by Marissa Moss
“Thanks for the compliment.” I smile.
“Now don’t you be doing that!” warns Damon.
“What?” I ask.
“Smiling! For one thing, you’ve got all your teeth. For another, they’re not yellow enough to belong to an old hag. Soon as you open your mouth, you’re the picture of youth.”
Of course he’s right. I vow to keep my mouth shut. If I have to talk, I’ll pull my lips over my teeth so I’ll look like a toothless creature. Pretending to be old is much trickier than pretending to be a man.
“See, Damon, you’d make a good spy yourself. You think of the details, and that’s what matters when it comes to disguises—the convincing details. Like my basket of wares. Everything the soldier might need to keep his clothing and looks up, don’t you think?”
“You might get some information and make some money while you’re at it!” Damon teases. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow,” I say. “But I wanted to try my disguise out, see if there were any details I needed to fix—like drawing on wrinkles and not showing my teeth.”
“Are you going to eat supper like that?” Damon asks. “Why don’t you? You’ll see how many people you fool. Come on, I’m starving. Let’s go.”
I wrap the shawl back over my head and follow Damon to the cook fire. When I see Jerome, I can’t resist going up to him.
“My, but aren’t ye a handsome lad. Some lass is pining for ye back home, to be sure,” I croak. “If I were younger, I’d have ye meself.”
Jerome looks startled—panicked even. “That’s kind of you to say, ma’am,” he finally manages to squeak out.
Damon watches the two of us, a big grin plastered on his face. Having been tricked himself, he finds it even more satisfying to see other men fall for my Irish accent and old-woman manners.
I’m still purring at Jerome, telling him stories about my family back in Kilkenny, about the handsome staff of a husband I had for oh so many years, but the poor dear is dead and buried now, bless his soul, and what is a poor woman to do but make her way in the world as best she can, so here I am with my bits and pieces for sale, and maybe the fine gentleman could use some scissors or buttons, surely some thread?
That’s it. Damon can’t help it—he bursts out laughing so hard, he almost chokes. I look at him and smile, mouth closed of course, but don’t break character.
“Now what could be so amusin', do ye think?” I ask Jerome. “The man is fit to be tied, he is!”
Jerome looks more stupefied than ever. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. He sees something’s going on but can’t figure out what. Damon decides to have mercy on him.
“That’s no peddler,” he sputters, pointing at me. “It’s Frank in another of his disguises!”
“Frank?” Jerome peers at the wizened face under the shadow of the shawl. “That’s you?”
I pull back the shawl. “'Tis, me dear. Though for now ye can call me Bridget Mary, if ye please.”
Jerome laughs. “Sure and begorra, you’re a fine Bridget, ye are!” he says, trying his own Irish accent. It’s so infectious that by the time we go to bed, most of the regiment is speaking with a rolling brogue. If I don’t accomplish anything as a spy, at least I’ve given the men some entertainment.
The next day I tuck the disguise into the basket of peddler’s goods and walk out of camp. I’m still wearing my uniform, except for the boots, because I plan on changing clothes later, just in case any Rebels are watching who goes in and out of the Union camp. Of course, tradesmen can sell to either side, but I don’t want to take any chance of arousing suspicion—or being asked information about our army. It’s easier if I leave a soldier and transform into an old Irishwoman behind a tree or shrub.
Once in the woods, I change into my disguise. I can’t shake the memory of five years earlier, when I changed from my girl’s clothes into my brother’s pants, fled our farmhouse, and buried my dress, shorn hair, and apron under pine needles. Now I’m reversing the trade, wearing a skirt and apron once again and burying my uniform behind a distinctive rock. But this time I don’t feel like I’m leaving a part of myself behind. I still feel every inch a soldier. I’m Frank Thompson, a spy for the Army of the Potomac, not Sarah Emma Edmonds. Now the dress is part of an act, not part of who I am. For a moment I wonder if I’ll ever really wear skirts again. I can’t imagine it. There’s no going back now. Unless a miracle happens and Jerome falls in love with me, the real me. He’s the only reason I would give up my freedom to reclaim the limited life of a lady. My cheeks burn thinking of it—of living with the man I love as his wife. Then I could hold him and touch him all I wanted, and he wouldn’t shrink back. He would love me, too. He would want to be near me. But that will never happen. And maybe it’s best that it doesn’t.
Pulling the shawl over my head, I take deep breaths. Sweet honeysuckle and pungent rosemary perfume the air. Birds chirp, insects hum, and pink, yellow, and purple wild-flowers glisten in the morning dew. The world looks innocent and safe.
After several hours, worried that I’m horribly lost, I come to a farmhouse with a sad, abandoned air. It’s not the Rebel camp, but maybe there’s food inside—something that matters more to me at the moment. The furniture in the entry hall looms thick with dust, but the kitchen still holds cornmeal, tea, even bacon. The bacon is sizzling in a pan, filling the room with its mouthwatering smell, when I hear a groan coming from the front of the house. I tiptoe toward the sound. Another moan. Whoever it is, they’re in the parlor. Slowly I poke my head in. A man in a gray uniform sprawls on the floor, his skin pale and clammy.
I forget about being a spy and become a nurse again. I kneel beside the man and gently feel his forehead. He burns with fever. His breathing is labored and a deep groan escapes his lips.
I hurry back to the kitchen and moisten a cloth in the bucket of water I’ve drawn from the well. I lean over the sick soldier, pressing the cool wetness to his forehead.
“There now, laddie,” I coo, remembering to use the Irish lilt. “Ye’ll be better soon, ye will.”
The soldier opens his eyes and stares at me weakly. “Thank you,” he rasps.
“Ah, so ye’re awake, are ye? And hungry, too, I wager. I’ll go cook us up a little somethin’ now. Just ye wait here.” The soldier nods numbly. As if he could move anyhow. I feel his eyes on me as I scurry out of the room, coming back with hot cornmeal hoecakes, crisp bacon, and fresh water.
The soldier is too weak to sit up, so I cradle his head in my lap, dribbling crumbs and water into his mouth. His name, he whispers, is Captain Allen Hall. He fell ill with typhoid and was still sick when the Union army attacked the Confederates near Cold Harbor. Unable to move quickly, he lost his company when they retreated and found shelter in the farmhouse.
“Hush now,” I say. “And sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake.” Distracted by caring for the dying man, I forget I’m supposed to be an Irishwoman and slip out of my accent.
The soldier’s eyes widen and he lifts up his head, his hand reaching for the pistol by his side. “Who are you?” he asks.
I stare at the gun. Is he strong enough to use it?
I could fight or I could lie, and lying seems by far the easiest. “I’m a peddler woman, plain and simple,” I say. “I admit I’m not really from Ireland, but you’d be surprised how much quicker you sell things when you speak with a sweet brogue.”
The captain drops his head back and smiles thinly. “So that’s your secret. Don’t worry, it’s safe with me.”
I know I should be moving on, but I can’t abandon a patient, even when he’s a Confederate officer. I wonder if I’m a better person for staying with him, less cruel. Or am I less courageous, more weak willed? Being a soldier, seeing battle, has changed me, but I can’t figure out how. The only thing I’m sure of is that I respect men now in a way I never did before. I’m surprised by the intense kinship I feel for my fellow soldiers. And the Rebel soldier, enemy though he is, belongs to that brotherhood. Born in d
ifferent circumstances, he could easily be wearing a blue uniform instead of his gray one.
All through the night I nurse him, feeding him morsels of hoecake and giving him weak tea, soothing his feverish skin with cool compresses. Toward dawn he opens his eyes.
“I want you to do something for me.” He fumbles through his pockets and pulls out some folded-up papers and a gold watch. “Please, deliver these to Major McKee of General Richard Ewell’s staff. Tell him they’re from me.”
I take the objects. It’s a familiar role, the one of passing on last words and wishes from the dying to their loved ones. “I’ll do it, I promise.”
“And take this for yourself.” He pulls a ring off his finger and fumbles it into my hand. “Keep it in memory of one whose sufferings you’ve eased.” The soldier lies back down and closes his eyes.
“Thank you. I won’t forget you,” I murmur, unfolding the papers he’s given me, turning back into a spy hoping for some intelligence. There’s no information, only letters, one to his wife and one to his parents. It’s always the same when men die, whether they wear gray or blue. Family is all that really matters in the end.
My eyes well up, but I’m not crying for the dying man, for the wife who will miss him, the parents who will mourn him. I’m crying for myself, alone, without any family to love or be loved by.
The light in the room turns gray, then pink, as the sun rises. I didn’t mean to, but I dozed off, and now I wake up with a start. Even without touching him, I can tell the soldier has died while I slept. His open eyes are set in a fixed stare, and a leaden heaviness stiffens his body.
“Don’t worry, Captain,” I say, closing his eyes, a simple act I’ve done so many times before, though this is the first time for a Rebel soldier. I fold his arms across his chest and cover him with a blanket. “I’ll keep my promise. Your folks will get your letters.”
Before leaving, I scour the house for any useful items and find a second basket, which I fill with the soldier’s letters and watch, as well as a comb, scissors, and mirror to add to my peddler’s wares. I shove in all the pots and pans that can fit, a pair of pillowcases, and a blanket. Then I use a bottle of red ink left in the desk to draw a line around my eyes, making me look even older. Still not satisfied that I’ll fool Major McKee, I search through the kitchen again, looking for anything that can change my appearance.
Some mustard looks promising. Ma used to make mustard plasters to draw out pus from wounds, and I try to remember the steps she took to mix up my own strong plaster. The mixture smells something awful when I’m done, but I hold my nose and slather it onto my cheek until the skin blisters, no longer the soft, dewy skin of a youth. The only thing that might give me away now is my pistol, so I bury it behind the house, hoping to retrieve it once my mission is completed.
It’s time to go. I take one last look at the dead young man, stooping to snip a curl from his hair to include with the letters. I’ve seen many men die, but this death strikes me as especially sad—alone, away from his people, with only a complete stranger, an enemy in fact, to offer any comfort. I hope however my life ends, it won’t be like that.
Armed with a valid excuse provided by the dead officer, I feel safe following the Richmond road now. I walk directly to the Rebel pickets.
One of the guards, a red-nosed British mercenary, waves at me. “Where’ve ye been, mother, and where are ye headin'? Have ye seen any Yankees on yer travels?”
I take out a large gingham handkerchief and blow my nose noisily, squeezing my eyes in a great show of sorrow. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them Yankees, but I did see a fine young officer, a Confederate gen’lman like yerself, who died of the typhoid in a farmhouse down the road a ways. He give me a message for Major McKee, he did, and that’s why I’m here, to fulfill a poor man’s dyin’ wish.”
The guard nods. “The major must see ye then, but be quick about it and don’t be spendin’ the night in camp. One of our spies just came in to report that the Yankees have finished their damn bridges across the Chickahominy. They’ll attack us either late today or tonight, and ye don’t want to be here for that.”
“What about yeself, ye poor boys?” I ask. “What will happen to ye?”
“Don’t worry about us, ma’am. Stonewall Jackson is ready for whatever the Union has to offer! There are batteries hidden all around the perimeter—they’ll never know what hit ’em. Why, there’s one right there.” He points to a bush alongside the road. “Fooled ye, didn’t it? And it’ll fool them, too, fool them to death!”
I want to rush right back to the Union camp and warn General McClellan, but I have to follow through now that I’ve told my story to the sentry. So I scurry deeper into the Confederate camp, asking after Major McKee. I’m directed to wait by the commander’s tent for the major’s return.
“Where is he?” I ask a soldier by the tent. “When will he be back?”
“It’s not my business to say,” the soldier answers curtly.
I shuffle around the tent, never straying too far away so I’ll see the major as soon as he returns but trying in the meantime to overhear as many conversations as possible, to learn all I can about troop positions and plans. It’s good to be busy, to think about spying. It keeps me from brooding about the dead Southerner and my own lonely life.
Finally, with the sun low overhead and my patience set to burst, the major rides up.
“What do you want?” he asks gruffly, dismounting. “I’m not interested in gewgaws today!”
“Oh, no knickknacks today, sir!” I hand him the watch and letters, then dig in my pocket and pull out the ring. I wouldn’t feel right keeping it—the dead man’s wife should have it. “I promised to give these to ye, sir. They’re from an officer named Allen Hall. I was with the poor man when he died from the typhoid.”
The stern major fingers the objects, tears softening his checks. “He was a good man—the best.” He takes out a ten-dollar federal bill and offers it to me. “You’re a faithful woman, and I’m deeply grateful to you for this. Here’s your reward, and if you take me to his body, I’ll give you more.”
“Oh, I couldna take your money, sir!” I object.
“You couldn’t?” The major is puzzled. “You’re a peddler. Why wouldn’t you?”
I haven’t meant to arouse his suspicions. I need to say something convincing and quick. “Forgive me, sir, but me conscience would niver give me paice in this world or the nixt if I made profit for carryin’ the dyin’ message of that sweet boy that’s dead and gone. I can take ye to the farmhouse, that’s for sure, but I ask ye for a horse, as I’m feeling poorly now and me old bones be achin’.”
The major nods, tears still streaming down his face. It’s horrible, seeing his grief. It’s the first time I despise myself for lying, for the betrayal I’m about to commit. I love the thrill and adventure of spying, and I’ve never felt immoral about it until now. I have to remind myself that the man I’m feeling sorry for won’t hesitate to have me executed if he learns who I really am.
A horse is brought for me, and we set out with a small party of cavalry. I lead them to the farmhouse, unsure what to do next. I wait outside on my horse with the men left standing guard, wondering how and when I can get back to the Union camp.
“Do ye think the rumor’s true,” I ask one of the soldiers, “the Union will attack tonight?”
“I expect so,” the guard answers. “We’ll show them what for, we will.”
I nod. I’m about to suggest that if that’s the case, I’d best be heading off, when the soldier saves me the trouble.
“We have to stay here till the major comes out,” he says, “but you can ride down the road a bit, thataway, and keep your eyes sharp for Union cavalry. If you see any, you come back here right away and let me know.”
“Happy to oblige,” I agree, remembering to keep my accent and trying not to sound too relieved. I jog my borrowed horse slowly down the road, then pick up the pace, kicking my mount into a full-out gallop as
soon as I’ve rounded a corner and am out of sight. I ride hard until I get to the Union picket. The sun is beginning to set, but I hope I’m not too late.
“I’m Private Frank Thompson and I’ve urgent news for General McClellan!” I yell.
The sentry lowers his gun. It’s Damon. “Frank! Where’d you get that horse? What happened?”
“I’ll tell you later. I’ve got to talk to the general now!” I kick the horse, lathered and panting from being ridden so hard, but I’m not about to slow down. I gallop straight to headquarters.
Soldiers surround me, surprised by the crazed peddler woman who leaps off her horse like an energetic young man. I pull off the shawl, wishing I had my uniform back on, but I didn’t want to waste time searching for it.
“It’s me, Private Frank Thompson,” I call out.
Colonel Poe ducks out of the tent. “Frank! Come in—tell me what you learned.”
I explain how the Rebels expect an attack tonight. I describe the hidden batteries and troop positions. I give as many details as I can, but somehow I forget to mention the small party of Confederates carrying back a dead body for a decent burial. I know I should tell the colonel about them so he can send out a band of soldiers to attack them, outnumbered and far from camp. But that one last small act of betrayal is beyond me.
HE NEXT DAY, later than the Confederates expected, the first of our troops cross the Chickahominy on the newly built bridges and position themselves for battle. Damon and I are among the advance guard, but I have a new job. No longer infantry or nurse, I’ve been appointed acting orderly for General Philip Kearny, whose regular orderly is too sick to ride. Like postmaster, it’s another high-profile, dangerous job. I’ll be galloping back and forth along the front lines, delivering messages and gathering information. I’m riding the horse the Confederate major lent me to lead him to the dead captain. I name the bay with the blaze on his nose Rebel. The name fits, not only because he comes from the Rebel camp but because he has a vicious temperament. Normally I don’t like to ride with tight reins, but with Rebel there’s no choice. If I give him his head, he races off, trying to scrape me off his back by dashing under tree branches. In the chaos of battle, I wish I were riding my old trustworthy friend, but Flag has been assigned to a cavalryman whose horse was shot out from under him in the last battle.
