by William Gear
The only difference on the night of March 22 was that Billy stood in the shadows behind the saddle racks where they stuck out from the wall.
What would Maw say?
Billy cocked his head, unsure. Hartlee had abused his authority to hang four of Billy’s unnamed employer’s sons. A fate that, in another time, could have been Billy’s own. Over the years, more than one envious rival of Paw’s had desired the farm. And say that Paw hadn’t sided with Arkansas. Say he’d remained loyal to the Union. Any of the bushwhackers like Dewley would have shot, burned, or hung Philip, Butler, and Billy in a hot second if it had meant getting the farm.
There but for the grace of God.
Come to think of it, what he was doing now wasn’t any damn different than what he’d done to get Sarah back. Slipping around underneath it all was justice. Plain and simple.
That, and the incestuous Sarah demon who still lurked just beneath his dreams. What wouldn’t he do to murder that apparitional bitch?
His heart was beating faster, the warm anticipation running through him. By Hob and thunder, he never felt as alive as he did when he was hunting a man. That surge of joy rising in his chest was every bit as intoxicating as a good bottle of whiskey. Every nerve seemed to sing, every vein and artery pumped, his senses sharp as a razor and his soul humming with anticipation.
The sound of a horse’s hooves carried, the dogs running out to bark a greeting as they had done each night that Billy watched the place from his vantage back in the trees.
“Whoa, now, Midnight.” Hartlee’s thick Texas accent carried on the warm evening air. “That’s a good boy. Bait of oats fer y’all tonight.”
Hartlee led the big black horse through the barn door, missing the black gelding’s nostrils as they flared at the unfamiliar scent of a strange human.
Billy smiled.
I got you!
He waited, his entire body electric. No need to rush. Like John Gritts had always said, he liked them right up close. The ultimate triumph of the perfect hunter.
Hartlee finished rubbing the horse down, poured water from a bucket, and scooped grain out of a sack and into the stall’s manger.
He backed out, cooing to the horse, taking one final look at the magnificent sixteen-hand gelding.
As Hartlee hesitated, Billy stepped out, his Cherokee moccasins silent on the straw-covered dirt. As Billy lifted the ax, Anson Hartlee had no more warning than the tom turkey that long-ago day when Billy had last hunted with John Gritts.
53
April 10, 1865
News had come by telegraph. Robert E. Lee had surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia the day before. The final vertebra in the spine of Confederate resistance had been broken.
A line of flashing yellow-orange light leaped outward in the darkness. Not even a second later Sarah heard the crashing boom of the cannons. The sound reverberated across the Arkansas River Valley. A cheer went up from the crowd that had gathered on the Belle Point heights before Fort Smith.
While the crowd shouted their enthusiasm and seemed to wash back and forth before the fort’s stone walls, Sarah wasn’t sure what she should be feeling. The war had ruined their lives. Paw declared dead, no word from Butler or Doc, Maw shot, Sarah running from life itself, the farm abandoned, and who knew where Billy was. She should have felt relief, but the future loomed before her like a descending and ugly black cloud.
Men were singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Women sobbed and cried. Little girls hugged their mothers’ skirts and chattered back and forth. The little boys whooped and cavorted as they ran back and forth through the maze of adult legs.
Another flash of light and fire shot forth even as the evening breeze carried the acrid stench of burned powder across the crowd. The clapping thunder of the celebratory guns echoed across the valley. Hats were being waved. Two men danced with each other, arms interlaced as they kicked and shuffled. Sarah heard liquid as a bottle was passed back and forth. The sound of a fiddle came from somewhere.
These were Union folk—or so they said—farmers and refugees for the most part who had come to live and till fields beneath the protective umbrella and within the military boundary protected by the fort. Similar military sanctuaries had been set up around Van Buren on the other side of the river, and up in Washington and Benton Counties. Literally armed agricultural compounds protected by Federal cavalry. Islands of survival in the ruined sea that had once been northwest Arkansas. The rest was a wild no-man’s-land of forest and abandoned farms. The domain of the jayhawker and bushwhacker as they raided and murdered each other among burned mills and along overgrown roads.
The Confederacy was dying before her eyes. Its memory would pass like an autumn leaf, grown brittle and cast loose, tossed on the currents of passion to settle softly, brown and desiccated. The only certainty remaining was decomposition.
Looking back, what had it all been for?
The gnawing in her belly distracted her from any deeper philosophical explorations. Her only food that day had been a biscuit for breakfast. Compensation for washing a Yankee captain’s coat.
The cannons in Fort Smith flashed and boomed once more. People cheered as the reverberations rose to the cloud-dark night sky.
She placed a hand to her breast. The war was over.
Butler, Philip, and Billy—if any of them were still alive—would be safe now. They could go home, pick up the plow, and reclaim the farm from the weeds, assuming no one had burned the house.
“But what of me?” she wondered, knowing full well that she’d never go back. The looming black cloud that was her future seemed to hang even lower over her head.
Two men, obviously drunk, staggered toward her. One jabbed the other with his elbow, indicating Sarah. They both grinned foolishly, doffed their hats, and cried in unison, “Best of the evening, ma’am!” Then broke into giggles.
“Y’all need an escort?” the taller asked as he replaced his hat.
“Thank you, but my husband wouldn’t understand.” She craned her neck, looking past them. “He should be back any moment.”
“Y’all have a nice night,” the short one said with a sigh. Then dragged his associate away into the crowd.
Sarah exhaled her tension. She felt the Colt revolver’s cool grip under her fingers and wondered when she’d reached into the heavy canvas sack that hung from her shoulder.
The ugly lump of steel, brass, and wood—capped and loaded—remained her one true and dependable ally in life.
A smile came to her chapped lips as she remembered Maxwell Johnson’s panic-white face as he dabbed at the furrow her bullet had cut through the web of his neck. The young dandy would think twice before he entered a woman’s room in the middle of the night. Of course, it had cost Sarah her job.
When everything a woman owned fit into a blanket roll, packing didn’t take long.
She and Maxwell had both been lucky. Hearing the hammer click as she cocked the big revolver, he’d thrown himself to the side. Doing so had not only saved his life, but probably hers as well. A woman of Mrs. Pennington’s influence easily could have sent Sarah to the gallows. A sobering fact the enraged woman had made a point of: “It would be your word against mine, you little harlot.”
“Well, madam,” Sarah whispered to the April night, “you can bet I’m going to be a whole lot more careful in the future.”
She’d taken the first ride she could find out of Little Rock—a wagon headed for Fort Smith. Arriving, she’d joined the throng of refugees, and hung on, advertising her services to the soldiers as a washerwoman: three shirts and a pair of pants for a slice of bread. Include underwear and an overcoat, and throw in a can of beans.
Dealing with the soldiers had been hard at first. She kept her eyes downcast when she talked to them, and remained coldly polite. Her mouth would go dry, and the knot would tighten in her throat. She wore a baggy, oversized sack of a dress to hide her body and kept her long blond hair pinned up under a sun-faded bonnet. She had a
dopted a slightly stooped walk to keep her hips from swaying. Her sole expense was for soap, the river providing ample free water.
Nevertheless, most days she went to bed with something in her stomach. Today had been different; the news of the surrender had distracted the troops. Hopefully in the morning there would be a rush for her services. Maybe in advance of a parade or display of some sort.
The last cannonade of the two-hundred-round salute boomed into the night, and a bugle accompanied the troops as they sang “Union Forever” before the lone horn blew their dismissal.
Sarah pulled her worn blanket about her shoulders, feeling the slight chill of the night. People were beginning to disperse. Someone in the crowd struck up “Yankee Doodle” and the song went from lip to lip as Sarah followed the mass of the crowd toward the encampment. She dared not linger, or travel out of sight of others.
She hadn’t taken four steps before a man matched her pace, his baritone voice saying, “Quite a show. Glad it’s finally over.”
“Yes.” She felt the rising anxiety. “Good night.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
“No. Please. My husband should be here somewhere close.” She looked around anxiously as if searching for her man.
“Whoa, now, Sarah. There’s no husband waiting in that chicken coop you sleep in. Unless, of course, he’s a rooster.” He paused. “And the last of that hardy breed of fowl was eaten three years ago.”
“Please, sir. Leave … me … alone.”
“Ah, of course. My apologies. A gentleman shouldn’t intrude upon a lady’s company without a proper introduction. My mother would wilt should she ever discover that I’ve become such a low brute.” He gracefully removed his hat, sweeping into a slight bow, and in a Southern accent, stated: “Bret Anderson at yoah service, ma’am.”
Bret Anderson? Ah yes. He was one of the gamblers who hung around the peripheries of the fort. He was known to prey upon unwary and cocky soldiers, especially around payday. Though on those occasions he was in direct competition with the brothels and whiskey dealers down by the river.
She had seen him a time or two around the fort, having stood out because of his finely tailored clothing, vest, and old-style frock coat. His patent boots were always polished. She figured him for being in his thirties, with a well-trimmed black mustache and hair cut just above his collar.
“It’s late, Mr. Anderson. I really must be going.”
“I would be obliged to walk you partway. My camp is on the way.”
“Thank you, but no.”
As if he hadn’t heard, he kept pace, adding, “What a wonderful day. This vile war is all but over. The dying and senseless destruction is finally coming to an end. I don’t know about you, but I think the country is just worn out and exhausted.”
The familiar anxiety had tightened like a band around her chest. She suddenly felt dizzy, swayed, and caught herself, fighting for balance.
“Are you all right?” Bret asked.
“Light-headed. I’ll be fine.”
“Good thing I’m with you.” He was studying her in the darkness. “Not much washing today, was there? I mean with the news and all.”
“No.”
“Bet you haven’t eaten today.”
“I had a fine meal,” she lied.
“Snuck that in while you were standing at the fort gate all day? Caging a wash job takes diligence given the number of women anxious for the task. Maybe you slipped away sometime when I wasn’t looking?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’d say you were strong, proud, independent, and resolute, but not exactly fine. They talk about you, you know. You’re a mystery woman to them. You and that big pistol you keep in your bag there.”
“They know about…”
“Of course, and they know that you are no doubt proficient with it given the way you keep it oiled and don’t let the caps corrode. Some even watch over you when you don’t know it.”
She felt herself on the verge of fainting again. Dear God, did they suspect? Time to leave … put this place behind me.
“So, tell me, Sarah, how long has it been since you’ve had a fresh-roasted duck?”
Maybe it was her light-headedness, but she spoke before she could think it through. “Almost … forever.”
His white teeth flashed in the dark. “I happen to have a duck roasting at this very moment. I shot it this morning down on the river. Nice young bird. Fat. I imagine the meat is cleaving from the bone, steamed in its own juices.”
Sarah swallowed, her mouth watering unexpectedly.
Bastard that he was, he saw and chuckled. “Come and join me. I would consider it an honor. And while we eat, you may lay your big gun at hand lest I act anything but the gentleman. And afterward I shall see you to your chicken coop and bid you a most glorious evening.”
“Why?” she asked suspiciously.
“Because the war is over. It is a night to celebrate. One I will remember for the rest of my life, and I would like to remember having shared it in the company of a remarkable lady.”
She stopped short. “Lady? Mister, you don’t know anything about me.”
He cocked his head, that lazy smile just visible in the darkness. “I know that you call yourself Sarah Rogers. From your accent you were raised in western Arkansas. You wash clothes in exchange for food and live in the last standing chicken coop in western Arkansas. The others long since having been torn down for firewood.”
She shook her head, clutching the blanket tightly to her chest. “I don’t—”
“Just two people sharing a meal, Sarah. Sharing a duck on a night they will remember forever. After today, everything is going to be different. I eat alone most nights. I’d like this one to be filled with amiable discourse.”
She felt that light-headed hunger again. Her stomach growled at the thought of greasy, succulent duck. And she did have her pistol.
“I would be delighted to share your duck, Mr. Anderson.”
“Splendid!” He almost chortled, leading the way.
His camp consisted of a Sibley tent and awning beneath which stood a table and collection of rickety chairs where he conducted his card games. The fire in the center was a round eye of glowing coals. A light carriage, painted black, stood to the side, and she could see a harness hung on a rack at the back of the awning. By Fort Smith standards, Bret Anderson was a very rich man.
“Now, feast your eyes on this!” he proclaimed as he used an iron tong to fish a clay-wrapped object from the depths of the coals. The outside glowed a dark red as he rolled it from the fire. Then he tossed a couple of pieces of driftwood onto the coals where they leaped into flame.
Bret carried two chairs from his card table and set them across from each other on either side of the fire. “Please do me the honor of being seated.” He gestured, holding the chair as she seated herself. Fingers of worry kneaded her gut.
Then Bret proceeded to hurry about his camp, producing mismatched plates, forks, and knives, and finally, a bottle from which he worried a cork. At the pop, he grinned in the firelight, pouring something that fizzed into two tin cups.
One he proffered to Sarah, then, with a flourish, clinked the rim of her cup, saying, “To better days ahead, may the Confederacy rest in peace.”
Then he seated himself across from her, a smile on his lips, firelight playing in his dark eyes. He had a firm and straight nose, finely shaped cheeks, and his smile was just visible behind his mustache.
Sarah sipped the bubbly contents of her cup. “What is this?”
“Champagne. The real thing. From France. One of Fred Steele’s colonels, having lost everything else, thought that with three aces showing, he could recoup the entire evening with this prized bottle of his. A possibility my heart flush completely precluded.” He paused. “Do sip slowly. Unused to it as you are, half starved, and on an empty stomach, you shouldn’t overindulge.”
“What about the duck?”
“We need to let it cool until I
can crack it open.” He leaned forward in his chair, hands cupping his tin cup. “The big question is what are the Yankees going to do now? How are they going to treat the Southern states? Arrest all the Rebel generals and politicians? Try and execute them for treason? Demand reparations? And the Reb armies are filled with fanatical men who have dedicated their lives to the cause. Do the Yankees expect them to just lay down their arms and go back to farming like nothing has happened? And what about the millions of freed slaves? Where do they go? Who employs them? Feeds them? Sarah, it’s all a mess.”
She studied him, feeling an odd warmth in her stomach from the champagne. “Mr. Anderson, there’s nothing but hatred and heartbreak out there. Maybe too much to ever heal. Some wounds run too deep. Nothing will ever be whole again.”
He studied her thoughtfully. “I do pray that you’re wrong, but I have learned the hard way not to put too much hope or faith in humanity’s good side. Word is that the Union lost nearly three hundred thousand men. That’s a lot of empty chairs, as the song goes. All them families, they’re going to want to punish someone.”
“Then where does it end?”
“I expect the Union to do its worst. So me, I think I’m going west. Think I’ll cast my future and fortune to a new land instead of seeking to rebuild it among the wreckage of the old.” He paused. “What about you?”
“I’d love nothing more than a full-time laundry job at the fort. But them’s all taken by soldiers’ wives.”
His lips twitched. “You’re a puzzle, Miss Rogers. One minute you talk like a woman with a finishing-school education sitting in her parlor, the next you sound like a frontier Arkansan. It’s as if you can shift skins.”
“Paw made me read. Made me learn my numbers, too. Said I might need them to keep a big fancy house,” she admitted, taking another sip of the delightful champagne. She’d always heard of it, but the few times Paw had had a bottle, he’d reserved it for influential guests. Champagne, she decided, was something she could enjoy more of. “He insisted that I learn to talk like a lady. Said I’d need such skills one day. But growing up in Benton County, and the last four years? It was all hardscrabble.”
