by P. G. Nagle
“I have wished sometimes that I was even more successful,” Emma replied.
Jamie’s eyes narrowed. Had that stung him? Good.
“It was no trouble, for the most part,” she added, glancing at Mr. Glass. “It was hardest at the first, of course. By the time I reached Detroit with Captain Morse, I was quite nervous that I would be discovered, but no less determined to try.”
“I should think you were nervous!” declared Mr. Glass. “How you dared, I cannot imagine! It is one thing to dress as a man—I do not say it was right, though I understand your explanation—but quite another to present oneself as fit for a soldier!”
Emma laughed. “I was more than fit, Mr. Glass. I grew up on a farm, remember. I could handle firearms better than half the Grays.”
“And yet you rarely did so, during your service,” said Jamie.
Emma faced him, squaring her jaw. “Because I was serving in other capacities.”
“Other capacities,” he echoed, and the bitter smile twisted his lip.
“Dare you mock me? When I risked my life over and again on the field?” Emma’s anger flared and she stared at Jamie, breathing hard.
Jamie blinked, the smile falling away, leaving an expression of sadness in its wake. “I never questioned your courage,” he said in a voice gone strangely quiet. “I would say, looking back, that you had rather too much of it for your own good.”
Her anger faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by an unexpected swell of affection. How strange that all the old feelings—the anger, the fondness, all of it—had not died as she had thought, but had only been slumbering.
“Perhaps so,” she said, and could not help the smile that tugged at her own lips. “I always loved an adventure.”
The War: Fort Wayne, Michigan, 1861
No parade or brass band saw Captain Morse and his handful of replacements off from Flint. No uniforms adorned the recruits; no young ladies celebrated their departure. As they boarded the cars in silence, Emma thought with slight wistfulness of Miss Daphne, of all people.
Emma had spent the better part of the past two days in making arrangements for her departure. She sold her horses and carriage, shipped her sample books back to Mr. Hurlburt with a letter explaining her decision to enlist, and packed spare clothing and the few things she wished to keep in her trunk, which the Joslins had agreed to store for her. Fanny Campbell remained buried within it, secured by the trunk’s stout lock. Emma had considered sending the book to Miss Daphne anonymously, “from a friend,” but decided it was still too great a risk.
She had purchased two dozen pocket handkerchiefs and stowed them in her valise. They would earn her some teasing, perhaps, and the reputation of a dandy, but they were worth that cost. She would find a way to clean them if she could; if not, she must purchase more. A great expense for a soldier, but luckily she had money of her own.
Now, as she watched Flint slide away on the rails, fading behind clouds of black smoke from the locomotive, she had occasion to think of those acquaintances to whom she had not had time to say goodbye. The Joslins had promised to make her excuses to any who inquired after her. Emma did not expect many to do so—the Littles would probably not do so—but she wished she had been able to say farewell to Miss Daphne. She contented herself with hoping that the girl’s spirit would survive society’s attempts to crush it.
She had her own survival to think of, now. She was going into unknown territory. It set her heart afire with the thrill of danger and kept her nerves on edge.
She joined in the conversation of the other recruits, consisting mainly of self-congratulation and speculation. The latest newspapers from the east, all filled with descriptions of preparation for war, were passed around and discussed. When the train deposited them in Detroit, Captain Morse led them toward the river about a mile, to the sprawling brick buildings of Fort Wayne.
The fort had never been occupied by the army, but now the 2nd Michigan Volunteers had taken it over. Emma looked in vain for the gray uniforms of Flint’s own. All the soldiers she could see, drilling in groups on the parade ground or practicing with their muskets, were dressed alike in the same dark blue worn by Captain Morse.
“This way,” Morse said brusquely, leading them between buildings. “The Quartermaster will issue your kit.”
The Quartermaster did so, providing each of the recruits with a uniform, cap, boots, canteen, haversack, and musket. Thus burdened in addition to the small valise she had brought with her, Emma followed Captain Morse and the others to the barracks assigned to the Grays, now designated Company F of the 2nd.
“Just stack your things for now,” said Captain Morse. “You’ll be at liberty to find bunkmates after drill.”
Emma stood gazing down the length of the building at the wide bunks, five high, that smelled of freshly-sawn wood. There were ten sets of bunks, five on either side of the aisle.
Emma swallowed. How could she sleep beside a man and maintain her deception?
She followed her fellow-recruits’ example and set her things against the wall, taking a moment to examine the musket. It was a smoothbore, not the most recent design. Captain Morse, standing nearby, caught her eye.
“No rifles?” Emma asked.
“These were what Colonel Richardson could get,” Morse replied. “We may get rifles in Washington.”
“The Quartermaster gave us no ammunition.”
Morse grimaced. “You’re to drill without it. The government doesn’t want any of the recruits to injure themselves.”
Emma gave a huff of scoffing laughter. Morse’s face twitched in an unsuccessful attempt to hide a smile. Though the captain seemed to be trying his best to keep a distance in accordance with his rank, it was impossible to forget old friendships.
“Dress out, now,” Morse said to them all, resuming his air of authority. “When you are ready you will join the rest of the company at drill.”
Emma carefully propped her musket against the wall, hiding a rush of anxiety. This would be the first test of her ability to keep her incognito. She glanced at the others, hoping to find them all distracted with their own new uniforms.
Private Rawley, a boy of eighteen whom Emma had first met that morning, called after the departing captain, “Excuse me, sir, where may we change?”
A moment’s silence as Captain Morse turned, raising an eyebrow. It was broken with laughter from the other recruits.
“Wants a dressing-room, he does,” said Private Green, giving Rawley a good-natured cuff on the shoulder.
Rawley flushed, then stepped to the nearest window and drew the curtains closed before beginning to unbutton his coat. The others continued to chide him.
Emma removed her own coat. She would have liked a dressing-room too, but she kept it to herself. As swiftly as she could, she pulled on her new uniform over her shirt and long underwear. The blouse, which closed with four brass buttons down the front, and the trousers rode well enough, being cut loosely so as to fit a variety of men. The boots, she found when she sat on a nearby bunk to put them on, were too large.
She pulled off the boot she had tried on and sat frowning at it. Unhappily, this attracted the attention of Private Rawley.
“Look at those dainty feet of his,” Rawley said. “Pretty as a girl’s!”
A stab of fear made Emma freeze.
“March a few miles in those and your feet will spread to fill ’em,” said Green, grinning.
Emma joined in the following laughter, then opened her valise and took out a spare pair of socks. By stuffing these into the boots she was able to make them fit somewhat better.
“That’s a handsome Bible,” said Green, stepping toward her bed to admire the book in Emma’s open valise.
“Thank you.” She picked it up, offering to show it to him out of long habit. It was a gilt and leather-bound Carriage Bible, larger than the Testaments she had donated. Heavier, too, of course, but she could not bear to part with it, or with the Psalms.
“T
hat’s right, you’re the Bible salesman,” said Private Shelley, joining them as he buttoned up his blouse. “I remember. You came to our house last fall, and delivered us a new family Bible in time for Christmas.”
Emma smiled at him, grateful for the support. “I hope your family enjoys the book.”
“Oh, they do. It’s beautiful, much bigger than this one,” Shelley added, showing Emma’s Bible to the others.
“Why’d you leave selling books to go for a soldier?” asked Green.
“Why did you leave masonry?” Emma returned. “I imagine you made more than a soldier’s pay.”
“I expect we are all here for the same reason,” said Private Howell, a tall, slender fellow whose dark beard and piercing eyes made him look to Emma like a mountain man. He had been quiet for the most part, until now.
No one chose to disagree with him. They all regarded one another, and Emma felt the tightening of a new-formed bond of unity among them. She was glad of it.
Footsteps—boots clomping on the wood floor of the barracks—intruded on the moment of fraternity. Emma glanced up and saw Mr. Turver approaching.
“Hello, boys,” he called. “Welcome to Company F. I am Corporal Turver, come to bring you out to drill with the rest of the company. Fall in.”
Emma hastily put her Bible and clothing into her valise, and stowed it against the wall. Catching up her musket, she joined the others following Corporal Turver out to the parade ground.
The rest of the day was spent in drilling, learning the manual of arms, and more drilling. Emma saw many familiar faces among the company and was gratified to be made welcome. At midday they were dismissed to dinner in the fort’s vast mess hall, and as she was standing in line to be served, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Frank! I thought that was you I saw come in with the fresh meat! Welcome!”
Damon Stewart, her mercantile friend, beamed at Emma and pumped her hand. His brown hair took on a reddish cast against the blue of his uniform blouse, and he had grown a mustache.
Emma smiled back. “Thank you.”
“I half thought you had decided to go back to Canada.”
“Not that, no. I knew I must serve the Union. I am glad to have been given the chance to do so with the Grays.”
Damon grinned. “Now we shall have some good debates! Have you got a bunkmate?”
“Not yet.”
“Then share with me. Mine skedaddled.”
Emma thanked him, nervous but also relieved. Damon was a good friend. She need only take a little care, and she would be safe with him.
He joined Emma at the table and told her what the Grays had been up to for the past month, largely learning to move as a unit and respond quickly to commands. Emma listened with interest to this and to the camp gossip, the soldiers’ chief form of entertainment.
“We hear that we are to go to Washington tomorrow, or next week, or at the end of June,” Damon told her. “Believe whichever you will, but most of us prefer to believe in tomorrow.”
As it happened, the morrow produced no summons to the capital, but it did produce a summons to the medical examiner for Emma and her fellow replacements. They went all together, the seven of them standing up nervously in a line waiting to be declared fit for service.
Emma had kept her overlarge boots, though her feet had begun to get blisters from drilling in them, in the hope they would help her pass the examination. She had not counted on anyone taking notice of her hands, though, and was startled when one of the examiners, walking along the line of soldiers, took hold of her wrist and raised it, turning her hand over to reveal the soft palm.
“What sort of living has this hand earned?”
Emma met his gaze and smiled, hoping he could not feel the quickening of her pulse. “Well, up to the present, that hand has chiefly been engaged in getting an education.”
“Hm.”
The examiner turned her hand over again, peered at her neatly-trimmed fingernails, then let her go and moved on to the next recruit. Emma let out her breath slowly, the nape of her neck tingling.
She was passed, along with the others, much to her relief. The next morning she went to the Quartermaster to trade her boots for a smaller pair, which brought on a renewal of teasing about her small feet.
“Ah, our woman’s gotten a better pair of slippers,” said Private Rawley, who seemed anxious to prove his own hardiness.
Emma held still for an instant, then to her private amusement, Damon Stewart defended her. “The size of a man’s feet does not affect his ability to fight,” he said.
“Or to run,” said another.
“The only running I expect to be doing is toward the Rebels,” Emma replied, lacing her new boots tight.
“There’s a fierce lad!”
The teasing continued, but in a good-natured way, and Emma responded with equal cheer. She no longer feared suspicion from her fellow soldiers. They had accepted her, and as long as she was careful, she would be safe.
One way in which she must be careful was in finding relief from the calls of nature. The sink provided by the army for the soldiers’ use was far too public, being only a long trench with a pole suspended above it for a seat. Her dismay upon learning of this, that first day, was compounded by the urgency of her physical need.
Fortunately, she spied a fellow soldier slipping behind a convenient bush to relieve himself. The bush, being closer to the barracks than the sink, was apparently a preferred spot, for when Emma strolled past it an unmistakable aroma assailed her.
She bypassed this location, and also the sink, and decided to develop a habit of taking long walks in the woods in her free time.
The days passed quickly. The company spent many hours at drill, and amused themselves with conversation in the evenings. Emma considered offering to lead prayers in the barracks, but decided it would be best not to draw attention to herself. She did read in her Bible every night, and often discussed it with others who shared her devotion.
When she had been with the company for two weeks, the order to move to Washington arrived. Much excitement ensued, and a flurry of furloughs were issued to allow the soldiers to pay farewell visits to their loved ones. Emma did not request a furlough. She had made her farewells, and was content.
She was lying on her bunk, reading a newspaper, when Private Howell approached. Emma glanced up as Howell sat on the neighboring bunk.
“No sweetheart back in Flint, young Thompson?” he said.
“No,” Emma replied. “Nor you?”
“Nor I.”
Emma lowered her paper, wondering what Howell wanted. He sat gazing out of the window at the grounds, which were shaded in gathering dusk.
“They all say it will be a grand rout,” Howell said in a musing tone. “Do you think so?”
“I don’t know,” Emma said.
“I do wonder ... if the outcome is so certain, why did the Rebels bother at all to secede?”
The subject was one oft debated among the soldiers, but Emma had never heard it stated in quite this way. She thought for a moment.
“They must believe they are acting in the right,” she said at last.
“Then God’s justice will fall on them like a mighty hammer,” said Howell, his voice suddenly harsh.
Emma regarded him, then slowly nodded. “So it will.”
Howell nodded also, his expression one of satisfaction, then he stood up and went away. Emma watched him go back to his own bunk, several beds down the row.
God’s justice. She believed in it, and pitied the Rebels.
On June 6th the regiment boarded steamers bound for Cleveland, accompanied by the cheering of a number of the good people of Detroit, who had come to see them off. In Cleveland they were met with more cheering as they marched from the wharf to the depot.
Crowds of well-wishers stood on the platforms at every depot they passed. When the train stopped long enough, the soldiers were offered baked treats, lemonade, and even kisses from some of the b
older young ladies. Emma began to feel compensated for not having been fussed over when she had departed Flint.
All day and night the train continued eastward. Late the next day it reached Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, where the regiment marched into Camp Curtis. Here they were issued tents, and she and Damon lost no time setting up theirs, then hastened to prepare for afternoon parade.
After supper, Emma put her cap atop her haversack, took off her boots and set them by the foot of her bed, then crawled beneath her blanket. She lay on her stomach, watching out the open front door of the tent as the regiment settled in for the night. The aroma of campfires and the rich, green smells of the fields filled her with a sense of well-being. Somewhere in the camp a banjo plinked out a tune.
“We’re to be issued ammunition tomorrow,” Damon said. “I heard it from the quartermaster.”
Emma thought quietly about that. Tomorrow they would reach Baltimore, where in April the first Union troops to pass through the city had been attacked by a mob of Southern sympathizers. The same ugly fate might await the Second.
“Did you read in the paper that the tracks in the middle of the city have been torn up?” she said.
“Yes. We’ll have to march across town to the Washington train.” Damon turned on his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “Do you think that is the reason for giving us live ammunition?”
“Perhaps.” Emma turned her head to look at him. “Or maybe it is just time that we stopped ‘playing soljer’ and took up our real duties.”
“Playing? Is it a game to you, then?”
Emma glanced down and pressed her lips together, holding back a smile. “Not a game, no.”
“I think to some of them it is,” Damon said quietly.
Emma made no answer. She thought perhaps some of the men pretended it was all a game, so as not to be afraid. She herself was afraid, but for reasons that differed from most.
The next morning they struck their tents, received their issue of ammunition, and got back on the cars, the new cartridges riding heavy in the boxes on their belts. The mood in the cars was less jubilant, save for a few men who maintained a stream of rather antic hilarity. Green was one of these. Emma listened in silence.