Two Girls of Gettysburg (23 page)

In the kitchen, I found Grace trying to comfort Margaret, who was seated at the kitchen table, dabbing at her red eyes with a towel. Grace’s belly stuck out, large and round, momentarily distracting me.

“Why, Miz Lizzie! How did you know to come just now?” she asked.

“My mother sent me. We just received a letter—”

“Then you also know.” Margaret held up a telegram. “Father was
able to get this through—oh, my sister, my poor dear Rosanna!” she lamented, wiping the corners of her eyes.

“For goodness’ sake, what happened to her?” I cried. “She’s not dead, is she?”

Margaret only sobbed harder, but Grace, with a mournful look, held out a telegram, and I took it and read the simple message that John Wilcox had contracted measles and dysentery and was dead.

Rosanna
Chapter 24

May 6, 1863 somewhere (?) north of Suffolk

A few days ago I fell asleep, and when I awoke, my world had turned upside down. Oh, it pains me to put down the words no new wife ever thinks to utter:

My husband is dead.

When he showed signs of a rash, I thought it only a mild case and was not very concerned. Hadn’t his strength already prevailed over two wounds and typhoid? Then I became sick, and while I was ill, he died. Alas, I blame myself, for if I could have held his hand, I might have pulled him from the jaws of death and nursed him to health again.

He died on the 3rd of May. I woke up on the 4th in a lurching wagon.

Mrs. Throckmorton said I had been delirious for two days. “Like a tree struck by lightning, you just toppled over. But you’re strong; you’ll heal.” She cooed over me like a mother over an infant.

“Where is John? Is he well again?” I asked, still innocent.

Then she broke the sad news to me. At first I disbelieved her. But her sorrowful look confirmed the truth. She took me to her wide, soft breast while I choked out denials as if they would change the course of fate. I begged to go back, but even sitting up made me dizzy. Mrs.
Throckmorton said that Tom would arrange for John’s body to be sent to Richmond.

“You should have left me behind too,” I cried.

“I couldn’t let you wake up to find yourself alone and a widow,” she said tenderly.

“I mean, why not leave me to die as well?” I said, immune to all comfort.

“You mustn’t ever say such a thing,” she said firmly. “It is a sin against the Lord to wish for death. You were more ill from exhaustion than from measles. You were not about to die.”

I turned away and lay facing the side of the wagon. Tears seeped from my eyes and the wagon rocked with the broken rhythm of my thoughts: My husband is gone! John lives no more. He is dead.

I passed the 5th and today sleeping, waking only to cry and sleep again. What will become of me? My face feels leaden, as if it will never lift in a smile again. The act of speaking is a great effort.

I asked Mrs. Throckmorton if someone was with him when he died, and did he call for me? She said Hiram Watt was with him. She made me sit up and eat, and said tomorrow I must try walking. Then she handed me my journal, saying, “It will do you good to write, empty out all your feelings, and make room inside for God’s healing love.”

But I am already empty and feel nothing.

May 7, 1863

I don’t know where we are. Someone said we are marching to join the rest of Lee’s army after its victory at Chancellorsville. I hardly care.

Today when we stopped to pitch camp, Hiram Watt and a few fellows came by to pay their respects. I managed to thank Hiram without breaking down in tears. He fiddled with his hat brim and, blinking,
said, “John’s last words to me were ‘Tell Rosanna I love her.’ So I’m tellin’ you. Tom was there too, he heard it.” At this I wept anew, but afterward felt a little comforted.

Then to please Mrs. Throckmorton, I walked around for twenty minutes and it tired me so much I had to lie down again.

May 8, 1863

This evening I took a longer walk down a little-used road. Mrs. Throckmorton means well with her prayers and ministration, but I wanted to be alone.

Robins and sparrows hopped along the path before me, chirping. May apples shaped like umbrellas spread over the shady floor of the woods, while bluebells nodded at its edge. Yet a curtain seemed to separate me from the freshness of nature. Can the flowers decide not to bloom or the birds decline to sing again because the winter was harsh?

No. But I don’t know how they do it—how they keep growing.

May 9, 1863 near Petersburg

Today we forded a creek greatly swollen by the rain. I crossed on Dolly’s back near the end, holding on to a rope secured to a tree on either side of the creek. The banks had been beaten into a muddy mire, and the water was turgid. Midstream, I felt the strong pull of the current and was tempted to let it bear me under and away. Through weakness, I believe, I lost hold of the rope, and as we began to drift, I panicked and screamed, clutching Dolly’s mane. This startled her and she began to flounder, and water washed over her back, drenching me to the chest. I was terrified, certain that we would be drowned. There was a commotion on the bank, much frantic shouting and waving. I urged Dolly to the shore, and moments later her hooves found the muddy bottom. With a great effort she carried us out of the sucking stream.

It surprised me to discover that though the mind may yearn toward death, some force in the body surges up and demands to live.

May 10, 1863

Still clinging to my steady Dolly, still marching. It matters not where. I scan the ranks of infantry for the bright bandana John always wore around his hat for me. It’s a habit. Then I remember he is gone and feel a dull aching deep in my chest.

Tom appeared late in the afternoon, riding a horse with bullet-scarred flanks. I was surprised to see him. I had not thought about his loss, I realized with a twinge of guilt. We were partners in grief, but did not speak of it.

“Did you know you’re a free man, Tom?”

He nodded somberly. Sadness weighed down his features.

“Why are you still here, then?”

“I’m obliged to see Mastuh John’s possessions rightfully bestowed,” he said with formal dignity, handing me John’s haversack and mess kit, his canteen, and his rifle. I hung them over the pommel of my saddle, except for the rifle.

“You keep this,” I said, unwilling to take the heavy weapon. Tom shook his head firmly.

“That’d be askin’ for a heap of trouble,” he said.

“Of course. I wasn’t thinking,” I said.

“An’ there’s one more thing Mastuh John give me fo’ you,” said Tom, handing me a small leather pouch. I opened it up to find it stuffed with money.

“Not gambling money!” I said in dismay.

“No, ma’am. You know Mastuh John gave up gambling. This was all his pay he saved up. Said it was to settle a debt to your father.”

I sobbed aloud, tears wetting my cheeks. I recalled my rash theft
and our mutual shame. To think that John had been planning in secret to make restitution for my wrong! I felt a surge of love and belated longing for my honorable, dear husband.

“It’s not really possible to put the past entirely behind us, is it?” I mused, more to myself than to Tom, as I caressed the pouch.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Tom, looking close to tears himself. “Well, I’d best be on my way.”

“Where are you going now?”

“To Richmond, to accompany Mastuh John’s body an’ pay my respects to the elder Mastuh Wilcox and his missus. Then I’m goin’ north.”

“I will come with you to Richmond,” I said, making my decision that very moment. All my belongings were with me. I bade farewell to Mrs. Throckmorton, asking her to explain to Dr. Walker that without John, I have no reason to remain with the regiment. She regarded me sadly but did not try to stop me from going, only called out a blessing as I veered away.

May 11, 1863

Though we were only fifteen miles from Richmond, it took us an entire day to cover the distance. Tom had repaired a battered ammunition wagon to carry John’s coffin, and a wheel broke, delaying us. The road was crowded with soldiers who touched their caps out of respect as we passed. I wished for a veil to hide my naked sorrow from their eyes. To make better time, we detoured along the James River, passing factories and a prison camp for Yankees. Hundreds of tents were visible crowded together on an islet in the river.

A year ago I fled to Richmond, a foolish girl mourning a Northern boy who never loved her. Today I come home a Southern widow, fully entitled to grieve.

May 12, 1863 Richmond

All of Richmond grieves. It was the funeral of General Stonewall Jackson, hailed as the purest, bravest, and noblest of men. He died from wounds inflicted by the mistake of his own men at Chancellorsville, an ironic but nonetheless tragic end. I saw the procession pass, the general’s warhorse with its empty saddle, followed by the black-draped carriage bearing his body. My grief for John flows on the general tide of mourning. Everyone who has lost a brother, husband, son, or father weeps not only for Jackson but for themselves, yet with that crying comes little comfort.

May 14, 1863

John’s parents held a small funeral for him in their church. Prayers were spoken and hymns sung without my comprehending them. I have only one question for God: if he is the author of life, then who is responsible for death?

Tom was seated with the other servants behind the Wilcox family, but we did not speak. I wonder if he knows about my theft? He would lose all respect for me. It is time to bare the secret—to confess to my father and restore the money.

May 16, 1863

Alas, I could not bring myself to speak to Father, heaping old shame upon new grief. I tried to write to Margaret but gave up. Mother had already sent the news. Although I long to be in touch with my sister and Lizzie, what can I write that does not seem to beg for their pity?

Living in my family’s house is like wearing a shoe that pinches my foot unbearably. Nor can I bear to live in the cottage where John and I
spent a few happy weeks and where we planned to raise our own family.

Is there no place that I can call home? Richmond hardly resembles the city I remember. In April women took to the streets and rioted for bread, looting the stores until the militia drove them back. While people are starving, others grow rich running the blockade and parading in the streets like dandies. Everyone talks of slave uprisings, real and imagined. Yankee raiders captured President Davis’s Mississippi plantation and most of his 137 slaves fled after robbing the house. Those who are recaptured will be tortured, maybe killed. This is the unseen consequence of Lincoln’s freedom proclamation and the bitter fruit of secession and war: no one has a safe or proper home anymore.

May 20, 1863

I cannot shake off this lethargy. I sit in Mother’s parlor writing, wearing borrowed black crepe, black cuffs, and a black collar. I am too young to be a widow—younger even than Margaret was when Joseph Roth died. Did she feel such guilt and anger as I do? One minute I blame John’s death on the generals and presidents who stirred up this hornet’s nest of war. The next minute I blame myself for being unable to save him. Then my other great character flaw rises up to rebuke me: lack of steadfastness. Once again I have abandoned my responsibilities and run away from the scene of my grief. I had hoped marriage would steady me, but lacking my husband, I bob and drift like a boat without an anchor.

May 25, 1863

In a volume of poems in Papa’s library, I happened upon an elegy written by Tennyson on the death of his friend. It contains this memorable verse:

I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
’Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

May this inspire me to put aside my vain regrets and rather dwell upon the brief happiness John and I enjoyed.

May 26, 1863

The business of settling John’s affairs is almost complete, the signing of tax documents in the lawyer’s office and the filing of pension requests. Sad indeed, that a man’s life is reduced to a stack of papers.

Mother tells me that nurses are sorely needed at Chimborazo Hospital. Perhaps next week I will feel more like going there to inquire.

May 28, 1863

Today was a day of reckoning.

I returned the deed to the cottage to Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox. I sold most of its furnishings, taking a loss on everything we had purchased, but that is no matter. I told Mother and Father that I plan to lodge in a respectable rooming house and seek employment. To my surprise, they did not object.

Then, taking a deep breath, I produced the leather pouch with John’s savings, combined with the money I had gotten from selling our furniture. I began my well-rehearsed explanation, taking care to emphasize my own guilt. I concluded, fighting back tears, “So it wasn’t a matter of impropriety, as you thought. It was worse. I was dishonest and deceitful. I am sorry and I ask your forgiveness.”