by J. T. Edson
Looking sheepish, the man in question lowered his weapon. It did not pay to disregard Mr. Fog’s wishes, especially when Stormy Weather was helping to enforce them.
“Don’t none of you go riling them Yankees by shooting at ’em!” bleated Sergeant Billy Jack at the other end of the line. “They’ll get mean if you do and I could get hurt.” His voice hardened. “That means you-all, Jones!”
Maybe the lanky non-com’s miserable, hangdog attitude might have led a stranger to forming the wrong conclusions about his character, but the man he had named was fully aware of his true potential. So Jones’ obedience, and the fact that the others who heard took heed of the warning, did not stem from concern over annoying the enemy.
“At the gallop,” Goering ordered, watching and interpreting Dusty’s signal correctly. “Yo!”
Throwing a quick glance at the hamlet, as he and his men built up their mounts’ gaits to a maneuvering gallop, Dusty saw that the howitzers were continuing with their work. The central Vandenburg’s carriage had a broken wheel and its muzzle pointed into the air, rendering it useless. However, the other two Volley Guns would be operable once their crews rose from having dived into cover to avoid the mountain battery’s shells.
More shots were coming from the major and two lieutenants, drawing Dusty’s attention back to them. Still none of their bullets had taken effect as far as he could tell. Nor had any of his men thrown off the bonds of discipline and replied in kind. Yet they were certain to be resenting being fired upon and doing nothing in return.
“Let them waste their lead, men!” Goering advised, having realized the value of the opening volley. “Our turn will come.”
The two sergeants were also aware of what their youthful officer was hoping to achieve, So they lent their advice to Goering’s and added suitable threats against anybody who failed to obey.
One hundred yards separated the converging bodies of men.
Seventy-five yards!
Fifty.
Dusty set his teeth grimly. To hold on was inviting casualties among his men and the chance that some of them would open fire before he gave the command. If only one man cut loose, others were sure to follow his example and all hope of a devastating close-range volley would be lost.
Another ten yards was diminished from the distance between the Texans and the Lancers.
The Yankee major was taking careful aim!
Flame spurted from the revolver in the major’s hand. Giving a croaking cry, Goering jerked spasmodically and slid sideways from his saddle.
Like the sharpshooter earlier, the major had made the error of misjudging Dusty’s potential. Believing that the burly sergeant major was responsible for Company ‘C’s’ well-managed maneuvering, the Lancers’ commanding officer had decided that his removal would throw the Rebels into confusion.
“Hold your fire!” Dusty shouted; hating to have to give the order which delayed avenging Goering, but accepting that it must be done and that he would be more than repaid by the volley.
The Lancers had lowered their weapons into the attacking position. Steel points, looking as sharp as needles, extended before the horses in an awe-inspiring manner. They looked mighty dangerous and menacing. Especially to men who were riding with their reins lashed to the saddlehorns, guiding the horses by knee-pressure—which did not permit a great deal of fancy evasive action to be taken.
Studying the sight, Dusty could guess at the tensions thing amongst the enlisted men. If they had had less faith in him, they would have disregarded the order and started shooting.
“Take aim!” Dusty called, thrusting forward his Colt.
Before aligning his sights, the small Texan glanced left and then right. On either side, his men were pointing their revolvers in the Lancers’ direction. It would, he guessed, be an impressive maybe even frightening—sight. More than one member of the Yankees’ leading company must be all too aware that he was far beyond a distance at which the weapon he held would be of any use.
“Ready!” Dusty continued, returning his gaze to the Colt’s barrel. He pointed it straight at the centre of the major’s chest, ignoring the flame which erupted from his target’s gun-filled fist and the eerie sound of a bullet winging close by his head. “Fire!”
Giving the word that his men had been awaiting, Dusty squeezed the Colt’s trigger and the hammer pivoted forward. Propelled by the explosive force of thirty grains of powder, the .44, conical bullet spun through the rifling grooves. It belched out of the muzzle and flew unerringly to its objective.
Jolting under the impact, the major threw aside his weapons and clutched at the wound. Feeling its rider swaying, the horse swerved to the right and pitched him off its back.
Following immediately on the heels of Dusty’s shot, some sixty revolvers of various types and calibers spewed out their loads in a thunderous, rolling cacophony.
From the results he saw, Dusty concluded that the majority of the Company had taken the trouble to aim before discharging their weapons. Both the lieutenants were hit and toppled from their mounts. At least ten horses were falling, flinging their riders from them. Still others had been less seriously hurt, but started rearing and plunging in pain. Possibly a dozen of the enlisted men had taken lead. In fact, the whole of the Lancers’ leading rank appeared to be in some way affected by the Texans’ volley.
It soon became apparent that Dusty’s strategy had been correct and he was justified in his insistence that the men did not open fire until they had come to dose quarters.
Having gathered together, for mutual protection and to present as imposing a front as possible to their enemies, the Lancers were ideally positioned to suffer the fullest impact of the Texans’ gun-play. Although only the foremost company had taken the punishment, those who followed were thrown into confusion.
If the second and third companies had kept their distances, they could have averted much of what was coming. Instead, the excitement of the charge and a general lack of control being exercised by their officers had induced them to crowd almost to the rumps of the horses ahead of them. Even the captain commanding the rear company had failed to restrain his men.
As a result of the Lancers’ undisciplined folly, a state of pandemonium resulted from the arrival of the Texans’ volley. Many of the riders in the centre rank tried to swerve away, to halt even, so as to avoid trampling upon fallen companions. Others were unable to control their mounts and crashed over horses which lay on the ground. The men of the rearmost rank found themselves in much the same position.
Company ‘C’ had dealt the Lancers a terrible blow and their youthful commanding officer had every intention of following up their advantage. Dusty realized that he dare not allow considerations of humanity to weaken his determination. If he hesitated, their enemies would recover from the shock, regroup and continue the attack on the battery.
“Pour it into them, boys!” Dusty exhorted at the top of his voice, cocking the Colt aided by the kick of its recoil and sending its next load through the head of a survivor in the front rank.
There was no real necessity for the order. Once the enlisted men had been allowed to start shooting, they continued to do so. More lead slashed its way into the disorganized Lancers, clearing saddles in the second and third ranks. Before any of the Yankees could recover from the devastating effect of the first volley, or attain any form of cohesion, the men of the Texas Light Cavalry closed in upon them like wolves attacking a cornered herd of pronghorn antelope.
With his bay hurdling the major’s body, Dusty saw a lance being thrust in his direction from the right. He responded automatically. Using the fiat of the blade, so that it would not cut into and be trapped by the wood, he deflected the Norwegian fir shaft outwards. With the attack parried, he disengaged the saber. Turning his hand so that the palm was uppermost, he lunged and sank the point deep into his assailant’s chest. Confronted by the onrushing bay gelding, the Lancer’s horse tried to swerve. Dusty’s mount rammed the other animal with its s
houlder and knocked it staggering with a force that tore the saber from the small Texan’s hand.
As the stricken soldier carried Dusty’s saber away from him, he found that another lance’s head seemed to be hurtling in his direction. It was coming from the left, wielded by a wild-eyed, yelling corporal, and aimed so that it would catch the young officer in the stomach.
Although Dusty had been deprived of one weapon, he held another equally effective in his left hand. At that moment, the ambidextrous powers he had developed early in his young life—as a means of distracting attention from his small size—came in very useful. Almost as if drawn by a magnet, the Colt in his left hand turned and flame blossomed ahead of its muzzle. He had aimed instinctively and fired the only way he dared under the circumstances; at the head, in the hope of an instantaneous kill.
Back snapped the corporal’s head, with blood oozing from where the left eye had been and the base of the skull shattering as the lead emerged. As the man’s torso bowed to the rear, the lance’s point rose slightly.
Not enough, however!
It was now directed towards the top of Dusty’s chest!
What was more, the man’s hand had tightened in a death grip on the shaft.
The on-rushing weapon was just as deadly as ever.
Chapter Thirteen
“Get the hell out of here, you stupid son-of-a-bitch!”
Glowering furiously through the thick foliage of the flowering dogwood tree, into which he had climbed so that he could keep an eye upon the bulk of his picket and obtain a clearer view of the surrounding woodland from above the tops of the numerous bushes, Sergeant Lipski spat out the words as if they were burning his mouth. He had taken a lot of trouble to position and conceal his men, being aware of the importance of their task, and had no desire to see all his work ruined because of Private Blumfelds panic-induced stupidity.
When Lipski had been ordered to establish a line of lookouts, extending across the woodland to the Ouachita River and protecting the flank of the defenses, he had selected his men carefully. Blumfeld should not have been with them. On reaching the dogwood tree and starting to organize his detail, the sergeant had discovered that one of his men had persuaded the inexperienced recruit to take his place.
Instead of telling Blumfeld to return, Lipski had sent him to watch from the edge of the wood. The recruit would be so close to the Lancers that there should have been no danger of him coming into contact with the enemy.
Instead of being safely out of the way, Blumfeld had come dashing back without his rifle and looking scared oat of his wits. Unfortunately, he was not so frightened that he had forgotten where Lipski had told the detail he would take up his position. So he had come straight to the tree and started yelling his warning.
“But the Rebs—!” Blumfeld began, indignant at his superior’s response to such important news.
“Why the hell don’t you go hold their hands and fetch ’em to see where I’m at?” Lipski snarled, scanning the land behind the soldier without locating any sign of pursuit. However, he decided that Blumfeld would not have been mistaken or lying, so went on, “Head for the bridge and warn Mr. Rosenbaum that they’re coming our way.”
After Blumfeld had departed to deliver the message, Lipski glanced around and then stared once more in the direction from which the recruit had come.
The sergeant could not see what was happening beyond the trees, but his ears and knowledge of the general tactical situation enabled him to form fairly accurate conclusions. If the sound of rifles firing volleys was any indication, the Rebels’ main assault was well under way. He knew that the Lancers had ridden out earlier than would have been necessary to help disrupt the attackers. That meant they had gone to silence an artillery battery brought up by the Rebs to deal with the Vandenburg Volley Guns.
From a different direction to the rifles had come the crashing of many revolvers and other noises suggesting that the Lancers had met with very stiff opposition. Going by the way that several light cannons—probably mountain howitzers, the sergeant guessed—bellowed repeatedly, although the Vandenburgs did not commence their bombardment, Lipski realized that the Lancers had either failed or been delayed in completing their duty. Maybe the massive multi-barreled weapons had been put out of action by the shelling.
If that was the case, Lipski figured the situation was growing desperate.
Without the support of the half-battery of Vandenburgs, the “Wisconsins” would be hard put to hold the bridge. Fortunately, Colonel Middleton had taken that possibility into consideration. Lipski remembered the colonel’s orders in the event of their position becoming untenable, instead of attempting to hold on, they were to withdraw across the river, destroy the bridge and make a long circle to rejoin their advancing army. That ought not to be too difficult, as the Rebs would be fully occupied in trying to protect their supplies.
There was movement amongst the bushes!
Staring harder, Lipski saw a bare-headed Rebel shavetail and a short, white-haired corporal who looked as old as sin but a whole heap more spry. Other grey-uniformed fly-slicers formed a skirmishing line on either side of the pair. Not many, however. Less than ten, Lipski counted. Which meant his picket had the advantage of numbers.
If only Blumfeld had not betrayed Lipski’s position, all would have been perfect.
Yet, although they were advancing carefully, the Rebels did not appear to be aware of the flowering dogwood’s significance. Possibly they had not seen Blumfeld’s indiscretion, even if they had heard him yelling the warning. They would know that Yankees were about, but would not have any idea of where to look.
Easing back the hammer of his Spencer rifle, Lipski raised the butt to his shoulder. There was an oak tree thirty yards in front of him. By the time the Rebs reached it, they would be within a distance at which the pickets were unlikely to miss them. Commanded by that bald-faced young officer and a decrepit old corporal, the skirmishers ought to be easy meat. Even if they should avoid being shot down in the opening attack, Lipski had another item in his favor. The Texans—their hat-badges told him to which State they belonged—had a habit of calling orders and instructions in Mexican. If they should do so on this occasion, they would betray their purpose. Lipski’s corporal spoke Spanish and would be able to translate anything the Rebs said.
At Red Blaze’s word, “Look!”, the rest of the detail had taken cover before attempting to do so. They listened to Blumfeld giving his warning and exchanged glances.
“That jasper must be kin to my wife,” Corporal Hassle commented dryly, wondering what the man in the tree was thinking about the soldier’s indiscreet behavior. “They do say stupidity runs in families. It must be galloping in his’n.”
“Now me,” Red answered. “I’m right pleased I didn’t let you blood-thirsty yahoos kill him.”
“He’s sure obliging, for a Yankee,” Hassle admitted and watched Blumfeld resume his flight. “What now, Mr. Blaze?”
“We’ll keep moving, what else,” Red replied. “Go extra careful from here on, boys. But don’t let on we figure there’s a feller in that dogwood. Vern and I’ll attend to his needings. You watch out for his amigos.”
Continuing their advance the Texans displayed an even greater caution. They studied every bush and tree, with the exception of the dogwood in which the Yankee sergeant was hiding, searching for traces that it might conceal an enemy. Self-preservation demanded that they tried to locate the Yankee pickets before they were exposed to the others’ weapons.
Although Red failed to detect any suggestion of danger, he heard Hassle let out low grunts of satisfaction on three occasions and surmised that the corporal had been more successful. He hoped that the remainder of his party were duplicating the old timer’s efforts.
Nothing happened as the Texans continued to move forward. The woods about them remained silent, except for the noises of their darting passage from one piece of shelter to the next. Not a shot was fired in their direction and nothing suggested
that men might be lurking in concealment, waiting to kill them.
Scuttling to a massive old oak tree about thirty yards from the dogwood, Hassle halted with its trunk between himself and the possible source of danger. Red came to a stop along-side the old timer.
“There’s some of them ahead, Mr. Blaze!” called a soldier on the left flank of the line, speaking in Spanish. “Watch out!”
“Same this side,” continued the man at the extreme right, also using Mexican to avoid giving information to the enemy.
“They’ve seen some of our boys, serge!” the Spanish-speaking corporal warned, in tones which he hoped would not carry beyond Lipski’s hearing.
“Somebody out there knows Mex!” the keen-eared Corporal Hassle said.
“Sounds that way,” Red agreed. “What do you reckon, Vern. Was that Yankee playing tricky and only pretending there’s somebody in that tree?”
“Nope,” the old timer replied. “I catched just a leetle glimpse of the blue-belly son-of-a-bitch. He’s squatting up there like a bluebird on its nest, only not so pretty.”
“And he’s not the only one of ’em,” Red drawled.
“There’s a fair slew of ’em ahead of us,” Hassle confirmed. “Four I know about for certain and I’ve got suspicions on another three. Which ain’t counting them’s the boys say they’ve seen.”
“And the ones who’ve been smart enough to stay hid,” Red said quietly.
“Them too,” Hassle conceded. “And I’m certain sure some of ’em’s slick enough to have kept hid. It’s them’s’ll cause us most grief.”
Red did not need reminding that to move forward without having located the majority—if not all—of the pickets would be inviting disaster. He also knew that he and his men could not stay put and play a waiting game, hoping the Yankees might nm out of patience and reveal their positions.
“Let’s stir things up a mite,” the youngster suggested and explained what he wanted to do.