Two Girls of Gettysburg

by Lisa Klein

  “The rebels can go to the devil for all I care!” Mama burst out afresh.

  I was proud of her for not giving up, even if Papa was sure to get his way.

  “I do not relish this war, Mary—”

  “Then let other men fight it. Younger men, without wives and children. Stay here, and we will do our part peaceably.”

  “Every respectable and able-bodied man of this town is called. Men my age and even older have already joined up. If I do not go now, I will be reproached by all our customers, by everyone I meet in the street, every day!”

  I heard Mama weeping softly in defeat. I turned on Luke.

  “Why did you tell her that Papa had enlisted? It was not your business.”

  “I thought she would be proud of him. I am,” he said defensively.

  “Proud that he might get killed? You don’t understand anything!”

  “I know that there’s a war going on and it’ll be done with before I’m old enough to fight it.” Luke pounded his thighs in frustration.

  “You only want to go marching and shooting and pretend you are a man. But you’re just a stupid boy!” I shot back.

  “I could pass for eighteen. And I’m smarter than you think,” he said.

  “No, you’re not. You and Henry Phelps skip school so often you can’t even do sums, and you write like a ten-year-old. All you care about is having fun.”

  Suddenly Papa appeared in the doorway and told us to come inside. Mama looked grief-stricken as he told us that he was leaving in the morning and that Luke would be head of the family until his return. I started to cry. Luke touched my shoulder, but I pulled away from him. I tried to look at Papa and store up his image in my mind, but his face kept dissolving in the blur of my tears.

  Before dawn the next morning, I heard Papa’s footsteps in the kitchen. I tiptoed halfway down the stairs and watched him drink his coffee. The only light came from the stub of a candle on the cold stove. Mama barely spoke as she packed a satchel with bread and a jar of apple butter, a sewing kit, a clean shirt, socks, and a small prayer book. Papa put on his jacket, shrugging his shoulders as usual, and kissed her. Neither of them noticed me sitting on the stairs.

  As Papa left the house, I followed him like a shadow, barefoot and still wearing my nightdress. In the middle of York Street, he stopped and turned around. I held out my arms, and he dropped his satchel and lifted me from the ground. He smelled of bay rum cologne and tobacco. His mustache tickled my neck.

  “I’ll miss you, Papa. I love you.” I choked out the words.

  “I love you, too. Be good. Be strong,” he said.

  Then he was gone.

  We sat in the dark kitchen, Mama and I, listening for the sharp whistle of the train that would take the new recruits to camp. The train came and went, its familiar rhythm fading into silence. In a neighbor’s yard a rooster crowed. A creaky cart rolled by in the street. Mama began clattering around the kitchen.

  “Go rouse up Luke,” she said. “He has deliveries to make this morning.”

  I climbed the steps to the garret where my brothers slept and called out, “Wake up, lazy!”

  There was only silence. I opened the door. Ben lay huddled on the trundle bed, fast asleep. Luke’s empty bed was heaped with covers and clothes. So he had snuck out early for some mischief with his friends! Now who would do his work? Growing irritated, I lifted each piece of the rumpled pile, as if he might be lying underneath, flat as a flapjack, with a teasing grin on his face. Instead, I saw an envelope with Mother written on it. A feeling of dread settled like a heavy cat on my chest.

  In the kitchen, Mama stood at the stove, poking last night’s embers into a flame.

  “Up with you, too, Benjamin! I need wood for the fire!” she called. “Luke, move a little faster.”

  “Luke is not here,” I said in a small voice. “This was on his bed.” I held out the envelope.

  “That boy! I can’t count on him. What is it now?” She frowned and tore open the letter, and as she read it, her body seemed to collapse in stages, like a house hollowed out by fire. She lay soundless on the floor, and for a moment I feared she was dying, until she drew in her breath again and began to sob. I took the note from her hand. Luke had scrawled his message on a torn piece of a recruiting handbill.

  Dear Mother,

  I have joined the regiment too. It is a mans duty. If I cant fight because of my age I will learn to play the bugle instead.

  Dont worry I will take care of Father for you.

  Love Luke

  Lizzie

  Chapter 3

  When Mama had calmed down, I made the deliveries myself. My hands on the reins shook with anger. I understood why Papa had to enlist. But how could Luke do this to Mama?

  The deliveries took me all morning. When I was done, I stopped to tell Rosanna the news. As I rushed through the door of her bedroom, she looked up from the settee, startled, and a large scrapbook slipped from her lap to the floor.

  “Oh, I thought you were my sister,” she said, sounding relieved.

  “Rosanna, you won’t believe this! Luke has run off to fight the war! Why, I’m mad enough to shoot him myself.” I whipped off my bonnet and crumpled it in my hand.

  “I believe it. But can you really blame him? Do you think he would let Henry show him up?”

  “I don’t think Henry Phelps had anything to do with it. He was just trying to get out of the work here.” I stamped my foot. “He is so selfish! You should have seen Mama. The news almost killed her.”

  “It is going to be hard on you and Aunt Mary,” Rosanna agreed. “But every man wants his share of glory.”

  “Luke’s hardly a man,” I said with disdain. “He’ll do some foolish thing and get himself hurt.”

  “Come. Sit down and I’ll show you my scrapbook,” said Rosanna in a tone that was both soothing and tempting. She picked up the leather book tied with red ribbons.

  I sat down, resting my cheek on her shoulder.

  “I’ve never shown this to anyone,” she said in a whisper. Her hands held the edges firmly. “I especially don’t want Margaret to see it, so I hide it under my mattress.”

  I held my breath, suppressing my anger at Luke, my fears for Papa. What secret would Rosanna share with me?

  “My whole life is in this book. I started keeping it when I was six.” Slowly she opened the book and turned the pages. I caught glimpses of childish handwriting, pressed flowers, cards, newspaper clippings, sketches, and a yellowed handkerchief.

  “Wait, slow down,” I murmured. But instead Rosanna skipped several pages.

  “I was working on this when you came in,” she said.

  She had pasted in the handbill from the rally and written beneath it: Friday, June 7, 1861, Gettysburg rally, Henry Phelps enlists. On the facing page she had sketched the gazebo draped in bunting and Henry Phelps with his arms poised above a drum.

  “That’s a good likeness,” I said. “I wish I could draw as well as you do.”

  Rosanna ignored my compliment. The little space between her eyebrows had developed a furrow, making her look troubled. Her finger slipped between two pages she had flipped past, and hesitated there.

  “What are you hiding there? Show me.”

  She opened the book to a photograph of a young man in a knee-length frock coat. He stood with one hand resting on the back of a chair, the other holding a book. He had dark eyes and the hint of a smile.

  “He’s handsome. Who is he?” As I lifted the book to get a closer look, several letters slipped from the nearby pages. Rosanna hastily tapped them back into place.

  “His name is John Wilcox,” she said lightly. “I used to know him, back in Richmond.”

  “Why, you’ve never mentioned him before,” I said, looking at my cousin in surprise. “Are those letters from him, too?”

  Rosanna seemed about to reply when we heard footsteps. She slid the scrapbook under a large cushion and grabbed a blouse and a handful of buttons from the stool near her
feet as her sister, Margaret, swept into the room. She wore a dark green skirt and a white blouse with wide sleeves. Her hair was pulled back into a net, giving her a sophisticated appearance. She had the same dark hair, blue eyes, and long limbs as Rosanna. Once I told Rosanna that she had only to look at Margaret to know what she herself would look like in ten years, and Rosanna had pretended to be horrified, even though Margaret, at twenty-six, was still beautiful.

  “Have you extra pins in here?” she asked in her soft Virginia accent, another trait she and Rosanna shared. Then she saw me. “Why, Lizzie!” she exclaimed. “You and your mother must be so proud of the brave men in your family.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that my parents had quarreled and that I was furious with Luke. But Margaret’s attention was soon diverted by the pile of clothes on the settee.

  “Rosie, haven’t you finished with these buttons yet? Can’t you visit and sew at the same time?”

  I held my breath, hoping a squabble wouldn’t break out. Margaret could be short-tempered, for her life was not an easy one. At twenty-four she became a widow. She sold her husband’s tailoring business to settle his debts, keeping three sewing machines, which took up most of her dining room. Now she struggled to make a living as a seamstress and support her children, Jack, who was six, and Clara, four.

  “Margaret, dear, I promise I will work into the night until I am finished,” Rosanna said humbly. “Sit for a moment, and let me tell you all about yesterday’s rally.”

  Rosanna shifted, hiding the scrapbook with her skirt. Margaret perched on the arm of the settee, like a bird about to fly away again, while Rosanna chattered on about the band, the singing, and the speeches. I began sewing on buttons, for someone had to do it.

  “Did I mention that Henry Phelps was there?” Rosanna asked with apparent innocence. “He volunteered! He once told me he wanted to play a drum. Imagine how fine he will look in a uniform with red bands on his trouser legs. Did you see how he waited for me at the church social last week? Perhaps I will write to him while he is away.”

  “Rosie,” began Margaret, hesitating, “I think you should be less hasty in matters of love.”

  The furrow between Rosanna’s brows returned. Her lips tightened.

  “Mother and Father expect to hear that you are growing more serious,” Margaret continued. “I must be able to tell them, truthfully, that you are helpful to me and that your studies at the Ladies’ Seminary are progressing—”

  “And if I do not satisfy all of you?” Rosanna interrupted. “Will they summon me home to Richmond?”

  I sensed a battle coming on and sat very still, wishing I could disappear.

  “Since the war began, they would like us both to return to Richmond,” Margaret said with a sigh. “But I will not live on Confederate soil, not even in our father’s house.”

  “Your ideals are lofty,” Rosanna said with a sniff.

  “A woman cannot be too principled,” said Margaret sharply. Then she relaxed into a pleading tone. “Mind me, please, Rosanna, otherwise Father will scold me for not being a good influence, and he will make me send you home.”

  “I doubt they would take me back,” Rosanna replied coldly. “You know as well as I do why they made me leave.”

  Rosanna and Margaret locked eyes, but neither of them spoke. I thought of the picture of John Wilcox and the letters in her scrap-book. Did they have something to do with this?

  “I understand how you feel, truly I do,” Margaret finally said, lifting Rosanna’s hair and combing it with her fingers. “But you can be so impulsive. And marrying young is not a good idea.”

  “Who said anything about marriage?” Rosanna shot back. “Anyway, you married at seventeen.”

  “Yes, I know. But I should be a lesson to you.” Her voice started to tremble. “No one can ever be sure that, once married, they will live long together.”

  “Surely you don’t mean that I should never fall in love because it might end sadly,” argued Rosanna. “If you had followed that advice, you would never have been blessed with Jack and Clara.”

  A furrow that matched her sister’s now appeared between Margaret’s eyebrows.

  “You are right,” she said with a sigh. “But I hope you will at least acquire a useful skill. Someday you might have to earn your own living.”

  “It would not be sewing, I am certain of that,” said Rosanna, unhappily eyeing the pile of shirts.

  Just then Margaret’s children burst into the room. Jack climbed onto the bed and began to jump up and down, while Clara grabbed her mother’s skirts and screamed with delight, as if she had won a game of hide-and-go-seek. I covered my ears. Margaret picked up Clara and kissed her face a half-dozen times. I was glad to see her worried look dissolve into smiles.

  “Come to Auntie Rose. I want a kiss, too,” begged Rosanna, and Clara happily complied. When the little girl had disengaged herself, Rosanna, flushed with emotion, exclaimed, “How I love you and your sweet children, Margaret! I will try my best to be good. I don’t want to leave here.”

  Lizzie

  Chapter 4

  I was eager to ask Rosanna more about John Wilcox. But Mama and I were busy planning with Amos how to manage with Papa and Luke both away. Amos, of course, did all the butchering. He loaded the cart and I made deliveries, taking Ben with me to help unload, while Mama watched the shop. The rest of the day, while I waited on customers, my hands, arms, and back would ache from the strain of trying to control the mulish horse. I didn’t see Rosanna for almost two weeks. Then one day she left word with Mama asking if she and I might go on a picnic after church. Mama agreed, for Sunday was, after all, a day of rest.

  That first Sunday in July was as hot as an iron. Reverend Essig droned on and on while the ladies fanned themselves, and it seemed like forever until we stood up to sing the final hymn. As the last chord sounded, I dashed out of church, which was in sight of our house, and within minutes had changed into an old calico dress. I grabbed a berry pail, in which I put a chunk of bread and a jam pot wrapped in a clean apron. Dodging the ruts and puddles in the road, I soon arrived at Margaret’s two-story clapboard house. Rosanna leaned over the gate and waved.

  “Why are you running? It’s too hot!”

  “I guess I’m eager to get away,” I admitted, wiping my sweaty forehead. “I have to make the very most of today, for tomorrow means more work. Let’s hurry before someone picks all the berries.”

  “At least your shop is closed Sundays. My sister received a commission for uniforms and expects me to help sew trousers today.”

  “You mean you can’t come on a picnic with me?” My shoulders slumped with disappointment.

  “I didn’t say that. I made a bargain with her: Jack and Clara will come with us, and then she will get more work done.”

  “Then fetch them along, and extra buckets, too,” I said, trying to hide my irritation. I had hoped to have Rosanna to myself, for I wanted to hear more about John Wilcox.

  Margaret came out with the children, and I went up to give her a kiss on the cheek. “You look so pretty today,” I said. She smiled, brushing her hands against her blue checked skirt and touching the brooch at her neck. She had recently stopped wearing mourning.

  “Don’t run off, Clara, but stay with Rosie and Lizzie like a good girl. Jack, be careful climbing on the rocks. Here are your buckets.”

  I took Clara’s hand and Rosanna held Jack’s as we set out, following the pike. At the crest of the hill stood an arched brick gate house, the entrance to Evergreen Cemetery. Despite Rosanna’s opinion, it still looked to me like a park or a peaceful village. To the east, Cemetery Hill fell away and then rose again to form Culp’s Hill, our favorite destination for picnics. On its westward slopes, rocks and boulders thrust through the grass like small islands. Blackberries flourished in dense tangles of canes as thick as a man’s finger, with thorns like claws. The bushes arched high overhead, loaded with ripe fruit the size of shooter marbles. My mouth began to wat
er.

  Jack and Clara plucked the low berries, while Rosanna and I rose on tiptoe, snaking our arms between branches to grasp the berries hiding among the leaves, then popping them into our mouths. I loved the feel of the warm clusters bursting on my tongue, the sweetness afterward. The purple juice left dark stains on everything it touched. Jack and Clara laughed at the sight of each other’s blue lips and teeth. Then Jack overturned his bucket and began to wail. We bent over to help him and saw that Clara had rubbed berries into her blond hair. Rosanna’s sharp rebuke made her cry, too. I sighed, wishing we could have left the children behind.

  Rosanna decided it was time to give up berry picking. We took our buckets and the complaining children along the path that led through the woods to a sunny meadow where a spring flowed through a marshy swale. We scrubbed the children’s berry stains, bathed our scratches, and cupped our hands to drink. In the shade of an overhanging rock, Rosanna laid out our lunch on a towel. The children ate bread and jam, then ran off to play in the clearing.

  “Stay off the rocks, Jack, they are slippery,” Rosanna called.

  At last we were alone and I had a chance to ask Rosanna about John Wilcox.

  “Two weeks ago you were going to tell me about that fellow in Richmond, weren’t you?” I prompted. “Then Margaret came into the room.”

  “Was I? I don’t remember,” she replied casually

  “Of course you do,” I said. “You showed me his picture. I saw the letters you were hiding. You must have wanted to tell me about him.”

  Rosanna took off her shoes and waded into the marshy spring. I followed her. The grasshoppers clicked and buzzed in the grassy meadow.

  Finally she said, “I thought about John Wilcox every day when I first came here.” She paused. “But now I have to look at his picture to remind myself of him—for him to seem real.” That little furrow showed up again between her eyes.

  “Did he write you all those letters?”

  She nodded. “I memorized every one. But the more I read them, the more hollow his declarations sounded.”