Behind Rebel Lines

by Seymour Reit

  Parked on a bench outside the store, Emma wracked her brain, trying to remember where she had seen such a wig before. Then it came to her. While she was in Washington, she’d gone to a minstrel show. These shows, very popular in the capital, were performed by white men with their faces blackened. The “darkies” amused the crowd with songs, dances, banjo strumming, and lively humor. On stage they were dressed in fancy suits with big bow ties—and they all wore black woolly wigs.

  Private Thompson jumped up and ran toward the docks where ships, cruising Chesapeake Bay, linked Fort Monroe with the Union capital. The dockside was chaotic with new troops arriving, supplies being unloaded, and men driving army mules ashore from transport barges. He was in luck: The official mail boat for Washington was about to leave. Pushing through the crowd, he found the captain, pressed money into his hand, and asked him to buy a minstrel wig in the city.

  The grizzled old sailor looked surprised. He’d been bribed at times to bring back whiskey, food, or special brands of tobacco—but a minstrel wig? What in tarnation was that all about? Sensing his suspicion, Franklin snapped, “Secret orders from General McClellan, and not a word to anyone!” At the commander’s name, the boatman nodded nervously and touched his cap. Yes, yes, of course. He’d find a darky wig, a real good one, and bring it along the following afternoon.

  By the third day—the adjutant’s deadline—Emma had her wig. She gave Dr. Hodes a memo from headquarters detaching her from the hospital for “special assignment.” Then, carrying her gear, she hurried to the cabin where her fellow conspirator was waiting. “Franklin Thompson” had served Emma well; a new personality was about to be born.

  5

  March 29, 1862

  Emma stared into Mrs. Butler’s mirror and broke out laughing. Looking out at her was a total stranger—a small, gawky, brown-skinned man with a crown of woolly black hair. He had on a gray flannel shirt, patched overalls, and a pair of ancient shoes several sizes too big. Around his neck he wore an old red bandanna.

  Hands on her hips, Mrs. Butler regarded her friend critically. “I declare, Em, you look more like a darky than any I’ve seen in these parts.”

  Emma studied her image anxiously. “I pray the rebels think so, Mrs. Butler.” She leaned forward and examined her skin. “I tried different kinds of colorings like iodine and tobacco juice, but the best was silver nitrate. I found some in the hospital, and made a solution of it in water.” She held up a worn canvas sack. “I’m taking some with me in a little bottle, case I start to fade.”

  The chaplain’s wife came over and put an arm around Emma’s waist. In the mirror, wise old eyes gazed into lively young ones. “I knew I’d never get you to change your mind,” she said quietly. “Knew it all along. You’re a stubborn one and you’ll do what you have to do. But stubborn’s different from foolhardy. Be careful, girl.”

  Emma nodded. “I will, I promise.”

  Mrs. Butler slipped a packet into Emma’s canvas sack. “Some corncakes and slices of dried apple,” she said. “Lord knows what you’ll find to eat over there.”

  Emma smiled. Mrs. Butler made it sound as if she were going to California instead of a few miles up the peninsula. She swallowed hard and suddenly didn’t trust herself to speak. Turning, she flung her arms around her gray-haired friend and supporter, holding her tight in a brief, desperate embrace. Then, with a wave, she darted out.

  Leaving the cabin, Emma hurried along the row of officers’ billets toward the headquarters tent at the far end. She started past the field hospital and, on a sudden impulse, popped her head in through the open tent flap. Dr. Hodes was sitting there, working at the cluttered table. He seemed weary.

  Emma deepened her voice.

  “’Scuse me, suh,” she said.

  The doctor looked up in annoyance. He stared at her for a long moment, while she held her breath. “Yes? What do you want?”

  “Mah name Cuff, suh,” Emma replied. “Lookin’ fo’ Mistuh Prahvit Thompson. Ah b’lieve he wuk here?”

  “Supposed to work here,” grumped Dr. Hodes, frowning at his intruder. “Don’t know where the fool is. Gone off on some kind of special mission, I believe.”

  Emma bobbed her head and grinned. “Yassuh. He say, suh, he gon’ gimme a ol’ shirt.”

  The doctor turned back to his paperwork. “Well, I can’t help you, Cuff. You’d better go along—and if you see Frank Thompson, tell him to get back here where he’s needed.”

  “Yassuh, doctuh. Ah see ’im, ah tell ’im.”

  Emma ducked out of the tent and hurried on, suppressing a big grin. For weeks now she’d been with Doc Hodes, working at his side every single day. If he couldn’t see through her disguise, maybe it would work after all.

  Headquarters was the usual scene of bustle and activity, with aides and messengers hurrying to and fro. The adjutant, pacing to one side, was waiting for her. Emma stepped up and saluted, and he gaped in surprise.

  “Thompson? By God, that’s quite a rig you’ve dreamed up.” He shook his head admiringly. “I’ll wager you’d fool old Jeff Davis himself.”

  The officer pulled out a fat brass watch and popped open the cover. “Time to get started. My orders are to take you through our pickets. After that, you’ll be on your own.”

  Together they cut east through the sprawling encampment, and Private Thompson had to step lively to keep up with the adjutant’s brisk strides. Darkness was beginning to settle over the tents and cook fires were being lit. Overhead, the first faint stars of evening winked on.

  In silence, they made their way through the Company K bivouac area, past a battery of menacing siege guns. They circled behind the cavalry stables, where she could hear the stamping of horses. Somewhere a trooper began playing a sad song on a harmonica. Emma knew the words well.

  Farewell, Mother, you may never

  Press me to your heart again.

  But, oh, you’ll not forget me Mother,

  If I am numbered with the slain. . . .

  Ten more minutes of walking brought them to the outer edge of the Union position, with the York River on its right flank. A sentinel, hardly more than a boy, raised his rifle and barred their way.

  “Stand easy,” the adjutant said. “We’re passing this man through the lines, orders of General McClellan.”

  The sentinel recognized the officer, saluted, and continued on his rounds. Emma and her escort found a low ridge and scrambled to the top. The adjutant turned and patted her shoulder. “From here you’re on your own, Thompson,” he said in a whisper. “I wish you good luck.” Then he melted into the night.

  Emma drew a long breath, suddenly feeling lonely and vulnerable. She bent down and shoved some slips of paper and a stub of pencil into her shoe. She’d need them to jot down the information the general wanted. Her hands and face were beginning to itch—probably due to the nitrate solution—but there was nothing she could do about it now. Crouching on the ridge, she stared across the valley toward the enemy lines. The lush fields had all been burned to stubble, to give the Yorktown defenders a clear line of fire. But some huckleberry bushes and several stands of loblolly pine still survived. She could use them for cover.

  Beyond the trees, Emma made out distant campfires—the outer pickets of the Army of Northern Virginia. Getting through this screen of rebel guards was her next challenge. She studied the pattern of the fires. They glowed and beckoned, sending a welcome and a warning.

  The melancholy song crept into her thoughts again.

  Just before the battle, Mother,

  I am thinking most of you.

  While upon the field were waiting

  With the enemy in view. . . .

  The enemy was certainly in view—waiting just across the valley—and for the first time since she’d enlisted, Emma felt a creeping fear. Up till now, she’d hardly had time to fret or even think. She’d been too busy fantasizing and playacting. Now it was different—now her survival was at stake. Mrs. Butler’s words came back to her. Lord, what
was she doing here in this crazy disguise? Why had she given up her safe, comfortable spot at the hospital with Dr. Hodes to flirt with danger?

  Bother—she knew perfectly well what she was doing and why. Hadn’t she ached to avenge James’s death? To support Lincoln and the cause, body and soul? To be a participant in history, not just a bystander? The imp voice was always there, prodding and urging her on. She could no more ignore it than she could stop herself from breathing.

  Mother, hear the cry of freedom,

  How it swells upon the air!

  Yes, we’ll rally ’round the standard,

  Or we’ll perish bravely there. . . .

  Off to the left came a crackle of sniper fire. The sudden noise startled her, snapping her back to reality. Enough morbid thoughts—she’d act now and worry about it later.

  A half-moon crept over the horizon, giving just enough dim light to help her. Narrowing his eyes, “Cuff” planned his route across the dangerous open zone. Then he whispered a quick prayer, scrambled down the ridge, and started across the valley.

  6

  March 30, 1862

  It took Cuff several hours to get across the open zone. He would wait for scattered clouds to drift over the moon, then dart from bushes to trees, trees to bushes. Twice he heard the sharp crack of a musket but didn’t know if he was the target, so he kept going. Drawing closer to the enemy lines, he watched and waited. The pickets plodded back and forth between the campfires, following a pattern. He timed himself carefully, then crouched and raced through a gap. A rebel sentry was only sixty feet away, but never noticed the lone black slave.

  Inside the rim of defenses, Cuff could relax a bit. He trudged for a while through the woods until he reached a weedy footpath. The moon was gone now, and he decided to wait until morning before moving on.

  Wearily Cuff crawled under a bush, stretched out, and soon fell asleep.

  The yams will grow, the cotton blow,

  We’ll have the rice ’n’ corn.

  Oh, never you fear, someday you’ll hear

  Ol’ Gabriel sound his horn. . . .

  The sound of voices awakened Cuff. He peered through the bushes and saw some black men coming down the path. They were singing softly, carrying pans and buckets. Cuff was worried. Would the men accept him? He swallowed nervously—it was time to find out. He got up, brushed himself off, and stepped into view, wearing a sheepish grin. The slaves stopped in surprise at the sight of this small dark stranger who had popped out of nowhere.

  Cuff nodded and scuffed his shoes. “Mawnin’,” he said. “Mah name Cuff. Ah’m lost.”

  The men, dressed in old clothes like his own, grouped around, curious but friendly. They were taking breakfast to the sentries out on the picket lines. One of the men handed Cuff a piece of army biscuit and a tin cup of hot coffee.

  “We be headin’ back to camp in a little while,” he said. “You want to come ’long, jus’ wait here.”

  Thanking him, Cuff wolfed the biscuit and coffee and sat down again. Half an hour later, the slaves returned. He handed over the empty cup and fell into step with the party. There were eight of them; nobody would notice one more black face. The men shambled along silently, Cuff walking with them. They reached the outskirts of Yorktown and the rebel encampment, where they headed toward a kitchen tent and went inside. Cuff held back, unsure of himself. He stood shuffling his feet, wondering what to do next. But before he could decide, a Confederate officer on a roan horse came trotting up. He stared at Cuff suspiciously.

  “Why aren’t you working?” he asked. “Who do you belong to?”

  Cuff bobbed his head and put on his foolish smile. “Don’ b’long to nobody, mastuh. Ah’s free, far as ah know. Wantin’ to go to Richmond, find some wuk.”

  The officer frowned. “There are no free niggers here,” he growled. “Not while there’s a Confederate army in Virginia.” He turned and shouted to a trooper: “Sergeant! Put this cheeky rascal to work, and keep him at it. If he turns lazy, give him a good lesson with the lash!”

  Spurring his horse, the officer wheeled and trotted off. The sergeant beckoned and Cuff followed dutifully. Passing through camp, he shuffled along with eyes half closed. But under the drooping, lazy lids, the eyes took sharp note of everything. The vast area reminded him very much of his own encampment, except that here the soldiers were dressed in gray instead of blue.

  South of the city, the rebels were building defenses to hold off the Federal army. There was a long parapet over eight feet high, and scores of slaves were at work on it. Some were digging trenches and gun pits. Others pounded double rows of stakes into the ground. A third group filled this space with mountains of rocks and gravel. The sergeant pushed a shovel at Cuff and pointed to a large wheelbarrow. Cuff’s duty was to fill the barrow with gravel, push it up an inclined plank to the top of the parapet, and dump the ballast between the stakes.

  Even for a brawny man it would have been hard work. For small, slim Cuff, it soon became torture. Under a hot sun, shoulders aching, Cuff filled barrow after barrow. Then he forced each load up the tilted plank. The plank was narrow and wobbly, and sometimes the heavy barrow tipped off. When that happened he had to climb down, refill it, and start over again. The men around him worked steadily. Now and then they traded a little banter or broke into a soulful hymn. But most of the time they worked in sad silence.

  Noontime brought a chance to rest and eat. Cuff picked up a tin bowl and spoon and joined the long line, glad to be free of the wheelbarrow. He soon discovered that the white troopers ate well, but slave food was poor—mostly cornbread and gruel, with a bit of dried beef now and then. Later the work gangs went back to their drudgery. The sergeants who supervised them were harsh men: They bullied and threatened, and any slave who slowed down felt the sharp pain of a leather lash. Cuff worked as hard as he could, hoping to avoid attention, and by midafternoon his hands were raw and bleeding. But the sun went down at last and work on the fortifications ended for the day.

  After a skimpy supper, the slaves were allowed one hour to wander around freely. Then they had to report to an area at the far end of camp. Cuff took good advantage of his free time, roaming the fort, noting the types of artillery, memorizing the layout of the trenches. He tried to remember everything so he could jot it down later.

  At curfew hour, all the blacks were herded into a compound for the night, and Cuff saw with relief that there were no white overseers here. The slaves broke up into small groups. They sprawled under scraps of canvas hung from branches, and started fires to boil water for acorn coffee. Cuff with his brown skin had been accepted completely, and during the day had become friendly with some of the others. But now he needed privacy. A kindly old man handed him a ragged blanket, which he took gratefully. Then he found an isolated tree, sat down, and tried to ignore his aches and pains.

  When all was quiet and nobody was watching, Cuff drew out his slips of paper and began to write in the dark. He listed the artillery he had seen on his walk: twenty-five rifled three-inch cannons . . . eleven Dahlgren guns . . . twenty-nine thirty-two pounders . . . seven siege howitzers . . . fourteen heavy mortars . . . thirteen Columbiads . . . many light weapons. He made a rough diagram of the new earthworks, then pushed all the slips back under the lining of his shoe.

  Cuff was pleased. His fears had faded. His information was just what McClellan needed. He’d spend one more day here with the enemy, then figure a way—somehow—to get back to the Union lines. Lying on his blanket, Cuff suddenly thought of his color. In the gloom, he slipped the bottle of brown solution from his sack and dabbed his face and hands. Then, munching some of Mrs. Butler’s apple slices, he settled down for the night.

  Twenty yards away, a group of slaves sat hunched over a campfire. As Cuff dozed they started singing in low soft voices. It was the very hymn he’d heard early that morning in the woods. Quietly he sat up and crept closer to the firelight.

  Praise and thanks! The Lord he come

  To set His people f
ree . . .

  Some may call it Day of Doom,

  For us ’tis Jubilee . . .

  The Lord who bade the Red Sea part

  Is now as strong as then . . .

  He say one word, and all the slaves

  Will be the Lord’s free men. . . .

  Others joined in the chorus, their voices blending in subtle harmony.

  The yams will grow, the cotton blow,

  We’ll have the rice ’n’ corn.

  Oh, never you fear, someday you’ll hear

  Ol’ Gabriel sound his horn.

  After a while Cuff slipped back to his blanket under the tree. He would need his rest for the day ahead. Lulled by the melodic voices, he fell asleep at last—his head filled with thoughts of work and sweat, of hope and faith, and the courage of black men.

  7

  March 31, 1862

  Early in the morning, the slaves were roused, given a quick breakfast, and sent to their work areas. Cuff felt better, but his hands were still torn and blistered. He knew he couldn’t last an hour digging gravel on the parapet and wrestling with the barrow. But if he complained to one of the guards, he’d be asking for trouble. Looking around, he saw a husky young man who was one of the kitchen squad. Cuff fell into step with him, showed him his hands, and explained the problem. The young man was sympathetic and agreed to exchange places with Cuff for the day. To seal their bargain Cuff gave him a small rusty penknife that he’d brought in his sack. Smiling with pleasure, the man headed toward the trenches while Cuff joined the slaves waiting at the cook tent.