The Girls of Gettysburg (18 page)

“We need to get a firmer foothold,” said Grace. Wisdom braced her feet against the wall, and Grace, her feet on Wisdom's shoulders, pushed against the panel. Wisdom groaned with the force, but it didn't move. Now Grace and Esther braced their feet against Wisdom's shoulders, their hands firmly planted on the shutter. Together they lunged forward with their full strength. The shutter shivered, but did not move.

At that moment, water-soaked dirt fell in chunks from the wall. Wisdom squealed. Esther inhaled sharply. Grace realized with horror that the walls were crumbling around them. They were going to be buried alive!

“Again!” Grace shouted.

Grace and Esther heaved, both yelling as they did so. Grace pushed so hard that she thought her arms would snap in two.

“Again!”

The shutter shivered, then at last it moved. Another kick, and finally it fell away. And the two tumbled over the drop, plunging into a cold, wet pool. The cellar had flooded level with the floor of the little room, and the water was still rising. Something smashed into the side of Grace's head, and she reeled from the pain.

And that same moment the hiding place collapsed, creating a surge of water that tossed Grace backward. She struggled to gather her feet, slipping on the muddy floor. The water was now to her waist and still rising fast. The slash across her head throbbed so that she heard nothing but ringing in her ears.

And then she saw that Esther was screaming, screaming and clawing at the wall where the room had been, where Wisdom still lay inside.

Grace screamed, too, such screaming as to chase away the ringing in her head and the noise of the water rushing around them. Such screaming as overtakes everything and everyone. She clawed into the wall where the room had been, where Wisdom still lay. She screamed until her throat burned raw.

She didn't hear the stomping above her. But she saw the shadows of three figures bound down the stairs. She saw Mr. Butler rush to the back wall, throwing his full strength into digging through the mud.

She saw Mrs. Woods hold Esther close to her, patting her shoulders in comfort, as the two cried as hard as the rain.

And she saw Pappa lift her in his arms. She wrapped her arms about his neck so tight, she thought she would never let go.

And still she screamed, until she lost her voice. And then she sobbed, so hard as to rock her still.

Wade in the water, wade in the water, children
. . . .

Grace woke to the sounds of the singing. It wrapped about her like a warm quilt. Her head throbbed. The air was so heavy with stench that it hurt to breathe.

“Wade in the water, God's gonna trouble the water.”

Grace smiled up at Esther. Esther sang, her voice as sad as moonlight, and yet it shone as bright.

“I'm sorry,” Grace whispered. Her throat burned raw. The words seemed too small for what she felt.

“You've not anything to feel sorry for,” Esther said. Her eyes were red, but she wasn't crying anymore. In fact, she was smiling down at Grace. “I remember Mam, and this she said to me: ‘Sorrow holds the hand of joy in this dance of life.' You've done nothing, Grace, but treat us like kin. Friend Alice is here. She's taking me up north straightway. Seems like some folk want to hear my story. But I wasn't going anywhere until you woke up, not until I could tell you: Thank you, Grace Bryan.”

Esther bent low to hug Grace.

“Thank you, Grace Bryan,” she whispered.

“Hey there, baby girl.” Pappa walked into the room.

Even though it hurt to move, Grace bounded from the bed, and Papa scooped her into his arms.

“Girl, don't you ever stay put?” He laughed.

“Good thing you didn't stay with Miss Mary.” Friend Alice walked
in behind Pappa. “The Confederates took over her home just hours after you left. You would have been caught for sure, then there's no telling what might have happened.”

“Friend Alice.” Grace smiled. “You're all right.”

“These are terrible days,” Friend Alice said. “Try as I might, I couldn't get back. I heard rebels had taken some poor people not far from here and hung the family that kept them. The friends that kept me wouldn't allow me to venture out until the rebels left. Now people from all around are swarming into Gettysburg to help with the wounded, in hopes of finding their own lost loves. The roadways are clogged with the traffic. All that rain didn't help matters. The fever has broken out in some of the hospitals. I fear Gettysburg is in for a few more rough weeks. Esther and I need to move quickly.”

Friend Alice hugged Grace and shook Pappa's hand. Grace clasped Esther's hand. It was hard to let go.

“We have our own travels ahead,” Pappa said then, easing her back onto the bed. “Mr. Butler is heading for Philadelphia, taking us to your mamma. You up to that?”

“I can do anything, Pappa,” Grace said.
Except face Mamma
, she thought, her foot tap-tap-tapping. “We're coming back, Pappa?”

“Gettysburg is our home. There's much work to be done, and we can do it.”

“Yes, we can,” Grace whispered, and she smiled.

Tillie and Henrietta made their way slowly up Taneytown Road. They were singing, but it was more like a prayer at the Sunday service.
Weeping, sad and lonely, hopes and fears how vain! When this cruel war is over, praying that we meet again
.

No one had dared leave the farm for days after the battle. Tillie thought of Warrick, and felt her pocket to make sure his letter was safe. She meant to send it home as soon as she could, like she'd promised. Tillie shook her head, her heart hurting more than any scolding from Mother could.

The air was thick with the smell of death and dying, stinging her eyes like a thousand bees. Tillie pulled her scarf about her face and breathed shallow, gritting her teeth against the smell. The wounded still groaned, and shrieked, and sobbed piteously, lying next to the bodies of their dead comrades now bloating in the heat. There was such despair all around, on this field of blood. Ambulances drove from the fields to the hospitals—hospitals set up in every home, church, and barn of Gettysburg—while nurses and surgeons, sisters from the church, and families searched the fields for the living. Soldiers, too, searched for their comrades.

The roads were crowded again with families from near and far coming in hopes of finding their loved ones. Men and women from charities had come to lend their help. Newspaper reporters scurried about, looking for stories.

To the west, across the road and field to Seminary Ridge, Tillie saw the dead and dying lying everywhere. Thousands of them. Union soldiers, serving as grave diggers, piled as many bodies as could fit
in shallow graves. But there were not enough men to bury the dead. Clouds of flies feasted on the living as well as the dead. And if there were not enough men to bury their dead, there were none to bury the horses, their bloated bodies grotesque in the sun.

It was all Tillie could do to stand. She had to sit for a moment, so she stumbled to a stone wall where she eased forward, holding her stomach and her head.

“It was the grandest sight I ever saw,” she heard someone say. She looked up to see a soldier sitting in the shadows against a tree trunk not far from her. The soldier cradled a rifle in both arms, and seemed all aquiver. He wasn't speaking to anyone, just talking to himself.

“They kept coming.” He shook his head in disbelief. “We threw everything at 'em, and they still kept coming. They charged with that yell of theirs, sounding as if all of hell was in that cry. I ain't never heard such a thing as that rebel yell. For as long as I live, I'll hear that yell. They kept coming, knowing full well they were marching to their death. Such a sight as that, right out of the schoolbooks. We saw history here.”

Tillie stooped near him and touched his hand. “Sir, it's been done for days. How long have you been here?”

“Since the first shot, to the last. A lifetime in between, miss.”

“Come with us. We'll see you safe.”

The soldier shook his head. “I'm fine, miss. Just need to sit a bit more.”

“Do you need anything, sir?” said Tillie.

The soldier looked up at her. Suddenly there was a great worry in his eyes; his brow twisted in concern. “Found this here rifle over by that tree, where the stone walls meet. This here is a mighty fine rifle, a Whitworth. I took it off a Confederate fallen. Do you think he'd mind if I took it? Not to shoot it, no, no. I'll hang it in a place of honor. And I'll tell everyone what I saw here. That kind of courage deserves to be remembered.”

“I think he'd appreciate it greatly, sir.”

The soldier smiled, relieved. He said, “I found these with him.”

The soldier held out a bundle of letters. There was a tintype of a lanky soldier with a crooked grin. It was blurred somewhat, but that crooked grin showed clearly. There were letters, too. “I don't know what to do with these. But I couldn't just leave them.”

“I'll take these letters,” Tillie said. “I promise you, I will see to it that they get home. I think you should go home, sir. And don't you worry none. I will do right by our soldiers.”

The soldier pointed to where a copse of trees came together with a stone wall, where lay a mangled heap of fallen soldiers, both Union and Confederate.

Stepping lightly over the corpses, she had to lean in close to see their faces. Sometimes she had to move aside caps, hands, and torn linen, searching the broken and bloodied remains.

She roamed the fallen, waving aside the flies as she picked through their pockets and knapsacks. Every letter she found, every picture, she would send home. She meant to send them all home, no matter how long it took.

Henrietta and the other women saw what Tillie was doing. They nodded to each other and began to help. Tillie plucked the letters and the pictures and wrapped them carefully. She took a knapsack and filled it. Then she found another knapsack and filled that one, too.

She was going to make sure their loved ones knew where their sons and husbands and brothers had fallen. They were all somebody's son, or husband, or brother, or friend.

They all deserved to go home.

She carried all she could carry, satchels and pouches stuffed with letters and photographs. She looked out across the field, all the way to the ridge, and behind her. She stiffened. There were so many left. . . .

“I'll come back,” she promised.

Somewhere ahead on the road, someone laughed, a booming laugh. She searched the sea of soldiers and townsfolk. It didn't take long to find the laughter. No one could miss Abraham Bryan.

And there beside him . . .

“Grace!” Tillie shouted, waving her hand. “Grace Bryan!”

Grace Bryan had made it after all! And the runaways—did they find their way to freedom?

Weaving through the crowd, she caught Grace and her pappa standing amid the trampled mess of their garden and orchard. Next to them stood Mr. Butler.

Her heart was near bursting to see Grace standing there. And all the moments of the last few days started to well up.

“I'm sorry what happened to your home,” she said. She wanted to say more.

Grace shuffled her feet and cleared her throat. She seemed small and confused.

“How's your cheek?” Grace said.

Tillie touched her cheek and smiled. “Mother said I should be careful when picking flowers in the middle of the night.”

Now Grace smiled.

Tillie cleared her throat. “I've been wanting to know . . . I've been thinking about your
sisters
, and hoping they made it safely home. I surely hope they did, you know.”

Grace shook her head, tears welling. She swallowed hard, and it took a long moment for her to speak. “Esther says hey.”

And Tillie, understanding, felt her own tears well.

“I'm very sorry,” she whispered. She looked across the tortured ruins of the peach orchard. “They were the best peaches, so full of sunshine and sweetness. I took some for my mother, so you know. She was feeling the weight of the world, and I thought, if she could just eat one of those peaches, it would make everything better.”