The Velvet Shadow

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “Aye, sir.” The reply came from a dozen lips, and Flanna closed her eyes, praying he would soon leave. She heard the soft sounds of footsteps and muffled laughter from somewhere outside the tent; then, without warning, his voice floated down to her from above.

  “Are you all right, son?” Alden Haynes stood at her side, speaking to her.

  Flanna looked up and caught Charity’s eye. Like Flanna, the girl was hiding her face beneath the brim of her cap, afraid to look up at the only friend they had in this camp.

  “Fine, sir.” Forced through a tight throat, her voice came out hoarse.

  “Very good. Get some rest—you’ll have a long day tomorrow.”

  Major Haynes turned and walked away as a bugle began to play in the night. Someone rose and blew out the lantern, and the tent quieted as if by magic. Flanna sat very still, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the lingering light from the campfire.

  She brought her thumb to her mouth and absently chewed on her thumbnail—a childhood habit she had broken years before, but it felt strangely comforting now. If she had known this morning that she’d be exchanging more than a dozen snobby boardinghouse roommates for more than a dozen terrifying men, she would never have found the courage to leave her room. The beloved men in her life—her father, Wesley, even Roger—had vanished, and a bizarre assortment had risen to fill the empty spaces.

  Under this canvas roof, the strangers stretched out, arranged like the spokes of a wheel, with feet in the center and heads to the outside. The men had rolled up the sides of the tent in order to take advantage of the cool evening breeze, and Flanna felt a moment of gratitude for good weather. If the tent flaps were lowered, the resulting odors from twelve men in various states of cleanliness would be anything but pleasant.

  The warm sound of the lonely bugle had no sooner faded than someone began to snore. Flanna unfroze long enough to remove the blanket from her knapsack and unfurl it. She gave Charity her dress coat to use for a pillow, then she lay down, pillowing her head upon her haversack.

  As tense as a cat, she lay still for a long time, listening to the muffled sounds of snoring and breathing from the men who were now her comrades. Outside the tent, the waning fire popped and crackled, and occasionally she heard the soft sound of footsteps and muffled voices. Somewhere in the bushes, crickets filled the air with a continuous churring.

  Flanna closed her eyes. Alden Haynes had saved her tonight—not only from Diltz, but from the humiliation and exposure she would have suffered if she had lost control and burst into tears. Yet though he had never been as close to her as he would be tonight, he had never seemed so far away.

  Thank you, God, she prayed, folding her hands across her chest as her eyes searched the canvas above. Thank you for bringing us this far, and thank you for sending Alden. Protect him and Roger, please…and see Charity and me through this.

  In her mind’s eye she saw God looking down upon two slender forms, two additional cogs in the war machinery. Flanna didn’t care whether God supported the North or the South as long as he helped her and Charity make a life in this army for as long as it took to get home.

  Twelve

  Wednesday, August 28, 1861

  Dear Papa and darling Wesley—

  I am writing you here, within the leaves of my journal, for reasons you will understand later. Though I am free to write letters—and many of my messmates write two and three a day to loved ones at home—I could not very well post letters to you without arousing suspicion My heart, therefore, consoles itself with the thought that I am sending myself to you and that my day of arrival comes closer with each rising sun.

  I am Openings my heart freely within these pages, and will trust the good Lord that my journal shall remain undiscovered as long as I am in disguise. If I am killed, well, there is nothing to be done about it. And if someone reads this journal and exposes me, well—I must trust in the Lord’s leading. For he has safeguarded me thus far, and he will continue to direct my paths.

  Today I fired my infantry rifle musket for the first time. We did nothing but drill Tuesday; by the end of the day I had grown so accustomed to having the rifle on my shoulder that I scarcely considered the fact that I might eventually have to shoot it. The quartermaster gave me a box containing forty cartridges—my messmates call it a box of “forty dead men” My fingers fairly trembled as I drew a cartridge out—I could not allow myself to believe that I might have shoot someone. The bullet lies at one end of the cartridge and powder at the other, and a soldier must actually bite off the twisted paper end of the cartridge before loading the gun. As the sergeant demonstrated this for me and a few other recruits, black powder spilled out onto his face, forming a dark circle around his mouth. His appearance grew most fiendish, which, I suppose, was appropriate for the occasion.

  It took me ten minutes to prepare my first shot, and Sergeant Marvin said I’d be a dead man ten times over if I didn’t improve. A good man, he says, can load and fire two shots in sixty seconds. (I’m afraid I shall never be a good man.)

  And the shot! My ears rang for fifteen minutes afterward. The sergeant gave me no time for wonderment, though, for he demanded that I load and fire the rifle again and again. Charity tried to help me, but as the army will not give her a gun, she can do little more than recite the proper order for this killing ritual. So my shoulder is doubtless black and blue from the rifle’s harsh retort, my jaws are sore from ripping the cartridges between my teeth, and my face is as grimed as the most seasoned soldier. My messmates laughed at me when I returned, for most of them have grown up with guns and don’t need to practice. I explained my ignorance by telling the truth—I grew up with books, not guns.

  I saw Roger Haynes today at drew parade. He and his company marched by with great style and flair, and I thought his face looked a good deal browner and sterner than the last time I saw him. But his tongue, apparently, is just as quick—his tales are legendary. Even a few of my messmates have remarked that Captain Haynes of Company K is a “rollicking storyteller.”

  They do not flatter Alden Haynes as easily, but they respect him far more. I see Alden nearly every day, and though my heart yearns to Speak to him, I know I cannot. Yet I wonder—has he sent any farewell messages to Mrs. Davis’s house in the hope that I might still be there? Doubtless Roger believes me in New York, and Alden probably does too.

  You may think foolish, Papa. If you knew the things in my heart…but you cannot. So my heart will remain veiled until I can open it to you. Then you will take my sorrows, my longings, and my regrets, and you will make me well. And if your medicine is not equal to the task, God himself will heal me.

  Sometimes I think I ought to be miserable in this place and this condition, for I am quite out of my element. But though I miss you desperately, I am content. For I am on my way home.

  May God, in his mercy, whisper in your ear the suggestion to pray for me. I need you now.

  Pvt. Franklin O’Connor,

  Company M, 25th Massachusetts

  Flanna’s week of training passed in a blur of activity. Each night she fell asleep feeling empty and drained, and each morning the bugle woke her before sunrise, mocking her with its bright reveille.

  No matter how early the hour, Paddy O’Neil was always ready to go, laughing at his sleepy comrades as he slipped on his blouse and shoes. On Flanna’s fourth morning in camp, when she awoke with her nerves still throbbing in exhaustion, he leaned near her ear and sang with the bugler: “I can’t wake ’em up, I can’t wake ’em up, I can’t wake ’em up in the morning.”

  “Shut up, O’Neil,” she slurred, sitting upright. She blinked, realizing that it hadn’t taken her long to shed her ladylike manners. Mammy would be aghast at Flanna’s rudeness, but Wesley would be right proud of her.

  Charity was awake, too, scowling at O’Neil as she slipped on her shoes. Both girls slept in their trousers and shirts, as did a few of the men. Though the weather was warm, a general modesty pervaded the camp, particularly among the
rural recruits. Flanna’s worries about privacy had vanished.

  “Rise and shine, men, and polish those uniforms!” Sergeant Marvin’s head appeared in the tent. “Inspection and awarding of the colors today! Look sharp!”

  The men around her groaned, but Flanna said nothing as she studied her hands. Black grime had etched little half-moons under each fingernail, though last night she had tried to scrub her hands in a water bucket. The other men didn’t seem to mind a little dirt. But though Flanna could tell O’Neil to shut up and address the others by their surnames with impunity, she didn’t think she’d ever be able to get used to feeling dirty.

  “Hurry up, we’ll be late for roll call.” O’Neil tugged on Flanna’s sleeve. “Roll out, shake a leg!”

  “Coming!” Flanna gave Charity a little smile, then pushed herself up and took off after the lumbering O’Neil. Tardiness to roll call usually meant extra work or a stint in the guardhouse, but because the Twenty-fifth Massachusetts was in an all-fired hurry to get to Washington, tardiness now meant only one thing: extra drill.

  Flanna couldn’t see the purpose of drill, which consisted mainly of exercises in the handling of arms, various shooting positions, and marching maneuvers. While a sergeant yelled, “Stand erect! Salute! March forward! To the rear!” Flanna shifted her gun from shoulder to shoulder, sweated under her heavy uniform, and wondered if she’d be certifiably insane by the time she reached South Carolina.

  But it was too late for second thoughts. She was in the army and could only survive by doing what she was called to do without drawing undue attention to herself. So she worked hard, learning to fire in standing, kneeling, and prone positions, practicing parrying and thrusting with the bayonet (a nasty implement she hoped she never had to use), and firing her rifle “in nine times,” “in four times,” and “at will.” After drilling for four days, Flanna wondered if her feet kept tramping in her sleep.

  The camp routine itself was simple: roll call, breakfast, and fatigue duty, which meant that she walked around with a gunny sack and picked up trash. After fatigue duty, the musicians sounded the call for guard mounting, where the first sergeant of each company turned out his guard detail for the next twenty-four hours’ duty, inspected them, and marched them out to the parade ground. Flanna felt lucky that she was never called for guard duty. In the stillness of the dark night or the heat of the afternoon, she was quite likely to fall asleep, a serious infraction of military law.

  The bugle next called her company for drill, which lasted until the midday meal. After a short spell of free time (during which Flanna was obliged to learn about her gun and how to fire it), the bugle sounded again, and Company M fell in for more drilling. Finally, after another roll call and inspection, came a dress parade, a ritual Flanna found especially silly—at first.

  Only occasional glimpses of Alden Haynes kept her attention from wandering dangerously during dress parade. Each afternoon, hot, sweaty, and exhausted, the entire regiment drew up in a straight line when the order “Parade rest!” rang out. The drummers beat a regular rhythm, marching slowly in front of the regiment. The officers stepped four paces in front, Major Haynes and the lieutenant colonel in advance of the rest. After listening to the commander’s remarks and orders, the officers returned to their posts. As the drummers beat a quickstep march, the regiment broke up into companies, each company tramping back to its quarters. No matter how tired Flanna had been going into the dress parade, the sight of Alden’s resolute face always refreshed her spirit.

  Supper call came shortly afterward, followed not long after dark by tattoo, a ritual which brought another roll call and an ordering of the men to their quarters. The final bugle call of the day was taps, at which all lanterns were extinguished and all noises ceased.

  And each night, as the mournful bugle lifted its silvery notes to the silent sky, Flanna closed her eyes and held tightly to the haversack under her cheek. Each day was one fewer she would have to live away from her loved ones. Please, God, let it be over soon.

  On Saturday morning, August 31, Flanna and her comrades rose with the bugle and polished their uniforms. Last night she and the others had carefully packed their knapsacks with whatever goods they would need for the long journey ahead.

  The Twenty-fifth Massachusetts was moving south.

  But first they had to endure the army’s love of ritual, and Flanna shivered through fleeting nausea as she checked and rechecked her uniform. She had borne a multitude of inconveniences and trials for this day, but tonight she would lay her head someplace outside Boston. She had begun the long trek home.

  “Company M, fall in!” Sergeant Marvin called. Charity helped Flanna adjust the ponderous weight riding her shoulders. Her woolen blanket was draped across her right shoulder, with its ends tied at hip level on the opposite side. Her journal was wrapped inside the blanket, an extra weight, but a necessary one. Her rifle rode her right shoulder, and from her belt dangled her bayonet, cartridge box, cap box, tin plate, cup, and haversack.

  Charity stepped back to eye Flanna’s efforts, then shook her head. “Land’s sakes, Mr. Franklin,” she said, a smile in her eyes as she lifted her gaze to meet Flanna’s. “You has gone and made a soldier!”

  Flanna rolled her eyes, then stepped toward the tent doorway, clanking like a peddler as she walked. “Remember, this is only temporary,” she called over her shoulder, “and you’re here to help me! So stay close, and don’t be left behind!”

  Charity could not march in the dress parade, so she hung back with the other camp followers—a few officers’ wives, a corps of brazen prostitutes, and the regimental surgeon and his assistant. Flanna followed her messmates, taking her place in a long line that made up the hundred man Company M, part of the proud Twenty-fifth Massachusetts.

  As the band played a spirited song, they marched to an open field on the Common. Flanna recalled that last summer this field had been bright with grass, but the daily drilling of nearly one thousand men had worn it to nothing but dust and dirt. A special platform rose from the worn center of the field, and an imposing array of colorful ladies and stern men sat atop it, their eyes trained on the troops beyond.

  The sun glared hot overhead, and Flanna felt a trickle of perspiration run from her underarm down to her rib. The uniform she wore had obviously been designed for winter wear; the dark blue dress coat was as hot as blazes. She envied Charity, who was lounging in the shade with the other servants. She also envied the young women on the platform, who wore lovely dresses of summer cotton, their arms and necks exposed to the light breeze that cooled the hot, dusty field.

  Flanna narrowed her gaze. Why, one of those young women was Nell Scott, Mrs. Davis’s niece from Roxbury! Nell wore a stunning blue silk dress, cut off the shoulder and most daring for daytime. A white silk ribbon stretched from Nell’s dainty waist to her right shoulder, a gorgeous sash to honor the brave men setting off to war. She looked as bright and beautiful as a butterfly, while Flanna felt heavy, dirty, and sweaty. And though she and her fellows had brushed and polished their uniforms and rifles for inspection, there had been no opportunity to bathe. Flanna suspected that sweet Nell would find the lot of them repulsively odorous.

  Nell shifted her parasol to shade her fair skin from the sun, and Flanna trembled with a thrill of recognition when she saw the lady standing behind it. Mrs. Haynes stood there in a full-skirted gray silk, a color only two shades away from mourning black. The woman appeared pleasant and content, but the marks of grief were clear, etched in the lines beside her mouth and eyes, thrown into shadow by the slanting sun.

  What was she feeling at this moment? She had always been an ardent abolitionist, but did she support the cause as ardently since it had demanded the service of her sons?

  The last company filed into place in the hollow square around the platform. The band stopped playing, and the air seemed to vibrate in the stillness as a clergyman stepped forward and lifted his hands for prayer.

  After a lengthy benediction, the m
ayor of Boston rose to address the troops. While he droned on with compliments for the officers and pleas for God’s blessing upon this endeavor, Flanna found herself watching the women on the platform. Nell occasionally brought a lovely lace-trimmed handkerchief to the corner of her eye—but just one eye, Flanna noticed, and only when the speaker paused and some disciplined soldier might be tempted to look over the rest of the platform. Mrs. Haynes sat motionless, her hands in her lap, her eyes trained upon the wooden platform. And yet, Flanna knew, both Roger and Alden were somewhere in this crowd. Had either of them managed to embrace their mother in a quick farewell?

  After the mayor’s speech, Mrs. Haynes stepped forward, followed by Nell Scott and two young ladies Flanna did not recognize. As the three young women unfurled a resplendent silk flag in blue and white, Mrs. Haynes pressed her hands to her breast and addressed the men of the regiment.

  “When you follow this standard in your line of march or on the field of battle,” she said, her narrow face twisting in a fragile smile, “and you see it waving in lines of beauty and gleams of brightness, remember the trust we have placed in your hands. We will follow you in our hearts with our hopes and our prayers. You are to go forth to the conflict to strike for our noble Constitution, for freedom of speech, for freedom of thought, for God and the right. From her mountain nest, the eagle of American liberty has at intervals given us faint warnings of danger. Now she swoops down on spreading pinions with unmistakable notes of alarm; her cries have reached the ears of freemen, and brave men rush to arms. She has perched on this banner which we now give to your keeping. Let your trust be in the God of battles to defend it.”

  The men remained at attention, but a handful of observers applauded from the bleachers. Mrs. Haynes wiped her eyes, then clasped her hands again, her eyes settling on one specific form in the line of men. Without looking, Flanna knew that the lady had found one of her sons.