what went on.
Van Horn was a young man, younger than Mack Leaming. He still looked excited about the fighting, which was more than Leaming could say. John Young didn't, but he wasn't a man who would rattle easily, either-Bradford was right about that. As for the troopers… Leaming picked the first four men he saw and told them to get up on horseback.
Less than five minutes later, he and his companions, carrying their own flag of truce, went down from Fort Pillow toward the Confederates, who waited on the ground that sloped up toward the fort from the end of the battered rows of barracks buildings nearer the Mississippi. All the Rebs were mounted; Leaming, Young, and van Horn moved forward on foot.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” Polite as a cat, the C.S. officer holding the white flag saluted his U.S. opposite numbers. “I am Captain Walter Goodman, General Chalmers's adjutant general. Accompanying me are Captain Tom Henderson, commanding our scouts, and Lieutenant Frank Rogers.” He didn't bother naming the enlisted men with his party.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Goodman.” Leaming saluted, too. The formal courtesies of war went on even while men did their best to murder one another. So did life in general: only a few feet away, a robin hopped over the muddy ground, now and then pausing to pull up a worm. Leaming introduced himself, continuing, “I have the honor to be post adjutant. With me are Captain John Young, our provost marshal, and Lieutenant Dan van Horn.” Captain Goodman hadn't said what Lieutenant Rogers did; Lieutenant Leaming didn't mention that Lieutenant van Horn led colored troops. He also didn't name the troopers from the Thirteenth Tennessee Cavalry who'd come forward with him.
Goodman held out a folded sheet of paper. “Please take this to your commander, Lieutenant. It is General Forrest's demand for the surrender of the fort. “
“I will convey it to him, sir,” Leaming said. “May I read it first, so I can clear up with you any questions he is likely to have?”
“By all means.” Captain Goodman nodded and gestured. “Be my guest. “
Leaming unfolded the paper. From everything he'd heard, Bedford Forrest was not an educated man. By the smooth, flowing script he saw, he doubted the Confederate commander had written this note himself. But it held Forrest's fierce, arrogant tone all the same. “I do have a question,” Leaming said when he finished reading it.
“Ask, sir, ask.” Walter Goodman was the soul of politeness. He might have been trying to sell Leaming a phaeton or a surrey, not trying to talk him into going into captivity.
He might have been, but he wasn't. “General Forrest says, 'I demand the unconditional surrender of this garrison, promising you that you shall be treated as prisoners of war,''' Leaming read. Captain Goodman nodded again. The Federal officer went on, “You will know we have colored troops inside the fort. Does this promise extend to them as well? They too will be treated as prisoners of war, and will not be killed out of hand or re- enslaved?”
“Yes, sir. That is correct. The niggers will be treated as prisoners of war, on the same terms as white men, if you surrender now,” Walter Goodman said. “As it happens, I raised this point myself with both General Forrest and General Chalmers, wanting to make sure no unfortunate misunderstandings arose from it. They both stated very clearly that they will accept the colored soldiers under the terms of this demand.” Goodman leaned toward Leaming. His politesse did not slip, not quite, but he let the hostility below show through. “Bear in mind also, sir, that if you refuse we shall not answer for the safety of any man within Fort Pillow, black or white. Is that plain?”
“It could scarcely be plainer, Captain.” With Captain Young and Lieutenant van Horn beside him, Leaming had to affect a nonchalance he did not feel.
“Very well. Any further questions?” Goodman asked.
“No, sir. I will carry this message to my commanding officer.” Leaming had seen that the demand was addressed to Major Booth. Booth would be reading it from the Pearly Gates, from which place his comments were unlikely to return. But the Confederates didn't need to know command had devolved upon a less experienced man. Leaming did not mention Major Bradford's name. He just turned to his companions and said, “Let's go.”
“I expect Major Booth's answer in short order,” Goodman warned, proving again that he didn't know Booth was dead. “No delay here will be tolerated.”
“I will make that very plain, sir,” Leaming said. Once more, he said not a word about to whom he would make it plain.
His footfalls and those of the two officers with him and the clop of the horses' hooves and jingle of their harness were the only sounds he heard as he walked back up to Fort Pillow. Guns had been thundering and cannon roaring since first light. The silence now felt almost eerie.
Major Bradford waited just inside the gun port from which the truce party had set out. “What do they want?” he called.
“About what you'd expect, sir.” Mack Leaming held out the paper Captain Goodman had handed him. “Here is Forrest's demand.”
Bradford rapidly read through it. When he finished, he asked the same question Leaming had: “What about the colored troops?”
“Sir, they are to be included among the prisoners of war,” Leaming answered. “I raised the point with Captain Goodman, who delivered the note to me. He said both General Chalmers, whom he serves, and General Forrest agreed they will accept the Negroes' surrender.”
“I am not going to decide this all at once,” Bradford said. “Have you got paper and a pencil, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.” Leaming took the writing tools from his pocket.
“All right, then. Take this down…” Major Bradford hesitated for a moment, perhaps communing with his muse. “To General Forrest, commanding C.S. forces,” he said. Mack Leaming wrote it down. Bradford went on. “Sir-I respectfully ask one hour for consultation with my officers and the officers of the gunboat. In the meantime no preparation to be made on either side.” He hesitated again, then asked, “Do the Confederates know Major Booth is dead?”
“No, sir,” Leaming said. “As you see, their demand is addressed to him. I didn't tell them he'd been hit, and neither did anyone else in the party.”
“Likely just as well. They'll think better of Booth than they will of me. He was a real soldier, and I'm just a lawyer, and a Tennessee Tory to boot,” Bradford said. Lieutenant Leaming found himself nodding; those were the main reasons he hadn't informed the Confederates of Booth's death. Bill Bradford went on, “As long as they don't know, let's keep them in the dark. Sign it, 'Very respectfully, L.F. Booth, Major Commanding.' “
“Yes, sir.” Leaming did as he was asked.
“Good, good. Now-do you have an envelope?” Bradford seemed endlessly worried about tiny procedural details.
“Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, I do.” Leaming took one from the left breast pocket of his tunic. He put Bradford's response into it.
“Good. Good. Seal it up. Seal it up tight,” Major Bradford said. “And, with a little luck, Bedford Forrest'll give us the hour, and we'll have reinforcements in place by the time it's up, and then we really will be able to tell him to go to the Devil.”
“I hope so, sir,” Leaming said. Along with the other members of the truce party, he went out of Fort Pillow toward the waiting Captain Goodman once more.
Major William Bradford's dream of reinforcements was Major General Nathan Bedford Forrest's nightmare. Not long after his ultimatum to the men inside Fort Pillow went forward, that nightmare looked like it was coming true. A trooper from down by the Mississippi came up to Forrest, calling, “General! General Forrest, sir! There's smoke on the river, sir! Looks like a steamboat's coming up!”
Bedford Forrest swore horribly. That was the last thing he wanted to hear. “God damn it to hell and gone!” he shouted, and then, hoping against hope, “Are you sure?”
“Sure as I am that I'm Hank Tibbs,” the cavalryman answered. “Come see for yourself if you don't believe me.”
“I think I'd better,” Forrest said grimly, and rode down toward the broad river. He didn't get there as fast as he would have liked; the steeply sloping ground and the number of felled tree trunks made his horse pick its way
