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A RIGHT HONORABLE Soldier

By Mrs. Jane Hadley.

IN WHICH Cate is pushed to the edge, past and present.

PROLOGUE

St. Anthony, Minnesota
Sunday, July 14, 1861

“TRULY I cannot fathom what is the point of forcing a commitment to three years service.” 

For Mrs. Greenleaf’s boarders, Sunday dinner was once again going to be a political lecture served by Mr. Richard Ellis, newly appointed law clerk to the mayor of St. Anthony and notorious pedant. Cate Ellis, his reluctant wedded wife, sat to his left at the table and kicked herself for mentioning the news item in the first place. Well, actually she’d done more than mention—she’d exclaimed, really rather woefully, that the Second Regiment was almost full now that Company H had mustered in. It was both flummoxing and distressing to have to sit idly by and watch as the regiment recruited at such a slow pace. When she’d first seen the call, only two months after her wedding to Richard, she’d thought it would fill in a matter of days, just as the First Regiment had. She supposed three years was a much bigger commitment than the three months called for in April, but Cate Ellis, apparently unlike the men of Minnesota, had no compunction about the idea of signing away three years of her life to Lincoln, especially if it could provide three years away from her dear husband. Trouble was, women weren’t wanted. 

“Three years?” Richard continued. “What will all of the farms do without their workforce for three years? How will the shops maintain their business? How will trade continue? For all the urgency this war requires, and to be very clear, I am in no way for allowing the rebels to simply leave and create their own little country, but I can’t help but wonder what could compel the top brass to arrive on such an outrageous request.”

Richard’s thoughts were greeted with silence. One of the boarders, middle-aged painter Mr. Hailey, rhythmically shoveled roast chicken into his mouth, content to let Richard sit to his left, which just happened to be the ear he was deaf in. Mr. Vawter had done his best to feign ignorance of the English language in Richard’s presence, pretending he was French Canadian when all of the boarders knew full well the bank clerk was from Indiana. It was Mr. Plemer, however, who drew Cate’s eyes. The mill clerk in his mid-twenties was certainly not a chore to look at, but more of interest, he had the shortest rope for Richard’s nonsense and could be relied upon to resist the convoluted and uninformed arguments Richard loved to practice on his captive audience. 

“Perhaps,” Mr. Plemer muttered, “it could be due to the fact that eleven states have decided to start their own country formed on the cornerstone of enslaving human beings?” 

Oh, perfectly put. Cate couldn’t have said it better herself. She gripped the edge of the table and looked eagerly toward her husband in hopes of seeing him chastened. 

No such luck, unfortunately. Mr. Plemer’s aside had either not been heard or went simply unacknowledged, because Richard charged forth. “I can’t imagine this war will go on for more than a matter of months. When the Southern states see that we will not stand for a dissolution of the Union, they will quit blustering and compromise, as they have done for the past fifty years. That is, of course, the beauty of a republic.” 

Cate wrinkled her nose and tried to pretend she had any sort of appetite for her dinner. Richard had no idea what sort of threat the country faced. It could be the end of the nation, and the death of justice for millions of enslaved people across the South. Cate couldn’t think of one reason a fellow should hesitate to enlist, with so much on the line and such moral imperatives to fight for. She’d known Richard for nearly a year now, and she’d done her very best to expose him to a multitude of abolitionist books and newspapers. When she first met him, she thought his many opinions would make him a worthy partner in political discourse. By now she had learned that Richard had no interest in deliberation with anyone, much less his wife. He was only interested in the sound of his own voice. 

“Perhaps what is needed is a few more states to join the Union as slave states,” Richard pondered, thinking aloud. “If those places voted for slavery of their own self determination, then surely the South would feel less threatened.” 

Cate swallowed around a tightness in her throat and looked desperately toward Mr. Plemer. He would not stand for such ignorant Free Soiler talk. He was friends with W.D. Babbitt, for goodness sake. Mr. Plemer met her gaze with a frown, like he felt sorry for her. As well he should. She’d shackled herself to a man who had made it clear by this point that he would never share her staunch views on abolition. Not that there had been a line of other abolitionist gentlemen willing to offer, but still. Richard left much to be desired.

Sometimes Cate liked to spend the long tedious dinners imagining what life might have been like if she’d married Mr. Plemer instead. He was fairly handsome in a pink-cheeked way and dressed quite appealingly in dashing frock coats and colorful, sloppily-tied cravats (although his breath left much to be desired). He had a short temper and enjoyed debating politics when he’d had a bit to drink, which would be good fun if Richard didn’t interrupt Cate every time she made an attempt to respond. But apparently even Mr. Plemer had learned that the best way to quickly end Richard’s abhorrent political lectures was to not engage.

It seemed Cate would be the only one left in the service to righteousness this evening. 

“The South is not so easily placated,” she said sharply, annoyed she was left to do this in the first place. What was the point of politically engaged men if they weren’t going to speak up in defense of justice? Was it not their job to exercise the rights of citizenship denied to women on their behalf? “Their secession declarations made it very clear that the election of Lincoln is considered an act of aggression on the institution of slavery. They have rallied widespread support for their white supremacist revolution.”¹

Richard gave a long sigh. Actually, so did several of the other boarders. Mrs. Greenleaf, seated at the opposite end of the table from Richard, actually put her head into her hand. 

“My beloved, have you been reading those conspiracy rags again?” 

Cate scowled and glanced at Mr. Plemer again. He gave her a minute shake of his head. Why? Why the hell did everyone want her to just give up? 

“No,” Cate groused, slumping back into her chair. “Just the Pioneer and Democrat.” 

Richard raised his brow at her. “All of the papers these days are just sensational headlines trying to draw you in to take your pennies. I hope you will exercise more discerning judgment in the future.” 

Cate rolled her eyes. She didn’t care who saw it, she didn’t care if she appeared petulant and childish. She could not stand to pretend she cared what this high falutin horse’s ass had to say. 

Mrs. Greenleaf seized upon the brief pause by standing abruptly. “Mrs. Ellis, could I trouble you for some help with dessert?” 

Cate scowled at her, unabashedly, then glanced at Mr. Plemer, then Richard, then Mr. Plemer again. Deal with him, she thought at him. Deal with him because apparently, I am not permitted to. 

“Of course,” she bit out and pushed her chair out from behind her with a clatter as she stood. Then she stalked down the line of the table and followed Mrs. Greenleaf into the kitchen. 

⸻

Cate had one sure-fire way of getting Richard to shut up. And that was getting him to screw her. 

It wasn’t awful. It wasn’t even really bad. Certainly, it would be better with a less self-absorbed partner, both because he’d be more appealing and because he would surely be more interested in her mutual pleasure, but the act in itself was quite nice. Cate enjoyed feeling stretched and full, delighted in how her sex swelled with arousal for this rude, indulgent act. She had to admit that she was pleased to have an aspect of wifery that she enjoyed. It was a blessing, in its way, and a relief. 

Cate had a running reel of things she thought about during copulation with her husband. She squeezed her eyes closed and entertained fantasies that she was married to other men, like Mr. Plemer or Richard’s new employer, the mayor of St. Anthony. They didn’t give her a second glance in real life, as well they wouldn’t because the nicest word anyone could come up with to describe Cate’s looks was “handsome.” Men didn’t want a handsome woman. That was a word they used to describe horses or hogs. So Cate was quite sure there was nothing wrong with fantasizing about other men while her husband fucked her, because there was no chance that anything would come of it. 

Her favorite fantasy was one where Mr. Plemer caught her up in some part of the boarding house—the kitchen would be quite fun—and got into heated debate with her about how abhorrent her husband was. He’d implore her to do more to improve him, then turn it around to assert how she was wasted on Richard as a helpmeet, and finally, angrily assert that he would please her better. And then he would prove it. Against the wall, or perhaps over the work table. 

These thoughts made Cate’s toes curl and her breath short. Sometimes, she’d squeeze her sex around Richard’s prick, which felt remarkably good. Richard’s equipment was the very epitome of the word prick; it was long and slender just like him, and by this point in their marriage, it pierced her in a lovely way that didn’t hurt at all. Of course, sometimes there was discomfort if he did it unceremoniously, but Richard usually liked to kiss on her first and that helped her body ready itself for him (as long as he didn’t talk). 

Cate kept her eyes squeezed shut, and as Richard’s voice began to grunt and sigh, she wondered what types of sounds Mr. Plemer would make. Whether he’d be quiet or noisy, what kinds of faces he would make. Would he say obscene things? She tried a quiet sound herself as Richard rocked her against the mattress. She couldn’t be too active or eager or she’d offend Richard’s sensibilities. She’d tried to get him on his back once, to ride him, and he’d nearly gone apoplectic at the display of assertion. Apparently, he was not interested in her initiative in any facet of their marriage. 

Richard did not seem averse to her sound, so Cate tried another one, one she voiced as she thrust back on his prick and pulled up on her groin muscles to really feel him slide inside her. Richard gave a short, choked shout and gripped the bedstead as he bucked faster. God, yes, that was it. It was working. She could feel the edges of a climax sneaking towards her. She held her hips at the angle, ground down as she reached for the sensation, quick, before he—

Before he shuddered over her with a choked sob, and she felt wet heat swell inside her and start to slip out along with his softening prick. 

She hated this part. Well, hated it and loved it. It felt good, and Cate was grateful she’d never have to admit how much she liked the evidence of pleasure, something she’d earned and made her feel desired. But every time he did that, she ran a risk of getting with child. Bearing Richard’s progeny, contrary to the advice of many other women including both Mrs. Greenleaf and Cate’s stepmother, would be the final nail in the coffin of Cate’s life. Once there was a child, she could never leave. 

Richard collapsed at her side with a satisfied sigh, rolled over, and was snoring within minutes. Cate waited, carefully trying not to move too much, until she was sure he was sleeping. Then, she slipped out of the bed and crept across the creaky floorboards to the dresser, where the ewer and basin were. She could feel the wet slide of seed dripping down her leg as she dug deep in her drawer for the alum and water solution she’d acquired at the discreet pharmacy across the river.²

She performed her abulations quickly and quietly. It was not an elegant or comfortable ritual, but so far it had done the job of keeping her monthly courses regular. Cate knew she gambled a lot on the efficacy of this process, but she felt hopeful that between the sponge soaked in the liquid she’d inserted before Richard came to bed and the washing with it afterward, she would manage to keep herself safe. 

“What are you doing?” 

Cate froze with the basin awkwardly between her legs, her nightrail hitched up to her waist. It was dark in the room, but the Great Comet still lit up the night sky, and her rear end was probably glowing in the dim light that came through the window. “Just washing up. Sorry to wake you.” 

“You didn’t,” Richard replied, the thickness of his voice belying him. “Why are you washing?” 

Cate gritted her teeth and hastily finished what she was doing (caught or not, she wasn’t going to leave the job half-done and end up with a fat baby come springtime). “Because I like to be clean before I sleep.” 

“Is there something unclean about what I just did?” 

“No,” Cate said with a roll of her eyes she was certain would go undetected in the dark room. “It was just dripping down my leg, and I needed to clean it up.” Perhaps if she pushed him into discomfort, he’d leave her the hell alone.

She was fairly certain it worked given the long silence that followed. Then, the bedclothes rustled, and Richard walked over to her, ghostly in his own nightgown. Cate awkwardly replaced the basin on the dresser and dropped her nightrail to preserve her modesty. Her breath caught in her throat as he picked up the alum and water solution and inspected the unlabelled bottle. 

“What’s this for?” 

“Soap.” 

Richard unstoppered the bottle and took a sniff. He looked up at her sharply, and she felt his eyes bore into her as he said, quite mildly, “Is this why you haven’t conceived a child yet?” 

Cate couldn’t think of anything to say. She was still and quiet, and she knew that her lack of response said as much as it would if she’d audaciously agreed with him, but she couldn’t bring herself to say she wanted a baby when that couldn’t be further from the truth. 

Richard made a frustrated noise. “Cate. I understand you are spirited—it’s something that drew me to you when we first met—but you cannot behave this way. The purpose of marriage is to have a family. If you did not want to have a family, why entertain and accept my suit in the first place?” He sounded exasperated, hurt even. Like he really thought she’d had a choice, and chosen him. 

Cate should apologize. It would be the quickest way out of this, the quickest way to get him back to sleep. After all, her body was no business of his, regardless of whether or not he thought it was. Lying to him was a means to keep him at an appropriate distance, but she couldn’t find the words to speak. Something had her by the throat, and she gripped her fists tight to keep her hands from trembling. 

“I think we can both agree I tolerate a great deal from you,” Richard continued. She wasn’t sure what sort of story he was telling himself to explain her silence, but it did not appear to be a favorable one. “There are a lot of men who would take a much harsher tack. But I love you, Cate. I do. I’m not sure what I can do to convince you of it, but it’s true nonetheless. And I want to have a family with you.” 

Cate’s eyes pricked with tears. What a horrid thing to say, after all that he’d done to contort her into the shape of the woman he desired her to be. And yet, she also felt ashamed. Indeed, he was nothing more than an obstacle to contend with to her. She’d cast him as the villain of all the oppressions she’d experienced throughout her life, but he’d truly done nothing more than to love her the best way he knew how. 

“I think you owe me that much, at least,” Richard finished with a shake of his head. 

Cate couldn’t help but choke a little on her inhale. At some point, she’d crossed her arms over her body and gripped her elbows. Richard went to the open window and unstoppered the bottle of alum and water solution, pouring it out into the yard below. 

“Are you just going to stand there? Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I … I’m sorry,” Cate managed, the words sour and metallic on her tongue. 

“And…?” 

“And what?” 

Richard threw his hands up. “And what? And what? Maybe, ‘and I want to have a family with you, too.’ Or even just ‘I love you.’ Truly, do you detest me that much? I thought you wanted a life with me, but I can see now that all you wanted was out from under your father’s thumb.” 

Oh, God. He was right. He was right about everything. She detested him. She couldn’t be his wife. She couldn’t have his children. Without her precautions, even sex would be fraught, a mildly pleasurable stop on the slow demise of her personhood. She didn’t know what the hell she wanted, but she damn well knew it wasn’t this. That had been clear for months. 

Cate squeezed herself tighter and searched the room with her eyes, looking anywhere except at Richard. “It’s late,” she said at length. “We’re both tired. Let’s talk about this in the morning.” 

Richard scowled at her as he crossed to the bed and flung the counterpane down. “I’m not being absurd. I shan’t be made to feel like I am the one who is behaving irrationally.” 

“Of course not,” she murmured automatically. Dear God. She was already becoming a shade of a woman, held together by duties and other people’s notions of who she was supposed to be. 

“Get in the bed, you exasperating woman,” Richard snapped as he laid down and pulled the blankets over his head. 

“I just need to visit the privy,” Cate murmured as she shuffled out of the room. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t get into bed with him. If he wanted to escort her, if his trust was that eroded, then fine. But she would not under any circumstances give him another opportunity to touch her. 

Richard didn’t follow her. It was warm outside, the Great Comet illuminating the yard with an eerie dark light. It was a reminder that they lived in extraordinary times. Even the celestial bodies were exhibiting warning signs that the world was amiss. A great flood or pestilence was probably next if they didn’t pay heed. There was no room in the world for subjugation, for injustice, for silence. Cate stood in the yard in her nightrail and wished for a moment that the comet would just fall from the sky and end her. What good could she do anyway, stuck in the body of a wife and mother? The world couldn’t wait while she taught her sons how to make change when they became adults. She couldn’t wait for that. 

It was no one’s fault but her own. Or it was everyone else’s fault, and she was just fool enough to have listened to them. If she’d listened to herself, done what she’d known was right, she would never have married Richard in the first place. She would have gone on, taking care of her father and his family, exercising what little freedom that had afforded her. 

No. None of it was right. She could not blame herself for taking a gamble on Richard.

Perhaps the trouble was that she had not gambled high enough stakes. She looked up at the comet again and allowed herself, for just a moment, to dream bigger. More than a marriage, more than the boarding house, beyond men or jobs or spinsterhood. And looking up into the night sky, Cate experienced clarity, for the first time in over a year. Perhaps the first time in her adult life. 

She knew what she had to do. She’d always known. She just could never have believed it possible, until now when she had nothing left to lose. 

⸻

I.

Chicago, Illinois
Wednesday, October 16, 1861

Three months later, Cate stood in the exact same place where Abraham Lincoln had been nominated for president at the 1860 Republican National Convention, wearing her uniform of Union blue. Shed of skirts and long hair and her husband’s name, she was a foot soldier for justice called Charley Smith. She had absolutely no regrets. 

Except for the fact that the Wigwam, the temporary building where the entire Second Minnesota Regiment was quartered for the night, had no privies. 

They’d marched out of St. Paul with people waving flags and cheering only two days prior. Then, the steamship puffed them down the Mississippi to La Crosse and from there, an uncomfortable, densely-packed train ride landed them in the city of Chicago. Now they were in the finest temporary meeting hall plaster could make, and there was nowhere for her to relieve herself at all, much less to do it privately.

“Where the hell do they expect a thousand men to do their business after a long train ride in a place like this?” she raged, as the rest of her squad stood uncomfortably. Cate was notorious amongst her squad for her short temper, which was accepted with begrudging good humor because young men, unlike women of any age, were assumed to be passionate and volatile as a matter of course. 

“I’m sure there’s one nearby,” Henry Schaefer suggested placatingly in his soft German accent. 

Cate turned an annoyed brow at him, not because she was upset by the prospect of a privy nearby, but because she hated that his first urge was to try and placate her. Henry was the only one in the squad who knew Cate’s secret, and had done a spectacularly poor job of discovering it, too. He’d watched her for weeks and concluded that she was a spy, for Chrissakes, before it even occurred to him that she was a woman. It was only after cornering her and threatening to reveal her clandestine treason that she exchanged her actual secret for his silence. It was a silence that had rapidly grown into something much more pleasurable, especially when the Third Regiment mustered and the Second had been relegated to small, two-person tents while they finished out their basic training. 

Henry placed his hand discreetly on her shoulder in a stark reminder that it had been three whole days since they’d had the liberty to touch one another. It was jarring enough that she shrugged him off tersely, though whether it was because she didn’t want anyone to catch him being too familiar or because she missed him terribly, she could not say. 

Jacob Robinson, another member of their squad, snorted. “And I’m sure that whatever poor Chicagoans who usually frequent that privy will be delighted to find a thousand men’s worth of waste suddenly stewing in their pit.” 

“It occurs to me that perhaps the men leading this outfit did not consider that the eight hundred men they needed to find shelter for might also need to relieve themselves at some point,” Tom Webster added, his mutton chops hovering somewhere between amusement and sarcastic disdain. 

Cate found none of this amusing in the slightest. At that moment, Sergeant Ned Osborn approached, and she turned her full ire on him. “Sir, are you aware that in this entire massive place, there are no facilities for our certain convenience?”

Osborn sighed as he joined them. “Yes, I’m aware, and I’m afraid to report that it’s actually rather more inconvenient than that. We are under strict orders to remain within the building until we are marched out again under arms.”

The entire squad squawked with outrage. Cate’s mouth flapped with a thousand angry expletives and counted herself lucky that none of them managed to get out. 

“Whose orders?!” Webster snapped and everyone looked sharply at him, having never seen the normally easy-going father in a temper before. Especially not directed at his childhood friend.

“Command, I expect,” Osborn said with a shrug, relatively nonplussed. It seemed that unlike the rest of them, he’d had previous experience with Webster’s temper and found its intimidation wanting. “I understand that previous regiments housed here got into some trouble conducting themselves poorly in saloons and other … uh, disreputable places …  It looks as though we are the unfortunate bearers of their legacy.” 

Corporal Elias Hower threw up his hands and shook his head as he walked off. 

“Where’s he going?” asked John Williamson, his youthful eyes wide and curious and completely unaware of how redundant his question was, given they were not allowed to leave the building. If Cate had to guess, she’d expect Hower, a man with a superior manner and a penchant for gossip, was singularly determined to get all the information Osborn lacked. She shook her head and crossed her arms, leveling a firm stare at Osborn.

“Sir, this is unacceptable,” she asserted. “We are soldiers of these United States, having just given up hearth and home to fight for this union. We are not cattle to be herded into a pen where we trod among our own filth.” 

“I hear you,” Osborn sighed. “I will do what I can with the Captain.” 

Osborn walked off, mustache at a slight droop. Cate shook her head again. 

“This is what happens,” she declared to the remaining six members of her squad, “when the general promotes his friends to Command.” 

The boys settled on the packed dirt floor as many other squads had done across the vast chamber, and Wilbur Krüger inevitably pulled some playing cards out of his pocket to pass the time. They looked like shabby calling cards in his huge hands. Cate remained standing, trying to keep her anger stoked as they waited for some word from Command about their situation. The longer she waited, the more her anger ebbed, pushed aside by a larger and more present fear. 

She’d been dealing with her monthly blood for days now, pinning her sanitary napkins into her uniform trousers carefully and then disposing of them because she had nowhere to clean or store them. She could only hope she’d have a chance to acquire materials for the next month on stops along the way to the front. She’d done all manner of mad things to acquire the ones she was now having to dispose of, including stealing clean diapers off a laundry line. The news that there would be no sanctuary for her to change out her soiled napkin here in Chicago was, to say the least, unwelcome. 

Cate deepened her frown. What fool’s college chum had designed these uniforms to have light blue trousers? Surely the blood and muck from battle would show most terribly. The fact that the color would also not hide her own secrets was beside the point. 

A little while later, Osborn returned with a hopeful expression. Cate perked immediately to attention and the others got to their feet, holding their cards aside. 

“The Colonel has allowed for us to march out under arms, company by company, to give us some exercise and attend to … various needs.”

“When?” Cate asked at once, talking over several other of the squad’s half-formed questions. 

“After supper,” Osborn replied with a measured nod. Cate scowled. She felt a nudge at her shoulder and turned her scowl on Schaefer. 

“That’s good news,” Henry murmured optimistically. Cate screwed her mouth closed. She wanted to take her anger out on him, but she also didn’t want him to know why she was so worked up.

“What are they going to do to prevent a foolish mistake like this from happening again, Ned?” Webster asked Osborn curtly. Williamson looked at Webster with startled eyes for calling his superior officer by his Christian name. 

“I’m not privy to that information,” Osborn said and frowned as Williamson barked a laugh at the unfortunate and unintended pun. 

“It’s scarcely better,” Cate hissed aside to Henry loud enough only for him to hear. 

“Well, no impropriety intended, but can’t you hold it for an hour or two more?” Henry whispered in incredulous reply.

“No, because I cannot physically hold my menses, Henry,” Cate snarled under her breath and immediately regretted it. It would not do at all for the man whose thighs made her mouth water to know the extent to which her stupid body was making her soldier existence summarily miserable. To her credit, Henry looked about as mortified as she felt. Her eyes darted to the side to determine if anyone had heard her, but it appeared the rest of the squad was still embroiled in interrogating their sergeant. Her temper was making her stupid. She took a deep breath in. 

“When’s supper then?” Krüger asked. The big German required several buckets full of soldier’s stew a day to sustain himself. 

“Ah, in this we are in luck. You are all to get lined up for rations presently,” Osborn said, apparently relieved to deliver some good news. “I’m not sure how they want us to stand in ranks, but the space is large enough that it should be fairly self-explanatory.”

It was not self-explanatory, and the captains fumbled and clashed amongst themselves to resolve the ranks in an orderly fashion. Finally, Colonel Van Cleve intervened and directed them all to their own place. The quartermaster then walked amongst them and distributed rations. 

Cate blinked down the line as she saw Squad Six given a rasher of pork, a paltry spoonful of beans, and coffee. Robinson, Hower, and Schaefer craned around her to get a look too. 

“It’s pork and beans,” Hower reported. A chorus of grumbles amongst their own squad, as well as the Hastings and St. Cloud boys, resounded.³

“We’re not even in the field yet!” Robinson lamented. “We’re in the middle of a metropolis. Is there seriously no better rations to be found here?” 

Osborn sighed and held out his tin plate and cup patiently, trying to be a model for his squad. Cate opted to stare daggers at the Quartermaster as she begrudgingly held her plate and cup ready for her ration. As Webster accepted his, he hissed, “This is outrageous.” 

“It almost makes me wish we were back at the Fort eating that awful stew again,” Henry said, frowning at his portion.

“Well, get used to it, boys,” Osborn said somewhat sarcastically. “There will be more where this comes from for your haversacks in the morning.” 

The squad grumbled as Captain Noah commanded them all at ease, and they regrouped near the far wall to eat and complain. Despite their grumblings, they made quick work of the ration and were soon wiping their plates as best they could to store in their haversacks. In short order, the Captain rounded up Company K and moved them through the School of the Soldier until they were ready to march under arms to relieve themselves. Cate thought she might develop a headache from the frequency she felt compelled to roll her eyes.

They marched out of the building, an elaborate contradiction in architectural grandeur and temporary building materials. The streets bustled with horses, carriages, and pedestrians, and they soon had a throng of passers-by turned spectators as they paraded into the street, stopping traffic. 

“Come one, come all,” Elias Hower intoned, only loud enough for those in his squad to hear. “See the great Minnesota Second Infantry Volunteers, on parade to the privy!”

“Hower,” Osborn warned. 

“I hope the Captain knows where we’re going, lest we spend the next thirty minutes marching circles around the city,” Webster grumbled. 

Cate agreed. She also hoped, so hard it hurt, that wherever they were bound would have some semblance of privacy. She was terrified of what might happen if any comrades were to discover her not only with her trousers down, but otherwise soiled as only a woman could be. Captain Noah and Lieutenant Thomas led the troops in formation round Market Street, following the stinking Chicago River round towards where it drained into Lake Michigan. As they marched, the Captain discreetly dismissed squads one at a time to detach and slip off to relieve themselves.⁴

When the Captain directed Squad Seven to detach, Osborn led them between two large shipping warehouses towering on the edge of the river. The area had been so developed that the river had no discernable bank left, brick meeting dock and dock meeting river as though the city were built up directly out of the foul, churning water. Built on a platform of dock was a privy shack, presumably with holes open directly into the river, and it was no wonder why the river water was so disgusting as it flowed sluggishly towards bright blue Lake Michigan. 

Cate hung back as the others opened the privy door and looked in at a row of four holes in a bench seat. The fellows entered, while Krüger and Webster took the liberty of unbuttoning their trousers and emptying their bladders directly off the dock, in full view of the sailors floating by on big-sailed boats. Cate dithered. Osborn came out, followed by Williamson and Robinson. Hower was still in there as Henry walked towards the door, glancing over his shoulder at her. She grimaced. This was not the kind of intimacy she wanted with any man. If her secret wasn’t held in the balance, Henry would be the last person she would want to relieve herself in front of. She dithered some more. 

Osborn gave her an impatient look as Krüger and Webster gathered back together with Williamson and Robinson. She tripped forward toward the privy door. Hower emerged. Just Henry was in there now. She wondered how slowly she could walk towards the privy before she would attract undue attention. 

“Hey, Smith,” snorted Hower. “You scared you’re gonna fall in?” 

Williamson honked a laugh. “After the sinks at the Fort, this one is easy breezy. At least here you won’t have too far to fall.” The sinks at Fort Snelling had been propped up on a scaffold at the top of a cliff. Waste fell nearly a hundred feet before it was swept away by the Mississippi River. 

“Yes well, at least at the Fort, there was a good chance that the fall would put you out of your misery before you fell into an army’s worth of human waste,” Cate retorted and stepped resolutely to the door of the privy, swinging the door in. As she entered, she nearly ran into Henry. 

“Huh, fancy meeting you here,” he said, his voice playful and quiet enough that only she could hear him. 

“Do not. Get out,” she commanded, shoving past him and ducking her face, which was beet red by this point she was so embarrassed and terrified. He shut his mouth and raised his eyebrows as he hustled out the door that she slammed behind him. 

She was relieved to find a long nail bent to fashion a hook that she promptly threaded through its loop to hold the door shut. She took a deep breath in to steady herself, then immediately regretted it, gagging on the stinking air. In spite of the stench, she wondered if she might manage to disappear here and never show her face among humans again.

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II.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Friday, October 18, 1861

Henry Schaefer regarded the food before him with eyes as wide as saucers. A large vase of flowers adorned long tables arranged in rows in the Duquesne Grays’ Hall. Throughout the room, the Minnesota Second Infantry Regiment was being served by young, patriotic ladies of Pittsburgh in their finest dresses. Between the tables buckling under the weight of sweetbreads and roast goose and aspics of all varieties, and the lovely ladies sweetly offering refreshment, the men were beside themselves with delight. Except for Charley Smith, of course. Charley sat beside him and only managed to look extremely sullen.

To be fair to her, she’d been through somewhat of an ordeal since their departure for the front. Every step of the way, from the boat to the train to the Wigwam to the train again, had been utterly devoid of privacy. She took it in irate stride, and luckily the others didn’t seem to assume anything amiss other than that Smith was rather overly modest for someone who swore so much. 

Henry was feeling the pressure too, but for entirely different and admittedly selfish reasons. He’d also become accustomed to privacy, and with loutish comrades trundling around everywhere he looked, he’d scarcely had a chance to exchange significant glances with Charley, much less anything close to physical touch. And he missed it. He missed her. 

Unfortunately, with the constant barrage of people, Charley had unilaterally locked herself up inside of her prickly Smith persona and become utterly insufferable. 

“Smith, are you gonna eat that?” Williamson asked, his eyes covetously on the flank of roast goose left on Smith’s plate. 

“Yes,” Smith retorted from under his petulant brow. Henry tried to hold back a sigh of annoyance as he tried to get a piece of aspic to stay on his fork. The flavor of the peas and gravy suspended in gelatin was rich and delicious, although the texture was still very much an aspic.⁵

“Excuse me, miss,” Elias Hower said ingratiatingly over his shoulder. The young woman in question slowed and smiled widely at them all in turn. Her hair was dark and sleek, parted at the center and wound demurely at the nape of her neck. Henry wondered if Charley had set her hair in such a way before cutting it, although with her curls it certainly would not have laid so straight. “Could I trouble you for some more roast goose?” 

The girl looked at Hower with doe eyes, like one might regard a stray dog or some other pitiful creature that one longed to care for. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she replied, her voice light and reedy and wonderfully effeminate. It reminded Henry of how Charley had sounded in the brewer’s warehouse last week, voice light and reedy and gasping for more. He squirmed in his seat, trying to hide his little secret smile as he nudged Charley’s knee with his own under the table. To his chagrin, she flinched away from him. It was woefully unfair that after a week of consistent carnal satisfaction, Henry should be left in the same condition he’d been in for years prior, but also markedly less capable of bearing it. He supposed it was more difficult when he knew what he was missing. 

“I wonder if there will be dancing after dinner,” Robinson asked with a grin, watching the girl depart with an appreciative gaze.

“I should think you were too busy missing your wife to worry about that,” Smith drawled.

Robinson glared at him and rolled his eyes. “I’m married, I’m not dead. Besides, after that dreary night in Chicago, we deserve a little bit of fun.” 

Henry added his voice to the murmur of agreement before they fell into a companionable silence, each too focused on shoveling the excellent fare into his mouth to say much more. 

A few moments later, the girl returned. “Here we are, fellows,” she said, brandishing a plate of cut slices of roast goose. In a conspiratorial tone, she added, “It’s the last, so shh—don’t tell.” 

Hower slid a slice onto his own plate and then gestured for Williamson to take some as well. “Our deepest gratitude, Miss … um … ?”

The girl smiled. “Miss Loy, at your service. And you all are?” 

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Loy. I’m Corporal Hower,” Elias said with a grin. Henry tried not to raise an eyebrow at how thick he was laying it on. “And this is my squad. Privates Williamson, Webster, Robinson, Krüger, Smith, and Schaefer. And Sergeant Osborn.” 

“How do you do,” Miss Loy said, nodding at each one in turn. 

“Say, Miss Loy, are you aware if there are any further festivities after the meal?” 

“Oh, yes,” Miss Loy replied eagerly. “They will clear the tables, and there’s a small quartet that will play, and we’ll have a lovely set of dances before you all march back to your quarters.” 

This news brought a murmur of excitement around the table. 

“I’m so happy to hear that,” Hower replied with a grin. “May I save a place on your dance card, Miss Loy?”

The girl flushed attractively. “I should be delighted, Corporal.” 

Henry felt uncomfortable. Miss Loy was charming, and he wasn’t the only one in the squad who’d noticed. But there was something to be desired in her sweet, smooth countenance. Perhaps she lacked the dark smolder that Charley wielded without even thinking. It was too bad Henry couldn’t save a place on his card to dance with Charley, because if she even bothered to dance, she’d be competing with him for the hands of the lovely loyal ladies of Pittsburgh. 

Henry snuck a glance at Smith beside him. The soldier had her hand in her dark curls, hunched over her plate seemingly under some duress. Henry leaned over and hissed, “Anything wrong?” 

Henry almost missed her whispered response under the clatter of cutlery and the din of affable conversation. “I don’t know how to lead.” 

Lead? Henry was puzzled a moment before he realized she was referring to dancing. 

“Well, I could show you how,” Henry offered quietly, his eyes darting around the far corners of the room wondering what other chambers might lead off from the main hall. He could show her how to lead and pull her close and perhaps, if they could find enough privacy for a dance lesson, they might find enough for…

“Don’t be absurd,” she hissed. “I’d rather pretend to be too fatigued for the entire evening than have everyone see you teach me how to waltz.”

⸻

Footnotes

1. For some insane reason, this fact seems to be a source of contention historiographically, which truly boggles the mind. If one reviews the secession declarations, one will find that an overwhelming majority of the text discusses slavery and the Union’s aggression towards it. The South had no interest in states’ rights as an overarching concept; in fact, they advocated against it again and again in their attempts to prevent fugitive slaves from escaping to states where slavery was outlawed. They had no regard for those states’ rights. https://www.battlefields.org/learn/articles/reasons-secession  ↩︎
2. Alum and water solution was a spermicidal remedy available from discreet pharmacists. How to Be a Victorian, by Ruth Goodman 2013. ↩︎
3. Bircher, William. A Drummer-Boy’s Diary. Page 13. And Bishop, Judson Wade. The Story of a Regiment. Page 27.  ↩︎
4. The river was so disgusting, and it’s pollution so deplorable, that by 1900, the city determined to reverse the flow of the river, so that it drained towards the Mississippi instead of Lake Michigan. By then, typhoid and cholera was running rampant and the sewage in the Chicago River had become a full-fledged public health crisis. Through ingenious engineering and despite protest from the rest of the state, they blew up a canal between the Des Plaines River and the Chicago, effectively reversing the flow to ring in the 20th century.  ↩︎
5. A truly fascinating culinary experience I once had circa 2016 at a reenactment event I won’t soon forget. ↩︎

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