“He know what the hell he talking about?” Kershaw asked from behind Butler’s ear.
“One of General Thomas’s first Federal colored regiments. Ironically recruited at Helena, Arkansas, in 1863, long after you’d gone to the Army of Tennessee.”
“Sir?” one of the orderlies asked as they started Doc up the stairs.
Butler studied the man thoughtfully. “Did you know that the success of the U.S. Second Arkansas colored Regiment even made Tom Hindman change his tune? Last I heard, just before Chickamauga, he was proposing Negro soldiers for Confederate regiments. Can’t imagine how General Bragg and his flint-nosed cronies would have reacted to that.”
“Probably why they lost the war, sir,” the orderly returned.
“Yankee scum belly!” Phil Vail wailed as he appeared around the corner of the hospital. “Oughta whip his arse until it’s red and raw!”
“Cap’n?” Pettigrew asked as he leaned against the spring wagon. “You better set that popinjay straight on a few things or we’re gonna go through him like a stallion through corn stalks.”
“Time we taught these smug Yankees a lesson or two.” Peterson added his own ire.
“Gentlemen, we can discuss the outcome of the war later,” Butler replied. “First let’s get Doc taken care of. Then we can deal with the tactical realities.”
“Of course, Captain,” the first of the litter bearers said as they bore Doc’s frail body into the dimly lit hospital. “With respect, sir, since he is a civilian, we may have to relocate your brother to a private physician’s care.”
“Doc never mustered out,” Butler responded. “He should still be on the regimental rolls.”
“Tactical realities?” the second wondered as he vanished into the hospital.
Behind Butler’s ear, Kershaw growled, “Can’t wait to chop these cocksure Yankees down to size. You got a plan, Cap’n?”
Butler smiled in anticipation. “Of course. Fort Scott served as a supply depot, and gentlemen, we’re going on a raid.”
58
July 8, 1865
Doc coughed himself awake, blinked at the world through rheumy eyes, and rubbed them with a weak hand. Nothing made sense. Phantasms seemed oddly interlinked in his memory: Ann Marie; shattered and bleeding limbs coming loose in his hands; freezing and starving men staring at him from sunken eyes; as if all the worst of his memories were patched together and merging into each other.
The taste in his mouth was nothing short of vile. He swallowed dryly, coughed again, and barely managed to sit up, only to trigger that racking and painful cough.
He was in a bed. For a moment he wondered if he were in a prison camp. No. Too clean and dry. A hospital, no doubt about it. Only four beds in the long line were occupied, most of them broken bones and injuries from what he could see. The building was frame, and it was delightfully warm. Bright sunlight shone beyond the shadowed windows. A powder magazine and flagpole shone in what was obviously a parade ground. Beyond were officers’ quarters and barracks.
“Dr. Hancock?” a voice asked.
“Yes?” Doc’s voice sounded like gravel rubbed on oak.
An orderly in an apron came striding down between the rows of beds. He was a young man, maybe early twenties, bearded, with curious light brown eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“Thirsty. Hungry. Where am I?”
“Fort Scott, sir. Captain Hancock brought you in. We’ve been treating your chest with mustard packs and a spoonful of syrup of squills four times a day.”
That explained the taste in his mouth.
“How long have I been here?”
“Two days.” The orderly offered his hand. “Bryan Miles, sir. The post surgeon was called away to see to a broken leg. He’ll be delighted to learn that you’ve come back to us. For a time we thought you were a goner.”
“Two days?” Doc wondered, feeling dizzy. He leaned back, resting his head on the pillow. “Could I get a glass of water, please?”
“Of course.” Miles hurried away.
Doc pinched his brow, trying to remember. Last he could recall, he’d been in the wagon. One minute he was burning up, the next his bones were shivering with a cold so intense he might have been back in Camp Douglas. Each jolt of the wagon had been like a sledgehammer beating his body.
And then the phantasms had come. Eerie and unreal, dream and memory melting together. Ann Marie, Sally Spears, Paw and Maw, images from Boston, and Shiloh, and prison camp. The bearded man staring at him over the shotgun as he drove Butler from the Hancock farm.
“Why the hell didn’t I just let myself die?”
“Dr. Hancock? Here’s your water, sir.”
Doc struggled to sit up, broke into coughing, and was helped by Miles. Gratefully he sucked down drafts of the warm water until the glass was empty. Then a second.
“Miles, my stomach is like an empty hole. Is there anything to eat?”
“Got some stew back on the stove. It’s not much, but—”
“It will be wondrous,” Doc said wearily.
“And as soon as you’ve eaten, I should give you a dose of quinine sulfate with a strong opiate in addition to your syrup of squills. What you need more than anything now is to rest and rebuild your strength.”
“Lovely.” Doc fought another round of coughing.
“And after that, a good dosing of spirits of turpentine.”
“What for?”
Miles shrugged, failing to meet Doc’s eyes. “Don’t know where you’ve been, but somewhere along the way you’ve picked up a solid infestation of intestinal worms. I hope you weren’t sharing mess with the colored troops?”
Doc cocked his head. “Colored troops?”
“In the Second Arkansas.” Miles waved it away. “In the meantime, we have a clerical issue. We can’t find Neely’s regiment in the records.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Probably just an error in records. Happens a lot, sir. We’re just about on the edge of the world out here, but it is correct that you were never mustered out of your unit?”
“Um … no. They would have me listed as missing.” Dear Lord, they thought he was a Federal medical officer who was still on the rolls? How had that happened? He was too tired to think about it.
Doc sighed, feeling exhausted as he closed his eyes.
