Plantation Nation (9781621352877)

by King, Mercedes

  She turned away, unable to bear the sight. She wanted to throw herself onto the bed and cry, but she already felt too ashamed. How could she get away? Should she simply leave the saloon and Washington and travel back to the plantation and hope her family would forgive her? But what was there to go back to? The beauty of her life had ended, bit by bit, first with the death of her father, and lastly with Basil's death and Sylvia being shipped away. Nothing awaited her there anymore. Nothing except a different kind of slavery.

  No, she decided. There would be no going back. Even if it meant never seeing her home again — even if it meant death — Emma would not go backward. She did not want to accept that there was nothing she could do, no valuable part she could play. She had created her own role in this war by taking charge of her life.

  Of the many things her father had taught her, keeping her word and sticking to a promise were attributes Thomas Cartwright held in high esteem. He often explained that a man had nothing if he had no honor, and if his name was soiled and his reputation dashed, then he had nothing of real value.

  "I'll do it for you, Pa," she whispered. "And for you, Basil. I'll do whatever it takes to make you both proud."

  ****

  In the morning, with the brass buttons gleaming on her chest, Emma fell in with a scattered swarm of newly sworn-in soldiers as they all made their way on foot to Fort Madison, but her optimism for the day switched to disgruntlement when she noticed apple-chomping Nash a few paces in front of her. She hoped Nash's presence was an administrative formality and that Nash worked back in the recruiting office. Watching him from a distance, Emma observed a malicious nature in Nash, much like she'd seen in Quinn as Nash flicked off the cap of another recruit and sent it flying into the roadway. Laughter and foul words sputtered from him, and Emma felt grateful to be hidden among a sea of blue Union jackets. Avoiding the likes of Nash, she decided, would be a wise strategy.

  At the gate of Fort Madison, the men's papers were checked as they slowly funneled in. The scent of male sweat, the spewing of tobacco juice, and a testosterone-rich environment were not new to her. Yankees were. Throughout her life, Emma had heard few positive accounts of Northerners. Yankees were obnoxious, rude, lacked reasoning skills, and had no morals. So far, Nash had personified that description.

  On the other hand, when Emma entered inside the stone walls of the fortress, she felt enthralled by the feeling of an alternate patriotism. Here, she didn't need to worry about hiding her ideals in a box under her bed. A sense of unity struck her. Surrounded by Yankees or not, Emma had never known such harmony or encountered so many who shared her passion to see slavery end.

  As the courtyard filled with men and the burble of conversations, Emma lost track of Nash. The crowd murmured while an officer climbed atop a wooden scaffold and called for attention.

  "Gentlemen, it is my privilege to welcome you to Fort Madison and to the Union army." Cheers went up. "I am Colonel Clayton Reed, and I am the commanding officer in charge of this here installation. Over a course of several weeks, you will be trained in the use of your weapon and artillery for the purposes of combat. At this time it is inappropriate to predict when the Rebels may strike again, but it is our job, gentlemen, to prepare ourselves for attack. The current Union strategy under consideration was devised by General-in-Chief Winfield Scott, and it involves an aggressive blockade of Southern ports to isolate the South and to cripple their trade. Once our army is bigger, we'll move to take control of vital Southern territories. I and my fellow officers expect this rebellion to be put to rest in a matter of months, if not weeks." More cheers gave way. "For now, make yourselves at home, gentlemen."

  Home was now a linen tent, and with it came a tent mate.

  "Nathan Graham's the name."

  Emma returned a firm handshake but didn't look Graham in the eyes for too long. They constructed their tent with ease, though Emma credited Graham with their success. Inside, barely provided enough room for two cots, their supplies, and small trunks for their personal belongings.

  Emma slipped an 1851 Navy Colt from her satchel while Graham put away his things. She ran her finger along the octagon barrel of the revolver and admired the walnut grips. Neither had a scratch or a blemish. Emma steadied herself. She'd taken it from Knox's personal collection, stolen it really, but it meant a lot, having a piece of home with her. Plus, Emma felt confident in the use of the weapon. She wondered if she would feel so sure and straight with the Union's musket in her hand.

  "Where you from?" Emma knew she would have to engage with Graham, and that, combined with their living arrangement, would be her greatest test. If Graham accepted her as-is, Emma hoped others would be as easily convinced. She prayed nothing in her voice or mannerisms would give her away.

  Graham hesitated before he answered. "Actually, I came from Illinois. Felt like getting as far from home as I could."

  "Why?"

  With auburn hair, a thickening mustache, and a tanned visage, Graham sat on his cot and rested his forearms on his legs. He had at least three inches on Emma and a frame that looked well-nourished.

  "My family didn't want me to come," Graham said. "Didn't want me getting involved with a war that didn't have much to do with them. They said my place was running the family business."

  Emma found it hard to believe. Was there a spot in the Union where slavery and states' rights weren't debated issues? Where men didn't bristle, one way or another, at the mention of Lincoln's name? Emma tried to imagine life churning by at such a casual pace but couldn't.

  "What sort of business?" she asked.

  "They run a tailoring shop outside of Chicago." Graham looked away and slightly shook his head. "Truth is my pa didn't think I could make it as a soldier. He thinks I don't have it in me. Said it would be better for me to stay put or learn a new skill since I'm not good with fabric and measuring. Guess I don't have an eye for it."

  Emma thought of Knox and his attempt to discourage Quinn from joining the Confederates, and she couldn't help wondering how Quinn was adjusting to army life.

  "How about your family?"

  "Oh, they run a plantation." Emma bit her lip, angry that she had let such a detail slip so carelessly.

  "Tobacco?"

  Emma held her breath for a moment, then gave a weak nod.

  "Tobacco." It was a mere statement, not an affirmation.

  To change the subject, Emma faked a yawn and said she was desperate for a quick nap. She fell back onto her cot and hoped further discussion was discouraged for the moment. She stared at the sloped ceiling of the tent briefly then shut her eyes. Already she felt claustrophobic, homesick for her room and bed, and fearful that she wouldn't be able to keep track of all the lies she was bound to tell. She would have to decide how much she was willing to trust Graham, and at the same time, Emma knew friendships and attachments in this place would only get her into trouble.

  ****

  Later that night, Colonel Reed informed the men that food supplies and a cook were en route. For the next day or so, however, they would be responsible for their own provisions, though present staples would be rationed as much as possible. Emma and her fellow soldiers gathered in small groups and built fires against the chilly Virginia night. Emma and Graham found a spot by the fire and marked their first night in Fort Madison with jerky and hardtack — a near-tasteless concoction that resembled a cracker. The lack of food was made tolerable by the wealth of conversation.

  Sitting on folding canvas stools and crowding the fire, men passed around a copy of the New York Tribune. A call for forty-thousand volunteers for a three-year enlistment dominated the headline. Editorials sang the Union's praises and provided a morale boost that appeared contagious in the men. Also mentioned was the Confederate States' decision to move their capital from Montgomery, Alabama, to Richmond, Virginia.

  "Them Johnny Rebs sure are full of themselves," said one man. "Thinking they can move up North since Virginia seceded."

  "They can't do that! W
hy, Richmond isn't all that far from here."

  "Just goes to show how stupid they are!"

  Guffaws erupted.

  "Lincoln won't need them volunteers. We'll show 'em!" The man stabbed his knife into the air.

  "Yeah. Let 'em move ol' Jeff Davis up here. It'll make him easier to kill."

  Emma realized she had begun to cower from their intensity. Could hatred for the South be this tangible? Could men be so eager to kill their countrymen? But on the other hand, wasn't that the sole purpose of this army, to subdue — even kill — those cantankerous Southerners? And no matter how she dressed, wasn't Emma a Southerner?

  New doubts crept into her head. Could she really kill someone? Indeed, Emma wanted slavery put to death, but did she have the gall, the anger, the fortitude to kill someone over a misinterpretation of right and wrong?

  "Well, well, if it ain't li'l tadpole."

  Emma recognized Nash's voice before she looked up from the campfire and saw him. That smug look of his awash in amber from the firelight. Emma's chest tightened. The last thing she wanted was to begin her conscription by making enemies among her new comrades.

  "Nash." Emma kept her voice level, indifferent.

  "Kind of surprised to see you made it here all on your own, Edmonds. I figure a li'l fella like you would probably get lost or stepped on, especially with no Sergeant Matthews to look out for you." Nash laughed and others joined in, seemingly to appease him.

  Emma tried to relax her shoulders and not appear rigid. She almost risked a glance at Graham to see if she could count on any support from her new tent mate, but Emma didn't chance it for fear of appearing needy and unable to stand up for herself.

  "I can hold my own." Emma wanted to sound good natured, not confrontational. "No need for you to worry about me."

  "Is that right? 'Cause I figure the mosquitoes might carry you off."

  "That's enough, Nash," said a man two seats down from Emma.

  "Yeah, says who?"

  The man, still chewing on jerky, blinked lazily in Nash's direction, uninterested in a squabble or Nash's barbaric showmanship.

  "Last I checked, you ain't no officer here, Reynolds. And just look at him." Nash pointed to Emma. "Tell me he ain't funny looking with that hair o' his." Nash whipped off Emma's hat and rustled her hair. "Who cuts your hair, a blind barber with a chisel?" Nash enjoyed his own remark while the others looked away, perhaps grateful not to be Nash's target. Emma sprang from her seat and went for her hat, but Nash held it at bay. "And looky here."

  Nash picked up Emma and laid her across his shoulders. He hollered and danced around the fire. Other men stood and protested, but Nash hooted louder.

  "See, he don't hardly weigh more 'n a sack o' feed. I think I've eaten chicken legs bigger 'n him." He chuckled so hard he half set, half dropped Emma.

  Emma had kept from screaming, but she landed on her rear. The other men gave her looks of pity or had suppressed smiles on their faces. Anger and humiliation flared in Emma.

  "Now what do we have here?" Nash bent down and picked up a small picture. He held it close to the fire. "I guess tadpole's got himself a sweetie."

  Emma realized it was her picture of Sylvia — the only picture she had of her sister. Perhaps she had been foolish bringing it, but Emma knew in the days ahead — difficult days especially — she would miss her and long to see her more than ever. She had hoped the captured memory of her would be enough to soften the separation.

  "Give it to me, Nash. Right now."

  "Oh, you want it, tadpole?" Nash stretched out his arm and held the picture over the fire. "Come get it."

  Emma got to her feet and charged Nash. She landed her shoulder in Nash's stomach, knocking the wind out of him as they hit the ground. She rolled Nash onto his side and squared two punches into his kidney. Nash moaned and curled his body like an infant. Emma stood, then reached down and took her picture from Nash's hand. She blew off the dust and put it back into her pocket.

  Someday, she would have to thank Alexander for using that move on her a time or two.

  To her surprise, the men applauded. Some teased Nash, who slowly rose to his feet. Others shook Emma's hand and introduced themselves, including the jerky-chewing man.

  "Name's Ben Reynolds."

  "Good to know you, Ben. Thanks for uh…" Did one man typically thank another for trying to defend him, even though it had not gone well? Or was thanking him a sign of weakness? She swallowed and kept things simple. "Thanks."

  "Bout time somebody stood up to Eli Nash. He ain't nothin' but someone who likes to run his mouth."

  Emma nodded and didn't want to get carried away with how good she felt at the moment. Small victory that it was, Emma also knew that standing up to Nash could prove to be a mistake. For one thing, the scuffle had drawn attention to her. She didn't need the other men talking or curious about her. Plus, Emma had a gnawing feeling in her gut that Eli Nash would watch and wait for the perfect moment to ambush her and exact revenge.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Fort Madison

  Just outside Washington, D.C.

  June, 1861

  Over the next few weeks, looking out for Nash and exposing herself to Graham became the least of Emma's worries. Coarse wool from the Union jacket combined with the heat gave her a rash. Soreness defined her and most of the others at first, and Emma found no relief when sleeping on a sagging cot. The men became occupied with their training and adjusting to life without their families. They also fulfilled positions and tasks around the installment, such as picket duty. Emma realized no one was looking for a disguised female, and that no one expected to find one. Her tensions abated, but she remained cautious.

  She began her role as a nurse at the fort's hospital, where new horrors surfaced. Emma's six hour shifts trapped her in what became the most dismal area inside the fort. In the absence of combat, the staff expected beds would remain empty, but an abundance of cots soon became required. Camp fever attacked. Fever, cough, and diarrhea overtook men at an alarming rate, forcing them into the hospital and leading them into the grave. The wrath of camp fever proved more formidable than anything the Confederates could hope to launch. Dysentery also had its say. Supplies were sparse and soon dwindled, though no treatment provided a meaningful counter-attack. When the breeze picked up, no one could escape the stench that built and grew as a result of poor drainage. Even worse were the undying groans of hopeless men.

  Emma's primary duty became sitting with men who were on the brink of death and watching them fitfully fade into the afterlife. The ruthlessness of the disease's cycle was baffling. Nothing could have prepared her for watching scores of men die at her side. To her credit, emotions did not overtake her, though she had little respite from the daily misery. A distorted melody of moans, begging faces, and cries for God's mercy haunted her sleep.

  With mortality rates so high, Emma examined her personal religion. She had never prayed much back home. Bowing her head in church meant she could close her eyes and momentarily escape Reverend McGee's condescending sermons about an impossible-to-please Creator. She'd rarely even touched the Bible kept in her own home. But now, surrounded by affliction, Emma prayed frequently, both with the dying soldiers and in the quiet moments that followed. She shared a Bible with Albert Morgan, a young man with deep convictions who knew many Psalms and Proverbs by heart. Emma found Albert fascinating, yet intimidating, with his intricate knowledge of the Bible and various subjects.

  Complicating her acclimation into the role as a nurse was Dr. Robert Spear. Head of the hospital, he was dubbed 'Tyrant of the Tent' for his rants and outbursts with patients and staff alike.

  "Haven't you washed those linens yet, Edwards?" Dr. Spear pointed to a pile of laundry that reached Emma's waist. With gray-white hair and a trace of his British accent, Dr. Spear never made eye contact with the nurses or the stewards. A popular rumor among his assistants claimed that Dr. Spear spent more time grooming his hair — and satisfying his opiate infatuation — tha
n tending to his patients.

  "Yes, sir, they're clean," Emma said. "I'm folding them."

  "For what? We are not here to play house, Edwards. Lag on your own time, not mine. I want these sheets on beds within the hour."

  "Yes, Dr. Spear."

  "When you're through with that, I want you to administer the quinine. Be mindful that you don't spill a drop, and remember, one spoonful, and one spoonful only, to each patient, no matter how much they beg, pathetic worms," he grumbled under his breath. "And keep in mind, I will be checking to make sure you've followed orders. Do not repeat the act of yesterday." Praise for others was foreign to him, but in the presence of Colonel Reed or other high-ranking officers, the doctor became a pussycat, sick with Union fervor.

  The previous day, Emma had given patients extra doses of quinine. More medicine, she theorized, could produce a cure. She had gambled and lost. However, Dr. Spear's threats didn't ruffle her.

  "Yes, Dr. Spear." Emma mocked the doctor as he left the tent. She had given up reminding the good doctor her name was not Edwards, or Edwin, or whatever name he created on a regularly basis.

  Part of her blamed Dr. Spear for the men's agony. Speculation circulated that Dr. Spear hoarded supplies and cared more about protecting his own life than saving others'. Emma suspected some truth in the notion, considering the doctor's lengthy absences from the tent and the patients.

  By the time Emma reported for drill duty that afternoon, weariness threatened her performance. Graham, fresh from picket duty, joined her. In Emma's mind, they had formed a fragile friendship, one where Emma guarded her every word and action since they shared close quarters. During their first nights in the tent, Emma had slept only in snippets. She got used to Graham's mild snoring and soon convinced herself that Graham suspected nothing. Emma trained herself to rise before most of the men were awake, a difficult adjustment since the smell of breakfast cooking usually woke her on the plantation. Nerves drove her, though, as did her hatred of reveille. She could wash off and dress for duty alone, and she liked the feeling of preparedness it gave her for the day. Working in the hospital tent also afforded her screened areas for privacy when she needed it.