You're in Command Now, Mr Fog

by J. T. Edson

  From the beginning, Middleton had had little faith in his ability to carry out the duty in the manner which General Culver had demanded. It was, the tall, spare Infantry colonel realized, an almost classic case of too little arriving too late.

  Colonel Middleton had been the first man to suspect where Ole Devil Hardin was intending to cross the Ouachita River and had suggested that an attempt be made to destroy the bridge. However, he had never expected to be given the assignment; especially with such restrictions upon his actions and so small a force at his disposal.

  At a meeting of his commanding officers. Culver had agreed with Middleton as to the Rebels’ destination and had given his orders. Middleton’s regiment was to have the “honor” of taking and holding the bridge while the main force continued to “drive” the enemy before them. According to Culver, all the “Wisconsins” needed to do was stand fast and prevent the supply column from crossing. Backed by the half-battery of Vandenburgs and three companies of Lancers, they would—in the general’s opinion—be more than a match for the Rebels’ advance guard. Before any major assault could be launched, Culver had declared with his usual profanity, the rest of the Army of Arkansas would be on the scene.

  Unfortunately, if not unexpectedly, things had not gone in the way General Culver had suggested. The task would have been more suitable to a cavalry regiment, supported by field artillery, but he had refused to use either. Nor would he give Middleton more men. Neither the Irish nor the Negro infantry regiments had been replaced, so Culver had claimed that he could not spare a larger force. Instead, Culver had dispatched the “Wisconsins” with a small mounted screen of Lancers and three massive guns more appropriate to siege warfare than for rapid transportation. Apart from the difficulties of moving them, the Vandenburgs were basically a good choice for the work that had been expected. That they had failed was no fault of Colonel Middleton.

  The limited time at Middleton’s disposal had meant making a forced march and reaching his destination with exhausted men. They had been so tired that there had been no hope of establishing an extensive, strong defensive system, or of creating adequate protection for the Vandenburgs. On top of all the other problems, the Rebels’ advance guard had come on to the scene far sooner than Culver—or even Middleton—had anticipated.

  After that had happened, the whole affair had gone from bad to worse. First, although not unexpectedly, the mountain battery had moved in to counter the Vandenburgs. Then the company of Rebel cavalry had effectively prevented the Lancers from protecting the Volley Guns. Without the support of the Lancers and the half-battery, the “Wisconsins” position was desperate. Certainly they could not hope to carry out Culver’s original idea of retaining the bridge for his own Anny’s use.

  There was only one thing left to do, Middleton decided. He must put his alternative plan into operation. It meant abandoning Culver’s scheme and might even be regarded as a deliberate disobedience of orders. For all that, Middleton believed he was acting correctly. A humane, sensible man, he could not face the prospect of causing many of his soldiers to be killed in a hopeless fight. Far better, he considered, to withdraw across the river, destroy the bridge and keep as many men as possible to fight another day.

  A lesser man might have called upon his second-in-command for an opinion, perhaps even demanded that it be put in writing and witnessed. Middleton refused to do such a thing. The decision was his and his alone. So he would make it and stand by the consequences.

  “Go and tell the company commanders to prepare to retire,” the colonel said, trying to keep all emotion out of his voice.

  “Yes, sir,” answered the adjutant, to whom the words had been addressed, adopting an equally neutral tone. Then he hurried away to deliver the message that might lead to Middleton being court-martialed when General Culver heard of it.

  Finding himself between two converging enemies, Dusty Fog’s mind worked at lightning speed in search of a way out of the dangerous situation. A fast-taken glance warned him that he had no hope of avoiding both attackers. So he tried to work out a solution. Of the pair, the one on the left and to the rear was the nearer, and, therefore, the more immediate threat. So he was the obvious choice to be dealt with first.

  There was, Dusty decided from his examination, one small point in his favor. Coming from that angle, the man had been compelled to pass the lance across his horse’s head so that its pointed extended to the left instead of being directed straight forward.

  With Dusty, to think was to act. Twisting slightly to the left, he lined and fired his Colt by instinctive alignment As he had demonstrated to Billy Jack and the men from the Commissary General’s Department in Arkadelphia, he was capable of considerable accuracy with that method of shooting. Flying true, the bullet entered the soldier’s left breast and ripped into his heart. Shock and pain caused him to rock backwards and his left hand tugged involuntarily at his horse’s reins. The animal responded to the signal and started to swing in the direction of the pull. In doing so, it ensured that the lance was turned away from the small Texan.

  “Watch ahead, Mr. Fog!” Sandy McGraw yelled, who was able to see Dusty’s peril but, being so positioned, was unable to help against the man in front of his officer.

  The warning had not been needed. On firing, barely waiting to see the result, Dusty returned his attention to the approaching rider. He was not a moment too soon. Aimed to take him in the lower body, the lance’s steel tip had already come by the head of his bay gelding.

  Once again, Dusty’s ambidextrous ability came to his rescue. Up flashed his empty right hand, cupping under and elevating the shaft away from him. The soldier yelled in fury, but was unable to prevent his weapon from missing its mark. Before he could do more than register a vocal protest, the two horses had swept by each other.

  The Lancer was given no opportunity to recover. Coming up unnoticed, Sandy McGraw attacked him. Wishing to conserve the three bullets remaining in his Colt, the youngster dropped forward the top of his guidon. There was a spearhead mounted on the nine foot long pole, turning it into an effective weapon. The point took the man in his ribs, sinking until the quillons of the cross-guard—fitted to prevent the spear from penetrating so deep that the flag entered the wound—halted its forward progress. It was sufficient Knocked from the saddle by the unexpected attack, the Lancer’s weight dragged him free from the tip of the guidon.

  Throwing a quick glance to where his first attacker’s horse was swinging away, its rider sliding off of its back, Dusty swung his gaze to where the Yankee captain was still trying to rally men.

  Even as Dusty started to ride towards the captain, meaning to silence him before he achieved his intentions, the matter was taken from out of his hands. Bleeding from a saber cut on his face, a lieutenant rushed from the melee beyond the captain. Seeing Dusty approaching, the lieutenant—who had a scared expression on his face—tried to line his Colt. Just as the officer jerked at the trigger, the captain sent his mount in the small Texan’s direction. He took the bullet intended for Dusty in the centre of the back.

  Shock and agony distorted the captain’s face. Clutching at the pommel of his saddle, he tried to hold himself on it Failing, he fell beneath the hooves of his killer’s horse. Realizing what he had done the lieutenant threw aside his revolver. Before he could do anything more, Sergeant Weather appeared behind him. A swing of the sergeant’s saber almost tore the officer’s head from his shoulders.

  Although Dusty did not know it, the killing of the captain would be an indirect cause of much trouble and bloodshed in Rio Hondo County a few years after the end of the War. xix

  ~*~

  The fighting continued for a short while longer. Having emptied his revolver, without wasting a load, Dusty quit his horse’s back. He acquired a discarded saber and helped to engage some of the dismounted Lancers.

  Then it was over.

  Left practically leaderless by the disposal of their officers—being armed with revolvers, they had been the Texan
s’ first targets—and having suffered heavy losses due to the unsuitability of their archaic weapons when opposed by firearms, the Lancers were demoralized and disheartened.

  Some, on foot and mounted, threw down their lances and raised their hands. Others, who had stayed on their horses, turned to gallop towards the hamlet. The remainder scattered and fled in all directions. Eagerly a number of the Texans took up the pursuit.

  “Bugler!” Dusty shouted, looking around him.

  “Yo!” answered the musician, riding up.

  “Sound ‘Recall’!” Dusty ordered, being determined to regain control of the enlisted men.

  With the notes of the “Recall” ringing in his ears, Dusty turned his attention to the main part of the battle. The howitzers were no longer barking and he realized that he had not heard the deeper note of the Vandenburgs. Already the leading wave of the Arkansas Rifles were swarming towards the first line of trenches, with the supporting Companies of the Texas Light Cavalry preparing to dash ahead.

  An examination of the village told Dusty that the Vandenburgs had all been silenced before they could be brought into use. The assault had a better than fair chance of succeeding.

  Which brought up another, vitally important, matter.

  Swinging his gaze towards the bridge, Dusty heard the sound of shooting from the woodland on either side of it. From what he could make out, the detail sent by Company ‘A’ had run into heavy opposition and would not be able to reach their objective. Due to the denser nature of the terrain, he could see nothing of what was going on upstream. Perhaps Red and his men had also been halted. If so, the Yankees would be free to destroy the bridge.

  Except that, by doing it, the commanding officer of the defending force would be trapping all his men on the northern side of the Ouachita.

  Men were returning in answer to the bugle’s repeated summons; Among them was Sandy McGraw, leading Dusty’s bay, Billy Jack, Weather and Kiowa, the latter having arrived in time to take part in the later stages of the fighting.

  “The sergeant major’s cashed in, Mr. Fog,” Weather said.

  “Damn the luck!” Dusty growled, but forced himself to remember his duties. “Take six men and see to the wounded and prisoners, Sergeant Weather.”

  “Yo!” Weather replied, turning and gathering the nearest six soldiers to help him carry out the orders.

  “Sergeant Billy Jack,” Dusty went on. “Take rank as sergeant major. Form up the Company ready to move out.”

  “Yo!” responded the lanky non-com.

  Having given the orders, Dusty looked at the hamlet. Encouraged by the destruction of the multi-barreled weapons, the attackers were springing forward at a faster pace. They were within fifty yards of the forward trenches, with the cavalry galloping before them, playing a vital part in preventing the Yankees from concentrating their fire on the slower-moving, more vulnerable foot-soldiers.

  Although Company ‘C’ should have been joining in the assault, Dusty decided that their absence would not have any adverse effect upon the outcome. They had already provided a most useful service by protecting the mountain battery. With their horses tired from the exertions of the charge and subsequent fighting, they would not be able to form up and reach the hamlet before the issue was resolved one way or the other.

  At that moment, Dusty noticed something happening which aroused his curiosity and gave him cause for speculation.

  After discharging a single volley, the occupants of the forward defenses sprang from their trenches. They fell back rapidly, but—as far as Dusty could determine—under the control of their officers. Certainly they did not appear to be fleeing in panic. Passing the second and third lines of trenches, they continued to run towards the river.

  “We’ve licked ’em, Mr. Fog!” Sandy McGraw enthused, sentiments which were echoed delightedly by the other men who were forming up before their officer.

  “It’s not over yet,” Dusty warned.

  “If they go over the river, they’ll be in our neck of the woods,” the bugler pointed out. “We’ll have ’em —”

  “Not if they blow up the bridge,” Dusty corrected. “Then they’ll have a better chance of getting away than they would from this side.”

  “Don’t we have help coming, Mr. Fog?” Billy jack wanted to know.

  “Gaylord’s Dare-Devils and the Second Texas Infantry should be on their way,” Dusty answered, an idea starting to form as he looked at the hamlet. “Colonel Barnett sent word to them to move up here as soon as our scouts reported about the Yankees holding the crossing.”

  “Then we’ve got the bastards trapped,” the bugler insisted.

  “Not if they can destroy the bridge,” Dusty warned. “With that done, they can be long gone before Colonel Gaylord arrives from Arkadelphia. Reload those handguns, you men. Then we’re moving out.”

  “Yo!” Billy Jack answered, then eyed Dusty with interest. Unless he was mistaken, the young officer had something in mind. “You-all fixing on us going to help run the Yankees across the Ouachita?”

  “Nope,” Dusty replied. “We’re going to see how Cousin Red’s detail are making out. When we’ve done that. I’ve got something else for you to do, sergeant major. But I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

  With the thirty men available to him, Dusty rode towards the woodland into which Red’s detail had disappeared. He studied what was happening at the bridge and made sure that his earlier conclusions were on the right lines. Noticing that no defensive positions had been prepared on the southern side of the river, he felt certain that the Yankees had no intention of holding the bridge from there. So they must be relying upon destroying it to halt the supply column. Possibly they were under orders to only do so as a last alternative. Maybe General Culver had hoped to retain it intact for his Army’s use after defeating the Confederate force which he was pursuing.

  No matter what the original idea had been, the Yankees must now be committed to destroying the bridge. If they could be prevented from doing it, Dusty believed that there was a way to avert further bloodshed.

  Quietly the small Texan outlined his idea to Billy Jack, whose gloomy assertion that it would not work—because of several highly unlikely accidents—showed that it stood a good chance of succeeding.

  However, everything still hinged upon whether or not Red had been able to carry out his first independent and very responsible duty.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Although the soldier’s appearance came as a complete surprise to Red Blaze, it did not cause him to be frozen into immobility. Letting out a yell, he jabbed his spurs into the brown geldings flanks. As the spirited animal bounced onwards at an increased speed, he thrust out, cocked and fired his Colt. Fast-taken and aimed by the roughest possible instinctive alignment, the shot came very dose to making a hit and partially achieved its purposed.

  Hearing the bullet splitting the air as it passed close to his left ear, the soldier ducked involuntarily. In doing so, he caused the barrel of his rifle to lower at the instant when his right forefinger was tightening on the trigger. The Spencer bellowed, but its muzzle was no longer pointing at the redhead’s chest.

  A violent shudder ripped through the brown gelding as the heavy caliber bullet drove into its heart. Feeling the animal’s legs buckling, Red kicked his feet free from the stirrups and tossed his right leg forward over the saddlehorn. He thrust himself dear of the falling horse, contriving to alight on his feet and running. While struggling to maintain his equilibrium and avoid plunging headlong down the slope, he swung his eyes towards his would-be killer. Being armed with a Spencer repeating rifle, the man was still a potential danger.

  Horror was twisting at the Yankee’s features as he realized his peril. Although the horse had been shot and was dying, its momentum was carrying it in his direction. Desperately he tried to fling himself aside, but he was too slow. The stricken animal crashed into him and he screamed in agony as its weight hurled him backwards. Horse and man went down the slope together.
On top, the gelding was crushing the soldier between itself and the hard, unyielding ground.

  After running almost uncontrollably for some yards, Red regained control of his movements and managed to stop. He hurried to where his horse was sprawled on top of the soldier. One glance told him that both were beyond all human aid. Looking around, he found nothing to suggest that the man had companions in the immediate vicinity.

  Satisfied that he was not, for the moment at least, in danger of further attempts on his life, Red continued walking. On reaching the edge of the river, he went swiftly about making his preparations. For all that, despite being fully aware of the situation’s extreme urgency, he refused to let himself become flustered or to act hastily. Instead, he thought out his movements with a care that would have surprised many of his elders if they had witnessed it.

  If the main body of the picket had heard the commotion, some of them might come to investigate. Possibly he would be on his way before they arrived, but he wanted to try to avoid leaving obvious indications of his intentions. What he was planning to do would be sufficiently dangerous, without him needlessly adding to the risks.

  Laying the Colt on the ground, the youngster divested himself of his tunic. He retained his dark grey shirt, but sat down to remove his boots and socks. Concealing the discarded items under a bush, he patted his breeches’ pocket to ensure that Dusty’s Russell Barlow knife was there. If he should succeed in reaching the bridge, he would need it.

  With a final look around, to make certain that he had hidden the more obvious suggestions of what he was planning to do, Red waded into the river. His feet sank into the mud, but he thrust himself on until reaching deeper water. Taking a final look up the slope and satisfying himself that he was unobserved, he dived forward to start swimming downstream. At his point of entry, a gentle curve hid the bridge from his sight. Moving towards it, he kept constantly alert for any hint that he might have been seen by the enemy.