Scottish Influence in American & World History

Today’s post is written by fellow author, Norma Gail. A large part of her contemporary romance is set in the beautiful country of Scotland.

I first became fascinated with Scotland when I discovered a Scottish great grandmother in a family tree as a child. Since then, I’ve discovered many Scottish ancestors. Following a visit in 2006, I can truthfully say, “My heart’s in the Highlands …” (Robert Burns)

Americans of Scottish ancestry make up more than half of the American population. Almost half of the signers of the Declaration of Independence had Scottish or Scots-Irish ancestry, including Thomas Jefferson, Patrick Henry, and Alexander Hamilton. Scots comprised three quarters of Washington’s army, and along with Scots-Irish, made up half of his officers. Nine governors of the original thirteen states were Scottish.

Following the disastrous Battle of Culloden in 1745 in their nation’s quest to be free, English victors forcibly removed large numbers of poor Scots from their homes. English aristocrats and wealthy Scots who supported the British cause received large estates in reward for service. Over 40,000 Scots emigrated to the United States between 1763 and 1775.

Scots have changed our world. Scotland played a key role in the Protestant Reformation through the influence of John Knox. Famous inventors include James Watt, inventor of the steam engine and Father of the Industrial Revolution; Alexander Fleming, discoverer of penicillin; Alexander Graham Bell, inventor of the telephone; John Logie-Baird, inventor of the television; Thomas Telford and John Loudin McAdam, both of whom contributed to modern road building technology; Alexander Cumming, inventor of the flush toilet; William Cullen, the refrigerator; Alan McMasters invented the toaster; Charles MacIntosh, inventor of the waterproof macintosh; Alexander Bain, inventor of the electric clock; and the list goes on.

Today, 20 to 25 million Americans claim Scottish ancestry. It is impossible to look at the history of America without including the great contributions of the Scottish people and their descendants.

-Norma Gail

Author Bio:
Norma Gail’s contemporary Christian romance, Land of My Dreams, set in Scotland and her home state of New Mexico,  won of the 2016 Bookvana Religious Fiction Award. A Bible study leader for over 21 years, you can connect through her blog, or on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram, Goodreads, or Amazon.

Book Blurb:

Land of My Dreams:

An American college professor struggling for faith and finding love when she least expects it. Land of My Dreams travels from New Mexico’s high desert mountains to the misty Scottish Highlands with a story of overwhelming grief, undying love, and compelling faith.

Amazon buy link


Civil War Refreshment Saloons

Barzilai Brown, a grocer at the corner of Washington Avenue and Swanson Street in South Philadelphia, had a heart for weary Union soldiers marching past his store in the spring of 1861. He saw a lot of them from his location near the Navy Yard at the waterfront and also departing for the South on the Philadelphia, Wilmington & Baltimore Railroad.

Brown decided to do something. He gave food to traveling soldiers. His generosity grew and on May 27, 1861, the Union Volunteer Refreshment Saloon was established to distribute drinks, food, paper, and stamps. Seeing a need to not only feed troops, the saloon added a hospital to its services in September, 1861.

Another saloon also established in 1861, Cooper Shop Volunteer Refreshment Saloon, was located at 1009 Otsego Street near the railroad.

These volunteer establishments provided soldiers far from their loved ones with comforts of home: washing facilities, meals, writing materials, sleeping areas, directions, information on places of interest, army contacts, and hospital care. Dining halls contained long tables and dining bars where soldiers stood to eat.

Troops passed through Philadelphia at all hours of the day and night. “Fort Brown,” a cannon outside the Union Volunteer Refreshment Saloon, fired a signal shot to call women volunteers living near the Navy Yard to the saloon when regiments were expected.

Most of these ladies, though responsible for their households, came to the refreshment saloons to cook meals and wash dishes. They worked long hours—often all night—to feed soldiers, sailors, freedmen, and refugees.

The Cooper Shop Refreshment Saloon fed 400,000 men and cared for about 7,500 patients. Union Volunteer Refreshment Saloon served 1,025,000 meals to over 800,000 men with nearly 15,000 hospital patients. All this was paid for with donations—no government funds.

To think that one man started all this by doing what he could to meet the needs of exhausted troops. They were hungry—he had food in his grocery store.

Barzilai Brown sought to feed heroes … and became one himself.

-Sandra Merville Hart


Brockett, L.P. MD and Vaughan, Mary C. Woman’s Work in the Civil War: A Record of Heroism, Patriotism and Patience, Zeigler, McCurdy & Co., 1867.

“Civil War Volunteer Refreshment Saloons,” The Library Company of Philadelphia, 2017/07/03

“Samuel B. Fales collection of Union Volunteer Refreshment Saloon papers,” The Historical Society of Pennsylvania, 2017/07/03


World War II Correspondents

Today’s post is written by fellow historical author, Linda Shenton Matchett. I’m especially excited to read her novel after reading the historical background. Thanks for sharing, Linda!

WWII changed the world, changed America, and changed every person who lived during that time. Cultural and social mores were turned upside down as men went into combat and women filled the void their absences left, taking on roles few had experienced until then.

Most of us have heard of Rosie the Riveter, the USO clubmobiles, and the Red Cross facilities, but were you aware that women were also war correspondents? Even after Nellie Bly’s illustrious history as an investigative journalist, most newspapers relegated their female staff to covering society events and columns aimed at the “fairer sex” such as cooking, sewing, and homemaking.

Then Germany invaded Poland and women demanded an opportunity to cover the war. In order to do that they had to receive accreditation. Once obtained, accreditation served as a contract. The Army or Navy would transport the individual into the war zone, provide shelter and food, and send their dispatches back to the U.S. In return, reporters would follow military law and censorship. The process to get certified was lengthy, and as Life photojournalist Margaret Bourke-White said, “By the time you are accredited, you have no secrets from the War Department and neither do your ancestors.”

Of the 1,600 journalists who received the status to wear the coveted armband with a “C,” only 127 were women. The military refused to take these ladies into combat, but a few still managed to experience it. Sometimes the front shifted. Sometimes female reporters managed to get permission to enter the war zone. Sometimes they defied the rules and went to the front by hook or by crook. Successful in the face of opposition, these women fought red tape, condescension, hostility, and vulgarity to research, write, and submit their stories, paving the way for future generations of female journalists.

-Linda Shenton Matchett


Bio: Linda Shenton Matchett is a journalist, blogger, and author. Born in Baltimore, Maryland, a stone’s throw from Fort McHenry, Linda has lived in historical places most of her life. She is a volunteer docent at the Wright Museum of WWII and as a Trustee for the Wolfeboro Public Library. Active in her church, Linda serves as treasurer, usher, choir member, and Bible study leader.


Under Fire Blurb: Journalist Ruth Brown’s sister Jane is pronounced dead after a boating accident in April 1942. Because Jane’s body is missing, Ruth is convinced her sister is still alive. During her investigation, Ruth becomes suspicious about Jane’s job. Eventually Ruth follows clues to war-torn London. By the time she uncovers the truth about Jane’s disappearance, she has stumbled on black marketers, resistance fighters and the IRA—all of whom may want her dead. Available from or your local bookstore.


Civil War Camp Letterman: Caring for Gettyburg’s Wounded

Railroad cut, Gettysburg battle, July 1, 1863

Medical Director Jonathan Letterman shipped tents, supplies, and provisions to Adams County—where Gettysburg resides—on the evening of July 1, 1863, the first day of the Battle of Gettysburg. He ordered that a general hospital be established there on July 5th. Confederate and Union wounded would be provided transportation to the hospital for treatment.

The army erected tents on George Wolf’s farm on York pike approximately one and a half miles east of Gettysburg. Railroad tracks adjacent to the property made it easy to deliver supplies and transport patients to Washington, Philadelphia, and Baltimore.

Surgeons, nurses, supply clerks, quartermasters, and cooks staffed the general hospital, known as Camp Letterman, when it was ready in mid-July. Infantry guarded Confederate patients and supplies.

Almost forty folding cots each with mattresses and linens fit in rows of tents. Camp Letterman held five hundred white tents with only ground as the floor. Trains brought supplies to warehouse tents set up near the railroad. A large cookhouse in the middle of camp gave cooks a place to prepare nutritious meals such as soup and bread.

Wounded from both sides arrived at camp in ambulances where they were assigned beds. The hospital camp was filled by late July. It housed over 1,600 wounded soldiers. Hundreds more continued to receive medical care in temporary hospitals in Gettysburg.

A morgue and cemetery near camp were established by the army. An army chaplain gave them a Christian burial.

Yet most of Camp Letterman’s patients survived. Surgeons worked around the clock while treating the seriously wounded. When patients recovered enough to travel to city hospitals, Sanitary Commission workers assisted the army in transporting them to the railroad depot. They waited a long time for the single Gettysburg railroad line.

-Sandra Merville Hart


Sheldon, George. When the Smoke Cleared at Gettysburg: The Tragic Aftermath of the Bloodiest Battle of the Civil War, Cumberland House, 2003.


Citizens of Gettysburg in the Aftermath

Confederate cannons at North Carolina Memorial, Gettysburg Battlefield

“We do not know until tried what we are capable of.” Sarah Broadhead, Gettysburg citizen, wrote this on July 7, 1863—just four days after the battle ended.

An undated article in Adams County Sentinel reported that the town was one vast hospital. Wounded soldiers filled churches, colleges, the seminary, the courthouse, and many homes. Houses and barns outside of town were filled with thousands of Rebels, left behind when their army retreated. Citizens were doing everything in their power for them.

The Sanitary Commission took over the Fahnestock store, a one-hundred-foot long building in the center of town. They filled it with provisions and clothing, which were distributed to soldiers in the hospitals. Sarah Broadhead praised the work of both the Sanitary Commission and the Christian Commission. Private contributions enabled both organizations to provide generously for the injured men.

Nellie Auginbaugh remembered the Union and Confederate sympathizers who came to town. They couldn’t visit hospitals until taking the oath of allegiance. Some resented the requirement and refused, but others took the oath.

According to Mary Cunningham Bigham, someone at her father’s farm on Emmitsburg Road baked bread to feed the soldiers every day for six weeks. Every soldier able to walk stood in line for the bread hot from a brick oven. The family used all of their 25 barrels of flour stored in the barn.

Visitors came to town to search for loved ones, help the wounded, or to satisfy their curiosity. Sarah Broadhead’s home stayed full and she had to turn people away. One man felt grateful to have a chair to sit on in front of a hotel.

There were no church services while the wounded soldiers occupied the churches. On July 12th, Sarah Broadhead didn’t even feel like she had a Sunday. Not only were there no services, but trains also continued to run and confusion reigned.

The battle had affected the whole town.

-Sandra Merville Hart


Slade, Jim & Alexander, John. Firestorm at Gettysburg, Schiffer Military/Aviation History, 1998.

Sandra’s newest Civil War romance novel, A Rebel in My House, is set during the Battle of Gettysburg. It shows what the townspeople endured through the eyes of a Gettysburg seamstress and a Tennessee soldier (Heth’s Division, Archer’s Brigade, 7th Tennessee) left behind in the retreat.


First Book Review for A Rebel in My House!

The first review is up for my novel that released yesterday–5 stars!

Well Worth Reading
ByTwin Willows Farmon July 15, 2017
Format: Kindle Edition
Set during the battle at Gettysburg, “A Rebel in My House” tells the story of a woman swept up in an event that changed the course of a war. If you’ve never thought about the how the war and the battles impacted civilian lives, this story will open your eyes. Full of rich details of the time period, Sandra Merville Hart also explores the differences between North and South in a realistic, not stereotypical way. Amid those details, she weaves a story of love and trust. Well worth reading.

I’m so grateful for this wonderful review. If you have read the novel, please consider posting a review on Amazon and Goodreads.

If you’d like to purchase the novel, here’s the link on Amazon.

New Civil War Romance Releasing Today!



A novel of love and sacrifice, set during one of our nation’s most famous Civil War battles, the Battle of Gettysburg.

Available on Amazon.





I’d love to give my blog readers an opportunity to read the first few pages of my novel. Hope you enjoy the first scene!


Friday, June 26, 1863

Two miles outside Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

Running feet on the dirt road outside quickened Sarah Hubbard’s heartbeat. Her fingers stiffened on her sewing machine and her back straightened.

Were they coming? Every conversation these days centered on the Confederate soldiers crossing into southern Pennsylvania.

“Miz Hubbard. Miz Hubbard, please let us in!”

Not soldiers but friends. Sarah’s body sagged at Elsie Craig’s voice, but why did she yell? Sarah dropped the gingham dress she’d been sewing and ran to throw open the front door. Alarmed at the fear lining Elsie’s dark face and eyes as she clutched the hand of her four-year-old daughter, Mae, Sarah scanned the horizon for Confederate soldiers. “Hurry inside.”

Elsie needed no second bidding. She guided Mae over the threshold and closed the door. “Miz Hubbard, you gotta hide us.” Her tall, thin body leaned against the door. “The Rebs are in town gathering up all the colored folks they can find. Someone said they’ll be taking them south as slaves and that they’re warning folks not to hide us.”

Sarah gasped. “Why do such a terrible thing?”

“Don’t make sense, does it? Some of us have lived in Gettysburg for years. Others like me have always been free, but it don’t seem to matter to the Southern army.” A long loaf of bread peeked out among jars and clothing in a well-laden basket Elsie set on the rug. She dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around her trembling child. “I had to leave my house and most of my possessions, but I’ve got the most important thing right here.” She looked up at Sarah as she patted Mae’s shoulder. “Last week my Sam left for Pine Hill, the settlement up near Biglerville. With it being two miles off the main road to Carlisle, the Rebs won’t find him there. Sam never expected the army to come after women and children or he’d never have left us. I miss him something fierce. We’ll go to him when the soldiers get out of town.”

Tears etched tracks in a smudge on Mae’s cheek, tugging at Sarah’s heart as much as Elsie’s wide eyes and trembling hands. Sarah rushed to an open window and pushed aside the curtain a few inches. The Pennsylvania governor, Andrew Curtin, had declared a state of emergency two weeks earlier and called for local militia. Where was their help?

Birds chirped. A rooster crowed. The familiar rush of water on Willoughby Run, a nearby creek, didn’t need to drown out marching footsteps. No soldiers appeared on the country lane outside her white clapboard home beside the woods. Despite the calm view outside her window, Sarah shivered as if standing in a cold draft. How could two women and a child protect themselves from soldiers?

Elsie peeked around Sarah’s shoulder. “Can we hide here?”

“Of course.” She strove for a confident tone despite her shaky legs. “But where? My sister’s horse is in the barn. They will certainly search there.”

“Rebs are buying up livestock, so Mrs. Burke’s horse ain’t safe neither.” The pretty young mother’s gaze darted across the sparse room where two chairs and a drop-leaf table rested against the inner wall. A blue dress adorned the wall near the fireplace. She glanced toward the narrow wooden stairs that led to a loft bedroom. “The garret is the first place they’ll look.” She rubbed her shoe against a faded brown rug. “Does this rug cover a cellar door?”

“No, the opening is in the kitchen.” Sarah indicated the doorway with a shrug of her shoulder.

Elsie tugged Mae’s hand, and the little girl followed her through the opening.

Sarah joined them in the room that served as her kitchen and the sewing room. “There.” She pointed to the three-foot by four-foot wooden hatch that lay flush with the floor between the table and the large black stove. Her sewing machine table and chair sat close to the room’s lone window.

“Is the cellar big enough for us to hide there?”

“Yes. It covers the length of this room and extends into the yard.” Sarah lifted the door to reveal a ladder leading to a dark space below. She knew the location of each jar and can that lined the shelves just out of view along with flour-filled cotton sacks. Most of the meat lay deep in the ash pile behind the house, buried there when the Southern Army crossed the Mason-Dixon. The bulk of her precious fabric, wrapped in India rubber to protect it from the ashes, hid beside the meat.

Elsie stared at the ladder before raising her gaze to Sarah’s. “If you cover the door with the rug from the main room and move your sewing machine table on top, no one will know the cellar exists.”

“Good idea.” Sarah covered her mouth with her hand. What would the soldiers do to her if they discovered Elsie and her daughter hiding in her cellar? Send her to a Southern prison? She could only guess at their reaction. Not that it changed anything. She straightened her shoulders. Elsie had become a friend during the two years she worked for Sarah’s sister. She’d not abandon her now. “I will do it.”

Elsie’s tense face relaxed into a grateful smile. “Thank the Lord for you, Miz Hubbard.”

“I’m happy you came to me.” She enveloped her and Mae in a quick hug.

“Don’t tell no one we’re here.” Pride fought with dependence in her eyes. “There’s some loyal to the South who’d turn us in, some you might not expect. There’s others who just don’t consider what they say or do like they should.”

Sarah stared at her and wondered if Martha Burke, her only sibling and Elsie’s former employer, fit the latter group. “I promise. No one will know the two of you are here.”

Elsie pressed a palm to her heart. “We’re safe then, Mae. We’ll get below as quick as we can.”

“You’ll need your food for traveling to Sam. Take a loaf of bread and jelly down with you.” She gestured to three fresh loaves covered with a cloth. “No telling how long it will take the soldiers to come or if they will find my house. You may be there a few hours.”

Elsie carried her things down the ladder along with a lantern and matches. Everything was in the cellar by the time Sarah finished slicing a loaf of bread.

The ladies rolled up the heavy rug and toted it to the kitchen, and Sarah concealed the cellar door after her guests descended the ladder. Her hands then shook so badly that it took five minutes to shift the sewing machine table into place. Sweeping up the dust left behind by the rug took another several minutes.

She stepped back to survey the room. Elsie’s plan was a good one. Only frequent visitors would know a cellar nestled beneath the rug.

After a month of agonizing worry, Rebels were in Gettysburg. There had been so much conjecture about Southerners coming north—her worst nightmares were realized. She fought the impulse to close the windows and hide in the garret. Figuring soldiers would find closed windows a strange sight in the late June heat, she kept them open. Even though Elsie and her daughter were safely hidden, Sarah’s stomach continued to churn in fear for them—for herself. And how was she to save her sister’s horse? She drank a dipper of lukewarm water from a bucket. She should draw another bucket for Belle.

Oh no. Belle. Elsie said that Confederates wanted livestock. How had she forgotten the danger to her sister’s horse? Martha usually stabled it with a blacksmith in town but had moved the mare to Sarah’s barn when news came that Confederates approached Pennsylvania. Both sisters agreed that Sarah’s home, a couple of miles outside Gettysburg, was less likely to draw attention from soldiers.

Now Rebels might come to her home. Martha would be angry if they took her horse, but there wasn’t anyplace to hide the chestnut mare. She couldn’t leave with Elsie and Mae in the cellar and didn’t ride anyway. Her neighbors’ barns were just as vulnerable as hers.

Movement outside the window caught her eye. Six men in gray and one in butternut strode down the hill toward her home, a cloud of dust in their wake. Her chest tightened at the muskets in their hands. Two horses trailed after them. A sorrel mare, saddled and dusty as if someone had been riding it, resembled a neighbor’s.

She returned to her sewing machine to try to appear normal. Her heart hammered with fear as she fastened her gaze on her fabric. The footsteps grew louder.

Someone pounded on her wooden door. “Open up!”

“Coming!” She whispered a prayer for Elsie and Mae’s safety while scurrying to the door, fearing they’d kick it down if she tarried.

Her pulse raced at the sight of bearded Southern soldiers on her porch. Her gaze drank in their tattered, dirty clothing. Two were barefoot. Another had tied the holey remains of his shoes onto his feet with string. After lonely nights of worry, the feared enemy was at her very doorstep—with Elsie and Mae relying on her protection. Somehow, that knowledge strengthened her.

She tilted her chin. “Good day, gentlemen.” Perhaps treating them courteously would incline them to extend the same to her.

The oldest man, perhaps in his late thirties, tipped his gray kepi at her. “Howdy, Miss …”

A deep breath did nothing to calm her nerves. “Sarah Hubbard.”

“Miss Hubbard.” He inclined his head. “I’m Sergeant Willis. We’ve come to purchase all your extra food.”

“There is none for sale, Sergeant Willis. Thank you for stopping by.” She stepped back to close the door, but he blocked it with his foot. She gasped at the threatening behavior.

His steely gaze demanded her compliance. “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist, miss.” One soldier elbowed the door open wider. “You see, our soldiers are hungry.”

Clutching her throat, Sarah retreated back into her front room. If only her sister hadn’t insisted on keeping their mother’s dog in town. These men wouldn’t dare treat her disrespectfully with Butch growling at them. Then again, they might have shot her protective pet. Her mouth went dry. As matters stood, she faced the Rebels alone.

The sergeant sniffed the air. “Aw. You baked bread today.”

Her heart leaped to her throat as she thought of the loaf she’d given Elsie. Then she remembered two loaves remained above. She led the way to the kitchen on trembling legs. “Yes, I baked bread this morning.” Keeping a cordial tone might save her. “Would you like a slice?”

“We’ll take both loaves.” His gaze scoured both rooms from the doorway that separated them, then he nodded to two men in the back of the group. “Check the loft.”

Her deceased parents’ possessions were stored in Sarah’s old garret bedroom. She pressed her palms to her cheeks as the men ascended the stairs. Surely the trunk stuffed with old books, letters, and clothing didn’t interest these men. Her mother’s locket, wrapped in an embroidered handkerchief, lay tucked inside the folds of an old dress. They couldn’t justify taking that.

Sergeant Willis’ gaze traveled the room. “You got preserves?”

She closed her eyes, grateful that she had a stocked cupboard on the main floor. The officer didn’t have to know that most jars and cans lined the cellar shelves. She opened the cupboard beside the kitchen window. “I have blackberry jam.” She picked up a quart jar. “And this one is apple jelly.”

Two soldiers nudged closely enough that she backed away from their sweaty bodies. The youngest took the jar from her unresisting hand. “We’ll take everything on the shelf.”

Her mouth fell open at their brashness. Did they truly intend to take every morsel they discovered? For all they knew, all the food she possessed sat on these shelves. “What will I eat? Leave me something.” A glance at the unsympathetic faces around the room made her wish she didn’t face them alone.

One snatched the last corn muffin from a basket on the table. Crumbs slid down his shirt as he crammed it into his mouth.

“We’ll pay for the grub, Miss Hubbard,” Sergeant Willis said. “Confederate currency.”

“That money is not good here.”

He grinned. “It soon will be, but we can write a receipt if you prefer.”

She lifted her chin. Receipts were likely even more worthless. “I choose the currency.”

He laughed. “This one’s got spirit. Currency it is. You got any milk? Butter?”

“I’m hungry for eggs,” a pimply-faced soldier in back piped up. He cradled both loaves of bread in his arms along with his musket.

Hope rose at an opportunity to get them out of her home. “There’s a crock of butter, an egg basket, and a milk urn in the springhouse on the creek over there, Willoughby Run. I share it with a neighbor so I will show you which containers are mine.” She sidled past the men to the open front door, hoping they’d follow. There was not a peep from the cellar—not that anyone would have heard with the soldiers’ heavy tread as they searched the house.

“That won’t be necessary. We’ll need all of it.” The sergeant nodded to two fellows near the door.

As they stepped outside, the two soldiers made a strange call that reminded Sarah of a coyote. It sent shivers down her back.

“Hey, Sarge.” A bearded soldier of perhaps twenty poked his head over the loft opening. “Found a man’s clothes and a pair of boots in a trunk up here. You want ’em?”

“No.” Her body tensed at her father’s last remaining personal possessions in the soldier’s grubby hands. “Please don’t take them.”

The sergeant raised his eyebrows. “Miss Hubbard, you don’t have a father or brother in the Union Army, do you?”

She shook her head, thankful beyond words that he didn’t ask about a brother-in-law. “I want to keep the clothes as they belonged to my father. He died before the war.”

“Then he won’t need them anymore, will he?” He looked up at the loft. “We’ll buy them, Billy.”

The back of her neck turned hot. Her father hadn’t wanted a divided country, but they took his clothes anyway. At least they didn’t want the locket. The soldiers’ tattered clothing proved their need of the coats, blouses, trousers, and undergarments. Afraid of angering them with further protests, Sarah clamped her mouth shut.

“The boots are mine.” The man with shoes tied to his feet pulled a knife from his knapsack and cut the strings. He laughed when the shoes fell apart on the floor. “Won’t be needing these no more.”

The sergeant grinned and then turned to Sarah. “You got any cows? Chickens?”

There was no mention of a horse. She shook her head. “A neighboring family provides milk and eggs in exchange for seamstress work.”

“Don’t lie to us, miss.” His brow furrowed. “It won’t go well for you.”

She wished she could lie to the men robbing her. As it was, her inability to keep secrets placed her friends in danger. Please, God, don’t let him ask about Elsie and Mae. I can’t protect the horse, but I must protect them. “That’s the truth. There are no cows or chickens.” Her hands twisted into her apron.

The officer tilted his head as he considered her. “Check the barn.”

Her head jerked. “Please, leave the horse be. It doesn’t belong to me.”

“Ah, so you have a horse.” His eyes gleamed.

Four of the soldiers whooped uproariously and bolted from the house.

Her heart sank. “No, it belongs to my sister.”

“We’ll write a receipt for it.”

That made sense since livestock cost more than food and clothing. She met his gaze squarely. “A receipt for the horse. Currency for everything else.” The Southerners had won most of the recent battles and had now crossed the border. It might not hurt to have some Confederate money.

He inclined his head. “Agreed.”

Two soldiers had filled her best basket with the contents of her cupboard. They carried it outside, leaving Sarah alone with Sergeant Willis. He sat on a chair at the kitchen table, scraping the legs against the floor, then wrote on a scrap of paper.

Directly over the cellar.

Her every muscle tensed as his pencil scratched across the paper. If only they’d leave before any noises came from below. Each moment stretched to the breaking point. Every nerve screamed for relief as the officer counted his currency.

The sergeant stood and gave her the receipt along with a few bills. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

Anger shot through her. They’d taken her food and worse, her father’s clothing. Taking Belle would infuriate her sister, who had been as jumpy as a frog since the war began. This man didn’t care if his actions deepened the wedge between her and her sister. He hadn’t given her a choice but he had paid her. It wouldn’t do to annoy him. She clamped her mouth shut and followed him to the porch.

Belle neighed when the men led her from the yard and headed west.

A receipt wouldn’t compensate her sister’s loss of a mare. She crushed the receipt in her fist.

The Confederates splashed through Willoughby Run and out of sight.

Sarah went back inside and slipped the front door lock into place with trembling fingers. She glanced at the money in her hand—four dollars for food that would have fed her for a month— then scurried to her bedroom and raised the loose floorboard under the bed. The bills went inside the cup of money hidden there. She smoothed the crumpled receipt and slipped the paper into her apron pocket to give to her sister. Her encounter with Southern soldiers could have been worse. Her misfortune didn’t compare to Martha’s. And certainly not Elsie’s. And they were all alive and unharmed.

Once the Southerners were out of earshot, she lifted the cellar door a few inches. “They left. You are safe.”

Mae covered her little face with her hands.

“I’ll praise the Lord from down here, Miz Hubbard.” Elsie’s voice trembled. “I heard them soldiers talking. Me and Mae will stay put.”

“I believe that is the wisest course in case more soldiers come.” She shuddered as she lowered the door. The food from her cupboard was gone. If others came, what would she give them? Her face tightened. Not her mother’s locket, that was certain. She climbed the garret stairs to fish out the necklace.

Only when the delicate metal with her parents’ portraits painted inside lay tucked beneath the high collar of her brown dress did her shoulders relax.





A Pastor’s Perception After Gettysburg

Stone wall on Confederate side of battle – Gettysburg Battlefield

Reverend William G. Browning joined a group of ministers who arrived at Gettysburg by train on Friday, July 10th,  just one week after Pickett’s Charge. The Methodist pastor helped nurse wounded at the hospitals.

Homes, churches, and other public buildings housed the wounded. Union and Confederate wounded “lay side by side as brothers” in some hospitals.

An offensive odor permeated the air. Fences lay flattened. Bullets and shell destroyed homes and trees.

Browning visited the battlefield. He found a rebel field hospital in a barnyard. Confederate officers and soldiers who had been too severely wounded to retreat in their army’s ambulances were left behind. Browning saw more misery there than he ever expected or hoped to see again.

Some of the dead had been moved to a nearby field. Yet others who had died of their wounds remained in the barn and the barnyard with their dying comrades. No one had carried the corpses away.

The sufferers were unattended. Arms and legs heaped near a board used as a surgeon’s table. Wretchedness and despair filled the faces of the wounded.

Browning, though not a nurse, walked among them and did whatever he could to relieve their suffering. While there, he asked why they enlisted.

Two men answered that they were led into it.

Browning figured they were as sincere as any Union soldier. The Southerners felt wronged. They defended themselves from an oppressor.

Browning felt strangely fascinated when walking the battlefield. He stepped over broken guns, hats, bayonets, coats, and cartridge boxes. He saw many dead men who hadn’t yet been discovered. Many lay where they fell.

He found the marker of one of his parishioners in a field. He noted the area so that family and friends could find it, which they later did.

He preached at a memorial service for that parishioner on August 2, 1863. He used 2 Samuel 1:19 for his text: “The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: how are the mighty fallen!”

-Sandra Merville Hart


Gragg, Rod. The Illustrated Gettysburg Reader: An Eyewitness History of The Civil War’s Greatest Battle, Regnery History, 2013.


Battle of Gettysburg Civil War Romance Releasing This Week!

Shouting men were in the streets with her. They ran through alleys. Fear prevented her from deciphering their words. Did she really want to understand what they said?


Their terror transferred to her so that coherent thought disappeared. Her courage failed at the fear on strong men’s faces. If they were afraid, how would she survive?


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