The air reeked of iron and burnt wool as Clara knelt beside the wounded, her fingers steady despite the cannon fire booming above. The hospital tent trembled with each explosion, but she didn’t flinch. Her nurse’s uniform, once pristine, was stained crimson from the morning’s chaos. A boy no older than sixteen groaned, his leg torn open by shrapnel. She pressed a cloth to the wound, her mind sharp, calculating. The Confederates had taken Fort Donelson yesterday; the Union would retaliate. But Clara’s thoughts lingered on the letter in her pocket, the one she’d smuggled out of Nashville under cover of darkness. It bore a cipher only she and her brother, Thomas, could decipher. She’d promised to deliver it to General Grant’s camp, but the road was a graveyard of corpses and mud. The boy’s eyes fluttered open. “Ma’am…” he whispered. Clara leaned close, her breath steady. “Don’t die,” she said. “Not yet.” He didn’t ask how she knew his name. She’d memorized every face in the tent, every scar, every prayer. The war had taught her that silence was a weapon. When the next round hit, the tent collapsed. Clara buried her face in the dirt, then crawled free, her hands bleeding. She spotted a Union officer nearby, his uniform torn, and limped toward him. “Have you seen a courier?” she asked. “A woman,” he said, squinting. “Black hair. Carries a satchel.” Clara nodded. “She’s under my care.” The officer hesitated, then handed her a pistol. “This’ll help.” She took it, her fingers wrapping around the cold steel. The letter burned against her ribs. She had to reach the river before dusk. The path was a labyrinth of fallen trees and dead horses. Clara moved swiftly, her boots sinking in the muck. A shout echoed behind her. She spun, pistol raised, but it was only a boy—no older than twelve—dressed in tattered gray. “You’re one of them,” he accused. Clara didn’t deny it. “I’m here to save lives,” she said. The boy’s lip trembled. “My brother’s in the camp. They’re taking him tomorrow.” She studied him, the way his hands shook, the fear in his eyes. “Where’s your brother?” He pointed north. “Past the creek.” Clara hesitated. The river was a mile away. But the boy’s face haunted her—too much like Thomas’s when he’d been sixteen, lost and desperate. She adjusted her satchel. “Stay here,” she said. “I’ll find him.” The boy nodded, tears streaking his soot-stained cheeks. Clara pressed on, the pistol heavy in her grip. The camp was a maze of tents and smoke. She found the boy’s brother—a wiry man with a broken collarbone—being dragged toward a wagon. “Wait!” she called. The guards turned, rifles raised. Clara held up her hands. “I’m a nurse,” she said. “He needs treatment.” One guard stepped forward, his face obscured by a cloth. “You’re Union.” “I’m neutral,” she said. “But I can’t let him die.” The guard studied her, then nodded. “Ten minutes.” Clara knelt beside the man, her hands moving with practiced ease. She cleaned the wound, pressed a cloth to it, and whispered, “You’ll live.” The guard watched, unblinking. When she finished, he said, “Leave now.” Clara stood, her heart pounding. The letter was still in her pocket. She had to get to the river. But as she turned, a hand gripped her arm. “You’re not from around here,” the guard said. Clara met his gaze. “No.” “You’re lying.” She didn’t deny it. “I’m here for a reason.” The guard’s grip tightened. “What reason?” Clara hesitated. The letter burned against her skin. She could lie, say it was a medical mission. But the guard’s eyes were sharp, too sharp. “I have a brother,” she said finally. “He’s in the 11th Illinois. I need to find him.” The guard released her. “Go.” Clara didn’t look back. The river was a ribbon of silver in the distance. She ran, her boots slapping the mud. The letter was her only hope. When she reached the bank, she spotted a Union officer waiting by a boat. “Clara,” he said, relief in his voice. “You made it.” She handed him the letter without a word. He unfolded it, his face darkening. “This is a trap,” he said. “The Confederates are waiting at the next bridge.” Clara’s stomach dropped. “What’s in the letter?” The officer hesitated, then read aloud: “Meet at the mill at midnight. Bring the list.” Clara’s breath caught. The list—Thomas’s name was on it. She’d been a fool. The guard had played her. “We need to move,” the officer said. “Now.” But Clara stood frozen, her mind racing. The mill was a mile away. If she went, she might save Thomas. But the trap would destroy the Union’s plans. The officer grabbed her arm. “Clara!” She pulled free. “I’m going,” she said. “You don’t understand—” “I understand perfectly,” he snapped. “You’ll get yourself killed.” Clara met his gaze, her resolve hardening. “Then I’ll die trying.” She turned and ran toward the mill, the pistol紧 in her hand. The night was silent, save for the rustle of leaves. She reached the mill just as the clock struck midnight. A figure emerged from the shadows—Thomas, his uniform tattered, his face gaunt. “Clara,” he whispered. She ran to him, tears blinding her. But as she reached him, a rifle cracked. Thomas crumpled. Clara screamed, dropping to her knees. The guard stood in the doorway, his rifle raised. “You should’ve stayed out of this,” he said. Clara’s hands trembled. “Why?” The guard’s eyes were cold. “Because you’re a traitor.” She shook her head. “I’m not. I just wanted to save him.” The guard lowered his weapon. “You don’t get it, do you?” he said. “This war isn’t about saving lives. It’s about ending them.” Clara stared at Thomas’s body, his blood pooling on the dirt. The pistol felt heavy in her hand. She could kill him. But what would that accomplish? The war would still rage. The deaths would still come. She dropped the pistol and fled into the night, her heart breaking with every step. The next morning, Clara stood at the edge of the battlefield, watching the smoke rise. The mill was gone, reduced to ash. Thomas’s body had been taken, but his name remained on the list. She wondered if he’d ever know the truth. The war would end eventually, but the scars would remain. Clara turned away, her boots sinking into the mud. Somewhere, a new battle was waiting.
