Two Girls of Gettysburg (38 page)

“That means this end of the line held up!” I exclaimed, remembering General Warren’s description of the fishhook-shaped defense.

“Don’t count your chickens yet, missy. Meade’s still got his hands full over yonder.” He indicated Cemetery Ridge. “There’s probably six thousand of General Hancock’s men along the ridge, and Lord knows how many Johnnies facing ‘em, and they’re not about to shake hands and call it a day yet.”

“General Meade hasn’t been injured or captured?” I asked, worried.

“No, not so far as I’ve heard.” The driver spat a stream of brown juice into the road. “But they don’t tell us the half of what’s going on. So, what’s your business?”

“Just tell me, can I get into town safely?”

“Sure. Climb up, and you can ride along that way, once I’m loaded up,” he offered.

But I was too eager to get home, so I thanked him and hurried on. At the edge of town I saw a house with its windows broken and the jambs riddled with bullet holes. Remembering the corporal’s warning about snipers, I took off Martin’s hat and shook out my hair. But the street seemed deserted, with no soldiers or townspeople in sight.

Then I noticed a small boy sitting on a low stone wall along the street, his head in his hands.

“Hello? Are you all right?” I said.

The boy looked up. It was Ginnie Wade’s eight-year-old brother.

“Harry? Don’t you live on Breckenridge Street? Why are you down here all alone?”

“This is my auntie Georgia’s house,” he said.

“Does your mother know where you are?”

“She’s here. We all are.”

“Ginnie, too? Tell her to come and visit Lizzie in a few days. I have so much to tell her, but I have to get home now.”

In reply, the boy only whimpered.

“Harry, come inside this minute! It’s not safe out there.” Ginnie’s mother appeared at the cellar door. Her face was red and swollen. “Why, is that Lizzie Allbauer?”

“Yes, Mrs. Wade,” I said, going up to her. “What’s happened? Is someone ill?” I thought of Georgia’s new baby. Sometimes, I knew, a baby would seem perfectly healthy and then just get sick or even die for no reason.

“No, it’s my poor Ginnie!” she wailed, dabbing her eyes. “She came to help Georgia with the new baby, and then we all came because of the fighting in town. But the rebels hiding around here started firing, hitting the house over a hundred times. One bullet struck the bedpost and barely missed Georgia. Then this morning, Ginnie got up early to make bread.”

Another sob escaped Mrs. Wade and I touched her shoulder in sympathy. But why hadn’t they all stayed in the cellar?

“Ginnie was kneading the dough when a bullet came right through the door. Lizzie, hurry home now, before—”

“Ginnie was shot?” I interrupted. “But will she be all right?”

“Lord, no,” Mrs. Wade wailed. “It struck her in the heart and she died that moment.”

I ran the rest of the way home, imagining the worst: our house in flames and Mama and Margaret killed for harboring soldiers. Tears stung my eyes at the thought of Ginnie’s death. I ran past the barricades that had stopped me two nights ago and now lay broken in the street. Past the
Methodist church, where wounded men leaned against stones in the burial ground. Past St. James Church, where men unloaded boxes from a wagon marked “U.S. Sanitary Commission.” Our house was now in sight. I thanked God it looked exactly as it had two days earlier. I tried the front door but it was locked. Not a sound came from within. I went around to the kitchen door. A bucket of dirty water stood next to a pile of kindling. Was this a good sign or a bad one? I tried the latch, and it, too, held firm.

“Mama? I’m home. Margaret? It’s me, Lizzie,” I shouted, thumping on the door. I thought I heard footsteps and saw the curtain in the kitchen window move. Then the door opened, and I fell into Mama’s arms.

“Oh, bless Jesus, my prayers are answered again!” she cried, covering my face with kisses. Over her shoulder, I could see Margaret, her eyebrows raised in a mute question.

“Jack and Clara are safe at the Weigels’,” I said, and she sagged with relief.

The next few moments were a blur. I heard footsteps coming up from the cellar steps and expected to see one of the soldiers. But instead, bounding through the doorway, came my brother Ben, and behind him, a broad smile on his dark face, stood Amos.

Then we were all crying and talking at once. I told Amos that he was a daddy, and he hugged me so tight I couldn’t breathe. Ben wanted to know where I’d gotten the rifle. Mama scolded me for leaving the Weigels’, but Margaret defended me. I asked about Ben and Amos’s journey, but first Mama wanted to hear about the battle, for they had been living in the cellar without news for almost three days.

I thought about what I should tell them and what I should spare them. I said there had been fighting on Little Round Top, but I didn’t mention that Luke’s regiment was called to defend the hill. I described
meeting General Meade but didn’t say that I had seen men blown apart in Plum Run Valley. The spies in our wagon, the stack of coffins beside the road, the death of Ginnie Wade—these I kept to myself, for the time being.

“What happened to the soldier in the hall?” I asked Mama.

“He didn’t last the night, God rest his soul. I must write to his family.”

I was not particularly saddened by the news. Perhaps I was fresh out of tears, as I had cried so many of them lately.

“Everyone back to the cellar. There may still be snipers around,” Mama ordered, and we traipsed reluctantly down the stairs. In the basement, Noah Zimmer sat with his bad leg resting on a stool.

“Brave little lady, I hear,” he said when he saw me. “Wish I could get out there and chase them rebels like you been doing.”

“Where’s your friend, John Ray?” I asked.

“Went back to the regiment. I tried to go too, but your ma wouldn’t let me. So I reckon I’m stayin’ here. Least I’m not getting shot at.”

I turned to Amos and Ben. “Now tell me everything that happened to you.”

“Well, getting to York was the easy part,” said Amos, stroking his chin.

“I drove the wagon the whole way,” boasted Ben.

“Only took us two days, spite of the rain. But when we pulled up, the butcher wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with me. He said I done stole Mr. Allbauer’s stock and he ought to call the constable. ‘If I stole it, how come I’m bringin’ it to you for safekeepin’?’ I asked, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“I never trusted that Mr. Schupp,” I said.

“When I told him Mama sent us, he called me a lying pipsqueak,” said Ben.

“We will never deal with him again,” said Mama.

“Then I remembered that Mama had an uncle Herman who lived near Wrightsville,” Ben went on. “It took us a whole day to find him, but he said he’d keep the stock.”

“What good thinking, Ben!” I said.

“We waited there a couple of days, ‘cause we heard there were rebs in the area. But we knew everyone would be worried the longer we stayed away, so we decided to come home. That’s when our adventure really started.”

“Passin’ through Wrightsville on our way back, we landed in the middle of wagons an’ refugees all jammed up on the turnpike. The rebs were comin’ up behind them an’ the local militia was guardin’ the bridge in front of them. No one could cross the river. People shouted at us, ‘You’re crazy to be headin’ to York. The rebels have taken everythin’ in it!’ Well, we were glad we didn’t leave the livestock there.” Amos chuckled.

Now Ben interrupted, too excited to stay quiet.

“Then the whole Confederate army filled the road, and me and Amos hightailed it for the bluffs along the river. We could hear fighting, but we couldn’t see anything with all the buildings and warehouses in the way. Then we heard great whooshing and crackling and saw that the bridge was on fire. Whenever a piece broke off and fell into the water, it sizzled and sent up steam and smoke.”

“But why would the rebels burn the bridge?” I asked.

“It wasn’t them who burned it,” said Amos. “It was the militia, to keep the rebs from gettin’ to the railroad on the other side. But then the fire spread to houses and buildings near the wharf, an’ we saw some-thin’ unforgettable.” He shook his head.

“The rebel army turned into a fire brigade!” shouted Ben. “The
soldiers joined the townspeople, passing buckets and pots of water from hand to hand like they were trying to save their own houses.”

“Can you believe that?” said Mama, touching her hand to her heart. “Helping each other, not like enemies but like brothers.”

“That night,” Amos said, “we slept in the woods. Monday we started to pick our way back toward York, stayin’ clear of the main roads. But it commenced rainin’ hard an’ Ben here was shiverin’, so we holed up in a barn somewhere near Hunterstown.”

“I wasn’t sick,” Ben protested. “Just tired. And hungry.”

“We figured the farmer wouldn’t grudge us the shelter or a few potatoes from his garden. But we was pretty wrong about that.” Amos winked at Ben.

“What do you mean? What happened?” I prompted.

“We woke up the next morning with rifles in our faces!” cried Ben, hoisting an imaginary gun. “A farmer sood there with two rebs who itched themselves like they were full of lice. The farmer told them Amos was a runaway. One of the soldiers said, ‘We’ll take care of him,’ and gave the farmer some money.”

“There you have it!” interrupted Margaret, indignant. “I’ve always said the country around here was filled with copperheads and secret slavers.”

“I told them over and over that Amos was a free man. One of them finally said, ‘I b’lieve you, son, but you know I jus’ don’t care. He b’longs to me now an’ he’ll fetch a good sum,’” said Ben, imitating the soldier’s drawl. “They tied up Amos and argued about whether I’d try to run away and rat on them, till they decided to tie me up too. We sat all day listening to those two no-counts jawing and boasting. They commenced drinking, and Amos whispered to me, ‘When they fall asleep, we got to get away somehow.’ But I couldn’t even reach my pocket knife.”

Ben paused and lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. He was clearly enjoying having everyone’s attention.

“Go on, tell us how you managed to escape,” I urged him.

“Well, Amos was worried about me being sick, so I decided I would act like I was. I started coughing and shaking and added some moaning, too. The rebels were looking scared I was going to die on them. ‘We don’t want him anyway, just the nigger,’ they said, and untied me. ‘Go up to the farmhouse, boy, and tell the missus to take care of you.’ And they booted me out.”

“I’ll watch for that trick next time you’re trying to get a day off school,” Mama said, ruffling Ben’s hair.

“So there I was, standing outside in the dark, wondering what to do next. I decided I’d wait until they fell asleep and then go back in and cut Amos free. When I heard them snoring, I tried the door but they had bolted it from the inside. So I crept all around the barn but there was no other way in. It was all made of stone. Then I nearly tripped over a shovel lying in the weeds, and that gave me an idea. I dug a hole outside the barn door. The ground was soft, and after a while the hole was a couple of feet deep and about four feet long. But because of the rain, it kept filling up with water and mud.”

“I could hear you were up to somethin’ out there,” said Amos, smiling.

“I waited there, hoping for the rebs to come out and, you know, relieve themselves. I was about to bang the shovel on something to get their attention, when the door creaked open, and I barely had enough time to flatten myself against the side of the barn and hope he couldn’t see me.”

“Clever-ass boy,” said Noah Zimmer, clapping his hand against his thigh. “Sorry, ma’am, I mean he’s a right smart boy.”

I saw an amused smile play around Mama’s lips.

“I saw the reb swaying like he was drunk and trying to unbutton his trousers,” Ben said. “Lucky for me, he wasn’t carrying his rifle. He stepped right into the hole and fell over, face-first in the mud. A few seconds later the other one stumbled out with his rifle and fell on top of his friend. They started cursing mightily.”