Gallant Boys of Gettysburg (10 page)

“No, it wasn’t, Pa! I mean—it was more than a dream. Because I looked up at the stars last night and thought how God loves Tom better than any old star. And then I asked Him what to do, and then this dream made me think about the Poteets. We’ve
got
to do it, Pa!”

Jeff’s back was straight, and though his face was begrimed and his uniform in tatters, there was no surrender in him.

“You mean you think this idea came from the Lord?”

“I sure do, Pa.” Jeff’s mind worked rapidly. “It’s only about three miles back to the Poteets’ house. If we can borrow a wagon just long enough to get him there, they’ll take care of him. I know they will!”

“All right. I’ll get a wagon, and we’ll see what the Poteets say.”

Sarah held up the baby and whispered, “Aren’t you a fat old thing?” Then she leaned over and put William Munson down. “Abigail, I’m going over to Jenny’s. She hasn’t been here today, and she’ll want
to know how you are. Will you be all right for a while?”

“Yes, I’ll be all right,” Abigail said. She took her red-faced infant, who was beginning to cry, and cuddled him until he hushed. “Tell her to come and see young William Munson.”

“I’ll do that.” Sarah smiled.

When Sarah left the house she noted that there was no sound of gunfire. She had heard that the Confederates had been driven off and that the battle was over. But she had thought of little else except Tom, and even now as she hurried along the street she breathed a prayer for him.

When she got to the Wade house on Baltimore Street, she knocked on the door. There was no answer, and she knocked again impatiently. “I wonder if Jenny’s not up yet,” she murmured.

But then the door opened, and she saw Mrs. McClelland, Jenny’s sister. There was a strained look in Mrs. McClelland’s eyes, and she stood there silently.

“Is Jenny here, Mrs. McClelland?” Sarah asked.

There was no answer, and she realized that the woman had been crying.

“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Jenny,” Mrs. McClelland said. She pulled out a handkerchief and began to sob. “She’s dead!”

Sarah stood stock-still, unable to believe the news. She had been so concerned for Tom that never once had she thought of anything like this.

“But I saw her just yesterday,” she said.

Mrs. McClelland dabbed at her eyes. “She was making bread during the fighting, and a bullet came through two doors. It hit her in the back.” She began to sob again. “It killed her instantly.”

Mrs. McClelland related what had happened then. The cries of Mrs. McClelland and Jenny’s mother attracted some Federal soldiers. They had taken Jenny’s body to the cellar.

“They brought her up this morning, and she’s down at the funeral home.” She began to moan. “Oh, why did God let it happen?”

Sarah turned away, her heart seeming cold as ice. She made her way to the funeral home, where she found Jenny’s body already in a casket that, she was told, had been made for a Confederate officer.

As she looked down at the sweet face, so still, Sarah thought suddenly,
Johnston Skelly will never have a bride now. At least not Jenny
. She did not know, could not know at the time, but two weeks earlier Johnston Skelly had been wounded at the Battle of Winchester. The news of his death would come six days after the Confederates retired at Gettysburg.

She reached out and touched Jenny’s sleeve, whispering, “Good-bye, Jenny. You were a friend to me.”

Sarah left the funeral home and made her way back to the apartment, dreading to give the news to Abigail.

T
he sun was midway up in the sky as Nelson Majors drove the wagon down the dusty road. It had not rained for some time, and the wagon wheels sent up small puffs of white dust behind them. Overhead the sky was a hard blue, and there were only a few small fluffy clouds over to the west.

The wheels dropped into a rut, and Tom uttered a pained cry as he was jolted.

Jeff, sitting beside him, tried to shield him but could only say, “We’re almost there, Tom. It won’t be long now. You’ll be all right.”

“Where we going?” Tom muttered.

His lips were swollen, and his face was flushed. He had alternated all night between chills and fever, and even now he shivered although the sun beat down on the open bed of the wagon.

Perspiration stood on Jeff’s face, but he pulled the blankets closer under Tom’s chin. “We’re going to the Poteets’ house,” he said.

He had already told his brother this, but Tom slipped in and out of consciousness frequently and could not remember what was said.

The leg was inflamed. The doctor who changed the dressing just before they left had been apprehensive. “It doesn’t look too good. I think you’ve got some infection in that leg. Be sure you keep it clean, change the bandages. That’s about all you can do.”

Now, as they rolled along the road, Jeff glanced ahead to the white house where they had had dinner only a few days ago. It seemed an eternity ago to him—so much had happened since. What traffic was on the road was headed the other way, south, and when his father pulled the wagon off out of the way of the wounded and battle weary infantry who marched slowly along, kicking up more dust, Jeff thought,
I just hope my dream was really from God. Tom’s never going to make it if something doesn’t happen!

When the wagon drew up in front of the white frame house, Jeff jumped out without waiting for his father and ran up to the door. He knocked loudly and, while waiting for an answer, muttered, “I must be crazy. These are Yankee folks. They’ll never take care of a wounded Confederate.”

The door opened abruptly, and Claude Poteet stood there gazing at Jeff with his alert brown eyes. He ran his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, then smiled. “Well, it’s our young Confederate friend.” He turned and said, “Ellie, look who’s here!”

Ellie Poteet half shoved her husband out of the way. She was wearing a plain gray dress again, and her hair was wound around her head in a braid. “Why, it’s young Mr. Majors.” She looked over Jeff’s shoulder and saw the wagon and the Confederate officer sitting there holding the lines. Looking back to Jeff she asked, “What’s wrong?”

Jeff swallowed hard and tried to find the right words. “Well,” he said slowly, “my brother, Tom—he’s been shot.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.” Ellie Poteet’s warm brown eyes filled with compassion. “And is thee all right, young Mr. Jeff?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Jeff answered quickly. But he could not for the life of him get out what he had come to say. It had all sounded well enough back in the camp. Everything was noise there, and he’d been so confused. He would have grabbed at any hope. But now, standing here in the quietness of the morning and looking at this couple, he felt suddenly that he had done a foolish thing.

Claude Poteet glanced at the wagon, then back at Jeff. “Does thee wish to come in? My wife is a fine nurse. Perhaps she can help.”

Eagerly Jeff’s eyes lit up. “That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about, Mr. Poteet. But you’ll probably think I’m crazy.”

There was a little stream of humor in Claude Poteet. He smiled slightly and said, “Sometimes I think the whole world is crazy except me and my wife.” He glanced at Ellie and added slyly, “Sometimes I even wonder about her.”

“Hush thy foolishness, Claude!” Ellie said. Then she appeared to take in the desperate condition of Jeff’s uniform and the weariness and the worry in his face. “What is thy purpose, friend Jeff?”

“Well—” Jeff swallowed hard and finally blurted out, “Me and my pa, that’s him on the wagon, we’re worried about Tom. He lost his leg, you see, and he’s got an infection, and he’s got bad fever …”

“Ah, the poor lad,” Ellie said. “We heard that there were so many wounded that all the houses in Gettysburg are filled with soldiers, and the hospitals, such as they are, are overflowing.”

“Well, we have to get back to Virginia. But me and Pa are afraid that Tom won’t make it. It’s awful hard for a wounded man to ride in a wagon without springs all the way back through the hills. And he’s awful sick, Mrs. Poteet.”

The couple stood there watching Jeff. There seemed to be some sort of communication between them, although they did not speak.

Ellie asked suddenly, “How old is thee, Jeff?”

“I’m sixteen.”

Ellie Poteet’s round face suddenly grew sad. “Our own boy would have been just sixteen if he had lived through the cholera. He was not as tall as thee, but something about thee reminds me of him.”

“Let us talk to thy father,” Claude Poteet said.

Relieved to have some help to explain the situation, Jeff lifted his voice. “Sir, will you come over here?”

Nelson Majors wrapped the lines carefully, then jumped to the ground, his boots raising little dust clouds. He glanced back at Tom, then advanced to the porch. Taking off his hat he bowed, saying, “It’s good to see you again. I’ve thought of your hospitality a great deal.”

“Thy boy is wounded?” Claude Poteet inquired. “Would thee care to bring him inside?”

Jeff said quickly, “I haven’t told them yet about my dream.”

“Thy dream?” Ellie Poteet asked. “What is this about a dream?”

Jeff found it difficult to explain but finally he said, “I dreamed that we were trying to think of a way to get better care for Tom, and I dreamed about you.” He looked about and waved his hand. “You
were standing right here on the porch, and you were saying, ‘We will help thee.’ It was so clear! So I thought—”

“Why, I trust we will always help those in need,” Claude Poteet said quietly. “What exactly can we do for thee?”

“Well,” Jeff said, “I know it’s asking a lot, but we don’t think my brother will live unless he gets good care. Could you—” he swallowed, then came out with the words “—could I keep him here until he’s better?”

A silence fell then, and Jeff’s heart sank. He glanced desperately at his father, whose eyes were half closed and offered no encouragement. It was an enormous favor to ask. These were Yankees, not Southerners—and although they were not in the war, they had neighbors who were.

“Well, I guess it was just a crazy dream,” Jeff said. “We’ll just be—”

“I read in my Bible that God sometimes used dreams to speak to His people,” Claude Poteet said. His eyes grew thoughtful, and he turned to his wife.

She returned his gaze, and it seemed to Jeff that the two were communicating again.

Then a smile turned the corners of Claude Poteet’s lips upward. “Ellie and I feel that we should help thy son.”

“It could be dangerous—you know that,” Nelson Majors warned.

“We fear the Lord but not man,” Ellie Poteet said firmly. She was thinking quickly it seemed, and she said, “Husband, I think it might be best to put them in Clyde’s old room out in the barn. That way, if anyone comes into the house, he’ll be safe.”

“A good idea, wife.” Then Claude explained. “One of our hands fixed a very nice room up in the loft of the barn. He left some time ago, but it’s still suitable. Needs cleaning out….”

“I’ll do that. And I’ll take care of him,” Jeff said quickly. “You won’t have to do anything. I’ll do it all.”

“Well, then. Come along with me, young fellow, and we’ll go get it ready. Drive your rig around to the barn door, Major.”

Jeff had never been so relieved. He tried to thank his host. “I don’t know how to thank you for this, Mr. Poteet. It’s gonna save Tom’s life.”

“Why, we’re put on this earth to help one another, friend Jeff. I trust thee would do the same for me.”

In the barn a flight of steps led up to the loft, where a room had been framed off and even papered. Evidently Clyde had been a neat man, for there was a table, a bed, a washstand, and even carpet on the floor.

“Why, this is fine,” Jeff said. “And it’s private too. If anyone comes, they’ll never know we’re here.”

They made the bed ready, and then went downstairs to where the wagon was pulled up into the barn.

“Well, young fellow. Time for you to go upstairs.” Claude Poteet smiled at Tom.

It took both Jeff and his father to get Tom upstairs, but when they had stripped off his uniform and laid him on the bed, he gave a sigh of relief. “This is good,” he whispered and seemed to relax.

His face was still flushed though, and Claude Poteet said, “I’ll have Ellie come up. She is a fine nurse.”

Jeff and his father watched as Ellie Poteet cared for Tom. Jeff saw at once that she was indeed a fine nurse. She removed the bandage, cleaned the wound, and replaced the dressing with gentleness and firmness.

When finally it was time for the major to go, he said, “Jeff, I’ll have to say good-bye. Take care of your brother as best you can.”

Jeff wanted to hug his father but felt that wouldn’t be fitting—the Poteets were standing beside them.

Nelson had said his good-bye to Tom already, and now he embraced Jeff, holding him hard for a moment. “Jeff, I’ll never doubt your special dreams again.” Then he shook hands with Claude Poteet and smiled at the short, cheerful woman. “I think you’re an angel, Mrs. Poteet. God bless you for taking care of my son.”

Then he leaped into the wagon.

Jeff watched as he drove out and joined the line of retreat that was going down the road. He turned then to the Poteets and for one moment could not speak. At last he said, “Well, you’ve got a couple of Rebels on your hands, it looks like.”

“You’re looking better, Tom,” Jeff said. He took the empty bowl from his brother, who was sitting propped up in the bed, his face seemingly clear from all fever. “You look like you feel better.”

“I don’t think I could have felt much worse,” Tom said.

For two days they had been in the loft of the barn, and during that time Tom had been carefully cared for not only by Jeff but by the Poteets. The warm food, the clean linens, the dressing changes, and the cool baths that Mrs. Poteet had administered despite his protests had worked wonders.

“I don’t see how we’re gonna get out of here, though. The Yankees are gonna be thick as fleas, Jeff,” he muttered. There was unhappiness in his eyes, a shadow that had not been there before the battle. He looked down at his injured leg, and his lips tightened. “I’m nothing but a cripple. I couldn’t run if I had to.”