Chapter 9
Mr. Greene, on crutches, retreated to his hotel room to rest after the surgeon removed the bullet from his leg. He assured Minerva that he was fine and that he really only needed to rest for a while and he would be “right as rain.”
Minerva, who had grown up in thunderstorm-prone Florida, had no idea what Mr. Greene’s colloquialism meant, but she noticed his pale face and thought that it would be best to check on him in an hour or so.
When she arrived at his bedside an hour later, she checked her teacher’s forehead and determined that he had a fever.
“I think you are running a fever, Mr. Greene,” she remarked. “I need a thermometer, however, to check my suspicions.”
“I think you may be right, Minerva. I feel dizzy and hot. Good luck with finding a thermometer.”
“Really, Mr. Greene, didn’t they have thermometers in the Civil War?”
“I didn’t say that, Minerva. There weren’t many thermometers and they were cumbersome to use. They were placed in the armpit.”
“The armpit?”
“I’m afraid so. Go down to the courthouse and see if you can find one. I doubt if the surgeons will be using theirs. Thermometers took too long to register a temperature and most physicians didn’t bother with them. They didn’t have time to fuss with them due to all the wounded men they had to treat.”
Minerva returned to the courtroom in search of a thermometer, expecting to find a tiny, modern apparatus. She approached a nurse who was taking a break. She ventured a question to the woman.
“Are you one of Miss Dix’s nurses?” Minerva asked, referring to Dorthea Dix, the woman who pressed for the Union army to employ women nurses. The male physicians and male nurses balked at adding women to their staff, but the enormous number of casualties made the addition of women nurses necessary. In many ways, Minerva had learned, the female nurses employed by Dorthea Dix were far ahead of the male surgeons in overall cleanliness.
“I am. May I help you?”
“Yes. My uncle was wounded by a sniper’s bullet and he is resting at the hotel, but I fear he is running a fever and I wish to borrow a thermometer.”
“A thermometer? Why, girl?”
“To check his temperature.”
“Do you know how to use the device?”
“Yes,” Minerva bluffed. “It goes under the armpit.” She didn’t know more than that and she was counting on Mr. Greene’s expertise, but the nurse seemed impressed.
“I will get you one to borrow,” the nurse said. “We have one and it has not been used.”
The nurse returned with a wooden case about two feet in length. She snapped open the case and there lay a large axilla clinical thermometer with an ivory scale and a cord running from the temperature gauge. Minerva could see the temperature settings, but the medical thermometer reminded her of the large measuring device that her late grandmother placed outside on her back porch to check the outside temperature.
“Thank you,” Minerva said to the nurse.
“Return it tomorrow, please,” the nurse replied.
Minerva returned to Mr. Greene’s hotel room and gave her teacher the case. He snapped it open and examined the device. “See that section with about a half inch of a silver fluid, Minerva? That’s mercury.”
“Mercury? Why that’s harmful, Mr. Greene.”
“Relax, they didn’t know that. And a little exposure to mercury is not going to kill me, but if I have a fever, that might do me in. In your studies of early medicines, did you read anything on the Yellow Fever epidemic in Philadelphia in 1793?”
“Yes, there was a debate between the followers of Benjamin Rush and a French doctor on how to treat the fever victims. Rush preferred bleeding.”
“The French physician was Jean Deveze. His method was the more successful. Benjamin Rush? Yes, the man sure liked to bleed. The French method of treating yellow fever while keeping the patient hydrated, and applying cold cloths to the forehead turned out to be the more satisfactory treatment. So, Minerva, I will place the cord under my armpit and close it and you hold onto the thermometer and watch the mercury rise, alright?”
“Alright, Mr. Greene.”
“When it finally settles, let me know and I will remove the cord. Then you read the temperature on the tube. After we read the temperature, you shake the thermometer and the mercury should return to its starting place.”
After several minutes, Minerva noticed that the mercury had stopped climbing. She read the temperature.
“Between one hundred three and one hundred four, Mr. Greene.”
Greene managed a weak smile. “I was afraid of that. We can’t let it go any higher, Minerva or it might cook my brain. I’m afraid I am going to require your help. Well, you do want to be a doctor. You might as well get a head start.”
“What should I do?”
“Go down to the outside pump and get a bucket of cold water. Then soak some hand towels and apply them to my forehead. I’m afraid you are going to have to do this for several hours, Minerva. I am sorry to inconvenience you.”
Inconvenience her? Minerva was delighted to be useful. Five minutes later she returned with a bucket of cold water and began soaking small hand towels. She applied the first one to her teacher’s forehead who asked her, “Aside from infections do you know much about the mortality rates from battlefield wounds during the Civil War, Minerva?”
“No.”
“Well a shot to the small bowel had a one hundred percent mortality rate. No one survived that wound. An abdomen or head wound had a ninety percent mortality rate. But wounds were only one-third of the deaths in the Civil War. Two-thirds were attributed to “the fluxes,” what today we know as diarrhea or dysentery. Three million cases of diarrhea or dysentery and four hundred thousand deaths. Of the battlefield wounds, ninety-three percent were gunshot wounds, six percent from artillery and less than one percent by bayonet or sword. A third of the wounds were the arms, a third the legs and the other third were wounds to the trunk or head. Three-quarters of all operations were amputations, so you can see I was very lucky.”
“Except for the fever that I believe the surgeon gave you because he didn’t wash his hands, Mr. Greene.”
“That is quite possible that he inadvertently gave me bacteria, but thankfully we have the antibiotics. Perhaps you should give me another now.”
“Yes, sir,” Minerva said.You know, Minerva,” Greene continued after he swallowed another antibiotic pill. “The bullet that hit me was .58 caliber and traveled 950 feet per second, although I believe it slowed down. Compared to today’s ammunition, the minie ball was not as deadly. The AR 15 bullet is certainly more deadly than the minie ball was. But the surgeons were so fearful of gangrene that they usually amputated within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. They often amputated when it was a fracture. So if I had stayed overnight at the courthouse hospital, I doubt if I would be returning to Cassadaga on two legs. You know you may have a chance to meet Major Letterman, a Union doctor who developed the ambulance for use in the Civil War. You can trace the modern ambulance to Letterman. He saved thousands of lives by getting the wounded to triage centers quickly. In fact, the tent hospital that will pop up after the battle will be named for him.”
As usual, Minerva was fascinated by Mr. Greene’s Google-like mind, but she thought what he really needed to do was stop his historic ramblings and get some sleep. Sleep, nature’s restorative, she thought. Her teacher needed that.
“You need to get some sleep, Mr. Greene,” Minerva said forcefully. “I will stay here until your fever breaks.”
He smiled. “Thank you, Minerva,” he said.
Mr. Greene finally drifted off to sleep and thankfully slept with his head up. Minerva changed the warm cloth with a cold one and turned to read a page from Sarah Broadhead’s Diary to pass the time. Reading the Quaker woman’s diary was like seeing a movie trailer for a coming attraction, in this case the third day of the Battle of Gettysburg.
Diary of Sarah Broadhead
July 3, 1863
To-day the battle spread with the fierce cannonading before 4 o’clock a.m. Shortly after the battle began we were told to leave this end of town, for likely it would be shelled. My husband declared he would not go while one brick remained upon another, and, as usual, we betook ourselves to the cellar, where we remained until 10 o’clock, when the firing ceased, We could not get breakfast on account of our fears and the great danger. During the cessation we managed to get a cold bite. Again, the battle began with unearthly fury. Nearly all afternoon it seemed as if the heavens and earth were crashing together. The time that we sat in the cellar seemed long, listening to the terrific sound of the strife; more terrible never greeted human ears. We knew that with every explosion, and the scream of each shell, human beings were hurried, through excruciating pain, into another world, and that many more were torn, and mangled, and lying in torment worse than death, and no one able to extend relief. The thought made me very sad, and feel that, if it was God’s will, I would rather be taken away than remain to see the misery that would follow. Some thought this awful afternoon would never come to a close. We knew that the Rebels were putting forth all their might, and it was a dreadful thought that they might succeed. Who is victorious, or with whom the advantage rests, no one here can tell. It would ease the horror if we knew our arms were successful. Some think the Rebels were defeated, as there has been no boasting as on yesterday, and they look uneasy and by no means exultant. I hope they are correct, but I fear we are too hopeful. We shall see tomorrow. It will be the 4th of July, and the Rebels have promised a glorious day. If it only ends the battle and drives them off it will be glorious, and I will rejoice.
At twilight, a maid came around and lit the kerosene lamp in Mr. Greene’s hotel room. Minerva thanked her and handed her a dime.
“Thank you, miss. Please remember to blow out the lamp before you go to bed,” the maid advised.
As it turned out the light from a full moon shone in through the window illuminating the room. Minerva walked over and blew out the lamp, fearful that she might drift off to sleep and cause a fire that would burn down the Gettysburg Hotel. She was happy to get along by moonlight.
After a time, the water in the bucket turned lukewarm and Minerva returned to the pump, poured the warm water on the ground and filled the bucket with cool liquid.
She kept changing the towels on her teacher’s forehead until midnight when she fell asleep in her chair. She awoke two hours later, mad at herself for drifting off. She checked on Mr. Greene. He was better. The fever was abating. The infection was passing.
She looked heavenward. “Thank you, Lord,” she said. She didn’t quit the procedure, but continued applying the cold cloths to the teacher’s forehead until dawn when Minerva checked Mr. Greene’s forehead and it seemed normal.
Her teacher awoke with a smile. He looked at Minerva. “Did you stay with me all night, child?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“How do you feel, Mr. Greene?”
“Splendid!” Greene said, seemingly surprised at his condition. “Oh, the wound hurts a bit, but my leg isn’t broken. I don’t think much tissue was torn either. The bleeding stopped. I was shot from a distance and I think that was probably why my wound wasn’t as severe; the velocity of the bullet had slowed over a long distance. I am not dizzy, nor do I feel hot. You did a nice job, Minerva.”
“You were very lucky, Mr. Greene,” Minerva said. “The antibiotics sped things up,” she added.
“Don’t I know it,” he agreed. “Let’s get up and get some breakfast. I could eat the proverbial horse. Why don’t you go to your room and freshen up and we will meet in the hallway in twenty minutes. I think I can take my own temperature now,” he added.
“Okay, Mr. Greene,” Minerva replied. As she walked to her room she realized that Mr. Greene was unconcerned with his temperature, but he needed to use the chamber pot and he was being polite. In point of fact, Minerva needed to use her chamber pot as well. Thank heavens a maid would come around and clean the chamber pot, Minerva thought.
Twenty minutes later, a refreshed Mr. Greene, his facial color returned to its normal pinkish hue, appeared on crutches in the hallway.
“You seem to be pretty good on crutches, Mr. Greene,” Minerva commented.
“I got accustomed to them as a boy when I broke my leg sliding into second base in a high school baseball game. That experience seemed to come right back to me. It is a good thing I go to the gym and work out, because I have enough upper body strength to handle it. Let us go join our Confederate friends for breakfast,” he said cheerily. “Please go ahead of me, Minerva, you will help break my fall if I trip.”
Minerva laughed and joked. “I’m glad I am good for something,” she said.
“You are, Miss Messinger. After last night, I believe you have a future in medicine,” Mr. Greene said.
Minerva beamed at her teacher’s praise. She felt really great about herself. She had saved her teacher’s life a second time.
This morning, however, there were no Confederate officers in the dining room. In fact, Minerva and Mr. Greene were the only patrons for breakfast. The waitress that served them the day before was back again to take their order, but before they consulted the menu she warned them, “All we have this morning is some fresh fruit from a nearby orchard,” she explained apologetically. “Just peaches. No milk, no coffee. We can make tea, though. The Rebels have been like locusts. They have eaten everything. Folks tell me even some of the springs are running dry,” she added. “Too many men are filling their canteens. There are thousands of men around here.”
Mr. Greene wanted to say that there were over one hundred fifty thousand soldiers in and around the town, which had a pre-invasion population of twenty-four hundred, but he held his tongue.
“Peaches will be fine,” Mr. Greene said. “And a pot of tea.”
“I can do that, sir,” the waitress said. She pointed to his crutches, leaning against the table. “Did you hurt yourself, sir?” she asked.
“I was shot in my leg yesterday,” Mr. Greene said.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is it serious?”
“No,” Greene said with a bit of bravado in his voice. “Just a flesh wound. A sniper’s bullet, but he was so far away from me, I think the distance slowed the bullet. I think I was shot by friendly fire,” he said.
“Friendly fire?” the waitress asked curiously.
“I think it was a Union sniper on Culp’s Hill,” Mr. Greene explained. “I think he was aiming at a Rebel and hit me by mistake. I was shot by a friend, a Union soldier.”
“That doesn’t seem very friendly,” the waitress commented.
“No, I guess it doesn’t,” Mr. Green conceded.
The waitress gave Mr. Greene an appreciative nod and started to walk away.
Minerva, however, was hungry and stopped the waitress with a question. “Do you have any bread?” Minerva asked.
“Just some day-old, miss,” the waitress said.
“That will do,” Mr. Greene said. “Do you have any jam?”
“I’ll check, sir. I think we may have some raspberry jam. Our baker didn’t report for work this morning, but we didn’t have much flour anyway. Locusts!” she repeated and walked away.
“The Confederates pretty well picked the town of Gettysburg clean, Minerva. The Civil War armies on both sides lived off the land. As a matter of fact, after the battle the natural springs in the area were dried up and Gettysburg had to import wagon loads of water for the residents to drink.”
“That’s amazing,” Minerva said.
“Not really if you consider that there were more than one hundred fifty thousand soldiers in the Battle of Gettysburg.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the first cannonade of the morning. The roar from the artillery made it difficult to chat, but Mr. Greene managed to talk above the din. While the Rebels were firing, the waitress brought them their order of peaches, bread, jam and tea.
When the Confederates stopped to reload, Mr. Greene said to his student, “I expect the Confederates are shelling Culp’s Hill in preparation for an assault. This will be the day that your friend Julia’s brother Wesley is killed. Sometime this morning.”
The cannons resumed firing and Minerva waited.
As the Confederates reloaded their cannons, Minerva managed to say to her teacher, “That is so tragic, Mr. Greene.”
“It certainly was. No one knows what happened to Wesley Culp’s body. My theory is that Julia and her sister Anna found Wesley’s body and secretly buried it somewhere.”
“Why would they do that?” Minerva asked.
“Because in Gettysburg Wesley Culp was a traitor. My theory is that the girls were afraid that someone would dig up Wesley’s body and put it on display in the center of town. I mean General Buford left a naked man hanging from a tree in Frederick as warning to others. So the girls might have felt that the people of Gettysburg might have put Wesley’s cadaver on display.”
“In the Diamond?”
“Yes, but it is only my theory, Minerva. I have no evidence for my theory, just a feeling. No one knows what happened to Wesley’s corpse.”
“That’s really very sad.”
The guns resumed and student and teacher ate their peaches and awaited the next lull. Finally, Mr. Greene remarked, “Wesley wasn’t alone. By the end of the day there will be thousands of unburied bodies littered all over the battlefield. Thousands, Minerva. Not has much has been written about the cleanup as was written about the battle, but the task of cleaning up the battlefield and caring for all the wounded men was Herculean.”
Another cannonade abruptly ended their conversation and a hungry Minerva broke off a piece of day-old bread and slathered it with some raspberry jam. The bread and jam relieved her hunger and she heard Julie Andrews in her head singing, “ti (sic), a drink with jam and bread,” from one of her favorite childhood movies, The Sound of Music. Even the Von Trapps were refugees from war, albeit World War II, she remembered. War, Minerva thought, war was awful.
Finally the cannonade subsided and was replaced by blood-curdling screams. The Confederates were assaulting Culp’s Hill.
“What was that?” Minerva asked. “That yell?”
“That was the famous Rebel yell,” Mr. Greene said, and as he explained the yell, into the dining room floated the apparition of Shelby Foote. The dead historian nodded hello. Mr. Greene, in a better mood than the day before, smiled in response. Minerva glared at the dead historians. The ghost ignored her.
“Today’s the big day,” Shelby Foote proclaimed.
“Why?” Minerva asked, grumpily.
“Pickett’s Charge,” Foote explained. “The reason why we came,” he reminded her.
“And the reason why we are stuck here,” Minerva groused. Suddenly, she noticed the waitress staring. The waitress had a confused look on her face as if she was wondering who Minerva was talking to.
“The waitress is staring,” Minerva whispered to Mr. Greene.
Mr. Greene covered his mouth and whispered to the ghost, “We will talk to you outside in a few minutes. Seems the waitress thinks we are a bit balmy talking to ourselves.”
“I will take care of it,” Shelby Foote said and floated off toward the waitress, becoming visible to her for only a split second, but sending a frightened waitress into the kitchen to hide.
When Foote returned to the table, Mr. Greene said “I didn’t know you could do that, Mr. Foote.”
“Oh Mr. Catton and I can become visible momentarily, but it takes a lot out of us. I always feel like I need a nap after I become visible. I mean, think about it, the very idea of a ghost taking a nap is rather ridiculous. We already had a dirt nap,” Shelby joked. “Looks like you nearly joined us, Mr. Greene,” Foote added, pointing to Mr. Greene’s crutches.
“Yes, I almost had my dirt nap, too,” Mr. Greene replied. “Only a flesh wound though.”
“What is a dirt nap, Mr. Greene?” Minerva naively asked.
“Mr. Foote is dead and buried, Minerva,” Greene explained. “Sleeping in the dirt. In his grave.”
“Oh!”
“Why aren’t you watching the assault on Culp’s Hill, Mr. Foote?” Mr. Greene asked the ghost.
“Not much to it,” the ghost replied. “Fizzled out pretty quickly, now yesterday on Little Round Top was a doozey. Victor and Bette enjoyed it, too.”
“They were there? Are they alright?”
“Yes, they are okay, Nathan,” Foote said. “They watched the battle from Big Round Top. They had a great vantage point.”
“Did they see the bayonet charge?” Mr. Greene asked, envy in his voice.
“Oh my yes, but they didn’t get as close as I did. I floated right beside the Alabama boys and Bruce floated right beside Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain as he led the 20th Maine in the bayonet charge. We both enjoyed ourselves.”
“We just heard the Rebel yell a few minutes ago,” Greene remarked.
“For my money, I think the Alabamians had the wildest Rebel yell. Sounded like banshees. We got our butts kicked though,” Foote admitted. “It was quite a show. And today we get to see Pettigrew, Trimble and Pickett charge the center of the Union lines at Bloody Angle.”
“What about Victor and Bette?”
“Well,” Foote replied. “Bruce and I talked about that a bit and we decided that he would stay with them and watch Pickett’s Charge from the Union lines and I would watch the assault from Seminary Ridge. You are welcome to join me,” Foote said. “It promises to be something really special. The greatest infantry charge in American History!”
Mr. Greene begged off. “My leg is a bit gimpy, Shelby,” he said. “And Minerva has agreed to keep me company. We shall remain close to the hotel, but if I hire a carriage I might like to visit Pennsylvania College and see my old freshman dormitory. It is being used as a hospital as we speak.”
“Suit yourself,” Shelby Foote said. “If you will, excuse me, I should float out along Chambersburg Pike to General Lee’s headquarters. Goodbye, y’all.”
“Goodbye, Shelby,” Mr. Greene said.
“Goodbye Mr. Foote,” Minerva mumbled.
The teacher turned to his student and asked, “Minerva, will you go to the front desk and ask if we can hire a carriage?”
“Yes, sir,” Minerva said.
At the front desk, the young desk clerk replied to Minerva’s request with a chuckle. “Missy,” he said, “there isn’t a spare horse in town. The Rebs have confiscated every horse that can walk. And they stole the carriages too as far as I know.”
Minerva reported the bad news to Mr. Greene who took it in stride.
“Well, I guess I can hobble there on my crutches then,” he said. “I really would like to see my old freshman dorm. You know there is a legend about it. In our time it is an administration building at the college. The dorm rooms from my day are long gone. The battle today is south of town and the college is north of town so we should be safe to visit my alma mater. I am pretty sure if we go slow, I can make it on my crutches. Might take some time, though.”
They left the hotel and proceeded from the Diamond up north on Carlisle Street. Before the railroad tracks, Mr. Greene stopped and pointed a crutch at a building. “When I was in college, this was the site of the Majestic Theater, which was the only movie theater in town. Majestic was a misnomer, it was actually pretty crummy.”
On crutches, Greene slowly made his way up Carlisle Street, pointing out where the TKE fraternity house would be in the future. They walked west toward the campus of Pennsylvania College and were met with the vista of Pennsylvania Hall, the main edifice of the institution.
“Back in 1863, this was the main classroom building. Other buildings served as dormitories for the all-male school. As I said, in our time, it is an administration building and there is a good ghost story attached to it. Do you want to hear it?”
“Of course, Mr. Greene.”
“Two college administrators were working late one night on the top floor of the building. They took the elevator from the fourth floor down to the first floor and they weren’t thinking a bit about the Battle of Gettysburg. But the elevator passed the first floor and descended to the basement. When the doors opened the two administrators witnessed a scene of horror. The basement storage space had been replaced by the hospital of the battle. Dead and dying were littered about the floor. Doctors and orderlies in blood-splattered uniforms were running about in the chaos attempting to save lives. They heard no sounds, but saw the images. Frightened out of their wits, they frantically pushed the elevator button to close the doors. As the doors were closing, one of the Confederate orderlies looked up and stared at them with a forlorn expression on his face.”
“Really?” Minerva asked.
“That’s what they said…you know, Minerva, you can take a ghost tour of Gettysburg. Quite a few people have seen a ghost who haunts Devil’s Den, they say.”
“Having been acquainted with Mr. Foote and Mr. Catton, I won’t discount any paranormal activity anymore, Mr. Greene.”
“Indeed, ‘there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt about in your philosophy, Horatio,’” Mr. Greene said, quoting Shakespeare.
“That’s from Hamlet isn’t it?” Minerva queried.
“Very good, Minerva.”
Minerva beamed. More praise from her teacher.
A man sporting a white beard was standing outside the residence of the president of the college with a sad look upon his face. Mr. Greene said, “I believe that is Henry Baugher, president of Pennsylvania College. He lost his son at Shiloh last year. Right now, in his house he is hiding a Union officer from the Confederates. Actually, it is his wife who is hiding the officer in her ladies’ closet, if I remember correctly. I want to hobble over to Dr. Baugher and meet the old man, if you don’t mind.”
“Okay,” Minerva said. She walked behind him, ready to catch her teacher or break his fall if he slipped.
“Good day, sir,” Mr. Greene said to Henry Baugher.
Baugher managed a weak smile. “Good day, sir. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“I am Nathan Greene from Mercersburg, Dr. Baugher. This is my niece Minerva. I was interested in the college.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Greene, we don’t admit girls.”
Minerva couldn’t hide a frown. Sexists, she thought.
“I know that sir, it is for my nephew,” Mr. Greene said. “Do you mind if we look about the grounds?”
“Well, Mr. Greene, I’m afraid the Rebels took over our classrooms for a hospital. But if you wish to walk about, feel free. No one has been shooting around here today.”
Minerva and Mr. Greene walked into Pennsylvania Hall. “In my day, we called the building Old Dorm,” Greene explained. “I was on the fourth floor. We need to go down to the basement.”
Remembering Mr. Greene’s story of the two administrators, Minerva was stunned to see the story become reality in the basement of the building. There were scores of wounded and dying men lying all over the floor. The number of men scattered on the floor in Pennsylvania Hall dwarfed the number of men that she had seen at the courthouse.
A surgeon yelled to Minerva, “Are you a nurse? I don’t care if you are a woman, I can use a nurse to help. Come here and hold this man’s leg down,” the surgeon ordered.
Minerva, as if in a trance, obeyed the surgeon’s order before Mr. Greene could object.
“We’ve run out of chloroform,” the surgeon said to the patient. “I am afraid this is going to hurt a little bit, son,” he said.
“Hurt a little bit” was an understatement. As the surgeon began to saw away at the man’s right leg, the patient screamed in agony. The surgeon stopped and tossed Minerva a leather strap with teeth marks indented in the leather. “Put the strap in the boy’s mouth, girl,” he ordered as an orderly came to replace Minerva on holding down the man’s leg.
The soldier bit down and through the leather strap and fell unconscious. That was a relief, Minerva thought, although she held the leather strap in place in case the young man woke up. She looked at the soldier; he was eighteen or nineteen, she estimated. She noticed when he bit down on the strap that he was missing a few teeth. He certainly could use a bath. He smelled to high heaven. Everyone in 1863 could use a bath, Minerva mused. They stank. At least the Philadelphians had used perfumes to cover their stink, she remembered.
She watched the surgeon cut through the man’s leg and then carelessly toss the limb to the floor where an orderly retrieved it and placed the appendage on a growing pile of limbs in a corner of the basement. Just like in the alleyway behind the courthouse, Minerva thought, recalling the first gruesome pile of limbs that she saw.
The surgeon moved on to another soldier and an orderly cauterized the wound, preventing the soldier from bleeding out. Then he and another orderly took the amputee to an empty space on the floor and placed him there. Minerva wanted to flee the madness and, when the surgeon who had ordered her to help went to the far side of the room, she scooted to Mr. Greene who was standing by the door.
Seeing Minerva’s horrified face, Mr. Greene simply said, “Let’s go,” and led her from the room. Every floor was the same. Classrooms were turned into triage centers. Minerva and the teacher climbed to the fourth floor. Mr. Greene checked the stairway to the cupola. No one was there. He led Minerva up to the cupola. It was surprisingly unoccupied. From the cupola they had a panoramic view of the countryside.
They saw the Confederates gathering in force on Seminary Ridge. They could see the cupola at the Lutheran Theological Seminary and it was occupied with Confederate officers.
Mr. Greene pointed to the stone house on the Chambersburg Pike below the Lutheran Seminary. “That’s Lee’s headquarters,” Mr. Greene said. “I suppose Mr. Foote is floating around there somewhere.”
In the distance Minerva could see the Union troops amassed along a ridge line. “Is that the Union defense line, Mr. Greene?”
“Yes, that’s Cemetery Ridge. You see that copse of trees? That little clump?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that is the center of the Union lines and it will be where Robert E. Lee sends fourteen thousand soldiers this afternoon. They will aim for that. Notice there is a stone wall that juts out at an angle?”
“Yes, I see it.”
“That will be forever known as Bloody Angle, or the Angle. The Confederates will reach that, but they will be forced back,” Mr. Greene explained.
“Hey!” came a voice from below. “Who’s up there? State your name and your business!”
“Uh oh,” said Mr. Greene. “We might have a little trouble, Minerva.”
Minerva noticed the point of the bayonet before she noticed the soldier who followed the bayonet up the cupola stairs.
“I only left my post for a moment to answer nature,” said a curly-headed, brown-haired boy whose hat was having a hard time keeping the hair beneath it. The teenager didn’t seem a day over sixteen to Minerva.
“My niece and I were just admiring the view, private,” Mr. Greene explained to the young Confederate soldier.”
“Ain’t supposed to be no civilians up here,” the soldier replied.
“We didn’t know that, private. There was no one here.”
“Well, you two can’t stay here. My captain says so,” he added.
“We understand. If you will let us pass, we will go down now.”
The soldier seemed perplexed. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, Minerva realized.
“Thank you ever so much, young man.” Minerva smiled her best southern belle smile. “I am so glad to see a good Christian man. My name is Minerva,” she said, offering her hand to the soldier for him to take or kiss. The boy’s manners kicked in.
“I’m sorry, miss, but you do understand I have to do my duty,” he apologized.
“Why yes, sir. You wouldn’t be much good as a soldier if you didn’t do your duty, now would you?” Minerva said, adding a smile to her performance.
The smile seemed to unnerve him.
“Would you be kind enough, sir, to escort my uncle and me down the stairs?” Minerva asked sweetly.
Mr. Greene grinned in astonishment. Minerva was channeling Vivien Leigh’s performance as Scarlett O’ Hara in the movie version of Gone with the Wind. She only needed to add “fiddly dee,” to her act.
“Why, you are ever so strong,” Minerva said as the soldier took her arm to lead her down the steps from the cupola.
A grinning Mr. Greene managed to hobble after the young couple and made it safely down the stairs as well.
“Perhaps we should return to the hotel,” the teacher said to Minerva when they were away from the Confederate cupola sentry and had descended to the ground floor of the building. “I have a feeling Mr. Foote will be back again before the charge begins.”
“Perhaps we should return,” Minerva agreed.
“I applaud you on your performance, Minerva.”
Minerva smiled with satisfaction.