Chapter 9

 

The sun spilled over the hilltops, pouring its golden light across the landscape. Already the humidity smothered everything under a damp blanket.

Tillie rose from bed and dressed in her chemise and petticoats. Taking her brown muslin school dress from the armoire, she put it on, and then buttoned her bodice, her fingers clumsy and slow. Once done, she had to redo the entire thing when she found no corresponding buttonhole at the end.

Sitting at the dressing table, she picked up the brush, but her reflection showed a still crooked bodice, further up. What was wrong with her this morning? She threw the brush down, and with quick jerks, she started over. Partway through, her fingers stopped in mid-button.

She cocked her head and listened then crossed to the open window and stuck her head out.

Across the street, the red brick of the houses shimmered as if ready to melt in the heat. Doors and windows remained closed tight against the already oppressive day. The cobbled street below was devoid of all traffic. The birds sang and twittered as cicadas sawed their high-pitched buzz. Even the crickets still chirped a noisy morning rhythm. The lack of human traffic on the street and its accompanying cacophony caught her attention. No wagons rumbled along the cobbles bringing produce into town. No carriages passed here and there. No clip-clop of hooves as riders made their way around town, intent upon their errands before the heat of the day set in. Neighbors stayed off the streets. No one called good morning to one another. Her heart pounded over the strangeness of the silence and the deserted streets. Where was everyone? Were the men still out fighting the fire?

Tillie shifted her gaze to the northeast, where black smoke still billowed. Late last night, Libby’s father, Jacob Hollinger, roused the town when he rode in hard from his home on York Road, shouting something about the railroad bridge and Confederates. When he caught his breath, he reported that the Confederates had set fire to the railroad bridge.

Acrid smoke reached her. She wrinkled her nose and withdrew from the window. She stared at the empty street, as if willing someone to appear and bring normalcy to her life. The street remained empty.

Tillie slammed the window closed. She moved her fingers down her bodice, feeling the buttons once again. She quickly fixed her braids and left her bedroom.

In the kitchen, Maggie turned out butter from the churn while Mother cooked.

“Good morning.” The words left Tillie’s lips without her usual enthusiasm. She squeezed around Mother as she reached to take the dishes down from their shelves. She waited for the usual morning banter, but Maggie glanced at her with puffy eyes while she rinsed the butter under cool water. Had she been weeping again?

Mother didn’t answer either. She looked preoccupied as she stirred the potatoes around in the frying pan.

“Mother, is everything all right?” Tillie’s brows came together, and she tilted her head. She started to reach out for her mother’s arm, thought better of it, and withdrew her hand. Instead, she gripped the dishes tight to herself.

Still no answer. Maggie put the butter on the table and turned away, as though ignoring Tillie’s concern.

Tillie’s heart lurched. Did Father get hurt fighting the fire? Did a telegram arrive? In a flash, she saw her brothers’ mutilated bodies lying on some battlefield. Worse yet, Father, lay flat on his back out by the railroad bridge, eyes staring sightless at the sky, arms splayed as though hung on the Cross. Tears filled her eyes, and her throat closed. Her heart pounded in her chest, and the sound resonated in her ears.

Mother’s vacant stare stayed on the pan, and with mechanical motions, she moved the potatoes around as they blackened in the pan.

“Mother, are you all right?” This time, Tillie touched her mother’s arm.

Mother came out of her reverie with a start. “What? Oh, yes, I’m fine. Everything is fine. Ahhhh!” She pushed the pan to the back of the stove. “I burned them.” Her voice pitched with surprise. She stared at the offending potatoes, and then picked up the pan. “I was thinking… I don’t want you to go to school today.”

Tillie’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes widened. “Why? I’ll miss my lessons, and I’ll have to work to catch up. The Rebs’re gone now.”

“Because, I say so, Tillie. That’s why! I want you here today, so don’t argue. I want you here in case something occurs. I want you to stay home and help Maggie and me around the house today. Can you do that? Is that so much to ask?”

Tillie opened her mouth, shocked by Mother’s outburst, and wanting to protest. But Mother’s dark frown stopped her. She bent her head in assent. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mother turned back to the pan of blackened, smoking potatoes. She grabbed a spoon off the counter, scooped the potatoes out of the pan, and threw them away, all the while talking, though to Tillie or herself Tillie couldn’t guess. “It’s bad enough two of my children are gone and Lord knows if they’re alive. I’m going to keep my other two safe if it’s the last thing I do.” She slammed the pan down on the stove. It rang with finality.

Tillie didn’t know how she dared, but she had to ask. “Have you news of James or William?”

Mother picked up the saltshaker and salted the eggs. At Tillie’s timid question, she banged the saltshaker down on the counter. “No! We’ve not heard from either of them in quite some time.” Mother turned her back and resumed cooking.

Tillie stepped back as though struck across the face. Did Father show her the letter she wrote? Was Mother annoyed over its contents? She looked to Maggie, for guidance, but Maggie just shook her head—in warning or sympathy? Unsure, Tillie lowered her eyes. She still clutched the plates. Walking the plates to the table, Tillie resisted the urge to slam down the plates. She got silverware. Her hands shook as she tried to place the forks, and she kept dropping them. They clanged on the plates. Finally, she placed the silverware around the table and stepped back. She closed her eyes. Please, boys, write to us and let us know you’re alive. Please be alive.

* * * *

Father returned home just after breakfast. Soot and sweat streaked his face, reminding Tillie of a minstrel performer. There was nothing funny in his appearance, though. He waved away questions and plodded straight upstairs to bed. He still slept, though noontime had come and gone.

Tillie chafed. She wanted to be at school with her friends, not home dusting furniture and sweeping floors. What was she missing? How far behind would this day put her? She got down on her hands and knees and took vicious swipes at the table legs. After a few minutes, she stopped her work and listened for sounds outside. The odor of smoke lingered in the air, but not as strong as this morning. Perhaps the wind shifted or the fire was cool enough to stop smoking. She opened the parlor windows airing the furnace-like house.

Mother came downstairs and found Tillie staring out the window, listening to the hum of cicadas in the trees.

Mother donned her hoops and tied a cream colored bonnet under her chin. “Tillie, I have to go shopping. Would you care to join me? A little sunshine and fresh air might do us some good.”

“I don’t know. The street is so silent. Even the birds don’t want to sing. It feels like everyone has gone to ground, like rabbits sensing a hawk overhead.”

“It’ll be fine. I just have to go to Fahenstock’s for some flour and other supplies. We’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Tillie was still piqued, but she heard the conciliatory tone in Mother’s voice and met her halfway. “You’re right. Fresh air would do me some good. Thank you.” After putting away her cleaning supplies and removing her apron, she ran upstairs to don her hoops. A few moments later, she joined Mother at the front door. She reached for her bonnet and snugged it on.

Mother stopped with one hand on the doorknob, a rueful smile on her face. “I wish to apologize for snapping at you at breakfast. I confess I don’t know what came over me. There’s something in the air today. I can’t explain it, but I feel it. I wanted you home with me just in case.” She cocked her head and gave a small chuckle. “It was silly of me, I suppose, and now it looks as if you’ve lost an entire day of school.”

“It’s all right, Mother. I must say I feel it too, and I can’t explain it either.” Tillie shrugged. “It was rather novel to stay home today.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.” Mother smiled and stroked her cheek.

As they headed toward the center of town, she put her arm around Tillie’s shoulders. “So, were you more upset about missing school or having to do housework?”

Tillie screwed up her face.

Mother laughed.

“A little of both, I guess.” Tillie wrinkled her nose. “I like school, and I don’t want to get behind. I have to admit I despise dusting and sweeping.”

Mother gave her shoulders a squeeze. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Their conversation stuttered to a stop as they approached Middle Street. Mrs. Fahenstock rushed out of their store, gathered her skirts, and hurried toward the Diamond. Tillie and Mother exchanged surprised looks and then quickened their pace.

Ten main roads converged at Gettysburg, and they all came together at the Diamond, where businesses of all kinds rose at the intersections. Groups of people hovered in their doorways, watching the action in the center of the square.

“Mrs. Fahenstock.” Mother tapped the grocery storeowner on the arm.

The portly woman turned at Mother’s voice. “I’d say good day, Mrs. Pierce, but I fear there’s nothing good happening today.”

“What’s going on?” Mother waved her hand in the direction of the crowd. “What are they doing?”

About fifty colored people, mostly women and children, huddled together, ringed by armed Rebel soldiers. The women clutched their children close and wept loud, bitter wails. A few men positioned themselves in front of the women, as if trying to protect them with their bodies, even though they held their hands above their heads. The men kept silent. Their stoic expressions said they understood begging and tears were useless.

The Rebs formed shoulder to shoulder, their guns, with bayonets attached, jabbed at their prisoners from a dangerous and effective phalanx.

In the crowd the woman who badgered her children to hide out on Culp’s Hill the week before, clutched her boys, tears streaming down her cheeks. They must have returned home believing the danger passed.

A stab of guilt pierced Tillie. This was what they feared and she’d laughed. No wonder Mr. Weaver was so contemptuous. Was he in the crowd? She scanned the men, women, and children. She didn’t see him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Oh, poor Mr. Weaver. Why didn’t someone do something?

Mr. Hicks watched from the doorway of his candy shop, arms crossed, scowling. Then he dropped his hands and went inside, closing the door. The We’re Closed sign appeared in his window, and the shades came down.

At the Globe Inn on York Street, Charles Wills watched from his doorway, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his son, John, next to him, leaned against the doorjamb.

By contrast, his brother, Mr. David Wills, shouted at a Reb, waving his arms in wild gesticulations. One of the Rebs said something back then took out his pistol and held it to Mr. Wills’s forehead. The attorney took two steps backward. Mother drew a sharp intake of breath, and Tillie’s hand flew to her heart. Mr. Wills stared at the soldier, as if challenging him to shoot. Then he stormed into his house.

“Mother, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know.” Mother’s gaze darted about, taking in the scene. To Tillie’s horror, Mother walked up to a soldier and grabbed his arm. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Go away, lady. This don’t concern you. We’re taking this contraband South where they belong.”

“Contraband? They are not contraband. They’re people! You can’t do such a thing. It’s barbaric! You have no right! These people have lived here as long as I have. You have no right!” She reached in for one of the children.

The soldier knocked her backward with such force, she fell onto the pavement, striking the back of her head.

Tillie screamed and ran to her. “You leave my mother alone.”

Mrs. Fahenstock knelt and cupped her palm on the back of Mother’s head. She drew her hand away. No blood.

The soldier laughed. “You want the same, missy? Get your mother and get out of here. This ain’t none of your business.” He made as if to kick them to get them moving. Tillie cowered as she tried to protect Mother from a potential blow. Crying, she and Mrs. Fahenstock helped Mother to her feet, and together the three staggered away. Mother clung to Tillie.

At the store, Mrs. Fahenstock offered to help them home. Mother thanked her, but refused.

They reached the corner of Middle Street and stopped as the Rebel soldiers marched their contraband out of town.

Townsfolk peered out of windows or watched in silence from open doorways.

Held at gunpoint like common criminals—instead of hardworking members of the Gettysburg community—the Negroes walked out of town wailing and clutching their children.

Would they ever return or see their homes again?

The family they had seen running to hide a few days ago stumbled past as a soldier used his musket to herd them along like animals.

Was there accusation and scorn in the woman’s eyes? Tillie turned away.

* * * *

“Mother, what’s wrong? You and Tillie have been upstairs crying all afternoon. What happened?” Maggie glanced between the two.

Mother and Tillie each picked at their food. Silent tears slid down Tillie’s cheeks.

As though Maggie’s voice finally roused a response in her, Mother shifted in her chair. She dropped her fork and put her hands over her face as fresh sobs shook her body.

Father got up and stopped behind her. Placing gentle hands on her shoulders, he patted her.

“They took those people.” Mother wept.

“What people?” Maggie’s eyes switched from Mother to Tillie. “Who did they take?”

“Several of the colored families who live about here.” Tillie’s emotion-clogged voice came out tight and strained. She cleared her throat and continued, “Mr. Weaver was right. The Rebs marched them away from the Diamond like common criminals. They called them contraband. Only Mr. Wills and Mother tried to stop them.”

“Margaret, you did what?” Father said. “You didn’t tell me that!”

Mother wiped her face on her apron and took up the story where Tillie left off. “Men, women, and children, James—at gunpoint.” She stressed the word. “What would you have had me do? I couldn’t just stand there and let them take innocent people—children—away into slavery.” She used her napkin to wipe her eyes.

Tillie picked up the tale. “Other people stood by and stared or went inside and shut their doors so they wouldn’t have to see.” Tillie’s voice rose as her emotions overtook her. “And the Rebs laughed. They laughed at us. One of them even pushed Mother down when she grabbed at his arm.”

“That’s disgusting.” Maggie threw her fork down. “How dare they?”

“They dare because they can.” Mother’s voice choked. “Who is here to stop them?”

“I would have stopped them.” Sam sat up. He stabbed his fork into a potato. “I would have told that dirty Reb to keep his hands off you.” He turned his hate-filled face to Mother. “He wouldn’t’ve got away with it if I’d been there.”

Mother’s eyes filled with fresh tears, and she smiled at him as they slid down her cheeks. “I thank you for the sentiment, dear, but I’m afraid they would have been too much even for you.”

“Why don’t they come?” Tillie spoke to the table. No one answered. Where was the Union Army? Why had they failed to arrive and protect them?

Father sat back down in his chair. “I went to the Scotts’ to find out what’s going on. Where the boys are, when they’re coming.” He shrugged as he resumed his seat. “I also wanted to find out where the Rebels had gotten themselves off to.”

“What did Mr. Scott say?” Tillie asked.

“The older Mr. Scott says he has no idea. As you know, young Hugh took the telegraph machine and slipped away. Mr. Scott won’t say where he went, even to friends. He doesn’t want his son’s whereabouts inadvertently revealed to the Rebs.” Father shook his head. He took a deep breath. “While we all sat about yesterday, patting ourselves on the back and thinking the Rebs had left, they were busy burning railroad bridges and cutting the telegraph wires between here, Harrisburg, and Philadelphia. They have cut us off and rendered us silent.”

Tillie stared at her father, uncomprehending, her fifteen-year-old mind still reeling from this afternoon. “Is that bad? Can’t they fix it?”

“Who’s ‘they’, Tillie? Who is going to fix anything?” Father exhaled and raised a hand in a gesture of apology. “After you and your mother returned home, I went upstreet to get the flour and other supplies. As you know, the Rebs have carried off most of what the town kept back, and there isn’t much left with harvest still a month or so away.” He placed his hands on the table and swirled his wedding ring. “There aren’t any supplies. Fahenstock said the Rebs made off with everything not nailed down. Now, the supply trains can’t get through. More importantly, the troop trains can’t get through. It’s bad.”

Tillie studied her father’s face, seeing for the first time the deep lines around his mouth and across his forehead. She sensed his anxiety, though he attempted to conceal it. It was too much for her to process. She sighed. “If you don’t mind.” Her fork tapped against her potato. “I’m not hungry. May I please be excused?” Fresh tears filled her eyes, and she tried in vain to blink them back.

Father studied her face. “You may.”

Tillie picked up her dish and brought it to the sink, then slipped upstairs to her room. At her desk, the partially written letter to William sat waiting. Now was as good a time as any, but she wasn’t in the mood.

She undressed and climbed into bed. She stopped weeping an hour later and lay wide-awake, thinking about the afternoon. Fear propelled her out of bed. She padded barefoot down the hall to Maggie’s room.

Maggie opened the door to Tillie’s knock. She tied her bathrobe around her waist. Maggie’s four-poster bed was against the far wall. The blanket and sheet folded back in invitation.

On the wall next to the door, Maggie’s armoire stood a door ajar. As she had done as a small child, Tillie crossed the room and climbed into her sister’s bed. Maggie closed the door, removed her bathrobe, and slid in next to her. She held Tillie close.

Tillie tucked the top of her head under Maggie’s chin. “Maggie?”

“Yes.”

“I’m scared.”

“So am I.”

“What do you think will happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“Father’s scared too. I saw it at supper.”

After a long pause, Tillie glanced up to see if Maggie had drifted off.

Then in a low voice, Maggie answered, “Yes, he is. The whole town is frightened.” She wriggled away to face Tillie. “Our boys will come. Don’t fret. They will come, if for no other reason than to defend our homes and avenge those poor families—and George.”

Moonlight washed the bedroom in a spectral glow. Maggie’s creased brow and deep frown lent an air of defiance to her words. Perhaps all would be well after all. The Union Army would come and defend them. They had to. President Lincoln would never allow the Confederate Army to remain long in Union territory. Tillie wrapped her arms around Maggie’s neck and gave her a hug.

“I love you, Maggie.”

“I love you too.”

Tillie rolled over onto her side away from Maggie and soon drifted into a fitful sleep.