by P. G. Nagle
By late afternoon she was deeper in the swamp than ever, and realized she must have mistaken her direction. She had neither sun nor compass to guide her. Grimly she struggled on, dreading the thought of spending another night in the swamp.
The roar of cannon began again abruptly, though not so near as it had been in the morning. To Emma at that moment it was the sweetest music she could have hoped to hear. She followed the sound, and in a short time was infinitely relieved to stumble out of the swamp and onto a road.
From the grass growing in the ruts she concluded the road was little used, but still it must lead somewhere. She took up the march along it, and soon spied a small white house in the distance.
She paused, setting down her basket, and adjusted her attire. The hem of her dress was damp and muddied, as were her shoes. She took off her wig and gave it a good shaking-out, then put it back on, pulled her cap over it, and brushed the leaves and twigs from her shawl before settling it over her shoulders again. The mud she could do little about, and she suspected her face was a fright, but she must proceed or she would surely die here.
Drawing a breath, she picked up her basket and made her way to the house, hoping to trade some of her trinkets for something to eat. She knocked on the door and waited, but no one answered.
“Hello?” she called, knocking again more firmly.
Listening for a footstep, she heard none, though she thought she heard a small sound from within. She tried the door and found it unlocked, and cautiously pushed it open.
“Hello?”
The house looked abandoned, save for a man—a Rebel soldier—lying on a straw tick on the floor beside the hearth. What fire had been there had long since gone out, and the soldier did not answer her save to stir feebly and let out a small moan.
Emma set down her basket and knelt beside him, taking his hand in hers. Thinking it best to maintain her chosen role, she spoke in the Irish brogue she had practiced.
“Ah, ye poor lad! How came ye to be here all alone?”
He looked at her with mournful hazel eyes, answering in a feeble whisper. “I was sick with typhoid and could not keep up with my company. Had to fall out, and found my way here. The family left soon after I came. They were afraid.”
“Afraid of the Yankees, aye.”
Emma nodded, then gazed at him. He appeared to be about thirty years of age, with dark hair and a sober countenance, handsome though drawn by his illness.
“Is there anythin’ I can do for ye, swate boy?”
“I’m hungry,” he said humbly. “I haven’t eaten since we left camp a few days ago.”
Reminded that it had been equally as long since she herself had eaten, Emma glanced at her basket, sharply regretting the loss of her pies. “I wish I had something to feed ye, lad, but the truth is I’ve nothing meself.”
“The family left some corn meal and flour,” said the soldier. “They didn’t want to take the time to cook it for me, and I haven’t been strong enough—”
“Say no more, me boy! I’ll have you some corncake in two shakes of a lamb’s tail!”
Emma got up and hastened to the kitchen, where she did indeed find some flour and meal. She built up the fire and put a saucepan of water over it to heat, for she could find no kettle. In short order she had made a large hoe-cake and set it before the fire to bake.
While the cake cooked she scrounged in the kitchen and found a small basket the family had forgotten to take with them. It was packed with earthenware and several small items including a tin of tea, which Emma seized with triumph.
The water being hot, she made tea for herself and the Rebel, and when the cake was done she helped him to sit up a little and fed him, as she had so often done for the sick in the hospitals. For this he thanked her with a grave courtesy that touched Emma’s heart. When his appetite was appeased she ate her own portion, grateful beyond measure for the simple sustenance.
He seemed somewhat stronger, and Emma conversed with him. He told her his story in greater detail. She found that he was thoroughly dedicated to the Confederacy, though he seemed not to harbor the bitter hatred of Yankees she had so often witnessed. He seemed sober and gentlemanly, and at length she asked him if he considered himself a Soldier of the Cross.
“Yes, thank God!” he said, his eyes lighting with enthusiasm. “I have fought longer under the Captain of my Salvation than I have yet done under Jeff Davis.”
“Can you, as a disciple of Christ, conscientiously and consistently uphold the institution of Slavery?” Emma asked gently.
He fixed his mournful gaze on her, and though he said nothing, his eyes seemed to show that she had touched the trouble in his heart. Emma held his gaze, feeling a deep sympathy for him.
All at once she realized she had let her brogue fall away in the course of their conversation. She knew a moment’s alarm, then decided she had little to fear from this man, who was still very sick. She knelt beside him and felt his pulse, finding it terribly weak. The strength he had seemed to gain from the food was all but spent, and he lay gazing at her as if pondering whether hers would be the last face he saw.
“Will you pray with me?” he asked after a few moments.
Emma nodded, unable to refuse him. Nor did she dare to address her Maker in an assumed accent, so it was in her normal voice that she prayed for the soldier, beseeching God to grant him grace to sustain him in this trying hour, and hoping for the triumph of truth and right.
As she made to rise the Rebel grasped her hand. “Please tell me who you are. I cannot, if I would, betray you, for I shall very soon be standing before that God whom you have just addressed.”
Emma’s heart went out to him. She dared not answer him truthfully, and would not tell him a lie.
“I will tell you when you are stronger,” she said.
He smiled, the lids drooping over his beautiful eyes, then falling closed. Emma suspected he understood her exactly.
The day was ending. Emma knew she was not far from the Rebel lines, but she still felt weak herself, and decided to remain in the house overnight with the Rebel. She had not the heart to abandon him, leaving him to suffer alone once more.
She made some corn gruel for her patient and tenderly fed it to him, but she could see that he was not strong. After making him as comfortable as she could, she went around the house, secured the doors, and covered the windows so that no light would be seen from outside. Thus settled, she sat beside the soldier again and took his hand.
His pulse was very weak, his brow damp with perspiration. Emma wiped it away, and his eyes thanked her silently. She was certain now that he would not recover, and could not help but weep for the death of one so nobly cast, be he her enemy or not. Seeing her tears, he looked startled.
“Am I really dying?” he whispered.
Emma nodded. “Yes, you are dying, my friend. Is your peace made with God?”
He paled, and swallowed. “My trust is in Christ. He will not forsake me.”
Some moments passed, as the soldier seemed to gaze beyond the room into some unseen realm. Emma held his hand gently, and watched him. At length he looked at her again.
“I have a last request to make. If ever you pass through the Confederate camp between here and Richmond, inquire for Major McKee, of General Ewell’s staff, and give him a gold watch which you will find in my pocket. He will know what to do with it. And tell him I died happy, peacefully.”
Emma blinked back more tears, and nodded. “I will.”
“My name is Allen Hall.”
He took a ring from his finger and tried to put it on Emma’s, but his strength failed him. “Keep that ring in memory of one whose sufferings you have alleviated,” he said after a moment, “and whose soul has been refreshed by your prayers in the hour of dissolution.”
He then folded his hands as if to pray, and smiled. Emma prayed again, softly, her throat tightened by tears.
Suddenly he lifted his head, struggling up, and cried, “Glory to God! I am almost ho
me!”
Emma knew it was true; she could see that death was near. She gave him some water, and opened the window that he might breathe easier. He put his hand in hers and signed that he wished her to hold him. She took his head in her arms and cradled him, and a few moments later he died, his hand gripping hers with the last of his strength.
Emma gently laid him down, closed his eyes, and folded his arms across his breast. His face was beautiful and calm. When she had arranged his blanket and could do no more for him, she returned to an awareness of her situation.
It was midnight, and profound silence reigned. There was naught to chase away the darkness of that gloomy hour save the consciousness that God was there.
Emma sat beside the soldier, grateful now that she had been detained in the swamp so that she would have the opportunity to attend this man’s death. She meditated for a time, and imagined she felt the presence of happy spirits come to gather up the soldier’s soul and welcome him to heaven. At last she wrapped herself in her patchwork quilt, lay down beside the fire, and slept.
She awoke much refreshed, and after spending some moments regarding her late charge, in whom she already saw the changes of death, she cut a lock of his hair, retrieved the watch and a packet of letters from his pocket, and tenderly replaced the blanket.
“Farewell, my friend,” she said softly, then got to her feet.
In preparation for her foray into the Rebel camp, she searched the house and appropriated anything that might add to her wares. In the basket in which she had found the tea there were also pepper, mustard, an old pair of green spectacles, and a bottle of red ink. She used these to enhance her disguise, making a mustard plaster to blister one cheek and painting the red ink around her eyes, though she imagined they were already reddened with weeping. Setting the spectacles on the end of her nose where she could look over them, for looking through them made her head ache, she felt ready to face the Rebels.
She packed her two baskets, said a last farewell to her former charge, and left the house, following the road toward Richmond. She walked some five miles before she saw a picket in the distance.
Sitting down to prepare herself before approaching, she poured some of the pepper into her pocket handkerchief and held it to her eyes, which commenced to watering at once. She had borrowed a bit of white curtain from the house, and she now displayed it as a flag of truce as she approached the picket.
The soldier on guard was large and burly, with a belly that spoke of many a good meal enjoyed in the past. He watched Emma’s approach with wary curiosity, and smiled broadly as she came near, no doubt amused by her appearance, swamp-bedraggled and burdened with her two baskets.
“Well, now,” he said in a booming voice, “what ’ave we ’ere?”
Emma froze, the words of her assumed accent dying on her lips. The man was an Englishman.
Near Richmond, Virginia, 1862
Emma hastily applied her peppered handkerchief to her eyes beneath the spectacles. It was too late to change the approach she had practiced so carefully, so she carried on.
“Ah, such a sad day ’tis,” she cried, “though the sun be shinin’ ever so bright.”
“Sad day, is it?” said the picket. “Wot’s the matter then, Biddy?”
With tears streaming down her face, Emma blurted out her doleful tale in broken phrases, hoping her brogue would pass muster with one who had no doubt heard true Irish voices far more often than she. She told of the Rebel soldier whose death she had attended, and of his dying request that she carry a message to Major McKee. The picket listened attentively, and when she had no more to say and subsided into sniffling into her kerchief, he straightened.
“Well, now, that’s a sad enough tale, ’tis, and all the sadder for you being so far from your ’omeland. You pass along and go just wherever you please, ma’am.” He leaned toward Emma, a sorrowful expression in his pale eyes. “I wish I was at ’ome with my family, and that’s the truth. Jeff Davis and the Confederacy can go to ’ell for all of me. Englishmen ’ave no business ’ere.”
“Oh, indeed I wish ye was all at home with yer families,” Emma said, “and sure it’s we poor creatures of wimmen that’s heartbroken entirely, and nearly killed with this unnatural war!”
The picket nodded sagely, then added, “Go on along then, Biddy, but you’ll not want to spend the night in camp. We’ve ’ad word that McClellan’s finished ’is bridges, and the Yanks will attack soon.”
“Oh, bless me! Now I wish even more ye was at home and not here!”
The picket grinned. “Don’t you worry ’bout me, ma’am. Made of iron, I am! And Jackson and Lee are ready for them Yankees. Got masked batteries all along our front to welcome ’em. There’s one just there,” he said, pointing to a large heap of brush not far from the road. “That will give ’em fits if they come this way!”
Emma looked at the brush heap and saw the gleam of a cannon’s barrel beneath the branches. Her heart jumped in alarm at the thought of the guns firing at her own comrades. A sense of urgency filled her, and after thanking the picket for his kindness, she hastened into the camp.
She inquired at once after Major McKee, and was told he was away from camp and would not return until evening. Thinking she had best make good use of her time, Emma first found a shanty where some negro women were cooking, and begged a little food, which they kindly gave her. She then wandered the camp, taking note of all she saw and heard.
She had no trouble finding out the strength of the Confederate forces or their plans for the coming battle. Everyone she spoke to seemed to want to talk of nothing else. She committed the details to memory against her future report, thinking grimly that she would prevent the Rebels’ success if she could.
When five o’clock came she again sought Major McKee, and this time was rewarded by finding him present at his tent. He was tall and gruff, and looked at her sternly as she curtsied.
“What is your business with me?” he demanded.
“Ah, a sad business,” said Emma, bringing out Allen Hall’s watch and letters, “and it fair breaks me heart to tell ye.”
She had no need to resort to her peppered handkerchief to start the flow of tears, for the watch and letters awoke her memories of the noble young man’s death. She wept freely as she described the event to the Major, who listened, then put his face in his hands and sobbed like a heartbroken child.
At length they both grew calmer, and the major stood up.
“You are a faithful woman, and you shall be rewarded. Can you go direct to that house, and show my men where Allen’s body is?”
“I can.”
The major took an eagle from his pocket and held it out to Emma. “If you succeed in finding the house, I will give you as much more.”
“Oh, thank you, sir, but no. I couldn’a take your money.”
The major looked at her strangely, and Emma realized with a stab of fear that it was out of character for a poor Irishwoman to refuse money. She sought refuge in her handkerchief and a fresh bout of tears.
“Oh, General, forgive me, but me conscience would never give me peace in this world or the next, if I would take money for carryin’ the dyin’ message of that swate boy that’s dead and gone, God rest his soul!”
The major seemed satisfied, and asked Emma to wait while he fetched a detachment of his men. He soon returned with twenty-four men, a sergeant and corporal, and a stretcher on which to carry Allen Hall’s body. Emma approached the major, wringing her kerchief in her hands.
“General, I’ve been sick several days, and slept little last night. I think I cannot walk so far again so soon. Could you let me have a horse for the journey?”
Without question, the major turned at once and ordered a horse saddled. Emma felt a pang of conscience as she mounted it with the assistance of the colored boy who brought it, for she knew she was about to violate the Major’s trust in her. His confidence had led him to give her the very means of her escape, and for the first time in her spying adven
tures, she felt truly mean.
His next words dissipated that feeling, however, for as he sent his men forward he told them, “Now, boys, bring back Captain Hall’s body if you have to walk through Yankee blood to the knees.”
Emma rode away with the soldiers, surprised to learn that Allen Hall was a captain, for there had been no insignia of rank on his uniform and she had assumed he was a private soldier. When they passed the Confederate picket line Emma took the lead, riding at a walk and very nervous of encountering a Federal scouting party, for surely she would be shot and killed if that occurred.
Luck was with them, however, and they proceeded without encountering any Yankees. The sun had set and dusk was falling as they came in sight of the little white house. The sergeant in command of the detachment halted them before approaching it, and assigned one squad to bring out Captain Hall’s body, while the rest would guard the approaches to the house.
“It’s a pity we didn’t bring an ambulance,” the sergeant said aloud, gazing along the shadowed road toward Federal lines.
“Oh, aye!” Emma agreed, though she was secretly glad she had the only horse in the party.
“Ma’am, would you be so kind as to ride down the road a little way, and if you see or hear any sign of the Yankees, ride back as fast as you can and tell us?”
“Sure, and I’d be happy to,” Emma said.
She rode ahead, pleased to comply at least with the first part of the sergeant’s request. As she did not immediately see any sign of the Yankees, she decided she had better ride on until she did.
Once out of sight she whipped up the horse to a gallop, and made for the Federal lines as fast as she could. She managed to locate her buried uniform and hastily donned it. On nearing the picket line she took out her white flag of truce, waving it above her head in the darkness as she answered the picket’s challenge.