FORT PILLOW

Almost, but not quite. The steamer couldn't approach the bank. The blue-uniformed men she carried couldn't land. The Confederate soldiers moving out to the edge of the Mississippi made sure of that.

Mack Leaming stared bitterly at the troopers in gray and butternut. “They've got no business being there,” he said. “It's as though they're taking advantage of the truce.”

“Should we protest to General Forrest?” But Bill Bradford knew that would be hopeless as soon as the words passed his lips. The Olive Branch was not a participant in the truce. If she were, she wouldn't have been poised to land her troops if opportunity offered. And the Confederates had already seized control of the low ground by the Mississippi-and the ravine in front of the fort on the Coal Creek side, too. Besides, Forrest would just say the Federals could start fighting again if they didn't like what he was up to.

“He wouldn't listen to us,” Leaming said, which only confirmed Bradford's fears. His adjutant went on, “Sir, the clock is ticking. You've got to tell the damn Rebs something. “

“I can't surrender the fort!” Bradford's voice went high and shrill, even though Leaming hadn't come out and suggested that. It was on the major's mind. He didn't see how it could help being on his mind. If he didn't think the garrison could hold the place, didn't he have a duty to the men-and especially to the colored soldiers, who'd fought better than he'd dreamt they could-to yield it and avoid the horrors of a sack?

But he still held hope. Even if the Confederates forced their way inside the earthworks warding Fort Pillow, his men could still drop down to the base of the bluff and keep up the fight there. They had plenty of cartridges waiting for them now, and the New Era could sweep the enemy with canister. The gunboat wouldn't be firing blind there. Her men would be able to see exactly what they were aiming at.

“We can hold,” Bradford said, as if challenging his adjutant to disagree with him.

Lieutenant Leaming didn't-not directly, anyhow. “If we can, sir, you'd better tell Bedford Forrest that we aim to try. And you'd better do it soon, or he'll just up and break off the truce on his own.”

No sooner had the words crossed his lips than a couple of shots rang out in the distance. “What's that?” Major Bradford's voice rose in alarm again.

“Sir, the Rebs just fired warning shots at the steamer,” answered a soldier by the edge of the bluff who could see down to the Mississippi. A moment later, he added, “She's sheering off. Looks like she's going to head on up the river.”

“Damn!” Bradford said feelingly.

“Forrest's men could slaughter the soldiers on her if she tried to land them,” Leaming said. “I got a look at her when I was parleying with the Rebs. The way the men are packed on her deck, they can't answer back, or not hardly.”

“Damn!” Bradford said again. He knew his adjutant was right; he'd looked at the Olive Branch himself. But what a man-even a lawyer-knows to be true and what he wishes were true can often be two very different things. If the steamboat hadn't appeared at all, that would have been bad. To have her appear in what seemed the nick of time, hold out the hope of rescue, and then cruelly yank it away.. that was ten times, a hundred times, worse. A melodrama with such a scene in it would have been hissed off the stage.

And Lieutenant Leaming wouldn't leave him alone. “Sir, the reply to General Forrest? Whatever you say, you'd better say it fast. The time he gave us has to be almost up.”

Bradford didn't like the sound of that. The only ploy he had left was buying a little more time. “Give me a paper and pencil, then,” he told Leaming.

“Yes, sir.” Leaming handed them to him.

The paper was dirty. There was no envelope. Major Bradford had to make do without them. Your demand does not produce the desired effect, he scribbled, and handed the scrap back to Leaming. “There!”

His adjutant read it, frowning because it was none too legible and maybe for other reasons as well. “What does it mean, sir?”

“Exactly what it says,” Bradford snapped. “Now take it out to Bedford Forrest! “

For a wonder, Leaming realized he'd finally pushed too far. With a salute, he said the one thing an adjutant could say that was never wrong: “Yes, sir.”

Jack Jenkins stood by the bank of Coal Creek, watching the Olive Branch steam up the Mississippi. He breathed a silent sigh of relief. If the Yankees tried landing troops nearby, repelling them would have been rugged work. But they didn't have the nerve. He had no idea where the bluebellies on that steamer were going. They could go wherever it was or straight to hell, and welcome. As long as they didn't stop here, everything was fine.

“Look at those egg-sucking yellow dogs show us their backs,” somebody not far away said. “They haven't got the balls to try and stand up against us.”

“Damn good thing, too,” somebody else said. “Ain't we got enough trouble with the sons of bitches in that there fort already?”