Two Girls of Gettysburg (32 page)

“You fainted. Martin had to carry you out,” said Annie.

Humiliated, I rolled onto my side and covered my face with my hands.

“I’m sorry I had to soak you,” she added. On the contrary, I was sure she had enjoyed it.

“I tried to stop you from going in,” Martin said feebly.

Without a word I got up and went back into the kitchen. I decided to stay there the rest of the day. I found an apron and used it to pat my hair and face dry.

“Why don’t you all sit on the porch, where it’s cooler? I will watch the bread,” I said to the Weigel sisters, whose faces were ruddy with perspiration.

Smiling gratefully, they traipsed from the kitchen. I could hear their voices drifting in from the front porch, English words mixed with the unfamiliar German. Their rocking chairs creaked in rhythm, and Jack and Clara’s marbles clicked on the wooden porch. I marveled that such ordinary activities could continue while men were dying in
the Weigels’ barn or waiting in the streets and fields of Gettysburg for fighting to break out. It was nearly noon. I took three loaves from the oven. I thought of Mama, in our house with Margaret and three soldiers, and wished she had come with us.

I didn’t hear Martin come into the kitchen until he cleared his throat. He had changed out of his blood-spattered clothes.

“I cleaned up before I came in.” His hands disappeared into his pockets.

“I see. You didn’t have to do that for me. I mean, I won’t faint again.”

“Well, I was starting to smell bad,” Martin said, wrinkling his nose. “Are you feeling better?”

“Wouldn’t you think I could tolerate the sight of blood? I’m a butcher’s daughter!” I punched my fist into a bowl of dough and watched it slowly deflate.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. The first time I saw a man lose … the surgeon take … well, I barely made it outside the barn before I threw up. Annie, I saw her crying a lot yesterday. But you get used to it. You have to close down your feelings.”

Martin fell silent, and I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Then he sniffed. “Is something burning in here?”

The oven was smoking. I jumped up, flung it open, and extracted a tray of small cakes I hadn’t realized were still inside.

“Well, now I feel completely useless!” I said, eyeing their blackened crusts and waving the smoke away. But Martin was smiling. Then we both began to laugh.

“I’m getting out of here before the bucket brigade rides in! Tell my ma I’m going to try and get some sleep. Don’t wake me unless the house is on fire,” he said with a wink.

I picked up one of the cakes and threw it at him, but he ducked
out of the kitchen and it hit the door frame instead, scattering little burned flakes. I hadn’t seen Grace coming down the stairs, she moved so slowly.

“That’s no way to behave in a kitchen that ain’t yours!” she said sharply. She leaned on the back of a chair for support.

“And you shouldn’t be walking around,” I said.

Grace sat down gingerly and said in a low voice, “I saw the way you smiled at him. Now I knows why you was so eager to get here.”

“No, you don’t.” I tried to keep a bland look, setting some bread and jam before her.

“I can’t eat nothin’,” she said, pushing it away. “I’m full of aches and pains after that bumpy ride las’ night. My belly’s as tight as a drum.”

I stared in amazement at Grace’s huge hump. The gathers of her skirt spread over it like a tent.

“How long until the baby—,” I began, then broke off, hearing the pounding of horses’ hooves and the excited voices of the Weigel sisters.

“Better not be rebels coming, ‘cause I can’t move fast enough to hide from ‘em,” said Grace wearily.

I ran outside to see four horses stirring up clouds of dust. Their riders wore blue coats with brass buttons. One of them dismounted at the porch steps and introduced himself as Gouverneur Warren. It was a strange name, I thought, but even more impressive was his title: brigadier general and chief engineer of the Army of the Potomac.

“Governor Warren? Governor of what state?” asked Bonnie Weigel, who was hard of hearing. Louisa motioned for her to be quiet.

“Wilkommen, Herr
General Warren,” said Mrs. Weigel proudly “Welcome to this house, built by my husband’s father with his own two hands.”

General Warren nodded politely. “It’s a fine house, ma’am. General Meade has sent me to survey the area around these hills.”

“You’re not planning a battle here, are you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes with suspicion.

“Not precisely here, but it may be close by.”

“Is there fighting in Gettysburg still?” Louisa Weigel broke in.

“Just some skirmishing between our troops on Cemetery Hill and the rebels in the town,” the general replied, then turned back to Mrs. Weigel. “Mr. Washington Roebling and I request permission to view the field from the roof of your fine house,” he said firmly, as if he did not expect to be denied. The aide dismounted and took off his hat.

But Mrs. Weigel shook her head.
“Keine Soldaten in meinem Haus!
No soldiers in my house, shooting from the windows. We have women and children here, and wounded men in the barn. You will only draw fire on us.”

General Warren scratched his head and exchanged looks with his aide.

“That is not my intention, ma’am,” he replied.

Mrs. Weigel nodded. “Then you may observe. Lizzie, your legs are younger than mine. Show the general the door on the upper landing that leads to the attic and the roof.
Mach schnell.
Hurry!”

While two of the aides remained with the horses, General Warren and Washington Roebling followed me up the narrow stairway. I unlatched the small attic window and they climbed through. Then the aide turned and offered me his hand. Surprised, I took it and clambered up the tin roof, clutching my skirts to keep from tripping over them. I could feel the heat of the metal through my shoes.

The peak of the roof offered a splendid view across Taneytown Road, where fields and scattered groves of trees spread far into the distance. Over this undulating valley I could see ranks of infantry and artillery sweeping northward, with officers on horseback riding to and fro between them.

General Warren looked through his field glasses and made quick, precise sketches on paper. He had wavy hair that receded from his wide forehead; a large, hooked nose; and a bushy mustache that entirely covered his lips. The aide had short dark hair and a smooth face. Watching him as he sorted papers in his leather pouch, I decided he was even more handsome than Frederick Hartmann.

“The hills behind us run north along Taneytown Road, all the way to the cemetery,” I said, trying to be helpful.

“Yes, our troops are positioned along that ridge,” said the general. “Clear to the cemetery and then around to the next hill.”

“That would be Culp’s Hill,” I said. “I saw them building defenses there last night.”

Mr. Roebling gave me a questioning look. I blushed and fell silent, lest I reveal the incident with the rebel spies.

“If you could see that far, our defense would look like a fishhook. A good, tight formation,” said General Warren, sounding confident. “Now we can feed these reserves anywhere they’re needed along the line.”

“Smartest thing General Hancock did yesterday was to order our retreating soldiers to occupy those hills,” added Roebling.

“But where are the rebels now?” I asked.

“Along a ridge that runs roughly parallel to this one, about a mile to the west,” replied the general. “We can’t see them from here because of that hill.” He considered the wooded slope behind the Weigel house and came to a decision. “Roebling, take Mackenzie with you up there. There ought to be a signal tower at the top. Note the Confederate troop positions. Move quickly and report back to me here. We meet with General Meade at three o’clock.”

Roebling disappeared through the attic window, and General Warren sat down, straddling the rooftop while he jotted notes. I leaned against the chimney, watching him.

“What do you know about these hills, Miss—?”

“Lizzie Allbauer, sir. Well, that’s Big Round Top off to the left, and this one directly behind the house we call Little Round Top.” A thought had just occurred to me. “General, what if the rebels come right over these hills, or right between them?”

“According to this report, they’re too thickly wooded to get troops and artillery to the top,” he said, glancing at his papers. “So I don’t reckon the Johnnies can flank us here.”

“Well, I’ve never been on Big Round Top, but Little Round Top is mostly bare on the far side. Many of the trees have been cut down for timber,” I explained. “We go sledding there in the winter.”

General Warren looked at me intently. “So you’re telling me…”

“It’s steep in places and rocky, but it’s easy enough to get to by the lane that runs west from Taneytown Road.”

The general frowned. “Moving troops into position from that direction, we’d be fully exposed to rebel fire.” He looked at the hill, dense with trees. “Wish we could get up there from this side.”

“You can!” I cried, suddenly remembering the old logging path we had taken in the winter. “There is a way you can get artillery up there without being seen by the rebels. I can show you.”

“General Meade needs to hear this right away,” said Warren, springing to his feet. I thought he would jump off the roof in his haste. But instead he squeezed his large frame through the attic window. I slipped through more easily and ran down the stairs to keep up with him.

“Roebling! Where are you, man?” the general shouted.

“They’re not back yet, sir,” said the one aide who remained.

General Warren paced back and forth on the porch and checked his pocket watch. I knew what he was thinking: that the far slope of Little Round Top lay open, and the battle might belong to whomever could reach it first. My stomach twisted nervously.

“It’s nearly three o’clock. I can’t wait any longer. Reese, let’s go. Come along, Miss Allbauer.”

All at once I found myself in front of the general in his saddle. As he spurred the horse, I caught a brief glimpse of an astonished Mrs. Weigel returning from the barn. We galloped along Taneytown Road, and I tried to point out the way leading to the logging path.

“There’s no time now. We’ll report to General Meade first,” Warren shouted.

I gripped the pommel and clung with my knees to the horse. The wind whistled past my ears and worked my hair loose. The general’s arm was around me, pressing me to his chest. I felt like a damsel from King Arthur’s time. Here I was, on my way to see General Meade and show him a route for his army. What a thrilling story this would make!

General Warren reined in his horse before a small whitewashed cottage. By the flag flying from a pole and the pennants decorating the porch, I took this for General Meade’s headquarters. Horses tethered to the picket fence flicked away flies with their tails. Guards stood at attention as General Warren dismounted.

“Reese, send Roebling in directly when he arrives,” he said, handing the aide the reins and disappearing into the cottage.

I slipped off the horse’s back and stretched my legs. I tried to imagine the scene inside the cottage. When would General Meade come out? How should I greet him? The buzz of insects in the surrounding fields grew more intense and the temperature seemed to rise with it.

“Miss Allbauer!” I jumped as General Warren called my name. He beckoned to me from the doorway and I hurried to him, almost tripping in my excitement.

Inside the tiny cottage, the air was thick with heat and tobacco smoke. Generals and officers, wearing long coats with bright shoulder
decorations, crowded around a table piled with maps and papers. The one I took to be General Meade stood up. He was about six feet tall, lean and strongly built. His bushy beard was brown and gray and a pair of spectacles sat on his long nose. He acknowledged me with a nod.

“General Warren informs me that you know the west-facing side of this hill to be clear and unforested?” he asked in a brisk voice, his finger resting on the map. “Are you quite certain of that?”

“Yes, sir.” My voice came out as a squeak. “Yes, sir,” I repeated, louder.

“Please show me the location of the path you say is passable.”

I peered at the map, trying to make sense of its jagged lines, arrows, crosses, and jottings. I located Taneytown Road and the lane that ran westward by Little Round Top toward Mr. Rose’s wheat field. The two hills were drawn as circles of little marks like sunbursts. My finger hovered, trembling, as it sought the spot where the logging path led to Little Round Top. General Meade tapped the edge of the map. I felt myself grow flustered.

“It’s somewhere between this creek and the road. I can’t tell exactly from this map,” I said in dismay. “But I can take you there.”

Meade’s sharp eyes regarded me and the brows above them bristled. I didn’t look away. He was about to speak when Washington Roebling strode into the room and spoke into General Warren’s ear.