Widow of Gettysburg (17 page)

“I would consider it a great personal favor,” he said, “if you would just hold tight to these straps while I cut. You don’t have to watch, just grab on to the retractor and pull it snug. Otherwise, the muscle tissue
will get in the way of the bone when I—”

“Yes, yes, that’s fine.” She didn’t need to hear any more. She held firmly to the linen strips with one hand, kept the lantern steady with the other, and focused her gaze on the patient’s complexion.

The doctor hesitated. “Set the lantern down. Here.”

“What?”

“I need you to steady the limb as I cut.”

She froze.

“Don’t you dare tell me you can’t.”

Stuffing down her fear, she held the retractor strips with one hand, and the patient’s arm with the other. The saw rasped against bone until she held a severed arm in her grasp. She let it fall to the ground.

He took the retractor from her hand and she closed her eyes in relief.
It’s over.

“It’s not over. Pick up the lantern again and hold it close. Keep watch of his face.”

Liberty shifted her position, switching the lantern from her right arm to her left.

Dr. Stephens picked up a long metal file and grated it against the bone as one would draw a bow across a cello’s strings, until he was satisfied the edge was smooth enough. “It will never heal properly if the edges are sharp.”

Next he moistened the end of a silk thread in his mouth, bent low with some thin, long instruments, and was silent for several moments as he sewed. Then he sprinkled some powder on the open stump. “Opium is a miracle drug. Stops bleeding, relieves pain. It’s the one battlefield drug I would never choose to go without.”

Straightening somewhat, he turned the screw on the tourniquet and released the pressure, slowly. “Good.” He exhaled. “The ligatures held. Now to separate the nerve endings and sew any smaller veins shut.”

Moths beat chaotically against the lantern while Liberty waited for some signal that the operation was complete. Dr. Stephens tugged the muscle and skin back down over the stump, then smoothed adhesive
strips of plaster over it to strap the skin back together.

“Won’t you sew it shut?” Liberty asked.

“Not necessary. The skin will fuse itself back better without stitches. This is better, so long as we leave room for drainage and the ends of the ligature threads so we can pull those out later. Now watch. This part isn’t hard, you could do it next time.” He bandaged a wad of lint onto the end of the plastered stump. “Now the drainage will stay inside the bandage. You see why the dressings must be changed regularly.” He sought her eyes with his. “Why I can’t care for these patients without your help.” She could not deny it.

After wiping his blades on his apron, Dr. Stephens set them back on the end of the barn door, at the patient’s feet. The doctor’s hands were filthy, sticky with blood and pus, gummy with adhesive and plaster, sprinkled with lint. He wiped them on his apron, too.

“He will awake soon, and we’ll help him down so we can do the next operation.”

Libbie lowered the lantern and stepped away from the table, bumping into something with her foot. She looked down.
It is only an arm.
And for the first time all day, she did not quake.

She could do this.

“Thank God you have anesthesia,” she whispered.

“We don’t. Union blockades, you know.”

She frowned. “You don’t have medicine?”

“Very little, plus what we smuggle.”

“Then how—”

“I have my own amputation kit, and the small chloroform device is mine. But the rest of these supplies—the tourniquets, silk thread, bandages, chloroform, opium—all of this was captured from the Union hospital at the Lutheran Theological Seminary.”

Liberty flinched. “Then what do they have?”

He shrugged. “A hospital full of patients who can’t be helped, or at least not with anesthesia.”

“So helping these men means that Union soldiers must suffer?”
Union boys housed in the very seminary where Levi studied!

“Oh, I’m certain they are quite miserable.”

“I can’t be a part of this!”

“You already are.”

Indignation flared in Liberty’s veins. Was this what loving one’s enemies required of her? “I didn’t know these supplies were stolen from the North!”

“And what do you call the Union blockade on the South? We would have gladly purchased all we need, but we have no way to get it! Do you deny these men deserve medical attention?”

Her frustration pulsed. Her mind could form no rebuttal.

“Look, the patient is waking. It’s time for the next operation, and I need your help, you know that I do. Will you now refuse to give it?”

Part of her wanted to swish her filthy skirt and storm off in a tempest, taking the lantern with her. This was an impossible position for her to be in. The Widow of Gettysburg helping provide medical care to the Rebels, possibly preventing Southern women from becoming other widows of Gettysburg? She could almost hear Amelia now.
Whose side are you on?

Love your enemies.

She looked up at the moon then, and sighed.
Who I am doesn’t matter as much as what I do. Lord, help me want to love my enemies.

By the time the next patient was on the door, Liberty was there with the lantern.

Do we know each other?

Not nearly as much as I’d like to.

Will I see you again?

“Ford.”

Silas jerked his head up and cracked it on the stone wall behind him, as his disoriented mind swam back to wakefulness. The vision of Liberty Holloway that appeared whenever he closed his eyes vanished, replaced by the stern, bearded face of a Confederate officer.

“Pardon me, sir.” Silas fought the urge to rub the back of his head as he stood. He had come to the one and a half story stone house serving as Lee’s headquarters more than an hour ago to report on the Union position. But Lee was away speaking with General Ewell, and Silas was asked to wait for Lee’s return. He had tried to stay awake reading a cross-stitched wall hanging of the Lord’s Prayer, but he must have nodded off between “Forgive us our debts” and “deliver us from evil.”

“He will see you now.”

Strong tobacco flavored the officer’s breath, the foul smell pinching Silas further awake. Hat in his hands, he approached the very tired-looking General Lee. The first day of battle had come and gone, and at twelve thirty on Thursday morning, Lee sorely needed rest. Everyone did.

“Please, do tell me what you have learned this night.” Weariness cloaked his voice.

Silas cleared the sleep from his throat. “Sir, the Union line regrouped south of town after their retreat. They are still on the high ground near the cemetery. General Ewell did not attack the hill, sir, and they are working to strengthen their position there.” Silas paused.

“Go on.” So far, clearly, this was nothing Lee did not know.

“Sir, it sounds like there is movement on the other hill, as if Union troops are deploying there as well. This would be their right flank. On their left, they have positions on the high ground crossing Taneytown Road and south along the ridge for about half a mile or so. Reinforcements are arriving from the south and southeast along Taneytown Road and the Baltimore pike, sir.”

Lee nodded, slowly, his gaze fixed on the map curling up on the table before him. “Those two roads are blocked, and we have lost an
opportunity to capture the high ground of Cemetery Hill and Culp’s Hill. Have you any word of General Stuart?”

“Sir, I have found no one who knows anything of General Stuart’s position.”

Still looking at the map, Lee muttered, “I have no idea where he is, and his cavalry was to be my eyes and ears on the Federals.” Stuart should have been here by now—no, days ago—providing both reinforcements and intelligence. But his whereabouts remained a mystery.

Candlelight gleamed in Lee’s eyes as he faced Silas. “It most assuredly would be to our benefit to know where he is, and more than that, to know what he knows. Perhaps he has been cut off from us by Union lines. If so, will he not know the nature of those columns? Their direction, their number, their condition?” He paused. “We need more information. Ford, you will get it for us.”

“Sir.” Silas stood at attention.

“Go get Jeb Stuart, and bring him back.”

Silas understood the urgency as well as the order. “Yes, sir.” His heart fell into his stomach like a chunk of johnnycake. With every mission, it was becoming more difficult to reconcile his personal convictions with his role in the war.

“Lose not a moment’s time,” Lee added. “Spurs and gallop. He could be anywhere in Pennsylvania, but chances are he is east of here.”

Silas took his leave, calculating distances against time as he mounted Bullet and dug his heels into his sides. Day would break just after four thirty. There was little time.

Moonlight and shadow danced on the road in front of him as he and Bullet passed under the spreading branches of an oak tree. If he believed God would answer his prayers, he may have asked for divine guidance. But what did David, the psalmist say?
If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.

That’s right. Iniquity. Silas was on his own.

He turned Bullet east on Chambersburg Pike and dug in, and the horse’s lean but powerful hindquarters responded. In less than ten
minutes, he had crossed the slope down from Seminary Ridge and into Gettysburg, where streetlights glowed along the main road. The sharp smell of ammonia pinched his nose, announcing the presence of soldiers and horses before he saw them. In the absence of an adequate number of privies, man and beast alike relieved themselves wherever they pleased.

Slowing Bullet’s pace, he caught glimpses of Confederate soldiers sleeping on the street, some on church steps, some in the doorways of houses. Puffs of tobacco smoke floated toward Silas, choking him with the stink. Several women were at their wells outside, pumping water and hauling it back down into their cellars. He guessed they had remained hidden, below ground all day during the fighting.

From within Christ Lutheran Church, where he had once practiced preaching, the distinct drone of the wounded drifted out to him. Silas blanched. Like his own heart, what was once filled with worship now bore the stains of man’s sin.

Across the street from the church, a woman carried two pails of water toward her door. “Pardon me, ma’am,” Silas said to her. “Could you spare a cup of water for me?” He could not read the expression on her face, but her tone of voice was clear.

“Are you Union?”

He shook his head.

“Well then, are you wounded?”

No again.

“Then no, I can’t spare it. I’ve got seventeen people—civilians, mind you—in my cellar below, and not a drop to drink or a crumb to eat all day. Six wounded are in my parlor, and you can tell from here there’s more in the church. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to bake some bread so we don’t all faint from hunger. You’ll find the same story in every other house around here that hasn’t been abandoned by the owners.”

He tipped his hat to her as she trudged off, and did not blame her in the least, though he was still thirsty and hungry himself. Silas wondered if Liberty would even give him food and water if she really knew
who he was. He should not have high-tailed it away from her like he did. Hadn’t she been left by enough people? He should have owned up to his past.
But no, I just had to light out of there.
Running had become a way of life for Silas.

Lose not a moment’s time.
Lee’s directive rang like an alarm in his mind. Silas urged Bullet into a canter straight through The Diamond, through the last few blocks of town, then galloped out onto the road leading northeast, toward York. If he didn’t fall asleep on his mount, the forty-mile ride would give him plenty of time to think.

Just what he didn’t want.

Before the war, he used to love midnight rides on horseback. Even if there was no one else in sight, he couldn’t possibly feel alone with the canopy of stars twinkling above him, as though God had pricked holes in a black velvet canvas and let the heavens shine through. Back then, he had felt close to God even while enveloped in darkness.

Those days are long gone.
That was before the war. Before he started on a path that allowed no turning back.

Silas’s legs tensed around Bullet’s body as his father’s face surged before him: creased with rage, twitching with fury, and as red as the glowing iron he had used to brand his slaves.
How could you have defied me in this way?
The tobacco smell of slave labor was heavy on his father’s breath.
How can you live with yourself?
had been Silas’s response. Enraged, his father ended the argument with the whip, filleting Silas’s back with lash after lash, until the overseer finally wrestled it out of his grasp. When his back finally healed, the flesh rippled with scar tissue.
I would do it again
, Silas thought.
Some prices are worth paying.