“My thanks to you.” Mr. Weikert slipped thereins off the brake handle.
“Best of luck to you, folks.” The privatetouched his fingers to his cap, lifted his rifle, and dropped thestrap across his shoulder before heading toward the Weikerts’farm.
They continued through the woods. At a smallclearing, a group of Confederate soldiers sat on the ground,guarded by Union soldiers. Tillie drew in a sharp breath, and herhand flew to her throat. Dirty Beard sat among the captives, kneestucked to his chest, and his chin on his arms. She searched forLady, but there were no horses.
Mrs. Schriver reached across her sister andtouched Tillie’s arm. “Are you all right?” Concern shone in hereyes. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” Tillie choked out, pointing tothe captive. “That man stole my horse last week.” A single tearslid down her cheek. Her heart thumped with a sudden rush of wrath.“She’s dead.” Dread filled her. She didn’t need evidence of Lady’scorpse to know she’d never see her horse again.
* * * *
As they approached the village of TwoTaverns, a man stood on the side of the road and waved them down.“Are you fleeing the unpleasantness?”
“We are.” Mr. Weikert rested his elbows onhis knees. “We must.”
“Then come and join us. We’ve becomesomething of a refugee stop for those in flight.” The man indicatedat least twenty-five families milling about, chatting. “Please, Iinsist.” He grasped the carriage, as though willing them to turninto the drive. “My wife and daughters are indoors preparing apicnic luncheon. Other neighbors brought food as well.”
Mr. Weikert shrugged at his wife. “Why not?”He guided the buggy into the yard and hopped down.
Tillie descended and wandered around theoutskirts, self-conscious. The property owner walked over.
“Please, make yourself comfortable. My nameis Mr. Jones.”
“Tillie Pierce.” She bobbed a curtsy as herparents taught her when meeting someone for the first time. “How doyou do?” She drew her arms in across her body, stopping short ofcrossing them. Did he smell her? What must he think of her, clothestorn and dirt stained, covered with blood? Her hand brushed thefront of her dress.
“Pierce, Pierce.” He wrinkled his brow. “Iknow a James Pierce, a butcher, in Gettysburg.”
“He’s my father.” She smiled bright, clappingher hands together.
“A fine man.” He gestured toward the tablesunder the oak tree. “Please come and eat. My wife and daughters areputting the food out now.”
Thanking him, she joined refugees asdisheveled and dirty, though not as blood covered as her. Sherelaxed as she filled a plate with fried chicken, coleslaw, bread,and other delicious dishes. She found herself a place and sat togive single-minded concentration to filling her stomach. While sheate, she listened to the stories of woe the others told. Warfareraged all around and inside the town, surrounding and beleagueringthe residents. Many voiced the opinion the fray felt like a tippingpoint between winning the war and losing.
After her meal, she relaxed on the porchswing, stomach full and eyelids heavy. She took notice of where theWeikerts were in case they decided to go home. She didn’t want himto leave her behind.
The Weikerts sat talking under the shade ofan oak tree. Mrs. Schriver took the girls inside. Dan remained atthe picnic tables, flirting with one of Jones’s daughters.
She scanned the yard for Beckie but didn’tfind her. Beckie’s behavior still baffled her, but she refused tobe a peacemaker. Mother would insist she be the bigger person, butnot this time. She crossed her arms and scowled, determined not tobe the first to apologize and unable to find a justifiable causefor Beckie’s anger. She’d been hateful and rude since day one.Beckie should apologize to her.
Tillie slipped her hand into her apronpocket, her fingers bumping against the Bible the captain gave her.She withdrew the book from her pocket and opened it. Psalms. Theyread like poetry. She loved to listen to Father read them. Shesighed and fought off a wave of homesickness.
Flipping the book closed, she touched thecover, feeling the embedded calligraphy on the leather. Sherecalled a time when Belle confided she often opened the Bible atrandom places and found a Scripture to fit her mood. Tilliementioned it at dinner that night, earning a lecture.
“The Scriptures are the sacred word of God,Tillie. Not a horoscope or cure-all/catchall for whatever ailsyou.” His words accompanied the same stern glare he always gave herwhen she displeased him.
Nevertheless, she wanted to discover ifBelle’s theory worked. She reopened the Bible. It again fell opento Psalm 53. “The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God.Corrupt are they, and have done abominable iniquity.” Drawing in asudden breath, she shot her head up and stared straight ahead,unseeing. She was the fool. She said there is no God. Oh, Lord, I’mso sorry. Forgive me, please. She turned back to the book. “Thereis none that doeth good, no, not one.” She drew in a deep, fearfulbreath; her words to the captain came back to her—if there even isa God. If.
Her father’s words echoed in her mind. “Thewages of sin is death, Tillie. There is none who seeks after God.”With shaking hands and a pounding heart, she flipped to Romans,scanning chapters one and two, and, finding what she sought, readchapter three, verse twelve. “They are all gone out of the way,they are together become unprofitable; there is none that doethgood, no, not one.” Verse twenty-three, in black and white, justfor her. “For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God.”Her breath came in short, hard gasps, as though someone punched herin the gut. “Oh, that’s me!” she whispered, gripping the book sotight, her knuckles pressed white. I fall short of the glory ofGod. That’s what the captain tried to tell me. That’s what Fatherand Mother tried to say my whole life, and I wouldn’t listen. Howcould I be so stupid? Heart pounding, she wanted to drop to herknees in prayerful repentance, but the people around her made herhold back. Instead, she closed her eyes tight and prayed with allher heart. Oh, Father in Heaven, please listen now and forgive memy selfishness, my foolishness.
