by P. G. Nagle
Or convenient, Emma thought, then banished the uncharitable suspicion. “May I have the honor of serving in his place, General?”
“That’s good of you, Thompson. I wouldn’t ask it.”
“I am asking it. Please, sir. I would be honored to be at your side tomorrow.”
Poe gazed at her, apparently touched. “Very well, then. You shall be my acting aide-de-camp, and God help us both.”
“He will, sir,” Emma said, smiling.
“You’ll need a sash to wear.”
“I’ll find one.”
She did manage to find one, asking around at division headquarters the next morning, and as she tied it around her waist she knew a fleeting wish that Damon and Captain Morse could see her. At least she would look smart today, whatever else happened.
From their position near the bridge, she could see the heights above town. Cannon fire and musketry were a constant roar, but as yet no troops ventured into the open field between the town and the fortified heights.
Emma was in the saddle constantly, carrying messages and orders back and forth between General Poe and headquarters. She closed her thoughts to the bullets that whined around her as she rode, placing her trust in God. If she had work yet to do on this earth, she would be spared to do it.
Troops began to advance on the heights, and as quickly began to fall. By noon the attack was unleashed in full force. Regiment after regiment marched across the open field, only to be slain by the murderous gunfire or the sharpshooters lying behind a stone wall at the top of the hill. Dead and wounded began to pile up on the field. Emma gritted her teeth and kept riding, thankful that her own regiment was safe for the time being at least.
Charge after charge was made on the heights, none of them coming close to the stone wall. By mid-afternoon thousands had fallen, and still the order was to charge, and charge again.
Passing by a brigade that awaited their turn to advance, Emma saw an officer shoot himself in the side, then protest it was an accident as he was carried to the rear. She felt a moment’s regret that the wound was not fatal. Never before had she seen a man shoot himself in order to save the Rebels the satisfaction of doing so.
She returned to General Poe, who stood grim-faced near the bridge, watching the slaughter on the heights above. With him were some officers of the 2nd and the 20th Michigan. A sober-faced major with apple cheeks watched Emma’s approach and asked her if their turn had come.
“I fear so, sir. General Sumner’s division has spent itself.”
There were no more brigades to be sent up that terrible hill. She had seen the pitiful remnants of the division trying to organize.
“But we have received no orders, Major Cutcheon,” added General Poe with a sidelong glance at her.
Emma bowed her head, acknowledging this mild reproof, and went away to give her horse some water. She had only spoken the truth, but she understood the general’s desire to assuage the fears of his officers.
No order for advance came from General Franklin’s headquarters. Poe’s brigade remained in place by the bridge, guarding the means of retreat. Wounded straggled across the bridge, though in smaller numbers than at the other bridges.
In the evening, Emma accompanied Poe to General Franklin’s headquarters, a rough ride over three miles of ditches, ravines, and hills. The night was bitter cold, and the moans of the wounded haunted them from the heights.
Passing a graveyard, Emma heard the voices of men raised in prayer, fortifying themselves against whatever fate would greet them come daylight. Her heart was heavy with sorrow. So many had died in the futile attempt to storm the heights. Would it be the same again tomorrow?
Dawn brought no renewal of attack, however. Instead a truce was negotiated to allow the removal of the wounded from the field. Many were beyond help—frozen during the night, and propped up to shelter the living. When she was not busy carrying messages, Emma helped move the wounded to Lacy House, which had become a hospital. Surgeons worked feverishly in every room of the elegant mansion. The generals had gathered with Burnside once more at another house, arguing what to do next.
Evening came, and with it the order to retreat quietly under cover of night. Emma nearly wept with relief, and also with sorrow for all that had been lost. She stayed in the saddle, sitting at attention beside a silent, grim-faced Poe as the Union troops filed back across the bridges, abandoning Fredericksburg.
When all had crossed, Poe’s brigade followed and went back to their camps, dejected. The enormity of the defeat weighed in the silence broken only by shuffling feet and muffled hoofbeats. The night was cold again, with cruel stars glittering above.
Poe went to his office and commenced writing. Emma carried a last message to headquarters, riding back to Falmouth on the mud-torn road, then the general dismissed her for the night. She tended her weary horse and retired to Reid’s tent.
Reid was there, sitting at the table with his head on his arms, the empty brandy bottle before him. Emma took off her greatcoat and hung it up. It was cold in the tent, so she opened the stove and lit a fire, staring at the new flames taking hold.
She heard Reid sit up, and glanced at him. Their gazes met and held. The look on Reid’s face was awful, a look of utmost disillusionment and despair. It pierced her heart, and brought all her own feelings to the fore. She felt a tear slide down her cheek.
Brushing it away, she put more wood in the stove. Reid stood up and came around the table to squat beside her. The yellow flames lit his face and glinted on his pale hair as he held out his hands toward the heat. Long-fingered, elegant hands. Emma stared at them, glad they were intact, not torn by shot or broken or severed by the surgeon’s knife.
“I thought I had seen the worst at Antietam,” he said, his voice hoarse.
Emma’s throat tightened. It was true; this had been the worst she had seen of the war. She thought of the thousands lying slain on the field, and shivered.
Reid put a hand on her shoulder. She started to pull away, but he drew her closer instead, holding her against his chest with his arms wrapped tight around her. Off balance, she collapsed against him, then gave into the need for comfort, feeling the tears pour down her face as she returned the embrace.
Reid gave a small, gasping sob, his hold tightening even more. Emma felt his cheek against hers, rough with stubble where hers was smooth. He smelled of sweat and mud and, faintly, of horse.
He drew back his head and gazed at her, frowning in distress. Emma tried to gulp back her tears. She sniffled, unsuccessful, and Reid raised a hand to wipe her cheek. Then, frowning even more intently, he kissed her.
Emma gasped in surprise, then had no time for more as Reid kissed her again fiercely. He knew; he must know—she was lost, but it seemed not to matter. Only his lips on hers mattered, only the fire that bloomed inside her, despair seeking release in passion.
He pulled at his own clothing, then at hers. Scrambling out of their coats on the dirt floor of the tent, they clutched at each other, kissing again and again, pausing only to deal with a button or suspender strap.
Uttering a curse of frustration, he rolled away from her and pulled off his boots, then his trousers. Emma removed hers as well, shivering with excitement more than cold as she sat in her long underwear and shirtsleeves. She knew she should not do this, but she was beyond caring, and she doubted now that he could be stopped even if she tried.
And she didn’t want to try. She wanted his fire, his passion. He reached for her and she came willingly.
His hand fumbled between her thighs, sparking fear and anticipation in her. He gave a grunt of surprise and looked up at her, blue eyes staring wide. He reached a hand up inside her shirt and found her breast.
“Christ!” he whispered, his face astonished.
“I-I thought you knew,” Emma said.
He shook his head, then frowning more fiercely than before, bent to kiss her again.
Emma’s head reeled. She could scarce form a thought as he pulled off
her clothing and dipped his head to kiss her breasts, one and then the other.
If he had not known—then he had wanted—Frank, he had wanted Frank!
His hands roamed her body, rough against her skin. His kisses were rough also, but not cruel. She returned them eagerly, shivering as he moved closer and she felt him press between her thighs.
She yielded to him, not sure what to do but willing to follow his lead. He leaned harder against her, shifting back and forth, and she felt a small, sharp pain as her flesh gave way.
He raised his head and stared at her. “Sweet Jesus!”
Emma gazed back at him, the planes of his cheek and jaw sharp in the firelight, then his face contorted and he slammed himself into her again and again. Emma closed her eyes, half-enduring, half-enjoying his savage lust.
It was over quickly, and he collapsed, gasping, his weight heavy upon her. Emma lay still, feeling trapped, yet also floating in a strange euphoria. Her body was uncomfortable in a number of ways, but they were all small and unimportant.
It was Jamie who was important now. Her lover.
He raised himself on one arm, taking some of his weight off her, to her relief. With soft eyes he gazed at her as he ran his fingers into her hair. He bent to kiss her, this time with extreme gentleness.
“You fooled us all,” he whispered, smiling.
Emma smiled back, then closed her eyes. Her world had changed. She would leave it to the morning to sort out how.
When she woke, she was in her own bed, with the first faint light of dawn glowing blue against the tent’s walls. Confusion was swiftly followed by memories that made her gasp in astonishment at herself. She felt flame rise to her cheeks.
Turning her head, she saw that Jamie lay in his cot, asleep. He must have put her to bed before seeking his own rest. A soft snore spoke of his contentment.
She had sinned, and now she understood sin’s attraction. Lofty words and thoughts were easy until the body’s imperative asserted itself. Physical needs could only be denied for so long; it appeared that this was such a need, for she felt its stirrings again as she gazed at Jamie’s face.
She closed her eyes, too weary to embark upon a philosophical argument with herself. Unaccustomed aches reminded her of her sin, and warned of a new danger to be guarded against: pregnancy.
The thought made her angry; not with Jamie, but with herself, for taking the risk. She had sworn that she would never be the drudge her mother had been, never subject herself to a husband’s authority.
Well, Jamie was a husband, but he was not her husband. She would not allow him to dominate her.
And Jamie’s Mary must never know. She would not wound that lady if she could avoid it.
If she became pregnant, she would deal with it somehow. There were means; during her time in the hospital she had more than once received visits from women requesting certain herbs. She hoped it would not come to that, for it was a terrible choice to make.
Jamie stirred. She turned on her side, the better to watch him.
In sleep his face was peaceful, sweet as a child’s. A shock of sandy hair had fallen across his eyes, and she wanted to reach out and smooth it back.
She felt a warmth for him stir in her heart. He was wild, impulsive, and (she suspected) not very devout, yet she was fond of him. She was one of the few who had seen his gentler side: the Jamie who doubted, who knew fear.
How would they go forward now? Impossible to continue exactly as they had been.
A clatter out in the camp startled her, making her glance toward the door. Voices were raised briefly in dispute, then subsided. The kitchen crew, she thought. At work preparing their breakfast.
Looking at Jamie, she saw that the noise had waked him. He smiled back at her, then stretched luxuriously. His blanket slipped down, revealing his bare chest. Emma felt a glimmer of heat in her gut.
“Well, my dear,” he said in a voice she could just hear, “do you care to tell me your name?”
A tingle of fear went through her. Only Jerome knew her name. But Jerome was far away, and Jamie was waiting.
“Emma,” she whispered.
He smiled. “And what led you to enlist?”
“I wanted to serve my country.”
“Your adopted country.”
“Yes.”
He propped his head on his elbow, lazy, almond-like eyes watching her. “It must have been difficult to arrange.”
She swallowed. “Not as difficult as you might think.”
“Oh?”
“I will tell you, some time, but now I have a question for you.”
He gave a nod, inviting her to continue.
“Last night...”
He waited, his gaze unblinking, a hint of a smile on his lips. Emma swallowed.
“I am wondering about your interest in a young private.”
“Ah.” His eyes narrowed. “Yes, I knew you must wonder about that. You need only think a little and you will find the answer.”
He sat up and reached for his shirt. Emma watched him pull it on, watched him hunt down his trousers in the heap of clothing on the floor.
“These are yours,” he said, tossing her trousers to her.
“Jamie—”
“Still thinking?”
“Jamie, you are married. Why...?”
“Thousands of men, far from home and family. Men with desires that do not diminish. I personally prefer not to seek solace among the camp followers.”
“Oh, no! They are ridden with disease!”
“Yes. But a fair young private...”
Emma’s cheeks burned afresh. She caught up her undershirt and put it on, then reached down to pull her long underwear from the pile.
Jamie, a sodomite? Was that a greater sin than the one they had committed together?
Fidelity mattered little to him, it seemed. But then, it mattered little to a great many men. How many others would seek the alternative he spoke of?
Her mind was reeling.
“It’s more common than you think,” he said, sliding his suspenders onto his shoulders.
He was assuming the guise of Lieutenant Reid. How on earth was she supposed to behave toward him?
Jamie stood and came to her, picking her shirt off the floor and inspecting it with a frown. “Have you a clean one? I fear this is rather spoiled, and one of the buttons is loose.”
Emma took the shirt and held it to her chest. Confusion, doubt, and dread conspired to render her speechless. She felt very small.
Her blanket shifted as he sat beside her. She stared at the stove, unwilling to meet his gaze.
“I should not need to tell you,” he said softly, his warm breath brushing her ear, “that I much prefer an Emma to a Frank.”
She swallowed.
“And you need not fear that I will betray you. I had far rather keep you to myself.”
She looked at him, then. He smiled, then took her breath away with a sudden kiss. His arm slid behind her, supporting and embracing her. He smiled again as he released her, then rose and reached for his boots.
“We’d best get a move on. Don’t want to be late for breakfast.”
Emma was accustomed to living a double life, but this new one was the strangest yet. Inside the tent she shared with Jamie was a haven of warmth and silent tenderness. Outside, the cold stabbed at her and the bitter losses of the army’s defeat returned to weigh on her heart, reflected in the sad faces at every hand.
Lieutenant Reid was carelessly friendly to her in public, though now and then a glance spoke more than others knew.
She had no doubt of his affection for herself, for he showed no hesitation. Jamie was a generous lover; in their tent he taught her new sensations every night, and roused feelings in her she had never imagined.
There were worries. At first she feared he would betray her somehow, either deliberately or accidentally, but as the days passed she grew more confident.
That she must share him, she accepted as fact and privately reg
retted on many levels. She wished no harm to the faceless Mary back in New York. She felt badly about wronging her, but she was certain that if she had not become Jamie’s lover, someone else would have.
Jamie never spoke of his wife, and Emma thought it was not her place to raise the subject. She occasionally encountered a letter addressed to him from New York, in a feminine hand. She always left them on his bed, as she did the rest of his mail.
She struggled daily with her conscience. She knew what she was doing was wrong, but she also knew a greater happiness than she had ever felt before. It was a quandary she could not resolve.
She had another, more pragmatic worry. The possibility of pregnancy. Earlier in the year a corporal in a regiment stationed not far from the Second had fallen ill while on picket duty, the illness proving to be labor of childbirth. That woman had been treated kindly by her comrades in arms, and sent home to her parents with her new baby. Emma had no home to go to.
Riding, she had heard, was dangerous for a woman who might be in a delicate condition. She rode every day in the course of her duties, and made sure to ride very hard indeed.
As a last resort, she could go to the hospital and find among the supplies there what would end an unwanted pregnancy. Only this knowledge kept her from fretting herself into a frenzy.
The army remained in camp on the Rappahannock, licking its wounds as the winter’s cold deepened. Emma dealt with mail and ran errands for General Poe, and spent a good deal of her spare time in the hospitals.
Gradually the anguish of Fredericksburg receded to a dull sorrow, though the Northern press was full of wailing and woe. General Burnside was cursed by his men, yet Washington sent no new commander to replace him.
A few days after the battle Emma came into Poe’s office with the general’s mail. Keller was still sick abed, and she now shared his duties with a clerk, Sergeant Covington, who glanced up as she came in.
“Someone was looking for you earlier,” Covington said.
Emma handed him a stack of letters. “Who?”
“A private. Didn’t give his name. Said he knew you from the Second Michigan.”