Plantation Nation (9781621352877) Page 8

  "But, sir, these troops are nowhere near ready for battle," said the other officer.

  "We have no choice, Captain Olney." McDowell's raised voice alarmed everyone. "The president refuses to wait any longer. He wants this rebellion stamped out."

  Screams erupted from a man a few beds down. Two men held him down as an assistant cut off the injured man's footwear. Misshapen and with bones protruding, the foot oozed blood. Emma assumed the cannon must have recoiled and rolled atop the man's foot. The assistant called for Dr. Spear and the amputation tools.

  "General, I ask you to reconsider," Major Briggs said. "We may have greater numbers, but heading into battle would be unwise at this point. These men are factory workers and farmers. With all due respect, sir, they have no experience as soldiers. You must petition the president for more time."

  "Absolutely not! These men will gain experience. Combat will be the best thing for them. We will surprise the Rebels down in Manassas and serve them a swift defeat." McDowell eyed his subordinates, suggesting that no further comment was necessary. "Gentlemen, inform your commanders and prepare your men. Mark my words, inside a week, we will have a victory to report to the president."

  Emma looked at Ben. Bits of singed flesh and blood spatter stained his uniform. Despite the morphine, Ben still shook. If Ben's injury was only a sampling of the gruesome sights to come, Emma tried to mentally prepare herself for the thick of battle, and she searched for a prayer that would bring a sense of peace and confidence to her doubtful heart.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Manassas, Virginia

  July 21, 1861

  Reluctance threatened to choke Emma as she and thousands of other Union troops tramped down Warrenton Pike. Second thoughts and doubts had no place. Not now. Regardless of the issues brewing in the Union camp, McDowell ordered his men forward and launched an assault at Bull Run. In the pre-dawn hours of that summer morning, muskets sparked and fired, howitzers thundered, grapeshot showered. Men became soldiers.

  At the sight of charging Rebels, Emma raised her musket but froze. Her arms trembled as deranged-struck faces grew near. She heard nothing. The world around her became a soundless, tasteless fog. Everything blurred together. Emma dove to the ground just in time to miss the swipe of a Rebel's bayonet. Other men fell, agony marring their faces. She scrambled to go nowhere. Dirt rained as gunpowder and smoke suffocated the air.

  "Tom!"

  The sound of her assumed name snapped her from her haze.

  "Tom!"

  She scanned the littered battlefield and saw Xavier, spread in pieces. His left arm had been blown from his body. Part of his face was scorched. He feebly reached for Emma.

  "Help me!"

  She went to him and laid her body atop Xavier for protection against incoming shots, but she knew they couldn't stay there, sprawled on the battlefield and under fire. A desperate determination rose in Emma and propelled her to get Xavier to safety. With Xavier wailing, Emma got him to his feet and draped his right arm around her shoulders. Emma had nothing to stop the bleeding wound. They staggered a few steps, increasing Emma's thinning confidence for a split second. Then Xavier's head fell back, and he lost consciousness. His weight, too much for Emma to bear, plunged them both to the ground. She shook Xavier and tried to rouse him, but Xavier was motionless. Weeping, she attempted to drag him, but her efforts were useless. Xavier was dead.

  The Confederates bombarded the Union's flank with grapeshot, dwindling the Union's numerical advantage. Skirmishes endured throughout the day, with each army taking its hit. Victory vacillated and looked promising for each side at different moments of the conflict. The Yankees fought hard all through the day and weakened the Rebels' attack, but reinforcements under the command of General Johnston arrived at the Manassas train depot, and General Bernard Bee rallied his Southern countrymen to such a degree they produced a collective war cry. The Rebel yell that sounded from the Confederates unnerved and confused Union troops. Such advantages put the Union in retreat.

  Believing an easy defeat was in store for the Confederates, civilians from Washington attended the battle as if it had been designed for their entertainment. Crowds perched on overlooking bluffs and hilltops. However, as the grapeshot pelted and Southern troops advanced dangerously close, people abandoned their picnic lunches, ducked into their carriages and followed the example of the bluecoats.

  ****

  Union encampment

  Outside Washington, D.C.

  Ultimately, General McDowell's plan to push the Rebels back across the Rappahannock River and away from Washington proved too complicated for him to communicate and for his men to execute. Forces slowly made their way back to McDowell's former encampment where they were safe from Confederate fire. Embarrassment and an air of disenchantment reigned.

  Emma reported to the hospital tent. She knew her services would be needed, but after watching Xavier die, Emma doubted the effectiveness of her skills, and she dreaded the possibility of seeing more men die so horrifically.

  In comparison to the Union's number of troops, casualties had been minor. Injured men flooded the hospital tent, though. Emma put aside her squeamishness and focused on the need at hand. Hospital stewards, assistants, and nurses shuffled about. Emma expected to catch a glimpse of Dr. Spear, wearing a bloodied apron and yelling orders, but saw no sign of him. She wondered if the good doctor had gone into hiding to save himself from the workload that had exploded.

  "Edmonds? Are you Private Edmonds?"

  Emma's jaw dropped. A woman stood in front of her. A woman! Shorter than Emma and with a head of jet-black hair, she had a kind but distressed face. A mature figure and deep lines on her forehead suggested she was much older than Emma, and in her confusion at seeing another female among the ranks, Emma could only nod her reply to the question.

  "Good. Take these." She gave Emma a handful of supplies then took her by the arm. "I was told to find you. You're needed over here."

  The woman led her to a man who was seated and shirtless. Blood oozed from a deep gash in his left arm. Sweat speckled his heaving chest. His wavy, brown hair met his shoulders, and his beard trimmed his jaw line. In her mind, Emma was transported back to her younger days on the plantation, specifically to lessons with her governess and the stories about Greek gods that she had read. Strength and power defined them, and as Emma stared at the man's bareness, her mind fixated on how perfect and handsome the injured soldier looked. Even streaked with blood.

  The man's intense eyes met hers. Emma could not breathe or blink, as something about the man paralyzed her.

  "Lieutenant Trumball needs stitches on that arm," said the woman.

  "Trumball?" Emma's voice went unheard. Her eyes danced from the woman to the lieutenant's wound and back to his eyes. Emma swayed and her legs wavered.

  "Edmonds?"

  The woman grabbed Emma's arm as she spoke the name, but Emma fell from her grip and fainted dead away.

  ****

  Moments later, consciousness penetrated Emma, and she found the woman over her, slapping her cheeks with more gusto than Emma liked.

  "Edmonds, there's no time for this. We need all the hands we can get. Now get up. Tend to the lieutenant." She prattled on about how the tent wasn't designed to accommodate so many and that the local brick-and-mortar hospitals were overflowed with the severely injured.

  Emma made it to her feet. She did not understand what was happening to her. The woman handed her the supplies she had dropped and nudged her toward Lieutenant Trumball. His countenance even more intense, Trumball offered no expression of sympathy for Emma.

  "Should I do it myself?" he asked.

  "No."

  Emma took a deep breath and was about to step forward when two men walked by carrying a man on a stretcher. She glanced down and saw Dr. Spear, his eyes rolled upward and part of his head missing. A lack of food in her stomach was the only thing that kept Emma from retching.

  Emma forced her focus on Trumball. Equally embarrass
ed from passing out and perturbed by Trumball's comment, she straightened her posture and tried to forget the fact she had stitched more socks than flesh — and never had she touched needle to skin without the criticism and supervision of Dr. Spear.

  "A might young for a soldier." The lieutenant offered it more as an observation than a question.

  Emma made no reply. She'd heard a similar remark when she'd arrived in Washington, and it didn't sit better with her now as the comment implied an incompetence in her. It was true, to a degree perhaps, but Emma hated that it showed. Hiding her identity wasn't enough. She needed to mask her shortage of confidence and inexperience as well.

  She readied the needle and coarse thread. When she turned to Trumball, Emma didn't move her eyes from the wound. She set her jaw and prayed he took it as a show of confidence. Emma would have given anything at that moment to keep her hands steady.

  "Brace yourself, Lieutenant. This will hurt."

  Emma told herself that once she made the first puncture, the first stitch, she could get through it. Although part of her didn't mind inflicting a little pain on the lieutenant after the sting his words had delivered. She wiped as much blood as she could from the area and squeezed the seared edges of skin together. Certain that her perspiration matched Trumball's bleeding, Emma poked the needle into his arm, and wiggled it out the other side. Not a sound came from Trumball. Not a wince or even a grimace.

  Emma worked feverishly, wiping droplets of blood and tugging the thread to close the gash. When she finished, she saw the stitching was not perfect, but it was the best work she had done as a nurse. The bleeding subsided. She wrapped the arm in a bandage and tied it off.

  "I guess some of the stories I've heard about you are true," Emma said.

  "What stories?"

  "Men have been telling me that you can ride through enemy fire and come out unharmed. That you can outrun and outwit a band of Rebels. And since you haven't been seen much around camp, I was beginning to think you were a phantom."

  Trumball suppressed a grin. "Can't believe in such chinwaggin'."

  "Guess not." Emma forgot herself and took a cheap jab. "First battle breaks out and you end up in the hospital, bleeding like a mortal."

  "Yeah, and you faint."

  Emma reddened with self-consciousness. She gathered her supplies to make for another hasty retreat but heard soft chuckles from her commander.

  "What's your name, son?"

  "Edmonds, sir. Private Edmonds."

  "Hang in there, Edmonds." He lifted his arm and checked the bandage. "You do good work."

  Emma nodded. "I'll see if I can find you some morphine."

  "Save it for the men who need it."

  ****

  The last of the water from Emma's canteen drizzled into her mouth, but the warm water gave her no relief. She lost track of how many hours she had spent digging Minie bullets out of men's skin, spreading ointment sparingly on burns, stitching and bandaging wounds. A few hours in and exposed bone and hanging fingers no longer bothered her. Had it only been a matter of weeks since she'd left the plantation?

  "You need to eat something."

  Emma looked and saw the woman who had helped her through her fainting spell. She held a steaming bowl. Though Emma had wondered if she would have an appetite again after the sights she had seen that day, she gratefully accepted the food and realized how hollow she felt after one bite. Plus, the vegetable and beef stew was a welcome deviation from hardtack and beans.

  Emma used a barrel for a seat.

  "I kept an eye on you today," the woman said while Emma ate.

  She hesitated as she chewed, and wondered if she had done something that gave away her disguise. She had forgotten, at least since the battle at Manassas, that she was a woman, hiding in a sea of soldiers. Perhaps this woman had noticed a mannerism in Emma that betrayed her. Or maybe the fainting spell was enough to cause suspicion.

  "I've rarely seen someone who is able to work that hard for so long." She smiled. "And you were good with the men."

  "As long as I wasn't fainting."

  "That just shows you're human and that you care."

  Emma appreciated her point of view on the matter. "I don't mean to sound rude, ma'am, but how did you end up here?"

  The older woman laughed. "Oh, pardon me and my poor manners. I'm Eleanor Pratt. My husband Zechariah was recently assigned as the chaplain for this division. Our home is close by so it seems only natural that we would help out as much as we could. Lord knows there's so much need here. Men hurting and dying." She shook her head. "There just aren't enough of us able-bodied to go around."

  "Yeah, but I didn't think they allowed women in the army."

  "Well, I didn't ask if they needed my help, but no one has shooed me away."

  Emma considered that and wondered how she would've been received, had she shown up wearing a frock instead of her brothers' clothes.

  "It's been hard, watching so many die." Emma choked back tears. She rarely allowed herself moments to dwell on the faces she had seen, but she carried them with her now. Xavier was one of those faces. Emma wondered who else might have been injured, and who would be permanently missing from their evening gatherings around a campfire. "I guess I hadn't counted on the toll this conflict would take."

  Eleanor placed her hand on Emma's shoulder. "Put your trust in the Lord. Lean on Him more than ever. I believe it's the only thing that will see us through."

  Keeping her eyes averted, Emma said, "I don't understand God." She felt ashamed to admit it, especially considering her recent dependency on prayer and the Bible.

  "Don't seek understanding in these times."

  Emma looked at her and forced herself not to cry. She couldn't risk another weak episode in front of this woman. For an instant, Emma considered insulting Eleanor, so the chaplain's wife would let her be, but Emma couldn't do it. Eleanor radiated peace and kindness, qualities that ramped up Emma's craving for a genuine friend. Not the charade she had with Graham and the others, but someone she could confide in completely. However, Emma feared she might easily trust Eleanor too much. Not having a release for her emotions had been a trial, and Emma worried that longing for a confidant could make her careless. But sharing her secret, she knew, would endanger that person. Emma couldn't heap that risk, that burden, on another.

  "I'm glad you're here, ma'am."

  "Please, you may call me Eleanor."

  "As long as you call me Tom."

  They both agreed.

  "You know," Emma said, "this could get me in trouble if you repeat it, but I think you're a much better cook than Grady."

  Eleanor enjoyed the compliment. "Don't worry, Tom, I'm very good at keeping secrets."

  ****

  Union Encampment

  Northern, Virginia

  Late July, 1861

  Fallout from the Union's performance at Bull Run concluded with the dismissal of McDowell and the appointment of General George B. McClellan as commander of the newly branded Army of the Potomac. Although another West Point graduate, McClellan differed from McDowell in that McClellan's reputation for strategizing and training men preceded him. More importantly, McClellan already had demonstrated his military prowess. In early June, he had sent a division of his troops into western Virginia to put a stop to Confederate forces that were burning bridges and disrupting the Union's use of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad. Even though it was a minor victory, and McClellan never left his then-headquarters in Cincinnati, Ohio, President Lincoln showed no qualms about catapulting McClellan to the head of the North's largest army. Reportedly, Lincoln made an appearance at the camp, showing his support for McClellan, but Emma didn't see him.

  McClellan's confidence and bloated ego charmed most of his men. Respect and admiration for the general were instantaneous. Somberness from the defeat at Bull Run was replaced with enthusiasm for future victories. McClellan's new regiment of daily drills was met with unbridled zest by the 100,000-strong unit. Drills included improvi
ng accuracy and firing time with muskets, advancing a unit by elbow-to-knee crawling across dirt, and more men learning the necessary skills to use and fire a variety of artillery, safely.

  McClellan appeared frequently among the men and oversaw drills. Emma enjoyed the sight of him, as she felt a new hope had dawned with him as their leader.

  "Excellent work, men," McClellan said to Emma and Graham one morning after they completed an elbow-to-knee crawl across a muddy field. Whatever George McClellan lacked in stature, he made up for in presence and self-esteem. Nicknames for the general became plentiful, but McClellan did not air a disapproval, though no one personally addressed him as Little Mac and Little Napoleon.

  "Thank you, sir." Emma tried to forget the fact she was caked in mud. "And may I say, sir, what an honor it is to serve under you." She resisted the urge to curtsey.

  Always one to relish a compliment, McClellan's handsome features brightened. "Why, thank you, son."

  "I know my fellow comrades and I are looking forward to many victories." Emma motioned slightly toward Graham, who seemed set on saying nothing.

  "What's your name, soldier?" McClellan seemed content ignoring Graham.

  "Private Tom Edmonds, sir." Emma hoped the mud covered his flushed cheeks.

  "Well, Edmonds, should I have my way, I intend to subdue the Rebels in one battle. This matter of secession has gone too far, and I aim to put an end to it, reunify the states."

  "Yes, sir, and it will be a glorious day when our nation is no longer marred by slavery."