Union Girls

by Judith Carlough

CHAPTER ONE Early April 1863, on the road from Lowell, MA  

The weather was perfect for our escape. April sunshine, pale and welcome as apple blossom honey, warmed the road bed which was moist from last night’s shower, sparing horses and humans alike from billowing road dust and the onslaught of midges and black flies. 

“I can’t help but feel guilty for running away,” I said, “even for a righteous cause.”

“Guilt’s as useful as teats on a bull,” my best friend said from her seat on the buckboard.

I adjusted the linen bonnet meant to protect my complexion from freckles, a futile effort. Sophia Baptiste was hatless, ebony hair flowing free, bronze face turned to the sun. How I envied her radiant, wavy tresses; my own frizzled red thatch being “tougher to untangle than a bag of snakes,” according to my brother. 

“Get the horses moving, Maggie,” she said. “Distance is our salvation.”

I clucked the team into a brisk trot toward our uncertain future, their iron shoes beating a metallic cadence on rocks in the uneven road bed. The only other sound was birdsong. 

“Wished I brought a cushion,” Sophia grumbled. “I’ve had my fill of jostling and we’re gone only six hours. The horses are too dang choppy at the trot.” 

“It’s not their fault,” I said. “Prowess and Bartleby were bred as saddle horses, not draft animals.” I felt a surge of indignation. “We must all make changes for the greater good, that’s what Mr. Lincoln says. Sacrifice and change. Why couldn’t our parents accept that?” 

“Well, I’m not inclined to sacrifice my derrière.” Sophia rummaged the wagon bed, extracted a ten-pound sack of buckwheat, and nestled it beneath herself with satisfaction. “There, my first change for the greater good.” She paused and cackled, “Of my posterior.” 

I wanted to admonish Sophia that her levity was at odds with the gravity of our pilgrimage, but criticizing her was as useful as . . . teats on a bull.

She sensed my disapproval. “No harm in lightening the moment,” she said, not conciliatory, more to justify coarseness. “There been plenty of changes already.”

“Just not enough change to let us do our duty for the Union.” I sounded priggish but this was why we had run away, turning our lives topsy turvy.

“We were right to skedaddle, to prove our point and make changes no one can ignore.” Sophia said.

This was more like the solemn, heroic tone I thought appropriate for the star of our four-hundred-mile journey. “Amen, sister,” I said.

“But it doesn’t mean my backside can’t be comfortable.”

I let Sophia take the last word, and thought about the changes since President Lincoln declared war two years ago. Upheaval was everywhere: old men took up arms and drilled young boys, meat was scarce because cows, pigs, and chickens went first to the army, farmers cultivated hardy potatoes in place of delicate salad greens. The factories in Lowell, Massachusetts –the largest textile manufacturing center in the world—now worked overtime to supply cotton, canvas, and woolens for Union uniforms, tents, wagon covers, and bedding. My family’s company, Abbott Mills, made sturdy hooks, buckles, and toggles for soldiers’ uniforms in place of the delicate fasteners for ladies corsets, bustles, and crinolines they once turned out.

We had come to a small bridge of half cut maple trunks that spanned a sluggish stream.

“Stop here so we can water the horses and let me use that field as my chamber pot.”  

I reined in our team and jumped off to see if we could safely lead the team down to the stream. “Too steep for the wagon,” I called, “I’ll fill the pails.”

We had requisitioned two large galvanized pails, requisitioned being our euphemism for taken-without-permission. I couldn’t think of it as stealing.

I carried back two brimful portions of cool spring water. Bartleby finished first, gulping the water and slopping liquid. Prowess took her time, nuzzling the liquid slowly, barely touching the rim of the pail. 

I continued my rumination about how the war had changed things, especially for women, forcing us to shoulder the responsibilities of men—tending fields, working in stores, doing home repairs. Of course we never received the compensation that men did, if we were paid at all. And we were not granted comparable male privileges, like having bank accounts, voting, or owning property. Nor were women freed from their traditional obligations; upon returning home in the evening, most women cleaned, mended, and cooked before surrendering to restless sleep interrupted by the cries of sick babes and children.

“Where’s the dang canteen?” Sophia was back. She retrieved the tin receptacle from under the wagon seat. She hopped down the river bank, nimble as squirrel, refilled the canteen and thrust it at me, the cork dangling from a thin metal chain that clanked against the metal body. “Thirsty?” She handed it to me and joined me on the buckboard.

I swigged the cool water. “To think that yesterday I was drinking tea from French porcelain,” I said. “Do you think we’ll come to miss those niceties?” I slapped the reins lightly and the horses took off trotting.  

“Nothing tastes as good as the freedom to follow your dreams,” Sophia said. “I’ll give up fancy tea, buttermilk pancakes, and Mama Baptiste’s apple cobbler if means I can fight the Rebs and free the slaves.”

“And gain equality for women,” I added. 

“I’m never wearing a hoop skirt again,” Sophia said, fidgeting with the faded blue gingham frock, too large for her thin frame, “and I have attended my last prayer circle and quilting bee.”

I smiled. “You weren’t much good at sewing or knitting. I pity the poor soldier who receives your socks.”

“Where I excel is shooting, hunting and scavenging,” Sophia said, “and proud to finally be able to put these God-given talents to use for President Lincoln.”

“We excel at shooting, hunting and scavenging,” I emphasized. “And riding.”

“You’re as good a shooter as I am a knitter,” Sophia said, “but your riding makes up for all your deficiencies.”   

Deficiencies was meant to bait me, but I didn’t bite. “I wish our parents had seen it that way. When Michael Sean O’Rourke hears the words woman and soldier in the same sentence, he shuts down with the conviction of a bear trap.” 

Sophia nodded. She had had no better luck with Mama Baptiste, who dismissed her daughter’s entreaties saying, “Women are meant to bear children, Sophia, not arms.”

It posed a conundrum: Should we stay home, knuckle under to parental expectations, and sacrifice our passion to serve the Union? Or prove them all wrong by running away, living off the land, and surviving danger and hardship like soldiers. Either way, someone would suffer grievous pain. We were silent for a mile, each contemplating her own thoughts.

A bony finger hit my ribs.

“You keep wool-gathering,” Sophia said, “and we won’t reach Concord before midnight.” 

The horses had slowed and Bartleby was snatching mouthfuls of spring grass. The fresh smell of tender blades was tangy and delicious. 

“I wasn’t wool-gathering, “ I said, “I was thinking no matter whether we stayed or left, our loved ones will suffer. It doesn’t seem fair.” 

Sophia snorted. “Tell me, in the last two years, who has been fair with us? Every time we did something we were good at—like rescuing that prissy girl in the runaway carriage?—we got punished.” Sophia switched to a mocking tone. “You should have alerted the workmen nearby, Sophia. Ladies do not chase a carriage into the river. We saved that little fool’s life and were thanked with a month’s restrictions and double prayer vigils. Where’s the fairness in that?” 

“None of it was fair,” I agreed. “How could they imagine we would meekly comply?”  

“Only drove us further into wicked misbehavior.” Sophia clapped her hands, delighted at the memory. “Dipping snuff.” 

“Stealing corn liquor.” 

“Wearing coveralls and riding astride.”   

“For which we paid dearly,” I said. Each transgression had ratcheted up harsher punishments. A final, crushing indignity had pushed us into running away. 

“Better to take our chances on the road,” Sophia said, “than accept their plan for us.”

“We might have taken more time to organize,” I said. In five days, we had stockpiled provisions, maps, weapons, and ammunition, and hid them beneath a tarp in the woods along our intended escape route. Our journey was four hundred miles; I feared we would soon find ourselves short-handed and vulnerable.

“If we’d taken six months to prepare, you’d still say we needed more time. We had to get underway, and the church retreat gave us the perfect diversion.”

The retreat, A Christian Women’s Contemplation of Peace in the Time of War, gave us an excuse for a weekend away in nearby Haverhill. I had kissed Papa this morning, feeling wicked at my treachery, because we were headed nowhere near the retreat. How could I deceive my parents and cause them such pain? 

“You bouncing more thoughts around? Your head must be higgledy-piggledy as hens running from a hawk,” Sophia said. “Talk to me, plain and simple.” 

I took a minute to organize my feelings. “Our parents weren’t fair and that was wrong, but running away seems wrong, too. There are two sides to every coin and I like to consider both. I can’t escape feeling guilty we’re not being fair.” 

My best friend laughed. “Your mama loves to preach that life is unfair.”

“When she has her wits about her,” I said. 

“You can’t be fair to everyone, so what’s point of feeling guilty? It doesn’t change the past or influence the future. We’ve left Lowell and you can’t unring that bell. Besides, before we reach our brothers outside Washington City, we’ll probably be killed and no one will question whether we were being fair.”

I was disinclined to engage in a discussion about our mortality. Sophia loved drama and insisted on having the last word. To avoid an argument, I distracted myself with thoughts about Mama and the first time I had heard her favorite maxim, the one that I came to loathe. I was seven, with a child’s growing awareness of the injustices of being female. I sneaked into a horse race at the Middlesex County Fair by donning britches, tucking my braids under a cap, and crossing the finish line ahead of all the boys. Rather than receiving the blue ribbon I deserved, I was disqualified on account of my duplicity. 

Mama had scolded me. Back then, she was clear-headed, mostly. “Of course you were disqualified. Ladies do not compete in races.” 

“But I won. That’s not fair” 

“Life is complicated, life is unfair, Mary Magdalene,” Mama said, then drifted off into one of her inner conversations. The memory left me wistful. 

“Keep an eye out for rabbits,” Sophia said, gazing across meadows dotted with marsh marigolds being tossed by the breeze. “We may need meat for the pot if we arrive at Concord after the cafés close.”

“We’ll be there with plenty of time,” I said. 

“We should go hunting. If there’s a meal for the cost of a bullet, why pay a quarter for dinner?”  

“Why are you so quarrelsome? Hunting will put us behind and we can’t afford it.” I clucked the horses and they picked up the pace. “When we don’t return from the ecumenical retreat Sunday night, Papa and your mother will notify the constable. Every lost minute today will jeopardize our mission. You said it a minute ago, distance is our salvation.”

“I wish I could be a fly on the wall Sunday night,” Sophia said, “when we don’t return.”

“They will be sorely distressed,” I said, my guilt surging. 

“For just a few hours,” my friend continued. “Come Monday, all hell will break lose when our letters arrive and they discover we’ve run away.” Sophia stretched her arms heavenward and yawned, carefree as a cat on a quilt. “Of course, if you’ve come to believe our quest to be soldiers is not worth sacrificing our parents’ peace of mind, we can head to the retreat and intercept the letters on Monday morning. That is, if you’re of a mind to tuck tail and run.”

I yanked the horses to a stop. “Do you think I lack gumption? I shall tuck and run when pigs fly.” 

Sophia scanned the forest, the sky, and the road, a wicked glint in her eyes.

“What in the world?” I said.

“Searching for winged pork,” she said earnestly. “Doesn’t seem to be any.”

I laughed. “Amen, sister,” It broke the tension but did not entirely dissipate my guilt.

Sophia rummaged into our supplies again and I hoped she was retrieving the bag of oatmeal cookies, apples, and rosemary biscuits I had filched from our kitchen that morning. Instead, she took out the maps I had painstakingly traced from the originals in the Lowell Public Library. Our copies were wrapped in oilskin; we couldn’t risk a sudden downpour reducing them to a blurry watercolor. “We’ll make it to Concord before sunset with plenty of time to eat,” she announced, as if I hadn’t offered the exact conclusion moments ago. I blew air out of my cheeks.

Sophia either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Over the ensuing miles, I enjoyed the chirp of robins and the vibrant swoosh of bluebirds hunting insects. Despite myself, I envisioned Mama and Papa at dinner, pondering what I was doing at the retreat. If Papa had known my true plans, he would have hog-tied me to the bedpost. My face became hot: he treated me as if I were still in short skirts and pigtails, calling me Maggie me darlin’ and Maggie my sweet little girl. I wasn’t a little girl, I was seventeen and deserved to be treated as an adult. 

“Do you think our parents will see our exodus as the petulant act of willful children,” I said, “or the freedom cry of women claiming equality, out to serve a great cause?

“Doesn’t matter what they think,” Sophia said, “it matters what we do, and I’ve been thinking we should start an official women’s enlistment movement. The abolitionists did it to end slavery, we can do it to put women in the military.” She warmed to her idea. “I’ll become so famous, they’ll build statues of me.”

I noted my absence from this fantasy about fame and glory, but before I could take issue, Sophia began singing, “When Johnny Comes Marching Home,” inserting lyrics of her own creation:

When Sophia comes marching home again
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We'll give her a hearty welcome then
Hurrah! Hurrah!
The men will cheer and the boys will shout
And Maggie too will take a bow,
And we'll all feel gay
When women come marching home.

Despite being cast as second fiddle, I was thrilled by the vision of a homecoming with musical fanfares, cheering crowds, and red-white-and-blue bunting. The image caused my lingering guilt to dissipate. “Our families are hypocritical to support freedom for the slaves but not their daughters. Ours is a righteous endeavor.” I straightened my posture. “Women can soldier and we’re going to prove it. We’ll fight the Rebs, free the slaves, and President Lincoln will give women the vote. It is just and fair to take action when the powers-that-be don’t offer equality to women.”  

“To hell with being fair,” Sophia said. “Who asked whether our forefathers were being fair when they poured that tea in Boston Harbor?” 

As my friend took the last word, an ear-splitting screech pierced the sunshine and our horses bucked and whinnied in frightened agitation. ###End Chapter One