You're in Command Now, Mr Fog

by J. T. Edson

  Having been granted what they chose to regard as permission, the members of the guard who were not already in possession of bottles swarmed around the wagon. Attracted by their excited shouts, more men hurried up. Hearing the news, they clamored to be allowed to share in the fortunate arrival.

  Standing just inside the fringe of the woodland, Dusty Fog, Billy Jack and the other Texans, except for Kiowa, watched what was happening.

  “Looks like they’re doing what we want them to,” the lanky sergeant commented, although his tones suggested that the Negroes’ behavior was a tragedy and not a successful part of their arrangements. “Now some of their offlcers’re sure to come, make ’em put it all back and take it to them Irish jaspers.”

  “If they do,” Dusty threatened, “I’ll have something to say at the court martial.”

  “What court martial?” Billy Jack inquired.

  “The one I’ll get you for wishing it to happen,” the small Texan explained, then became more serious. “Anyways, I’m banking on them all, except the officer-of-the-day, being at the meeting in Searcy.”

  “It’s possible,” Billy Jack conceded, but contrived to imply that he did not expect it to happen. “Any time the Commanding General comes a-visiting, every officer busts a gut trying to get to meet him. There’s some’s calls it ‘butt-licking’.”

  “But not you?” Dusty challenged, continuing to watch the camp.

  “Me!” the sergeant yelped indignantly. “Why Mr. Fog, sir, as if I’d say such a thing! I’m too loyal —”

  “So you keep telling me,” Dusty drawled. “But I notice that you always seem to know about things like that.”

  “Anyway,” Billy Jack said, obviously wanting to change that subject. “The officer-of-the-day’ll come and make ’em give it back.”

  “Or maybe a swarm of diamondbacks’ll come and spook the team, so they bolt across the valley,” Dusty suggested, glancing at his sergeant.

  “Knowing my luck it could happen,” Billy Jack warned, wishing that he had thought of such a contingency.

  “One thing I know,” Dusty declared, in tones redolent with mock resignation. “If we get out of this alive, I’m going to find me a more cheerful sergeant.”

  “That don’t worry me none,” Billy Jack answered. “With me along, we ain’t likely to get back alive.”

  Watching the Negroes boarding and unloading the wagon, while others opened the boxes, or distributed the contents, Dusty heard chuckles from his men at Billy Jack’s comment. The small Texan grinned. He knew that Billy Jack used the predictions of doom and disaster to help keep up the enlisted men’s spirits, or relieve theft anxieties in dangerous situations So he had started to go along with his sergeant, realizing what good morale-boosters such conversations could be. In fact, he admitted to himself, they even helped him in times of stress.

  “They’re sure getting liquored up,” commented one of the veterans, a touch wistfully.

  “I’d sooner we was drinking it than them,” the second old hand went on.

  “All we’d’ve got out of it’d’ve been sore heads in the morning,” Billy Jack pointed out. “This way it’ll be the Yankees’s gets ’em.”

  “One thing’s for sure,” Dusty drawled. “Unless their officer-of-the-day arrives real soon, he’ll not be able to make them obey him. Most of them’ll be too drunk to take orders.”

  Dusty had not based his strategy upon ideas of Negroes being naturally drunken, shiftless, or irresponsible. The Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan had never owned slaves, nor had there been any in the surrounding counties. The clan’s participation in the War, on the side of the Confederacy, had been caused by a belief in the inalienable right of any State to secede from the Union if its interests and policies should prove incompatible with those of the Federal Government. xi So, until he had joined the Texas Light Cavalry in Arkansas, Dusty’s contacts with colored people had been few and, if anything, would have led him to form exactly the opposite opinion regarding their behavior.

  What the small Texan had counted on was his growing knowledge of men; particularly men who, while serving as soldiers, found themselves away from their homes and removed from their accepted codes of social conduct.

  From the sentry’s comments, Dusty had deduced that he was completely biased against Negroes, but, as became a good “one hundred and ten per cent” xii American, would have been no less prejudiced against any other racial, or religious group.

  However, Dusty had decided that the soldier’s comments about the Negroes’ lack of discipline and military skill might have some basis of truth. Not because they were Negroes, but through a lack of sound, experienced leadership.

  Any regiment, the young lieutenant had been taught, was only as good as its officers made it. The correct kind of training and discipline, carried out by officers who had shown themselves to be capable and to know their work, or who took the right kind of interest in the enlisted men’s health and welfare, was what built espirit de corps and turned a bunch of civilians into a fighting regiment. The Texas Light Cavalry was commanded by officers who possessed those qualities.

  According to the sentry, the Negroes’ white officers were “soft shells” who had come into the Army straight from college; their commissions having been handed to them despite their lack of military abilities, because nobody else could be found to take on the task of training the colored soldiers. That was possible, Dusty had believed, for he had heard that career officers fought shy of serving in the few volunteer regiments of Negroes that had been formed. So the Union Army’s top brass might have been willing to take applicants, regardless of knowledge or aptitude.

  With that in mind, Dusty had made his plans and gambled on the general lack of discipline prevalent in many volunteer outfits on both sides. Appointed through political or social influence, far too many of the officers had proved lacking in the ability to control the enlisted men. Dusty had believed that this was the case with the Negroes. He had also decided that similar conditions existed amongst the Chicago All-Irish Volunteers. With the absence of most of the officers, the scheme ought to have a good chance of working.

  After the arrival of the horses, Dusty had dispatched Billy Jack and the three veterans to escort Sandy with the wagon. They had orders to make the best possible speed, especially while in the vicinity of the cliff. After their companions’ departure, the small Texan and Kiowa had tied up but did not gag the unconscious men. Ensuring that the knots were such that the soldiers could release themselves, after a struggle, the Texans had returned to the rim and awaited developments.

  By the time the Irishmen had recovered consciousness, the wagon and riders were out of sight and beyond hearing distance. So were the Yankees’ mounts, which had bolted during the excitement of the attack. From the profane and lurid comments overheard by the listening Texans, their bait had been swallowed without reservation. The Irishmen were convinced that they had been attacked by members of the Negro regiment. What was more, the furious men had sworn vengeance and, having escaped from their bonds, had started to walk as fast as they could in the direction of their camp.

  Once that had happened, Dusty and Kiowa had collected their horses, which had been left at a suitable distance. Then they had separated. Kiowa was to keep the Irishmen under surveillance, while Dusty had pushed on to rejoin the rest of the detail. On his doing so, they had turned off of the trail, making a detour to avoid the Chicago All-Irish Volunteers’ camp, and had crossed the valley without being seen by the occupants of the remount depot. With that accomplished, they had arranged for the driverless wagon to go to the Negroes’ quarters.

  While all had gone well so far, Dusty knew that complete success was still a long way from being assured. However, the prospects were constantly improving. As yet, no officer had made an appearance to investigate the commotion. The longer the arrival of someone in authority was delayed, the smaller grew his chances of being able to accomplish anything with the men.

  Laughter, shouts, singi
ng and other evidences of merriment rolled in an increasing volume from the Negroes camp. More men, drawn from their tents by the noises, joined the milling group about the wagon. Bottles were continually being opened, sampled and passed from hand to hand.

  Turning his attention to the other side of the valley, Dusty used the field glasses that he had been loaned before leaving the regiment. He could see figures gathering to look in the Negroes’ direction. Even if the Irishmen could not see the wagon, they would be wondering what was causing all the excitement.

  The call of a whip-poor-will, repeated twice, reached Dusty’s ears from somewhere to his rear. Billy Jack replied in the same manner and, a few seconds later, Kiowa joined them.

  “Those jaspers we caught should just about be at their camp, Mr. Fog,” the dark-faced soldier stated. “They didn’t see anybody on the way and, like you told me, I left ’em when they got close to the camp.”

  “Then we ought to be seeing something hap —” Dusty began.

  At that moment, from across the valley, came yells of anger. The men who had been watching the Negroes were tuning to run into the centre of their camp, while others poured from the tents. Louder and more menacing rose the roaring of voices as the crowd grew in size.

  Scanning the opposite side of the half-mile wide valley, Dusty tried to discover exactly what was happening. At that distance, even in the bright moonlight, he could not make out the figures clearly enough to hope to identify any of them. Yet he felt sure that the centre of the attraction must be his victims telling their story. Everything now depended on the reaction of their audience. More particularly, the continuation of the affair hinged upon the type of men who had gained promotion as the regiment’s non-commissioned officers.

  From what Devlin had told him, Dusty assumed that promotion in the Chicago All-Irish Volunteers—at least as far as the enlisted men were concerned—had been mainly on physical qualifications. Working on the principle that a non-com would need to be able to enforce his orders with his fists—regardless of other, more suitable military qualities—the colonel had selected men capable of doing it. In which case, Dusty was gambling on the non-coms being roughnecks more interested in the recovery of “the O’Bannion’s” gift than the maintenance of discipline. If the sentry had spoken the truth, the only officer in the camp was not the kind who could control the enraged soldiers.

  The soldiers were scattering, making for their quarters on the run!

  Although the rest of Dusty’s party did not have field glasses, they could discern enough to see the latest development. The three older soldiers exchanged glances, while Sandy’s face showed his disappointment at what he regarded as a sign that the rest of the plan would not work. Darting a look at Dusty, Billy Jack said nothing. The sergeant knew when not to make comments on failure, or gloomy predictions of mishaps.

  Then the Irishmen started to reappear and assemble at the top of the slope. Through his glasses, Dusty could see the reason for their departures. Every man was carrying his firearm and had his weapon belt strapped about his waist.

  “They’re coming!” Sandy ejaculated, watching the mass of men pouring towards the bottom of the valley “That’s ’cause they’ve seen us bunch and know what we’ve done,” Billy Jack declared. “Now they’re coming all mean ’n riled up to catch us.”

  Detecting the undertone of relief in the sergeant’s doleful voice, Dusty grinned. Billy Jack had been just as concerned as he had by the Irishmen’s departure, but now realized why it had happened.

  Wondering what the occupants of the remount depot were making of the new disturbance, Dusty turned his field glasses in their direction. Previous checks had shown the sentries and soldiers who would be in charge of the horses were looking towards the rims, trying to discover what all the commotion was about. There was more activity now. The sentries were deserting their posts and converging on the mass of advancing men. The remainder of the guard came from their accommodation and made for the slope. Curiosity was causing the depot’s staff to accompany the other enlisted men. Three officers, one wearing a cavalryman’s uniform, rushed from a tent.

  There were shouted explanations, followed by bellows of rage from the men of the guard. Even the depot’s staff joined in the mob, caught up by excitement and a desire to do something, anything, to relieve the boredom of their existence.

  Yelling commands, the three officers ran to confront the soldiers. On strode the enlisted men. One of the infantry lieutenants, Dusty could not tell which—although he guessed, correctly, that he was from the Negro regiment—tried to draw a revolver. It was a very bad mistake, with the mood the Irishmen were in. Before the weapon was clear of its holster, several soldiers charged. Rifle butts swung and all of the officers were battered to the ground. Forwards swept the crowd, leaving the trio of motionless figures as the only human occupants of the depot.

  Directing his glasses back to the Negroes’ camp, Dusty saw that they had not been unaware of what was happening. Probably a number of them had suspected, or been sure, to whom the wagon had been intended to be delivered. However, it having come into their possession—and mindful of its owners’ animosity towards them—they were disinclined to hand it over. Especially when the Irishmen were clearly coming in such a hostile manner to try to recover it.

  Already many of the Negroes had collected their weapons and others were hurrying to arm themselves. The sight of them standing at the top of the slope, holding their rifles, was all the inducement required by the Irishmen. Weapons on both sides were raised. Just who fired the first shot was uncertain. It could have come from either group and it was followed almost immediately by a ragged volley. Lead slashed up and down the slope, with men falling dead or wounded as some of it found its way into flesh.

  “All right,” Dusty said, as the Irishmen started to take cover half-way up the slope. “Let’s go.”

  With the Yankee soldiers engrossed in firing at each other, Dusty and his men made only a short detour before reaching the corrals unobserved. Working fast, they opened the gates and drove out the already disturbed and milling animals. With horses and mules bolting along the bottom of the valley, the Texans set fire to the stacks of fodder. Still without interruption from the fighting soldiers, they collected their own mounts and rode away.

  “Did you ever see the beat of it?” demanded one of the veterans. “We’ve not only chased off all ole “Cussing” Culver’s hosses, we’ve got his fellers killing each other off for us.”

  “That sure was slick figuring, Mr. Fog,” the second veteran went on.

  “I can’t see them mules going far,” Billy Jack protested. “The Yankees’ll likely get most of ’em back comes morning.”

  “They won’t get many of the hosses,” the third old hand pointed out. Most of ’em’ll be headed back home.”

  “I don’t reckon there’ll be any of the hay and grain saved,” Sandy McGraw continued, staring in frank admiration at the small Texan as he rode ahead of the detail. “Them fellers’re too busy shooting each other up to think about putting the fires out.”

  “Thought you said his fool notion’d never work, Tom,” the first veteran drawled to the second, lowering his voice in the hope that Dusty would not hear.

  “You didn’t think it would, either,” protested the doubter.

  “I ain’t gainsaying it,” admitted the first speaker. “That’s one smart young feller we’ve got bossing us.”

  Listening to the words, Dusty felt a surge of pride and satisfaction. He knew his actions that night would go a long way—once told back at the regiment—towards gaining his acceptance as a leader.

  ~*~

  While Dusty did not know it, he had struck an even more important blow for the Confederate cause than merely scattering the remounts and destroying the fodder. He realized that the morale of the two regiments would be adversely affected for a long time to come, but did not visualize the full ramifications.

  On learning of the incident, General Culver realized the d
elicate nature of the situation. There had been no hope of hushing it up and the respective colonels were each equally determined that his regiment should not be blamed. So Culver was compelled, reluctantly, to hold a court of inquiry in an attempt to discover what had occurred. He soon saw that there was no hope of establishing the guilt or innocence of either outfit. However, feelings were still running so high between the Irishmen and the Negroes—for both had lost a number of men—that Culver knew he must take some form of action.

  Deciding on what type of measures to take had been fraught with difficulties. All the other white outfits under Culver’s command tended to side with the Chicago All-Irish Volunteers and were expressing distrust of the colored soldiers. There was one snag to Culver taking the obvious step. The Negroes’ officers had important connections in the political world. So he realized that they could make a lot of trouble for him if he “victimized” their regiment by sending it away.

  Showing a flair for diplomacy, Culver solved the problem by ordering both regiments to return East; where they could “recruit and bring themselves up to fighting strength”. While that had, at least, saved everybody’s face, Culver was left with a far reduced force when he commenced his offensive and could have used the departed soldiers.

  Dusty received considerable acclaim for his actions, on returning so the Texas Light Cavalry, and Kiowa Cotton was promoted to corporal for his work as a scout. During the next weeks, through the Yankees’ offensive and until the Battle at Martin’s Mill, the small Texan worked under Captain von Hertz’s direct command and was given no further opportunity to distinguish himself. However, he had continued to hold the enlisted men’s esteem.

  That was to become important!

  Part Four

  THE BATTLE OF MARTIN’S MILL, cont’d.

  Chapter Ten

  Once clear of the trees, Sergeant Major Goering halted his horse and watched Company ‘C’ passing by. Despite his misgivings regarding Mr. Fog’s decision to ignore their dead captain’s plan for making the attack, he wanted to be sure that the men were adopting the echelon formation as required by the young first lieutenant. Fortunately, it was a drill that the Company had frequently carried out so the men knew what was expected of them without needing long explanations.