But Forrest said, "No, let him go for now. These really are his goods to keep an eye on. But if you catch him with his hands full later on, bring him to me again, and we'll see if I change my mind." Of course Revelle was pilfering from his boss's stall. But he did it with enough style to amuse the Confederate general instead of angering him.
"Thank you kindly, sir," Revelle said. "Good to see an honest man can still make his way, it is indeed."
"When you find one, let me know," Forrest told him. Hardy Revelle scratched his head. Forrest laughed some more.
Here came that damned horse again. Ben Robinson couldn't do anything to get out of its way. He had to lie there while Bedford Forrest rode over him for the third-or was it the fourth? — time. Forrest was telling somebody how he got rich trading niggers in Memphis, which wasn't exactly what the wounded black sergeant wanted to hear.
Don't step on me, he thought. Please don't. The horse didn't. It had missed him every single time. If it got him, wouldn't that be what they called adding insult to injury? He'd heard the phrase before, but never understood it till now. Getting stepped on by a horse was insulting, sure as hell, and he was already injured.
If he had to get shot to grasp a subtlety of the English language, he would just as soon have stayed ignorant. The wound to his leg hurt worse than anything that had ever happened to him before. It had finally stopped bleeding, or at least slowed down, but he didn't want to do a whole lot of moving around. He was sure that would start it again. Of course, with a gouge bitten out of his thigh he damn well couldn't do a whole lot of moving around.
And, at that, he was luckier than most. He could have been screaming for his mother, the way some horribly wounded soldier down by the Mississippi was. Or he could have been dead, the way so much of the Federal garrison was. Every so often, a new body would thud into the ditch beyond the rampart that hadn't helped.
He must have dozed off, because he almost jumped out of his skin when somebody said, "Here's another one of these goddamn nigger sons of bitches. "
"Well, you take his feet, and I'll take his head, and we'll fling him in the ditch," another Reb said. "The buzzards and the pigs can squabble over who gets more meat off him, and just what he deserves, too."
"Please don't throw me in dat ditch!" Robinson said. "I ain't dead-I'm only shot."
"Hell," one of the Confederates said, at the same time as the other was going, "Aw, shit." The first one added, "We can kill the bastard pretty damn quick. He ain't dead, but he's sure shot. It ain't like he can fight back."
Ben Robinson got ready to try. How he could fight when he couldn't even walk was beyond him, but he aimed to give it his best shot. Maybe he could pull one of them down, and then… And then what? he wondered. Then they shoot me or stick me, that's what. But he couldn't just let them murder him.
"General Forrest says we've killed enough of 'em for now," the second Reb said. Ben had never thought he would bless Bedford Forrest's name, but he did then.
The first trooper said something unflattering to his commanding officer. But he said it in a low voice, as if he didn't want Forrest to have any chance of hearing it. Robinson wouldn't have wanted Forrest to hear anything like that, either. The Reb went on, "Well, what the devil shall we do with him, then?"
"There's that hut over yonder, not too far," his friend answered. "We can tote him over there, leave him for the night, and kill him in the mornin'. Nobody'll give a damn about it then, chances are."
"Sounds like a pretty good scheme," the first trooper said, an opinion Robinson didn't share. "Let's do it."
They half carried, half dragged him to the hut. He bit his lip against the pain, but didn't cry out. He was damned if he wanted to show weakness in front of these white men. His wound did start bleeding again; he felt the warm blood trickling down his leg. But there didn't seem to be that much of it. If he could lie still for a bit, he thought it would stop.
When the Rebs got him inside, they dropped him like a sack of potatoes. He did groan then-he couldn't help it. "So long, nigger," one of the troopers said. They vanished into the night.
In spite of the torment from his wound, Ben Robinson started to laugh. Whites reckoned blacks were stupid. As often as not, that meant whites thought they could talk around blacks as freely as if they were by themselves. And thinking they could talk so freely made whites as stupid in truth as they thought blacks were.
We can put him in the hut. We'll come back tomorrow and kill him. Did Forrest's troopers really imagine he'd stick around once he heard that? If they did, they were dumb as rocks. Maybe they figured he was too badly hurt to move. Any which way, they'd be mighty disappointed when morning came and they found their blackbird had flown the coop.
Robinson still couldn't walk. That didn't mean he couldn't move. He wouldn't stick around here for anything, not if he had to crawl on his belly like a reptile to get away. And he damn near did: he hitched himself along on his elbows and one knee. They'd be raw and bloody before he got very far. He didn't care. He'd be a lot bloodier if he didn't get out while the getting was good.
Which way? he wondered once he made it out of the hut. Up on top of the bluff, the Rebs were still doing whatever they wanted. Things seemed quieter down by the Mississippi. And if rescue ever came, it would come by way of the river. Down, then.
Mosquitoes buzzed around him. They came out at dusk. They'd be worse a little further into spring, but they were bad enough now. He didn't care. Confederates with guns were worse than mosquitoes with pointy beaks.
When he went down the side of the bluff, he went slowly-slowly even for a crawling man. He could have rolled down the steep slope in nothing flat, but he didn't know what he'd fetch up against on the way to the bottom. He wasn't in a hurry. Every minute farther away from the hut and those Rebs felt as if it added another year to his life.
Here and there, wounded men groaned in the darkness. Once, Ben heard someone say, "Oh, shut the hell up, you goddamn nigger son of a bitch bastard!" The noise that followed might have been a rock falling on a pumpkin from a tall roof. It might have been, but it wasn't. It came again and again and again. Then the white man grunted-the sort of animal noise he might have made as he spent himself inside a woman-and said, "He ain't makin' any more noise."
Another Confederate's voice floated out of the dusk: "You heard what Lieutenant Pennell said about killing people, Jack."
"Yeah, I heard it. So what?" Jack answered. "That's Pennell. You gonna tell me a nigger in a Yankee uniform's a person? My ass! A nigger in a Yankee uniform is a snake, is what he is, an' I kill snakes every chance I get."
And snakes'll bite you, too, Ben Robinson thought. He knew damn well he'd killed and wounded his share — more than his share — of Bedford Forrest's troopers, both with the twelve-pounder and in the melee after the Rebs swarmed into Fort Pillow. He knew plenty of other colored soldiers had, too. Yes, they'd lost. But his fellow Negroes hadn't fought any worse than the whites who battled alongside them. The garrison was badly outnumbered, and commanded by a major who wasn't fit to carry General Forrest's boots. Of course they'd lost.
If he lived, if his leg healed up, Ben Robinson was ready to take on the Rebs again. He hated the trooper who'd just beaten a helpless black man to death. He hated him, yes, but he understood him, too. If he got the chance, he'd bite the Confederate States even harder next time.
Ragged wisps of cloud scudded past the moon, now hiding it, now letting it shine down on Fort Pillow. Nearing first quarter, it rode high in the sky, a little west of south. Its pale light would have been better suited to a happier scene, but Bill Bradford couldn't do anything about that.
His head spun. He wasn't so steady on his feet as he wished he were. He'd had to drink a good deal of the vile whiskey he took from the sutler's stall. He'd had to drink a good deal, yes, but he drank a lot less than he pretended to. He might be tiddly, but he wasn't smashed.
The Reb who was supposed to be keeping an eye on him, on the other hand… Bra
dford eyed the young cavalry trooper. The Confederate was still on his feet. All by itself, that said he was a man of impressive capacity. With so much redeye in him, Bradford knew he would have curled up asleep somewhere, like a cat in front of a fire.
Asleep the Reb was not. He was singing "0, Susanna"-loudly, and out of tune, in a voice most of an octave deeper than the one he used for ordinary speech. If he'd really had a banjo on his knee, Bradford would have plucked it off and broken it over his head.
Then the trooper stopped. He looked at Bradford. "You're not singing," he said, as if he'd noticed only now. He probably had. He'd been caterwauling away himself for quite a while.
"I just put my brother in the ground," Bradford said. "I don't feel like singing."
"You're a lousy homemade Yankee," the Reb said. "I bet you don't know how to shing-uh, sing."
"I sing in the church choir," Bradford retorted. That was true, even if he hadn't done much of it lately.
"Well, la-de-da," said the Reb-his name was Ward, Bradford remembered. "If you sing there, you can sing here." He wasn't too drunk to remember where his rifle musket lay. "You can sing, or I can blow your fucking head off. Who'd miss you?"
Bill Bradford fought the fear that welled up in him. "Your officers told you to keep me safe."
Ward only laughed. "If I tell 'em you tried to run off, nobody'll give a damn. Hell and breakfast, they'll likely promote me. You stupid son of a bitch, don't you understand that everybody in this whole state wants you dead?"
Everybody in this whole state wants you dead. Bradford knew it was an exaggeration. Tennessee did have its share of Union sympathizers-not enough to keep it from seceding, but enough to make trouble for the Confederate authorities. Even so, the Thirteenth Tennessee Cavalry (U.S.) and other outfits like it were a long way from popular with their neighbors. Ward might be exaggerating, but he wasn't lying.
"I can't sing-it wouldn't be right," Bradford insisted.
"You can if you drink some more." In his own way, the young Reb
was a practical man. Now he picked up the whiskey jug and thrust it at Bradford. "Here. Drink, you lousy, stinking bastard."
Bradford drank-some. Then he put his tongue over the opening and pretended to swallow more. That done, he gave the jug back. "Now you."
"What? You reckon I want to drink with a goddamn Tennessee Tory?" Ward scowled at him. Then he seemed to scowl at himself. "But I drank with you already, didn't I? And I sure do want to drink." By the way his Adam's apple worked, he wasn't pretending to pour the rotgut down. "Ahh!" he said, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "That's the stuff, all right." Bradford hoped he would forget why they were drinking, but he didn't. On a day full of defeats, here was one more. Ward scowled again. "Sing, God damn you."
And so, standing by his brother's grave, William Bradford sang "0, Susanna" with a drunken Confederate cavalry trooper who would sooner have shot him. Tears streamed down his face. Ward never noticed. By God, you'll pay for this-you and Bedford Forest and Jeff Davis, too.
When the song was finally over, Ward looked at Bradford. "Well, you can sing. Who would've thunk it? You may be a lousy, stinking bastard, but you aren't a lousy, stinking, lying bastard, anyways."
"I'm so glad you approve," Bradford murmured. No doubt luckily for him, that went right over the Reb's head. He gestured at the jug. "Have another knock, why don't you?"
"I will if you will," Ward said. "You've got to sing some more, too. You're pretty goddamn good, all right." He picked up the jug and swigged from it, then passed it to Bradford. "Damn thing's almost dry."
And you're still on your feet, goddammit. I thought you'd pass out on me right away. Do you have a hollow leg? Aloud, Bradford said, "I found that one. I expect I can come up with another one if I need to." He also drank-again, less than he pretended to. Pretty soon, the Reb would have to fall asleep… wouldn't he?
Not yet. "Sing," he told Bradford, and launched into "Camptown Ladies." Wincing, nearly sobbing, the Federal officer joined in. The tune was cheerful, even joyous. His mood was anything but.
Another Confederate soldier wandered over and joined in. Not too surprisingly, he had a jug of his own. He was a friendly sort, and willing to share. After a healthy snort, Ward sat down on the ground. "How come you're shtill shtanding?" he demanded of Bradford, his voice thick and slurred.
"I've always had a good head on my shoulders." Bill Bradford wondered why Ward was still breathing, let alone talking and making some sense. The amount he'd put away… He'd pay for it in the morning. But Bradford wanted him to pay sooner than that.
Ward blinked now, his eyes shining in the moonlight, and shook his head. "You had a good head on your shoulders, you wouldn't be a homemade Yankee. You'd be on the right shide inshtead." He yawned, shook his head again as if annoyed at himself, and then wagged a finger at Bradford. "Don't you go nowhere," he warned. But that was the end. He slowly slumped to the ground and slept.
"About time," Bill Bradford breathed. Now he had a chance.
"You there! Jenkins!" That sharp, astringent voice could only belong to Second Lieutenant Newsom Pennell.
"Yes, sir?" Corporal Jenkins fought to sound properly respectful. It wasn't easy. He didn't like Pennell, and it cut both ways. Jenkins belonged to Company A and Pennell to Company F, but the junior officer went out of his way to find things for him to do, and came down on him hard when he didn't do them well enough to suit Pennell's persnickety tastes. That was how it seemed to Jack Jenkins, anyhow. He never stopped to wonder how it seemed to the lieutenant.
Pennell came up to him, there by the riverbank. The officer was almost too skinny to cast a shadow. He had a narrow, disapproving face, and wore a little hairline mustache that made him look like a French fop. Jenkins was used to beards that were beards and mustaches that were mustaches, not one that looked as if it were drawn on with a burnt match.
"We need a better perimeter around the fort," Pennell declared. "How come, sir?" Jenkins asked in honest surprise. "We done took the place."
"Yes, yes," Lieutenant Pennell said impatiently. "We took it, and now we have to make sure no one gets out of it."
"I thought we took care of that pretty good," Jenkins said. "We shot most of the bastards in there. The ones that ain't dead ain't goin' anywhere quick." He hefted his rifle musket. Even the moonlight was enough to show the grisly stains on the stock.
But Lieutenant Pennell ignored them, as he ignored Jenkins's comment. "I am going to send you out to the original line of defense around this place, the one that General Pillow laid out," he said, a certain somber glee in his voice. "You and your fellow pickets will stand watch through the night, allowing no one to pass through unless a Confederate soldier or provided with proper authorization. Is that clear?"
"Why'd you pick on me?" Jenkins didn't add, you son of a bitch, not where Newsom Pennell could hear it, but he thought it very loudly.
"When I saw you there, I thought how useful an underofficer might be among the pickets," Pennell answered.
When you saw me standing here, you reckoned you'd land me with a crappy duty. That's what it is, Jenkins thought. "Thanks a hell of a lot, sir," he said.
"You're welcome." Pennell either didn't notice the sarcasm — Jenkins's guess — or refused to admit that he did. "Now go take your place. God only knows how many Federals are trying to sneak away even as we speak. "
God knows it ain't very many. But, short of bashing in Pennell's brains with the gory rifle musket, Jenkins was stuck, and he knew it. With a martyred sigh, he said, "Yes, sir." He didn't salute as he stomped away from Pennell. If the lieutenant wanted to call him on it, fine. Pennell said not a word.
Even finding Fort Pillow's outer works by moonlight wasn't easy. He might never have done it had he not heard several other disgruntled pickets grousing with one another. They gave the two stripes on his sleeve suspicious looks-they had to wonder if he was coming to make them act like proper soldiers. But when he started discussing Newsom Pennell's uns
avory ancestry and inflammable destination, they knew him for a fellow sufferer and relaxed.
One of them had a jug. He was willing to share it. "Leastways you brought a little something out of the fort," another picket said mournfully. "Me, I didn't get no loot a-tall."
"This should've been our chance," another man said. He drew on his pipe. The glowing red coal in the bowl lit up the top of his face from beneath: a strange, almost hellish glow. "Now we're stuck out here, and the others're getting all the goodies."
Jenkins already had some greenbacks and new shoes, and now a knock of whiskey. He didn't know what else he could expect to get, but he joined in the grumbling anyway. When the jug came around again, he took another good swig. Thus fortified, he found a place on the outer line that wasn't too close to anybody else's.
Out in the darkness beyond, a whip-poor-will said its name. Jenkins said Lieutenant Pennell's name, loudly and foully. Nothing was going to happen out here. This was all a waste of time. Here he was, stuck. "I'll pay you back for this, Pennell. See if I don't," he muttered.
XIV
Wherever the rebel officer who was a Freemason had gone, it didn't look as if he was coming back. Mack Leaming lay where the two Negroes who carried him up to the top of the bluff had left him. He was chilly. The gunshot wound pained him and gnawed at his vitality. But he believed he would live. Maybe the water the Reb gave him helped that much. Maybe his bleeding had stopped. Or maybe he was just tougher than he thought after first getting hit.
Every so often, a Confederate would walk by and look him over. Seeing him barefoot and without his trousers, each Reb in turn would realize he'd already been picked clean and go away. A couple of them thought he was dead. They wanted to put him on the pile of bodies not far away.
“I'm still here,” Leaming said when one of Forrest's troopers bent to take hold of his ankles.
The man jerked back in surprise-and, if Leaming was any judge, in fear as well. “Goddarnn!” he exclaimed. “For a second there, I reckoned you was a dead man talkin' to me.”
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