“I’m so sorry.” Tillie cringed, wantingsomething more comforting and profound to say, lost at this suddenand sorrowful turn. She leaned over and squeezed the woman’s arm.“I’m so sorry. I wish…” She didn’t know what she wished.
Mrs. Greenly laid her hand atop Tillie’s.Tillie clasped her hand and met Mrs. Greenly’s gaze.
“Joseph must survive.” Mrs. Greenly’s wordsand expression grew fierce and determined. “He must survive. He’smy only remaining child.” In a sudden, excited shift, she smiled atTillie. “Come with me tomorrow. Meet Joseph. It would be a comfortif the two of us pray for him.”
Tillie’s eyes widened. This was what shewanted—and dreaded. “Do you think I should? I’ve wanted to go.That’s why I stayed up to talk to you, but aren’t there enoughpeople to help?”
“Oh, gracious, I daresay not. Almost fourthousand men are in the most desperate need of companionship. Oh,they have nurses and doctors enough to do the difficult andgruesome work. What the boys need is people willing to keep themcompany while they recuperate. If they saw your pretty face, I knowit would speed their recovery. Besides, I think it would benefityou a great deal to get out of the house a little. Come with me inthe morning. Please.”
Tillie contemplated the idea of reading tothe soldiers and talking to them, not changing bandages or havingto assist amputations. She doubted the pretty face remark, but shesmiled. “I’d love to.” She squeezed Mrs. Greenly’s arm again. “Imust confess I feared they’d make me do the gruesome work, as youput it, and I can’t bear the thought.” Tillie repressed a shudderas memories assailed her.
Mrs. Greenly patted her hand. “I’m so glad Ithought to say something.” The woman rose and picked up theirteacups. She carried them into the kitchen where she washed and putthem away. When she came back to the sitting room, she led Tillieupstairs. “We must get a good night’s sleep. Dawn comes prettyearly each morning, as the late Mr. Greenly liked to say.”
“Yes it does.”
At Mrs. Greenly’s bedroom door, Tillie wishedher a good night. She slid into bed, excited by the prospect ofhelping at Camp Letterman.
****
In the chill late-September morning, Tillieshivered under her cloak as they walked the three miles down YorkStreet to Camp Letterman. Their conversation ranged over numeroussubjects. She liked Mrs. Greenly very much, happy to discover that,despite their ages, she made a friend.
“Father refused permission to Private Reed.”She confessed her disappointment, confident Mrs. Greenly understoodand wouldn’t mock or tease her. “It’s a bit like running away, Iguess, but I can’t tolerate the avoidance any more. That’s why Iwanted to accompany you to…” Tillie’s mouth fell open as theyreached the entrance gate.
Mrs. Greenly watched Tillie’s face, her grinwide. “I felt the same way my first day. I couldn’t imagine where Iwould find Joseph in this tent city.” She pointed out landmarks toTillie, who listened in stunned silence. The camp, an impressivetestament to Union military might and resources, occupied almostevery square acre of old Mr. Wolf’s farm. Laid out in orderlyfashion, a main thoroughfare ran through the center. Streetsbranched off on both sides and acted as the dividing line betweenthe Union and Confederate sides. The lanes between the tentsspanned wide enough to accommodate two people, walking abreast, topass in either direction without bumping into each other.
Row upon row of white canvas stood instraight even lines, arranged in blocks throughout the meadow. Sixavenue-sized blocks held twenty-four tents per avenue. Groups offour made up a ward. Inside each tent, twelve to sixteen patientsawaited care.
A spring used to run from the woods throughthe meadow, making a lovely place to come on a hot summer day.Someone, the Army Corps of Engineers no doubt, had diverted thespring. Now, tents popped up there, planted in the ground likecrops. As she took in the scene, her only thought was that Mr. Wolfmust be turning in his grave.
She couldn’t see the military value ofplacing Camp Letterman in such a spot, but the Army chose the sitewell. The property had a good mix of woods and open space and, withthe spring, an excellent supply of fresh water. Railroad tracksless than five hundred feet from the camp’s edge made it ideal.
Near the woods to the southwest and close tothe road, smoke billowed from the chimney of a wood and canvasconstructed edifice. Mrs. Greenly said it was the cookhouse. Tilliethought of the two orderlies who made beef soup at Mr. Weikert’sand wondered if they were here. She made a mental note to stop byand check.
Beyond the cookhouse and close against thewoods, another wood and canvas building stood dark and silent. Asign above the door read Dead House. Tillie swallowed hard. On theother side of the main tent area, to the northeast, the officer’squarters separated from the enlisted quarters, by a loominggraveyard marked with a sign indicating the Union and Confederatesections. Other sections of the camp, set apart for their ownmysterious purposes, remained dark, unused, and sinister. She gazedaround at a vast tent city, intimidated by the prospects.
“Over there is the surgery.” Mrs. Greenlypointed to a large half wood, half tent construction near thewoods. “And over here,” she gestured to a row of tents, “is whereJoseph waits for me. Come, Tillie.” She took Tillie by the elbowand proceeded into the camp. The guard on duty said good morning.“I’ll take you to Joseph’s tent and introduce you to his tentmates.”
Tillie followed like a docile sheep,intimidated by the camp’s size and complexity. As they passed thetents, she took surreptitious peeks inside the open flaps. Theearly morning light had not yet penetrated the canvas tops, so shesaw nothing but a dark, cavernous hole. A garland of evergreenboughs shaped in a circle hung above each entrance, with moreevergreen boughs twisted into the shape of a five-pointed starwithin the circle. She wondered why, but decided to ask later. Asthey passed another, she peered inside. A lantern lit within showedmen sleeping. Others stared outside. Still others thrashed in theiragonies or cried out in pain—a sound Tillie hoped never to hearagain, and
