And the panic from the men who'd taken that blast of musket fire-and the whoops and Rebel yells from the Confederates who were indeed on their tails-stampeded the rest of the Union troops into motion. What point waiting here for the massacre they all saw ahead? The New Era wouldn't rescue them now-they all saw that, too. And so, more a mob, a herd, than anything resembling soldiery, they pelted north, toward where Coal Creek ran into the Mississippi.
One more spooked steer, Bill Bradford ran along with the rest.
A few of the men in Colonel Barteau's regiment along Coal Creek fired at the Federal gunboat as it steamed away from the fight. “No, goddammit! Don't waste your ammunition!” Corporal Jack Jenkins roared, along with other underofficers and officers. “Jesus Christ!” he went on. “You can't hit the son of a bitch at this range, and even if you could, so what? She's iron-plated, for cryin' out loud.”
“Have a heart, Corporal,” a trooper said. “Damn boat's been shootin' at us all day long. Least we can do is pay her back a little.”
“Blow 'em a kiss. Wave bye-bye.” Jenkins suited action to word. “Bastard's gone. That's all we've got to worry about. Now reload your damn piece, and don't go shooting at anything till you got somethin' to shoot at. “
The private scowled. He muttered. But not only did Jenkins have two stripes on his sleeve, he was also taller and wider through the shoulders and, without a doubt, meaner. If the soldier tried to give trouble, he'd end up getting it instead. He might be a grumbler, but he wasn't a fool. He could see that for himself. And he did need to reload, regardless of whether he needed somebody to tell him to do it. He went right on muttering, but he followed Jenkins's order.
And Jenkins was happy enough to leave it right there. Getting troopers to do what you told them was a never-ending pain in the neck. They always thought they had a better idea, and they were bound and determined to go ahead with it no matter what.
He wondered if he was such a pest before he got promoted. A reminiscent smile stole over his face. He was. Not a chance anyone ever set over him would say anything different. He wondered how sergeants and officers ever put up with him. But the answer to that wasn't hard to find. No matter how big a nuisance he'd been, without even trying he could think of a dozen men who were worse.
“What do we do now?” somebody asked.
“There's damnyankees round the bend of the bluff, down by the
Mississippi. You can hear the bastards,” somebody else said. “Let's go kill 'em. Them bastards what went up into the fort, they've had all the fun.”
Jenkins felt the same way. But a nearby lieutenant shook his head. “We'll just sit tight for a little while, is what we'll do. Aren't a whole hell of a lot of us. We might bite off a bigger chaw than we can get in our cheek.”
“Aw, hell sir.” Jenkins was still a pain in the neck, whether he realized it or not. “They ain't real Yankee soldiers, not hardly. Nothin' but Tennessee Tories and niggers in blue shirts. One of us has to be worth… well, a bunch of 'em, anyways.”
“I said no.” The officer got stuffy, the way officers have since the beginning of time. “If they get through us, it's liable to give them an escape route. Do you want to see that happen?”
“No, sir,” Jenkins allowed. He knew how things worked. As long as he kept saying si1; he could get away with saying anything else he pleased, near enough. “But they ain't gonna get through us, sir. No way on God's green earth they can do that. You reckon niggers can fight better'n us… sir?” If the lieutenant said yes to that, he'd have a fight on his hands even if he did wear two bars on each side of his collar.
But the lieutenant shook his head. “No, no, no-of course not, “ he said impatiently. “Up till this combat, I wouldn't've reckoned niggers could fight at alclass="underline" fight like soldiers, I mean.” He sounded faintly, or maybe more than faintly, troubled at having to admit even that much, and more troubled as he went on, “They've done better than anybody imagined they could, I'm afraid.”
“Well, I'm not afraid, sir. To hell with 'em. To hell with 'em all, and with the homemade Yankees, too,” Jenkins said. “Way they were scornin' us and cursin' us during the truce, they must've thought they were somethin' special. They ain't special enough, by Jesus, and they don't fight good enough, neither.”
“That's the spirit, Corporal,” the lieutenant said. “Don't let anything bother you, do you?”
“Not if I can help it, sir,” Jenkins said. “Anything in a blue uniform does bother me, reckon I've got an answer, too.” He held up his rifle musket.
The officer smiled. “Good. If it weren't for you and soldiers like you, we'd never get ourselves a free Confederacy.”
“Well, hell. We'll manage.” Jenkins had as much faith in that as he did in the Resurrection and the Second Coming. “Ain't we whipping the damnyankees out of their shoes here?” He hoped he found a dead Federal with feet his size. His own shoes were falling to pieces.
Around the bend, on the Mississippi River side of the bluff, the gunfire suddenly picked up. So did the shouts and yells. Jenkins had listened with much amusement to the Federals' cries of dismay when their precious gunboat left them in the lurch. After it steamed away, the coons and the homemade Yankees quieted down for a while. Now the fighting picked up again. And by the way the Federals moaned and wailed, things weren't going any too well for them. The Rebel yells that also rang out said those other Confederates on the far side of the enemy were having fun.
And the Federals were heading this way: the shouts were getting louder. For the first time, they also sounded frightened. Gauging things by ear-which was all he could do-Jenkins thought the Federals had put up a pretty fair fight until now. But the men heading this way didn't sound like soldiers under control. They seemed like men who'd had everything they could take, and a litde more besides.
Any Union soldier who saw Jack Jenkins's smile would no doubt have called it nasty. No matter how much the bluebellies had taken, they were about to get some more.
“You see, boys?” that know-it-all lieutenant sang out. “We didn't need to go to the fight. It's coming right to us. Y'all ready to give those Federals a little taste of Southern hospitality?”
“We'll give 'em just what they deserve, by God!” Jenkins said, and the lieutenant didn't grumble or fuss one bit. He only nodded. And his smile was every bit as predatory as the corporal's.
“Here they come!” Half a dozen troopers sang out at the same time as the Federals rushed up to Coal Creek and started away from the Mississippi along its southern bank.
They didn't find the safety they hoped for. They were in no kind of order, and didn't seem to be under any officers' control. Jenkins shot the lieutenant a glance of mingled annoyance and respect. Maybe the men who told ordinary soldiers what to do had some uses after all. Maybe.
“Let 'em get close,” the lieutenant said now. “Let 'em get close, and then give 'em a good volley at my command. May I face eternal damnation if we don't break those sons of bitches. Hold your fire till I give the order, y'all hear?”
Nobody said no. Even more to the point, nobody started shooting. On came the men in blue. Their “Hurrah!” made a poor excuse for a battle cry, but they used it when they were in good spirits. They weren't cheering now-oh, no. Some of them skidded to a stop when they saw a line of Confederates in front of them. Others kept coming-not so much because they were eager to attack, Jenkins judged, as because they didn't know what else to do.
Only a handful of Federals raised Springfields to their shoulders and fired, trying to clear the way of Bedford Forrest's men. One luckless Confederate howled and crumpled, clutching at a shattered knee. “At my order…,” the lieutenant said, and then, “Fire!”