Plantation Nation (9781621352877) (8 page)

At the gate of Fort Madison, the men's papers
were checked as they slowly funneled in. The scent of male sweat,
the spewing of tobacco juice, and a testosterone-rich environment
were not new to her. Yankees were. Throughout her life, Emma had
heard few positive accounts of Northerners. Yankees were obnoxious,
rude, lacked reasoning skills, and had no morals. So far, Nash had
personified that description.

On the other hand, when Emma entered inside
the stone walls of the fortress, she felt enthralled by the feeling
of an alternate patriotism. Here, she didn't need to worry about
hiding her ideals in a box under her bed. A sense of unity struck
her. Surrounded by Yankees or not, Emma had never known such
harmony or encountered so many who shared her passion to see
slavery end.

As the courtyard filled with men and the
burble of conversations, Emma lost track of Nash. The crowd
murmured while an officer climbed atop a wooden scaffold and called
for attention.

"Gentlemen, it is my privilege to welcome you
to Fort Madison and to the Union army." Cheers went up. "I am
Colonel Clayton Reed, and I am the commanding officer in charge of
this here installation. Over a course of several weeks, you will be
trained in the use of your weapon and artillery for the purposes of
combat. At this time it is inappropriate to predict when the Rebels
may strike again, but it is our job, gentlemen, to prepare
ourselves for attack. The current Union strategy under
consideration was devised by General-in-Chief Winfield Scott, and
it involves an aggressive blockade of Southern ports to isolate the
South and to cripple their trade. Once our army is bigger, we'll
move to take control of vital Southern territories. I and my fellow
officers expect this rebellion to be put to rest in a matter of
months, if not weeks." More cheers gave way. "For now, make
yourselves at home, gentlemen."

Home was now a linen tent, and with it came a
tent mate.

"Nathan Graham's the name."

Emma returned a firm handshake but didn't
look Graham in the eyes for too long. They constructed their tent
with ease, though Emma credited Graham with their success. Inside,
barely provided enough room for two cots, their supplies, and small
trunks for their personal belongings.

Emma slipped an 1851 Navy Colt from her
satchel while Graham put away his things. She ran her finger along
the octagon barrel of the revolver and admired the walnut grips.
Neither had a scratch or a blemish. Emma steadied herself. She'd
taken it from Knox's personal collection, stolen it really, but it
meant a lot, having a piece of home with her. Plus, Emma felt
confident in the use of the weapon. She wondered if she would feel
so sure and straight with the Union's musket in her hand.

"Where you from?" Emma knew she would have to
engage with Graham, and that, combined with their living
arrangement, would be her greatest test. If Graham accepted her
as-is, Emma hoped others would be as easily convinced. She prayed
nothing in her voice or mannerisms would give her away.

Graham hesitated before he answered.
"Actually, I came from Illinois. Felt like getting as far from home
as I could."

"Why?"

With auburn hair, a thickening mustache, and
a tanned visage, Graham sat on his cot and rested his forearms on
his legs. He had at least three inches on Emma and a frame that
looked well-nourished.

"My family didn't want me to come," Graham
said. "Didn't want me getting involved with a war that didn't have
much to do with them. They said my place was running the family
business."

Emma found it hard to believe. Was there a
spot in the Union where slavery and states' rights weren't debated
issues? Where men didn't bristle, one way or another, at the
mention of Lincoln's name? Emma tried to imagine life churning by
at such a casual pace but couldn't.

"What sort of business?" she asked.

"They run a tailoring shop outside of
Chicago." Graham looked away and slightly shook his head. "Truth is
my pa didn't think I could make it as a soldier. He thinks I don't
have it in me. Said it would be better for me to stay put or learn
a new skill since I'm not good with fabric and measuring. Guess I
don't have an eye for it."

Emma thought of Knox and his attempt to
discourage Quinn from joining the Confederates, and she couldn't
help wondering how Quinn was adjusting to army life.

"How about your family?"

"Oh, they run a plantation." Emma bit her
lip, angry that she had let such a detail slip so carelessly.

"Tobacco?"

Emma held her breath for a moment, then gave
a weak nod.

"Tobacco." It was a mere statement, not an
affirmation.

To change the subject, Emma faked a yawn and
said she was desperate for a quick nap. She fell back onto her cot
and hoped further discussion was discouraged for the moment. She
stared at the sloped ceiling of the tent briefly then shut her
eyes. Already she felt claustrophobic, homesick for her room and
bed, and fearful that she wouldn't be able to keep track of all the
lies she was bound to tell. She would have to decide how much she
was willing to trust Graham, and at the same time, Emma knew
friendships and attachments in this place would only get her into
trouble.

****

Later that night, Colonel Reed informed the
men that food supplies and a cook were en route. For the next day
or so, however, they would be responsible for their own provisions,
though present staples would be rationed as much as possible. Emma
and her fellow soldiers gathered in small groups and built fires
against the chilly Virginia night. Emma and Graham found a spot by
the fire and marked their first night in Fort Madison with jerky
and hardtack — a near-tasteless concoction that resembled a
cracker. The lack of food was made tolerable by the wealth of
conversation.

Sitting on folding canvas stools and crowding
the fire, men passed around a copy of the
New York Tribune
.
A call for forty-thousand volunteers for a three-year enlistment
dominated the headline. Editorials sang the Union's praises and
provided a morale boost that appeared contagious in the men. Also
mentioned was the Confederate States' decision to move their
capital from Montgomery, Alabama, to Richmond, Virginia.

"Them Johnny Rebs sure are full of
themselves," said one man. "Thinking they can move up North since
Virginia seceded."

"They can't do that! Why, Richmond isn't all
that far from here."

"Just goes to show how stupid they are!"

Guffaws erupted.

"Lincoln won't need them volunteers. We'll
show 'em!" The man stabbed his knife into the air.

"Yeah. Let 'em move ol' Jeff Davis up here.
It'll make him easier to kill."

Emma realized she had begun to cower from
their intensity. Could hatred for the South be this tangible? Could
men be so eager to kill their countrymen? But on the other hand,
wasn't that the sole purpose of this army, to subdue
—
even kill
—
those cantankerous Southerners? And no matter how she dressed,
wasn't Emma a Southerner?

New doubts crept into her head. Could she
really kill someone? Indeed, Emma wanted slavery put to death, but
did she have the gall, the anger, the fortitude to kill someone
over a misinterpretation of right and wrong?

"Well, well, if it ain't li'l tadpole."

Emma recognized Nash's voice before she
looked up from the campfire and saw him. That smug look of his
awash in amber from the firelight. Emma's chest tightened. The last
thing she wanted was to begin her conscription by making enemies
among her new comrades.

"Nash." Emma kept her voice level,
indifferent.

"Kind of surprised to see you made it here
all on your own, Edmonds. I figure a li'l fella like you would
probably get lost or stepped on, especially with no Sergeant
Matthews to look out for you." Nash laughed and others joined in,
seemingly to appease him.

Emma tried to relax her shoulders and not
appear rigid. She almost risked a glance at Graham to see if she
could count on any support from her new tent mate, but Emma didn't
chance it for fear of appearing needy and unable to stand up for
herself.

"I can hold my own." Emma wanted to sound
good natured, not confrontational. "No need for you to worry about
me."

"Is that right? 'Cause I figure the
mosquitoes might carry you off."

"That's enough, Nash," said a man two seats
down from Emma.

"Yeah, says who?"

The man, still chewing on jerky, blinked
lazily in Nash's direction, uninterested in a squabble or Nash's
barbaric showmanship.

"Last I checked, you ain't no officer here,
Reynolds. And just look at him." Nash pointed to Emma. "Tell me he
ain't funny looking with that hair o' his." Nash whipped off Emma's
hat and rustled her hair. "Who cuts your hair, a blind barber with
a chisel?" Nash enjoyed his own remark while the others looked
away, perhaps grateful not to be Nash's target. Emma sprang from
her seat and went for her hat, but Nash held it at bay. "And looky
here."

Nash picked up Emma and laid her across his
shoulders. He hollered and danced around the fire. Other men stood
and protested, but Nash hooted louder.

"See, he don't hardly weigh more 'n a sack o'
feed. I think I've eaten chicken legs bigger 'n him." He chuckled
so hard he half set, half dropped Emma.

Emma had kept from screaming, but she landed
on her rear. The other men gave her looks of pity or had suppressed
smiles on their faces. Anger and humiliation flared in Emma.

"Now what do we have here?" Nash bent down
and picked up a small picture. He held it close to the fire. "I
guess tadpole's got himself a sweetie."

Emma realized it was her picture of Sylvia
—
the only picture she had of her
sister. Perhaps she had been foolish bringing it, but Emma knew in
the days ahead
—
difficult days
especially
—
s
he would miss her and long to see her more than
ever. She had hoped the captured memory of her would be enough to
soften the separation.

"Give it to me, Nash. Right now."

"Oh, you want it, tadpole?" Nash stretched
out his arm and held the picture over the fire. "Come get it."

Emma got to her feet and charged Nash. She
landed her shoulder in Nash's stomach, knocking the wind out of him
as they hit the ground. She rolled Nash onto his side and squared
two punches into his kidney. Nash moaned and curled his body like
an infant. Emma stood, then reached down and took her picture from
Nash's hand. She blew off the dust and put it back into her
pocket.

Someday, she would have to thank Alexander
for using that move on her a time or two.

To her surprise, the men applauded. Some
teased Nash, who slowly rose to his feet. Others shook Emma's hand
and introduced themselves, including the jerky-chewing man.

"Name's Ben Reynolds."

"Good to know you, Ben. Thanks for uh…" Did
one man typically thank another for trying to defend him, even
though it had not gone well? Or was thanking him a sign of
weakness? She swallowed and kept things simple. "Thanks."

"Bout time somebody stood up to Eli Nash. He
ain't nothin' but someone who likes to run his mouth."

Emma nodded and didn't want to get carried
away with how good she felt at the moment. Small victory that it
was, Emma also knew that standing up to Nash could prove to be a
mistake. For one thing, the scuffle had drawn attention to her. She
didn't need the other men talking or curious about her. Plus, Emma
had a gnawing feeling in her gut that Eli Nash would watch and wait
for the perfect moment to ambush her and exact revenge.

Fort Madison

Just outside Washington, D.C.

June, 1861

Over the next few weeks, looking out for Nash
and exposing herself to Graham became the least of Emma's worries.
Coarse wool from the Union jacket combined with the heat gave her a
rash. Soreness defined her and most of the others at first, and
Emma found no relief when sleeping on a sagging cot. The men became
occupied with their training and adjusting to life without their
families. They also fulfilled positions and tasks around the
installment, such as picket duty. Emma realized no one was looking
for a disguised female, and that no one expected to find one. Her
tensions abated, but she remained cautious.

She began her role as a nurse at the fort's
hospital, where new horrors surfaced. Emma's six hour shifts
trapped her in what became the most dismal area inside the fort. In
the absence of combat, the staff expected beds would remain empty,
but an abundance of cots soon became required. Camp fever attacked.
Fever, cough, and diarrhea overtook men at an alarming rate,
forcing them into the hospital and leading them into the grave. The
wrath of camp fever proved more formidable than anything the
Confederates could hope to launch. Dysentery also had its say.
Supplies were sparse and soon dwindled, though no treatment
provided a meaningful counter-attack. When the breeze picked up, no
one could escape the stench that built and grew as a result of poor
drainage. Even worse were the undying groans of hopeless men.

Emma's primary duty became sitting with men
who were on the brink of death and watching them fitfully fade into
the afterlife. The ruthlessness of the disease's cycle was
baffling. Nothing could have prepared her for watching scores of
men die at her side. To her credit, emotions did not overtake her,
though she had little respite from the daily misery. A distorted
melody of moans, begging faces, and cries for God's mercy haunted
her sleep.

With mortality rates so high, Emma examined
her personal religion. She had never prayed much back home. Bowing
her head in church meant she could close her eyes and momentarily
escape Reverend McGee's condescending sermons about an
impossible-to-please Creator. She'd rarely even touched the Bible
kept in her own home. But now, surrounded by affliction, Emma
prayed frequently, both with the dying soldiers and in the quiet
moments that followed. She shared a Bible with Albert Morgan, a
young man with deep convictions who knew many Psalms and Proverbs
by heart. Emma found Albert fascinating, yet intimidating, with his
intricate knowledge of the Bible and various subjects.