Where they were camped south of Chattanooga, Butler’s Company A was but one in the long rows of hodgepodge tents and shelters. Men gathered around their evening fires, playing cards, mending, talking softly. The firelight played on their bearded faces, sparkling in their eyes.
“My men,” Butler whispered to himself as he strolled slowly down the line.
Until Butler had walked into General Hardee’s headquarters, he’d hoped he could convince the general that he was best suited for a staff position, carrying orders, organizing movement, commissary, and supply. The timing of his arrival could not have been worse. Butler had arrived just as Hardee was being transferred to the Department of Mississippi; General Daniel Hill was taking command of Hardee’s old corps.
Hardee, however, had given Butler a paternal smile, and said, “I know for a fact that in the old Arkansas regiment there is a company that needs a captain. The boys there know you and will be delighted to have you at the helm.”
Why hadn’t he protested?
The words seemed to pop out of the still evening air: You fool! You were too much of a coward to say no.
He looked around him, seeing no one close. Sometimes, like tonight, the voices would speak out of thin air. He heard them so clearly.
He made a face, worried. It still surprised him when others didn’t react, showed no sign at all that they’d heard.
“What’s wrong with me?”
“Cap’n?” Sergeant Amos Kershaw asked from the nearest fire, apparently having overheard. The big Cajun with his blocky face, midnight hair, and black eyes had enlisted in Helena, Arkansas, back in ’61 when Tom Hindman first called for volunteers. He’d risen through the ranks to sergeant, and the men loved him.
Dan Govan had told Butler, “If I could give you one piece of advice? Pay attention to whatever Sergeant Kershaw says or suggests. The man knows his business.”
Butler pulled his pipe from his pocket as he stepped over to Kershaw’s fire. Squatting in the circle of men, he used his thumb to pack tobacco into the bowl, and Corporal Willy Pettigrew to his left reached for a burning stick to light it.
Butler puffed, then exhaled, aware that the men were watching him curiously. “I was just talking to myself. Happens sometimes.”
“Reckon we all do.” Kershaw smiled wistfully in agreement. “’Specially around dis outfit. Ain’t nobody worth talkin’ to but yerseff, Cap’n. The rest of these here scoundrels cain’t hardly string a sentence t’gether.”
“Well, Sergeant, stringing a sentence doesn’t make a man a good soldier.” Butler noticed that blond-headed Jimmy Peterson, across the fire, seemed to be antsy, looking every direction except toward Butler, and his right hand was held behind him.
“Private?” Butler asked. “Something wrong with your hand?”
“No, suh.” Peterson swallowed hard, the others in the circle suddenly looking uneasy.
“Produce that hand, Private, and whatever’s in it.”
Peterson went pale, winced, and eased a tin cup from behind his back. “Just my drink, Captain.”
Butler nodded in sudden understanding. “Orders are that no alcohol is to be consumed in camp. Penalties for violation are a bit draconian.”
“Draconian?” Kershaw wondered, all the while looking sorrowfully at Peterson. Panic filled the private’s blue eyes.
“Severe, Sergeant,” Butler said, aware that the men had all frozen, expecting something terrible. “Flogging is prescribed in extreme cases.”
Peterson’s eyes closed, and he swallowed hard.
None of the men would meet Butler’s eyes.
“Now me,” Butler resumed casually, “I’m a stickler for regulations, and I’ve served with Tom Hindman for all these years, and you all know his feelings on spirits.”
“Cap’n, it’s just a cup,” Kershaw said reasonably. “And I reckon we’s all sharing it a’fore ya’ll walked up.”
“Actually, it’s my cup,” Johnny Baker admitted and ran a hand through his long brown hair. “Anybody gonna be punished, it otta be me.”
So, they’d all take the blame for each other? Touched, Butler reached out a hand. “Private Peterson, pass me that cup if you please, and for God’s sake don’t spill any of it.”
The cup was carefully passed from hand to hand around the circle. Butler grasped it by the handle, lifted it to his nose, and sniffed. Rotgut for sure. He sipped and made a face as the stuff burned on his tongue. “Dear Lord God, that’s terrible!”
Butler passed it to Kershaw. “Try that, Sergeant. Take a good taste.”
Kershaw did so warily. “Reckon I’ve had better, Cap’n.”
“Sergeant, anything that tastes that vile can’t be drinking whiskey. No, indeed. That has to be medicinal spirits.”
Kershaw was giving him a speculative, sidelong glance, the cup handle grasped in his thick fingers.
Butler waved a hand at him. “Well, pass it on, Sergeant. Each and every one of you men, take a taste.”
Kershaw passed it to Corporal Pettigrew, who sipped, and passed it along to Private Phil Vail, who passed it to Baker, and on around the circle until it came back to Butler, who forced himself to drain the last couple of drops from the cup.
The soldiers were watching him with no little confusion and uncertainty.
Butler took a pull on his pipe to dull the taste of what had been pure corn liquor, then said, “My brother is a surgeon, therefore I have some understanding of the uses for medicinal spirits. Private Baker, I assume there’s more where that came from?”
“Some.” Baker winced. “Yes, suh.”
“My standing orders with regard to your medicinal supply are no more than one sip per man per night as a precaution against the ague.” He winked at Baker. “Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir!” Baker snapped off a salute. The rest of the men were grinning.
“Pass the word, Sergeant, that according to
