“At least your mother said she was all right.” Doc looked down at his hands, the nails black, grime seemingly ground into the lines. Would they ever be clean again? “It’s just that it’s a year, James. My time is up. I am supposed to be back in Memphis, my accumulated pay in hand. With her. That was the dream.”
He placed his head in his hands, whispering, “I shouldn’t be struggling to remember her. She should be laughing for me in life, and not just in a fading memory. I’ve failed her.”
He felt James’s hand on his shoulder. “No you haven’t. You enlisted with Neely’s Fourth Tennessee promising her that you’d take care of me, remember? I’m still alive, Doc. You’ve kept your word to Ann Marie.”
Then why aren’t we back in Memphis, James?
33
March 17, 1863
Butler climbed the steps to Major General Hindman’s residence in Little Rock—the house the general had rented for Mollie, himself, and the children. A private, in a much-too-clean uniform, saluted from port arms, and said, “The general asked that you proceed inside, Lieutenant. He is in the parlor.”
Butler nodded, entered, and immediately wished he’d attended to his boots—muddy and scuffed as they were. Nor had his uniform been cleaned in days, and he knew he smelled like horse, mud, and sweat.
To minimize the damage, he tried to mince his way across the hall so as not to leave tracks or soil the carpet. Glancing sideways into the main room he saw it was filled with trunks and valises: evidence of the general’s immediate departure. Then Butler caught the barest glimpse of Mollie Hindman in a rustling green crinoline dress as she hurried past a far door.
At the entrance to the parlor, Butler stopped and cleared his throat. Hindman sat at his desk, his uniform immaculate. He was in the act of dipping his pen into the ink bottle before he continued writing on a piece of foolscap.
“Come in, Lieutenant. And don’t mind your boots.”
“Sir?”
“Tiptoeing across the floor?” Hindman, not even bothering to straighten, pointed the end of his pen at the mirror set off to one side. It gave the general a perfect view of anyone entering the parlor. “Had that installed back after we declared martial law. I figured that the guards would keep me from getting shot through the window, but I wanted to have an edge if someone were to sneak in from behind.”
That was when Butler noted the Colt on the desk beside Hindman’s right hand. Tom Hindman, after all, might be the most hated man in Arkansas, but he had never acted the fool.
Relaxing, Butler strode into the parlor, taking in the fine furniture, the polished mantel over the fireplace, and the gleaming piano with its silver candlestick holder. Beyond the general’s teakwood desk, the street was visible through beveled-glass panes in the French window.
“They’ve won,” Hindman said as he signed the missive he’d been working on. “It was inevitable, I suppose. Turns out that it proves impossible to save a people who, quite simply, do not want to be saved. Think of how much worse it would have been if I’d agreed to your Negro regiments.”
Butler shifted uncomfortably. “Sir, if it hadn’t been for the condition of our troops at the Prairie Grove fight … Half-starved, barefoot soldiers, with a day’s supply of ammunition, can’t be expected to best—”
“Don’t blame the troops, Lieutenant. It was a long shot. We knew the odds when we marched north.” Hindman turned in his chair, his thoughtful blue eyes focusing on Butler’s. “Unfortunately, long shots are all that we have. The Federals have more resources, including men, commissary, arms, artillery, and … well, everything else. The only thing we have more of is audacity and will. Robert E. Lee can fight a defensive war in Virginia. That strategy in the west is nothing more than a hurtling disaster coming our way.”
“Which is why you’ve stressed the cavalry?”
“If nothing else, that may be my greatest contribution.”
Hindman stood and walked over to the map that remained open on the parlor table and pointed. “Where have we ever prevailed in a defensive position, Butler? Fort Hindman down at Arkansas Post? They marched thirty thousand Federals and sent a slew of gunboats against it. Our fight at Prairie Grove? We didn’t have the commissary or ammunition to have exploited an advantage even if we had gained one. But large bodies of cavalry? Ah, yes. They have the mobility, the speed, and the tactical ability to turn the Yankees’ advantage of men, resources, and area into a liability. Five thousand cavalry can attack Independence, Missouri, one day, and two weeks later, raid Saint Louis itself. And in the meantime, they can rip up railroads, burn bridges, tear down telegraph wire, and burn out pro-Union settlements, sending those people into flight. By the time the Federals can muster enough force to repel the threat, our cavalry is already back in Arkansas.”
Hindman gestured with his pen. “It will change the entire nature of the war in the west. And perhaps, just perhaps, it will jade the people to the point they rise and give the Federal Congress an ultimatum: stop the war!”
This isn’t war against armies that he’s talking about. It’s war against people.
Butler realized his right hand was trembling and stuffed it into his coat. God, it just kept getting worse.
“But that is for another to deal with,” Hindman said as he turned away, a seething behind his eyes. “I have never shied from a political fight, Butler. You warned me that pursuing my policies would prod the hornet’s nest.”
At mention of the hornet’s nest, the scene from Shiloh flashed in Butler’s mind: men being blown apart, others screaming agony, the whistle of the minié balls. So intense and real was it that he jerked, ducking.
“Lieutenant? Are you all right?”
Butler blinked, suddenly back in Hindman’s parlor. “Sorry, sir. Perhaps I am fatigued.” He smiled, and to change the subject said, “This isn’t your fault. Governor Rector
