A Call to Arms

by P. G. Nagle

  Robbins shook his head. “That may be, but still the evil must be ended.”

  “Yes. The slaves must be freed.”

  Their gazes met, and in knowing that they were in accord, Emma’s heart leapt with happiness. She had never met a man whose ideas agreed so exactly with her own.

  A querulous voice rose within the tent, calling for “Frank.” Emma glanced toward it, her face growing warm with consciousness of her inattention, though she had only been a moment outside.

  “I must go,” she told Robbins.

  He nodded. “I will wait, if I may. I would like to continue this discussion.”

  Emma smiled, then ducked into the tent, hastening to the one who called her. As she brought him the water he asked for, her heart was filled with silent gladness.

  Robbins stayed late that night, talking with Emma until well past midnight. At last she made him go, pointing out that reveille was only a few hours away. Robbins left, shaking her hand warmly and promising to come again.

  He haunted the hospital thereafter, paying frequent visits to Mitchell, and like as not remaining to chat with Emma during her spare moments. They conversed on a variety of subjects, and if they did not always precisely agree, their differences of opinion made for interesting discussion. By the end of a week, they were “Frank” and “Jerome” to one another, and Emma could not remember having a closer friend.

  They attended prayer meetings together, and went for long walks when off duty, talking of books, of faith, and of the higher purposes of the war. Jerome continued to visit the hospital every day, sometimes several times in a day.

  One afternoon in early November, Jerome appeared in the hospital tent rather earlier than usual. Emma greeted him with a smile as she glanced up from writing a letter for one of the wounded. He nodded in response and wandered down to Mitchell’s bed, appearing distracted though he talked to Mitchell with his usual cheer. When Emma had finished the letter and stood, promising to post it at once, Jerome arose as well and followed her out of the tent.

  “Frank.” His dark eyes were troubled.

  “Yes?” Emma said, at once concerned. “What is it?”

  “I’ve been informed I’m being reassigned.”

  Dismay stabbed her, but she tried not to show it. “Where?”

  “Here. To the hospital, as a steward.”

  Emma could not hide her delight. “But that is wonderful!”

  “Did you suggest it?”

  Emma blinked in surprise. “No.”

  His troubled frown persisted. “I thought perhaps ... perhaps you had said something to Dr. Bonine.”

  She shook her head. “No, not a word. But he may have noticed how much time you have been spending here—that is how I came to be assigned to hospital duty.”

  “Oh.”

  Jerome paced a few restless steps. Emma watched, regretting his apparent unhappiness though she could not be sorry for his news.

  “I am not certain I am best suited for this duty,” he said at last.

  “Why not?”

  He paused and stood looking at her, still frowning. “I wonder if it would not be better that I should remain in the ranks.”

  “Standing picket duty?”

  “It is a combat position, and what I volunteered for. Hospital work is—well. Forgive me, I do not mean to belittle what you do. For you it is different.”

  Emma bristled. “If you think this work does not require fortitude you are mistaken.”

  “I know it does, I know. I have watched you. Yours is a different kind of courage, I think.” He smiled awkwardly. “And you are well suited to the work. Better than I.”

  “You mean because I am small.” Emma was beginning to be angry now, and knew she was frowning.

  “Because you are naturally outgoing, naturally cheerful. I am—it is not so easy for me, to be open with strangers.”

  Emma could not help a wry laugh. If he knew how much she concealed ...

  “You need not be open,” she said. “You need only be kind. You know how desperate is their situation.”

  She gestured to the tent, where the sick and wounded lay, so helpless, so vulnerable. Robbins gazed that way and nodded soberly.

  “I suppose I am afraid of failing them,” he said, his mouth twisting in a rueful smile.

  “You will not fail them.”

  Emma’s anger vanished as quickly as it had come, now that she saw the self-doubt that was at the root of his concern. It was like Jerome to be modest about his own abilities. She took a step closer.

  “A steward’s duty is to maintain the tents, and keep everything in order,” she said. “You will not be called upon to nurse the sick unless one of us is unfit for duty.”

  He nodded, then gave a sigh of resignation and managed to smile. “I shall rely upon you for advice.”

  “I am happy to give it. When do you report for duty?”

  “Today. That is why I am here.”

  Emma smiled. “Then let us find Dr. Bonine.”

  The surgeon welcomed Jerome with brusque friendliness, and set him at once to his duties. For the rest of the day and into the evening, Jerome policed the hospital tents and performed such tasks as the surgeons required of him. Some of the work was menial, and Emma worried that it would displease him, but if so he gave no outward sign of it.

  Emma had volunteered for night duty as usual, and she was pleased when Jerome elected to stay as well. He seemed to have set his doubts aside.

  Near midnight, when all the men were at last asleep, Emma and Jerome sat down together on the cot provided for the nurses’ comfort, and quietly conversed. Jerome seemed tired, though he was as eager as ever to discuss religion. To perfect his faith was his constant endeavor, and he never wearied of the subject.

  At length he yawned, and Emma could not help but do so as well. She reached for the blankets folded beside the cot.

  “I should let you sleep,” Jerome said, standing.

  “Stay if you wish. There is room for two.”

  She said it casually, and did not meet his eye, occupying herself with arranging the blankets. Her heart was beating rather swiftly, though.

  “All right,” Jerome said, and sat down again to pull off his boots.

  They stretched out together on the cot, sharing a blanket. Emma was tired but could not sleep, conscious of Jerome beside her. Her fondness for him kept her awake, listening as his breathing deepened and he fell into slumber.

  How precious was this moment, to lie close to one she so esteemed! With a shock she realized that she would never have lain so comfortably with any other man—even Damon, who was kind and a sincere friend. No man had ever enjoyed her trust to the extent that it now reposed in Jerome. She trusted him completely—she would trust him with her life.

  The realization was strange for her, having grown up viewing men as her natural enemies, having for so long loathed their demands upon womankind and the sacrifices they assumed belonged to them by right. She had never encountered a man for whom she felt the slightest inclination to give up her freedom.

  Not until now. In the silence of deep night, she lay awake, wondering if she could give her heart to a man like Jerome. She had firmly believed it was impossible, but now she was no longer sure. As she lay beside him, breathing in time with his own deep sleep, she thought tentatively of what it would be like to be more than his friend.

  Emma closed her eyes, her pulse quickening at the thought of being closer to Jerome. In the past, back in Canada, she had been offered love and spurned it as unworthy of her interest. Later, as Frank Thompson, it had amused her to flirt with young women such as Miss Little. What she contemplated now was something wholly different, something she had never expected to pursue.

  And she could not pursue it, not in her present situation. If she did, she would be no better than a prostitute. She would have fallen into exactly the sort of sin she abhorred.

  She knew that there were women who entered the army in disguise for just such purpose
s. She had heard of one who had been revealed and prosecuted. The men guilty of consorting with that woman had been court-martialed.

  Never, never would Emma place Jerome in such a position. Neither of them wanted that sort of relationship, she was certain. Jerome was not the sort to descend to such baseness. If he sought a union, it would be under the blessing of holy matrimony.

  Emma turned her head to look at him, tender affection filling her heart as she gazed on his face, peaceful in slumber. She would treasure this moment for what it was, and ask no more.

  Closing her eyes, she listened to the sounds of the hospital tent. A guy rope creaking under the pressure of a breeze. Patients snoring softly, sighing in sleep or shifting in their beds. Now and then a voice murmuring restlessly as a soldier dreamed of the battlefield.

  The warmth of Jerome’s body beside Emma filled her with a sense of well-being. Thanking God for the gift of his friendship, she gradually relaxed into sleep.

  She woke before dawn, roused by a whimper of distress that she knew presaged a fit of delirium. Jerome still slept beside her. Rising quietly so as not to waken him, she went to the troubled soldier’s bed and spoke gently to him, hoping to fend off his nightmares.

  He quieted, and she stayed with him, taking his hand and continuing to talk to him. Her gaze strayed to the couch where Jerome lay, and soon she saw him wake and stretch, sitting up and looking about the tent. When his gaze met hers he smiled, and Emma’s heart filled with gladness.

  She watched Jerome stand and fold the blankets they had shared, then run his hands through his disheveled hair. Her patient then reclaimed her attention for a few minutes, waking with a start. At Emma’s invitation he recounted to her what he had been dreaming. She spoke soothingly to him until he was comfortable, then rose to join Jerome.

  “Good morning,” she said quietly, sitting down on the couch to put on her boots. “I hope you slept well.”

  “Wonderfully well, thank you,” said Jerome, smiling. “I am much refreshed.”

  “Good.”

  Emma stood and flung open the front of the tent. The sun had not yet risen, though the river valley was filled with a soft, gray light. The smell of coffee drifted in from the nearby cook-tent.

  “Breakfast soon,” Emma said. “I will need your help with some of the patients.”

  Jerome nodded. “Gladly. Just tell me what I must do.”

  They worked together through the morning, and Jerome’s confidence seemed to increase. Over the next few days he settled into his duties and expressed no more doubts. If the work was not glorious, neither was it arduous, and it gave Emma and Jerome even more time to talk.

  Their friendship grew, and Emma rejoiced. They spent most of their off-duty hours together as well as their time at work in the hospital. Jerome especially enjoyed discussing the Bible, and they spent many an hour with their heads bent over Emma’s book, debating the meaning of a passage.

  Emma’s days passed happily as the autumn deepened. She enjoyed her work in the hospital even more with the addition of Jerome’s company. Now and then she would find him watching her, sometimes with a perplexed expression, though it always gave way to a smile when their gazes met.

  One day when they returned to the hospital after a walk, Jerome had three letters waiting. He let out an exclamation of delight when he saw the address on one of them.

  “It is from Anna Corey, one of my students,” he said, looking up at Emma with a gratified smile.

  She smiled in return. “How kind of her to remember you.”

  “Yes.” Jerome glanced at the letters in his hand, then back at Emma. “Do you often receive letters from home?”

  She shook her head. “My parents are dead.”

  It was a small deception—though for all she knew it was true. Easier to pretend that she had no family than to make up excuses for their strange lack of attention to “Frank.”

  “I am sorry,” Jerome said, his brow creasing with concern.

  Emma shrugged. “I have been on my own for some years now. I am used to it.”

  “Have you no sweetheart, back in Michigan?”

  “No. Though I do have a young lady friend who writes to me now and again.” Emma smiled, thinking of Miss Daphne, whose letters still arrived at erratic intervals and always expressed her dogged determination to execute her duty toward her soldier friend.

  “Well, that is something,” Jerome said, his face brightening.

  “Yes.”

  Emma left Jerome to enjoy his letters while she made her rounds. Later he showed them to her, generously sharing his news from home. Emma read Miss Corey’s letter with a small pang of heartache. There was nothing exceptional in it, but the gentle expressions of affection for Jerome made her wish she was free to offer her own.

  Of course, that was unnecessary. Jerome knew she cared for him. Knew “Frank” cared for him, as a friend.

  She kept her feelings to herself as she handed his letters back to him, summoning a smile with which to thank him. It was kindness that had made him offer to share, and she was sure he had no idea that reading Miss Corey’s sentiments would cause her pain.

  November wore on, and soon the news that General McClellan had been given command of the entire army passed through the camp. The Army of the Potomac was now an efficient organization, due to McClellan’s careful and exacting guidance. Emma believed he would bring the same qualities to bear in his leadership of all the U.S. Army, and rejoiced in his promotion along with her fellow soldiers.

  There were grumblings, political grumblings, as ever in Washington. The city was becoming overwhelmed with supporting the ever-growing military. Cleanliness was an issue, and soon another outbreak of typhus filled beds that had been vacated by wounded who had moved on, either returning to their duties, or to their families, or passing on to a better world.

  Some of the grumblers complained that the army had long since been ready to fight, and should move against the Confederates. Emma paid no attention to this. McClellan would decide when and where to attack the Rebels, and she was confident his would be the right choice.

  While she felt no trouble over the future of the army, she suffered a growing misgiving about Jerome. He had taken up a regular correspondence with Miss Corey, and often spoke to Emma of her virtues. She knew the resulting pain in her heart for jealousy, and admonished herself for indulging in such folly, but she could not help how she felt.

  Jerome no longer showed Emma his letters from Miss Corey. He spoke of them, though, with quiet pleasure and a soft light in his eyes that caused Emma agonies of grief. She began to dread the words, “Miss Corey says.”

  One afternoon, during one of their customary walks, Jerome was ebullient over his most recent letter from his gentle correspondent. Emma listened in silence to his praise of Miss Corey.

  “She is all that a man could look for in a member of the gentler sex. Well worthy of the highest esteem of any who appreciates virtue and true nobility,” Jerome said, pausing at the edge of an orchard where they often walked.

  The trees were now bare of all but a few leaves, and a scattering of fallen peaches lay shriveled on the ground about their feet. Emma stared glumly at the ruined fruit, regretting its waste, though her farmer’s soul knew there would always be deadfalls.

  “I wish you could meet her,” Jerome went on. “I am sure you would agree with me.”

  Emma flashed a rueful smile. “I think perhaps no one could appreciate her qualities more than you.”

  “Well, not more, perhaps, but equally as well.” Jerome smiled. “When we return to Michigan, you must come with me and visit Miss Corey.”

  Emma gazed toward the setting sun. “Michigan is far away.”

  “Not so far as to be forgotten. Will that not be our ultimate reward, to return home?”

  Emma shrugged. “Who is to say which of us will survive to return?”

  “Come, now, Frank! It is not like you to be so gloomy! We shall return home, I am sure of it.”
/>   “You will go back to college,” Emma said, stepping forward among the trees. “Back to teaching.”

  Jerome strolled along beside her. “And you will return to selling books. You may come and sell textbooks to all of my students.”

  Emma smiled wanly, but did not meet his gaze. She was watching the sun set, a fiery glow on the horizon, golden-orange cutting through the gathering haze and the web of bare tree branches. It was not enough to warm the chill inside her.

  “Or perhaps I will study medicine,” Jerome said.

  Emma turned to look at him, surprised. Jerome smiled.

  “I have acquired a certain curiosity about it,” he said. “I’ve been talking with Dr. Lyster, who says that Dr. Palmer would welcome a student with field hospital experience. I owe that to you,” he added. “If not for our friendship, I would never have developed an interest.”

  Emma swallowed. All at once she saw how tentative was their situation. She had so enjoyed the idyll of the past few weeks, she had almost forgotten that it could not last. Sooner or later the call to arms would come, the surgeons would pack up their equipments, and they all would move forward to battle. Thereafter ... only God in Heaven knew what would become of them.

  She wanted suddenly to tell Jerome the truth about herself. She could not bear to think that she might go to her grave without having confessed her deception to him, her closest friend. How dreadful if he were to discover it after her death! If she were carried to the hospital and revealed to be a woman, what a scandal it would be, what a disgrace! Jerome would look a fool—might even be accused of colluding with her—and would hate her for it.

  She could not bear to think of that. She turned to look at him, and saw his earnest face frowning in concern.

  “Are you all right?” Jerome asked. “You look pale.”

  Emma glanced down, pressing a hand to her temple. “A headache coming on, I think.”

  “Perhaps we should go back.”

  “Yes.”

  They retraced their steps in silence. Emma was thinking furiously, debating whether to confess her deception to him. Her instinct told her no good could come of it, but still her heart yearned to be clean. She wished to keep nothing from Jerome, her dearest friend. She wondered what he would think, if she told him. Doubt of his reaction sealed her lips.