Good Bye Old Glory

By Jeannine Wilkins

It is believed that during the American Civil War as many as four hundred women disguised themselves as men and fought on both sides. Charlotte Menefee is one such woman. She disguises herself and joined the Union Army with her brother. They become part of a squad of young men who have no idea one of their number is a girl. They fight side by side at the battle of Gettysburg, where Charlotte is badly wounded and many of the men in her squad are killed. When the battle is over, Charlotte resumes her life as a woman and returns to the battlefield as a nurse. She begins to search for Josh Brinley, the man she has come to love. But Josh is captured and taken prisoner to Andersonville, the Souths most infamous prison, where he is determined to survive until he can be reunited with Charlotte.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524531638

Jeannine Wilkins

Jeannine Wilkins was twice a finalist for the Rupert Hughes award at the Maui Writer’s Conference and won first place for Beneath the Starry Flag at the Southwest Writer’s Conference. She received the Shubert Fellowship and the Feldman Award for playwriting at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill, where she received her master’s degree and a second Shubert Fellowship at Ohio State University, where she earned her doctorate. She worked as a marketing and public relations professional while writing Beneath the Starry Flag.

Book preview

GOOD BYE

OLD GLORY

A NOVEL BY

JEANNINE WILKINS

Copyright © 2016 by Jeannine Wilkins.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 08/09/2016

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Good Bye Old Glory

Four weary years of toil and blood,

With loyal hearts and true,

By field and fortress plain and flood,

We’ve fought the rebel crew,

But victory is ours at last,

The mighty work is through,

Sound drum and bugle loud and fast,

This is our last tattoo.

Chorus

Farewell farewell to march and fight,

Hard tack a fond adieu

Goodbye Old Glory for tonight

We doff the army blue.

For my daughter Lisa

who once again came to my rescue

and

my friends who encouraged me to write a sequel

Also by Jeannine Wilkins

Beneath the Starry Flag

Chapter One

On the afternoon of the Fourth of July, the skies opened up over the little town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania and rain poured upon the earth as if Heaven itself wept at the carnage below. The three-day battle was over, and like great beasts the two armies began to withdraw to lick their wounds. They left behind the terrible detritus of war; fifty thousand soldiers were dead, wounded, or missing. Many lay where they had fallen, Union and Confederate alike, their bodies turning black in the heat. Negro contraband dug shallow graves and buried the remains with little attempt to identify the individuals or mark their resting places.

The residents of Gettysburg began to pick up the pieces of their lives. They helped clear their streets and fields of the hundreds of pieces of equipment left scattered where they had fallen: knapsacks, haversacks, canteens, tin cups, kepis, shoes … some still holding the foot. Rifles were stuck in the ground to mark the bodies of the dead. Personal items such as spectacles, rings, watches, tintype photographs of wives, mothers, and children, playing cards and Jew’s harps littered the area around the bodies.

In the corners of the fields, carcasses of dead horses and mules were piled up and burned, the smoke and stench hanging in the air for weeks. Residents went about holding to their noses handkerchiefs soaked in peppermint and pennyroyal.

As Confederate General Robert E. Lee prepared to head back to Virginia, he offered to exchange some four thousand Union prisoners since guarding them would be an impediment to his men on the long, painful journey home. Union General Meade rejected Lee’s offer, stating that he had no authority for such an exchange.

Lee ordered General John Imboden to load as many wounded as he had wagons and ambulances to carry and begin the retreat. Following behind the wounded, were the Yankee prisoners. Among them was a pathetic looking fellow who had been captured on the third day of the battle and now found himself forced to march south. He wore a filthy blue uniform and was soaked to the skin. His black hair was plastered to his scalp and rain drops fell like tears from the end of his nose. He hobbled along on bare feet, his boots having been commandeered by a ragged Rebel soldier. His plodding footsteps were accompanied by the screams of the Confederate wounded in the spring-less wagons that bounced and jarred the men unmercifully. The cold, drenching rain added to the misery of both wounded and prisoner alike, making the journey a hell on earth.

Three miles into the trek, the Union prisoner slipped into a somnolent trance, automatically putting one foot in front of the other. He imagined he was back on the Gettysburg battlefield; but the men around him were strangers, and he was filled with an overwhelming loneliness. He had no idea where his friends were or if any of them were still alive. He felt so forlorn that he made no attempt to stop his tears from streaming down his face and mixing with the rain drops. Every time he thought he had himself under control, he heard the screams of the poor wounded souls in the ambulances ahead and another sob welled up in his throat.

His name was Isaac Thompson, and barely four months ago he and his cousin Henry Fulton had reported to Fort Snelling in St. Paul, Minnesota and been sworn into the Union army. Four months … how could so much have happened in just four months? He and Henry were simple farm boys full of brashness and false bravado when they joined up. They were put in a squad with ten other boys just as inexperienced and naive as themselves. Now he was sure he was the only one left. Henry had died of camp fever before he had a chance to fight … and the others? He feared all were lost in the three-day battle.

Isaac ran his sleeve under his nose and made an effort to stay alert, but half a mile down the road his chin was bobbing against his chest and memories rose up again. He thought of the others in his squad who had died on the second day of the battle: Percy, with his silk hankies and boxes of food sent from his mama’s kitchen; Willie, the last of the four Simms boys to go off to war; and James, so proud of his new lieutenant stripes … all three dead and buried in a common grave. Isaac cried like a wounded animal as he thought of how scared he had been and how he had turned coward that day. He would never forget it. If it hadn’t been for Charles, he probably would have turned coward the next day as well.

Charles … he smiled even as the tears continued to pour down his face. Charles, or rather Charlotte. A girl! … a girl who had fooled them all for four months. Of course she had had help from her brother James who was in on the whole thing from the very first. He cut his sister’s hair, put her in a uniform, changed her name, and turned her into as good a soldier as any of them. No one was any the wiser.

A great sob rose up in his throat. He was the one who betrayed her. He had come up on her squatting to pee and gave her a friendly push with his boot. When she toppled to one side she couldn’t cover herself quickly enough and he knew what he’d seen. He told the others; told them to kick her out and send her home. He wasn’t going to have a girl in his squad. They weren’t fit to be soldiers.

Then it turned out she was the one who commiserated with him when he turned coward. When he heard the bullets and the screams of the wounded, he froze. His feet felt as if they were planted in the ground so deep he couldn’t move. He fell forward and lay with his arms curled around his head as he watched the boots of the other Minnesota men run past him. He crawled off in the brush until she found him the next day. She said she was still his friend and she didn’t blame him for being afraid; she understood and knew he would stand firm when the battle began again … and he had stood shoulder to shoulder with her. Now he wouldn’t have a chance to tell her how much her words had meant to him. What had she ever done but be his friend? If she was dead now or wounded and lying bleeding on the battlefield or in some hospital, it was his fault. He should have kept his mouth shut.

In the pitch black of the night he could barely make out the road before him. He stubbed his toe and stepped into an ankle-deep rut, sprawling face down in the mud. No one stopped to help him up; the ones behind just moved around him. He didn’t care; he’d just stay here in the mud and die. It served him right, he told himself.

Get up, Yank, someone said, and a rifle barrel poked him in the butt. Come on, Yank, the voice said again. A hand grabbed his arm and lifted him as easy as if he had been a gunny sack of chicken feathers. He wiped the mud from his eyes and peered through the darkness at the man standing next to him. In a flash of lightening the Rebel’s face looked like a harvest moon … round and pale and as smooth as a baby’s bottom. He wore the tatters of what the Rebels called a uniform; butternut trousers frayed around the ankles and an equally ragged cotton shirt, the sleeves of which had lost their lower half. He had no shoes, but he wore a ratty straw hat at a jaunty angle. It no longer had any ability to protect him from the rain, but he smiled contentedly as if he found the situation no more than a minor inconvenience.

Isaac began to wipe the mud from his face and the front of his uniform.

Now, you ought not do that whilst it’s wet, the moon-faced fellow told him. My mama says to wait ’til the mud dries, and then you can brush it off with a corn cob. The man’s voice was soft and pleasant without malice or ridicule. He looked to be a grown man, but there was something childish in his manner. He handed Isaac a filthy rag. Better wipe your face, he said. The boy’s placid face was illuminated in another flash of lightening. Something about it made Isaac’s skin crawl. He scrubbed his face and eyes with the rag and handed it back. Then the two men continued their miserable march.

My name’s Muff, the guard told Isaac. What’s yours?"

Isaac.

Which day did we ketch you?

Yesterday, Isaac said. It seemed like years ago.

Most of yer friends here was took the first two days, Muff said. Everyone says our boys fought hard them days, but yesterday … He shook his head and made a mournful humming noise. "Umm, umm, umm."

Isaac couldn’t figure the fellow out. Was you in the fight yesterday?

The boy wadded up the rag Isaac had used and began to wipe his own eyes. Isaac was scared the fellow was going to start crying and then there’d be two grown men bawling like babies; but Muff gave a great sigh and squared his shoulders. I don’t get to fight, he said simply. I take care of the mules and horses … and the prisoners.

Isaac shook his head. Well, he said sorrowfully. It sure was somethin’ when your boys come marchin’ across that field yesterday. They looked like they was on parade. I ain’t seen anything like it since Fredericksburg.

Muff showed no interest in the battle. Where you from? he asked instead.

Winona, Minnesota, Isaac said with pride. Then he added hopefully, Did you take any other boys from Minnesota yesterday or the day before?

Muff looked puzzled. Well, I’m not right sure, but I reckon there might be at least one or two somewheres in this lot. He glanced around as if he might spy just such a man waiting at the edge of the road.

If you see any, Isaac pleaded, Will you tell them I’m here?

Sure I will. You should find your friends ’cause prison can be a hard road. Muff looked sad for a moment, then the strange smile returned to his lips. I’ll keep an eye on you.

Where will they take us? Isaac asked. He hadn’t thought beyond surviving the drenching march.

Muff raised his eyes as a clap of thunder rumbled overhead. We’re headed to Richmond. I ’spect you’ll end up in Belle Isle Prison.

Chapter Two

A mile back another Yankee soldier slogged through the rain and mire. Josh Brinley wore a tattered blue uniform that hung loosely on his lanky frame; it was too ragged to tempt even the most bedraggled Rebel. A scrap of bloody cloth circled his head and drooped over his left eye. He walked with a limp, and every now and then he ran his hand down his leg as if to push the pain away. He chewed on an old apple core; it was all he had to eat and his stomach grumbled in unison with those of other prisoners around him. Some still carried their haversacks even though the Confederates had lifted anything of value from them. Josh carried only a small blackened pouch that held a handful of crushed coffee beans mixed with a little sugar. He had dropped the pouch down inside his trousers where it was shielded from the eyes of his guards. The thought of a cup of hot coffee made his mouth water.

He was far enough behind the ambulance wagons for the storm to drown out most of the cries of the wounded; even so, he had to force his mind away from their suffering. He thought instead of the moment when he had been captured. It happened on the third day of the battle when there were only a few boys of the First Minnesota Regiment left.

Josh smiled and corrected himself … a few men and one brave young girl named Charlotte Menefee, a girl who for four months had fooled the whole Union Army into believing she was a fella … a girl who fought like a man but was as soft and sweet as a summer rain.

His heart nearly broke as he thought of her. He loved that girl more than life and he was determined to find his way back to her. He refused to entertain for a second the idea that she might be dead even though the last time he had seen her, she was running forward surrounded by a roiling jumble of blue and gray uniforms. When he moved toward her, he was brought down by the crack of a rifle butt across the side of his head. Blood filled his eye, ran down his face, and soaked into his jacket. The world around him tilted crazily, as if he was being spun around until he couldn’t tell which way was up. When he finally regained his feet and his senses, she was gone. A Rebel soldier yanked him by the collar and prodded him across a wide field toward the Confederate lines. Every time he tried to look back, the Rebel cursed him and jabbed him in the back; thus he left the Union forces and became a prisoner of war.

Now as the approaching dawn lightened the eastern horizon, the sound of scattered rifle fire could be heard up ahead. The order to halt echoed down the wagon train and ranks of prisoners. It was the first rest they had had since the column left Gettysburg the previous afternoon. The men collapsed where they stood, grateful for any respite from the seemingly endless marching. Josh hunkered down and touched the bag of coffee. Hunger for a mouthful of the crushed beans was too much; he eased the pouch out, took a pinch of the beans, and poked them inside his jaw. When he bit down, the bitter taste filled his mouth; a poor substitute for the hot, black brew he craved, but better than nothing.

What you got there, Billy Yank? a voice drawled.

Josh knew that drawl. It was one he had heard all his life, and it wasn’t that of a Georgia boy or an Alabamian. That was the sound of a Texan. It could have been the voice of his brother, or one of the Neuberger boys from the next ranch over, or the driver of one of the stagecoaches that stopped at his mother’s waystation on the San Saba River.

It was three years since he last saw his home in Texas. When the southern states began to secede, Josh sided with Sam Houston, then governor of Texas, who refused to swear allegiance to the Confederacy. Josh did not believe one human being should own another and that slavery would be the undoing of the South. His beliefs put him at odds with his brother who joined the Confederate Army.   Josh was just as determined to join the Union forces. He agreed to go east so that the brothers would be unlikely to find themselves facing one another on a battlefield. He bid farewell to his widowed mother and joined the Army of the Potomac. He was wounded and spent three months fighting to keep the doctors from removing his leg; a battle he won. When he was able to return to duty, he was placed with a squad of raw recruits from the state of Minnesota who took some convincing before they accepted the old man from Texas.

Homesickness overwhelmed him as he listened to the voice of the skinny Texas boy of no more than fifteen or sixteen who stood watching him. He was dressed in the standard Rebel uniform: a ragged homespun shirt and mud-soaked trousers frayed above his ankles. His feet were covered in mud, giving the impression that he was shod when in fact he hadn’t had boots for nearly three months.

Josh reluctantly held out the grimy sack of crushed beans; he should have known better than to try and hide it. The boy reached in and took a pinch. He brought the beans to his nose and took a deep breath.

This here’s genuine coffee, he whispered as he tucked them in his mouth. The look of pleasure that crossed his face was sheer bliss. I ain’t tasted real coffee for … Lordy, I can’t remember when.

I suppose you’ll be keepin’ the rest. Josh said philosophically.

I reckon so, the boy agreed and pocketed the pouch.

What’s the ruckus up ahead? Josh asked.

The Rebel snorted. The fine folks of Greencastle, Pennsylvania took axes to some of our wagon wheels. Didn’t care that those poor wounded boys had suffered enough. Had to try and dump ’em out on the roadside to die. He shook his head. Just like you damned Yankees, he growled.

Josh looked him in the eye. War’s a’ awful cruel thing. I guess there’s more than enough meanness to go ’round.

I reckon so, the boy agreed with a shrug. Which outfit was you with?

First Minnesota, Josh told him.

The boy looked puzzled. Where’s Minnesota? he asked.

Josh opened his mouth to answer, but the order came to fall in and move out. He rose and moved into the line of prisoners. The boy shouldered his musket and fell in beside him. After a number of minutes of silence, his curiosity got the better of him.

How come you don’t sound like a Yank? he asked.

I guess it’s ’cause I’m not a Yank. Josh told him. I’m from Texas, over near the San Saba River.

I’m from Texas, the boy said in amazement. San Antonio. Then another puzzling thought came to him. How’s a Texan end up fightin’ for the Yankees?

I sided with Sam Houston, Josh admitted with a shrug.

My Pa says Houston’s a traitor; I reckon that makes you a traitor as well.

All depends on your point of view, Josh answered. You run into any other men from Minnesota? he asked.

The boy shook his head. Nope.

If you do, Josh added hopefully, will you send ’em my way?

The boy stepped to the side and watched as Josh moved on. Nope, he said by way of a farewell.

Not long after he lost his pouch of coffee beans to the Rebel guard, Josh was watching for handouts from Union sympathizers that lined the road leading south. Some of the braver northern farmers and housewives shook the hands of the prisoners and passed along bits of bread, apples, and cheese. Once Josh managed to grab a cold biscuit and stuff the whole thing in his mouth. He reached for another, but the fellow next to him was quicker that time.

A half-mile down the road, he spotted a gray-haired granny leaning against a sagging fence post. She reminded Josh of his own granny and his mouth watered as he remembered the fried pies she had made for him when he was a boy. He was betting that this granny was just as good a cook. He noticed that she held a bundle of rags in her arms and he told himself there was food under those rags. As he drew even with her he raised his hand to the bill of his cap. She gave him a toothless smile and motioned with her bony fingers for him to come closer. Without a second thought, he stepped out of line just as bold as could be and walked straight up to her. Without a word, she shoved the rags against his chest then turned and scurried away, never looking back.

Get back in line, you damned Yank.

Josh moved into place still holding the rags against his chest. The old woman had not spoken a word, but somehow Josh knew he had been given a precious gift. As he marched on, he whispered a prayer of thanks and shoved the bundle inside his jacket.

Lee had ordered General Imboden to move his train of wagons and prisoners both day and night in order to get the wounded back to Virginia as soon as possible. But when the Yankee cavalry began to harass the wagons, the general had no choice but to call a halt and send for cavalry support. The prisoners were herded into the center of a semi-circle of wagons with nervous guards keeping watch.

Josh took advantage of the distraction to take a better look at the pile of rags. It turned out not to be rags at all, but a small quilt made for a child’s crib. There were twelve squares, each made up of nine smaller blocks. All together the quilt measured about two and a half by three feet. The squares were made of a hodgepodge of fabrics; plaids, florals, stripes. Some were printed with rabbits, ducks, and chicks. The blocks were sewn together without rhyme or reason. A few hung loosely where the stitches had given out, allowing bits of cotton stuffing to show. In the center square of each block he could feel various small items. What they were, he could only guess at.

All through the night and into the early morning hours he carefully fingered the items in each square. Some he managed to identify: a pencil stub, buttons, a comb, a small pair of scissors, and a pocket knife. As he ran his fingers over another square he pricked his finger and guessed it held a housewife … a small pouch with needles and thread. Other items he could only imagine. One felt like a handful of dry beans; another most likely held a plug of tobacco or a small bar of soap. The last five were still a puzzle and would have to wait until he could safely remove them from their hiding places. The Rebel guards were nervous and closely watched the prisoners. Josh dared not risk removing any of the treasures. With apologies to his benefactor, he daubed the quilt with mud and rolled it into a wrinkled mess then draped it across his shoulders. When morning came, the guards poked fun at the Yank whose only protection from the rain was a dirty ole crib quilt.

Chapter Three

At the same time the Union prisoners began their march south, a tattered buggy moved slowly down the Tannytown Road toward Emmitsburg, Maryland. A large man with a filthy black beard and hair down to his shoulders walked beside a broken down mule hitched to the buggy. The man wore a dirty blue uniform but no longer carried a rifle or haversack or any of the paraphernalia of a common foot soldier. He held fast to the mule’s bridle with his right hand and carried a rosary in his left. He muttered his prayers in French as the beads passed through his fingers.

In the front seat of the buggy sat a priest and one of several Sisters of Charity who had rushed to Gettysburg to offer their services as nurses to the wounded on both sides of the conflict. Sister Angelica was returning to the motherhouse for more food and supplies. Her young face was surrounded by the white wimple and sweeping wings worn by the Sisters of Charity. Behind her a second Sister held the corner of a blanket in one hand in order to shield the face of a soldier who lay across her lap. Her other hand was held by the soldier in a fierce grip.

Sister Mary Grace gently pried her hand from the soldier’s grasp and massaged her fingers. Lightening flashed and thunder roared overhead as the rain poured down. Sister was so weary she feared she might fall sleep across the wounded soldier; but every bump in the road shook her awake. It seemed impossible that just three days ago she was safely teaching in the school the Sisters had established at Emmitsburg and the war was far removed from her quiet life.

Then General Lee marched his Army of Northern Virginia through Maryland and invaded Pennsylvania looking for provisions for his hungry and poorly equipped men. He had heard of a storehouse filled with shoes in a small farm village nearby, but when he reached Gettysburg he found Yankee cavalry instead. The two armies stumbled almost by accident into what would become known as the greatest battle of the war.

The buggy jolted suddenly and the soldier lying across Sister Mary Grace’s lap cried out in pain. The hulking man who walked beside the mule swore long and colorfully in French then begged forgiveness of the priest and Sisters. For nearly five years Rene Toussaint had been a Canadian fur trapper. His life consisted of long, solitary months when he saw no other human being followed by short periods when he returned to civilization long enough to sell his furs and spend his money and time in a drunken orgy. The spring of 1863 found him near the lakes and forests of western Ontario just across the border from Minnesota. After a night of drunken carousing with fellow trappers, he woke to find that his friends had carried him across the border and enlisted him in the United States Army. Being a man of adventure, he decided to accept his fate. By the time he realized the Union Army was serious about sending him to fight in their war, it was too late to change his mind. He put on the uniform and joined a band of Minnesota farm boys at Fort Snelling. As it turned out, he rather enjoyed being a soldier. He had never had much of a family life, being the only son of a drunken trapper and a Montreal prostitute. His comrades in the Union Army became his family. The food was good, he had a comfortable bed to sleep in, and he became fond of his new American brothers in arms, especially one naïve boy named Charles Menefee who turned out to be a girl. Even now the unbelievable idea brought a smile to Rene’s face.

Charlotte Menefee’s quiet life on a western prairie farm changed in an instant when the Sioux Indian Uprising claimed the lives of her parents and sisters. The only family she had left was her brother James. When James became determined to join the army, Charlotte convinced him to let her tag along. She was big and strong and had worked side by side with James on their