by Angela Moody
Tillie studied her father. He never shared his doubts with her. Now uncertainty quavered in his voice, and fear reflected in the crease of his brow and set of his jaw.
“We’ll be all right, Father. You always tell us to wait on the Lord and he will provide. Do you still believe that?”
“Yes, I do. Perhaps, with everything that’s happened these past days, I forgot. Thank you for the reminder.” He smiled down at her and hugged her close.
Tillie leaned against him, savoring his embrace. She inhaled, and this time, the metallic scent of animal blood no longer made her want to gag. It was part of Father, like his warm brown eyes and graying temples. A pang of regret hit her for all the times she hurt him by avoiding his embrace. “Come.” She tugged his arm. “Let’s go downstairs and see what Mother made for breakfast. She always puts something on the table for us.”
When she smiled up at her father in complete confidence, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. Arm in arm, they left the garret and went down to breakfast.
As Tillie cleaned up from their meager breakfast, her gaze fell on a round hole in the wall, behind the cook stove. Curious, she bent for a closer look.
“That happened during the third day.” Maggie entered the house from the kitchen door, clean sheets draped over her arm. “Some Rebs—deserters we think—came and told Mother to go upstairs and cook them some food. I don’t know how she managed to be so brave, but she told them no. She wouldn’t cook for her own family just then, and she surely wouldn’t cook for them. A short time later, a volley of fire came this way, and after the fighting ceased, we came up here and found that hole. Sam found the bullet on the floor by the sitting room door.” Maggie gestured toward the doorway. “If Mother complied, she would have been killed.”
“So you were in danger.” Tillie pushed down a wave of emotion.
Maggie shrugged. “No worse than you, or anyone else around here, and besides, we all survived.”
****
While Mother and Maggie continued to care for the colonel, who mended slowly, Tillie spent her time downstairs cleaning and restoring the house to its former condition. One afternoon, she headed to the basement to find something for dinner. Stopping in front of the shelf Sam and Father made, she stared at the empty space.
“How gullible to think a simple curtain would protect our food.” Pursing her lips, she twisted her apron in her hands. Sighing, she turned from the bare shelf. As she ascended the stairs, she prayed. The passage she read to Mr. Weikert popped into her head, and she relaxed and thanked the Lord.
Tillie worked in the kitchen, using the cleaning to think what to do. Behind her, the door opened. Assuming Father returned home, she didn’t turn until she felt a tap on her shoulder.
“Sam!” Tillie threw her arms around his neck in a sisterly hug.
Seemingly taken aback by her affectionate outburst, he did not reciprocate her hug.
“Sam, I’m so sorry about Ginny.”
He ducked his head. “Thank you.” His eyes darted around the room.
Tillie didn’t know what to say or do to help or make him feel better. Worse, her burst of emotion embarrassed him. “Are you back for good?”
“Not yet. I came for two reasons. First, I came to welcome you home. Second, I wanted to tell your folks I’ll be back in a week or two. My mother is devastated by—by everything. Mr. Garlach made a coffin for us. The funeral is tomorrow.”
“We’ll be there.”
Sam sniffed and glanced around the room again. “Uh, some wagons are coming through town from York Road. They’re from the Sanitary Commission.” He jerked his thumb toward the door. “The Christian Commission is also coming. Mr. Fahenstock says they’ll be using his store as a supply depot. If you have soldiers in your house, you can get medical supplies.”
“What about food? We need food.”
“I don’t know. I’m sure if you go down, they can help you.”
“Thank you.” Tillie selected a basket off the shelf and tugged her bonnet from its peg. “Do you want to walk with me?”
They exited through the back gate and headed toward the Diamond. They walked in awkward silence, and Tillie’s heart ached at the change in him. Sam, always a quiet, thoughtful boy, now seemed pensive and brooding. A pinched and haunted look shadowed his eyes. An air of sadness surrounded him, seeming to go deeper than the loss of his sister.
“Did you hear about Wesley Culp?” She tried to peer into his downturned face.
“Yeah.”
Tillie waited, but Sam remained quiet. Never, in the time he lived with them, did Tillie feel a wall between them, but now he was a stranger. She couldn’t think of what to say or do.
“They say he died on his father’s land.” Sam spoke into the silence.
“I heard that too.”
“Johnston Skelly’s dead too.”
Tillie’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh, Sam, no. Didn’t Johnston begin courting Ginny after Wesley’s family refused their marriage plans?”
“He did.” Sam smiled a sad smile. “I’d pick Johnny over Wes any day.”
“Did Johnny fight here?” Tillie touched his arm.
Sam drew away. “He didn’t. He got wounded in one of those fights the armies engaged in on their way up here. There’s a story going around that Wes and Johnny met and talked awhile. Johnny asked Wes to deliver a message to Ginny, but Wes got killed. Then Ginny died.” Sam gestured toward Fahenstock’s store.
Ahead, hundreds of wagons stretched down the road and around the corner at Middle Street, each waiting their turn to unload provisions.
“Oh my.” The words rushed out on a breath of air. She suppressed the urge to run to Fahenstock’s, forgetting Sam for the moment in her relief.
“Tillie?” Emotion choked Sam’s voice.
She turned and watched his face. He seemed to struggle with something.
“I didn’t mean what I said—when I called Ginny a filthy traitor and I hoped she got what she deserved—I didn’t mean it. I was mad.” The words came in a rush. He kept his eyes focused on the ground and scuffled one foot along the pavement. He lifted his left index finger and swiped at his nose. Tears splashed on his shoe tops, but his shoulders slumped and his body relaxed as though he’d been carrying that burden around with him since Ginny’s death.
“Oh, Sam.” Tillie placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Of course not.” Despite his reluctance to be touched, she kissed his temple.
Sam sniffed. “Do you suppose Ginny, Johnston, and Wes are in heaven now?”
Tillie cringed. She never paid enough attention when these discussions came up. Now he asked questions she couldn’t answer. She cast about in her mind for the answer Father or Reverend Bergstrasser would give, but decided on the truth. “I don’t know, Sam, but I don’t think so. The reverend says you must give your soul to Christ. Did they do so?” Tillie fumbled for words, stopped, and cast him an apologetic glance. “Perhaps you should ask Father or Reverend Bergstrasser this question. I’m not answering well, I fear.”
“No, you did. I don’t think my sister ever did, and Wesley went off and fought for the other side. Not sure that counts though.” Sam stared at Tillie and shrugged a shoulder as if the question no longer mattered to him. “Well, wherever they are, I’m sure their messages are being delivered and received.”
Tillie laughed. “You are a practical soul, aren’t you, Sam?”
Sam laughed too, and Tillie took his arm, their friendship restored. He didn’t pull away this time. Together they reached Fahenstock Brothers.
Chapter 25
The following day, the army doctor Father requested arrived to examine the colonel. Tillie brought him upstairs.
Mother rose when they entered. Maggie stepped back. The two men waited on either side of the head of the bed, almost as though they meant to protect their commanding officer from a sawbones.
The gray-haired doctor stooped over as though he’d spent far too many hours hunched over an amputation tabl
e. He examined the ankle and back, none too gentle in his ministrations, turning him this way and that, smelling his breath, and inspecting his bandages, all while ignoring his patient’s exclamations of pain. He removed the dressing covering his shoulder blade, scowled, and muttered incoherent words.
Mother inhaled through her nose and straightened her shoulders, but remained silent.
He took the colonel’s pulse, sat him up, and pushed him forward so his head almost rested on his knees.
Colonel Colvill gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, but his hands grabbed the blankets and twisted.
The doctor plucked a probe out of his shirt pocket and began to dig deep into the wound.
The patient cried out and begged for mercy, but the doctor ignored him. When through, he laid him back down and patted his good shoulder.
The colonel lay back, panting. Sweat dripped off his forehead.
Doctor Wilson turned to the women. “The bullet lodged near his spine and must be extracted if he’s to make a full recovery. It’s not doing damage now, but may shift and cause paralysis. Also, the metal is causing infection, which needs a good cleaning.” He contemplated each one of them. “Who among you ladies can assist me?”
Maggie made a choked sound and ran from the room, one hand over her mouth, the other clutching her abdomen.
“Okay, not her.” He watched her depart, his smile wry and amused.
Mother swallowed hard several times.
“I will.” Tillie half raised her hand. “I helped at the Weikerts’. I can assist you,” she repeated, as though trying to convince herself as much as them.
“Good.” Wilson rose from the bed and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Please.” He came and stood in front of Mother. “Get me some warm water so I can wash up and sterilize my instruments.”
She murmured assent and took her leave.
He refocused his attention on his patient who had passed out. “I think I can remove the bullet and clean the infection to prevent spreading.” He stretched his arms and flexed his fingers. “The ankle wound is healing well.” He glared at Tillie. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
Startled by his abrupt manner, she opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.
“You boys.” He indicated Walt and Milt. “I’ll need you to keep the good colonel calm. In case he gets uppity during the surgery.”
“Yes, sir.” They spoke in unison.
“Got any whiskey?” Not waiting for an answer, he turned to Tillie, eyebrows raised, awaiting her response.
She almost forgot the question. “Oh. Uh, yes, sir. I–I helped out at–at Mr. Weikert’s.” Heat crept up her face, and she took a step backward.
“Good.” He pointed toward the washstand as Mother entered with a basin of steaming water and a clean towel draped over her arm. “Put it there. Thank you, kindly.” He escorted Mother out of the room and closed the door.
“Well.” He clapped his hands together and went to the washbasin. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
* * * *
Tillie assessed the instruments while Dr. Wilson gave the two men a signal to roll the colonel onto his stomach and hold him down.
They clamped down as he picked up a scalpel and widened the opening.
Colonel Colvill screamed.
“Hang tight, boys.” He cut the wound deeper and took the clamp she held ready for him.
The poor colonel struggled and fought, but couldn’t escape the two holding him down with ease. He begged for mercy, cried out, swore, and wept as with quick, savage movements, the physician probed for the bullet. Finally, the colonel passed out.
“That’ll keep him quiet.” Doctor Wilson pushed the instrument deeper into the gap and manipulated it. “I’m almost finished…almost…there.” He twisted his wrist one more time and extracted a mangled bloody object, which he dropped into a pan Tillie held out for him. He set down the tool and observed as she, with tender, gentle movements, cleaned and bandaged the wound.
“You do good work.”
Despite her fury over his callous disregard for his patient’s well-being, she smiled at the compliment, hearing gruff approval in his voice. “I assisted Dr. Billings, who was posted at the Weikerts’.”
“John Billings?”
“Yes, sir.” She packed the area a little more and, with help from Walt and Milt, wrapped a bandage around the colonel’s rib cage.
“A good man and a fine doctor.”
She grinned. “Yes, sir.”
* * * *
Tillie carried a basin of steaming hot water, preparing to go up the stairs without tripping over her skirts or spilling water. Mother followed with clean bandages, soap, and a towel. The colonel’s male nurses were going to give him a bath. The doorknocker clattered against the door. Tillie froze. Did she try to go upstairs or answer the door?
“I’ll answer the door.” Mother turned Tillie back to the stairs. “You take the water up.”
Dr. Wilson returned to check his patient’s progress. He came with another wounded man lying on a litter. Mother let them in.
“His name is Private Kline.” He gestured to the young man carried up the stairs. “With such an accomplished nurse in the house, I decided to bring him here. He needs special care, and I don’t have enough people to help with him.”
“Of course.” Mother nodded. “We’ll look after him. Tillie in particular will see to him. Don’t worry.”
For three weeks, Private Kline recuperated in James’s bed, becoming Tillie’s most trying patient. A bullet shattered his left elbow. His forearm and hand now hung limp and useless.
“They might as well cut the stupid thing off, for all the good it’ll do me,” he bemoaned, for what seemed to Tillie, the thousandth time.
“So why didn’t they amputate your arm when they had the chance?”
He glared at her. “No one will touch me with a saw. I’d rather leave the blasted thing hanging dead and useless than amputated.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand. You said—”
“I know what I said,” he snarled. “But I couldn’t stand the idea of them cutting off my arm. I’m so worthless now without both arms. Why didn’t I just die?”
“Don’t talk nonsense.” She scowled at him. As much as she disliked his incessant whining, she recognized most men did not handle their wounds well. So she swallowed her impatience and remained kind and calm. Sometimes, though, her lack of good grace escaped her before she could stop herself. She tried a new tack and put mock ferocity in her voice. She gave him another stern glare as she tucked in his sheets. “I’ll not accept such talk, Mr. Kline. If you don’t cease and desist, I’ll tell Father to turn you out of the house.”
“You will not.” He turned away from her and stared out the window, self-pity and anger burning in his face.
Tillie wanted to smack him. “Don’t tempt me.” She sat in a chair next to the bed and took his left hand into her right one. “Try to squeeze my hand.” Using her best helping tone, she almost willed a sign of movement. They stared at his offending limb. “Don’t worry, Barney. Perhaps you need time.”
“No, Miss Tillie. You can see the muscles are shrinking. My left arm is smaller than my right and shorter too. The doc said the elbow is shattered and won’t work no more.”
Laying the appendage down, she pulled the blanket up. No sense trying to force things. “I’m sorry, Barney.”
“It’s all right.” His eyes traveled to the window. “Ain’t your fault.”
She pursed her lips and tried to think of something comforting. “I’ll let you rest now.” She rose and left the room easing the door shut behind her. She let out a long, slow breath and leaned her back against the door. She closed her eyes. “Heavenly Father, please be with Barney. Let him feel Your presence. He’s hurting so, not just physically, but in his heart. Heal him, Lord, and give me the wisdom to deal with him. Help me be kind and comforting. Amen.”
Tillie entered to the sitting room, w
here her Bible lay next to Maggie’s chair. She sat and picked it up.
Private Reed, one of Colonel Colvill’s attendants, wandered in.
She put the Book down and started to rise. “Can I get something for you, private?”
“No, no. Sit down, please.” He waved her into her seat. He dropped onto the sofa and rested his hands on his knees. His fingers drummed on his pants, index finger to pinkie, nonstop. He opened his mouth to speak, stopped, and for some reason, his face flushed.
What was the matter with him? Tillie bit her lip to keep from smiling.
“Uh.” He ran his hand through his red hair. “The colonel is resting, and your mother and sister are such devoted caregivers. I decided to come down and see if you needed any assistance.”
A flirty sounding giggle escaped her. She clamped her lips shut, her face heating faster than a cook stove. “I could have used your help when I first got home, but now it doesn’t take much time to clean up down here. Father spends most of his time out at the butcher shop with Sam, and everyone else remains upstairs.”
Private Reed nodded. He looked about him, still drumming his fingers on his knees. “This is a nice house.”
“Thank you.” She rose. “I think I’ll make tea. Would you like some?”
“Yes, please. Tea would be wonderful.” He spoke fast and started to rise, but she waved him back down.
Returning a few minutes later, she carried a tray. He left the sofa and joined her.
Tillie placed a cup and saucer in front of him, set the creamer and sugar bowl near his hand, along with a plate of gingerbread baked earlier in the morning. She poured steaming brown liquid. “May I ask you a question, private?” She took a seat to his left and balanced her teacup in both hands.
“Please, call me Walter—Walt.”
She smiled. “May I ask a question, Walt?”
