Fort Pillow

VII

"Twenty minutes?” Major Bradford stared in dismay at the note Mack Leaming had just handed him. He saw absently that it was in a hand different from the last one he'd received. “Twenty minutes!” he said again, in even more pained disbelief. “'If at the expiration of that time the fort is not surrendered, I shall assault it.' My God!”

“What answer shall I take back to the Confederates, sir?” Lieutenant Leaming asked.

“He doesn't even care about the New Era,” Bradford said. That had nothing to do with his adjutant's question, but he didn't care. He'd counted-he still did count-on the gunboat in the Mississippi to help his men hold their positions against the Confederates. To Bedford Forrest, the gunboat didn't matter at all.

Or Forrest said it didn't matter at all. That wasn't necessarily the same thing. The Confederate cavalry commander was as sneaky a man as God had ever set on the face of the earth. He might be running a bluff, trying to trick the garrison at Fort Pillow into quitting when they didn't have to.

But Bradford was running something of a bluff of his own. He was playing for time, hoping to hold the fort till reinforcements came. And there they were-he could see the Olive Branch out there in the river, almost close enough to reach out and touch.

Almost, but not quite. The steamer couldn't approach the bank. The blue-uniformed men she carried couldn't land. The Confederate soldiers moving out to the edge of the Mississippi made sure of that.

Mack Leaming stared bitterly at the troopers in gray and butternut. “They've got no business being there,” he said. “It's as though they're taking advantage of the truce.”

“Should we protest to General Forrest?” But Bill Bradford knew that would be hopeless as soon as the words passed his lips. The Olive Branch was not a participant in the truce. If she were, she wouldn't have been poised to land her troops if opportunity offered. And the Confederates had already seized control of the low ground by the Mississippi-and the ravine in front of the fort on the Coal Creek side, too. Besides, Forrest would just say the Federals could start fighting again if they didn't like what he was up to.

“He wouldn't listen to us,” Leaming said, which only confirmed Bradford's fears. His adjutant went on, “Sir, the clock is ticking. You've got to tell the damn Rebs something. “

“I can't surrender the fort!” Bradford's voice went high and shrill, even though Leaming hadn't come out and suggested that. It was on the major's mind. He didn't see how it could help being on his mind. If he didn't think the garrison could hold the place, didn't he have a duty to the men-and especially to the colored soldiers, who'd fought better than he'd dreamt they could-to yield it and avoid the horrors of a sack?

But he still held hope. Even if the Confederates forced their way inside the earthworks warding Fort Pillow, his men could still drop down to the base of the bluff and keep up the fight there. They had plenty of cartridges waiting for them now, and the New Era could sweep the enemy with canister. The gunboat wouldn't be firing blind there. Her men would be able to see exactly what they were aiming at.

“We can hold,” Bradford said, as if challenging his adjutant to disagree with him.

Lieutenant Leaming didn't-not directly, anyhow. “If we can, sir, you'd better tell Bedford Forrest that we aim to try. And you'd better do it soon, or he'll just up and break off the truce on his own.”

No sooner had the words crossed his lips than a couple of shots rang out in the distance. “What's that?” Major Bradford's voice rose in alarm again.

“Sir, the Rebs just fired warning shots at the steamer,” answered a soldier by the edge of the bluff who could see down to the Mississippi. A moment later, he added, “She's sheering off. Looks like she's going to head on up the river.”

“Damn!” Bradford said feelingly.

“Forrest's men could slaughter the soldiers on her if she tried to land them,” Leaming said. “I got a look at her when I was parleying with the Rebs. The way the men are packed on her deck, they can't answer back, or not hardly.”

“Damn!” Bradford said again. He knew his adjutant was right; he'd looked at the Olive Branch himself. But what a man-even a lawyer-knows to be true and what he wishes were true can often be two very different things. If the steamboat hadn't appeared at all, that would have been bad. To have her appear in what seemed the nick of time, hold out the hope of rescue, and then cruelly yank it away.. that was ten times, a hundred times, worse. A melodrama with such a scene in it would have been hissed off the stage.

And Lieutenant Leaming wouldn't leave him alone. “Sir, the reply to General Forrest? Whatever you say, you'd better say it fast. The time he gave us has to be almost up.”

Bradford didn't like the sound of that. The only ploy he had left was buying a little more time. “Give me a paper and pencil, then,” he told Leaming.

“Yes, sir.” Leaming handed them to him.

The paper was dirty. There was no envelope. Major Bradford had to make do without them. Your demand does not produce the desired effect, he scribbled, and handed the scrap back to Leaming. “There!”

His adjutant read it, frowning because it was none too legible and maybe for other reasons as well. “What does it mean, sir?”

“Exactly what it says,” Bradford snapped. “Now take it out to Bedford Forrest! “

For a wonder, Leaming realized he'd finally pushed too far. With a salute, he said the one thing an adjutant could say that was never wrong: “Yes, sir.”

Jack Jenkins stood by the bank of Coal Creek, watching the Olive Branch steam up the Mississippi. He breathed a silent sigh of relief. If the Yankees tried landing troops nearby, repelling them would have been rugged work. But they didn't have the nerve. He had no idea where the bluebellies on that steamer were going. They could go wherever it was or straight to hell, and welcome. As long as they didn't stop here, everything was fine.

“Look at those egg-sucking yellow dogs show us their backs,” somebody not far away said. “They haven't got the balls to try and stand up against us.”

“Damn good thing, too,” somebody else said. “Ain't we got enough trouble with the sons of bitches in that there fort already?”

“Well done, men!” Colonel Barteau said. In the watery afternoon sunlight, the three stars on either side of his collar glittered. “Our show of force has successfully deterred the enemy.”

“Damn straight,” Jenkins said. “We made sure he didn't land here, too.”

Clark Barteau smiled. Jenkins assumed that was because he'd agreed with the regimental commander. “Now some of you better hustle back up toward the fort,” Barteau said. “If the Federals don't give in, Bedford Forrest'll order the assault, sure as I'm standing here beside you.”

“Some of us, sir? Not all of us?” Jenkins asked.

“No, not all of us, Corporal,” Colonel Barteau answered. “I'll want some men to stay down here by the water. If we start overrunning the enemy position up on the bluff, what do you reckon the enemy there'll do? What would you do in a fix like that?”

“Try and get down by the river, I expect.” Jenkins saw nothing out of the ordinary in a corporal and a colonel discussing tactics. By European standards, both the U.S. Army and the C.S. Army were loose-jointed creatures. The Confederates had less in the way of spit and polish than the Federals did, and Forrest's troopers less than most C.S. outfits. They fought better than most, though, which was all that really mattered. Jenkins added, “That damn gunboat isn't going away, worse luck.” He pointed to a crater in the dirt by Coal Creek that marked where a shell from the New Era had burst.

“Wish it would,” Barteau agreed. “But if it doesn't, I reckon we'll make it sorry. And I think you're right. I think that whole swarm of niggers and Tennessee Tories'll come pelting down to the Mississippi once we get inside their works. And when they do…”

“I see, sir!” Jenkins wasn't a man to admire officers just because they were officers. When they showed they were on the ball, that was a different story. “You thought that through real pretty.”

“Glad you approve,” Barteau said dryly. “If you do see what I mean, perhaps you'll want to stay here.” Quite a few troopers were already moving away from Coal Creek along the ravine to get in position to swarm up the bluff against Fort Pillow.

“Reckon I will. It'll be just like coon-hunting back home.” Jenkins laughed at his joke, even if he'd made it by accident. “Be just like coon-hunting back home.”

Colonel Barteau rewarded him with a thin smile. “All right, Jenkins. Maybe you'll have some coons to hunt. You'd best remember one thing, though.”

“What's that, sir?”

“These coons can fight back.”

“Sir, any coon'll fight back. Bastards are all teeth and claws and mean. A coon dog's a lot bigger'n any coon ever born, but sometimes they'll come out of a hunt lookin' like they been through a meat grinder. Haven't you seen that yourself?”

“More times than I wish I had. I've lost some good dogs that way, who hasn't? — and I've had to doctor plenty more. But I would've had a lot more to worry about if the ordinary kind of coon carried rifle muskets like the ones in there.” Barteau pointed up toward Fort Pillow. “I'll leave doctoring bullet wounds to a real sawbones.”

Jenkins shivered. Sawbones was a name that held too much truth. Too often, amputation gave the only hope of saving a wounded man's life. He clutched his own rifle musket. It is better to give than to receive, he thought.

Ben Robinson stared out toward the Confederate officers gathered under the flag of truce. The rest of the colored soldiers in the gun crew were doing the same thing. Some of the Negroes inside Fort Pillow went on jeering at the ragged, skinny white men in butternut outside. Others grew more serious as the gravity of the situation sank in.

Pointing to one officer in particular, Robinson asked, “You reckon that there fella's really and truly Forrest?”

Sandy Cole nodded gloomily. “Reckon he is,” he said. “Ain't no use to say Forrest ain't here. I knows him too well fo' that. Any place where there's big trouble, Bedford Forrest, he gonna be there.”

“You seen the man yourself? You know his face?” Robinson asked.

“I seen him, all right,” Cole answered. “Ain't I a Tennessee nigger? Any Tennessee nigger ever been sold, chances are he been sold through 01' Bedford Forrest's slave lots in Memphis. Yeah, I seen him.”

“How'd he treat you when you was there?” Having been sold himself, Robinson had a morbid curiosity about such things. No part of slavery was good, not from the slave's point of view. But being in a dealer's hands, being between masters, was worse than most of the rest. A dealer didn't need to worry about you for the long haul. He just wanted to turn you into cash as fast as he could.

But Sandy Cole said, “Coulda been worse. He give us enough to eat-not fancy, but enough. We had mattresses-didn't got to sleep on the ground. He let us wash-now and again, anyways. Weren't too crowded. Yeah, coulda been worse. “

“Sounds like it,” Robinson agreed. He'd known slave pens where none of what Sandy said held true. But it gibed with other things he'd heard about the C.S. general. Forrest wasn't cruel for the sake of being cruel, the way some dealers were. He was in the business for money, not for sport, and he'd made a pile of it. Even so, the colored sergeant said, “Shame we gots to keep the truce.”

“What you mean?” Cole asked.

Robinson pointed out toward Forrest. “There he is, damn him.

That man deal in slaves. He deal in niggers. You done said so your ownself. Powerful good general, too-likely the bes' general the Rebs got in this part 0' the country. An' there he is. Don't got to be no great shot to put a minnie through the God-damned son of a bitch. Can't hardly miss, not at this range.” He mimed sighting a Springfield at the big man on horseback, mimed pulling the trigger, mimed Bedford Forrest falling over dead.

Sandy Cole laughed, but he sounded a little scandalized, or maybe more than a little. “Can't do that, Sergeant, not with the white flags up.”

“I know.” Robinson sighed. “But dat's how come it's a shame we gots to keep it.”

He might as well not have spoken. Cole went on, “'Sides, s'pose we shoots the general. An' s'pose the Secesh gets inside the fort then. What you reckon they do to us after that? You tell me they don't shoot everyone of us, 'less mebbe they hangs some or burns some? I ain't brave enough to shoot no Bedford Forrest with the truce flags flyin'.”

He had a point. Ben Robinson wished he didn't have to admit, even to himself, how strong a point it was. But he said, “Do Jesus, Sandy, what you reckon the Rebs do to us if they gets in even if we don't shoot Forrest? We ain't sojers to them. We's jus' niggers. Onliest difference 'tween us an' the pigs is, they don't smoke us fo' bacon.”

“No, sub.” Sandy Cole shook his head. “No, suh. There's another difference-damn big difference, too.” He patted the barrel of the gun they served. After more than half an hour of quiet, it was cool enough not to burn his palm. “Difference is, now we kin shoot back. “

“Uh-huh.” Sergeant Robinson had thought that was a wonderful thing when he first put on the blue uniform. He still did. But it had a drawback he hadn't seen then: “What if we shoots back an' they licks us anyways?”

By the way Cole's face puckered, he might have bitten down on a green persimmon. “Can't let them bastards lick us. Can't do it, Sergeant. They licks us, it's like they really is better'n we is, like they say.”

“Long as I kin serve this gun, ain't no white man better'n me,” Robinson said. “Mebbe they kin kill me. Do Jesus, I knows they kin kill me. Like I say, they kin lick us. They gots mo' men out there'n we gots in here. But if they kill me, they gots to kill a man who's fightin' back. They ain't gonna kill no nigger, no darkie, no coon. You hear what I'm tellin' you, Sandy?”

“I hears you, Sergeant.”

“You believe me?”

“I… I'm tryin' to, Sergeant,” Sandy Cole said, which struck Robinson as honest enough. The other colored artilleryman eyed him. “You believe your ownself?”

'Course I do. The automatic reply sprang to Ben Robinson's lips. But Cole had given him the truth-or he thought so, anyway. He felt obligated to pay back the same coin: “I's tryin' to, too.”

A Federal lieutenant approached the Confederate truce party on foot. Quietly, Captain Goodman said, “That's their post adjutant, sir. His name is Leaming, Mack Leaming. He's been carrying messages back and forth. “

“I thank you,” Nathan Bedford Forrest said, also quietly. Then he raised his voice so it would carry: “Well, Lieutenant Leaming? What does Major Booth say? He used up all the time I gave him, by God!”

And it didn't do him one damn bit of good, either, Forrest thought. Booth must have been banking on the Olive Branch. Too bad for him-that bank had gone bust. The steamboat full of soldiers was leaving Fort Pillow behind. The plumes of smoke on the Mississippi to the north were closer now. Forrest didn't worry about those ships. If this skipper didn't dare to try forcing a landing, theirs wouldn't, either.

Mack Leaming started when Forrest called to him. Forrest wondered what he was so nervous about. Had Major Booth made up his mind to fight? Forrest wouldn't have, not in the Union man's position. But if he had, he had.

“Here is my commandant's reply, sir.” Leaming held out a grimy scrap of paper.

Forrest unfolded it. He scowled at the scrawl he had to try to read; it might have been worse than his own hand, something he had trouble believing. “'Your demand… does not produce… the desired effect,'“ he said slowly. Even after he'd read it, it left him unhappy, or worse than unhappy. “This will not do,” he told Leaming. “Send it back, and say to Major Booth that I must have an answer in plain, unmistakable English. Will he fight or will he surrender? Yes or no!”

Lieutenant Leaming turned red. He gave back a salute of drill-field precision, a salute so grand it was almost an insult. “I shall do just as you say, sir,” he replied, and did an about-face every bit as fancy. He strode off toward Fort Pillow.

Fussy fellow, isn't he? Forrest thought. He almost laughed at Leaming's retreating back, to see if it could get any stiffer than it was already. He had his doubts. Turning to Captain Goodman, he said, “People go on and on about how I'm an ignorant, uneducated son of a bitch, but by God, Captain, I know how to say what I mean! “

“Yes, sir, you sure do,” Goodman said with a small smile. Captain Young and Lieutenant van Horn both stirred, but neither U.S. officer said anything. After a moment, Goodman went on, “Sir, you've done all you need to do right up here-all you need to and more. Might be a good thing if you moved farther away from the fort.”

“Ah?” Forrest needed only a heartbeat to understand why. “Reckon so?”

“I do, sir.” Goodman pointed up toward the earthwork. “The niggers yonder who' re skylarking… Well, they're a bunch of damn fools, but they're only a bunch of damn fools, if you know what I mean. But the ones looking our way, and the ones pointing our way… One of them's liable to pick up a Springfield and point with that instead of his finger. I know they're nothing but niggers, but they don't need to be sharpshooters to hit at this range. “

Again, Forrest didn't need long to think about it. He fought ferociously and exposed himself to all sorts of dangers, but that was when his blood was up. It wasn't up now. He could see the good sense in what Captain Goodman said. “All right. I'll do that,” he said. “Bring me the Federals' answer as soon as they deliver it.” He touched the brim of his hat to Young and van Kirk. “Gentlemen.”

“General,” both officers said politely. John Young saluted-not to show him up, as Leaming had, but to acknowledge respect even for an enemy.

“You think Major Booth will give up the fort, sir?” Captain Goodman asked as Forrest turned his horse toward the south.

“I am satisfied in my mind that he will,” Forrest answered. “In the spot he's in, what else can he do?”

He rode back to the position he'd taken before the Federals demanded proof he was on the field. Among the soldiers and officers gathered there was his bugler, a German named Jacob Gaus. He brandished the bugle the way an ordinary trooper would have brandished a revolver. It was perhaps the most battered musical instrument in the war; along with the dents caused by hard travel were two that came from Mini? balls. “Shall I blow the charge, sir?” Gaus asked.

“Not yet,” Forrest answered. “I still have hopes that they will see sense and surrender. “

“And if they don't?”

“If they don't, Jacob… If they don't, they'll wish they had for as long as they live-and most of 'em won't live long.”

Mack Leaming was shaking in his boots by the time he got back inside Fort Pillow. He had no doubt that he'd spoken with Nathan Bedford Forrest. He would have believed it even if Captain Young told him the Confederate was an impostor. One look into the big Reb's eyes told him everything he needed to know. Only a killer had eyes like those hard and cold, always probing for weakness, and always finding it, too.

Major Bradford came up to him. “Well?” Bradford asked. “What does he say?”

“He says he wants your answer in plain English, sir.” Leaming took a certain small pleasure in relaying Bedford Forrest's literary criticism. He would have enjoyed it more were he less alarmed. “Will you surrender? Yes or no?”

“I can't just come out and say that!” Bradford exclaimed.

“Sir, I think you'd better,” Lieutenant Leaming replied. “They will assault this place as soon as Forrest gives the order.”

“So that really is the famous Bedford Forrest, is it?” Bradford tried to keep his tone light, but made heavy going of it. “I saw Young nod, but I can hardly believe it. “

“That is Nathan Bedford Forrest.” Leaming spoke with absolute conviction. “What are we going to do, sir?”

“I won't decide by myself,” Major Bradford said. “This is a decision all the officers in the fort need to make.”

The ones the Rebs haven't shot, Leaming thought. If only they hadn't shot Major Booth. Bradford no doubt meant well, but he was far out of his depth here. His adjutant knew too well he couldn't do anything about that. Major Bradford was what they had, what the fight left them. Leaming said, “If you're going to hold a council, sir, for heaven's sake do it fast. They are about out of patience with us there on the other side of the breastwork.”

Bradford licked his lips. Leaming wouldn't have been surprised if they were dry; his own were. The commandant gathered up half a dozen lieutenants and captains, one of whom had a bloody bandage on his hand but was still at the parapet. “Bedford Forrest demands that we surrender to him at once if we're going to,” Bradford said. “I am inclined to fight it out. Does anyone have a contrary view? If you do, speak up now.”

“What if they get over our wall here?” asked a lieutenant from the colored heavy artillery; Leaming couldn't call his name to mind.

“We drop down to the bank then,” Bradford answered, “and the New Era will blast the Rebs from here to Nashville.”

“I wish to God the Olive Branch could have dropped off her soldiers here,” Captain Theodorick Bradford said.

“So do I!” Leaming said. “The Confederates moved up in the ravines to head them off as openly as if they'd captured the fort. We could have given them more trouble if the truce flags weren't flying.”

“Forrest wouldn't have listened to us. We already talked about that. And the truce involves his men, the fort, and the New Era. The Olive Branch was not party to it. Technically, the Rebs were within their rights to refuse her the opportunity to put men ashore,” Major Bradford said.

He was a lawyer. There were times when his passion for nitpicking punctilio drove Mack Leaming wild. This was one of them, and worse than most. “Sir, to hell with the Rebels' rights!” Leaming exclaimed. “We're talking about our necks here! “

“We've held Forrest off for this long,” Bradford said. “If his men try another push against the fort and fail, I can't imagine how they would be able to nerve themselves for one more after that. I ask again-does anybody feel we should yield?”

No one said a word.

“All right.” Bill Bradford was brisk. He nodded to Leaming. “You say Bedford Forrest wants a clear answer, do you?”

“Yes, sir,” Leaming answered.

“I shall give him one, then. Let me have paper and pencil, someone.” When Bradford had them, he wrote rapidly and handed the pa. per to Leaming. General-l will not surrender. Very respectfully, your obedient servant, L.F Booth, Major Commanding, Leaming read. “There,” Bill Bradford said. “I hope that will be clear enough for General Forrest even without his spectacles, as John Hancock said when he signed the Declaration of Independence.” He laughed at his own wit.

Major Leaming laughed, too, more from a sense of duty than for any other reason. “I'll take it out to him, sir,” he said. Unlike George III, Forrest had nothing wrong with his eyes. Oh, no.

When Leaming reached the flags of truce, he found the Confederate general no longer waited by them. He handed Bradford's note to Captain Goodman. “Here you are, sir,” he said.

“May I ask how your commander replies, sir?” Goodman remained polite.

“We will not surrender,” Leaming answered.

Captain Goodman's eyebrows leaped. “Won't you reconsider? We can take that place, and it will be terrible if we do. Our men have good reason not to love nigger soldiers and galvanized Yankees. I speak from a concern for the unnecessary effusion of blood, and that effusion will be very great when Fort Pillow falls.”

“Major Br-Booth is of the opinion that it will not fall.” Leaming corrected himself fast enough to keep the Confederate from noticing his near slip.

“Well, Lieutenant, all I can tell you is that when a Yankee commander believes one thing and General Forrest believes another, General Forrest commonly proves right,” Goodman said. “Your superior will not change his mind?”

“He is determined,” Leaming replied.

Captain Goodman sighed. “On his head be it. Very well, sir. I shall take his answer to General Forrest, and after that… after that, we shall see what we shall see. Good afternoon, gentlemen. A pleasure making your acquaintance.” He saluted. So did Captain Henderson and Lieutenant Rodgers.

Leaming returned the courtesy, along with Captain Young and Lieutenant van Horn. Then they and the common soldiers with them turned around and started back toward Fort Pillow. “Can we really hold this place?” Young asked quietly. “The Confederates' confidence doesn't strike me as their usual bluff and bluster.”

“Major Bradford thinks we can. Between the parapet and the New Era, he believes we have enough to beat back the Confederates.” Leaming paused a moment; leaving it there didn't seem just to the commandant. “He held an officers' council before sending me out with his reply. No one opposed continuing resistance.”

“All right.” By the frown that further darkened Young's face, it wasn't even close to all right, but he couldn't do anything about it. “We're going to have a hot time of it, a devil of a hot time, but with God's help we'll come through.”

He didn't say anything about the gunboat's help. The New Era was right down there on the Mississippi. Leaming hoped God was close by, too.

Bedford Forrest watched Captain Goodman ride back toward him. When the junior officer got within hailing distance, Forrest called, “Well, Captain? What will it be?”

Goodman held up a scrap of paper. “You'd better see for yourself, Sir.

“That doesn't sound good,” Charles Anderson said at Forrest's side. “No, it doesn't.” Forrest nodded. “If the Federals in there think they can hold us out, they've even bigger fools than I credit them for.” As Goodman came up, Forrest held out his hand. “Give me the note.” “Yes, sir.” Goodman passed it to him.

“ ‘General-I will not surrender.' “ Forrest read it aloud. He slowly nodded a couple of times. Major Booth obliged him on one point: he could not doubt the other man's meaning. “Well, we gave them a chance. If they're such blockheads that they won't take it, it's their hard luck, not ours.” Even to himself, he sounded like a judge passing sentence.

“It's their funeral, is what it is,” Waiter Goodman said. “I tried to tell that to Leaming, but he didn't want to hear it. Reckon he's got his orders, and that's that.” He shrugged. “That'll be that, all right. “

“I thought they would give up. I really did,” Forrest said. “Everybody knows we don't mistreat people who surrender to us. The way our men feel about those damned Federal Tennesseans, and about niggers with guns in their hands… Well, Booth'll find out he's made a worse bargain than the one I tried to give him.”

Captain Anderson pointed out toward the Mississippi. “What about the gunboat, sir? If the enemy goes down by the river, it's in good position to rake our boys hard.”

“We've handled gunboats before. I expect we'll deal with this one the same way,” Bedford Forrest answered. “She has to open her gunports to use her cannon. If we've got men blazing away at 'em every time they do open up, she'll lose gunners too quick to stay in the fight for long. Shoot everything blue betwixt wind and water until their flag comes down.”

“All right, sir. I'll tend to it,” Anderson said. “Colonel Barteau ought to have the same order, in case the gunboat shifts so her guns bear on his men.”

“Well, Captain, I can't very well tell you you're wrong, on account of you're right.” Forrest called for a runner. He gave the man oral orders to deliver to Barteau over by Coal Creek. When the runner had them straight, he saluted and loped away.

What would the U.S. soldiers be doing, up inside Fort Pillow? Pontius Pilate might have shrugged the shrug Forrest shrugged then. He washed his hands of the Federals. He didn't see what they could do to hold him out except what they were already doing-and that wouldn't be enough.

“General Chalmers!” Forrest said.

Chalmers was talking with Captain Goodman a few feet away. He broke off and nodded to his superior. “Yes, sir? What do you need?”

“Your men ready?”

“Oh, yes, sir. No doubt about it,” Chalmers said. “When Gaus blows his bugle, they'll go forward as if it were Gabriel's trumpet.”

Jacob Gaus looked at the beat-up instrument he held in his right hand. “God can afford to issue Gabriel something better than this,” he said, which set all the officers around him laughing. The bugler added, “Or if He can't, then I am afraid Satan is ahead in the race.”

Bedford Forrest was a steadfast believer. That didn't stop him from laughing his head off now; the words, and Gaus's guttural accent, were too funny to resist. Aiming a forefinger at the German, he said, “You are a blasphemous toad, Jacob.”

“Ja,” Gaus agreed placidly. “But I am your blasphemous toad, General. “

“That you are-who else would have you?” Forrest needed a moment to bring his mind back to the business at hand. But when he did, he pointed toward the high ground the Confederates had won early in the fight. “You still have plenty of sharpshooters on those little knolls, General? “

“Oh, yes, sir,” Chalmers said. “I wouldn't move men off 'em, not when they're up higher than the Federals' position. They can shoot right into the fort, and the troops inside can't do a thing to stop 'em.”

“I know. That's why I want 'em there. That's why only a damn fool would reckon he could hang on to Fort Pillow unless he had a big enough garrison for the outer line.” Now Forrest pointed ahead, to the ditch in front of the earthwork the U.S. soldiers still held. “And that's why only a damn fool would reckon a no-account trench like that one would keep our boys out of his works, too.”

“Easier fighting a damn fool than someone who knows what he's doing,” Chalmers observed.

“That's a fact,” Forrest said. “All the same, even a galvanized Yankee ought to have eyes to see this. By God, Chalmers, even a nigger ought to have eyes to see this. Your sharpshooters over yonder can fire at that stretch of the Federal works so they're shooting along the Yankee's firing line instead of straight at it, and the sharpshooters over there can do the same to the other stretch.”

“The technical term is enfilading fire, sir,” Chalmers said.

Was he slyly poking fun at Forrest or really trying to teach him something? Chalmers was not a West Point man, but he'd been to college; he was a lawyer in Mississippi when secession came, and helped lead his state out of the Union. He doubtless looked down his nose at an unschooled nigger-trader like Forrest-he might, but he'd better not show it, not when that un schooled nigger-trader outranked him.

“I don't care much about the technical term, Jim,” Forrest said. “I know what I want to do, and I can get it done just fine without fancy talk.” He snorted, thinking of the evasive answer the Federals in Fort Pillow tried to palm off on him. Well, they wouldn't get away with it, by God.

“We've all seen that, sir,” Chalmers said.

There wasn't-there couldn't possibly be-any mockery in those words. Education or no, fancy talk or no, Bedford Forrest knew without false modesty that he'd done more for the Confederate cause in the West than just about anybody else. When the war was young, he saved a large part of the Confederate garrison in Fort Donelson when his superiors, after breaking out, idiotically marched back in and had to surrender to the Yankees.

He fought hard at Pittsburg Landing, and took a wound that almost killed him; that bullet still lay somewhere near his spine, and still pained him. His first set of cavalry raids up into Tennessee and Kentucky at the end of 1862 did such a good job of wrecking U. S. Grant's supply line that they delayed his attack on Vicksburg by months. He fought at Chickamauga, and still wished Braxton Bragg would have listened to him and pushed the pursuit. That Federal army would be extinct now; the Confederates would hold Chattanooga. Instead..

Forrest's hands tightened on the reins. If only they were tightening on Braxton Bragg's scrawny neck. Bragg couldn't win. And when, in spite of himself, he did win at Chickamauga, he frittered away the victory. But he was Jefferson Davis's particular friend, and so his malign influence in the C.S.A. seemed to go on forever.

I should have killed him, Forrest thought. I should have challenged him. Not even a spineless wretch like that could have wriggled off the hook. He shook his head. Too late now. Too late for a lot of things in the West.

General Chalmers said something. Lost in his own dark thoughts, Forrest heard his voice without noting the words. “I'm sorry, General,” he said, shaking his head again. “That went right on by me.”

“I said, will you go forward with the men when they storm the fort?” “Oh.” The question spawned more dark thoughts. Slowly, Forrest answered, “Matter of fact, I wasn't planning to.”

“I see.” By Chalmers's tone, and by his raised eyebrow, he didn't.

Were Chalmers speaking of some other man, the two-word response might have been an accusation of cowardice. Not with Bedford Forrest. Some gushing Southern newspaper wrote that he'd killed more men in close combat than any general since medieval days. He had no idea if that was so. But he was large and strong and fast, and he usually went straight for the hottest action.

Cautiously, Chalmers said, “Do you mind my asking why, sir?” “Yes, dammit.” Forrest's voice was rough, even harsh. He disliked being put on the spot.

“Very well, sir.” By Chalmers's tone, he didn't like it, but he knew he couldn't do anything about it.

Forrest was just as well pleased to keep his mouth shut. If he said he had no stomach for what lay ahead, Chalmers would think him soft. If he said he was afraid he couldn't stop it, Chalmers would think him weak. If he said nothing at all, Chalmers could think whatever he damn well pleased.

He turned to Jacob Gaus. “You ready there?” “Oh, yes, sir,” the bugler answered.

“Anything that wants doing before we sound the assault?” Forrest asked the officers nearby. Neither Chalmers nor Captain Anderson nor Captain Goodman nor any of the others said a word. “Well, then”-Forrest tipped his hat to Gaus-”go ahead, Jacob.”

“Ja.” Gaus raised the battered bugle to his lips. The fierce horn call belled across the battlefield.