No Safe Haven

by Angela Moody

  A horse and rider galloped down the road at breakneck speed, his rider hunched over the animal’s neck. They came from the northwest, from the direction of Pennsylvania College. He held his reins in one hand and waved his hat with big, frantic motions over his head, all the while shouting garbled words.

  As he flew past the school, Tillie caught two words: Rebs coming.

  Students and teacher ran out to the front porch as a second rider charged pell-mell around the corner of Chambersburg Street, not slowing while he made the right-hand turn. He charged toward them. “The rebels are coming! The rebels are coming!”

  “Why, he sounds like John Revere.” Catherine giggled.

  Beckie pinched her. “Paul Revere, not John, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I know.” Catherine’s face reddened. She scowled and rubbed her arm.

  Mrs. Eyster gathered her skirts and ran down the front walk. Tillie gawked and the others gasped. They’d never seen her move at more than a sedate, ladylike walk, but now she flailed her hands to catch the man’s attention.

  He pulled his horse up short. The animal shied, its hooves missing her by mere inches. Several girls gasped again. Tillie’s hands flew to her face as she cringed and sucked in her breath.

  Mrs. Eyster reached for the bridle. “Sir, am I to understand the Confederates are coming here?” She stepped into the street, unconcerned about the horse.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He whipped off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. He glanced at the girls and spoke loud enough for them to hear. “We went out to scout their position. They’re headed this way for sure. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be on my way.” He jerked the reins and jammed his spurs into the horse’s flanks. Horse and rider swerved around her and resumed their mad dash down Washington Street.

  Mrs. Eyster stared after him, a hand over her mouth. She gathered her skirts and sprinted back to her students.

  Belle screamed and pointed toward the Lutheran Seminary. The massive three-story, red brick building with a high white cupola dominated the landscape about a mile away. A roiling dark mass appeared just below the crest of the hill, ominous in the bright sunshine.

  Tillie’s heart squeezed in her chest, and she struggled to draw breath. That couldn’t be the Union Cavalry.

  As if offering a challenge, a rider appeared, separated from the cloudy mass, alone on the hillcrest.

  A chill rippled up Tillie’s spine as the mass caught up to him and moved toward them. She clasped Belle’s hand.

  The girls murmured in low voices and glanced at each other, nervous fear contorting their faces. Then all eyes fixed on their teacher.

  Mrs. Eyster’s hand went from her mouth to her throat. Her fingers shook as they played with her lace collar. Keeping her eyes fixed on the cloud, she addressed her students. “Girls, run home! Fast as you can and stop for nothing!” Her voice trembled.

  Tillie started to suggest Beckie come to her house, thinking it impossible for her to make the long three miles home in safety.

  Beckie grinned, squeezed her hand, and took off running in the direction the soldier went.

  The rest of the girls scattered as the dark mass drew to the end of Chambersburg Street.

  A sharp prick of fear goaded Tillie. Lifting her skirts to her knees, she ran for her life. She lived two blocks from school, but no sooner reached the front door than a commotion clamored behind her. Confederate cavalrymen entered the Diamond and fanned out. She estimated at least one hundred men turned right onto Baltimore Street, headed straight for her.

  She screamed, flung herself against the door, and leaped inside, slamming it closed. She sped into the sitting room.

  “Tillie, you’re home, and so early!” Mother came from the kitchen, her eyes wide. “What’s the matter?”

  “Mother, they’re here!” Tillie’s voice cracked, and she started to cry. She flew across the room and threw herself into Mother’s arms.

  “Who’s here?”

  “The Rebs.”

  Mother held her tight. “Don’t weep, child. We’ll be all right.”

  “Oh, Mother.” Tillie hiccupped. “I’m so scared. I’m certain some of the girls didn’t get home ahead of them. I barely got inside myself. What about Beckie? What’ll happen to her if she doesn’t make it home?”

  “Calm yourself. She’s a smart girl, and whatever else these Rebels think they are, they’re still Americans. They know how to treat a young lady.”

  Bloodcurdling shrieks and popping crackles reverberated in the street.

  Mother pushed Tillie aside and rushed to the front window. Leaning her legs against the arm of the couch, she eased up the green velvet curtain to peek out. Tillie followed, crowding close to Mother’s skirts.

  Gray and butternut clad men marched past the house, uttering an ululating screech and firing pistols into the air.

  “That must be the Rebel Yell.” Tillie’s heart hammered, and her hands shook.

  Mother didn’t answer. She continued to hold the curtain against her cheek and watch.

  More soldiers appeared, muskets and pistols over their heads, firing into the air, all the while whooping and hollering.

  To a man, they looked as if they hadn’t bathed in months. Their faces unshaven, some with beards down to their waists. A man raised his arm to fire his pistol, displaying a mass of hair pushing through a gaping hole in his underarm. What’s more, he walked barefoot, as did many others. One even had a rope tied around his waist to keep his britches up.

  They came into the packed street and fanned out, shouting and cursing as they pounded the butts of their rifles on doors, demanding entrance.

  Across the road, half a dozen soldiers banged on Mrs. Buehler’s front door. No one answered. One soldier stepped up and used the butt of his rifle on the door, while two others attempted to force the lock. The door flew open from within, causing the picklock to pitch forward. Mrs. Buehler blocked the entrance, her arms against the doorjamb, skirts filling the doorway. The man with the rifle grabbed her shoulder to push her into the house, but Mrs. Buehler held her ground. She had a verbal exchange with the man, shook her head, and then glanced behind her. She turned to face the soldier and again refused him entrance. The sounds, though not the words, drifted to Tillie and Mother.

  “Oh, Fanny, what are you doing? Be careful!” Mother gripped the windowsill, her knuckles white. “Lord, protect her and her family,” she whispered in fervent prayer. Then she rushed to the front door, turned the lock, and returned to peek out from behind the curtain.

  Mrs. Buehler glanced over her shoulder again, turned back to the intruders, and said something. She smiled, lowered her arms and stepped aside, made a sweeping gesture. The Rebels pushed their way inside.

  “Mother, what’re they doing?”

  “I don’t know.” Mother’s voice shook, her words coming out clipped and urgent.

  Hundreds more, dirty, ragged men swarmed the street, whooping and shouting, cursing and firing into the air.

  “Gracious!” Tillie’s ears burned at their language. She glanced at Mother, eyes wide and mouth agape, to see her reaction, but she seemed not to have heard, intent on the activity.

  Maggie’s heels clattered on the stairs. “Mother, what’s going on?”

  Tillie spun around. “The Rebs’re here!” She almost screamed the words.

  Maggie joined them at the window. She put her arm around Tillie’s shoulder.

  “Margaret.” Father ran in from the back of the house, breathing hard. “I’ve sent Sam to hide Lady in the cemetery. I hope he got there in time.”

  “Oh, Father, do you think he made it?” Tillie clasped her hands tight. “What will happen if they take her? She belongs to me.”

  “Calm yourself, child. Lady is not a young horse. Most likely they’ll not want her.”

  Fresh tears welled up, but she nodded, accepting his prediction. She glanced again at Mother, who all this time, acted as if she didn’t hear any of them. She continued peering out the wi
ndow at the enemy teeming on the street.

  Four men advanced toward their front stoop. Maggie made a sound in her throat, and Tillie clung to her.

  Cheering erupted, and the men broke off, veering in the direction of the cemetery. They fired over their heads and shouted in celebration.

  Mother moved to the side window. “No, James. He didn’t make it. Here he comes, along with the other boys.” She gasped and shot up straight. “James, those men are pointing their guns on the boys. They’ve taken him prisoner. We’ll see about that!” She ran for the front door, threw off the lock, and flung it wide.

  “Margaret!” Father charged after her. “Get back in the house.”

  Mother sped out the door to the pavement, waving to the Confederate soldier leading the young boys and their horses up Baltimore Street.

  “Please, sir.” She waved at the officer sitting on a tired, emaciated bay.

  Was it he who challenged the girls at school?

  “What do you want, ma’am?” His filthy butternut jacket hung above pants so worn, his knee almost showed through the fabric. His matted hair, coated with too many layers of dust to discern its actual color, peeked out from his dirty gray Hardy hat. Blue eyes shone beneath its brim.

  “Please.” She pointed to Sam. “You don’t want that boy. He’s our apprentice. He lives with us. He’s only twelve years old.”

  “No.” He signaled, and a soldier pushed Sam toward the curb. “We don’t want him. We will take the horse.”

  Sam relinquished Lady’s reins and ran to Mother.

  Mother slipped a protective arm around his shoulders.

  Sam’s two sisters, Georgia McLean and Ginny Wade, stood on the opposite curb, watching.

  “Mrs. Pierce,” Ginny’s voice rang loud across the street. “If those Rebs take our Sam, I don’t know what I’ll do with you folks!”

  His arms went around Mother’s waist as though seeking her protection. Mother held him tight against her as she stared, wide-eyed at them.

  The officer turned, considered the two young women, and then glanced down at Mother. He lowered his face and tried to hide a barely suppressed grin.

  Ginny shook her fist. “If we must explain to our mother what happened to her son, you’ll be sorry!”

  Georgia glared at them, arms crossed, in full support of her sister.

  Johnny Reb hid his grin behind a gloved hand and ahemed.

  “Not to worry, Ginny,” Mother called. “They only wanted the horse. Sam is quite safe.”

  “She’ll get us into trouble, yet.” Maggie stared at the two women, her voice full of angry, hurt surprise.

  Tillie gasped. “How dare she? If she’s so concerned about her brother, why didn’t she protect him instead of making Mother do it? Southern sympathizer!” She clenched her teeth and balled her hands into fists.

  “Leave be.” Maggie grasped Tillie’s elbow. “For Sam’s sake.”

  Again, Ginny’s voice rang out, loud and clear. “He’s your responsibility now, and if any harm comes to him, I’ll see you pay.”

  The soldiers watched the exchange like a crowd watching a tennis match. They cheered and egged the women on.

  “Now, Ginny…” Father held up a hand palm out in supplication.

  Tillie didn’t wait for his reply. Nobody talked to her mother that way! She opened her mouth, to launch into a vicious attack, but Maggie pinched her. Hard.

  “Ooooouuuuch!” She scowled and rubbed her arm.

  Her sister shook her head and, with a glance, indicated Sam. Tillie followed her gaze. He hung his head, and tears ran down his cheeks. It seemed as though he tried to burrow into Mother’s embrace, hoping to hide and escape the hostilities. Her heart went out to him. What must it feel like to be part of such a contentious, disagreeable family?

  Georgia shouted at Father. He chose to ignore her.

  The Rebels catcalled and egged on the two women again, hoping for more.

  Letting her breath out in a huff, Tillie continued to rub her arm. “Oh, what do I care what Ginny Wade thinks?”

  Eying the Reb holding the reins of her beloved friend, Tillie approached. She moved on wooden legs, intent on stopping him from taking Lady. “Please, sir, give me back my horse. Please don’t take her away!” Her body shook, and desperation quaked in her voice. But she couldn’t help it.

  He leered at her, leaning so close his nose almost touched hers.

  She stepped back, eyes wide.

  His red hair—wild, filthy, and probably filled with lice—hung in his face. His thick, matted beard came to his chest, and crumbs of meals past hid in it. Cold blue eyes bore into hers. She gagged when he puffed his foul breath into her face.

  “Sissy, what’re you crying about? Git in the house and mind your own business!”

  His breath touched her cheek. She retreated another step. Someone caught her by the elbows and drew her backward.

  The soldiers moved away up Baltimore Street with their prizes. Dirty Beard yanked Lady’s reins. The horse tossed her head, but followed without protest. She didn’t even look back.

  Tillie collapsed onto the pavement, sobbing. Father took her by the shoulders and walked her inside to the sitting room.

  “Now, Tillie.” Mother used a reasonable tone. “You’re more frightened by the events of the day than upset over the loss of the horse. Calm down, child.”

  Sam stood at Tillie’s side, patting her shoulder.

  Father paced in front of her. “So foolish, Matilda. We don’t know what these Rebels will do. Perhaps they’ll mark us for this. We all must be more discreet.”

  Maggie knelt next to her. “I understand how you feel.” She laid a soft hand on Tillie’s arm. “I know what it means to lose someone you care about, even a horse.”

  Tillie threw off Sam’s hand and jerked away from her sister. “Oh, I wish I was a boy! I would’ve told that dirty Reb what I think of him!”

  “Matilda Jane Pierce, that’s quite enough!” Mother’s hands went to her hips, and her brow lowered. “The horse is gone, and most likely, there’s nothing more we can do. Crying won’t help things. Now stop acting like a child half your age. Count your blessings she’s all they took.” Mother’s eyes darted to Sam. She took a deep breath, softened her tone. “Go upstairs. Wash your face and change your dress, then come down and help me get supper.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Tillie wiped her nose, cowed and hurt by Mother’s scolding. She stayed in her room for a half hour, indulging in self-pity. She needed to get her displeasure out of her system before she got into more trouble. When ready, she put a smile on her face she didn’t feel and rejoined her family.

  * * * *

  Tillie entered the kitchen as Mother answered a knock at the door. Four Confederate soldiers, among them Dirty Beard, stood on the back stoop.

  They removed their hats like penitents. Dirty Beard didn’t own a hat. Instead, he laced his fingers in front of him.

  “Ma’am, might we get something to eat?” The leader’s Southern drawl sounded so polite… It was hard to comprehend that, just an hour ago, they walked away with Tillie’s most prized possession.

  Father jumped from the table and ran out of the room. His feet pounded on the treads as he disappeared upstairs.

  “Oh, yes.” Her voice shook with anger. “You should ask for food, after you steal our horse and frighten our daughter half to death.” She glared at Dirty Beard, blocking the door with her body as Mrs. Buehler had done.

  Father returned holding a Revolutionary War musket.

  Tillie’s eyes widened. She started to ask what he meant to do with a gun that didn’t work, but he put a finger to his lips and gave her a stern, be-quiet glare.

  “Now, ma’am…” The leader changed his tone. Menace now laced his words. “We can ask for food, or we can force our way in and help ourselves. Which would you prefer?”

  Mother sighed, and her shoulders slumped. She pulled the door wide, gesturing to the table. “You may sit down.”

&nbs
p; Tillie put the dishes down and waved at Father to hide the gun. He stepped into the sitting room and propped the musket against the wall, out of sight, but within easy reach. The rest of the family backed away as, like a pack of ravenous dogs, the hungry soldiers attacked the food.

  Tillie went to Father and clasped his arm.

  The men grabbed everything they could. They spilled the apple butter as they spread it on their bread. Pickle juice puddled on the tablecloth as they stuck dirty fingers into the crock, scooping the pickles onto their plates. They passed crocks back and forth, knocking them over. The contents dirtied the table and the floor as the fiends shoved food into their mouths in huge quantities, joking while they ate.

  Dirty Beard licked his finger and used it to pick up crumbs, which he put in his mouth.

  Tillie couldn’t stand it any longer. She turned her back as the vulgar men gobbled their meal, spitting half-chewed bits while they talked and ate.

  A glance passed between Mother and Father across the room, a silent communication.

  Father took a seat. “Tell me.” He directed his question to the one who asked to come in. “To whom would I speak regarding the return of our horse?”

  “Well, sir.” The soldier sat back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and said in his peculiar drawl. “You ain’t gonna get your horse back.”

  Their malicious laughter made Tillie’s skin crawl, and a prick of fear stabbed her heart.

  He raised his voice above the din. “However.”

  His men fell silent.

  “However, if you must plead your case, I suggest you come with us and speak to Colonel White.”

  Father and Mother exchanged wary glances. Mother shook her head. He nodded and waited for the men to finish their meal. The soldiers, in no particular hurry to leave, lounged at the table and enjoyed several cups of “real coffee”. They demanded Mother make more when the pot ran dry. She complied.