A Soldier's Secret

by Marissa Moss

  Y THE TIME our regiments reach Manassas, joining the main army led by Major General John Pope, Stonewall Jackson has already attacked our supply depot at Manassas Junction. His troops pull up track, plunder our stores, and torch the station. It’s a humiliating incursion, coming so close to us yet getting away lickety-split without a single wounded soldier.

  The Second Michigan is sent ahead to the front lines, where we’ll bear the brunt of the battle. Everyone in my regiment except me, that is. Once again I’m a messenger first, and only once I’ve finished with that will I join my regiment in battle. I chafe at not being part of the action, but I promise myself I’ll deliver the messages so fast, I won’t miss much. I beg for the fastest horse. Flag has been assigned to another orderly, and Dr. Evers has asked to borrow Lucky. I hope for the bay stallion I’ve seen in the corral, the one with the deep chest and fine legs, a horse built to run. Instead, I’m given a mule—a mule!

  As good as I am with horses, I’m terrible with the mule. Truth is, I expect him to behave as a horse would, and I take it personally when he doesn’t. He can probably tell how much I don’t want to be riding him.

  To hurry things up, I take a shortcut, riding across country. I usually prefer racing across fields and over fences anyway, but this ride is nothing like that first time with Lucky. Then, I felt like I was flying. Now, nothing I do feels right, but I don’t give up, kicking harder, leaning in tighter, spurring that stubborn animal into a gallop. I jump the mule over fences and ditches until I come to a particularly wide ditch that a horse could easily make. I urge the mule over, but the ravine is too much for him. The damn animal rears, pitches me off, then slips down the slope. I’m thrown all the way across the ditch, turning my face in time to see the mule’s flank slam into my left leg as he tumbles in after me. I gasp, sucking in air, pain blurring my eyes. Dirt showers onto me as the animal scrambles to his feet. I cover my head, cowering, and try to roll out of the way, but his hind hoof tramples my shin.

  I spit out dirt, clear the grit from my eyes, and work to breathe. I’m alive, I tell myself, pushing down the panic and pain flooding through me. I try to think, to plan what to do next, but the agony in my chest and left leg is like a fire, searing and sharp. I feel gingerly along my side and howl as I touch my ribs. I must have cracked them again. I edge myself up onto my elbows and examine the rest of my body. My left foot bends at the ankle in an unnatural way. Other than that, I reassure myself, I’m fine and dandy.

  Obviously I can’t stay in the ditch all day. I try to push myself upright but can’t put any weight on my left leg. “Goddamn it!” I curse, furious with how much it all hurts, how stupid it all is.

  Sinking back to the ground, I turn onto all fours and crawl out of the ditch, then grab a tree branch as a lever to haul myself upright. The mule stands next to me, nibbling on some grass, rolling his eye as if to say it’s my own fault, no sense in blaming a mule for being a mule. Of course, he isn’t bruised or limping.

  “It’s all your fault, you pigheaded devil,” I curse. “But I’m willing to forgive you if you stay there nice and easy and let me get on your bony back.”

  The mule snorts but doesn’t edge away as I hobble close enough to snatch the reins. I grip the saddle and throw my lame leg over, pushing myself onto the mule’s back. The movement is excruciating and I sit there a moment, sweat streaming down my face as I catch my breath and wait for the agony to ease up. The pain is so sharp that I’m terrified of actually moving. But I still have messages to deliver. So I grit my teeth and kick the mule with my good leg.

  Cannon thud ahead of me, but I can’t bear any pace faster than a walk. A trot is agony, a gallop torture. By the time I get to the front, the battle is fierce, with our side clearly losing, but I’m so dizzy and nauseous from pain, I barely notice the chaotic butchery around me. It feels like blood is swirling behind my eyes as well as in front of them. All my focus goes to sitting upright and not collapsing. I manage to deliver the messages; then I do the unthinkable: I report to the hospital.

  “Frank!” Dr. Bonine rushes to me when I ride in. “You’re white as a sheet! What happened?” The doctor helps me off the mule, but I quickly shake him off, not wanting his hands to linger on me too long.

  “I’m fine! No need for concern. I fell off this blasted mule is all. Nothing serious, but I’m in a bit of pain.” I will myself to stand as normally as possible. “I can bandage up my own leg if you’ll give me some linen and a splint. And maybe some whiskey would help.”

  “Of course,” says the doctor, heading for the supply chest.

  I slump down, my left leg straight out in front of me. I can’t risk being examined. Granted, my leg seems manly enough, or at least not ladylike, but who knows what the doctor would touch next if I let him set the broken bone. No matter what, I have to convince him to leave me be.

  The doctor returns with liniment, cloth strips, a splint, and a canteen of whiskey.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” I say, taking a quick swallow. “Now go on and tend to the men who really need you. I just have a scratch, a sprain—they have serious wounds.”

  Dr. Bonine notes the sweat pearling on my forehead, the tight pallor of my face. “Are you sure? Maybe you broke something and don’t know it.”

  “No!” I roar. I compose myself, trying not to sound so desperate. “I mean, it’s not bad. I don’t want to waste your valuable time.”

  “I see.” The doctor nods. “I’ll check on you later, then.”

  “Thank you.” I want to sound casual, cheerful even, but I sound strained, like I’ve sat on a nest of red ants. “I’ll be back at the front lines, but I’ll see you when I can.”

  I wait until the doctor bends over a man with blood streaming from his chest. Slowly I cut back my pants leg to reveal the battered shin. My foot is so swollen, I have to cut off the boot as well. I set the splint, then wrap the bandages around my foot and up my leg all the way to the knee. I’ll take care of the ribs later, in the privacy of our tent, once Damon is sound asleep, the way I did the first time. For now I wad up some extra cloth and stuff it into my pocket. I drink another gulp of whiskey, and grabbing my rifle to use as a cane, I wobble to my feet.

  Am I in good enough shape to go back to the battle? I’m not sure, but the whiskey certainly helps deaden the pain. I start to limp away when I hear someone call my name.

  “Frank! It’s me, it’s Damon.” Two nurses carry him in on a stretcher. This time his arm is bleeding.

  With my broken leg, I’m helpless. I can’t lift Damon off the stretcher. I can’t run and get the doctor. So I do what I can. I lean down and dribble some whiskey into his mouth.

  “Frank, stay with me! Don’t leave me!” Damon’s eyes are wide with fear. “I’m not losing an arm now—don’t let them amputate! Curse this war!”

  “Hush, now, you’re not losing anything. You kept your leg and you’ll keep your arm.” I stay with him while the doctor digs out the minié ball and bandages the arm.

  “He’ll live,” grunts the doctor. “No amputation, like your friend here promised. And I’ve got even better news for you, son.”

  “What?” rasps Damon.

  “You’re going home. Soon as you feel strong enough. No sense keeping a soldier who can’t fire a gun, now is there?” Dr. Bonine winks. He turns to me. “And you look a whole lot better yourself, Frank. Glad to see that.”

  “Did you hear that?” Damon grips my arm with his good hand. “I’m going home! It’s too late for the corn harvest, but I don’t care—I’m going home!” Tears trickle down his grimy cheeks.

  I’m happy for Damon, truly I am, relieved he’ll be far from the battleground. But with Jerome gone and Damon leaving, I’ll be lonelier than ever—and limping with cracked ribs and a broken leg. I feel utterly useless and alone.

  Even worse, we’re reliving that first horrible defeat on this same battlefield. This time our soldiers take the fighting seriously—they don’t toss away their ammunition or their canteens. But,
just like at the first Battle of Bull Run, society folks from Washington come to visit the battle, eager to witness combat from a safe vantage point. I pass several government clerks, daintily dressed, as I hobble away from the hospital. One flags me down with his handkerchief, as if I were a hansom cab.

  “Perhaps you can help us,” the clerk says, twirling his hat nervously in his hands. “We want to get on a train back to Washington, but they seem to be crammed with wounded soldiers. No one will answer our questions. How ever are we to get a place? Are we supposed to walk back to Washington?”

  “Who invited you here?” I growl. “No one asked you to come, so you can find your own way home. Unless you want to make yourself useful.” I offer him my gun. “There’s still fighting going on and we could use reinforcements, even ones as lily-livered as you all.”

  The clerk recoils, his muttonchopped cheeks quivering. “Heavens, no! I’m not a soldier!”

  “Then what are you doing here?” I glare. “I’d kick you back to Washington if I could!”

  Now the man looks at me as if I’m crazy, and maybe I am. I limp on, but I have to stop so often, I realize there’s no point in trying to make it to the battlefield. I’m in no better shape to fight than the cowardly clerk, though at least my spirit is willing. My body, however, is not. I cough up blood and am easily winded, but I don’t dare risk a doctor’s care. Instead, I find our tent, crawl in, and sleep. The first time I was wounded, it was also from an animal, not from honest battle. I feel clumsy and stupid, allowing a mule to hurt me while men all around me are shot, including Damon. Am I worthy of their company, I wonder groggily before sleep takes over. What kind of soldier am I?

  By the time I wake up, pain still thudding through my body, the Battles of Bull Run and Chantilly are over, both heavy losses for the Union, and the Second Michigan is sent back to camp near Washington. I shuffle alongside Damon for the last time. He’s set to be discharged as soon as we reach the capital.

  “You know, Frank, you could get a medical discharge yourself,” he suggests. “You look mighty peaked, and anyone can see you’ve got a bum leg.”

  “I just twisted my ankle is all.” I force a smile. “It’s nothing serious. I’m as fit as ever.” I pause. “But dang it all, Damon, I’m going to miss you. And who will my new tentmate be? Someone who snores louder than you, I bet.”

  “You should have appreciated me more while you had me.” Damon grins. “But I expect you’ll find a new buddy. James Reid said he’d take my place.”

  “James?” I consider it. Reid is a strapping, blond lieutenant in the 79th New York Highlanders, a primarily Scottish infantry regiment. He’s an educated man, soft-spoken and deliberate. Most important, he doesn’t drink or gamble, so the two of us might get along. “What happened to his old tentmate?”

  “Died,” Damon says.

  “Well, I hope he has better luck with me,” I snort. “I’m not planning on dying soon.”

  “You’re a tough bird, not the kind to die. I already told James that.” Damon rubs his bandaged arm. “You haven’t even been shot yet. It’s amazing. There you are, in the thick of fighting, weaving in and out on your horse, delivering orders. All around you, men are hit by shells or minié balls. But you must have a guardian angel or something—nothing touches you.”

  I cringe. I’m ashamed I haven’t been wounded. It seems like I’m not really taking risks. “Yeah, instead, I get horses and mules doing me in. Maybe that’s just my fate. I remember the preacher telling Ma not to worry about all my wild escapades because ‘one who was born to be hanged will never be drowned.'”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re going to be hanged?” Damon shivers. “That’s like saying you won’t die in battle, but one of these days the Rebs will figure out you’re a spy. On one of your missions, you’ll be caught and they’ll hang you.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’ve been behind enemy lines three times before the last two battles and managed to get back in one piece. Spying seems safer than fighting.”

  “When did you do that?” Damon gapes. “I don’t remember that.”

  “I told you I was on mail runs, but really General Heintzelman sent me to get information on Lee’s defenses and strategies. I didn’t find out much, and what I learned didn’t seem to help at all.” I shrug. “Sometimes when I go out spying, I don’t end up with anything useful. But when I do …”

  “Here I thought you’d only spied twice, not five times!” Damon stares at me as if I’ve grown an extra head. “You sure know how to keep a secret!”

  I laugh. “You have no idea!” Maybe that’s one valuable thing I offer the Union—my ability to keep secrets and transform myself into an invisible spy, unnoticed by the enemy. Once I disguised myself as a washerwoman, the perfect excuse to go through everyone’s pockets. I found some interesting papers that time! When it comes to fighting, I don’t do as well. Is it because of my own personal failings or the limitations of being a woman? I’m not sure which is preferable.

  Back in Washington, Damon takes one last tour of the capital with me, then boards a train for home.

  “You take good care of yourself, Frank!” He hugs me tightly. I want to hug him back, to hold him to me for a little longer, but I wince and pull away, cradling my aching ribs.

  “You’ll always be my favorite tentmate,” I say, blinking fast so I won’t cry. “Give my best to Virginia! Tell her I’m waiting for another letter!”

  “I’ll make sure she writes you as soon as I see her,” Damon promises. “And I’ll tell her so many stories about you, she’s bound to fall in love, just from my descriptions.”

  I doubt love is so easy, but I’m touched by all of Damon’s efforts on my behalf. If only I were really the kind of man a young girl would want. What Virginia really deserves is someone like Damon.

  I wave as the train chuffs out of the station. I’ve said good-bye to soldiers on trains before, always wounded men heading for hospitals. This is the first time I’ve seen a friend off on a happy voyage, a trip back home. Even though the war is going badly and I’ll miss him so much, my heart lifts at the thought of Damon safe on his farm with his girl at his side. I may be alone, but the two people who matter most to me are far from combat now. That’s something to be grateful for.

  I spend most of the next month nursing my injuries. My new tentmate, James, turns out to be as kind and attentive as Damon promised. I still have to ride for long hours, delivering the mail, but at least when I collapse back in the tent with my foot throbbing, James brings me a plate of hot food and some cool water. More than that, he cheers me up by reading me letters from his wife, telling me stories of home, and singing Scottish ballads. His voice is low and soft, comforting like a blanket. His eyes are a bright cornflower blue, his lips full and sensitive. He’s not like Damon at all, but he’s someone I can talk to. That takes the edge off the pain of my mending ribs and foot.

  August turns into September and still we wait for orders. There’s nothing new for me to put into my dispatches. All I can write about is the sour mood in camp. The soldiers are restless and depressed by the news from the battlefield of Antietam. Although the Union wins, pushing the Rebels out of Maryland, the costs are horrific. More men die that one day than in any other single battle—five thousand killed, twenty thousand wounded. The Second Michigan is still camped outside Alexandria, sitting helplessly by while our comrades are slaughtered. Morale, already low, sinks to even bleaker levels.

  But now it’s Lee’s turn to retreat, and this time the Second Michigan leads the Union advance across the Potomac, back into Virginia. I’m sure that this time we won’t leave until we take Richmond.

  N THE THIRD day of marching south, I’m sent back to deliver messages to General McClellan’s headquarters. I ride Flag along the familiar road, passing column after column of the advance guard as it marches toward Richmond. It’s an impressive sight—the troops are fit, rested, and eager for battle. I remember how foolish we looked on our way t
o that first battle, at Bull Run. Now we’re a real army, and I swell with pride to be part of it.

  I reach McClellan’s headquarters around noon and deliver the messages. I’m invited to eat dinner with the troops there but decide I’d rather get back to my regiment as quickly as possible. I don’t know why I feel anxious, but I can’t shake a sense of dread. I let Flag have a quick drink of water, then get right back on him. But even after I ride for hours, there’s no sign of the mass of troops I passed that morning. Where have they all gone? The shadows are long, and it’s cold and dark now. The thick dread I felt before is heavier than ever, clogging my throat, pricking my eyes. Flag is the only thing that keeps me steady. I lean over and bury my nose in his mane, breathing in his familiar smell.

  It’s deep night now. Owls hoot, katydids chirp, and a sliver of moon is all the light I have to guide me. It’s foolish to keep on riding, but the back of my neck tingles with nerves, anxious at being alone in enemy territory.

  “Well, Flag, what do you suggest?” I ask, needing to hear my voice out loud. “We’ve been fine sleeping in the open before, but I have a queer feeling about these parts. Something’s giving me the willies.” I can think of only one reason why we haven’t crossed the regiments yet. There must have been some sort of skirmish and they’ve changed the line of the march. Otherwise we would have met up with them hours ago. Which leaves me no closer to finding them, but I figure we’ll have a better chance off the main road since they certainly aren’t on it.

  I nudge Flag forward across the countryside until we find another road heading south. I sing to keep us both company, and Flag twitches his ears back to listen. When my voice grows hoarse after too many choruses of “Oh, Susanna,” I try whistling. When I’m too tired for that, I let the quiet of the night envelop us and pray we’ll find our troops soon. I can’t explain why the dark silence makes me so edgy-Flag and I have ridden at night many times before—but I can’t shake a sharp wariness, a fear that my luck is about to run out.