Alternate Universe: During the American Civil War, 19-year-old Sam runs away from home to become a hospital nurse. She stumbles across an injured soldier, and a twist of events land them in the middle of dangerous conspiracies and ghostly encounters. S/D.

Update 9/8/15: This story has undergone very serious edits from its original version. Back in 2005, I knew that I wanted to write an alternate universe story and that I wanted to explore the inception of Danny Phantom in a historical context, but my writing was poorly planned and even more poorly conceived, with me bumbling along in every chapter. Now that it's been ten years, and with this story still going, I felt that this story required a serious revision to bring it up to speed. It's still not to the quality I'd like it to be, but I feel much better about it. The plot has been restructured, the details made to be more historically accurate (in some respects), and the dialogue adjusted. For those of you who have read this story before, I believe you will find the changes and additions to be a value-add for your enjoyment of the story.

Desperado

Chapter 1: The Divisions that Haunt

June 1862

The woman walked along, carrying the vegetables she had bought in a worn, fraying basket. Her once-custom-made purple skirts were dirty at the hem, her hands rough from hard labor. She was the infamous Samantha Manson—who was years ago the richest heiress in the entire Virginian valley and the most countercultural topic of conversation, and now was among the poor, along with the women and children and elderly left behind in the war.

It was said that her father, the great Jeremiah (Jeremy) Manson, had single-handedly funded the presidential elections of 1860, and then began to fund the Union upon the Confederate attack on Fort Sumter in 1861. At that time, Mr. Manson believed he could invest in the war and receive enough political backing to expand intellectual property laws. He wanted to ensure his own father's inventions would not be stolen from him—that the Manson empire would remain solely his own, with a steady income for future generations. Three months, Congress said. Three months, and they would stifle the Rebels using Manson's money in exchange for…political favors.

It was now 1862. Jeremy Manson had been shot on a battlefield he was visiting. The funds he'd sought to invest in the war had been all but depleted, and the inventions of the late Izzy Manson were too much of a triviality in the face of death, military raids, and rationing.

As Sam walked through the streets, she carried herself with the high-chin grace of the well-born. Her black hair still flowed freely in her hatred of bonnets and buns, occasionally stunning visitors with the near-scandal of a woman with a short, un-styled cut.

She still could feel the eyes of people as she passed by—their irritation, their envy, their pity. Many of them enjoyed seeing her in such a poor state after the way her parents had treated the townspeople, which had been a combination of distance and superiority. How nice to see a blueblood like her brought to her proper place, they whispered behind her back. Miserable like the rest of us!

Some people had the unfortunate habit of considering her their favorite target of gossip. "I don't think anyone will marry her. She's already a spinster—with no dowry and nineteen years old, what good is she? Can she still even bear children?"

"Well, who would she marry if all of our marriageable men are fighting or dead?"

"I heard the mayor's son, Eliot, has had his eye on her for a while. Seems to think she's still worth something."

A laugh. "A rotting castle and an empty womb?"

Her fingers tightened on the frayed basket as she stared ahead at the dying of the light. The sunset in the distance. A horizon from which she could never escape.

"Well, I mean, there's talk, you know. Scrub off the dirt, and she'd still be beautiful. A good trophy wife, if nothing else."

"Oh, she's too taciturn to be a good wife."

"I think Eliot just wants a feisty lover. Word is, he's been trying to get her into his bed for months now."

A roll of the eyes. "That boy should have never been able to avoid the draft."

"Well, that's what money can do for you." Eyes turned back to Samantha Manson. "At least, until it runs out."

The young woman of topic turned around. She set her basket down, leaned against the fence, and raised a brow. Her purple eyes—too unique, too inhuman—were sharp. "You know," she called dryly to the gossipers, "I can hear everything you're saying."

The elderly folks gathered around the market stand turned to her in complete silence, their beady eyes wide with guilt. No one said anything, nor dared to greet the fallen heiress.

Sam tilted her head, and the edges of her dark hair curled against her shoulder. "Maybe if you discussed how to end the war with the same fervor you discuss my lack of marriageability—we would already have peace." Her voice carried a dangerous tone. "But I guess small topics are better suited for small minds."

Then she pulled away from the fence, grabbed onto her basket, and walked away. Her presence was always slight within town, but it was always felt somehow down to the bone, as if she were some kind of haunting ghost.

The whispers froze for a time as they watched her.

And then once she was out of earshot, one of them tentatively asked, "Did she just insult us?"

It was on the other side of town that Sam opened the door to the doctor's office, face still twisted in a disgruntled irritation. Who do they think they are, she thought, to gossip about me? So what if I'm almost twenty? So what if I'm not married with children? Even the thought of a stomach swollen with a man's child made her feel ill. The vulnerability of childbirth. The way rich men pushed themselves on women only to secure an heir or relieve some kind of primal instinct—

She swallowed hard, trying to banish her thoughts. She did not want to keep thinking about this. Her mother had complained time and again that such duties were due a woman of well-born status, and that Sam would one day have to marry and give birth—And that damnable Eliot that her mother wanted her to marry was still bothering her…

The doctor's office opened up into something of a waiting room. The wooden floors were old but well-swept, and a small desk and various chairs littered the room. Her black boots creaked the floors as she stepped in, and she called out, "Doctor? I'm here to pick up medicine for my mother!"

A voice echoed from beyond the door to the official operation room, where the doctor treated his patients. "Hello, Sam!" the doctor's voice was muffled. Some rummaging. "Just doing some cleaning—Is Mrs. Manson still struggling with those headaches?"

Sam rolled her eyes. "Every day."

"Then pick up a pint of laudanum on the shelf. It should do the trick."

On one side of the wall were various medications—most of them alcohol-based, Sam could read. She picked up a pint-sized bottle with a red label of "Laudanum," then placed it in a pocket in her skirts (it was best not to advertise her mother's headaches by carrying her medicine openly). "How much is this?" she called back to the doctor.

The rumble of falling boxes answered, and then the doctor responded, voice a bit strangled, "Two dollars! I'll trade for equivalent value too."

The Mansons were not entirely destitute of money, and so Sam had enough to spare for such necessities. She pulled out a few worn dollars from her pocket and set them down on the desk, per the doctor's request. But something caught her eye, and she could not move away.

On the desk was an open letter—something official, with the government seal of an eagle stamped at the top. Sam, in her curiosity, tilted her head. It appeared to be some kind of generic advertisement. Help Wanted, it said in bold type letters. Requesting War-Time Assistance from Doctors, Nurses, and Volunteers. Food and Lodging Provided. Locations in Need:

And from there, it listed several major hospitals down the eastern coast of the States. One of the farthest options was in Maryland.

Sam swallowed hard as she stood in the silence of her own transgression. Reading someone else's mail—surely, there was a shame to be attached to that. But she could not look away. As she stood there, she tried to imagine putting on an apron, healing injured men, and helping doctors with surgical operations. She could imagine the blood and the amputations—the stories of arms and legs piled outside of windows, and the sobs and the screams…

But somehow, those things did not bother her. Instead, she was intrigued by the official request. A volunteer hospital nurse. She knew a few things simply from caring for injured farming animals and fixing up her own scrapes. Her mother had often bewailed her "lack of feminine capability and grace." She had simply responded that scars were a sign of living.

She tilted her head. Being a volunteer nurse didn't seem like a bad idea. She could probably get over the smell and sight of blood, if it was anything like learning that the dirt of the earth was not "entirely out to destroy" her. A volunteer hospital nurse. Saving lives. Doing something beyond sustaining her own miserable existence.

And so she tucked away the thought of escaping to the farthest hospital, leaving behind her mother and her town (they would be alright without her, even if her mother would struggle for a time with not having a daughter to order around).

How nice would it be, she thought, just to escape.

A short walk later, Sam arrived at the rusting gates of the old Manson home, which was once a great mansion. Several parts of it had fallen into dilapidation since the death of Jeremy Manson. But her mother still attempted to believe that they were wealthy—which was perhaps why Pamela spent most of her time resewing her old dresses, polishing silverware (what little they had kept), and agonizing over the thick rock of a wedding diamond upon her hand. She had grown, at best, unstable with the death of her husband and, at worst, clinically bipolar.

Her mother was waiting for her in the dusty, sparsely decorated parlor room, trying to fix her hair for the day despite having no logical reason to dress so well.

"Dear," Pamela said airily, putting pins in her blonde hair, "what on earth is that thing you're wearing?"

Sam looked at her mother. "A dress," she said flatly.

"Yes, but it's all dirty. Please tell me you're not still trying to put in a garden." Pamela sniffed. "Ladies do not dirty themselves with trivial matters such as growing their own food. That's for servants."

"We had to let go all the servants," Sam reminded her again. "And I'd rather not starve."

"But like this? Sammikins, there are far better uses of your time that don't require wallowing in mud like a pig just to eat." Pamela, still a beautiful woman with a sharp chin and high cheekbones, fitted a pin into the final curl of her bun. "Let the townspeople do that, and we'll trade with them. My needlepoint is coming along just fine."

Sam rolled her eyes. "It's not enough to put food on the table, mother. If we want to survive, we have to do things we don't want to do."

Pamela's face twisted, her innocent eyes narrowing in thought. "Speaking of which, Eliot dropped by to call on you today. He's quite taken with you—and he was so depressed that you weren't here. I think we can still secure you a respectable living so you don't have to work. I told him to come back tomorrow."

Sam's heart stopped. She mashed her lips together, eyes flashing in great anger at her mother, who dared to think that she could rule her life. "What," she said sharply, "makes you think I want Eliot to call on me?"

Pamela huffed. "Well, Sammikins, he's the richest boy in town. One of the only boys in town. And he's quite the looker too."

"Then he can call on himself," she said, "because I'm not interested."

Pamela looked pained. "Dear. I'm trying to secure you a future," she said, voice pointed. She waved her hand. "So that you can hold your head high in town, give me grandchildren, and wear new dresses again."

Her face twitched in irritation. "Mother," she said, the word nearly a curse. "We're fine. I'm fine. I don't want children, and frankly I wouldn't even wear dresses if I could get away with wearing pants. We've talked about this."

Her mother looked exasperated. "This is the perfect opportunity for you to move up in the world."

"Of course it is," she said bitterly. "The perfect opportunity to reestablish your own wealth through me. I see what you're doing. Don't pretend that this is about me."

"Samantha," her mother gasped, putting a hand to her chest as if insulted. "I would never consider my welfare above your own."

"Then consider my rejection of Eliot's proposal," she said.

The two fell silent. Pamela squirmed a bit in discomfort. "You don't know what hard life you're creating for yourself," she warned. "This is for you. Eliot's a good person. His family owns enough land and businesses, you could live comfortably—"

"—I don't want a comfortable life," Sam said, voice hardening. Her purple eyes began to flash with real determination. "All my life, you've stuffed me into dresses and made me eat expensive food I didn't like, while other people starved. Our country is dying. People are killing each other. You need to wake up, mom."

"But Sammy—"

"—Dad is dead," she said harshly, "all because of stupid business deals and money! His greed cost him his life—you think I want to pay the same price? You honestly think that Eliot's stupid material possessions are really going to make me happy?" Her eyes began to burn. "I've learned how to grow my own food, mom. You've learned how to sew. It's small, but we're contributing something. Somewhere. That's what makes me happy."

"Then contribute something alongside Eliot!" her mother said, voice raising with pedantic fervor. "With more money, you could help out more people! Contribute more things!"

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Eliot's not interested in anyone but himself. Even if I could stand him, and I can't, he wouldn't want to spend money on others. I'll figure a way to contribute, and I'll do it on my own without his blood money."

"But, dear—"

She set the basket of vegetables down on a table, feeling caged and imprisoned. "—I'm going to go check on the horses," she declared, interrupting her mother's further attempts to indoctrinate her into marriage. "So don't bother me. And if Eliot calls again while I'm out, tell him to go to hell."

Without further warning, she turned away from her mother and began to walk out the door.

The mother's face pinched with a genuine hurt and irritation. "You are almost twenty," she warned, calling out. "You can walk away now, but you know the time's coming when you can't! And wash your mouth out, young lady!"

Sam slammed the front door shut.

In times past, the Manson stables were an envy of the countryside. Her father had imported several of their horses and had hired a rich trainer to break them. But they'd had to sell several of their horses in order to pay for living expenses. Now, half of the barn had begun to rot, with only two of their original ten horses remaining—and only then because Sam could not bear to sell them.

She unlatched the first stall and entered. A sleek, gray horse lifted its head from sleep. "Hey, Lilith," she greeted. She reached out and stroked Lilith's strong neck. The horse had been hers for several years—a birthday gift from her father. She'd taken one look at the wildly curl mane of the Andalusian horse and thought it was delightful to have something so untamed.

The horse was nearly every bit as taciturn and high-spirited as she was, which was perhaps why only Sam could even touch her without getting kicked. No trainer had ever successfully broken Lilith, and it was mostly by a miracle that Lilith tolerated Sam.

"I know you hate being cooped up here as much as I do," she mourned, stroking the mare's soft coat. "Not able to run like we used to."

The horse seemed to sigh, eyeing her. Its intelligent, black eyes roved over the woman in suspicion, then nudged her nose against her to say, Get me out of here.

"I know, I know," Sam said quietly. She leaned her forehead against the horse's. "I saw an advertisement today for hospital attendants. Free food and lodging. Am I crazy for thinking it sounds like a good idea?"

Lilith's ears perked up.

Sam sounded tentative. "I'm just so tired of mother and Eliot and everyone else," she said, voice pained. "Maybe…I could just escape. Everything. If I don't…" She had horrific nightmares of her mother signing some kind of betrothal contract between her and Eliot's family—of her being forced to marry the slimy man—having to bear his children….

The mare pushed her nose against Sam's shoulder, as if to say, Yes, yes. Let's leave.

"It would be a long trip across the country. Several days."

Lilith began to grow more agitated with excitement. Yes, yes. We need to run.

"It could be dangerous going alone."

The horse snorted a bit, as if to wave off Sam's concern. It's worth it. Let's go.

The woman's heart began to swell with a spark of hope. She said softly, "And I don't know if they'll accept me. We might have to just come back."

We will never come back, the horse seemed to say. Not if I can help it.

The woman and her horse stared at each other, as if measuring the will of the other. The impending doom of their existence in the town was one of cages and subordination to a higher power. But neither of them were meant for such lives. In that moment, the taste of freedom was in the air.

"Okay, then, Lilith. Damn the consequences. We're going to run away—just you and me," she whispered. "To the farthest hospital I can find. I'm going to work there, and I'm going to leave this worthless town behind."

And so, in the dark of the night, she did.

The ground rumbled with the blast of explosives. Men flew back and slammed hard into the ground, some of them already dead, some of them screaming in agony.

A twenty-year-old solider dropped to the ground, covering his head as the debris fell down. A rain of dirt and blood showered him, and he winced at the heat. His ears rang with the noise. His eyes burned with tears.

With every battle, he thought he would be stronger. He thought he'd grow numb to the sound of shells and bullets and death. That this was what men were meant to do. Fight and protect.

So why did it all feel so wrong?

He grabbed onto his Springfield musket with shaking fingers, blue eyes wide with fear. His whole company had been split into odd lines that were not usual formations—and he was caught in some interim in the ditches of debris and the safety of the forest behind. He did not know where his squad was. His immediate officer was dead.

He recalled the face of his father, who had been anguished at the beginning of the war, watching him leave. Danny boy, he had mourned. You be careful now. Your mom and I won't have anyone to go ghost hunting with if you're not here.

Well, if I die, maybe you'll find my ghost, he said lightly.

His father's face had fallen. Don't joke like that, son.

The minute he halfway managed to stand, the sound of a cannonball blasting overhead began to scream through the air, and he froze. He stopped thinking. In the haze of smoke, he lost himself.

Without warning, a hand suddenly grabbed onto the back of his shirt and yanked him down. The man stumbled hard with an odd yelp—and he fell to the uneven ground, the breath knocked out of him. The sound of the cannonball exploding rocked the world again and threw more clods of dirt through the air. The solider could do little more than struggle to catch his breath, to listen to the rapid scream of his own heartbeat, realizing that he was still in fact alive by some miracle.

He turned on his side, wincing, and looked at his savior.

It was his friend from another regiment that had been closely following his for the last several months. Private Tucker Foley, a black man with sharp eyes. In the years past, he had been enslaved to a wealthy inventor, and he had signed up for war in the name of defending his people—and so that he could win some medals and attract real women.

Gotta be a real man, Tucker had once said, raising a dark brow to the sky, to get a real lady.

What's a real lady? he asked.

Tucker sniffed. A woman who can handle me and love everything I invent.

Even the stuff that doesn't work? he had joked.

Yeah, even that.

"Dammit, Danny," he hissed. He narrowed his eyes as he leveled his rifle out at the enemy ahead. "You're supposed to duck!"

Danny squeezed his eyes shut for a second or two, trying to regain his bearings. "You didn't say duck," he said breathlessly.

"Pretty sure I did—you're just so deaf, you can't hear a damn thing." He fired off the rifle. "If I had my tools with me, I'd make you a hearing aid."

Danny laughed, but it was dry and odd against the sound of the battle and screams. "You what?"

"Exactly!" Tucker began to reload the musket, ripping open his gunpowder pouch with his mouth. He complained under his breath, "Gun ain't designed for this kind of war—gotta be an easier way to shoot than just one bullet at a time…maybe something automated—a whole cartridge—"

Tucker had once explained that he couldn't look at something without thinking of ways to improve it. It was his way of keeping sane through battle.

Danny took a place beside his friend, leveling his gun. The smoke around them was even more dense than before, and he almost wheezed trying to take a deep, steadying breath. He could barely see where the lines of the battle began and where they ended. Several Union soldiers were dragging away comrades in the midst of flying bullets, and the red and gray of Confederate coats blended in with the general chaos of the smoke and fire. And so Danny shot into the gray, halfway hoping that he really wasn't killing anyone. His fingers still shook on the rifle. His dirty face was still streaked with tears and the blood of others. Perhaps that was cowardly, and he was making his father ashamed. Perhaps that was brave, and he was making his father proud.

He didn't know anymore.

A/N: Again, this story has undergone a serious redesign from its original chapters posted in 2005, back when I was incredibly inexperienced with writing (which is not to say I still don't have things to learn).

Just some historical notes about certain things referenced in this chapter:

The story mentions that the Civil War was supposed to be only three months long. In truth, Major General Winfield Scott suggested it would take 2-3 years and 300,000 men do it.

Laudanum was a potent narcotic during the Victorian era. It was an opiate-based painkiller dissolved in alcohol and was widely used to address health problems from headaches to tuberculosis. The opiate alkaloids within it included morphine and codeine. Doctors prescribed it often, and many lower-class and upper-class men and women became addicted to it.

The name "Lilith" is in reference to a Jewish medieval satire. According to the story, which first appeared in the parody piece titled the Alphabet of Ben Sira, God had made for Adam a wife before Eve, who was named Lilith. Lilith had refused to subordinate herself to Adam, and so she left him and then became some kind of demonic spirit. Because Sam's family is literate and Jewish, she would likely have had exposure to this parody, which has origins in Babylonian mythology.

It is wildly inaccurate to have had African-American soldiers mixed with white soldiers in June 1862. It wasn't until September of 1862 and the Emancipation Proclamation that black men could serve in the armed forces, and even then in separate regiments.

Per Tucker's interest in automatic weapons: It was also during the Civil War that multiple-round weapons were conceived. Rapid-fire caliber arms were not true machine guns at that time, but they were able to detonate whole-cartridge rounds. A three-man Requa Battery was able to fire 175 shots per minute. The Requa became the most combat-effective machine gun during the Civil War years.

Other notes of interest: The .58 and .69 Minie Ball were the bullets of choice during the Civil war due to ease of loading. The single-shot Springfield Rifle Musket was a common weapon used by Union forces on the eastern coast, and it's the one that Danny uses here in the story.