody stump with a needle and thread. When he was finished, the doctor straightened up, massaging his cramped back with bloody hands. Two men stepped up to the table and carried the officer away.
Catching sight of Wes he asked, “Well, what is it, boy? You’ve been standing there for too long to be hurt very badly. Come over and let me look at you.”
“I’m not here for me,” Wes informed him quickly. “I have a friend who needs help. He’s hit in the shoulder. Can you take care of him?”
The doctor approached, and Wes got a good look at his face. He was tall with sandy brown hair and a huge mustache that hung boldly on either side of his lip. He peered down impatiently at Wes through wire rim spectacles. Exhaling dramatically, he blew the hair around his lips sideways. “Such a loyal friend, indeed,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “Anything to get you out of the battle, I suppose.” Wes bristled at the man’s tone, but held his tongue. “Well, lead on, then.”
Wes led the way back to Jack who had slumped sideways to the ground. He was only partly conscious and looked up hazily as the doctor knelt to examine his wound. After a moment, the doctor glanced up at Wes. “This boy’s a Yankee, you know.”
Wes smiled wryly at him. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“I’ve got lots of wounded Confederates worse off than this one,” he grumbled, starting to get to his feet.
Wes was startled by the man’s coldness. “But, he’s a friend,” Wes blurted before he could think. “We grew up together.” The two stared at each other for a moment. Wes, wondering what the doctor’s next move would be, said in a small voice, “Please.”
The doctor turned back impatiently to Jack. “Well, I suppose a wound’s a wound. Peter, fetch me my bag.”
The assistant returned carrying a black medical bag. The doctor reached inside and pulled out a bottle. Wes, thinking it was something to help heal the wound, was shocked when the doctor took a long swig from it. Replacing the bottle, he pulled out another, pouring the contents liberally onto a rag which he pressed against Jack’s shoulder. The reaction was electric; Jack straightened up and screamed in pain. “Stings a little, no?” said the doctor without emotion.
The shock of the pain seemed to leave Jack senseless, allowing the doctor to probe the wound in his shoulder. Wes leaned in to get a better view, but a scowl from the doctor made him back away. The doctor muttered to himself for a bit, then turned to Wes. “Done.”
“Done?” Wes asked, trying to mask his incredulity.
“Well, there’s not much to be done. Looks like the bullet hit the collar bone at an angle, tore up the shoulder and lodged inside somewhere. I could open him up, but he’ll probably be better off if I don’t go exploring. Either he’ll get better or he’ll die.” Jack gasped. He had apparently been conscious enough to hear this cold assessment of his condition. Then the doctor was gone without another word to either the patient or his friend.
Wes sat wearily beside Jack, leaning against the front of the building. They stared off together into the falling night, and Jack’s mind seemed to clear. He smiled at some thought and Wes looked at him, waiting for him to speak. “I was just thinking,” Jack said, “about the time we tossed you into the creek when we were kids. It’s like we were both somebody else back then.” He paused, struggling to overcome a fresh wave of pain. Then his face relaxed again. “You’re the last person I would have expected to come to my rescue.”
Wes nodded. “I’ve hated you for a long time. I thought I still did. I expected it would give me pleasure to shoot you.”
“I suppose I deserve that. You and I have had a lot of bad blood.” Jack’s voice was a whisper. “War changes you, whether you think it will or not.” He looked Wes in the eye, sizing him up. Finally, he said, “I’m not going to make it back, Wes.”
Wes started to argue with him, but was silenced by Jack’s intensity. “No. You know when it’s gonna happen. I’ve had this feeling for a couple of days now. I’m not gonna get back home.”
Wes stifled the urge to talk Jack out of his mood. He had heard others go on like this before, and had been surprised to find that they were often right. There must be some kind of warning, some inner voice that never speaks until the final moment is near. Since he couldn’t argue with him, Wes listened.
“I need you to do something for me,” Jack said. He paused a moment, then searched Wes’ face again. “Will you do something for me?” Wes nodded. “I don’t know if you’ll ever get back to Gettysburg. But you’re headed north. Hell, the way things are going, you may just win this damn war.” He winced in pain for a moment. “Anyway,” he said, gasping, “if you ever do get back, I want you to get a message to Ginnie for me. I wanted to write her a letter, but...” – he motioned toward his useless arm.
Jack was silent for so long that Wes thought that he had fainted again. He leaned over to check him, and saw that his eyes were open. Deciding that he was trying to think of what to say, Wes waited. At length, Jack said, “We were supposed to get married in the fall. On my anniversary leave. But, I guess now....”
“Jack,” Wes protested, “you still might make it.”
Shaking his head Jack said, “If I do, I’ll just be in some prison camp down south. Hell, I’ll probably starve to death. I’ve heard stories about your prison camps. Anyway, I want you to write a letter for me. I haven’t treated her real well. I want to straighten things out between us. So she’ll know what happened.”
Wes got pencil and paper and, for the next ten minutes, wrote while Jack poured out his heart to Ginnie. It was an eerie experience, writing a letter from his former worst enemy to his former best girl. The words could almost have been his own although, he noticed with annoyance, Jack was much more polished at using them than he was.
As he wrote Jack’s apologetic words to Ginnie, he felt his own love resurrected, born afresh out of the place that was left blackened by her rejection a year ago. Jack’s wound, while ending Jack’s hopes for the future, had rekindled his own. He tried to concentrate on his task so that Jack would not notice his rising joy. After Jack had explained about the wound, and the possibility of death or prison camp, he paused, unable to go on.
They sat in silence for a time, watching others hurry past the door. Then Jack looked at Wes. “You know, it’s strange. I never held much faith in God. But just before you came up, I was praying that I would find somebody to take a message to Ginnie. I can’t believe it’s you. But I guess, in a way, you’re the perfect one. It’s funny, sometimes, how God answers prayers.” After a pause he added, “She could never put you out of her mind. Even though I wanted her to.”
The sun was setting, and they each were lost in their own thoughts. Wes could see tension in Jack’s face, a pain that did not seem to come from his wound. At length, Jack spoke, choosing his words carefully. “Wes, there’s more,” he said, suddenly on the verge of tears. He opened his fist for the first time and Wes saw a scrap of paper, crumpled and bloody. “You have to know about it….There’s going to be a baby. Ginnie’s and my baby.”
Wes was struck dumb, completely unable to move or think. After an eternity, he whispered in disbelief, “A baby?”
“In the winter, sometime,” Jack said, his lip quivering. “She wanted to get married sooner than September, because of the baby. But that’s all changed now. I can
’t get back to make a home for her or to give the baby a name. She’s scared, Wes. If I don’t get there to marry her, I don’t know what she’ll do. She’ll be ruined. You’ll look after her, won’t you?”
Wes hesitated again, thunderstruck. He felt torn in two. Ginnie had given herself to someone else, and now she was in desperate trouble. But perhaps he was the one person who could save her. The irony of the request astounded him. He fought off anger, joy, pain; what was left was a vacuum, a place where he felt nothing. He looked at Jack who was caving in to his pain, and said quietly, “Tell her I’ll do it. Tell her I love her, and I know about her problem. Tell her I’ll take care of her.” Wes picked up his pencil again. “Tell her that. In the letter.”
When Jack finished his dictation, he succumbed to his exhaustion and pain, fainting into sleep. Wes pocketed the letter and leaned back, closing his eyes and shutting down his mind before his emotions completely tore him apart.
He awoke the next morning still sitting beside Jack. He shook him gently but was unable to rouse him. Leaning closer, he saw that Jack’s face was a pasty white, and for a moment he thought he had died in the night. But his chest was still moving, although very slightly, and it was apparent to Wes that Jack had only a short time. Knowing that he could not just leave him, he looked around for help.
A wagon train of wounded soldiers and northern prisoners was moving south on the road in front of them, so Wes had Jack loaded aboard. A doctor looked briefly at him and said to Wes, “He’s not going to last long.”
Wes merely nodded. He walked alongside the wagon for a few minutes, then stopped and watched the train disappear into the distance. Unconsciously, he put his hand into his pocket to make sure that Jack’s letter was really there. Finally, he turned away to search for his company, to begin the northward march toward home, back to Ginnie.
Chapter 18
THE COMING THUNDER
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
June 26, 1863
Ginnie sat bolt upright in bed, startled awake by a banging on the front door. Even as she pulled herself out of bed she knew what it was. Georgia’s baby was coming. She saw her mother hurry past her door, pulling an old robe around her.
When they opened the front door, they found a young girl with disheveled brown hair standing there in the dark. Ginnie recognized her immediately – Mina Williams, the niece of the Haskells who owned the Wagon Hotel. The hotel stood immediately across Baltimore Street from Georgia’s home. It was apparent that the girl had been roused out of bed by her mother to bring them a message from Georgia. But Georgia was not due for another two weeks.
Mina said, “Miss McClellan said for you to come right away. She said she’s got the pains.”
Mary nodded and told the girl to come in while she gathered her things. Hurrying to her room to dress, she began issuing orders at the top of her lungs, giving Ginnie instructions about what to do while Mary was at Georgia’s, a third of a mile away, south of town.
Ginnie interrupted. “I’ll go with you.”
“No, you won’t,” Mary replied sharply. “I need you to stay here and take care of the house and look after the boys. Anyway, there’s sewing to be done.”
“I can do it there,” Ginnie protested. “I’ll bring the boys with me and look after them so you don’t have to worry about them.”
Her mother rushed past her into the kitchen. “Nonsense!” she said. “That house is too little for all of us. Besides, I don’t want the boys there when the baby comes.” And with that she grabbed her hat and was out the door, with Mina in tow.
As Ginnie shut the door, she felt the familiar nausea creep over her. Resting her hand on her stomach, she thought of the life that was growing there. It had been a month since she had written to Jack about her pregnancy. With each new day, the anxiety caused by his silence grew deeper. She fretted that he might have gotten the note but had chosen not to respond. Or perhaps he was….She didn’t want to think about it.
With sleep out of the question and dawn not far away, Ginnie decided to start her morning chores, the first of which was to get her brother Harry and their boarder, Isaac Brinkerhoff, out of bed. Isaac was six years old, the son of Wilhelm and Gretchen Brinkerhoff. Mrs. Brinkerhoff was a lady’s maid and housekeeper for Mrs. David Wills, the wife of a well-known attorney in town. She lived in at the Wills’ home and was free only on Wednesday evenings and Sundays. Since Mr. Brinkerhoff worked long hours at the Rupp Tannery, they were unable to keep Isaac at home and were forced to find some place to board him. Mary Wade had offered her services, since it would mean extra income for the family.
Isaac required special care since he had been crippled from a childhood disease and was unable to move his legs. As time went on, a greater portion of his care had been entrusted to Ginnie. Now that Georgia was ready to have her baby, Ginnie found herself charged with the care not only of Isaac but also the youngest of her three brothers, eight-year-old Harry, in addition to her normal chores of cleaning, cooking and assisting with the sewing.
Halfway through the morning, the clatter of hooves sounded outside in the street. The front door opened with a bang, and Ginnie sighed to herself, suddenly remembering that she had told her brother, Jack, to stop by that morning.
John Wade was seventeen and had joined the army only three days earlier, enlisting against his mother’s wishes in the 21st Pennsylvania Cavalry Regiment which had been stationed in Gettysburg for the past week. He was small for his age but, because he was a good horseman, they had accepted him and made him a bugler. However, the uniform he had been issued was much too large for him, and Ginnie had told him to bring it home so she could alter it.
“Mama! Gin! Where the hell is everybody?”
Ginnie snapped, “Watch your tongue around the boys.”
“Sorry, Gin. Where’s Mama?”
“At Georgia’s,” she told him. “The baby’s coming early.”
Jack frowned. “God damn! Just when I’m leaving town.”
Ginnie started to reprimand him again, then checked herself. Jack was a soldier now, trying to act like a man, and was probably facing real danger. She smiled at him and said quietly, “Take off your uniform if you want me to work on it.”
She watched him as he stripped off his jacket. He was skinny and fragile looking, not more than a boy, and she shuddered as she imagined him in the midst of a far away battle, surrounded by flying bullets and dying men. As he handed her the jacket, Ginnie held it for a moment, the fragrant wool suddenly reminding her of Jack. She picked up her thimble and needle and went to work quickly before the tears could overwhelm her.
“Hurry up,” he urged her. “My regiment’s about to leave. I’ll be absent without leave. They’ll court martial me and I’ll spend the war in jail!”
“Nonsense,” Ginnie said, grinning. “You’re a bugler. They don’t put buglers in jail. Unless you blow the wrong bugle call. Maybe you ought to practice while you’re waiting for me.”
About 12:30, they heard a commotion on Baltimore Street – shouting voices and the noise of several horses. Jack ran outside to find out what was going on, and was back in a minute. “Ginnie!” he shouted. “The rebs are coming. That was some of the scouts from our regiment. The rebs are coming down the Chambersburg Pike and they’ll be here in an hour!” She jumped to her feet and looked at him in horror. “I’ve got to go!” he yelled, grabbing the uniform out of her hands.
“Are you sure the rebels are coming?” she asked in alarm. Each day brought fresh rumors that Confederate armies were approaching from every direction but, so far, no gray uniforms had appeared.
“I’m not going to stay around to find out,” Jack shouted. “My regiment’s already left and I have to catch up with them.” He started for the door, still struggling into his uniform.
“Jack!” she called sharply. He stopped and looked at her, realizing for the first time that she was afraid. He walked over and hugged her. Clutching him desperately and trying not to cry, she told h
im, “You be careful. Don’t get up front where they can shoot at you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
He smiled confidently. “Don’t worry, Ginnie. I can take care of myself. You just stay indoors when the rebs come and you’ll be all right. They’re looking for me, not you.” Ginnie reflected on that thought, suddenly wondering who would help them if he was wrong. She watched him ride off, nearly numb with worry.
As Jack headed toward Baltimore Street, Ginnie saw him wave to their eleven-year-old brother, Sam, who was standing in front of the James Pierce house on the corner. Sam, the middle of the three Wade boys, lived with the Pierces and helped them with their butcher business. At the last moment, Jack saluted Ginnie as he turned left, galloping north toward town. She waved a restrained goodbye, suddenly aware of how frightened she was.
She spent the next hour shuttering up the house, doing everything she could think of to make it secure, or perhaps to convince any rebels who might chance by that no one was home. Finally, unable to bear the tension any longer, she decided to take the boys to Georgia’s house so that everyone could be together if the rebels really did come. She gathered a few things, then picked up Isaac and pushed Harry out the door. As they started toward Baltimore Street, a noise behind her made her turn toward Washington Street at the opposite end of Breckenridge. What she saw made her stop in terror.
There, at the far end of her block, marching down the middle of South Washington Street, was a column of Confederate soldiers. The battle flag at the head of the column, its blue “X” filled with stars, left no doubt about their identity. They moved silently, almost ominously, while she stared at them, rooted to the spot in shock.
Wavering in indecision, she turned back toward Baltimore Street hearing loud voices from that direction, and saw several soldiers in gray uniforms walking by. It was true. The feared moment had finally come. They had been invaded! With the road to Georgia’s house blocked, there was nothing to do but return home and bolt the door.
The Calm and the Strife Page 23