You're in Command Now, Mr Fog

by J. T. Edson

  On reaching the bend, Red swam towards the southern bank. The current had carved a deep hole at that point and, even when close to the shore, his feet could not touch the bottom. Treading the water gently, with only his head above the surface, he let himself be swept slowly onwards and soon received his first view of the bridge.

  From all appearances, the tide of the battle was swinging in the Confederate States’ favor. While there was fighting taking place on the fringe of the hamlet, the Yankees appeared to be pulling back from the positions.

  For a few seconds, Red was puzzled by the enemies’ actions. They were retiring across the bridge. Yet they were doing it in an orderly manner and not in full flight. Then he started to understand their motives and realized that, now more than ever, he must do his utmost to prevent the destruction of the bridge.

  Just as Red was about to thrust himself forward at a faster rate, he recollected his Cousin Dusty’s often-repeated advice. The time to study the situation was before one became involved in it. With that in mind, Red allowed himself to be drifted closer by the push of the current and subjected his objective to a careful scrutiny.

  The bridge had been built to handle plenty of heavy traffic and was of a sturdy construction. Unlike many of its day, it was not covered over as a means of protecting its timbers from the elements. Only a low guard rail was between Red and the soldiers who were already starting to run across. It would not be of any help in preventing them from seeing him. Fortunately, Dusty had taken that into consideration when planning how he would handle the assignment. He had told Red everything and the youngster was turning that information to his own use. So he knew how he could reach the bridge, but still keep out of the Yankees’ sight.

  Dusty had guessed that the destructive charge would be placed where it would do most damage. Bearing that in mind, Red looked at the massive oak central support and its Y-shaped bracing struts. Sure enough, a large keg of black powder had been placed in the angle formed by the southern supporting beam.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Red allowed himself to sink beneath the surface. He did not dare go closer while on the top, in case he should be seen by the men who were crossing the bridge or upon the banks. Waiting until his feet touched the bottom, he started to swim just above the swaying weeds.

  Soon Red’s lungs felt as if they would burst. Grimly he forced himself to go on, for he had no means of estimating how close he might be to the bridge and had no desire to make a premature appearance. To do so under the circumstances would be asking for disaster.

  At last, however, lack of air drove the youngster upwards. Above him, the surface was a circle of silvery light. Then the downstream portion of it started to become straight instead of curved. That would be the side of the bridge, cutting out the light. So he ought to be close enough to escape the Yankees’ notice.

  Something large, black and roughly oblong appeared, growing rapidly in size as it plunged downwards.

  There was a crashing splash and Red felt the sudden turbulence of the disturbed water strike him. The mysterious shape came close and the younger’s hands touching clothing. Silently cursing his lousy luck, he grabbed hold of the thing and confirmed his suspicions. Apparently a soldier had seen him approaching beneath the surface and had leapt over the guard rail to attack him.

  Clutching his assailant by the front of the tunic and one arm, Red tried to prevent them from rising to the surface. lie could not do it Even as they started to ascend, he wondered why the man was not struggling to escape. He soon learned the answer.

  Shaking the water from his eyes and filling his lungs with air, Red stared into the attacker’s face. There was little above the eyebrows but torn flesh and splintered bones. The blood, tissue and brains had been washed away after being exposed to the water when a bullet had shattered its way through the skull.

  With a strangled exclamation of disgust, the youngster released his hold. He watched the corpse drifting away, then looked upwards. Luck was still on his side, for they had surfaced under the bridge.

  Another body plummeted over the guard rail, on the downstream side, almost landing on the one that had handed Red such a shock. Overhead, boots stamped on the planks as the withdrawal continued.

  Swimming towards the upstream central support, Red had only the smallest worries regarding the way in which he would carry out his work. They did not come from wondering how he could reach the barrel, Company ‘C’ had visited Martin’s Mill ten days earlier, before the start of the retreat, and Dusty had studied the bridge. He had formulated his plan from memories of that examination. The answer to how one could climb the support was simple—or would have been under less trying conditions.

  Whoever had designed the bridge was clearly a man skilled in his work. He had included the means by which the bottom of the structure could be examined. Iron rungs had been driven into the massive central support, extending to water-level, allowing it to be climbed with comparative ease.

  The only thing wrong with that, from Red’s point of view, was the way the rungs were placed. On the outside. Which meant that, as he climbed up, he would be in plain sight of either bank; although there was sufficient of an overhang to provide concealment from the men who were crossing the bridge.

  There was a shrill scream of agony and a third body tumbled into the river. Then a fourth followed. Bobbing up and down in the wash caused by their arrival and counteracting the thrust of the current, which was fairly strong beneath the bridge, Red took rapid stock of the situation.

  A moment’s thought told him that things might not be quite as bad as he had first imagined. Given just a smidgin of good old Texas luck, everybody would be too engrossed with their own affairs to notice him. Or the Yankees might figure he was one of them who had been hit by a Rebel’s bullet, knocked from the bridge, but not so badly hurt that he was unable to try to climb back. Sodden by their long immersion, his shirt and breeches ought to look dark enough to aid such a deception.

  Of course, one of the attackers might draw a similar conclusion and take the appropriate action.

  “Yes, sir,” Red told himself. “Things aren’t quite so bad. Like getting thrown by a horse and being told you’ve only bust both legs, not your neck.”

  Never one to worry unduly about the future, the youngster did not let the last thought depress him. Reaching for the nearest rung, he hauled himself upwards. Nobody took any notice of him as he ascended to the point where the supporting braces spread at angles of forty-five degrees from the central post. One shove would topple the keg into the water and the job would be done.

  Or would it?

  Placing his hand on the keg, Red started to notice things which caused him to revise his optimistic opinion.

  Firstly, the keg had been carefully covered with waterproof tarpaulin.

  Secondly, the Yankees had merely rested in the angle and had not attempt to fasten or hold it in place.

  Thirdly, despite having failed to take that basic precaution, they had gone to the trouble of arranging the barrel with the fuse on the inside of the bridge. Doing that must have been more difficult than merely sliding it in the other way round.

  Lastly, as Red discovered when he climbed higher and seated himself on the unoccupied bracing strut, the fuse appeared to have been fixed in a haphazard manner. Not because it led to the southern bank. That had only to be expected. The explosion could not be touched off until the Yankees had crossed, so must be handled from that side What had caught Red’s eye was the way in which the fuse had been passed loosely through the arches of the next support. Once it had burned beyond that point, its end would fall into the water and be extinguished.

  Looking closer at the fuse, Red decided that it was unlike any type of slow-or quick-match he had ever seen. Taking hold of the fuse, he found that it was stiffer and felt different too.

  It must, he concluded, be one of those new-fangled wire fuses that operated from something called an electric battery. Red had heard tell of such things, although
he had had no personal experience with them. So he had an idea of the device’s capabilities.

  Somebody on the Yankees’ side had been mighty smart and tricky!

  The charge had been placed so that anybody who happened to find it, most likely being in one hell of a rush to save the bridge from destruction, would have reached an erroneous conclusion. Wanting to prevent the explosion, the rescuer would have shoved the barrel from its position and counted on the river to render it harmless. Instead, the waterproof covering would have kept the charge as lethal as ever.

  Wriggling through the aperture, Red sat on the stout cross beam which permitted an examination to be carried out across the width of the under-surface. He tugged at the fuse, but it refused to return through the hole into which it had been inserted.

  “I’m sure pleased this’s Dusty’s Barlow, not mine,” Red mused as he took out and opened the knife. Gathering a loop of the wire, he sawed through it. Letting the cut end fall, he sent the barrel after it. “That’s settled their —” he went on, but some instinct caused him to look over his shoulder. His relief ended and he twisted around, muttering, “The sneaky bastards. They’ve put another barrel over there!”

  Continuing to grip the open knife, Red began to scramble along the inspection beam. Over his head, heavy boots pounded incessantly as men poured over the bridge to what they hoped would be safety. From the various other sounds which had been, and still were, reaching the youngster’s ears, the withdrawal was costing the Yankees dearly. Four more men had toppled over the guard rail, struck down by the Confederate bullets. If the screams and cries of pain that had repeatedly rang out meant anything, others had been hit and remained on the bridge, or were carried away by their companions.

  Three harsh, sharp detonations from the southern bank caused Red a moment’s anxiety. Then he realized that they must be shells going off. Having silenced the Vandenburg Volley Guns, Douglas Staunce’s mountain battery had switched targets and were already bombarding the soldiers who had reached the other side of the Ouachita.

  How much time did Red have?

  Once the last of the Yankees had completed the crossing, the electric battery would be operated. The youngster had no way of knowing how the withdrawal was progressing. Of one thing he felt certain. If the remaining barrel of powder should be detonated, it would be powerful enough to wreck the bridge; or, at best, render it unsafe for the heavy wagons of the supply column.

  “And it sure’s hell won’t do me a whole heap of good, comes to that,” Red admitted silently. “If only the good die young, I likely don’t have long to go.”

  On reaching the second central support, the youngster once more tried to draw free the fuse. As with the other, the wire must have been knotted on the inside before the lid was fixed in position. However, Red did not waste time in idle conjecture over the reason for its immobility. The sound of shooting was drawing nearer on the northern bank. While the pace of the feet passing overhead was growing swifter, they seemed to be diminishing in numbers.

  Either the wire was tougher than its predecessor, or the Barlow’s blade had lost its edge.

  “Come on, blast you,” Red gritted, feeling perspiration running from his forehead and down his cheeks. “Cut through the son-of-a-bitching thing.”

  Lead was flying in both direction across the river. Darting a glance to the southern shore, Red saw that the Yankees were forming up in whatever cover they could find and firing over the water. If any of them should see him, he would make an easy target.

  Back and forward, back and forward, moved the knife without, apparently, making any impression on the wire fuse.

  The last of the feet were coming closer!

  So far, the Yankees’ attention was directed at the soldiers of the Arkansas Rifles and Texas Light Cavalry. Swinging his gaze in the other direction, Red found that his comrades-in-arms were advancing through the hamlet, or taking up firing positions near the edge of the river.

  Nearer came the last of the running feet!

  Once they had crossed, whoever was handling the destruction would do what he had to do.

  A savage jerk and the Barlow knife slipped through the severed ends of the fuse wire.

  Giving a low sigh of relief, Red allowed the two ends and the knife to slip from his fingers. His work was not quite finished. While the barrel could no longer by ignited by electricity, a bullet into it from the southern shore would prove equally effective.

  Just as Red was about to draw the keg inwards, yet another soldier’s body was pitched from above. Instead of pulling, Red shoved and the barrel tilted from its perch. It landed in the water just after the man had arrived and, Red hoped, the extra splash would not be observed.

  Before relaxing and considering how he might make good his escape, the youngster subjected the bottom of the bridge to a careful scrutiny. There were no more fuse wires, nor could he detect any suggestion that other barrels had been set out. So he decided that he had ended the danger of the bridge being destroyed.

  And only just in time!

  No more men were coming from the northern bank and the last of them had almost gone by his position. In a few seconds, the man responsible for setting off the charges would make his play.

  Which raised the point of what Red should do next.

  Should he remain where he was until the fighting ended, counting on nobody being able to draw a bead on him?

  Or ought he to try to join his companions and tell them of the successful conclusion of his assignment?

  Colonel Barnett would want to know for sure that the bridge would not be blown up.

  The only trouble being that carrying the news to him could be mighty risky.

  So, if it came to a point, would be staying put under the bridge. Once the expected explosion failed to materialize, the Yankees were sure to investigate. Even if Red still held the Russell-Barlow knife, it would be mighty inadequate. against men armed with rifles and several yards away.

  A cry of agony shattered the air from above Red and the running thud of the final pair of feet changed into a fumbling stagger. There was a crash of something heavy striking the wooden guard rail and a blue-uniformed figure fell from the bridge. It was bare-headed, the face covered with blood, and wore the dress of a Yankee infantry’s first lieutenant.

  The officer was still alive. Plunging beneath the surface, he reappeared, flailing wildly in an attempt to keep his head above water.

  “Help!” the wounded lieutenant screeched. “Help me. I can’t see!”

  Nobody on the banks took any notice.

  Watching the enemy officer being swept downstream, his struggles and calls for help growing weaker, Red knew that he would be drowned if somebody did not go to his assistance. Either the effects of the wound, or the blood flowing from it, had deprived the lieutenant of his sight Whichever was the reason, he could not survive for much longer.

  That was, Red concluded, a hell of a lousy way for a man to die.

  Wriggling from the inspection beam, Red dropped into the water. Disregarding the danger of being shot by one side or the other, he struck out as fast as he could after the lieutenant. Red wondered how long it would be before a Yankee, or one of his own people, started throwing lead his way. It did not happen, so he concluded that both factions were too occupied in their fighting to interfere with the rescue.

  Before Red reached the officer, he sank out of sight. Filling his lungs, the youngster followed. Finding the man, Red grabbed him under the armpits and, kicking out furiously, raised them both to the surface, On his head emerging, he immediately looked around. The current was thrusting him towards the southern bank. With the injured man hanging so heavily, Red doubted if he could hope to cross and reach his own side.

  “Come on, feller!” yelled a voice with a Northern accent “Fetch him here. We’ll help you!”

  Swinging his gaze towards the speaker, Red saw a “Wisconsins’’ sergeant and a private running forward. More enlisted men used rifles to give them cover
ing fire. They were on the fringe of the Yankees’ line and would probably be part of the flank guard, Red decided.

  Another glance across the river assured Red of how little hope he had of reaching his friends while towing his limp and unwieldy burden. So he continued to swim in the speaker’s direction, drawing the lieutenant along with a hand cupped under his chin.

  Seeing the soldiers continuing to wade forward, Red slowed his stroke and let them come until the water was lapping at their chests. The youngster was thinking fast and had seen a hope of avoiding being identified as an enemy. While his soaking shirt would be unlikely to give him away, the riding breeches were unmistakable evidence that he was not in the infantry. His bare feet might suggest that he was a Lancer who had taken to the water in a hurry to rescue the stricken officer.

  So Red continued to swim even after he could have dropped his feet to the bottom, The soldiers reached out, taking hold of the officer and drawing him out of Red’s grasp.

  “Can you manage, friend?” the sergeant inquired.

  “There’s another wounded feller out there,” Red replied, trying to avoid sounding like a Texan. “I’ll see if I can help him!”

  With that, the youngster turned and swam away. “Hey!” yelped the private, staring after Red. “He’s wearing riding breeches and he sounded like a Reb. He ain’t —”

  “You’re seeing things!” growled the sergeant, who had made a similar deduction. “No Texan’d save one of our officers.”

  “But—!” the soldier began.

  “He saved Mr. Rint here,” interrupted the sergeant. “So, unless you want to spend the rest of the War cleaning the officers’ shit-houses, you’ll reckon he’s gone to save another wounded feller. Now let’s get the hell away from here. The Rebs haven’t shot at us yet, but I’d hate like hell to keep tempting them.”

  Expecting to be shot at by friends or foes at any moment, Red struck out towards the northern bank of the Ouachita. He took a line that ought to carry him ashore below the fighting. The way he saw it, he had been shot at and taken enough chances for one day.