by P. G. Nagle
Sixteen miles from Baltimore the train halted and the men were ordered off it to form a column in the road and load their weapons. Emma could now perform the manual of arms in her sleep, or so she thought, yet still her hand trembled a little as she poured the powder from her cartridge into her musket and rammed the ball home. She had loaded guns countless times for hunting, but this time if she fired, it would be at a man.
It was wrong to kill, according to God’s law, but in war this rule was suspended. Emma had not resolved the paradox within her heart. She wanted most ardently to support the Union, yet she shrank from slaying its enemies. She would have to resolve herself, she knew.
As they took up the march, the ranks fell quiet. No cheery songs rose up as they had during the march across Cleveland. Maryland was divided, and though the army held Baltimore, many of the citizens were for the South.
Just outside the city, the column made a brief halt. Captain Morse came down the line, looking over his company.
“If anyone in the town undertakes hostilities against you, you are to fire upon them,” he told them.
Emma saw his grim expression and her heart sank. To fire upon civilians was a terrible prospect. She silently prayed that it would not be necessary.
They moved forward again, marching into Baltimore all in step, aware of the faces gazing at them from the windows. Farther into the town the streets were lined with people watching the march. Emma saw their angry expressions and knew alarm.
“More damned bluebellies,” someone in the crowd muttered.
Emma pretended not to have heard. Her hand felt slick on the butt of her musket. The day suddenly seemed hot.
Movement caught her eye; someone in the crowd raised an arm. The next moment a rock flew toward the column, toward E Company, marching just ahead of the Grays. A sharp, angry cry followed. Emma saw the soldier who was struck, a corporal, raise his musket.
And fire.
Baltimore, Maryland, 1861
Keep your ranks! Keep your ranks! Forward march!” The order bellowed along the column by voice after voice. Emma swallowed.
Lieutenant Farrand, nearest her, sounded hoarse already. His face was sheened with sweat, and he scowled fiercely at the Grays, who regained their pace after a moment’s faltering and marched on.
Some angry shouting was going on among the citizens of Baltimore, but Emma could not make out the words over the continuing orders to keep ranks. She faced forward and ignored the crowd, though her skin prickled all over.
No more rocks were thrown, no more shots fired. After what seemed an eternity of tense marching through the hot sun, the regiment arrived unmolested at the south side of Baltimore, where a train waited to carry them to Washington.
Emma breathed a sigh of relief as she climbed into one of the cars. She had feared a repeat of April’s riot, all the way up until the Second had reached the depot. With silent thanks to God for preventing such a horrible event, she took a seat on the far side of the car and gazed out of the window, glad to be leaving Baltimore behind.
Damon joined her, saying, “That was a near thing.”
Emma nodded. Her throat was dry and tight with the tension of the march. She sipped from her canteen.
The company was subdued until the train began to move. As they left Baltimore behind, the soldiers’ voices rose in discussion, eagerly sharing details about the rock-throwing incident. The atmosphere of tension dissipated, replaced by something of the merriment that had prevailed on most of the journey, though not quite as carefree.
“I am glad we did not have to fire on civilians,” Emma said.
Damon gazed at her. “Afraid, Frank?” he asked softly.
She squared her shoulders and met his gaze. “I am not afraid to face the enemy. I think it is wrong to fight our own people.”
Damon gave a snort. “They looked like enemies to me. Sounded like ’em, too.”
“Maryland has not seceded.”
“Technically, true.” He shook his head. “You are right, it would have been unfortunate. All for the best that we had no need to fire.”
By the time they reached Washington, the soldiers of the Second were exhausted by travel and excitement. They descended from the cars into a city filled with military activity.
Emma had seen lively cities before, but never one as lively as this. Soldiers marched through the streets and lounged on the grounds of the Capitol, officers on showy horses attracted the admiration of the local ladies, and everywhere there was talk of war.
The Second spent a night in quarters, and were reviewed the next day by President Lincoln and General Scott. Emma longed for a look at the President, but only saw him from a distance.
Having been approved for service, the regiment marched through the city to a camp in the countryside overlooking the Potomac. Here they formed a brigade along with three other regiments—one from Massachusetts, one from New York, and another Michigan regiment—all under the command of the Second’s own Colonel Richardson.
The soldiers busied themselves in setting up their camp, and soon settled into a routine of daily drill, visits to the city, and yearning for letters from home. Emma and Damon continued as tentmates, and spent many evenings talking round campfires with others of the company. Emma felt at ease with Damon, who seemed to have decided to take “young Frank” under his wing.
She found she enjoyed camp life, though she avoided some of the soldiers’ more popular spare-time pursuits, such as drinking and gambling. Instead she sought out prayer meetings and lectures whenever they occurred.
She also took advantage of the passes to visit Washington which were generously distributed by superiors anxious to combat the soldiers’ boredom. She eagerly acquainted herself with the halls of government, the Smithsonian Castle, all the monuments and museums and other places of interest.
In mid-June, a wave of typhoid swept through the Second, sending many of them to the hospital tents. Emma began to spend her evenings there, giving water to sick soldiers, washing their faces, writing letters for them, or merely listening to their frustration at being ill. She found she had a knack for calming troubled spirits, for bringing ease to restless men struck down by an enemy at which they could not strike back.
She felt she was being of use. If it was not exactly missionary work, it was still God’s work, still a work of compassion.
Now and again a sick soldier would speak to her of God—sometimes shyly, as if only his weakness had brought him to think on such matters—and she would talk with him of Christ and the righteousness of serving one’s country. She began to bring her Bible to the hospital and read to those who wished to hear. It seemed to comfort.
She was doing so one evening when the surgeon, Dr. Palmer, came up to where she sat and stood looking at her. He had made his rounds of the tent earlier, and the man to whom she was reading was in no distress. Emma felt the back of her neck prickle, but she finished the chapter she was reading before looking up at the surgeon.
“A word with you, Thompson,” he said, gesturing toward the tent door.
Emma closed her book, said a brief farewell to the sick soldier, and followed the surgeon out of the tent. Had she somehow betrayed herself? She could not think how, but the fear of it ran chill down her spine.
Dr. Palmer led her to the dispensary tent, a smaller wall tent where the medicines were kept and where the surgeons remained when they were not visiting their patients. Inside, the smell of tonics and herbs was pleasantly pungent. The hospital steward was measuring out a dose of some medicine, and Dr. Lyster, the Second’s other surgeon, sat at ease, reading. Emma held her Bible tightly and waited.
“You have been spending a good deal of your time in the hospital, Thompson,” said Dr. Palmer.
Dr. Lyster looked up and closed his book, taking an interest. He glanced at Emma, then smiled slightly as he looked at Dr. Palmer.
“Yes, sir,” Emma said to Palmer.
“We appreciate your efforts to make the men more comfor
table.”
Emma cleared her throat. “Thank you, sir. I am happy to do it.”
Palmer and Lyster exchanged a glance. Emma looked from one to the other. Had her voice given her away? She never sang in camp, and she thought her speaking voice passed as that of a young man, but perhaps it had been a mistake to read to the sick. She felt a trembling threaten to start in her arms, and held them tight to her sides to fight it.
“How would you like to be assigned to regular hospital duty?” Dr. Lyster said.
Emma blinked. “Sir?”
“You would still drill with your company, but your duty would be here otherwise. We are allowed four men to nurse the sick. Would you be willing to make it your regular work?”
Relief washed through Emma’s limbs. “I would be glad to, sir.”
“It will mean odd hours for you—night duty, at times. You will have to sleep during the day on those occasions.”
Time alone in the tent she shared with Damon. A bit of privacy.
“I would not mind that,” Emma said.
“Excellent!” said Doctor Palmer. “I will speak to the colonel about your assignment.”
“Thank you, sir.” Emma smiled, delighted in her good fortune.
Hospital duty was not a sought-after detail. Most soldiers would rather dig ditches than tend the sick, but Emma did not mind it. Certainly the fetid smells of the hospital were uncomfortable, even when the greatest care was taken to maintain them as clean as could be. Cleaning the men who had soiled themselves from being too weak to rise was also unpleasant, but little more unpleasant than the tending of infant babes.
Emma had learned at a young age how to do that, having been called upon to assist her sister shortly after the birth of her first child. She had not found the baby as charming as her sister did. Tending the soldiers who suffered from typhoid or dysentery was much the same as caring for a sick baby, except that the men she aided seldom screamed.
She enjoyed the work, and continued to receive praise for it. She knew also that when her regiment saw battle, she would be able to help the wounded.
Perhaps the best advantage of hospital duty for her was the opportunity to slip her soiled handkerchiefs into the laundry. The first time she did this she covertly watched the contrabands who did the washing, but they seemed to think nothing out of place.
In the dispensary tent, she cast a covetous eye on the shelf full of bandages. These would be a last resort for her, if she were ever in dire need.
July Fourth was a day of celebration and picnics. All regular duty was suspended in honor of the nation’s independence, though some talked of the irony of that celebration when the country was struggling over whether the southern states should be allowed to secede. It made for interesting discussions in the mess.
The summer wore on, and Washington was ever more a center of military activity. More regiments arrived, making the area all around the capital into a giant camp. Dress parade was frequently attended by onlookers from the city, who often brought picnics.
Some of the men were restless for a fight. The same conversations went round and round—when will marching orders arrive? Emma was content to await events.
One morning she returned to her tent after a shift of duty in the hospital and found a letter from Flint lying on her bedroll. This surprised her to no end, for she had made no attempt to maintain a correspondence with anyone there. At first she thought it must be from the Joslins, but the hand was neither Mr. Joslin’s firm strokes nor his wife’s elegant script. The writing was light, well-formed, and simple.
Damon, wakened by the first call, fumbled sleepily with the brass buttons of his blouse. “That arrived yesterday.”
Emma glanced at him, then back at the letter. It bore no name with the return address, only the street number, which seemed familiar. Emma frowned, trying to recall who it might be.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Damon said, pulling on his boots. “I want the news from Flint.”
Emma turned the letter over and opened it, smoothing the folds out of the page. “Dear Mr. Private Thompson,” it began.
It was from Miss Daphne Little.
Emma read it through quickly, knowing she and Damon must assemble for roll call. Miss Daphne had joined the other young ladies of Flint in an effort to remember all the young men of the Grays—she said as much, artlessly, and went on to hope that Private Thompson was well and in good spirits. Emma was touched, and could not help but smile.
The letter contained little in the way of news. Flint was as it always was, and the talk was all of war, which Miss Daphne did not scruple to say she found dull. Since it was brief, Emma read the letter aloud to Damon as he finished dressing.
He grinned slyly. “I think Mr. Private Thompson has an admirer.”
“I think Miss Daphne Little is a trifle young,” Emma replied. “She is but fifteen.”
“That is not too young. Not for you, Frank.”
Emma said nothing, merely folded the letter and slipped it into her pocket, then reached for her musket.
She had been Miss Daphne’s age when her father had sought to marry her off. Remembering it brought back the anger she had felt.
Emma went out with Damon, stood through the roll call, then returned to the tent to rest until drill. She would answer Miss Daphne’s letter in the afternoon, she decided as she lay drifting toward sleep. Such kindness should not go unthanked.
Some few days later Emma was on duty in the hospital tent when a wild whoop went up through the camp. She went to the tent door and looked out. The hospital was on a slight rise, and she could see down along the orderly streets of tents in the Second’s camp. Men were standing there in clusters, talking excitedly. Now and then one would dash along a street.
Emma turned to Dr. Palmer, who had come out to stand beside her. “What is it?”
“Marching orders,” the doctor said. “I have just received them. We advance on Manassas tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
Emma looked back at the excitement in the camp below. The prevailing mood was joyful. Emma felt no desire to celebrate. She could only think of the suffering to come.
Glancing back into the hospital tent, she looked at the empty beds—more than half of them—and imagined them filled with wounded. The storm of war that had been so long gathering was about to break.
Washington, D.C., 1883
How convenient for you,” Jamie said, not quite sneering. “You were already in a position to stay behind and watch over the sick.”
“I did not stay behind,” Emma said calmly, determined not to allow Jamie to goad her. “I marched with the Second the next day. So did the surgeons. There were fewer sick in the hospital then, and they left one man to tend them.”
Jamie’s brows drew together in a frown. “You were at Bull Run, then?”
“Yes. We were sent to Centreville, then went on to try to find a crossing of the Run. We had reached Blackburn’s Ford when the Rebel artillery opened fire on us.”
Jamie nodded, the animosity gone from his face. “So you were in the advance.”
All at once, constraint fell away as they shared the memories etched on their souls. No longer were they at odds; they were two veterans talking of the war.
“We were pinned by artillery fire for half a day,” Emma said. “That was Thursday. On Sunday we were in reserve at Centreville.”
“We were at Henry House Hill.” Jamie’s eyes darkened, looking into the past. Emma felt a rush of sympathy.
“That was when you were captured,” she said softly.
“Yes.”
His face hardened and he looked away. He never had liked to talk of the months he had spent in a Confederate prison. It had been fresh in his mind, when they had first been acquainted, but he seemed no more reconciled to it after twenty years.
“We were all so innocent, before then,” Emma remarked.
She became aware of Mr. Glass watching her. He knew nothing of the hardship of war. He was youn
g, confident, and wholly ignorant of the savage brutality of which man—of which he himself—was capable.
A sudden weariness of spirit came over Emma, and she moved to a chair and sat down. Jamie glanced toward her; she thought she saw a momentary concern in his eyes, but then his face closed again, as if he had drawn a curtain across his heart.
“So you remained in reserve during the worst of the fighting,” he said, the bitter edge returning to his voice. “How fortunate for you.”
“I was not idle. I volunteered to help in the field hospital.” Emma shuddered; she could not help it. “That first time was the worst,” she murmured. “I had no idea how it would be.”
The War: Centreville, Virginia, 1861
Sunday, the 21st of July, dawned with a rumble of thunder that never faded. Unnatural thunder, herald of a tempest that bore a rain of lead, a flood of blood. Artillery fire continued in the distance, never ceasing, and soon the wounded began to arrive.
The field hospital where Emma had volunteered to work was in a small stone church in Centreville, hastily commandeered by the surgeons upon the brigade’s arrival a few days before. The pulpit and altar had been moved aside to make room for the surgeons’ tables. Pews were stacked against the wall, and stocks of bandages, lint, and other supplies made ready.
The first wounded were victims of artillery fire, bleeding from shrapnel wounds, flesh torn and raw. They moaned as they were brought in and tended, the unluckiest of them soon beginning to scream under the surgeon’s knife.
Emma’s heart hammered as she ran for bandages, brandy, and water. Her nerves were as tense as if she were herself under fire, but it was the pain in the eyes of the wounded that pierced her, the screams that raked her soul.
A ghastly heap of severed limbs began to pile up outside the church—she saw it when she went to refill the half-dozen canteens she had scrounged to bring water to the wounded. It made her gorge rise, but she had no time to indulge in weakness. Too many waited patiently, in pain, for the simplest attentions. She went to the nearby stream to draw water, taking care to go well upstream from the hospital, then hurrying back to the church.