Two Girls of Gettysburg (44 page)

Martin chuckled. He rotated his hat brim between his thumb and forefinger.

“I’m almost done here,” I said, putting down the rag. I hoped he would suggest that we go for a walk.

“Perhaps I could ask my neighbors what prices and terms they can manage and try to talk up some business for you. If Amos could drive the stock to market, that might seal the bargain.”

“Thank you, that would be very helpful,” I said.

Martin shifted his weight to one leg, his hip jutting to the side. He looked confident and manly, until he reached up and tugged at the hair that hung over his forehead.

“You had any news from your pa?”

“No. Mama wrote to our uncle in Richmond, and he wrote back saying there was no record of Papa at Belle Isle or the hospitals. But he allowed there were hundreds of prisoners who were not even processed. That was the word he used. ‘Processed.’ Like
cattle.
I don’t think he looked very hard for Papa. He was always sore that Mama married a Yankee.”

“Maybe your pa wrote a letter but it never got through.”

“That’s what I tell Mama. She’s living on the hope that he’ll come home as soon as the war is over.”

“That won’t be much longer, now that we won Gettysburg and Vicksburg both.”

“Well, I’ve heard folks say it might be over now, if Meade hadn’t let Lee get away from here after the battle,” I said.

“The situation is always more clear when you look back at it,” Martin said, fixing his eyes on mine.

What did he mean? I knew what I was thinking: that I should have let him kiss me that day by the stream.

“Do you mean, by clearer … the battle?” I asked, my tongue stumbling over the words.

“That too. Well, I should go now,” he said, but he made no move to leave.

Just then Mrs. Brodhead and another woman swept into the shop, and whatever Martin and I would have said to each other next went unsaid.

When I told Mama that night about Martin’s offer, she laid aside her knitting and folded her hands in her lap.

“I’ve been considering this matter, too,” she said, smiling. “And I have decided to assume more responsibility for the daily operation of the shop.”

“Why?” I asked, becoming wary.

“I know how much you regret having to forego your schooling for two years. So I have enrolled you at the Ladies’ Seminary for the fall term!” Mama put up a hand. “Don’t worry how we will manage the tuition. You have more than earned it.”

“I am doing a good job. Why take me away from it?” I blurted out.

“I thought you wanted to go to school and become a teacher,” she said, looking hurt.

“I can do that when the war is over. Right now is a critical time for the business. Demand is high, but people are short of money. If we raise prices, we will lose our customers! Father would be crushed if you let—if that happened.” I saw Mama’s face darken. “It’s not that I don’t trust you to run the business. But I feel responsible for this family too.”

“You can stop trying to prove yourself to me and your father,” Mama said sternly.

My feelings boiled over like a pot of jam cooking on a fast fire.

“Do you think I wanted to run a butcher shop? No! But it makes me feel like there’s something I am good at, something I have control over. Don’t you understand?”

Mama softened. She wasn’t holding a grudge for what I’d said.

“I think I do, Lizzie. But I miss seeing you all dreamy, lost in a story. It used to be that all you cared about was having a good book to carry around with you.”

“Well, I’m using my head for business now. Storybooks don’t seem very useful these days,” I said.

“War or no war, children always need teachers. Perhaps you can attend just the literature classes and continue working at the shop. Mathematics might be useful as well. Shall I speak to Mrs. Pierpont about it?”

Mama’s offer seemed like a good compromise, so I found myself, at last, a student at the Ladies’ Seminary. I was famous, too, for all the girls knew that I had met General Meade, traveled twice through the battle lines, and barely escaped an exploding shell. One girl had even heard that I shot a soldier who tried to molest me, a rumor I quickly stopped. They were less impressed by Annie’s experiences, for several of the girls had helped nurse wounded soldiers. But Ginnie Wade, whom most of the seminary girls would never have considered
a friend while she lived, was everyone’s heroine because of her death. Mrs. Pierpont even had us compose poems for a pageant in her honor.

One day in literature class, Annie showed off a silver ring on a chain around her neck. She swept back her perfect ringlets so that it was visible to all.

“The officer I nursed at the Weigels’ gave it to me. He lost only two fingers, fortunately. We’re betrothed!” she announced. She seemed to have forgotten that she ever fancied my brother, and I decided it was just as well, for Luke deserved better.

My eighteenth birthday came that October. Rosanna and I decided to have a picnic at Culp’s Hill, just the two of us. Mama sent along a chocolate cake and a bowl of thick cream. When I went to Margaret’s house to meet Rosanna, she gave me a present, a green silk shawl. Margaret had made a matching bonnet for me.

“It’s exactly right for you; it makes your eyes look even more green,” Rosanna said, draping the shawl around my shoulders.

“I’ve never worn anything so fashionable,” I said, awed, as she led me to the dressing table.

“Now I’ll sweep back your hair, like this.” Rosanna wound up my hair, pinned it, and set the bonnet on top.

“But we are going on a picnic, not to a ball. What if these get soiled?” I fingered the lush silk.

“It is your birthday,” said Rosanna. “It’s no time to be practical.”

As we left, Margaret called out, “Keep Rosanna in your sight, Lizzie, so she doesn’t run off to Richmond again.” I think she was only half teasing.

“We are not going to get on a train for some fancy city, are we?” I asked, regarding my cousin with some suspicion.

“With a chocolate cake and no money? I hardly think so,” she laughed.

As we ambled down the street in no hurry, I told Rosanna all about school, about Annie’s engagement and the upcoming pageant in Ginnie’s memory. We had begun reading Shakespeare, and I described
Julius Caesar
as a great war story about friendship and betrayal. I even begged Rosanna to come back to the seminary.

“Widows do not go to school, Lizzie,” she said, affecting the manner of one of the Gettysburg matrons.

“You are hardly older than I am,” I pointed out. “And I always wanted us to go to school together. Don’t you agree that it would be fun?”

“I have outgrown fun, Lizzie,” she said, but she was smiling.

We had gone as far as the Wagon Hotel at the intersection of Baltimore Road and Emmitsburg Road when Rosanna stopped, clapped her hands together, and said, “Well, look who’s here!”

It was Sunday, and a few carriages rolled by with folks heading for church or a family dinner. I followed her gaze but didn’t see anyone I knew. A man alighted from a horse and hitched it in front of the hotel, where another man was sitting astride the fence. The second man leaped to the ground and took off his hat, and then I recognized Martin Weigel.

“Just the two of us, you said?” I hissed at Rosanna.

“Is it my fault if we happen to encounter a young gentleman on our outing?” she replied, feigning innocence.

“But what will he think of me, decked out like this?” I whispered as Martin approached.

“He will think you the picture of loveliness. Now smile.”

So I smiled. Martin looked fine in trousers with a matching vest, a white shirt, and a loose cravat, as if he had been at church.

“Isn’t it a grand day for Lizzie’s birthday? Why don’t you come with us for a picnic? I don’t think my cousin would mind, would you, Lizzie?”

Martin took my arm. I didn’t mind at all. It was a grand day. The autumn leaves blazed gold and red and yellow, plummeting downward with every gust of wind and rustling loudly underfoot.

I welcomed Rosanna’s chatter, though it went right through my ears. I was conscious of Martin’s closeness. His grasp was firm as he helped me up the rocky slope of Culp’s Hill. Rosanna, too, leaned on him. I was proud of my new shawl and pleased that the bonnet hid my face so he wouldn’t see how flushed I was.

In the woods, it was sunless and chilly. We had trouble finding our favorite picnic spot near the stream. So much had changed. Broken limbs hung from trees whose trunks were blackened and ridden with bullets. Breastworks made of earth, rocks, and saplings still stood in a zigzagging line. Here and there were mounds of earth topped by simple wooden crosses. I knew they were the graves of soldiers who had been buried where they fell. Holding my picnic basket, I felt as if I had burst into a church with no thought of praying there. By a mutual and silent consent, we retraced our steps out of the woods and sat down on a warm rock in the sun.

“How could anyone have survived in there, with bullets falling like hail?” I said. It was not a question that had an answer, so no one offered one.

“Did you see all the dirt scattered about? Who would dare to dig up a grave?” said Rosanna indignantly.

“Haven’t you heard?” asked Martin. “There is to be a burial ground for Union soldiers beside Evergreen Cemetery. My uncle is on the committee. All the bodies in temporary graves are being dug up and properly buried there.”

We talked about the difficulty and unpleasantness of such a task.

Then Martin broke the somber mood. “Isn’t this a birthday party? I’m hungry,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

We spread out the picnic and shared the tart, red-cheeked apples sent by Margaret. We divided the cake, and Martin ate two pieces for each one that Rosanna and I did. Then Rosanna yawned conspicuously and stood up. She strolled a little ways off, then lay down in the dappled shade of a tree and covered her face with her bonnet. Martin and I were practically alone.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “My cousin is always coming up with one scheme or another.”

“No, this was my idea,” said Martin, smiling at me.

I looked at him in surprise. He slid closer to me on the blanket, and we sat as still as two rabbits that have spied a fox.

“I can’t see your face,” he finally said, reaching over and tugging the ribbon of my bonnet. It came untied.

Startled, I put up my hands to hold it in place.

“Do you like it? It’s my birthday present,” I said to hide my confusion.

“It’s pretty. The green suits you. Let me see your eyes.” He played with the ribbon. I lowered my head to allow him to lift off the bonnet. “The shawl looks nice against the pink of your skin,” he said, touching my neck. His fingers felt cool. “And the sunlight makes your hair look like gold,” he said, smoothing back the wisps that had fallen from the pins.

I was about to melt into a puddle of soft wax. I grabbed his hands and held them between us. He leaned away from me with a sigh, and I let out my breath too. Glancing over at Rosanna, I saw that she had not stirred.

“Look!” Martin freed his hands to point overhead, where a hawk with a broad, white-feathered chest perched on a high branch. As we watched, it swooped to the ground, seized a wriggling snake in its talons, and flew away again, its shadow passing over us.

My own senses sharpened, I heard the thump of walnuts falling from a nearby tree and watched a squirrel turning one in its tiny paws and nibbling away the green husk. Its teeth made a small ticking sound. The browning stalks of coneflowers and goldenrod rustled drily. The goldfinches, who were losing their bright summer plumage, still twittered and hopped among the withered flower heads, picking up seeds.

Martin broke the silence. “I don’t ask anything more out of life than what it’s given me right here and now,” he said with a sigh of contentment.

“Does that include me?” I asked, trying to sound lighthearted, though I was in complete earnest.

“You’re
here, now,
aren’t you?” he replied, and I nodded. Then he reached into his pocket and brought out a small package wrapped in brown paper.

“For your birthday. It’s taken me two months, since I ruined several before I was satisfied.”

So he
had
been thinking of me ever since the battle! I held the package. It almost didn’t matter what was inside.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

I tore off the paper to reveal a wooden box with a lid that opened with a tiny hinge. On the lid was carved
L. A. 1863.

“I’ll keep this always,” I said in a whisper. “What shall I put in here?”

“This memory, first of all,” said Martin, reaching over and brushing my cheek with his lips. He stayed there, his breath tickling my skin, silently asking for more. This time I would not lose the opportunity. I turned my face toward him and closed my eyes. Sure enough, his lips, warm and moist, pressed against mine. I opened my mouth
just a bit and pressed back. Then, dizzy and out of breath, I pulled free and opened my eyes. Martin was smiling at me. He put both arms around me and leaned backward. I felt like I would fall. I took a deep breath as our lips met and didn’t try to stop myself. In my head, a voice exulted,
I am kissing Martin Weigel!