Gettysburg: The Crossroads Town

by Tim Black

  “Yes, all Mr. Beard wanted to do was haunt Carpenter’s Hall,” Victor agreed.

  “Now, I assigned you Residents of History and I am going out on a limb here, but I assume you girls read the recollections of Mary and Robert Freimuth, and that Victor hasn’t.”

  The girls nodded approvingly.

  Victor blushed.

  “I want you to read it before we leave, Victor, or you are not going. It will familiarize you with some of the people of Gettysburg that we may run into, especially with David McConaughy.”

  “John Burns was a hoot,” Bette said. “The old codger grabbed his gun and joined the battle. He was almost a hundred years old!”

  “Mr. Burns was sixty-nine, Bette,” corrected Mr. Greene, ever the pedagogue. But we are going to Gettysburg months after the battle, although John Burns does sit beside Abraham Lincoln at the church service after the cemetery dedication where President Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg Address. Burns became one of the most famous men in America. Famous Civil War photographer Mathew Brady went out of his way to meet him and immortalize Burns with an iconic photograph, which made the old man even more famous. In retrospect, I believe Mathew Brady should have photographed David McConaughy, an attorney who ran a group of spies known as the Adams Rifles. McConaughy had the foresight to buy up the battlefield land shortly after the battle to preserve the hallowed ground for posterity. Without McConaughy, there would be no preserved battlefield today. Gettysburg is the most visited Civil War site in the nation, thanks to the vision of McConaughy, a man who has been overlooked by historians, in my opinion.

  Victor knew his teacher had strong opinions on history, especially on the Warren Commission’s investigation of John F. Kennedy’s assassination. “I don’t think we should tell anyone we are from Florida, Mr. Greene,” Victor suggested. “Florida was part of the Confederacy, and the people in Gettysburg will think we are Rebels.”

  Greene nodded. “Good idea, Victor. There will be people from all over the North at Gettysburg for the ceremony. I think we should say we are from Philadelphia or New York City, as there were hundreds of people from those locations attending the ceremony. We could be a church youth group and I could be the pastor,” Greene said. “I think I should be a Lutheran minister considering the Lutheran Theological Seminary that was located at Gettysburg.”

  “That’s a good idea, Mr. Greene,” Bette said.

  Mr. Greene smiled. “A confession. I did my undergraduate work at Gettysburg College. But in 1863, my alma mater was known as Pennsylvania College and was open only to males. There was a finishing school in Gettysburg for young women, however.”

  “Ugh,” Minerva said.

  “Sexists,” Bette added.

  “They sure were, Bette,” Greene agreed. “Those were the times. Women couldn’t vote either. The men ran everything.”

  “No wonder there was a war,” Bette said, drolly rolling her eyes. “Men were in charge. Too much testosterone.”

  Mr. Greene only smiled. Bette could have been Betty Friedan’s granddaughter. “So, let’s meet here again in a week in proper costumes for the period. Girls, you can find hoop skirt dresses on eBay, but you will have to rush the order. The weather will be sunny and the temperature will be in the high 50s, so a shawl might be in order. Victor, you can go to eBay as well. Girls, don’t worry about your shoes, your gowns will cover your footwear, so wear comfortable shoes. We aren’t so lucky, Victor.”

  Mr. Greene walked to a closet in the back of the portable classroom and brought out his intended outfit. He chose a derby in place of the top hat, and added a cane, which he demonstrated was, in reality, a sword cane. He pulled the handle from its sheath inside the hickory and a concealed blade came forth. The sword cane was a walking stick, but it was also a weapon, Victor realized. He immediately wanted a sword cane of his own. Mr. Greene wore buttons on the trousers in lieu of a zipper, and a customary waistcoat and a starched collar shirt which required “stays” to keep the white collar in place, which completed Mr. Greene’s haberdashery.

  “I will look dapper when I don my threads,” Mr. Greene smiled.

  Chapter 3

  As the students entered the portable they found Mr. Greene, derby atop his head, looking like a dashing dandy in his trousers, held up by suspenders and covered by a waistcoat. He took his sword cane and nudged his derby to a rakish tilt. He wore Civil War–era frame spectacles with the circular lenses.

  “Suave, Mr. G,” Bette said. “Very suave.”

  He passed around a bottle of peppermint oil. “Everyone take a drop and place it on a finger and then apply that finger to your top upper lip. There may be a residual stench in the Gettysburg area even months after the battle from the rotting corpses, both human and equine. This will keep you from gagging, I’m afraid.”

  Mr. Greene did not, however, disclose to his students that he carried an antibiotic, which he was taking to relieve an infection in an abscessed tooth. Greene knew the medication was against the rules, as 1863 was six decades before Alexander even discovered penicillin, but Greene was not about to take his chances with 19th century dentistry. Heck, the most famous dentist of the 19th century was John Holiday, aka Doc Holiday, who was afflicted with tuberculosis. He was a gun fighter at the O.K. Corral shootout in Tombstone, Arizona.

  Minerva bought a light brown hoop dress on eBay, and its hem dragged across the floor as she walked. Her shoes were totally covered. She had learned from walking along the streets during the Philadelphia trip that there was a good chance of having her dress soiled, and brown did not show the dirt, or horse excrement, as other colors did.

  Bette, in a magenta dress, pulled up her skirt to show that she was wearing black New Balance sneakers. She had taken Mr. Greene’s admonition to heart and worn comfortable shoes.

  “How are the hoop skirt dresses, girls?” Mr. Greene asked.

  “I have worn mine before,” Bette said. “My uncle is a Civil War reenactor, and they have Saturday night balls after their battles. My aunt couldn’t attend one last year, and I went in her place, I wore her dress.”

  “It is a bit over the top,” Minerva said, enviously.

  “Your brown dress is much more practical,” Bette conceded. “But I wanted to look great for Mr. Lincoln.

  Minerva frowned. The girls were friends, but also rivals.

  Victor wore a modified three-piece dark-blue sack suit, which included a coat, vest and button-fly trousers. On his feet were black brogans, common men’s footwear of the time.

  Mr. Greene walked over to Victor and gave his costume a cursory inspection, nodding his head in approval. Then he asked, “Did you finish your reading assignment, Victor?”

  “Yes, Mr. Greene.”

  “Including Sarah Broadhead’s diary and Daniel Skelly’s reminiscences?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good lad,” Greene said.

  Into the portable floated the ghosts of Bruce Catton and Shelby Foote. The two dead historians were selected to serve as guides for the journey. Mr. Catton was a bald spirit with an angular nose, and wore unnecessary glasses; whereas, Shelby Foote’s spirit had a full head of hair parted down the middle and a rich well-trimmed, gray beard. While Catton’s gaze seemed stern, Foote’s visage had a twinkle in the eyes, as if he had just participated in something mischievous. Catton was a no-nonsense Yankee historian; whereas, Foote was a Southern novelist by trade, as well as a historian, and when he was alive, had a reputation as a storyteller, having charmed Ken Burns and his viewers in the PBS Civil War series, which, ironically, had made Foote a star. Both men had written extensively on the Civil War, but Mr. Greene cautioned his students that the two historians might disagree about the battle of Gettysburg, and both could be biased and loyal to their sections of the country, Catton to the North and Foote to the South.

  The two historians were amiably mumbling to each other when they floated into the portable classroom.

  Mr. Greene formally introduced the ghosts, and the two historia
ns nodded in response, continuing their mumbling.

  Victor heard them mumble something about Pickett’s Charge and how Mr. Catton wished he could see it as it happened.

  Wouldn’t we all! Victor thought. Pickett’s Charge! That would be really cool! But Mr. Greene couldn’t risk their lives. Victor sure would like to see the greatest charge in American history. He sure would. That would be great.

  Mr. Greene produced a “minie ball,” and explained. “I purchased this bullet in Gettysburg from a reputable dealer. It was dug out of the trunk of a tree in the town of Gettysburg. It will be our talisman for our journey.”

  The ghosts floated over to Mr. Greene to examine the minie ball. They nodded their approval.

  “You realize, Mr. Greene,” Catton said, “that there have been reports of local folks making minie balls and selling the counterfeits to naive tourists.”

  “I have heard the stories, Mr. Catton, “but as I said, this was a reputable dealer. Buckle up, students,” Greene said as he programmed the computer for the coordinates of the field west of the Lutheran Theological Seminar where he planned to land the portable, programming a return for 8 p.m., November 19, 1863.

  Catton and Foote watched closely as Greene programmed the computer, nodding to each other. When Greene’s back was turned, Victor noticed that Catton seemed to touch the computer screen, but he wasn’t sure as, after all, Mr. Catton was an apparition.

  There was a good deal of turbulence on this trip and Mr. Greene informed everyone that he discovered Tesla’s device had an automatic pilot and it would bring the classroom down precisely at the location typed in.

  What surprised Mr. Greene, however, was that it was still dark when they descended to the field west of Gettysburg. He peered out a class window and saw the cupola of the Lutheran Theological Seminary, which was clearly visible due to a full moon. Greene hadn’t checked on the moon for November 1863, as he assumed they would be landing in the daylight. He wondered what had occurred, but he thought perhaps he had typed in the wrong time, perhaps 6 a.m. instead of 8 a.m. They only had five minutes before the programmed computer would return the portable classroom to its space at Cassadaga Area High School.

  “Looks like we are here before dawn. Well, no matter: All we have to do is walk to the seminary and from there then down the ridge into town,” Greene said optimistically.

  As they departed the portable, Bette commented, “Sure is warm, Mr. Greene.

  Mr. Greene and the students walked in the direction of the Lutheran Theological Seminary.

  Victor thought the peppermint oil was working well, for he didn’t detect any offensive odors in the air. He turned around and looked back at the portable and caught a glimpse of it before it disappeared. The sound of a whoosh filled the air and Mr. Greene remarked, “The classroom will return at 8 p.m. tonight, students.” The teacher looked beyond the portable down the Chambersburg Pike. That was odd, he thought. Campfires to the west. It must be some of the tourists in town for the dedication of the National Soldiers Cemetery. He swiveled his head around and, as dawn broke, Greene glimpsed Union soldiers to the front. Bruce Catton and Shelby Foote floated by, smiling.

  “John Buford’s brigade,” Catton said to Foote.

  “We did it,” Foote said.

  “We sure did!” Catton said.

  “Did what?” Greene demanded.

  “I’m afraid we tinkered with the timeline, Mr. Greene,” Catton admitted.

  “We weren’t sure we could do it,” Foote added.

  “But we did!” Catton said.

  “Did what?” Greene repeated, exasperated.

  “Why y’all are gonna get to see the Battle of Gettysburg,” Foote said. “It’s the morning of July 1 and you folks best pick up the slack ’cause Harry Heth’s men will be along directly. You see, students, the Civil War defined us as what we are and it opened us to being what we became, good and bad things. It was the crossroads of our being, and it was a hell of a crossroads. And Gettysburg is the crossroads town!” he added excitedly.

  “And John Buford’s men are up ahead,” Catton chimed in. “Good old Buford! He hanged a spy in Frederick. Hanged him from a tree naked as a jaybird, Buford did.”

  Whoa! Victor thought, instinctively raising his hands as he detected in the dawn’s early light, a Union soldier pointing a carbine in his direction.

  “Children, “Greene said, stopping the group. “It appears our guides have betrayed us. Forget our other story. We are now refugees from Chambersburg, we fled without even bothering to pack a bag. Let me do the talking.” He led the students a few more yards when he heard the command.

  “Halt, who goes there?”

  “Unionist refugees from Chambersburg,” Greene lied.

  “Advance with your hands raised.”

  The sun was rising in the east and the day had truly begun. The ghosts, Victor realized, had deserted them and they were nowhere within sight. Mrs. Beard had been a bit daffy, but she hadn’t deserted them. Catton and Foote were AWOL, absent without leave, without so much as a “by your leave,” Victor thought. He glanced at Minerva; she appeared frightened. Bette, on the other hand, seemed delighted at the change in plans.

  “We get to see the battle! Wow!” Bette said.

  A captain of the Union cavalry came over to question Greene and his students.

  “What is your name, sir?”

  “Nathan Greene, captain.”

  “Are these your children? “

  “They are my nephew and my nieces, captain, their mother, my poor sister, was taken ill last winter with typhus and went to her reward. We are trying to escape the pestilence, captain, trying to avoid the slaveholding horde.”

  “Your occupation, Mr. Greene?”

  “I am a circuit preacher, captain.”

  “Well, preacher, you and your nephew and nieces seem a little short on baggage.”

  “We fled with only the clothes on our backs,” Greene said theatrically. “The poor girls,” he added.

  Victor wondered if the captain was swallowing Mr. Greene’s baloney. “How far back are the rebels?” the captain asked.

  “Captain, I would think they would be here by eight o’clock,” Greene said.

  From his summer reading, Victor had learned that Heth’s men opened fire at about 8 a.m. on the first of July. History was the source of Mr. Greene’s prescience, although, of course, the history had not yet happened.

  The captain nodded. “Thank you for your information, Mr. Greene. You and your party may pass. I think you might find lodging in one of the hotels in town, as many of the residents have fled the area.”

  They proceeded east on Chambersburg Pike, passing through a Union picket line, which was manned by John Buford’s cavalry brigade. When they were beyond hearing range of the soldiers, Mr. Greene said, “You can see the hotel on the other side of the Chambersburg Pike across from the Seminary. Well, by this afternoon it will be in Confederate hands. We will do best if we head into town into Lincoln Square…excuse me, that’s what it is called today. It was the Diamond back in 1863. We will take two rooms at the Gettysburg Hotel and try to figure out how we are going to get home.”

  “But the portable is programmed to return on November 19th, Mr. Greene,” Victor said. “Are we stuck here in July?”

  Mr. Greene grimaced. “Students, I’m afraid our dead historians really left us in the lurch. We may be stuck here for months.”

  “No, Mr. Greene,” Minerva complained. “I am scheduled to visit Duke and Penn in August. This is terrible.”

  “Buck up, Minerva,” Bette said. “This might be fun, living in the past for a few months.”

  “A few?” Minerva said, exasperated. “Try five months, July, August, September, October and November!”

  “Now, Minerva,” Mr. Greene said, trying to comfort her. “There does not seem to be much that we can do about our situation.”

  “Yeah,” Victor agreed. “Might as well enjoy the battle, Minerva.”

  “
Enjoy the battle! Are you crazy, Victor Bridges? Did you actually read Residents of History? There was nothing enjoyable about the battle Victor. Just death and disease. Why did Mr. Catton and Mr. Foote do this to us?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Minerva,” Greene said.

  They walked down into town on the dirt road, passing houses and stores, including the Fahnestock Building, which was a large general store that specialized in “dry goods.” As they neared the center of town, they passed streetlamps.

  “They only put up streetlights three years ago, in 1860,” Mr. Greene said. “Kerosene replaced whale oil in lighting, and Pennsylvania College, the Lutheran Seminary and the homes of the wealthier inhabitants of Gettysburg had gas lighting. The flame burned inside a chimney glass cover.”

  They walked into the center of town, passing hitching rails for horses that dotted the public square.

  “When I was a student, I used to come up to the Gettysburg Hotel, for the hotel had the best hot fudge sundaes,” Mr. Greene reminisced. He pointed north in the direction of Carlisle Street. “Down there was the Majestic Theater, a favorite haunt of college students. Past that was the Varsity Diner, which we called the V.D. They renamed it the Lincoln Diner. As a matter of fact, they renamed many of the town’s streets after the battle to honor the men who fought here.” Green told his students about a study done by his college sociology class for White’s Motel. The motel wasn’t filling its rooms until the professor and the students suggested the owner change the name from White’s Motel to the Heritage Motel. After the name change, the motel was consistently filled.

  “The V.D.!” Bette laughed. “Great name for a restaurant. Better than the STD Diner I guess,” she added.

  As they entered the square, Mr. Greene stopped, pulled out his leather pouch from a coat pocket and handed each of his students a twenty-dollar gold piece. “Keep this in case we get separated. Twenty dollars in gold was a good bit of money back then,” he said.