by Seymour Reit
The spy’s second day behind the lines was much less painful than the first. He was assigned to a group that took meals to the crews manning the heavy artillery. Since these posts were spread out along the Confederate front, it gave him a chance to learn more about the fortifications. He eavesdropped on the conversations around him and learned that fresh reinforcements were expected. He also heard that General Robert E. Lee had visited Yorktown and didn’t think the defenses would hold against a strong Union attack. All of this, he knew, would be of interest at McClellan’s headquarters.
During the afternoon, while carrying pots and buckets with a slave named Jabez, Cuff saw a long row of fat logs lined up behind banks of earth. They were pointed south, and soldiers were busy painting them black.
“What’s them logs fo’?” he asked his companion.
“They’s Quaker guns,” Jabez replied.
Cuff didn’t have to playact—his puzzlement was real.
“Ah never heard o’ no Quaker guns befo’.”
Jabez grinned. “Quakers is ver’ religious people, Cuff Peace-lovin’. They don’t hold with no wars. They won’t do no shootin’, see? An’ neither will them guns.”
Studying the painted logs, Cuff realized how convincing they would look when seen through a Union telescope. He made a mental note to pinpoint the fake cannons on his secret map.
Several hours later, he and Jabez were filling canteens at a pump for one of the gun crews. Nearby, he noticed a heavyset gentleman in dark civilian clothes talking to a group of officers. Cuff recognized him as a peddler—supposedly a good friend and strong Union sympathizer. He often came to the Union camp with his wagon, staying for hours on some pretext or other. Straining his ears, Cuff caught some of the man’s conversation. He was so surprised he had to fight to keep himself from spinning around and staring. The man was a clever Confederate spy who picked up data on his peddler trips, then passed it to the rebels! Bending over the pump, Cuff heard him boasting of his success in luring Union patrols into ambushes, causing the death of many.
The young woman thought of James Vesey and felt herself go hot with pain and anger. The rebel agent was talking away, unaware that he was doomed—but Emma wasted no sympathy on him. Her cause was just, she had a job to do, and fate had thrust this turncoat into her hands. She’d report the peddler to headquarters; his next visit to the Union lines would be his last visit anywhere.
Slowly the long day passed. Then the sun dipped to the horizon and Cuff began making plans. He had a lot of valuable information and had to get back as quickly as possible, but it wouldn’t be easy. Slipping into the rebel camp was simpler than finding a way to break out of it. Except for his hour of liberty, he had no time alone, and at night he’d be penned with the other blacks in their compound. If he was caught outside that area, he’d be shot as a spy or hanged as a slave attempting to escape. And neither option was very appealing.
During his free hour, Cuff wandered toward the picket line west of the new parapet. Here the gap between the two forces was less than a mile. He knew that in emergencies reliable black men were allowed briefly to stand picket duty. Perhaps a black guard could be convinced—or bribed—to let him slip through.
Cuff drew closer to the outposts. Suddenly a young Confederate lieutenant came striding toward him, a frown on his face, his red mustache bristling. Cuff swallowed hard and got ready for trouble. “You, boy!” the lieutenant barked. “Come along with me.”
The officer marched Cuff to a forward position, and the trooper in charge saluted smartly. “Corporal,” the lieutenant said, “put this one in the post where the man was shot. He’ll do for now, until I can send up a proper replacement.”
When he left, the corporal looked at Cuff angrily. “I don’t hold with lettin’ your kind up here, but orders is orders.” He shoved a handsome rifle into Cuff’s hands; Cuff recognized it as an Enfield Carbine. “Know what this is? It’s a rifle. All primed and loaded,” the corporal growled. “All you gotta do is aim ’n’ pull the trigger.”
Cuff bobbed his head and smiled. “Yessuh, ah unnerstan’. Ah knows how to use ’er.”
The corporal shoved Cuff roughly toward a small mound. “Stand there, keep your eyes open, fire at anything in the valley that moves.” He narrowed his cold eyes. “You fall asleep on duty, boy, we’ll shoot you like a dawg.”
Cuff shook his head. “Don’ worry none, suh. Ah won’t fall asleep—too scared tuh fall asleep.”
The corporal was gone before Cuff finished his sentence. Elated, he looked around, marveling at his wonderful luck. The sentries on each side were fifty or sixty feet away. No problem there, but he’d have to move soon before the lieutenant came back with a substitute. In minutes a misty drizzle began. Clouds bunched overhead. Night closed in and Cuff could no longer see the other pickets. Clutching his rifle, he stepped from the mound and tiptoed into the valley.
The gloom and mist were so heavy now that he could barely see two feet ahead. Catlike and silent, he slipped through the night, knowing that any sudden noise would bring a dozen shots crashing in his direction. Following his instincts, Cuff snaked across the open zone until he sensed that the Union lines were just ahead. But a night arrival was risky and he didn’t relish drawing sentry fire.
Soaked to the skin, the weary spy crawled under a sheltering bush to wait for morning.
8
April 1, 1862
The day dawned dry and clear. A bored sentry, tired after a long, wet night of guard duty, looked across the valley and blinked in surprise. Coming toward him was a small man in torn overalls. He had a mop of woolly hair, his skin was streaked brown, and he was waving a red bandanna tied to a mud-stained rifle.
Cuff cut off the young soldier’s bumbling questions. “Get your lieutenant,” he said crisply. “I have urgent business at headquarters.”
Some ten minutes later, agent Franklin Thompson was sitting across from his contact, Colonel Shrub. The adjutant waited in suspense, tapping his fingers anxiously on the desk. With a grin, Thompson pulled off his shoe and spread out his notes and diagrams. For the next half hour, he briefed the colonel on everything he’d seen and done. He described the different gun batteries, the new fortifications, the size of the enemy encampment. He told the colonel about the fake cannons, and finally of the rebel spy who’d been posing for months as a friendly peddler.
The adjutant, delighted with the report, asked Thompson to wait while he went to inform General McClellan. Some time later, the commander himself came to shake Thompson’s grimy hand and personally thank him for all he’d accomplished. Private Thompson was dazed and flattered; then he remembered the handsome Enfield Carbine. He started to put it on the desk, but the adjutant waved it away. “Keep the rifle, Thompson,” he said. “You’ve earned a souvenir.”
Later in the chaplain’s cabin, Emma Edmonds scrubbed off the remaining brown stain and changed into her regular uniform. It was a luxury for her to be clean again and in familiar clothes. Mrs. Butler, overjoyed, bustled about the kitchen, and over a mug of coffee and a bracing bowl of hot soup, Emma finally relaxed. While her friend listened in amazement, Emma recounted her adventures, careful to avoid the military secrets. The chaplain’s wife beamed happily. “The major and I prayed for you night and day,” she said, going to the door with Emma. “I walked beside you, my dear. Praise the Lord it’s all over and you’ve got it out of your system.” Emma smiled and hugged her friend, but said nothing.
Private Thompson’s welcome at the medical tent was less joyous, but he knew Dr. Hodes was pleased to have him back. “’Bout time you turned up,” the doctor grumbled. “Don’t know or care what all that tomfoolery was, but I’ll remind you that I’m trying to run a hospital. We have a great deal of work to do here, and I venture we’ll have even more before too long.”
The doctor’s words were prophetic. Thompson’s report, plus information from captured rebels, gave McClellan the facts he needed; three days after the private’s return, McClellan ordered
an all-out attack. The Confederate generals knew they were outnumbered and outgunned; Quaker cannons might fool enemy eyes, but they couldn’t stop an advance. The rebels began to fall back. But farther to the north, General Joseph Johnston had built up a large army for a drive on Washington. He quickly detached thousands of these men and rushed them south to defend Yorktown.
Within sight of their goal, the Union troops were stopped and had to dig in for a long siege. Every day brought fierce new battles and skirmishes—and many new casualties. The hospital, once calm and placid, became a scene of hectic, feverish activity. As wounded men came flooding in, all regular nursing shifts were dropped. Franklin and the others worked around the clock, taking time only for a quick meal and a few hours of exhausted sleep. To the steady rumble of gunfire, he assisted the surgeons at the operating table, cleaned and dressed wounds, carried food and water to suffering patients, and tried to comfort the dying.
Emma’s war, no longer a grand colorful pageant, became a nightmare of endless fighting, bleeding bodies, and weary men. But through it all, she clung to her belief in the Union’s cause and its future.
The siege dragged on until the Army of the Potomac finally took Yorktown at the beginning of May—five weeks after Private Thompson’s spy mission. Fighting a stubborn rearguard action, the rebels headed north and the Union troops followed. In different parts of the country, other major battles were taking place, but on the Virginia peninsula, McClellan’s men fought their way slowly toward the Confederate capital.
Then a period of heavy rain began. Torrents turned the roads to mud, slowing the advance. The mud got so deep that the artillery and supply trains took thirty-six hours to move a short five miles. Soon the Union forces faced yet another obstacle: the Chickahominy River, stretching from Williamsburg to a point east of Richmond. By mid-May, parts of the river were in Union hands, but much was still under rebel control.
General McClellan ordered a bridge built across this barrier, out of range of enemy cannon fire. The bridge had to be large enough to carry horse-drawn artillery as well as foot soldiers. It would take weeks to finish. Meanwhile the Southerners were improving their defenses.
At Union headquarters, the officers studied their maps and shook their heads. It was downright irritating. In some places, Federal troops were only three miles from Richmond; at other points, the front was vague and uncertain. Of course the rebels would fight like fiends to protect their capital. But where would they make their stand? What types of defenses were they setting up? Everyone agreed that more information was needed. A daring agent would have to slip across the Chickahominy, penetrate the enemy lines, and bring back the answers. But who could do the job? Discussing the possibilities, McClellan remembered the success of young Frank Thompson at the battle of Yorktown. Quickly he sent for the adjutant, Colonel Shrub.
Meanwhile, Private Thompson kept up his weary rounds at the hospital, nursing the sick and wounded—completely unaware that he was on the brink of another strange and dangerous mission.
9
May 20, 1862
The moon was curtained with thick clouds. Wind rustled the willow trees along the Chickahominy. Now and then came the faint grumble of far-off cannon fire.
A rowboat slipped silently through the dark, pieces of blanket tied around the oars to keep them from splashing. When the boat reached the opposite river bank, a heavy middle-aged woman climbed out. She waved to the oarsman. He raised a hand in salute, turned his boat, and headed back to the far shore.
The woman, carrying a wicker basket, looked around to get her bearings. She knew from maps that the great Chickahominy swamp was on her left. If she followed its edge through the woods, she’d reach a dirt road winding away from the river. With a nod, the woman started off. Her long skirt made walking through the underbrush difficult, and branches snagged the basket she carried. After a mile or so, she found the road—a dim, gray band in the darkness. Here she would stay until dawn; then she’d head for the Confederate lines.
The tired woman sat down and leaned gratefully against a tree. Emma Edmonds, alias Franklin Thompson, alias Cuff the contraband slave, was now an Irish peddler named Bridget O’Shea. Her new disguise—and cover story—had been carefully worked out in the chaplain’s cabin.
“I can’t go back as Cuff,” Emma had explained to Mrs. Butler. “Remember, that rebel officer left me standing guard duty. If Cuff showed up, he might be recognized. They could arrest him for deserting his post.”
Mrs. Butler nodded, and the two friends lapsed into silence. Suddenly the older woman jumped up, hurried into the bedroom, and came back dragging an old campaign trunk.
“I brought a deal of fancy clothes with me from Baltimore,” she said. “Lord knows I can’t use them in this rough place, but you can.”
Together they rummaged through the trunk, and soon Emma was transformed from an ordinary soldier into a plump, bosomy matron. Mrs. Butler tied a pillow around Emma’s middle for bulk. Then came a petticoat, a fancy blouse, and a heavy skirt that reached the floor. Over all of this went a sweater and a fringed shawl. Mrs. Butler dusted flour in Emma’s dark hair to turn it gray, then tied a big bonnet on her head. She stood back and studied the results. “One more touch,” she announced. Poking in her sewing box, she found her extra pair of metal-rimmed eyeglasses and perched them on Emma’s nose. “Perfect,” she said. “Let them slide a bit, and look over the top.”
To complete the disguise, Emma filled a basket with peddler’s goods for the Southern soldiers—spools of thread, needles, matches, a pair of scissors, pieces of soap, corncakes, and packets of tea. Looking at herself in Mrs. Butler’s mirror, Emma grinned. She liked the overall effect. Thousands of Irish immigrants had recently come to America, fleeing the terrible potato famine. Many had settled in this part of the country, so it was a safe cover. If anyone asked questions, she’d say she was from Providence Forge and had left a few jumps ahead of the advancing Yankees.
Now, having reached the winding road, Bridget O’Shea settled down to wait for morning. The humming of the wind made her drowsy, and she quickly dozed off. At first light she awoke, feeling stiff. The wind had risen sharply and the sky was thick with clouds; a storm was coming. Rising to her feet, Bridget twitched her skirt in place and started on her way. Fat drops of rain began to fall, making small circles in the dust. Soon the rain was coming down heavily.
The peddler trudged through the mud, trying to stay under the trees along the road. But the wind whipped the rain sideways, drenching her. Coming around a bend, she saw an old frame house up ahead. There were no lights and it appeared to be abandoned. She quietly climbed the steps, carefully opened the door, and slipped inside. The house was deserted. The floor sagged. There was no furniture and the walls were streaked with ancient dirt. Grateful to have a roof over her head, Bridget pulled off her bonnet and soggy shawl. Lord, what a downpour—what a bother.
Suddenly she froze. Someone was groaning in the next room!
Creeping to the doorway, she peeked inside. A soldier lay on the bare floor—a Confederate officer. He appeared to be no more than a boy, and she could tell he was very sick. Kneeling at his side, she touched his forehead. He was burning up, his breath coming in gasps. His pulse was weak and there were red blotches on his face. Bridget knew the symptoms—she’d seen them often enough in camp. Typhoid fever was a killer that took no sides. In both armies, the disease was doing more harm than all of the bullets, swords, and shellfire.
The young man stirred. “Water . . .”
In the kitchen, Bridget found some old crockery on a shelf. She filled a cup from the pump and hurried back to the soldier. The man drank thirstily and fell back gasping. He clutched at her hand. “Thank you, aunt.”
The soldier’s kit lay beside him. Bridget pulled out the blanket, folded it, and tucked it under the young man’s head. Then she sat down near him. She was a firm believer in duty. Military orders were important, but this was important, too. Rebel or not, she couldn’t walk
away and let him die alone. She’d have to stay and keep a vigil—though she didn’t think it would be for long.
All morning Bridget O’Shea sat with the dying boy. She tore a wide strip from her petticoat, moistened it, and placed the cool pad on his forehead. He reached for her hand again. She held his hand and sang to him—old hymns and lost lullabies she dimly remembered from childhood.
There wasn’t much else she could do. She gave him more water, and in the afternoon she stirred a fire in the iron stove and made tea for them both. She also shared corncakes with her companion, though he could eat little. The tea revived him briefly. He raised himself on one elbow and stared at his guardian curiously. Had he somehow seen through her disguise? Well, it didn’t mater; there was nothing he could do now.
The soldier was sinking. His voice came in gasps and whispers, and bit by bit she heard his story. Allen Hall was a lieutenant in a Virginia rifle company. He’d been ill for weeks with typhoid and had tried to carry on. Two days before, at Cold Harbor, his men had fought a battle with an advance Union force. The Virginians retreated, but Hall was too sick to keep up with them. Afraid of falling into enemy hands, he’d dragged himself off through the woods, where he’d found this house and managed to crawl inside.
For a time he slipped into a coma. Later, he roused himself. “Aunt,” he whispered, “if you ever pass through the Confederate camp this side of Richmond, ask for a Major McKee of General Ewell’s staff. There’s a gold watch in my pocket Please give him the watch—he’ll know who it should be sent to.” The boy’s eyes were glassy. “Tell the major—oh, just say I had a mind to go home . . .”
