by Angela Moody
Joseph groaned.
Hope shone in Mrs. Greenly’s bright blue eyes. “See? He knows I’m here. He’ll be well soon.”
Tillie couldn’t meet her gaze. She recognized a dying man when she saw one, and estimated it would take a matter of days before he passed. She couldn’t bring herself to say so. Instead, she nodded and struggled to push down a wave of grief. She couldn’t bear for Mrs. Greenly to see her face so she made a point of studying the other men. Tillie cleared her throat and smiled. “You promised to introduce me to these fine boys,” she choked.
Chapter 27
It didn’t take long for Tillie to establish a rapport with the men, some of whom she nursed at the Weikerts’. She enjoyed spending time with them.
Camp policy required that the orderlies sweep, empty the chamber pots, and change the linen daily. Many of them scoffed at what they considered not only women’s work, but also a silly directive. However, it made a profound difference to the convalescents’ health. Despite the efforts at cleanliness, though, the odor of twelve to sixteen men confined in a tent lingered. She didn’t need to ask about the evergreen boughs.
Mrs. Greenly spoke true. There were nurses and doctors aplenty, and no one asked for Tillie’s assistance in surgical procedures, which allowed her to develop a routine.
Each morning, she sat with Joseph and Mrs. Greenly. He lay unconscious on his cot while Tillie and his mother prayed. Afterward, Mrs. Greenly seemed content to sit by his side talking to him in quiet tones while stroking his forehead and squeezing his hands.
Tillie visited the other men. “Good morning.” She sat next to a man in a cot three down from Joseph. “I’m Tillie. Can I do anything for you?” She smoothed his blankets to have something to do with her hands.
“You come in every morning and sit with that poor boy. I was kinda wondering when you would come and pray over me like you do him.” He sat up a little.
Tillie folded her hands in prayer. “We can pray now if you like. What’s your name?”
“Jones, Private Jones.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, private.” She cocked her head and smiled. “I must call you something other than Private. What’s your first name?” She took her Bible out of her apron pocket.
“Michael.”
“Hello, Michael.” Tillie offered her hand to shake. They talked a few minutes, becoming acquainted. “Shall we pray?”
“Please.” He settled himself and bowed his head. They prayed for the next quarter hour. “Where are you from, Michael?”
“Hartford, Connecticut.”
“I’ve never been to Hartford. Is it a nice city?”
“Nice enough, but not so pretty as the land here.” He nudged her arm. “I hated the idea of fighting here. It’s too pretty to tear up.”
Tillie beamed. “It is pretty here.” They sat in silence for a few seconds. Tillie resisted the urge to readjust his blankets again. “Um, how long have you been in the army?”
“I joined up in '61.” He shrugged. “My girl said she would be proud to marry a soldier.” He chuckled. “I heard she married a businessman.”
Tillie shot up straight in her chair. “She didn’t!”
“Yeah, she did. My mother confirmed so in one of her letters. You see, I’ve been wounded before, at Second Bull Run, and apparently Melissa—that’s her name—thought I died, so she married someone else.”
Tillie stared at him, mouth ajar. “Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t seem very broken hearted.”
He laughed. “Well, I’ll admit to a few bad days when I first found out, but then I thought her rather prudent to find a fella whose life wasn’t in danger all the time.”
Tillie laughed. “I like your attitude.”
* * * *
The camp administrator, Dr. Janes, ran Camp Letterman in true military style. Guards refused admittance to the civilian volunteers until seven thirty in the morning, after the patients received their breakfast and had their bedding and clothes changed.
After her morning prayer time with Joseph and Mrs. Greenly, Tillie went to the cot, once occupied by Private Jones, but now held Private Markham. She settled into her camp chair. “Good morning, Private Markham. How are you feeling today?”
“Oh, I’m fine, Miss Tillie. I feel a chill this morning. Is there frost on the ground?”
“Not yet. A heavy dew, but no frost. It is only late September.”
“Perhaps the Good Lord is holding off the severe weather until we’re all well enough to move. Who knows?” Private Markham pulled his shortened arms from under the blanket and rested his stumps on the top of the coverlet. He indicated the side table with his chin. “The mailman left a letter for me. I think it may be from my ma. Would you mind reading it for me?”
“Of course.” Tillie picked up the envelope and removed the letter. She read in a low voice, conscious of those around them. She finished and put the letter back into its envelope and set it on the table. “They’re just picking apples now? We picked our apples weeks ago.”
“In Vermont, where I’m from, you don’t pick apples until a hard frost. That’s when they’re best.”
“Doesn’t that ruin the fruit?”
“Certainly not!” He reacted with mock outrage. “A hard frost does something to the apple. I can’t say why, but the skin snaps when you bite in and the apple is tart and tasty. Makes for the best cider too.” He sighed, and a dreamy expression crossed his face. His expression changed as his brow creased, and a frown pulled at his lips. “I’ll never pick an apple again.” He held up both arms, his right arm amputated at the wrist and the left at the elbow, before dropping them at his sides.
“That won’t mean the end of your life though.” Tillie phrased her words with care remembering Barney Kline.
“No.” He looked her in the eye. “No, but every once in a while I look down at my hands, or lack of hands, and I think, I won’t be able to pick apples again or tie my shoes or button my coat. It comes to me in little ways.”
Tillie pursed her lips, casting about in her mind for some way to comfort him. As always, inadequacy stabbed her.
“There is one good thing I can think of.” His voice grew hopeful.
“What’s that?”
“Well, I never wanted to be a farmer. Now I can do what I always dreamed of.”
“Which is?” She tried to think of a profession that didn’t include the use of one’s hands, but couldn’t.
“A dry goods store. I always wanted to own a store and our town could use one. I thought maybe I’ll take my army pension and open up a dry goods store.”
“How does owning a dry goods store change things? Wouldn’t you still need your hands?”
“The things I can’t do with my hands, I can hire someone to do for me.” He grinned at her.
Tillie straightened his bedding. “What a wonderful idea.”
* * * *
As Tillie walked to the cookhouse to discover if Mike and Bill, the two men who cooked at the Weikerts’, were cooking here, she saw Nellie Auginbaugh speaking to the guard at the front gate. Tillie veered off to greet her.
Nellie came to Camp Letterman to offer her services. She was twenty-two, so Tillie never knew the woman well, but as their paths crossed more and more, they grew friendly. Mrs. Greenly, in typical fashion, took an instant liking to Nellie and invited the young woman to share lunch with her and Tillie.
“So, Nellie, tell me of your experience. Tillie shared with me what happened to her. I’d like to hear your story.” Mrs. Greenly spooned her soup.
“I work at Mrs. Martin’s.” Nellie used her napkin to clean her spoon before eating. “Mrs. Martin owns a millinery shop on Carlisle Street.” She looked at Mrs. Greenly. “I’m an apprentice.”
Nellie spooned her soup and swallowed. “When the Yankees came, I was working on a new hat. Mrs. Martin is such an exacting task master, I didn’t pay attention to the goings-on outside until Mr. Martin told me the Yankees had arrived and it looked
as though the Rebs came out to meet them. He thought I should go home. We were so close to the fighting that Mr. Martin kept going outside to watch. I paid him no mind because Mrs. Martin said the hat needed to be done for Mrs. McCreary by the next day, and she wouldn’t pay me if I didn’t finish. I told Mr. Martin I would go home at my usual time and no sooner.”
“Nellie!” Tillie appraised her new friend. “How brave. Weren’t you in danger?”
“I didn’t think so at first. Mr. Martin kept pacing in and out of the store and telling me I ought to go home, but I continued to object. All of a sudden, a bullet hit the brick of the building. Mr. Martin grabbed my arm and yelled at me, ‘Hat be hanged, girl, get home now!’ I’m glad he threw me out when he did, because just as I got out on the street, Yankee soldiers came streaming by me, running for their lives, hollering at me to get inside as fast as I could.”
Her blue eyes took on a faraway look. The spoon dangled in her hand as though she forgot she held it. She shook her head and blinked. “When I got home, a dead Union soldier lay in front of our house. My father knelt over him and wrapped a blanket around him. Pa saw me, stopped, and took me inside. After the fighting ended that first day, he went back outside to see about the dead soldier. Someone took the blanket so Father got another and wrapped him up again. He tried to find someone to take the man away, but couldn’t find anyone. The Rebs swarmed everywhere so he left the body lying on the pavement. The poor boy lay on the pavement for almost a week and a half before someone took his body away. Horrible, so horrible.” Tears filled Nellie’s eyes. She dropped her spoon and pushed her plate away. She crossed her arms, rested them on the table, and stared out the tent door.
Memories flooded Tillie’s mind. The faces of the boys they couldn’t save continued to haunt her.
Mrs. Greenly continued to eat her soup, as though unaware of the emotions she unleashed in her two companions.
“Excuse me, ladies.”
The three of them turned to the orderly standing at their table, hat in hand. “The surgeon would like to see Mrs. Greenly. It’s about your son.” He gave them a nod and disappeared.
“Oh no! I knew I shouldn’t have left his side.” Mrs. Greenly jumped from her seat, fear and panic showing in the strained, tight muscles of her face. “Tillie, please come with me,” Mrs. Greenly whispered. “I don’t wish to go alone.”
“Of course I will, but let’s not overreact. Perhaps he’s awake and asking for you.” Tillie rose. They excused themselves and hurried back to Joseph’s tent.
The surgeon sat in the chair next to Joseph’s cot. He rose when they entered. “Mrs. Greenly, I consulted with my colleagues, and we agree the best thing for your son is to amputate his arm.”
Mrs. Greenly rocked back as though he struck her. “But without his arm, he won’t be able to do the farm work. How will he milk cows, bring in the corn, and do the other things needing two arms?”
“Mrs. Greenly.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Do you wish your son to survive? We need to reverse the infection, and the best way to do that is to amputate.”
Tillie touched Mrs. Greenly’s arm while the woman gazed at her dear son.
“I’ve seen this done many times, Mrs. Greenly. Joseph does stand a better chance of survival if they amputate. They saved many soldiers at the Weikerts’ in just this way.”
Tears filled Mrs. Greenly’s eyes as she saw, perhaps for the first time, Joseph’s sad state. His face, ashen gray, with sweat coating his forehead and sunken cheeks was a death mask. He shivered and clasped his blanket close about him as he groaned and muttered in delirium. Mrs. Greenly covered her face with her hands and nodded, then wept. Tillie stepped close and put her arms around her friend’s shoulders while the woman struggled to regain her composure.
The doctors jumped into action. They took the boy, placed him on a litter, and took him to the surgery tent. Tillie and Mrs. Greenly sat on his cot waiting. Joseph returned three hours later, though it seemed an eternity, minus his left arm above the elbow. The bandages had a greenish smear amidst the blood. Tillie prayed they caught the gangrene in time. If they did, he may survive. If not…She refused to consider the alternative. Mrs. Greenly fussed over him, tucking him in and speaking soft gentle words to her unconscious son.
Tillie slid to her knees beside the cot. “Heavenly Father, not our will, but Your will be done for poor Joseph. It would mean so much to his mother if he survives. He is the last of her sons. She’ll be alone after this. Please be with this young man today and help him recover. If that is not Your plan, then be with dear Mrs. Greenly. Be her aid and comfort. I pray these things in the name of Your Son, Jesus Christ. Amen.” Tillie rose and went to find a soldier who might need some company. She wanted someone to talk to who could make her feel less sad.
* * * *
Darkness came early, and the September nights held a nip in the air. Tillie returned to Joseph’s cot and found Mrs. Greenly still at his side, stroking his hair, speaking to him in soft tones and holding his remaining hand, tears sliding unnoticed down her cheeks, landing on the boy’s blanket.
Tillie perched on the other side of his cot, not wanting to disturb the woman’s grief. She waited a few minutes before touching her arm. Many mothers and fathers grieved for their sons, but the depth of Mrs. Greenly’s grief pierced Tillie’s heart.
Joseph’s eyes flew open, and he stared up at her. “Mother?” he croaked. “Dear Mother.”
“Yes, son, I’m here. Mother’s here!” Mrs. Greenly clasped Joseph’s hand to her bosom. “I’m here. Mother’s here.”
Joseph swallowed hard and seemed to stare with sightless eyes, still in his delirium. He blinked a long slow blink as recognition shone in his eyes. He smiled at her and mouthed the words I love you. Then he took a deep breath. “Good bye, Mother,” he whispered. “Good…bye.” The light left his eyes, and a smile traced his lips as if he found peace.
Mrs. Greenly collapsed over her son’s body, weeping as though her heart would break. “Joseph! Joseph!”
Tillie rose and took Mrs. Greenly by the shoulders. She lifted the woman from the bed and held her while they cried. When they were exhausted, they walked home.
* * * *
Tillie and her family stood in the hallway by the front door. Mrs. Greenly had announced the night before that it was time to go home. Now, they gathered to see her off.
“You won’t reconsider?” Father held Mrs. Greenly’s cloak while she tied her bonnet. She turned around, and he laid the cloak over her shoulders.
“Such a lovely offer, and I’m honored and humbled you would want my son buried in the Soldier’s Cemetery.” Mrs. Greenly took the basket Mother handed her. “However, I wouldn’t be able to visit him here. I want him nearby, next to his father and two brothers. He has an infant sister buried there as well. I do hope you understand.”
Father nodded and squeezed her hand. “Of course, we do.”
“When I go…” Mrs. Greenly smiled at Mother and Father. “We shall all be together once again.”
“We quite understand.” Mother hugged her. “Please know you’re welcome to come and visit any time. We shall miss you so much.”
“I shall miss you all. Especially you, Miss Tillie.” Mrs. Greenly wrapped her arms around Tillie in a long hug before kissing her cheek.
“I’ll miss you, too.” Tillie sniffed into Mrs. Greenly’s shoulder. They hugged each other tighter.
“I like to think if my daughter had lived, she would have been much like you,” Mrs. Greenly whispered in Tillie’s ear.
Tillie kissed her cheek.
They broke apart, sniffing.
Father held the front door open.
Mrs. Greenly went down the front steps as the Pierces gathered on the stoop. She blew them a kiss, faced forward, and adjusted her cloak and bonnet. Hanging the basket on her arm, she put on her gloves. She signaled to the wagon driver, waved to the Pierces one more time, and walked to the train station behind the wagon carrying
her son’s coffin.
Chapter 28
In the days following Mrs. Greenly’s departure, Tillie continued visiting Camp Letterman. She did so now with a renewed heart, as though she wanted to honor her memory of Mrs. Greenly and Joseph by doing her best for those still left. Her work became less strenuous, as each day more men received discharges from the hospital, back either to their units or to the Invalid Corps to complete their convalescence. By mid-October, around two thousand soldiers of the original four remained, many of them Confederates still awaiting transport to prison camps.
Every day she went about her duties talking with the boys, writing letters, reading books, and bringing some of their favorite foods. As they recovered and departed, Tillie was sad to see them go, but happy they were well enough to leave the hospital camp. Once or twice, she met soldiers who, in some way or other, substituted for her own brothers.
As the Union side thinned out and men left, workers struck the tents and sent them to the newest battlefield site. The southern side, however, remained unchanged. None of the soldiers departed. In fact, very little activity occurred on that side.
The main thoroughfare acted as the dividing line, and the visitors behaved as if no one crossed it. Only those caring for the Southern boys ventured into “enemy territory,” all clad in blue.
Tillie searched for someone to grant her permission to help. Heart pounding, she stepped across the lane. Her knees knocked, as a sudden sense of having stepped into forbidden territory washed over her. Why was she so nervous? She wasn’t going into the Confederacy itself, for goodness sake.
She straightened her shoulders, pushed away her ridiculous thoughts, and walked with a halting gait up the row of tents. Their flaps, closed against the late-October chill, didn’t encourage her. She didn’t dare push open a tent flap and barge in. Her breath constricted in her throat. She started to go back to the other side when a man’s voice stopped her.
“Hello. Can I help you find something?”
Tillie spun around. “Hello.” Her voice trembled, and her legs wobbled. “I’ve been coming here to help our boys. No one comes to visit these boys, so I thought perhaps I might offer my services.” Heat infused her face, but she couldn’t help it. “If I’m not allowed over here, then I apologize.” She searched his face for some sign of what to do. When she didn’t get one, she made a lame gesture. “I’ll go back.” She started to leave.
