FORT PILLOW

Things were different here. Captain Carron and Sergeant Clark knew more about the business of serving a gun than did the men they commanded. And that wasn't the only difference. As Robinson told Charlie Key, he could finally do what he'd wanted to do ever since he was a pickani

The rest of the guns brought into Fort Pillow were banging away, too. Shrapnel rounds and solid shot hissed through the air. “We gots the range you wants, Mistuh Captain, suh?” Robinson asked as the twelve – pounder got ready to fire again.

“What? Oh. Yes.” Captain Carron checked himself. “Yes, Sergeant, thank you.”

Ben Robinson preened. A lot of whites on both sides of the battle line thought military courtesy a waste of time. Like most colored soldiers, he saw things differently. To him, military courtesy meant treating everybody the way his rank said he should be treated – his rank, not his color. And Robinson had earned enough rank to be treated with respect even by a captain.

Tiny in the distance, a gray – clad soldier threw up his arms and reeled away when the next round of shrapnel from the twelvepounder burst near him. “You see dat?” Charlie Key whooped. “You see dat, Ben? Uh, Sergeant Ben?”

“I seen it,” Robinson said. “Dat one dead Secesh!” They both capered and danced in glee. If their company commander and gun chief watched with wry amusement as they carried on… If they did, Ben neither noticed nor cared. He wished he could kill all the Confederates from the Mississippi to the Atlantic as easily as he'd slain that one trooper.

With only half a dozen ca

Bullets came back at them, too. Mini? balls – mi

Shame filled him. The last thing in the world he wanted was to play the coward in front of the whites who'd given him the chance to shoot back at the Confederates. Then he saw that Captain Carron and Sergeant Clark were ducking, too, as were the other Negroes in the gun crew. He realized people couldn't help it when bullets flew by. That made him feel better.

“How's it going here?” Major Booth came up to the gun and peered down the long iron tube at the advancing Confederates. “You fellas giving the Rebs hell?”

“Yes, suh!” Robinson said. His voice was the first and loudest among those of the Negroes serving the gun, but everybody sang out.

“A white crew couldn't do any better, sir,” Sergeant Clark said. Hearing that, Ben wanted to burst his buttons with pride. A white sergeant, an experienced artilleryman, said he and his comrades were doing well! If he couldn't feel good about such praise, what could he feel good about?

Major Booth took their good performance for granted, which made Ben Robinson even prouder. “I didn't expect anything different,” Booth said. “Not one thing, you hear? Only thing that matters is how well trained a gu

“Well, they do, sir,” Clark said, and then, “Ain't that right, boys?” The Negroes raised a cheer. Robinson had been called boy before. This didn't feel like that. Clark would – or at least could – have called a group of white soldiers boys the same way. He wasn't using it as an insult, or to deny the Negroes' manhood. Just the opposite, in fact.

Major Booth gri

That was true. They'd had to start from the very begi

“We ain't go

“I didn't reckon you would,” Booth said. “I wouldn't have let you go into combat if I thought you would.” A mi

“Yes, sub.''' the gu

“Good,” Major Booth said. “Now, I've told the sutlers to put out whiskey and dippers along the line. You need a little shot of nerve, you go on and take one. Don't take too much – you've still got to be able to fight the gun. But a little never hurt anybody, white or colored, and that's the God's truth.”

After Booth went on his way, Sergeant Clark eyed the gun crew. “Soon as you see me havin' a drink, you can take one yourselves. That sound fair to you?”

The colored artillerymen looked at one another. “Reckon so, Sergeant,” Robinson said. The others either spoke words of agreement or nodded. They couldn't very well tell the white man set directly over them no, regardless of what Major Booth said. And Clark's comment did strike Ben as fair. He wasn't asking them to do anything he wouldn't do himself.

Brasher than the other Negroes, Charlie Key said, “I gots me a thirst and then some, Sergeant. When you reckon you ply the dipper?” He mimed dipping up whiskey and pouring it down.

Mike Clark looked at him. “Don't aim to use it at all,” he answered calmly. As the blacks stared in dismay, Clark went on, “We've got lots of men with Springfields on the line. Some of them get plastered – well, hell, so what? They'll still put a bunch of mi

Ben considered. Yes, they called popskull Dutch courage. But with a big slave trader and his men coming at Fort Pillow, how much extra courage did the Negroes inside need? “Looks to me like you's right,” he said to Clark, with regret but without any doubt. “Onliest thing I wish is, I wish we could get them gun muzzles down lower, depress 'em, I mean.” He trotted out the word Sergeant He

“Damn thick breastwork,” Clark muttered. Ben Robinson nodded. He'd said the same thing the day before. The white man went on, “Well, we just got to make sure they don't get that close. Come on, you bucks – quit fooling around here! Let's give 'em another round! “

They served the twelve – pounder with a will.