by Angela Moody
No Safe Haven
Angela Moody
Copyright © 2016 Angela Moody
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1514643677
ISBN-13:9780463981856
DEDICATION
I dedicate this book to my mother and father. Thank you for always believing in me. I love you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I couldn’t have written this book without the help of too many people to name here. I do want to thank my wonderful family for putting up with me while I undertook this journey. Your love and support mean everything to me. The same goes for my fantastic critique partners. You ladies pulled things out of me I didn’t know existed and you did it with love and good humor. Thank you so much, Audrey, Deb, Julie F, Julie K, and most of all, thank you Monica. To Dierdre Lockhart of Brilliant Cut Editing, the most wonderful and gifted editor anyone could ask for. You took a diamond in the rough and made it sparkle.
Prologue
July 4, 1893
Selinsgrove, PA
Tillie Alleman sat back in her new Adirondack chair, chewing the last of her watermelon slice and watching her family enjoy their picnic.
Her husband, Horace, strolled through the garden, talking with their son, Harry, a serious nineteen-year-old, starting his second year of college in September. Harry’s interest in law pleased his father. From the tilt of their heads and low murmur of their voices, surely, they discussed appropriate college classes, law schools, and which type of law to pursue as they ambled through the gardens.
Seventeen-year-old Mary and thirteen-year-old Anna sat on the picnic blanket nearby, a Godey’s Ladies Book between them.
“I can’t wait until I can wear long skirts.” Annie fingered her sister’s flowered lawn dress. “Ma says when I turn fifteen I may.”
Mary leaned in close. “She made me wait until fifteen as well.” She glanced back at their mother. “How old were you, Ma, when you started wearing long skirts?”
Tillie rose and joined them on the picnic blanket. “I was fifteen as well.”
Annie’s face fell.
Tillie placed a gentle hand on Annie’s knee. “It’s an appropriate age for girls to start with long skirts.”
Mary leaned into Annie and wrapped her arm around her sister’s shoulder. “Don’t be in too much of a hurry to be a lady, Annie. Then it becomes inappropriate to run, skip, or jump.”
Tillie arched a brow. “Mary.” She leaned forward. “I do hope you behave like a proper young lady at the academy.”
“Of course, Mother.” Mary sang. She sat back and lowered her eyes to the blanket for a moment. She looked at Tillie. “I have excellent grades and no demerits for improper dress or deportment. But, sometimes, I would love to jump into a mud puddle or run down the street, just because it feels good to do so.”
Tillie opened her mouth to berate Mary for such an admission, but Horace and Harry joined them.
Harry dropped his lanky frame down across from Annie, causing the Godey’s Ladies Book to slip off her lap.
“Harry!” Annie grabbed at it.
“What are you looking at, Mouse?” He tried to grab the magazine, but Mary and Tillie reached in to stop him.
“Harry, leave her be.” Tillie swatted his arm. “And don’t call her mouse.”
“She is a mouse.” He shrugged, ignoring her admonition, and then dropped onto his back and looked up at the sky beginning to change to early evening light. “So what did you all do for fun on the Fourth of July, when you were young?” He glanced at his parents, and then resumed staring at the sky.
“Who said we had fun on the Fourth of July?” Tillie teased.
Horace chuckled and Mary laughed. Harry grunted.
“Ma, would you tell us the story?” Annie closed the magazine and laid it on the blanket between her and Mary. “I just love hearing the story. Would you tell it, please?”
“Oh.” Tillie wrapped her arm around Annie’s shoulder. She pressed her cheek to the top of her daughter’s head. “You’ve heard that story a thousand times.”
Harry shifted and leaned on an elbow. “We don’t care. We love the story. Please tell it.”
“Yes, Ma, please,” Mary joined in. She readjusted her skirts and pulled her knees up, making herself more comfortable.
Horace chuckled, pulled his pipe out of his shirt pocket, and clenched it between his teeth. He reached into his trouser pocket and removed a pouch of tobacco. “I don’t believe you have much choice, my dear.” He tamped tobacco into the bowl and lit it with great big puffs.
The scent of applewood pipe smoke curled around them and wafted away on the evening breeze. The smell of her family. Just as the metallic scent of animal blood and lemon verbena were the smells of her childhood.
“Oh, dear.” An amused grin tugged at her lips. “How can I refuse these faces?” She glanced at the remains of their picnic feast. “We should clean up first, and then,” she looked at Annie, “I suppose I can tell the story.”
Horace blew pipe smoke into the air. “We can clean up after.” He grinned and bit into his pipe stem.
Tillie shot him a look of love and amusement. He loved the story as much as their children did. “Very well.” She pushed off with one arm and raised her hip off the ground. With her free hand, she pulled her skirts out in front of her, so they wouldn’t bunch and tighten about her legs. Then, when she was comfortable, she peered off to the west. The sun was gone now, but the heat lingered, and in the half-light of the remaining day, she gathered her thoughts. “I can’t believe thirty years have come and gone since,” she began. “I was just a girl when the Confederate soldiers marched into Gettysburg and changed my life forever.”
“The hand of our God was upon us, and He delivered us from the hand of the enemy.” - Ezra 8:22
PART ONE
GETTYSBURG
Chapter 1
Monday, June 22, 1863
Nothing ever happened in Gettysburg. Fifteen-year-old Tillie Pierce gripped the front step railing and hoisted herself up. She braced her hips against the wood and leaned as far over as she dared without falling. She didn’t want to miss the goings-on at the Diamond, the town square.
Traffic increased along the cobbled stones of Baltimore Street. Farmers with empty wagons bumped along, negotiating the narrow roadway shared with gentlemen on horseback shouting and pushing their way through traffic, intent on reaching their destination. Men and women dashed across the street, weaving in and out as the teamsters whistled and shouted to horses and pedestrians alike. Young couples strolled toward Evergreen Cemetery.
Tillie set her feet on the stoop, as a proper young lady ought.
Waning sunlight bathed the brick houses’ rooftops across the street. A gentle breeze rustled the three linden trees in front of the house, and the evening sky deepened.
On Tillie’s left, Mr. Codori’s wagon appeared on Breckenridge Street.
Her eyes widened as he attempted to force his way into the traffic on Baltimore Street, causing a jam. His horses reared and whinnied. Mr. Codori stood and shouted at the man with whom he almost collided. The man shook his fist. A crowd gathered. When she was sure no one saw her, she hoisted herself up on the railing again, straining to see over the tangle to discover when the men might begin their evening spectacle.
Father said the Rebs would never get this far north, so why the codgers tramped the streets in the town’s defense went beyond her comprehension.
The traffic jam sorted itself out, and the crowd dispersed. An uneven stomp caught her attention. Hoisting herself up again, she peered north, toward the Diamond where the tops of pickaxes and pitchforks stabbed the sky as the men marched into a slope in the road. They bobbed into view again when they topped the rise near Middle Street. Tillie drop
ped to her feet and braced her elbows on the railing. She snorted, rolling her eyes at the gray-haired lawyers, doctors, farmers, and businessmen shuffling down Baltimore Street, in defense of the town. The front door opened, and Father emerged. She straightened up as he put his arm around her in a gentle squeeze.
She wrinkled her nose, suppressing a gag at the metallic scent of animal blood still clinging to him. “Finished for the day?”
“Yes.” He kissed the top of her head, releasing her. “Mr. Codori was my last customer.”
Thank goodness. She stepped to the side, turned her face away, and forced a cough. She covered her mouth, using the gesture to squeeze her nostrils together, then dropped her hand and glanced at him through her lashes. He faced the street as the men marched by. Should she tell him about Mr. Codori? No. Father didn’t like tattletales. She slipped her arm through his and put on a bright smile. Together they viewed the parade.
Father smiled, waving off the greetings and entreaties to join them.
The old men playing soldier reminded Tillie of her brothers, James, and William, one in the Army of the Potomac, the other in the Army of the Cumberland. Gone to the army more than a year ago, she wrote to them without fail every week, and initially she got regular letters back each month. She received her last letter from James in March and William in April. Their recent silence scared her. Her heart lurched even now. She prayed for them nightly, although she didn’t think her prayers carried much weight. “What do you think James and William are doing right now?”
“I’m sure they’re safe, my dear. No doubt they’re too busy to write, is all.”
“It’s just…they haven’t written in so long.” She winced. Even to her ears, she sounded childish.
“If Mr. Buehler had any news, he’d tell us straight away. There’s nothing to fear. The boys are in God’s hands.”
She didn’t dare say his words offered little comfort. Having them home to touch, to talk to—that would be comforting.
Instead, she focused on the sorry looking group marching in the street. They acted nothing like the men of the Union Army, just old men playing soldier with pitchforks, pickaxes, shovels, and the occasional rusty Revolutionary War musket. How did they think Rebel soldiers would find them daunting? She didn’t.
“They’d be taken prisoner.” She pointed her chin at the men.
Mr. Kendlehart, the Borough Council President, couldn’t march and handle his ancient gun. His brow furrowed. He fumbled at the mechanisms, causing the men around him to duck while the barrel of the weapon swung to and fro. He stopped midstride, and Mr. Fahenstock crashed into him.
Tillie burst out laughing. “There they go, the great knights of Gettysburg!”
“Don’t mock, Tillie.” Father frowned. “They’re your elders. Be respectful.”
“Yes, Father.” Warmth crept up her face, but… “Still, don’t you think they’re being silly? The war is in Virginia. Not here.”
He gave a slight shrug and kept his eyes on the men filing past. “No. I don’t think so.” The men disappeared over the brow of Cemetery Ridge. He turned and opened the door.
“Then why aren’t you in the Home Guard?”
He held the door for a second, then with careful deliberation, pulled it closed and faced her. “Because. While I don’t think they’re being silly, I do think they’re overreacting. The Rebs won’t maneuver their entire army over the Mason-Dixon Line.”
“So why do they think we need a Home Guard? What possible good can they do?” Tillie studied Father.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “It doesn’t do any good. But they believe they’re contributing to our security. That’s why I don’t ridicule them.” He pointed to her. “And neither shall you.”
She lowered her head in acquiescence. Why would they want to take a small, even ridiculous, part in the war to feel important? As businessmen and members of the Borough Town Council, they loomed large to her. Why should they need to prove anything? She raised her eyes to Father. “Can I ask another question?”
“May I ask another question.” A sly smile curved his lips.
“May I ask another question?”
“You just did.” He crossed his arms and gave her a teasing glance.
“What?”
“You may.”
“Oh.” Tillie giggled and relaxed as he chuckled.
“The other day I read in the newspaper that folks in Waynesboro saw Confederate infantry and cavalry all over the place. Almost four thousand troops. Would the Rebs need so many men to raid a few farms?”
“Don’t fret, child. Perhaps they’re stragglers, like last year. The newspapers exaggerate to sell their papers. That’s how they stay in business.” He patted her shoulder. “Now come. Your mother says supper is ready.”
Tillie walked through the sitting room to the kitchen. To the right a long table stood with six chairs around it, one at each end for Father and Mother, and two on each side. When the boys were home, they sat on one side, and the girls on the other. Maggie had the table almost set. Along the back wall, in the center, the door to the backyard and butcher shop stood open to catch any breezes willing to waft into the room. On the other side of the room, Mother worked at the stove, transferring fried potatoes into a serving dish.
Beside her, a set of shelves held white bone china. Gay pansies and peonies painted the center of each dish. The same design stamped the center of each cup, as well as serving bowls and platters. Crocks of jams, sauces, and jellies, as well as Tillie’s favorite, strawberry-rhubarb pie, for dessert waited closer to arms’ reach. Her stomach grumbled. “What can I do to help, Mother?”
“There you are.” Mother’s deep-brown eyes pierced her with a where-have-you-been stare as she handed her a plate of cold ham.
Like a storm cloud hanging over the house, George Sandoe, her sister Maggie’s beau, occupied William’s seat, the chair next to Mother’s. Here for supper again. Ever since Christmas. Tillie curled her lip as Maggie laid a hand on his shoulder while placing a dish in front of him. Maggie lit up like a firefly every time he showed up.
Tillie rolled her eyes. “Hello, George. Aren’t your parents expecting you home soon?” She plopped the ham down and dropped into her seat across from him.
“Hello, Tillie.” He matched her sarcastic tone. “Nice to see you again as always.”
Mother inclined her head toward George. “Tillie, how rude. You owe him an apology.”
“Oh, it’s all right, Mrs. Pierce. It was sweet of her to inquire after my parents.” He winked at Tillie.
Father entered the kitchen carrying the family Bible. “Glad you could join us today, George.” He shook George’s hand before settling in his chair.
Sam Wade, Father’s twelve-year-old apprentice, slipped into the seat next to Father, Maggie’s normal chair, and copied his every move. Tillie eyed Sam. Maggie should be sitting there, and George should go home.
Mother placed the potatoes, and Maggie carried a steaming bowl of green beans and a plate of bread. At the smell of potatoes, fried with onions, Tillie’s mouth watered. She couldn’t wait to eat, but first…
Father opened the Bible and read from Galatians, chapter four. She lowered her head and closed her eyes, intending thoughtful meditation on the Word.
Perhaps after school tomorrow, she might take a ride on Lady up Culp’s Hill and look for ripe berries. She stifled a yawn behind clenched teeth and tightened jaw muscles. Could Lady make the trip without going lame, poor thing? I don’t care what Father says. I don’t want to say goodbye to her yet.
The Bible closed with a resounding bang.
Tillie jumped and jerked her head up, eyes wide.
Father’s brown eyes focused on her. A tremor rippled through his jowls as he shook his head. “Welcome back, daughter. As usual, you listened close. Would you like to tell us about the passage?”
Her face and ears burned, and she stared at her lap. “I’m sorry.”
Father sighed as he accepted
a bowl of green beans from Maggie. “You worry me.”
Tillie braced for a lecture and shot a quick, miserable glance toward George.
“I hear the Rebels are trying to get to Harrisburg.” George placed a piece of bread on the edge of his plate. He passed the bread to Tillie.
She laid a slice on her plate, refusing to meet his eye as she chanced a peek at Father. His steady glare promised he would let it go for now. They had company, but his expression also told her George would go home.
“George says the Rebs are coming, and we should all be prepared.” Maggie slid her hand through George’s arm. “Isn’t that right?”
“I don’t believe it,” Father said.
George covered her hand with his own but kept his eyes on Father. “I think they are. I know how you feel, sir, but I respectfully disagree. All the indications show they’re coming. The question isn’t if, but when.”
Tillie uttered an exaggerated lovelorn sigh and batted her lashes. She forced a high falsetto voice. “George says the Reb Army is coming, and he’s going to be my knight in shining armor.” She put her elbows on the table edge and laced her fingers together, placing them under her chin in an angelic air. “Oh, how chivalrous of you. Be still my fluttering heart.”
George and Sam laughed, but Maggie tsked and glared at her.
Tillie laughed loud and long.
Mother reached over and, using her thumb and middle finger, flicked Tillie’s elbow. “Get your elbows off the table.”
At the same time, Father’s voice boomed. “Tillie, don’t be unkind. George was speaking to me. You’re fifteen now and a young lady. Time to start acting like one.” He chewed and frowned at her.
She quieted and lowered her gaze. Her face burned, and the spot on her elbow stung, but she resisted the urge to rub the area. She speared green beans with her fork and raised them to her mouth.
