by Angela Moody
“Well thank God.” His words stopped her. “I hoped someone would pity these boys. It’s all hustle and bustle over there, and a graveyard over here.” He took her by the arm and dragged her three tents down. “Come with me.”
“There are some boys in here. Once they get used to you, they’ll be friendly enough. At least, I hope so.”
“Are they unfriendly?” She never considered they might be hostile.
“Well of course, they’re not friendly. They think of us as the enemy. These men are in need of companionship beyond what I and my limited staff can do for them, but I think you’ll win them over.” He gestured to her. “I’ve seen you around here. You have a way about you I think these men will respond to. At first, they’ll refuse to be friendly, but in the end, they’ll be grateful for a pretty girl giving them attention.” He walked away, leaving her standing like an idiot in front of the tent.
“Well, Matilda Jane Pierce, you made your bed.” She peered over her shoulder, hoping no one heard her talking to herself, squared her shoulders, and went inside.
She stood at the entrance, feet stuck to the ground. She couldn’t move another inch if someone pushed her. The flap fell down and brushed her skirts. She glanced at it, and then faced the men. She said nothing, letting her eyes adjust to the dim interior.
Several men sat up in their cots bracing themselves on elbows. Others raised their heads and stared back with sullen glares. Some flopped down and turned their backs on her.
This wasn’t going to be easy. She forced herself to move further inside.
“Good morning.” She gazed at the men in their cots. “My name is Tillie. I live in Gettysburg.” What a stupid thing to say. She chuckled. “Of course I live in Gettysburg. Where else would I live? I came in to say hello. If you gentlemen need anything, I’d like to help.” She studied each of the men.
They lay on army cots, each man with a heavy woolen blanket, yet they shivered in the cold morning air. The woodstove at the far end of the tent gave off no heat because no one had bothered to light it. As on the Union side, many of these men were missing arms or legs. Some were in the delirium of fading life, others fought for their recovery. Without thinking about it, Tillie moved toward the woodstove. “I didn’t come prepared today, but I can bring some fruit with me tomorrow or some other foods if you wish. I can read aloud or write letters for you.”
No one responded, but she refused to give up so easily.
“What’s your name?” she asked soldier after soldier, none of whom answered. Most turned their backs as she approached. One boy, not much older than her and missing his left foot, glared. Something about his ginger hair and blue eyes seemed familiar, but Tillie couldn’t place him.
“What’s your name?”
He didn’t answer. Tillie wondered if here, at least, would be a start. She pursed her lips, bowing her head, as if accepting defeat. She reached the woodstove and put her hand on it. As she suspected, it was cold.
“Well.” She gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I can’t do anything for you today. My decision to come over here spontaneous, to say the least. Tomorrow I shall bring a book of poetry if you like. Oh! How about a copy of Mr. Thoreau’s newest work and some home-cooked food? Also, I’ll bring a pencil and some paper in case you want to compose letters. I’ll post them for you later.”
She didn’t receive a response and didn’t expect one. Feeling like a fool, she left to find the doctor.
“I have to go back now. It’s almost dark, and I must get home. I’ll come back tomorrow. Can you tell me what kind of food I can bring the boys?”
The doctor gave her a hard, penetrating stare. “If you do, I’ll let you know.”
“What does that mean? Of course, I will. I said I would.”
“The same as many others. If you decide to return, I’ll tell you what you may fix for their recuperation. If not, well, no harm done.” He clicked his heels, pivoted, and marched away.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she called. He disappeared into another tent, and with a tread as heavy as her heart, she walked away.
* * * *
Tillie worked in the kitchen after supper, preparing a basket of bread, cheese, and some apples for the Colvills to take on their trip back to Minnesota. Maggie and Mother cried over his departure.
“Tillie?” Walt stood inside the sitting room door, holding a pistol and bayonet in his hands. Ever since Father’s refusal, he took pains not to be alone with her.
Lost in her musings, she jumped at the sound of his voice. Her face and ears warmed. She shoved her thoughts into a far corner of her mind. “Hello, Walt. I’m preparing a basket for Colonel and Miss Eliza. Can I pack something for you and Milt?”
“No thank you. I wanted to come in and say goodbye.” He took another step closer. “I’d like to give you something, if you think your father won’t object. A token to remember me by.”
“I don’t think Father would object.” She wasn’t sure that was true.
Walt extended his arms, offering the gun and bayonet. “I want you to take these. I’m mustering out, so there’s no reason for me to keep them. If anyone comes to take the pistol from you, tell them I bought it with my own money.” He turned the gun over and showed her his initials, W.S.R. PVT carved into the handle. “See? That’s proof she belongs to me.” He placed the weapon in her hand. “Don’t worry. It’s not loaded.” He laughed. He laid the bayonet across his palms as an offering. “I want you to keep this as well.”
“Walt,” she breathed. “These are lovely. Are you sure you want to part with them?” The beautiful workmanship of the steel glinted as it rested across his palms.
“I want you to keep them.” He stepped forward. “As a token of my esteem and to say how sorry I am about the way things happened. I didn’t want to get you into any trouble, and I do hope we can remain friends.” Earnest green eyes pierced her heart.
“I’d like nothing better. I’ll treasure these items forever. Thank you.” She accepted the bayonet.
He bowed and left the kitchen.
She held the blade close to the lantern and read the inscription down its length: To our beloved son, Private Walter S. Reed, Co. G, First Minnesota.
Tillie clasped it to her breast and said the words aloud. Then she grasped the pistol and carried them to her room where she put them in her armoire.
On her way back downstairs, she stopped in the doorway of the colonel’s room. “Good evening. So, tomorrow is All Hallow’s Eve, and you leave us.”
“We do.” Eliza extended her hand. “Though with much sadness. Billy and I feel as though we’re leaving our family.”
“We do too, I assure you.” She clasped Eliza’s hand. “Mother says your brother reminds her of William.” Her eyes darted to Walt and back. “In fact, we’ve grown quite fond of all of you.” As she spoke, her eyes again darted to him.
He turned his back, but Miss Colvill’s glance passed between the two. Sympathy glowed in her eyes.
“Well, Miss Tillie.” Colonel Colvill held a hand out to her. “I couldn’t find myself in more loving hands than those of you and your mother and sister.”
“I didn’t do so much.” Tillie protested, folding his hand in hers.
“You took care of things that needed taking care of so your mother and Maggie might tend to me. I must say, I have the greatest respect and admiration for my companions, but female nursing is much tenderer than male nursing. Women are more caring and sensitive.” He stretched his right arm in a wide circle. His shoulder moved well, though he would always experience stiffness and less mobility. “I shall forever be grateful to your family.”
“As shall I.” Miss Colvill slipped her arm around his waist and leaned her head on his shoulder.
Tillie choked up. “It’s as if I’m saying goodbye to another brother and sister. I’m going downstairs before I burst into weepy tears.”
They laughed at her frankness.
Tillie kissed them each on the cheek. She left,
blowing her nose and wiping her eyes.
* * * *
Tillie exited the house early in the morning, having said her goodbyes the night before. She presented herself to the doctor caring for the Confederates.
“Well, I must say.” He didn’t smile, but the hard glint in his eyes softened a bit. “Come with me.” He turned his back on her and led her to the same tent she’d entered yesterday. “These boys need the most help. I’d like you to stay with them for a while.”
Tillie nodded and opened her mouth to ask what she should do, but found herself staring at his back as he walked away.
* * * *
She arrived home at four in the afternoon, darkness almost upon her. A letter sat on a table inside the front door.
“Thank goodness you’re home.” Maggie greeted Tillie at the door, her voice full of excitement as her hands pulled at Tillie’s cloak. “We’ve been waiting for you. Mr. Buehler stopped by this morning and delivered this.” Maggie pointed to the table.
Tillie lifted the envelope. “William!” She beamed at Maggie. “At last.”
“Hurry and get settled. Father’s been waiting for you to come home so we can have dinner and then William’s letter. I’m on pins and needles.”
Tillie rushed into the kitchen, found her seat, and listened as Father read the Bible story of the prodigal son. When he finished, Mother passed around the food. Any other night they would all converse, but tonight, they concentrated on finishing their meal.
“We can clean up after Father reads William’s letter, girls.” Mother kept her eyes on Father as she spoke. “Just this once.”
He nodded his agreement.
“Thank you, Mother.” Maggie grinned and rose from the table.
* * * *
Tillie sat on the settee. A few weeks before she started learning how to knit using a set of Mother’s old needles. She brought her yarn and needles to the settee, close to the lamp.
Sam sat at the table, his grammar book open, but ignored as Father took the letter from the envelope.
“It’s dated July 25,” Father said, a note of disappointed surprise in his voice. His brows furrowed as he flipped the page over in his hand and glanced at the empty back. “So, he was in good health as of July 25. That’s a blessing, I suppose.”
“James, please, read his letter.” Mother sat in her rocker, knitting needles flashing in her hands.
“I’m sorry, dear. Of course.” Father cleared his throat. “‘Dear family, I’m writing these few lines to let you know all is well. I’m sorry for not having written sooner, previous commitments preventing.’” He snorted. “No doubt lack of ambition being one of them.”
“James.” Mother shot him a reproachful glance.
He reddened. “Yes, well.” He scanned the page. “Let’s see. I fought and survived Antietam without a scratch even though I was only one of a handful of men from my unit to do so. Please do not worry for me, Mother, I assure you I am in the best of health, as I pray you all are.”
“That’s a relief,” Maggie sighed. She too held knitting needles and worked on a sweater for him.
Father continued, “‘Sadly, two of my tent mates and best friends, did not. We were sent back to Washington for a few months. I am sorry to tell you James is in a hospital in Washington with a bad case of pneumonia but is mending well.’” He lifted smiling eyes to Tillie. “Of course, we already knew.”
Tillie blew him a kiss.
He read on, “‘What was left of my regiment afterward, they reformed and posted in Kentucky. When we arrived, we heard about the battle at home. I asked permission to go home, but was denied. So, I am sending this letter in hopes you are all safe and well. Praise God Vicksburg also fell on July four. I can’t explain why, but I feel we’ve passed through the crucible and the war will end soon, and in our favor. Please the Lord Almighty the war end soon. Dear family, write back to me as soon as you can, so I know you are unharmed and in good health. Your loving son, William H. Pierce.’” He folded the sheet and placed it back into its envelope.
Tillie bowed her head and gave thanks to the Lord for word on both of her brothers and for the fact they visited each other in Washington. Even though his news was months old, having his letter boosted her spirits. “So, William is well. James is recuperating from his bout with pneumonia.” She wiped tears from her face. “The news is old, but I’m glad. I think they’re going to be all right.”
* * * *
Tillie fixed a rice pudding dish her mother always made for her when sick. She cut up some apples and added them to the pudding. She prepared spoon bread, and for a treat, a pan of gingerbread. Northern boys loved gingerbread. She hoped the Southern boys would as well. She stopped calling them Rebs a long time ago. To her, they were Confederates, wounded boys who wanted to go home, but would go to prison instead.
Tillie pulled the pan from the oven.
Mother stopped short and gazed about in dismay. “Good heavens, Tillie. Did the Rebs come marching through here?”
“I’ll clean up. I promise.” Tillie scratched an itch on her cheek leaving a smudge of flour.
Mother grabbed a rag and wiped up the flour and sugar scattered on the table. She seized the broom and swept the floor. “Who is all this food for?” She kept her gaze on her task.
“For the Southern boys at Camp Letterman.”
“I see.”
Tillie cocked her head, brows creased. She put the hot pan down. “You don’t think I should? Do you think me wrong for wanting to help them?”
Mother created a neat pile of dirt. She wouldn’t meet Tillie’s eye as she arranged the pile with her broom.
“No,” she lengthened the word and tapped the broom around the dirt pile she created. “I don’t think you’re wrong.” She glanced at Tillie. “But you never did this much baking for our own boys.”
Tillie said nothing for a moment. “You yourself said, whatever these boys think they are, they’re still Americans. Do you still believe that?”
Mother swept the dirt into a dustpan. “I’m not sure. After what they put us through, they didn’t seem to want to be part of this government, this country, anymore.”
“President Lincoln says we’re still one country. Where can they go? They can’t physically leave. That’s what he says anyway.” Tillie shrugged. “Besides, plenty of women cook for the Union boys. No one cooks for the Confederates.” She took a knife and cut the bread into small squares then put it down and studied her mother. “Do you want me to stop helping them?”
Mother pursed her lips. She carried the pan to the back door. When she returned, she replaced broom and pan, crossed to the table, and sat. “Why do you ask?”
“Because, ever since I told you what I’m doing, I get the feeling you and Father aren’t pleased.” Tillie wrapped the cut-up bread in a moist cloth and placed it in the basket. “So, I’m asking if you disapprove.”
Mother leaned against the table. “We don’t disapprove as such. We’re concerned with what will happen when others in town find out you’re helping men who created such devastation here. We’re concerned things may not go well for you.”
For a split second, she considered telling Mother, but decided not to. She nodded, acknowledging her concern. “Didn’t our Lord’s sacrifice on the Cross give me eternal life? If I can show people His sacrifice through a little sacrifice of my own, then perhaps they will remember His love and find some comfort. Maybe my work will teach them. This is something I must do. Jesus is calling me, regardless of what people will think.”
Mother reached for Tillie’s hand. “Very well. Your father and I will stand behind you and help you in any way we can.” She kissed Tillie’s cheek. “You’ve grown up. Become a fine, God-fearing, young woman, and I’m proud of you.” Then she squeezed her hand and left the kitchen.
Tillie perched the basket on the corner of the table and finished cleaning the kitchen. Mother gave her a lot to think about, but it wouldn’t change her resolve any. While at the Weiker
ts’, she cared for Union and Confederate alike and saw little difference in the suffering of either side. Blood was blood, and death afflicted them both. In the end, no matter what side they were on, when they died, they cried for their mothers. She’d determined to give kindness to these men, who caused so much destruction in her world. She couldn’t explain to her family what she endured there, and they didn’t or wouldn’t understand. When she finished cleaning up, she took the lamp and headed for the stairs. She went to bed and prayed for her new boys.
* * * *
Tillie returned with her basket laden with food, books, and implements to write letters. Her feet crunched the frosted grass, and she did her best to avoid the icy puddles in the road. Her breath produced small clouds of steam. She hoped the boys were warm enough last night.
Tillie arrived, a bright, cheery good morning on her lips. Few responded. Most shivered under their blankets. She crossed to the stove and put her hand on the cold metal. “I thought so.” She glared at their only heat source. “I brought some wood.” She knelt, pulled out books and food, placing them with care. She took sticks of wood, enough to start a fire, and arranged them in the bottom of the stove. “Why didn’t someone come in and build a fire for you last night?”
The boys laughed in derision. No one answered.
“Oh.” She wanted to disappear every time she said something that displayed the gulf between them. Instead, she busied herself with building the fire. She used some of her precious writing paper and a match from a tin thrown to her. When she got a small flame going, she added more sticks then larger pieces.
“I got these from my father’s orchard. They tore down our trees for the soldier’s cemetery. I love the smell of apple wood. Mr. Everett is coming to dedicate the cemetery.” She talked while she worked to build up the fire. “The ceremony is set for November nineteenth. Two weeks from today. Mr. Lincoln might come!” She grinned at the men.
