No Safe Haven

by Angela Moody

  Reverend Bergstrasser slammed his fist on the podium, and Tillie jumped. She shifted in her seat and glanced over to Father. He stared at her. Shifting again, she held the Bible close and turned her face to the preacher.

  “This terrible war has seen much death and destruction.” The reverend flung his face heavenward, arms outstretched. “And it seems the hostilities are about to visit our quiet corner of the world. Remember.” He faced the congregation, slamming his fist again. The thud reverberated through the church and echoed off the walls.

  Tillie’s hand went to her throat as though to stifle an exclamation of surprise.

  The reverend’s face took on a dull red cast. His chest began heaving, and his words shot forth like cannonballs. “We-need-not-fear-death-if-we-have-life-for-we-will-have-life-everlasting-when-we-die.”

  What in the world did he mean, and how did one write an essay on this sort of nonsense? When you die, you die. If you have life and you die, you no longer have life, never mind everlasting life, so…Tillie sighed and clenched her fists.

  “I beseech you to pay special attention to verse twenty-eight.” Reverend Bergstrasser flipped a couple of pages of his Bible. “Read with me, please. ‘And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul; but rather fear him which is able to destroy soul and body in hell.’”

  Oh mercy. Tillie closed her eyes, shook her head, and gave up trying to comprehend.

  The good reverend’s voice intoned on, “These poor misguided men who came to our country thinking to make war on us, they do not understand they can kill our bodies, but they cannot damage our souls. Only our Heavenly Father can destroy our body and our soul in the pit of hell, reserved only for those who do not believe in Him. So fear not the Confederate Army.” Reverend Bergstrasser shouted the words fear not, and Tillie jumped again.

  She scowled and curled her hands into fists.

  “God is in control of what will happen and not for us to know what the future holds. Attend to the state of your soul. If your faith is strong, all the Confederates can do is kill your body. They cannot damage your soul. If you are without faith the Confederates can kill your body, but Goooooood will damn your soul.”

  Tillie ignored the rest of his words and read further down the passage. Her heart leaped into her throat at the words before her. “Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven. But whosoever shall deny me before men, him I will also deny before my Father which is in heaven.” Her pulse pounded so hard the rhythm echoed in her neck. Would God damn her soul? Would Christ deny her before God? She recalled a picture in the family Bible showing a rendition of hell. All kinds of weird creatures and humans fell into a pit of fire while Lucifer danced around the rim in triumph. Did that await her if she denied Christ before men? Despite the heat inside the church, goose bumps pimpled her arms as she shivered.

  She came back around as the congregation rose for the closing hymn, “Am I A Soldier Of The Cross?” A popular song, but today, the words held special meaning as they pricked her conscience.

  “Am I a soldier of the cross?

  A follower of the Lamb,

  And shall I fear to own His cause,

  Or blush to speak His Name?”

  Tillie cringed. All around her faces raised in worship as they sang.

  “Must I be carried to the skies?

  On flowery beds of ease,

  While others fought to win the prize,

  And sailed through bloody seas?”

  She closed the hymnbook and placed it in the rack. Maggie gazed heavenward, full of rapture. Why didn’t that ever happen to Tillie? What did it mean “to be carried to the skies on flowery beds of ease”? Could she fight to win the prize? Did she want to sail through bloody seas? Until a few months ago, she never questioned her parents’ beliefs in God and eternity, but now…she bit back tears of utter sadness as a sense of desolation swept over her. She gripped the back of the pew, bent her head, and wiped her face, making it appear as though she removed a speck in her eye—or perhaps a log? She glanced at the rest of her family, but they conversed with friends. She went unnoticed.

  Tillie filed out of the church silent, thinking.

  Father shook hands with the reverend and praised him for his rousing sermon. Tillie murmured her thanks and bid him farewell.

  As they descended the steps, Father slipped his hand through Mother’s elbow. Then he led them back home. The Winebrenners joined them, chatting as they walked.

  Mrs. Bergstrasser called out from her front step. “It appears they’ve left, do you think?”

  “I hope so.” Mother put her palms together as though in prayer. “What a dirty, filthy looking set! One can’t tell them from the street!”

  The women laughed.

  Father jerked Mother’s elbow, cutting her short. “Be careful! One is at our curbstone, right in front of us.”

  “Oh my.” Mother spun toward him covering her mouth with her hand and hiding her face in his arm. “I didn’t see him!”

  A young boy, a few years older than Sam, knelt on one knee tying a shoe not worthy of the name. As he pulled the laces tight, the pink side of his foot showed between the separated sole and upper. In some spots, on his patched over breeches, his patches had patches. His pants may once have been a distinctive color, but no more. By contrast, he wore a brand-new, bright-red cotton shirt and a gray waistcoat two sizes too big for him. He tucked the shirt into his breeches, which still billowed over his waist as he bent to tie his shoe. The tails of the waistcoat trailed along the stones, and the boy pressed his arms to his sides to keep the folds out of the way.

  The Rebs called what they did commandeering supplies. The storeowners called it theft. This young man procured for himself a new shirt. Why he didn’t get a new pair of pants or shoes remained a mystery. As he finished tying his shoe, he rose to his feet and glanced about him.

  Father gave a quick nod as if coming to a decision. He took a strong grip on Mother’s elbow and stepped into the street. The rest of the family passed in front of the soldier and walked toward their home as if nothing happened.

  He waited in polite silence.

  As Tillie walked by, the handsome young man with ginger colored hair and sad, haunted blue eyes met her gaze. His gaunt face spoke of enduring hunger. For a split second, she wanted to invite him in for lunch. But images of Dirty Beard walking away with Lady sprang to her mind, and a wave of hatred surged through her.

  His eyes met hers, and Tillie did her best to unleash a look full of hate. She narrowed her eyes and curled her lip. She stuck her nose in the air and turned away in what she hoped he’d take for a haughty move.

  The boy smiled, dimples forming on his cheeks, and he continued to stare at her. He chuckled as she passed.

  Tillie scowled.

  Maggie hissed at the boy. She grabbed Tillie’s elbow and yanked her toward the house. She allowed Maggie to drag her up the front steps, but she couldn’t resist a glance back. He kept his gaze on her, a smile on his lips and interest bright in his blue eyes. When Tillie cast him another hateful glare, the boy put two fingers to his eyebrow and saluted, grinning wide. His teeth shone white in his dirt-streaked face. He bowed to her and sauntered up Baltimore Street, whistling “Dixie”.

  Once the door closed behind them, Mother let her breath out in a huff. “Well.” She slapped her hands on her cheeks. “That will teach me to mind my manners and guard my tongue.”

  The family gaped at her and laughed. The danger passed. Mother smiled and blushed as she endured their good-natured teasing. She went into the kitchen to prepare the midday meal. Because of the Sabbath, she put out cold meat, bread, pickles, and jam.

  After dinner, Tillie settled in at the sitting room table to spend time in the Bible reflecting upon the sermon. After a moment, she dipped her pen in the ink and wrote.

  Dear Father:

  Thank you for taking the time to talk to me the other night.
I want to assure you I thought a lot about our conversation. You wanted me to write an essay, but a letter felt more appropriate. You caught me daydreaming in church, but I heard what I think is the most important part. According to Matthew 10, if I’m saved, then no matter what happens to me—by the Confederates or anyone else—they can only hurt my body, not my soul, and when I die, only my earthly body will suffer destruction. But, if I am not, my body will suffer destruction and God will damn my soul and I will burn in hell. I fear that, but I do not understand so many things, like how God can allow such terrible things as a civil war. You say He always uses these things for good. I say, why let them happen at all?

  The hymn we sang this morning affected me the most. Am I a soldier of the Cross? I think not. Not yet. I realize I always adopted yours and Mother’s beliefs as my own until recently. I can’t say when I stopped doing so, and I’m sorry I did. I don’t want either of you to be disappointed in me. Mother and Maggie say I’m at a stage where I’m starting to throw off childish ideas and adopt adult ones. Perhaps this is what is happening now.

  George’s death scared me. What happens to us when we die? That frightens me the most because, what if there’s no heaven or a hell? I’ve never given the matter thought before.

  I understand this is not what you or Mother are hoping to read, but I feel it’s an honest assessment of the state of my soul. I’m a lost sheep, Father. If it’s true the Lord searches out his lost sheep, He will find me. I, in turn, promise to commit myself to the search.

  Pray for me. Your loving daughter,

  Matilda Jane Pierce.

  Tillie went upstairs to her parents’ bedroom. She tiptoed across the empty room and placed the letter on her father’s dresser. She tiptoed back out, hoping he wouldn’t be too disappointed in her.

  Chapter 9

  The sun spilled over the hilltops, pouring its golden light across the landscape. Already the humidity smothered everything under a damp blanket.

  Tillie rose from bed and dressed in her chemise and petticoats. Taking her brown muslin school dress from the armoire, she put it on, and then buttoned her bodice, her fingers clumsy and slow. Once done, she had to redo the entire thing when she found no corresponding buttonhole at the end.

  Sitting at the dressing table, she picked up the brush, but her reflection showed a still crooked bodice, further up. What was wrong with her this morning? She threw the brush down, and with quick jerks, she started over. Partway through, her fingers stopped in mid-button.

  She cocked her head and listened then crossed to the open window and stuck her head out.

  Across the street, the red brick of the houses shimmered as if ready to melt in the heat. Doors and windows remained closed tight against the already oppressive day. The cobbled street below was devoid of all traffic. The birds sang and twittered as cicadas sawed their high-pitched buzz. Even the crickets still chirped a noisy morning rhythm. The lack of human traffic on the street and its accompanying cacophony caught her attention. No wagons rumbled along the cobbles bringing produce into town. No carriages passed here and there. No clip-clop of hooves as riders made their way around town, intent upon their errands before the heat of the day set in. Neighbors stayed off the streets. No one called good morning to one another. Her heart pounded over the strangeness of the silence and the deserted streets. Where was everyone? Were the men still out fighting the fire?

  Tillie shifted her gaze to the northeast, where black smoke still billowed. Late last night, Libby’s father, Jacob Hollinger, roused the town when he rode in hard from his home on York Road, shouting something about the railroad bridge and Confederates. When he caught his breath, he reported that the Confederates had set fire to the railroad bridge.

  Acrid smoke reached her. She wrinkled her nose and withdrew from the window. She stared at the empty street, as if willing someone to appear and bring normalcy to her life. The street remained empty.

  Tillie slammed the window closed. She moved her fingers down her bodice, feeling the buttons once again. She quickly fixed her braids and left her bedroom.

  In the kitchen, Maggie turned out butter from the churn while Mother cooked.

  “Good morning.” The words left Tillie’s lips without her usual enthusiasm. She squeezed around Mother as she reached to take the dishes down from their shelves. She waited for the usual morning banter, but Maggie glanced at her with puffy eyes while she rinsed the butter under cool water. Had she been weeping again?

  Mother didn’t answer either. She looked preoccupied as she stirred the potatoes around in the frying pan.

  “Mother, is everything all right?” Tillie’s brows came together, and she tilted her head. She started to reach out for her mother’s arm, thought better of it, and withdrew her hand. Instead, she gripped the dishes tight to herself.

  Still no answer. Maggie put the butter on the table and turned away, as though ignoring Tillie’s concern.

  Tillie’s heart lurched. Did Father get hurt fighting the fire? Did a telegram arrive? In a flash, she saw her brothers’ mutilated bodies lying on some battlefield. Worse yet, Father, lay flat on his back out by the railroad bridge, eyes staring sightless at the sky, arms splayed as though hung on the Cross. Tears filled her eyes, and her throat closed. Her heart pounded in her chest, and the sound resonated in her ears.

  Mother’s vacant stare stayed on the pan, and with mechanical motions, she moved the potatoes around as they blackened in the pan.

  “Mother, are you all right?” This time, Tillie touched her mother’s arm.

  Mother came out of her reverie with a start. “What? Oh, yes, I’m fine. Everything is fine. Ahhhh!” She pushed the pan to the back of the stove. “I burned them.” Her voice pitched with surprise. She stared at the offending potatoes, and then picked up the pan. “I was thinking… I don’t want you to go to school today.”

  Tillie’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes widened. “Why? I’ll miss my lessons, and I’ll have to work to catch up. The Rebs’re gone now.”

  “Because, I say so, Tillie. That’s why! I want you here today, so don’t argue. I want you here in case something occurs. I want you to stay home and help Maggie and me around the house today. Can you do that? Is that so much to ask?”

  Tillie opened her mouth, shocked by Mother’s outburst, and wanting to protest. But Mother’s dark frown stopped her. She bent her head in assent. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mother turned back to the pan of blackened, smoking potatoes. She grabbed a spoon off the counter, scooped the potatoes out of the pan, and threw them away, all the while talking, though to Tillie or herself Tillie couldn’t guess. “It’s bad enough two of my children are gone and Lord knows if they’re alive. I’m going to keep my other two safe if it’s the last thing I do.” She slammed the pan down on the stove. It rang with finality.

  Tillie didn’t know how she dared, but she had to ask. “Have you news of James or William?”

  Mother picked up the saltshaker and salted the eggs. At Tillie’s timid question, she banged the saltshaker down on the counter. “No! We’ve not heard from either of them in quite some time.” Mother turned her back and resumed cooking.

  Tillie stepped back as though struck across the face. Did Father show her the letter she wrote? Was Mother annoyed over its contents? She looked to Maggie, for guidance, but Maggie just shook her head—in warning or sympathy? Unsure, Tillie lowered her eyes. She still clutched the plates. Walking the plates to the table, Tillie resisted the urge to slam down the plates. She got silverware. Her hands shook as she tried to place the forks, and she kept dropping them. They clanged on the plates. Finally, she placed the silverware around the table and stepped back. She closed her eyes. Please, boys, write to us and let us know you’re alive. Please be alive.

  * * * *

  Father returned home just after breakfast. Soot and sweat streaked his face, reminding Tillie of a minstrel performer. There was nothing funny in his appearance, though. He waved away questions and plodded straight ups
tairs to bed. He still slept, though noontime had come and gone.

  Tillie chafed. She wanted to be at school with her friends, not home dusting furniture and sweeping floors. What was she missing? How far behind would this day put her? She got down on her hands and knees and took vicious swipes at the table legs. After a few minutes, she stopped her work and listened for sounds outside. The odor of smoke lingered in the air, but not as strong as this morning. Perhaps the wind shifted or the fire was cool enough to stop smoking. She opened the parlor windows airing the furnace-like house.

  Mother came downstairs and found Tillie staring out the window, listening to the hum of cicadas in the trees.

  Mother donned her hoops and tied a cream colored bonnet under her chin. “Tillie, I have to go shopping. Would you care to join me? A little sunshine and fresh air might do us some good.”

  “I don’t know. The street is so silent. Even the birds don’t want to sing. It feels like everyone has gone to ground, like rabbits sensing a hawk overhead.”

  “It’ll be fine. I just have to go to Fahenstock’s for some flour and other supplies. We’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  Tillie was still piqued, but she heard the conciliatory tone in Mother’s voice and met her halfway. “You’re right. Fresh air would do me some good. Thank you.” After putting away her cleaning supplies and removing her apron, she ran upstairs to don her hoops. A few moments later, she joined Mother at the front door. She reached for her bonnet and snugged it on.

  Mother stopped with one hand on the doorknob, a rueful smile on her face. “I wish to apologize for snapping at you at breakfast. I confess I don’t know what came over me. There’s something in the air today. I can’t explain it, but I feel it. I wanted you home with me just in case.” She cocked her head and gave a small chuckle. “It was silly of me, I suppose, and now it looks as if you’ve lost an entire day of school.”