“Nothing,” she said, leaning toward her. “We need more wood for the fire. I’m going to get it before it gets light. It’ll be safer in the dark.” Mary started to sit up, but Ginnie gently held her by the shoulder. “You stay there. I’ll get Sam to help me.” Then she added, “I’ll be careful.”
Already dressed, she fished the chamber pot from beneath the bed, afraid to use the outhouse in the backyard: last night, she had found a Federal sharpshooter sleeping in it. She carried the pot into the kitchen for privacy, replaced the cover and slid it back under the bed. She had pulled on her shoes and started to move toward Sam’s bed when she paused for a moment. Turning around, she returned to her own bed and dropped to her knees. Looking out the window toward town, toward where the rebels were hiding, she folded her hands and lifted her eyes to the stars. “Oh, Father in heaven,” she pleaded silently, “please be with us today. Protect the baby and all of us, and keep us safe from harm. Help this terrible time to be over. Soon.”
She shook Sam gently, and with a sleepy moan he got out of bed and followed her. Opening the kitchen door, she peered out cautiously. She was startled by how quiet it was: no voices for the moment, no movement. Aware that she was facing the enemy, hidden behind dozens of windows up Baltimore Street, she wondered if they could see her. To her right, she thought she could see the first streaks of light touching the horizon. She whispered to Sam, “Come on! And be quiet,” and stepped out into the yard. They went on tiptoe, fearful that any sound might attract the attention of those hidden marksmen.
As she reached the woodpile, the sudden blast of a nearby cannon made her scream in terror. She grabbed for Sam and pressed him against the brick wall of the house. A second distant explosion shook the air almost immediately, and Ginnie realized that a cannonade had started over to the east, toward Culp’s Hill. Steeling herself and trying to calm Sam, she reasoned that the noise of the bombardment might distract the soldiers nearby and mask the sound of their work. Stumbling in their haste, they each carried an armload of wood to the kitchen where their mother now stood anxiously holding the door for them.
Ginnie told Sam to take the bucket around to the well on the other side of the house to get the morning’s water supply. She could hear the windlass squeaking in the dark as twice more she filled her arms with wood. As she started back with the last load, Sam struggled past her, staggering under the weight of the bucket.
Suddenly a voice from the dark said, “Miss!” The appearance of a man by the kitchen door startled her so violently that she dropped her armload with a cry of fright. The wood clattered noisily onto the walk.
“What?” she choked, barely able to speak. Her mind raced: Was he federal or rebel? “Who are you?”
“I’m with Doubleday.” Ginnie relaxed a bit; he was a Federal soldier. He said, “I was here yesterday and you gave me some bread.” Though he was trying to speak quietly, the cannons booming off to the east made that impossible. He raised his voice just as the cannons paused for a moment so that he was shouting in the sudden quiet. “Do you have any more?”
“You have to get away from here,” she said urgently. “It’s not safe. I don’t have any bread now. I’m going to bake some, and some biscuits as soon as I can. Come back in a couple of hours and I’ll give you some.” She stared at his silhouette in the dark, and suddenly he was gone. She hurried into the kitchen after Sam, who dropped his heavy bucket under the kitchen table and went back to bed.
The baby was crying again, and Mary went to get him. Ginnie closed the parlor door, so as not to disturb Georgia and the baby, though that was unlikely: the cannonade off to the east, around Culp’s Hill, continued for about an hour, jarring the house with its heavy concussions. She lit a single candle in the kitchen, and for the next hour prepared more bread dough, using the sponge they had mixed the night before. By 6:00 the cannons had finally grown silent; it was half-light outside and, since she wouldn’t be getting the boys up for breakfast for another hour, she decided to lie down again while the dough rose.
She had just returned to the kitchen at about 7:00, closing the door between the rooms again, when the sound of musket fire erupted toward town. As she turned involuntarily to look north toward the sound, an explosion followed by shattering glass blasted through the parlor, instantly accompanied by frightened screams. She tore open the door, terrified by what she might find. Her mother was on her hands and knees on the bed, straddling Georgia and the baby. Isaac’s enormous eyes peered over the edge of the bed, looking at the broken north window in disbelief.
“Harry! Where’s Harry?” Ginnie screamed. Her mother looked around in a panic until a tiny voice from under the bed said tearfully, “I’m here.” Ginnie dropped to her knees, searching under the bed where the shivering eight-year-old was huddled in a ball, his eyes clamped tightly shut. “Good, stay there!” she ordered him, her voice loud with anxiety. At that moment, the sound of gunfire increased, and they could hear the repeated smack of bullets against the bricks on the north side of the house.
“Get off the bed!” Ginnie yelled at all of them as she crouched on the floor. Her mother crawled awkwardly off the side of the bed toward Ginnie, while Georgia rolled off the other side onto the trundle, practically crushing Isaac as she landed. “The baby, get the baby!” Ginnie shouted, but Georgia was already reaching for him, pulling him down behind the fragile fortress of the bed’s mattress and frame. Ginnie moved to make room for her mother on the floor, and suddenly cried out in pain. She realized only then that the floor was littered with glass. Her forearm was cut in two places, and blood was running down the sleeve of her dress.
Her mother saw what had happened, and pointed in shock at the lounge under the north window. “Look at your bed, Ginnie! It’s covered with glass. If you had been in it...” but she was unable to finish. The firing, which had continued during all of this, suddenly increased in volume, and a moment later another loud crash filled the room, making them all duck in terror.
Mary lifted her head to check whether anyone was hurt and then said, in an awed whisper, “Gracious God, look at that!” When Ginnie and Georgia followed her gaze, they saw a spent minie ball lying on the pillow at the foot of the bed where only moments ago the baby had lain by Georgia’s head. They stared at it for a moment, as if in a trance, and then Mary reached up and touched it. “It’s still warm,” she said in wonder. Then her eye caught Georgia’s across the mattress, and she burst into tears.
Ginnie tried to soothe her. “Mother, God spared both Georgia and me this morning. We’re in his hands. Don’t worry. We’re going to get through this.” When the firing quieted down, the two women cleaned up the broken glass, hung a blanket over the shattered window, and tried to make the room as comfortable as possible.
By 7:30 it was full daylight. The rifle fire had diminished enough that Mary felt she could safely move her little family into the kitchen. There, behind the strong side door, away from the windows, they felt more secure. Georgia joined them in the kitchen for the first time. They gathered around the table and ate a meager breakfast of bread, butter, applesauce and coffee. Harry was still shaking, his eyes filled with a bright liquid terror. “Are they gonna shoot us again?” he asked repeatedly, brushing off their assurances to the contrary. “Can’t we go somewhere, so they can’t shoot us anymore?”
The same question had tortured both Ginnie and her mother, although neither had put it into words. Georgia was having trouble walking; they couldn’t carry her, and anyway, where would they take her? It wasn’t safe to go outside; the rebels were shooting at anything that moved. They would be safer in the basement, but the only entrance was outside, and getting there would expose them to sharpshooters. There was another basement on the opposite side of the house, but there was no way to get to it from inside. It was probably no safer upstairs, and in any event they wanted to be near the doors in case the house caught fire. They knew all this without discussion; putting it into words would merely acknowledge their helplessness.
>
So Ginnie simply said, “No, Harry, we’re as safe here as we would be any place.” He was not convinced. Neither was she, but at the moment she couldn’t think what else to do.
When they were finished with breakfast, Mary ordered them all back on their beds in the parlor for safety.
“Read us something, Gin,” Georgia suggested weakly.
Ginnie pulled her Bible from under the bed. Lying on her back, consciously staying away from the blanket-draped window over her bed, she opened the Bible to the place where she had stopped reading the day before.
“Psalm 27,” she read aloud. “When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell. Though a host should encamp against me....”
She raised her head to look at Mary and Georgia on the bed, an amazed smile on her face.
“Though a host should encamp against me, My heart shall not fear: Though war should rise against me, In this will I be confident.
“Now shall mine head be lifted up above mine enemies round about me....Deliver me not over unto the will of mine enemies. I had fainted, unless I had believed to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait on the Lord: Be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart: Wait, I say, on the Lord.”
“Amen,” Mary whispered quietly. Ginnie smiled, suddenly feeling safe, confident that God was watching over them. They huddled together for a while, listening to the chaos around them, a quiet island in the midst of a human storm.
Chapter 23
THE WILL OF MINE ENEMIES
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
Friday, July 3, 1863
Ginnie, her mother, Georgia and the boys all lay silently on their beds in the converted parlor, waiting for the firing to begin again. After a while, Mary said wearily, “Well, we’d best be getting the baking done. Those soldiers will be coming soon.”
Going into the kitchen with her mother, Ginnie stood again at her mixing tray and began blending ingredients for biscuits. Working up a large lump of dough, she kneaded it on the tray, wondering if there was some way they could increase the number of biscuits they could bake at one time.
Mary, who was starting the fire in the bake oven, came back past Ginnie to get more wood. The door to the parlor stood open, so that it formed a barrier behind Ginnie as she stood at the dough tray. Her mother started to close the door so that those still sleeping in the parlor would not be disturbed by the commotion in the kitchen.
“Leave it open, please,” called Georgia. “I like the smell of the dough.”
Ginnie looked at her mother. “It’s all right. Leave it open. I feel safer here behind it.”
* * * * * * * *
At that moment, in the home of Harvey D. Sweney, 350 yards north up Baltimore Street, a Louisiana sharpshooter began his day’s work. He was tired from the constant fighting on Thursday. He had climbed countless flights of stairs to check the views from the second floors or garrets of many buildings. Firing five or six dozen rounds, he had personally picked off three Yankee soldiers that he knew of, and had drawn the angry return fire of several squads of Union riflemen. Two windows had exploded in his face but, aside from cuts and bruises, he was uninjured. He took pride in his marksmanship. Back home in Louisiana, he bragged that he could pick off a squirrel with a single shot at 100 yards. But shooting Yankees on their own land was the supreme pleasure of his life. He didn’t know about politics; all he knew was that he was tired of being pushed around by the northern politicians. He was up here to do a little pushing back.
He had found this single garret window in the south side of the Sweney house last night about twilight. It was quiet and dry in the garret and, since the window was too small for more than one rifleman, he was alone. There was scattered firing from windows all around him, from the Rupp Tannery with its tall smokestacks to his right, and from some buildings to his left across the street. He had squeezed off a few shots for the pleasure of harassing the enemy, but it was soon dark, so he had eaten a bite and gone to sleep.
He slept late into the morning, something unusual for him. It was after 8:00 when he woke, alerted by the resumption of musket fire. He started to go look for an outhouse, then decided simply to urinate in the corner of the garret. Before he loaded his weapon, he paused to chew a bit of hardtack for breakfast. Finally, looking out the window for a target at about 8:30, he spotted a blue-coated figure hurrying across Baltimore Street halfway up the north slope of Cemetery Hill, crouched as though his posture would make him invisible to the enemy. The man in the garret aimed and squeezed off a shot. His quarry never slowed or hurried his pace, did not even seem to notice the shot. Odd. At this range, it should have been a certain hit. The marksman looked up at the tree branches. They were visibly moving. Wind. That was the problem. He would have to correct for windage.
There was a simple way to do that: fire at a stationary object, calculate how far off the mark the shot registered, then adjust in the opposite direction to allow for the effect of wind. He looked for a target. Up the hill to the south, a little over 300 yards away, was a house with a door which faced north. The door had a clearly visible knob on the left side just the right size and at the right range to help him make his calculation. He aimed at it and fired. A puff of smoke and splinters appeared about two feet to the right of the doorknob and a few inches lower. That was the correction he would need to make. Satisfied, he went on about his sharpshooting.
The lead slug, missing the doorknob by two feet, had blasted through not only the outside door on the north side of the McClellan house, but also had gone through the inner parlor door, the door which stood open so that Georgia could smell the bread dough, the door which gave Ginnie an added sense of safety. Slowed by its progress through both wooden panels, it needed to travel only two more feet to strike Ginnie precisely in the spot below her left shoulder blade which would allow it to penetrate her heart. It had barely enough momentum left to exit her body, after which it was spent, ending up wedged between her corset and her left breast. Virginia Wade, twenty years of age, was dead before her body crumpled to the floor.
Mary, reaching for more wood in the corner of the kitchen, was startled by the splintering crash of the bullet tearing through the two doors. She straightened up in time to see Ginnie slump over the mixing tray, then slide backwards onto the floor, pulling the tray with her. With a choked cry, Mary knelt alongside the body, shouting, “Virginia! Virginia!” as she lifted her daughter’s head and peered into her lifeless eyes.
* * * * * * * *
Wes’ company, huddled together at the base of Culp’s Hill, heard dawn break as it had the day before, with thunder. The explosions were much closer, however, and from where Wes lay he could see the muzzle blasts from the hilltop. The shots fell with great accuracy across the regiment’s front. Suddenly, musket fire erupted from a breastwork only thirty yards away. Wes and the others were shocked by how close it was. When they had arrived in the pitch darkness some hours ago, those breastworks had been invisible. Now, as the sky began to lighten, Wes could see clearly that the Federals had built a strong wooden wall atop their trenches, and were pouring a devastating fire from behind the safety of their log fortress.
Colonel Nadenbousch rode by yelling orders, obviously unhappy with their situation. He told them to fall back and shift to the left. They took up a new position to the right of the little creek that ran down the hill. Wes knew the place well. The water hole that he had played in as a boy was across the creek and over the next rise. Above them, more Yankees crouched behind another set of breastworks. They began to fire as Wes’ group moved into place.
Wes looked to the rear, wondering what they were going to be asked to do. There he saw their colonel conferring with General Walker. Ben sat on his horse nearby, waiting for orders. All at once, the colonel turned to Ben and spoke a few words. Ben saluted and spurred his horse toward the 2nd.
Dismounting, he ran over to where Wes and his company were posted. He s
poke to the captain, and a moment later they both turned and looked at Wes, motioning for him to join them. Wes jogged the few steps and knelt beside Ben, filled with both curiosity and apprehension.
Ben explained, “The general wants me to scout the area over the creek to see if it’s possible to attack that breastwork from the flank. He asked me if you’d help since you know the area.”
“Of course. Are we going now?’
“Soon. Drop your pack and just take your rifle. We can move faster that way.”
A little after 8:00 in the morning, the two of them moved off to the left. They stayed in the trees until they came to the creek. Jumping into the water, they splashed across quickly, worried about becoming targets. Ben made it in several strides, but the water came up to Wes’ thighs. The current was swift and he had trouble keeping his footing. The icy cold had already numbed his legs and, by the time he pushed up the far bank, Ben was off again, running into the cover of the woods.
As he watched Ben run ahead of him, Wes had a flash of memory from his childhood. He was chasing Will up this same hill. His short legs had always made it impossible for him to catch his taller brother. They had splashed through this creek, laughing and yelling. Then, lying on the rocks ahead, near the trees which Julie and he had called their “houses,” they had dried themselves in the sun, enjoying a fraternal bond which, sadly, had faded over the intervening years.
Ben now lay among those same rocks, peering around the edge of one of the larger boulders to study the Federal line. Wes crawled in beside him and turned onto his back. Looking up, his eyes found “his” tree, twenty-five yards or so to his right. As he examined it, a cold shudder ran through him. The tree had been blasted by artillery and rifle fire until it was missing a good part of its foliage. Light patches in the trunk, among the darker toeholds which he had gouged so many years ago, showed where bark had been shot away to reveal raw wood. Several branches were missing, and their absence revealed something which he had almost forgotten about, a crooked twist in the trunk halfway up which made the tree look as though it had suffered an injury long ago.
The Calm and the Strife Page 30