CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A New Birth of Freedom
November 18-19, 1863
A few weeks after the battle ended people began to speak of a new cemetery for the fallen soldiers. Most had been buried where they fell. Soon land was bought and bodies were brought from all parts of the battlefield to be reburied there.
The greatest orator in the country, Edward Everett, was to make a speech. Even more exciting, President Lincoln agreed to come and say a few words at the dedication ceremony.
The first frost had put an end to the terrible stench, but you could still see signs of the battle everywhere.
In the days leading up to the exercises, Gettysburg was once again crowded with people. The hotels were overflowing, and every house had guests. Father’s cousins from New Jersey were with us, along with the family of one of the Union men Mother had taken care of during the battle. You could scarce take a step in the night without stepping on someone, and the men had to sleep sitting up in the parlor.
I wished Abel were still here, but we had finally gotten a letter that told us he made it safely home to his mama. He asked me to visit him when the war ended, and I wrote back that I would.
Mother and Grace made a feast the night before the exercises. Farmers said it would take three years before they had fully replaced all that was lost to the Rebels’ raids and to the battle, but we had food enough. Turkey and plum pudding were on the menu, along with sweet potatoes, onions, apples, and sweet pickles. I snatched a pickle every chance I got. Of course Grace spied me.
“Leave some for the rest of the party,” she snapped.
I stuck my tongue out at her.
She sighed and turned to Mother. “He’s such a child.”
I rolled my eyes at Jacob, and he grinned. Grace had been a little in awe of him when he first came home, but it wasn’t long before she started bossing him around, too. He had started in at the college and intended to become a minister.
“Are you sorry you can’t be a doctor like Father?” I asked. That’s what he wanted to be before the war.
Jacob shook his head. “I’ve seen enough blood. Besides, people won’t object to a one-armed preacher.”
“Don’t get all dried up and serious like some preachers,” I told him.
“Or some sisters,” he joked.
Grace stuck her tongue out at him, and he laughed.
Jacob and I had had many talks about the war. I was afraid he wouldn’t look kindly on the fact that I had made friends with a Rebel and taken him in, but Jacob said he made Rebel friends of his own.
“This war was unavoidable,” he told me. “The debate about states rights versus a strong federal government has been going on since George Washington’s day. Slavery is the cause that brought it to a head, but it’s been coming for a long time.”
“Will it end soon, do you think?” I asked.
Jacob took a deep breath and let it out again. “The South isn’t giving up, are they?” he asked.
I shook my head.
He put his hand on my shoulder. “They’ll run out of men long before we do,” he said. “The North is better equipped to fight, but the South has a stronger commitment to their cause.”
I sat at my bedroom window that night thinking about those things and about the next day’s exercises. People paraded up and down the street all night, unable to find a place to sleep. I hadn’t gotten to the train station in time to see the president’s arrival, but I fully intended to see him at the ceremony the next day.
I wondered if he would see me in the crowd. I imagined the people parting as he walked toward me. “You must be the boy I have heard about,” he’d say. “The one who escaped across enemy lines and helped win the battle.”
“I was proud to do it, sir,” I’d answer. “I only wish that winning the battle would have brought the war to an end.”
“We all long for peace,” the president would say. “But some causes are worth fighting for.”
The next thing I knew the sun was up and I had a crick in my neck from sleeping on the windowsill.
As soon as I could, I escaped all the hubbub at home and raced down to the Diamond. President Lincoln was staying at the home of David Wills, and I hoped to get a glimpse of him. My strongest wish was to shake his hand.
Around ten o’clock, Mr. Lincoln came out of the house and mounted his horse. A column rode up Baltimore Street with the president at the center. I ran beside them, keeping him in my sight. His horse was medium-sized and the president was very tall. His legs dangled, almost touching the ground, but he appeared to be a fine horseman.
I lost my place at his side when the procession turned into the new cemetery. Even so, I managed to squeeze my way through the crowd to the platform where the exercises were to be held. I stood right at the bottom of the stairs and hooked my arm around the railing so that no one could push me away.
Edward Everett spoke first. He talked all about the battle and the town and the brave work the townspeople had done in caring for the wounded. It was a fine speech and a long one, but I barely listened. I was watching the president.
Mr. Lincoln’s face was lined and sad, but his expression was kindly. Finally, Mr. Everett finished. While the band played, Mr. Lincoln reached into his side pocket and drew out a case containing a pair of spectacles. Then reaching into his pocket again, he drew out a sheet of crumpled paper.
He looked taller than ever when he stood. He walked to the front of the platform and began to speak. I held my breath, listening.
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate ... we can not consecrate ... we can not hallow ... this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us ... that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom; and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
It was over almost before I knew it. Indeed, the audience did not clap for a full minute, expecting the president to continue speaking, but he had already turned to the others on the platform and began shaking hands.
I barely had time to absorb his words before the party began to leave the stage. Descending the stairs, the president’s eyes came into contact with mine. He held out his hand as he passed by and said, “Hello, young man, who are you?”
I grasped his hand. My face flushed and my throat closed up, but I managed to squeak, “I am Will Edmonds.”
And then he was gone, swallowed up by the crowd.
I watched them go, stunned that I had actually gotten to shake the president’s hand. I was still turning his words over in my mind.
“... government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth,” I whispered to myself.
I was glad I had not gone to war with Colonel Braxton. I was glad I did not have to face another battle. I was still a boy, and shooting and dying was the work of men. Still, I believed what the president said—that our Union shall not perish. If my country needed me to fight for her another day, I would do it. But I hoped it would not be necessary. I hoped I could spend my life waging peace, not war.
Today my job was only this—to go home and let Grace know that I had shaken the president’s hand, and she had not. That and to give thanks that my family was safe. All of us. Together.