This Scorched Earth

by William Gear

  Who never wrote.

  Only seven of them left.

  Camp Douglas was better at killing Confederates than the entire Federal army. In any given month, roughly ten percent of the camp’s prisoners died from pneumonia, typhoid, diarrhea, influenza, the periodic outbreak of measles or mumps, catarrh, and, God forbid, the occasional smallpox case.

  Since no one else cared—except for the occasional inspector from the Sanitary Commission—Doc had taken it on himself to look after the pesthouse where the worst of the cases were taken.

  She should have at least received one of those letters.

  “I see that look,” James said softly. He waved the missive from Felicia again. “There have just been two of Mother’s letters that have been delivered. And in this last one from October Mother states that she’d written at least four before this. We don’t know how many get lost.”

  “I know.” He closed his eyes, imagining Ann Marie’s face, the freckles on her nose. How her eyes … Dear God, they were green, weren’t they? And her hair. Chestnut, yes? Auburn?

  A sense of panic sent a shiver through his nerves.

  The freckles. Hold on to the freckles. They were a constant.

  “Are you all right, Doc?”

  He took a deep breath of the cold air, wondering when he’d stopped smelling the stench. “It’s the damnedest thing, James. For an instant … I couldn’t remember what Ann Marie looked like.”

  “Philip, for the love of God, take yourself down from this impossible meat hook you’ve hung yourself on. You’ve done everything you could to save each and every one of us. You’re using up so much of yourself for the rest of us that there is nothing left for you.”

  But it is my fault.

  “Besides,” James told him with a smile. “I know Ann Marie. She’s my sister. Writing just isn’t one of her talents. Drawing, singing, sewing, and planning entertainments? That’s her.”

  “At least your mother said she was all right.” Doc looked down at his hands, the nails black, grime seemingly ground into the lines. Would they ever be clean again? “It’s just that it’s a year, James. My time is up. I am supposed to be back in Memphis, my accumulated pay in hand. With her. That was the dream.”

  He placed his head in his hands, whispering, “I shouldn’t be struggling to remember her. She should be laughing for me in life, and not just in a fading memory. I’ve failed her.”

  He felt James’s hand on his shoulder. “No you haven’t. You enlisted with Neely’s Fourth Tennessee promising her that you’d take care of me, remember? I’m still alive, Doc. You’ve kept your word to Ann Marie.”

  Then why aren’t we back in Memphis, James?

  33

  March 17, 1863

  Butler climbed the steps to Major General Hindman’s residence in Little Rock—the house the general had rented for Mollie, himself, and the children. A private, in a much-too-clean uniform, saluted from port arms, and said, “The general asked that you proceed inside, Lieutenant. He is in the parlor.”

  Butler nodded, entered, and immediately wished he’d attended to his boots—muddy and scuffed as they were. Nor had his uniform been cleaned in days, and he knew he smelled like horse, mud, and sweat.

  To minimize the damage, he tried to mince his way across the hall so as not to leave tracks or soil the carpet. Glancing sideways into the main room he saw it was filled with trunks and valises: evidence of the general’s immediate departure. Then Butler caught the barest glimpse of Mollie Hindman in a rustling green crinoline dress as she hurried past a far door.

  At the entrance to the parlor, Butler stopped and cleared his throat. Hindman sat at his desk, his uniform immaculate. He was in the act of dipping his pen into the ink bottle before he continued writing on a piece of foolscap.

  “Come in, Lieutenant. And don’t mind your boots.”

  “Sir?”

  “Tiptoeing across the floor?” Hindman, not even bothering to straighten, pointed the end of his pen at the mirror set off to one side. It gave the general a perfect view of anyone entering the parlor. “Had that installed back after we declared martial law. I figured that the guards would keep me from getting shot through the window, but I wanted to have an edge if someone were to sneak in from behind.”

  That was when Butler noted the Colt on the desk beside Hindman’s right hand. Tom Hindman, after all, might be the most hated man in Arkansas, but he had never acted the fool.

  Relaxing, Butler strode into the parlor, taking in the fine furniture, the polished mantel over the fireplace, and the gleaming piano with its silver candlestick holder. Beyond the general’s teakwood desk, the street was visible through beveled-glass panes in the French window.

  “They’ve won,” Hindman said as he signed the missive he’d been working on. “It was inevitable, I suppose. Turns out that it proves impossible to save a people who, quite simply, do not want to be saved. Think of how much worse it would have been if I’d agreed to your Negro regiments.”

  Butler shifted uncomfortably. “Sir, if it hadn’t been for the condition of our troops at the Prairie Grove fight … Half-starved, barefoot soldiers, with a day’s supply of ammunition, can’t be expected to best—”

  “Don’t blame the troops, Lieutenant. It was a long shot. We knew the odds when we marched north.” Hindman turned in his chair, his thoughtful blue eyes focusing on Butler’s. “Unfortunately, long shots are all that we have. The Federals have more resources, including men, commissary, arms, artillery, and … well, everything else. The only thing we have more of is audacity and will. Robert E. Lee can fight a defensive war in Virginia. That strategy in the west is nothing more than a hurtling disaster coming our way.”

  “Which is why you’ve stressed the cavalry?”

  “If nothing else, that may be my greatest contribution.”

  Hindman stood and walked over to the map that remained open on the parlor table and pointed. “Where have we ever prevailed in a defensive position, Butler? Fort Hindman down at Arkansas Post? They marched thirty thousand Federals and sent a slew of gunboats against it. Our fight at Prairie Grove? We didn’t have the commissary or ammunition to have exploited an advantage even if we had gained one. But large bodies of cavalry? Ah, yes. They have the mobility, the speed, and the tactical ability to turn the Yankees’ advantage of men, resources, and area into a liability. Five thousand cavalry can attack Independence, Missouri, one day, and two weeks later, raid Saint Louis itself. And in the meantime, they can rip up railroads, burn bridges, tear down telegraph wire, and burn out pro-Union settlements, sending those people into flight. By the time the Federals can muster enough force to repel the threat, our cavalry is already back in Arkansas.”

  Hindman gestured with his pen. “It will change the entire nature of the war in the west. And perhaps, just perhaps, it will jade the people to the point they rise and give the Federal Congress an ultimatum: stop the war!”

  This isn’t war against armies that he’s talking about. It’s war against people.

  Butler realized his right hand was trembling and stuffed it into his coat. God, it just kept getting worse.

  “But that is for another to deal with,” Hindman said as he turned away, a seething behind his eyes. “I have never shied from a political fight, Butler. You warned me that pursuing my policies would prod the hornet’s nest.”

  At mention of the hornet’s nest, the scene from Shiloh flashed in Butler’s mind: men being blown apart, others screaming agony, the whistle of the minié balls. So intense and real was it that he jerked, ducking.

  “Lieutenant? Are you all right?”

  Butler blinked, suddenly back in Hindman’s parlor. “Sorry, sir. Perhaps I am fatigued.” He smiled, and to change the subject said, “This isn’t your fault. Governor Rector hates you. As does Henry Foote. That journalist James Butler and his ilk would allow Arkansas to suffocate in its own blood before they’d admit you were right. General Pike did everything he could to cut your throat. Were you an ordina
ry man, Tom, the entire Arkansas congressional delegation in Richmond wouldn’t have marched up to the Confederate white house and demanded that Jefferson Davis replace you.”

  That brought a humorless smile to Hindman’s lips. “Yes, I suppose that one’s qualities can indeed be judged by the number and caliber of his enemies. But enough of that. The reason I called you here is to give you this.”

  Hindman took an envelope from the desk, handing it to Butler. “Those are your orders. I am having you transferred out of Arkansas.”

  “I’m not going with you to Vicksburg? To work on the Board of Inquiry? I thought we were supposed to investigate culpability in the surrender of New Orleans to the Federals?”

  “Butler, you have become my friend … and in many ways, my conscience. For that I am eternally grateful. What you are not, is a political animal. You don’t have the necessary killer instinct for the sport. In the coming months I shall be pilloried in the press, and perhaps even indicted over my actions here. I would spare you the trauma and trial, let alone have your career further tarnished by my association.”

  “Tom, I may not have—”

  “Therefore,” Hindman interrupted, “I am sending you back to General Hardee. You impressed him in the past, and I’ve written to him about the immense help you have been to me in the governing of Arkansas. I emphasized how your genius for organization allowed our successful retreat from Prairie Grove. You are to report to his headquarters at the Army of Tennessee in Chattanooga where you will accept a field command and promotion to the rank of captain.”

  Butler stared woodenly at the envelope. He was going to the front lines? He would be in command of a company, leading men into the cannons and massed musketry?

  The tremor in his hand worsened, and he flexed the muscles in his arm to stop it. The sensation of panic tightened the insides of his chest; he took a deep breath, forcing it away.

  In a dry voice, he said, “Thank you, sir. I don’t think that I’m the right—”

  “It’s done, Butler.” Hindman’s eyes had hardened into a stone-cold blue. “Don’t let me down.”

  34

  July 17, 1863

  The first Sarah knew of the riders was when old Fly lifted his nose and began to sniff the breeze. His ancient eyes had been going white, and the dog could barely see. Nothing was wrong with the fur on his back, however. It now rose into a bristling mane.

  Sarah straightened from where she was hoeing weeds from among the bean plants. Fly growled, struggled to his arthritic feet, then he bowww-wwooowed his warning bark.

  Sarah carefully looked around. The hot air was filled with the clicking sounds of insects, backed by the White River’s soft murmur. Heat waves rose over the fallow cotton and tobacco fields down by the river, now gone back to weeds and grass. The Huntsville Road beyond the lane looked like a white scar in the green.

  The breeze, however, came from the east, down from the forested slope that rose behind the house. And it was in that direction that Fly continued to sniff and growl. Again he let out his half-howling bark.

  “What is it, Fly?” She set her hoe down, leaning close to the dog. A stick snapped up in the forest, barely audible over the hum of insects.

  She could feel it, some wrongness.

  She was halfway to the house when she caught the first hint of movement back in the trees. Then another, and another.

  A horse and rider slipped between a gap in the green forest wall.

  “Maw! Riders coming!”

  Sarah slowed as the first of the riders emerged from the trees: a young bearded man in a buckskin jacket, his stringy black hair hanging down past his collar. The thin face, pointed nose, and hunger-hollowed cheeks reminded her of a living skull. Nor did the scrawny beard do much to offset the youth’s hard brown eyes. He held a carbine at the ready on the saddle.

  From the right, the hazelnut, rosebushes, and honeysuckle crackled as another man forced a big black horse through the tangle. Older, perhaps in his late twenties, he cradled a shotgun, his thickly bearded features hidden by a low-brimmed hat. What she could see of his face was round, the mouth small and pursed. His eyes, like blue ice, fixed on Sarah with a predatory intensity so powerful she started as if physically violated.

  He seemed to read her sudden fear, his mocking leer adding to her discomfort.

  A line of horses emerged from the creek trail behind the house, and yet another horseman appeared from the river trail to the west.

  Nine in all, they rode into the yard, taking positions around the house. All of them hard-looking men, wearing filthy gray, butternut, and homespun. Most of them had blue Yankee uniform coats tied atop the blankets on their saddle cantles.

  “Good day, ma’am,” one of the older men, maybe thirty, said, touching a finger to his worn hat brim as he gave a slight nod of the head. “This hyar might be the Hancock farm?”

  Sarah’s heart had started to pound, that sick sensation of fear tightening her muscles. “Who might be asking?”

  It was the black-bearded, blue-eyed rider who spoke: “They call me Colonel Dewley. Dewley’s Home Guard, at your service ma’am.” When he grinned, it was to expose broken teeth behind his small pursed lips. His wide nose and plump cheeks gave his face a full look. But his eyes, already so cold, were changing as he looked her up and down. A predatory tension sharpened his gaze, his lips beginning to twitch as he fixed on the way her shirt clung to her sweat-damp breasts.

  Sarah stepped back reflexively, and crossed her arms over her chest.

  “It’s the Hancock farm,” Maw called from the porch. “What’s your business here, Colonel?”

  Dewley’s smile, like some deadly insolent thing, widened. For a long moment, he let his gaze linger on Sarah, then turned his attention to Maw. He fixed on the double-barrel shotgun she rested butt-down on the floorboards.

  The second he did, the spell seemed to break, and Sarah fled to the porch, stumbling, almost shaking as she rushed, childlike, behind her mother’s protection. Her joints had gone weak, as if her legs didn’t want to hold her.

  In the yard, Fly continued with his drawling bark, tail wagging slowly as if trying to decipher the good or evil of the invaders.

  “Ma’am,” Dewley said with the flick of a finger to his brim. “We’re just passing through. I think they call it canvassing. A sort of campaign. Where might your sympathies lie in the current troubles?”

  Sarah glanced again at the Union-blue coats behind the saddles, and then at the weapons Dewley’s men carried. An assortment of shotguns, and a sprinkle of different, apparently new, breech-loading carbines. Rumor told of bushwhackers who wore stolen Yankee uniforms to ride into Union territory before murdering all around them.

  “We’re Secesh,” Sarah called proudly. “Paw was killed at Shiloh under Bragg. My brother’s a captain in Hardee’s Corps.”

  A look of disappointment crossed Dewley’s face. “That is good to hear, Miss Hancock. Good indeed. We were almost deceived by the apparent prosperity of your farm. So many loyal Southerners have not fared so well, having paid for their dedication to our cause. Suffering Yankee aggression and persecution, they are left destitute. All this in the wake of Captain Darrow’s foul ambush and murder by traitorous, jayhawking Altee and Shockup Unionists.”

  “I don’t recognize you, Colonel,” Maw said warily. “And I know most folks hereabouts.”

  “We hail from over to Marion County, ma’am. It has been our honor to cleanse our home country of traitors and defeatist cowards. We have been asked by friends and patriots to extend our patrols here. In the wake of that inept despot Hindman’s defeat at Prairie Grove, we have been told that a vile taint of Unionism has been springing up here in the northwest. We cannot allow that to happen.” He smiled again, showing his broken teeth.

  “Thank you for your concern, Colonel.” Maw stepped to the edge of the porch, pointing. “At the end of the lane, take a right on the road. Six miles up, atop Pea Ridge, you’ll come to Elkhorn Tavern and the Telegrap
h Wire Road. Watch out for Federal cavalry and patrols. If you’re looking for the latest information, the tavern is the place to find it. Be careful, Colonel.”

  Dewley’s lips were twitching again as once more he turned his attention to Sarah, a quickening in his ice-cold eyes. His hands clenched and unclenched, fingers working over the reins, as if he were grasping and caressing something in his mind.

  The rest of the men, too, were staring at Sarah as if they’d never seen a woman before. The thin-faced young man had started to smile, licking his lips, a curious glittering in his eyes.

  “We’ve had a long ride, ma’am,” Colonel Dewley said casually. “Might there be a drink to be had? Forage for our horses?”

  “River’s yonder,” she told him. “You see them trees down to the south? Five miles beyond, on the Huntsville Road, is the ruins of Van Winkle’s mill. It’s all gone to grass, flat for good camping, and sweet water. You can see clearly for a mile in every direction. That’s the junction between the Huntsville Road and the cut-across through Cross Hollow. If a Yankee cavalry patrol were to appear, you’d have time to withdraw. There’s the three roads and another six trails that take off up into the hills and up War Eagle Creek.”

  “I take your meaning, Mrs. Hancock.” He kept his hungry eyes on Sarah. “With my deepest respect, ma’am,” he added, but Sarah wasn’t sure if he meant Maw or her, or if it were being said in mockery.

  With a flip of the reins, Colonel Dewley spurred his big black horse and led the way out of the yard. One by one, the men withdrew to follow, each one taking a last look about as if memorizing the yard, the buildings, and house. But most of all, they kept looking at Sarah, each with a promise behind his eyes that she didn’t want to think about.

  Heart still pounding, Sarah gasped in relief as the last of them rode down the lane. “I’ve never been that frightened by a man in my life.”

  Maw picked up the shotgun, her eyes hard as she watched the bushwhackers wade their horses into the White River to drink. They were talking among themselves now, all of them looking back, some laughing.