Boys of Wartime: Will at the Battle of Gettysburg (15 page)

They would find Gettysburg changed. As I rode up Baltimore Street I passed a photographer from New York City who was taking a picture of an artillery shell still stuck in the side of a house. Two Sisters of Mercy carried supplies into the Catholic Church. Mrs. Shriver was showing a gawker the bullet holes in her house and the garret window Rebel sharpshooters had used to fire on the Union men on Cemetery Hill.

“Two of them died right behind that window,” I heard her say.

Every home in town carried battle scars. My own escaped with just a couple of bullet holes, but our carriage house and fence had both been torn up for barricades.

It was a pleasure to put Molasses back into her own stall, even if the wall wasn't fully there. Abel got out of bed for the first time. He sat in a chair in the sunshine and watched me brush her until her coat shone, and I could tell she had missed the attention.

Mother said Abel's recovery was a pure miracle. There was no more fever. His wound was not yet healed, but it showed no signs of gangrene.

I pointed to his bandage

“Does it hurt much?” I asked.

“Funny thing,” Abel said, “it's like my fingers hurt, even though they're gone. But the wound only itches.”

“Jacob's whole arm is gone,” I told him.

He nodded. “I'm right lucky I'll still be able to push a plow,” he said. “But the little ones will have to do most of the harvesting.”

I patted Molasses on the nose and she whinnied. “She's happy to be home,” I said.

Abel nodded. “It's about time I think on getting home my own self,” he said.

“What? You're not healed yet.” Abel had only been with us for a week or so, but he was already a member of the family. The twins liked him better than they did me, and Grace didn't dare correct his speech or tug on his hair or order him about.

“Healed enough to sit on a train. It's time for me to get home to my own mama. She's been fending for herself for too long now.”

I continued to pet Molasses, thinking of ways I could change his mind.

“You can't take a train all the way home,” I said. “How are you gonna get into the South?”

Abel shrugged. “I reckon I can get a train to Washington. From there I'll cross into Virginia. Walk.”

“You're not going to be a soldier again, are you?”

From everything we read in the papers, the defeat at Gettysburg had been a crushing blow to the Southern army. The day after they lost the battle here, Vicksburg, Mississippi, fell to the Union, too. But somehow, the South fought on.

I remembered that long line of Rebels I had seen on the last day of the battle. The ones that kept coming and coming and coming even though they knew they were about to be slaughtered. Would the South fight until every last one of them was dead? Would Abel?

He was quiet for some time.

“Are you?” I asked again.

Finally, he shook his head and sighed. “Ain't much use for a one-handed drummer. Can't shoot neither. I don't think the North has any right to tell the South what's what, but I'm not going to fight that war any longer.”

I hadn't changed my views either. “The states have to stick together,” I said. “They can't just up and leave the Union every time they don't like something. My great grandfather fought to free our country from England.
All
the colonies fought together for what was right. What will happen to our country if the South wins and cuts us in half?”

“You think the country as a whole is more important than the states. That's not so,” Abel said. “Who's in charge in your house?”

I snorted. “Grace.”

Abel frowned. “No. Your papa, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“What if the town came into your house and said your papa wasn't in charge anymore? Started telling you what to do.”

I wouldn't like that—not at all. I had to think for a minute. “If my papa was doing something wrong, maybe that would be the right thing. And slavery's wrong. You said so yourself.”

“I said my people didn't own any slaves. I don't know if it's wrong or right. I'd rather be a slave in the South than be stuck in one of your Northern factories, or one of your mines. You think those folks have it any better than our slaves?”

I didn't know anything about factories or mines, but I knew that in the North people got paid for their work. “They get wages,” I said. “And they can leave any time.”

Abel simply looked at me.

I knew we could argue over this forever and never reach an agreement. But we didn't have to fight over it either. I could disagree with Abel without wanting to kill him. Why couldn't the North and the South?

“You know, my mother's going to try and keep you here until the war's over and you can take a train all the way home,” I said.

“I know,” Abel said with a grin. “But as soon as I'm strong enough, she'll let me go just the same.”

We were walking into the kitchen when we heard a knock on the front door. Mother showed Colonel Braxton—now Brigadier General Braxton—into the parlor. He had been wounded in the leg on that third day, in what folks had begun to call Pickett's Charge, and he walked with a slight limp.

He seemed way too big for the parlor chair. It was as if he didn't belong in regular houses, like he was more fit for the battlefield than supper tables.

Grace brought in a pot of tea and sat down, too, simpering like he was her beau or something.

After thanking Abel and me for our service to him, he turned to Mother. “I was very impressed with your son's bravery and his presence of mind.”

I sat up a little straighter. Was I going to get a medal? Would I stand on a podium in the Diamond while people made pretty speeches about me? The general would slip a medal around my neck, a band would launch into “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and everyone would applaud.

That was an old daydream. Suddenly I wondered whether I still wanted that kind of recognition. I still believed that the Union had to stay together, and the South forced us to fight when they fired on the flag. But I wished there was another way—other than killing—to end the war.

I was still pondering those matters when General Braxton asked me to help him see if his saber was still buried in the garden.

We knelt in the dirt, running our hands through the trampled earth until my fingers found his uniform, wrapped around his rifle and his saber.

His saber wasn't the only thing he wanted.

“I'm leaving Gettysburg tomorrow and I'd like to take you with me. I need an aide. Someone to handle my papers. Act as my messenger. A boy who can keep his head in tough situations.”

I hesitated. I knew the general's offer was a great honor. But it was not one I wanted—not anymore.

“You won't be on the battle lines. There will be no immediate danger.”

I remembered trying to get Grace and the little ones away from the fighting. But there had been fighting—immediate danger—everywhere we turned. Battle lines had a habit of moving.

“You would be doing a fine service for your country,” General Braxton said.

“I'm proud to be asked,” I said slowly. I thought about all those daydreams I had about bringing glory to my family and to my country. Part of me wanted that. Sometimes my fingers still itched to rattle a drum, to load a musket, to wave the flag.

Then I considered the destruction around Gettysburg, and the death. Death wasn't glorious. It was scary and ugly, and it seemed as if it hadn't changed a thing. The war kept on. Those of us left behind had to bury the bodies, send on the unfinished letters, and greet the family members who came looking for their dead.

I almost told him that my parents would never agree to such a scheme, and that was true. But there was another truth, too. “I'm all for the Union, but I don't believe that men standing on opposite sides and shooting each other to death can rightly decide any question.”

He looked for a moment as if he might disagree, but then he nodded. “I trust you'll be in touch if you change your mind.”

“Where do you go from here?” I asked.

“We're following Lee's men south,” he said. Then he wiped the dirt off his saber and handed it to me. “With my thanks.”

We were silent as I walked him to the street.

The general shook my hand and said good-bye.

“Be safe,” I said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A New Birth of Freedom

 

 

 

 

A
few weeks after the battle ended people began to speak of a new cemetery for the fallen soldiers. Most had been buried where they fell. Soon land was bought and bodies were brought from all parts of the battlefield to be reburied there.

The greatest orator in the country, Edward Everett, was to make a speech. Even more exciting, President Lincoln agreed to come and say a few words at the dedication ceremony.

The first frost had put an end to the terrible stench, but you could still see signs of the battle everywhere.

In the days leading up to the exercises, Gettysburg was once again crowded with people. The hotels were overflowing, and every house had guests. Father's cousins from New Jersey were with us, along with the family of one of the Union men Mother had taken care of during the battle. You could scarce take a step in the night without stepping on someone, and the men had to sleep sitting up in the parlor.

I wished Abel were still here, but we had finally gotten a letter that told us he made it safely home to his mama. He asked me to visit him when the war ended, and I wrote back that I would.

Mother and Grace made a feast the night before the exercises. Farmers said it would take three years before they had fully replaced all that was lost to the Rebels' raids and to the battle, but we had food enough. Turkey and plum pudding were on the menu, along with sweet potatoes, onions, apples, and sweet pickles. I snatched a pickle every chance I got. Of course Grace spied me.

“Leave some for the rest of the party,” she snapped.

I stuck my tongue out at her.

She sighed and turned to Mother. “He's such a child.”

I rolled my eyes at Jacob, and he grinned. Grace had been a little in awe of him when he first came home, but it wasn't long before she started bossing him around, too. He had started in at the college and intended to become a minister.

“Are you sorry you can't be a doctor like Father?” I asked. That's what he wanted to be before the war.

Jacob shook his head. “I've seen enough blood. Besides, people won't object to a one-armed preacher.”

“Don't get all dried up and serious like some preachers,” I told him.

“Or some sisters,” he joked.

Grace stuck her tongue out at him, and he laughed.

 

Jacob and I had had many talks about the war. I was afraid he wouldn't look kindly on the fact that I had made friends with a Rebel and taken him in, but Jacob said he made Rebel friends of his own.

“This war was unavoidable,” he told me. “The debate about states rights versus a strong federal government has been going on since George Washington's day. Slavery is the cause that brought it to a head, but it's been coming for a long time.”

“Will it end soon, do you think?” I asked.

Jacob took a deep breath and let it out again. “The South isn't giving up, are they?” he asked.

I shook my head.

He put his hand on my shoulder. “They'll run out of men long before we do,” he said. “The North is better equipped to fight, but the South has a stronger commitment to their cause.”

I sat at my bedroom window that night thinking about those things and about the next day's exercises. People paraded up and down the street all night, unable to find a place to sleep. I hadn't gotten to the train station in time to see the president's arrival, but I fully intended to see him at the ceremony the next day.

I wondered if he would see me in the crowd. I imagined the people parting as he walked toward me. “You must be the boy I have heard about,” he'd say. “The one who escaped across enemy lines and helped win the battle.”

“I was proud to do it, sir,” I'd answer. “I only wish that winning the battle would have brought the war to an end.”

“We all long for peace,” the president would say. “But some causes are worth fighting for.”

The next thing I knew the sun was up and I had a crick in my neck from sleeping on the windowsill.

As soon as I could, I escaped all the hubbub at home and raced down to the Diamond. President Lincoln was staying at the home of David Wills, and I hoped to get a glimpse of him. My strongest wish was to shake his hand.

Around ten o'clock, Mr. Lincoln came out of the house and mounted his horse. A column rode up Baltimore Street with the president at the center. I ran beside them, keeping him in my sight. His horse was medium-sized and the president was very tall. His legs dangled, almost touching the ground, but he appeared to be a fine horseman.

I lost my place at his side when the procession turned into the new cemetery. Even so, I managed to squeeze my way through the crowd to the platform where the exercises were to be held. I stood right at the bottom of the stairs and hooked my arm around the railing so that no one could push me away.

Edward Everett spoke first. He talked all about the battle and the town and the brave work the townspeople had done in caring for the wounded. It was a fine speech and a long one, but I barely listened. I was watching the president.