by Tim Black
On the other side of the stone wall stood Federal troops who flew the Stars and Stripes and the green flag of Eire. Victor turned to asked Bruce Catton who those soldiers were, but Catton responded to Victor’s thought before the boy could get the words out.
“That’s the 69th Pennsylvania, Victor. It is made up of Irish men, immigrants or sons of immigrants who left Ireland during the potato famine of the 1840s. They stopped Armistead’s Virginians, and then another group of Pennsylvanians, the 72nd, began firing at the flank of the Virginians, mortally wounding Armistead as you will presently see. Watch carefully!”
Smoke on the battlefield obscured Victor’s vision, but he still made out the hat atop the sword and watched the headgear reach the stone wall of the Union lines and then, sharpshooters on the flank of the Confederate thrust not more than eighty yards away, fired from a hundred or more weapons. Suddenly, the general’s hat disappeared.
Mr. Catton was correct—Armistead was mortally wounded and he was probably calling out for his old friend, Union General Winfield Hancock who, Victor remembered, became a casualty of the battle as well. Although unlike Armistead, Winfield Scott Hancock survived his wounds and went on to run for president of the United States in 1880, losing to James Garfield who, ironically was a Civil War veteran who survived the war only to be assassinated by a disappointed office seeker in a railroad station in 1881.
The bloody fight for the wall descended from an orderly line of battle to a mob melee. Unlike a dressed line of infantry with perhaps two ranks where one line fired as the other reloaded, two groups of soldiers, bunched together, fought not only with muskets but with fists and bayonets. Alone, the 72nd Pennsylvania on the flank remained its integrity of operation.
A bevy of conflicting thoughts ran through Victor’s mind as he watched the Confederates obtain their “high water mark,” but when the general’s hat was no longer visible, it appeared that all the energy drained from the Rebel charge; the Confederates began to fall back in retreat, and the Federal soldiers began to shout “Fredericksburg! Fredericksburg!” But Victor couldn’t recall why the Union soldiers shouted that.
“Why are they shouting ‘Fredericksburg,’ Mr. Catton?” Victor asked.
“Fredericksburg had a futile Union charge, similar to this Confederate one, Victor,” Bruce Catton explained. “Thousands of Union soldiers were killed or wounded charging a fortified position like the Confederates charged on Cemetery Ridge.”
“How many men charged Cemetery Ridge do you think?”
“Well,” Catton said. “It pains me to say this, but I think Shelby’s figure of fourteen thousand is closer to the actual count than my estimate. So, I must grudgingly agree with him.”
“Good,” Bette said. “Can we go home now?” she asked.
The ghost blushed. Victor hadn’t thought a ghost could blush, but Bruce Catton just did. The ghost was embarrassed.
“Well, I wish it were that simple, Bette, I really do, but we programmed the portable to return on the evening of November 19th after Mr. Lincoln boards the train to return to Washington City. We knew how much Mr. Greene wanted you students to hear Abraham Lincoln deliver his Gettysburg Address. We really didn’t think of the time between the battle and the president’s three-minute speech, as time doesn’t mean much to one when one is deceased. Eternity knows no time. You really lose your sense of time when you are dead, Bette, I’m sorry to say. Sense of time? Time makes no sense, except to the living.”
Victor wasn’t paying attention to the conversation between the ghost and his classmate. He was thinking of Pickett’s Charge. So many men marched so honorably across the open ground and an hour later so many now lay dead or mangled on the field of honor. Field of honor? He wondered. Field of horror. Even as the Confederates retreated, the vengeful Union soldiers kept firing at the Rebels, and a few dozen more Confederates fell before they reached the safety of the tree line on Seminary Ridge. Then, finally, the shooting ended, and the cries echoed from the battlefield. Screams of anguish. Victor looked through the glass and watched as a man, missing a leg, crawled in the direction of whence he had come, but he didn’t get too far before he expired, registering a final spasm of movement. Other men struggled, using their rifles as crutches as they slowly made their way in retreat. Others threw away their rifles, their haversacks and their cartridge boxes as if to visually say they had had enough. Victor glimpsed a lone figure in a gray uniform walk out of the wood line. He raised his eyeglass for a closer look. He drew a blank, but he knew he had seen that man’s photograph somewhere. In a book?
“Who is that coming out of the woods to greet the returning men?” Victor asked Bruce Catton.
“That’s Lee,” Catton replied. “Robert Edward Lee of Arlington, Virginia.”
Of course, Victor thought, irritated. His eidetic memory had failed him.
Catton continued. “Robert E. Lee, the commander of the Army of Northern Virginia came out to apologize to the survivors of Pickett’s Charge. Of course, Pickett blamed Lee for the fiasco. Well, at this moment, I believe that Marse Robert is telling the bedraggled troops, ‘It’s my fault.’ Funny thing, when Lee was asked about Pickett’s Charge after the war he didn’t take responsibility for the failure, but blamed others. Southerners blamed James Longstreet, but Longstreet had argued against the assault.”
Finally the last cannons and the last rifles fell silent and the only sounds emanating from the battlefield were the cries of wounded men. The smoke from the battle had cleared and Victor could see the groups of men in butternut uniforms being led away. Prisoners, Victor realized. For those Confederate soldiers, their war was over. Some soldiers in blue uniforms had been marched away as well to the Confederate positions on Seminary Ridge and they would sit out the war, if they managed to survive the brutal conditions of Southern prisoner of war camps, in Libby Prison in Richmond or Andersonville in Georgia.
Victor looked at the beaten Confederates as they found sanctuary behind the trees on Seminary Ridge. He asked Bruce Catton an obvious question. “Why didn’t Meade counterattack, Mr. Catton?”
Catton chuckled. “That’s a question that Abraham Lincoln asked as well, Victor. I mean, Lincoln was happy for the Union victory, but he thought Meade missed an opportunity to end the war by not attacking a weakened Lee.”
“Did he?”
“Yes and no, but I believe that was Monday morning quarterbacking by Mr. Lincoln. On paper the president was right, but after that battle, the Army of the Potomac was spent. Also, Meade was wary of a wounded Lee. He sensed as soon as Pickett’s Charge failed, Lee was preparing for a counterattack. Lee was too shaken to prepare an adequate defense, but Meade had no way of knowing that. Lee’s center line was as soft as a marshmallow. Tonight, Lee will slink out of Gettysburg and head back over South Mountain and make his way to Virginia, not knowing that the Potomac River has become too deep to ford and will require the construction of pontoon bridges. Meade would regroup and chase Lee to the Potomac River, but he was unsuccessful in forcing Lee to surrender his army. That would have ended the war. So the Army of the Potomac won the battle, but it didn’t end the war, just as Lee might have ended the war if he had been victorious. On such events our history as a nation hung in the balance.”
“I guess that’s all the excitement for today, huh?” Bette asked.
“Pretty much, Bette,” Catton commented. “All of the lions are licking their wounds.”
“Let’s head back to the Weikert farm then,” Victor advised.
Victor and Bette with Bruce Catton floating alongside them, began the descent from the summit of Big Round Top. They were almost down the east side of the prominence when, suddenly, a dozen Union soldiers appeared in their path. Happy to see the victorious soldiers, Bette smiled at them, but her smile was met with grim faces. The leader, a crusty-looking sergeant with an unkempt red beard, ordered Victor and Bette to stop.
“Who are you?” the sergeant said, looking right at Victor.
“Refugees f
rom Mercersburg, sergeant,” Victor replied.
“They is spies, sergeant,” one of the soldiers declared. “The boy’s got a Signal Corps glass, he does.”
“You can’t be serious,” Bette said, trying to intervene.
The soldier’s comment caught the sergeant’s attention.
“Are you a spy, boy?” the sergeant asked.
“No, sir,” Victor nervously replied.
“Don’t sir me,” the sergeant said and then turned his head to spit out a splash of tobacco juice. “I work for a living.”
“We aren’t spies,” Bette protested.
“Hand me your glass, boy,” the sergeant said. Victor handed it over and the sergeant examined it. “What were you doing with this?”
“Watching Pickett’s Charge,” Victor said.
“Who’s Pickett?” the sergeant asked.
“The Rebel general for heaven’s sake,” Bette chimed in. It didn’t help.
“You aint no refugees from Mercersburg,” the sergeant judged, accurately. “And civilians don’t know who a Confederate general is, except maybe Lee.”
“I assure you we are refugees, sergeant. I was given the spyglass by Mrs. Weikert. Her farm is now a Union hospital and the spyglass was left by a Signal Corps man.”
The sergeant stroked his beard in contemplation. “That’s against regulations,” the sergeant said. “That should have been returned to the Signal Corps.”
“Good heavens, Victor,” Bruce Catton said. “The sergeant is one of the those by the books men. He isn’t going to bend. I’m afraid you will just have to go with him and sort it out with a higher up.”
“Well, it ain’t for me to decide whether you is or is not spies,” the sergeant declared. “But you are coming along with us. Under guard,” he added.
“What should I do?” Victor said to Mr. Catton. Unfortunately, the sergeant heard him.
“Are you talking to me, boy?”
“No sir, er sergeant.”
“Well, you come along with us and we will let the old man figure it out.”
Mr. Catton whispered to Victor. “He is taking you to his commanding officer, who was sometimes nicknamed the ‘old man.’”
“Oh,” Victor mumbled.
“No talking, boy,” the sergeant ordered.
With soldiers in front of them and soldiers in back of them, Victor and Bette walked together along Taneytown Road. The landscape was littered with broken fences, shattered trees and, to Bette’s dismay, dozens of dead horses that were the innocent victims of a Confederate artillery barrage that had overshot its targets.
“I have researched the devastation of the battle, children,” Catton said to Victor and Bette. “But witnessing it is another thing all together. The enormity of it all. It is truly sobering,” he added.
Victor nodded agreement with Mr. Catton.
“Pick up your pace, girl,” the sergeant snapped at Bette who was trying as best as she could manage to keep up with the fast-paced men.
She appealed to his chauvinism. “Sir, I am merely a woman.”
Victor raised his eyebrows in disbelief. He couldn’t believe his ears. Bette Kromer said that? “Merely a woman.”
“Yeah, the Rebels have a lot of girly spies, I hear, sergeant,” the troublemaking soldier commented in response to Bette’s plea.
“I don’t care, miss, I will let the colonel decide about you two. Too bad so many of the trees are splintered by the shells. Might not be a good branch around to hang your from,” the sergeant added.
“You wouldn’t hang a woman, would you, sergeant?” Bette asked.
Suddenly, Victor was feeling abandoned by his classmate. She was appealing to their nineteenth century chauvinism.
“No, girl. I wouldn’t hang you, but the colonel, he might hang you.”
The group arrived in front of the headquarters tent of the 20th Maine. Victor was astounded. “Chamberlain,” he mumbled.
Bruce Catton chuckled. “Why, Victor, it’s your hero in the flesh. You should be honored to be hanged by a medal of honor winner.”
“That’s not funny, Mr. Catton,” Victor hissed.
Lieutenant Colonel Chamberlain was sitting in a chair, holding a mirror up and trimming his mustache with a pair of scissors. His wounded foot was propped up. The sergeant went ahead to talk to his commander.
“Begging the colonel’s pardon,” the sergeant began.
“What is it sergeant?”
“I found these two suspicious characters on the big rocky hill.”
“Big Round Top?”
“If that’s what they’s callin’ it, yes.”
“Who are they?” Chamberlain asked as he pointed his scissors at Victor and Bette.
“They might be spies, colonel.” He handed Chamberlain the Signal Corps glass.
Chamberlain took the glass and examined it. “Spies, really?” he said, wondering where they obtained the Signal Corps glass. “Bring them to me.”
Victor and Bette were brought front and center to the commander.
“Who are you?” Chamberlain asked.
Bette answered. “My name is Bette Bridges and this is my brother Victor. We fled from Mercersburg when the Rebels approached, and we took refuge here. We were watching the battle from Big Round Top.”
“And having a picnic as well, I suppose,” Chamberlain said. “Like those foolish civilians at Bull Run, driving out from Washington City to watch the battle like it was some kind of a game for spectators. Let me speak to your brother. Victor is it?” Chamberlain asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Does your sister always speak for you?”
Victor blushed. “She has a mind of her own, sir.”
A slight smile of sympathy creased Chamberlain’s face and Victor wondered if Chamberlain had a sister. “Where did you get the spy glass, Victor.”
“Mrs. Weikert sir. Her farm is being used as a hospital. She gave the spyglass to me. She said it belonged to a dead Signal Corps man.”
“So let me get this straight. You two climbed Big Round Top to watch the battle?”
“Yes, sir,” Victor replied. “We were at the farm and heard all the commotion and we were curious.”
“Have you ever heard that curiosity killed the cat?”
“Yes, sir,” Victor admitted, remembering Mrs. Weikert’s same admonition.
Chamberlain thought a moment and said, “Is there anyone I know that can vouch for you?”
“Mrs. Weikert, colonel,” Victor said.
“I don’t know her,” Chamberlain replied.
Bette had an inspiration. “General Meade,” she said.
“General Meade? You know the commanding general?” Chamberlain said, totally surprised.
“Yes,” Bette said. “We gave him water the other day when Victor and I and our friend Tillie were giving water to parched soldiers.”
Chamberlain was skeptical. He turned to another officer who Victor recognized as Thomas Chamberlain, the colonel’s younger brother. “Thomas, bring me a wagon. I am going to take these two youngsters over to General Meade’s headquarters. I don’t think I can walk that far.”
Chamberlain took the reins while Victor and Bette sat in the wagon bed, guarded by two soldiers.
Chamberlain called back to them in a serious voice. “I hope for your sake that General Meade can identify you. If he cannot, I’m afraid it will be out of my hands.”
Bruce Catton appeared and took a seat next to Victor and Bette in the wagon bed. “What Chamberlain means is that if Meade can’t recognize you, they will probably hang you.”
Bette, not thinking, blurted out. “I hope General Meade is alive!”
“He is alive,” Chamberlain answered.
Chamberlain stopped the wagon in front of a wooden-frame house, which was pockmarked by shell fire. The front door was missing, the windows were shattered. Chamberlain hobbled down from the driver’s bench. A captain met him.
“Colonel Chamberlain, what can I do for you?”
“Is your father here, Captain Meade?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he available?”
“I will see, sir.”
The captain went into the shattered building and quickly returned. Behind him came the sad-faced, somber commander of the Army of the Potomac.
“What can I do for you, colonel?” General Meade inquired.
“Sir, I have two young civilians who may be spies, but the girl says she knows you.”
“Does she? Well, bring her to me.”
Chamberlain waved to the guards to bring Victor and Bette.
Meade took a look at Victor and Bette and declared, “I don’t know them, colonel.”
“I see,” Chamberlain replied, and was about to gesture to the guards to return the two students to the wagon when Bette shouted out, “General Meade, we were the young people handing out water to troops along Taneytown Road. There were three of us, but the other girl didn’t come with us today. She stayed at the farm to help with the wounded men.”
Meade’s face brightened to recognition. He smiled. “Yes,” Meade said. “I remember you and the other girl, handing out water to my soldiers. It is okay, colonel, I know them. I don’t believe spies would be giving our men cool water to drink.”
Chamberlain smiled as well and Meade addressed him. “I want to compliment you for your actions, yesterday, Chamberlain. You saved the line, sir, you saved the line.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That will be all, colonel. I want to chat with these two youngsters if you don’t mind. George,” he said to his son, Captain George Gordon Meade Jr. “Pull up two chairs for my guests.” Meade offered Victor and Bette two folding chairs on which to sit. They sat down in front of the headquarters and Meade asked Bette, “Did you know we found a girl among the Rebel dead, miss?”
“No sir.”
“She was fighting with the Rebels in their charge. I mention this to warn you that even girls can be killed in war. You must be careful,” Meade said, in a fatherly tone. “Where are you two staying?”
Bette replied, “At the Weikerts’, sir, where we were giving soldiers water, general.”