Boys of Wartime: Will at the Battle of Gettysburg (12 page)

Had either side gained anything in that brief skirmish?

That night, the number of wounded that were brought to the farm was terrible. Litter bearers carried the worst of them. Others limped in on their own two feet, often carrying comrades on their backs. The barn was so crowded it could hold no more. There were men all over the house. Finally we had to lay them outside in the orchard and around the buildings.

Grace and I were too busy to do more than nod at each other occasionally. The soldiers who weren't injured too badly did what they could to help, including a New Hampshire man with a leg wound who sat and minded the children. Every time I looked in on the twins, they were in the middle of a game or a story or a song. How he managed to keep their minds off the battle I'll never know.

The rest of us did whatever we could to help the wounded. But there were too many of them and too few of us. The number of dead grew. A couple of soldiers dug a pit and rolled at least ten bodies into it before they threw dirt on top again. It was truly a horrible thing to behold.

When I could not stand up anymore, I found a patch of ground and went to sleep, hoping for something better tomorrow.

My wish didn't come true. I woke to fierce cannonading early Friday morning, coming from the direction of Culp's Hill. The windows rattled and the crockery trembled on the shelves. Still, the women kept baking bread, and I kept carrying bread and beef tea to the wounded. There was nothing else we could do. Until, on one of my trips back to the kitchen, I noticed soldiers setting up cannons right outside the house.

We were about to find ourselves on the battle's front lines.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A Reb Prisoner

 

 

 

 

T
he soldiers sent us to the cellar. Jane Ann clung to me, tight around my neck. Grace carried Sally. We crept out of the kitchen and stayed close to the house, skirting around the side single file until we came to the cellar doors. Mr. Weikert threw them open and the women started down the stairs.

The yard was still full of wounded and a group of Rebel prisoners. They had no cellar to hide in and there was no room for them to join us. I wondered what would happen to those left out in the open. A shell screamed overhead. Another hit not too far away, sending dirt and smoke into the air. Artillerymen raced past me to fire the Union cannons.

I was at the cellar doors handing Jane Ann to Grace when I saw him.

A little Reb prisoner, smaller than me, stumbled toward the well. He was covered in dirt and blood. A drum, or what was left of it, hung about his neck, and his arm was cocked in an odd way. A Union guard said something, and he gave a funny little nod.

Abel!

“I'll be back,” I screamed to Grace.

She tried to argue with me, but Mr. Weikert scrambled into the cellar and closed the doors behind them.

I got to Abel just as he crumpled. He groaned when I touched him and I tried not to jostle his arm when I laid him on the ground. The sun beat down fiercely, and heat seemed to be coming off his body in waves. A shell must have exploded right in front of him. He was covered in dirt. I couldn't tell where the blood was coming from, but his face was covered.

“Abel,” I said. “Abel it's me.”

He didn't answer. He didn't even nod.

Some men, most of them Rebel prisoners, were trying to get water from the well. There was no way to bring up the water bucket.

“Where's the crank?” a Union officer asked me.

I nodded in the direction of the cellar. The spring had run completely dry. When Mr. Weikert saw that the soldiers were taking water from his well, he had removed the crank.

“I've already lost all of my crops and most of my livestock,” he had said when he saw me watching. “I won't have them pump my well dry, too. My farm won't survive without water.”

My heart lurched when I saw how desperate the men were for water—especially Abel.

The Union officer marched off. He came back with his pistol in one hand and the crank in the other. Someone brought up the water bucket and I filled Abel's canteen.

I forced some water between his lips. Most of it ran to the ground, but some went down his throat. I used the rest to clean the dirt and blood out of his nose, ears, and eyes. Blood poured down his face and I saw a gash on his forehead, just over one eye.

Then I saw that his left hand was smashed and bleeding. I poured water over it and he screamed louder than the shells. His face was twisted in pain and he tried to roll away from me.

I grabbed his shoulders and tried to hold him down. He was half-crazed with pain. I screamed right in his ear to be heard over the roar of the shells. “Abel! Abel Hoke!” I yelled. “It's me, Will Edmonds. From Gettysburg.”

His eyelids fluttered, and he groaned.

“I'm going to get help,” I said. “I'll be back.”

His head gave one of those funny little nods, and I knew he would hang on to life for the next little while at least.

I ran for one of the surgeons in the barn.

“I have a hundred men in front of him,” the surgeon told me. His apron was soaked through with blood. Bits of blood and skin hung from the saw in his hand as one man was lifted off the table and another placed in front of him. The injured man screamed while the doctor poked around in his wound, then the chloroform took hold. The doctor raised his saw and I stumbled away.

The noise was dreadful. Men moaned, shells screamed, bullets popped. Every once in a while I could hear one of those eerie Rebel yells above the rest of the ruckus. Each time, it sent a shiver up my spine.

I tried another surgeon and got the same answer.

I was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. Abel had already lost his father. Was he going to die without seeing his mama again, or his sisters and brothers? I felt helpless.

“He's just a boy,” I choked. Tears were streaming down my cheeks. “A drummer boy.”

“Carry him in,” the surgeon said, pointing to an area that was filled with wounded men waiting for treatment. “I'll get to him when I can.”

I trudged back to Abel and tried to rouse him again. I poured more water down his throat and it only made him gag. He rolled onto his side and started spitting out dirt and water.

A Rebel officer limped over. He pointed to the gash in Abel's forehead. “That'll heal,” he said. He poked at Abel's arm.

Abel's face twisted in pain again, but he didn't seem to have the energy to scream.

“That hand is gonna have to come off,” the Rebel said calmly. “If he lives long enough to see a surgeon.”

That wasn't what I wanted to hear, and I didn't want him giving Abel any ideas about dying. I pushed the officer away.

“He's crazy,” I said to Abel. “You're not gonna die. You hear me?”

Abel groaned again. I could take him to the cellar. Grace would help me nurse him. He would be out of the heat, but was that enough to save his life? There was too much blood. He needed a doctor—now.

Then it hit me. Colonel Braxton. Abel had saved Colonel Braxton's life. The colonel would make sure Abel got the help he needed. But first I had to get Abel to Meade's headquarters.

“Abel,” I said, yelling into his ear. “I'm taking you to the colonel, the one whose life you saved.”

He groaned, and his eyelids fluttered again. He licked his lips. “Wawtah,” he said quietly.

I filled the canteen again and poured some water into his mouth. This time he swallowed and took some more. Then I dumped the rest over his head. The cool water revived him some.

I sat him up against the side of the barn and crouched with my back in front of him.

“Put your good arm around my neck,” I commanded.

He moaned. His head lolled to one side.

“Abel,” I shouted. “You have to try. I have to take you to the colonel for help.”

He nodded. I guess he understood.

I turned my back to him again. “Put your arm around my neck.”

That time he did. I slipped my hands under his knees and held them in the crook of my arms. I got to my feet slowly, afraid that he would let go and flop over backward. He didn't. He hung on with his one good arm, and let the other dangle at my side. He was nothing but skin and bones, barely heavier than Jane Ann.

I wished I could stop and tell Grace what I was doing. I wanted to get a look at my sisters, to fix their faces in my mind in case—

“You'll see them later,” I told myself. Saying it out loud made me feel a little better.

The fighting on Culp's Hill had stopped. To whose advantage I didn't know. I trudged ahead, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, skirting the bloated body of a dead horse and stepping over dead men, their bodies burned black by the sun. Just two days ago I had to look away from the eyes of a dead man. Now I barely noticed them as anything more than another hurdle in my path. I couldn't stop to think about the fact that each one of them had been alive the day before. That each one of them had a family like me, like Abel.

Abel's body grew heavier with each step. He was quiet for much too long. Was I carrying a dead man? I jostled him, and he moaned.

Sweat poured down my face. His blood was hot and sticky on my shirt. Finally, I collapsed along the side of the road. There was no shade. No relief from the sun. I grabbed a cap from a dead Union man and used it to fan my friend. Blood still poured freely from his arm.

I rested for a few moments and then got to my feet again. Abel was breathing, but I could not rouse him to put his arms around my neck again. He didn't even wince when I touched him, but I could see he was still breathing. I grabbed him by the waist and tried to throw him over my shoulder. My arms and legs shook with exhaustion.

Men were waiting in the hot stillness. One offered to help me with Abel, but I worried what would happen when they realized he was a Reb. Finally I had to admit that I could not carry him alone.

A Wisconsin man carried him for me.

“You a Reb?” he asked me.

I shook my head. “I live in Gettysburg.”

His face was streaked with dirt and sweat. His eyes were tired and sad, but they were gentle when they looked at Abel.

“He's just a boy,” I said.

The man nodded and kept walking.

My eyes were focused on a tree just outside Meade's headquarters. Shade—blessed shade. I asked him to set Abel down there, and he leaned him up against the tree.

I gave Abel some water from the canteen, and once again it dribbled out of his mouth. I poured a little over his head, and then he was able to swallow some. “I'll be back,” I told him. “I'll be right back with the colonel.”

There was no response.

“Do you hear me, Abel Hoke?” I yelled. “Do you want to go home to that mama of yours in Tennessee?”

His eyelids fluttered, and then he gave me one of those funny little nods.

Soldiers milled about outside waiting for orders. Some read their Bibles. A few wrote letters home. I witnessed some men writing their names on their arms, so they could be identified if they were killed. Most simply stared into space.

I ran into Meade's headquarters, pushing past the guards who tried to block my way. “Colonel Braxton!” I yelled. “Colonel Braxton!”

“Braxton isn't here,” an officer told me. “What's this about?”

“I need a surgeon.”

“Is Braxton hurt?” the officer asked.

Would they send a surgeon to Colonel Braxton? One who wouldn't be spared for a Rebel drummer? I looked right into the officer's eyes. “He needs a surgeon.”

“Wait here.” The officer marched off and came back a few minutes later with a surgeon. He carried a medical kit.

“Take this man to Colonel Braxton,” the officer told me.

I nodded and led the way.

The surgeon startled when he saw Abel.

“I lied, but this drummer saved Colonel Braxton's life and I know the colonel would want to return the favor. I couldn't get the other surgeons to look at him.”

He knelt beside Abel and examined his forehead. “Just a scratch.” He stood and started to walk away.

“His arm,” I yelled. “His hand.”

The surgeon came back.

Abel yelled something fierce when the surgeon checked his arm. He pushed and pulled Abel's shoulder and it seemed to go right back to where it belonged in Abel's body rather than hanging at that funny angle.

His hand wasn't so easy to fix. The surgeon lifted Abel in his arms and started toward the house. “It has to come off,” he said. “The bones are smashed.”

I ran behind him. He carried Abel into what used to be a dining room. A long board was propped up on the backs to two chairs. There was blood all over and the air was thick with chloroform. A couple of injured men sat against the wall while medical people moved about. Flies buzzed around the open window. There was a pile of limbs just outside.

The doctor set Abel down on one of the boards and grabbed a knife. I closed my eyes and by the time I opened them it was all over. Abel's hand was gone and the stump was bandaged.

“Get some food and water into him if you can,” the surgeon said. “I've done all I can. Let's hope he doesn't get a surgical fever. It's in God's hands now.”

A couple of soldiers came by with a litter and carried Abel back outside. I asked them to let him down under the same tree.

I watched Abel's chest moving up and down. Was it my imagination or were his breaths smaller than they had been before?