by J. T. Edson
Although the two columns were parallel, the men in them formed a staggered pattern. The first and second men of the right hand file rode with a distance of about three yards between their horses and the leading man of the other column positioned his mount opposite the gap. A similar formation extended along the length of the Company so that, when they turned to face the enemy, every man would have an unrestricted field of fire.
When satisfied that all was in order, the sergeant major galloped after and joined his youthful commanding officer.
Accompanied by Sandy McGraw and the bugler, Dusty Fog rode to the right of the Company’s line of march. The small Texan had put aside his thoughts of the past and was concentrating on the work at hand. At his signal, the other two slowed their mounts and allowed the columns to go by.
“Tell the men to leave their revolvers holstered, sergeant major,” Dusty requested, as Goering rode up. “I don’t want any shooting until I give the word.”
“Yo!” responded the sergeant major and raised his voice to relay the order.
Dusty left Goering to attend to such details, giving his attention to other matters. Watching the Lancers urging their mounts to a gallop, the youngster wondered if he should increase his Company’s pace. After at moment’s thought, he decided against giving the command. He wanted to have the men under complete control, which was never easy once they started to gallop, and for the horses to be as fresh as possible when they were required to charge.
Would he be in time if he held the Company to a trot?
There certainly would not be much in it, but Dusty was gambling that they would.
The Lancers sure looked mighty impressive and menacing. Ahead of the leading wave galloped a major and two lieutenants. Unlike their men, they—and the other officers—were armed with revolvers and sabers. They had each drawn the latter weapon and were waving it while encouraging their followers. The enlisted men carried nine foot long lances, made of Norwegian fir and tipped with diamond-shaped, needle-pointed, steel tips; but had no other weapons.
That last point was one of the factors upon which Dusty was basing his strategy. Another, which he had hoped might happen, was already starting to take place. The Lancers had commenced their advance in a kind of triple echelon formation. Already the lines were growing ragged and the men had started to close together as their speed increased. Unless they opened out again, they would be badly bunched before they reached their objective.
Looking from his point of vantage higher up the slope, Dusty decided that only the captain in command of the rear company appeared to have noticed the danger. The youngster could see him yelling and signaling for his men to spread out, or drop back a short distance and regroup. Apparently the words were falling on deaf ears.
Dusty swung his gaze from the Lancers, to make an examination of the rest of the battleground.
At the mountain battery, Captain Staunce threw a glance towards the Lancers. Then he turned his attention to the four howitzers and left control of the small defensive party to his capable sergeant major. They would be an inconsiderable factor in protecting the little guns, but their presence was good for the crews’ morale. The safety of the battery really depended on Company ‘C’ of the Texas Light Cavalry—and they would be outnumbered by around three to one.
All in all, it was a very dangerous situation. Staunce knew that the success of the Confederate attack depended on his howitzers silencing the Yankees’ three Vandenburg Volley Guns. He had complete faith in his men’s ability to carry out their duty, unless the Lancers prevented them from doing it. In that event, Staunce hoped he would be killed and not captured. Although he wore the uniform of a Confederate States’ artillery captain, he was not a native of that country.
Not long past his twentieth birthday, Douglas St. John Staunce was the son of Britain’s leading artillerist. From his father, he had learned the art of handling cannon and the War Between The States had seemed like a good opportunity for him to gain practical experience in the field. Like Staunce, the men of the battery were British. Veterans of the Crimean War, who had been disenchanted with civilian life in England, he had gathered them when a group of cotton manufacturers had financed the battery and offered him command. Trained in the British fashion of discipline backed by fair play and a sense of humor, they had become a crack outfit. Staunce knew that he could depend upon them to do their best, even without the knowledge of their late if they should be captured.
“Fire!” Staunce barked, when each piece’s gunner had reported that it was trained and ready.
Four hands tugged sharply at lanyards, causing friction primers xiii to ignite and touch off the powder charges. With almost simultaneous bellows, the howitzers flung their loads into the air. Standing upwind, so as to be clear of the smoke, Staunce watched for the results of the shots. They proved to be good. Two of the shells bracketed the Vandenburg farthest from the battery, killing most of its crew when they exploded. The third and fourth shells landed close enough to the remaining Volley Guns to make the men handling them dive hurriedly for shelter.
“Reload!” Staunce yelled. “Go to it, lads! Independent rapid fire!”
While the gunners changed the friction primers and connected the lanyards, the number two men sponged out the barrels of the pieces. They used water out of the buckets which had been transported suspended under the carriages and filled on arrival from the men’s canteens. The third member of each crew dashed to the battery’s two-wheeled caisson, of the type known as the “prairie ammunition cart”. The lid of its forward chest was open and the sergeant in charge handed out “fixed” xiv twelve-pounder rounds to replenish the howitzers.
Allowing his men to carry out their duties, Staunce looked towards the woods. To his relief, he found that Company ‘C’ was on the move. However, von Hertz was nowhere in sight. Instead young Dusty Fog appeared to be in command. Young, maybe, but Staunce did not doubt that—no matter what had happened to the captain—the cavalrymen were being led in a satisfactory manner.
Staunce did not watch the Texans for long. Satisfied that they were coming to his aid, he devoted his attention to the working of his howitzers.
Allowing half of the men to go by, with Billy Jack controlling their speed at the front and Sergeant “Stormy” Weather bringing up the rear, Dusty and his party increased their horses’ speed to match that of the rest of the Company. Without waiting for orders, leaving his superior to concentrate on the tactical situation, Goering told the men opposite his party to open up a gap. That would ensure they were able to start shooting once the turn had been made.
Watching the Lancers, Dusty compared their pace to that of his men. He also gauged the distances involved and knew there would be little margin for error.
Thinking only of the relative positions of his Company, the battery and the Lancers, Dusty guided the Texans into the narrowing gap between the former and the latter. He could sense a growing tension among his men and saw that all of them were watching the Lancers. Many, especially the younger, less-experienced soldiers, were fingering the butts of their revolvers. However, so far they were showing no signs of disobeying, or anticipating his orders.
Dusty knew that the situation could easily change. If one of the anxious, or over-eager, riders should turn on the enemy prematurely, others were sure to follow his example. Only with a massed, concerted effort could Company ‘C’ hope to achieve anything against the Yankees’ superior numbers.
Everything hinged upon how much faith the men had in Dusty’s judgment.
What to do for the best was not an easy decision for a young officer, freshly thrust into command, to have to make. Especially when the future of the Confederate States’ Army of Arkansas and North Texas hung precariously in the balance and his actions could easily tilt the scales in the wrong direction.
The moment had come for Company ‘C’ to turn and face the enemy!
“Columns right, yo!” Dusty called, reining his bay around until its head was pointing at
the horse ridden by the Lancers’ commanding officer.
The superb horsemanship of the Texans soon became evident. Rider after rider swung his mount to the right. While they did not make their turns like puppets coupled to a single string, they came around sufficiently in unison to form the solid body that Dusty required for his purposes.
In a few seconds, deftly controlling the restlessness caused to their horses by the mountain battery’s howitzers bellowing not too far away, the twin columns that had been passing across the Lancers’ front had changed into two staggered lines heading towards the blue-clad soldiers.
“Rear column forward!” Goering reminded in a booming tone, looking back across his shoulder.
Urging their horses to a faster pace, the men at the rear advanced until they filled the gaps in the front line. Without needing orders. Sandy McGraw and the bugler slowed down until they too occupied their positions in the Company. Dusty and Goering continued to stay ahead of the enlisted men, as was their right and duty. It was good for the soldiers’ morale to see their superiors in front of them as they rushed to meet an enemy.
With the Company turned towards the Lancers, Dusty prepared to carry out the next part of his plan. Nodding in confirmation to the sergeant major’s unasked question, he knotted the split-ended reins to his saddle’s horn.
“Secure your reins!” Goering bellowed.
One of the drills carried out regularly at Colonel Blaze’s instigation had been much enjoyed by the enlisted men, few of whom had bothered to consider the full perils that would be entailed by doing it in action. It was to make a charge with a weapon in each hand—they could be two revolvers, or a handgun and a saber—while guiding the horses with knee-pressure instead of using the reins.
That was the means by which Dusty hoped to prevent the Lancers from overrunning Captain Staunce’s battery.
While the Texans duplicated Dusty’s actions, Goering and the other Germans—who were still using their McClelland saddles and U.S. Army bridles—merely dropped their one-piece reins over the pommels. Then they all awaited the next command, which would be to arm themselves.
It did not come!
Instead, the men of Company ‘C’ continued to rush with empty hands towards the mass of charging Lancers.
Chapter Eleven
Riding alongside Second Lieutenant Charles William Henry Blaze, with the six privates following close behind, Corporal Vern Hassle could sense restlessness and tension in the air. The white-haired old timer guessed that the rest of the detail were disturbed and anxious over the change in leadership. One thought was uppermost in each of the enlisted men’s minds. They would rather have been under the command of Mr. Fog while handling such a tricky, dangerous and important assignment.
Although he did not show it, Red Blaze was equally aware of the five soldiers’ misgivings. He had noticed them studying him in a somewhat critical manner when he had joined them and had known why. He was popular with the enlisted men, due to his amiable nature, good humor and general disregard for strict military discipline, but he lacked his small cousin’s personality and ability to inspire confidence. The detail had expected to be led by Dusty Fog and were dubious about their chances now that Red had taken charge.
As Billy Jack had surmised that day outside Arkadelphia, Red was liked by the men of Company ‘C’, but he had not come anywhere near to gaining the kind of respect earned by Dusty Fog. There had been too many incidents which, while amusing, were not likely to have increased his prestige as an officer.
Soon after his arrival at the regiment, Red had been told to take half of the Company on skirmishing training. All the men concerned had been veterans, with considerable practical experience in that type of duty. So Red had decided that it would be a waste of time and effort to put them through their paces Captain von Hertz had found the party lounging at ease in a hollow, which had not enamored him towards the young red-head.
However, after Dusty had explained that an officer must carry out orders if he expected the enlisted men to do as he told them, Red had never repeated that mistake. From then on, he had performed his duties well enough, but it had taken time for him to recover from the consequences of his misguided leniency. At first, the men had expected it to be continued. Eventually they had realized that when he gave an order, he intended to have it obeyed. Unfortunately, he had had a tendency to show in an unfavorable light on other counts. For one thing, if there was a fight when he was around, he was certain to become involved in it.
Red’s willingness to shed his jacket and waive all thoughts of differences in rank if challenged or provoked had earned him a reputation—particularly as he had proved to be very adept in all aspects of rough-house brawling and more than able to hold his own in a fight—but it was not one to foster faith in his ability as a military leader. Rather he was considered as a brave, hot-headed, impulsive, if likeable youngster who occasionally said, or did, rash things on the spur of the moment and frequently regretted them later.
Despite his disappointment at having to miss out on the opportunity to side his Cousin Dusty in what ought to be a memorable fight, Red fully realized the importance of his mission. If he failed, the assault would be of little use. With the bridge over the Ouachita River destroyed, the supply column could not cross and would be trapped by the Yankee Army.
It was the first time since Red had joined the Texas Light Cavalry that he had been trusted with a task involving so much responsibility. The thought of the consequences of failure had a sobering effect upon his normally ebullient spirits. He was grimly determined that he would carry out his duty to the best of his ability.
“What d’you-all reckon’s waiting for us, Mr. Blaze?” Hassle asked, having drawn certain conclusions regarding the young officer’s fitness for the work ahead and wanting to try to verify them.
“A whole mess of Yankees,” Red replied.
“Any notions on where they’re likely to be?” Hassle wanted to know.
“Was it me,” Red answered, “I’d have vedettes spread through the woods all the way to the river, but hold the main bunch somewhere close to the middle so they’re handy for getting to wherever they’re needed.”
“Could be,” drawled the ancient corporal having made much the same deduction. He was aware that the other men were gathering closer to hear what was being said and continued, “Do you reckon we’ll have enough time to keep hid in these woods, all the way down to them along the river?”
“Nope,” Red admitted. “So we’ll only keep in them until we can cut across behind the Lancers.”
As he spoke, Red surreptitiously studied the reactions of the enlisted men. The privates were all looking at Hassle and Red felt vaguely annoyed by their apparent need to seek the corporal’s opinion. Then he remembered that, in the early days, the soldiers had acted in a similar manner when Dusty had made a decision.
It was, Red realized, up to him to prove that he was worthy of command. Only after he had achieved that would the men accept his decisions. He also guessed that, at that moment, how the corporal responded to his suggestion was important. The privates were looking to Hassle for guidance.
“I was hoping’s you’d say that, Mr. Blaze,” the non-com declared. “Likely them jaspers by the river’ll not be expecting us to come at ’em from that way.”
Guiding his party along the fringe of the woodland, Red kept them amongst the trees. He watched the Lancers and, when he considered it safe to do so, turned at an angle down the slope. On riding into the open, he experienced a moment of uncertainty and wondered if he had appeared too soon. However, if any of the Lancers saw his detail, they gave no indication of it. Instead of a section being dispatched to intercept the eight Texans, they all continued to rush in the direction of the mountain battery.
With that particular danger having gone by, Red led his men along a line which would allow them to reach the woods fringing the river; but keeping them beyond the range of the rifles held by the foot soldiers in the trenches.<
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“Just look at them Lancers go,” suggested one of the detail, as they were approaching the trees. “Anybody’d think they didn’t like us Johnny Rebs, way they’re taking on.”
“Our boys’ll sure take the curl out of their tails,” enthused another. “Trust Mr. Fog to see to that.”
“Wished I was with the Company,” yet a third declared.
“Now me,” remarked the first speaker, who went by the name of Wilbur and was the youngest of the enlisted men. “I’d say we was safer away from such dangerous fellers. I’d surely hate to have one of em trying to poke me with his sticker.”
“That don’t worry me none,” grunted the third speaker. “They’d have to come close enough to do the sticking first. Which me ’n’ my ole Army Colt’d have a whole heap to say about that.”
“Talking about Army Colts,” the fourth member of the detail put in. “If I was with the Company, I’d sure’s hell have mine out by now.”
Listening to the men, Red grinned tolerantly and turned his head, meaning to make a remark to Hassle. He discovered that the corporal was staring hard at the trees. Then, as if feeling Red’s eyes on him, the old timer swung a cold-eyed glare around. Although the leathery features showed nothing of Hassle’s thoughts, the youngster realized that he did not approve of what was going on behind them. For a moment Red was puzzled by the corporal’s attitude, then he realized what was causing it.
“You bunch watch where we’re headed and forget the Lancers!” Red advised coldly. “Could be they ignored us because they know there’s somebody waiting and watching, ready to hand us our needings.”