“Well?” Duckworth said, and Bradford had all he could do not to burst into startled laughter, for the Rebel colonel's voice seemed much too high and thin to spring from such a stern, forbidding visage. “Who've you got here?”
“Says his name's Peterson, sir. Says he's on furlough from Bragg's army,” Roy answered. “We came across him north of town. Says he was sparking a girl last night, and that's how come he was on the road.” Colonel Duckworth's left eyebrow rose, which only made him look
more formidable. “Tell me another one,” he said.
Roy nodded. “Yes, sir. That's what we thought. He done run off from somebody's army, sure as hell. Don't know whether it's ours or the damnyankees', but somebody's.”
“No doubt.” Duckworth studied Bradford with those January eyes. Bradford looked down at his shoes, as he had at Fort Pillow the night before while talking to the lieutenant who let him leave. It didn't work this time. “Shed the lid,” Duckworth said sharply. “Let me see who the devil you are.”
A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Bradford took off the slouch hat. He looked straight at Colonel Duckworth. If the Confederate officer didn't know him by sight, he still had a chance. But if Duckworth did…
And he did, damn him. He did. That eyebrow jumped again, now in surprise, not sarcasm. His eyes widened slightly. He nodded to himself, as if to say that yes, he really was sure. Then he spoke aloud: “You're Major Bradford, aren't you?”
Behind Bradford, Roy and Hank and the other two Rebs all inhaled on the same startled note. The Federal stood there for a few seconds, wondering if he had any chance to brazen it out. He wished he thought he did. Deciding things would go worse for him-if they could go worse for him-if he tried to lie, he gave a weary nod. “Yes, I'm afraid I am.”
“I heard Fort Pillow fell,” Colonel Duckworth said, and Bradford nodded again. The Reb went on, “So you got out alive, did you? I wouldn't have bet money on that, and there's the Lord's truth.”
“We could take care of it for you real quick, Colonel,” Roy said.
Hank and the other two were quick to add loud, profane agreement.
But Duckworth shook his head. “Can't do it now, not in cold blood-the Federals would raise a stink, and they'd have the right to, dammit. Don't want them murdering our officers if they catch 'em. That's a feud-it isn't war.”
“Well, what shall we do with him, then?” Hank asked.
The commander of the Seventh Tennessee Cavalry (C.S.) frowned, considering. Elisha might have frowned that way while deciding whether to ask God to have the people who'd mocked his baldness torn to pieces by lions or bears. But Colonel Duckworth, though he had worse than lions and bears at his disposal, seemed milder than the Hebrew prophet of days gone by: “We'll send him on up to Brownsville, that's what. We've got some other prisoners going there tomorrow, anyhow. General Chalmers can figure out what happens to him after that. He'll likely send him on to General Forrest. “
“He'll get what he deserves then-hell with me, if he won't.” Hank had what was, in Major Bradford's biased opinion, a truly wicked laugh. Of course, Bradford was less than eager to make Bedford Forrest's acquaintance again.
“Where'll we stash him in the meantime?” Roy asked.
That made Duckworth frown again. “Down the hall here, there's some jail cells,” he said at last. “We better stick him in one of those. Meaning no disrespect, Major-it's for your own good. There's plenty of men on my side who'd turn handsprings to string you up.”
“I'd give my parole,” Bradford said. Duckworth didn't know he'd already broken it once. If he could slip away, he might still make it to Memphis.
But the Confederate cavalry officer shook his head. “Afraid I don't trust you that far. You lied about who you were to my men here. You might do some more lying to get away. Or maybe you already did some more, and that's how you got away from Fort Pillow.” Despite his wild man's beard, William Duckworth was nobody's fool. He nodded to Bradford's captors. “Take him away. Lieutenant Witherspoon will show you where the cells are.”
“Yes, sir,” the troopers chorused. Roy-or possibly Hank-stuck his revolver up against Bradford's backbone. “Get moving, you. “
Out in the hallway, Witherspoon gaped. “You're Major Bradford? Well, I'll be a son of a bitch.”
I wouldn't be surprised, Bradford thought, but he held his tongue.
The jail cell was small and dark and dank. The roof must have leaked, because the mattress on the iron cot was damp. Nobody offered to get Bradford another one. He looked out through the barred window and saw… the far wall. Experiment proved he couldn't shift the bars. Even if he could have, the window was too small to crawl through. So was the one set high in the wall. He tried pushing at the door-gently, so as not to make any noise. No matter how hard he pushed, the padlock wouldn't give. He'd feared it wouldn't; that lock had looked stout.
Damp or not, he sat down on the cot. Here he was, trapped like a rat. Tomorrow, Brownsville. After that, like it or not, another meeting with Nathan Bedford Forrest.
Mack Leaming watched Federal sailors and Confederate troopers work together to take the U.S. wounded aboard the Silver Cloud and the Platte Valley, which had pulled up alongside the gunboat. Now the Rebs seemed to be on their best behavior. When he croaked out yet another request for water, one of them gave him some. As it had before, it worked wonders in making him feel better.
Eventually, his turn came. Two sturdy sailors lifted him. When he groaned, one of them said, “Take it easy, Lieutenant. We'll get you onto the steamer in jig time.”
“Thanks,” he got out. No matter what they told him to do, being moved still hurt like fire. He hoped the wound wouldn't start bleeding again.
The sailor who had hold of his feet said, “Looks like those sorry, raggedy Rebs stole just about everything but your toenails.”
“If they could have got those off, they would have taken them, too,” Leaming answered. Both sailors laughed, but he wasn't joking.
He groaned again when they set him in the rowboat, and again when other sailors on the Platte Valley took hold of him and laid him on the deck. Somebody gave him more water and half a hardtack. Then people seemed to forget about him for a spell.
He dozed a little, only to wake with a start when someone asked, “Where are you hit, Lieutenant?”
“Why do you-?” Leaming stopped. The man crouching by him wore a surgeon's green sash. He had a professional interest in Leaming's wound. “The minnie caught me below the shoulder blade and dug down. It feels as though it stopped in my, ah, rump.”
“I see.” The surgeon looked up toward Fort Pillow. “Were you by any chance standing on the bluff there, and shot from above?”
“Yes, that's what happened,” Leaming said. “Will you cut out the bullet or leave it where it is?”
“If it's where you say, I doubt it's doing you much harm at present,” the other man replied. “Digging it out would give you another wound, with all the risk of suppuration and septicemia attendant on such things. So I will let that sleeping dog lie for the time being, I think. Are you in much pain?”
“Some.” Leaming didn't want to sound like a weakling. But he didn't want to be a martyr, either, so he added, “Maybe a bit more than some.”
“I shouldn't wonder.” The surgeon took a small brown glass bottle out of the wooden chest he carried with him. Drawing the cork with his teeth, he handed Leaming the bottle, saying, “Here-take a swig of this.”