Chapter 8

 

Tillie quaked as Father led her into the parlor. “Matilda Jane, your rebellion must stop. I don’t understand what’s gotten into you, child. You’ve never spoken to Mother or me the way you did the other night. First, your disgraceful outburst over Lady, and now, Mother tells me there’s no point to Bible study. Explain yourself.”

Tillie shifted. “I just—I…” Why did she always stammer so when he scolded her? She raised her shoulders to the level of her ears and dropped them. She fought back a surge of tears. She didn’t like him unhappy with her. If only the floor would swallow her. “I’m sorry, Father. Sometimes I get frustrated because I don’t understand how these things can happen.”

“What don’t you understand?”

She played with a crease of her skirt. “I don’t see what good can come of war. Why do men do these things to one another?” Her heart hammered her chest, and her fingers shook as they fiddled with a pleat. Still, she rushed on. “I don’t accept God wants us to kill each other and treat people so badly, yet we do. Why did George have to die? We all will someday, but why him? Why so young? Doesn’t seem fair! Why does He let these things happen and not do something?” Her words came out in a rush, like a burst dam.

“Well.” Father cleared his throat, adjusting himself in his seat. “Where do I start? How about we take them one at a time, shall we?”

She stared at him, wary. “I’m not in trouble?”

“No. Not when you express what’s in your heart if you do so in a non-rebellious way as you’ve just done. When you misbehave, yes, you are.”

Tillie released her breath in a huff of air, but suppressed a relieved smile. He wasn’t mad at her.

“War is a terrible thing, you’re right.” He placed his elbows on his knees. “But some wars, like this one, are righteous. Even the Old Testament talks about war. Look at David and Goliath.” He searched her eyes. “It’s hard to see, in the midst of it, what good can come of hostilities. I think our country will come out the better for this particular one. I can’t say how I know, because there’s nothing to base my reasoning on.” He took a deep breath. “I pray slavery will be abolished forever, and when free of that sin, we will become the God-fearing nation we can be.” He took her hand in his scarred one.

Tillie studied his shortened finger.

“You’re also right, God doesn’t want us to fight each other, but that’s what our sin does. We have free will, coupled with a state of sin that only faith in Jesus Christ can help us to overcome.”

She whispered the words, mulling them over. “Is that why, even though I try so hard to be good and obey you and Mother, I still get in trouble for misbehaving? Because of my sinful state?” She turned frightened eyes to her father.

He took a long time to respond. He rubbed the top of her hand with his. She watched the play of his white cotton shirt across his broad shoulders and arms.

He sat back, releasing her hand. “Yes, but it’s what’s in your heart as well. For instance, every time you react with frustration when Sam asks for help with his studies, your sinful nature shows. You give willing assistance in the end, but always at first, you grumble and complain. Another example is the expression on your face when Ginny hollered over at us. I must confess shock over the hatred you displayed.”

Tillie wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like her. I don’t know what happened between William and her, but I’ve not liked her ever since.”

“What happened between them is William’s affair, not yours. She wasn’t right for him, and he cut off any further interest, lest she get the wrong idea. Her behavior over the entire matter was most unkind, but it doesn’t concern you. Ginny needs our prayers, not our enmity.”

“It does when she tries to get us—Mother—into trouble with the Rebs.” Tillie heated up, more words rushing to her tongue.

“No, it doesn’t.” He cut her short and patted her hand. “That concerns your mother and me. Now, I thank you for being so willing to come to our defense, but it isn’t necessary.”

Tillie twisted her cotton skirt. “What about George?” Emotion choked her voice.

“A terrible tragedy, my dear. I’m grateful you’re grieved about it. I had the impression you didn’t like him much. He was a God-fearing man who’s in heaven now. I’m as certain of that as I am sitting here talking to you.”

“How do you know heaven and hell exist? You’ve never seen them. He hasn’t come back and told us.”

“Through faith. Remember, Hebrews eleven tells us ‘faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.’”

Tillie’s brow creased. She opened her mouth to ask another question, but someone pounded on the front door.

Father sat back. “Answer the door.” His voice shook. He rose from his chair and tugged on the bottom of his waistcoat.

Tillie answered the door. Margaretta Kendlehart stood on the step, her hand raised to knock again.

A blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl, no older than fourteen, glanced around her as though afraid of being caught. “Hi, Tillie. Is your father home? My father wants me to deliver a message.”

“Come in.” Pulling the door wide, Tillie led their guest into the parlor. Father greeted Margaretta Kendlehart and helped her to a seat. Tillie left to find Mother.

“Mother, Margaretta Kendlehart is downstairs. She has a message for Father from Mr. Kendlehart.”

Mother’s eyes widened, and her brows came together in a scowl. She looked at the floor as though able to see through the floorboards to the parlor. Then she drew a deep breath through her nostrils. She rearranged her face and forced an encouraging smile. Replacing her pen in its holder, she picked up her papers and tapped them together against the desk before placing them to one side. Rising, she smoothed her dress.

Tillie breathed in the scent of lemon verbena surrounding her mother. She gave Mother a genuine smile.

Mother kissed Tillie’s forehead, then went downstairs.

Should she follow, or did this not concern her? She followed. Maggie and Sam stood inside the sitting room door, listening to the conversation in the parlor. Tillie joined them.

“…Fears the rebels reconsidered the offer. General Early sent a courier to our house. My father instructed me to tell him he wasn’t home. The man accepted that and rode away. Papa slipped away, fearing repercussions. We heard about what happened with your horse, so he told me to warn you.”

The three of them exchanged glances. Maggie wrung her hands.

Sam lowered his chin to his chest. He crossed his arms and shifted his feet, widening his stance. “If my sister gets your father in trouble, I’ll never forgive her.”

Maggie slashed a hand through the air, shushing him.

“Thank you, my dear.” Father’s unconcerned tone soothed Tillie as he led Margaretta to the door. “Go home as quickly as you can. We don’t want anyone to see you came here tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” The girl reached for the doorknob. “I do pray you’ll be all right.”

“We’ll pray for your father’s safety. Now, run on home. Try not to stir suspicion.”

When the door closed behind her, Father glanced around at them.

Mother twirled and ran upstairs. He watched her go, frowning. Then he sighed and turned back to the three who waited for him to speak.

“Well, children.” He stepped toward them.

Mother returned holding his valise, which she thumped to the floor. “You may need this. Fanny told me she prepared one for Mr. Buehler, ready in case. She didn’t answer the door right away to give him time to slip out the back with his postage equipment. When you came back from your visit with Colonel White, I thought it a good idea, so I packed this for you.”

Father shook his head.

“James, you must! If they come and take you away, what shall we do?” She picked up the bag and thrust it out to him. “You went and asked Colonel White for Lady. You were part of the delegation refusing to give General Early supplies. What if you’re marked for arrest?”

Father took the valise from her hand and set it down. He led her into the sitting room, where he sat in his chair, pulling her down into his lap. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

Mother rushed on, “I think you should disappear too. I can care for Sam and the girls. I want you to be safe.”

“They may not remember my name. I never spoke to General Early. Kendlehart did all the talking.” Father invited them all to stand around his chair. “No one came to the door except Margaretta. We don’t want to overreact. Besides, I’m not the kind of man who abandons his family. I know why Buehler left; he’s the postmaster. It’s Federal property and worth a good deal of money to the Confederates if they get their hands on it. Young Hughes went into hiding with his telegraph equipment. That also belongs to the government, so I’m glad.” He drew in a deep breath. “While we waited for General Early, I overheard the soldiers tell him they didn’t get control of either the telegraph apparatus, or the postal operations, so they targeted them. I don’t think Kendlehart had a real reason for running. I’m not saying anything against him. I’m saying I refuse to run.”

“Yes, but what of Colonel White? What if he should supply your name?”

“I’ll take that chance, Margaret. I’ve done nothing wrong. The Rebs have more important things to deal with than a man and his lame horse.”

He sounded confident as he put his arms around his wife and held her close. Outside, hooves rang on the cobblestones.

His eyes darted to the window. Tillie’s heart pounded in her chest. She caught the trepidation in his eyes, and a shiver raced up her spine. He smiled. If he showed bravery in the face of the unknown, she would too.

Father made eye contact with each member of his family. “I’m staying here, whatever happens.” He kissed his wife. “Don’t worry about me, my love. Let’s concentrate on the children and keep them safe.”

Mother offered a shaky smile. “You’re right, dearest.”

Father gave her a quick squeeze before he lifted her from his lap. He rose to his feet, kissed her forehead, and stepped into the hallway where he picked up his valise. He raised his arm to show them. “I’m going upstairs to unpack this and put my things away.”

No one spoke as he disappeared from sight.

* * * *

Sunday morning dawned bright and hot. Church bells in every quadrant of Gettysburg pealed out, calling all believers to worship. Praying the intruders departed for good, Tillie and her family walked to the Methodist Church on Middle Street. Other neighbors also made their way to services.

On any other Sunday, people called out hellos and gathered in groups as they made their way to their respective churches, but not this morning. People left their houses, heads down, moving as fast as propriety allowed. Those who usually rode in from the surrounding countryside stayed away. Tillie walked behind Mother and Father, between Sam and Maggie. Father strode ahead, his head down.

Mother glanced at him several times as they moved along the street. “Is something bothering you, James?” She tucked her hand into his arm.

He patted her hand. “I can’t get those poor people from York out of my mind. I feel guilty for telling the Rebs to go there. I had a twinge of conscience when Kendlehart mentioned the idea, but I kept my thoughts to myself. Now I wish I’d spoken up.” He smiled at her concerned face. “We should never have foisted our problem on them.” He shrugged.

“I see.” Mother leaned into him, but said nothing more. They fell silent for a block.

“Sure is quiet today.” Sam peered down the street. “It’s…eerie.”

“Sam’s right.” Maggie also scanned the area as if she expected a Reb to jump out of the bushes. “Everything feels strange and out of place. Almost as if the Rebels aren’t gone, they’re hiding. “

“Come now.” Mother smiled back at them. “You all have the jimjams now the Rebs are gone. A rousing church service will do us all a world of good.”

Tillie doubted so, but walked on, shuffling her feet, feeling sorry for herself. After everything calmed down last night, Father resumed his conversation with her and set out an assignment for her to pay attention to the sermon and to write an essay. Then to do four new verses in the Bible. So unfair!

“I’ve been lax with you,” he told her and left the room. Mother said the same thing.

Now, as they walked to church, those words canted a rhythm in her head. I’ve been lax with you. I’ve been lax with you.…

After they sang the opening hymn, Tillie seated herself and picked up a pew Bible prepared to do battle with the text.

Reverend Bergstrasser, hands clasped in front of him, climbed the podium with slow, deliberate steps and turned his solemn face to the congregation. “Please turn to Matthew, chapter ten.” Even in giving instructions, he sounded monotonous.

Tillie sighed and opened the Bible.

After the reverend’s opening remarks, she drifted off, back to Friday’s exciting events. Her heart raced with the recollection. Now with the danger passed, she found the situation exhilarating. The only pain was the loss of Lady, and she prayed they didn’t mistreat her.

Reverend Bergstrasser slammed his fist on the podium, and Tillie jumped. She shifted in her seat and glanced over to Father. He stared at her. Shifting again, she held the Bible close and turned her face to the preacher.

“This terrible war has seen much death and destruction.” The reverend flung his face heavenward, arms outstretched. “And it seems the hostilities are about to visit our quiet corner of the world. Remember.” He faced the congregation, slamming his fist again. The thud reverberated through the church and echoed off the walls.

Tillie’s hand went to her throat as though to stifle an exclamation of surprise.

The reverend’s face took on a dull red cast. His chest began heaving, and his words shot forth like cannonballs. “We-need-not-fear-death-if-we-have-life-for-we-will-have-life-everlasting-when-we-die.”

What in the world did he mean, and how did one write an essay on this sort of nonsense? When you die, you die. If you have life and you die, you no longer have life, never mind everlasting life, so…Tillie sighed and clenched her fists.

“I beseech you to pay special attention to verse twenty-eight.” Reverend Bergstrasser flipped a couple of pages of his Bible. “Read with me, please. ‘And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul; but rather fear him which is able to destroy soul and body in hell.’”

Oh mercy. Tillie closed her eyes, shook her head, and gave up trying to comprehend.

The good reverend’s voice intoned on, “These poor misguided men who came to our country thinking to make war on us, they do not understand they can kill our bodies, but they cannot damage our souls. Only our Heavenly Father can destroy our body and our soul in the pit of hell, reserved only for those who do not believe in Him. So fear not the Confederate Army.” Reverend Bergstrasser shouted the words fear not, and Tillie jumped again.

She scowled and curled her hands into fists.

“God is in control of what will happen and not for us to know what the future holds. Attend to the state of your soul. If your faith is strong, all the Confederates can do is kill your body. They cannot damage your soul. If you are without faith the Confederates can kill your body, but Goooooood will damn your soul.”

Tillie ignored the rest of his words and read further down the passage. Her heart leaped into her throat at the words before her. “Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven. But whosoever shall deny me before men, him I will also deny before my Father which is in heaven.” Her pulse pounded so hard the rhythm echoed in her neck. Would God damn her soul? Would Christ deny her before God? She recalled a picture in the family Bible showing a rendition of hell. All kinds of weird creatures and humans fell into a pit of fire while Lucifer danced around the rim in triumph. Did that await her if she denied Christ before men? Despite the heat inside the church, goose bumps pimpled her arms as she shivered.

She came back around as the congregation rose for the closing hymn, “Am I A Soldier Of The Cross?” A popular song, but today, the words held special meaning as they pricked her conscience.

“Am I a soldier of the cross?

A follower of the Lamb,

And shall I fear to own His cause,

Or blush to speak His Name?”

Tillie cringed. All around her faces raised in worship as they sang.

“Must I be carried to the skies?

On flowery beds of ease,

While others fought to win the prize,

And sailed through bloody seas?”

She closed the hymnbook and placed it in the rack. Maggie gazed heavenward, full of rapture. Why didn’t that ever happen to Tillie? What did it mean “to be carried to the skies on flowery beds of ease”? Could she fight to win the prize? Did she want to sail through bloody seas? Until a few months ago, she never questioned her parents’ beliefs in God and eternity, but now…she bit back tears of utter sadness as a sense of desolation swept over her. She gripped the back of the pew, bent her head, and wiped her face, making it appear as though she removed a speck in her eye—or perhaps a log? She glanced at the rest of her family, but they conversed with friends. She went unnoticed.

Tillie filed out of the church silent, thinking.

Father shook hands with the reverend and praised him for his rousing sermon. Tillie murmured her thanks and bid him farewell.

As they descended the steps, Father slipped his hand through Mother’s elbow. Then he led them back home. The Winebrenners joined them, chatting as they walked.

Mrs. Bergstrasser called out from her front step. “It appears they’ve left, do you think?”

“I hope so.” Mother put her palms together as though in prayer. “What a dirty, filthy looking set! One can’t tell them from the street!”

The women laughed.

Father jerked Mother’s elbow, cutting her short. “Be careful! One is at our curbstone, right in front of us.”

“Oh my.” Mother spun toward him covering her mouth with her hand and hiding her face in his arm. “I didn’t see him!”

A young boy, a few years older than Sam, knelt on one knee tying a shoe not worthy of the name. As he pulled the laces tight, the pink side of his foot showed between the separated sole and upper. In some spots, on his patched over breeches, his patches had patches. His pants may once have been a distinctive color, but no more. By contrast, he wore a brand-new, bright-red cotton shirt and a gray waistcoat two sizes too big for him. He tucked the shirt into his breeches, which still billowed over his waist as he bent to tie his shoe. The tails of the waistcoat trailed along the stones, and the boy pressed his arms to his sides to keep the folds out of the way.

The Rebs called what they did commandeering supplies. The storeowners called it theft. This young man procured for himself a new shirt. Why he didn’t get a new pair of pants or shoes remained a mystery. As he finished tying his shoe, he rose to his feet and glanced about him.

Father gave a quick nod as if coming to a decision. He took a strong grip on Mother’s elbow and stepped into the street. The rest of the family passed in front of the soldier and walked toward their home as if nothing happened.

He waited in polite silence.

As Tillie walked by, the handsome young man with ginger colored hair and sad, haunted blue eyes met her gaze. His gaunt face spoke of enduring hunger. For a split second, she wanted to invite him in for lunch. But images of Dirty Beard walking away with Lady sprang to her mind, and a wave of hatred surged through her.

His eyes met hers, and Tillie did her best to unleash a look full of hate. She narrowed her eyes and curled her lip. She stuck her nose in the air and turned away in what she hoped he’d take for a haughty move.

The boy smiled, dimples forming on his cheeks, and he continued to stare at her. He chuckled as she passed.

Tillie scowled.

Maggie hissed at the boy. She grabbed Tillie’s elbow and yanked her toward the house. She allowed Maggie to drag her up the front steps, but she couldn’t resist a glance back. He kept his gaze on her, a smile on his lips and interest bright in his blue eyes. When Tillie cast him another hateful glare, the boy put two fingers to his eyebrow and saluted, grinning wide. His teeth shone white in his dirt-streaked face. He bowed to her and sauntered up Baltimore Street, whistling “Dixie”.

Once the door closed behind them, Mother let her breath out in a huff. “Well.” She slapped her hands on her cheeks. “That will teach me to mind my manners and guard my tongue.”

The family gaped at her and laughed. The danger passed. Mother smiled and blushed as she endured their good-natured teasing. She went into the kitchen to prepare the midday meal. Because of the Sabbath, she put out cold meat, bread, pickles, and jam.

After dinner, Tillie settled in at the sitting room table to spend time in the Bible reflecting upon the sermon. After a moment, she dipped her pen in the ink and wrote.

Dear Father:

Thank you for taking the time to talk to me the other night. I want to assure you I thought a lot about our conversation. You wanted me to write an essay, but a letter felt more appropriate. You caught me daydreaming in church, but I heard what I think is the most important part. According to Matthew 10, if I’m saved, then no matter what happens to me—by the Confederates or anyone else—they can only hurt my body, not my soul, and when I die, only my earthly body will suffer destruction. But, if I am not, my body will suffer destruction and God will damn my soul and I will burn in hell. I fear that, but I do not understand so many things, like how God can allow such terrible things as a civil war. You say He always uses these things for good. I say, why let them happen at all?

The hymn we sang this morning affected me the most. Am I a soldier of the Cross? I think not. Not yet. I realize I always adopted yours and Mother’s beliefs as my own until recently. I can’t say when I stopped doing so, and I’m sorry I did. I don’t want either of you to be disappointed in me. Mother and Maggie say I’m at a stage where I’m starting to throw off childish ideas and adopt adult ones. Perhaps this is what is happening now.

George’s death scared me. What happens to us when we die? That frightens me the most because, what if there’s no heaven or a hell? I’ve never given the matter thought before.

I understand this is not what you or Mother are hoping to read, but I feel it’s an honest assessment of the state of my soul. I’m a lost sheep, Father. If it’s true the Lord searches out his lost sheep, He will find me. I, in turn, promise to commit myself to the search.

Pray for me. Your loving daughter,

Matilda Jane Pierce.

Tillie went upstairs to her parents’ bedroom. She tiptoed across the empty room and placed the letter on her father’s dresser. She tiptoed back out, hoping he wouldn’t be too disappointed in her.