My Heart Belongs in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

by Murray Pura

  “Oh.” Her face reddened. “I see.” Recovering, she looked around at them all. “Well, sometimes I wish I could enlist. And I certainly don’t have any qualms about exhibiting a skin darkened by the sun, instead of having one that is always burning and peeling if I don’t protect it properly.”

  William recovered too and smiled. “I’m sure you would look fine, Miss Ross. With your ivory skin, you are as beautiful as the day. With a darker skin—”

  “As dark as what they call French roast,” she interrupted.

  He laughed. “As dark as what they call French roast, Miss Ross. With a look as dark as that you would be as beautiful as the night sky. If I may say so.” He glanced awkwardly at Mr. and Mrs. Ross. “I hope I don’t offend.”

  “Oh William.” Clarissa knew her emerald eyes were dancing with an unusual glitter, a glitter she had noticed in the mirror once, and an effect that occurred only when she fell into a merrier mood. “You do not offend. You make me happy.”

  He doffed his cap briefly. “You won me back the freedom I’d been born with, Miss Ross. A small compliment is the very least I can pay you in return.”

  The train whistle shrieked about then.

  And she inclined her head toward William. “Vivere et mori liber gratis, sir.”

  He bowed his head in return. “Vivere et mori liber gratis, Miss Ross.”

  “My, my, so many scholars we have waiting on the train here today.” Clarissa’s mother smiled. “Perhaps you could let the rest of us in on your Latin secret.”

  “We used it as a code on the Railroad now and then,” Clarissa responded. “You had to translate it properly for the response.”

  “Which was?” pressed her mother.

  “Live free and die free.”

  William nodded and picked up his portmanteau. “Live free and die free,” he repeated. “I wish that was the motto of the Fifty-Fourth.”

  “Live it, and in your heart, it shall be,” Clarissa told him.

  And he had left them, sitting stoically by a window, watching them as the locomotive pulled the passenger cars clear of the station, but never waving.

  She had written Iain about William’s departure and his successful selection and enlistment. She wrote Iain about everything and she wrote him every day, gathering up the pages and posting him a letter once a week on Monday mornings. It kept her sane. Just thinking about him day after day, not able to see him, not able to touch him, worrying that a secesh bullet might find him in his tall slouch hat, worrying about disease and gangrene and amputation, fretting over how the war was being lost and how it kept dragging on week after week, month after month—if she didn’t keep pen and paper at hand and share with him all her thoughts, large and small, chat with him about her news, shed her tears onto the ink because she missed him so much, press her lips to the pages filled with her tidy handwriting, perfume it with her cologne, send him locks of her hair—and once, a cameo in ivory and Wedgewood blue of her exact profile—if she didn’t do all those things and more, she might as well lie down and die, it hurt so much to be separated from him and to wrestle with thoughts of his death or crippling from Rebel shellfire or bullets. Sometimes she woke up in the night and she could hardly breathe because of the fear, thick as the smoke from ten thousand muskets, that suffocated her mind and dreams. Writing and prayer helped with all of that, so no day went by without her dipping her pen into its inkpot.

  January had become March and then April, May, and June. How warm the weather had turned. How green the grass and blue the sky and silver the rain showers. How the apples and peaches ripened in the orchards. How the wheat grew tall in the fields, and the corn too. How the creeks and streams ran true. She told Iain all of it, painting a picture with every mailing of how the seasons were turning, and how lovely and peaceful Gettysburg was, and how sweet the air smelled, full of flowers, and how swiftly the birds flew, and how cheerful their songs were, never missing a note, never missing an opportunity to alight on a branch bright with leaves or to soar above clouds that resembled mare’s tails, as free as God intended every creature should be, as free as the human heart.

  I love thee, she wrote. And how do I love thee? Well, I shall ask Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning to assist me. Hmm. Let me count the ways, my love, my Iain, my husband, oh yes, my lifetime, my heartbeat. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach. I love thee freely, as men like you strive for right. I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears of all my life.

  Once he wrote back, in a letter that looked as if a caisson full of ammunition had run over the sheet of paper four or five times, and told her:

  Often enough I ride apart from the others in the evenings so that I can be with you and whisper your name—I love to hear your name rolling off my lips. And when we’ve gone into combat in Maryland and Virginia, despite the horrors of war—and, I tell you, the horrors are great—I’ve often thought how pleasant it would be to have you at my side. Not with the bullets in the air or the cannon belching fire, but to have you at my side to see the beauty of the places we’ve fought in. The hillsides, the woods, the brooks, the wildflowers, the tidy farms, miles of rail fencing, walls of rugged gray stone. I know you’d be enchanted by all of it. When the day is done and the shooting has stopped, I imagine you strolling with me at sunset and taking in the fields of hay, and the tall pines and oaks, and the meadows spangled with daisies—the dead are not there, nor the smashed wagons, nor the muskets strewn over the trampled grass. No, the war is not there. I walk with you as the shadows grow long and the colors become gold and purple and vermillion, and I feel your small hand in mine, breathe in the pure beauty of your face and scarlet hair, of the eyes that dazzle me, and I rejoice that you are my bride and wear my ring. I want you to know I mean to keep my promise and return. If any man ever had a reason to survive a war, I do. Amica mea reddam. That’s my personal regimental motto as this war rages: amica mea reddam—I shall return, my love.

  His letters were never as many as hers, so she read them over and over again, keeping them in a black leather Bible in her room. But that one—where he walked with her through fields of battle that were no longer fields of battle but fields of romance and tender devotion—that one she read every day, sometimes twice a day, and it always made her cry.

  She had written back:

  I don’t want our love to be a dream. I don’t want it to be miles apart. I don’t want a lifetime of imagining it. I want to walk those fields with you. I want to feel your strength when you hold me or take my hand. I want to snuggle up against you when I’m tired or scared or empty. I want you. Not a fantasy. Not a hope. Not a wish. You, sir, in all your rugged manhood, your sweet, gentle spirit, in all your exceptional masculine beauty—yes, in all the power and glory the good Lord has given you. I am not content with words on a page, no matter how fine. Or pressing my lips to a sheet of paper, knowing you shall press your lips to the same spot. I am not satisfied with your news about a world far removed from me. I want to hear your whispers in my ear. I want to feel your lips eager against mine. I want your world to be my world, and my world yours, and I want us to be eternally present in that universe, sir, not absent from one another but eternally present, in this life and the next. Is all this so much to ask? Don’t other couples have each other every day? Don’t they share all their meals and pour coffee and tea into their cups and smile across the table? Oh Iain, I love you so much I’m breaking in two. I know I’m a soldier’s wife. I know there are thousands of other women in my shoes because of this war. I don’t mean to sound selfish—after all, I can’t expect this war to be won by the sacrifice of other families and never by my sacrifice, or yours, can I? I just don’t want you to remain as a thought in my head or as a memory or a romance that only spans the miles in my dreams and in my handwritten sentences tucked away in envelopes. I don’t just want good feelings or to perpetually read sweet sentiments from you. I don’t want an angel in heaven. I want the man. I want the man I love. I want him real and I
want him here. Oh, my treasure, I love thee with every ounce of blood in my heart and every light of spirit in my soul. Without you I cannot live. With you I can never die.

  And just as he imagined her walking with him through battlefields empty of battle and suffering and death, so she imagined him walking with her through the town, a town also empty of battle and suffering and death, one suffused with peace and light and warm blue sky, where such guns as people possessed made no sound, but for the fall hunt. A town where horses did not strain under harness to move cannons, where wagons did not haul kegs of powder, or ambulances wounded men, and where the uniform of the day was simply a suit and a tie, and any smoke that filled the air was not from muskets but was just the smoke of burning leaves and branches and dry grass that had been raked into mounds. Iain was a wonderful companion for such leisurely strolls up one street and down another, even as far as the seminary. Often enough she spread a blanket on the grass and nibbled at a cucumber sandwich, and he joined her on the blanket, hoping for some cold chicken or ham.

  Her mother teased her gently when she returned from her walks with Iain, and always asked, “How is your beau today?”

  Clarissa did not mind playing along. “He is right as rain.”

  “Did it rain?”

  “No. The clouds moved on and we basked in the heat.”

  “Is he still the charmer?”

  “Oh yes, Mother. That Southern boy is always the charmer.”

  “I thought he was Irish.”

  “He is Irish too.”

  “And American born.”

  “He is all three. And more.”

  Her mother would laugh. “Did you ever get all those men sorted out in your head? Liberty and Kyle Forrester and Iain Kilgarlin?”

  “I did,” Clarissa would reply.

  “And which one did you choose?”

  Clarissa would smile. “All three chose me and then, at my request, voted on it and decided to join and become one person, just so they could become one with me. Now everything is very merry.”

  “What a fortunate bride-to-be. To have three men at your feet all rolled into one.”

  “Aren’t I?”

  “And when will we see this amazing three-in-one man again?”

  “He has assured me he’ll be home for Christmas.”

  “Oh.” Her mother would quiet. “I wish that were true.”

  So Clarissa’s days and games and letter writing, and all ten thousand of her young woman’s dreams, passed into the shimmering heat and silver showers of summer. On the last day of June, she found her father in his shop and blacking a new pair of riding boots she’d done the stitching on. “People say there is Union cavalry at the edge of town. I took a walk, but I couldn’t spot them.”

  He grunted. “Just passing through. Probably on their way east to help wrest York away from Jubal Early and the Rebels.”

  “What news from Virginia, Father?”

  “Nothing, my dear, nothing. But a battle will boil up soon enough. They say Lee is out and about and spoiling for a fight down Virginia way.”

  July 1 and 2

  Gettysburg

  The crack was distant, but it might as well have been at her elbow. She knew what it was. Instantly, her mind took her back to a Christmas Eve years before when Liberty had extended his right arm and fired shot after shot with his pistol.

  A loud roar of gunfire followed the lone shot.

  Tumbling into her brain right after that first image of Liberty, she saw herself shooting at slave catchers in Chester County as they pursued her and Iain along the road to Lancaster. She had emptied her revolver several times on that flight. And then her mind disgorged a memory of Iain covered in blood, and her hands covered in more of it, and how cold the night had suddenly become, and how cold her hands, and how dead her heart.

  She had been weeding in their backyard garden and nibbling on a small carrot she’d yanked from the ground.

  The musket fire swelled and no longer seemed distant.

  Running into the house, she saw by the tall clock in the hall that it was just past seven thirty in the morning.

  Wednesday.

  “Mother!” she called.

  “What is it?” Her mother came rushing out of the parlor where she’d been dusting. “What’s wrong?”

  The windows rattled.

  They heard the boom of cannons.

  The distant shriek of a shell.

  The distant scream of horses.

  And they clutched each other.

  “What is it?” Clarissa stared into her mother’s wide and frightened eyes. “What’s going on?”

  “It sounds … it sounds …” Mrs. Ross stuttered.

  “Like a battle?”

  Mrs. Ross nodded, eyes wild.

  “It can’t be,” Clarissa said for both of them. “The troops are in Virginia. All of them.”

  More cannons. More shells. More explosions. More musket fire.

  The glass panes shivered, and crockery on shelves bounced.

  “I need to look,” Clarissa said.

  “No!” Her mother almost shouted. “Don’t go outside. There will be stray bullets. Stray shells.”

  “How else can we know what’s happening?”

  “We know what’s happening.”

  “Someone has to—”

  The front door flew open.

  “The Confederates!” Mr. Ross’s face was red. “There are thousands of them!”

  “What?” His wife fought for comprehension. “What?”

  “Twice as many as we have. All we have are cavalry. I think just cavalry. The Rebs are coming in from the west. Maybe using Fairfield Road or Mummasburg. Or Chambersburg Street. Our boys are set up just outside of town. On Oak Ridge and McPherson Ridge, that’s what it looks like to me.”

  “Why would you go out there to look?” Mrs. Ross was almost frantic. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “The fighting is far away.”

  “It’s not far away. Oak Ridge is hardly a mile out of town. That’s not what I call far away. Not for a cannon ball.”

  “I don’t think the Rebs have much artillery. I don’t know.”

  “Then what do you know? Do you know why they’re here? Do you know what they’re fighting about?”

  “No.”

  “What on earth is there to fight about in Gettysburg? What could the Confederate army possibly want in Gettysburg?”

  “I don’t have your answers.” Mr. Ross turned to go. “It’s no more than a skirmish. It’s noisy, but don’t fret. I’m sure it will be over in a few hours. One or the other will simply withdraw.”

  Mrs. Ross was still wound up. “How can you be sure of that?”

  “You said it yourself. There’s nothing of military importance here. Why stay?”

  “I pray you’re right.”

  “Yes. Pray.” He stepped outside the door as thousands of muskets hammered at the summer morning. They were not letting up. He gave Clarissa a hard look. “Stay indoors. Both of you. I’m sure the fighting will not come into town. It will stay in the fields. There’s nothing to battle over in the town.”

  Mrs. Ross was still looking at the door her husband had closed behind him several long seconds after his departure. “Fetch your Bible, Clarissa,” she said, without turning around. “Begin reading the Psalms out loud to me. To both of us. I’ll make us some tea. Are you hungry?”

  Clarissa’s stomach was in knots as tight as the ones she had experienced on the Underground Railroad during the worst crises. “No.”

  “Neither am I.” She remained fixated on the door. The firing had become a constant thunder from the north and west of town. “I’ll put the kettle on. We must pray.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “But first read to us from the Bible.” She didn’t move. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “I won’t be a minute.” Clarissa ran up two flights of stairs to her bedroom in the garret. She snatched up her Bible, and several of Iain’s letters fell t
o the floor. She bent to scoop them up, her mind whirling.

  Iain. Are you out there? Are you shooting? No, no. You can’t be. The Army of the Potomac isn’t out there. The Philadelphia Brigade isn’t out there. But who is?

  Her mother had put the kettle to boil on the stove but had spilled a bag of tea. She was trying to pick up the leaves off the top of the stove and burning her fingers, wincing, thrusting them in her mouth, then plucking at the tea leaves again.

  “Mother, stop.”

  “I’ve ruined the tea. I can save some of it if I’m quick enough.”

  “Never mind. We have lots of tea. Stop burning yourself.”

  “I can save it.”

  “Stop.” She took her mother’s hands. “Let me make the tea.”

  “No. No. I can do it. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  “The kettle’s on the stove. You put it there. It’s almost at the boil. You did a perfect job, Mother. I’ll do the rest. Can’t you start reading the Bible for us?”

  “I don’t have a Bible.”

  “Here’s mine. Use mine.”

  Her mother took the black leather Bible from her daughter’s hand. “I confess I’m rattled, my dear. I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Psalm 23. That would be a good place. Don’t you think?”

  “Twenty-three. I have that memorized.”

  “Then recite the Twenty-Third Psalm, Mother. Recite it for us while the tea steeps.”

  “What did you use?” her mother asked.

  “Irish breakfast tea,” she replied.

  “Irish. Captain Kilgarlin would like that.”

  “Yes. Yes, he would.”

  The firing could not be ignored or dismissed, but her mother stood in the kitchen and gazed out a window at the garden, and her voice rose stronger and steadier over the distant crash of the muskets and cannons, still a mile away if Mr. Ross was correct.

  “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’”