by Angela Moody
Tillie threw her arms around Maggie in a fierce hug. “I’m sorry, too. When George started coming around, I didn’t like it. I didn’t want him changing things.” She pulled away and chuckled. “You know, sometimes I get so frustrated with the sameness of each day, I want to scream. Other times, I feel as if I’m balancing on the edge of a precipice. I can’t explain it. I want things to change if only for some variety, but I also don’t want anything to change.”
“I understand.” Maggie squeezed her hand. “It reminds me of those wooden tops Father made for the boys, remember?”
“Tell me.”
“They had strings you wound around the top, and when James threw his on the floor, the top spun and spun before wobbling to a stop. But William’s top always staggered around and crashed into the walls.”
Tillie laughed. “I bet he got mad. He hates being second to James in anything.”
“Including birth.” Maggie chuckled.
Tillie inspected a tomato plant. The basil-like aroma filled her nostrils. She moved on. “Is that how you felt? Like William’s top?”
“Most of the time. When I was scared and unsure I whirled in confusion. I was James’s top when things went right.” Maggie plucked two large green tomatoes. She set them into her basket. “You know, William’s top is how we act when we take our eyes off God, or refuse to acknowledge Him. James’s top is what happens when God comes first in our lives in all things.”
Tillie scowled and let her fingers search the peapods and green beans as she considered Maggie’s words. They worked in silence for a few minutes.
“So did George propose?”
Again, Maggie’s eyes darted to the butcher shop. Tillie followed her gaze. George was gone.
“Maggie?”
“No, he didn’t. To propose now would be foolhardy. He’s not the only man to join the army, I know that, but I’m afraid something will happen to him.”
The hair rose on the back of Tillie’s neck. “Oh, don’t think that way. He’ll be fine, and once he comes home a brave soldier, he’ll ask for your hand.”
Maggie opened her mouth, but a strange expression crossed her face. She closed her mouth again and picked vegetables.
Tillie observed her sister and waited for what she might say.
Maggie dropped cucumbers into her basket. “You’re right.” Her lips twitched. “Besides, it’s all in God’s hands. I must be brave and give George to God.”
Maggie picked more cucumbers and placed them into her basket while Tillie searched the peapods.
“Did you read the newspaper in the sitting room?” Maggie’s voice sounded frightened.
Tillie closed her eyes, and her shoulders drooped. “Yes.”
“Father doesn’t think the Rebs will come.” Maggie spoke above a whisper. “But what if they do?”
Tillie sat back and folded her hands in her lap. “Most of the time I believe him, but sometimes I’m not sure what to think.” She plucked a baby peapod. “There’s something in the air. I can’t explain what, but I sense it. I’m teetering on that precipice, and I’m afraid of falling off.” She twirled the peapod between her fingers. “I don’t know what made me speak so, except George is leaving day after tomorrow. James and William are miss—gone.” She dropped the pod into her basket. “I don’t know about giving George—or James or William, for that matter—to God. I just hope the Rebs stay away.”
“I agree.” Maggie twisted a pitiful green tomato off the vine, topping off her basket. “I pray the Rebs don’t come and all the men we love will come home safe.”
Tillie nodded her agreement, but the headline loomed before her eyes: Rebels Reported In Chambersburg, Carlisle And York, Looting Rampant. The words screamed for her attention, along with two other words: They’re coming.
Chapter 3
When Tillie arrived home from school, the smell of coriander, pepper, and vinegar assaulted her nostrils. She ran upstairs and changed into her everyday work dress, before joining Mother and Maggie in the kitchen.
They were already working to preserve the vegetables picked the day before. Tillie slipped her clean, white cotton apron over her head and tied the strings behind her back.
“Oh, good, you’re home.” Mother used her forearm to wipe sweat off her forehead. The pickling process, something they usually did in autumn’s cooler months, left the kitchen stifling. “Why don’t you start at the kitchen table? Maggie and I have things at the stove well in hand.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tillie settled at the table. She washed green beans, soaked them in a salt brine, and then stuffed them into glass jars filled with vinegar and spices.
Once filled, Mother capped the jars and placed them in a boiling water bath. When she removed them, she set them aside and added more jars.
Tillie packed the cooled jars in a box and brought it to the dank basement, where she took her time storing them in the food cupboard. When the beans were all jarred, she started cutting up green tomatoes. The cucumbers became pickles and relishes.
Jars of fruit relishes and jams overtook the cupboard beside the cook stove. The intense preserving and pickling kept them working with very little conversation, but an easy camaraderie saturated the steamy room.
Knife in hand, Tillie reached with her left hand to find the vegetables still waiting for preparation. She felt around the table and then glanced over. She saw nothing but stems and pieces of tomatoes, empty peapods, and green bean stems. She looked at Mother boxing up the last jars of relishes, then at Maggie wiping the counter near the stove. Tillie took a deep breath and rolled her head from shoulder to shoulder.
Mother pushed the box to the side, and then pressed her sleeve to her forehead, sweeping away stray hair. “Well, that’s that.” She smiled at Tillie and Maggie. “Thank you, girls.”
“I can take Lady to Culp’s Hill on Saturday to look for berries, if you’d like.” Tillie rose from the table and stretched her arms over her head. “She could use the exercise.”
“I should say yes, but right now, I’m too tired to agree.” Mother grabbed a rag from the counter and began wiping the table. “You girls gather up the pots and utensils, and we’ll wash everything after supper.”
“Yes, Mother.” Tillie wiped her hands on her apron, and then gathered her utensils to take to the washbasin as Maggie put water in the kettle to boil.
Tillie decided she’d ride up to pick berries. Perhaps if she gathered enough, Mother would let her make a pie.
* * * *
Tillie skipped down the stairs. The vinegar smell still tainted her hands and hair, making her grimace.
As she stepped around the landing, she gripped the handrail to keep from tumbling down the last steps. George stood just inside the parlor room door. She descended the remaining stairs, stopping on the last step. Should she go in and say goodbye? They were probably discussing adult things. If she went in uninvited, Father would tell her to get ready for school. She descended, intent on leaving the adults to themselves, when George raised a hand and waved her in.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come down.” He stood straight and tall in his new uniform. Snappy gold trim twirled down the front of the dark-blue wool coat, swirled around the hem, and encircled each cuff. His light-blue cavalry pants sported a bold yellow stripe down the outside of the leg. Knee-high shiny cavalryman’s boots completed the uniform. He combed his blond hair down, and his blue eyes sparkled. He twisted his kepi in his hands.
Her heart lurched. He was handsome. She stumbled over her feet as her face heated.
George held out his hands, and as if in a daze, she walked to him. He placed a quick, brotherly peck on her cheek.
“I’m leaving for Carlisle to join my regiment.” He squeezed her hands. “But I wanted to say goodbye to my second-best girl.”
Tillie smiled, unable to look away. “Uh…M–Maggie’s going to write you so many letters you won’t have time to read them all, but would you like to receive a letter from me, once in a while?” Sh
e lifted her eyebrows, suggesting he might think the idea of letters from her ridiculous.
“I’d be devastated if you didn’t write to me, thinking in some way I’d offended you. That would break my heart.”
Her uplifted brows creased. He truly sounded sincere. As if to prove it, he gave her hands another gentle squeeze.
Her throat constricted. Did he sense her resentment? Did Maggie tell him about their garden conversation? His tender grip warmed her, and searching his eyes, she found no sign of bitterness.
Breaking eye contact, he released her hands.
Did her palms sweat? She resisted the urge to wipe her hands on her skirts, afraid he might think she disliked holding his hands. She clasped hers behind her back and ran a finger across each palm to check for moisture. “Where’s your rifle?”
“I’ll get arms once I reach my regiment in Carlisle.”
“Oh.”
An awkward silence filled the room. Did the adults want her to leave?
“Well, if you’ll pardon me, I need to get ready for school. Goodbye, George. Take care of yourself.”
“Goodbye, Tillie, and thank you. I’m glad we can be friends now.”
Fresh heat shot up her neck and exploded across her cheeks. He did know. “I am too.” She smiled, crossed the hall to the sitting room, and entered the kitchen to get breakfast.
* * * *
Maggie bore up well since George’s departure an hour ago. She didn’t put on a bit of the melodramatic behavior Tillie half-expected, no heavy sighs or hands thrown to her forehead in abject misery, accompanied by wails of displeasure. Not once did Tillie want to slap Maggie in front of Mother and Father. Tillie’s bottom lip curled over her teeth to hide a smile, amused by the idea of such a scene. Rising from the breakfast table, she brought her bowl to the washbasin then paused when someone knocked on the kitchen door.
Mother’s calico skirts rustled as she moved to answer the door. “Good morning, Mr. Garlach.” She pulled the door wide. “Please come in.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pierce. Don’t mind if I do.”
The white-haired man shuffled in with a stooped-shouldered gait. “Good morning, young man.” He ruffled Sam’s brown curls as the boy hunched over his porridge bowl.
“Morning, sir.” Sam shoved a large spoonful into his mouth.
“When are you going to give up this idea of butchering and come to me to learn the Lord’s trade? Carpentry is where the real money is, boy, not in killing cows.” Mr. Garlach nudged Sam’s shoulder.
Sam’s blue eyes sparkled as he shoveled another big spoonful of porridge into his mouth. He made exaggerated chewing motions.
Mr. Garlach turned to Father chuckling. “A diplomatic young man right there, James.”
Father laughed and shook Mr. Garlach’s hand. “Very diplomatic indeed.”
Tillie lifted a cup and saucer from the shelf and carried it to the table.
“Good morning, young lady.” He turned around with slow, shambling steps and gave her cheek a gentle pinch. “Nice to see you alive and well. You gave me quite a fright the other afternoon when you stepped in front of my wagon.” He wagged a finger.
“I’m sorry, sir.” She peeked at Mother. She hadn’t told her parents about her close encounter with Mr. Garlach’s wagon while walking home Tuesday.
Mother closed the door and cast a questioning glance her way.
Tillie smiled and flicked her fingers. He made it sound worse than necessary.
“Ah, no harm done.” He reached to pinch her cheek again, but she joined Maggie at the sink to make the motion seem natural.
“Miss Maggie, good morning to you.”
She returned the greeting.
Mr. Garlach pulled out a chair and sat.
Mother poured coffee and placed a plate of muffins on the table.
He slid a cup close. “I came by to tell you some news, in case you didn’t know.” Mr. Garlach’s hand trembled from palsy as he closed his fingers around a muffin and dropped it onto a plate. “That new regiment, the Twenty-First Pennsylvania Emergency Volunteer Corps, is expected on the noon train.” He broke his muffin into small chunks before popping a piece into his mouth.
“It’ll be good to get some of our boys back.” Father stirred cream into his coffee. “I can’t reconcile myself with the news from Chambersburg. Rebels looting and threatening to burn the town if they don’t get what they demand.” He pursed his lips as he handed his guest the cream pitcher.
Mother joined them with her own cup of coffee. “Since the Twenty-First gathered up the last of our Gettysburg boys, the town feels deserted.” She put her hand over her heart. “I declare, with all this talk of Rebel soldiers marauding the country, I’d like to feel safe again. How dreadful to believe they’re so close—only twenty-five miles away.”
Mr. Garlach nodded. “Mrs. Garlach agrees with you. I’m sure the Rebs will go back to wherever they came from as soon as they clap their eyes on our good Union boys.” He popped another muffin chunk into his mouth and chewed as he added a splash of cream. Some spilled in the saucer.
Father gestured toward Maggie. “In fact, young George Sandoe left this morning to meet the regiment in Carlisle.”
“I heard.” Mr. Garlach turned in his chair. “It’ll be nice to get your beau back, eh, Miss Maggie?” He gave her a wink.
“It certainly will.” Maggie grinned, and her cheeks pinked. She resumed drying the dishes. Tillie pressed her shoulder against Maggie’s, sharing in the amity.
So many questions to ask, but she dared not speak out in front of company. Would the Rebs run as soon as the Yanks showed up? She doubted it. Would the Yanks stand and fight? She doubted that too. According to Tuesday’s headline, the Rebs were all around. The Yanks? Who knew? Why didn’t they come? Was General Hooker at fault? The newspaper reported President Lincoln dismissed him for good, as he fired Burnside before him, and McClellan and McDowell before Burnside. Now, with General Meade in charge, would they fight on Northern soil? Would they stand?
Maggie nudged Tillie back to reality, her rag poised and unmoving on a dish while Maggie waited for another dish to dry.
“I couldn’t agree more.” Father nodded. “Our boys will be here this afternoon, and once they arrive, the rebels will see we mean business. The show of force won’t go unnoticed.”
Tillie leaned close and whispered to Maggie, “George might have saved himself the trouble of going to Carlisle if he’d known they were turning around and coming here.”
Maggie sighed. “Poor George. He could have stayed with me.” She sounded sympathetic, but her brown eyes sparkled at the mention of her beau’s return.
* * * *
The school day started with math calculations as usual. Tillie rose when called on to solve the algebra equation on the board. She approached with a halting gait. Mrs. Eyster held out the chalk. Tillie closed her fingers around it as if she contemplated slipping her hand into a lion’s mouth. Would it bite? Her hand shook as she stood close to the board. She whispered the question, desperate to ascertain the logic in it. Find the product of the polynomials P(x) = 2x 2 - 3x and Q(x) = 3x 2 + x - 5. She pressed the chalk to the board then used her index finger to wipe away its mark. She read the question again. Her throat tightened, and her heart pounded in her ears. Her eyes grew hot, and she blinked fast. She started to write her answer. The chalk squealed on the board. Tillie’s hand froze, and then she wiped away what she wrote.
Mrs. Eyster let out an exasperated sigh. “Miss Pierce, sit down. I declare, young lady.…” Whatever she declared, she chose not to say. The teacher wrote twenty more equations on the blackboard for her.
Tillie choked. If she couldn’t do one, what made Mrs. Eyster think she could do twenty? She bent her head close to her slate to hide her face.
Beckie rose, sashayed to the board and with swift, sure motions, solved the equation that sent Tillie to her seat.
Tillie glared at Beckie’s back. She crossed her arms and bit her lower lip. As
Beckie returned to her seat, she threw a triumphant smile Tillie’s way. Tillie turned her face away.
Mrs. Eyster called on Catherine Foster as a piercing train whistle shrieked across town. Desks creaked, and dresses rustled as all heads turned toward the window. Jenny McCreary rose from her seat and leaned on the windowsill.
Tillie couldn’t see anything unusual on Washington Street. Wagons rumbled up and down. Pedestrians went about their business, though several people stopped and turned toward Chambersburg Street and the train station.
“Girls, it’s only ten o’clock. Too early for the troop train.” Mrs. Eyster tapped her ferule on the desk. “Focus, please.”
The train whistle undermined her strict rules. Jenny McCreary sat back down, hunched over, staring out the window, with her chin in her palm. When Mrs. Eyster called on her for a history recitation, Jenny jerked and faced her teacher. She wobbled to her feet as her eyes darted around the room. Her face turned the color of beets, and she pulled at her fingers with frantic motions. “G-G-George W-W-Wash-wash-ing-t-t-ton w-was t-the…”
Mrs. Eyster sighed and made a sit-down gesture with her hand. Jenny sat, hard, and dropped her head on her desk.
Libby Hollinger leaned forward and patted her on the shoulder.
“All right, girls.” Mrs. Eyster reached for her ferule. “Recitation is done. Clearly, we’re making little headway. For those who completed your assignments, work on the new lessons on the board.” She tapped the stick against the chalkboard next to the lessons as she spoke. “For those with extra assignments set, continue in your study.”
Desktops creaked, and papers rustled as the girls began their tasks.
The noon train’s imminent arrival hung over the classroom like a pregnant cloud. The girls settled into independent study, and the room grew so quiet, the din of activity outside came in through the open window.
At noon, the girls carried their lunches outdoors and sat in the late-June warmth. The younger girls played in the schoolyard while Tillie and her friends occupied the front steps.
Belle dusted sandwich crumbs off her hands. “I hope the train arrives soon.” She crumpled the paper wrapping and stuffed it into her lunch tin. “I want to see my brother again.”
