by Angela Moody
* * * *
As twilight approached, more soldiers arrived at the hospital with devastating wounds. Across the road, the new Confederate wounded lay in the fields and orchards further from the house.
Tillie nursed the men and tried to close her ears to their screams and pleas. After witnessing the devastating fight, she couldn’t muster animosity. She decided to nurse them all as what they were: shattered men in desperate need of care.
She worked in the burned-out field across the road, giving water to the Confederate wounded and wiping their dirty, sweaty faces, wishing she could do more. As full darkness approached, the doctor who put her in charge of water came out to speak to her. “You need to go back inside the house now, miss.” He took the dirty rag and bucket from her hand.
“But these men still need help.”
“And they’ll get it. You must go back inside. It’s far too dark out here to see what you’re doing.”
“Then get me a lantern. For I’m determined to carry on my task here.”
The doctor shook his head. “Can’t do that, miss. I’m sorry.” He let his eyes roam over the black hulk of Little Roundtop, backlit by fading daylight. Then he leveled those tired eyes on her. “Please, miss. I bet their guns are trained on us right now. The only thing keeping you alive is your skirts. In the complete dark all they’d see is a light, and they’d shoot.”
She opened her mouth to protest.
“He’s right, Miss Tillie,” the rebel soldier she had been helping when the doctor arrived spoke up.
“Go back in the house, Miss Tillie,” others implored. “Come back tomorrow.”
“All right.” She glanced around at the boys. “I’ll go inside. Good night, boys. I’ll come back in the morning.” She scanned the men lying in the burned-out wheat field. How many would survive the night? She smiled at them as she pushed the thought away and returned to the house amid a chorus of good nights and God bless yous.
* * * *
Orderlies cut bread, spread butter and jam on the slices, and set them on plates, which Tillie took and served.
As she served the bread, her eye caught a young man in the back corner of the basement near a small storage room. He sat with his back against the wall, his legs spread out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. A wounded man lay with his head in the young man’s lap, and the young man stroked his companion’s forehead in an absent-minded manner.
She walked over, carrying the empty plate. She knelt. “Would you like some water?”
The soldier licked his lips as the man lying in his lap groaned. He glanced down at his companion and stroked his hair. The young man raised eyes so full of anguish, she had to go to him.
“What do you need?” She touched him on the arm.
“Well, first, may I have some bread? I’m very hungry.”
“Certainly.” Tillie rose and approached the table. She grabbed two pieces of bread, spread butter and jam on them, and returned, offering him the plate so the crumbs wouldn’t drop on his companion’s face. He thanked her and ate the bread with slow deliberate motions, though he said he was hungry. She sat next to him and waited, her gaze drifting to the young man lying in his lap.
Dark-brown hair swept back off his face. His beard did nothing to hide the ashen appearance of a dying man. A hole in his coat near the shoulder left a bloody stain. The bullet that entered his shoulder and exited in a gaping wound at the base of his neck mangled one of the stars on his lapel. Tillie reached over and pulled away the bandage at his neck. She swallowed hard and recovered the wound.
When his companion finished eating, he passed her the plate. She set the dish by her foot. At each grunt or groan of pain, the captain stroked his forehead. “Would you do one more thing for me?”
“Of course.” She shifted, expecting him to ask for water.
“Would you sit with the general for a moment while I step outside?”
“I will.”
The soldier thanked her and eased himself out from under the man while Tillie exchanged places. She followed the young soldier with her eyes as he left the kitchen. What was it about men and their officers? Some exhibited absolute devotion like this young man, while others “marked them out.” It must depend on the officer in question.
What happened to the major who beat the exhausted boy rather than help him? Was he dead now, killed by his own men or the enemy? Had this man been a good officer?
She glanced at the general and found him gazing up at her. His lips moved with an effort to speak. She smiled as he licked his lips and tried again. Tillie leaned close to hear him. “I’m sorry?”
“What’s your name?” His voice came out as a raspy whisper.
“My name is Tillie.” She stroked his forehead. “How do you do?” She chuckled at a sudden thought. “Today’s my lucky day for meeting generals. This morning I met General Meade, and yesterday I met General Reynolds.” She bit her lip. General Reynolds was dead. Did he know? Did he know the general? She turned away, hoping he wouldn’t notice her cheeks aflame.
The general grunted again. His forehead shone with sweat. “General Reynolds—good friend.” Pain contorted his features.
Using the corner of her apron, she wiped his face. “Where did you get wounded?”
“On that little mountain.”
“Little Roundtop.” Tillie supplied the name.
“Yes, Little Roundtop. Hit…helping place…artillery.”
“Is it a bad injury?”
“Yes.” He grunted, and his body stiffened. He relaxed and drew a deep, pained breath. “Pretty bad.”
“Do you suffer much?”
“I do now. Perhaps in the morning…I’ll feel better.”
The general’s companion returned, and Tillie switched with him, careful not to jog the general too much.
“Can I bring you some bread or water, general?”
He declined both with a shake of his head.
“Well, if there’s anything I can do for you…?” She let the question hang, gazing at him, compassion and concern battling for control of her emotions.
His eyes met hers with an expression so earnest she got down on her knees and leaned in close again.
“Will you promise to come back in the morning and see me again?”
“Oh.” Tillie slapped her hands on her knees. “Yes, indeed I will.”
The general’s lips twitched.
She glanced at his companion who nodded his thanks.
As she rose to leave, the general’s voice came to her clear and loud. “Don’t forget your promise, now.”
She smiled at him. “I won’t. I hope you’re better in the morning.” She waggled her fingers at him and left to help others.
****
Tillie went to Beckie’s worktable and set the plate down. Mollie and Sadie walked around, also handing out plates of bread.
A yawn threatened, but Tillie inhaled through her nose and exhaled, releasing her yawn. “Can I help?”
“Fine time you did some work,” Beckie snarled, kneading the dough with vicious strokes.
Tillie’s eyes widened. Her mouth fell open. She skimmed the room, as though the source of Beckie’s anger lurked in a corner somewhere. “Have I done something wrong?” She dumped a cup of flour on the table.
Beckie glared at her and gave the dough another violent push. “We stand here and bake bread until Kingdom come, and you prance about handing out water, like the queen of Sheba. You speak with every Tom, Dick, and Harry soldier here, and yet none of them speak to us. And we’re doing more work than you are.”
Tillie sucked in her breath. Her nostrils flared, and her jaw tightened. “You didn’t want to talk to the soldiers anymore remember? You said so yourself.” Tillie worked her dough. She inhaled and counted to ten, as Mother taught her. She tried again. “I’m sorry. You’re tired. I’m tired. It’s been a long day and doesn’t seem as though it’s going to end anytime soon.” She locked eyes with Beckie. “But I’m going to continue ta
lking with these men and caring for them, because I like to. If you choose to resent me, well, that’s your decision.”
Beckie glared and slapped her bread into a pan.
Tillie worked in silence. Her hands shook as she kneaded the dough, using the motions to calm herself down. Frightened by the intensity of her emotions. Beckie’s ire came from exhaustion. Tillie didn’t see hers did too. She reviewed the past day and a half, trying to recall if she’d done something so egregious the Weikerts would be angry with her. She offered to help in the kitchen on countless occasions, but Mrs. Weikert always sent her off with Mollie and Sadie as if she wanted Tillie out of the way. Not being content with the younger girls, Tillie went off and found other things to do.
Beckie sighed. “For as long as I live, may I never bake another loaf of bread,” she muttered under her breath as she dipped her measuring cup into the flour barrel. Her cup scraped the bottom.
Tillie snorted and started to laugh. She bumped Beckie with her shoulder.
Beckie glared, angry surprise in her eyes. “Leave me alone.” She moved away.
Tillie’s laughter died. She sighed, sorry for her friend’s anger. With a shake of her head, she gathered more flour into a pile and worked the dough, clenching her teeth as a wave of irritation and regret overtook her. She didn’t want to be friends with Beckie anymore. A flash of insight blared through her: Beckie never liked her. Maggie was her friend, and Tillie was a tagalong. That’s what Beckie used to call her until Maggie made her stop. Well, from now on, Tillie would treat her with respect, as propriety dictated, but no more. Tillie clamped her jaw against an urge to cry. Sorry she ever agreed to come to this place. She wanted to go home to people who loved her and made her feel safe.
Chapter 19
The fighting on Little Roundtop stuttered to a close around ten thirty at night. Within a half hour, a flood of wounded arrived, and a mad scramble ensued to find a place to put them.
The doctor from the farmyard, John Billings, now worked in the house, directing the triage.
Tillie turned one way, Doctor Billings the other, and they nearly collided with each other. “Come with me.” He commandeered her and led her to the dining room upstairs.
A man waited for the surgeon, his left arm a shattered, mangled mess. The cuff dripped blood on the floor.
Tillie’s heart pounded in her ears. She swallowed hard. Her shoes squished through puddles of drying blood. She approached the man who waited patiently for the surgeon. She forced a smile. “You’ll be all right, soldier.” Her salivary glands began to tingle, and her mouth filled with metallic tasting saliva.
He nodded and held out his right hand.
She glanced at his blood-covered fingers, slapped her own hand over her mouth, and fled.
Doctor Billings’s voice followed her. “Well, I had hope for her.”
* * * *
By the grace of God, she made it outside before her vomit splashed in the yard. What would Mrs. Weikert or Beckie say if she had a mishap on the floor? Tillie coughed and gagged a few more times, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and let the tears flow down her cheeks. She leaned against the side of the house, her shoulder against the cold stone, face buried in her arm.
“Arrrrhhhh.” She wept deep, bitter tears. “I want to go home. I don’t want to be here. I want my mother.” She raised a fist and pounded it against the stone. A jolt of pain shot down her arm, and she focused on it to calm herself. Still, she drew in deep, gulping breaths of air.
“Feel better?”
Tillie spun to her left to see Dan Weikert standing by the corner of the house, his deep blue eyes studying her face.
She spun away and used her apron to wipe her face and eyes. “Did you come out to laugh at me?”
“No, of course not. I was just coming back to the house, and I heard you crying.” He stepped toward her. “I’m sorry I can’t protect you. I’m sorry you have to see what you’ve seen. It isn’t right. I would have protected you if I could.”
Tillie half turned and studied his face. Was he making fun of her? Was he serious? He was only thirteen years old, only six months older than Sam. What did he know of protecting women?
“Thank you.”
He took another step closer. “You shouldn’t be out here in the dark. It isn’t safe.” Dan took hold of her elbow in a gentle grasp. “Come.” He led her into the kitchen. “Good night.” He offered her a solemn smile and moved to join his father making coffins, but his fingers lingered on her elbow before he left.
The kitchen, filled to capacity, could not hold one more person. Tillie dried her face, rinsed her mouth with some water, and plodded upstairs.
She reached the dining room, but couldn’t bring herself to step over the threshold. A new man waited while Doctor Billings prepared to saw the man’s foot off. The soldier clasped his hands together as though praying, but his constant thank yous made it clear he would rather go through the agony of amputation, than deal with the pain any longer.
Billings patted the man’s shoulder, nodded at his medic, who jammed the cattle horn down over the patient’s nose and mouth. Within minutes, the soldier became unconscious. The doctor went to work. When he finished, he beckoned Tillie into the room.
She walked with halting steps, uncertain and afraid he would chastise her.
“Feel better?” His eyes flicked in her direction as the orderlies dropped a new man in front of him.
“I’m sorry.” Her body shook, and she suppressed an urge to cry. But her eyes filled with fresh tears.
“Happens to all of us the first time.” He began examining the wound and didn’t glance her way. “I remember in medical school seeing my first cadaver. My professor laughed as I ran out to empty my stomach. Thought he’d kick me out of med school.”
Tillie stepped closer. “What happened?”
Doctor Billings shrugged. He took great care to pick the fabric out of the wound before extracting the bullet. “He pulled me aside after class and said I’d gone through the rite of passage of anyone called to this duty. He would’ve questioned my desire to be a doctor, had I responded any other way.” Now he appraised her and smiled. “You’ve had your ‘rite of passage’. Are you ready to get to work?”
Tillie wiped her nose and eyes. “Yes, sir.”
* * * *
Morning sunshine streamed through the window, warming Tillie’s face, and the change in light woke her. Opening her eyes, she yawned, stretched, and shot upright in bed as though blasted from a cannon. “Oh heavens, what time is it?” she asked Beckie, only to find her gone.
Tillie finally got to bed sometime around two in the morning, too tired to undress, and climbed into bed fully clothed. Beckie snored beside her.
Now, she flung back the covers, hopped out, and slipped on her shoes. She threw the bed covers up, and then raced down to General Weed, afraid he’d think she forgot him.
Mrs. Weikert and Mrs. Schriver put away the last of the breakfast dishes as Tillie entered the basement kitchen. Beckie worked at the table, preparing another round of bread.
“Good morning, Beckie.” Tillie approached the table, irked, and determined to confront her. “Why didn’t you wake me when you got up?”
“You were so deep asleep. I didn’t want to bother you.” Beckie made a show of pulling together her ingredients for bread making. She refused to meet Tillie’s eyes.
There had to be more to Beckie’s answer. She searched the girl’s face, to no avail. Her body went lax as she gave up trying to understand.
Tillie started ask to Mrs. Schriver for food, but her neighbor closed the cupboard door with a bang. She reached into her apron pocket and produced a key to lock the cupboard. Beckie smirked as she began mixing the dough.
A plate of sliced bread waited for the soldiers. Still, she couldn’t resist and ate a slice, chewing as she searched the room for General Weed. He and his companion still occupied the corner from last night. She started toward them, turned back, and grabbed the plate.
/>
Mr. Weikert came in and crossed the room in front of Tillie. She stopped short to let him pass. He held the well pump handle in his left hand, which he placed on the floor behind some barrels stored underneath the stairway, out of sight to the casual observer.
Strange. Tillie followed him with her eyes as he walked past again, winked at her, and went to his wife. He whispered in her ear and left again.
Did anyone else find this odd? No one appeared to find it strange, so she went to visit General Weed and his companion.
The captain sat against the wall, head tipped back, eyes shut. General Weed lay still, his head in his companion’s lap. His hands lay on his chest, fingers laced together, as though in peaceful repose.
Tillie started to sit down, hesitated not wanting to disturb either of them, but she promised and settled herself next to the captain. The general’s still body made her wary. She leaned closer for a better look. General Weed wasn’t asleep. Guilt pierced her heart as tears filled her eyes. He must’ve thought her a liar. Why did she oversleep? Why didn’t Beckie wake her? Why did he die?
The captain sat still eyes open, watching her. “We’ve been waiting for you.” He sounded groggy. His words held no condemnation, though she listened hard for it. “Do you know who this is?” He patted the general’s chest.
“He told me his name is General Weed.” Tillie set the plate of bread near the captain. She put her other hand over the general’s heart. “I’m sorry I’m late.” She spoke to him as though he heard.
“Yes.” The captain ignored her comment. “This is the body of General Weed, a New York man. He got hit helping Captain Hazlet place artillery on the top of Little Roundtop. West Point Class of 1854.” A sad smile played on the captain’s lips as he gazed at the general. “He once told me he and J.E.B Stuart were best friends at West Point.”
It surprised her to think generals had lives before the war. Like her parents, she tended to think they appeared, as they were, then disappeared again. “I’m sorry. I do hope he’s greeting nearer and dearer faces than mine right now.” She contemplated the captain. “You must have been quite intimate friends to pay such close attention. Are you related?”