FORT PILLOW

“Here they come!” somebody yelled-the Rebs from the Coal Creek side were dashing forward. The defenders fired a ragged volley of four or five shots to make them keep their distance. The Federals might have wounded one man. Robinson wasn't even sure of that. It didn't matter. The gunshots showed the men in blue hadn't given up. That was enough to stop the Confederate rush.

As if to make up for stopping, one of Forrest's men shouted,

“Gonna kill you bastards!”

“Gonna shoot you!” another Secesh soldier added.

“Gonna stick you!” said another.

Another Confederate flavored his words with almost obscene anticipation: “Gonna stick you sons o' bitches slow and watch you die an inch at a time.” Still others yelled more bloodthirsty endearments.

The white man closest to Ben Robinson grinned crookedly. “Really makes you want to throw down your piece and give up, don't it?”

“Huh!” Robinson said, a syllable half despair, half startled laughter. So many men were down… “Easiest thing to do might be to throw down your piece, all right, an' play possum in wid all the bodies.”

“Good luck,” the white trooper said. “What do you want to bet the Rebs go around and bayonet everybody on the ground? If you aren't dead beforehand, you will be by the time they get through with you.”

“Huh,” Ben said again, on a different note: all despair this time. That struck him as much too likely.

Some other white Tennesseans must have thought their chances were better if they laid down their arms. Two white men walked toward the closest Confederates with their hands in the air. Laughing, Bedford Forrest's troopers let them get close-and then shot them. The Federals' screams were as much of betrayal as of agony, though the Rebs put enough minnies into them to finish them in short order.

“You see?” said the trooper by Robinson. “Reckon I do,” the Negro answered.

Less than a minute later, a minnie thudded into the white man's chest. He fired one last shot at the enemy and died in grim, defiant silence. Only a few U.S. Springfields were still firing. The Confederates drew closer and closer.

Robinson was in the middle of reloading when a C.S. trooper shouted, “Drop it, nigger! Drop it right now, or I'll shoot you down like the mad dog you are.” The man had friends behind him. All of them were aiming their rifle muskets at the colored sergeant. A wild charge with the bayonet would just get him killed.

All the brave resolve leaked out of him. He let the Springfield fall in the mud. The Confederate hadn't said he'd kill him if he did surrender. Slowly, Robinson raised his hands.

Grinning and laughing, Forrest's trooper shot him.

“Do Jesus!” Robinson screamed, and fell heavily to the ground. Somebody might have dipped his right leg in tar and set it on fire-it hurt that much.

“That'll learn you, you damn coon,” said the soldier in butternut. “Just what you deserve. You try takin' up arms against white men, you pay. You'd fuckin' best believe you pay. You hear me?”

Only a groan came from Ben Robinson's lips. The Reb didn't seem to care. He walked on, looking for somebody else to kill. Robinson lay where he'd fallen, writhing and thrashing. He'd never imagined anything could hurt so bad. He clutched his thigh with both hands, as tight as he could. His own hot blood leaked out between his fingers. It leaked, yes, but it didn't flood. Litde by litde, as his stunned wits began to work again, he realized it wasn't a fatal wound unless it festered.

I'll live, he thought. Right at the moment, everything hurt so much, he wasn't sure he wanted to. A U.S. physician would have dosed him with opium or laudanum, or at least with a big slug of corn squeezings, to ease the pain. He didn't suppose a Secesh doctor would give him the time of day, let alone a painkiller. For one thing, the Rebs didn't have much in the way of medical supplies for their own wounded. For another, he was black. They were more likely to give him a bullet to bite on-or one through the head-than laudanum.

Robinson tried holding still, wondering it that would ease him. It didn't, not even a little. And even if it would have, he couldn't do it. He had to move, and to keep moving. His pain insisted on it. Moving, of course, held dangers of its own. Several Confederate soldiers stalked past him. Anyone of them could have decided to finish him off, but none did. Maybe they enjoyed seeing him wriggle and hearing him moan. He wondered about that only later. At the moment, he just thanked heaven.

“Hey, you! Hey, nigger!” The shout came from far away. For a while, Ben Robinson had no idea it was meant for him. Plenty of other colored soldiers were still alive. But then the cry came again: “Hey, nigger! Yeah, you down by the water, the one with the leg!”