For the first time since Theodorick fell, he began to hope. He might get away. He might yet live to avenge his brother. As quickly and quietly as he could, he headed away from the bluff and out toward Gideon Pillow's long-abandoned first perimeter.
Corporal Jack Jenkins hated everything and everybody. He'd always hated homemade Yankees and runaway slaves who thought they were soldiers. He'd fed the fires of that hatred today, fed them and slaked them at the same time. He didn't know how many men he'd killed in the fight for Fort Pillow. He did know the number wasn't small.
And he knew one more man he wouldn't mind killing: Lieutenant Newsom Pennell, the miserable, no-good son of a bitch who'd exiled him here. Napoleon on whatever the name of his island was couldn't have been in a more miserable, more godforsaken spot. Did Napoleon have to worry about muddy boots and owls hooting like mournful ghosts in the tall trees? Jenkins didn't think so.
He wanted to wander off and see if that other sentry had some more popskull in his canteen. And he wanted to curl up right where he was and go to sleep. Only one thing held him back: animal fear of Nathan Bedford Forrest. If he broke regulations and something bad happened and Forrest found out about it… He shuddered. He didn't want to think about that.
And so he held his ground, certain he was holding it needlessly. Who would come out of the dark from the torch-lit bluff by the river? His own forces had a road, or at least a path, they were using, and it took them nowhere near him. That was all right. He didn't much want to see anybody.
As for prisoners, they would have to be lunatics to try to get away. They'd managed to get captured by men who would rather have killed them. Why would they risk that now? If they had any sense, they would be on their knees thanking God for every breath they took.
And then, just when a yawn stretched and wriggled and looked around to see if it was safe to come out, he heard soft, quick footsteps coming his way. His hands tightened on his rifle musket. So somebody was trying to sneak by after all, was he? I'll fix the bastard! Jenkins thought.
There he was in the moonlight-some skulking shitheel with his hat pulled down low. “Halt!” Jenkins called. “Who goes there?”
The footsteps stopped. The man looked wildly this way and that, trying to see where the voice was coming from. He couldn't; Jenkins stood in deep shadow. The corporal wondered if he would have some more shooting to do after all. If that fellow started to run, he'd never make another mistake afterwards.
He must have realized the same thing because he stayed where he was. “My name's, uh, Virgil Simms,” he said shakily. “I was a sutler at the fort. They said I could go, so I'm getting out of here before they change their mind. “
“Who's 'they'?” Jenkins demanded.
“One of your officers-I think he was a lieutenant,” the sutler said. “I didn't ask what the devil his name was. I just went.”
“Well, Simms, advance and be recognized.” The automatic military phrases fell naturally from Jack Jenkins's lips.
He heard Virgil Simms's breath catch. Slowly and reluctantly, the other man came forward. He got within about fifteen feet of Jenkins before he stopped and said, “Where are you? I can't see you.”
Jenkins stepped out into the light. The sutler gasped again. Jenkins brandished his rifle musket, enjoying the way the cold, pale moonbeams glittered off the bayonet's polished steel. By the way Virgil Simms gulped, he didn't enjoy it one bit. “You can see me now, by God,” Jenkins said. “Come on over here and let me get a look at you.“
Even when Simms did, Jenkins couldn't see much. The brim of the sutler's slouch had shadowed his face. His clothes didn't fit him very well, but Jenkins's clothes didn't fit him very well, either. His nose wrinkled; Simms was long overdue for a bath.
“Wonder if I ought to take you back to that lieutenant,” Jenkins said musingly.
“Whatever you want to do.” The sutler didn't sound very happy. Then again, Jenkins wouldn't have been happy hearing that, either. After a moment, Simms went on, “Long way back in the dark. I almost broke my neck a couple times getting this far. “
“Yeah.” Jenkins had tripped and almost fallen two or three times coming out to take his sentry's post. He didn't really want to go back to Fort Pillow again. He'd just thrown out the words to see if he could rattle Virgil Simms's cage. “Hell with it,” he muttered, and then spoke louder: “All right, pass on. Reckon you won't be dumb enough to go on selling shit to the goddamn Federals from here on out.”
“Not me.” Simms held up his right hand as if taking an oath. “I have plumb learned my lesson.”
Jenkins gestured with his rifle musket. “Get the hell out of here, then.”
The sutler touched a finger to the brim of his hat. He walked out past the old perimeter to Fort Pillow, and hadn't gone more than a few paces before a cloud passed in front of the moon. Darkness swooped down on the world. By the time the moon came out again, Simms had disappeared into the woods beyond the fort. Jenkins ducked back into his shadow and waited to see if anyone else would come along.
“What time is it getting to be?” Nathan Bedford Forrest asked.
Captain Anderson pulled out his pocket watch. “Sir, it's getting close to eight,” he said.
“Thanks. That's about what I reckoned from the moon,” Forrest said. “Where in blazes is that damned Major Bradford, then? How long does he need to bury his blasted brother?”
“His brother was blasted, by God,” Black Bob McCulloch said. Pausing to scratch at his thick, dark beard, the brigade commander went on, “Captain Bradford, whatever the hell his name was-”
“Theodorick,” Anderson said helpfully.
“I knew he had some kind of damnfool handle,” McCulloch said.
“His brother the major had him signaling down to the New Era. When we broke into the fort, Theo-whatever took three or four minnies all at once. He died quick, anyway.”
“And he's getting buried slow,” Forrest growled. “Either Bill Bradford's taking his own sweet time or he's gone and flown the coop on us.“
“If he has, we better not catch him again.” McCulloch tilted back his head and slashed a thumb across his throat.
“Well, we won't find out standing around gabbing about it. Let's go look.” Forrest drummed the fingers of his left hand against his thigh. “I felt sorry for the man, even if he is a Tennessee Tory, on account of I know what he's goin' through. But if he went and took advantage of me after that…” Those fingers drummed some more, ominously.
“And of me,” Colonel Robert McCulloch added. “I'm the man who's holding his parole. If he ran off…” His big hands folded into fists.
“Come on,” Forrest said. “His precious Theo was laying over here somewheres. “
He didn't need much prowling before he found a freshly dug grave. Next to it, he found a cavalry trooper sound asleep-or rather drunk and passed out, for he stank of whiskey. There was no sign of Major William Bradford. Forrest started to kick the trooper right where it would do the most good. Before he could bring his booted foot forward, Captain Anderson said, “What do you want to bet Bradford fed him all the tanglefoot he could hold, and a little more besides?”
Forrest left the kick undelivered. “I bet you're right, dammit. Hell, of course you are,” he said, angry at himself now. “We knew all along he was a sneaky son of a bitch. We should have watched him closer. Easy enough for him to make one private act the fool and then take off.” He drank whiskey himself only rarely, for medicinal purposes; he knew what it did to a man who liked it too well.
Colonel McCulloch bent down and shook the trooper. “Come on, Ward! Wake up!” he said.
The cavalryman- Ward-muttered and stirred. Slowly, his eyes came open. “Wahsh up?” he asked blearily.