Two Girls of Gettysburg (46 page)

A few days after Mama left, a letter came from Luke. They were camped near the Rappahannock River in Virginia, where nothing significant had occurred besides a few skirmishes. He wrote that he was still in good spirits from seeing us in July.

Ben and I behaved well. We did our chores without quarreling. My brother didn’t even tease me when he caught sight of Martin and me holding hands after church. On the days Martin worked at the butcher shop, we hardly said a word to each other, for Amos kept him occupied every minute. But when he arrived in the morning, he would smile at me in a way that let me know there was something between us. Then I thought about him so much I hardly got any work done. I recalled the way his lips felt on mine, the deep gray of his eyes, the clean smell of his skin.

One day after the shop was closed, he startled me by coming up behind me, putting his hands on my shoulders, and turning me around to face him.

“How do I go about courting you?” he asked abruptly

“Well,” I said, easing out of his grasp and looking around to be sure we were alone, “since Papa and Mama are both gone, you’ll have to ask
my
permission.”

“But what if you say no?” He tilted his head and smiled in a way that seemed to invite me to kiss him. I reached up and, tangling my fingers in his hair, drew his head down and touched my lips to his
temple right where a pulse throbbed under the skin. When he kissed me back, on the lips, I felt the thrill all the way to my toes.

Then to tease him, I pretended to consider the matter.

“I
think
I’ll agree to be your girl,” I finally said, and we both laughed.

“I’ll talk to your ma the minute she comes home. D’you think she’ll allow me?”

“That depends on whether she learns we’ve been kissing in secret,” I said. “Are you sure Amos is gone?”

“Amos?” Martin burst out. “He knows all about how I feel!”

For the entire week after Mama left, a tide of people flowed into Gettysburg to attend the dedication of the new cemetery. Not since the rebels arrived had there been such a stir in the town. By Wednesday not a single room could be had in any inn or hotel. Visitors were staying in people’s houses and sleeping two or more to a bed.

The president’s train was due to arrive on Wednesday evening. Ben and I joined the crowd waiting at the depot. A band stood poised to begin playing at the moment the train appeared. We stood shoulder to shoulder with Annie Baumann and her mother and Mrs. Brodhead.

“It’s too bad your mother isn’t here, Lizzie,” said Mrs. Brodhead with a sympathetic smile. Her eyes widened when I told her that Mama had gone to Richmond to find Papa. “Now I know where you come by your bravery.”

“Let’s move closer,” said Annie, pointing to the dais where the president would step off the train. Just then the band struck up “John Brown’s Body.” The train had been sighted. Cheers interrupted the singing as the cars eased into the station with a loud squealing. Men lifted their hats, and women waved handkerchiefs. The next tune fairly lifted the tile roof off the depot, and I sang as loudly as anyone.

“We’ll rally from the hillside, we’ll gather from the plain, shouting the battle cry of freedom.”

The passengers began to alight, but everyone’s eyes were seeking the president. A cheer went up and I turned my gaze from the dais just as he stepped off the train farther down the platform. He was easy to pick out, for with his top hat he stood almost a head above everyone in the crowd. But though I stood on tiptoe, I couldn’t see his face.

“Why, he rode in an ordinary coach with the other passengers!” said Mrs. Baumann, sounding horrified.

Judge Wills and Mr. Kendlehart scurried over to greet Mr. Lincoln.

“What is he wearing on his hat?” asked Annie.

“A black mourning band,” murmured Mrs. Brodhead. “Poor man, it’s been nearly two years since his little son Willie died of a fever.”

Soon the president was lost to view, and we were caught up in the crowd heading toward the judge’s house on the Diamond, where Mr. Lincoln would spend the night. People were hoping Mr. Lincoln might give a speech. He went inside, then appeared in a second-story window, without his hat. His hair was black and his face looked worn and craggy. My heart went out to him, thinking of the grief he had to bear for all the dead soldiers and for his own son. He waved but shook his head to the cries of “Speech! Speech!”

The crowd began to disperse, and Ben and I turned to go home. It was nearly dark. As we crossed Stratton Street, I happened to look toward the depot and saw a man hunched over in the middle of the street. A shabby coat and trousers that once might have been blue hung loosely on his thin body. He moved slowly, with the exaggerated up-and-down gait of someone using crutches that were too short for him.

“That man looks as if he is about to fall,” Ben said.

“He must have been on the train,” I said. “Poor soldier. I wonder if he’s lost.”

“Look, there’s someone with him, carrying a bag,” said Ben.

As the man swung forward again, I saw that one of his pant legs flapped. The man’s arms trembled against the crutches.

Ben and I took a few steps toward the two figures.

“Do you need help getting to the inn?” I called.

Just then the man paused, raised his head, and shoved back his hat with a gesture of his wrist that was familiar. The light from a gas lamp fell on a gaunt face that was mostly hidden by a full beard. Yet I recognized this man. And the woman standing next to him. Goose bumps broke out and spread across my skin.

“Papa!” I shouted. “It’s me, Lizzie.”

In seconds I covered the distance between us and gathered him to me, easily lifting his bony body off the ground with the sudden strength in my arms.

Rosanna
Chapter 49

November 18, 1863 Gettysburg

Mr. Lincoln’s visit has put Margaret in a frenzy of excitement, sewing decorative trappings for the horses that will ride in tomorrow’s parade. She also made Jack and Clara new double-breasted uniforms for the occasion, as they have outgrown their old ones. Tomorrow morning she plans to leave at dawn to reserve a place near the speaker’s stand, although the dedication of the cemetery will not begin until the afternoon.

I have decided to attend Mr. Lincoln’s speech, for I am curious about this man who is regarded as a second Moses.

November 19, 1863

This has been a historic and unforgettable day, memorable not for its horrors, but for its hope.

The morning dawned cold and foggy, but the sun as it rose in the sky dispelled the dampness and promised unseasonable warmth. I arose early to help Margaret, who was frantic over some detail of the trappings that had to be changed at the last minute. After she left, Lizzie burst into the house, trailing her green bonnet and shawl, her eyes ablaze with joy. Aunt Mary has come home, and Uncle Albert with her!
Lizzie poured out her thanks, for it was my father who helped gain her papa’s release. Not only is Uncle Albert freed from that terrible prison, but my father and Aunt Mary, after years of estrangement, have reconciled.

Lizzie also reported that her papa and mama rode in the same rail coach as Mr. Lincoln, who shook their hands before settling down to work on his speech, the one he is giving today!

As she relayed the good news, cannons boomed from Cemetery Hill, giving the signal for the parade to begin from the Diamond. We waited in the street, listening to the band approach. A crowd preceded the parade, eager to arrive at the dedication site ahead of everyone else. The cavalry and ranks of infantry passed, then the dignitaries and politicians, their horses resplendent in Margaret’s cloth. Mr. Lincoln was unmistakable among them. He wore a top hat and rode a dark stallion, but the way his legs hung down made the horse seem too small for his great height.

Lizzie and I, with Jack and Clara in tow, fell in behind the procession. Once inside the cemetery gates, the crowd spread out over the grounds like a river released from its channel, while horses and carriages drew up along the perimeter. The new cemetery for soldiers, unlike the grassy Evergreen Cemetery, is raw and stony, marked by mounds of dirt and still-empty graves, for the process of identifying and reburying the dead is not yet finished. Attendants tried in vain to keep people from trampling the new graves or stumbling into empty holes.

Except for the tall pines in the old cemetery, most of the trees were bare. The beeches, however, still clung to their russet and gold leaves, which seemed to shake with expectation as the breeze stirred them.

We found Margaret beside a small boulder, defending her little territory against the encroaching crowd with nothing more than a
blanket and picnic basket. Jack immediately took possession of the rock and glared at anyone who stood in front of him. The speaker’s stand was a mere twenty yards away, but hundreds of people filled the space before us, pressing as close together as the ladies’ wide skirts would allow.

“At last you’re here. It’s almost time for the dedication!” said Margaret with relief. Of course she was overjoyed at the news of Uncle Albert. Lizzie stood on the rock beside Jack and flung her arms wide.

“I want to tell the world that Papa’s home!”

Amos spotted her and wove his way through the crowd with Grace and the baby. “That’s the best news in months,” he said, lifting Lizzie right off the rock in his huge arms. “Are they here today?”

“No, Papa is too weak, and Mama is happy just to sit beside him and hold his hand. You should see how they look at each other,” said Lizzie wistfully. “They are writing a letter to Luke together—imagine how happy that will make my brother!”

I said that after the speeches I would go home with Lizzie and see if Uncle Albert required any medical treatment. Then Margaret touched my arm, for the music had stopped. The noise of the crowd subsided to a murmur, then to absolute quiet as a white-haired man stepped up to the podium.

“It’s Mr. Edward Everett, the country’s greatest living orator, according to Mrs. Pierpont,” whispered Lizzie. “Did you bring your journal to take down the speech?”

I replied that I was not the one in school! Yet I had brought paper and pen, meaning to take notes, in case the speeches should be worth transcribing later.

Mr. Everett began his speech with the heroes of ancient Greece, slowly making his way through time to the present war. He spoke from memory, hardly glancing down at the papers before him. When
he described the dramatic ebb and flow of the three-day battle, the tumultuous attacks on the hills around Gettysburg, and the ill-fated charge on the final day, I felt as if I were viewing the events with the eye of a bird hovering over the field.

My own “History of the War”—this journal—is quite a different work, small in scope, comprising only my own experiences. Indeed, how can one person paint the vast canvas of war truly, as he can witness so little of it? Yet I hope that someday my jottings will be read, to reveal how this war affected the common persons of our divided nations. For in a time of war, the humble as well as the great, the civilian as well as the soldier, make sacrifices and endure suffering.

The audience listened with keen attention to Mr. Everett’s lengthy oration. They stood shoulder to shoulder, for it was too crowded to sit down. Jack had run off to play in the dirt, and Clara began to whine that she was cold. Margaret led her away so as not to distrub those straining to hear the speech. The breeze shifted, carrying Everett’s words with it, and people moved around the edge of the crowd to pick them up again. Grace’s baby slept peacefully in her arms, and Amos stood beside his wife, proud and protective.

Finally the two-hour oration was over. Clapping ensued, and people coughed, stretched their legs, then pressed close again, anticipating the president’s speech.

“That was longer than any sermon I have ever sat through,” said Lizzie. “I wonder what is left for Mr. Lincoln to say.”

“He ought to explain how General Meade missed his chance to destroy Lee’s army,” said a disgruntled gentleman nearby. “I want to know when this war will end before I vote for Mr. Lincoln again.”