A Soldier's Secret

by Marissa Moss

  AIT A MINUTE!” Jerome says, glaring at me across the campfire that night. “You watched the man get married and then you shot him? That’s coldhearted, Frank.”

  “I’m a soldier, Jerome. I did my job.” I stare into the fire, avoiding Jerome’s eyes. I was telling the story of the Confederate wedding. Most of the men are impressed, especially when they hear I shot the Rebel recruiting officer. But Jerome knows I’m a woman, and killing isn’t womanly.

  Easy for him to criticize—he’s never fought in a battle. He’s seen the brutality of battle only after the fact, tending to the wounded in a hospital tent. He doesn’t know what it’s like to face a gun, a bayonet, a saber. He thinks I’m unnatural, unwomanly, because I can stanch the blood pouring from a gash, hold a man down as his leg is sawed off, and worst of all, shoot a man at close quarters. I lift my chin, defiant. I’m no ordinary woman, and Jerome should be proud of that.

  “You did right,” James says, patting my back. “I would have done the same.”

  There are grunts and nods all around the campfire.

  “You expected Frank to shake the fella’s hand?” a grizzled soldier asks. “Wish him well? The Reb was yammering about skewering Yankees, making his sword drip with our blood! Shouldn’t we return the favor?”

  Jerome shakes his head. “Of course we have to fight back. This is war. But …”

  “But nothin’!” a jug-eared private clenches his fist in disgust. “There’s no niceness to this here business. If you have to shoot the enemy in the face, in the back, in the bloody buttocks, you do it! That means one fewer to shoot at you!”

  Lying on my cot, I can’t shake off Jerome’s disapproving stare. I want him to like me. And now he thinks I’m a heartless beast. I have a heart, but I keep it safely tucked away where no one can bruise it anymore, especially Jerome.

  I wonder if living as a man has made me more callous. Not that I’ve ever been refined. I’ve acted more boy than girl for most of my life. That’s who I am. I never wanted a life confined to the kitchen and garden. But I do want Jerome. Even though he brings out a part of myself I’ve kept in check for so long, I’ve forgotten it exists.

  And if I am honest with myself, sometimes I like how he has changed me. In those rare moments, my few feminine traits seem my best, my noblest side. When I’m with Jerome, I notice every nuance of his mood. Just the sound of his voice can warm me. I’ve never felt such delicious anticipation as waiting to see him, never known such happiness as when we’re together, such misery as when we’re apart. I can be careful to hide my feelings, but I can’t pretend I don’t have them. Truth is, I don’t want to. Still, I can’t stop myself from trying to untangle my relationship with Jerome. I toss in bed until James shakes my shoulder.

  “Having nightmares?” he asks.

  “It’s Jerome,” I sigh. “I want him to respect me, not think I’m some kind of brute.” That much I can admit out loud.

  “He does respect you,” James says. “He shouldn’t have called you coldhearted. Unless …” He pauses, staring at me. “Unless there’s a particular reason he thinks you shouldn’t have shot that man. Maybe he thinks you should be tenderhearted for some reason?”

  “Why would he think that?” I snap.

  “Maybe”—James reaches over and takes hold of my hand—“maybe he thinks you’re a delicate soul. Look at this fine hand you have, such elegant fingers. Almost as nice as a lady’s hand.” James waits, studying my face.

  I pull my hand away, irritated and nervous. James can’t possibly be hinting that I’m a woman. I refuse to believe it. “My hands are no nicer than yours—and I’m no more delicate.” I turn away gruffly. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” James settles back under his blanket. He may suspect that I’m a woman, but he doesn’t have any proof and he’s not going to get any.

  I’ve just fallen back to sleep when the ground shakes, jolting me awake. I stare into the darkness, straining to hear what’s going on, but it’s quiet now. James is sitting up, listening, too.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  “Don’t want to know,” says James. “A shell probably, one of ours, one of theirs. We’ll find out in the morning.”

  The next morning we hear the news. As James suspected, it was a Rebel shell hitting our camp. Six men are dead. If there’s a shred of complacency left in anyone, it’s shaken out of us now. We’re close enough to the enemy camp for their artillery to hit us. The order comes to pack up and move out. I walk over to the pit where the men were sleeping in their tents when the shell hit them. Bits of flesh, blood, and clothes still litter the charred ground. The dead have already been buried, but I can imagine them there. I’ve already seen so many grisly sights, these ghosts should provoke no more than a sad shrug, but suddenly images of all the brutality, all the carnage that I’ve shoved deep down inside me for so long, erupt in my head, and I can’t shake off the dreadful memories. As I stare at the gash in the dirt, tears for the many dead and wounded stream from my eyes. My chest heaves with sobs. I pinch my arm, trying to shut off the grief, but the tears keep welling up. I hear hoarse wails of anguish and am startled to realize they’re coming from me.

  “Frank, are you all right?” Richard, a private from our unit, comes up to me. “We’re getting ready to march out, you know.”

  I drag my sleeve across my face and nod. I have to keep my mouth clamped tight to shut in the sobs. I don’t know why I’m crying so much. I just feel worn out—I’ve been strong for so long and now I can barely hold myself upright. I want to sink into the ground and weep for days, but I force my feet to carry me back to the tent. I pack up everything in a foggy, teary haze.

  By the time James comes, I’m set to go. The tent is rolled up, the stakes put in my knapsack, my canteen and rifle slung around my neck.

  “Frank, what’s the matter? You look terrible.” James puts an arm around my rigid shoulders.

  I wave him away. “Nothing. It’s just …” I pause. “This war is getting to me. That’s all.”

  James nods slowly. “The shell last night. It shook me up, too. We’ve been hit before, but always in battle. It’s something else to have the enemy attack you when you think you’re safe asleep in your own camp.”

  “That’s it,” I say. “I don’t feel safe anymore. I’ll never feel safe.”

  I have to talk to Jerome. I desperately need my best friend. He has to understand—he’s the only person in the entire world who truly knows me, everything about me. I search him out on the march toward Louisville, the two of us straggling behind the main regiment. I need to talk but I don’t know how to start. I can’t admit to the attack of tears. Instead, I decide to clear the air about firing my gun at the Rebel captain.

  “Jerome, I need to explain about shooting that man.” I match my gait to his long paces.

  “There’s nothing to explain. You did the right thing—for a man.” He keeps his eyes forward and quickens his step.

  I grab his arm. “That’s why you’re mad at me. You think I shouldn’t be doing the same things men do.”

  Jerome wrenches his arm out of my grip. “Why would I think that? You’re obviously capable of anything.”

  “Jerome, stop this!” Tears glitter on my lashes.

  “Can’t you understand how hard this is for me?” he whispers harshly. “If you could just be a man to me, it would all be fine. But how can I ignore that you’re a woman?”

  “You did fine before,” I observe, wiping my eyes.

  “That’s true,” he snorts. “Before I saw you making goo-goo eyes at that idiot Scotsman, before news broke about other women disguised as men, before you shot a man in the face!”

  “So that’s what this is about? You’re jealous of James? There’s nothing to be jealous of.”

  “I’m not jealous!” Jerome barks. He can’t cloak the anger in his voice, a tone that sounds very much like jealousy to me. “I just don’t know what to think. You act like a man, then like a woman, then like a man ag
ain. It’s too hard!”

  “I’m acting like myself,” I say, keeping my eyes on the ground. I can’t bear to look at him.

  “Just promise me, please, promise me you won’t love that Highlander,” Jerome presses.

  “You won’t let me love you, but I can’t love him, either? Are you even my friend anymore?” My voice quavers. “Sometimes it’s hard for me to be so strong. You think it’s easy, but it’s not.”

  Jerome sighs. He reaches out and tentatively takes my hand. “You are strong, Frank. Crying doesn’t change that. And the one thing I’m sure of is that I’m your friend. You can count on that, no matter what.”

  I squeeze his hand, then tug mine away. “Then that will have to be enough, for both of us.” And now I dare to look at him, to lose myself in his warm brown eyes. “I’m sorry there can’t be more.”

  Jerome doesn’t answer. We march the rest of the way to Louisville without another word. I watch his profile out of the corner of my eye. I know he loves me, but not the way I want to be loved. And I love him, but not the way he wants. I shake my head. Maybe someday when this war is long over, we can love each other the way we both want.

  Y MARCH THE weather has warmed up, the snow has melted, and fresh green shoots cover the Kentucky fields. Stationed in Louisville, the men of the Second Michigan are restless. We haven’t seen combat for months, but we’re surrounded by Confederates—civilians, maybe, but Confederates all the same.

  I’m doing laundry, since there’s nothing better to do, when a soldier tells me to see General Poe about some new orders.

  “Private Frank Thompson, reporting as ordered, sir!” I salute the general.

  “Private Thompson.” General Poe nods. “Here’s the situation. Louisville is under Union control, but it’s also the headquarters for Rebel sympathizers. The place is full of Rebel spies eager to report anything at all useful to the nearby Confederate troops. We need you to dress as a Southerner, get a job, and ferret out the agents for the South.”

  “Get a job where, sir, as what?”

  “The general store would be best. That’s where everyone comes for everything from tobacco to tooth powder—and most of all, for gossip. If you can’t work there, try the saloon. Liquor loosens men’s jaws, and you should hear plenty.”

  There’s no time to explain my mission to Jerome or James before I leave, so I send each of them letters assuring them there’s no reason to worry. I write to Damon, too, and tell him I hope he’s busy planting a new crop, with his girl at his side. I don’t tell him about spying, but I do mention that Virginia seems downright cold and disinterested, which is just fine with me. He should tell her not to write to me anymore, since we haven’t gotten any closer as friends and she’s definitely not my sweetheart. The last person I write to is Mr. Hurlburt, promising him a juicy story if he can wait until I’m back in camp.

  I become Charles Mayberry, rooming at the National Hotel. So many men of the town have left for the Rebel army that it’s easy to land a job at Harris & Son’s Dry Goods Emporium. The place reminds me of the general store back home in Flint, Michigan. Piles of cloth are stacked on shelves next to packets of needles, coffeepots, sheaves of stationery, bottles of ink. On the floor sacks of meal, beans, and crackers crowd out barrels of flour, sugar, and apples. Just about anything you could possibly need is somewhere in that store, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to put my hand to it when a customer asks for it. Being a clerk isn’t as easy as it seems.

  It turns out another Union spy is staying at the same hotel as me. Colonel Moore, the federal provost marshal in charge of the secret service in Louisville, comes to my room after work my first day and asks me if I can give a few tips to the new agent.

  “I’d be happy to,” I say, though I’m not sure what exactly I can advise. Rely on your horse? Trust your instincts? Learn different accents?

  “Good!” The colonel leads me down a hall papered in red flocking, knocks at a room, then opens the door.

  “Frank, I want you to meet Miss Pauline Cushman. You may have seen her in the role of Plutella in The Seven Sisters, playing in town recently.”

  I gape at the curvaceous woman with long blond curls perched on a crimson settee. This woman is a spy, like in the book Damon sent me? She looks like someone who plays burlesque, not theater, and certainly not like any kind of spy.

  Pauline extends a pinkly dimpled arm. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

  I take the offered fingers, glittering with rings, and raise them to my lips. “You’re certainly the most beautiful spy I’ve ever seen! I can see you’ll have no trouble coaxing information out of Confederate officers.”

  “Well, aren’t you the flatterer!” Pauline coos. “Unfortunately, I won’t be using my feminine wiles. Your Colonel Moore insists I do my spying dressed as a boy.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a waste of her talents, Colonel? And how would you hide those curves?”

  “I’ve been told it’s possible,” the colonel retorts gruffly. “And she’ll get a chance to use her gifts in good time. Miss Pauline is a well-known secessionist. She’s boldly praised the Confederacy on the stage, acting in front of Union officers. We ‘arrested’ her last night for toasting Jeff Davis in the closing act of her play, so folks think she’s in jail. That’s why for the next six months or so, she’ll dress as a rough country boy and spy in that guise. Then we’ll ‘release’ her from jail and she can be an even more effective agent as her own charming self. I don’t think she’ll need advice for that kind of spying. But we don’t want to waste the months she’s supposedly in jail. I want you to teach her how to walk, talk, eat, and behave like a boy. She needs to be convincing.”

  I shake my head. “It could take a month to teach her all that. No offense, ma’am, but you’re about as far from a boy as a girl can get.”

  Pauline’s full lips curve into a smile. “No offense taken. I’ve had whole articles in the newspaper written in praise of my looks. I’d rather flaunt them than hide them. Still”—she looks slyly at the provost marshal—“I want to serve my country, so I’ll do as I’m told. Remember, I’m an actress. If you give me the role of rube, I’ll play it to the hilt.”

  “I’ll leave the two of you to it, then,” the colonel says, bowing out of the room. I want to protest, but the door is shut before I can think of what to say.

  I plop down in a chair across from Pauline. Here I am, a woman dressed as a man, expected to teach another woman how to do exactly what I’m doing. You would think I’d be the perfect person for the job. Except I’ve never had to hide the heaving breasts and curvy hips that Pauline enjoys. My face is square-jawed and boyish, my body thin and wiry, my voice a natural tenor. It’s easy for me to look and act like a man. But the woman sitting across from me has a soft, round face, with Cupid’s-bow lips, a full womanly figure, and a flutey, high voice.

  Is this what Jerome wants in a woman? I wonder with a sharp stab of jealousy. Does Miss Anna have a generous bosom and curvaceous hips? How could my slender hips and teacup breasts compare? No wonder Jerome can’t accept me as a woman. If only Pauline could show me how to be more feminine—that’s a lesson I desperately need to learn.

  I sigh. This isn’t about me—it’s about Pauline. “You’ll have to bind your breasts, of course, but I don’t know what we can do about your hips. Maybe if we stuff some cloth down your front, giving you a belly, you’ll seem heavyset, not feminine. And you’ll have to deepen your voice. Can you do that?”

  Pauline Cushman as a man.

  “Of course.” Pauline’s voice is husky and dark, lower, yes, but definitely not masculine. In fact it’s more alluring than ever. I can’t help it—I’m fascinated by how attractive she is in every way, from her voice to her hair to the turn of her wrists.

  “Can you try again without sounding so … so … flirtatious?” I ask. She’s such a mistress of womanly wiles, I feel more manly next to her than I ever have fighting in a pitched battle. I’m a stick next to her, wi
th not one ounce of womanly charm. I should be gratified that I’m such a convincing male. Instead, I feel a strange depression at being such a feminine failure.

  I try to stop comparing myself with her. My job isn’t figuring out how to make myself more like Pauline—it’s making Pauline more like me.

  It takes an hour just to get her to walk without rolling her hips, another to train her to slurp and chomp rather than sip and nibble. By the end of the day, I’m no longer jealous. I’m exasperated and exhausted.

  But Pauline feels she’s made enormous progress. “Thank you, Frank—you’ve been wonderfully patient with me. I do believe I owe you a tremendous debt.” She runs a finger along my cheek and down my throat, tracing circles around my collarbones. I inch away, but she leans in even closer. “How can I ever repay you?” Her hand creeps down toward my waist, then lower and lower …

  I spring up, pushing away Pauline’s hand. “No need. I’m doing my job, that’s all. We can continue tomorrow.” I bolt to the door and rush out.

  “That would be lovely!” Pauline calls to my retreating back.

  I stumble outside, hungry for fresh air after the long hours in the heavy musk of Pauline’s room. I want to tell the colonel that I’ve done all I can and never see Pauline again. That woman is more likely to discover my secret than any man has been. I should have responded to Pauline’s flirting, like any young man, but I could only run away in terror. Her hand was far too close to noticing that I’m missing a crucial piece of male anatomy.

  The next day I steel myself for the task of seeming irrefutably male while I teach a seductive woman how to act like a man. I imagine Jerome laughing at my predicament. “Ha, ha, hilarious,” I mutter as I rap on Pauline’s door.

  “Come in!” a gruff voice calls out.

  I walk in, wondering who else is in the lady’s room. A cherubic boy sits on the red velvet settee. Blond curls frame a round face that seems too sensitive for the straw hat, rough overalls, and thick boots he wears. He should be a dreamy scholar, I think, not a stableboy.