Two Girls of Gettysburg

by Lisa Klein

  I felt myself start to smile. I borrowed The History of the Roman Empire and The Legends of King Arthur from Margaret, who had four shelves of books in her drawing room. I kept them in a box below the counter and read when there were no customers in the shop. Every day Amos made me tell him one thing I had learned, and eventually he was familiar with Julius Caesar, Nero, and Sir Lancelot. I borrowed a volume of Shakespeare, and Amos was as surprised as I was to learn that he had written a play about a Negro, Othello.

  Though I escaped from time to time into a book, I soon began to realize that Mama was right, the business was in trouble. When I couldn’t get the accounts to balance, I turned the ledger over to Mama, and she sat at the kitchen table until late into the night, poring over the invoices and the orders and shaking her head. It was undeniable. We were losing money.

  It was not Amos’s fault, that was certain. He worked from sunup until dark. I would sometimes pause to watch him butcher a hog, hanging its carcass by the hocks while the blood drained, flaying its skin and then pulling it from the body like a jacket. He would cut through the thick white belly fat and remove the heart and the glistening reddish brown liver. The entrails would uncoil and spill onto the ground, smelling of rot and death, and he would not even flinch. With sure blows of his cleaver, he would separate the rib cage from the spinal column, then cut off the loins that hung like saddlebags on each side.

  Eventually I could look at a carcass and know how the cuts would fit into a barrel of brine and then figure in my head how much income the meat would bring. It was never enough. I learned each customer’s preferences and set aside the best cuts of meat for them. But some people just couldn’t pay, and out of pity Mama extended their credit. We always wrote to Papa that we were managing fine, to keep him from worrying.

  Amos also tried to reassure Mama. “Why, ma’am, it’s jus’ goin’ to take us a while to all ketch on to the way Mistuh Allbauer run his shop. He always been the best in this town, and we are doin’ our best too.”

  “Yes, Amos, you are doing a fine job,” said Mama. “Business should improve when the farmers bring in their cattle for slaughter.”

  One day Amos set out to deliver a keg of salt pork to old Mr. Schmidt, the tavern keeper. Sometimes I rode along and talked with the customers while Amos unloaded the cart. On this occasion, Mr. Schmidt stood with his hands in his pockets and made no move to help Amos carry the heavy keg. He thrust some bills at me and I counted them. There were only twelve dollars. He owed me twenty-five. I glanced uncertainly from him to Amos.

  “That’s all yer gettin’ this time,” Mr. Schmidt said. “Last barrel, the meat was all rancid. This’n better be fresh.” He glared at Amos.

  “Yes, sir. Packed jus’ this week, sir,” said Amos. “Mighty sorry about that last barrel.”

  Mr. Schmidt stomped away. Amos climbed up and took the reins. I was shaking with indignation when we pulled away.

  “We never would have sold him bad meat! And he underpaid me. You should have stood up to him.”

  “It ain’t my place to challenge a white man, even if he’s wrong,” said Amos, his brow set in an angry frown.

  Nor could I say anything, I thought, being merely a girl.

  “That’s mighty unfair, it seems to me,” I said, hitting my thighs with my fists. I wished for Papa to return. No one would dare cheat him.

  I was still boiling mad about Mr. Schmidt when Rosanna came into the shop later that day, wearing a pretty flowered muslin dress. Amos was working at a butcher block in the back room.

  “Doesn’t the smell bother you?” Rosanna said, wrinkling her nose.

  “Animals are raised to be eaten. That’s a fact. Even in a fine city like Richmond,” I said, for I was feeling irritable.

  “Well, it just seems … brutal.”

  “No, killing a man is brutal,” I said, and flipped the pages of the ledger to show that I was busy.

  “Well, of course,” admitted Rosanna.

  “When I see a hog, I think ham and sausage, or candles and soap, which we make from the rendered fat, you know,” I explained.

  “Please! I have just eaten,” said Rosanna. “I only mean, I couldn’t do the work you are doing.”

  “Well, I would rather be a shopgirl or a maid than a butcher’s assistant,” I admitted. “Better yet, I would prefer not to have to work.”

  Rosanna looked embarrassed. Her father was a banker, and she would never have to give up school to take a job.

  “Does Margaret need a roast for dinner?” I asked in a businesslike tone.

  “Oh, Lizzie, I’m so sorry that you aren’t in school with me!” Rosanna burst out. She grabbed both my hands. “I want to tell you everything that happens, but I’m afraid to hurt your feelings.”

  “It can’t be helped,” I said, pulling my hands away.

  Rosanna bit her lip and stepped back. “Lizzie, the reason I came was to invite you to come and work on the flag tonight. All my school friends will be there. They think it’s a wonderful idea. Annie Baumann’s father paid for the material to show his patriotism, since he could not go to war because of his bad leg.” Rosanna put her hand over her mouth to stop her prattling. “I really want you to come, Lizzie,” she ended simply.

  “I’m terribly busy here, you see.”

  “Please come. I’ve invited Ginnie Wade, too.”

  “Oh, because we’re both poor working girls!” I said before I could stop myself.

  “No, because you are my best friend and I miss seeing you,” said Rosanna with cool dignity as she left the shop.

  I went home feeling miserable. Things were no better there. Mama looked exasperated and Ben was complaining.

  “Sweeping and scrubbing? Those are girl jobs!” my brother groused, throwing the broom on the floor.

  Mama forced the broom back into his hand, scolding him. “One more outburst and you’ll stir the pot and wear an apron all day tomorrow.”

  “There’s no reason you can’t help in the kitchen, Ben,” I said crossly. He was starting to act rebellious and lazy, like Luke, and that made me mad. “House chores are nothing to be ashamed of. I work twice as hard as you do.”

  “Stop bickering, you irksome children!” said Mama, and left the house. It was her night to go door-to-door collecting donations and taking them to church to box up for the soldiers.

  Alone in the house with my crabby brother, I thought about how lonely I would be if Rosanna were no longer my friend. With a sigh, I borrowed one of Mama’s skirts, because mine were getting too short, grabbed a shawl, and set out for Margaret’s house. The declining sun cast long golden rays across my path, and the crisp air raised my spirits. A few leaves were letting go from their branches, as if choosing to be the first out of the millions that must fall.

  When I arrived, Margaret was sewing uniform trousers for soldiers.

  “Those girls are more inclined to gossip than sew. But thankfully Mrs. Pierpont came by and gave them a volume of Lord Tennyson’s poetry to read aloud while they work. Go on in,” she said, nodding toward the drawing room. “And help yourself to another book if you’d like.”

  I counted nine girls sitting in a circle, all stitching white stars as big as a man’s hand. Ginnie Wade was there, and several girls I knew from church. Annie Baumann sat leaning on a sewing machine heaped with yards of red cloth. Rosanna was reading aloud, her features expressing a strange passion.

  Let the sweet heavens endure,

  Not close and darken above me

  Before I am quite sure

  That there is one to love me!

  She caught sight of me and clapped the book shut. “Lizzie, you’ve come!”

  I felt everyone’s eyes on me. My face flushed and the skin under my arms felt moist and prickly. Did my hands still smell of brine? I wished I’d remembered to use Mama’s lavender water. I smiled all around the room and said hello. Annie nodded just enough to stir the perfect brown ringlets of her hair.

  “Let me show you our flag,” R
osanna said with pride, unfurling a section of cloth with alternating foot-wide bars of red and white. “It will be more than twenty feet long, perhaps the biggest flag ever made!”

  My mouth fell open in amazement. Rosanna had been serious after all when she talked about a grand project.

  “Would you like to work on a star or a stripe?” she asked.

  “What are you going to do with it?” I blurted out, forgetting my shyness.

  “You know, send it to our soldiers, to show them our support,” replied Rosanna patiently.

  “But what will they do with it?” It seemed obvious to me that the flag was far too big to display or carry.

  It was suddenly very quiet in the room. Rosanna looked offended. Annie stood up next to her and took hold of a corner of the flag.

  “What do you mean?” she asked coldly.

  I was thinking that the flag was big enough to serve as an officer’s tent. That, cut into pieces, it would make enough blankets to cover fifteen men.

  “Nothing. I don’t know. I mean—it’s a beautiful flag, but is it p-practical?” I stammered. An awkward silence followed. “I mean, it’s too big to even fit on a pole.” Red-faced, I sat down on a cushion between Martha Stover and Ginnie Wade. The girls all bowed to their sewing. Annie helped Rosanna refold the flag, and they sat down together on the settee. Rosanna showed Annie a letter I guessed was from Henry Phelps.

  “How lucky you are to have a beau in uniform!” sighed Annie. She leaned her head on Rosanna’s shoulder and stroked her wrist.

  I watched, consumed with jealousy. Rosanna was my best friend, and Annie was a little thief! I forced myself to look away and make small talk with Martha and Ginnie.

  “He’s just been promoted to corporal,” Ginnie was saying about her own beau, Jack Skelly, who had been one of the first Gettysburg boys to enlist.

  “Don’t you have a fellow, Lizzie?” Martha asked. I flushed, thinking she was teasing me, but her question was serious.

  “The very idea!” I replied, for that was how the girls spoke to each other. But I only sounded silly. Why had I even come?

  When the Shriver sisters rose, saying they had to study, I ducked out without saying good-bye and hurried homeward, welcoming the cool air on my burning face.

  Lizzie

  Chapter 7

  By October, the corn that had been only a few inches high when Papa and Luke left Gettysburg was brown and rattled in the fields. Neighbors of the farmers who were at war helped with the harvest, but here and there a field was left for the crows to pick. My sixteenth birthday was on October 19. With half my family away, I didn’t feel much like celebrating. Mama took me to the photo studio to have my portrait taken. I thought I looked terribly plain in it, although I wore my prettiest dress. Ben carved a wooden comb for my hair. Two of the teeth broke off, but I wore it anyway. Papa and Luke sent letters.

  Dearest Lizzie,

  I am sending my fondest love for your birthday, my dear daughter, whom I miss more than words can say. You don’t know how much I trea sure the embrace you gave me the morning I left. I know you are being a help and comfort to your mother; you have always been a blessing to me …

  Papa’s words brought a lump to my throat. But then he had written half a page of instructions for the business, including a request for Mama to send him a financial report. I went on to read Luke’s letter.

  Happy Birthday to us, Lizzie.

  Could you send me a piece of your cake? On the march we ate nothing but soup from dried Vegetables and hardtack which is like old leather but if you soak it in coffee it is edible. Every day we are covered in dust and dirt, even the food is gritty. Henrys feet got so blistered he bled from his boots. We are best friends and share a tent which means joining our canvas together and holding it up with a pole at the ends. I swear he gets more letters from our cousin Rose than most men get from their wives. Sadly the girl I fancy has not written to me.

  My duties are digging latrines and hauling wood to build winter barracks. Papas job is to help the quartermaster supply fresh beef. He makes me go with him to services at camp on Sundays and Wednesdays. The preacher thunders on about our everlasting souls. You would not believe the number of men who play dice and drink, but not Papa.

  We are eager to whip the Johnnies and come home by spring. The nights are getting cold and I would give anything for another blanket. And some of Ma’s sugar pickles would taste good.

  Your affectionate brother Luke

  P.S. You can have my old pocket knife for a gift, I have a better one now.

  Despite some of its unpleasant details, Luke’s letter made me smile. I was writing back to him when I heard Mama answer the door, and I recognized Rosanna’s melodious drawl.

  “Happy birthday, Lizzie!” she said, coming in and kissing me as if the scene with the flag had never happened. “Here’s your present.” She held out a frame containing a bouquet of pressed violets and daisies.

  I thanked her and gave her one of the photographs.

  “Why, it looks just like you!” said Rosanna, seemingly delighted with the picture. “I’ll paste this in my scrapbook. May I have a lock of your hair to put next to it?”

  I handed her the kitchen scissors and felt her snip some hair from the back of my head.

  “Rosanna, I’m sorry I wasn’t more excited about your flag,” I said, watching her fold the hair into a piece of paper. “I’m not like your school friends. I can’t help saying what I think.”

  “Well, that’s what I like about you, Lizzie. Most people are far too polite. But if you want to be more like the other girls, let me help you dress your hair in a more becoming way.”

  “So that’s it. I’m not pretty enough?”

  Sounding exasperated, Rosanna said, “You’ve been awfully touchy lately. What is bothering you?”

  I hesitated. I knew but one way to say it, the most direct way.

  “Rosanna, you have everything. You’re beautiful, the boys flock to you, and you go to a school where all the girls want to be your friend.” I looked at my hands, which were red and callused, and sighed. “I work in a butcher shop. Why do you even want me for a friend?”

  Rosanna stood with her mouth open. But she didn’t say anything for a long time.

  I looked down into my lap.

  “Lizzie, you were the first person in Gettysburg who was kind to me besides my own sister. And I can trust you. I told you about John Wilcox because I knew you would keep it secret.”

  “That’s another thing, Rosanna,” I said, feeling all my discontent bubble up at once. “Sometimes I don’t understand you at all.”

  “So? I don’t understand myself,” she said with a forced laugh.

  “I’m serious. Why did you cut off John Wilcox, who said he loved you? Why are you so keen on Henry Phelps now? What is it you want?”

  I watched Rosanna put her thumb and forefinger to her mouth and frown.

  “I’m confused, all right?” she said. “I thought I loved John Wilcox, but perhaps I was mistaken. And Henry was … here. He is not quite the man John is, but he is honest and good. His letters are entertaining, and I know he cares for me. Well, I think he does,” she finished uncertainly.

  I was beginning to think that Rosanna was like a chameleon, a creature who changed colors according to her surroundings. When she left Richmond, she simply put John Wilcox out of her mind.

  “What will I do if you get tired of my friendship and decide that Annie Baumann is your new best friend?” I blurted out.

  “Oh, Lizzie! That will never happen! You are my dearest cousin and my best friend, always.”

  For the moment, I was more pleased than if she had handed me an expensive birthday present.

  “And that’s why I know you’ll do me this favor.” She took my hand imploringly. “It’s about the flag. My friends have given up. They say their fingers are too sore or they have too much studying. Even Annie Baumann has lost interest. I’m afraid it won’t be finished in time for Christmas.
Won’t you please help me?”

  At the mention of the flag, my irritation flared up again.

  “But why, if you are so proud to be from Virginia, are you making a Union flag?”

  “The Stars and Stripes is the only flag I know, and until a few months ago, it was my flag as well as yours,” said Rosanna, lifting her chin.

  “But where do you stand on the war?” I asked.

  “Why? Does it matter to our friendship?” Rosanna’s tone was challenging.

  “No … but … I think it must be hard for you … being from the South … and living in Gettysburg,” I said haltingly. But it did matter. I wanted Rosanna on my side in all things.

  “Lizzie, I’ve been up here long enough that I feel loyal to our boys in uniform. I care about Henry and Luke and Uncle Albert. I don’t know any Confederate soldiers.” Rosanna shrugged.

  I would have to be satisfied with that. Rosanna had her reasons, even if they didn’t make much sense to me.

  So three weeks before Christmas, Rosanna and I sewed up the final seams of her flag, with Ginnie’s help. We pieced together stripes of red and white and a field of blue with thirty-four stars into a flag that represented a country that no longer existed. It was split into North and South and torn from east to west as well, for there was now fighting as far away as Kentucky and Oklahoma. We didn’t talk about the war, but worked in silence, our fingers busy with the futile task of stitching together something that could possibly never be made whole again.

  Lizzie

  Chapter 8

  As the December days grew shorter and colder, we hoped that Papa and Luke would be furloughed and come home for Christmas. But Papa’s letter dashed that hope. Smallpox was keeping the company quarantined, and only a few lucky officers would be allowed to go home. Mama tucked the letter in her apron and tried to hide her disappointment. But that night I was awakened by the sound of crying in the kitchen. I crept down the stairs, as I had the morning Papa left for war, to see Mama sitting at the table. A lamp flickered beside her and she clutched Papa’s letter in her hand. Her shoulders shook with sobs and her back curved until her forehead rested on the table.