The Union Quilters (23 page)

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Authors: Jennifer Chiaverini

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Dorothea seated herself on a bench and decided to skim Thomas’s letter while she waited for Gerda, in case Thomas had penned a few passionate lines of his own that she would not want to share with her friend—or, more private yet, expressions of the deep melancholy that had colored his last few letters. The date at the top of the page, July 7, sent her spirits soaring, for it meant that Thomas had survived Gettysburg. She ached to think that he had been so near to home but had been unable to close the distance that separated them even when it was at its smallest since the 49th had departed Camp Curtin. He told of the battle, of the VI Corps’s pursuit of the Army of Northern Virginia, and then, just as Gerda emerged from the post office, he broke such terrible news that she cried out.
“What is it?” Gerda exclaimed, hurrying to her side. “Is Thomas all right?”
“He’s—Thomas—Thomas is fine.” Shaking, Dorothea grasped Gerda’s hand and pulled her down beside her on the bench. “Gerda, prepare yourself. I have something terrible to tell you.”
Soon afterward at Union Hall, as her friends arrived and gathered upstairs in the east gallery, Dorothea drew Charlotte, Lorena, and Mrs. Claverton aside and privately told them of Jonathan’s disappearance. Lorena grew pale and sank into a chair; Charlotte collapsed sobbing into her mother’s arms. Through the doorway, Dorothea glimpsed Gerda watching them pensively as she arranged chairs in a circle in the gallery, surely wishing she could share in their grief but rightly suspecting she would not be welcome.
When Charlotte had composed herself, they joined the others, who had already guessed something terrible had happened. Dorothea could not bear to prolong their anxious worry a moment longer. “Jonathan is missing,” she said, unfolding Thomas’s letter and smoothing out the creases as she prepared herself to read.
July 7, 1863
My beloved wife,
We have made camp for the night and I improve a miserable day greatly by taking pen in hand and writing to you.
By now you have surely heard about the tremendous campaign that concluded in Gettysburg a few days ago. Although the VI Corps did not reach the battlefield until the afternoon of July 2, the First Division was promptly deployed and was soon engaged in the fight. I hope you will forgive me, my love, but in the aftermath of the day’s fighting, I parted with the beautiful quilt you made for me. If you had seen the poor wounded soldier to whom I gave it, you would have agreed that his need was greater than mine. Perhaps in your compassion for the suffering you
than mine. Perhaps in your compassion for the suffering you
would have taken the quilt from my bedroll yourself and draped it over the young man with your own gentle hands.
As terrible as that day was, worse was yet to come. May heaven save you from ever witnessing anything akin to the gruesome scenes we beheld on the battlefield that Independence Day morn. Everywhere the ground was trodden into mud and strewn with the blackened and mangled remains of men and horses. All around lay broken caissons and cannon, abandoned packs and gear, the litter of cartridges and spent bullets, watches and field glasses and buttons and torn cloth. Trees were hewn and splintered, fences demolished, and the horrific smell of death and decay permeated the air. Throughout the morning we dug shallow trenches to cover the remains of the thousands of poor souls who had lost their lives since the battle begun. For those who yet clung to life, doctors set up field hospitals in barns and tents, attending to patients moaning in anguish on doors suspended by chairs in lieu of beds. I cannot describe for you the piles of amputated arms and legs that accumulated within these crude hospitals, nor the stoic expressions on the wounded men awaiting their turns beneath the bone saw. The images will haunt my nightmares as long as I live.
That same morning, General Lee sent a messenger under flag of truce to General Meade proposing an exchange of prisoners. Our Meade, perhaps reluctant to return several thousand seasoned veterans to the Confederate ranks, or to relieve Lee of the burden of the thousands of Union troops who would clog the roads, require the reassignment of Rebel troops to guard duty, and generally slow the Confederate army’s movements, declined his offer. I understand General Meade’s decision and cannot fault him for it, but I wish with all my heart he had chosen otherwise, as I will soon explain.
In the afternoon a gentle rain began to fall, but it soon became a steady downpour. From our “fishhook” defensive position, we observed a Confederate wagon train loaded with the wounded and dying begin a slow and steady journey west along the Chambersburg Pike, escorted by several artillery batteries and at least two cavalry brigades. It was evident that Lee’s army was on the move, but we could not determine their intentions. It was late afternoon before Meade was able to confirm that Lee was indeed retreating and not planning a strategic maneuver, by which time the rain had turned into a thunderstorm. Knowing the weather would slow the infantry to a crawl, Meade sent the cavalry in pursuit immediately but ordered the rest of us to hold until morning.
Since the VI Corps was the freshest, as all but two of our brigades had been held mostly in reserve throughout the battle, we were sent in direct pursuit of the Rebels along Fairfield Road, conducting reconnaissance in force. Meanwhile the rest of the army was sent south on a course parallel to Lee’s through the eastern foothills of South Mountain, and then to turn west across the mountains to the Potomac River to cut off Lee’s escape.
Two days ago, still in Pennsylvania, we caught up with Lee’s army just beyond Fairfield, but Gordon’s Rebel brigade held the pass and possessed every advantage the terrain afforded. I have heard rumors that Meade commanded Sedgwick to send the VI Corps forward despite the odds, but Sedgwick declined, abandoned the pursuit, and marched us back to Emmitsburg. Today we retraced our steps, for Meade has ordered all seven corps south on parallel roads, and tomorrow we will climb South Mountain at Turner’s Gap and Crampton’s Gap. Though we face long and harrowing marches in the days ahead, a not insignificant portion of the corps believes that if we catch up to the Rebels in retreat, we may be able to finish them off once and for all and bring the war to a close. Most of us, however, are less hopeful that the war will end so soon. We are exhausted from long and difficult marches as well as from the arduous fighting that preceded the pursuit. The rain and heat too are taking their toll. If we could have but a day of clear, sunny weather to rest and recover, I believe it would make quite a difference in our strength and morale, but Washington City favors speed and pursuit, and so it must be.
My darling Dorothea, I’m sure you will have already seen the casualty lists from the battle by the time you receive this letter, but there is one whose name you will not read there, whose fate is nonetheless a matter of grave concern. Your brother Jonathan had been consulting with another surgeon in the I Corps at the time the order was given to march from Maryland into Pennsylvania. He was separated from the VI Corps throughout the battle, and by all accounts his efforts tending to the wounded in a field hospital established at the Lutheran Seminary on the heights west of the town were nothing short of heroic. On the first day of battle, the Confederates advanced beyond Seminary Ridge and took prisoners of all the wounded within the hospital and the medical personnel who attended them. Jonathan, like many others, was offered parole, but as best as I can determine, the terms were contrary to the dictates of his conscience and he refused to sign. He was last seen marching south amongst a column of more than a thousand other patriotic Union men who had declined to accept the Confederates’ terms.
My love, your brother is greatly admired and respected by the army medical establishment and I have been assured that every effort will be made to determine his whereabouts and to secure his release. You must take courage, and help Charlotte to do the same. You should take comfort in one another at this time of your mutual need. Pray, and do not lose hope. . . .
I will write again as soon as I can. Kiss Abigail and remember that no matter how many miles separate us, I remain
Your loving husband,
Thomas
Dorothea had omitted reading aloud several lines following Thomas’s entreaty that she and Charlotte comfort each other: “You are strong and good, and I know you will not forget Gerda. Though she possesses greater fortitude than Charlotte, her suffering will be all the more acute for she cannot seem to care too much for Jonathan. You and I know what she feels for him, and with you alone Gerda will not need to conceal her anguish. Offer her solace, for although her devotion to Jonathan is misguided, it is real.”
As the Union Quilters embraced Charlotte, Lorena, and herself, Dorothea reflected upon Thomas’s prescience, for the friends had compassion and condolences in abundance for Jonathan’s wife, mother, and sister, but none for Gerda, who loved him just as dearly, though unwisely.
 
When Gerda wrote, she could forget the pain of separation from her beloved, her anguish at not knowing what had become of him. She wrote to exhaust herself, so that at the end of the day she would sink into a dreamless sleep and not lie awake imagining Jonathan’s arms around her, or worse yet, his eyes staring at the night sky above some Southern prison camp or sightlessly at the dirt covering a shallow grave.
She drowned the pain in her heart with words, filling page after page with an account of the recent Rebel incursion into Pennsylvania and its dreadful aftermath. When the women volunteers returned to Water’s Ford from Gettysburg, having been replaced by professional doctors and nurses from the United States Sanitary Commission, Gerda interviewed them and compiled their reflections into a compelling report that filled the entire front page of the
Register
. Heart aching for Jonathan, she wrote of his capture and disappearance, but reluctant to seem to care too much for him alone, she wrote pieces of equal length for each soldier of the Elm Creek Valley who had sacrificed his life in the battle. To stoke her own faltering courage, she composed a summary of the defense of Water’s Ford, praising its citizens for their response to the crisis and singling out Abel Wright for his foresight and valor.
On the day that story was scheduled to run, Gerda quickly cleaned up the kitchen after breakfast and prepared a cold lunch for Hans to eat later so that she could go into town and claim the first copies as they came off the printing press. Hans saddled a coalblack stallion for her and asked her if she planned to stop by Union Hall afterward.
“I shall,” she said. “Do you want me to carry a message to Anneke?”
“Tell her I want her to stop this foolishness and return home with the children at once.”
“Oh, that will certainly persuade her.” Gerda shook her head and, with her brotherʹs help, climbed into the saddle. “You should go see her yourself. She and the boys miss you, and the boys are anxious and unhappy in Union Hall.”
Hans frowned. “You said they were all right.”
“I meant that they’re safe and comfortable, but it’s obvious they’d rather be in their own home with their father.” And their loving aunt, she added silently. She missed the boys terribly and, from the way they ran to her when she visited the hall, she knew they missed her too. As rambunctious and exhausting as they were, she had not realized how much joy and laughter they had added to her days until they were no longer underfoot. “Go to Anneke, beg her forgiveness, and ask her to return. Her heart will melt and she will come home.”
Hans shook his head. “That I cannot do. I’ve done nothing that requires forgiveness. I won’t apologize for following my conscience.”
“Very well, don’t apologize,” said Gerda, exasperated. “You could still tell her you love her and want her and the boys to come home.”
“If she doesn’t know that I love her yet, telling her today won’t make any difference.”
On the verge of a caustic retort, Gerda nodded in farewell and chirruped to the horse. Hans had been a willful boy and had grown to be an even more stubborn man, but his standoff with Anneke frustrated Gerda beyond measure. How a husband and wife who adored each other could allow a philosophical disagreement to divide them confounded her. She and Jonathan didn’t agree on every point of politics or religion or literature or countless other topics, but they explored and debated their differences, never failing to learn something new about the opposing point of view that either strengthened their own convictions or prompted them to reconsider. Surely, Hans and Anneke could do the same, if Hans would only listen tenderly to Anneke’s complaints and hear them for what they truly were, confusion about his beliefs and concerns for her and the children’s safety. For her part, Anneke ought to respect Hans’s commitment to obey his conscience and not misinterpret his eschewal of violence as an absence of love for his family or a disavowal of his role as their protector. What they could not do was continue to live apart and not speak to each other. When so many husbands and wives and lovers were separated by the war, Hans and Anneke’s wasteful squandering of the blessing of time together provoked both Gerda’s impatience and her sorrow. What she would not do for one more Saturday evening discussing ethics or politics over the supper table with Jonathan. What she would not give to once more see his smile or hear his laughter, to smell his own unique scent of tobacco smoke and wool and soap, to dream of the day they would finally be together in a home of their own. Did Hans and Anneke believe they had all the time in the world to reconcile? Gerda and Jonathan had waited years for the chance to be together and had been willing to wait many more, but now Gerda feared that blessed day would never come. Hans and Anneke risked more than they suspected, postponing their reconciliation while waiting for the other to capitulate.
At Schultz’s Printers, Mary had several copies of the latest edition of the
Water’s Ford Register
ready for her. As Gerda admired the headline, Mary teased, “Although you say not a single word against him this time, I’m sure Mr. Meek will nonetheless find something to complain about.”

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