Fort Pillow

by Harry Turtledove

  He might have been, but he wasn't. “General Forrest says, 'I demand the unconditional surrender of this garrison, promising you that you shall be treated as prisoners of war,''' Leaming read. Captain Goodman nodded again. The Federal officer went on, “You will know we have colored troops inside the fort. Does this promise extend to them as well? They too will be treated as prisoners of war, and will not be killed out of hand or re-enslaved?”

  “Yes, sir. That is correct. The niggers will be treated as prisoners of war, on the same terms as white men, if you surrender now,” Walter Goodman said. “As it happens, I raised this point myself with both General Forrest and General Chalmers, wanting to make sure no unfortunate misunderstandings arose from it. They both stated very clearly that they will accept the colored soldiers under the terms of this demand.” Goodman leaned toward Leaming. His politesse did not slip, not quite, but he let the hostility below show through. “Bear in mind also, sir, that if you refuse we shall not answer for the safety of any man within Fort Pillow, black or white. Is that plain?”

  “It could scarcely be plainer, Captain.” With Captain Young and Lieutenant van Horn beside him, Leaming had to affect a nonchalance he did not feel.

  “Very well. Any further questions?” Goodman asked.

  “No, sir. I will carry this message to my commanding officer.” Leaming had seen that the demand was addressed to Major Booth. Booth would be reading it from the Pearly Gates, from which place his comments were unlikely to return. But the Confederates didn't need to know command had devolved upon a less experienced man. Leaming did not mention Major Bradford's name. He just turned to his companions and said, “Let's go.”

  “I expect Major Booth's answer in short order,” Goodman warned, proving again that he didn't know Booth was dead. “No delay here will be tolerated.”

  “I will make that very plain, sir,” Leaming said. Once more, he said not a word about to whom he would make it plain.

  His footfalls and those of the two officers with him and the clop of the horses' hooves and jingle of their harness were the only sounds he heard as he walked back up to Fort Pillow. Guns had been thundering and cannon roaring since first light. The silence now felt almost eerie.

  Major Bradford waited just inside the gun port from which the truce party had set out. “What do they want?” he called.

  “About what you'd expect, sir.” Mack Leaming held out the paper Captain Goodman had handed him. “Here is Forrest's demand.”

  Bradford rapidly read through it. When he finished, he asked the same question Leaming had: “What about the colored troops?”

  “Sir, they are to be included among the prisoners of war,” Leaming answered. “I raised the point with Captain Goodman, who delivered the note to me. He said both General Chalmers, whom he serves, and General Forrest agreed they will accept the Negroes' surrender.”

  “I am not going to decide this all at once,” Bradford said. “Have you got paper and a pencil, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir.” Leaming took the writing tools from his pocket.

  “All right, then. Take this down…” Major Bradford hesitated for a moment, perhaps communing with his muse. “To General Forrest, commanding C.S. forces,” he said. Mack Leaming wrote it down. Bradford went on. “Sir-I respectfully ask one hour for consultation with my officers and the officers of the gunboat. In the meantime no preparation to be made on either side.” He hesitated again, then asked, “Do the Confederates know Major Booth is dead?”

  “No, sir,” Leaming said. “As you see, their demand is addressed to him. I didn't tell them he'd been hit, and neither did anyone else in the party.”

  “Likely just as well. They'll think better of Booth than they will of me. He was a real soldier, and I'm just a lawyer, and a Tennessee Tory to boot,” Bradford said. Lieutenant Leaming found himself nodding; those were the main reasons he hadn't informed the Confederates of Booth's death. Bill Bradford went on, “As long as they don't know, let's keep them in the dark. Sign it, 'Very respectfully, L.F. Booth, Major Commanding.' “

  “Yes, sir.” Leaming did as he was asked.

  “Good, good. Now-do you have an envelope?” Bradford seemed endlessly worried about tiny procedural details.

  “Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, I do.” Leaming took one from the left breast pocket of his tunic. He put Bradford's response into it.

  “Good. Good. Seal it up. Seal it up tight,” Major Bradford said. “And, with a little luck, Bedford Forrest'll give us the hour, and we'll have reinforcements in place by the time it's up, and then we really will be able to tell him to go to the Devil.”

  “I hope so, sir,” Leaming said. Along with the other members of the truce party, he went out of Fort Pillow toward the waiting Captain Goodman once more.

  Major William Bradford's dream of reinforcements was Major General Nathan Bedford Forrest's nightmare. Not long after his ultimatum to the men inside Fort Pillow went forward, that nightmare looked like it was coming true. A trooper from down by the Mississippi came up to Forrest, calling, “General! General Forrest, sir! There's smoke on the river, sir! Looks like a steamboat's coming up!”

  Bedford Forrest swore horribly. That was the last thing he wanted to hear. “God damn it to hell and gone!” he shouted, and then, hoping against hope, “Are you sure?”

  “Sure as I am that I'm Hank Tibbs,” the cavalryman answered. “Come see for yourself if you don't believe me.”

  “I think I'd better,” Forrest said grimly, and rode down toward the broad river. He didn't get there as fast as he would have liked; the steeply sloping ground and the number of felled tree trunks made his horse pick its way along. He needed almost fifteen minutes to come to the eastern bank of the Mississippi and peer downstream toward Memphis.

  Hank Tibbs didn't have to worry that anyone would fear he wasn't entitled to his own name. Bedford Forrest did some more profane swearing when he spied the steamer coming up from the south. As he'd feared they would be, its decks were blue with the uniforms of U.S. soldiers.

  Just to make things worse, a glance north along the Mississippi showed more smoke, as if another steamboat was on the way with aid and comfort for the Federals in Fort Pillow. How was he supposed to take the place if they could pour men into it from the river?

  Forrest looked from Fort Pillow out to the gunboat already floating on the Mississippi. The enemy warship was honoring the truce; it hadn't fired a shot since learning the white flag had gone in. But neither the gunboat nor the men in the fort were making any effort to stop the steamer crammed with troops from approaching. In their place, Forrest probably wouldn't have, either. That didn't make him love them any better.

  “Captain Anderson!” he shouted.

  “Yes, sir?” His aide-de-camp wasn't far away.

  “Get as many men down by the riverbank as you can,” Forrest said. “Pull some of them down from those buildings we took, and use the little force you already gathered together.” He pointed down the river toward the oncoming steamboat. “Let those sons of bitches see they'll have a nasty time of it if they try to let their soldiers off.”

  “I'll tend to it, sir.” Anderson saluted and hurried away.

  A moment later, Forrest shouted for a runner. When the soldier came up to him, he said, “Get your fanny over to Colonel Barteau in Coal Creek Ravine. Tell him to bring his men out in the open and to take them down by the bank of Coal Creek. I want to make sure the Yankees in that there steamer”-he pointed to the vessel-”can't swing in and land by the creek any more than they can here along the river. Have you got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” the runner said. When Forrest raised an eyebrow, the man gave back the instructions with tolerable accuracy. Forrest nodded. The runner trotted off toward the far side of the battlefield.

  Men in gray and butternut rushed to make themselves visible on the low ground by the base of the bluff. Some of them came up along the riverbank, others down from the buildings they'd gained when the Federals failed to burn the
m all. Watching, Forrest nodded again, this time to himself. An officer would have to be crazy to try to land in the face of opposition like that.

  “General! General! You there, General?” Forrest's head came up like that of a hound taking a scent-he knew WaIter Goodman's voice when he heard it.

  “I'm here, Goodman!” he called, pitching his voice to carry. He could always make himself heard, even on the maddest, noisiest field. With the guns fallen silent, Yankees out on that steamboat might have heard him. “What do the Federals in the fort say?”

  “Here is their answer, sir.” Captain Goodman held out a sealed envelope.

  “What a pack of foolishness. You could have seen it,” Forrest said scornfully. He opened the envelope and took out the note inside. Once he'd read it, he shook his head. “The son of a bitch in there is playing for time, and to hell with me if I aim to let him have any. Can you write down my answer to take back to the U.S. truce party?”

  “Yes, sir.” Goodman produced pencil and paper. Forrest had thought he would be able to; he served General Chalmers much as Captain Anderson served Forrest himself. “Go ahead, sir.”

  “To Major L.F. Booth, commanding U.S. forces, Fort Pillow.” Forrest paused for a moment, then went on, “Sir-I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your note asking for one hour to consider my demand for your surrender. Your request cannot be granted. I will allow you twenty minutes from the receipt of this note for consideration; if at the expiration of that time the fort is not surrendered, I shall assault it. I do not demand the surrender of the gunboat. Very respectfully, N.B. Forrest, Major-General.“

  “That should do the job, sir,” Goodman said. “Let me read it back to you.” He did. Forrest nodded. “I'll deliver it, then,” Goodman told him, and rode up toward the spot where the truce parties from the two sides were meeting.

  Up on the fortified bluff, colored and white soldiers mocked the men emerging from cover to thwart the troop-laden steamship. The men in blue didn't fire on Forrest's troopers, but did their best to provoke them in every other way they could. “We won't give you no quarter if you comes at us!” a drunken Negro bawled.

  “After we git you, we git your sisters, too!” another Negro shouted. Forrest could imagine nothing better calculated to inflame his men. The colored soldier probably wasn't joking, either. White troopers from Fort Pillow had ranged through western Tennessee. They'd insulted more than a few women dear to Forrest's soldiers, and outraged more than one. Why wouldn't a black man want to imitate them?

  A corporal not far from Forrest growled. “Those sons of bitches'll laugh out of the other side of their faces when we get in amongst 'em.” A couple of soldiers shook their fists at the U.S. soldiers inside Fort Pillow, but no one raised a rifle musket to his shoulder and tried to avenge himself upon them. Unlike the Federals, his men showed good discipline-or maybe they were more worried about what he would do to them for going against orders than they were angry at the enemy.

  Captain Goodman rode back to him sooner than he'd expected. “What's going on?” Forrest called to him. “Has Booth given you an answer already?”

  “No, sir-sorry,” Goodman answered. “But some of the Federals in the truce party are saying maybe you aren't really here at all. They're saying it's a bluff like the one Colonel Duckworth used in Union City.”

  “Oh, they are, are they?” Forrest said. “Will it make ’em happy if I advance and be recognized?”

  Goodman's lips quirked upward into something that looked like a smile but was knowing and unamused. “Well, sir, I don't reckon it'll make ‘em very happy, if you know what I mean, but it'll sure enough take their doubts away.”

  “Then I'll do it,” Forrest said at once. “Lead on, Captain. I think things here are tolerable good-the Yankees won't be able to land, and it looks like they know it.”

  He followed the junior officer forward, past the barracks buildings and up onto the higher ground that led to the inner position the United States had fortified. The U.S. flag still floated defiantly above Fort Pillow. Forrest felt a peculiar prickling of the skin above his breastbone. If a Federal sharpshooter wanted him dead badly enough to violate the truce, he was within range for a decent shot. But U.S. soldiers had tried to kill him since the war was new. His own horse had come closer to doing it a few hours earlier than most of them had. Captain Goodman pointed. “There they are, sir.”

  “I see ‘em,” Forrest said.

  “The big dark one is Captain Young-their provost marshal,”

  Goodman said. “The other officer's Lieutenant van Horn. I don't see Lieutenant Leaming-he's the post adjutant. He must still be inside the fort, talking things over with Major Booth.”

  “These fellows here can testify for me.” Forrest spurred past Goodman and rode up to the Federals. “I am General Forrest,” he said. “Will any of you know me by sight?”

  “I do, sir.” The dark officer sketched a salute. “Captain John Young, Twenty-fourth Missouri Cavalry. Not the way I'd care to meet you, but…” He shrugged.

  “You do know I am who I say I am?” Forrest persisted.

  “Yes, sir.” Young did not seem afraid. He probably was — Forrest would have been, in his shoes — but he didn't show it. Most of the time, that was what mattered on the field. Forrest nodded with reluctant respect.

  Captain Goodman pointed west toward the Mississippi, where the steamer moving up from the south had come level with Fort Pillow. Her name was painted on her side in huge letters: Olive Branch. Bedford Forrest chuckled under his breath.

  “Look how many men she's got aboard her, sir,” Goodman said.

  “They can give us a lot of trouble if she lands.”

  “Don't worry, Captain,” Forrest said quietly. “She won't land.”

  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.