by Angela Moody
Mother flung herself out of her chair and ran from the room. She pounded up the stairs, sobbing. Their bedroom door slammed.
Father rose to his feet. He trudged up the steps after her.
Tillie picked up his dish and finished cleaning the supper dishes.
Chapter 5
A cloud of sadness hung over the house. While Maggie remained upstairs, Tillie swept the kitchen floor and gathered up the dirt to throw away as Sam entered.
“Hey, Tillie.” The kitchen door banged closed behind him. “Did you have a good supper? Ma’s doing okay. She’s mad at Ginny right now for wanting to stay at Georgia’s house a… little….long…er.…” His voice trailed off as the grin left his face, and his brows creased. “You look like you been crying. Is everything okay?”
“Father’s in the parlor. He wants to talk to you.” She spoke without pausing.
Sam’s eyes widened. “Did I do something wrong? He knew it was my night to visit Ma.”
She dumped the dirt and clenched her teeth against a wave of emotion. Standing with her back to him, she drew in a deep breath, and then let it out. When she could relax, she turned, but refused to look at him. “He’s in the parlor.” She marched past him and put the broom and dustpan away.
She finished cleaning the stove, when Sam ran sobbing, through the kitchen, and burst through the back door. Tillie moved to the kitchen window and watched him race to the butcher shop and slip inside. She stared at the can of stove blacking and the rag in her hand, put them down, and went outside. It seemed a long march to the butcher shop, a place she never liked going to, but she needed to know he was all right. When she reached the door, she didn’t know what to do.
Should she knock? Should she leave him alone? She didn’t want to intrude on his private mourning. Tillie shook her head to clear her thoughts and knocked. “Sam? It’s me. Can I come in?”
She paused, but there was no answer. She knocked again, more insistent. “Sam, I know you’re in here. I saw you. Let me in.” As almost an afterthought, she added, “Please.” Again, there was no answer, so she opened the door and entered.
The smell of congealed blood and animal parts made her stomach flip. She stifled a gag and glanced around, but in the growing dark, couldn’t find him.
“Go away.” His voice came from the back corner.
She closed the door and felt her way toward the sound of his voice. “No.”
When her foot hit his toe, she stopped and sat next to him. “I’m sorry. I know you like George as much as the rest of us.”
“The rest of us? You didn’t like George. You were always mean to him.”
A dagger of guilt sliced through her heart. She paused, measuring her words. “I’m truly sorry for that. I was jealous of the time he took from Maggie. It was wrong of me, I know, but now I realize I liked him. He was ever the gentleman to me. I wish I could tell him I’m sorry.”
Sam sniffled. Though she couldn’t see him in the gloom, from the rustled movements she had the impression he wiped his nose on his sleeve. She shifted a little.
“I liked George a lot.” Sam’s voice shook. “He treated me good.”
“Well,” Tillie said. “He treated you well.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She bit her lower lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Stupid. “George liked you a lot, too.” She tried to amend.
“Tillie?”
“Yes.”
“Would you mind leaving me alone? I want to think.”
She didn’t move or speak. She couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say. “Of course.” She rose to her feet. “I’m sorry about what I just said. That was stupid. You’re a nice boy, Sam. We all like you.” She felt her way to the door. There, she stopped and again tried to think of something comforting. “Come inside when you’re ready.”
* * * *
She went in search of Father. Although she’d grown too old to sit in his lap, perhaps he would hold her close and cuddle her as he used to when she needed comfort.
She found him still in the parlor, the big family Bible open on his knees. She crossed the braided rug and stood next to him. The book was open to Psalm 23, his eyes closed, his lips moving.
Her hands curled into fists. Her body tensed, and she ground her teeth together. Father wouldn’t make time for her until he finished praying. She turned to leave him to his prayers, but he clamped his hand on her wrist.
“Sit and pray with me.” His head remained down, his eyes closed.
She studied him, noticing for the first time a round spot on top of his head.
“What good does prayer do, Father? It didn’t stop George from being killed, did it? Pray for what?”
Father stared at her. His reddened eyes shone with unshed tears.
Her spine stiffened at the pity in his gaze. “Well?”
His jaw loosened, and tenderness smoothed the crinkles around his eyes. His gentle thumb stroked the back of her wrist. “Oh, daughter, prayer isn’t about keeping people alive or not. He’s going to judge us all when we die—yes, even you, someday. The wages of sin is death. The question is, will you be judged worthy of heaven or hell? That is what prayer does for us. It brings us to the Lord contrite and humble, so we can live in obedience and He can intercede for us in Paradise.”
Tillie gave an exasperated cry and wrenched free. “I don’t understand you, Father. Why would you worship a God who would condone such a terrible war? Why should I? A God who would let good people like George or perhaps even James or William die?” She backed away. “No. I don’t think He cares about what happens to us. If He even exists.” She clambered upstairs, hoping to escape her father’s wrath.
* * * *
At the top of the stairs, she cringed from the weeping emanating from Maggie’s bedroom. She inched open her sister’s door. Maggie lay on her bed across the room, curled into a ball, sobbing into the pillow.
Tillie stepped inside and closed the door. Easing herself down on top of Maggie’s Log Cabin quilt, she pressed up against Maggie’s back and slipped her arm around her in a clumsy attempt at solace. Maggie rolled over and nestled her head on Tillie’s shoulder, crying out her anguish while Tillie held her.
After an hour, Maggie’s breathing changed, and she snored in exhausted slumber. Tillie eased off the bed and headed to her own room.
After changing into her nightdress and brushing her hair, she scrambled into bed. She lay wide-awake, listening to the crickets’ comforting chirrup outside, thinking of George and all the times she’d been mean to him, either to his face or behind his back. She wanted to apologize and now she couldn’t. The verse in James, chapter four came to her. She began to whisper, “Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor, which appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.”
Tillie kicked the covers off and lay spread eagle on her mattress. Sweat trickled down her neck and stuck her nightdress to her body. She slid the hem up her legs as far as she dare, and dangled her left leg over the side, swinging it to catch a breeze. Perhaps the breezeway would offer fresh air. She jumped out of bed. Halfway to the door she stopped and reconsidered. Father might be out there. She padded back and stared at the ceiling.
A distant short burst of thunder vied for her attention. Something about the length of the rumble nibbled at the corners of her mind, but she pushed it away, intent on thinking about death and George and Father.
She jumped out of bed, got down on her knees, and folded her hands in supplication. Closing her eyes, she tried to focus her thoughts. How should she pray? What should she ask? What good would prayer do? George would not return.
“Heavenly Father…if you’re up there.” She yanked her taut nightgown out from underneath her. “Lord, keep the Rebs away from here. Protect James and William, and keep Beckie’s Mr. Kitzmiller safe from harm.” She shifted her weight to relieve the pressure on first one knee, then the other. “God, make the war end soon. Thank you. Amen.”
Her hands fell on the patchwork quilt adorning her bed, and she stared at the star pattern with unseeing eyes. Why was praying supposed to comfort her? She didn’t feel comforted and couldn’t comprehend why Mother, Father, and Maggie set such store by it. She huffed to her feet and climbed back into bed.
Lacing her fingers under her head, she resumed contemplation of her ceiling. Several quick muffled booms caught her attention. She turned to the window, waiting for a telltale sign of lightning. None. The storm must be further away than she thought.
Tillie threw back the covers, got up again, and went to her writing desk. Perhaps if she wrote to her brothers…
As she started to light her lamp, a loud boom shook the walls, a boom nothing like thunder. It reverberated through the air.
She froze. “What in the world?” Her voice came out in a frightened whisper.
Another muffled blast immediately followed the first. Sticking her head out the window, she leaned out as far as she dared and peered south toward Cemetery Hill. Below her, people popped out of their homes, peering in the same direction.
A full moon lit the landscape. In the distance, gray smoke rose in a drifting cloud behind South Mountain. A red light flashed. A few seconds later came a loud bang and crackling, popping sounds. She pulled in, rapping the back of her head on the window sash.
“Ouch!” Pressing her hand on her head, she bumped into her desk, scattering papers and knocking over her chair. She flew out of her room and raced down the hall, to her parents’ bedroom door. Their soft voices whispered through from the other side.
She pounded her fists on her their door until Father snatched it open. He still wore his shirt, but without his cuffs and collar. “Ah, we were just discussing you. What’s the matter?” His expression softened from stern parent to concerned father.
“Father, Mother, something’s going on. I think I hear something.” Her voice cracked high.
“Goodness gracious, child.” Mother rose from her dressing table. She wore her nightdress and her hair tumbled down. She moved to the bed and slipped on her emerald green wrap. “Look at you! No wrap, no slippers, what’s possessed you? It’s thunder. I declare.”
“Mother! Under a clear sky and a full moon? Something is going on south of here. I can hear the cannons.” She ran to the window facing Baltimore Street and threw it open. “Listen!”
No one spoke. Another crumpf-boom reverberated through the air.
Father peered out. He shook his head. “I can’t see anything from here. What do you say we go outside and take a gander?”
He went downstairs toward the front stoop. They followed him.
Neighbors, in various states of dress, milled around the street. Tillie’s heart pounded harder as their nervous speculation and anxious questions swirled around her.
Mrs. Winebrenner stood in the road facing south. She pointed at something and spoke to Mrs. Buehler. Mother moved off to join her two friends and fellow Union Relief League associates.
Anna Garlach and her mother, Catherine, talked in low tones. “…I don’t know, Ma. Perhaps another wildfire.”
Tillie and Father joined them. Anna contemplated the orange sky, her arms crossed in front of her in a protective gesture. In the distance, cannon boomed again followed by the crackle of gunfire.
“What do you make of that, Mr. Pierce? Do you think it’s another wildfire?” She greeted them.
Father stared toward the sound of the fighting. South Mountain glowed with orange lights. A cap of gray fog topped it. He didn’t answer right away. “No. Sounds like some sort of battle. Those are campfires, Miss Garlach.” He didn’t take his eyes off the heights. “Perhaps they’re fighting somewhere close to Taneytown. We better hope those fires belong to our boys, but if not, then pray as soon as the Twenty-First arrives, they can push them back into Maryland.”
“Do we have reason to fear, Mr. Pierce?” Anna turned the upper half of her body to face him. “What if they aren’t our Union boys and the Twenty-First doesn’t get here tomorrow? I need to consider my parents. How do I keep them safe?”
“Don’t you fret about me, dear.” Mrs. Garlach put her hand on her daughter’s arm, twisting her fingers into the white lace shawl draped over Anna’s shoulders. “I survived Indian massacres as a child. A few unruly Rebs don’t scare me.” Mrs. Garlach nodded at Tillie and gave her a mischievous wink.
Tillie laughed.
“Yes, Mother, but that was a long time ago, and no offense meant, but you’re not a girl anymore.”
“I can hold my own, daughter. Don’t be cheeky.”
Tillie giggled again.
Father chuckled. “You’re the last person I’d want to be up against in a desperate situation, Catherine.”
Anna rolled her eyes and shook her head. She and Tillie exchanged amused glances. Tillie’s eyes passed Anna to Mrs. Schriver, who walked up behind them.
Mrs. Schriver smiled as her eyes swept Tillie from top to bottom. “What are you doing outside in your nightclothes?”
Glancing down at herself, she wiggled her toes and tugged at her nightgown, then giggled, a high nervous twitter. She indicated the strange lights flickering in the distance. “What do you make of that?”
“I wouldn’t worry. If they’re ours, we have nothing to fear. If not, I doubt they’ll get this far. The Twenty-First will stop them.”
“That’s what Father said. I hope so.”
Father joined them. “I agree.” He nodded to the glowing mountain. “This appears ominous, but if they’re Rebs, our Army will get them.”
Tillie hoped so, but a few days ago, citizens of Chambersburg ran to Gettysburg telling woeful tales of Rebel raiders looting and pillaging their livestock and produce. Poor Chambersburg, the adults commiserated. Why didn’t they think the Rebs could show up here? She’d bet her life George didn’t think he’d run into Rebs, either.
The adults grouped themselves to talk and laugh, no longer paying attention to the fighting just south of them. A line in one of her textbooks came to her, “they danced while Rome burned.”
Feeling forgotten, she wandered back to her bedroom. Out of the mood for letter writing, she walked over and set her chair to rights. Tomorrow, after school, she promised, she’d compose a long missive to James and William, telling them all the happenings. She stared up at the glowing full moon. The moon didn’t care a fig about the turmoil raging beneath its ethereal glow. Tillie leaned on the windowsill and watched the adults on the street while their laughter drifted up to her. Mother and Father joined in as the neighbors engaged in an impromptu party.
She glanced again at the full moon. Her heart skipped a beat, and she gasped. In the upper left hand section, a reddish tinge colored the orb. It hadn’t been there before. Blood on the moon, her grandmother’s voice sounded in her head. Goose bumps crawled from her scalp to her torso.
Tillie slammed her window closed. Mother always said things appeared more frightening in the dark. Everything would be different in daylight. “Lord, please let it be different in daylight.”
Chapter 6
As she walked to school Friday morning, a train whistle shrieked through the air. Amidst cheering crowds, the tinkle of a martial tune carried on the morning breeze. The Twenty-First!
Tillie spun toward Carlisle Street, and her feet, rooting to the ground, somehow kept her from racing to join the crowd. She didn’t dare. If Mother and Father found out, they’d punish her. She stood on the corner of Washington and High Streets, imagining the townsfolk welcoming the troops, the grand parade, and the musicians playing “Garry Owen”. How much trouble would she get into if she ran down, for a minute or two?
A quick tug on her sleeve made her jump. Her face flushed. “You startled me.”
Beckie grinned. “I can tell.” She giggled, ending it with a long sigh. “I want to go too, but we need to get to school.” She grasped Tillie’s arm and turned her around.
“Do you think they’ll push the Rebs back into Maryland?”
Tillie glanced over her shoulder, one last longing gaze.
Beckie shrugged and pouted. “I don’t know. If there is going to be a fight, I think they should have the good grace go somewhere else and leave us be.”
Tillie’s jaw dropped. “You don’t want the Rebs to beat us do you?”
“I want the rebels to go back to Virginia, where they belong, and leave us alone. Let them set up their own government, if that’s what they want. Just go away and let us live our lives.”
Tillie moved the conversation off such a dangerous and traitorous subject. “Did you see the campfires on South Mountain last night? At first, I thought, wildfire. But it didn’t behave like one. Do you remember the terrible fire in May at Emmitsburg? The sky glowed orange for hours.”
Beckie nodded. “I remember. Everyone said the Rebs set fire to the town. Turned out to be arson, but the Rebs weren’t anywhere near Emmitsburg.”
Tillie pressed on. “Bright orange dots covered the mountain. Father said they were campfires, but whether Rebel or Yankee, he couldn’t say.”
“I don’t know what the armies are going to do.” Beckie’s grip tightened on Tillie’s elbow, and she almost pushed Tillie toward school. “But if we don’t get moving, we will be late.”
They walked in silence for a couple of paces. Tillie peeked at Beckie through her lashes. “Did…” Her throat tightened on a sudden surge of emotion. “Did you hear about George Sandoe?”
“I did. I’m sorry for Maggie. Don’t worry so much, Tillie. I’m sure our boys will drive them away.”
* * * *
After lunch, they sat in their respective seats, quietly studying their lessons and enjoying the summer breeze billowing the white lace curtains like graceful flags.
A distant, strained, frantic shout cut across the usual street noise. Clattering hoof beats rang on the cobbled street outside as the shouting became louder and more strident.
Tillie and the others turned toward the noise.
Mrs. Eyster rose and went to the window. She reached to lower the sash, but the girls jumped from their seats and joined her, crowding and jockeying for positions from which to see. The older students pushed the younger ones to the back, amid cries of “stop it” and “we were here first”—cries which went ignored.