You're in Command Now, Mr Fog

by J. T. Edson

  “Now me,” the sergeant declared. “I never count on nothing going right.”

  “Tell you what,” Dusty growled, glaring at the miserable, care-worn face. “If you get killed because of me I’ll say I’m sorry most humble.”

  Despite his gloomy words, Billy Jack was studying the wagon and its escort as they came into sight. The moon was up and there was good visibility. While that would allow the Texans’ blackened hands and faces to be seen clearly, it also showed all too clearly that they did not wear the uniforms of the Yankee Infantry. However, his examination of the approaching party suggested that, once again, Mr. Fog had drawn some mighty smart conclusions. If their behavior was anything to go by, they were unlikely to be too observant.

  As when Kiowa had seen them, the burly sergeant and an equally brawny private rode ahead of the wagon. The other two ranged their horses on either side of the vehicle. The sergeant and two men on the driver’s box were armed with revolvers, holstered on their waist-belts, but the three mounted privates each had his long Springfield rifle resting across his knees.

  “That bastard beyond the wagon’s too far back for us to rope him!” Billy Jack whispered, indicating one of the pair who were riding beside the vehicle. “You just can’t trust Yankees to do nothing right.”

  “That’s for sure,” Dusty agreed. “So you’d best leave him to Kiowa or me.”

  “Yo!” the sergeant answered.

  “Remember,” Dusty went on. “We’re colored folks, but the kind those fellers’ve seen in minstrel shows. Talk like it.”

  “You-all can count on us to do des’ that,” promised one of the veterans, employing the type of accent and name used by such performers.

  “I jes’ hopes them white gennelmen appreciates what we-all’s doing,” Sandy McGraw stated, following his older companion’s example.

  “Hold the noise down!” Billy Jack hissed.

  Silence fell amongst the Texans, but the precaution was not necessary. Every member of the Yankee party had clearly taken sufficient drinks to render him in a musical frame of mind. Their voices, raised in song, would have drowned louder noises than the watchers’ quiet words and none of them were bothering to look around them in search of possible enemies.

  Nearer came the wagon, with the sergeant and his companion leading the way with a blissful—or whisky-induced—disregard for anything other than the song they were bellowing. Quickly Dusty gave his final instructions for the attack.

  ~*~

  Slowly, carefully, the Texans eased themselves into positions of greater readiness. Their attention flickered between the wagon, the riders and where Dusty and Kiowa were backing away from the rim.

  Cautiously the small blond rose. With some relief, he discovered that he could see the top of the wagon’s canopy although the riders were hidden by the edge of the cliff.

  “Now!” Dusty hissed, thrusting himself into motion, with Kiowa on his heels.

  Even as Billy Jack and the other men came to their feet, spaced far enough apart so that each would have room to spin and throw his rope, Dusty reached the rim and jumped. Still the Irishmen were not displaying any sign of hearing, or becoming aware of, the danger that was threatening them.

  The small Texan landed on the canopy, feeling it give under his weight, but it held up against the pressure. Down came his second foot, on the other side of the centre bar, and he caught his balance deftly. A moment later, Kiowa alighted behind him with equal success.

  Hearing and feeling the impacts of the two Texans’ arrivals on top of the canopy, the man seated by the driver started to rise. Swaying from side to side, due to the influence of the whiskey he had consumed, he turned to investigate. Shock twisted at his face as he stared upwards to where Dusty and Kiowa loomed above him. Although the light of the moon clearly illuminated every detail of their appearances, only the color of their skins attracted his attention and he drew the required conclusion. Like most members of the Chicago All-Irish Volunteers, he had a very prejudiced nature and outlook. Conditions during the journey had served to increase his already considerable intolerance and bias against Negroes. So he was willing to accept the newcomers at their face value, without thinking of other details.

  “We’re under attack!” the soldier screeched.

  Dusty lashed around his right boot. Its toe thudded against the side of the man’s head an instant after the word had left his lips. Already off balance the kick completed the destruction of his equilibrium and he pitched sideways from the box.

  Bringing his foot down from delivering the attack, Dusty teetered briefly before regaining his balance. He felt the canopy vibrate beneath him and heard an ear-splitting yell as Kiowa left it to deal with the horseman on the far side. At the same moment, the rest of the detail started to carry out their parts of the affair.

  While Dusty and Kiowa were still in mid-air, Billy Jack was measuring with his eyes the distance separating him from his target. An expert with a rope, he had selected the rider farthest from the rim. Satisfied with his aim, he swung his rope in one fast whirl to the right and up over his head. Then causing the loop to flatten out horizontally, he sent it forward. It passed above the leading private and dropped neatly over the Yankee sergeant’s head and shoulders. Twitching the loop tight, the lanky non-cam jerked his Federal counterpart over the cantle of the saddle and dumped him rump-first on the hard ground.

  “Get the white bastards!” howled Sandy McGraw, having been told to help plant the idea of Negroes being responsible for the attack and to leave the catching of the riders to the older men.

  Like Billy Jack, the two veterans had been cowhands before enlisting in the Texas Light Cavalry. Each duplicated his hooley-ann x throw so well that all three ropes were in flight at the same time. Having a shorter distance to cover, the privates achieved equal accuracy. Snared around the neck, the soldier at the sergeant’s side joined him in being unhorsed. Nor did the man on the near side of the wagon fare any better. Ensnared by a constricting coil of rope, he was plucked from his mount and deposited half-strangled and winded upon the trail.

  Leaving Dusty to attend to the men on the box, Kiowa gave his attention to the rider who was beyond the reach of the ropers. He saw the man’s head and torso swiveling in his direction and the mouth dropped open in amazement. Letting out a Kiowa war whoop the Texan hurled himself from the wagon. Spreading apart his legs, he passed them on either side of the bewildered Irishman. Even if the other had intended to try to use his rifle, the opportunity was denied him.

  Looking as if he was sitting on the man’s lap, Kiowa bore him from his horse. They went down together, but Kiowa was expecting that it would happen. So he alighted on his feet and painlessly. Less fortunate, the Irishman smashed on to the unyielding surface. Nor did his troubles end there. Still straddling his victim, Kiowa let his rump descend with all his weight on to the man’s chest. Although Kiowa was ready to continue his assault, he found that it was not necessary. The impact had already rendered the Yankee soldier unconscious.

  Alarmed by the sudden disruption of what had been, up to that moment, a most pleasant and uneventful journey, the driver also started to stand up. Dusty did not give him the chance to do more than elevate his rump from the seat. Dropping to sit on the front arch of the canopy’s support, he placed the sole of his right foot against the man’s shoulder and shoved. Letting out a wail and dropping the reins of the four-horse team, the driver shot head-long from the box and sprawled downwards helplessly. Although the small Texan leapt after the man, it was not to continue the attack. Ignoring his victim, he ran to the heads of the two leading horses so as to get them under control and prevent any tendency to bolt.

  Being dissatisfied with the part assigned to him, especially as he saw the other three men’s ropes flying accurately and knew that he would not need to use his own, Sandy McGraw sought for another way to help. The solution was simple enough, if risky. Dropping his rope, he darted along the edge of the rim and leapt outwards.

 
Landing on the canopy, just after Dusty and Kiowa had quit it, Sandy slid recklessly from the top to the ground. The driver was struggling to rise and the youngster darted towards him as he shook his head in a dazed manner. Driving a kick against the man’s temple, Sandy ended any danger of intervention from that source. However, a glance around showed that there were others requiring attention if the attack was to succeed.

  “Get the white bastards!” Billy Jack yelled, having watched Sandy’s departure. “Take that whiskey!”

  “Ah’ll do that!” the young soldier answered, retaining sufficient presence of mind—despite his excitement—to respond in the correct fashion. He drew the 1860 Army Colt from its holster, but grasped it around the cylinder and with the butt ahead of his hand. “Ah sure likes white fellers’ whiskey!”

  Leaping to his feet, Kiowa scooped up his victim’s discarded rifle. He listened to the conversation and swung his to discover where he would be most usefully employed.

  The sergeant and the other point rider were now seated side by side on the trail. While the former tried to free his arms, the latter clutched wildly at the rope that was threatening to strangle him. On the rim, Billy Jack and the two privates braced themselves and kept the loops tight.

  Being unable to see the last rider. Kiowa ran around the rear of the wagon. Although unhorsed, partially choked and winded the Irishman had managed to land on his feet and was jerking at the rope. Hearing Kiowa approaching the man turned. In this he was hampered by his captor manipulating the rope in a way that hindered his movements. Having no room to maneuver Kiowa raised the borrowed rifle above his head in both hands. Down it whipped, the butt catching the soldier on the forehead. Blood gushed from the gash it caused and its recipient reeled. For a moment the rope held him erect. Slackening his grip, the Texan allowed his captive to collapse limply.

  Hurdling the man’s motionless body, Kiowa ran forward. He saw that Sandy had already reached the sergeant and, delivering the base of the Colt’s butt in a hammer-like blow to the top of the non-com’s skull, knocked him senseless.

  “You have de last one, Bones!” Sandy offered, pointing to where the remaining Yankee was struggling to rise, get free, or do anything that might save him from his companions’ fates.

  Advancing, while the man on the rim tugged repeatedly on the rope and kept his catch off balance, Kiowa once again used the rifle’s butt. He hit the Irishman behind the head and ended all the resistance—such as it had been—from the whiskey wagon’s escort.

  “Good going!” Dusty praised, looking around to make sure that only his own men could hear him. Satisfied that the Yankees were all unconscious, he continued with orders. “Sergeant, get our horses up here. Kiowa, Sandy, move those two out of the way. Then get the wagon moving.”

  “It worked, Mr. Fog,” Sandy enthused as he bent to remove the rope from the sergeant’s neck.

  “So far,” the small Texan replied. “But we’ve a fair way to go yet.”

  There were, Dusty realized, still things that could go wrong; but at least the first portion of his plan had been successfully accomplished.

  Chapter Nine

  Leisurely tossing pieces of wood into the cresset before the guard tent, the Negro sentry became aware of movement on the edge of the woodland some distance from the camp. Reaching for his Sharps breech-loading rifle, he looked to where a wagon emerged along the trail that led to Herber Springs. At first, he saw no cause for alarm. It was the usual type of four-horse vehicle used in considerable numbers by the Quartermaster Corps. However, he did not return to his work of feeding the fire. He enjoyed being in a position where he could order white people around; even if only to the extent of making one halt and submit to his questioning at a guard post.

  Bringing his rifle into the ready position, the sentry prepared to challenge the driver. He was debating whether to make the approaching man halt the wagon some yards away, dismount and advance to be recognized, then he stared harder. Suddenly a feeling of superstitious fear bit at him. Although the four horses continued to walk towards the camp, the wagon’s box was empty.

  There was no driver!

  “Hey, serge!” the sentry yelled. “Come out here and take a look at this!”

  “What’s up?” was the reply from the guard tent.

  “You come and see!” the sentry insisted.

  Followed by the other occupants of the tent, a burly Negro sergeant strode out. None of them were armed and their eruption lacked any suggestion of military purpose or precision.

  “What do you wan—?” the sergeant began, then he too saw the wagon. “Now where the hell’s that come from?”

  “I dunno,” admitted the sentry. “It just come along the trail with nobody driving it.”

  “We’d best fetch it in,” the sergeant decided, while a low muttering rose from the man behind him. None of them moved, however, and his voice took on a harsher note. “You heard me! Go fetch it in.”

  “Looks like it’s coming, fetched or not,” the sentry pointed out. “Ain’t no call to go and meet it.”

  “I ain’t in this man’s Army to go fetching no wagon,” stated another of the guard, as the sergeant’s eyes swung in his direction. “Especially when they comes from nowhere, without nobody driving them.”

  Seeing the lights of the camp, the experienced horses sensed that their hard day’s work might soon be ended. So they kept walking towards the soldiers.“Maybe we should get the officer-of-the-day,” suggested a third enlisted man, sensing that he might be called up to go near the mysterious wagon. “Him being so well eddicated ’n’ all, he’ll know for sure what to do.”

  “Where the hell is he?” demanded the sergeant, seeing that he might be able to pass the buck to his superior.

  “He went down the valley,” supplied the sentry. “Allowed that, with all their officers likely in town for the meeting, he’d best go and make sure them Mick-landers’s doing their work properly. He reckons they’s all likely to be sleeping if he don’t watch ’em.”

  None of the men thought it unusual that their officer-of-the-day should take it upon himself to check on the behavior of the Irish sentries, nor that he would inform one of their number of his suspicions. As an aid to winning the Negroes’ confidence, their officers invariably spoke disparagingly about the abilities and trustworthy qualities of white soldiers. So, although the officer-of-the-day was only accepting an invitation to have supper with his opposite number at the remount depot, he could not resist the opportunity to ingratiate himself with one of his men.

  “What’re we going to do about that thing, serge?” a soldier wanted to know.

  The question posed a problem for its recipient. In their desire to “prove” their beliefs in racial equality, the officers had taken their Negro sergeant major and carefully selected sergeants to the meeting in Searcy. Wishing to create a good impression, they had picked all the most responsible and capable of the non-corns. So the sergeant had nobody to whom he could turn for guidance, or who would have given the correct advice if he had asked for it. He held his own rank more on muscular prowess than intelligence or military knowledge.

  While the men had been talking and the sergeant was trying to reach a decision, the wagon had continued to draw nearer. Studying it, the sergeant became aware that the reins were fastened to the brake’s handle. A moment later, he noticed something familiar standing on the otherwise unoccupied box. Stepping forward, he reached towards the head of the near-side lead horse. The tired animals came to a stop. Striding by them, he detected an aroma which he identified.

  “It was spirits’s caused this to come here,” the sergeant announced, reaching over to take the bottle of whiskey from the driver’s seat. “But they was this kind.”

  “How d’you mean,” asked the sentry, still eyeing the wagon warily.

  “The driver’s likely been guzzling this and fell off,” the sergeant explained, drawing the cork from the battle and taking a long drink. “Yes sir. I’ll bet that’s all’s’s h
appened.”

  “Is that for-real whiskey?” the sentry inquired hopefully.

  “Well now,” answered the sergeant. “I’ll just take another pull to make sure of it.”

  “I’ll help you make sure,” offered a soldier, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. “Happen you’re so minded.”

  “Wonder what’s in that wagon,” another went on, when the sergeant declined to reply.

  “Take a look and find out,” suggested a third.

  For a moment nobody offered to follow the suggestion. Then curiosity overrode the sentry’s superstitious awe. Resting the rifle against the side of the wagon, he scrambled on to the box. There was sufficient light from the cresset for him to see inside. The interior was packed with boxes and he was not left in doubt as to some of their contents. Several at the front had had their tops removed. He could see that they were filled with bottles or jugs of the kind used for holding whiskey.

  “Look at these!” the sentry whooped, turning with a bottle in each hand. “It’s full of ’em, boys.”

  Excited comments arose from the rest of the guard. Jumping to the ground, the sentry passed one bottle to a friend and opened the other.

  “Maybe you’d best let me try it, Ben,” hinted the man who had offered to help the sergeant.

  “You get your own,” the sentry replied. “There’s plenty more where this come from.”

  “Who do you reckon it belongs to?” queried a soldier who had been silent up to that point, looking at the sergeant.

  “They do say finders’s keepers,” another man pointed out, watching the helpful one boarding the wagon. “Ain’t that right, serge?”

  “That’s what they say,” declared the non-com.

  Although the sergeant could guess at who owned the whiskey—for the Irishmen had not attempted to keep its coming a secret—he refused to make his knowledge public. Like the majority of his regiment, he disliked white men and accompanying the Chicago All-Irish Volunteers had done nothing to make him change his feelings. So he had no intention of returning the consignment to its owners.