ITH OUR SENSE of purpose bolstered by the Africans, we set out for Yorktown on the muddiest road we’ve traveled yet. The mire is so thick and gooey, it takes two days to slog twenty miles. I’m trudging with the rest of the regiment since Flag is hauling equipment. Already, a few weeks after arriving at Fort Monroe, we’re short on food. Supply ships haven’t arrived yet, so even though we’re deep in enemy territory, a handful of soldiers is sent out to forage among the neighboring houses.

Naturally, I volunteer. I’m relieved to have a reason to ride Flag again, to be back with my best friend. “Did you miss me? Did you?” I ask him as I near the corral. Flag trots right up—he knows my voice, and yes, he’s clearly missed me. I stroke his soft nose. “I bet your crossing was better than mine. Better company, less seasickness, and you could mess the straw whenever you felt the urge.” Flag nibbles at my pocket, searching for a treat. Sometimes I save an apple for him, but it’s been days since I’ve seen any fruit. I’ll requisition something for Flag along with supplies for the men.

I hope that collecting food won’t be so different from collecting mail, but I know that the people living nearby won’t be sympathetic to Union troops. Food won’t be offered for sale. I’ll have to buy it by force. So I’m surprised by how peaceful the countryside looks as I ride through it. There’s no sign of war in the tobacco fields, and when I come to a large plantation house with a broad, welcoming veranda, it seems like something from another time.

After hitching Flag to the iron post by the porch and collecting the baskets slung over the saddle, I knock on the door, keeping my other hand on the holster of my gun, just in case things inside the house aren’t as peaceful as they look from the outside.

A tall, regal woman opens the door, her pale skin made even whiter by the contrast with her black widow’s weeds. I tell her that I’ve come to buy whatever food the household can spare. My uniform says the rest. The war has come to the woman’s doorstep. Perhaps it’s not the first time. I wonder if she is grieving a death from sickness, age, or battle.

The woman forces a brittle smile. “I wouldn’t think of depriving hungry soldiers when we are so fortunate. Why don’t you wait in the parlor while I gather what I can for y’all.”

The smirk behind her smile, the steeliness of her eyes, the rigid way she holds herself all set my nerves on edge. I want to have compassion for the woman’s obvious mourning. In another time, another place, I would. Now all I am is suspicious. The woman is a Southerner, an enemy.

“Let me help you,” I insist. I follow the black sweeping skirts into the kitchen.

The woman moves vaguely around the pantry, reaching for flour, then putting it back, picking up a side of bacon, then setting it down again.

I clear my throat loudly. “If you please, ma’am. I need to get going. I’ll take some eggs and butter, the flour and bacon, perhaps an apple for my horse, and leave you be.”

“Oh.” The woman faces me, her hands shaking. “I didn’t realize you were in such a hurry. I was waiting for the boys to get back and catch you some chickens. They’ll make mighty fine eating.”

The skin crawls on the back of my neck. So that’s what she’s up to—stalling for time until the men come home to take care of her unwanted visitor.

“That won’t be necessary, ma’am.” I spit out the words, scooping the supplies into the baskets I’ve brought. Something about that kitchen makes me edgy. I want to get out, now. But I’m not stealing—I try to hand the woman a greenback.

She stares at the money as if it’s poison. “Oh, I couldn’t take that,” the widow says. “I wouldn’t touch it.” She lifts her chin defiantly, and hatred gleams in her eyes.

“As you wish, ma’am.” I leave the money on the table and back my way out of the house, facing the woman’s scowl the whole time. She stands on the porch, seething, while I get on Flag and turn to go, every muscle in my back taut from the glare of her eyes.

I can’t explain why, but I flinch, ducking my head down toward Flag’s mane, just as the shot whizzes over my head. I turn Flag around quickly and raise my own gun as the woman shoots again, this time wide of the mark. I point the muzzle of my seven-shooter squarely at her, panic surging through me as I try to keep my hands steady. Flag seems to understand and stands stock-still. Faced with my gun, the woman drops her own pistol and puts up her hands, her eyes simmering with rage and hate.

Nerves jangling, I take careful aim and fire. The woman screams and falls to the ground, clutching her left hand. The ball pierced clear through her palm, leaving a bloody hole.

It’s the first time I’ve shot anybody, but it won’t be the last. Maybe if I really were a man, I’d be ashamed of such ungentlemanly behavior. But I’ve been attacked and I feel justified using my gun, even if my assailant is a woman. I feel the same icy chill in my veins as during the Battle of Bull Run, the familiar steeliness I used to see in Ma as she wrung a chicken’s neck.

I get off Flag, legs still shaking, and pick up the dropped pistol, then unfasten the halter strap to tie it around the woman’s right wrist.

“Come on, Flag,” I say, patting his broad cheek, reassured by his warm bulk. “We’re going home, but we’re bringing some company with us.” I jump back into the saddle, yanking the woman behind me by the arm as if she’s a goat or cow, an unruly creature that needs to be dragged along.

“Your ladyship is coming with me,” I bark. Now that I’m not scared, I’m furious.

“Let me go!” the woman shrieks. “Release me now!”

I level my gun at her again. “Any more noise and I’ll shut that mouth of yours forever.”

The woman nods, her eyes big with fear. She stumbles after Flag, tripping over her skirts and falling several times. Each time, she fumbles her way back to her feet, losing blood and getting weaker with every step.

When she falls for the fifth time, I stop Flag and dismount. True, this woman tried to kill me, but I don’t mean to torture her. As the rage drains out of me, I’m sickened by my own cruelty. Is this what being a soldier means? Will I grow flinty and nasty like Pa? Are all men at heart simple brutes, and am I becoming one of them? I shake my head, unsure what to do next. I want to be brave, not vicious. But more than that, I don’t want to soften in front of an enemy.

Still, what’s the harm in acting like a nurse first, a soldier second? So long as I control the situation, I can provide medical care. Even a foe deserves that, I reason, using a handkerchief to bandage the woman’s hand and helping her onto Flag. I brace for a fight, but she’s either in too much pain or too weak to do anything more than slump into the saddle. I take the reins and walk alongside her, my heartbeat calming.

“Since we’re getting to know each other so well, why don’t you tell me your name?” I ask.

“Alice,” the woman responds numbly.

“Well, hello, Alice,” I say. “Would you mind telling me why you shot at me?” I keep my tone as casual as if I were asking why she prefers bacon to ham.

Alice glares, hatred gleaming behind the pain. “You’re a Yankee. You killed my husband.”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” I snap.

“Maybe not you personally, but your kind. And not just my husband. Yankees killed my father and both of my brothers. I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved in the last three weeks. They’re gone! My life is gone!”

I don’t know what to say. I’ve thought of the woman as an enemy, but now she seems a fragile victim, someone so riven with grief that she’s held together only by the intensity of her hate. I can’t imagine that much pain.

“I’m so sorry.” It’s all I can offer.

“Please, don’t turn me in,” Alice begs. “I shouldn’t have shot at you, I know that. But don’t make me a prisoner, please. Please, let me go. Please!”

I can’t release the woman, but I don’t want to jail her, either. The farther we get from the plantation house, the more desperate Alice grows. She wails and pleads, moans and whimpers. I respect Flag more than ever. No matter how much noise she makes, he keeps on going, ignoring her as if I’d set a bushel of potatoes on his back, not a crying wretch.

Union field hospital, Savage Station, Va.

I wish I could be as stoic, but my hands itch to slap her, anything to make the whining stop. The hysteria in her voice eats at me. Is there someplace else to take Alice? Not a prison, but not the comfort of a Southern home either? I don’t know how much I can trust her, but by the time we arrive at camp, I have a plan. I’m ashamed of shooting Alice, of taking her prisoner, ashamed that my fellow soldiers have inflicted so much loss on one simple woman. I decide that the least I can do is take her to the hospital to have her hand properly bandaged and let her stay on as a nurse. Women aren’t normally welcome in military hospitals, but these are desperate times, and the doctors need all the help they can get.

I lift Alice off Flag. She stands there frozen while I give him the apple I found in her kitchen. “You’ve earned it, boy. You have more patience than I’ll ever have.” I tie the reins loosely to the stake in front of the hospital tent and lead Alice inside. After all her thrashing and pleading, she’s strangely docile and quiet as we walk between the rows of cots. I smile and nod at the soldiers I know.

“How are you feeling today, Andy?” I stop to ask a fresh-faced boy with a bandaged stump in place of his left arm.

“Better, Nurse Frank, heaps better, though I guess I won’t be much of a hand at playing piano no more.”

“From what I hear about how you played, that’s something we should all be grateful for,” I tease.

“Is that Frank I hear?” a deep voice from the back of the tent bellows. Dr. Bonine strides toward us, wiping his bloody hands on a towel.

“Yes, Doctor, and I’d like you to meet someone.” I turn to Alice. “This poor woman had an accident with a gun, and once you’ve bandaged her, she’d like to help you out if you’ll have her. Her name is Alice.”

Dr. Bonine takes in Alice’s pallor, her widow’s weeds, her despairing eyes. “We don’t ordinarily have women work as nurses, but so long as you stay here, in camp, we would be truly grateful for the help.”

Alice’s mouth trembles. She falls to her knees, wringing her hands like an actress in a melodrama. “Thank you, sir! Thank you, thank you! I won’t let you down, sir!”

The doctor and I exchange a look over her bowed head. I don’t need to say another word. Her Southern accent has told him the rest of the story.

“You’re welcome here, Alice.” Dr. Bonine’s voice is gentle and soothing. “I hope you’ll make a comfortable home with us, basic as things are.”

Jerome is another story. “What did you bring that Southern woman here for?” He corners me and pulls me outside so he can berate me without disturbing the patients. “We don’t need her. We don’t want her. And women don’t belong in battlefield hospitals.”

My cheeks burn. Is he saying I don’t belong here? “You may not need her, but Dr. Bonine does. And what else could I do with her? I couldn’t leave her to attack another soldier, and I couldn’t put her in a prisoner camp. This seemed like the best solution.”

“How about confiscating her gun? That could have worked! Honestly, Frank, what were you thinking?”

I flinch in the face of such rage. Why is Jerome so angry? It doesn’t make sense to me.

“I’m sorry, but Dr. Bonine is fine with having Alice at the hospital, and that’s all that matters.” I stiffen myself for another outburst. Jerome must really hate me, must hate any hint that I’m a woman. If I want him for a friend, I have to be absolutely manly. I push down the rising softness, the urge to grab his hand and ask him to forgive me, to love me.

“Oh, forget about it!” Jerome snorts, turning away in disgust.

I wish I could. I want to erase the memory of Alice’s milky hand raised in surrender and the bloody hole I’ve torn right through it.

Back on mail duty, Flag and I trudge along the muddy road between Fort Monroe and the camp near Yorktown as the army waits for the siege guns to reach us. While I’m at Fort Monroe waiting for the boat to dock with the mail, I overhear two soldiers talking.

“Did you hear about that ambush on the road to Yorktown last week?” the taller one asks.

“Another one?” His friend frowns.

“Yep, and this time they killed one of the soldiers delivering mail. Some Rebs were waiting round the bend at Painter’s Gap. They shot the postmaster—stole his horse and all the mail. Guess they were hoping for some money in those letters.”

I know the spot they’re talking about, the curve in the road where I always speed up because it feels so isolated and vulnerable. Still, I don’t hesitate to do my job, just ride all the faster when I come to that dreaded place. After all, someone has to deliver the mail. Besides, anything is better than being cooped up in camp, surrounded by thousands of men, any one of whom could see through my disguise if I ever let anything slip.