That brought a humorless smile to Hindman’s lips. “Yes, I suppose that one’s qualities can indeed be judged by the number and caliber of his enemies. But enough of that. The reason I called you here is to give you this.”
Hindman took an envelope from the desk, handing it to Butler. “Those are your orders. I am having you transferred out of Arkansas.”
“I’m not going with you to Vicksburg? To work on the Board of Inquiry? I thought we were supposed to investigate culpability in the surrender of New Orleans to the Federals?”
“Butler, you have become my friend … and in many ways, my conscience. For that I am eternally grateful. What you are not, is a political animal. You don’t have the necessary killer instinct for the sport. In the coming months I shall be pilloried in the press, and perhaps even indicted over my actions here. I would spare you the trauma and trial, let alone have your career further tarnished by my association.”
“Tom, I may not have—”
“Therefore,” Hindman interrupted, “I am sending you back to General Hardee. You impressed him in the past, and I’ve written to him about the immense help you have been to me in the governing of Arkansas. I emphasized how your genius for organization allowed our successful retreat from Prairie Grove. You are to report to his headquarters at the Army of Tennessee in Chattanooga where you will accept a field command and promotion to the rank of captain.”
Butler stared woodenly at the envelope. He was going to the front lines? He would be in command of a company, leading men into the cannons and massed musketry?
The tremor in his hand worsened, and he flexed the muscles in his arm to stop it. The sensation of panic tightened the insides of his chest; he took a deep breath, forcing it away.
In a dry voice, he said, “Thank you, sir. I don’t think that I’m the right—”
“It’s done, Butler.” Hindman’s eyes had hardened into a stone-cold blue. “Don’t let me down.”
34
July 17, 1863
The first Sarah knew of the riders was when old Fly lifted his nose and began to sniff the breeze. His ancient eyes had been going white, and the dog could barely see. Nothing was wrong with the fur on his back, however. It now rose into a bristling mane.
Sarah straightened from where she was hoeing weeds from among the bean plants. Fly growled, struggled to his arthritic feet, then he bowww-wwooowed his warning bark.
Sarah carefully looked around. The hot air was filled with the clicking sounds of insects, backed by the White River’s soft murmur. Heat waves rose over the fallow cotton and tobacco fields down by the river, now gone back to weeds and grass. The Huntsville Road beyond the lane looked like a white scar in the green.
The breeze, however, came from the east, down from the forested slope that rose behind the house. And it was in that direction that Fly continued to sniff and growl. Again he let out his half-howling bark.
“What is it, Fly?” She set her hoe down, leaning close to the dog. A stick snapped up in the forest, barely audible over the hum of insects.
She could feel it, some wrongness.
She was halfway to the house when she caught the first hint of movement back in the trees. Then another, and another.
A horse and rider slipped between a gap in the green forest wall.
“Maw! Riders coming!”
Sarah slowed as the first of the riders emerged from the trees: a young bearded man in a buckskin jacket, his stringy black hair hanging down past his collar. The thin face, pointed nose, and hunger-hollowed cheeks reminded her of a living skull. Nor did the scrawny beard do much to offset the youth’s hard brown eyes. He held a carbine at the ready on the saddle.
From the right, the hazelnut, rosebushes, and honeysuckle crackled as another man forced a big black horse through the tangle. Older, perhaps in his late twenties, he cradled a shotgun, his thickly bearded features hidden by a low-brimmed hat. What she could see of his face was round, the mouth small and pursed. His eyes, like blue ice, fixed on Sarah with a predatory intensity so powerful she started as if physically violated.
He seemed to read her sudden fear, his mocking leer adding to her discomfort.
A line of horses emerged from the creek trail behind the house, and yet another horseman appeared from the river trail to the west.
Nine in all, they rode into the yard, taking positions around the house. All of them hard-looking men, wearing filthy gray, butternut, and homespun. Most of them had blue Yankee uniform coats tied atop the blankets on their saddle cantles.
“Good day, ma’am,” one of the older men, maybe thirty, said, touching a finger to his worn hat brim as he gave a slight nod of the head. “This hyar might be the Hancock farm?”
Sarah’s heart had started to pound, that sick sensation of fear tightening her muscles. “Who might be asking?”
It was the black-bearded, blue-eyed rider who spoke: “They call me Colonel Dewley. Dewley’s Home Guard, at your service ma’am.” When he grinned, it was to expose broken teeth behind his small pursed lips. His wide nose and plump cheeks gave his face a full look. But his eyes, already so cold, were changing as he looked her up and down. A predatory tension sharpened his gaze, his lips beginning to twitch as he fixed on the way her shirt clung to her sweat-damp breasts.
Sarah stepped back reflexively, and crossed her arms over her chest.
“It’s the Hancock farm,”
