Sissy Johnson

Some few days later, the wounded were transported to the rail and began their trip to D.C.. Sissy squeezed the hand of one of her young patients as his stretcher was picked up by the orderlies to be taken to the ambulance for transportation. He had cried a lot, but silently, attempting to be brave during his stay in the medical tent. Sissy was certain he had lied about his age in order to enlist. “That’s the last of them, then,” she said to Eleanor, joining her and Orderly Newton as they stood speaking together. Jack Richardson smiled to the group as he turned back from the ambulance.

“You’ve done very good work Ms. Trenton and Ms. Johnson,” he said to Eleanor and Sissy respectively. “That was the lowest death ratio we have had among the wounded this month.” They all looked toward the burial crew that was digging a deep trench a few hundred yards from the camp.

“God rest their souls,” Newton said softly. “It is always difficult losing even one of them, but Mr. Richardson is correct. You ladies did wonderfully for them and eased the dead’s suffering, before they went, a great deal.” His smile was almost affectionate as he looked into Eleanor’s compassionate face she had turned toward him. Sissy glanced quickly to Jack and saw he was smiling at the pair.

“Mr. Richardson,” Sissy queried, as they walked back into the now empty tent where orderlies were covering the bodies of the dead and removing them, “do you think it can be proper for a woman in a military encampment to form a relation with a soldier?”

Jack chuckled. “Wondering about Eleanor and Newton?” He paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Yes, Miss Johnson, I do. Newton is a fine and respectable man and working so closely together, it is no surprise the two have formed an attachment of sorts.” He took the bucket of water and brush that had been placed by the surgeon’s table and moved to a soiled wooden cot. “Both conduct themselves respectably and her father is very attentive to Eleanor’s protection.”

Sissy took a brush and stepped to the opposite side of the cot. Excrement was dried on the slats that crossed it and she braced herself before beginning her work. “I suppose it would be different for me,” she said thoughtfully. “I haven’t a relation in the world now, you know. Even before the war began, navigating society as an orphan would have been difficult.”

Jack glanced up from his work to smile at her. “You interest my mother a great deal, you know. Ever since we found you after that skirmish near Port Royal, she has asked about you in her letters. She is always quite concerned for your welfare.”

“You found me,” Sissy pointed out gently. “And you were very kind, Mr. Richardson, to take me under your wing. Uncle Zachariah and I were bringing a transport of horses up from Texas for the Confederate Army.”

“In that case, I might eventually be tried for treason.” His blue eyes were sparkling merrily as he caught her eye, and she laughed.

“You shouldn’t say such things, Mr. Richardson. I would be very sorry if you were to suffer on account of me,” she admonished. “However, I think my service to the regiment since that day has negated the need to court-martial you.”

Jack poured a small stream of water onto the slat that Sissy was scrubbing to soften the debris. “You have put my mind at ease, Miss Johnson. Thank you.” He placed the bucket down again gently and looked thoughtful. “I was wondering what your life was like before. Thompson and I had a conversation last night and he finds Southern culture to be abominable, given he is such a staunch abolitionist. He asked me how someone - or rather, how a good person, can own another human being. My family has never owned slaves, therefore, I did not have an answer for him. I did think you might shed light on the issue.”

“You consider me a good person, then, Mr. Richardson?” Sissy asked without raising her eyes.

“Certainly!” he responded immediately and with conviction. “It is evident in how you care for those around you. Especially the wounded.”

Sissy smiled weakly and asked thoughtfully, “Did you have a nursemaid as a child, Mr. Richardson?” She brushed a curl back from her face and leaned her elbows on her knees as she continued squatting in the now dried mud of the tent. When he responded that of course he did, and the family still had a housemaid in their employment, Sissy nodded. “I know it is not so with all families who own slaves; however, my parents respected our servants. We never referred to them as slaves, but as servants. I was raised by my mother’s companion when I was an infant, due to my mother’s difficulties after my birth. When she had recovered, the two of them would spend time together in the nursery with my father and me.” She smiled and chuckled fondly, remembering. “Anytime I was not well, Mother would ask Mary what she thought best. She was a great help to my parents and they loved one another dearly. When mother died, Mary shut herself away in her room for three days. She insisted there had never been a kinder woman than my mother. She was bought from a social family who did not treat their servants as well as we did, you see, and so she was very grateful for her treatment at The Oaks, my parents’ plantation.”

“But to not have your liberty,” Jack insisted, leaning earnestly onto the damp cot. “To not be able to leave when you wish. To be tied to someone body and soul seems to me the opposite of what our country stands for! I understand you are still young, but you have a seriousness about you which makes me feel comfortable pressing the topic. You will forgive me if I have overstepped,” he added quickly.

Sissy looked at him and smiled. “You are always most thoughtful, Mr. Richardson, have no fear. I do not take offense.” She scrubbed in silence for a moment, the bristles of her brush making a pleasant, rhythmic sound over the noise of men shouting outside. “Tell me, Mr. Richardson, as a soldier, are you free to do as you wish? To wake up when you please? To leave whenever you would like?”

“Of course not. I enlisted in the military. I have my orders from above. But I am compensated for my work.”

“And if you were to leave your post and run away and be caught, what would happen to you?”

“I never would, but I understand your question. I would be shot as a deserter after a court martial.”

“And when slaves run away from their owners and are caught, they are punished, though rarely by death,” Sissy said. She poured the remaining water over the cot to rinse it and watched the wood drip. “By shooting a deserter, what does the military lose? Nothing. By killing a slave, what does a slave owner lose? He loses the investment he put into purchasing the slave, as well as a valuable worker. You might say a slave owner values the life of his slave more than the military values the lives of their soldiers - even if it is only a financial value.”

“I am not certain I understand what you are saying.” Jack stacked the cot against the wall of the tent and fetched another bucket of water from the flap of the tent.

“We are all slaves, Mr. Richardson.” Her young eyes looked so serious and understanding as she held his gaze without wavering. Jack thought to himself that she seemed to be staring into the darkest corner of his mind. “Some are born into slavery to a less important power, but we are all born slaves. Southern slaves to their masters, and the rest of us to whomever is in power around us. That is why the Confederacy fights. That is why slaves run away. All of us are looking for freedom from something. Slavery removes an individual’s rights, just as your president and your senate have attempted to restrict the rights of the Southern Gentry’s way of life. Slavery has existed for centuries. It always has.” She raised herself almost proudly and her eyes held a proud and scornful expression as she said, “You might remind Mr. Thompson that the president of the United States asserted in his address, that he would not remove slavery from the slave states that already exist. That he does not have the power to do so, and that he has no wish to. Mr. Thompson may be an abolitionist, Mr. Richardson, but he is fighting for a government that is not. This is not a war of morality, sir, it is a war for control.”

Jack thought it wisest to let the matter lie after that and instead focused the conversation on equestrian experience, which Sissy greatly enjoyed, chattering away happily about her time on the horse ranch with her uncle. Jack smiled to himself as he watched the way she lighted up, and together, they continued to clean the cots as best as was possible.

The fighting quieted for the next few days, with the armies facing one another from opposite ridges as they cleaned the battlefield. From her favorite spot on the hill, Sissy could see the opposing groups of soldiers as they recovered the dead from their conflict. When the breeze blew toward her, could hear the occasional greeting exchanged between both sides, sometimes almost as if they were old friends seeing each other again after a long time. It was not at all pleasant when she could hear, however. The wind also whipped the stench of rotting bodies into her face. It was a rank and sickening odour, one that the burial crews took precautions against by tying scarves over their faces, and Sissy always retreated back to the encampment to help Eleanor mend uniforms when it became unbearable.

The camp was loud. Men off duty sat in circles, gambling, conversing, swearing. Women from Washington had come by rail to make quick money, but until the evening, Sissy rarely had chance to run into any of the men carousing with them. During her return from the ridge during daylight hours, however, her route always took her by the gaudy tent the women shared. This particular morning, she passed by as Thompson was being seen out by one of the women, her hand gripping his arm with what almost seemed affection, and her mostly bare bosom reaching toward him as she kissed him deeply on the mouth in goodbye. As she turned to re-enter the tent, her gaze met Sissy’s and she smiled with a friendly raise of her hand before pulling her lace shawl over herself and stepping back inside.

Groups of men standing about laughed and called out congratulatory remarks to him. Frank Richardson stood against a tree across from the tent and nodded to Thompson who replaced his jacket and sauntered back toward the soldiers’ quarters.

“How are the burial crews doing, Miss Johnson?” Frank called to Sissy as she prepared to walk quickly by, pretending not to have noticed either man. “I saw you when you went to the ridge. I thought I would spare myself the smell and ask you when you returned.” He took a puff from his thin cigar and smiled. He was boyish compared to his older brother Jack, taking most things far less seriously and with a carefree demeanor.

Sissy answered that the work was well underway and leaned her back against the tree beside him, wondering what Frank thought of the women from Washington. “They’re rather pretty,” she ventured as one of the women left the tent to shake out a blanket.

“I suppose,” Frank said. “But you needn’t go out of your way to be kind if you think little of them. I understand Eleanor despises their occupation.”

“Some women have nothing else they can do,” Sissy said thoughtfully, her eyes gazing without emotion toward the tent. “I suppose some enjoy the work. I really cannot say I understand it, but it does seem to make,” she paused, searching for the right words, “some of the men - happy?”

Frank laughed unconcernedly. “They make my tentmate happy, I know that.” He flicked the ash from the end of his cigar and replaced it between his lips.

“I suppose men become lonely being away from their loved ones so long. Do you think those women are lonely? Or that they become attached to their clients?” Sissy looked at Frank as she asked, and he shrugged.

“I wouldn’t know anything about it.” He smiled at her, squinting from the sun in his eyes.

“Perhaps it is part of an act,” Sissy contemplated, “but she seemed almost attached to Thompson.”

Frank tossed his cigar into the dirt and pursed his mouth. “Like I said, I wouldn’t know. But I have heard that you can get different things. Really, it’s whatever you want to pay for. Sam says some of the women are rather caring, though. Sometimes men go to them just to spend time talking. I suppose it’s as you said; men get lonely away from home.”

They both turned quickly as a commotion at the edge of the camp caught their ears. A large group of men came hurrying toward them and between the movement of their legs, Sissy saw a pair of small light brown feet, caked in mud, hurrying beside the swinging of a full skirt. “What is it?” she asked Frank.

Frank said it looked as if the men were bringing someone in. They watched together as the group approached. In the center, was a small woman. Her feet were bare, and mud mixed with blood pasted them. Her bonnet covered her face, but Sissy and Frank immediately saw she was an escaped slave.

“Port Royal! Port Royal!” the woman repeated as they came within earshot of the pair. “I was picked up by some slave hunters after a skirmish at Port Royal. I’ve escaped but I need to find -” Her English was impeccable and Sissy murmured that the voice sounded familiar. The group stopped and two of the men drew the woman toward a tree and told her they would find an officer to speak with her. “I just need to find Zachariah Johnson!” the woman insisted, falling weakly against the tree.

Frank looked quickly at Sissy who immediately exclaimed in shocked tones, “Susanna!” and ran quickly to the woman. Frank followed and joined her as the woman looked up and cried out,

“Young Miss Johnson!” The two embraced tightly and the woman’s young son put his arm around Sissy, his eyes glowing with joy. “Miss Johnson,” Susanna asked after they had stopped laughing and crying, “Praise God you are safe! Do you know where your uncle is? I’ve been looking for him since we were all separated! And for you, too, darling!” and she held her tightly again.

“I’m told you are looking for a Mr. Zachariah Johnson?” A lieutenant joined the group and touched his cap to Sissy. “Is Zachariah your husband, ma’am? Is this your young master?” He looked at Susanna’s son who, though tanner than most Southern white men, had the features and gently waving dark hair of a white boy. Besides, he was covered in mud and dust and his true tone was indistinguishable.

“No. No,” Susanna stammered, and glanced down at her son who had lowered his hazel green eyes. “This is my son, sir. And - no. Mr. Johnson is not my husband. He is my employer. I work for him. We were separated after being caught in a skirmish at Port Royal and I’ve been making my way to this encampment since, hoping someone had news of him.” She attempted to cover her bosom correctly with the torn fabric of her dress.

Sissy took her hand. “There’s been no news of my uncle, Susanna,” she said compassionately. “Perhaps he is looking for us, as all of us have been looking for one another! I hope to hear word of him every day!” She pulled Susanna’s head to her shoulder as the woman began to softly weep.

“I am so grateful to have found you, darling,” Susanna murmured, and her son kissed his mother’s free hand comfortingly. “John, is it not wonderful to have found our Miss Johnson?”

Women from the gaudy tent joined the group as the Lieutenant said he must go confer with the Colonel. All were covered, though some had hastily thrown shawls over their brightly embroidered corsets. A woman with bright blond curls knelt beside Susanna. “You look weary, dear, and God knows the colonel could take a few hours to find time to come speak with you. Why don’t you and the young one come along and we’ll clean you both up and get you out of those damp clothes?”

Susanna turned her pretty face to Sissy, a look of consternation. “Oh no, ma’am, I thank you, but I’m - I’m not that - that - kind of woman. If you will allow me to refuse your very generous offer I -”

The other women immediately reassured her that she was permitted to refuse them. “However, you’d not be doing our work if you didn’t like,” the blonde woman smiled. “We would just like to be sure someone can watch over you both while you await the colonel.” She leaned closer and murmured, out of earshot of the soldiers standing nearby, “It’s not safe for a woman like you in this camp. I can see you’ve been hurt, even though these men can’t. I’ve been hurt like that, too. Some of these men are no good, sugar. Let us keep you safe.”

“I can take John with me,” Frank offered, stepping forward, “if you’d not like him in the tent, ma’am.” Sissy smiled at his generosity, though consternation showed on her face after hearing the woman’s comment.

“Mr. Richardson is quite kind, Susanna,” Sissy said. “His older brother was the one who found me after Port Royal. John will be safe with him.”

“Yes, please, sir, thank you!” Susanna breathed in relief, and rose with the aid of the blonde woman who introduced herself as Mary-Anne. “John, be good and do whatever he asks you to. Make yourself useful, baby.” The women surrounded Susanna protectively as Sissy thanked them for their help and they crossed back to their tent.

Sissy and Frank took John with them back to Frank’s quarters and soldiers stared as they passed. Frank put his arm comfortingly over John’s shoulders as he shied from the eyes following him. After settling him on Frank’s cot, Sissy fetched a bucket of water and cloths to help clean the boy up. He shivered now, as they gently exposed the mud on his body and began wiping it away. Bruises showed on the patches of clean skin and Frank stood and silently closed the tent flap in the faces of the curious men who had gathered outside.