A Soldier's Secret

by Marissa Moss

  The cupboards hold a treasure trove. I snatch tins of tea, a ham, flour, eggs, even a wheel of cheese—the kind of food none of us has seen for weeks. I want to shove it all into my mouth, to fill my empty belly. If I had the time, I would cut off a hunk of raw ham and wolf it down, but I stop myself. This food is for everyone. I just have to figure out how to carry it all back. I run into a bedroom and tear the quilt off the bed, wrapping the eggs in pillowcases first, figuring at least a few will survive the trip intact as I load the rest of my haul into a bundle that I knot together. I heave it over my shoulder and stumble into the entry hall just as a shell crashes through the side of the house, throwing me and the quilt onto the floor. I lie there, stunned, as another shell and then another pummels the house. Fire blazes on the roof, and the bedroom the quilt came from has been flattened. My ears ring from the roar of the explosions, but I’m not hurt. I catch my breath and get up on trembling legs, pick up the knotted quilt, and slip out the door. Now I can only crawl slowly, dragging the heavy bundle behind me. I look back at the house and watch aghast as it caves in on itself like a teetering pile of matchsticks.

  “Don’t think about the shelling,” I tell myself. I try to stop the trembling that runs up and down my arms. “Think about all the good food you rescued. Think about how happy the men will be to see it.” I scramble up the side of the hill, feeling exposed as I crawl from rock to bush to rock again.

  As I clamber closer to the front line, I’m terrified that my own comrades will fire on me. Yes, I told Damon I was heading for the house, but how will he know that the creeping soldier with the big bundle is his buddy, Frank? I sink to the ground, too scared to move, when three soldiers, crouching low, come toward me from the top of the rise. One of them waves, and I recognize Damon’s gawky frame and lopsided grin.

  “I’ve been on the lookout for you, Frank,” he calls, stretching out his hand to help with the heavy quilt. “What’d ya find?”

  “You’ll see!” I say, giddy with relief. “We’ll have a feast tonight!”

  “Then let’s get the goods up the hill.” Damon lifts up one end of the quilt and I hold the other. Together we hoist the food the rest of the way back behind Union lines, but I don’t relax until we’re on the other side of the rifle pits.

  The two soldiers who came with Damon start a fire, and an hour later the provisions I secured have become a fragrant supper of crusty bread, fried ham, scrambled eggs with cheese, and hot tea.

  As hungry as I am, I don’t dive into my meal. Instead, I watch the famished men around me eating and savor a deep wave of satisfaction. I’ve done this for them, taken care of them in this simple way. It’s better than nursing, better than bringing mail. Food is more elemental.

  I’m not the only one to think so. The soldier sitting across from me looks up from his steaming plate. He chokes back tears, then starts to speak, seriously, as if he were in church. “That boy, Frank Thompson, risked his life getting this for us. He wouldn’t have made it out alive from that burning house if it hadn’t been God’s will.”

  “Amen!” the man next to him says.

  “Amen!” the circle of men choruses.

  “Amen,” I murmur. I don’t feel like an angel of mercy, but I’m aware a rare gift has been granted to me, the gift of nourishing others. I remember how proud Ma was when she set a good meal on the table for Sunday dinner. I used to think her sense of accomplishment was foolish. It’s not hard, after all, to roast a goose or fry up a ham. Now I understand her satisfaction and the value of what she offered. My idea of a home for wounded veterans would be the same kind of thing. I’m more sure than ever that it’s what I’m meant to do, the thing that will give my life meaning. I chew on a morsel of ham. Nothing has ever tasted as richly satisfying.

  But that pleasure doesn’t last long. As the sun dips lower on the horizon, the Confederates make one last push up the hill. Masses of men forge their way across the slope, almost up to the edge of the rifle pits. The whole hill is lit with gun and cannon fire. Damon and I take our places back on the front line, with our guns aimed into a steady assault of gray soldiers. Now the slaughter, so grand before, is sickening. It’s too easy, too unfair, like shooting rats when they’re frantically clawing up the edges of a bucket. Damon’s right—there’s nothing honorable in this kind of fight, no matter how glorious the cause.

  “Ahead, men, charge!” bellows General Heintzelman, and we leap out of the pits and over the edge of the hill, slashing at the remaining Rebels with bayonets. At least now the fight seems more fair. Still, when it’s over, the hillside is covered with gray-uniformed corpses and the wounded. So many men thrash and crawl before collapsing that the field quivers with the dying.

  Before I write to Mr. Hurlburt, I collect the horrifying numbers. Fifteen thousand wounded Rebel soldiers are carried into Richmond that week. Lee’s army has lost twenty thousand men. Not an inch of ground has been gained by the Confederates. It’s an overwhelming defeat. Still, to our surprise, General McClellan doesn’t order us forward, toward Richmond. He doesn’t press his advantage. Instead, he orders us back to Harrison’s Landing on the James River, back through the miserable Chickahominy swamps, back down the Virginia Peninsula, back the way we’ve come. In seven days of fighting, nearly sixteen thousand Union soldiers are killed, eight thousand are wounded, and six thousand are missing. With such high losses and no ground gained, despite the victories, we feel like we’re slinking back in miserable retreat.

  I’ve always admired General McClellan, but now I wonder. What have we been doing? Is there a strategy behind this retreat or simply cowardice? It’s a low moment for me. A soldier needs to believe in his command. I don’t want to admit it, but I’m not sure I have faith in General McClellan anymore. It’s the blackest dispatch I’ve sent yet, and I wonder if Mr. Hurlburt will actually print it.

  Lucky has been requisitioned by Colonel Poe, so I’m on foot in the muck as we retreat this time, trudging alongside Damon. We slog back through the swamp, wondering why we ever bothered.

  “What was that all about?” asks Damon. “Will you please explain to me why we didn’t jump on Richmond and finish this damn war?”

  I shrug, as miserable as my friend. “We’re just soldiers. What do we know? I’m sure McClellan has his reasons.”

  “Be nice if he’d share them with us then,” Damon snipes. “Will I be home this harvesttime or not? You tell me!”

  “I wish I could.” I don’t understand any more than Damon does, but I have to at least pretend to have faith in the general. He’s a good man, an honorable leader, I don’t doubt that. It’s his choices that seem terribly wrong.

  “Come on, Damon, we must be doing something right or I wouldn’t have been able to get all that food out of the farmhouse. And I found Lucky. And I wasn’t captured by those Rebels on the road. I have to believe things happen for a reason.” I struggle to explain it to myself as much as to Damon.

  “Maybe,” he agrees. “But we aren’t all as lucky as you. I swear, you’re like a cat with your nine lives.”

  “And you’re not?” I arch an eyebrow. “This from a man who was shot in the thigh and didn’t have his leg amputated.”

  Damon smiles. “You got me there. Maybe you’re right. Maybe things happen for a reason.”

  I clap him on the back. “You’ll see. When we get to Harrison’s Landing, something really good will happen. Maybe you’ll get a nice package in the mail.”

  Damon looks down at his mud-encrusted boots. “Yeah, maybe someone will send me some new shoes. Maybe I’ll get a soft down pillow. Maybe a three-layer cake.”

  I grin. I’ve been sent all those things. Families grateful for the final messages I’ve passed on from their dying sons have been generous, and I always share the riches that come in the mail.

  “I’m sure you will, Damon. Or better still, a letter from your sweetheart.”

  Damon’s eyes light up. “You think so? She hasn’t written in a while. Must be busy sewing her sister�
��s trousseau. She’s getting married next month, you know.”

  “That must be it,” I agree. “Women’s work—who can understand it?”

  “It’s a mystery, all right, just like women are.” Damon pauses. “I still don’t understand why Virginia hasn’t written to you.”

  “Don’t worry, my feelings aren’t hurt. Who has time for romance anyway? It’s all I can do to keep my rifle clean and my feet from rotting in my boots.”

  “You’re right—there’s no time to think about it when we’re in a battle. It’s those long stretches between fighting. Then it’s all I can think about.” Damon gapes like a lovesick cow. I blush, thinking how I’m the same way, mooning over romantic dreams of Jerome. When we aren’t fighting, all I can do is imagine Jerome touching me, caressing my hands with his, leaning in to kiss me. I can’t help hoping that when we reach Harrison’s Landing, Jerome will be there, waiting for me.

  F COURSE JEROME isn’t at Harrison’s Landing. But there is a letter for Damon from Polly and one for me from her cousin, Virginia. She’s actually written to me after all, and I feel strangely flattered.

  Dear Frank,

  I’ve heard what a brave, handsome soldier you are, and I hope you won’t think it presumptuous of me to write to you. I want to do what I can for our great nation, and helping support our troops is one way I can help. I’ve enclosed some socks I’ve knitted and a picture of myself. Please send me one of you so I can imagine you as I read your letters. If you want to write back to me, as I pray you do.

  Sincerely,

  Virginia Keyes

  “She wrote to you!” Damon beams. “And she sent you a daguerreotype! Let me see if she’s grown as pretty as Polly says.”

  I hand over the small sepia-toned image of a young girl, her hair piled on her head in an attempt to make her look older.

  “She’s fine enough,” I say. “But a bit young. Looks about twelve years old!”

  “No, no, she’s at least sixteen, plenty old enough to get married.” Damon studies the portrait. “I met her once, when she was still in braids. She’s all grown now, though I admit she looks a mite strict for someone so young. But what can you tell from a picture? She’s softer-looking in person, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t know about that, but I’ll write to her. Who knows what will come of it?” Actually, I know that precisely nothing will come of it, but I’ll seem more like a man if I have a girl writing to me. And it’s always good to get mail, even if the people writing to you aren’t really writing to you at all. Frank Thompson is getting letters now, but Sarah Emma Edmonds still hasn’t a soul for a friend.

  I pen a quick answer to Virginia and fold the requested portrait into the letter. The roving photographer told me I’m a handsome fellow (meaning I’m an ugly woman). Maybe Virginia will be so smitten by my good looks, she’ll write me lilac-scented letters like the ones Miss Anna sends to Jerome. I’d like that. I’d like to think that someone, somewhere finds me attractive.

  The letter to Virginia is short, but the dispatch I write for Mr. Hurlburt is long. I start by describing the move to Harrison’s Landing, something McClellan calls “changing base.” He assures us it’s not a retreat, even though we’re moving in the exact opposite direction necessary to confront the Confederates and seize their capital. To make things worse, the Rebels continue to nip at our heels, shooting at the rear guard, even lobbing shells over our heads and into our midst. By the time we arrive at Harrison’s Landing, we’re sick, exhausted, and demoralized, no matter how many tattered daydreams we cling to.

  General Samuel Heintzelman and staff, Harrison’s Landing, Va.

  For the injured it’s even worse. Close to a hundred men are stowed in the attic of a big house in the center of town, suffocating in the closed-in heat. The march through the wetlands combined with the scorching sun has seared the boots onto their feet so tight, they have to be cut off. I hate working as a nurse in the cramped, sweltering misery. I’ve had low moments before, but now I can’t shake off the black dread that grips me. This isn’t the glorious adventure I imagined that spring day so long ago when I enlisted. I don’t feel part of a great historical moment. Instead, I’m stuck in an ugly nightmare, and it seems like dawn will never come.

  I set down on paper all the misery, painting a bleak picture of the army. I wonder if this is the kind of slice of life Mr. Hurlburt expected when he asked me to write for his newsletter. He probably wanted inspiring tales of bravery, like the ones in the books I sold for him. Instead, I’m giving him the naked, ugly truth.

  It’s as if the generals have read my mind when the two armies call a truce to celebrate July Fourth. A holiday? I can’t believe it—for one day not only will there be no fighting, there’ll actually be an exchange of friendship. For Independence Day the Confederate and Union soldiers are allowed to pick berries together, trade tobacco, coffee, newspapers, gossip, and news. We can act like the neighbors we once were, not mortal enemies who have just spent a week slaughtering each other.

  Damon and I walk out together, eager to swap news with the Rebels. I’m curious if they’re as miserable as we are. What keeps them fighting? Why do they so desperately want to tear apart the Union?

  “Now, you can’t talk politics with the Rebs,” Damon warns me.

  “But that’s exactly what I want to do,” I argue.

  “This is supposed to be a holiday, and you’ll turn it into a brawl. Promise me—not a word!” Damon growls.

  “Fine,” I agree, though really it isn’t fine with me at all. Maybe we can talk our way out of this war, convince the Southerners the whole thing has been a big mistake.

  “So,” I ask as we near a cluster of gray soldiers washing their feet in a creek. “How do you like Harrison’s Landing? The folks here treat you well?” I don’t mention politics. I think of how I had to pull a gun to get bandages, threaten to shoot a woman to buy provisions. The Southerners have made it clear the Union troops aren’t welcome. I wonder if they resent all soldiers as disruptive or only us Northerners.

  “Course they treat us well!” declares a slope-shouldered boy who says he’s from Louisiana. “They’re our folk, ain’t they? We’re fighting for them, for all of us. Every home is open to us, every woman bakes us pies and knits us socks. After every battle, folks come and help with the wounded, taking them into their homes. Farmers bring provisions to the hospitals. We know how to take care of our own.”

  “Now that seems like a bit of bragging,” Damon says. “I can see them selling you food without being forced to, but giving things away like that …”

  “You don’t understand Southern hospitality!” The boy crosses his arms over his narrow chest. “What would a Yankee know about that? And patriotism! No one beats us for that, especially our women. Our young ladies push their own sweethearts to enlist, and if the fellas refuse, they send them a skirt with a note attached saying that if they won’t fight, they should dress like the cowards they are!”

  “I believe you,” I reassure him. “I’ve heard stories like that, and I’ve seen for myself the backbone and pride that your women have. I just wish I could enjoy some of that famous hospitality.”

  “Humpf!” the boy snorts. “Then give them—give us—the respect we deserve!”

  I nod. “I do. I sure respect your general, Bobby Lee. He knows how to fight.”

  The Louisiana boy flashes a gap-toothed grin. “That he do! You’ll see, we’ll whup you in the end—and it won’t be too long now.”

  I wonder if he’s right. After all, even when we win battles, we lose ground. It doesn’t seem like a good strategy for winning a war.

  Walking back to camp, Damon munches fistfuls of berries and talks about the Rebel soldiers. “Did you see how raggedy they’re dressed? Some have uniforms, but most of them don’t. Their shoes look like they’re about to fall off their feet. How can we not beat an army that looks like that?”

  “Because,” I say, “they have something that matters more than uniforms or s
hoes. They’ve got grit—and a cause they truly believe in. How many of our men can say the same?”

  “What do you mean, Frank?” Damon gapes, purple juice running down his chin. “I believe in the Union, I do! And I’ve got plenty of grit, thank you!”

  I slap him on the back. “Yes, you do. So maybe we’ll win this war after all.” I want to believe it.

  After a few days in Harrison’s Landing, I’m ordered off nursing duty to deliver mail to soldiers sent to recover in the various hospitals in Washington. It’s a relief to leave the steamy hospitals crammed with the sick and wounded. Maybe in the capital I’ll get a better sense of how the war is going. Maybe from there it looks like we’re winning.

  Much has changed in Washington. The vast encampments are gone, but the hospitals are still familiar. I know many of the wounded soldiers who have been evacuated by steamer from the Virginia Peninsula. But I can’t find the one I care about most—Jerome. I haven’t heard what happened to him and the other soldiers left behind, and nobody I ask throughout the city knows either. I finger Jerome’s locket, still hidden in my pocket. I’m not ready to send it to Anna yet, not until I know for sure that he’s dead.

  I find Dr. Evers and the men he led to safety, however. They’re recuperating in Georgetown under the doctor’s continued care.

  “I’m happy to see you made it out as well,” the doctor says. “I can’t thank you enough for the use of your horse. He made the difference for many men between living and dying.”

  I blush, ashamed of how I thought I could have made better use of Flag than the wounded could.