Two Girls of Gettysburg (37 page)

Martin continued to admire the rifle. “Don’t tell Ma, but a sergeant showed me how to load these. Hand me a cartridge and a cap.”

I fumbled in the pouch and drew out a wrapped cartridge about the size of my forefinger and a cap smaller than a thimble. Martin bit open the cartridge and spit out the paper.

“This here contains powder and a ball. You ram it into the barrel using this rod, then lift the rifle to firing position. Now insert this little percussion cap. Cock the hammer, and aim.” He squinted down the barrel. “You do this for each shot. A quick soldier can get off three shots every minute.”

Martin’s long fingers worked nimbly. The muscles in his forearm stood out beneath the skin. I had trouble concentrating on his instructions. He handed me the gun and I shouldered it as he had.

“Don’t fire it now!” he warned, laying a hand on my arm.

I lowered the gun and took a step away from him. “I’m not stupid,” I said, while my heart beat faster with excitement.

“Lizzie, back there by the creek, I only meant to comfort you, not to scare you,” Martin said softly, his eyes pleading.

“I wasn’t scared,” I said, but that was a lie. I couldn’t even meet his eyes.

“Here, before you go, take this,” he said, setting his hat on my head. It was too big for me, but it was wide-brimmed and shaded my face from the sun.

I thanked him and walked away quickly. It was about noon. Home was five miles up the road. I figured it would take me less than two hours to cover the distance. But the going proved rough, with all the debris scattered on the road and the ruts that threatened to turn my ankles. The sun beat hotly down and I was grateful for Martin’s hat. An
ambulance pulled by two weary horses passed me, and the dust almost made me choke. A soldier riding in the back, his arm in a sling, tipped his cap to me and I waved back. To my left, the green hills of Cemetery Ridge rose up, and I wondered if the Union soldiers were still entrenched there, or if they had moved on in the night.

North of the Hummelbaugh homestead, I saw a group of soldiers in dirty blue jackets approaching on the road. Their officer was using his rifle to prod a man who shuffled before him with his head down. I yielded the road and waited for them to pass.

“Hey there, Billy, you don’t fool me none,” called out one of the soldiers, whose face was almost hidden by his huge beard. “Take off the skirt!”

When I realized the soldier was addressing me, I was afraid they meant to harm me. So I climbed over the stone fencerow and ran across a field. The rifle, cartridge box, and canteen banged against me, slowing me down. I looked back and the bearded man was close behind me.

“Stop or I’ll shoot ya!” he yelled. “Put down yer rifle!”

I stopped, let the rifle drop, and reached up instinctively to protect my head, knocking off Martin’s hat.

“Why, I’ll be durned, it’s a lady!” he said. Another soldier ran up and grabbed the bearded man and cuffed him.

“Beg yer pardon, miss. Bernie here’s an idiot.”

“Ow!” said Bernie, shrugging off the other soldier. “We thought you was a straggler or a deserter, like that cowardly bag of bones we found in yonder shed,” he said by way of apology.

The second soldier picked up my rifle and escorted me back to the road, where the officer waited.

“Corporal Bingham. Third Minnesota.” He introduced himself without taking his gun off the captured deserter. “Don’t think they’re allowin’ women into the army just yet. Shouldn’t you go home, miss?”

“I am going home. I live in Gettysburg.”

“Then be careful. There’s still rebel snipers up there. If you’re determined to go, be sure and take off that hat before you get near. Let them see that long yellow hair of yours, so they don’t take you for one of us.”

“Yes, sir, thank you,” I said.

“No hard feelings, miss?” asked Bernie. Looking contrite, he held out a square biscuit. I took it with a small nod. The soldiers began to move on, shoving their reluctant captive before them, but the corporal hesitated.

“I’m not sure you ought to be toting that rifle,” he said to me.

“Sir, I may come upon someone who intends to harm me,” I replied, looking pointedly at Bernie. The officer laughed.

“If you do, be sure you don’t shoot yourself by mistake,” he said.

A bold impulse, or maybe it was a foolish one, made me raise the rifle, cock it as Martin had shown me, and take aim at a boulder about fifty yards away. Bracing for the recoil, I pulled the trigger. The crack of the rifle made my ears ring, and the butt struck my shoulder hard, but the bullet hit the rock, leaving a charred black spot. The officer raised his eyebrows and whistled.

“I see you can take care of yourself,” he said. “We’d better skedaddle, men.”

When they had left, I realized that my knees were shaking uncontrollably. I had actually fired a rifle! Even more amazing, I had hit my target. I ran my hand down the barrel, which was still hot. Slowly it cooled, and I reloaded exactly as Martin had shown me.

When my legs felt solid, I set out walking again. I was hungry and realized I had not eaten anything all day. So I took a bite of the biscuit the soldier had given me and almost broke a tooth. So this was the hardtack Luke had written about! I took a sip of water and held it in
my mouth until it softened the biscuit so that I could chew it. The heat grew more intense, and sweat tricked down my back and between my breasts until my dress was soaked. I was halfway home. What would I do if Mama and Margaret were not there?

In a field beside the road, Union soldiers on horseback circled a hundred or more gray-clad soldiers, rounding them up like cattle. The men, weaponless, trudged with their heads down. Thinking of Papa, I pitied them, even if they were rebels. Then it dawned on me that the sight of so many prisoners must mean that the rebels had lost the battle. Filled with hope, I quickened my pace. My heavy rifle felt as light as a toy.

Then, with no warning, an explosion tore the silence, followed by another and another, like a giant boulder rumbling down a hallway in the heavens. Instinct drove me from the open road to the protection of a stone wall running alongside it. I pressed my hands against my ears and peered up at the hills, expecting to see trees and rocks tumbling down toward me. Then the answering fire came and it was, if possible, even louder. I saw smoke rising over the treetops and realized that the guns on Cemetery Ridge were firing back at the rebels. The ground rocked as if it would break open and swallow me. Then from out of the cumulative thunder came a whirring sound, ascending to a shriek, followed by a loud crack. I felt the stone wall shift and dirt and pebbles rain on my back. When I dared to look up again, I saw that an oak tree not fifty yards away had been broken in half like a stick of firewood, leaving a jagged trunk. The top of the tree lay on the ground, its branches still shuddering from the impact.

I scrambled to my feet and ran as if pursued by demons.

Rosanna
Chapter 41

July 3, 1863 camp south of Lutheran Seminary, west of Gettysburg

I awoke this morning to a vivid and bustling scene of preparation for yet another day of battle. A fifer merrily played “Dixie.” An infantryman drank his ground chicory “coffee” and adjusted his knapsack with an air of purpose. His rifle shone, ready for use. Officers tied on gold sashes, their buttons and braid gleaming in the morning sun. Their horses stood by, groomed and saddled. Expectation charged the air, masking the fear, the exhaustion, the uncertainty. Some men knelt and prayed for victory, for deliverance, or for luck. For their lives.

As soon as I had combed my hair, I reported to Dr. Walker, from habit and a sense of deference. The medical corps appeared ill-prepared for battle and Dr. Walker helpless to remedy the situation.

“I have enough orderlies to staff the hospital and ambulances. What I don’t have is an assistant surgeon, someone to do battlefield triage,” he lamented.

“I might be of use. I have a medicine kit, bandages, and a horse,” I replied. “And some skill in diagnosis.”

“My dear Mrs. Wilcox,” he said with irritation, “you overestimate your usefulness.” Then, seeing how his words stung me, he mumbled
an apology, and with a tired wave of his hand, said, “Do what you wish. But I cannot be responsible for you.”

“Then, sir, I will be responsible for myself,” I said, and turned to leave.

“Wait!” he called and began to rummage through some crates until he came up with a piece of canvas marked with a red cross. “If you must be in the way, this might keep you from getting shot at.”

I fastened the canvas to my haversacks and fixed them behind Dolly’s saddle. Then I rode to where John’s regiment had taken up position in the hollow of a field near the house of a Henry Spangler. Like a passport, the red cross on Dolly’s flank allowed me to move freely among the men. I dispensed iodine for cuts, balm for a powder burn, and bound up an ankle sprained on the uneven ground.

By listening and observation, I learned much about the situation of the two armies. Our soldiers hold this entire ridge to the west of Emmitsburg Road, supported by 160 guns placed in batteries as far as the eye can see, iron beasts with their mouths facing the enemy. The Yankees occupy a ridge about a mile away and are hidden by the trees. Their batteries cluster in the center. Lee believes that Meade has strengthened his flanks, expecting an attack there. So he plans to strike at the center and break the Yankee line in two. Yet what if Meade’s center is stronger than Lee suspects, and his flanks encircle and crush Lee instead? What a terrible responsibility it must be to plan a battle. Ordinary men would shrink from making decisions when so many lives are at stake. Generals must be a different caliber of men.

It is noon, and I have retreated to a sheltered spot until my services are needed. Like the newspaper correspondents in their battered suits, I write and peer through my field glasses. I see men pelting each other with green apples from the Spanglers’ orchard. I guess it is better to throw them than to eat them and be cramped and sick. Now General
Pickett’s troops are moving forward, forming a line several men thick at the edge of the woods, behind the artillery. Officers on horseback gallop between the batteries where the teams of cannoneers wait at their positions.

1:30 p.m. A terrible artillery barrage is underway. Two blasts from our guns to the south triggered a succession of explosions like the banging of a stick along a picket fence, magnified ten-thousandfold. The hellish noise persisted for many minutes, until thick clouds of smoke obscured everything, even the gunners themselves. Now the Yankees return the fire. Through the smoke, flashes of flame reveal their cannons’ mouths. The air grows acrid with smoke and powder, making my eyes water.

A grim-faced General Longstreet rides by with his officers.

Looking through my field glasses, I see a caisson explode, hurling balls of flame and splintered wood. A gunner lies on the ground. Tom holds the restless horses. An officer points to the gun, which has fallen still. He is making Tom take the post of the injured gunner! I watch Tom climb astride the ammunition box. He hands the round iron ball to a second gunner who rams it into the muzzle, while a third lights the fuse. Then Tom jumps to the ground and pulls a lanyard and the gun discharges its deadly load, recoils violently, and disappears behind the smoke.

Two orderlies with stretchers join me, waiting for a lull in the fighting. One is Thomas Langan, whom I recognize from John’s regiment.

“Do they keep firing until all the guns are destroyed?” I shout, but Langan seems not to hear me. He gestures and shouts. I believe he is trying to tell me that when our guns have taken out theirs, our foot soldiers can advance and seal the victory. Oh, I pray for the end of this battle and freedom from this horror!

Lizzie
Chapter 42

As I dodged the ankle-turning ruts, another shell overshot its mark and exploded in a field behind me. There was nowhere to take cover, so I kept running until I came to General Meade’s headquarters. The beams supporting the porch had been shot away and the roof sagged dangerously. The flags were gone, and a glance in the windows confirmed that the place was abandoned. A bleeding horse lay on the ground, neighing pitifully while straining the rope that tethered it to a tree. I pulled the the knot until it came loose, and the horse dropped its heavy head to the ground.

I kept on going. My feet throbbed with pain and my throat felt parched. I tossed away the empty canteen, but kept the rifle, though it banged against my side with every step. I struck out over the fields to avoid a regiment of bluecoats coming toward me. It was about six hundred yards to the Baltimore Pike, from which I could see Culp’s Hill. Its sides had been stripped to build defenses that sheltered a line of guns. The trunks of trees were gouged and spotted with black holes. Some had their limbs torn off as if by an angry giant. Men were carrying the wounded to ambulances that blocked the road.

“Is Culp’s Hill still ours?” I called out to one of the drivers.

“It sure is! We sent them Johnnies running,” he said. “They’ve retreated toward Hanover Road.”