Boys of Wartime: Will at the Battle of Gettysburg

Iexpected to find Mother at the Courthouse, but she had already returned home. She was on the doorstep, giving water to the retreating men. I nodded to let her know that the girls were safe. Her eyes filled with tears and she nodded back. There was too much uproar around us to talk.

I was glad about that. What was there to say? Our men were retreating. Running.

It was better not to think about it, to concentrate on small tasks like making my way to Mother, dipping a cup into the bucket.

Even so, I couldn’t help but see exhausted soldiers drop out of the rushing throng, slip into alleys and yards and houses. Their clothes and skin were black with dirt and gunpowder. Streams of sweat poured down their faces. Many were wounded.

The Union forces were in complete disorder, running helter-skelter. There were more men on Baltimore Street than I had ever seen. I could have stepped my way across the street on their heads without ever touching ground. A couple of them ran into our side yard, only to find a dead end at our fence. They ran out again and pushed their way back into the blue wave that surged past.

The men grabbed for the water and urged us to safety at the same time. “To your cellar!”

I looked up and saw soldiers in gray about a half block away. They struggled in hand-to-hand fighting with some of our men.

“We’ve got to go,” I said, grabbing mother’s arm. I fought to appear calm, but my hands were shaking as I struggled to open the cellar door.

Mother left the water bucket and helped me. A wounded man limped in behind us and pulled the doors closed. He dropped to his knees on the dirt floor, panting. One of his arms was covered in blood.

My heart raced. I stood on my toes to peer out the cellar window while Mother tried to help him. We had no water to give him, or bandages for his wounds. There was fighting all around the house, but mostly blue legs still.

A cannon suddenly stopped on the street right in front of me. The Union men fired down Baltimore Street toward the Diamond, trying to stop the Confederate advance. The noise and the dust were terrific, but one artillery shell couldn’t hold off the whole Rebel army. In a few minutes, gray uniforms outnumbered the blue ones around our house.

I closed my eyes and slumped against the wall, swallowing hard to hold the contents of my stomach down. This was not the battle of my daydreams. I had not imagined the sharp, hot smell of blood mixed with saltpeter. I had not imagined men running, scared. I had not imagined joy in the killing. The words “Got ’em” echoed in my ears.

Things quieted down and I peered out the window again. There was no blue anymore. Only gray.

Seconds later, a Southern voice warned his comrades not to drink the “wawtah” we had left for the soldiers in front of our house.

“Bet it’s poisoned,” he said. “Wouldn’t be a bit surprised if these Yankee devils poisoned their wells, too.”

Mother pursed her lips at the thought. “No Gettysburg woman would do such a thing,” she muttered.

We quickly pulled some barrels into the corner, leaving just enough room for him to crouch behind them. He handed Mother a diary and asked her to keep it for him.

“My name and address are on the flyleaf,” he told her. “Please send it to my wife, if—”

The cellar doors burst opened. Mother slipped the diary into her apron’s pocket. I dropped an empty crate on top of the Union man. Three Confederates stomped down the stairs.

Mother pushed me behind her. “My son and I are both Yankees,” she told him.

We both shook our heads no. I held my breath. What if they looked behind us? Would all three of us be shot?

Then I saw it. There was blood on the floor. A bright red stain only just beginning to seep into the dirt. I tried not to look at it, sure that I would draw it to the Rebels’ attention. Only I couldn’t control my eyes. They kept flicking to the stain, and away again.

Two of the Rebels walked around the cellar, poking into barrels. One of them stabbed his bayonet into the ash barrel. He found our hidden ham.

“Of course not,” Mother said. “Let’s all go upstairs. I can cook some of that ham for you.” She took the first soldier by the arm and led him toward the stairs like he was the preacher come for Sunday dinner.

The other two followed, grabbing all the canned goods they could carry. I brought up the rear.

“My son can probably scare up some beans from the garden if they haven’t been trampled. And I have some potatoes in the kitchen,” Mother said.

The idea of home-cooked food must have distracted them. They followed her up to the street without searching the cellar. The wounded soldier remained safely hidden. They never saw the blood on the floor.

Upstairs, we found two Union men hiding in the kitchen. One Reb stayed behind to guard them while the others searched the bedrooms. I followed. They found two more Union men under the beds. And then one in the garret.

The Rebels took their weapons and marched their prisoners downstairs into the kitchen. One had been shot in the arm.

“I thought you said there were no Yankee soldiers here,” the Rebel in charge said suspiciously.

Mother’s eyes widened. “They must have come into the house while we were in the cellar. I had no knowledge of them.”

“Well, they’re prisoners now,” the Reb told her. He picked up the ham. “We’ll be getting them out of your way.”

The next thing I knew, five Union prisoners and three Rebel guards were sitting around our table trading stories and jokes while Mother peeled potatoes. With Abel it had been hard enough, but this I didn’t understand at all. They had been shooting each other just ten minutes before. Now they acted like old friends.

“Will, go outside and get me another bucket of water from the well,” Mother said. “And see if there are any beans worth picking.”

I did as I was told. At some point the fighting ended and a strange quiet settled over the town. I couldn’t imagine the battle was over for good. If General Howard was true to his words of this morning, then the Union army would be setting themselves up on Cemetery Hill just outside of town. The two armies were only taking a breather, and Gettysburg was trapped right in the middle of them.

The Rebels tore down fences and built barricades in the street, but for now there was no more shooting, no more cannon fire.

At least Grace and the twins were safe, I thought. If Father were here, he would be treating the wounded. Jacob would do whatever he could to make sure Mother was unharmed. I had to try to do the same.

I found enough beans to fill a small bowl. Then I set about getting the water.

That’s when I heard a noise that didn’t fit in with the other sounds around me. I stood still for a minute, listening. It seemed to come from the carriage house. I opened the door and let my eyes adjust to the dark.

A Union soldier crouched behind Father’s carriage, holding his side. “Help me,” he said.

I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. “Are you wounded?” I whispered.

“Just a scratch,” he answered. “I have to get back to the Union lines.”

Our house, our street, our whole town was in Confederate hands. “We’re surrounded,” I whispered. “The house is full of Rebs, so is the street.”

I was too stunned to answer. General Meade—he was the one in charge of the whole dang Union army! Took over for Fighting Joe Hooker just a few days ago. I read it in the newspaper.

He wouldn’t take no for an answer. “After dark,” he said. “Help me. Or go in my place.”