My Heart Belongs in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

by Murray Pura

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would it help if I told you he is more valuable to our country here than on a picket line aiming a musket at another young man like him who is clad in gray?”

  “I was hoping you could help soften my disposition toward Kyle Forrester, sir. The thing is, I have just received a letter from Theodore—”

  “Ah,” the professor interrupted. “And how is he?”

  “He has been grievously wounded, sir, and they have taken his left leg due to the gangrene.”

  “Oh no. I’m sorry to hear this.”

  “When I compare the sacrifice that Theodore has made for the cause, along with that young Southern man I’ve just mentioned, who works on the Railroad …”

  “I understand.” The tinkle of the spoon. “But you must appreciate that Kyle Forrester is a man of exceptional gifts and abilities. Any number of brave youth can serve their country and our cause by bearing arms against the Confederacy. They cannot, however, do what Mr. Forrester is doing—foster our spiritual roots. If America is to be a great nation, it must have a great faith. What if we win the war but lose our own soul? Kyle is helping America rediscover its soul. We do not just fight with muskets and cannons, my dear. We fight with pen and speech, exactly as we did in 1776. We fight with scripture and with prayer and with pulpit. We must not take Kyle away from that important work. We dare not. You see how essential your young man is to our cause, Miss Ross? He is a patriot.”

  Clarissa hesitated and looked down into her teacup, then looked directly into the professor’s eyes. “Your words are very fine, sir. You are eloquent. But there is Theodore on a hospital bed fighting off gangrene. And there are the slaves in Virginia—whipped and chained and broken for another day, another week, another month. They say many of our officers are incompetent, sir …”

  “They merely lack experience,” the professor broke in.

  “But even without military experience, Kyle Forrester would never be incompetent, sir. You know that.”

  Professor Saxon nodded grudgingly. “I do.”

  “Imagine—as I often do—Kyle, in the role of an officer, leading his men into Virginia and rescuing hundreds of slaves. Or bringing about the surrender of hundreds of secessionists, in action after action, and thus blunting the Confederacy’s force along with its will to fight. Imagine him as a regimental commander, a divisional commander, a corps commander. Why, sir, he has the ability to rise to a three- or four-star general and command the Army of the Potomac. In such a position, with so many soldiers under his colors, he could bring Richmond to its knees and bring this war and the curse of slavery to a swift end.”

  “You speak of eloquence?” The professor smiled. “Such an argument you bring to the bar. You make it sound so logical and straightforward, I wonder if Jeff Davis himself would not submit.” He shrugged. “But wars are not so easily won. And a general’s command decisions, although brilliant before the map table, often fall to pieces due to climate or topography or the surprise movements of the enemy, or the cowardice and timidity and ineptitude of the officers beneath him. Taken all in all, while I know you wish young Kyle would rise to become another liberator like Washington, I see him in a better light, as another Martin Luther who would bring a greater reformation to this republic than we have seen in a hundred years. I fear I cannot advise you otherwise, my dear. I remain firm in my stance that he remain with me here at the seminary and strengthen American democracy at its very core. He cannot do that prancing about on a pony and waving a saber. Build a stronger country out of the ashes of this conflict? Set the captive free? He cannot do better than make his fight here in Gettysburg—in Gettysburg alone can young Mr. Forrester forge the fate of our nation. I’m sorry, my dear. I will not ask him to leave his post. And, without my backing, I daresay he will never walk away from it. Gettysburg, Miss Ross, Gettysburg. That is his destiny and the Lutheran faith’s destiny and America’s destiny. He must not abandon this dot on the map.”

  Clarissa felt as if ocean waves had swept over her. The professor’s logic seemed more irrefutable than her own. Yet he did not convince her. Sitting in a backwater town like little Gettysburg—there, she had said it, if only to herself—regardless of there being a reputable seminary here, regardless of how charming the town and its townspeople were, Kyle Forrester would make no great difference to the future of America. But a general rallying troops against the Confederate states, defeating its armies, laying low its proud plantations, and marching on Richmond to obtain the Confederacy’s final and irrevocable surrender—yes, oh yes, that would be something that would change the nation’s destiny. That would make Kyle Forrester unforgettable. That would set America free and make her whole. That, and only that.

  “Perhaps I may be able to convince him otherwise.” Clarissa set down her cup. The tea was cold, and she had hardly drunk any of it. “Thank you for your bold words, Professor. But I would see him as a colonel or general in the Union army and bringing the Confederacy as swiftly and suddenly to its knees as possible.”

  “Colonel or general? My dear girl, how long do you think this war is going to last?”

  “Some say years after our defeat at Bull Run.”

  “Bull Run was a debacle to be sure but hardly a commentary on the Northern effort as a whole. We’ve had victories in Virginia since that dark day.”

  “Yes. And will have many more decisive ones if I have my way with Mr. Forrester. With all due respect, sir.”

  “I admire your stand.”

  Clarissa rose to her feet, and the professor rose to his along with her.

  “I doubt he will hear you, Miss Ross. Nevertheless, I wish you well. I know you mean his best and the nation’s best.”

  “Thank you, sir. I do, I truly do. I’m confident he will hear me.”

  But he did not.

  She asked him to walk with her through Gettysburg that Sunday evening. Many other couples were out strolling, but few were as young as they were. So many Pennsylvanians had enlisted, it seemed as if the men of Gettysburg consisted solely of those who were in their sixties and seventies. Clarissa was acutely aware of what an anomaly it was to have a young man at her side while they roamed the September evening streets. She pointed this out to Kyle. Along with a number of other things—the need for good officers in the Union army in order to bring the war to a speedy and victorious end, his gifts and skills as a leader of men, how insignificant Gettysburg was and how much more important it would be to situate himself in Washington at the helm of a regiment in the Army of the Potomac. But he countered all her arguments with arguments of his own: he could not do the cause of abolition any good with a minié ball lodged in his brain; the Lutheran seminary was in a unique position to influence the future course of the faith of hundreds of thousands of Americans; his gifts were better utilized in education and preaching than in prancing ponies and saber waving—which convinced her that Professor Saxon had gotten to Kyle since her discussion with the professor at his home. No matter what she said to convince him, she came up empty.

  “Oh Kyle!” she finally blurted in exasperation. “How can I respect you when you act like such a coward?”

  He bristled. “What? So I’m a coward if I don’t go along with your way of thinking?”

  “It’s not just my way of thinking. It’s everyone’s way of thinking. How many young men do you see out tonight with their sweethearts? They are gone and fighting in the war … our war.”

  “I am fighting in my own way.”

  “How? By teaching Greek to the few students you have left at the seminary? By preaching practice sermons at Christ’s Church to people who already know what you’re going to say and who already agree with you before you even say it?”

  “I am writing important treatises for Professor Saxon.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, he isn’t illiterate or inarticulate. He can write them for himself. He doesn’t need you. Your country needs you.”

  “This is how I’ve chosen to serve my country.”


  “You aren’t serving your country. You’re just serving Samuel Jefferson Saxon.”

  “Who is serving America.”

  “Who is serving the Lutheran Church. No matter how much good he wishes to do for this nation, he is doing it as a Lutheran and a Reformed theologian, and America is a lot more than Lutheran doctrine or Reformed theology. I want you to be bigger than this little pinprick on the map of Pennsylvania.”

  “Why are you so ambitious, Clarissa Avery Ross?”

  “Why are you so intimidated by my ambition, Kyle Thomas Forrester?”

  “I am not intimidated.”

  “You are a hundred miles from Washington, but you might as well be on the moon. You aren’t making any difference at all to the defeat of the Confederacy or the abolition of slavery. But if you would enlist as an officer, you could lead the sort of men who would make all the difference in the world.”

  “I could not. I would not. I have my own way of making a difference, and even if you don’t see it, I am fighting the Confederacy and I am fighting slavery.”

  “You are not.”

  “What about you? What do you do? Wander about town and sew pillowcases in your spare time? What are you doing to end slavery? What are you doing to set the captives free, Miss Ross? What? What?”

  Clarissa lost all control. “I’m a conductor on the Underground Railroad. I’ve been setting men and women free for years while you … you sit up there in that high and holy Lutheran tower of yours, wondering how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.”

  “The Underground Railroad?”

  “Yes, it’s true. That is what happens when I disappear to visit sick relatives for days or weeks at a time. I am getting slaves to freedom in Canada.”

  “You are not.”

  “I am. Ask your beloved Professor Saxon. He knows the whole of it. While you’ve been shuffling papers for him, I’ve been setting slaves free for him. Which do you think is more important?”

  “More important in whose eyes?”

  “In the professor’s eyes. In anyone’s eyes. In God’s eyes.” She stopped. “In my eyes. Though I don’t suppose that matters anymore. If it ever did.”

  Kyle seemed to sag in front of her, as if he were going to melt into the ground. “So, you’ve been lying to me.”

  “I don’t call that lying. Our work is secret and it’s done in secret. We are forbidden to talk about it lest we compromise lives.”

  “All along. Week after week. Month after month. Lies.”

  “Stop it, Kyle.”

  “All you are is a pack of lies.”

  She slapped him across the face. Tears shot down her cheeks.

  “Take me home!” she demanded. “Not another word. Take me home immediately.”

  She had withdrawn her arm from his. They walked side by side like two soldiers marching. When they reached her house, she climbed the steps to her front door. He did not join her.

  “This is the end of us,” she told him.

  He nodded. “I expect it is.”

  “I do not spend time with a man who insults his woman and his friend. You are doubly the coward I thought you were.”

  “And you, my dear, doubly the falsehood. I bid you good night.”

  “You brute.” Her tears came again. “I could never love a man like you. You’re not even a man, in my eyes. Goodbye, Mr. Kyle Thomas Forrester.”

  “Goodbye, Miss Clarissa Avery Ross.”

  She took the staircase straight to her room in the garret and slammed the door shut. Sinking down on the bed, she wept until she could hardly breathe. There was a rap at the door.

  “No!” she barked. “Go away! I can’t talk to anyone now. I can’t.”

  She fought with the tears that burned her face another half hour. Then she began to sink into a troubled sleep. Only partly awake, her fingers fumbled with an envelope on the pillow. The note inside was short, but she could barely read it in her state. Theodore was dead. He was dead from gangrene. Tears slashed down her face in a fresh torrent of pain. It felt as if her insides had been cut open with a sword. Lord, Lord, Lord, she prayed. I can’t bear it, I can’t. No more, please. I feel like a dead woman myself, and it’s as if men are shoveling dirt over my grave.

  September

  Gettysburg

  Someone was shaking her shoulder. So gently she scarcely felt it.

  She murmured, “No.”

  “Clarissa.”

  “No.”

  “Clarissa.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “You must get up. It’s ten in the morning, and Professor Saxon is here to see you. It’s urgent.”

  She recognized her mother’s voice and opened her eyes. She was under her Amish quilt and in a cotton nightgown. Her hair was up in a bun. She thought about it for a few moments and the last thing she remembered was lying on her bed crying, with the note about Theodore’s death in her hand.

  “Did you put me to bed, Mother?” she asked.

  “Yes. Someone had to.”

  “Theodore died.”

  “I know.”

  “Kyle and I had a terrible fight. We aren’t going to see each other anymore. The courtship, if there ever was a courtship, is over.”

  “I know, my dear.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I read the note you had in your fingers. And Professor Saxon told me what happened with you and Mr. Forrester.”

  “How does he know?”

  “Kyle told him.”

  Clarissa suddenly sat up. “I suppose all of Gettysburg knows.”

  “That’s very likely.”

  “What does Professor Saxon want? To say how sorry he is that Kyle will be remaining in this backwater town to write his theology for him?”

  “Hush, Clarissa Avery. You love Gettysburg.”

  “Not this morning.”

  “In any case, the professor is not here about any of that or about you and Kyle. This is Underground Railroad business. And he appears quite agitated.”

  “The Railroad? Agitated?” Clarissa jumped out of bed and began to get dressed. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  In five minutes, she was downstairs and speaking with Professor Saxon in the parlor. Her father was seated and listening carefully. Her mother was serving all of them coffee and biscuits. The professor was pacing as Mrs. Ross settled into her favorite chair, sipping from her cup.

  “It is all this muddle about what laws are still binding,” the professor grumbled. “Some think the Fugitive Slave Act remains in force and the Dred Scott decision as well. No one disputes that the states which are in armed rebellion have lost the right to cross our borders and capture runaway slaves or abduct freemen. But what about Maryland or Missouri or Kansas? Lincoln is playing politics with them. He does not want those three to join the rebellion so he looks the other way regarding their citizens who openly practice slavery. His concern right now is the Union, not abolition. So long as those three states remain loyal, he will not say a thing about their slave catchers crossing the borders into the North. Not everyone agrees with this policy, but enough do, and they permit the slave hunters to enter into Pennsylvania or Delaware or New York, or anywhere in the Union, with impunity. Indeed, many officers of the law in the North feel they are bound by duty to continue to assist slave catchers from states that are not belligerents. It is a hopeless tangle. Three days ago, a pair of our conductors were shot and killed next door in York County and all ten of their passengers scooped up and dragged back to bondage in Maryland.”

  “Oh no.” Clarissa put her fist to her mouth. “How wicked.”

  “Now we have another party of runaways being brought across into Chester County at midnight from northeastern Maryland. Their goal is the Amish station at Lancaster. You know the region better than anyone alive, except for the conductor named Liberty. I’m asking you to help. I say this in front of your parents because I know how dangerous this assignment may be. The slaves are from the households of Mr. Mc
Ginty and Mr. Le Claire. They are two of the worst slave drivers on the planet. You may wish to refuse this work, and I’ll understand.”

  Clarissa shook her head, and her red curls swayed defiantly. “I shall not refuse it. How many passengers are there?”

  “Three women and four children and one man.”

  “I can handle that.”

  “Clarissa.” Her mother spoke up. “You are only nineteen. Please.”

  “I’m twenty on the thirty-first of October, Mother.”

  “It is too dangerous.”

  “Oh my goodness, I’ve met with danger on the Railroad before.”

  “Surely you don’t expect our daughter to work alone, Professor.” Her father set down his coffee. “That is a great deal to ask.”

  “I do not ask it. No one does. Liberty will be there.”

  Iain, thought Clarissa, with a jump of joy that she found surprising, disturbing, and delightful. Iain Kilgarlin.

  “Very good,” responded her father. “Very good.”

  Clarissa stood up. “You see, Mother? I’ll be perfectly fine. He is one of the ablest conductors on the Railroad and a personal favorite of Moses.”

  Her mother was pale. “I am not at ease with this.”

  “It is about thirty miles to York, another twenty-five to Lancaster.” Professor Saxon consulted his pocket watch. “You can just catch the train to both if you move with alacrity. My carriage is outside, and I shall get you to the station. Travel as befits a lady. Carry your disguise and any weapons in a portmanteau.”

  “I know how to travel, sir, thank you.”

  “You will be met at Lancaster by our Amish confidants. They will get you into Chester County and down to the border with Maryland. Liberty will be waiting there. Can you be ready in five or six minutes, my dear?”

  “My portmanteau is always packed. I shall be ready in two.” She crossed the room and leaned down to hug her mother in her chair. “I’ll be more than all right. The Amish will take good care of me.”

  Mrs. Ross hugged her daughter back with an unusual ferocity. “But they will not fight for you.”