by Marissa Moss
James’s nose is already buried in the first letter. “Yes, she misses me, but that’s not the only reason she writes. She’s ailing and doesn’t know what to do. Her family is all in England, where she’s from. She has no one to help her there in New York.” He sighs, folding up the letter and opening the next one. “If she gets worse, something will have to be done.”
“What’s the matter with her?” I ask.
James shakes his head. “I dinna know. She isn’t clear about that. But she’s weak and getting weaker.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, his brow furrowed. “What can I do?”
“Ask for a leave so you can take care of her, since she has no one else,” I suggest. “I’m sure it would be granted to you.”
James looks up from the letter he’s holding. “That’s a good idea. Thank you. You’re a good man, Frank.”
I smile, relieved. He’s called me a man. “General Poe is most understanding,” I add, then leave to deliver the rest of the mail.
As I hand out letters, I hear nuggets of information. We’ve been sitting at Falmouth for weeks now, and the idleness gives the men time to think up the most preposterous scenarios. Some think we’ll retreat back to the coast and ship out on boats for the Virginia Peninsula again. Others argue we’ll give up on Richmond entirely and head back to Washington. Still others think we’ll be sent on a broad loop, marching all the way around to attack Richmond from the west. No one expects Burnside’s next plan.
The general hasn’t given up on crossing the Rappahannock. He thinks we should try the same tactics, only this time a few miles above Fredericksburg, crossing into territory where Lee has no fortifications. We would still have to face the Confederates, but this way we could cross the river without making easy targets of ourselves. At least, that’s the theory.
On a wet, blustery day Burnside announces his strategy. The men are eager to move, despite the heavy rain and strong winds. It’s always harder to sit and wait than to do something, and the memory of Fredericksburg has faded some. But as soon as the first regiments start out, the problems begin. The mud on the riverbank is so thick and sticky, a dozen horses can’t budge one cannon. The men are forced to wade in ankle-deep sludge that grips at their boots, making each step an exhausting effort. The pontoons themselves get stuck in the mire. Luckily the Second Michigan isn’t one of the advance regiments, but I’m at the front line with General Poe, organizing the troops.
Standing on an overlook with the general, we watch the horses straining to pull the artillery. “It’s like trying to plow through mud,” I observe.
Poe shakes his head in disgust. “It’s a mud march.” The name sticks. After two days of lurching in the muck, the regiments straggle back to camp, defeated and soaked to the bone. Burnside’s Mud March means the end of his command over the Army of the Potomac. Instead, he’s given temporary command of the Ninth Army Corps, which unfortunately for us includes the Second Michigan. “Mud March” is how I title my dispatch to Mr. Hurlburt. Might as well let the nation know what’s happening.
The rest of the army is placed under Joseph Hooker’s command. He’s a loud, brash ladies’ man who keeps so many women of questionable morals around headquarters that his last name comes to be associated with women of ill-repute. I’ve heard the same rumors everyone else has and don’t like the idea of this new general. Still, anyone has to be better than Burnside.
I chafe at the idea of continuing to answer to Burnside, a commander I don’t respect in the slightest, even though General Poe remains my direct superior. Worse still, the Ninth Army Corps is sent back to Fort Monroe, confirming the earlier rumors. The idea is to force General Lee to defend Richmond from the southeast as well as from the north. The boat trip there is less complicated this time, since far fewer regiments make the crossing. But once again it’s a wasted journey, and we’re stationed on the peninsula for only a few weeks before we’re ordered to Kentucky as part of the Army of the Cumberland, joining General Ulysses Grant in his attempt to capture Vicksburg, Mississippi, this spring.
In Grant I finally find a commander I can admire. I’d lost faith that the Union could ever win the war, but Grant has an authority and energy that are inspiring. He’s no McClellan, but he’s far superior to Burnside or Hooker. He’s a real soldier.
The Second Michigan is camped in Lebanon, Kentucky, when General Poe orders me on a new spy mission. This time—for the first time—I’m told what disguise to use: I’ll be dressed as a Rebel soldier, using clothes and information taken from a Confederate prisoner.
I’m changing in the tent when I hear footsteps. My fingers fumble as I finish buttoning up the brown shirt when James ducks into the tent.
“Seems risky to me,” he says, commenting on my disguise. “They’ll ask why you aren’t with your regiment and where you come from.”
I wipe the sweat from my brow. It is risky, all right, but not the way he means.
“Ah’ll say that Ah got lost when Ah wuz sent for provisionin’. Don’ worruh, Ah know what Ah’m doin’.” I smooth my pants, make sure my belt is buckled.
James chuckles at my Southern drawl. “And what was your last battle and which regiment? Who’s your commanding officer?”
“Ah’ve got all those names. Ah took ’em from the same gen’lman who dun give me his uniform.” I pick up my gun. “Well, suh, what do yuh think?”
“You’ve got nerve, Frank, I’ll say that for you. And you’re the perfect picture of the young Rebel. But I thought their uniforms were gray—you’re dressed in brown.”
“That’s what they wear in the Kentucky cavalry. There’s no particular uniform—they just wear as close to a butternut color as they can match. Leastwise, that’s what I’ve been told. I have to trust our intelligence, since I’m part of it.” I head out of the tent, toward the picket line. “How’s your wife?” I call back over my shoulder.
“Not good.” James shakes his head. “But don’t worry about her—you take good care of yourself.”
It’s been months since my last mission, and I’m eager to get back to spying. I can finally walk without limping badly, and my ribs and arm no longer ache. It feels good to take big strides. I reach the edge of camp, where I recognize the picket and give him the countersign.
“Don’t shoot at me when I come back, now,” I warn. “I’ll still be dressed like this.”
“So long as you hold your hands up high and give the countersign, you’ll be safe,” the sentry assures me. “Just don’t get shot by Johnny Reb.”
I start down the road from Lebanon, practicing my story. I’m supposed to have gotten lost while looking for supplies for my cavalry unit, going to farmhouses for butter and eggs. Really, I’m assigned to note Confederate positions and where they’re moving. As a single Rebel soldier, I assume the people in the countryside will want to help me find my lost unit. They’ll let me know about any troops they’ve seen in their neighborhood.
Toward evening I come to a small village and knock on the door of the closest house. The door opens and I find myself facing a Confederate officer. Behind him swirls a crowd of soldiers, officers, and farm folk, all dressed up and in a festive mood. Strains of music, a fiddle and a squeeze-box, flow over the murmur of conversation. I’m not sure what to say. I want to know where the troops are—not actually run into them.
“Yes?” The officer raises an eyebrow. “Who are you?”
What else can I do but stick to my story? “Ah’m Private Frederick Tate, suh, from the Fifth Kentucky cavalry.”
“You mus’ be heah for the weddin’ then! Come in, boy.” The soldier ushers me into a large room filled with people. Taking me firmly by the elbow, the man leads me to a chestnut-haired officer standing by a plump young woman in a bridal dress.
“Captain Logan, the lucky groom, and Bess Winchester, the beautiful bride.”
I hold out my hand to the captain. “Congratulations, suh!”
The new wife giggles. “Why, sweetheart, you have even more men under your co
mmand than I thought. Won’t Daddy be proud!”
I gape. Could I have run into my supposed commanding officer? Of all the damned luck!
“And who are you?” the captain asks.
Sweat trickles down my neck. I force myself to take deep breaths.
“Private Frederick Tate, suh,” I repeat. “Fifth Kentucky cavalry.”
The groom’s eyes narrow. “Why aren’t you with your unit, soldier? You’re not a yellah-bellied deserter, now are you?”
“Oh.” Mrs. Captain pouts. “He’s just an ordinary soldier. Not one of yours.”
“He might be,” growled the captain. “I asked you, Private, are you a deserter?”
I snap to attention, all military seriousness. “No, suh, of course not, suh! Ah was sent for provisions after the last battle and lost mah unit, suh.”
“I don’t believe you. I’m a recruiting officer, and I think you need to join up with the company we’re forming right now. Then, as my dear wife says, you’ll be one of my boys. You’ll get a bounty for enlisting, and if you don’t, we’ll shoot you as a deserter.”
“But if Ah join yuh, Ah will be desertin’—desertin’ mah old unit,” I protest.
“Don’t you worry about that.” The captain smiles, showing even, white teeth. “We’ll take good care of you. So what’s your choice, boy?”
“Ah’d like to think about it for a couple of days,” I say, trying to sound firm.
“I’ll give you a couple of hours. Then you ride with us or we shoot you. Enjoy the party while you’re thinking.” The captain raises an eyebrow, then turns back to his bride, who has been tugging on him impatiently. He tucks her arm under his and leads her toward the table heavy with food and drink while she leans her head into his shoulder, cooing like a setting hen.
I look around the room, searching for a way out. Maybe I can simply walk away. The captain is celebrating his wedding. How closely will he bother watching someone like me? I edge toward the front door, smiling and nodding at people as I pass. I lean forward to grasp the door handle.
“Boy!” a voice bellows. “Where do you think you’re going?” The captain lunges behind me and grabs me by the collar. “Put him under guard,” he orders, thrusting me at a soldier.
Sitting between two Confederate soldiers, watching the wedding guests dance and drink, I search for a way to escape. Maybe everyone will get drunk and fall asleep and then I can slip away. Or maybe I should pretend to enlist and simply wait until I find a chance to escape. They can’t watch me all the time. Surely I could say I was going to the latrine and keep on going. But what if I have to take an oath of allegiance to the Confederate government? I can’t do that. I won’t. And then they’ll know I’m a Union spy and hang me, just like Damon always thought would happen. All I can do is wait and take the opportunity to leave when it comes.
The sun dips lower in the sky and candles are lit. True to his word, Captain Logan takes a break from the festivities to face me.
“I see you’ve decided to enlist, boy. Good choice. We need to leave before the Union troops get here, so you’ll get a horse and we’ll all be off at ten tonight.”
I stare straight ahead. But at the mention of a horse, my heart lifts. I have good luck with horses—except for the bite from Rebel. If I can avoid taking a loyalty oath until I’m riding, I’ll have a chance of bolting away from the rest of the cavalry. I just pray they give me a decent horse, not some old swaybacked nag that can’t muster a gallop and not a vicious brute like Rebel.
The guards march me outside and lead me to a saddled mare. She doesn’t look too worn out. Her eyes are bright, and her dappled coat shines from having been recently brushed.
“Get on,” grunts one guard while the other holds the reins.
I do as ordered. I sit still in the saddle, trying to get a sense of the horse by feeling her flank beneath my legs, studying how she twitches her ears and snorts. I can tell the animal is nervous. Will she balk when I need her most? Edgy as she is, she seems steadier than Rebel, not as skittish. I lean forward in the saddle and pat her neck. She’s my only chance.
The guards mount as well, one on either side of me, waiting for the captain. By midnight he still hasn’t showed.
“Ah guess the bride had other plans for her groom.” One of the guards grins.
“Yup,” agrees the other. “We won’t be leavin’ till morning. Might as well get some sleep.”
They pull me off the mare and take turns guarding, one dozing on the saddle blankets while the other one watches me.
Can this be the moment to escape? I wonder. Most of the guests are probably asleep. Only one soldier guards me. Surely I can take him unawares, knock him out, run away.
I itch to leap up and grab the gun out of the man’s hand, but something about the set of his ears, how alert he is to my every move, defeats me. He watches me too closely. Maybe when it’s his turn to sleep, the other guard will be less vigilant. I decide to wait and hope for a better opportunity with soldier number two.
When the second guard takes over, he’s even worse than the first one. He ties up my hands and feet, “just to be sure.”
“It’s too uncomfortable,” I complain. “Ah can’t sleep like this.”
“Would yuh rather Ah hog-tied yuh? Ah didn’t think so.” The soldier leans back, satisfied.
“Ah really do belong with the Fifth Kentucky. Don’ yuh believe me?” I wheedle.
“Don’ matter whether Ah believe yuh. The captain don’, and he gives the orders around heah.” The guard opens his tobacco pouch and rolls himself a cigarette. “Yuh might as well git yuhself some sleep. Yuh’ll be working hard tomorruh.”
I close my eyes. The guard’s right. There’s no sense staying awake, worrying. I need to rest so I’ll have energy to make a break when the time comes. I think of how James must have felt when he was taken prisoner, of how it was for Jerome trapped in Camp Parole. Lying in the dirt, trussed up and guarded by Rebel soldiers, far from the Union camp, I feel closer to my friends. Now I understand what they endured and I can feel them encouraging me, promising me I’ll get away, just as each of them did.
In the morning the captain gathers his new company, keeping me close by his side.
“You’re a good horseman, boy,” he approves. “Believe me, once you’ve steeped your saber in Yankee blood and the South is free, you’ll thank me.”
I choke down the grimace that rises to my mouth at his ugly words. “Ah’m a patriot, suh,” I finally say. “Ah love my country and Ah’ve always served it proudly.” It seems like the only safe thing I can say.
We trot through small villages, past rolling fields. The countryside is too open to make a dash for cover. Whitewashed fences, low rises, and big farmhouses are all we pass, no place to duck and hide. Where are the thick woods of Virginia I’ve seen so often?
“Look what we have here!” Captain Logan calls, pointing to the road ahead. A group of Union cavalry rides toward us. “Fan out, men, across the road in a line,” he orders.
I take the chance to edge myself away from the captain, to the end of the line. As the two groups of horsemen near each other, my mare, always anxious, bolts. I wheel her in a tight circle, struggling to gain control. As she frantically flings her head around, the Union riders close in on the Confederates. Bayonets glint in the morning light. The clash of steel on steel rings out. I take advantage of the chaos of battle and force my horse over to the Union side. Their commander, naturally thinking I’m a Rebel soldier, levels his gun at me.
“Thomas, it’s me, Frank Thompson!” I yell, praying the Union captain will recognize me. He quickly turns his gun onto the nearest Rebel, squeezes off a shot, and gestures to me to fall in beside him.
I’m now head to head with Captain Logan.
“Boy!” the recruiting officer roars. “Get out of the way! Are you a traitor?”
Without pausing, I take the Rebel pistol they issued me and fire it into the captain’s face.
The Rebel horsemen, r
oaring in rage at the direct hit to their leader, rush toward me. The Union cavalrymen mass around me, driving back the frantic Confederate bayonets. The fighting is tight and pitched, horses wheeling, blades slashing, guns firing, a blur of noise and movement. I thrash around with the saber the captain promised I’d soak in Union blood. I slice at gray and brown uniforms, anything that isn’t blue. In the midst of this chaos, the regiment of Union soldiers following the reconnoitering cavalry runs up, throwing the balance of the fight squarely to our side. The Rebels retreat, leaving behind eleven dead, twenty-nine wounded, and seventeen prisoners. Several of our men are also dead and many more wounded.
Captain Logan hasn’t been killed, but no longer the handsome bridegroom, he has lost part of his nose and lip. I jump off the mare, stroking her bloody neck where a saber nicked it. “Good thing you’re so nervous—your bolting saved the day.” I stand over the recruiting officer lying on the ground, his hand over his bleeding face.
“You snake! You lyin’ traitor!” the captain spits.
“Just a thank-you for your words about spilling Yankee blood. I told you I was a patriot.” I should be sorry for him, but I feel none of my usual nursing instincts. Instead, I’m resolved, determined to fight as best I can until this ugly war is over.
Riding back to camp, I try to push away the image of aiming a gun square into another man’s face and firing. I did that, point-blank. And not to a stranger either, but to someone I knew, someone whose wife I met, someone whose death wouldn’t be abstract but real. Whenever I’ve fired my rifle in battle, it’s been at a general target, a blur of motion, a uniform. Of course there was the time I shot the Confederate woman cleanly through the hand. But that was different. Then I intended to wound, not to kill. This time I wanted to kill him—a man I knew. What’s happening to me? Is the war deadening my soul? Am I turning into someone brutal and cruel like Pa?
“I did what I had to,” I mutter. I want to convince myself, but it’s harder when the person you’re trying to fool is yourself. Some part of you will always know the truth, no matter how much you try to delude yourself. I consider myself a brave soldier, a compassionate nurse, a daring spy. Am I also a cold-blooded killer?