by Angela Moody
“You took it.” Beckie crossed her arms and adopted a superior tone. “You slipped into my room while I was sleeping and stole my best petticoat from off my bed.”
Doctor Billings flushed, but remained silent. He straightened and clenched and unclenched his fists. His expression indicated he would not dignify her accusation with a response.
“Rebecca Weikert!” Tillie slammed her fists on the table. “How dare you say such things? What is the matter with you? It’s. A. Petticoat!” She almost screamed those last three words, when she recalled Mrs. Weikert’s reaction to her petticoat the day they ran to the Bushmans’ farm. Her rage soared. “You have several and it wasn’t your best, you told me so. How selfish can you be?” She stamped her foot. “And step away from that poor man before you kill him!”
Beckie glanced down, as if aware for the first time her skirts choked the soldier on the floor. She took one large step forward. The man gasped in air.
Doctor Billings moved to check him.
Tillie drew in a ragged breath. Mother always told her when she felt about to lose control, to count to ten and take deep, slow breaths. She held her hands out to Beckie in a gesture of reconciliation and softened her tone. She sat back down. “I’m sorry I yelled. We used your petticoat to help a man. We tried to save his life, but he died anyway. Since the garment meant so much to you, I’ll buy you a new one as soon as I can.”
“There’s no need for that,” Mr. Weikert spoke up. “I’m sure Beckie didn’t mean what she said.”
Beckie’s face colored a dull red. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out. She rubbed her arms. Then she shrugged. “You don’t need to replace it. You’re right. It’s not my best. I’m sorry, Doctor Billings, for having snapped at you. How shameful of me.”
“No harm done, Miss Weikert.” He sounded calm, but he concentrated on his patient and refused to meet her eye.
Mrs. Weikert put slices of bread and a pitcher of water on the table. “Come, everyone.” She waved a hand at the table. “Let’s eat. I’m sure we’ll all feel better after a meal.”
****
They ate in silence, apparently embarrassed by the scene between the girls. Tillie took small bites and chewed with slow, deliberate motions. She swallowed and sipped water.
Someone knocked on the kitchen door. Dan rose and opened it. “Yes.” Impatience laced the word. Another man in a Yankee uniform needing care?
The soldier removed his cap. “Have I changed so much, you don’t recognize me, Dan Weikert?”
Beckie shrieked and ran to him. She threw her arms around his neck and knocked the young man back a couple of paces. His breath left him in a soft “oof”. He laughed and, putting his hands on her waist, set her to her feet.
Mr. Weikert’s face darkened at his daughter’s behavior, but when she pulled away, he recognized her beau, George Kitzmiller. The family rushed to him with loud shouts of greeting.
Beckie and Mrs. Schriver took his hands and led him to the table. Mrs. Weikert placed some bread and a glass of water in front of him. He sat down, laughing.
They bombarded him with questions, and George turned this way and that trying to respond to them all. “Hold it. Hold it. One at a time. I can’t answer you all at the same time.”
“Was James involved in the battle?” Tillie leaned forward in her seat. “When the Reserves came through I tried to find him, but couldn’t.”
“I’m the one who turned when you called out. I’m only telling you because I got the impression you didn’t know.”
She wriggled in her seat. “I saw you turn, but I didn’t recognize you. Oh, George, I’m so glad it was you, but where was James?”
“So am I.” George smiled, but it was perfunctory. He grew serious. “I am sorry to tell you, Miss Tillie, but James got sick in the Peninsular Campaign.”
She jumped from her chair. “What? Oh no!”
“Not to worry.” He rushed to reassure her and helped her to sit back down. “He had a serious case of pneumonia and was hospitalized in Washington.”
“Oh my.” Tillie put her hands over her mouth. She studied George’s face seeing the truth in his eyes. She dropped her hands. “I’m sorry he was taken ill. I’m glad to know he’s alive. At least now I can tell Mother why he hasn’t written for so long.”
“I’m sure it will put her mind at ease.” He patted her hand. “You can also tell her, the last I heard, he was mending well.”
“Thank you, George.” She squeezed his hand. Their eyes locked in a moment of sympathetic communication until Beckie slipped her arm through his and leaned against him. She glared at Tillie. That broke their eye contact. Tillie took a sip of water.
George turned in his chair and addressed Beckie’s father. “Mr. Weikert, may I take these two ladies on a tour of the battlefield?”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” Mr. Weikert frowned. “I’m concerned about what the girls might see. I’m not sure a tour is a good idea.”
“It’s perfectly safe, sir,” George assured him. “Most of the Rebs left yesterday, and our men are working hard cleaning up the battlefield. We’ve been in something of a race against the hogs and the carrion birds.”
Mrs. Schriver and Mrs. Weikert made sounds of disgust. Tillie shuddered.
“We’ll be all right, Papa,” Beckie took George’s arm in both of hers and squeezed tight. “George will be with us, and I’m sure he will steer us away from the more gruesome sights and places.”
“You can be sure of that, sir.” George raised his eyebrows in a hopeful glance.
Mr. Weikert studied George’s face then glanced at his daughter. He addressed his wife. “What do you think, Sarah?”
She shrugged. “Well, if you say no harm will come.”
Tillie raised her eyebrows at Doctor Billings in question. He smiled and nodded.
* * * *
Stepping outside, Tillie lifted her face to the sun, the first rush of warmth a soothing comfort.
“Well, where do you want to go first?” George took a position between her and Beckie and offered an arm to each of them.
“Wherever you would like to take us, George,” Beckie cooed. She slipped her arm into his and pressed it against her bosom. She gazed with loving eyes into his face. A besotted George smiled down at her.
Tillie rolled her eyes and looked away. Her gaze fell on Little Roundtop.
“Might we go up there?” She indicated the area of destruction of a few days past.
“I thought you’d never ask!” George said. “That’s where we fought, and I did so want to show you where yours truly comported himself so bravely.”
Laughing, the three young people set off in the direction of Little Roundtop. George Kitzmiller, acting as tour guide, explained the actions of the afternoon of July the second. Beckie and George clung to each other, and Tillie, feeling like an unwanted third wheel, lagged behind and wandered off some paces to give them some privacy.
“After we raced across the farm, we were placed in reserve up here.” George slid his eyes to Tillie as he talked, doing his best to include her in the outing. They reached the top, coming out on the other side to a rocky, boulder-strewn hillside, long known as The Devil’s Den. In the past week, the location earned its nickname, for the scene below them seemed culled out of hell.
“Those rocks down there,” George nodded to some glacial boulder formations ten to twelve feet high and forming a series of boxlike enclosures, “the men call, The Slaughter Pen.” His arm swept off to his right, indicating the grassy slope beyond. “That’s now The Valley of Death.” They stood on the crest of Little Roundtop and stared into the once beautiful Plum Run Valley.
Tillie gazed at the destruction, thinking the name appropriate. Valley of Death. Everywhere one turned, dead bodies—men and horses—bloated in the heat. Shattered caissons and cannon, scattered everywhere, some aimed at the sky as though the next attack might come from heaven itself. Others still aimed at points distant, showing the direction from which th
ey expected the enemy. Around those silent sentinels lay more dead men, killed while operating their guns. The ground remained littered with rifles, knapsacks, hats, and all kinds of accouterments of war.
“So many,” Beckie choked out. “How is it possible? Are any men left alive?”
“Those dead are principally the Confederates.”
“What will happen to them?” Tillie suppressed an urge to run and check for survivors.
“If the Rebs want their men back, they are welcome to come and get them.” A deep voice lifted behind them.
George, Tillie, and Beckie turned to find a man walking toward them. He wore a Union uniform and on the back of his cap, a deer’s tail swung back and forth. “Corporal Wilson, 149th Pennsylvania.” He approached, and snapping his right hand up, palm out, he saluted George.
“Lieutenant Kitzmiller, Company K, First Pennsylvania Reserves.” George returned the gesture. “Allow me to present the Misses Weikert and Pierce.”
The corporal touched his fingers to his hat brim in greeting, and the girls each said hello.
“Oh, I’ve heard of the 149th,” Tillie said. “You boys come from up north in the mountain regions. You’re called the Buck-tails.”
“Yes, ma’am, we do.” His voice rumbled in a rich deep baritone. “I myself am from Wilkes-Barre. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Tillie tried to catch sight of the buck tail pinned to the back of his hat. Corporal Wilson grinned, removed his cap, and offered it to her.
“You know.” His eyes sparkled. “You can’t get into the 149th unless you’ve plucked a tail off a buck to hang on the back of your cap.”
“Really?” Tillie gaped.
George and Beckie laughed. Wilson laughed and winked.
“Oh, I see.” Tillie joined in the laughter, but a twinge of embarrassment shot through her. She handed him his cap, which he slipped back on his head.
To change the subject, she gestured to the corpses lying below the summit of Little Roundtop. “What did you mean when you said if the Confederates want their men back they should come and get them?” She scowled. “Surely you don’t want the Rebs to return, do you? Do you think we should leave them unburied? That wouldn’t be Christian.”
Corporal Wilson didn’t reply. He shrugged and turned to stare down the Plum Run Valley.
“We did a lot of our fighting out on the railroad cut north of town on the first day,” he told them. “Them bas—uh, those men did some of the hardest fighting I ever seen.” He fell silent. His eyes hardened. “They sure are some d—uh—good fighters. We beat them off. They come back so we beat them off again, and again they come back. We began to think there was an endless supply of them boys, but we drove ’em off for good. Not before losing our commanding officer, Colonel Stone, and our second in command, Lieutenant Colonel Dwight. Good men.”
Corporal Wilson’s eyes fixed on a point down the valley, and Tillie turned. She scanned the destruction below her. Pointing to the Valley of Death, she marveled. “Look how they all lie in a row like corn or wheat.”
“They lay as they fell,” George said.
Tillie nodded, acknowledging the remark. She tried to picture these men—alive, advancing side by side—cut down, side by side. Her brow creased again. The extreme bravery the men required to move forward, knowing they might die, and go anyway. She became aware of an almost reverential silence, broken only by their quiet voices, the soft breeze moving through the trees, and the sound of her own heartbeat.
The words of James, chapter four came back to her. “Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life?”
What was her life? No answer came to her.
“Well, lieutenant”—Corporal Wilson’s deep baritone brought Tillie out of her reverie—“I’ve tarried long enough. I must be on my way.” He saluted George and again touched his fingers to his hat brim. “Ladies, a pleasure.”
Tillie and Beckie murmured goodbyes as he strode down the hill and into the Valley of Death, whistling “Dixie”.
Beckie let out her breath. “There goes a strange fellow.”
Why must Beckie always do that? Must she always dismiss people out of hand, rather than try to figure them out? Tillie pushed the thought away. “After what he’s been through I suspect he has the right to be whatever he wishes.”
Beckie glared at her. Tillie met her gaze, refusing to back down.
“Come.” George broke the tension. “I want to show you where some of the bravest men I know did some of the fiercest fighting.”
Beckie broke eye contact first. She allowed George to turn her around and lead them back the way they came, crossing the rocks and plunging into the woods of Little Roundtop. George followed a line of rocks and fallen timber standing like an ancient stone wall in severe disrepair. Tillie tried not to glance down the slope of the hill because she knew what would meet her eye.
As soon as the thought came to her, she looked. Row upon row of dead men, some lay with their heads toward the stone wall, which told her they had been shot while coming up the hill. Others sprawled on the ground facing the opposite way, arms above their heads, one leg crooked as though shot in the act of running away.
The breeze rustled through the trees, silent sentinels of the dead. In their mottled shade, stillness prevailed, affecting the three as they sauntered about. Their normal speaking voices lowered until they almost whispered. The reverence of the place awed Tillie.
Below the summit of the hill lay more dead bodies clad in gray. She averted her face.
They continued to move along parallel to the hastily erected wall extending deeper into the woods. When they came to a certain spot, George stopped and addressed to the two women. Though he stood surrounded by trees, the sun still shone bright on him. Tillie glanced up. The tops of the trees shattered, the branches, denuded of their summertime leaves, stretched their arms out in dismay.
“They look like horror-struck witnesses.” Tillie twisted this way and that. “If trees could feel, these would be screaming in agony.”
Beckie smiled at her, but Tillie saw her roll her eyes when she looked at George.
“This is where the 20th Maine boys held off Colonel Oates’s Alabamians and helped us win the day on July the second. If they hadn’t been here, the Rebs would have swarmed over this hill and come charging down the other side, taking us from behind. In fact, the Rebs would have been in your backyard. Even when the Maine boys ran out of ammunition, they still kept fighting. Instead of backing off they charged the Alabamians and chased them back down the hill.”
Tillie tried to picture the scene George painted. She gazed about her. “I remember cannonading so loud we couldn’t even talk to each other. Even shouting into one another’s ear, you still couldn’t hear. We were terrified.” The simple way she explained didn’t do the situation justice, but she couldn’t conjure the words to describe the experience.
George strolled to a tree, and using a jackknife, pried loose a bullet lodged deep in the trunk of a once mighty oak. He brought the mangled slug to Beckie, and removing his cap, held it out to her. She smiled and put it in her pocket.
Wanting to be anywhere but here, Tillie walked a few paces away and pretended to examine an oak, felled by bullets, while the couple exchanged an intimate moment.
They started back late in the afternoon. On the way, George picked out a few more spots where fighting had been fierce. Mr. Sherfy’s peach orchard and the adjoining wheat field now yielded a crop of dead bodies. He didn’t take them over, merely pointed them out as they walked home. Tillie remembered being on the roof and asking why those men were so far forward. Now she saw, from a distance, the horrible result of their mistake.
As they walked into the yard, it was clear neither George nor Beckie wanted his visit to end. “Won’t you stay and eat supper with us, George?” Beckie tilted her head and ran her hand up and down his sleeve.
“Thank you, no.” George removed his cap and wiped his brow. He gave her a lo
ok of regret. “I promised Ma I’d take supper with them. I must return to my unit by eight o’clock this evening, so I won’t be back again. I’m not sure when I’ll get another chance to come home.”
“I understand.” Beckie pouted, and then flashed him a brilliant smile. A look of fury flashed in her eyes, but she covered it with a shrug and cast her gaze to the ground. When she looked back at him, her smile was sugary sweet. She held her body rigid, and Tillie could tell she did not understand and was miffed at his refusal.
“Thank you, George, for including me in your tour. I had a good time.” Tillie extended her hand. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see if Doctor Billings needs me. We’ve been gone all afternoon.” On impulse, she leaned in and gave George a quick peck on the cheek. She trotted inside, leaving them alone to say goodbye. She enjoyed their walk, but she wanted to be alone, discomfited and anxious by the sights. Though she lived through the fighting, now two days past, she never imagined the scale on which human beings imparted such violence upon one another, and still called themselves human beings.
Instead of going in search of Doctor Billings, she headed to the bedroom and retrieved her now precious Bible. She clasped the book to her breast then sank to her knees beside the bed, needing to pray. The sight of so many men left out in the weather, to rot like so much refuse unsettled her. It was one thing to observe from a distance, quite another to stare down into the blackened, bloated face of a once vibrant man. She knelt by the side of the bed for a long time, trying to clear her mind, but she didn’t know what to pray for. The men in the field were dead. Their need for prayer ended. She offered up a grateful word of thanks for James’s life, though ill, and asked the Lord to heal him.
She let go and cried. She cried for all the wounded men who still needed so much care. She cried for the dead men still left on the field. She cried for those men who emerged physically unscathed but bore unseen scars. Most of all, Tillie cried for herself, overwhelmed by her circumstance. As she wept into the quilt, warmth overtook her, as if someone dropped a blanket over her shoulders. A soft voice spoke in her ear, “Be still.”
