by Marissa Moss
Stars glitter overhead and still I keep riding, shivering as much from nerves as from the cold. It’s only September, but snow falls in thick flurries as we come to a small town. Maybe we can sleep in a barn, I think, but as we near a farmhouse, I spot the ruddy faces and gray uniforms of a small group of Rebel soldiers through the window, lit up in the glow of oil lamps. The scene is cozy and warm, the farmer offering a platter of steaming meat, his wife passing a basket of rolls. My stomach growls, but I suspect I wouldn’t be a welcome guest. I guide Flag back across the fields until he decides he’s had enough, whether I want to rest or not. He slows his walk, then stops completely, dropping his head.
“Come on, Flag, let’s keep going. There’s no shelter here.” My heels thud into Flag’s sides, but he won’t budge. “Flag!” I beg.
Flag turns his head back to me and whinnies softly. “Come on, yourself,” he seems to say. “I’m tired and it’s time to sleep, standing right here if I have to.”
“Well, I can’t blame you. You’re the one who’s done all the work today, carrying me for hours and hours. And I’m tired, too.” I peer into the night, trying to find something in the blackness that could offer protection from the weather.
Snow drifts around us, but through the flakes I can make out the form of a small building. Going closer, I see it’s a woodshed. It’s too full of wood for us to get inside, but if we lean against it, we’ll have at least one side free of wind and snow. I take off Flag’s saddle and blanket.
“Come on, boy,” I coax him. “Lie down now, so I can sleep against you. I need you, Flag.” I pull down on the reins, urging him to sink to his knees. He understands what I want and hunkers down, even though the snow is several inches deep by then and the cold is numbing. “That’s it, Flag.” I pat him with frozen fingers. “We’ll keep each other warm, won’t we?” I curl up beside the welcome heat of his body. As I shiver next to him, he lays his head across my shoulders, a heavy, warm blanket on my chest.
“Thanks, Flag,” I murmur. “Good night.” I can’t remember the last time I’ve been touched by anyone. Pressed against Flag, listening to his thudding heart, I feel held and loved.
I wake up the next morning with numb fingers and toes, but the dread has disappeared. It’s peaceful next to Flag. He’s had enough of me, though, and nibbles at my hair, nudging me to get up.
“Good morning,” I croak. Everything feels stiff and chilled, including my voice. Flag heaves himself up, shaking off the dusting of snow that has coated him during the night. I throw the blanket and saddle onto his back, then clamber on myself. All around us, the world is white with icy blue shadows. If I were cozy, with a full stomach, I would think it beautiful.
“Come on, Flag, let’s find us some breakfast.” Down the road we cross a field with stacks of corn. “It’s not food for me, but at least you can eat,” I offer. Flag looks like he enjoys the corn so much, husks and all, that I can’t resist. I tear the husks off an ear and sink my teeth into the frozen kernels. They’re too cold for me to tell if they taste good or not. And it doesn’t matter—they stop my stomach from growling, and that’s all that counts.
I’m standing there, chomping on the corn, when some movement down the road catches my eye. Instantly, I leap back onto Flag, my gun in hand, my muscles tight with nerves. In the pink morning light I make out a small group of blue-clad men on horseback, a party of Union cavalry. The knot in my chest dissolves. Maybe they can direct me to my regiment. Or I could ride with them. All on horseback, we’d keep the same pace.
“Ho, there!” I wave, trotting toward them. “I’m Frank Thompson, Second Michigan, looking for the Army of the Potomac on their way to Richmond.”
“Can’t say exactly where they are,” one of the soldiers answers. “We’re searching for a band of Confederate scouts we heard tell are in these parts. Seen any sign of them?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. And I’d be happy to take you to them,” I offer, “if only my stomach wasn’t so weak from hunger.”
The soldier digs into his haversack and takes out a couple of biscuits. “Reckon this’ll help?” he asks.
I grab the biscuits and wolf them down, nodding. I’m still chewing as I turn Flag around and head back to the town we passed the night before.
“So where are these Rebs and how many are there?” the soldier asks.
“I saw them last night in a farmhouse not far from here. I can’t say exactly how many. Through the window, I could see seven or eight of them. After you get them, will you be heading back to the main army? I could go with you.”
The soldier turns to answer but never gets a word out. A minié ball hits him square in the chest, and he falls off his horse. Another shot rings out and another. I whirl Flag around but can’t see where to go. Gray uniforms surround us. We’ve been ambushed. I pull out my gun and aim at a patch of gray. Before I can shoot, there’s a loud burst of bullets and Flag jolts back. His head jerks up, eyes rolling white, and I feel the balls hit his body and echo through mine. Blood froths from his nostrils. He bucks, throwing me over his head. I crash to the ground, the gun flying out of my hand. Flag whinnies shrilly, the scream of a dying horse, and falls. He lands on me, his neck thrown across my body. I lie there facedown, trapped and stunned. Warm, sticky blood oozes down the back of my neck and onto my face. I can’t tell if it’s mine or Flag’s. Shots careen around me. A blue-coated soldier hits the ground next to me with a thud. I watch as the blade of a saber rams through his chest, is pulled out and thrust in again. The Reb will finish me off next. I close my eyes and hold my breath. I’m already dead, I tell myself. I’m dead. I’m dead. Seconds pass and there’s no more gunfire, no more slashing or stabbing. Just the shuffle of boots, the creaking of saddles, the murmur of Southern accents as the Confederates get back on their horses and ride off. I lie there, tasting dirt and blood, wondering when it will be safe to move. I open my eyes a crack, then quickly shut them as I hear the hooves of a horse returning. The hoofbeats come closer; then the thump of a booted man, dismounting and walking closer. The Rebel soldier grabs hold of my feet and pulls me out from under Flag. He wrenches off my boots, then throws them down in disgust.
“Too small,” a voice mutters. “There must be somethin’ heah worth the takin’.”
I keep my eyes closed without squinching them tightly. I don’t breathe as the man rolls me over and rifles through my pockets, taking my watch, Jerome’s locket, and a few dollars. As his hands brush against my breasts, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from flinching. He kicks me lazily in the hip, making me swallow a pained gasp. Then he hurls himself back on his horse and is gone.
I scarcely dare to breathe, counting out five long minutes, then ten, then fifteen. I open my eyes slowly. Three men and two horses are sprawled dead in the road, but there’s no sign of anyone else. Shakily, I stand up, feeling all over for injuries. My left leg, only just mended from the fall off the mule, seems broken again. But the pain isn’t as bad as the first time, and I can limp up the road. There’s a big bump on my forehead, and my hands are scraped from the fall, but all the blood on me is Flag’s. He’s saved my life twice in two days. I look at his still body, three bullet holes in his neck and chest.
“My good, brave Flag,” I croon, kneeling down and stroking his nose. “Thank you. For everything. I’ve never known a better horse, a truer friend.” I kiss the blaze between his eyes, finger his silky ears, tears salting my cheeks. All the secrets I’ve confided to Flag are still in his loyal heart. There’s no one else I can be honest with, no one else who knows me so well. Flag never cared whether I was a man or a woman, a coward or a hero.
“Think, Frank.” I say the words out loud to give myself courage. “You’ve got to think what to do next. You can’t stay here next to your dead horse.” I find my boots and put them back on, grateful for the first time for having small feet, but my fingers fumble nervously. It feels like my hands don’t belong to me—none of my body does.
I force mys
elf to stand, not sure where to go except south in the direction of Richmond. I’ve managed a few stiff paces when once again I hear horses. It’s too late to play dead again. And my gun, where’s my gun? I look back to where I fell, but the Confederates must have taken it.
I turn to face the horsemen, determined to die on my feet if that’s my fate. The men whoop and wave as they come closer. I stiffen, heart pounding, expecting the dreaded Rebel yell. Instead, I hear Northern voices. Relief washes over me, and I see that it’s the rest of the group of cavalry, the survivors of the ambush, returned with reinforcements.
They pull up when they get closer. “We’re going after those bastards,” the commander barks. “And we’ll get them this time.”
“I’ll come with you,” I say.
“You look like you’ve been through enough for one day,” the commander observes, eyeing my bloody uniform. “Jimmy here will take you back to camp.” He nods toward a short redhead, who jumps off his horse and boosts me onto it.
I nod. “Thank you.” Suddenly I can’t stop shivering—from cold or grief I can’t say. Numbly, I let myself be led to camp. For the first time since I enlisted, I want to go home. I’ve been in the army for sixteen months, have seen countless men die, have almost died myself a couple of times. And now I’ve seen one of my best friends killed. I’m bone weary and feel hollowed out, empty. There’s no Jerome, no Damon, no Flag, no one waiting to comfort me. In the crowded camp, with men all around, I have never felt so alone.
The next day the small band of cavalry returns to camp, leading the Confederates who ambushed us trussed up as prisoners. Flag is still dead and so are the three soldiers, but the sergeant hands me my watch, my money, and Jerome’s locket. I finger the smooth gold oval, then flick open the hinge. Jerome’s eyes gaze out at me. At least I still have something to remember him by. I take that as a good omen. Maybe it means Jerome will be returned to me, too, that I won’t have to finish my time in the army all by myself.
RESIDENT LINCOLN, LIKE us, has been patient with General McClellan’s mistakes and defeats, but by November 1862 he’s apparently had enough. He unceremoniously dismisses McClellan and puts us under the command of General Ambrose Burnside. To me, to all the men of the Second Michigan, this is a total disaster.
“I’d follow McClellan anywhere, but this Burnside fellow …”
“He’s not worthy of polishing McClellan’s boots, he isn’t!”
“The only good thing I’ve heard about Burnside is that he’s got a stylish way of growing the hair along his cheeks in front of his ears—we’ll be led by a general known for his facial hair!”
General Ambrose Burnside.
Grousing like that makes the rounds at every meal, between drills, in the quiet times when the men have to talk. It doesn’t stop when McClellan calls the Army of the Potomac together for the last time to deliver a rousing farewell. He heaps praises on us, noting the risks we’ve faced, the battles we’ve won, the strong, coherent army we have at last become.
“'Tis a mistake,” James remarks in his soft burr. “McClellan may be slow, but he’s sure and steady. He’s the man to win this war.”
A soldier nearby nods, wiping tears from his eyes. All around us, soldiers are crying. When McClellan urges us to support the new commander, General Burnside, as we have him, a loud chorus of boos erupts. I can’t resist jeering along with the others. Of course, I’ll obey. I’ll serve him to the best of my ability. But I don’t have to like him. He’ll have to earn my respect and admiration.
At least there’s one thing that eases the change of command—at the same time McClellan is dismissed, Colonel Poe is promoted to brigadier general. He’s a general I respect. And one who respects me. Poe values my skills and depends on me as a spy, as a postmaster, and in battles as his orderly. I direct all my loyalty toward Poe so that I don’t have to think about Burnside.
James has also been promoted, to acting assistant adjutant general to General Poe. Now as well as sharing a tent, we meet almost every day when he passes on the general’s orders. His friendship fills the gaping hole left by Jerome and Damon.
Sitting next to him by the evening campfire, I allow myself to relax, to feel at home. The army has been my family for nearly two years, but it’s been splintered by the loss of so many fellow soldiers—and my horse, Flag. Somehow the more bloodshed I see, the more sensitive I become. The thick skin I created to protect myself is being worn away with each battle. Now only a paper-thin layer is left, and I’m nearly naked and raw in front of the ugly brutalities of war.
For the first time since Bull Run, I wonder if I’ll turn tail like so many other soldiers—if instead of fighting, I’ll run away, cower behind a tree or boulder until the killing is over. I wish I could be sure of my own courage. Everyone else seems to think I’m the picture of the daring soldier, but they don’t know how much I quake inside.
The army is gearing up for a big battle, and I dread the coming slaughter. Our sentries can look across the Rappahannock and wave to the Rebel pickets, who thumb their noses in return. The water won’t divide us for long, however. Burnside has chosen his strategy: to build pontoon bridges across the river, then head straight to Richmond, cutting down the Confederates as they flee.
But will they run? Lee’s entire army is massed in Fredericksburg on the other side of the river. To fight them, we will not only have to cross the bridges, exposing ourselves to Rebel fire, we’ll then have to climb the banks to the city on the ridge above. It will be like the battle of Malvern Hill, only this time we’ll be the ones in the suicidal position of trying to storm a hill.
Pontoon bridge across the Rappahannock, Battle of Fredericksburg, Va.
Burnside refuses to hear any objections. The president demands action, and action he’ll have! The general insists that Lee will be surprised by our move. We’re to build the bridges under cover of night and be across them before dawn, attacking the Confederates as they sleep.
As I listen to General Poe give the orders, the dread I’ve been feeling for days deepens. It sounds like a suicide mission. How can we possibly get three bridges built and 100, 000 men across them before the sun rises?
Like most of the soldiers in camp that night, I can’t shake off the black gloom gripping me. I’ve had too many near misses to expect any more. The next time I’ll be shot, hit by a cannonball, run through by a saber. I toss and turn, trying to catch a few hours of sleep, but I’m too anxious to do anything more than close my eyes. On the other side of the tent James sleeps soundly, and I match his slow, deep breathing with my own. If I sound like I’m asleep, maybe I really will be. But of course that doesn’t work. I can’t shut out the ugly images in my mind’s eye—Flag’s bloody body, the saber stabbing the soldier next to me, the look of surprise in the officer’s eyes when the bullet hits his chest. As the sky blushes pink in the first rays of morning, I still haven’t slept, and it’s time to report to General Poe.
Thick fog hugs the banks of the river, lifting enough to reveal that the upriver bridge is only half built. The other two are no nearer completion. The fog thins until I can make out on the opposite shore the ridge bristling with hundreds of Confederate guns. The Rebels have been waiting for dawn, and now that they can see, they pour fire on the Union soldiers building the bridges. It’s a steady massacre. For every three men working on the pontoons, two are shot. The men keep falling into the water, wounded or dead, but Burnside demands the bridges be finished. To chase out the sharpshooters, the general orders the cannon to fire heavily on the opposite shore. The town of Fredericksburg is hit, but most of the houses along the bank withstand the barrage, allowing the sharpshooters to keep up their continual fire.
A call goes out for volunteers to cross the river in boats and storm the houses. Three regiments quickly offer to do the job—the 7th Michigan and the 19th and 20th Massachusetts. Even though the soldiers hunker down low in their boats, many are shot. Still, the rest keep going, and enough of them survive to storm the houses,
capturing or killing the Rebel sharpshooters. The cost is high, but the bridges are finished.
There’s no chance of surprise now. Still, Burnside is convinced that there is no way but forward. The rest of the day is eerily quiet as each side gathers its wounded and dead. We all know the next morning will bring a fierce battle, and a somber mood permeates the camp as soldiers write last letters home or make final entries in their diaries. I pass another bad night, managing only a couple of hours of disjointed sleep. Before dawn I get out my journal, hoping to find relief on the page if I set down a few sentences. Like everyone else, I know I’m likely to die that day. “While I write, the roar of cannon and musketry is almost deafening. This may be my last entry in this journal. God’s will be done.” Still, I don’t regret enlisting, and if it’s my time to die, I’m resigned to meet my fate.
I’m grateful for all the army has given me. I know myself better now, my strengths and weaknesses. I’m proud of the soldier, the nurse, the spy, the strong person I’ve become. I feel deeply connected to the Union brotherhood, to our values of loyalty and selfless hard work. As I write in my journal, I realize that living so closely among men has changed my opinion of them. Yes, some are lazy, greedy, opportunistic, or selfish, but they aren’t the dimwitted, quick-tempered beasts I’ve assumed. I think of Damon, Dr. Bonine, General Poe, Jerome, and my new tentmate, James. They’re all men I’m honored to know, fortunate to serve with. They’re my real family. I could have been safe at home on a farm with Old Man Ludham, but even facing a gory battle in the morning, there’s no place else I’d rather be.
My mind is too full to sleep, so I pick up my pen again, and this time I write to Mr. Hurlburt. It’s been a while since my last dispatch, and he’s begged me for more. According to him, my part of the newsletter is the most popular. I find that hard to believe, especially when I write much of the same things to Virginia and she responds with more and more caution. Her last letter was particularly distant. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she had a beau, someone close by, in person, taking all her attention. She writes me out of courtesy and duty, nothing else. I’ve written to Damon about her, told him how she hasn’t fallen for me at all like he predicted. But really I don’t mind. Her letters have been a distraction more than anything else.