by Marissa Moss
I know it’s illegal to masquerade as a man. The law condemns it as “an infringement on the Rights and Privileges of the lords of creation.” In plain English, men hold a natural position of superiority and women should stay in their place. I may have been breaking the law, but I’ve never felt more right about anything. I’m as capable as any man and deserve the same respect and liberty. Since they aren’t granted to me as a woman, then I’ll take them as a man. I’ve tasted freedom and I’m not giving it up. Why should I? Isn’t this what Pa had said I could do all my life—fish and hunt and ride as hard as any man?
I’ve been telling myself that nobody will ever suspect I’m a woman. I’m tough and wiry, like a boy, lean and muscular. Besides, women don’t dress like men, they can’t act like men, and they definitely won’t fight like men. Folks think a dog is as likely to put on pants and shoot a gun as a woman is. But now, living in close quarters with thousands of men, I’ve put myself in a position where I can easily be found out. What if I get shot in a battle and a doctor tears open my shirt? What if I slip one day, talking to Jerome, and say something that gives me away?
It’s odd for me, this comfort and closeness, this kind of sharing. I’ve never had a friend like Jerome, and it scares me that I’m not as vigilant with him as I should be. I worry that he can tell I’m hiding something. The more time we spend together, the more troubled each of us grows, for our own different reasons.
Jerome doesn’t know what it is, he can’t put his finger on it, but I can tell he thinks there’s something odd about me. We’ll be thick in a conversation when suddenly he’ll hesitate, stare at me strangely, then continue in a faltering way until he relaxes into our friendship again. It makes me newly wary and I put on my best manly show, spitting and grunting, scratching at my crotch the way Damon constantly does. He can’t possibly suspect a woman of such behavior. The cruder I am, the safer I feel. I imagine him talking to the other soldiers, telling them that I’m an excellent nurse, a disciplined soldier, a smart man with a good sense of humor, but there’s some mystery to me, as if I’m hiding a secret. Maybe he thinks that my father is a criminal or that my mother is a slave and I’m a black man passing for white. No matter what Jerome might guess, I’m careful he’ll never stumble onto the truth. Even if it means hiking for half a mile before I relieve myself or sleeping in the same clothes for an extra week.
Once he caught me tucking my bloody menstrual cloth into a pile of filthy bandages, but I mumbled something about how we need more clean wrappings, the wounded men go through them so quickly. I’m grateful the hospital provides the perfect place to stash the evidence of my monthlies. It’s another reason I like nursing—it makes my disguise easier even under Jerome’s watchful eye.
For me, even though Jerome isn’t hiding anything, he’s still a complete mystery. I’ve never had this kind of friendship, never heard anyone describe his life, his family, with so much detail. I feel I know them too—his doting, hardworking mother, his rigorously demanding father whose penchant for practical jokes offsets his high standards, his flibbertigibbet sister, consumed with a social whirl of parties and dances, and his grandfather, a gentle, warm soul whose hobby is watchmaking. I’ve been welcomed into the smallest detail of Jerome’s history, and still I don’t understand what he sees in me, what I mean to him. I know his moods, grow expert at deciphering his frowns and smiles, recognize the whiteness around his mouth and eyes as signs of exhaustion, not illness. But I can’t read his heart.
Even worse, I’m confused by my own. At first, I think that the excitement that bubbles inside me whenever I see him, the longing that seizes me when he’s absent, the way I savor the smell of his skin and the tone of his voice, all that is friendship. Except it isn’t. I don’t want to, but I begin to dream about Jerome in ways that are distinctly romantic. In fact, in my dreams I’m dressed like a woman and he’s holding my hand, kissing my cheeks. He’s courting me. Which is totally ridiculous, since as far as Jerome knows, I’m a man. And as far as I know, I’ll never love a man. I’d have to be a woman for that, and I can’t imagine taking on that limited role ever again. I want to be Frank Thompson for the rest of my life, not ever go back to being Sarah Emma Edmonds.
Still, despite all my efforts to quash any hint of femininity, I can’t avoid a new nickname given by one of the soldiers in the regiment. During one marching drill Carl Cox noticed how small my boots are. I’m average height for a man, five feet six inches, but I still have the feet of a woman, the smallest in the army. I try to distract attention from that by marching with manly vigor, squaring my broad shoulders, and glaring with what I hope is male intensity. Still, after the drill, Carl called me “our woman.” As in “Our woman has some fancy footwork.” Once Carl said it, the name spread like wildfire, and now everyone’s calling me “our woman” or “our little woman.” I hope it’s more because they miss their womenfolk than that they truly think I resemble one. Surely they would never call me that to my face if they really suspect I’m a woman, would they? Still, when Jerome repeats it, I can’t stop myself from blushing. I want to sink into the ground, to vanish in a cloud. But I force myself to face him and search for a way to explain my embarrassment.
“I suppose I shouldn’t mind being called a woman, so long as no one doubts my bravery,” I try. “It’s the price I pay for having small feet.”
Jerome grins. “If that’s all that’s small, there’s no need to worry. But if there’s another feature that’s less than ample …” Here he stares pointedly at my crotch.
I turn a deeper shade of red. “I assure you,” I lie, “I’m more than man enough there.”
Jerome claps my shoulder. “An unproven man, I’ll wager, but you’re young yet—you’ll have your chance, I’m sure.”
The conversation is getting worse and worse. Even the tips of my ears feel like they’re burning crimson. There’s nothing I can say to prove myself. Instead, I mumble a hurried “I must be off” and race away, sure I’ve made an absolute fool of myself. I hope I seem just an idiot virgin and not a woman.
That night Jerome has the kindness to apologize. “I’m sorry,” he says as he lines up behind me for supper rations. “I couldn’t resist poking fun. No hard feelings, are there?”
“Of course not.” I sigh, relieved. For now my fictional manhood is intact. But I’m more vigilant than ever when relieving myself and take great care when changing my clothes. I even report to the quartermaster that I’ve been given small boots by mistake. They’re too tight and I need a bigger size. I don’t ask for ones that are much larger, just a little, enough to make me more convincing, I hope. I stuff the toes with bandages. It means blisters and calluses after long marches, but that’s better than the agony of embarrassment.
The summer is drawing to a close and the Union army has more than tripled in size since the Battle of Bull Run. But still we stay in camp, drilling and waiting. The Confederates don’t attack, either, and it seems like both camps wait to see who will decide first that it’s too expensive to house and feed a sitting army. I’ve been impatient for action before, but now I’m used to the routine of making the hospital rounds. And having Jerome nearby makes all the difference. I don’t want anything to change.
Every morning I worry we’ll get the order to march out. When the noon hour passes with no news, I whisper a prayer of thanks for another day with my good friend. And Jerome seems just as attached to me. He tells me that he’s written about me in his diary, describing his wonderful new comrade, a person of honor and integrity, intelligence and humor.
“You see how highly I regard you,” Jerome says. “You make me laugh—that’s the best gift a friend can offer!”
No one has ever said that about me before. Of course at home there was never the friendly chatter that I now hear every night around the campfire. We weren’t a family of talkers. Supper was a silent affair unless Pa was in one of his moods. Then he would be loud, angry, insulting, lashing out with his words or fists or both. Funny to thin
k that the one I talked to most wasn’t a person at all, but a horse, Trig. When I lost him as a confidant, I lost my voice as well. I simply didn’t talk. The first and last time I can remember making anyone laugh was at that long-ago supper at the Hurlburts' home, when the children found my descriptions of mules hilarious. Then, I thought that I could at least entertain young folk, but here’s Jerome, a grown man, and he likes the way I talk.
Around Jerome I practically babble, as if all the words that have been pent up for so long are rushing madly for release. Now that I know he likes my sense of humor, I try to be my wittiest, honing amusing stories and descriptions in my head for hours so that when I see him again, I can carelessly let fall some brilliant bit of fancy. If he laughs, or even smiles, I’m richly rewarded for my efforts.
But I want him to see me as more than funny, as more than a best friend. I’m not sure exactly what I want. All I know is that the more time we spend together, the closer we become, the more restless and unhappy I feel. It doesn’t make sense, but there it is. Then things get distinctly worse.
Jerome starts telling me his most intimate feelings, particularly those regarding a certain young lady back home named Anna Corey, who, according to Jerome, is the perfection of womanhood—virtuous, noble, good, kind, and, of course, beautiful, with warm brown eyes, creamy skin, and flowing chestnut tresses. Everything I’m not and never could be, even if I do decide to put on petticoats again.
My stomach twists in knots when Jerome describes his dream of holding Anna’s delicate hand. Every time he receives a letter from Miss Corey, he rushes to read it to his best friend, unaware of how my mouth tightens whenever I see the telltale purple ink on the lilac-scented paper.
I can’t help imagining what it would be like if Jerome thought of me the way he feels about Anna. Why can’t he see me that way? I wonder, except of course he can’t. Even if he knew I’m really a woman, I couldn’t measure up to Anna’s refined feminine charms. I’m too rough and crude for that, a miserable failure of a lady.
Usually I’m so worn out with the long days of drilling and nursing, the effort of keeping my male mask firmly in place, that I sleep soundly. Lately I’ve been tossing and turning at night, my dreams a mix of images—me, Jerome, Anna, all trading faces, places, and names until I’m not sure who’s who anymore.
“What’s going on with you these days?” Damon asks. “You’re grinding your teeth in your sleep and muttering things. Have you had bad news from home?”
“No, nothing like that,” I say, rubbing my bleary eyes. I’m certainly not going to tell him the truth. Instead, I offer him something that sounds plausible. “I guess I’m just anxious that it’s already October, the weather is changing, and we’re still sitting here, no closer to winning this blamed war than ever.”
Damon nods. “Yep, you’re right about that. And here I thought I’d be home with the corn harvest! Now it looks like I’ll be lucky to make next year’s crop. I just hope my pretty girl will wait for me. It seems like every day I hear about another feller who got a ’Sorry, Sweetheart' letter.”
I sit up, suddenly wide-awake. “What’s that? What’s a ‘Sorry, Sweetheart' letter?”
“Guess you wouldn’t know that, since you don’t got no sweetheart,” Damon teases. “It’s what I call a letter the lady writes to tell her gentleman she’s marrying someone else. Seems like a lot of gals don’t have much patience. If their feller’s gone too long, they just find themselves a new one.” Damon drops his lighthearted tone and stares sadly at his boot tips. “I sure hope that don’t happen to me.”
“Oh, Damon, of course it won’t,” I reassure him. “Where would she find someone as good as you, who loves her so well?”
Damon looks up, searching my eyes for any hint of hollow insincerity. “You really think so? I mean, I do love her. No one could love Polly like I do.”
“And she knows that,” I soothe. “She’s no fool.”
Damon grins. “You’re right—I just have to have faith.”
Me, too, I think. I have to have faith. A strange hope surges through me. Maybe Anna Corey will write Jerome a “Sorry, Sweetheart” letter. All I have to do is wait until Little Miss Perfect crushes his heart, and then I can come along and heal it.
This morning I feel lighter, easier than I have in a long time. I trade riddles and jokes with the patients and hum as I change bandages. Even the putrid smell of festering sores or the sight of maggots in wounds doesn’t upset me. All day I’m aware of Jerome’s presence. He keeps trying to catch my eye, to snatch a quick conversation, but the doctors keep us busy and we don’t have five minutes to exchange words. I know something’s on my friend’s mind that he’s eager to tell to me, but I’m in no hurry. I savor the proof that he needs me so much, that I’m his closest confidant as he is mine.
At the end of our shift, Jerome rushes up as I put away the liniments and elixirs.
“I’ve been bursting all day with this news! I couldn’t wait to tell you!” His eyes sparkle with excitement, and I can’t help noticing how handsome he looks. Handsome? I’ve never thought that about anybody. What does it mean that I’m applying that word to Jerome? Nothing good, I fear. I can’t allow myself to feel womanly around him. I fret that my own nature will reveal what I so carefully try to hide. If only I knew what my nature really is so I could control it better.
“Well, can you wait a minute more?” I ask, lowering my voice to sound especially manly. “I’m about finished here, and we’ll have more privacy if we go outside.”
Jerome nods, hopping from one foot to the other like a little boy in his anticipation. What is making him so happy? He certainly hasn’t gotten the “Sorry, Sweetheart” letter that I’m praying for, but maybe that will come tomorrow. I’m actually glad it hasn’t arrived today to spoil whatever good news he’s enjoying.
Finally, the supplies are neatly organized. I lead Jerome to the big oak that has become our refuge after our shifts.
“So what is it?” I ask. “What’s your good news?”
“The best news possible!” Jerome crows. “I asked Anna Corey to marry me and she said yes! She said yes!” He reaches into his pocket and takes out the distinctive stationery. He unfolds the letter with trembling fingers, releasing a waft of sweet perfume. “Here’s what she says: ‘My darling, I know you may be gone a long time, but however long it is, I will wait for you. My heart is yours and yours alone.' Did you hear that? She loves me and she doesn’t care how long I’m stuck in this army!”
I sit there frozen, my back stiff against the tree bark. It feels like a giant fist has reached into my chest and crushed my heart. “No,” I blurt out. “No, you can’t. You can’t marry her.”
“What do you mean I can’t?” Jerome looks at me. “Well, not now, but when I get home.”
“No, never!” My voice rings hollow with anguish.
“Frank, what’s wrong with you? You’re not talking sense.” Jerome frowns, puzzled. “I thought you’d be delighted, that you’d help me plan the wedding and you’d be my best man.”
“I can’t be your best man!” I wail. I’m caught in a nightmare, one where demons claw at my entrails.
“Why not? What is going on here?” Jerome presses. “This has to do with your secret, doesn’t it? Listen, Frank, I don’t care if your mother was a slave—you’re white to me. And you’re going to be my best man.”
“My mother was a slave?” I roll my eyes—he has thought that, just like I’ve suspected. “That’s not it! The reason I can’t be your best man is because … because …” I hesitate, my heart pounding furiously, my breath caught in my throat. I don’t want to say it, I wrestle with myself, but the words burst out by themselves, stronger than my will. “Because … I’m a woman!” As soon as the admission leaves my mouth, it feels as if all the air has been pushed out of me. I’m left flattened and empty. And then relief washes over me, tremendous relief. After four long years, I’ve shared my secret. And the earth hasn’t swallowed me up. The skies ha
ven’t split in two, pouring down hellfire. I lift up my chin and face Jerome. “I’m a woman,” I repeat. I want to project femininity, to speak with a gentle, sweet voice, but I sound awkward, unconvinced myself.
Jerome pulls back and stares. He doesn’t say anything for a long minute, just gapes in shock. Then he blinks his eyes and shakes his head. “All this time, you …” he mumbles. “No, it can’t be. You can’t be …” As the truth sinks in, his surprise turns into rage. “Why are you telling me this? I don’t want to know! You’re ruining everything!”
I reach out and grab Jerome’s hand. There’s no way but forward now that I’ve revealed the truth. “I’m telling you because I have to. Because I love you and you can’t marry Anna Corey.” Suddenly everything is perfectly clear. We’ll finish serving our terms in the army; then I’ll turn back into Sarah and marry Jerome, and we’ll live happily ever after.
Jerome looks horrified. “I can’t marry you! You’re like a brother to me! I don’t even believe you’re really a woman. You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to marry Anna. Why, I have no idea.”
“No,” I insist. “It’s true.” I want to tell Jerome everything. How I cut off my hair and put on my brother’s clothes, how I chose the name Frank Thompson, how I lived and worked as a traveling bookseller, how I thought I’d never put on a dress again, but then I met Jerome and something shifted inside me. But all I can tell him is that I love him as a woman, even if I’m living as a man.
I wait for him to answer, every inch of me edgy and tense. This feels more dangerous than any battle.
Jerome tries to cover the disgust in his voice. “You’re unnatural. This is unnatural. I can’t be your friend anymore.”
“No!” I wail. It’s like a kick in the stomach, the realization I’ve risked everything for nothing. Jerome can’t see me as a woman, can’t fall in love with me. I’ll always be a man to him, a fellow nurse and soldier. I’ve done too many unladylike things in front of him. I’ve held down men twice my weight as the surgeon sawed off an arm or a leg. I’ve seen and touched every part of a man’s body that could be shot at or stabbed by a bayonet. I’ve cleaned up blood and guts and hacked-off limbs. I’ve seen horrors no lady could look upon without fainting. I close my eyes and cry. No wonder I seem unnatural to him. I seem unnatural to myself. What woman does those things?
