“They’s runnin’ to hide on Culp’s Hill.” Mr.Weaver sighed and shifted his feet. “Many of our folk do thesedays. Word is, if the Rebs come and catch the black folk, we gonnaget sol’ inta slavery.”
“But you’re free! They can’t do that.” Tilliestudied him, brows creased. She crossed her arms. “It wouldn’t befair.”
“Keep up,” the woman badgered, giving eachboy a gentle shove. “Y’all don’t want them Rebs to kotch you andsell you to slave masters.”
The boys plodded past the woman whoreadjusted her burden before hurrying to catch up with her husband.She kept up a constant stream of chatter at her children.
“Mmm hmm.” Mr. Weaver stared after thefamily. “They can, and they will.”
“I’ve heard of overreacting before, butthat’s ridiculous.” Smiling, George shook his head.
“They’re being silly, if you ask me.” Maggieslipped her hand under his elbow. “The Rebs aren’t coming here.Father said so. Even so, they don’t have the right to take peoplewho’ve never been slaves.”
“You think so, miss?” Mr. Weaver gave them ahard glare. His brown eyes, so filled with warmth and friendlinessmoments ago, now blackened with rage. His brows lowered, and hegripped the broom handle so hard, his knuckles looked as thoughthey might crack the skin. “You think they’re ridiculous? Maybebecause you ain’t never been hunted before.”
“Mr. Weaver, are you…?” Tillie’s eyeswidened, and her mouth fell agape.
He shot her a glare. “No, but my daddywas.”
Maggie peeked at George. He stared at hisfeet.
Tillie bit her lip, shame washed over her.She had no business prying into the man’s personal affairs.
Mr. Weaver fingered his hat brim. “Y’all havea fine day.” Voice dripping with sarcasm, he gave them each abaleful glare, turned, and shuffled up Breckenridge Street, pushinghis broom as he went.
Tillie, Maggie, and George stood in chastenedsilence as the family trundled down the street. After theydisappeared over the brow of the hill, George turned to Maggie andput his hand on her arm. He whispered in her ear.
She smiled, and her eyelids lowered as hislips brushed against her hair, his blond head close to hers.
Tillie ran up the steps to the front door andentered the house, shutting out the sight of the lovebirds.
* * * *
Upstairs Tillie hung her school dress overthe armoire door and changed into her everyday work dress beforeassessing the damage from her walk to school. The mud would brushout, so no harm done thank Heaven. The water stains would requirelaundering. She grabbed the cleaning brush and brushed hard a fewstrokes before giving up. She crumpled the dress in a wash pile,shoved her shoes far into the back of her armoire, and threw ashawl on top of them.
At her dressing table, she loosened herbraids, brushed, and tidied her hair.
Mother always said a woman’s hair was hercrowning glory, so Tillie took pains to keep hers healthy. Afterone hundred strokes, she threw the hairbrush down and ran herfingers through the chestnut tresses, satisfied when the lightcaught and shone through the silky strands.
Chin in hand, she studied her reflection,tilting her head and assessing large, brown, almond-shaped eyesframed by long lashes. Father called them doe eyes.
She wrinkled and stretched her nose. Still,it receded into her face before reemerging like a small ballhanging above her full lips.
Voices drifted up from downstairs, and sheglanced at the door. Father would reprimand her for shirking if shedidn’t head down soon. Tillie gathered up her hair again to braid,but couldn’t resist twisting a bun and holding on the back of herhead, imitating Mother. Containing her tresses with one hand, shetipped her head from side to side, evaluating the effect. Shefrowned and let go. The mass of brown curls splashed over hershoulders and cascaded down her back. She scowled at herreflection. “I’ll never be as pretty as Mother or Maggie.Grandmother is right. With a face like mine, I need a nose likemine.” She puckered her mouth, gathered up her hair, and fingersflying, braided it.
She slipped down the stairs and into thesitting room, expecting to find Maggie, Mother, and Father. Shewalked into an empty room. Her shoulders dropped, and she let outher breath. As she passed Father’s chair, she spied the GettysburgCompiler lying folded in half on the table beside his chair. Theheadline screamed: Rebels Reported In Chambersburg, Carlisle AndYork, Looting Rampant. Fingers shaking, she picked up the paper andread the article. Clearly, the editor had so small an opinion ofthe story, he didn’t allot more than a few column inches. Still,fear spiked through her. Two thousand infantry. Twenty thousandcavalry. No mention of the Union boys and their whereabouts.However, President Lincoln fired General Hooker and put GeneralMeade at the head of the Army of the Potomac.
Chambersburg, Carlisle and York…They made a Ushape around Gettysburg. So close! She scanned the room,half-expecting Rebs to jump out of the corners. Then she put thepaper down and tipped it just right, as if the action would makethem go away.
Leaving it there, she walked into thekitchen. Maggie stood by the door, holding Tillie’s apron. Shealmost told Maggie about the story, but no. If Father thought itimportant, he’d say something.
“Where’s George?” Tillie took her apron fromMaggie and dropped it over her head.
Maggie’s far-off, vacant stare fixed on aspot on the wall.
Tillie tied her apron strings behind herback, while bending her knees, attempting to catch her sister’seye. “I assumed you two would be occupied for a while so I didn’thurry down.”
Maggie glanced at her, picked up two baskets,handing one to Tillie. “I told him he needed to leave as soon asyou got home. That’s why we waited on the steps.”
Tillie snugged her bonnet on, tying the bowunder her chin. She grabbed the fruit basket Maggie held out.“Shall we?” She slipped past Maggie into the bright sunshine.
George stood at the butcher shop door. Fathersat before his whetstone, drawing a blade across. The stone zingedand sparks flew around him, but he didn’t try to get out of theirway. Sam worked behind Father, taking down equipment and puttingothers
