You're in Command Now, Mr Fog

by J. T. Edson

  “Shucks,” Wilbur answered cheerfully. “They ain’t likely to have anybody watching where the Lancers’ve just come from.”

  “I’m not fixing to count on that,” Red warned. “I’m a heap too young and lovable to want to get killed.”

  “I’m all old, ornery ’n’ ugly, but I don’t want that neither,” the ancient—yet far from decrepit—corporal went on. “So I floats my stick long of you, Mr. Blaze. It’d be the Yankees’ way to do something real sneaky like that.”

  Maybe Red’s unsupported word would not have carried much weight with the enlisted men, but Hassle’s agreement caused them to accept the warning. So they turned their attention to scanning the edge of the woodland in search of enemies.

  When selecting men for the assignment, Dusty Fog had made certain to impress them with its full importance. He had also warned them of the possible dangers. All they had needed was for somebody to jolt those facts into their thoughts once more.

  Finding that young Red Blaze—none of them thought of him as “Mr.”—appreciated the dangers had given the men more confidence in him. He had pointed out one of the things his cousin had mentioned, but which they had for gotten. Doubtless the Yankees would have anticipated such an attempt would be made and had taken steps to prevent it. If there should be vedettes watching and more men waiting, the detail’s task was anything but a sinecure. The penalty for growing unwary under those conditions could easily be death.

  Taking time out from his scrutiny of the woods, Hassle glanced behind him. All the men were now watching their front and disregarding whatever might be happening between the Company and the Lancers. In the corporal’s opinion, Mr. Blaze was shaping up as well as he had anticipated. All he needed was just a little hint, to show him when he was starting to go wrong. The way in which he had just responded proved that he was willing to accept advice from an older, more experienced subordinate.

  “Fan out,” Red ordered, without needing the corporal to prompt him, and drew the Spencer carbine from its boot under his left leg. “And keep your eyes to the front, no matter what goes on behind.”

  Following his own instructions, Red searched for signs of danger. When he failed to locate any, he grew uneasy. An old adage of Indian-fighting was that the time to start worrying was when you didn’t see any of them. So he decided that he had the right to start worrying. Besides, if the Yankees did not have vedettes keeping watch, his men might regard him as an alarmist who spooked for no reason. That would cost him what little esteem he had acquired.

  Standing with his back resting against the wide trunk of an oak tree, at the edge of the woodland, Private Blumfeld of the 18th “Wisconsin” Heavy Infantry looked sleepily into the branches. That he was neglecting his duty did not bother him, for he was very tired after the long, grueling forced march and the work of preparing defensive positions. On top of that, he felt he was wasting his time. The Lancers had ridden by his position on their way to attack the mountain battery, so he considered it extremely unlikely that any Rebels would come in his direction. To do that, they would have to cross the open country in plain sight of the Lancers and the men in the trenches.

  Any attempt to out-flank the regiment’s positions or prevent the destruction of the bridge, Blumfeld had repeatedly told himself, would be made by moving through the woods along the edge of the river. He considered that, if he had to be sent on picket duty, he should have been placed where he could do something useful instead of in a position where nothing was likely to happen.

  Hearing the sound of hooves Blumfeld sighed. Some of the Lancers must be returning. Maybe he had better look as if he was carrying out his duty, useless as it might be, in the correct manner. Turning, he started to step from behind the tree.

  Looking idly towards the riders, Blumfeld’s brain started to record details. Then it screamed a warning that something was very wrong. The horsemen, who he had assumed to be part of his regiments cavalry screen, wore uniforms of cadet-grey and did not catty lances!

  Fright lent speed to Blumfeld’s limbs, for it was his first contact with the enemy. Jerking his long Springfield rifle-musket into the firing position, he sighted quickly and squeezed the trigger. To his horror, he realized that he had been seen by the riders. While the recoil’s kick was still taking the barrel into the air, he sprang to his left.

  “Look out, Mr. Blaze!” exclaimed Corporal Hassle, watching the Yankee emerge from behind the tree.

  Even as the old timer ended his warning and swung his Henry rifle towards his shoulder, the Springfield banged. Its heavy caliber ball struck the star-in-a-circle badge, jerking Red’s hat from his head. The loss of his hat and a narrow escape from death meant little to the youngster when confronted by such convincing proof that his warning to the men had been justified.

  Squinting along the barrel of his repeater and allowing for the up and down motion of his horse, Hassle depressed the Henry’s trigger. Flipping down, then up, the loading lever, he ejected the empty case and fed another bullet from the magazine tube to the chamber.

  “You missed, Vern!” Wilbur scoffed.

  “He jumped back while I was aiming,” the corporal replied. “That ain’t what I calls sport —”

  There was a sudden, roaring thunder of army revolver shots. They were followed by the screams of stricken horses, the thuds of numerous heavy bodies crashing to the ground and cries of men in pain.

  “Keep watching those blasted trees!” Red bellowed, despite the anxiety he was experiencing over his Cousin Dusty’s safety now that the badly outnumbered Company had made contact with the enemy. There’s sure to be more of them waiting for us.”

  A faint grin creased Hassle’s seamed, grim old face at the youngster’s words. Mr. Blaze had said the right thing, without needing any reminding or prompting. What was more important, the enlisted men were taking heed of his warning.

  There were some in Company ‘C’ who might have been worried, or even out-and-out alarmed, when Captain von Hertz had taken lead. The ancient corporal had not been numbered amongst them. Over the years, he had become a shrewd judge of human nature and had learned to assess character with sonic accuracy. So he had been willing to bet that Mr. Fog would be able to replace the dead captain and was just as capable of dealing with the Lancers.

  Nor had Hassle been perturbed when Mr. Blaze had been put in charge of the detail. The shavetail might not have Mr. Fog’s flair for readership; but Hassle had believed that he would do to ride the river with, even if the water should be high among the willows. So the corporal had been willing to back Mr. Blaze’s play and give him a nudge in the right direction if it was needed.

  Something thudded into the tree’s trunk as Blumfeld returned to his place behind it. For an instant, he was puzzled by the sound. The realization came. That white-haired old bastard had taken a shot at him and, despite being astride a fast-moving horse, had come very close to making a hit.

  Panic bit at Blumfeld. A young recruit, he had not previously come under fire and found the sensation most unpleasant. What was more he had emptied his only weapon—he did not regard his bayonet in that light—at the Texans. Reloading a Springfield was a slow, tedious process, even when one’s nerves were not flurried. Even if he reloaded, he could not hope to deal with all eight riders before they reached him. Especially as each of them had been holding a Henry or a Spencer repeater. What was more, he had been given definite orders by Sergeant Lipski. If he saw any hint of enemy activity coming his way, he was to return and warn the picketing force.

  Having reached that conclusion in a remarkably short time, and growing conscious of the sound of hooves coming closer, Blumfeld dropped his rifle. He tried to remain concealed by the oak tree as he started to run away.

  “There he goes!” whooped one of the detail and raised his Spencer, trying to line it at the fleeing soldier.

  “Don’t shoot!” Red snapped. “You’re likely to need the bullets before we’ve finished today.”

  “That’s for sure,”
Hassle agreed, having made no attempt to use his Henry. “He’s only the first of ’em.”

  “We’ll make jim-dandy targets on these horse; Vern,” Red remarked, when the man refrained from firing.

  “Sure will, Mr. Blaze,” Hassle replied.

  “I dearly love walking,” Red went on, slowing his big brown gelding. “But only when I’ve got a horse under me to do it. All right, boys. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”

  “My ma didn’t raise her favorite son to be a puddle-splasher,” xv Hassle moaned, secretly delighted that Red had once again reached the right conclusion.

  “You’ll make a real fine one,” Red assured him and stopped the brown. The other men followed his example and he looked at the nearest of them. “You see to the horses, Wilbur.”

  “Shouldn’t we just —” the soldier in question began, not relishing the idea of being given such a menial task.

  “I’m not asking you to do it as a favor, soldier!” Red barked, modeling his tone and attitude on how he believed his Cousin Dusty would have handled a similar situation. “I told you to hold the horses. Now get the hell down and see to it.”

  Instead of obeying immediately, Wilbur looked at the other members of the detail. If he had hoped to see any support for his unfinished suggestion, he was disappointed. His companions were studying him with blank indifference and obviously intended to leave the issue between him and their young officer. There was just a hint of warning in Corporal Hassle’s cold-eyed scrutiny, but he neither moved nor spoke.

  “Hit the ground, pronto!” Red continued in a hard growl, glaring straight at Wilbur. He had seen the other men’s reactions and knew he must bend the soldier to his will or lose all control of the detail. “If I have to tell you again, I’ll knock you out of that saddle.”

  Wilbur suddenly realized that Red meant every word he had said. Grim, deadly determination throbbed in his voice and showed in his normally cheerful, freckled face. Meeting the red-head’s glare, Wilbur became fully aware of the change that had come over him. No longer was he the easygoing young shavetail who had frequently been in trouble with von Hertz because of his disregard for military matters. Instead, he looked mean, hard and ornery; much as Mr. Fog did when riled or crossed. What was more, Wilbur knew that Red—Mr. Blaze—was just as capable as his cousin of backing up such a threat.

  Maybe Wilbur could not claim to be one of the smartest men in the Texas Light Cavalry, but he figured that he had sense enough to know when the time had come to yell “calf-rope” xvi and obey orders without argument.

  Watching Wilbur swinging hurriedly from his saddle, Hassle concealed a grin. The corporal had been ready, if not willing or eager, to help Red enforce the order and felt pleased that he had not been called upon to do so. It was better for all concerned that the members of the detail realized they had an officer who could and would make his decisions stick.

  “Here, Wilbur,” Red said, in a gentler tone, as he dismounted and held out his reins. “Let us get a head start, then come after us.”

  “Yo!” answered the soldier.

  “Don’t get eager and crowd us too close,” Red went on. “If you do, you could get shot. Should that happen, try to fall on the reins and stop the horses getting away. We’ll need ’em when we’ve done what we came for.”

  Listening to the chuckles—in which Wilbur joined—that greeted Red’s comment, Hassle scored up another point in the youngster’s favor. Red had asserted his authority and was now showing the right kind of attitude. There were grins as the rest of the detail joined him on the ground and handed their reins to Wilbur. Then, at Red’s order, they spread out into a skirmishing line that had him and Hassle as its centre. Carrying their repeaters at what bayonet fighters termed the “high port” position, which would allow the weapons to be brought rapidly into whatever kind of use was required, they started to move into the woodland.

  The unwilling horse-holder watched his companions depart, then made ready to carry out his duty. Fastening the reins of Red’s gelding to his own mount’s saddlehorn, he secured Hassle’s to Red’s in the same manner and continued until all of the animals were attached in a line.

  “All right, blast you,” Wilbur said, returning to his horse and taking hold of its reins. “Let’s go slow and easy. I’d hate like hell to get shot and not fall on the reins, although that’d serve Mr. Blaze right for handing me this no good chore.”

  Having delivered that sentiment, the soldier led the horses in the direction taken by his faster-moving, unencumbered companions. He grinned as he watched Red until the trees hid the youngster from sight. There was one tough young cuss and he was nowhere near as easy-going as a lot of folks imagined. Anybody who sold him short when there was a job of work to do stood a better than fair chance of wishing that such a notion had never come.

  Glancing first right, then left, Red was satisfied with what he saw. Every enlisted man in the detail had been a member of the Texas Rangers before enlisting in the Army. Experienced in all aspects of fighting Indians, the Rangers’ primary occupation before the War, they needed no advice on how to handle the kind of work they were doing.

  Keeping roughly in line and close enough for easy communication one with another, they were picking their own routes and darting from cover to cover. As they advanced, they scanned the terrain ahead of them constantly. All had learned the importance of unceasing vigilance when stalking an enemy.

  “There goes that blue-belly bastard, Mr. Blaze!” announced the soldier at Red’s left, gesturing ahead with his Spencer carbine. “I’ll drop hi —”

  “Leave him be, all of you!” Red commanded, watching the Yankee infantryman come briefly into view running as fast as his legs would carry him. “There’s no sense in letting his amigos know for sure which way we’re coming.”

  “Was just thinking that meself,” commented Hassle, from Red’s right.

  Lowering his weapon without firing, the soldier resumed his advance. The infantryman continued to run ahead of the detail. They could only see him at infrequent intervals, obtaining brief glimpses through the gaps in the bushes or between the trunks of the trees.

  “Have you seen any of them yet, Van?” Red inquired, alter they had covered about a hundred yards.

  “Nary a sign,” the corporal admitted, interrupting his scrutiny for a moment. “But they’re around somewheres. I feel it in me bones. Just wish I could see some of ’em. I hates surprises.”

  “Trouble with you is you wants things too easy,” Red scoffed, but did not permit the levity to prevent him examining what lay ahead. “That’s the worst of fighting Indians. They don’t make things hard enough, way they come a-whooping and a-hollering. So you—Look!”

  The final exclamation burst from Red’s lips as the fleeing soldier made one of his sporadic appearances. Skidding to a halt, he peered up at the foliage of a flowering dogwood tree and pointed excitedly to his rear.

  “Reb’s!” the soldier screeched, to all intents and purposes addressing the leaves and branches. “They’re coining, Sergeant Lipski! They’re coming and’ll soon be here.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Weapons, sir?” Sergeant Major Goering prompted, wondering why his young superior had not given the expected order.

  Keeping his eyes fixed on the approaching Lancers, Dusty Fog thought fast before replying. If he gave permission for his men to arm themselves, he ran the risk of somebody starting to shoot long before it was advisable to open fire.

  What Dusty wanted—in fact, the only thing that would serve his purpose was a volley from every member of the Company. A straggle of individual shots might inflict a few casualties, but would do nothing to halt the Lancers.

  On the other hand, Dusty wanted to have his men holding their weapons before giving the order to increase speed.

  There was something else for the small Texan to consider. The sight of Company ‘C’s’ drawn weapons—especially the revolvers which every man carried—might have an unnerving effect upo
n the Lancers. Some, at least, would realize the inadequacy of a lance when opposed by a man with a firearm.

  There was, Dusty decided, only one answer.

  “Yes, sergeant major,” he said. “But no shooting until I give the word.”

  “Draw pistols and sabers!” Goering commanded in his stentorian tones. “Hold your fire until ordered.”

  Having given his consent, Dusty carried out the process of arming himself. His right hand reached for and slid the saber from its sheath. Designed to meet his physical requirements, by the Haiman Brothers’ best craftsmen and from their finest steel, the blade was two inches shorter and somewhat lighter than one of the standard issue. Dusty did not consider that to be a disadvantage. Due to his size, he found the regulation weapon cumbersome. While he could handle one adequately, if circumstances compelled him to do so, xvii he achieved better results with the saber that had been made especially for him.

  Crossing his body, Dusty’s left hand opened the flap of the holster and he drew out the bone-handled Colt 1860 Army revolver. It belonged to a pair that had been a present from his father. He only carried the one—and used the awkward, unsatisfactory close-topped military holster—because Captain von Hertz had never approved of him wearing the more practical Western-style gunbelt with which he was already something of an expert.

  Seeing that the Texans were arming themselves, the trio of officers ahead of the Lancers started shooting. As about two hundred and fifty yards separated the two parties, Dusty wondered if they were doing it for a deliberate reason. Firing from the backs of galloping horses at that range, they could hardly hope to score hits.

  Maybe they had guessed Dusty’s purpose and were hoping to provoke his men into a premature retaliation!

  “Hold your fire!” Dusty bellowed, an instant before Goering could give a similar command, “Don’t let anybody start shooting, you sergeants!”

  “That goes for you, you lame-headed yahoo!” Sergeant Weather bawled, glaring along the line at a soldier who was elevating his Colt. “Wait for the order, god-damn it!”