A Soldier's Secret

by Marissa Moss

  “From what I hear about how you played, that’s something we should all be grateful for,” I tease.

  “Is that Frank I hear?” a deep voice from the back of the tent bellows. Dr. Bonine strides toward us, wiping his bloody hands on a towel.

  “Yes, Doctor, and I’d like you to meet someone.” I turn to Alice. “This poor woman had an accident with a gun, and once you’ve bandaged her, she’d like to help you out if you’ll have her. Her name is Alice.”

  Dr. Bonine takes in Alice’s pallor, her widow’s weeds, her despairing eyes. “We don’t ordinarily have women work as nurses, but so long as you stay here, in camp, we would be truly grateful for the help.”

  Alice’s mouth trembles. She falls to her knees, wringing her hands like an actress in a melodrama. “Thank you, sir! Thank you, thank you! I won’t let you down, sir!”

  The doctor and I exchange a look over her bowed head. I don’t need to say another word. Her Southern accent has told him the rest of the story.

  “You’re welcome here, Alice.” Dr. Bonine’s voice is gentle and soothing. “I hope you’ll make a comfortable home with us, basic as things are.”

  Jerome is another story. “What did you bring that Southern woman here for?” He corners me and pulls me outside so he can berate me without disturbing the patients. “We don’t need her. We don’t want her. And women don’t belong in battlefield hospitals.”

  My cheeks burn. Is he saying I don’t belong here? “You may not need her, but Dr. Bonine does. And what else could I do with her? I couldn’t leave her to attack another soldier, and I couldn’t put her in a prisoner camp. This seemed like the best solution.”

  “How about confiscating her gun? That could have worked! Honestly, Frank, what were you thinking?”

  I flinch in the face of such rage. Why is Jerome so angry? It doesn’t make sense to me.

  “I’m sorry, but Dr. Bonine is fine with having Alice at the hospital, and that’s all that matters.” I stiffen myself for another outburst. Jerome must really hate me, must hate any hint that I’m a woman. If I want him for a friend, I have to be absolutely manly. I push down the rising softness, the urge to grab his hand and ask him to forgive me, to love me.

  “Oh, forget about it!” Jerome snorts, turning away in disgust.

  I wish I could. I want to erase the memory of Alice’s milky hand raised in surrender and the bloody hole I’ve torn right through it.

  Back on mail duty, Flag and I trudge along the muddy road between Fort Monroe and the camp near Yorktown as the army waits for the siege guns to reach us. While I’m at Fort Monroe waiting for the boat to dock with the mail, I overhear two soldiers talking.

  “Did you hear about that ambush on the road to Yorktown last week?” the taller one asks.

  “Another one?” His friend frowns.

  “Yep, and this time they killed one of the soldiers delivering mail. Some Rebs were waiting round the bend at Painter’s Gap. They shot the postmaster—stole his horse and all the mail. Guess they were hoping for some money in those letters.”

  I know the spot they’re talking about, the curve in the road where I always speed up because it feels so isolated and vulnerable. Still, I don’t hesitate to do my job, just ride all the faster when I come to that dreaded place. After all, someone has to deliver the mail. Besides, anything is better than being cooped up in camp, surrounded by thousands of men, any one of whom could see through my disguise if I ever let anything slip.

  ’M MAKING THE rounds in the hospital tent in between mail runs when the regimental chaplain approaches me.

  “If you’re willing, there’s an important job I want to recommend you for. It’s dangerous, but I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t think you could do it.”

  More dangerous than riding alone through hostile territory? Riskier than fighting on the battlefield? I wait for the chaplain to explain.

  “One of our best spies has been captured and killed.” The chaplain presses his long fingers together. “I think you’re just the man to replace him. I’d like to give your name to the generals.” He pauses, looking intently at me. I wonder if he’s having second thoughts because my face looks so young and soft. Still, he’s seen me handle the ugliest wounds without flinching, race through gunfire to rescue a wounded soldier, and ride off alone through enemy territory without hesitation. He should have faith in my abilities. The chaplain stares hard, then asks, “Will you do it?”

  I don’t hesitate. “I’m your man.”

  The chaplain nods. “I thought you would be. I’ll arrange for an interview with the commanding officers.”

  That night I tell Damon that I’ve volunteered to be a spy.

  “Why’d you do that for?” Damon asks, propping himself up on his elbow as he lies on his bedroll. “As if battle itself weren’t dangerous enough for you. Sometimes I just can’t figure you out, Frank. You’re not like other soldiers.”

  “Of course, I am,” I insist.

  “No, you aren’t,” Damon argues. “You take risks like your life doesn’t matter. You wanted to stay with the wounded in Centreville. That was plumb foolish!”

  “It’s hard to leave people when you’re trying to save their lives. You feel you owe them something. Something more than being taken prisoner. That’s not taking stupid chances, that’s being a nurse.”

  “Well, the doctor didn’t take as much convincing to skedaddle as you did. You know what I think it is, what’s different about you?” Damon squints at me.

  “What?” I ask, keeping my voice steady. He can’t possibly suspect I’m a woman.

  “I think it’s because you don’t have a sweetheart waiting for you. Or parents neither. Heck, you deliver the mail, but the only letters you get are from families thanking you for sending along the last words of a dying soldier. You know, without family, you just don’t have as much will to live.” Damon is clearly satisfied with his insight.

  “That’s ridiculous! I don’t want to die!” But deep down, I wonder if there might be some truth to what Damon says. I have no ties, no one caring about me, no one I want to live to see again.

  “You’re wrong, Damon,” I say. “I want to be a spy because I think I’d be good at it. I have a knack for disguises like you wouldn’t believe.” I smile. “And I like adventure. You may think I’m taking stupid risks, but I’m enjoying myself. Being on the battlefield is much worse, and maybe if I do my job as a spy right, we’ll do better when the fighting comes.”

  Damon lies back on his blanket. “Maybe. But I still think a sweetheart would do you good.”

  I snort, thinking of the women I courted back in Flint to prove myself as a man. The last thing I need now is to work to convince potential sweethearts that I’m manly enough. “Well, then find me one,” I tease. “I haven’t had much occasion to socialize since I joined the army.”

  Damon sits up. “I know just what to do! My girl has a cousin. You might like her. Her name is Virginia. I’ll write to her about you and maybe the two of you can start corresponding.”

  That kind of distance is reassuring—anyone can sound like anybody on paper. “Sure,” I agree. “But in the meantime, I’m going to be a spy.” If I can be both a spy and the postmaster, I might manage to spend most of my time away from camp, away from Jerome. That means less time worrying about being found out. Funny to think that I’m worrying less about being caught as a spy by the enemy than I am about being caught as a woman by my fellow soldiers.

  I spend that evening studying weapons, tactics, local geography, and military personnel, intent on giving a strong interview. I’m not sure exactly what a spy should know, but I want to be prepared. Damon watches me bury my nose in the books I’ve borrowed.

  “I’ve never seen anyone work so hard to get hisself killed,” he remarks.

  “I’m working hard so I won’t get killed,” I correct him. “You’ll see.”

  The next day, command headquarters calls me in. I square my shoulders and stand ramrod straight as I present
myself to General McClellan, Colonel Poe, and an officer I haven’t met before.

  “Private Frank Thompson, Company F, Second Michigan Volunteer Infantry of the Army of the Potomac.” I salute.

  “At ease, Private,” the general orders. “Take a seat. We have some questions for you.”

  I sit on the stool across the table from the commanders, looking fierce and determined, the way a spy should.

  The three officers take turns questioning me, probing to see how loyal I am, checking my views on secession and slavery and my motives for becoming a spy. General McClellan keeps pushing to see if I have any Southern connections or sympathies. Too many double agents have been discovered, he warns me, for him to take risks anymore.

  It’s a good thing I explained my reasons to Damon earlier. Without realizing it, I was preparing for the interview. Now the things I said to him come back to me. I declare myself to be deeply patriotic, with a hunger for adventure that has been sparked by the travels I’ve made as a bookseller.

  “But mostly, sirs, I want to be a spy because I know I’d be good at it. I’ve always been good at disguises and pretending to be someone I’m not. I can do all kinds of voices.” I launch into a litany, from Irish brogue to Southern twang. I deepen the pitch and raise it, going from old man to young girl with my voice alone.

  General McClellan nods, satisfied. “All right, young man, I’m impressed. But you need to pass two more tests.”

  My stomach knots. More tests? What else will I have to do? What other questions do I need to answer? I’m led outside, and Colonel Poe points to a series of paper targets set up at the edge of the camp.

  “Take your best shots, son,” the colonel instructs. “You don’t have to be a sharpshooter, but you need to hit the broad side of a barn.”

  I relax—this is something I can do. I raise my seven shooter, take aim at the first target, and as with Alice’s palm, send a ball straight through the center. I steady my hand and shoot at the next target and the next and the next. I don’t always hit the bull’s-eye, but I make the target every time.

  “Well done.” General McClellan claps me on the back. “Better than a spy needs to be. That leaves the last test, a medical examination.”

  Medical exam? When I enlisted, the physical was simply a handshake. Will this examination be something more? I can’t imagine what it could be, but I don’t have much time to think about it either. I’m brought back into headquarters, where we all wait for Dr. Bonine.

  I sit stiffly, sweat gathering under my collar as I imagine the doctor discovering that the potential spy is really a woman. Well, I’ll have proven my expertise at disguise and infiltration! I try to calm my breathing. I want to be a spy so that I’m less exposed to my fellow soldiers, and here I am, about to expose more than I’ve ever expected. What have I gotten myself into? Will the doctor make me undress, listen to my heart and lungs, check my lower regions for possible problems? I suppose men must have some kind of difficulties with their private parts that need checking. Really, I don’t know anything about men’s bodies except what I’ve seen in the hospital. I can’t imagine sitting on a horse with that extra bit in the way. My God, I think, Jerome has that problem, and so does Damon, and Dr. Bonine, and the chaplain, and the officers right in front of me. I can’t look at any of them now without wondering which pant leg holds that extra central leg and how does it keep from getting squashed when they sit down?

  The general leans forward, possibly squashing his male organ even more. “Don’t be nervous, soldier—you’ve done fine so far. I’m sure you’ll pass the last test.”

  I swallow. Don’t think about the pecker, don’t think about the pecker, I chant in my head. I’m both grateful I don’t have such a cumbersome addition to my anatomy and scared the doctor will discover my lack. “Yes, sir,” I say, trying to keep my voice from squeaking with fear.

  The doctor walks in and salutes. Then he turns to me and smiles. “I know this soldier, sir. We’ve worked together at the hospital, and I can attest to his character and courage.”

  “Yes,” the general answers. “I trust his character. And he’s a good marksman, too. But what does phrenology tell us about him?”

  “Phrenology?” I quaver. I wipe the sweat off my brow and close my legs tight together. Does phrenology have anything to do with the study of peckers? I fervently hope not.

  “Phrenology is the study of the head and features and what they tell us about a person’s abilities. It’s the latest scientific method, and it’s proven widely successful. There was a recent murder case that was solved by examining the perpetrator’s profile. Criminals, for example, have low foreheads and jutting jaws. It was obvious that the accused man was guilty simply by his bestial forehead.” As he talks, the doctor rests his fingers on my skull, pressing around my forehead, temples, and the back of my head.

  I stare ahead, trying to breathe normally. Surely nothing on my head reveals that I’m a woman or I would have been found out long ago. I force myself to relax. So long as I keep my clothes on and nothing else is touched, I’ll be fine.

  “Yes,” says the doctor, straightening up. “It’s just as I thought. Private Thompson is clearly intelligent. You can see that from his high forehead. He’s a person of faith and conviction, as his strong chin reveals. And he’s resourceful—his temples show that. In all, the perfect candidate for a spy.”

  The general stands up, followed by the officers. I stand up too, still keeping my legs close together.

  “Private Thompson, you’re officially a spy for the Union army now. You should prepare for your first assignment. You’ll be going behind enemy lines in three days. Find out all you can about their fortifications, their equipment, their numbers, their intentions. And don’t get caught. Spies aren’t looked on kindly by the enemy.” General McClellan reaches out his hand. I take it and give it a manly shake.

  “Yessir, I will sir, find those things out, that is. And I won’t get caught. Sir.” I’m relieved to clear out the thought of peckers and how they fit under a man’s clothes. I need to focus on spying now. Giddy that I’ve fooled the officers and the doctor, I feel a rush of confidence that I’ll fool the Southerners.

  For my first mission, I decide to disguise myself as a freed slave. White men, especially Southerners, don’t look closely at black men. Slaves are even more invisible than old women. Grateful for my brown eyes, I darken my skin with silver nitrate, put on a minstrel wig and torn clothes, and head off to the Rebel lines just as the sun rises.

  In the hush of early-morning birdsong, I crawl along the ground, stopping every time a twig snaps or a branch rustles. The magnolias are in full bloom, pink and waxy, the camellias red amid their broad green leaves, the branches of the plum trees sheathed in a froth of white blossoms. Everything is lush and green and in bloom. It’s the season for horses to drop foals, for sheep to lamb, and cows to calve. Having spent so much of my life on a farm, tied to the rhythms of the seasons, I feel strange marking the spring by inching along the carpet of grasses and wildflowers. I’m not setting out to plow a field or coax an anxious cow into the barn to give birth. Instead, I’m an intruder on the land, not part of it.

  After I’ve gone so far I must have passed the sentries, I stand up on nervous legs, looking for the tents of the Confederate camp. Only I don’t see any. Could I be hopelessly lost already? I try to guess the right direction from the sun, but I’m not sure which way is east. I stand still, listening, hoping to hear something that will indicate the right way. I’ve been concentrating for a good ten minutes when I hear voices, Southern drawls, headed toward me. It’s a group of slaves bringing breakfast to the Rebel pickets, the men who guard the camp.

  “Min’ if I join you?” I ask, dabbing at my sweaty forehead with a kerchief. I don’t want to melt away my coloring. “I’se lookin’ for work.”

  “We got work aplenty, if that’s what you want.” A skinny young boy grins at me, offering cornbread and coffee. I wolf it down, nodding my thanks. But
after I’ve helped carry food to the pickets and followed the group back into camp, I’m not sure what to do. The others know exactly where to go and scatter off to their assigned duties. I’m not sure which one to follow, where I will learn the most.

  “You there, boy!” a Rebel officer yells. “Who do you belong to? Why are you setting there, gawking?”

  “I don' belong to no man,” I mumble, keeping my face down. “I’m headin' to Richmond to fin' work.”

  “As long as there’s a Confederate army, y’all belong to SOMEONE!” the officer roars. “There’ll be no free slaves so long as our hearts beat strong, and don’t you forget it! Now go work on the fortifications if you don’t want a whupping.”

  I nod, relieved the officer isn’t taking a closer look. My muscles tense with both fear and anger—fear of being discovered, anger at being treated like a slave. No one has ordered me around like that since I left the farm. It’s been four years since Pa yelled at me, but the feeling is so familiar, it could have been yesterday. Just as I did then, I grit my teeth and do as I’m told.

  “All the slaves will be free, so long as my heart beats strong!” I think, collecting a pickaxe, shovel, and wheelbarrow. I’ve forgotten about slavery since the rescue of the contraband party. Now I remember again what this war is about. I’ve been able to free myself by shucking off my skirts and dressing like a man, but how many Africans could pass for white? And who wants to live that kind of lie, always worrying about being discovered? I’m so tired of pretending that putting on a different kind of disguise offers me a strange sense of security, as if now that I’m wearing two masks, people have to see through both of them to discover the real me. It seems like something I could have read about in one of the adventure serials I used to sell—a woman pretending to be a man pretending to be a soldier pretending to be a spy pretending to be a slave. Where is the real person behind all the pretense? I’m not sure anymore, and for right now it doesn’t matter. I just have to be the slave/spy combination and shut down the rest of my selves until it’s safe to let them out, until I’m alone again or with Flag.