Gettysburg: The Crossroads Town

by Tim Black

  “Indeed, you do need to be careful with your water, Victor,” Catton agreed. “It will be hazardous to descend to Plum Run to refill your canteens. Your water will have to last the day, I’m afraid. Now if you will excuse me, I want to float over to Little Round Top and check a few things. Holler in your head if you need me.’

  As Catton floated away, Bette asked Victor, “What did he mean by the ‘holler in your head’ remark?”

  “He and Mr. Foote read our thoughts, I think. The dead seem to be telepathic.”

  “Well, I guess that’s one cool thing about being dead,” Bette said.

  Victor removed the telescope from the leather case and was surprised to discover that the telescope extended over two feet. He could actually see the grizzled face of a bearded Union Signal Corps man on Little Round Top who was holding a similar telescope of his own to his eye. Victor was delighted with his telescope.

  “Anyway,” Victor continued, giving Bette a preview of upcoming action, “Rebels will soon hold Devil’s Den and be taking potshots at the Signal Corps men. You see, in a short time, the Union will realize that Little Round Top is the defense line’s Achilles heel and will send infantrymen to shore up the defense. And then I will get to see what I really want to see.”

  “And what is that?”

  “The bayonet charge of the 20th Maine.”

  Chapter 7

  On the morning of July 2nd, 1863, Minerva awoke to the Confederate occupation of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. Before falling asleep the night before, she had listened to a Confederate quartet in the street below offer a rendition of the Confederate version of The Battle Cry of Freedom with the same melody as The Union Forever. The men had sung it twice and, on this Thursday morning, Minerva couldn’t get the words out of her mind.

  Our flag is proudly floating on the land and on the main,

  Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

  Beneath it oft we’ve conquered, and we’ll conquer oft again!

  Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

  Our Dixie forever! She’s never at a loss!

  Down with the eagle and up with the cross.

  We’ll rally ’round the bonny flag, we’ll rally once again,

  Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

  Our gallant boys have marched to the rolling of the drums.

  Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

  And the leaders in charge cry out, “Come, boys, come!”

  Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

  They have laid down their lives on the bloody battle field.

  Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

  Their motto is resistance—“To the tyrants never yield!”

  Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

  While our boys have responded and to the fields have gone.

  Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

  Our noble women also have aided them at home.

  Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

  Thankfully a knock on her hotel room door erased the lyrics from Minerva’s mind. It was Mr. Greene.

  “Good morning, I hope you slept well, Minerva. Shall we go down and see if we can get some breakfast?”

  The hotel dining room was nearly filled with Confederate officers and Minerva and Mr. Greene took a table by a window, which was as far away from the Rebels as possible.

  “We seem to be the only civilians in the dining room,” Minerva whispered.

  Mr. Green smiled and nodded. A waitress came over to their table. She was a middle-aged woman and appeared to be in a grouchy mood, but she smiled when she saw Minerva and Mr. Greene.

  “I’m glad someone had the courage to show up,” she said softly to the pair from the future. “Everyone seems to be hiding in their houses. Usually there are dozens of people here for breakfast. The Rebs have taken over the town…what can I get you? We’ve been cooking up a mess of biscuits and gravy for the Rebs.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Mr. Greene said.

  The waitress wrote it down and added, “They have put up barricades out on Baltimore Street. Our boys are up on Culp’s Hill and all along Cemetery Ridge.”

  “Today we finish off the Federals!” a Rebel captain shouted.

  “Who are the Federals, Mr. Greene?” Minerva asked.

  “That’s what the Confederates call the Union soldiers. Federals.”

  “Today we finish off the Federals!” the captain shouted louder and heads turned.

  “Huzzah! Huzzah,” the other Confederates cheered.

  “Today we end the war!” bragged a Rebel colonel. “The Federals will surrender!”

  “Huzzah! Huzzah.”

  “In a week we’ll be in Washington City!” the colonel bragged. “The Federals say they’ll hang Jeff Davis from a sour apple tree? Well, we’ll hang Lincoln from a Washington City cherry tree!”

  “Huzzah! Huzzah!”

  Suddenly, the commotion stilled. Minerva could see outisde a distinguished-looking officer, a perfectly dressed, gray-bearded man, atop a dappled gray horse that sported a black mane and tail. As well as a second, ghostly passenger, the deceased but grinning Shelby Foote, who was, of course, invisible to all but the time travelers.

  An aide was holding the horse’s reins as the officer dismounted. Minerva saw that the officer was wearing three stars on his collar.

  Minerva looked at Mr. Greene for an answer.

  “My heavens, it is Traveller and Robert E. Lee,” a wide-eyed Nathan Greene remarked. Then he frowned when he spotted Mr. Foote. “The old poltergeist,” the teacher muttered, but quickly caught himself before he used foul language.

  Instead, ever the pedagogue, Mr. Greene explained to Minerva that Traveller was the name of Lee’s horse, adding that in modern times Lee sat atop Traveller on a monument erected on Seminary Ridge.

  Lee and his aide entered the dining room. The Confederate officers rose to their feet and cheered their commander. Lee smiled slightly in response to their greeting and signaled them to stop and they quieted down immediately. The commander of the Army of Northern Virginia walked over to a table beside Minerva and Mr. Greene and sat down. The same waitress who had waited on Minerva and her teacher approached Lee’s table. The general, too, ordered biscuits and gravy. Minerva deduced that was the only item on the menu.

  Minerva and Mr. Greene watched silently as a two-star general with a full brown beard approached America’s Napoleon…

  “Major General Longstreet,” Greene whispered to Minerva.

  “Sit down, general,” Lee said politely to Longstreet. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I believe we should outflank the enemy and put ourselves between the Federals and Washington City. I fear that we are outnumbered and would be best served in a defensive position.”

  Minerva watched the commander bristle at Longstreet’s suggestion. Through the window she saw Shelby Foote’s ghost still sitting atop Traveller, but now he was waving to her, like a little boy on a plastic pony on a merry-go-round. The horse seemed to sense the ghost’s presence, for it bucked up and down to no avail, finally surrendering to the spirit who in turn was pretending to be a rodeo cowboy and shouting “ride ’em cowboy!” She hid a chuckle, attempted to ignore the dead historian’s shenanigans, and concentrated on the conversation between Lee and his chief subordinate. The ghost floated right through the glass window and sat down in a chair beside Minerva.

  “Go away, Mr. Foote,” she whispered.

  Foote put a finger to his mouth to hush Minerva. “I want to hear this,” he said. “Longstreet is trying to convince Lee to fight defensively.” He floated over to Lee’s table and sat in an empty chair and gestured an “okay” signal to Minerva.

  “I mean to end it here, general,” Lee said to Longstreet. “The war ends here, sir. It is well that war is so terrible; otherwise, we should grow too fond of it,” Lee added philosophically. “We have a chance to end the horror, general, and we must try.”


  Longstreet persisted. “But sir, we could not call the enemy to position better suited to our plans. All that we have to do is file around his left and secure good ground between him and his capital.”

  “No sir,” Lee replied coldly, and Minerva watched as a disheartened James Longstreet stood up from the table and excused himself to his commander.

  Mr. Greene whispered to Minerva. “Fascinating, Minerva. I read Longstreet’s memoir, and that is pretty much how he wrote it. Longstreet said he gave Lee advice and that Lee rejected the advice. His book was blistering criticism of Lee, at least to some Southerners who turned on Longstreet and accused him of being a traitor.”

  “For giving advice?” Minerva whispered in response.

  Greene continued whispering. “Lee was a revered figure in the South, Minerva. Heck, Southern schools once closed for Lee’s birthday every year. Not for Lincoln’s birthday mind you, but for Robert E. Lee’s birthday.”

  “That’s a fact, Minerva,” Shelby Foote said as he floated back to rejoin them. But of course, no one but Minerva and Mr. Greene could hear the ghost, and Minerva was not going to get into a conversation with someone that the other people in the dining room could not see. That would certainly make her appear daft.

  Instead, Mr. Greene whispered to Foote. “What have you been up to Mr. Foote?”

  “Just hanging with my hero,” Foote said, nodding to the commanding general who said a prayer before beginning his frontal assault on his biscuits and gravy. “The man has a presence about him. I understand so much better why the Southern men adored him. They worshipped him. Up until Gettysburg, Robert E. Lee never lost. Lee has a cheerful dignity and can praise his men without seeming to court their favor. I find that remarkable. I have floated around the Southern lines and have listened and watched many of the commanders. Jubal Early seems a foul-mouthed, crass man and Ewell is too timid. Why Ewell could have taken Culp’s Hill last evening if he had a modicum of courage. Might have changed the whole battle if the Confederates had taken that high ground. Richard Ewell is a disappointment, the bald-headed bast…fellow.” Foote caught himself, ever the Southern gentleman, even if deceased, not wishing to offend Minerva’s ears with a vulgarity.

  Minerva, a high school student, had certainly heard the word “bastard” before, but she thought the dead historian’s decorousness delightful. She appreciated good manners. Victor Bridges could learn a thing or two on being a gentleman, she mused. Stop thinking of Victor, she told herself. He is probably canoodling with Kromer, she mused, spitefully.

  Mesmerized, Mr. Greene was listening to the ghost’s rendition of the prior day’s conflicts. Neither he nor Minerva heard the soft, beseeching voice from the adjacent table.

  “Please excuse me,” repeated General Robert Edward Lee, formerly of Arlington Virginia. His home in Arlington had been confiscated by the Federal Government and converted into a cemetery better known to the modern world as Arlington National Cemetery. “May I borrow your salt shaker? My table does not have one.”

  Minerva finally noticed the general standing next to their table.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Minerva said, handing General Lee the salt shaker. “I’m afraid I was daydreaming.”

  Lee smiled knowingly. “There are a number of handsome young men in the dining room, are there not?”

  Minerva blushed, for while she hadn’t been smitten by any of the soldiers having breakfast, she had been thinking of Victor, and her facial reaction brought a light chuckle from Lee. “Allow me to introduce myself,” Lee said politely. “I am Robert Edward Lee of Virginia at your service. I am commander of the Confederate army which is occupying your town.”

  “We know, General Lee,” Mr. Greene said. “I am Nathan Greene and this is my niece Minerva. We fled from Mercersburg to Gettysburg for a safe haven.”

  “I certainly hope it is not your appointment in Samarra, Mr. Greene,” Lee commented.

  “Excuse me?” Mr. Greene asked.

  Minerva was puzzled as well. What did Lee mean?

  “I am sorry, mine was an indelicate comment. Let me explain. Your comment of fleeing to Gettysburg from Mercersburg for safe haven reminded me of an ancient Arab fable, if you will indulge an old man a moment? A woman sent her servant to the market in Baghdad. While he is there, the servant sees Death and runs home to his mistress and tells her he is going to run away to Samarra to avoid death. The woman is incensed and marches to the market and confronts Death. ‘Why did you startle my servant?’ she asks. ‘I was just as startled to see him in the market, for I have an appointment with him in Samarra tonight.’ You see, we can’t outrun our fate, Mr. Greene.”

  Shelby Foote said to Mr. Greene and Minerva, “No truer words were ever spoken. Lee’s fate is here. At Gettysburg. This is his Samarra. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

  Anecdote completed, Lee smiled, politely bowed, returned to his table and quietly finished his meal. Mr. Greene found a week-old copy of the Gettysburg Compiler, a local newspaper, and began to read the newspaper’s account of Jubal Early’s raid of June 26th. From her purse, Minerva extracted Sarah Broadhead’s Diary. Hiding the pamphlet below the table, Minerva unobtrusively read the Quaker woman’s entry for July 2nd.

  Diary of Sarah Broadhead

  July 2, 1863

  Of course we had no rest last night. Part of the time we watched the Rebels rob the house opposite. The family had left some time during the day, and the robbers must have gotten all they left in the house. They went from the garret to the cellar, and loading up the plunder in a large four horse wagon, drove it off. I expected every minute that they would burst in our door, but they did not come near us. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and we could see all they did.

  The cannonading commenced about 10 o’clock, and we went to the cellar and remained a little while until it ceased. When the noise subsided, we came to the light again, and tried to get something to eat. My husband went to the garden and picked a mess of beans, though stray firing was going on all the time, and bullets from sharpshooters or others whizzed about his head in a way I would not have liked. He persevered until he picked all, for he declared the Rebels should have not one. I baked a pan of shortcake and boiled a piece of ham, the last we had in the house, and some neighbors coming in, joined us, and we had the first quiet meal since the contest began. I enjoyed it very much. It seemed so nice after so much confusion to have a little quiet once more. We had not felt like eating before, being worried by danger and excitement. The quiet did not last long. About 4 o’clock P.M. the storm burst again with terrific violence. It seemed like heaven and earth were being rolled together. For better security we went to the house of a neighbor and occupied the cellar, by far the most comfortable part of the house. Whilst there a shell a struck the house, but mercifully did not burst, but remained embedded in the wall, one half protruding. About 6 o’clock the cannonading lessened, and we, thinking the fighting for the day was over, came out. Then the noise of the musketry was loud and constant, and made us feel quite as bad as cannonading, though it seemed to me less terrible. Very soon the artillery joined in the din, and soon became as awful as ever, and we again retreated to our friend’s underground apartment, and remained until the battle ceased, about 10 o’clock at night. I have just finished washing a few pieces for my child, for we expect to be compelled to leave town tomorrow, as the Rebels say it will most likely be shelled. I cannot sleep, and as I sit down to write, to while away the time, my husband sleeps as soundly as though nothing was wrong. I wish I could rest so easily, but it is out of the question for me to either eat or sleep under such terrible excitement and such painful suspense. We know not what the morrow will bring forth, and cannot even tell the issue of to-day. We can gain no information from the Rebels, and are shut off from all communications with our soldiers. I think little has been gained by either side so far. Has our army been sufficiently reinforced? Is our anxious question. A few minutes since we had a talk with an officer of the staff of General Early, and
he admits our army has the best position, but says we cannot hold it much longer. The Rebels do so much bragging that we do not know how much to believe. At all events, the manner in which this officer spoke indicates that our troops have the advantage so far. Can they keep it? The fear that they may not be able to causes our anxiety and keeps us in suspense.

  The Confederate officers, including General Lee, had long departed when Mr. Greene paid the bill for breakfast. Shelby Foote, too, left to ride along with the commander of the Army of Northern Virginia on his horse, Traveller. The waitress brought back Mr. Greene’s change in Confederate currency.

  “I am sorry, sir,” she apologized. “But the Rebs have been paying for everything with their worthless paper money and we don’t have any more good Union money.”

  “I understand,” Mr. Greene replied. “Don’t think anything of it. I’m afraid I will have to tip you in Confederate script, however.”

  “Can’t be helped, I guess,” the waitress replied. “Do you know they took all of our eggs and fresh fruit?” she added. “Oh, they paid for it with Confederate money, but that will be worthless when they leave.”

  “Do you think they are leaving?” Minerva asked.

  The waitress shrugged. “God, I hope so. They were bad enough last week. Took over the town for a day. Stole horses and cattle. Now, they are here for a second time. I hope the Lord answers our prayers and gives us a victory over the damned slave owners.”

  “Are you against slavery, ma’am?” Minerva asked.

  The waitress bristled. “Yes, aren’t you?”

  Mr. Greene intervened. “My niece hates slavery,” he declared. “As do I. But we have found that not all Unionists are opposed to slavery and don’t believe the war is about slavery. Some believe the war is about saving the Union.”

  “Yes, there are some around here like that, I guess,” the waitress conceded. “But I think this war is about something bigger than just the Union. I think it is about freedom, freedom for the coloreds. That’s what I think.”