I wipe the thick layer of sweat off my forehead. My hand is soaked. Suddenly everyone starts moving faster. My troop is running towards the sound of cannons and muskets. My shoelace comes undone. My body lurches forward and my face lands in the hot, sticky mud. Soldiers trample over me as I lay behind, the boots of my fellow soldiers stampeding over my body. Something hits me. An excruciating pain radiates from my back. I feel heat and sharp pain spreading. I move my hand to touch my back. It feels wet and hot. I can already see blood by my hip, pervading my grey uniform, turning it into a deep shade of red. I feel blood pulsing from the wound. My eyes are starting to close, the world getting smaller and smaller. I force them to stay open. Sweat drips down my face and stings my barely open eyes. Then his face appears. Muffled sounds come from his mouth as he screams and shakes me. Johnny, stay with me, I think. I could be here forever. I don’t care about the pain. Just stay here, Johnny and it will be fine. But it stops. Everything stops. It feels like silence is slowly eating me, as I lay there, paralyzed in the middle of Tennessee. I realize this may be one of the last moments of my life, and a question hits me as hard as the bullet that just shattered my spine: How did I get here?

______

“How many slices of cornbread you want, Baby Girl?”
I was sitting in the parlor and when I heard Ruth say the word cornbread, I dropped my pick-up-sticks and ran as fast as a six year old could, straight to the kitchen. Ruth took the buttery, yellow cake out of the wood burning oven and put it on a plate. The smell of corn and gravy and Papa’s black coffee filled my nose and my stomach growled. I sat down at the table and Ruth gave me my plate. It went down in ten seconds. Nothing was better than her Sunday breakfasts. Papa entered the room and took a slice from my plate. I gave him a dirty look but he gave me a big, wet kiss and tickled me, which made me laugh until my stomach hurt.
“Papa! Can you take me to the general store today for some treats?” I opened my eyes wide and stared deep into his. “Please, Papa. I'm gonna starve!”
“I wish I could, Charlie. I’m going shooting today with Billy and Parker.”
I forgot it was Sunday. Papa always went shooting on Sundays with his friends. The only reason Mama let him go was because he brought back dinner. She hated the fact he owned a gun.
“Hopefully, I’ll bring back some deer for dinner. So don’t worry about starving yourself,” Papa said as he wofled down the cornbread. “Anyhow, didn’t you just have some cornbread? I’ll be back by evening.”
For the first time, I wondered why he never invited me hunting. I didn’t have much in common with my Papa. I wanted something that we could share together. A ritual.
Ruth patted me on the shoulder. She gave me a hug and I pressed my forehead deep into her soft, caramel colored skin. It was warm. How come Mama never gave me hugs like this? Mama walked into the kitchen and immediately snatched me from Ruth’s arms. She brought me to the dining room and closed the door.
“Don't you ever get that close to Ruth again. Do you understand me?”
I nodded, but didn’t understand. I looked through the glass doors and saw Ruth looking at me with a gentle smile.
“C’mon give your mama a hug, Char,” Mama said and picked me up.
______
My life had been the same for sixteen years. Nothing but cornbread and school. At that age, I couldn’t care less about school. I was in an all-girls class that pretty much only focused on religion. They saved the fun stuff, like math, for the boys.
All I wanted to do was go outside and hunt. For my birthday last weekend, Papa finally took me out. It was the best five hours of my life. I just felt, I don't know, free. Ever since I was six, I have wanted to hunt, and my dream finally came true. Being outside in such a primitive way evoked something in me, a wild feeling. We were just out in the woods, walking and talking and shooting. It was the best birthday yet. The moment I pulled the trigger at the deer, my whole body lit up. It felt amazing to be the one bringing home dinner for the family that night. It felt amazing to change things up. It was what I pictured myself doing when I was older.
All my friends had all become boy crazy, especially Jessica, and only cared about school so they could flirt with boys. I didn’t get it. The boy part and the caring-about-school part. It was too hot for school, anyway. Tennessee in the spring was so humid, the school houses were sticky and horribly uncomfortable. It felt like I was locked in a steaming cage for seven hours straight. When you’re hunting, though, the heat never bothers you. You get too much of a rush to notice. Even in this June heat. Anyway, I never had a crush, and as far as I was concerned, I never would. I had no interest whatsoever. I had bigger dreams.
One day, the week after my sixteenth birthday, I remember walking home and taking a shortcut through Nashville. I lived in a part of the city that had small villages. I never noticed until now, but on just about every store, there was a Confederate Flag draped over the window. I passed a sign pinned to a tree that caught my eye. It was a sign for army recruitment.
We didn’t talk about the war a lot at school, but Mama and Papa talked about it all the time, back home. Papa was aggravated about the whole thing. He thought the Confederacy should be able to secede if they wanted. He hated the fact there needed to be a war. He also told Mama that the war would be worth it if they won; he couldn’t stand having a president like Lincoln, telling him who he could and couldn’t hire on his own plantation. I guess the whole thing just fascinated me.
The sign said, “Time to fight for this country. This new country! Your homeland is calling you! Volunteers are wanted immediately!”
I had never really thought about war, but I realized it involved fighting. There weren’t many jobs out there that involved my passion for hunting, especially for women, and when I thought about it, fighting wasn’t that different. It felt like my whole life was unfolding in front of me. A job where I got to fight! I loved my mama. But I didn’t want to spend my life knitting and ordering my slaves to cook dinner. It just sounded boring to me. It was an endless cycle of women living the exact same life as their mothers. I didn’t want that. I wanted my own legacy.
My excitement lasted until I read the line below the big type. It read,
“Young men willing to volunteer born from 1841- 1847 would be greatly appreciated. If interested, report to the nearest recruiting station.”
I squeezed the flier into a ball, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it over and over. What kind of world did I live in? One where only men could be brave? It's ridiculous. And the age range was perfect. I was born in 1845. The only thing wrong was that I was a woman. I ran home.
Mama was in the living room knitting when I got home. Ruth was in the kitchen, most likely preparing supper. I wanted to talk to my Papa. He would understand my frustration. Mama came up to me and gave me a hug.
“Where’s Papa?”
“He’s making a big shipment to a clothing factory today,” she said grinning wide. “Biggest cotton export of the year for him, so he won’t come home until night.”
Then, I thought about it more. Would Papa really understand that I wanted to fight? I didn’t think so. The oldest son of every generation had taken over this farm, and the rest of the siblings went to marry or start their own farms. Either way, the men always worked. The women never did. He was used to this, and may be confused if I told him that I wanted to work, let alone fight in the army. Too much crushing of dreams for one hour. I stormed to my room.
Sometimes, the only thing that made me feel better was a book. I would've done anything to have my own gun and have been able to wander off. I needed that badly right now. I needed to be alone. I needed to think. Books were the only source of solitude for me.
I walked into my parent’s bedroom, hoping to find a good book. I found a pile of books on Papa’s desk, but they were all thick and gave me a headache just by looking at them. Every book he owned had a title like, Guide to The Slave Trade of Tennessee or The History of Cotton. Sounded like torture. Next to the stack was his hunting cap. I was so used to him wearing it, it was weird seeing it sitting on his desk. I guess he wore it to feel tough. I put it on and stuffed my ponytail into the back. Everyone always said I looked exactly like my Papa, but I never really saw it until I put on this hat. It made me feel strong, maybe what men always felt like.
Maybe if I wore this hat, I would always feel confident. I looked into the mirror, my lips curving into a smile. I had an idea. A crazy, totally impossible idea. But it was something.
I rummaged through Papa’s bureau. I put on a pair of his pants, a shirt, his boots, a heavy jacket and finally, his cap. I looked like a man. And it did help that my name was Charlie. The only thing wrong was my hair. I ran into the study and found a pair of scissors. I was about to start cutting, but then I thought for a moment. If I cut my hair, it means I’m actually doing this. I had to. I knew it. I started cutting tiny pieces at a time, until I looked like Papa’s twin brother. I then took more of his clothes from the drawer and put them into a satchel that was under my parents’ bed. I kept the hat and the clothes on.
I looked at the grandfather clock in the hallway. It was already seven o’clock. Dad wasn’t even home yet. Dinner would be soon. I could never go to supper like this. I had to sneak out during the night when no one would notice. Luckily, the nearest recruiting station was only a few towns over in Brentwood. It would be an hour and a half walk, but the sun would be down, so it wouldn’t be too hot. When Mama’s voice called, “Supper!” I almost fell down I was so frightened. I told her I was too tired and would head into bed and read for a while.
About two hours later, I heard Papa’s heavy footsteps slowly come up the stairs. I would run in a few moments. When I was pretty sure they were asleep, I walked downstairs gingerly, staring at my feet, making sure every step was silent. I whispered goodbye to the house and gently closed the door, wondering if I’d ever be back. I started to run through the cotton fields and passed the slave quarters. I saw Ruth walking to the well to fetch water, probably for her and her kids. I dropped to the ground, attempting to hide, but she saw me and started walking over.
“Please don’t tell them.” I waited for her to respond. She didn’t. She smiled, then hugged me.
“Where you headed?” she said finally.
“To fight for this country. And this stays between you and me. Wish me luck”
“Don’t need to. I know you, girl,” she said stroking my arm. She could easily see my short hair, but didn’t say anything. “You gonna do good.”
I smiled at her. Then I ran off, heading to the road.
I arrived at the recruiting station by eleven. It was closed. I found a bench near the Brentwood Square, and lay down, using Papa’s satchel as the pillow. I tried to fall asleep but was too excited to even close my eyes. The thought of having my own gun and my own troop just made me happy. I couldn’t believe it. I was going to be fighting in real battles. The ones mom and Papa talk about at the breakfast table. I wondered what they would be talking about tomorrow morning when they didn’t see me come downstairs.
“Hey! Whatcha doin’ sweetheart?”
I woke up to an old man that shook and poked me, his pipe smoke puffing at my face. 
For a moment I forgot where I was. Then, within one second, everything poured in, reminding me why I was lying on a random park bench in Brentwood.
I got up and walked to the recruiting station. The town hall clock showed that it was eight o’clock. I walked inside and saw five men already standing in line. One shook my hand and said his name was Johnny Pritchett. He told me he had been transferred from Charleston, South Carolina because they needed more soldiers for the Tennessee unit. He asked me where I was from. As I was about to answer, I remembered I was talking to a boy, who thought I was a boy. Should I change my voice? I already had a pretty deep voice for a young girl, so I barely changed it, and made my Nashville accent a bit more dramatic instead.
“Hi. I’m Charlie. I’m from Nashville, just a few towns over”
“Yeah, I know Nashville.” He had a nice, deep voice. And eyes. He had deep eyes too.

______________

The next six months were probably the best and worst of my life. My daily schedule consisted of intense exercise in the mornings that started at five (brutal running and other workouts), mock battles (we would attack dummies), target and reloading practice, and mostly marching. I didn’t get what was so incredibly important about marching that was worth spending half of everyday working on.
Apparently the Union General Grant had his troops camped at Pittsburg Landing, along the Tennessee River. One of our major generals, General Johnston was planning a surprise attack with over 40,000 Confederate soldiers. Our troop had been selected to be a part of the raid. We got the letter this morning and everyone was getting ready to march. I thought my walk to the recruiting station was long. This was about two full days of marching. I guess it’s what we’ve been training for this whole time. I was ready.
For my six months of being in the army, I had written over 25 letters back home. At first, I thought I was tough enough to never tell my parents what I was doing, but I learned I couldn’t neglect my likely worried Mama and Papa. I missed them too much. In my first letter, I explained everything from the park bench to stealing my Papa’s suitcase. Their response was shorter than I expected, but I knew it must’ve been hard for them to process. I couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like to have your 16-year-old daughter run away to go fight for the Confederacy, disguising herself as a man. I knew deep down that they were proud, though.
I included just about everything in my letters. Except one thing. I never told them about Johnny. Yes, the same Johnny who I met on the line to sign up. I had never had a crush before. But Johnny was different. Of course, there was one big problem.
He didn’t know I was a girl.
As far as he knew, I was just another soldier from Tennessee. We did interact a lot, though. He slept in the tent nextdoor, so we made a fire together every night. Along with the rest of our unit, of course. But we talked all the time, as we ran and marched and made fires. Just as friends, of course. But he was more than that to me. Yesterday we had a long conversation about sports. Apparently, he was a racing legend at his old private school in Charleston. He and his horse won every race throughout his horseback riding career. I told him I curled. But of course, that was a lie. Girls’ sports were non-existent.
The whole thing was weird. Sometimes it felt like our whole friendship was a lie. It had to be, though. I could never tell him who I really was. If I did, I would be arrested and kicked out of the army forever. It was a scary feeling going to bed every night knowing I’m breaking the law and have been for a while now.
As the full troop marched all the way across Tennessee, I really bonded with Johnny. He told me about how he was behind the first cannon that shot off in Fort Sumter. In a way, he started of the civil war. It was pretty cool. He also ran away from home, but for a different reason. He believed strongly in the Confederacy, but his parents didn’t. They wanted to move up North from Charleston before the war started because of their anti-slavery views. He left his home to join the military and break free of his parents.
He was the reason I didn’t collapse during the 135 mile walk from Brentwood to the other side of Tennessee, Shiloh, where the Confederates were going to attack. The plan was to startle the Union’s military camps early in the morning and push them all the way east to the river.
Johnny and I were still talking when we heard General Johnston start shrieking commands to get us to start loading our muskets. After a few instructions, he screamed “CHARGE!” at the top of his lungs, and the whole regiment sprinted forward. That was it, the moment I had been preparing for. I had never been more excited.
The tents came into view as we saw hundreds of men get up, scrambling to get their weapons. They had just woken up. I felt so proud all of a sudden to be standing on my side of the battle. We kept running closer and closer. There was an overwhelming amount of bullets firing from all directions. Every second, people fell to the ground on both sides. More screaming than I could’ve imagined. The mud below my feet turned red.
I knew war wasn’t supposed to be fun, and of course the thousands and thousands of deaths that day were gruesome, but this was like the rush I got from hunting times a thousand! Only during war, I was hunting for freedom instead of deer. When darkness fell, both sides retreated and set up camp for the night. The North had walked a bit farther up and had settled as well. Our troop had no idea when we were going to have to get up and fight. It could’ve been at any moment.
I woke up the next morning to the sound of someone screaming. I was too tired to think about who it was, but I assumed that it was Johnston. All I knew was that it meant I needed to get up as quickly as I could. I buttoned my jacket and slid my boots on. It was hotter than yesterday. It was still only April, but wearing a heavy uniform increases the temperature by ten degrees. We immediately got into lines and started marching. I couldn’t wait for another day. Everyone always said they were worried about dying, but I didn’t think about it, until now. Despite the thousands of fellow soldiers getting shot by my side, for some reason, death was the least of my worries.
I saw a full line of blue soldiers awaiting us about half a mile away. They fired a cannon to mark the start of the battle. It felt like every tree in the woods was getting devastated by the bullets and cannons rapidly being fired.
I wiped the thick layer of sweat off my forehead. My hand was soaked. Suddenly everyone started moving faster. My troop was running towards the sound of cannons and muskets. My shoelace came undone. My body lurched forward and my face landed in the hot, sticky mud. Soldiers trampled over me as I lay behind, the boots of my fellow soldiers stampeding over my body. Something hit me. An excruciating pain radiated from my back. I felt heat and sharp pain spreading. I moved my hand to touch my back. It felt wet and hot. I could already see blood by my hip, pervading quickly, turning my grey uniform into a deep shade of red. I felt blood pulsing from the wound. My eyes were starting to close, the world getting smaller and smaller. I forced them to stay open. Sweat dripped down my face and stung my barely open eyes. Then his face appeared. Muffled sounds came from his mouth as he screamed and shook me. Johnny, stay with me, I thought. I could be here forever. I didn’t care about the pain. Just stay here, Johnny and it will be fine. But it suddenly stopped. Everything stopped. It felt like silence is slowly eating me, as I lay there, paralyzed in the middle of Tennessee. As I realized this may be one of the last moments of my life, a thought hit me as hard as the bullet that just shattered my spine:
Men aren't the only ones who can be brave.