FIGHTING FOR NELLIE: A Civil War Love Story Inspired by True Accounts by Sarah Burrows Winch

Cold Mountain from a Northerner's Perspective

In August 1862 Union officer, Osgood Vose Tracy, leaves home for the front with a broken heart. His childhood sweetheart, Nellie Sedgwick, suggests he think of her only as a friend.

From Antietam to Appomattox beside Sixth Corps comrades he hails "The Old Clique," Osgood fights not only for the North but Nellie, laden by family calamity and courted by others. Osgood's odyssey homeward, including a capture at the Battle of the Wilderness, an escape from rebel prison, and a 200-mile trek through hostile enemy territory, twists through terror, loss, and self-discovery.

A true-life historical novel, written by a direct descendant, FIGHTING FOR NELLIE is a Cold Mountain from a Northerner's perspective, contemporary All Quiet on the Western Front, based upon one of the largest private Civil War letter and photograph caches in the world.

War may end - the smoke of the battlefields clear - but is it ever truly over? This detailed portrayal of the most crucial period in our nation's history lends us a fresh understanding of the ultimate sacrifice honorable men and women make for their country, the high cost of freedom, and the qualities that make us all human.

With the current commemoration of the 150th anniversary start of the Civil War, now is the perfect time for FIGHTING FOR NELLIE to finally see the light of day.

The true religion is that which sets people free.
Matilda Joslyn Gage

Chapter 1
Civil War Rally
Fayetteville, New York
August 25,1862

Bugles and cheers exploded, reverberating between buildings in the square as I swiped my beaded forehead, straightened my uniform and stood tall amid my 1,000 men regiment, arms wrapped around Andy Smith and Frank Lester.

Thousands jammed the town from my nearby home of Syracuse to support us, the 122nd New York State Volunteers of Onondaga County, “The Onondagas.” We were to leave for Maryland front lines in less than a week to fight for the North in the War of the Rebellion.

Andy patted my back, damp with sweat to my jacket and Frank tousled my hair, producing more wave than usual. Assigned as sergeant major, I would assist Andy, Adjutant. I would soon be taking commands from my childhood friend but respected no one more than Andy. Frank, as Quarter Master, would keep our regiment supplied. Perfect for Frank, lover of food.

A trumpet’s call alerted all eyes and ears to the front steps of Beard’s Hall. Matilda Joslyn Gage, who raised the funds for our colors, approached the podium. Lifting her hands for silence, her hair, braided into a single ponytail, fell atop her white dress to her breast. Near the podium, Andy, Frank, and I, admiring her beauty, shot each other glances -- raising eyebrows, smiling, whistling -- but quieted as the abolitionist, considered more radical than Susan B. Anthony or Elizabeth Cady Stanton, commenced.

“It has been said, ‘all that man has he will give for his life,’ and there are hundreds and thousands of men who take their lives into their hands and march forth into battle, for there are things dearer than life, things rather than lose which, we would lose life itself.”

The crowd hushed.

“And what is this for which men so willingly hazard their lives?” Matilda asked as I strained my neck, rising on my toes for a better view.

“It is to uphold liberty and maintain government. Soldiers, let Liberty be your watch word and your war cry alike. Unless Liberty is attained, the broadest, deepest, highest liberty for all, not for one set alone, one clique alone, but for men and women, black and white, there can be no permanent peace until the cause of the war is destroyed. And what caused the war?” Matilda asked.
Pausing, she slammed her fist on the stand and roared “Slavery! And nothing else!”

The regiment went wild, men roused to duty, and turning to my friends, I grinned. Frank’s hair fell askew his face as he hooted and Andy, after tightening his belt at his waist, clapped. Beaming, I was proud I convinced my friends to enlist. We read the newspapers, knew about the wounded and dead, aware, too, of those who never would come home. All those days working in the bank, sizing up generals and strategies, we considered we might participate, to help out the boys already fighting. Now our moment had arrived.

Matilda then turned to the colonel who would lead our regiment to war, Silas Titus, who with dark beard and blazing eyes, resembled President Lincoln, and said, “Colonel Titus, our flag that we have made for you is called Flag of the Free. When this war is over may none but freemen under it dwell.”

We hollered as Matilda continued, shouting to be heard. “We are giving the flag to worthy hands, who will aid in bringing justice and liberty triumphant over the land. We shall watch the flag with pride in their success, their honor will be our honor, their success our joy, and when they return in peace, the Union restored, slavery forever blasted, and liberty triumphant over this continent, we will welcome them home a band of heroes!”

With that, and the loudest cheers yet, Matilda presented the flag to Colonel Titus. The colonel, near tears, cleared his voice and looked at the vast crowd, declaring “Thanks to the heroism of Onondaga, we have a thousand warm hearts – two thousand strong hands -- a thousand bright bayonets – that shall rally around this banner – that will bear it bravely to the field-- that will stand by it and see it torn to a thousand shreds ere they will surrender it to rebel hands, and carry it triumphantly from rampart to rampart, until the eagle it bears shall be the beacon light proclaiming to the deluded South the return of her liberties!”

We roared, throwing our hats in the air, and chanted “We are coming, Father Abraham!”

Colonel Titus looked more than pleased as he pronounced, “I shall remember this scene wherever I go and say to the youth of my command and the men of riper years ever stand ready to defend this banner with your lives!”

The multitude cheered again and the colonel, turning to Matilda, said, “Madam, although shot and shell shall pierce these folds, I will return it to you, to be kept as a memento of the gallantry of the brave men of Onondaga who bore it to the field.”

The two raised the flag for all to see and three cheers rang. The band struck up “America” with the chorus singing along and the silk flag, the “flag of the free,” fringed with bullion, tassels, and an eagle, waved at us above.


Good luck always comes to the man who is determined to have it.
Congressman Charles Baldwin Sedgwick, New York State Representative
First to defy slavery on the House floor, 1860

Chapter 2
The Proposal

The bustle of chatter, clicking of spoke wheels turning dirt, and scent of horse manure carried through the sultry air amid the square as people dispersed the rally. I told Andy and Frank I would catch up with them later, leaving them puzzled as I hurried off to my horse, tied to an oak tree on East Genesee Street.

When I stood beside Freedom, his snout nuzzled my hand as I pulled a box set in velvet from within my breast pocket. I opened it. The engagement ring sparkled. I inhaled, exhaled. Details the local jeweler created were just what I envisioned.
I snapped the box closed, replaced it, and mounted my horse, turning his head in a familiar direction. Dodging the mob filtering down East Genesee and its side streets, I tipped my hat, offering hello to those I knew but didn’t stop to chat as Freedom and I began our ten-mile journey from Fayetteville to Syracuse.

When the crowd thinned and country widened, we picked up a trot heading west, beside banks of Butternut Creek. Through Lyndon and Dewitt my heart beat fast while dust kicked up behind. Freedom felt strong as ever beneath me and I spurred him on. Moving neck and neck, I glanced at his hind legs, noting his muscles and coat glistening as my unbuttoned jacket flapped in the wind.

Riding without delay until we approached Syracuse, we passed the sandstone gates and gravestones of Oakwood Cemetery. Reducing our speed we entered an area soon to be the site of the University. Freedom longed for the slower pace and I pulled him to a halt atop the hill. Standing under a lone tree for shade, we caught our breath. Freedom’s sides heaved, nostrils dripped and the breeze, though hot, felt welcome.

At the edge, I peered down to the city bustle, men and women milling about town hall, Western Union, and Riley’s General Store as the horses and mules pulled barges beside the Erie Canal. Straight across the valley was James Street hill, my home, and in the distance, Onondaga Lake. Straightening my stance, steadying myself on the pommel, I took in the panoramic view which reminded me how much I loved home and why I was willing to go to war.

Grasping the reins, I said, “Come on, Freedom. Not much longer, friend. Let’s go see Nellie.” Adding a pet of his mane, I added, “Here we go, boy, last leg.”

Down the incline we went. At the bottom of the hill, trotting on the outskirts of town and canal, we turned right onto James Street, the main road leading from downtown. Riding a half-mile up, we entered my neighborhood. Reverend Joseph May was cutting wildflowers beside the stone Unitarian Church where he ministered. He glanced up, fixing his small round glasses on his nose.

“It’s a great day, Reverend!” I called.

“Indeed, Osgood, enjoy!” the thirty-two year-old replied, smiling.

I rode on toward George and Rebecca Barnes’s home, an Italianate villa set back from the road with pillars and an expansive sight of city and country. Passing homes of the Wilkinson, Gott, and Townsend families, I reached the crest of James Street where land and woods sprawled, my childhood home on the left. My older brother Jim sat on the porch steps surrounded by friends. Sitting haphazardly, they roared in laughter, their heads rolling back, and I knew Jim must have been telling his usual jokes. Their hands embraced coffee cups, likely containing my mother’s admired Yava coffee, and knowing Jim, some whiskey. I waved my hat and the boys signaled back, perplexed as to where I was headed and why in such a hurry.

The moment I had been waiting for wouldn’t be long now. I dug the spurs in, picking up Freedom’s pace. Since I could remember, I loved Nellie Sedgwick. I loved her because of how good I felt when I was with her and how I missed her when I wasn’t. That was the way it had always been.

In front of her home, I pulled Freedom to a stop, sliding from my saddle, and attached his reins to the pergola crawling with wisteria. Stroking his snout, running my hand over the star, white as a seagull’s feather, between his eyes, I whispered near his twitching ear, that’s a good boy.

He snorted as I tucked my shirt into my trousers and brushed dirt from my jacket. Running my fingers through my hair like a comb, I entered the picket fence lining the street, walking with a brisk step up the sidewalk under the Elms. When I reached the clapboard home, I stepped up the porch stairs, creaking beneath my feet like they always did. I smiled. I loved everything about this house. It felt like home.

I knocked on the door and Nellie’s stepmother, Mrs. Deborah Gannett Sedgwick, greeted me. The humidity had curled her black hair wilder than ever, with ringlets cascading over her slender frame. Fanning herself with a Harper’s Weekly, she swept open the door.

“Ah, there is our Osgood. Let me call Nellie for you, dear. Please, come in,” she beckoned.

Thanking her, I stepped inside the hall and took off my bleached hat. Nellie’s father, forty-seven year old Congressman Charles Baldwin Sedgwick, of square build and jaw swung through the kitchen door treading over the wood floor of the dining room.

“Osgood,” he boomed as he entered the foyer, throwing out his hand, which I met with a firm grip. “Sorry to have missed the rally. The office kept me away as I head back to Washington tomorrow.”

“Mmm…Washington,” Mrs. Sedgwick murmured under her breath but loud enough for us to hear.

The congressman glanced at his grimacing wife and then plowed ahead. “How was it, Osgood?”

“Ah, very well attended, sir, and Matilda’s speech inspired our men.”

“Very good,” he answered. “Your father would be proud.”

Yes, my father, James Grant Tracy, would have been proud. He and Congressman Sedgwick had been friends; lawyers, land agents, and entrenched in aiding The Underground Railroad along with others such as Matilda and George and Rebecca Barnes. But my father passed away when I was ten years old, the same year my youngest brother, six year old Eddie, died from diphtheria.

With my hand still cupped in his palms, the Congressman stated with a wink, “War is the only answer now, Osgood. No compromises, no concessions.”

“Oh, yes sir,” I acknowledged.

Nellie, her family, and Congress for that matter, had heard him say this many times before. He hoped to leave the heritage of a free government, wholly absolved from all connection with and responsibility for slavery to his children. I respected that and realized he would stop at nothing to obtain the goal.

The sudden appearance of Nellie, however, delivered my thoughts to the moment. The Congressman and I dropped hands as she walked through the living room decorated by dark wood and overflowing bookshelves.

“There’s my dear good child, my lovely Nell,” he announced.

His oldest child’s hair was combed into a bun at the base of her neck and she wore a white blouse, fitted with a black bodice. As she stepped beside her parents, I gazed. Nellie always took my breath away and I was often told the love in my eyes evident.
As she exited the porch door, turning to sit in one of the whicker chairs, I suggested a stroll instead. Tipping my hat and saying good day to Mrs. Sedgwick, I added, nodding at Nellie’s father, "Congressman.”

Nellie took my arm and I drew her close. Her parents watched us and as her father placed his arm across his wife’s shoulders, hugging her, I heard him whisper, “What do you think of that, my Cat?”

Sauntering down the path through the front yard, I couldn’t take my eyes off Nellie, my stomach turning butterflies. The apple trees were beginning to bud and their sweetness lingered in the air as Nellie’s body brushed mine.

“I’m glad you stopped by, Osgood,” she told me. “Training will keep you busy from now on.”

Pausing, she asked, “Do you know when you head for the front?”

“Not exactly,” I replied. “But within the week.”

I looked at Nellie then, slowing my step to a halt, turning to her. She must have spotted my apprehension about leaving and I searched her eyes, always changing shades with her moods, greenish brown at the moment. Reassuring me with a squeeze, her touch sent a shiver from the base of my neck down my spine and satisfied, I nodded, smiling, and continued to lead us down the sidewalk. Beside it we passed the garden -- tomatoes, green beans, strawberries, and blueberries -- Wilson Gardens planted months ago. We paused at the pergola where Nellie petted Freedom, busy swishing flies from his hindquarters. She, too, loved the horse, a colt of her favorite mare, Jeannie. A gift to me from Nellie’s parents, her father had named Freedom and together, Nellie and I cared for him as a foal.

To me at that moment, though, no one or anything else existed in the world. I picked up Nellie’s hands taking up so little space in mine and as my thumbs caressed the tops, gazed in her eyes. Nellie drew quiet, sensing my seriousness and I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close, encircling her body as my chest beat hard from my ride and anticipation against her frame.

Bringing my lips beside her ear, her hair brushed my cheek and I whispered “You mean everything to me, Nellie.”
Stepping back enough to look in her eyes and picking up her hands again, I said “When I return, I want to spend every day with you.”

With that, I dropped to the grass on my right knee. Without taking my eyes from hers, I reached inside my pocket and presented the box. Opening it, nice and slow, the ring shone.

“Will you marry me, Nell?” I asked, grinning in anticipation. “Marry me before I leave.”

Nellie’s mouth and eyes drew open at the box’s contents and it was a moment before she spoke.

“It’s beautiful, Osgood. You’re a good man.”

Shifting her feet and disappearing her smile, however, Nellie appeared pained as she emphasized, “Well- intentioned, faithful, considerate.”

The wind picked up and a crack of thunder sounded in the distance down the hill west over the city. Our eyes turned together to look, where a bolt of lightening lit the darkening sky. The Elms swayed above us and some of Nellie’s hair came loose from her bun across her face as her crinoline skirt gusted. More thunder sounded, roaring closer this time and Freedom pawed the ground, whinnying and pulling at his reins against the hitch.

Over the sounds of the storm and no time to spare, Nellie, furrowing her brow and ringing her hands, declared, “Perhaps you should think of me now only as a friend!”

Drawing her head to my hands, Nellie kissed them but then let go. My expression must have said it all.

“Nellie,” I pleaded, our eyes locked. “You’re the most important person in my life.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, tears flowing down her cheeks.

“Nellie…please,” I implored, and shaking my head, begged, “Don’t do this. Not after all this time.”

She dropped her gaze then, though, and moved to touch Freedom’s flank, lingering her hand as if it were their last goodbye.
Gathering her skirt, Nellie ran toward the house and I watched in complete disbelief as the girl I long loved, the love of my life, the meaning of my day, dashed past the wraparound porch where the bench swing swung and squeaked, striking the side of the house. The blue hydrangeas whipped in the flurry as she ran to the backyard beside the grove, where the familiar bark of the family dog, Sergeant Buz-fuz, announced her arrival.

Congressman and Mrs. Sedgwick peered at me. They seemed to love me like a son and looked forlorn but then closed the door. I was left alone, still on my knee, holding the ring. The reality of Nellie’s answer resonated in my mind again and again, over and over every which way.

I placed the jewel to my knuckle and crushed, my head dropped, cupped in my hands. The rain drenched down in buckets.



“Please tell Nellie I will write to her as a friend and try hereafter to think of her only as such.” Sergeant Major Osgood Vose Tracy, September 1862

Chapter 3
Leaving Home
August 31, 1862

Six days later in the darkness of 4:00 a.m. our regiment set off from Camp Andrews on Syracuse’s Fair Grounds, about six miles south of the city, where we had received musket instruction for several days. From there, we were to march downtown to Central City Train Station, where our departure, like the rest of the recent movement of the armies, was to be secret.

On that early Sabbath morning, Andy, Frank and I rode beside the men, carrying knapsacks filled with necessities – blanket, change of clothes, small section of tent, and writing materials. Passing farm pastures lined by fences, nothing stirred except the clopping of hooves and shuffle of boots against gravel. An occasional rooster’s cry, a dog’s bark, or cow’s mooing was all that greeted us as our eyes squinted through shadows.

As we entered Syracuse streets, our progression stirred adults and children from their brownstone homes. Throwing back windows and opening doors, residents ran in night garments or pulled on clothes, cheering us on. By the time the sun rose over the city and we reached the station, the number of onlookers, relatives, and friends swelled to several thousand.

I hoped to speak with or at least catch a glimpse of Nellie before I boarded, as I hadn’t seen her since the day I proposed. My heart pounded against my uniform as I dismounted Freedom, coaxing him into a stock car, patting his rear as I exited. Climbing the steps of one of the twenty-one car trains I looked over my shoulder, searching the crowd for Nellie to no avail.
Sinking in to my seat next to Andy and Frank, my mind whirled.

How could I leave home without saying goodbye, without holding her again, without even seeing her?

From inside my breast pocket I pulled out her photograph. Glancing at her face, her answer stung again. The whistle screamed and trains’ wheels cranked as I waved goodbye to my mother and brother Jim, who hearing the commotion of our departure from the hill, scurried together the carriage, arriving downtown in time to see us off.

As we pulled out of the station, bound for Washington, D.C., the boys sang, “We are coming Father Abraham three hundred thousand more,” but still holding tight to her photograph, scanning throngs of onlookers as we moved forward, all I could think of was Nellie as I left her and home behind.

* * *

Twenty-four hours later, we boarded a steamboat, passing over the Hudson River into Manhattan. At City Hall Park, we received our Enfield rifles and rounds of ammunition, devoured breakfast at the barracks, and then marched down Broadway. People lined the street waving handkerchiefs, a sea of white cheering us on. Many of our boys had never experienced the city before and although I was fortunate to have been there numerous times before, this occasion felt different.

That afternoon we rode the return steamboat to the northern tip of New Jersey, to Perth Amboy, where a welcome rain received us. Back on the train, however, traveling south toward Philadelphia, the outside temperature rose. With men packed in both seats and aisles, the inside heated up as well. The train’s walls and ceilings closed in. My head spun. I slipped off my jacket and unbuttoned my shirt. No one talked. Eyes darted around as perspiration poured off our bodies.

“Stop the train!” men yelled.

A young private rose. Commanding a group, they made an angry yelling fuss and with rifle butts began shattering windows. Yanking up their seats and throwing them through, glass crashed and flew. Frank and I shot up. My body swayed and I steadied myself to the top of the seat in front of me as Frank rolled up his sleeves, throwing his shoulders back and chest out.

Nodding at me, he raised his fists. “Let’s settle these boys down, Os.”

“Yes, Frank, but without fighting,” I mustered the energy to answer.

Andy banged his gun against the car wall but the boys continued. Raising it out a broken window, he shot it off. The boom sent a message through the car and the men silenced and Andy moved to the private who had first got to his feet.

“Tell me your name,” he asked, placing a hand on the soldier’s shoulder.

Shunning Andy’s touch, the private whipped his hair to the side, spit on the floor, just missing one of Andy’s boots, and growled, “Why? What do you want?”

Frank blasted over, grabbing the private’s arms, yanking them behind his back. Andy shook his head and Frank, reluctantly, released him. The rest of the men watched and only the sound of the train rumbled.

“I asked you a simple question,” Andy stated. ‘Your name.”

“What is your name?” mocked the soldier, who stood much shorter than my friend.

“Andy Smith, Adjutant.”

“Andy Smith…” the soldier taunted and, advancing closer, drew a gun.

Jesus, I thought. Here we go.

Andy, moving his eyes to the weapon and then to the private, without looking at Frank or me, marked every word. “Put that away and don’t speak to me or anyone in that tone again.”

The private didn’t flinch, just shook his head at Andy, shooting him a look of disgust.

“Andy Smith, Adjutant,” he mimicked, turning up his nose.

A soldier, standing several men away from the private, said, “Sam, do as he says. It never gets you any where good.”
Sam didn’t look at who spoke but it seemed the words resonated.

“You know him?” Andy asked the soldier without taking his eyes from the troublemaker.

“Yes, sir, from home,” the young man answered.

“And your name?” Andy inquired, without taking his eyes from Sam.

“Charlie Carlisle, sir.”

Sam glanced at Charlie, their eyes met, and Sam’s softened. Charlie nodded encouragement, mouthing, “Put it away.”

After several moments, the gun withdrew toward the floor and was replaced from where it was drawn, and in turn, Andy drew a breath.

“Again, Sam, your name, in full?” he asked.

Sam turned his eyes back to Andy, staring him down. He spit again on the floor and Frank flew forward but Andy held up his hand, slowing him.

The soldier finally answered, “Sam Bowley.”

“Okay, Private Bowley,” Andy said in a slow and soft manner, “we’re all uncomfortable. But behavior such as yours won’t help.”

Bowley rolled his eyes. “Please, it already has,” he answered.

“C’mon, Sam. Think of your mother. Make her proud,” Charlie Carlisle pleaded.

Bowley, holding his stance, blinked, and then recoiled, like a snail, to the wall. Without dropping Andy’s gaze, he crossed his arms over his chest, sliding to the floor where he sat with legs raised. As the train kept on Andy, Frank, and I watched him.

Night approached with the air and men cooled and Andy, although refusing to leave Bowley unattended, urged us to seek a better place to sleep. As an officer, I was allowed to enter the baggage car with Frank who lit a cigarette, held between his lips. He tossed me some dry goods boxes and rearranging them, I created a bed and managed to get some sleep, even over the clatter of the train, although in the morning I felt I’d worn the points off my hipbones.

Traveling all the next day, Wednesday, September 3, we arrived in Baltimore at eight o’clock that evening, greeted by a crowd. Both whites and darkies appeared anxious, holding guns or rifles. The Confederates, under the command of General Lee, were positioned at Frederick, Maryland, just fifty miles away and expected to advance. Many had abandoned their homes. Washington was our next stop where we stayed until September 7 when orders came to march fifteen miles north into Virginia. There, we waited in a grassy lot for details to where our regiment would be sent next. Receiving orders late that night, Andy and I instructed the regiment at four o’clock in the morning to take nothing but haversacks with two days rations, leaving tents, knapsacks, and baggage behind. Called to join the Army of the Potomac and meet our division, we’d team up with other regiments, forming a brigade.

Setting off, we marched through valleys at the foot of South Mountain pass near Crampton’s Gap in Central Maryland and came upon war. Columns of cavalry and troops fighting fatigue passed, one after the other. Dead soldiers lay strewn along the road. Flies buzzed and crows cawed, picking at the bodies. I couldn’t help but scour the ground, glancing at each soldier’s face, noticing, if possible, its distinction, if for just a brief second. My stomach churned, head spun, heart broke. Fear, like none I’d known before, crept in.

Army wagons and horses struggled and ambulances freighted with suffering humanity hurried by. Groans and cries of the wounded echoed in my ears. Their blood, the color of an October harvest sunset, spilled from the floorboards and I wondered what these men had endured. Could they stand the pain? Would they survive? I had the sudden urge to help them, replace them, fight for them.

We were assigned to Brigadier General John Cochrane's Brigade, comprised of the 23rd, 61st, and 82nd Pennsylvania and the 65th and 67th New York Regiments already in service for a year in the Peninsula campaign in Southeastern Virginia. Bayonets fixed and guns loaded, our brigade’s line headed out.

As we filed past old regiments, reduced in numbers, they mustered the energy to ask, “What brigade is that?”

Our regiment, the only one in the brigade with fight, shouted “First Brigade, Third Division, Sixth Corps!” Led by Nellie's father's cousin, Major General John Sedgwick, our brigade would become well known and participate in all major battles of the Army of the Potomac, from Antietam to Gettysburg, Cold Harbor and Appomattox, on the quest to make the country one and free.

Only half of us, however, would return home alive.


I give the lesson in brief for some young reader may profit by it. In action do quickly what you are ordered to do. Don’t approach the enemy on a straight course. Keep cool, and gain cover often. In line of battle keep your place and you will soon believe that you can defy bullets.
Thomas H. Scott, Company B, 122nd New York State Volunteers

Chapter 4
Baptism of Fire
September 17, 1862

I awoke in the furrows of a plowed corn field near Sharpsburg, Maryland with a damp uniform from lying in the heavy morning dew, with no blanket. The early light was still gray but three days’ rations needed distribution.

Andy and Frank lay beside me and I prodded them awake. Andy sprang up as Frank turned over, pulling his arms up higher over his head, in need of another reminder. I rose and at once picked up my musket, drying it off. If the powder was damp, it wouldn’t fire, and I knew a big battle waited.

General George McClellan’s Union Army of the Potomac was launching attacks against Confederate General Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia. Lee and his men had set foot on northern territory for the first time, but our Union force was twice their size.

As our brigade stepped closer toward the front line of battle to reinforce General McClellan, the music of thundering cannon boomed heavily on the further side of the mountain range separating us from contending armies already fighting. Every man’s nerve strained and brow dripped with sweat, stragglers forced onward by bayonet point.

As we advanced closer to the lines of battle by early afternoon, my eyes met the stare of dead soldiers, lying in blood stained cornrows of a farm. I had never seen a dead person before. My stomach knotted, chest grew tight. I was thankful to be on Freedom’s back, that much further from the dead.

Our brigade was to relieve the line to the right of the cornfield, immediately in front of the white Dunker Church. The men we replaced had not slept in 48 hours and their eyes gazed through us as we passed. No one spoke.

Sheltering ourselves behind stone walls and fences, beyond the fields, we hunkered down and waited. I glanced at Freedom, tied to a tree in the nearby woods, praying he’d be okay. Hugging the wall, I held my breath, both anxious and excited.
The veteran Confederates, also behind breastworks, were not far across the field. They appeared like wild men, with skin and scruffy hair hanging from their thin frames, faces drooped, skin like leather. And we could smell their reek from where we waited.

Colonel Titus yelled down the line, “Load and cup!”

With my teeth, I fumbled with the cartridge but tore it off. Some of the dry powder spilled into my parched mouth. Loading the cartridge, balancing the long barreled gun on my shoulder, my heart felt as if it would burst.

Shots sounded in our direction and in turn, Colonel Titus ordered “Fire arms!”

Ammunition rang from every direction, rumbling off the church as the Confederates advanced.

“Forward!” Colonel Titus shouted at the top of his voice.

I jumped to my feet, with comrades beside me. Scrambling over the wall we took to the field in a horizontal line toward the enemy. As we closed in on the sea of rebels, one soldier grabbed my attention. Studying his pock marked but handsome face I lamented He looks like a decent young man, much like me.

The soldier’s rifle, however, sounded and near me a dull thud announced its bullet reached a mark as a comrade to my right fell wounded in his thigh. The Confederate’s weapon rose again and drawing my eye back down the barrel of my weapon, I aimed at the young man’s chest, my index finger quivering on the trigger. I waited.

His weapon set off again. Without looking for consequence, I pulled. The soldier peered down with his eyes popped and mouth draped open. Grabbing his wound, he bloodied his hands and staggering side to side, dropped to the ground, twitching and gulping for air. Men from both sides ran toward each other, their screams filling the field and woods beyond.

I wanted to dash to the Confederate’s aid, regretting what I had just done. In all my life, I had never been in a fistfight, let alone killed a man. Clenching my eyes shut for a second, I hoped what just took place was a dream. In a moment, though, when I looked again the soldier lay still in the battle’s blinding dust and I had no choice but to fight on.

At the end of the day, the 3,654 Union and Confederate men killed did not include the thousands that would die in the coming days. Late that night, the exhausted, traumatized survivors and I slept in the fields like the dead for a few short hours.

September 18-20
When we awoke, everywhere we set our eyes there were wounded, dead men and horses, and wrecks of ammunition trains. I sensed the dead horses particularly bothered Freedom. Tramping the ditches along the road, blood splashed and splattered over boots and hooves.

“Bloody Lane” is what this should be called, the men declared.

Even Antietam Creek and its nearby landscape turned red. The dead were mostly rebels and in places five or six laid together in a tangled, muddled mess, their faces swollen, skin darkened. My gut gurgled from their smell and the surrounding field, like that of rancid meat.

I noticed a piece of blood stained paper, on which a letter had been written, hung out the pocket of one Confederate soldier. I dismounted Freedom and knelt by the boy. Appearing to be less than eighteen years old, he exhibited no signs of wounds other than near the back of his head where his hair knotted with blood. I felt for his pulse. Although there was none, I discovered his skin still warm. I picked up the letter, written from Richmond.

My dear Scholar Jonathan,
A day has rarely, if ever, passed that I have not thought of you and that God might bless and protect you, that he might keep you from all harm that could come to your body and soul. I miss your smile, kindness, enthusiasm, and wit so very much and look forward with great pleasure to seeing you again.
Your sincere friend and teacher,
Miss Minny

The scene reminded me to burn Nellie’s letters, if she wrote me, when I finished reading them. I didn’t want anyone else examining a letter of mine after I was dead.

As I glanced up from the words, still holding the letter in my hand, a veteran Union soldier scurried over, lifting the boots off Jonathan’s feet, slipping off his own shoddy shoes replacing them with Jonathan’s. His skinny fingers, shaking, worked to lace them before he rummaged through Jonathan’s pockets, pulling out a piece of dried biscuit, cramming it into his mouth.

Chewing, like a cow his cud, he started tugging a gold ring off Jonathan’s left hand ring finger. I stopped the Yankee there.

No more, now. Leave him be.

As I folded Jonathan’s letter and tucked it deep within my pocket, soldiers, exhausted from days of digging shallow graves for comrades, started to throw them in a well. Over sixty bodies filled the Wise family's well. As they hauled them over the side, I looked at Jonathan again.

Sights like these were all too intense for our green regiment, just two weeks after leaving the comfort of our homes and embrace of lovers’, wives,’ or mothers’ arms.

The world grew silent. The usual forest sounds of chirping birds and scampering squirrels had vanished. Nature itself had fled. As I marched with the men over South Mountain afterward, it seemed to me the ordeal had been a baptism of fire. My perception of war changed forever.

And I missed Nellie even more than before.


Trust in the maxim that all is for the best.
Osgood Vose Tracy, September 1862

NELLIE
Nellie Amelia Sedgwick

Chapter 5
New York
September 20, 1862

I reached New York choked and dirty, swearing I never would be caught in a sleeping car again. Two more hours in it, I believe, would have entitled my parents a $500 insurance policy as part of their fortune.

As I stepped out on to the platform, I was glad for the fresh air, even of that hanging in the Old Dutch city. I strode straight to the Fifth Avenue Hotel where I ordered hot oysters, a sandwich, and glass of mountain dew, its bubbles rising to the top of the glass and tingling my tongue. Without changing, I fell in to bed.

In the morning I sent for a saddle horse, a fine mare but not near equal to our Tip or Jeannie. I rode to meet my father, in the city on business, and found New York alive with troops hurrying to and fro, Broadway full of flags and spirit. A good sprinkling of civilians lined the sidewalk and I stopped to watch a Vermont regiment, a set of stalwart looking men, march by, noting each timber legged man’s cap held a hemlock twig.

I spotted Father where we wrote we would meet, the corner of Fifth Ave and Broadway where I dismounted, wrapping the reins of the mount to a nearby post. Father didn’t see me approach and as I tapped him on the shoulder, he turned, outstretching his arms.

“There’s my dear good child, my lovely Nell,” he proclaimed.

He planted a kiss on my cheek and stepped back, holding my hands at arms length, admiring me. Above the buildings the sun moved from behind a cloud and its rays shone on his face, exuding more lines than I remembered.

“Good to see you, Father,” I told him and, slipping my arm around his, we began to stroll, warming each other from both elements and time, gazing at picture galleries and shops dotting the sidewalk. Stopping in front of one in which a wedding gown hung, the garment, dangling with lace, stared at me, as my father spoke.

“Nell, I miss you all, you know.”

“I do,” I assured him peeking behind at the dress again as the wind sped up, blowing my skirt, now dusting the ground. I drew my hands deeper in my mitts, their fur comforting my hands.

Focusing back on my Father again, I informed him, “We helped a slave through the Barnes’s just last week.”

“Excellent news,” my father answered. “George and Rebecca are staunch friends of the Negro, true friends of freedom.”

“Yes, they are,” I agreed. Father noticed me quiver and holding open the door to a bookshop, turned me into the warmth of its interior.

“All men, women, and children must be free one day, Nell.”

I smiled. “That day will arrive with your help, Father.”

Inside, we circled a table, browsing the latest published books. I picked up Les Mis by Victor Hugo, caressing its cover and spine, smelling its newness, opening it and scanning a few pages. Father chose Held in Bondage by Ouida, doing the same, and then from a bookshelf pulled Civil Disobedience: Resistance to Civil Government by Henry David Thoreau. Handing it to me, he said, “A fresh copy for you and your mother.”

After paying the storeowner we mingled back on the street, brushing shoulders with passer bys.

“How’s Kitty?” my father asked.

I lit up at her thought. “More talkative and in charge than ever.” Father laughed. Kitty was five.

“And Sarah?” he inquired.

“Usually crying. In fact, we’re calling her Sally,” I giggled. “She keeps Mother busy, away from her writing,” and poking Father’s arm added, “which doesn’t make her very happy.”

Father grinned. “Hmmm…perhaps that is why Mother doesn’t write me very often,” he winked. “How about Sergeant Buz-fuz?

“Oh, that dog plays the truant,” I laughed, until the elbow of a passer-by jarred me and I turned, shooting her a glare.

“Nellie, see that he isn’t neglected. He should be tied up in the stable with the horses.”

“Okay,” I responded, half listening to Father’s lecture as usual, instead observing a still life painting, its red, green, and orange array of fruits arranged in a bowl, bold and vibrant, stunning me with their beauty.

“And Charlie?” Father asked of my eighteen-year-old brother. “Is he feeding Tip and Jeannie, or gotten the two seated wagon varnished yet?”

“No, Mother gets after him about helping out and studying, but he’d rather be off with Frank Woods, shooting animals,” I smirked, thinking about her chasing him off the couch with a broom, listing his chores in the process.

Father chuckled. “Ah, yes, Charlie’s a lot like me when I was his age, in need of reminders, but natural for a boy his age. He’ll do just fine in time, Mother will see. She just needs to be patient.”

Easy for you to say, I thought. Mother’s taking care of a baby, all five of us really, and running a farm...

He paused then, stopping among people moving about the sidewalk. Scratching his beard covering his jaw, so similar to my own, his Adam’s apple rose, his eyes met mine, offering sorrow.

Swallowing hard, he drew himself to ask, “How is Anna?”

We stood facing each other, our eyes locked as people passed, dodging us, one after the other. I fought my silence but my shoulders drooped and I could not draw words. When I did answer, I skirted the question.

“As beautiful as ever. Her fifteenth birthday is next week.”

But I knew that wasn’t enough.

So I whispered “She hasn’t been the same since. Neither, really, has Mother.”

Chapter 6
Calamity

Later that same day after saying goodbye to Father, I walked to the park where I was to meet my Brooklyn friends. Ambling toward a bench to sit down to wait, leaves of red, yellow, and orange kicked up under foot, light as feathers dancing with my skirt, crunching beneath my boots. I took my seat as the sun’s rays, lower in the sky now, found their way through the foliage still clinging to the Maple limbs above. As the leaves rustled and whistled in the wind, their music filled my mind. I closed my eyes and my thoughts transported me home.

Several months before Osgood proposed, on Wednesday, April 16, 1862, two weeks before my twenty-first birthday, while Father and my stepmother were in Washington, I was in charge of my younger stepsiblings, Anna, Franky, Katherine, and Sally. Franky and Anna, though two years older, had always been inseparable. Anna preferred her brother’s company to the girls’ her age and went everywhere with him and Tommy Barnes - school, the woods, French lessons at Mrs. Wilkinson’s, piano lessons at Mrs. Butler’s.

On this particular day, however, Anna awoke sick, her forehead hot, and lay in bed with the chills and shakes. I fretted, nursing her with a washcloth dipped and wrung in cold water in the basin beside her bed.

“You’ll be fine, Anna,” I reassured her over and over though I worried she might have diptheria.

Franky had played outside with Tommy all morning and arrived home in the afternoon to check on his favorite sister. Rushing in the front door he called, “How’s Anna?”

Dashing down the stairs to catch him before he bolted up, I hushed him, “Franky, shhh. She’s still running a fever. Go on back outside to play. She needs to rest. Just return in time to help with dinner.”

When he did not as dusk neared, I drew concerned and left the house with Kitty by my side, Anna in bed sleeping, and Sally snoring in her crib. Angry for drawing my attention away from Anna, preparing dinner, and drawing water for baths, I darted down the porch stairs, pulling Kitty’s hand, to the sidewalk.

Once on James Street I called Franky’s name, my boots splashing in the potholes beside the diminishing snow-banks. I stopped at the Barnes’s home, knocking on the front door but discovered no answer. Franky knew I had my hands full with the younger girls, and though only twelve, was responsible, more so than Charlie, six years older.

This is something Charlie would do, not Franky, my mind raced. Where is he?

I drew a deep breath, assuring myself I was overreacting. But back on the street, with the boys nowhere in sight, my confidence diminished. Kitty trailed beside me clutching my skirt, her tresses bouncing and blue eyes peering up at me.

“Come on,” I rushed her, pulling her hand so her feet practically dragged the ground.

The wind blew bare branches of the surrounding trees, moving dark shadows in the woods beside the road as I called the boys names again and again.

With no answer returned, the phrase “by the pricking of my thumbs something wicked this way comes,” repeated in my mind as Kitty clutched her teddy bear, its fur well loved.

“Franky! Tommy!” I cried again as a boy, larger than their size, ran from the forest near the home of my cousin, Daniel Gott. I recognized him, my brother’s friend, Frank Wood.

Identifying me next, he called, “Nellie!”

As we drew closer, I realized he was naked from the waist up, wet, and muddy. Before I was much more than puzzled, Frank Wood cried “They’re in the pond!”

My thoughts then flew. Pond? What pond?

Bending over, placing his hands on his knees, gasping for breath, Frank Wood turned up, shook hair from his eyes, blue as a robin’s spring egg, and affirmed in a deeper voice than I remembered him having, “Nellie, I saw them go under.”

Standing up, still catching his breath, his chest heaving, he pointed with his arm out stretched to the Gott’s backyard. A nauseating feeling overtook my body. My eyes strained through the light and my knees grew weak as I made out a body of water. A sailboat about three feet long floated in the middle. I recognized it to be my brother’s. Franky and our father had built it.

I tore through the trees and tall grass with Frank Wood and my little stepsister following, holding up my skirt over pockets of the last winter snow and ice crunching beneath my boots. As I reached the edge of the pond, I ran here and there, yelling both boys’ names and with each new step my boots squished in the mud, the muck splattering cold upon my bare calves.
Between the pond’s shore and edge of land, I stumbled upon a mix match pile of clothes – jackets, pants and shirts. Picking up what I knew to be Franky’s shirt, my heart pounded. I ran straight into the pond with Frank Wood following while Kitty cried from the edge of shore, gripping her bear, covering her face.

Waist deep, my shoes stuck deep in the mire. Unable to lift them, I dropped below the surface, frantically feeling around where I could not move from, my hands and arms outstretched like an octopus, groping. When I broke to the surface my cousin, Daniel, appeared from the front yard wearing a look of bewilderment.

“Daniel, help!” I screamed. “Tommy and Franky are in the pond!”

Wasting no time, Daniel tore off his shoes and jacket and raced in to the water, diving beneath. I struggled below to untie my laces and release my feet. Growing tired and weak, I worked my way to the surface where in a minute Daniel, above the water, too, spotted my shivering, the cold and fear piercing my bones and marrow. He instructed his wife, Hannah, who had dropped bags from town on the shore and paced in front of them, to take Kitty and me inside.

“Nellie, come out. Let Daniel help now,” she summoned me, waving her hat in a circular motion, her hair reaching the middle of her back, her full skirt swaying round and round.

My chattering teeth did not allow me to answer but I was going nowhere. Daniel then ordered Frank Wood to fetch sixteen year-old Al Wilkinson and on his way he discovered George Barnes, Tommy’s father, and the two came running to aid in the search as well.

Once the boys were discovered, the men, panting, pulled them to the shore, with me following beside. Al Wilkinson held a lantern, flickering on the two boys lying in the grass naked besides their undergarments. I fell kneeling next to Franky, always so inquisitive and bright, now still. I looked at his ghostlike face and gasping, clasped my hands over my mouth.

“Oh, Franky, I’m sorry!” I cried. “I’m so sorry!”

Daniel cradled Franky’s head and cupping his chin, cleared his throat with an index finger. Drawing a breath, he brought his mouth to Franky’s, exhaling. Next to him, Mr. Barnes worked on his only son, his only child.

“Lord save them. Please save them!” I prayed.

Frank Wood stood staring, trembling, in shock, useless now. Dr. H.D. Didama, a thirty-six year old professor of Science and Medicine at Syracuse University Medical School, happened to be passing by on James Street and hearing the commotion, darted through the woods with his black bag in hand, persevering for a long time in efforts to restore the boys. Al Wilkinson was sent sprinting for medical aid from the city, which was speedily procured with the ambulance’s siren screaming up the Hill, but efforts were also without success.

After a time, the boys’ bodies were brought inside the Gott’s living room and covered with sheets. In a wooden wing backed chair I sat, trembling, with Kitty on my lap, her legs and arms wrapped round me like vices, her fingers twirling my hair. My arms rocked her while Mrs. Gott placed a blanket over us, which I gripped around Kitty. Mr. Barnes stood dripping wet with his back to the fireplace, the boys at his feet, holding his hand to his forehead, his eyes conveying pain running so deep he would never be the same. Near us, a grandfather clock ticked, timing each slow second, as I stared at the outline of my stepbrother’s body beneath the white sheet.

The clock chimed seven o’clock, seven bongs, slow as the flow of molasses in January. Daniel, last in the door, walked in with his boots and pants covered in mud, like my skirt, and knelt in front of me and Kitty. Before speaking, he ran his hand through his hair, slicking back the dark strands, encompassing his arms around our chair. Baby Marion cried in Mrs. Gott’s arms and my cousin, glancing at them a brief moment, turned his eyes, black as a stormy night, and refocused them on mine.

When the clock quieted, he whispered, “The mud was just too deep, Nellie. I’m sorry.”

His words echoed in my head. I stared at him, like a statue, devoid of emotion, but finally nodded back, knowing his own exhaustion and defeat. Though the boys lie there in front of me, as evidence, I wanted to say, No, quiet! This isn’t happening!

After a time, Frank Wood, layered in blankets by the fire Daniel re-stoked to crackling, explained that the boys, him-self included, had been floating my stepbrother’s sail boat near the edge of the pond created by the recent rainstorm and melting snow. When the boat got away from the edge of the shore, all three boys took off their clothes and waded in after it. Good swimmers, they thought it would be an easy task to retrieve.

But the mud presented a problem and young Frank Wood turned back. Once on the shore, he began to place on his pants, when to his horror he saw my stepbrother sink, with Tommy next. It was then that he ran for help and into me. While Frank Wood spoke, Kitty drew back the blanket, getting down to play on the floor with the Gott’s six year old daughter, Fanny, engaged with a toy train and taking it away from her 2 year old brother, Francis. The siblings played tug of war, complaining, “It’s mine,” and “No, it’s mine,” while Hannah Gott, meanwhile, tried to settle Marion.

How can they behave this way when Franky and Tommy lie dead, right in front of them?

I arrived home later via Daniel’s carriage with Kitty asleep in my arms and dragged my feet up the front steps, turning the knob of the door, dreading Anna. She startled me, erect in the hallway in her nightgown and bare feet, a candle in one hand, her hair flowing in golden waves, the outline of her young womanly figure visible, like an angel aglow. Buz-fuz sat be side her thumping his tail upon our entrance, greeting me at my feet.

“What took so long?” Anna asked, and looking me up and down, inquired, “Why are you wet, and where’s Franky?”

Kitty stirred and, pushing off my shoulder, cried “Oh, Anna!” Running to her sister, she buried her face in her legs, raising her head just enough to be heard, and sobbed, “Didn’t you hear the siren?”

Anna, looking at Kitty, turned to me, distressed. Studying my face, her eyes penetrating mine, she demanded “Nellie, where’s my Franky?!”

Pulling myself together as I prepared to do, I said next what I had no choice to. Anna’s candle dropped to the floor, its ceramic holder clanging as it rolled, landing on the old blue and red Oriental. The screams and sobs that followed next I never will forget. The fringe of the rug caught fire and whipping off my coat, I swatted it as Buz-fuz whimpered, circling in place, and Anna clenched her hair.

“Charlie!” I called out for my brother, assuming he was home by now from his job at The Central Railroad.

Charlie hurried down the steps from the second floor, faster than I’d ever seen him, hearing the urgency in my voice. Awoken from a nap, I told him the news and sent him racing Tip downtown, to send a Western Union telegram to our parents in Washington who boarded a northbound train the next day, on Thursday. The flood in the northeast, however, delayed them in Albany and for two nights we awaited their arrival.

Lying in their master bed turned on my side I cradled Anna, who curled up like a baby, her body shaking and teeth chattering, as Kitty cried herself to sleep, spooning herself on the other side of me. In the crib in the next room, Sally suckled her thumb while Charlie kept silent behind closed doors further down the hall.

My parents returned Saturday afternoon and as they stepped inside the front hall, my stepmother dropped her suitcase with a bang to the floor. I looked at her stricken stare but she would not bring her eyes to mine. I turned to Father, whose arms embraced me and I sobbed at last, trembling in his arms.

Charlie and I took them to the scene of the drowning but by then all that was left of the pond was mud. Both boys had been affectionate, bright and promising, the pride of their parents and favorites of all who knew them. Their loss was a crushing bereavement, heartrending tragedy, and public calamity.

In the months to follow people comforted us but Anna withdrew further, missing her brother, playmate, and best friend. The guilt gnawed at me, especially when I looked at or thought of her, Franky, or my parents, particularly my stepmother. Osgood kept me company, though, swinging on the porch swing, rocking in the evenings as crickets spoke to us from nearby shrubs. I knew he missed Franky, too, having played and talked with him as an older brother would. One particular evening as the sun was setting, his arm wrapped around my shoulder and I rested my head on his, with the palm of my hand lying on his chest, aware of his heart’s every beat.

A light breeze blew through the open living room windows and the curtains, sheer as the lace they were made from, danced in and out with the fading light as Osgood brought his head to mine and spoke softly.

“I miss you when we’re apart, Nellie. I love you.”

I looked up, holding his gaze, never wanting to look away. I could have swum in his eyes, and studying them, and he mine, we fell deep inside each other’s. I saw my reflection of my own in his, looking back, and when his lips drew down, I watched them, loving the shape of his mouth, his smile, and the dimple that lit up beside it. When his lips reached mine, they landed soft as a feather and warm to the touch. I took it all in, the love I felt surrounding us, between us, within us, and closed my eyes. I returned his kiss, pressing harder than he, my tongue searching for his, my fingers touching the crease of his mouth, the outline of his jaw, his ears, his head, his heart. I moved my body closer to him, as close as I could get, and he cradled me in his arms, protecting me, and his words, as sweet as the soul living within him, lingered.

But suddenly, on a drop of a dime, my mind twisted. My eyes opened wide. A vision of Franky lying lifeless on the shore, white, cold, silent, blasted before me, and then my stepmother’s stricken stare. I couldn’t rid the thoughts from my head. Although I didn’t say anything, Osgood sensed my abrupt change of mood.

“You have to fight this, Nellie. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It feels like it was,” I responded, turning away. “I sent him away, Osgood.”

With that I moved to the edge of the swing, apart from the man I loved, tears welling in my eyes. They flowed for all the loss in my life; Franky, my mother while she labored Charlie, my older siblings from diptheria. There seemed to be no place I could go or anything I could do where the hurt did not reach me.

“Nellie,” Osgood whispered, pleading me back, reaching for my hand. I pulled mine away, though, and rose from the swing.

“I’m sorry,” was all I managed to say, returning inside, the screen door swinging behind me.

So, when Osgood proposed to me I did not answer yes. I was not ready to move on. I missed him when he left for war, a war I upheld for the sake of ending slavery and the unification of our broken country, but how could I love anyone or anything with the dark clouds overhead?