FORT PILLOW

“You've got most of what you wanted,” Leaming said. Prisoners were still carrying bodies off the slope and away from the riverside.

“With the force we had and the positions we soon gained, y' all were mad to try to resist us,” the C.S. lieutenant told him. Bedford Forrest had said the same thing when Major Bradford refused to surrender. As things turned out, the Confederate general had a better notion of what was what than his Federal opponent.

“We might have held you out in spite of everything if you hadn't moved men forward while the flag of truce was flying,” Leaming said.

“We brought them up to warn off the steamer, not to move against the fort,” the Confederate lieutenant said sharply. “You could have protested at the time if you thought we were doing anything underhanded, but you never said a word.” Leaming bit his lip, for that was true. He wondered if the Reb's anger would drive him away, but it didn't. The Confederate went on, “Let's get you taken care of, if we can.“

He straightened up from beside Leaming and shouted. Two colored soldiers hurried over to him. Both were barefoot; one wore only his drawers and undershirt. “What you need, suh?” they asked together. They spoke to the Reb as respectfully as if to a U.S. officer. Maybe they treated him like a master. Maybe they were just afraid he would order them killed if they got out of line even a little-and maybe they were right to be afraid that way.

The lieutenant pointed to Leaming. “Take him up to the top of the bluff. Be as gentle as you can-he's got a nasty wound.”

“Yes, suh. We do dat.” Again, the Negroes spoke together. One grabbed Mack Leaming's legs, the other the upper part of his body.

He groaned when they lifted him, not because they were harsh but because he couldn't help himself.

Up the steep slope he went. He groaned whenever a Negro's foot came down on the ground. He knew the blacks weren't trying to be cruel-on the contrary, in fact. But the slightest jolt made the long track the Mini? ball tore through his body cry out in torment. Tears ran down his cheeks. He bit the inside of his lower lip till he tasted blood.

“Here you is, suh. We lay you down on the ground now,” said the black who had him by the shoulders. Leaming yelped like a dog hit by a wagon wheel when they did. After lying still for a moment, he sighed. He still hurt, but with a steady ache, not the sudden, fiery jolts he'd known when they were moving him.

“Do you want some more water?” the Confederate lieutenant asked.

“Oh, please,” Leaming said.

“All right. I'm going to lift your head up a little so you can drink easier.” Leaming gasped when the Reb did that, but he couldn't deny it helped: not nearly so much water dribbled down the side of his face. And the smoothest whiskey in the world couldn't have done a better job of reviving him than that plain, ordinary water-so he thought, anyhow.

“God bless you,” he said, and held out his hand. He was not surprised when the C.S. lieutenant's grip matched his own. They smiled at each other.

A sergeant commandeered the two Negroes who'd carried him up to the top of the bluff. “Come on, damn you!” he yelled. “Don't stand there like lazy niggers, even if you damn well are. Plenty of bodies to dispose of.”

Both blacks looked toward the lieutenant. He just shrugged, as if to say he was done with them. Off they went. The sergeant wasn't wrong. Negro and white prisoners were carrying their comrades-in-arms' corpses to the earthwork and throwing them into the ditch in front of it-the ditch that so dismally failed to keep out the Confederates.

“There is a man who is not quite dead yet,” said someone: a white man, by his voice.

“Put him down.” By the authority in the answer, it had to come from a Confederate officer. “If he dies in the night, we can throw him in come morning. And if he's still breathing at sunup… Well, we'll worry about it then.”

Leaming started to say something to his fellow Freemason, only to discover the man no longer stood by his side. He looked around – where had the lieutenant gone? Leaming couldn't spot him. Was that his voice giving orders over by the sutlers' stalls? Leaming thought so, but couldn't be sure.

He also thought the other man might have done more for him: might, for instance, have hunted up a surgeon to see to his wound. But, although still weak, he no longer feared he would die right away. His wound finally seemed to have stopped bleeding and he felt much better for the water the Rebel lieutenant gave him. He'd been dry as the Utah desert inside.

Not far away, a Negro asked, “Reckon this here's deep enough, suh?”

“Make it deeper, if you please.” Mack Leaming blinked in astonishment. That was Major Bradford, sure as hell, and he would have expected Forrest's troopers to kill Bradford out of hand. But the commandant went on, “I want to make sure the scavengers can't get at poor Theo.”