Chapter 5

After Victor and Bette walked down Baltimore Street, Minerva and Mr. Greene made their way back to the hotel, pausing when they reached the town square. Others too were congregating in the Diamond, as if expecting someone to tell them what they should do. Horse-drawn ambulances were arriving in the town’s center, wounded men in tow. Minerva watched as stretcher bearers began taking the wounded into the courthouse.

The wounded men unnerved Minerva. Suddenly, she felt very petty for grousing about missing her summer college visits. Her problems seemed minor next to the conditions of the boys being carried into the courthouse.

“Mother!” one soldier shouted from his stretcher. “Mother help me!” he cried out. Minerva sensed the boy was about her own age. Too young for this horror! she thought.

“Mr. Greene, the poor boy!” Minerva said.

“Yes, Minerva,” Greene said evenly. “By the end of the day, buildings all over town will serve as mini hospitals, and church pews will serve as beds for the wounded soldiers. The horror will be unimaginable to the people of Gettysburg. You wish to be a doctor? Well, I think if you pay attention you will get a good idea about Civil War medicine and how physicians earned the sobriquet of ‘sawbones.’ Their medicine is awfully primitive, Minerva, and by our modern standards, most doctors would be considered quacks. The hygiene is atrocious. Doctors didn’t even wash their hands between surgeries. Many had no concept of bacteria, and an infection could mean an amputation. Minerva, if any of us gets wounded, that person must be given my antibiotics. That is why I gave some of my pills to Victor. I can’t return a student to Cassadaga with a missing limb. That is too horrible to contemplate. Let us return to the observatory on the roof of the Fahnestock Building and see how things are going in the battle.”

The previous crowd on the roof of the Fahnestock Building had dwindled to a few diehard spectators.

An elderly man looked at Mr. Greene suspiciously. “Are you sesesh?” he asked the teacher.

“No sir, I am not a secessionist, I am a Unionist,” Greene replied indignantly. “My niece and I are refugees from Mercersburg.”

Another older man asked, “I heard the Rebs rounded up all the coloreds and marched them south, is that true, mister?”

“Yes, sir, it is,” Greene replied. Having studied the Gettysburg Campaign in great detail, the history teacher was quite aware of the Army of Northern Virginia’s proclivity for enslaving blacks. Whether an African-American was a runaway slave or a freeman made no difference to the Confederates. The procedure was not condoned by Robert E. Lee; in fact, he had issued a directive against “barbarous outrages against the unarmed and defenseless,” of which the colored citizens were a part, but his soldiers, many of whom had been members of slave patrols and had pursued runaway slaves before the war, felt that they were merely paying the Union back for its army freeing the Southern slaves in areas that the Union army had conquered.

“Did you witness it?” the man asked Mr. Greene.

“I did sir,” Greene lied, although the information he gave was historically accurate. “It was an advanced cavalry unit and the officer in charge threatened to burn every house that harbored a colored person if the colored was not produced within twenty minutes.”

“What excuse did the Rebel officer give for such infamy?” the man persisted.

“Well, he announced that they were reclaiming their property, which Pennsylvania residents had stolen and harbored.”

“Oh Lord Jesus!” the old man cried out pointing to the west. “Our boys are running!”

Minerva turned her head toward the Lutheran Theological Seminary. Amid the artillery smoke, the Union lines were buckling. Soldiers in blue uniforms began to run down Chambersburg Pike toward the town. It appeared to be more a rout than a retreat, she thought.

Many of the Union soldiers were dropping their equipment in the street. Some tossed away their 1861 model Springfield Rifles with the flip-up sight, a weapon that was accurate as far away as three hundred yards, a rifle that had replaced the smooth-bore musket which couldn’t hit anything over a hundred yards. Minerva was stunned to see how much equipment the average Union infantryman carried into battle, and Mr. Greene answered every question that Minerva proffered.

“The rifles weighed nine pounds, Minerva,” he said. “It fired a .58 caliber minie ball. That is an incredibly large bullet, which broke many an arm and a leg when it hit a bone. The men are carrying rucksacks, wearing wool uniforms in summer heat and wearing black brogans, a type of shoe that covered a man’s ankle. It’s a good deal of weight and it slows a soldier down when he is running away. Hence, the reason they dropped the equipment.”

“That boy, what is he carrying over his shoulder?”

“That’s his cartridge box. He has about forty cartridges in that box. It is his ammunition. If he is really fast, a soldier can shoot three rounds in a minute…not exactly an automatic weapon that we are accustomed to. In fact, after the battle they discovered many discarded rifles on the battlefield with multiple bullets in the barrel. It seems that during the battle a soldier would think his rifle fired and then go about reloading until he had several bullets stuck in the barrel. One rifle had ten bullets stuck in it. They could not hear their own gun go off amid the din of battle.”

“So how much did it all weigh, Mr. Greene?”

“A shade over forty pounds, Minerva, if you throw in his knapsack that held a wool blanket, his shelter half for a two-man tent, and a rubber jacket for hard rain that also served as a waterproof cover for a wet ground. In his haversack and mucket, the soldier carried a change of socks, writing paper for letters home as well as envelopes, ink and a pen, a shaving kit, and a ‘housewife,’ which was a nickname for a sewing kit. He also carried a small coffee grinder. Many men also carried a Bible, though some only carried the New Testament.”

“What was a mucket?”

“A soldier’s canteen, tin cup and tin pot or two. Maybe a frying pan and a spatula for field cooking and a couple pieces of silverware and a half canteen to serve as a plate.”

“A soldier carried all of that into battle?”

“Yes,” Mr. Greene replied.

“They never show all that in the movies,” Minerva said.

“No, they don’t Minerva. No they don’t.”

Minerva nodded.

“We’d best get back to the hotel, Minerva,” Mr. Greene said. “It will be safer there. I don’t think it will be safe to walk the streets in a few minutes,” he added,

As they hurriedly walked back to the hotel, Minerva asked Mr. Greene, “Did they really put free African-Americans into slavery, Mr. Greene?”

“Yes, Minerva and be careful. Do not repeat the phrase ‘African-American outside our group’” Greene cautioned.

“Why?”

“That term did not exist back in 1863. Heck, the term ‘African-American’ did not exist in 1963. Refer to black people as ‘coloreds,’ or ‘Negroes.’ Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know last week, the Rebels came through Gettysburg. June 26th. They stopped first in Caledonia, which is halfway between Gettysburg and Chambersburg. Many freed coloreds worked at the ironworks owned by Thaddeus Stevens. The Rebels destroyed the ironworks and captured some colored workers and marched them off into slavery. During the Gettysburg campaign, historians estimate that nearly a thousand Negroes were forced into slavery. Some of them were runaway slaves, but many were born free in Pennsylvania, for Pennsylvania was a free state. Ironically, most of the blacks captured during the Gettysburg campaign were taken in areas where slavery had been abolished. In Pennsylvania, the abolition of slavery began before the first shots of the American Revolution. Even in Virginia, because of Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, all the slaves held in Union occupied territory were free. Taking blacks and putting them into slavery was making mockery of Lincoln’s decree. Heck,” Greene said, “a black child could go to a public school with a white child in Gettysburg. That was because of Thaddeus Stevens. Do you remember him?”

“The guy Tommy Lee Jones played in the movie Lincoln?” Minerva asked, for Mr. Greene had shown the film to his class after the completion of the Advanced Placement Examination in May.

Mr. Greene laughed.

“He was the one with the black mistress, wasn’t he?”

“Well,” Mr. Greene smiled. “Stevens introduced her as his ‘housekeeper’ which caused a few folks to snicker. Her name was Lydia Smith and he left her property in his will. Stevens was a fascinating man, a driving force behind the 13th Amendment, which was…?”

“The abolition of slavery?”

“That’s correct. Stevens gave the land for Pennsylvania College and was behind the establishment of a public high school in Gettysburg. Most students went no further than eighth grade if they got that far. Pennsylvania was way ahead of other states in education in the 19th century. And a college education? It was out of the reach of the great majority of people. Talk about the one percent, literally between one and two percent of students went to college in the 1860s.”

Minerva and Mr. Greene watched the Yankee retreat from a window in the Gettysburg Hotel. The Union army ran into the town square and then made a beeline for Baltimore Street. Soldiers had broken ranks and were running. Their frightened faces unnerved Minerva. Among the soldiers’ skedaddle were a number of ambulances bringing wounded into the Diamond.

“By the way, Minerva. If anyone should ask you about Mercersburg, you should know that President James Buchanan was born there.”

“Didn’t you teach us that Buchanan was the worst president of all time, Mr. Greene?” Minerva asked.

“Well, yes, I did, Minerva,” admitted Mr. Greene sheepishly. “But he has only been out of office for two years and Pennsylvanians were still proud of him as he was the only president from Pennsylvania. He was also the only bachelor president.”

“I read an article that said he was gay,” Minerva said.

“Well, there is speculation by revisionist historians, but no conclusive evidence was ever found to confirm that speculation. At any rate, I like to think of Buchanan as an American Nero; he watched as the Republic burned. Buchanan didn’t do a thing to stop secession in the months between Lincoln’s election and his inauguration. Remember when Jackson was president and South Carolina threatened to secede? What did old Hickory promise to do if South Carolina seceded?”

Minerva remembered. She brightened and replied, “Jackson threatened to hang John C. Calhoun.”

“Good job!” Greene said.

“It was a multiple-choice question on the A.P. exam, Mr. Greene.”

“Great!”

“I nailed it,” Minerva said triumphantly, then added wistfully, “Somehow, that doesn’t seem to matter much now, though.”

“Keep the faith, Minerva,” Green said and pointed to the retreating Union army. “Look! Do you see who is floating over the Union army?”

“Why that is Mr. Catton!” Minerva said, waving to the ghost.

Recognizing Minerva, the dead historian smiled and floated across the Diamond to the window of the Gettysburg Hotel and began a conversation.

“Why are you two in the hotel?” Catton asked. “You are missing so much. I can’t tell you how enjoyable this all is!” he tittered, and for a moment his merriment shattered his ghostly image into a number of smaller pieces. “Excuse me a moment, while I put myself together,” said Catton who calmly rearranged his image by literally picking up the pieces and shoving them back together.”

“Where is Shelby Foote?”

“With the Confederates, of course. That’s what we agreed upon. We were sitting atop the Evergreen Gatehouse, eating popcorn and watching the battle—we even saw Bette and Victor... Well, as we were sitting there we decided that I would follow the Yankees and Shelby would stay with the Rebels and then we would compare notes at the end of the day on Big Round Top.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Mr. Greene said.

“I guess by this time Shelby is probably floating around Robert E. Lee at his headquarters tent, which in an hour or so will be a house on Seminary Ridge. The Thompson House. Did you know that Meade’s headquarters and Lee’s headquarters were in the homes of widows, Mr. Greene?”

“Yes, I did, Mr. Catton,” Greene replied. “Meade set up his headquarters at the Leister farm, behind Cemetery Ridge. Some people referred to Meade and Lee as ‘widow makers,’ for they certainly created thousands of dead husbands and fathers in the three days at Gettysburg.”

“That they did,” Catton agreed as he continued to float outside their hotel window. “You must forgive me, but I want to join the Yankees on the high ground. Please excuse me, perhaps we will meet again later on. I can’t believe I’m really here!” Catton said happily, and he seemed to skip as he floated away.

“Mr. Greene, we have no luck with ghosts.”

Mr. Greene smiled. “I believe you are right, Minerva. Shall we go down into the town square and offer our services to the wounded men?”

“Yes, Mr. Greene. It is the Christian thing to do.”

“Yes, it is. Minerva, but we must not interfere with the medical care at any time no matter how barbaric it is. Do you understand? We cannot save a dying soldier with any modern methods that we may know and the physician may not. We don’t know how that would upset the time continuum. Let’s not have another Peggy Shippen on our hands,” said Greene alluding to their prior trip to Philadelphia. “I don’t want to have to come back here once we get back home. Do you?”

“I sure don’t, Mr. Greene,” Minerva replied. “No more butterfly effects,” she added, referring to the way the group changed history with its visit to Philadelphia in 1776. “I don’t want to see Robert E. Lee on the twenty-dollar bill.”

“Yes, let’s keep it with Harriet Tubman,” Greene said. “It took long enough to get a black woman on our money.”

“You mean ‘colored’ woman, Mr. Greene.”

Mr. Greene smiled. “Touché, Minerva,” he replied. “Thanks for keeping me in the time period.”

Minerva and her teacher stopped outside the courthouse on the Diamond and quietly watched as ambulance after ambulance pulled up and mangled men were led into the courthouse on stretchers. Minerva noticed one man was missing his right arm past the elbow, a hastily tied tourniquet tied around the stump of what remained. Minerva thought she was going to gag and throw up, but she kept control. Like many of the students at Cassadaga Area High School, she had taken nursing classes and was well versed on first aid.

Mr. Greene saw the horror on Minerva’s face. He said quietly, “Minerva, as bad as the battles were, two thirds of the men who died in the Civil War succumbed to disease—to bacteria not bullets, I like to say. Six hundred twenty thousand soldiers died in the Civil War, more deaths than all other wars our nation fought in, including, World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam and Iraq. But in treating the diseases during the Civil War, the medical community began to rethink its practices, especially its previous disregard for hygiene. Both sides suffered from tuberculosis, typhus and dysentery, as well as pneumonia, mumps and measles. Did you ever read Gone with the Wind?”

“I love that book,” Minerva said. “I have read it three times. I named my dachshund Rhett Butler.”

“Do you remember Scarlett’s first husband?”

“Charles Hamilton?”

“Yes, what did he die from?”

“Measles!” Minerva said.

“He sure did. The poor lad went off in search of glory and contracted the measles. So much for glory. The fictional Charles Hamilton wasn’t alone. The unsanitary camp conditions contributed to the deaths as well. Tuberculosis preyed on men who were in fierce battles and were poorly fed. Today, we have vaccinations for mumps and measles. Smallpox is the danger you kids face here in 1863. Since smallpox was eradicated in our time, they stopped giving routine vaccinations for smallpox in the 1970s. I have a vaccination mark for smallpox, but you kids don’t. That is the disease that should scare us, if it pokes its head up. The pockmarks on George Washington’s face were the result of smallpox that he contracted and survived as a child. Civil War doctors were ignorant of germ theory, and antiseptic conditions were rare if at all. The famous poet Walt Whitman, who served as a nurse during the Civil War, witnessed and documented many an amputation, and once wrote about one makeshift hospital that ‘it was quite crowded upstairs and down, everything impromptu, no system, all bad enough, but I have no doubt the best that can be done, the men in their old clothes, unclean and buddy.’”

Minerva marveled at Mr. Greene’s ability to cite from memory a plethora of quotations from hundreds of sources, as if he were merely recalling a conversation with an historical figure. In this case Walt Whitman. His mind was a veritable search engine of synapses.

“It was the women, Minerva, who led the fight for sanitary conditions. There was Dorthea Dix, and Clara Barton, the founder of the American Red Cross. Both women worked tirelessly to improve the sanitation in hospitals and, as a result of their efforts, probably saved thousands. When William Hammond became the surgeon general of the Union army, he designed new hospital layouts and wrote a book on the importance of hygiene that eventually caught on with his subordinate physicians.”

“Is it true that one out of five children died before the age of five?” Minerva asked.

“That’s about right, although I have seen a study that says one out of four. I think one out of five children dying by age five is probably more accurate.’

An out-of-control ambulance ended their conversation. The driver was trying desperately to rein in his horse and suddenly the horse pulled up, causing a wounded soldier to slide from the ambulance onto the dirt of the Diamond. Minerva sprang into action and darted to the stricken soldier who was gasping for air. After a moment, however, the man stopped breathing and Minerva’s cardiopulmonary resuscitation training kicked in. She heard the song Another One Bites the Dust in her head and began CPR, pushing the soldier’s chest with the beat of the song. As the ambulance driver watched curiously, Minerva completed thirty chess compressions, followed by two rescue breaths. The man revived.

“Where did you learn that, missy?” the orderly asked.

Thinking quickly, Minerva came up with a lie. “My mother was a midwife and she used to do that for stillborn babies. She saved some of the children. I didn’t know if it would work on adults, but I thought I should try it.”

“Oh,” the ambulance driver said dismissively as he and an orderly retrieved the wounded man and put him on a stretcher. The man smiled at Minerva as the stretcher bearers took him inside.

“Minerva,” Greene cautioned. “You fibbed your way out of that very well, but don’t practice CPR. You don’t know how that might change things.”

“Mr. Greene,” Minerva said, holding her ground. “I thought it was my Christian duty to help the poor man. He is shot in the stomach.”

“Well,” Greene replied, “CPR probably won’t make any difference in his case. More than likely with his stomach wound, he won’t survive long.”

“That’s a cheerful thought,” Minerva replied. “I want to go inside the courthouse and see how things are going.”

Greene shook his head. “No, Minerva.”

“I want to see the primitive medicine, Mr. Greene. If I am going to major in pre-med at either Duke or Yale,” Minerva said, “I need to witness the medical care of the era.”

Mr. Greene smiled. Minerva knew he had a soft spot for students who were curious and knew where they were going. Minerva had always known where she was headed from the first time she watched Grey’s Anatomy. Although unlike Meredith Grey, she decided she would definitely not sleep around when she hung up her shingle. She planned to marry a brain surgeon and stay true to him. Then why, she asked herself, did she see Victor Bridges in her dreams?” Victor had as much of a chance of becoming a brain surgeon as the man in the moon, Minerva mused, irritated at herself for the cliché that formed in her mind.

“Minerva?” Mr. Greene said as he waved a hand in front of her face. “Are you still here? You seem to be thinking about something else.”

“Oh, sorry, Mr. Greene. I guess I was daydreaming.”

“Go into the courthouse and watch the medical procedures if you want, but do not administer any modern medical treatments, no matter how necessary. You can help with bedpans and give the boys water, but you are not to save any more lives, hear?”

“Yes, sir. I understand. No lifesaving,” Minerva said, irritated. She felt like a lifeguard at the beach who was not allowed to save swimmers from drowning.

“Good!” Greene said. “Go on then. I am going up to my room at the hotel to watch the events from my window.”

The first thing that Minerva noticed when she entered the courthouse was the blood. It seemed to be everywhere: Puddles on the floor, handprints on the wall. Then came the groaning and the screaming. Primeval sounds. It hurt her ears to hear it and she was powerless to stop it. Pain and agony personified. Already, there were scores of wounded men lying all about. The fighting had only been going on for a few hours, but there seemed to be nearly a hundred wounded soldiers in the courthouse. Minerva counted two doctors and several women acting as nurses. From what Minerva had read about the residents of Gettysburg, many of the women of the town volunteered their help to the wounded men during and after the battle. A young woman who appeared to be about Minerva’s age approached Minerva and asked, “Are you here to help or looking for a loved one, a husband perhaps?”

“I am here to be of assistance if you can use me. My name is Minerva.”

The other young woman smiled. “I didn’t think I would meet the goddess of wisdom today,” she said with a smile. “I am Julia Culp. And I help both Rebels and Yankees. I have a brother with the Union army and a brother with the Confederates.” Julia Culp handed Minerva a bedsheet. “Either or both of them may show up here by the end of the day. I certainly hope they don’t, but that is a possibility.”

“That must be difficult for you,” Minerva replied.

Julia nodded.

“What is the sheet for?” Minerva asked.

“We are making bandages from the sheets,” Julia said. We tear the sheets into strips. Women from all over town are bringing sheets or tearing them up at home. There may be hundreds of casualties before the day is over.”

Try thousands, Minerva thought, but held her tongue. Julia led Minerva to a room where other women were rolling bandages and Minerva got to work tearing the sheet into strips. How rudimentary, Minerva thought. Minerva sat at a table and Julia Culp sat down beside her.

“I haven’t seen you before, are you from out of town?” Julia asked Minerva.

“Yes. I came with my uncle from Mercersburg. My full name is Minerva…Greene,” she said, unaware that Bette had told Elizabeth Thorn that the “family” name was Kardashian. Minerva, never as imaginative as Bette, merely adopted her teacher’s surname.

“Why did your parents name you ‘Minerva’?” a curious Julia Culp asked.

“My mother likes Greek mythology. I guess she could have named me Hestia?”

“Which one was that?”

“Hestia is the goddess of the hearth and home.”

“I wouldn’t mind that one,” Julia replied. “I mean I’m sixteen and I don’t want to wind up a spinster. I think a girl should be married before she is twenty. After that she’s an old maid… I heard the Rebs were rounding up the coloreds in Mercersburg, did you see that?”

Minerva paused for a moment, trying to recall what Mr. Greene had said about the enslavement of blacks in Mercersburg during the Gettysburg campaign. Then she remembered. “The Rebels threatened to burn down houses if the African…ah…coloreds weren’t turned over to them.” Minerva had almost inadvertently said “African-Americans,” even after Mr. Greene’s warning. She was annoyed with herself.

“Most of our colored folks left town a week ago, before the Rebs came here on June 26th,” Julia said. “But there are still a few around. It might be dangerous for them. Do you think the Rebels will ravish us, Minerva?” Julia said, somewhat excitedly.

Minerva was taken aback by Julia’s comment. From what she had read, the Confederates did not violate the women of Gettysburg. They were perfect gentlemen to the ladies. The only people the Confederates abused were the blacks. “I don’t think they will molest us, Julia,” Minerva said, thinking there was something wrong with Julia Culp. Minerva had read that Victorian women were pretty repressed, but she didn’t know how to take Julia Culp. Julia Culp? She tried to recall what she had read about Julia. She had a brother named Wesley who fought with the Army of Northern Virginia. Wesley Culp died on the last day of the battle on his uncle’s hill. Gettysburg was Wesley Culp’s hometown and he returned with the Confederate army only to be killed on his uncle’s property, Culp’s Hill. Truth was indeed stranger than fiction, Minerva thought. But Minerva was unaware that the Rebels had been in Gettysburg the week before.

“You say the Rebels came to Gettysburg a week ago?” Minerva asked. “We just came in here two days ago,” she lied.

“They sure did,” Julia said. “Jubal Early’s division it was. Captured a group of the college boys playing soldier and humiliated them in the Diamond. General Early told them to go home to their mothers and leave the fighting to the men. I have never seen so many red-faced boys in my life, let me tell you! The Rebels took down the Stars and Stripes and put up their damn ‘X’ flag. And then they sang Dixie. They left early the next morning and marched off to York.”

“Did they ravish any girls?” Minerva asked.

Julia smiled. “No, but a girl can hope can’t she?” said Julia who then began to laugh. It was at that moment that Minerva realized Julia had been, as her grandmother used to say, “pulling her leg.”

Minerva sensed that Julia was waiting for Minerva’s chuckle, so the modern girl smiled and laughed along with her nineteenth century counterpart, thinking that Julia had an odd sense of humor. Julia would fit into her A.P. class, Minerva thought. She was just that weird.

When they had rolled several bandages, Julia suggested to Minerva, “Let’s take these to the surgeons. Have you ever seen an amputation, Minerva?”

“No,” Minerva replied.

“Do you want to?”

“I guess,” Minerva said, not wanting Julia to know how much she wished to witness the surgery. This wasn’t something that Meredith Grey would shirk from, Minerva thought. Meredith Grey would relish the chance to watch such surgery.

As they carried their bandages to a room where a surgeon was at work, Julia said to Minerva, “They use chloroform to put the men to sleep before they start sawing off an arm or leg. Pour the chloroform into a cattle horn. It is the latest thing, chloroform.”

The two girls stood at the entrance to the converted operating room and Minerva watched in horror as the surgeon placed the cattle horn atop the patient’s face. The man was lying face up on a courtroom wooden table.

Minerva was struck by the surgeon’s dirty hands and lack of latex gloves, forgetting for a moment that latex was far in the future. But the surgeon didn’t even wear a face mask, she thought, wondering what germs he was passing along to his unsuspecting patient. She also wondered if the surgeon was sober, and whether he drew from the whiskey bottle on a smaller table beside the larger one.

The surgeon poured chloroform through a cloth. But on this occasion the primitive anesthesia was unsuccessful and Minerva witnessed the patient awaken to the sounds of a saw cutting off his leg. In distress, the poor soldier flailed his arms wildly, and screamed in agony, as his limb was severed from his body. The operation was a success, the limb was neatly severed, but the patient died on the table. Minerva wanted to throw up. Instead, the surgeon handed her the severed limb.

“Take this out to the pile out back, girl!” he ordered Minerva. Her body shaking, Minerva held the leg with both hands, blood dripping between her fingers. Keep it together, Minerva told herself. Keep it together.

“Carry it away!” the surgeon ordered at Minerva’s hesitation.

Minerva grimaced when she saw that the surgeon didn’t even clean the blood from the table before the next patient was placed on the wooden surface. Two orderlies entered the room and removed the one-legged corpse and carried it away to join its severed leg in the alley behind the courthouse. Minerva, unnerved and appalled, placed the dead man’s leg on a pile of limbs, which were stacked like a cord of wood by the back door of the courthouse. The two orderlies followed and carried the dead man to a nearby wagon, which was half-filled with cadavers, bodies which earlier in the day had been living and breathing young men. When Minerva saw the collection of mangled bodies in the wagon, she vomited. What was the glory of war of which men spoke so highly? Minerva wondered. There was no glory in this back alley, only the corpses of someone’s son or husband. “The paths of Glory lead but to the grave,” Minerva mumbled, reciting a line from a poem by Thomas Grey, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.

A hospital orderly who did not seem to be older than twenty asked her, “Are you alright, missy?”

Minerva, tears running down her face, waved him away. She didn’t want to talk to anyone at the moment. She felt she was hyperventilating. She took a series of deep breaths to regain her composure.

“Don’t feel bad, missy,” the orderly said, trying to comfort her. “I upchucked the first time I saw a dead body, too.”

“C’mon Tom,” the second orderly said. “We can’t dawdle out here. She’ll get her stomach straight in a few minutes.”

Minerva composed herself. She wanted to wash the man’s blood from her hands. She had to wash the man’s blood from her hands. But there was no faucet. There was no running water. She dreaded returning to the courthouse to watch the butchery that passed for medicine. She was afraid that she would scream, or worse yet, start CPR on another patient. They would probably hang her as a witch, Minerva thought, a bit melodramatically.

She walked through the alley and came out onto the Diamond and went to a pump in front of the courthouse. She had to wait in line as other women were there filling buckets of water for the wounded soldiers. One corpulent, matronly woman was working the pump and when Minerva appeared at the front of the line, the woman said to Minerva, “Where is your bucket, child?”

Minerva held up her bloody hands. “I just want to wash my hands. I carried a severed leg out to the pile in back of the courthouse.”

The woman looked at Minerva sympathetically.” We all have had to do things today that we never dreamed of,” she said.

Minerva wanted to weep for the young men. She wanted to hug the motherly fat lady, for the woman reminded Minerva how much she missed her own mother at the moment and how long it would be before she could hug her mother again. It would be months before she saw her mother again, because of the selfishness of two darned ghosts. Minerva wanted to use stronger language when thinking of the ghosts, but her mind would not even allow her to think of curse words. Minerva hated vulgarity and swearing, but after what she had witnessed in that makeshift operating room, she could sympathize with anyone who let forth a string of “F-bombs.”

When she washed the blood from her hands, the matronly woman handed her a towel and she dried her hands. “Thank you,” Minerva said.

“Why don’t you take some time off, child? I have a feeling there will be plenty more boys that will need your help later today.”

Minerva nodded agreement. She turned to return to the courthouse but paused. She saw the Gettysburg Hotel. She headed for the hotel. She had to talk to Mr. Greene.

She knocked on the door to his room.

“Come in,” Mr. Greene called.

“Is it okay to come in, Mr. Greene?” Minerva asked.

Greene looked at his ashen-faced student. “You look like you have visited Dante’s circle of hell, Minerva.”

“I think I have, Mr. Greene, and it is right here on earth.”

Greene nodded.

“I held a severed leg in my hands, Mr. Greene.”

“An amputation?”

“Yes, it was barbaric!”

“By our modern medical standards, I am sure it was. But it was the only way the physicians could stop the spread of infection during the Civil War. Gangrene was the culprit. Remember Dr. Benjamin Rush back in 1776, Minerva?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want to do to me?”

“Bleed you.”

“Yes, Minerva, and you stopped him from bleeding me by telling Benjamin Rush that I was a hemophiliac, although you used the term ‘bleeder.’ Why was that?”

“Because I thought the doctor would be suspicious of any girl who knew the word ‘hemophilia,’ Mr. Greene.”

“That was wise, Minerva. You lived up to your given name that day and you undoubtedly saved my life…well, no one bleeds anymore, and they stopped bloodletting way before the Civil War. Perhaps as barbaric as it seems, let’s try not to judge these physicians harshly. Medical training was just coming out of what was called ‘the heroic era,’ when doctors advocated not only bloodletting but purging and blistering to treat the humors of the body. Physicians treated syphilis with mercury for heaven’s sake, making things worse instead of better. But medicine advanced because of the Civil War. It was Dr. Letterman, the chief doctor for the Army of the Potomac, who developed ambulances and emphasized the need for a centralized hospital among all the field hospitals. After the battle is over, Camp Letterman will be erected outside of Gettysburg to coordinate care for the thousands of wounded men from the Battle of Gettysburg. It will be close to the railroad lines. You know, Minerva, railroads were often used to move the more severely wounded to better facilities. Many of the men wounded at Gettysburg would later be sent by railroad to hospitals in Baltimore and Philadelphia, something that Benjamin Rush could have never dreamed of. For none of this, as bad as it may seem to we people of the twenty-first century, was available in Benjamin Rush’s day, and yet as President Lincoln will so eloquently begin his Gettysburg address, 1776 was only ‘four score and seven years ago.’”

“So that is what Lincoln was referring to in his speech…1776?”

“Yes, 1776 and the Declaration of Independence. Four score and seven is eighty-seven, and if you subtract eighty-seven from 1863 you get…”

“1776!” Minerva said, pleased with her arithmetic.

“So basically, within one lifetime, medicine advanced, and by the end of the Civil War, the triage was improved, as was sanitation and hygiene. They realized the benefits of proper ventilation. Once a soldier was wounded on the battlefield, he was bandaged quickly, given some whiskey for his shock and even morphine if the man was in serious pain. If his wounds required, he was removed from the battlefield by ambulance. They separated wounded men into three categories: mortally wounded, slightly wounded, and surgical cases. Yes, the amputations in the field hospitals or courthouses were grisly affairs, but they were also life-saving. I think Ken Burns said that after the war the state of Mississippi spent more on artificial arms and legs than it did education. But no, most men didn’t bite a bullet during an amputation. That’s more Hollywood movie nonsense. In a couple weeks Dorthea Dix’s nurses will appear in Gettysburg, among them will be a nurse named Sophronia Bucklin…did you read her nursing diary?”

“Yes, Mr. Greene.”

“Good, perhaps after she arrives and Camp Letterman is built, we can somehow get you to work with her. She was ahead of her time, as were most of Dorthea Dix’s nurses.”

Greene moved to the window and looked out as Confederates took possession of the Diamond. He and Minerva watched as the Stars and Stripes was lowered from the town square flagpole and the Rebels raised the battle flag of the Army of Northern Virginia, the flag which had stirred such controversy in the time from whence Minerva came.

“The Stars and Bars,” Minerva said, pointing to the flag flying over the town square.

“Well, that’s not the Stars and Bars, Minerva. The original Stars and Bars had only seven stars, for the original seven states that seceded. But at the start of the war the official Confederate flag had a field of blue with seven white stars and then a red bar, a white bar and a second red bar. Today, people mistake the Confederate battle flag with the official Confederate flag, so that is why most people call it the Stars and Bars. You see, Minerva, in the first major battle of the Civil War, Bull Run, or as the Southerners called the battle, ‘First Manassas,’ there was a good deal of uncertainty. Since the Confederate flag resembled the Union flag, that banner confused many of the soldiers as to who was on whose side. To add to the general mess of things, at Bull Run some of the Confederates wore blue and some of the Yankees wore gray. So after the battle, General P.G.T. Beauregard, whose troops had opened fire on Fort Sumter and started the war, suggested the battle flag, which in our time has become the symbol of the Confederacy and appears on a good many pickup trucks around Cassadaga. But that battle flag that the Army of Northern Virginia waved, has been misnamed the Stars and Bars. How many stars to you see on the flag, Minerva?”

“I count thirteen.”

“Yes, but how many states seceded from the Union and joined the Confederacy.”

“Eleven?”

“Yes, so does that mean the Rebels couldn’t count?”

“I don’t know. Why are there thirteen stars, Mr. Greene? I don’t recall that you taught us the reason.”

“Yes, I might have slipped up on the Civil War unit; it was too close to Christmas I think… Well the Southerners expected Kentucky and Missouri to join the Confederacy. They were slave states on the border, or what we call ‘border states.’ But even though many of the men from Kentucky and Missouri fought for the South—Jesse James for example—the states never seceded from the Union. Did you notice the Union flag had 34 stars?”

“Yes,” Minerva said.

“The day after the battle is over there will be 35 states, as West Virginia seceded from Virginia and became its own state in the Union on July 4, 1863.”

“But why didn’t the Union drop eleven stars from the flag when the states seceded, Mr. Greene?”

“Ah, up until this point in the war at least, the argument about the war was the ability of states to leave the Union. Had Lincoln ordered the subtraction of stars from the Union’s flag it would have meant that he conceded that the South had a right to secede, and Lincoln never agreed to the concept of secession. With the Emancipation Proclamation and with the Gettysburg Address, Lincoln changed the meaning of the war from secession to freedom and the abolishment of slavery. That is why he starts his address by quoting from the Declaration of Independence that ‘all men are created equal,’ and ends it with a ‘new birth of freedom.’ Gary Wills wrote a great book called Lincoln at Gettysburg, and Wills contends that Lincoln changed the meaning of the war at the national cemetery dedication. Up until that time, he had really danced around the idea of abolition. The Emancipation Proclamation didn’t free all the slaves, only slaves in states which were in rebellion. The border states remained loyal to the Union and retained their slaves until after the war when the 13th Amendment was adopted. Do you remember in the movie when Thaddeus Stevens and Abraham Lincoln worked together to pass the amendment through Congress?”

“Yes, Lincoln had to make all kinds of deals. It seemed kind of sleazy, Mr. Greene,” Minerva said, remembering the film and the promises the president made to get the congressmen to do the right thing.

“Yes, Congress hasn’t changed much, I’m afraid.”

“Look at the people in the square, Mr. Greene. Many of them are crying,” Minerva said.

“Yes, the residents took it pretty hard. It was the second time within a week the town was occupied by Rebels.”