FORT PILLOW

“That's my price, all right. “ The Negro's voice held a certain pride, too-it was a good price, a damn good price. Then the man did a double take and stared at Bedford Forrest. “How you remember? How many niggers you done sold since I go through there six, seven years ago?”

“Selling niggers is my business,” Forrest said. “I better remember – I'm in trouble if I don't. I wouldn't have got such a good price for you if you didn't have good teeth-I remember that, too. They still sound?”

“Sure enough are, suh.” The colored soldier's eyes got wider yet. “Do Jesus! You mus' be some kind o' hoodoo man, you call to mind a thing like that.”

“Not me.” Bedford Forrest's smile was half reminiscent and, again, half predatory. “Like I say, I've got to remember those things. When I came to Memphis, I didn't have fifty cents in my pockets. When the war started, though, I don't know if I was the richest man there, but hell with me if I can name four who were richer. And I got that way buying and selling niggers. What do you do when you're not trying to murder your masters?”

“I's a carpenter, sub,” the black man said. By the way he said it, he was a good carpenter, too, someone who took pains with his work.

That suited Forrest fine. “All right, then,” he said. “You'll know when to use oak and when to use pine, when to use nails and when to cut mortises and tenons, what kind of shellac to use, how to match grains-all those kinds of things. That's your business, so sure you know. Well, niggers are my business.”

In spite of himself, a certain sour edge touched his voice. No matter how rich he'd grown in Memphis, some people looked down their noses at him because he was a slave trader. That didn't keep them from buying and selling with him. Oh, no. He was useful. But he wasn't welcome in some homes no matter how much money he made. Hell with' em, he thought. He'd grown up on a hardscrabble farm, and lost his father while he was still young. He'd had to be the man in his large family himself then, and he'd damn well done it. If the men who owned slaves didn't care for the men who sold them, what did that prove? Only that they were fools. It was like despising the butcher while you ate his beefsteaks.

“Your sojers damn near kill me,” the Negro said.

“That's what you get for tryin' to fight white men,” Forrest retorted. “No, suh. I knows about fightin',” the colored artilleryman said.

“They killin' lots 0' Federals tryin' to give up. Onliest reason I didn't get shot is, trooper who catched me didn't have no bullet in his gun. I was tryin' to surrender, honest to God I was.”

“Too bad.” Bedford Forrest's voice went cold and hard. “I told Major Booth I could take that stupid fort. I told him he'd pay the price if he didn't give up. He wouldn't listen. Now he is paying the price, and so are you.”

“He done paid it, sub. Major Booth, he dead-he got kilt this mornin', 'fo' noon.”

“Oh, really?” Forrest heard the surprise that got into his voice in spite of himself. The Negro nodded solemnly. “Then who led the garrison there?” the Confederate commander asked.

“Major Bradford, he been in charge o' things ever since Major Booth die.”

“Bradford? That miserable little son of a bitch?” Forrest growled; the head of the Thirteenth Tennessee Cavalry (US.) was not one of his favorite people, to put it mildly. The colored soldier nodded again. Forrest aimed a scarred forefinger at him like a pistol barrel. “You say Booth's been dead since before twelve o'clock?”

“Two-three hours 'fo' that, suh. Cross my heart an' hope to die.”

The Negro matched action to word.

“When we had the truce this afternoon before my men stormed the fort, every single note-every one-the Federals sent out to me had Booth's name on it,” Forrest said.

With a shrug, the black man answered, “I don't know nothin' 'bout that, suh. I's jus' powerful glad to be alive.”

“And you'll stay alive,” Forrest promised. “You told me something I didn't know-something I needed to know, by God. I wish I would've known it sooner, that's all.” He stabbed out his index finger again. “What's your name?”

“I's Hiram Lumpkin, suh.”

Bedford Forrest laughed. “To hell with me if I know how I ever forgot that.” He raised his voice to a shout: “Guards! This here nigger, this Hiram Lumpkin”-he spoke the name with enormous relish-”he just did me a favor. Y' all make sure you treat him good. I hear anything happened to him, it'll happen to you, too, only worse. You got that?”

“Yes, sir!” the Confederates chorused. Union troops didn't faze them. Their own fierce leader? That was a different story.

The Negro in blue saluted as if Forrest were one of his own officers. “Thank you kindly, suh. This here nigger, he right grateful.”