by Angela Moody
“Protect me from what? Angry people?” She snorted. “There are some things you can protect me from and some you can’t.”
Father bobbed his head and raised one eyebrow in open acknowledgment.
“You and Mother talked last night about mending fences without burning bridges. Do you disapprove of my helping the boys?”
“No, we don’t.” He raised his face and stared down the street, as though reluctant to meet her gaze. “You’re right—they’re not soldiers anymore, just wounded men who need some Christian charity. Some people can’t get past the fact those boys fought against this country and wrought so much havoc here. I can’t blame them for reacting the way they do. Still, word is, Camp Letterman is to be disbanded soon, so I don’t see the harm in helping.”
Tillie gaped at him. “You ‘don’t see the harm in helping,’” she repeated, unable to keep the sarcasm at bay.
“Listen.” He held up a hand to forestall her words. “Your mother and I understand you believe the Lord led you to take this stand. We can’t gainsay you. This is between you and Him. We can’t make this journey with you. That’s not to say we’re not concerned with how others will treat you, but you must see we haven’t stopped you from going either.”
“Why not? If you’re so upset about the way I’m treated?”
“Because your situation puts me in mind of a similar one for me about two years ago. Do you recall right after William left for the Army, and I needed someone to work in the butcher shop?”
Tillie nodded. “You and Mother talked about a number of boys to apprentice.”
“Yes, we did, and in the end, we chose a young man who never even applied for the job.”
“Sam.”
“Yes, Sam. We picked him because we believed, with his father in prison and his poor mother overwhelmed by her circumstances, we needed to get him out of that havoc and into a Christian home. I took a lot of guff from people who thought me mad. Everyone said he would murder us in our sleep or rob me blind. Mr. Garlach, in particular, warned me time and again, trash is trash and I should leave it alone.”
“Mr. Garlach said such a thing about Sam? I’m surprised. He treats him so well.”
“He does now, but in the beginning he disliked and mistrusted him, as did many in this town. The sins of the father visited on the son, I suppose. We can’t deny his father is a disagreeable black spot on our town’s character. My point is, we did what we knew in our hearts was right. Right for us and right for Sam. We were led to choose him, and while we didn’t get half as much heartache as you, we can and do understand your position.”
Approaching the front gate of Camp Letterman, Father let out a low whistle.
Tillie laughed. “This is nothing compared to August. You should’ve seen it then. It’s about a quarter the size now.” She took his hand. “Thank you, Father, for telling me about Sam.” Rising on her tiptoes, she kissed his cheek before walking away, chirruping a good morning to the guard, who smiled and returned the greeting.
* * * *
Tillie entered the tent and went straight to Tommy’s cot. He rolled over, presenting his back to her. She ignored the rebuff. “I brought something for you, Tommy.” She put her basket on his blanket and reached into the bottom. Out came a beautiful piece of maple. Laid in her hand the block fit the length of her palm to her fingertips. The wood, sanded smooth and soft so the user wouldn’t pick up splinters.
He refused to acknowledge her.
Tillie used the wood to nudge him in the back, hoping to provoke him.
“Go away.” He waved his arm in her direction, a feeble gesture of dismissal. “Leave me alone.”
“I’ll not.” She pushed him again. “You whittled the other day. I talked to my father, and he went to my neighbor, who gave me this piece of wood.” She laid the block on his hip, on top of his blanket. “This is my way of saying I’m going to make your life miserable until you decide to stop feeling sorry for yourself. If that doesn’t work, I’ll read Bible verses to you all day about the sin of self-absorption.”
The other boys laughed.
“Give him Hades, Miss Tillie,” Private Jones heckled.
“Give up the fight, boy,” Sergeant Davis hollered over. “She’s got you in her sights. You don’t want to be in the way when her cannons go off, do you?”
From where she stood, she saw Tommy’s face turn a deep scarlet. “Let him alone, boys. I think he gets the general idea.” She held her hands out, pleading for silence. “Let him be.”
Tillie left his cot and set about building a warming fire in the stove. She ignored Tommy for the rest of the morning.
* * * *
The orderly brought their noontime meal, so Tillie went to the dining hall. For the hundredth time, she wondered she if did the right thing, baiting Tommy. But kind and gentle sympathy didn’t seem to work, and she couldn’t think of another way. She started praying, an unformed prayer, unsure what she wanted to ask. With the boy bound for prison camp, she knew enough to understand he had a slim chance of surviving, even under the best of conditions. As she walked and prayed, a sense of peace filled her soul. The same as she’d had in Beckie’s bedroom after returning from the battlefield.
Near the dining hall, Nellie emerged from a tent, almost colliding with Tillie. “Nellie!” Tillie’s hands shot out in a reflex to stop the collision.
With a startled “oh,” Nellie jumped back, as though to avoid touching Tillie. “I do beg your pardon.” Her tone formal and stiff.
“That’s all right.” Tillie shrugged. “I hope you weren’t hurt.”
Nellie didn’t answer and, without another word, strode away, quickening her step to put distance between them.
Tillie’s heart pounded, and hot tears scorched her eyes.
Nellie glanced back and walked faster. She too, headed for the dining hall.
Tillie walked slow enough to ensure she did not catch up with the older woman. Why didn’t people try to understand? Why did they judge? “Judge not, lest ye be judged,” she snarled under her breath, then closed her eyes, took a deep breath and repented.
Be still. The words echoed in her mind.
After her meal, she returned to the tent determined not to let her neighbors’ actions affect her attitude with the boys. But, when Tommy shoved something under his blanket before turning his back to her, something in her snapped. She marched up to the foot of his cot and dropped her hands on her hips the way Mother did when annoyed. “You know, when I first saw you that day after church, I honestly felt sorry for you. You looked so hungry and a bit silly in your outfit several sizes too big, but mostly, you were hungry. I wanted to invite you in for lunch, that’s how much pity I had for you. But you’re nothing but a selfish, spineless whiner. I should have saved my pity for someone far more worth the energy.” By the time she finished, her voice shook from the emotions surging through her.
He met her diatribe in complete silence, though his blue eyes rounded big as saucers.
Tillie stared hard at him, willing him to say something, anything, but he didn’t.
“Oh, fine. Be that way, you spoiled, selfish, rotten…little boy!” She waved an angry hand and stormed out of the tent. For the first time since she started working, she went home early. She didn’t even care if they had wood for the night.
* * * *
Tillie returned the following morning and stood inside the entrance of the convalescent tent. Her eyes traveled over the boys huddled beneath their blankets and stopped at Tommy. She approached his cot with a slow, contrite step. “I wish to apologize to all of you, but especially you, Tommy, for my behavior yesterday. My outburst happened because of something else, not you. I unleashed my frustrations on you, which was wrong. Will you forgive me?”
“Miss Tillie.” Private Johnson sat up and smiled at her. “We may spend almost all of our time in this tent, but we’re not ignorant to what goes on around here. We see how your people treat you for taking care of us. We see it in the way we d
on’t get wood at night, in the way you fight for us to get even small luxuries. They talk about you when you’re not here. Yes, they talk about you, and no, it’s not worth repeating the things they say. They’re the ones without Christian charity. There is one thing we’ve been wondering though.”
Tillie’s throat tightened, and she blinked back tears. “What’s that?”
He grinned and glanced around at his comrades, including them in his joke. They snickered.
“What took you so long?” All the men burst out laughing, except Tommy.
It took a minute for Tillie to realize they laughed in sympathy and understanding. She joined in, sniffing back tears.
A blue-clad soldier came in, carrying wood, and Tillie gave him a little dig. “I’m sorry.” She grew serious. “I don’t understand why you never get wood at night. I ask every night to make sure you get some, and they always assure me you will.”
“Well then, you’re naïve if you think they’re gonna give us wood.” Private Wilson put his hands behind his head.
The Yankee soldier opened his arms, dumped the wood, stormed out.
“Thank you, ever so much,” Tillie called as he snapped back the tent flap and left.
They laughed at his retreating footsteps.
“She’s stupid,” Tommy blurted out. “You’re a dumb, know-it-all, stupid woman.”
The laughter abruptly ceased.
Tillie stared at him. “He speaks!”
“Tommy, leave her alone.” Private Bacon lowered the book Tillie gave him the day before. He scowled at Tommy from his cot next to the ginger-haired boy. “She’s been nothing but kind and generous, and that’s rare around here. We can all go to prison camp and take with us the memory of her kindness.”
Tommy turned his face away and muttered under his breath.
“Besides,” Bacon continued, returning to his book, “she’s right, and I, for one, am sick and tired of your attitude.”
Again, the men laughed.
Tillie used the diversion to kneel and arrange the kindling. After she lit a match, the flames gathered strength while she organized her thoughts. She put wood on the flames and shut the stove door, holding her hands out to feel the heat radiate.
Satisfied, she rose and stalked to Tommy’s cot. “I thought about you all night last night. I want to tell you a story. On the Yankee side, I cared for a man who lost both his hands. A farmer in civilian life. Imagine trying to farm without hands.” If she thought Tommy would respond, she was in for disappointment.
He kept his eyes averted and pulled his blanket over his head.
“Tommy, look at me. Your life isn’t over. Do you want me to tell you about the boy without his hands?”
“No.” Tommy’s muffled voice came from under the cover. “Leave me be.”
“I won’t leave you be. I don’t believe in allowing people to wallow in self-pity. It’s sinful. The boy who lost his hands had more reason than you to despair, but he doesn’t. He’s decided he`ll go home and open a dry goods store. He said there would be things he can do and things he can’t, but those he can’t, he’d find people who can. He’s not going to let his circumstance stop him. I can’t imagine why you would let the loss of one foot stop you. Get up out of the wallow. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re going to go to prison camp soon. You’ll need every ounce of fight left in you to survive.” She glared at him, breathing hard. “My point is you can find something else to do with your life, but only if you’re willing to survive and go home.”
“I don’t need you telling me what I can and can’t do. Why don’t you go away?”
Tillie shook her head and walked away. She sat next to Private Wilson, smoothed his blankets, and helped him to sit up.
He patted her hand. “You did fine, Miss Tillie. He needed to hear it. We been saying the same thing, but he needed to hear it all the same.”
“I hope so.”
* * * *
Two days later, Tillie arrived at Camp Letterman to discover the entire Confederate side empty. Soldiers worked, striking the last few tents.
She ran back to the gate. “Guard!”
“Yes, miss?”
“What happened to the boys? My boys? Where are they?”
“Well, miss, the prison transport train came for them last night. We loaded them up and sent them to a brand-new prison camp in Illinois called Rock Island.” He put his fingers to his hat brim. “Please excuse me now, miss.” He walked away.
Her heart sank, and she bit back bitter tears. Why didn’t they tell her? Give her a chance to say goodbye? She stared at the dead earth where sixteen men lived for a short time. She would never lay eyes on them again. “Why didn’t you let me say goodbye?” She screamed at the place where the tent once stood. People milling around stopped and stared at the crazy girl screaming by the gate. Then they went back to business.
* * * *
She walked to the dining hall, not expecting anyone to join her at mealtimes anymore. Today she didn’t care. She wanted to be alone.
Dr. Janes, the camp administrator, entered the dining hall and stood on a chair. The hall grew quiet.
“Ladies and gentleman.” He put out his hands in an unnecessary gesture for silence. “Ladies and gentleman, I wish to make an announcement.” He made a show of sliding on spectacles and withdrawing a piece of paper from his coat pocket. He unfolded the sheet and held it at arm’s length. “By order of President Lincoln, General Halleck, and Dr. Letterman this camp is to be disbanded by the close of business on or before the twenty-second of November, in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and sixty three.” He lifted his eyes from the paper and glanced around the hall. “Thank you.” He stepped off the chair and left.
Silence greeted his announcement. After he disappeared, the general buzz of conversation picked up again. One week from tomorrow. Today would be her last day. She saw no point in coming back. These boys didn’t need her. She returned to her meal. One good thing about people refusing to speak to her: it left her with plenty of time for prayer and meditation.
“Miss Tillie, may I join you?” The chaplain smiled down at her. He held his hands behind his back.
“Chaplain Combs. Your company is most welcome.”
Reverend Combs sat across from her and set down a wooden horse, carved in the act of running, tail and mane caught by the wind and flowing behind the animal. She bore strong legs with muscle definition carved into the thighs, the hooves chiseled to precision. The horse’s arched neck displayed fierce pride, yet the eyes showed a calm, gentle demeanor.
For the first time in months, Tillie thought of Lady, and her heart lurched. Her hand shook as she picked up the carving. “Where did you get this? It’s lovely.” She ran her finger down the length of the horse’s side. She could almost feel the muscles flex with movement. She touched the muzzle and imagined the soft snout. Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, she’s so beautiful.”
“The boy, Tommy, asked me to give this to you. No explanation, just ‘See Miss Tillie gets this and tell her I’m sorry.’”
Tillie clutched the carving to her breast, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“I take it you found a brother or two in that tent.”
“It seems I did.”
Chapter 30
Whoever said nothing ever happened in Gettysburg? Tillie waited on the front step for the rest of the family. They were going to the dedication ceremony, but so far, everyone else seemed to take their time coming out. She didn’t want to miss a thing.
She glanced at the door, braced her hands on the railing, and hoisted herself up. She peered toward the Diamond.
A crowd milled about, and the buzz of hundreds of voices carried to her ears. She couldn’t see the telltale sign of Mr. Lincoln’s tall hat. Dropping back to her feet, she pushed open the door. Where did everyone go? “Hurry! They’re coming. You’ll miss it.” She slammed the door.
Leaning out over the railing again, she glimpsed people, but no sign they were starti
ng toward the cemetery. Tillie skipped down the steps and out to the curb, stopping in the center of the empty street, and waited. She looked at the closed door, drew in a deep breath, and went back to the front step.
President Lincoln’s arrival at the train station yesterday touched off an impromptu celebration lasting late into the night as townspeople wandered the streets serenading the Executive, Mr. Seward, and even Mr. Everett, the main speaker. Now, the party continued as they made their way down Baltimore Street.
A tall man, wearing a high, black stovepipe hat, a black coat and pants rode a calm and gentle brown horse. Two men flanked him. Mr. Seward on the President’s left and Mr. Wills on his right, but Tillie only had eyes for Mr. Lincoln.
She clutched her hands to her breast and bounced on the balls of her feet. They approached Middle Street. If the rest of her family didn’t come soon, they’d miss out! The President of the United States riding a horse down her street. She pushed the door open again. “The President’s coming. Hurry!” She slammed the door a second time and spun around.
Music drifted to her ears. Somewhere near the back of the line, a flute tootled out the tune “The Flag Of Columbia.” The three men at the head of the column approached West High Street. Almost oblivious to the massive crowd gathered about them, the riders came abreast of her.
Tillie straightened her shoulders and put on her most solemn face. She mustn’t smile at the President. What would he think of her?
Lincoln and his companions passed, deep in conversation. The President turned to speak to Mr. Wills, his gaze straying past the lawyer’s shoulder, resting on her.
Not knowing the proper protocol, Tillie wanted to be dignified. A grin split her face, and she sank into a clumsy half curtsey. Rubbery knees failed to support her, and she lost her balance. Her hand whipped out and caught the railing in time to prevent an undignified spill on the front stoop. She straightened.
