Chapter 7

On the morning of July 2nd, 1863, Minerva awoke to the Confederate occupation of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. Before falling asleep the night before, she had listened to a Confederate quartet in the street below offer a rendition of the Confederate version of The Battle Cry of Freedom with the same melody as The Union Forever. The men had sung it twice and, on this Thursday morning, Minerva couldn’t get the words out of her mind.

Our flag is proudly floating on the land and on the main,

Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

Beneath it oft we’ve conquered, and we’ll conquer oft again!

Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

Our Dixie forever! She’s never at a loss!

Down with the eagle and up with the cross.

We’ll rally ’round the bonny flag, we’ll rally once again,

Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

Our gallant boys have marched to the rolling of the drums.

Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

And the leaders in charge cry out, “Come, boys, come!”

Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

They have laid down their lives on the bloody battle field.

Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

Their motto is resistance—“To the tyrants never yield!”

Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

While our boys have responded and to the fields have gone.

Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

Our noble women also have aided them at home.

Shout, shout the battle cry of Freedom!

Thankfully a knock on her hotel room door erased the lyrics from Minerva’s mind. It was Mr. Greene.

“Good morning, I hope you slept well, Minerva. Shall we go down and see if we can get some breakfast?”

The hotel dining room was nearly filled with Confederate officers and Minerva and Mr. Greene took a table by a window, which was as far away from the Rebels as possible.

“We seem to be the only civilians in the dining room,” Minerva whispered.

Mr. Green smiled and nodded. A waitress came over to their table. She was a middle-aged woman and appeared to be in a grouchy mood, but she smiled when she saw Minerva and Mr. Greene.

“I’m glad someone had the courage to show up,” she said softly to the pair from the future. “Everyone seems to be hiding in their houses. Usually there are dozens of people here for breakfast. The Rebs have taken over the town…what can I get you? We’ve been cooking up a mess of biscuits and gravy for the Rebs.”

“That’ll be fine,” Mr. Greene said.

The waitress wrote it down and added, “They have put up barricades out on Baltimore Street. Our boys are up on Culp’s Hill and all along Cemetery Ridge.”

“Today we finish off the Federals!” a Rebel captain shouted.

“Who are the Federals, Mr. Greene?” Minerva asked.

“That’s what the Confederates call the Union soldiers. Federals.”

“Today we finish off the Federals!” the captain shouted louder and heads turned.

“Huzzah! Huzzah,” the other Confederates cheered.

“Today we end the war!” bragged a Rebel colonel. “The Federals will surrender!”

“Huzzah! Huzzah.”

“In a week we’ll be in Washington City!” the colonel bragged. “The Federals say they’ll hang Jeff Davis from a sour apple tree? Well, we’ll hang Lincoln from a Washington City cherry tree!”

“Huzzah! Huzzah!”

Suddenly, the commotion stilled. Minerva could see outisde a distinguished-looking officer, a perfectly dressed, gray-bearded man, atop a dappled gray horse that sported a black mane and tail. As well as a second, ghostly passenger, the deceased but grinning Shelby Foote, who was, of course, invisible to all but the time travelers.

An aide was holding the horse’s reins as the officer dismounted. Minerva saw that the officer was wearing three stars on his collar.

Minerva looked at Mr. Greene for an answer.

“My heavens, it is Traveller and Robert E. Lee,” a wide-eyed Nathan Greene remarked. Then he frowned when he spotted Mr. Foote. “The old poltergeist,” the teacher muttered, but quickly caught himself before he used foul language.

Instead, ever the pedagogue, Mr. Greene explained to Minerva that Traveller was the name of Lee’s horse, adding that in modern times Lee sat atop Traveller on a monument erected on Seminary Ridge.

Lee and his aide entered the dining room. The Confederate officers rose to their feet and cheered their commander. Lee smiled slightly in response to their greeting and signaled them to stop and they quieted down immediately. The commander of the Army of Northern Virginia walked over to a table beside Minerva and Mr. Greene and sat down. The same waitress who had waited on Minerva and her teacher approached Lee’s table. The general, too, ordered biscuits and gravy. Minerva deduced that was the only item on the menu.

Minerva and Mr. Greene watched silently as a two-star general with a full brown beard approached America’s Napoleon…

“Major General Longstreet,” Greene whispered to Minerva.

“Sit down, general,” Lee said politely to Longstreet. “What’s on your mind?”

“Sir, with all due respect, I believe we should outflank the enemy and put ourselves between the Federals and Washington City. I fear that we are outnumbered and would be best served in a defensive position.”

Minerva watched the commander bristle at Longstreet’s suggestion. Through the window she saw Shelby Foote’s ghost still sitting atop Traveller, but now he was waving to her, like a little boy on a plastic pony on a merry-go-round. The horse seemed to sense the ghost’s presence, for it bucked up and down to no avail, finally surrendering to the spirit who in turn was pretending to be a rodeo cowboy and shouting “ride ’em cowboy!” She hid a chuckle, attempted to ignore the dead historian’s shenanigans, and concentrated on the conversation between Lee and his chief subordinate. The ghost floated right through the glass window and sat down in a chair beside Minerva.

“Go away, Mr. Foote,” she whispered.

Foote put a finger to his mouth to hush Minerva. “I want to hear this,” he said. “Longstreet is trying to convince Lee to fight defensively.” He floated over to Lee’s table and sat in an empty chair and gestured an “okay” signal to Minerva.

“I mean to end it here, general,” Lee said to Longstreet. “The war ends here, sir. It is well that war is so terrible; otherwise, we should grow too fond of it,” Lee added philosophically. “We have a chance to end the horror, general, and we must try.”

Longstreet persisted. “But sir, we could not call the enemy to position better suited to our plans. All that we have to do is file around his left and secure good ground between him and his capital.”

“No sir,” Lee replied coldly, and Minerva watched as a disheartened James Longstreet stood up from the table and excused himself to his commander.

Mr. Greene whispered to Minerva. “Fascinating, Minerva. I read Longstreet’s memoir, and that is pretty much how he wrote it. Longstreet said he gave Lee advice and that Lee rejected the advice. His book was blistering criticism of Lee, at least to some Southerners who turned on Longstreet and accused him of being a traitor.”

“For giving advice?” Minerva whispered in response.

Greene continued whispering. “Lee was a revered figure in the South, Minerva. Heck, Southern schools once closed for Lee’s birthday every year. Not for Lincoln’s birthday mind you, but for Robert E. Lee’s birthday.”

“That’s a fact, Minerva,” Shelby Foote said as he floated back to rejoin them. But of course, no one but Minerva and Mr. Greene could hear the ghost, and Minerva was not going to get into a conversation with someone that the other people in the dining room could not see. That would certainly make her appear daft.

Instead, Mr. Greene whispered to Foote. “What have you been up to Mr. Foote?”

“Just hanging with my hero,” Foote said, nodding to the commanding general who said a prayer before beginning his frontal assault on his biscuits and gravy. “The man has a presence about him. I understand so much better why the Southern men adored him. They worshipped him. Up until Gettysburg, Robert E. Lee never lost. Lee has a cheerful dignity and can praise his men without seeming to court their favor. I find that remarkable. I have floated around the Southern lines and have listened and watched many of the commanders. Jubal Early seems a foul-mouthed, crass man and Ewell is too timid. Why Ewell could have taken Culp’s Hill last evening if he had a modicum of courage. Might have changed the whole battle if the Confederates had taken that high ground. Richard Ewell is a disappointment, the bald-headed bast…fellow.” Foote caught himself, ever the Southern gentleman, even if deceased, not wishing to offend Minerva’s ears with a vulgarity.

Minerva, a high school student, had certainly heard the word “bastard” before, but she thought the dead historian’s decorousness delightful. She appreciated good manners. Victor Bridges could learn a thing or two on being a gentleman, she mused. Stop thinking of Victor, she told herself. He is probably canoodling with Kromer, she mused, spitefully.

Mesmerized, Mr. Greene was listening to the ghost’s rendition of the prior day’s conflicts. Neither he nor Minerva heard the soft, beseeching voice from the adjacent table.

“Please excuse me,” repeated General Robert Edward Lee, formerly of Arlington Virginia. His home in Arlington had been confiscated by the Federal Government and converted into a cemetery better known to the modern world as Arlington National Cemetery. “May I borrow your salt shaker? My table does not have one.”

Minerva finally noticed the general standing next to their table.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Minerva said, handing General Lee the salt shaker. “I’m afraid I was daydreaming.”

Lee smiled knowingly. “There are a number of handsome young men in the dining room, are there not?”

Minerva blushed, for while she hadn’t been smitten by any of the soldiers having breakfast, she had been thinking of Victor, and her facial reaction brought a light chuckle from Lee. “Allow me to introduce myself,” Lee said politely. “I am Robert Edward Lee of Virginia at your service. I am commander of the Confederate army which is occupying your town.”

“We know, General Lee,” Mr. Greene said. “I am Nathan Greene and this is my niece Minerva. We fled from Mercersburg to Gettysburg for a safe haven.”

“I certainly hope it is not your appointment in Samarra, Mr. Greene,” Lee commented.

“Excuse me?” Mr. Greene asked.

Minerva was puzzled as well. What did Lee mean?

“I am sorry, mine was an indelicate comment. Let me explain. Your comment of fleeing to Gettysburg from Mercersburg for safe haven reminded me of an ancient Arab fable, if you will indulge an old man a moment? A woman sent her servant to the market in Baghdad. While he is there, the servant sees Death and runs home to his mistress and tells her he is going to run away to Samarra to avoid death. The woman is incensed and marches to the market and confronts Death. ‘Why did you startle my servant?’ she asks. ‘I was just as startled to see him in the market, for I have an appointment with him in Samarra tonight.’ You see, we can’t outrun our fate, Mr. Greene.”

Shelby Foote said to Mr. Greene and Minerva, “No truer words were ever spoken. Lee’s fate is here. At Gettysburg. This is his Samarra. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

Anecdote completed, Lee smiled, politely bowed, returned to his table and quietly finished his meal. Mr. Greene found a week-old copy of the Gettysburg Compiler, a local newspaper, and began to read the newspaper’s account of Jubal Early’s raid of June 26th. From her purse, Minerva extracted Sarah Broadhead’s Diary. Hiding the pamphlet below the table, Minerva unobtrusively read the Quaker woman’s entry for July 2nd.

Diary of Sarah Broadhead

July 2, 1863

Of course we had no rest last night. Part of the time we watched the Rebels rob the house opposite. The family had left some time during the day, and the robbers must have gotten all they left in the house. They went from the garret to the cellar, and loading up the plunder in a large four horse wagon, drove it off. I expected every minute that they would burst in our door, but they did not come near us. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and we could see all they did.

The cannonading commenced about 10 o’clock, and we went to the cellar and remained a little while until it ceased. When the noise subsided, we came to the light again, and tried to get something to eat. My husband went to the garden and picked a mess of beans, though stray firing was going on all the time, and bullets from sharpshooters or others whizzed about his head in a way I would not have liked. He persevered until he picked all, for he declared the Rebels should have not one. I baked a pan of shortcake and boiled a piece of ham, the last we had in the house, and some neighbors coming in, joined us, and we had the first quiet meal since the contest began. I enjoyed it very much. It seemed so nice after so much confusion to have a little quiet once more. We had not felt like eating before, being worried by danger and excitement. The quiet did not last long. About 4 o’clock P.M. the storm burst again with terrific violence. It seemed like heaven and earth were being rolled together. For better security we went to the house of a neighbor and occupied the cellar, by far the most comfortable part of the house. Whilst there a shell a struck the house, but mercifully did not burst, but remained embedded in the wall, one half protruding. About 6 o’clock the cannonading lessened, and we, thinking the fighting for the day was over, came out. Then the noise of the musketry was loud and constant, and made us feel quite as bad as cannonading, though it seemed to me less terrible. Very soon the artillery joined in the din, and soon became as awful as ever, and we again retreated to our friend’s underground apartment, and remained until the battle ceased, about 10 o’clock at night. I have just finished washing a few pieces for my child, for we expect to be compelled to leave town tomorrow, as the Rebels say it will most likely be shelled. I cannot sleep, and as I sit down to write, to while away the time, my husband sleeps as soundly as though nothing was wrong. I wish I could rest so easily, but it is out of the question for me to either eat or sleep under such terrible excitement and such painful suspense. We know not what the morrow will bring forth, and cannot even tell the issue of to-day. We can gain no information from the Rebels, and are shut off from all communications with our soldiers. I think little has been gained by either side so far. Has our army been sufficiently reinforced? Is our anxious question. A few minutes since we had a talk with an officer of the staff of General Early, and he admits our army has the best position, but says we cannot hold it much longer. The Rebels do so much bragging that we do not know how much to believe. At all events, the manner in which this officer spoke indicates that our troops have the advantage so far. Can they keep it? The fear that they may not be able to causes our anxiety and keeps us in suspense.

The Confederate officers, including General Lee, had long departed when Mr. Greene paid the bill for breakfast. Shelby Foote, too, left to ride along with the commander of the Army of Northern Virginia on his horse, Traveller. The waitress brought back Mr. Greene’s change in Confederate currency.

“I am sorry, sir,” she apologized. “But the Rebs have been paying for everything with their worthless paper money and we don’t have any more good Union money.”

“I understand,” Mr. Greene replied. “Don’t think anything of it. I’m afraid I will have to tip you in Confederate script, however.”

“Can’t be helped, I guess,” the waitress replied. “Do you know they took all of our eggs and fresh fruit?” she added. “Oh, they paid for it with Confederate money, but that will be worthless when they leave.”

“Do you think they are leaving?” Minerva asked.

The waitress shrugged. “God, I hope so. They were bad enough last week. Took over the town for a day. Stole horses and cattle. Now, they are here for a second time. I hope the Lord answers our prayers and gives us a victory over the damned slave owners.”

“Are you against slavery, ma’am?” Minerva asked.

The waitress bristled. “Yes, aren’t you?”

Mr. Greene intervened. “My niece hates slavery,” he declared. “As do I. But we have found that not all Unionists are opposed to slavery and don’t believe the war is about slavery. Some believe the war is about saving the Union.”

“Yes, there are some around here like that, I guess,” the waitress conceded. “But I think this war is about something bigger than just the Union. I think it is about freedom, freedom for the coloreds. That’s what I think.”

Mr. Greene smiled. “I totally agree with you. My niece and I will pray for the Lord’s deliverance as well.”

The waitress smiled. “That’s good,” she said and walked away still talking. “But I sure wish he takes a day off from the Holy Land and pays us a visit.”

Minerva and Mr. Greene walked out onto the Diamond. Confederate soldiers were all about the town square, and Minerva could see the barricade on Baltimore Street that the waitress mentioned. The barrier was manned by Confederate soldiers who were exchanging rifle fire with Yankees atop Cemetery Hill. Minerva turned her head and saw a steady flow of Confederate infantry marching into Gettysburg from Chambersburg Street.

“I think we can make our way safely to the Fahnestock Store and watch the events from the rooftop observatory,” Mr. Greene commented.

“I’m not so sure it is safe, Mr. Greene,” Minerva advised. “I don’t see any other civilians in the street right now. Everyone seems to be in their houses.”

“Probably down in their cellars, Minerva,” Greene said. “Let’s stay close to the buildings just to be on the safe side.”

Minerva heard the thud of a minie ball hitting a wall of a building on Baltimore Street. Then another. The firing emanated from Cemetery Hill to the south of town. Minerva realized that the Yankees were firing down from the heights directly into the town. She could see Confederate soldiers huddled behind their barricades. Bullets seemed to be whizzing around Minerva. She felt her heart racing. But Mr. Greene was determined to make it to the Fahnestock Store. When he made it to the door of the store he said forlornly, “It’s closed.”

Sure enough, Minerva saw the CLOSED sign on the window.

“Now what, Mr. Greene?” she asked her teacher.

“I guess we will have to watch what we can from our hotel windows,” Greene said in a disappointed voice.

They turned around and were nearing the Diamond when Minerva heard a shot and saw her teacher crumble to the street in agony.

“I’m hit!” Greene shouted, grabbing his calf. “My leg!”

Minerva sprang into action. She ripped the bottom of Mr. Greene’s left pant leg. The bullet had entered his calf below the knee and she was thankful for that. She tore the piece of pants into a strip and then tied it around her teacher’s leg as a tourniquet. Then she helped Mr. Greene to his feet, put his arm around her and helped him hobble along with his one good leg. She looked around and saw a small pool of blood soaking into the soil of Baltimore Street.

“My antibiotics,” Greene said. “Minerva, they are in the dry sink in my room at the hotel. I am going to need them. If my wound gets infected the surgeons will amputate!”

“I’ll get them, Mr. Greene,” Minerva promised. “Everything will be alright, she said calmly, afraid that her teacher might go into shock.

Suddenly, a Confederate lieutenant appeared with two men beside him. The officer offered his assistance.

“Allow us to help you with your father, miss,” said the clean-shaven young lieutenant. Even considering the situation, Minerva saw that the officer was a stunningly handsome young man. In his uniform with his long blond hair and dreamy blue eyes, he could have graced the cover of a romance novel, she thought. “He’s my uncle, actually,” Minerva said, heart aflutter.

“I see. Well, we will carry your uncle to your courthouse where there is a hospital set up and I will see to it that our surgeons remove the bullet from his leg.”

“That is very kind of you, sir,” Minerva replied.

“General Lee has told us to treat civilians like we would treat our own people, miss. Unlike the Yankees who are not gentlemen,” the lieutenant added. “Unlike your soldiers we don’t shoot our own civilians.”

“I know nothing of that, sir, but I am thankful for your help,” Minerva said, her infatuation for the Confederate officer quickly waning. She didn’t blame the Union sniper, she blamed her teacher for walking in the street. But she was not about to chastise him aloud, just in her thoughts.

The lieutenant bowed graciously to Minerva and the two enlisted men carried Nathan Greene by his legs and his shoulders to the courthouse with Minerva beside them. Minerva saw the agony on her teacher’s face. Mr. Greene had often said that the large caliber bullets sometimes shattered an arm or a leg, and she hoped that wasn’t the case for her teacher.

In the courthouse, Minerva was reunited with Julia Culp, who looked at Minerva with contempt. Minerva realized Julia was angry with her for leaving so abruptly the day before. She decided she would apologize to Julia after she saw that Mr. Greene received treatment. The enlisted men placed Mr. Greene in a makeshift bed, swishing a few flies away from the top sheet. Minerva checked the tourniquet: it was holding.

Julia Culp came over.

“I’m sorry about yesterday, Julia,” Minerva apologized. “This is my uncle. He saw me out in the alley and told me to go to my room at the hotel. He didn’t think it was ladylike to be administering to wounded boys,” Minerva prevaricated, making up a whopper. It was a good one she realized when…

Julia smiled. “I understand, Minerva. You weren’t the only girl dragged away yesterday. My father’s dead and my older brothers are fighting so no man was around to tell me what to do. I am sure glad of that…may I see your uncle’s wound?”

Minerva nodded.

“I’ve seen much worse, “Julia commented after a quick evaluation. “I’ll see if I can round up a Union surgeon. We have both Confederate and Union surgeons, as well as Rebel and Yankee wounded,” she said. “Everyone seems to be getting along, too. Funny how it took a war to achieve that,” she mused.

When Julia walked away, Mr. Greene grabbed Minerva’s arm. “My pills, remember my pills. If I get an infection they will cut off my leg, Minerva. You’ve seen how unsanitary the conditions are.”

Minerva returned to the hotel and went directly to the dry sink in Mr. Greene’s room. She pulled out a drawer and extracted the antibiotics that her teacher brought along for his abscessed tooth. When she returned to the courthouse hospital, which was little more than a triage center, Mr. Greene was already laid out on a table. Minerva watched in horror as a surgeon stuck one of his dirty fingers into her teacher’s leg in an attempt to locate the bullet. Next the surgeon used a metal bullet probe which was a long thin piece of metal with a porcelain head. Mr. Greene winced in pain before he thankfully passed out. Having discovered the bullet’s location, the surgeon quickly moved into the wound with an extractor—a long, bullet-grabbing forceps. Minerva knew from listening to her teacher and from reading up on Civil War medicine that the high velocity weapons and the large caliber bullets often shattered the bones, making amputation imperative due to fears of infection to tissue.

After a few moments, the surgeon withdrew the bullet from Mr. Greene’s leg. Pinched onto the end of the forceps, he expertly swung the bullet atop a small metal pan and released the projectile where it registered a slight ding as it hit the pan.

“Didn’t seem to hit any bone,” the surgeon said. He examined the bullet for pieces of cloth or pieces of tissue. “He’s a very lucky man. If gangrene doesn’t set in, he can keep his leg,” the surgeon pronounced and then moved off to attend to another wounded man. Another surgeon moved in and quickly sutured Mr. Greene’s wound. Then he, too, moved on to the next patient. Two orderlies carried Mr. Greene back to his awaiting bed where the teacher drifted off to sleep.

Minerva was relieved. It was bad enough that Mr. Greene got knocked out on their trip to Philadelphia, but losing a leg would have been a whole lot worse, Minerva thought. She had had to intervene in Philadelphia to prevent Dr. Rush from bleeding Mr. Greene, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to interfere with a Civil War surgeon.

“Do you want to stay with your uncle, Minerva?” Julia asked.

“Certainly, I do,” Minerva replied.

Julie nodded, walked off and then returned with a chair for Minerva to sit.

“Thank you, Julia,” Minerva said.

“Don’t thank me. I would hope you would do the same if my brother Wesley was brought in. He’s here I think, in Gettysburg, and I pray nothing befalls him.”

“I will pray for Wesley as well,” Minerva promised, although she knew the fate of Julia’s beloved brother. By tomorrow at this time, Wesley Culp would lay dying on his Uncle Henry’s Hill, known forever since as Culp’s Hill. Unlike the profligate son in the Bible who was welcomed home by his father, prodigal son Wesley Culp of Gettysburg returned home to a bullet, not a banquet. There was just no way that Minerva could tell Julia Culp what was in store for her brother Wesley. If Julia had that knowledge, history might be changed, and they certainly didn’t need another Peggy Shippen, either.

About an hour later, Mr. Greene awoke. Minerva offered him water and an antibiotic pill.

“How bad is it?” he asked Minerva.

“Seems you were fortunate. The bullet missed the bone. If you don’t get an infection you will keep your leg,” she said. Minerva wanted to chide him for his boyish impetuousness to see the battle which caused his injury, but she held her tongue, just like her mother often did when Minerva’s father did something asinine, which she mused, was fairly often. It was a defect in men, she concluded. A defect that Victor certainly had.

“The pills should prevent that,” Mr. Greene said.

“I hope so.”

“I’m sorry, Minerva.”

“For what, Mr. Greene?”

“My impetuousness. We should have gone to a cellar instead of the Fahnestock Building,” he said.

“You are the one who was injured, Mr. Greene,” Minerva said.

Greene smiled. “I tempted the gods, I guess, and Zeus sent me a message. Stay out of the streets. I wonder how Victor and Bette are getting along?”

“I don’t know,” Minerva said coldly, envisioning her erstwhile best friend in the arms of her former boyfriend. She shook the image from her mind. I’m a jealous scold, she reproached herself.

“I’m glad I gave them some pills as well in case something happens to one of them. This is a great deal more dangerous than I thought,” Mr. Greene admitted. “It is certainly more hazardous than Philadelphia in 1776, except when you girls had to rescue the Anderson twins at Fort Mifflin. That was really something.”

Minerva smiled wistfully. “Yes, it was,” she agreed with a reflective grin. It was the best day of her life. “I am glad that the soldiers only had inaccurate muskets when they fired at us. I’m not certain everything would have gone as well had the soldiers then had these Civil War rifles.”

“Yes,” Greene agreed. “These weapons are much more accurate, and as a consequence much more deadly. The bullet is bigger and the muzzle velocity is so much faster.”

“Uh huh…should I leave the pills with you, Mr. Greene?”

“No, Minerva, check my bandage and see if it is wrapped properly, and then play scavenger and see if you can find crutches for me. The surgeons are going to need this bed. And, frankly, I will recuperate more quickly in my hotel room. It will certainly be more sanitary. If I can make it to my room.”

“I’ll see to it, Mr. Greene.”