“You went rat hunting?” Doc rubbed his chin dubiously.
James nodded, his young face morose. “It’s just that when you think of it, what’s a rat made of but meat? And how long’s it been since any of us chewed on a piece of meat, Doc?
“So we go over to the cookhouse right at dusk last night and start hunting. You know, them damn rats have a whole city of tunnels over there. And we commences a-chasing, and stomping, and grabbing for rats every time one pokes out of his hole.”
“Catch any?”
“Rats is harder t’ catch than you’d think. Fast little bastards. But there’s this big one. The fatted calf of all rats. He ducks into this hole, and he’s gone and we got to get back to barracks for roll call. So this morning we go back with a couple of spoons, and it takes us half the day to dig this old rat out. And just as we get the hole big enough, he comes shooting out.
“’Grab ’im!’ Walker yells, and I catch his tail just as he scoots down a different hole. He bunches up and sets his claws in the dirt, but I figure I got him. So I give a hard yank, and the skin just pulls off his tail, leaving bare meat and bone.”
James made a face. “I’m just sitting there on my butt holding that empty skin, and it sends the shivers clear through me. It’s about the most awful and horrible feeling.”
“I can guess.”
“So Walker gives a howl and we start digging, and sure enough, this time we get him.”
James scrunched up his nose. “Doesn’t take but two shakes of the lamb’s tail and we’re cooking spitted rat. And I got to tell you, Philip, it smells wonderful. Roasting meat. You know, it’s like heaven. There’s three of us, Walker, Hetch, and me, and when the rat’s declared roasted, we burn our fingers picking the meat off. I put a piece on one of my crackers and take a bite, forgetting what it is I’m eating.
“I tell you, I envision it’s beef. Fine veal. Some of Mama’s pot roast. My eyes are closed, and I’m home in the dining room, hearing the clink of the fine china.
“And the next thing, Walker says, ‘Reckon I never saw a feller look sicker than ol’ James did when that rat tail come off in his fingers!’”
Doc watched James’s expression turn green. “And that was it, Doc. It was like I couldn’t get the feel of that loose skin off my hand, no matter how I rubbed it. Collywobbled my gut something fierce at just the memory.”
“And?”
James tightened his hold on his stomach. “And I charged outside. I can’t stand to have it in me. Tried to puke it up. I just keep remembering that tail pulling through my fingers and leaving that skin behind all loose and warm.”
“Well, I guess you’ve got a right to look sick. I suppose rat’s off the menu from here on out?”
James shot him a reproachful glance. “Hell, no. It’s just that rat. “’Cause I pulled his tail off.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
“You know I been saving those crackers for months now? Waiting for a special occasion to eat ’em? What really makes me sick is I run outside to poke my finger down my throat. And while I was fooling around, trying to puke up that damn rat, Walker and Hetch ate my precious biscuits. Along with what was left of my rat!”
30
December 8, 1862
The smell of roasting human flesh and burned hay pierced and clung to Butler’s memory like cockleburs in his soul. For the rest of his life the mere sight of a hog would trigger his memory of the horror. The pigs were eating them! Ripping off strips of cooked human beings, snorting, chewing.
His mind seemed to reel, and he swayed in the saddle, as if the frigid night air were pressing down around him as he sat on Red. Alone in the darkness. In the middle of the battlefield.
Dear Lord God, how did I ever get here?
The plan had been audacious from the start, but something had to be done in northwest Arkansas.
Just not this.
Butler fought tears, as he tightened his grip on the reins. Why did every turn end in the sort of horror that left his soul on the verge of screaming, and tears streaking down his face?
The pigs are eating cooked human flesh!
The original plan of taking the war north to Missouri had collapsed as two Federal armies drove Confederate forces back south into Arkansas. Union General James G. Blunt had parked five thousand Federal troops in the vicinity of Fayetteville and Cane Hill to spend the winter.
This “army made of Pin Indians, free Negroes, Southern tories, Kansas jayhawkers, and hired Dutch cutthroats,” as Tom Hindman called it in his railing diatribe, would ruin Arkansas and the Confederate cause were it not routed. And what better time than in early winter when the Federal forces were scattered across four states, in winter bivouac, and could be destroyed a piece at a time?
The winter march north from Fort Smith had been miserable. A thousand had to be left behind for want of shoes, blankets, training, or even adequate clothing. Of those ordered north, Butler had watched half-clothed—often barefoot—men marching on partially frozen roads. Despite all the rations
