When everything a woman owned fit into a blanket roll, packing didn’t take long.
She and Maxwell had both been lucky. Hearing the hammer click as she cocked the big revolver, he’d thrown himself to the side. Doing so had not only saved his life, but probably hers as well. A woman of Mrs. Pennington’s influence easily could have sent Sarah to the gallows. A sobering fact the enraged woman had made a point of: “It would be your word against mine, you little harlot.”
“Well, madam,” Sarah whispered to the April night, “you can bet I’m going to be a whole lot more careful in the future.”
She’d taken the first ride she could find out of Little Rock—a wagon headed for Fort Smith. Arriving, she’d joined the throng of refugees, and hung on, advertising her services to the soldiers as a washerwoman: three shirts and a pair of pants for a slice of bread. Include underwear and an overcoat, and throw in a can of beans.
Dealing with the soldiers had been hard at first. She kept her eyes downcast when she talked to them, and remained coldly polite. Her mouth would go dry, and the knot would tighten in her throat. She wore a baggy, oversized sack of a dress to hide her body and kept her long blond hair pinned up under a sun-faded bonnet. She had adopted a slightly stooped walk to keep her hips from swaying. Her sole expense was for soap, the river providing ample free water.
Nevertheless, most days she went to bed with something in her stomach. Today had been different; the news of the surrender had distracted the troops. Hopefully in the morning there would be a rush for her services. Maybe in advance of a parade or display of some sort.
The last cannonade of the two-hundred-round salute boomed into the night, and a bugle accompanied the troops as they sang “Union Forever” before the lone horn blew their dismissal.
Sarah pulled her worn blanket about her shoulders, feeling the slight chill of the night. People were beginning to disperse. Someone in the crowd struck up “Yankee Doodle” and the song went from lip to lip as Sarah followed the mass of the crowd toward the encampment. She dared not linger, or travel out of sight of others.
She hadn’t taken four steps before a man matched her pace, his baritone voice saying, “Quite a show. Glad it’s finally over.”
“Yes.” She felt the rising anxiety. “Good night.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
“No. Please. My husband should be here somewhere close.” She looked around anxiously as if searching for her man.
“Whoa, now, Sarah. There’s no husband waiting in that chicken coop you sleep in. Unless, of course, he’s a rooster.” He paused. “And the last of that hardy breed of fowl was eaten three years ago.”
“Please, sir. Leave … me … alone.”
“Ah, of course. My apologies. A gentleman shouldn’t intrude upon a lady’s company without a proper introduction. My mother would wilt should she ever discover that I’ve become such a low brute.” He gracefully removed his hat, sweeping into a slight bow, and in a Southern accent, stated: “Bret Anderson at yoah service, ma’am.”
Bret Anderson? Ah yes. He was one of the gamblers who hung around the peripheries of the fort. He was known to prey upon unwary and cocky soldiers, especially around payday. Though on those occasions he was in direct competition with the brothels and whiskey dealers down by the river.
She had seen him a time or two around the fort, having stood out because of his finely tailored clothing, vest, and old-style frock coat. His patent boots were always polished. She figured him for being in his thirties, with a well-trimmed black mustache and hair cut just above his collar.
“It’s late, Mr. Anderson. I really must be going.”
“I would be obliged to walk you partway. My camp is on the way.”
“Thank you, but no.”
As if he hadn’t heard, he kept pace, adding, “What a wonderful day. This vile war is all but over. The dying and senseless destruction is finally coming to an end. I don’t know about you, but I think the country is just worn out and exhausted.”
The familiar anxiety had tightened like a band around her chest. She suddenly felt dizzy, swayed, and caught herself, fighting for balance.
“Are you all right?” Bret asked.
“Light-headed. I’ll be fine.”
“Good thing I’m with you.” He was studying her in the darkness. “Not much washing today, was there? I mean with the news and all.”
“No.”
“Bet you haven’t eaten today.”
“I had a fine meal,” she lied.
“Snuck that in while you were standing at the fort gate all day? Caging a wash job takes diligence given the number of women anxious for the task. Maybe you slipped away sometime when I wasn’t looking?”
“I’m fine.”
“I’d say you were strong, proud, independent, and resolute, but not exactly fine. They talk about you, you know. You’re a mystery woman to them. You and that big pistol you keep in your bag there.”
“They know about…”
“Of course, and they know that you are no doubt proficient with it given the way you keep it oiled and don’t let the caps corrode. Some even watch over you when you don’t know it.”
She felt herself on the verge of fainting again. Dear God, did they suspect? Time to leave … put this place behind me.
“So, tell me, Sarah, how long has it been since you’ve had a fresh-roasted duck?”
Maybe it was her light-headedness, but she spoke before she could think it through. “Almost … forever.”
His white teeth flashed in the dark. “I happen to have a duck roasting at this very moment. I shot it this morning down on the river. Nice young bird. Fat. I imagine the meat is cleaving from the bone, steamed in its own juices.”
Sarah swallowed, her mouth watering unexpectedly.
Bastard that he was, he saw and chuckled. “Come and join me. I would consider it an honor. And while we eat,
