They came to Mrs. Leicester’s home. GeneralMeade made his headquarters here. Tillie’s heart sank at the sightof the property. Widow Leicester lived in her two-room home withher son, surviving hand to mouth. Reverend Bergstrasser often tookup offerings to help the poor in town and frequently bestowed thehelp upon Mrs. Leicester. Her small farm, all she owned in theworld, now destroyed. Maggot-infested horses decomposed in theyard. Soldiers lay where they died, her fences gone. Shells struckthe house several times. A shell destroyed the steps leading to thefront door where Tillie sat and rested the day they went to theWeikerts’.
“Oh, poor Mrs. Leicester. What will she donow?” Tillie stared at the devastation.
“I don’t know. Her son won’t be able to domuch to make repairs. I hope the men in town can help. Poor woman.”Mrs. Schriver eyed her girls. “Well come on. We might as well seewhat’s in store for us.”
They started to walk away, but Tilliecouldn’t pull her eyes away from Mrs. Leicester’s house. Pillarsholding up the front porch roof were gone, and one corner of theroof sprawled on the boards below.
Someone jerry-rigged poles to hold up thepart of the roof still attached to the house, allowing the soldiersto come and go without fear of the structure falling on them.Beyond this mess, a huge hole gaped in the roof where a cannonballmade a point of entry. The chimney was a heap of smashed bricks.Shattered caissons were left scattered about the yard, some stillhitched to their dead horses.
“I feel as though I stepped into a strangeand blighted land,” Mrs. Schriver said in a low frightenedwhisper.
The destruction cast a pall over thelandscape, causing them to speak in quiet, respectful tones. Tillienodded, unable to find words to describe her emotions. Her throattightened. Surely if she tried to speak, she would dissolve intouncontrollable tears.
They entered the cemetery, compelled to picktheir steps. Even so, once or twice, they tripped over brokenblocks of headstones, and here too, dead men and horses litteredthe ground.
Something was missing, but Tillie couldn’tdiscern on what. For the first time in her life, she wasuncomfortable and a little frightened to be outside.
“It’s so quiet.” Mollie stared about her withhuge blue eyes, voicing Tillie’s subconscious thoughts. The child’swords dropped an unsettling piece of the puzzle into place. Asidefrom the horrific destruction, a terrible silence surrounded them.She recalled before the battle—for that was how she thought ofthings now—walking through the cemetery and listening to the birdsas they sang or the wind sighed through the trees. The absence ofthese sounds unsettled her.
Passing through the shattered archway of theonce beautiful entrance gate, Mrs. Schriver stepped on a woodensign. Tillie picked it up, recognizing it as the sign that alwayshung outside the cemetery gate. She read aloud. “‘The use offirearms within the boundaries of this cemetery will be prosecutedto the fullest extent of the law.’” Someone drew a huge X throughthe words and underneath scrawled, “Order rescinded until furthernotice.” She laughed, cringing at the sound.
They emerged on Baltimore Street, but whenthey reached the Garlachs’ home, a barricade blocked their way. Allkinds of material, piled against the wall of the Garlachs’ home,stretched across the street to the wall of the Winebrenners’.
“My table!” Mrs. Schriver shrieked, throwingher hands to her face. “What is my table doing in this heap ofmess?” Sobbing, she clawed through the tangled mass. Her effortsgrowing frantic as she uncovered other belongings. Enraged, shetried to untangle the pile in search of more treasured itemsincorporated into it. Mrs. Schriver discovered her parlor sofalying on its side, riddled with bullet holes. She fell upon thesofa, cradled her head in her arms, and wailed harder.
“Mrs. Schriver, this does no good.” Tillietried to be of some comfort, but the woman ignored her and weptover her belongings. After a few minutes, Mrs. Schriver, in a fury,began to yank and pry in another futile attempt to free some of herfurniture. Tillie stepped back and waited. Couldn’t the woman seethey were just things? Her life—her daughter’s lives were moreimportant. When Mr. Schriver came home from the war, they couldalways buy a new sofa. Tillie took Mollie and Sadie by the hand.While Mrs. Schriver sobbed and tugged at the barricade, Tilliestudied the pile, looking for places to climb over it.
Finally, Mrs. Schriver gave up trying toreclaim her furniture. Whoever made the barricade knew how toconstruct an impenetrable wall, and she couldn’t budge it. Shethrew her head back and screamed invectives at those responsiblefor abusing her belongings.
Tillie placed her hands on Mrs. Schriver’sarm. “Please don’t cry, Mrs. Schriver. It’s hard to see yourfurniture like this, but stop and think. You’re alive. The girlsare well. Please don’t cry.”
While Mrs. Schriver swallowed her sobs,sniffed, and wiped her face, Tillie showed her where she thoughtthey could climb the barricade. Mrs. Schriver went first. Tilliehelped the girls climb the stack and handed them over. Then Tillieclimbed over the top of the pile and picked her way down. Theyexchanged silent hugs. She waited while the others went up thesteps and disappeared inside without as much as a backward glance.She curbed the urge to run and forced herself to adopt a sedatewalk home.
As she approached the vacant lot next door,she discovered several holes and chips in the bricks on the southside of the house. Tillie lingered to count the bullet holes,quitting at seventeen. She didn’t need to count them all. Fearpricked her heart. Were they safe and unharmed or did someone dielike Ginny?
What if someone lay hurt or dying and thelieutenant chose not to tell her? Tillie rushed up the stairs andhurried into the house. Once inside she stopped short. Huge bundleslay strewn throughout the hallway. Did the Army force them toleave? She peered into the parlor. A bloodstain spoiled the couch.Someone’s been hurt! Did they die here? Was one of her family hurt,dying? “Stop!” she scolded, unwilling to raise her voice above awhisper. “Just stop.”
In the sitting room, bundles of cloth andbowls
