by Angela Moody
Mrs. Schriver approached a large closed and locked cupboard. She opened the doors and set out huge amounts of food. Tillie never beheld so much bounty at one time. Mother always prepared enough to satisfy everyone’s appetite, but never cooked more than necessary. Her mouth watered, and her hunger pangs increased.
Out came an enormous platter, piled high with fried chicken, a bowl of gravy, two huge bowls—one of potatoes, the other vegetables—biscuits and jam, pitchers of milk and coffee. On a counter next to the table, Mrs. Weikert placed an apple pie and a chocolate cake. “Let us hope we aren’t interrupted while we eat.” She spoke to the room at large.
Mr. Weikert and Dan came inside. “They’re taking down my fences and using them for firewood,” Mr. Weikert shouted as he entered. “That…officer.” He slammed the door shut, as though to make “that officer” disappear. His eyes fell on Tillie and the girls, and with effort, he calmed some. “He dares to tell me it’s my patriotic duty to supply what the army needs while they’re here.” Mr. Weikert threw water on his face and washed his hands. He grabbed a towel and mopped his face, before slapping the towel next to the washbasin. “Patriotic duty,” he spat, glaring at his wife. “They’re destroying my farm, Sarah!”
Tillie lowered her face, clamping her lips between her teeth. Father would never display such anger in front of the family. Wishing she could go home and trying to be inconspicuous, she found a place to sit at the bench between Sadie and Mollie.
“Come and eat, Jacob.” Mrs. Weikert took her place at one end of the table. She followed her husband with her eyes as he stormed over to the head, yanked his chair out, and sat.
Tillie focused on her plate while Mr. Weikert took his seat. She dared to steal a peek at him. A muscle in his cheek jumped, and a vein stood out on his temple. Her eyes refocused on her plate.
Mrs. Weikert picked up the bowl of mashed potatoes, scooped out a large spoonful, and passed them to Dan, signaling the entire family. They reached, grabbed, and filled their plates without waiting for anyone to pass anything. If an item passed by and they wanted some, they snatched it.
“Dig in, Tillie.” Mr. Weikert set the bowl of green beans down. “Lest you find yourself with nothing to eat.”
Tillie grabbed the bowl of green beans and spooned some on her plate. Taking her cue from the others, she snatched what she wanted from the bowls as they flew past. Then she folded her hands in her lap and waited for the blessing.
Mr. Weikert picked up his fork, leaned over his plate, and shoveled food into his mouth.
Tillie gaped. She’d never seen a man eat so much, so fast. A nudge jostled her left arm.
“Sorry.” Five-year-old Sadie struggled to pour herself a glass of milk.
Tillie lifted the pitcher from her and poured a glass for Sadie and herself. She put the pitcher down and cut into the fried chicken. She closed her eyes and sighed. The outside crackled when she bit in, and gravy threatened to run down her chin. All propriety left her, and she too shoveled food into her mouth, devoted to filling the cavernous hole in her stomach.
After supper, the women cleaned up. Here, Tillie helped with confidence. She cleared the table and swept the floor. Mrs. Schriver took the leftovers and put them back into the cupboard.
The food cupboard, Mother called hers a pantry, stood against the north wall. Five shelves high, it held everything from jams and milk to cream, eggs, and butter. Father kept meat on his lowest shelves, and they didn’t lock their pantry. Cool air entered from an intake pipe at the bottom. As the temperature warmed, the air rose and exited through an outlet pipe at the top, keeping the ambient air in the cupboard at least ten degrees cooler than the rest of the house, and allowing food to stay fresher longer than if left in the open.
Mrs. Schriver closed the doors, and Mrs. Weikert removed a key from her pocket and locked it. They returned to preparing biscuits for the soldiers.
Dan and Mr. Weikert clomped outside, leaving the cellar door open. The cool evening breeze drifted in, bringing sounds of a gathering army.
With a belly full of food, Tillie felt lethargy set in, but she had work still to do. She went to the door and peered out, to get a breath of air. The kitchen heat pushed at her back, but the breeze outside cooled her face and refreshed her.
A few feet in front of her Taneytown Road bustled. Wagon after wagon rumbled by, accompanied by teamsters’ whistles and shouts, and horses’ neighing and whinnying.
Beyond her vision in the front yard and on the other side of the barn, came the muted roar of hundreds of men.
Beckie joined her.
The two men returned. “Ma’am, may we come back in and make more broth? We promise to stay outta the way as best we can.”
Mrs. Weikert continued kneading dough. “I’m finished with the cook stove for now.”
“Mama, we’re going outside.” Beckie grabbed her shawl and flipped it over her shoulders.
“Close the door on your way out.”
The girls shut the door and walked across the yard.
Beckie scanned the barnyard from one side to the other. “Why, there must be close to two hundred men sitting around.”
Tillie followed Beckie’s stare. Her eyes drawn to Big and Little Roundtops looming black in the fading silver of evening as the purple sky of darkness drew its cloak around them. Hundreds of campfires gleamed yellow orange in the coming darkness. Tillie redirected her attention to the lounging men. “At least that many.” She took in the army at rest. “Look at the way they’ve arranged themselves.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, those men,” she gestured toward a group of healthy men, “don’t seem hurt at all, or at least not bad.” She pointed to several campfires, well away from the barn, where whole and able men lounged in the grass, propped up on elbows or sitting upon logs, talking around the campfires. “But closer to the barn door.” She indicated the men. “Those men are badly hurt. I’d wager the worst ones are inside.”
“Do you want to go see?” Beckie sounded almost gleeful at the prospect of human suffering. Before Tillie could refuse, Beckie grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the barn.
They passed a group of lounging soldiers, discussing the outcome of the day’s battle. One man threw a log on the fire as they talked of hard fighting and of their friends killed or wounded. The fire flared, illuminating his face. “I tell you.” His fingers traveled around the bandage on his forehead. “I pert near didn’t make it to Cemetery Ridge. I slipped through town and almost got caught a couple of times. I managed to hide well enough to avoid capture.”
“It’s a sorry thing.” A second soldier, his left arm in a sling, stared at the fire. The empty sleeve of his coat hung at his side, and a hole winked in the fabric, just above the elbow. “That here in our own country the enemy has control of the town. If the rest of the army don’t get here soon, we’ll lose the battle, and maybe even the war.” With his right hand, he threw a clumsy stick on the fire. Sparks flew upward. “Yes, sir.”
Tillie and Beckie stopped behind him, listening.
“The Rebs captured quite a few from my unit. They hold the town tight as a tick, they do. Be a shame if we lose this fight, but I don’t see how we can win. Bobby Lee is in charge over there, and they hold the town like we did at Fredericksburg.”
A third soldier, who didn’t appear wounded in any way, sat across from sling-arm and sighted the girls. “Good evening, ladies.” He sat up from his reclining position, speaking with fake joviality, as though they talked of nothing more mundane than the weather.
Sling-arm peered over his shoulder.
“It’s true then?” Tillie approached. “Do the Rebels control the town?”
“They do, miss, but not for long.” The second soldier placed another piece of wood on the flames. “General Meade’ll be here tomorrow, and we’ll chase them away, you wait and see.”
The other soldiers murmured, nodding in assent.
“General Meade.” The bandaged soldier shoo
k his head, his voice filled with disgust. Again, he played with the wrappings on his forehead. “Gotta ask yourself how long he’ll last.”
Some of the men punched him and hissed at him to be quiet.
“Don’t fret, ladies.” The third soldier put out his hands in a calming gesture. “There ain’t a soldier among the entire Army of the Potomac’ll let the Rebs keep the town. We’ll win this battle if it takes all week.”
Tillie and Beckie sat beside the men who made room for them among a chorus of hear-hears and huzzahs.
“What happened today?” Beckie moved her skirts away from the flames. She tucked her forearms into her lap and leaned forward.
“We went out to the railroad cut north and west of town.”
“Out near the college,” the first soldier said.
“They know that.” The second soldier elbowed him.
“Anywaaaay.” The speaker glowered at his companions. “We went out to the railroad cut and we found the Rebs, so we started shootin’.”
“Just like that?” Tillie’s stomach churned. “Like…fish in a barrel?” She pictured hundreds of men staring up at the enemy, hands above their heads, begging for mercy, then falling to the ground as the men on top of the railroad cut ignored their pleas and shot them dead. In her mind, the Rebs all fell in clean, graceful heaps.
“Well—yes, miss.” Regret shone in his eyes. He turned away.
“They fought well, and we about had ’em when they got up reinforcements. By then, our commanders were either dead or wounded and we didn’t have no leadership, so things kinda fell apart afterward. Someone sent word General Reynolds was dead and General Doubleday in charge.”
“When you hear General Doubleday is in charge…” The head-bandaged soldier leaned toward her.
Tillie suppressed the urge to draw back. She held her breath as his body odor reached her nose.
“You may as well pack up your little dog and pony show and go home.” The man waggled his finger, adding emphasis to his words.
“Guard your tongue.” A soldier with a wounded hand threw a small stone at him.
“Yeah, be careful.” The third man stared from across the flames. “You’ll find yourself in a court-martial. Or worse.”
“What’s worse than court-martial?” Tillie’s gaze circled the campfire.
No one answered her. Instead, Bandage Man continued his story. “We fought our way through the town, but there are so many narrow streets and just about every yard has a high stockade type fence. Weren’t easy getting through. I needed to find a way through town where I wouldn’t get stuck in the crowd. I made my way out of town to Cemetery Ridge where I got hit by a sniper.” His fingers fumbled with his gauze again. “Just grazed me. Lucky for me. Some of the boys who tried to pass that way didn’t survive.” He stopped, his eyes growing vague.
“Very true.” The second soldier stood, adjusted his pants, and sat back down. “Many of our boys are Reb prisoners now.”
Silence fell on the group. The logs shifted. The fire crackled and sent sparks skyward. They floated up and winked out. Above, the stars blinked on as full darkness enveloped them.
The one who warned his companion to be quiet picked up a stick, tapping the end into his palm. “The Rebels have control of the town, but not for long.”
“That’s right.” The third soldier smiled at the girls. “We’ll drive them off sure enough.”
Tillie and Beckie thanked the men and rose. They continued on to the barn, from where emanated the most heart-wrenching screams and cries.
On the straw-covered floor, hundreds of men lay in pools of blood. Some poor souls, in their delirium, called for loved ones. Some wept, unable to expend any more energy, their struggle for survival almost ended. Some prayed. Others lay still, perhaps having made peace with their God, and waited for death.
Two men shoved Tillie and Beckie aside as they entered the barn. They handled a litter carrying a wounded man.
Tillie’s gorge rose in her throat as she sighted mangled muscle, bone, and skin. She turned away and by sheer strength of will, resisted putting her hands over her ears to shut out his screams. Rather than dump this man in the straw, they carried him to the back of the barn. The men dropped the litter to the floor and, careless of his pain, lifted him by his legs and under his arms, and plopped him on a table constructed of sawhorses and wooden planks. The two men picked up the litter and went back outside, shoulders hunched.
Tillie caught her breath as a gray-haired, heavyset surgeon, his eyes on the wound, groped around on the blood-soaked planks until his fingers landed on an instrument like the cooking utensil her mother used to pluck food out of a boiling pot of water. Even in the gloom of the poorly lit barn, the filth on the instrument was obvious. He adjusted the implement in his hand and gave it a quick shake, shedding some of the blood still dripping off the end. He picked off a piece of clinging straw, wiping his fingers on his bloody apron.
A medic stood at the wounded man’s head, another at his feet. At a nod from the surgeon, the medic at the head pressed down hard on the man’s shoulders. The man at the foot of the table grabbed the soldier’s good foot and put his body weight into his arms to keep the leg immobilized. The surgeon seized the wounded foot and used the instrument to probe inside the wound. The soldier shrieked and screamed for mercy.
Tillie didn’t know what the doctor probed for, but within a few seconds, he threw down the instrument and picked up a bone saw.
The solder threw up his hands. “No, no!” He struggled and fought the men holding him down.
The surgeon growled something to the medic at the head of the table. The medic released the patient, picked up a cloth and a small brown bottle. He put the cloth over the bottle and tipped. He jammed the cloth over the man’s nose and mouth.
The poor soldier clutched at the medic’s arm and tried to pry his hands away, fighting in earnest.
Tillie’s hand pressed hard over her mouth, fighting back horror. Were they trying to suffocate him? Within an instant, the patient quieted. His hands dropped to the table, and his body went limp. If he was dead, why did the medic place a stick in his mouth? He returned to his original position of holding the man’s shoulders down.
Tillie removed her hand from her mouth and drew in a ragged breath. She gazed at her fingers, surprised to discover them wet with tears.
Tillie shifted. Beckie’s eyes shone too. Tillie turned back to the scene playing out in front of them. She couldn’t make herself turn away.
The surgeon made three quick incisions in the leg above the wound. He folded back the skin, picked up the bone saw, swiping the blade across his bloody apron. Blood dripped from his fingertips as he took a firm grasp of the instrument and placed it on the leg. With one powerful push, he moved the implement across the soldier’s leg, biting deep.
The man’s body arched upward from the hips, and a bloodcurdling scream escaped him.
Beckie gagged and ran back to the house with Tillie right behind her. Beckie slammed the door as though to shut out the scenes of misery outside.
Mrs. Schriver and Mrs. Weikert spun around from their preparation of bread dough. “What’s wrong?” Mrs. Weikert stepped away from the table.
Beckie ran to her.
The soldier who teased Tillie earlier stood at the stove, stirring the broth. “Ho and what goes here?” He sprinkled in some salt before taking a tasting sip.
“Oh, sir.” She stifled sobs, letting out words in bursts. “We went to the barn. How terrible. They cut off a man’s foot. How dare they?” She drew in a gasping breath. She wiped her eyes with her hands, but her tears flowed unchecked. She buried her face in the crook of her arm. “The poor man.” She wailed into her sleeve. “Isn’t there another way? Why must they make things worse for them?”
“Disgusting!” Beckie crossed her arms. “I hope never to see such sights again. I’m not going back outside.” As if to emphasize her point, she started preparing more bread.
“It is mo
st unfortunate.” The cook lifted the pot off the stove and set it down. His companion gathered up the finished loaves. “But many times the docs don’t have a choice. If they don’t amputate, the soldier might develop infection.” He regarded them both, as though imparting an important lecture. “Otherwise, they’ll die, a much more agonizing and painful death.”
“Mike is right.” The second cook, a man with a ruddy complexion, dark hair, and dark eyes adjusted the loaves in his arms. “At first glance, one would think it cruel, but in the end, if a man can survive his wound, it’s better to survive minus a foot, leg, or arm. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Beckie threw flour into a bowl and proceeded to mix the dough. “That doesn’t mean I must see it.”
Mike turned serious green eyes, eyebrows raised, toward Tillie.
“I understand.” Tillie wiped her eyes and straightened her shoulders. “Thank you for telling me.”
Mrs. Schriver opened the oven door. “If you wait a minute, another two loaves will come out of the oven.” She shut the door and returned to the table.
The men sat to wait for the bread, telling stories to make the girls laugh. At first, Tillie resisted the urge to go along, but the humor of life in an army camp, as told by Mike and his companion, Bill, helped her overcome her fear and horror.
“I was a chef at Delmonico’s before the war.” Bill glanced at the pot of soup and the bread. “Now I make soup for wounded soldiers.”
Tillie didn’t know what Delmonico’s was, but she accepted his comment without question.
A chaplain entered the kitchen, but no one paid close attention. He pulled Mrs. Weikert aside and spoke with her before sitting at the table. Mrs. Weikert brought him a cup of coffee and a plate of food.
The chaplain ate in silence, but glanced often in their direction as Mike and Bill teased and joked. The chaplain’s frown and furrowed brow indicated his lack of amusement over their banter. A twinge of guilt assailed Tillie, but she ignored it.
Mike hitched his breath. “Oh, here’s one I think you’ll like.” He put a hand on his chest, as though to calm himself, but he couldn’t. After he regained control, he began. “Here goes. Two men carried one man on a stretcher. A shell crashed nearby, and all three men took off running.”
