Despite the Confederate defeats, Billy hadn’t heard talk of surrender yet. “You go right ahead and plan on snaring your mystery man. Me? I figure we got us a hard row to hoe yet, sis.”
The seed corn he’d hidden had survived the snooping Federals. And what the Yankees had confiscated had been paid for in Yankee coin, whereas the Confederates had paid in paper money, or worse, “requisition” forms that needed to be taken to the nearest Confederate commander. That being the case, whichever side won, Maw had their kind of money to buy replacement supplies.
Assuming that freight wagons ever rolled up from Fort Smith or down from Springfield again.
Meantime, he and Sarah would plant as much acreage as they could. Come fall, prices would be sky-high since so many of the farms in both Benton and Washington Counties had been stripped of their grains.
The hired men were gone though, enlisted, which meant the cotton and tobacco crops would be severely curtailed. But who knew, maybe they’d be back in time to pitch in if the war was stopped.
The wagon bucked and banged over the rocks as they continued up the road toward Elkhorn Tavern. Old Fly, Billy’s arthritic yellow dog, rode in the back, his aging bones cushioned by a folded blanket Billy had saved. Once it had been thick with its owner’s blood. Left behind after the man had been evacuated, Billy had taken it down, staked it out in the White River, and left the current to leach it clean. Beside the old dog were the fruits of Billy’s labor: fox, deer, rabbit, and squirrel skins, all dried and pressed.
In addition, Sarah had nine dollars in gold in her purse to buy whatever staples might be had at either Elkhorn Tavern or down to Pratt’s store.
The horses seemed to enjoy the warm morning, their ears twitching at flies as they pulled their way up onto Pea Ridge and leveled out.
“Holy Jehoshaphat!” Billy exclaimed as they broke out of the trees.
The Clemons’ farm was devastated. “What happened here?”
“All of the split-rail fencing was torn up by Federal soldiers for firewood. The outbuildings was torn down, too; the planks they used for coffins. The timbers went for other Union repairs on their wagons and gun carriages and such.” Sarah pointed. “The trees? That’s all damage from cannons shooting canister and grape.”
Billy stared wide-eyed at the once familiar forest lands. In patches, the spring trees looked normal with new leaves on full branches, and then would come a swath of splintered and broken timber. What had once been thick branches ended in chopped-short and frayed chaos. Whole trunks had been shattered to resemble giant overchewed toothpicks. On other boles, sections of bark had been blown away. Gouges marked other trunks.
What had been fields were now trampled mud flats, and word was that all the stock had been snatched up by either Federal or Confederate troops during the battle. Where the Clemons family was going to find a draft animal to pull their plow was anybody’s guess, but until they did, their once proud fields were going to remain weed patches.
Sarah pointed west beyond the tavern into the savaged trees. “You ought to see out beyond Little Mountain and down to Morgan’s Woods. They paid me to haul dead men out of the woods and off of Oberson’s fields.” She made a face. “I didn’t tell Maw. And don’t you, neither. But the things I saw? Billy, they was the most horrible mutilated corpses. Don’t you never go off to war to be marched out and shot like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean pieces of men, others with their guts blown out, mangled.” She shrugged, gaze distant. “Wasn’t nothing like the ones what died at the farm.” Expression clearing, she added, “And now I’ve seen it, and I don’t want to see it never again. When I find the right man, I’m leaving Arkansas. Going someplace fancy. Maybe New Orleans where they don’t have no war. Or New York, or Philadelphia.”
“Back to satin dresses, huh? Well, at least you can court this gentleman caller with your belly full. Assuming he ever comes.” Billy smiled widely, his chest feeling as if it were about to burst with pride. The Hancocks, because of him, not only had their horses, but a future. Whenever Paw got back, he was going to have to fetch up with that new rifle.
Billy drove the wagon onto the Telegraph Wire Road, surprised to find that what had been a country lane was now a low and wide swale. The clearing around Elkhorn Tavern had to be four or five times the size it had been, the ground trampled and trails worn into the dirt where lines of tents had stood.
Sarah pulled her bonnet up to cover her gold-blond hair as they pulled into the rutted yard. Billy set the brake, jumping down to offer her his hand.
Pointedly, she ignored it, dropping lightly beside him in a puffing wave of gingham.
Old Ezra Taylor, long-stemmed pipe in hand, stepped out the door, calling, “Well, well, it’s Billy Hancock and the lovely young Sarah. What can we do for you today?”
“Got hides to sell,” Billy told him as he clumped up the steps. “That and we’re looking for flour, cornmeal, candles, and lard.”
Taylor cocked his head, peering first at Billy and then at Sarah, his dark brown eyes amused. “Well, first off, the tanyard’s closed. Maybe forever. Had their belly full of the fighting and packed up and left. Flour? Cornmeal? Haw! Good luck.”
He waved the pipe stem. “Oh, they’s some. But it’s hidden away in the woods by individual families and dipped into for special occasions. Now, candles? Yankees took every one. God Hisself knows when we’ll see more. Can’t even make ’em. Sure, we can spin wicks, but where you gonna get the tallow? Every cotton-picking beef cow in
