A Soldier's Secret

by Marissa Moss

  “So you’d better behave,” I warn Rebel with gritted teeth as we wade across the river. The horse tosses his head but keeps a steady pace. I hope battle will bring out the best in Rebel, that he’s used to fighting and enjoys it. He certainly has a taste for brutishness.

  The artillery crosses the bridges while the troops ford the shallow river. Only a few regiments have made it across when a ferocious storm hits, turning the shallow river into a raging wall of water. The wind and waves sweep away one bridge. Another teeters precariously as engineers scramble to reinforce it. They work frantically while rain pelts down and lightning blazes through the sky, coming so close, the thunder is deafening. One bolt slashes into an Alabama regiment, killing four soldiers at once. Seeing that the storm has cut off the arrival of additional troops, the Rebels take advantage of the smaller contingent facing them and attack, adding bullets and shells to the rain and lightning.

  “The very heavens are against us!” General Kearny rages, raising his single fist to the darkening sky. The general lost his left arm in the Mexican War but doesn’t let its lack slow him down. He’s a master at holding the reins in his teeth, swinging his sword in his right hand. Now he bellows at the troops to fight back, to give thunder for thunder, lightning for lightning.

  “Frank,” he orders, “tell Colonel Poe to move his regiments to the right. We need to fan out, not be pushed back into the Chickahominy!” Kearny looks worried. We need reinforcements. No matter how hard the men fight, there are too few of us. We were never intended to face the Confederates alone. The rest of the army was supposed to follow, and follow it must.

  When I ride back up, the orders to Poe delivered, the general hands me a message scribbled on the back of an envelope. “In the name of God,” it reads, “bring your command to our relief if you have to swim in order to get here, or we are lost!”

  “Take this,” he commands, “and go as fast as that horse can take you. Give it to General McClellan and tell him to send a regiment NOW! Then get back to me immediately and report what he said.”

  I wheel my horse around, back toward the river. The water is a raging torrent, but I plunge straight into it. There’s no question of wading across now. Rebel has to swim to the other side. His hooves finally sink into mud, then sand, then soggy earth. I ride up to the first officer I see, pull up my horse, and hand him the message.

  “What answer do I give the general, sir?” I ask.

  The commander reads the paper and blanches. “Is it that bad, Private?”

  I nod.

  “I’ll get this to General McClellan right away and Kearny will have his men. Tell him reinforcements are coming.”

  Now I have to face the swollen river once more. Rebel rears back, unwilling to swim against the strong current again, but I give him no choice. “Damn, Rebel!” I yell, kicking hard, forcing the horse into the tide. “You think I want to do this?”

  The water is too wild now for the men to ford safely. All the bridges have been torn away except for one. How many soldiers can one bridge hold?

  I look back to see my answer. General Edwin Sumner rushes two divisions across the remaining bridge, shakily held up by only one trestle, the other having already been wrenched away by the floods. As the last soldiers from the artillery battery safely cross to the other side, the trestle gives way and the bridge collapses.

  I watch it crumble into the river, terrified that our men will fall in after it, but every single one has made it across. Heart still pounding, I spur Rebel hard, crouching low over his back, until I find General Kearny. “Reinforcements are on their way!” I call over the howling wind.

  “Spread the news! Tell them we’re whipping the Rebels!” Kearny bellows, galloping along the front lines himself, yelling, “Reinforcements! They’re here! We’re beating the Rebels!”

  I ride off to the other side, repeating the news. I can see the words charge up the troops, and they rush forward with a roar. The Rebels have their howling yell, but we loose a thunderous growl of rage. In the stinging rain and boom of thunder, the voices of the men split the sky with a new force. I’m drenched and cold but feel the surge of power echo from the soldiers back to me. This is what it’s like to lead men into battle. I’m part of something much bigger than myself, a single muscle in a tensely coiled body—it’s thrilling, terrifying, and immense. I open my mouth and scream louder than ever, “We’re beating them! We’re crushing the Rebels!” And it’s true—in the worst possible conditions, we’re actually beating back the Confederates.

  Beside General Kearny once more, I wheel in my horse and catch my breath, waiting for more orders. General Oliver Howard rides up, leading his brigades to join Kearny’s. This is the good part of war, the part where we strive to do our best and achieve it—where we win!

  But battles ebb and flow. Luck changes in an instant from good to bad. I stare as a bullet hits General Howard in the arm, and my frenzied excitement vanishes. My moment of reflected glory as the voice of command is over.

  “Permission to attend to the general’s wound, sir,” I ask Kearny. He nods, and I leap from my horse and rip open Howard’s sleeve, pouring water from my canteen on the wound. I hitch my horse to a stump and rummage in the saddlebags for bandages and brandy, ignoring Rebel’s rolling eye, flared nostrils, and flattened ears.

  “You behave,” I mutter, just as the horse turns and savagely bites my arm, nearly tearing a hunk of flesh from it. The pain is sudden, stunning me with its fierce intensity. But Rebel isn’t done. The horse turns and kicks, hitting me squarely in the ribs and sending me flying into the air.

  I hit the ground with a thump, the air knocked out of me. My arm throbs, pain slashes through my ribs, and my head and back ache from bearing the brunt of the landing. I grind my teeth to control the splinters of agony shooting up my arm and chest, and force myself to stand on shaky legs. I try to focus on what’s happening around me, how the battle is going, but the fierce burning in my arm and side is dizzying.

  While I’m on the ground, General Howard rides off to the hospital. He can see I’m no help to him, but Kearny still has a job for me. He doesn’t seem to realize that I’m doubled over in torment, or maybe it doesn’t matter. The work must be done, so I have to do it.

  “Get back on that miserable horse of yours,” he orders. “I need you to ride to the old sawmill about a mile and a half from here. Most of our stores are there—tell them to move them farther to the rear. Once the commissary is safe, have all the doctors and nurses report for duty on the field as soldiers. We need every man we can get. The wounded will have to fend for themselves.”

  Can I pull myself into the saddle? Can I ride like this? I squeeze my eyes to keep from crying, take deep, slow breaths to calm the panic and pain.

  Kearny peers at my pallid face. “You can do this, son, can’t you?” It isn’t really a question. “I’m depending on you.”

  I look at the general, who is leading us all with his one arm. I can’t let him down. I can’t let myself down. “Yessir!” I answer. Damned if I’ll let myself be defeated by a horse. I glare at Rebel as I swing myself onto his back. I gasp, shocked by how much more my body can suffer. This much pain means my ribs must be cracked. I sit for a minute, catching my breath, pushing down the rising spasms of agony.

  “I really named you well, didn’t I,” I hiss. “You’re my worst enemy.” I pull roughly on the reins and head to the sawmill, determined to follow orders no matter how much it tortures me. I grit my teeth the whole way, clamping down on the pain as if I can control it through my jaw. I can’t, of course, but it does keep me from screaming or moaning, keeps the agony inside me where it belongs.

  The sawmill teems with wounded soldiers. Many have crawled from the battlefield to the old building, hoping to find medical care, or at least shelter from further shooting. As soon as I deliver the message, they’ll be on their own. No doctors, no nurses, no one to even give them a drop of water. I don’t see how I can leave them. I remember the last time I a
bandoned the wounded, at the stone church in Centreville. I can’t do it again. And the general has given me no further orders. He hasn’t told me to come back, the way he did when he sent me for reinforcements. I figure I can stay and take care of those who need my help most. If I’m in any shape to give it.

  My own injuries seem slight in comparison to the shattered bones and saber gashes all around me. “And I wasn’t even hurt in battle,” I mutter, ashamed. “What can I tell people? I was maimed by a stupid horse?”

  I bind up my arm in a clumsy sling, wrap cloth around my chest to hold my ribs. It’s enough to take the sharp edge off the pain, leaving me with a steady, deep ache instead. Now I can set to work with my one good hand. I have no knife or scissors, so I use my teeth to tear open the blood-stiffened clothing covering the men’s wounds. I find some brandy and bandages, but not nearly enough for all the moaning soldiers. And I’m not going to make the mistake of going near the saddlebags on my horse again. I’ve locked the vicious beast in a shed, afraid to even tie him up.

  There’s nothing to do but find a homestead nearby and get provisions from there. And I’ll walk—no more taking chances with Rebel. The sawmill can’t be far from farmhouses. I follow the road leading away from the battlefield, and sure enough, it isn’t long before I reach a house.

  I knock at the door, remembering how the last time I asked for provisions, I was shot at. This time no one will even open the door. I knock again, louder and more insistent.

  A face pokes out of the window. “Go away!” a man shouts.

  “I mean no harm,” I yell. “I need bandages—sheets, pillowcases, anything I can tear into strips.”

  “Don’t got none!” the man barks, shutting the window.

  I pull out my pistol, keeping my angry voice level. “I think you do. And I think you’ll hand them over right now.” I aim the gun at the bucket hanging from the well and squeeze the trigger, plugging a hole through the center of it. “So sorry,” I drawl. “Looks like I ruined your bucket. Hate to see what else I might have to shoot.”

  The man yanks the door open, trembling. “Don’t shoot!” he pleads. “You’ll have your sheets.” His wife pokes her head out next to him. “But you’ll have to pay!”

  I nod. “I’m no thief.”

  The woman ducks into the house and returns quickly with two old sheets and three pillowcases. “That’ll be five dollars!” she demands.

  “They’re not even worth one,” I say, steely toned. “But I’m a reasonable man. I’ll give you two.” I move the pistol to the hand in the sling and snatch up the cloth. Then I throw two dollars on the ground. “Next time be nice about it,” I advise, “and you won’t lose a bucket.”

  I back away from the house, keeping my pistol trained on the door until I’m far enough away that it seems safe to turn around. Then I hurry back to the mill. More casualties have been carried in, but there are no doctors or nurses. I find two soldiers whose wounds are less serious than the others and ask them to help. One has his arm in a sling, but the other has been stabbed in the leg, so he has two good hands he can use to tear the cloth into strips. Now we have plenty of bandages, but no food. Why didn’t I ask for food at the farmhouse? Why, when the stores were moved, wasn’t something left behind to feed the wounded? All I can offer is water.

  Toward dusk, a man rides up on a fine, strong mare. I recognize him as the chaplain from my regiment and rush to greet him.

  “Chaplain May, thank God you’re here. We need all the help we can get!”

  The chaplain smiles mildly. “Yes, to be sure. But first a man has to eat, doesn’t he?”

  I nod, my stomach rumbling. “Of course, but there’s no food here.”

  “No need to concern yourself.” The chaplain hums and bustles about his saddlebags, pulling out a roast chicken wrapped in a cloth and some biscuits. He sits down to his supper, pauses to say grace, then digs in, ignoring the hungry men around him, not offering me even a bone to gnaw on.

  I liked the man before, but now I simmer with rage at his selfish piggishness. The chaplain takes no risks in battle but arrogantly enjoys his nice meal, while the soldiers who’ve risked everything don’t have a crumb. I want to offer him dessert, if he would just go fetch it out of Rebel’s saddlebags. It would serve him right to get kicked in the teeth by that nasty horse.

  When every scrap of meat has been sucked from the chicken and every crumb of the biscuits devoured, the chaplain sighs and curls up for the contented sleep of the well-fed. I glare at his back, wishing nightmares on him, but it’s exhausting to be so resentful and I fall into a broken sleep.

  The next morning, the boom of cannon wakes me. I look around, disoriented for a few moments. Then the dull ache throughout my body reminds me where I am. The rain has stopped, and the air is misty and cool. The chaplain and his horse are nowhere to be seen. Good riddance. And it’s time for me to go as well. There’s nothing more I can do for the men at the mill. I need to report to Kearny, see what I can do as a soldier now.

  I force myself to mount Rebel and ride toward Fair Oaks. The horse rolls his eyes constantly, tossing his head angrily as if he’s the one who’s been bitten and kicked.

  “I’m getting rid of you the first chance I get, don’t you worry,” I mutter between his ears.

  The scene on the battlefield is grisly. Thousands of men are strewn in the mud, dead and wounded, while around, among, and beside them the fight rages on. I can’t believe I ever considered war noble. All I see now is brutality, as men step over their fallen comrades to shoot at other men. At least we’re winning. That is, I think we’re winning. I hang back at the edge of the field, feeling useless with my bad arm, searching for General Kearny. I ride close to the river and away from it, but I can’t find him in the knots of soldiers, the bloodied stands of trees, or the huddled bulks of cannons.

  Fair Oaks station, Va.

  By noon the Confederates have been pushed back to Richmond, but at a very high cost. I hear that more than five thousand Union soldiers have been killed or wounded, and nearly six thousand Confederates have suffered the same fate. As I ride among the dead and dying, my heart aches for those who have fallen. It’s enough to make angels weep to look upon such carnage. I still haven’t seen the general, but I’ve found a sense of purpose. I use my horse to carry off the wounded, keeping a tight hold on the reins so Rebel can’t add to their injuries. One of the soldiers tells me there is supposed to be a better-provisioned hospital set up under a large tree at Fair Oaks station, so we head there. Wildflowers dot the fields with yellows, blues, and purples, while birds chirp in the trees as if all is right in the world. But all around me I see horror after horror, dead men, broken men, men crying over the bodies of brothers, fathers, sons, and friends. I can’t make sense of any of it. What is my part in this? Why am I still alive when so many worthy soldiers have fallen?

  Once we get to Fair Oaks station, endless rows of men lie spread out beneath a big oak tree, their blood drenching the ground for several acres. The wounded are crowded so closely together, it’s nearly impossible to walk between them. Instead, the doctors remove them one by one to dose, bandage, amputate, or bury, as the case requires. Where are the better conditions, what hope is there for the wounded here? I help the two men off my horse, unsure what to do next.

  “Doctor!” I call. “These men need help.”

  “They all do!” a short, dark man, his shirt drenched in sweat, snarls. “Set ’em down and we’ll get to them as soon as we can. If they’ve lived this long, they can survive another wait.”

  I’m not sure they can, but there’s nowhere better to take them. I look around for someone else to help, someone who might be friendlier. A nurse bends over a cluster of patients to the side of the tree. I edge closer, through the tight-packed bodies.

  “Excuse me, nurse,” I yell. “I know you’re busy, but I’ve brought in some new patients and I’m not sure where best to put them.”

  “No place is better than another. It’s al
l hell,” the nurse answers, turning to face me. It’s Jerome! His face is haggard, but when he recognizes me, he pales even more.

  “Frank! What happened to you?” he asks.

  “Oh, this.” I glance at my arm, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Nothing. It’s stupid.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.” Jerome steps over the bodies between us. First he bandages the men I’ve brought in, leaving them to rest against a log pile. Then he firmly guides me to a stump to sit down on. He unties the sling and carefully unwraps the bloody bandage. Purple and black skin barely cover the gaping, ugly chunk that Rebel’s teeth have nearly torn entirely free from the arm. My stomach pitches. I have to look away.

  “How did this happen?” Jerome sounds angry. “And what idiot did such a bad job bandaging you?”

  “The idiot would be me,” I admit. “But in my defense, it’s hard to wrap a bandage with only one hand.”

  “Oh, Frank,” Jerome sighs. “You need looking after, you do.” Tenderly, he washes the wound with water, then binds it back up, tightly this time, and fashions a new, clean sling. As he sets the arm, his hand grazes my bruised ribs and I wince.