A Call to Arms

by P. G. Nagle

  “That’ll be the outgoing mail from the regiments,” Reid said. “All you have to do is forward it along, usually. Looks like it’s been a day or two.”

  More work. Emma drew a breath and managed to smile. “Well, thank you. I had better get started.”

  By evening she had taken care of the outgoing mail and delivered the mail for three of the regiments, leaving the Second’s for last. She had spent as much time in the saddle as on foot, and was sore in a variety of ways from riding, walking, and lifting heavy sacks. And still the Second’s mail remained to be sorted and delivered—she was their only mail carrier.

  She sighed as she looked at the bulging sack. After supper, she decided. She was quite hungry, and suddenly realized she had no idea where she was to mess. She went back to Reid’s tent to fetch her mess kit, and encountered him coming out.

  “There you are! We wondered if you had fallen into a ditch.”

  “Not yet, thanks be given. Can you tell me where I am to mess?”

  “Headquarters mess, dear boy. Come along.”

  “Isn’t it officers, though?”

  “Mostly. Best be sure your buttons are polished.” Reid grinned. “No, it’s everyone, except on very formal occasions, when you lowly fellows will get your dinner in the kitchen.”

  He led her to a large tent filled with tables and benches, quite the nicest such accommodation she had seen. There were certain advantages, it seemed, to serving at headquarters. Her meal included applesauce and baked squash as well as meat and soft bread. Afterward, Reid led her off to his tent.

  “I’ll be working late tonight at the general’s office,” he said, “so we’d best get you settled in now.”

  Reid commenced discussing, largely with himself, where to put Frank’s bed. He decided on moving the shelves, though Emma protested the necessity. In the end Reid prevailed and the two of them shifted the shelves and all their contents to the front of the tent, after which there was room for Emma’s bedroll along the side. She laid out her bed and placed her few belongings beside it, still not quite believing this was her new home.

  “Thank you,” she said. “This is very good of you, sharing your tent. Are you sure I shouldn’t sleep in the postmaster’s tent?”

  “There’d be no room for you, most nights. I’d sooner share with you than some other. I’ve been lucky to be alone for this long.” Reid retrieved his overcoat from one of the pegs. “And now I must leave you, my lad. I’ll be back later to join you in a nightcap. Oh, no—you don’t. Well, you can watch me have one. God knows I’ll need it tonight!”

  He was gone on the words, leaving Emma to admire the luxury of her new accommodations. She checked that the fire in the stove was banked, brought in an armload of wood, then made her way back to her office to tackle her regiment’s mail.

  For the second night running she delivered it in the dark. Her spirits were lifted by seeing her comrades, however, including her tentmates, who all came out to greet her. She returned to headquarters weary but content.

  Reid was not in his tent. Emma built up the fire and took off her boots. Her left foot was throbbing. She rubbed it a little, then made up her bed and climbed into it. Strange to sleep in a bed in camp, even if it was only a cot.

  She woke to the scrape of a boot on the ground, and started up, not remembering at first where she was. The shadow moving in the tent was Reid’s, she knew from the way his hair fell forward over his brow.

  “Only me, lad. Sorry to wake you.”

  Emma relaxed. “S’all right.”

  She watched through drowsy eyelids as he poured brandy into a glass, drank half of it in one breath, then sat with the glass dangling from his fingers, leaning forward wearily. In the dim tent he seemed dejected, no hint of his customary cheer.

  “Hard day?” Emma ventured.

  Reid gave a low huff of laughter. “Not so hard as yours, I imagine. No, but there’s some news, and it isn’t good.”

  He drank another swallow of brandy. Emma could smell it, even across the tent.

  “All the materials for those cursed pontoons have arrived at last,” he said. “The engineers are ready to begin construction.”

  Emma stiffened, remembering the dozens of cannon in plain view on the heights across the river. “They won’t, will they?”

  He raised his glass and tipped it back to drain it, then ran his free hand through his hair, pushing it back from his brow. Emma heard him sigh as he reached for the bottle.

  “I don’t know, Frank. No one knows what Burnside’ll do.”

  She kept silent, knowing they were both thinking the same thing: McClellan would not have gotten them into such a fix.

  Fredericksburg, Virginia, 1862

  A week later, General Poe was summoned, along with all the other general officers in the Army of the Potomac, to Lacy House in Falmouth for a meeting with General Burnside. In his absence, headquarters was unnaturally quiet. Emma could feel the tension in the air as she made her rounds with the headquarters mail. There was no laughter. No one spoke of what might be going on in that meeting.

  Emma retired to her office, alone with her mountains of letters and packages. Sorting them was a soothing task, though it left her mind too free to think of what might be coming. In the middle of December, when by rights the army should be ensconced in winter quarters, it looked very much as if they were about to be ordered to advance.

  She carried the mail to the regimental camps, where the mood was not so gloomy. They did not know, yet, and Emma said nothing to her friends. If the news was bad, they would hear it soon enough.

  She sent off the outgoing mail, then returned to headquarters to learn if there was any news. A glance at ADC Keller’s face told her that General Poe had not returned. It was evening by now, and she went to the too-silent mess tent, where she sat with Reid over a desultory meal for which neither of them was hungry.

  “Better eat it,” Reid said with a crooked smile. “Might be crackers tomorrow.”

  Emma stirred her stew. “It cannot be going well, can it? If it’s taking this long?”

  “My guess is, they’re trying to talk him out of it.”

  In this bleak mood they spent the evening together, retiring to Reid’s office after supper, where Emma watched him file paperwork. She had yawned twice, and was considering giving up and going to bed, when General Poe walked in.

  “Good,” he said, looking at Jamie. “Come with me. You, too, Thompson.”

  Emma jumped up from her chair and followed them to the general’s office, where Poe waved her and Reid to the chairs before his desk. His ADC hovered in the doorway.

  “Yes, come in, Keller,” Poe said. “I have one or two things for you to do.”

  The general sat down, looking infinitely weary, and gazed at the neat stacks of paper on his desk, seeming lost in reverie. Emma and Reid exchanged a glance.

  “Sir?” Reid said.

  The general looked up at him and sighed. “Burnside wants to advance. There’s been a great deal of argument, and there will be more tomorrow, I suspect, but so far he will not budge.”

  Emma felt a tightening of dread within her chest. She thought of the guns on the ridge and closed her eyes.

  “It will not be tonight, at least,” Poe said. “We have that much. I’ll have some errands for you, James. And I must write some letters this evening. Thompson, will you see that they go out at once?”

  Emma nodded, then listened as Poe recited a succinct list of tasks for Reid, all directed toward preparing the brigade for battle. All the while he was writing, making notes and lists. Occasionally he would pause to dictate a message or an order to Keller, who had brought in his writing board and sat frowning in concentration, pen scratching away at a furious pace.

  Feeling slightly helpless, Emma wondered if she was caught inside a dream. Wished it, more like, and knew it was all too real.

  Reid stood up and went out to carry out Poe’s orders. He paused in the doorway and Emma glanced up, meeting h
is gaze. Something was in it that she could not quite read—regret, perhaps. A corner of his mouth quirked in a half-smile, then he was gone.

  Eventually Poe sent Keller off as well, and commenced writing his letters while Emma waited. When he finally handed them to her, she saw the names she had expected: his wife, Nellie; friends in Washington; friends at home in Michigan. The letters that might be the last. They went out before every battle, from every private and every general and everyone in between who could set pen to paper. Her outgoing mailbag would be heavy tomorrow.

  There had been no announcement, and Poe had enjoined them to silence, but the soldiers always knew of such things. She wondered if the word was spreading even now.

  “Thank you, Thompson,” Poe said wearily. “You’ll take them to the depot at once?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have half a mind to send you to Washington.”

  “I had rather be with you, sir.”

  Poe looked at her and smiled. “You’re a good man, Thompson. A bonnie, brave lad, as Jamie would say. Off with you, now, and get some rest.”

  She left, pausing to look into Reid’s office before heading for the depot. He was there, making lists of his own, frowning as he wrote by candlelight.

  “I’m taking mail to the depot. Would you like to send a note to your wife?”

  Reid looked up in surprise, then his mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I suppose I should. Can you wait a minute?”

  “Of course.”

  She watched him scrawl a hasty message. He handed it to her, then rubbed his hand over his face.

  “God knows where we will be this time tomorrow,” he muttered.

  “In God’s keeping,” Emma replied, to which he gave her a quizzical look.

  The one thing she and Reid had not yet discussed at length was religion, she realized as she saddled her sleepy horse. She thought about this while she rode, wondering if Reid was devout. If there was ever a time for prayer, it was now.

  She felt a pang of guilt for her recent lack of devotion. Since coming to headquarters it seemed she simply didn’t have the time. Her Bible lay untouched beneath her bed; she had not yet managed to attend a prayer meeting. She missed it now, and thought fleetingly of paying a late visit to Chaplain Brown.

  In the end she decided to wait. Perhaps tomorrow the generals would prevail upon Burnside to change his plans. She would certainly pray, tonight, but she didn’t wish to trouble the chaplain. She wished Jerome were here, for he would have talked with her.

  She decided to write to him. A last letter, perhaps, she thought with a wistful smile. There was no one to whom she felt closer.

  When she reached the tent Reid was there, pacing restlessly back and forth. He scarcely glanced up in response to her greeting. Emma left him alone, took out paper and pen, and sat at the table to compose a note to Jerome.

  “Writing to your lady friend?” Reid said, a sharp edge to his voice as he paused, standing over her.

  Emma dipped her pen. “To my friend at Camp Parole.”

  “Jerome.”

  “Yes.”

  Reid commenced pacing again. Emma did not think he was drunk; his eyes seemed sharp and not at all glassy. Not knowing how to ease his agitation, she ignored him. Perhaps he was thinking of home. Perhaps he had his own regrets.

  She wrote Jerome a long, candid letter. She had not even told him of her promotion, she realized, nor of General Poe’s advancement. She knew Jerome was also fond of their commander, so she described Poe’s celebration. The scene had a certain poignancy now in her memory—Poe was probably the newest general going into this battle, and it would be a shame if his first battle at that rank was also his last—but she kept such reflections to herself.

  Reid stopped pacing all at once and sat on his bed, dropping his head into his hands. “It’s no use.”

  Emma glanced up, wondering if he wanted an answer. She had finished addressing her letter to Jerome, and was considering writing a brief note to Miss Daphne, but she put the pen down.

  Reid ran his hands through his hair, then looked up at Emma and laughed softly.

  “What?” Emma said.

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Emma watched him reach for the brandy bottle on his shelf. He looked at it, turning it round in his hands, then set it down again, to Emma’s relief. Almost immediately he stood up and reached for his greatcoat.

  “I’m going out for a walk. Don’t wait up.”

  Emma watched him shrug into the coat, concerned by the trouble in his face. She wanted to ask him to pray with her, but doubted that he would, in this mood. Instead she rose and saw him to the door.

  “Are you all right?”

  He looked at her, a smile twisting his mouth. “I will be. You needn’t worry, Frank. But thank you.”

  He caught her hand and squeezed it, the heat of his flesh surprising her as it had before. He let go at once, and slipped out into the darkness, leaving Emma to wonder alone.

  Next morning Reid gave no sign of his previous agitation. He and Emma both rose before dawn and set about the day’s business. General Poe returned to Lacy House and headquarters returned to silent waiting, though the faces of the staff were now more grim than anxious.

  Emma went about her duties, forwarding three large sacks of mail. When the day’s end came, General Poe returned, his face grave.

  He said nothing, but went about issuing orders as he had done the previous night. Emma again waited for letters to carry. This time they were all to division headquarters.

  She rode into Falmouth, and if she had not already suspected the truth, she had no doubt whatever now. Lacy House was ablaze with light, and a long line of wagons waited on the road outside Falmouth, filled with equipment and silent men.

  She delivered her messages and returned to brigade headquarters, where General Poe dismissed her for the night. Reid had disappeared somewhere; he was neither in his office nor their tent. She took out her Bible, added wood to the fire and left the stove’s door open, settling down to read by its flickering light.

  Reid came in not long afterward, gave her a nod in greeting, and proceeded to climb into his bed. After a while Emma began to feel drowsy, and closed her book, setting it back beside her bed. She put another piece of wood in the stove, then shut the door, casting the tent into darkness.

  “Did you write to your family?” Reid asked after a moment.

  “I have none,” Emma said. Truth, for all she knew.

  “My parents are in Scotland.”

  She had no response to this, and lay thinking instead of her own parents. She wasted no sentiment on her father, but her mother she truly missed. And her sisters, and poor Thomas. She hoped they were well. She wondered if they thought her dead.

  Startled awake, Emma sat up. The sun had not risen, nor had Reid. Some distant sound had waked her. She got quietly out of bed, put on her boots and coat, and left the tent.

  A heavy fog lay on the ground. She stood listening for a moment, hearing indistinct noises in the distance along with the sounds of the camp stirring.

  A smell of baked bread wafted from the kitchens. Emma followed it, got herself a cup of coffee and a handful of bread still hot from the oven, and went to General Poe’s office. Keller was there, busy at his desk, his face set in a grim expression. The general was also present, slowly pacing in his office. Emma suspected he had not slept.

  Hoofbeats approached. A courier came into the tent and handed a message to Keller. He glanced at it and at once took it into Poe’s office.

  The message was a summons; the brigade was to be roused and assembled, ready for battle. Emma’s first errand of the day was to carry the order to the headquarters of each regiment. By the time she had returned, brigade headquarters was bustling.

  The brigade moved forward into Falmouth along with the rest of the division, and fell into line before the river. Sounds of splashing water and clanking machinery issued from in front of them; the pontoon bridges were be
ing built. Sitting her horse with the brigade staff, ready to ride courier if called upon, Emma could have no doubt that the Rebels across the river heard as well.

  As dawn approached the fog began to break up. Emma glimpsed one of the bridges, half-built, then someone’s gasp drew her notice to the far shore, where ranks of Rebels stood waiting. The fleeting fog concealed them again. Emma’s neck prickled.

  They won’t make it, she realized. There is no way the bridges can be finished before dawn.

  The next gap in the fog confirmed her fears. The Rebels opened fire on the engineers working to assemble the pontoons. She saw a man fall from the bridge into the river; another stepped forward to take his place.

  From then on the musketry was more or less continuous. As the sun rose the fog faded completely, exposing the engineers working on the bridges to a murderous fire. Federal cannon opened on the sharpshooters in reply, raising a deafening roar, but the sharpshooters merely hid among the houses and continued to pick off the engineers.

  At last some of the Seventh Michigan were sent across the river in boats to chase the Rebels from the town, leaving the engineers to finish their work unmolested. Within an hour the bridges were done and the army began to file across them into Fredericksburg.

  By evening the town had been ravaged. As she carried a message for General Poe, Emma passed burning houses, set alight by the shelling. The smell of destruction filled her nostrils and roused a deep instinct to flee. Looking up to the Rebels entrenched on the heights above the town, she feared there would be a bitter price to pay.

  Poe’s brigade was assigned to the command of General Franklin and the task of guarding the lowest pontoon bridge. Returning to Poe’s position, Emma found him frowning so grimly that she was moved to offer a word of comfort. “Never fear, sir. Your men will stand with you.”

  He glanced at her and gave a cough of laughter. “Those who are well enough to stand. Keller’s come down sick. I’ve just sent him to the rear. Ghastly timing.”