by Angela Moody
When they rose, Father went with them.
* * * *
Tillie wriggled in her seat, tucking her booted feet beneath her. She held Mr. Emerson’s book of essays open in her lap, but she barely glanced at the pages. In the gray light of twilight, Sam sat on the front stoop whittling. From her vantage point on the sitting room sofa, she pretended to read, but she kept her eye on him. Every so often, he raised his head and looked toward the Diamond. She sat up straight, but when he returned to whittling, she relaxed again. Daylight almost completely left the sky when Sam entered the house and stopped inside the sitting room door. “Mr. Pierce is coming.”
Mother put down her knitting. “Thank you, Sam.” Turning to the girls, she gestured toward the kitchen. “Father will be hungry. I’ll fix him some dinner.”
“Sam.” Tillie gave him a hopeful glance and closed her book. “Is Lady with him?”
“No, he’s alone.”
Father entered and paused in the doorway as though gathering his thoughts. He stepped inside the sitting room. The muscle in his jaw twitched, and his brows knotted at the center of his forehead. He laid a shaking hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, be a good boy, please, and close up the shop for me. Hide anything of value, all the tools, everything sharp. I’ll be out to help you.”
He studied Father’s face, nodded, and clomped out the back door.
Father stared after the boy, a strange mixture of love and bewilderment in his expression.
“Where’s your mother?” He didn’t take his eyes off the path Sam took.
“She’s in the kitchen getting you something to eat.” Maggie set aside her mending. “Is something wrong, Father?”
“Girls, come into the kitchen. I must tell you something.” He trudged forward as if he were going to his hanging.
The girls seated themselves as Mother placed a plate and a cup of coffee in front of him. She too sat down, her jaw tense and chin jutted forward.
He stared at his food for a long time, and then pushed the dish away. He looked at each woman. When his eye fell on Tillie, he sighed. “I’m sorry, my dear. We won’t get Lady back. It would seem the Confederate Army is so desperate for horses, that even an old, lame mare will fill the bill.”
Tillie nodded. She squeezed her eyes tight to stop tears from escaping.
“I sent Sam outside so I could talk free. It would break my heart to speak in front of him.” Father pulled his coffee cup close and wrapped his hands around the mug. “When we got to the Confederate camp, the soldiers took me to see Colonel White. He allowed me to present my entire case, so I told him about the horse. I said she’s old and lame. She won’t be any use to them. When I finished, he said he understood me to be a black abolitionist; so black, in fact, I turned black in front of him. I’ll admit he scared me.…” His eyes glazed as he stared past his family. “He said he’d been informed my two sons serve in the Union Army, and they probably stole more from the South than he took from me.”
Mother straightened in her seat. She folded her hands together. An expression of determination and defiance crossed her face. “Who would say such a thing?” Her voice squeaked out, a frightened whisper.
Father took a sip of his coffee. “I asked him where he got his information. He said a young woman arrived earlier with a woeful tale of how we almost allowed her brother to be kidnaped by their troops, and only by her threats did we finally intervene for the boy.”
“How dare she?” Tillie slammed her hand down. “Always the Southern sympathizer. No doubt, she did it to impress Wesley Culp. He’s a Reb. He might appreciate a traitorous act from her. Everyone knows she wanted to marry him, but the Culps wouldn’t allow it!”
“Tillie, control yourself.” Mother gripped Tillie’s arm.
“Enough!” Father’s fist crashed down rattling the dishes. “You’re angry about Lady, but there’s nothing we can do. We must pray for our enemies. Much as you may think so, Ginny Wade isn’t our enemy. Misguided, I’ll admit, but not our enemy. Don’t hate her. Pity her, and pray for her lack of Christian charity.”
“No, sir.” Sam stood inside the kitchen door. “Tillie’s right. My sister is a filthy traitor, and I hope she gets what she deserves.”
Chapter 7
Tillie pressed her nose and forehead flat to the windowpane, hoping for a glimpse of Lady. Perhaps her rider would pass the house. A Reb soldier passed right beneath the window. She ducked back, breathing hard.
“Tillie!” Mother’s voice rang like a pistol shot.
Tillie yelped and knocked the lamp on the table next to her. As she made a grab, she bumped the base. It tilted toward the edge. Tillie’s eyes widened, and she snatched with both hands, somehow managing to stop the fall before turning guilty eyes to her mother.
Mother’s eyes darted from the lamp to Tillie. “Today is your lucky day. That was a wedding gift.” She advanced on Tillie. “For the last time get away from those windows.” Mother shook her finger. “If I must tell you again, I will confine you to your room for the rest of the day.”
Tillie concentrated on the light as she suppressed a smile. What a perfect place to watch to her heart’s content. “I’m sorry, Mother. Please can I go outside? I’ll stay on the front steps. I want to see what’s happening.”
“Certainly not! Don’t make me admonish you again, Matilda Jane.” Mother pointed at her. “You have chores to do, young lady.”
“Yes, Mother.” As soon as Mother returned to the kitchen, Tillie took one last peek out the window. Lady cantered past the house, a huge man sitting atop her. Tillie sensed her struggle to bear his weight. He shouldn’t make her canter. She can’t. She’ll be lame. Clamping her teeth down on her lip, she strained for another glimpse of her beloved horse.
Lady stumbled, and the rider yanked her reins. Tillie’s body jerked as though she felt the pain as she bit back tears of rage. Poor Lady wouldn’t last long.
Soon they were gone. She turned away to begin her chores.
* * * *
Tillie found herself condemned to dusting the parlor furniture. She knew better than to do a quick job. Mother would inspect her work, and if she didn’t do it right the first time, she’d have to do it again. As she put the last touches of dusting wax on the table in the middle of the room, Father’s voice rang out.
“Margaret, I’m leaving.” Holding his hat, he approached the front door.
“When will you be back?” Mother’s skirts rustled as she met him at the door.
“I can’t say. General Early sent the Borough Council a requisition request. He gave us until tomorrow to come up with the items. I’m off to find out what’s on it, and what we’re to do. I might be gone a few hours or all day, depending on the mood of the men.”
“Please, James, do be careful.”
“Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll be the soul of caution.”
Tillie buffed the table, pretending she wasn’t watching and listening.
Mother slid her arms around Father’s neck. They embraced and kissed. Father opened the door.
A piece of paper hanging from the knocker flapped. He tore it off and read aloud. “‘General Gordon is pleased to report civilians and civilian property will not be harmed. We assure the townsfolk you may come and go as you please, within reason, and without fear of molestation by your Southern Conquerors. Signed, General John B. Gordon, CSA, General Jubal Early, CSA, Commanding.’” He crumpled the paper and threw the wad into the street.
Tillie’s heart swelled over his act of defiance. Southern conquerors indeed! The Union boys’d show them when they arrived. In her imagination, the Yankee Army converged on Gettysburg, swords held high, guns at the ready, running at the Rebs and screaming with all their might, while the Confederates ran for their lives. She shivered at the thrill of the spectacle.
Father’s voice intruded into her daydream, murmuring calming words to Mother, but he pitched his voice too low for Tillie to hear. He left, pulling the door closed behind him.
Mother
bolted the door. She turned and locked eyes with Tillie. “Well, Nosy Nell, we need to put you to better use.”
Under Mother’s glare, Tillie’s face flamed. She should tell Mother she didn’t eavesdrop on purpose, but sensed Mother wasn’t in a mood to listen.
“Come.” Mother beckoned. “I have the perfect job for us.”
Tillie followed Mother into the kitchen where Maggie took foodstuffs off the shelf and piled them on the table. Sam gathered the items into a box. Mother took Tillie down to the basement where a new set of shelves filled a small alcove near the back wall.
“Father and Sam made these for me over the past couple of days. He and Maggie are gathering all they can upstairs. I want you to stack the crocks and jars here, and once we’re done, we’ll hang a curtain. Those Rebs won’t get any more from us, if I have anything to say on the subject.”
“Yes, Mother.” Tillie felt a weight lifted off her. Now, she had something important to do. She sank to the hard, dirt-packed floor before the shelves, the cold confronting her knees as she set the tallest crocks along a back row.
A half hour later, Maggie hovered over her and adjusted the sheet across the shelf, hiding the food. “This should be sufficient.”
“I think so.” Mother scanned the cellar with a critical eye. “If they come to the back door and see nothing to feed them upstairs, I’m certain they’ll go away. I doubt they’ll get close enough to come in through the basement entrance, but if they do,” she indicated three cement steps leading to a pair of double doors, which opened to the backyard, “I don’t think they’ll find this shelf back in this dark corner.”
“Do you think they might break in down here?” Sam stared at the doors, as if seeing a new menace he must guard against.
“At this point, your guess is as good as mine.” Mother planted her hands on her hips, wrinkling blue calico. “A week ago I would have said they’re misguided Americans, but from what I’ve seen lately…” She shook her head and pursed her lips.
Footsteps thudded down the stairs.
“Well, James, what did General Early want?” Mother asked, as he reached the bottom stair.
“That.” Father waved a finger toward the curtain. “Along with whiskey, flour, meat, clothing, and fifty thousand dollars.” He sat on the last step, propped his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his hands over his face before dropping them into his lap. “Even if we possessed what he’s asking for, I don’t think we’d provide it, though no one came up with a satisfactory refusal.”
“Well, I think if General Early realizes we don’t, he will understand.” Mother offered a reassuring smile.
Father chuckled. “You think so, my dear, if it makes you feel better, because tomorrow, David Kendlehart, Alexander Buehler, and I must go back and tell him no. Lucky for me, I’m not the Borough President. That’s Kendlehart’s job, so he needs to find a way to say no. My job is to appear angelic.”
“No, James, not you.” Mother gave an angry jerk to the curtain, adjusting an imaginary wrinkle in the fabric. “Why? What happens if this General Early becomes angry? He might take you prisoner!”
“No, dear, I don’t think he will.”
Mother huffed, but she didn’t challenge him in front of the children.
“Oh, by the way.” Father jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Alex wanted me to tell you David got away with the postage stamps and his equipment. Fanny did a fantastic job stalling the Rebs until he escaped out the back.”
Mother’s face softened. “I’m glad. She acted incredibly brave.”
The room fell into silent agreement.
“Father, why would they ask for whiskey?” Tillie asked.
He emitted a little cough, and then cleared his throat. “Well, because, my dear, soldiers drink whiskey. Never mind why.” He shook his head. “Anyway, we need to return in the morning, and either hand over our goods to General Early, or say no.”
“Why don’t you do what they ask?” Maggie gestured to Mother. “Mother’s right. Why aggravate them? Give them what they ask for. Perhaps they’ll go away.”
His expression changed from grim determination to sad sympathy. “Appeasement never works and is not our way. Also, I learned today, three weeks ago our bankers put most of their money on a train to Philadelphia for safekeeping.” He twisted his wedding ring.
“Will you be arrested if you say no?” Tillie went to the steps and sat next to him. She took his arm in hers and leaned into him.
“It’s anybody’s guess what General Early will do. Given the fact I went and asked for Lady back, they’re aware of me.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders, giving her a gentle squeeze. He gazed around at the rest of his family. “Don’t fret. We’re right and they’re wrong. I believe, if we deal honestly with these people, the Lord will take care of us. We will trust in Him.”
Mother took a deep breath and let it out. “You’re right, James. I’ll pray General Early takes the news well.”
“We all will,” Maggie agreed.
* * * *
Tillie slumped at the sitting room table and tried to concentrate on the Bible lessons Father set for her in response to yesterday’s outburst over Lady’s theft. She didn’t mind passing Sunday afternoons in the text of the sermon, but how unfair. She plodded through Psalm 4, and Matthew chapter five, verses twenty-one and twenty-two. Now she worked on Ephesians, chapter four, with special attention on verses twenty-five through chapter five, verse two. Father promised to review it with her when he returned home. Leafing through the passages, she sighed as she turned to chapter eighteen. She flipped her pencil between her fingers and beat a rapid tattoo on the pages.
“What’s the matter, my dear?” Mother sat in her rocking chair, knitting.
“It’s not fair I have to study the Bible. I said I’m sorry for getting angry.”
“You don’t sound terribly repentant in your apology, nor did you last night. I think studying these passages will be of benefit to you. I confess we’ve been lax with you. That’s what comes of being the youngest child, I suppose. Well, we’re correcting the problem now.” Mother lowered her knitting and studied Tillie, who stared at the table. “Father will be unhappy with you if you don’t study your lesson.” With a deft movement, Mother wound the yarn around her left finger as she inserted the needle into her stitch.
“Well, I’m sick of hearing how I’m going to hell for a little outburst when the entire country is drowning in hate. Why can’t I be angry because someone stole something from me, yet fellow countrymen can shoot and kill each other and no one does anything about that?” She bit her tongue, regretting the words. She refused to lift her face, but peered at Mother through lowered lashes.
Mother’s chair and knitting needles froze. She dropped her project to her lap.
Tillie closed her eyes and groaned.
“God will hold us all accountable for our sin.” Mother’s voice sounded soft and gentle, but also hard as steel. “Don’t think nothing is being done about the war. It is God’s punishment for the unrepentant sin of slavery.” Mother resumed her knitting and rocking. “As for your father and I, we hold you to a high standard of behavior because one day you will be required to account for your sin to God.”
Tillie’s eyes swept the table. Her index finger flipped the corner of the book, the pages riffled as she waited, heart pounding, for Mother to punish her impudence. Again, she peeked at Mother through her lashes.
Mother took a stitch. “Do your study, and while you do, I’ll be praying for you. Rest assured, your father will hear about this.”
Tillie closed her eyes, dismayed, and reopened the Bible.
Her pencil scratched across her paper. The pages rustled as she turned them.
Mother’s rocker squeaked on every back motion. Her foot tapped against the floorboards, and her needles clicked through her project.
Tillie began to think she’d been studying the passages for a lifetime when the front door opened.
“Margaret, I’
m home.” Father called from the entrance.
“Finished so soon?” Mother rose and put her knitting down.
“No. There’s another session this afternoon. I just need something quick to eat.”
“Oh, dear.” She rushed into the kitchen. “I didn’t expect you home for lunch.”
“Make me a sandwich, if you don’t mind.” He followed her.
With her parents distracted, Tillie gathered her things and slipped upstairs. She sat at her desk, pen scratching across paper. Her hand froze as footsteps halted outside her bedroom door. Father entered. She refused to look at him.
“Matilda, I’m returning to the Borough Council now, but I want a word with you the minute I get back.”
“Yes, Father.” She couldn’t remember the last time he called her Matilda. She chanced a peek over her shoulder to show him her docile manner.
His stern glare dismayed her.
Tillie turned around in her chair. She grabbed the knob on the backrest and squeezed with spasmodic motions. “I’m sorry, Father. I don’t know what came over me.”
He shook his head. “That’s not going to work this time. I’ll want to speak to you in the parlor right after supper tonight, no excuses.”
“Yes, sir.”
He trudged back downstairs, the bedroom door he’d closed behind him told her she consigned herself to an afternoon in her bedroom to think about her behavior. Tears filled her eyes. She returned to her letter and picked up her pen. Her hand shook, dripping ink on the page. She slammed her hand down on the paper, crumpled it up, and threw it across the room.
* * * *
When Father came home before dinnertime, Tillie remained upstairs, hoping to escape punishment.
“Matilda Jane!” he called from the bottom of the stairs. “You have chores to do.”
She adjusted her skirts then went to her mirror and evaluated her appearance. With a shaking hand, she opened her bedroom door and, like a condemned man going to his death, walked to the stairs and descended. She entered the kitchen quietly, trying to make herself as small a target as possible. Her movements careful, she lowered the dishes and set the table.
