Billy had swollen up like a strutting turkey. He shot Gritts a cunning smile and a wink, as if sealing some secret deal.
Butler chuckled under his breath, wondering what would drive his little brother to madness first. The lure of the forest and the hunt? His desire to whale the tar out of any young lad that looked sideways at Sarah? His desperate need to keep the home fires burning? Or his desire to escape Maw’s incessant chastisement?
But when he looked in Maw’s direction, it was to see her glacial stare fixed on Paw, a near desperation and disgust barely hidden behind her masklike expression.
I know, Maw. It’s just another excuse for Paw to vanish on the trail of adventure. Thistledown on the wind. The only thing he’s ever left you is alone.
4
July 29, 1861
The streets of Memphis—like all cities—gave that irritating offense to the nose. Something about horse urine and the particularly aromatic equine droppings imparted an acuity to the scent that seemed unusually prominent in the aftermath of the late-afternoon rain.
As Philip’s heels drummed hollowly on the boardwalk, the thick and warm air seemed to burst with the sounds and smells of the city, augmented by the breeze-born odors off the great river where it roiled, swirled, and sucked on its way south.
Evening had fallen, the light having faded to a dark pewter in the partly cloudy sky. Lightning flashed in the black clouds now sulking their way toward the eastern horizon. The last of the evening birds were going quiet as the first bats wing-danced in the growing gloom.
To either side, redbrick buildings rose above Third Street in two or three stories, their wooden windows whitewashed and stark against the walls. Here and there the yellow glow of candlelight honeyed rooms behind wavy panes of poorly made glass.
Philip touched his hat and stepped onto the damp street as two matrons in taffeta and bonnets passed, their female slaves following demurely. His time in Boston—in addition to the western bias of his home country in northwest Arkansas—had left him uncomfortable with slavery. Yet here he was, smack in the middle of it, and fully aware that debate over its existence had driven the wedge of secession between North and South.
At Jefferson Street, he turned east, adjusted his hat, and proceeded to the address Dr. Morton had given him. A houseboy dressed in a satin jacket stood on the elevated porch of the frame structure. A lantern on a low table provided feeble illumination. As Doc climbed the steps, he could hear laughter from inside.
The boy drew himself up, his dark skin amber in the lantern light as he asked, “Can I be of service, sir?”
“Could you tell Dr. Morton that Philip Hancock has arrived?”
“Yassir,” the boy told him. “If you will follow me, sir.”
The boy led him up the steps to the porch, opened the great blue door, and ushered Doc into a lighted foyer. On the right a carpeted staircase ascended to the second floor. To either side doors opened to a living room on the right and parlor on the left. From this latter came the laughter and delicate clink of glassware.
An older black man, immaculately dressed, stepped forward as the boy said, “Dr. Hancock is arrived.” Then the lad retreated outside.
“May I take your hat and coat, suh? And do you need a moment to attend to your toilet?”
Doc had doffed his hat upon entry, and shrugged out of his coat before handing them to the servant. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
“A moment, suh.” The black man retreated with Doc’s hat and coat, only to emerge from behind the stairs, bow, and lead Doc into the parlor, announcing, “Dr. Philip Hancock,” to the assembled guests.
Doc took stock of the room. French windows gave a view of the street. A fireplace, grate closed, was built into the far wall; its mantel sported silver candlesticks and burning tapers. A Persian rug covered the polished hardwood floor, the room surrounded by chairs upon which several older ladies reposed. One rose at Doc’s entry.
Dr. Benjamin Morton stood with another man before the door leading to the dining room, glasses of lemonade in their hands.
The woman who now approached offered her gloved hand as Doc bowed. He’d met Mrs. Morton at her husband’s surgery twice before. In her early fifties, she had black hair barely touched by white and a kindly face dominated by spirited green eyes. She wore a sky-blue velveteen hoop dress with white lace.
She said, “Dr. Hancock, welcome. We are so delighted that you could come.” Leading him forward she approached the white-haired man beside Dr. Morton, saying, “Reverend Nelson, I have the pleasure of presenting to you Dr. Philip Hancock, late of New Orleans and Boston.”
“My pleasure, Reverend.” Philip shook the man’s hand.
“I have heard good things about you, young man.” He indicated Morton. “Benjamin, here, says that you’re a marvel in his surgery.”
“He is very kind, sir, given my youth and inexperience.”
“Oh, posh!” Ben Morton made an expansive gesture with his lemonade. “Theophilus, Philip can dissemble all that he likes. Since he started filling in, there are three at least that I can count who are alive because of his skill. Old dog that I am, he’s teaching me new tricks.”
The reverend raised a white eyebrow. “High praise indeed, Ben. So, if I come down with a goiter, you’re telling me that my chances for survival are higher if I wait until after you’ve left your office?”
Ben made a face. “Much, I’m afraid.”
“Dr. Morton is being much too kind,” Philip replied, somewhat embarrassed.
“If you will excuse us, Reverend.” Felicia led Philip to the woman in her sixties who remained seated, and said, “Mrs. Nelson, permit me
