You're in Command Now, Mr Fog

by J. T. Edson

  On their arrival in White County, the two regiments had been ordered to set up camp on opposite rims overlooking the valley along which the remount deport was established. They were there to protect the homes, but when the time had come to commence the actual guard duties, the task had fallen upon the Chicago All-Irish Volunteers.

  “I’ll tell you, we was riled about that,” Devlin declared. “But their colonel’s got more pull than Joe Milligan. So we have to send out a full company a night to guard the horses, while them black bastards sit on their fat butts, doing nothing. I tell you, bucko, it’s sick to our guts we are of them and their uppy ways. We don’t let ’em act that way back home in Chicago.”

  Although Dusty was not too interested in the sentry’s attitude towards the Negro soldiers, he had remained in the hope of learning something useful. Having discovered the strength of the guard at the remount depot, he decided that he had exhausted the soldier’s use as a source of information.

  “Well, I’d best be getting on my way,” Dusty said.

  “Your bottle’s near on empty,” Devlin said, sounding puzzled by such an unexpected phenomena. He had reached a state of intoxication where he felt a desire to be generous, especially to such a sociable, friendly companion. “Still it’s my turn to get the next.”

  “Do you have it with you?” Dusty inquired, turning towards his waiting horse and reaching for its trailing, split-ended reins; another pointer to his true identity that the sentry had overlooked.

  “No,” admitted Devlin. “But I’ll you what to do, bucko. Are you headed for Newport?”

  “Why sure,” Dusty agreed, thinking fast to decide upon an acceptable reason for visiting that town.

  It was not needed.

  “Then keep your eyes open for a wagon on the trail. If there’s a sergeant and three fellers with it, it’ll be coming to our camp,” Devlin went on, without waiting for an explanation. “Call in on the way back and ask for Phineas Devlin, which’s me, and I’ll return the favor you’ve done me this night.”

  “I don’t follow you,” Dusty said, truthfully, postponing his intention of departing although the night was growing lighter.

  “Isn’t it the whiskey that’s been given to us by the O’Bannion—a saintly man—as’s coming this night?” Devlin asked and elaborated on the statement.

  Being involved in recruiting the regiment, a prominent Chicago politician had offered the inducement of a regular supply of whiskey to all who joined. Not just for the officers, Devlin insisted, but sufficient to ensure that every enlisted man had his fair share. The latest consignment was on its way south from the railroad and was due to reach the camp that night.

  “I sure hope it gets here safely,” Dusty drawled, an idea starting to develop in his imaginative, fertile head.

  “And why shouldn’t it?” Devlin demanded indignantly.

  “A wagon-load of whiskey’d be mighty tempting pickings to a lot of folks,” Dusty elaborated. “Them Negroes like to take a drink or more, I’ve been told.”

  “Just let ’em try to touch a single bottle of the blessed stuff!” Devlin growled. “If they did that, it’s little good their officers’d do ’em.”

  “All the same, it’s lucky their officers haven’t gone to the meeting,” Dusty remarked and received the information he had hoped for.

  “But they have gone,” Devlin said, a worried note creeping into his voice. “If I thought that —”

  “There’s riders coming,” Dusty interrupted, swinging astride his horse.

  That had been the signal agreed upon with his men. Seeing him mount, they started to ride from their places of concealment and head towards the bridge.

  “Who are they?” Devlin asked, glaring across the river.

  “Look like some of our boys,” Dusty answered. “Oh hell. Lieutenant Billy Jack’s with them. I’d be obliged if you’d not mention that bottle friend.”

  “That’s the way of it, huh?” Devlin grunted, setting the bottle on the ground. “Count on good old Phineas Devlin not to let a pal down.”

  “Howdy, Lieutenant!” Dusty called. “I was just asking the sentry which’s the best way to Newport.”

  Without replying, Billy Jack led the others to join Dusty. Realizing his own position, Devlin stood at as steady a brace as he could manage and let the Texans ride by without speaking to them although he gave Billy Jack a salute.

  “You-all sure got promoted fast, Billy Jack,” drawled Private Kiowa Cotton as the detail passed out of hearing distance of the sentry.

  “Why sure,” agreed the sergeant miserably. “And now I’m likely to get busted again.”

  “Didn’t you get to see Sandy’s uncle?” Dusty inquired.

  “I’ll have to say ‘no’ to that,” Billy Jack confessed in his most dejected fashion.

  “You’re busted back to sergeant,” Dusty declared, then became serious. “What happened?”

  “Found a sign fastened to a tree outside town,” Billy Jack explained. “It said there was a curfew from sundown and anybody seen on the streets’d be shot. Streets were alive with Yankee patrols, too. You know me, I’m fearless. But I recollected you’d said you’d’s soon not have the Yankees all riled up. So I concluded we’d best come and report.”

  “Bueno,” Dusty drawled. “I’ve found that there’s two new regiments been moved in here. What do you make of it, sergeant?”

  “Reinforcements,” Billy Jack replied. “Now they’re here, Culver’s called him a council of war and’s figuring how he can run us Southron boys out of Arkansas, like he’s being saying he would.”

  “That’s about how I see it,” Dusty conceded. “You know, sergeant, was he to lose those remounts it’d make things a whole heap harder for him.”

  “And you-all’re figuring on trying to make him lose them,” Billy Jack guessed looking at the small Texan.

  “Let’s say I’m going to see if there’s a way we can do it,” Dusty corrected. “If we can, you might even win back your promotion.”

  “With my luck,” Billy Jack wailed dismally, “we’re more likely to get seen at it, catched and killed.”

  “I just knew you’d be pleasured to back my play,” Dusty declared. “It does a man real good to know he’s got such brave, trusting and willing help.”

  Chapter Eight

  “There’s no way’s I can see for us to get at them hosses, Mr. Fog,” Billy Jack declared miserably, as he lay alongside the small Texan amongst a clump of bushes and looking into the valley. “With the moon up and all, we’re sure to be seen by the guards.”

  Behind the sergeant’s mournful façade lay genuine disappointment, for he had hoped that they might be able to achieve something against the Yankees’ remount depot. Certainly it was a tempting target and of sufficient importance to make the taking of risks worthwhile. Unfortunately, their examination of the area did not lead Billy Jack to believe that they could hope to succeed.

  “That’s for sure,” Dusty conceded. “There’d be too many of them for us to take them all out of the deal. Not counting all the extra help they could right easy call on from the camps on the rims.”

  Although there was no fence surrounding the remount depot, the six large pole corrals holding the horses were adequately covered by patrolling sentries. What was more, the few areas that would have been in deep shadow were illuminated by the fires kept blazing in basket-like iron cressets. More cressets lit up the two infantry camps and the hour was far too early for many of the soldiers to have turned into their beds. The prospects looked anything but good for the small detail of Texans.

  “What’re you figuring on doing now, sir?” Billy Jack asked, for his companion had not sounded perturbed or disappointed.

  “We may as well go back to the others,” Dusty replied, starting to rise.

  “It’s sure a pity we can’t scatter ’em,” the sergeant went on, throwing a look into the valley as he came to his feet. “That’d play all hell with any notions ole ‘Cussing’ Culver’s got for
doing meanness to us Southron boys.”

  “Why sure,” Dusty agreed.

  “Maybe Kiowa and young McGraw’ll have better luck with that wagon you sent ’em to look for,” Billy Jack went on, eyeing his young officer in a quizzical manner. “Not that I’m expecting ’em to.”

  “That’s more like you,” Dusty drawled, directing a final glance across the valley at the camp occupied by the Negro soldiers and turning to lead the way through the bushes. “I was getting scared you’d had an accident and was starting to look on the bright side.”

  “Any time that happens, I right soon stop it,” Billy Jack assured him. “That way I don’t get the miseries so bad when things start going wrong. Which they allus do for me.”

  Withdrawing cautiously to where they had left their horses concealed in a hollow, Dusty and Billy Jack mounted. They rode away from the vicinity of the valley without being seen by anybody in either of the camps. After covering about a mile, they approached a small, but thick, grove of post oaks. Billy Jack gave a fair imitation of a whip-poor-will calling twice and received a similar answer to the prearranged signal. Entering the grove, they could see the glow of a small fire amongst the trees. On reaching it, they found all but one of the enlisted men standing and looking in their direction.

  “How’d it go, Sandy? Dusty inquired, leaving his bay ground-hitched.

  “Well, we found a place where we could jump the wagon, sir,” Sandy McGraw replied. “Kiowa send me back to tell you. He’s pushed on up the trail to See if it’s coming.”

  “It’s not too good a place, huh?” Dusty asked.

  “Nope,” Sandy admitted. “But it’s the only place anywheres along the trail for over two mile, as we could see.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what’s in that wagon, Mr. Fog?” one of the veteran privates put in.

  “Whiskey,” Dusty drawled.

  “Whisky!” repeated the veteran and his voice took on a more hopeful timbre. “Whee-dogie! Everybody’s going to be real pleased with us, happen we can get it back to the regiment.”

  “That’s for sure,” agreed the second of the old hands. “They’ll all —”

  “We’re not going to try to take it back,” Dusty warned, not wanting his men to build up hopes that he must shatter.

  “What you got in mind to do with it, sir?” the third veteran inquired.

  “Give it to the Yankees,” Dusty answered, in a matter of fact fashion.

  The time had not yet arrived when the small Texan could make startling, unexpected announcements and have them accepted by the veterans of Company ‘C’. So the three older privates exchanged puzzled glances, then turned their eyes in an inquiring manner to Billy jack. Sandy McGraw was just as baffled by Dusty’s words but had greater faith in his judgment, and waited expectantly for him to continue with his explanation.

  “There’s some’s might figure it’s wasting time to take it away, happen all we intend to do is give it back to ’em, sir,” Billy Jack commented, while the three veterans muttered their agreement.

  “Well, now,” Dusty said quietly. “I wasn’t exactly figuring on giving it back to the same Yankees we’ll be taking it from.”

  At that moment, they heard the sound of fast-moving hooves approaching.

  “Sandy,” Dusty went on, giving the others no opportunity to question his last statement. “Haul some of those branches from the fire and let the burned ends cool down. We’ll need them, if Kiowa’s bringing the right news.”

  Once more the veterans displayed interest, but a lack of understanding. None of them had been surprised when their young officer had told them to make a fire in the centre of the grove. They knew that, in wooded country, a small fire was less likely to be seen from a distance at night than in daylight, when the smoke rising from it was noticeable. ix Mr. Fog’s words had implied that the fire was to serve some other purpose than making the camp more comfortable, but the veterans could not imagine what it might be.

  Riding through the trees, his horse showing signs of having travelled a good distance at speed, Kiowa Cotton slipped from his saddle at the edge of the fire’s glow. Dropping his reins, he slouched towards Dusty.

  “It’s coming, Mr. Fog,” the Indian-dark soldier announced, delivering what passed as a salute. “Sergeant and three men riding guard, two more on the wagon. I reckon it’s them. Leastwise, they all sound liquored up and Irish, way they’re singing.”

  “How far off are they?” Dusty wanted to know, watching Sandy drawing a couple of thick branches from the fire.

  “’Bout three miles, when I left ’em,” Kiowa replied. “They’re not pushing their hosses.”

  “That ought to give us enough time to get everything ready,” Dusty said, half to himself. Then he turned his gaze to Billy Jack. “Have the crossed sabers taken off those Yankee kepis, sergeant. Then I want everybody with their hands and faces black.”

  “Yo!” Billy Jack agreed, but puzzlement was plain on his face.

  “Tell me about this place you’ve got in mind for us to use when we jump the wagon, Kiowa,” Dusty requested, ignoring the muttered comments and pointed glances being directed his way as Billy Jack set the enlisted men to carrying out his order regarding the kepis.

  “It’s not good,” Kiowa admitted. “But it’s the only place where you could get in close enough to jump ’em, happen you’re set on doing it.”

  “I am,” Dusty assured him.

  “It’d be easier to lay up and shoot ’em as they go by,” Kiowa pointed out. “You couldn’t get close to the trail without being seen, ’cepting at this place, but you could get to maybe a hundred yards of it.”

  “I want them alive, at least some of them, if I can get them.”

  “Then it’ll have to be that place. There’s a rise on the right of the trail, but at this place it drops straight down instead of being a slope, and the wagon has to go by along the bottom of it.”

  “How high’s the rim?”

  “Not much higher’n the top of the wagon’s cover.”

  “That’s high enough!” Dusty enthused.

  “Way the trail curves, they’d see us if we sat our hosses on the top of the wall or even back a ways from it.”

  “Huh huh!” Dusty grunted. “How’re the men riding?”

  “Sergeant and one of them was out front, the other two flanking the wagon box,” Kiowa replied.

  “And they’d been drinking?”

  “If they hadn’t, they was sure trying to sound like they had.”

  “Bueno!” Dusty ejaculated and Kiowa could see that he was satisfied with what he had heard. “I reckon we can make a stab at it.”

  Wishing to avoid raising false hopes amongst his men, Dusty had kept them in ignorance of what he hoped to do until he knew that he had the means available to put the scheme into operation, Kiowa had satisfied him on that point, so he did not delay any longer before taking them into his confidence. He told them all he had learned from the sentry at the bridge and how he hoped to turn his discoveries to their advantage. Listening, the men stared at their youthful officer with a mixture of surprise and incredulity. Billy Jack, Kiowa and Sandy showed that they were interested. However, the three veteran privates were more inclined to be critical and doubtful.

  “Them fellers’ll see we’re not Yankee infantry, even if we’ve got our faces and hands black,” one of the trio objected. “Our uniforms aren’t even the same color.”

  “All of the men with the wagon’ve been drinking,” Dusty pointed out. “And, happen we handle things right, it’ll all be over so fast they’ll not have the chance to think about how we’re dressed.”

  “It’ll never work,” Billy Jack wailed, setting his seal of approval upon the scheme. “We’ll be seen afore they get under us. I’ll bet none of us’re alive comes morning.”

  Watching the veterans’ response to the doleful comment, Dusty was grateful for having won Billy Jack’s confidence and trust, The three enlisted men looked less dubious and uncertain than they h
ad while he was telling them of his idea. While they had been disinclined to support openly such an unconventional notion as Dusty had outlined, they had faith in their sergeant’s judgment. Clearly Billy Jack considered that the scheme could work, so they were more willing to go along with it.

  The preparations were made quickly. Using the charred ends of branches from the fire, the men blackened their faces and hands. While they did so, Dusty had different members of the party impersonate a colored man’s way of speaking. Selecting the most accurate, he warned them that they must sound as minstrel shows would have most likely taught men raised in the North to expect Negroes to speak. At last, wearing the unmarked kepis, but no further disguises, they mounted up and set off on their mission.

  Approaching the trail, Dusty ordered his men to dismount. The horses were left in the reluctant care of the oldest veteran, while the remainder of the detail continued their advance on foot. Billy Jack, Sandy McGraw and the other two veterans each carried his coiled rope.

  On reaching the top of the small cliff, Dusty could see that Kiowa had been correct in his assumption as to where an ambush would be possible. There was no other place along the trail that would have allowed them to come so close and remain undetected. Nor would there have been sufficient time for them to make hiding places. Already they could hear singing, hooves, the rumbling of wheels and creaking of leather.

  Swiftly Dusty surveyed his surroundings, as he and his men flattened on their bellies on the top of the cliff. The area was almost perfect for his needs, he decided, Below him, the wall fell perpendicular and formed the edge of the trail. Even if the wagon was at the far side, it ought to still be within leaping distance. Most likely though, with a rider on each flank, it would be travelling along the centre of the trail.

  “They sure sound like they’re enjoying life,” Billy Jack remarked disapprovingly, shaking loose the coils of his rope and extending its loop. “I don’t reckon they’ll be too all-fired eager and watchful.”

  “Or me,” Dusty agreed. “In fact, I’m counting on just that.”