by William Gear
“Will he be all right?” Sarah asked. “I mean, what do Yankees do to prisoners? All we heard after Pea Ridge was that the Confederate prisoners were marched off to Saint Louis before finally being exchanged. They won’t hurt him, will they?”
“Oh, I don’t imagine it will be any fun for Philip, but they won’t go out of their way to hurt him. Like I said, he may already be free. The commission in charge worked out some complicated scheme of what rank can be traded for how many of a lesser rank, and so on and so forth. Problem is, that on a one-for-one trade, there’s ten Reb prisoners for every Yank.”
Sarah heard the strain in her mother’s voice. “Before the battle, you did see your paw, didn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Butler spooned more of his soup. “He was … in his element. A raconteur in fine form, and his men loved him.”
“What’s your guess, son? Was he killed, or did he just cut and run?” Maw asked too casually.
Sarah felt her heart skip.
Butler considered, toying with his soup spoon. “Mother, I honestly don’t know.” His voice almost broke. “The things I saw…” He swallowed hard, the right hand shaking again. “Whole men just vanished … Blown into atoms of red mist. And the ground was so cut with ravines and woods and creeks.”
“Paw wouldn’t run,” Sarah insisted hotly. “He killed men in duels who so much as suggested he was a coward.”
Butler turned oddly glittering eyes on hers, his expression pinched and brittle. “Sister, I saw braver men than me run from that hell. I wish I’d … never…” His gaze went empty, the hand shaking again, a twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Well, that’s over with,” Maw insisted as she pulled out a chair and dropped into it beside Butler. “We’re so proud of you. My son, an officer. And on a general’s staff.”
Butler’s vision seemed to clear. “And not a very popular general’s staff at that. What do they say about us in Benton County? Despot? Tyrant Hindman?”
“Secesh is behind you to the Green River, as your paw would say. Union men would as soon hang Tom Hindman naked from a chinquapin tree and leave him to rot.” Maw knotted her hands on the table before her. “That Order Seventeen? The one that lets any ten men declare themselves as a company of rangers? Don’t you all know down in Little Rock that that sword cuts both ways?”
Butler nodded soberly. “It was that, or surrender the whole state to the Yankees. General Hindman bet that when push came to shove, most of the state would side with secession.”
“Most,” Maw agreed. “You’d be surprised at the number of men in Benton and Washington Counties who’ve slipped away in the night with their rifles to join the Union army. And then with General Curtis leaving? Tempers are starting to burn hot, son. For the moment, the county is in Rebel control, and those that suffered, like the mill owners, and the ones with sons and fathers killed by Yankees in the fighting? They’ve got a call for revenge on the Unionists. I’ve heard tell of two farms that were burned over by Bentonville. There’s tales of men shot from ambush as they stepped out their front doors.”
She leveled her finger at him. “Word is the Union families have started forming their own bands of rangers. There’s talk of secret societies, of passwords, and meetings held in the darkest of night. Lots of folks is feeling betrayed by their neighbors, Butler. And if the army can’t keep a lid on the pot, it’s going to boil over.”
“We’re going to do our best to make sure the Federals stay gone,” Butler said softly. “Under old Granny Holmes’s orders, we’ve got nearly five thousand cavalry tying the Federals in knots up in Missouri. If we can get the country folk up there to rise for the Confederacy, the state will turn in our favor.”
Sarah said, “Billy was talking to one of his friends up at the tavern. He said there was just as much Union recruitment in Missouri as there was Secesh recruitment in Arkansas. That in the end, the Federals just plain have more men.”
“I suggested the recruitment of Negro regiments, offering freedom for service. To save Arkansas, Hindman would have done it. Though God alone knows what the reaction from Richmond would have been. But with Granny Holmes in charge, even that hope is gone.”
“Heard the Federals recruited several Negro regiments of runaway slaves.” Maw studied him thoughtfully. “How do they fight?”
“They fight as well as any other men. Which makes a lie of the old notion of Negro inferiority.” Butler looked suddenly fatigued. “It boils down to a matter of will. In the end, we just have to want it more than the Federals do. Just like when we were ordered back here after Shiloh and Pea Ridge. Arkansas was defeated, and now she’s back in the fight.” He glanced around, as if noticing. “Where is Billy anyway?”
“Out in the woods,” Maw told him. “Where none of the recruiters can find him.”
“He doesn’t have to hide. Not from our soldiers,” Butler protested. “They can’t take anyone under eighteen.”
Sarah laughed, the sound of it bitter. “You’ve been in headquarters too long. Big strapping boy like Billy? Your soldiers don’t care. If Billy falls into their hands, one will look to the other and say, ‘Why, I do declare, he looks like he’s a solid eighteen to me.’ And the other will say, ‘Of course he’s lying about being fifteen. He’s eighteen sure. And besides, once we get him to camp, it’s his word agin’ ours.’”
Butler sucked his lips for a moment, an unfamiliar tension in the set of his brow. Sarah thought he looked pale, and his hair, sweat-darkened, hung in strands.
Butler asked, “He ever said so much as a word about enlisting?”
Sarah laughed. “Your brother? Last thing he wants to be is a soldier. Butler, he’s the happiest he’s been in his entire life! He’s hunting for a living, and we’re so thankful he is.”
“Then you keep him out there, sis. You, too, Maw. I don’t want him to see the things I have. You promise me.”
The intensity of his words unnerved her. “Of course, Butler.”
“Too many ghosts already,” Butler whispered under his breath, then dropped his head into his hands, as if his soul had shriveled away inside him.
29
November 24, 1862
Did anyone ever get used to a place like Camp Douglas prison camp? Doc wondered as he exhaled frosty breath in the chill air. He plodded along, feet numb where the holes in his shoes sucked in cold with each step.
He had volunteered at the hospital and spent most of his days there. Regimental surgeon Higbee rarely stuck his nose into the place, and when he did, it was with an expression of absolute disgust.
As a result, however, Doc was subtly and occasionally successful in his attempts to influence the “medical” assistants in their ministrations to the wretched prisoners. None had had anything beyond the most rudimentary medical training. As a result, they listened when Doc made a suggestion.
For the most part, however, it had been an exercise in frustration. The lack of supplies, the intransigence of the authorities—and most of all, Higbee—to improve sanititation.
Maybe I’m just fooling myself.
He plodded his way through the crowds, glancing up at the wall: a plank fence that surrounded the prison barracks and “bull pen” where the Reb soldiers congregated and attempted to fight the incessant boredom.
Doc had to step carefully around a clot of soldiers clustered around a game of chuck-a-luck. Someone had carved a board onto which wagers could be placed. Shouts of delight or dismay went up as each roll of the three dice was made. With each round of play a fortune in tobacco and hardtack—the only wealth a prisoner in Camp Douglas could amass—hung in the balance. But it was the crafty board owner, with his dice, who was going to go back to his bunk a winner.
Young James—who didn’t gamble—had a biscuit tin half full of hardtack “crackers” that he’d been carefully hoarding since the summer. His stash had made him a somewhat renowned personage among the other prisoners, and several schemes had been concocted to separate James from his crack
ers, but to no avail. They remained James’s most prized possession.
Rounding the corner of his barracks, Doc was surprised to see James. The subject of his thoughts sat on the ground, hunched, arms crossed tight on his stomach, back against one of the posts supporting the elevated floor of the barracks. Doc needed no more than a glance: something was terribly wrong.
Hurrying forward, Doc crouched, asking, “James? You all right?”
“Nothing I won’t get over.” James gave him a queasy sidelong look.
“What’s wrong? Stomach? You got the squirts? Cramps in your guts?”
“Naw, just feel like spewing my guts. Sick over something I ate. What it made me do.”
Doc sighed, diarrhea was a constant scourge. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to stick to fresh servings that have been boiled before they can turn foul.”
“It ain’t that, Doc,” James told him with a weak grin. “Hell, neither of us has had a full belly since we got here. And all we get is slops. Reckon the Yankees enjoy keeping us ganted up and half starved. But Walker Coleman … You know, that big guy across the way? From down in Louisiana? It was his idea. He says, ‘Reckon I’m hankering for meat, boys.’ And he allows that down in the swamps he ate anything that ran, flew, swum, or slithered. And that included rat. ‘Why, when you think about it, it’s just meat, boys. ’Tain’t no worse than opossum.’ And he organizes a rat hunt.”
“You went rat hunting?” Doc rubbed his chin dubiously.
James nodded, his young face morose. “It’s just that when you think of it, what’s a rat made of but meat? And how long’s it been since any of us chewed on a piece of meat, Doc?
“So we go over to the cookhouse right at dusk last night and start hunting. You know, them damn rats have a whole city of tunnels over there. And we commences a-chasing, and stomping, and grabbing for rats every time one pokes out of his hole.”
“Catch any?”
“Rats is harder t’ catch than you’d think. Fast little bastards. But there’s this big one. The fatted calf of all rats. He ducks into this hole, and he’s gone and we got to get back to barracks for roll call. So this morning we go back with a couple of spoons, and it takes us half the day to dig this old rat out. And just as we get the hole big enough, he comes shooting out.
“’Grab ’im!’ Walker yells, and I catch his tail just as he scoots down a different hole. He bunches up and sets his claws in the dirt, but I figure I got him. So I give a hard yank, and the skin just pulls off his tail, leaving bare meat and bone.”
James made a face. “I’m just sitting there on my butt holding that empty skin, and it sends the shivers clear through me. It’s about the most awful and horrible feeling.”
“I can guess.”
“So Walker gives a howl and we start digging, and sure enough, this time we get him.”
James scrunched up his nose. “Doesn’t take but two shakes of the lamb’s tail and we’re cooking spitted rat. And I got to tell you, Philip, it smells wonderful. Roasting meat. You know, it’s like heaven. There’s three of us, Walker, Hetch, and me, and when the rat’s declared roasted, we burn our fingers picking the meat off. I put a piece on one of my crackers and take a bite, forgetting what it is I’m eating.
“I tell you, I envision it’s beef. Fine veal. Some of Mama’s pot roast. My eyes are closed, and I’m home in the dining room, hearing the clink of the fine china.
“And the next thing, Walker says, ‘Reckon I never saw a feller look sicker than ol’ James did when that rat tail come off in his fingers!’”
Doc watched James’s expression turn green. “And that was it, Doc. It was like I couldn’t get the feel of that loose skin off my hand, no matter how I rubbed it. Collywobbled my gut something fierce at just the memory.”
“And?”
James tightened his hold on his stomach. “And I charged outside. I can’t stand to have it in me. Tried to puke it up. I just keep remembering that tail pulling through my fingers and leaving that skin behind all loose and warm.”
“Well, I guess you’ve got a right to look sick. I suppose rat’s off the menu from here on out?”
James shot him a reproachful glance. “Hell, no. It’s just that rat. “’Cause I pulled his tail off.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
“You know I been saving those crackers for months now? Waiting for a special occasion to eat ’em? What really makes me sick is I run outside to poke my finger down my throat. And while I was fooling around, trying to puke up that damn rat, Walker and Hetch ate my precious biscuits. Along with what was left of my rat!”
30
December 8, 1862
The smell of roasting human flesh and burned hay pierced and clung to Butler’s memory like cockleburs in his soul. For the rest of his life the mere sight of a hog would trigger his memory of the horror. The pigs were eating them! Ripping off strips of cooked human beings, snorting, chewing.
His mind seemed to reel, and he swayed in the saddle, as if the frigid night air were pressing down around him as he sat on Red. Alone in the darkness. In the middle of the battlefield.
Dear Lord God, how did I ever get here?
The plan had been audacious from the start, but something had to be done in northwest Arkansas.
Just not this.
Butler fought tears, as he tightened his grip on the reins. Why did every turn end in the sort of horror that left his soul on the verge of screaming, and tears streaking down his face?
The pigs are eating cooked human flesh!
The original plan of taking the war north to Missouri had collapsed as two Federal armies drove Confederate forces back south into Arkansas. Union General James G. Blunt had parked five thousand Federal troops in the vicinity of Fayetteville and Cane Hill to spend the winter.
This “army made of Pin Indians, free Negroes, Southern tories, Kansas jayhawkers, and hired Dutch cutthroats,” as Tom Hindman called it in his railing diatribe, would ruin Arkansas and the Confederate cause were it not routed. And what better time than in early winter when the Federal forces were scattered across four states, in winter bivouac, and could be destroyed a piece at a time?
The winter march north from Fort Smith had been miserable. A thousand had to be left behind for want of shoes, blankets, training, or even adequate clothing. Of those ordered north, Butler had watched half-clothed—often barefoot—men marching on partially frozen roads. Despite all the rations Hindman’s command could gather in advance of the campaign, for all intents and purposes, the men received half of a maintenance ration—let alone full bellies for a march. Of the nine thousand men, hundreds marched carrying weapons no more lethal than kitchen knives. The hope was that they could pick up arms from the fallen on the battlefield. Only one day’s supply of ammunition was available for those who were armed.
But Arkansas had changed since Van Dorn marched north to surprise Curtis at Pea Ridge earlier that year. The state’s loyalties were split; Union passion was driven by Hindman’s Draconian measures. Spies and scouts were everywhere. Up in Fayetteville, Blunt knew the moment that Hindman started his First Corps north into the Boston Mountains.
What should have been an overwhelming attack on Blunt’s five thousand Yankees at Cane Hill turned out to be a daylong brawl of a battle when Francis Herron’s reinforcing two divisions hit Hindman head-on at Prairie Grove Church just south of Fayetteville.
By dusk the two armies had fought to a draw.
Tom Hindman and his desperate, half-naked army had exhausted its limited ammunition. As the Federals dug in for the night, hundreds of wounded and dying lay in the bloody, burning, and shell-torn fields between the armies.
Butler had just delivered a message from General Marmaduke to Hindman at his headquarters in the Prairie Grove Church. He had waited while Francis Shoup finished his report on the few artillery rounds remaining among his batteries. Silence lay on the small gathering, broken only by the sporadic fire from the lines.
“Lieute
nant Hancock, I need you to carry the flag of truce to the Yankees,” Hindman had told him. “Ask for a cease-fire in order that we may retrieve our dead and wounded.” Hindman’s cold blue glare had burned into Butler. “Then get back here, Lieutenant, because we’re out of ammunition, and we don’t have rations enough to get the men back to Van Buren as it is. I need you to figure out a plan to disengage this army tonight. How can we withdraw without them damn Yankees having a clue?”
As he rode Red back across the battlefield, his white flag sagging on his shoulder, he saw the hogs in the deepening evening light. In the beginning, he couldn’t figure what had drawn them to the burned and still-smoking haystacks. If they should have been at anything, they should have been worrying the tumbled corpses that were strewn across the battlefield.
The haystacks—set afire during the fighting—were nothing more than heaps of white-gray ash, oddly mounded with irregular-looking lumps.
Avoiding a pile of mixed Union and Confederate dead, Butler had ridden closer—pulled Red up and stared. In the dying winter twilight, he had seen the nearest hog biting at something round. The frigid air had carried the oddly sweet smell of cooked meat, like barbecue mixed with bitter smoke.
The hog gave a vigorous yank and pulled what looked like cooked tissue free from the round …
“Dear God!” Butler gasped. The pale bones of a stripped human skull gleamed in the half-light as the hog’s jaws snapped and chewed before going back for another bite. Yes, that swell of charred material was the chest, the legs and arms having been stirred from the powdery ash. Nor was that the only roasted corpse. To Butler’s horror, he could see three or four more just in this pool of ash alone.
No more than a stone’s throw to the east, more hogs were rooting in the ashes where another of the haystacks had burned.
Squealing and fighting, the hogs savaged long strips of human meat from men’s legs. With tusks they sliced bellies open and gulped down long strands of roasted intestines.
