“I imagine your farm is pretty rundown, too, Private.” Butler seemed to concentrate on something, and added, “I suppose so. But you’ll feel better when you meet Maw, Sarah, and Billy.” He paused. “Yes, it will have been a long time since we’ve eaten food like she can cook.”
Doc lowered his head, bracing himself as the wagon slipped and slid over weathered limestone. Rain trickled down the back of his neck.
How do I explain to Maw that her son is a madman? What do I tell her?
She would expect him, as a medical man, to know what to do about it. How did he tell her he hadn’t a clue?
And what was he going to do if—now that the fighting was over—Paw wasn’t dead, but was sitting at home, fat and sassy, with another bag of gold? It would be just like the old reprobate.
Bear that cross when it’s dropped on your shoulder.
He would be civil to the man. No matter what. It wouldn’t be worth getting into a bitter, yelling fight. He was a physician and would act like one. Nor could he afford to upset Butler. God alone knew what further damage an acrimonious shouting match with Paw might do to his poor brother’s already teetering mind.
Doc swallowed hard, so shaken he barely recognized the old lightning-scarred tree. When he was sixteen he’d spent the night under it, having sneaked away to the tavern. It had been the first time he’d drank whiskey. A lot of it. And the lightning tree was as far as he’d made it before vomiting his guts out, and passing out beneath the scarred branches.
“I hear you,” Butler almost snapped. “You’ll remain in ranks. You’re soldiers not border ruffians.”
What was that about? It was a tone he rarely heard Butler use with his men. Doc bit his lip, the anxiety rising as they finally dropped down into the White River floodplain. Butler had insisted from the very beginning that it was his responsibility to get his men home. So, was there a chance that as soon as Butler walked into the house, he’d slip back into being himself?
“Butler?” he asked cautiously.
At the tone in his voice, Butler gave him that wary look. “Yes, Philip?”
“When we get to the farm, are you going to let the rest of the men muster out? Let them continue on to their homes on their own?”
Butler’s expression pinched, his eyes adopted that vacant look that he got when all of his men were talking at once.
“Butler?” Doc asked after several minutes. The man’s face had gone completely blank. “Did you hear me?”
Finally Butler’s eyes cleared. “Sergeant Kershaw says we all have to stay together for the time being. No telling what Yankee intentions are. And someone might get lost. Remember Chickamauga?”
“Damn it! It’s not Chickamauga. The war’s over!”
“I am an officer,” Butler insisted. “Responsibility is the burden of command. It’s up to me to keep the men alive. My men are safe now, and by God, I’ll keep them that way.”
“They are safe!” Doc almost shouted. “Just past these trees, we are home! Safe! And I…” He’d strained his throat, breaking into a fit of coughing that doubled him over. For moments he couldn’t breathe, his throat pain-racked, stars of light dancing before his darkening vision. Finally spent, he gasped for air.
“You worry me, Philip.” Butler shook his head.
“Yes,” Doc said through a rasping breath. “Sometimes I worry myself, too.”
And then they broke out of the trees. Doc and Butler turned in unison to see the farm.
“Dear God,” Doc whispered. “There’s barely anything left. The tobacco barn’s gone, the barn and sheds are missing. The fields are gone back to wild.”
“Smoke in the chimney,” Butler noted. “They’re home, Philip. They made it.”
“Thank God!” Philip sagged on the seat, the wash of relief unmanning him. “Odd how a man’s priorities can change. If I never have to set foot off of the place again, I’ll be a happy man. Somehow, after everything I’ve been through, I can spend the rest of my life growing corn, cotton, and tobacco, and be forever grateful.”
As they turned off onto the lane, Doc glanced down at the river. That big limestone rock was still there. Tonight, after greetings and supper were over, he was going to retreat there. Atop that rock, he was going to stare at the river, and begin the process of healing his tortured soul.
Butler pulled the mule to a stop and set the brake as they entered the yard. Philip hardly noticed his brother’s pursed lips, the narrowing of his eyes.
Doc stepped down, dropped to his knees on the rain-damp dirt, bent and kissed it. Then he clawed up some of the soil, squeezing it tight in his fists, savoring the feel of familiar earth. His earth. He felt a tear break loose and streak down his face.
“Sergeant Kershaw says we’re not home.”
Doc turned, staring up at Butler, who sat stone upright. Then he stood, looking at the house, its sides weathered and gray and in need of paint. Glass was missing in the windows, oilcloth having been hung over what panes remained. Three saddles were front-laid on the porch, a dented bucket by the door. Paw’s old rocker, missing a couple of slats in the back, sat to one side.
“Maw! Sarah! Billy!” Doc cried. “We’re home!”
No one appeared at the door. “Maw! It’s Philip and Butler!”
He started for the porch.
“Hold it right there, mister!” a sharp voice called from off to the right.
Doc turned. A man had risen from behind the rosebushes, a double-barrel shotgun at the ready. He approached carefully, dark eyes gleaming from beneath his wet hat. His jaws were working, making his black beard twitch.
“Got ’em covered from this side, Dube!” another voice called, and Doc turned, seeing two young men with carbines as they emerged from around the far side of the house.
“Whoa!”
