This Scorched Earth

by William Gear

  “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 his mustache and beard.

  “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 by adding a one to his monthly bill.

  “Where are you from?” Julia Pennington had asked when Sarah arrived at her door, the Gazette ad in hand. She had introduced herself as Sarah Rogers, come to apply for the position of housekeeper.

  “Baxter County, ma’am,” Sarah had lied. “My James was killed at Shiloh and jayhawkers burned the farm. Nothing left up north for me. What kin ain’t dead up and left to get away from the bushwhackers.”

  “Don’t suppose you’d have a reference?”

  “Not among the living,” Sarah had replied, looking into the woman’s calculating brown eyes.

  “You seem well dressed for a refugee.”

  “Sold my gray horse, ma’am. I got twenty dollars for him, and five went for the dress. Don’t know when I’ll find wo
rk so the rest goes to keep me fed in the meantime.”

  “That everything you own?” Mrs. Pennington had pointed at the bundled blanket rolled over Sarah’s shoulder.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  For long moments, Julia Pennington had peered at Sarah as if she could scry into her very soul. Then she said, “Five dollars a month, room, and board. Since the Yankees arrived, the slaves have all left. You can have Percy’s old room under the stairs. It’s not much, and hardly fit for a white woman, but I suppose it’s better than the streets.”

  Sarah might have taken on the role of slave as well as having moved into the household quarters. Pennington expected her to be up at five, have a fire in the cookstove and both hot tea and breakfast prepared by the time Mrs. Pennington awakened at seven. At night, Sarah was expected to be the last one in bed after seeing to the dishes, making sure the doors were locked, and ensuring the lamps were extinguished.

  For the first month all Sarah had done was clean the big and beautiful house. Nor was the irony lost upon her. This was the house of her dreams with its ornate woodwork, grand parlor, tiled fireplaces, fine staircase, and tall ceilings.

  Had she really promised God she’d endure anything to live in a house like this?

  The nightmares still came upon her, and she’d awaken in the middle of the night, her fist tight on the pistol grip, her body trembling as Dewley’s frigid blue eyes burned into hers. But the odd moments in the middle of the day—when out of thin air she’d be back in that clearing, shuddering as men laid hands on her skin—had been fewer and farther between.

  She had been doing so well. But that afternoon Maxwell Johnson, one of Julia Pennington’s cousins from New Orleans, had arrived. He was in his early thirties, well dressed in pressed brown suit with ribbon-lined lapels, and had a cravat at his throat. Thick curly brown hair seemed to sweep up from his high forehead like a wave. His eyes, however, were hard, dark, and impenetrable.

  As Sarah served the dessert cake, she was aware of how he watched her. Just knowing that she was the center of his attention brought on a shiver that made her almost drop Mrs. Pennington’s fine china plate.

  “Sarah? Goodness gracious, what makes you so clumsy tonight?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry, ma’am,” she replied as she beat a fast retreat from the lamp-lit dining room and into the safety of the kitchen. There she took a deep breath, hand to her heart, feeling it pound beneath her apron.

  “It’s all right, Sarah. You’re in Little Rock. You’re safe.” She looked around, reassured by the familiar kitchen with its big cookstove, the counters, and the dishes soaking in soapy water.

  When she managed to still her breathing, she leaned her ear against the door, hearing Julia Pennington. “… no doubt some hardscrabble farm up north. Lost her husband at Shiloh. There are so many like her.”

  “Is she honest?”

  “Nothing she’s done would indicate otherwise. Oh, I tested her, believe me. I left some jewelry, fake things, where she’d find them. Not only did she not take them, but she brought them to me with a reminder that I best not leave such things lying about. Can you believe it? Her work is exemplary. Better than Percy on her finest day. And unlike having a slave, I can ask her to leave at any time.”

  “She has a man?” Maxwell’s voice rose suggestively.

  “Not the slightest interest, and I’ve entertained some of our city’s leading lights … even Yankees. She never so much as looks them in the eyes let alone flirts.” A pause. “You ask me? She’s better off with that husband of hers dead. I’m sure he used to beat her.”

  “Why would you think?”

  “I’ve seen her, Maxwell. At times something will set her off. She just freezes and shakes. Terrified and paralyzed. Then it will pass.”

  Sarah bit her lip and closed her eyes. Damn! Was she that transparent?

  “But something about her doesn’t ring true,” Julia Pennington continued, lowering her voice. “She’s educated. Knows the classics, reads well above her station, and writes in a most legible hand. She does sums well enough to be a bookkeeper. Then just as you would think she were a lady, some word will slip out like she was raised in a backwoods frontier cabin.”

  “A most attractive young woman,” Maxwell added. “Very well formed. Were she properly groomed, dressed, and had her hair—”

  “You’re married.”

  Maxwell laughed. “Vanessa could care less. You know as well as I do that I married her for financial reasons. Besides, she’s happy to dedicate herself to the children. That’s all she wanted out of the marriage anyway. Well, and the status, of course.”

  “And I suppose you, as a healthy young man, have your amusements?” The tone in Julia’s voice was curiously cold. “I know you and Percy had an arrangement. And because it was mutual, I never said anything.”

  “Men will be men, cousin.”

  There was a silence, then Mrs. Pennington said, “I suppose I should have grown used to it. John never threw it in my face. Was always dignified.” Another pause. “My advice here is that you leave that girl alone. Don’t even suggest it.”

  “Of course, Julia. I wouldn’t think of imposing on your kind hospitality.”

  Sarah had turned hard as a board, every muscle knotted. “Thank you, Julia,” she whispered under her breath. Then she staggered over to the washbasin and attacked the supper dishes with such violence she broke one of the bone-china plates.

  “Sarah?”

  She jumped at the sound of Pennington’s voice, wheeling to face the woman. Pennington leaned in the kitchen door, her face oddly pensive, as she read Sarah’s near panic.

  “Ma’am?”

  “You may clear the dining room. Maxwell and I are retiring to the parlor. I shan’t need you for anything else tonight. I’ll see to closing up. After you are finished you are free to retire.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” A flush of relief ran through Sarah’s breast as Mrs. Pennington closed the door behind her.

  Thank God! She wouldn’t have to see Maxwell again. All she had to do was set his breakfast on the table in the morning, and he’d be gone by midday.

  Peeking into the dining room, she satisfied herself that it was vacant before retrieving the plates. She removed the soiled tablecloth—Maxwell had spilled gravy—and adjusted the chairs. Then she blew out the lamps, finished in the kitchen, and made her way down the stairs to her cramped bedroom.

  She lifted the latch on the door, slipped out of her clothes, and crawled under the blanket before blowing out her candle.

  Mrs. Pennington thought she’d been beaten by her husband? That that accounted for her sudden panics?

  If you only knew.

  She curled her knees up to her chest in the small bed, her hands knotted into fists.

  “Please, God. Don’t let me have nightmares just because Maxwell was asking about me.”

  Forcing herself to be calm, she struggled to make her mind blank, but in the end, she reached under her blanket, and pulled the long Colt revolver from its holster.

  Her fingers on the wood grips and cool steel, she felt herself begin to relax.

  She came awake, unsure of when she’d finally dropped off to sleep. Fragments of dreams clung to her like gossamer strands, images fleeting and fading.

  Something creaked in the room.

  Her heart leaped. “Who’s there?”

  “Sarah?” a man’s voice asked softly in the darkness. “Don’t be afraid. It’s Maxwell, Mrs. Pennington’s cousin. I just—”

  “Get out.”

  “I just want to talk. You’re a most attractive girl, and well, I can do things for you.”

  A vise seemed to tighten on her throat. Sudden terror strained her voice into a whimper. “Get away from me.”

  “Julia tells me that you’ve lost everything. I can help. You were a married woman so there are no secrets when it comes to men. What if I were to tell you that by tomorrow morning you could earn yourself a ten-dollar gold piece?”

&n
bsp; Sarah fought for breath, her arms beginning to shake. Images of Dewley flashed behind her eyes. “No. Don’t do this.”

  “Sarah.” His voice was so smooth in the darkness. “You’re such a beautiful woman, you shouldn’t be locked away in prudish old Julia’s house like a common house slave.”

  “Get away from me.” Her voice came out as a squeak.

  “Would it help if I sweetened the pot? Think of what you could do with fifteen dollars, Sarah. Yankee gold. Not paper.”

  “I’ll scream.”

  “Shhh. No need.” He shifted in the darkness. “It’s your eyes, Sarah. That pale hair of yours. All I’m asking is a simple joining in the night, nothing you haven’t done before. And if I don’t make you feel things you’ve never felt before, I’ll toss in another five dollars.”

  Blue eyes flashed in her memory, her body recoiling as she felt a heavy weight settle on the bed. Dewley was grinning down at her, stinking breath blowing past his broken teeth.

  She felt a hand laid on her hip, a voice saying, “Just let me give you a hint of the pleasure I can stir from your beautiful body.”

  “No! God, please! No!”

  “I won’t hurt you.” The voice wasn’t Dewley’s, but the eyes were, the weight of the body. The terror beating through her veins. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came from her spasming lungs.

  “There,” the voice soothed.

  She remembered Dewley whispering softly into her ear as he lowered himself onto her. “There, there. Easy. Yes!”

  She fought a sob, fear electric and charging her muscles. Her fingers curled into fists, her right hand tightening around cool wood and metal.

  Dear God. Dear God, no!

  “Sarah?” The hand settled on her, pulled the blanket back.

  Dewley loomed over her in the darkness.

  “Sarah? I’m going to touch you now.”

  “Get away from me, Dewley!” she screamed as she scrambled back in the bedding, lifting the heavy Colt. She felt for the hammer, heard the clicking as she thumbed it back.

  “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!”