Chapter 17

Back at the Weikerts’, Tillie picked her way through the yard where hundreds more men, now clad in gray or butternut, lay scattered around on the ground.

Inside, Beckie’s strident complaints carried, bemoaning a house full of wounded Yankees bleeding on the floors and carpets.

Judging from the argument, their flight had been nothing more than a ploy to get the family out, so they could turn the house into a hospital.

“I’m telling my father!” Beckie stormed out the kitchen door and stomped across the yard, looking for Mr. Weikert.

A soldier stood in the doorway, dressed in dark-blue army pants and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He stared after her as she stomped off. He shook his head and went back inside. The wounded were in the house to stay. End of discussion. Even so, the barn and yard still overflowed with soldiers, awaiting some sort of care.

Tillie noted the color of the uniforms.

“You see right.” An orderly stopped next to her.

She turned a questioning gaze to him.

“After you all left, we moved our boys into the house and put the Rebs in the barn. As many as would fit, that is.”

Tillie tossed her head. “How kind of you.”

He chuckled. “Not really.” He missed her sarcasm. “But docs have their hypocritical oath. They said the heat and lack of shade killed more men than their actual wounds.”

She smiled. “Don’t you mean their Hippocratic oath?”

The orderly regarded her. “No. I meant hypocritical.” He walked away.

Tillie lifted her skirts and picked her way across the yard, careful not to step on the men as she headed toward the basement door.

Mr. Weikert emerged, and seeing their return, he stormed down the front porch steps and shoved the garment at his wife. “Don’t you ever do that to me again.” Fury rattled his voice. “I’m so pleased to know your petticoat means more to you than my safety! May you have many contented years wearing the blasted thing after I’m long dead.”

“It didn’t matter.” She managed to sound both repentant and petulant. “They sent us away. They made us come back.”

They stood nose to nose, his face the color of beets. The muscle in his jaw worked up and down.

Mrs. Weikert refused to meet her husband’s eye. Instead, she folded the petticoat and laid it over her arm. Her fingers stroked the fabric, and she kept her eyes cast down.

Their children exchanged dark glances and went inside.

Tillie’s face burned as she took particular care to study the men lying on the ground. She tiptoed around the Weikerts and followed Mrs. Schriver into the house, trying to recall a time when her parents argued in front of their children. Her memory failed her. Even the incident with the valise didn’t qualify as an argument, just Mother expressing fear for Father’s safety. Perhaps they never did. The conversation with her mother about picking vegetables came to her mind, and Tillie smiled. That must be how they did things.

She stepped into the basement and breathed in the yeasty aroma of bread baking. “Oh, no.” She hurried over, expecting to find blackened loaves. Instead, when she flung open the oven door, a fresh loaf browned inside.

“We couldn’t resist.” Several men laughed at her delight. “We took the bread out before it burned and put a new one in. I must confess we enjoyed ourselves capitally.” Appreciative laughter from the wounded surrounded her, and Tillie joined in.

Beckie, her mother, and sister entered the kitchen. Mrs. Weikert gave orders to her daughters, and they returned to work, picking up where they left off. She thrust the quilted petticoat into Tillie’s hands. “Take this up to my room and put it away.” She didn’t say please.

Tillie did as ordered, and when she returned, the new loaf came out of the oven. The three women had the baking well in hand, so she sliced the bread and served. As she did so, she mopped an occasional sweaty brow or readjusted a bandage.

A group of soldiers entered carrying stacks of lumber, which they took to the back corner where Tillie hid during the artillery barrage. Mr. Weikert and Dan joined them, nodding, receiving instructions. Mr. Weikert went to another part of the basement, retrieved a toolbox, and returned. They set to work.

“So, Jacob, what took you so long today?”

He glanced at his wife. His expression betrayed annoyance.

Tillie marveled Mrs. Weikert had the nerve to bring it up.

“Well,” he spoke to the wood rather than her. “After you scared the living daylights out of me, I came back to get your precious petticoat. It took me some time to find it. I started for the door.” He cut a length of board. The sawed piece clunked on the floor. “As I reached the front door, I heard thumps and bangs and the strangest yelps coming from the stairway.”

Mr. Weikert chuckled. “Imagine my surprise.” He drew a lathe across the wood. The shaving curled off. “When the boy you bandaged up yesterday, Sarah, you remember the one who got blown up when Hettie and the girls arrived?”

She nodded.

Tillie frowned. With all that happened in the last day, she’d forgotten the poor man.

“Well…” Mr. Weikert ran his plane down the wood, curling off another shaving. He blew on the board. “He came tumbling head over heels down the stairs, frightened as a jackrabbit and blind as a bat with those bandages on his eyes, crying for mercy, certain the cannonballs would get him.” Mr. Weikert laughed. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny, but it is funny. I mean, now it’s over I find the situation humorous.” He choked back more laughter. “A soldier and I carried him back upstairs and into bed. He told me he would stay with him, and I presume he’s still there. Someone should go check.” Mr. Weikert worked on the coffin. He glanced up at the ceiling as if able to see both men through the levels of the house. He shook his head and laughed again as he worked on his rough wooden boxes. No one joined in.