Two Girls of Gettysburg (18 page)

In the morning, swaying from fatigue after a sleepless night, I stood by while Dr. Walker, using a long pincer, extracted the minié ball from John’s shoulder. John bit hard upon a rag until the tendons in his neck stood out like ropes. The doctor said that a short time would tell if the wound would grow septic, and that I should watch for fever. After he left, I poured a liberal dose of whiskey into the wound before dressing it, gave John a great swig for the pain, and took the rest myself.

Still wearing my stained clothing from the day before, I laid down on an oilcloth spread on the grass and slept as if I had been knocked unconscious. If John called out for me, I was unaware of it.

Lizzie
Chapter 19

From June until September Papa and Luke’s regiment was on the move, skirmishing with the rebels and falling back toward Washington. Papa wrote only a single short letter, sounding weary and discouraged. Hoping to cheer him up, I wrote back that Amos had returned safely. I didn’t mention that Rosanna had run away and married a rebel.

Then we were all startled by reports of two battles fought not twenty miles from the Pennsylvania state line. Our reserves battled at South Mountain in Maryland, and three men in the regiment were killed. A few days later, they fought again. I read in the newspapers that it had been the bloodiest day in the history of the war that September 17, when almost five thousand men were killed and nearly twenty thousand wounded at Antietam Creek. Mama checked the casualty lists at the telegraph office at least twice a day. Mrs. Pierpont’s son was among the wounded, but Luke and Papa’s names never appeared. Despite my relief, I was afraid that their luck would soon run out. But at least the rebels had withdrawn from Maryland, for that meant they would not be bringing war into Pennsylvania, to be fought in
our
fields and towns.

Meanwhile Amos had returned to work at the shop, and Margaret
hired Grace to look after Jack and Clara. Martin’s sprained ankle healed quickly, but then Mama reduced his working hours to save money. The shop felt like an unsteady boat that a big wave might capsize, sending us all to the poorhouse. I couldn’t let that happen. All summer, I had been thinking about what to do if Amos didn’t come back—and what to do if he did. With winter and butchering season coming on, it was time to present my plan to Mama.

But unbeknownst to me, Mama had her own plan. In October, she sat Amos and me down and announced that we would form a partnership with the York butcher. It was a terrible idea, and I could barely contain myself.

“I’m afraid I don’t agree, Mother,” I said. “I don’t like working with Mr. Schupp. He’s too busy to consider our interests.”

“Mr. Schupp supplies a good deal of salt beef and pork to the army. It would be to our advantage to share in those profits,” Mama said, sounding determined. “Especially as the war is likely to continue through another winter.”

“I still don’t think that is the best course,” I insisted. “Papa wrote how much the men hate salted beef, especially when they can easily get fresh meat. As for salt pork, Cincinnati ships it by the ton, and cheaply, too. We can’t possibly sell it at a lower price.”

Mother raised her eyebrows, but did not interrupt me. Amos regarded me thoughtfully. I continued laying out my plan, piece by piece.

“When Martin’s neighbor, Mr. Trostle, came to the shop the other day, I heard him say that farmers are afraid that their cattle and hogs will be stolen in the night by Confederate raiders. Or else our government will take them to feed the soldiers. As long as the war continues, no one’s livestock is secure.”

“And what is your point, Lizzie?” Mama asked.

“People are worried about losing what they have and not being able to feed themselves. I predict that farmers will want their hogs and cattle butchered early and stocked safely in their larders rather than being left to an uncertain fate. So why not offer them custom meatpacking and preserving? We could do especially well curing hams and smoking beef, if we extend the cellar beneath the shop and build another smokehouse in the back.”

“How can we possibly afford all that!” Mama exclaimed. It was not even a question.

“We would need a bank loan,” I admitted. “But even with those expenses, I’ve figured out how we can make a profit sooner than you might think.”

I handed Mama a sheet of figures and she examined it, lines of worry showing around her eyes.

“What do you think, Amos?” she asked.

“I ‘gree,” he said. “A ham in the cellar is safer than a hog in the pen. Miz Lizzie’s plan sounds like a right smart one.”

Eventually Mama was won over. She visited the banker, and soon Amos began digging a cellar with shelves for curing meat. We hired Martin full time and raised his salary from eighty cents to a dollar a day. Ben skipped some school to wait on customers in the shop, and I helped him with his missed lessons in the evening. I ordered the large quantities of salt, sugar, and powdered nitrate we would need for curing the meat. Mama looked worried as the invoices piled up.

“Sometimes you have to spend money to make money,” I said as if I knew what I was talking about.

I took out advertisements in the
Sentinel
and
Compiler.
Finally, I decided we needed a new sign for the shop. Full of pride, I showed Mama my sketch:

ALLBAUER’S CLASSIC AND CUSTOM MEATS
Albert Allbauer, Owner. M. and E. Allbauer, Proprietors
Amos Whitman, Master Butcher

“The
M
and
E
stand for us, Mary and Elizabeth, of course,” I explained.

Mama clapped her hands together. “Why, Lizzie, it’s so … bold, but … yes! We will do it.”

Soon the orders started coming in, and I was as pleased as I could be. Mama had convinced every woman in the Ladies Aid Society that a ham would make a lovely Christmas present to send to a soldier. I noticed her face had more color and the hollows under her eyes were not so dark.

“I’m glad you’ve been healthy, Mama,” I said one night as we were peeling apples for pie.

She put down her knife and grew reflective.

“You know, Lizzie, before the war, I let all the cares of running the household and caring for you children overwhelm me to the point of illness. Life is even harder now, but it is also simpler. Nothing matters but that we are all alive and well.”

“I’ve been so afraid that you would get sick again and I wouldn’t be able to manage,” I said in a rush.

“I’m not worried about that at all. You are quite capable, Lizzie.” She looked at me and here eyes were misty. “You are also strong, here.” She tapped my breastbone. “And that gives me courage, too.”

I was stunned to think that my mother was inspired by some quality in me that I was not even aware of. Was it enough to make others admire me too? Were boys drawn to girls with inner strength? I wished I were beautiful and charming but decided that being strong would have to suffice.

So I was pleasantly startled one October afternoon when I was intent upon the accounts and heard a familiar voice say, “Good day, my dear Miss Allbauer. You are the picture of prettiness.”

I looked up and straight into the clear blue eyes of Frederick Hartmann. I hadn’t seen him since the day Amos came home with Grace. He swept his hat before him and bowed in an extravagant manner. I was suddenly aware of my old dress and ink-stained hands.

“What, not a word of welcome for your hero?”

I blushed all the way to the roots of my hair. Fortunately Amos came in, sparing me a reply. He was spattered with grayish mud, for he and Martin had been putting mortar on the chimney of the new smokehouse. Mr. Hartmann clapped Amos on the back.

“Congratulations, man! Master butcher Amos Whitman.”

“That was Miz Lizzie’s idea,” said Amos, but I could see he was proud.

“Won’t you … c-come by the house? To see Mama and Grace,” I stammered. Although Mr. Hartmann had shaved off his beard and trimmed his long hair, he was still the handsomest man I’d ever spoken to.

Mr. Hartmann said he’d be honored, and his visit turned into a dinner party. Mama put on her Sunday best and allowed me to wear her lace shawl. I rubbed my skin with lemon verbena, hoping to overcome the smell of woodsmoke and brine that always clung to me. Margaret came, bringing Jack and Clara in their little uniforms. She wore a dark blue baize dress that matched her eyes and made her look as lovely as Rosanna. The thought of my cousin was like a sudden sharp pain.

“Have you any news of Rosanna?” Mama asked her.

“She does not write to me,” said Margaret with a dismissive wave.
“I did hear from Mother and Father that her husband received some slight wound, whereupon she up and left Richmond to follow his regiment.”

I put my hand to my mouth and gasped. Then I tried to picture Rosanna living in a tent with John Wilcox and marching with the soldiers, but I couldn’t do it. My cousin seemed as remote and mysterious to me as the moon. I thought of Rosanna’s scrapbook hidden beneath us, in the cellar. How much her secrets, if known, would add to everyone’s distress!

“Let’s not talk about my sister tonight. I intend to have a gay time!” said Margaret, flashing a charming smile as she held out her gloved hand to Mr. Hartmann.

Grace had insisted on cooking dinner for Mr. Hartmann. She wore a red scarf wrapped around her head as she chopped and stirred and baked, then dished up a pork loin, steaming cornbread, and plum pie. Mr. Hartmann had brought a bottle of wine for the grown-ups. He even poured me a glass. I sipped it slowly, and it stung my throat.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever been waited on at my own table!” exclaimed Mama, slightly flushed from the wine. “I feel like a grand lady.”

I was afraid that Grace would take offense, but she didn’t seem to notice Mama’s comment. I took an empty platter and set it next to mine, then slid down the bench, wordlessly inviting Grace to eat with us.

“Hey, watch your elbow!” Ben said as I bumped him.

Grace sat down at the empty place as if she had intended to do so all along.

Everyone was eager to discuss the news of President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, which would soon free the slaves in the South.

In his usual blunt way, Ben said to Amos, “So you traveled all the
way to South Carolina and paid that heap of money to free Grace, and if you had only waited a few months, President Lincoln would have freed her and you’d still have your money!”

“I’d do the very same thing again today. Money ain’t everything, young man,” he said.

A gentle look passed between him and Grace, who said, “Moses had a devil of a time freein’ his people from the pharoah.” Her voice reminded me of flowing cream.

“What do you mean?” I asked, curious but hesitant.

“I mean it ain’t goin to be easy for President Lincoln. Where he goin’ to get the power to free slaves in the states where he ain’t even the president?”

“But he wouldn’t make a promise he couldn’t keep,” I protested. “Doesn’t he have some way to enforce the new law?”

“No doubt he hopes that it will make the slaves rise up,” Mr. Hartmann said. “Southern masters have always feared rebellion.”

Amos shook his head. “All Negroes know they be hanged or shot for takin’ up arms ’gainst their mastuhs. So most be too ’fraid to rise up.”

“But they could help the Union win the war,” I offered.

“Miz Lizzie, you an’ I know there’s lots o’ folk in the North, even here in this town, who don’t want to fight jus’ to free a passel o’ slaves. They only wants to teach the rebels a lesson.”

His point made me think. Would Northerners turn against Lincoln because of his proclamation? Then Mama asked where the Negroes would go, when they were all freed at once, and what I thought was simple good news had become a messy, complicated issue.

“I think President Lincoln is a great man and a brave one for taking a stand on freedom,” said Margaret, always idealistic.

“Amen to that,” replied Amos. “Freedom is God’s blessin’ but it don’t always come easy.”

Then Margaret asked Mr. Hartmann what had brought him back to Gettysburg.

“I’m on my way to join a cavalry regiment being recruited in Philadelphia. But the female company here is so charming, I just may change my mind and stay.”

“Why did you shave off your grand mustache, sir?” Had that question really come out of my own mouth? It must have been the wine that made me so flirtatious.

“Well, more than once I’ve been mistaken for that rebel dandy, General George Pickett. Rather than let myself be captured or shot, I decided it best to alter my appearance,” he said, winking at me. Under his gaze my neck started to prickle again.

When dinner was over and we left the table to gather in the parlor, Margaret took Mr. Hartmann’s arm and steered him toward the settee so expertly that I was jealous.

“Won’t you oblige us with the story of how you rescued our dear Grace?” she asked.