No Safe Haven

by Angela Moody

  Walt rose from his seat. He gave her a long, sad look. “You will.” He threw the crumbs away. “Rest time is over. I should get back to work.” He turned his back on her and left the kitchen.

  Mouth agape Tillie stared after him as the teakettle began to whistle.

  * * * *

  On a cool, crisp day, about a week after Miss Colvill’s arrival, Tillie answered a knock at the front door. A woman around Mother’s age stood on the doorstep, a valise in one hand and a piece of paper in the other.

  “Good morning. May I help you?” Tillie prayed she didn’t want accommodations. They had so little room left.

  The woman’s kind features arranged in a worried frown. Beneath her bonnet, gray hair framed her heart-shaped face with friendly, yet apprehensive, blue eyes. Deep crow’s feet revealed a woman who smiled and laughed often. Right now, though, her face registered surprise, as though she never expected a warm reception.

  “Yes.” Her eyes darted past Tillie into the house. “My name is Abigail Greenly. Is this the Pierce residence?”

  “Yes. I’m Tillie Pierce. How can I help you?”

  “I’ve come from the railroad depot. I came to Gettysburg to be near my son at Camp Letterman. I went to every hotel, but they say there’s no room at the inn, so to speak. None of the rooming houses have any vacancies either. I returned to the station because I didn’t know what to do. I prayed for help, and a man came over and gave me this piece of paper with your name and address. He said you might have room for me. The man who wrote this note, Mr.”—she consulted the sheet then looked back at Tillie—“Mr. McCurdy said I might find a room here.”

  “Uncle Robert!” Tillie stepped aside to let her in. “Please come in. My mother is upstairs. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and get her.” She took Mrs. Greenly’s cloak and hung it up, then excused herself and jogged up the stairs. Moments later Mother came down, with Tillie at her heels.

  “Mrs. Greenly.” Mother held out a hand in greeting. “I’m Mrs. Pierce. How do you do?”

  “Mrs. Pierce.” Mrs. Greenly took Mother’s hand. “I was told I might find accommodation with you.” She showed Mother the slip of paper and explained her predicament and how she came by their address. “I won’t be much trouble. I promise you that. Every waking moment I intend to spend at my son’s bedside. I just need a place to lay my head at night.” She drew in a deep breath and crinkled the paper in her palm.

  Mother gave a soft smile and squeezed the woman’s hands. “Of course you may stay with us. My brother did the right thing in sending you. No need to fret.” She led her into the parlor. “You must be tired. Tillie will take your things upstairs to Miss Colvill’s room.” She sat on one end of the sofa and Mrs. Greenly on the other. “We have other guests, but there’s plenty of room for one more.”

  Tillie took Mrs. Greenly’s bag and ascended the stairs. Did Mother plan to take in any more strangers? How were they to accommodate one more? Where were they going to get the food? She did a mental check of all the people under their roof. First, Sam returned the Monday after Ginny’s funeral, Miss Colvill, the colonel, Private Bevans, Walt, Maggie, Mother, Father, herself, and now Mrs. Greenly. Too many people to feed. Tillie needed to speak with Father. Maybe he’d stop Mother from taking in any more strays.

  * * * *

  Tillie stood in the kitchen doorway peering across the yard. Father worked in the butcher shop after supper. Darkness approached early now, and he and Sam sharpened knives and cleaned the shop under lighted lamps. They spent most of their time out there nowadays. Lifting her chin, she crossed to the shop and rapped an anxious tap on the door. “Father, may I have a word with you?”

  He smiled at her. “Tillie, what are you doing in here? I thought you hated this place.”

  “I’m used to butchery.” She grinned. Instant heat infused her face at the wry note in her voice. She grew serious. “Can I speak to you—alone?”

  He wiped his brow with his forearm. “Of course. Sam, we’re pretty much finished, and I believe Mrs. Pierce set out more lessons for you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sam sighed, lowered his head, and shuffled off toward the house.

  When he disappeared, she stepped inside. “Father, shouldn’t you speak to Mother about allowing another boarder? We don’t have enough to feed everyone and now Mrs. Greenly. I don’t know how we’re going to manage. Shouldn’t you say something? Ask Mrs. Greenly to leave?”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Tillie sensed trouble headed straight for her. She shrank within herself and waited for the storm of Father’s wrath to break over her head. Instead, he shook his head and gazed at her with sad eyes. “The Lord still needs to work on that selfish streak of yours, daughter.”

  “I’m not being selfish, Father. I’m trying to stretch our resources so we can all eat.”

  “It is selfishness, but I won’t debate you.” He sat at his bench and held his arms out to her. Without hesitation she went to him and perched herself on his lap. He closed his arms around her with a quick squeeze.

  “I’m not going to send Mrs. Greenly away for the simple reason that to do so would be cruel. Perhaps there isn’t much more space, and if another person comes to the house, we might all need to sleep standing up to accommodate. The Lord sent her to us and to turn her away would be to turn Him away. Remember, Tillie, ‘As you do to the least of my brothers, you do to unto me.’ Mrs. Greenly is our sister, and it comforts Mother to board her. It also helps Mrs. Greenly, and if we run out of food, the Lord will provide us some more, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Father.” Her face flamed. She wanted to go back inside and pretend this conversation never happened.

  He seemed to read her thoughts and tightened his arms around her. “Being born in faith, Tillie, is a lot like being born in life. We don’t come into the world knowing everything we need to live. Someone has to teach us. That’s why we send you to school and impart our morals and values. In the same way, the Lord will lead you to lessons of faith to help you to grow as a believer.”

  An unexpected wave of emotion washed over her, filling her eyes. “Thank you, Father.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. She kissed his cheek. “I love you.”

  Father patted her back and cleared his throat.

  She got up off his lap and started for the door.

  “There is one more thing I want to discuss with you, Tillie.”

  “Yes, Father?” Something in his expression sent her guard up.

  He rose and pulled on his waistcoat. “Private Reed approached me earlier this week asking if he could take you out walking in the evenings. I don’t like this flirtation with Mr. Reed. It must stop. I told him no.”

  “It’s not a flirtation, Father. We’re just friends.”

  “You may pretend it’s a friendship, young lady. But I have eyes in my head, and so does your mother. He’s a soldier. A soldier who will leave us when the colonel is well enough to depart. I want it to stop, Matilda. Do you understand me?”

  When he called her Matilda, Tillie knew better than to argue. Still several responses came to mind, and she hoped the darkening room hid her flaming cheeks and balled fists. She clamped her lips between her teeth and, through dint of will, remained silent.

  Father dropped his hand on her shoulder. His deep brown eyes bore into hers. “Do you understand me?”

  She looked down, cowed. “Yes, Father. I understand.”

  “Good.” He stroked her cheek. “It’s for the best.”

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “You may.”

  “Is this because of George?” She recalled her conversation with Maggie. Did she have something to do with Father’s denial?

  Father cupped her chin. “I would be a liar if I said no, but it’s not the only reason. I don’t wish to be harsh on you. I love you and want the best for you. You’re only fifteen years old. In another year or two, if this war is over—please God—and if a young man comes along more suited to yo
u, I’d be happy to welcome him into my home. But not yet, my dear. Not yet.”

  “Yes, Father.” To show she didn’t mean any disrespect, she gave him a hug and turned back toward the house, sorry she came out to talk to him.

  ****

  Over the next few weeks, Tillie found Mrs. Greenly remained true to her word and did her best not to burden the family. She arose each morning before dawn, dressed, and set out for Camp Letterman before the sun broke the peaks of the surrounding hillsides. To lighten her burden on the family, she took her meals at the camp and did not return until late at night.

  One night, Tillie waited up. She wanted to talk to her about starting work at the camp. Ever since her conversation with Father, Walt remained above stairs caring for Colonel Colvill. He came down for his meals, never met Tillie’s eye anymore, and when finished eating, went back upstairs.

  She struggled to eat at each meal. Heartbreak over Father’s refusal killed her appetite. Her mind screamed for Walt to look at her, just once, so he would know she wasn’t at fault, but he didn’t. As the days passed, she wanted to escape Walt’s presence. Even though he remained upstairs, she felt his presence in every fiber of her being. Working at the hospital might be the perfect solution.

  As the hallway clock chimed ten, Mrs. Greenly entered the house and closed the door with a quiet snick. Tillie stepped into the hallway and whispered a good evening.

  “My goodness, Tillie. What are you doing up so late?”

  “I wanted to speak with you.”

  “Dear me, what could be so important that you should wait up until all hours of the night to speak with me?” Mrs. Greenly smiled. “Should we go into the sitting room to talk or is this more of a parlor type conversation?”

  “Oh, no, we can go into the sitting room.” Tillie led her into the room. “I’ve made some tea.”

  “Then let’s have some tea and conversation.” Mrs. Greenly took off her wrap, hung it up, and entered the sitting room. She poured tea for herself and Tillie, and sat in Mother’s rocker.

  Tillie settled herself in Maggie’s chair. Not sure how to begin, she shared her experiences at the Weikerts’, and the days following.

  Mrs. Greenly listened and sipped her tea.

  When Tillie finished her tale, she waited for Mrs. Greenly’s response.

  “My husband died in '59.” Mrs. Greenly twisted her teacup in her hands.

  Tillie’s brow creased. She raised her cup to her lips, trying to figure out the turn in the conversation. She took another swallow and waited, a polite smile curving her lips.

  Mrs. Greenly gave her a weak smile. “What you did at the farm was God’s work.” She ran a finger around the rim of her cup, and then put it down. She sat back and folded her hands in her lap. “My oldest son, Isaac, was killed at Fredericksburg. My middle son, Matthew, at Malvern Hill. He didn’t die right away. He lay in a hospital for about three weeks before he succumbed. I didn’t go down to help care for him, of course, Malvern Hill being in Virginia.” Mrs. Greenly’s eyes, fixed on a spot in the hallway, became distant, as though she saw her son, dying alone. Her voice grew faint. “I should have. I should have gone to him somehow, some way.” She shifted her gaze to her lap while her hands clasped and unclasped. Her last words sounding like an indictment against her as a mother.

  “I’m so sorry.” Tillie cringed, wanting something more comforting and profound to say, lost at this sudden and sorrowful turn. She leaned over and squeezed the woman’s arm. “I’m so sorry. I wish…” She didn’t know what she wished.

  Mrs. Greenly laid her hand atop Tillie’s. Tillie clasped her hand and met Mrs. Greenly’s gaze.

  “Joseph must survive.” Mrs. Greenly’s words and expression grew fierce and determined. “He must survive. He’s my only remaining child.” In a sudden, excited shift, she smiled at Tillie. “Come with me tomorrow. Meet Joseph. It would be a comfort if the two of us pray for him.”

  Tillie’s eyes widened. This was what she wanted—and dreaded. “Do you think I should? I’ve wanted to go. That’s why I stayed up to talk to you, but aren’t there enough people to help?”

  “Oh, gracious, I daresay not. Almost four thousand men are in the most desperate need of companionship. Oh, they have nurses and doctors enough to do the difficult and gruesome work. What the boys need is people willing to keep them company while they recuperate. If they saw your pretty face, I know it would speed their recovery. Besides, I think it would benefit you a great deal to get out of the house a little. Come with me in the morning. Please.”

  Tillie contemplated the idea of reading to the soldiers and talking to them, not changing bandages or having to assist amputations. She doubted the pretty face remark, but she smiled. “I’d love to.” She squeezed Mrs. Greenly’s arm again. “I must confess I feared they’d make me do the gruesome work, as you put it, and I can’t bear the thought.” Tillie repressed a shudder as memories assailed her.

  Mrs. Greenly patted her hand. “I’m so glad I thought to say something.” The woman rose and picked up their teacups. She carried them into the kitchen where she washed and put them away. When she came back to the sitting room, she led Tillie upstairs. “We must get a good night’s sleep. Dawn comes pretty early each morning, as the late Mr. Greenly liked to say.”

  “Yes it does.”

  At Mrs. Greenly’s bedroom door, Tillie wished her a good night. She slid into bed, excited by the prospect of helping at Camp Letterman.

  ****

  In the chill late-September morning, Tillie shivered under her cloak as they walked the three miles down York Street to Camp Letterman. Their conversation ranged over numerous subjects. She liked Mrs. Greenly very much, happy to discover that, despite their ages, she made a friend.

  “Father refused permission to Private Reed.” She confessed her disappointment, confident Mrs. Greenly understood and wouldn’t mock or tease her. “It’s a bit like running away, I guess, but I can’t tolerate the avoidance any more. That’s why I wanted to accompany you to…” Tillie’s mouth fell open as they reached the entrance gate.

  Mrs. Greenly watched Tillie’s face, her grin wide. “I felt the same way my first day. I couldn’t imagine where I would find Joseph in this tent city.” She pointed out landmarks to Tillie, who listened in stunned silence. The camp, an impressive testament to Union military might and resources, occupied almost every square acre of old Mr. Wolf’s farm. Laid out in orderly fashion, a main thoroughfare ran through the center. Streets branched off on both sides and acted as the dividing line between the Union and Confederate sides. The lanes between the tents spanned wide enough to accommodate two people, walking abreast, to pass in either direction without bumping into each other.

  Row upon row of white canvas stood in straight even lines, arranged in blocks throughout the meadow. Six avenue-sized blocks held twenty-four tents per avenue. Groups of four made up a ward. Inside each tent, twelve to sixteen patients awaited care.

  A spring used to run from the woods through the meadow, making a lovely place to come on a hot summer day. Someone, the Army Corps of Engineers no doubt, had diverted the spring. Now, tents popped up there, planted in the ground like crops. As she took in the scene, her only thought was that Mr. Wolf must be turning in his grave.

  She couldn’t see the military value of placing Camp Letterman in such a spot, but the Army chose the site well. The property had a good mix of woods and open space and, with the spring, an excellent supply of fresh water. Railroad tracks less than five hundred feet from the camp’s edge made it ideal.

  Near the woods to the southwest and close to the road, smoke billowed from the chimney of a wood and canvas constructed edifice. Mrs. Greenly said it was the cookhouse. Tillie thought of the two orderlies who made beef soup at Mr. Weikert’s and wondered if they were here. She made a mental note to stop by and check.

  Beyond the cookhouse and close against the woods, another wood and canvas building stood dark and silent. A sign above the door read Dead House. Till
ie swallowed hard. On the other side of the main tent area, to the northeast, the officer’s quarters separated from the enlisted quarters, by a looming graveyard marked with a sign indicating the Union and Confederate sections. Other sections of the camp, set apart for their own mysterious purposes, remained dark, unused, and sinister. She gazed around at a vast tent city, intimidated by the prospects.

  “Over there is the surgery.” Mrs. Greenly pointed to a large half wood, half tent construction near the woods. “And over here,” she gestured to a row of tents, “is where Joseph waits for me. Come, Tillie.” She took Tillie by the elbow and proceeded into the camp. The guard on duty said good morning. “I’ll take you to Joseph’s tent and introduce you to his tent mates.”

  Tillie followed like a docile sheep, intimidated by the camp’s size and complexity. As they passed the tents, she took surreptitious peeks inside the open flaps. The early morning light had not yet penetrated the canvas tops, so she saw nothing but a dark, cavernous hole. A garland of evergreen boughs shaped in a circle hung above each entrance, with more evergreen boughs twisted into the shape of a five-pointed star within the circle. She wondered why, but decided to ask later. As they passed another, she peered inside. A lantern lit within showed men sleeping. Others stared outside. Still others thrashed in their agonies or cried out in pain—a sound Tillie hoped never to hear again, and she tried to shut her ears to their suffering. “Do they do nothing for these men?”

  “Of course they do, dear.” Mrs. Greenly tucked her arm around Tillie’s shoulder. “But no matter what they do, some still suffer, and some are on the edge of their eternal rest.” She turned a corner and entered the second tent on the left side of the lane. Tillie followed and stood at the foot of the cot as Mrs. Greenly sat in the campstool and took the young boy’s hand. She kissed his hand then pressed his palm to her cheek. She laid her other hand on the boy’s forehead and stroked his hair, her action filled with love and longing. “Joseph,” she sing-songed. “Mother’s here.”