by Angela Moody
Rising from his place under the oak tree, Mr. Weikert walked to the road. He stared north. Several folks joined him, casting wary glances toward town.
She put the Bible back in her pocket.
“Come everyone,” Mr. Weikert called out as the sun slanted toward the western horizon. “I think it’s time to go home.”
Tillie searched for the Quaker minister to say goodbye, but couldn’t find him. She went inside the house to say goodbye to her hosts, and asked them to tell the minister goodbye and thank you. They assured her they would. The clock chimed six times.
They rode home in silence. Tillie imagined them out for a lovely ride in the countryside on a hot and muggy evening. The closer they got to the farm, the more evidence of confusion and ferocity prevailed. Fences scattered the ground, knapsacks, blankets, and many other articles discarded along the side of the road.
“What is that sound?” Mrs. Schriver cocked her ear toward a curious humming, perplexing them and adding to their anxiety.
A mile from home what they at first took for bundles of blankets on the ground took on the shape of dead men.
Beckie choked and gasped. She covered her face with her hands and refused to open her eyes.
Tillie stared at the devastation as they passed by, her brain unwilling to comprehend.
Stopping at the house, Mr. Weikert had no choice but to leave the carriage in the road. Wounded, dead, and dying filled the approach to his farm.
“Oh my.” Mrs. Weikert put her hand over heart. “Oh my,” she said again, shaking her head and sniffing back emotion.
The strange humming now morphed into groans and cries. The acrid odor of smoke and gunpowder stung their noses, adding to the stench of blood, flies, and death in the motionless, humid air. Swallowing hard to keep her gorge from rising, Tillie lifted her apron and covered her nose and mouth. Her gaze drifted past her immediate surroundings to the destruction beyond the house and grounds. Wounded men of the blue and the gray lay like a writhing carpet in the farmyard and into the fields beyond. What did they do to each other? When would all this end?
The family exited the carriage, compelled to pick their steps as they approached the house, sometimes wedging their feet in between men to avoid stepping on them.
Confederates outnumbered Union almost three to one. She couldn’t muster animosity toward them as, with great care, she made her way to the basement door where the rest of the family waited for the orderlies to move hundreds of men around, to make room for them.
“Well, baking bread will do these men no good.” Mrs. Weikert placed her hands on her hips. “Come, girls. Let’s go in search of things we can turn into bandages.”
Mike, the orderly, was back at his post, stirring a pot of broth. He spotted Tillie and beckoned her. She approached him while Mrs. Weikert, Mrs. Schriver, and Beckie went upstairs. The orderly leaned close and whispered, “Go get the bucket and some more water. These boys are in a bad way.”
She nodded, left, and returned carrying a bucket of water. She dipped a cloth and moved among the men, wiping their faces and hands, and giving them small sips from her tin cup.
The women came back down carrying all the linen and muslin they could find. They sat wherever and tore up their clothing, bedding, curtains, and rolled them into bandages.
Tillie moved around giving water to men well enough to drink. As she put the cup to one man’s lips, he sipped and grinned up at her. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. “We did it,” he croaked.
Tillie’s lips barely twitched a smile as she put the cup to his lips again, only half-listening.
He took another sip. “We did it.” Triumph gleamed in his eyes. “We beat the Rebs for sure today.”
She focused on him. “How do you know?”
He coughed, and blood splattered her. She jerked back and faced away, swallowing hard. Then she arranged her features into a calm expression, put a smile on her face, and turned back to him.
He drew in a breath and managed two words. “I know.” He lay back down.
“Congratulations.” She laid her palm over his clammy brow. “I’m glad.”
Following the prostrate men up the stairs and into the hall outside the dining room, she offered water and a cool cloth.
“You, girl.”
Tillie jolted at the sound of the surgeon’s voice, hoping he called another girl.
Doctor Billings stood behind the dining room table, visible from the bloody waist up. He held a bone saw in one hand and gestured at her with his other bloodstained hand. “Come here.”
Tillie’s dream flashed before her eyes. She resisted an impulse to run. Instead, she put down her cup and entered the dining room trying not to stare at the man waiting for the surgeon. She kept her gaze fixed on the doctor. “Yes, sir.”
“I need your help. Can you tie on a bandage?”
She shook her head.
He motioned to an orderly, who showed her with quick, practiced motions.
“Wait, do that again, but slower.”
He showed her again. “I need you to bandage these men so I can assist Doctor Billings with the amputations. Can you do that?”
“I can try.” Her hands shook as she took the cloths.
The medic jammed a cattle horn down over a wounded man’s nose. As soon as he appeared unconscious, the surgeon cut large strips of skin and folded them back. He picked up his saw and gave it a swipe across his blood-soaked apron, before placing the instrument about two inches below the skin flaps. He got down to the gruesome task of amputation.
As often happened, the soldier was still conscious, and several strong men needed to hold him down while the doctor cut fast, through bone and flesh.
The semiconscious solider screamed and fought, spraying blood and bone everywhere.
Tillie cowered with her hands over her ears, desperate to shut out the man’s screams. The limb thumped to the floor.
She ran, but got no further than the hall where her vomit splashed several poor unfortunates.
She didn’t want to go back in, but the strident call, “you, girl. Come back in here!” forced her into obedience. Tillie put her apron over her face, choked back sobs, and returned.
The surgeon removed bullet and bone fragments. Then he folded the flaps of skin over the amputation and sewed them together. Another medic stood by with a cauterizing iron, which he slapped on the wound.
The soldier screamed, cried, and begged for mercy. The medic removed the iron, and two more men lifted the boy by his shoulders and hips and plunked him in front of Tillie, who couldn’t see through her tears to bandage the stump.
“Hurry up, lass.” The medic scowled. “We han’t got all day. There’re more poor divils waitin’. More than we can shake a stick at, that’s fer sher.”
Once she tied the wrappings on, the same two men took the soldier away.
At first, she was too aware of the horrible sight and stench of cut off limbs, blood, and burnt flesh. Her hands shook so badly she struggled to wrap the wounds and received several scoldings for being too slow.
When she stopped seeing the wounds, and even the men, she worked with the same swift efficiency as the medics and doctors. The work reminded her of the rhythm of the butcher shop after a fall butchering, when she, Mother, and Maggie wrapped endless pieces of meat.
Tillie tied the bandage to the stump of an arm and stood back. The medics took the man away. She glanced up when they didn’t replace him with another. In the parlor across the hall, the grandfather clock struck two o’clock. When did it get dark? Who brought in the lamps?
“I think we’re done here.” Doctor Billings swiped his forearm across his face, mopping the sweat away. “I didn’t think that possible.”
Tillie gave him a dull stare, too tired to muster a response.
He inclined his head in her direction. “What’s your name, girl?”
She opened her mouth and croaked, “Tillie.”
He tapped his chest with a beefy finger
. “Doc Billings.”
She yawned. She learned his name the day before. This was the first time he asked hers.
He waved a hand at her. “Go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes, sir. Good night.”
As she walked through the silent house, the blue glow of the moon lit her path. She stopped at the front window to gaze at the white orb. How could the moon and sun go on rising and setting, oblivious to the machinations beneath them? A movement caught her eye, and she focused on the barn. The yellow glow of lamps within illuminated the white fence in the front yard, bordering the road. Piled against the fence and almost over topping it, rose a mound of discarded limbs. A man flung an arm on the heap and went back inside without waiting to see where it landed. The arm landed on the pile and rolled down the side. Tillie shuddered, but at least, its former owner stood a chance at survival.
PART 3
THE AFTERMATH
Chapter 21
Rain hammered the roof and slashed at the windowpanes while thunder rolled overhead. Tillie stretched and smiled, recalling those days before the battle when she pretended the peals sounded like cannon fire. What a ninny. A blinding flash of lightning, followed seconds later by a crack and boom rattled the windows. “They sound nothing like each other.”
“Hmm.” Beckie rolled over and grabbed for the blanket.
Tillie threw the covers aside and slipped out of bed. She sat on the edge of the bed and stretched again, digging her toes into the braided rug. She’d gone to bed only a few hours ago, but awoke refreshed and wide-awake. Besides, she didn’t want to miss breakfast again.
Beckie shifted. Tillie watched her sleep and scowled, seeing she donned a clean nightgown the night before.
Dirty and uncomfortable, she reached up and used her fingers to try to detangle the knots in her hair. She winced when her fingers found a thick knot. She must look a fright with that rat’s nest, but she couldn’t help it. As she lowered her arm, she caught a whiff of her body odor. She jerked her face away and grimaced.
She feared picking up the lice crawling on the men. Thinking of the jumping vermin, she shuddered and scratched her head.
Thunder rumbled again. Would there be more fighting? Despite the thunderstorm, something was different today. She couldn’t shake the feeling yesterday’s ferocity brought a climax.
Tillie approached the washbasin and sluiced her face. She grabbed her shoes and tiptoed out of the bedroom.
Mr. and Mrs. Weikert, Dan, and Mrs. Schriver sat at the table, sipping coffee. Tillie stepped over and around convalescing men. She lifted her skirts to avoid hitting any of them in the face and picked her way across the room. Beyond the basement window, Confederates lay in the barnyard under the drenching rain, trying in vain to shield themselves from the downpour. Her heart went out to them.
The greeting Tillie meant to give died on her lips. A pensive air permeated the room, as if everyone sensed a change and didn’t trust it. Pouring herself some coffee, she found a seat. As she lifted her cup, her gaze met Mrs. Schriver’s sad eyes.
Her neighbor stared hard at her. Tillie’s smile disappeared. Now what? She squirmed under the scrutiny. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Schriver?” A clear challenge rang in her voice.
Her neighbor gave her a sad glance. “I was thinking you should be home, safe, but instead, I dragged you here. When your parents find out what you’ve been through, I’m certain they’re going to be quite angry with me.”
Tillie flopped back in her chair as she released her breath. “No, they won’t.” She shook her head with a rueful chuckle as she waved her cup around. “How could you know this was going to happen?” She sipped her coffee. “I’m safe and alive, and Mother would say ‘all’s well that ends well.’”
Mrs. Schriver burst into tears. Mrs. Weikert leaned close and slipped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. Mrs. Schriver covered her face and crumpled in her mother’s arms.
Tillie turned away, wrinkling her nose and making a face. “What is that smell?” She glanced around as if trying to spot the source. “It stinks like dead skunk in the rain, only a hundred times worse.”
“I’m not surprised.” A soldier lying nearby lifted his hand and waved it in front of his face. “What you smell is rotting flesh—animal and human.”
Tillie’s mouth dropped open, and she gaped at him. “How come I didn’t notice it before?”
“Because the odor of gunpowder covered it, but it’s been present since day one. Most of those men have been outside in the hot sun all this time. Wet weather always intensifies the stink. I found that in other battles.”
Tillie didn’t know what to say. Instead, she sipped her coffee and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. So much happened in the past three days. Events blurred and jumbled together in her mind.
“Do you hear that?” Dan turned toward the door.
Mr. Weikert opened the kitchen door. Through the hiss of the rain, cheering atop Little Roundtop traveled like a wave rolling toward Cemetery Ridge and on to Culp’s Hill on their right.
“What does it mean?” Sadie wailed, blue eyes big and round. “Oh, what does it mean?” Sadie threw her hands over her ears and looked around for an opening between the adults to scoot back under the table.
Mrs. Schriver held her arms out, and the child ran to her.
“No need to fret, child,” one man said. “Them’s our boys. It’s over.” A smile lit his face. “The fighting’s over.” He reached over and shook the shoulder of the man lying next to him. His grin faded as he gazed into the soldier’s lifeless eyes. He clenched the dead man’s collar, and then let go and lay back down. He covered his face with his hands. His words muffled behind his hands, “Praise God.”
Dan raised his coffee cup in a toast. “Happy Fourth of July, everyone.”
Those at the table lifted their cups. The men followed suit with empty hands as though holding a cup. “Happy Fourth of July,” they chimed in unison.
“May the heart of this fair Nation be forever inclined unto wisdom, so we may never fall into the folly of another war.” Another man, lying near the stairs, wiped tears from his face.
“Hear, hear,” echoed a chorus.
The doctors arrived for another day of gruesome work. It broke the spell, and Tillie and the others put away their breakfast dishes and set about spending their Fourth of July nursing and tending the hundreds of men in the house, on the grounds, and in the barn.
****
The early morning storm moved on, Mother Nature having done her best to wash the earth clean. Throughout the day, the sky remained gray and overcast, heavy with the promise of more thunderstorms. Tillie performed her duties, oblivious to the weather. Late in the afternoon, the light dimmed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a finger of lightning streak through the clouds, followed by a resounding crack of thunder that made her jump.
“God is angry with the carnage.” The soldier she nursed lay on the floor waiting his turn at the surgeon’s table. His comment seemed directed at no one in particular.
Tillie smiled but didn’t respond. She wound a bandage around his mangled leg with mechanical motions.
Two orderlies came in and dropped another man on the floor near the dining room door. A line of men waited from the table out the door and into the hallway. Tillie finished wrapping and bandaging. She drew in a deep breath and let it out, stifling a yawn. She patted her patient on the chest and moved on to the next. Before bending to her task, she rolled her head from one shoulder to the other to relieve the ache in her neck and shoulders.
Doc Billings came to stand beside her. He unwrapped the bandage and, using his fingers, pulled open the wound to inspect the bone. He sighed. “I have to take off the leg.”
“No! No!” The soldier shrieked and grabbed hold of the doctor’s arm. “Please, God, don’t take off my leg. How will I work my farm when I go home?”
Doctor Billings put his hands on the man’s arms. “Now calm down.” He eased the
man down and talked to him until he quieted. “I must. The bone is shattered, and there is nothing I can do to save your leg.” He held the soldier’s eye until the man settled. When he accepted his fate, he nodded and lay back.
Doctor Billings spoke to Tillie, but his eyes slid beyond her to the door. He straightened. “You there, little girl.”
Tillie turned as Mollie shrank away from the door.
With a bloody hand, Doc Billings gestured her forward. Blood dripped off his fingers. “Come here, young lady.” His voice softened. “Come and give this man a drink of water so I can take off his leg.”
Tillie grabbed the scissors and cut his trousers.
Mollie inched forward. She picked up a cup next to a water bucket and dipped it in, then came close and held it, too frightened to move. Panting from severe pain, the soldier gave her a thankful smile and took the mug. After he drank, he handed it back. She took it and, crying, ran from the room.
* * * *
As the day wore on, the rains passed over Gettysburg. The gray skies remained. But by early evening, the sun managed to find a chink in the clouds, and slim rays of sunlight filtered down, warming the wet earth. Steam rose from the ground, lending a spectral aspect as thin wisps formed around lifeless men. Tillie imagined the grim reaper walking through the field, rejoicing over his fine harvest.
Despite the number of men treated, and those they didn’t get to in time, the queue of waiting men never ended. Tillie began to think a procession of men stretched from Gettysburg to Baltimore waiting for help.
Finally, the time came for the family, doctors, and nurses to sit down to supper. The Weikerts used up their supplies feeding the soldiers since the fighting started three days before. In return, the army provided small fare, but they accepted the food with some grace. Her mouth watered when she remembered their meal from their first day. A rueful smile crossed her face. If they knew, they might have been more sparing. As she sipped her coffee, she glanced at the doctor. Dark shadows circled his eyes. He gave a prodigious yawn and rubbed a weary hand over his face and hair. Tillie’s heart went out to him. He hadn’t rested in days.