by Angela Moody
Their glares and mutterings struck a deathblow to her enthusiasm. She licked her lips. “Uh, I’ll go find some wood to keep this fire going.” She set the food to warm and beat a hasty retreat.
A short time later, she returned, arms laden with wood. She tended the stove until she got a good fire. She laid more wood on and shut the door before turning to the men. “There are fewer of you than yesterday.”
“They’re starting to move us out.” A soldier ventured to tell her. “We’re going to a place called David’s Island in New York.” He sat up.
“I’ve never heard of it before.” She passed the food around to the boys.
Stopping in front of the boy with the ginger colored hair, she studied his face. “I remember you. I told you I would.” She waited, giving him a chance to respond, but he stared at her, silent. “You were outside our house after church, tying your shoe, a day or so before the fighting started. I was rude to you.” She offered him some gingerbread, but he didn’t move. She set it on a stand next to his cot. “I’m sorry about that.” She remembered his smile, the way his cheeks dimpled, his salute cocky and full of superior confidence.
She eased herself down. “My name is Tillie. What’s yours?”
He turned his face away.
“Aw go on, talk to her,” someone challenged. “She ain’t gonna bite ya.”
The boy remained silent.
“You were tying your shoe when we walked by. You gave me a salute and went on your way.” She put her hand on his arm.
He withdrew his arm. Still he said nothing.
About to give up trying, she started to rise when another thought struck her. “Listen.” She stood, clasping her hands in front of her. “You’re angry and I understand.” She didn’t expect a response, but his face blotched almost purple. He glared at her.
“You understand?” he sneered in a thick, Southern accent. “You understand what it’s like to lose everything, do you?” He lifted his leg minus his foot, which he dropped back on the cot. “You people took everything from me and more, so don’t tell me you understand. I don’t want your understanding or your pity!” He snatched up the gingerbread and flung it at her. “Go away and leave me be!”
She blinked a slow, deliberate blink and unclenched her jaw. She folded her lips under her teeth and squeezed, wanting to slap him. Instead, she bent and gathered the crumbs. “You haven’t lost everything.” Her tone remained friendly, but now held an edge. Rather than meet his eye, she brushed bits of gingerbread from her skirt. Her shoulders drew back, and she stared down at him. “You lost your foot.”
She walked away.
* * * *
Tillie walked toward the dining hall. An orderly brought the men their lunch, which reminded her it had been hours since breakfast. Hungry, she headed to the mess tent, but she couldn’t get the boy with the ginger colored hair off her mind. How to reach through his hostility and pain?
Her knees knocked together as she approached. Last week, someone threw food at her, splatting the floor in front of her. The harassment began when she started helping on the other side. She understood what the doctor meant when he doubted she would come back, and because of his sarcasm, she refused to quit.
Now, most everyone ignored her. She couldn’t decide which was worse. She stepped into line with a pounding heart and sweaty palms. Her hands shook as she grabbed a plate. She made her selections and walked down the rows of tables, looking for a place to sit. Two weeks ago, people invited her to sit with them, but now, they turned away or blocked her from sitting down. She couldn’t help feel she ran a gauntlet every lunchtime, but remained convinced she was doing the right thing.
Spying Nellie Auginbaugh at a table talking with her cousin and a couple of civilian doctors, Tillie walked over. “May I sit with you?”
Nellie’s cousin snorted. The doctors concentrated on eating. Nellie stared. “Of course.” She grabbed her plate, rising to her feet. “We were just going. We have to get back to our boys.”
Tillie sat with a heavy sigh and ignored the doctors across from her. She closed her eyes to pray over her food, but hot tears squeezed between her lashes. Oh, Lord, am I wrong? What should I do? She opened her eyes, sniffed, and forced herself to eat, even though her appetite disappeared. She chewed and swallowed without tasting, keeping her eyes on her plate. Her head jerked up when a warm hand covered hers.
“No need for tears, Miss Tillie.” A soft Irish lilt fell on her ears like comforting musical notes. The chaplain settled across from her.
She touched her face. Her fingers came away wet. Her fork clattered to the plate as she covered her face and wept. She dropped her hands, sniffing. “I’m so confused. Did I get it wrong?”
“Get what wrong?” He cocked his head and chewed.
“I thought God wanted me to go over to the Confederate side and help those boys. They have no one. So many people serve our Union boys, but those boys are alone. At the Weikerts’, I cared for Union and Confederate alike, and no one seemed to think that wrong. Now I’m a pariah.” Every ounce of her misery she poured out in her speech. “I thought God wanted me to go over and help them.”
“Oh, but we must be careful not to presume to know what God wants for us, don’t we now.” He wagged a finger at her. “Still, I see the good you’re doing. I care for the spiritual needs of those boys. They speak highly of you.”
Despite her tears, she smiled.
“Pride goeth before the fall, my dear.” He rolled the R when he said pride. Frowning, he scooped another forkful of food.
Her brow creased. “What do you mean?”
He swallowed. “You smiled when I said they speak well of you. I understand you feel complimented, to be sure, but we must be careful of letting the devil get a foothold, by the pride in being so well thought of.”
“More like, I’m glad someone appreciates what I’m doing. Do you think I’m presuming what God wants for me? I wondered about it last night, so I went to the Bible. Second Corinthians seemed to make things clear. ‘All things are of God, who hath reconciled us to himself by Jesus Christ and hath given to us the ministry of reconciliation.’ So I thought I did the right thing.”
“Well, who am I to argue with Second Corinthians?” He sipped his coffee and put his cup down. A gold cross, pinned to his lapel, caught the light. A soft smile touched her lips. Always a teacher when she needed one. Thank you, Lord.
“You rather put me in mind of ‘Love your neighbor as yourself and pray for your enemies.’” He offered a smile.
“Reverend Bergstrasser would say our neighbors are our brothers and sisters in Christ, not the Confederates who happen to be in the area or the man who lives next door.”
The chaplain nodded, looking thoughtful. “That would be true. But are you certain you don’t have neighbors, brothers in Christ, in those Confederate tents?”
“No.”
“Don’t you think you should go find out?” He winked at her, pulled out a pocket watch, and clicked the top. “Well I must run. I’m late.” He snapped the timepiece shut and slipped it back into his pocket. “I enjoyed our conversation and look forward to seeing you around.”
“Thank you, sir.” Tillie picked up her fork. “Thank you for everything.”
Chapter 29
Reading aloud from Shakespeare’s Sonnets with Private Johnson, Tillie glanced at Tommy, the ginger-haired boy, who lay on his cot, across the aisle, whittling. Sam often whittled when he needed to sort things out within himself. Her voice drifted away as an idea began to take shape.
“You know what, Miss Tillie.” Johnson pushed the book down to her lap, bringing her back to reality. “I’m kinda tired. I think I want to rest a bit, and after, write a letter to my sweetheart. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not.” She took some paper out of her basket, along with a pen and some ink. “I’ll leave you now.” She rose and crossed to the ginger-haired boy. He chipped away with vicious hacks. “I can bring you more wood, if you w
ant some. My father’s apprentice whittles a lot. Sometimes, he even makes something worth looking at.” She chuckled.
The boy turned the stick in his hands and returned to gouging out chunks and letting the chips fly.
She sighed and walked away.
* * * *
As soon as the sun edged toward the peaks of Big Roundtop and the clouds began to turn purple, Tillie started for home. Mother made her promise to be home before dark, but she stayed a bit longer to finish some things before going home. Now she walked fast. A chill November breeze touched her skin. Her cheeks tingled, and her breath puffed out in white billows. Would Mr. Garlach give her some spare pieces of dressed wood? Perhaps if she asked in a circumspect way, he may be willing.
She approached the outskirts of town, and as she passed Racehorse Alley, something hard hit her right arm. She spun around in the gathering darkness trying to identify the culprit.
“Traitor!” a man shouted, but she didn’t recognize the voice.
Her scalp prickled as feet pounded down the alley. She picked up the rock. People disapproved of what she did, she knew, but she never thought her neighbors would turn vicious. She was one of them. She stared down the lane. The darkening passage and looming buildings menaced her now, as though hiding monsters. She dropped the stone, grabbed her skirts, and ran home.
As she entered the house, her stomach growled at the smell of dinner. She took off her cloak and bonnet and hung them up. Holding out the cuff of her sleeve, she examined it for tears. She didn’t find any, only a dirt mark where the rock hit her.
Father stepped into the hallway. “You’re home. Good. I’m getting ready to read. Hurry and wash up.”
“Yes, Father.” She breezed into the kitchen and poured water into the washbasin. After a quick cleansing, she dropped into her seat with a sigh, relieved to be home, safe and secure, around people who loved her.
Father opened the Bible to the Book of Matthew.
She listened, and when he finished, she passed food around the table, eating her meal in silence and partially listening to the general conversation.
“Are you well, dear?” Mother placed her palm on Tillie’s forehead.
“I’m fine. I’m tired.” Tillie smiled, then turned her eyes to her plate and continued to eat.
“Well, go to bed early. You spend far too much time at Camp Letterman, if you ask me.”
“I like what I do.” She forked another bite of food and chewed.
Father tapped her arm. “Join your mother and me in the parlor after supper.”
His expression said they wanted to discuss something important. Her heart skipped a beat. Did she do something wrong? “Of course, Father.” She saw no point in pursuing the subject at the table. He wouldn’t speak in front of the others.
After helping Maggie clean the dishes, Tillie sat on the parlor sofa. She folded her hands in her lap and waited for her parents, sitting together on the settee, to begin.
“What’s wrong, my dear?” Mother asked.
“Why do you think something is wrong?” She studied first one parent, then the other. Did someone tell them of the harassment?
“My love.” Mother tilted her head and gave her a gentle smile. “You are my child, and I love you. Do you think I can’t tell when something troubles you? Is that boy still giving you a hard time?”
“Well, yes, but I don’t worry about him. Mostly he ignores me. I think I found a way to get through to him. Father, do you think Mr. Garlach would give me a piece of surplus dressed wood? Something he can whittle. After my confrontation with the boy, whose name is Tommy, the others started to open up.” She rearranged her skirts, trying to put her thoughts in order. “I ate lunch with a chaplain today. I’m having a little trouble with people in town who seem to think I’ve forgotten who I am and what those Southern boys are.”
Her parents exchanged a knowing glance.
Tillie noticed but went on. “We spoke for some time about reconciliation and finding out if there are brothers in Christ among those Confederates.” She sighed and beat back a wave of sadness. “I feel a little like this past summer. People say things that make sense at the time, but then I’m not sure what we talked about or if I heard right.”
“Heard what right?” Father’s brow creased. He sat forward.
“Well, Chaplain Combs and I spoke of Second Corinthians. Tonight, you read blessed are the merciful and blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called children of God. I know my heart is not pure at all, and I’m wondering if I’m doing this for God’s glory or my own.” She uttered a heavy, worried sigh. After a few moments of fiddling with a pleat in her skirt, she glanced at her parents.
“Why do you worry about whose glory you do this for?” Mother tilted her head.
“Because.” Tillie shrugged and kept her eyes on her lap. “Because people at the camp hate me for what I’m doing. Someone threw a rock and hit me in the arm as I walked home tonight.” She wiped a tear away, hating to tell them of the incident. “I don’t like it when people dislike me. My first instinct is to behave contrary to them.”
“Who threw a rock at you?” Father demanded, but Mother placed a calming hand over his arm.
“She’s obviously unharmed, James, and we can get to that later.”
Tillie smiled. “Mother’s right. It doesn’t matter who threw the rock, and I didn’t see them anyway. It came flying out of Racehorse Alley and hit me on the arm.”
Father drew a deep breath and let it out. “I’m glad you’re telling us this. It’s the reason we wanted to talk to you.” He clasped Mother’s hand. “You speak true when you say they don’t like what you’re doing. I’ve been told outright people think you’re providing aid and comfort to the enemy. The Lord tells us to pray for our enemies. But I did read tonight that He also wants us to be reconciled to our enemies and to be peacemakers. Some people are not ready yet. In the meantime, you’ll need to fill yourself with an enormous amount of grace.” He rose and went to her. Kneeling down, he placed his hands on her knees. “I’m proud of you, Tillie. You are working out your faith well. Tomorrow, I shall walk you to Camp Letterman, and I’ll pick you up at four o’clock. Perhaps if people realize your mother and I sanction your actions, they’ll reconsider before throwing anything else at you. I’ll go to Mr. Garlach and ask for some wood.”
“All right. Thank you, Father.” She slipped her arms around his neck. “Oh, by the way.” She pulled back to see into his face. “Can we stop at Mr. Buehler’s first thing? The boys want me to post letters for them.”
Father pushed her away and stared hard at her, his mouth agape.
She fidgeted. “Is something wrong?”
“You can’t mail letters to the South. That’s treason. They won’t be delivered.”
“I’m not committing treason. I know what’s in the letters. I helped write most of them. I’m not sending military secrets. Just notes to their families telling them they’re all right.”
He rose to his feet. “The contents aren’t important. Sending letters south is considered a treasonous act.” He glared at her. “I’m not going to let you send them. It’s too dangerous. I forbid it.” He held out his hand. “Give them to me.”
Tillie’s face fell. She considered arguing with him, but changed her mind. Treason was a frightening word. She went into the hallway, returning with a small packet, which she gave to him.
Mother rose and put her hands on Tillie’s shoulders. “We worry about you, Tillie. Father and I don’t disapprove of what you’re doing for the Confederate boys, but people in town do. We only ask—be discreet.”
“I will be discreet. I am being discreet. This is silly and narrow-minded. They’re not the hated ‘Rebs’ we talked about all summer. They’re poor boys who are hurt and far away from home. Wouldn’t you want some woman to care for James or William the same way? Wouldn’t any mother here?”
“Tillie, it’s not so simple. Of course, I’d want someone to care for your brothers if nec
essary, but we’re not discussing them. We’re talking about your safety and standing in this town. You have a future to consider.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, you heard me right. Soon, those boys will be sent off to whatever prison camp they’re assigned to, gone for good. You, on the other hand, will be here for a long time to come. Care for them. Lord knows they need some kindness. Perhaps, after the war, your actions will go a long way toward mending fences, but don’t burn your bridges in the process.”
Tillie studied her parents. “Do you feel the same way, Father?”
“I do.” He put the packet of letters into his breast pocket. “It may sound selfish and self-serving, but Mother’s right. Your future is here. Theirs is not. You must think long term. You don’t want to damage your standing.”
She stared at Mother, who met her eyes with a steady gaze.
Tillie nodded. “I understand what you’re saying, and I will try to adjust my behavior accordingly.” She exhaled. “If you don’t mind, I’m exhausted. I’d like to go to bed now.” She gave her parents a hug and kiss and trudged upstairs.
* * * *
Rising early the next morning, Tillie dressed and ate a quick breakfast. She stepped into the hallway and donned her cloak and bonnet. As she buttoned up, Father joined her at the front door, pulling on his coat and hat.
They walked toward the center of town. Their conversation the night before left her disgruntled. She’d lain awake a good portion of the night. She didn’t know how to broach the subject or how to interpret his silence. By the time they reached the Diamond, she couldn’t take it any longer. “Are you keeping something from me? You don’t want me doing this work?” She turned puppy-dog eyes to her father. Would they stop her or would they trust her?
He checked each road entering the Diamond, waiting for an opportunity to cross. When the intersection cleared enough, he grasped her elbow, and they trotted across. Upon reaching the other side, he released her and walked with his head down, hands in his pockets. He gave her a sidelong glance. “I’m only trying to protect you. That’s all your mother and I are trying to do. That’s my job.”
