by Tim Black
The Greek shook his head in disbelief. “Well, let us first start by crossing oceans, in this case the Atlantic. Let me worry about the purity of the thing, Henry. You call me the scientific historian anyway. Just go fetch Nikola Tesla for us. Do you think you can do that?”
Sheepishly, Henry Adams replied, “Yes sir.”
Chapter 15
While Bette took an afternoon nap in the girls’ hotel room, Minerva sat in a chair reading the day’s entry from the diary of Sarah Broadhead.
Diary of Sarah Broadhead
July 7–
This morning we started out to see the wounded, with as much food as we could scrape together, and some old quilts and pillows. It was very little, but yet better than nothing. We found on reaching the hospital that a wagon-load of bread and fifty pounds of butter had arrived, having been sent in from the country, and a supply of what the soldiers call “hard tack,” has been distributed. All got some to eat, but not as much as they desired. Government meat is promised for to-morrow, and a full supply of provisions. I assisted in feeding some of the severely wounded, when I perceived they were suffering on account of not having their wounds dressed. I did not know whether I could render any assistance in that way, but I thought I would try. I procured a basin and water, and went room to room where there were seven or eight, some shot in the arms, others in the legs, and one in his back, and another in the shoulder. I asked if any one would like to have his wounds dressed? Someone replied, “There is a man on the floor who cannot help himself, you would better see to him.” Stooping over him, I asked for his wound, and he pointed to his leg. Such a horrible sight I had never seen and hope to never see again. His leg was all covered with worms. I inquired, Was there no doctor in the building? If there was, I must see him. One was brought, and I asked, How the men ever came to be in such condition? He said, “Enough men had not been detailed to care for the wounded, and that that man had been wounded in the first day’s fight, and held by the Rebels until the day previous, and that they (the surgeons) had not yet had time to attend to all, and, at any rate, there were not enough surgeons, and what there were could do but little, for the Rebels had stolen their instruments.” He declared further, that many would die from sheer lack of timely attendance. We fixed the man as comfortably as we could, and when the doctor told me he could not live, I asked him for his home, and if he had a family. He said I should send for his wife, and when I came home I wrote to her, as he told me, but I fear she may never see him alive, as he is very weak, and sinking rapidly. I did not return to the hospital to-day, being very much fatigued and worn out and having done what I never expected to do, or thought I could. I am becoming more used to sights of misery. We do not know until tried what we are capable of.
When Minerva finished reading that day’s diary entry, she thought about Sarah Broadhead’s last sentence, “We do not know until tried what we are capable of.” How right the Quaker lady was, Minerva thought, for she had surprised herself in the time she had been in Gettysburg. She wanted even more to meet Mrs. Broadhead. She returned the diary to its hiding place in the closet. When she returned to her chair to read a copy of the Gettysburg Compiler she heard knocking on her door and walked over and opened it.
Victor looked at her, gave Minerva a smile and whispered, “Hi, beautiful,” before Bette shouted. “Who is it?”
“Victor,” replied Minerva, returning his smile.
“Come in, Casanova,” Bette chuckled.
“That’s okay,” Victor said, blushing and standing immobile in the doorway. “Just telling you, Mr. Greene wants us to meet him in the dining room for supper and a talk.”
*
Two days after Victor’s rescue from the wagon train of the Army of Northern Virginia, Mr. Greene convened a meeting of the group at supper in the dining room at the Gettysburg Hotel.
“I am afraid that my funds are beginning to dwindle,” the teacher said. “I think it is time that we sought out some employment to help tide us over until November and the return of our portable. We need to keep a prudent reserve of funds in case of any unforeseen emergency. Also, we should do something to pass the time as well. We can’t just lull about Gettysburg for four months. Have any of you any ideas as to what job you might be able to do here?”
“Computer programming?” Bette joked. “They could certainly use some computers.”
“Ha ha,” Mr. Greene said somberly. “Very funny. Not.”
Victor and Minerva laughed at Bette’s expense.
Victor produced a circular from his pocket which read:
To all Citizens,
Men, Horses and Wagons wanted immediately, to bury the dead and cleanse our streets, in such a way to guard against a pestilence. Every good citizen can be of use by reporting himself, at once, to Captain W. W. Smith, acting Provost.
“I hear they are paying a dollar a body to remove the dead from the battlefield,” Victor explained. “A hard-working guy might make ten or twenty dollars in a day.”
“That is chicken feed, Victor,” Bette said.
“Not really, Bette,” Mr. Greene commented. “A dollar or two a day was a decent wage in 1863. Ten dollars or twenty even would be pretty darn good. I think though that we are going to have to move out of the hotel and find an apartment that we can rent by the week or the month. Which means we shall all have to work. As soon as my leg is better, I will join you. Have either of your girls ever worked?”
“I was a babysitter,” Minerva said.
“I worked in an antique shop,” Bette said. “At a cash register.”
“I am not so sure we can find those jobs for you girls,” Mr. Greene said.
“Well, we could work with Victor,” Minerva ventured.
“The circular specified men,” Victor said.
Bette huffed. “You’re not a man…yet,” she added.
“I’m closer to getting there than you are,” Victor replied, obviously irritated by Bette’s put down.
“Mr. Greene,” Minerva said. “Didn’t they pay nurses, the nurses with Miss Dix?”
Mr. Greene smiled. “Yes, Minerva, they paid the nurses forty cents a day.”
“Forty cents?” Bette said, a scowl on her face. “They paid a nurse forty cents a day, and they paid a man a dollar for every body that a grave digger collected. That’s not fair.”
“There is no equality for the sexes in 1863, Bette. Women don’t even own property unless their husband dies. When widow Martha Custis married George Washington, he acquired all of her property, and because of the marriage he became the richest man in Virginia, but not from the sweat of his brow, but rather from Martha’s fortune.”
“Can I start in a few days, Mr. Greene?” Minerva asked. “I still have most of the money you gave me. I want to go to the Seminary tomorrow and work with Sarah Broadhead.”
“Well, I want to get paid more than forty cents a day, I can tell you that,” Bette complained. “That’s a nickel an hour, Mr. Greene.”
“They worked longer than eight hours, Bette. Probably more like four cents an hour, but I doubt if they will let you work with the dead bodies if you are wearing a dress.”
“I guess I’m back to masquerading as a boy. The men don’t seem to notice, but the women sure do.”
“Men miss a lot of things, Bette,” Mr. Greene said. “I remember reading about a black man, a grave digger named Basil Biggs. Interesting fellow,” he added and then recited a short biography: “Basil Biggs was born in Maryland in 1820. He lost his mother when he was only four years old. After his mother’s death, as he grew older, he was hired out to work for other people. He inherited four hundred dollars from his mother to be used for his education, but he claimed as an adult that his only education was with his hands. He married a gal named Mary Jackson in the 1840s and moved his family to Pennsylvania in the 1850s so his children could receive an education. The family moved to Gettysburg before the Civil War began and Biggs, a freeman, became active in the Underground Railroad. At the time of
the battle he was a veterinarian and a tenant farmer, running the McPherson farm in the area where the battle began, west of the Lutheran Theological Seminary. Warned about the impending Rebel invasion, Biggs moved his family east to Wrightsville. You will notice in the next few days that the Negroes are beginning to return from their self-imposed exile. Remember, do not use the term African-American. It did not exist in 1863. Of course, as Victor discovered, not all the Negroes were lucky enough to get away. You may also notice that many of the crops have been trampled under, fences are destroyed and livestock either eaten or taken. The battle took a toll on the farmers, both white and black alike.”
“Mr. Greene, Bette and I spent time at the Weikerts’ farm and I can honestly say we would be useless trying to be farmers.”
“I couldn’t even milk a cow,” Bette admitted.
“Well, just think about it over the next few days,” Mr. Greene said. “I was thinking of tutoring students myself.”
Victor pondered for a moment and then said, “We could sure use a deus ex machina, Mr. Greene.”
The teacher chuckled knowingly and Minerva asked, “What’s that?”
Mr. Greene explained. “The machine from the gods. It was a common ending in Ancient Greek plays. It was sort of the Hollywood ending, the cavalry arriving just as the settlers ran out of bullets fighting the Indians. Just when things looked bad for the main characters in a play one of the Greek gods would arrive in a flying chariot and save the day.”
“You mean like our portable showing up to rescue us?” Bette asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Greene replied. “But unfortunately, this isn’t a Greek play or a Hollywood western.”
“Too bad,” Minerva said. “If you will excuse me, I think I will go off to bed.”
“Me too,” Bette said.
When the girls had left, Victor asked his teacher, “How bad are things?”
“I think I can stretch our money out for a month, maybe two, but we really should look for employment to tide us over until November.
“Okay, Mr. Greene. I will report to the provost in the morning. Don’t tell Kromer. I don’t want her tagging along.”
*
When Victor reported to the provost office the next day a black man was speaking with Captain Smith.
“Will I be paid the same as the white men?” the black man asked.
“The same, Mr. Biggs,” Smith said.
“White folks call me ‘Basil,’ captain,” Biggs replied.
“As you wish,” Captain Smith said. “Next man in line.”
Victor moved forward.
“Name?”
“Victor Bridges.”
“Occupation?”
“Student?”
“From the college here?”
“High school,” Victor replied.
“Five dollars a day to bury the dead.”
Victor was disappointed. He thought he was to earn a dollar for every body he buried.
“That acceptable to you, Mr. Bridges?” the captain asked.
“Yes, sir.” Victor replied, thinking that five dollars was better than nothing.
“Okay, do you have any problem working with a colored man?”
“No, sir.”
“Good, then you will work with Mr. Biggs as a team. He is familiar with the work and can show you the ropes. He will be in charge. Any problems with taking orders from a colored man?”
“No, sir,” Victor replied.
“Good.”
A heck of a coincidence, Victor thought. Mr. Greene had been talking about Basil Biggs only the night before and here he was.
Outside on the street Basil Biggs was sitting atop the bench on a covered wagon. Victor went up to Biggs and introduced himself. Biggs smiled, told Victor his name, and asked, “Ever done this kind of work, Victor?”
“No, sir.”
“There are thousands of bodies all over the land, Victor. We are burying them in common graves, just to get them below ground. You have smelled the stench?”
“Yes, it is putrid?”
“If you have any peppermint oil, put it on,” Biggs advised. “And cover your face with your bandana.”
Victor did as instructed and hopped up on the wagon bench beside Basil Biggs. “I’m from Maryland,” Biggs commented and then rehashed biographical information that Victor had heard about him the night before. Mr. Greene’s information seemed to be accurate, Victor thought, but his teacher didn’t mention that Biggs had a winning smile and a sense of humor.
“Did you know the slave owners were stopped on a colored man’s land, Victor? That stone wall was part of Abraham Brian’s farm. He’s a friend of mine. Seems fitting that the slave owners were stopped on a colored man’s land,” Biggs laughed. “The rest of them Rebs would probably die of embarrassment if they knew that, ha ha.”
Victor laughed as well. He always appreciated irony. Victor was developing a philosophy that there were only two things in life, bovine excrement and irony.
“There are dead soldiers everywhere, Victor. I was out here yesterday. There’s talk about a cemetery for the Union boys, not for the Rebs, though. They can rot for all I care. About the only thing we can do is dig trenches and push the boys in. I don’t put the boys together. Rebs in one trench, our boys in another, for the plan is we dig up our boys later. Mr. McConaughy, he runs the Evergreen Cemetery, and he wants to expand his cemetery to bury our boys. That’s the gossip anyway. Like most things, it’s about the money. Governor Curtin will have to okay the idea I hear, and he can be kind of stingy with state money. So if they approve the cemetery, we will have to go back and dig up the Union boys, and the word is they will pay us a dollar for every body. Could you use that money?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well then, you do a good job today and I will put a word in for you with the captain,” Basil said with a smile. “I sure can use the money. I won’t have much of a harvest this year; the Rebs saw to that.”
They rode out Chambersburg Street past the Lutheran Theological Seminary to the west, stopping the wagon near scores of bloated and disfigured bodies, many of which had been lying where they fell since the first day of battle. Animals had feasted on a few of the cadavers and there were mangled corpses in tattered uniforms, the trousers shredded by wolves or wild hogs that had gnawed on a soldier’s leg. The animals didn’t discriminate between the blue and the gray for both sides had bodies which had been desecrated by beasts. Victor felt the urge to vomit but he swallowed several times and kept himself from throwing up.
“Victor, in the back of the wagon, you will find poles and shovels.”
“Poles?”
“For pushing the bodies into the trenches. You don’t want to touch some of them. These bodies are pretty well decayed so the poles can help you push the bodies into the graves, after you have dug the graves, of course.”
Victor retrieved two shovels and two poles and returned to Basil Biggs who was looking for a clear space to dig a trench for a group of Union casualties.
“What about identification?” Victor asked.
“Well,” Biggs said. “Mark down if they are Union or Confederate and if they are not too ripe, maybe you can go through their pockets for letters and such, but the main thing to do now is get the bodies below ground as quickly as possible. Before they spread disease through the air. Captain Smith said there are at least seven thousand bodies scattered all over the battlefield. Maybe more. Some estimates are as high as ten thousand dead and we have over twenty thousand wounded men all over town, probably closer to thirty thousand considering all the ones in private homes. We also have to burn the corpses of the horses and you might have noticed two cans of kerosene and a box of matches among the supplies in the wagon.”
“Should we start with the horses or the humans first?” Victor asked.
“We can douse the horses with the kerosene and set them aflame, and after they start burning we can commence with the men.”
They splashed a half can of keros
ene on each horse and consequently were only able to soak four horses with the liquid. The horses burned slowly but steadily from the liquid kindling of the kerosene.
The men, however, were ripe already. Basil handed Victor a pair of work gloves. “Put these on to go through the men’s pockets,” he explained. “You have no idea what you will find.”
Horrified at the decomposing remains of what were once brave men, Victor believed that even their own loved ones would be hard pressed to identify the bodies of the deceased soldiers.
“Some of the dead had flesh gnawed from their faces by rats,” Basil said. “But the animals mostly went for the meaty areas, the legs, arms and trunk.”
Victor went through one man’s pockets, but stopped when he extracted a handful of maggots. “Good Lord!” he shouted as the maggots wriggled around on his glove. He quickly shook them off.
Basil commiserated. “Same thing happened to me yesterday when I went through a fellow’s pockets, Victor.”
Biggs determined a spot for digging a trench for a mass burial, separating the Union and Confederates into their own separate trenches. There were no plans for the Rebel dead, no promise of a future cemetery. Biggs reiterated his belief that there was only a date in hell for the traitors.
Biggs decided against digging trenches six feet deep and settled on four feet deep for the Union dead and three feet deep for the Confederates. Victor realized that Elizabeth Thorn would dig them deeper. When the trenches were completed, Biggs began tying a rope to the legs of a dead and strongly malodorous and rapidly decomposing Union soldier and hauling him to the edge of the pit.
“Watch how I do this, Victor,” he advised.
Biggs untied the body, picked up a pole, and leveraged the body, rolling the corpse adroitly into the trench with a slight thud as it landed atop another corpse. After watching Biggs, Victor copied the procedure. It certainly was preferable than touching the corpse, he thought.
Victor Bridges and Basil Biggs spent the rest of the day repeating the procedure and, exhausted, returned the wagon to the provost marshal’s office. They agreed to return for a second day the following morning.