by Angela Moody
That didn’t mean she wanted another demerit for dress and deportment. She had enough of those. She moved to her desk, scrunching into a small a ball behind Belle.
“Miss Pierce!” The teacher’s words cut through the air like a bayonet, slicing Tillie’s heart.
The girls went silent.
“Your skirts are atrocious. You leave a trail wherever you go. A lady never lets her skirts get dirty like some ragamuffin orphan child.” Mrs. Eyster’s black skirts swirled again as she pivoted and stepped onto the raised dais where her desk waited. She plucked up a long wooden ferule.
Heart pounding hard and knees buckling, Tillie clutched Belle, fearing she might crumple to the floor in a fit of vapors. Belle patted Tillie’s hand before moving to her seat.
“Yes, ma’am. I couldn’t help it. Mr. McCreary splashed me in his carriage.”
Mrs. Eyster’s brows shot up. “Oh? Were you in his carriage when he splashed you?”
“N–no, ma’am.” Tillie’s brow crinkled.
Her teacher pursed her lips, the equivalent of her smile. “Why don’t you try your sentence again?”
Tillie blinked. “While I was walking to school—in the rain—Mr. McCreary drove by me in his carriage and splashed me with muddy water.”
Several younger girls giggled.
Mrs. Eyster raised the ferule, rapped her desk once, and the giggling stopped. She locked eyes with Tillie. “There, now that wasn’t so difficult. Alas, I must dock your grade for dress and deportment. You may take your seat. We have a long day ahead of us.” She flicked her hand toward the desk.
“Yes, ma’am,” Tillie whispered. Her shoulders slumped, and she plodded to her seat.
“It is a rare thing indeed, Miss Pierce, when I get a pupil such as you.”
“Ma’am?” Tillie tilted her head. What did she mean?
Mrs. Eyster offered a faint smile. “Take your seat. We have a long day ahead of us.”
As Tillie settled in, Beckie reached out her hand. Tillie clasped it. A folded piece of paper pressed into her palm.
Slipping her hands below the desk, she opened the note to reveal a caricature of their teacher, eyes and tongue bulged out, her hair like lightning bolts. One of Beckie’s favorite jokes about Mrs. Eyster tying her corset strings too tight. Tillie respected her teacher too much to find Beckie’s nasty jokes funny. Yet she didn’t dare stand up to Beckie’s sense of humor. She glanced at Beckie’s self-satisfied grin, tore up the note, and tucked it into her pocket.
* * * *
The brilliant late-afternoon sun glittered like diamonds on the wet grass. The rain moved east to Philadelphia, leaving the air smelling fresh and clean. Tillie needed to hurry home. But the world glimmered and beckoned her to revel in it. She raised her face to the sun’s warmth and breathed deep the loamy wet-earth scent.
Someone tugged on her cloak. She opened her eyes as Beckie slipped her arm through Tillie’s. Tillie raised her face to the sun again. “Do you ever wonder what our great-grandparents would say if they knew the country was at war with itself? After all, they fought to free us from England. Would they be dismayed to discover what they fought for could be destroyed so easily?”
Beckie laughed. “You think too much.”
“Perhaps I do.” Tillie stiffened. “But still, I’m curious. What would they think if they saw us, north fighting south, and possibly destroying what they fought so hard to build?”
“Well…” Beckie shrugged. “I assume, they’d call us silly ninnies.”
Tillie bit her lip, familiar with Beckie’s I-don’t-care shrug.
Beckie brightened. “I got a letter from my beau, Mr. Kitzmiller. Did I tell you?”
“Another one? You told me you got one a week ago. What did he say? Did he give you news of James?”
“Oh. I did tell you he wrote. I got the letter last week. He says it’ll be the last he can write for a while so not to worry. Seems the army is moving again.” Beckie uttered a long dramatic sigh. “It’s to be expected at this time of year I suppose. I do wish he were home, though. I’m almost eighteen. Time to get married.”
Tillie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. So, no news of James. Why didn’t Beckie ask after him? Four words, that’s all. How. Is. James. Pierce. “Has Mr. Kitzmiller proposed?”
“No. And Papa says he would refuse permission anyway until the war is over. I detest this war!” Beckie stamped her foot on the pavement. Stones flew out from under her shoe.
Her friend’s melodramatic declaration coupled with the angry line of her lip and lowered brow made Tillie want to laugh. She bit her tongue and cleared her throat. “George Sandoe joined up, the Twenty-First Volunteers. He leaves in a few days. Maggie’s heartbroken.”
“Well it’s about time.” Beckie tossed her hair. “After three years there isn’t a rush to go anymore. But Mr. Sandoe waited until the legal age to join the army while my George went a year ago at eighteen. So did William.”
“William was nineteen.” Tillie cringed. What a stupid thing to say.
“I stand corrected.” Beckie raised her chin and affected to stare at a bird flying overhead.
Tillie kept her gaze fixed on the road. “At least he didn’t hire a substitute.” Why couldn’t she think of something better to say? George could have paid three hundred dollars and avoided the war altogether. He wasn’t a complete coward.
Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice they were at the corner of Breckenridge Street until Beckie let go of her arm. “Well, here we are, Lawyers Row.” Beckie laughed at her own joke.
Along this side of Washington Street half a dozen law offices lined up next door to each other, as if Pennsylvania College couldn’t produce anything but lawyers.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Tillie frowned as Beckie walked away, skirts swaying back and forth like a pealing bell.
When Beckie disappeared over the brow of Cemetery Ridge, Tillie stepped into Washington Street. Mr. Garlach’s wagon came from out of nowhere, veering left on Washington Street from Breckenridge. He missed colliding with her, but she had to scramble back to the curb to avoid his team of horses. As he passed, he glared at her over his shoulder.
She smiled and waved an apology.
The shrill whistle of the four o’clock train departing the station startled her. Mother would scold her for dillydallying if she didn’t hurry home. Tillie quickened her step east onto Breckenridge.
Inside the Wade house, people shouted at each other. She glanced at the front door on her way by. Then she tsked and crossed the road, as though walking on the same side of the street would somehow taint her. No doubt, Ginny, whose real name was Mary Virginia, gave someone the dickens.
A few years ago, William showed interest in Ginny. James pulled him aside, calling her bossy, mean, and worse, unscrupulous and fast. Tillie asked James what he meant. His words cut her to the quick when her adored older brother turned on her. “Well, little pitchers have big ears. Mind your own business, Tillie.” It still stung when she remembered the encounter. To this day, she didn’t understand what he meant.
Everyone knew Ginny’s sympathies lay with the Confederate cause, in particular, one young man, Wesley Culp, who left to join the rebels. His family owned a farm south of town. What a scandal they created last year when Ginny and Wesley wanted to marry. The Culps refused because of the Wades’ low standing in town. Mr. Wade, Ginny and Sam’s father—a drunk and a thief—started a ten-year prison term a few months ago for something called rape. Soon after, Wes ran off to join the Confederate Army. Ginny took up with Johnston Skelly almost the same hour. He served in the Army of the Potomac.
Tillie didn’t like Sam, either, when he first came to live with them, painting him with the same brush as his family. Over time, though, he proved himself a quiet, thoughtful boy who did his chores with efficiency. Eager to please, he worked hard. His devotion to Father warmed her heart, and she developed a grudging respect and admiration for him. Now she thought of him as a sweet younger bro
ther, though she’d never tell him so.
A broom whisked on the cobblestones, breaking her reverie.
Mr. Weaver, a tall black man with graying hair, swept the street near the corner of her house. His loose-fitting clothing gave the impression of an undernourished man.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Weaver.”
He bobbed his head, raised his hat, and flashed a smile. His white teeth shone against dark skin, and his thick, curly hair, flattened under the hat, made a puffy ring where the brim rested. “Good day to you, young miss. Where’re you off to?”
“Home.”
“That’s nice. Give my regards to your folks.” He pushed his broom toward the gutter.
“I will.” Tillie hopped over his dirt pile.
Maggie and George stood on the stoop, laughing and pointing toward the Diamond.
“Tillie, look.” Maggie gestured up Baltimore Street.
A colored family labored toward them, backs bent under the weight of quilts and blankets bulging with clanking and pinging items.
“Mr. Weaver…?” Tillie nodded to the family. “What’re they doing?”
Mr. Weaver joined them on the corner. He leaned on his broom and scowled as the family passed by.
The slim black woman goaded her two boys. “Fo de Lawd’s sake, chiluns hurry up.” They staggered under the weight. The woman stopped and readjusted her pack. She let go one hand to herd the boys.
Her yellow dress and turban contrasted beautifully against her dark skin. The children, dressed in dirty, white linen shirts, dark pants, and bare feet, each carried bulging patchwork quilts slung over one shoulder. Ahead of them, their father led a cow. The cow lowed a plaintive lament.
“They’s runnin’ to hide on Culp’s Hill.” Mr. Weaver sighed and shifted his feet. “Many of our folk do these days. Word is, if the Rebs come and catch the black folk, we gonna get sol’ inta slavery.”
“But you’re free! They can’t do that.” Tillie studied him, brows creased. She crossed her arms. “It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Keep up,” the woman badgered, giving each boy a gentle shove. “Y’all don’t want them Rebs to kotch you and sell you to slave masters.”
The boys plodded past the woman who readjusted her burden before hurrying to catch up with her husband. She kept up a constant stream of chatter at her children.
“Mmm hmm.” Mr. Weaver stared after the family. “They can, and they will.”
“I’ve heard of overreacting before, but that’s ridiculous.” Smiling, George shook his head.
“They’re being silly, if you ask me.” Maggie slipped her hand under his elbow. “The Rebs aren’t coming here. Father said so. Even so, they don’t have the right to take people who’ve never been slaves.”
“You think so, miss?” Mr. Weaver gave them a hard glare. His brown eyes, so filled with warmth and friendliness moments ago, now blackened with rage. His brows lowered, and he gripped the broom handle so hard, his knuckles looked as though they might crack the skin. “You think they’re ridiculous? Maybe because you ain’t never been hunted before.”
“Mr. Weaver, are you…?” Tillie’s eyes widened, and her mouth fell agape.
He shot her a glare. “No, but my daddy was.”
Maggie peeked at George. He stared at his feet.
Tillie bit her lip, shame washed over her. She had no business prying into the man’s personal affairs.
Mr. Weaver fingered his hat brim. “Y’all have a fine day.” Voice dripping with sarcasm, he gave them each a baleful glare, turned, and shuffled up Breckenridge Street, pushing his broom as he went.
Tillie, Maggie, and George stood in chastened silence as the family trundled down the street. After they disappeared over the brow of the hill, George turned to Maggie and put his hand on her arm. He whispered in her ear.
She smiled, and her eyelids lowered as his lips brushed against her hair, his blond head close to hers.
Tillie ran up the steps to the front door and entered the house, shutting out the sight of the lovebirds.
* * * *
Upstairs Tillie hung her school dress over the armoire door and changed into her everyday work dress before assessing the damage from her walk to school. The mud would brush out, so no harm done thank Heaven. The water stains would require laundering. She grabbed the cleaning brush and brushed hard a few strokes before giving up. She crumpled the dress in a wash pile, shoved her shoes far into the back of her armoire, and threw a shawl on top of them.
At her dressing table, she loosened her braids, brushed, and tidied her hair.
Mother always said a woman’s hair was her crowning glory, so Tillie took pains to keep hers healthy. After one hundred strokes, she threw the hairbrush down and ran her fingers through the chestnut tresses, satisfied when the light caught and shone through the silky strands.
Chin in hand, she studied her reflection, tilting her head and assessing large, brown, almond-shaped eyes framed by long lashes. Father called them doe eyes.
She wrinkled and stretched her nose. Still, it receded into her face before reemerging like a small ball hanging above her full lips.
Voices drifted up from downstairs, and she glanced at the door. Father would reprimand her for shirking if she didn’t head down soon. Tillie gathered up her hair again to braid, but couldn’t resist twisting a bun and holding on the back of her head, imitating Mother. Containing her tresses with one hand, she tipped her head from side to side, evaluating the effect. She frowned and let go. The mass of brown curls splashed over her shoulders and cascaded down her back. She scowled at her reflection. “I’ll never be as pretty as Mother or Maggie. Grandmother is right. With a face like mine, I need a nose like mine.” She puckered her mouth, gathered up her hair, and fingers flying, braided it.
She slipped down the stairs and into the sitting room, expecting to find Maggie, Mother, and Father. She walked into an empty room. Her shoulders dropped, and she let out her breath. As she passed Father’s chair, she spied the Gettysburg Compiler lying folded in half on the table beside his chair. The headline screamed: Rebels Reported In Chambersburg, Carlisle And York, Looting Rampant. Fingers shaking, she picked up the paper and read the article. Clearly, the editor had so small an opinion of the story, he didn’t allot more than a few column inches. Still, fear spiked through her. Two thousand infantry. Twenty thousand cavalry. No mention of the Union boys and their whereabouts. However, President Lincoln fired General Hooker and put General Meade at the head of the Army of the Potomac.
Chambersburg, Carlisle and York…They made a U shape around Gettysburg. So close! She scanned the room, half-expecting Rebs to jump out of the corners. Then she put the paper down and tipped it just right, as if the action would make them go away.
Leaving it there, she walked into the kitchen. Maggie stood by the door, holding Tillie’s apron. She almost told Maggie about the story, but no. If Father thought it important, he’d say something.
“Where’s George?” Tillie took her apron from Maggie and dropped it over her head.
Maggie’s far-off, vacant stare fixed on a spot on the wall.
Tillie tied her apron strings behind her back, while bending her knees, attempting to catch her sister’s eye. “I assumed you two would be occupied for a while so I didn’t hurry down.”
Maggie glanced at her, picked up two baskets, handing one to Tillie. “I told him he needed to leave as soon as you got home. That’s why we waited on the steps.”
Tillie snugged her bonnet on, tying the bow under her chin. She grabbed the fruit basket Maggie held out. “Shall we?” She slipped past Maggie into the bright sunshine.
George stood at the butcher shop door. Father sat before his whetstone, drawing a blade across. The stone zinged and sparks flew around him, but he didn’t try to get out of their way. Sam worked behind Father, taking down equipment and putting others away.
“He hasn’t left yet. He’s standing by Father’s shop.”
“Father wanted to cut him a choice
piece of meat to take home to his family. He leaves Thursday morning for Carlisle. I won’t see him tomorrow, since he has things to do to prepare to go and we have all of this to preserve.” Maggie flicked her hand over the garden.
“Oh.” Tillie focused on the task. “What about the fruit trees?” She glanced toward the apple and peach trees. Only green fruit dangled from their boughs. “The peaches will be ready in a couple of weeks, but the apples, of course, won’t be ready until mid-August so we shouldn’t worry about them. Do you agree?”
Her sister’s attention remained on George, deep in conversation with Father.
“Maggie?” Tillie touched her sister’s arm. The cotton sleeve, warmed by the sun, nestled softly under her hand.
Maggie started. “Whatever you want, Tillie.” Her voice sounded vague and despondent. Tears welled in the corner of her eyes, spilling down the side of her nose.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want George to go. I’m afraid,” Maggie choked out.
“He’ll be all right. I’m sure of it.” The words rang false to Tillie even as she said them. Would George be all right? Foreboding washed over her. Her heart pounded, and her hands shook. She grasped her skirt and squeezed the fabric to still the tremors.
Maggie uttered a small laugh. “You know, for the longest time, I didn’t think you liked George.”
Tillie offered her sister a wry grin. “I like him, I guess. I will admit to jealousy.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she knelt in the dirt, “you don’t like to do things with me anymore. We used to go up to Culp’s Hill and pick berries and flowers, but now all you do is stay home and wait for George to visit.”
Maggie sat next to her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you felt that way. It’s not so much I’m waiting around for George, but I’m grown up now. I wager in another year or so you’ll feel the same way.” Maggie took her hand. “No matter what, you’re my sister and nothing can change that.”
