A Call to Arms

by P. G. Nagle

  “Thank you, Mr. Thompson.” Mr. Joslin made a slight bow in her direction. “And perhaps the ladies can inscribe them with an appropriate sentiment.”

  “‘Put your trust in God, and keep your powder dry,’” suggested Mr. Morse.

  “Oliver Cromwell,” Emma said.

  Mr. Morse looked at her. “You are well read, Mr. Thompson.”

  “I regard it as necessary to my success.”

  Mr. Morse gazed at her for a long moment, then suddenly smiled. “I hope you do decide to join us, Mr. Thompson. I think you would be an asset to the company. I’ll not press you, however.”

  “Thank you.”

  Emma had to resist the urge to bite her lip. She appreciated the tribute, but she dared not let it sway her. The fact was, enlisting in the army would be far more dangerous than anything she had done in the guise of Frank Thompson.

  To be thrown together with a hundred men, no doubt living and sleeping in close quarters, was a risk that made her quail. The possibility of discovery, of the disgrace and perhaps even abuse that might follow, frightened her far more than secessionist bullets.

  She listened to the others discuss the coming war as she silently wrestled with her own internal conflict. When the guests departed after another half-hour, she retired to her own room and looked at her samples and papers.

  Her employer would be displeased if she abandoned her work. She supposed he would have to accept it with a good grace, but it would mean a loss of income to him, as well as to her. A soldier’s pay was far less than she earned as a salesman.

  That night, as she undressed, she made a discovery that served to give her even greater pause: her monthly bleeding had begun.

  She was prepared. She kept a bolt of soft cotton cloth—ostensibly to clean and protect the books she sold—from which she cut a strip to roll up and use to block the bleeding. She had done this for many months, but each time it was a reminder that her disguise was not perfect.

  If she were a soldier, this would be a chief danger for her. She could not carry a bolt of cloth to war, nor trust that she would find a substitute whenever she might need it. She tried to imagine washing out her cloths for use again, but could not see how to do it without risking discovery.

  Her body mocked her; it reminded her that the life she lived was a lie. Her flesh had been formed for a different fate.

  Clenching her teeth, she put on her nightshirt and slid between the sheets. She had rejected that fate and all its inequities. Her life was her own, and she would never submit to the dominance of a man.

  In the following days, the fervor of excitement about the war increased tenfold. Almost nothing else was talked of, and as Emma rode out to deliver books, she was asked for news at every place she stopped.

  The Flint Union Grays filled up their number at a meeting on the courthouse steps. All Flint turned out in attendance. Emma was present, but did not put in her name. She listened to the rousing speeches, applauded with the rest of the town, and donated a hundred Testaments, hastily ordered from Hartford at her own expense, to provide the Grays with moral armament to accompany their more martial equipments.

  It was done; the company was full. They were not accepted into the First Michigan Volunteers, for there were more than ten militia companies in the state vying for the honor, but the governor quickly began organizing a second regiment in reserve. The Grays were ordered to rendezvous in Detroit to be mustered into the Second Michigan Volunteer Infantry by the end of April.

  Emma watched the preparations for their departure with mingled feelings of relief and regret. Many of her friends from church had joined the Grays. Damon Stewart, a clothing merchant with whom she’d enjoyed discussions of commerce, had signed up. Flint would be lonely and dull when the Grays went off to war.

  On the 29th of April, a parade was held in the Grays’ honor, followed by speeches and music and much fanfare in the town square. All Flint was there to celebrate the company, who would travel by train to Detroit in the morning.

  The Grays were resplendent in their new uniforms, tenderly made by loving mothers and sisters. Their faces shone with pride and excitement. Speeches were given, patriotic tunes played by a brass band, and the Testaments were presented to the soldiers by the Reverend Mr. Joslin.

  Young ladies bedecked in red, white, and blue made much of the new-minted soldiers. The Misses Little were both present, among a delegation of ladies who went round and pinned a rosette reading “For Union and for Constitution” to the breast of each soldier.

  Emma nodded and smiled a greeting when she chanced to catch Miss Little’s eye. Miss Little hesitated, then lifted her chin and turned away, bestowing her attention and her smiles upon one of the Grays. Emma hid her laughter in a sudden fit of coughing.

  Miss Daphne was not so particular as her sister. She came straight up to Emma with her basket of rosettes, regarding her with childlike speculation.

  “You didn’t get into the Grays,” she said.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Was it because you weren’t tall enough?”

  Emma’s brows twitched. She was not unduly short for a man, being tall for a woman.

  “Ah—not quick enough. The company filled up at once.”

  “Oh. Don’t feel bad, Mr. Thompson. You aren’t the only one.”

  She gestured at the surrounding crowd, the good folk of Flint, who certainly outnumbered the Grays. Emma smiled at Miss Daphne’s youthful assumption that every man in town must wish to be a part of the militia company.

  “When are you going to bring me that book?”

  A stab of dismay struck Emma. She should never have mentioned Fanny Campbell. She looked at Miss Daphne, trying to frown.

  “Did I promise to bring it? I thought I said ‘perhaps’.”

  “Well, will you bring it? Please?” Miss Daphne begged prettily.

  “It is a novel, Miss Daphne,” Emma said, noting the approach of Mrs. Little. “Your parents might not wish you to read it. In fact, you might not care for it at all. It’s about a pirate captain.”

  “Oh, but I love adventure stories!”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Thompson,” said Mrs. Little, joining them.

  Emma bowed. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Your daughters are both looking lovely today.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She reached out to twitch Miss Daphne’s red and white sash, which had fallen askew. “Daphne, dear, your sister needs more rosettes.”

  Daphne’s face fell in disappointment, and she moved rather languidly away, casting one backward glance at Emma. It was the book she was thinking of, Emma knew.

  “You decided not to enlist,” Mrs. Little said.

  “I hesitated too long, ma’am. The company filled almost at once.”

  “You could always join another company, I suppose.”

  Emma regarded her, trying to decide if she meant to mock Mr. Thompson for lack of courage. Mrs. Little’s face showed nothing but a polite interest in the decoration of the soldiers being conducted by her daughters and the other young ladies.

  “Ah, but to serve among strangers, instead of the good folk of Flint. It would be a disappointment,” Emma said.

  “Do you go to Canada, then?”

  Mrs. Little was regarding her, now. Emma met her gaze steadily.

  “I think not, ma’am, though I have not yet decided what to do.”

  “That is a decision in itself.”

  Mrs. Little moved away, then, to greet two other ladies who were passing near. Emma felt a strange impulse to defend herself, and thought rather less of Mrs. Little for not allowing her the opportunity. She shook it off, however. Such arguments could have no benefit.

  As the evening drew near the celebration moved indoors, where it continued with a supper for the Grays, more music, and more speeches. Emma joined wholeheartedly in the cheering, and the next morning, along with many other citizens of Flint, she escorted the Grays to the depot to see them off.

  Emotion welled in her as she sho
ok hands with many of her friends and bade them farewell. To the oft-repeated strains of The Star-Spangled Banner, they boarded the train, waved from the open windows, and were gone.

  A hush fell over Flint. All the color and excitement had ended, and though people went about their daily lives with cheerful determination, there was a tension in the air.

  Emma began more and more to regret her decision to stay behind. She had not the heart to take up her business again. She delivered the remaining books she had received, but collected no more orders.

  More and more, she felt she could not stand idly by. She had become convinced that she, too, must have a duty to perform, must find some way to serve the Union cause. She spent long nights in solitary contemplation, pacing her room as she weighed the alternatives.

  If only she had gone further in her pursuit of becoming a missionary, she could have volunteered to serve as a chaplain, and perhaps been safer from discovery in that position. That was a futile hope, however. No doubt plenty of chaplains had already offered their services. A soldier’s pay, though it was less than Emma’s income, would be attractive to many.

  She might assist in one of the hospitals. She should retain her alias if she sought this work, for she felt she could tend to the needs of sick and wounded men with less embarrassment to them and to herself as a man than as a woman. She had no idea how to go about volunteering for such work, however. Perhaps she would travel to Washington and see what fortune offered.

  Or she could follow Mrs. Little’s suggestion and enlist with some other company of volunteers, but her heart sank at the thought. If she were to be thrown into close company with a group of men, she would be safer with those who already knew and accepted Frank Thompson than with strangers. The Flint Union Grays had been her best chance of that, and the opportunity had passed.

  She was sitting in the parlor with the Joslins one evening after supper, reading aloud to them from the latest New York newspaper, when a knock fell upon the front door. As the Reverend Mr. Joslin received frequent visits from members of his congregation, Emma at first paid no heed, but the sound of a familiar voice in the hall made her pause and raise her head.

  The maid came into the parlor. “Mr. Prentiss is here to see you, sir.”

  “Mr. Prentiss? Show him in,” said Mr. Joslin.

  Emma folded the paper and set it aside. Bernard Prentiss, who had marched away in splendid martial array with the Grays, now entered the room dressed in a plain suit and carrying a book.

  Not just a book—a Testament. One of Emma’s Testaments. She looked at his face as Mr. Joslin stood to greet him.

  “Reverend, forgive me for intruding,” said Mr. Prentiss. “I came to return this to you.” Looking somewhat haggard, he offered the book.

  Mr. Joslin accepted it slowly. “What has happened, Mr. Prentiss? Have you left the Grays?”

  “I have. The War Department is no longer accepting regiments for three-month enlistments. They demand three-year terms, now, and I cannot commit to that. I have a wife and small child—”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mr. Joslin. “Quite understandable. It was valiant of you to volunteer at all.”

  Mr. Prentiss gave a wan smile, and his glance crossed Emma’s. She felt a tingle suffuse her, spreading down her forearms to the tips of her well-manicured fingers.

  “Are others returning, Mr. Prentiss?” she asked.

  He nodded. “A handful. Captain Morse was with us on the train—he’s come to fill up the vacancies. Perhaps one of them can use that,” he said, gesturing to the Testament.

  “We will see that it goes to a soldier,” said Mr. Joslin. “Thank you for returning it.”

  “I am only sorry ... it is not that I am afraid,” said Mr. Prentiss in a strained voice.

  “Of course not.”

  Mr. Joslin laid a hand on his shoulder and escorted him out, talking in soothing tones. Emma looked at Mrs. Joslin, quietly knitting in her chair.

  The mantel clock began to strike the hour. Seven o’clock. The chimes fell heavily into the quiet evening; it seemed to Emma they were tolling a change. As the last of them faded, she stood.

  She heard Mr. Joslin’s returning step behind her. Mrs. Joslin glanced up. Emma turned to face them both.

  “If you will excuse me,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse in her ears, “I have just thought of a call I would like to pay.”

  Mr. Joslin, returning to his chair, raised an eyebrow. He laid the Testament on the table beside him, next to the paper from which Emma had been reading. Emma’s gaze rested on the gilt letters on its binding.

  “I will bid you good night, in case you have retired by the time I return.”

  “Good night, then, Mr. Thompson.”

  Mr. Joslin’s gaze was steady, and showed curiosity, though Emma knew he would never pry. She shrank from telling him where she meant to go—she was as yet uncertain what would pass. With a slight bow, she hastened from the room.

  The evening was cool, but not chilly enough to warrant putting on an overcoat. Spring had arrived in Flint. Emma noted flowers blooming in the front garden Mrs. Joslin fussed over with such pride, and in the neighboring gardens as she walked down the street. She looked at Flint with an altered perception, noting each pleasant house and garden, each place that was the site of some fond memory.

  She turned her steps to the Casino hotel, not knowing where better to go. She regretted not having questioned Mr. Prentiss further, but the man was distraught as it was. She suspected this was the place to come, and when she inquired at the front desk, she learned she had guessed correctly.

  “I believe you will find him in the dining room,” the clerk told her.

  “Thank you,” Emma said, and made her way there.

  Few patrons were in the spacious dining room at this hour. Emma’s gaze swept the room, passing over empty tables laid with fresh linens for the morning, and came to rest on a gentleman dressed in a suit of dark blue, dining alone. She approached the table, her heart beating rather quickly.

  “Captain Morse,” she said, bowing slightly as the gentleman looked up at her.

  He looked older, somehow, though he had scarce been gone a month. His hair and mustache had been trimmed somewhat shorter, the hair just brushing the upstanding collar of his jacket. The shoulders of the jacket were adorned with straps of a lighter blue.

  Emma realized with a small shock that this was a uniform. She had seen Morse in his Grays uniform many times, but he seemed to wear this one differently, as if it was merely clothing instead of what amounted to a costume.

  “Pardon me for intruding on your supper,” Emma added.

  Morse’s brows rose slightly, then he smiled. “Not at all, Mr. Thompson. Will you join me?”

  Emma hesitated, her nervousness making her restless, then she thanked him and sat in the opposite chair. Captain Morse gestured toward the wine bottle between them, inviting her to share it. She shook her head. Morse picked up the bottle and replenished his glass.

  “What may I do for you, Mr. Thompson?”

  Emma found it hard to say what was in her heart, so she resorted to commonplace chat. “I heard you had returned … Mr. Prentiss called on Mr. Joslin this evening.”

  “Ah. Did he tell you to find me here?”

  Emma shook her head. “I remembered that you had given up your lodgings last month, so I thought you must have come to a hotel.”

  Morse nodded, watching her expectantly. Emma drew a deep breath.

  “I understand you are here to fill some vacancies in the Grays.”

  “Yes.”

  “I would like to put my name in for one of them, if I may.”

  Morse regarded her steadily. “It’s for three years, now,” he said.

  “I know.”

  Their gazes held, and Emma felt she was being measured. It was a feeling she often endured, yet still it made her heart skip.

  “What changed your mind, Mr. Franklin?”

  “It hasn’t changed. I would say,
rather, that it took me a while to make it up. I knew I must serve the Union, but I was unsure in what capacity I might serve best.”

  Morse sliced a bite of his roast and regarded her as he chewed it. Emma found she was clenching her hands in her lap, and made herself lay them flat on her knees instead.

  “Well,” Morse said, “as a friend of ours has said, it is wise of you to consider carefully, especially now. This three-year enlistment took everyone by surprise. Some companies lost nearly half their number. I’m lucky I only lost a few.”

  “Do you think it will take three years to beat the Rebels?”

  Morse laughed. “I doubt it. More likely we’ll be home for Christmas.”

  Emma smiled, reassured by his confidence. Morse reached a hand across the table, returning the smile.

  “Welcome to the Grays, then, Mr. Thompson.”

  Emma shook hands, her heart rising in her breast. For the first time in many days, she felt she had done right.

  Washington, D.C., 1883

  Emma watched the secretary, whose expression had gone from confusion to astonishment to something near indignation as she explained the circumstances leading to her enlistment. The indignation did not surprise her; she had encountered such reactions, and worse, before. It was one of the reasons she had kept her service a secret from her present acquaintances, though once, just after she had left the army, she had been quite famous for it.

  This man, Mr. Glass, who could be no more than twenty-five, would have been a mere child when her book was published in 1865. It was no wonder that he had not heard of her. By the time he could read, the excitement over the war had no doubt faded, and too many memoirs been written for anyone to read them all.

  She glanced at Jamie, wondering if he had read hers. Probably not, as he had gone to Scotland in 1863. She had not heard of his return—had not expected it, in fact. Yet here he was, plainly at home in the halls of government.

  “I wondered how it was you succeeded so well in your deception,” he said, blue eyes hooded as he gazed at her. Cold words, but there was less venom in his voice as he said them.