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XX The School Teacher 1 MY father
was a
justice of the peace, and I was a teacher in the town schools. Our home
was
here on Baltimore Hill not far from where I live now. The sentiment in
Gettysburg was strongly Union, but at the same time we had in the
community a
good many Democrats, or Copperheads as we called them, who naturally
affiliated
with the South. They were not very open in upholding the Southern
cause, but
just seemed to think the South was right, and we often squabbled on
that
subject. Raids and
rumors of
raids were frequent. Whenever we saw a farmer come into town on
horseback, or
in a wagon, leading a couple of horses we knew he had heard that a raid
was
imminent. It seemed to be the great worry of the farmers that their
horses
would be taken. Every
report of
raiding, too, would set the darkies to migrating, they were so afraid
they'd be
carried off into slavery. They looked very ragged and forlorn, and some
exaggerated their ills by pretending to be lame, for they wanted to
appear as
undesirable as possible to any beholder who might be tempted to take
away their
freedom. That illustrates the natural ingenuity of the race. During the month preceding the battle we were excited all the time. The dangers of our situation kept us in constant turmoil, and not much work was done. We were like Micawber "waiting for something to turn up," or like those people the Bible tells of who "spent their time in nothing else, but either to tell, or to hear some new thing." Oh, those were awful times! On the
last Friday
in June the raiders really came, and they occupied the town for a day
and a
night and had their headquarters in the courthouse. We had a vague idea
that
the Rebels were a dreadful set of men, and we didn’t know what horrid
things
they might do. So we mostly kept in our houses out of their way. They
demanded
a great sum of money of the townspeople. We couldn’t give it to them,
and we
were nearly scared to death. The
following
Tuesday evening we knew the Rebel army was near because we could see
their
campfires from our upper windows off on the borders of the mountains to
the
west. Those campfires looked very ominous. The next
morning,
along about nine o'clock, I was ironing when I heard a shell fired out
west of
the town. The battle had begun. All of us townspeople betook ourselves
to the
streets and stood around in groups or sat on doorsteps. We could hear
the guns
and cannon and we were nearly frightened out of our wits. Presently a
bloodstained horse was led along our street, and then a soldier with a
bandaged
head went past, supported on either side by one of his comrades. It was
sickening. Troops were constantly arriving hurrying to the battlefield, and we brought out some buckets of water and several tin cups. There were five of us girls in our family, and we handed the water to the soldiers as they double-quicked through the town. They drank without ever stopping and threw the cups back to us. Besides giving them water, we handed them cake, bread and butter, and anything at all we could find in the house that was good to eat. WATER FOR THE MARCHING TROOPS About four
o'clock
in the afternoon our artillery dashed through the streets retreating,
and some
officers as they rode along shouted: "Women and children, to the
cellars!
The Rebels will shell the town!" Our cellar
was
large and well-lighted, and it served as a refuge for some of the
neighbors as
well as ourselves. We spent two hours in it. There we were — a huddle
of women
and children — some crying, and some praying —praying more, maybe, than
we ever
did before. That was the awfullest time I ever experienced — listening
to the
screeching of the shells, and the helter-skelter retreat of our men,
and the unearthly
yelling of the pursuing Rebels. But the town wasn’t shelled, though a
good many
missiles accidentally came into it during the battle. The Union
troops
retreated through the town in a regular stampede. Some of them came up
an alley
behind our house and in at the rear door and out at the front.
Afterward we
found in our back yard a number of guns loaded and capped that they'd
thrown
away. They could easily have pillaged the house, but the only thing we
missed
was a little linen apron I'd been ironing. I think perhaps a soldier
took it
for a handkerchief. As we were
looking
out of one of the cellar windows we saw some of our men who'd been
taken
prisoners, and they were standing so near that we spoke to them. They
said they
expected to be sent off South and wished we would write to their home
people.
Then, one after the other, they gave us their names, and the addresses
of the
persons to whom we were to write. The town
was full
of Rebels when we came up from the cellar, and we could see a Union
soldier
lying out in the street with his head cut off. He had probably been
overtaken
by the enemy's cavalry. Early next
day one
of the doctors came to our house and said to us girls: "You must come
and
help take care of the wounded. The men are suffering, and you are
needed."
It didn’t
seem as
if I could do such work, but I went. The doctor led the way to the
Catholic
church, which, like all the other public buildings, had been turned
into a
hospital. Some of the wounded lay in the pews, and some lay on the
floor with
knapsacks under their heads, and there were very few persons to do
anything for
the poor fellows. Everywhere was blood, and on all sides we heard
groans and
cries and prayers. I knelt by
the
first wounded man inside of the door and asked, "What can I do for
you?" He looked
up with
mournful, tearless eyes and answered: "Nothing. I am going to die." That was
too much
for me, and I went hastily out and sat down on the church steps and
cried. But
I soon controlled myself and returned to the wounded man. He told me
his name
was Stewart and that he had an aged father and mother and a wife. Then
he asked
me to read the fourteenth chapter of John, which his father had read
the last
time they had all gathered around the family altar. Later in the day he
and
eleven other wounded men were removed to our house. Meanwhile
the
battle was going on, but I was too busy to be afraid. The only time I
realized
the danger was on the afternoon of the third day. The heat was stifling
and I
sat on a low chair by Mr. Stewart in the back parlor fanning him. He
had begged
me to go to the cellar for safety, but I would not. Presently I changed
my
position, and I had scarcely done so when a bullet came in through a
shutter
and a window pane, and struck the floor just the other side of where I
had been
sitting. Everything
was very
quiet the night following the battle, except for the squawking of
chickens. The
Rebels were leaving, but so far as I know it was only chickens and
other things
to eat that they took from the houses in the region. They were all gone
the
next morning. The
wounded
remained in the town buildings till toward the end of the month. Those
who
could stand a railroad journey were then taken to the city hospitals,
and the
others out east of the town to a camp hospital which was continued till
autumn.
Up to the time of this readjustment I ministered to the wants of the
"boys" quartered in our house, and went daily through the hospitals
with my writing materials to read and answer letters. All the other
townspeople
were busy in similar ways. They constantly visited the wounded
soldiers, took
them dainties, and did everything they could for them. Quite a
number of
the wounded had friends come to see them, and we accommodated as many
of these
strangers as possible at our house. All our rooms were kept full, and I
slept
on the floor in the hall upstairs with a roll of carpet for my pillow.
That was
the only bed I had, and for weeks I didn’t have my clothing off at
night. Our
ordinary household routine was very much broken up. We came in and ate
when we
wanted anything, and it was a long time before we all sat down
together. One of the
soldiers
in our house had lost a leg. My two youngest sisters often sang for
him, and he
would tell them stories of his experiences. I remember he said he was
once in a
battle where the troops were exposed to such a storm of bullets that
the
general ordered them to lie down. So down they lay, all except the
general, who
was very short and fat. Some of them shouted for him to lie down also,
but he
responded: "Why should I lie down? I'm as tall then as when I'm
standing
up." This
wounded
soldier seemed to be getting along very well until one night, in his
restlessness, his bandages became loose, and by the time the fact was
discovered and a surgeon had been summoned, he had lost so much blood
that he
only lived an hour or two. A few days later his wife came. She was
young, and
had left at home a babe the father had never seen. She learned of her
husband's
death after she arrived here, and her grief was heart-rending. Some of
the wounded
boys whom our home sheltered were presently well enough to rejoin their
regiments, and one was killed in his next engagement. Mr.
Stewart
lingered till the Monday following the battle. The next summer his
widow and
his brother visited us, and the acquaintance with that brother led to
my
marrying him. He, too, had been a soldier, and he had come out of the
army an
invalid. We had been married only eleven months when he died. He had
been
educated for the ministry, and his brother was to have inherited their
parents'
farm; but the war took them both, and left the father and mother
desolate in
their old age. I had five
uncles
and eight first cousins in the Union armies — all from this town. When
they
enlisted they thought they would get back in two or three months. One
of my
cousins starved to death in Andersonville Prison. Another was shot in
the
throat and never spoke a loud word afterward, but made himself
understood
chiefly by motions. A brother of his had both feet shot off and died in
an
ambulance that picked him up on the battlefield. Another brother was
killed at
Cold Harbor. Their father wouldn’t let the youngest son go into the
army, and
the boy ran off and died in camp of measles. Practically
all the
young men in Gettysburg who were able went into the army, and I don't
suppose
any other town suffered as this town did. ________________ 1 She was a refined,
elderly woman
living in one of the comfortable homes in the better part of the town.
There I
talked with her in the parlor. |