A Soldier's Secret

by Marissa Moss

  “Nobody’s fine in this hellhole!” Jerome snaps.

  When the boat finally gets to Fort Monroe, there are so many other ships ahead of us waiting to dock, it’s two more days before our turn comes and we can disembark. It’s a miserable start to the campaign for everyone, but even worse for me. Being stuck on board is the first time it’s difficult to hide my sex. There’s no tree to hide behind when I need to relieve myself, only the open air at the boat’s rail, where the men either add their spray to the waters below or turn and crouch, dumping a fetid load with a loud splash. There’s no choice but to hold my bladder and bowels during the day, drinking as little as possible so I’ll need to piss less. No matter how uncomfortable I am, I force myself to wait until it’s dark to take my place at the edge of the boat. The new moon, a thin sliver, doesn’t cast enough light for anyone to see much if another soldier should happen to decide to relieve himself nearby. Still, the first time I pull down my pants and thrust out my behind into the rain-lashed wind, I can’t relax. I’m tense with the fear of being discovered. But as the dark night cloaks me and the sounds of snores and sleepy muttering waft in the air, I remind myself that I’m as far from being a lady as ever. What young woman would put herself in this position, naked bum hanging over the side of a boat crowded with hundreds of men? It’s all the more proof that I’m more boy than girl—always have been and always will be, no matter how much I love Jerome.

  View of camp and troop transport, Belle Plain Landing, Va.

  We finally touch solid ground only to slog through the sticky Virginia mud in the torrential rain, snuffing out any thought of romance. All I can think of is putting one foot in front of the other. I don’t know where Jerome is and I don’t care. I lose sight of him as soon as we get off the boat. I can’t find Flag either. The ship with all the livestock hasn’t docked yet. On the road to set up camp, Damon plods alongside me instead.

  “Too bad no one bet we were going to hell,” he grunts. “They would have won the pool.”

  “At least we’re off the boat,” I offer. “That’s something.”

  “Yeah, it says a lot about the passage that you think this is an improvement.” Damon’s hair is plastered to his head by rain, and he’s ankle-deep in mud.

  Once camp is set up and we’re dry in our tents, the rain keeps us in there. For days the storm continues as fever rages through the camp. Damon and I both fall sick, shivering in the tent for a week. The doctors call it swamp fever, something brought on by the muggy conditions we’re living in.

  Mostly I sleep, slipping in and out of strange dreams. I see Ma and Pa again, and Old Man Ludham grins at me, claiming me for his bride. He lunges toward me and changes into a soldier whose leg has been blown off.

  The first day I leave the tent, the world seems newly sharp and clear, rich in colors, sounds, and scents. Whip-poor-wills and larks call out, rustling through the emerald grasses. Dogwoods and magnolias flower while pillowy clouds scud overhead. I bite into a dry biscuit. Usually chewing hardtack is like chomping on sawdust. This day, nothing has ever tasted as good.

  Damon, who recovered a day earlier, grins a welcome.

  “Look who’s back from the dead.” He waves at me to sit next to him on a log as he polishes his rifle.

  “Well, you said we’d ended up in hell.” I smile back.

  “So I did. And I weren’t far wrong. Now that the rain’s stopped, it’s hotter than a furnace. Seems like it either pours on you or broils you up in these parts.” He shakes his head. “The South—they can have it, the miserable grunts.”

  But nothing can spoil my mood. Yes, it’s muggy, but I smell the dirt and grass, taste the smoke from cook fires, watch the new leaves flutter on the trees. It feels good to be alive, off the boat, out of the tent, and not wracked with fever anymore. Not aching with love, either. Maybe the fever has burned it out of me. I don’t even look around for Jerome. I’m simply happy to be here, in this moment, this place.

  “Are we moving out soon?” I ask Damon.

  He nods. “A day or two, I think.”

  The plan is to take control of the York River to establish a clear supply line. The James River is an easier route, but it’s guarded by the armored Confederate gunboat Virginia, an intimidating sight that General McClellan decides is best to avoid entirely.

  “Word is we’re to take Yorktown.”

  Another battle. My stomach tightens. There is something that can ruin my mood after all. This time I won’t leave the wounded to be taken prisoner. This time has to be different.

  That evening as we sit down to supper, a ripple of excited voices spreads through the camp.

  “Nurse!” someone yells. “We need a nurse!”

  I set down my plate and run toward the edge of camp, where a group of a dozen or so men straggles toward me. Two of them carry a makeshift stretcher. I recognize Dr. E. J. Bonine, the regimental surgeon. As I get closer, I see that the wounded man is African, and so are the men following the stretcher.

  “There’s a bullet in his shoulder,” the doctor says, setting the stretcher down. “We’ve got to take it out now. He’s lost a lot of blood.” I nod, holding the hurt man firmly as the doctor gets out his penknife. It’s a scene I’ve lived through a hundred times before, but never with a black man.

  The other Africans start to pray, then sing. At first, I can’t follow the words. Then I realize they’re thanking the Lord for setting them free, shouting out his glory. Their voices are deep and rich and fill me with a strange sense of hope.

  As the surgeon works, he explains what happened.

  “I was taking a walk when I saw some men on the other side of a creek about a mile from here. At first, I thought they were Rebel pickets, an advance guard, but when I saw they were black, I knew they had to be escaped slaves. I waved to them to cross over, but they yelled back that they couldn’t swim. So I lashed together a couple of logs and one by one pulled them over. They said they’d been forced to work on the Confederate fortifications at the James River, but when they heard a rumor that the Union army had landed, they decided to make a break for it and try to reach us. The Rebels shot at them, killed a man, and wounded another, this one here.” He digs out the ball and presses a handkerchief to the wound to stanch the blood. “But he’s going to be fine. They all are now.”

  I nod, pouring brandy on the wound the way I’ve been taught, then bandaging it up. “Here,” I say, lifting up the man’s head and giving him some brandy to drink as well. “You need a sip of this and lots of rest. When you wake up, you’ll be fine.” The man’s deep-brown eyes brim with gratitude. I’m touched by the depth of his trust, something I’ve seen many times in the faces of wounded or sick soldiers. This man, I’m startled to realize, is like all of us. He’s just the same. They’re all the same, only with darker skin. It’s the first time I’ve been so close to an African, the first time I think about slavery and how cruel it is. For me, the war has been about saving the Union. Now it’s also about something else, something that claws in the pit of my stomach—it’s about freeing a whole class of people condemned to being treated like animals. It’s about justice.

  While their companion sleeps, the other escaped slaves join us for supper. Everyone talks about the contrabands—that’s what escaped slaves are called, since they are basically illegal goods—how they haven’t waited for the war to end. Instead, they’ve freed themselves.

  I stare at the Africans. Rage rises in my throat at the sight of the welts that crisscross their backs, chests, and legs—scars left behind by an owner’s heavy lash. The coming battle has new meaning now. These people deserve to be free. And they’ve risked their lives so they can be. Why should they be slaves simply because of their skin color? It’s the same with women—why should we have such limited lives? Are we really lesser people? Shouldn’t we enjoy the same rights as men?

  I enlisted in the war to preserve the Union, but now I have another reason to fight: to save people from the tyranny of other people. I can’t
do it for women, but I can do it for the Africans. And I can do it for myself, so long as I live as a man.

  That night we join the newly freed men in songs around the campfire. Tomorrow we’ll move on to Yorktown with a new purpose in our step, a new sense of mission and pride. I still fear what lies ahead, but now a sharp edge of eagerness blunts the fear. I think of the countless Africans hobbled by slavery and hone my outrage into righteous anger, ready to face whatever will happen, to get closer to Richmond and freedom for all—men, that is.

  ITH OUR SENSE of purpose bolstered by the Africans, we set out for Yorktown on the muddiest road we’ve traveled yet. The mire is so thick and gooey, it takes two days to slog twenty miles. I’m trudging with the rest of the regiment since Flag is hauling equipment. Already, a few weeks after arriving at Fort Monroe, we’re short on food. Supply ships haven’t arrived yet, so even though we’re deep in enemy territory, a handful of soldiers is sent out to forage among the neighboring houses.

  Naturally, I volunteer. I’m relieved to have a reason to ride Flag again, to be back with my best friend. “Did you miss me? Did you?” I ask him as I near the corral. Flag trots right up—he knows my voice, and yes, he’s clearly missed me. I stroke his soft nose. “I bet your crossing was better than mine. Better company, less seasickness, and you could mess the straw whenever you felt the urge.” Flag nibbles at my pocket, searching for a treat. Sometimes I save an apple for him, but it’s been days since I’ve seen any fruit. I’ll requisition something for Flag along with supplies for the men.

  I hope that collecting food won’t be so different from collecting mail, but I know that the people living nearby won’t be sympathetic to Union troops. Food won’t be offered for sale. I’ll have to buy it by force. So I’m surprised by how peaceful the countryside looks as I ride through it. There’s no sign of war in the tobacco fields, and when I come to a large plantation house with a broad, welcoming veranda, it seems like something from another time.

  After hitching Flag to the iron post by the porch and collecting the baskets slung over the saddle, I knock on the door, keeping my other hand on the holster of my gun, just in case things inside the house aren’t as peaceful as they look from the outside.

  A tall, regal woman opens the door, her pale skin made even whiter by the contrast with her black widow’s weeds. I tell her that I’ve come to buy whatever food the household can spare. My uniform says the rest. The war has come to the woman’s doorstep. Perhaps it’s not the first time. I wonder if she is grieving a death from sickness, age, or battle.

  The woman forces a brittle smile. “I wouldn’t think of depriving hungry soldiers when we are so fortunate. Why don’t you wait in the parlor while I gather what I can for y’all.”

  The smirk behind her smile, the steeliness of her eyes, the rigid way she holds herself all set my nerves on edge. I want to have compassion for the woman’s obvious mourning. In another time, another place, I would. Now all I am is suspicious. The woman is a Southerner, an enemy.

  “Let me help you,” I insist. I follow the black sweeping skirts into the kitchen.

  The woman moves vaguely around the pantry, reaching for flour, then putting it back, picking up a side of bacon, then setting it down again.

  I clear my throat loudly. “If you please, ma’am. I need to get going. I’ll take some eggs and butter, the flour and bacon, perhaps an apple for my horse, and leave you be.”

  “Oh.” The woman faces me, her hands shaking. “I didn’t realize you were in such a hurry. I was waiting for the boys to get back and catch you some chickens. They’ll make mighty fine eating.”

  The skin crawls on the back of my neck. So that’s what she’s up to—stalling for time until the men come home to take care of her unwanted visitor.

  “That won’t be necessary, ma’am.” I spit out the words, scooping the supplies into the baskets I’ve brought. Something about that kitchen makes me edgy. I want to get out, now. But I’m not stealing—I try to hand the woman a greenback.

  She stares at the money as if it’s poison. “Oh, I couldn’t take that,” the widow says. “I wouldn’t touch it.” She lifts her chin defiantly, and hatred gleams in her eyes.

  “As you wish, ma’am.” I leave the money on the table and back my way out of the house, facing the woman’s scowl the whole time. She stands on the porch, seething, while I get on Flag and turn to go, every muscle in my back taut from the glare of her eyes.

  I can’t explain why, but I flinch, ducking my head down toward Flag’s mane, just as the shot whizzes over my head. I turn Flag around quickly and raise my own gun as the woman shoots again, this time wide of the mark. I point the muzzle of my seven-shooter squarely at her, panic surging through me as I try to keep my hands steady. Flag seems to understand and stands stock-still. Faced with my gun, the woman drops her own pistol and puts up her hands, her eyes simmering with rage and hate.

  Nerves jangling, I take careful aim and fire. The woman screams and falls to the ground, clutching her left hand. The ball pierced clear through her palm, leaving a bloody hole.

  It’s the first time I’ve shot anybody, but it won’t be the last. Maybe if I really were a man, I’d be ashamed of such ungentlemanly behavior. But I’ve been attacked and I feel justified using my gun, even if my assailant is a woman. I feel the same icy chill in my veins as during the Battle of Bull Run, the familiar steeliness I used to see in Ma as she wrung a chicken’s neck.

  I get off Flag, legs still shaking, and pick up the dropped pistol, then unfasten the halter strap to tie it around the woman’s right wrist.

  “Come on, Flag,” I say, patting his broad cheek, reassured by his warm bulk. “We’re going home, but we’re bringing some company with us.” I jump back into the saddle, yanking the woman behind me by the arm as if she’s a goat or cow, an unruly creature that needs to be dragged along.

  “Your ladyship is coming with me,” I bark. Now that I’m not scared, I’m furious.

  “Let me go!” the woman shrieks. “Release me now!”

  I level my gun at her again. “Any more noise and I’ll shut that mouth of yours forever.”

  The woman nods, her eyes big with fear. She stumbles after Flag, tripping over her skirts and falling several times. Each time, she fumbles her way back to her feet, losing blood and getting weaker with every step.

  When she falls for the fifth time, I stop Flag and dismount. True, this woman tried to kill me, but I don’t mean to torture her. As the rage drains out of me, I’m sickened by my own cruelty. Is this what being a soldier means? Will I grow flinty and nasty like Pa? Are all men at heart simple brutes, and am I becoming one of them? I shake my head, unsure what to do next. I want to be brave, not vicious. But more than that, I don’t want to soften in front of an enemy.

  Still, what’s the harm in acting like a nurse first, a soldier second? So long as I control the situation, I can provide medical care. Even a foe deserves that, I reason, using a handkerchief to bandage the woman’s hand and helping her onto Flag. I brace for a fight, but she’s either in too much pain or too weak to do anything more than slump into the saddle. I take the reins and walk alongside her, my heartbeat calming.

  “Since we’re getting to know each other so well, why don’t you tell me your name?” I ask.

  “Alice,” the woman responds numbly.

  “Well, hello, Alice,” I say. “Would you mind telling me why you shot at me?” I keep my tone as casual as if I were asking why she prefers bacon to ham.

  Alice glares, hatred gleaming behind the pain. “You’re a Yankee. You killed my husband.”

  “I’ve done nothing of the sort,” I snap.

  “Maybe not you personally, but your kind. And not just my husband. Yankees killed my father and both of my brothers. I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved in the last three weeks. They’re gone! My life is gone!”

  I don’t know what to say. I’ve thought of the woman as an enemy, but now she seems a fragile victim, someone so riven with gr
ief that she’s held together only by the intensity of her hate. I can’t imagine that much pain.

  “I’m so sorry.” It’s all I can offer.

  “Please, don’t turn me in,” Alice begs. “I shouldn’t have shot at you, I know that. But don’t make me a prisoner, please. Please, let me go. Please!”

  I can’t release the woman, but I don’t want to jail her, either. The farther we get from the plantation house, the more desperate Alice grows. She wails and pleads, moans and whimpers. I respect Flag more than ever. No matter how much noise she makes, he keeps on going, ignoring her as if I’d set a bushel of potatoes on his back, not a crying wretch.

  Union field hospital, Savage Station, Va.

  I wish I could be as stoic, but my hands itch to slap her, anything to make the whining stop. The hysteria in her voice eats at me. Is there someplace else to take Alice? Not a prison, but not the comfort of a Southern home either? I don’t know how much I can trust her, but by the time we arrive at camp, I have a plan. I’m ashamed of shooting Alice, of taking her prisoner, ashamed that my fellow soldiers have inflicted so much loss on one simple woman. I decide that the least I can do is take her to the hospital to have her hand properly bandaged and let her stay on as a nurse. Women aren’t normally welcome in military hospitals, but these are desperate times, and the doctors need all the help they can get.

  I lift Alice off Flag. She stands there frozen while I give him the apple I found in her kitchen. “You’ve earned it, boy. You have more patience than I’ll ever have.” I tie the reins loosely to the stake in front of the hospital tent and lead Alice inside. After all her thrashing and pleading, she’s strangely docile and quiet as we walk between the rows of cots. I smile and nod at the soldiers I know.

  “How are you feeling today, Andy?” I stop to ask a fresh-faced boy with a bandaged stump in place of his left arm.

  “Better, Nurse Frank, heaps better, though I guess I won’t be much of a hand at playing piano no more.”