A Soldier's Secret

by Marissa Moss

  “Well, can I pass?” The rough voice comes from the sweet-looking boy.

  “Pauline?” I ask, peering into the youth’s face. “Is that you?”

  The boy tips his hat, and the thick blond tresses that have been tucked underneath fall down onto his shoulders. “Born and bred,” Pauline purrs.

  I grin, impressed and relieved. If she can carry it off, I won’t have to give her any more lessons. “Not bad! You make the most angelic-looking boy I’ve seen. Stand up and walk. Let me see if you move like a boy.”

  Pauline heaves herself up and clomps around the room. It’s a bit of an exaggeration, but at least it isn’t a sashaying stroll.

  “You’re an impressive actress, no question about it.”

  “Think I’m ready for the curtain to rise?” Pauline bows.

  “Definitely! Let’s show the colonel. He’s down in the front parlor.”

  Colonel Moore looks up from his newspaper when the stableboy and I walk in. He takes off his reading glasses and stares intently. A slow smile of recognition creeps across his face. He stands up and offers his hand to me.

  “Well done, Frank! I knew if anyone could turn a swan into a turkey, it’d be you.”

  I shake the colonel’s hand. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Wanna see how I eat and drink?” the blond boy asks.

  “No need! You’re entirely convincing. Now let’s map out our strategy. I believe Frank has a store he needs to tend.”

  I nod. “I’d best be on my way if I don’t want to get fired for tardiness. Good luck, Pauline … er … Paul. You’ll do fine, I’m sure.”

  “Thanks.” Pauline tosses away the toothpick she’s been chewing on. “I had a good teacher.” She reaches out to shake my hand, then leans in for a kiss on the cheek, filling my nose with her perfume. That’s one thing she’ll have to change to make her costume completely convincing. No fellow smells like lilies of the valley.

  I blush a deep crimson and hurry out, touching my cheek where her lips rested. My first kiss—and it’s from another woman! Thank the Lord that mission is over! Spying among the Confederates is easy compared to being alone in a room with someone like Pauline.

  ’M MUCH MORE comfortable in my role as Charles, the sales clerk. I lean on the polished wood counter, chatting with the customers. It’s a relief going from all-too-close quarters with Pauline to the public propriety of a business. All I have to do is sell goods and probe to see how deeply the customers’ sympathies lie with the Confederacy. I don’t meet a single person who supports the Union, but most are ordinary citizens. They sell food and goods to Rebel troops on the sly, but don’t risk offering more support than that. But Colonel Moore insists there are three Confederate spies who are leaking important information to the Rebels. Those are the agents I’m supposed to find.

  After a week of clerking and getting no closer to the spies, I decide to push my boss for a chance to get nearer to the Confederate army.

  “Mr. Harris,” I ask one morning, “do you think I’m a good salesman?”

  “Why, Charles, yuh’re one of the best Ah’ve evah had, almost as good as mah son was.”

  “What happened to your son, if you don’t mind my asking?” I run a cloth along the shelves.

  “He’s with Gen’l Lee, of course, wheah all fine young men should be.” Mr. Harris has been clear from the start whose side of the war he’s on, so this bit of information isn’t a surprise.

  “Does that mean you think I should be in the army, too?” I rub at a stubborn ink stain, avoiding my boss’s eyes.

  Mr. Harris chuckles. “Mebbe, but Ah’m grateful yuh’re not, because Ah need someone to help out heah. But”—he pauses thoughtfully—“if yuh want to do something for the Confederacy and help mah bus’ness as well, yuh could go sell some goods at the Rebel camps neah heah.”

  My ears perk up. I’m being offered a legitimate reason to walk into the Confederate camps and sniff things out. It’s the perfect way to learn who the spies are. If I stay long enough or go back regularly, I’m bound to run into at least one of them.

  “I’m not from here, but I’m happy to do my duty, Mr. Harris, to both you and the South. After all, this is my adopted home.”

  “Wheah are yuh from, anyways, Charles? Ah cain’t place yuh accent.” The store owner studies me.

  “I’m from Canada—New Brunswick.” I smile. “I don’t have an accent at all. You’re the one with an accent.”

  Mr. Harris guffaws. “That’s an accent, boy, but nevah mind, yuh can still be one of us.” He bustles around the store, putting together baskets of wares to sell to the Rebel soldiers. He draws maps to three Confederate camps close by, gives me a horse, and sends me out to sell as much as I can. Since I’m Mr. Harris’s clerk, none of the Rebel pickets or soldiers questions my loyalty. They welcome me into their camps, offer me coffee and biscuits, and by midaft-ernoon I’ve sold every comb, pocketknife, handkerchief, and spool of thread that I started out with. I come back with more than money. I’ve also picked up information about two of the Rebel spies—one is a blacksmith who fits horseshoes on the Union horses. Another is a photographer who sells pictures of the Union generals. I’m sure I can discover the third spy’s identity if I get more time in the Rebel camps. After meeting with Colonel Moore and giving him the information I’ve learned, we come up with a plan for me to take a deeper plunge into the role of Confederate sympathizer.

  The next day I thank Mr. Harris for the chance to spend time in the Rebel camps. I tell him that the experience has convinced me to join the Confederate army, but I’m not sure how I can get past the Yankee lines again so soon.

  “Won’t they be suspicious if they see I’m selling the same goods I sold the other day? They’ll either know I’m peddling to the Rebels or think I’m aiming to join them.”

  Mr. Harris strokes his muttonchop sideburns. “Ah’ve got it. Ah hate to lose yuh, but Ah know how yuh can get through.” There’s no one else in the store, but still he lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Ah know a man who the Yanks all think is pro-Union. Really he’s a spy and works for Gen’l Lee. He can get yuh ’cross the lines easy as pie ’count of how the Yanks all trust him. Ah’ll tell him to meet yuh heah tonight. Pack yuh things an’ be ready to go at nine.”

  I keep my face solemn, but excitement surges through me—this man could be the third spy.

  The morning passes quickly. At noon, when Mr. Harris goes home for the midday meal as usual, Colonel Moore comes into the shop. He leans quietly against the counter, waiting his turn to be helped.

  I wrap up the penny nails the colonel asked for, slipping a note into the package. I nod as I hand the parcel to him. “I think you’ll find these most useful,” I say, “for the work you’re doing tonight.”

  “I’m sure I will,” the colonel answers. Back at the hotel he can unwrap the package and read my message. I’ve asked him to capture me and my guide before we reach the Rebel camp tonight. That way we’ll get the spy and my real identity won’t be discovered.

  At ten to nine, I’m back at the store with my clothes in a small cloth satchel, playing the part of an eager recruit. I stare into the darkness, straining my ears for the sound of footsteps. At nine precisely, a shadow emerges from the night. It’s a short, chunky man with a mustache too grand for his face. He wears a bowler hat and dark coat and carries a satchel similar to mine. His eyes are round and merry, and his red cheeks show how much he likes his whiskey. He doesn’t look at all like a spy. He’s the sort of man who seems so ordinary and harmless, he wouldn’t attract any attention. Mr. Harris must have made a mistake. Yes, the man might indeed easily get past the Yankee lines, but that could be because he is a complete innocent, because he really is what he seems—a simple fellow.

  “You must be Charles Mayberry,” the man booms heartily, extending his hand.

  I nod and reach out to shake the jolly man’s hand.

  “You ready to join the ahmy?” he asks. “Ah’m heah to take you
.”

  I narrow my eyes. Should I go with him? The whole thing could be a waste of time.

  “You’re not changin’ your mind now, are you? Don’ you want adventure, excitement, glory?” The man doesn’t exactly talk like a spy, but he certainly is a secessionist.

  “I’m not changing my mind,” I decide. “Let’s go.”

  “Atta boy,” the bowler-hat man says with approval, leading the way down darkened lanes to the edge of the Union picket line. When we come to the sentry, the man tips his hat, smiles, and keeps on walking. The guard clearly knows him, because he lets the bowler hat pass without a question. I trot at his side, safe by association.

  It isn’t until we’re past the Union soldiers that the man introduces himself.

  “Ah didn’t mean to be rude, boy, but Ah don’t feel free to really talk when Ah’m around Yankees. Now that we’re breathin’ free Southern air, we can introduce ourselves properly. Mah name is Conrad Morrow and Ah’m an agent in the Confederate secret service. Ah know, Ah know, you thought Ah was a silly clown, but Ah tell you, mah looks are exactly what makes me such a brilliant spy. Who would evah suspect me? Ah can tell you, Ah’ve had some amazin’ adventures. You may have heard of other spies, but they ain’t nothin’ compared to me.”

  I grin in the dark. The bowler hat is a spy! And it sounds like he’s eager to talk. “I have heard of two famous spies. Maybe you’re one of them—the blacksmith and the fellow with the photographs. Are you one of them? I can’t believe I’m meeting an actual spy! It’s so exciting! You must be a brave man!” I lay it on thick.

  The bowler hat chuckles. “Those boys haven’t gone on half the missions Ah have. Ah’m at Yankee headquarters ’most every day, and you’d be surprised how easily folks tell me things. They think Ah’m selling books and pamphlets, but Ah’m gatherin’ information, all kinds of information. Ah can tell you wheah each gen’l sleeps, wheah the pickets are posted, and when they change guard. Ah know which big guns are facing what. Ah know when Gen’l Grant is gonna sneeze afore he knows it hisself!”

  “It’s truly an honor to meet you, sir!” I gush. “But I’ve heard that blacksmith, he’s done some important work. I’d really like to meet him. Perhaps you could introduce us.”

  The bowler hat snorts. “Well, if you call countin’ hosses important. Sure, he’s done that. He’s shoein’ ’em, so it’s no great stretch to count ’em. That kind of work don’ take no cleverness. And yeah, he’s lamed a few on purpose, but not enough of them to really make a difference. He’s afraid to take risks. Not like me!”

  The farther we walk from Louisville and the more I express admiration for the farrier’s exploits, the louder the bowler hat’s boasts grow. I’ve heard the details of three different spy missions when the thud of hoofbeats interrupt the story of the fourth.

  “Stand still, boy!” the bowler hat whispers. “We’ve got to get off this road!”

  Before he can turn, a swirl of movement surrounds us. Horsemen hold us in a tight circle. I recognize Colonel Moore as one of the riders.

  “Where are you going?” the colonel demands.

  The bowler hat grins impishly and fumbles with his satchel. “Ah’m jus’ a peddler man, peddlin’ his wares. Ah’m sure y’all seen me in the Yankee camp. Ah sell books to y’all.”

  The colonel squints down at him. “Yes, I recognize you. I don’t mean any offense, but we’ve heard that spies are taking this road tonight. You don’t mind if we search you, now do you?”

  The bowler hat blanches. His mustache jiggles in panic. “That’s an outrage!” he blusters. “Ah’m an honest workin’ man. Y’all cain’ tread on my rights like that!”

  “No treading at all. We’ll just do a little looking.” The colonel nods, and the soldier next to him jumps off his horse and rifles through my satchel, then my companion’s.

  “What’s this?” the soldier asks, handing a packet of papers to the colonel.

  “You can’t have those!” The bowler hat tries to snatch them away. “Those are private and personal! Those are love letters! You give ’em back to me now!”

  “I don’t think so,” says the colonel, unfolding the papers and sorting through them in the moonlight. “These look like plans of headquarters, the layout of the camp, and lists of artillery. Love letters, huh?” He pockets the package and signals to the soldier on the ground. “Arrest the both of them. They’re spies!”

  I glare at the bowler hat. “This is your fault! I didn’t do anything. I’m not a spy! Tell them—I’m not a spy!”

  The bowler hat turns away from me. “Listen, Ah’ll make you a deal. This boy’s a real weasel. I know he has a baby face, but he’s done more spyin’ than you can imagine. Ah’ll tell you all his contacts if’n y’all let me go. He’s the real spy—Ah’m jus’ his unfortunate uncle, duped into helpin’ him.”

  “We can discuss a deal later. Right now, you’re going to jail.” The soldier ties our wrists with rope, yanking hard to show he means business.

  “Dammit!” It’s not that my wrists hurt. Something warm trickles down my leg, and that means the cloth I’ve stuffed down my pants for my monthly isn’t doing its job. At least it’s dark and no one can see anything, but I feel totally exposed, as if everyone can plainly see what I so distinctly feel.

  “Don’t expect no kid-glove treatment,” growls the soldier as he prods us back down the road to Louisville. All the way, the bowler hat protests his innocence. I say nothing, focusing on the trail of blood as it runs down the inside of my leg and slowly seeps toward my sock. I pray there’ll be no more, just that one slight leak. I walk as stiffly as possible so as not to jar the cloth any farther from where it belongs. It strikes me as ridiculously ironic that I’m a pretend prisoner, but if my true nature were discovered, I’d quickly become a real one. Then the bowler hat would have the last laugh.

  When we arrive at camp, the colonel sends the bowler hat in one direction but calls for me to follow him with my soldier guard.

  “We’ve got him, sir, the third spy,” I say as soon as the bowler hat is out of sight.

  “Yes, indeed! Good work, Private. Come join me in my tent for a drink to celebrate,” the colonel offers.

  “Thank you, sir, but I need to get back to my room. It’s been a long day. I’m tired, and I’ve some letters to write and some mending to do.” I pile on the excuses, desperate to get away before we come close to any light.

  The colonel laughs. “If you don’t want my company, just say so. No need to darn socks to ward me off.”

  “That’s not it at all, sir. It’s just, it’s just …” And then I know the perfect thing to say, the words that will describe my situation perfectly but not arouse any suspicion. “It’s just that my bowels are about to burst and I’ve got to get to the latrine. It was those buttered grits and greens at supper, I know it.”

  Now the colonel really laughs. “Well, that explains why you’ve been walking so funny! Go relieve yourself, Private, and if you’re up to it, join me for a drink. If not, I understand completely.”

  “Yes, sir!” I salute and dash off into the darkness. I pause to quickly secure the cloth in my pants, then run back to my hotel room. I carefully step out of my pants, praying no blood has got on them. I’m lucky. There’s a small stain near the crotch, but the rest of the leg is clean. I pour some water into my washbasin and start scrubbing. A little cold water and soap, and the blood will come right out. I just hope the pants will be dry by morning. They’re the only pair I have. Naturally, I won’t be joining the colonel for a drink. I’m not going anywhere until the bleeding has stopped and I can be a man again.

  Y MONTHLY NEVER lasts more than three days, so I’m not holed up long. Since I’ve supposedly been arrested along with the bowler hat, I can’t go back to clerking at the store anyway. And having found out the spies, there’s no need to stay in town, so Colonel Moore sends me to rejoin my regiment camped outside of Louisville. The weeks in the hotel have been a wonderful luxury, but they’ve also
been lonely. And even all that privacy hasn’t protected me. Pauline and the cloth-slippage problem remind me that it won’t be the thing I’m guarding against that will expose my secret. It will be something completely unexpected. Which means I can’t ever relax my vigilance.

  As soon as I get to camp, I go straight to the hospital to find Jerome. Of course I don’t act like a woman around him, but since he knows my secret, I don’t have to worry about slipping up, exposing myself. Instead, I work to control myself in a different way. I have to be careful not to touch him, to lean into his warmth, to graze my fingers on his arm, to rub his back. I can talk honestly with him, the way I used to with Flag, so long as I keep my distance and don’t dwell on certain subjects. After the tension of the last mission, I desperately need that comfort. I help him on his rounds, bandaging and dosing with quinine, chatting with him the whole time, savoring the familiar tingling that his presence always gives me.

  “Anything new happen while I was gone?” I ask, leaning over to feel a soldier’s forehead. It’s hot and sweaty, and I press a cool cloth on it to ease the boy’s fever.

  “Not too much. There was some scrapping between the Union Kentucky regiments and our Michigan boys. The Kentucky soldiers threw some stones at the colored soldiers in the Second U.S. Colored Artillery, and the Michigan soldiers didn’t take kindly to it. They insisted soldiers should be treated like soldiers. The Kentucky boys didn’t see it that way—they think all colored people should be slaves and that’s that. It ended in a fistfight and a couple of broken noses.” Jerome shrugs. “The men are restless. What can you expect?”

  “Well, I expect if you’re fighting for the Union, you’re fighting against slavery. I would have punched some of those Kentucky soldiers myself if I’d been there.”

  “You know that’s not how most men see it,” Jerome says. “How many white folk really care about slavery?”