Gettysburg: The Crossroads Town

by Tim Black

  “Well, perhaps you should be getting back before its dark. It will be dark soon.” As he spoke, the commanding general of the Army of the Potomac was busy writing out passes for Victor and Bette. When he had signed his name, he handed the passes to them.

  “These are passes signed by me. If any of my men stop you, show the pass to them and they will let you pass. This will simplify things for you,” he said. “We had a glorious victory today, children, a glorious victory.”

  “Yes, sir,” Victor agreed.

  “Captain Meade will escort you safely back to the farm.”

  Victor wanted to ask General Meade why he hadn’t counterattacked, for he had heard Bruce Catton’s opinion on Meade’s reluctance to take the offensive against Lee, preferring to let Lee leave Gettysburg unmolested. Of course, Meade had no way of knowing that Lee’s retreat would be made in inclement weather, conditions which would turn the dirt roads to mud and slow the egress of the Army of Northern Virginia. In sum, Victor realized that Meade had no way of knowing how crippled Lee was. Meade, who had only been commander of the Army of the Potomac for little more than a week, was not about to risk his army needlessly, even if Abraham Lincoln would be furious at him for not crushing the Rebel host.

  Captain Meade arranged a wagon and a cavalry escort for Victor and Bette to safely return to the Weikert farm. He offered Victor the seat beside him on the bench of the wagon and started a conversation.

  “Where are you from, boy?” Captain Meade asked.

  “Mercersburg, captain.”

  “So, you really watched the Rebel charge?”

  “Yes, from Big Round Top.”

  “Yes, the big rocky hill,” Captain Meade said.

  “We also saw the fight for Little Round Top yesterday.”

  “You witnessed the bayonet charge?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I wish I had seen that. I was giving my father’s orders to General Sickles, but the man ignored them and nearly cost us the field. He lost his leg from his impetuousness. Tell me about the charge, boy.”

  Victor spent the rest of the ride telling the son of the Commander of the Army of the Potomac about the mad dash of the 20th Maine. He was pretty talked out when Captain Meade pulled the buckboard up to the gate of the Weikert farm.

  “Thank you, captain,” Bette said for both of the students.

  The two travelers were stunned to see even more wounded soldiers than before. Men were lying out in the open everywhere, and were divided into three groups. The first group were men who were shot in the gut or the head—there was no hope for them. They were put in one area and left to die as peacefully as possible. Victor noticed that many of these men were twitching and suffering from convulsions. He stopped and watched one man have one seizure after another, flailing away like an epileptic having a grand mal seizure, before finally falling limp and expiring.

  But no one came to help him. Or the others in that group. There were other wounded men who could be saved. Help was concentrated on the men who had a chance to survive. Those others were placed in a second section of the farm and were administered to after the first group unless they went downhill fast and, as a consequence, were moved to the mortally wounded section of the farm. The third group was composed of the “walking wounded” who had not sustained life-threatening injuries. They were bandaged, or given a splint and crutches and moved on.

  The sun was down but the full moon illuminated the farm and the face of a weary Tillie Pierce, who had spent the day with the patients. She wore an exhausted smile when she spotted Bette. Tillie wiped the blood from her hands and rushed over to Bette and hugged her.

  “We heard you were captured,” Tillie said.

  Victor wondered how in the world Tillie knew about that. So did Bette, for she asked Tillie, “Who told you that?”

  “One of the boys from Maine,” Tillie replied. “He came by to be treated for a flesh wound. He was a rather talkative man who claimed he had caught two Rebel spies and then he described you both and I knew it was you. What happened?”

  The obnoxious soldier, Victor realized.

  Before Victor could stop Bette, his classmate related the whole story of Pickett’s Charge and their subsequent detention as espionage suspects before being reacquainted with General Meade. Bette had told Victor that pregnant gravedigger Elizabeth Thorn would name her future child Rose Meade Thorn, in honor of the commanding general, but at that moment he was worried that Bette might divulge that salient fact and somehow appear in Tillie Pierce’s memoir.

  Mrs. Weikert joined the trio and welcomed Victor and Bette back to the farm. “Where’s your telescope, Victor?” Mrs. Weikert asked.

  “The soldiers confiscated it, Mrs. Weikert,” Victor replied.

  “Well, that’s probably for the best. They say the battle is over and the Rebs are whipped,” she said. “But at a terrible cost. So many dead and wounded, so many,” she lamented and walked away.

  Tillie explained. “It has been an awful day. We had to evacuate the farm and were not allowed to return to the farm until the guns were silent, only a few hours ago. As we approached the farm I couldn’t believe the awful sight. The number of wounded had tripled or more. The air was filled with moaning and groaning. Some men were even shrieking. It was terrible to hear. We were compelled to pick our steps in order that we might not tread on the prostrate bodies. When we entered the house, we found it also completely filled with the wounded. We hardly knew what to do or where to go. They, however, removed most of the wounded and made room for the family.

  “We made ourselves useful by rendering our assistance to the heartrending state of affairs. Poor Mrs. Weikert went through the house and brought out all the muslin and linen she could spare. We tore these into bandages and gave them to the surgeons to bind up the soldiers’ wounds.

  “By this time, amputating benches had been placed about the house. I guess I had become so numb to the sights and sounds that I could watch the operations without vomiting. Near the basement door, and directly under the window I was at, stood one of the amputating benches. I saw them lifting the poor men upon it, then the surgeons sawing and cutting off arms and legs, then again probing and picking bullets from the flesh. Some of the soldiers begged to be taken next. That is how bad they were suffering that they were anxious to lose a limb to end the pain.

  “I saw surgeons put a cattle horn over the mouths of the wounded ones, after they were placed on the bench. Then came the chloroform which didn’t always work. Some men remained conscious. Follow me,” Tillie said and led Victor and Bette to the south of the house just outside the yard.” Even in the moonlight you can see the pile,” she said, pointing to a stack of limbs, which was higher than the fence. “Isn’t it ghastly?” she asked.

  Bette responded by vomiting on the spot.

  “Such cruel butchery,” Tillie added.

  Tears streamed down Bette’s cheeks.

  Cry, Bette, Victor thought. Go ahead and cry.

  Tillie left Victor and Bette to contemplate the horror at the farm. “I’m off to bed,” she added.

  Bette wiped her tears away and said to Victor, “That was in her memoir, Victor.”

  “What was?”

  “What Tillie just told us. Some of it was verbatim from her memoir, I’d swear to it. She wrote the reminiscence decades later, but she remembered all the details.”

  “That’s amazing,” Victor replied.

  They stood there stone-faced staring at the pile of severed limbs before, Bette finally said, “I need some sleep.”

  It had been an exhausting day, Victor thought as he trudged into the house after Bette and went upstairs to bed. He would have no trouble falling asleep, he assured himself. Even if there were no sheets left on the bed, he wouldn’t have trouble falling asleep.

  And he didn’t.

  Chapter 11

  Minerva was in her hotel room at a few minutes past one when the rolling thunder began: the cannonade from Seminary Ridge. The deafening no
ise reminded her of the clamorous sounds of a heavy Florida thunderstorm, but the subsequent vibrations from the artillery knocked the porcelain ewer from its perch beside the water bowl in her hotel room and the pitcher cracked when it met the floor. Had the artillery caused an earthquake? Minerva wondered. She ran to the window. Smoke was billowing to the south. She saw a flash from a cannon’s barrel on Cemetery Hill and deduced that an artillery exchange was underway. Mr. Greene, on crutches, hobbled into her room.

  “It’s started, Minerva!” he exclaimed, excited as a little boy at his birthday party.

  “What has, Mr. Greene?”

  “The prelude to Pickett’s Charge, the bombardment.”

  “Oh,” Minerva said. She was annoyed that gray smoke obscured her view. She was finally interested in witnessing what was happening. At that moment of her irritation, into the room floated another irritant, the ghost of Shelby Foote. The dead historian was smiling and clapping his ghostly hands excitedly.

  “You are going to miss it!” Foote warned. “You are going to miss Pickett’s Charge if you stay in your hotel room! It is the chance of a lifetime.”

  “It is safer here,” Minerva reasoned, declining Foote’s invitation.

  “Minerva’s right, Shelby,” Mr. Greene agreed.

  Shelby Foote shook his head in disbelief. “Nathan, are you going to let a little flesh wound and a pair of crutches slow you down? I am talking about the greatest infantry charge in history. And you call yourself a historian, pshaw!”

  “I never called myself a historian, Shelby,” Mr. Greene replied. “I call myself a history teacher, Shelby, I do not presume to be a historian.”

  “Shucks, Nathan, it is only semantics. You could be a historian if you ever decided to publish. I know that you can’t write anything for publication or they will cancel your passport to the past so to speak. But this is the experience of a lifetime, my boy. This is Pickett’s Charge. Isn’t it worth a modicum of risk?”

  “That’s easy for you to say, Mr. Foote,” Minerva interjected, fearful that her teacher might fall under the spell of the Confederate Circe. “A modicum of risk? Mr. Greene came close to being killed yesterday. He’s lucky he still has his leg, and he wouldn’t if he didn’t have an abscess and had to bring along antibiotics. It’s easy for you to say. You are dead already. Neither of us is in any hurry to join you and Mr. Catton on the other side.”

  The spirit of Shelby Foote was offended at Minerva’s remarks.

  “Suit yourself then,” the ghost grumbled, and floated out of the room in the direction of Seminary Ridge. Minerva watched him fly down Chambersburg Street toward the Lutheran Theological Seminary. Then suddenly, Shelby Foote, returned to the hotel room.

  “You didn’t tell her, Nathan?”

  “No,” Mr. Greene blushed.

  “Didn’t tell me what?” Minerva demanded to know.

  Foote smiled. “Your teacher does not have an abscess tooth. He carried the antibiotics for you kids in case anyone got an infection.”

  Minerva was horrified. Mr. Greene broke his own rules. Just like when he brought along aspirin to colonial Philadelphia. She stared at her teacher in disbelief, her face registering betrayal. She managed to mutter, “Why?”

  “I didn’t have to worry about aspirin,” Mr. Greene replied. “It was available in 1863, but I was concerned that one of you might get an infection. I can’t have my students dying, Minerva, even if I have tenure,” he said trying to lighten the mood.

  Minerva said nothing, her face indicating that she required more information.

  “As it turns out, I only saved myself, or more precisely, my leg,” Mr. Greene added. “Ironic, really.”

  “So you didn’t have an abscess?”

  Mr. Greene waffled. “Well, I did, but the pills are what was left of my prescription. The tooth healed a week ago. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Minerva.”

  Minerva huffed and walked away from the ghost and her teacher.

  “She’s pretty steamed up, Nathan,” the ghost observed.

  “You think so, Shelby?” Mr. Greene replied sarcastically. “You’ve been a great help, you really have.”

  “Well, you pissed me off, Nathan. Sitting on your butt and ignoring Pickett’s Charge,” Shelby Foote complained.

  Minerva turned and snapped at the two souls. “Stop arguing, you two are giving me a headache.”

  Suddenly Minerva wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. She remembered Julia Culp. Julia could use her help. She needed be useful and get away from the squabbling men. Right now she wanted to get away from Mr. Greene. He was just another adult who had failed her. Mr. Greene had fallen from the pedestal Minerva had built for him. Right now, she would clear her mind by helping Julia. She sensed it was going to be a busy afternoon.

  From what she had read about Pickett’s Charge, Minerva recalled that the casualties were staggering. Every nurse would be needed this day, July 3rd, 1863.

  “I’m going down to the courthouse, Mr. Greene,” she said over her shoulder as she walked out of the hotel room. Mr. Greene was too busy bickering with the ghost to hear Minerva. Finally, an enormous cannonade ended the quarrel between the teacher and the ghost.

  Mr. Greene stuck his head out the window. He ducked his head back in a moment and said to Shelby Foote, “Where’s Minerva?”

  “Beats me,” the ghost replied. “I’ll see you later in the afternoon, Nathan,” the ghost of Shelby Foote declared before floating off to join the assembling Confederates on the wood line of Seminary Ridge.

  *

  At the courthouse Minerva found Julia Culp tending to a patient. She donned an apron, washed her hands over a washbowl and went over to assist Julia.

  “Sorry I’m late. I was looking after my uncle.”

  Julia smiled slightly. She looked up from the patient whose arm she was bandaging and said, “Ginnie Wade is dead.”

  “Who?” Minerva asked.

  “Virginia Wade, a gal of twenty or so,” Julia said. “Everyone knew her as Ginnie, with a ‘G,” not Virginia. She was betrothed to Jack Skelly, Daniel Skelly’s older brother. She was baking bread with her mother when a Rebel bullet killed her in her kitchen. Imagine, she was kneading bread on a bread board and she was hit by a Rebel bullet. I heard she died instantly.”

  “That’s terrible,” Minerva said, wondering why Julia said “Ginnie” not “Jennie” Wade. After all, Victor told Minerva that he had gone to the Jennie Wade House in Gettysburg, Maybe Victor mixed up the names.

  “I never liked her,” Julia went on. “She was kind of stuck on herself, what with her fancy braided hair and all, but I wouldn’t wish her dead, that’s for sure. Mrs. Wade must be devastated, and her looking after Georgia’s baby and all. And what with Mr. Wade in the nut house and all. Drank too much they say,” Julia gossiped.

  Minerva sensed Julia knew the whole Wade family. She just nodded. Minerva realized Julia hadn’t received the news about her brother Wesley. She was not about to let that black cat out of the bag. Julia was much too chipper.

  Julia smiled. “I have to tell you this or I will burst, simply burst Minerva,” she whispered. “Let’s go out for some air, I don’t want any townspeople hearing.”

  Minerva, curious, followed the sixteen-year-old Julia Culp outside. The two girls waited for a lull in the cannonades before attempting to talk. When a respite came, Julia gave Minerva a bear hug and whispered in her ear. “I saw my brother last night.”

  “Wesley?” Minerva said aloud.

  “Shhh, don’t say his name, Minerva. I live with my aunt on York Street. He got a two-hour pass from his sergeant last night and came to see us—me, my big sister Anna, and Aunt Polly. I cried and cried I was so happy,” Julia said, smiling. She hugged Minerva again. “I don’t care if he is a Rebel, or that people think he’s a traitor, he’s my brother. And blood is thicker than war,” she added.

  Minerva had heard that “blood was thicker than water,” but never that blood was thicker than war, but s
he forgave Julia’s malaprop, happy that Julia had a chance to see her brother, because Minerva knew at that moment Wesley Culp’s body was lying out on Julia’s uncle’s hill. Mr. Greene had told his students the whole tragic story of Wesley and Julia, but he hadn’t said that they met the evening before Wesley died. Truth, Minerva thought, truly was stranger than fiction. Suddenly, Minerva felt guilty about the way she had interacted with Mr. Greene. She tried to look at the situation from his point of view. He was en loco parentis: he was acting in place of their parents. He had to safeguard his students. She wondered what other little tricks Mr. Greene had up his sleeve, what other things he hadn’t told them. She decided to forgive him and she was pleased with herself. She looked at the smiling Miss Culp. She was glad Julia had seen her brother before he died.

  “I am happy for you, Julia,” Minerva shouted as cannons resumed their chorus.

  “Thank you, Minerva,” Julia yelled back over the din and motioned that they should return to help out in the courthouse.

  Back inside, a thought came to Minerva. Since they were behind the Confederate lines, the casualties they would see today would be predominantly Rebels. Having traveled in time from a modern United States of America, Minerva saw no difference between the Federal or Confederate soldiers—they were all Americans to her.

  As Julia and Minerva awaited what they both expected would soon be an onslaught of wounded soldiers, they spent their time cutting bed sheets into strips and rolling the strips into bandages for the wounded. Minerva wondered how long it would be before the hotel stripped the sheets from its beds and contributed the sheets to the war effort.

  About four thirty p.m. Minerva and Julia took a break from their routine and walked outside. Something was different, Minerva thought, listening. There was silence. Had the fighting ended?

  “Listen, Julia, what do you hear?”

  Julia concentrated. “Nothing. No cannons, no muskets. Do you suppose it is over?”

  “I think so,” Minerva said. “I hope so.”

  “So do I.”