Plantation Nation (9781621352877)

by King, Mercedes

  McClellan chuckled. "On that matter, Edmonds, the president and I are of one mind. Emancipation is not the primary goal in this situation, you must understand."

  Emma hesitated. "I'm afraid I don't, sir."

  "Well, you may be unaware, soldier, that legislation has recently been passed, the Crittenden Resolution, I believe, which carefully states that this war is meant to reunify the states and not to overthrow slavery."

  "No, sir. I wasn't aware."

  Emma would later read in a newspaper that the resolution stated the war meant to preserve the Union, and that the Union government would take no actions against slavery.

  "I thought as much," McClellan said. "Now understand, Edmonds, that I harbor no particular fondness for the black man." He swiped dirt from the shoulder of his uniform. "After all, how are we to incorporate such creatures into our society? What would become of our cities if we simply set them loose like wild beasts?"

  Use of the words creatures and beasts hit Emma like a millstone to the gut. Beside her, Emma could feel a devilish pleasure emit from Graham.

  "However, that matter is presently none of my concern." McClellan grinned, but Emma found no delight. "So, once again, I thank you for your hard work and dedication to the Union."

  The general touched his cap and left Emma standing there with crushed infatuation and a foul taste in her mouth that wasn't from the mud.

  ****

  The last thing Emma wanted to do later that night was crawl into a tent with Graham and listen to him gloat about McClellan's aversion to colored people. She wanted to wash the remaining mud from her body and the conversation from her mind. She decided to escape to her secluded spot. Unlike Fort Madison, the Union encampment was not defined by stone walls, which made it easier for Emma to stray from the others and find privacy when she needed it.

  Half a mile from camp, and still within the Union perimeter, Emma savored the special place where she could be alone. Finding a secluded spot was a skill she had perfected. With a small pond and a willow tree beside it, she had an area to rest, bathe and let her frustrations subside. She had stashed a few personal items in the nook of the twisted tree trunk so she didn't need to waste time retrieving them from her tent and possibly have to mention to Graham where she was going.

  When she was sure she was alone, Emma removed her uniform. She stood naked, soaked in the moonlight and took several deep breaths. Never had she been so reckless. But her inability to perform like a soldier at Bull Run, coupled with the dying men, the stints at the hospital, and now her encounter with McClellan, had made Emma question her value in the war. If she wasn't able to shoot Confederates or accept the fact that many Northerners found slavery tolerable, then what good was she to the Union army?

  She hushed the onslaught in her head and refused to let her girlish emotions surface. She quickly bent next to the pond and went to work, scrubbing and flaking off bits of mud from her uniform. She wrung the jacket with all her might, and then slapped it against a rock for good measure.

  Crying, Emma plunged into the pond. Balmy days and warm nights had made the water tepid. Emma let her body float as she stared at the moon. Numbness infected her, and she wondered how much longer she could keep her ruse alive — and if it was still worth the risk.

  Her Southern nature caused her to question the Yankees and what she considered to be a lack of action. She had hoped the confrontation between North and South would be settled in minor skirmishes, and that the North would grasp victory easily. Now, the two sides were at a standstill, each waiting for the other to move and both submerged in indecision and partnered with inexperienced men.

  Emma had no easy solutions. If she deserted, she'd be branded a coward, she'd be like Charles, who was a coward in Emma's mind, even though he had yet to follow through on his flimsy plan. If she remained, she ran the risk of getting killed or exposed, neither of which she had given proper consideration to before enlisting.

  She climbed out of the pond and was about to reach for her blanket to wrap and dry herself with, when she heard a noise. She froze. A shadow dashed about ten yards in front of her. Emma ducked behind the tree's swinging branches and full leaves and then draped herself with the blanket and fumbled for her clothing, but she feared it was too late.

  Someone was there, and that someone had just seen that Private Tom Edmonds was a woman.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As the sun crested over the peaks and valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountains, Emma, ramrod straight and in her still-damp uniform, pulled her cap tight over her head. She wished there was something more she could do to her disguise. Anything that might enhance her masculinity. She contemplated dusting her jawline to make it appear fresh with stubble. But she knew someone like Nash was bound to tease her or sample those budding whiskers. That would draw attention Emma didn't want, perhaps even ridicule. But what good would whiskers or a confident posture do her now? Someone in the camp had seen her nude. There was nothing her outward appearance could do to erase the image someone now possessed.

  Emma glanced at every face she passed on her way to the hospital tent. She checked for a sign or a glint or a raised eyebrow that said he knew, but no one regarded her any differently, or noticed that her attention was on high alert. A sigh of relief escaped as she ducked into the hospital tent.

  "Look! There's Edmonds!"

  Emma paused as several sets of eyes now rested on her. Colonel Reed was present, along with Dr. Spear's former assistants. Emma was convinced they knew. She scanned the area for Eleanor. If anyone could help her through this, she thought, it was her, but the older woman was nowhere to be found. Emma moved toward the company of men but felt as if her feet were strapped to anvils. Her eyes darted to the side, and for a split second she considered running. But no. She would face whatever came next. Would they shackle her, here in front of the patients? Would there be a trial — or a hasty execution?

  "Quick, Edmonds, you're needed!"

  The group of men walked to an area that had been partitioned off and provided privacy from the main section of the hospital. Emma followed, confused and uncertain. Then she saw Glanville. The oldest-known soldier in the camp, Glanville had refused to give his age for fear of being dismissed. Sixty to sixty-five, Glanville had a sharp wit and had made himself indispensable around the camp with his ability to repair faulty muskets. Tufts of white hair rimmed the back of his head and deep wrinkles marked his leathery skin.

  "What's going on?" she asked, though she had trouble forming the words.

  Glanville lay strapped to a make-shift table.

  "Supply wagon arrived this morning," Colonel Reed said. "One of the axles busted. The load landed on his foot."

  "We need to amputate," said one of the medical assistants.

  "That's it? That's what you needed me for?" Emma nearly squealed with relief, but she resisted as she checked the puzzled faces of those around her. She cleared her throat and turned her thoughts toward Glanville. "Are you sure we should amputate?"

  A sheet that rested over Glanville's foot was raised and revealed a mangled, black and purple mass. Tom looked at the assistant and nodded. She knew too well that the limb would blacken and decay. If it remained, the deadened foot would cause Glanville to become septic and die.

  "No!" Glanville screamed. "Don't do it! Shoot me, but don't cut off my foot!" He struggled against the ropes.

  "We need every man we can get," Colonel Reed said to Emma.

  Suddenly, Lieutenant Trumball walked around the partition. "I can help."

  "Good," the colonel said, ignoring the fact that Trumball's arm was bandaged. "Let's hold him down while they do the cutting."

  "Wait!" Emma insisted.

  All eyes turned to her.

  "Dr. Spear never made an amputation without the patient's consent." Emma couldn't believe she was making Dr. Spear sound thoughtful and sincere. "Let me talk to him."

  "This can't wait," the assistant said, holding the amputation saw, blackened with dried b
lood.

  "Two minutes," Emma said. She bent down to Glanville while the company of men grumbled. Trumball, on the other side of Glanville, also bent down. Emma hesitated, but Trumball gave her a subtle nod. "You've got to hear me out, Glanville."

  "Can't trust a man who don't cheat at cards," Glanville said in his rustic-sounding voice.

  "I don't play cards," Emma said.

  "I know! So how can I trust a word you say?"

  Trumball looked slightly pleased by Glanville's wit but said nothing.

  "Glanville, this is serious," Emma said. "You have to let them remove your foot. Otherwise, you'll be dead inside a week."

  "Fine." Glanville crossed his arms. "Start diggin' my grave then."

  "That's how you want to go, Glanville? You want to lay here and rot in bed like a helpless old fool? Pft! That's not the man I know." Emma avoided the unpleasant truth that an amputation could still lead to an infection — and death.

  Glanville's eyes widened. Like Grady, he had prided himself on his outlandish stories and tall-tales of adventures. Dying from infection would be an inglorious departure from life.

  "Now I know you're about as tender as an old goat," Emma said, "but we'll put you out with some chloroform. You won't feel a thing."

  "There is no chloroform, Private," Colonel Reed said.

  "How can that be? You just said the supply wagon arrived today. There must be—"

  The colonel closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

  "Any ether?"

  "We'll have to make do without it." Colonel Reed kept his eyes on Emma, though his tone radiated sympathy.

  Glanville slid an arm from the ropes and grabbed Emma's arm. "Gimme a bottle of whiskey first."

  Emma was speechless and made no promises. She looked at Trumball, who gave a nod and disappeared around the side of the partition. He returned moments later with a bottle halfway filled. Glanville depleted what was left, then shook his head and laid back.

  Emma, the colonel, and Trumball positioned themselves over Glanville as he slid his arm back under the binding. The assistant began sawing, and the men threw themselves over Glanville as his bawls and curses vibrated throughout the tent.

  The blood-curling screams reminded Emma of a similar situation that had occurred on the plantation. Years ago during harvest season, a slave named Hank had saved two small children from being attacked by a gator lurking in the swamp. It had cost him an arm and part of his thigh. Strips of flesh hung from Hank's shoulder and leg. Blood oozed. Hank retaliated with a sickle he'd been using in the field. The children escaped unharmed and the gator met his end, but the blood loss cost Hank his life. Compared to what Hank endured, Emma believed Glanville's situation was far more humane.

  Now, while Glanville bucked, Trumball held Emma in his gaze. She didn't flinch, neither did Trumball. Emma shut out Glanville's screaming by focusing on the lieutenant's eyes. She didn't know if he was looking for weakness in her, or if he expected her to faint again, but Emma emitted an intensity that matched his.

  Glanville passed out. The saw slices continued until Glanville's foot thumped into an awaiting bucket. Trumball, Tom, and the other men released their hold and stood.

  "Good work, men." Colonel Reed, who appeared on the verge of vomiting, wiped the sweat from his brow and excused himself.

  "Looks like you can take it from here," Trumball said to the assistant. He turned to Emma and seemed to consider saying something.

  Emma felt redeemed in front of her commander. She expected a compliment, since even Colonel Reed had displayed poor composure. However, the lieutenant gave her a curt nod and left the tent.

  Dumbfounded, Emma stood with her jaw slack. Was there no pleasing this man? Then, a disturbing thought seared her. What if Trumball had been the one out by the pond last night, lurking in the shadows?

  ****

  Emma remained on edge throughout the day, but nothing surfaced from her late-night peeper. Naturally, she feared the moment she let her guard down again the prowler would rat her out. She could think of no reason why someone would protect her secret, but dwelling on the matter distracted her from her duties and quickly drained her energies. She resolved to let it be. No one around Emma indicated that he knew, so she pacified her concerns by thinking that the culprit hadn't figured out that the naked woman in the moonlight was posing as Tom Edmonds.

  During Emma's afternoon rounds, she discovered the lieutenant's cot vacant. Concern pierced her. She thought back to Glanville's amputation and recalled that blood had seeped through Trumball's bandage. The wound had responded positively to treatment thus far, but she wondered if the lieutenant had overexerted himself, or even ripped Emma's stitches.

  Secretly, Emma had been looking forward to seeing Trumball on rounds. She still felt she deserved some sort of recognition for the way she'd handled Glanville. If the lieutenant had branded her as weak or even unreliable, Emma believed her current actions over-rode her earlier misstep of fainting. Soothing Glanville and obtaining his consent had been a feat worthy of erasing Trumball's first impression of her. Or so Emma thought.

  "Has something happened to Lieutenant Trumball?" Emma asked Eleanor, who unofficially ran the hospital now.

  "Not that I know of. He seemed in good spirits yesterday."

  Emma wondered on what basis Eleanor made that determination since her commander didn't come across as the cheerful kind.

  "He may have discharged himself. He does like to do things his own way."

  "His dressing needed changed today. That gash of his still needs looked after." Emma scanned the cots from where she stood but saw no sign of the lieutenant.

  Eleanor watched until Emma's gaze returned to her. "I doubt that you'll need to spend much time worrying about him. He'll come back if he needs us."

  Emma suspected that a man like Trumball needed no one.

  ****

  Days and nights meshed into one, as Emma's shifts at the hospital continued. From changing bandages to administering medicine, from scrubbing blood-stained sheets to digging graves, her duties knew no boundaries, especially since Dr. Spear had yet to be replaced. More time at the hospital meant less time for drill duty. She considered that a good thing, since her desire to engage with her comrades, and General McClellan, had diminished.

  Emma kept close to Eleanor when she could. The other woman's strength of spirit and energy amazed her. Emma found Zechariah equally remarkable, though the chaplain's presence was not as ubiquitous as Eleanor's in the hospital tent.

  Late one night, Emma sat at the bedside of Dewey Calvert. Dewey had survived the unimaginable from the Bull Run confrontation. A Minie ball had blasted through his side, but Dewey held on through the blood loss and primitive surgery to repair the wound. Infection had set in, though, and Dewey was helpless against an unseen enemy.

  "You got all that, Tom?"

  "I wrote down every word. Don't worry, Dewey, I'll post that letter to your wife and kids. They'll know that you were thinking of them, and they'll never forget how much you loved them."

  Dewey closed his eyes and relaxed at Emma's words. "Good, good."

  "Are you in much pain, Dewey? Do you need the morphine?"

  "No, it's bearable. I'll be seeing the good Lord soon, then all things will be made right." Dewey offered a feeble smile. "Would you pray with me, Tom?"

  Deathbed letters, promises, and prayers were as much a part of Emma's duties as changing bandages. She clasped Dewey's hand in both of hers and bowed her head. With reverence and a tinge of bitterness, Emma uttered a supplication that had become second nature to her. As Dewey made his way to the Father's arms, she asked for mercy. Prayers for peace and protection upon Dewey's loved ones also poured out. But her heart wasn't in it.

  "God bless you, Tom." The smile endured and was paired with tear streaks down Dewey's face.

  Emma whispered, "You can go home now, Dewey."

  Dewey nodded and closed his eyes. Despite her uncertainty with religion, Emma continued he
r prayers silently. Eleanor was right. Faith was all anyone had to cling to and the only constant the men knew. Then Emma waited. Time became irrelevant and chores were put on hold so no man would die alone. Emma waited until Dewey's labored breathing ceased and his hand went limp.

  But was this all Emma was meant for? She hadn't joined the army to perfect her bedside manner or to improve her prayer life. But she immediately felt shameful for her selfish thoughts. Men were dead all around her. To imply that any of them had died for nothing was a disgrace. Plus, Emma knew she and a few others had found an inexplicable favor when it came to their service in the hospital. Some stewards, nurses, and assistants had grown ill and died from taking care of the men. Emma had much to be grateful for.

  After Dewey's body was tended to, Emma left the tent for the remainder of the night. A letter had arrived that day from Stuart, and she had waited all day for the chance to savor it's every word. Emma strayed from the camp but avoided her secluded spot, not wanting to chance another encounter with the mystery stalker. Armed with a tin lantern and her revolver, since no one knew what the Rebels might try next, she found a clearing among mature cedar trees and a fallen log. She settled on the ground and propped herself against the log.

  Dear Emma,

  I hope this finds you well. We are holding our own here. Knox endured a spell of bad health but has recovered for the most part. Olivia experiences good days and bad days, as we all do. I believe this is hardest on her, since the house is often quiet. She helps with chores from time to time, and I can tell it is because the idleness we struggle with is unbearable. Even the worst of chores helps mold purpose to our days. Tilda and Harper can hardly mention your name without tears. Sylvia has written you and from the tone of her letter, I would say the atmosphere in New Orleans is uptight, though she seems cheerful enough. Aunt Celia has taken her shopping, and Sylvia is thunderstruck by the fine fashions available there. I know it will disturb you to hear this, but two major concerns plague us. First is the issue of food. Supplies here in Beaumont and at the Hooper's store are less bountiful in an effort to take care of the Confederate Army, plus, with the blockade, supplies are delivered less frequently and prices have risen. So far, the rice is doing well, and we may be better off to harvest it for ourselves than to take it to market.