“Perhaps, perhaps. You did give me good counsel, though.”
“Hah!” Sherman gulped down a bit of his drink. “You stood by me when they all thought I was crazy before Shiloh, and I stood by you when they all said you were a drunkard!”
Grant eyed him. “I was not a drunkard.”
Before Sherman could respond to that, an aide came in with a message for Grant. The weary-looking bearded man scanned the two-page dispatch while Sherman refilled his glass. He looked up as a curse escaped Grant’s lips. “Trouble?”
The general tossed the notes upon his field desk. “Yes! Some fool is demanding that a Rebel doctor and one of his patients be arrested for insubordination, assault, and violation of the surrender.”
“So?”
“Well, there is also an affidavit from the doctor stating that Union soldiers were stealing from the patients, and he demands I take action against them!”
Sherman sat back. “It happens, no matter how many orders we issue or men we arrest. If it gets too bad, we put a few in the stockade. Is there something else?”
“The officer involved is a George Whitehead, attached to XIII Corps. Made captain because his father is the postmaster back in Illinois and active in the Republican Party. I’ve had complaints before about this fellow, but McClemand always stood by him.”
“You think Whitehead is guilty?”
“I’ve no reason to trust the man.”
Sherman grunted. Both the Union and Confederate armies were filled with political officers—men who received their rank not because of military training or experience in battle but because of their civilian connections. They were usually incompetent troublemakers for their professional brethren, but they had friends in high places, and it was detrimental to one’s career to oppose these men without being very careful. The former XIII Corps commander, Major General John A. McClemand, had been just such a man, and it had taken Grant months to orchestrate his removal.
Grant pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “I finally got rid of McClemand, and now I must divest myself of
“That was good work, shipping out that vainglorious fool,” Sherman said as he took a sip of his whiskey. “Why not do the same with this bastard? Kill two birds with one stone.”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“Whitehead. Have him escort his precious prisoners to prison camp with a letter requesting transfer. Let him be someone else’s problem. Meanwhile, you don’t have to try both Whitehead and those Rebels.”
Grant sat back. “Sherman, I knew there was a reason I let you drink my whiskey.”
It was the end of the line, and Darcy and Bingley climbed off the train in the early evening with scores of other veterans of the late war. All about the Jackson station was damage and disarray, evidence of the five-year cataclysm from which the country was now trying to recover. The two needed a place for the night but were not surprised to learn from the station master that all the available rooms were taken. Once again, they had to face a night on the cold, hard earth, and they began their search for a spot, relatively safe from thieves, when they came upon a campfire.
“Hello!” Bingley cried to the lone figure next to the flame. “May we share your fire for a while?”
The man looked up from under the broad brim of his hat, which sported a silver hat band. He wore the uniform of a major of Rebel cavalry, a Sharpe carbine rifle close to his hand. The light from the fire was reflected in his dark eyes. “Come on in, Georgia, you and your companion, an’ set a spell.”
Bingley and Darcy sat on the opposite side of the fire, and the doctor continued to speak. “Thank you kindly, sir. But how did you know I’m from Georgia?”
The stranger chuckled. “I’ve an ear for accents. Am I right?”
Bingley confirmed he was, introduced himself and Darcy, and named a small town in Georgia as his hometown.
“My name’s Fitzwilliam,” said the major. “What brings you this far west, Dr. Bingley?”
Bingley stared at the flames. “There wasn’t much left for me back at my family’s plantation, Netherfield.”
“I take it your place was visited by Sherman and his horde?” Bingley confirmed that his family home had fallen victim to Sherman’s March to the Sea. “And you, Mr. Darcy, where do you hail from?”
“Rosings—a little town west of Fort Worth.”
Fitzwilliam grinned. “Always a pleasure to meet a fellow Texican. I’m from Nacogdoches, myself.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes. “Nacogdoches? You’re wearing the uniform of the Virginia Cavalry, sir.”
“You’ve a sharp eye, Mr. Darcy. No, I didn’t steal these clothes, though I did help myself to this here carbine from a Yankee trooper who had no further use for it. Help yourself to some coffee, an’ I’ll tell you my tale.”
The two helped themselves to the pot. The steaming black concoction had more acorns and leaves in it than coffee, but at least it was hot.
“I was orphaned at a young age an’ was raised by relations on a cotton farm near Nacogdoches. My uncle had some connections in the army from the Mexican War, so I got a commission to attend the Virginia Military Institute. I was there when the war broke out an’ followed Stonewall Jackson to take on the foe. Ridin’ suited me better than walkin’, so I hooked up with Jeb Stuart. Rode with him from Manassas to Gettysburg to Yellow Tavern.” He lifted his mug. “Here’s to you, ole Jeb, may you rest in peace.”
Darcy and Bingley had a bit of food and offered to share it with Fitzwilliam. As they ate, they told stories of their war experiences. Fitzwilliam did most of the talking, as Darcy and Bingley were particularly quiet about their time as prisoners of war.
Finally, Fitzwilliam asked, “So, what are your plans, Dr. Bingley?”
Bingley swallowed a spoonful of beans. “Call me Charles, Fitz. Goin’ west with Will, here. He tells me there’s need for a doctor in Rosings, so I’m goin’ to give it a try. What about you? Headin’ back to Nacogdoches?”
“Nah. Never did take to farming, to the grief of my uncle. I got an itch to ride the range, punchin’ cattle an’ such. I’m headin’ west—goin’ to sign on with a cattle ranch.”
Darcy eyed him. “Ever rode cattle, Fitz?”
“Not yet,” he grinned. “You offering me a job, Darcy?”
“That’s up to my daddy, but you can come along.”
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy grinned for the first time. “Good that you know your place, Fitz. Pour me some more of that black stuff you’re passing off as coffee.”
“Hell with that,” Fitz returned as he pulled a small bottle from a saddlebag and tossed it to Darcy. “Take a snort o’ this.”
“Holding out on us, Fitz?” asked Darcy as he took a swig. A moment later he coughed down the rotgut whiskey, to Fitz’s and Bingley’s laughter.
“Had to have a reason to celebrate. I’ve a feeling we’re goin’ to have interestin’ times, Darcy.”
After church on Sunday, Thomas Bennet looked on his family as they ate the midday dinner: Jane, at twenty, his surviving eldest and in the full bloom of her beauty; Elizabeth, his darling Beth, eighteen and as free-spirited as ever; Mary, almost seventeen and as serious as Beth was playful; Kathy, thirteen and on the cusp of womanhood; and Lily, the baby, a very pretty and precocious twelve and her mother’s delight. For a moment the memory of his only son, Samuel—five years in a grave in Maryland—flashed before his mind. Samuel was a hole in his soul that would never heal.
His eyes fell upon his cohort for the past quarter-century, his wife, Fanny. He loved her dearly, but he was not blind to her shortcomings. Never an intelligent or introspective person, she had been a gay and kind companion during the majority of their life together, but Fanny had changed since the loss of Samuel. She was now prone to fits of anxiety and, therefore, less of a guiding light to the three youngest than she had been to Samuel, Jane, and Beth in their youth. The children had been given free rein to indulge in their more unfortunate tendencies: Mary was
