by Seymour Reit
Bridget O’Shea kept her vigil as the day faded into darkness. Outside, the storm raged. Rain drummed on the windows. Thunder growled. Somewhere in the house, a loose shutter went slap . . . slap . . . slap. And, above it all, the wind moaned, keening for dying troopers.
Bridget stood up and stretched. Her back and shoulders ached. She walked to the window, stared at nothing, and went back to her soldier. She was feeling restless and weary. The sounds of the storm—rising and falling—slowly created their own music. A new hymn was making the rounds of the Union camps—a song written only a few months before by a Boston woman named Howe. Emma had found the stanzas printed in a magazine called The Atlantic Monthly and she’d heard it sung around the Union campfires. The glorious words were captivating, resounding in the drumming of horses’ hooves, the rattle of caisson wheels, the blare of bugles, and the crash of guns. Alone with her dying soldier, she heard them again in the sounds of the wind.
He is trampling out the vintage
where the grapes of wrath are stored. . . .
Lieutenant Hall muttered in delirium. She bathed his face with a cool cloth. Sitting against the wall, she held his thin hand and willed him some of her strength.
He has loosed the fateful lightning
of His terrible swift sword. . . .
She wondered when, if ever, this fearful war would end. A friend of the Butlers had just come from Washington. He told them President Lincoln had aged ten years over the past few months.
He has sounded forth the trumpet
that shall never call retreat. . . .
Now they were dying—the fine boys of both armies—gallants Lincoln had called “the brave and early fallen.”
He is sifting out the hearts of men
before His judgment seat . . .
Darkness finally came and Bridget O’Shea slept fitfully. She dozed on and off, haunted by painful dreams. In the gray light of morning, the young man was dead.
For a while she sat there, unable to move. With an effort she roused herself, found the gold watch, and put it in her basket. Then she covered the soldier with his blanket and said a silent prayer. She’d find Major McKee for him if it was the last thing she ever did.
Gathering her belongings, Bridget left the house, closing the door gently behind her. According to her reckoning, the rebels would be several miles farther to the west. She headed slowly down the road, sidestepping the worst of the puddles. The rain had long since stopped, but her face was wet. She reached up and brushed the tears away.
Devil take this ugly war. It was brutal and cruel, yet she knew the Union had to survive. For her, that was all that mattered—it was the one thing she could believe in. She willed herself to stop thinking of young Lieutenant Hall. He was at peace now, but she still had work to do. At headquarters, Colonel Shrub had shown her the secret battle map, stuck with its colored pins. “This area is a question mark,” he said, poking a stubby finger at one spot. “Your mission, Thompson, is to find out what’s going on here. We must know what tricks they’re up to.”
In her mind Bridget reviewed her orders—all the details and all the dangers—and fear began to creep in. Could she really carry it off? Would the disguise work this time? Would her luck hold, or was she tempting fate?
Oh, be swift my soul to answer him,
be jubilant my feet.
His day is marching on. . . .
She brushed aside her morbid thoughts. Bother the risks. She wasn’t a timid peddler woman—she was a Union soldier and proud of it.
Bridget O’Shea set her chin, wiped her nose, yanked her bonnet straight, and pushed on toward the enemy lines.
10
May 22, 1862
The Richmond road had numerous twists and branchings, and Bridget began to fear she’d lost her way. Suddenly a voice barked, “Halt!”
A sentry in Confederate gray stepped from the bushes and came toward her suspiciously. But as he drew near, his frown softened. What he saw was a harmless middle-aged woman, her clothes bedraggled, her face pale, her eyes red from crying. The woman explained that she had come to sell her goods in camp, but now she had another purpose. “I must find a staff officer named McKee,” she said. “I have a message for him from a dying soldier.”
Minutes later Miss O’Shea was bouncing along in a supply wagon pulled by an old mule. The driver helped her down outside General Ewell’s headquarters, where a sympathetic aide listened to her story. “I’m to give this gold watch to Major McKee,” she explained. “It was the boy’s last request.”
The aide shook his head. The major was out with a surveying party and wouldn’t be back until afternoon. “Meanwhile,” he said, “make yourself comfortable, ma’am. You’re welcome to the hospitality of our camp, such as it is.” He led her to a tent where some black women were hard at work cooking and washing, and beckoned to one. “Take care of this lady, Rachel,” he said. “See that she’s comfortable and has something to eat.”
Alone with the women, Bridget sat down on an empty crate and watched. They were a lively bunch, smiling and chattering, and now and then they would steal curious glances in her direction. One of them brought her two thick slices of bread made of rice and cornmeal, and a mug of sweet cider. She learned that they were contrabands—slaves who had wandered from their farms and plantations in the confusion of the war. Some contrabands made their way north; others, like this group, had been rounded up and put to work for the Confederate army. These women did the cooking and laundering for the staff at the rebel headquarters. Like many Southern house servants, they were treated far better than the field laborers and trench diggers Cuff had met before.
Wolfing her food, Bridget studied the slaves’ clothing—bandannas tied neatly around their heads, aprons hitched around long, ragged skirts—making a mental note of it. It would be a useful disguise for a future mission. Listening to the gossip, she also learned about the units stationed there, the number of troops, and the names of their officers. This time she had decided to keep information in her head instead of writing it down. It would be much safer and would be good training for her.
At first the women were a bit shy as Bridget sat with them, but gradually they relaxed. Someone started to sing, and one by one the others joined in:
We are climbin’ Jacob’s ladder,
We are climbin’ Jacob’s ladder,
We are climbin’ Jacob’s ladder,
Soldiers of the cross. . . .
Bridget knew the hymn well. Softly, she joined them in the final chorus.
We are climbin’ higher, higher,
We are climbin’ higher, higher,
We are climbin’ higher, higher,
Soldiers of the cross.
She sat a while longer, thinking of a deserted house and a dying man. Then, thanking the black women, she picked up her basket and stepped out to explore the area.
To her relief, she found she could move around with complete freedom. Nobody was suspicious of a poor woman trying to peddle her basket of meager goods. In fact, she sold quite a few packets of thread and pieces of soap to the friendly troopers. She also kept her eyes and ears open, talking to the soldiers, counting the various cannons, noting the layout of the defenses. All this was stored in her head; she’d have much to report when she got back to camp . . . if she got back to camp. There were no exact plans for her return, but she tried not to worry about that.
Three o’clock came, and with it, Major McKee. Bridget met him, turned over the gold watch, and described what had happened. The major was saddened. He shook his head and chewed the end of his droopy mustache. “Poor Allen Hall, rest his soul,” he mused. “We wondered what became of the lad. At least he didn’t fall into enemy hands.”
The major excused himself with a bow, hurried into the headquarters tent, and returned a minute later.
“Ma’am,” he asked, “can you ride?”
Bridget nodded. “Been riding since I was a shaver, sir. Had my own farm pony back in Country Clare.”
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McKee chewed his mustache again. “Then we’d much appreciate it if you’ll grant a favor. We’re right anxious to bring Lieutenant Hall’s body in and give it a decent burial. If it’s not imposin’, you think you could guide a squad out to that old house?”
The spy’s heart leaped at the prospects and possibilities opening up for her. She smiled sweetly. “I’d be right proud to take them, Major.”
A fine-looking chestnut horse was led from the corral. A trooper made a step with his linked hands, and she climbed into the saddle. She usually sat her horses astride, the way men did, but just in time she remembered to sit sidesaddle, legs together in a ladylike manner. A sergeant rode up beside her and touched his cap. Behind him came the mule wagon, carrying four soldiers and a wooden coffin.
McKee gave the sergeant last-minute instructions. “We have reports of Union patrols this side of the river. Move with care, Parker, and look after this brave lady.”
The party started off at last, with Bridget and the sergeant in front and the wagon following. At first she worried about finding the right way back, but soon began to recognize landmarks. As they rode along she did some more probing.
“You think the Yankees will attack soon?” she asked her companion.
Parker spat tobacco juice and grinned. “I believe so, ma’am. They’ll head this way soon’s they finish buildin’ their bridge—but we’ll be ready for ’em.” He swept a hand toward the dense foliage on both sides of the river. “We’re hidin’ lots of heavy guns here in the woods. When the Yanks come down this road they’ll march straight into an ambush. Purely won’t know what hit ’em.”
Miss O’Shea tried to look pleased. But she filed the alarming news in her head; it was something headquarters would certainly be glad to learn.
The rescue party took a wrong turn and had to backtrack, but they finally reached the old house. A soldier hopped from the wagon, looked inside, and reported that the body was still there under its blanket. As the men began unloading the coffin, Sergeant Parker turned to his guide. “I’d be much obliged, ma’am, if you could ride up to the next bend and kind of act as lookout. Watch for stray Yanks. If I sent one of my men, they’d shoot ’im for sure—but they’ll never bother you.”
Bridget’s eyes lit up. “Don’t you fret, Sergeant. I’ll keep watch. When you’re ready, just start back without me and I’ll catch up.”
Marveling once more at her good luck, the young spy trotted half a mile down the road and slid around the bend. Once out of sight, she swung her right leg over the pommel of the saddle, then kicked the horse into a fast canter. Horse and rider raced down the road as she put distance between herself and the rebels.
After several miles she noticed that the swamp had narrowed greatly. She could even glimpse the Chickahominy through the trees. She wheeled the chestnut sharply, plunged through the underbrush, then straight into the river. The little horse was a sturdy swimmer, strong and confident. Nearing the Union side, she tore off her bonnet and waved it to attract the pickets’ attention.
In a short while, Bridget O’Shea was back at headquarters, sitting across from Colonel Shrub, telling him what she’d learned. The adjutant was delighted with her report. He also admired the chestnut horse she had ridden to safety. “He’s all yours, Thompson,” he said. “Add him to your collection of trophies.”
Later, while changing clothes at the cabin, Emma brought Mrs. Butler up to date. Then she remembered something. “Oh, Lord!” she wailed. “I plumb forgot your lovely wicker basket. It’s back at the rebel camp!”
The chaplain’s wife laughed. “No matter. If you ask me, a basket for a horse is a good trade.”
The women went out to look at the little chestnut tethered near the cabin, cropping grass. “He’s a handsome animal, Em,” said Mrs. Butler. “What are you going to name him?”
Emma grinned. “Rebel,” she said.
11
May 30, 1862
The secret orders from General McClellan were clear and concise:
Upon advancing beyond the Chickahominy, the troops will go prepared for battle at a moment’s notice. All vehicles will be left on the eastern side of the river with the exception of ambulances.
The men will leave their knapsacks with the wagons and will carry three days’ rations. Arms will be put in perfect order. All cartridge cases will carry forty rounds, with twenty additional rounds carried by the men in their pockets. Commanders of batteries will see that limber and caisson boxes are filled to their utmost capacity.
With the bridge completed and all preparations made, the Army of the Potomac launched its big attack on the nerve center of the Confederate government. Private Thompson and his fellow soldiers were hoping for a quick, clean victory, but that wasn’t to be. The Southern troops, fighting for a cause they believed noble and just, resisted fiercely. For days the battle raged back and forth, in and around the river. Finally a Union corps under General Fitz-John Porter won several key victories and cut the railroad lines carrying supplies to Richmond.
Things looked promising for McClellan until nature took an unexpected hand. A great storm hit the peninsula. Sheets of rain fell night and day, flooding the valley and turning the calm river into a raging torrent. Mud on the Richmond road was over a foot deep. The storm badly damaged the new Union bridge and wrecked a second bridge that was being built.
By June, the rebels had been well reinforced and were able to counterattack. The Union troops lost ground before Richmond and the battlefield became fragmented, with pockets of men fighting everywhere.
During those weeks Private Thompson’s work took a new turn. Headquarters had been impressed with his success as a spy and also with his horsemanship. He was a fine rider, skilled and daring, and good messengers were badly needed. So to the complete annoyance of Dr. Hodes, Frank Thompson was again called from the hospital, this time to be a special courier for the Union generals who were directing the confused fighting.
Mounted on Rebel, Private Thompson traveled the countryside for days, carrying orders and dispatches through swamp and mud, over rain-drenched fields, and across streams swollen into rivers. Rebel was equal to every demand made on him, and Thompson enjoyed the excitement of his role. He also had his share of narrow escapes.
Once, coming back from a mission, the courier fell in with a Union cavalry patrol. There were four troopers, and Franklin was glad to have company. Suddenly shots flew at them from the nearby foliage. The patrol was being ambushed—not by the enemy, but by a band of renegade soldiers. Renegades, found on both sides, were armed guerrilla bands who operated without orders, completely on their own. Also called bushwhackers, they were supposed to be partisans of either the North or the South. But most of the time they were merely pirates, preying on civilians and soldiers; killing, robbing, and looting for their own gain.
Private Thompson and his cavalry friends were outnumbered, but in the confusion were able to fight their way out of the trap. Several of the men were wounded and Rebel received a gash across his flank. But he managed to limp back to camp with Franklin, where his minor wound was lovingly attended to.
Another time, heading home near rebel territory, Thompson decided to take a shortcut. Riding through an unfamiliar area, he somehow lost his way. Then, from across a large open field, he spotted a column of Federal troops marching by. They were unmistakable in their blue uniforms. With a whoop, he turned the chestnut and cantered in their direction. Several men waved to him and he waved back in greeting. Suddenly a squad of enemy cavalrymen came charging out of the woods. Franklin realized in alarm that the soldiers in blue were prisoners. They hadn’t been waving to him, but trying to warn him away! More enemy troopers appeared. Thompson wheeled his horse and headed back the way he had come, but another squad came charging at him. Turning again, he galloped toward the far end of the wide field—the only escape route still open.
Slowly his pursuers closed the gap. They began firing, and he heard shots whining past his ears. Then he felt
a harsh sting in his right arm. Looking down, he saw that his sleeve was torn and blood was seeping out. His arm began to throb, but he gripped the reins tightly and kept going. Then Thompson froze. Directly ahead was a ditch wide and deep, and there was no way around it. He’d never jumped Rebel before; now he had no choice.
Leaning over the little horse’s flying mane, he dug in his heels and whispered, “Up and over, Reb! Up and over!”
The ditch came closer and closer. The chestnut lifted high into the air. Thompson held his breath, leaning forward to keep himself balanced. There was a moment of peril as Rebel scrambled for his footing on the far side. Then on he galloped! Thompson patted Rebel proudly on his arched neck and looked back. His pursuers had pulled up short, unwilling to risk the jump for just one more prisoner.
Horse and rider found their way home at last. Naturally, Emma wanted to avoid the hospital, where she’d have to remove her shirt so her wound could be tended. Instead, she headed straight for the chaplain’s cabin. Mrs. Butler, by now an expert nurse, cleaned and dressed the injured arm. “That ball nicked the flesh and went through,” she said. “Nothing to worry about, my dear. You’ll be fine.”