A Soldier's Secret

by Marissa Moss

  “What? Are you hurt somewhere else?” Jerome asks, worried.

  “No, there’s nothing!” I push him away. I don’t want to show him my cracked ribs, to remind him that I’m actually a woman. He wants to forget what I told him, and that’s for the best.

  For the rest of the day, I work alongside Jerome, helping to move the most severely maimed soldiers into railcars headed for the pier, where they’ll be transferred to hospital ships bound north. The train is a hopeful sign, a promise of a truly better place, where the men will be fed and comforted, if not healed. Not until later do I hear that many die before the end of the train trip, so the soldiers on the other end unload the dead and living together, both festering with maggots.

  In the evening, Jerome leads me to a cook fire, sits me down, and fetches a plate of beans and hardtack. I grab the plate, suddenly dizzy with hunger, and start shoveling the food into my mouth.

  “Slow down there, Frank,” Jerome says. “You don’t want to choke to death on beans after facing so many dangers!”

  I pause and swallow, trying to remember my manners. “I was starving. Thank you.” When I’ve eaten a few more mouthfuls and the sharp hunger pangs have eased, I relax. “So tell me how the battle was for you. What part were you in?”

  Jerome shakes his head. “I heard it, that’s all. I was here the whole time, stationed at the hospital. But we were so far away, we didn’t get any wounded until the end of the day. Most went to the old sawmill.”

  “That’s where I was,” I say. “Well, later, after being on the battlefield, after my evil horse bit me.”

  “Your horse bit you?” Jerome frowns. “Is that what happened to your arm?”

  I nod, shamefaced. “Stupid, huh?” I snort.

  “Frank Thompson!” General Kearny’s familiar baritone booms out as he nears the cook fire. “I’ve been looking for you, son.”

  I jump up, almost spilling the plate of beans. “Yessir!” My cheeks burn red—I’m certain that he’s there to call me a coward, a shirker. I spent too long at the sawmill, and I didn’t return to find the general the next day. I failed as an orderly.

  Instead, Kearny holds out a handsome silver sword. “I have the honor to present this sword to Private Frank Thompson in recognition of his great courage and humanitarian action in the Battle of Fair Oaks. This same sword was knocked from the outstretched arm of a Rebel colonel as he was raising it to strike a fallen Union officer. May you use it valiantly and justly.”

  I gape. Jerome takes the supper plate from my good hand.

  “Sir! Thank you, sir!” Do I really deserve such a trophy? “I am honored, sir!” I hold the sword with trembling fingers. “She’s a beauty, sir,” I whisper.

  “That she is,” Kearny agrees. “And a fitting weapon for you. You were an exemplary orderly under extraordinary conditions.”

  I look into the general’s eyes. The quiet respect I see there warms me. For every idle coward like the chaplain, there are men like the general, men I long to serve well. Thinking of the chaplain, an idea strikes me.

  “Sir, I would like to bestow a gift as well, on the chaplain of our regiment, for his …” I pause, searching for the right word. “For his service,” I falter. “The horse the Confederate officer gave me—I want him to go to Chaplain May. He’s earned a horse like Rebel.” I really mean it, too.

  Kearny nods, the trace of a smile flickering beneath his mustache. “Ah, yes, I know the animal well. A fitting tribute to the chaplain. I’ll have it given to him right away. And now you finish your supper, Private. You’ve earned a good meal tonight. Too bad you have to settle for hardtack.”

  “Yessir!” I say, sitting down again, turning the sword over in my hand.

  “That’s a beauty, all right,” Jerome says. “And it sounds like you deserve it. So what happened on the battlefield before the stupid horse bit you?”

  I set the sword down and take up my supper. I’m filthy and sore, with cracked ribs and a torn-up arm. I’ve seen the horrors of hell, in battle and in the hospital, but none of that matters right now. I have something to eat and my best friend beside me. If I could lean my head on Jerome’s shoulder, if he’d put his arm around me, everything would be perfect. Even without that, as we sit together sharing a meal, I feel a strange warmth in my chest. It’s happiness.

  HE NEXT FEW days, the spring rains return, fiercer than ever, and we hunker down in our tents, welcoming the chance to rest and recover after the hard days of fighting at Fair Oaks. I use the time to write about the battle for Mr. Hurlburt. Mostly I give my own observations, what I saw and did, but I also include rumors. Like the ones I’ve heard of the high losses the Confederates have suffered, that General Joseph Johnston has been severely wounded, and that now General Bobby Lee is in charge of the Confederate army. He’s a tough fighter who inspires fierce loyalty from his troops, but McClellan assures us we’ll beat him. All of that goes into the envelope—information and speculation. I haven’t heard back from Mr. Hurlburt since I sent my first dispatch, but that’s not stopping me.

  Between writing and mail runs, I play cards with Damon, and Jerome often joins us in the crowded tent. My arm still throbs where Rebel sank his teeth in, but it’s healing. I’ve bandaged my ribs properly and they’re mending, too. I’m almost my old self again, whoever that is.

  “Tell us the story about the chaplain and Rebel again,” Damon urges, slapping a card down on the crate set up as a table between our bedrolls.

  “Just hearing it will warm us up,” Jerome adds.

  I don’t need to be encouraged. It’s become one of my favorite stories. “Well,” I begin, “the general had Rebel led to Chaplain May, who was mighty touched by the magnificent gift. He circled the horse and boasted to everyone around that Rebel was a splendid animal, worth three hundred dollars at least, a fitting mount for someone of his worth.”

  “His worth!” Damon hoots. “That Rebel must have liked the praise, because that’s when he was gentle as a lamb, wasn’t it? Letting Chaplain May pet him, stroke his nose, and feel up and down his legs—as if the chaplain knows how to value a horse!”

  “That just shows the horse is a poor judge of character, along with his other faults,” Jerome interrupts.

  “Until the chaplain turned his back,” I remind them. “Rebel must have been biding his time. Now he saw his target, and he landed a solid kick right between the shoulders and sent May flying face-first into the mud. Lucky for him it was a soft landing.”

  Damon slaps his knee. “This here’s my favorite part! That dang horse planted another kick, knocking the poor man down a second time, and then a third! Striking a blow for justice, I’d say.”

  I laugh. “You should have seen his face. May’s cheeks were bright red and looked ready to pop like an angry blister. He yelled for somebody to grab the vile beast and keep the animal off him. I was tempted to take the reins myself, but I didn’t want to get too close to Rebel either. Finally a soldier took pity on the chaplain and grabbed the reins dragging on the ground.”

  “Of course, now Rebel was as mild as milk again and let himself be led away, ain’t that so?” Damon’s voice is half triumph, half glee. Nothing tickles him so much as tales of comeuppance like this one. “But the chaplain was sputtering and fuming, yelling how he’d sell the cursed creature. Too bad for him that nobody wanted to buy. Everyone in the army knows Rebel’s reputation by now. He’ll have to find some friendly Virginian to fool into buying the devil. Though folks around these parts know horses.”

  “And now the chaplain’s stuck with him, eh?” Jerome snorts. “Serves the selfish bastard right.”

  “Too bad he wasn’t kicked in the head,” Damon says. “Might have knocked some sense into him.”

  “The good news is I’ve got Flag back,” I add.

  “You definitely need a horse you can depend on. How else can you deliver the mail?” Damon sets his cards down, grinning. “That’s my game!”

  “You win again?” Jerome scoops up the car
ds and starts shuffling. “You’ve got more luck than anyone else I know. And not just in cards. I still can’t believe you kept your leg.”

  “It works pretty good, too. I can march almost as quickly now as I could before I got shot. But then, I only had to contend with a minié ball,” Damon teases, “not the teeth of some beast from hell.”

  “My arm’s healing just fine, thank you kindly.” I look at Jerome. “After all, I had the best nurse.”

  “Now that’s where I’m going to argue with you,” Damon says. “I had the better nurse!”

  “Enough now!” Jerome sets down the deck of cards. “I’ve got to get to the hospital and make rounds. Are you coming?”

  “Not today. I have a mail run. See you both in a few days.” I pick up the loaded mailbags and duck out of the tent.

  “Don’t forget to bring me back a present!” Damon calls after me. “Or at least a letter—and not a ‘Sorry, Sweetheart’ one, either!”

  “Can’t make any promises,” I yell back. “That’s between you and your girl!” I’ve given up hoping for a “Sorry, Sweetheart” letter from Anna to Jerome. It seems like every mail run means picking up two or three of her perfumed letters. Doesn’t the woman have anything else to do but write? She certainly lives a life of ease to have so much time for the epistolary arts.

  Saddling up Flag and setting the mailbags over his withers, I’m tempted to pluck out one particular letter, or at least pull it far enough out so that the slightest breeze will free it from the bag and deliver it straight to a mud puddle. Jerome doesn’t write near as often as Miss Anna, but his letters are even harder for me to carry. I imagine passionate declarations of love—to her—and it’s all I can do to keep from shredding the envelope to bits. I admit not every letter he’s written has made it to the post station. Some got caught in briars. One fell into a stream. And one got charred in the fire I’d made to cook my supper on the way to the mail drop. I’m not saying I’m proud of such accidents, but since I let most of his letters go through, I can’t deny myself the intense satisfaction of occasional lapses.

  The rains have left the Chickahominy high again, which means swimming Flag across. The mail, including Jerome’s letter, is safely wrapped in oilskin to protect it, but still I hold the bags over my head as Flag strains his way across. The mail stays dry, but I’m soaked. I ride the rest of the day, drenched and shivering. My teeth chatter so hard, I can’t talk to Flag as I usually do. I’m too miserable for much conversation anyway. The fever that has come and gone ever since we landed at Fort Monroe is back again. There’s no cure, nothing to do except wait it out. I spend the night by the side of the road, chilled to the bone, shaking so hard I can barely sleep, even with Flag’s warm body beside me. Horses, of course, usually sleep on their feet, but Flag is a true friend, and when I first coaxed him to the ground next to me as a sheltering bulwark, he understood right away. My dreams that night are disjointed fragments. First I’m a woman in a frilly dress with pearl earrings, writing on lavender stationery like Anna Corey. Then I’m a man holding a soldier down as the doctor saws off his leg. Abruptly, the dream shifts and I’m in the tent playing cards with Damon and Jerome. They accuse me of cheating, of pulling a fast one on them. I yell that I’m innocent, but as they throw their cards at me, I change into a woman. That’s when I wake up feeling out of joint, like I need to pull myself together. It takes me a few minutes to remember who and where I am—Frank Thompson, alias Sarah Emma Edmonds, private and postmaster in the Army of the Potomac. The damp has seeped into my bones, and my body feels stiff and brittle. Without any breakfast I heave myself onto Flag, grateful that as the sun rises higher in the sky, the day grows hot and steamy.

  “Strange dreams last night, Flag. I can’t figure out who I’m supposed to be. It must be nice to lead a horse’s life. You eat, you carry people, you sleep. Not much more to it than that. I suppose some folk live that way—eat, work, sleep. Except they have families, friends, people they care about. Maybe my life is closer to yours than I want to admit.” Flag obligingly twitches his ears. I reach forward and pat his neck. “Good fellow, Flag. You listen to me.”

  By the end of the second day I reach White House Landing, where I deliver the regimental mail and pick up a new batch for the camp. The chief quartermaster, Colonel Ingalls, takes one look at my still-feverish face and tells me to report to the hospital.

  “No sir! That won’t be necessary. I just have that swamp fever that half the soldiers fell sick with when we first landed in Virginia. There’s nothing to do but let it pass.”

  “Maybe you don’t need to go to the hospital, but you don’t look well enough to ride.”

  I start to protest. After all, I’ve just ridden for two days and managed fine. The colonel holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Here’s what I suggest. There’s a provision train bound for Fair Oaks leaving this afternoon. I’ll get you and your horse a place on it. And in the meanwhile, I suggest you find yourself a good, hot meal.”

  Now that’s something I can accept. It would be nice to sleep on the train, skipping another chill night in the open. And Flag could use the rest. “Thank you, sir,” I say. I know the best place in town for ham and eggs, and that’s where I head.

  It’s a holiday. I have a couple of hours with nothing to do. After filling my stomach, I amble around town, looking into store windows, imagining what I’ll do after the war. Of course, the Union will win, and I could go back to my old job of bookselling. Only I’m not sure I want to do that anymore. After all the rootless travel, I want to settle down. Make someplace a home. And I want to make that home with Jerome. I can picture myself in an apron, sliding eggs onto a plate for my husband’s breakfast. I can imagine Jerome sitting across from me, eating my cooking with lip-smacking appreciation. I can see the two of us, sitting by the fire on a rainy winter night, me darning socks while Jerome oils his hunting rifle, talking together like an old married couple from one of the stories I used to sell. The images are so clear, a smile curves across my face. I want so much for it to be true.

  But of course it can’t be. I try to picture another future, but life without Jerome seems hazy and vague to me, impossible to imagine.

  There will come a time when the war will be over and we’ll all go our separate ways. I tell myself I can always work in a hospital, but without Jerome it would be a cruel reminder of what I’m missing. Besides, I’m a good nurse, but if I can’t have Jerome, then I want to work with war veterans, the soldiers I see maimed in battle, the ones I try to patch up as best I can. Those men are my family. I have a deep kinship with them, the only kinship I’ve really known.

  I’m sitting on a bench in the sun, watching the townsfolk go about their business, when suddenly it hits me. I imagine building a big clapboard house with a warm, high-ceilinged kitchen, a place where one-legged men and those missing arms and eyes always feel welcome. I’ll run a home for injured veterans, a place where they can live and swap stories, enjoy once again the brotherhood we’ve had in the army. If I can’t make meals for Jerome, at least I can cook for those men.

  The vision of the house seems so real, it’s as if I’ve already built the place. I don’t decide whether it’s something I’ll do as a man or a woman, though I suppose it’s the kind of thing the “weaker” sex could manage if I choose to stop living a lie. But that’s a bigger issue I’m not ready to face yet. Why be a woman if I can’t be Jerome’s woman? I know I’ll have to think about it someday, weigh whether the strain of the deceit is worth the freedom it brings, but now isn’t the time. There’s no choice about the present.

  The sun dips low in the sky. It’s time to put Flag on the train and settle in myself. After my holiday, I’m in a rare relaxed mood as I take a seat between a sergeant and another private. I look out the window as the train picks up speed and chugs along. The landscape flies by so fast, it’s a blur, and the sensation makes me dizzy. It feels odd to pass by trees and meadows so quickly. Flag may be a slower and bumpier ride, but going on horseb
ack seems more real somehow, like you’re part of the land, not hovering slightly above it.

  As we reach Tunstall’s Station, the shrill whistle of another train interrupts the card game we’re playing. Our train quickly switches off to a spur to avoid the approaching train, rushing toward us on the same track. As it clatters past, gunshots and screams erupt from its carriages and the conductor waves frantically at our train, signaling us to follow him.

  A locomotive called “Firefly” on a trestle of the Orange and Alexandria Railroad. Location unknown.

  I jump up to see better. “What’s going on?”

  The sergeant next to me shoves his head out the window. “We’re going to follow that train. Sounds like there’s a fight on board. I bet we’ll find Confederates once we stop ’em!”

  Now the two trains steam down the track in tandem, one going forward, the other going backward right behind it. At White House Landing, where we started, we grind to a halt. I hear guns fired at dangerously close quarters, watch horrified as men tumble out of windows, either pushed or fleeing. I leap out of the car, rushing toward the troop train and the raucous noise of scuffling, breaking glass, grunts, and yells. It sounds like a saloon, not a train. The sergeant clambers in before me, throwing punches as soon as he’s inside. The fighting is too close to risk pulling a gun, and I’m not sure I can hit anybody with much force. I’ve never been in a fistfight before. Instead of trying, I thrust past Union soldiers wrestling with Rebels to reach three men who’ve been wounded.

  “Who’d have thought there’d be a battle inside a train,” I mutter as I help a man with a wounded leg out of the car. I take off my jacket and use it to stanch the blood, then go back to get another man, this one with a gash in his head. As I clean the bloody wound, a jolt of recognition hits me and I freeze. I know this face. I know this man. He’s the spy—the one who sells stationery goods, the one I saw in the Confederate camp by Yorktown when I disguised myself as a freed slave. I don’t say anything but finish bandaging the wound with a torn shirt and help the other injured before I report to the provost marshall.