Two Girls of Gettysburg (8 page)

“I’m here for the job,” he said.

I assumed he had already talked to Mama and been hired.

“When can you start?” I asked.

“Today,” he said, looking right at me. His eyes were gray blue, wide set, and honest looking.

So I introduced him to Amos, who put him to work. Mama was pleased to have Martin working for us, thinking the Weigels and their many kinfolk would be good customers. He worked for eighty cents a
day. Three days a week he helped Amos strip hides and hew carcasses into hams and ribs and loins. When Rock Creek froze, they drove out in the cart and returned with huge blocks of ice that they covered with sawdust and hay. The ice would keep fresh meat from spoiling in warm weather. What meat we didn’t sell fresh, I rubbed with salt and placed in barrels of brine and powdered nitrate, which gave the meat a healthy color. I negotiated prices on the hides and had Martin deliver them to the tanner. I tracked orders and deliveries, invoices and payments. But as hard as we worked, business never rose to the level of the year before, when Papa was in charge.

At home, Mama imposed strict measures to conserve butter, sugar, coffee, and candles. She talked about taking in laundry. I didn’t know where we’d find the time to do other people’s washing as well as our own. But fortunately it didn’t come to that, for Ben kept finding odd jobs that brought in fifty cents here and there. One day I saw Amos give Ben a dollar, and I realized that he was turning over some of his own earnings to help buy food. I didn’t say anything, because we badly needed the money. But I don’t believe Mama ever found out.

Nor did she discover that I sometimes still read books at the shop, for Amos was as good as his word and never let on. I finished John Bunyan’s
The Pilgrim’s Progress,
which inspired me to bear my trials with more patience, and borrowed Charles Dickens’s
Hard Times
from Margaret. Some evenings I sat with Rosanna while she studied, hoping to learn something. My cousin was by her own admission a lazy student, and I often ended up helping her. One night in February I found her in a sulky mood, staring at the blank page of a notebook.

“What shall I do, Lizzie? Mrs. Pierpont has assigned us to write another entry about the war. But I don’t have any interest in battles and generals,” she said wearily.

I picked up her notebook. It was titled
A History of the War.
In it was a paragraph on the fall of Fort Sumter, copied from the newspaper in Rosanna’s flowing hand, a list of Confederate states and the dates of their secession, and a sketch of Rosanna and her friends sewing the flag. I realized that Papa and Luke had not mentioned receiving the flag.

“Why not write a description of camp life in the winter? You said Henry’s letters were full of such anecdotes.”

“Yes, but I doubt that will satisfy Mrs. Pierpont.”

“Isn’t she practically an abolitionist?” I said. The whole town knew of Mrs. Pierpont’s strong opinions. “You could write about Amos and how he plans to free his wife from slavery,” I suggested, looking sideways at Rosanna for her response.

Rosanna clasped her hands. “Oh, yes, she will love that. Margaret told me the story. It’s so romantic, how he loves Grace even though they are so far apart.”

“What’s romantic about Grace being a slave and Amos working so hard just so he can
buy
her?” I said, frowning at Rosanna. “People shouldn’t be bought and sold.”

Rosanna’s eyebrows shot up. “I declare, Lizzie, this whole business with your hired man is making
you
an abolitionist!”

“That’s not true,” I shot back. I knew that abolitionists gave wild speeches and sometimes broke into prisons to free captured runaways. I would never do such a thing. But I had to admit that Rosanna was half right. I did want slavery to end. Yes, even if it meant the war would last longer. I felt sad and suddenly older, realizing what others had known for a long time: the war had to go on.

“Rosanna, don’t you believe that slavery is wrong?”

“My father does not own slaves,” she said, avoiding my question.

“But what do
you
think?” I persisted.

“If all the slaves were freed, who would farm the cotton and tobacco?”

“Pay them to work. Like Papa pays Amos.”

“Not everyone agrees with your father,” murmured Rosanna.

“What do you mean?” I demanded, but Rosanna merely shook her head.

“Lizzie, I’m glad Amos is free and I hope he and Grace are reunited. I don’t want to defend slavery, but without it, the entire South would collapse. Is that what everyone wants out of this war? To humiliate and destroy us? Well, we won’t let it happen.”

With that, she grabbed her notebook and swept from the room. I gazed into the sputtering fire as worry gnawed at me. When Rosanna had said “us” and “we,” she sounded like a Southerner.

Margaret came into the parlor and set about straightening and dusting.

“I heard your quarrel,” she said, giving me a sympathetic look. “Rosanna’s been upset all week. We got a letter from Mother begging us to come back to Richmond. It had to be smuggled out because there is no post. She writes that there is no food because of the blockade, and the whole of Virginia is a battleground. I would never take the children there.” She paused in her tidying up and sighed. “But I think Rosanna misses our parents.”

I wondered if it was John Wilcox she was missing. But I merely nodded and picked up my cloak.

“She’s even touchy with me. I’m so glad she has you for a friend!” said Margaret, kissing me as I took my leave.

Soon our quarrel seemed forgotten. Rosanna purchased a map of Virginia to assist with her writing assignments. Together we marked the movements of the Pennsylvania volunteers. As we stuck pins at Hunter’s Mill, Alexandria, and Manassas Junction, it was clear that
General McClellan was driving the Union army toward Richmond. Soon, it seemed, Company K would face the rebels in battle. But the army was moving at the pace of a snail. It was April, and they had advanced no farther than Fredericksburg.

“That’s barely thirty-five miles from where they broke camp in March,” I mused to Rosanna. “Why, you and I could walk faster than that.”

“Not with fifty pounds of gear on our backs,” Rosanna replied. “That’s how much Henry says they carry.”

“Can you imagine us living in a tent and having to dig our own latrines? I don’t know how Luke can stand it.” I shuddered.

“No, I wouldn’t survive a single day,” said Rosanna. “Why, who would arrange my hair?” she added primly.

The thought made us both collapse with laughter.

“I do wonder what McClellan’s strategy is,” I said, wiping my eyes.

“He is afraid to attack Richmond,” Rosanna said firmly. “Because he knows that it cannot be taken.”

“How can you be so sure?” I replied, trying to hide my irritation. I wanted Richmond to fall, for then the war would end, and Papa and Luke could come home.

“All the Union generals put together aren’t worth one General Lee,” Rosanna declared. “And we will fight harder, because we are
defending
our country from the Yankees.”

There it was again—“we”—and Rosanna didn’t mean she and I. I didn’t want to quarrel again. I stood up and put my shawl around me.

“I think I should leave now.”

“I’m sorry, Lizzie. Don’t go away angry,” Rosanna said, taking my hand in a beseeching way.

“I’m not angry,” I said. I could not put it into words, my helpless regret that Rosanna was slipping away from me.

I heard the steady
zzzt, zzzt, zzzt
of Margaret’s shears. In the dining room, Ginnie Wade bent over the sewing machine that clicked and whirred like a tiny train while she guided a pair of blue worsted trousers under the needle.

I nodded to them over the noise as I passed through and almost collided with Jack and Clara. The children had come marching into the room, making
pum-pum-pa-dum
noises with their mouths. They wore blue uniforms with jacket buttons gleaming in double rows. Clara’s had a wide skirt, while Jack wore tiny trousers. Margaret must have sewn them from scraps.

Waving a toy sword, Jack shouted, “I’m going to kill all the rebels. Then I’ll free the slaves.” With his lisp, “rebels” sounded like “webels.”

“No, I will!” cried Clara, fighting her brother for the sword.

Ginnie laughed and clapped her hands. I glanced at Rosanna, who stood frowning at Margaret.

“When did they turn into little abolitionists?” Rosanna said.

“Do not criticize my children,” said Margaret, her voice clipped.

Ginnie looked down, and I held my breath, embarrassed.

“Our parents still live in Richmond, in case you had forgotten.” Rosanna’s voice rose with emotion. “Don’t you care that the city might be attacked?”

“I do care,” replied Margaret. “But Mother and Father—and your John Wilcox—will have to take care of themselves. What do you expect me to do?”

“You can stop
this!”
burst out Rosanna, gesturing to the sea of blue cloth and the pile of finished pants. “It’s—it’s disloyal. You’re making money off of the South’s sufferings.”

“I have little sympathy with the Southern
cause,”
Margaret said, stressing the word in disdain. “Gettysburg is now my home, and sewing is my livelihood.”

Rosanna broke into tears and ran from the room. She whirled around in the hallway.

“And I don’t love John Wilcox anymore, I love Henry!” she cried, and stumbled up the stairs.

I slipped out of the unhappy house, sick at heart.

Lizzie
Chapter 10

Ten months after Papa left, I finally learned why business had been so poor. The realization was all the more painful because it involved Amos. He was the one who helped keep a secure roof over our heads. He was Ben’s friend who took him hunting and shared his pride at the first rabbit he brought home for stew. He was almost as capable as Papa himself when it came to butchering a sow or a steer. But to some people in Gettysburg, Amos was just a Negro, and that was too much.

It was May and the fruit trees were in full bloom. I was feeling thankful that we had made it through the winter without Mama becoming ill, when she came home red faced from a Ladies Aid Society meeting. She threw off her bonnet and collapsed on the sofa. I rushed to her, afraid that she had a fever, but I saw that she was hopping mad.

“Do you know what Frieda Baumann had the gall to say to me?”

I couldn’t guess. Mama didn’t particularly like Mrs. Baumann, but she had never had words with her before.

“I shouldn’t even repeat it, it was so uncharitable.”

“You brought it up, so now you have to tell me,” I said, knowing she was so heated she wouldn’t be able to keep silent.

“Well, Frieda and I were side by side packing bandages, and she
said, loud enough for the others to hear, ‘I really think a mother ought to watch the sort of folk she allows around her family, especially if she has a daughter.’ And I replied, ‘Martin Weigel is a fine boy, and I trust him completely to work alongside my Lizzie.’”

“Did you have to say that?” I groaned. “Now people will think we fancy each other.” I didn’t fancy Martin, not at all.

Mama went on, imitating Mrs. Baumann’s haughty tone, “ ‘It’s not the boy I’m referring to, but that colored man who works in your shop.’”

“Amos?” I burst out. “Why, he is completely honest! And who does she think she is, giving you advice? Let her worry about her own silly daughter. I can take care of myself.”

“That’s what I told her, in so many words,” Mama said. “But a woman like that won’t change her narrow mind because of something I say.”

“What did the other women think?” I asked.

“Sarah Brodhead kept her head down, but Mrs. Stover had a definite opinion. ‘You’ve taken this Negro into your house, Mary? Do you really think that is suitable?’ “ Mama picked up a small cushion and fanned herself with it. “As if I need to be told by the ladies of this town what is fitting!”

I realized that Mrs. Stover no longer came into the shop. Nor had the Baumanns contracted with us since before Papa left for the war. I recalled the day Mr. Schmidt berated Amos and refused to pay for what he said was rancid pork.

“Then Frieda had the gall to say, ‘Some people in this town take this Negro-loving business too far.’”

I drew in my breath. “What did you say to that?”

“I told them that Amos was like a member of our family, and I would not suffer their vile insults any longer. Then I walked out. Liddy Pierpont was there and she looked like a tornado about to strike.
Heaven knows what she said after I left, but I hope it flattened Frieda like a hot iron.”

“Mama, I’m so proud of you,” I said. But I was wondering how many other customers had stopped doing business with us because of their prejudice against Amos.