by Angela Moody
The entire room erupted in laughter except for the priest.
Tillie wrapped her arms around her midsection and laughed deep belly laughs. This time, the tears pouring down her cheeks were from laughter. She turned at a hand on her shoulder.
The chaplain stared down hard at her. “Little girl, do all you can for these poor soldiers and the Lord will reward you.”
Tillie grinned up into his face, and with a snort, she burst out laughing. His dark, bushy eyebrows came together in a stern glare. She sobered.
“I beg your pardon, sir.” Heat rose up her neck and into her face. “I didn’t mean to laugh. Beckie and I went out to look at the wounded soldiers. We couldn’t bear the sight and started crying. These men told us funny stories to make us feel better. I didn’t mean to laugh at their circumstances. Truly I didn’t.”
The chaplain’s face softened. “Well.” He smiled. “It is better for you and the men if you’re cheerful.” He chucked her under the chin and turned to Mrs. Weikert. “Thank you for the food, madam. It was delicious.”
“You’re quite welcome, pastor…?”
“Father Corby, madam.” He put his hat on as he opened the door. He smiled at Tillie one more time. “Good night all, and God bless.” He left, closing the door behind him.
The room fell silent. Mrs. Schriver removed the two loaves from the oven. The cooks collected them, along with the pot of broth. They said good night and left the basement kitchen.
Beckie, Mrs. Schriver, and Mrs. Weikert cleaned up the bread-making activities. Mrs. Weikert banked the cook stove fire.
Mr. Weikert and Dan entered the house. Using a stick, Mr. Weikert lit candles and handed one to his wife and each of his children.
Upstairs, a clock chimed out twelve times. When did it get to be midnight? Tillie didn’t try to stifle a huge yawn as she followed the family to the bedrooms on the third floor.
“Beckie, show Tillie to your room.” Mrs. Weikert stopped at a bedroom door. “Hettie, I put the girls in your room. You can join them.” She yawned. “Oh my. It’s been a day. Good night all.” Mr. Weikert disappeared inside with her.
“Good night, Mr. and Mrs. Weikert.” Tillie also yawned, drawn in by Mrs. Weikert. She followed Beckie to her bedroom.
Beckie changed into a clean white nightgown and hopped into bed. “Are you almost ready?” She spoke through a huge yawn. “I’m exhausted, and I want to go to sleep. Hurry up and get into bed so I can turn out the lamp.” Beckie flopped down, turning her back on Tillie.
Tillie took a deep breath, removed her dress and arranged it on the back of a chair, and crawled into bed in her chemise. She wanted to say a quick prayer for her family and the men fighting for her town. She fell asleep the minute her head touched the pillow.
Chapter 15
The cannons roared and belched smoke. Tillie spun in crazy circles, but couldn’t escape. Deadly spurts of fire and thick, dense fog surrounded her. She sensed danger in the miasma, but couldn’t find the source. She tried to run, tripping over things unseen in the blanket of dense fog engulfing and blinding her.
“Is this hell?” She froze, deciding not to escape, yet feeling like a human sacrifice. A medusa head slithered out of the mist. Its mouths yawned open, uttering faint booming sounds. The multi-headed creature shifted and became a writhing, bloody sea of dismembered bodies. Again, she tried to run, but couldn’t shake her paralysis. Her gaze settled on one man lying on a table, arms outstretched, begging her for help. He stared at her with terror-filled eyes. Another man appeared standing at the table. Invisible from the waist down, he wore a bloodstained apron and in his bloody hands held a bone saw. More blood dripped from the deadly instrument as he cut the man to pieces. Tillie opened her mouth to scream. A staccato crackle issued forth instead. She tried to scramble away, but everywhere she turned, bodies surrounded her. From the dense smoke, a bloody hand clamped down on her shoulder.
Tillie jerked and flew upright. A small cry escaped her lips. Her eyes swept the room. Panic seized her.
“Wake up!” Beckie shook her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Tillie slumped and put a shaking hand over her eyes. “Yes. I’m all right.”
Beckie lay back down. “Sounded like a bad dream.” She yawned.
The pressure of a hand lingered. Her fingers found the spot. “Did you grab me?”
“Did I grab you?” Her friend barked a short laugh. “Yes. You thrashed around so, like a maniac. I almost fell off the bed.”
“I was in some kind of pit with cannons. I tripped over dead bodies. One of them reached out and grabbed my shoulder.”
“I did.” Beckie sat up again. “We should get up. I’ve been hearing distant cannon and gunfire for the past few minutes.”
The bedroom door reverberated in the frame when someone on the other side began pounding the wood. They squealed.
“Get up, girls, and come down to the basement. They’re firing again,” Mr. Weikert called through the closed door. A boom of cannon, followed by the staccato of gunfire emphasized his words.
Tillie shook her head to clear the cobwebs.
“Yes, Papa, right away.” Beckie threw back the covers.
Tillie took her dress off the back of the chair. She held the garment up to the window and assessed it in the light of the sun, just appearing over Culp’s Hill. Dried mud encircled the hem almost to the knee. Sweat stained the armpits, and dirt streaked the bodice.
Tillie peeked as Beckie, humming a little tune, opened the armoire and pulled out a fresh, pretty, pink dress. A good three to four inches taller than Tillie and wider as well, Beckie’s dresses would hang on her slight frame, but she longed to wear something clean.
A rueful smile twisted Tillie’s lips as she smoothed her filthy clothes. What would Mrs. Eyster say about her dress and deportment now? She opened her mouth to ask Beckie, but didn’t get the chance.
“Hurry up, dear.” Beckie moved to the bedroom door. “Papa doesn’t hold meals for laggards.”
“I’ll be along in a moment.”
Tillie washed her face and hands in the basin before examining her reflection in the mirror. She hadn’t brushed her hair in two days. She thought to take down her braid and repair the damage, but Beckie’s words echoed in her ear. Laggards. Tillie resented the implication. She worked as hard yesterday as everyone else did. She eyed the brush, but dared not use it without permission. Instead, she smoothed her hair as best as possible, tucking stray strands behind her ears. As she took a deep breath, her shoulders raised with her inhale and dropped with her exhale. She pursed her lips and went downstairs to help in the kitchen.
“Where are Dan and Mr. Weikert?” Tillie sat at the table as Mrs. Schriver placed a bowl of porridge and coffee in front of her.
“Trying to get some farm work done despite all these soldiers lounging about.” Mrs. Weikert sipped some coffee.
Dan ran into the kitchen. “Pa says come outside, quick. More soldiers are coming. Thousands of them. They say they’ve been marching all night, from as far as Washington.” The women dropped their spoons and cups and hurried to the front porch.
Union troops filed up Taneytown Road toward Cemetery Ridge, heads drooping with fatigue. They marched through the silver light of another hot, muggy morning. The rising sun separated from the horizon, glaring blood red. Red sun in morning, soldier take warning. The thought popped into Tillie’s head with such force, she peeked around, wondering if someone spoke aloud.
Mr. Weikert joined them on the front porch. He put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.
“Lord help us.” Mrs. Weikert shook her head. “So many soldiers.” Her arms tightened around her husband’s waist. After several minutes, she broke away from her husband’s embrace. “Well, I have work to do.” She didn’t take her eyes off the blue-clad men flowing past the house in a never-ending stream. “Standing here staring won’t get it done.” She headed inside.
Mr. Weikert tapped Dan on the shoulder. “Ma’s right. We
need to get to work repairing the pigsty.”
“But, Pa.” Dan raised his hands and shoulders in a helpless gesture. “How can we? They took all the fencing for their cook fires last night and now the pigs are gone.” Nevertheless, he tromped after his father off the porch.
Whatever Mr. Weikert answered, his words were lost to distance and the steady tramp of soldiers in front of the house.
Tillie contemplated the burned-out wheat field across the road. She didn’t want to be here, an unwilling witness to Mr. Weikert’s troubles. Strangers should not view such a private matter.
She found chores to do in the kitchen and waited for an opportunity to ask about going home. She couldn’t blurt out, “Mrs. Schriver, I want to go home,” but she came close several times. As the morning wore on and she failed to broach the subject, she resigned herself to stay longer.
When she completed her small tasks, Tillie found work that didn’t involve associating with Beckie. She didn’t understand Beckie’s resentment and didn’t care either. Whatever the cause, avoiding her seemed wise.
“Sadie, for goodness sake, stay out of my way. I’m busy.” Mrs. Schriver scolded as the youngster tried to climb under the table where her mother worked. Sadie grabbed at her mother’s skirts. Mrs. Schriver yanked them out of the child’s grasp. “Sadie, stop it, now.”
That gave Tillie an idea. “Sadie and Mollie, do you want to come with me and give the boys water?”
“Yeah.” The girls climbed from underneath the table and ran to Tillie, jumping up and down in front of her.
“Wonderful idea, Tillie. Thank you.” Mrs. Schriver’s whole face softened.
“You’re welcome.” Tillie grabbed the cup from the shelf and took the girls to the road. She ran and filled the bucket and lugged it back. When she returned, Mrs. Weikert offered each of the girls a cup. “There are a lot of men, and one cup won’t do.” She headed back to the house.
Sadie and Mollie dipped their cups in the bucket and held them up. Tillie did the same.
Today, the men were all business. They nodded their thanks and drank, too tired to speak.
“You look exhausted.” Tillie offered them refilled cups. “Where did you come from?”
“Baltimore.” He drank again. “We’ve been marching since midnight.”
“Baltimore! But that’s so far away.” She dipped the cup back into the bucket and offered him more water, but he declined and stepped back into line.
The endless stream of men in blue trudged by without even glancing around. Regiment after regiment passed as the girls dipped their cups and held them out, dipped their cups and held them out. Mollie threw her cup into the bucket. “This isn’t much fun. I’m going back inside.”
Sadie took her cue from her older sister. She threw her cup down as well. “Me too.” The girls clasped hands and walked back to the house. Tillie sighed and let them go. She picked up the bucket and strode to the spring.
* * * *
The final regiment passed. The cup dangled from Tillie’s fingers as she gazed toward town. How did her family fare? Did the Rebs harm them somehow? Would they leave her orphaned? She wanted to gather her skirts about her knees and run for home. She’d never get through the soldiers. Please, God. Keep them safe. Please. The Weikerts were fine people, but she couldn’t shake the feeling they didn’t want her here, which left her uncomfortable and fearful of doing or saying the wrong thing.
A shrill whistle and good-natured shouting brought her back to reality. She turned as another stream of soldiers came toward her.
“Hey, missy, how about some water?”
“That’s right.” Another cajoled, taking off his kepi and using the crook of his arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. “What’s a man got to do to get a drink around here?”
“Oh.” Tillie dipped her cup. “Please forgive me.”
The soldier closest to her drank. Others shouted at him not to hog all the water and to pass the cup right quick.
Tillie picked up the other two cups, filled them, and handed them over.
The first soldier drank and passed the cup to the man next to him. He winked at Tillie. “Sweetest tasting water I ever drank.”
Heat crept up her neck and into her face. Handsome young men didn’t tease her; they flirted with Maggie. She didn’t know how to respond, so kept quiet, her eyes fixed on the pail. He dropped the cup in the water and left.
When the bucket emptied, she excused herself and sprinted back to the spring to get more water, but the spring ran dry. She ran to the well and hauled fresh water. After filling her bucket, she returned, but the first group of men were gone.
A train of twenty wagons, coming from town, turned into the barnyard and stopped. The drivers jumped down and hustled to the back to untie their loads. Orderlies emerged from the barn to unload empty pine boxes. They piled them near the fence and against the side of the barn. As one wagon emptied its load, another arrived and unloaded its supply of coffins.
“Well, boys, they’re here,” a ginger-haired solder called to his companions. “No telling how long before I get put in one of those.”
“I’d consider myself lucky if I even get one,” another joked to the laughter his companions. His dirt-streaked face made the whites of his eyes stand out. He leaned over and spat brown spittle onto the road.
“You’re just a private. You don’t deserve one.” The soldier behind him, also filthy, and marching with one boot sole flapping loose, joined in to uproarious laughter.
Tillie found nothing funny in their remarks, but she kept her opinion to herself and offered water. Some men thanked her. Most did not. They threw the cups in her direction when through.
When the wagons departed, they left six hundred coffins stacked by the barn door. Did they think they would need so many?
The men gave her little time to think about the coffins as they asked for water. Tillie made another run to the well, wishing for a second bucket. When she came back, a soldier lay in the road, worn out from his march. Two of his friends tried to drag him to his feet. He got to his hands and knees, but no further. His shoulders collapsed. He hung his head like a beaten dog. His companions took him by the elbow to lift him to his feet, but he resisted.
“C’mon, buddy.” One of his friends leaned down and grasped his elbow again. “Get up before the major finds you.”
“He’s coming now.” The second companion glanced past the boy to a man riding a lathered horse toward them. “You need to get up.”
“I can’t,” the boy wailed.
Tillie filled a cup and started toward him. The major rode up and reined his horse in front of her.
She stopped short. Water sloshed down her arm. Tillie glowered up at him, but he didn’t acknowledge her. She stepped around the back of the horse.
The two soldiers straightened and saluted.
The major ignored them. He glared at the boy from his horse. “Get up, soldier.”
The boy dropped to a prone position on the ground and rolled onto his back. He stared up at the officer with a blank face.
“I said get up, blast you!” The major snarled at the boy as he dismounted. He removed his sword from its scabbard and in two quick strides stood over him.
He wouldn’t stab the boy, would he? The cup dropped from her hand as she clasped her throat, as though to strangle any sound.
Using the flat part of the blade, the officer struck the boy’s prostrate body.
“I said get up.” The sword winked in the sunlight as he swung the blade down again, slapping the poor boy on his arms, which he threw over his head, to protect himself.
“On your feet, lazy scum!” The officer brought the flat of the sword down again.
Tillie flinched from the thwack against the boy’s torso.
The major hit him again. The blade whistled through the air and thwacked against the boy. Whistle, thwack. Whistle, thwack.
She lost count at a dozen. The boy’s whimpers too much to bear. “Stop hitting him, and
maybe he’ll get up!” The strangled cry coming from her lips shocked her. She drew in a ragged breath, but held her ground and glared at the major. Didn’t he realize the boy couldn’t go on? No one could rise under such an assault.
The major turned and, for the first time, appeared aware of her presence. His breath came in short, hard puffs. His cold blue eyes traveled up and down her frame, and his nostrils flared. He turned back to the boy and gave him one more blow before sheathing his sword. “Laziness.” He spat on the ground beside the prostrate soldier, before mounting his horse and riding away.
Tillie stared after him, mouth agape and eyes wide. She shook from fright and anger.
Several men fell out. One of the boy’s companions hefted him into his arms.
“Take him to the house.” Tillie lifted wide eyes to them, her voice barely above a whisper.
The soldier nodded once and headed to the house. The second placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and smiled into her horrified expression. “Don’t fret.” He squeezed her arm. “We’ll mark that officer for this.” He followed his companion to the house.
Mute with emotions she couldn’t name, she watched him walk away. With halting movements, she bent and picked up the cup, running her fingers over the rim and brushing away the dirt. She wanted to cry for the boy and scream in rage at the officer. Instead, she sniffed back tears.
A hand reached out and took the cup. She raised her tear-streaked face to a man who dipped the cup into the bucket and savored a long, slow drink.
“What did he mean by marking him out?” She lowered her gaze, unable to look him in the eye.
The soldier drank some more and dropped the cup in the bucket. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Best you don’t ask.” He put his fingers to the brim of his cap and walked on.
Her mouth hung agape. She could not accept that men from the same army would kill each other for slights, real or imagined. Weren’t they all on the same side? How many men killed each other in this way?