by P. G. Nagle
She was passed through the lines and at once sought out General Keyes, the commander of the corps guarding the bridges. She made her report to him, leaving out only the detail about the party sent to recover Captain Hall’s body, for she had no desire to see that little escort captured.
Keyes nodded as he listened. “You’ve done well, Private ... ?”
“Thompson, sir.”
“Excellent work, Thompson. I shall write you a pass to cross the bridge. General McClellan will want to hear your report.”
The result of Emma’s foray was an immediate alertness among the Federals, who were ordered to be prepared for battle at a moment’s notice. Battle soon came, for the Confederates took advantage of a terrible storm that swelled the Chickahominy, washed away one of the new bridges, and made the other unsafe. The Rebels fell upon the two Federal corps that were subsequently stranded on their side of the river. Emma served as an acting orderly during the fighting, and carried General Kearney’s desperate plea for reinforcements.
Later she tended the dozens of wounded who had crawled to an abandoned sawmill for shelter, with only the help of two men who were somewhat less disabled than the rest, for the surgeons had all been sent forward. Busy with the immediate needs of the men around her, she did not learn until much later what had transpired in the battle.
The reinforcements sent to Kearney had turned the tide of what became known as the Battle of Fair Oaks, but the victory had come at a terrible cost: almost 3,500 wounded, and nearly 800 killed. Emma’s heart ached as she saw the wounded lying upon the blood-soaked ground in rank upon rank, awaiting the attention of the surgeons.
She spent hours and hours helping to carry the most severely wounded to the railroad cars bound for White House Landing, to be shipped north from there on hospital boats. She knew many of them would not reach their destination alive.
For the first week of June it rained steadily, then a dull, numbing heat settled in. The pickets of both armies agreed not to fire upon one another, for it did no good. Everyone was waiting for a move, but the move was not forthcoming. General McClellan was hesitant to risk his men again, a sentiment of which the army approved if the President did not.
Emma returned to her duties as mail carrier, spending hours in the saddle, often at night, always alone. She rode to Fort Monroe and back on a road where rumor told that another mail carrier had been attacked by bushwhackers. She knew the truth of the rumor by the fragments of letters that crackled beneath her horse’s hooves in the darkness.
In mid-June, both armies were electrified by the audacity of Confederate General Jeb Stuart, who with 1,400 cavalrymen rode completely around the Army of the Potomac in a raid. The result among McClellan’s army was a restlessness in which the men began to wonder openly when they would move against Richmond.
The move came at the end of June, beginning with a push to capture an oak grove in front of the Federal line. Oak Grove was but the first in seven days of battles, during which time General McClellan concluded it was necessary to shift his base of operations from White House Landing to Harrison’s Landing on the James River.
While General Porter’s men fought desperately to hold off an advance of the Confederates at Gaines’ Mill, Emma was sent to ride among the hospitals remote from the lines of communication and inform them of the impending retreat to the James. She spurred her horse from place to place, not pausing to rest as she carried the warning.
At a small field hospital at Talleysville, not far from White House Landing, she dismounted and called for the commanding officer. Cannon fire could be heard from the front not far distant. Curious men emerged from the tents, and Emma’s heart skipped when she saw Jerome among them.
“Frank!” He hesitated, then hastened to her side. “What is the matter?”
“The army is retreating,” Emma said somewhat breathlessly. She caught sight of the surgeon approaching and addressed herself to him. “I am sent to warn you all that any who can walk should fall back, for no ambulances can reach you.”
“We have wounded here who cannot walk,” Jerome said.
“Then I fear they will fall into the hands of the enemy,” Emma told him.
Jerome’s face hardened. The surgeon stepped forward. “How long do we have, do you think?”
Emma shrugged helplessly. “General Porter is ordered to hold his ground, but with no hope of reinforcement. I think he cannot stand much longer. The rest of the army is falling back to the James.”
The surgeon exchanged a glance with Jerome, then turned and went back into one of the tents. Emma looked at her friend.
“You must come away.”
Jerome shook his head. “I cannot abandon these men. You know I cannot.”
“But you will be captured!”
“So be it.”
Fear for her friend and anger at his stubbornness warred within her. “Jerome—”
“Hey, Thompson!” called a familiar voice, in somewhat feeble tone.
Emma turned and saw Captain Lawson, with whom she was acquainted, and three lieutenants of her brigade emerging from one of the tents. They all looked weak, as though just recovering from fever.
“We’re to fall back to the James, is that it?” Lawson demanded. “Well, give me your horse.”
“I-I am expected to report back to the chief of the ambulance corps,” she said.
“You may report to him on foot,” the captain replied. “You are in good health, and can bear the journey better than I.”
“Hey, let me have the horse, Thompson,” said one of the lieutenants. “Remember how I loaned you the money for newspapers?”
“No, I should have it!”
The four of them commenced to arguing over Emma’s horse, which she had not agreed to give up. Jerome watched with a wry expression. At length the captain, who had the advantage of rank as well as a gift for argument, made so strong a case that Emma felt resigned, at least, to relinquishing her poor Samuel. She looked at the four men, who should be able to reach the James, she thought, though they would any of them do better mounted than on foot.
“You must share the horse, then,” she said.
“That would put you at risk of capture,” Jerome said to her, suddenly stepping into the discussion.
Emma gazed at him for a moment but made no answer, turning back to the convalescents instead. “Two of you shall ride at a time, and shall go no faster than the other two can walk.”
Captain Lawson looked sourly at her, but was not so mean as to deprive the lieutenants of their chance at riding. Emma made them draw lots to see who would ride first. The captain, being unlucky in this lottery, looked even more sourly than before.
Emma decided to ensure he would not appropriate Samuel to his own use by promising, most generously, to inform headquarters of their arrangement. She saw them off, then turned to find Jerome still standing near.
“You should not have done that,” he said, though there was a hint of softness in his gaze, as if he admired the gesture despite its possible consequences.
“I saw some horses and mules at a farm nearby,” Emma told him. “I mean to go and catch one of them.”
Jerome nodded. “Good. You must get away from here. It would not do for you to be captured.”
A rumble of cannon fire punctuated his statement. Emma glanced toward the front, then back at Jerome.
“Come with me,” she said urgently, lowering her voice.
He only shook his head. Her heart sank. She knew she would not convince him to leave, and that remaining meant his inevitable capture.
“Jerome—”
“Good luck, Frank. You had better hurry and catch that horse.”
He turned and walked away, back toward the hospital tents. Emma watched him go, miserable in the knowledge that he would soon be taken prisoner by the Confederates. With a soft, strangled cry, she turned away, picking up a run as she made for the farm, feeling the shadow of the Rebel army drawing near.
Washington, D.C., 1
883
Did you catch a horse?” Jamie asked.
Emma glanced up at him, shaken from her reverie. “Yes. I made it back to our lines, with some little difficulty.”
“But Jerome was captured.”
Even now the thought of it made her heart ache. She shifted in her chair.
“Yes. It was inevitable. He made a noble decision.”
Jamie’s huff of scornful laughter annoyed her. “Noble Jerome,” he said. “Why not Saint Jerome?”
“What right have you to mock him? You never made such a sacrifice!”
His smile vanished and his face went very still. “No?” he said quietly. “You forget the circumstances under which I left the army.”
Emma felt a flush of indignation, old feelings returning in full force, as if they had never faded. “That was different.”
“It was no different.”
“Jerome had no connection with those men—”
“It was no different.”
The bitter look on Jamie’s face slew her arguments. For the first time she wondered if he might possibly have been as unhappy as she at the way things had fallen out, back during the war. She had always assumed he was happy. She gazed at him thoughtfully.
“How is your—”
The door into Congressman Cutcheon’s office opened, and Mr. Glass stepped out. “You are still here?” he said in a tone of surprise, peering at Emma through his spectacles. “The Congressman will certainly not be able to see you today.”
“I will wait,” Emma said calmly, earning a grimace from the young man.
He caught up a pencil and a handful of paper from the desk, and retreated to the inner sanctum once more, shutting the door behind him with a snap. Emma sighed.
“The wheels of government grind slowly,” Jamie said.
Emma smiled wryly, and laughed a little. “That is one thing we all learned in the army. Poor Jerome spent months at Camp Parole, waiting to be exchanged.”
“At least he was there and not in a Confederate prison.”
Emma glanced up at Jamie, remembering that he had been less fortunate. He’d spent six months in a Rebel prison camp, longer even than Jerome had kicked his heels at Camp Parole, which being operated by the Union was far more comfortable than any prison could be.
“In a way Jerome’s capture was a blessing for me,” she said. “When I learned that he was at Camp Parole I sent him five dollars in a letter. After that all our disagreement was forgotten.”
“All forgiven, for the price of a half-eagle.”
Emma ignored Jamie’s sarcastic tone. He had always tended to be cynical, but now she thought she sensed hurt, and possibly even jealousy, behind the bitter words.
Perhaps it was because she was older now, and could observe him through the filter of her own many experiences of life since the war. Jamie had lived in her memory as somewhat larger than life, but she saw now that he was merely human after all. There were gray hairs among the gold at his temples, and an air of loss about him that did not fit with her memories.
“That was a bad summer,” he said quietly.
A smile touched Emma’s lips briefly. “Yes. We lost little Mac, for the first time.”
The Peninsular campaign had failed, and a wrathful President Lincoln had ordered General McClellan to support General Pope in defending the capital, which the Rebels were now actively threatening. McClellan was furious, and his demoralized army applied themselves to the task with less than complete enthusiasm.
Jamie nodded. “The echoes of woe reached us, even in the Carolinas.”
Emma glanced up at him. “Well, Pope was a disaster!”
“Hm.”
She remembered that Jamie had been serving under General Burnside at the time, who was later to prove himself even more a disaster. So many lives wasted. She shook her head.
“Whatever else may be said of him,” she said, “McClellan took care of his army.”
“Too great care, some say.”
“Perhaps so, but it gained him one thing—the unshakable loyalty of his men.”
Jamie gave a wan smile, then looked away. “Even now.”
How strange to see Jamie in this somber mood. He was usually—or had been usually—all fire.
Emma’s limbs were growing stiff again. She stood, and walked to the hall and back, trying to work the ache out of her left leg. She wished she could remove her boot, but this was not the place. How ironic it would be if the wretched leg drove her away from here when nothing else could displace her.
“You still limp,” Jamie observed.
Emma bit back a sharp retort, and chose calmer words. “I have always limped. Why do you think I am here?”
He looked genuinely surprised. “Is that it? Your old injury?”
She paced away again, struggling against a rising anger. “I was injured in my country’s service. Should I not be compensated?”
“Medical costs?” he said softly. “Surely you can find help with that. You never lacked for friends—”
“It is the principle of it,” she said, turning abruptly. So doing, she stepped badly and her left leg crumpled.
“Emma!”
He was at her side instantly, catching her in his arms, lifting her up. The pain in her foot left her speechless for a moment, unable to protest as Jamie unceremoniously picked her up and carried her to a chair.
“I am all right,” she said, and tried to pull away.
He ignored this, and kept tight hold as he carefully set her down. His arms were strong as they had ever been, and the smell of him brought back a rush of memories she had tried to bury.
“Let me go, Jamie.”
Her voice trembled on the words, a weakness she silently cursed. Jamie obeyed, dropping his arms from around her, but he remained on his knees beside her, gazing at her in concern. All mockery was gone from his blue eyes now. He looked at her with an expression she very much suspected was tenderness.
“You know, you never told me how it happened,” he said.
She shook her head, exasperated. “It was the stupidest thing. I made a fundamental mistake.”
One eyebrow rose in a quirk she well remembered, and suddenly she felt much better. She laughed, then closed her eyes. It had not been funny at the time.
“I thought you were injured during the battle,” he said.
Emma nodded. “At Second Bull Run. It was the first day of the battle, yes. I was riding courier.”
“What was your mistake?”
She looked at Jamie and sighed. “I asked a mule to do what could only be expected of a horse.”
The War: Manassas, Virginia, 1862
Matters had come to a head at the end of August, and all signs pointed to a second battle at Bull Run, on almost exactly the same ground as where the first had been fought more than a year earlier. Emma rode toward the front as the day began, carrying messages and mail, hurrying in the hope of delivering her messages before the battle commenced.
Samuel had not been returned to her, and a succession of other horses had followed him. Her current mount was an army mule, a creature of great strength and good heart. Emma took him cross-country, making him leap hedges, fences, and whatever else lay in their way. Coming to a wide ditch she urged him to jump it, but the mule could not make the leap, and instead tumbled headlong into the ditch.
Emma flew off his back and slammed against the far side with a force that stunned her. She slid down, ending in the mud and water at the bottom of the ditch. The mule, struggling to escape the sucking mud, lost its balance and fell on top of her, crushing her left side.
Pain shot through her leg, driving all other thoughts from her head. The mule, struggling to get out of the ditch, trampled her. At last it succeeded in scrambling up the bank.
Emma lay still, dazed, drifting in a cloud of pain. She did not know how long she lay before the boom of cannon fire startled her back to awareness.
The mail!
Emma stirred, and looked up. The sky w
as overcast, glowing a little as the sun’s light strove to break through. Painfully she dragged herself out of the ditch, spurred by desperate anxiety for the messages that were her responsibility. If the mule had run off, mail and messages alike could fall into enemy hands.
Reaching the top of the ditch bank, she saw to her relief that her mount was standing a few yards away, quietly cropping grass. She rolled herself onto the bank and assessed her injuries.
Her left leg was useless below the knee; broken, she thought with a grimace. Her left side ached terribly and a sharp pain stabbed at her when she moved, making her sick to her stomach.
Move she must, though. She had to deliver the mail.
Holding that imperative in her mind, and squeezing her eyes shut against the pain, she crawled toward the mule. When she was only a couple of paces away she struggled to stand, but her left leg would not bear her weight. She limped to the mule and leaned against its flank. The animal turned its head and lipped her hand, as if in apology.
The mail bags and saddle had slipped and were now hanging below the mule’s belly, covered in mud. Emma struggled to put them to rights, and at last managed to get them back where they belonged.
Her next object was to mount, which proved more difficult. After several unsuccessful attempts she paused to rest, her leg now throbbing, pain accompanying every breath. She could not mount in the normal way, with her leg as it was. She looked about her for a tree stump or boulder that she could use as a block, but there were none.
She opened her saddle bags and took out a rope halter. She tied several loops in it, hooked one over the pommel of her saddle, and used the others to climb onto the mule’s back.
She slid her right foot into its stirrup and used her hands to situate her useless left, finding the support of the stirrup to be less painful than leaving the leg dangling. After stowing away the halter and checking that the mail bags were yet secure, she urged the mule forward.
Cannon fire continued, but it was the occasional fire preliminary to battle, not the continuous roar of engagement. The gunners of both sides were finding their ranges, preparatory to unleashing true hell.