Boys of Wartime: Will at the Battle of Gettysburg (9 page)

I was filling the bucket when an idea started to form in the back of my mind. I thought of all the times Father had set out in the dark to help someone who had taken sick. It seemed like he was always going off in the night.

That's when it hit me. If the soldier was a surgeon, Union or Reb, he could move around in the dark. Go from place to place. Tend the wounded.

Father had left a medical kit behind. What if the soldier carried it and pretended to be a doctor? Would he be able to get across enemy lines?

I set my bucket down and looked all around. No one appeared to be watching me. I crept into the carriage house to share my plan.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

White Flags

 

 

 

I
whispered my plan in the dark while the soldier wolfed down the bread. He was still crouched behind the carriage.

“I'll need a green sash,” he said.

“Green sash?”

“A surgeon's sash,” he told me.

I didn't think we had such a thing.

“It might be safer for me to wear one of your father's suits. Pretend I'm him,” he said. “Can you bring one to me?”

“I'll try to get one out of the house. There are Rebs inside. Wounded ones.”

He crept forward and gripped my arm. “Do what you can,” he said. “You'll have to come with me. Show me the way. Say you're my son.”

I gasped, much too loudly, and then looked around to see if anyone was close enough to hear. I thought my plan would be enough to keep me at home, but he still wanted me to go with him. My heart was drumming in my ears. I could tell this man was used to giving orders. But I wasn't a soldier. I was scared. And I was probably putting Mother in danger by helping him.

I could just leave him here, I thought. Go back to the house. Never bring him the suit, the medical kit. Help Mother with the wounded. Put him out of my mind. He could find his own way to the Union lines.

It was like he could read my thoughts.

“I'm counting on you, son,” he said.

I nodded and slunk back into the yard, sure that I would be shot at any moment. I picked up the bucket and crept in the back door. I realized my legs were shaking when I collapsed on the floor. Sweat dripped down my face, or maybe it was tears. I was too mixed up to know.

The tramp of the guards outside reminded me that we were prisoners. My breath came in quick gasps and I couldn't seem to calm it. Finally, I focused on a piece of crockery on a shelf. My thoughts and my breathing slowed.

The kitchen was dark. Sometime during the day the gasworks had been shut down.

Mother came in with a candle and found me. “Are you hurt?” she asked, rushing over to check my arms and my legs.

“No. Not hurt,” I told her. “It's something else.”

Mother sat on the floor with me while I whispered my story. Her eyes were wide and frightened in the candlelight. I told her everything in one big rush.

Mother looked as stunned as I felt. It was clear she had to think on it a bit. “I'll just take this into the other room,” she said, picking up the bucket. “The men are asking for water.”

“He wants me to go with him,” I blurted. “To lead the way. Says he needs help getting across the lines.”

Mother dropped the bucket. Water sloshed onto the floor. “You're just a boy,” she said.

“What if the papers he's carrying can make a difference in the battle? What if they'll help the Union to win?” I asked. “Help Jacob to come home.”

One of the Union men came into the kitchen then, looking for us. Mother asked him if surgeons and their assistants were generally safe from enemy fire.

He didn't ask why she needed that information. “Surgeons and drummers often take to the battlefield after dark, searching for the wounded. Carrying them off the field. He waves a white flag if need be. Folks generally don't shoot. Generally, not always.”

Then he picked up the water bucket. “I'll take this into the parlor so that you can be alone for a moment.”

“I guess I should go with him,” I said reluctantly.

Her eyes filled with tears. She was quiet for a long moment.

I wanted her to refuse her permission, and I wanted her to grant it at the same time. Too many feelings battled for attention in my body. Fear. Shame about being afraid. Anger at the Union officer. And even a little excitement about the idea of becoming the hero I was in my daydreams. Fear seemed to be the strongest, though.

“Jacob would do it,” I said. I knew, when I said it, that it was true. “I can help him find his way, and then come back.”

“You won't make that journey twice,” Mother said finally. “Find the girls at the Weikert farm and wait out the battle there. It will be safer.”

“What about you?” I asked. “If I don't come back, won't the Rebels arrest you? Or shell the house?”

“Those Rebels are too wounded to notice. Two of our Union boys are hardly hurt at all. They can help me with the others.”

She pulled me into her arms. We sat mashed together on the kitchen floor. Then Mother got to her feet. “I'll see about getting one of your father's suits.”

I leaned back against the wall, closed my eyes, and said a silent prayer. If Mary McLean was brave enough to face the Rebels with her song, I could summon the courage to wave a white flag and pretend the man in the carriage house was my father.

I heard mother walking through the parlor. “One of our neighbors is in need of cloth for bandages,” she said. “I'll be right back to check on you boys.”

She came into the kitchen with a bundle. “There is no shame in telling him no,” she said.

“I'm going,” I said. My voice wavered.

“There are two white cloths in there,” she told me. “If that man out there does anything foolish, you leave him to his fate,” she said fiercely. “You keep yourself safe.”

I promised that I would.

“What's his name?” she asked.

“I don't know.”

“I'll need his name before you leave,” she said. “I'll not send my boy out into the night without knowing the name of the man he's risking his life for.”

I slipped outside with the bundle and brought it to him.

“What's your name?” I whispered.

“My name?”

“My mother requires your name.”

“Colonel William Braxton,” he said. “I'm one of General Meade's aides.”

“I'll be back,” I told him.

Mother waited by the back door. Her face looked drawn and tired. I whispered the colonel's name. She nodded and pulled me into another hug before placing a kiss on my forehead. She handed me Father's medical chest.

“I won't watch you leave,” she said. “But I'll be watching for you to come home when the battle's over.”

I nodded, then waited until she was in the parlor before I slipped outside again. The colonel was standing just inside the carriage house. He held his uniform.

“Bury this,” he ordered. “If the Confederates find it there will be trouble.”

I knelt in the garden and pretended to be searching for something among the trampled ruins while I dug. As soon as I judged the hole deep enough, I went back to the door of the carriage house.

He handed me his uniform. I pointed to his rifle and his saber. “I'll need those, too,” I said. “Surgeons have no call for them.”

Reluctantly, he handed them over. I dropped them on top of the uniform and pushed the dirt back on top. I hoped my work wouldn't be obvious in the light of day.

When I stood and brushed the dirt off my trousers, he stepped out of the carriage house. Father's suit was too short in the legs, but the jacket fit the colonel okay.

It was time to begin our journey.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Dr. Edmonds

 

 

 

I
tried to ignore the pops and whistles of sharpshooter bullets as I pushed aside the loose board in our fence and led the colonel into the alley and toward Washington Street.

“What's my name?” the colonel whispered.

“Doctor Joseph Edmonds,” I whispered back.

I took a deep breath and tried to steady my quaking knees. Washington Street was full of Rebel soldiers. Some were sleeping with their rifles in their hands, some were singing, others were just staring into the night. A few glanced at the colonel's medical kit, visible in the glow of their campfires, and looked away. Perhaps this would be easier than I thought.

When we reached South Street, I deemed it best that we head back to Baltimore. It was a more direct route to the cemetery. I tripped over someone and started to apologize, then realized, by the stillness of him, that he was dead. I shivered, despite the heat.

A Rebel guard stopped us on the corner of Baltimore Street. He raised his pistol and pointed it at the colonel.

“I'm Dr. Edmonds,” the colonel said.

It was the first time I heard his full voice. We had been whispering up until that time. It was a strong, confident baritone.

Even so, the Reb eyed him suspiciously. “There are plenty of hospitals that way,” he said, pointing toward the Courthouse.

The colonel was as cool as a steel knife. “We were ordered to attend a wounded officer up the street a ways.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “This is my son. He's going to assist me.”

“Where?” the Reb asked.

The colonel hesitated. Of course he didn't know. He didn't know the town. I had to speak up.

“At the Rupp house,” I said, nodding in that direction. “Just past the tannery.” My voice quivered a bit, but not too badly.

“A Confederate officer,” the colonel added. “Very seriously wounded. He can't be moved.”

I waited for the Reb to pull the trigger. My legs stiffened as if all on their own they had decided to run. I gritted my teeth and dug my heels into the ground so I could stand still.

The Reb let us pass.

“What's past the Rupp house?” the colonel whispered.

“Snider's Wagon Hotel,” I whispered back.

We were stopped by several guards, but the colonel gave the same story each time. The Rebs appeared to be in pretty high spirits. They had won the day and were unconcerned about the possibility of a spy in their midst.

One asked us to stop and tend his fellow soldier.

The colonel knelt and looked at the gash in the man's leg. I held my breath and got ready to run. Did he know about doctoring, or would he give us away?

“There's a very badly wounded officer up ahead,” he said gently. “This'll wait until I can get back to you.” He patted the soldier on the arm. “You'll be fine, son.”

“Much obliged, Doc,” the Rebel said.

My breath came out in one big rush. I never would have guessed the colonel was lying.

Finally, we reached the Rebel pickets—the soldiers closest to the Union lines. They were just about even with the Rupp house. I knew there had to be Union pickets not too far ahead. I pulled the handkerchief out of my pocket and raised it over my head. The moon was full. I told myself the white cloth would be visible.

“Where do you think y'all are going?” a gruff voice demanded.

The colonel put a hand on my shoulder again. “I'm Dr. Edmonds. There's a man ahead in the Wagon Hotel who needs doctoring. His courier came to the Courthouse a little while ago. Said it was urgent.”

“Where's the courier now?” The Reb placed his hand on his pistol.

The colonel pretended not to notice. He shrugged. “Ran on ahead while I was restocking my medical kit.” He held the wooden box up as proof.

“Why didn't I see him?”

The colonel shrugged again. “Slipped by unnoticed I expect.”

Anger flashed in the Rebel's eyes.

“He's one of yours,” the colonel said quickly. “So is the wounded man. An officer. One of Lee's men, I think.”

My eyes darted from the pistol to the Reb's face and back again. A sharpshooter's bullet sailed over our heads toward the Union's lines. I jumped.

“Why is there a boy with you?” the Rebel demanded.

“My son,” the colonel said calmly. “He's been assisting me.”

“Does your son know that the Wagon Hotel is in the Bluebellies' hands?” the Rebel asked. His voice was full of sarcasm.

“I have no enemies,” the colonel said. “I'll treat any man who is wounded and needs my care.”

The Reb said nothing.

“Perhaps the officer is a prisoner,” the colonel said sternly. “This is a life-and-death matter. You must let us go to him.”

The man's hand tightened around his pistol.

Then another voice spoke up, coming to us out of the dark. “That's the doctor's son,” it said. “I seen him the other day.”

It was too dark for me to see that funny little nod of his, but I knew the voice. It was Abel Hoke.

He came closer, visible now in the moonlight. He caught my eye for a moment and gave me one of those nods before he turned back to the Rebel officer. “Sure would be a shame to let one of our officers die, especially if the enemy is willing to let the doc treat him.”

“That's enough, drummer,” the officer said.

I could feel my colonel's eyes on me. His grip on my shoulder tightened. It felt like a threat, like he was afraid I was in league with the enemy.

Abel was as cool as the colonel. He gave me another one of those nods of his.

The Reb stepped aside and let us pass, puffing out his chest to let us know who was really in charge. “I grant you permission. Be sure to wave that white flag of yours so you don't get shot.”