Devil's Dream - Madison Smartt Bell [108]
Henri, Morton and Matthew exchanged a weird glance. Maybe, Henri thought, some missile had pierced Forrest’s heart without making any visible wound; maybe he would never rise again. They waited for a sign of his breath and saw none. Morton made to speak and didn’t. With a forefinger he pressed his lower lip against his bottom teeth.
Inside of two minutes, Forrest sprang up as if he’d been lying on tongues of blue flame.
“Time’s a-wasten,” he yelled. “This battle’s nigh whupped but we still got to whup it. Got to keep after’m, keep up the skeer! Why ain’t that whole line chargen already?”
He yanked Morton to him by the upper part of his sleeve. “John,” he said. He was holding Morton almost as close as a lover, while with the other hand he gestured. “I want ye to run yore Bull Pups straight down that road, and keep’m barken right in their faces, hear me? Give’m hell, John.”
“Sir,” Morton said, “the guns are subject to be captured if I rush forward that way without support.”
“Artillery was made to be captured,” Forrest snapped. He gave Morton’s upper arm a squeeze and added, with his ragged grin, “I’d admire to see anybody capture yourn.”
THE DAY WAS WANING. As the sun dropped away to the west, long rays of bloody light came slantwise through the darkening boles of the trees. They were driving a wedge between the Pontotoc and Baldwyn roads. To his left, Henri could hear the Bull Pups cough and roar, spitting grapeshot at the Yankees at point-blank range.
Somehow another two hours passed. Where the two roads met at Brice’s Crossroads, the Yankees made another stand. Forrest’s men charged them till they broke and scattered back to Tishomingo Creek. Henri and Matthew were both carried along in the rush to pursue. Some distance ahead of them a cry went up.
“Here’s the damn niggers!”
The black companies they’d all been hearing about had been kept back to guard a cluster of supply wagons drawn up just west of the creek bank. They formed up now in good close order to meet the Rebel rush. The white patches standing out sharp against the blue tunics must be the Remember Fort Pillow badges. Excellent target, Henri thought, but his pistols stayed holstered in his belt.
What about us? Matthew had said. The black companies were covering the retreat of the white Federals fleeing from the crossroads of the creek, and doing a determined job of it too. Though the skirl of the Rebel yell filled Henri’s ears, the momentum of the charge had been blunted. Matthew, inexplicably, got down from his horse and began walking into the melee, stiff-legged and empty-handed. Henri got down himself, handed the reins of his horse to Benjamin, who had just come up behind, and followed. He was so frightened he wanted to puke. Though their uniforms were so tattered as to be unrecognizable, there could be little doubt about whom they’d rode in with. Yet Matthew seemed to walk robed in his father’s untouchability.
Henri followed him through a gap in the line, taking a long step over a corpse still twitching. It was the boy that had asked the question that morning, he thought, who’d been spared the firing squad at the last moment the day before. But he couldn’t pause now to look twice and make sure. From a wagon bed someone was sighting one of the new Spencer repeaters on Matthew. Henri’s own revolver was cold in his hand. He knew the idea was to take out the rifleman before he shot Matthew, but he felt he could not bring himself to do it until afterward. There was something about this enemy’s face. Though he did not wear a Fort Pillow badge, he had actually been at Fort Pillow. There he had told Henri his name.
Sam Green.
He must have cried the name out loud, for Green lowered his weapon and beckoned the two of them up into the wagon with him. Matthew, still moving stiffly, like an automaton, climbed up behind the right front wheel. Sam Green stretched out a hand to help him. Henri stuck his