Major Lilly leads us down a steep slope, and we ride to the base of the hill at the far end of the bridge. “Stephen, once we walk up this hill into the fort, you and Henry stay near me,” he orders. “I want you within earshot at all times.” We pool our horses in the ravine and scale the hill on foot to the fort. This embankment is the first line of defense and is too steep for horses to climb.
A rifle pit, deep enough for a man to stand in, rings the outside walls of the fort and provides the second line of protection. We enter the fort through two wooden doors wide enough for one man to pass each way. Two blockhouses sit inside the fort.
A man with muttonchops walks quickly to us and salutes. “Colonel Minnis,” he says. He blinks rapidly as Major Lilly introduces us. The colonel waves his hands excitedly and hurries us over to a pit in the ground. “Here’s our magazine. I’m afraid it’s pitifully stocked with ammunition for a couple hundred men. There are only two frame buildings inside.” He points to one. “That one is set up as a hospital, and the other is a command center.”
The fort is much smaller than I expected. I am astonished by its lack of size.
“Over here,” Colonel Minnis says, walking quickly to a small window on the western part of the fort. “This side was built close enough to the tracks that the cross timbers can be touched by men in the rifle pit. Just beyond the tracks, the hill falls away to a field of dried cornstalks.”
Major Lilly asks, “Can troop advancements be seen coming through the field?”
“Certainly,” the colonel replies. “That’s not a concern at all. But over there,” he says, pointing to the opposite side of the fort, “is another story. A deep, narrow ravine to the east creates a natural boundary preventing a mounted attack. However, that ground rises quickly to a hilltop higher than this fort.” Colonel Minnis points to trees outside the fort. “The trees you see there are on the far hilltop, less than sixty yards away.”
Major Lilly shakes his head. “Perfect for a Confederate artillery strike. The possibility of being attacked from that side is one hundred percent.”
“Exactly.”
I turn to Henry and speak low enough that he alone can hear. “I can’t believe we stayed three months in Nashville, the most fortified town in the South, to end up at Sulphur Branch Trestle, Alabama, with no protection at all.”
Henry nudges me on the arm and points to the eastern hillside. “We’re like ducks sitting on a pond, waiting to be shot,” he says.
I nod and Henry bites his lip.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Saturday, September 24, 1864, 4:20 p.m.
“Your two hundred men bring our total to one thousand,” Colonel Minnis says.
Major Lilly shakes his head in disbelief. “Even with those numbers, two twelve-pound howitzers are not enough to defend an attack from the east.” His voice is raised, clipped with anger. He points toward the ridge. “How far away are those trees, Stephen?” he asks.
“Sixty yards, seventy at the most,” I guess.
“And how far do howitzers shoot?”
“Up to one thousand yards, sir,” I answer.
“What’s the problem with that?”
I glance at the top of the hill—the answer is easy. “It’s like stirring a cup of coffee with a shovel,” I say. “Our cannons are too large of a weapon to protect the fort from the nearest and most obvious threat, that hilltop.”
Major Lilly nods. “He’s fourteen and sees the problem. We don’t have the right tool for the job, and the fort is built in the wrong place. Why aren’t our men on that hill?” he asks.
“There’s no protection up there. It would be putting my men up there with their backs to a cliff.”
“Well, what good are howitzers when the enemy is looking down at you from less than one hundred yards away?”
The colonel throws his hands into the air. “I agree, but it’s all we’ve got. And we only have sixty rounds per howitzer.”
Major Lilly squints like he’s staring into the sun. “One hundred twenty rounds?” he asks. “My God, can it get any worse?”
The officers stand and stare at each other. Major Lilly massages both temples with his fingers. “I say we turn the western howitzer to face east. If we get hot fire from that hilltop, it’s going to be hard to stop. But maybe we can scare them to death.”
Colonel Minnis nods. “An advance from the west can be handled with guns. We have the upper ground there,” he says.
“I have another concern,” Major Lilly says.
“What’s that?”
“Who’s leading the Negro troops?”
“Colonel William Lathrop. They’re the One Hundred Eleventh Negro troops, and he has several hundred men.”
“We don’t want another Fort Pillow on our hands.”
“What do you mean?”
“Forrest is in the area, right?”
“Correct.”
“Word is he took Fort Pillow’s white soldiers as prisoners but lined the Negro troops up and shot them like rabid dogs.”
The idea makes my stomach lurch, and my chest feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. “We can’t let that happen,” I mutter to Henry. It’s hard for me to catch my breath.
“We’ll worry about that if the time comes,” Colonel Minnis says. “Forrest overran Athens, five miles south of here earlier this week. He’s picking off small forts one by one like he’s going down a row of corn.”
It’s decided that Major Lilly will take fifty men and follow the railroad south toward Athens to have a look. Just before sunset I sound the boots and saddles call, and we mount. We leave the corral with a squad and eight additional men who have been at the fort for several weeks and know the area. We ride quietly until we face a small rise in the flat terrain.
“That’s called Hay’s Mill,” a private says.
Major Lilly stops the line and orders the private and Sergeant Survant to ride ahead. Near the top of the rise, they stand high in their stirrups. Sergeant Survant turns and motions for the rest of us to advance. Far ahead, we see small pockets of flames, too numerous to count. They span a wide swath of land.
“My God,” Major Lilly says in a low tone. “We’ve found the rebels.”
“How many?” somebody asks.
Major Lilly tugs on his mustache. “Several thousand, I’d say.”
We sit in silence, scanning the orange horizon. “Mother calls that color of sky Indiana sunset,” I tell the major.
“It’s not the sun painting that orange wash along the bottoms of the clouds. It’s fire,” he says.
“Can small fires cause the clouds to glow like that?”
“No.” Major Lilly shakes his head. “Campfires, even that many, won’t reflect that high. My guess is Athens is burning.”
“Where are the rebel picket lines?” I ask.
“They’re not worried about us,” Major Lilly says. “Not now.”
Tree branches snap, and suddenly pops ring out from the direction of the fires. But a safe distance ahead. It’s the first time I’ve been fired at.
“There’s your answer, Gaston,” Sergeant Survant says.
“Have you ever been fired at, sir?” I ask the major.
“Many times,” he says slowly.
Knowing we are totally outnumbered and sitting ducks in the fort makes my face feel flushed. With a battle looming, I no longer want to see the elephant when it attacks in full force. “Why would they shoot from that far away?” I ask.
“Someone wants us to know they see us. They know we won’t attack. There’s too many of them. Let’s head back before they decide to get close enough to do harm,” Major Lilly says.
We ride back to the fort, store the horses in the ravine, and climb the hillside. It’s nine p.m.
* * *
“How will the Negro troops perform if fighting turns thick?” Major Lilly asks Colonel Lathrop when we return.
The colonel twists his head to the left as if he’s hard of hearing. “I don’t understand.
What do you mean, How will the Negro troops perform?”
Major Lilly’s struck a nerve, but he keeps pressing. “I estimate over two thousand rebels perhaps three miles south of here. We’ll need every able-bodied man to defend the fort and trestle. What is your level of confidence that your men will perform when the fighting starts?”
“Major, their lives are on the line, more so than yours or mine. Every man under my command has trained like any other Union soldier. Their dark skin doesn’t mean they’ll perform any differently than your men.”
Major Lilly smiles and nods. “That’s what I wanted to hear, sir,” he says. “I’m sure we’ll all make Forrest’s acquaintance sooner than later.”
* * *
Twenty minutes pass, and Colonel Lathrop requests Major Lilly to join him along the western wall, where the Negro troops are stationed. “From that vantage, Forrest’s sharpshooter can pick us off one at a time,” he says.
Major Lilly agrees. “That’s going to be problematic. The only cover for your men is the hospital. When it starts—and it will—make sure your men stay out of the line of sniper fire from the hill. Don’t worry about advancement from the cornfield.”
Major Lilly turns to me. “Stephen, tell the Ninth to assist the Eleventh for the rest of the night. Build an earthworks anywhere on this side of the fort that can be seen from the hill. Logs, thick branches, large rocks, anything you can get your hands on need to be here for them.”
* * *
Henry Dorman and I carry rocks from the creek and lay them to create a crude wall extending from the corner of the hospital. William Peacock and a fellow nearly seven feet tall make several trips with us. The two of them are strong as bears and carry the largest boulders. I hear others call the taller fellow Big Tennessee. After several trips we collapse for a rest. Henry stares at the half-moon, and I watch his lips move slowly.
I look up at the moon as well. “Maw, I love you to the moon and back,” I say loud enough for Henry to hear.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sunday, September 25, 1864, 12:01 a.m.
Henry Dorman, Big Tennessee, and I are sitting, our backs against the southern wall, when, without warning, a cannon shot sails from the eastern hilltop, over the fort, and lands in the cornfield to our west. The explosion is close enough to make lanterns rattle against the fort’s walls. Soldiers who had fallen asleep fumble for their guns and peer out from their stations into the darkness.
“That shot didn’t miss the fort by much!” somebody yells from the eastern wall. “Recalculation will bring it closer.”
Colonel Lathrop runs from the tiny building used as the command center. “What do you see?” he asks Major Lilly.
“Nothing. It’s hard to see ’em with darkness and trees giving them cover.”
“How could they miss the fort?” I ask.
“They didn’t miss. It’s a warning shot.”
I clench a gun with one hand and my bugle with the other and stare into purple darkness, waiting. Each minute seems like an hour. Everybody sits in silent anticipation for a second shot.
After a long wait, somebody says in a loud whisper, “What’s going on?”
“They want us to know they’ve arrived,” Colonel Lathrop says. “They’re playing with us like a cat plays with a mouse. Remember, we have forty rounds per man, so make every shot count.”
My hope sinks. We’re fish in a barrel, low on ammunition, and outmanned by several thousand.
* * *
Through the wee hours of the morning we sit clutching our guns and wait. Just before dawn, Colonel Minnis decides a picket needs to slip out of the fort to the west and into the cornfield. “Scout an escape to the west,” I hear him tell the squad of eight. “I’m sure Forrest has moved troops around to the north and is now in charge of the railroad between us and the Tennessee line. So that route is out of the question.”
I turn to Henry Dorman. “Forrest has plenty of troop strength. The idea that he might have left us an escape route is wishful thinking. He would be an idiot to leave the west flank unguarded.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, as dawn breaks, gunfire erupts from the far side of the cornfield. “They’ve gotten into a skirmish,” Major Lilly says. “They’ll be headed back our way. Forrest has us covered on all sides.”
I can’t see the cornfield, but the gunfire grows louder. There’s enough light to see men at the western wall in ready position, muzzles aimed through thin slits between planks and bricks. A cool breeze brings a waft of gunpowder mixed with dried cornstalks across the field. It floats up the hill and over the fort’s walls. So the elephant is getting closer, and this is what it smells like.
* * *
Full daylight arrives slowly. Sergeant Survant calls for Colonel Lathrop to come to the northeastern wall and look out a tiny window called the embrasure. To protect the cannon and men, only the barrel sticks out the embrasure. When the colonel reaches the spot, two men pick up the handspike, while four others roll the cannon back until its barrel is fully inside the fort. One private points to the top of the hill across the ravine.
Colonel Lathrop removes his hat and sticks his head through the opening. He turns and yells toward the center of the fort. “Colonel Minnis, two ten-pound Parrott guns on the eastern hill!”
“Troop movement approaching from the south!” William Peacock yells from the wall near where Henry and I are crouched, our backs against the fort.
Private Dorman grabs his gun and nuzzles against the fort. “I’m scared, Stephen,” he whispers.
“That’s okay, pard. You’re not alone. Everybody is.”
Colonel Lathrop walks away from the cannon and toward Colonel Minnis to discuss the situation. At exactly the same time, a shell sails over the eastern wall and strikes the ground inside the fort. Timbers, bricks, and earth fly into the air and rain down upon soldiers. The explosion is so powerful, debris reaches my area. I have to turn toward the ground and cover my head with my arms. When rocks stop falling, I can see that a jagged hole, large enough for a pair of horses to run through, has appeared in the northern wall. There are five, maybe six, men lying on the ground, motionless.
Uninjured men nearer the explosion dive closer to the eastern side of the fort to use the wall for protection. One man scampers behind the wall of the hospital. Another hops to safety, dragging what appears to be a useless, mangled foot behind him, like a sack of horse feed.
A soldier lies on the ground, writhing silently in pain. I throw down my gun and bugle and rush to help him. Blood trickles from his left ear and he snorts red bubbles out both nostrils. It’s Colonel Lathrop. “Nurse!” I yell. Several Negro soldiers sprint to help drag him into the hospital. He’s conscious, but barely.
Colonel Lathrop grabs the sleeve of a black soldier and pleads, “Don’t surrender the fort.” As he utters his last words, Colonel Lathrop’s hands and arms go limp, and the smells of gunpowder, dirt, and gardenias swirl through the air.
I hurry out the hospital door and back to the southern wall. “Was that the colonel?” Henry asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
“How is he, Stephen?” Peacock yells over to me.
I shake my head. “He’s gone. I was holding him when he died.”
“I’m sorry,” Henry whispers.
Henry begins rocking back and forth, clutching his bugle. “We don’t stand a chance against cannons firing down on us from higher ground.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s one thing to be brave in a fair fight, but it’s lunacy to fight a useless battle.”
“No. And they won’t storm the fort with infantry,” Henry says. “They’ll use big guns to do as much damage as they can from afar. Wear us down like boot heels.”
* * *
I hear the squad in the cornfield retreating in full gallop back toward the fort. Because of the huge gap in the wall, I can hear when they race under the trestle and to the corral.
“They’re safer in the cornfield,”
Henry says. A minute later they’re running back inside the fort.
“Caleb Rule!” Colonel Minnis yells. “Take nine men back down into that ravine and guard those horses,” he orders. The soldier called Caleb, a farrier from Tennessee, hastily gathers a team of men. They crouch low along the eastern wall and leave. They’re gone only minutes when a cannon shell, fired from the north, strikes the ground near the horses. Caleb’s squad reappears almost instantly at the hole of the fort.
As soon as they are inside the fort, tufts of sod kick up around their feet. Minié balls, fired from trees on the eastern hillside, strike one of the men and he falls like timber. Other shots kick up pieces of ground as the men run for cover. Caleb makes a zigzagged path until he’s put the hospital between him and the snipers on the hillside. A few men dive toward the safety of the eastern wall.
Caleb peeks out from behind the hospital, using it as a shield from the snipers. He looks our way, steps back several feet, leans forward, and sprints from behind the hospital toward us. Two shots hit the ground, sending a spray of dirt into the air just behind his heels.
A Negro soldier hurries from his position near the western wall to behind the hospital. He peeks around the corner, kneels, and loads his gun. The building provides perfect cover. After waiting for what seems like forever, he pulls the trigger. In the quick silence following the shot, I hear a splat from the hillside followed by the breaking of large tree limbs as a body falls from a tree and tumbles through dried leaves down the hillside.
Caleb’s out of breath but hasn’t lost his sense of humor. “Sharpshooters . . . in . . . trees at the top of that ravine,” he says, and laughs. He stands up and cups his hands around his mouth. “We got sharpshooters, too!” he yells up into the trees. A shot is fired, and he dives for the ground. When he looks up, he says, “What’s that blood on Henry’s chest? Was he hit?”
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