Widow of Gettysburg (2 page)

M
ention the word “Gettysburg” and most people will immediately think of the epic battle that took place in rural Pennsylvania July 1–3, 1863, or of the Gettysburg Address that President Abraham Lincoln delivered four months later. Scores of books have been written about the armies that fought, the military strategy, the details of the battles, and how it might have ended differently if other decisions had been made. In comparison, very few books have been written about Gettysburg itself. But before “Gettysburg” was a battle, it was a town full of ordinary people, people like you and me.

Twenty-four hundred residents inhabited the borough of Gettysburg in 1863 when 163,000 men and 15,000 animals converged upon it for the three-day battle in July. Some fled to protect themselves and their property, while many—most of them women and children—were caught in the crossfire. Surviving the battle was only the beginning. While most history books follow the armies on their journeys away from Gettysburg when the battle receded,
Widow of Gettysburg
keeps the focus on the aftermath being played out in the town. When the
armies withdrew, 21,000 wounded were left in their wake, with only 106 Union medical officers and far fewer Confederate doctors. Women and children were drafted into hospital service, whether they felt confident in their ability or not. Days after the battle’s end, thousands more invaded the already overtaxed town in the form of relief workers, sightseers, and those looking for their loved ones. The quiet life Gettysburg had known was gone.

Women of Gettysburg did not ask for the distinction, but many became heroines behind the lines just the same.
Widow of Gettysburg
is the story of their resilience. In the words of Gettysburg housewife Sarah Broadhead, “We do not know until tried what we are capable of.”

“WE WERE SO USED TO
the cry, ‘the Rebels are coming,’ when they did not come, were not even in sight, that we paid little or no attention to the daily, even hourly reports, that came to our ears and we even laughed and joked among ourselves, little dreaming they were really so near.”

          
—FANNIE BUEHLER, Gettysburg housewife

“BUSINESS OF ALL KINDS
was paralyzed, and the daily reports of the coming of the rebels kept us in a constant fever of excitement. On June 26, they came, spent the night and passed through toward Harrisburg, burning bridges and spreading consternation everywhere. Little we dreamed of the far greater horrors that were in store for us.”

          
—ELIZABETH SALOME “SALLIE” MYERS, public school teacher in Gettysburg, age 21

 

S
hhhh. Someone’s coming.” Liberty Holloway cocked her head toward the window as the muffled rhythm of hoofbeats rose above the drumming rain. “Rebels?” The word sat, bitter, on her tongue as her fists sank deeper into the bread dough she’d been kneading. They had taken enough from her already, long before a single Confederate soldier had set foot in the North. Were they now here to raid her property as well?

“Traveler, looks like.” Bella Jamison wiped her hands on her flour-dusted apron and peered between the curtains without parting them. “Wet and hungry, I’ll wager. You know Black Horse Tavern and Inn down the road are full up right now, and you just hung that sign out by the road last week.”

Libbie exhaled, her pulse matching her fear. Though she was a grown woman of nineteen years, she had yet to tame her runaway imagination.
But perhaps her hired help was right, and a traveler would be welcome, provided he could pay in greenbacks.

“Then again, we just can’t know for sure.” Bella backed away from the window, her coffee-with-cream complexion darkening in the shadows. “Rebels don’t always have proper uniforms, you know. I only see one on the road, but there could be more coming.”

Serves me right for not heeding Governor Curtin’s proclamation.
Libbie pulled her hands from the sticky dough and went to the window herself. “If he doesn’t break into a gallop, we’ll have just enough time.”

Before the words had left her mouth, Bella had already moved the worktable away from the bricked-in fireplace and slid out several loose bricks. The cast-iron stove and oven served for their baking and cooking, but the summer kitchen’s walk-in fireplace still had its purpose. Together, they hurriedly filled the space to keep their stores out of sight: jars of molasses, peach and strawberry preserves, applesauce, tomatoes, and sacks of potatoes, onions, flour, and oats.

Drip. Drip. Drip.
The leak in the corner marked time like a metronome as water dropped into a tin pie plate on the floor. Soon, all that was left was the freshly baked rye bread cooling on the sideboard, the abandoned lump of dough, and bunches of parsley and oregano hanging from the rafters to dry.

After replacing the bricks and the table in front of it, Liberty stole another glance out the window. “We can still hide the horses. Make haste.” Resolve pierced through her anxiety as she hung her apron on a wooden peg and stepped out into the rain with Bella close on her heels.

Hurrying into the barn, Libbie swished her skirts to scatter the clucking chickens in their path. The horses, Daisy and Romeo, twitched their tails as the women bridled them, then led them past the summer kitchen and into the great hall of the two-story stone farmhouse.

“We’ll be fine here.” Bella stroked Romeo’s withers to calm him. “Remember, you are the lady of this house. Stand your ground.”

“If it’s a Rebel—”

“I can take care of myself. Go.”

The hoofbeats grew louder outside. Liberty patted the thick, black braid that circled her head and hurried over to Major, the 140-pound Newfoundland sprawled on the rug inside the front door.

“Wake up, boy. Time to look menacing,” she said as she buried her hand in the scruff of his massive neck. Not that he could hear anything. “Come on, Major.” She hooked a finger under his collar and tugged. Groaning, he lumbered to his feet, yawned, and turned his head slightly to wink at her with his one good eye.

“Come, he’s almost here,” she whispered, and immediately regretted her choice of words.
I could swear that dog can read lips!
Major perked up and jumped at the door. “No, Major, not Levi.” She shook her head. “No Levi.”

Liberty led Major out onto the porch and pointed to the splitting wooden floorboards beside her. “Sit.” He obeyed. Wild roses the color of lemonade hugged the porch from all sides, lifting their faces to catch their drink. Their heady fragrance infused the air as a man on a gaunt horse rode up the lane to Libbie’s dooryard in no particular hurry, as if it weren’t raining at all, as if the shelter of a covered porch didn’t stand right in front of him. Feeling a pull on her skirt, she glanced down to find Major sitting sideways on one of his haunches, leaning against her leg.
So much for my canine protector.

The stranger drew rein and dismounted his horse with graceful ease. A rain-soaked denim shirt and brown woolen trousers revealed a lean, muscular body, the kind that was used to work. A farmer perhaps? Carpenter?
Or a soldier.

“You don’t look like a Rebel.” The words escaped her without thought.

So did Major. Before she could stop him, he ambled down the steps to the dooryard and slammed right into the man, stumbled back a little, then nuzzled his big furry black head under the man’s hand. Liberty sighed. Major’s sense of balance was lacking since he’d lost his eye.

The man bent to scratch Major behind the ears and on the white patch on his chest. “I take that as a compliment, ma’am.” His accent was
Northern, a blessed relief. Straightening again, he doffed his felt hat and bowed slightly before appraising her with moss green eyes. Rain darkened his hair to the color of polished oak and coursed down his stubbled cheeks. He took a step forward. “Miss Liberty?”

“How did you—”

“The sign by the road. Liberty Inn.” He rubbed his horse’s nose before glancing up at her again. “I’m guessing you might be Miss Liberty?”

Liberty spun the thin gold band around her finger. “Yes.” She hoped he would not also guess how very new this venture was. She had three rooms ready for guests on the first floor of the farmhouse, each complete with quilts stitched by her own hand, but not one had yet been used.

“You’ve lost someone.” His voice was quiet, tentative, but for all the world, Liberty could not think why. Two years into the war, women in mourning were a common sight. She crossed her arms across the pleated waist of her faded black dress and wished she had at least worn her hoops under her skirt this morning. She never did while doing chores, they got in the way so much. But now, the way he looked at her, she felt practically naked without them. “You’ll forgive me if I ask you to kindly state your business, sir.” She caught Major’s eye and stabbed her finger at the porch floor again until the dog returned to her side.

He cleared his throat and offered a smile. “I’m a long way from home, and I sure could use a little hospitality.”

“Do you mean to say that you need a room?”

“I have neither time nor money for a room, but my bread basket’s been empty for quite a spell.” He laid a hand on his stomach. “Could you spare anything for me to eat?”

She sighed. Times were tight at Holloway Farm, but she’d never been very good at saying no, to anyone. “Your mount looks as though he could eat something too.” She led them both to the barn where the horse could eat hay and oats, then took the stranger into the summer kitchen. Twenty feet behind the house, this was the small outbuilding where she did most cooking, baking, preserving, and laundry during
the hottest season of the year. It would serve to feed a stranger without allowing him into the house.

“Sit there.” She pointed to the rough-hewn table butting up against the old fireplace and crossed the room to slice a loaf cooling on the sideboard. Major spread himself out to dry on the floor in front of the warm stove, the smells of wet dog and fresh bread thickening the air.

When Libbie turned back to the table, she found the man still standing. He shrugged, his hat still in his hands. “I never sit when a lady still stands. Won’t you join me? Or do you mean to make me stand while I eat alone, like a common beggar?” His smile dissolved any argument on the tip of her tongue, and she allowed him to seat her at the worktable, her face flooding with warmth that did not come from the oven. Even Levi’s manners had not gone this far. But to be fair, Libbie had not expected it. Aunt Helen had raised her to believe that manners were not meant to be wasted on the likes of her. Liberty swallowed. She should not think anything uncharitable of the dead. Either of them.

The man’s stomach growled as she set the loaf of rye on the table, yet he made no move for it. “Are you waiting for me to serve you?” The question sounded more prickly than she intended.

“Ladies first.” He nodded at the bread. “You baked it. You should be the first to enjoy it.”

“Well, you certainly don’t act like a beggar,” Libbie admitted as she helped herself to a steaming piece.

“Wouldn’t Mama be proud.” He laughed, but a shadow passed over his face. He took a slice for himself then, but before taking a bite, bowed his head for a moment.

Then he ate. And ate—until the loaf was gone.

Finally, when the last crumb had disappeared, he leaned back in his chair and raked a hand through his hair. “I haven’t been full in a very long time. Thank you, ma’am.”

She nodded and stood, and so did he.

“It doesn’t suit me to take something for nothing, though.” He flicked a glance at the water dimpling in the pie plate. “I can fix that for you.”

“You needn’t trouble yourself.”

“Your husband certainly didn’t.” He dropped his gaze to the ring she twisted on her finger. “Perhaps he is away.”