Crossing the Deadline Read online

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Sunday, September 25, 1864, 8:38 a.m.

  I look over my right shoulder. Henry’s sitting, his back against the wall, cradling his bugle with both arms, rocking back and forth as if in a trance. I hear soft, muffled moans, and he’s biting his lip so hard, his front teeth have sliced all the way through. Blood’s running down his chin and pooling onto his shirt.

  I slap Henry on his shoulder. “Stop biting your lip!” I yell.

  He stops rocking, but his stare is fixed somewhere distant. “Stephen, I ain’t going to prison,” he says. “I’d rather die here and get it over with fast.”

  But I know Henry’s wrong. I pray, for both our sakes, a Confederate bugler sounds the call requesting our surrender. At least we have a chance to survive a prison stay, but zero odds if we continue fighting. The call for surrender doesn’t come.

  A speck of sun finally appears in the eastern sky, and another man limps in from the cornfield. He’s favoring his right leg, where his britches have a gash the size of my palm. The pant leg below that spot is soaked in crimson red. I watch him grab a piece of splintered wood dangling from the wall of the fort. The plank comes loose in his hand, and he falls like a quail shot to the ground. He pulls himself up, uses the plank as a crutch, and starts toward the hospital. He hobbles to the building, but, as he reaches the door, a shell whizzes past his head. The building looks like a snowdrift hit by a locomotive engine. Debris flies in every direction. Nobody inside can still be alive. Timbers, bedding, and surgical equipment rain down over the fort.

  The ground feels alive, breathing and beating. I don’t see the Negro sniper who used the hospital as a shield. He must be buried beneath the building’s rubble.

  I turn to the wall and peer through an opening barely wide enough for the barrel of my gun to fit. I see soldiers move from tree to tree, but they are too far away to take a shot. Moisture runs down my thigh. I fear I’ve been hit by a bullet or a plank from the hospital. I look down. Thank God, it’s not blood. I’ve only wet myself.

  The occasional shot fired from our rifle pit stops the progress from the south, but we all know they won’t advance much closer from that direction. They are not there to attack the fort. They’re there to prevent us from escaping. Attacks grow more intense from the north and east as the day goes on. Time crawls, and the ground never stops shaking. Not a minute passes that somebody doesn’t scream out in agony or yell to God for mercy.

  By nine p.m., snipers from the hill have driven off all the Negro soldiers from the western wall, and they’re now dispersed among all the troops ringing the inside of the rest of the fort. One fellow squeezes between Henry and me.

  A shell explodes near Colonel Minnis, and he falls to the ground. The hospital’s a wasted heap of smoking rubble, so soldiers carry the colonel to the underground magazine, where munitions are stored.

  Major Cunningham takes command and hurries toward Major Lilly. He’s a few feet from us when a minié ball shoots through his back and comes out of his chest.

  Major Lilly takes command and, through the roar of explosions, yells at me, “Stephen Gaston, sound ceasefire!”

  I bring my bugle to my lips, stand, and point the barrel toward the eastern hillside. I sing the words in my head as I play the notes as loudly as I’ve ever played before, “C-ease Fire. C-ease Fire. C-ease Fire.”

  Our men stop firing, and soon, so do the rebels.

  “Major Lilly,” somebody calls. “We are close to running out of munitions. We have a pile of Smithfields, but they’re too large of a carbine to use.”

  Major Lilly surveys the destruction to the interior of the fort. Gaping holes sprinkle the western and northern walls. The hospital’s gone. Major Lilly thinks for a minute, then stands. “The lead is soft enough to pare. Whittle the Smithfields down to fit.” He sounds angry. “If that’s all we have to use, we’ll have to use them.”

  Can’t he see the situation is hopeless? He’s said so from the moment we arrived at the trestle.

  “Men, hold your fire until they’re close to the fort. Then make every shot count.”

  The rebs must have thought they had waited long enough for a sign of truce from us, because an explosion near the center of the fort sprays dirt over every part of me. The shell explodes with so much force, it blows the bugle plum out of my hand. A golden glint of metal flies up and away from me.

  I spit dirt for several seconds and feel that something has me pinned to the ground. At first I think it’s a log from the redoubt. But then, whatever it is, slowly moves on its own. It’s not made of wood at all. It’s the giant fellow called Big Tennessee.

  “Keep your heads down, boys,” Big Tennessee says to Henry and me. “It’s going to get real bad now.”

  I’m still confused and dazed from the explosion as Big Tennessee drags me closer to the eastern part of the fort. “Stay close to the wall so the snipers can’t pick you off,” he says.

  Henry looks at me and stands up. “Do you remember when we snuck into the prison in Indianapolis and saw those men at death’s door?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, half dazed.

  “I can’t do it, Stephen,” he says. “I’m not going to die a slow death in prison.”

  Before I understand what Henry’s doing, he’s standing and facing the center of the fort. He takes two steps into the open line of firing. Big Tennessee tugs his arm to pull him back to safety, but Henry yanks loose and looks back at me. “Stephen, remember, I love my wife to the moon and back,” he says calmly, and walks farther into the open. He stops, bends over, and retrieves a shiny piece of metal from the dirt. It’s my horn. As soon as it’s in his hands, a shell explodes just beyond his feet. I duck, but not before seeing him tossed ten feet into the air. The force throws him against the wall of the fort. Bricks come loose and fall on top of him.

  I rush over. He’s facedown. I pull jagged bricks off his back. Blood pumps from his neck like water from a spring. “Henry! Henry!” I yell. I reach for his shoulder to turn him over and notice he’s still clutching my horn in his hand.

  “Don’t!” Big Tennessee shouts at me, and reaches for my shirttail. I pull away so hard, my shirt rips in his hand.

  “Stephen, don’t move his body!” he screams at me. “He’s gone.”

  Big Tennessee is right. I should have listened to him. I never should have turned Henry over.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Sunday, September 25, 1864

  At eleven a.m. the elephant rests. All sense of time stops. Soldiers hug their guns and look around. I have not been ordered to sound retreat, so this is just a break in the fighting. The rebs are giving us another chance to think about surrender. For the first time, I hear men crying without shame. Moans echo from every corner of the fort. The one nurse, lucky enough to be out of the hospital when it exploded, goes from body to body, doing what he can. Red mud clings to his boots like spurs. Soldiers stare at friends lying near the center of the fort, frozen, unwilling to venture into the open to aid comrades in their last minutes of life.

  The ground’s a plowed field of guts, bones, and bloody mud.

  Through the cries and sobs, an unusual sound develops. Major Lilly raises his hands, signaling for silence.

  Ever so faintly, we hear why the rebs have stopped firing. From the north, perhaps a mile away, we detect the muffled sounds of firing. An engagement. Cheers ring out from several men in the fort. Reinforcements from Pulaski have arrived. Major Lilly manages a slight smile.

  Perhaps this means the onslaught on Sulphur Branch Trestle will end soon.

  Over the next hour, the sounds of gunfire from Forrest’s troops positioned to the north grow fainter and fainter until they disappear altogether.

  “They’re being driven back,” says Big Tennessee.

  * * *

  At noon, a Confederate bugle sounds cease-fire from the area of the trestle. Major Lilly goes to the north wall and looks out. A Confederate soldier, standing in the middle of th
e bridge, waves a white flag of truce. But Forrest isn’t surrendering to us. The white flag is a sign he’s giving Major Lilly the chance to end the fighting and talk things over.

  Major Lilly turns back to the center of the fort and leans against the wall. “How many . . .?” Major Lilly’s voice trails off. In ten months I’ve never seen him like this. He seems weak, spent, unable to finish his question. He clears his throat with a deep cough and looks down at the ground. “How many dead from the Ninth Cavalry?” he shouts.

  “Nineteen of our two hundred,” Sergeant Survant reports.

  “One Hundred Eleventh Colored Troops?” Lilly asks.

  “Over thirty-five,” someone says.

  “Sir, there are over one hundred dead,” somebody calls in a somber voice.

  Major Lilly slumps to the ground and buries his head in his hands.

  * * *

  There’s an uncomfortable silence in the fort as I walk over to him. He doesn’t look at me but glances back out at the white flag still fluttering at the trestle. Wrinkles carved deep into his face show the shame he’s feeling. I sense what’s he thinking. How will this play out from here? Now it’s a chess game with Forrest, and I have to think several moves ahead.

  Everyone studies the major’s face and waits for his response. We’re down to the last handful of bullets. What will more fighting accomplish? Won’t we only lose more men and the battle end the same?

  Major Lilly slowly raises his head. “Stephen, sound retreat.”

  * * *

  I look toward the dark faces scattered among the white ones—they’ve fought together for six hours. “Sir,” I say. “What about the Negro . . .”

  “Damn it, Stephen, the order was for you to sound retreat.”

  * * *

  I walk over to William Peacock and place my hand out, palm up, and ask to use his bugle. There’s no way I can take mine from Henry’s hand and play it.

  After the last note is blown, Major Lilly stands and places his hands on my shoulders. “Come with me and listen carefully. You’re young, and you’ll be my second pair of eyes and ears. Make a memory of all you see and hear.”

  I nod.

  “We need somebody from another state to go along too,” Major Lilly says.

  “Big Tennessee?” I suggest.

  The three of us exit the fort and walk across the trestle to the far end. An officer sitting on a horse motions for us to advance.

  “I’m Major Strange,” he says as we approach. He unfolds a paper curtly and begins reading aloud. “General Forrest demands the immediate and unconditional surrender of the United States forces, with all materials and munitions of war, at Sulphur Branch Trestle. In case this demand is not instantly complied with, General Forrest cannot be held responsible for the conduct of his men.”

  Major Lilly shakes his head several times. “What kind of general do you follow? One that ‘cannot be held responsible for the conduct of his men’?” he asks.

  Major Strange does not answer. He folds the note, leans forward in his saddle, and hands it to a private. He, in turn, walks it over to us and, with his arm outstretched, presents the paper inches from Major Lilly’s nose. The private stands for several seconds before Major Lilly waves him off with a flick of his hand, refusing to accept the offer.

  “Let me say it another way. . .,” Major Lilly begins. “I’d never surrender any fort under such unprofessional insults. If General Forrest can’t control his soldiers, he doesn’t deserve his command or your respect.” Major Lilly turns and motions for us to walk back to the fort.

  A lump the size of the state of Texas rises in my throat. Is he bluffing? We’re all going to die now, I think.

  When we’re halfway across the trestle, I hear footsteps approaching rapidly from behind. “Major Lilly,” a voice calls out. “General Forrest wants an interview.”

  “Just as I hoped,” Major Lilly says low enough for Big Tennessee and me to hear.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Sunday, September 25, 1864, 12:38 p.m.

  General Forrest is sitting outside a tent on a supply box when we approach. Elkmont, the ghost of a town we’d ridden through the day before, is visible off to the west. Forrest’s face is thin—too thin, I think. A pipe protrudes from his mouth under a dense mustache. A long, wavy beard covers much of his neck. He has the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen. They sit deep beneath thick eyebrows. As we approach, he unfolds himself to reveal a height of well over six feet with wide-spreading shoulders. A patch of gray on each temple and a receding hairline are the only signs of aging.

  “So, you have problems with my terms?” the general begins.

  “I do, sir,” Major Lilly says.

  “What are your worries?”

  “We are still able to inflict much damage on your troops,” Major Lilly answers. “My men are willing to carry on the fight if the alternative is to surrender under the conditions you laid out.”

  General Forrest laughs slightly. “Go on?”

  “It is strange, General, that you say you are unable to control your troops . . .,” Major Lilly begins. “It’s curious to me that you’d put that sort of thing in writing, where others might read it later. I, on the other hand, am confident that the soldiers under my command will follow every order given. If your troops won’t follow your commands, it makes me worried about the well-being of my soldiers upon surrender.”

  “How so?” Forrest asks.

  “I have Negro troops,” Major Lilly says in a calm voice. “I want them treated the same as every other soldier under my command.”

  “What makes you think they won’t be?”

  “Your demands said you ‘can’t control your soldiers’ if we don’t surrender. So why would I think you could control them otherwise? Would a competent general question his leadership abilities?” Major Lilly asks.

  “Here is what I’m prepared to offer,” General Forrest says. “Officers retain personal property, horses, and sidearms. My men will escort officers to Mississippi for an eventual exchange to take place in Memphis. Other soldiers retain any personal property, but no sidearms or horses.”

  “All soldiers?” Major Lilly asks.

  “Only soldiers,” General Forrest says cryptically. I know what he means by that. He doesn’t see Negroes as soldiers but property, like a sack of sugar.

  “General Forrest,” Major Lilly says, “every man in that fort wears the letters ‘US’ on his belt buckle.”

  “Only soldiers,” General Forrest repeats but slower this time.

  “Every man in that fort has an eagle on his buttons,” Major Lilly insists, pointing toward the fort. He’s near tears, but he realizes the fight’s over. Now I understand he’s on a mission to save every life he can, and he needs Big Tennessee and me here to witness the agreement. Major Lilly clears his throat, trying to regain composure. “I need your assurance, as a general, that you will control your troops and will give my soldiers . . . every soldier . . . the dignity they deserve.”

  General Forrest thinks for a moment, takes the pipe from his mouth, and pounds it upside down against a tree. After the ashes finish dropping to the ground, he nods ever so subtly in agreement.

  Back in the fort, Major Lilly asks me to blow assembly. When our remaining troops have gathered, he explains the conditions of surrender. At the end of his talk, the major dismisses everybody except the 111th Colored Troops. “I promise you’ll be safe,” he tells them.

  “Major, how can we be sure he’ll keep his word?”

  “I wouldn’t concede the fort until General Forrest promised me you’d be treated like every other soldier under my command.”

  “But maybe that’s just him talkin.’”

  “I took two witnesses to hold him to his word. You have no reason to doubt his promise.”

  “Sir,” an older soldier says, “most people wouldn’t have done that for us.”

  One after another, every Negro soldier salutes and shakes Major Lilly’s hand. When he’s finished, he
turns to me. “Stephen, I’m sorry,” he says.

  “For what?”

  “I promised Governor Morton I’d keep you safe and alive.”

  “And you have, sir.”

  “Don’t make me out to be a liar,” he says. “You’re alive, but you’re not safe. You’ve got to make it back to Indiana and your mother. That was an order Governor Morton gave personally to me.”

  * * *

  Ninety minutes after meeting with Forrest, the few remaining officers mount horses and ride under armed escorts west toward Memphis. The Negro soldiers are corralled on the edge of the cornfield. We’re told they’ll be taken to Mobile. The rest of us begin walking south to Athens to catch a train bound for a prison near Selma. Behind us, flames lap the sky, and Sulphur Branch Trestle burns to the ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  September 28, 1864, 9:45 a.m.

  Under heavy guard, we ride the train for two days before arriving in the town of Beloit. The Alabama air is humid and filled with uncertainty. We’re told we have to walk the last three hours to Cahaba, and immediately many of the men shed their shirts and toss them into the ditch.

  “Your stomach’s growling,” Big Tennessee says as we make our way.

  “The piece of salt pork and hardtack they gave us in Athens is long gone,” I say. I turn and look back on the line of prisoners stretched behind me on the narrow road and see a cloud of dust rising into the sky.

  “Don’t look back, soldier,” a man shouts from the side of the road. “Keep your head and eyes forward.”

  Big Tennessee’s hand smacks the back of my neck. He twists my head so I’m facing the front. Since our surrender, we don’t travel by squads. We meander piecemeal, however we want, in a controlled mob. “Don’t get us in any trouble before we’re even in the prison,” he says with a laugh.

  “We’re not in enough trouble now?” I ask.

  “I guess you’re right about that,” he says.