Chapter 25
July 1863
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
As quickly as the ascent of Cemetery Ridge by the waves of charging Confederate forces began, it was over. At least it seemed that way to Higgins. He was amazed that such an ill-fated maneuver had been attempted, given the superior position of Union troops and cannon, and the wide expanse that the Confederates had to climb in order to engage the Union Army. He had heard much in the past year of Robert E. Lee and the Confederacy's chivalry and honor, had heard of the holy aura surrounding the South's "Cause" and the boasts of God being on the side of the Confederacy. Still, he could not fathom the deployment of so many to a certain death.
The carnage surrounding him was beyond comprehension; he had no words to describe its magnitude or its horror in any newspaper dispatch. The image of an abattoir he had visited once flashed through his mind, but even the blood and dismembered animal carcasses he had witnessed in that slaughterhouse were nothing to this devastation.
His ear burned like the devil; rubbing it, his hand came away bloodied. Bullet must have grazed me, he thought dispassionately, as if he noted something that had happened to another. It smarted, but the adrenaline coursing through him kept the pain at bay. Only later would it sting and throb.
"Higgins! Over here!" The sharp cry penetrated his dark reverie. Turning, he espied a private from his outfit waving his arms to get his attention. He struggled toward the distraught man, maneuvering over fallen fence slats and bodies until he reached the side of the private. Before he could frame a question, he registered that the limp body at his feet was that of John Thornton.
Biting off a curse, Higgins knelt beside Thornton and placed two fingers at his throat. He was relieved to find a pulse, faint though it might be. A quick glance showed him that Thornton's right pant leg was soaked with blood from groin to foot. Before Higgins could examine the wound, a hand grasped the front of his coat. Thornton's eyes were opened and trained in desperation on his friend's face. "Higgins," he ground out, his eyes bright with fear. "My leg--I can't feel my leg."
"Your leg is here—let me see the damage," Higgins said in a curiously detached voice. "Quick, man, your knife!" he snarled at the startled private, who fumbled for his blade. Higgins slit the pants leg and pushed the flaps of fabric aside. He swallowed hard at the sight of a deep wound in the muscle below the knee where a musket ball had penetrated to the bone. Dear God, he thought in rising fear, a Union surgeon will take that leg off the moment he sees it.
He tore a strip of fabric from the mangled pants leg and fashioned a tourniquet just above the knee to slow the bleeding. Without taking his eyes from his work, he ordered the private, "Find me a wagon, a cart, a barrow—anything to transport this officer!" The youth tore off in pursuit of transport as Higgins quickly examined Thornton for other injuries. Aside from the leg, all else seemed well—but the leg frightened him, although he fought to keep his fear from his face and voice.
"The battle—" Thornton forced the words from between teeth clenched against pain, "Is the battle over? Did we win?"
"Don't know yet," Higgins replied with forced calm. "It's too early to say. Losses look immense for both sides, but after this last maneuver, I would say the tide has swung in our favor. I fear they have nothing left to hit us with—it looks like mass confusion on their side. I heard that one of their major generals, Pickett, lost all of his officers. They're idiots, all of them."
He clasped Thornton's shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. "Listen, we need to get you out of here. I'm going to fetch a surgeon to tend to your wound, and then we're going to take you home." He's going to need proper nursing to save that leg, he thought grimly. Margaret and Dr. Donaldson will know what to do. He bent over his handiwork, attempting to tighten the tourniquet, noting as he did so that Thornton had mercifully slipped from consciousness.
"Higgins!" A panting man dropped to one knee next to him, gasping to catch his breath.
Higgins did not glance up. "Not now, O'Brien--I'm busy, or can't you see?"
"Please, sir," the man implored, "it's that parson feller, Hale."
Higgin jerked around to glare at him. "What about Mr. Hale?"
"He took a bullet to the chest, sir. He's dead."
Higgins sat back on his haunches, immobilized by shock. "He's dead? Dear God, he should have been safe on top of the ridge. How did he get shot up there?"
"He left the ridge, sir—when the men began falling, he thought he should be ministering to the wounded on the battlefield."
"Dear God," Higgins exclaimed again as pity flooded through him. Mr. Hale might have been an impractical man, but at the very end, he had not been a coward.
"Perhaps he felt God called him to the battlefield," O'Brien added unhelpfully.
"Well, then, God also saw fit to call him to his death," Higgins snapped. He had no time for maudlin sentiments, and little time to mourn Mr. Hale. It was to the living he turned his attention.
Throughout the long, grinding hours as the sun set and a cool gray haze fell over the hill side, Higgins managed to harangue a surgeon to stabilize Thornton's wounds. The doctor's prognosis was grim. "I've done what I can to stop the bleeding, but if infection sets in...." He left the thought unfinished, but Higgins understood his intent. Infection meant amputation. The surgeon reiterated that Higgins must get Thornton proper nursing to save his leg, and that time was of the essence.
After bribing a farmer to use his cart, Higgins sent word to the officers of the severity of Thornton's injuries and his intent to take him home to Lovell. He made arrangements to transport Mr. Hale's body to Lovell as well. Money passed through many palms that night, but it was money well spent. When he was done, he had succeeded in transporting Thornton and the parson's remains to the nearest train station, and acquired a ticket to accompany both on their sad sojourn to Massachusetts. Before leaving, he entrusted a private with a telegram to be sent to Mrs. Thornton, informing her only of Mr. Hale's death. He could not find the words to describe Thornton's injury in any manner except that which would alarm wife and mother. Best to let Mrs. Thornton convey the news to Margaret, he thought as he stumbled onto the train and found a seat in a crowded car. I must tell you that your father is dead, Margaret, but damned if I have the heart to tell you of your husband's injury as well—at least not in a telegram. Such news, he realized, must be delivered in person.
Higgins thought the train ride would never end. They had numerous stops as it wended it way north, and the trip continued night and day. He checked on Thornton several times, the last finding him fretful and in pain. Higgins had spent his last money on black market laudanum for Thornton. When he had asked the Union surgeon about opiates to help with the pain, the surgeon had shrugged and told him there was nothing to be had—supplies were sorely depleted. Upon Higgins mentioning that he had ready money, the surgeon had given him a long look before carefully replying, "There's a man in Gettysburg, off High Street, who might be able to help you." He told him the direction, and the man was able to help him, though it cost the last of Higgins' ready.
Higgins was relieved that Thornton had remained by and large unconscious during their bumpy travels to the train station and clumsy transfer from wagon to train compartment where he was wedged on the floor between seats. As the night waned into early morning, the patient thrashed and plucked at his blanket with fretful fingers, calling out one name over and over again in hopeless anguish: "Margaret! Margaret!" Higgins managed to force a good quantity of laudanum down Thornton's throat, hoping it would calm and keep him still so that he would not further damage his wounded leg. At last, Thornton slept, as did Higgins, propped against the seat back so that he might continue his nightmarish vigil.
July 1863
Lovell, Massachusetts
Sundays had always been days of peace and solace for Margaret. As a young girl, she had loved going to church in Williamsburg to listen to her father's sermon from the familiar pew she shared with her mother and Dixon. Church had been followed by pleasant discourse with friends and neighbors on the sidewalks outside the church, as the congregation filed out of the open doors. A cold meal was followed by a Bible reading, and then sweet time alone. Her father would read in his study, her mother would sew in the parlor, and she spent those sweet hours reading, napping, walking, or dreaming.
When her family moved to Lovell, the warm church of Williamsburg had been replaced by a majestic stone cathedral, dark and cold. After the service, one did not tarry to chat but hastened home as there was work to do; there was always work to do. After her marriage, the cold repasts were replaced by large, heavy meals, and evening was met with a late tea tray. No one read scripture, but a mountain of mending, darning, and knitting awaited the women as everyone struggled to make conversation and remain awake.
On this Sunday, the pattern was shattered. They had heard of the battles in Gettysburg and fearfully awaited word of losses. In response to a loud and insistent knock at their door, Mary returned with a terrified aspect and a telegram. Mrs. Thornton held out her own hand and took the fearful thing. No one spoke, and she did not move to open it. What was it about a telegram, Margaret wondered, that made time stand still, obscured the sun, and stopped the earth on its axis? She only knew in that breathless moment that she prayed that it might be five minutes ago, a day ago, or a week ago. But praying cannot turn back the hands of time, and so Mrs. Thornton broke the seal with grim determination.
Her eyes scanned the page and lifted to meet Margaret's gaze. "It is from Higgins. Margaret, you must be brave."
Margaret swallowed as the color fled from her face. Not John--I can take anything but that. Panic surged through her—was it possible he could be taken from her, before she was able to express how ardently she loved him? "John?" she asked in a rough whisper.
Mrs. Thornton shook her head and cleared her throat, struggling for composure. "Not John." Her voice was rough with suppressed emotion. "It is your father."
Margaret struggled to comprehend what she was being told. "Is he wounded?" She grasped at that hope, but it died quickly as Mrs. Thornton slowly shook her head.
As the truth dawned, Margaret fought off the blackness that threatened to engulf her. Mrs. Thornton moved with uncharacteristic speed to sit beside her, pushing the girl's head toward her knees while clasping her hand in an iron grip to keep her from sliding into unconsciousness.
When she was steadied, the hot tears wet the fabric of Margaret's bodice. "Dear Father!" she exclaimed, "Now he is reunited with Mamma, may God rest his soul." If only John were here, she thought with wild grief. She longed for her husband's strong arms and loving presence as she never had before. How much she had taken for granted! Bring him home, bring him home, and I will never take him for granted again!
A deep pity stirred within Mrs. Thornton. She was such a young woman to lose so much; her brother was separated from her by his foolish actions, her mother dead, and now her father killed in battle. Surely that meant God would keep John safe--he could not be so cruel as to take everyone away from her--or from me. She felt a flash of shame at her selfish thought, but could not help herself. She would make any bargain with God and his angels to keep her son safe. She needs him, too, not just me, she thought defiantly.
Mrs. Thornton patted Margaret's hand, unsure how to comfort her. Her own iron constitution dictated she mourn alone in her room. But this girl was different. She called for Mary, who hovered uncertainly in the doorway. "Fetch Dixon," she commanded. The servant who had known and revered the Hales would know best how to support Margaret in her grief.
~~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~~
The day the train carrying her father's remains was scheduled to arrive in Lovell, Margaret was surprised to find Isaac waiting in the parlor. It had been some time since she had seen him; he was kept busy at the dry goods store as she was at the hospital. Upon her entrance, he stood and removed his hat. "Miss Margaret, I would be honored if you would let me accompany you to the station. Your daddy was good to me, and I would like to be there when his body is carried off that train car."
His body. Margaret nodded, bereft of speech. She stepped forward and held out her hand, unable to summon the words to express her mingled grief and gratitude. He clasped her hand between both of his, and comfort and strength flowed from him. "He would want to be with your momma, if the choice was left to him. He loved her almost as much as he loved those books of his."
A quick chuff of laughter escaped Margaret. Wiping away the tears from her cheeks, she replied, "You may be right, Isaac. Perhaps I should place the Aristotle in his hands in the coffin, so that he has it with him for eternity." His words braced her—there was work to do. She must meet the train, bury her father, and decide what to do with the house in Oatlands and their belongings. She could not let this fall on Dixon or Mrs. Thornton. She had spent the past hours in a fog, going through the motions of eating and speaking. It was time to reenter the world. Another year of mourning, she thought dolefully, glancing down at her black gown.
At the appointed hour, Margaret and Mrs. Thornton arrived at the train station accompanied by Isaac and Dixon. They were not the only ones awaiting loved ones on the platform; Margaret noted other clusters of families with anxious or grieving expressions on their faces, all craning forward to hear the train whistle or see the headlamp on the engine as it approached the station. Glancing about, Margaret was shocked to see Belle Lytton standing near the train tracks with her mother and father. Their eyes met, and Belle's face contorted with grief. Someone had died—but was it sweetheart or brother?
"Station master says the train is expected on time," Isaac reported in a quiet voice. He stood at her side, ready to support her should she need him. That knowledge filled her with strength; she would show them all what she was made of. She would endure, as Mrs. Thornton endured.
The train appeared around the bend, and the crowds watched its approach with a growing unease. As it halted and expelled huge clouds of steam and smoke, Margaret searched the faces of the exiting passengers, hoping against hope that the telegram was wrong, that her father would emerge, adjusting his hat as he always did and raising a cheerful hand in greeting when he espied her in the crowd.
At long last, the stretchers emerged in a grim parade, carried with somber respect by Union soldiers dispatched to carry condolences to the families. Margaret noted with fear that some of the bodies were entirely covered—those who had died—while others were partially covered. Those must be the injured, she surmised. On and on they came, stretcher after stretcher until the north end of the platform was a sea of gray blankets.
A stocky man moved away from the stretchers and toward her. He was heavily bearded, his face obscured by a large slouch hat. In a moment, she recognized him—Nicholas. She moved swiftly forward, and he extended his hands to clasp hers. "Margaret," he rasped, his jaw working to suppress undue emotion. "I have brought your father home."
She ducked her head, unable to speak. Nicholas did not release her hands, but crushed her fingers in his fervor to deliver his news. "Margaret—I am so sorry—I have brought your husband home."
All color fled her face. "What are you saying, Nicholas?" Her voice rose in a crescendo, a hysterical upward trill that chilled the blood.
"Margaret, wait—he is not dead. He is wounded—he took a bullet to the leg. The surgeon wanted to remove his leg, but I said no, let me take him home to be nursed." The words came out in a rush as a wave of shifting emotions broke over Margaret's head: relief at his continued existence, shock and terror at the extent of his wound.
She pushed past Nicholas and hurried toward the stretchers, dodging Union soldiers and civilians. With a light step, she moved from man to man, searching for one face. As she pushed and shoved her way among the mass of humanity, her eyes lit on a long form lying motionless upon the ground— her husband. He was pale, his skin waxen as if carved from ivory. Several days' growth of beard covered his face; she had never seen him unshaven. His mouth was clamped in a thin line, his jaw rigid with pain. That rigid mouth told her that he was awake.
Oblivious of the filthy station floor, she knelt beside the stretcher and grasped his wrist. His pulse was faint but steady. Her hands shook and her heart pounded thickly in her ears, but she felt steel enter her spine. I must be strong, she thought with growing determination. He needs me, and I will not let him down.
At the touch of her hand, his eyes fluttered open and she saw fear fill his face. She realized her veil was lowered over her features; she must appear to be the angel of death. She impatiently thrust the veil over her hat, and her breath caught as recognition and an incandescent joy suffused his face.
"You? What happiness!' he said. "Margaret, I saw you—saw you—on the battlefield. How do you come to be here? You were in danger—the guns...." His hand groped over the covers for hers, and she clasped and kissed it quickly before pressing it to her wet cheek. It was dry and hot, and she noted a flush suffused his face and neck. Fear gripped her heart. The fever had come already.
"You're home, John—Nicholas has brought you home."
"Home," he breathed on a contented sigh. "Oh, my love, I have wanted you so."
She cradled his hand against her face. "You are home now and home you will stay. I will not let you leave me again." The sweet smile that lit his face slowly faded; his eyes fluttered closed as he dropped into oblivion.
"It's the laudanum, Margaret." Nicholas stood at her shoulder. "I gave him as much as I dared for the pain." Stepping around the end of the stretcher, he hunkered down to face her. "He took a musket ball just below the knee. I had the surgeon dress it, but as you can see, fever has set in. I knew I had to get him home to you and Dr. Donaldson as soon as I could, but moving him has caused more bleeding and terrible pain, and the train took its own sweet time arriving. He was delirious this morning—I'm surprised he knew who you were."
Of course he knew who I was. The thought pierced her soul with a strange assurance. He will always know me, as I will know him. She wanted to weep with relief that he was home at last, alive—and that she had been given the chance to redeem herself in his eyes, to show him that his love was reciprocated fourfold.
An inarticulate moan made her glance up in time to see the color leach from Mrs. Thornton's face as she stared at her son. Margaret arose and moved with swift purpose to the stricken woman's side, steadying her. "He is alive—injured, but alive. We have him safe now, and will give him the care he needs."
For a long moment, Margaret watched Mrs. Thornton struggle to master her weakness. When she had herself in hand, the older woman opened her eyes. "I seem unable to think. What should we do?"
Margaret did not hesitate. "Dixon, go to the hospital and fetch Dr. Donaldson. Tell him I need him immediately." Turning to Isaac, she asked, "Could you find a wagon—someone who can transport him home on the stretcher? The less we move him, the better for that leg." As Dixon and Isaac departed, she glanced at Mrs. Thornton's haggard face and gave her arm a gentle shake. "He will be well—we will nurse him through this, you and I." Mrs. Thornton nodded and clutched Margaret's hand, squeezing it once in unspoken thanks.
"I'll see that your Father's body is brought to your house, Margaret," Nicholas interjected. "And I'll visit the undertaker, once I get you home."
She spun toward him and reached out a hand. "Nicholas, thank you. Thank you for all you have done. You have been his guardian angel—and mine. Won't you stay with us, while you are in Lovell? Mary will be so glad to have you there...."
Her words faded away as she noted the look of puzzlement on his face. "Isn't Mary at home? Where is she? And where is Bess?"
In dawning horror, she realized that Nicholas did not know that Bess had died. She had meant to write to him, but had put it off, not having the words to explain such tragedy in a letter. She had meant to write to John, asking him to inform Nicholas. But time had slipped away, her father had departed for the war before Bessy's death, and life had been at sixes and sevens in the weeks after his departure. How could she convey such information now, after all he had been through?
He sensed something from the fleeting expressions on her face and the distress that clouded Mrs. Thornton's features. "What is it, lass? Is aught amiss with Mary?"
Mrs. Thornton patted her arm and stepped away to give them as much privacy as they could have in the press of bodies at the station.
Margaret cleared her throat. "It's not Mary, Nicholas. Mary is with us because Bess is no longer at home—she—" She spread her hands before her in supplication, struggling to find the words to tell him the ugly truth. "Bess caught a fever several weeks ago. Dr. Donaldson admitted her to the hospital, but the fever was too much for her heart. She died, Nicholas."
A choked noise escaped from him, and she averted her gaze as he struggled for composure. "She's dead?" he asked in a broken voice. At Margaret's nod, he turned his back to her, not wishing her to witness his tears.
"I was with her at the end. She was not alone. She asked me to tell you that she loved you, and she was sorry to leave you." Margaret pressed a trembling hand to her lips. How could anyone take in so much sorrow?
After a moment's silence, Higgins faced her once more. "I'm glad you were with Bess. But now is not the time to speak of this—we must get you home to prepare for John's arrival. Your husband needs you—and I need to see Mary.