Two Girls of Gettysburg (19 page)

“Well, that’s rightly Mr. Amos’s story,” replied Mr. Hartmann.

Everyone found a seat and Amos set down his pipe and began the story with their arrival at the plantation. He described a dark place overhung with moss-covered oak trees and an air of misery.

“Mistuh Johnston came to the door, lookin’ like some wild-haired madman, his wife hidin’ behind him. He denied knowin’ me, though I could see he reco’nized me. I reminded him of our deal three years back. He said Grace were no longer alive, which about killed me to hear. But Mistuh Frederick demanded of Mrs. Johnston whether Grace were there. She nodded, her eyes round as marbles in her head. The old man cursed her, then started complainin’ to us how hard times were. But I didn’t fancy listenin’ to his problems. I jus’ held out my money, one thousand dollars like we agreed upon. Federal dollars,
not that worthless Confederate paper. But Johnston said, ‘That gal ain’t for sale no more. I got another one you kin buy instead.’ I said, ‘I’m only here fer Grace, and I ain’t leavin’ till she’s mine.’”

Amos paused. I could see the emotion rising up in him. Mr. Hartmann took over the story.

“So I thought I’d put some fear into the old fleshmonger. I said to him, ‘The war ain’t going so well for your side, now, is it? Can’t sell your cotton, can’t come up with enough men or bullets. President Lincoln will free every blessed slave you own, and you won’t get a dime for any of them. You’d best sell now while you can.’”

“What a clever gamble that was!” said Margaret.

“Well, the tough old devil replied that her price had gone up an extra five hundred dollars. Amos pulled out his purse again, but I grabbed it before Johnston could and growled, ‘A deal’s a deal. Bring out his wife now.’ Then Johnston turned like he was about to run off, so I grabbed his collar with one hand and held up my pistol in the other and cocked it.”

I heard Margaret draw in her breath. Mama was fanning herself rapidly. Mr. Hartmann smiled, enjoying the effect of his story.

“Well? What happened next, Amos?” I demanded.

“The mistress screamed and Johnston shouted for his manservant but no one came. Mistuh Frederick said, ‘I’ll shoot yer husband ‘less you bring out the girl by the time I count to twenty.’ She moved fast for an old lady, an’ by the time he got to ten, Grace was in my arms, where she’s stayin’.”

Amos held out his arm and Grace came to him, resting her red-turbaned head on his chest while he finished the tale.

“Mistuh Frederick counted out the money we first ’greed upon an’ made Johnston sign the papers. Then he said to Mrs. Johnston, most politely, ‘I’m sorry to have to frighten you, ma’am. I know how much
cotton costs these days. Buy yourself a new frock.’ An’ he took fifty dollars from his own pocket an’ gave it to her, an’ you could see her jaw drop to her chest, but she pulled it up again an’ took the money with a smile like he jus’ handed her a bouquet of roses.”

Margaret and Mama laughed and clapped with delight. But a different feeling welled up in me, a deep appreciation for the sacrifices of Mr. Hartmann and Amos. Amos had spent every dollar he owned to redeem Grace from slavery, risking his own freedom to bring about hers. And Frederick Hartmann had put his own life and reputation on the line to aid them. I suddenly longed to do a brave and selfless act that would change someone’s life. Mama said I had inner strength. But could I summon enough courage to undergo danger on another person’s behalf? I wanted to thank Mr. Hartmann for his bravery, but as I started toward him, Margaret came between us, murmuring and dabbing at her eyes with a piece of lace. Mr. Hartmann fixed his eyes on her loveliness, and I, timid and plain, walked right past them, out of the drawing room and into the night.

But in the streets was an even greater commotion, as people ran around in a panic, calling for the militia and shouting that the rebels were coming to Gettysburg.

Rosanna
Chapter 20

October 15, 1862 Winchester, Virginia

We have been camped here for several weeks. Mary Ward and I share half of a run-down cabin, while Mrs. Throckmorton occupies the other room. Mrs. Gordon, enjoying the privileges of rank, lodges with her husband. General Lee is reorganizing his army, and new recruits arrive daily to build up the decimated ranks.

John’s recovery is almost complete, the site of his wound a smooth indentation. His arm is still weak, but he has resumed drilling with his regiment. I showed Tom how to care for the shoulder by kneading it and applying a cold, damp cloth to ease the soreness and swelling. Sadly, we lost three men this week: Doone, from a blood infection following an amputation; Billings, who never regained consciousness after last month’s battle; and Smith, from unchecked gangrene.

How constantly aware I am of the perilous nature of life! With the speed of an eye blinking, a bullet can shatter the body. In secret, infected blood can course through the veins, bringing unexpected death. It takes but a single step, a mere breath, to cross the threshold between life and death.

October 18, 1862

Frost glimmered on the grass this morning, vanishing within a few hours. I dread winter and doubt whether I am hardy enough to endure it under such rough conditions.

My wardrobe has been in need of some attention. The hems of my skirts were in ruins from tripping in the mud, so I cut them off and took out the fullness to make a more practical dress that falls just below the knee. I bought a sturdy pair of shoes from the sutler, whose tent is a veritable general store, and some cloth, which I made into a pair of long pantaloons to wear underneath my skirt for warmth and modesty. The first time I wore them, Dr. Walker criticized my “abominable dress,” but I simply went about my work and he said nothing more.

October 19, 1862

Today Mrs. Throckmorton and I went in search of plants to substitute for the medicines that Dr. Walker can no longer obtain. We collected bark from the red oak, taking care not to damage the layer beneath. It is said to have disinfectant and astringent properties that promote the healing of wounds. Mrs. Throckmorton also makes a salve from slippery elm that relieves camp itch, a common discomfort. While we were in the woods, I remembered that it was Lizzie’s birthday and grew melancholy with missing her. But it is no use writing to her, for the letters cannot be delivered across battle lines, and I have no wish to be accused of spying if I try to smuggle them.

A writer once said that friendship is the most sublime of affections, cementing souls across time. Such is the nature of my affection for Lizzie, though I have at times proved a poor friend. Still, I trust my
scrapbook is in her hands, my secrets locked within the treasure chest of our friendship.

October 22, 1862

After so many weeks in camp, the men are restless for battle again. I said to Mrs. Throckmorton that I did not understand this yearning for danger. Have they already forgotten the horrors of Antietam?

“It is the same with mothers,” she replied. “We suffer agonies in giving birth, yet still long to have more children. We always forget the pain and the possibility of dying.”

I was struck by her calm wisdom and began to think about children. Later, while John and I strolled through a grove of trees with their glorious red and amber leaves, I asked him how many children he wished for. He paused for a moment as if imagining a peaceful future.

“I only require an equal number of boys and girls, for fairness’ sake.”

Startled, but remaining calm, I said that if I bore him three sons first (or daughters) I did not relish bearing so many more simply to even the number.

“And why not? Is that not your duty as a wife, if I require it?”

I stopped and stared at him. Were we about to have another quarrel?

“Are you still angry that I had my way before? So you will demand that I bear you twenty children just to even the score? I am not a brood mare.”

At this John burst out laughing and took my hands in his.

“Rosanna, my dear, you are like a pile of dried tinder. At the merest spark, you blaze up. I am only teasing you! But I confess, I like to see you on fire.”

He reached for me, but I slipped away, teasing him in turn.

“Rosanna, I will be happy with one child or twenty,” he said, tenderly and still with a twinkle in his eye. “Now come here and kiss me.”

I sidled over to him. “I do not intend to have twenty children, or even ten, though I might consent to three,” I said, determined to have the last word.

But his was the last move as he eased me onto a bed of crisp, pungent leaves. After a while the chill of the earth began to seep into our bones, and we rose up again to return to camp.

October 24, 1862

Mary Ward surprises me. Today she showed me a pair of men’s pants she intends to wear, saying she obtained them “from a soldier who won’t be needing them again.” She asked for my help in remaking her skirt to resemble mine, and I lent her my sewing supplies.

Then she suggested, “Why don’t we wear our skirts
above
the knee to make them even less cumbersome? Indeed, why not dispense with them altogether?”

“Why, that would never pass muster!” Then I saw by her wry look that she was joking, and we dissolved in laughter together. I did not suspect she had a sense of humor!

October 27, 1862

All morning the men polished their arms, brushed off their uniforms and hats, and made themselves clean in preparation for a grand review of the entire corps by generals Lee, Pickett, and Longstreet. At two o’clock the scattered brigades came together on an open field, making a column at least a mile long. With their colorful standards raised high, the infantry marched to the brisk, rolling drumbeat, turned neatly as one body, and presented their gleaming rifles. I reflected that men, however mortal, when gathered into an army of thousands, appear to be invincible.

General Lee, erect in the saddle of his gray horse, conveyed a stern and quiet dignity. As he rode along the line, hurrahs sounded before
him and traveled the length of the column like a wave. Passing near me, he smiled and raised his hat, then swept it before him and bowed. I was thrilled! John once said to me, “I would barter my life for General Lee’s smile.” Now I understand that sentiment.

Among the observers today were two English lords who could not have failed to be impressed by the spectacle. I overheard one officer remark to another that it would be a sad joke on us if they turned out to be Yankee spies! But judging by their accents and the fine manners they displayed when Mrs. Gordon and I served them tea, I am certain they were genuine nobility. Everyone has high hopes that England will come to the aid of the South, which would hasten the end of the war.

November 2, 1862

Early this morning the order went out to strike camp, and within hours all the tents were dismantled, the nurses’ cabin abandoned, and the entire hospital loaded upon four wagons and a dozen mules. The sickest men we left in Winchester.

An icy rain has turned the ground into a quagmire with garbage trodden into it. Mrs. Throckmorton, Mary Ward, and I ride in a wagon. Rain drums loudly on the canvas. Whenever we hit a rut, the bottles and medicine tins clink in their crates and my pen skitters across the page. Drat! Poor mud-splattered Dolly plods alongside with her head down, deploring, as I do, this miserable weather.

Our destination remains unknown.

November 11, 1862

The routines of an army on the march quickly become habitual. When the line halts, for whatever reason, we dispense aid from the wagon, start a fire, and begin cooking. If it rains, a smoky battle ensues between the fire and the rain, sometimes ending dismally. Everyone
then resorts to nibbling dried meat and moldy cornbread. At night, we nurses sleep in the wagons and Mrs. Gordon in her carriage. The soldiers huddle together on the ground with blankets and oilcloths heaped over them. The discomfort, together with the uncertainty of our movements, makes everyone tense and temperamental.

Occasionally, however, something out of the ordinary occurs. On the road yesterday a soldier climbed into the ambulance with Mary Ward, claiming stomach pains. As she later told us, the rascal promised her a share in his whiskey-distilling business if she would marry him. She kept a stiff-lipped silence, while dosing him with magnesia. But when he got over his pains enough to try and force a kiss from her, she braced herself on the inner struts of the wagon, put her feet against him, and with one great heave, rolled him out of the wagon and onto the ground. The cart in which Mrs. Throckmorton and I were riding nearly ran him down, and it would have been just what he deserved.

November 17, 1862 near Culpeper, Virginia

Two weeks of marching across the Blue Ridge and down the valley of the Shenandoah have revealed grotesque and depressing sights: hillsides and meadows plowed up by iron missiles, fences broken, fields trampled and burned. Hastily dug graves wash away, exposing decaying bodies. The skeletons of burned houses and barns stand black and forlorn.

I said to Mary Ward, unable to keep the anger from my voice, “We should retaliate against those who have done this to Virginia.”