by Marissa Moss
I spend a day at the post office, packing up and sending out the keepsakes and letters the dying soldiers entrusted to me. I open the gold locket one last time before wrapping it in a cloth scrap and tucking it in an envelope. Before I seal it up, I add a note:
Dear Mrs. Robertson,
I was given the good grace to be with your husband before he succumbed to wounds received during the Battle of Bull Run. He was a valiant soldier, fearless and strong, who gave his most precious gift, his life, to preserve the Union of this great Nation. Before passing, your husband asked to see your likeness one last time and pressed the sweet image to his lips for a final precious kiss. He asked me to tell you that he loves you and your child forever, in spirit if not in body. May his memory be a blessing to you and may his sacrifice not have been in vain.
Yours truly,
Frank Thompson,
private, 2nd Michigan
I write many letters like this, to wives, sisters, mothers, and fathers. As often as I do it, the task never gets easier. Each time, I imagine the grief of the reader, the depth of the loss. But I’m also lifted by the love the dying man had for his family. It’s an honor to be the messenger of such devotion. It’s as close as I come to being part of a family.
And what if I died? Who would notify my parents? Nobody knows my real name. Nobody knows who my people are. Does it really matter? Would they weep for me or consider me a traitor they’re well rid of? Either way, I’m surprised to realize I don’t care. I shed that family the way a snake slips out of its skin.
Instead, I think about other families as I carry out the last wishes of dying soldiers. I track down kin and send off watches, lockets, hair clippings, rings, an array of personal treasures that will tumble out of the opened envelopes, telling the recipients, even before they began reading, that the news is not good, that this is a farewell letter.
When I get a package back from a stranger, my fingers tremble to open it. I never get mail. No one who knows me has any idea how to find me. Unfolding the letter, I read that it’s from a grieving mother. She’s sent me the socks she knitted for her now-dead son. I finger them, feeling the love that was woven into each stitch. When I put them on, my feet feel warm, caressed. I’ve never treasured anything as much as those socks.
A month has passed since the Battle of Bull Run, and the hospitals are as crowded as ever. The rushed retreat from the battlefield, through rain and mud, sent as many soldiers to sickbeds as the fighting itself. The doctors are both good and terrible. Some are gentle and patient, like Dr. Caruthers, while others are brusque and cold, like Dr. Garner, who looks like a butcher carving up a side of beef instead of a surgeon removing an arm. Skill comes down to speed—being able to saw off a leg in less than thirty seconds. Then once the limb is gone, the real danger begins. The wounds often ooze green pus—a good sign according to the doctors—or turn black, a definite bad sign. Either way, the more the wound festers, whatever the color, the quicker the patient dies. The mercury balm we put on the cuts doesn’t seem to help. Nothing does. It’s pure chance who survives and who doesn’t.
And the chances aren’t good. For every man who dies in battle, two die from disease. If bullets don’t kill them, then dysentery, typhoid, cholera, pneumonia, scurvy, or diphtheria do the job. But I refuse to give up hope for any of them and do my best to cheer up the patients, catching fresh eel in the nearby river for one old man when he asks for it, bartering for roasted chicken for another soldier when he tells me that’s what he’s craving. There’s so little I can do for the gaping wounds and endless diarrhea, when there’s something I can actually offer, I’m quick to do it. And maybe that’s the best cure, offering hope and a familiar taste from home, like the fish a beloved wife used to cook or a mother’s hoecake recipe.
So I offer sympathy and whatever treats I’ve been sent by the families grateful to hear their dead soldiers' last wishes. Since that first package of socks, I’ve received brandy, cakes, soap. Today it’s a pie. Usually I share only with the patients, but this afternoon I’m touched by the sight of a dark-haired soldier holding the bandaged hand of his wounded friend so gently that he seems a nursemaid with a child.
“Would the two of you like some cherry pie?” I ask.
The visitor looks up, his eyes black with sadness. “Are you taking good care of my friend here?” he asks in turn. “Is he getting out of here soon?”
“Now, now, Jerome, you’re not being polite. This is Frank Thompson, the best nurse around. He takes very good care of me. See, he even brings me pie—what could be better than that?” The wounded man winks at me. “Don’t mind Jerome. He’s tetchy when his friends get hurt. You’ll never meet a more loyal soul.”
“Oh, I don’t mind him at all,” I say. “I’d like to think I’d be the same way.” I put a dish of pie in the patient’s good hand, then give one to his friend. “I’m pleased to meet you, Jerome.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I just hate hospitals.” The visitor stands up and offers me his hand. “Jerome Robbins from Matherton, Michigan.”
I take his hand and shake it. “Sounds like we’re from the same neck of the woods. I’m from Flint.”
Somehow that starts a conversation that lasts long into the night, from standing in line for supper to past moonrise. Jerome’s a year older than me, a college student with a quiet, gentle manner. Despite his hatred of hospitals, he’s been assigned to start nursing next week and he’s dreading it.
“I don’t know how you stand it, Frank, how you don’t go crazy with nightmares,” he confides. “I mean, you can’t help these poor fellows anyway. Don’t you just want to scream sometimes, it’s all so ugly and unfair?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think about it like that. Maybe I can’t bring back a leg once it’s been cut off, and I can’t cure typhoid, but I can ease the pain a little, even if it’s only the comfort of sending a last message home.” How can I explain that, to me, nursing is better than shooting at the enemy? It sounds cowardly. But I feel a strange kinship with these broken men. They bring me as much comfort as I give them.
Jerome reaches over and rests his hand on my arm. “You’re a good man, Frank. I wish I were more like you.”
Something happens when he touches me, something I don’t understand. I pull back, startled. My skin tingles where his fingers rested, and my stomach clenches. At first, I think it’s because he called me a good man, a rare compliment. I blush to think that I look and act the part so well that I could be a model for someone.
I shift on the log we’re sitting on, brushing away the sensation. I try to look at Jerome again, but I can’t meet his eyes, so instead I stare at a spot above his left ear and say, “Don’t worry, I’ll help you out until you get used to the routine. I’ll teach you to be a good nurse.”
That night in the tent, I lie awake, trying to figure out what has happened. I’ve never met anyone like Jerome before, someone I can talk to so easily, someone who understands and appreciates me, an educated, literate man. That’s it, I think, that’s why I feel this way—Jerome is my first real friend. Damon’s a buddy, a pal, but Jerome is someone I can open my heart to, tell the things I really care about. I haven’t had a confidant since Trig was sold. And I’ve never had anyone who speaks to me like that. I sigh and close my eyes, warm and happy in a way I’ve never been before. I have a friend.
OR THE NEXT month, Jerome and I work long shifts at the hospital together, then take walks in the moonlight to clear our heads. We talk about everything—or almost everything: our childhoods, fears, and dreams for the future. I’m surprised by how much I confide. I tell him about Pa selling Trig. I even tell him I’ve run away. But I leave out the most important details. Those are things I can’t tell anyone.
So this is the story I don’t tell Jerome: After Pa sold Trig, I promised myself I’d leave, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Two years passed and I was sixteen, more than old enough to set out on my own. Still, I clung to the security of the farm, to a
life I knew, ugly as it was. I told myself I needed to stay to protect Ma and Edward, but I couldn’t really help them. They would have peace only when Pa died or got so old he couldn’t bully anyone anymore, like a miserable toothless dog.
If I had been able to stand up to Pa, maybe things would have been different. But I couldn’t save Trig from being sold, and two years later I couldn’t change Pa’s mind about selling me.
He didn’t call it selling, but it amounted to the same thing. When Pa told me I was getting married, it felt like he’d hit me in the stomach. I knew Pa wasn’t giving me a choice. And it wasn’t a joke. Pa never told jokes. We were at the supper table, and the first clue that something wasn’t right came when Pa looked at me and smiled. I didn’t notice at first because I kept my eyes on my plate as usual, but somehow the air felt thicker, the silence more charged than usual. I looked up to see both Ma and Edward staring at Pa, their faces tight with fear. So I followed their gaze and saw that it was me Pa was focused on, me he was grinning at with an evil, black-gummed smirk. The piece of ham I’d been chewing turned into gristle, and I forced myself to swallow it. I set down my knife and fork and met Pa’s eyes, trying to look firm and brave, though inside I was quaking.
“Sarah,” he bellowed, “I’ve got some wonderful news for you, I do.”
I didn’t say anything. If I didn’t ask, he wouldn’t tell me. Whatever it was wouldn’t happen. I could stop it all just by staying quiet. Even as I told myself that, I knew it wasn’t true. But my tongue was so heavy and wooden, I couldn’t say anything even if I’d wanted to.
“Well, don’t you want to know what your hardworking Pa has done for you? Don’t you want to know the wonderful gift he’s found for you?” His eyes hardened, drilling into me.
Minutes passed with me still silent and Pa’s face blackening with rage.
“Well?” he roared. “You ungrateful brat!”
I nodded quickly, numbly. Best get it over with. There was no way to stop Pa, not once he’d started.
“That’s more like it, you little bitch! Here’s what I’ve done, and you’d best be on your knees with gratitude. I’ve found you a husband!” Pa paused, letting the news sink in.
“A husband!” he repeated. “Never thought I’d see the day! What man would want someone like you—a scrawny tomboy with nothing of a woman to her at all? I thought you’d live and die an ugly spinster, but no, miracles happen, I tell you.”
Ma and Edward looked relieved at the news, but I was more horrified than ever. A husband? That meant a man who beat you, who yelled at you, who treated you like a cow, there for milking, branding, and breeding.
“Who?” I squeaked.
Pa’s evil grin returned, wider and nastier than ever. “Now that’s the best part—it’s Old Man Ludham, the same one as bought your darling Trig! You’ll be back with your horse, so what could be better? And he’s offering me the field between our lands in exchange for your knobby little hand in marriage.” Pa slapped the table, satisfied. “Never thought I’d get good land for the likes of you! I told you miracles happen.”
Old Man Ludham! The man was so old, his face looked like a dried apple, and he had only a few teeth left in his mouth. And he was the brute who’d taken Trig from me. Wasn’t that enough? Did he have to take me, too?
“But …” I began.
Pa stood up so fast, his chair hit the floor. Before I could think, he’d hauled off and punched my jaw so hard, a yellow-purple bruise bloomed there for a week.
“Haven’t you learned not to sass me, young lady? You do as I say! You’re getting married in a week whether you like it or not.”
I cowered then, as I did whenever Pa had a fit of his ugly temper, hating myself for not fighting back. I was taller than the time he had beaten me in the stable, lean and muscular, but he still had a good eighty pounds on me and fists like hammers. What could I do? Ma took her husband’s kicks and punches as something women were meant to endure—like the pain of childbirth. I’d never wanted to be like my mother, and I’d seen what had become of my sisters after they got married. Anyway, I’d always assumed I’d have a different fate—I was too boyish for a husband, so I’d take over the farm when Pa grew too old. Normally, that would have been my brother’s role, but Pa thought Edward couldn’t plant a single acre, much less tend a whole farm. We had an understanding, Pa and I, or so I thought. I’d fill the role of son for him and he’d grant me the farm. Of course my brother would stay on, but I’d be taking care of him rather than having some man provide for me. I thought I was an exception, the daughter who would be allowed to live like a son. Now I realized my whole childhood had been a lie, a promise Pa had no intention of keeping.
Four days ticked by and I still couldn’t grasp the horrifying news. After clearing the dinner table, the house silent around me, I looked into the mirror hanging in the parlor, the one my mother was so proud to own. My eyes stared back at me, fierce and intelligent. Was this the face of a mild, obedient servant, of a docile, hardworking wife? I didn’t know if I was pretty or not and I didn’t care. I just knew I wanted more from life than being harnessed as a mule by a grouchy old man. I’d already had years of that with Pa. I wasn’t going to trade one master for another. It was time to leave, like I’d promised myself so long ago. Hiding in the loft wouldn’t be enough this time—I had to get far away, to start a new life.
The house was empty. Everyone was in the barn or the fields, where I should have been as well. I listened to the loud ticking of the grandfather clock, another of Ma’s prized possessions—one that had actually been my grandfather’s, so I used to joke to myself that it was my grandfather’s grandfather clock. I knew I should be plowing the back field, outside in the glaring sun, not inside the cool, darkened, hushed house. It was only a few days until the wedding, and Ma and Pa were determined to get as much work out of me as possible before I started in planting Old Man Ludham’s acres.
I didn’t know whether to cry or scream, despair or fight. Next week I’d be in a different farmhouse, one with strange smells and sounds, no comforting ticks from the grandfather clock, no familiar whiffs of Ma’s canned peaches or her homemade soap. I’d sleep in a strange bed with a strange man, my nose full of his leathery sweat. I didn’t know what to do, how to escape, but I wasn’t going to allow myself to be led tamely away, as Trig had.
I stared into the mirror, wishing I could disappear. I didn’t plan the next step—it simply happened, as if my body knew what to do before my mind did. My hands took Ma’s sewing scissors and with a steady snip-snip chopped off my long curls. I tried to keep from trembling as I put on my brother’s shirt and pants. I’d worn his pants to hunt in before, but this felt different, as if I was changing more than clothes—I was changing skins. Now only my shoes gave me away, but they were so worn and old, they could scarcely be called dainty or ladylike. The nape of my neck felt lighter without my heavy hair coiled against it. My legs felt free without a long skirt to hem in my stride. It was strange—I felt stronger, braver, dressed as a man. I could do this. I could make my life my own.
Wadding up my dress, apron, and shorn hair into a ball, I slipped out of the house, my lungs tight with fear. I could see Pa’s silhouette in the far north field behind the plow. My brother had to be nearby, hidden behind the slope of the land. I could hear the steady whack of the hoe as Ma worked in the kitchen garden with her back to me. Now, this moment, was my chance. I ran quickly into the woods, clutching the wadded-up clothes to my chest. Once in the shadow of the trees, I kept on going, not daring to look back. I ran flat out, snagging my pants on brambles, pushing aside branches that clawed at my face, until I couldn’t see the farmhouse, couldn’t see the barn, couldn’t see anything because the trees grew so thick together that their branches blocked the sky. The heavy silence between the trees was broken only by birds calling, insects humming. I stood still a moment, bent over with my hands on my knees to catch my breath. I waited until the blood had stopped pounding in my ears. Then I buried
the remnants of who I’d been, entombing Sarah Emma Edmonds under a decaying log. As I patted pine needles onto the mound covering my clothes and hair, I felt like a new person. I wasn’t afraid anymore. A bubble of happiness rose from deep inside me. I shed a lifetime of misery, years of feeling like a failure, of cowering and fear. I wouldn’t have to marry Old Man Ludham. I wouldn’t have to marry anyone now. No man was ever going to beat me or treat me like a servant again. I was free.
Now I needed to pick out a new name, something that fit the person I was becoming, the person I could be as a man. I wanted something firm and strong, something with an honest heft to it. Frank, I said to myself, letting the word fill my mouth, settle in my throat. That was a good name, a competent name. Frank Thompson, a name that wouldn’t stick out in a crowd, just a regular fellow’s name. I chanted my new name as I strode farther and farther away from home. I didn’t know where I’d spend the night or what I’d eat, if anything, but I knew I’d never been so happy. I felt more at ease in my brother’s clothes than I ever had wearing a dress. I could go wherever and do whatever I wanted.
For a young woman alone, everything would have been difficult—traveling, working, finding shelter. But as a man I could do anything. I could hop rides on carts, chop firewood for a meal, sleep in a barn and feel completely safe. And I did, for miles and miles, feeling stronger with each step. I crossed the border from Canada into the United States, trading bridal finery for trousers, trading soft “Sarah” for strong “Frank,” trading countries even, without a single regret. Once I discovered the exhilaration of taking big strides unhindered by heavy skirts, even after I was far from Pa’s reach, I couldn’t put a dress back on.
