Under the Stars and Bars

by J. T. Edson

Which only were to prove how little Genaro knew of the true state of affairs in his immediate vicinity.

  Having left their horses in the care of their companions a full mile to the north, Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog of the Texas Light Cavalry and his Company’s sergeant major now crouched in a hollow not more than thirty feet from the disinterested Yankee sentry.

  Moving in on foot through the darkness, they had taken advantage of Genaro’s indifferent patrol to crawl that close undetected. Concealed in the shallow depression, they knew that approaching any nearer without being located would be difficult, if not impossible. Then, as if wishing to assist the Confederate cause, the Yankee artilleryman had obligingly presented them with an opportunity of silencing him. The watching Rebels could be counted on to make the most of such a chance.

  Lean as a poorly-nourished bean-pole, Sergeant Major Billy Jack topped a six foot length with close-cropped black hair and a thin, careworn, anxious cast of features above a prominent Adam’s apple. He presented such a lugubrious appearance that the first sight of the ‘V’-shaped triple bars and arc of silk denoting his rank came as a surprise. Bareheaded, he wore a cadet-grey, waist-long tunic and tight, yellow-striped breeches ending in knee-high boots. Around his middle hung a wide gunbelt carrying two walnut-handled 1860 Army Colts in open-topped holsters tied low to his thighs. In his hands, he held a fifty-foot length of three-strand, hard-plaited Manila rope specially prepared for his needs.

  At Billy Jack’s side lay a young man fast building a name for himself on the Arkansas battle-front; first coming into prominence by his bravery and ability while leading a cavalry charge that many of the combatants claimed had turned the course of the battle at Mark’s Mill in the South’s favour.

  As yet the Yankees did not know Dusty Fog so well as they would come to when he attended a Federal court-martial to give evidence on behalf of a Union Army lieutenant falsely accused of cowardice.1 To save Lieutenant Kirby Cogshill’s life,2 Dusty Fog would have to endanger his own and would be compelled to kill General Buller in a duel the commander of the Union Army of Arkansas forced upon him. Then Dusty would so be-devil Buller’s successor that General Horace Trumpeter would place a bounty on the young Texan’s head with tragic—and for the general, fatal—results.3

  To the Union Army in Arkansas, Dusty Fog would become synonymous with raiding, losses of urgently-needed equipment and supplies, or other similar forms of military disaster. He would also be known as a gallant, chivalrous enemy of great courage, integrity and efficiency.

  Already Confederate sympathisers from the Lone Star State were boasting of his qualities of leadership. At a young eighteen, those qualities had won him the rank of captain—awarded in the field at Mark’s Mill—and placed him in command of the Texas Light Cavalry’s hard-riding, harder-fighting Company ‘C’. Never slow to glorify prominent sons of their State, the Texans told of how Dusty Fog could draw his revolvers in blinding speed and throw lead with great accuracy from them; or mentioned proudly that he possessed the bare-handed fighting skill to lick any man in either Army.

  What kind of man inspired such claims at so early an age?

  Curly, dusty-blond hair topped a face that was handsome—though not in an eye-catching manner—tanned, showed strength of will, intelligence and an air of commanding attention. Tight-rolled and knotted about his throat, a scarlet silk bandana trailed long ends down the front of his tunic. Copied from a style originated by a 1st Lieutenant Mark Counter4—with whom Dusty would one day be closely associated5—the tunic continued the bandana’s defiance of the Manual of Dress Regulations. Its stand-up collar carried the conventional triple three-inch long, half-inch wide gold bars of his rank. Two rows of seven buttons each graced its double-breasted front and its sleeves bore above their yellow cuffs the double, gold braid, Austrian knot ‘chicken-guts’ device by which the Confederate States’ Army further identified its captains. No skirt extended halfway between hip and knee as Regulations required. His riding breeches and boots did conform to Regulations, but his weapon belt departed from them. Like Billy Jack’s, it rode lower than the official pattern, possessed no means of carrying a sabre, and had open-topped holsters cut to leave the trigger-guards of the revolvers exposed. However, the matched bone-handled Army Colts rode butt forward instead of pointing to the rear.

  All in all, Dusty Fog’s wide shoulders and lean waist conveyed an impression of exceptional muscular power and strength. Despite the fact that his height was barely five foot six, none of his Company—and few others who came into contact with the force of his personality—ever thought of him as being small.

  Studying the sentry for a few seconds, Dusty addressed his sergeant major in a whisper.

  ‘Reckon you can rope him from here?’

  ‘Likely not,’ Billy Jack answered dismally, but no louder. ‘I’ll certain-sure miss. Then he’ll holler ‘n’ wake the whole boiling of ‘em ‘n’ we’ll both of us get catched, or killed.’

  Which meant, as Dusty well knew, that Billy Jack considered the chances of silencing the indolent sentry to be greatly in their favour. For all his doleful appearance and constant predictions of doom, the lean sergeant major was a fighting man from soda to hock6 and well-deserving of his rank. Knowing the risks involved, and what his commanding officer hoped to do, he would not attempt to rope the Yankee soldier unless almost certain of success.

  Measuring with his eyes the distance separating him from Genaro, Billy Jack carefully made his preparations. The Yankee soldier was standing with his back to the Texans’ position, shoulders hunched and hands gathered about the match he was using to light his cigarette. In such a posture, he could not be caught as Billy Jack knew must be done. Waiting for his chance, the lanky Texan worked the stem of his rope through the two-inch long, rawhide-wrapped eye of the honda to increase the size of the loop he would use when the time came.

  With his cigarette glowing, Genaro leaned against the Napoleon’s barrel. Resting his arms on top of the cold metal of the tube, he kept his head held up so as to observe the tent lines and see if the officer-of-the-day appeared to make the rounds. City-born and not long enlisted, Genaro lacked the country-dwellers’ keen senses of veteran’s natural alertness. So he failed to hear certain faint sounds that ought to have warned him of danger.

  Slowly Billy Jack eased himself upright and from the hollow. There could be no extensive twirling of the rope as an aid to accuracy, its noise might alarm the sentry. However, the lean, miserable Rebel’s repertoire of roping methods offered a solution to that problem. Ensuring that the stem, or spoke, of the rope—that part not forming the loop—could move freely, he prepared to make his throw.

  One quick whirl before him carried the rope up to the right and above his head. Then the loop and spoke flew through the air. Deft hands turned the loop to flatten horizontally before it reached its victim. Sliding along the stem as it advanced, the honda decreased the size of the loop. Passing downwards around Genaro’s kepi, the reduced noose scraped by his ears and came to rest on his shoulders.

  Called a hooley-anne throw, the method used by Billy Jack was a head-catch originally designed to collect a horse from a bunch in a corral without disturbing the rest of them. It proved equally effective when used against another human being.

  Wasting no time in self-congratulation over a masterly piece of roping, Billy Jack tugged sharply on the stem between his hands. Before Genaro could respond to the unexpected assault, the rope snapped tight about his throat. Jerked backwards, unable to cry out or snatch up his carbine, the artilleryman lost his footing and sat down hard. Deprived of one weapon, the impact of his landing caused him to forget his other. It would also have driven the air from his lungs, but the constricting coil about his throat prevented that from happening.

  Moving closer, Billy Jack swung his hands in a circular motion. Curling away from him, the stem of the rope passed over Genaro’s head. Even as the Yankee decided to make a grab for the strangling loop, a coil of Manila settled aro
und his biceps and torso. With his arms effectively pinned and helpless, Genaro could do no more than sit and listen to the sound of footsteps approaching from his rear.

  No mean hand with a catch-rope himself, Dusty had watched his companion in silent admiration. Dusty had often heard it claimed that the only thing Billy Jack could not do with a rope was make it stand upright, climb to the top and sit on the honda. There were times when Dusty felt his lanky sergeant major could even accomplish that.

  Slipping a specially-manufactured gag from his breeches’ pocket, Dusty ran towards Genaro. Made of a hard ball of rubber, encased in rawhide and fitted with two cords, it could be rapidly attached to a captive and effectively prevented him from making any outcry.

  Catching hold of the dazed, half-strangled artilleryman’s shoulder, Dusty inserted the ball between his open lips. Acting with a speed that permitted Genaro no opportunity of resisting, the small Texan affixed the cords. Drawing them tight, he knotted them behind the Yankee’s head.

  Billy Jack produced two rawhide ‘piggin’ strings’, of the kind used to secure hogs or calves, from inside his tunic. With the gagging completed, he turned Genaro face-downwards. Loosening the stem’s coil a little, Billy Jack drew the Yankee’s wrists together. Lashing them in a way that would require a knife to set them free, the Texan repeated the process on Genaro’s ankles. With that done, he removed the strangling loop and stood back coiling his rope.

  ‘Nice work, Billy Jack,’ Dusty praised quietly. ‘We’ve got him safe enough.’

  ‘Sure never thought we’d do it,’ the sergeant major replied dolefully. ‘I’ll bet he busts loose and gets the drop on us.’

  ‘Damned if I shouldn’t’ve picked a turkey-buzzard,’7 Dusty grinned, ‘instead of a whip-poor-will for you to use as a signal.’

  ‘I allus see more of ‘em around me than “whips”,’ Billy Jack answered. ‘So I’d know how to do one better.’

  While carrying on their whispered conversation, the two Texans had been scrutinising the surrounding area with eyes and ears. Alert to detect any hint that their presence had been discovered, they saw and heard nothing to alarm them. Cupping his hands to his mouth, Billy Jack gave a passable impersonation of a whip-poor-will’s plaintive call.

  ‘That was so real,’ Dusty declared, ‘I’ll bet every lil gal “whip” around’ll be headed this way.’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Jack miserably. ‘And I know what they’ll do when they fly over me. They nev—’

  The remainder of his mournful tirade went unsaid as the call received an answer from the vicinity of the battery’s horse-lines.

  * * *

  Although he might have given an argument on the matter, Private ‘Dutchy’ Kruger should have counted himself a very fortunate man. Caught asleep at his post by two men who had small regard for the sanctity of an enemy’s life, he had Dusty Fog to thank that he received nothing worse than a blow on the head from a revolver’s butt. Stunned, but still alive, he lay face down on the ground and received the same treatment as that given to Genaro.

  Instinctively Dusty Fog knew that the morale effect of taking sentries alive and leaving them bound, gagged, but unharmed, was far greater than killing them. So he had given his scouts orders to that effect. With men of less ability than that possessed by Sergeant Kiowa Cotton and Corporal Vern Hassle, Dusty would never have issued such dangerously prohibitive instructions. It said much for the respect in which they held their youthful commanding officer that the two hard-bitten scouts had troubled to carry out the far-from-easy directive.

  Experts in their trade, schooled under the exacting conditions of Indian warfare, they had experienced little difficulty in stalking and clubbing down the lethargic Kruger as he sat sleeping with his back to a tree’s trunk. Their harder task was still to come.

  Sergeant Cotton could not be termed handsome. Tall, lean, black-haired, he had a face that in times of stress resembled that of a particularly mean, blood-thirsty Indian. Even when relaxed, he would not be considered any oil-painting. He wore an untidy uniform, a battered campaign hat with an eagle’s feather stuck in its band, while a Remington Army revolver and a bowie knife dangled from his belt.

  Kneeling by the unconscious Yankee and attending to fastening a gag in his mouth, Kiowa grinned wolfishly at his companion. If his flowing white hair was any proof, Corporal Vern Hassle had seen many years of life. Yet he moved with an agility a younger man might have envied and his eyes flickered keenly in a seamed, lined old face.

  ‘There’s Billy Jack,’ Hassle breathed as the call of a whip-poor-will reached their ears.

  ‘Best finish hawg-tying this hombre,’ Kiowa replied. ‘Then we’ll let Cap’n Dusty know we’ve done it.’

  ‘Sounds like Kiowa and Vern’ve got the horse-guard,’ Dusty commented as Hassle answered the signal.

  ‘Or he got them,’ countered Billy Jack. ‘And now’ he’s doing the “whip” to trick us. Don’t see why we should be the only ‘n’s fool enough to be catched.’

  Completing his speech, the sergeant major repeated the same type of bird’s call three times in succession. Off in the darkness to the north, another member of the Company replied.

  While awaiting the arrival of reinforcements, Dusty walked over and boarded the nearest limber. Raising the lid of its chest, he looked inside. The light of the stars and new moon was sufficient for him to identify the contents and know that the chest carried its full load. Its eight compartments held thirty-two 12-pounder rounds, two spare cartridges, seventy-five friction primers, three portfires and one-and-a-half yards of slow match.

  From his position, Dusty counted the remaining vehicles. Each cannon had its own limber and caisson, the former carrying one and the latter three ammunition chests. Being a battery newly-arrived from the East, each of the chests ought to carry its full complement of equipment. Even if they did not, there was sufficient material on hand for what he planned; especially as the six reserve caissons stood in a line behind the others. Beyond them was the battery-wagon containing—if fully loaded—oil, paint, spare gunners’ tools, stocks and spokes, over two hundred pounds of reserve harness, axes, spades and picks. At its side was the travelling-forge, with blacksmiths’ tools, spare hardware and iron, as well as 300 pounds of ready-shaped horseshoes and nails. A replacement battery, on its way to join the Union’s Army of Arkansas, could be expected to come fully equipped.

  The loss would be that much greater, if its destruction could be effected.

  Concluding his examination of the battery’s material,8 Dusty gave a disgusted grunt. Whoever commanded it must be very inexperienced, incompetent, criminally negligent, or a permutation of the three, to camp with so few precautions even that close to Little Rock. The lax behaviour, however, did not entirely come as a surprise to the small Texan.

  Wanting to strike down the heart of the Confederate States, Federal policy demanded that the pick of their troops be reserved for the Eastern and Southern battle-fronts. General Buller had a few good outfits under his command—Verncombe’s 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons for instance. Mostly the commanding general in Arkansas had to make do with regiments produced by merging several disrupted privately-formed Volunteer battalions, recuperating from losses in action, or found wanting under the harsh tests of combat. Badly-led, poorly-trained, demoralised, such regiments made the work of the Confederate States’ cavalry far easier to accomplish in the Toothpick State.

  Taking a round from the chest, Dusty dropped to the ground and crossed to the nearest Napoleon. By manipulating the elevating screw, he raised the breech of the barrel. Resting the metal ball of the round on the cheek of the carriage, he lowered the barrel and held it firmly in place. He had just fixed the demolition charge into position when twenty men of his Company arrived. On hearing Billy Jack’s signal, they have moved in silently and were ready to play their part in depriving the Yankees of a field artillery battery. Having previously visualised how he would handle such a situation, Dusty had already instructed his
men in the duties they were to perform.

  Courage in action alone did not account for Dusty’s success as a military raider. When setting out on a mission, he always tried to carry along items that would be of use. One commodity he never left behind was quick-match fuses and his reinforcements held sufficient for their needs. Swiftly, silently, the Texans fanned out to attend to their appointed tasks.

  It was hard, exacting and nerve-wracking work that demanded the utmost in concentration on the part of the men carrying it out. Not fifty yards from the rear vehicles, the members of the battery lay sleeping in their tents. Any undue noise would rouse the Yankees, who, by weight of numbers, would drive off the Texans and waste the work already carried out.

  About to lift out a round, one of the Texans saw the lid of the chest slip and fall. By inserting his fingers, he prevented the bang of wood against wood and he bit on his bottom lip to prevent his pain-induced curses from becoming audible.

  Working in the battery-wagon, another man dislodged an axe. Hearing the brief clatter it made, the whole party froze. Full thirty seconds dragged by before Dusty felt satisfied that the sound had not disturbed the sleeping Yankee artillerymen and gave the signal for the work to continue.

  Joined by half-a-dozen assistants, the pick of a Company noted for its expert horsemen, Kiowa Cotton and Vern Hassle set about a no less demanding and equally important duty. Selecting and dominating mounts for their own use, with the need for silence of paramount importance, was no work for the inexperienced. With that task accomplished, they gave their attention to the rest of the battery’s horses. In addition to setting the animals free, Kiowa’s section had to silently curb any attempt to stray or prematurely quit the severed picket lines.

  Held immobile by his bonds, although Billy Jack had thoughtfully turned him on to his back, Genaro strained his eyes and ears in an attempt to discover what the Texans were doing. He could see and hear little, but what he did told him all that he needed to know.