Without another word, Forrest turned his horse and cantered back to his own lines, concealing his anger beneath an impassive expression. To have had that Yankee speak to him in such an insolent manner in front of escaped slaves who were now bearing arms against the Confederacy was an affront that needed to be avenged as quickly as possible.
Arriving back in front of his officers, Forrest began barking out orders. Sharpshooters armed with Whitworth rifles began setting up their weapons. A few minutes later, they opened fire from a long distance, targeting officers and artillery crews. At the same time, Forrest’s artillery, which had long since unlimbered and deployed, began hurling shot and shell at Fort Granger.
Forrest watched through his spyglass the impact of the shelling. At first, the federal cannon within the fort returned fire briskly. But in order to do so, the crews of the guns had to expose themselves Within a matter of minutes, several of them were picked off by his sharpshooters. After a time, Forrest had the satisfaction of seeing the federal artillery fall silent.
He readied his men. The horses were sent to the rear and the men deployed in skirmisher order. Unlike some other commanders, Forrest had never been so foolish as to arrange his men in massed formations to be hurled forward in a Napoleonic assault. Seeing no need to wait, Forrest ordered his bugler to sound the charge.
Still mounted on King Philip, Forrest watched as his men began moving forward at a jog, their carbines at the ready. His sharpshooters and artillerymen continued to pour fire into Fort Granger, hoping to keep the heads of the defenders down so as to limit their fire. As his men came within rifle range, several of the black troops raised themselves over the top of the parapet and began shooting. While the fire did not seem particularly brisk, Forrest could see several of his men fall. Onward they went, though, coming ever closer to the walls of the fort.
He kicked King Philip into a canter, following his men. The fire from the fort was become more intense, but it still seemed strangely fitful. No organized volleys were being delivered, which seemed to confirm Forrest’s opinion about the fighting qualities of the blacks. His men were drawing nearer to the ramparts while suffering few casualties. He grinned. It seemed that this fight would be even easier than he had expected. He kicked King Philip into a full gallop, wanting to go over the top of the parapet with his men. If he was lucky, he might add to the tally of the number of men he had personally killed.
Reining in a few hundred yards from the fort, he slid off the saddle with ease and began jogging forward, leaving one of his aides to take his beloved mount to the rear and out of harm’s way. Pulling out his pistol and saber, Forrest dashed forward to be with his men. They themselves were clambering into the shallow trench surrounding the fort’s parapet. Forrest saw immediately how poorly designed Fort Granger had been, as the parapet was so high that the defenders could not lean over far enough to fire at their attackers without exposing themselves as well.
Seeing him leap into the trench, Forrest’s men watched him carefully and waited for his command. From the base of the trench, his men would have to scamper up perhaps eight or nine feet at an angle of about forty degrees. Behind them, a loose line of men had paused at the edge of the trench, continuing to provide covering fire for their comrades. The cannon fire behind them had ceased, however, as his artillerymen did not want to risk hitting their own men.
Bullets were smacking into the ground near his feet, but Forrest paid them no mind. He glanced up and down the trench. Nearly a thousand men now crowded the base of the parapet, and there couldn’t be more than a few hundred defenders within the fort itself. All they needed to do was go over the top of the parapet and Fort Granger would be at his mercy. They would slaughter the garrison, burn the bridge over the Harpeth River, and be on their way within an hour or so. Franklin would have yet another successful raid on his record.
“Ready?” he shouted to his nearby men. Even amidst the fire coming down on them, they nodded grimly. He glanced up and down the line one more time to make sure all was well, then raised his sword.
“Now!” he yelled.
With a ruthless and hearty yell, his men dashed upwards, clambering up the parapet. Forrest led the way, his men behind him. His expectations of an easy victory appeared to be confirmed when he saw the black soldiers turn and flee, leaving the top of the parapet virtually clear of enemy troops. A few of his men fell victim to the light fire they encountered, but not nearly enough to slow down the attack. Within seconds, he had scaled the parapet and dropped down inside the fort itself.
It was a trap.
Because of the height of the ramparts, Forrest had been unable to see the interior of the fort from outside of it. But now he saw a large inner space crowded with blue-coated black soldiers, numbering far more than he had expected and huddled in a long trench. Instantly, Forrest realized the danger into which he and his men had been led. Fort Granger was not held by a single small regiment, but by an entire brigade. There were more Union soldiers inside the fort than there were Confederate attackers. Worse still, the guns which had previously been withdrawn from the walls to escape the attention of his sharpshooters had been repositioned along the trench in the fort’s courtyard, their muzzles now aimed squarely at the parapet near where he and his men were standing.
There was Major Easton standing behind the trench, a satisfied smile on his face. For just a moment, his eyes and Forrest’s met. Easton had gotten the better of the Wizard of the Saddle, knew it, and relished it. For the first time in his life, Nathan Bedford Forrest knew fear.
“Fire!” Easton shouted.
The muskets of the black troops and the six artillery pieces opened fire simultaneously. A sheet of lead musket balls and canister fire tore into Forrest’s exposed men just inside the parapet. Like a scythe running through a clump of dry grass, the Union fire cut down the Southerners in droves. Some of Forrest’s men raised their weapons and fired back, but the black troops were protected by their trench while they themselves had no shelter on the inside of the parapet.
The soldiers on both sides of Forrest were instantly hit, but he himself remained unscathed. Though he was momentarily staggered by the dramatic turn of events, he recovered quickly. He could either order an immediate retreat or press on with the attack. Forrest would never retreat. He knew that he needed to get his men off of the parapet, for to remain there was certain death. He shouted over the din of federal fire for his men to charge forward toward the enemy trench. He then turned and shouted back to the men still outside the fort to bring everyone inside as quickly as possible.
It was a risk, Forrest knew. His men had now suffered grievous casualties and the psychological shock of falling into the enemy trap had badly shaken their morale. All could be made right, however, if his men could close the gap with their foes and engage them in hand-to-hand combat.
Forrest’s men jumped down from the parapet and ran forward toward the trench, some pulling out bowie knives as they did so. The black Union troops were continuing to pour fire into them and Confederate soldiers fell with every step. It was a shaky and disjointed attack. Forrest could see instantly that the assault had lost its energy and momentum, yet he had no choice but to continue. To acknowledge defeat and withdraw was unthinkable.
Shaky or not, the interior of the fort was a small space and the Confederate troops closed the distance to their foes within a matter of seconds. Some dropped down into the trench and began hacking away with their knives, employing their bayoneted carbines as spears, or simply using their fists. The black Union troops did not flinch for an instant and gave as good as they got. A brutal hand-to-hand battle now raged inside Fort Granger, with the sound of fists punching faces, blades slashing flesh and the occasional gunshot whenever anyone had a chance to reload.
Forrest, watching the course of the fight from the parapet, shook his head. He was playing the enemy’s game, for there were far more Union troops within the fort than Confederate troops. He and his men had been lured to Franklin lik
e a mouse being lured to a piece of cheese. That was why all the other potential targets on the rail line between Nashville and Chattanooga had been strongly reinforced but Franklin had not. He was furious with himself. He had made a major error and the price he would pay would be the destruction of his command.
Over the sound of the fighting, Forrest began to hear a call going up from the black regiments. He was uncertain at first what they were saying, but after a few repetitions it became clear.
“Fort Pillow!” they were yelling. “Fort Pillow!”
At first, Forrest thought the cries were ones of fear and that the black troops were frightened that what had happened to their comrades at Fort Pillow was about to happen to them. But listening more carefully, Forrest began to hear another word being shouted in the chant.
“Fort Pillow! Revenge! Fort Pillow! Revenge!”
He jumped down from the parapet and ran forward, brandishing his sword. He fired his Colt revolver until its ammunition was exhausted, then cast it aside as he would not have the chance to reload it again until the fight was over. He wanted specifically to find Major Easton and put him to the sword, but he did not see him.
As he moved forward toward the hand-to-hand battle raging in the trench, Forrest suddenly found his way blocked by a black soldier who glared at him with a ferocious hatred. He was not all that large in comparison to Forrest, but he carried himself with a confident strength that Forrest found disconcerting. He carried a Springfield musket with a bayonet fixed on its end.
“Forrest!” the man bellowed. It was a challenge.
He didn’t deign to respond. Speaking to the man, who by rights should have been working as a plantation slave, would have required Forrest to grant the man some manner of respect, which Forrest was not about to do. He was determined, however, to kill him.
Forrest charged toward the man, slashing down at him with his saber and shrieking like a banshee. But the black soldier raised his musket, holding the butt with one hand and the barrel with the other, blocking the sword. With a dexterity that surprised Forrest, he then swung the butt of his heavy weapon against the left side of Forrest’s head. Pain screamed through his skull from the blow, which would have easily knocked a weaker man unconscious. Forrest staggered backward a few steps, blinked and shook his head to clear it, then came forward again.
With the chaos of the battle swirling around them, Forrest and his opponent fought their own duel. Forrest repeatedly slashed with his sword, but found his attacks blocked by the man’s musket. The black soldier thrust back at Forrest with his bayonet, but as he did so Forrest let go off his saber and clasped the barrel of the musket as tightly as he could, attempting to wrest it out of his hands. Jerking the rifle off to the right, Forrest smashed his head forcefully into the nose of the black soldier, then threw him with such force that the man lost his grip on his weapon and was hurled down onto the ground.
Now wielding the man’s own musket and bayonet, Forrest shrieked once again and attempted to run him through. He had been more than enough trouble. The soldier rolled out of the way and Forrest only planted the bayonet into the dirt floor of the fort. A second later, the man was back on his feet, smashing his fist into Forrest’s face with such speed and force that several of Forrest’s teeth were knocked loose and he immediately tasted his own blood. The man pummeled Forrest’s face twice more, then raised his knee into Forrest’s chest when he involuntarily hunched over in pain, striking with the force of a sledgehammer.
Forrest staggered and fell over, unable to continue resisting. The man rained down blow after blow, beating him in the head and chest. He retrieved his musket from the ground but, rather than run Forrest through with the bayonet, simply used it as a club to continue the beatings. Each blow felt to Forrest like it was being delivered by a giant. He didn’t understand how a man of such average size was capable of such immense feats of physical strength.
Forrest felt his vision beginning to go black and his sense of balance going askew. He realized that he was losing his grip on consciousness. He tried to force himself to regain his senses, but his body refused to obey his mind. He now distantly felt the man’s arms grip him from behind in a bear hug of tremendous strength, pinning his arms tightly to his sides and lifting him off the ground as if he were no more than a doll. Eventually, he felt himself thrown roughly down onto the ground against one of the fort’s walls.
For a few minutes, Forrest was in a daze. As his mind began to clear, he sensed the pain caused by the terrible beating he had received. Several of his teeth were gone, his head throbbed so much he thought it would explode like a cannon shell. The slightest movement of either his left arm or his right leg caused so much pain that they had to be broken. With great difficulty, he opened his eyes.
Surrounding him were dozens of black Union soldiers.
They stood in silence, looking down at Forrest as a crowd might look down at an animal in a zoo. Forrest glanced around for any signs of his men, but there were none. The sounds of battle were long gone. Forrest figured his men had been defeated and had either retreated out of the fort or had all been killed or captured. That fact was almost as painful as the shattered bones in his arm and leg and the throbbing pain in his head.
Standing in the center of the rough semi-circle was the man who had defeated Forrest in hand-to-hand combat. The stripes on his uniform revealed him to be a sergeant and it was clear that the other soldiers regarded him as some sort of leader.
“Get rope,” the sergeant said with a frightening bluntness.
“I am a general!” Forrest roared with anger.
“You are a criminal and a murderer,” the sergeant replied, in a voice that surprised Forrest with its articulateness.
Forrest glanced around for Major Easton, no longer in search of revenge but rather in search of protection. In the distance, behind the line of threatening black troops, he could see what looked like a group of white Union officers, but they appeared to be processing Confederate prisoners and taking no interest in what was happening with him. Easton was among them.
“Major Easton!” Forrest shouted angrily. “I am entitled to the rights of a prisoner of war!”
“Did you respect such rights when you and your men captured Fort Pillow?” the sergeant asked impassively.
“Be silent, you negro bastard!” Forrest spat. He felt humiliated at having been goaded into speaking to the man.
Major Easton strolled over to Forrest, the sergeant, and the cluster of increasingly restive black troops. “What’s going on here, Sergeant Bayard?”
“Nothing at all, sir,” the sergeant said with an expressionless face.
“Your negroes say that they will hang me, Major! I am a major general in the Confederate Army and I expect to be protected.”
Major Easton looked long and hard into Forrest’s eyes. Then, he turned back to Sergeant Bayard.
“You say that nothing at all is going on here, Sergeant?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“Very well, then. Carry on.” With that, he turned and walked back to the line of Confederate prisoners.
“Major Easton!” Forrest shouted in angry protest. “Damn you, Yankee bastard! I hope you rot in hell!”
“You’re the one who’s going to rot in hell, Forrest,” Bayard said.
They had dangled a rope from an iron pole designed to hold torches during the night. One man was busy tying its end into a noose, while two other soldiers walked forward and grabbed Forrest roughly by the shoulders. He tried to struggle, but his shattered bones prevented any resistance.
The man Easton had referred to as Sergeant Bayard looked at him impassively.
“It’s Judgment Day, Forrest. I’m supposed to ask God to have mercy on your soul. I rather doubt He will.”
The noose was wrapped around his neck. Forrest’s heart pounded in his chest, terror filling every nerve in his body. He had cheated death so many times, but there would be no escape from this.
Two strong
Union soldiers heaved on the rope from the other side of the pole. Forrest felt it snap tightly around his neck and jerk him violently off the ground. Instantly, his oxygen was cut off. He tried to reach up to grasp the rope with his hands, but to no avail. His feet jerked about uncontrollably.
The black soldiers gathered in an immense semi-circle around him did not gloat or cheer. They simply stood silently and still, watching the life fade from their tormentor’s body. Forrest twitched and turned for several minutes, until his oxygen-starved brain gradually ceased functioning. Then, it was all over.
Chapter Twelve
August 27, Evening
Though he would never have admitted it, Grant was tired. It was never easy to get much sleep while traveling by rail. The few snippets he had managed to snatch during the long journey from Washington to Louisville and on down to Nashville had not been nearly enough. The hurried meetings he had held with General Meade and other officers before departing Petersburg, and the day he had spent closeted with Lincoln and Stanton at the White House before heading west, had only added to his fatigue. When he had finally arrived in Nashville shortly after dawn, he had quickly gone to his room at the St. Cloud Hotel and slept for two hours in order to have sufficient energy for the day ahead of him.
He had been delighted to learn of the death of Nathan Bedford Forrest while passing through Louisville. One of his earliest attempts to capture Vicksburg had been frustrated when rebel raiders, Forrest among them, had torn his supply lines to pieces. Now that Forrest was in his grave, he could be confident of going forth into Georgia with a secure railroad. More importantly, the strong infantry forces which had been deployed guarding the railroads could now be brought to the front and replaced by hundred-day men from Ohio and Illinois. It was an auspicious beginning for his return to the West.
Having awoken and spent ten minutes freshening up, he had gone downstairs and found a hearty breakfast of coffee, bacon, biscuits and gravy already prepared for him. He hoped that he would enjoy the meal, because the conversation that would accompany it was sure to be unpleasant.
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