A Soldier's Secret
Page 1
RANK THOMPSON isn’t your ordinary Union Army soldier. He’s also a nurse, tending to wounded soldiers on the battlefield … a spy, crossing Rebel lines and risking his life to find out what the enemy has planned … a mail carrier, delivering letters, foodstuffs, and news from home to his fellow soldiers. But Frank has a secret that could cost him his place in his beloved army. And maybe even his life.
Frank Thompson is actually Sarah Emma Edmonds.
This riveting novel from bestselling author Marissa Moss is based on the true story of Sarah Emma Edmonds, a teenager who masqueraded as a man during the Civil War.
Sarah’s gripping voice vividly reveals her incredible journey of self-discovery and brings to life the truths and horrors of the Civil War. As Frank Thompson, Sarah must grapple with living a lie—while having to deal with ordinary day-to-day life situations in a very non-ordinary way.
Historical fiction at its most compelling, A Soldier’s Secret includes actual photographs taken during the Civil War, now housed in the Library of Congress and National Archives, as well as a select Civil War timeline and biographies of Union officers.
The photographs in this book are from the collections of the Library of Congress except for the images on this page and this page, which are from the National Archives. They all were taken during the Civil War (1861-1865) by a number of different photographers. The photo-illustration on the title page is by Shane Rebenschied and was taken specifically for this book. Copyright © 2012 Shane Rebenschied.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Moss, Marissa.
A soldier’s secret: the incredible true story of Sarah Edmonds, a Civil War hero / by Marissa Moss.
p. cm.
Summary: Nineteen-year-old Sarah masquerades as a man during the Civil War, serving as a nurse on the battlefield and a spy for the Union Army, escaping from the Confederates, and falling in love with one of her fellow soldiers. Based on the life of Sarah Emma Edmonds.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-1-4197-0427-7 (alk. paper)
1. Edmonds, S. Emma E. (Sarah Emma Evelyn), 1841–1898—Juvenile fiction. 2. United States—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Women—Juvenile fiction. [1. Edmonds, S. Emma E. (Sarah Emma Evelyn), 1841–1898—Fiction. 2. United States—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Women—Fiction. 3. Impersonation—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M8535So 2012.
[Fic]—dc23
2012008319
Text copyright © 2012 Marissa Moss
Book design by Sara Corbett
Published in 2012 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
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CONTENTS
1 THE WAR BEGINS
2 YOU’RE IN THE ARMY NOW
3 BATTLEFIELD JITTERS
4 THE BATTLE OF BULL RUN
5 BACK IN WASHINGTON
6 FRIENDSHIP
7 DESERTION
8 TOWARD RICHMOND
9 THE FIRST SHOT
10 A NEW MISSION
11 THE BATTLE OF WILLIAMSBURG
12 ANOTHER DISGUISE
13 THE BATTLE OF FAIR OAKS
14 CHASING TRAINS
15 SEVEN DAYS’ BATTLE
16 FINDING OLD FRIENDS
17 THE LETTER
18 THE SECOND BATTLE OF BULL RUN
19 ON THE ROADS OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA
20 THE BATTLE OF FREDERICKSBURG
21 PAULINE OF THE POTOMAC
22 A NEW RECRUIT
23 SPYING AGAIN
24 A SOLDIER’S JOB
25 ANOTHER DISGUISE
26 SPYING ON SPIES
27 FAREWELLS
28 WEARING A DRESS
EPILOGUE: A SOLDIER’S REUNION
THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY
UNION ARMY OFFICER BIOGRAPHIES
A BRIEF CIVIL WAR TIMELINE
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
UST A MINUTE there.” The recruiter stops me as I lean over to dip the pen in ink. “You can’t enlist.”
I freeze. Can he tell? I’m wearing a shirt, vest, and trousers as usual, my curly hair cut short except for a lock that insists on falling over my forehead. I brush it away nervously and meet the man’s eyes. I’ve been passing for nearly three years now, but every new encounter still brings with it the same fear. I take nothing for granted. The key thing, I remind myself, is not to reveal anything, to act as normal as possible.
“I beg your pardon,” I say as if I haven’t heard him clearly. I keep my voice calm and low, pushing down the panic that’s bubbling up inside me.
“I know you love your country,” the man says kindly, “but you need to grow up a bit before you join the army.” He looks at my peachy cheeks, free of any sign of a whisker. “We aren’t taking sixteen-year-olds.”
“But …” I start to protest, relieved and frustrated at once.
“By the time you’re old enough, son, this war will be over. Now go on home.” The recruiter takes the pen and passes it to the unshaven farmer behind me. Sure, he has plenty of stubble, whiskers to spare.
My ears burn red with shame. I’m nineteen, plenty old enough, but with my soft skin and large brown eyes, I look more boy than man. There’s no way for me to prove my age, no way to show my mettle. I want to argue—even if I were sixteen, I should be able to enlist. After all, three years ago, when I really was that age, I got my first real job, the kind that pays every week, the kind that earns good money.
I’d been doing odd jobs, chopping kindling, harvesting hay, nothing regular, going from town to town, when I ended up in Hartford, Connecticut. I admired the handsome main square with whitewashed buildings and maple trees all around it, all ordered and comfortable-looking. I walked around the courthouse, the school, the dry-goods store, wondering what kind of job I could find, when a sign in a window caught my eye. The neatly lettered placard advertised for a traveling book salesman. That sounded like mighty fine work to me—getting to read all the books I wanted, roaming around to sell them, never staying in any one place for long. What could be better? I didn’t wait but strode right in and introduced myself to the stout, jowly man with thick pork-chop sideburns behind the counter.
“I’m Frank Thompson,” I said, extending my hand, “the salesman you need.” I looked him in the eye, man to man, the way I’d taught myself.
The pork-chop man took my hand, chuckling. “Well,” he drawled, “you sure have the confidence of a salesman.” And that was how I met my new boss, Mr. A. M. Hurlburt, of W. S. Williams & Co., Booksellers. He hired me on the spot, asking me to supper that night with his family to seal the deal.
I was surprised how comfortable I felt sitting at that table, surrounded by Mr. and Mrs. Hurlburt and their six children. The youngest was a small babe, the oldest a freckle-faced twelve-year-old. They shared jokes and stories, asked my opinion of everything from politics to player pianos. I’d never been treated that way—like a promising young man, someone with energy and wit whose company they enjoyed. I didn’t know what to talk about, so I found myself describing the personalities of horses and cows.
I knew animals much better than people then. At first, I felt foolish, but the five boys, ages four, six, eight, ten, and twelve—they must have scheduled their births to have them so neatly arranged—laughed and begged for more.
“That’s horses, but how about mules?” asked the eight-year-old. “What kind of character do they have?”
I glanced at Mr. Hurlburt. Had he had enough of this foolishness? He smiled at me and nodded.
“Go on, now, Frank, don’t keep the boys waiting.”
I dabbed at my mouth with my napkin. Maybe I was good at this, telling stories. At least to young folk. “Well, then,” I began, “there’s the flirtatious mule, the one with small feet, a nicely trimmed tail, and perked-up ears. You know the kind—he tosses his head, skips, and prances, thinks himself a pony, he does. He would practically stand on his head if you flattered him enough.”
Sam, the towheaded twelve-year-old, giggled, “I know that mule—that’s Mr. Harper’s!”
“Then there’s the hysterical mule.” I was warming up, saying things off the top of my head, giddy at being listened to. “That one is melodramatic, bucking and rearing, kicking out viciously until the harness is taken off, then shaking his head smugly since he’s gotten his way. This mule is best avoided if you don’t want a big bite taken out of your arm.”
“Oho!” said Peter, the ten-year-old. “We know that kind, too. The preacher has a mule just like that!”
“Finally, there’s the woe-is-me mule.” I paused to swallow a mouthful of potato. “He’s the thinnest, smallest, weakest creature you’ve ever seen. His whole appearance, from his drooping ears to his bedraggled tail, is a picture of meek misery. He wants you to feel guilty for putting even the weight of a pat of butter on his swaying back.”
“That’s the mule Pa’s going to give you to take on the road, selling books!” Sam guffawed. “That’s Joe-Joe, isn’t it, Pa?”
Mr. Hurlburt cleared his throat. “I have no intention of foisting poor Joe-Joe on Frank. He needs a horse for this job, not a mule. If you tell stories like these to your customers, I’m sure you’ll make a lot of sales. Just make sure you’re describing the books, not animals.”
I blushed, looking down at my plate. “Of course, sir, I’ll do my best.”
And I did. Having grown up with only the Bible to read, I wolfed down the stock of books Mr. Hurlburt sold until I could describe each story so enthusiastically to my customers, I rarely missed a sale. In fact, I don’t mind boasting that I was the best salesman the company had had in its thirty years in business, and I wore the fine suits and hats to prove it. Now I could even afford to drive my own horse and buggy—which made me a dashing figure to the young ladies. I swear the way to a girl’s heart is through a fellow’s purse. I could see how my clothes and buggy impressed them. What did they care if I couldn’t grow a thick mustache or prickly beard?
I loved my job, traveling from Connecticut to Ohio, from Nova Scotia to New York, enjoying the changing landscapes, the new faces, so different from my life before, when I was pretty much stuck on the farm with an annual outing to the river for laundry day. My childhood had been closed in, confined, with animals for my best friends. Now I met lots of folk, and whenever I was back in Hartford, I had supper with the Hurlburts. I was part of a bigger world.
I admit I was nervous at the first house I called on, worried that the woman who opened the door would see through my disguise. But she didn’t. Instead, the farmer’s wife thanked me for calling on her. She said I was “a charming young man” and bought a subscription to an adventure serial. Just like that. Each door I knocked on, it was the same thing. No one blinked an eye. I presented myself as Frank Thompson, bookseller, and that’s how folk saw me. And the more I read, the more I learned from the books I carried, the better I did at selling. I loved the frontier-pioneer stories best, and often I’d end my sales call with the whole family circled around me, drinking in my descriptions of sagebrush deserts with towering orange mesas or amazing but true histories of settlers clashing with Indians. The better I told the story, the more books I’d sell. It got so I could tell how much folk would order by how hard they listened.
I’d read more books and traveled more widely in the last three years than the previous sixteen, ending up in Flint, Michigan, when my boss offered me a new territory. The West! That was where the best stories happened—I wanted to travel all the way to Texas! I thought I’d get there selling books. Then something happened that changed my mind. And my life.
It’s the spring of 1861, and President Abraham Lincoln has called for 75,000 volunteers to fight in the new Union army and return the seceding Southern states to the Union. Large posters paper the walls of towns calling on us to prove our PATRIOTISM AND LOVE OF COUNTRY, and DEFEND OUR NOBLE UNION. When I see those words, I don’t hesitate. I join the long line of men snaking around the Flint courthouse, caught up in the shared frenzy of patriotism. I jostle elbows with farmers, mill workers, and clerks, some young, some not, all eager to give back to our country. Women and children bustle along the line, encouraging us. One old missus hands out fresh-baked biscuits, “to fuel us for the fight ahead,” she says. Another passes out handkerchiefs she’s made from a bedsheet, eager to contribute to the cause. I’ve never seen anything like it, this coming together of people into a charged-up community, all part of something big and important, a moment in history. I don’t know how long the war between the states will last, but I want to help for however long it takes. How many times does a person get the opportunity to be part of history? For most, the chance never comes. I’m not going to miss mine.
When the recruiter sends me away that day, it’s the first time I don’t measure up as a man—just when it matters most. I would trade all the church socials with young ladies, all the box picnics with giggling girls, for that stranger’s respect. I’m used to being taken at my word, and to be labeled a wet-behind-the-ears boy is plain insulting. Worse, it’s keeping me from playing the role I’m meant to have. I had a giddy taste of doing something that really matters during that hour in line when the townsfolk cheered us on. And now I’m rejected, unworthy of the biscuit I’ve eaten, undeserving of the handkerchief tucked in my pocket.
When the first group of men leaves for Fort Wayne, Indiana, for the basic training that will turn farmers into soldiers, I join the crowd of well-wishers seeing them off. I cheer with everyone else, but watching the women wave their handkerchiefs in farewell, I’m disgusted with myself. I don’t want to be like them, stuck at home, while the men take the risks and fight the battles. I want to be one of those marching away, not one of those sniffling a teary good-bye.
A month later, another chance comes. The first recruits signed up for a three-month commitment, but they’ve barely started basic training when the federal government realizes it needs more men, ones who can freely give at least three years of their time. The patriotic posters go up again, this time offering $600 for the first two years of service. That’s more money than most folk make, a tradesman’s salary, so I expect an even bigger crowd this time. Maybe among so many I won’t stand out as much. I haven’t miraculously grown whiskers, but I line up once again outside the courthouse anyway.
This time the recruiter barely glances up. “Another boy,” he mutters, shaking his head. He’s probably already signed up a dozen gangly teenagers—the youngest I saw in line can’t have been more than fourteen. All he cares about is whether I can read and write. The way he stares at my soft hands, the recruiter can see I’m educated. No farm boy has palms free from calluses, no mill worker has fingernails so clean.
“Yessir.” I nod. “I can read and write. And I’m not afraid of blood. I want to work as a nurse.”
“You’ll see plenty of blood, all right,” the recruiter says, sighing. “We need field nurses. It’s not a popular job. Not many fellers have the stomach for it.” He looks like he’s wondering if I will, with my soft, coddled skin. Every country boy has seen his share of slaughtered cows and pigs, but he t
akes me for a prissy city boy who doesn’t know what blood and guts are. “You’ll find out soon enough if you can take it,” the recruiter says as he hands me the pen.
I sign my name with a flourish, grinning. I’ve done it—I’m Private Frank Thompson in Company F, Second Michigan Volunteer Infantry of the Army of the Potomac.
The recruiter shakes my hand, wincing at my firm grip. “Welcome to the army, son,” he says. “You just passed the physical.”
CAN’T STOP GRINNING as I join the line to the supply tent set up behind the courthouse. I collect a uniform, a blanket, boots, a canteen, a rifle, and a Bible. Opening the pages, I read the inscription: “My men, put your trust in the Lord, and keep your powder dry.” I like that kind of advice, spiritual and practical at once, but I don’t need it to feel inspired. The air crackles with excitement. Men laugh and joke about how we’ll send the Southern Rebels home before supper. We swap stories and wild rumors, pausing only long enough to take the oath of service. It’s my first day in the Army of the Potomac, and I feel completely at home. Much as I loved being a traveling salesman, it’s been a lonely life. I like breaking bread with hundreds of people, sharing a common purpose, having constant company.
Then I see the tent I’ve been assigned to, and next to it my tentmate. I have to share a tent, sleep with someone else in the same tight space? Where am I going to change my clothes? How can I hide what has to be hidden? And why didn’t I think of all this before I enlisted? I was swept up in the excitement, worried only about getting past the recruiter, not about what came next. Now, meeting my tent-mate, I panic. I’m sure he can see right through me and is laughing at my stupidity.
Still, I make an effort to seem calm, normal, natural. “Frank Thompson,” I squeak, introducing myself. “Seems like we’re assigned this here tent.”
The gangly blond engulfs my hand with his enormous paw and shakes it. “Damon Stewart. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other real well, eating, sleeping, and drilling together. And sending those Rebs home with their tails between their legs!”