Chapter 18

The afternoon wore on, and the heat intensified. Orderlies and nurses came and went through the basement kitchen. The door remained open to allow for better traffic flow.

With so many people crowded into the limited space, the walls closed in. Tillie broke out in a sudden sweat. She slipped out the door and walked across the barnyard half expecting a sharpshooter’s bullet to find her.

The sun hung low behind Big Roundtop, coloring the sky a lurid orange. She stopped and listened to the crackle of gunfire, screams, and war whoops occurring unseen on the other side of Little Roundtop. So much violence and hatred. Why was there so much hate in the world? Why couldn’t people learn to get along? She gave a sad shake of her head.

Ahead of her, two doctors stood inside the door talking and gesturing around the yard. She headed toward them to offer help.

“The temperature reached ninety-eight degrees today. If the fighting doesn’t kill these men, the heat will.” The first doctor swung his arm out, indicating the men in the exposed barnyard.

Hundreds lay in the dirt in the open. No trees, no shade, except those cast by the house and barn. All around her, men groaned and cried out.

Tillie stood aside and waited for them to finish their conversation.

The second doctor wiped his face with his sleeve and shrugged. “Can’t do anything about the heat.” His sad eyes took in the men as well. “It’s all we can do in here with what we’ve got.” Without warning, he turned on her. “Yes? What do you want?”

“I’m sorry.” She took a step back, unprepared for his sudden assault. They had enough to do without her getting in the way. She almost turned to go back to the kitchen, but the exhaustion on his face stopped her. She straightened her shoulders. “I came to ask if I might be of some help.” Her voice rose on the last word. A hopeful question.

Both doctors stared. The first pointed a blood-caked finger at her. “Aren’t you the one who gave water to the men yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“That would be a wonderful ministry for them. It’s hot, and these men are desperate for some kind of respite. Water would be a godsend.”

“Yes, sir.” Disappointed by his request, she nevertheless wore a bright smile and got her bucket. The cup sat inside. She went to the pump and returned with water. The doctor walked with her. Those without abdominal wounds could have all the water they wanted. The poor unfortunate gut shot, could only have small drops of water on their tongue. Tillie’s heart went out to them, but he was adamant. He left her and returned to his grisly task of amputating limbs.

****

Tillie didn’t try to speak to these men. They were the enemy. She served her water in absent-minded silence. The Rebels held Gettysburg. What if they did mark Father and took advantage of him because of Lady or the requisitions? Scenes flashed in front of her: The Rebs mistreated Mother and Maggie. Father dragged off to prison, or worse. Sam forced to join the Reb army. As her imagination soared to new heights, a tug at her skirt brought her to reality.

“Miss, may I have a drink of water, please?”

“Hmm? Oh, sorry.” Tillie got down on one knee and cradled the man’s head before bringing the cup to his lips.

He smiled his thanks. She refused to smile back. Behind her, another man asked for water. Tillie gave him some. She glanced toward the Roundtops in front of her.

Big Roundtop, shaped like a large bread loaf, sloped down to a saddle before rising to form Little Roundtop, which rose to the north, like a smaller loaf. The rays of the lowering sun slanted between the heights, piercing the smoke drifting from the opposite side. The mountains glowed a lurid orange-gray as the battle roar intensified. A mass of gray-clad men moved through the saddle of the two, silhouetted against the light as they attempted to ascend the lower slope from the farmyard side.

A Union orderly sounded the alarm. “It’s the Rebs. They’re on this side of the Roundtops. They’re coming across the fields. If they get to Taneytown Road, we’ll be in danger!”

It didn’t appear that way to her. If anything, they seemed to be attempting to scale Little Roundtop. Her brain told her to run to the house, but fear paralyzed her body as a crazy sense of déjà vu washed over her.

Shouts and bugles calling a charge came from the south side of the house. How did the Rebs get so close?

Tillie spun, expecting to see gray backs, guns raised, ready to kill them all. Instead, blue-coated men in ranks of four ran across the barnyard. A young boy in the first row, no older than sixteen or seventeen, held the battle flag and screamed, “First Pennsylvania!” The men roared and charged.

The First Pennsylvania? James! Tillie dropped the bucket, ignoring the wounded men’s pleas. Raising her skirts, she hopped over men in her haste to find a place to observe as they ran by. She cleared the clot of men on the ground and stopped at the corner of the house.

The men of the First Pennsylvania Reserve advanced on the Rebels at Little Roundtop. Her heart skipped a beat as she scanned their faces. She didn’t see James, but the men passed in front of her so fast, she couldn’t be sure.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered as loud as possible. “James Shaw Pierce!” A man turned his head in her direction. James? A flash of recognition hit her, but he didn’t look like her brother. He seemed shorter and thinner than she remembered. Still, she knew him, but his identity remained elusive. Dismayed, she stared at their backs as they ran past at the double-quick.

As the men approached the lines, the Confederates fired on the Pennsylvania boys. A few fell, but undaunted they charged at the enemy. As the blue uniforms advanced, the gray retreated.

She tucked herself close to the corner of the house to observe the fight. Rebel soldiers tried to climb a stone fence near Little Roundtop, only to discover more Union soldiers hiding behind it. The Boys in Blue rose and fired at point-blank range, cutting the Rebs down. Tillie’s body jerked as though their bullets struck her. Those able retreated between the two mountains and disappeared from sight.

* * * *

As twilight approached, more soldiers arrived at the hospital with devastating wounds. Across the road, the new Confederate wounded lay in the fields and orchards further from the house.

Tillie nursed the men and tried to close her ears to their screams and pleas. After witnessing the devastating fight, she couldn’t muster animosity. She decided to nurse them all as what they were: shattered men in desperate need of care.

She worked in the burned-out field across the road, giving water to the Confederate wounded and wiping their dirty, sweaty faces, wishing she could do more. As full darkness approached, the doctor who put her in charge of water came out to speak to her. “You need to go back inside the house now, miss.” He took the dirty rag and bucket from her hand.

“But these men still need help.”

“And they’ll get it. You must go back inside. It’s far too dark out here to see what you’re doing.”

“Then get me a lantern. For I’m determined to carry on my task here.”

The doctor shook his head. “Can’t do that, miss. I’m sorry.” He let his eyes roam over the black hulk of Little Roundtop, backlit by fading daylight. Then he leveled those tired eyes on her. “Please, miss. I bet their guns are trained on us right now. The only thing keeping you alive is your skirts. In the complete dark all they’d see is a light, and they’d shoot.”

She opened her mouth to protest.

“He’s right, Miss Tillie,” the rebel soldier she had been helping when the doctor arrived spoke up.

“Go back in the house, Miss Tillie,” others implored. “Come back tomorrow.”

“All right.” She glanced around at the boys. “I’ll go inside. Good night, boys. I’ll come back in the morning.” She scanned the men lying in the burned-out wheat field. How many would survive the night? She smiled at them as she pushed the thought away and returned to the house amid a chorus of good nights and God bless yous.

* * * *

Orderlies cut bread, spread butter and jam on the slices, and set them on plates, which Tillie took and served.

As she served the bread, her eye caught a young man in the back corner of the basement near a small storage room. He sat with his back against the wall, his legs spread out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. A wounded man lay with his head in the young man’s lap, and the young man stroked his companion’s forehead in an absent-minded manner.

She walked over, carrying the empty plate. She knelt. “Would you like some water?”

The soldier licked his lips as the man lying in his lap groaned. He glanced down at his companion and stroked his hair. The young man raised eyes so full of anguish, she had to go to him.

“What do you need?” She touched him on the arm.

“Well, first, may I have some bread? I’m very hungry.”

“Certainly.” Tillie rose and approached the table. She grabbed two pieces of bread, spread butter and jam on them, and returned, offering him the plate so the crumbs wouldn’t drop on his companion’s face. He thanked her and ate the bread with slow deliberate motions, though he said he was hungry. She sat next to him and waited, her gaze drifting to the young man lying in his lap.

Dark-brown hair swept back off his face. His beard did nothing to hide the ashen appearance of a dying man. A hole in his coat near the shoulder left a bloody stain. The bullet that entered his shoulder and exited in a gaping wound at the base of his neck mangled one of the stars on his lapel. Tillie reached over and pulled away the bandage at his neck. She swallowed hard and recovered the wound.

When his companion finished eating, he passed her the plate. She set the dish by her foot. At each grunt or groan of pain, the captain stroked his forehead. “Would you do one more thing for me?”

“Of course.” She shifted, expecting him to ask for water.

“Would you sit with the general for a moment while I step outside?”

“I will.”

The soldier thanked her and eased himself out from under the man while Tillie exchanged places. She followed the young soldier with her eyes as he left the kitchen. What was it about men and their officers? Some exhibited absolute devotion like this young man, while others “marked them out.” It must depend on the officer in question.

What happened to the major who beat the exhausted boy rather than help him? Was he dead now, killed by his own men or the enemy? Had this man been a good officer?

She glanced at the general and found him gazing up at her. His lips moved with an effort to speak. She smiled as he licked his lips and tried again. Tillie leaned close to hear him. “I’m sorry?”

“What’s your name?” His voice came out as a raspy whisper.

“My name is Tillie.” She stroked his forehead. “How do you do?” She chuckled at a sudden thought. “Today’s my lucky day for meeting generals. This morning I met General Meade, and yesterday I met General Reynolds.” She bit her lip. General Reynolds was dead. Did he know? Did he know the general? She turned away, hoping he wouldn’t notice her cheeks aflame.

The general grunted again. His forehead shone with sweat. “General Reynolds—good friend.” Pain contorted his features.

Using the corner of her apron, she wiped his face. “Where did you get wounded?”

“On that little mountain.”

“Little Roundtop.” Tillie supplied the name.

“Yes, Little Roundtop. Hit…helping place…artillery.”

“Is it a bad injury?”

“Yes.” He grunted, and his body stiffened. He relaxed and drew a deep, pained breath. “Pretty bad.”

“Do you suffer much?”

“I do now. Perhaps in the morning…I’ll feel better.”

The general’s companion returned, and Tillie switched with him, careful not to jog the general too much.

“Can I bring you some bread or water, general?”

He declined both with a shake of his head.

“Well, if there’s anything I can do for you…?” She let the question hang, gazing at him, compassion and concern battling for control of her emotions.

His eyes met hers with an expression so earnest she got down on her knees and leaned in close again.

“Will you promise to come back in the morning and see me again?”

“Oh.” Tillie slapped her hands on her knees. “Yes, indeed I will.”

The general’s lips twitched.

She glanced at his companion who nodded his thanks.

As she rose to leave, the general’s voice came to her clear and loud. “Don’t forget your promise, now.”

She smiled at him. “I won’t. I hope you’re better in the morning.” She waggled her fingers at him and left to help others.

****

Tillie went to Beckie’s worktable and set the plate down. Mollie and Sadie walked around, also handing out plates of bread.

A yawn threatened, but Tillie inhaled through her nose and exhaled, releasing her yawn. “Can I help?”

“Fine time you did some work,” Beckie snarled, kneading the dough with vicious strokes.

Tillie’s eyes widened. Her mouth fell open. She skimmed the room, as though the source of Beckie’s anger lurked in a corner somewhere. “Have I done something wrong?” She dumped a cup of flour on the table.

Beckie glared at her and gave the dough another violent push. “We stand here and bake bread until Kingdom come, and you prance about handing out water, like the queen of Sheba. You speak with every Tom, Dick, and Harry soldier here, and yet none of them speak to us. And we’re doing more work than you are.”

Tillie sucked in her breath. Her nostrils flared, and her jaw tightened. “You didn’t want to talk to the soldiers anymore remember? You said so yourself.” Tillie worked her dough. She inhaled and counted to ten, as Mother taught her. She tried again. “I’m sorry. You’re tired. I’m tired. It’s been a long day and doesn’t seem as though it’s going to end anytime soon.” She locked eyes with Beckie. “But I’m going to continue talking with these men and caring for them, because I like to. If you choose to resent me, well, that’s your decision.”

Beckie glared and slapped her bread into a pan.

Tillie worked in silence. Her hands shook as she kneaded the dough, using the motions to calm herself down. Frightened by the intensity of her emotions. Beckie’s ire came from exhaustion. Tillie didn’t see hers did too. She reviewed the past day and a half, trying to recall if she’d done something so egregious the Weikerts would be angry with her. She offered to help in the kitchen on countless occasions, but Mrs. Weikert always sent her off with Mollie and Sadie as if she wanted Tillie out of the way. Not being content with the younger girls, Tillie went off and found other things to do.

Beckie sighed. “For as long as I live, may I never bake another loaf of bread,” she muttered under her breath as she dipped her measuring cup into the flour barrel. Her cup scraped the bottom.

Tillie snorted and started to laugh. She bumped Beckie with her shoulder.

Beckie glared, angry surprise in her eyes. “Leave me alone.” She moved away.

Tillie’s laughter died. She sighed, sorry for her friend’s anger. With a shake of her head, she gathered more flour into a pile and worked the dough, clenching her teeth as a wave of irritation and regret overtook her. She didn’t want to be friends with Beckie anymore. A flash of insight blared through her: Beckie never liked her. Maggie was her friend, and Tillie was a tagalong. That’s what Beckie used to call her until Maggie made her stop. Well, from now on, Tillie would treat her with respect, as propriety dictated, but no more. Tillie clamped her jaw against an urge to cry. Sorry she ever agreed to come to this place. She wanted to go home to people who loved her and made her feel safe.