by Angela Moody
Father kept his eyes on her for a moment longer before returning to George. “I do disagree with you. Did you read the proclamation in the paper last week?” Father scooped a forkful of potatoes. “President Lincoln called for fifty thousand men from Pennsylvania. He won’t let the Rebs get anywhere near Harrisburg. Hooker will stop them before they reach Maryland again.”
Maryland. Antietam. The bloodiest day of the war took place a mere fifty miles away. Both armies might find their way to the Commonwealth. No. Father said it won’t happen. That’s that. Recalling Mr. Brady’s photographs near Sharpsburg afterward, Tillie suppressed a shudder. The newspaper printed a few of them. Mother cried when she looked at them.
Father waved his fork around. “My guess is these are only raiders. A small band of men causing trouble in the hope of scaring the President into sending troops here, so the bulk of their army can do mischief somewhere else. Like Washington.”
“I must disagree, Mr. Pierce, which is why…” George closed his hand over Maggie’s. He faced her. “I’m joining up. I’m twenty-one now and time I did my part. I wanted to go earlier, but Mother became distraught over the idea. I think Father convinced her it’s the right thing to do. Yesterday, Governor Curtin called for more men. I answered the call this afternoon. In three days, I go to Carlisle to join the Twenty-First Pennsylvania Volunteer Cavalry.”
Tillie perked up. She’d get her sister back, all to herself.
Maggie’s mouth hung agape. “Oh, Georrrr-ge.” She drew out his name in a long dismayed whisper as tears filled her eyes. When he patted her hand, Maggie nodded, forced a smile, and blinked fast several times.
Everyone fell silent. Another of their young men leaving for parts unknown to do his duty for God and Country.
Throughout the conversation, Sam concentrated on his food, but now he sat upright. “You’re gonna be a soldier, George? I wish I could go.”
“Well, thank heaven you’re far too young to march off to war young man.” Mother’s glare pinned him to his chair.
Undaunted, Sam continued, “Well, I hope they do come here. Our boys’ll whup ’em good, won’t they, Mr. Pierce? One Yankee can whup a dozen Johnny Rebs, right, sir?”
George chuckled.
Father ruffled the boy’s hair. “Well, I’m not sure about that, Sam.”
Tillie snorted and chewed some ham. Maggie and Mother exchanged amused glances.
“All right, everyone.” Mother flicked a hand over the table. “No more of this Reb talk. Your food is getting cold.”
* * * *
After dinner, the family gathered in the sitting room. White lace curtains behind green velvet drapes floated over the large bay window facing the street. A rosewood couch with emerald satin cushions rested in front of the window next to Father’s chair. The doilies Tillie made last year when she learned to crochet still graced its arms. She’d been so proud. Now, she hated their childish design. She set up her books and slate at the worktable in the room’s center. The cold brick fireplace stood like a sentinel on the wall nearest the kitchen entrance. Mother placed her chair on one side of the fireplace, Maggie’s on the other. Mother rocked back and forth, knitting.
Before opening her books, Tillie leaned her head in her hand, watching Mother knit. “What’re you working on?”
“I’m making a sweater for James. When I’m done, I’ll make one for William. I finished the stockings Mrs. Winebrenner requested for the Union Relief League, and I want to get these done so I can send them in time for Christmas.”
“Let me know when you’ve finished. I’m making a sash for their uniforms. I’ll include them.”
“What a wonderful idea.” Mother’s right foot tapped the ground, rocking her slightly.
Sam nudged Tillie’s arm.
“What?”
“I don’t know how to do these sums.”
Tillie showed him, nodding when he got the first two correct. After two more interruptions, she taught him how to check his work. Several minutes later, he hissed in her ear. “Tillie.”
She snapped her Latin text shut. “What?” She bit the word short and pursed her lips to squelch her irritation.
“Did I do these problems right?”
She pulled the slate close in the fading daylight. “Yes.” She pushed the slate and the chalk pencil back.
He glanced at Mother. “I still don’t get what readin’ and cipherin’ has to do with butcherin’.”
“Mother’s right. How will you charge for your services if you can’t cipher? How will you put an advertisement in the paper if you want to run a special, like Father does sometimes, if you can’t write?”
“It’s hard.”
“Stop whining. Of course, it’s hard. That’s what makes it worth doing.” At his puckered brow and trembling lip, she softened her tone. “You know…” She leaned her head in close. “If you stop grumbling and fighting and learn how to read and write, you might become the most successful butcher in Gettysburg. Why, you could even be a lawyer if you wanted.”
A spark of interest lit his blue eyes. His elaborate shrug said he doubted the truth of her words, but he returned to the book.
“Tillie.” He nudged her arm once again. “Do you think if I get good enough at this learnin’ stuff, I might make a lawyer and not a butcher?”
“Perhaps.” She smiled. “This is America. You can be anything you want. You’re apprenticed to Father to be a butcher, but I don’t see why you couldn’t be a lawyer someday.” She tilted her head. “Are you saying you don’t want to be a butcher? Father’s quite a good one, and people come from all over for his skills.”
“It ain’t that.” Sam ducked his head. “I’m glad to be anything my father ain’t.” Scarlet flowed up his neck and into his face and ears. He ran his index finger over the page of his book, refusing to meet her eyes.
“Your father’s not so bad—”
Sam slashed his hand through the air. “He’s a drunk and a thief! You know that. The whole town knows it.”
She hadn’t meant to patronize him. She returned to her studies.
“It’s just…” Though almost inaudible, his voice held pain and longing. “Sometimes I wish your father was my father.”
Tillie sat back, jaw slack and eyes wide. She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. What made Sam idolize Father?
James Pierce, fifty-five years old, sat with legs crossed, reading his newspaper. For the first time, she noted his thick head of dark-brown hair showed gray at the temples. His deep-brown eyes radiated kindness and warmth, and care lines crinkled his mouth and forehead. Unlike most men, he did not sport face whiskers. He said men looked messy and unkempt with them. His career as a butcher made Father a well-muscled man, though his midriff expanded from age and Mother’s excellent cooking. He gave the newspaper a quick shake. His scarred hands turned the page, drawing her attention to his left middle finger—shorter than the rest, due to an accident in his youth when a knife slipped and sliced off the tip. It lent his hand an odd shape, making Father unique. Pride warmed her heart over being born to him and Mother.
Tillie glanced at Sam again. A surge of compassion and renewed liking rose up in her breast. Anyone who held Father in such high esteem deserved her respect. She wanted to give him a hug but couldn’t embarrass either of them. She grabbed her Latin text and flipped to her lesson.
Maggie entered the house and settled next to the fireplace, across from Mother’s rocking chair, before picking up her book. Mother’s knitting needles clicked and flashed. Father’s newspaper rustled when he turned the page. He gave the paper another shake and cleared his throat. The pages of Maggie’s book swished every few minutes, and Sam’s chalk pencil squeaked across the slate.
Daylight faded from the room. Father didn’t allow lit candles or burning lamp oil in the summer. The newspaper crinkled as he folded and laid it next to his chair, a signal to the family. “Time for bed, everyone,” he announced as he did each night.
Mother wou
nd up her yarn and wrapped her project around her needles. Maggie placed a ribbon to mark her place. Tillie and Sam put away their studies.
Outside, two men on Baltimore Street sang “All Quiet Along The Potomac Tonight.” She sighed, happy and contented, as she made her way upstairs. She plodded along, bringing up the rear. Now that George was leaving for the Army, perhaps things could go back to the way they used to be. On the heels of the thought, her conversation with Father entered her mind. Would the Rebs invade? Father said no—but what if?
Chapter 2
Somewhere at the back of the line, a drum beat a constant tattoo as faceless, legless blue-clad soldiers marched by in an endless loop.…
Tillie mumbled, rolled over, and opened her eyes. Rain slashed the windowpanes. A brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the room, and thunder rumbled.
She groaned, pulling the covers over her head. Maybe the weather would clear before she left for school.
As if in warning, thunder cracked across the sky. She stretched and swung her feet to the floor. Wriggling her toes into the braided rug, she yawned and stretched again. She put on her school dress of brown muslin, washed her face, and combed and braided her chestnut tresses, while pretending the thunder was a Union Army cannon driving off the hated Rebels. Once dressed, she headed downstairs for breakfast. The aroma of bacon, frying potatoes, and coffee enveloped her. Tillie closed her eyes, inhaled in anticipation as her stomach growled. She entered the kitchen to find Mother working at the stove. Maggie stood near the back door churning the morning butter.
“Good morning.” Moving to the shelf beside the stove, Tillie pulled down dishes to set the table. She squeezed around Mother cooking scrambled eggs.
Mother took a step to the side. “Good morning, Sunshine.” She poured the eggs into the skillet and gave the potatoes a quick stir. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did. How about you?”
“Very well.”
Tillie set the plates down and returned for silverware.
Mother stirred the eggs and slid the potatoes into a bowl. Her eyes went to the ceiling when another boom of thunder pealed across the sky. “Heavens, what a storm.” She pushed the potatoes about in the pan and shoved it to the back of the stove. Then she transferred the eggs to a platter and passed it to Tillie. “I need you and Maggie to do something for me today, if the rain stops.”
“All right.” Tillie studied her.
“Go out to the garden and pick any vegetables ripe enough—peas, beans, anything. We’ll pickle and preserve tomorrow.”
“There won’t be much. Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Mother wiped her fingers on her bib apron before putting her hands on the hips of her blue gingham dress. She nodded for emphasis. “I talked with Mrs. Broadhead yesterday. She told me Mr. Broadhead would rather pick his vegetables green and burn the rest, than allow the Rebs to get so much as one bean.”
Tillie studied her mother, surprised by her tone. “You think the Rebels are coming? Father says they’re not.”
Mother stepped close and rested one hand on Tillie’s shoulder. With the other, she cupped Tillie’s chin. She took a deep breath and let it out in a slow, measured exhale. “Yes, I do. Your father says no, and I pray he’s right. But I’m not so certain. With the dubious successes of our Army thus far…” She took another deep breath and huffed. “Well, as I said, I pray he’s right. Just in case, though, I want you to gather as much from the garden as you can, for I’m in agreement with Mr. Broadhead.”
* * * *
Tillie dashed through the downpour to the barn behind the butcher shop. The door creaked on its hinges, and she breathed in the earthy, woody fragrance of hay mixed with the sharp tang of horse dung.
Lady thrust her nose over the stall door. She blew a greeting and tossed her head.
Tillie took hold of Lady’s muzzle, sliding her palm across her velvety nose, and kissed her. “Good morning, my dear. How are you this rainy day?” She presented two sugar cubes.
Lady pushed at her palm as she gobbled them. She blinked, which Tillie took for thank you. She imagined a smile on the horse’s face.
Tillie stroked her nose, reveling in her soft, yet prickly snout. “Perhaps this afternoon we can ride to Culp’s Hill. Don’t worry, girl. I won’t overwork your bad leg. We’ll rest as much as you need.” Tillie kissed her again as thunder rumbled and rain drummed overhead. “I have to leave for school now, but this afternoon we’ll spend time together after I help Maggie in the garden.” She gave Lady’s nose another stroke, blew the horse a kiss, and then ran back to the house.
* * * *
Tillie eyed the low dark clouds and clutched her cape close to her neck. She bent her head against the onslaught, pulling her hoops high off the ground to keep her dress dry.
“Child, put your skirts down. What would your mother say? And where’s your umbrella?”
Mrs. Winebrenner, Mother’s Union Relief League, and church friend, stood next to her. She held an umbrella high and wore the expression of someone about to launch into a firm scolding. Her eyes traveled up and down Tillie.
“Good morning, Mrs. Winebrenner. I didn’t think walking two blocks would be such a problem. I didn’t mean to do this much damage. I still can’t walk in the rain without getting my skirts dirty.” Mother would hear about this, the old biddy-body.
Mrs. Winebrenner braced her hand on Tillie’s shoulder and leaned forward. “A cross we all must bear, my dear.” She spoke as though imparting the wisdom of the ages, patted Tillie’s shoulder, and walked away.
If that woman told Mother about showing her ankles in public, then so be it. She needed to get to school.
Tillie gathered her skirts and ran. She got a few paces before her foot landed in an unseen puddle. Cold water splashed her leg. Gritting her teeth, she lifted her foot and turned it from side to side. “Oh, Mother’s going to kill me.” She bit her lip against the urge to cry, and easing her foot down, continued on her way, taking mincing steps and grimacing at the water squishing between her toes.
At the intersection of Middle and Washington Streets, she stopped to remove and examine her Sunday shoes. She wasn’t supposed to wear them for every day, and she’d be punished if she ruined them. Tillie balanced on one foot and the toes of her other. She turned her shoe around and around, examining the damage, ignoring the traffic passing by. She gasped as cold, muddy water hit her neck and ran under her collar, soaking through to her dress. Worse yet, her shoe got a second dunking as a gob of muddy water splatted her hands. Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them down as she stared at Mr. McCreary’s carriage making its way up Washington Street.
“Land sakes, Mr. McCreary!” Tillie glared and glanced around. Did anyone hear her use foul language?
Nellie Auginbaugh, strode past carrying an umbrella, heels clicking on the pavement. She didn’t acknowledge Tillie standing in the street with one shoe off and one shoe on. She crossed Middle Street and continued to her destination. Tillie raised her eyes to the sky and said a silent thank you. She didn’t need Mother confronting her about using bad language. She turned her attention back to her shoe. Her heart seized over the damage done. Standing in the rain like a duck in thunder didn’t help matters.
Her feet numbed with cold, she arrived at Lady Eyster’s Female Academy. The rain plastered her hair to her head. Strands stood loose from her braid. Her clothes stuck to her body, her hoops fell, and now her skirt hem dragged in the mud. She raised sorrowful eyes to the imposing, white two-story building. Why couldn’t she go home? Things were only about to get worse.
As she stared at the building, its seven upstairs windows glared down at her, and the two baronial front doors mocked her. “Go away. You’re not smart enough to enter these rooms.” She drew a deep breath and, with a halting gait, climbed the four stone steps.
Tillie stepped inside and leaned against the door until it clicked closed. She stamped her feet, freeing the muck from her shoes, eased off her cloak, a
nd hung it on a peg, before assessing the damage. The cloak received the worst of the carriage attack. Perhaps she would be all right before the day ended. Her hem dripped, leaving small puddles at her feet, and she scarcely resisted stamping a dismayed foot.
Girls’ laughter and chatter drifted from behind the closed door. Good. Classes hadn’t started yet. At least Mrs. Eyster wouldn’t dock her for tardiness. She eased the classroom door open a sliver and peered through. No sign of her teacher.
Tillie slipped inside, passing the youngest girls, who congregated near the door. They gawked. She lifted her chin and ignored them. She walked by the next older grade who took seats beside the front windows. They pointed and snickered behind their hands. Tillie squared her shoulders, lifted her head high, met ten-year-olds’ stares and dismissed twelve-year-olds’ giggles and whispers. A trail of muddy water followed her squishing shoes across the room to her classmates at the back. Maybe the floor would open and swallow her whole.
Catherine Foster gaped. “Look at your skirt. Mrs. Eyster will dock you.”
Beckie Weikert laughed and wagged her finger. “Madame Imperious will say a thing or two about your dress.”
“Ugh, I know. Mr. McCreary dashed by in his carriage and splashed me from head to toe. And my shoes!” She inched up her hem and held out each foot for careful examination. Her friends murmured “oh dears” and “what are you going to dos?” as she twisted each foot right to left, before dropping her skirt.
Belle Stewart bent and swiped grime from the back of Tillie’s skirt.
Mrs. Eyster entered the room.
Tillie clutched Belle, using her as a shield. Belle straightened up and broadened her shoulders.
“All right, ladies.” Mrs. Eyster clapped her hands three times. “Come to order.” The teacher’s black skirts swirled around her feet. She walked, ramrod straight, into the room.
When Tillie first started attending the academy, she disliked her teacher. With Mother’s help, Tillie learned to look past her strict formality to the lonely, childless widow. Her deeper understanding of her teacher softened her heart, and over time, Tillie hated to disappoint her.
