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4. Gettysburg

1863 JULY 5, SUNDAY

4

Drifting into consciousness, I puzzled at dueling sensations of hard and cold beneath me and firm and warm behind me. I wondered where I was and then remembered we were in the woods. Something heavy rested across my waist. Not wanting to wake up yet, my brow furrowed. The weight shifted, and my eyes sprang open.

At some point in the night, Mathis and I had gravitated toward each other. His muscled chest pressed against my back, his arm wrapped around me, and his warm breath stirred the hairs at the nape of my neck. I remembered Pa telling me once that if I ever came across a rattlesnake to hold very still and back away slowly. I did that now, not wanting to disturb Mathis, to preserve some dignity. If I thought about it too much, I selfishly wanted his warmth. Gradually, so as not to wake him, I extracted myself from his embrace and went a few yards behind the brush to relieve myself.

Mathis was rousing when I returned to our blankets, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"It got colder than I thought it would," was all he said as he shed the blankets and left to take care of himself.

Heat rose to my face. He knew what he was doing! I had never slept with a man before, especially one who was a stranger to me, but I found it … comforting. Shame clenched my gut at the untoward thought. The thought I should not have when I was on the way to Robert's deathbed.

"Whoa!" Mathis pulled up on his reins and brought his horse to a halt. Sumter and I stopped beside him.

A ragged man in blue came out from behind the shadow of a tree. His hair was damp, and his beard was overgrown. His face still soiled from gunpowder. His eyes jerked to and fro, nervous as a deer.

I gripped the reins tighter, causing Sumter to stomp her foot in protest. My hand went to my pocket, feeling the pistol still there. Mathis signaled me to be still.

"Deserter," he whispered. "I will not fault a man for wanting to survive."

We eased past, watching each other with caution.

When we were far enough away from the deserter, Mathis said, "I want to apologize if my account last night disturbed your sleep."

"I asked you to tell me." I shrugged. I avoided telling him I fell asleep thinking of wild hogs and hoping there were none in the vicinity, so instead I said, "You have a way with words."

Mathis shifted in his saddle. "I'm sorry. My father always told me I had an overactive imagination that would only cause me anguish. I wanted to become an author once, after I read Thoreau's Walden Pond. I was set on it, in fact, but then circumstances led me here."

"A shame. You have a talent for storytelling. However, your father must be proud of you fighting for the Cause."

"Perhaps he would have been."

I bit my lip at his use of past tense. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. He has been gone a few years now. Consumption."

We rode in silence then, neither one of us knowing what more to say. The sun was peeking through the clouds but not quite enough to dry the earth. My bodice and skirt were mostly dry, but my shift clung uncomfortably underneath. I sagged in my saddle from fatigue … and hunger. Panic rose, tasting like bile. I feared we would reach Gettysburg, and it would be too late. Mathis sensed my uneasy silence and stole moments to glimpse back at me.

"He'll still be alive," he reassured me, but I wasn't sure he believed his own words.

Gettysburg's streets were clogged with horses and wagons, uniformed men, and civilians trying to repair damaged property. People rushed past, as if to stanch a wound before it bled out. The roads were muddy, whipped up by wagons and horses, making it almost impossible to pass. Women wearing aprons carried baskets of cloth and bandages toward a busy camp infirmary down the road. Soldiers walked or, in some cases, limped by and were greeted by townsfolk offering them bread or water. We continued down the road, maneuvering away from those on foot and wagons stuck in the mud.

One soldier, with a thick, brown mustache and missing his cap, thin hair plastered to his head, greeted the sergeant major.

"Mathis!" he called. "We've been looking for you. We feared the worst."

"I had some business to attend to," Mathis explained.

The soldier peered at me. "Oh, good afternoon, miss," he said, tipping his imaginary cap.

He glanced back at Mathis with a sly grin and gave him a wink.

"Honestly, Anderson!" John exclaimed, shaking his head. He chuckled.

It was the first time I heard him laugh. Dimples popped out on his cheeks, making warmth bloom in my chest. The soldier walked on, waving a prissy hand goodbye in mockery.

"Pardon him. After some time in the army, you, too, would lose your manners."

I smiled wryly, hoping I'd get to hear that laugh again.

We halted the horses in front of the infirmary. Sumter pawed the ground. The smell of blood, rotting flesh, bodily fluids, and an unidentifiable, strong, zesty odor stung my nose and eyes. Injured men lay on the wet ground or, for the lucky few, on wool blankets. Hundreds lay moaning and weeping with pain. I could have never imagined this sight. The blood drained from my face, and my eyes blurred. I regarded Mathis for some comfort or explanation of this horrific scene, but he did not look at me. His expression was hard and intense, as though he was about to burst in anger. Anger for the lives being wasted by war.

Mathis dismounted, then assisted me down. He handed the horses' reins to another soldier, ordering them to be sent to the barracks. Mathis held on to my arm, and I was grateful, for fear I would fall to my knees. He led me through the maze of wounded, dying, squalling men. Some appeared dead already, but no one tended to them. There were no blankets to pull over the rigid corpses, to give them respect in death.

We walked through an endless landscape of casualties. My eyes went over every face we passed, searching for Robert and hoping to see any familiar face, but they were all strangers to me.

One man grabbed at my skirt's hem, bluthering; only blood bubbled past his lips. I thought I made out the word please as he clawed against death's grasp. His eyes were wide in panic. The bandage wrapped around his head oozed, and one arm was left in a mangled, bloody pulp. I stared at him in shock. There was no one to ease him into the afterlife.

Mathis nudged me forward, away from the tormented man. Little could be done for the thousands writhing in pain … nothing but wait for them to die or survive another day.

Nurses sat beside the men they could reach, dressing wounds and scribing letters from those in their final hours. Exhausted but determined, the nurses moved from one invalid to the next.

I followed Mathis, ducking beneath the flap of a medical tent.

"Don't look," Mathis cautioned, pushing me past the surgeon's table. Bile rose in my throat at the sound of a saw grinding against bone. He walked beside me, blocking the view, but it did not keep me from seeing the pile of black and bloody amputated limbs. I swallowed, willing myself not to vomit.

The strength of his hand at the small of my back steadied me, turning my focus back on looking for Robert. Cots lined the tent, each one occupied in different stages of recovery.

"Private Moore?" Mathis asked a passing surgeon. With no time to reply, he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

The direction was all I needed to find him, to pull away from Mathis and go to him. His eyes were closed and his mouth ajar. Stubble and gunpowder shadowed his graying face. Soaked bandages wrapped around his abdomen. A sure sign of fatality.

I fell to my knees beside him and grasped his hand, pressing it to my cheek.

His cold fingers twitched and his eyes fluttered open, connecting with mine. A knowing smile curled his lips, as if he knew I'd come.

Robert wiped my cheeks. "Don't cry," he said in a hoarse, tear-strained whisper.

"Oh, Robert." I didn't realize how much I had missed him until this moment.

He needed to know I chose him.

Leaning over him, I pressed my lips to his. His lips were cracked from heat and wind, yet still warm. A surge of hope rushed through me. Now that I was here, I'd fight for us both. Death would not win easily.

"Ella …" he started, breaking our kiss.

"I love you. I'm not marrying Ethan," I blurted, reminding him of our parting words all those months ago. "I never could have gone through with it."

He gave me a sad smile.

"I'm here now. I won't leave you," I promised, taking off my straw bonnet.

I laid my head on his chest. Robert's heart stuttered under my ear. My hope faltered. He buried his face into my hair, and we held each other and wept.

An older nurse knelt down beside me, setting down her basket of bandages and lye soap.

"How's he managing?" she asked, her voice kind and pleasant. She studied his wounds and listened to his troubled breathing.

"Still alive."

Her lips pinched while she unwound the soiled bandage. "You're a Coburg daughter?"

"Yes," I said, surprised. "How … how?—"

"I'm Mary Fisher. I worked with Doctor Cooper in York."

"You're from York?" I asked, shocked.

"Lived there all my life."

"And you are now here in Gettysburg. Why?"

"For duty, for country. As you can see, they need every able hand."

She peeled back the sodden gauze. Blood still oozed from the perfectly round bullet hole. I can see how they might have missed it during the initial inspection. Now with each breath, more blood pooled on his stomach.

Robert grimaced in his unconsciousness as she pulled the bandage out from under him.

"Here." She handed me a clean, linen bandage before proceeding to sanitize the wound.

"Can you tell me—honestly, please—if he will survive this?"

She gestured for me to help her wrap the new bandage around his abdomen. "Tightly now."

When we were done, she took my hand. "I fear he will not survive, Miss Coburg. The liver bleeds."

"How … how long?" I choked out.

"Pray, Miss Coburg. Pray that death is quick and merciful."

The fresh bandage was already blooming red. She released my hand, lifting the blanket to reveal the right leg that ended in a stump. A strong, zesty aroma hit my nose, even before Nurse Fisher peeled back the dressing. Something looked very wrong. The skin was black and rotting, and dark, gray-green streaks ran up his leg from the sutured stump, tracing his veins.

"I don't know what the doctor was thinking operating on him," she said. "This may kill him faster than hemorrhaging."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Poison in the blood. I can wash it and put clean bandages on it, but I don't think it will make a difference."

"Please, do what you can," I pleaded.

She sighed and confirmed with a nod, but her eyes shone with sympathy, dunking and wringing out a soapy rag from her bucket.

Robert howled when it touched his raw wound. He eyes sprang open, staring above him, while she washed the stump. He clenched his teeth, and sweat beaded his brow. I bit my own cheek, keeping myself from crying out.

"Grip my hand," I told him.

My bones crushed in his grip, as if he would break them, but I did not care. Robert's pain was far worse, and it hurt to see him this way. Finished with her ablution, Robert sagged into the cot. Any strength he had left now drained. By the time she was done redressing his leg, he had fallen back asleep.

"Please, is there something we could give him for the pain?" I begged.

Her face was stoic as she watched his jagged breathing, as if counting his breaths.

"I'm very sorry. We don't." She squeezed my shoulder. "If you need anything, please let me know." As if to say whatever was left was meant for the living. A forlorn smile tipped her lips before leaving us to resume her rounds.

For hours, as the gray light faded into dusk, Robert and I were left alone. I wiped his brow and held his hand, his grasp fading with the light.

He slept until lanterns were lit to invade the tent's darkness, brightening the way for the surgeons and nurses.

His hair damp around his face and his lashes wet, he whispered, "I'm sorry, my love."

I bit my lip to stop the tremble. The color in his cheeks was turning to a gray-orange tint, and his lips were tinged purple. Sweat rolled down the side of his face, chilling him, causing him to shiver. The heat radiated off his skin, and I knew the poison was now coursing through his veins.

"I brought you some food and coffee," Mathis announced behind me.

John stood with a steaming tin cup and a bowl of stew, a piece of bread resting on top.

His face fell when he saw Robert. "What is it?" he asked.

Mathis kneeled beside me, setting the coffee and stew between us. Robert turned his head to look at us.

"Ella," he whimpered, his eyes pleading with me. "I don't want to die."

My heart broke. The poor boy who lived on the creek bottom … the boy who once admired me from afar … the boy I grew up with, who eventually stole my heart, was dying.

"Hush," I whispered. "I promise I'll not leave you. I'll stay right here."

Robert inhaled, a vain attempt to fill his lungs. His exhale sputtered. He looked at Mathis. "My friend."

"Moore," John said, his eyes intent on Robert.

"A promise," he whispered.

John hesitated for a moment, then said, "Anything."

Robert placed my hand in John's. "Take care of her for me."

"But Moore?—"

"Take care of her. She needs protection."

"Robert," I pleaded. I shook my head, tears brimming. "I'll be fine. Please, don't worry. Why must we make promises now?"

"Promise, Mathis." Robert stared intently, his words strained. "Promise me!"

Mathis nodded, relenting to Robert's last wish. "I promise."

"Thank you." Robert's shaking settled, surrendering to exhaustion.

It was muggy and damp. There was no relief from the agonizing moans disrupting the night. Horrible, gulping moans—moans that could leave anyone sleepless, that could wake the dead.

I nibbled on bread and watched Mathis smoke his cigar beside the tent opening. Smoke plumed around his head. Why did Robert make Mathis promise to look after me? Why did he think I needed protection? Protection from what? Would he even be able to keep his promise? We were strangers to one another, only united under Robert. With Mathis remaining with his troops, he could very well face the same fate as Robert. Why make a promise no one could keep?

The bread caught in my throat. How could I return home? Surely, Ethan will be waiting for me to fulfill our commitment. Mother and Pa would be furious with me after bringing them such shame and worry. Cold, nauseating fear seized me at the thought of what may be waiting for me in York. I struggled to breathe. My hand flew to my throat.

Mathis hurried to my side, bringing the coffee mug to my lips. I let the smoky liquid go down, dislodging the lump. It was hard in my chest, and I gulped for air, my eyes stinging.

"Are you all right?" Mathis's brow furrowed with concern.

"He's … dead. I can't … go … home." I gasped.

"He's not dead yet," he told me, shaking his head.

"He might … as well be."

He took my face in his hands, staring into my eyes. His eyes were intense and dark. "He's not dead. He's not. Robert still lives." He turned my head for me to see Robert, asleep, his chest rising and falling. But he was still dying. "Even when he is gone, he will still be with you. He'll be with you … always."

Mathis dropped his hands from my face and sat back on his haunches, surprised and embarrassed by his own reaction.

Searching his eyes, I wondered who he was, how he came to be in front of me now, what motivated him now.

"I wish … the war … was over." Tears fell easily now.

The muscles in his jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth. "There will be an end. There is always an end. I just hope I live to see it."

We sat in silence for a moment, both of us alone in our sadness. I sniffled, and Mathis handed me his handkerchief.

"One day, these memories—these memories of this war—will remind us of the pain and grief we endured, but it will also remind us of the bravery fought against injustice and to preserve our nation. That is what we'll tell our children and our children's children will tell their children. America will forever be reminded of these times, both beautiful and ugly, propelling every injustice to be righted and every recompense to be resolved."

I shuddered a breath, listening to Mathis's impassioned words. "Is that why you fight?"

Mathis gave a wan smile, pinching his cigar in his teeth. "Someone has to. If not for us, then for them." He lifted a hand, gesturing to all the cots filled with wounded and dying, to the battlefield torn and bloodied, to the world where men and women lived in grief and sorrow and chains.

"Miss Coburg! Wake up!"

I opened my eyes to see Mathis. When I realized I had fallen asleep, I started.

"What—what is it?" I asked, looking at Robert.

Robert's eyes cracked open. "I saw her," he murmured. "I saw her."

My heart pounded in my ears. "Who, Robert? Who did you see?"

Robert took in a long, shaky breath through tremulous lips. "My mother."

My hand went to my mouth. Robert's breathing was shallow and gasping. His lips quivered as if he was suffering from the cold. The moon lit his face through the tent opening, giving him a pale glow, making him look almost ethereal.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too." I clutched his hands, willing him to stay. "Oh, Robert."

Robert's eyes were glazed, the light dimming as he looked at me. "Forgive me … take care of Katie. Ella, please … make sure …" Shallow gasps parted his lips. "Make sure … forgive me …" he wheezed.

I nodded, knowing there was nothing else for me to do. "Save your strength," I whispered to him, trying to calm him and myself.

"I …" His voice came out in a breathy whisper.

"Shh. I know. Don't speak," I told him, my hands trembling on his face. "I love you so much. All will be well, Robert."

"Forgive me … I … I love you," he said once more, his neck straining to push out the words.

Robert's breath rattled. A long exhale escaped his lips.

I sat in silence, waiting for his chest to rise again.

I waited.

And I still waited.

Teardrops escaped the corners of his eyes, taking the light with them.

"No, Robert, no." I shook my head. "No. Please, Lord. Please, no."

"Ella," Mathis whispered, his hand grasping my arm, attempting to pull me away.

He used my Christian name, but I did not care. I pushed him away. "Leave us!" I gripped Robert's unbuttoned shirt, holding on to him as if to keep him with me a while longer. His chest was frozen in his last breath, his heart silent. Tears rolled down my nose, dripping onto him, moistening his skin beneath my cheek. He was still warm, but he was gone.

I memorized the smell, the feel, the sense of him. Absorbing whatever warmth was left.

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