by Tara Johnson
He crossed his arms and let his gaze rove over the hospital grounds as if studying the scene for another one of his war images. “How do you manage doing such gruesome tasks—treating syphilis and similar diseases, emptying chamber pots, assisting in amputations—and still keep your composure?”
She sighed. “It’s not easy. Sometimes I think I can’t bear another minute. That’s when I ask God for strength. And I try to execute the task in front of me without thinking.”
He grunted. “I suppose I was doing much the same. Chatting with the men, trying to bring a smile to their faces while ignoring the rest.”
She was silent as his jaw clenched.
“I admire those here who are suffering from acts of heroism. But others—” he grimaced—“can’t keep out of the brothels.” His face darkened. “Using and abusing the women there, forcing them to do vile things. They debase themselves and then wonder why they suffer in agony afterward.” He cut her a sideways glance. “That’s why I respect you, Thomas. You’re not like the other men.”
A rush of heat crept up Cassie’s neck and warmed her cheeks. He thought Thomas to be honorable enough to walk the straight and narrow. If he only knew . . .
“And I’ve seen you reading your Bible at night when the others have retired.” He turned to her with a smile. “It encourages me.”
Guilt gnawed at her middle. Liar.
“I’m not an inspiration.” If he knew she was just a girl, lying and pretending to be something she was not, their friendship would dissolve and evaporate like a flash from the end of a musket.
The taut muscles flexed beneath his shirtsleeves. “What really bothers me are the female nurses inside. Having to bathe the men, forced to wash out their excrement-ridden clothes . . .” He shook his head. “No woman should have to endure such indignities.”
She blinked. Before she could stop them, the words slipped past her lips. “You really believe women should be pampered and spoiled, put on a pedestal. Don’t you?”
“Providence ordained men to protect and care for their women.” Something flickered in his eyes. Pain? Hurt? He dropped his gaze, his voice tight. “I didn’t do that as I should have when it came time to care for my mother.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Wasn’t your fault.” He offered a lopsided smile, but it couldn’t chase away the sudden gloom that had descended. “I failed her. If I had nurtured her as a woman ought to be, she might still be living.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “That is a guilt I must live with, but one I intend to learn from. If Providence ever blesses me with a wife, I’ll meet her every need. She won’t have to work like my mother did, nor will she desire to embroil herself in the fight for suffrage and independence.”
Something about his comment stung.
“But what of women like Elizabeth Stanton or Lucretia Mott?”
His expression darkened. “Clearly they don’t know the Good Book. Trying to confuse the God-given roles of the genders. I’m not sure what drives them. Perhaps power? Or pride?” He shrugged. “Whatever the reason, they should let their men protect them and stop with their silly prattle of trying to be something they’re not.”
Memories of Father looming over her with his fists clenched, his drunken blows slamming into her, knifed her like shards of glass. Even now, she could hear Mother’s muffled cries of despair through the thin walls.
All the tumbling images, memories, and emotions slashed Gabe’s argument to ribbons.
Her throat constricted. “Not every man treats his woman right.”
He ground out slowly, “That’s true, but . . .”
“The newspapers are saying Stanton and Mott declare women’s rights are no different than the rights of the Negro. A cause—” she raised a brow—“for which we are currently fighting, are we not?”
Gabe said nothing. Whether he was contemplating her words or perturbed by them, she couldn’t say.
Sighing, she turned away. “If you’ve finished getting all your photographs, you’ll need to develop them. I’ll leave you be.” She walked away from the hospital, waiting for him to fall into step behind her. But no footfalls followed.
The loneliness screamed louder than it ever had before.
Chapter 12
SEPTEMBER 1, 1861
Dear Jacob,
Summer is ending, melting into autumn, and here we stay in Alexandria. Despite reports the Confederates have given up the notion of attacking the capital, General McClellan continues to keep his feet firmly planted in Virginia soil. Some of our troops are grumbling, hinting they fear their beloved general has turned yellow. Others contend he is privy to information the rest of us can only presume to guess. I’m not sure which it is, but I confess to growing weary.
I ought not complain since our close proximity to Washington has made it easy to transport the war images to Brady and Gardner in an expedient manner, but I long for a fresh perspective. New landscapes, new faces, new adventures. I have photographed everything around me twice.
Mr. Brady met me with hearty congratulations upon my last visit. Two Eastern newspapers have asked to publish a small collection of my photographs. They want to buy them and have their wood engravers print the images in their publications. Brady assures me payment will be forthcoming. When I receive it, I will forward the funds to you. Despite your arguments that recompense for the equipment you purchased is not necessary, I humbly request you to accept this gift. None of this would be possible without your generosity. All my needs are being taken care of here. The time is opportune to bless you as you have blessed me.
Amid the unremarkable routine of drills and conventional military life, we have had opportunities for festive distractions. Wrestling is a favorite among the soldiers, some of them even playing for coinage, though they delight most in boasting of their brawn when defeating a particularly challenging opponent. Before you inquire, no, I shall not even attempt to best one of these intimidating men. I’m content to capture the moments on glass.
Despite the occasional game of pasteboards or cheering for wrestling matches or baseball games, I find most of my free time in the company of my friend Thomas. He has shown me how to fish, snare rabbits and other small game. I always wanted siblings growing up and feel as if the Almighty has finally blessed me with a brother.
Give everyone in the tenement my regards. Write when your rheumatism allows.
Covering you in my prayers,
Gabriel
Cassie smiled as a snore erupted from Gabe’s slack mouth. The poor man had fallen asleep on the bank of the river, waiting for a bite on his fishing line.
If he continued snoring, she’d get nary a nibble.
The rest of the soldiers, who had slipped away for a bit of merriment, were peppered farther down the snaking river, although judging from the commotion drifting through the woods, they weren’t having much luck catching anything to accompany their bland supper.
Something warm unfurled in her chest as she watched Gabe sprawled in the soft grasses lining the bank, his strong chest rising and falling in slumber.
He was tall, well over six feet. Trim and muscled. His hands continually bore the marks of working with chemicals. His fingertips were cracked and discolored. She took a moment to study the handsome planes and contours of his face—chiseled cheekbones, lashes that shielded emerald eyes. The hint of stubble shadowed a strong jaw. His hair fell across his brow, catching strands of sunlight and winking like shimmering silk. His perfect nose that trailed down to full lips. Lips that smiled often. Lips that teased yet spoke with thoughtful intelligence of God, of memories and dandelions.
What would it be like to press her lips against his? To have his arms wrapped around her? Heat poured through every portion of her body. Swallowing, she looked away.
The sensation was unwanted. Yet her imagination refused to be tamed. To have those lips whisper in her ear . . .
She sucked in a breath and turned aside, shamed by her wayward emotions. Gabe was her friend. Nothi
ng more.
Yet why had these nagging feelings become so consuming?
Disgusted with herself, she stood and stomped the sensation back into her legs. She had two goals. Only two. To do her part in the glorious cause of freedom and to keep her identity a secret. Gabe didn’t fall into either one.
Liar. The taunt rose up like a specter once more, just as it had repeatedly since the day she’d confronted Gabe at the Alexandria hospital over his scalding opinion of independent women. She’d denounced the inconsistency of siding with the cause of abolition but opposing rights for women. Yet who was she to cast stones when she played the part of a valiant soldier, only to use it as a refuge to hide from her father’s schemes and wrath?
Gabe groaned and blinked, stretching his long limbs as a sleepy cat would in a patch of warm sunshine. “Why are you stomping around? You’re going to scare away the fish.”
She offered a thin smile. “No, your snoring did that instead.”
“So you’re stomping mad?”
“Nah, just trying to get the feeling back into my legs.”
A sudden splash and a roar of laughter sounded through the woods.
Gabe whistled low. “By the sound of that splash, they must have managed to throw Briggs into the river.”
Chuckling, she pulled her line in, studying the empty hook. Sneaky fish. They had absconded with the cricket.
“Sounds like a good idea,” he said.
“What does?”
“Taking a swim. Summer is nearly over. Perfect time.”
A cold wave of terror snaked down her spine. “You go ahead.”
Jumping to his feet, he began unbuttoning his shirt. She glanced down.
“Come on, Turner. Didn’t you ever play in the swimming hole when you were a kid?”
“Of course, but I—”
Shedding the fabric from his shoulders, he smiled. “This may be the last time for a bath in quite a spell, and—” he wrinkled his nose—“no offense, but you need one.”
Panic clawed up her throat as he stepped close and pulled her uniform coat away. She folded her arms across her torso, praying he couldn’t see the shape she’d hidden under the wool garment now thrown like a rag into the grass.
“I don’t like swimming.” She could not step a foot into that water. He would know.
“Too bad.”
Before she could brace herself to fight, he picked her up, stepped into the river, and threw her in too. Flapping wildly, she sputtered as she broke to the surface, only to hear his deep laughter.
Coughing, she came to her feet, forgetting the water rose just to her waist. Liquid ran off her clothes and hair in streams.
His laughter ceased.
Gabe’s pulse galloped as he stood there staring. The cold water swirled around his legs, the mud at the bottom of the river squished between his toes, yet his body rapidly numbed to the sensations. All he could see was . . .
He swallowed.
Thomas stood in the middle of the river, water dripping off the ends of his shoulder-length hair, his fingers, his clothes. Clothes that were plastered to his body. A body that boasted feminine curves at every angle.
Gabe lifted his gaze to Thomas’s and saw the fear lodged there. The shame. The guilt.
Water dripped off his lips and chin . . . lips that were far more delicate than he’d noticed before. His chest heaved and he knew.
Thomas, his friend—his brother—was a woman.
Anger heated his insides and he turned away, biting his cheek until he tasted blood. Sloshing out of the river, he stomped toward the bank and snatched up his shirt. He pulled it over his head and buttoned it with silent fury.
“Gabe, wait! I can explain.”
He, she, whoever this person was, ran sluggishly through the river, panting breathlessly, grabbed his arm, and whirled him around.
“Listen, please—”
Gabe shook off her hand, and the woman took a step back, her eyes wide. Droplets of water threatened to fall from her lashes.
“How could you?” His voice was little more than a whisper, but the accusation lashed out like a whip. The woman winced. “You lied to me. Pretended to be my friend.” A pain struck his chest. “I told you things I’ve never told a living soul. About my dreams, my family. I—” He choked on the words, the hurt too deep to verbalize. “I told Jacob you were like the brother I never had.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Running his fingers through his water-splattered hair, he longed to pull out a fistful of it. If this stranger across from him was a man, they might have come to blows. But Thomas was a woman. A woman. Instead he clenched and unclenched his fists, fighting for control. “Why?”
She sighed, her eyes flooding with something raw. “Please sit down and let me explain.”
Cassie sat in the grass, shivering despite the warm sun beating down on her shoulders. She grabbed her discarded uniform coat and tugged it around her torso, praying it would conceal her shape.
Not that it mattered now.
Gabe sat mulishly five feet away, but it felt more like five hundred. He looked across the river, a muscle ticking in his jaw. She could feel the heat of his anger warming the air between them.
No matter what she said, what she did, no matter how she justified it, she had lost him. The moment she’d watched understanding dawn on his face, the cord of their friendship had severed. Still, she must try to make him understand.
“My father is a hard man. Some would say cruel.”
Gabe turned to her slowly, impassive.
“His vice is demon drink, which makes his temper even worse. Everyone who knows him is terrified of him. To defy him in anything is impossible without reaping painful consequences.” She hugged the coat tighter to her body. “A lesson I learned many times.
“I have four sisters, and he arranged each of their marriages to hateful, selfish, greedy men. His only concern was their dowry and how long the sum could keep him in his cups. All of my sisters are miserable, as are their children.” She shivered, remembering the lust in Erastus Leeds’s eyes as he watched her from his property line. “When Father announced I would be forced to marry a man known for his insatiable desires and a fondness for spurning God and faith, I ran.”
Gabe grunted. “And enlisted.”
“Yes. It’s the only place I knew to go where Father could not find me.”
He looked across the river, his mouth pursed. “But to deceive in order to do it—to take on the appearance of a man, to work like one, to sleep in tents next to them—” He swallowed. “It goes against everything God intended.”
Her cheeks flushed and she looked down at her soggy pants. “God also never intended cruelty to mark a marriage.”
“That’s true enough.” He looked over, his green eyes piercing. Sad. “Why not apply to be a nurse? Or some other task? Why not simply start over fresh somewhere without deception?”
She blinked. “I had no money. No resources. And you know as well as I do that no one would accept a young, unmarried woman as a nurse. They must be older. Preferably widows.” She shook her head. “Please try to understand. Every other door was slammed shut to me.”
He was silent so long, she feared he would never speak. Finally, slowly, he ground out, “I do understand why you chose the path you did.” He sighed deeply. “I might even have done the same.”
Her heart fluttered.
“But—” he frowned—“acting the part of a man . . . I just—” He dropped his gaze. “You lied to me. I don’t know when I’ve ever felt so betrayed.”
Her hopes plummeted like a stone in water. She offered no rebuttal. What could she possibly say? His accusations were true.
She lifted her head slowly, stiffening under the disapproval darkening his countenance.
“What is your real name?”
It had been so long since she’d spoken it, it felt almost foreign in her mouth. “Cassie. Cassie Kendrick.”
He said nothing.
“Ca
n’t we at least be friends of some sort?” She heard the plea rasping her voice. “Maybe not as we once were, but—”
He held up his hand. “Please, don’t. I can’t . . .” He clenched his jaw, appearing to fight for control. “I can’t pretend to condone this.”
Hurt pinched her heart. The pain was worse than she could have imagined. Lowering her head, she whispered, “Will you tell the captain?”
His shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
Then he stood and left, ripping out the threads holding her heart together with every step he took.
For the first time in years, Cassie cried.
Chapter 13
OCTOBER 3, 1861
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
“There now.”
Cassie mopped the feverish soldier’s head with a damp rag as he coughed into a stained handkerchief. The veins in his neck stood out as he strained to expel the irritation filling his lungs.
Gasping, he fell back against the lumpy cot. “Gotta get better.”
Cassie lifted her brows. “And do what?”
“Fight, of course,” he rasped through cracked lips.
She shook her head. “You would be the only one.” She slipped the edge of a tin cup against his mouth and let the water dribble past his lips. “General McClellan has yet to give us marching orders.” She struggled to keep the disgust from her voice. The entire army had squatted outside the capital for months, doing nothing but drill. Drill for what? No skirmishes, no battles—not even the hint of a change. He’d plunked his army down and refused to move, refused to engage the enemy. And refused to explain why.
She had ceased meeting each day with the expectation of change. Life had become a stagnating disappointment. If only they would move or do something. Anything. Anything to keep Gabe and his somber scowls away from her.
He’d barely spoken a word to her since that terrible day a month ago. Only talking when necessary and maintaining polite greetings in the company of the other soldiers. She’d caught him watching her as she went about her work, but every time their gazes collided, he looked away with a tight jaw. And her heart ached.
