wasn't sure. Dammit, he wasn't sure.
When a minnie struck home, it made a wet, slapping sound that chilled the blood. A white man-a trooper from the Thirteenth Tennessee Cavalry-groaned and clutched at his shoulder. Welling blood made his dark blue tunic even darker. He stumbled away toward the surgeons' tender mercies.
That could have been me) Bradford thought with a shudder. Once lodged in his brain, the idea wouldn't go away. Know thyself, some ancient had said. This was knowledge Bill Bradford would rather not have had.
One of the cannon that had come north with the colored artillerymen bellowed. The crew reloaded the gun with the same matter-of-fact competence the Negro fighting as a rifleman displayed. They had a white sergeant and a white captain, but they didn't need anyone to tell them what to do. They knew, and they did it.
No answering Confederate cannonballs came. Forrest's men seemed to have no artillery with them. That was the one bit of good news Bill Bradford saw. Confederate soldiers in gray, in butternut, and even in blue swarmed everywhere out beyond the perimeter. Their fierce yells of fury and defiance put him in mind of the baying of wolves.
Another cannon crashed. Half a dozen guns had seemed plenty to defend Fort Pillow. The earthwork along which they were mounted wasn't very long. But, no matter how many rounds they fired at the Rebs, Forrest's men kept pressing ever closer.
A shell from the gunboat in the Mississippi arched up over the bluff atop which Fort Pillow sat. It burst somewhere to the rear of the attacking rebels. Bradford swore under his breath. The New Era had to supplement the firepower in the fort itself.
“Make' em shorten the range, Theo!” Bradford yelled.
“I'll do it!” His older brother, Captain Theodorick Bradford, passed signals down to the New Era with blue wigwag flags. The system had seemed good enough on paper. In the heat of action… It was liable to be slower and clumsier than Bradford wished it were.
Major Booth went from one gun along the earthwork to the next, encouraging the crews to keep firing. “Give 'em hell!” Booth yelled. “Those bastards don't know what hell is! Show' em, damn you! “
And the colored men responded. They laughed and cheered and served their cannon with a will. Not even white men obeyed Bradford so readily. He envied the more experienced officer for his ability to command.
“Major!” he called.
“What is it, Major?” Booth asked, mindful of the civilities even under fire. A bullet snapped past his head. He ducked, then laughed at himself for ducking. “Warm work, isn't it?”
“Er-so it is.” Bradford couldn't act so cheerful about it. “They're putting a lot of pressure on the skirmishers, sir. Shall I send out more men, or shall I pull back the ones we've already got out there?”
“Neither,” Booth said at once. “If you send out more, we'll lose them. Skirmishers can't stop the Rebs from coming forward. Three times as many men out there couldn't stop them, and the ones we do have are enough to slow the enemy down. If you pull them back into the fort, though, Forrest will push right up to the earthwork. I want to put that off as long as I can.”
“Major?” Bradford said, perplexed.
“If we can hold the Rebs out till reinforcements come up the river from Memphis, the fight is as good as won,” Booth said. “No way in hell Forrest can overrun us then. His men will skulk off and go back to thieving and murdering and bushwhacking. That's all they're good for, and they can keep doing it from now till doomsday without changing the way the war turns out one damn bit.”
“Uh, yes, sir.” Bradford wondered if he could have been callous enough to sacrifice the skirmishers in the hope of saving the fort and most of the garrison. He didn't think so, even if he could see it was the right move.
Along with his other talents, Lionel Booth might have been a mind reader. He patted Bradford on the back. “I know they're your men, and I know you're fond of them, Major. But every now and then we need to take some losses for the good of the greater number. Do you see it?”
“I see it. I don't like it.” When a minnie cracked past Bradford, he ducked as Booth had. He couldn't laugh about it. It made him feel like a coward, even if it was altogether involuntary.
A wounded man screamed. Bradford set his teeth against the appalling cry. Booth hurried on to hearten the next gun crew.
IV
Surviving skirmishers ran back toward the earthen parapet warding Fort Pillow. Hale soldiers helped their wounded friends. Every so often, a man who'd loaded his Springfield before retreating would fire it at the oncoming Rebs to make them keep their heads down.
Lieutenant Mack Leaming watched a couple of Federals go down, but only a couple. Most of the men who'd set out for the earthwork reached it in safety-or as much safety as U.S. soldiers could find anywhere on this field.
A Mini? ball snapped past in front of Leaming's nose, too close for comfort. He flinched. Half a minute later, another near miss made him flinch again. Fifty yards away, troopers from the Thirteenth Tennessee Cavalry shouted that another officer was down. The Confederates seemed to be taking dead aim-though Leaming wished he didn't think of it quite that way-at anyone inside the perimeter who wore shoulder straps and more than his share of brass buttons.
Though clouds still covered the sun most of the time, Leaming didn't think it could be much past eight o'clock. Looking at his pocket watch never even crossed his mind. The Confederates hadn't been attacking for much more than two hours, and they'd already driven the Federals back inside the fortress proper.
That wasn't good, and Leaming knew it. How could the garrison hold out till reinforcements got here from Memphis? Leaming spotted Major Lionel Booth, who was still going from gun to gun encouraging the colored cannoneers. “Major!” he called. “Excuse me, Major…”
“Yes, Lieutenant?” Booth sounded as calm as if on parade. Leaming didn't think he really was that calm, but even being able to seem so was a valuable asset to an officer. “What do you need?”
“Sir, how many Rebs do you reckon are out there?” Leaming blurted.
Booth considered. He ducked when a bullet cracked past above his head, but he didn't seem especially flustered. “I'd say fifteen hundred, maybe two thousand,” he replied at last. “From the weight of fire, that's about what it feels like to me.”
“Is that all, sir?” Leaming said in amazement.
“Isn't that enough? Two and a half, maybe three times what we've got in here,” Booth said with a wry chuckle. “More than I figured Bedford Forrest could throw at us, I'll tell you that. But does someone else think there are more?”
“When I asked Major Bradford, sir, he said he thought Forrest had six or seven thousand men,” Leaming said.
“Did he now?” Booth started to say something, then visibly changed his mind. What did come out of his mouth after that brief pause was, “Well, Lieutenant, you have to remember this is Major Bradford's first real combat. Your first few times, you're liable to see things that aren't there.” He sounded indulgent, like a father talking about a boy who didn't want to go to sleep without a candle by his bed.
Leaming hoped the fortress commandant felt indulgent about him, too. This was also his first real combat, and he was scared. He was scared spitless-the Sahara couldn't have been drier than the inside of his mouth. The first few near misses, he'd almost pissed himself. That would have been a fine thing for an officer to do in front of his men!
“You're getting along just, fine, Lieutenant, Booth said, so maybe he could seem paternal toward more people than Major Bradford. “I think there are only a few people who aren't afraid on a battlefield and they're men who don't care if they live or die. Nothing wrong with being afraid. The trick of it is to go on doing your job whether you're afraid or not. You're not shirking, and that's all anybody can ask of you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Leaming was no Catholic, but that felt like absolution from a priest.
Major Booth's grin showed crooked teeth. “It's all right. The more Rebs who try to rush this place, the more Rebs we'll shoot, that's all. Let 'em come, by God! How are they going to make it over the parapet? We'll hang on
