The Calm and the Strife

by David J. Sloat

  “So, it’ll be our secret?” Henry asked pointedly, staring at Julia. She glanced back at the tree once more in a final farewell. Then, sighing, she nodded her agreement and they set off down the hill toward home, leaving the grave behind.

  The wind blew through the torn and broken branches of the old elm. Wesley Culp had come home to stay.

  Epilogue

  A NEW BIRTH

  Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  Thursday, November 19, 1863

  Julia climbed the hill again as she had many times in the past months. The dead leaves underfoot crackled in the fall air. In a formal black dress, she suddenly felt foolish. She had meant to go to the ceremony at the cemetery today to hear Mr. Everett and the President speak, but somehow she found herself here instead. The faint music of a brass band floated on the air from below in sad celebration.

  She paused at the foot of Wes’ tree, looking again at the pile of dirt, leaves and branches that served as the only marker of her brother’s grave. She could not forget the sight of his face, caked with the dark muddy earth. That awful final picture had blotted out the living Wesley, and left her unable any longer to remember his voice or his smile, or the way he talked about his dreams.

  It had been over four months since those three dreadful days in July, but the true horror had begun only when the armies left. No corner of the town had been left untouched by the slaughter. As the people cleared their yards, they did so in a daze, trying vainly to escape the demons that haunted the place. But the nightmare would not stay buried. Each rainstorm uncovered the newly dead, buried hastily in shallow graves.

  The worst legacy of the battle, however, was the wounded. For months, they had been everywhere. When the battle ended and the armies left, thousands of wounded soldiers, both federal and rebel, had remained in town. Many could not be moved and had to be put up in temporary field hospitals. These had been established wherever there was water and some kind of shelter. As a result, practically every building in the area had been commandeered for use as a hospital: churches, barns, stores, private homes. For weeks afterward, anywhere Julia walked in town, she could hear the cries of men in agony. For Gettysburg during that dreadful period, the armies might have gone elsewhere, but the battle had not been over. As a result, she spent a lot of time in the quiet of the hills, away from the reminders of the battle, alone with her own private memories.

  But today, four months later, the entire nation had focused its eyes here. The scattered bodies of those who had died fighting for the Union were finally being moved to the cemetery where the country’s greatest men were gathering to try to make sense of their deaths. They would give mighty speeches about the heroics of the Federals in preserving the Union. They would weep over the deaths of the blue-coated victors. But who would weep over the one boy in gray buried in secret at the top of Culp’s Hill? No one but Julia.

  * * * * * * * *

  Georgia Wade McClellan sat in the back row on the wooden speakers’ platform feeling very much out of place. As she watched the assembling dignitaries, she wished again that she had followed her first instinct and stayed home. But a personal invitation from the President of the United States is difficult to refuse. Her mother had received a letter from Mr. Lincoln, full of sympathy about the death of her daughter. They had been touched by the fact that the President, with all of his responsibilities and worries, should take time to comfort them.

  Then, yesterday, an aide to Lincoln had come to the house, inviting Mary Wade to join the President on the speaker’s platform when he came to Gettysburg to dedicate the new national cemetery. Her presence would honor her daughter, “Jennie Wade, the heroine of Gettysburg,” as she had come to be known in song and poem. Mary refused because of poor health and a natural reticence about attracting attention to herself. But she told the aide that Georgia would represent the family in her place. Georgia tried to protest, but her mother insisted.

  Frankly, the Wades were astonished at how the country had lionized Ginnie in the few months since her death. She was being portrayed as a martyr who, while baking bread for hungry federal soldiers and risking her safety to bring comfort to the wounded, had been killed by a rebel bullet, the only civilian to die during the recent, famous battle in their town.

  The dignitaries were greeting each other and Georgia looked at them self-consciously. The aide to President Lincoln, who served as her escort, leaned over to whisper the identities of the powerful and famous men who were noisily settling themselves into their seats: various congressmen, several generals including Doubleday and Gibbon, and six governors from the eighteen participating states.

  Georgia, awed by the importance of this assemblage, felt increasingly uncomfortable. Her only claim to fame was that her sister had been killed, which was certainly no credit to herself. She wished her mother had accepted the invitation, but Mary Wade was now at home tending to the baby so that Georgia could honor the President’s request. Mr. Lincoln had heard of Georgia’s service as a nurse in the days following the battle, and was just as happy to have Georgia accept his invitation, since he wanted to honor all those who had served in similar capacities.

  Georgia was still trying to understand why Ginnie’s death should be any different than the thousands of other deaths which had resulted from the battle. There was no doubt that her sister had been a good person, but Georgia was amazed at how their personal tragedy had affected people all over the country. She missed Ginnie deeply, and the family was still in mourning. But she resented having to share their grief with those who had never known her.

  A commotion off to the left side of the cemetery caught her attention, and Georgia saw a group of people marching toward the speaker’s stand amid cheers and applause. There, mounting the steps to the platform, was President Abraham Lincoln. Everyone on the platform rose in respect and, in spite of herself, Georgia was overcome by a sense of awe. She had never seen Lincoln before and suddenly realized that his photographs did not begin to capture the essence of the man.

  He was much taller than she had imagined, his head clearly visible above those around him, with his high silk hat adding yet another foot to his height. She saw that he wore a black band wrapped around his hat, indicating that he was still in mourning for his son Willie who had died almost two years earlier. That single feature instantly humanized him for Georgia and linked them in a common bond of sorrow.

  Georgia noticed his enormous hands, made to appear even larger by white gloves which stood out in sharp contrast to his otherwise entirely black attire. Somehow his awkward frame and bony features did not seem comfortable in the formal hat and gloves. But as the President walked along the front row of people on the platform preparing to greet those he knew, he removed his high silk hat and white gloves. And by that action, he was transformed. He seemed to recover his true personality, and suddenly the platform was enveloped by the power of his presence. His lined face softened into a warm smile, his intelligent eyes looked openly into the face of each person he greeted, and everyone strained to hear the quiet tones of his voice as he made some personal comment to each person within reach of his long arms.

  He raised his face and gave a gesture of greeting to those sitting farther back on the platform. For a moment his eyes rested on Georgia. He did not say anything but he nodded his head slightly in acknowledgment, and for a protracted instant Georgia felt something of their shared suffering flowing between them. Then he turned and took his seat.

  The Honorable Edward Everett, whom the crowd had come to hear, was late as usual. Even Georgia, who knew nothing of what was going on, realized that the quiet assemblage was waiting with a combination of impatience and excitement for the arrival of this famous man. Scarcely more than three years ago, most people had never heard of Abraham Lincoln. But Everett had been famous for forty years. A member of both the U.S. House and Senate, Minister to England, President of Harvard University, Governor of Massachusetts, Secretary of State, Vice-Presidential candidate, he had had a much m
ore distinguished career than the low-born President. He was one of the most brilliant and popular speakers of the day. As Georgia looked at the back of Lincoln’s head, she wondered how he felt, knowing that he was far less popular than Everett who had been called upon to deliver the most important speech of his career.

  Georgia glanced around at what she could see of the new national cemetery. The platform had been set at the top of the rise between Greenwood Cemetery on the right and the site where the burials were taking place. Down below toward the left, behind the crowd as it stood facing the platform, Georgia could see the workers digging new graves and making burials in those already opened. Only about a third of the burials had been completed and Georgia, viewing the long curving rows of graves, realized for the first time the appalling number of deaths that had taken place in her town. And these were only the northern dead.

  At the stroke of noon, Georgia saw the large crowd suddenly separate as if by some mystical force. An impression of Moses, parting the waters, passed through her mind as the sea of people opened to the right and the left in front of her, and there, striding between those walls of humanity on dry ground, as it were, came Edward Everett and his retinue. The group walked to the front where they established themselves while Everett mounted the platform with impressive dignity. He walked straight to the President who rose to accept his greeting. Waving first to the dignitaries and then to the crowd, he sat in the central seat of the front row.

  The ceremonies began with a prayer by the chaplain of the House of Representatives, Rev. T. H. Stockton, D.D., who spoke to the Lord on behalf of the multitude for about ten minutes. Georgia shuddered to herself; if this was any indication, they were in for a long afternoon. The Marine Band played some loud music which the people obviously enjoyed more than the preceding prayer. And then Edward Everett was introduced. He rose to thunderous and lengthy applause after which he turned and bowed in courtly fashion to Lincoln, saying a respectful, “Mr. President.” Mr. Lincoln nodded in return, responding, “Mr. Everett.”

  Everett always made a striking impression. Just short of seventy years of age, fifteen years older than Lincoln, he was tall and straight, and his strong features were capped with abundant white hair. His appearance was in direct contrast to that of the President. Clean-shaven, handsome for a man of his age, he seemed to Lincoln’s detractors to be everything the President was not. He looked like a statesman, he had an air of sophistication about him which instantly earned the respect of others, and he radiated energy and intelligence.

  He moved to a little table which stood at the front of the platform and ostentatiously placed a thick manuscript on it, obviously the text of his speech. Just as obviously, he made it clear that he did not plan to read from his notes but to rely on his memory. Georgia’s heart sank when she realized the length of Everett’s planned speech.

  “We have assembled...” he began in a booming voice, “to pay the last tribute of respect to the brave men who, in the hard fought battles of the first, second and third days of July last, laid down their lives for the country, on these hillsides and the plains before us, and whose remains have been gathered into the cemetery which we consecrate this day.”

  After an hour or so, when Everett had completed a detailed review of the Gettysburg battle, Georgia’s hopes rose that the end might be in sight. But the speaker had merely presented the background for his true topic, and he went on for another hour detailing the crimes of the Confederacy and specifying just how the federal government should deal with the southern “rebellion.” Georgia, chiding herself for not stopping at the outhouse before she left home and chilled by the November breeze, began looking over her shoulder to see if there were some avenue of escape. But the crowd had even crushed in behind the platform cutting off any hope of a quiet retreat. Regretting that she had agreed to this interminable experience and numbed by the endless torrent of words, she sank down inside herself, determined to endure it to the end. To honor Ginnie.

  “...wheresoever throughout the civilized world the accounts of this great warfare are read, and down to the latest period of recorded time, in the glorious annals of our common country, there will be no brighter page than that which relates The Battles of Gettysburg.”

  And he was finished. Georgia had stopped listening and was almost surprised when he concluded and bowed to the audience. The seated dignitaries rose to join the standing crowd in tumultuous applause. Everett stood for a minute, basking in their appreciation, while Georgia thanked heaven for the chance to stretch her cramped muscles and force herself awake again.

  The Baltimore Glee Club rose and sang a hymn composed especially for this historic occasion, and then Lincoln was introduced. Georgia noted that, in contrast to Everett’s thick manuscript, the President had only two small pieces of paper in his hand. He wore steel-rimmed glasses which he had pulled down to the tip of his nose. Standing before the expectant crowd, he paused for a moment, surveying the sea of faces. Then he began.

  “Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”

  He was interrupted by applause. Georgia was surprised by the sound of his voice. He was such a tall man that his high, almost shrill voice came as a shock, and his Kentucky accent was something she had not expected. It took a moment for her to adjust to this new voice, after having listened for two hours to the cultured New England inflections of Edward Everett.

  “Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as the final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live.”

  His voice carried clearly on the crisp fall air. But more than that, a powerful emotion filled his simple words. He was speaking straight to the hearts of the people gathered in front of him. Georgia felt herself drawn in and leaned forward on her chair.

  “It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract.”

  The crowd interrupted him a second time with quiet applause. Georgia thought of her backyard, and the word “consecrated” caught in her mind. No clergyman had been there to speak the word when they buried Ginnie. But the consecrated ground of which Lincoln was speaking was not limited to this cemetery.

  “The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced.”

  Applause. As though the voice of Georgia’s soul was speaking to her, the words struck home. Why had she been allowed to live while Ginnie was taken? Why had she had the opportunity to experience marriage and motherhood while these joys were denied to Ginnie? Her mother had told Georgia of the discovery she had made in the dark cellar, a discovery that compounded the tragedy. The sudden ending of her life had robbed Ginnie of so many things that she had anticipated. Yet she, Georgia, had all of that yet to look forward to. “The living. The unfinished work.” The words swam in her mind and filled her with a whole new dimension of awareness.

  “It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us – that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion – that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain.

  Louder applause. Georgia was applauding along with them, unaware of the tears streaming down her face. “The last full measure of devotion.” That was it, the perfect eulogy for Ginnie: her bursting desire to be of help, her devotion to those frightened, hungry, hurting men who filled their town, her
almost reckless disregard for her own safety, the passion with which she threw herself into her tasks, no matter how mean or degrading. She had been in Georgia’s house helping with the baby, spending sleepless hours washing and baking and caring for little Kenny. Ginnie’s last full measure of devotion to her family had cost her her life.

  “That this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

  And suddenly he was finished. He had begun only three minutes earlier and was already sitting down. Those on the platform jumped to their feet to join in the sustained ovation. But this was different. When they clapped after Everett’s speech, they were applauding a performance. Now they were telling Lincoln that his simple words had touched them in a much deeper way.

  As she rose and looked out on the thousands of others joined in applause, Georgia suddenly knew that her own tragedy was only a small drop in the enormous ocean of the war. She was not the only one who was suffering. But what was she going to do with that suffering? She could live in the past, tied to her painful memories, nursing her anger at those who had loosed this misery on the country. Or she could work to bring meaning to the lives of those who were no longer here.