by P. G. Nagle
They reached the camp as dusk was falling. Both being off duty, they parted to go to their respective companies’ streets.
“I will see you tomorrow,” Jerome said, offering his hand. “You will feel the better for a night’s rest.”
For once, Emma was hesitant to shake his hand. She made herself do so, however.
“Good night, Jerome.”
“Good night.”
She turned away, resisting the urge to watch him go. Instead she walked slowly to her tent, where Damon hailed her with cheerful teasing.
“If it isn’t our woman, returned to us! And just in time, Frank. Green and Emory are hosting a card game tonight. You should join us!”
Emma shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m tired.”
“Running you ragged over at that hospital, eh?”
Emma sat wearily on her bed and sighed. What she wanted was to study the Scripture, seek an answer there to the trouble in her soul, but she had left her Bible up at the hospital.
Damon continued to cajole her and urge her to go to the card game, but Emma only shook her head. She did not care for such pursuits; in fact she disapproved them. One of the joys of her friendship with Jerome was that he shared her disdain for such things—for card playing, drinking, and coarse language. Common pastimes of many a soldier, but not for the virtuous heart.
At last she lay down on her bed and closed her eyes, hoping Damon would leave her alone. He fell silent at least, for which she was grateful. Not long afterward the company’s mess call sounded.
“Are you coming to supper?” Damon asked.
“No, I’m tired. I just want to rest.”
“I’ll bring you back something.”
Emma did not open her eyes. Damon left, returning only briefly to announce he had brought her some food. She thanked him but did not get up, and to her relief, Damon went away at last.
Through the long evening she lay thinking, as the night deepened and the camp settled. Quiet descended, broken occasionally by voices or the music of someone playing a whistle. Emma thought she heard Damon’s voice once or twice, amid whoops of laughter from down the street.
How long did she mean to continue? She had never considered the future beyond a year or so. Would she go on as Frank Thompson, eventually to sink into solitary old age, still entrenched in her masquerade?
Until now she had felt no concern over such a fate, but the feelings Jerome had stirred in her would not be stilled. If she ever wished to be close to another—truly close, perhaps even to wed ...
She had never considered matrimony. Even when her father had demanded that she marry, she knew she would never submit to that fate. She had hated her father’s friend, which had not helped matters, but she had received other, more attractive offers as well. Never had she been tempted to accept.
Would she accept now, if Jerome knew her true identity, and offered her his heart?
Folly. Sheer folly to even think of it.
Yet she could think of nothing else. She lay restless on her bed, tormenting herself with the possibilities, unable to decide what to do.
In the wee hours, Damon stumbled into the tent. She could smell the whiskey on him. Feigning sleep, she waited until he fell into heavy snoring, then sat up in bed.
Dim moonlight shone through the canvas, silhouetting Damon’s bulk against the tent wall. The camp was quiet now, save for the heavy breathing of the men.
A hundred men all around her, and none suspected her. Frank Thompson was entirely successful, as he had been for years before the war. It took a great heart and an intelligent mind to make her doubt herself. A soul who was worthy of the highest esteem of any who appreciates virtue and true nobility, she thought with a wry smile.
She would drive herself mad if she continued this. She pulled on her boots and quietly arose, leaving the tent.
The moon struggled to shine through a haze of cloud. The weak light it did cast was enough to illuminate the silent streets of the camp.
She walked down them, each in turn, pretending to herself that it was her whim to walk a circuit of the camp but knowing it was Jerome’s tent she sought. She knew which one it was, in the middle of I Company’s street. She had gone there with him several times, to fetch a book or a newspaper he wanted to show her. She paused outside it now, listening, trying to discern the sound of Jerome’s breathing from amid the others all around.
She had slept next to him often enough, on the nurses’ couch up in the hospital. Should she not know his breath?
Folly.
She made herself walk on, through the rest of the camp, then around to A Company’s street and onward until she was back in her own street. By now she could see the coming dawn, a dull glow on the eastern horizon. Not wishing to return to her sleepless bed, she walked up to the hospital.
A voice cried out in distress as she approached, and she ran the last few steps to the tent’s door, which was closed against the night’s chill. She slipped in, and had started down the aisle when she saw that Davidson, the nurse on duty, had already reached the sufferer.
The patient was sitting straight up in his bed, arms flung outward, caught in a nightmare. Davidson had his arm around the man’s shoulder and was talking to him in a steady, calm voice. Slowly he quieted, until Davidson induced him to lie down again.
Emma stood watching as Davidson remained by the patient until he was sleeping peacefully. Only then did he rise, and check on the men to either side before coming to the front of the tent.
Emma smiled in greeting. “Well done,” she said softly.
Davidson nodded. “You are here early.”
“I came for my Bible.”
Emma stepped to the couch and picked up her book from the cracker box beside it that served as a table. She hugged it to her, as if she could capture its wisdom if she held it tightly enough.
“Will you watch while I go out for a minute?” Davidson asked.
“Of course.”
Emma sat on the couch as Davidson left the tent. A lamp was burning low on the cracker-box table. She turned it up a little, and opened her Bible at random. The page her eye fell upon was in Galatians, and she read at once of freedom, and the words struck a chord in her soul. Eagerly she read, and found verse after verse that rang true.
“—do not use your freedom as an opportunity for the flesh, but through love be servants of one another,” she whispered aloud.
And was it not the temptations of the flesh that tormented her? Jealousy, and enmity for Anna Corey whom she did not even know, and even the contemplation of immorality? She winced as she recalled her doubts and torments during the night.
She had lost her way. She must look to faith to restore her.
She read on, seeking comfort in the assurances of the apostle Paul, in his adjuration to follow the Spirit and never falter in her beliefs. At the end of the chapter she closed the book and sat thinking.
She had come near to making a mistake, she believed. She had been tempted to offer herself to Jerome, an offer she was sure he would refuse. If she did not wish him to turn from her in disgust, she must not make that offer.
So, his friend she was and would remain. She still had not decided whether she owed to that friendship her complete honesty. She wanted to confess herself to Jerome, so that she would no longer be guilty of deceiving him, but there were serious consequences to consider.
She heard a footstep outside the tent, and thinking it was Davidson returning, turned to greet him. Instead she saw Jerome step through the door, holding the canvas flap aside.
Her heart stood still at the sight of him. All her feelings leapt within her, her fondness and her wish to explain everything to him. The jealousy and possessiveness, too, though she struggled against them.
He gazed back at her for a moment, then came forward, letting the canvas fall behind him. “Good morning,” he said softly.
“You are early,” was all she could say.
“I was restless. Are you feeling any b
etter?”
She stared up at him, the truth rising to her lips though she knew she must not speak of it here. She was not in control of herself, she realized with dismay.
“I—no, actually. I feel rather unwell. Would you be willing to take my shift today?”
Concern filled his dark eyes, and compassion. Ah, but he was beautiful!
“Of course,” he said. “I am sorry you are unwell. Does your head still trouble you?”
“Yes.”
My head. My heart.
“Go and rest, then,” Jerome said, nodding. “I’ll inform the surgeon.”
“Thank you.”
She rose from the couch, clutching her Bible, and took a faltering step toward the door. Jerome reached out a hand to steady her. It was all she could do not to flinch from his touch, not because she did not want it, but because she wanted it more than she should.
She cleared her throat, struggling against the tightness in it. “Thank you, Jerome. I am sorry to trouble you.”
“No trouble,” he said, smiling. “You would do the same for me.”
She managed to smile back at him. How kind he was. How she loved—yes, loved him. She gazed at his face, a good-looking face, though the true beauty of him was in his eyes, through which his soul shone like a beacon.
Footsteps drew her gaze to the tent door. Davidson came through it, carrying a tin cup and the smell of coffee. Emma took a step backward, away from Jerome. With a fleeting smile at him she left the tent, and fled back to the camp.
Damon still lay snoring deeply. In the growing light of morning Emma saw a plate of stew on the cracker-box table at the head of her bead, long since gone cold and filmed over. She set her Bible down beside it and crawled beneath her blanket once more.
She lay still. Though she was weary, sleep was far from her thoughts. She listened to the sounds of the rousing camp, and waited. When Damon had gone at last to report to assembly and his duties of the day, Emma arose and began to pace within the tent.
She thought carefully now, resolutely putting tender feelings aside, trying to cast the cold light of logic onto the choice she must make.
If she told Jerome who she really was, would he betray her?
She could not believe that he would. Even if he disdained her, she did not think he would denounce her. If she reposed a confidence in him, she thought he would keep it.
Well, then. What effect might it have upon him?
It was possible that he would feel betrayed. Certainly she expected him to be angry at having been deceived. Shocked, perhaps, that she would choose to live as a man, and go against her fated role of womanhood.
But Jerome believed in individual freedom as a God-given right. Would he not accept that she had claimed that right for herself? She had been careful to cause no harm to any other.
And if the worst occurred, if she were somehow discovered—not through Jerome, but by some other mischance—what would happen then? Would Jerome be accused of conspiring to hide her identity?
Possibly.
Emma closed her eyes, frowning. The question was which would be worse: to confide in him and thus expose him to a possible accusation in the event she was discovered; or to continue to deceive him, which gave the lie to the very friendship she held so dear?
She wrestled with the problem through the day, going over and over it in her mind. At length, exhaustion dulled her wits, and she lay down atop her blankets and drifted into a restless sleep.
When she woke it was dusk, and the smell of boiled meat filled the tent. Damon was standing over her, a plate in his hand.
“Brought you some supper. Someone said you were sick.”
“I—I have not been very well,” Emma agreed.
“Here. Try to drink some of the broth, at least.”
Damon knelt beside her, careful not to spill the liquid in the plate. Chunks of boiled pork sat in it, unappealing to Emma at the moment, but she smiled and thanked her tentmate as she accepted the food.
“You need to have a care for yourself, and not work so hard,” Damon said. “Won’t be any good to the wounded if you’re half-dead yourself.”
Despite her troubles, Emma laughed. “Thank you, Damon. It’s very kind of you.”
“Well, I said I’d look after you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
Damon stayed beside her, watching until she had sipped a half-dozen spoonfuls of broth. In his own, bluff way, he was as caring as any of the nurses at the hospital, and Emma was sincerely grateful.
“I’ll leave you in peace,” he said, lumbering to his feet. “You drink the rest of that, hear?”
“Yes, sir!” Emma replied, saluting, which made him grin.
She made good on her promise, finishing the broth and even eating a small piece of the pork, though it tasted like sawdust as she chewed it. Setting the dish aside, she lay back and stared at the canvas overhead.
The tent’s poles bristled with a number of nails which Damon had added to serve as hooks for clothing and canteens. He had talked of elevating the tent as some had done—building a low wall of logs around the bottom to make it warmer for winter. Emma was indifferent, having grown up in New Brunswick, whose winters were far more bitter than anything Washington was likely to experience.
Such plans, though, spoke of a permanence which Emma knew was illusory. Though winter was coming on, there were those who would have the army move now, and attack the Confederates. This tent was a temporary home. Like the army.
Perhaps it would be better to continue in her deception. Certainly it would be safer, both for her and Jerome. A wistful sadness filled her as she lay contemplating the future. She and Jerome would continue as friends. The friendship would be safe, though never complete without the total openness and honesty she craved.
This might be the best she could do. Frank Thompson was her way of life, and had been for several years. To change that, to threaten its success, was to take a terrible risk.
Emma woke in the morning, surprised that she had slept the night through. The sun had broken through the haze at last and the day was bright. Damon was up before her, and came back into the tent as she rose from her bed. He was carrying her plate, which he had scraped clean.
“Feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you,” Emma said, taking the plate from him.
There was still a hollow soreness in her heart, but she did feel better. The fever of indecision had abated.
She joined Damon at the company’s mess, and though she was not hungry she gulped down half a cup of hot coffee and felt the better for it. Doing her best to bid Damon and the others of her company a cheerful farewell, she took her leave and reported to the hospital for duty.
Jerome was there, policing the tents, and she nodded to him in passing. One of the patients had died during the night, and Emma watched Jerome and the ward master carry him out. He had suffered from dysentery, which struck down a great many soldiers. Despite all the efforts toward sanitation, so many men crowded together could not help but pass diseases among them.
Emma went about her duties, summoning a cheer she did not feel as she visited the patients and heard their requests. One wanted her to write letters for him, another to read to him, another made a mournful plea for some fruit. Emma promised to find it for him, an errand that would take her away from the hospital for a time, which did not displease her. Though the sutler charged a high price for such luxuries, Emma often fetched them for the patients, happily paying her own money.
When she and Jerome spoke during the day, as was inevitable during the course of their duties, Emma was glad to find that her voice did not tremble. She thanked him for his kind inquiry after her health, saying that she felt much better.
“Perhaps we can go for a walk this evening,” she said. “The weather is fair.”
“I would like that,” Jerome said, smiling.
They had little leisure for more conversation that day. New patients were coming in—three new cases of ty
phus—and Jerome was kept busy arranging their beds and seeing them settled. Emma went to the sutler’s and returned with a can of peaches for the man who craved fruit, then passed the rest of the afternoon reading and writing for those who had asked it.
Their shift ended after the patients had been given their dinner. Emma and Jerome ate from the hospital kitchen as well, though Emma still had little appetite. She made herself eat some pork and beans, though it sat like lead in her stomach. Coffee helped to wash it down and clear her mind somewhat. She cleaned her mess kit and went outside to breathe the fresh air.
Twilight filled the valley of the Potomac. The evening star shone out above the western horizon. The sky was clear and the night would be cold.
Jerome joined her, gazing over the camp. “Do you still care to walk?”
“Yes, please.”
They took their usual route, down a road that ran between orchards in the river bottom. They talked a little of the Trent affair, which was much in the news of late.
The U.S. Navy had seized two Confederate ambassadors from the British packet bound for England and France. Great Britain had naturally taken exception to this, and sabers were heard rattling across the ocean. Neither Emma nor Jerome could see any good coming of the matter, and though it was regrettable, they agreed that Mason and Slidell should be set free.
They reached the peach orchard again and walked into it, strolling beneath the bare-branched trees. They fell silent for a while, then Jerome spoke.
“I have been thinking, since our last conversation.”
“Oh?” Emma said foolishly.
“I wonder if I am not dwelling overmuch on Miss Corey’s letters to me.”
He stopped walking and looked at Emma, and she saw despite the failing light the seriousness of his expression. Her heart sank.
“I would not wish to be guilty of neglecting my duty,” he added.
“You have not neglected your duty, Jerome.”