by William Gear
Butler pushed back in the uncomfortable chair and rolled his whiskey glass as he quoted, “‘The battle where men were perishing shuddered. Now with the long man-tearing spears held in their hard hands, the men’s eyes were blinded in the dazzle of bronze light, which shone from helmets, burnished armor, and polished shields. Men came on in confusion.’”
“What’s that?” Isaac Murphy asked, forcing himself to keep from staring at Sarah, who pulled a fresh-baked loaf from the brick oven.
“Homer,” Butler replied. “A section that stuck with me from the Iliad.”
“They’ll make you an officer,” Murphy groused. “Nay, strike that. In Arkansas, they’ll make you a general.”
Butler waved it away. “Mr. Murphy, I’d be a book general, quoting Caesar, Xenophon, Thucydides, and von Clausewitz. Doesn’t mean I’d be worth spit commanding troops.”
Paw shifted. “Butler, no law says you’ve got to take sides. You could go west. Cowards don’t head to the Shining Mountains.”
Murphy snorted his dismay. “Butler can stay here. Fighting is going to be in the East. What’s it to Washington or Richmond … or wherever the Confederate capital is today? A couple of battles will be fought to determine who’s who. Then each side will have stood for their honor, and it’ll all be over.”
“If there’s to be a war, I will bear arms for my state,” Butler replied graciously. “What greater calling to manhood is there? Read your Homer, Scott, and Shakespeare. Or as is quoted in Thucydides, ‘You do not see that peace is best secured by those who use their strength justly yet show their determination not to submit to wrong.’ And in this case, should the Union attempt to force us back into the United States through force of arms the moral argument grants superiority to Arkansas.”
Paw nodded. “I could give a damn about slavery, but a state’s got as much right to leave a nation as a person has to emigrate.” Then he fixed Butler with his hard gaze. “But war’s not what you read in books, son. I was in Mexico.”
Isaac Murphy opened his mouth, raised a finger … and stopped short.
Thinking better of what he was about to say, no doubt.
Butler pursed his lips. As much as Paw liked to remind folks that he’d been in Mexico during the war, people still whispered behind his back that he’d been more interested in looting Mexican gold and silver. Indeed, Paw’d never enlisted, nor had he served in any known unit.
“A freebooter,” it was suggested by men in the taverns—usually far into the night when they were deep in their cups. James Hancock had killed men who impugned his honor. Like so much about Paw, even his killings were veiled in controversy. Butler had been but a boy the first time he overheard a man claim that James Hancock had never killed a man in a fair fight.
That was the problem with Paw. No one knew him, least of all his own sons. Half the White River Valley considered James Hancock to be a scoundrel, and the other half thought of him as a solid man of the land, an entrepreneur, and a pillar of manifest destiny.
Was he the blackguard, backstabbing bastard that tough men dared not insinuate to his face, or the man who read King Lear by the fire at night, his long-stemmed pipe at hand?
Or is he both?
Why would such a self-serving cutpurse have encouraged his son Butler to pursue an education in letters? Paw claimed that the English adventurer Sir William Drummond Stewart had forever altered his appreciation for letters and a more cultured approach toward life.
James Hancock might be cold and calculating, but the man wouldn’t brook disobedience or poor behavior. He insisted on the standards and comportment of a gentleman, and at the same time consorted in the company of illiterate backwoods farmers, Indians, Mexicans, and free blacks. Many of the more upstanding citizens of Fayetteville—let alone the lordly planters in the Mississippi counties with whom Paw associated at the legislature—were appalled at the notion that he’d let a ragamuffin Cherokee like John Gritts share his table. Unfortunately, and to their immense discomfort, Paw’s reputation as a duelist—and that he always seemed to have enough gold in pocket—made his company “acceptable.” Not to mention his political influence with the illiterate voters in both Benton and Washington Counties.
Paw noticed Isaac’s hesitation—read it with the same ease Butler had. “Isaac,” he said, “I’ve been many things. One thing I am not is a traitor to my home. Arkansas has seceded. I’ll place my fortune and honor with her.” He raised a pale eyebrow. “And, my feelings about slavery be damned, that includes taking a commission in whatever military we cobble together.”
In the kitchen, Maw’s wooden spoon clattered as she and Sarah turned to stare their disbelief.
Butler straightened. “Then that decision steers my course, as well.”
“Do I have to go, too?” Billy cried, having long ago exhausted his fidgeting. He shot a sidelong glance at John Gritts. The big Cherokee seemed to be enjoying some private amusement.
Paw pointed his pipe stem. “You will not! You are only fourteen. Philip’s gone, God knows where. And by tarnal damnation, he’ll probably fight for the North just to enrage me. That means someone’s got to become the man of the house. Well, now’s your chance. You’ve got three or four, why perhaps as much as six, months before this war squabble is over. That’s your test, son. Take care of Maw and your sister. Keep the homestead and the fields productive. Do that, and you’ll prove yourself a full man. Do yourself extra proud, and you’ll merit a new rifle when it all comes to a conclusion.”
Billy had swollen up like a strutting turkey. He shot Gritts a cunning smile and a wink, as if sealing some secret deal.
Butler chuckled under his breath, wondering what would drive his little brother to madness first. The lure of the forest and the hunt? His desire to whale the tar out of any young lad that looked sideways at Sarah? His desperate need to keep the home fires burning? Or his desire to escape Maw’s incessant chastisement?
But when he looked in Maw’s direction, it was to see her glacial stare fixed on Paw, a near desperation and disgust barely hidden behind her masklike expression.
I know, Maw. It’s just another excuse for Paw to vanish on the trail of adventure. Thistledown on the wind. The only thing he’s ever left you is alone.
4
July 29, 1861
The streets of Memphis—like all cities—gave that irritating offense to the nose. Something about horse urine and the particularly aromatic equine droppings imparted an acuity to the scent that seemed unusually prominent in the aftermath of the late-afternoon rain.
As Philip’s heels drummed hollowly on the boardwalk, the thick and warm air seemed to burst with the sounds and smells of the city, augmented by the breeze-born odors off the great river where it roiled, swirled, and sucked on its way south.
Evening had fallen, the light having faded to a dark pewter in the partly cloudy sky. Lightning flashed in the black clouds now sulking their way toward the eastern horizon. The last of the evening birds were going quiet as the first bats wing-danced in the growing gloom.
To either side, redbrick buildings rose above Third Street in two or three stories, their wooden windows whitewashed and stark against the walls. Here and there the yellow glow of candlelight honeyed rooms behind wavy panes of poorly made glass.
Philip touched his hat and stepped onto the damp street as two matrons in taffeta and bonnets passed, their female slaves following demurely. His time in Boston—in addition to the western bias of his home country in northwest Arkansas—had left him uncomfortable with slavery. Yet here he was, smack in the middle of it, and fully aware that debate over its existence had driven the wedge of secession between North and South.
At Jefferson Street, he turned east, adjusted his hat, and proceeded to the address Dr. Morton had given him. A houseboy dressed in a satin jacket stood on the elevated porch of the frame structure. A lantern on a low table provided feeble illumination. As Doc climbed the steps, he could hear laughter from inside.
The boy drew himself up, his dark
skin amber in the lantern light as he asked, “Can I be of service, sir?”
“Could you tell Dr. Morton that Philip Hancock has arrived?”
“Yassir,” the boy told him. “If you will follow me, sir.”
The boy led him up the steps to the porch, opened the great blue door, and ushered Doc into a lighted foyer. On the right a carpeted staircase ascended to the second floor. To either side doors opened to a living room on the right and parlor on the left. From this latter came the laughter and delicate clink of glassware.
An older black man, immaculately dressed, stepped forward as the boy said, “Dr. Hancock is arrived.” Then the lad retreated outside.
“May I take your hat and coat, suh? And do you need a moment to attend to your toilet?”
Doc had doffed his hat upon entry, and shrugged out of his coat before handing them to the servant. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
“A moment, suh.” The black man retreated with Doc’s hat and coat, only to emerge from behind the stairs, bow, and lead Doc into the parlor, announcing, “Dr. Philip Hancock,” to the assembled guests.
Doc took stock of the room. French windows gave a view of the street. A fireplace, grate closed, was built into the far wall; its mantel sported silver candlesticks and burning tapers. A Persian rug covered the polished hardwood floor, the room surrounded by chairs upon which several older ladies reposed. One rose at Doc’s entry.
Dr. Benjamin Morton stood with another man before the door leading to the dining room, glasses of lemonade in their hands.
The woman who now approached offered her gloved hand as Doc bowed. He’d met Mrs. Morton at her husband’s surgery twice before. In her early fifties, she had black hair barely touched by white and a kindly face dominated by spirited green eyes. She wore a sky-blue velveteen hoop dress with white lace.
She said, “Dr. Hancock, welcome. We are so delighted that you could come.” Leading him forward she approached the white-haired man beside Dr. Morton, saying, “Reverend Nelson, I have the pleasure of presenting to you Dr. Philip Hancock, late of New Orleans and Boston.”
“My pleasure, Reverend.” Philip shook the man’s hand.
“I have heard good things about you, young man.” He indicated Morton. “Benjamin, here, says that you’re a marvel in his surgery.”
“He is very kind, sir, given my youth and inexperience.”
“Oh, posh!” Ben Morton made an expansive gesture with his lemonade. “Theophilus, Philip can dissemble all that he likes. Since he started filling in, there are three at least that I can count who are alive because of his skill. Old dog that I am, he’s teaching me new tricks.”
The reverend raised a white eyebrow. “High praise indeed, Ben. So, if I come down with a goiter, you’re telling me that my chances for survival are higher if I wait until after you’ve left your office?”
Ben made a face. “Much, I’m afraid.”
“Dr. Morton is being much too kind,” Philip replied, somewhat embarrassed.
“If you will excuse us, Reverend.” Felicia led Philip to the woman in her sixties who remained seated, and said, “Mrs. Nelson, permit me to introduce Dr. Philip Hancock, late of New Orleans and Boston.”
“My pleasure, ma’am,” Philip replied as he took her gloved hand.
“Boston, Doctor? Surely you’re not a Yankee.” She gave him a forced smile, lips closed to hide missing teeth.
“No, ma’am. I’m from Arkansas originally. I was only in Boston to study.”
“When Felicia finishes her gauntlet of introductions, do come and tell me about Boston. I’ve heard the most ghastly stories about the place.”
“Of course.”
A young man in his early twenties had appeared in the doorway behind Morton and the Reverend. A strapping redhead, a glass of lemonade in his hand, he cocked his head and studied Doc with blue-eyed curiosity.
Felicia led Doc to the young man saying, “Dr. Philip Hancock, may I present Nathanial Nelson, soon to be of the Fourth Tennessee Infantry.”
Doc took the young man’s hand. “Congratulations.”
“Good to meet you, Dr. Hancock.” A lopsided smile bent the young man’s lips. “I’m trying to talk James into joining me.”
“And not having much success,” James Morton called from the doorway as he entered the salon. “Hello, sir.” The young man with chestnut hair and green eyes stepped forward to firmly shake Doc’s hand. Doc had met him several times at Morton’s surgery. “Glad Father could talk you into coming.”
“James, I declare! Don’t know why you’d want to fool around with steamboats when you could march off to glory with me,” Nathaniel interjected airily. “Doctor, surely you can dissuade my dear friend James from his obsession for piloting a steamboat. That’s a trade rather below the calling of a true gentleman, whereas the military offers a young man of character ample opportunity to rise in the ranks.”
“That’s right,” Reverend Nelson agreed as he made an expansive gesture with his half-full glass. “My old friend Leonidas Polk is in charge of Tennessee’s defense now. Still an Episcopal bishop, he’s made general in charge of Department No. Two.”
“That’s western Tennessee, Arkansas, Louisiana, and northern Mississippi and Alabama,” Dr. Morton noted. “Quite an enterprise.”
“I just want a chance to do my duty,” Nathanial interjected. “After what happened at Manassas last week, the war will be over by the time I even get my uniform.”
“And well it may,” Mrs. Nelson noted to her son’s dismay. “A smart young man, like James, here, dedicates himself to improving his lot. He’s not just intent on piloting a steamboat, he wants to own one. And then another and so on. With the exclusion of the Yankee boats on our rivers, he’s thinking of the endless opportunities to profit with the growth of our new nation. When has the army ever made a man rich?”
“You smile, Dr. Hancock?” Felicia Morton asked.
“I was just thinking how similar families are. Mrs. Nelson’s words might have passed my own mother’s lips. I’ve heard them often enough over the years.”
“And do you have family in the military, Doctor?” Felicia asked.
“I am not sure, ma’am, having been out of touch with family and friends since leaving Boston. My suspicion, however, is that my father has not been able to deny the call to arms. Nor have I heard from my brother Butler. He was studying history and the classics at an academy in Pennsylvania.”
“I take it they are loyal to Arkansas and the Confederacy?”
Doc shrugged. “I assume so.”
Announced by a rustling of skirts, a young woman swept into the room.
Doc turned. The first thing he noticed were the most dazzling green eyes. Wearing a crinoline dress—cut low to expose smooth shoulders and a creamy chest—her auburn hair piled high, the young woman stopped short. Skirts swaying, she met Doc’s gaze and smiled. Her face reddened as if in excitement and accented the fine lines of her cheeks and jaw. Thin waisted, her full bust barely disguised, she was nearly as tall as Doc. She took a breath and laced her hands before her.
“Excuse me,” she said demurely. “I was detained in the kitchen.”
Felicia Morton stepped forward, taking the young woman’s hand. “The last of our guests has arrived, my dear. Dr. Hancock, please allow me to present my daughter, Miss Ann Marie Morton. Ann Marie, this is Dr. Philip Hancock, of whom your father has spoken so highly.”
“My pleasure.” Philip bowed, loath to break her gaze. Her green eyes seemed to sparkle in the candlelight.
“The pleasure is mine, Doctor.” She gave him a perfect curtsy. “Father calls your abilities as a surgeon…” Her brow lined faintly, as though perplexed. “Brilliant? Isn’t that the word you use, Father?”
“Your memory doesn’t desert you, my dear,” Morton told her dryly, a knowing smile on his lips.
Of course he’d known that Morton had a daughter. He just hadn’t anticipated that she’d be a creature of such poise and beauty. Or with those
dancing and sparkling eyes. Nor could he put name to the curious excitement that leaped within him when her eyes met his.
He inhaled, catching her faint scent of lilac.
Unsettled, he made himself retreat and take a place beside Reverend Nelson as Ann Marie crossed the room to sit beside Mrs. Nelson. Yes, she was beautiful, but some quality she possessed drew his gaze like a magnet.
Don’t stare at her like an idiot, Philip.
James, having not missed Doc’s reaction, and unabashed in his amusement, asked, “Dr. Hancock, are you staying in Memphis for long?”
Ann Marie’s green gaze fixed on his, accompanied by a ravishing smile. The whole world might have faded.
“Pardon me?” Doc gratefully took the opportunity to redirect his thoughts.
“Are you staying in Memphis for long?” James repeated with teasing emphasis.
“Oh … well, that remains to be seen.” Doc struggled to focus on James. “My goal originally was to return to northwestern Arkansas and open my own surgery. I hadn’t counted on the disruption to travel caused by either secession or the war. River travel has been considerably more expensive than I anticipated. I have the deepest gratitude to your father for allowing me to employ my skills in his surgery. As a result of his kindness I am able to keep body and soul together.”
“You’ve been a godsend, Philip,” Morton said as he studied his lemonade. “With all the goings-on, I’ve needed the extra help.”
Aware as he was of Ann Marie’s continued attention, Doc’s skin seemed to tingle. His thoughts were tumbling. Desperate for any diversion, he asked, “Steamboats, James?”
“Yes, sir. They’ve always fascinated me. Most of the riverboats are owned by Northerners. No sooner did talk of war break out than north they went. Though how long they can remain tied up in St. Louis, Cairo, or Cincinnati remains to be seen.”
“Plenty of work for them up north, I’d wager.” Reverend Nelson tossed off the last of his lemonade. “Word is that Federal trade is booming up and down the Ohio and upper Mississippi.”
“That’s my opportunity,” James stated with passion. “We’re going to have to develop our own river commerce. Perhaps the right word dropped with Isaac Kirtland? All it would take is investment. We have the wood and skills to build our own boats. Plenty of labor. All we need to import in the beginning is the boilers, casements, and pistons.”