by William Gear
“Um … no. They would have me listed as missing.” Dear Lord, they thought he was a Federal medical officer who was still on the rolls? How had that happened? He was too tired to think about it.
Doc sighed, feeling exhausted as he closed his eyes. Second Arkansas? Colored troops? What colored troops?
“Forget it for the moment, sir. Concentrate on getting well.”
“Forget? Hell, Miles, I can’t even remember how I got here.”
59
July 9, 1865
The night was warm and balmy, the breeze from the west filled with the scent of grass and the slightly astringent tang of horse manure. Not that a man could get away from it anywhere on the Fort Scott grounds. Private Golding Baird was most of the way around his patrol, his Springfield rifle musket over his shoulder. His feet, pinched in the brogans, already hurt and he had until sunrise before he’d be relieved.
Though he couldn’t see his watch, he suspected that longed-for moment was still four or five hours away.
As he marched around the big wooden warehouse he gripped his rifle, squinting into the darkness. Yep. Here came the Rebs!
Dancing forward, he jabbed his rifle at the darkness, whispering, “Take that! And that, you dirty Reb!”
In Golding’s imagination he mowed a swath through tight formations of gray-clad enemies.
He’d just turned eighteen, having been allowed, finally, to enlist last winter. He’d been desperately afraid that the war would be over before he could kill him a Reb. Mother and Uncle Frank had seen him off at the station in Atchison in February. So far, he’d only shot his rifle ten times. At a wooden target. When they were teaching how to load it. He’d actually hit the target—some fifty yards away—twice. That had been in the beginning. Before he knew what the blast of fire and smoke was like, or how the damn gun hurt his shoulder. At the end he pinched his eyes shut, pointed the malevolent thing, and winced at the bruise it was purpling on his skinny shoulder.
Far better to employ the bayonet. And in the darkness of night, out here on guard duty, no one could see him. Here he was in the front lines at Antietam, or Gettysburg, or Chickamauga, or even just whipping Sterling Price at Westport.
Which was as close as he’d get to actual fighting now that the war was over. Not only were the Rebels whipped, but even Fort Scott was going to be shut down by the end of September. Most of the other soldiers had been mustered out. Those who remained were guarding the last of the dwindling military supplies, caring for stock animals and wagons, and closing down the buildings. With a few exceptions even the gamblers, whiskey traders, and whores had already pulled stakes for Kansas City or points east.
Golding cocked his head, hearing coyotes out in the grass.
“It’s the Rebel yell!” he rasped, lifting his rifle, shooting straight and true into Stonewall Jackson’s advancing ranks of butternut infantry. In his mind, his ball blew through three of the Rebs who’d made the mistake of standing in line.
“Hah!” he mouthed as he charged forward, his bloody bayonet pinning and tossing Rebs this way and that.
He’d just reached the corner of the warehouse. Hearing voices, Golding stopped short, his heart pounding. Dear God! There was someone there! At the front entrance.
He swallowed hard, the rifle suddenly clammy in his hands. He was about to holler a warning when he stopped short, hearing, “If you want a passel of trouble, Corporal, I’m the one who can give it to you!”
The voice sounded sharp and commanding. Not the sort of furtive tone used by thieves.
“I’m a captain, soldier, and you’ll snap to it, or I’ll have that chevron from your sleeve! You’re going to wake up tomorrow and look forward to the whole rest of your military career digging latrines!”
Golding swallowed hard and crept to the corner of the warehouse. The captain sounded really mad.
“Sergeant Kershaw, do you understand the nature of our assignment? Why it is important that we comport ourselves as gentlemen and soldiers? A sentry is supposed to be alert, not parading around like a buffoon!”
Golding felt a little sick to his stomach and snapped to attention, shouldering his rifle.
“We don’t have time to stand around so that I can dress him down properly. Not and stay on schedule.”
Thank God. Golding felt a cold sweat breaking out. He needed an excuse, something. He’d seen something. Yes, that was it. Moving out in the night. Maybe Indians or skulking Rebs.
Then why hadn’t he called out the alarm?
Ah yes. Because it had turned out to be coyotes. But he was making sure. That’s why he was late.
Squaring his shoulders, he prepared to step around the corner. Hestitated. The captain was going to dress him down?
He saw me killing Rebs.
Golding’s gut fell.
Somehow he couldn’t make himself round that corner and march forward into the captain’s wrath.
“I don’t want to spend the rest of my enlistment digging latrines.” He felt like crying.
He was still standing there, rifle shouldered, when a spring wagon, loaded full, was pulled past. In the darkness, he could just make out the figure on the seat, tall, a slouch hat pulled low, what looked like an officer’s cloak about his shoulders.
Golding froze, saluted, and stood at attention.
He waited, eyes following the wagon.
Only then did he exhale the breath he held. Where was the rest of the command?
Timidly, he peered around the corner, seeing nothing but the dark ground before the warehouse entrance.
“Must be pretty damn good soldiers,” Golding muttered. “They vanished without a trace.”
60
July 10, 1865
“Philip?” Butler’s voice pierced the fragmentary dreams.
Doc opened his eyes, aware that he was in the wagon, his body propped uncomfortably. With every jolt, something sharp jabbed into his back. The sky overhead was a pale blue dotted with white puffs of cloud. He could hear birdsong over the creaking and muffled rumble of the wagon and trace chains.
He tried to sit up. The cough seemed to tear its way through his throat. He cupped his hand, enduring the fit, only to gasp for air when it was all over.
“Philip?” Butler asked again.
“Yes?” he said through a groan.
“I’m tired. I think we should camp now.”
Doc lifted his head and stared around. The country was gently rolling grassland; here and there in the distance a small farm could be seen. The drainage to the south was filled with cottonwoods, elm, and ash. The tall grass around them undulated like waves as the southwestern breeze ran across it.
“Where are we?”
“We’re in Kansas.” Butler turned. “You took a turn for the worse again.”
“Last thing I remember is being in a hospital.” He made a face. “Or was that delirium?”
“You were in a hospital.”
“Where?”
“Fort Scott.”
“The Union military fort? What on earth possessed you to go there?”
“You were sick. Doing what you always accuse me of: raving.”
“And they just treated me?”
“Of course. I’m a captain in the Second Arkansas.”
“You were a captain in the Confederate Second Arkansas.”
“The men and I have noticed that Yankees confuse easily. Poor fellows.”
“What if they’d caught you impersonating a Federal officer? Butler, they might have shot you.”
“The men were keeping watch.”
“Oh, dear God.” Doc closed his eyes, wondering just how close they had come to disaster.
It took him a moment to muster the courage to ask, “Where are we now? I mean, where are we going?”
“We are on the Fort Scott cutoff to the Santa Fe Trail. We are headed to Colorado.”
“What? Why?”
“We discussed this. You agreed.”
“Agreed to what?”
“Traveling to Colorado. About the gold there. And getting a new start. The altitude and dry air will be good for your cough. At Fort Scott they weren’t sure if it was tuberculosis or not. And I remember Paw talking about how the damp air in Missouri killed John Colter. Remember him? The mountain man? You mumbled something about nothing left in the east, so why not?”
“And why don’t I remember?”
“I’m not sure you react well to opiates, Philip. When we left Fort Scott it was the middle of the night. They had filled you full of opium and a lot of other medicines. Jimmy Peterson reported to me that the hospital staff was growing suspicious about you being a regimental surgeon.”
“Peterson? He’s one of your phantoms, isn’t he?”
“I had detailed Private Peterson to keep an eye on you while we were behind enemy lines. After completing the raid, I decided it was prudent to extract you from the Yankees. It was all the men and I could do to get you to stand up. It took all of us to carry you out to the wagon.”
“And where was the surgeon and his staff during all this?”
“Corporal Pettigrew was distracting them. The corporal was on his best behavior. Earlier, his expertise in picking the quartermaster storehouse lock was less than exemplary. Could have got us caught by the Yankees.”
“Why don’t I remember any of this?”
“Because you were very collywobbled from the medicines. Most of the time you were talking to James Morton and Anne Marie, sometimes to Maw, and occasionally to me. But when I answered, you didn’t seem to hear me.” Butler glanced over the seat in reproach. “As dark and grim as your conversations are with people who aren’t here, the men and I wonder if your mind isn’t becoming unhinged.”
“My mind?”
“We’re not sure that what happened at the farm hasn’t delivered you into an irreversible state of melancholy.”
Doc looked around at the packed wagon, taking stock of barrels, kegs, a tent, folded wool blankets, sacks labeled as wheat and cornmeal, canvas-wrapped bacon, cookware, and various crates and boxes. A new Spencer rifle and several of the long cylindrical cartridge tubes lay just behind the seat. Additionally he could see an ax and shovel handle. He had no idea what the stacks of tins contained.
Peering into the sack beside him, Doc found it to be full of new shoes. Must have been at least fifty pairs.
“Butler? Where did we get all this stuff? It’s all marked as U.S. property.”
Butler vented an exasperated sigh. “While you were in the hospital, the men and I raided the Fort Scott quartermaster stores. With the exception of Corporal Pettigrew’s fumbling of the padlock, the entire raid was flawlessly executed. Private Vail successfully scouted the location, determining the patterns and movements of the nightly guard. Privates Templeton and Thompson were placed as pickets, and Sergeant Kershaw and I supervised the recovery and packing of both commissary and supply.”
Doc wilted, realizing the edge of a wooden crate was the culprit eating into his back. “You stole all this from under the Yankees’ very noses?”
“We have a long crossing of the plains ahead of us. It is the responsibility of the commanding officer to see to the supply of his troops. When others—even Tom Hindman—were in charge, there were too many shortages. It cost us the fight at Prairie Grove, you know.”
“Why do we have a sack of shoes?”
“I won’t see the men march to Colorado on bare feet. You heard Paw. The plains are filled with cactus.”
“Lord God, spare me.” Doc rubbed his face. “We have shoes for invisible men.” He glanced back over the wagon’s tailgate at the tracks they left in the soft soil of the road. “And a squad of Yankee cavalry is going to appear at any second to arrest us and haul us back to Fort Scott for trial and execution.”
“Oh no,” Butler called cheerily back from the wagon seat. “Corporal Pettigrew is watching the rear. He’ll give us ample warning if we need it.”
“Right.” Doc lasted out another coughing fit, and stared at the shoes, wondering how Butler’s men were going to put them on.
61
August 28, 1865
As the summer commenced, Sarah was a casual observer as troops continued to muster out of the Federal army at Fort Smith. Confederate generals and irregulars continued to hand in their arms and apply for parole. More and more units were disbanded, beginning with the Arkansas militias, then the First Arkansas Infantry, followed by the Eighteenth Iowa, the Second Kansas Battery, then the Fortieth Iowa. They came in a steady stream through Fort Smith.
She kept Bret Anderson’s camp, and he continued to play poker the entire time—forever careful to win just enough from the soldiers but still maintain a reputation for a fair game. Not that his winnings weren’t more than satisfactory. The mustering troops were flush.
Who would have thought that a tidy living could be made playing poker, of all things? She’d always considered gamblers to be shifty, slovenly, and most of all, perpetually penniless.
By the middle of July, Anderson took over a spacious dugout with an actual window and two bedrooms. The previous owners, farmers from northern Franklin County, had determined that it was probably safe enough to return to their land, rebuild their burned house, and commence with the hope of rebuilding their lives.
Though Bret offered her the larger of the rooms, Sarah categorically refused, moving her bed into the smaller room in the back rear. There, outfitted with most of the necessities of a home, she continued to cook his meals, wash his clothes, care for Jefferson, his big black horse, and do the dishes.
Not once in the passing weeks had Bret treated her as anything but a valued employee, though more and more, he seemed to spend his leisure hours sitting at the handcrafted wooden table, a cup of coffee in hand, just talking with her. He said it soothed him.
For her part, Sarah had begun to relax, though on more than one occasion, she had been awakened from terrifying dreams when Bret had called from her door, “Sarah, wake up. You’re safe. It’s just a nightmare.”
“Bret?”
“Yes. It’s me. Go back to sleep now. I’m right outside, and I’ll shoot the first booger that walks through the door.”
For the most part, she’d sighed, and drifted back to sleep.
In the security of the house, Sarah began to let her hair down again. With her wages she had purchased two nice cotton dresses—both of which actually fit her—one blue the other red. She bathed each day, as if by doing so, she could distance herself from the event. As if being scrubbed were a repudiation of what Dewley and his men had done to her.
She was in the yard that afternoon, sleeves rolled up, hair tied behind her head as she scrubbed a pair of Bret’s pants in the washtub, suds beading on her forearms.
She glanced up as the horseman appeared out of the brush down by the creek. Close-shaven, he had short-cropped blond hair that was confined by a campaign hat. From his insignia, he was a provost marshal, and the blue double-breasted officer’s coat hung open revealing no less than two pistols holstered butt-first in his belt. A well-varnished carbine stock protruded from the saddle scabbard.
“Ma’am,” he greeted, touching a finger to his hat.
Sarah stared up into hard blue eyes, the kind with no give to them.
“Officer,” she answered warily, every instinct warning her to back carefully away to where her pistol hung just inside the door.
“I’m looking for Major Bretford Jerome Anderson, Tenth Massachusetts Light Battery. Is this his residence?”
“The Mr. Anderson who lives here has not, to my knowledge, ever served in the military. Nor is he in residence at the moment, having gone to Little Rock on business. My suggestion, sir, is to return here tomorrow evening. Say about five? My employer should have returned by that time.”
“Your employer?” His thin lips twitched. “Has such an honest ring to it, don’t you think?”
Sarah stiffened, her heart beginning to pound. “Yes. I take care of Mr. Anderson’s household. A
nd only his household.” Forcing herself to move slowly, she backed to the door. The pistol hung just inside. If he dismounted, followed her, she would let him back her through the door. As soon as he stepped inside, she’d shoot him through the chest.
But he just sat on his oversized black horse, his cold eyes taking her measure. He seemed to be weighing his choices, then said, “Now, if I were to await Anderson here, what sort of entertainment do you think we could devise to occupy ourselves, housekeeper?”
“I said, good day, sir.” Sarah crossed her arms, the proximity to the pistol filling her with courage.
“You’re a liar, ma’am. Reckon I’ll be back just as soon as I deal with the belly-crawling bastard you’re sharing the blankets with.”
He was a very competent horseman. She didn’t see the cue he gave, the horse just seemed to wheel on its own, breaking into a trot as it headed off across the flat toward the fort.
Sarah sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm her humming nerves. “Bret, what the hell did you do?”
She pursed her lips. He’d never mentioned being a soldier. Let alone being a major. But then, there was a lot about him she didn’t know. She damned well knew what provost marshals did: they arrested people.
“So, think, Sarah.”
She had no idea where Bret’s game was, and even if she did, he often moved it. Did she dare go warn him? Or would that provost marshal just be waiting out of sight and follow her?
What was the smart thing to do?
Making a decision, she quickly and efficiently began packing Bret’s belongings into his trunk. As she did, the ultimate irony struck her that she was so intimately familiar with a man’s wardrobe. She’d always anticipated being so, but with a husband, not a footloose gambler.
She left the house long enough to fetch the two mares Bret had bought at auction, and tied them off behind the dugout. The cookware and loose items she folded into blankets, remembering how Paw had once showed Billy when he was boy. Done up so, they could be tied on a horse with a diamond hitch.
“Blessed be, Sarah, can you remember how that went?”