Two Girls of Gettysburg (15 page)

Fighting back tears, I removed my picture, closed the scrapbook, and tied the ribbons securely. Lighting my way with a lamp, I carried the book to the cellar. I wrapped the scrapbook in an old oilcloth to keep out the dampness, and stowed it beneath the shelves bearing the preserved bounty of summer, next to the dirt floor like the marker of a grave.

Rosanna
Chapter 17

My History During the War

August 25, 1862 Richmond

Until John returns, the prospect of loneliness lies before me. When I expressed my sadness to Mother, she remarked tartly, “Perhaps you should not have been so hasty to get married, but waited until after the war.” Why did I think she would be a comfort to me? It is clear she still disapproves of John.

I wrote to Lizzie asking her to recover my scrapbook. Soon she will have read the letters and will possess the full truth about her wayward cousin. But she has promised always to love me, and I trust in the goodness of her innocent heart, so unlike my own.

In my mind I relive that fateful scene in the drawing room. I have taken the money from my bodice, leaving the buttons carelessly undone.

“What have you done?” John says in horror, seeing the money in my hand.

“Take it. I did it for you. You begged me,” I cry.

The locked door rattles and Father calls out in alarm, “Rosanna! Open the door.”

We stare at the money between us, and in desperation John thrusts it into his pockets just as Father breaks the lock and bursts into the room with Mother behind him. My disheveled appearance and tearstained face, John’s fumblings, and our guilty looks condemn us utterly.

“It is not what it seems,” I plead.

“It is bad enough,” Father growls, glaring at John, who is silent with mortification. “Leave!” he orders him.

John pauses at the door to say, “I love your daughter, but I do not deserve her,” then disappears from my life for two years.

Now he is gone again, after pledging his love, and the tormenting memory revisits me. Have I made a mistake in marrying John? I lie awake fearing that he will die and leave me like this: full of doubts and regret at our past misdeeds, which still are unresolved.

August 26, 1862

In the light of day, last night’s dire thoughts appear foolish and overwrought. Any day I expect a letter from John, full of loving reassurances. I have been sleeping with his dressing gown near my pillow. I will not wash it until he comes home, for the scent that lingers there comforts me.

August 27, 1862

Today I went shopping for house hold items but returned empty-handed. I could not even buy a new pot, for all the iron is being made into cannonballs.

I must find a way to occupy myself until John returns. Some women have taken up nursing in the Richmond hospitals, though not the better sort of ladies, as Mother fancies we are. And why should I feed and bandage some strange man when I have a husband whom I would gladly care for? But he is at war, and his valet, Tom, sews his
torn clothing, launders his socks, and makes his porridge, while his wife sits idly at home, longing to perform such mundane tasks.

August 28, 1862

We live in a time of rare wonders indeed. My own mother, who has always maintained that no lady should ever seek paid employment, now has a position in the Confederate treasury department. On account of rising prices, the government prints thousands of bank-notes a day, and someone must cut and sign all those new notes. Mother’s elegant handwriting and her friendship with Mrs. Davis helped her to the position. She says this is her contribution to “the cause.”

Mrs. Sullivan invited Mother and me to tea and we went despite the stultifying heat. She served us real butter and sugar cakes, while relating how she had had to whip her slaves for taking food from the larder to feed themselves. She threatened to sell the poor Negro girl who served us if she did not remedy her manners. This only made matters worse, and the slave spilled some tea. Mrs. Sullivan’s treatment of her infuriated me, but I dared not say anything. I blotted the spilled tea with a napkin and smiled consolingly at the poor girl. She did not smile back at me, but I think her dark eyes showed gratitude. Perhaps I will become an abolitionist and bestir myself from this lazy, pointless existence.

August 29, 1862

An accident has befallen my husband! Yet because of it, a course of action has been shown to me, and my dull spirits sparked with anticipation.

John’s Negro valet arrived yesterday with the report that John had been injured—a blow to the head that left him unconscious for a full day. Unable to march on with the regiment, he remained behind at a
hospital, from which he sent Tom Banks to beg me to come and care for him.

At once I began my preparations, and now Dolly stands laden with knapsacks full of provisions: a sewing kit; medicines and bandages; a plain, dark frock, apron, and light cloak; stockings and spare shoes; food and an old pot and fry pan; an oilcloth and blanket. I have fresh shirts, drawers, and socks for John—more than what is needed for this mission of mercy. But it would hardly do to go to war unprepared.

The valet is carrying a message to my parents, who would surely try to dissuade me if I were to inform them myself. We depart as soon as he returns. I am glad my husband wants me to come and nurse him, but I fear Tom may be underrating the seriousness of John’s injury in order to spare me.

August 31, 1862 near Falmouth

We are traveling north, toward Maryland, behind Lee’s army. The way is strewn with soldiers’ gear, like the flotsam and jetsam of a great ship. I follow in its wake, accompanied by a slave. This is an adventure I never imagined!

Tom and I do not say much to each other. I estimate he is close to John’s age, with the blackest skin I have ever seen. He prefers to sing to himself, both mournful tunes and foot-tapping ones, depending on his mood.

Yesterday I ventured to ask him why he had come to Richmond for me, when he could have escaped and headed north to freedom. He regarded me with some suspicion, finally replying, “Ma’am, I do what Master John bids me.”

The subject seemed to make him uncomfortable. Did he think I meant to test his loyalty? I have no doubt that he is a faithful servant. Perhaps I will speak to John about the possibility of freeing him.

Dolly is a good mount, but I am sore from so much riding. The weather remains fair. Last night I lodged at a farmhouse with a woman whose chickens had all been confiscated by Lee’s army, and two weeks later the federals came through and stripped the fruit from her trees. Yet she was glad to share what she had left, seeing that we were not soldiers.

September 2, 1862

Arriving at Warrenton Junction yesterday afternoon, we expected to find only a few convalescents remaining, as the army had moved on. Instead a scene of chaos greeted us. There were hundreds of new casualties from a battle at Manassas, the second one to be fought at that place. Some of the injured were being placed aboard trains to Richmond, while others were taken to makeshift hospitals nearby. I saw a dead soldier for the first time. The man’s face had been shot entirely away and his body was unnaturally swollen. I turned away and vomited into the bushes. I was ashamed, but Tom said he’d seen grown men do much worse. After I drank some water, I dared to look at the body again and this time felt a great sadness that would have overwhelmed me had I paused to dwell on it.

It was John who saw me first and shouted my name. I ran to him, trying not to step on anyone in my haste. We kissed with restraint due to the presence of so many people, though no one paid us any heed. John’s face bristled with a new beard that scratched my cheeks.

“Why aren’t you lying down?” I asked him, noticing the bandage around his head. His hair stood upright, stiff with dirt.

“I am much better. My ribs are not broken after all,” he said, causing me to catch my breath and demand to know all that had happened.

“In the middle of the night the alarm was raised. By the sound of
horses it seemed to be a cavalry attack. I grabbed my rifle and rolled out of my tent when—so they tell me—I was struck in the chest by a horse’s hoof and knocked down. Whether I was kicked again or hit my head on a rock, I don’t know. Don’t remember a thing.” He shook his head ruefully. “Turns out it wasn’t an attack at all, only some horses that had broken loose and stampeded through the camp.”

I tried to get him to lie down and rest, fussing over him in a manner I deemed wifely. But he refused, saying he had to help sort the wounded.

Then he took my hands and said, full of tender concern, “Dearest Rose, I would not have asked you to come if I had suspected fighting would break out again.”

“I could not have stayed away, knowing you were hurt,” I murmured, touching his head. “At least you were not in the battle. You were almost fortunate to be kicked by that horse.”

“No, it was our first test as a regiment, and even though we routed the federals, I failed by not being there,” John said in a grim voice. I knew that his sense of honor had taken a blow.

Just then a man lying on the ground not ten feet away cried hoarsely, “Nurse, water!” I saw two women who appeared to be nurses in the distance, but none close by, and realized he was imploring me. I appealed to John, who looked about until his gaze came to rest on a man lying beneath a nearby tree, his face covered by a ragged cloth. John walked over and detached the canteen from the dead man’s waist and shook it. Water sloshed within. He handed me the canteen and nodded. I bent down and held the canteen to the man’s lips. I had to lift his head with my other hand. He smelled of sweat and blood. I had never been so close to a man who was a stranger to me, and I felt myself blush. But he gulped the water and murmured his gratitude as if there were nothing improper in what I had done.

Kneeling there, I breathed a prayer of thanks that it was not John who called helplessly for water or who lay in the stillness of death.

“What else can I do to help?” I heard myself say.

John took me to the assistant surgeon, Dr. Walker, who was so desperate for nurses he merely pointed to a box of bandages and handed me a pitcher, a basin, and a small flask of spirits.

“Save the whiskey for the worst cases,” he ordered.

He turned away and I stood there stupidly. I had no idea how to determine a “worst case,” let alone treat one. Seeing my confusion, John advised me just to clean the minor wounds. I thought he would stay beside me, but then he was called away. Finding myself alone, I commenced nursing those whose needs were within my small ability, wiping away dirt and blood and giving water and reassurances that I hoped were not in vain. The unaccustomed sights and smells bewildered me and nearly made me sick, and I doubt that I did much good. I thought to myself, I have come to nurse my husband, and here I am wiping the wounds of strangers!

Later I found John, cleaned his wound, and clumsily applied a fresh bandage. I asked him where I might find a bed to sleep in. He laughed and led me to a spot beneath a tree where he had devised a makeshift tent and placed my bedroll.

“Am I to sleep on the ground?” I asked in disbelief.

“A man in the army learns to sleep anywhere,” he answered.

“But I am a woman!”.

John looked embarrassed. He knelt down and unrolled the bedding.

“You are going to sleep beside me, at least? After all, I came here to be with you.”

John smiled. “No, it would be unseemly. Darling, you shouldn’t even be in camp, except that you are helping Dr. Walker. Tomorrow I’ll settle you in a proper tent.”

“A proper tent?” I repeated, finally understanding that I was to have no privacy with my husband and even less comfort. But I was too tired to argue further. I lay down and covered myself with a blanket. The ground was uneven and the noises of frogs and crickets, cries of pain from the injured, and shouting and laughter kept me awake for a long time. When the first rays of light woke me, I was so stiff and sore I could barely stand up.

September 3, 1862 Warrenton Junction

Tom has built me a narrow cot, and so last night I slept a little better. Forgoing the “proper tent,” which was already crowded with two nurses and many supplies, I preferred my makeshift one. Reinforced with canvas on the ends, it shields me from view, and furnished with a tin chamber pot and small lamp, it is, I must admit, almost suitable. I wonder what Lizzie would think if she knew that I have been living out of a tent for three days now!

John’s entire chest is discolored with bruises though his cuts are starting to heal. He is well enough to tease me by pretending to have lost his memory after striking his head.

“Who is this woman? I don’t recall meeting her,” he said to his companions.

“I am Mrs. John Wilcox, your wife,” I replied, humoring him.

“No,” he said, “I am General Robert E. Lee, and my wife is Mrs. General Lee.”

The whole ward rocked with laughter, which is better than any tonic. As I write this, I am still shaking with mirth!