Doc announced, “Listen to this. It’s a telegraph sent from General Sherman in Georgia to Lincoln. ‘I beg to present you, as a Christmas present, the city of Savannah, with one hundred and fifty heavy guns and plenty of ammunition, and also about twenty-five thousand bales of cotton.’”
Butler huddled deeper in his coat. Just behind his ear, Kershaw muttered, “The Confederacy is dun foah. That damn Texan Gen’ral Hood has what’s left of the Army of Tennessee skeedadling south. Atlanta and Savannah gone. Marse Robert’s got that bulldog Grant’s teeth locked in his throat at Petersburg.”
“Reckon we all otta jist head on home,” Corporal Pettigrew offered where he sat on the foot of Doc’s bed. The rest of the men were crowded around in the small room, some looking over Doc’s shoulder as he read the St. Louis paper in the fading light.
To his brother, Butler said, “That cook, Hallie Louise, makes a most amazing stew. And it is New Year’s Eve. There will probably be special victuals prepared for a night as auspicious as this.”
Doc shot him a sidelong glance, his lips pursed. “No doubt,” he replied, and then went back to squinting at the paper.
“Why do you answer me sometimes and not others?” Butler demanded, slapping his hands to his knees.
“I’ve decided that when you mention the men, I will no longer respond. That by doing so I’m contributing to your mental illness. Abetting, if not downright rewarding it, as the case may be.”
“Reckon that man’s forever agin’ us,” Phil Vail groused where he sat cross-legged on the floor and fingered a Bowie knife.
Butler almost responded, then grinned to himself, gesturing for Vail to desist. Time to take a more erudite approach. “Philip, on this cold night, would it not behoove us to journey down to Madame Sabrina’s and determine if she needs our assistance?”
“No.” Philip glared at him over the top of the paper. “There is a loaf of bread and some salt pork in the paper wrapper by the windowsill. That will assuage your hunger.”
“Might as well be back in Camp Douglas,” Kershaw muttered behind Butler’s ear.
“Something more filling and tasteful might—”
“We’re saving money, Butler. Train fare to Kansas City or Rolla, let alone the cost of getting from there to Springfield, is substantial.” Doc rubbed his face. “We might be able to find someone willing to let us ride on their wagon, but more likely, we’ll have to walk that last one hundred and fifty miles.”
“We walked from Chicago to St. Louis.”
Doc smiled, as if warily amused. “You ask me, it was a miracle we weren’t strung up as thieves.”
“Who he calling thieves?” Pettigrew asked, scowling. “Them’s Yankees we raided.”
Doc pointed to the worn medical bag by the door. “And I still owe five dollars for the instruments. It was a miracle that I found a used set, let alone that old man Gower would allow me to pay them off on time.” Glaring over the paper, Doc met Butler’s eyes. “Unless you just happen to have another Hernstein surgical case hidden away among all those imaginary men of yours.”
“Philip, you have no reason to turn trite and sarcastic.”
Doc’s smile flickered and died. “I’m sorry. You’re right.” He lowered the paper. “We just have to build ourselves up from the bottom, Butler. A physician is judged by his appearance as well as his skill. Once upon a time I swore I’d never again sell my services to a brothel, but in the five months we’ve been in St. Louis, I’ve made enough to put a roof—such as it is—over our heads. We’ve warm clothes and full stomachs. My reputation is such that I can charge more, and the referrals have created a steady business for me.”
“And I get to do odd jobs like painting and cleaning. That helps.”
“Whorehouses seem to have an affinity for the mentally deranged that more elevated establishments do not. Odd that they are so forgiving, but I didn’t devote myself to medicine to spend the rest of my life treating women for hysteria, dosing for syphilis and the clap, and terminating the occasional pregnancy.” Doc pointed a finger. “Come spring, I intend to have enough money to leave this all behind and make our way home.”
“Once past Springfield,” Butler reminded, “there’s not that many fat Yankee farms to raid. And that General Curtis has ordered all the counties in western Missouri to be evacuated. Might be slim pickings until we get to White River.”
“Heard they’s still fighting down to Arkansas,” Kershaw agreed. “’Specially in yor country in de nor’west.”
“Bushwhackers and guerrillas,” Butler agreed. “I wonder what Tom would say if he could see how the independent rangers turned into such an outlaw bunch of—”
“Butler!” Doc snapped, irritation straining his face.
Butler evaded his gaze, knowing full well how Philip hated it when he started talking to his men. But then Philip had been out of sorts since they’d arrived in St. Louis. Butler and the men had “raided” them some clothes from a line over in Illinois, but Philip still wasn’t presentable as a surgeon, let alone a Rebel one. He’d only taken to working the bawdy houses since the girls didn’t care who he was or where he came from. And they paid in coin.
“And they lets you do odd jobs in return for a plate of vittles,” Phil Vail crowed as he studied his knife.
“That’s right,” Butler agreed. “I could sure do with a plate of Madame Sabrin—” He let the rest drop as Doc gave him a sidelong squint.
Keen-eared, Butler heard it first. Hurried steps on the stairway. Doc turned his head just before the rapid knock came.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Hancock? Madame Sabrina sent me. We got a problem. She said to bring you no matter what.”
“What happened?” Doc demanded, rising and walking over to open the door.
Sally Hamilton, no more than sixteen, shivered in a long wool coat. Her thin face—almost unrecognizable washed of its makeup—looked worried. Her hazel eyes
