Boys of Wartime: Will at the Battle of Gettysburg (4 page)

Anger rushed through me like fire in a hayloft. I wanted to charge right over, knock that Rebel down, and save the Stars and Stripes. I imagined the whole town rallying behind me. We'd force those Rebels to stop singing their Confederate airs and take down their flag.

But I didn't. When you got down to it, there were five thousand Rebel soldiers and only a couple of thousand Gettysburg folks. We were no match for them.

The Rebels were so packed together on Baltimore Street that I couldn't even see a space between them. Dirt and sweat rose off their bodies and created a horrible stink. Instead I headed down Chambersburg toward Washington Street where it was less crowded.

I heard someone shouting up ahead and made my way through a small group of laughing Rebs. Truth to tell, a couple of Gettysburg folks were laughing, too. I gasped when I saw what they were laughing at.

Three ugly soldiers had lined up about a dozen Negroes.

“Dance old man,” one of the Rebels ordered. “If you don't have the energy to give a master a good day's work, we might have to shoot you here instead of marching you all the way back to Virginia.”

Old Mr. Carter, tears pouring down his face, slowly began to dance.

“How much you think he'll fetch, Joe?” the Rebel asked.

The one called Joe shrugged and scratched his neck. “A hundred, maybe two. Better than nothing.”

I searched the faces around me, waiting for one of the grown-ups to do something. Their eyes met mine and then slid away. They stared at their feet and stood silent.

Aunt Bess was among the Negroes. Why hadn't she left town? She held her head high and dignified. Others were crying and moaning. Mr. Nutter held tight to his grandson Basil's hand. I knew for a fact that Mr. Nutter had his freedom papers from his old master in Maryland, and Basil had been born right here on free soil. These were free people.

Joe put his hand on Basil's shoulder and eyed him up and down like he was livestock at a farm sale. “Found this one hiding in a chicken coop,” he laughed. “We'll have to wash off that chicken poop before we bring him to auction.” He looked Basil in the eyes. “What do you think, chicken? We've got a shortage of young bucks. I bet you'll sell for a thousand dollars or more.”

Basil's eyes were on fire. He clenched his jaw and said nothing.

The woman next to him dropped to her knees and begged to be killed right then and there.

Joe laughed and pointed his musket at her. “I'd be happy to oblige,” he drawled, “but I need the cash you'll fetch.”

My heart twisted in my chest. Where was the town council? Why didn't anyone do anything to stop this? I watched Aunt Bess. There was a sadness so deep in her eyes that I couldn't bear it. Before I knew it I was running toward Joe, screaming my head off in my own kind of Rebel yell. I kept my head down, but I saw feet scattering. I could only hope some of them belonged to the Negroes.

The next thing I knew I was flat on my back with a Rebel boot on my chest. There was a hole in the shoe, and I could see Joe's crusty, dirty toes. I tried to lift my head, but he held it down with the business end of his musket.

“Look what I've got here,” he drawled. “One of those Yankee abolitionists. You know what we do with abolitionists, don't you, boy?” he asked.

I couldn't answer. I waited for the shot that would end my life. All the noise around me stopped. My eyes were locked on his face—on the hatred in it. The Courthouse clock struck the four o'clock hour.

I closed my eyes. Every muscle in my body froze up. I couldn't even swallow.

“Be extra careful,” Mother had said. It pained me to think that her last memory of me would be one of me disobeying. Tears began to leak out of my eyes.

“I'll take him, Cap'n,” a voice said. It was liquid, Southern, and high like a boy's.

The boot pressure lifted a bit, but Joe was still ready to stomp the life out of me, or shoot me, or both. His musket still held my head to the ground.

“I'll take him to the Courthouse over yonder,” the voice said. It was nearer now. “With the other prisoners. They'll make sure he doesn't cause any more trouble.”

The speaker came into my range of vision. It was the drummer I had seen earlier, the one with more holes than trousers.

“Who are you?” Captain Joe demanded.

I was relieved to have Joe's anger directed at someone else, even for a second. My muscles thawed enough to start trembling.

“Abel Hoke, Tenth Tennessee,” he replied with a nod. He waved in the direction of the Negroes. “You keep 'em rounded up here. I'll take the boy to the Courthouse.”

Joe's eyes flicked from the drummer to me and back to the drummer. His men waited to see what he would do.

Abel Hoke took another step forward and talked so quietly that only Joe and I could hear him. “We're under orders not to hurt the civilians,” he said calmly. “I'll take him to the Courthouse. They'll keep him there with the prisoners.”

Joe took his boot off my chest and gave me a kick in the ribs. “You cost me three slaves, boy,” he spat.

I sat up, wiping the tears off my cheeks with shaking hands. The drummer stuck his hand out to pull me up, but I ignored him. I half expected Joe to change his mind and shoot me.

I guess the drummer did, too. He stepped between Joe and me and grabbed my arm.

“C'mon now,” he said sternly, pulling me to my feet.

I glared at him. I hated to be crying in front of the enemy. I hated it even more that a Rebel had saved my life.

We took a few steps, and I did my best to calm myself. I took big, shaky breaths until the urge to weep went away.

As soon as we were out of Joe's sight, I yanked my arm out of the drummer's grip. He paid me no mind, simply stuck out his hand, like he was introducing himself in church or some such thing.

“Abel Hoke from Tennessee,” he said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Fighting for the Cause

P
leased to make your acquaintance?
Was this Rebel drummer trying to make friends? I stared at his hand until he dropped it.

“Don't you worry none. I'm not taking you to the Courthouse,” he said, nodding. “That captain looked like a mean one. It was the only thing I could think of to get you away.”

He was helping me? “Are you a Rebel?” I asked.

“A loyal Southerner.” He nodded again. “Fighting for the cause.”

I soon learned that he ended almost every sentence with a sharp nod, as if he was verifying the truth of his statements.

“Fighting for slavery, you mean,” I corrected.

“My people don't own slaves,” he said. “I'd set every last one of them free if I could.”

I scratched my head, even more mystified. “Then what are you fighting for?”

“For the South,” he said simply. “The North can't come into our land and tell us what's what,” he said. “The South gets to decide things its own self. We don't need to be told what to do by no Yankees.”

“Slavery's evil,” I countered.

“You think our slaves have it worse off than the people working in your big city factories?” he asked.

I had no answer for that. I didn't know anything about factories. Or big cities. I had never even been to Philadelphia. “What about the Union?” I asked, getting kind of steamed. “All the states said they would stick together after we whipped the British in the Revolution. Seems to me that a bunch of states can't just take it into their heads to bust up the Union. It's not right. What kind of country would we have if every time some state got mad at the others they split off from the Union?”

“Ain't much of a Union if it takes away states' rights.” He was just as stubborn over the matter as I was.

“Ain't much of a state if it takes away a person's rights,” I yelled.

Abel frowned. “I'm not here to fight with you,” he said. “I go where the army sends me. I've got no quarrel with you.”

“What if I have a quarrel with you?” I asked.

We stared at each other, contemplating a fist-fight. I was bigger than him, but he was more muscled. Plus, we were surrounded by Rebel soldiers. I was outnumbered.

I took a step toward home, ending our contest. Even so, I didn't want him to think I was scared, or beholden to him. “You didn't save my life, you know. He wasn't going to shoot me,” I said. I don't know if that was true, but it felt good to say it.

“Maybe not.” Abel Hoke shuffled his toes in the dirt and looked away. Something came over his face. Sadness maybe, or maybe he was just tired.

I had hurt his feelings. “I'm Will Edmonds,” I said. “How long have you been a drummer?”

“Since we got news that Tennessee joined the Confederacy,” he said. “I mustered in the next day. I've been a drummer ever since.”

“How old were you?” He didn't look to be any older than I am, and the war started more than two years ago.

“Ten,” he answered. “Almost eleven.”

“And your folks let you?”

“Joined up with my daddy,” he said with a nod.

“My mother and father won't let me join up,” I admitted. “But I'm ready. I've been practicing my drumming.”

“Your daddy a soldier?” he asked.

I had to confess that he wasn't, sure that Abel's father was a general or some such thing. “My brother, Jacob, is—was—a soldier. He's in a Southern prison. My father's down in Washington, working at an army hospital. He says the North needs doctors more than they need soldiers.”

Abel nodded solemnly.

“Where's your father now?” I asked.

“Dead. Shiloh,” he said matter-of-factly.

Now I looked away. Some Gettysburg boys had joined up and died in the war, but no fathers that I knew of. It crossed my mind that one day I might have to say such a thing about Jacob— “Dead. Rebel prison.”—or even Father. I couldn't imagine being able to say the words so simply. I didn't know how to answer such a statement as that.

Luckily we had reached the end of the alley. “Courthouse is this way,” I said, turning onto Baltimore. “So's my house.”

He stayed at my side.

Confederate soldiers were all over the street. They had stacked their muskets and built cook fires. Some girls were singing for them. It made me sick for a minute to think that they were entertaining the enemy, and then I realized they were singing a pro-Union song. The Rebs didn't seem to mind. They countered with a song of their own.

“There's the Courthouse,” I said, pointing as we crossed West Middle Street.

Confederate soldiers were going in and out. Abel had said the Rebs were using it for a prison.

“We've got no call to go in there,” Abel said.

“Where's your unit?” I asked. “Won't they be looking for you?”

He shrugged. “Not before dark.”

I expected him to take his leave of me, but he stayed at my side. I didn't know how to ditch him. For all my high talk, I think he may have saved my life. Then I imagined what Grace's face would look like when I showed up at home with a filthy, smelly Reb drummer boy. I smiled for the first time since the Rebels rode into town.

Abel took my smile as an invitation to ask more questions. “Do you live with your ma?”

I nodded. “My mother and three sisters, one of whom thinks she's the Queen of Sheba.”

Abel sighed. “I have two sisters myself, and a little brother. I ain't seen them but once since the war started up.”

I didn't know what to say to that. He got that queer faraway look again.

“My school is up this way, too,” I told him. “It's vacation time, though.”

“We was studying mathematics when the war broke out,” he said. “And I was working on my spelling. Never could spell worth a darn.”

Should I tell him about my spelling medal? I eyed him for a moment, happy to have something to make me feel superior. But he was so friendly that I didn't. “Spelling's a nuisance,” I said. “Too many rules.”

“One of the fellows in our unit was a teacher before the war. He helped me some. He gave me this.” Abel pulled a small book out of his haversack.
Shakespeare's Sonnets
.

I didn't ask why the fellow didn't help him any more. I suspected he was dead, too, like Abel's father.

“I aim to go back and finish my schooling,” he said firmly. “When the war's won.”

I was tempted to ask, won by whom, but I didn't. I noticed Mrs. Buehler sitting on her front stoop chatting with a couple of the Rebels. Some folks were even feeding the soldiers. Everyone appeared to be downright chummy. But they were the enemy. It made my blood burn, but at the same time I was enjoying talking to Abel. Things were getting awfully confusing.

I guess Abel could see that. “We're not going to fight the people here,” he said. “We're here to fight the Bluebellies. We've got no quarrel with you.”

But I was for the Union. Jacob was in a Reb prison because he was for the Union. Father was in Washington for the same reason. And Abel's father was dead because he thought the South was right. So we did have a quarrel, didn't we? The whole business puzzled me to no end.

I thought about it as we walked up Baltimore Street. Albertus McCreary saw us together as we crossed High Street, and his eyes nearly fell out of his head. He watched me point out the Presbyterian Church as if I was giving a tour of the town. We passed the Pierce house and I showed Abel the tenpin alley in the back of the Shriver house. Ours was just beyond.