Tranquilla: Book 3 - Horizons: Tranquilla series, #3

By Charles McRaven

The war that none of them wanted rages around them, although the ending is nearing, with its losses, its devastation. Tranquilla must hold as much together as she can: her people, the land, remnants of the Old South's legacy. Her daughters are belles with blisters on their hands, and the last of her children work beside her in the fields with the few hired hands. They must hold on, endure, then face the task of rebuilding. It is hard, but it has always been hard, and she is no stranger to adversity. Her one goal is to see that all her children are as secure as possible in the chaos of Mississippi Reconstruction, in some ways worse than the war itself. As the men come home—those who are left—they face the future with her still leading, still tireless, still undaunted. She must not give up, cannot give up yet. Or ever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613094891

Book preview

Dedication

To all who know her story: may it live on.

One

Early in 1864, the Civil War was moving inevitably toward its close, and the dreaded defeat of the South. Tranquilla McRaven and her family heard with dismay of the Union victories in the East, and of Sherman’s successes on the way through Georgia. They continued to plant, to patch, to stretch food and materials beyond what was possible, hoping to hold out, to resist, to survive.

There was a suspenseful period of uncertainty until the new Byhalia commander, Colonel Blair, revealed the nature of his handling of the command. And while no one expected a harsher rule than that of his predecessor, it was impossible to predict what lay ahead for them. At best, in this enemy-occupied region of Mississippi, they could expect little. At worst...well, nobody wanted to speculate on that. They prayed they’d already experienced the worst.

Despite such good news as the near-miracle of Tranquilla's nephew Stuart Nicholson’s survival and rescue, and the daring, but transitory, capture of Memphis by General Bedford Forrest, the vise tightened around the region.

Of the privation among families in northern Mississippi, such rueful comments emerged as the patches on my patches have patches, as the very last of usable cloth wore out.

But somehow, there were still even weddings, with crippled veterans, sunburned girls from the fields, scatterings of kin and friends. And while the grand balls of the past were now only memories, there were gatherings among the remnants of the gentry, and among the small farmers. Church services continued, where prayers for deliverance were sent in a constant, tragically hopeful stream toward the God who no longer seemed to care.

Tranquilla prayed that the scars from this ravaged time would not destroy the decency, the very humanity of those surviving around her. Subject any creatures to cruelty, hopelessness, privation, and in time the very core of society is destroyed. She knew from her studies of history how chaos always followed war, how the animal-like struggle for survival turned into lawlessness, the rule of the strong and the cruel. The inevitable subjugation, even the destruction of those weakened beyond resistance. She foresaw, God forbid, an actual Reign of Terror in her beloved South.

And her son Harvey seethed with an inner fury against the invaders. At fifteen, doing more than a man’s work on the place, he wanted more than anything to enlist, to add whatever he could to the resistance, the fight to preserve the land, the culture, their very lives.

Tranquilla’s daughters, she feared, had reached a level of drudgery in this privation that threatened to dull them permanently. Just the daily, grinding chores necessary to feed them all, clothe them, keep the shelter over their heads, must surely leave their scars. This, even without the daily threat of raids, foraging, seizure of the little they still owned.

NATHAN BEDFORD FORREST and his miniature army had ridden north in early April, on a sortie that was to include his most controversial battle. Having left the returned Larkin's Lancers and part of his forces to harass the Federals, he skirted Union lines to strike at major northern fortifications. Western Tennessee and Kentucky were to be his areas of operation, even into Ohio.

This bold raiding well behind enemy lines characterized the general, who never defended when he could attack. The strategy had infected his officers also: the late Colonel Winfield Darby and now the intense Texan who had risen to take his place. Ambrose Larkin had not been happy at being left behind, but he was given discretionary powers, and he used them.

For some time, word had come from Forrest’s Holly Springs contacts of the Union jubilation following cavalryman Darby’s killing. Eventually, the name of the now-famous Sergeant Hugh Towson emerged. And was repeated enough times to begin to irritate the captain of the Lancers.

From messages received from Confederate commanders resisting Sherman’s last Mississippi operations and his Atlanta campaign, Larkin saw his duty as disruption. Of railroads, wagon trains of supplies, communications. In short, he was to concentrate on this region intensely, while Forrest raided north.

Accordingly, he recruited, trained, prepared, his band for the work at hand. He began provisioning as best he could, by the hated foraging, trying to range wide so as not to hit individual farms too hard.

The major north-south railroad to the west of his base ran from Grand Junction in Tennessee to Holly Springs and on south. It was heavily guarded near each town, and patrolled regularly by Union troops along remote stretches. Forrest had successfully wrecked track, blown bridges and culverts, but such harassment was becoming more hazardous. And less effective, as the Union army kept track, crossties, beams for trestle-building, stockpiled for quick repairs.

But the raids kept the Confederate cavalry supplied, and now and then the raiders distributed Federal rations among the farmers they’d been compelled to forage from. The arrangement had a certain symmetry to it, Larkin fancied: the Union occupied much of the region, denying its citizens their full freedom, taking their sustenance from them in foraging. The Confederates also foraged, but sought to restore the land and rights of their countrymen. If hampering the Union armies also yielded captured supplies that could be shared, that seemed only right.

So. He must devise a strike. And another, and another. To slow the action of the Federal vise that was clamping the South. While its inhabitants survived, prayed for a miracle, endured.

The captain called together his staff, such as it was: Carl Clinton, Augustus Varner, and the scout Eli. As usual, Larkin dispensed with rank.

"Men, we need a way t’hit th’ railroad up f’m Holly Springs. Hit it hard, an’ at th’ right time fer a load of supplies. And we need t’git a bunch of wagons t’ git th’ stuff back thisaway, fast. And we need t’keep th’ Yanks from nailin’ our hides t’th’ barn door. He paused, looked from man to man. So, I need idees."

Whoah, now, Carl exhaled, pushing back from the camp table they’d gathered around. Y’don’t want much, Cap’n.

Mightn’t be so hard, Gus reasoned. "Fust part, ennyway. We c’n find out through Doc Benson when th’ supply trains is due in. And we c’n watch fer patrols, with men posted up ’n down th’ tracks. But whut we cain’t do is guarantee th’ Unions won’t be down on us lak stink on horseshit th’ minute we blow a bridge or tear up track. And I cain’t see how we c’n git ‘nuff wagons close ’nuff t’move stuff out o’ thar, quick..."

All right. Whut you thaink, Eli?

The scout had stood, arms folded, a frown on his face. Larkin knew the man’s brain was working, visualizing, setting up, rejecting. Seeing sections of track, bridges. While the man thought, he envisioned some of the same images. The silence grew.

Won’t do, Eli said, finally. Too risky, which we’re used to, but it jist won’t work, all of it.

What part will, do you thaink?

Blowin’ bridges, yes. Wreckin’ track, yes. Gittin’ away clean, I c’n see that. It’s th’ unloadin’ th’ train, haulin’ th’ stuff off, outrunnin’ th’ Unions. Cain’t see no way...

All right, I got a plan fer that. Now, knowin’ th’ place like y’all do, where’d we best cut th’ line?

North? Either Coldwater Bridge, er up on th’ Wolf River, Gus stated the obvious. But there’s Federals thick as flies both places.

Yep. An’ south, where’d we best hit it south?

Tallahatchie, fer shore, but same thaing, there.

What you gettin at, ’Brose? Carl was puzzled.

Here’s th’ way I see it, men. What Eli says is true...cain’t hope t’raid th’ railroad, fight off th’ Unions an’ git away ’th much ’sides our skins. So we don’t raid th’ railroad, least not thataway. We raid th’ town. He sat back in the kitchen chair with its missing slat.

Holly Springs?

With all th’ troops thar?

This heat gittin’ to you, Cap’n?

Now, hold on a minute. Y’saw how well that little...d’version worked, over to Byhalia, didn’t you? Wal, they’s ’nuff of us t’do it agin, we do it right...

Town’s awful heavy guarded, Carl Clinton interposed.

"Is. So we go as close to it as we kin git, on south. Blow a bridge er even a culvert. Er tear up tracks—don’t matter jist whut. An’ th’ same time, we do it north a ways. Not’s far as th’ Coldwater, though. Close ’nuff they c’n git word back t’th’ Springs quick, an’ git th’ troops out—both ways..." He let that penetrate.

So, Gus pieced it out, th’ town gits thin on troops—I got thet. An’ yes, we c’n run in quick. But Cap’n, th’ supplies is still on th’ train north, an’ ain’t nuthin’ on th’ south train? I don’t see...

"No, we let th’ supply train on in first, y’see. Then we blow th’ track. Half th’ troops run up north t’try an’ ketch us, fix th’ rails, pertect th’ track, whatever. ’N th’ other half runs south t’th’ other place, leavin’ th’ town and th’ supplies."

Eli finished for him: An’ th’ wagons is all thar in th’ Springs, ready t’be loaded an’ hauled off here. A grin began to spread. While th’ bluebellies is out beatin’ th’ bresh north an’ south fer us.

Y’got it, shore. The young captain rested his keen eyes on first one, then the other of his men.

Got t’know ’bout whar th’ patrols is, Gus reasoned. Leastwise, th’ big bunches of troops. We c’n blow a little squad plumb away, long’s we don’t leave no tell-tales.

And we’ll have to run the back roads to get out quick, Carl cautioned.

Yep, we will. But listen: we spread th’ word in Holly that we’re Forrest. Don’t nobody know yit whar he’s at, ’n won’t, till he’s in a big scrap. Confuse ’em, ennyway. An’ won’t no ragtag outfit come after us, they thaink th’ genral’s in it. They’se plumb ’fraid to.

Damn, I like it, ’Brose, Clinton gave his commander a playful push to the shoulder. "Break th’ rails two places, git provisions, mules, wagons. Mebbe rifles an’ cartridges."

Won’t be easy, though, gittin’ it all t’happen jist right. Wrong timin’, and we’re up a tree. Now, Carl, yer th’ best rider. Take th’ fastest hoss, an’ make contact ’th Doc Benson. Git us a train schedule, ennyway y’can. Need to know when a big un’s comin’ in to th’ Springs. Find out how many troops er in town an’ about. Reckon Colonel Thompson’s still in charge, though we don’t know who’s commandin’ out of Byhalia yit. Sherman’d left Thorsen over Thompson an’ all th’ little places. Allus struck me as odd they’d choose Byhalia fer their headquarters.

Scared of Forrest gittin’ to Memphis, that’s why, Gus declared. An’ he’ll do it agin, someday, jist t’spite ’em, but they got th’ place all guarded, close in.

Guess yer right. Carl, take enny man you want. I’ll scout north, an’ Eli, you take south. Need t’git t’th’ rails some empty stretch, swamp er woods, er some’r’s they’s people we know. Now, we ain’t got ’nuff powder t’blow two bridges, so we’re talkin’ tore up track, most likely. Gus, see what you c’n find hereabouts. If we ain’t got powder, we’ll need prybars an’ axes, sledgehammers, chisels, t’git th’ tracks up. Wind ’em hot aroun’ trees, way we gin’rally do. An’ split th’ boys up right, so we got th’ right men at th’ tracks. Only keep me out Chet Blunt, was with Win when he got kilt. Knows th’ town better’n most of us. Let’s ride tonight.

LEWIS BENSON WAS ACCUSTOMED to arriving home late to find a rider in his kitchen, unfailingly polite to Sarah and the children, waiting with information. At first it had seemed a huge risk, but as the war wore on, and as the Confederacy made good use of his work, it had become almost an avocation.

Spy, that’s what I am. With all its negative connotations. Espionage, that sounds better, for some reason. Well, by any name, I’m the first link in the information chain, the eyes and ears hereabouts. As long as our boys can reach me, we can get word across to the big river, or on east.

Sarah approved mightily of the work, often hiding messengers in the house till it was safe. With so many patients in and out, it was easy for the troops to move without suspicion, so long as they weren’t visible when others were legitimately there. It was little enough, she reasoned, that they could do for the Confederacy.

Before dawn, the insistent knocking came at the back door. Lewis shushed his wife and took a pistol with him.

Who’s there? he called.

Carl Clinton, Doc, the cavalryman answered, glancing again along the empty street.

Come in here, then, the doctor greeted, unlocking the door. Where’s your horse, Carl?

Put him in yer stable. Didn’t dare leave him out, or th’ Blues might do what they did to Win. Fuzzy Babb’s with ’em. We brought feed.

Good. Tight out there, with three horses, but I’ll be going early today. He was kindling a fire in the cookstove. I’ll get some coffee going. Colonel Thompson let me have some after I took care of a fever patient.

Sounds good, Doc. How’s Miss Sarah and the young’uns?

Doing well. How’re your folks?

Last I heard, good. Pa wants me back in school, but I told him we’d have to whip the Yanks first. Only law schools open are up north. But what I came for, we need to know when the supply trains come down...

You’re going to stop one? Risky, Carl. They’ve regular patrols, now. Railroad means a lot to them.

No, it’s more complicated than that. We don’t have many men, Doc, because Forrest’s up north. And you know, of course, to keep that quiet. What we’ll do is quick and brash, and it’ll depend on what we can find out.

Well, just you all take care. Don’t want to lose another Win Darby. Who’s leading you while Forrest’s gone? Or if you’d rather not say...

No. If we can’t trust our best contact, who can we? Ambrose Larkin. Texas. You might not remember him, Lewis, but he thinks good. Set up the raid on Byhalia.

Did he? We figured that was Forrest himself. What happened?

Well, Thorsen wouldn’t surrender the garrison, pulled a gun on Larkin. You don’t do that to Larkin.

Apparently not. Well, you might not have heard, but Colonel Blair’s in command now. The brass in Memphis weren’t happy with Thorsen’s style. Made too many enemies.

Don’t know Blair yet, but we’ll see. Anyway, if we can know when a supply train is in, we can do some good. You know how big the garrison is here, now?

That I can tell you. It’s down to fifteen hundred men. Sherman’s about to do something, probably drive down from Chattanooga, and he’s called men in from everywhere. Now’d be the time to take this region back, if Forrest were here.

Don’t say? We didn’t get that word, or he’d probably have stayed close. But if he can cut their supply and communications, maybe he can delay Sherman. Most of the Union support will come out of Nashville, and Forrest can cripple that, too, if Sherman does go that way.

Hope so. Have a cup of this, now. I can have you the schedules by midday. You can stay here, of course, till we get the word. I’m a little worried about both of you maybe being seen, though.

Have to take our chances, Doc. Man, good coffee. Well, good morning, Miss Sarah. He rose, bowed as Sarah entered.

I heard voices. Hello, Carl. You alone?

No, ma’am. Got Fuzzy Babb in th’ stable.

Getting light. I’ll take him some coffee.

I’ll do that, her husband offered. I’m due out to Cready’s early. Wish you two didn’t have to hole up here all day, but you’ll probably want to wait till dark to leave. Lot of people know you here.

We’ll keep. Too much of what we do is waiting. And I’ll take Fuzzy the coffee now, while I can slip out, Lewis. We’ll sleep in the hay. Just send the message when you have it.

I will. I’ll make contact on the way to the plantation now, set the wheels moving.

Sarah had put together a parcel of food for her husband when she heard he was leaving early. His patients always fed him, but it was a long drive to the Cready place. She also pressed biscuits and ham on Carl.

"Thank you, Miss Sarah. Y’know, Lewis, if either one of us had predicted, back when we were in school at Oxford, that we’d be running a spy network and sabotaging military operations in a few years, we’d have known he was crazy." He laid a hand fondly on Lewis’s shoulder.

Crazy thing, war, Carl. I just hope we can get back to being human when it’s over.

Me, too, if it’s not too late.

The men slept soundly in the barn hay, as if their discovery would not mean death or imprisonment. The messenger arrived about noon, and passed the note to Sarah. Being an elderly woman, the contact aroused not a whisper of suspicion. And in addition to the information about supply trains, from her own observations, the woman had detailed the locations of the troop concentrations.

It was a deadly piece of paper, and one Sarah got to Carl Clinton immediately. He thanked her, ran his eyes over the contents, and whistled.

All right! This is exactly what we need, Miss Sarah. And just a word for you: don’t go down by the station after dark, next few days.

We won’t. Good luck, Carl. Billy, we saw your folks last week, and they’re fine. Send their love.

Thanks, Miss Sallie. I miss ’em. Cousin Katy doin’ all right, too? Miss her most, I guess.

Perky, and growing. She’s quite the young lady. Be sure to come home safe, when this is all over, both of you. She turned and left them.

TWO DAYS LATER, IN late afternoon just after a long train carrying provisions, arms, boots and blankets rumbled over a small culvert in a stretch of woods, mounted Confederates raced from cover. They ripped up track, cut the telegraph lines, set fire to stacked crossties, and heated rail sections. Sentries watched from a wide perimeter while the iron heated.

How much longer? came from hard-riding couriers.

Tell ’em now, Billy Babb judged, calculating the time for the men to gather. The couriers raced off again.

Minutes later the troops rode in, and teams of them lifted the rails, glowing red at their midpoints, from the fires. They half-dragged them to the nearest trees, and bent them around in knots. Bark and green wood smoldered, and steam arose, giving off the pungent odor of sizzling tree sap.

As the last of eight lengths of track were bent, the fuse was set to gunpowder under the brick culvert. Another lookout, from well down the railroad toward Holly Springs, raced up on a panting horse.

They’re comin’! he yelled.

Billy motioned the men back with a sweep of his arm, waited a few seconds, then lit the fuse. The men mounted and galloped off to the east.

Up the winding farm road roughly paralleling the tracks rode 500 Union troops, alerted by the dead telegraph and fearing destruction of the railroad. They rode hard toward the columns of smoke from the burning crossties, hoping to catch the raiders.

Ahead of the Union riders, and behind the Confederates, the culvert blew, sending bricks and debris high in the air.

Almost exactly the same scene had been occurring south of Holly Springs, this time at a plantation nearer to town, whose owners lived in the settlement. The work went quickly, fires having already been started. The lines were cut, track heated and bent, and a brick culvert pried apart where the tracks crossed a drainage ditch on heavy timbers.

Colonel Elihu Thompson had only lately dispatched his troops up the track, after the rumor of the raid was confirmed by incoming patrol soldiers who’d seen the smoke.

And you did not investigate, Corporal?

Nossir. Orders was to report back here at five o’clock, and we did. The man was secure in his action. His superior grimaced.

Minutes later, the colonel heard a hail of gunfire south of town. Like everyone else, he ran out, then issued orders.

Lieutenant! Take a detachment and go! Now! I want those raiders!

Yessir. Thought the word was they were north, sir.

Fool got it wrong. Go!

Thompson had been chafing ever since the order had come in from Vicksburg: Sherman needed half his troops for some campaign. With Forrest near, he’d objected, pointing out the obvious danger to the rail lines, their supply link to the north. And with characteristic obstinacy, the army had insisted.

One bright spot, he reflected: Forrest himself had moved north. This intelligence had come from the colonel’s own reconnaissance agents. He had learned that knowledge of the Confederate general’s whereabouts was vital to his command. So this would be only some handful of raiders, out to do mischief. It could be quickly dealt with, he was sure, but it must be decisive, serve as a lesson. Catch them, have them shot, and it will deter any such foolishness for a long time.

Up the line, the captain in charge surveyed the scene of the wreckage, then sent patrols in every direction in pursuit of the raiders. Trouble was, he realized, there was no way to know which way they’d gone. Too much horse traffic in the roads to tell, from tracks, which belonged to what must be a small band.

But, given Union occupation north, south and west, they’d probably come from, and gone, east. Unless, of course, like John Mosby’s men in Virginia, they had simply melted back into the landscape.

Getting dark soon. The captain had lists made of material needed for repairs, waited by the crosstie fires with his aide for his troops to return.

Again, the scene was repeated south of town, with the arrival of the Union troops. Riders were sent in pursuit, but with no real notion of where to go.

The minute the detachment had galloped south, butternut horsemen raced into town. Wagons and teams were confiscated from the Union wagon yard and corrals, under the Confederate guns. A line of cavalrymen covered the newly-arrived train, with orders to the workmen to load the supplies into the wagons streaming to the depot.

Shouts of Forrest, it’s Forrest! rang in the streets, reaching the colonel as he ran outside his headquarters in a house off the main street. No, it’s not Forrest. Couldn’t be. But, wait! Attacks up and down the tracks, and now here—it has to be Forrest! And that meant a large force, because he’d recently recruited and trained enough men to drive Sooey Smith’s entire army back to Memphis.

Colonel Elihu Thompson stopped in his tracks. Two thirds of his men strung out north and south, chasing shadows. They’d cut the telegraph wires first, of course. And now yelling, firing at the depot.

He shouted for his horse, and a private threw the saddle on, led it at a run from the stable behind the house. He mounted and spurred toward the depot, calling for his men to form up and follow.

Unfortunately, few men remained nearby. A handful from the house he'd commandeered fell in behind him, but most were scattered throughout the town, in that loose presence an occupying force assumes after a year and a half.

He could see ahead, in the gathering dark, a line of Confederate cavalry guarding the train and the filling wagons. He drew rein, and the few men behind him came up.

"Roberts, find a bugler. Have him sound to arms. Bring ’em here! Evans, skirt around the depot, find Captain Hanks, wherever he is. Have him form his men up and wait for my signal. Now, Evans, make sure the captain gets every man he can find. He’s got ten minutes. Who’re you, soldier?"

Private Goolsby, sir.

Goolsby, get every man you can find, right here. Now! The man ran off.

If he could gather forces here and beyond, they could crush the rebels between them. He hung back, trying to see how many there were. No matter, they’d leave the wagons and run for it when his pincer movement charged them.

Frightened townspeople slammed doors and windows, and ran for cover. The Black and white laborers strained with the unloading. Shouts rang out: Forrest! Over and over again. A prickling ran up the colonel’s spine. Where were those men?

Then he heard a bugle sound charge from west of town, and a volley of shots from that direction. Rebel reinforcements! A Forrest maneuver. All right then, I’ll shift Hanks' forces, meet them...

Then another bugle, and a barrage of firing from the east. The men who had come running stopped, turned this way and that, then, seeing him, came on. In seconds fifty men were around him, rifles ready, but confused, forming a circle with him in the center.

Think, man, think! If you signal Hanks now, you’ll be caught in your own movement. Damn! If he’s coming from all directions, he’s got to have 3,000 men, at least. Forrest! The name chilled him.

The spectacle of hordes of lean Confederate cavalrymen, sabers flashing, guns blazing, lit up his mind. Too many. My men gone. No time to form up, rally...

He made his decision. Signaled the bugler.

"Retreat, men! Fall back up the railroad! Sound retreat! And the colonel turned his horse and spurred north through town, Union troops at his heels.

Captain Hanks had just begun to consolidate his running, confused troops when the charge from the west sounded.

Oh, damn. Now what does the old man want? We’re set to crush Forrest between us, and here he comes from the side...

Form up! Fall in, men! They came, singly up side streets, in clumps, running, eyes wide.

Then the bugle and firing from the east. We’re caught in the middle! Where’s the colonel’s signal? Too late for that, now...

But still he held his men. Heads turned every direction. Forrest! Every man felt a tingle of fear.

Then the retreat sounded from the other side of the depot. Thompson was pulling back. All right, then.

Move out, men! Down the tracks! Move it! And they did. Fading south as Thompson and his men faded north, they left the filling wagons and the Rebel cavalry alone, intent only on saving themselves from the envisioned jaws of Forrest’s double movement.

The retreats ran into the forces returning from the rail-wrecking scenes, north and south.

It’s Forrest! He’s got the town! rang out from the hurrying soldiers. Their pace increased with the fever of that name, shouted, repeated.

The colonel called a halt, found some of his officers, and attempted to restore order. He needed a count of his men, and it was dark. He did not know who was on the south side, except for Hanks, if indeed Hanks had been found.

He sent riders wide to contact his captain and report back. He tried to plan. For what, though? How many did Forrest have?"

Reinforcements. We need reinforcements. He sent riders across to the pike toward Byhalia, to ask Blair for every man he could spare. But Blair had just been hit, himself, he remembered.

All right, now. First, link up with Hanks. Consolidate. Inventory men and arms first. Then... Damn, we can’t even repair the telegraph lines without supplies. Damn Forrest. Damn Sherman, taking my men. Damn this war.

Colonel Elihu Thompson was from New York State. Apple country. Right then he very much wanted to be back among the apple trees, at home.

Ambrose Larkin gave the signal to move out, and the lead wagon rolled east. An advance scouting force led, then the laden wagons, strung out over the darkened roads. Flanking parties followed, then the main body of his troops, as rear guard.

Not too fast, men, but steady, he’d ordered. The mules were fresh, but no one knew how much time they’d bought. It promised to be a long night.

Behind them, reacting to Larkin’s shouted invitation, doors opened and the citizenry poured out into the night, to strip the remaining supplies from the plundered train.

WITH THE COMING OF daylight and his command reunited, the prospect looked better to Colonel Thompson. Word sent from Blair instructed him to wait for reinforcements, at which time the Union forces would retake the town and repair the railroad and telegraph.

That day and the following night troops streamed in. Thompson had relocated north up toward Red Banks and Byhalia, and by the second morning, a sizeable force of 5,000 men had assembled, drawn from every occupied village in the region.

They marched early, into fine, misty rain. Skirmishers were sent out, but met no resistance. They approached the town, and Thompson had them split for a two-pronged attack. Perhaps he could still launch that pincer movement...

No resistance. The roads, then the streets, were empty of Confederate troops. Forrest had retreated.

Or was it another trap? The colonel sent patrols out to locate the enemy, wherever he might be poised. They came back with reports of no hostile forces, anywhere.

And then came word from Blair at Byhalia: Bedford Forrest had struck and taken Fort Pillow, on the Mississippi well above Memphis. In that action, the commander, Major William Bradford, had refused Forrest’s offer of surrender, and the fight that followed was to echo with charges of cruelty and slaughter for as long as men had memories.

No one knows to this day whether the high Union casualties came in the spirited defense of the fort prior to the surrender, or was, as later charged, brutality after the fort capitulated, especially against Black Union soldiers. Charge and counter-charge flew for the remainder of the war and beyond.

Meanwhile, Forrest continued his systematic raiding of forts and supply lines well into Union territory, spreading consternation in Tennessee, Kentucky and Ohio.

And Colonels Thompson and Blair suspected, but never knew, that Captain Ambrose Larkin, CSA, had raided the town of Holly Springs, wrecked two stretches of track, destroyed two water crossings, and escaped with the trainload of supplies. All with fewer than a hundred men.

Larkin’s one regret was that he’d been unable to locate and destroy Sergeant Hugh Towson.

Two

Summer, 1864, saw Sherman consolidate his drive toward Atlanta. Grant pushed toward Richmond. Sheridan began to lay waste the Shenandoah Valley. The naval blockade tightened. Everywhere the pressure was unrelenting. Peace initiatives were mounted, carried out, rejected. The fall national elections loomed. Lincoln worried. Grant fed his troops into Lee’s giant meat grinder, beginning with second Wilderness, all the way to the Confederate capital. Even his supporters recoiled at the senseless loss of Union lives. Grant clenched his cigar in his teeth and drove on, with Lincoln solidly behind him. What were a few thousand young Union lives, more or less? They could be replaced; the Confederate losses could not.

After the war, Confederate General Richard Taylor was to report word he received from sources in Washington that Lincoln had asked Grant how many Union soldiers he estimated would be lost in defeating Lee. The general guessed a round hundred thousand. Lincoln supposedly approved that level of slaughter.

But Jeb Stuart fell at Yellow Tavern. Leonidas Polk had fallen at Lookout Mountain. Sherman pushed on. Sheridan torched barns, mills, warehouses, homes. Union shelling continued against Fort Sumter.

In August, Bedford Forrest, with 2,000 men, swept into Memphis, narrowly missing capturing Union Generals Hurlbut and Washburn. A. J. Smith’s column drew back in defense, leaving the raider free to operate against Sherman’s supply lines in Tennessee. The Federal embarrassment and frustration were intense, setting back the onrushing Blue movements in the west.

Following Union Colonel Blair’s assumption of command in Byhalia, Federal troop atrocities came to an abrupt halt. Although the late General Thorsen had been hailed as a hero and his remains sent back north with honors, the Memphis command was glad to have Blair in charge, as was the populace.

Blair