Lazarus Silverman stood on the porch of his friend’s mansion, wearing naught but his nightclothes.
A loose band of nearly forty men were arrayed in the lawn before him; armed, mounted and greedy.
Moments before, they’d drug Lazarus from his bed, seizing him and the thirty thousand dollars in gold coins he’d brought with him as investment capital.
“Why are you doing this! I came to help you! To help rebuild!” He yelled at them, nearly wetting himself with fear.
“I know!” Called out a man at the front of the group, wearing a patched Confederate officer’s uniform. “And you cannot imagine my elation when your good host informed me of such a fact. In trade a small percentage, of course.”
Growling, Lazarus leapt at his friend. The bandits grabbed his arms and held him tight.
“Good sir, I ask that you calm yourself! There is no need to worry! You are helping us! Helping us to a much easier life in more attractive climes.”
“I thought you guerrillas were supposed to have a purpose! To be fighting for something greater!” Lazarus spat his words.
“There’s no profit in purposes, Master Silverman. And I’ve grown so tire of being poor.”
While the Battle of Memphis was a quick affair, Confederate guerrillas and raiders were a constant problem in the delta during the Civil War. Some still fought the war, but others decided on a much more profitable use for their weapons and training.