A Call to Arms

by P. G. Nagle

  “My tasks were made hideous by this change of base,” Reid said, “but it’s all straightened out now. Oh, and I’ve booked passage for us and our horses on a steamer to Aquia tomorrow. We should be able to find the brigade from there.”

  “That is most kind of you,” Emma said. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “Jamie, please,” Reid said, flashing a smile. “No need to stand on ceremony, eh?”

  Emma summoned a smile in return, but it was a somewhat stiff one. Officers did not fraternize with enlisted men. Perhaps the lieutenant was merely indulging in a bit of laxity inspired by the heady environment of Washington. Why, then, did she feel suspicious?

  Reid leaned forward, speaking in conspiratorial tones a he cast a glance around the dining room. “Now, Frank, which of these generals is the greatest buffoon, d’ye think?”

  Surprised into laughter, Emma turned it into a cough. “None of them,” she answered sotto voce. “It is that naval officer over there, with the hat like Lord Nelson’s.”

  The conversation continued in this vein until the wine arrived, which did nothing to sober their tone. Reid had a wicked sense of humor and took great delight in lampooning the Preeners of Columbia, as he called them. Emma laughed until her sides ached, and kept laughing until their dinner was served.

  Reid then shifted the conversation. “You came from Canada.” he said, cutting a bite off his chop. “Nova Scotia, I think. How did you come to enlist in Michigan?”

  “I was there selling books, as you’ve heard.”

  “Why Michigan, though? A bit far from your home, isn’t it?”

  “That is exactly what made it attractive.”

  Reid laughed, and Emma glanced up from cutting her own meat. His face shone with amusement, a good-hearted amusement as opposed to the wicked mirth of a few moments before. Emma was fascinated at the difference.

  “Well, I left home myself,” Reid said, “though ’twas in the hope of making my fortune.”

  “In the land of opportunity,” Emma added.

  “Well, it is.”

  “It is indeed. I was quite serious. I certainly owe my fortunes to this country.”

  Reid polished off the wine in his glass and filled it again, emptying the bottle. Emma watched in trepidation as he summoned the sommelier.

  “Another of the same, my man,” Reid said, handing him the bottle.

  Emma pressed her lips together, silently recalculating her finances. She looked at Reid when the sommelier had gone.

  “And did you?”

  Reid glanced up at her. “Did I what?”

  “Make your fortune. In New York, I presume.”

  “Ah.” Reid chuckled. “Yes, I did, after a fashion.”

  He drank again, rather deeply, then set down his glass. “You must have made more selling books than you do as a private soldier. Why enlist, then?”

  “To serve the Union, of course. Is that not why you enlisted?”

  “To serve ... yes, that is one of the reasons.”

  He gazed at Emma, all the laughter now gone from his face. She wondered if he were becoming drunk, and if he were the sort who turned nasty in such a condition.

  She took a sip of her own wine, holding it in her mouth a moment to enjoy the bouquet. She never touched strong spirits, and drank wine seldom enough that even one glass had a noticeable effect on her.

  Reid was gazing into the distance now, no longer seeing Emma or anyone in the room. A frown had settled on his brow. She had begun to wonder if indeed he was drunk, when suddenly he fixed his gaze on her, eyes sharp and clear as ever.

  “Freedom, that’s the important thing,” he said. “Nothing else matters.”

  “I agree.”

  He picked up his knife and fork again, cutting rather savagely at his meat. Emma watched him for a moment, then took her courage in hand.

  “What do you think of Lincoln’s proclamation?”

  Reid’s brows rose. “Which?”

  “Freeing the slaves. What do you think?”

  She half expected him to grumble. She had heard many in the army complain that free negroes would take jobs away from honest white men. Reid, however, seemed not to care.

  “Slavery is wrong, I suppose.”

  “I am certain it is wrong.”

  Reid glanced up at her. “An abolitionist, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll want to be careful how you talk about it. Could be a disadvantage in certain circles.”

  “Circles in which I am not likely to travel,” Emma said.

  “Don’t be so certain of that.”

  She watched him eat a bite of meat, wondering what he meant. After a moment he glanced up at her and grinned.

  “Anything can happen. Look at me—I enlisted as a private, worked my way up to sergeant, and now I’m on a brigadier’s staff.”

  “Through your own merits.”

  “That had something to do with it. Friends make a difference, too.” Reid’s eyes narrowed in calculation. “You’re well-liked, and well-known in your regiment. Colonel Poe likes you, too.”

  “Does he? I have never been certain.”

  “Oh, he does. Only wait and see how well.”

  Emma sipped her wine. She did not like being baited, as she felt Reid was doing. If he wanted her to beg him for more information, he was bound to be disappointed.

  Reid seemed to sense her reticence and began to talk of Burnside’s plans instead. “He’s sent for pontoons from Harper’s Ferry. We’ll be crossing the Rappahannock.”

  Emma pushed a potato around her plate with her fork. “On to Richmond, yet again.”

  “Come, now! Where’s your patriotism? Where’s that Union spirit?”

  She smiled faintly. “Still here. Only dampened a bit.”

  “It’ll be damper yet in a day or two, once we’re back camping in Virginia mud.”

  “I fear you are right.”

  “Do you mean to eat that, or are you just going to chase it around your plate all the evening?”

  Emma sighed and pushed the plate away. “I’ve had enough.”

  Reid stabbed the potato with his own fork and ate it. “You enjoyed the meal, I hope?”

  “Oh, yes. Willard’s is always excellent.”

  “You’re a man of taste, Frank.”

  Emma found that amusing, and looked back at Reid with a dry smile. He summoned the sommelier again, which chased her amusement away.

  “A bottle of your best brandy,” Reid said. “Send it to my room, if you please.”

  The sommelier bowed gravely as he accepted the coin Reid pressed into his hand. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll join me?” Reid said when he had gone, his brows rising as he smiled.

  Emma laid her napkin beside her plate. “Thank you, but I intend to visit the hospitals this evening. I have mail yet to deliver.”

  “Ah. Afterward, perhaps?”

  “Best not. I shall be out rather late.”

  “All the more reason for a little fortification.”

  Emma felt a small shiver of danger, which gave her pause. She did not think Reid offered any true threat, so whence came her fear?

  She stood up and took out her wallet, extracting the majority of her funds. Reid pressed back her hand.

  “No, no, lad. Let me get this.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “As thanks for your company.”

  He smiled, the engaging smile that was so disarming. Emma began to think that this was the most dangerous of his smiles.

  “Thank you, sir. That is most kind indeed.”

  “This would have been a dull trip without you.”

  She met his gaze. “Dull for me as well.”

  His smile brightened into an expression of delight, and Emma felt her guard slip a little. Reid was quite charming, really. Too charming. She liked him.

  “I will return here in the morning,” she said.

  “Unless you change your mind about the brandy.”

 
Laughing a little, she shook her head and stepped away from the table. Reid reached for the wine bottle, and the last she saw of him he was making sure none of it went to waste.

  Stepping into the sharp evening air, Emma felt her head clear a little. It was not the wine, but rather the decadent atmosphere of Willard’s that had clouded her thoughts. Washington was a city of decadence, of course, but it had other sides as well. She now turned her attention to one of these.

  She went to her lodging—in a much more modest establishment—and fetched the small satchel in which she’d brought letters to be delivered to members of the Second who were recuperating in Washington. They were scattered among several different hospitals, and she made a point to stay and visit with each man unless he was sleeping, so that it was past midnight by the time she sought her bed.

  She woke with the sun shining in her window. Hastening to dress, she settled her bill and hurried to Willard’s, not stopping for breakfast. If there was time she would take a meal at the hotel, but she was not certain how early they would have to board the steamer for Aquia.

  The lobby was less busy at this hour, though there were still plenty of important-looking people there. Emma searched in vain for Reid. She was about to go to the desk to learn his room number when she noticed the civilian gentlemen she had seen giving Reid money the previous evening. He was sitting on a sofa, reading a newspaper.

  Emma hesitated, then decided to approach him. He would be a more reliable source of information than the desk clerk, and besides, she was curious about him.

  She came closer, and saw that the gentleman’s clothing was of the finest quality. Beside him on the sofa lay an elegant beaver hat and an ivory-handled walking stick.

  Emma gently cleared her throat, and smiled an apology as the gentleman looked up. “Please excuse me. I happened to notice you talking with Lieutenant Reid yesterday evening. I am to meet him this morning, and wondered if you could tell me whether he is here?”

  “I haven’t seen Jamie today, no,” the gentleman said. There was a burr to his voice, and when he spoke he seemed older than Emma had first thought. “Are you a friend of his?”

  “I am in his brigade. We traveled here together.”

  Movement on the staircase caught Emma’s eye, and she looked up to see Reid hastening toward them. He looked rather concerned, and she wondered fleetingly if his association with this gentleman was indeed clandestine. If so, the gentleman showed no sign of it, for he caught sight of Reid and folded his newspaper.

  “Ah, here he is. Good morning, Jamie. This young lad is looking for you.”

  “Morning, sir.” Reid gave the gentleman a deferential bow. He seemed a little pale; the effect of the brandy perhaps. He turned to Emma and nodded. “Private Thompson.”

  “Good morning, sir,” Emma said crisply, following his lead of formality.

  The civilian gentleman looked expectantly at Reid, who flushed slightly. “This is Private Frank Thompson of the Second Michigan, sir. Private Thompson, this is Mr. William Woods, my father-in-law.”

  Emma hid her momentary surprise, and managed to make a creditable bow. “How do you do, sir?”

  “Not verra well, to be honest,” said Mr. Woods. “The climate of this place disagrees with me.”

  “Well, you’ll be back in New York soon enough,” Reid said pleasantly. “Shall I escort you to the station?”

  “Thank you, no. I have a bit more business to conduct yet today. I’ll be taking the afternoon train.”

  Mr. Woods stood up with the aide of his walking stick, and Emma realized he was more frail than he appeared. He turned to Reid, who reached into his coat pocket and brought out a letter which he pressed into Mr. Woods’s hands.

  “Thank you, lad. Mary’ll be glad to receive it. She was right sorry she couldn’t come with me.”

  “Take her my love, and tell her to get well. Has she seen the doctor lately?”

  “Ach, doctors. They’re a tribe of murderers, if you ask me.”

  Emma, who had seen surgeons up to their elbows in blood, standing for hours at a time over the grisly tables where they amputated limbs until their hands were too cramped to hold the saws, kept silent. Mr. Woods picked up his hat and started toward the door, leaning heavily on his stick. Reid accompanied him as far as the front steps.

  Emma had not expected her speculations about the gentleman’s identity to be answered in quite this way. She had not known Reid was married; she had assumed not, in fact, as he seemed just a bit wild. He must be more settled when at home, she reflected. The army had a liberating effect. Knowing Reid had a wife at home, something to anchor him, however far away, made Emma feel a little less suspicious of him.

  “Pardon me for making you wait,” Reid said, returning.

  Emma shook her head. “Family obligations. I quite understand.”

  Reid smiled crookedly. “He’s a bit tetchy, but he has a kind soul.”

  Emma nodded. “When must we be at the docks?”

  “Not for a couple of hours yet. Have you eaten?”

  “No.”

  “Breakfast, then!”

  They returned to the dining room, and were soon discussing a hearty breakfast of eggs, ham, and toast. Emma dug in with enthusiasm. One advantage of traveling frequently to Washington was the opportunity to eat much better than army rations. She considered it well worth the expense.

  “A pity your wife could not visit you,” she said, spreading orange marmalade on a slice of toast.

  Reid glanced up. “She’s been unwell.”

  “How long is it since you last saw her?”

  “Nearly a year. I went to New York on furlough after I was released.”

  “Released?”

  Reid put down his fork and took a swallow of coffee. “From prison. I was captured by the Rebels at First Bull Run.”

  Emma drew an involuntary breath. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  A fleeting smile crossed his face. “Just as soon forget it, myself. I was sick six ways from Sunday when I got out.”

  Emma’s heart went out to him. How dreadful, to spend months in a prison camp! She cut a bite of ham, silently giving thanks that she had been fortunate in this regard.

  “I have a good friend who was taken prisoner, but he was paroled,” she said.

  “Lucky for him.”

  “He’s still at Camp Parole, waiting to be exchanged.”

  “Mm.” Reid ate a large bite of toast. “Did you get all your letters delivered?”

  Emma answered, letting the subject drop as she perceived this to be Reid’s wish. He seemed somewhat introspective, so for the rest of the meal she chattered about the hospitals and the men she had visited. Reid nodded politely now and again, but his thoughts appeared to be elsewhere.

  When they had finished breakfast, Emma insisted upon paying for her share. Reid did not argue, but merely gave a wan smile. The morning being now well advanced, they retrieved their horses and repaired to the docks, where they boarded a government steamer bound for Aquia.

  They arrived to a drizzling rain and the familiar chaos of an army in the throes of relocation. Retrieving their mounts, she and Reid set off in the rain for Falmouth, where they were told headquarters had been established. They talked little on the journey, both being occupied with their own thoughts, and rather more interested in making good time than in making conversation.

  Soon they began to see row upon row of white tents pitched in the mud. The road was a sticky, gooey mess, and before long they passed an abandoned ambulance, up to its hubs in mud.

  “It is worse than the Peninsula!” Emma remarked.

  They found the brigade’s headquarters camped on a hilltop some miles from the town. Emma collected the Second’s mail, then turned to Reid.

  “I have some messages for the Colonel.”

  “I can take them to him if you wish.”

  She looked at him, rain dripping off the brim of his cap. She no longer felt hesitation about trusting him.


  “Thank you. Tell him I will be there shortly, once I sort out the regiment’s mail.”

  “Tireless lad.” Reid smiled as he accepted the dispatch pouch, then held out a hand. “Thanks for your company, Thompson.”

  Emma shook his hand, surprised at how warm it was despite the rain. She could not help but return his smile.

  “My pleasure,” she said, and turned her horse toward camp.

  Though Burnside had succeeded in moving his army quickly, he was less successful in getting it across the Rappahannock. The pontoons were delayed, first by an order gone astray, then by the rains that turned the roads into sucking mud.

  As the days passed, the army’s spirits waned, for they knew General Lee would soon move to counter Burnside. Before long, Confederate batteries were seen on the heights above Fredericksburg, just across the river, and still the pontoon bridges were not built.

  Emma found herself spending more and more time at headquarters, partly because Colonel Poe called upon her to act as his courier with increasing frequency. She also lingered for the sake of Lieutenant Reid’s company, which she continued to enjoy.

  Reid—or Jamie as he insisted she call him—was intelligent, clever, and liked to laugh at the world. She began to spend the occasional evening with him, though she declined to become his drinking partner. He seemed to understand her dislike of spirits, for he soon ceased to offer her brandy, and then ceased to drink it in her presence. Emma could only appreciate this considerateness.

  Returning from another trip to Washington on a bitter day early in December, she sought out Colonel Poe and handed him a pouch full of dispatches, along with a pocketful of apples, doughnuts, and a very nice orange. The colonel turned the orange over in his hands, admiring it before putting it away in his camp desk.

  “Thank you, Thompson.” He looked through the dispatches, pulling one from the stack and dropping the rest on his desk as he hastened to open it. “Stay a moment.”

  Emma waited, wondering if she was about to be sent back to Washington post haste. The Colonel’s face lit with pleasure as he scanned the page. He glanced up at her, grinning.

  “Ask Reid to step in here, will you?”