The Union Quilters (27 page)

Overwhelmed by the fortunate stroke of serendipity, Gerda gratefully accepted. Hans needed some persuading; Gerda assured him that they would be gone only one night, Mr. Reinhart’s nineteen-year-old daughter would accompany them, and she and Harriet would share a bedroom in the private home of the Gettysburg postmaster and his wife. “We will be completely safe, and there’s nothing untoward about my traveling with a father and his grown daughter,” she told him, laughing at his sudden interest in propriety. “Besides, Mr. Reinhart is an elderly gentleman and entirely trustworthy.”

“Trustworthy he may be, but elderly he is not,” said Hans. “He can’t be more than four and fifty.” But Hans’s enthusiasm for the chance that she might meet the president was almost equal to her own, and he agreed that a personal delivery of her report to Mr. Lincoln would surely catch the president’s attention.

Shortly after dawn on the morning of November 19, Mr. Reinhart arrived at Elm Creek Farm, shook Hans’s hand, and introduced the Bergstroms to his eldest daughter. Harriet was a sweet, slender girl with trusting brown eyes and golden hair parted in the middle and drawn back into a snood. “Father has told me so much about you,” she said, smiling as she placed a hand on Gerda’s arm. “And of course everyone in the valley is well aware of your good works with the Union Quilters. You do so inspire the rest of us to contribute the works of our hands, needles, and kitchens to the Union cause. I’ve looked forward to meeting you almost as much as Mr. Lincoln.”

Gerda could not fail to be charmed by the younger woman’s words, and as Mr. Reinhart drove the carriage south through the valley and over Wright’s Pass, they became fast friends. Harriet had lost her beloved mother when she was but a girl, and since the age of twelve, the care of her younger siblings had fallen upon her. “They are such good, dear children that it’s no bother at all,” she confided, lowering her voice so her father wouldn’t overhear, “although I do wish Father had remarried for his own sake, to assuage his grief. He loved our mother dearly, but I have heard that someone fortunate in marriage the first time is inclined to find wedded bliss again.”

“I have heard the same,” Gerda said. She had never thought of Mr. Reinhart as a father or grieving widower, and silently she chastised herself for thinking of him only as the town postmaster, there to post letters and sell stamps. In all their frequent meetings, she had never asked him anything about himself or his family.

“He is good and kind, and he never raises his voice to us,” Harriet continued. “While I wish God had not seen fit to call my mother home so soon, I am grateful that he left me and my siblings in the care of the best of fathers, and the best of men.”

“He must indeed be the best of men to have earned such praise from a beloved daughter,” Gerda said, smiling. “We should ask Mr. Lincoln to put his face on a coin.”

Harriet laughed, and when Mr. Reinhart turned around to glance curiously at them, she assumed an expression of surprised innocence that promptly told him that he was the subject of their conversation. He smiled wryly and shook his head, and as soon as he turned back around, Harriet and Gerda dissolved into laughter.

The company made it a pleasant drive despite the rough road, fog, and overcast skies. The day was unseasonably humid, with none of the crisp clarity that usually refreshed the waning of autumn. As they approached Gettysburg, the road became so crowded with riders and wagons that Gerda feared they would arrive too late to observe the ceremony. Mr. Reinhart assured her that even if they missed the opening procession from the center of town to the new cemetery on the ridge, they wouldn’t miss the prayers and speeches that followed.

They reached Gettysburg by ten o’clock and left the carriage and horses at the home of Mr. Reinhart’s fellow postmaster, who had left a note on the front door explaining that he and his family had gone to the ceremony and would greet them properly later. Linking their arms like old friends, Gerda and Harriet followed Mr. Reinhart through the crowded streets, turning this way and that, until suddenly Gerda found herself near the front of the throng where the people had halted to keep the parade route clear. “There,” Mr. Reinhart said, touching her elbow and nodding down the block. Tall enough to see over nearly everyone else, Gerda spotted a tall man in a dark suit and top hat, who seemed rather oversize for the proud chestnut bay he rode. Two other dignified riders flanked him, but she scarcely noticed them, for after a disconcerting moment, she recognized the tall, melancholy man in the center as President Lincoln himself. She watched, awestruck and admiring, as he rode solemnly past. This was the man who had freed the slaves, the man who would save the Union if anyone could.

“It’s he,” Harriet murmured, clutching her arm in breathless excitement. “It’s the president.”

Gerda nodded and watched until he and his companions at the front of the procession went by, followed by other dignitaries, men she took to be prominent local citizens, and the black-clad widows of some of the fallen soldiers interred in the national cemetery. The procession was still ongoing when Mr. Reinhart offered one arm to his daughter and the other to Gerda, quietly explaining that if they departed at once, they would be able to find places much closer to the main stand. “All the better to hear the stirring speeches,” he said as they quickly set out. “And to deliver your important report to the president.”

As they made their way south of town, they spotted the lingering traces of battle—splintered and scarred trees, broken fences, rifle pits, pieces of artillery wagons and harness, scraps of blue and gray and butternut clothing, bent and abandoned gear. By the time they arrived, a crowd thousands strong had already gathered at the cemetery, seventeen acres of the former battlefield. The main stand was grandly adorned with flags and banners, with chairs arranged for the dignitaries and speakers processing through Gettysburg. A military escort comprised of a squadron of cavalry, two batteries of artillery, and a regiment of infantry formed a hollow square several ranks deep around the main stand, awaiting the arrival of their commander in chief. The mood was solemn and respectful, and despite the vast numbers of men, women, and children gathered before the stand, the noise of the crowd rarely rose above a murmur.

Gerda guessed it to be not long after eleven o’clock when the procession finally reached the grounds. Upon the president’s arrival, the military escort saluted and stood at attention as he, the members of his Cabinet, and other dignitaries numbering perhaps as many as two hundred fifty took their places on the stand. In an undertone, Mr. Reinhart pointed out some of the eminent men—Mr. Curtin, governor of Pennsylvania, whom Gerda recognized from his portrait; the governors of Maryland, Indiana, New York, Ohio, and New Jersey; and several esteemed generals of the Union Army. Mr. Lincoln seated himself beside his secretary of state and reserved the chair on his right for the renowned orator Mr. Edward Everett, who was to deliver the main address of the day, but perhaps due to his advanced years had not participated in the procession. Mr. Everett was not only an excellent speaker, Mr. Reinhart explained, but also a former secretary of state under Millard Fillmore, former senator, ten-year member of the House of Representatives, governor of Massachusetts, United States Minister to Great Britain, two-time vice presidential candidate, and president of Harvard University. He was also, Gerda guessed, sequestered in his tent, making some last-minute changes to his speech, for the chair at Mr. Lincoln’s right remained empty for quite some time. Whenever the crowd grew restless, the Marine Band would strike up a jaunty march, alleviating their impatience for a time. At the back of the audience, a photographer set up a large, back-draped camera on a tripod, frowning at the young boys who stood in front of the lens, tipping their hats and doing their best to spoil his images.

Suddenly, there was a brief smattering of applause as Mr. Everett emerged from his tent. Mr. David Wills and Governor Seymour of New York descended from the platform to meet him and escort the white-haired orator to his place at Lincoln’s right hand. The dignitaries on the platform rose as Mr. Everett slowly walked to the president, who greeted him respectfully as every man among the thousands removed his hat in nearly perfect, reverential silence.

The ceremony commenced with a funeral dirge composed by Mr. Birgfield and performed by his band. After the last notes faded away, the Reverend Mr. Stockton, chaplain of the House of Representatives, delivered an eloquent and impassioned prayer praising God, thanking Him for his infinite perfections, patience, and redeeming grace, and asking for His blessings upon the deceased, the bereaved, the Union, its leaders and people, and its efforts to suppress the rebellion. As he spoke, the heavy fog that had shrouded the procession suddenly cleared, shafts of sunlight illuminating the cemetery as if in divine benediction. Moved, Gerda cleared her throat, but she quickly composed herself, declining Mr. Reinhart’s gracious offer of his handkerchief. She was there on behalf of Jonathan and the
Water’s Ford Register
, she reminded herself. She was a correspondent, attending in a professional capacity. She must remain dispassionate and not allow herself to be swept away by the strong sentiments of the occasion.

Next the Marine Band performed the hymn “Old Hundred,” and then Mr. Edward Everett rose, and without notes of any kind, commenced his oratory. “Standing beneath this serene sky,” he began, his voice high, strong, and clear, “overlooking these broad fields now reposing from the labors of the waning year, the mighty Alleghenies dimly towering before us, the graves of our brethren beneath our feet, it is with hesitation that I raise my poor voice to break the eloquent silence of God and Nature.”

Gerda did not sense any hesitation in his manner, nor did she believe he truly considered his voice poor—or if he did, he was very foolish indeed, for his fame as an orator offered sufficient evidence to the contrary.

She was about to whisper her observations to Harriet when Mr. Everett continued, “But the duty to which you have called me must be performed. Grant me, I pray you, your indulgence and your sympathy.”

Gerda could hardly ignore the elderly man’s humble request, and soon, like the thousands upon thousands of people gathered around her, she found herself spellbound. For nearly two hours, Mr. Everett spoke, captivating his listeners with a detailed narrative of the origin of the conflict between North and South, the events leading up to the clash of armies at Gettysburg, and the battle itself, embellished with references to ancient Greece, its gods, poets, and funeral rites for fallen heroes. Despite her resolution to remain an objective observer, Gerda often forgot to take notes, caught up in the power of his speech. “Wheresoever throughout the civilized world the accounts of this great warfare are read,” Mr. Everett concluded, “and down to the latest period of recorded time, in the glorious annals of our common country, there will be no brighter page than that which relates the Battle of Gettysburg.”

As he returned to his seat, the audience broke into enthusiastic and sustained applause, which he acknowledged graciously. When the crowd fell silent once more, the band played another hymn. Gerda watched as President Lincoln, seated on the platform no more than six yards away, reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat, withdrew a few small pieces of paper, shuffled through them, and read over the one on top, his customary expression of sadness deepening.

After the hymn, the marshal rose and introduced the president, who tucked away the papers, rose, and slowly approached the front of the platform. The audience hushed and stilled, and so perfect was the silence that Gerda could hear the president’s footfalls on the wooden boards of the stand. His eyes were brooding, his brow furrowed. “Four score and seven years ago,” he began slowly, his voice as clear as a sunny Kentucky morning, “our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”

“Amen,” someone spoke up from amidst a group of colored men and women standing off to one side. Amen, Gerda silently echoed as President Lincoln’s simple eloquence made her understand how, in a very real sense, their words and ceremonies that day could not consecrate the cemetery, for it had already been consecrated by the blood of the brave soldiers who had given their lives so that the United States of America might endure. What the soldiers had done on that battlefield in July was far more important than what anyone said and did there that day, and they must commit themselves to completing the work yet unfinished.

“We here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain,” continued Mr. Lincoln, “that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

Tears in her eyes, Gerda stood as the rest of the gathered thousands did, motionless and silent and deeply moved. Suddenly, Mr. Lincoln turned and went back to his chair, but so transfixed were his listeners and so startled by the brevity of his remarks and their abrupt conclusion that they remained silent and still for a long moment after he had resumed his seat. Then, like a great exhalation of a breath, the audience burst into thunderous applause. “Yes, yes!” someone cried out. “Government for the people!”

Mr. Reinhart dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief and cleared his throat. “Father, you’re weeping,” exclaimed Harriet.

“The poor unfortunate photographer,” Mr. Reinhart said, indicating the man at the back of the audience who, too late, had ducked beneath the black drape of his camera. “The president concluded so early, he missed his chance to take an image.”

Harriet and Gerda exchanged a knowing look. Gerda found it charming that the postmaster had been deeply moved by the president’s words, just as she had been.

When the cheers and applause faded, the Gettysburg Choir sang a dirge and the Reverend Henry Lewis Baugher, the president of Gettysburg College and an alumnus of the Lutheran Seminary, where Jonathan had been taken prisoner, offered the benediction. Then the ceremony ended. Remembering her mission, Gerda watched in dismay as the marshals formed an honor guard around the president and escorted him down from the platform.