This Scorched Earth

by William Gear

  She blinked, wondering what possessed her to speak so freely—as if the worry and fear had suddenly faded. She peered uncertainly across the fire, expecting to see some crafty glint in Bret Anderson’s eyes. Instead he was staring thoughtfully into the fire, as if in profound consideration.

  “Anyway,” she said defensively. “Where are you from? You seem to sound Southern one minute, and Yankee the next.”

  “Boston,” he said softly. “My father has a house on the Commons. He’s a banker.” He pointed at her bag. “His money went to Colonel Colt, among others, to build the New England weapons factories. As well as he was doing before the war, I can’t imagine what he’s worth now.”

  “My brother went to Boston. Became a surgeon.” She paused. “Last I heard he was in Camp Douglas prison camp. But that’s been three years now.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Killed in the war. My brothers are gone, maybe dead. I’m all that’s left.”

  “Look at us! Grown maudlin. I’ll bet that duck’s cooled.” He stood, rolling the clay-coated ball around into better light. “This is the tricky part. I’ve got to split the clay just right and part it so it pulls the feathers free and doesn’t drop dirt onto the meat.”

  “Are you really that good, Mr. Anderson?”

  “Hope so.” He grinned up at her. “Let me get you another glass of champagne, and I’ll give it a try.”

  54

  April 11, 1865

  It took two tries. Sarah finally blinked her eyes open, the lids gritty and dry. Nothing made sense. She was staring at canvas illuminated by bright sunlight. Her body was comfortably supported by a cot, a warm and soft blanket tucked around her.

  She sat up, suddenly afraid as she stared around. The tent was spacious with a rug on the dirt floor, a metal-bound trunk to one side, a fine saddle in one corner, and a fine double-barreled shotgun rested in a scabbard to the left. An enameled pan, filled with water, had been placed on a folding table at the head of the bed. Beside it rested a small leather bag. Her Colt revolver lay beside the wadded pillow upon which she’d been sleeping.

  She remained fully clothed, her worn shoes placed neatly on the rug beside the cot.

  Outside she could hear birdsong and faint voices along with the clanking of metal. Somewhere a child broke out in laughter and the sharp rhythm of someone chopping wood carried on the morning.

  “Oh, dear God,” she whispered, reaching up to rub her face. Memories came back in bits and pieces. The firing of the fort’s cannons in the night. Bret Anderson enticing her to his camp. The champagne, the remarkable duck he had stuffed with sage, cornmeal, and real pepper before baking it to perfection.

  “And I ate the whole thing!” she reminded herself. “He barely had any.” She’d cracked the duck’s bones with her teeth to suck out the last of the marrow.

  The same with the champagne. She remembered, somewhere in the small hours of the night, how he’d dribbled the last of the second bottle into her cup.

  And then …

  She shook her aching head, aware of her pressing and irritated bladder. God, how could her mouth be this dry, her thirst so great, at the same time she was so full of pee?

  “What happened then, Sarah?” she asked herself.

  Vaguely she remembered him steadying her as she walked around the fire.

  God forbid, was that right? He’d actually touched her? And she hadn’t frozen, hadn’t begun to tremble and quake?

  She looked down at the pistol, cold, blue, and deadly.

  “I’m putting your revolver right here, Sarah. Right where it will be handy if you need it.”

  Bret’s words. So reassuring. Damn! He’d really said that?

  She combed her hair back with her fingers, realizing what a mess it must be. Her bonnet was folded and had been placed atop her canvas sack. Rising, she smoothed the blanket, replaced the pistol in its holster inside the sack, and checked her pitiful few belongings. Nothing seemed to have been rifled.

  “Sarah?” Bret’s voice from outside brought her bolt upright, heart hammering. “There’s a chamber pot beneath the bed. If you need it, there’s also a mirror on the tent pole. I don’t have a brush, but you’ll find a comb in my kit on the table.”

  “I … I…” The words didn’t come.

  “No rush,” he called. “There’s water to wash if you’d like. Breakfast will be ready whenever you are.”

  Breakfast?

  For a moment she labored for breath, disbelief vying with instinctive panic. Damn! Her head hurt too much to think. What the hell was he doing? What did he want?

  Just … run! She looped her sack over her shoulder, and reached for her blanket.

  Her gaze fixed on the washbowl. And then went to the mirror. She hesitated. Damnation! She was making a mistake. One she’d regret. Nevertheless she unslung her bag, walked over and washed her face.

  She considered the leather bag. Did she dare?

  With trembling fingers she opened it, found a man’s shaving kit and the comb. For whatever reason, she tiptoed to the mirror and began to work at the tangles in her hair. Before she could finish, she succumbed to her insistent bladder and used the chamber pot, holding it so he couldn’t hear. Then she returned to the challenge of her hair.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she asked under her breath. “You need to be away from here. Away from him. He’s just another goddamned man.”

  Finally she collected her things, and stepped out, her heart pounding. Muscles charged, she fought the impulse to run.

  “Might as well attack the day on a full stomach. Got bacon frying. Have a seat.” Bret crouched at the fire and tended a pan that sizzled on the hearthstones. “The corn bread, poor as it is, is my own recipe. Can you believe they can powder both milk and eggs? What’s the world coming to next? Powdered beef?”

  She glanced over. Two of his mismatched tin plates had been set at the card table, in the shade. The silverware was placed as if for a formal affair.

  Run!

  She sniffed the bacon. Her legs might have had a mind of their own. Confused, she seated herself in the far chair.

  Bret straightened and brought the enameled coffeepot with him, aromatic steam rising from its spout. He didn’t even glance at her as he poured hot black coffee into her cup.

  Blessed heaven! Real coffee! She carefully picked up the hot cup, inhaling the fragrance. “Where did you get this?”

  “A corporal in commissary fancied himself a master of five-card stud. Those coffee beans were supposedly destined for General Bussey. A gift from General Halleck. Special, you see. All the way from Africa.”

  He had a twinkle in his eyes, as if inordinately proud of himself. Wind tousled a loose wave of his brown hair. He had a high forehead. A secret humor seemed to hide behind his lips.

  Within moments, he had filled her plate with hot corn bread and bacon and seated himself. As he unfolded the rag that was supposed to serve as a napkin, he asked, “I hope that you slept well.”

  “I shouldn’t have taken your bed.”

  He shrugged, pointing to a rolled blanket before the door. “It was a pleasant evening to be outside. I just lay there and watched the stars after the clouds cleared. Mostly I just relived the evening.” He paused, meeting her eyes. “Thank you. Not only was yesterday a milestone, but that was the most enjoyable evening I’ve spent in years. I shall treasure it.”

  Sarah paused, a forkful of bacon halfway to her lips. “What do you want from me, Mr. Anderson?”

  He cocked his head in that surprised, birdlike manner of his, and said, “I’d like to offer you a job.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I keep irregular hours. I have been the victim of petty theft in the past, this camp being what it is. But with the end of the war, our population is going to be considerably more fluid. I’d like the security of knowing my possessions will be here when I return. I’m also a vain man. I want to come back to my camp in the middle of the night and find a fi
re and warm meal waiting for me. Keep my clothes clean and pressed, see to the care of Jefferson, my horse, and keep my camp and equipment in order.” He pointed with his fork. “And that is all that I am asking of you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because through the good graces of champagne and roast duck, you lowered your defenses last night and I got to see the woman who disguises herself within that cotton sack of a dress. The fact that I need someone to take care of my things discomforts me somewhat. While necessity might require that I hire someone, my requirement is that that person be someone whose company, intellect, and competence I respect and enjoy.”

  “Where will I sleep?”

  “You shall have your own tent and cot. Not only do you have my word that you will not be molested, you also have your revolver.”

  He said it with such sincerity, a hardness in his eyes.

  “I don’t know if I could—”

  “Fifteen dollars a month to start with. If, by freeing me to concentrate on what I do best, I find my income rising, you shall profit thereby.”

  She sat stunned.

  “Take it, Sarah. If nothing else it will get you out of old lady McGurdy’s chicken house. Though how she’s saved it from being firewood this long is a miracle, I’d imagine that with the war over, she’s going to want to put chickens in it again.”

  “People will think I’m your bed thing.”

  He nodded frankly, a slight irritation behind his soft brown eyes. “Would it make any real difference in your life? Where you are now an object of pity, you would become one of occasional scorn. You already keep your distance from people, aloof and apart. When approached by a man, you’d no longer have to hide behind that feeble fiction of”—he mimicked her voice—“‘excuse me, I’m looking for my husband.’ If maintaining that reputation of a chaste and frightened woman is important to you, by all means decline my offer. Although what you lose on one hand might gain you some peace and security on the other. Making you unavailable, you might say.”

  She ate in silence, relishing every single bite. Food. Money. And a semblance of safety.

  She looked him hard in the eyes. “My last employment was in Little Rock. I was the housekeeper for one of the city’s most important women. Her nephew tried to crawl into my bed one night. He ducked at the last instant. Which is why he walked away with only a bleeding neck. Mr. Anderson, I will kill any man who tries to crawl into my bed at night.” She paused. “Even if he’s my employer.”

  His pensive stare didn’t waver. Reaching into his pocket, he laid a twenty-dollar gold piece on the table between them, and said, “If those are your only terms, I think we have a deal.”

  55

  June 6, 1865

  Doc coughed as he looked out at the once familiar Arkansas forests and ridges. He reached up with one hand and pulled his dripping hat down over his ears. Wet weather always brought the cough on. He just couldn’t shake the damn thing. It continued to live deep in his chest like a constant tickle.

  Butler was driving the rickety spring wagon and doing a good job with the mule. If the rain had served no other purpose, it had swollen the wood and firmed up the wobbly spokes in the wheels and tightened the iron tires on rims he and Butler had been shimming with whittled wedges.

  Doc had somehow managed to shut his ears to the incessant chattering as Butler talked to the men. Butler kept pointing things out, saying, “This here’s the Cross Timbers. Last I rode through here was with a detachment of cavalry in service to Tom Hindman.” Or, “Oh, look! There’s the ruins of the tanyard. We used to deliver hides there. Now it’s all gone to disrepair and weeds. Not even a building left.”

  As they began to climb the grade onto Pea Ridge, Doc glanced around at the savaged countryside, wet and dripping from the warm rain. Clouds hung low over the wreckage of what had once been forest. Broken and splintered trees had regrown some branches, but not enough to hide the shattered trunks and limbs. Here and there shot and shell had gouged out chunks of bark that would never be healed, or a bole had been shot clear through, the tree growing around gray splinters that protruded from the holes.

  “Dear God,” Doc whispered. “Look at this.”

  “Hell of a fight, indeed. What do you think, Sergeant? As bad as the Hornet’s Nest or Chickamauga?” Butler’s lips worked. “Corporal, I most surely agree. You can almost smell the burnt powder and spilt blood.” A pause. “No, no, Philip spent most of Shiloh cutting pieces off of people.”

  “This is worse than I imagined,” Doc said as they topped out on the ridge. Moments later, Butler pulled the mule up, letting him cool and twitch his ears as they looked at the thick weeds filling the expanse where once Elkhorn Tavern had stood. Only the remains of the tavern’s blackened chimneys and the lone telegraph line stuck up from the field of weeds. To the west, battered forest extended toward the rounded knob of Little Mountain.

  A few blackened fire rings had been left by passing campers at the Huntsville Road junction, but other than that the tavern had gone back to wilderness.

  Butler said, “Last time I was here you could see clear back to the graves. After the battle Sarah hauled Federal dead for the Yankee army. Made a dollar a day doing it.”

  “You never told me that,” Doc replied.

  “Of course I did.” Then Butler looked confused. “Or was that Johnny Baker I was talking to?” He listened for a moment, nodded seriously and said, “Yes, I recall now. Funny how family members can have that effect on you. I was just—”

  “Butler!” Doc snapped, fought off a cough, and added, “Can we go home now? I’d prefer to see Sarah with my own eyes rather than listen to you discuss her with your phantoms.”

  Butler slapped the reins, turning the mule onto the Huntsville Road. “You’re being short, Philip.”

  Doc glared at him, then took a deep breath and relented. “I’m sorry.” He gestured around, disturbed by the empty field where the Clemons farm had been. Weeds were already giving way to encroaching forest. “I just didn’t expect so much … I mean, in my mind I thought…”

  “That home was still home?” Butler suggested, his eyes oddly unfocused as he stared at the rutted and rocky road, as though seeing it in his imagination.

  Doc grabbed the wagon seat, bracing his feet on the dashboard as the mule started down the rocky descent. The swale, washed and eroded, was more like a gully than the road he remembered having been here.

  His skills as a physician had indeed brought them through the winter, carried them to Rolla, and allowed him to purchase the old spring wagon and mule, both having lately been acquired from a military auction. Beyond a dutch oven and a sack of flour, they had only the clothes on their backs, his surgical kit, and some surplus blankets to their names.

  Maybe he was as crazy as Butler. In his fantasies the farm had remained inviolate, as though immune to the war. Untouched and pristine, it awaited him, ready to fold him into its embrace and heal the wounds in his soul.

  Home is not going to be what I remember.

  Doc knotted his fists, a quiver of worry mixing with the anticipation.

  He told himself, “The buildings will be shabby. Some probably missing. Sarah is twenty now. Billy’s a man. Maw will have aged.”

  Butler was studying him sidelong. “And you get after me for talking to myself?”

  “You’ve seen the rest of the country we’ve ridden through from Springfield south. It’s a desolate wasteland. One farm after another abandoned and burned.” Doc worked his lips and looked at his brother. “Now that we’re this close, I’m actually scared.”

  Butler nodded, tilted his head as if listening, then twitched his lips, biting off a comment. After a moment, he looked at Doc, that curious satisfaction behind his blue eyes that indicated that he’d managed to avoid talking to his men instead of answering his brother.

  Butler said, “Last time I was here, Billy was spending his time out in the woods hunting. He was keeping food on the table when most of the folks hereabouts w
ere starving. Neither Maw nor Sarah were anybody’s fools. Unlike some … like the Clemonses who loudly announced their Rebel sympathies, they catered to whichever side was in control at the moment.”

  “That hope has kept me going, Butler.” He glanced around at the familiar countryside. “I’ve just got the jitters, that’s all.”

  He coughed into his hand, water droplets flying from his hat with each racking of his lungs. They had met a steady stream of people on the road south from Springfield. Most had been men, most of them disbanded soldiers. While the raggedly dressed Rebels and blue-clad Federals had mostly been tolerant of each other, if not patently curious, the families and some of the tight-lipped, heavily armed bands had not. The hatred among the latter had been as hot as a coke-fired oven.

  The war might be over, but the wounds remained open and oozing.

  To Doc’s eyes the destruction in western Missouri—let alone the little he’d seen since entering Arkansas—defied belief. What the hell had happened here?

  “Dear God, please. Let Maw and Sarah and Billy be all right,” Doc prayed softly as Butler eased them through a rough section of the road.

  “Lot of cavalry passed this way, Sergeant,” Butler was explaining, apparently to one of his men. “Cavalry was the key to keeping the war going in this country. Not like the big armies you were used to in Tennessee.”

  Doc studied his brother from the corner of his eye. The Kershaw character seemed to show up when Butler was worried or under pressure. Sometimes when Doc asked, Butler would tell him Kershaw wasn’t there. And, to add to the peculiarity, Butler had patiently explained that Kershaw was “invisible.” A fascinating twist and glimpse into Butler’s broken mind. He had invisible men among his already invisible men?