FORT PILLOW

He looked toward the top of the bluff. A couple of Forrest's troopers up there were staring down at him. They might have been soaring vultures staring down at a dying donkey. He waved to show he heard them. He didn't want to do that, but he was afraid they would start using him for target practice if he didn't.

One of the Rebs cupped his hands in front of his face. “Come on up here, boy!” he yelled.

“I can't!” Robinson yelled back. “I been shot!”

“You better, Sambo,” the Confederate said. “You don't want to get shot some more, you goddamn well better.”

They could hit him at that range with no trouble at all. He'd seen them hit men who'd waded out into the river, who were farther away than he was and exposing less of themselves. “I try,” he said. Could he crawl? How much would the wound bleed if he let go of it? But that, suddenly, wasn't the biggest worry on his mind. How much would he bleed if they shot him again, and where would they? His belly? His head? He could get better after this wound. Another one might well do him in.

“Come on, nigger! Get movin'.” One of the troopers at the top of the bluff started to raise his weapon.

Ben Robinson crawled. He was slow and awkward-even crawling, he couldn't put much weight on the injured leg. Dragging it along the ground hurt like a son of a bitch, too. He bit down on the inside of his lower lip till he tasted blood. Tears streamed down his face. He might have been climbing one of the tall mountains out West, not a riverside bluff.

Getting to the top took more out of him than fighting all day had. Of course, nobody'd put a hole in his leg when he was serving the twelve-pounder and trying to hold the Rebs out of Fort Pillow, first with the worm and then with a Springfield.

The Confederates who'd summoned him scowled fiercely. One was tall and skinny. The other was short and skinny, and so young that pimples still splotched his dirty face. The short one had breath that might have come from an outhouse. When he opened his mouth to speak, Robinson saw that two of his front teeth were black. He came straight to the point: “Give me your money, you damned nigger.”

“Money?” Robinson said. “I ain't got no money.” That wasn't true, but the words came out of themselves. He hoped the Rebs wouldn't kill him if they found out he was lying.

“Give me your money, or I will blow your brains out,” said the soldier with the bad teeth and the horrible breath.

“Hell, Rafe, he's just a nigger. He don't have no brains,” the other trooper said. By his loud, braying laugh, he wasn't long on brains himself.

“I ain't got none to give you,” Ben Robinson repeated. If he changed his story now, that would make them angry. No, angrier.

“Ought to shoot the son of a bitch anyways,” Rafe said. “We shoot all the uppity niggers, the rest'll cipher out they better not mess with us.”

“His clothes are pretty good. Let's take what all he's got,” said the other soldier, the tall one. He gestured with his rifle musket. “Lay down, you.”

Robinson obeyed. In truth, he couldn't have stayed on hands and one knee much longer anyhow. The Rebs pulled off his shoes. They both tried them on, and swore when they found out the heavy leather brogans were too big for Rafe and too small for his pal, whose name turned out to be Willie. The Confederates didn't give them back after that. They tossed them aside so other troopers could try them on if they wanted to.

“Skin out of your pants, boy,” Willie said.

“Do Jesus!” Robinson said. “What you want my pants for? They got bullet holes in 'em, an' I been bleedin' all over 'em.” They had his money, the money he'd denied owning.

“Skin out of 'em,” Willie repeated. “Blood washes out in cold water, and even with holes in 'em they're better'n what we're wearin'.”

He wasn't wrong. His own trousers were out at both knees, and inexpertly patched in several other places. Rafe's were worse. One of his trouser legs simply ended halfway between knee and ankle. The other was a tapestry of holes all the way up, including a big one in the seat that displayed his dirty drawers.

Sure the Rebs would kill him if he disobeyed and hoping to live, Ben Robinson undid his belt buckle and slid the pants off. He hissed with pain when he tugged them down over the wound. With the trousers gone, he got his first good look at it. Somebody might have gouged a finger-sized groove in the outside of his thigh. Getting shot was never good, but it could have been a lot worse. I ought to get over this, he thought. It's only a flesh wound.

He wouldn't get better if they shot him again or if they used their bayonets. And they could. Oh, yes. They could.

Rafe went through his pockets. He came out with a handful of greenbacks and some silver. “Ha!” he said triumphantly. “I knew the nigger son of a bitch was lying!” He kicked Robinson in the ribs.