No Safe Haven

by Angela Moody

  The captain smiled. “No. I worked as his aide-de-camp, but he treated me like a younger brother.” His eyes misted and he blinked. “I loved him like a brother.” He adjusted his seat and stroked General Weed’s forehead. “He died in the wee hours this morning. Before even the armies arose, I’d wager. The orderlies wanted to carry him away sooner, but I insisted we wait for you.”

  Tillie leaned over and placed a light kiss on the general’s cold forehead. “Goodbye, General Weed. I am honored to have met you.” She mustered up a slight grin. “Thank you for waiting for me. They can come and take him now, if they need to.”

  “You’ve been most kind to us.” The captain took a slice of bread and chewed. “If I can do anything for you, please tell me, and I will carry it out posthaste.”

  Tillie thought of her family. How did they fare? If he found out… “There is something.” She gave him her name and instructions on how to reach her home. “Would you tell them I’m safe?” Her throat constricted with a surge of emotion. She cleared her throat and forced herself to speak. “Would you come back and tell me if any harm befell them?”

  “I shall consider it my sacred duty.” The captain slapped his hand over his heart in dramatic fashion. “I’ll go today, come back this evening and report.” He took a second slice and ate.

  Tillie smiled her thanks. Her gaze traveled to General Weed’s body.

  “What troubles you, my dear?” The captain laid a gentle hand on her arm.

  She lowered her head embarrassed by her sudden emotion. “When I was little, I believed in God—at least I think I did. My parents are devout. We go to church every Sunday. But this summer, so much has happened I have a hard time believing a divine God directs everything.” She broke off and gazed about the room. “The war never affected my family until last fall when my brothers left. James, my older brother, is with the First Pennsylvania Reserves, but when they arrived yesterday, I couldn’t find him. I called out to him, but he wasn’t there.” Heat rushed to her eyes. Her words now came with soft, warm tears running down her cheeks. The idea of losing her brothers crushed her heart. “We’ve not had a word from him in several months. What if…?” She stopped, unable to give voice to her fear. “William is with General Grant out west, as far as we know, but we’ve not heard from him either. Just last week my sister’s beau went off to join the Twenty-First Pennsylvania. Rebel sharpshooters shot and killed him on his way to meet his unit. He was unarmed, but they shot him anyway. Now, I don’t believe in God. Worse yet, I don’t even want to believe in God. I’m troubled.”

  “You’re angry with God.”

  Tillie started and stared at him. “Angry with God? How can one be angry with God?”

  “Well, you told me some pretty sad things. It’s a guess, but sounds reasonable to me. Do you think it’s possible you’re angry for things like not hearing from, or seeing, your brothers? What about your sister’s beau? Do you think that’s God’s fault?”

  “Perhaps I do.” Her voice finally came, almost too soft to hear. “I–I never thought of that. I think of being angry as stomping around and shouting at people.” Her voice grew stronger. “I haven’t done that.”

  “Haven’t you?”

  She turned hard eyes on him. “What do you mean?”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I’ve been sitting here, not able to do much more than observe. I see how you interact with that girl.” He jutted his chin in Beckie’s direction. “She gets under your skin, although you try not to show it, but I’ve seen the angry expression on your face sometimes. I don’t think you’re even aware.… But you get an expression, and Lord help the person you’re upset with.”

  Tillie’s mouth dropped open as the familiar warmth flushed her cheeks. “I didn’t know.”

  “I know.” He shifted his position and pressed his shoulder blades into the wall. “As you weren’t aware of your feelings for her, I suspect you aren’t aware of your anger with God.”

  Tillie stared off at the far wall, processing his words. He offered her too much to think about, but she promised herself to concentrate on it later. A new question struck her. “What I don’t comprehend is how can God, if there is a God, allow so much horror and evil to exist? How can he allow men to be so destructive to one another? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Of course it does, if you think about it.”

  Tillie cocked her head.

  “My dear.” He took on the tone of someone about to embark on a Sunday school lesson. “When God created Adam and Eve in the Garden, he so loved Adam, He gave to him the one thing He did not give to the other animals.”

  “Free will.” Tillie nodded and shrugged. “I know.”

  “You know.” He raised two fingers and tapped the side of his head. “But you don’t know.” He tapped his chest, over his heart, and smiled. “Let me explain. God gave Adam free will. Adam used his free will to eat from the Tree of Knowledge. Therefore, God expelled them from the Garden of Eden.”

  She flicked an impatient hand. “Yes.”

  “As Adam used his free will to destroy the perfection and purity of the Garden, and impart to us his fallen sin nature, so we use our free will and fallen sin nature to destroy each other. It’s the way of Man, but not the way of God, who knows this, as he knew Adam and Eve would destroy the Garden. He doesn’t allow evil, but He will use it for His purposes, turning our evil to His good somehow.”

  She recalled the night she and Father talked in the parlor. This conversation sounded close to that one. Something nibbled at the corners of her mind, something she felt she should understand, but what eluded her. The more she tried to drag her thought to the foreground, the more elusive it became. She let go, knowing it might come back later.

  “The Old Testament is full of war.” The captain took another bite of bread.

  She turned her attention back to him.

  He nodded for emphasis. “David and Goliath. In First and Second Kings, First and Second Samuel, there were wars between countries, and in Judges, a civil war.”

  Father’s words came back to her. Tillie smiled. “My father said the same thing to me a few nights ago. Am I correct you’re saying God condones war?” She regarded him. “Still, how can any of this be used for good?”

  “Are you familiar with the term ‘a righteous war’?”

  Tillie nodded. “My parents say this is a righteous war if it will condemn slavery for good.”

  “I agree. If this country comes out more secure and unified than before, I say that’s a good thing. More important, if the Lord uses this war to scourge this country of the sin of slavery, hallelujah and amen. My point is, if God doesn’t fear war, why should you or I? General Weed—and General Reynolds, for that matter—both devout, Christian men, were not afraid of war and not afraid to die.”

  The captain dusted the breadcrumbs from his fingers and pulled a small Bible from his breast pocket. He opened to a passage. “General Weed read this often. I believe the words gave him comfort. ‘Oh, death, where is thy victory? Oh, death, where is thy sting?’” He closed the book.

  His stern expression made her think of Father.

  “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the belief in things not seen,” she murmured, laying a palm over General Weed’s cold forehead.

  “General Weed never doubted those words. If you do, then you dishonor his memory.”

  Tillie sniffed and wiped her face with her apron.

  “My dear.” He put his hand on hers. “Do not despair. For your brothers or for yourself. If these days of tribulation bring the faith of the Lord Jesus Christ into your heart, then don’t you think He turned this circumstance to good?”

  Tillie laughed through her tears. “I never considered that.”

  The captain placed the small book in her hand. He closed her fingers over it. “General Weed gave this to me before he passed. I’m giving it to you.”

  “Oh, no.” She tried to push the Bible back into his hands. “I co
uldn’t. He gave it to you as a keepsake.”

  “He gave it to me as a gift. It’s mine to do with as I please. I have my own well-loved Bible. Besides, what good is the Word of God if we don’t spread it around? Please, take this. To remember us by.”

  The words Holy Bible gleamed in beautiful golden calligraphy on the cover. She held the book to her heart. “Thank you. I’ll treasure this always.”

  The captain signaled to three men standing by the kitchen table. “Don’t treasure it. Read it.” The men lifted the general’s body off his lap and placed him on a litter. The captain eased his legs and bent his knees. He pushed off the floor with his hands. When he got to the kitchen door, he waved. “I’ll visit your family today.” He followed the orderlies outside.

  * * * *

  An officer stood outside the kitchen door waiting for them to carry the general’s body out. He removed his hat, placed it over his heart, and bowed his head. When the entourage left, the man entered, tucking his hat under his arm. “Excuse me.” He caught Tillie’s eye. “Are you in charge of the well outside?”

  Mrs. Weikert addressed him. “My husband is in charge of the well. What may we do for you?”

  “Ma’am, I am First Lieutenant Ziba Graham of the 16th Michigan. I came to the field hospital to get a tooth removed. As I prepared to leave, I couldn’t help notice the wounded men lying in the hot sun. They’re thirsty, but there’s no pump handle on the well. They asked me to inquire about it.”

  “I can’t help you, lieutenant. That’s my husband’s concern, not mine.” Mrs. Weikert turned her back on him. She tossed her next words over her shoulder. “I have enough to contend with, just keeping you men fed.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” His face reddened, but he persisted. “Can you tell me where I might find your husband?”

  “What can I do for you, lieutenant?” Mr. Weikert appeared like magic on the stairway to the upper floors, his arms crossed in front of him.

  Tillie found herself standing between Mr. Weikert and the lieutenant. She retreated a step and cast about for something to occupy her. She couldn’t go anywhere without crossing between them so she held her ground.

  In the distance, artillery shells whirred through the sky. The conversation paused as everyone listened to the faint boom. A collective sigh of relief escaped them all.

  “Sir, I am First Lieutenant Ziba Graham, 16th Michigan.” He offered a jerky bow from his waist then explained how he came to be there. “The pump handle is missing from the well. Are you aware of that, sir?”

  Mr. Weikert came down the last steps and stood in front of the barrels under the stairs. “No, I’m not.” He planted his hands on his hips and shifted his feet, in a what-are-you-going-go-do-about-it stance.

  Tillie drew in a sharp breath. “But you—” She stopped at Mr. Weikert’s angry face and glanced at the lieutenant. When he stared at her, Tillie bowed her head and clamped her lips closed.

  “Sir,” Graham spoke in an exaggerated, reasonable tone. “Please state your name?” He slipped a small notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped the pages with his left thumb before poising a pencil over the open page.

  Mr. Weikert glared at him. He crossed his arms again. “Weikert. W-E-I-K-E-R-T.”

  Lieutenant Graham wrote the name in the book and snapped it closed. He kept his eyes on Mr. Weikert as he slid the notebook back into his breast pocket. “Well, Mr. Weikert, I know for a fact you are aware of the pump handle. Several men told me they saw you remove it. Now, I suggest you retrieve it and put it back on the well. They’ll die of thirst if they don’t get water.”

  “What do I care?” Mr. Weikert’s face turned dull red, and the vein in his forehead throbbed. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Those men are the enemy, and I won’t have my well pumped dry by Rebels who would only waste the water anyway.”

  “Sir.” Lieutenant Graham’s voice and eyes hardened. “I order you to replace the well crank now.”

  “No.” Mr. Weikert moved to stand behind his wife.

  Mrs. Weikert and Mrs. Schriver shifted so their bodies blocked Mr. Weikert from Lieutenant Graham.

  Some soldiers snickered while others scowled. Lieutenant Graham’s lip curled, and his eyes grew cold and contemptuous.

  At this moment, Tillie disliked all the Weikerts.

  An artillery shell whistled through the air and hit the chimney. The house shook and dishes rattled on the shelves. Something shattered upstairs.

  Mr. Weikert blanched at the sound of bricks crashing to the ground and men screaming.

  Only Lieutenant Graham acted unconcerned. He pulled his pistol out of its holster. “Sir, I order you to give up the well crank—now!” The lieutenant drew back the hammer and aimed the pistol between the women’s shoulders, right at Mr. Weikert’s forehead. “Don’t make me shoot you in front of your womenfolk, sir.”

  Tillie’s eyes widened. She exhaled in a slow, measured breath. Give him the crank. What did he gain from being obstinate? Rebel or Yank, they needed water.

  The standoff lasted only a second or two. Mr. Weikert made an ugly sound, stomped to the stairs, and retrieved the well crank, which he thrust out to Lieutenant Graham with such force Tillie flinched, expecting Mr. Weikert to hit the man.

  The lieutenant took the handle with solemn thanks. He nodded to each member of the family and left the house.

  She ran to the cellar door.

  Lieutenant Graham attached the pump handle, drew water, and gave it to the thirsty men. Before taking his leave, he posted two of the least wounded men, one with a bandage around his forehead and another with an arm in a sling, to guard the well.

  She looked up at the blistering sun, then around the farmyard, heartsick. The yard, devoid of trees or shade of any kind, offered no respite. The men might as well lay in a desert, for all the comfort they received. They endured the flies and merciless, building heat while awaiting help from four surgeons who made their own men their first priority.

  Tillie cocked her head trying to remember what today was. She began to count on her fingers. The soldiers came to town on Tuesday, the thirtieth. The first day of battle happened on Wednesday, the first, the same day she arrived at the Weikerts’. Yesterday, Thursday, the second, the army chased them away. She smiled a tired smile. So today was Friday, July third. Tomorrow was the Fourth of July. Lord God, if you exist, don’t let them fight tomorrow. Please let the fighting be over now, so we can enjoy our picnics and parades—and peace.

  A movement caught the corner of her eye. She stepped outside for a better look. Across the small lane, Union soldiers moved about, placing cannons about three hundred yards or so from the barn. Behind the cannon, infantrymen lined up as if they expected another fight, this time right at their doorstep.

  “They’re setting up cannons on the other side of the dooryard.” Tillie’s heart lurched, and dread made her nauseous. She looked at Mr. Weikert through the open doorway.

  Mr. Weikert swore. He joined her and looked where she pointed. Mr. Weikert’s shoulders dropped, and his hands clenched and unclenched in spasms of unvented fury. The color drained from his face.

  A sudden flash of insight struck Tillie so hard she gasped. In the last three days, this man lost everything he held dear, helpless before the onslaught. She tried to forgive him for the water.

  “Tillie, go back inside and stay there.” He spoke over his shoulder. “Don’t come out for anything.”

  “Yes, sir.” She headed inside as Mr. Weikert walked over to the men placing the cannon.

  Mrs. Schriver joined Tillie at the door while her father and the soldier talked. When Tillie and Mrs. Schriver glanced at each other, Mrs. Schriver shrugged as if to say it was out of their hands. “Well, we have work to do.” She returned to her chores.

  Tillie walked among the wounded in the cellar, inquiring if she could do or get anything for anyone. A man lay on the floor near where General Weed had lain. Bandages covered his eyes. He gripped an envelope. Tillie knelt and place
d her hand on his.

  “Who’s there?”

  “My name is Tillie.” She touched the envelope. “Would you like me to read your letter?”

  “My friend brought it last night. It’s from my wife.”

  Tillie slid the envelope from his grasp and unfolded the letter. A picture of two small children, a boy not much more than three and his older sister, perhaps five, fell on the man’s chest. She put it into his hand. He lifted the picture to his lips and kissed it.

  Her voice choked as she read. When she finished, she folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. She slid the envelope into his hand again. He squeezed it tight.

  “Thank you,” he choked out.

  She patted his hand. “Can I get you water or a slice of bread?”

  Someone tapped her shoulder. “Miss, there are carriages waiting by the barn. Your father decided to find a place of safety. You’re to come with me if you please.”

  Tillie scanned the kitchen. While she read to this man, the Weikerts disappeared, leaving her alone. “Is something going to happen?” She rose, unable to hide the fury roiling within her. She gave her poor messenger the full brunt of her glare. “Why didn’t they tell me they were going? Did they think to leave me behind?”

  His eyes widened, but he acted the gentleman. “Who knows?” He shrugged. “The rebels took a beating yesterday, that’s for certain. Except for the shelling earlier, it’s been pretty quiet this morning—probably because both sides are too hot and tired to fight anymore. But this thing doesn’t feel over, so your father wants the family a safe distance away.”

  “He’s not my father,” she snapped, then relaxed. “I’m sorry.” She touched his sleeve. “You couldn’t know.” She said goodbye to the man lying on the floor.

  “God bless you.” He held up his envelope. “And thank you.”

  Tillie walked with the soldier across the farmyard. In the distance, musketry rattled and crackled. She stopped. “Is that in Gettysburg?”