Soldier Girl Blue

By James Knights

A young Canadian woman escapes her abusive father by disguising herself as a man and seeking refuge in the United States, a country about to be torn apart by civil war. Though able to claim neutrality as a foreigner, she finds it impossible to turn her back on an enslaved people and risks everything to continue her masquerade and join the fight to free them. As a Union soldier, she learns that neither the constant fear of being unmasked nor the danger she faces under fire can compare to the unrelenting peril she must endure as a spy behind Confederate lines. But when her lover is captured and imprisoned, she learns that love can drive her to take even greater risks. Soldier Girl Blue is based on the remarkable true story of Sarah Emma Edmunds of New Brunswick, Canada, a little known Civil War heroine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S & H Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781633200692

James Knights

James Knights is a retired FBI Special Agent. A native of New England, one of his great-great-grandfathers served during the Civil War with Company E, 6th Massachusetts Militia Infantry, while another was a 'bluenose' sea captain from Windsor, Nova Scotia. He and his wife own a seaside cottage on Prince Edward Island, Canada. He has authored several published articles on law enforcement recruiting, including one on the valuable role of women as investigators.

Book preview

Foreword

In this fictional account of a soldier found to be a woman, James Knights has succeeded in revealing aspects of Civil War history often overlooked. Based on the real-life story of Sarah Emma Edmonds, Emily Edmunds a.k.a Edmund Fredericton’s adventures provide insight into the medical corps; the roles of chaplains, women, and African Americans; and the number of participants from Canadian provinces.

Fredericton’s assignment as a nurse brings him into contact not only with surgeons, but also with chaplains and women volunteers who helped tend the wounded and sick. Chaplains worked closely with medical staff and often remained behind with the wounded, sometimes becoming prisoners before being paroled. Women volunteers after battles helped in the hospitals to supplement the work of the soldiers, often convalescents, who were detailed as nurses. The number of women who, like Sarah Edmonds, dressed as men and served in the ranks is thought to be about 400, but it is difficult to document and many women may have served undetected. One account in The Sixteenth Maine Regiment in the War of the Rebellion, 1861-1865 by Abner Ralph Small, published in 1886 reported that Company I boasted of the presence of one of the gentler sex in the ranks, who did good service at Fredericksburg. The regimental history goes on to quote a report that appeared in the Richmond Whig:

Yesterday a rather prepossessing lass was discovered on Belle Isle, disguised, among the prisoners of war held there. She gave her real name as Mary Jane Johnson, belonging to the Sixteenth Maine Regiment. She gave as an excuse for adopting her soldier’s toggery, that she was following her lover to shield and protect him when in danger. He had been killed, and now she had no objection to return to the more peaceful sphere for which nature, by her sex, had better fitted her. Upon the discovery of her sex Miss Johnson was removed from Belle Isle to Castle Thunder. She will probably go north by the next flag of truce. She is about sixteen years of age."

A large number of freed slaves, known as contraband, fled to the safety of Union regiments and assisted the Union effort. Diaries and letters of Union surgeons and other officers often mention the African-American servants who served as cooks, took care of horses and otherwise contributed to camp life for Union forces. Their individual stories figure prominently in this narrative, even though they are generally omitted in official accounts or battle descriptions.

The novel also reinforces the fact that as many as 50,000 Canadians may have served in the Civil War on both sides, mainly in Union regiments. My own research on Civil War surgeons at the Battle of Gettysburg, for example, has identified Dr. Solomon Secord of Kincardine, Ontario, who served the Confederacy as surgeon of the 20th Georgia Infantry. Secord was living in Georgia at the beginning of the war recovering from tuberculosis. Although he was an abolitionist, and was arrested for his sentiments, he nonetheless enlisted and served in the Confederate Army for the entire war and returned to his regiment after escaping prison in Baltimore following the Battle of Gettysburg in 1863. After the war, he returned home and practiced medicine until his death in 1910. Francis Wafer, a young medical student at Queen’s Medical College in Kingston, Ontario, answered the call for recruits and enlisted in the 108th New York as assistant surgeon in March, 1863, hoping to gain practical surgical experience. He returned home after the war to complete medical studies and practice medicine until his death in 1876.

The characters that James Knights has created in this novel may be fictional, but they help tell a richer and more diverse story of the Civil War.

Barbara Franco

Independent Scholar

Founding Director Emerita, Gettysburg Seminary Ridge Museum, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

Chapter 1 - I should’ve been born a boy

Spring 1858

Magaguadavic, New Brunswick

British North America

The gentle stillness of the cooling spring night was shattered by the clatter of ironbound spoked wheels and the pounding of iron-shod hooves. Though faint at first, these harbingers nonetheless penetrated the thin walls and curtained windows of the small weathered farmhouse, where they taunted and threatened.

They grew louder, then slowly diminished, fleeing in the direction of the barn.

Again there was silence.

He’s home, Mama, said Emily Edmunds, drying a dinner plate with a worn cotton cloth.

Her announcement was not a joyous one; it was a warning. Her fervent desire was that, one day, the wagon and its driver would go down the road and never return.

Clara Edmunds, up to her forearms in dishwater, nodded and said, "J’ai des oreilles. I have ears, Emily."

It’s so late, said Emily. The bank’s been shut for hours.

Passing the last plate to her daughter, Clara said, We both know he’s not coming from the bank. He may have started there, but that’s not where he ended up.

Passing the damp cloth over the contours of the plate, Emily said nothing. There was no reason to. Why should this night be different from any other?

They waited.

After several minutes the strained silence was replaced by heavy, unsteady footfalls on the wooden steps of the porch. Joining them were the creaks and complaints of the handrail threatening to give way under excessive strain.

Emily felt her mother tense. They both held their breath as they waited—literally—for the next shoe to drop.

First one. Then another. They silently counted the unsteady steps traversing the pine floorboards until they heard a shuffling halt.

The door swung open and Henri Edmunds staggered into the presence of his wife and only child. Not sparing a word or a look for either woman, he pulled a chair from the kitchen table and fell heavily into it, his stomach bulging over his belt, threatening to explode from his unwashed woolen shirt. The aged chair creaked and groaned.

Without turning from the sink, Clara said, We already ate supper. I didn’t think you’d be this late. I can fix you a plate, if you want.

O’ course you ate without me, snarled Henri, pulling off his boots. "Why the hell wouldn’t you? I ain’t important around here. Merde."

His words were borne to the women on whiskey-laden breath.

Clara furtively squeezed Emily’s arm. Be careful.

Turning to look at Henri, Clara asked, What did they say at the bank?

What d’ you think they said?

They won’t give us more time?

Glaring at his wife, he threw a boot to the floor and said, "Non, vache stupide. No, they won’t give us more time, you stupid cow. Why would they? What does the bank care if I lose everything I been workin’ for all my life?"

Clara’s shoulders sagged. Ignoring his insult, she said, If worse comes to worse, Henri, we can go to Fredericton or St. John. Maybe Moncton. You’ll be able to find work somewhere, I’m sure.

I ain’t leavin’ this farm. I put too much blood and sweat into it to hand it over to a bunch o’ fancied up thieves. You can go to goddamned St. John, if you want. I’m stayin’ here.

But, Clara began, if the bank....

To Hell with the goddamned bank.

But, Henri....

There’s another way, said Henri, not bothering to look up. And you know what it is.

Clara blanched. Henri, no, she beseeched. We’ve already talked about this. You promised.

"That was before those salauds at the bank. Bastards. Things have changed now."

No, Henri, you can’t! Emily is our daughter.

The nightmarish truth dawned on Emily. She looked at her mother.

Clara’s anguished eyes met Emily’s. Emily could see in them a plea to understand that her mother had tried to protect her from this. In them, too, was the admission she had been foolish in not foreseeing Henri’s treachery.

Henri stood. I already did it.

"Non! You have no right!"

I got every right. He turned his eyes toward Emily. Edgar Thomas and me just had ourselves a business meetin’ in his office in back o’ his store. That’s where he keeps his good sippin’ whiskey. We did a lot o’ negotiatin’.

Knowing what was coming, both women stood like marble statues.

"He’ll have you, Dieu sait pourquoi. God knows why. Well, I know why, too, but I don’t care. Edgar Thomas is goin’ t’ be my son-in-law."

Emily stared at her father with a mixture of disbelief and defiance.

"Non! I will not! You can’t make me!"

"You don’t think so? T’ès ma fille et tu vas m’ecouter. You’re my daughter and you’ll do as I say, said Henri Edmunds, his face flushed with anger and alcohol. You had enough chances to make a decision. Now I’m makin’ it for ya. You always thought you was too good for farm boys, oui? Well, no farm boy for you now. You’ll take Edgar Thomas and you’ll like it."

"Non!"

He took a step toward her. Flickering yellow light from the single oil lamp sent dancing shadows across his features, making his face a mirror of his soul. Before her Emily saw a demon. She blanched and backed away.

Henri, shouted Clara. Stop this. There must be another way to....

You shut up. I been feedin’ her for nineteen years. That’s long enough. Now someone wants her who can actually do me some good.

He sneered.

"Non," Emily repeated. "He’s over twice as old as me and even if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t want him. Il est un cochon."

"I don’t give a good goddamn if he is a pig. You’re lucky. He can have any woman he wants. Il est riche. He’s rich and you’re gonna marry him!"

Henri unbuckled his belt.

You’re taking money from him? Emily screamed. You’re selling your own daughter?

What do you think? You call it whatever the hell you want, but you’re gonna marry Edgar Thomas.

With a swift move, he yanked the thick leather belt from around his waist and coiled it into a loop.

Henri, shouted Clara again. "Arrête. Stop! We can find some other way to get the money."

There ain’t any other way. Don’t you understand?

Livid, Henri swung around and slammed the back of his over-sized hand into his wife’s face.

With a scream, she crumpled to the floor.

Emily could barely comprehend what was happening. She had seen her father enraged before, but never like this. He had hit her more than once, but never her mother. The threat of losing the farm had made him desperate. And desperation breeds danger.

Wide-eyed, Emily stumbled backward, landing against the cooling wood stove. The handle of an iron skillet jabbed into the small of her back. She felt her heart pounding against her ribs as her father closed in, hefting the thick leather belt, getting the feel of it before he swung.

This is your fault, you ugly cow, Henri shouted at Clara. If you gave me the sons I wanted, this wouldn’ be happenin’.

Henri, please.... she begged, blood and tears mingling as they traversed her contorted features.

"Shut up! At least the disobedient putain isn’t altogether useless. She’s gonna get us outta debt and then I don’t care what happens to her."

Henri was almost within reach of Emily. She could see the rage written on his features. Without taking her eyes off him, she reached behind her back until she felt the cold iron of the skillet’s handle. Her fingers closed around it.

If I have to, I’ll hogtie you and toss you in the back of the wagon.

His smile was wicked.

He towered over Emily and raised the belt above his head.

Henri, no! cried Clara, grabbing at his legs.

The devilish smile left Henri’s face. Seething, he turned and swung the belt across his wife’s back. She screamed again.

At that moment Emily heaved the heavy iron skillet in a wide arc. Hardly believing what she was doing, she felt the skillet connect with the back of her father’s head. The loud thud reminded her of pounding a fence post with a sledgehammer.

The man collapsed on top of his terror-stricken wife, pinning her down, blood gushing from the wound on the back of his head.

Emily dropped the skillet. It rang like a bell when it hit the pine floorboards.

Clara stared at Henri in disbelief.

She cried out, Oh, my God! Is he dead?

In answer to Clara’s question, he moaned.

Emily struggled to shift Henri’s heavy bulk off her mother.

After helping her mother to her feet, Emily reached out and gingerly touched her still bleeding and rapidly swelling lip. Clara winced.

He’s right about one thing, Momma.

Clara looked at her daughter questioningly.

I should’ve been born a boy. It would’ve saved us all a lot of trouble.

Clara took Emily into her arms and hugged her.

Emily, don’t you ever say that.

Momma, I....

Suddenly, Clara grabbed Emily by the shoulders and said, Emily, you have to go.

But Momma, what about you? When he comes to, there’s no telling what he’ll do to you.

"Emily, I’ve lived with your father a long time. Don’t worry about me. Va maintenant!

Chapter 2 - I got used to pretending

A crowing rooster roused Emily from a restless sleep.

For a moment, she didn’t know where she was, only that she was cold and shivering.

Then she remembered.

Her world had been turned upside down. It had never been easy living with Henri Edmunds. He had always wanted boys, and he never let Emily or her mother forget it. Growing up, she had tried to be more like the son he wanted, but no matter what she did, as long as she could remember, her gender was the mainspring of his resentment. When she was a little girl and said her prayers before going to bed, she used to beg God to let her wake up as a boy so her father would finally love her.

She couldn’t remember how many nights she had cried herself to sleep as a child after one of her father’s tirades, but at least she had had a home, food and one parent who loved her.

Now she had nothing, not even her mother. What was probably the first day of her new life had started in a cold, damp and stinking barn. What would she do?

She remembered how, the night before, with her father still bleeding and unconscious on the kitchen floor, she and her mother had frantically gathered up a few essentials and some food and stuffed them into an old carpetbag. Her mother begged her to take the horse so she could more quickly escape Henri, but Emily refused. The loss of a horse would double her father’s rage and her mother, the only target available, would feel the brunt of it. Losing a daughter was one thing, but a horse was valuable.

With a final hug and kiss, Emily had parted from her mother and headed out into the chilly spring night.

Now she found herself lying in a strange barn instead of a warm bed. She imagined her father’s fury and humiliation at having been bested by two women. She uttered a prayer for her mother.

Surrounded by the smells of horse manure and hay, she rose and brushed clinging strands of straw from her clothes. Stepping tentatively into the barnyard, she recognized where she was: the Valentine place.

She had known the Valentines all her life. The son, James, was a few years older than she, but he’d gone away to school in St. John on the southern coast of New Brunswick not far from Maine. She thought about knocking on the door and asking for help but decided against it. Old man Valentine and her father never got along—her father never got along with anyone—but she couldn’t take a chance. Her father was sure to look for her at all the surrounding farms. He didn’t care about her, she knew. He only cared about getting Edgar Thomas to pay off the mortgage on the farm. That, and revenge.

She shivered again.

She looked for signs of life. Smoke drifted from the farmhouse chimney in lazy swirls. She imagined a warm kitchen with hotcakes and ham sizzling on the griddle. Her stomach growled. Half a loaf of bread waited in her carpetbag, but she thought it best to save it for later. The important thing now was to keep moving; the farther she got away from home, the safer she’d be.

Stepping outside, she got her bearings and skirted the side of the barn away from the house. Breathing a sigh of relief as she rounded the corner, she was suddenly lifted off her feet and slammed to the ground. Breathless, confused, and unable to move, she found herself looking into an angry pair of eyes.

Just who the hell’re you, and why’re you sneaking around our barn?

The face spraying her with spittle was familiar—and irate.

Gasping for breath, she said, J-James? Is that you? You’re not supposed to be here.

"I’m not supposed to be here? Who are you? How do you know my name and where I’m supposed to be? I won’t ask again," he threatened. His grip on her shoulders tightened.

James, it’s me, Emily. You’re hurting me.

James squinted and turned his head slightly as he examined Emily’s face. He relaxed his grip, but only slightly.

Emily? James asked. Emily Edmunds?

Yes, James. Now get off me and help me up.

Tall and muscular, he stood and hauled Emily to her feet with one hand.

With a look of incomprehension, James said, Emily, I’m sorry. The way you’re dressed. Your hair. I mean, hell, you look like a boy.

Thanks for the compliment, she responded wryly as she dusted herself off for the second time that morning.

Emily, what’s going on? Why’re you sneaking around?

James, I’m freezing and starving. Can we please go in the house? I’ll tell you everything there.

Emily washed down a mouthful of hotcakes with hot coffee while James’ mother put another slab of ham on her plate.

Goodness, Emily, said James’ mother, Joséphine Valentine, you not only look like a boy dressed up like that, but you eat like one, too.

Before Emily could respond, James’ father, Pierre, said, Did I hear you right, Emily? You say you knocked your pa out with a cast iron skillet?

Yes, sir, you did, answered Emily. He was whaling on Momma. I was afraid he was gonna kill her. That skillet was all I had to stop him.

Pierre grinned. Well, you didn’t do anythin’ that every man within twenty miles hasn’t wanted to do at one time or another.

Even if you had killed your pa, chimed in James, there’s a good chance no one would do anything about it. It was self-defense, the way I see it.

Pierre nodded in agreement.

Emily, said Joséphine, what are you going to do now? You know your pa will scour New Brunswick looking for you. Where will you go?

Yes, ma’am, I know. I’ve been thinking about heading south to the U.S. Jobs here are scarce and a lot of Maritimers have left for the States.

Oh my Lord, Emily, said Joséphine. A young girl like you traveling all alone? Anything could happen. It would be different if you were a man. Your mother will worry herself to death.

Not to mention, added Pierre, those people are fixin’ to have a war between free and slave states real soon. The U.S. could explode any time. I wouldn’t want to be there when it happens. It’s not our fight and it’s none of our business.

Well, said Emily, if they do have a war, it couldn’t be any worse than living with Pa. I can’t stay in New Brunswick. If I do, he’ll find me. And going to another province won’t do me any good if there’s no work to be had.

It looks like you’re boxed in, said James.

Maybe not, said Emily. For a while now I’ve been playing with an idea. What you just said makes me think it might work, Mrs. Valentine.

What was that? answered Joséphine.

About me looking like a boy. James, you really didn’t recognize me out there next to the barn?

Heck, no, replied James. I don’t usually go around knocking girls to the ground, he said with an embarrassed grin. I took you for a drifter.

Right now I’m sort of a drifter, I guess, but if you thought I was a man, or at least a boy, then I should be able to fool just about anyone.

Are you sayin’, said Pierre, that you’re gonna try to disguise yourself as a man?

Sure, why not? I’ve been doing that for as long as I can remember. Pa wanted boys, but he got me. When I was little, I used to think I could make him love me if I pretended to be a boy. I never wore dresses or played with dolls.

She ran her fingers through her short-cropped curly brown hair.

I begged Momma to cut my hair short and I wore boys clothes and learned to shoot and ride and do all the things boys do. But it didn’t make any difference. He never treated me any way except like dirt. Now he wants to trade me to Edgar Thomas for the farm’s mortgage.

Oh, you poor dear, said Joséphine.

What’s done is done, said Emily. I got used to pretending to be someone I’m not, so why not go on pretending? Like you said, Mrs. Valentine, it’s a lot safer to be a man in this world than a woman. I’ll get myself to St. John and then to Maine. I’ll pick a man’s name. Emily Edmunds will disappear.

But dear, protested Joséphine, dressing and acting like a boy where everyone knows you is one thing. You never really had to convince anyone that you’re someone you’re not. But masquerading as a man in front of strangers—foreigners—day in and day out without having anyone to confide in is something else. You’ll have to fend for yourself with no friends or family to help. You won’t be able to make even one mistake or you’ll be found out, and then only God knows what would happen to you. Do you really think you can do that?

Mrs. Valentine, began Emily, "I know I’ve got to try. I can’t go home and I can’t stay in New Brunswick. The way I see it, I don’t have a choice. I have to become a traveler, un voyageur."

I have to agree with Joséphine, said Pierre. I think it’s an outlandish idea, Emily, but I promise you Henri won’t know you were here. We’ll keep it to ourselves.

I’ll take you to St. John, said James. I’m headed back there, anyway.

Thank you, said Emily. "I’m really obliged to all of you. Merci infiniment."

"C’est rien, Emily," said Joséphine. It’s nothing. Now, let’s clean you up and see about putting more food in that carpet bag.

Chapter 3 - A Negress in shackles wearing a calico frock

The twenty-two-year-old traveling Bible salesman who called himself Edmund Fredericton ignored the rocking and swaying of the Portland, Saco and Portsmouth Railway car and the incessant clickety-clack of steel wheels against steel rails.

The young man with short curly brown hair, fair skin, soft features and sparkling eyes that drew the smiles of women stared at the headline of the Boston Daily Evening Transcript. He was finding it difficult to absorb what he was reading: "War."

He read it again, letting the black letters sink into his brain. It was unbelievable. They’d gone and done it. South Carolina had seceded from the United States the previous December. A number of other southern states followed. That was one thing. Secession wasn’t war. But now South Carolina had attacked the Federal garrison at Ft. Sumter in Charleston Bay. There was no going back. The rest of the slave states were sure to secede and heed the call to arms.

War!

As the train sped him to Portland, Fredericton looked out the window at the flickering trees and blurred houses and barns. He remembered what James Valentine’s father warned three years before when a girl named Emily had talked about escaping her father by fleeing across the border to the United States: Those people are fixin’ to have a war between free and slave states real soon.

His eyes returned to the newspaper: President Lincoln calls for 75,000 troops.

Fredericton recalled something else James’ father said: It’s not our fight, and it’s none of our business.

Or was it?

* * *

The train pulled into the PS&P terminal on Commercial Street in Portland, Maine. Fredericton descended to the platform holding a valise in one hand and the newspaper in the other.

Stealing glances at the newspaper, he navigated through the crowd toward the station’s exit. He was on the short side, thus most men were taller than he. As people brushed by him, he heard them talking about the attack on Ft. Sumter and Lincoln’s call for troops. Some were chattering excitedly while others appeared lost in silent apprehension. Over the din of the crowd an excited newsboy shouted, Extra! War!

Finally on the street, Fredericton looked around. Taking in the mixed odors of horse manure, wood smoke, dust, and the sweat of hardworking people, he took a moment to get his bearings. He had only taken half-a-dozen steps toward his hotel when a nearby commotion drew his attention.

I’m tellin’ ya’ll, said a high-pitched and indignant southern voice, that bitch and her whelp are my property. The Slave Act says so.

Fredericton joined the crowd watching the spectacle. The Southerner was short, with a rotund belly hanging over his belt, pockmarked skin, and disheveled gray hair protruding from beneath a tattered and sweat-stained broad-rimmed hat. But his most striking feature was the patch over his left eye.

The object of the Southerner’s attention was a Negress in shackles wearing a faded calico frock. She struggled to free herself from the firm grip he had on her arm. Another man wearing a badge and armed with a holstered revolver maintained a hold on the woman’s other arm. Peeking from behind the folds of the woman’s skirt was a sobbing girl of about seven with chestnut-colored skin.

Fredericton pushed through the crowd until he was within a few feet of the squabble.

"Don’t you tell me what the Slave Act says, Cane. I’m the sheriff and I know damned well what it says. Now I’m tellin’ you this isn’t Virginia. The law in Maine says that suspected escaped slaves are entitled to a hearing before a federal magistrate. He’ll decide whether she goes with you or stays."

Suspected? repeated Cane. "There ain’t no suspected about it. I tracked her down and I caught her. You do-gooder Yankees are all cut from the same damned cloth. Ya’ll help our slaves escape, which is stealin’, then say they’re protected by your law—Yankee law. Damn you!"

Cane again tried to pry the crying woman away from the sheriff.

Let go o’ my momma! screamed the girl.

Shut up, you uppity little nigger bitch, yelled Cane. He raised his arm over his head. I’ll show you how to talk to a white man!

He swung.

The girl’s mother screamed.

With speed he didn’t know he possessed, Fredericton leapt between Cane and the girl while raising his valise like a shield. Cane’s hand slammed with a whack into the hard-sided case. He cried out in pain and surprise.

Fredericton dropped his valise and grabbed Cane by the shoulders. Into Cane’s enraged face he shouted, Leave them alone!

The sheriff stepped forward, his hand on the butt of his revolver.

That’s enough, Cane. Any more of that and I’ll take you in for assault and disturbing the peace.

Pulling free of Fredericton and turning his angry glare from him to the sheriff, Cane spat, I told you, she belongs to me. So does her brat. I can do what I want with both of ‘em. Why do you care about a couple ‘a skirts, anyhow?

Then he twisted his head, pointing his good eye at Fredericton. It was filled with hatred. Cane indicated his contempt by spitting a plug of chewing tobacco at Fredericton’s feet.

I don’t know who you are, nigger-lover, he said. But I’m gonna remember you.

Cane! shouted the sheriff. You either back off or I’ll take you to a cell.

There were unfriendly murmurs from the crowd.

Fredericton heard someone mumble, Let’s run him out of Portland on a rail.

Someone else agreed.

The sheriff heard them, too. All right, folks, he shouted, let’s just everyone stay calm. I’ll handle this.

The sheriff looked at Cane and was about to speak when a figure dressed in black pushed through the growing throng to stand in front of Cane. Fredericton glimpsed a flash of white at his collar.

The stranger was tall and towered over Cane. Looking down at him, he pointed a long finger to the south and said, You heard the sheriff, slave master. Go! You are involved in an unchristian business and one day you will answer to God. For your own safety, go back where you came from and leave this woman and child in peace.

Taken by surprise, Cane stepped back but quickly recovered.

An’ just who the hell do you think you are? I ain’t afraid o’ some Yankee preacher and I ain’t goin’ nowhere without what’s mine!

There was more angry murmuring from the crowd. Cane looked around at the unfriendly faces. He blinked and swallowed hard. He gathered up his courage and once again reached out to grab the trembling woman.

To everyone’s astonishment, the minister flexed his knees and swung his fist in a perfect uppercut that connected squarely with the bottom of Cane’s whisker-stubbled jaw, knocking him backwards.

To laughter from the crowd, Cane came to rest in a pile of fresh and highly aromatic horse manure.

Cane, said the sheriff, if you say one more thing, I’ll arrest you!

Hey, sheriff, someone yelled. If you wanna arrest the son-of-a-bitch, you’ll have lots o’ help.

That’s right, said another. Others chimed in.

Defiance melted from Cane’s features to be replaced by fear. His one eye grew wide. Clumsily, he stood and backed away while the crowd hurled insults at him. He turned and hurried off, followed by the sound of derisive laughter.

All right, folks, shouted the sheriff. Everybody go on about your business.

The crowd began thinning with a few people giving Fredericton and the minister congratulatory slaps on the back.

The minister turned to Fredericton and said, I saw what you did, young man. Coming to the aid of the defenseless was a Christian act. I’m Michael Broussard. I have the Episcopal church down the street.

Broussard reached out and shook Fredericton’s hand.

After introducing himself, Fredericton said, Reverend, that man’s a bully. Thinking of Henri Edmunds back in New Brunswick, he added, I’ve seen bullies before. They’re all the same. Then brightening, he continued, By the way, that was some punch. The devil wouldn’t stand a chance against you in the ring.

Before Broussard could answer, the sheriff said, The good reverend here was quite a boxer before he was called to the cloth. The soulless bastard he knocked on his ass was Hector Cane who hails from Virginia. They can keep him.

Smiling, Broussard turned to the sheriff and asked, Frank, what will you do with the woman and child?

The two refugee slaves were standing to one side. The little girl had both arms wrapped tightly around her mother’s legs while the woman stroked her thick black hair with her manacled hands.

Fredericton noticed the woman continued to stare at the ground, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

They’re goin’ into a cell, answered the sheriff.

Does that really have to be? asked Broussard. They’ve done nothing wrong and God knows they’ve been through enough.

Reverend, answered the sheriff, I’m sorry as I can be for these people, but I’m responsible for them until a federal magistrate can hear their case. Cane was right, damn him to Hell. The law’s the law. That’s all there is to it.

Then I’ll take responsibility for them until the hearing, sheriff, said Broussard. I won’t stand to see them suffer anymore. God in Heaven knows what they’ve endured at the hands of that devil.

The sheriff let out a long breath.

Reverend, I was hoping you’d offer. We haven’t seen the last of Cane and I’d just as soon he didn’t know where they were.

Then it’s settled, said Broussard.

Sheriff, interjected Fredericton. You don’t often see slaves in Maine. How did they get here? What did Cane mean when he said we helped them escape?

Underground Railroad, replied the sheriff. They were smuggled here all the way from Virginia. Abolitionists are everywhere, even in the south. They hide escaped slaves in attics, cellars, and barns. Sometimes in abandoned shacks. Anywhere the light doesn’t shine. They move at night tryin’ to get to the British provinces up north before they’re caught. It’s pretty tough on ‘em, especially the women and kids.

But that woman and child got this far, said Fredericton. Maine isn’t a slave state. Aren’t they free here?

Only if they’re not caught by their masters or slave hunters. If Cane can prove to a federal magistrate they escaped from him, he can take ‘em back to Virginia. That’s why they were heading for the border. Slave hunting is illegal up there. If they can make it across the border, they’re free.

For the first time, the black woman spoke: We-We almost made it, she said. We almost got free o’ that devil.

Surprised to hear the woman break her silence, Broussard asked, Alone? He looked at the child, then asked, You have no husband?

Did once. He weren’t my husband, though. Jutting her chin in the direction Cane had scurried, she continued, Hector Cane wouldn’t let a preacher marry us. We is just breedin’ stock to him, but that didn’t stop him from beatin’ us. He was gonna sell me and my baby so he could buy more land. But he didn’t wanna sell my man. We’d never would o’ seen each other again. So we ran away. After a while, our food run out, so my man broke into a house lookin’ for somethin’ for us to eat. We thought the house was empty, but somebody started hollerin’ and my man tried to get away. He didn’t hurt nobody, but they shot him anyway. They didn’t even warn him to stop.

The chains of her manacles swung back and forth as she wiped tears from her eyes.

Broussard approached her and put his hand on her shoulder.

She looked into his face.

The final die has not yet been cast, sister, he said. Put your faith in God and the good people of this city.

Speaking to Broussard, the sheriff said, It’ll take a little time to get the paperwork ready. Come to my office in about an hour.

He turned and walked away, motioning the woman and her child to follow. Fredericton watched them. He heard the creak and rattle of her chains keeping time with each step the woman took. She sounded like a ghost roaming a graveyard.

The brown-skinned little girl held onto her mother’s skirt as she stumbled along behind her.

When the trio disappeared down the street, Broussard said, The sheriff is a good man. I count him amongst my congregation.

It was easy to see he hated what he was doing, replied Fredericton.

He did hate it, said Broussard. Any moral man would, but he had no choice.

Broussard looked hard at Fredericton. But you did have a choice, young man. You did a brave thing. You had no way of knowing what Cane might have done, sheriff or no sheriff. That man has no respect for God or the law. There were quite a few men standing there who could have stepped in, but you were the one who did, and you’re pretty small, if you don’t mind my saying so. Why? What made you do it?

Fredericton looked at Broussard, then he looked down the street where the slave with manacled wrists and her child had disappeared into the crowd.

She reminded me of someone from back home. Someone who may as well have been a slave in chains.

Fredericton recalled the words of James Valentine’s father: It’s not our fight and it’s none of our business.

Fredericton looked down at his hands. It was Emily Edmunds’ fight. It was her business—yet she was powerless. Clenching his hands into fists, Fredericton made a decision: disguised as Edmund Fredericton, he would do what the woman, Emily Edmunds wouldn’t be allowed to do.

Chapter 4 - I have to find an officer who’s still alive

The unrelenting drone of hundreds of flies attracted by undressed wounds was an added insult to intolerable injury.

Early on Sunday, July 21, 1861, advancing Union troops swept toward the Rebel line past the Sudley Methodist Church, which was then occupied by Federal forces. Pews were removed, blankets lain on the floor, and the wounded brought in. Thus, not far from a peaceful, meandering creek called Bull Run near Manassas, Virginia, what had been a House of God only a few hours before had been transformed by the hand of man into a charnel house.

The stifling late July heat added to the misery of the wounded soldiers crowding the small structure. Some were able to bear their pain and fear in silence. Many could not. The wails of those worse off competed with the tumult of the battle raging nearby. A few swore and blasphemed. Others mumbled prayers. One man begged God to save him. Another begged to die. A lad, judged to be beyond hope and left to die alone, called out for his mother. The floor beneath a makeshift operating table was slick with fresh blood. Coal shuttles and wooden buckets had become impromptu repositories of amputated limbs. Beyond the stone walls more flies conducted their business on piles of arms, legs and corpses. The odor of flesh putrefying in the relentless heat wafted in through open windows to mix with the stink of sweat, vomit, urine, feces—and fear.

As horrendous as this suffering was, it was merely in addition to that caused by dysentery, typhoid fever, measles, diarrhea and heat stroke. On both sides of the conflict, disease was claiming far more victims than actual combat.

There was a commotion at the door. An overworked army surgeon looked up from his patient, a young soldier contorted in agony, his leg below the knee an unrecognizable mass of bleeding flesh and protruding bone as jagged as a broken tree branch. Between excruciating wails, the boy, held down by two beefy army field nurses, frantically implored God for mercy.

None came.

The surgeon frowned and laid aside the amputation saw he was about to put to use. He had already forgotten how many times that day he had used it. Unhappy at being interrupted, he snapped, How bad is he?

He got a ball in…in the leg, answered the corporal, chest heaving from the exertion of helping to carry the wounded soldier hundreds of yards on a stretcher. I don’t think it hit bone.

Damn it, swore the surgeon. He hurried toward the stretcher, his once-white knee-length coat, now stained with the blood of dozens of soldiers, billowing behind him.

Stepping over and around wounded men strewn haphazardly throughout the small church, he motioned for the two stretcher-bearers to set the man down.

With fingers bloodied from sawing limbs and examining countless wounds, the surgeon probed the ragged hole in the man’s thigh.

The soldier grimaced in pain, showing yellowed, tobacco-stained teeth through an unkempt, brush-sized mustache.

Sweet Mother of Jesus! he screamed.

Not bothering to acknowledge the soldier’s pain, the surgeon said, You’re right. It passed clean through. He can wait. Take him outside and put him with the others in the shade under the trees, he said. Give him some brandy and water. We’ll get to him later.

The men lifted the stretcher and began maneuvering toward the door.

Corporal, said the surgeon in a voice raised to be heard over the sobs and pleadings of wounded and dying men.

The stretcher-bearers stopped and both men turned to face the surgeon.

The surgeon was distracted by a sudden piercing scream from behind