He stepped out onto the street, hardly aware of Corinth, bathed as it was in bright sunlight. He could care less about the once-sleepy town’s bustle as soldiers, wagons, men on horses, and columns of laborers and slaves marched down Jackson Street toward Main. Fronted by brick buildings, with occasional frame structures, Corinth had blossomed as the crossroads of the north-south Mobile and Ohio Railroad and east-west Memphis and Charleston line.
Here General Johnston was consolidating his widely dispersed Confederate forces, and not a single soldier didn’t fully understand that two massive Federal armies were gathering just north of the Tennessee line. One under the irrepressible “Unconditional Surrender” Grant, and the other led by the supposed “Conqueror of Nashville,” Don Carlos Buell.
For the most part, the mood of the troops was glum. First Kentucky and then central Tennessee had been lost. At this rate the war would be over by Christmas, and the South reconquered.
“I didn’t join the damn army to run like a whipped puppy,” one Shelby County volunteer had told Doc as he stitched up a cut in the man’s arm.
The sentiment was common—and just about everyone laid the blame squarely on General Albert Sidney Johnston’s doorstep. Now the general was reportedly on his way, along with the Army of Central Kentucky—whatever that was—to personally take control of the gathering Confederate forces.
Assuming the man somehow managed to remain in charge.
Thousands of letters, not to mention several delegations of irate citizens, had arrived at President Jefferson Davis’s desk asking that the transplanted Texan be relieved and replaced for incompetence.
As if any of that mattered.
Doc stopped short on the boardwalk, taking the moment to read, once again, the careful womanly script that addressed each envelope to Dr. Philip Hancock, Surgeon, Fourth Tennessee, Corinth, Mississippi.
Bursting with delight, he couldn’t wait to hurry back to his tent, pour a glass of brandy, and based upon the dates, open them one by one. He would take his time, savor each and every word that Ann Marie had written.
He ducked around a party of jauntily dressed Texas cavalrymen, their high-heeled boots pounding on the boards and spurs jingling. He turned on Linden, hoping to catch a supply wagon back to his surgery and tent in the middle of the Fourth Tennessee encampment.
From the open door of a saloon, the twang of a guitar matched the light notes of a mandolin as the habitués inside sang “Lorena.”
Doc hesitated in the doorway, head cocked, oddly stirred that he held letters from the woman he loved, and how melancholy the song’s lyrics and tune made him for Memphis and Ann Marie’s company.
He had taken no more than three steps before a voice called from behind. “Philip?”
He turned, startled to see his father, bright sunlight almost glowing in the man’s high mane of white hair. James Hancock had aged since Doc had seen him last, the lines in his face deeper, the strong chin more chiseled. Those hard gray eyes, however, remained just as stony and unforgiving.
“I thought that was you.” Paw lifted a pewter cup, as if in salute. “A regimental surgeon, I see. Which one?”
“The Fourth Tennessee.” Doc’s throat had gone tight, his back stiffening. “I see that you’ve become a major.”
“Blyth’s Mississippi. First Brigade. They’re digging ditches and rifle pits. My duties pertain to supply. Notably, through the applied arts of poker. The quartermaster, who is an atrocious gambler, is more than willing to cover his losses by granting my most deserving company the first choice of commissary and supply.”
The feel of Ann Marie’s letters crumpling in his knotting fist caused him to breathe deeply. He forced a smile. “Nothing changes, does it?”
His father walked up, tilting his head back to the brilliant March sun. He squinted, weathered cheeks taut. “Word is that General Van Dorn, commanding Ben McCulloch and Sterling Price, is fighting a Union army just south of the border in Arkansas. I thought I might hear more details. Especially given that one of the colonels in yonder”—he nodded toward the saloon—“has responsibility for the telegraph office.”
Doc crossed his arms. “Last I heard Curtis and his Federal army were pursuing Price south toward Fort Smith.”
“He was. The good general Curtis—if my sources can be trusted—was smart enough not to overrun his supply lines or to be caught by ambush. Word is that he doubled back from Fayetteville and dug in on the bluff overlooking Little Sugar Creek above Trott’s store.”
Doc’s heart skipped. “What about Maw and the family?”
Paw shrugged, the crowsfeet around his eyes tightening. “They’re still miles away. If Van Dorn wins, the Federals will flee to Springfield. If Curtis wins, he’ll chase Van Dorn back to Fort Smith. Either way, no one is going to stay around and fight over Benton County.”
Doc chewed his lip, nodding, but he wasn’t sure. It was one thing to hear about battles in Kentucky and Tennessee. Another to think of battles in one’s own front yard.
“Haven’t heard from you for a while, Philip. I trust, given your position as regimental surgeon, that you completed your studies.” He smiled thinly, took a drink, and added, “It would have been nice to have known. Perhaps shared in your achievement. Especially since it was my gold that bought you that education.”
The twisting down inside added to Doc’s discomfort. “I wasn’t aware that you cared.”
“I don’t. I only required that you be a man. Stand on your own two feet and make something of yourself. Your mother, however, would appreciate hearing from you.” He arched a suggestive eyebrow. “Since I’m no longer in residence, you needn’t be hesitant about reestablishing contact.”
“I see.”
James turned his attention to an artillery limber as it rolled by. “Butler is a lieutenant on General Hindman’s staff.” A pause. “He writes. Last I heard, you had nothing against your brother. He might like to know your whereabouts. Word is that Hardee’s Third Corps is heading this way. You might look your brother
