The morning of a battle functions in an eerie state of superstition. Everything that was routine the day before sheds its tedium and becomes a ritual of substance. Perhaps because it is done with the notion that it could be the final sunrise, and a single bullet from a rifled musket could forever end the habits that have been acquired a lifetime through.

Daybreak has barely tinged the sky. Dense white fog mixed with ashen smoke from burning buildings makes this town called Fredricksburg appear a common war casualty. Sooty vapors intertwine with the skeleton frames of clapboard houses and prowls the abandoned yards of places that someone once called home. Then, as if to remind me that a dream of glory has caved in to a purgatory of barren winter and death, it hovers about the smashed furniture, shattered crockery and scattered apparel cast in the streets.

We arrived yesterday before sundown, me and the rest of my corps of young men whose guileless faces still portray the fantasy of steadfast bravery being the champion of a worthy cause. They miss their mothers or their sweethearts, and look at me as being old because I am almost thirty. Not a man-child of eighteen. And at night when they dream of some ideal woman, I have the recollection of holding her while she slept. Sometimes, often actually, I speak to her. Often she replies, and it is all a perfect conversation taking place in my imagination unfettered by her passing. Still, I know that it is just a trick of the mind seeking repose from grief.  During the rare moments when I cannot locate the look of her smile in my memory, I converse with my Maker.

‘Hear me when I call, O God of my righteousness: thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress; have mercy upon me and hear my prayer…But know that the Lord hath set apart him that is godly for himself: the Lord will hear when I call unto him.’ 

The Fourth Psalm of David.  I used to be able to recite all of it, but something happened to me.  I am uncertain if it was the consequence of spiritual affliction or the physical wound that I bear, but it made mercy and misery the same emotion, and blurred honor with shame to create a constant state of lethargy. I am weary in body and soul and do not possess the strength to stand after the long day’s march. It is why I am sitting with my back to a stone chimney that is still slightly warm from the house that burned down around it.

A dog is with me. He seems like an old fellow, but I cannot be sure. There is so much soot on his black coat it is hard to tell the fur from the ashes. He must have gotten caught in a cannon blast. I spotted him when I got here. He was sitting on the brick pathway in what used to be the front yard; just sitting there in bewilderment like he was waiting for someone to come home to this patch of cinders.

We stared at each other for some time through the gloaming until evening fell. For me, speculating about the life he used to have was just a way of passing time. Mostly, I liked thinking about him as a rascal pup or maybe being in a nursery protecting his children. It did also occur to me that he could have been the trusted companion of a widow, and on some afternoons he would lay at her feet on a soft rug, listening while she played the piano forte. I saw him get kicked by a drunken soldier who staggered past. Then he was almost shot by a corporal who was cavorting in front of him with a woman’s petticoat draped across his shoulders like a cloak. The garment must have looked familiar because the dog growled at him. Or maybe he just took offense at being teased like that. The corporal cocked his pistol and aimed right at him. I picked up a stone and pitched it, hitting the corporal in the back. He turned and leveled his gun at me. Then, without cause, he just walked away looking ridiculous in his ladylike finery.

After that, the mongrel inched closer. He appeared quite tender-footed, and it took some time for him to get to me.  Then I saw the reason for it. The pads of his paws are burned. I cleaned them with water from my canteen. He seemed grateful. Looking into his kind eyes, I did have cause to ponder why he had been left behind and whether he had wondered the same thing as he watched his family leave without him. I find it peculiar the way some folks are about dogs. They consider them stupid for what is only a particular tendency toward tolerance and loyalty. They will fight and die out of devotion to their pack or the ones they love, yet they wear no stripes or uniforms. Were it not for that, dog and soldier would be the same.

The sun is now a peek on the horizon and not one of those soldiers who were mustered into battle yesterday ever came back. Yet, overnight their spirits rose up with the northern lights and left their corpses on the field. In whirling shafts of crimson, yellow and white they traversed the black winter’s sky. These radiant apparitions were a spectacle of divine power. I would have feared being witness to it were it not for the dog’s warmth and comfort. Now, he is lying quietly with his head on my lap, eyes half-open and staring at nothing. A few droplets of blood have dripped from his nostrils onto my trousers. My thinking is that the cannon blast likely hurt his innards. The open palm of my hand is resting on his side. I have been watching the way it rises and falls with each declining breath that he takes. I can even feel the slow beating of his heart as though it is beating for both of us. I would stay with him a while longer, let him have some peace, but I have to go when I am told.

The Confederate battery commences. Our sergeant tells us that the Rebs are held up at a place called Marye’s Heights. We will have to cross an open field to get to it. Then he spurs us to valor:  “Cheer up, my hearties, this brigade has never been whipped!” But he is not fooling anyone. The roar of the big guns is so fierce that a mouse could not make it past them. Some of the other boys are writing their names on papers and pinning it to their uniforms. Not me. A name, a bullet, or the sunrise of another day makes no difference. The rub of living is just trying not to die.

II Corps, I heard them call II Corps. Like I knew we would be the next ones mustered, I was already laboring to my feet. I have my rifle to my shoulder now. I should take my place in line, but I am still standing here staring down at this dog. He is lying as quiet as before, looking up at me. I take a piece of hard tack from my pocket and set it close to his muzzle. He hardly gives it a sniff. Like me, he has no need for it.