* * * *
Tillie fixed a rice pudding dish her motheralways made for her when sick. She cut up some apples and addedthem to the pudding. She prepared spoon bread, and for a treat, apan of gingerbread. Northern boys loved gingerbread. She hoped theSouthern boys would as well. She stopped calling them Rebs a longtime ago. To her, they were Confederates, wounded boys who wantedto go home, but would go to prison instead.
Tillie pulled the pan from the oven.
Mother stopped short and gazed about indismay. “Good heavens, Tillie. Did the Rebs come marching throughhere?”
“I’ll clean up. I promise.” Tillie scratchedan itch on her cheek leaving a smudge of flour.
Mother grabbed a rag and wiped up the flourand sugar scattered on the table. She seized the broom and sweptthe floor. “Who is all this food for?” She kept her gaze on hertask.
“For the Southern boys at CampLetterman.”
“I see.”
Tillie cocked her head, brows creased. Sheput the hot pan down. “You don’t think I should? Do you think mewrong for wanting to help them?”
Mother created a neat pile of dirt. Shewouldn’t meet Tillie’s eye as she arranged the pile with herbroom.
“No,” she lengthened the word and tapped thebroom around the dirt pile she created. “I don’t think you’rewrong.” She glanced at Tillie. “But you never did this much bakingfor our own boys.”
Tillie said nothing for a moment. “Youyourself said, whatever these boys think they are, they’re stillAmericans. Do you still believe that?”
Mother swept the dirt into a dustpan. “I’mnot sure. After what they put us through, they didn’t seem to wantto be part of this government, this country, anymore.”
“President Lincoln says we’re still onecountry. Where can they go? They can’t physically leave. That’swhat he says anyway.” Tillie shrugged. “Besides, plenty of womencook for the Union boys. No one cooks for the Confederates.” Shetook a knife and cut the bread into small squares then put it downand studied her mother. “Do you want me to stop helping them?”
Mother pursed her lips. She carried the panto the back door. When she returned, she replaced broom and pan,crossed to the table, and sat. “Why do you ask?”
“Because, ever since I told you what I’mdoing, I get the feeling you and Father aren’t pleased.” Tilliewrapped the cut-up bread in a moist cloth and placed it in thebasket. “So, I’m asking if you disapprove.”
Mother leaned against the table. “We don’tdisapprove as such. We’re concerned with what will happen whenothers in town find out you’re helping men who created suchdevastation here. We’re concerned things may not go well foryou.”
For a split second, she considered tellingMother, but decided not to. She nodded, acknowledging her concern.“Didn’t our Lord’s sacrifice on the Cross give me eternal life? IfI can show people His sacrifice through a little sacrifice of myown, then perhaps they will remember His love and find somecomfort. Maybe my work will teach them. This is something I mustdo. Jesus is calling me, regardless of what people will think.”
Mother reached for Tillie’s hand. “Very well.Your father and I will stand behind you and help you in any way wecan.” She kissed Tillie’s cheek. “You’ve grown up. Become a fine,God-fearing, young woman, and I’m proud of you.” Then she squeezedher hand and left the kitchen.
Tillie perched the basket on the corner ofthe table and finished cleaning the kitchen. Mother gave her a lotto think about, but it wouldn’t change her resolve any. While atthe Weikerts’, she cared for Union and Confederate alike and sawlittle difference in the suffering of either side. Blood was blood,and death afflicted them both. In the end, no matter what side theywere on, when they died, they cried for their mothers. She’ddetermined to give kindness to these men, who caused so muchdestruction in her world. She couldn’t explain to her family whatshe endured there, and they didn’t or wouldn’t understand. When shefinished cleaning up, she took the lamp and headed for the stairs.She went to bed and prayed for her new boys.
* * * *
Tillie returned with her basket laden withfood, books, and implements to write letters. Her feet crunched thefrosted grass, and she did her best to avoid the icy puddles in theroad. Her breath produced small clouds of steam. She hoped the boyswere warm enough last night.
Tillie arrived, a bright, cheery good morningon her lips. Few responded. Most shivered under their blankets. Shecrossed to the stove and put her hand on the cold metal. “I thoughtso.” She glared at their only heat source. “I brought some wood.”She knelt, pulled out books and food, placing them with care. Shetook sticks of wood, enough to start a fire, and arranged them inthe bottom of the stove. “Why didn’t someone come in and build afire for you last night?”
The boys laughed in derision. No oneanswered.
“Oh.” She wanted to disappear every time shesaid something that displayed the gulf between them. Instead, shebusied herself with building the fire. She used some of herprecious writing paper and a match from a tin thrown to her. Whenshe got a small flame going, she added more sticks then largerpieces.
“I got these from my father’s orchard. Theytore down our trees for the soldier’s cemetery. I love the smell ofapple wood. Mr. Everett is coming to dedicate the cemetery.” Shetalked while she worked to build up the fire. “The ceremony is setfor November nineteenth. Two weeks from today. Mr. Lincoln mightcome!” She grinned at the men.
Their glares and mutterings struck adeathblow to her enthusiasm. She licked her lips. “Uh, I’ll go findsome wood to keep this fire going.” She set the food to warm andbeat a hasty retreat.
A short time later, she returned, arms ladenwith wood. She tended the stove until she got a good fire. She laidmore wood on
