Two Girls of Gettysburg (13 page)

Later we celebrated in private the sweeter ceremonies of marriage. I blush to recall my confusion and shyness, and his tenderness that overcame them. I could happily grow accustomed to such “duties.”

August 11, 1862

John’s parents have given us a charming cottage that needs only some furniture to render it cozy and homelike. They also gave me a sleek sorrel mare for riding, named Dolly. They even offered to send one of their Negroes to cook for us! Startled, I thanked them but said we had no need at present, and they had the grace not to seem offended. Then there is the matter of John’s valet, Tom Banks. Without him, John can scarcely dress himself! I had thought that would become my duty, but John is quite particular about how his clothing is arranged. Only Tom’s way will please him.

The truth is, I do not wish for us to keep slaves. Could this be Lizzie’s influence? Or am I afraid to associate with Negroes? Whatever the reason, I cannot see myself ordering someone to do my bidding. This is a matter John and I will have to discuss in the future.

August 12, 1862

Alas, I knew it would happen, but so soon? John’s regiment leaves in four days’ time. I am too distraught to write more today.

August 13, 1862

John and I are careful with what we say to each other, that we may have only pleasant memories of these first days of our marriage. Yet there is so much I long to know before we are separated again! In particular, John’s views about the war.

So this morning I asked him, couching the question in a caress, “Why did you enlist so suddenly?”

“How else could I have proved my worth and convinced your parents to let me marry you?” he replied with a smile.

“Don’t tease me, dear. Did you join because you were about to be conscripted?” I asked sweetly.

“No, I did it for my love of you,” he said steadily.

I did not want to hear that he had donned a uniform only for my sake. I hoped he was a man of deeper convictions.

“And I want you to know that I am proud to have a husband fighting for states’ rights and defending Richmond,” I said, fixing him with a gaze that I hoped conveyed my devotion.

“To be honest, Rosie,” John said, looking embarrassed, “I didn’t much consider the political aspects while enlisting. But I am trying to live a more honorable life, like a true gentleman would. Being a worthy husband to you is a matter of honor. And keeping the Yankees from meddling in our way of life is also a matter of honor.”

He paused, regarding me carefully. “I don’t mean to offend you, for I know you have Yankee friends up in Pennsylvania, where they harbor runaways.”

My first impulse was to deny that my so-called Yankee friends had any influence on me. But I thought of Lizzie pressing me to denounce slavery, and Mrs. Pierpont making us read
Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
Admittedly I had yearned for Eliza and her baby to reach safety in Ohio. To be free. Yet here I was, married to a man who owned slaves.

“I do pity the Negro slave who is abused,” I conceded.

“My family has never abused any of our Negroes.”

“Oh, I know they would not,” I said in haste. “But surely many slaves are mistreated. My cousin Lizzie’s hired man used to be a slave. He is in South Carolina right now, buying his wife’s freedom with money he’s earned.”

“Did I marry an abolitionist?” John asked. Although he did not sound angry, he was frowning.

“No,” I said, “but neither have you married a simpering Richmond belle with no ideas of her own.” I tried to sound lighthearted, for there was nothing I wanted less than an argument, so soon before his departure.

“You know that’s not what I expected in a wife,” he said, gently kissing me. “But neither do I want one of those bluestockings who defies her husband and goes around speaking up for women’s suffrage and against slavery and the churches.”

“Why, I’m not that sort of woman at all!” I said with a laugh, and kissed him back. Of course I didn’t want him to regret marrying me.

But the discovery that John holds such strong opinions unsettles me. Moreover, my own views about the war have grown so mixed and uncertain that it gives me some dismay. In the event of another argument on the subject, I would probably succumb.

August 16, 1862

John and I did not sleep at all last night, for we did not want to waste our final hours before his departure. We lay in each other’s arms, exchanging affections, whispering our love, and in the intervening silences storing up every sweet sensation and word. I felt like Juliet, not knowing when she will see her banished Romeo again. “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” she said to him, “that I shall say good night till it be morrow.” But kissing my John again and again did not prevent his going, for he at last pulled himself free and was gone.

I wept loudly in my little house, for there was no one to hush me, and my crying echoed mournfully in the empty rooms.

Lizzie
Chapter 15

It promised to be a long, dull summer after Rosanna left. The remainder of July was humid and stormy, mirroring the tumult in my own family. It took me a week to convince Mama that I had known nothing about Rosanna’s plan to run away, that she had deceived both Margaret and me. Mama explained to Margaret, who eventually believed me as well. Although I was angry with Rosanna, I hoped she would come back, like a sorry puppy with her tail between her legs, eager to be friends again.

But Rosanna did not reappear, and it was not until August that I received a letter from her. She was sorry for the way she had left Gettysburg and asked me to forgive her. Then she went on to say that she was going to marry John Wilcox. I dropped the letter as if it were on fire. I could not believe what I was reading. I picked the letter up again, looked at the date, and realized that, in the time it had taken the letter to reach me, Rosanna had become Mrs. John Wilcox. I felt a stab of grief. My best friend was now lost to me, and it was my fault. By telling Rosanna that Henry Phelps did not love her, I had driven her into John Wilcox’s arms. And now she was asking me to rejoice in her newfound happiness! I couldn’t forgive her that much, not yet.

The news that Rosanna had run off to marry a Confederate soldier
made for fertile gossip among the Gettysburg ladies, who all disapproved of her behavior. Annie Baumann was offended that she had not known about “this Richmond fellow” and blamed me for not stopping my cousin. Others said it was Margaret’s fault for failing to control her sister. I could see that this gossip hurt Margaret, but she kept her head up and never discussed Rosanna in public. Privately, however, she complained to Mama that Rosanna was selfish and irresponsible, while Mama tried to soften her bitter mood by reminding Margaret of her own youthful romance. I wished Rosanna could see all the trouble and unhappiness her actions had caused us. She owed us all an apology.

One person who didn’t agree, however, was Martin. He was unloading supplies from the cart and I was telling him how upset Mama and Margaret were at the news of Rosanna’s marriage.

“I don’t understand women,” he said, lifting a bag of salt.

“Well, they think that Rosanna has insulted everything we stand for by marrying a rebel soldier, a man her own parents disapprove of,” I explained, hefting a bag of salt and hurrying after him.

“It’s nobody’s life but hers. Everyone ought to leave her alone,” Martin said.

“Well, that sounds simple enough, but don’t you agree people should consider how their actions affect others?” I argued, not willing to let Rosanna off the hook so easily.

“Well, yes. For instance, you there struggling with that load makes me look lazy,” Martin said. “Let me carry it.”

“So you think I’m not strong enough?” I turned away, resisting him, then decided to tease him a bit. “It’s nobody’s bag but mine. Leave it alone!”

Martin laughed, and just then I lost my grip and the bag fell directly on Martin’s foot. He yelped. Then we leaned over at the same
moment and my head bumped his shoulder. He lost his balance and fell with his foot pinned under the bag, wrenching his ankle.

“I’m sorry! Oh, I’m so clumsy!” I freed his foot and he tried to stand up, but I saw him grimace with the effort.

“Give me your arm,” he said.

I pulled him up and let him lean on me.

“You need to come to our house and have Mama fix you up.”

“Fetch some ice first,” he said through gritted teeth.

I ran to the icehouse, hammered off a few chunks, and wrapped them in a cloth. Martin climbed into the cart and nestled the ice around his ankle as I drove home.

Mama said she thought the ankle was only sprained, and she wrapped it up snugly. When she asked how it happened, Martin blamed himself.

“That’s noble of you, Martin, but it was my fault. I dropped the load on his foot, Mama,” I said.

“Well, then the least we can do is feed you,” Mama said. “Lizzie, take your guest to the parlor while I finish up supper.”

Martin did not object. Hobbling into the parlor, he sat in an armchair, resting his foot on a stool. I sat across the room, my hands in my lap. I couldn’t think of anything to say. It was bad enough to have to look at Martin’s swollen foot and be reminded of my clumsiness, harder still to make conversation with him.

“Pa was having me haul rocks from the field,” he said. “I won’t mind being off my feet for a few days.”

Ben’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. He peeked in the parlor, then disappeared, and in a moment I heard him say, loud and clear, “Ma, does Lizzie have a fellow now? It’s about time.”

I saw Martin try to suppress a smile. My face grew hot, but I didn’t want to draw attention by fanning myself. From the kitchen came the
clatter of dinnerware and the savory scents of bread and stew. Supper would be an awkward, painful meal. I was no longer even hungry.

“If you want to help your ma, I’m fine here by myself,” Martin said.

“She would send me right back,” I replied. “Does your foot hurt much?”

Martin shook his head.

A few more minutes ticked away on the parlor clock. I looked around the room as if I might discover some topic of conversation there.

“Here’s a picture of Papa and Luke taken last Christmas,” I said, reaching for the photograph on the mantel and taking it to him.

“It’s a good likeness,” he said, nodding.

I sat back down, holding the photograph. I thought of the photograph I had given Rosanna for her scrapbook. Was it pasted there, between pictures of John Wilcox and Henry Phelps?

“I had my photograph taken last year,” I said. “You have to sit very still.”

Martin’s fingertips rested on the arms of his chair. Neither of us moved.

“We could be having our photographs taken right now,” he said.

We laughed and I felt my shoulders loosen. But we didn’t have anything more to say on the subject of photography. We listened to a conveyance creak along the street, growing louder as it approached. When it stopped in front of our house, I went to the window, eager for any diversion. A familiar figure was climbing down from a decrepit buggy

“It’s Frederick Hartmann!” I cried, and ran to the door, nearly colliding with Mama. “And Amos is with him!”

Then a woman stepped down from the buggy. She was a beauty, with skin and eyes black as jet and round, full lips. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She gazed directly at me, too, without smiling. It was Grace, Amos’s wife.

Supper was not the awkward meal I had expected after all. Mama got out the best linen and fixed extra ham and beans. There was plenty to eat, with fresh plums, cake, and cream for dessert. Everyone was talking, so I didn’t have to make conversation with Martin. From time to time I stole a glance at Amos’s wife, who sat next to him and spoke to no one. I wondered if she had ever eaten at a table with white folks before.

Of course we were all eager to hear about the trip, and finally Mr. Hartmann obliged us.

“It were quite an adventure, all right,” he said, putting down his fork and wiping his mouth on one of Mama’s linen napkins. “We spent two weeks running from a sheriff’s posse that thought Amos was a runaway they’d been searching for. One night they chased us into a swamp where I thought the mosquitoes would kill us if the sheriff’s men didn’t do it first.”

“We had to lie low for a while,” added Amos. “Then another time, some deserters tried to rob us an’ my horse was shot in the shoulder. I was ‘fraid she was goin’ to be lame, but she healed after a number of days. That slowed us some.”

“Did you shoot anyone?” asked Ben. He had insisted on sitting next to Amos and giving him the largest piece of cake.

I saw Grace’s eyes dart between Amos and Mr. Hartmann.

“Let’s jus’ say the villains got the worst of our encounters,” said Amos. He took Grace’s hand beneath the table.

Mr. Hartmann said the dangers had been greater than he imagined, but instead of expecting more money for his troubles, he made Amos and Grace the gift of a fine bed he had purchased on the way. Mama had them bring it inside, a clear sign that she expected Amos and his wife to live with us for the time being. Then she told Ben to drive Martin home in the cart, stay overnight, and come home in the morning.
My brother seemed pleased at being given the responsibility of driving all the way down Taneytown Road and back.