along. He needed almost fifteen minutes to come to the eastern bank of the Mississippi and peer downstream toward Memphis.
Hank Tibbs didn't have to worry that anyone would fear he wasn't entitled to his own name. Bedford Forrest did some more profane swearing when he spied the steamer coming up from the south. As he'd feared they would be, its decks were blue with the uniforms of U.S. soldiers.
Just to make things worse, a glance north along the Mississippi showed more smoke, as if another steamboat was on the way with aid and comfort for the Federals in Fort Pillow. How was he supposed to take the place if they could pour men into it from the river?
Forrest looked from Fort Pillow out to the gunboat already floating on the Mississippi. The enemy warship was honoring the truce; it hadn't fired a shot since learning the white flag had gone in. But neither the gunboat nor the men in the fort were making any effort to stop the steamer crammed with troops from approaching. In their place, Forrest probably wouldn't have, either. That didn't make him love them any better.
“Captain Anderson!” he shouted.
“Yes, sir?” His aide-de-camp wasn't far away.
“Get as many men down by the riverbank as you can,” Forrest said. “Pull some of them down from those buildings we took, and use the little force you already gathered together.” He pointed down the river toward the oncoming steamboat. “Let those sons of bitches see they'll have a nasty time of it if they try to let their soldiers off.”
“I'll tend to it, sir.” Anderson saluted and hurried away.
A moment later, Forrest shouted for a runner. When the soldier came up to him, he said, “Get your fanny over to Colonel Barteau in Coal Creek Ravine. Tell him to bring his men out in the open and to take them down by the bank of Coal Creek. I want to make sure the Yankees in that there steamer”-he pointed to the vessel-”can't swing in and land by the creek any more than they can here along the river. Have you got that?”
“Yes, sir,” the runner said. When Forrest raised an eyebrow, the man gave back the instructions with tolerable accuracy. Forrest nodded. The runner trotted off toward the far side of the battlefield.
Men in gray and butternut rushed to make themselves visible on the low ground by the base of the bluff. Some of them came up along the riverbank, others down from the buildings they'd gained when the Federals failed to burn them all. Watching, Forrest nodded again, this time to himself. An officer would have to be crazy to try to land in the face of opposition like that.
“General! General! You there, General?” Forrest's head came up like that of a hound taking a scent-he knew WaIter Goodman's voice when he heard it.
“I'm here, Goodman!” he called, pitching his voice to carry. He could always make himself heard, even on the maddest, noisiest field. With the guns fallen silent, Yankees out on that steamboat might have heard him. “What do the Federals in the fort say?”
“Here is their answer, sir.” Captain Goodman held out a sealed envelope.
“What a pack of foolishness. You could have seen it,” Forrest said scornfully. He opened the envelope and took out the note inside. Once he'd read it, he shook his head. “The son of a bitch in there is playing for time, and to hell with me if I aim to let him have any. Can you write down my answer to take back to the U.S. truce party?”
“Yes, sir.” Goodman produced pencil and paper. Forrest had thought he would be able to; he served General Chalmers much as Captain Anderson served Forrest himself. “Go ahead, sir.”
“To Major L.F. Booth, commanding U.S. forces, Fort Pillow.” Forrest paused for a moment, then went on, “Sir-I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of your note asking for one hour to consider my demand for your surrender. Your request cannot be granted. I will allow you twenty minutes from the receipt of this note for consideration; if at the expiration of that time the fort is not surrendered, I shall assault it. I do not demand the surrender of the gunboat. Very respectfully, N.B. Forrest, Major-General.“
“That should do the job, sir,” Goodman said. “Let me read it back to you.” He did. Forrest nodded. “I'll deliver it, then,” Goodman told him, and rode up toward the spot where the truce parties from the two sides were meeting.
Up on the fortified bluff, colored and white soldiers mocked the men emerging from cover to thwart the troop-laden steamship. The men in blue didn't fire on Forrest's troopers, but did their best to provoke them in every other way they could. “We won't give you no quarter if you comes at us!” a drunken Negro bawled.
“After we git you, we git your sisters, too!” another Negro shouted. Forrest could imagine nothing better calculated to inflame his men. The colored soldier probably wasn't joking, either. White troopers from Fort Pillow had ranged through western Tennessee. They'd insulted more than a few women dear to Forrest's soldiers, and outraged more than one. Why wouldn't a black man want to imitate them?
A corporal not far from Forrest growled. “Those sons of bitches'll laugh out of the other side of their faces when we get in amongst 'em.” A couple of soldiers shook their fists at the U.S. soldiers inside Fort Pillow, but no one raised a rifle musket to his shoulder and tried to avenge himself upon them. Unlike the Federals, his men showed good discipline-or maybe they were more worried about what he would do to them for going against orders than they were angry at the enemy.
Captain Goodman rode back to him sooner than he'd expected. “What's going on?” Forrest called to him. “Has Booth given you an answer already?”
“No, sir-sorry,” Goodman answered. “But some of the Federals in the truce party are saying maybe you aren't really here at all. They're saying it's a bluff like the one Colonel Duckworth used in Union City.”
“Oh, they are, are they?” Forrest said. “Will it make ’em happy if I advance and be recognized?”
Goodman's lips quirked upward into something that looked like a smile but was knowing and unamused. “Well, sir, I don't reckon it'll make ‘em very happy, if you know what I mean, but it'll sure enough take their doubts away.”
“Then I'll do it,” Forrest said at once. “Lead on, Captain. I think things here are tolerable good-the Yankees won't be able to land, and it looks like they know it.”
He followed the junior officer forward, past the barracks buildings and up onto the higher ground that led to the inner position the United States had fortified. The U.S. flag still floated defiantly above Fort Pillow. Forrest felt a peculiar prickling of the skin above his breastbone. If a Federal sharpshooter wanted him dead badly enough to violate the truce, he was within range for a decent shot. But U.S. soldiers had tried to kill him since the war was new. His own horse had come closer to doing it a few hours earlier than most of them had. Captain Goodman pointed. “There they are, sir.”
“I see ‘em,” Forrest said.
“The big dark one is Captain Young-their provost marshal,”
Goodman said. “The other officer's Lieutenant van Horn. I don't see Lieutenant Leaming-he's the post adjutant. He must still be inside the fort, talking things over with Major Booth.”
“These fellows here can testify for me.” Forrest spurred past Goodman and rode up to the Federals. “I am General Forrest,” he said. “Will any of you know me by sight?”
“I do, sir.” The dark officer sketched a salute. “Captain John Young, Twenty-fourth Missouri Cavalry. Not the way I'd care to meet you, but…” He shrugged.
“You do know I am who I say I am?” Forrest persisted.
“Yes, sir.” Young did not seem afraid. He probably was — Forrest would have been, in his shoes — but he didn't show it. Most of the time, that was what mattered on the field. Forrest nodded with reluctant respect.
Captain Goodman pointed west toward the Mississippi, where the steamer moving up from the south had come level with Fort Pillow. Her name was painted on her side in huge letters: Olive Branch. Bedford Forrest chuckled under his breath.
“Look how many men she's got aboard her, sir,” Goodman said.
“They can give us a lot of trouble if she lands.”
“Don't worry, Captain,” Forrest said quietly. “She won't land.”
VII
'Twenty minutes?” Major Bradford stared in dismay at the note Mack Leaming had just handed him. He saw
