Gettysburg: The Crossroads Town

by Tim Black

  As they were leaving the field and neared the Seminary, Biggs noticed a friend of his wife’s, Lydia Smith, driving a wagon. Biggs stopped the wagon. He called to her, “Lydia, what are you doing, old woman?”

  “Hello, Basil, what are you doing?” she smiled. “Out digging graves, I see.”

  “Nice to see you, too, Lydia,” Biggs replied. He smiled at her and then stuck out his tongue.

  Victor learned from Basil Biggs that nearly all of the Negroes in town knew each other and most of them liked to kid one another.

  “I rented this team and wagon and I’ve been taking supplies to the wounded men all over town,” Lydia explained. “I just felt like God wanted me to do service. I thought it was the least I could do. Did you boys know they found a Rebel girl dead on Cemetery Ridge? She had dressed up as a man I guess. Heard there was another Rebel gal that lost a leg. Imagine, girls fighting like that.”

  “That’s amazing, Lydia: Girls fighting,” Biggs said.

  Victor, whom General Meade had informed about the dead female combatant, was not about to tell these two good people that women fighting in combat was not unusual in the 21st century.

  “You don’t think we can fight?” Lydia asked. “Women can fight and dig graves, too. Did you see the white woman, Elizabeth Thorn, she manages the Evergreen Cemetery and lives at the Gatehouse? She’s six months pregnant and digging graves. Probably dug more than you did, you shiftless lazy nigger,” she teased. “I’d like to see you pregnant and digging graves. Yes,” she laughed. “now that would be a sight, my Lord in heaven.” She continued to chortle.

  Biggs smiled, waved at the woman and snapped the reins and the horses pulled the wagon forward and Victor and his newfound mentor moved out toward town.

  Victor had tremendous admiration for Mrs. Thorn. He had never worked so hard in his life at what the pregnant woman did daily. Victor felt like every muscle in his body was screaming at him in complaint. He needed a warm bath, he needed to soak. He picked up his pay at the provost’s office while Basil filed a report, documenting where the Union men were buried. They had also placed a small stake with a blue flag on the spot of the Union trench.

  Victor stopped on his way to the hotel at a bath house and paid a quarter for a warm bath, soaking in the tub to relieve his aches and pains. He knew he would have no trouble sleeping that night. After his bath, he cringed as put on his dirty clothes again, having no clean clothes available. But he was too hungry to be upset. He stopped at a restaurant and ate a large meal. When he returned to the hotel he had only four dollars left from his day’s agony, having spent a precious dollar on the bath and his supper. He had never worked so hard in his life. And for four dollars!

  Chapter 16

  Diary of Sarah Broadhead

  July 8–

  Again at the hospital early this morning. Several physicians and lady nurses had come from Washington the previous evening, and under their care things already began to look better. The work of extracting the balls, and of amputating shattered limbs, had begun, and an effort at regular cooking. I aided a lady to dress wounds, until soup was made, and then I went to distribute it. I found that I had only seen the lighter cases, and worse horrors met my eyes on descending to the basement of the building. Men, wounded in three or four places, not able to help themselves the least bit, lay almost swimming in water. I hunted up the lady whom I had been helping, and told her to come and see how they were situated. When we came down she reverently exclaimed, “MY God! They must be gotten out of this or they will drown.” I gladly, in answer to her request, consented to assist her. She called some nurses to help, and getting some stretchers the work was begun. There were somewhere near one hundred to be removed to the fourth story of the building. The way they happened to be in such a miserable place was this. On the first day, during the battle, they had been taken into the building for shelter. On Thursday and Friday the Rebels planted a battery just behind this hospital, which annoyed our troops not a little, who, in endeavoring to silence it, could not avoid throwing some shells into the building. Some entered several of the rooms, and injured one of the end walls, and the basement became the only safe place to which our wounded could betake themselves, and the heavy rains, following the engagement, flooded the floor. I did not think all could be removed to-day, but the lady said it must be done, and by hard work she had it accomplished. We had the satisfaction of seeing them comfortably fixed, though they lay on the bare floor with only their gum blankets under them, but dry and very thankful for so little. I fed one poor fellow who had both legs and one arm taken off, and, though he is very weak and surely cannot live, he seems in right good spirits. Some weeks since I would have fainted had I seen as much blood as I have to-day, but I am proof now, only caring to relieve suffering. I now begin to feel fatigued, but I hope rest may restore me.

  *

  Minerva put down the booklet for a moment and wondered about the passage where Mrs. Broadhead mentioned lady nurses from Washington; could that mean that Sophronia Bucklin had arrived? Bucklin kept a diary of her nursing experiences all throughout the Civil War and Minerva had chanced upon her diary online and downloaded it to her Kindle app. She had read Sophronia’s chapters on Gettysburg, before her group left Cassadaga, and she longed to meet Bucklin. Here was a possibility for Minerva to meet two of her heroines on the same day. The beauty of reading the entry was that none of what Sarah Broadhead wrote had actually happened yet. It was an hour or so away. She read the next day’s entry in search of more information.

  July 9–

  Rain began to fall early this morning, and so violently that it produced quite a flood, which prevented me from getting to the hospital. I visited, with what supplies I had, some of those in town. I found the wounded in them much better situated, some attention having been paid to them, by the citizens near, during the battle. All had plenty to eat, though very few had beds to lie on and rest their wounded bodies. Nearly every house is a hospital, besides the churches and warehouses, and there are many field hospitals scattered over the country near the scene of the battle. A man called to-day, and requested me to take into our house three wounded men from one of the field hospitals. I agreed to take them, for I can attend to them and not be compelled to leave my family so long every day as I have done. I am quite anxious to learn the condition of the man at the Seminary whose wife I sent for. I was thinking of her when the cars, for the first time since the destruction of the Rock Creek bridge, came into town, the road having been repaired. The Government can now forward supplies in abundance, and the poor fellows can be better provided for in every way. I talked with some wounded Rebels at one of the hospitals, and they are very saucy and brag largely. They are very kindly treated, and supplied, in all respects, as our men are. The spirit manifested by those I met was so vindictive that I believe they would, if they could, requite all the kindness shown them by murdering our citizens. The merciful work of the Sanitary and Christian Commissions, aided by private contributions, was to be seen at every hospital. Without the relief they furnished, thousands must have perished miserably, and thousands more have suffered from want of the delicacies, food and clothing their agents distributed, before the Government could bring assistance. They are God’s blessed agencies for providing for the needy soldier. No one knows the good she has done, in making bandages and clothing, and in contributing dainties and provisions, until she sees the operation of these agencies in distributing her gifts to the wounded and sick soldiers. Whoever aids them is engaged in the noblest work on earth, and will be amply rewarded ever here, to make no mention of hereafter.

  There was no reference to Sophronia Bucklin in the July 9th entry of Sarah Broadhead’s diary, but Minerva decided she would hike up to the Seminary and help out where she could. Perhaps she could help Mrs. Broadhead dispense soup to the soldiers. She replaced the booklet to its hiding place in the closet and quietly dressed, not wishing to wake Bette. Minerva wanted to meet Sarah Broadhead on her own.

 
Minerva squeezed a small dab of toothpaste onto her Oral B toothbrush, wishing that she had brought something larger than a travel size tube of gel. She brushed her teeth vigorously, poured a glass of water and swished it around her mouth. Then, she walked over to her window, raised the glass, looked at the vacant street below and spat out the water onto the Diamond. She didn’t look forward to the day that she would have to forgo her toothpaste for tooth powder and she had cringed at the toothbrushes in the Fahnestock Store—those bristles! She grabbed an apple for her breakfast and was out the door, down the stairs, and on her way to the Lutheran Theological Seminary. Off to meet Sarah Broadhead and, Minerva hoped, Sophronia Bucklin.

  As she walked onto the grounds of the Lutheran Theological Seminary, she viewed scores of recuperating men resting on the grass or leaning up against trees. A few soldiers managed to smile at her as she walked past them. She headed for the main building and then proceeded down to the basement, the location of the most serious casualty cases as well as the seminary’s surgery center. Minerva recognized Sarah Broadhead from the photograph she had seen online after a Google images search. The plain, dour-looking woman in the flowing black dress had her hair slicked back and parted precisely down the middle. She was holding a mop. Mrs. Broadhead was in dire need of a makeover, Minerva thought cattily, and immediately felt guilty for her mean-girl attitude. What did Minerva expect a Quaker wife to look like anyway? Taylor Swift?

  Minerva stood staring at the entrance to the basement. Water seemed to be covering the floor, and wounded men, many of whom were soaked, were lying throughout the room in the water awaiting care. It was even more horrible than the courthouse, Minerva thought. Women nurses and volunteers were mopping the floor in an attempt to dry it.

  Mrs. Broadhead noticed Minerva in the basement doorway. She walked over and asked, “Are you looking for a loved one, miss?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m here to help if you can use me.”

  “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Minerva.”

  Sarah Broadhead managed a smile. “Named for the goddess of wisdom?”

  “Uh huh,” Minerva said, blushing.

  “The names our mother bequeath us,” she said in sympathy. “My name is Sarah, although I much prefer Sally. I have been volunteering here, but last night professional nurses arrived and I’ve been relegated to dispensing soup and writing letters home for the boys. Do you mind tending to Rebels, Minerva?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good, we are all God’s children. First thing you can do is grab a mop. You wouldn’t believe what we found here in the basement. We had to move a lot of the boys for fear of them drowning in the water. The Rebs placed cannons nearby and our troops fired shells at them. Unfortunately, some of the shells hit the upper floors and the only safe place for the wounded was in the basement. And then the rains came. I am so glad that the nurses from Washington City are here. Did you go to church on Sunday? Of course not. Every church pew in the town is filled with wounded boys. Do you remember what the martyr John Brown said about slavery before he was hanged?”

  “No.”

  “‘I am not quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away but with blood.’ Look around you, Minerva. Was John Brown not a prophet?”

  Minerva bobbed her head in agreement and began mopping the floor. Sarah Broadhead in the flesh seemed much more passionate and determined than Sarah Broadhead, the diarist. She was intense, Minerva thought.

  “One of the doctors told me that the army is building a tent city west of town to serve as the main hospital,” Mrs. Broadhead continued. “They will be moving the men over the next week or two. The camp will be close to the railroad so that the physicians can send serious cases to hospitals in Philadelphia and New York for specialized treatment. It’s to be called Camp Letterman, named for the top doctor in General Meade’s army. Put your mop down and help me give out soup to the boys.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How old are you, Minerva?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Are you engaged?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Better hurry. You don’t want to wind up an old maid,” Sarah Broadhead teased.

  “I want to be a doctor,” Minerva said.

  “Like that Elizabeth Blackwell and her sister?”

  “Yes,” Minerva said, for she knew about the first female physician in the United States. Blackwell’s sister Anna was the third, but Minerva could not remember the second.

  Sarah Broadhead smiled. “You know I was talking to one of the nurses from Washington City and she said how difficult it was for women to even become nurses, let alone doctors. Miss Dix is their champion. I would so like to meet Dorthea Dix.”

  Minerva was surprised to find that her heroine had her own heroine—Dorthea Dix.

  Minerva, wearing mittens, carried the hot soup around the basement as Sarah Broadhead offered the men a cup. Then they came to the man that Sarah Broadhead had written about in her diary, the man who was missing both legs and one arm. Mrs. Broadhead bent down and tenderly put the cup of soup up to the man’s mouth and he took a sip of the broth and managed a faint smile of thanks. Minerva held back her tears. Minerva and Mrs. Broadhead moved on, the older woman whispering to the younger, “He’ll be dead by nightfall.”

  Minerva could hold back the tears no longer. She sobbed so hard she nearly hyperventilated. Mrs. Broadhead took her in her arms. “Go ahead and have a good cry, girl. Cry for all of the poor boys.”

  After she had sobbed for a minute, Minerva took a few deep breaths and recovered her equilibrium, meekly thanking her newfound Quaker friend for her understanding.

  “No need to thank me, Minerva,” Sarah Broadhead said. “You have seen terrible things. War is a terrible thing.”

  Minerva sniffed her agreement and took the handkerchief from Mrs. Broadhead’s outstretched hand.

  As they finished their round of dispensing soup, Minerva said to the Quaker lady, “I have never seen so much blood in all my life.”

  “Neither have I, Minerva. Neither have I.”

  Minerva felt the urge to use the privy and excused herself to Sarah Broadhead. Outside the building a young girl was helping an even younger boy stack a pile of severed limbs, separating them into a pile of legs and a pile of arms. Minerva walked over to the girl and asked where she might find the outhouse.

  “Who are you?” the girl asked.

  “My name is Minerva.”

  “I’m Lydia Ziegler and this is my little brother Hugh. My father is the caretaker of the Seminary,” she said proudly. “We live here.”

  Minerva smiled. She had read Lydia and Hugh’s account The Dead and Dying Were All Around Us. Hugh had written about stacking the limbs, and here the Ziegler children were actually doing it.

  “I haven’t seen you before,” Lydia said.

  “I’m from Mercersburg.”

  “Oh, follow me and I will show you where the privy is.”

  When they arrived at the wooden comfort station, Lydia went in back of the privy and then returned with a corn cob. She handed it to Minerva.

  Just like Philadelphia, Minerva thought, remembering her first trip to an outhouse in 1776.

  Minerva returned to the basement of the Seminary just at the moment that three of Dorthea Dix’s nurses arrived. Minerva had read that Dix selected homely girls as nurses, preferring them to be as old as possible. No makeup was allowed. These three nurses, however, while very plain looking appeared to be in their twenties. One woman seemed to be chinless, and on taking a second look at her Minerva remembered the photograph she had seen online of Sophronia Bucklin. Here she was in the flesh. She seemed to be the lead nurse of the three and even Mrs. Broadhead was deferring to her as Sophronia barked orders to the volunteers. When she spotted Minerva, she barked:

  “Who are you?”

  “That’s Minerva,” Sarah Broadhead said.

  Sophronia frowned at the Quaker matron. “I didn
’t ask you. Can’t she speak for herself?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I can,” Minerva spoke up, eliciting a slight smile from Sophronia Bucklin.

  “Get me some bedpans, girl,” Bucklin ordered. “We have some men to clean up. I hope you aren’t squeamish about seeing a man’s privates, girl.”

  “No, ma’am,” Minerva lied. She was hoping to avoid washing what she often referred to as “masculine equipment.”

  By the end of the day, however, Minerva had emptied scores of bedpans and bathed a dozen naked men, and all of her squeamishness was behind her. For the first time in her young life her dream of becoming a physician seemed less a dream and more a goal. She felt compassion for the mangled men. She saw no difference between Federal and Confederate, she saw only patients. She had faced her fear of “masculine functional outdoor plumbing” and she had overcome that anatomical phobia, and she had marveled at the efficiency of the take-charge nurse, Sophronia Bucklin.

  By the end of the day when Minerva prepared to depart the Seminary for her return to the Gettysburg Hotel, Miss Bucklin approached her. “You are a fine worker, Minerva. I hope someday you will consider nursing as a career,” Bucklin said.

  “I want to be a physician, Miss Bucklin.”

  “Well now,” Miss Bucklin smiled. “Is that a fact? Well, girl, if you put your mind to it, I don’t see why you can’t. I mean, the Blackstone sisters became doctors and so can you. But in the meantime, I can use your help again tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Minerva said. “I’ll be here.”

  Chapter 17

  As dawn broke, a soft, gentle rapping on the hotel room door awakened Victor. Mr. Greene, oblivious to the sound, kept on snoring, causing Victor to wonder if his teacher was exhibiting early signs of sleep apnea. Groggily, Victor arose and walked to the door and opened it. Looking straight ahead, he saw no one. Then a tiny hand tugged on his nightshirt and he looked down and spied a small barefoot boy with jet black hair and raven-like eyes.