Now

Mary emerged from her house, treading across the stoop with wary feet. She squinted and held up her hand to shade her eyes from the unfamiliar sunlight. As she reached the steps, her mother’s voice came from the front door, low and plaintive.

“Oh, dear Lord.”

Mary halted with a sharp intake of breath, not because of Mama’s words, but because her eyes had adjusted enough to take in the scene before them.

She had been born in this house. She had lived all of her fifteen years here, as familiar with the neighboring houses and streets as she was with the taste of her mother’s cooking or the smell of her father’s cigars.

This was her street. It had to be. The house had not picked itself up and moved to another location. Her eyes followed the contours of the neighborhood, scanning for what she might recognize. See, there was the Planchett home, just across the street, and farther along were the homes of the Whites, and of the Carters and the Marshalls, and the Prices and old Mr. Stenger.

But it was a strange, incomprehensible version of her street. It had been a bustling, useful place, with friendly people, familiar animals, and fine flower gardens.

Now, it was a wasteland, filled with discarded cartridges, dented canteens, scraps of clothing, torn knapsacks. Sharp sunshine glinted off the blade of a sword in front of a small serviceberry bush, and further down the road, a cluster of what looked to be papers lay pale and dirty next to a motionless lump of butternut brown cloth.

A breeze blew in from the south, kicking up the road’s dust and ruffling the papers, and it stirred something fine and brown near one end of the lump.

Hair, Mary realized. Fine, brown hair.

She wrinkled her nose against the unpleasant smell stirred up by the puff of wind. It was heavy and sickly in her nose, although she’d only taken a small breath.

“Mary, go back in the house,” Mama ordered, her voice soft and shaken.

Mary’s father spoke from where he stood down on the road, with Mr. Lambert from the next street over. “I’m going to try and find more men, Sarah. There are things that need doing.”

Mary watched them set off towards the lump—no, the person, the soldier—as Mama set a firm hand on her shoulder.

“Go inside, Mary,” her mother prompted. “I need you to find some food, to take to our wounded.”

Mary dutifully turned to follow Mama inside, but she kept her eyes on the unmoving soldier in the road for as long as she could.

It was when she finally looked away from him that she saw the bullet holes in the side of her home.

 

~*~

 

Before

They had not expected any of this.

They had feared it, yes, especially in early summer, because the Rebels were in Maryland, heading north, and Gettysburg was not far from Maryland.

All through June, breathless rumors had been running rampant. One day, Governor Curtin had even sent a telegram warning everyone to move their goods and horses as quickly as possible, if they did not wish to lose them. That night, the sky had glowed orange with fire, and everyone said it was the Rebels burning Emmetsburg. But it hadn’t been, after all—it was just an ordinary fire—and the days immediately following had passed in calm and quiet.

Papa’s opinion was that the Rebels would make for Harrisburg. That was the state Capitol, after all, so it was important in a way that Gettysburg was not.

Many of the folks in town agreed with her father because the railroads intersected at Harrisburg. It made no sense for the Rebels to do anything more than pass nearby on their way there. They might loot as they went, because that is what armies did; but they would not settle in for a fight.

Mama had insisted that their horse and valuables should be taken up to the farm of Mary’s uncle, in Fulton County, against the possibility of looting. Mary’s younger brother Sam was directed to take everything there, and to stay until summoned back.

Mary had stayed in town; it was felt to be safer for her there, with her parents. And as the days went by, and the rumors kept coming to naught, she had paid them less and less mind. She believed that summer in Gettysburg would pass in the same way it always had.

She would work the garden in the mornings, surrounded by the sweet, soft air and scent of greenery and flowers. In the afternoons, she would go with her friends to picnic beneath the trees on Culp’s Hill, lingering afterwards to talk, comfortable and drowsy in the summer heat. And at night, if the evening air was cool enough, she would open her windows to the breeze and fall asleep to the nightly song of the crickets.

The war was far away, and after all, what could a town like Gettysburg have that the Rebels would want?

 

~*~

 

Now

“Wrap up that loaf of bread,” her mother instructed, heading upstairs.

Mary stared down at the single loaf on the kitchen table. “What will we eat for dinner?”

“Goodness, Mary,” Mama called down. “I can make more. Who knows when our soldiers last had anything to eat?”

Mary sighed, and did as she was told. She thought of the salted fish down in the cellar, and the butter, and knew at least some of those would be used as well.

She should go down and fetch them, but she did not want to do so.

She could live the rest of her life without seeing the cellar again and be very happy for it.

Thankfully, her mother summoned her upstairs, to help tear up some old sheets for bandages.

As they worked, Mama began calculating what they could spare from their food stores.

“We’ll take over some fish, and some butter, and a jar of the preserves. Oh! You picked some cabbage and beans before, didn’t you? We can take some of those as well. We will have to leave a little, for dinner and supper, but we can all eat sparingly.”

“We’ll have to,” Mary grumbled. “The Rebels took everything they could.”

“They didn’t get those vegetables, thanks to you.”

“I wish I’d had time to pick the strawberries. Those were the last for the year.”

“Well, we still have more than most. And will have more later, as things ripen.” Mama stilled briefly, brow furrowed. “That is, if they didn’t tear up the garden. Go look and see.”

Mary obeyed, but she went as slowly as she could manage. She was afraid of what she would find once she got out back.

She spent hours every year, weeding and watering, watching carefully. It was Mary’s contribution to the family’s table, and she was proud of it.

She had wanted to hunt or fish with her father, but Mama would not allow it; she was determined that Mary grow up to be a fine lady, even though Mary didn’t consider them rich enough to be “fine”.

The garden was all she was allowed to provide, and it was a labor of love.

She was sure the Rebels had taken everything of value in it. Mary would not put it past them to tear the rest up as well, because they were the enemy.

To her great surprise, the garden was largely intact.

They had taken the strawberries, which she had expected, and they had knocked over the trellis for the peapods and pulled up all the remaining greens. But much was left that would continue to grow.

The smell in the air was stronger now, as the heat of the day rose. Mary grabbed a handful of pennyroyal from under the toppled trellis and held it to her nose, breathing in the green, minty scent. As she turned to go back in, she spotted something pale and purple in the leaves on the heliotrope.

 It was a cluster of flowers, small and delicate. They were the only flowers left in the yard. She pulled it off the bush and held it close as she moved towards the back door.

She was halfway through the kitchen, on the way back to her mother, when she stopped cold, feeling oddly nervous.

Something was different. Something was wrong.

It took her a minute to figure out what was troubling her.

It was quiet.

She could hear her mother bustling around the upstairs, certainly, and the ticking of the clock in the front room. But all she heard from outside was the slow clop of a horse moving down the cross street.

All the sounds that had defined her life for the last endless week were gone, and all that was left were the quiet ones that she had heard her entire life.

And those had felt wrong.

She had forgotten the sounds of her own home.

Mary’s lips trembled as she curled her hands into fists, to stop them from shaking.

She tossed the blossoms and the pennyroyal onto the kitchen table and strode to one of the kitchen windows. With a rough tug, she threw open the curtains, letting the outside light into the house.

She stood, gazing out of the window, for more than a minute.

Then, with a defiant nod, she went all around the first floor of the house, opening the curtains on all of the windows, letting the sunlight back into every room.

~*~

 

Before

The first soldiers to come through town had been two cavalry companies. They were on scouting duty, so they did not linger, but the sight of the men and their fast horses had been mesmerizing. Mary had thought they looked dashing in their blue uniforms, big and strong and dusted with the dirt of the roads.

She still thought so, even after hearing her father tell her mother that they were “green”, having not yet engaged in a battle.

Then a militia had been sent over from Harrisburg. They had marched west through town on their way to set up camp, and Mary and her friends had stood by the road and cheered as they passed, waving handkerchiefs and singing any patriotic song they could remember.

When she returned home afterwards, her father had been describing these new soldiers as “raw”. They had not seen action either.

But knowing they were there made Mary feel safe. The soldiers could keep the Rebels outside of town, away from her and her family, and all that she knew and loved.

Or so she believed, but not for long.

Morning had broken bright and clear that day. It was a cheerful sort of day, blue skies with puffy white clouds, the kitchen smelling of the bread that was cooling on the counter. Mary had been on her way to visit a friend, when she heard a commotion from outside of town. She stopped in the middle of the road she had been crossing, her heart racing, and tried to decipher the sound.

The thunder of horses’ hooves, the rattle of wagons, the shouts of men.

She turned her head and saw glimpses of the militia as they hurtled down a nearby street, heading back the way they had come in.

Mary found herself running back up the street towards home, her skirts clutched in her hands so she would not trip over them, her bonnet bouncing against her back as it dangled by its strings.

She did not know why she was running; she did not even remember deciding to run.

The only thought in her head was of her home, and her parents, and what might be happening there.

She could hear her mother calling for her as she came towards her street, frantic and shrill. When she rounded the corner, Mama rushed towards her.

“Mary! Oh, Mary, thank goodness I found you! We’ve got to get inside! Come on, hurry!”

She grabbed Mary’s arm and whirled back towards the house, Mary stumbling along behind her.

Once they were inside, Mary bent over, desperate to catch her breath. Her throat was dry, and there was a painful cramp in her side.

She watched her mother lock the door and draw the curtains, and she found enough air to blurt, “Mama…what….”

“The Rebels are on their way.”

Mary shook her head. “But the… the militia…”

Her mother came over quickly, laying a gentle hand against Mary’s cheek.

“Sweetheart, the Rebels beat our boys back. The soldiers are retreating.”

“They’re leaving us?”

“Yes.”

Mary found that she could not speak, could not breathe, could not even feel her own heart beating.

“Mary Winslowe, don’t you go fainting on me now!” Mama pleaded, her hand trembling against her daughter’s cheek. “There’s enough to do already.”

Mary furrowed her brow in confusion, because she did not feel as if she would faint, and she had no intention of doing so anyway.

She hadn’t fainted since she was ten, and she had only done that because she had a high fever.

Then again, she had heard that frightened girls and fine ladies fainted.

Mary had to admit that she was frightened.

When she was able to gather her breath to speak, her voice sounded far away, and too small to be her own. “Will they kill us?”

“I don’t believe they will,” Mama answered. She looked as if she were about to faint. “Most likely they’ll clean us out of all the food and goods and horses they can find.”

The chill that had been running up Mary’s spine disappeared in a hot rush of anger.

She pushed away from her mother. “They’re not getting the food from my garden!”

“Mary, stay inside.” Mama grabbed at Mary’s arm. “I don’t want them to see you!”

“They won’t, I’ll be quick,” Mary promised, slipping through her mother’s grasp. She grabbed her basket and pulled open the back door.

She worked as fast as she could, while Mama hovered nervously in the doorway.

She was just gathering the last of the beans when she heard an unearthly cry from the direction of the town square.

Mary jolted upright, heart in her throat, as it echoed through the streets.

It was repeated, again and again, growing stronger as more voices joined, a high, animalistic cheer.

She yanked the last beans free and ran for the house, her hand over the top of her basket so as not to lose anything she had picked.

She leaned against the kitchen table and tried once again to catch her breath, watching as her mother locked the back door and pulled the kitchen curtains shut.

 

~*~

 

Now

“Where will you be going?” Mary’s mother asked. She handed Papa a cup of strong coffee. The smell of it filled the kitchen, bitter and soothing.

Mary’s father took a sip. “Out to the battlefield.”

“That’s no place for a good Christian burial.”

“There isn’t time for that, Sarah.” Papa set his cup on the table, next to the wilting pennyroyal and slightly crushed heliotrope cluster. “With this heat…well, it will only get worse. We need to move fast.”

“Will you bury the Rebels too?” There was a sharp edge to Mama’s voice that Mary had rarely heard before.

“Yes,” Papa answered firmly. “We must bury them. And the horses as well.”

Mary startled. “Horses?”

Papa rubbed her shoulder gently. “Yes, Sunshine. Horses die in battle, just as men do.”

Mary blinked away the rising wetness in her eyes.

Mama wrapped her arms around herself and nodded. “Where are the wounded? I want to go where there is the most need for nursing.”

Papa gave a harsh chuckle. “That’s everywhere. Churches, stores, people’s homes. Take your pick.”

Mary kept her blurry gaze fixed on the purple heliotrope blossoms.

She had not considered how many wounded there might be.

There had been three days of fighting, at least, and there had been a lot of men in the fight, so it was silly that she hadn’t thought it through.

She had been imagining the wounded would be in a field hospital, or perhaps in the Seminary just outside of town. And she had been right, as far as that went.

There was more than one field hospital, though. And not only was the Seminary full of wounded soldiers, but most of the town was, as well.

And oh, she had not considered the horses.

Perhaps someone was caring for the injured horses. She wanted that to be true. She wanted it so badly.

But everyone knew what happened to injured horses.

“Be careful,” Mama murmured. “The Rebels…,”

“The Rebels are retreating,” her father responded. “Please don’t worry on that front.” He paused, and gave a softer chuckle than before. “Although you will worry, won’t you?”

“Always,” Mama confirmed, and Mary could hear her mother’s fond smile as she spoke.

“Well, I’m off.” Papa picked his hat up from the sideboard. “I will see you tonight.”

As her parents were leaving the kitchen, Mama stopped to say, “Mary, would you please run down to the cellar and get some things to take to the soldiers? Fish, and butter, and vegetables?”

Mary’s eyes drifted unwillingly towards the cellar door. “Yes, Ma’am.”

She thought of the dank, rich smells of earth and damp, and the way they had mixed with the smells of fear and sweat and the oil that burned in the lamp and the bucket they’d had to use.

Her stomach turned at the thought of going back down there.

There was nothing else she could do, though. Best to get it over and done.

Mary took a deep breath of coffee and heliotrope and the odd, sickly smell drifting in from outside.

Then she picked up the pennyroyal, held it to her nose, and made her way to the cellar.

~*~

 

Before

As it happened, that first Rebel occupation hadn’t lasted long. It was the cavalry that had come whooping through town; the infantry that followed was more orderly. They did not kill any of the townsfolk.

But they looted. Upon arrival, they had gone to the Council and demanded a long list of supplies be handed over.

Including, Papa told them with a shake of his head, ten barrels of whiskey.

“That’s all we need,” Mama grumbled. “A bunch of liquored-up Rebels running about the town.”

Papa smiled with admiration as he related how Mr. Kendlehart had responded that the town would not provide the Rebels with anything, but would open the stores so the Rebels could purchase anything they wanted.

“With Confederate money, of course,” Mama scoffed, but her tone was mild.

Mary did not know Mr. Kendlehart to speak to, but found that she liked him immensely.

Within a couple of days, the Rebels had left town, burning a railroad bridge and tearing up tracks as they went.

A few days later, the Union cavalry came through. Mary was joyful with relief. The soldiers were back to protect them! And these were real cavalry too, not the green militia that the Rebels had beaten back.

She and her friends had picked every flower they could find and run down to where the cavalry was passing through. They stood at the corner, singing patriotic songs and throwing flowers at the soldiers, just like girls always did in books when they saw their menfolk off to war.

One soldier caught a flower that Mary had tossed at him and favored her with a wink and a smile. Her friends giggled and screamed as Mary’s face flushed hot.

He was handsome, that soldier. Handsome and strong. She was sure he would keep the enemy at bay.

She’d fallen into a peaceful sleep that night, secure in the knowledge that the Rebels would not be returning.

It was the last untroubled slumber she would have for a long time.

More soldiers had come through the following morning, just after breakfast, and again Mary saw them off with singing and cheering. She could only watch them for a short while, as she had chores to do at home. She had just started her reluctant way back when she heard the sharp crack of firearms in the direction of Seminary Ridge.

She did not pick up her pace, since the shooting was clearly outside of town.

Once home, Mary helped her mother get the bread started, then went out to tend to her garden. She was bending over to pull up a weed when she heard a boom.

Cannon fire.

She walked around the side of the house, out to the street where the view was clearer, and saw large clouds of smoke rising beyond the ridge. People were hurrying away in every direction. Then came a distant, thrumming whoosh, a screeching whine, and an explosion.

“Mary!”

Her father stood at the door, ramrod straight in a way that let her know he was not to be trifled with or disobeyed.

“Into the house. Now.”

A thick rush of whooshes and screeches and explosions surrounded her as she made her way inside.

“Those are shells,” he told her, locking the door behind her.

“Are they shelling us?”

“Not yet,” he replied, his voice grim.

Mary watched Mama nervously check the curtains, to make sure they could not be seen from outside. “The soldiers are there, Mary,” she reassured, but her voice wavered. “They’ll stand between us and the Rebels. Now, come help me with dinner.”

That was what they’d believed last time, Mary thought, and they had been wrong. Shouldn’t they prepare for what might be coming?

“Mary,” came her mother’s reprimand from the kitchen.

 “Yes, Mama.”

The three of them ate dinner without speaking, the cannons and shells serenading them the entire time, becoming louder and faster as the meal progressed. As Mary and her mother were cleaning up afterwards, Papa answered a knock at the door and had a muffled, hurried conversation with someone.

When he appeared in the kitchen doorway, the look on his face had Mary shaking so hard she almost dropped the plate she was drying.

“The army is retreating,” he told them. “They are fighting as they go, but the Rebels will soon be in town, and the fighting will come with them.”

They all jumped, even Mary’s father, as something exploded nearby.

“I think,” he said, then paused for a second, his eyes locked onto the curtained kitchen window. “I think we would be safer in the cellar.”

They stayed in the cellar until the sound of guns and cannon had been gone for quite some time. When they emerged again, it was no longer daytime.

“They won’t fight in the dark,” Papa told them. “They can’t see well enough. I believe we can sleep in our beds safely tonight.”

Mary may have been safe in her bed that night, but she could not sleep.

She thought of Sam, away at her uncle’s farm, and was thankful that at least he was out of harm’s way. She thought of her older brother, Will; the last they’d heard, he was somewhere in Mississippi, with General Grant’s army.

She had often pictured Will sitting around a campfire at night, singing songs with his fellow soldiers. She wondered if the soldiers outside of town were doing that tonight.

Although, as Mary thought about it, they wouldn’t be singing. Not in the midst of battle. They would be having something to eat, binding wounds, trying to sleep.

The Rebels in town certainly were not singing. They were robbing. Mary watched them do it through a small opening between the curtain and the wall, to a house further down the street—the Carter’s house, she thought. They carried away everything that they could, even if it was not useful for battle.

She lay awake, her body taut with apprehension, until they moved on to another street. The Carters had left town, she remembered then. No one was home. The Rebels were targeting unoccupied houses.

She was able to breathe a little easier then, but did not manage to fall asleep until almost dawn.

Of course, they were up bright and early the next morning. Mary came down the stairs rubbing her scratchy eyes, thick-headed and sluggish, but came to a sudden halt when she heard the sharp crack of a gun close by. She hurried to the window and peered around the curtain.

The barrel of a rifle was sticking out of one of the Carter’s upstairs windows. As she stared, wide-eyed, it shoved backward in recoil, and another sharp crack rent the air.

“Mary, come away from the window.” Papa sounded as if he was not in the mood to brook any nonsense.

“Papa, the Rebels are at the Carter’s, they’re shooting out of the window.”

“Sharpshooters,” he told her. “Away from the window, Mary. Someone is bound to return fire.”

They went back down into the cellar.

They stayed there for most of the day, venturing out for food when things seemed to quiet down for a few minutes, then scurrying back into hiding when the guns and cannons started back up.

Her parents had been better prepared for the cellar that day. They had fetched some cushions down there, so they could all sit more comfortably, and brought an oil lamp and some books down there, along with a bucket to serve as a chamber pot. Her father had also brought down one of his guns, although he was trying to keep it out of his daughter’s sight.

Mary spent the day propped against the wall, dozing in and out of consciousness. The thunder of the cannon and the explosions of the shells became almost a rushing lullaby, soothing her to sleep; until, suddenly, a particularly loud report would jolt her upright, her eyes wide and her heart battering out rhythms like a snare drum.

As she drifted between sleep and wakefulness, her thoughts tangled into and around her dreams.

Most often, she dreamt she was wandering the streets of the town, begging for information about the battle. The soldiers she met were not wearing any recognizable uniforms, so she could not tell if they were Union men or Rebels, and they refused to tell her anything. Shells burst everywhere, gunfire split the air around her, and she had no idea if she would be safe or captured or killed.

The dream would usually end with a shell exploding right in front of her, and she would surface from her nap in a surge of fear as the sound of a nearby explosion faded away. She would see everything with a terrible, sharp clarity—the rough edges of the stones that lined the walls of the cellar, the flickering shadows cast on the floor by the oil lamp, the tiny stitches her mother had made at the hem of her dress.

Awake, she would try to occupy her mind by imagining the town as she remembered it, on a summer’s day, how the sky looked, the way the light fell on the sides of the houses, the rich, thick smell of flowers and plants, the sharp tang of the occasional pile of horse droppings.

As the day went on, she found it more and more difficult to call those images to mind. They were fading from her memory, as her dreams often did in the hours after she had awakened.

She wondered what she would do, if the Rebels were victorious, and what would become of her family. They could be killed in battle, they could be executed, or they could become Rebels themselves.

Mary found she did not care for any of those options.

Her father had a gun with him, yes, but only one. She did not think that would be enough.

She wondered if she would faint if the Rebels made their way into the cellar.

The bombardment ceased as night fell, and they were able to come back up to the first floor.

By the dim, hazy light of the oil lamp, Mary helped her mother prepare the bread that would bake early the next morning. She ate something mindlessly, not even tasting it or knowing what it was before her parents sent her off to bed.

Her sleep that night was much like the sleep she’d had in the cellar, a swirling mixture of wakefulness and slumber, dreaming of an endless quest to find out who was winning the battle.

As poor as her rest was, she did not have time to get much of it.

The cannons fired again before dawn, and she dressed quickly and hurried down to the cellar again.

The unbaked bread sat in a bowl on the kitchen table during that entire day. Once or twice, there was enough of a pause in the battle that Papa or Mama could peek up to see if the house was still there, but never long enough to put together anything approaching a proper meal. When they got too hungry, they would eat whatever they could find in the cellar. The shells and cannons and gunfire were loud, so loud that Mary thought even Armageddon would be less clamorous.

She wondered if Armageddon was already here.

She faded in and out of wakefulness, today blending into yesterday, yesterday blending into the day before, and she waited for today to blend into tomorrow.

~*~

 

Now

Mary tucked a towel over the top of the basket, to protect the food from dust and flies, feeling a certain amount of pride.

In the end, she had returned to the cellar without even a whimper.

She would admit to feeling a chill sweep over her once she was properly back down there, and to shaking a bit when she first reached for the butter. But she had mastered herself, taking a deep breath before picking and arranging the food in the basket with deliberate thoughtfulness.

The horrid smell in the air was not as strong in the cellar as it was above ground, and she kept the pennyroyal nearby. That had helped her stay put.

It had also given her an idea.

Once upstairs, she set the basket of food on the kitchen table and hurried to her room for some handkerchiefs.

She could tie up some pennyroyal inside the handkerchiefs as a sachet, and they could hold them to their noses when the smell of death became too strong.

That’s what it was, she knew. The smell of death.

Mary wound up using peppermint instead of pennyroyal—the peppermint was closer to the back door—and was just finishing up her final sachet when her mother summoned her to bring the food basket to the front room.

Mama stood in front of a basket of ripped-up linens, fastening her bonnet.

“Once we get there, and we’ve given these things to someone who can use them, I’m going to stay behind and take care of the soldiers. Your father will be coming by the church after he talks to some members of the Council, and he’ll walk you back home again.”

“I’m not staying there with you?” Mary asked, settling her own bonnet on her head.

“No,” her mother responded.

“Don’t they need help?”

“You’re too young, Sweetheart,” her mother explained. “It would be too much for you.”

Mary yanked at the strings of her bonnet as she fastened it beneath her chin, a fierce pout on her face. She was tired of being treated like a tremulous child.

She was fifteen. That was old enough to take care of wounded soldiers. And it would not be too much for her, either. Mary Winslowe was not some weak little fainting lily.

She grabbed the handle of her basket, her grip tight, and followed her mother out of the house with narrowed eyes.

 

~*~

 

Before

The worst of the battle, it seemed, had taken place the day before. One of the neighbors had come by the house, in the dark of the night, to pass along word that the Rebels were retreating.

Of course, that was just a rumor. There had been so many rumors over the last few months, Mary did not know what to believe.

When the next day had begun without the roar of cannons and wail of shells, Mary had considered that the rumors might be true.

And then, the shooting had started, and they had all returned to the cellar.

They had been sheltering down there, listening to the crack and whistle as guns fired in their street and the streets around them, when Mary’s eyes had fallen on the firearm at her father’s side.

“Why did you only bring one gun?”

Her mother shivered, and her father looked up in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

A shot echoed out in the street, followed by something that sounded like glass breaking.

“There are three of us,” Mary observed, “but only one gun.”

Papa hesitated a moment. “Well, Sunshine, that’s because no more than one Rebel can get into the cellar at a time. All I need is one gun.”

“But then you have to reload it,” Mary countered. “While you’re doing that, another Rebel can get in here with his own gun, right up close to us. And what if you missed the first shot?”

“Mary,” her mother reproved, but Mary could see understanding flickering in her father’s eyes. So she continued.

“If we each had a gun, though, we would be far better protected. We could alternate the guns and protect each other.”

“You couldn’t shoot anyone,” Mama declared. “Your father and I might, but you couldn’t.”

“You taught me how to shoot, Papa. I haven’t practiced for a while, but you know I can do it. And I would, too,” she added, looking her mother straight in the eyes. “I would.”

As her parents stared at her in silence, more shots sounded outside, followed by a cry of pain.

Papa nodded. “I’ll fetch one for each of us, next time I can go upstairs.”

“John!” Mama gave him a sharp look.

“The child has a point, Sarah.” Papa turned back to Mary. “How much do you remember about shooting?”

Mama crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the wall beside her.

Mary answered, “It depends. Which gun do you mean?”

Her mother huffed. “This is a ridiculous conversation. The Rebels are retreating. Once this little skirmish is over, they’ll be completely gone, and we won’t need more guns anyway. We can even celebrate Independence Day, if they leave early enough. We won’t be able to have a picnic, but…”

Mary looked to her mother. “Is it almost Independence Day?”

Her parents exchanged a look, and her mother answered.

“Sweetheart, it’s today. Today is July Fourth.”

“Oh.” Mary said, and lapsed into silence.

They stayed down cellar for a while after the gunfire ended, just to be sure. Once they felt safe emerging, they had a few bites of food and headed upstairs to bed.

“Don’t worry, Sweetheart,” Mama consoled. “We can celebrate tomorrow. We will have a lot to celebrate, after all.”

Mary nodded, and bid her parents good night.

 

~*~

 

Now

As they made their way to the nearest church, Mary kept reminding herself that this was her town, these were the same buildings and streets and trees and bushes that she had known all her life.

This is simply what any town would look like, after a battle.

Each street was strewn with its complement of war leavings. A bayonet here, an empty cartridge box there, a piece of blue cloth caught in a roadside bush, torn up shoes.

A dark spot on the road, flies buzzing around it.

Mary looked away and held her makeshift sachet up to her nose.

She had given one to her mother, just after they had left the house, and Mama hadn’t taken it away from her face since.

As they neared the church, Mary heard a low, guttural groan, mixed with short cries of pain. The groan did not sound like any one person’s voice, but rather like several voices vocalizing at the same time.

Because that’s what it is, Mary reminded herself. It is all the wounded soldiers in the church.

She tried not to look at the man standing at a table behind the church, a bloody knife in his hand, or at the pale, detached limbs that were stacked like cordwood against the side of the church, surrounded by a haze of flies.

But those things were there, in her sight, and she could not help but acknowledge them.

The man behind the table moved back slightly, as two other men lifted a soldier onto the table.

“Don’t look, Sweetheart,” her mother warned, her face as white as a sheet, but by this time the table was out of sight behind the church and Mary could not have looked anyway.

She heard the weak, tormented cries all the same, rising higher in pitch and intensity, before coming to an abrupt end.

“You’ll give them your food basket, then you’ll go wait for your father outside,” her mother admonished, as they stepped through the door. “This is no place for a young girl.”

When she first saw the inside of the hospital, Mary thought her mother might actually be right, for once.

Wounded men lay all over the floor, some on blankets and some not. Some were hidden beneath a sheet; orderlies seemed to be removing them from the room as quickly as possible. The collective groan she had heard out in the street was loud in here, the cries of agony more heart-rending, and the room smelled of blood and vomit and feces and sweat and death.

Mary took another sniff of the sachet.

Mama greeted Mrs. Planchett, handing over her basket of linen, and Mary passed her basket off to Mrs. Price.

“I’m going to go help them prepare some food for these poor boys,” her mother whispered from behind the knotted handkerchief. “You go wait for your father.”

Mary did not argue, but she did not go outside, either. She stood and watched her mother hurry through the sea of moaning, bleeding soldiers and disappear through a doorway.

Then she looked around again.

There were so many wounded, too many for the small number of women to help and comfort on their own. The men had bled through their bandages, they were flushed and sweaty in the heat, and some of them twitched in pain as they lay half-conscious on the floor.

Mary took another sniff of peppermint and picked her way through the mass of soldiers until she had reached one of the caretakers.

“I’m here to volunteer,” she told the woman firmly. “Where do you need me the most?”

 

~*~

That Night

How nice it would have been if the air outside had been fresh. Mary would have given anything for the chance to fill her lungs with the soft evening air she’d once taken for granted.

As it was, all she could do was take another sniff of peppermint and continue waiting for her mother to return with the baskets, so they could go home.

Earlier in the day, Mary had been wrapping a bandage around the arm of a man from New York, when she looked up and saw her father standing there.

“You weren’t outside,” he said, his handkerchief muffling his words. “I was worried, Mary.”

“I’m sorry, Papa,” she apologized, and she did mean it, but she had to return her attention to the New York man’s arm. “I could not sit at home doing nothing, when I could help.”

“I see.” He watched in silence as she wound the bandage around the man’s damaged limb.

She knew she must look a sight. Blood had stained various parts of her dress, and she could feel a patch of it drying on her cheek, which she had rubbed without considering the state of her hands. Her hair was coming loose from the braid, wild around her face, and it was sticking to the sweat on her neck.

Mary felt her father’s gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Where is your mother? I’ll explain to her if she doesn’t already know.”

“She doesn’t, I don’t think,” Mary answered. “She went back there right away, as soon as we got here.”

He gave her shoulder a soft squeeze and headed towards the doorway.

By the time he found her again, she was bathing the brow of a delirious young boy with cool water, comforting him as he moaned for his mother.

“Your Mama will find you when it’s time for you both to go home. You need to mind her, this time.”

“Yes, sir.” Mary tossed him a grateful glance as she wrung the rag out over the basin.

When Mama came to fetch Mary for the walk home, her eyes were tinged with a weary sadness.

“I didn’t want this for you, Sweetheart,” she murmured once they had left the church. “I didn’t want you to live through hard times and difficulties, as your father and I have had to do. I want your life to be easy and lovely.”

“I know, Mama.” Mary stopped short. “The baskets. We don’t have the baskets. Should I go back?”

“No, I will,” her mother countered. “I don’t want you to have to go back in there. Wait here for me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As she waited, Mary looked around at the town that had become strange to her overnight.

No, not overnight. Over many nights. And many days as well, so many that she had forgotten what day it was.

Mary decided she never wanted to hide in the cellar again. Nor did she want to stay home with her eyes neatly averted from all troublesome sights.

She would be useful, and strong, and no matter what Mama thought or wanted, Mary would be back at the church the following morning to do more nursing.

Gettysburg, the town she loved—her home—would never be what it was before. And it would take a long time for it to even seem like it was—to look the same, to smell the same, to sound the same.

Mary would never be the same again, either.

She tried to imagine who she would be, once all of this was over and the wounded were gone and the air was fresh again.

She found that she could not, and that troubled her, but only for a moment.

She realized that she did not need to imagine it, or to know it. She simply needed to keep going until she got there, with sachets of pennyroyal and peppermint in her useful hands and the strength of her convictions in her fierce, womanly heart.

Mary could do that.

And she would.