“Raiding Yankees isn’t half bad, Doc,” Butler mumbled through a full mouth. “You were sleeping so soundly, Sergeant Kershaw said it would be a shame to wake you.”
“You stole that!” Doc stiffened, expecting to hear shouts and the hue and cry of pursuit.
“Seized as spoils,” Butler replied after swallowing. “Sort of like John Hunt Morgan did so well in Ohio. But the men couldn’t find a telegraph to send any messages proclaiming the fact to the Yankee authorities.”
“A telegraph?” Doc blinked, trying to clear the cobwebs from his sleep-slow brain.
Butler frowned. “Major road like this? You’d think they’d have strung a telegraph along it. Of course, we’d have to have a telegraph operator. None of the men know how to operate one. Although Billy Templeton has a cousin who ran a telegraph station in Mississippi.”
Doc rubbed his face, his stomach flipping in contortions at the smell of the pie. “You got any more of that?”
“Of course! I saved you half. And there’s smoked ham and bread in the bag. Phil Vail reminded me that war being an uncertain thing, I should start with the pie first. Corporal Pettigrew argued for starting with the ham, but the exegesis of command is to make hard decisions.”
“The … what of command?”
The look Butler gave him was curiously full of pity. “You are starting to sound as unlettered as the men. But then, I’m sure you employ medical terms that would be similarly beyond my ability to ken.” Butler reached around, offering a slice. “Pie?”
Greedily, Doc devoured it, almost crushing the sticky sweetness into his mouth. Dear God! Cinnamon and sugar, tart apple, and a perfect crust! He closed his eyes, savoring.
How long had it been since he’d enjoyed those tastes? At least since Memphis. He swallowed the last of it, placing a hand on his stomach as it cramped slightly.
“Don’t eat too much, Butler,” Doc warned. “It will make you sick.”
“We have time,” Butler replied easily. “Sergeant Kershaw cautions us to hole up and refresh, at least for the day. It will allow Yankee cavalry to disperse before we take up the march again.”
Doc took a breath, his impulse being to challenge Butler’s delusion. No, let it pass.
“You really loved her, didn’t you?”
Doc flinched. “Who?”
“Ann Marie. You were talking to her in your sleep. Asking over and over, ‘How could you?’”
“I’ll never take an interest in a woman again, Butler. Every time I do, they end up with another man. First it was Sally Spears. I found Paw in her bed. Ann Marie, she was as different from Sally as day and night. She was a lady, Butler. So refined, mannered, and poised. Where Sally was wild, dangerous, and spirited, Ann Marie was the essence of feminine purity. A belle in the truest terms.” Doc licked his fingers. “And now she’s someone else’s. Just the same as Sally.”
Butler yawned as another wagon rattled and banged over the bridge. “I’ve never spent time in the company of a woman. Sergeant Kershaw, Corporal Pettigrew, Parsons, and Johnson, they’re married. Billy Templeton, he’s a sort of rascal and frequents soiled doves. They tell me about what it’s like to be with a woman.” Butler’s expression tensed. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a pipe? I could go for a smoke now.”
“I think it’s because we both went off to get schooling,” Doc told him. “Farm people marry young. The work requires it. Farming is family business. And I think there’s an earthy attraction for young people. The life is all about fertility and making life.” He paused. “I wonder if Sarah’s married?”
Butler smiled wistfully. “I wouldn’t doubt it. Unless Billy’s whipped them all. She was the most beautiful girl when I left. Pale blond hair, glowing blue eyes, and Doc, she’s grown into a full woman. Not classical in figure like Aphrodite, but more of a Nordic goddess’s beauty. Think Freya come to earth.”
Doc smiled at that, feeling his stomach settling in. A horse could be heard approaching fast. It hammered over the bridge and cantered away.
“There goes your cavalry.”
“Sergeant Kershaw says there will be more.” Butler pulled an earthenware jug around. “And I brought this. It’s hard cider.”
Doc took a sip of the cider, its taste awakening long-dormant parts of his mouth. “Well, who am I to argue with Sergeant Kershaw?”
And as weak as he and Butler were, a day of rest, eating slowly, might just make the difference.
He glanced over at his mad brother, seeing the man’s eyes flickering, his lips moving, the odd twitching of his hands.
Wouldn’t it be nice if you really did have a company of soldiers to keep you safe?
49
July 8, 1864
Mrs. Pennington’s redbrick house in Little Rock was a two-story affair with sandstone lintels over the white-trimmed French windows. A full porch faced Eighth Street just west of Broadway. Mrs. Pennington was a widow, her husband John having died of pneumonia a couple of years before the war.
John had made his fortune as a wholesale importer of goods by steamboat, and had owned a warehouse off First Street where he’d stored his wares before dispersing them to the various merchants about the city and state.
After his death, the sale of that property had provided Mrs. Pennington with enough of a financial stake that she could live comfortably, if not in the opulence she had enjoyed before the war, let alone before her husband’s death.
That she fed Sarah and allowed her to live in the old slave’s room in the basement, under the stairs, in return for the labor Sarah provided, was compensation enough. Mostly Sarah’s duties consisted of running errands, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and occasional mending. In addition, the old woman had delighted to discover that Sarah could not only do sums, but actually manage money and accounts.
In the beginning, the columns of numbers had been intimidating. Especially after the farm’s simplicity. But Sarah was getting a handle on them, and had already determined that the butcher was taking her employer for ten dollars a month
