No Safe Haven

by Angela Moody

  “No.” He turned toward town and appeared to listen. “There’s been sporadic fighting all morning at a place called Culp’s Hill.”

  “That’s less than a mile from my home.”

  “Oh.” The soldier seemed uncomfortable with another reference to her status as guest, and instead, showed her the cannon, east of the road leading into the farmyard. “General Sykes believes the Rebels will try to reach the Taneytown Road like yesterday. If so, we’ll see hard fighting right here. If you remain, you’ll be in the midst of flying bullets and shell fire.”

  She smiled. How would that be different from yesterday? “We’ve been in the midst of flying bullets and shell fire since yesterday.”

  His face colored. “Yes, miss.”

  They reached the carriages. The soldier tipped his hat and walked away.

  Tillie raised her foot to climb into the carriage as an artillery shell screamed overhead. She shrieked, pushed off the step with her foot, and hurled herself into the barn. She landed in a heap, arms over her head, waiting for death to strike.

  No explosion. As she timidly lifted her head, the soldiers erupted with laughter.

  Tillie picked herself up and dusted off her filthy dress. Flying artillery shells weren’t funny.

  A man lying near her spoke for them. “My child, if that hit you, you wouldn’t have had time to jump.”

  How ridiculous she must have appeared, coming from nowhere to land in an undignified pile in the straw. A snort of laughter escaped as she squared her shoulders, stuck her nose in the air, and sniffed in mock offense. “Sound logic indeed.” She flicked her skirt, giggled, and spun on her heel before marching outside, their laughter ringing in her ears.

  In the field across the road, dust and ash settled, indicating the shell landed, harmless, in what remained of Mr. Weikert’s burned-out wheat field.

  Chapter 20

  They headed south on Taneytown Road. The horses clip-clopped along at a steady pace until they met up with soldiers drawn up in a line held in reserve. There, Mr. Weikert stopped the buggy. “Where are you boys from?”

  “Sixth Corps.” The sergeant pointed in the direction they came from. “What’s going on up ahead?”

  Mr. Weikert laced the reins over the brake as though to begin a lengthy conversation.

  The commanding officer rode up. “Move along, sir. You don’t want to stay out here.”

  Mr. Weikert gave the officer a baleful glare, but picked up his reins and slapped them. They drove about a mile before turning left and cutting across a connector road to Baltimore Pike.

  Tillie leaned forward and spoke into Mrs. Weikert’s ear. “Where are we going?”

  “Two Taverns.”

  The small town lay six miles south of Gettysburg with only a few homes and, as the name implied, two taverns. Would Father punish her for going into a tavern? She had no choice.

  They passed through a strip of woods. Dead men, horses, and destroyed caissons forced them to slow and work their way around the obstructions.

  She shook her head at the sight. Did these men have families? What kind of lives did they lead before the war? Did they have wives and children? Such waste. She took a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt, which she held to her nose and mouth. Away from the overwhelming odor of gunpowder, the cloying stench of death invaded her nostrils. She kept her head down and her eyes closed, trying to breathe through the cloth.

  About a mile down the road, they left the carnage behind, and she breathed in fresh air again and put away her handkerchief.

  Two infantrymen ambled toward them.

  “What’s going on?” Mr. Weikert called out, halting the conveyance. “Are we headed into danger going this way?”

  The two privates stopped. “No.” The one who spoke scratched his head. “A cavalry battle took place about an hour ago, but I think you’re safe.” He touched his hat to the women and moved on, but his companion stayed. In his hand was a strange biscuit, which he raised to his mouth. His eyes fell on Tillie, who stared at him.

  “What are you eating?” She indicated the pale, thick, cracker-type biscuit, ignoring the saliva pouring from her cheeks. Her stomach growled.

  “This? Hardtack. You can break a tooth on one of these.” He held it out to her, chuckling at his own joke.

  She took a bite, closing her eyes and chewing with slow motions, enjoying the cracker, which tasted like flour and water mixed into a paste and baked. It needed salt.

  The private chuckled and reached into his haversack. He pulled out another to give her.

  She ate fast. “They’re rather good.” She put a hand to her mouth to stop a crumb from falling. Mother would chastise her for talking with a mouthful of food. She swallowed. “Thank you.”

  He grinned. “When you’ve eaten your fill, they aren’t quite so wonderful.”

  Mr. Weikert made an impatient noise and gestured, drawing the soldier’s attention back to more important matters. “Young man, will we be running into battle if we go this way?” He wrapped the reins around the brake handle.

  “No, sir.” The soldier waved in the direction the family traveled. “All fighting ceased behind us. We’ve been called forward to strengthen the lines along Cemetery Ridge.” The boy slung his rifle off his shoulder. He set the butt on the ground and leaned on the muzzle as he would on a fence to chat with a neighbor. “Where’re you folks off to?”

  “We’re going to Two Taverns. They said the rebels would be coming straight over our farm.”

  He nodded. “You should be able to travel in relative safety. I haven’t heard of any clashes in that general area. We came through last night as a matter of fact.”

  Beckie leaned forward and smiled at him. “Such an interesting accent, private. Where are you from?”

  He blushed, tipping his cap. “Miss,” he greeted her. “I’m with the Sixteenth Vermont, under General Stannard.”

  “My thanks to you.” Mr. Weikert slipped the reins off the brake handle.

  “Best of luck to you, folks.” The private touched his fingers to his cap, lifted his rifle, and dropped the strap across his shoulder before heading toward the Weikerts’ farm.

  They continued through the woods. At a small clearing, a group of Confederate soldiers sat on the ground, guarded by Union soldiers. Tillie drew in a sharp breath, and her hand flew to her throat. Dirty Beard sat among the captives, knees tucked to his chest, and his chin on his arms. She searched for Lady, but there were no horses.

  Mrs. Schriver reached across her sister and touched Tillie’s arm. “Are you all right?” Concern shone in her eyes. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’m fine,” Tillie choked out, pointing to the captive. “That man stole my horse last week.” A single tear slid down her cheek. Her heart thumped with a sudden rush of wrath. “She’s dead.” Dread filled her. She didn’t need evidence of Lady’s corpse to know she’d never see her horse again.

  * * * *

  As they approached the village of Two Taverns, a man stood on the side of the road and waved them down. “Are you fleeing the unpleasantness?”

  “We are.” Mr. Weikert rested his elbows on his knees. “We must.”

  “Then come and join us. We’ve become something of a refugee stop for those in flight.” The man indicated at least twenty-five families milling about, chatting. “Please, I insist.” He grasped the carriage, as though willing them to turn into the drive. “My wife and daughters are indoors preparing a picnic luncheon. Other neighbors brought food as well.”

  Mr. Weikert shrugged at his wife. “Why not?” He guided the buggy into the yard and hopped down.

  Tillie descended and wandered around the outskirts, self-conscious. The property owner walked over.

  “Please, make yourself comfortable. My name is Mr. Jones.”

  “Tillie Pierce.” She bobbed a curtsy as her parents taught her when meeting someone for the first time. “How do you do?” She drew her arms in across her body, stopping shor
t of crossing them. Did he smell her? What must he think of her, clothes torn and dirt stained, covered with blood? Her hand brushed the front of her dress.

  “Pierce, Pierce.” He wrinkled his brow. “I know a James Pierce, a butcher, in Gettysburg.”

  “He’s my father.” She smiled bright, clapping her hands together.

  “A fine man.” He gestured toward the tables under the oak tree. “Please come and eat. My wife and daughters are putting the food out now.”

  Thanking him, she joined refugees as disheveled and dirty, though not as blood covered as her. She relaxed as she filled a plate with fried chicken, coleslaw, bread, and other delicious dishes. She found herself a place and sat to give single-minded concentration to filling her stomach. While she ate, she listened to the stories of woe the others told. Warfare raged all around and inside the town, surrounding and beleaguering the residents. Many voiced the opinion the fray felt like a tipping point between winning the war and losing.

  After her meal, she relaxed on the porch swing, stomach full and eyelids heavy. She took notice of where the Weikerts were in case they decided to go home. She didn’t want him to leave her behind.

  The Weikerts sat talking under the shade of an oak tree. Mrs. Schriver took the girls inside. Dan remained at the picnic tables, flirting with one of Jones’s daughters.

  She scanned the yard for Beckie but didn’t find her. Beckie’s behavior still baffled her, but she refused to be a peacemaker. Mother would insist she be the bigger person, but not this time. She crossed her arms and scowled, determined not to be the first to apologize and unable to find a justifiable cause for Beckie’s anger. She’d been hateful and rude since day one. Beckie should apologize to her.

  Tillie slipped her hand into her apron pocket, her fingers bumping against the Bible the captain gave her. She withdrew the book from her pocket and opened it. Psalms. They read like poetry. She loved to listen to Father read them. She sighed and fought off a wave of homesickness.

  Flipping the book closed, she touched the cover, feeling the embedded calligraphy on the leather. She recalled a time when Belle confided she often opened the Bible at random places and found a Scripture to fit her mood. Tillie mentioned it at dinner that night, earning a lecture.

  “The Scriptures are the sacred word of God, Tillie. Not a horoscope or cure-all/catchall for whatever ails you.” His words accompanied the same stern glare he always gave her when she displeased him.

  Nevertheless, she wanted to discover if Belle’s theory worked. She reopened the Bible. It again fell open to Psalm 53. “The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God. Corrupt are they, and have done abominable iniquity.” Drawing in a sudden breath, she shot her head up and stared straight ahead, unseeing. She was the fool. She said there is no God. Oh, Lord, I’m so sorry. Forgive me, please. She turned back to the book. “There is none that doeth good, no, not one.” She drew in a deep, fearful breath; her words to the captain came back to her—if there even is a God. If.

  Her father’s words echoed in her mind. “The wages of sin is death, Tillie. There is none who seeks after God.” With shaking hands and a pounding heart, she flipped to Romans, scanning chapters one and two, and, finding what she sought, read chapter three, verse twelve. “They are all gone out of the way, they are together become unprofitable; there is none that doeth good, no, not one.” Verse twenty-three, in black and white, just for her. “For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God.” Her breath came in short, hard gasps, as though someone punched her in the gut. “Oh, that’s me!” she whispered, gripping the book so tight, her knuckles pressed white. I fall short of the glory of God. That’s what the captain tried to tell me. That’s what Father and Mother tried to say my whole life, and I wouldn’t listen. How could I be so stupid? Heart pounding, she wanted to drop to her knees in prayerful repentance, but the people around her made her hold back. Instead, she closed her eyes tight and prayed with all her heart. Oh, Father in Heaven, please listen now and forgive me my selfishness, my foolishness. Thank you for General Weed, for the captain, for my family, for your Word. Forgive me, Lord. Please forgive me.

  As she prayed, a weight fell off her shoulders. Her heart broke as she gave herself over to repentance. Tears poured down her face and landed on her hands. The sheer joy of forgiveness lightened her spirit, and she felt a profound sense of freedom from disbelief and doubt, and the fear of death and damnation.

  My child. The words resounded in her head. Her Savior spoke.

  She squeezed her eyes tighter. I’m here, Lord. I’m here.

  “My child.” This time a light touch lingered on her shoulder. When she jerked her head up, an elderly man smiled down at her. His eyes were the deep blue of a winter’s day but with all the warmth of summer. Laugh lines traced their sides. Deep creases formed around his mouth, and his gray beard fell to his chest. He dressed in black pants, a white shirt, and a black coat. On his head, he wore a black, wide-brimmed hat.

  “I am sorry to disturb your prayers—don’t be ashamed.” He waved his hands, as she wiped her eyes and tried to cover her face.

  “My prayers and petitions often bring me to tears. It’s good we should weep over our sins and disobedience.” He tapped her Bible. “Might we partake of the Word together or would you prefer to be alone with your God? I can hear the fury from your town. I thought some time with the Lord Jesus would calm my soul.”

  Six miles north the battle raged, but sounded as if right in front of them. Curious. At the farm, much of the fight went unheard, yet here the pandemonium was loud and clear.

  She scooted over and patted the empty seat on the swing. “Please.”

  “What passages are you reading?” He sat.

  “I started with Psalms because my father always likes to read the Psalms.” In an instant, her face burned with the lie. “Actually, I opened the book and came to Psalm Fifty-Three, so I started to read. This summer I’ve been struggling with myself because I can’t help think God can’t exist. If he did, we wouldn’t have such a terrible war and men wouldn’t die like this. Just yesterday, talking with a captain, I told him I decided God didn’t exist.” She held up the Bible, her finger stuck in the Psalms to hold her place. “He gave me this Bible and told me to read. I opened it now to Psalm Fifty-Three, which says, ‘The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God.’ The rest of the passage made me think of Romans, so I turned there.” She flipped the book open. “My father always tells me the wages of sin is death. I usually nod my head and wait for the lecture to end. Today, I don’t know why, or how, but I see what the text means. I truly understand.” She heard the wonder in her voice and stifled an urge to giggle from the intensity of her emotions. She sniffed. “I’m so sorry I said God didn’t exist.”

  The man chuckled. “I understand. The Lord, in His infinite grace and mercy, often keeps us in the dark for His perfect reason and timing. When the timing is right with Him, He removes the scales from our eyes and the stoppers from our ears.”

  She nodded as she blinked back more tears. In the distance, the waves of battle pounded her ears, sometimes smashing against her eardrums, and other times rolling toward her like distant thunder, which gave her a new idea.

  “The wages of sin is death,” she said again. “Those men who are being killed right now, their wages are death?”

  He inclined his head toward one shoulder. “Well, it depends.” He half turned in his seat to face her. “Not death as you and I understand it. You see, if we are children of Christ, then on this earth, our only death is the physical death of our bodies. Our souls will live forever with Christ in heaven. If you live outside of Christ, as I’m certain some of those boys do, our sin condemns us to eternity in hell. That is true death. The wages of sin.”

  “Can I ask another question?”

  “You just did.” He shot her a mischievous grin.

  She jerked surprised eyes to him and grinned. “My father says that.” She grew serious and stared at her knees. “What I mea
n is: why does God allow evil to exist in the world? I don’t understand. I’m told he loves us, but He lets bad things happen.” She stopped, unable to find the vocabulary to voice her fears.

  “An excellent question.” He patted her knee. “If I may offer my humble opinion, I believe God allows evil because He is more glorified by redemption than by creation. Bad things happen to draw us closer to Him, and in turn, He redeems us, if we ask.”

  Her eyebrows drew together into a tight pucker. Awe filled her heart. She turned wide eyes to him. “I never thought of that.” Her eyes shot to her Bible, as if to read the words on the front cover. She glanced at him through her eyelashes. “You’re very smart.”

  “I hope so for my congregation’s sake. I’m a Quaker minister.”

  She laughed. “Father always says when the moment is right the Lord supplies the needed instructor.” She grew serious as a new thought struck her. More tears spilled down her cheeks, and she let them, unashamed of her emotions. “I have so much to ask his forgiveness for.”

  “My dear, ask his forgiveness, but your Father has forgiven you.”

  “No, I meant—”

  “I know what you meant.” He rose. “Now if you’ll forgive me, I must speak to our wonderful hosts and thank them for their hospitality.” He took her hand in his. “Thank you for sharing with me. You refreshed my soul.” He kissed her hand and walked away.

  Tillie watched him go, the Bible in her lap. So much to ponder. She settled herself more comfortably on the swing and gazed about her. She picked up her Bible and began to read, soaking up the words on the page as though she couldn’t absorb them fast enough.

  * * * *

  The battle continued to rage, though not with the same intensity. Tillie caught snatches of conversation as people contemplated what they’d find when they returned home. How much more devastation could they endure?

  Toward four o’clock in the afternoon, the roar of combat lessened, and by five, all grew quiet. Still, no one made a move to leave, as though they didn’t want to go back, couldn’t bear to witness the carnage.