FORT PILLOW

“Go on, then,” Forrest said, and Hiram Lumpkin hurried off into captivity with joyful strides. For his part, Forrest shook his head. “So Booth was dead all along, and Bradford never let on? How about that?” He could see why Bradford kept the senior officer's death a secret. Lionel Booth was a real soldier, and had a pretty good notion of what he was doing. Bradford, on the other hand, was nothing but a lawyer with a loud mouth. Had Forrest known he was in charge at Fort Pillow, he would have pushed the attack harder. Without a doubt, the place would have fallen sooner.

And so Bradford let him think the experienced officer still held command. And it deceived him, too. Bedford Forrest slowly nodded to himself. It cost the Federals in the end. When Forrest demanded a surrender, he was sure Major Booth would have given him one. Booth was no fool. He could see what was what, and he could see the writing on the wall. Bradford pinned his hopes on the New Era-and got them pinned back when she sailed away.

Would Bradford try surrendering now? Or would he have the nerve to fight to the death? Forrest had never heard anything suggesting that he was particularly brave. A slow smile spread over his face. He could hardly wait to find out.

Lieutenant Mack Leaming crouched behind a bush halfway down the bluff from Fort Pillow to the Mississippi. He'd watched men in blue run back and forth along the riverbank, pursued first by one band of Confederate soldiers and then by another. They were getting chewed to pieces down there, and more Confederates at the edge of the bluff only made things worse for them.

Part of Leaming wanted to go down by the river with the rest of the Union troops and share their fate. But he could see too clearly what that fate would be. They were getting picked off from three sides at once. The only direction from which nobody was shooting at them was from the Mississippi itself. Some of them threw away their weapons and waded out into the river to try to save themselves from the unending fusillade of lead. It didn't work. Bullets splashed into the water, kicking up little fountains. Although some men waded out up to their necks, that didn't keep them from getting hit.

Trails of blood started appearing in the muddy river. Gators might have followed those trails to see what made them. This far north, though, gators were scarce. It was too early in the year, too cool, for them to be very lively anyhow. The wounded Federals were spared one torment, then. They weren't spared much else.

Up at the top of the bluff, one Confederate trooper nudged the man next to him on the firing line. “Bet you four bits I can hit that nigger in the water there.” He pointed.

“Which one?” his pal asked. “I can't see which way your blamed finger's goin'.”

“The ugly bald coon, there behind that redhead.”

“All right. I see him. You won't hit the son of a bitch.” They were both shouting, which let Leaming hear them. Gunfire had likely stunned their ears to anything less than shouts.

“Hell I won't.” The first Confederate drew a bead and fired. He whooped. “Did I get him or did I get him? Bastard's headed for hell right now.”

“If he is, I better go to heaven, on account of I don't want to spend forever with a stinkin' nigger.”

“That's half a dollar you owe me.”

“Dumb luck. Dumb fuckin' luck. Bet you can't hit the redheaded Yankee. Double or nothin', all right?”

“Let me reload, by God, and I'll have me a dollar of your money.” Methodically, the first trooper started doing just that. He fired again. “There? You see? That damnyankee sank like a rock. I gave him what he had coming, and you can kindly give me a dollar.”

“Here, dammit.” The other Confederate paid up.

“This here is Secesh paper,” the first one grumbled. “It ain't hardly worth what it's printed on. I wanted a real U.S. greenback.”

Even the Rebs knew U.S. money was better than their own. The second trooper shook his head. “You didn't say what kind of dollar we were bettin', and you wouldn't give me any better if I won a bet off you. Ought to be grateful you're getting any dollar at all. You sure won't see a different one, and that's the Lord's truth. “

“Don't take His name in vain, Cyrus,” the first trooper said. “Bart, you tend to your own little shriveled-up mule turd of a soul, and I'll take care of mine. How does that sound?”

Mack Leaming thought it sounded like good advice. He also thought it was about time to give himself up if he could. Here and there, stubborn U.S. soldiers, white and colored, were still banging away at Bedford Forrest's men. They would undoubtedly wound some, even kill some. They had no chance at all of changing the way the battle was going.