The Girls of Gettysburg (15 page)

“That looks dreadful!” Tillie exclaimed. Henrietta and Grandmother Weikert hurried into the room, followed by Grandfather Weikert.

The soldier pointed behind him. “More are coming.”

Two more soldiers hobbled in, one with his arm in a sling and the other with his head bandaged. More came, spilling into the parlor and the side rooms, and then filling the bedrooms. Like floodwaters rising, there seemed no end to them.

Tillie set to work, tearing sheets into bandages until her fingers were numb and her blisters broke open and bled.

“I can't stay here another moment,” Tillie cried. “I just can't!” She dashed out the door, down the short path to the barn. Opening the barn door, she reeled from the smell.

Everywhere they lay, moaning, groaning, bleeding, dying. So many and so close to each other that the hay-strewn floor had disappeared. The sounds of the wounded cut deeper than any blister on her hand.

“Miss?”

Tillie swerved to face a dark-eyed, dark-haired nurse looking up from his charge. She couldn't stop shivering, and her shivering shook her tears loose.

“Miss?” the nurse approached her. “Are you hurt, miss?”

She couldn't stop trembling, not even to shake her head no. Instead, she turned and ran back to the house. But there was no place to go to get away from the smells and the sounds and the sights of the dying, the boys dirty and tattered and broken. They weren't noble or handsome anymore. Some no longer looked human, so shattered were they.

It was Grandmother Weikert who found her standing in the corner.

“This is terrible, indeed.” Grandmother wrapped her in a big hug, just as Mother used to do. “And no child should ever have to witness such a horror. But Tillie, hold your tears and your fears. Be brave for now.”

Tillie swallowed. “I didn't think it would be like this.”

“Don't think, not now. Make yourself some tea. Tea is good for the nerves. Take a breath, Tillie dear. We'll do what we can for them now. We'll deal with our tears later.”

Tillie gave a slow nod.

Dawn broke, bright and clear. Tillie didn't know when she fell asleep, or even that she had, until she woke up. Her arms still ached and her palms burned.

Like a waking nightmare, there came the sounds of more marching soldiers. She hurried outside to see regiment after regiment heading down the road toward town. The fields to the east and all along Cemetery Hill were filled with troops. Officers on horseback galloped up and down the long lines of soldiers and tents.

“I've been sitting here most of the night, watching them dig in.” Grandfather Weikert shook his head, stroking his chin as he stared across the field.

“I thought it would be safe here.” Henrietta shook her head. “Tillie, I'm so sorry.”

“Henrietta.” Grandfather Weikert's eyes narrowed with worry. “Gather what you need. There's that old farm a half mile across the fields to the east. Take the children and go. You'll be safe there.”

“What about you, Papa?”

“I'm staying to keep an eye on things here.”

Quickly Tillie and Henrietta, Mary, and Sarah made ready to flee. Grandmother Weikert refused to leave her husband behind, and waved them on. But they didn't get far before a soldier stopped them.

“Fightin's begun on the Round Tops,” the soldier told them. “Your house is tucked in close to the rocky ledge. The shells will just pass over your house. But that farmhouse you're headin' for is already a goner! You're better off to stay put.”

That very moment, a shell whistled above their heads. The soldier lunged to the ground, taking Sarah with him. Sarah screeched as loud as the shell.

Henrietta dropped, pulling Mary close to the ground with them. Tillie dropped, too, and buried her nose in the dirt, cupping her hands over her ears. The earth trembled as the shell exploded. She couldn't breathe. Her lungs twisted inside her.

“Go back!” the soldier shouted, helping Henrietta to her feet. Tillie coughed dirt and dug more dirt from her ears and nose. More shells screamed over their heads. Tillie looked up to see a bright glow hanging above the town.

“There!” she screamed. “Is the town on fire?”

Henrietta pulled her along.

“Papa!” Henrietta shrieked as she ran back to the stone house. “Gettysburg is on fire!”

“No, no.” Grandfather Weikert met them. “The town is fine. But I was wrong, Henrietta. The rebels are on
this
side of the Round Tops, and they're moving in. I should never have sent you away. I don't know what to do anymore.” He pointed to the men in gray moving toward Taneytown Road.

Tillie swerved at the sound of fife and drum, announcing the Pennsylvania Reserves! She wanted to shout hooray! These were her
friends. Her brothers were marching with them. She cried in relief. They marched double-quick, moving between the barn and the Round Tops, firing as they ran. The rebels barely got a shot off, retreating as quickly as they had come.

More shattered and dying soldiers now filled the yard around the house and the orchard just beyond. The dark-eyed, dark-haired nurse rushed by, taking hold of Tillie's arm. He had emerged from the house carrying a bundle of clothes—her bundle of clothes.

He was panting. “These are all I could find. Someone's treasures, to be sure, but now I need them for a greater cause. Could you tear them up for bandages, miss?”

“I'm sure the owner of these clothes would agree.” Tillie took a deep breath. Was it only yesterday she thought them so precious? She tore the petticoats with the eyelet lace, making sure the strips were wide enough for a proper bandage. She tore the skirt with its perfect roses. And when she had finished, she draped the strips across her arm and went to the barn.

“Miss!” The nurse waved at her. “I need your help now.”

Next to the nurse stood the man blinded and burned. His eyes now wrapped in linen, he had taken to his feet in fevered panic, feeling his way along the wall. Quickly the nurse led the wounded man to his bed on the floor. Then he turned to Tillie, ushering her to another patient.

“Hold this man's arm, here!” the nurse said. The soldier's shirt was ripped and bloody. His arm was shredded to the bone. As she gripped his arm, the soldier screamed.

“Hold it tighter, miss,” the nurse said. Tillie pressed down, and the wounded soldier screamed again. Quickly the nurse wrapped the man's arm. “You're doing good, miss. Just keep holding. The doc has his hands full.” The nurse wagged his head toward the other side of the barn. There, under lantern light, a doctor operated on a wounded man held down on the table by three soldiers. The man screamed a long, ragged scream as the doctor sawed.

Tillie felt her lungs squeeze again.

As the nurse finished the soldier's arm, he moved on to the next man. Tillie shadowed him, handing him more bandages as he asked.

When the strips ran out, she looked down, squeezing the folds of her dress. Blood had dried on the calico, but the petticoat was clean enough. She tore at the hem of her petticoat.

“Thank you for your help, miss.” The nurse finally looked up.

“For modesty's sake, that's the end of bandages.” Tillie tried to smile, but the nurse ran off to his next patient. Tillie stood alone in a sea of bodies. She trembled all over, tears welling up so fast her eyes hurt.

To be here
. She shook her head.
In such a terrible place
.

“Miss?” a voice called out. She turned to see a man lying on the floor behind her. His arm was bandaged to the shoulder, more linen wrapping his chest. The linen was already soaked with his blood. She stooped next to him, her fingers gently untying the bandage. Quickly she cleaned the wound. The man winced, but he didn't yelp. His smile was steadfast. Tearing another strip away from her petticoat, she finished wrapping his arm in the clean bandage. His voice raspy, he said, “I could use some water, please, miss?”

She found a canteen nearby, and eased it to his mouth. He swallowed once, then twice, then gave a nod. He smiled again as she eased his head down.

“It's a great battle on that little round hilltop. You are brave to come into this place, much braver than I. I could never walk into such a valley of death. I wouldn't even consider it, except . . .” The soldier glanced at his wounds and smiled.

The smile seemed to carry the sun in it. And Tillie felt her breathing ease; even her trembling seemed to stop.

“You must excuse my boldness, miss. But I think it rude of me to continue calling on you without knowing your name.”

“Tillie.” She cleared her throat. “My name is Tillie.”

“And I am Warrick, and much pleased to make your acquaintance.” He coughed. How odd to smile in such a wretched place. It was like a blanket, wrapping her in warmth on a cold winter night. He had blue eyes the color of sky, and even in the gloom they shone with sunshine. She offered him another drink. “I could do with a favor, Miss Tillie.
I've not had time to write my mama. I've been thinking I should write to her, to tell her I'm all right.”

“I will write your letter, sir,” Tillie said. “I'll need to find a pen and paper.”

She dashed off, glad for her new chore, away from the pools of blood, flies, and maggots. She had always done well in school. There was no agony in writing letters, no pain, no screaming. She returned from the house not long after, carrying all that she needed for letter-writing. Carefully she laid them before her. The soldier—Warrick—watched her, smiling the while.

“Miss Tillie, your kindness is god-sent,” Warrick said. “But you needn't call me sir. I'm no officer, and I'm certainly not my father. Please call me Warrick?”

She poised her pen, dipping the tip in ink. “Well, then, Warrick, you tell me what you want to say. Then I will read it back to you, to make sure it's perfect.”

“Dear Mama,” Warrick began.

And Tillie wrote, careful to write each letter perfectly. Sometimes Warrick stammered, not sure of what to say.

“You are doing your mother proud,” Tillie reassured him.

“I cannot think of the right word, one pleasing enough for my mama,” he said.

“Tell me what you miss about your home.”

Warrick thought a moment, and his smile brightened. “It's the strangest thing, how memory can play the cleverest tricks on a mind. While I was home, I thought there could be no smaller place than that. And now, when I look back, I think not all of heaven could be so grand as that small house near the sea. I miss that salty air that fills a body up. I miss Mama, smelling like her peach pie. And Papa smelled like a good pipe at the end of a long day. I miss my little sister, Becca. She has a smell all her own, clean and new like spring rain.”

“Seems to me, perhaps you should say exactly that,” said Tillie. How odd that only the week before, she had dreamed of adventure, of leaving Gettysburg, and now all she wanted to do was go home. Wasn't that what that runaway said, too? She just wanted to go home?

The minutes slipped into an hour, and he finished telling his letter.

“Your loving and devoted son, Warrick,” she finished reading.

“Why, you paint some picture of me!” Warrick chuckled. “Your letter makes me sound better than I am.”

“Your mama will be very proud of you,” Tillie said. “And she will tell you as much when you get home. Right now, perhaps you need sleep.”

“I am a bit tired. And if I may be so bold, again, might I ask you come by again, Miss Tillie?”

“You are indeed too bold, Warrick.” She smiled, an easy smile one shares with an old friend.

“Then consider yourself asked!” He chuckled, then coughed.

“And I promise I will surely do that!” Tillie smiled. And he fell asleep.

She felt she could breathe again, and could do something to help. Tillie moved among the wounded, offering water and writing letters. Sometimes all they wanted to do was talk. And so she listened. The acrid smells of blood and death seemed to soften. Even the moans seemed less. Once in a while she looked back at Warrick, still in peaceful sleep.

Then, sometime in the late afternoon, the dark-haired nurse approached her.

“Perhaps you should take a rest yourself, miss. You've been here almost as long as I have been, which is far too long.”

“I'm quite fine, sir.” Tillie smiled.

“Did I say that you are an angel, miss? And a right fine nurse.”

Tillie shook her head. “I've not done much of anything but write letters.”

“You're an angel, and let no one tell you otherwise. You've lasted longer than the others.” The nurse chuckled. “It's not an easy thing, to be amid such death. You showed uncommon kindness, and certainly to that one, a rebel at that. Not too many could do that.”

“Rebel?” Tillie stiffened.
Rebel?

The nurse nodded toward Warrick. “When men are wounded, no
matter the age or cause that moves them, they all become like sons in need of a mother's comfort.”

Tillie's heart quivered. He was not like anything she had expected. He didn't wear a uniform, or talk like one of them! She walked toward the sleeping soldier. What could she say to him? He had been kind, and had eased her own trembling. She wanted to say something. She wanted to say—thank you.

Still he slept. She walked softer so as not to wake him. As she came closer, however, she realized he wasn't asleep.

He had died. Warrick had died.

He only wanted to go home, to see his mama. Just like Grace, and the dark-eyed runaway.

Just like her.

Once again she began to tremble, and this time she thought it would never stop.