Fiction, Writing
Inspired by my trip to Gettysburg for the 150th anniversary of the battle, this flash fiction piece was originally submitted for a contest on The Colors of My Soul, and can be found here. Some background on the piece: Ginnie Wade was the only civilian killed during the battle. The story is told from her mother’s perspective, and loosely based on actual facts. Thank you for reading.
4th July 1863, Gettysburg
My hands are shaking, yet I cannot do anything else until I have put my feelings down in writing. And I must hurry and get back to work. The boys are hungry and they need every bit of nourishment they can get, so they can go on to fight more battles and quickly put an end to this horrible war.
Forgive me if my tears smear my words but I can’t stop sobbing. Ginnie, my poor, darling, innocent daughter…
She died yesterday. Killed by Confederate soldiers. And it’s all my fault; it should have been me.
We left our home three days ago. With my husband gone, I dragged my family to my other daughter’s house on Baltimore Street, thinking it would be safer. And we were, at first. But I should have known better, I should have made us all flee when the gunshots grew louder and we heard the battle coming closer.
Instead I prayed. I begged the Lord to spare my family and keep us safe, and even though I could see the bullets hitting the house, I foolishly thought we would be all right. We were protected by sturdy brick walls, I thought, besides, no one would try to hurt us.
To keep our minds off the battle, I insisted Ginnie help me bake bread and distribute it to our soldiers. She was already so worried about her fiance Jack, I thought she might feel better doing her part to help the Union. But yesterday we were running low on bread. I asked Ginnie to get up early to knead more dough so I could bake more later.
I was so tired; the night before I had been up late with Georgia Anna’s baby—the poor thing was scared to death of the harsh sounds and bright flashes, and I wanted to sleep in for just an hour or two. The loving, compassionate girl she is, Ginnie didn’t object or complain, even though I could see the bags under her own eyes from the past couple days.
An hour later, I jumped out of bed to the sound of terrible pops. I rushed downstairs to find Ginnie on the floor, her shoulder bleeding. I picked her up in my arms and started shaking her. “Ginnie,” I screamed, but she was already limp. The dough she had been kneading was untouched.
The battle is over now, and we’ve already buried Ginnie. It’s Independence Day, but it doesn’t feel like a day for celebration. We are dependent on others, to end this bloodshed and suffering, and they are dependent on us.
I must finish baking the bread. The large yellow, sticky lump of dough is all I have left of my daughter, and I know she would have wanted me to feed the soldiers. There is already talk of reconciliation, of the significance of what happened here this week.
All I know is I must bake the bread.