by Marissa Moss
“There’s a spy among the wounded passengers,” I tell him, explaining how I know the man, how long I’ve been waiting for his capture.
The marshall sends a guard with me to search the man. Sure enough, we find plans and lists of Union artillery.
“I’m not who you think I am. I’m an honest peddler!” the spy protests.
“What you are is under arrest,” the guard barks, jerking the man to his feet and tying his arms behind his back. The spy locks eyes with me, glaring.
“I know you!” he shouts. “I’ve seen you before!”
I smile. “Of course you have. I’m the kind soul who bandaged your head. Believe me, I won’t make that mistake again.”
“No, you’re lying, I’ve seen you somewhere else!” the spy rages, but nobody cares. Who would believe him anyway if he remembers me as a slave? It sounds like an even more outlandish story than trying to kidnap an entire train.
A day later than planned, I get back to camp with my fever finally gone. I deliver the mail, along with the juicy adventure story of a failed Rebel train ambush. Turns out it was Confederate General Jeb Stuart’s cavalry, two hundred soldiers strong, who were responsible. Before attacking the Union troop train, they burned two schooners loaded with our supplies in the Pamunkey River. I have to admit they had guts.
When I hand Damon his letter and tell him the news, he chuckles.
“Dang, Frank, if you aren’t better entertainment than one of those serial stories in the newspaper! Even when you aren’t on the battlefield, you’re at the center of the action.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Is that a blessing or a curse? Anyway, it’s something to write about for Mr. Hurlburt.”
“And what about Virginia? Are you writing to her?” asks Damon. “That Mr. Hurlburt still hasn’t answered you. Why waste time—and words—on him?”
“Well, your Virginia hasn’t written to me, either. Seems like that one letter will be my last. No one else will ever send me anything—nobody I know, I mean.”
“Just be patient! She’ll write you.” Damon’s tone is less sure than his words.
“I am being patient.” I sigh and smooth out a fresh page of stationery. “But in the meanwhile, I’m writing. A train ambush makes a mighty fine story, don’t you think?”
Damon nods. “And if you write it the same way you tell it, folks will be excited to read it.”
I don’t know about that, but somehow writing these dispatches is much more satisfying than writing in my diary. I guess the difference is the hope that someone else will read my words, that it will matter what I say.
’M BEGINNING TO lose faith in our mail service when I finally get a letter back from Mr. Hurlburt. I’m so eager to read what he says, I rip the envelope and the letter both, but I can piece the parts together and make sense of it anyway. He loves my dispatches! He’s putting them on the front of his weekly newsletter, and he wants to be able to include one in each issue, so I need to send one a week. He asks if I can do that—and says he’ll pay me for my efforts.
Pay me for writing? I would never imagine I could make money from descriptions of army life. When I tell Damon, his face splits into a broad grin.
“Congratulations, Frank! You’ve got yourself another job!”
“One that isn’t dangerous, for a change. And I like to write. If Virginia ever writes to me, she’ll find out herself.”
Damon looks embarrassed. “I don’t know what’s got into that girl …”
“It’s not your fault, Damon. She’s probably heard how ugly I am. Why would she want to correspond with me?”
“You’re not ugly!” he protests. “And anyhow, it’s her patriotic duty to support soldiers in the field.”
“I don’t need a pity letter. I’ve got Mr. Hurlburt to write to—and get paid for it!”
I get right to work, describing how, by the end of June, we’ve pushed so close to Richmond, we can hear the church bells on Sundays. Our blue uniforms greatly outnumber the gray, but in the face of fierce fighting from the Confederates, General McClellan calls for a retreat after the Battle of Gaines’ Mill, the third in a week of battles. It doesn’t make sense to me—we’re winning and yet McClellan insists on retreating. General Lee is losing and still he pushes his thinning regiments forward, intent on driving us off the Virginia Peninsula. In the battle of wills, Lee is the clear victor. I have faith in McClellan, really I do, but I don’t understand why he follows our victories with retreats. Sometimes it seems like the only signs of our victories are the Union flags we leave behind as we back away from Lee’s army. And that’s what I say in my dispatch—not just what’s happening, but my worries and fears.
Once again I’m sent to warn the surgeons, nurses, and patients in the nearby hospitals that the army is moving to the James River and that anyone who stays behind will be captured by the Rebels. It’s an all-too-familiar errand, but not any easier for that. When I come to the last hospital, Dr. Evers throws down his saw in disgust. “How can we help the wounded this way? We’ll kill them if we move them and the Rebels will kill them if we don’t. Damn this war!”
“I know, Doctor,” I commiserate. “Doesn’t make sense to me, either, but I’m following orders.”
“Damn stupid orders!” he curses.
“Damn stupid,” I agree. My favorite doctor is Dr. Bonine, but Dr. Evers is a good man, too. He has a bit of a temper, but he genuinely cares about his patients. I’m putting him in an impossible situation, one he’s already been in several times before—leaving wounded men to be captured by the enemy.
“There’s no hope for the ones who can’t walk, but the others can still be saved,” I offer.
“How fast do you think a one-legged man can hobble?” the doctor spits. “Did you bring any ambulances with you? Carts? Wagons? Horses? Mules?”
I lower my eyes. Of course I haven’t. Just my own horse, Flag.
The surgeon shakes his head. “The bloody waste of it all!”
I hesitate. I’m supposed to report back to Colonel Poe and I might be sent on other missions. I need Flag. But as I look around the clearing where the soldiers lie suffering, bandaged and bloody, I hand Flag’s reins to the doctor. “He’s only one horse, but he’s a good one. You can have men take turns riding him. And you can rig up a stretcher for him to pull. That might help.”
Dr. Evers takes the reins. “Thank you, Private. It’s a start. Can you help that man over there into the saddle?” He points toward a soldier with a bandaged leg and arm. “We’ll start with him and keep going until we reach the James River.” A shell explodes in the distance. The Confederates are closing in. “All those who can walk, follow me,” the doctor yells. “The strongest help the weakest. Let’s get as many as we can to safety.”
I try to lift the bandaged man onto Flag, but he’s too tall and heavy, especially for my weakened ribs and arm. Sweat pours down my face as I strain to hoist the injured man into the saddle, but it’s like lifting a heavy sack of flour over my head. I’m not strong enough.
“Let me give you a hand,” a familiar voice says. I wipe the sweat out of my eyes and look up to see Jerome heaving the patient onto Flag.
“Jerome!” I smile. “I’m glad you’re here. You can make sure they treat Flag well.”
Jerome shakes his head. “I’m not going with them. Someone has to stay with the wounded here.”
“But they’ll capture you!” My voice is shrill. “You’ve got to go! You’ve got to!”
“Maybe they’ll capture me. Maybe not. I’ll take my chances.” Jerome leans over a soldier trembling with fever. He gently wipes the sick man’s brow and looks at me. “How can I leave them?”
I bite my lip, miserable. I’ve left the helpless before, and here I am doing it again. What’s the point of being taken prisoner? How does sacrificing yourself help the wounded?
“You can’t save them, you know! You’ll all be captured. It’s a stupid waste.” I want to pound my fists on his chest, to make him listen.
> “If I can ease their last hours, then to me it’s not stupid.” Jerome puts his hand on my shoulder. “Look, Frank, I don’t mean that you should stay, too. You need to finish your task, report back to the colonel. But this is my task. And I aim to finish it.”
My shoulder tingles where he’s touched it, and my legs go wobbly. I want to throw my arms around him, to cry on his chest that he has to come with me, that I need him. Instead, all I can do is stare at his handsome face and blink back tears.
Around us, soldiers scramble after the doctor. Those who can walk help those who can’t. Nurses bundle up supplies and hand out anything that can be used as a crutch or a cane—sticks, brooms, rifles, whatever comes to hand.
I’m frozen in the midst of the motion eddying around me. I can’t leave Jerome. I can’t stay. My heart cracks open. “How can I leave you?” I sob.
Jerome is frustratingly calm and patient. “Because that’s your duty, just as this is mine. Now go. We’ll meet up soon.” He unclasps a locket from around his neck and presses it into my palm. “But if we don’t, if I don’t come back, you know where to send this.”
I close my fingers over the locket. “To Anna,” I whisper.
Jerome nods. “To Anna.”
Ice creeps up my veins, from my ankles to my throat. Anna. Jerome cares about her, only her. Not his best friend, Frank Thompson, and certainly not the woman behind that mask, Sarah Emma Edmonds. I shove the necklace into my pocket.
“Good-bye, then,” I croak, “and good luck.” I want to hate Jerome then. I try, really I do, but sorrow and longing creep in around the edges. I hate that he’s rejected me, that he cares for Anna, but I can’t stop loving him.
“Good luck to you, too,” Jerome responds, turning back to tend to the men.
There’s nothing more to do or say. I trudge back the way I’ve come, heading toward the sounds of battle rather than away from them. With each step I regret giving away Flag. What difference can one horse make to so many wounded compared to how much he would help me? I’ve always been too impulsive. Now I’m paying the price for my meaningless gesture. And I haven’t helped the person I most wanted to, I haven’t helped Jerome.
I finger the locket he gave me. Anna. I spit the name out. A tough skin grows like a scab over my heart. Well, he can have her, for what she’s worth. I force the image of Jerome out of my mind and lope down the road.
I pass a pasture on my right and smile. A leggy colt and four mules graze peacefully behind the white split-rail fence. A barn sits in the front corner of the pasture, the kind of place that might house a bridle, maybe even a saddle. Which animal will make the best mount? My trained eye runs over the colt. He’s young but big enough to ride, and certainly faster than any mule. I leap over the fence and duck into the barn, the boom of cannons echoing down the road. I have to hurry or I’ll end up cut off behind enemy lines.
The barn holds only a halter, but that’s enough. I grab it and rush at the animals, corralling them into a shed alongside the barn. In the close space the colt struggles, throwing back his head, ducking down, snaking away from my hands. Then with one quick movement I slip on the halter and jump on his back, nudging open the shed door with my foot. I don’t have any reins, but I sit tightly on the colt, forcing him to obey the pressure of my thighs, urging him up and over the fence and onto the road.
Now that the colt accepts my weight, he gallops steadily toward the thudding shells and cannon. For a moment I’m back in New Brunswick, riding Trig into the countryside beyond the family farm. I grew up breaking horses, and my first taste of freedom came on horseback. I love the speed and strength I get from riding, the sense that I can go anywhere, fly over ravines, soar over fences. On a young, strong horse there are no boundaries, only wild possibilities.
Trees and fields, fences and farms rush by. On the road ahead, a group of men approaches. I squint at them, pulling up the colt for a steadier look. They’re wearing blue—yes, they must be an advance guard for our troops! I kick the colt forward, but as I come closer, one of the blue soldiers raises his hand, signaling me to go back. I watch in horror as a gray-uniformed soldier behind him lifts up a rifle and hits the Union soldier on the head with the butt of the gun. The soldier collapses, and another Rebel guard kicks him savagely in the ribs. It’s not an advance group, as I’d thought, but prisoners who’ve been rounded up by the enemy.
I wheel the colt around, racing back the way I came. The Rebels fire after me, minié balls flying past, all wide of the mark. I murmur a prayer of thanks to the bullets for missing and to the brave captive who warned me.
I lean over the colt’s mane, urging him to go faster. “I know what to name you,” I whisper into his ear. “Lucky, because you’ve brought me good luck.” Flag is a steady, reliable friend, but Lucky is pure wild youth, and on his back I’m younger, more carefree myself. His coiled energy radiates into me, filling me with a strange elation. Riding him, I am protected. Nothing can touch me. No wonder the bullets missed.
The colt snorts as I guide him off the road, across the countryside, circling around past the knot of prisoners, to find the rest of our regiments. Galloping through the fields, jumping fences and ditches, I feel truly myself, as I exist apart from any name, any sex. I’m not Frank Thompson or Sarah Emma Edmonds. I’m me, pure me, someone who loves to take chances, to be free, to be truly alive right now, in this moment. The sensation can’t last long, but the memory of it stays with me. Lucky has shown me the part of myself that really matters. It’s a quick glimpse, nothing more, but it echoes deep in my bones.
It’s dark by the time I join the main column snaking its way through the White Oak Swamp, a murky, gloomy bog that wears the men out. I’ve left behind the emerald fields for a treacherous morass. Each step means pulling boots out of the sucking mud, trudging through shin-high water. There’s no place to rest, no place to sleep. All night, the troops slog through the mire, some men dropping from exhaustion. I pass by one soldier leaning against a cottonwood tree. He’s died that way, still holding his rifle, still standing. At least I have the colt to doze on. And it’s not my feet that are held by the muck, it’s Lucky’s. I look up at the stars glittering in the velvet sky. They’re coldly beautiful, a relief from the ugliness on the ground. I imagine Jerome seeing the same constellations wheeling overhead, and I hope he’s escaped capture.
By dawn the bulk of the army has made it up a slope overlooking the James River. This is Malvern Hill, where McClellan orders us to turn and face the enemy, spent by their own march through the marshes. It seems like an advantageous spot. From the top of the rise, the artillery can pound down on any approaching troops. Our position is so secure that many soldiers allow themselves some badly needed sleep. Myself, I haven’t closed my eyes in thirty-six hours. Keyed up though I am about the approaching battle, I can’t resist resting for a bit. I don’t mean to, but as soon as my head drops onto the bedroll, I fall into a deep sleep, the kind uninterrupted by dreams.
When I wake up, it’s the next day, July 1, and the Rebels have already started up the slopes, cannon blazing. I rush to follow Damon to our assigned position, next to the 20th Indiana. We’re in a rifle pit, front and center of the action.
Wave after wave of gray soldiers marches up the rise straight into us. Our big guns mow down the Confederates, and still they keep coming. Once they get close enough, those who survive the cannon fire are shot by us, the infantry. It’s a complete slaughter. And the most glorious battle I’ve seen—the concentrated force of gray uniforms streaming up the hill, marching over their fallen comrades, the flash of fire from the enemy guns whose shells fall far short of our lines, the answering roar of our cannon blasting into the Rebel ranks. And then the chance for the infantry to pour our own deadly hail of minié balls onto the Confederates. For once I don’t need to rush after the wounded. Instead, I watch the magnificent display of force, proud to be part of such a powerful army. I shoot, reload, and shoot again, aiming carefully at the broad gray chest of a griz
zled soldier. I pull the trigger, bracing for the recoil, and watch the man crumple and fall. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s satisfying to hit the mark, to get it right, even though I know I’m killing somebody’s son, brother, father, or husband. But I have to—I’m supposed to. Ours is a noble cause, a just cause. It’s the only way to save the Union, to free the slaves, to make this country the great nation it’s meant to be.
Damon turns to me, interrupting my thoughts. “This doesn’t feel right—it’s a massacre, not a battle.”
“They’d do the same to us,” I grunt. “Better them, I say.”
“I guess.” Damon sights down his rifle barrel and squeezes off a shot. “But how do you tell the difference between murder and war?”
“Sometimes there isn’t any. That’s just the way it is. But think of the wounded men we left behind. Think of Jerome. For all we know, they’re prisoners now. And I can promise you they won’t get the royal treatment. I’ve seen how the Rebels treat their slaves. I know how coldhearted they are. We have to be just as cold or they’ll beat us.” I take aim and fire, watching another man collapse.
Damon sighs. “Maybe you’re right, but this makes me sick. I’m not proud of this, not one bit. I wish this whole war was over and we could all go home and go back to being farmers. That’s honorable work.”
I nod, though I consider this honorable work as well. I don’t want to admit it to Damon, but I prefer this kind of battle, the kind where the Army of the Potomac is solidly winning, where the Confederates are at our mercy. Of course, I want the war to end too, but I don’t mind crushing the Rebel troops in an unfair fight on our way to victory.
There are only a few Union wounded to tend, but the men are hungry and supplies are short. In the late afternoon, during a lull in the fighting, I decide to forage for provisions. From the top of Malvern Hill I spot a farmhouse nestled between the two front lines. It’s not in Union territory, but it’s not in the center of the action, either, too far to the side to present a real risk. I edge down the hill, ducking behind bushes, crawling behind rocks and high grasses. Then I dart through the unlocked back door and stand up, rubbing my sore back and scanning the kitchen for food.
