You're in Command Now, Mr Fog

by J. T. Edson

  Directing a look upstream, Red grinned~ The bridge was still standing, with only dead or badly wounded Yankees occupying it.

  “They’ve likely tried to blow her up by now,” the youngster thought. “I wonder what they’ll do when they find that they can’t?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Riding alone from the woods fringing the Ouachita River, Dusty Fog was an anxious and worried young man. He wondered what his father and, more particularly, Colonel Barnett would think of the action he had just taken. It was an unusual one, but he felt that he had been justified in sending Company ‘C’ across the Ouachita River while he returned to make his report.

  On reaching the woods with his men, Dusty had ordered them to dismount and continue on foot. That had been a sound move, for riders would have been impossible to control in such terrain. Moving forward, he had found that the Yankees’ picket was already making a fighting withdrawal. The arrival of reinforcements had led to them all being killed or captured.

  Dusty had learned of Red’s departure from Corporal Hassle. So he had dispatched the old timer and Kiowa to see if they could discover what had happened to his cousin. With that taken care of, Dusty had pushed on to the edge of the woods. There, he had halted his men before they could be seen by the Yankees at the hamlet. To have continued the advance would have availed him nothing, except for needlessly killed or wounded men. Instead, he had watched the enemy crossing the bridge,

  After the lieutenant who had ably commanded the rear guard was shot and had fallen into the water, the withdrawal had been accomplished. Dusty had waited with bated breath. The moment had come when the Yankees would try to destroy the bridge. Try as he might, Dusty had been unable to locate any trace of his cousin and wondered where Red might be.

  When no explosion had happened, Dusty had been relieved and perturbed. Either the Yankees had failed to take the precaution of mining the bridge, or Red had been successful in nullifying their efforts. Yet there was no sign of the young lieutenant.

  Kiowa and Hassle had returned with Red’s property. From the story they had read in Red’s tracks, Dusty knew that he had set off in the way that Dusty had outlined. That the bridge was still standing had suggested that Red had put the scheme to use and had pulled it off.

  The question that had nagged at Dusty was, what had happened to his cousin after the conclusion of the mission.

  While searching the banks in the hope of learning something about Red’s fate, Dusty had given Billy Jack his orders. While the small Texan had known that he must place a whole lot of faith in his lanky temporary sergeant major, he had been satisfied that Billy Jack could be trusted with the work. Leaving his men to cross the river and carry out his scheme, Dusty had returned to the open ground with the intention of reporting to his superiors.

  While Dusty believed that his father would approve of his action; on discovering what had motivated them, he felt less certain of how Colonel Barnett would respond.

  An infantryman to the core, Barnett had a reputation for being a stickler where military protocol was concerned. He was also said to have small respect for the abilities of volunteer officers, So he might be disinclined to accept suggestions from a very young and junior first lieutenant; especially one belonging to a volunteer cavalry regiment. Even more so when that same lieutenant had already implemented part of the proposals without having awaited their acceptance.

  For all that, Dusty believed he had been justified and correct in sending the remnants of Company ‘C’ across the river and having given them specific orders on how they must act on the other side.

  Locating his father was not difficult. Dusty saw Major Hondo Fog standing with Barnett and several infantry officers on the slope beyond the range of the rifles across the river. Guiding his horse towards them, the young Texan examined the battle-ground as they were doing. More than ever, he felt certain that he had acted correctly. He only wished that he could be as sure that Red was alive and well.

  The Yankees had made good their withdrawal, Dusty observed, but it had cost them dearly. Yet the price had been lighter than if they had remained in the trenches without the support of the Vandenburg Volley Guns.

  From the enemy, Dusty swung his gaze to the Confederate States’ force. Making use of the Yankees’ deserted trenches, or the buildings of the hamlet, the Arkansas Rifles were shooting across the river. The mountain battery’s shells were falling accurately around the “Wisconsins” defensive positions. Already the three Companies of the Texas Light Cavalry were heading downstream. They would be going to swim over and either out-flank or take the Yankees from the rear.

  Swinging from his saddle, Dusty handed the gelding’s reins to the stocky Texas Light Cavalry sergeant who stood some distance from the officers and held two horses.

  “You did good, Mr. Fog,” Sergeant Glissade praised. “What happened to Cap’n von Hertz?”

  “A sharpshooter made wolf-bait of him,” Dusty replied. “Sergeant Major Goering’s dead too.”

  “It could’ve been worse,” Glissade commiserated. “They was three to your one. Like I said, you did good.”

  “Gracias,” Dusty said, knowing that he was receiving high praise.

  “Your pappy was wondering why you didn’t use the caracole, like Cap’n von Hertz aimed to,” Glissade went on, a note of warning in his voice. “Maybe you’d best go and tell him.”

  “I’ll do that,” Dusty promised and turned away.

  Walking forward, Dusty was conscious of the senior officers’ scrutiny. His father—who looked like a taller, older, version of himself—showed relief and puzzlement, but the others displayed only the latter emotion. Schooling his face into what he hoped would be an expressionless mask, the small Texan came to a halt and saluted.

  “Lieutenant Fog, Company ‘C’ reporting, sir,” Dusty said to the colonel.

  “Where’s Captain von Hertz, Mr. Fog?” Barnett demanded, returning the salute.

  “He was killed by a sharpshooter while we were taking up our position in the woods, sir,” Dusty explained. “Our scout got the sharpshooter, but he was too late to save the captain.”

  “That left you in command, Mr. Fog?” asked one of the infantry majors.

  “Yes, sir,” Dusty agreed.

  “You did damned well,” Barnett stated. “Who carried out your assignment?”

  “Mr. Blaze, sir,” Dusty answered and continued anxiously. “Hasn’t he reported yet?”

  “Not yet,” Hondo admitted, watching the brief play of disturbed emotions on his son’s face. Dusty and Red had been inseparable companions for most of their lives. “I reckon he’s safe enough, boy.”

  “Where’s your Company now, Mr. Fog?” Barnett wanted to know.

  “I’ve sent them across the Ouachita, sir.”

  “Under whose command?”

  “My sergeant major’s, sir.”

  “Goering’s a sound man, sir,” Hondo commented.

  “He was killed in the attack on the Lancers, sir,” Dusty corrected. “I appointed Sergeant Billy Jack to take his place.”

  “He’s good and reliable too, colonel,” Hondo declared.

  “Why did you send them, Mr. Fog?” asked the major who had spoken earlier. “And why didn’t you go with them?”

  “I felt it best that I should report to Colonel Barnett, sir,” Dusty replied. “But I figured that he’d want a message sending to ask Colonel Gaylord to get to the bridge as quickly as possible.”

  “You figured right,” Barnett declared. “But not at the cost of sending a full Company to fetch him.”

  “Only one man, Corporal Cotton will be goings sir,” Dusty pointed out. “The rest are waiting to carry out another duty.”

  “You’ve told them to join up with the other Companies, huh Dusty?” Hondo suggested.

  “Only if they can’t do what I hope they’ll be able to do, sir.”

  “And what might that be?” Barnett growled.

  “They’ll try to convince the Yankees that o
ur reinforcements are already on hand, sir,” Dusty drawled, retaining a flat, neutrally respectful timbre in his voice. This was the moment when he must lay himself open to recriminations, scorn, maybe even disciplinary action, if his idea should fail to meet with the colonel’s approval. “That might make them more willing to listen to your terms, sir.”

  “Terms?” Barnett barked. “Just what terms might they be, mister?”

  “I wondered if we—you, that is, sir—could make them an offer —”

  “Such as?” Hondo prompted, as his son’s words died away and Barnett did not offer to comment.

  “Giving them the opportunity to hand over the bridge,” Dusty began.

  “We’ve as good as got it now!” snorted the infantry major, but none of his companions appeared to share his sentiment.

  “Yes, sir,” Dusty conceded tactfully. “But I thought that we might be able to speed things up.”

  “How?” Barnett challenged.

  “We could offer them an exchange, sir,” Duty replied. “Their freedom and an unrestricted passage through our lines for the bridge.”

  “The Yankees wouldn’t go for that!” growled the major. “I know damned well I wouldn’t!”

  “I think the Yankee colonel will, sir,” Dusty contradicted, in the politest possible manner.

  “What makes you think that, Mr. Fog?” Barnett asked, looking at the small Texan with added interest.

  “The way he pulled back his men as soon as he saw the Vandenburgs or Lancers couldn’t help him, sir,” Dusty elaborated, decided that the question had been a point in his favor. “Like you said last night, sir; the fact that the Yankees sent such a strong force, and not just a small detail to blow up the bridge, suggests they were supposed to try to hold it for their Army’s use. Only I reckon their colonel was more concerned with the lives of his men and didn’t aim to throw them away without good cause. I’m betting that, given a chance, he’ll be willing to get them away safe. Especially if he believes that they’re already close to being surrounded and cut off on the wrong side of the river.”

  “The Yankees won’t give in that easy,” insisted the major who had already protested. “I wouldn’t in their place.”

  “Not even to save your command, what was left of it, from being killed or taken prisoner?” Hondo put in. “Because that’s what’s facing the Yankees if they refuse our terms.”

  “And if they accept,” the infantry major countered, “they’ll be free to fight against us again.”

  “There’ll be a lot of our men left alive who’d die trying to take the bridge,” Hondo pointed out. “Because there’s no easy way to do it. Time isn’t on our side.”

  “And if we give them enough of it, they could come up with a way to destroy the bridge,” another of the infantry officers remarked. “Mr. Fog’s idea could save us all that, if it comes off.”

  “We’ll give it a try,” Barnett declared, before any further discussion could take place. “Will you deliver the terms, Major Fog?”

  “I will, sir,” Hondo agreed, without hesitation.

  “You realize that I can’t allow considerations of your safety to influence my future actions if they don’t honor your flag of truce and take you as a hostage?”

  “I accept that, colonel,” Hondo agreed.

  “Very well,” Barnett said. “Is there anything you need?”

  “The loan of a bugler,” Hondo suggested. “And I’d like to take Mr. Fog with me, sir.”

  “Mr. Fog?” Barnett repeated, looking from father to son and back.

  “It’s his plan, sir,” Hondo reminded the colonel. “And the experience might come in useful for him in the future.”

  “So it may,” Barnett conceded, nodding approvingly as his eyes returned to the small Texan. There was a very capable young man, with a great future. As such, he should be given every opportunity to participate in matters of importance. He looked the kind who would profit by doing so. “I’ll leave how you handle things in your hands, Major Fog. The rest of you gentlemen rejoin your Companies. I want everything ready to launch an assault, but I also don’t want any mistakes if the call for a truce is accepted. We’d be getting ready to attack if we were expecting the arrival of reinforcements. So we’d best act as they’ll expect us to. Don’t you agree, Mr. Fog?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dusty answered. “I had something like that in mind.”

  “Then why didn’t you mention it?” Barnett inquired.

  “I didn’t reckon I’d need to, sir,” Dusty admitted.

  “It’s pleasing to find that at least one young lieutenant credits us old fogies with having a modicum of intelligence, Hondo,” Barnett commented dryly. “Either that, or your son’s a born diplomat. I’ll not embarrass any of us by asking which you think it is. Go and attend to your duties, gentlemen.”

  “I’ll not ask if it was diplomacy, boy,” Hondo said with a grin, as they went to their horses. “But I’d admire to know.”

  “Colonel Barnett’s one smart hombre, for a foot-shuffler,” Dusty obliged. “I reckoned he might see reason, but he wouldn’t want too much of it rammed down his throat by a wet-behind-the-ears, fly-slicer luff like me.”

  “There’s something in that,” Hondo smiled. Then noticing the way in which his son continually darted looks towards the river, continued, “Don’t worry, boy, young Red’s all right I’m willing to bet on it.”

  “I hope so,” Dusty replied. “If he’s been killed —”

  “It was after doing something that had to be done,” Hondo interrupted.

  “But it was my duty to do it,” Dusty protested.

  “You couldn’t do it, through no fault of your own, boy. And Red couldn’t have handled the Company as well as you did. You know that you made the right decision.”

  “Even if Red was killed?”

  “Even if Red was killed,” Hondo agreed. “Because the destruction of the bridge would mean that a whole lot more than just Red would die. As it is, boy, once the Yankees accept your terms, we can cross the Ouachita and their main body won’t be able to follow us.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dusty drawled and, wanting to turn his thoughts from his cousin, went on, “We’ll need a white flag. I’ll fetch one of those lances and I’ve a shirt in my saddle-pouch that’ll do for it.”

  “Bueno,” Hondo answered. “Go to it.”

  Mounting his gelding, Dusty returned to the scene of his Company’s fight with the Lancers. Leaning over, he scooped up one of the discarded weapons without needing to halt or dismount. On rejoining his father and Glissade, he produced the shirt and fastened its sleeves to the shaft. At that moment, Sergeant Weather rode up.

  “I’ve got your saber here, sir,” the non-com announced, handing over the weapon.

  “Gracias,” Dusty replied. “Is everything all right with you?”

  “Well enough, sir,” Weather confirmed.

  “See to the men until I get back,” Dusty requested, sheathing the saber.

  An infantry bugler ran to meet the Texans as they rode down the slope. At Hondo’s command, he blew the “Cease Fire”. The message was relayed by shouted orders and the shooting ended on the northern bank of the river. After a few seconds, the Yankees also stopped using their weapons.

  “Let’s get going!” Hondo ordered. “Show them the flag, Sergeant Glissade.”

  “Yo!” answered the non-com, accepting the lance and elevating it so the improvised flap flapped in the breeze.

  “Keep sounding calls, bugler,” Hondo went on.

  With Glissade holding the lance upright and the bugler playing loud calls to emphasize that no surprise was intended, the party advanced. On reaching the end of the bridge, Hondo brought them to a halt. For a few seconds nothing happened. Then a tall, bearded Union infantry officer—whose shoulder straps bore the gilt laurel leaves of a major—strode forward and looked across the river.

  “What’s on your mind, major?” called the Yankee officer.

  “A parlay, major,” Hondo rep
lied. “Will you meet us at the centre?”

  “I will.”

  “Can I suggest a truce for thirty minutes, while we’re at it, to give us all time to attend to our wounded.”

  “I accept that,” the Union major answered.

  “This’s as far as you and the bugler go, sergeant,” Hondo remarked, as he and Dusty dismounted.

  Having handed their reins to Glissade, Dusty retrieved the lance from the sergeant and followed his father. The “Wisconsins’’ representative walked to meet them, followed by half a dozen soldiers who started to examine the dead and wounded men on the bridge.

  “Major Fog, First Lieutenant Fog, Texas Light Cavalry,” Hondo introduced, saluting. “I’m here on behalf of Colonel Barnett, commanding the 1st Arkansas Rifle Regiment.”

  “Major Grimsby, speaking for Colonel Middleton, 18th ‘Wisconsin’ Heavy Infantry,” replied the Union officer and returned the compliment. “May I ask what’s on your mind, major?”

  “Colonel Barnett sends his terms —” Hondo began.

  “We’ll not surrender!” Grimsby stated grimly.

  “We’re not suggesting that you should. Instead, we’re willing to let you come back across the river and offer you unrestricted passage through our lines for all your remaining men.”

  “Suppose we say ‘No’?”

  “Then a lot of men are going to die unnecessarily,” Hondo warned. “You can’t destroy the bridge. Nor can you hold it for long enough to let your main body arrive and stop us crossing.”

  “That’s a debatable point, major,” Grimsby countered, in a flat, non-committal voice. “The Army of Arkansas —”

  “Is still over eight miles away,” Hondo interrupted. “And not moving fast. Long before it arrives, your regiment will have been wiped out.”

  “You won’t find that easy to do,” Grimsby warned, “with the width of the river between us.”

  “Our reinforcements on the south of the river have already been called on, major. Between us, We’ve got your regiment cold.”