A Call to Arms

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A Call to Arms Page 12

by P. G. Nagle


  March arrived, and with it a renewal of murmurs from the discontented in Washington. General McClellan had brought the Army of the Potomac into fine shape, and was now being pressured to make use of it. Scouting missions and skirmishes increased, and the hospital began to receive an increase of wounded along with the sick.

  One morning Emma was summoned to attend upon Colonel Poe, the Second Michigan’s commander ever since Colonel Richardson had been given command of the entire brigade. Emma presented herself at the Headquarters tent, and after a short wait, was duly ushered into Colonel Poe’s presence.

  Colonel Orlando Poe had wildly curling hair, a dimpled chin beneath a fierce mustache, and sharp eyes that often as not suggested an ironic outlook on life. His eyebrows rose as Emma stood at attention before the Colonel’s desk.

  “Thompson,” he said, though the assistant adjutant had announced Emma a moment before.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have been serving hospital duty for six months.”

  “Y-yes, sir,” Emma replied, though she had not paid attention to how long she had been serving as a nurse.

  Colonel Poe stood up and walked around his desk, looking Emma over. He was several inches taller, and gazed down at her with eyebrows still quirked. He walked in a slow circle, around Emma, and she began to fear that he suspected her.

  She struggled to maintain her calm. Had Jerome had a change of heart, and decided to reveal her after all? But if that were so she would have been arrested, she thought. She gazed straight ahead, remaining at attention while her heart pounded painfully, and hoping that the heat in her cheeks was not enough to show.

  At last Colonel Poe stood before her again, then leaned back against his desk.

  “How would you like a change of pace?”

  Emma swallowed. “Sir?”

  “I need a new mail carrier. Someone agile, who can handle a horse. You can ride?”

  “Oh—yes, sir.”

  “You would be in the saddle a good deal.”

  Emma had never considered leaving the hospital, but now her heart seemed to lift at this offer. To ride every day, in the fresh air, to be able to come and go as she pleased, and not stifle in the hospital with the sick and dying. It seemed the answer to her prayer—an unexpected answer, but one that would allow her a respite from the gloom of nursing duty. Let her spend some time away from the hospital, recover her spirits, and then she would be able to return.

  “I would not mind, sir,” she said. “I have been accustomed to riding daily.” Early in her bookselling career, before she had set up her carriage, she had ridden all of her routes.

  “Good,” said Colonel Poe, flashing a smile. “I will issue your assignment at once. Report to the quartermaster for a horse.”

  Thus Emma’s transformation from nurse to mail carrier, a change that agreed with her even more than she expected. She had a great deal more freedom. As long as the regiment’s mail was picked up and delivered in a timely fashion, she might otherwise do as she pleased. The one shadow that fell on her happiness in the first week of her new duty was the appearance of a letter in Miss Corey’s handwriting.

  She had already made a habit of bringing the regimental hospital’s mail to the dispensary tent and giving it over to Dr. Bonine or his assistant. In this way she avoided seeing Jerome directly. She buried Miss Corey’s letter within the stack of mail and left all with the assistant surgeon, escaping as quickly as she could down to the Second’s camp.

  She had become the most looked-for member of the regiment, and was usually greeted by cheers as she visited each company in turn. In addition to the mail, she often picked up newspapers in Washington for those who requested them. Her natural turn for sales asserted itself, and she began to make a little extra money selling conveniences that the sutlers did not carry, watches and the like. No one remarked at her keeping a supply of pocket handkerchiefs on hand. Colonel Poe turned a benignly blind eye to this activity, and Emma prospered.

  In mid-March, General McClellan issued an announcement that the Army of the Potomac would soon move against the enemy. Speculation abounded, but when the Second received marching orders a few days later, they were astonished to learn they were to travel by steamer to Fortress Monroe, at the extreme of the Virginia Peninsula. In a drizzling rain the regiment boarded the Vanderbilt at the Alexandria wharf, and late in the evening commenced a slow and dreary trip southward.

  The steamer was crammed full of soldiers. The entire brigade was aboard, or so it seemed, and there was scarcely room to move. Emma glimpsed Jerome once—he had found a good seat on the upper deck—but she went another way and did not speak to him.

  The river was filled with transports, all making their way to Fort Monroe in the worst weather. Storms soaked the soldiers and churned up the water enough to make a number of them ill, which added to everyone’s discomfort.

  Upon arrival at Fort Monroe the Vanderbilt languished for two more days in the river before its unhappy passengers were allowed to disembark. Despite the continuing rain, which turned their new camping ground to mud, the men of the Second were happy to be ashore.

  Their camp was several miles from the fort, which could not accommodate the entire Army of the Potomac. The fort’s commissary did issue soft bread to all the new arrivals, a great comfort. The Second pitched their camp and settled in as best it could in the rain and mud.

  Before a week had passed, many of the soldiers were laid low by a miasma. Emma did not escape, and lay in her tent for several days, shivering and sweating by turns. When at last she felt well enough to rise and return to her duties, she had to fight her way through near-chaos to find the mail depot and collect the regiment’s letters.

  Returning to the camp with several days’ worth of mail in her bags, she felt like Father Christmas. The men, weary of mud and the cold, incessant rain, gathered eagerly around her horse. She handed out letters and reaped the reward of delighted smiles from their recipients.

  The field hospital had not been set up yet, hence Jerome was with his company. Emma gave him two letters, neither from Miss Corey, and received a brief smile in return. Thanks enough, she supposed. Perhaps he had been hurt more than she expected by her unannounced departure from the hospital. She had tried to prepare him for it, at least. She had said goodbye in her own way, wishing him a Merry Christmas.

  Folly to dwell upon it. She turned her expectations to the future instead. General McClellan had moved his vast army here, and soon they would march up the Peninsula toward Richmond.

  One night a commotion roused Emma from sleep, and she and Damon both got up to see what was happening. Most of the Second turned out as well, gathering around a group of negroes whose shouts of “Glory, glory!” had awakened the regiment.

  They were all dressed in humble clothing, much soiled and tattered. A campfire was quickly built up, and food and coffee provided to the negroes, whose gratitude was touching. The eldest among them eagerly told their story, and the soldiers listened in wonder.

  They were contrabands, runaway slaves. Hearing of the Federal army’s approach, they had dared to make their escape from bondage, and had spent ten harrowing days hiding in the forest, seeking an opportunity to reach McClellan’s army. In that time they had eaten nothing but what they could find in the woods.

  They had been fired upon by Confederate pickets, one of their number killed and another badly wounded. This night they had come to the water’s edge, and been seen by Dr. Bonine, who at first had thought them enemies and had summoned a handful of guards from the Second’s camp.

  The good doctor, who was not now present, for he had taken the wounded man to be cared for, had realized upon his return to the river that the men he had seen were not pickets, but refugees. Their attempts to cross the creek were unsuccessful, for the water was too deep to wade and it was apparent that they could not swim. With the help of the soldiers, Dr. Bonine constructed a raft and tied a rope to it, and had by that means brought the escapees across the riv
er to safety and freedom.

  Emma was fascinated by this story. She had not previously met any contrabands, but now she spoke with them and listened to their stories, and was struck by their dedication to find freedom at any cost. She was also impressed by their knowledge of the Scripture, for though they could not read or write, they yet knew the substance of the Bible well and were devoted to Christ Jesus.

  She wished she could teach them. They were eager to learn, and if her obligations had not prevented her, she would have undertaken their education.

  It was not to be, however. Orders went out for the army to march, and with two days’ rations in their haversacks, and in a driving rain, they slogged their way up the peninsula to arrive before Yorktown, where they bivouacked on ground over which the water was running like a flood.

  Emma had her horse, a sturdy bay gelding whom she named Samuel, to look after as well as she could. She found room with the headquarters horses, in a shed near the farmhouse that Colonel Poe and his staff had taken for their use, and received the adjutant’s permission to house her mount there. After seeing to his needs, she prepared to return, cold and wet, to the Second’s temporary camp, but she was distracted by the sight of Chaplain Brown coming out of a smaller house adjacent to the farmhouse. She hastened over to him, discovered that he was engaged in bringing in firewood, and offered to help.

  The house had but one room and looked to have been that of a foreman, perhaps. Scarcely any furnishings remained, its occupant having retreated from the Federal advance. The chaplain and Emma brought in three loads of wood, then dragged in a couple of stumps from the yard for seats. The stumps were wet from the rain, but as Emma was wet herself, she gladly sat down on one, rubbing her hands before a sputtering fire.

  “Thank you, Frank!” the chaplain said, rather out of breath, as he fed wood to the feeble flames. “We have not seen you much at our meetings of late,” he added gently.

  “No, well, I have sometimes gone to meetings in Alexandria,” Emma said.

  “Are things well with you?”

  Emma blinked, reminded suddenly of Jerome. “Yes, of course,” she said, managing to smile. “I quite like serving as mail carrier. I had not realized how much my spirits were oppressed by being constantly among the sick.”

  Chaplain Brown nodded, watching her with a slight look of concern. “Your spirits are recovered now?”

  “Well, apart from being soaked through,” she said, with an attempt to laugh. The jest fell flat, and she gazed at the flames. “I have been somewhat restless, I suppose.”

  “So have we all. Perhaps this move will cure that.”

  “Except that we still are not doing anything.” Surprised at how petulant her own voice sounded, she looked at the chaplain with a rueful shrug. “I am too impatient for action. I have always been one to seize the day, and think later of consequences. But I know it takes time to shift an army, and that General McClellan will advance when the time is best.”

  Chaplain Brown looked at her with a somewhat curious expression. “There may be opportunities for action quite soon—for some.”

  Emma raised her eyebrows. “Some?”

  The chaplain added another log to the fire, and spent some moments adjusting its position. As there were no tools in the house, he used his fingers, and flinched back when they came too near the coals.

  “A man named Webster was captured lately by the Confederates,” he said. “They intend to hang him as a spy.”

  Emma blinked. “That is dreadful.”

  “Yes.”

  The chaplain gazed at her earnestly for some moments, until Emma was beginning to be uncomfortable with the silence. He then looked at the fire, and absently shifted a log with a fingertip.

  “I know of a situation that might be available, for one who seeks action and has sufficient moral courage.”

  Emma caught her breath. Did he mean the unfortunate Webster’s position? Then the man truly had been a spy?

  “It is a situation of great danger and vast responsibility,” the chaplain said, meeting her gaze.

  Cold washed through her veins; a different cold than the chill inflicted by the weather. It was part fear, and part excitement.

  “Tell me,” she said, leaning forward.

  Washington, D.C., 1883

  So the good chaplain invited you to become a spy?” Jamie’s sneer was somewhat less pronounced.

  Emma paused before answering, seeing a young man about to enter from the hallway. He took two steps in, glanced at Jamie, then Emma, then the closed door behind Mr. Glass’s desk, and retreated again.

  “Yes,” Emma said when he had gone. “Colonel Poe had asked him to think about which men in the regiment were of good character and unquestionable loyalty.”

  “Colonel Poe? I thought McClellan had Pinkerton for that.”

  “He did, but Colonel Poe was a friend of McClellan’s, and had done such work for him before. When we arrived on the peninsula the urgent need was to determine how many men the enemy had ranged against us. McClellan sought as many sources of information as he could find.”

  “And you applied.”

  “I did.” Emma smiled, remembering. “I could not resist. I was already living one disguise. The prospect of living a disguise within a disguise intrigued me.”

  Jamie shook his head. “Madness.” He paced to the door, looked out into the hall, and returned. “You could easily have been discovered. Did they not examine you before taking you into the secret service?”

  Emma’s smile broadened. “Oh, yes, but the only physical examination was phrenological. Fortunately the bumps on my head were deemed favorable.”

  “That was all the examination you received?”

  “No, I was questioned at length—exhaustive length, by two different committees—about my views of the rebellion and my reasons for desiring the work. I was also required to demonstrate my competence with firearms. They were satisfied.”

  Again, Jamie shook his head. “It would never happen today.”

  “We are not at war today,” Emma said softly. “Many of the things we did then would not happen today.”

  Jamie looked sharply at her and a handful of emotions crossed his face in quick succession. She could not read them all, but the last of them lingered, a look of mournfulness, of loss.

  “Perhaps you are right, and I was mad,” Emma said. “If so it was a successful madness. I was given three days to prepare, at the end of which I was to venture into Yorktown to learn how many Confederates were there.”

  “And what form did your preparations take?” Jamie said somewhat absently, gazing past Emma.

  “I acquired a suit of plantation clothing and a negro wig, had my hair sheared close to my head, and colored my skin with silver nitrate,” Emma said, grinning at the memory. “I became a contraband.”

  The War: Near Yorktown, Virginia, 1862

  Emma stood in the shadow of the dispensary tent, waiting for her heart to slow to a normal pace. Her scalp itched beneath the woolen wig, and her eyes stung a little from the proximity of silver nitrate.

  She had walked through the Second’s camp without being recognized—a good test, since as mail carrier most of the men knew her by sight—but she wanted a further assurance. Her disguise had to sustain more than a cursory glance if she were to succeed in her mission.

  With the afternoon fading, she had made her way to the hospital, hoping to find Dr. Bonine there. She knew he would not take her for one of the contrabands he had helped to rescue, but she thought she could rely upon his taking an interest in a stray negro.

  She hovered near the dispensary tent until she was certain no one was within. Dusk was coming early, aided by a heavy layer of clouds, and the campfires and lanterns were already lit. Inside the dispensary tent a dim light emanated from a lamp burning low. The tent’s door was tied closed, and Emma concluded it was unoccupied.

  Stepping out from behind the canvas, she made her way up to the main hospital tent. If Dr. Bonine was
not there, she would try his private quarters.

  The door here was closed as well against the chill and damp, but not tied. As Emma came near she heard footsteps approaching. The canvas door was flung back, and Jerome stepped out, a dirty plate in his hand.

  Emma’s heart caught and for a moment she could only gaze at him. He paused, looking back without recognition, and said, “What do you want?”

  Emma lowered her gaze and made a stooping bow. “Beg pardon, Massa, I be looking for the doctor.”

  “I am not your master.” Jerome’s voice was sharp, but he softened it with his next words. “Are you sick?”

  “No, sir. I heard mebbe he could use a boy take care of his horse.”

  She glanced up at Jerome, not needing to feign hopefulness. He peered at her, frowning slightly, and she began to quail.

  “Well, the doctor is not here,” Jerome said at last. “Come back in the morning.”

  “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Jerome brushed past Emma on his way to the cook tent. She watched him go, feeling a mixture of jubilance and disappointment. Either her disguise was a complete success, or Jerome had put her so thoroughly out of his mind that he no longer knew her.

  He was returning, and Emma realized she should have left, but it was now too late. She watched him cross the few strides back to where she stood.

  “Well? What is it?” he said.

  “B-beg pardon, Massa—sir. I be awful hungry.”

  Jerome pressed his lips together in the thin line she knew so well. It marked his impatience, but it softened again almost as once.

  “Come with me, then.”

  She followed him back to the cook tent, and waited outside while he went in. In a moment he was back, pressing two pieces of hardtack into her hand.

  “Thank you, sir,” Emma said, bowing again. “Thank you!”

  Having said she was hungry, she raised a cracker to her lips, and was suddenly assailed by fears. Her teeth were too good for a contraband’s, so she hid them, and as she started to bite the cracker she remembered at the last moment that she should probably not show familiarity with hardtack. She bit it as she would a piece of bread, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and gnawed at it sideways until she broke off one corner.

 

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