Richard wasn’t shivering because of the cold December night. His fur had kept him warm on nights far colder than this, back home in Maine. He was shivering as he looked up the dark embankment of Marye’s Heights from the town of Fredericksburg because of the gunfire, because of the faint wailing of the wounded, but mostly because of William.
 
He fingered the splint on his ankle, never taking his eyes from the Heights. He felt lonelier now than he had at any point since the day the Army had signed him up and sent him with a bunch of other recruits to the front. On that excruciating, week-long journey, Richard had been the only morph. He’d been scared and hungry as well as alone, and if he hadn’t known the fate that awaited deserters, he would’ve turned around and run all the way home. In the main army, he’d been put into the same regiment as all the other morphs, and there he’d met William.
 
William Haffre, another raccoon, had taken Richard under his wing and protected him from some of the usual indignities suffered by new recruits. He was the only one who knew Richard’s real age (fifteen) and what his family’s name had been before their grandfather changed it to Blackman to fit in to human society (they had been the Black Mask Clan). William had played his share of pranks on the younger ‘coon, but always with a comradely, big-brother smile, and Richard, who missed his real big brothers terribly, laughed at himself after each one and felt more like one of the group.
 
With each day, he grew more confident and got to know the others in his all-morph regiment. They were a diverse lot, from raccoons and possums to a couple foxes--most canids were special attachments to other divisions for use as trackers. They bantered and joked when they were traveling or resting, but when they did their daily drills they were serious and intent, and Richard felt more and more proud of himself with each drill as he mastered various skills. He was becoming a useful part of his regiment, and began to look forward to the chance to prove himself in real combat.
 
Because they had superior night vision, morphs were often called on to undertake dangerous nighttime missions, and so Richard and William’s regiment was euphemistically called the "Night Brigade." Morphs weren’t suitable command material, though, so Col. J.D. Adams, a human, led them. He made little attempt to hide his distaste for the job. Major Hawkins, a weasel morph, served as his second-in-command and, unofficially, as his guide through the dark.
 
They had arrived at Fredericksburg with some excitement on December 11, part of the mighty Union army under the command of newly appointed General Burnside himself. The Rebs had put up some resistance in the town, but in the end the Union had prevailed and the Rebs had slunk back to the safety of the stone wall atop the Heights, watching (Richard imagined) with envious eyes as the Union settled into their town. Richard’s regiment had participated in the fighting. It was his first battle, but he hadn’t felt very brave shooting around houses and through windows. Fighting was supposed to take place on a battlefield, not in a town. It was a dirty business, William told him, but necessary. Their enthusiasm was dampened somewhat, but not extinguished. It was only a matter of time before the Union took the Heights as well, and then it was on to Richmond.
 
On the morning of December 13, Major Hawkins had made the rounds of the regiment, informing them that after the human charges during the day, they would be called on for support that night, if needed. "Mop up," he said, shrugging. "They’ll have the Heights by sunset."
 
Only they did not have the Heights by sunset. Wave after wave of blue-clad soldiers advanced up the embankment, and from the security of the terrible stone wall, the Rebs mowed them down like the rats Richard and his brothers used to corner in his family’s barn. Richard watched in growing horror as not a single soldier reached the wall. The previous day, he’d imagined himself running proudly up the hill in the service of his country, telling his brothers later about the magnificent battle he’d been in. As the day wore on, that fantasy evaporated like the morning fog. By mid-afternoon, he and William wanted to return to their barracks, but like the others, they felt compelled to stay and watch the carnage.
 
Richard clung desperately to William. "They won’t send us up there. They can’t. We have no chance."
 
"They’ll devise some other way." William rested a paw on his shoulder, but his voice didn’t reflect the confidence of his words.
 
"I can’t, I can’t," Richard whined softly. He was ashamed of himself, sounding like a young kit, but he couldn’t help it. When he and his brothers had played games and he couldn’t keep up any more, he’d called "pax!" and they always stopped. He wanted to be able to call "pax" now and have the whole thing stop before he had to be part of it. His brothers would tell him to be brave, but he couldn’t see any bravery in this senseless slaughter.
 
"You won’t," William said. "I promise you that. You’re too young for this."
 
So when the fifteenth charge of the day, just after sunset, came to no more than the previous fourteen, Richard and William waited anxiously for the order to stand down. When Hawkins came by, his eyes glowed in the dusky light, but he looked tired and worn.
 
"We go in an hour," he said. "Once it’s dark."
 
William shook his head. "That’s crazy."
 
"That’s orders."
 
Richard started to whimper again, but a squeeze of the older ‘coon’s paw quieted him. Hawkins moved on, and when he was out of earshot, Richard looked up at William. "What are we going to do?"
 
William shook his head again, thinking. Then he looked at Richard and said softly, "Follow my lead." He pushed Richard in front of him, then kicked him hard in the ankle without warning.
 
Richard yelped in pain, then nearly fell as William pushed him in the back of the knee. William caught him and said, loudly, "Richard? Are you okay?"
 
Other furs and a human came running. William looked up at them. "He must’ve stepped on a loose brick. He might’ve sprained his ankle."
 
Richard understood, then, and his heart filled with warmth. William had taken care of him. He would be okay.
 
What he hadn’t reckoned on, what was making him shiver as his fingers ran over the bandages, was that William still had to go out there and face that terrible wall. Col. Adams had led the regiment out more than two hours ago, and the hail of gunfire that greeted their charge had sounded exactly like all the others. Richard had followed William for a while, then lost him in the haze of gunsmoke and confusion of the battlefield. He was trying very hard not to imagine William out there, but he couldn’t help it. He felt smaller than an insect, as cowardly as a Reb. All around him, wounded soldiers who’d made their way back were being tended to and he wanted to help them, but to do so would give away the deception of his ankle. That made him feel doubly a coward, and so part of the reason he kept his eyes locked on the embankment was so he would not have to look around him and see the reminders of his moral failure. What would his brothers think if they could see him now?
 
His eyes moved to activity by the canal ditch that was the first obstacle on the way up the embankment. A group of humans, not an organized regiment, was making their way stealthily along the ruined bridges. The Rebs let loose a volley of shots (they must have some morphs up there, to see in the darkness), but none of the figures fell. They moved through the wounded past a small cluster of buildings, then up to a brick house that stood alone in the middle of the hill. At that distance, they were no more than small blobs to Richard, but the haze had settled, so he could see them take up positions alongside the house, some fifty feet from the wall. Where they stopped, other figures got up and slowly made their way back, sporadic gunfire following their movements. This had been a relief mission, then--fresh soldiers were moving in to maintain the Union position and relieve those who were suffering from cold.
 
For the first time in hours, Richard’s tail uncurled from around his "good" leg, and he stopped shivering. He scanned each soldier hopefully as they trudged back into town, but nearly all of them were humans. He had just about sunk back into his depression when a human came back across the canal supporting another figure, which had a long muzzle and a tail.
 
Richard wiggled his toes in frustration, wanting to run out and meet them. As they came closer, though, he could see that the muzzle was a touch too long, the ears too large, and the tail too bushy to be William. Richard recognized the fox and called out.
 
"Hoy! Edwin!"
 
Edwin was cradling his left arm. He turned and looked at Richard, and the young ‘coon was shocked at the dull look in his eyes and the droop in his ears. He remembered Edwin sitting with him and William not two days ago, bright and joyful, hoisting a bottle of wine he’d taken from some occupied house. "This is more like it," he’d announced boisterously. "I haven’t had a good draught of wine in weeks!"
 
Now he looked like a different fox. If Richard hadn’t known him before, he would never have believed that Edwin was the same fox who’d drunk most of the bottle of wine and kept them up half the night singing army songs. He knelt in front of Richard and suddenly hugged him fiercely with his right arm. "Oh, Richard, it is well that you were not there," he whispered. "Thank Raccoon for turning your ankle, for surely that was your spirit guide’s work." He kept his voice low; the humans held to their religion and didn’t like morphs to talk about their own.
 
Richard hugged back carefully. His throat was too tight to speak. He felt his heart beat faster. Finally, he managed to choke out one word. "William?"
 
Edwin leaned back and shook his head, his ears flattening. "I’m sorry. I saw him go down. There isn’t anything to be done."
 
"Go down? Is he dead?"
 
"Maybe. If he isn’t now, he will be by morning."
 
"The stretchers..." As the streams of wounded had trailed off, some of the humans had talked about organizing stretcher crews to go get some of the wounded from the field. One was moving out there now and another two were mobilizing.
 
"They won’t...they won’t get there. See the house?" He pointed to the lone brick house, up on the Heights. "It’s beyond that. Too close to the wall. They’d be...mown down." Edwin’s voice sounded like it was coming through a long tunnel, as if each word was an effort for him to produce. "And they won’t find him. Meade took all the trackers for his attack. Our regiment was all the morphs...and all that’s left of our regiment is you and me, and a handful up there...in position, or wounded." He looked up at the stretchers. "Might get to Curtell, if he’s still alive...but with all the wounded humans ..." His voice trailed off.
 
Richard’s eyes filled with tears. The human behind Edwin pulled gently on his uniform. "Come on, Sergeant Reddle. We have to get that arm taken care of."
 
"I’m sorry," Edwin whispered, and stood up.
 
Richard almost didn’t hear him. His fingers ran over his splint again while his eyes were fixed on the house. Beyond the house. Beyond the house. Close to the wall. His fingers were unraveling the splint as images and thoughts whirled through his head: William hurt, William protecting him, William sharing his ration when Richard’s had been spoiled. Life in the regiment without William.
 
Shame at his cowardice returned twofold. How could he sit here in safety while his best friend braved horrible danger? What kind of friend was he? The splint was unraveled now. He looked down at his foot and wiggled it. His ankle was fine. He looked up at the embankment again. He couldn’t leave William there alone.
 
He stood up, stretched his legs, and in an instant he was off and running for the canal bridges. A few humans turned and looked at him in surprise, and one tried to stop him, but he ran by the outstretched arms. At the bridges, gunfire rattled and he heard the shots fall around him, but he did not stop running until he came to the small cluster of buildings, some fifty feet beyond the bridges. The stone wall was still a long ways away, 150 yards or so.
 
The moaning of the wounded was much louder here, disconcertingly so. He stepped into one of the buildings and staggered back, overwhelmed by the scent of blood in the small space. Humans sat scattered on the ground, with a few morphs, and the wounded and dead shared space. One human had pulled himself against the body of a dead possum for warmth. The stretcher crews had not made it up here yet, but even if they did, they would work for hours just to clear this one building.
 
He left the building quickly and headed up the hill towards the brick house, but he had barely gone three steps when he heard shots again. He dropped to the ground, pulling himself along the frozen mud with agonizing slowness. Every five feet he found another corpse, while the moans of the wounded soldiers who were slowly freezing to death formed a gruesome background to the crack of gunshots. He began to be able to make out some of the moans. Many were moaning for water, some were praying, and a few were cursing. Richard had never believed in the human conception of Hell, but as he wormed his way through the maze of frozen death, listening to the heart-rending wails, immersed in the smell of blood, he began to wonder if he hadn’t died and been sent there. He tried to block out everything except reaching the house, and so terrified was he that he barely noticed when a bullet grazed his tail. Only a few minutes later did he realize what the ruffling sensation had been, the quick brush running against the cold north wind.
 
As he got closer to the house, he could see a small barricade behind which five or six soldiers had bivouacked. They returned fire occasionally, not sure what the Rebs were shooting at. Only one was a morph, and Richard perked his ears hopefully when he saw the long ringed tail. The raccoon turned, probably catching his scent on the wind, and Richard recognized him as Charles Ringer. He turned away and crawled on toward the house.
 
If the small cluster of buildings had been bad, the brick house was a nightmare. Piles of soldiers lay behind it, and he could not tell which were alive and which were dead. Only one morph was visible: a possum propped up against the wall, holding his stomach. A human lay on the ground, sprawled out, reaching toward the town as if for salvation. The cries seemed to come not from any particular soldier or soldiers, but from the mass of them. Richard didn’t see William anywhere. He crawled behind the house, out of the line of fire, and crept to a window. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was surprised at the equanimity with which he crawled over the dead to look into the house.
 
The inside of the house was packed full of blue uniforms, most not moving. Some were sleeping, and some would never wake up. He counted three morphs in the house, but none was William. He didn’t know whether any of them was alive.
 
Beyond the house. Close to the wall.
 
The bodies were thicker still as he crawled around the house, scanning the ground in front of him. "I’m so thirsty," someone groaned to his right. Not William. He saw another ringed tail amidst a pile of corpses up ahead, not quite at the gully. He crawled toward it, ignoring the other moans as the wind carried them away.
 
"William?" He was answered only by a couple shots from the wall as the treacherous wind carried his voice to the Rebs. He took shelter behind the bodies and pushed one of them aside--and the black-masked muzzle lying behind it was the one he longed to see, the one he had seen again and again in his mind for the last four hours.
 
Overjoyed, Richard shook his shoulder gently, not wanting to risk another word. William’s uniform was damp and cold, and he didn’t respond to the shaking.   Richard began to panic, and then he noticed the soft plume of white at his friend’s nostrils. So he was breathing; he wasn’t dead. Richard held on to that. He’s not dead. His ankle was in terrible shape, though. His foot was bent awkwardly out at an angle it was never meant to, and the pants leg was torn and stuck to matted black fur.
 
Richard found himself at a loss. He couldn’t just wait here until William woke up. They had fur, but the harsh north wind had picked up and was driving through even that--and because of their fur, they were not issued the thick coats that other soldiers were. With the wound as severe as it was, William might not survive the night. And even if he did, the Rebs would be able to pick him off in the morning as easy as pie.
 
Richard got his arms under William’s shoulders and tried to drag him. He got about two feet before he had to give up.  He couldn’t get the leverage without exposing himself to the Rebs, and the noise he would have to make would certainly draw fire. He sat down behind the grisly shelter and pawed the ground, getting more and more frantic and whimpering despite himself. To have come all this way for nothing? So he could hold his friend’s hand and watch him die? Or die with him?
 
He heard shots again, suddenly, but from somewhere else. They were coming from close behind him, and he thought, "They found out about my ankle. They’ve been ordered to shoot me." But the initial volley only lasted a few seconds, and then the Union guns were silent again.
 
Under the howling of the wind, Richard thought he heard movement off to his left and ahead. He fumbled for his musket before realizing it was still lying on the ground back in the town. William’s lay beside him, ice-cold to his paws. He shivered as he grabbed it, trembling so much that he had to brace his paws against his knees. He didn’t dare speak for fear of attracting more shots.
 
Through the darkness of the night, he saw a Reb moving to his left. The soldier bent over another shape, held something to it, then moved on. Richard had heard of Confederate assassins and looters, who went through the battlefield taking coats from dead soldiers and killing wounded soldiers. This, then, was what his comrades had been shooting at. He let go of the musket to rub his paws together, and the impulse to run seized him.
 
He looked at William’s muzzle again. In his friend’s quiet expression, he seemed to see the faces of his brothers, Randolph and David. They wouldn’t blame him for running away, but would they respect him for it? Neither of them would desert a friend. The warm glow of friendship fought the north wind, and hardened his resolve. He picked up the musket. Once this Reb was past him, he would worry again about moving William, but until then he would not let his friend down. His paws could barely grip the musket, but he gritted his teeth and crouched there, waiting.
 
It seemed to be a hundred cold hours before the figure approached him. As the Reb walked closer, Richard saw that he was a young human with a rather narrow face and a thin moustache. He wore a thick coat and a Confederate hat, and he didn’t appear to be carrying weapons. Instead, he was carrying several canteens.
 
He stopped when he saw Richard, and then stepped forward, holding out a canteen. "I am only bringing water," he said. His voice was soft and genteel, the broad ‘I’ unmistakably Southern, and he spoke in a low whisper. "Are you wounded?"
 
Richard blinked, feeling slow and stupid. His heart was still racing, expecting this enemy to lift a gun and shoot at him any minute. He shook his head.
 
"Then what are you doing out here? I heard some moaning from here."
 
Richard’s paws slowly let the musket’s tip drop. His teeth chattered from fear and chill the first time he tried to talk, so he closed his muzzle and tried again. "H-he is." He gestured to William with the musket. "I c-came out to g-get him."
 
The soldier’s eyes widened slightly. "By yourself? That’s very brave," he said. "How old are you?"
 
"Seventeen." That was what he’d told the Army when he enlisted.
 
"What’s your name?" The Reb crouched down as he asked this, looking from William down the battlefield to the brick house.
 
"Richard."
 
That got a smile. "Me too. Well, Richard, is this your brother?" When Richard nodded, he didn’t feel like he was lying. "Grab his shoulders. I’ll take his legs. Keep me between you and the wall there, so my comrades don’t shoot at you, and walk carefully."
 
Although the Reb picked up William’s legs immediately, it took Richard a moment to realize what was happening. The Reb was helping him? Helping William? He looked at the human’s face, pale and bright with the starlight and the thin moon, and he wondered if this might be one of those human angels he had heard about. His numbed paws wouldn’t uncurl right away, but after a moment he managed to drop the musket and wedge his arms under William’s shoulders.
 
William was cold and heavy, but no longer unmanageable. His weight tended to drive Richard backwards, so that he stumbled on the rough terrain. He fell once, but the activity was warming him from the inside, and the quiet courage on the other Richard’s face inspired him to scramble up right away.
 
The moans of the wounded rose up behind him. He felt rather than saw the bulk of the brick house as they approached it, and when they were level with its front, the soldier stopped. "This is as far as I can go," he said. "Can you manage?"
 
Richard looked over his shoulder. There was shelter here, and he saw the white flash of a stretcher moving, some hundred yards away. "Yes."
 
"God be with you, then." The soldier stood up.
 
"Wait! Why...why did you help me?"
 
The Southern Richard looked over the battlefield, then back to the Northern Richard. His face was shadowed and hidden, but when at last he spoke, his grief was clear in his voice. "This does not become us, this war. Look at what it has made of us. No true gentleman should have to listen to these cries. I could stay all night on this battlefield and not repair a hundredth of the damage to my soul. None think to bring water to those poor souls who cry out for it not fifty feet from them. Such a simple thing!" He bowed his head. "And tomorrow, it will all begin again. But for tonight--for tonight, at least, I will be a gentleman."
 
Richard felt tears in his eyes. "Thank you," he said softly. "G-god go with you."
 
When the other was gone, Richard pulled William to shelter behind the house. He sat down, out of sight of the stone wall, and examined William’s leg. The wound, located between the ankle and knee, looked messy and had been fouled by dirt. The blue uniform around it was stiff and caked with blood. He took a white cloth from his own pack and wrapped the wound as best he could. William moaned as he did it, but didn’t wake up.
 
Richard rubbed his paws together to warm them, and surveyed the route back. He hoped that nobody would fire on a retreating soldier, but if they were firing on noises, then he would be in danger now that the human was no longer with him. Or, he thought, perhaps the human would serve as cover. When he listened closely, he could hear murmured prayers and soldiers drinking from canteens--not a lot of noise, but probably enough to mask the sounds of dragging. Richard looked down at the stretchers and figured he would have to get to the first group of buildings before he had any chance of getting them to come get William.
 
"Come on, William," he muttered softly as he hefted his friend’s shoulders again. He knew it would be dangerous to talk, but it made him feel immeasurably better. Somehow, talking to William made his survival seem more assured. He was alive, this was just a rough patch, and once Richard had gotten him through it, they would be okay again.
 
Slowly he dragged his friend down the embankment. William’s legs scraped along the ground, but he couldn’t help that. A couple shots came his way, but far wide, and now they could not scare him nor deter him from his purpose. Oh, Raccoon, he thought when he looked over his shoulder and saw the buildings no more than twenty feet away, I’m going to make it.
 
"Hey, take me," a wounded soldier called as he passed him. "Leave that animal!" Richard grimaced and kept going until he felt the rough stone of the building against his back. He almost sobbed in relief. His arms felt light and nearly numb as he rested William against the wall.
 
"Stay there. I’ll be right back, I promise."
 
The nearest stretcher already had a soldier on it and was headed for the town. Another one was coming across the bridges. Richard ran for them as quickly as he dared. Even though he was careful, he caught his foot on a rock and went tumbling down the embankment, coming up against a dead soldier.
 
He got up, shuddering, and continued toward the stretcher. The humans were walking around blindly, trying to locate the wounded by sound, but stopped as he hailed them.
 
"Hsst! This way! There’s a wounded up here."
 
"They’re all over," the human replied, looking in Richard’s direction but not at him, searching the darkness.
 
"But I know where this one is."
 
"Can you see?"
 
"Yes!" Richard was within thirty feet, and now the human saw him. "This way!"
 
"Lead on, then." They followed him up the hill to the buildings. Twice they heard other soldiers and wanted to stop, but Richard kept going, and they followed. Richard found that the walk was not nearly as nightmarish now that he knew where he was going, knew William was alive, and was not alone. His heart went out to all the soldiers they passed, but he kept on his way, keeping his friend foremost in his mind.
 
"There he is!" He ran to William and knelt beside him. The stretcher crew stopped a few feet away.
 
"This is what you brought us up here for? Is he an officer?" The two men stayed by the stretcher and didn’t approach.
 
"No, but his foot is hurt. He’s fine otherwise, but he’ll die if he doesn’t get back." Why weren’t they coming to pick him up? Richard stood up.
 
"There are people out here! We don’t have time to take an animal back." Guilt glittered in the man’s eyes as he said ‘animal,’ as if he’d only just noticed that Richard was a raccoon but the word had come out before he could stop it.
 
"You have to!" Richard felt his triumph melt away into desperation.
 
"Sorry, son, but you know how it is."
 
"Look," Richard cast about for some bargaining chip. "You can’t just leave him here!"
 
The soldier shook his head and directed his companion to one of the wounded humans nearby. "Sorry," he repeated. "But thanks for the help in getting up here. We’ll need you on the way back, too."
 
"I’m not going."
 
Now the human turned to look at him, and it was not a friendly look. "Where’s your loyalty to your country, son?"
 
Shot to pieces anyway, the moment I put that splint on. Richard shivered, but this was nothing compared to the fear he’d felt sitting by William with the Reb approaching. He didn’t even hesitate. "Bring him back, and...I’ll help you all night. Otherwise I’m sitting here with him."
 
The humans exchanged glances and whispered words. Richard didn’t hear what passed between them, but a moment later, they walked over to William and loaded him on the stretcher.
 
All night he walked with those two, sometimes helping them with the stretcher when one got tired. They brought in ten more soldiers by the time it began to get light, while none of the other crews managed to bring in more than five. The Rebs shot at them occasionally, but without any success until the sky brightened. Soon after Richard got a nick in his tail from a Reb gun, the stretcher crews were ordered to remain in the field hospital and tend to the wounded.
 
Exhausted, Richard crept into the hospital building and checked on William. He was still unconscious, but his leg was heavily bandaged and he didn’t have any doctors fussing over him. Richard took that to mean he would be okay. He wanted to go back to his bunk in the barracks, but somehow the hospital floor pulled him down and wouldn’t let him up again.
 
When he woke up, he had a blanket over him, and William wasn’t in his bed. Richard felt a moment of panic. All for nothing? He accosted a passing doctor.
 
"What happened to the raccoon here?"
 
The doctor looked at him for a moment without replying, and Richard noticed for the first time that the human looked almost raccoon-like himself, with dark eyebrows over his eyes and dark circles under it. He probably hadn’t slept all night. Finally, the doctor checked the chart and nodded. "Haffre? They’re operating now."
 
"Operating?"
 
The doctor nodded. "They couldn’t save the leg." He was muttering detachedly, and when Richard didn’t respond, he wandered down the row, checking on other patients.
 
At least he’s alive. Richard walked slowly back to his barracks, still tired. He thought he might lie down again there, but as he walked in, he met Major Hawkins. The weasel looked sympathetic, and patted the bunk beside him. Richard sat down, his ears folded back.
 
"That was some night you had, young Blackman. I’ve been told about William and all you did to help the humans. I suppose it was a good thing that your ankle prevented you from going out with the others. You’re something of a hero now, you know."
 
"I don’t deserve to be a hero," Richard said slowly. He certainly didn’t feel like one. "I just did what I had to."
 
"Sometimes those are the most heroic acts of all. Don’t sell yourself short. Even some of the humans noticed, especially the ones whose lives you saved."
 
Richard thought about that, but he still didn’t feel like a hero. Faking his sprained ankle was a cowardly thing to do, and even though good had come of it, he still felt ashamed. He asked himself again what David or Randolph would have done. Coming up with the answer was easy; carrying it out was much harder. "Major," he said, "my ankle...I didn’t really hurt it." He’d thought that the confession would make him feel better, but it didn’t. He hung his head.
 
"I know."
 
"What?"
 
Hawkins patted his knee. "You’re not the first to fake an injury, young Blackman, nor the first underage soldier we’ve had."
 
Richard fidgeted. "I’ll be eighteen soon."
 
"Not for another couple of years, I think. I’ve seen a lot of young soldiers, private." Richard stayed silent. "Listen, Col. Adams wants you dishonorably discharged because of the malingering. He’s in a foul mood because of yesterday, and he doesn’t care what else you did last night. I convinced him to give you a chance to own up to it, and you did. In a way, that took more courage than what you did last night. We still think it would be best if you leave the army, because you’ll have no other regiment to go to and Col. Adams doesn’t want you in his, but officially it will be because of your age. How old are you, really?"
 
"Fifteen," Richard said in a whisper.
 
"Normally, we overlook that. We need the soldiers. But in some cases, it’s better to let the soldier grow up a little more before we let them fight." He patted Richard’s knee again. "Cheer up, civilian. I think you’ll make the Union a fine soldier in a few years, though Weasel knows I hope this is over by then."
 
"I hope so too." Richard fingered the scar on his tail. "I hope I’ll be a good soldier."
 
"You were brave enough today to inspire someone twice your age."
 
"Brave? I was scared, like a little kit." He thought about that. "I guess I was more scared for William than for me."
 
Hawkins smiled. "However you did it, it was a brave thing to do." He sighed. "They’re rebuilding this whole regiment, I think, since we lost so many. I hear we’re retreating tonight. Then we’ll get to count our losses." He pressed his fingers to his eyes, and his ears folded down. "We lost so many..."
 
"What happened? Why did they keep sending us?" Richard felt somewhat emboldened by his new status as a citizen.
 
Hawkins looked around to make sure there was nobody within earshot. "Burnside," he said. "The general was going to keep attacking. Apparently they talked him out of it. We were supposed to be coordinating with Meade, but he failed in his assault too, and they’re trying to figure out who to blame for that. It looks like a bad deal all the way around. Maybe ten thousand dead for the Union."
 
Richard winced. "That many?"
 
"Here and elsewhere, yes."
 
Richard gave Hawkins a comradely hug. "Best of luck to you. Weasel be with you," he said softly.
 
"Raccoon be with you too, Richard." The weasel smiled at him, then walked away.
 
 
Two days later, Richard and William walked north from Fredericksburg together. William’s home was in Pennsylvania, and he’d invited Richard to stay with him before going back to Maine. William walked along on his one remaining foot with the help of the crutch he called "my medal." He’d earned an honorable discharge, though he wouldn’t get any other recognition of his bravery on the field. Richard thought that wasn’t fair.
 
"Bravery," William snorted in response as he and Richard walked through northern Virginia. Technically, this was Union-controlled land, but without the army at their backs, they’d find it difficult to enforce that, so they kept their voices low. "There was nothing brave about it. I charged up a hill in a group of soldiers, and kept going until my foot hit a bullet." He tried to smile about it, but the smile turned into a grimace at a twinge from his leg, bandaged off below the knee.
 
"I still think you were brave." Richard’s tail swung back and forth, no worse for the bullet wound. He hadn’t even gotten a bandage for it, but it was nearly healed. "I couldn’t have gone up there with you."
 
"You went up on your own. Besides, you stood up to that Reb and to those guys with the stretcher. Now that’s brave. I think you deserve a medal more than I do, squirt."
 
Richard kicked a pebble on the ground and watched it skitter away. "That wasn’t brave. I wasn’t even thinking when I did that. I don’t think I could do it again. Doesn’t bravery mean something you do even though you know what might happen?" He considered. "That soldier, he was really brave. He could’ve been shot by his own army, or by ours, before they realized what was happening."
 
"He’s human," William said. "At least he might get a medal for that. Don’t discount what you did, though, Richard. Bravery takes many forms, and while I think it was stupid of you to run into battle all by yourself, I also think it took a lot of courage, and I owe my life to it. You may not have known what you were doing at first, but you had plenty of chances to turn back." He chuckled. "Now, just wait until my sister tries to make her rhubarb pie. You really have to be brave to take a slice of that."
 
Richard laughed. "Maybe my brothers will be home. I hope they’re okay."
 
William’s tail brushed his. "If they’re anything like you, they’re not only okay, they’ve already been promoted."
 
Richard felt a swelling of pride in his chest. He smiled at William and kicked another pebble along the dusty road, northwards towards home.
 
 ----------------------------------------------------------
 
Story note:
 
On December 13, 1862, fifteen Union divisions assaulted the stone wall atop Marye’s Heights in Fredericksburg. None reached it. The Union would lose about 12,600 men in the battle of Fredericksburg, but despite that, the Confederates (who lost ‘only’ 5,300) could not gain anything from winning the battle. It was described as one of the most horrible and futile battles of the war, and so I chose it as the setting for my story. The character of the Confederate soldier who jumps the wall to help the wounded was in my mind as I was writing it. I thought that it wasn’t outlandish that there would be someone who was moved by such a horrible scene. Still, I was surprised when I read that such a man actually lived. Sgt. Richard Kirkland of South Carolina, moved by the cries of the wounded, jumped the wall and braved Union bullets to bring water to those on the field. When they realized what he was doing, both sides cheered him, and his comrades behind the wall gladly filled his canteens so he could relieve the suffering of those who cried out for water. If you travel to Fredericksburg now, you will find a monument near Marye’s Heights dedicated to Sgt. Kirkland, "the Angel of Marye’s Heights." There is no record of him having helped to move a wounded soldier, but as I’d moved his sortie to nighttime (a less conspicuous time) and needed an "angel" to help Richard, I figured that had he been in that situation, he would have acted as I’ve described here.
 
Sgt. Kirkland was killed in the battle of Chickamauga in 1863, less than a year later. At the time of the battle of Fredericksburg, he was nineteen years old.