Two Girls of Gettysburg (43 page)

My gentle rebuke prompted a full confession. Lizzie told me what had happened at the Weigels’ during the battle. “We almost kissed, there by the spring, but I backed away, and he has hardly said a word to me since then,” she wailed. “He could have spoken to me after church, but he took off like there were rebels at his heels.”

“That sounds like love to me,” I said.

Tuesday, July 14, 1863

While Lizzie and I are reconciled, only time may mend the differences between Margaret and me. Today some item in the newspaper led her to denounce the South for provoking an unjust rebellion. I countered that the South went to war to defend herself against oppression by the federal government.

“The gentleman planters of Virginia are not as oppressed as their Negroes!” she scoffed.

“I grant you that,” I said. “But I do not see how you can justify war as a means to end slavery, when more men have died in recent battles than ever died under the yoke of a plantation master.”

Without even pausing to consider my point, she shot back, “The Southern rebels began the war, and it is your own rebellious nature that makes you side with them.”

“I hate this war as much as you do. It has claimed my husband,” I reminded her. It was a struggle to remain civil. “I hope that people of good faith will in time choose to reject the evil of slavery. You might be surprised to know that it was I who persuaded John Wilcox to grant Tom his freedom.”

Margaret looked at me in surprise, and our disagreement went no further.

Thursday, July 16, 1863

When I dressed Tom’s wound this morning I was pleased to see the tissue looking healthier. I told him I was sure that he would eventually regain full use of his arm. With that, he announced it was time for him to go.

“Will you return to the regiment?” I asked.

“No, ma’am. Without you or Mastuh John, I got no one to keep me safe. They wouldn’t mess with me when I was the Wilcoxes’ servant, but on my own, I’m just another nigger. I know men who would just as soon send me down South in leg irons,” he said grimly. “I heard what almost happened to Mr. Amos.”

It had never occurred to me that the steady, capable Tom had relied on John and me for protection. I tried to persuade him to stay, saying Amos would help him find a job. But no, he said, it was time for him to test his freedom. He was leaving to join a regiment of colored troops being mustered at Camp William Penn near Philadelphia.

“Soon I’ll be wearin’ a blue jacket with the gold eagle of freedom on its buttons,” he announced.

The idea of Tom fighting for the Union against the South struck me as a betrayal. I struggled for words to express my disbelief.

“But why? You’re free. You can go—to New York, and earn money, say, as a teamster.”

“That’s right, I’m a free man, an’ I wants all my brothers an’ sisters to be free, too.”

I could not argue with that. I had to respect his choice. But Tom was my link to John, for we both had loved him. He saw that regret in my eyes.

“We sure been through a lot together, Miz Rose. What will you do now?” he asked with sincere concern.

I said I did not know. Indeed I have given no thought to the future.

Tom and I parted. I said that I would always consider him among the finest human beings I had ever known, but I did not carry on praising him, for fear of offending his dignity.

Friday, July 17, 1863

Of late, Gettysburg has been besieged by thousands of visitors and distraught family members seeking news of loved ones killed or wounded here. For three days we had a husband and wife from New York living in the parlor, until they located their son, who was not badly hurt. This heartened us all and took away the sting of so much sorrow. Many who come to town, however, are only gawkers and souvenir hunters who roam the streets all night because all the lodgings are full.

I have been walking into town and back to increase my strength. The streets teem with activity. Fahnestock’s store houses the headquarters for the U.S. Sanitary Commission, and wagons full of supplies come and go constantly. Margaret volunteers for the commission, serving soup and coffee to soldiers waiting for trains. Among them are Union soldiers going to hospitals in Washington, D.C., and Confederates being sent to prison camps.

John’s regiment must be far away by now. My service there is now a closed chapter in my life. Tom’s question repeats itself in my head: what will I do next?

Monday, July 20, 1863

Margaret brought home the news that the Sanitary Commission is erecting a general hospital along York Pike east of town and all the
regimental and field hospitals will shut down. Then last night I dreamed about the poor injured man who cried, “Don’t leave me!” as the troops decamped and retreated. I woke up with the thought: someone must care for those sons of the South who were left behind after the battle.

I shall inquire at the new hospital when I am stronger.

Tuesday, July 21, 1863

Today Lizzie confided in me something that has been weighing on her for weeks. Margaret’s beau, whom Lizzie described as a “dashing cavalier,” was at the battle for Little Round Top and the next day died of his wounds. She was still distraught about it as she told me how she had been washing out bandages and forgot to take him his porridge.

“I don’t see how that makes you responsible for his death,” I said gently.

“And I don’t see how you can blame yourself for John Wilcox’s death. But we can’t help how we feel, can we?”

I sighed, for she was right. “I suppose we women will always feel guilty for things that aren’t our fault, simply because we can’t change them. If men would take the blame for killing one another, perhaps they’d come to their senses and stop the war.”

“Well, maybe so, and maybe not. But how shall we tell your sister about Mr. Hartmann?” asked Lizzie. “The longer I keep this secret, the more I feel like a liar.”

“I will tell Margaret myself, when the time is right,” I offered.

Later in the day, to test my sister’s feelings, I asked her, “Have you heard lately from the gentleman who has been courting you?”

“I have not lost my heart, if that is what you are asking,” she said, perhaps thinking of my impulsive marriage. “I am hopeful that he will return.”

I saw by her eyes that her affection for him still runs deep. She deserves a good husband. I wish she could be spared the sad news.

Thursday, July 23, 1863

Yesterday while feeding soldiers at the depot, Margaret learned that many Confederate wounded had been transferred to the new general hospital, Camp Letterman. So this morning I dressed myself very presentably in a borrowed dress, wore a clean white apron, and asked Ben to drive me there. I introduced myself to the superintendent and cited my nursing experience, but the stern Yankee gave me a cool reception. Was it my accent? His wife, however, was proud to show me the camp.

The hospital stretches across a gentle hilltop and consists of hundreds of tents in rows, housing almost three thousand patients. At the entrance to each tent hang cedar boughs to ward off insects and cleanse the air. A fresh, untainted stream flows nearby, and a network of ditches carries foul water away from the camp. A depot is being built, with storage tents to hold provisions and supplies that arrive daily. The trains carry convalescents to permanent hospitals in Philadephia or Baltimore, while ambulances bring in the wounded from all around Gettysburg. The hospital is well organized, with dozens of officials and surgeons.

I said to the superintendent’s wife that I had not seen, except in Richmond, a hospital better outfitted.

“Our nurses and matrons are well trained, and of the plain and sturdy sort,” she replied, regarding my figure with a critical eye. “Mrs. Dix, who supervises the Union army’s nurses, does not accept women who are under thirty or attractive.”

I would have liked to take issue with Mrs. Dix’s views but opted for deference instead.

“Might I assist with the wounded Confederates left behind in the retreat?”

“The rebels are given the same care as our own soldiers, with no distinctions made between them,” she said with a firm gesture of her hand. “However, we have one ward of prisoners that is understaffed.”

She led me to the ward of four tents, where I expected to find my charges sorely neglected. But I saw that the men, numbering perhaps three dozen, were clean and well cared for. The surgeon was finishing his rounds. A woman with steel gray hair fed a man with no arms. She struck me at once as a diligent and compassionate person. Nurse Spradlin introduced herself. She said her men were a grateful bunch, although the camp at large was not so friendly.

“I’ve been called a rebel sympathizer and mocked for doing good among the ‘butternuts’—the name they give Confederates due to the color of their uniforms, you know. But each one of my patients is as brave as any Yankee,” she said proudly.

As Nurse Spradlin described to me the condition of each soldier and the daily routine, she revealed that her father was born in Virginia. I said that I was a Confederate soldier’s widow, and as we talked of our lives, I felt that I had found a kindred spirit.

Before leaving, I wrote several letters for my patients, which helped me become acquainted with them. The long day wearied me, and now I must get some rest.

Tuesday, July 28, 1863

Despite its clean and well-run exterior and the able staff, Camp Letterman is home to incurable grief. Each day, new graves dot the cemetery behind the camp, a reminder that the final cost of the battle is not yet tallied. Yesterday a mother who arrived from Alabama in time to watch her son die wept for hours, refusing to let go of his hand. Neither Nurse Spradlin nor I could comfort her, and her piteous
cries made all our patients sorrowful. Finally we calmed her with a dose of laudanum and I brought her home to stay for a few days.

Saturday, August 1, 1863

This afternoon I found Margaret sitting quietly in the parlor, her hands resting in her lap. I knelt at her feet and reached up, taking her hands in my own.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, sister,” I began.

She looked at me, but I could see her thoughts were elsewhere at first.

“What is it? Have you fallen for one of your patients already?” She said this with a smile of sad resignation. Does she still think me so flighty?

“No, this is not about me.” I caressed her hand for a long moment. “It’s about your Mr. Hartmann. He was injured at Little Round Top. I’m afraid he is—”

“I already know!” Margaret wailed. Her smooth face crumpled with agony. “I found out yesterday, at the depot. Why do you think I’ve been going there every day? I was hoping, hoping … “

I gathered my sister in my arms and brought her down into my lap and we swayed back and forth together, shedding tears on each other’s cheeks and grasping one another as if death were trying to pull us apart too.

Lizzie
Chapter 47

Gettysburg recovered from the battle like a wounded soldier learning to walk again, step by slow step. First the shops and businesses reopened. Then churches became places of worship again as the wounded soldiers left for the new hospital on York Pike. Eventually all the dead horses were burned, and the air was not so foul smelling anymore. Some farmers replanted their fields, hoping for a mild fall and a decent harvest. People talked cheerfully about life returning to normal again, but we all knew that those three days in July had changed us forever.

One day in the middle of August, Martin came into the shop. I hadn’t seen him for weeks. He said, “Hello,” then ducked his head slightly as if he were embarrassed. I took a rag and rubbed at an imaginary spot on the countertop.

“Have you come to get your job back? I need someone to help bring in new contracts for slaughtering and curing,” I said, trying to sound businesslike.

“Well, no, not exactly.” He took off his hat and toyed with the brim.

I wanted to say that I missed him, that it was good to see him.

“Perhaps I could offer you a higher wage.”

“I’ve been rebuilding fences every day,” he said, holding up his
callused hands. “Some of our neighbors lost all their stock, and the rest of us are still rounding up strays and trying to sort out whose sows and cows are whose. I came to say that I can’t work for you, because there’s just too much to be done on the farm.”

“That’s too bad,” I said, trying to hide how disappointed I really felt.

“It’s going to be a tough winter,” he went on. “Almost all the crops were ruined, and farmers around us are afraid to plow their fields, what with all the unexploded shells still lying around. Can you believe it? The battle’s over, but it’s still possible to get killed around here.”

“I know. I’ve threatened my brother with dire punishments if he goes looking for cannonballs again.”