Sooner or later, I have to come out 0/ the bottoms… don't I? he thought. When he did, he would surely find a farmhouse. And then, depending on whether the farmer backed the U.S.A. or the C.S.A., he would borrow a horse or talk his way into using one or simply steal one, whichever looked like the best idea.
And then, Memphis. Once he got there, Bedford Forrest's friends would find out they weren't the only ones who could strike by surprise at dawn. “Oh, yes,” Major Bradford muttered. “They'll find out, all right.”
When the distant thunder of guns woke Mack Leaming, his first reaction was astonishment that he'd been able to sleep at all. He'd thought the pain from his wound would keep him up all night. His second reaction was a groan as that pain, of which he'd been blissfully unaware since whenever he dozed off, flooded back into his consciousness. Did it hurt any less than it had before he fell asleep? Maybe a little, he decided, but maybe not, too. It was still plenty bad.
All around him, other wounded Union soldiers were coming back to themselves with almost identical groans. No one had done anything for any of them all through the night. The only mercy the Rebels showed was not bursting into this miserable hut and murdering them while they slept.
The guns sounded again, closer this time. “What the hell's going on?” somebody said. “Who's shooting at what?”
“Have men marched up from Memphis to chase the Rebs away?” someone else asked.
“Why couldn't they show up yesterday, God darnn their rotten souls to hell?” another wounded soldier said.
“It's not men marching-it's a gunboat, dog my cats if it ain't,” another man said.
As soon as Leaming heard that, he knew it had to be so. “I love gunboat sailors,” he said bitterly. “They sail away when we need 'em the most, but then they come back again after the fighting's done. They're heroes, all right, every darnn one of 'em.”
That touched off some vigorous and profane swearing from his fellow sufferers. The guns on the river boomed again. Yes, they were definitely closer this time. “You reckon that's the New Era comin' back?” somebody asked. “Even though I got me a hole in my leg, there's a few things I'd like to say to the high and mighty skipper who sailed off and left us in the lurch.”
More obscenities fouled the early morning air. By all the signs, quite a few men had some things they wanted to tell Captain Marshall if they ever made his acquaintance. Lieutenant Leaming had several thoughts of his own he wanted to share with the New Era's commanding officer.
But another man said, “This here boat sounds like it's coming up from Memphis. The New Era steamed north, off toward Cairo”-like anyone from those parts, he pronounced it Kayro-” and places like that.”
A rifle musket near the Mississippi banged, and then another one. A minute later, the gunboat's cannon responded. “Can't be yesterday's gunboat,” a soldier said. “They're shooting at it, and it's got the gumption to shoot back.”
Several wounded men swore again. Mack Leaming was not behindhand-far from it. Some of the shells the gunboat fired burst not far from the hut. “I hope they blow the damn Rebs to hell and gone,” Leaming said.
As if in response, a Confederate outside yelled, “Come on, boys! Don't just stand there! If we have to pull back, to hell with me if I want the damnyankees to be able to get their hands on one single thing they can use. Burn these buildings, by God! We'll fix this place the way the Lord fixed Sodom and Gomorrah! “
That roused the men inside the hut. “Hold on!” they shouted. “Hold on! There's wounded in here! Let us come out before you fire this place! “
“Devil take your wounded!” the Reb answered. “We have to get rid of this here place right now. Lou! Daniel! Come on! Get moving!”
Somebody with a torch applied it to the corner of the hut. Mack Leaming watched and listened with fearful fascination. He could hear flames crackle, and then he could see them. Terror sent ice along his spine. But ice was not what he would feel. Getting shot was bad enough. Getting roasted in the flames had to be ten, a hundred, a thousand times worse.
Men who could limp or crawl made for the doorway as fast as they could go-which mostly wasn't very fast. The more badly wounded men cried out: “Take me with you!” “Don't leave me here to cook!” Leaming added his voice to the chorus. He shouted as loud as he could, and wished he were louder.
“Here you go, sir. I'll give you a hand,” a wounded Federal said. He had one hand to give, for his wound was in the left arm. He grabbed Leaming by the collar of his tunic and yanked hard. Leaming groaned-any motion tore at the track the bullet had drilled through him. “Sorry,” the other soldier said.
“It's all right,” Leaming got out through clenched teeth. It wasn't all right, or anything close to all right. But it was infinitely better than lying there while those vicious orange flames crept closer and closer. Anything, anything at all, was better than that.
The other wounded man dragged him about ten feet out of the barracks hut, then let go of him. “Here you are, sir,” he panted.
“God bless you,” Leaming said. The right side of his back was in torment, but it would ease. The fire would have given him no relief, no mercy. The man with the injured arm went back into the hut and brought out another wounded soldier who could not move on his own. The hut was burning hard by then, but Leaming didn't think anyone got left behind in it.
Several Confederate soldiers and one officer stood around watching the Federals, but none of them did anything to help. The sun beat down on Leaming's head; it would be a warmer day than the one before. Some of the Confederates had canteens on their belts or slung over their shoulders. He didn't bother asking them for water, though-he knew how poor his chances of getting any were.
A wounded Negro lay not far away. He must have spent the night in the open; as far as Leaming knew, all the men in the hut had been white. One of Forrest's troopers walked over to him and said, “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Suh, I wants to get on the gunboat if she stop,” the colored man answered. “Reckon they got a surgeon on bo'd kin cut this minnie out o' me.” He pointed to his crudely bandaged calf.
“You want to fight us again, do you?” the Secesh soldier said. “Damn you, I'll teach you!” He brought up his rifle musket and shot the Negro in the chest from a range of no more than a couple of feet. The black man groaned and died inside of a minute or two.
Another black man-he didn't seem badly hurt-stood not far away. Were Mack Leaming in his shoes (not that he was wearing any), he would have got out of there as fast as he could. The Confederates were still shooting wounded Negroes-and the occasional wounded white, too. Maybe this colored artilleryman didn't think they would do anything like that while the gunboat-it was number twenty-eight, the Silver Cloud-drew near.
If he didn't, he made a dreadful mistake. The Reb who'd shot the Negro on the ground by Leaming reloaded his rifle musket with a veteran's practiced haste. He hardly even needed to watch what he was doing; his hands knew with no help from his eyes.
Only after the man set a percussion cap on the nipple did the colored soldier seem to awaken to his danger. By then, it was too late for the black to run off. Forrest's trooper would have had no trouble hitting him before he got out of range. Instead of running, he begged for his life: “Please don't shoot me, suh! I ain't done nothin' to you. Honest to God I ain't!”
“You were up in the damn fort, weren't you?” the Confederate replied, taking deliberate aim at the black man's head. “You were shooting one of them goddamn cannon, weren't you?”
“No, suh, not me! Do Jesus, not me!” the Negro said, voice high and shrill, his eyes showing white all around the iris. “I never had nothin' to do with no cannon! Never!”