They reached the front door of the mansion and a colored servant directed them around to the back where they were told Mrs. Oswald was waiting. “We’ve got a rifle range back there,” Becca explained to Smith. They rounded the corner of the house and found Mrs. Oswald waiting - along with about a hundred other women.
Becca’s eyes grew wide. They were all wearing the unit’s official uniform, buckskin jackets, pantaloons tucked into calf-high boots, and a hat with a feather, and holding their Springfield rifles. At the sight of her, Mrs. Oswald cried: “Oh, there they are! Attention, girls, attention!” The women shuffled into some semblance of formation with only a little bit of laughing and giggling. Oswald had a uniform like the others, but fancier with some gold braid on the collar, cuffs, and hem of the jacket and down the seam of the pantaloons. The feather in her hat was white instead of black like the others, and she had captain’s shoulder straps. She also had a sword which she waved about dangerously.
Becca glanced at Smith, who was obviously trying very hard not to laugh. “Uh, here they are.” She was amazed at the numbers. The group had over a hundred on its roster, but she’d never managed to get more than thirty to turn up at once.
“The gal with the sword is in charge?” asked Smith.
“Yup. I’ll introduce you. C’mon.” She led him over to where Oswald was waiting with a huge grin on her face. “Mrs… I mean Captain Oswald, this is Sergeant Smith of the Memphis Militia.”
“Oh, Sergeant! So very pleased to meet you!” exclaimed Oswald, stuffing her sword under her arm and extending a gloved hand. To her obvious surprise, Smith grabbed it and shook firmly.
“Pleased to meetcha, ma’am. Captain Carstairs sent me to talk to you ‘bout you folks fallin’ in with us.” He paused and frowned. “But he didn’t say nothin’ about you havin’ rifles.” He looked closer. “Hell, those’re Springfields! My company’s got nothin’ but them old Krags!”
“Of course we have rifles!” said Oswald. “Some of the girls are fine shots! How do you expect us to fight without rifles?”
“Fight? The Cap’in jus’ said you’d be with us to help out with coffee and rations and tendin’ the wounded and all…”
“Certainly not, Sergeant! Wherever did he get such an idea? We are sharpshooters and we shall be fighting alongside you!”
“I’ll be damned. Don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout that. Well, I was just sent here, along with Miz Harding, to let you know where you’re supposed to go if the alarm is sounded.”
“And where might that be?” asked Oswald, no longer smiling.
“Oh, down by the river. Our assembly area’s at Poplar and Front Streets.”
“Near that lovely Riverside Park?”
“Well, t’ain’t so lovely anymore, but yessum, that’s the area. We’re supposed to support a battery of big guns ‘long the waterfront. I was supposed to take you and… uh, your NCOs for a tour… If you want.”
“I can go with him, Mrs. Oswald,” volunteered, Rebecca. “No need for you to go way down there, ma’am.”
“Oh, but, Becca, dear, you can’t go! Not yet, anyway! We have… well, we have a surprise for you, dear.” She turned to Smith. “You can wait for a bit can’t you, Sergeant?”
“Uh, for a little spell, but I gotta be gettin’ back…”
“Splendid! Now, Becca, all the girls and I are so grateful for all the work you’ve done that we took a vote and decided that you should be second in command of the Sharpshooters!”
What?! She twitched and took a half-step backwards. She hadn’t been expecting anything like this.
“Yes! You shall be our lieutenant! We even had a uniform made for you! Girls?”
To Becca’s horror, several of the ladies came forward carrying another of the ridiculous sharpshooter uniforms over which they fussed so much. “I-I don’t think… I can’t…” she stuttered.
“Oh, don’t worry!” said Oswald. “This is our gift to you! Doris, Abigail, take her inside and help her change!”
Becca’s immediate impulse was to make a break for it, but she couldn’t do that. This was clearly a sincere gesture by the women and she couldn’t refuse. So she found herself decked out in the buckskin jacket, pantaloons, and boots and a large hat with a red feather. There were lieutenant’s insignia on the shoulders. Then she was paraded back outside so the whole group could applaud. She blushed pink and felt like a complete fool.
Smith was grinning ear to ear and she had to restrain herself from hitting him. “Whooee! Ain’t you the sight!” he laughed. “But we got t’get goin’ miss. If I show up any later, the Cap’n’s gonna think I’m slackin’ off!”
“Run along, Becca,” said Oswald, fluttering her fingers. “I trust you completely to make the arrangements.”
Becca started to turn away, but stopped herself, came to attention, and saluted the way she saw soldiers do. “Yes, ma’am!” The whole company laughed, but then cheered.
Becca spun on her heel and followed the sergeant.
* * * * *
March, 1912, near Beulah, Mississippi
The Santa Fe slowly turned left into the mouth of the Arkansas River. Commander Drew Harding closely watched the surface of the river, the banks on either side, and the ship ahead of them. They were part of a small flotilla of supply ships, gunboats, and monitors heading up the Arkansas to Little Rock. Word had come that the Martians were preparing to attack that place, and the high command was sending reinforcements.
“Ya might want t’stay a bit further to the right, Captain,” said Mackenzie. “The bend there can throw up quite a sand bar on the left.”
Drew nodded and gave the order to the helmsman, and the ship swung a little bit wider in its turn.
“Gonna hafta stay on our toes,” continued the first officer. “The Arkansas twists around like a snake most of the way to Little Rock. Lot narrower than the Mississippi, too. Good thing it’s at flood right now.”
“You’ve been along this stretch before, I take it.”
“A dozen times at least. Not the worst bit of river I’ve traveled, but she’s tricky. And I’m not jokin’ about her bein’ a snake! Probably ain’t a straight stretch more than half a mile long. We’re gonna need to relieve the helmsman every hour or so and the lookouts, too.”
“What about you, Mr. Mackenzie? How often will you need relief?”
“Oh, I’ll manage. Seein’ as we’re not first in line, we’ll have it easier. And you’re gettin’ pretty good yourself at spotting trouble, you know.”
Drew was surprised and pleased at the compliment but did his best to keep it off his face. “I’m sure between the two of us we’ll manage.”
Santa Fe eased into the channel and followed the other ships upstream. As Mackenzie had said, the Arkansas turned one way and then another, sometimes changing a hundred and eighty degrees and heading back the way they’d come before turning again. It seemed like they traveled two or three miles for every mile closer to Little Rock they got. Several times that day they had to crowd the shore dangerously to let vessels going the other way squeeze by. Most of those vessels were crammed with civilians, people trying to get away from the rumored attack.
After a few hours, Drew felt confident enough of the new routine that he decided to drill the crew on other matters. He was keenly aware of how green most of his men were. He had only a small cadre of experienced sailors, but far too many of the others were raw recruits, or men like Ensign Alby Hinsworth, who had gone through a hasty officers’ school. Ever since Santa Fe was launched, he had worked the men ceaselessly to learn their jobs and become an effective team. He was proud of being the ship’s captain, but there were times when he missed the veteran crew on the old Minnesota.
“Mr. Mackenzie, I’m going to bring the ship to battle stations. You and the bridge crew will remain at your posts and keep us from crashing into anything.”
“All right,” replied Mackenzie, “have fun.”
Drew sighed, wondering if Mackenzie knew that there re
ally was such a word as sir. He took the ladder down to the small pilothouse and flipped the switch that turned on the battle stations alarm bell. The shrill tone of the bell sent the men scrambling. There was far too much shouting, but at least they were moving. The realization that they were now west of the Mississippi and therefore in enemy country had spread through the ship and possibly some men thought this was the real thing. Well good, if they did, Drew wasn’t going to do anything to disabuse them.
His yeoman appeared with Drew’s helmet and anti-dust gear, and he dutifully put it all on; he had to set a good example. He waited while reports came from the various locations around the ship. Ensign Hinsworth shouted each one out: Number Two four-inch, manned and ready! Engine room manned and ready! Number Three four-inch manned and ready! Sick Bay manned and ready! Turret Number One manned and ready! Magazine manned and ready! On and on until finally: All Stations manned and ready! The ship is cleared for action, sir! Hinsworth saluted, banging his elbow against the side of the tiny pilothouse.
Drew returned the salute and checked his pocket watch; four minutes and thirty five seconds. It wouldn’t have been bad for a battleship, but for a ship one sixth the size, it wasn’t good at all. Still, it was the best they’d done so far.
He then proceeded to run them through as many drills as it was possible to do under the circumstances. Damage control and fire drills sent teams of men to various compartments to fight imaginary fires or plug imaginary leaks. The man overboard drill had them getting one of the ship’s boats ready to launch. The casualty drill saw volunteer ‘casualties’ being taken to the tiny sick bay. The ship didn’t rate an actual doctor, but there was a medical orderly trained in basic first aid. For the most part, the drills went pretty well.
But the thing nearest and dearest to Drew’s heart – gunnery - couldn’t be truly practiced in these circumstances. They could aim the guns, and he had them pick distant objects to act as Martian tripods, and they could bring up ammunition from the magazine and practice loading, but they couldn’t actually fire the guns. After the commissioning, he’d had the opportunity to take Santa Fe down to a stretch of river where the shoreline was all swamp and no one lived, and shoot off the guns for a while. But it was completely inadequate in Drew’s opinion. He was worried that if they did get into a fight, they wouldn’t be able to hit a damn thing. He’d asked the captain in charge of this little convoy if once they got closer to Little Rock, they would be allowed to do some target practice. The reply had been evasive and non-committal. They’d have to wait and see.
It was getting on toward the dinner hour but there was one more thing he wanted to practice. Without any advanced warning, he reached over and flipped the Dust Alarm switch. There was a few seconds delay and then a siren began to howl with a shriek that would pierce almost any other noise. The men nearby stiffened and then exploded into action, some of them shouting Dust! Dust! Dust! Some pulled out the dust mask from the bag hanging around their necks, while others slammed closed metal shutters to seal off the windows in the pilothouse. The space suddenly became quite dark with only a few beams of light coming though the thick glass in narrow vision slits. If all was going well, then similar precautions were being made throughout the ship. Every hatch and porthole was being sealed to keep out the lethal black dust the Martians occasionally used. Even a few grains of the stuff inhaled was enough to kill a person, and contact with the skin could cause terrible burns.
“Engine room reports dust procedures in effect, sir!” shouted Ensign Hinsworth, his voice muffled by his mask. Yes, that was the real trick in protecting a ship from the dust. The fires for the boilers demanded a large and steady supply of air. Ships had ventilators to suck air down to them, but in a cloud of the black dust, that could be a fatal flaw which would hopelessly contaminate the ship. So the new ships had an air supply system which could channel the incoming air directly into the fires, theoretically destroying the dust before it could do any harm. The air intakes on the decks had filters, but this system took into account the possibility of battle damage destroying them.
Unfortunately, while the system might save the engine room crew from death from the dust, it might also kill them by heat stroke. A normal ship would suck outside air down to the engine room and then send it into the fire boxes. The air the crew breathed would be the same temperature as the outside. But under this system, the incoming air went through the fire first to destroy the dust. Some would then leak out for the crew to breathe. But it would be hot air - very hot.
The men could stand it for a few minutes, but no longer.
Drew looked out the view slit and saw that they had a relatively straight stretch of river ahead for a mile or so. “Prepare to release steam!”
“Steam lines ready, sir!” shouted Hinsworth.
“Release!”
The ensign threw a lever and a few moments later there was a loud hiss and a cloud of white steam enveloped the ship, released from pipes located all over the superstructure and upper decks. In theory this would destroy dust in the air and scour away any which had fallen on the ship. In an emergency, it could also blunt the effect of enemy heat rays. Drew could see nothing through the view slits. Mackenzie was piloting the ship from up above, but the steam would be blinding him, too. They couldn’t sail like this for long.
“Secure steam!”
The hiss died away and the cloud dispersed. “Steam secured!”
“Engine room air to normal!” Hinsworth relayed the order and hopefully there would now be cool air flooding into the engine room. Whether it would also be dust-free, only the test of battle would tell.
Drew waited for a few minutes before he canceled the dust alert and a few minutes longer before letting the men stand down from battle stations. The shutters were swung up and latched, the hatch to the pilothouse propped open, and Drew breathed in the cool spring air. He turned to step outside and was met by a red-faced Mackenzie.
“Ya damn near scalded us to death, you know that?”
“Your dust gear should have protected you. Weren’t you wearing yours, Lieutenant?”
The man’s face got even redder. “Uh, well, no… it was just a damn drill and…”
“You know the procedures. Next time, wear your gear.” Drew stepped past him and climbed up to the bridge, failing to keep a smile from growing on his lips. It was rare for him to get the best of his first officer.
He paced from one end of the bridge to the other, stretching his legs. He heard the off-duty watches being sent to dinner and it looked like the men were in good spirits. The day had gone well. The sun was westering and he thought he could make out the ruins of Pine Bluffs in the distance. They were making good time, despite the twisting river.
Morning should see them at Little Rock.
Chapter Eight
April, 1912, Washington, D.C.
“It’s confirmed, sir, they’re hitting Kansas City in force.” Colonel Hugh Drum met Leonard Wood at the door to the situation room and took his coat as he hurried in.
“When?”
“About an hour ago. I called you as soon as I was sure it wasn’t a feint.”
Wood rubbed at his eyes and then stared at the map. It was about four in the morning and Drum’s call to his house had woken him out of a deep sleep. The map, stretching over thirty feet long, showed the whole Mississippi Line, but Wood’s attention was drawn to one blue wood block sitting all alone west of the river. It represented the garrison of Kansas City. As he watched, an enlisted man with a long wooden stick pushed several red blocks up close to the blue one.
“Any estimate on strength?”
“No exact numbers, sir, but General Farnsworth is convinced that this is a major attack.”
Wood nodded. Charlies Farnsworth was not one to panic, although after being stuck out on that limb for nearly a year, no man could be blamed for being skittish. But Wood had been sure this was coming for several months, so he had no doubt Farnsworth was right. The long-expected Martian offensiv
e was starting.
And Farnsworth and his 37th Division were likely doomed.
“Any word from Little Rock? They will probably hit there, too.”
“Nothing so far, sir,” replied Drum. “But there was another message from General Funston just a few minutes ago. He says he can confirm a Martian incursion across the Rio Grande near the town of Hebbronville. That’s about ninety miles west of Corpus Christi.” Drum pointed to the far corner of the map where a new red block had appeared.
Wood frowned in concern. They didn’t need this right now, but he supposed it was inevitable that the southern front couldn’t remain quiet forever. It seemed like the French landings around Veracruz had distracted the Martians in Mexico, but perhaps that was coming to an end. “What sort of strength?”
“He isn’t sure. It does seem to be localized and they haven’t advanced any farther north, but Funston is requesting reinforcements.”
“Of course he is. But there’s nothing we can send until the situation along the Mississippi becomes clearer.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll ask him to get more information on the strength of the Martian force down there.”
“Do that. But later. Are there any other reports coming in?” He waved his hand to take in the whole defense line.
“Nothing at the moment, sir. Farnsworth is requesting reinforcements.”
Wood moved to the point on the table closest to Kansas City. There were swarms of blue blocks along the Mississippi, but none in easy supporting distance. In the last few weeks he had sent additional riverine forces up the Missouri, just as he’d sent them up the Arkansas to Little Rock, but there wasn’t a great deal more he could do. Anything else he sent would probably be just more lambs to the slaughter. A forlorn hope, just as Theodore - and Funston’s aide - said. Well, perhaps he could do something…
“Send a message to General Pershing to have the XV Corps send out as much cavalry as it can spare toward Kansas City. Maybe they can create a distraction - or at the least help to cover an evacuation.”
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