FORT PILLOW

He got a hardtack and a tin cup of coffee that had to be mostly chicory. It was no worse than what they ate themselves, so he couldn't complain. After that, they herded him along to their encampment outside of Covington. “Got some more prisoners to take up to Brownsville,” one of them explained. “Don't reckon they'll try and run off, though, so we didn't have to jug 'em.”

“I wasn't going anywhere,” Bradford protested.

“Not in a cell, you wasn't,” the Reb said. “But you pulled somethin' funny to get away from Fort Pillow-you must've-so the colonel didn't trust you not to do it again.”

I would have, in a heartbeat, Bradford thought. Aloud, he said,

“That's not fair.”

“Too damn bad,” the trooper said. “You made your bed. Now you can lay in it.”

Lie in it, you ignorant oaf Bill Bradford knew the difference between transitive and intransitive verbs. The Confederate soldier standing in front of him knew something else: he had a pistol, and Bradford damn well didn't. And when the country was torn in two, when Tennessee was torn in two, who had a gun and who didn't mattered a hell of a lot more than the difference between lie and lay.

The other Federal soldiers – there were four or five of them – looked at Bradford in surprise. He feared he knew what kind of surprise it was. You're still alive? they had to be thinking.

Yes, dammit, I'm still alive! He wanted to scream it. But that wouldn't do him any good. He made himself seem meek and mild. The less the Rebs worried about him, the better his chances would be. He had got out of Fort Pillow. If he watched for his moment, he would get out of this, too.

But, because he'd got out of Fort Pillow, his captors here weren't inclined to take him on trust. They let the other prisoners mount and ride without restrictions. After he climbed up on his horse, though, they tied his feet together under the animal and they tied his hands to the reins. They tied them tight, and they used plenty of rope.

“This is cruel,” he said. “What if I do fall off? The horse will trample me or drag me to death.”

“Then don't fall off, you son of a bitch,” one of the Confederates said. “Me, I'd pay five dollars in paper or even a dollar in silver to watch that, I would.”

“Come on-let's get going,” another trooper said. “All this jawin' just wastes our time. “

“How come you're so all-fired eager, Dud?” the first Reb asked.

“Anybody'd reckon you got yourself a lady friend up in Brownsville.” He leered.

“Well, what if I do?” Dud said. “It ain't against the law or nothin'. An' if! get the chance to see her, that'd be right nice.”

“See her?” the other soldier said. “Wouldn't you sooner tup her?” He might have been talking about a ram and a ewe. Most soldiers came off farms. He was probably more used to talking about animals than about men and women.

“Never you mind what I'd sooner,” Dud said. “Let's ride, that's all.”

They rode. The rest of the U.S. prisoners had it easy. They bantered back and forth with Bedford Forrest's troopers, giving as good as they got. Nobody seemed to hold anything against them. They were out of the war now, and they were glad of it. The Rebs seemed willing to let bygones be bygones.

Not with Bill Bradford. The C.S. troopers snarled at him whenever he said something. They didn't want to let him down off his horse to ease himself. “Go ahead and piss your pants,” Dud said. “Serve you right. “

“Aw, let him down,” another soldier said. “Al?' d be right ticked if his saddle got piss stains on it. Can't say I'd blame him, neither.”

And so, for the saddle's sake if not for his own, Bradford was untied and allowed to go between a tree. He wasn't allowed to go alone, though. Dud covered him with a revolver as he unbuttoned his fly. “You try and run and I'll blow it right off you.” The Reb sounded as if he looked forward to it.

After that, relaxing enough to do what he'd come for wasn't easy, but Bradford managed. He gave Dud no excuse to pull the trigger, no matter which part of him the Reb aimed at. When he walked back to the horse, the Rebs tied him on as securely as before.

They rode on through the Hatchie bottom country toward Brownsville. How had Forrest got his men through this ghastly terrain ahead of the news of their coming? By driving them like cattle before him, Bradford supposed. If Forrest wasn't a demon in human shape, a man possessed of superhuman energy and determination, Bradford had never seen anyone who was.

“Boy, this is fun,” Dud said as his horse squelched through mud. The other Rebs laughed. So did a couple of the Federal prisoners. Bill Bradford didn't. He just did more marveling. If the roads were bad now, they would have been worse when Forrest and his men came through, because it was raining then. These miserable, narrow tracks had had a day and a half to dry out since the Confederates swarmed west along them.