“I ain't got none to give you,” Ben Robinson repeated. If he changed his story now, that would make them angry. No, angrier.
“Ought to shoot the son of a bitch anyways,” Rafe said. “We shoot all the uppity niggers, the rest'll cipher out they better not mess with us.”
“His clothes are pretty good. Let's take what all he's got,” said the other soldier, the tall one. He gestured with his rifle musket. “Lay down, you.”
Robinson obeyed. In truth, he couldn't have stayed on hands and one knee much longer anyhow. The Rebs pulled off his shoes. They both tried them on, and swore when they found out the heavy leather brogans were too big for Rafe and too small for his pal, whose name turned out to be Willie. The Confederates didn't give them back after that. They tossed them aside so other troopers could try them on if they wanted to.
“Skin out of your pants, boy,” Willie said.
“Do Jesus!” Robinson said. “What you want my pants for? They got bullet holes in 'em, an' I been bleedin' all over 'em.” They had his money, the money he'd denied owning.
“Skin out of 'em,” Willie repeated. “Blood washes out in cold water, and even with holes in 'em they're better'n what we're wearin'.”
He wasn't wrong. His own trousers were out at both knees, and inexpertly patched in several other places. Rafe's were worse. One of his trouser legs simply ended halfway between knee and ankle. The other was a tapestry of holes all the way up, including a big one in the seat that displayed his dirty drawers.
Sure the Rebs would kill him if he disobeyed and hoping to live, Ben Robinson undid his belt buckle and slid the pants off. He hissed with pain when he tugged them down over the wound. With the trousers gone, he got his first good look at it. Somebody might have gouged a finger-sized groove in the outside of his thigh. Getting shot was never good, but it could have been a lot worse. I ought to get over this, he thought. It's only a flesh wound.
He wouldn't get better if they shot him again or if they used their bayonets. And they could. Oh, yes. They could.
Rafe went through his pockets. He came out with a handful of greenbacks and some silver. “Ha!” he said triumphantly. “I knew the nigger son of a bitch was lying!” He kicked Robinson in the ribs.
“Ow!” Robinson howled, and wrapped his arms around himself. He was acting, acting for his life. Rafe could have kicked him harder. If he didn't pretend to be hurt, Forrest's trooper might decide to make sure he was.
“Hey,” Willie said. “Half o’ that money's mine.”
“Hell you say,” Rafe told him. “I found it.”
“I was the one that said we ought to halloo the coon up here,”
Willie retorted. “Try finding money in the pockets of niggers who ain't here, you're so damn smart.”
“Ought to be mine,” Rafe whined.
“I ain't askin' for all of it. I ain't greedy like some folks,” Willie said. “But you try and steal from me, I'll beat the living shit out of you, and I'm big enough to do it, too.”
Rafe reluctantly handed over some greenbacks and coins. With a smug nod of thanks, Willie stuck the money in a pocket of his disreputable pants. The Rebs worried about stealing from each other. Neither one of them cared about stealing from a Negro. Sergeant Robinson didn't point that out. The less attention Forrest's troopers paid to him, the less likely they were to shoot him or stick him or knock him over the head.
Confederate soldiers weren't just robbing blacks. They were stealing from white Federals, too, stripping dead and wounded troopers from the Thirteenth Tennessee Cavalry (U.S.). One wounded white man who made a feeble protest got his teeth knocked out with a rifle butt.
Rafe and Willie dragged Robinson toward several bodies lying close together on the ground. Fear rose up in a choking cloud inside him-were they going to finish him off now? But the minnie or bayonet thrust didn't come. They hurried off to see what other loot they could garner.
Ben Robinson lay where they'd left him. As long as he stayed quiet near dead bodies, maybe Forrest's troopers would think he was dead, too, and leave him alone. Then he noticed he was lying next to Major Booth's corpse. The dead commandant stared at him out of dull eyes. Robinson wanted to reach out and close them; that set, unwavering gaze unmanned him. But he couldn't make himself touch the body. He turned his back on it instead.
Secesh soldiers had already stripped Booth's corpse. He wore only undershirt and drawers. Now that Robinson thought back on it, he'd seen a Reb sporting a tunic with a lot of brass buttons on it.
If that sharpshooter's bullet hadn't found the major… Robinson swore softly. Too late to worry about it now. Too late to worry about anything now, except-if God proved kinder than He'd shown himself to be thus far-surviving.
“Surrender? Hell, no, you fucking son of a bitch! You ain't gonna surrender!” a Confederate trooper yelled, and fired at Bill Bradford from no more than fifty feet away. The bullet cracked past the major's head. Bradford turned and ran while the Reb swore. The man who'd led the defense of Fort Pillow didn't know whether he led a charmed life or a cursed one. Every Secesh soldier wanted to shoot him on sight, but so far none of their bullets had bitten.
Not knowing what else to do, he darted into the Mississippi, even though wading out into the river hadn't done his men much good. The water was cold. He waded and floundered and dog-paddled out some fifty yards, then paused, panting and treading water. He could taste the Mississippi mud in his mouth, and prayed it wouldn't be the last thing he ever tasted.
“There he is!” a Reb shouted. “That's Bradford! “
“Blow his head off!” cried another soldier in gray.
An officer pointed out to him. “Come ashore, Bradford, if you know what's good for you! “
“Will you spare me?” Bradford asked. The officer just pointed again, peremptorily. They would surely kill him if he stayed out in the Mississippi. Sobbing from fear and exhaustion, he made his way back toward the riverbank. No sooner had he got to where the water was only waist-deep, though, than the Confederates started shooting at him again. He yelped in fright as bullets flew by and splashed into the water. Again, though, none hit.
The officer who'd ordered him ashore and several others stood around watching the sport. They didn't do a thing to stop it. Sobbing, Bradford dashed up onto the muddy land and started running up the hill. He pulled a soaked handkerchief from his pocket and waved it, again trying to give up. More bullets cracked past him.
At last, he almost ran into a Rebel trooper coming down to the riverside. The Confederate leveled his rifle musket at Bradford's brisket. “Give it up, you Yankee bastard!” he yelled.
“I surrender! Oh, dear, sweet Jesus Christ, I surrender!” Bradford threw his hands in the air as high as they would go. He had never imagined he could be so glad to yield himself.
Then the Reb recognized him. “You!” Now that Forrest's trooper knew the man he'd caught, he looked ready to end Bradford's career on the instant. But he didn't pull the trigger after all. Instead, greed lighting his face, he said, “Turn out your pockets, damn you!”
“I'll do it.” Bradford did, without the least hesitation. Being robbed seemed much better than being killed. “Here you go, friend.” He handed the Confederate more than fifty dripping dollars. If he held back a double eagle… Well, you never could tell when twenty dollars in gold might come in handy.
“I ain't no friend of yours,” his captor said, snatching the bills and coins out of his hands. A nasty smile spread across the Reb's face. “No, I ain't no friend of yours, but I like your money just fine.”
“Take it, then, and welcome,” Bradford said. He could always make more money. He sneezed. The wind on his soaked clothes chilled him to the bone.
Forrest's trooper gestured with the muzzle of his rifle musket. “Up the hill you go, Bradford. I'd shoot you my own self, but I reckon there's others who want you even worse'n I do-starting with the menfolk whose women your damn traitors outraged.”