The Big Gun (Dusty Fog's Civil War Book 3)

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Here, cap’n,’ Sandy said, passing his dun gelding’s rein to Staunce. ‘I hope you can manage him.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ the Englishman promised, gripping the low horn of the double-girthed xi Texas range saddle. ‘With all this leather weighing on his back, it shouldn’t be too hard.’

  Swinging agilely abroad the dun, Staunce encouraged it to start moving. Sandy watched, expecting his spirited mount to display reluctance as it felt a stranger on its back. However, the horse could sense that it carried a rider capable of mastering it. So it responded to the instructions from Staunce’s hands and heels, striding out after Dusty’s fast-moving bay.

  There was another hissing scream, followed by an explosion.

  Chapter Four – Where the Hell’s That Cannon?

  Twisting on their saddles without reducing the horses’ speed, the two young captains saw that a second crater had appeared about ten yards closer to the courthouse. The shell had fallen amongst the officers who were rushing from the building. Several of them were sprawling on the ground around the smoking hole. Some were starting to rise, but others lay writhing in agony and three remained motionless in growing pools of their blood.

  As far as Dusty Fog could make out, none of his kinsmen, or anybody else belonging to the Texas Light Cavalry had been caught by the exploding shell. Relieved by that discovery, he turned to the front and urged his bay gelding to go even faster.

  Although Staunce considered himself an expert horseman and had frequently ridden with some of Britain’s best packs of foxhounds, he soon found that he had met his match in the small Texan. Lighter than the Englishman, sitting a larger, more powerful horse, Dusty continued to draw ahead and nothing Staunce could do served to lessen the distance between them. What was more, Staunce conceded that the same would most probably have happened even if they had been equal in size, weight and the quality of their mounts.

  While for Staunce riding had only been a source of sport, or on occasion a way of getting from one place to another, a horse had always meant far more than that to Dusty and most other Texans. On the vast open ranges of the Lone Star State, a horse was a prime necessity of life. Without one, a man could not travel, work, or even survive for very long. So Texans tended to attain a greater proficiency in equestrian matters than anything men in more civilized areas needed to acquire.

  There were three more explosions—at about one minute intervals—during the time taken by Dusty and Staunce to climb the hill, warning them that the bombardment was continuing. While they did not look back, the lack of noise informed them that no exchange of fire had commenced between the batteries facing each other across the river.

  At the top of the hill, watched by half-a-dozen enlisted men in Infantry uniforms, a worried-looking young second lieutenant of the 1st Arkansas Rifles Regiment was peering through a large telescope mounted on a tripod. Not far away stood three wedge tents. The center tent’s front was open, showing a civilian telegraphist seated at a table which held his equipment. From it, a wire extended down into the town.

  Hearing the horses, the lieutenant raised his head. A flicker of relief and recognition showed on his face.

  ‘What’s happening down there—Captain Fog?’ the officer asked, remembering just in time that the small Texan had been promoted for his part in the Battle of Martin’s Mill and being aware that recently appointed captains were apt to be insistent on proper formalities when being addressed by their juniors in rank. ‘We keep hearing explosions.’

  ‘The Yankees are shelling the town,’ Dusty explained, springing from the bay’s back without waiting for it to stop. He allowed it to go free and walked forward. ‘Can’t you see the gun that’s doing it?’

  ‘No,’ declared the lieutenant. ‘I’ve had a man watching them all the time. Not one of their guns’s manned, much less being fired. All we’ve seen and heard are the explosions.’

  Another roar rang out from the town. Spinning around, Dusty stared at the square. He could detect no sign of where the shell had landed, but the figures outside the courthouse were staring towards another building.

  ‘Where’d that one hit?’ Dusty wanted to know.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ the lieutenant admitted, having started to use the telescope once more. He swung it in an arc before continuing, ‘I don’t think they hit the courthouse this time.’

  Staunce arrived, bringing his borrowed mount to a rump-scraping halt near Dusty. Dismounting, the Englishman left the horse to fend for itself. Like the small Texan’s bay, Sandy McGraw’s dun did not stray far. After walking only a short distance, it came to a halt. Dusty’s bay had already stopped and both animals stood ground-hitched by their trailing reins, as they had been trained to do.

  ‘They’ve been hitting the courthouse, huh?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘They got it with their third and fourth shells,’ the lieutenant replied. ‘But they were too late. I saw General Hardin and most of the colonels leave by the side door before the shells started to hit. None of them’d been hurt’s I could make out.’

  ‘Where the hell’s that cannon?’ Staunce growled, glaring across the river.

  ‘I can’t see it anywhere,’ admitted the lieutenant, stepping aside and indicating the telescope. ‘Take a look for yourselves.’

  Striding forward fast, so as to beat Staunce and take the lieutenant’s place, Dusty found that he could manipulate the instrument without needing to make adjustments to the tripod’s height. Closing his left eye, he peered through the tube. First he looked at the square and courthouse. There were signs that some of the shells had penetrated the building. Windows which had escaped destruction in the first blasts had been shattered by detonations on the inside. Ole Devil, Colonel Mannen Blaze and other senior officers were gathered on the side of the courthouse farthest from the river. They were talking and staring towards the west side of the square.

  Turning the telescope, Dusty lined it in the direction that his uncles were looking. A small knot of civilians had gathered about a crater outside a house. Nobody appeared to have been hurt. So Dusty swept his gaze over the Confederate defenses. The batteries had been manned before the start of the meeting. Even as Dusty aimed at them, he saw his father—who looked like a taller, heavier and older version of himself—Major Hondo Fog, arrive and address the first lieutenant who was in temporary command of the positions.

  Directing his attention across the river, Dusty studied the Yankees. They had set up camp beyond the range of the Confederate cannons and were preparing their positions. However, the guns’ crews were not around their pieces. Instead, they stood in small groups near their quarters. Some of them were gazing at Arkadelphia, talking excitedly and pointing. Others had turned and were scanning the terrain behind them.

  Dusty could see no suggestion of hostile activity being carried out, or even in preparation, among the Yankees. In fact, the impression he formed was that the shelling had been just as much of a surprise to them as it had been to its recipients. Satisfied that none of the ‘Napoleons’ were in use, he searched for a hidden weapon in their vicinity. Yet, from the crews’ reactions, he suspected that he would be wasting his time.

  ‘Like you said,’ Dusty confirmed, at the conclusion of his scrutiny. ‘The shells aren’t coming from the batteries across the Ouachita.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Staunce declared. ‘They’re being fired from something a damned sight heavier than any twelve-pounder “Napoleon”. So the gun could be anywhere up to just over two miles from Arkadelphia. It’s pretty far off, or we’d have heard it firing.’

  Accepting a more experienced man’s assessment, particularly as it ran along similar lines to his own summation, Dusty decided to extend the area of his search. Before he could do so, another shell arrived in Arkadelphia. Altering the angle at which he had been looking, he found that it had plunged into a small house on the extreme eastern edge of the town. People were appearing from neighboring buildings, converging rapidly on the stricken premises.

>   Cursing under his breath at such lousy shooting, Dusty elevated the telescope and gave greater attention to locating the mysterious weapon. He directed his search on either side of the trail that led from Arkadelphia—the river crossing having been made by ferry in times of peace—to Malvern, seat of Hot Spring County. The terrain was rolling, but open and offering few places suitable for concealing a large cannon. At last, however, about two miles beyond the river, the trail disappeared into a belt of woodland.

  ‘I’m damned if I can see the son-of-a-bitching thing—’ Dusty began, after a few seconds of searching along the horizon in response to a thought that had struck him.

  ‘Then move over and let an expert find it,’ Staunce suggested, before the small Texan could continue with his explanation.

  ‘Why sure,’ Dusty drawled, straightening up. ‘There’s only the one, I’d say, or the shells’d be dropping a heap more frequently.’

  ‘Just the one,’ Staunce agreed, barely concealing his impatience to lay hands on the telescope. ‘But, if the craters and explosions were anything to go by, it’s a big bastard.’

  ‘I started thinking it was real accurate, too,’ Dusty remarked, allowing his companion to have access to the instrument. ‘It only took three shots to hit the courthouse. I’d say that’s tolerably good shooting.’

  ‘You don’t know just how good,’ Staunce warned, duplicating Dusty’s search if the river’s edge; but for a different reason. ‘They must have somebody directing their fire for them.’

  ‘Likely,’ Dusty grunted noncommittally.

  ‘What I don’t understand is why their “Napoleons” aren’t helping it out,’ the lieutenant put in. ‘They’d have been more likely to wipe out the meeting if they’d all cut loose at the same time.’

  ‘It’s what I’d have expected to happen,’ Staunce admitted, without taking his eye from the telescope. ‘But the men at the batteries are acting as if they weren’t expecting the shelling.’

  ‘I’d say that means the fellers with the big gun don’t have their look-out with the Yankees on the river,’ Dusty remarked, watching the Englishman. ‘They couldn’t’ve hid him and all the gear he’d need so’s their own men wouldn’t know he was there, even if there was any reason for them to do it.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ Staunce conceded, wondering if his companion was thinking on the right lines regarding the rest of the problem.

  ‘So they’ve got him a whole heap closer to them,’ Dusty suggested.

  ‘Where do you think he might be?’ Staunce challenged.

  ‘Somewhere high enough to see where the shells are falling—’

  ‘Which narrows the field of search a little. He’ll have to be on top of a piece of high ground—’

  ‘Or well above it,’ Dusty interrupted quietly.

  ‘Above it?’ the Englishman repeated.

  ‘Well above it,’ Dusty corrected, delighted to discover that his companion had failed to duplicate his findings.

  ‘A balloon!’ Staunce breathed. Although he had considered the possibility, he had discarded it as being most unlikely. Returning his attention to the telescope, he scanned above the skyline and soon detected a small round blob hanging almost motionless above the trees. ‘You tricky blighter, Dusty! You’d already figured out what was happening and why.’

  ‘All of us fly-slicers’re mighty slick,’ Dusty commented in tones redolent of false modesty. ‘They had to be watching from somewhere—’

  ‘I haven’t seen any balloon!’ protested the lieutenant, displaying alarm at what he suspected might be called an error on his part.

  ‘It’s there, mister,’ Staunce declared. ‘I’d say close to five hundred feet above the woods on the right of the Malvern trail.’

  ‘Damn it!’ the lieutenant ejaculated. ‘How was I to know? My orders were to keep watch on the Yankees’ positions along the river, not to—’

  ‘Like you said, mister,’ Dusty put in. ‘How were you to know? Nobody could have guessed that they’d make this kind of play. Can you see the gun, Doug?’

  ‘I’m damned if I can,’ Staunce replied, after carrying out another careful examination of the woodland in the vicinity of the balloon. ‘But they must be fairly close, so the observer can pass down his corrections either by shouting, dropping notes, or through a telegraph wire. Even if he’s using telegraph, they’re not likely to be too far apart.’

  ‘There’s wooded country on both sides of the trail,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘I’ve heard that one of those balloons needs a fair amount of heavy, bulky gear to get into the air and I couldn’t see any of it. So I reckon it and the cannon’re hidden among the trees. Not too far from the trail, either. A gun that big’ll take a heap of moving and won’t be so easy to man-handle as one of your lil ole howitzers.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Staunce confirmed, concentrating his scrutiny on the distant woodland. ‘But I can’t see any—’

  There was another explosion in the town. Although Dusty and Staunce had not seen it, the enlisted men were looking down.

  ‘Hell’s fire!’ yelled the corporal who was present ‘They’re aiming for the houses, not our guns!’

  Turning his gaze to Arkadelphia, Dusty saw people running to a store. Its front had been blown in by the shell.

  ‘Why the hell don’t our guns start shooting back?’ raged a private and the other enlisted men spluttered furious agreement.

  Turning his eyes towards the defensive batteries, Dusty saw—although his ears had already informed him—that they were still inactive. A moment’s thought gave him the reason for their refusal to open fire.

  ‘Even if they could see the gun that’s doing the shelling,’ the small Texan explained, ‘they couldn’t reach it. And if they start throwing lead across the river, the Yankees’re sure to cut loose back at them. Which’ll get the town damaged a whole heap worse than with one gun shooting.’

  In view of Dusty’s youth and small size, the infantrymen might have disregarded his comments as unworthy of their attention. However, they had identified him and knew of his part in the Battle of Martin’s Mill and also as the captor of General Culver. So they figured that anything he said was likely to have merit and be worth listening to. Once the basic facts had been pointed out and elaborated upon, they could see the wisdom of their batteries refraining from opening fire.

  ‘Hey!’ yelled one of the enlisted men, pointing downwards. ‘There’s a Yankee going like a bat out of hell along the Malvern trail.’

  ‘Likely he’s headed for the gun,’ Dusty guessed. ‘What do you make of him, Doug?’

  ‘A lieutenant,’ Staunce answered, having adjusted the telescope’s alignment. ‘Artilleryman, going by his red sash. Riding fast.’

  ‘Hey, you fellers!’ called the telegraph operator—who, being a civilian and employed by a private company instead of the Army, as was the policy in the Confederate States, had no need to conform with military courtesy—looking out of his wedge tent. ‘There’s a message just come through from Colonel Galveston. He wants to know why the hell we haven’t reported the shooting.’

  ‘What shall I tell him?’ asked the lieutenant, looking worriedly from one captain to the other.

  ‘You might say that you thought he knew it was happening,’ Staunce suggested, ‘but I don’t think that it would be very well received.’

  ‘Try telling him there’s no sign of activity along the river,’ Dusty advised, seeing the alarm on the lieutenant’s face and taking pity on him. ‘Then say the shelling’s being done by one big gun that’s hidden in the woods about two miles away and close to the Malvern trail. Say you haven’t been able to locate the gun’s exact position, but it’s got a balloon observing for it. I reckon you and I’d best go down and report, Doug.’

  ‘It would be the polite thing to do,’ Staunce admitted, leaving the telescope and looking at the lieutenant. ‘While you’re at it, you’d better ask the colonel if he wants you to keep watching the Yankees’ positions or to try to find e
xactly where the big gun is.’

  ‘I’ll do that, sir,’ the lieutenant promised. ‘I might locate it by watching that officer who rode out.’

  ‘I was just going to suggest that,’ Dusty remarked with a grin, watching the lieutenant—whose face showed relief at having been given the answer to his problem—scuttling away towards the telegraphist’s tent.

  ‘And me,’ admitted the Englishman. ‘I’m pleased that he thought of it himself.’

  ‘Won’t old Galveston be pot-boiling mad, though?’ Dusty drawled.

  ‘That’s very likely,’ Staunce smiled. ‘And he’ll be looking for somebody to lay the blame on. So we’d better get down there, or he may decide that we’ll do for it.’

  Collecting their horses, Dusty and Staunce mounted. Despite the Englishman’s comment and an awareness of the situation’s gravity, they intended to return to Arkadelphia at a more leisurely pace than they had used when ascending the hill. The telegraph would have relayed their discoveries and conclusions long before they could hope to have done so themselves, no matter how hard they had pushed their mounts. Having no wish to punish their horses unnecessarily, they held their pace to a fast walk.

  ‘I wonder what that blighter’s up to, Dusty?’ Staunce said, pointing to where the Union officer was galloping along the Malvern trail.

  ‘Likely going to tell them to get their aim straight and start hitting our batteries,’ the small Texan suggested, watching a shell explode in the center of a street far from the river.

  ‘They don’t seem to be ranging in very well,’ the Englishman admitted. ‘I would have expected them to be on to their targets by now.’

  ‘They didn’t waste too many shells in hitting the courthouse,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Just two, getting closer each time, then in through the roof.’

  ‘You don’t think they’re just shelling the town indiscriminately, do you?’ Staunce asked, for such an idea had never occurred to him.