No Safe Haven

by Angela Moody

  A bullet to the head couldn’t shock Tillie more.

  As he ran back, a half-smile of triumph twisted Mrs. Weikert’s lips.

  What a terrible thing to do, you horrible woman. She turned away and started toward the Bushmans’.

  Cutting across fields of ripening, undamaged wheat, they came upon a corps of Union soldiers in formation. The men relaxed in the summer sun as the battle raged three-quarters of a mile in their front. They did not impede the family as they moved between. Many opened a corridor for the women and Dan to run through, which they did, amid calls of “Hurry up,” and “What the devil are you doing out here?” The rest ignored them.

  As Tillie ran, a flash of light caught the corner of her eye. Toward town unusual lights glinted back and forth like fire in the sky arcing over the rooftops. She stopped and pointed. “What is that?”

  “Oh, that.” A soldier grinned at her, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Why, that’s the rebels burning the town to the ground with all the people.”

  Tillie screamed, pummeling his chest with her small fists while his companions laughed and cheered her on.

  The man stepped back and grasped her wrists, keeping her at arm’s length. “Whoa there, little lady. I was kidding.” He held her tight with one hand while laughing. He dusted at his coat front as though she’d left fist prints.

  “That was a stupid, terrible joke,” she shrieked. Crying, she wriggled free a wrist and took another swing at him. She missed. “And you’re a stupid, terrible man!”

  The soldiers laughed.

  “Shame on you.” Beckie glared at them as she grabbed Tillie by the elbows and took off running, dragging her with her.

  Tillie cried the whole way, convinced the battle made her an orphan. She still sobbed when they reached the Bushmans’ farm.

  “For heaven’s sake, your family is safe, stop being such a ninny,” Beckie barked.

  Tillie yanked her arm out of Beckie’s grasp. “That’s easy for you to say. You know what’s happening with your family. I don’t, so don’t call me a ninny.” Tillie’s hands curled into fists. She clenched her teeth, her body stiff with fury, resisting the urge to hit Beckie.

  She almost felt Maggie’s hands, holding her back. Mrs. Weikert knocked on the farmhouse door, lower lip quivering.

  A Union sergeant answered. “Yes. What do you want?”

  Mrs. Weikert’s eyes bulged with fear, and her mouth worked in spasms. She shook her head and licked her lips. “They told us to come here.” Her words came in short gasps as she tried to catch her breath. She wiped her upper lip with the back of her hand then gestured over her shoulder. “We live about a mile away. They told us to leave and come here.”

  “Who ordered you to come here?”

  “The soldiers at our farm. They said to come here.”

  “I don’t know why they told you that. Go back to where you came from, lady.”

  The soldier made to close the door. Mrs. Schriver put out her hand. The wood smacked against her palm. “Where are Mr. and Mrs. Bushman?”

  “Who?”

  “The people who live here. The Bushmans. Where are they?”

  “I don’t know, lady.” The man adopted a bored tone, again, tried to shut the door.

  Fingers curled around the edge of the door, which opened wider to reveal an officer. He stared at the sergeant until the man shrugged and walked away. He faced Tillie and the others. “Can I assist you?”

  “Where is the family who lives on this farm?” Mrs. Schriver pointed back the way they came. “We live a mile across that field. The soldiers told us to leave and come here.” She talked fast, using the same demanding tone as when they wanted to cross the cemetery.

  “Now he says,” she indicated the one who answered the door, “to go back the way we came. Why should we? Why can’t we stay here?”

  The soldier considered her questions. Regret shone in his eyes. He crossed his arms, almost in a defensive gesture. When his eyes fell on Tillie and her tear-streaked face, he stepped outside and closed the door. “Oh, my sweet, why the tears?”

  Wiping her face, she told him what the soldiers said about the strange fires in the sky. She couldn’t help letting out a sob of anguish. “My family lives there. What shall I do if the Rebs burn my house down?”

  “I’m sorry they told you that.” He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Those are signal flares, and they’re ours. Besides, we have rules of war, the Rebs and us, and the first rule is to leave the civilians alone as much as we can.”

  Tillie stared at him. Did he speak true? “Thank you.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve.

  “You’re quite welcome.” He straightened and got back to business as his expression grew grim. He faced Mrs. Weikert. “However, madam, I am sorry. Sergeant Harris is right. You can’t stay here.”

  “Why not?” She sounded as though she might dissolve into tears herself. “Don’t you realize we’ve run a mile to get here because they told us to leave our house? Where are we to go?”

  The officer pursed his lips. “You have to go back.”

  “I’m not going back.” Beckie stamped her foot. “I refuse.”

  “Well, you must, and you must go now. We’ve received reports the Reb artillery has advanced out of some peach orchard and into a wheat field. Why even now, the First Minnesota is in a desperate situation trying to hold the Rebs. The fighting is close enough to your farm so the shells will miss you and land here.”

  An artillery shell whistled overhead and landed in the nearby field, exploding a tree on impact. The soldier flinched. The rest acted as though nothing happened.

  “We must go back?” Mrs. Weikert sounded almost petulant.

  “I’m quite sorry. Yes.” He reached behind him for the doorknob. “You must.”

  She sighed. “Very well.” Her eyes flashed pure fury and hatred. Without a word, she gathered her skirts and ran as fast as her corseted, portly body would allow, back the way they came.

  “Thank you ever so much.” Mrs. Schriver sneered, grabbed her daughter’s hands, and followed her mother with Beckie and Dan right behind her.

  Tillie lingered. “Thank you for explaining about the signal flares.”

  “You’re quite welcome, miss, and safe journey back.”

  Chapter 17

  Back at the Weikerts’, Tillie picked her way through the yard where hundreds more men, now clad in gray or butternut, lay scattered around on the ground.

  Inside, Beckie’s strident complaints carried, bemoaning a house full of wounded Yankees bleeding on the floors and carpets.

  Judging from the argument, their flight had been nothing more than a ploy to get the family out, so they could turn the house into a hospital.

  “I’m telling my father!” Beckie stormed out the kitchen door and stomped across the yard, looking for Mr. Weikert.

  A soldier stood in the doorway, dressed in dark-blue army pants and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He stared after her as she stomped off. He shook his head and went back inside. The wounded were in the house to stay. End of discussion. Even so, the barn and yard still overflowed with soldiers, awaiting some sort of care.

  Tillie noted the color of the uniforms.

  “You see right.” An orderly stopped next to her.

  She turned a questioning gaze to him.

  “After you all left, we moved our boys into the house and put the Rebs in the barn. As many as would fit, that is.”

  Tillie tossed her head. “How kind of you.”

  He chuckled. “Not really.” He missed her sarcasm. “But docs have their hypocritical oath. They said the heat and lack of shade killed more men than their actual wounds.”

  She smiled. “Don’t you mean their Hippocratic oath?”

  The orderly regarded her. “No. I meant hypocritical.” He walked away.

  Tillie lifted her skirts and picked her way across the yard, careful not to step on the men as she headed toward the basement door.

  Mr
. Weikert emerged, and seeing their return, he stormed down the front porch steps and shoved the garment at his wife. “Don’t you ever do that to me again.” Fury rattled his voice. “I’m so pleased to know your petticoat means more to you than my safety! May you have many contented years wearing the blasted thing after I’m long dead.”

  “It didn’t matter.” She managed to sound both repentant and petulant. “They sent us away. They made us come back.”

  They stood nose to nose, his face the color of beets. The muscle in his jaw worked up and down.

  Mrs. Weikert refused to meet her husband’s eye. Instead, she folded the petticoat and laid it over her arm. Her fingers stroked the fabric, and she kept her eyes cast down.

  Their children exchanged dark glances and went inside.

  Tillie’s face burned as she took particular care to study the men lying on the ground. She tiptoed around the Weikerts and followed Mrs. Schriver into the house, trying to recall a time when her parents argued in front of their children. Her memory failed her. Even the incident with the valise didn’t qualify as an argument, just Mother expressing fear for Father’s safety. Perhaps they never did. The conversation with her mother about picking vegetables came to her mind, and Tillie smiled. That must be how they did things.

  She stepped into the basement and breathed in the yeasty aroma of bread baking. “Oh, no.” She hurried over, expecting to find blackened loaves. Instead, when she flung open the oven door, a fresh loaf browned inside.

  “We couldn’t resist.” Several men laughed at her delight. “We took the bread out before it burned and put a new one in. I must confess we enjoyed ourselves capitally.” Appreciative laughter from the wounded surrounded her, and Tillie joined in.

  Beckie, her mother, and sister entered the kitchen. Mrs. Weikert gave orders to her daughters, and they returned to work, picking up where they left off. She thrust the quilted petticoat into Tillie’s hands. “Take this up to my room and put it away.” She didn’t say please.

  Tillie did as ordered, and when she returned, the new loaf came out of the oven. The three women had the baking well in hand, so she sliced the bread and served. As she did so, she mopped an occasional sweaty brow or readjusted a bandage.

  A group of soldiers entered carrying stacks of lumber, which they took to the back corner where Tillie hid during the artillery barrage. Mr. Weikert and Dan joined them, nodding, receiving instructions. Mr. Weikert went to another part of the basement, retrieved a toolbox, and returned. They set to work.

  “So, Jacob, what took you so long today?”

  He glanced at his wife. His expression betrayed annoyance.

  Tillie marveled Mrs. Weikert had the nerve to bring it up.

  “Well,” he spoke to the wood rather than her. “After you scared the living daylights out of me, I came back to get your precious petticoat. It took me some time to find it. I started for the door.” He cut a length of board. The sawed piece clunked on the floor. “As I reached the front door, I heard thumps and bangs and the strangest yelps coming from the stairway.”

  Mr. Weikert chuckled. “Imagine my surprise.” He drew a lathe across the wood. The shaving curled off. “When the boy you bandaged up yesterday, Sarah, you remember the one who got blown up when Hettie and the girls arrived?”

  She nodded.

  Tillie frowned. With all that happened in the last day, she’d forgotten the poor man.

  “Well…” Mr. Weikert ran his plane down the wood, curling off another shaving. He blew on the board. “He came tumbling head over heels down the stairs, frightened as a jackrabbit and blind as a bat with those bandages on his eyes, crying for mercy, certain the cannonballs would get him.” Mr. Weikert laughed. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny, but it is funny. I mean, now it’s over I find the situation humorous.” He choked back more laughter. “A soldier and I carried him back upstairs and into bed. He told me he would stay with him, and I presume he’s still there. Someone should go check.” Mr. Weikert worked on the coffin. He glanced up at the ceiling as if able to see both men through the levels of the house. He shook his head and laughed again as he worked on his rough wooden boxes. No one joined in.

  Chapter 18

  The afternoon wore on, and the heat intensified. Orderlies and nurses came and went through the basement kitchen. The door remained open to allow for better traffic flow.

  With so many people crowded into the limited space, the walls closed in. Tillie broke out in a sudden sweat. She slipped out the door and walked across the barnyard half expecting a sharpshooter’s bullet to find her.

  The sun hung low behind Big Roundtop, coloring the sky a lurid orange. She stopped and listened to the crackle of gunfire, screams, and war whoops occurring unseen on the other side of Little Roundtop. So much violence and hatred. Why was there so much hate in the world? Why couldn’t people learn to get along? She gave a sad shake of her head.

  Ahead of her, two doctors stood inside the door talking and gesturing around the yard. She headed toward them to offer help.

  “The temperature reached ninety-eight degrees today. If the fighting doesn’t kill these men, the heat will.” The first doctor swung his arm out, indicating the men in the exposed barnyard.

  Hundreds lay in the dirt in the open. No trees, no shade, except those cast by the house and barn. All around her, men groaned and cried out.

  Tillie stood aside and waited for them to finish their conversation.

  The second doctor wiped his face with his sleeve and shrugged. “Can’t do anything about the heat.” His sad eyes took in the men as well. “It’s all we can do in here with what we’ve got.” Without warning, he turned on her. “Yes? What do you want?”

  “I’m sorry.” She took a step back, unprepared for his sudden assault. They had enough to do without her getting in the way. She almost turned to go back to the kitchen, but the exhaustion on his face stopped her. She straightened her shoulders. “I came to ask if I might be of some help.” Her voice rose on the last word. A hopeful question.

  Both doctors stared. The first pointed a blood-caked finger at her. “Aren’t you the one who gave water to the men yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would be a wonderful ministry for them. It’s hot, and these men are desperate for some kind of respite. Water would be a godsend.”

  “Yes, sir.” Disappointed by his request, she nevertheless wore a bright smile and got her bucket. The cup sat inside. She went to the pump and returned with water. The doctor walked with her. Those without abdominal wounds could have all the water they wanted. The poor unfortunate gut shot, could only have small drops of water on their tongue. Tillie’s heart went out to them, but he was adamant. He left her and returned to his grisly task of amputating limbs.

  ****

  Tillie didn’t try to speak to these men. They were the enemy. She served her water in absent-minded silence. The Rebels held Gettysburg. What if they did mark Father and took advantage of him because of Lady or the requisitions? Scenes flashed in front of her: The Rebs mistreated Mother and Maggie. Father dragged off to prison, or worse. Sam forced to join the Reb army. As her imagination soared to new heights, a tug at her skirt brought her to reality.

  “Miss, may I have a drink of water, please?”

  “Hmm? Oh, sorry.” Tillie got down on one knee and cradled the man’s head before bringing the cup to his lips.

  He smiled his thanks. She refused to smile back. Behind her, another man asked for water. Tillie gave him some. She glanced toward the Roundtops in front of her.

  Big Roundtop, shaped like a large bread loaf, sloped down to a saddle before rising to form Little Roundtop, which rose to the north, like a smaller loaf. The rays of the lowering sun slanted between the heights, piercing the smoke drifting from the opposite side. The mountains glowed a lurid orange-gray as the battle roar intensified. A mass of gray-clad men moved through the saddle of the two, silhouetted against the light as they attempted to ascend the lower slope from the farmyar
d side.

  A Union orderly sounded the alarm. “It’s the Rebs. They’re on this side of the Roundtops. They’re coming across the fields. If they get to Taneytown Road, we’ll be in danger!”

  It didn’t appear that way to her. If anything, they seemed to be attempting to scale Little Roundtop. Her brain told her to run to the house, but fear paralyzed her body as a crazy sense of déjà vu washed over her.

  Shouts and bugles calling a charge came from the south side of the house. How did the Rebs get so close?

  Tillie spun, expecting to see gray backs, guns raised, ready to kill them all. Instead, blue-coated men in ranks of four ran across the barnyard. A young boy in the first row, no older than sixteen or seventeen, held the battle flag and screamed, “First Pennsylvania!” The men roared and charged.

  The First Pennsylvania? James! Tillie dropped the bucket, ignoring the wounded men’s pleas. Raising her skirts, she hopped over men in her haste to find a place to observe as they ran by. She cleared the clot of men on the ground and stopped at the corner of the house.

  The men of the First Pennsylvania Reserve advanced on the Rebels at Little Roundtop. Her heart skipped a beat as she scanned their faces. She didn’t see James, but the men passed in front of her so fast, she couldn’t be sure.

  She cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered as loud as possible. “James Shaw Pierce!” A man turned his head in her direction. James? A flash of recognition hit her, but he didn’t look like her brother. He seemed shorter and thinner than she remembered. Still, she knew him, but his identity remained elusive. Dismayed, she stared at their backs as they ran past at the double-quick.

  As the men approached the lines, the Confederates fired on the Pennsylvania boys. A few fell, but undaunted they charged at the enemy. As the blue uniforms advanced, the gray retreated.

  She tucked herself close to the corner of the house to observe the fight. Rebel soldiers tried to climb a stone fence near Little Roundtop, only to discover more Union soldiers hiding behind it. The Boys in Blue rose and fired at point-blank range, cutting the Rebs down. Tillie’s body jerked as though their bullets struck her. Those able retreated between the two mountains and disappeared from sight.