Free Alias Dragonfly by Jane Singer

need to get back to Washington City, to . . . to my house, to find my father. He’s a Yankee.” I shouted out over the din of voices, cries of horses, and the noise of wagon wheels, whistles, and yells.
    The man lowered his pitchfork. “You got any money?”
    “No, sir. Not a penny,” I said, bouncing in the cart.
    “Like as not, she be a beggar,” the old man said. “If she gets out the wagon now, she could be trampled down.”
    The younger man’s answer, or lack of one, was swallowed up again by the shouts and curses of soldiers, and the whinnying of riderless horses careening along.
    “Hang on, now,” he yelled. “Hang on.” We plunged through a growing crowd, a teeming mass headed away from the battlefield in the direction of Washington City.
    We crossed back over the Potomac River. This time the crowds swept past the guards. They didn’t give chase. There were too many coming, too fast.
    I hung on to the top of the wagon rail for dear life, scanning the faces of the wounded, the walking, and the riding. Broken soldiers were carried on doors, planks of wood, anything that would act as a litter. Bandaged heads, bloody arms and legs, and the screaming of men in agony made me weak. Was my father among them? Was he even alive?
    I looked for anyone in his regiment. Their uniforms were so distinctive, remember? Spiketail coats, red cords, or hats that had “2nd NH” written on them. I didn’t see a single soldier that looked familiar. The cart rattled on.
    As we neared the city, with the road growing more impassable, the cart stopped short in front of an empty, overturned wagon with two dead horses splayed across our path. Women and children ran right past, some shrieking in horror, some laughing. A child’s rubber ball flew in the air. A bullet pierced it. It exploded, falling to the ground.
    The young man jumped out of the cart. “Got to git this here rig out the way, Pa,” he shouted. I jumped down too and pushed hard at the wagon, as we were both trying to right it. It didn’t budge.
    “Best go, girl,” the older man said. “Go find your pa in all this devilish mess.”
    “Thank you!” I clasped his hand.
    From where we stopped, I could see the President’s House with all manner of people clamoring at the gates. I wasn’t far from the boardinghouse. I knew where to go, but my head was swimming from the sounds of gunshots, screaming, and the sight of bumping, thrashing men and horses blocking my way. Blocking anyone’s way. I remember that moment as a time of such madness. I felt like the little, broken kid I used to be when every noise was an assault on my ears and eyes. I stumbled to a lamppost and hung on, the roaring in my head louder than any steam engine. It felt like the world was on fire, and if I burned up on the spot, no one would notice or care.
    I was growing weaker. I stumbled along, weaving and bobbing like a ship in a hurricane. I had to keep stopping to catch my breath. Was this what being in battle felt like? How could anyone endure it?
    I felt ashamed. Here I was, safe for the moment, and hardly a soldier at all. Find your strength, I told myself, and square up.
    Just then, a wounded soldier plowed right into me, his face running with tears, his bandaged arm covered with blood.
    “God, Jesus, little girl, help me!” he cried. “Water! I need water!”
    I reached for his other arm, and together we managed to take a few steps into the street, swept along by the crowd like fish in a raging current.
    “I got a kid like you,” he mumbled. “Jenny, my little Jenny, I got to see her.”
    Jenny. Jenny. Jenny. Mama. I was feeling delirious. It was hot, so hot, and—I spotted a horse trough. Men and women were lapping up water like animals. I held fast to the soldier. I pushed my way to the trough, cupped my hand in the water and held it to his mouth, then to my own. The water was dirty and warm, but oh, it tasted blessedly good. The soldier kissed my hands.
    “Bless you, girl.