I thought of mothers worrying and praying that their sons would be safe, and asking God to bring them back safely. Many of them were Confederate mothers, and yet they were praying to the same God that I prayed to and that all the mothers in the North prayed to—everybody asking God for protection and safety, while the sons of these mothers on both sides did their best to kill one another. It didn’t seem to make much sense! How could God answer the prayers on both sides?
Wondering what the parents of these soldier-sons might be thinking and praying made me think of Pa, and I thanked the Lord again for giving him back to me. I wondered what he was thinking right now. Did he miss me, was he anxious about me, was he praying for me? How much harder it must be for the parents of these soldiers to have their sons so far away from home, and to be so powerless to help them.
In the middle of my daydreaming, I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard Sister Agatha’s voice. “You seem deep in thought, Corrie . . . are you all right?”
Startled, I came to myself and saw her standing at my side. “Yes . . . yes, I think so. I just found myself filled with more thoughts than I knew what to do with for a moment, that’s all.”
“Do I see some tears?”
Then I remembered. “I can’t stop thinking about poor Jennie,” I replied.
Sister Agatha put her arm tenderly around me. “Neither can any of us, dear.”
“And then I couldn’t help thinking about my family back home,” I went on, “and about the parents of these wounded boys.”
“Well, their parents are far away right now. So we’ve got to be the ones to take care of them for a while.”
I sighed, then nodded.
“So would you like to help me?” she asked. “I’m about to change the dressing on a dreadful back wound, and I need another set of hands.”
“Yes . . . of course.”
“Good . . . you’re sure you feel up to it?”
“Yes . . . I’m fine now.” I drew in a deep breath. “Thank you, Sister Agatha,” I said.
She smiled, then led me in the direction of the boy who had been shot in the back.
We did what we could to make the wounded comfortable throughout the morning, hearing virtually nothing from the surrounding countryside. We ate lunch, and I cried again at the sight of some of the very bread Jennie had baked the day before. Two of the sisters spent the morning with Jennie’s sister and mother, helping tend the little one, and helping to get Jennie’s body to the undertaker.
Around two o’clock, Father McFey suggested that, the battle seeming to be over, two of the wagons be taken out into the region south of town with supplies to see what might be done for the wounded who were farther away and had not been fortunate enough to have been carried or transported back to town.
The wagons were hitched up, supplies loaded aboard, and six or eight of the sisters piled in to accompany him.
“Corrie, what about you?” Sister Janette asked me, thinking, I suppose, that it might be good to get me busy away from the church. I had never faced having someone die like that, so close by, especially so suddenly, and from a gunshot! It was different than with Ma, who had been sick. And that was a long time ago. Sister Janette could see how shaken I was and was probably right about my needing something to occupy my hands and mind.
I nodded in agreement, and ten minutes later found myself jostling along in the back of the wagon with the others on the Taneytown Road going south.
We had gone two or three miles from town, stopping every now and then to help someone and leaving supplies at some of the makeshift tents behind the lines where some of the wounded had been taken. Around three in the afternoon, the first noises of renewed battle sounded in the distance.
It all broke loose so suddenly that we were too far into the thick of it to turn back. There was a great uproar, with smoke and fire and explosions, and within minutes the air was so thick we couldn’t see more than a hundred yards ahead.
We turned the wagons around, but by then the battle had engulfed us.
Chapter 19
Caught in Battle!
There was a small clump of trees right in the middle of the Union line at the crest of the ridge, and straight toward that clump of trees Pickett’s men charged.
We were on the other side, the east side of the ridge, behind the Union soldiers. But we could see the trees to our left as we attempted to go back the way we’d come. As the Confederates charged up the hill, though they fought them off, the Union line crept down toward us. And then one small detachment of Confederate troops actually broke through the Union line right near the clump of trees! For a short time there was pandemonium. Union soldiers were falling back right toward us, with shouts and orders filling the air!
In the midst of what had been a sea of dark blue uniforms, suddenly there were two or three hundred gray-clad men surging through, led by General Armistead, who had stuck his slouch hat on the end of his sword and was holding it high in the air to lead his men on. At the same time, Hancock’s men tried desperately to fight them back!
Within minutes, the battle between Armistead’s southerners and Hancock’s northerners for control of the hill and the clump of trees had swooped down upon us!
“Everyone out of the wagons!” cried Father McFey. “Get underneath, or make for the cover of the brush behind us.”
I was terrified!
Before I knew anything more, I was crouched down under the wagon, Sister Janette’s hand clutching mine. All of us were praying harder than we’d ever prayed in our lives!
I had never been so close to a battle before. All the shots of guns and cannons we had heard before now had been in the distance. Now it was right beside us, all around us! And the most awful thing was seeing the actual men, so close, fighting and shooting and trying to kill one another! I smelled smoke and gunpowder. I heard the sounds of horses neighing in terror, screams of men in pain, and the constant explosions of cannons and sharp cracking reports of thousands of guns! It was so close, I could even hear, in the midst of all the noise, the groans of men who knew they had no hope, that it was just a matter of time before they bled to death.
Suddenly I became aware that Sister Janette’s hand was no longer on mine. In fact, she wasn’t beside me at all! I glanced around and saw her creeping out from under the wagon. She was crawling right toward the thick of the battle! A young man had fallen only about twenty feet away, and she was going to see what she might do for him—that is, if he was still alive at all!
Now most of the other sisters, as well as Father McFey, were doing the same, some crouched down, some on their hands and knees, moving out toward the fallen men in both blue and gray, who were scattered about the battlefield.
My first reaction was that I should go help them. It seemed like the right thing to do, even though I was terrified at the thought. But the impulse was just as strong to stay right where I was and protect myself! Yet in an even deeper place inside my heart, there was another thought. And that was the feeling that I had to obey the impulse to help instead of the impulse to keep myself safe. I may not have liked it, but I knew what I had to do—I had to get out from under the safety of the wagon and follow Sister Janette’s example.
“Oh, God, help me!” I breathed, then crept out slowly toward the field of battle.
I made my way, seeing all about in every direction bodies of horses and men, some dead, some still alive. A sick feeling came over me like I had never known before. By this time all the others were working with the wounded, moving from man to man to see what could be done. But I couldn’t bring myself to start. I was paralyzed—not by fear exactly, but just by the awfulness of it all.
I was still near the wagon, separated from the others. And as I stood there, the sights and sounds of the battle grew dim. Suddenly I was alone, in a cocoon, while my senses blocked out everything else but what I was thinking.
What good would it do, I thought, to help a few people? Hundreds . . . thousands of men were spread out all over
these fields and hills! Some of those lying on the ground might need only a bandage to cover a wound, yet they would bleed to death because nobody was there to help them. We couldn’t possibly help them all! For every one we could save, hundreds of others would die helplessly! The little good we could do—what difference would it make?
If ever I had felt like giving up completely, just lying down and crying and waiting for it all to be over, this was the moment. It all seemed so hopeless! Despair was around us—everywhere! I could find not the smallest ray of hope anywhere within me!
As I stood there, my eyes on the ground in front of me, I managed to move my head and glance about. Bodies lay everywhere. The very grass of the field was splotched with blood!
But then my eyes fell upon something else in the midst of the sickening field of death. Ten feet away, growing bravely up out of the soil, unconcerned with the chaos and noise all about it, was a little lonely flower. It was white, with touches of blue on the tops of its petals. I don’t know what kind of flower it was. I had never seen one like it.
At any other time, in any other place, I might not have noticed anything of significance in the sight. Yet today it caught my attention. This little bit of purity, here, in the midst of all the death surrounding it, touched my heart. For a moment I was able to forget that only a few paces away men were killing one another. It was God’s way of speaking to me, saying, You see, Corrie, even when it doesn’t look like it, and even when you can’t see me, I am still here. No matter how bad it may look, I never forget my people.
I cannot say exactly how, but somehow that flower put hope back into my heart—hope which gave me the strength to get on again with what needed to be done. Even if it were true that thousands of people were dying all around me, if I could help just a few . . . if I could help just one, I knew that it would be worth it.
If I could do but one little deed of kindness to someone here, bandaging a wound or speaking a word of comfort, I could be like the little white and blue flower in the midst of their despair. Who could tell—perhaps I might help someone who would go on to save others someday. No act of kindness was too small. You could never know what might come of it in the end.
All these thoughts passed through my mind in a few brief seconds. Then just as suddenly the sounds and smells and sights of the battle raging all around returned upon me. But at last I was ready to do my part in it, whatever came to me.
I breathed in deeply, then ran forward to rejoin the sisters as fast as I could.
Chapter 20
Death in the Midst of the Tumult
Sister Janette was nearby. I ran to her and knelt down. But she turned, then rose and motioned me away.
“It’s too late for him, Corrie, God bless him. Come, there are many others who need us.”
I followed her, glancing down with dumb sickening horror at the corpse lying at her feet.
I went with her, and in another minute was kneeling beside a man who was groaning in agony with what looked like a broken leg.
“Are you wounded?” asked Sister Janette, laying a tender hand on his forehead.
“No, sister. It’s just my leg. It hurts something fierce!”
“If you can stand the pain, we will carry and drag you as best we can over to our wagon. I think you’ll be able to lie there in safety.”
“No place is safe with them bloody Rebs on the attack!” he said.
“It will be better than out here on the open field. Corrie,” she said to me, “take hold of his shoulders and I’ll do my best to ease the pressure on the leg.”
With a great deal of effort, with groans and grimaces from the man—as well as some words I won’t repeat—we finally got him into the shade underneath the wagon. Even as he was thanking us, Sister Janette hastened off again.
I ran after her, but before I had taken ten paces away from the wagon, she yelled back toward me. “Corrie . . . in that box in the wagon—bring bandages! Hurry, before this man bleeds to death!”
I spun around, found the bandages, and ran back. To my horror, I saw Sister Janette’s hand literally stuck into the man’s stomach, plugging what must have been a terrible wound. Her arm was red with blood almost up to the elbow, and her habit was smeared all over with splotches of red.
“Tear off a big piece, Corrie!” she cried. “Here . . . stick it in here. We’ve no time for medicine . . . he’s already lost too much blood!”
The only consolation was that the man appeared unconscious and not in pain.
“Is . . . is he alive?” I asked.
“Yes . . . his heart is pumping and he’s breathing well. If I can just stop—” She didn’t even finish, taking the cloth from my hand and crudely attempting to fashion a makeshift bandage that would be tight enough to stop the flow. Even as I was ripping off more pieces and helping her with them, my eyes were diverted up the hill, where a horrible scene was taking place about thirty or forty yards away. Two men were fencing fiercely. One was an officer in the Confederate army, and appeared to be about forty-five. The other, dressed in the dark blue of the Union, was a foot soldier, much younger.
The awful thought swept through my mind that within a few short minutes, one of these proud soldiers would probably be lying on the ground, either dead or in unimaginable pain. But then my attention was again brought back to the young man lying unconscious in front of me.
When I glanced up again, suddenly the Yankee lunged forward with his blade. The gruesome scene was too much for me, and I hid my eyes.
When I again dared to look up, the old soldier was sprawled out on the ground. His slayer was nowhere to be seen.
I was no longer thinking about Sister Janette and the man whose life she was trying to save. Suddenly I was on my feet. I darted toward the wounded man, hardly conscious that I was running straight toward the little clump of trees!
The poor man’s shabby gray uniform had a big red spot on the left side of the chest. The blood glistened in the sun, still wet, the wound obviously fresh. I thought he was dead. I stooped down. Then I saw him half open one eye.
“What’s . . . what’s a girl like—”
He struggled to speak, but his voice came out only in a faint raspy whisper.
I took out some of the strips of bandage I was still carrying, then reached out and placed them over the hole in his chest.
“What is your name?” I asked him, looking into his face contorted with pain.
When he answered his voice was weak. “Lieutenant Isaac Tomlinson,” he replied, uttering the name with pride.
“Would you like some water?” I said.
“Just . . . just wet my face . . . I’m—I’m so hot.”
I dabbled some drops from the canteen I was carrying onto a cloth and spread it across his forehead and cheeks.
“That feels good . . . are you an angel? What are you doing here?”
“I’m just someone who got caught in the battle like you,” I said.
“I didn’t just get caught, girl. I joined up . . . to get the Yankees for what they done. I—I used to own a large plantation in New Orleans. It was a good life . . . but then they came . . . and the slaves all up and left, some of us were burned out . . . they killed my wife. So I went to war with my son.”
His voice was still soft, but full of passion at the memory. He seemed to be using his last ounce of strength, even if it was with words instead of his sword, against the hated northerners.
“Where is your son?” I asked.
“He was killed last month.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, but . . . but don’t—don’t worry. . . .” His words were filled with pain for his son rather than himself. “Now I have nothing . . . nothing more to live for. Death will not be hard to bear.”
“You are not going to die,” I said, wiping his face again and doing my best to keep my tears away.
“No, girl. You do not . . . how can you understand? Death . . . it is close at hand . . . I can feel it closing in. . . .”<
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I didn’t know what to say. He seemed to be giving up. How could I convince him that life was worth living, worth fighting for?
“At last my sorrowful life will be ended . . . I will not be sorry to leave it behind.”
I struggled to find words of consolation for this wounded, bitter man. “But God—” I began.
“Yes,” he mocked. “God. You think there could be a God who would take everything from me, and . . . and then leave me here to die?” His voice, still gravelly and labored, had suddenly turned its bitterness away from the Yankees who had killed his wife and son, blaming God instead for the tragic circumstances that had befallen him.
His words made my heart sick! I had to find a way to make him see that God loved him and was not at all like he thought! “Perhaps . . . he was just trying to reach you.”
“Well, he certainly went about it the wrong way.” His words were accompanied by a sharp look of pain that swept over his face.
“He loves everybody,” I said. “Even in the midst of all this, you mustn’t forget that. He is sometimes all we have left to hang on to.”
“I used to believe all that. My wife . . . my wife and I . . . we used to—” He grimaced in agony and took in a quick breath or two. “We used to go to church . . . every Sunday . . . believed all that. But when she—”
“We mustn’t blame God for what men do,” I said in desperation.
But no more words from the Confederate soldier came back in reply. I looked down into his face, waiting for an answer.
But no answer came. He had shut his eyes for the final time. Lieutenant Isaac Tomlinson was dead.
I could not hold back the tears. In a rush they suddenly flowed from my eyes, and with them came a sense of dejection and failure. I had not been able to help the poor man either physically or spiritually! If I had had just a few more minutes with him . . .
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