“You lying sack of shit,” the Reb said. “Hell, even if you didn't, you still had a gun in your hands. For all I know, one of my pals is dead on account of you. So you can go to hell along with this other coon here.”
He pulled the trigger. The hammer fell-with a loud click and nothing more. The colored artilleryman, who'd seemed on the point of fainting from terror, let out a joyous cry. “You see? You see? God don't mean fo' you to take my life. God don't want you to take my life!”
“Fuck you, boy,” Forrest's trooper said. He thumbed up the hammer and reseated the cap on the nipple. “Didn't have it quite square there.” He raised the rifle musket again. “Now I reckon we'll find out what God wants and what He don't.”
He fired again. The Mini? ball hit the Negro just above the left eye. The man couldn't even scream. The only good thing was, he didn't suffer, not with the back of his head blown out. He hardly even twitched after he fell.
The Confederate spat. “Don't look like God cared much about one worthless nigger after all, does it?”
Leaming had seen too many horrors over the past day. He was numb to them, if not to the pain of his own wound. Fear of retaliation wasn't what kept him from saying anything to Forrest's trooper. What were two more killings among so many? And the officer who stood there and watched his man shoot a pair of wounded, defenseless men? He said not a word, either.
Bedford Forrest hadn't ridden far from Fort Pillow after despoiling the place. The fall he'd taken left him stiff and sore. He camped about five miles from the fort, and passed an uncomfortable, restless night. When he woke before sunup the next morning, he pulled up his shirt and got a good look at himself by the light of a guttering lamp.
“By God!” he muttered. “I'm all over black and blue. Lucky I didn't break anything-mighty lucky.”
As long as he was up, he didn't see any reason why his aides shouldn't be up as well. He limped over to Captain Anderson's tent and shook him awake. “What the-?” Anderson said, and then, recognizing Forrest, “Oh. Good morning, sir.”
“I've got a job for you, Captain,” Forrest said.
“At your service.” Yawning, Anderson emerged from the blanket in which he'd wrapped himself like a gray-uniformed butterfly coming out of its cocoon. He started pulling on his boots; like Forrest, he'd slept in the rest of his uniform. “What can I do for you?”
“I want you to ride back to Fort Pillow,” Forrest said. “Chances are there'll be Yankee gunboats nosing around. Show a flag of truce and tell' em they're welcome to take on all the wounded Federals they can hold.” He chuckled. “Long as they're doing it, we don't have to.”
“I understand, sir.” Captain Anderson took a hardtack from his haversack and started gnawing on it. If he went back to the fort, he wouldn't have much chance for any better breakfast. With his mouth full, he asked, “Do you want me to go by my lonesome, or shall I bring a couple of other officers along?”
“Oh, fetch your sideboys, by all means,” Forrest said indulgently. “Don't want the Federals to reckon we can't afford to send but the one man… Will you do one more thing for me?”
“Whatever you need, General.” Charles Anderson knew the only right answer an aide-de-camp could give to that question.
“General Chalmers is camped a couple-three miles in back of us. Would you be kind enough to stop at his tent and tell him I reckon he did a might fine job yesterday?” Nathan Bedford Forrest sighed. If he was going to bury the hatchet with his division commander, he had to show he appreciated Chalmers's work. He wouldn't lie to do it, but, fortunately, he didn't have to here.
“I'd be happy to, sir,” Charles Anderson said. “Isn't Captain Young back at General Chalmers's encampment?”
“Who?” For a moment, the name meant nothing to Forrest, who was thinking of his own officers. Then he remembered the parley of the day before. “Oh, the Federal from Missouri who knew me. Yes, I do believe he is. You want to take him along to Fort Pillow with you?”
“If you don't mind, sir. He seemed to be a pretty sharp fellow, and having somebody like that along may help me dicker with the Yankees in the gunboat.”
“It's all right by me, Captain. If he gives his parole not to fight us till he's exchanged, you can let him go, too. I reckon he'll keep his word-not like that Bradford son of a bitch.” Forrest's mouth twisted. The way the enemy officer had escaped left him steaming.
“I'll see to it, then.” Anderson stuffed the rest of the hardtack into his mouth and left his tent chewing with determination.
Having a little more time on his own hands, Forrest breakfasted on skillygallee: hardtack pounded to crumbs, softened in water, and fried in bacon grease. Washed down with coffee brewed from beans captured at Fort Pillow, it made a tolerable meal. His belly was in no doubt that he'd eaten something, anyhow.
Inside of fifteen minutes, Captain Anderson and three junior officers rode off toward the northwest. Not long after that, Forrest heard the distant thud of a cannon's discharge. He nodded to himself. “Might have known,” he said; as usual, the first word came out mought. Of course the Federals would be shelling Fort Pillow. It was too late to do them any good, but not too late to salve their pride.
He shrugged. They could have all the pride they wanted. He'd taken the fort. The Thirteenth Tennessee Cavalry (U.S.) wouldn't harry west Tennessee any more. It would be a while before the Sixth Tennessee Cavalry (U.S.) stuck its head out of Memphis, too. As usual, he'd done what needed doing.
XVI
Sergeant Ben Robinson lay on the ground watching the gunboat steam up the Mississippi toward Fort Pillow. Every so often, the gunboat's cannon would boom, and a shell would come down somewhere near the Confederates posted in and near the fort. Some of the Rebs fired back at the ship. It ignored them and kept on thundering away. Robinson's mouth twisted with a pain that had nothing to do with his wounded leg. If only the New Era showed that kind of spirit the day before!
Of course, far fewer Confederate soldiers were firing at this ship than had aimed at the New Era. That made a difference. But the New Era really could have done the garrison in Fort Pillow some good. This gunboat could cannonade from now till doomsday without retaking the place. Too late for that now.
Too late for most of the garrison, too. Not sated by the slaughter the afternoon before, the Confederate pickets were still killing wounded Federals, mostly Negroes. Whenever Rebs came close, Robinson played dead and prayed as hard as he could. He didn't know which worked better, but they hadn't murdered him yet.
The bombardment and the occasional return fire from the river bank had gone on for a couple of hours when one of the Confederates said, “Here comes an officer with a flag of truce!”
Hearing that, Robinson turned his head. Sure enough, a Confederate officer waving a white flag rode toward the Mississippi at a trot. Ben didn't believe he was one of the Rebs who'd parleyed the day before. With him came three other C.S. officers-and Captain Young, the provost marshal at Fort Pillow.
“Ahoy, the gunboat!” the Confederate shouted, reining in not far from where Ben Robinson lay. The Reb cupped his hands to his mouth to make his voice carry farther. “Ahoy, the Silver Cloud!” That was how Robinson learned the ship's name. He'd seen it painted on her, but seeing letters wasn't the same as reading them, as he knew too well. “Will you parley?” the officer yelled.
After a couple of minutes, the answer came back, thin over the water: “What have you got to say, Reb?”
“I am Captain Anderson, General Forrest's assistant adjutant general,” the Confederate shouted. “I offer you a truce to take off the wounded. I tried to do the same with the New Era yesterday afternoon, but Captain Marshall would not hear me. He sailed away.”