This Scorched Earth

by William Gear

  “Sarah, I want you to go in the house and stay out of sight for a couple of days.”

  Just the tone in Maw’s voice kept the shiver alive along Sarah’s backbone.

  “Do you think they’ll be back?”

  “Hope not.” Maw drew a deep breath and blew it out as if exhaling an unreasonable tension. “I’ve never hoped for any man’s death before, but it would suit me just fine if they ride up to the tavern and smack into a company of Federal cavalry.”

  For the rest of the day, Sarah had the jitters. And that night, even though she propped chairs against the doors in addition to throwing the bolts, Dewley’s blue eyes burned through her dreams and left her trembling, alone, and scared.

  35

  September 3, 1863

  The last of the light was fading over Lookout Mountain where it rose like a dark leviathan to the west. The mountain’s northernmost point dropped off to mark the Tennessee River Valley west of Chattanooga. To the north, past the lines of worn tents, the rooftops of the city were barely visible in the shadows.

  The smell of wood smoke hung low in the warm summer air, accented by frying bacon, roasting corn dogers, and what passed for coffee among General Bragg’s ragtag Army of the Tennessee.

  Butler’s Company A served in a regiment composed of the combined Second and Fifteenth Arkansas, of Liddel’s brigade, in Hill’s Corps. His old friend Colonel Daniel Govan was in charge. The second and fifteenth had been combined like so many of the original Arkansas units. After two and a half years of war and endless losses from disease and fighting, the ranks had been worn so thin that combining them was the only way to keep them operational.

  Where they were camped south of Chattanooga, Butler’s Company A was but one in the long rows of hodgepodge tents and shelters. Men gathered around their evening fires, playing cards, mending, talking softly. The firelight played on their bearded faces, sparkling in their eyes.

  “My men,” Butler whispered to himself as he strolled slowly down the line.

  Until Butler had walked into General Hardee’s headquarters, he’d hoped he could convince the general that he was best suited for a staff position, carrying orders, organizing movement, commissary, and supply. The timing of his arrival could not have been worse. Butler had arrived just as Hardee was being transferred to the Department of Mississippi; General Daniel Hill was taking command of Hardee’s old corps.

  Hardee, however, had given Butler a paternal smile, and said, “I know for a fact that in the old Arkansas regiment there is a company that needs a captain. The boys there know you and will be delighted to have you at the helm.”

  Why hadn’t he protested?

  The words seemed to pop out of the still evening air: You fool! You were too much of a coward to say no.

  He looked around him, seeing no one close. Sometimes, like tonight, the voices would speak out of thin air. He heard them so clearly.

  He made a face, worried. It still surprised him when others didn’t react, showed no sign at all that they’d heard.

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Cap’n?” Sergeant Amos Kershaw asked from the nearest fire, apparently having overheard. The big Cajun with his blocky face, midnight hair, and black eyes had enlisted in Helena, Arkansas, back in ’61 when Tom Hindman first called for volunteers. He’d risen through the ranks to sergeant, and the men loved him.

  Dan Govan had told Butler, “If I could give you one piece of advice? Pay attention to whatever Sergeant Kershaw says or suggests. The man knows his business.”

  Butler pulled his pipe from his pocket as he stepped over to Kershaw’s fire. Squatting in the circle of men, he used his thumb to pack tobacco into the bowl, and Corporal Willy Pettigrew to his left reached for a burning stick to light it.

  Butler puffed, then exhaled, aware that the men were watching him curiously. “I was just talking to myself. Happens sometimes.”

  “Reckon we all do.” Kershaw smiled wistfully in agreement. “’Specially around dis outfit. Ain’t nobody worth talkin’ to but yerseff, Cap’n. The rest of these here scoundrels cain’t hardly string a sentence t’gether.”

  “Well, Sergeant, stringing a sentence doesn’t make a man a good soldier.” Butler noticed that blond-headed Jimmy Peterson, across the fire, seemed to be antsy, looking every direction except toward Butler, and his right hand was held behind him.

  “Private?” Butler asked. “Something wrong with your hand?”

  “No, suh.” Peterson swallowed hard, the others in the circle suddenly looking uneasy.

  “Produce that hand, Private, and whatever’s in it.”

  Peterson went pale, winced, and eased a tin cup from behind his back. “Just my drink, Captain.”

  Butler nodded in sudden understanding. “Orders are that no alcohol is to be consumed in camp. Penalties for violation are a bit draconian.”

  “Draconian?” Kershaw wondered, all the while looking sorrowfully at Peterson. Panic filled the private’s blue eyes.

  “Severe, Sergeant,” Butler said, aware that the men had all frozen, expecting something terrible. “Flogging is prescribed in extreme cases.”

  Peterson’s eyes closed, and he swallowed hard.

  None of the men would meet Butler’s eyes.

  “Now me,” Butler resumed casually, “I’m a stickler for regulations, and I’ve served with Tom Hindman for all these years, and you all know his feelings on spirits.”

  “Cap’n, it’s just a cup,” Kershaw said reasonably. “And I reckon we’s all sharing it a’fore ya’ll walked up.”

  “Actually, it’s my cup,” Johnny Baker admitted and ran a hand through his long brown hair. “Anybody gonna be punished, it otta be me.”

  So, they’d all take the blame for each other? Touched, Butler reached out a hand. “Private Peterson, pass me that cup if you please, and for God’s sake don’t spill any of it.”

  The cup was carefully passed from hand to hand around the circle. Butler grasped it by the handle, lifted it to his nose, and sniffed. Rotgut for sure. He sipped and made a face as the stuff burned on his tongue. “Dear Lord God, that’s terrible!”

  Butler passed it to Kershaw. “Try that, Sergeant. Take a good taste.”

  Kershaw did so warily. “Reckon I’ve had better, Cap’n.”

  “Sergeant, anything that tastes that vile can’t be drinking whiskey. No, indeed. That has to be medicinal spirits.”

  Kershaw was giving him a speculative, sidelong glance, the cup handle grasped in his thick fingers.

  Butler waved a hand at him. “Well, pass it on, Sergeant. Each and every one of you men, take a taste.”

  Kershaw passed it to Corporal Pettigrew, who sipped, and passed it along to Private Phil Vail, who passed it to Baker, and on around the circle until it came back to Butler, who forced himself to drain the last couple of drops from the cup.

  The soldiers were watching him with no little confusion and uncertainty.

  Butler took a pull on his pipe to dull the taste of what had been pure corn liquor, then said, “My brother is a surgeon, therefore I have some understanding of the uses for medicinal spirits. Private Baker, I assume there’s more where that came from?”

  “Some.” Baker winced. “Yes, suh.”

  “My standing orders with regard to your medicinal supply are no more than one sip per man per night as a precaution against the ague.” He winked at Baker. “Am I understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” Baker snapped off a salute. The rest of the men were grinning.

  “Pass the word, Sergeant, that according to orders, there will be no drinking in this company. Medicinal spirits are another matter.” He looked around at the expectant faces, and pointed with his pipe stem. “But if I catch anyone drunk, that privilege goes away. We understood?”

  “Reckon the company appreciates that, Cap’n.” Kershaw grinned and gave him a respectful nod.

  Butler shifted and stared at the fire. “Colonel Govan has it from headquarters that most of the Federal
army is on this side of the Tennessee and moving in from the west.” He pointed at where Lookout Mountain lay like a black lump along the western horizon. “They’re just over yonder. Bragg is probably going to withdraw us into Georgia to make a stand.”

  “That ain’t gonna sit well with the Tennessee boys. They ain’t gonna want to leave the state,” Corporal Pettigrew noted.

  Baker whispered under his breath, just loudly enough that Butler could hear: “Bully for General Bragg. He’s just hell on a retreat.”

  “The city of Chattanooga can’t be defended. It’s in the bottom of a bowl. Our only hope to whip them is to withdraw.”

  “So we drop back and hit ’em on ground of our own choosing,” Kershaw said as he fingered his beard and stared at the fire.

  “That’s the plan.”

  “When we moving, Cap’n?”

  “Govan says tomorrow. My take is that he’s pretty good at reading General Bragg.”

  “I just want it over,” Frank Thompson said. “I ain’t been back to Helena in two years. That’s home. And now, with the Yankees there, I can’t go back even if I get furlough.”

  “Yeah,” Phil Vail muttered. “Most of eastern Arkansas is filled with Yankees.”

  “All but the far southwest corner,” Butler agreed. “But if we finally can deliver one crushing blow to the Federals here, maybe they’ll withdraw some of their forces from Arkansas.”

  “Do you think so, sir?” Corporal Pettigrew asked. “Last I heard they was dug in all along the Arkansas River from Fort Smith to the Mississippi.”

  Butler pulled contemplatively on his pipe, eyes on the fire.

  “I just want to go home,” Johnny Baker said wistfully. “It’s three years since I seen my wife, Missey. My boy, Jasper, is five now. My daughter, Lillie, is coming four.”

  “At least you seen yor kids,” Billy Templeton told him. “I got to spend lessen a month with Serena after we’s married. My boy William? He’s most three now hisseff, and I ain’t never so much as laid eyes on him.”

  Phil Vail looked around with green eyes. “Eighteen of us enlisted together at Barley Station. Not that it’s much, out in the swamp like it is. ’Cept for me, ain’t a man from there still alive.” He shook his head. “Pap, Marcus, and the rest? Who’d a thought it would be me that made it?”

  “They ain’t a-gonna get you, Vail.” Kershaw’s smile created a deep dimple in his cheek. “All them fights you been in and you ain’t so much as got a scratch, sans dommage.”

  “What about you, Sergeant?” Butler asked. “How’d you end up in an Arkansas regiment?”

  Kershaw’s dark eyes sparkled. “How’s a man ever get hisself in trouble? La femme fatale. A woman, oui? She owns one of the establishments on de riverfront. A place you, Cap’n, as a gentleman, would not go. My wish was always to take her back to Bayou Teche, but I am not sure she would be happy.”

  Phil Vail grinned to expose crooked teeth and declared, “I got three women waiting for me. There’s mother and my two sisters.” He wrapped his arms around his knees where they poked out of the worn holes in his trousers. “I’d like to go back to Arkadelphia and find me a wife. I promised God that if he’d get me through this, I’d be the best husband and father ever. I’d never cuss, and I’d be in church every Sabbath.” He paused. “Not so much to ask, is it?”

  “Reckon not,” Jimmy Peterson told him as he pulled at his ear. “Sometimes I just cain’t figger God’s doin’ in all this. Most of the boys we lost up to now was good men. Lot of ’em better than me by a long shot. And they’s some black sinners that I’d figger God would’a taken right off, or at least mangled and maimed fer being dastardly. And they’ve come through without so much as a close nick. And if anything, they’s worse scoundrels now than when the war started.”

  “And don’t fergit the Yankees,” Matthew Johnson said. “They catch as much grief as we do come a hard fight. So it ain’t like God’s playing sides.”

  “Yep,” Kershaw agreed. “They just catch it with a stomach full of food, wrapped in a thick blanket, with good shoes an’ wool socks on their feet, and wearing a warm uniform what don’t got holes in the elbows, knees. Or seat of the britches.”

  Corporal Pettigrew’s expression soured. “So, you’re saying God’s a Yankee supply officer?”

  “Lordy,” Jimmy Peterson whispered. “Makes sense, because the only reason we could be as short as we always are on clothing, food, ammunition, and guns is if Lucifer himself is in charge of our rations and supply.”

  “You ever think of what this army could do if we had half of what the Yankees get?” Frank Thompson wondered. “Hell, we’d be camping on Abe Lincoln’s White House lawn!”

  “Reckon if’n they’d a give us the shoes, we coulda marched circles around the damn Yank army and took Washington from behind,” Vail groused.

  Butler thought back to Prairie Grove. They’d had to leave a thousand men behind for lack of shoes. Had to leave the battlefield to the Federals because Hindman’s scarecrow Rebel soldiers didn’t have the powder to fight a second day, or even a meal to see them on the start of the long retreat.

  Thinking of those men, he stared at the firelit faces around him. All they wanted was a chance to get home. Was that such a bother to God? Was it worth the right for rich men to keep slaves? Or even Lincoln’s supposed sanctity of federal Union?

  One by one he studied them, cataloging their eyes, faces, the set of their mouths, the mannerisms. Each a vibrant life full of dreams and hopes. Some of the bravest men alive, most were little more than boys annealed by fires into a different kind of metal. If the preachers were right, and this was God’s work, where was the justice that denied a man from seeing his son, wife, or mother and sisters?

  It’s up to you to keep them alive, the voice whispered beside his ear. Your responsibility to get them home.

  36

  September 7, 1863

  Dear James:

  We received your letter of July 28, and understand that its brevity is dictated by the rules of your captors. You are constantly in our prayers, and we pray earnestly that this ghastly war will be over and you can come home to the family that loves you. We are all well here.

  You would be surprised to learn that Memphis has been thriving under Federal rule. And with the fall of Vicksburg, river traffic has once again begun to boom. Your dreams of a steamboat of your own are better now than ever before. With the river open we have been receiving plenty of flour, sugar, and coffee and the prices have fallen. Good thing we kept our northern currency since Confederate paper is worth nothing here anymore.

  Mollie Henderson stopped by for a marvelous visit this morning, having been relieved to discover her husband, Peter, is alive and well and back in the ranks after having been listed as missing in the fighting over at Murfreesboro.

  Colonel Mason tells us that we can send packages to you at Camp Douglas through the regular post and we shall do so. As I mentioned in my last letter, the good Colonel will be making enquiries about the possibility of getting you paroled. He also noted that if you would be willing to swear a loyalty oath to the United States he might be able to get you back to Memphis. I think you two would hit it off splendidly, and he is such a good match for your sister.

  Do consider the parole. From the looks of things the war will be over by next summer, and the question of secession will have been decided one way or another. It was bad enough that you missed your sister’s wedding. Should providence permit, we would love to have you home in the event you might become an uncle.

  All of our love,

  Mother.

  “I don’t understand.” Doc dropped limply to the ground where James sat in the sunlight. For the moment even the itching and burning of lice and flea bites was forgotten.

  James reached out, carefully taking the letter from Doc’s nerveless fingers. James leaned his head back, eyes closed in the bright sunlight. The letter hung between his fingers to waffle in the cool breeze blowing in from Lake Michigan.


  “All them times you wrote her? Maybe she never got them letters. Maybe she thought you forgot her.”

  Doc reached a hand to his chest as if he could soothe the odd emptiness inside. All he felt was bones, the fragile skin beneath his threadbare shirt, and the hollow where his shrunken gut receded under the rib cage. But then they were all walking skeletons, especially if they’d been in the camp for any length of time.

  In his memory, Ann Marie smiled at him with love, eyes dancing with promise.

  “She married a colonel. Whose colonel? Reb? Yank?”

  “Reckon Yank,” James said softly. “No Reb colonel would be wanting me to give a loyalty oath to the Union.”

  Doc blinked his eyes. An eerie keening wanted to rise up through his lungs and trachea.

  She’s married?

  “Doc, don’t,” James told him. “I know how much you loved her.”

  “Loved?” His voice broke. “Loved?”

  He staggered to his feet, aware of the hundreds of bored men crowding the yard around them.

  James was standing, hands on Doc’s shoulders. “Why the hell didn’t you leave, Doc? You could have made a stink, demanded that they release you on parole as a noncombatant! You could have gone home!”

  Doc shrugged off the restraining grip. He staggered forward, vision silvered.

  From long familiarity, he knew the slope of the deadline. All he had to do was march up that angled soil. So many others had taken the route before him.

  “Doc!” James screamed in his ear. “Damn you! Stop it!”

  Doc angrily flung James’s restraining hand from his shoulder. In the process, he blinked enough of the tears away to see the slope. Four paces, three, two, just another …

  Hard hands grabbed him from behind. He was jerked backward, his foot lifted high for the next and fatal step. With a grunt, he hit the ground, smelling the reek of piss. Confederate prisoners made a point of urinating on the deadline. One of the few acts of defiance that they could actually get away with.

  Three bodies landed on top of his, knocking the wind from his lungs.