The Last Full Measure (3 page)

"A stroke of genius!" Mama clapped her hands.

Pa raised his eyebrows. "Hardly. I just wanted to get home and see my family."

Then we spoke of other things, how the cow was faring, how the Rebs had taken the horses, and Pa asked me if people still teased me about my name. I said no. Not lately. They had other things on their mind.

Pa had named me Tacy, and I had taken a fair amount of teasing about it. Because it wasn't a short version of anything. It was just what it was, Tacy. He'd named me after a girl he'd once been in love with, when he was ten years old, back in school in Virginia. She'd died at ten of cholera. And, with Mama's permission, he'd named me after her.

So here I was, Tacy, a name nobody had ever heard of before. And I kind of liked it. "It makes you different," David had once told me. That was when David and I had been friends.

When I was excused from the table, I watched out the front window and saw infantrymen passing by, some with piles of hats on their heads. I saw one with a whole bolt of muslin. Did he really need that muslin to keep him warm?

One had spurs attached to his bare feet and another wore a corset around his waist.

Josie came to stand with me for a minute, and we giggled over the sight.

"How did you leave it with Jennie?" she whispered.

"We fought," I whispered back. "She said bad things about David. I stood up for him. We're not friends anymore. And you don't have to worry—he didn't go inside."

At that moment there came a pounding at the kitchen door. She ran to answer it, but David grabbed his musket, stepped in front of her, and motioned her off. He opened it himself.

Marvelous and her mother, Mary, stood there. "Oh, please, let us in," Mary begged.

Mama got up. "Since when do you have to knock? Or ask to be let in?"

David stepped outside to see if there was anyone else about, then ushered them in, locked the door, and shushed everybody. "What's wrong?" he asked Mary in a very low tone.

"We should have left town, our kind. Some of us did. Those who didn't"—and she had to stop talking to choke back a sob—"were caught by the Rebs, just as we always feared would happen, and lined up early this morning on Chambersburg Street and marched away under guard."

I looked at Marvelous. I could not believe it. She was not looking at me but clinging to her mother like a two-year-old.

Quiet tears were coming down Mary's face. "To the South," she said, "to slavery. We were in that group. Me and Marvelous. My husband, he was at work."

"How did you get away?" David asked.

"The Lord was with us. We slipped away. We come here." Then she did a strange thing. She knelt on the floor. "Oh, please don't send us back. If they come looking for us, don't send us back."

Pa came over then and raised Mary up. "Of course we won't," he said. "Of course we won't. Now come—sit and have a cup of coffee."

"What will we do, Pa?" David asked.

By the time Marvelous and her mother had had their biscuits and ham and coffee, Pa knew, just as he had known how the town would supply the Rebel infantrymen with clothes and supplies.

"I've always thought," he said, slowly and quietly, "that the belfry of the Christ Lutheran Church would be a wonderful place to hide."

It was agreed upon. And it was given to David and me to do the task. Mama hid Mary and Marvelous in our garret until darkness came, and then David and I spirited them away to Christ Lutheran Church on Chambersburg Street and all the way up to the belfry, which was commodious enough to accommodate them, especially with the pillows and blankets Mama had sent along.

"For how long?" Marvelous asked.

"Until this crisis should pass," David told her.

He did not say what crisis. He did not know, nor did I. But I did know that I would come to see them, to keep them supplied with food. We left some with them now.

"It's a heap better than slavery," her mother reminded Marvelous.

I went to bed that night thinking of Marvelous in the belfry of Christ Lutheran Church, and I never thought of Ramrod at all.

***

P
EOPLE LIKE
to say that while the Confederates were here they committed no devious acts on us.

Didn't they move seventeen railroad cars a mile out of town during the night and burn them?

Didn't they burn the railroad bridge over Rock Creek?

Weren't the telegraph wires severed?

Didn't they take at least forty darkies, who were free, back south and into slavery?

Didn't they steal my darling horse, Ramrod, away from me?

Didn't they cause a terrible fight between me and my best friend, Jennie Wade?

No trains arrive in town now. No travelers come anymore.

The last of the Rebels who committed no devious acts on us left on Saturday, June twenty-seventh. On Sunday, everyone rejoiced in Gettysburg, saying the town could finally have a peaceful Sabbath as we had always had.

***

E
ARLY SUNDAY
morning I went up to the belfry of Christ Lutheran Church with David to fetch down Marvelous and her mother, Mary. I had visited them twice, bringing them two meals.

Mary refused to come down. "No, we stay here," she said.

"But the Rebs are gone," David told her. "They left yesterday. All is peaceful now. Come down and have breakfast with us. Ma wants you to."

Mary stood steadfast. "No. They come again. In two days."

Mary sometimes knew things the rest of us did not. Mama said she had "the gift."

"Look," David reasoned. "This morning these bells will ring. You'll be driven out of your head. Come to breakfast. After services you can come back if you wish."

Mary agreed to that.

After services they went back to the belfry.

***

O
N MONDAY MORNING
Pa left us, saying he was going to be needed. He had all his doctor's equipment, including his
Physician's Handbook of Practice
.

Pa knew something was about to happen. He had intelligence he could not share. It was why he had come home. But he would not tell us a thing, except that the Union army had a thousand ambulances for duty. He kissed us all, said not to worry. He bade me to be good and to mind David. He said he would be back. Then he mounted his horse and was gone.

On Tuesday, the thirtieth of June, mounted Confederate officers appeared on the crest of Seminary Ridge.

E
ARLY ON TUESDAY
morning, the last day of June, Sam came bursting through the back door just as we were about to have breakfast.

"Everyone's coming into the streets!" he told us. He set down the bucket of milk he had in hand. He had just milked our cow, Daisy.

"You ain't listening to me. People all up and down the street are out of their houses," Sam persisted.

"I heard you." David got up, took the milk pail, and set it on the side of the sink. "What for?"

"You mean you don't know?" Sam looked at David as if my brother were the village idiot. "General John Buford's division is coming. Up Taneytown Road. Least six thousand of 'em! Yankees!" He turned to leave.

"Just a minute there!" David's voice halted him.

Sam stopped in his tracks. "Yessir?"

"Where you going? I'm responsible for you while you're here. I can't just let you run off."

I felt a glow of satisfaction, hearing my brother use on Sam the same tone he'd used on me.

"But all the boys are in the streets," Sam protested, "to bring water for the Yankee horses. And the girls"—here he smirked at me—"are bringing the soldiers water, milk, beer, and cake."

"I don't care what others are doing," David said sternly. "Did you finish your morning chores?"

"Yessir."

"Water our horses?"

"You just got one now," Sam reminded him snottily.

David frowned at him warningly. "Don't sass me, boy. I know I just have one. You sass me, I'll take a riding crop to you, and I don't give a tinker's damn what your sister says."

"Sorry, sir. Didn't mean to sass you," Sam said quietly. "I even saddled your horse like you wanted."

David becalmed himself. But why did he want his horse saddled? What was he about this morning?

"Can I go now?" Sam inquired politely. "I won't go far. Just wanna see the Yankees, sir, is all. Be back in an hour."

Satisfied by the submissive tone, David nodded. "Be careful," he warned. "Don't go beyond our street."

Sam was gone before the sentence was finished.

By now, of course, the faint tones of joy that had all along been drifting toward us from outside our windows were distinct sounds of celebration.

I wanted, more than I wanted to take my next breath, to go outside, but I knew better than to ask. Why bother? Only to earn myself a stern no?

But I did give my brother an appealing look, which he was expecting.

There it was, once again in a flash, some of the old harmony between us. We had shared something almost magical once, something I'd never had with either Joel or Brandon, though they were both wonderful brothers to me.

That pleasing agreement of emotion that David and I had enjoyed, that had allowed us to be in tune with each other's needs with no words or warning. It had been something our senses became aware of in an instant.

It happened now.

He knew, without my asking, what I wanted.

"All right," he said, "but you're not to budge from my side."

And so we went out onto the front steps to join the crowds up and down the street who waited the arrival of General John Buford. The Yankees, come to our aid.

They were cavalry, all of them.

David told me that Buford had skirmished of late with Confederate James Longstreet. David kept track of every battle of the war. I don't know where he got his intelligence from, but he also told me that the Confederates who'd come to town were dressed poorly with no shoes on their feet. And the only reason they'd come this way was because they'd heard there was a warehouse hereabouts full of shoes.

He also said that Buford was a cavalry commander who used horses to get his men to where he wanted them to be, then had them dismount to fight.

As they came thundering down the street, young girls, most of whom I knew, made offerings, tankards of refreshment.
Water?
I wondered.

Or what? Beer? Buttermilk?
The soldiers stopped their horses and accepted the gifts, lifted their hats. Some leaned down from their saddles and kissed the girls' hands. I thrilled at that.

Some girls handed up flowers and started singing "Our Union Forever," and the men tucked flowers in their hats.

Then one officer, leading a brigade, broke away and, seeing David standing there, halted to speak to him.

He asked my brother which was the best way to get out to Chambersburg Pike.

"If you can wait just a second, I'll get my horse. She's saddled," David said. "I'll show you the way."

The officer agreed, and David ran around the side of the house.

So that's why his horse was saddled. So he could be ready for something like this
, I thought.

The officer smiled at me. I saw a kind of fondness in his blue eyes as he took my measure and I knew what it was. I knew I was old enough and pretty enough to be appreciated now by a handsome young officer who sported a dashing mustache. In a respectful manner, of course.

My hair, which was of a sandy color, I wore loose to my shoulders most of the time, though Mama preferred me to tie it back, proper-like. My eyes were amber brown. Pa said some man would drown in them someday, but he hoped not too soon, that he hoped my long, fringed eyelashes would keep him from falling in.

And I was starting to get a figure, finally, at long last.

I smiled back at the officer now, taken not only by the considerable looks of him but by the picture he presented, his sleek horse, the excellent condition of its bridle and halter, the Colt .45 he carried in his holster, the saber he wore.

And in the sling hung from his saddle, the Springfield rifle.

I recognized all his accouterments because Joel and Brandon carried the same things.

"I'm Captain Jensen," he said, and he asked of David, "He your brother?"

"My name's Tacy. Yessir. He's not in the army because of his twisted leg. I have two other brothers serving with the Second Pennsylvania Cavalry. And my pa's a physician with the army. Can I get you some water, sir?"

"That would be nice, Miss Tacy."

So I dashed into the house then and, quick as a rabbit twitches its nose, came out with a sparkling glass of water.

The officer drank it down in one gulp, handed back the glass, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and thanked me.

Then David came around the side of the house on his horse. "Behave yourself," he admonished sternly.

The officer saw in an instant the connection between us, put his hand to the brim of his hat in a salute, nodded his head, and winked at me.

I wished him good luck. Then he rode off with David. His impatient brigade followed.

In no time at all they were out of sight and lost in the dust that the rest of the cavalry made as they rode down the street.

I was about to go reluctantly back into the house when I heard someone calling me.

"Tacy! Tacy!"

I turned. A girl had broken away from a crowd of people across the street. Nancy Burns. She went to school with me. She lived with her mother and grandfather over on Chambersburg Street. Her pa and older brother were both gone for soldiers.

Nancy's grandfather was from Scotland and said he was descended from the Scottish poet Robert Burns. He told stories about being in the War of 1812 and the Mexican War. He was past seventy now and waiting for the Rebs to come to Gettysburg. He would, he told his family, be ready to fight.

He had tried to enlist but been turned down.

He embarrassed Nancy, because many in town laughed at him. He waited impatiently for an eclipse of the moon. He spoke constantly of fighting. He drank and roamed the town and threw insults at people.

Nancy's mother had her hands full trying to control her father, and so, quite frequently, did not pay mind to what her daughter was about. Now Nancy ran to the stoop of my house.