Two Important Women from the Battle of Gettysburg

In July 1863, as the cannons thundered across Pennsylvania farmland during the Battle of Gettysburg, two civilian women became forever woven into American history: Jenny Wade and Elizabeth Thorn. A stray bullet tragically struck Jenny Wade, the only civilian to die during the battle, as she was baking bread for Union soldiers. In the days that followed, Elizabeth Thorn, pregnant at the time, had to bury nearly one hundred fallen soldiers, transforming her grief into grim determination. Their stories reveal the untold civilian cost of the Civil War and the haunting human aftermath of America’s bloodiest battle. In this post and podcast, we explore the true history of Jenny Wade and Elizabeth Thorn, their roles in Gettysburg, and how their courage continues to shape Gettysburg’s legacy today.

This episode is very close to our hearts. We have visited Gettysburg so often that we can't count, and we always honor both of these people. We are so glad that we did this podcast and post to help preserve their story and to let others know about their legacy.

Mary Virginia Wade

Jenny Wade was born Mary Virginia Wade on May 21, 1843, in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. Known to family and friends as “Jennie,” she grew up in a working-class household and spent much of her young life helping support her widowed mother. In the summer of 1863, she engaged Johnston "Jack" Skelly, a Union soldier serving in the 87th Pennsylvania Infantry. Like many women of her time, Jennie’s daily life revolved around domestic duties—sewing, caring for children, and preparing food—tasks that would unexpectedly place her in the center of one of the Civil War’s most devastating battles.

When Confederate forces moved into Gettysburg in late June 1863, Jennie was staying at her sister Georgia McClellan’s house on Baltimore Street. Georgia was in the final days of pregnancy, and Jennie had come to help care for her and her children. Neither woman expected the quiet town to become the focal point of a massive clash between the Union and Confederate armies. As fighting erupted on July 1 and intensified over the next two days, the Wade home found itself directly in the line of fire as Confederate sharpshooters took positions in nearby buildings.

Despite the danger, Jennie continued performing domestic tasks to support Union soldiers who had sheltered in the area. On the morning of July 3, 1863—the climactic day of the Battle of Gettysburg—she was in the kitchen kneading dough and baking bread. Accounts say she had already delivered several loaves to Union troops and was preparing more when tragedy struck. A stray Minié ball fired by a Confederate sharpshooter passed through two wooden doors and struck her in the back, piercing her heart.

The Battle of Gettysburg claimed more than 50,000 casualties, but Jennie Wade holds the somber distinction of being the only documented civilian killed during the fighting. She died instantly at just 20 years old. Soldiers in the house quickly carried her body to a safer location in the cellar, and she was initially buried in Evergreen Cemetery before being reinterred in Gettysburg National Cemetery. Her gravestone, marked with a small American flag and shield, remains one of the most visited in the cemetery.

Today, the story of Jennie Wade endures as a powerful reminder of the civilian toll of war. She was not a soldier nor a political figure but an ordinary young woman caught in extraordinary circumstances. Her death symbolizes the way the Civil War blurred the lines between battlefield and home front, turning kitchens into war zones and families into casualties. In Gettysburg’s long and haunted legacy, Jennie Wade’s story stands as one of its most personal and heartbreaking chapters.

Elizabeth Thorn

Elizabeth Thorn became one of the most remarkable civilian figures connected to the aftermath of the Battle of Gettysburg. In the summer of 1863, she was living in the gatehouse of Evergreen Cemetery, just south of Cemetery Hill. Her husband, Peter Thorn, served as the cemetery caretaker—but when the battle began, he was away serving with the 138th Pennsylvania Infantry in the Union Army. That left Elizabeth alone to manage the property at the very moment tens of thousands of soldiers converged on the town.

Elizabeth Thorn was six months pregnant during the battle. In addition to carrying a child, she was caring for three young sons and her aging parents, who also lived in the small gatehouse. As artillery thundered overhead and rifle fire cracked across the cemetery grounds, the Thorn family sheltered as best they could. The Union turned Cemetery Hill into a strategic stronghold, transforming the surrounding grounds into a battlefield teeming with wounded and dead.

When the fighting ended on July 3, 1863, the condition of the cemetery was horrific. Bodies lay scattered across the hillsides in the July heat, horses decomposed where they had fallen, and the stench quickly became overwhelming. Makeshift graves dotted the landscape, many shallow and poorly marked. Elizabeth later described the grounds as a scene of chaos and devastation—fences destroyed, trees splintered, and earth churned by artillery fire.

With her husband still away at war and no immediate workforce available, Elizabeth was ordered by local officials and military authorities to begin burying the dead properly within Evergreen Cemetery. Laborers were scarce, and the urgency to prevent disease meant that waiting was not an option. Despite her pregnancy and physical exhaustion, she supervised and, by many accounts, physically assisted in the burial of nearly 100 soldiers. She later recalled lifting and moving bodies herself when help was insufficient.

Elizabeth Thorn gave birth to a daughter just weeks after the battle, and she believed the physical strain of digging graves contributed to complications during her pregnancy. Her husband did not return until months later, having been captured during the war. Today, her grave stands within Evergreen Cemetery—the very ground she helped restore—serving as a powerful reminder that the cost of Gettysburg was not borne by soldiers alone, but also by civilians who endured its grim aftermath.