FORT PILLOW

Ragged wisps of cloud scudded past the moon, now hiding it, now letting it shine down on Fort Pillow. Nearing first quarter, it rode high in the sky, a little west of south. Its pale light would have been better suited to a happier scene, but Bill Bradford couldn't do anything about that.

His head spun. He wasn't so steady on his feet as he wished he were. He'd had to drink a good deal of the vile whiskey he took from the sutler's stall. He'd had to drink a good deal, yes, but he drank a lot less than he pretended to. He might be tiddly, but he wasn't smashed.

The Reb who was supposed to be keeping an eye on him, on the other hand… Bradford eyed the young cavalry trooper. The Confederate was still on his feet. All by itself, that said he was a man of impressive capacity. With so much redeye in him, Bradford knew he would have curled up asleep somewhere, like a cat in front of a fire.

Asleep the Reb was not. He was singing "0, Susanna"-loudly, and out of tune, in a voice most of an octave deeper than the one he used for ordinary speech. If he'd really had a banjo on his knee, Bradford would have plucked it off and broken it over his head.

Then the trooper stopped. He looked at Bradford. "You're not singing," he said, as if he'd noticed only now. He probably had. He'd been caterwauling away himself for quite a while.

"I just put my brother in the ground," Bradford said. "I don't feel like singing."

"You're a lousy homemade Yankee," the Reb said. "I bet you don't know how to shing-uh, sing."

"I sing in the church choir," Bradford retorted. That was true, even if he hadn't done much of it lately.

"Well, la-de-da," said the Reb-his name was Ward, Bradford remembered. "If you sing there, you can sing here." He wasn't too drunk to remember where his rifle musket lay. "You can sing, or I can blow your fucking head off. Who'd miss you?"

Bill Bradford fought the fear that welled up in him. "Your officers told you to keep me safe."

Ward only laughed. "If I tell 'em you tried to run off, nobody'll give a damn. Hell and breakfast, they'll likely promote me. You stupid son of a bitch, don't you understand that everybody in this whole state wants you dead?"

Everybody in this whole state wants you dead. Bradford knew it was an exaggeration. Tennessee did have its share of Union sympathizers-not enough to keep it from seceding, but enough to make trouble for the Confederate authorities. Even so, the Thirteenth Tennessee Cavalry (U.S.) and other outfits like it were a long way from popular with their neighbors. Ward might be exaggerating, but he wasn't lying.

"I can't sing-it wouldn't be right," Bradford insisted.

"You can if you drink some more." In his own way, the young Reb

was a practical man. Now he picked up the whiskey jug and thrust it at Bradford. "Here. Drink, you lousy, stinking bastard."

Bradford drank-some. Then he put his tongue over the opening and pretended to swallow more. That done, he gave the jug back. "Now you."

"What? You reckon I want to drink with a goddamn Tennessee Tory?" Ward scowled at him. Then he seemed to scowl at himself. "But I drank with you already, didn't I? And I sure do want to drink." By the way his Adam's apple worked, he wasn't pretending to pour the rotgut down. "Ahh!" he said, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "That's the stuff, all right." Bradford hoped he would forget why they were drinking, but he didn't. On a day full of defeats, here was one more. Ward scowled again. "Sing, God damn you."

And so, standing by his brother's grave, William Bradford sang "0, Susanna" with a drunken Confederate cavalry trooper who would sooner have shot him. Tears streamed down his face. Ward never noticed. By God, you'll pay for this-you and Bedford Forest and Jeff Davis, too.

When the song was finally over, Ward looked at Bradford. "Well, you can sing. Who would've thunk it? You may be a lousy, stinking bastard, but you aren't a lousy, stinking, lying bastard, anyways."

"I'm so glad you approve," Bradford murmured. No doubt luckily for him, that went right over the Reb's head. He gestured at the jug. "Have another knock, why don't you?"

"I will if you will," Ward said. "You've got to sing some more, too. You're pretty goddamn good, all right." He picked up the jug and swigged from it, then passed it to Bradford. "Damn thing's almost dry."

And you're still on your feet, goddammit. I thought you'd pass out on me right away. Do you have a hollow leg? Aloud, Bradford said, "I found that one. I expect I can come up with another one if I need to." He also drank-again, less than he pretended to. Pretty soon, the Reb would have to fall asleep… wouldn't he?

Not yet. "Sing," he told Bradford, and launched into "Camptown Ladies." Wincing, nearly sobbing, the Federal officer joined in. The tune was cheerful, even joyous. His mood was anything but.