by Marissa Moss
“Please,” I whisper. “Can we still be friends? I shouldn’t have told you, I’m sorry. Let’s just go back to how we were before. I’m Frank Thompson, not Sarah.”
“I don’t know,” Jerome says gruffly. “I need time to think.”
I nod. I need time to think as well. Waves of emotions sweep through me—hurt, anger, and most of all fear. I’ve never been so confused, so unsure of myself. I’ve allowed myself to be vulnerable, opened myself up to someone, and what’s come of it? Cold betrayal. Trig has been my only true friend. Only a horse could accept someone as unnatural as me.
Jerome doesn’t love me. Now he doesn’t even want to be my friend. What if he decides to be my enemy? What if he tells somebody about my real identity? Would I go to prison? Should I sneak out, disappear as Frank Thompson, and take on a new name and a new story before I get caught? I want to serve in the army, to help fight for the Union, but now staying means taking the chance of being discovered. Why did I ever trust a man? I’m completely at Jerome’s mercy. He doesn’t need to beat me to ruin my life. All he has to do is speak. I’ve never felt so powerless.
E’VE ALL HEARD rumors of soldiers sneaking out of camp, hoping to walk home to their families, but desertion is punishable by death. As often as not, the runaways are caught, given a quick trial, then shot by a firing squad. I figure it will be easier for me to escape than for most since I can rely on the convincing disguise of a woman, something a man wouldn’t be able to pull off. That is, if I can make it out of camp. Crossing the pickets will be the hard part. After that, all I have to do is find a dress to trade for my uniform and I’ll be fine.
It’s a clear, crisp autumn night, the harvest moon bathing all of Washington in a silver glow, casting purple shadows on the ground. I wait until Damon’s breathing deepens, then slip out of the tent. I walk as quietly as possible but can’t help feeling terribly obvious in the bright moonlight. How could a picket not see me? I wish there were trees to hide among, but I have to pass a guard before getting to the woods. I thread my way, crouching low, through the rows of tents. Snores erupt from one tent so loudly, I wonder how anyone within a two-tent distance can sleep. Suddenly to my left, a hand reaches out of a tent to pull the flap open. I duck down behind another tent before the soldier who crawls out can see me. I wait, holding my breath, while he gets up and heads toward the ditch used as a latrine by the entire regiment. When his shape melts into the night, I turn in the opposite direction and continue my stealthy escape.
Containing over 200, 000 soldiers, the camp stretches for miles. I’ve gone a good distance despite the bright moonlight when out of the corner of my eye I see something move. I turn around and my stomach plummets. A sentry strides toward me, a rifle cocked on his shoulder. There’s no point in running. The soldier sees me for sure, and making a break for it would only gain me a bullet in my back. So I stand there, waiting for him to reach me, trying to think of a good reason for a midnight walk. Too bad I’m not heading in the direction of the latrine, the most obvious excuse.
“Hello, there, soldier!” the guard calls out. “What’s your name and regiment?”
“Private Frank Thompson, Company F, Second Michigan Volunteer Infantry, sir!” I salute.
“Any reason you’re not in bed with the rest of your regiment?” The soldier eyes me carefully, as if looking for signs of desertion. Good thing I haven’t taken a knapsack with me. That would really look suspicious.
“Couldn’t sleep, sir. I thought a walk might calm me down.” I keep my tone steady and even.
“Calm you down from what? Feeling nervous about something?” the soldier prods.
“Not nervous, sir, just sad—and mad.” I hesitate. “You see, I got a ‘Sorry, Sweetheart' letter today. I thought Anna would wait for me, but she’s marrying someone else.” I stare at the ground sorrowfully, imagining what a jilted lover would look like and trying to shift my face into exactly that look. Actually, I have been jilted—by Jerome. I remember how he spurned me and then I’m not acting anymore. My face is hollow with hurt, darkened with anger. I look up and lock eyes with the soldier. “I’m here, doing my duty, and this is how she treats me!”
The soldier sighs and claps me on the back. “You’re not the only one. Women! You just can’t trust them, not a single one of them, I tell you. Look, I have something that will make you feel better.” He pulls a flask out of his hip pocket. “A couple of swallows and you’ll forget all about what’s-her-name, I promise you. You’ll have someone new in no time, a handsome lad like you.”
Handsome? I’m handsome? I’ve never considered myself beautiful, but maybe I’m a better-looking man than woman. Maybe that’s why Jerome rejected me, because my face will never have a woman’s soft sweetness. I’ve seen women like that, with mannish chins and horsey jaws, beetling brows and sharp, jutting noses. Is that the kind of woman I am? I hate the thought, and my mouth turns sour with disgust. I’m ugly, and here I am, planning on turning myself back into one of those women with faces like shovels.
I take the flask and drink. The liquid burns going down and makes my eyes water. I have to force myself not to sputter it back out.
“Thank you,” I gasp, returning the flask. The soldier takes a long pull, then returns it to me.
“One more,” he offers, “for the road.”
“For the road,” I repeat, tipping back the whiskey. This time I manage to swallow better. The burning becomes a steady warmth, all the way to my toes. I never understood before why men take to drink. It seems like such a wasteful habit. But now I can appreciate it. I want more of that feeling like nothing matters. Who cares if I have a horse’s ass for a face? Who cares if instead of an ample bosom, anthills barely break the flat silhouette of my chest? Who cares if I’m an utter failure at being one of the masters of creation and an even greater failure at being the fairer sex? I take another long drink.
“Whoa, there, buddy. That’s enough. Think you can sleep now?” asks the guard, pocketing the flask.
I grin, suddenly cheerful. “I think that’s about all I can do!” I start to walk back to the tent, but my legs feel rubbery and weak, my head thick and cottony. I plop down on the ground, still smiling, every ounce of worry drained out of me. Who cares if I can’t walk? I’m fine right where I am.
“Come on, now, you can’t sleep here. You’ll catch a chill. I’ll help you back to your tent.” The soldier pulls me up, slips an arm around me, and half carries me in the direction my wavering finger points. He huffs and puffs as I collapse against him. I relish being nestled close to him, held safe in his strong arms. If only Jerome would touch me the same way.
“You’re a nice fellow,” I say. “You know that? You’re nice to me.” I pucker my lips, filled with a sudden urge to kiss a total stranger.
“Sure I am,” the soldier grunts. “But I’m not your sweetheart.” He lifts the flap of the tent and shoves me in. “Don’t worry—you’ll get yourself a new girl. Now sleep!”
“Good night!” I call back. I crawl under the blanket, and soon my own snores join Damon’s.
In the morning I wake up with a throbbing head and a dry mouth. When I remember what happened the night before, I’m even queasier. Did I almost kiss that soldier? Did I really cling to him like some fainting Southern belle? Some escape! I’m stuck here, waiting for my ex-friend to turn me in.
I want this day to be normal, just another day in camp, so I show up at the hospital as usual and start my rounds, forcing myself to concentrate on the patients through the fog of my aching head. When I see Jerome, my stomach flutters and my breathing quickens. Am I in love with him or simply afraid of him? And what does he feel for me? All I know is that he pointedly ignores me, turning his back whenever we come close.
As the day wears on, the headache subsides and I’m myself again. If nobody has arrested me yet, then Jerome hasn’t revealed my secret. And if he hasn’t already done that, doesn’t that mean he never intends to? The next day passes and the one after that and th
e one after that, and still we work together, speaking only when necessary, avoiding each other as much as possible.
Until Jerome breaks the silence. “Listen, here, Frank,” he says one frigid November morning, “let’s forget the whole fuss. I can’t even remember what we fought about now. Can we shake hands and go back to being friends?” He holds out his hand shyly.
He can’t remember? It’s hard to believe, but I search his face and see that he desperately wants to be friends. If that means pretending I’m a man and that he’s never had an inkling otherwise, so be it. A wave of relief passes through me. He’ll keep my secret. He won’t betray me. Gratitude swells into sympathy for him. Jerome does love me, the only way he can, as a brother. I manage a smile and take his hand.
“I want nothing more,” I lie.
At first, our conversations are stiff and awkward, but gradually we fall back into the old ease and warmth. The only difference is that now Jerome never mentions Miss Anna Corey. And he’s careful never to touch me. No slaps on the back, no pats on the arm. That handshake is the last time we touch.
By January, Jerome seems to have forgotten the whole incident. He treats me like his best friend, plain and simple. But I haven’t forgotten. And it isn’t any easier for me to be so close to a man I love who doesn’t love me back. The long hours together in the hospital only make me love him more. He’s such a kind, gentle nurse, such an intelligent, sensitive companion. I want to hate him for rejecting me, but I can’t. Instead, I hate myself for being so unwomanly. I’m lucky he still values me as a friend, and that has to be enough.
But it’s not. I know Jerome won’t change. I know I can’t, and my heart will only bruise more and more over time. Worse yet, being around him confuses me, makes it hard for me to act naturally like a man. I feel a new urge to soften my voice and manners, to wake up the girl slumbering deep inside me, so I do the sensible, safe thing. I ask the commander, Colonel Orlando Poe, to reassign me.
I expect to be moved to a different hospital, but Colonel Poe needs something other than a nurse. He needs a regimental postmaster, a risky job since the mail is often ambushed by Rebel soldiers on the long, lonely routes from camp to camp, inside and outside Washington. I don’t hesitate for a second. I’ll have my own horse, plenty of fresh air, and a break from the bleak suffering in the hospital. Best of all, I’ll spend the whole day away from Jerome. Once again I’ll feel sure of myself as a young man, an eager soldier for the Union. If I can’t have confidence in myself as a woman for Jerome to love, it’s the next best thing.
HE MEN IN the hospital depended on me for fresh dressings and doses of brandy, but now all the soldiers in the regiment rely on me for something much more vital—news from home. No one is more important to the average recruit, no figure more widely recognized, than the postmaster. I like being appreciated for my reliability, but more than that, I’m proud of my reputation. Damon tells me I’m famous for my good nature, ready wit, and warm curiosity. He boasts to everyone that we’re tentmates, that he knows me best, and I don’t correct him. It’s like when Jerome read me his journal entry describing how witty I am—a mirror is being held up to me, showing me a different image of myself. I’m not an awkward, silent tomboy, or a lonely traveling book salesman, or a cowardly soldier, or a mule-faced woman trying to pass as a man. I’m Frank Thompson, regimental postmaster.
General post office, Army of the Potomac, Culpeper, Va.
In just a few weeks I have many friends. Delivering mail, I get to know everybody. I ask after soldiers' parents, sisters, brothers, and wives by name. I know who writes a lot of letters and who receives them. I even know which men are writing to two different women, each one thinking she alone is her fellow’s sweetheart. Whole stories are crammed into each thin envelope, and I feel I’m a part of the drama simply by delivering those envelopes. Yes, I miss the close relationship with Jerome, but I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll never let myself get that close to another soldier again. The light, easy friendships I develop all over the regiment may not be deep, but they’re warm and caring and, best of all, safe.
When my heart is full and I need someone to listen, I console myself with my new best friend, my horse. Flag is a sorrel gelding, steady and dependable. He doesn’t have Trig’s grace or speed, but he’s good-natured, the equine equivalent to Damon. We spend long days together, riding to retrieve and deliver mail—hours when I pour out my worries, fears, and hopes, when I practice jokes and witty descriptions, when I belt out songs and describe my latest dreams. If we have to sleep by the road, Flag is both windbreak and pillow, a warm body for me to press against. True, he can’t talk to me, but the way he nips at my collar and rubs his head against my shoulder, he makes it clear that I’m his best friend, too.
I pass on rumors as well as letters, and by March 1862 the camp simmers with them. General George McClellan announces the end of the long months of drilling and waiting—it’s finally time to march out. He praises us for being highly prepared and assures us that the Confederate army is no match for our strength. He talks on and on about the glory of the Union and its defenders. But though his speech is long on rousing patriotism, it’s short on details. He doesn’t lay out a battle plan or even say where we’re headed. With nothing specific to go on, we all speculate. Some guess we’ll head back to Manassas, an idea nobody likes. Others suggest we’ll go to Richmond by way of Fredericksburg. Damon starts a betting pool, turning all the guesses into cash.
Major General George McClellan.
“This is more exciting than the horse races,” he tells me. “Want to put fifty cents down on Manassas?”
“I wouldn’t put anything down on Manassas! The last time was bad enough,” I say. “I’d rather any way but that one.”
No one predicts we’ll march to the wharf in Alexandria and board ships to go down the Virginia coast to Fort Monroe at the end of the narrow Virginia Peninsula. Bounded on the north by the York River and on the south by the James River, the peninsula is Southern territory except for the very tip, where the Chesapeake Bay meets the Atlantic Ocean. That’s where Fort Monroe sits, cut off from the Union army by land, accessible only by water. The plan is to march up the peninsula through Yorktown and Williamsburg to Richmond, using the York River to keep supply lines open. Since the bulk of the Confederate army is massed on the other side of Richmond, toward Washington, the hope is that Richmond can be taken before most of the Rebel troops realize what’s happening.
It’s a daring and difficult plan, starting with the enormity of moving so many men by sea. It takes over three weeks and more than 400 ships to ferry 150, 000 soldiers, 300 pieces of artillery, 3, 600 wagons, 700 ambulances, 2, 500 head of cattle, and 25, 000 horses and mules to Fort Monroe. Not to mention smaller weapons, ammunition, food, tents, and hospital supplies.
When our regiment arrives at the port to board a boat, we join a massive crowd both in the water and on the wharf. Sloops jostle next to barges, canal boats edge out steamers, all in a chaotic surge to dock. Once a boat manages to get close enough, the soldiers push their way on, elbowed by those behind them. So many men cram the pier, there’s hardly room to budge. I’ve asked to board with the animals, saying I need to take care of Flag, but my request is denied, so I’m forced to squeeze onto the dock with all the other soldiers. In the mass of bodies, I’m all too close to Jerome. Our arms touch, and if I turn slightly, my nose will be under his jaw. I smell his spicy sweat and feel the muscles of his thigh alongside my leg. I thought that all the months I’ve kept away from him have created a distance between us, cooled my love into friendly affection. Now, during the long hours waiting to board, I’m drawn to Jerome all over again. I don’t mind the wait, I don’t mind standing for hours, so long as he’s next to me.
“But I can’t love him,” I scold myself. “And no more talk of being a woman—ever! We’re friends, just friends.” I chant the phrase over and over in my head as if repetition can make it true. When the crowd in front of us clears and it’s our t
urn to board the already packed steamer, I feel like I’m waking from a long dream. The sun set hours ago, and the men are tired and hungry as they settle on the boat. Jerome falls asleep instantly, but I can’t relax. I sit next to him, squeezed shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, grateful to find enough space to rest, savoring the touch I’ve avoided for so long. Still, I can’t shake off the sadness that fills my throat with a dry ache, and as the dark swallows us, turning shapes into shadows, tears run down my cheeks. I cry because he doesn’t love me. I cry because I’m a woman and don’t know how to be one. I cry because my life is a lie and nothing will ever be simple for me.
It feels good to let go, to give myself permission to grieve. The tears empty me out, leave me hollow, and exhaustion fills the space they leave. Without thinking, I lean my head on Jerome’s shoulder and fall asleep, sitting up like that.
The rocking of the boat wakes me. A sudden storm turns the peaceful crossing into a rough ride, throwing everyone from side to side and lashing us with rain for two days. Many are seasick. Everyone is drenched. I’m afraid my wet shirt clinging to me might reveal the shallow mounds of my breasts, so I keep my jacket buttoned even though it’s horribly muggy, my sweat adding even more moisture. The men around me are probably too wretched to notice anyway, but I’m too terrified to risk anything.
“Aren’t you stifling in that coat?” Jerome asks. “It’s so blasted hot, even with the rain.”
I shake my head, clutching my jacket tighter. “I’m fine.”