FORT PILLOW

“Son of a bitch has the nerve to do damn near anything. That's what makes him such a nuisance,” Major Bradford said. “What is it this time?”

“He sent Memphis a bill for the five thousand and however many dollars Colonel Hurst squeezed out of Jackson while he held it,” Leaming said.

Bradford laughed again, this time on a different note. “He better not hold his breath till he gets it, that's all I've got to say. He'll be a mighty blue man in a gray uniform if he does. Besides, that's not all Hurst has squeezed out of the Rebs – not even close.”

“Don't I know it!” Mack Leaming spoke more in admiration than anything else. Colonel Fielding Hurst had turned the war into a profitable business for himself. People said he'd taken more than $100,000 from Confederate sympathizers in western Tennessee. Leaming couldn't have said if that was true, but he wouldn't have been surprised. The Thirteenth Tennessee Cavalry had done its share of squeezing, too, but the Sixth was way ahead of it.

“So anyhow,” Major Bradford went on, “I don't reckon we've got to do a whole lot of worrying about Bedford Forrest right this minute.”

“Sounds good to me, sir,” Leaming said.

Corporal Jack Jenkins had always hated Federals. Riding along these miserable roads in the rain did nothing to make him like them any better. Jenkins yawned in the saddle. The order from Jackson had reached Tyree Bell's brigade in Eaton in the middle of the night. Bell got his men in motion by midnight.

“Black as the inside of a hog,” somebody near Jenkins grumbled. “Black as a nigger's heart,” somebody else added. The horses' hooves plopped in the mud.

“Plenty of niggers in Fort Pillow,” Jenkins said. “Plenty of niggers, and plenty of Tennessee Tories.” He had no more love for the men from his state who clove to the D.S.A. than did any other Tennessean who followed the C.S.A.

“Keep 'em moving! Come on, keep 'em moving!” That was Clark Barteau, colonel of the Second Tennessee Cavalry (C.S.). “You want those damn Missourians to get there ahead of us?”

Protected by the darkness, somebody said, “Have a heart, Colonel. They ain't got as far to ride as we do.”

Had Barteau been able to see who was complaining, he would have made the trooper sorry for it. As things were, he said, “And you bet your life they didn't set out as fast as we did, either. Sons of bitches are likely asleep in nice, warm beds even now. We've got to work harder, but we'll make all this hard work payoff. Ain't that right?”

Nobody said no, not out loud. Men recognized a loaded question when they heard one. Too much growling and people would get in trouble even if the officers couldn't see who was doing it. They recognized voices – and they knew who was in the habit of saying what he thought.

“When McCulloch's brigade does get moving, I reckon he'll say, 'Hustle it up! You want them bastards from Tennessee and Mississippi to get there first?' “ Jenkins said.

He didn't pitch his voice to carry. Several soldiers close by laughed. One of them repeated it for a pal who hadn't heard. The pal passed it on. It made its way down the line of horsemen. Jenkins hadn't particularly meant it for a joke. He knew how officers got men to do what they wanted. You had to coax and cajole. Everybody in a cavalry regiment knew everybody else – people had grown up as friends and neighbors. You couldn't just give an order. Not even the damnyankees could get away with that very often. You had to give a reason, keep people sweet.

Jack Jenkins was not feeling sweet. The horse in front of his kept kicking up mud. He'd got splattered a couple of times, once right in the face. But he had to stay close behind; in this dripping darkness, he could easily lose the road. And if he did, how many men would follow him to nowhere?

Up in a tree, an owl hooted unhappily. It couldn't like the weather any better than he did. With raindrops pattering down, it couldn't hear scurrying mice. And it couldn't see them, either. Nobody could see anything here.

“Come on!” Colonel Barteau called. “Keep moving! Got to keep moving! Y'all want to learn the homemade Yankees a lesson, right?”

“You bet, Colonel!” Was that a trooper who really did feel like punishing the Federal soldiers in Fort Pillow, or was it some lieutenant pretending to be a cheery soldier? Jenkins couldn't tell, which made him suspect the worst.

He was hardened to the saddle, but a ride like this took its toll. When he finally dismounted, he knew he would walk like a spavined chimpanzee for a while. One more reason to take it out on the coons and the galvanized Yankees in Fort Pillow, he thought, and rode on.

Maybe Ulysses S. Grant was prouder of the three stars on his shoulder straps than Benjamin Robinson was of the three stripes on his left sleeve, but maybe he wasn't, too. No doubt Grant had risen from humble beginnings. He was a tanner's son. He'd failed at everything he tried till the war began. Only the fighting gave him a chance to rise.