FORT PILLOW

“Well done, men!” Colonel Barteau said. In the watery afternoon sunlight, the three stars on either side of his collar glittered. “Our show of force has successfully deterred the enemy.”

“Damn straight,” Jenkins said. “We made sure he didn't land here, too.”

Clark Barteau smiled. Jenkins assumed that was because he'd agreed with the regimental commander. “Now some of you better hustle back up toward the fort,” Barteau said. “If the Federals don't give in, Bedford Forrest'll order the assault, sure as I'm standing here beside you.”

“Some of us, sir? Not all of us?” Jenkins asked.

“No, not all of us, Corporal,” Colonel Barteau answered. “I'll want some men to stay down here by the water. If we start overrunning the enemy position up on the bluff, what do you reckon the enemy there'll do? What would you do in a fix like that?”

“Try and get down by the river, I expect.” Jenkins saw nothing out of the ordinary in a corporal and a colonel discussing tactics. By European standards, both the U.S. Army and the C.S. Army were loose-jointed creatures. The Confederates had less in the way of spit and polish than the Federals did, and Forrest's troopers less than most C.S. outfits. They fought better than most, though, which was all that really mattered. Jenkins added, “That damn gunboat isn't going away, worse luck.” He pointed to a crater in the dirt by Coal Creek that marked where a shell from the New Era had burst.

“Wish it would,” Barteau agreed. “But if it doesn't, I reckon we'll make it sorry. And I think you're right. I think that whole swarm of niggers and Tennessee Tories'll come pelting down to the Mississippi once we get inside their works. And when they do…”

“I see, sir!” Jenkins wasn't a man to admire officers just because they were officers. When they showed they were on the ball, that was a different story. “You thought that through real pretty.”

“Glad you approve,” Barteau said dryly. “If you do see what I mean, perhaps you'll want to stay here.” Quite a few troopers were already moving away from Coal Creek along the ravine to get in position to swarm up the bluff against Fort Pillow.

“Reckon I will. It'll be just like coon-hunting back home.” Jenkins laughed at his joke, even if he'd made it by accident. “Be just like coon-hunting back home.”

Colonel Barteau rewarded him with a thin smile. “All right, Jenkins. Maybe you'll have some coons to hunt. You'd best remember one thing, though.”

“What's that, sir?”

“These coons can fight back.”

“Sir, any coon'll fight back. Bastards are all teeth and claws and mean. A coon dog's a lot bigger'n any coon ever born, but sometimes they'll come out of a hunt lookin' like they been through a meat grinder. Haven't you seen that yourself?”

“More times than I wish I had. I've lost some good dogs that way, who hasn't?-and I've had to doctor plenty more. But I would've had a lot more to worry about if the ordinary kind of coon carried rifle muskets like the ones in there.” Barteau pointed up toward Fort Pillow. “I'll leave doctoring bullet wounds to a real sawbones.”

Jenkins shivered. Sawbones was a name that held too much truth. Too often, amputation gave the only hope of saving a wounded man's life. He clutched his own rifle musket. It is better to give than to receive, he thought.

Ben Robinson stared out toward the Confederate officers gathered under the flag of truce. The rest of the colored soldiers in the gun crew were doing the same thing. Some of the Negroes inside Fort Pillow went on jeering at the ragged, skinny white men in butternut outside. Others grew more serious as the gravity of the situation sank in.

Pointing to one officer in particular, Robinson asked, “You reckon that there fella's really and truly Forrest?”

Sandy Cole nodded gloomily. “Reckon he is,” he said. “Ain't no use to say Forrest ain't here. I knows him too well fo' that. Any place where there's big trouble, Bedford Forrest, he gonna be there.”

“You seen the man yourself? You know his face?” Robinson asked.

“I seen him, all right,” Cole answered. “Ain't I a Tennessee nigger? Any Tennessee nigger ever been sold, chances are he been sold through 01' Bedford Forrest's slave lots in Memphis. Yeah, I seen him.”

“How'd he treat you when you was there?” Having been sold himself, Robinson had a morbid curiosity about such things. No part of slavery was good, not from the slave's point of view. But being in a dealer's hands, being between masters, was worse than most of the rest. A dealer didn't need to worry about you for the long haul. He just wanted to turn you into cash as fast as he could.

But Sandy Cole said, “Coulda been worse. He give us enough to eat-not fancy, but enough. We had mattresses-didn't got to sleep on the ground. He let us wash-now and again, anyways. Weren't too crowded. Yeah, coulda been worse. “