What had happened to the young man who read Plato, recounted tales of the kings of England, quoted Voltaire, Hume, and Rousseau, and told of Julius Caesar and his conquests? What terrible thing had broken such a fine intellect and sent it scurrying into delusion?
Doc had carefully felt Butler’s skull, seeking any sign of injury or wound. Nor did Butler remember being hit in the head at any time. The madness had just come upon him, according to the way Butler told it.
Doc winced. As if his own hightailing for the deadline that day he’d read that Ann Marie had married precluded him of any such charge of insanity.
He coughed, spitting the production into the wet grass at the side of the road.
“Kershaw tells me the men are in need of rations,” Butler said offhandedly as he looked around at the cultivated fields on either side of the road. Lines of newly leafed beans, the first shoots of corn, and lettuce sprouted in lines behind the rail fences.
“Well, Butler, you tell the good sergeant for me that I just don’t have an answer for him. If I hadn’t ‘swallowed the yellow dog’ and been paroled, we’d still be getting something at the mess in Camp Douglas.”
He barely had the strength to gesture. “After dark we might be able to sneak past one of these fences and pick some of the lettuce without getting shot. On the other hand, our tracks would give us away come morning.”
“Kershaw says that the men could probably mount a raid,” Butler agreed in a tone of voice that indicated it might be a military option.
“Kershaw and the men,” Doc whispered under his breath. “Mount a raid.” He shook his head, water dripping from his cold nose. “All of Illinois should tremble.”
Somehow he plodded on, each foot he managed to place ahead of the other being a small victory. Time after time, he and Butler would move aside as a wagon, carriage, or coach would pass. So, too, did riders. And more than once, pedestrians who gave them furtive looks, and who kept hands tucked into coat pockets where the smooth grip of a pistol or revolver no doubt reassured them.
To each, Butler would smile and call a greeting, as if he were meeting a longtime acquaintance. And the travelers’ lack of a reply seemed not to bother him in the slightest.
Not for the first time did Doc wonder if, of the two of them, Butler’s insanity wasn’t the better bargain.
They stopped that night under a bridge. It was moderately dry, though water dripped between the planks. At their feet the rain-swollen creek would wake them should the waters rise up past the banks.
“I could sure snuggle up to Colonel Armstrong’s donkey tonight,” Butler said absently.
Doc wasn’t sure if he were talking to him or to his delusions. “Whose donkey?”
Butler’s eyes went rubbery, his expression shifting from pinched to slack. “It’s the gospel truth. I swear it.”
“Swear what?” Doc asked in irritation. “Sometimes, Butler, so help me…” But there was no use. A deep and yawning pit seemed to open before him, as if he could fall into the swirling water below his feet and let it carry him down into an eternal darkness.
“Fella by the name of Chillon, so the story goes, walked all the way from California to join up with the Third Louisiana Infantry. Hébert’s regiment. Fought at Pea Ridge. Anyhow, Chillon had served in the French army and considered himself indispensible.” Butler paused. “Yes, Sergeant. That’s the man.”
The pause was so long, Doc figured Butler had lost the thread of the story, and just as he was about to stretch out on the timbers, Butler added, “Chillon walked all that way from California, but he’d packed his possessions on the donkey. Being winter, every night he and the donkey slept all huddled up together for warmth.”
“Are you making this up?”
“Oh no. It’s told all over Arkansas. Chillon, of course, marched off to Pea Ridge and was killed in the fighting. It was winter, if you’ll recall. And on the retreat, Hébert had been captured, and Colonel Frank Armstrong had taken over.
“Now, Armstrong looked a lot like Chillon. Older, bearded, wore the same style uniform, but he was a stuffy, self-aggrandized sort. So arrogant his men hated him.” A pause. “Yes, Corporal. Very much like General Bragg.”
“Butler, does this have a point?”
“It’s snowing, cold, and men are sleeping near naked in the snow, and of course, Chillon’s donkey can’t find his master anywhere. Armstrong, like everyone, was exhausted, and pitched out on the ground without so much as a tarp.
“Which is where his first lieutenant found him the next morning, sort of spooned around Chillon’s donkey. Right plastered around him, and supposedly smiling blissfully in his sleep. Word is his trousers were at full attention, if you follow.”
“God help Armstrong. Men have erections in their sleep. Doesn’t mean anything,” Doc said with a weary smile.
“From that moment onward,” Butler stated gravely, “it was taken as proof that old Colonel Armstrong couldn’t tell the difference between a whore’s rear and a jackass.”
Sometime around midnight, Doc was aware that the rain had stopped. He listened to Butler’s deep breathing where he lay on a square bridge timber.
Sleep, brother. And I pray you have more peace in your dreams than in waking …
Sometime later the clatter of iron-shod horses and wheels brought Doc out of a sound sleep.
He blinked, surprised to see it was late morning, the sun high.
Beside him, Butler sat on the timber, his bare feet dangling down to trail in the water as it swirled past. As he did, he munched on a piece of apple pie, and a white cotton cloth bag stuffed half full rested on the timber beside him.
Doc’s nose caught the sweet smell of the pie, his mouth watering as he pushed himself up.
“Food? Butler? Where did you get the pie?” Doc couldn’t take his eyes off the prize as Butler took another bite, crumbs sticking in
