Two Girls of Gettysburg (6 page)

“Nothing. I don’t know. I mean—it’s a beautiful flag, but is it p-practical?” I stammered. An awkward silence followed. “I mean, it’s too big to even fit on a pole.” Red-faced, I sat down on a cushion between Martha Stover and Ginnie Wade. The girls all bowed to their sewing. Annie helped Rosanna refold the flag, and they sat down together on the settee. Rosanna showed Annie a letter I guessed was from Henry Phelps.

“How lucky you are to have a beau in uniform!” sighed Annie. She leaned her head on Rosanna’s shoulder and stroked her wrist.

I watched, consumed with jealousy. Rosanna was
my
best friend, and Annie was a little thief! I forced myself to look away and make small talk with Martha and Ginnie.

“He’s just been promoted to corporal,” Ginnie was saying about her own beau, Jack Skelly, who had been one of the first Gettysburg boys to enlist.

“Don’t you have a fellow, Lizzie?” Martha asked. I flushed, thinking she was teasing me, but her question was serious.

“The very idea!” I replied, for that was how the girls spoke to each other. But I only sounded silly. Why had I even come?

When the Shriver sisters rose, saying they had to study, I ducked out without saying good-bye and hurried homeward, welcoming the cool air on my burning face.

Lizzie
Chapter 7

By October, the corn that had been only a few inches high when Papa and Luke left Gettysburg was brown and rattled in the fields. Neighbors of the farmers who were at war helped with the harvest, but here and there a field was left for the crows to pick. My sixteenth birthday was on October 19. With half my family away, I didn’t feel much like celebrating. Mama took me to the photo studio to have my portrait taken. I thought I looked terribly plain in it, although I wore my prettiest dress. Ben carved a wooden comb for my hair. Two of the teeth broke off, but I wore it anyway. Papa and Luke sent letters.

Dearest Lizzie,

I am sending my fondest love for your birthday, my dear daughter, whom I miss more than words can say. You don’t know how much I trea sure the embrace you gave me the morning I left. I know you are being a help and comfort to your mother; you have always been a blessing to me …

Papa’s words brought a lump to my throat. But then he had written half a page of instructions for the business, including a request
for Mama to send him a financial report. I went on to read Luke’s letter.

Happy Birthday to us, Lizzie.

Could you send me a piece of your cake? On the march we ate nothing but soup from dried Vegetables and hardtack which is like old leather but if you soak it in coffee it is edible. Every day we are covered in dust and dirt, even the food is gritty. Henrys feet got so blistered he bled from his boots. We are best friends and share a tent which means joining our canvas together and holding it up with a pole at the ends. I swear he gets more letters from our cousin Rose than most men get from their wives. Sadly the girl I fancy has not written to me.

My duties are digging latrines and hauling wood to build winter barracks. Papas job is to help the quartermaster supply fresh beef. He makes me go with him to services at camp on Sundays and Wednesdays. The preacher thunders on about our everlasting souls. You would not believe the number of men who play dice and drink, but not Papa.

We are eager to whip the Johnnies and come home by spring. The nights are getting cold and I would give anything for another blanket. And some of Ma’s sugar pickles would taste good.

Your affectionate brother Luke

P.S. You can have my old pocket knife for a gift, I have a better one now.

Despite some of its unpleasant details, Luke’s letter made me smile. I was writing back to him when I heard Mama answer the door, and I recognized Rosanna’s melodious drawl.

“Happy birthday, Lizzie!” she said, coming in and kissing me as if the scene with the flag had never happened. “Here’s your present.” She held out a frame containing a bouquet of pressed violets and daisies.

I thanked her and gave her one of the photographs.

“Why, it looks just like you!” said Rosanna, seemingly delighted with the picture. “I’ll paste this in my scrapbook. May I have a lock of your hair to put next to it?”

I handed her the kitchen scissors and felt her snip some hair from the back of my head.

“Rosanna, I’m sorry I wasn’t more excited about your flag,” I said, watching her fold the hair into a piece of paper. “I’m not like your school friends. I can’t help saying what I think.”

“Well, that’s what I like about you, Lizzie. Most people are far too polite. But if you want to be more like the other girls, let me help you dress your hair in a more becoming way.”

“So that’s it. I’m not pretty enough?”

Sounding exasperated, Rosanna said, “You’ve been awfully touchy lately. What is bothering you?”

I hesitated. I knew but one way to say it, the most direct way.

“Rosanna, you have everything. You’re beautiful, the boys flock to you, and you go to a school where all the girls want to be your friend.” I looked at my hands, which were red and callused, and sighed. “I work in a butcher shop. Why do you even want me for a friend?”

Rosanna stood with her mouth open. But she didn’t say anything for a long time.

I looked down into my lap.

“Lizzie, you were the first person in Gettysburg who was kind to
me besides my own sister. And I can trust you. I told you about John Wilcox because I knew you would keep it secret.”

“That’s another thing, Rosanna,” I said, feeling all my discontent bubble up at once. “Sometimes I don’t understand you at all.”

“So? I don’t understand myself,” she said with a forced laugh.

“I’m serious. Why did you cut off John Wilcox, who said he loved you? Why are you so keen on Henry Phelps now? What is it you want?”

I watched Rosanna put her thumb and forefinger to her mouth and frown.

“I’m confused, all right?” she said. “I thought I loved John Wilcox, but perhaps I was mistaken. And Henry was …
here.
He is not quite the man John is, but he is honest and good. His letters are entertaining, and I know he cares for me. Well, I think he does,” she finished uncertainly.

I was beginning to think that Rosanna was like a chameleon, a creature who changed colors according to her surroundings. When she left Richmond, she simply put John Wilcox out of her mind.

“What will I do if you get tired of my friendship and decide that Annie Baumann is your new best friend?” I blurted out.

“Oh, Lizzie! That will never happen! You are my dearest cousin
and
my best friend, always.”

For the moment, I was more pleased than if she had handed me an expensive birthday present.

“And that’s why I know you’ll do me this favor.” She took my hand imploringly. “It’s about the flag. My friends have given up. They say their fingers are too sore or they have too much studying. Even Annie Baumann has lost interest. I’m afraid it won’t be finished in time for Christmas. Won’t you please help me?”

At the mention of the flag, my irritation flared up again.

“But why, if you are so proud to be from Virginia, are you making a Union flag?”

“The Stars and Stripes is the only flag I know, and until a few months ago, it was my flag as well as yours,” said Rosanna, lifting her chin.

“But where do you stand on the war?” I asked.

“Why? Does it matter to our friendship?” Rosanna’s tone was challenging.

“No … but … I think it must be hard for you … being from the South … and living in Gettysburg,” I said haltingly. But it did matter. I wanted Rosanna on my side in all things.

“Lizzie, I’ve been up here long enough that I feel loyal to our boys in uniform. I care about Henry and Luke and Uncle Albert. I don’t know any Confederate soldiers.” Rosanna shrugged.

I would have to be satisfied with that. Rosanna had her reasons, even if they didn’t make much sense to me.

So three weeks before Christmas, Rosanna and I sewed up the final seams of her flag, with Ginnie’s help. We pieced together stripes of red and white and a field of blue with thirty-four stars into a flag that represented a country that no longer existed. It was split into North and South and torn from east to west as well, for there was now fighting as far away as Kentucky and Oklahoma. We didn’t talk about the war, but worked in silence, our fingers busy with the futile task of stitching together something that could possibly never be made whole again.

Lizzie
Chapter 8

As the December days grew shorter and colder, we hoped that Papa and Luke would be furloughed and come home for Christmas. But Papa’s letter dashed that hope. Smallpox was keeping the company quarantined, and only a few lucky officers would be allowed to go home. Mama tucked the letter in her apron and tried to hide her disappointment. But that night I was awakened by the sound of crying in the kitchen. I crept down the stairs, as I had the morning Papa left for war, to see Mama sitting at the table. A lamp flickered beside her and she clutched Papa’s letter in her hand. Her shoulders shook with sobs and her back curved until her forehead rested on the table.

“Albert! Oh, Albert!” she cried over and over again. The anguish in her voice made my stomach clench. “I can’t do it without you. Oh, I miss you so much!” she wailed, more softly.

I felt my own tears coming, thinking of how powerfully Mama must love Papa. A sudden fear seized me that she would get sick from worry and too much work. So I started taking piles of her relief work to the shop, and between customers I scraped lint off of old rags. In the butcher shop, my books gathered dust. I worked on the accounts until they balanced so Mama would not have to stay up so late. I knitted a muffler with a red fringe for Papa, hoping he wouldn’t
mind the uneven edges and dropped stitches. Then I began a scarf for Luke, while Mama knitted up four pairs of socks. We packed these with two wool blankets, a ham, some pickles, and my birthday photograph, hoping that the package would reach their camp in time for Christmas.

It promised to be a lonely holiday, despite the caroling and the cheerful greetings exchanged in the streets. Mama and Ben and I decorated a small evergreen tree with strands of dried berries, candles, pinecones, and foil stars and stood it on the parlor table, where it gave off a piney scent. On Christmas Eve, Rosanna and Margaret and the children came over for dinner, so the house wouldn’t seem so empty without Papa and Luke. Ben raced around the house with Jack and Clara taking turns riding on his back and shrieking with excitement. The aromas of savory ham, mince pie, and peppermint filled the house. After dinner we lit the candles on the tree and watched it with great care, for one year a neighbor’s house had burned to the ground when a Christmas candle ignited the decorations.

Another letter came from Papa and Luke, thanking us for the warm clothes and food. They were snug in their new winter barracks and expecting extra rations for the holiday. Included was a photograph of Papa sitting before a white tent, holding his hat in his lap, and Luke standing with his hand on Papa’s shoulder, his cap askew. Papa’s mustache had grown long and curved like a ram’s horn, and his face looked gaunt. Luke’s face was somewhat blurred. We put the picture in a frame, set it beside the tree, and sat around Christmas morning gazing at it until it was time for church.

While Papa’s letter cheered us, the end bothered me like a splinter in a finger. He had written:
Your good news about the business heartens me. You can consult Matthias Schupp the York butcher this winter; he owes me a favor. Make a good deal with A. Trostle to keep his fat steers coming.
If Schmidt opens a 2
^nd
tavern persuade him to double his order. Next time include with your summary exact figures re: expenses & income.

“What are we going to do?” I finally said to Mama. “We can’t hide from Papa any longer that we’re losing money.”

“Put aside your worries for one day at least,” she said, taking a steaming pie from the oven.

The door slammed and Ben came in, along with a blast of cold air and the smell of stables. My brother had found a small job brushing horses and hauling hay for a New York regiment stationed at the public school.

“How much did you earn this week?” I asked.

“I got two dollars, on account of Christmas.” He held out the coins to Mama, who took them, leaving him four nickels. Ben tried to give her two of those nickels, but she wouldn’t take them, even though we needed every penny of that extra money. Mama had sold the silver candlesticks to cover household expenses until we figured out how to increase our income from the shop.

Still humming, she tucked away the coins and began to fix up a hamper with a fresh meat pie, homemade preserves, and hot bread. I hoped her good mood would last through Christmas dinner. Every time we sat down to eat, the two empty chairs at the kitchen table filled me with longing. Mama would gaze at them and squeeze our hands tightly while saying grace.