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.

Another Confederate soldier wandered over and joined in. Not too surprisingly, he had a jug of his own. He was a friendly sort, and willing to share. After a healthy snort, Ward sat down on the ground. "How come you're shtill shtanding?" he demanded of Bradford, his voice thick and slurred.

"I've always had a good head on my shoulders." Bill Bradford wondered why Ward was still breathing, let alone talking and making some sense. The amount he'd put away… He'd pay for it in the morning. But Bradford wanted him to pay sooner than that.

Ward blinked now, his eyes shining in the moonlight, and shook his head. "You had a good head on your shoulders, you wouldn't be a homemade Yankee. You'd be on the right shide inshtead." He yawned, shook his head again as if annoyed at himself, and then wagged a finger at Bradford. "Don't you go nowhere," he warned. But that was the end. He slowly slumped to the ground and slept.

"About time," Bill Bradford breathed. Now he had a chance.

"You there! Jenkins!" That sharp, astringent voice could only belong to Second Lieutenant Newsom Pennell.

"Yes, sir?" Corporal Jenkins fought to sound properly respectful. It wasn't easy. He didn't like Pennell, and it cut both ways. Jenkins belonged to Company A and Pennell to Company F, but the junior officer went out of his way to find things for him to do, and came down on him hard when he didn't do them well enough to suit Pennell's persnickety tastes. That was how it seemed to Jack Jenkins, anyhow. He never stopped to wonder how it seemed to the lieutenant.

Pennell came up to him, there by the riverbank. The officer was almost too skinny to cast a shadow. He had a narrow, disapproving face, and wore a little hairline mustache that made him look like a French fop. Jenkins was used to beards that were beards and mustaches that were mustaches, not one that looked as if it were drawn on with a burnt match.

"We need a better perimeter around the fort," Pennell declared. "How come, sir?" Jenkins asked in honest surprise. "We done took the place."

"Yes, yes," Lieutenant Pennell said impatiently. "We took it, and now we have to make sure no one gets out of it."

"I thought we took care of that pretty good," Jenkins said. "We shot most of the bastards in there. The ones that ain't dead ain't goin' anywhere quick." He hefted his rifle musket. Even the moonlight was enough to show the grisly stains on the stock.

But Lieutenant Pennell ignored them, as he ignored Jenkins's comment. "I am going to send you out to the original line of defense around this place, the one that General Pillow laid out," he said, a certain somber glee in his voice. "You and your fellow pickets will stand watch through the night, allowing no one to pass through unless a Confederate soldier or provided with proper authorization. Is that clear?"

"Why'd you pick on me?" Jenkins didn't add, you son of a bitch, not where Newsom Pennell could hear it, but he thought it very loudly.

"When I saw you there, I thought how useful an underofficer might be among the pickets," Pennell answered.

When you saw me standing here, you reckoned you'd land me with a crappy duty. That's what it is, Jenkins thought. "Thanks a hell of a lot, sir," he said.

"You're welcome." Pennell either didn't notice the sarcasm – Jenkins's guess – or refused to admit that he did. "Now go take your place. God only knows how many Federals are trying to sneak away even as we speak. "

God knows it ain't very many. But, short of bashing in Pennell's brains with the gory rifle musket, Jenkins was stuck, and he knew it. With a martyred sigh, he said, "Yes, sir." He didn't salute as he stomped away from Pennell. If the lieutenant wanted to call him on it, fine. Pennell said not a word.

Even finding Fort Pillow's outer works by moonlight wasn't easy. He might never have done it had he not heard several other disgruntled pickets grousing with one another. They gave the two stripes on his sleeve suspicious looks-they had to wonder if he was coming to make them act like proper soldiers. But when he started discussing Newsom Pennell's unsavory ancestry and inflammable destination, they knew him for a fellow sufferer and relaxed.

One of them had a jug. He was willing to share it. "Leastways you brought a little something out of the fort," another picket said mournfully. "Me, I didn't get no loot a-tall."

"This should've been our chance," another man said. He drew on his pipe. The glowing red coal in the bowl lit up the top of his face from beneath: a strange, almost hellish glow. "Now we're stuck out here, and the others're getting all the goodies."

Jenkins already had some greenbacks and new shoes, and now a knock of whiskey. He didn't know what else he could expect to get, but he joined in the grumbling anyway. When the jug came around again, he took another good swig. Thus fortified, he found a place on the outer line that wasn't too close to anybody else's.

Out in the darkness beyond, a whip-poor-will said its name. Jenkins said Lieutenant Pennell's name, loudly and foully. Nothing was going to happen out here. This was all a waste of time. Here he was, stuck. "I'll pay you back for this, Pennell. See if I don't," he muttered.

WHEREVER THE REBEL OFFICER WHO was a Freemason had gone, it didn't look as if he was coming back. Mack Leaming lay where the two Negroes who carried him up to the top of the bluff had left him. He was chilly. The gunshot wound pained him and gnawed at his vitality. But he believed he would live. Maybe the water the Reb gave him helped that much. Maybe his bleeding had stopped. Or maybe he was just tougher than he thought after first getting hit.

Every so often, a Confederate would walk by and look him over. Seeing him barefoot and without his trousers, each Reb in turn would realize he'd already been picked clean and go away. A couple of them thought he was dead. They wanted to put him on the pile of bodies not far away.

“I'm still here,” Leaming said when one of Forrest's troopers bent to take hold of his ankles.

The man jerked back in surprise-and, if Leaming was any judge, in fear as well. “Goddarnn!” he exclaimed. “For a second there, I reckoned you was a dead man talkin' to me.”

“Not quite,” Leaming answered. “I'm only a wounded prisoner.”

He wanted to remind the Reb that Bedford Forrest had taken prisoners; just because he wasn't dead now, that didn't mean the trooper couldn't kill him in a hurry.

“Gave me quite a turn,” the enemy soldier said.

“Do you have a canteen? Could I have some water, please?” Leaming asked. Perhaps because of the blood he'd lost, he'd stayed thirsty even after the Confederate Freemason's kindness.