A Call to Arms

by P. G. Nagle

  A rustle of taffeta from her mother’s direction made Miss Daphne give a start and glance up. Her eyes widened with alarm as she looked back at Emma.

  “And I read in the beautiful Bible you brought for us,” she made haste to add. “I read in it every day!”

  Emma smiled to reassure her. “I’m glad you enjoy it, Miss Daphne.”

  “The Bible is indeed wonderful,” Miss Little the elder put in, “and I am also enjoying Jane Eyre.” Her voice held a hint of smug satisfaction, that her parents trusted her to read the novel without fear of its turning her head.

  Emma observed her, a vivacious girl of seventeen, fairly bursting out of her skin at the prospect of claiming her place in adult society. Eager to marry without understanding the toll it would quickly exact from her.

  Emma thought of her own sisters, who were older than she and had wed while she was still young, younger than Miss Daphne. How quickly they had faded, become weary and despairing like their mother, under the burdens of matrimony.

  A sudden anger at Mrs. Little filled Emma’s breast. She hid it by toying with her coffee cup, stirring her coffee and sipping it. It had gone cold, and tasted slightly bitter.

  Miss Little continued talking of Jane Eyre, freely expressing her opinions of the characters and the writing. Emma listened with half an ear, her annoyance fading to sadness as she realized Miss Little was beyond rescue. She would wed, as she was so eager to do, and from then on live in her husband’s shadow.

  Miss Daphne was not yet ensorceled by the attractions of men, though there was a spark of unformed curiosity in her. Emma watched her covertly as she scraped a last bit of dessert from her dish. Miss Daphne had the appetites of a healthy young girl.

  “I encourage you to read as much as you are able,” Emma said when Miss Little paused. She addressed the remark to Miss Daphne, who looked back at her with guileless interest. “It was a book that inspired me to make my way in the world.”

  “What book?”

  Emma smiled. “Perhaps I will bring it to you one day.”

  Miss Daphne’s eyes lit with excitement. Emma glanced at her mother and saw suspicion, though Mrs. Little was quick to hide it with a smile. The mother would willingly give up her younger daughter to the charming Bible salesman, Emma thought, though the girl was but fifteen. Emma had to hide another flash of anger at the thought.

  “What do you think of the situation at Fort Sumter, Mr. Thompson?” Mrs. Little asked.

  Emma looked at her, mildly surprised that she would bring up the subject in her daughters’ company. Fort Sumter was on everyone’s mind, though, even hundreds of miles away here in Flint.

  All the rhetoric of secession and disunion had come to balance on the knife’s-edge of Sumter. Lincoln had refused to hand over the fort to the fledgling Confederacy. The poor garrison there had been without supply for weeks, blockaded by the Confederates, and was surely near to starving.

  “I think it must be very dire,” Emma replied. “I hope the relief convoy is allowed through.”

  “And if they are not?” Miss Little asked, eyes wide. “Will it be war?”

  Emma regarded her, suspecting her breathless excitement to be fanned by a romantic view of warfare. “I very much fear that it will.”

  “What will you do in that case, Mr. Thompson?” asked Mrs. Little. “Will you return to Canada?”

  “I have not decided, ma’am.”

  The question troubled her. She had gone over it in her mind many times. If war broke out, as a young man in good health and wishing to do right, Frank Thompson might well be expected to enlist. She doubted she would retreat to Canada; she cared too much about this fine country, which had been the source of her independence, to turn her back when it was threatened with dissolution.

  But could she bear arms against her fellow man? She knew how to handle a rifle—growing up on a farm had taught her that, along with other skills that were convenient to her disguise—but she had never contemplated aiming a firearm at another human being.

  “One thing is certain,” Emma said with more lightness than she felt, “you will hear a great deal more patriotic music if there is to be war, Miss Little.”

  Having thus turned the subject, Emma whiled away the remainder of the supper with innocuous conversation, assisted by the willing Mrs. Little. When they rose from the table Emma escorted the ladies home in her carriage, accepted an invitation to visit on the following Saturday despite Miss Little’s threatening to play the piano for her, and bade them all a cheerful good evening.

  Mr. Little, who had no taste for concerts, welcomed his family home again at the door, favoring Emma with cursory thanks and a mistrustful glance. Emma shook his hand firmly, smiled, and went her ways.

  She drove home, bestowed her carriage and saw to the horses, then sought the room she rented from the Reverend Mr. Joslin and his wife. The Joslins had already retired for the evening and the house was quiet; dark save for the lamp left burning low beside the stairs. Emma carried it up to her room.

  Shutting the door, she let out a small sigh. Home at last, sheltered from suspicious glances. Her room was a refuge, small as it was and filled with stacks of books and order forms. She was safe here.

  She took off her good suit and untied her neckcloth, thinking over the evening as she prepared to retire. The Littles were pleasant enough, though she found she did not really enjoy the elder Miss Little’s company. It was important, however, to appear to show some interest in young ladies. To avoid them might occasion remark, and she was careful never to attract that sort of attention.

  Two years, it had been, since that first terrifying day when she had cut her hair off short, dressed in men’s clothing, and stepped out into the streets of Moncton with her brand new case of sample books. She had been so apprehensive of discovery that she had hurried away from the city and waited in the woods for concealing dusk before she dared to approach a farmhouse. Fearful of denouncement and arrest, she had instead received a courteous welcome, and had sold her first Bible to those trusting folk.

  She had never looked back.

  Once, she had paid a visit to her family. She was careful to arrive during the day when her father was sure to be away from the farmhouse. She went in her man’s attire, and had been sitting with her mother, her sister Frances, and her poor sickly brother Thomas, for half an hour before her mother recognized her.

  She doubted she would ever wear skirts again. She had cast them off, and no longer owned anything that might be considered a lady’s property.

  She had kept only one possession from her early life: the book that she had mentioned to Miss Daphne. Smiling, she opened her trunk and sought for it beneath the clothing, drawing out the small volume and holding it carefully in both hands.

  The binding was cracked and beginning to come apart. A faint, musty smell of deteriorating paper arose from the pages. The book was cheaply made, nowhere near the quality of the elegant volumes upon which she made her living. But it was the most important book she had ever possessed, saving only the Bible.

  The title was fading from the worn cover. She opened the book to its title page, admiring the picture of a woman in trousers holding a Jolly Roger. Fanny Campbell, the Female Pirate Captain.

  How well she remembered the day she had received it, a gift from a peddler who had sheltered overnight from a frightful storm in the Edmonsons’ home. He had given it to Emma, the youngest child, before going on his way. She had never seen a novel before. If her father had known of it he would surely have taken it away from her, but she hid it in the pocket of her skirt and went out to work in the fields with her sisters.

  Opening that book had opened Emma’s eyes to a new awareness of possibilities she had never considered. She and her sisters had taken turns reading, then become so engrossed in the story that few potatoes were planted that day.

  When Emma read of Fanny Campbell’s decision to cut off her curling locks and dress as a man, she felt as if an angel had touched her with a
live coal from off the altar. The problem of her life was solved.

  It was not until some years later, when her father demanded that she marry a neighbor—a widower much older than herself—that she had actually escaped the farm, and not even then had she donned men’s attire. She had first gone to Salisbury and worked in a milliner’s shop, then moved to Moncton and opened her own hat shop with a friend. It was the constant fear that her father would find her and drag her back to marry his horrid old neighbor that had led her finally to take the step she had so often dreamed of.

  And to discover the freedom a young man enjoyed.

  She could dine when and where she pleased, go wherever she wished without escort, and answer to no one but herself. With the sample books she had requested from W. S. Williams & Company in Hartford, Connecticut, she traveled all about New Brunswick, meeting folk of all kinds and taking their orders for Bibles, illustrated histories, and other books.

  She earned more money than a poor farm girl could ever have dreamed of. Each success increased her confidence, so that now, two years later, she was perfectly at home in the role of Franklin Thompson.

  She turned the yellowing leaves of the novel in her hands, remembering the fire it had lit in her heart. An early passage caught her eye:

  Fanny Campbell was a noble looking girl. She was none of your modern belles, delicate and ready to faint at the first sight of a reptile; no, Fanny could row a boat, shoot a panther, ride the wildest horse in the province, or do almost any brave and useful act.

  How those words had thrilled her, confirming that there was worth in a girl who was able to do such things. She herself could handle a rifle or an axe with equal skill, and rode as well as her father. Fanny Campbell had convinced her that she could base a life upon those abilities—a life that was bound to be full of interest and adventure—rather than resign herself to being a wife and mother. Could this book inspire Miss Daphne Little to a similar conviction?

  Perhaps, but she dared not give it to the girl. Even if Miss Daphne kept the book a secret, it might cause her to suspect Frank Thompson, and that Emma could not risk. She was taking some risk even keeping the book, but she had not so far been able to let it go.

  There was one other way she might rescue Miss Daphne: marry her and take her away from Flint, thereafter to set her free upon the world, perhaps even become her mentor and guide. While the thought of carrying off a marriage amused Emma, she knew she could no more do that than give Daphne the book.

  Suppose Miss Daphne felt cheated upon learning her husband was not a man? The girl might actually wish for children, as her sister so plainly did. Might wish for the drudgery of motherhood and all its attendant woes. Frank Thompson would be a kinder husband than Isaac Edmonson had been, but could never sire children.

  No, Frank Thompson could not marry. Not only would it be dangerous and uncertain, and perhaps unfair to the young lady, it would make a mockery of a Christian sacrament, and that Emma would not do. The other fire that burned in her, now that her freedom was assured, was the fire of Christ’s teachings.

  She longed to devote herself someday to missionary work. Frank Thompson would do well, she thought, bringing the teachings of Christ to those living in the darkness of ignorance. She was putting some of her earnings by against just such a venture, though for now she was content in Mr. Joslin’s congregation. They were something like a family to her, a great comfort after her self-imposed isolation.

  She closed Fanny Campbell and carefully hid it again in the bottom of her trunk before saying her prayers. She included all the Littles in her requests for God’s guidance and protection, her concern especially for the two Misses Little.

  Miss Daphne would have to find her own inspiration, but at least Emma had been able to encourage her to read. She was curious enough, Emma thought, to seek out works beyond what her mother might consider strictly appropriate. Smiling on the thought, Emma climbed into bed and drifted to sleep.

  The next morning she was walking to the telegraph office to place her book orders when she heard the news of Fort Sumter’s fall. A boy in the street was hawking newspapers, shouting hoarsely that Lincoln had called for 75,000 volunteers.

  With a sinking heart, Emma hastened to purchase a paper from him. Others crowded around the boy, buying papers as fast as he could sell them, blocking traffic in the street. Emma walked away slowly, eyes fixed on the description of the shelling and surrender of the fort.

  It was war, then. Miss Little’s romantic hopes were fulfilled, and Emma’s quandary descended upon her with full force.

  She knew she would not leave America. There must be a role for her, a part she could play in the coming calamity, a means by which she could serve her beloved adopted country. What it would be, she was uncertain.

  She finished reading the article and looked up, becoming aware of her surroundings once more. She knew with a sudden certainty that she could not continue blithely in her comfortable existence, peddling books while the country tore itself apart.

  Sadly, in sober contemplation, she turned away and walked back to the Joslins’ house. When she reached it she found the Joslins sitting in the front parlor with Mr. Morse and two other gentlemen from the church.

  “Mr. Thompson,” said Mrs. Joslin as Emma looked in the parlor door. “You have returned very quickly!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Emma said sadly.

  “He has heard the news,” said Mr. Morse, gesturing toward the paper in Emma’s hand.

  Emma met his gaze. Energetic and active, William Morse was a leading member of the Reverend Mr. Joslin’s congregation. He was also captain of the Flint Union Grays, a militia company to which he had tried more than once to recruit Emma. Emma had politely declined, having no wish to draw attention to herself by marching in parades or sporting a uniform at picnics and dances. Now, though, the militia would be called to a different task.

  “The Grays are going,” Morse said, holding Emma’s gaze. “I have written to the governor, and will take the company to Detroit to enlist in the infantry regiment. Do you join us?”

  Emma could not hide a frown of concern. She had expected this—it was inevitable now that the war had begun that she would be pressured to enlist—but she had not yet decided how to respond.

  “I do not know,” she said. “I need time to consider.”

  Mr. Morse’s brows rose slightly. “Well, do not take too long. We are holding a recruiting meeting in a few days.”

  Emma nodded, and because she felt that to leave the parlor would call her courage into question, she sat down and listened to Mr. Morse planning the details of the Grays’ journey to glory. She learned that the other two gentlemen, Mr. Prentiss and Mr. Jordan, with whom she was acquainted from church, were also officers in the Grays.

  Governor Blair was raising a regiment of volunteers in accordance with President Lincoln’s proclamation. Ten companies would be formed, and Mr. Morse intended the Grays to be one of them. Their number was not near the required one hundred men, so recruitment was necessary, but Mr. Morse was confident he would quickly make up his numbers.

  “There is a fervor in the streets already,” Mr. Prentiss said with suppressed excitement. “One can see it.”

  “One can hear it,” Mr. Jordan added drily. “All the talk is of going to Washington, to be a part of crushing the rebellion. We must hurry or we’ll miss the fun.”

  “We’ll have no trouble filling up our company.” Mr. Morse glanced again at Emma, but she made no comment.

  Mrs. Joslin had sent the maid for an extra cup and saucer when Emma had joined them, and now she poured coffee and offered it to Emma with a smile. “You are wise to consider carefully, Mr. Thompson. I imagine you may be concerned what your family will think.”

  Emma regarded her, and gave a slow nod, though in fact she was certain her family expected never to see her again. For her part she wished never to see her father again. Her mother and sisters she missed, and Thomas.

  Poor Thomas, the only boy
, whose sporadic fits made him useless for farm work. Their father thought him stupid, though Emma was sure he was not. Gentle Thomas. She smiled a little, thinking of him. She had chosen Frank’s surname in his honor.

  Recalling her company, Emma sipped her coffee and tried to pay attention to the conversation. The men were discussing firearms now, speculating whether the government would arm the regiment with the newest rifles or some less magnificent gun. Her thoughts drifted again to Thomas, who handled firearms so poorly that their father would not permit him to hunt, declaring him a waste of powder.

  Emma was a keen shot. She’d learned eagerly, as she’d learned everything her father wished of her.

  The youngest, and probably the last of his children, she had bitterly disappointed him by being born female. He had reacted by demanding things of her he never asked of her sisters, and being robust in health and larger than her siblings, Emma had made no protest. She actually enjoyed such chores as chopping wood and hunting or fishing for the stew pot. Yet nothing she had ever done, though she tried in all earnestness to please him, had mitigated Isaac’s resentment.

  What would he think, she wondered, if he learned his youngest child had gone for a soldier?

  She shook her head and took another sip of coffee. Isaac would never know of Frank Thompson’s exploits. He would certainly not appreciate them if he learned of them, and Emma had taken care that he should not.

  “I would join you,” Mr. Joslin said to Mr. Morse, “but I fear I am too old, and too burdened with responsibility.” He glanced at his wife, who had shown momentary alarm.

  “No, no,” said Mr. Morse. “Thank you, Reverend, but I am sure there are plenty of young men who do not have such obligations.”

  “We can still help,” said Mrs. Joslin, looking relieved. “I will organize the ladies in our congregation to prepare some little comforts for the Grays to take with them.”

  Her husband nodded, glancing at Emma. “We should send a Bible with each of them.”

  “I haven’t a hundred Bibles on hand,” Emma responded promptly, “but I will gladly donate as many as I can.”