by Angela Moody
“New York, ma’am.” He straightened. “I’m Corporal Alfred Townsend of Middletown, New York at your service.”
“Well, thank you, corporal, for all of your help. We appreciate it and will pray for your safety.”
He helped Tillie climb into the wagon. She was still settling herself when the wagon lurched forward. The wounded soldiers cried out, and Mrs. Schriver grabbed hold of her children. Sadie uttered a short scream. Tillie almost fell off, snatched at the canvas side, and held tight. Corporal Townsend waved as they drove away.
Tillie lifted a hand in response. Would she see him again? Would he survive?
Chapter 13
The wagon bumped along, its spring-less wheels jolting the occupants at every rut. The wounded within begged for mercy.
Tillie tried not to look at the men, but her eye fell on one particular young man, lying in blood-soaked straw, his left arm severed at the elbow. The ragged bone stuck out of a gaping hole, the skin and muscle shredded and bleeding. Someone placed his forearm across his abdomen. Tillie swallowed hard and turned away. The open flesh reeked in the heat, and she tried to take shallow breaths to avoid the stench of blood and putrefaction, but couldn’t help herself. The odor found its way into her cheeks and tingled on her tongue. She worked up saliva and swished it around to clean the taste from her mouth. Flies buzzed and crowded under the hot canvas wagon cover, adding their insult to the soldiers’ injuries.
Behind her, a man whimpered and cried out. “Get them off me. Please get them off me.”
She peered over her shoulder at him kicking his wounded leg covered with the black, crawling, biting pests.
He began to sob.
She turned her back on him.
They even buzzed around her flying into her face and landing on her. She dared release an occasional hand to wave them away.
Despite her resolve, she stole another glance over her shoulder. Again, her eye fell on the now vacant stare of the young boy whose severed arm lay across his abdomen. His eyes in death accused her for her squeamishness. She snapped her head back to the front and swallowed hard, but couldn’t hold back. Gripping the cover of the wagon, she leaned over and let her vomit splash into the muddy road, retching until nothing remained in her stomach. She rested her forehead on the rough canvas top. Her body shook, and despite the burn in her lungs, she tried not to take deep gasps of air. Instead, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve and steeled herself not to look behind her again.
After what seemed like an eternity, they stopped at the Weikerts’. Tillie jumped down almost before the wagon came to a complete halt. She turned to help Sadie off, using her as a distraction to keep from seeing the men.
“Hettie, girls!” Mrs. Weikert ran toward them, arms out.
The children sprinted to their grandparents, flinging themselves into their embrace.
Her grandfather lifted Mollie, tickling her face with his whiskers. The frightened girl squeezed his neck, hiding her face in his shoulder. He sobered and hugged her, crooning and consoling her. He turned to Mrs. Schriver. “You took quite a chance coming out here, daughter.” He shifted Mollie to see around her. “You might have been terribly hurt.” His gaze focused to the never-ending stream of troops.
“I didn’t feel safe, Papa.” She scowled, her face reddening from more than the heat. “The fighting came quite close to us. I feared for the girls and me.” She glared at him, as though to say, don’t judge me.
Her mother put her arm around her shoulders. “You did right.”
Beckie, and her brother, ran out to greet them.
Tillie hugged her friend.
“Hello, Dan.” She gave him a shy smile.
A long, lanky boy of thirteen with dark-brown hair and blue eyes bobbed his head at her. His face reddened. “Miss Tillie.”
Mr. Weikert put Mollie down. “And how’s your family, young lady?” He was a white-haired, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered man.
“They’re fine, sir, and thank you for your hospitality.”
He waved away her thanks. “Not at all.”
The steady tramp-tramp of marching feet gave way to a low rumble punctuated by neighing horses.
The infantry moved to either side of the edges, as Union artillery charged headlong past them, as though they feared they might miss the battle. The road, torn up from so many wagons and columns of men, could not withstand another onslaught of caissons. The drivers guided their teams into the fields to avoid being stuck in the mud.
Mr. Weikert made a strangled noise as the heavy conveyances tore his wheat from the ground, crushing the stalks under their wheels.
A sudden blast ripped through the air. Everyone ducked and cringed. Sadie and Mollie screamed. Tillie clamped her hands over her ears. Her scream stuck in her throat.
A caisson exploded, hurtling pieces of shrapnel in different directions. The driver flew from his seat like a toy. He thudded into the wheat field, his shrieks of pain indicating where he landed. The wheat caught fire.
Without missing a beat, four soldiers stepped out of line. They found the wounded man, lifted him into their arms, and carried him to the house. No one did anything about the flames.
Tillie’s stomach clenched. The blast destroyed his eyes and covered his body from head to toe in a black mass of gunpowder. She slapped her hands over her mouth and gagged.
Mr. Weikert reached down and cupped his hand over Mollie’s face, turning her head into his leg.
Mrs. Weikert lifted Sadie and held the child’s face against her shoulder. She kept her hand on the back of the child’s head while the men approached.
“Take him indoors and put him in one of the bedrooms upstairs.” Mrs. Weikert’s voice choked, her eyes glued on the wounded man.
“We should all get inside.” Mr. Weikert couldn’t take his eyes off the caisson and his burning wheat field. “It is not safe out here.”
“Oh dear.” The soldier wept as they carried him by. Blood dribbled out the side of his mouth as he spoke. “I didn’t read my Bible today. What will my poor wife and children say?”
Everyone followed the soldiers into the house as they took the wounded man upstairs and placed him on the bed. Tillie wandered along behind the men and stopped at the bedroom door. One of them patted the man’s shoulder before leaving him to the family’s ministrations.
Mrs. Weikert pushed past her, tearing up a linen sheet. She cleaned his wounds and bound his face. When finished, the woman sat by the bed. Every so often, she touched his hand in a reassuring way.
The man drifted off to sleep. Tillie went back outside to watch the soldiers tramp by the house. As they passed, she studied individual men. How many would remain when the fight ended? Who would return home after the war? She scowled and tried to find ways to brighten her spirits. Perhaps cheering the men on, as she did in town, might revive her.
Tillie waved, but they didn’t wave back. They offered none of the jubilation of this morning. The fight had been joined, and these men, aware what they headed into, kept their peace. Most stared at the ground, rifles slung over one shoulder. Others focused their gazes straight ahead or on the back of the man in front of them. They marched, silent and tense, and moved with exhausted automation.
She dropped her arm. The sun beat down on her. If she was hot, the boys must be in a bad way.
As if to confirm her suspicions, four men broke ranks and headed for the spring on the north side of the house. They dunked their heads and sluiced their faces in the cool water. Others dipped in kerchiefs and wrapped them around their foreheads or necks. They slaked their thirst before stepping back in formation.
She ran to the barn, grabbed a bucket hanging on a peg, and went to the house. “Do you have an old cup I can use?”
Beckie retrieved one from a cupboard and held it out.
At the spring, Tillie filled her bucket and carried the water back to the road, careful not to spill any. She set it down, dipped, and extended her hand. A soldier snatched the cup, draining the water.<
br />
“Hey,” another called out. “Don’t be greedy. Pass that cup right quick!”
The man who drank handed it back to her. Tillie refilled the cup. This time, the man passed it down the line. The last to drink threw it back to her, and it landed in the dirt at her feet. She wiped the rim, leaving a muddy streak on the front of her skirt matching the ring of mud at her hem.
The water seemed to ease their spirits. Even if they didn’t get any, the fact she offered some helped them relax, and they began to tease and joke with her.
She dipped her cup in the bucket and scraped the bottom.
“Well that figures, no more water,” one man bemoaned. His grin gave away his true feelings. Others groaned in mock dismay.
Were they angry? Tillie backed up a step. “Be patient, boys. I’ll go get more.” She ran back to the spring.
When she returned, the men who teased her were gone, but two men stepped out of line, dunked their kerchiefs into the bucket, squeezed out the excess water, and mopped their red, sweating faces. They soaked their cloths again and tied them around their necks.
“Would you like a drink?”
They nodded their thanks. They each drank deep, then the second man refilled the cup, walked over to a boy propped up between two other men, and held the water to his lips. Among the three of them, they got the semiconscious boy to swallow some.
The soldier came back and handed the cup to Tillie. “Many thanks for your kind service, miss.” He tipped the bill of his cap and stepped back in line.
The sun continued to beat on her head. She paid it no heed, nor did she imbibe. The men needed the water more than she did.
At last, Big Roundtop cast its long shadow on her and the men marching by. The last of the men marched away. Tillie’s head ached, and her stomach churned with queasy nausea. She tramped back to the barn and hung the bucket on its peg. A prodigious yawn escaped her as she walked across the yard. She wrinkled her nose, the effects of sunburn stinging her face. Her fingers explored her face where the sun burned her the most.
She released another deep yawn and stiffened. Did someone shout to her? She froze, listening hard. A voice shouted from beyond the barn. Tillie walked in the direction and encountered a young man coming toward her, his right hand cradled in his left. Behind him, several more soldiers arrived, some under their own power, others helped by comrades.
The soldier who hailed her lifted his uninjured hand and waved, grasped his right hand again holding the appendage close to his body. Picking up his pace, he trotted toward her. The sun slanted lower behind Big Roundtop, casting the mountain in black shadow.
She drew a deep breath. “I’m afraid there’s no more water.” She held her hands out. “The pump and the well both ran dry. I’m sorry.”
“Well.” He frowned. “I’m sorry also, but I’m not here for a drink of water. Our commanding officer sent us. He said this is to be the Fifth Corps field hospital.”
“Oh, I see.” She fingered her hair and played with the strands that fell out of her braid. He was handsome. She bit her lip and pointed to his hand. “Uh, does it hurt much? It looks dreadful.”
“Oh, this is nothing, a minor wound. You’ll see much worse than this, I wager.”
She drew back. “Oh, I hope not!” An image of the wounded she rode in with rose up before her, and she shuddered.
Ambulances arrived. Horses neighed. The back flap of the wagons banged open, and the cries of the men emanated from within. The drivers jumped down from their seats, shouting orders.
“Was it bad?” She regarded the soldier as fear and sadness clenched her chest.
“It was bad.” His voice sounded hard. “The fighting started around a place called McPherson’s Ridge early this morning. We almost had them on the run, but they got up reinforcements and pushed us back through the town. I climbed a fence and tried to hide in a butcher shop. Fighting erupted in the street in front of the house, and I knew I couldn’t stay. The family helped me. They hid me in the basement for a little while. I couldn’t stand hiding like a rat, though, so I slipped out the back and made my way to Cemetery Hill. I joined a regiment and got shot in the hand.”
The house…his description? Excitement shot through her. “This house you speak of. Did it sit on the corner of two streets? A red brick house with a mother, father, and sister?” She bounced on her toes and clasped her hands at her chest.
He nodded. “I believe so.” He stopped and seemed to consider the question. “Yes, the house was at an intersection and quite close to Cemetery Ridge where we gathered.” He raised his uninjured hand fingers outspread. “I spoke with the mother.” He lowered his pinkie finger. “I saw a sister.” Down went the ring finger. “And a brother.” He dropped his hand to his side. “I didn’t see the father, though. Why? Do you know them?”
“That’s my family,” Relief loosened her shoulders as a grin split her face. “I’m relieved they’re well.” Without warning, the smile left her face, and her eyes widened. She tried to ignore the lurch in her heart. “Wait! Did you say the Rebs are in control of the town and you didn’t see my father?”
“Yes, they are, but not for long. We’ll drive them away. Your family is fine. Don’t worry. Your father may have been in another part of the house. I only stayed a few minutes.”
She relaxed. “I hope so.” They stared at each other, lost for something more to say. Tillie shifted her weight. “Well.” She gestured to his hand. “I won’t keep you. You need to get your hand taken care of. Thank you for talking to me.”
The sun lowered well behind the heights to the west, about an hour from meeting the horizon. In the east, treetops glowed in the last of the sunlight. The sky made the subtle shift in blue signaling imminent twilight. If the soldier spoke true, the Rebs cut her off from home. Before she entered the house, her eyes followed the Taneytown Road toward home, her family now in enemy territory.
PART 2
THE BATTLE
Chapter 14
Jacob Weikert’s 240-acre farm and large stone house occupied the west side of Taneytown Road. Across a small carriage lane, his stone and wood Dutch-style barn, common to the farmers of Pennsylvania, faced the house. West of the barn, a springhouse provided cool, clear water. A well stood on the barn’s north side.
Tillie entered the summer kitchen. Beckie prepared biscuits at a waist high table. Mrs. Schriver and Mrs. Weikert flew about the room preparing the evening meal. Two uniformed men stirred beef broth at the cook stove.
The women made an issue of their presence by pushing past them to reach for things they needed. They punctuated their actions with heavy sighs and exaggerated excuse mes. One of the soldiers shot an apologetic look at the matron as he stepped aside to let her in.
At the aroma of the beef broth, Tillie’s stomach growled loud and long. She put a hand over her abdomen and turned away as heat infused her face.
One of the men laughed. “I heard that.” He banged his wooden spoon on the rim of the pot.
She giggled as she walked over to peer in. She inhaled. “Mmm, smells delicious.”
“It’s for the men. They’ll need some broth soon.” His face grew serious.
Her smile vanished. “Oh.”
“Tillie, come away from there.” Mrs. Weikert waved her toward Beckie. “They’re busy. Help with the biscuits.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She smiled at the cook. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”
He winked.
As she glanced at her hostess, a pang of uncertainty hit her, fearful she’d done something wrong, but the woman resumed cutting vegetables for dinner, giving her no heed.
Mrs. Weikert tied her salt and pepper hair into a severe chignon, which pulled the skin tight around her face. She returned Tillie’s look, her stern blue eyes pinning her to the wall. When dealing with the woman, one did as told.
Tillie moved to the table where Beckie mixed biscuits. She took over kneading the dough while Beckie slipped a pan into the oven, then returned to begin
a new batch.
They worked for the better part of an hour while Tillie’s belly growled with insistence. Everyone stared at her. Helpless, embarrassed laughter bubbled up and overflowed.
The man cooking the broth laughed with her. “Sounds like you haven’t eaten in a month.”
“I don’t understand why my stomach insists on shaming me so. I ate dinner this afternoon.”
The cook laughed again as he stirred the pot while his companion sifted salt between his fingers. “You’ve been outdoors all day giving water to the men, right?”
“Yes.” Tillie kneaded the dough, gathering and pushing.
“Well, fresh air and sunshine go a long way to inducing an appetite. It’s good to see a girl hungry.”
Beckie sighed. “Are you almost finished with that? I’d like to bake them sometime tonight.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Tillie formed a ball and handed the dough to her.
Beckie slapped her rolling pin down and with quick, hard movements, rolled and cut the dough. She arranged the biscuits on the baking pan before shoving them into the oven and slamming the door.
Tillie and the cook exchanged glances. He gave a one-shouldered shrug and returned to his tasks. Tillie studied Beckie’s face, curious about her attitude. As Beckie prepared another round of dough, her mouth set in a hard line, and her eyebrows gathered in a sharp knot above her nose. Tillie shrugged away her worry. No doubt, Beckie was as hungry and tired as she. Tillie gathered more flour and began another batch.
The third pan came out of the oven, and with effort, she restrained an urge to pop a biscuit into her mouth. She was grateful for the willpower when the friendly soldier came over and gathered them into a basket while his companion carried the pot of broth.
After both men left the house, Mrs. Weikert let out a loud huff. “Finally.” She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “I didn’t think they’d ever leave.” She spun to her daughters. “Hettie, get the food. Beckie, call your brother and father in to eat. Quietly. Don’t announce.”