Behind Rebel Lines

by Seymour Reit

  Of course, those first few weeks had been the roughest. Emma smiled as she thought of how nervous she’d been—how worried that someone would discover her secret. And Lord, what a peck of problems she’d had to face: how to steal a bit of privacy when she needed it, or how to behave around some of the coarser men. Emma was modest by nature but tough and determined. With faith and good humor she’d worked to solve those difficulties, and now Private Thompson was well established with nobody any the wiser.

  Stretched out on the cot, Emma relived her first day in uniform—the long train ride from Flint to Washington, D.C, in a grimy coach crammed with recruits. Unsure of her disguise, she’d kept to herself, gazing out the window and answering curtly if a question came her way.

  In Washington, the new men were issued arms and divided into regimental companies. Later Emma had time to explore the bustling capital. There were army uniforms everywhere. Tents and bivouacs were jammed into every inch of park and vacant lot. Space in the city was so scarce that troops were even camped in the big East Room of the White House.

  Emma could almost taste the excitement in the air. Knots of civilians gathered around the bulletin boards to read war dispatches. Smart cavalry units trotted down the boulevards, their guidons snapping in the breeze. Fife-and-drum corps stepped along, piping patriotic tunes. On every wide street, troops practiced marching and drilling. Whenever a company tramped past the big house on Pennsylvania Avenue the men set up a cheer—and sometimes President Lincoln would come to the window and wave.

  From her temporary camp, Emma could look straight down Constitution Avenue to the new capitol building still under construction. The huge iron dome was only half finished. Its bare ribs poked up in the air like giant fingers, a vague promise waiting to be fulfilled.

  Emma stayed in Washington for months, nursing at a nearby clinic. Then, one day, thousands of troops, including her company, were jammed aboard paddle-wheel transports and carried down Chesapeake Bay. After a slow, bumpy trip, the boats anchored near Fort Monroe at the tip of the Virginia peninsula. The Army of the Potomac, numbering almost one hundred thousand men, took up positions across this neck of land, between the York River and the James River. Emma’s regiment was part of the Union line. She’d been as signed to Company F, and was now settled at Dr. Hodes’s tent hospital.

  McClellan’s plan, widely known, was to move north and attack Richmond, the capital of the Confederacy. But the Union’s path was blocked by the city of Yorktown, a short way up the peninsula. This city was defended by a ten-mile line of trenches and a strong force under General Joseph Johnston. President Lincoln and War Secretary Edwin Stanton were pressuring McClellan to push ahead to Richmond, the grand prize—but the general held back. Before he could capture the rebel capital he would have to take Yorktown, lying across his path. And he wasn’t sure what awaited him there.

  George McClellan was a cautious campaigner—too cautious, many thought. He was also stubborn, refusing to move until his troops were well trained and he knew more about the enemy’s defenses. So the Army of the Potomac stayed in place while the drilling and training went on.

  None of this much mattered to Emma Edmonds. She would leave war strategy to others—she was content. Her disguise was working, the imp voice was silent, and she was having her moment in history. She’d also been lucky. Living at the hospital instead of in a crowded company tent had simplified matters. It was not only more comfortable, but more private, and she found it easier to hide her identity. Emma loved nursing. The doctors relied on her—and though she kept to herself, the other nurses treated cool, quiet Frank Thompson with friendly respect.

  So Emma dozed peacefully on her cot, unaware that all this was soon to change—that two separate events would turn her tidy world completely upside down.

  The first involved a Union agent who had been working in Richmond as a spy for McClellan. His mission was to get information about the rebel defenses in Yorktown. Growing careless, he’d been caught and, after a quick trial, shot by a Confederate firing squad.

  The second event involved a Union patrol setting out that very night. The scout party, from Company B, consisted of four troopers and an officer named Vesey. It was a routine assignment to probe the enemy’s outer defenses. With luck, the party might capture a rebel picket and bring him in for questioning. The men smeared dirt on their hands and faces to cut down their visibility and removed all loose metal that might clank or jingle. Then they slipped silently into the Virginia night.

  There was nothing unique about either event. On the great, sweeping canvas of war, they were fairly minor episodes. But for Emma Edmonds, they were crucial. Taken together, these two events played a major part in her future, starting her on a path filled with risk and danger.

  3

  March 20, 1862

  The following morning at work, Emma heard some surprising news. A trooper from Company B came to visit a sick friend, and the men talked about a newcomer to the trooper’s outfit, a certain Lieutenant Vesey. Emma’s ears perked up. Asking questions, she learned that the officer’s first name was James and that he was a tall man with sandy hair and a bushy mustache.

  “Where’s he from?” she asked.

  The rifleman shrugged. “Don’t rightly know, Thompson. He transferred to us from a Boston company.”

  Emma broke into a grin. She’d known James Vesey when they were both living in Boston some years ago. They’d been good friends before Emma had gone off to Michigan and they’d lost touch. But she often thought of the big sandy-haired man, and the memory brought color to her face.

  The other girls in Boston had sometimes teased her about being sweet on James, but in her blunt, straightforward way, Emma had laughed it off. Stuff and nonsense. She had much too much to do, and certainly no time for romantic interests. Yet here they both were, in the same regiment. Emma felt her cheeks reddening. Romance—fiddlesticks. She simply wanted to see her old friend again. Where was the harm in that?

  When her shift ended, Emma washed up quickly, straightened her uniform, tilted her cap, and set off for the Company B area.

  Hurrying along, she was surprised at the depth of her feelings. Well, she and James had enjoyed fine times together in Boston, and she’d missed him afterward. Quite a lot. He was so hearty and good-humored. He had a lovely way with him, always cheering her up when she needed it. Imagine finding him again—what a coincidence! Of course, she’d have to play out her role and pretend to be Frank Thompson, but maybe he wouldn’t see through her disguise. In those days, she’d worn her hair long, in a bun at the nape of her neck; now it was short. The army uniform would help, and her face had matured quite a bit. She’d keep her cap low and hope for the best.

  Bother, it was confusing. She might just let him in on the secret anyway. Somehow she knew he’d understand and could be trusted. But she’d deal with all that later. Now she just yearned to see him, to talk to James and hear the booming laugh that always made her feel so warm and happy.

  Outside the company headquarters tents, pennants waved in the warm breeze. Excited, planning what she would say, she hurried along the line until she reached Company B. Some distance behind the last row of tents in a cleared field, Emma noticed a familiar ritual. A cluster of soldiers, bareheaded, stood around a mound of earth while the chaplain read a psalm. His voice carried to her on the breeze:

  Commit thy way unto the Lord.

  Trust also in Him and

  He shall bring it to pass. . . .

  Emma stopped near a gunner who was leaning on an artillery piece, watching the service.

  “Right sad ’bout Lieutenant Vesey,” he muttered.

  Emma froze. “Who?”

  “Vesey,” the gunner answered. “He took a patrol out for the first time last night. They ran into a big rebel party and there was a fight. Our lads got back safe, ’cept for the lieutenant. Took a musket ball in his neck. Dead by the time they brought ’im in.”

  The Lord knoweth

  The days of
the upright,

  And their inheritance

  Shall be forever. . . .

  Emma walked numbly toward the group of mourners. Someone picked up a rough wooden cross and pushed it into the dirt at one end of the mound. Somebody else picked up a gold-braided hat and hung it on an arm of the cross.

  For such as be blessed of Him

  Shall inherit the earth. . . .

  There was a mist across Emma’s eyes. Through it she stared at the crude lettering: VESEY, J.—LT., U.S.A. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. Just minutes before she’d been hurrying to see him, to meet this man who’d meant so much to her—more than she’d ever realized. Emma added numbers—James must have been about thirty. Only three decades, and all that was left was a dirt mound lying at her feet like a grim joke. Time was a cheat. Now she’d never smile with him, or hear his voice, or warm to his laughter.

  Wait on the Lord and keep His way,

  And He shall exalt thee

  To inherit the land . . .

  Emma turned away feeling sick, the chaplain’s words trailing after her. Her mouth was sour with the taste of pain. Slowly it turned to anger. There would be thousands of Veseys before this was over—thousands dead before the country was whole again. When she enlisted, she’d pictured herself starting on a fine, glorious adventure. Her way had seemed so safe and secure. But all that was a myth. In war there was no safety. Dirt mounds covered dreams as well as corpses.

  “Took a musket ball in his neck. Dead by the time they brought him in . . .”

  Something began to stir in Emma. The imp was coming back to life, whispering, taunting her. For a while, she’d felt very pleased with her masquerade, even a little smug. Now those feelings were passing, and old fires were starting to smolder.

  Fighting back tears, Emma stumbled blindly toward the hospital. Her path took her near a small cabin where the chaplain, Major Butler, lived with his wife. Emma knew Mrs. Butler, who often came to the hospital to visit patients and bring them treats from her kitchen. Emma and the older woman had become friends. Now, as she passed the cabin, some instinct drew her toward the front door. Suddenly she needed to talk, to see a kind face and hear a friendly voice. Distraught and barely aware of what she was doing, Emma stopped and knocked. Mrs. Butler opened the door, took one look at the young soldier standing there, and drew him inside.

  “Sit down, Franklin. Make yourself comfortable,” she said, staring at Emma curiously. “I’ll get us some hot coffee.”

  Emma drank the coffee gratefully, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes.

  “Right sad ’bout Lieutenant Vesey . . . Right sad ’bout Lieutenant Vesey . . .”

  All at once the tears came. Between her sobs she told Mrs. Butler about James—their friendship, her running to meet him, the shock of seeing the sad little grave. Emma’s feelings overwhelmed her. Once started, she just couldn’t stop—in next to no time, out poured the rest of her secret. She talked about her need to be in the war, about posing as a man, and confessed her true name and identity. With a rush of relief, she blurted out everything that had been bottled up inside for so long.

  Mrs. Butler listened wide-eyed. “I declare,” she murmured, half to herself. “I declare . . .” She came over, bent down, and put her arm around the young woman’s shoulder.

  “Franklin—I mean Emma—I expect you were sent to me today. Things like this aren’t accidents. It’s too heavy a burden for you to carry alone—time you had a friend and an ally.”

  Emma blinked in surprise and relief. “You’re not going to turn me in?”

  The chaplain’s wife laughed. “My dear, I come from pioneer people. In ’41 my folks drove a team and wagon from Independence clear to the Willamette Valley. We farmed the land when it was scarce more than a wilderness. That kind of thing puts iron in a woman.” Mrs. Butler’s eyes twinkled. “I confess, at first I was taken aback by your story. Lord, yes. But I do think you’re a wonder.” The gray-haired woman smiled and gazed out the little window. “If I were your age, I’m not sure I wouldn’t try the same fool thing myself.”

  Staring at Mrs. Butler, Emma realized it wasn’t finished after all; her secret was still safe. Hardly believing her good fortune, she wiped her nose, grinned at her new friend, and began talking again, filling in the details of her story.

  By the time she left the cabin, Emma felt much calmer. For a long time she’d been isolated and cut off; now she could share her secret with Mrs. Butler, a partner as strong as she herself. But grief still burned inside, and the imp voice was getting bolder, stirring her discontent. Until this morning she’d been satisfied being Frank Thompson, Union field nurse. Now it all seemed so trivial. She had a fierce need to do more, to strike a real blow for the cause. She wanted to avenge James’s death—she had to. But how?

  Emma fretted, but the glimmer of an answer came a few days later. A rumor sped through camp that one of the Union’s key spies had been captured in Richmond and shot. McClellan had counted on this agent. Now the army was without eyes and ears, and someone had to fill the gap. Pressure from Washington was building, but the general refused to gamble. He insisted on more information before pushing ahead.

  Busy with her chores, Emma took in all the talk and gossip. The more she heard, the more her interest grew. An idea was slowly forming—a wild notion pushing its way into her awareness. When she saw what was happening, she was alarmed. The whole idea was mad. A fantasy. Downright impossible! Yet here was the nagging voice again. Coaxing. Whispering. Daring her to take new risks.

  Trust also in Him and

  He shall bring it to pass. . . .

  Emma’s faith was strong. Weakness wasn’t in her nature. She’d faced fear many times—and was ready to face it again. Of course the whole thing might take more grit than she could muster. But how could you know the limits of your courage if you never put it to the test?

  That night Emma hardly slept, tossing and turning, plagued by dreams of graves and crude crosses. At dawn she awoke with a start, and her mind was crystal clear. She had her answer: She would try the impossible.

  4

  March 23, 1862

  When Emma told her friend she wanted to become a spy, Mrs. Butler almost dropped the pan of biscuits she was holding.

  Quickly she sat Emma down and tried hard to discourage her. It was one thing, she pointed out, to take risks as a battlefield nurse, but plain foolhardy to go begging for danger. The chaplain’s wife did her very best, cajoling and arguing. But she sensed that it was of no use; she knew Emma was strong-willed, daring, dedicated—and stubborn as an old razorback hog.

  Emma listened politely, her jaw set, her lips in a tight smile. She couldn’t understand her friend’s reaction. “I ’preciate your sentiments,” she said at last, “but my mind’s made up, Mrs. Butler. I’ll do it—if they’ll have me.”

  Faced with an irresistible force named Emma Edmonds, the chaplain’s wife surrendered. “I expect you’ve taken leave of your senses.” She sighed. “But I understand; people do what they must. If you’re real set on this, at least the major and I can help.”

  Major Butler wasn’t in on Emma’s big secret. As far as he knew, she was simply young Frank Thompson, idealistic and hotheaded, and the chaplain agreed to serve as sponsor. He borrowed some army manuals from headquarters, and Emma spent her free hours learning about weapons, fortifications, makes of cannons, and types of projectiles. Then the major sent Private Thompson’s name in to McClellan’s chief of staff.

  The next day young Thompson faced a panel of stern-faced officers. They fired a barrage of questions at him until he felt like a fort under attack. They examined his background, experience, and knowledge of armaments. They probed his beliefs, patriotism, and feelings about the Union cause. They even put him through a “phrenological test.” A solemn young captain, his cuffs turned up, felt the curves and bumps on Private Thompson’s head. Finally he gave the candidate high ratings for “bravery, secretiveness, and good character.”

>   After a brief conference, the committee agreed to give the young soldier a chance. Thompson stood and took the special oath for secret agents, then met the adjutant who would be his contact and supply him with funds.

  The officer came straight to the point. “You’ll have a free hand, Thompson. Work behind the rebel lines any way you can. Get the facts we need and bring ’em back—plus yourself—in one piece. Be ready to start in three days.”

  Nervous and excited, Emma talked over her next step with Mrs. Butler. To move freely in enemy territory, she’d need a good disguise. The simplest, of course, would be to wear a Confederate uniform; she could easily piece one together from the prisoners. But that was risky. The Southern troopers would be curious. They might ask about her hometown, or what outfit she belonged to, or the names of her officers. One false answer and she’d be finished.

  Thinking about it, Emma soon found a better option. Everyone knew that the Confederate armies used a great many slaves to do heavy labor. Black work gangs dug trenches, built roads, cleaned stables, hauled wood and water. There were slaves everywhere—useful, but totally ignored. To rebel eyes, all slaves were faceless beings, invisible men who were hardly ever noticed. It was the perfect disguise. Black skin would be Emma’s armor.

  Once decided, she hitched a wagon ride to Fort Monroe to buy what she needed at the post store. She put together her outfit quickly—except for one important item. To look convincing, she’d have to have a black woolly wig.