by Seymour Reit
Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
To Begin
April 25, 1861
March 19, 1862
March 20, 1862
March 23, 1862
March 29, 1862
March 30, 1862
March 31, 1862
April 1, 1862
May 20, 1862
May 22, 1862
May 30, 1862
June 10, 1862
February 17, 1863
March 10, 1863
May 6, 1863
What Happened After
Other Reading
About the Author
Copyright © 1988 by Seymour Reit
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.hmhco.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Reit, Seymour.
Behind rebel lines: the incredible story of Emma Edmonds, Civil War spy/Seymour Reit.
p. cm.—(Great Episodes)
Originally published in 1988.
Includes bibliographical references.
Summary: Recounts the story of the Canadian woman who disguised herself as a man and slipped behind Confederate lines to spy for the Union army.
1. Edmonds, S. Emma E. (Sarah Emma Evelyn), 1841–1898—Juvenile literature. 2. United States—History—Civil war, 1861–1865—Secret service—Juvenile literature. 3. Spies—United States—Biography—Juvenile literature. [1. Edmonds, S. Emma E. (Sarah Emma Evelyn), 1841–1898. 2. Spies. 3. United States—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Secret service.] I. Title. II. Series
E608.E235R45 2001
973.7'85'—dc21 20010165589
ISBN 978-0-15-216427-0
eISBN 978-0-547-53734-4
v1.0714
To my colleagues and friends
of the Bank Street College Media Group
I am naturally fond of adventure,
a little ambitious, and a good deal
romantic—but patriotism was the true
secret of my success.
—FROM EMMA’S MEMOIRS
To Begin
This is the true story of a remarkable woman named Emma Edmonds (her full name was really Sarah Emma Edmonds, but she dropped the Sarah part early on in her life). Emma was a feminist long before the word became popular. In 1861, at the start of the Civil War, she joined the Union army disguised as a man and was in the thick of the battle for several years.
Emma Edmonds wasn’t the only woman to attempt this. Historians estimate that over four hundred women, on both sides, fought in the war posing as men! Wearing men’s uniforms, they proved as valiant as any of the soldiers. For pure excitement and suspense, however, Emma’s wild adventures are in a class by themselves.
Some of the events described in these pages come from her own memoirs, published after the war. Other facts are from U.S. Army records and National Archives files. And some material is from the writings of such eminent historians as Bruce Catton, Sylvia Dannett, Mary E. Massey, and Philip Van Doren Stern.
Bits and pieces of this unique tale have appeared in various places, but this is the first time the whole amazing war drama has been set down. Everything that follows is true. All the dates and places are accurate. All the people were real. And all these things actually happened to young Canadian-born Emma Edmonds.
Of course, to make the past come truly alive, the people must come alive—they must be human and believable. For this reason, certain liberties have been taken: Some speeches, thoughts, and minor events have been filled in “as they could have been.” But this has been done only where necessary, with great care and respect for Emma and her work.
Emma Edmonds was a true idealist. She believed deeply in the Northern cause and reacted to those heroic years with great passion. During the war, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., who became a famous Supreme Court justice, was a young officer in the Union forces. Years later, he wrote: “Through our great good fortune, in our youth our hearts were touched with fire.”
So it was with Emma Edmonds—and here is her story.
1
April 25, 1861
The long line stretched from the Flint courthouse down the stone steps and across the green lawn. Moving forward slowly, the young men were in high spirits. They laughed and joked as if they were leaving on a picnic instead of going off to fight a war.
“I’ll wager we take Richmond in three weeks.”
“Southerners talk big, but they cain’t fight.”
“Been plowin’ behind horses all my life. Now I’ll get me a chance to ride one.”
“Can’t hardly wait to take a shot at a live rebel.”
“You may be too late, boy. They say one good battle, the Confederacy’ll fall apart.”
Tension and excitement crackled along the noisy line. But one dark-haired volunteer, small and silent, was lost in thought. Emma Edmonds tugged at her jacket and prayed—for the tenth time that day—that the scheme would work. It was plumb crazy, she knew, but she didn’t care. She’d made up her mind and that was that.
Would they discover her secret? She’d have her answer in a few minutes. Of course, she was comfortable enough wearing men’s clothes. She’d practically lived in rough pants and heavy shoes growing up in Canada, working with the farmhands, and keeping up with the best of them. Now at twenty-one, she was still trim and boyish. She had a strong chin, a firm mouth, and cool blue eyes, and she’d cropped her hair short like a man’s.
She also knew—she’d checked earlier—that nobody bothered with physical examinations for new recruits. The Union army was desperate for able-bodied men; they had no mind to be choosy. Still she was worried. Maybe her information was wrong. Maybe they’d see right through her masquerade.
The line inched slowly along step by step, carrying Emma past a billboard covered with recruiting posters. The words leaped out at her: VOLUNTEERS TO THE RESCUE! . . . PATRIOTISM AND LOVE OF COUNTRY! . . . RUTHLESS SOUTHERN TREACHERY! . . . DEFEND OUR NOBLE UNION! . . . VINDICATE THE HONOR OF OUR GLORIOUS FLAG!
She frowned at the fancy wording—all that fuss and bombast. Still, she had to admit that was how she really felt—she and thousands of others. Bother the fancy speeches and flag-waving politicians—the fact was that alarm bells were ringing everywhere. The country was in peril and had to be saved.
Only ten days before, Abe Lincoln had asked for seventy-five thousand volunteers. Now they were pouring in from shops and factories, mills and mines, offices, farms, and dockyards—rallying in every city, town, and village. And so were the local militias, with their fancy names and uniforms. Emma had read in the papers about Ellsworth’s Avengers, Smallwood’s Marylanders, Sprague’s Light Cavalry; she knew of the Black Rifles, the Winslow Blues, and the Hibernian Greens. She’d seen pictures of New York’s Fire Zouaves who wore baggy red pantaloons. The Putnam Phalanx of Connecticut sported white plumes on their hats. Boston’s Highland Guards had uniforms of Scotch plaid. And one group, the Mozart Regiment, had marched off to battle in elegant double-breasted frock coats. But that was changing; all these units, so nobly costumed, were now being welded into a single force wearing Federal blue.
Here in Flint, where Emma lived, men were needed for the Michigan Volunteer Infantr
y called the Union Grays. Emma was aching to be a nurse in a tent hospital on the battlefield, but that was dangerous work: Only male nurses were given those jobs.
The line carried Emma to the foot of the courthouse steps. She climbed them slowly, her heart hammering. With each step, her anxiety grew.
Certainly there were things she could do as a woman to help out. She could knit socks, roll bandages, or sew flags for the new regiments. She could work in a New England textile mill, making cloth for blankets and uniforms. Or fill cartridge sacks with gunpowder at a Federal arsenal. Or work in a refreshment canteen. Or write letters home for the sick and wounded. Female nurses were also needed at hospitals in big cities like Philadelphia, Boston, and New York.
It was all good work, important work—useful work that would trap her on the sidelines, far away from the realities of the war. But safety wasn’t for Emma Edmonds. Something was driving her to do more, to play a bigger part. There was a kind of imp voice inside her, pushing her to take risks. It was the same voice that, years before, had dared her to climb the highest trees on the farm, to ride the most dangerous horses, to swim the river raging wild after the spring floods.
Emma couldn’t put this feeling into words, but she sensed that at least part of it was her father’s doing. He had always wanted a son and could never forgive her for being female. She’d tried hard to please him and to win his approval, but without success. Her father had acted as though the whole thing were her fault, and his hard manner never softened. After Emma’s mother died, his criticism and cruel tirades got worse, and when Emma was sixteen, she ran for her life. Taking all she owned in an old burlap sack, she fled to a country where she knew words like liberty and freedom had real meaning.
That had been five years ago, and Emma had quickly fallen in love with her adopted land. She’d become its strong defender, and now that America was in peril she’d have to take action. The imp voice was calling her. Somehow she had to be part of this war. She had to be right there with the fighting men. Emma, unafraid, sharing their dangers and hardships . . .
Suddenly, she found herself in a paneled room draped with American flags. The line had carried her with it through the tall doors, and now her turn had come. With a final tug at her jacket, Emma swallowed hard and stepped to the desk. The recruiting sergeant glanced quickly at her and bent over his paper.
“Name and age?” he asked mechanically.
“Franklin Thompson,” said Emma. “Twenty-one.”
“Place of birth?”
“Saint John, Canada.”
The sergeant looked at Emma again, but only for a moment. In this area many Canadians were crossing the border to join the Federal army. He nodded and went on.
“Any handicaps or infectious diseases?”
“No, sir.”
“Civil occupation?”
“Bible salesman and medical orderly. I’m hoping I can be posted to a field hospital.”
“Read and write?”
“Yes, sir.”
He pushed the enlistment form over for her to sign. Taking the pen, Emma dipped it, remembering just in time to scrawl Franklin Thompson.
The soldier scribbled on a card, handed it to her, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re short of medical help so I’m rating you as a field nurse. Report to the supply tent for your gear and get sworn in.”
The huge supply tent, pitched near the courthouse, was chaotic, but somehow everything worked efficiently. Moving from line to line, Emma collected a blanket, boots, tin canteen, and army clothing. Then, with scores of others, she raised her hand and took the oath of service, administered by an elderly, tired-looking adjutant.
“You men,” he said, “are now part of the Second Regiment, Michigan Volunteers. Report to the railway depot tomorrow at 5:00 A.M. sharp. You’ll go by train to Washington, where the regiment will be issued weapons and become part of the Army of the Potomac. Good luck to you all.”
Emma felt a great surge of relief at passing the big test. Carrying her equipment, she slipped away from the excited crowd and hurried across the trampled lawn. The line was still growing; it seemed like every young man in the state was rushing to enlist.
Back at the rooming house she dumped everything on her bed and carefully locked the door. Forcing herself to stay calm, she began the magic change. Trousers . . . shirt . . . jacket and boots . . . peaked cap . . . wide belt with the U.S. brass buckle . . . canvas leggings . . . rolled blanket over the shoulder, just so. Then in the cracked mirror over her bureau, she sized herself up, studying her reflection from different angles. Convincing, no doubt about it. Emma Edmonds was gone, and in her place stood Private Franklin Thompson, Second Michigan Volunteers, U.S. Army!
Marching around the little room, getting used to the new uniform, Emma felt more comfortable and sure of herself. Her masquerade, starting as an impulsive, daft sort of idea, had suddenly become real. Outside her window a party of young recruits tramped by, their arms loaded with gear, their voices raised in harmony:
We will welcome to our ranks
All the loyal, true and brave,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom;
And altho’ they may be poor,
Not a man shall be a slave,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom!
Emma tried to join in, but her mouth was dry. Her heart pounded and she felt light-headed. Was it joy or fear? She couldn’t rightly say—odd how both these emotions had symptoms in common. But no matter—the important thing was that her scheme had worked. So far, she was safe.
Emma stared in the mirror again, tilted her cap at a jaunty, devil-may-care angle, and smiled, wondering what her father would say if he could see her now. She felt a great rush of excitement and happiness. The imp voice had pulled her from the sidelines and the adventure was beginning. Of course there would be problems—there were bound to be—but she wasn’t worried. At least, not too much. Whatever trouble or dangers might be waiting, Emma knew somehow she’d manage to face them.
Standing at the window, she could still hear the volunteers singing in the distance. She drew a long, slow breath. This morning she’d taken a soldier’s solemn oath; now there was no turning back. For better or worse, Miss Edmonds was going to war.
2
March 19, 1862
Private Thompson was dog tired. He gulped some lukewarm water from his canteen, picked up his musket, and headed wearily toward the hospital tent His eyes burned. His shoulders ached. The sergeant’s harsh voice rang in his ears.
“Dress those lines! Quick march! Try to look like soldiers!”
“When you crawl, keep your fool heads down! You want to stop a sniper’s ball?”
“Thompson, that’s a musket you’re carrying, not a mop handle!”
Under a blazing Virginia sun, the troopers of the Michigan Second had been bullied and badgered. They marched for hours, learning military drill. They practiced priming and firing their weapons. On skirmish exercises, they crawled through acres of dirt and underbrush. It had been a rough day—only one of many.
The war had been dragging on for months, and the South still hadn’t collapsed. In fact, the Confederate troops had proved tough and valiant, winning key battles. General George McClellan, commanding the Army of the Potomac, was anxious to change all that. He’d vowed to whip his militias and green recruits into a good fighting force—and no one was exempted. Along with the surgeons and other nurses, Private Franklin Thompson was classed as a noncombatant; still, everyone had to go through the same training. In war nothing was certain; there was no telling when medical and service troops might have to help fight off a sudden enemy attack.
Heading along the tent rows, Private Thompson picked his way around stacked arms and piles of equipment. Supply wagons rumbled by. Couriers on horseback galloped past him, raising clouds of dust. New men were still pouring in and tents were going up everywhere.
He entered the hospital tent and walked to the far end, where a place had been set asi
de for the nurses. A canvas curtain separated them from the main ward. The tent had been pitched in a shaded area with good drainage, a little apart from the rest of the camp. A row of cots ran along either side, separated by a center aisle. There were some thirty cots in all, but more could be added when necessary.
In the middle of the tent a large sawhorse table was piled with medicines, books, and hospital records. When necessary, it would also serve as an operating table. Kerosene lamps hung here and there on the tent poles, and toward the back of the tent was an open wing where all the meals were cooked.
Thompson’s unit—a small one—was made up of the head surgeon, Dr. Hodes; his assistant, Lieutenant Reese; four male nurses; two cooks; a wardmaster; and an orderly who chopped wood, hauled water, and did the heavy chores. At the moment, the ward was fairly quiet, since the regiment hadn’t yet seen heavy fighting. There were the usual cases of dysentery and some sniper gunshot wounds. One officer had cracked a hip when his horse stumbled and fell on him. A young soldier’s foot was crushed when a cannon recoiled before he could leap clear. And a veteran of the Mexican War, who’d ridden with Winfield Scott at Cerro Gordo, was down with a case of pneumonia. Other patients who suffered from assorted burns and minor mishaps were treated and then sent back to their outfits.
The soldier peered into the ward and nodded to the men on duty. He dumped his gear and checked the time. Dr. Hodes’s nurses worked in pairs—six hours on and six hours off, around the clock. He had a whole hour before his next shift—time enough for a nap and a bite to eat. Lying on the cot with its thin straw mattress, Thompson stretched luxuriously. The sounds of camp life faded away. A few fat flies droned lazily. He closed his eyes and tried to recall all that had happened since “Franklin Thompson” had enlisted.
