Since Forrest had launched his West Tennessee raid in the Spring of '64, the Memphis & Charleston had been the scene of intense guerilla warfare up and down the line. The Yankees had built outposts every three miles along the length of the railroad. They were wooden blockhouses or, more commonly, a dugout emplacement held by no more than a platoon of soldiers, mostly colored infantry. The outposts were close enough to wigwag to each other if they were attacked by Johnny Reb, and Old Sow would come steaming full tilt down the railroad from Corinth or Memphis to bring in reinforcements. And so the warning had gone out that Blockhouse Buffalo was under attack by a force of unknown size about ten klicks east of Chewalla, Tennessee. Old Sow set out from Wenasoga Station with two platoons and raced off northwest along the Memphis & Charleston.
It was an ambush. Johnny Reb had cut the line short of the blockhouse and fired a shot into Old Sow's boiler with a hidden six-pounder gun. It made an awful hissing sound as steam roiled out across the tracks and Old Sow lurched towards a stop. Suddenly there was musket fire everywhere. The brothers were up and popping shots off out the boxcars. Bullets were smacking back in with a knocking sound. Another cannon shot blew through the wooden planks of Guster's boxcar. Splinters exploded everywhere. The Color Sergeant, a brother named Coker, was screaming at them. Get the f**k out! Get the f**k out! The sergeant started throwing his men off the train to get them to cover.
Guster found defilade with some brothers behind an embankment. Johnny Reb was firing at the train from all sides, but the greatest danger was from the six-pound gun that was pumping shells into Old Sow. The Color Sergeant collapsed next to them after making a mad dash from the train. Bullets had smacked dust all around him. We've got to take out that gun, he said. Now that they were off the train, the brothers seemed to be pushing back against Johnny Reb. Color Sergeant Coker guessed there weren't more than twenty or thirty or so. He peeked up the embankment to see where the gun was. He drew immediate fire. Bullets whizzed over with a zipping sound. I see the gun, he said, wide eyed! It ain't but a fifty yards. It looks like four riflemen protecting the gun crew.
Guster was long a hardened veteran, but no one liked hearing what was said next. Fix your bayonets, Coker said grimly. Everyone was wide-eyed in that eternal moment. Guster did the simple math. There were twelve of them behind that embankment. There were four rebel riflemen, and three - maybe four gunners. Kill the rifleman first. The gunnery sergeant may have a six-shooter. Kill him first if you see him draw. Coker looked every single one of them in the eye. Without a word, everyone understood. Then he nodded and said, let's roll.
Everything Guster remembered immediately after that was a blur. There was gunfire everywhere, but he was conscience of the shots that were now bowling down the grass towards him. Bullets zipped by his head, seemingly inches. A brother went down. It was Morrison. He couldn't see where he'd been hit, but he wasn't moving, so Guster kept rushing in with his bayonet. They kept their shots until the last second. Guster saw the rebel gunnery sergeant. He saw his bright red beard and the red band on his kepi hat. The man tried to draw his pistol. Guster hip shot him in the chest with his rifle, then ran him through anyway screaming like a fury. Like he was taught, he flipped him over to the side like bailing hay. The man spewed blood, his hands clenched around the barrel of Guster's rifle. Guster's blood rage was up. He lost track of time. He couldn't remember what he was staring at. A hand touched him on the shoulder.
It's done. Clean this up. I've got to check on the others, said Coker.
Guster snapped to. He suddenly remembered where his mind spun off to in the universe. It was a brother. He was dead. He had been ambushed like this, but he wasn't so lucky. Worse yet, his trousers had been pulled down. His genitals had been removed and stuffed into his mouth. The flies were everywhere. The brother had a slip of paper stuffed into his shirt pocket. It just said A-K.
Guster liked it better when he couldn't remember what he was thinking about. He suddenly realized he had been staring at the dead gunnery sergeant this whole time, and his read beard, and the red band on his kepi, and red stripe down his trousers. Guster bent down and removed the six-shooter from the mud, which was slick with clay. It was a Colt Walker - the one with the short barrel they called the Dragoon.
He realized the brothers were accosting some prisoners. They were upset about Morrison, who was dead. There were four Johnny Rebs. They had surrendered, but one looked rather surly at having been captured by brothers. He stood around rather huffily while the other three rebels sat dejected in the mud. Guster thought to change all that. He walked up to the one who was standing, then looked into his face.
Dance, he said.
Johnny Reb didn't even look perplexed. He stared back, then he spit into the mud. Guster looked askance at one of the prisoners sitting in the mud. He threw his hand out and discharged a ball into the man's chest. He fell over, dead. The others went wide-eyed. In an instant, Guster had tapped into what he wanted. He wanted them to fear. His brothers, whose blood were also up, gave looks of excited bemusement. Guster had worked them up too.
Dance, he said again.
Johnny Reb weighed his options, which in flight-or-flight had actually boiled down to neither. When he hesitated, Guster fired a shot with the Colt Walker into the dead space between his feet.
I said DANCE motherf****r!
Slowly and quite self-consciously, Johnny Reb began to dance. The brothers were loving it. When he wasn't impressed by the tempo, Guster fired again into the rebel's feet. He danced faster. He was positively terrified. Then the brothers began to sing, mockingly:
Run, run, or the pattyroller git you! Run, n*****r, run 'fore you better get away!
Guster shot again, then again into the man's feet. The brothers kept singing:
Some fokes say a n*****r won't steal, I caught three in my cornfield. One stole a bushel. One stole a peck. One stole the rope hung around his neck.
When they had finished singing this line, they felt that they'd had their fun. Guster remembered their brother, Buckwheat Stokes, who never came back from leave, but was found hung instead near Holly Springs. Then he thought about all he had heard about Fort Pillow.
Johnny Reb was still dancing when the brothers stopped laughing. When he thought his brothers had gotten bored, Guster shot Johnny Reb in the chest anyway. He was tossed back like a ragdoll thrown into the mud. When this had been accomplished, the brothers looked at each other and laughed again. One of the other rebels got up and ran. Guster grabbed his Lorenz Model 1854, a fine Austrian rifle, loaded it and took aim. He fired at the man from 150 yards across a field of burnt corn. Zzzzzzzuuuuup-puh. A puff of pink dust blew out the back of the man's butternut duster, and he went down.
The brothers cheered! They were loving it! Their blood lust was up, and it didn't seem it would abate until Color Sergeant Coker came back. The rebels were falling back. Coker barked at them.
Stop messing around with that prisoner and let's move out! We're marching the rest of the way to Blockhouse Buffalo.
It was like a toy had been taken from them, but Guster wasn't finished. As the brothers picked through the carnage looking for souvenirs, there was one prisoner left, and the man was in abject terror. Guster was fresh out shots with the Colt Walker and the Lorenz, so he leaned down close into Johnny Reb's face... so close he could kiss him. Then he placed his knife under the man's chin, and then he walked it down towards the man's genitals.
Then he asked him slowly, what do you know about this A-K?
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