The sound of cannon fire seems to echo long after the battle has come to a close. The acrid stench of gunpowder and smoke still hangs in the air, and it is suffocating. The grass runs crimson from the blood of the fallen, and still bodies lay scattered across the fields, rotting in the thick summer heat. The air is heavy with the reek of decay. The wounded and dying groan in the dirt beside fallen comrades, pleading with God for their lives.

My skirts, torn and tattered from the many battles they have seen, drag in the blood and dirt as I make my way across the field, supply bag clutched tightly in hand. Gettysburg is not the first battle I have witnessed. I was there at the second Battle of Bull Run, and I was there at Antietam. I am accustomed to the bloodshed and horrors of war, more so than any young lady should be. However, I could never have been prepared for what lies before me now.

My body seems to move on its own as I meander the field, silently moving from body to body, searching for any signs of life. I do not look at the soldiers’ faces, keeping my gaze focused on the grass. I cannot bring myself to look at them. Look at what this civil war is doing, I think to myself as I bend down beside another body, You were someone’s young boy.

I move to the next soldier and freeze. He is lying flat on his back, his face twisted in pain. His dark hair, damp with sweat, clings to his forehead. There is blood bubbling up from a wound in his leg, and his chest rises and falls with quick, shallow breaths. His gray uniform, stained with dirt and blood, is unfamiliar to me, unlike the navy blue uniforms I have grown accustomed to.

A Confederate...

I glance at the wound on his leg. There is a deep gash on his thigh, perhaps from shrapnel, perhaps a Union soldier’s ball. It is a tangled mess of torn flesh, sinew, and blood. My hand grips my supply bag tightly, and I hesitate. Should I even help him? He is the Union’s enemy. He is my enemy. I feel my heart pounding in my chest, and my mind whirls with indecision. Should I uphold my loyalty to my country? Or should I keep my oath as a nurse?

The soldier shifts and emits a strained groan. I start at the sudden noise, taking a step back. The Confederate’s eyes shoot open, and his gaze locks on me. My body seems to go numb, and I do not move an inch. He gazes up at me, pain in his emerald eyes. I can see the agony etched into his face as he tries to mask it. His eyes plead with me to do something, anything. I take another step back, ready to hurry away and put the thought of the dying Confederate soldier in the back of my mind.

The soldier opens his mouth and croaks, “Please...Help me.”

My eyes widen, and my heart wrenches. A wave of pity and sympathy crashes down on me. Taking a couple of steps forward, I fall to my knees beside the Confederate soldier. The war inside me has come to a ceasefire, and I have made up my mind. I cannot turn my back on any soul in need. Confederate or Union, it is not in my nature to stand back and let them die.

“I will have to assess the wound,” I inform him.

“Do what you gotta’, miss,” he replies in a strained voice.

My hands move to his leg, and my fingertips are painted crimson with his blood. Slowly, I peel away the tattered wool fabric so I can clearly see the gash. The soldier presses his lips tightly together as my fingers poke their way around his wound. I can feel the torn flesh as I near the gash, and then, finally, my hands make contact with the wound. The soldier lets out a sharp cry, but then quickly bites his lip, silencing himself. Blood trickles down his chin as his teeth cut into his bottom lip.

“You shouldn’t bite down like that. If you keep that up, you will bite your own tongue and bleed out.” Reaching into my supply bag, I grab a rag and gently place it in his mouth. “Bite that.”

His teeth gnash into the wool fabric, and his eyes shut tight. The soldier nods, letting me know to continue. My hands return to the wound in his leg, and I get to work.

                                             ***

The night is sweltering hot, the air still and thick with heat. The house we take shelter in is teeming with injured men. Most of the men are Union soldiers, but some are Confederates. We place soldiers in every bed, and when we run out of beds, we make makeshift beds using tables, other furniture, and even the floor. We make rounds, checking on the wounded and dying and making sure they are cared for. General Meade has sent words of encouragement to the men in a vain effort to boost morale. The message fuels some of the men with courage, while others are in too much pain to care about the glory of their sacrifices and the idea of making more.

Groans of agony drown out the sounds of the crickets and the night owls. My ears have grown accustomed to the sounds of anguish, and the crescendoing cries no longer bother me. I move unfazed through the house, checking every bed as I continue my rounds. Taking special care to avoid the creaky boards, I move down the hallway and into one of the rooms. The door creaks as it opens, and I cringe.

There is a brief moment of silence before a weak voice questions, “Is someone there?”

Stepping into the room, I make my way over to the bed where the Confederate soldier I had found on the field is lying. He looks up at me and smiles.

“Evening, miss.”

“I’ve come to check your bandages,” I say.

“Be my guest,” the soldier says, lifting the sheet up to reveal his bandaged thigh.

I take a seat on the chair beside the bed and set about checking the bandages. My fingers work over the fabric, checking for any signs of major bleeding. As I scan over the bandages, the soldier shifts to look at me. His emerald eyes seem to glow in the moonlight.

“So, miss, I never did catch your name.”

“That is because I did not give it.”

“You saved my life, miss. Can’t I at least know your name?”

I hesitate for a moment before mumbling, “My name is Anne Tilman.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him smile, and my heart skips a beat.

“Well, it is a real pleasure, Miss Tilman.” His hand is suddenly on mine, his calloused palm brushing over the thin, sensitive skin of my knuckles. My head snaps up, and my eyes meet his. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Henry Meyer. I am a humble, young lad from down south- from Virginny to be more exact.”

I snort, smiling.

“What?” He looks at me, confused.

“You just do not seem like a humble man to me,” I answer.

Henry grins at me. “Oh, I am very humble. I am so humble that I only brag once a day.”

“Does that not count as bragging?”

Henry pauses for a moment, mulling this over. He emits a loud laugh. “I suppose you are right, Miss Tilman.”

                                          ***

The night uneventfully drags on. After I leave Henry and complete my rounds, I decide to rest. I seek out a quiet corner of the house near the front door and make myself at home. I cannot sleep, though I try. However, every time I close my eyes, images of soldiers’ faces, frozen in pain, and bodies tossed in the dirt, covered in gore, haunt the shadows of my subconscious. So I venture outside and stand in the grass, my arms folded over my chest. A gentle breeze pushes past me, rustling my skirts. The sky begins to brighten as the sun awakens from its nighttime slumber. The dark blue fades into purple and pink, and the moon and the stars take their leave. I watch as the sun rises, bathing Gettysburg in a golden glow. A warm feeling bubbles up inside of me, and for the first time since the war began, I smile- a genuine smile.

No matter what the horrors of this bloody civil war may bring, God will always start the day anew with a beautiful sunrise.