secretary had told him what the distinguished gentlemen wanted, and he was glad to oblige. This was a war of soldiers and cannons and gunboats, yes. But it was also a war of politics. He could see November ahead, just as Wade and Gooch could. If Lincoln failed then, if the Democrats prevailed then, all the Union's sacrifices would be for nothing.
He and his comrades had lost the battle at Fort Pillow. They might yet win the struggle to define what happened there, and winning that struggle would go some little way toward winning the war as a whole. Leaming shifted carefully on the cot. His wound still pained him. Wounded or not, though, he might still pain Nathan Bedford Forrest.
“Shot trying to get away, was he?” Bedford Forrest said, stalking through the parlor of the Duke house in Jackson as he had while ordering the attack on Fort Pillow.
“Yes, sir,” Captain Anderson said stolidly. “So the men who were bringing Major Bradford and the other prisoners here report.”
“Well, Lord knows he's no loss. He's a gain, by God.” But Forrest studied his assistant adjutant general. “So they say, eh? But you don't believe 'em, do you?” Anderson shook his head. “How come you don't?” Forrest asked.
“Well, sir, for one thing, among the men who were supposed to be bringing him in was Corporal Jack Jenkins,” Anderson answered.
“Corporal…? Oh!” A fortnight after the fight at Fort Pillow, Forrest needed a moment to place the name, but only a moment. “The fellow he gave the slip to getting out of the fort!”
“The very same,” Anderson said.
“You reckon Jenkins got his own back, then?”
“Sir, I can't prove a thing. All the men tell the same story,” Anderson replied. “And it certainly is something Bradford might have done, when you consider that he did break his parole in leaving Fort Pillow. “
“Uh-huh.” Forrest wondered what to do-but, again, not for long.
“Well, Charlie, I don't suppose I need to ask any more questions. Bradford got what was coming to him, and by my lights he earned it. If anybody ever kicks up a stink about it-and who would kick up a stink about a skunk like that? — 'shot trying to escape' ought to quiet things down, eh?”
“Yes, sir. I suppose so.” Captain Anderson didn't sound overjoyed at his decision, but he didn't sound as if he wanted to make a fuss, either. That suited Bedford Forrest fine. Major Bradford hadn't been worth a fuss while he was alive, and sure as hell he wasn't worth one dead.
“Anything else I need to know?” Forrest asked.
“News from Memphis is that a couple of Federal Congressmen are nosing around, trying to figure out where the blame goes for losing Fort Pillow,” Anderson said.
“Are they, by God?” Forrest said. His aide nodded. Forrest threw back his head and laughed. “I'm glad to hear it, the Devil fry me black as a nigger if I'm not. I was starting to believe our side was the only one with fools in Congress.”
“They're shouting and wailing about how we massacred all the poor darkies-and the homemade Yankees, too,” Anderson said.
“They can shout and wail as much as they please. Bradford had the chance to surrender, and he damn well didn't take it. I told him I wouldn't answer for my men if he didn't, so he only got what was coming to him,” Forrest growled. “Besides, we did take prisoners. We gave some of 'em back to the Federals by the river-”
“I did that myself,” Anderson said.
“Of course you did,” Bedford Forrest said. “And we've got more prisoners going on down to Mississippi with the men. And there are niggers in both batches. Am I right or wrong?”
“You don't need to ask me, sir,” Captain Anderson said loyally. “I know damn well you're right.”
Nathan Bedford Forrest dropped it there. He'd won at Fort Pillow, which was all that really mattered. But he also knew-however little he cared to admit it-his men had got out of hand when they took the fort. Going up against Negroes with guns and Tennessee Tories, it wasn't surprising. He'd expected it after Bradford refused his surrender demand; he might even have had trouble enforcing a peaceful surrender had the Federal commander yielded. His soldiers hated the men they were fighting: it was as simple as that.
“They say all the Yankees' nigger troops are taking an oath to avenge Fort Pillow,” Anderson added.
“They can say any stupid thing they want, and the niggers can swear any stupid oath they want,” Forrest said scornfully. “It won't amount to a hill of beans next time they bump up against our boys. With an oath or without one, nigger troops can't stand up against white men.”
“I should hope not, sir!” Anderson said.
“Don't worry about it, Charlie, because they damn well can't. Just remember the bloodstains in the Mississippi.” Forrest remembered them himself, with somber satisfaction. He didn't care to remember how long the garrison in Fort Pillow had fought, how defiant the enemy had been, or how outnumbered they were. Since he'd won, he didn't need to remember any of those things. Get there first with the most men. He'd done that. Whenever and wherever he had to do it again, he expected he could.
He had less faith in the Confederacy's other generals, with the partial exception of Robert E. Lee. Joe Johnston was bound to be an improvement on Braxton Bragg. Forrest couldn't think of anything breathing that wouldn't be, including the mangiest Army mule. But could Johnston stand against the Federals when they finally started south from Chattanooga? Could anyone? Nathan Bedford Forrest didn't know.
In one way, it wasn't his worry. He'd done what he aimed to do, and he saw no reason he couldn't go on doing it for a long time. But if the great Confederate armies fell, what difference did it make? Could he go on bushwhacking even after they fell?
If I have to, I will, he thought grimly. If it means holding the niggers down, I will. He wasn't afraid; what concerned him were ways and means.
He shrugged broad shoulders. Thinking about bushwhacking and defeats to other generals was also borrowing trouble. The day-to-day routine of war was enough to worry about and then some. Soon he and his staff would follow the rest of his men down to Mississippi. “We'll lick 'em yet, Charlie,” he said.
“Of course we will, sir,” Anderson answered. Bedford Forrest hoped he meant it.
HISTORICAL NOTE
Sergeant Benjamin Robinson, Lieutenant Mack Leaming, Major William Bradford, and, of course, Major General Nathan Bedford Forrest are historical figures. Private Matt Ward and Corporal Jack Jenkins are fictitious. The Thirteenth Tennessee Cavalry (U.S.) was also known as Bradford's Battalion and as the Fourteenth Tennessee Cavalry (U.S.) (there was another Thirteenth Tennessee Cavalry (U.S.) that served mostly in the eastern part of the state); because contemporary sources discussing the events of April 12, 1864, call it the Thirteenth, I have used that name here. Coal Creek is now more often known as Cold Creek. Again, as the first name seems in more common use at the time of the fight at Fort Pillow, I chose it here.
Piecing together exactly what happened at Fort Pillow on that eventful day is anything but easy. There are four principal primary sources: the contemporary reports from both sides in The Official Records of the war of the Rebellion; the testimony collected by Messrs. Wade and Gooch of the U.S. Congressional Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War immediately after the engagement and published as The Fort Pillow Massacre; the Confederate rejoinder in Jordan and Pryor's 1868 book, The Campaigns of General Nathan Bedford Forest and of Forrest's Cavalry (in essence, Forrest's own military memoir); and Wyeth's 1899 biography, The Life of General Nathan Bedford Forrest, which is written from a Southern point of view and is generally sympathetic to Forrest and his men.
The problem is that reconciling events in the contemporary documents-particularly in The Fort Pillow Massacre-and those of the two accounts inclining more toward Bedford Forrest's viewpoint-is often next to impossible. Knowing whom to believe — or whether to believe anyone — gets tricky. The accounts of Forrest's backers are unabashedly racist. In them, that Negro troops are none too brave and that blacks are mentally inferior to whites are givens. They seem to imply that the insults the colored artillerymen hurled at Forrest's troopers from the earthworks of Fort Pillow justified a massacre in and of themselves.
