The way she melted into his arms, her body conforming to his, sent a thrill through him.
“What if I lose my brother, too? That’s why I was thinking of you being the regimental surgeon. You could be sure you’d bring him back to me.”
9
December 10, 1861
At Fly’s characteristic warning bark, Sarah lifted her head. Then ignored it. Instead of dominating some parlor in Little Rock where admirers could comment on her latest dress, she sat in the tobacco barn’s cold and dim shelter and twisted leaves of tobacco into loops.
“Oh sure, Paw. Gone off to war, are you? And I’m stuck here making tobacco twists.” She knew it was petty, but by Hob, a girl had the right to feel petty on occasion. She’d had to put her whole life on hold.
Not only had Paw failed to materialize with a new dress, but the war just kept dragging on. What had been keen heartbreak when she’d finally realized she was stuck at the farm for another year had dulled into a frustrated ache. It would be a whole year before Paw could take her to Little Rock. She’d be eighteen! Almost too old!
She plucked down another leaf, angrily twisting it into a string before bending it around in a loop. The seemingly endless task, however, provided its own rewards since a good twist of tobacco could be traded for a jar of honey, a sack of ground corn, a crock of molasses, salt, sugar, or any of the other sundries that were now in such short supply.
Come war, Yankees, hell or high water, the good news was that for the most part, northwestern Arkansas could pretty much supply its own needs. Even with as many men as had gone to war, and despite the shortages, corn, wheat, cotton, tobacco, barley, beef, and poultry were plentiful. The local mills were adept at turning raw materials into finished goods. But for luxuries like coffee and pepper—for which passable local substitutes could be had—or the occasional manufactured part for an engine or piece of machinery, Benton and Washington Counties could muddle on without the rest of the country.
Fly half howled his warning bark again, this time with more authority.
Sarah stepped out from the barn and shivered in the biting breeze as she stared down at the Huntsville Road where it ran along the river.
Seeing a wagon emerge from the riverside trees on that chilly and gray December day wasn’t an unusual occurrence. Benton County’s denizens had developed an interesting and constantly evolving economy based on the swapping of local resources and food stocks.
Sarah worked her tobacco-stained hands to ease the cramps in her fingers as the first wagon was followed by four more and a party of riders. Worse, the first of the wagons was making the turn onto the Hancock farm lane. Even more concerning, each was topped by two soldiers.
Wiping her hands on her wool skirt, she hurried across the yard to the house, stepped into the delightful warmth, and called, “Maw! Soldiers coming with wagons!”
Shoes thumping on the risers, her mother descended the stairs, a look of concern on her face. She wore a gingham housedress with a white apron tied to her hips. “Coming here?”
“Riders and four wagons,” Sarah told her, catching her mother’s sudden worry. “What would they want here? We’re a long way from Fayetteville.”
Word was that Louis Hébert’s brigade down around Fayetteville in Washington County had been provisioning itself from the surrounding countryside.
“Let’s go see. Maybe they’re lost.” Then Maw hesitated. “Where’s your brother?”
“Where do you think?” Sarah slapped an irritated hand to her side. “Said he was after a coon that got into the corn crib last night.”
Some of the tension in Maw’s face relaxed, and she whipped a shawl around her shoulders before stepping out onto the porch. Her breath swirled whitely around her head as the cool breeze ruffled her age-silvered hair.
Sarah followed her mother down into the yard, stopping as an officer—a sergeant she realized from the chevrons on his uniform coat—pulled up before the house. The wagons slowed, swinging out in the cramped yard, a couple of the teamsters cursing as the animals balked and got in each other’s way.
“Good day, ma’am,” the sergeant greeted, leaning forward on his saddle, reins in his hands. “Is this the Hancock farm?”
To Sarah’s surprise, he was a handsome man, young, with a well-formed face, the most enchanting blue eyes, and curly chestnut hair. She wondered what it would be like to run her fingers through it. His wide lips looked practiced at smiling.
And then he glanced at her, his eyes widening slightly, the smile she expected finding its home.
“It is,” Maw replied, pulling her shawl tight against the chill. “How can I help you, Officer?”
“Supplies, ma’am.” He tore his glance from Sarah’s. Turned. “Dewey, you, Haskell, and Branton may begin your inventory.”
The men behind him dismounted, one heading for the corn crib, one to the barn, the other for the smokehouse.
“I don’t understand,” Maw cried, stepping forward. “You’re here to take our food?”
The sergeant dismounted and unhooked a leather sack from his saddle. “It’s a requisition, ma’am, for which you will be reimbursed fairly by the government.”
“What if I say no?”
His eyes, friendly up to that moment, hardened slightly. “Your country requests your aid, ma’am.” He glanced suggestively at Sarah, as if imploring her support. “My orders are to obtain whatever supplies are available. You may, of course, take any complaints to the commanding officer of the Army of the West should you find our reimbursement insufficient in return for goods surrendered.”
He glanced again at Sarah, as if torn.
Maw, sharp as the hawk she was, caught it. The look she flashed at Sarah was filled with irritation. “Sergeant, how are we to be reimbursed?”
From his leather pack he removed a bundle of bills, and lifted them. “My clerks will provide you with an inventory of the grain and livestock requisitioned, each having a set value, for which I am authorized
