Chapter 19

The fighting on Little Roundtop stuttered to a close around ten thirty at night. Within a half hour, a flood of wounded arrived, and a mad scramble ensued to find a place to put them.

The doctor from the farmyard, John Billings, now worked in the house, directing the triage.

Tillie turned one way, Doctor Billings the other, and they nearly collided with each other. “Come with me.” He commandeered her and led her to the dining room upstairs.

A man waited for the surgeon, his left arm a shattered, mangled mess. The cuff dripped blood on the floor.

Tillie’s heart pounded in her ears. She swallowed hard. Her shoes squished through puddles of drying blood. She approached the man who waited patiently for the surgeon. She forced a smile. “You’ll be all right, soldier.” Her salivary glands began to tingle, and her mouth filled with metallic tasting saliva.

He nodded and held out his right hand.

She glanced at his blood-covered fingers, slapped her own hand over her mouth, and fled.

Doctor Billings’s voice followed her. “Well, I had hope for her.”

* * * *

By the grace of God, she made it outside before her vomit splashed in the yard. What would Mrs. Weikert or Beckie say if she had a mishap on the floor? Tillie coughed and gagged a few more times, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and let the tears flow down her cheeks. She leaned against the side of the house, her shoulder against the cold stone, face buried in her arm.

“Arrrrhhhh.” She wept deep, bitter tears. “I want to go home. I don’t want to be here. I want my mother.” She raised a fist and pounded it against the stone. A jolt of pain shot down her arm, and she focused on it to calm herself. Still, she drew in deep, gulping breaths of air.

“Feel better?”

Tillie spun to her left to see Dan Weikert standing by the corner of the house, his deep blue eyes studying her face.

She spun away and used her apron to wipe her face and eyes. “Did you come out to laugh at me?”

“No, of course not. I was just coming back to the house, and I heard you crying.” He stepped toward her. “I’m sorry I can’t protect you. I’m sorry you have to see what you’ve seen. It isn’t right. I would have protected you if I could.”

Tillie half turned and studied his face. Was he making fun of her? Was he serious? He was only thirteen years old, only six months older than Sam. What did he know of protecting women?

“Thank you.”

He took another step closer. “You shouldn’t be out here in the dark. It isn’t safe.” Dan took hold of her elbow in a gentle grasp. “Come.” He led her into the kitchen. “Good night.” He offered her a solemn smile and moved to join his father making coffins, but his fingers lingered on her elbow before he left.

The kitchen, filled to capacity, could not hold one more person. Tillie dried her face, rinsed her mouth with some water, and plodded upstairs.

She reached the dining room, but couldn’t bring herself to step over the threshold. A new man waited while Doctor Billings prepared to saw the man’s foot off. The soldier clasped his hands together as though praying, but his constant thank yous made it clear he would rather go through the agony of amputation, than deal with the pain any longer.

Billings patted the man’s shoulder, nodded at his medic, who jammed the cattle horn down over the patient’s nose and mouth. Within minutes, the soldier became unconscious. The doctor went to work. When he finished, he beckoned Tillie into the room.

She walked with halting steps, uncertain and afraid he would chastise her.

“Feel better?” His eyes flicked in her direction as the orderlies dropped a new man in front of him.

“I’m sorry.” Her body shook, and she suppressed an urge to cry. But her eyes filled with fresh tears.

“Happens to all of us the first time.” He began examining the wound and didn’t glance her way. “I remember in medical school seeing my first cadaver. My professor laughed as I ran out to empty my stomach. Thought he’d kick me out of med school.”

Tillie stepped closer. “What happened?”

Doctor Billings shrugged. He took great care to pick the fabric out of the wound before extracting the bullet. “He pulled me aside after class and said I’d gone through the rite of passage of anyone called to this duty. He would’ve questioned my desire to be a doctor, had I responded any other way.” Now he appraised her and smiled. “You’ve had your ‘rite of passage’. Are you ready to get to work?”

Tillie wiped her nose and eyes. “Yes, sir.”

* * * *

Morning sunshine streamed through the window, warming Tillie’s face, and the change in light woke her. Opening her eyes, she yawned, stretched, and shot upright in bed as though blasted from a cannon. “Oh heavens, what time is it?” she asked Beckie, only to find her gone.

Tillie finally got to bed sometime around two in the morning, too tired to undress, and climbed into bed fully clothed. Beckie snored beside her.

Now, she flung back the covers, hopped out, and slipped on her shoes. She threw the bed covers up, and then raced down to General Weed, afraid he’d think she forgot him.

Mrs. Weikert and Mrs. Schriver put away the last of the breakfast dishes as Tillie entered the basement kitchen. Beckie worked at the table, preparing another round of bread.

“Good morning, Beckie.” Tillie approached the table, irked, and determined to confront her. “Why didn’t you wake me when you got up?”

“You were so deep asleep. I didn’t want to bother you.” Beckie made a show of pulling together her ingredients for bread making. She refused to meet Tillie’s eyes.

There had to be more to Beckie’s answer. She searched the girl’s face, to no avail. Her body went lax as she gave up trying to understand.

Tillie started ask to Mrs. Schriver for food, but her neighbor closed the cupboard door with a bang. She reached into her apron pocket and produced a key to lock the cupboard. Beckie smirked as she began mixing the dough.

A plate of sliced bread waited for the soldiers. Still, she couldn’t resist and ate a slice, chewing as she searched the room for General Weed. He and his companion still occupied the corner from last night. She started toward them, turned back, and grabbed the plate.

Mr. Weikert came in and crossed the room in front of Tillie. She stopped short to let him pass. He held the well pump handle in his left hand, which he placed on the floor behind some barrels stored underneath the stairway, out of sight to the casual observer.

Strange. Tillie followed him with her eyes as he walked past again, winked at her, and went to his wife. He whispered in her ear and left again.

Did anyone else find this odd? No one appeared to find it strange, so she went to visit General Weed and his companion.

The captain sat against the wall, head tipped back, eyes shut. General Weed lay still, his head in his companion’s lap. His hands lay on his chest, fingers laced together, as though in peaceful repose.

Tillie started to sit down, hesitated not wanting to disturb either of them, but she promised and settled herself next to the captain. The general’s still body made her wary. She leaned closer for a better look. General Weed wasn’t asleep. Guilt pierced her heart as tears filled her eyes. He must’ve thought her a liar. Why did she oversleep? Why didn’t Beckie wake her? Why did he die?

The captain sat still eyes open, watching her. “We’ve been waiting for you.” He sounded groggy. His words held no condemnation, though she listened hard for it. “Do you know who this is?” He patted the general’s chest.

“He told me his name is General Weed.” Tillie set the plate of bread near the captain. She put her other hand over the general’s heart. “I’m sorry I’m late.” She spoke to him as though he heard.

“Yes.” The captain ignored her comment. “This is the body of General Weed, a New York man. He got hit helping Captain Hazlet place artillery on the top of Little Roundtop. West Point Class of 1854.” A sad smile played on the captain’s lips as he gazed at the general. “He once told me he and J.E.B Stuart were best friends at West Point.”

It surprised her to think generals had lives before the war. Like her parents, she tended to think they appeared, as they were, then disappeared again. “I’m sorry. I do hope he’s greeting nearer and dearer faces than mine right now.” She contemplated the captain. “You must have been quite intimate friends to pay such close attention. Are you related?”

The captain smiled. “No. I worked as his aide-de-camp, but he treated me like a younger brother.” His eyes misted and he blinked. “I loved him like a brother.” He adjusted his seat and stroked General Weed’s forehead. “He died in the wee hours this morning. Before even the armies arose, I’d wager. The orderlies wanted to carry him away sooner, but I insisted we wait for you.”

Tillie leaned over and placed a light kiss on the general’s cold forehead. “Goodbye, General Weed. I am honored to have met you.” She mustered up a slight grin. “Thank you for waiting for me. They can come and take him now, if they need to.”

“You’ve been most kind to us.” The captain took a slice of bread and chewed. “If I can do anything for you, please tell me, and I will carry it out posthaste.”

Tillie thought of her family. How did they fare? If he found out… “There is something.” She gave him her name and instructions on how to reach her home. “Would you tell them I’m safe?” Her throat constricted with a surge of emotion. She cleared her throat and forced herself to speak. “Would you come back and tell me if any harm befell them?”

“I shall consider it my sacred duty.” The captain slapped his hand over his heart in dramatic fashion. “I’ll go today, come back this evening and report.” He took a second slice and ate.

Tillie smiled her thanks. Her gaze traveled to General Weed’s body.

“What troubles you, my dear?” The captain laid a gentle hand on her arm.

She lowered her head embarrassed by her sudden emotion. “When I was little, I believed in God—at least I think I did. My parents are devout. We go to church every Sunday. But this summer, so much has happened I have a hard time believing a divine God directs everything.” She broke off and gazed about the room. “The war never affected my family until last fall when my brothers left. James, my older brother, is with the First Pennsylvania Reserves, but when they arrived yesterday, I couldn’t find him. I called out to him, but he wasn’t there.” Heat rushed to her eyes. Her words now came with soft, warm tears running down her cheeks. The idea of losing her brothers crushed her heart. “We’ve not had a word from him in several months. What if…?” She stopped, unable to give voice to her fear. “William is with General Grant out west, as far as we know, but we’ve not heard from him either. Just last week my sister’s beau went off to join the Twenty-First Pennsylvania. Rebel sharpshooters shot and killed him on his way to meet his unit. He was unarmed, but they shot him anyway. Now, I don’t believe in God. Worse yet, I don’t even want to believe in God. I’m troubled.”

“You’re angry with God.”

Tillie started and stared at him. “Angry with God? How can one be angry with God?”

“Well, you told me some pretty sad things. It’s a guess, but sounds reasonable to me. Do you think it’s possible you’re angry for things like not hearing from, or seeing, your brothers? What about your sister’s beau? Do you think that’s God’s fault?”

“Perhaps I do.” Her voice finally came, almost too soft to hear. “I–I never thought of that. I think of being angry as stomping around and shouting at people.” Her voice grew stronger. “I haven’t done that.”

“Haven’t you?”

She turned hard eyes on him. “What do you mean?”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I’ve been sitting here, not able to do much more than observe. I see how you interact with that girl.” He jutted his chin in Beckie’s direction. “She gets under your skin, although you try not to show it, but I’ve seen the angry expression on your face sometimes. I don’t think you’re even aware.… But you get an expression, and Lord help the person you’re upset with.”

Tillie’s mouth dropped open as the familiar warmth flushed her cheeks. “I didn’t know.”

“I know.” He shifted his position and pressed his shoulder blades into the wall. “As you weren’t aware of your feelings for her, I suspect you aren’t aware of your anger with God.”

Tillie stared off at the far wall, processing his words. He offered her too much to think about, but she promised herself to concentrate on it later. A new question struck her. “What I don’t comprehend is how can God, if there is a God, allow so much horror and evil to exist? How can he allow men to be so destructive to one another? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Of course it does, if you think about it.”

Tillie cocked her head.

“My dear.” He took on the tone of someone about to embark on a Sunday school lesson. “When God created Adam and Eve in the Garden, he so loved Adam, He gave to him the one thing He did not give to the other animals.”

“Free will.” Tillie nodded and shrugged. “I know.”

“You know.” He raised two fingers and tapped the side of his head. “But you don’t know.” He tapped his chest, over his heart, and smiled. “Let me explain. God gave Adam free will. Adam used his free will to eat from the Tree of Knowledge. Therefore, God expelled them from the Garden of Eden.”

She flicked an impatient hand. “Yes.”

“As Adam used his free will to destroy the perfection and purity of the Garden, and impart to us his fallen sin nature, so we use our free will and fallen sin nature to destroy each other. It’s the way of Man, but not the way of God, who knows this, as he knew Adam and Eve would destroy the Garden. He doesn’t allow evil, but He will use it for His purposes, turning our evil to His good somehow.”

She recalled the night she and Father talked in the parlor. This conversation sounded close to that one. Something nibbled at the corners of her mind, something she felt she should understand, but what eluded her. The more she tried to drag her thought to the foreground, the more elusive it became. She let go, knowing it might come back later.

“The Old Testament is full of war.” The captain took another bite of bread.

She turned her attention back to him.

He nodded for emphasis. “David and Goliath. In First and Second Kings, First and Second Samuel, there were wars between countries, and in Judges, a civil war.”

Father’s words came back to her. Tillie smiled. “My father said the same thing to me a few nights ago. Am I correct you’re saying God condones war?” She regarded him. “Still, how can any of this be used for good?”

“Are you familiar with the term ‘a righteous war’?”

Tillie nodded. “My parents say this is a righteous war if it will condemn slavery for good.”

“I agree. If this country comes out more secure and unified than before, I say that’s a good thing. More important, if the Lord uses this war to scourge this country of the sin of slavery, hallelujah and amen. My point is, if God doesn’t fear war, why should you or I? General Weed—and General Reynolds, for that matter—both devout, Christian men, were not afraid of war and not afraid to die.”

The captain dusted the breadcrumbs from his fingers and pulled a small Bible from his breast pocket. He opened to a passage. “General Weed read this often. I believe the words gave him comfort. ‘Oh, death, where is thy victory? Oh, death, where is thy sting?’” He closed the book.

His stern expression made her think of Father.

“Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the belief in things not seen,” she murmured, laying a palm over General Weed’s cold forehead.

“General Weed never doubted those words. If you do, then you dishonor his memory.”

Tillie sniffed and wiped her face with her apron.

“My dear.” He put his hand on hers. “Do not despair. For your brothers or for yourself. If these days of tribulation bring the faith of the Lord Jesus Christ into your heart, then don’t you think He turned this circumstance to good?”

Tillie laughed through her tears. “I never considered that.”

The captain placed the small book in her hand. He closed her fingers over it. “General Weed gave this to me before he passed. I’m giving it to you.”

“Oh, no.” She tried to push the Bible back into his hands. “I couldn’t. He gave it to you as a keepsake.”

“He gave it to me as a gift. It’s mine to do with as I please. I have my own well-loved Bible. Besides, what good is the Word of God if we don’t spread it around? Please, take this. To remember us by.”

The words Holy Bible gleamed in beautiful golden calligraphy on the cover. She held the book to her heart. “Thank you. I’ll treasure this always.”

The captain signaled to three men standing by the kitchen table. “Don’t treasure it. Read it.” The men lifted the general’s body off his lap and placed him on a litter. The captain eased his legs and bent his knees. He pushed off the floor with his hands. When he got to the kitchen door, he waved. “I’ll visit your family today.” He followed the orderlies outside.

* * * *

An officer stood outside the kitchen door waiting for them to carry the general’s body out. He removed his hat, placed it over his heart, and bowed his head. When the entourage left, the man entered, tucking his hat under his arm. “Excuse me.” He caught Tillie’s eye. “Are you in charge of the well outside?”

Mrs. Weikert addressed him. “My husband is in charge of the well. What may we do for you?”

“Ma’am, I am First Lieutenant Ziba Graham of the 16th Michigan. I came to the field hospital to get a tooth removed. As I prepared to leave, I couldn’t help notice the wounded men lying in the hot sun. They’re thirsty, but there’s no pump handle on the well. They asked me to inquire about it.”

“I can’t help you, lieutenant. That’s my husband’s concern, not mine.” Mrs. Weikert turned her back on him. She tossed her next words over her shoulder. “I have enough to contend with, just keeping you men fed.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His face reddened, but he persisted. “Can you tell me where I might find your husband?”

“What can I do for you, lieutenant?” Mr. Weikert appeared like magic on the stairway to the upper floors, his arms crossed in front of him.

Tillie found herself standing between Mr. Weikert and the lieutenant. She retreated a step and cast about for something to occupy her. She couldn’t go anywhere without crossing between them so she held her ground.

In the distance, artillery shells whirred through the sky. The conversation paused as everyone listened to the faint boom. A collective sigh of relief escaped them all.

“Sir, I am First Lieutenant Ziba Graham, 16th Michigan.” He offered a jerky bow from his waist then explained how he came to be there. “The pump handle is missing from the well. Are you aware of that, sir?”

Mr. Weikert came down the last steps and stood in front of the barrels under the stairs. “No, I’m not.” He planted his hands on his hips and shifted his feet, in a what-are-you-going-go-do-about-it stance.

Tillie drew in a sharp breath. “But you—” She stopped at Mr. Weikert’s angry face and glanced at the lieutenant. When he stared at her, Tillie bowed her head and clamped her lips closed.

“Sir,” Graham spoke in an exaggerated, reasonable tone. “Please state your name?” He slipped a small notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped the pages with his left thumb before poising a pencil over the open page.

Mr. Weikert glared at him. He crossed his arms again. “Weikert. W-E-I-K-E-R-T.”

Lieutenant Graham wrote the name in the book and snapped it closed. He kept his eyes on Mr. Weikert as he slid the notebook back into his breast pocket. “Well, Mr. Weikert, I know for a fact you are aware of the pump handle. Several men told me they saw you remove it. Now, I suggest you retrieve it and put it back on the well. They’ll die of thirst if they don’t get water.”

“What do I care?” Mr. Weikert’s face turned dull red, and the vein in his forehead throbbed. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “Those men are the enemy, and I won’t have my well pumped dry by Rebels who would only waste the water anyway.”

“Sir.” Lieutenant Graham’s voice and eyes hardened. “I order you to replace the well crank now.”

“No.” Mr. Weikert moved to stand behind his wife.

Mrs. Weikert and Mrs. Schriver shifted so their bodies blocked Mr. Weikert from Lieutenant Graham.

Some soldiers snickered while others scowled. Lieutenant Graham’s lip curled, and his eyes grew cold and contemptuous.

At this moment, Tillie disliked all the Weikerts.

An artillery shell whistled through the air and hit the chimney. The house shook and dishes rattled on the shelves. Something shattered upstairs.

Mr. Weikert blanched at the sound of bricks crashing to the ground and men screaming.

Only Lieutenant Graham acted unconcerned. He pulled his pistol out of its holster. “Sir, I order you to give up the well crank—now!” The lieutenant drew back the hammer and aimed the pistol between the women’s shoulders, right at Mr. Weikert’s forehead. “Don’t make me shoot you in front of your womenfolk, sir.”

Tillie’s eyes widened. She exhaled in a slow, measured breath. Give him the crank. What did he gain from being obstinate? Rebel or Yank, they needed water.

The standoff lasted only a second or two. Mr. Weikert made an ugly sound, stomped to the stairs, and retrieved the well crank, which he thrust out to Lieutenant Graham with such force Tillie flinched, expecting Mr. Weikert to hit the man.

The lieutenant took the handle with solemn thanks. He nodded to each member of the family and left the house.

She ran to the cellar door.

Lieutenant Graham attached the pump handle, drew water, and gave it to the thirsty men. Before taking his leave, he posted two of the least wounded men, one with a bandage around his forehead and another with an arm in a sling, to guard the well.

She looked up at the blistering sun, then around the farmyard, heartsick. The yard, devoid of trees or shade of any kind, offered no respite. The men might as well lay in a desert, for all the comfort they received. They endured the flies and merciless, building heat while awaiting help from four surgeons who made their own men their first priority.

Tillie cocked her head trying to remember what today was. She began to count on her fingers. The soldiers came to town on Tuesday, the thirtieth. The first day of battle happened on Wednesday, the first, the same day she arrived at the Weikerts’. Yesterday, Thursday, the second, the army chased them away. She smiled a tired smile. So today was Friday, July third. Tomorrow was the Fourth of July. Lord God, if you exist, don’t let them fight tomorrow. Please let the fighting be over now, so we can enjoy our picnics and parades—and peace.

A movement caught the corner of her eye. She stepped outside for a better look. Across the small lane, Union soldiers moved about, placing cannons about three hundred yards or so from the barn. Behind the cannon, infantrymen lined up as if they expected another fight, this time right at their doorstep.

“They’re setting up cannons on the other side of the dooryard.” Tillie’s heart lurched, and dread made her nauseous. She looked at Mr. Weikert through the open doorway.

Mr. Weikert swore. He joined her and looked where she pointed. Mr. Weikert’s shoulders dropped, and his hands clenched and unclenched in spasms of unvented fury. The color drained from his face.

A sudden flash of insight struck Tillie so hard she gasped. In the last three days, this man lost everything he held dear, helpless before the onslaught. She tried to forgive him for the water.

“Tillie, go back inside and stay there.” He spoke over his shoulder. “Don’t come out for anything.”

“Yes, sir.” She headed inside as Mr. Weikert walked over to the men placing the cannon.

Mrs. Schriver joined Tillie at the door while her father and the soldier talked. When Tillie and Mrs. Schriver glanced at each other, Mrs. Schriver shrugged as if to say it was out of their hands. “Well, we have work to do.” She returned to her chores.

Tillie walked among the wounded in the cellar, inquiring if she could do or get anything for anyone. A man lay on the floor near where General Weed had lain. Bandages covered his eyes. He gripped an envelope. Tillie knelt and placed her hand on his.

“Who’s there?”

“My name is Tillie.” She touched the envelope. “Would you like me to read your letter?”

“My friend brought it last night. It’s from my wife.”

Tillie slid the envelope from his grasp and unfolded the letter. A picture of two small children, a boy not much more than three and his older sister, perhaps five, fell on the man’s chest. She put it into his hand. He lifted the picture to his lips and kissed it.

Her voice choked as she read. When she finished, she folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. She slid the envelope into his hand again. He squeezed it tight.

“Thank you,” he choked out.

She patted his hand. “Can I get you water or a slice of bread?”

Someone tapped her shoulder. “Miss, there are carriages waiting by the barn. Your father decided to find a place of safety. You’re to come with me if you please.”

Tillie scanned the kitchen. While she read to this man, the Weikerts disappeared, leaving her alone. “Is something going to happen?” She rose, unable to hide the fury roiling within her. She gave her poor messenger the full brunt of her glare. “Why didn’t they tell me they were going? Did they think to leave me behind?”

His eyes widened, but he acted the gentleman. “Who knows?” He shrugged. “The rebels took a beating yesterday, that’s for certain. Except for the shelling earlier, it’s been pretty quiet this morning—probably because both sides are too hot and tired to fight anymore. But this thing doesn’t feel over, so your father wants the family a safe distance away.”

“He’s not my father,” she snapped, then relaxed. “I’m sorry.” She touched his sleeve. “You couldn’t know.” She said goodbye to the man lying on the floor.

“God bless you.” He held up his envelope. “And thank you.”

Tillie walked with the soldier across the farmyard. In the distance, musketry rattled and crackled. She stopped. “Is that in Gettysburg?”

“No.” He turned toward town and appeared to listen. “There’s been sporadic fighting all morning at a place called Culp’s Hill.”

“That’s less than a mile from my home.”

“Oh.” The soldier seemed uncomfortable with another reference to her status as guest, and instead, showed her the cannon, east of the road leading into the farmyard. “General Sykes believes the Rebels will try to reach the Taneytown Road like yesterday. If so, we’ll see hard fighting right here. If you remain, you’ll be in the midst of flying bullets and shell fire.”

She smiled. How would that be different from yesterday? “We’ve been in the midst of flying bullets and shell fire since yesterday.”

His face colored. “Yes, miss.”

They reached the carriages. The soldier tipped his hat and walked away.

Tillie raised her foot to climb into the carriage as an artillery shell screamed overhead. She shrieked, pushed off the step with her foot, and hurled herself into the barn. She landed in a heap, arms over her head, waiting for death to strike.

No explosion. As she timidly lifted her head, the soldiers erupted with laughter.

Tillie picked herself up and dusted off her filthy dress. Flying artillery shells weren’t funny.

A man lying near her spoke for them. “My child, if that hit you, you wouldn’t have had time to jump.”

How ridiculous she must have appeared, coming from nowhere to land in an undignified pile in the straw. A snort of laughter escaped as she squared her shoulders, stuck her nose in the air, and sniffed in mock offense. “Sound logic indeed.” She flicked her skirt, giggled, and spun on her heel before marching outside, their laughter ringing in her ears.

In the field across the road, dust and ash settled, indicating the shell landed, harmless, in what remained of Mr. Weikert’s burned-out wheat field.