“FIGHTING FOR NELLIE is a great story, with original documentation, and readers love the Civil War. The author has absolute passion and dedication. I don’t know that I have seen any other new writer as deeply committed to getting her book published.”
Eleanor Herman, N.Y. Times Bestselling author, historian, History and National Geographic Channels host
FIGHTING FOR NELLIE
Historical Novel inspired by a True Story
In August 1862 during the darkest days of the American Civil War, twenty-two year old Osgood Vose Tracy volunteers to fight for the Union Army. Riding a train south to the frontlines of war Osgood leaves behind his home of Syracuse, New York, widowed mother, and sweetheart Nellie Sedgwick, whose hand in marriage he has just asked for. With a photograph of Nellie tucked in his uniform pocket, the abolitionist soon discovers a ‘baptism of fire’ and alongside comrades he’d give his life for endures a physical and emotional journey, all the while hoping Nellie will embrace him at the end.
On the home front Nellie fights her own battles. A calamity strikes and she is fraught with guilt. Trying to overcome trauma in her past Nellie turns to aiding sick and wounded soldiers in Washington, D.C., where her father is a congressman fighting for the abolition of slavery. While Nellie dutifully represents the North she finds herself wrestling with a decision that may change the course of her and Osgood’s lives forever.
A historical novel based upon a Civil War letter cache published in the nonfiction book Yours Affectionately, Osgood, FIGHTING FOR NELLIE is a page-turning narrative swirling with passion and jealousy; abolitionists and slave owners; politicians, generals, and rebels; and the quest for undying love. Written by a direct descendant, it is a story demonstrating life can change in an instant, war alters everything, and we must fight for what we love. FIGHTING FOR NELLIE will remind readers of Cold Mountain but from a Northerner’s perspective and a contemporary All Quiet on the Western Front.
Oh! How proud you stood before me, in your suit of blue,
When you vow’d to me and country, ever to be true.
Weeping Sad and Lonely Lyrics
When This Cruel War is Over
Charles C. Sawyer
August 25, 1862
Fayetteville, New York
People swarmed to the village like bees to a honeycomb. The majority had traveled miles within the city of Syracuse, New York and its county of Onondaga. No matter from where they had journeyed everyone rushed in the same direction – the town square – for a rally was about to begin for the 122nd New York State Volunteers, a regiment of one thousand men on the brink of leaving home to fight for the North in the War of the Rebellion.
A brass band sang out patriotic music. Bridles clicked. Spoke wheels turned. Dust swirled. Rays of noonday sun pierced through the sultry haze as horses and carriages came to a halt. Riders and drivers jumped to dismount, tying reins to hitching posts and tree trunks. Here and there stagecoach doors popped open. In a flurry women in long skirts gathered their children and climbed down, assisted by gallant men. A chattering of greetings carried in the air. Hats tipped. Hands shook. Cheeks were kissed. Wealthier women –spouses of lawyers, bankers, and doctors– sashayed the latest European or New York fashions created from imported fabrics. Farmers’ wives donned dresses made of cotton produced in Northern mills. The elderly made their way through the crowd with the use of canes or holding on to each other. At the front door of Nichols and Austin Groceries and Hardware store, local businessmen and flour mill workers paused to examine the list of the most recent dead, wounded, and captured – names penned to paper, nailed to timber siding. The bottom of the tally was unfastened and fluttered from the hustle of people walking along wood plank.
The town soon filled to capacity. Shoulders bumped shoulders. Voices reverberated between Greek Revival-style buildings. In the center of the square stood twenty two year old Osgood Vose Tracy, who the day before had volunteered as sergeant major of the regiment. From the breast pocket of his new blue uniform Osgood took out a handkerchief his widowed mother had washed and pressed. After mopping his forehead he carefully placed the cloth back in his pocket then reached out to Andy and Frank, his friends and fellow enlistees standing to each side, and pulled them in, beaming.
The rally organizer, Matilda Joslyn Gage, stood atop stairs at the entrance to Beard Hall. The thirty-six year old abolitionist and women’s rights leader wore a skirt but a black jacket like a man might wear. She had rolled back the satiny cuffs. Her brown hair was brushed high off her forehead, with braided extensions falling past her shoulders. Surveying the crowd Matilda outstretched her arms to quiet it, cleared her voice, and began to speak. “Soldiers and people of Onondaga County, as many of you know, I was born with a hatred of oppression, trained in the anti-slavery ranks. My father’s home up the street was a station on the Underground Railway and place of anti-slavery speakers. I well remember the wonder with which, when a young girl, I looked upon the wrongs of black women and men. I recall, before the Syracuse Round House railroad station was finished, a large and enthusiastic anti-slavery convention held there, attended by thousands of people who all joined in singing William Lloyd Garrison’s song, “I’m an Abolitionist.” As they rang out that glorious defiance against wrong, it thrilled my heart, and I feel it echoing to this very day.”
Osgood, his comrades, and the crowd clapped and whistled.
Matilda continued, her voice gaining momentum. “Let it be known, that there is a word sweeter than Mother, Home or Heaven; that word is Liberty. All that man hath will he give for his life but at the present time there are hundreds and thousands of men who willingly take their lives into their hands and march boldly forth into battle, for there are things dearer than life, there are things without which life would be valueless, there are things rather than lose which, we would lose life itself. And what is this for which men so willingly hazard their lives? It is not territory, nor power, nor the subjugation of a people, but it is to uphold liberty, and to maintain the government. And what caused this war?” Matilda asked, tugging at her high-necked lacy collar then slamming her fist on the podium.
“Slavery, and nothing else!”
Her large audience of soldiers and town folk went wild — hooting, hollering and whistling in unison. Fists and hats flew in the air. “Soldiers, let Liberty be your watchword and your war cry alike,” Matilda continued. “Until liberty is attained – the broadest, deepest, highest liberty for all, there can be no permanent peace. Each one of you should feel the fate of the world to be upon your shoulders. Fight not for one set alone, one clique alone, but for all men and women, black and white – Irish, Germans, Americans, and Negroes – for yourselves, for us, and for the future!”
The crowd exploded. Matilda grasped a folded, newly created regimental troop flag, the funds for which she had raised and the ladies of Fayetteville sewed. She unraveled it to expose its’ bullion, tassels and cords of gilt and turned to present it to the man who would lead the 122nd into war. Osgood shifted his stance in his stiff boots to gain a better view. “Colonel Silas Titus, we have made for you the ‘Flag of the Free.’ When this war is over, may none but freemen under it dwell. We shall watch the flag with pride in your success, your honor will be our honor, your success our joy, and when you return in peace, the Union restored, slavery forever blasted, and Liberty triumphant over this continent, we will welcome you home a band of heroes.”
Colonel Titus thanked Matilda then turned to the men before him. In a voice near cracking he stated, “Thanks to the heroism of this town and county of Onondaga, we are a thousand warm hearts, two thousand strong hands — a thousand bright bayonets – and shall rally around this banner – bear it bravely to the field—stand by it and see it torn to a thousand shreds before we will surrender it to rebel hands, and carry it from rampart to rampart until the eagle it bears shall be the beacon light proclaiming to the deluded South the return of her liberties. Tomorrow we leave and 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!”
Three roars erupted. The flag was raised, the band struck up “America,” and Osgood’s heart pounded like the beat of his hometown county for human freedom. He clapped Andy and Frank on their backs then checked the inside breast pocket of his jacket for an item he’d placed there earlier in the morning. “See you soon, boys,” Osgood blurted and started off through the crowd at a hurry. His friends looked baffled as they watched Osgood weave his way through the regiment.
When he finally reached his horse tied to an old oak tree at the corners of East Genesee and Chapel Streets the animal raised her head from grazing and snorted. Petting its’ soft snout Osgood pronounced, “It’s a big day, Liberty.” At the sound of its’ name the horse’s ears twitched. With shaking fingers the young soldier reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. He held it out for Liberty to inspect. The horse’s whiskers tickled his hand. Drawing a deep breath Osgood opened the box, exhaled, and grinned.
“It’s just what I envisioned.”
As quickly as he had opened it Osgood snapped the container closed. “C’mon, Lib, I’m eager for Nellie.” The horse pricked up her ears. With the ring box replaced for safe keeping, Osgood mounted and turned in a familiar direction. The rally had ended and the multitude started for the streets. With a tip of his hat Osgood acknowledged those he knew but didn’t stop. He had five miles to travel to Syracuse and he was in a hurry.
The true religion is that which sets you free.
Matilda Joslyn Gage