“So anyhow,” Major Bradford went on, “I don't reckon we've got to do a whole lot of worrying about Bedford Forrest right this minute.”

“Sounds good to me, sir,” Leaming said.

Corporal Jack Jenkins had always hated Federals. Riding along these miserable roads in the rain did nothing to make him like them any better. Jenkins yawned in the saddle. The order from Jackson had reached Tyree Bell's brigade in Eaton in the middle of the night. Bell got his men in motion by midnight.

“Black as the inside of a hog,” somebody near Jenkins grumbled. “Black as a nigger's heart,” somebody else added. The horses' hooves plopped in the mud.

“Plenty of niggers in Fort Pillow,” Jenkins said. “Plenty of niggers, and plenty of Tennessee Tories.” He had no more love for the men from his state who clove to the D.S.A. than did any other Tennessean who followed the C.S.A.

“Keep 'em moving! Come on, keep 'em moving!” That was Clark Barteau, colonel of the Second Tennessee Cavalry (C.S.). “You want those damn Missourians to get there ahead of us?”

Protected by the darkness, somebody said, “Have a heart, Colonel. They ain't got as far to ride as we do.”

Had Barteau been able to see who was complaining, he would have made the trooper sorry for it. As things were, he said, “And you bet your life they didn't set out as fast as we did, either. Sons of bitches are likely asleep in nice, warm beds even now. We've got to work harder, but we'll make all this hard work payoff. Ain't that right?”

Nobody said no, not out loud. Men recognized a loaded question when they heard one. Too much growling and people would get in trouble even if the officers couldn't see who was doing it. They recognized voices – and they knew who was in the habit of saying what he thought.