by Kelli Estes
Dizziness swept over her. With her eyes squeezed tightly shut, she drew in a deep breath and tried to slow her racing heart.
Leaves crumpled under someone’s nearby footfall. Her eyes flew open.
Moving as slowly as she could to keep from making any noise, she turned to her right to peer around the tree trunk in the direction of the sound. What she saw made her gasp.
Not even ten feet away, a man dressed in a brownish-gray uniform crept through the woods, his musket in his hands, ready to fire, and his face turned toward the Union camp. She could see his face clearly. Thankfully, he wasn’t looking her way and did not seem to know she was there.
The Confederate Rebel was thin and tall. His clothes hung from his frame in a manner that led Emily to think he’d recently lost weight. The Reb’s face was tanned, and it had creases at the corners of the eyes and around the mouth in a way that might have been caused from a lifetime of working in the sun or, possibly, from long, hard months fighting this war. And he looked dirty. Hanging from his lanky body were a canteen, a knapsack, and a bedroll, all streaked with grime.
As Emily watched, the Reb moved stealthily through the woods past her until he disappeared down the mountain. For several long moments more, Emily did not dare move.
She must have sat there for a good twenty minutes, and it was only when she heard the bugle calling them to Tattoo, the final roll call of the day, that she was finally able to snap out of the paralysis her fear had instilled.
She ran back to camp as fast as she could, feeling certain that at any moment she would feel the burn of a bullet ripping through her spine. Imagined heat from the Reb’s breath on the back of her neck spurred her feet faster until she finally burst out of the woods into camp. Willie gave her a funny look, and Emily realized how she must appear. Scared and secretive.
No matter what, she couldn’t bring attention to herself or do anything that would encourage questions of any kind. Spreading her lips into a smile, Emily turned toward the parade ground and forced her feet to slow to a normal pace. As she did, she called back to her brother and Willie, “You coming? You don’t want to be late!”
Chapter Ten
Present day: Woodinville, Washington
After Jenna went home and Kaia and Grams left to run errands, Larkin could not stop thinking about Jenna’s suggestion that she find Sarah’s brother and offer him some of Sarah’s photos and other belongings. Larkin would have brushed off the suggestion if it wasn’t for the wistfulness she’d always heard in Sarah’s voice when she talked about Zach. She’d loved him, idolized him, and then felt betrayed by him when he’d left with their dad and made no effort to see her again.
Maybe Zach regretted that, and maybe he would like something tangible to remember his sister by.
Larkin settled onto her bed with Bowie and her laptop. She first tried Instagram and found a couple of people who might be Zach Faber, though she couldn’t be sure. Switching to Facebook, she searched his name and, seeing one man who looked a lot like Sarah, clicked on his About page.
This Zach Faber lived in Walnut Creek, California, and worked for a tech company. He had gone to high school in Sacramento, where Sarah was from, and college at Stanford. Though there wasn’t much else that could tell her he was the right Zach Faber, her instincts and the resemblance made her click on Messenger. She left a short message: Did you have a sister named Sarah? Is this you in the photo? She then took a picture with her cell phone of the photo of the two kids and attached it to the message. Before she could second-guess herself, she hit Send.
She felt nervous after sending the message. Was she doing the right thing in reaching out to him? Would Sarah be happy that she did, or angry?
When no immediate response came, Larkin decided to get her mind on something else. The diary waited on her nightstand next to Sarah. Perfect.
She’d been afraid of it until she’d read it again last night to her cousins and Grams, and now she was curious about what happened to Emily.
October 12, 1861: I am proud to say that I am now a private in the 9th Indiana Infantry, same as David was and same as Ben, who is with me. I was nervous, especially during the medical examination, but the physician only asked us to jump up and down and show our teeth. Maybe it helped that our new officers knew Pa and David. I have my Army-issued uniform and gear. There is a waterproof blanket made of cotton duck and coated on one side with vulcanized India rubber that promises to be useful indeed.
Two days ago, while traveling here to western Virginia, I turned nineteen years old. I’m a new age and starting a new and exciting life. The only thing that would make this better would be to have Pa and David here with us. I am listening more than I am talking, and I’m learning fast. Ben is helping. His coughs and elbow jabs have saved me more than once!
October 13, 1861: Boy, did I get a fright this evening! While in the woods to find some privacy for personal business, I spied a Johnny Reb. I thought that was the end of me for sure, but he did not detect me and I did not raise an alarm. I should have. I was greatly relieved to make it back to camp. It’s curious. Before today, I hadn’t thought that I’d have to shoot at actual people with wives, daughters, and sisters. Now I can’t forget.
Larkin could relate to the moment of clarity when the enemy stopped being a faceless entity and materialized as a flesh-and-blood human with people who loved him. It was tempting to think about family at home in those instances and lose sight of the mission. That’s why the ability to compartmentalize was essential in a soldier. It was too dangerous not to do so, both to herself and to her fellow soldiers.
The diary was making her feel agitated again, so she returned it to the nightstand next to Sarah and carried her laptop downstairs to make a pot of coffee. Kaia’s talk last night about the hundreds of women who had disguised themselves to fight in the Civil War had intrigued her, and Larkin decided to search online to see what else she could learn about them. Maybe she could even find mention of Emily Wilson somewhere.
Her search of Emily’s name came up with an actress, a professor, a musician, and a vlogger, but nothing on the Civil War–era Emily. She then searched the name Jesse Wilson and got much of the same.
She was about ready to give up on Emily/Jesse when Grams breezed in carrying a potted rosemary bush adorned with a red bow. “It’s a madhouse out there. You were smart to stay home today. What are you up to?”
Larkin told her what she was doing and the dead end she’d already come to.
Grams gave Bowie a new chew toy. “You can try using my genealogy website account if you want. I have the full membership so you can search old newspapers and military records and all that.” She set the plant on the table. “Here, let me log in for you.”
Soon Larkin was diving into records on the genealogy website and was able to identify the correct Emily Wilson, thanks to an aunt of Sarah’s who had done their family tree and allowed public access to it.
The only results for a Jesse Wilson came up with men who were clearly not the same person as Emily’s alter ego.
Grams slid a plate holding a turkey sandwich and carrot sticks onto the table at her elbow. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”
Distracted, Larkin thanked her but turned right back to the computer without touching the food.
Clicking through scans of old newspapers, Larkin searched both names and realized this was a more difficult task than she’d realized when every person ever mentioned in a newspaper with the same name came up as a result. She started wading through, zooming in to read the text carefully and not finding anything about the woman she was looking for.
“I’ll never find her.” Larkin sighed, looking up from her computer to find both Kaia and Grams puttering around in the kitchen.
“Oh, Kaia.” Larkin had to blink and shake her head to switch her mind from the past to the present. “When did you get home?”
Kaia smi
led. “Grams says you’re researching Emily Wilson. What did you find?” She sat across the table from Larkin and took a bite of her own sandwich.
Larkin rubbed her aching eyes. “Not a lot. Where else should I look?”
Kaia considered the question as she chewed and swallowed. “I’d certainly want to see what the National Archives has on her. Since you have her name and regiment, you should be able to find her alias on Union Army rosters. You can also look for her in Confederate records in case she was ever taken prisoner, but chances of finding anything there are slim. When it became clear the Confederacy would lose, most of their records were destroyed.”
“Thanks. I am so surprised that there are records of women serving, yet history teaches that women during the Civil War did nothing more than keep the home fires burning.” Larkin took a bite of her sandwich and mulled it over. “You know, it makes me think that, although the U.S. government only recently changed regulations to allow women to fight in battle, there were probably women like Emily Wilson who did it all along. I mean, I personally know several women who were in firefights, myself included, in the Gulf War, Iraq, and Afghanistan long before we were officially allowed to be there.”
Grams, busy emptying the dishwasher, finished drying a mug and placed it in the cupboard. “I think you’ll find that women have been in all wars the United States has fought, and many of them found themselves in dangerous battle zones. They didn’t make it into the history books, or their stories were changed to make their presence somehow shameful.”
Larkin felt a familiar anger stir inside. She, and every woman she’d ever known in the military, had had to work twice as hard as a man only to earn half the credit. Or no credit at all. “People still make women’s contributions out to be frivolous or shameful. It’s bullshit.”
Grams sent her a stern look. “I agree that it’s aggravating, but you don’t need to use that kind of language.”
Larkin apologized, though in her head she was still cursing. “I need to find out more about all of these women. People need to know that we’ve always fought and that we matter. We need to be recognized for our contributions, the same as men.”
“You should write a blog with their stories!” Kaia sat up, excited by the idea. “I’ll help you set it up.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t do that.” Larkin shook her head. “I’m not a writer.”
“You don’t have to be a perfect writer. Just tell these women’s stories. People will be too interested to be judging your grammar.”
Larkin thought about it. She had nothing better to do with her time, and she was already bursting to tell what she’d learned about Emily and Sarah Emma Edmonds to anyone who would listen to her. “Sure, why not?” She looked back at her computer. “I also want to find out more on some of these other women that you say served as men.” She typed Civil War women soldiers into a search engine and dove back down the rabbit hole.
* * *
By that evening, Kaia had Larkin set up with a blog that was ready for her first entry, and Larkin had found several women to write about by searching the internet. She jotted notes on who to include.
The first was Sarah Emma Edmonds, whom Larkin found had published a memoir after the war about her experiences. Larkin found the book, Nurse and Spy in the Union Army, online and ordered it.
The second was Charlie Hopper, whom she stumbled across in a random article and whose story was corroborated on a couple different websites. Apparently, Charlie Hopper’s real name was Charlotte Hope. After her fiancé was killed in a raid, Charlie Hopper joined the Confederate Army for the sole purpose of avenging her fiancé’s death. She vowed to kill one Yankee soldier for each year of his life, for a total of twenty-one. Sadly, she herself was killed in a raid. Larkin scribbled down everything she could find on the woman.
Thinking of what Grams said about women always serving their country, Larkin widened her search and started finding evidence of women who fought in battles from colonial times and the Revolutionary War through all the wars to present day. Some of them disguised themselves as men, but some shouldered muskets and marched into battle wearing the skirts they had always worn. Some were enlisted in the military as nurses, and contrary to popular belief, they were not always safe behind the front lines but intentionally placed themselves smack-dab in the most dangerous areas so they could tend to the wounded, often taking fire and sustaining injury themselves.
The more she researched, the more Larkin’s pride grew. These women were badass. Women had always been badass, and it was time the world acknowledged that.
By the time she went to bed late that night, Larkin already had Charlie Hopper’s story posted on her new blog, with several more stories ready to go in the coming days.
For the first time in a long time, Larkin went to sleep feeling like maybe she wasn’t a worthless waste of space. She had been one of these women. It broke her heart that she wasn’t allowed to be a warrior any longer, but she had been one. And right up until that day in Kandahar, she had been a damn good one. As Sarah had been.
Thinking of Sarah, Larkin reached again for her laptop and pulled up her new blog. In the “About Me” section, she rewrote the information, dedicating the blog To Captain Sarah Faber, the best friend any woman (or man) could want beside her in a firefight.
Chapter Eleven
Present day: Woodinville, Washington
Thanks to Kaia mentioning Larkin’s blog to her own readers, Larkin quickly got a following. People seemed to like the stories that she wrote of courageous and patriotic women. Some posts were even going viral on social media, including one about Prudence Wright’s guard, an all-female home guard company in colonial Massachusetts. Personally, she loved Mad Ann Bailey’s story. Ann, who was born in 1742, was paid by the Army to be an Indian scout and courier, which Larkin decided was equivalent to today’s special operations.
She posted four stories that first week and was shocked when readers started leaving comments and even sending her emails. She ignored the trolls in favor of the majority who thanked her for the stories or shared their own connections to the stories—an ancestor who was a member of the guard, an elementary-school field trip where they learned about these women, that kind of thing. Some suggested new stories for her to research and write about. At Kaia’s urging, Larking started a spreadsheet of all the women to keep them organized.
One email broke her heart. It was from a mother whose daughter had been killed in Iraq. She was a medic with the Navy, riding in the second vehicle in a convoy from Bagram to Fallujah. When the lead vehicle hit an IED—improvised explosive device—she was one of the first to reach the injured marines. She pulled two out of the burning vehicle and was treating the third when she was hit multiple times by a sniper hiding in a nearby house. She saved three men but lost her own life on the medevac ride to the hospital.
Larkin burned with the need to ensure this woman was remembered. She shared her story on the blog and included a photo that the mother provided. That night, she had nightmares about IEDs and exploding trucks and voices calling out for help, but she wasn’t going to allow that to stop her from writing the blog.
Soon, more parents, sisters, brothers, friends, and fellow service members were sending her stories of their lost loved ones. Each story helped to paint a bigger picture of all the women who bravely fought and died for their country. Each story was one more brick in the wall Larkin was building to tell the world that women are fighting, making a difference, and making the ultimate sacrifice, and they’ve been doing it all along.
Behind every story was a growing guilt that she wasn’t writing the story most important to her—Sarah’s story. But she couldn’t. Sarah’s story was tied so closely to her own that to talk about Sarah would mean talking about herself, and she wasn’t ready to open up like that. She might never be.
Not all the stories she received were about women who were killed. Many w
ere about women still serving. Stories about mothers who didn’t see their young children for an entire year except through online connections, yet they reported to work every day because they had a job to do, and they did the job well. Daughters who carried on family military tradition by enlisting in the same battalion where their fathers or grandfathers had once served. Sisters who inspired younger brothers to shoot for goals higher than they’d previously imagined by never giving up despite the numerous obstacles put in their paths.
One Vietnam veteran wrote to Larkin asking if she would share her story. She had been an officer in the Women’s Army Corps, or WAC, and had been tasked, along with a male noncommissioned officer, with helping the South Vietnamese train their own women’s army corp. She did this despite the fact that the WAC did not provide her with adequate training, having eliminated vital programs such as weapons familiarization because, she was told, it was “a waste of time that failed to contribute to the image we want to project.” That image was of wholesome and pretty young women in modest skirts standing behind the brave strong men, supporting them as the men did the important work. So, despite resistance from her superiors and sexist criticism of all women in uniform from the country as a whole, she trained herself and then trained hundreds of Vietnamese women.
In between all of this, Larkin continued to read Emily’s diary. Some days she only managed a few entries before something Emily wrote sent her back to the internet to get more information. She was surprised at how easily Emily and her brother were able to enlist. They’d simply walked into camp and stated their intention. Their medical exam had been a joke. Larkin went online and discovered that the Wilson siblings’ experience was not uncommon, especially in the first year of the war. Even though today’s military was voluntary, people were turned away all the time for medical reasons, or for reasons such as having a visible tattoo on the neck or wrist. It seemed the requirements were much more relaxed during the Civil War, even before conscription started.