A Soldier's Secret

by Marissa Moss

  “Still,” Jerome says, “to disobey a direct order. That’s a serious offense.”

  “You weren’t here,” I snap. “You don’t understand. It wasn’t a clear, direct order. It was ambiguous, garbled, the kind of direction Burnside specializes in.”

  “I’ve never heard you so bitter,” Jerome says. “You usually have such a rosy view of things.”

  “This war’s enough to make pessimists of us all.” I shrug. “Is there any possibility we can win? Tell me, is there?”

  Jerome is taken aback. “Of course there is.”

  I snort. “I wish I believed you. We can talk more tomorrow. Right now there’s mail to deliver.”

  “Sure, tomorrow,” Jerome agrees. “Maybe we could go for a walk, the way we used to. We’ve barely had more than ten minutes together since I got here. Your tentmate seems to take up a good deal of your time.”

  “My duties take up a good deal of my time,” I insist. “And yes, tomorrow we’ll have more time.”

  I show up at Jerome’s tent the next morning, leading two horses, Lucky and James’s palomino mare. “Hey, Jerome,” I yell into the canvas flaps. “Want to ride with me on my mail run today? James is sick with a tetchy stomach, so he said you can use his horse.”

  Jerome jumps out of the tent. “You bet! It’ll be a nice change from the hospital.” He pats the mare’s nose. “She’s a fine animal. Sorry to hear about James.” He smiles so broadly, he doesn’t look the least bit sorry.

  The weather is crisp and cold, but at least it’s dry and the roads aren’t too slushy. It feels good to get out of camp, and we slip into our old, easy camaraderie as we ride side by side.

  “I got a sweet letter from Damon. He says he’s happy farming, and he sent me a gift for Christmas. Want to guess what it was?” I ask.

  “Socks?” Jerome suggests. “A scarf?”

  “No!” I laugh. “Nothing like that. He sent me a book-here, take a look.”

  I pull a small paperback out of my coat pocket, already worn and well thumbed through.

  “You’ve read it, I take it,” Jerome says, reaching for the book.

  “In one gulp. It’s not great writing. I suppose you could call it lowbrow, but I enjoyed it.”

  Jerome reads the title aloud: “Pauline of the Potomac, or, General McClellan’s Spy, by Wesley Bradshaw.” He skims the first few pages. “You’re right about the quality of the writing, but I can see why the story attracted you. I doubt I’d find it as compelling.”

  “Damon sent it to me because of the spy part, but it’s closer to my life than he imagines! It’s about a young French girl—that’s Pauline—who becomes a daring spy for McClellan. Just like someone you know.” I sigh. We haven’t talked about my being a woman since that fateful day so long ago, but I’m tired of pretending. Anyway, I’m only alluding to my sex, not baldly stating it. Now that I don’t even have Flag to confide in, I need at least one person to know the truth about me. “Do you think my life would make a good story?”

  Jerome laughs. “If you wrote about it, nobody would believe it. It would sound far too melodramatic and impossible. Women can’t really be soldiers, you know.”

  I narrow my eyes. Jerome is finally acknowledging who I am, but it isn’t a compliment. At least it isn’t an accusation. “They can’t? I’ve seen those stories in the newspaper. You must have, too. I’m not the only woman to wear a man’s uniform. That nurse, Clara Barton, wrote about a dying soldier at Antietam who turned out to be a woman.” There—I’ve said it. I’m not the only woman—I’m admitting that I am one. Will Jerome turn on me again? Will he push me away as an unnatural creature? Or after all this time, all we’ve been through, is he finally ready to accept me?

  “But those soldiers probably aren’t good fighters.” Jerome skips over my admission and focuses on the other women, the ones he doesn’t know or care about. “They just want to be close to their husbands or brothers. I read the Clara Barton story. That woman joined to be with her sweetheart, who was a Union officer.”

  I rein in my horse. This is my chance. “Are you saying that I’m not a good fighter? That I’m not as brave as the next man?”

  Jerome blushes. “I didn’t mean you, of course. Everyone knows how courageous you are. I heard about the risks you took during the Battle of Fredericksburg from several different men. I’ve seen you in action myself. You’re much braver than I am!”

  I kick my horse and gallop forward, hunching low over Lucky’s neck. “I’m a better horseman, too!” I yell over my shoulder.

  Jerome kicks his mare. “We’ll see about that!”

  The two horses race flat out, finally pulling up in a lather at Aquia Creek Wharf.

  Jerome slides off his horse, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “I admit it, you beat me,” he pants, leaning over with his hands on his knees.

  “Just don’t forget it, then,” I say, hands on my hips. “A woman is a better rider than you.” I let the words sink in. This time I’m not backing off. I’ve lost too many friends, seen too many men die, to bother with any more lies. It’s time for both of us to face the truth of who I am.

  Jerome shakes his head, still winded. “Don’t worry, Frank. You’re unforgettable.” But I notice that he can’t meet my eyes.

  HE WEATHER IN Virginia is as harsh in winter as in summer. Instead of sweltering heat and clouds of flies, freezing winds howl and snow piles high in muddy drifts. In the midst of this bleakness, we hear strange news from a New Jersey regiment camped downriver from the Second Michigan.

  A corporal in the regiment has given birth. The woman had disguised herself so well, no one had noticed her pregnancy. But birthing was more difficult to hide, and when the mother went into labor, her secret was soon known to everyone. To my surprise, the response is sympathetic, not critical. I thought a woman dressed as a man would be branded as unnatural at best, a lady of loose morals at worst. But this woman has attained the rank of corporal and shared her tent with her husband, so her character draws respect.

  Union soldier, possibly pregnant.

  Hearing that the mother is recuperating at Lacy House, I can’t resist visiting her. I want to see what she looks like, what kind of person she is. I often check in with Jerome and the doctors at the manor-house-turned-hospital, so it won’t seem odd for me to be there. In fact, Dr. Bonine greets me as I walk in.

  “Ah, Frank, always good to see you. Jerome isn’t here right now, but he’ll be back this afternoon.”

  “Actually, I was curious about the new mother,” I admit.

  “Yes, she’s attracted quite a bit of attention.” The doctor smiles. “It’s wonderful to have a babe among us. Gives one hope, don’t you think?” He leads the way upstairs to a small bedroom. “She’s in here.” He knocks lightly, then opens the door. “You have a visitor, ma’am, our postmaster, Frank Thompson.” The doctor ushers me in, then shuts the door behind him with a soft click.

  A small, dark-haired woman with large brown eyes sits up in bed, a swaddled baby nestled in the crook of her arm. Its face is wrinkled and red like a dried apple. The eyes are squinted tight shut, the mouth pursed in an O. It’s the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen.

  “You’ve brought me mail?” she asks.

  I take an awkward step closer to the head of the bed. “No, ma’am. I’ve just come to pay my respects. I think it was very brave of you to do what you did.” I examine the young woman’s face. The eyes glitter over dark circles, the cheeks are hollow, and the nose and chin are sharp. It isn’t a particularly feminine face. She resembles a weasel more than a lady.

  “I needed to be with my man, that’s all.” Her voice is flat and tired, as if she’s explained this many times before.

  “Was it hard?” I ask. “Keeping that big a secret from so many people?”

  The woman glares at me, narrowing her eyes. “What business is it of yours?”

  I quickly lower my chin. I can’t hold the woman’s piercing gaze. “I didn’t mean to pry. Forg
ive me for asking. I wish you well, that’s all.” I back out of the room, my ears red with embarrassment. I’m not sure what I expected, but this woman isn’t it. I suppose I wanted a model of a woman who could disguise herself as a man but still remain womanly enough to have a baby. Except I don’t admire her as a model anything. If I hoped for a kindred spirit, I certainly didn’t find one.

  I leave the house, breathing in deeply the crisp, cold winter air. It felt suffocating to be with the mother, as if I too risked having my life boxed in, narrowed by being female. I stamp my feet, crunching down the snow. That won’t be me, I vow. True, Jerome knows I’m a woman, but my secret is safe with him. I belong here, among men, not trapped in the confined world of women.

  Heading back to headquarters, I bump into William Macky, a soldier from the new family’s regiment, who’s collecting money for the new parents to start a home.

  “Frank!” he calls, holding out a cap for donations. “What’ll you give for this poor Union baby to have a warm home? The proud father has to finish his last six months of enlistment, but the mother and child have to leave, and they need our help.”

  I pull several bills out of my wallet and add them to the pile. “Did you suspect?” I ask. “Didn’t you see her belly swelling?”

  William chuckles. “I guess our attention was elsewhere, like on not getting killed.” He locks eyes with me. “Maybe you see what you expect to see. I thought the corporal was on the weak side, but not more than some of our younger, slighter soldiers. I did remark on her getting heavier, but that was only in the last month when we were sitting here idle. I thought she was soft from inaction.” He shrugs. “She was a corporal—I expected her to be less fit than us privates.”

  “I wonder if she’s the only one.” I rub my chin, thoughtfully. If I could share my secret with other women, would I be less lonely? I don’t think so. I have good friends in Jerome and James. Years ago, when I was Sarah Emma Edmonds, I was close to my sisters, but I never enjoyed with them the kind of deep conversations I have with my men friends now. Women’s interests, their worlds, are so narrow compared to men’s. I think of Virginia’s letters, how limited they are, nothing like the discussions I have with men. And I like the respect I see in other men’s eyes, something I’ve never seen granted to a woman, something I could never earn if folks think I’m Sarah and not Frank.

  “Anyway,” I continue, “I doubt there’ll be many other babies, even if there are other women in the ranks disguised as men.”

  William nods. “Since her identity was discovered, we’ve heard all kinds of stories about women dressed as men in both armies. Wonder how many are wild rumors, how many are true.”

  The thought flits through my mind that maybe there are rumors about me, but I quickly dismiss it. I’ve become a master of relieving myself in hidden places, expert at changing my clothes beneath blankets, skilled at using and disposing of bandages for my monthlies. I’ve proven my bravery many times over. Not just as a soldier but as a postmaster, orderly, nurse, and spy. No one could suspect a woman of having such abilities. That’s what I tell myself as I join the clusters of men speculating about the pregnant corporal and the birth of the newest recruit.

  Jerome sits next to me during one such discussion that evening. He stares intently at me all through supper, as if the unmasking of the corporal makes my secret more real to him. I catch him watching me hold my plate and fork like a man, chow down like a man, sit with my legs apart like a man. I make my gestures broader and cruder than usual, burping loudly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. If Jerome is searching for a hint of femininity, he’s not going to find any.

  Jerome isn’t the only one studying me with a strange new intensity. James sits on my other side that night and looks at me as if he’s never seen me before. He chews reflectively, studying my hands, my face, my every movement. Is he putting together small hints, clues about my sex? I’ve been careful, I’m always careful, but there was the time James went to great trouble to get a hot bath at Lacy House. General Poe granted him special permission, and James offered to let me soak in the warm tub once he was done. Of course, I turned him down, something he was unable to fathom-why not, he’d insisted—but now maybe he suspects why. And there was the time he found some bloody cloths in the tent and, worried that I was hurt, asked if I needed help. I turned bright red and insisted I was fine, explaining that the rags were scraps from the hospital that I’d stuck in my pocket and forgotten about. Now maybe he suspects the truth—that they were menstrual cloths. Since one soldier has turned out to be a woman in disguise, couldn’t another? I spit on the ground, trying to show both James and Jerome that I’m as far from a lady as you can get.

  I’m relieved when the topic of conversation shifts from the female corporal to President Lincoln. In September, after the victory at Antietam, he issued the Emancipation Proclamation, which recently took effect, at least in theory, in January 1863. Supposedly all slaves in the Confederacy are free now, though of course Jefferson Davis, the president of the seceding states, insists that the Union president has no authority for such a law or any other.

  “I don’t understand why he did that,” one soldier gripes. “I thought this war was about preserving the Union, not abolishing slavery.”

  “It was a wise move,” James counters. “The French and British can’t possibly support the Southerners now. They recognize slavery as morally abhorrent, even if the Union doesn’t.”

  “I think getting rid of slavery is an excellent reason to fight.” I toss some kindling into the campfire. “How can we call ourselves Christians when we allow other human beings to be treated like animals? I’ve seen the contraband camps in Washington, how hard they work and how hungry they are for learning. Seems to me everyone deserves basic respect and freedom.”

  “You would think that,” Jerome says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I’m taken aback.

  “You’re a sensitive soul, that’s all, a soft heart.” After all this time, is Jerome going to give away my secret now, all because of a stupid woman having a baby?

  “As are you,” I remark lightly. “I’ve never seen such a gentle, kind nurse as you, Jerome. All the doctors agree.”

  The conversation shifts again, this time to where the army will go next, how long we’ll sit at Falmouth, and whether Burnside will remain in command.

  Jerome holds my gaze and smiles. “Don’t worry,” his eyes seem to say. “I’ll keep your secret.”

  I lower my eyes, confused. Is Jerome trying to show me how much power he has over me? Is he protecting me or goading me? I not only have to worry about Jerome: I can see James watching the two of us with sharp suspicion. He can tell that Jerome knows something—he just doesn’t know what. And so long as I can help it, he never will. How can I prove myself as a man? When James stands up and stretches, I yawn myself, opening my mouth wide with food still in it. There—how’s that for male behavior? James just says his good-nights and heads for the tent.

  I watch him go, his broad back melting into the darkness, relieved to have his prying eyes off me. Truth is, I’ve grown too comfortable with my disguise. Even after five years, I can’t afford to take it for granted anymore, now that it’s a known fact that people like me exist, people who call themselves one thing but are really another.

  I glare at Jerome. “May I speak with you?” I hiss, leading him away from the fire, away from other ears.

  “Of course,” he says, wiping his hands on his pants. “You sound angry. Did I do something wrong?”

  “Yes!” I snap. “You did! What were you talking about? Were you trying to hint to everyone that I’m a woman? I need to know right now if you’re going to reveal my secret. Tell me!”

  “Whoa!” Jerome holds up his hands. “I haven’t said anything yet, so what makes you think I will now? You know this isn’t a subject I like to think about, much less talk about. I’d rather you would just stay Frank.” Jerome stares at the ground. “I wish you’d neve
r told me.”

  “Same here! So why don’t we pretend I didn’t, since you can’t see me as anything but Frank anyway.” For a second I hate him, hate him for making me weak, hate him for making me love him.

  “I would if you wouldn’t keep shoving my nose in it, talking about Pauline the spy, how you’re as good a soldier or rider as a man. How am I supposed to respond to that?” Jerome looks at me now, his eyes flashing anger. “Stop cornering me!”

  “I’m the one who’s cornered!” I start to cry, hoarse hiccups of exhaustion and sorrow. I’m so tired of being strong, of putting on an act.

  “Now, Frank, please don’t cry. Please!” Jerome puts his arm around me. He pats my back awkwardly. “Frank, you can trust me. I’ll never tell, I promise. Don’t worry. There’s no reason to be so upset. Everything will be fine.”

  I lean into his warm body and let myself sniffle. He isn’t holding me the way a man holds a woman, but it still feels good. We stand there that way until Jerome pulls himself away.

  “You all right, now?” He dabs at my face with his handkerchief.

  I nod. It isn’t true, but I am better, as good as I could be with the man who doesn’t love me.

  “Can you do something for me, then?” Jerome asks.

  I nod again, calm and clear after all the tears.

  “Can you be Frank again, the friend I know and love?”

  He loves me? I grin, light-headed. “Of course.” After all, who else would I be?

  HOUGH I DON’T have to worry about Jerome, I’m careful with James, acting as gruff and manly as I know how. Which means I break wind and belch, spit and scratch, repeat crude jokes I’ve overheard. James is as friendly as ever, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s watching me, waiting for me to do something that will reveal my secret. I keep my tone light as I hand him several letters addressed in his wife’s elegant handwriting.

  “How’s the missus?” I ask. “She must miss you a lot, writing to you so much.”