by J. T. Edson
The Yankee sharpshooter’s mistake caused the Union’s Army of Arkansas to lose the Battle of Martin’s Hill. Yet, on the face of it, he had selected the correct target. The Rebel cavalry captain had the appearance of being a smart, capable soldier who would make the correct decision on a vital issue.
Neither of the junior officers struck the sharpshooter as worthy of consideration, or concern.
One was a tall, red-haired second lieutenant. The sharpshooter decided that he was a hot-head, impulsive and with little knowledge of the military tactics. In the sharpshooter’s opinion, the small, insignificant-looking first lieutenant would be unlikely to know what to do if the captain was killed; the enlisted men would be disinclined to follow such a callow, short-grown youngster.
So the sharpshooter squeezed the trigger. He killed Captain von Hertz and so put First Lieutenant Dusty Fog in command of the Texas Light Cavalry’s hard riding, harder hitting Company ‘C’.
YOU’RE IN COMMAND NOW, MR. FOG
DUSTY FOG’S CIVIL WAR 2
By J. T. Edson
First published by Corgi Books in 1973
Copyright © 1973, 2015 by J. T. Edson
First Smashwords Edition: July 2015
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Our cover features Guerillas, painted by Andy Thomas, and used by permission.
Andy Thomas Artist, Carthage Missouri
Andy is known for his action westerns and storytelling paintings and documenting historical events through history.
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
For Bob and Sue, mine host and hostess at the White Lion Hotel, Melton Mowbray; who are sufficiently strong-willed, blast them, to keep me on “Slim-Lines” when necessary
Author’s note:
This book is in response to numerous readers’ requests for details of Dusty Fog’s early life.
Part One
THE BATTLE OF MARTIN’S MILL
Chapter One
Although the blue-uniformed sharpshooter sitting on a branch of the big old chestnut tree did not realize it, he was soon to cause the United States’ Army of Arkansas to lose the vitally important Battle of Martin’s Mill. That he brought this about would not result from incompetence. His selection of the target would be basically correct. The trouble was that he would fire too soon.
Being an ambitious professional soldier, who had adopted his specialized but frequently dangerous type of work as a means of gaining rapid promotion, the sharpshooter—in future wars the term would be changed to “sniper”—wanted to carry out his duties in the most efficient manner possible. By doing so, he hoped to earn Colonel Middleton’s approbation and maybe gain the elevation in rank that he desired.
Dispatched to carry out a routine scouting mission, he had not at first seen any hope of turning it to his advantage. In fact, he had believed that circumstances were preventing him from being with his outfit at a time when there should have been numerous opportunities to display his talents favorably to his superiors. While he had been searching the woodland, he had found himself cut off from his companions and there was clearly soon to be a battle.
From his place in the tree, he scanned—with the help of the Sharps Model of 1859 rifle’s barrel-long telescopic sight—the terrain over which the battle would be fought. Annoyance and disappointment ate at him. It seemed that he was fated to remain on the sideline. Unless something unexpected was to happen, he would be unable to do anything to further the Union’s cause or to increase his hopes of obtaining promotion.
An increasing sense of frustration assailed him. In his hands he held one of the finest, most powerful, far-shooting and accurate breech-loading rifles available at that period. With it, he had been trained to the point where he could be relied upon to drive a .52 bullet into a man’s chest at range of half a mile. Using a ball of soft lead, carefully shaped for its deadly purpose, such a wound was certain to incapacitate its recipient even if it did not kill him outright.
Knowing the capability of his weapon, he had chosen his point of vantage wisely on becoming aware of his predicament. The branch upon which he was seated was so massive and steady that there was no motion from it to disturb his aim. The foliage offered adequate all-round concealment, but there were sufficient gaps and openings for him to have an excellent field of vision. The full panorama of the battleground was spread like a map before him. All he needed was targets upon which he could practice his art.
Occupying their hastily constructed defensive system, the remainder of the sharpshooter’s regiment—the 18th “Wisconsin” Heavy Infantry—lined their long-barreled Springfield U.S. Model of 1861 rifle-muskets. They were ready to defend the bridge across the Ouachita River against the much larger force of Confederate States’ infantry and cavalry which had made its appearance and were massing for an assault.
Behind the trench lines, exposed to the sharpshooter’s view by virtue of their positions, three enormous Vandenburg Volley Guns had been trained and loaded by their crews. Each Vandenburg had ninety-one separate .50 caliber barrels. When fired simultaneously, their bullets would sweep the terrain in front of the muzzle like the charge from gigantic shotgun.
So the ugly, awkward, multi-barreled weapons could easily prove to be a decisive factor in the forthcoming fight. They might have been damned and cursed bitterly during the march, but they were going to have a far-reaching effect on that part of the War Between the States which was being waged in Arkansas. Their presence amongst the buildings of Martin’s Mill and the adjacent small hamlet did much to nullify the advantage in numbers held by the Rebels.
As on the other, better-publicized battlefronts in the East, the Federal soldiers had the Army of the Confederate States in retreat. Being a hard-bitten realist, the sharpshooter disregarded such blindly patriotic notions as one Yankee being equal to three Johnny Rebs. Nor did he subscribe to the more religiously inspired idea that the Good Lord was favoring the Northern cause. He accepted that superior numbers, industrial potential, technology and economics—although he would not have understood such words and would have expressed himself in more simple terms—were the chief causes of the Union’s successes.
What was more, in Arkansas—no matter what rumor claimed to be happening elsewhere—the retreat was anything but a rout that had the Rebels in full flight. In fact, they were pulling back in an orderly, well-organized manner. All of their equipment and supplies were being moved towards the Ouachita River, with infantry, cavalry and artillery ably covering the withdrawal. They were effectively preventing the pursuing Union soldiers from coming even within long cannon-shot of the valuable convoy, which hardly seemed to be the actions of defeated, fleeing men.
There had recently been a change in the command of the Confederate States Army of Arkansas and North Texas. By all accounts, the new general—Ole Devil Hardin was his name—had considerable ability as a fighting man and tactician. He was playing hell with “Cussing” Culver’s often-repeated boast that the Union troops would “push those bastard-born Texas sons-of-bitches right back into their lice-infested State and make them regret the day when they first heard the word ‘Secession’.”
Wh
ile Hardin had been unable to prevent his men from falling back, it was dear to the sharpshooter that he had them doing considerable “pushing” on their own account. The fact was that they were just about retreating in their own good time. If they once got all their gear across the Ouachita, they would be in a fine position to prevent the Yankees from following.
Yes sir. Ole Devil Hardin was a foxy son-of-a-bitch. The way in which he had gone about shifting his supplies to safety had given proof of his shrewd tactical sense and planning ability. At first it had seemed that he intended to follow the obvious course of crossing the Ouachita near Arkadelphia. To prevent this, Culver had dispatched two cavalry regiments from his pursuing Army. After they had gone, it became obvious that Hardin had swung the column upstream.
Luckily, somebody—the sharpshooter did not credit General Culver with possessing the necessary intelligence or military knowledge—had made a shrewd guess at the supply column’s destination. There was a bridge at Martin’s Mill that would be capable of standing up to the heavy flow of traffic. Hardin was intending, having misled his enemies, to go over the river by the bridge. The 18th “Wisconsin” Heavy Infantry Regiment, a half-battery of Vandenburg Volley Guns and three companies of the Long Island Lancers had been dispatched with orders to travel at their best speed and prevent the Rebels from crossing.
To the sharpshooter’s way of thinking, the easiest and most effective means of carrying out their orders would have been to destroy the bridge; which could easily have been done by a smaller party. However, it seemed that General Culver had decided the bridge would be useful to his Army as they advanced to conquer Texas. So he had stated that it could only be destroyed if it was certain to fall into the enemies’ hands.
Basically, Culver’s plan had been good. He wanted to halt the supply column until he could bring up the full strength of his command. Then he hoped to crush the majority of military opposition in Arkansas and leave the way open for him to continue with the invasion of Northern Texas.
On either side of the trail that led to the bridge, the land rose for over a mile in a gentle, fairly even and completely open slope. Apart from the stumps of cut-down trees, it offered no shelter and could only be traversed in plain view of the defenders. There was an area of wooded land—the tree in which he sat was on the edge of it—extending at an angle from beyond the rim to join the trees and bushes which fringed the river far upstream of the bridge. It would not allow the enemy to move in close and launch an undetected flank attack. There was a similar formation on the eastern side, but even farther away from the trail, and the woods on that bank were much more open.
Any assault by the Rebels would have to be made straight down the slope, head-on to the waiting infantry, concealed Lancers and possibly unsuspected Vandenburg Volley Guns.
All in all, the situation still had much to favor the sharpshooter’s party. Maybe the Rebels’ advance guard had arrived way ahead of time, but they still had to make their attack across the open ground and under fire.
Suddenly it became apparent that the presence of the Vandenburgs was not unsuspected. However, their positions were causing the Rebels to attempt the counter battery work from the required direction.
Travelling at a gallop, limbered for draught, a battery of four twelve-pounder mountain howitzers i swung into sight from behind the mass of the Rebels’ force. Taking advantage of the favorable nature of the terrain, they had the short-barreled, lightweight weapons mounted on the carriages instead of being broken down into the various components and carried on the horses’ packsaddles. Towed by a single horse, each howitzer could be moved at a swifter pace than when transported on the packs and made ready for action in a shorter time.
The Rebel artillerymen looked to be members of an efficient, well-commanded outfit. At a signal from the tall, slim, moderately handsome, dark-haired captain who led them, each chief-of-piece guided the horse which was hauling his howitzer in a tight circle. They halted with the muzzles pointing towards the village; something over half a mile separated them from the nearest trench, which meant that they were reasonably safe from the defenders’ rifle fire. However, with less than half that distance between them and the sharpshooter, they were within range of his Sharps.
In the absence of a specific target, a sharpshooter was expected to pick off the enemy’s officers and deprive the enlisted men of leadership at crucial moments. There was one serious disadvantage to him taking such action. He had climbed the tree in the first place to try to ascertain the full strength of the enemy, hoping to take the news to his commanding officer. While it offered a steady base from which to do accurate shooting, he could not leave it in a hurry. Nor could he rejoin his regiment without making a lengthy detour. Each shot he fired would render his position more likely to be located and it would not be long before men were dispatched to hunt him down.
Besides which, the battery could be more effectively silenced by the Long Island Lancers. When preparing the defenses, Colonel Middleton had concealed his cavalrymen in the woods fringing the upstream side of the river and had arranged the Vandenburgs accordingly. His gamble had paid off. Wanting to deal with the multi-barreled guns as quickly as possible, the Rebel battery had taken up a position from which they could see their targets. By doing so, they had placed themselves in front of—although some distance from—where the Lancers were hidden.
Maybe the fly-slicers ii were only a volunteer outfit, commanded by scent-smelling New York dudes and armed with nothing better than steel tipped wooden sticks, but there one hundred and fifty of them against the battery’s thirty-six or so. Given odds like that, the Lancers ought to be able to crush the howitzers’ crews by sheer weight of numbers and far more quickly than a single rifle could do it. Nor would there be sufficient time for the Rebel cavalry on the rim to intervene, providing that the Lancers launched their attack immediately.
Sure enough, the Lancers were moving into the open.
If the sharpshooter killed the artillery captain —
Movements in the woodland, about a quarter of a mile from the chestnut tree, caught the corner of the sharpshooter’s eye. Turning his head for a precautionary closer look, he was handed one hell of a shock.
Three riders were sitting their horses at the edge of the trees!
They were not alone!
Others were behind them!
Just how many more, the sharpshooter could not see. He was, however, shrewd enough to make a fairly accurate deduction.
One thing he knew for sure.
The uniforms worn by the new arrivals told him, without any question, that they were not members of the Federal Government’s Army of Arkansas.
Studying the trio, the sharpshooter made them out to be a pair of very young lieutenants—a shavetail and a full-blown luff—and an older captain; which implied there was at least a whole company of Confederate States’ cavalry at their backs, fifty to seventy men that would be. Not just ordinary leather bumpers either, but an outfit that had already won themselves considerable acclaim as hard-fighting and very capable soldiers.
Of the three officers, the captain struck the sharpshooter as being the only one to be contended with. Tall, square-shouldered, ramrod erect on his saddle, he had a ruddy face and the hard, unsmiling features of a parade ground martinet. He looked like a German, one of the kind who called themselves “Prussians”. In the sharpshooter’s experience, they were most unimaginative, stiff-backed, bow-necked officers with copies of the various Manuals of Regulations bracing their spines. Yet he knew better than to sell such men short when it came to making war, for they had been trained in such matters practically from birth. Given a military problem, they would be able to come up with an answer and it was frequently the right one.
Every inch of the captain’s uniform was as stipulated in the Army of the Confederate States’ Manual of Dress Regulations. He wore a white Jeff Davis campaign hat, with its brim down and unadorned by the plume of feathers many officers on both sides sported. In front
, on the centre of the crown, was a badge formed from a silver five-pointed star in a circle. That circle would bear a laurel wreath motif and the centre of the star was embossed with the letters TLC.
Not that the sharpshooter could make out the embellishments. He was familiar with the hat badge of the Texas Light Cavalry.
Closed at the neck, the captain’s stand-up collar carried the triple, three-inch long, half-inch wide strips of gold which denoted his rank. The double-breasted jacket had twin rows of seven buttons. Two strands of gold braid were formed into a “chicken guts” Austrian knot at the cuffs of the sleeves and the skirt extended correctly to halfway between the hip and the knee. Yellow-striped riding breeches ended in Hessian boots that still retained something of what must, on more suitable occasions, have been an almost mirror-like shine. The same attention had been given to his weapon belt—which the sharpshooter was willing to bet had once been fastened by a US. Army’s buckle. It supported a saber on the left and a revolver in a butt-forward, closed topped holster at the right. His saddle was an officer’s issue McClellan, again most likely stemming from the days before he had seceded from the Union and ridden south.
Everything about the captain suggested tough, capable military efficiency. He would be fully aware of the danger to the battery and, most likely, was already formulating the means to protect the howitzers.
Neither of the junior officers appealed to the sharpshooter as being worthy of consideration on that score. From their appearances, they were a pair of rich young sprouts who had been handed their commissions because of the wealth and influence wielded by their families. In general, their uniforms followed that of the captain. Probably it was at his insistence that they stuck so closely to what was required by the Dress Regulations. It was unlikely that either had much military training, or control over the enlisted men.
The shavetail matched the captain in height, with wide shoulders and a build that hinted at strength. Tilted back on his head, the Jeff Davis hat exposed rumpled, untidy, curly, fiery red hair. There was something cheerfully pugnacious about his freckled, ruggedly handsome young face. It suggested that he possessed a reckless, impulsive nature. Only one bar graced a collar that would most likely have been open had he been permitted to follow his inclinations. Likewise, his “chicken guts” were formed from a single braid.