by J. T. Edson
Established on a piece of level ground about three thousand, one hundred yards from the island, the Parrot 30-Pounder rifle was being crewed by eight of mountain battery’s most experienced men. All had served with siege guns in the British Army and Smalley felt sure that they could handle their newly acquired piece in a satisfactory manner.
Fixed rounds were not practical for use in such a massive gun, so the load was split into its two major components. Already the three and three-quarters of a pound powder charge had been thrust down the barrel. The twenty-seven and a half pound shell had also been forced home with the cup-headed rifle rammer, which had to be used to prevent pressure igniting the fuse in the shell’s nose. With that done, the temporary chief of piece had caused the trail to be levered into alignment and laid the adjustable rear sight upon the workshop. Twirling the elevating screw, he had tilted the barrel to an angle of eight degrees. When all the preparations had been carried out, he grasped the end of the lanyard and retreated to the left and rear of the gun.
‘Ready!’ the sergeant announced to Smalley.
Before replying, the sergeant major swung his eyes to Harry and Gable. The engineer exchanged glances with his daughter. Setting his face into a grim mask, Cable slowly nodded his head.
‘Fire!’ Smalley commanded and raised his field glasses to observe the fall of the shell.
Giving a sharp tug at the lanyard, the chief of piece activated the firing process. Causing a deep roar and a gushing cloud of white smoke, the Parrot ejected its shell and bounded rearwards with the force of the recoil. There was no need to hurry with the reloading, for they were not to fire again until a minute had gone by. So the crew turned their gazes to the distant island, as did Harry, her father, and every other man present. Eleven and a half seconds dragged by without anything happening. Just as Harry was thinking that the shell must have missed, or failed to go off, there was an eruption of earth about ten yards to the east of the workshop.
‘Did you see the fall, sergeant?’ Smalley inquired.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered the non-com.
‘Reload and make ready,’ Smalley ordered. ‘See if you can get the next one on the target.’
~*~
In the dining room of the mansion, Monica Cable was seated at the table and complaining bitterly over the poor service now that the servants had taken their departure. Her words were directed at an entirely unsympathetic Major Lyle. For his part, the officer had other, more serious reasons for being alarmed by the incidents of the previous night. He suspected that the Negroes had learned of ‘Schmidt’s’ visit and its consequences. They had been restless ever since Harriet Cable had fled, but it was too much of a coincidence to believe that they would have chosen that particular night to escape. So he was worried about the story they would tell, if they should meet the captain’s escort. With Block and Grilpan dead, Lyle might find great difficulty in explaining how ‘Schmidt’ had come to be killed. Nor did the major have such a strong hold over the remainder of his men. It was fears for their own safety, in case the Negroes should return to avenge the insults and humiliations received at the soldiers’ hands, rather than a desire to accept discipline which had kept them at their posts and awake all night.
‘Don’t you have a better cook?’ Monica was saying, when the shell arrived and exploded.
Throwing over his chair as he sprang up, Lyle ignored the woman’s startled shriek. He darted from the room, across the hall and out of the building. Staring around, he saw a number of his men rushing towards the western end of the island. Sprinting in that direction, he joined them around a smoking crater.
‘What happened?’ Lyle barked, addressing the corporal who was present.
‘I’m damned if I know, major,’ the non-com replied. ‘I was down at the guard house and heard the bang.’
‘It come from over there,’ one of the enlisted men stated, pointing to the southern side of the lake. ‘I heard it whistle over, just like when we was training with that big gun.’
‘The big gun!’ Lyle repeated and stared to the south. There was nothing to be seen, but he knew the range of the weapon in question. ‘Send somebody to fetch my field glasses, corporal!’
Before the order could be carried out, a soldier rushed up. He had come from the bridge and was in a state of wild excitement.
‘Riders!’ the man yelled. ‘There’s a bunch of ’em coming!’
‘What kind of riders?’ Lyle demanded.
‘Soldiers of some kind,’ the enlisted man replied. ‘They’re too far off for us to know more than that.’
‘Come on!’ Lyle barked at the corporal.
Followed by his men, in an untidy rabble rather than as a disciplined outfit, the major ran to the bridge. Looking across the water, he studied the approaching party. They were still too far away for details of their clothing to be detectable.
‘Who are they?’ asked one of the soldiers.
‘Rebels,’ Lyle stated, knowing that the answer would bring about the kind of response that he required. ‘They may be dressed in our uniforms, so don’t trust them.’
Even as the major spoke, another shell plunged down. It exploded nearer to the workshop and caused some consternation among the soldiers.
‘They’re Rebs for sure!’ the corporal growled. ‘You’re not armed, major.’
‘Get the men into position and be ready to fight,’ Lyle barked, accepting the comment. ‘I’ll fetch my weapons and join you. If they attack, open fire no matter how they’re dressed.’
Hurrying towards the house, Lyle was deeply perturbed by the turn of events. Perhaps Harriet Cable’s story had been accepted and the Union Army believed that a force of Rebels were holding the island. It seemed highly unlikely that Confederate States’ soldiers would be so deep in Union-held territory, especially with a weapon capable of throwing a projectile large enough to make such a crater.
If it came to a point, Lyle doubted if there was any Artillery piece—other than his Parrot—large enough to do it in Arkansas at that time.
Could it be that Stabruck had betrayed him?
Perhaps the captain had been captured by ‘Schmidt’s’ escort and, having failed to convince them of his bona fides, was compelled to help them take the island.
Lyle believed that Stabruck would do so to save his own skin.
That and other matters churned through Lyle’s mind as he approached the main entrance to the mansion. Monica was there, gobbling incoherent questions, but he thrust her aside without answering. Followed by the frightened woman, he entered and made his way upstairs. While he meant to arm himself, he did not intend to rejoin his men until after the shooting had started. In that way, he might be able to confuse the issue when he was called upon to answer for his actions.
Maybe Lyle’s men were badly disciplined, but self-preservation had caused them to take up their defensive positions. Sending only a token force to watch the other side of the island, the corporal held the remainder at the bridge. He had collected the field glasses from the guardhouse and was examining the approaching riders.
‘They’re Rebs all right!’ the corporal announced, then stared harder. ‘But they’ve got two of our men. Least, two of ’em’s wearing our uniforms.’
By that time, the riders had covered about half a mile. They halted, still beyond accurate shooting range, sitting their horses in a line. Through his field glasses the corporal saw the small Rebel captain address somebody to his right.
‘One of ’em’s coming!’ yelled a soldier.
Turning his field glasses, the corporal watched a man leave the gray-clad rank and gallop forward.
‘He’s one of us!’ warned the non-com. ‘Hell’s fire. It’s Willie Grombech from the other Company. Don’t shoot, none of you!’
Waving his hat over his head and yelling identical advice, Grombech did not reduce speed as he approached the edge of the lake. He galloped over the bridge and brought his horse to a sliding halt.
‘What’s up, Willie?’
the corporal wanted to know.
‘You boys’d best get off the island,’ the newcomer answered, almost tumbling from his saddle in his eagerness. ‘Those Rebs have the big gun. It’s on the other side of the lake—’
‘So that’s what’s been shelling us!’ the corporal interrupted, swinging on his heel to gaze in a southerly direction.
‘Yeah!’ Grombech confirmed. ‘And it’ll keep on doing it until you surrender ’n’ march across the bridge.’
‘Surrender?’ repeated the corporal, ignoring the undisciplined roar of conversation that arose from the listening enlisted men.
‘That’s what Cap’n Fog, him being their boss, said for me to come and tell you,’ Grombech answered. ‘There’s a company of Texas Light Cavalry and a Reb mountain howitzer battery to back up the big gun. I’d best go and tell Lyle.’
‘Where’s the rest of your crowd?’ a man demanded.
‘The Rebs took ’em prisoner, then turned them loose again,’ Grombech replied. ‘That’s what I was told and I believe ’em. They’ve treated Gus ’n’ me good enough since they catched us.’
‘They’re not shelling us no more,’ the corporal remarked.
‘Happen you’ve not started across the bridge in ten minutes, they will be,’ Grombech warned. ‘Cap’n Fog said for me to make sure you all knew that.’
Looking around, the corporal saw panic rising among the other men. Not only had they seen examples of the results of the Parrot’s shelling, while Stabruck had been training his crews, but they had been fed on stories of its accuracy and lethal capabilities. So they were fully conversant, or thought they were, with the big gun’s potential.
‘Come on!’ one man shouted. ‘Let’s do like the Rebs want!’
‘Sure!’ another agreed, discarding his rifle. ‘That’s all we can do.’
‘Hold it, damn you!’ the corporal bellowed, staring about him and finding that more of the men were putting or throwing down their weapons. ‘We’d best hear what Lyle’s got to say about it.’
‘To hell with Lyle!’ yelled one of the men who had already disarmed himself. ‘We don’t aim to get killed by his damned gun. And that’s what staying here’ll mean.’
Going by the rumble of agreement, the majority of the soldiers felt the same way on the subject. At that moment, the potential threat of the big gun was fully justified; although not in a manner which would have met with Lyle’s approval.
Faced by the whole of Company C, even when backed by the mountain howitzers, the Yankees would have been ready and willing to fight back. The little guns’ range did not exceed half a mile, which would have brought the crews within the distance over which the Spencer rifles could make hits. The Parrot was so far beyond the capabilities of their weapons that they felt a complete, helpless impotency that was frightening and unnerving.
That was what Dusty Fog had been counting upon happening, his reason for being so determined to capture and bring the big gun to Nimrod Lake. He had laid his plans carefully and the fortunate capture of the two soldiers had presented him with a safe way of delivering his ultimatum. Before dispatching Grombech, the more intelligent of the pair, the small Texan had given him detailed instructions as to what he must say.
‘Hey!’ the message-bearer put in, recollecting a point which the big blond Texas captain had stressed. ‘We’ve got to hand over our officers alive.’
‘How that’s?’ growled the corporal.
‘It’s what Cap’n Fog told me,’ Grombech stated. ‘We have to fetch our officers over with us when we surrender.’
‘Let’s go and fetch him, then,’ suggested one of the listening soldiers.
‘Come on,’ a second continued. ‘Time’s a-wasting.’
‘Don’t forget they want him alive!’ Grombech warned.
‘We’ll see they get him that way,’ the corporal promised, drawing the revolver from his holster.
Followed by most of the enlisted men, the non-com stalked determinedly towards the mansion. He held his weapon concealed behind his back, knowing Lyle’s temper and being sure that the major would be unwilling to yield to their demands.
Watching the soldiers heading in the direction of the house, Lyle stepped back from the bedroom window. He held a pair of field glasses, with which he had been studying the situation. Already he had assessed the developments and had drawn conclusions from what he had seen.
With two exceptions, the riders on the northern shore wore Confederate Cavalry uniforms. Perhaps ‘Schmidt’ had been a Rebel in disguise. That would explain why his Union escort had failed to put in an appearance. It also suggested that his whole story had been a tissue of lies.
Harriet Cable must have gone looking for her father and had fallen in with the Confederate Cavalry in the course of her search. Probably she had alerted them to the danger posed by Cable’s machines. They had captured Pulling Sue and the Parrot, probably also preventing Stabruck from killing the engineer. To make matters worse, they obviously had men capable of using the big gun.
Seeing Grombech’s arrival over the bridge, Lyle had guessed why he was sent. He would be bringing a demand from the Rebels for the surrender of the island. From all appearances, the soldiers had been all too willing to accept. After listening, some had thrown aside their rifles. Then the majority of them had set off towards the house.
They must, Lyle surmised, be coming to fetch him.
Or would it be Monica?
Remembering Cable’s reluctance to put the traction engines to martial use, Lyle also recollected how he had made the engineer obey. Possibly the price Cable had extracted from the Rebel for his assistance had been an assurance that Monica would be delivered safely to him.
Crossing the room, Lyle tossed his field glasses on to the bed. He took his weapon belt and was strapping it on as he went to the door. While descending to the entrance hall, he concluded his plans. Capture seemed inevitable and with it, the ruination of his scheme for aggrandizement. Knowing the kind of men he had under his command, he doubted if he could reason with them now that they had decided to surrender. It would be dangerous to try, going by the expressions he had seen on their faces as they approached the mansion. So he would give Monica to them and tell them to hand her over, while he destroyed some imaginary secret documents. His real reason for wanting to be left alone was something quite different. Nobody else was going to profit from his work. The workshop was mined and he needed only a couple of minutes’ grace to set off the fuse, making sure that his brainchild did not fall into the Rebels’ hands.
‘What’s happening, Kade?’ Monica inquired querulously, as the major joined her by the front door, ‘Some of the men are coming.’
‘I know that,’ Lyle answered and took hold of the woman’s left bicep with his right hand. ‘We’d better go and see.’
‘I don’t wan—’ Monica protested, trying to free herself and hold back.
‘Come on, damn you!’ Lyle growled.
With that, Lyle started to haul the protesting Monica through the door. She held back as best she could, striving to avoid being taken outside. As always, resistance to his desires caused Lyle’s temper to boil up and he increased the pressure he was exerting.
Seeing his men at close quarters, Lyle felt a surge of impotent fury building inside him against the Rebels who were responsible for destroying his scheme. All his expectations regarding the effect of the Parrot had been correct. Used as he had intended—and as it had been turned against him—it would have been close to the ultimate weapon. There was a raw fear on every face that came close to the panic he had envisaged once a bombardment was commenced by the big gun. Yet he knew the men to be tough and brave enough under normal conditions. The fear of being shelled without having any means of replying had wrought the change in them. If he had been able to use the big gun as he had hoped to do, he might easily have brought about the South’s defeat—
The soldiers surged forward as their officer appeared, pulling the struggling woman behind him.
‘Here, men,’ Lyle said, trying to swing Monica forward. ‘Take Mrs. Cable to the Rebs.’
‘It ain’t her they wants,’ the corporal replied. ‘It’s you.’
‘And you’re coming!’ shouted a private, advancing with his Spencer lined at waist level. ‘Like it or not!’
Furious at Monica’s refusal to co-operate, Lyle had given a harder heave. He exerted all his strength and was propelling the woman towards his men when the meaning of what was being said struck home. Releasing his hold on Monica’s arm, he allowed her to blunder helplessly by him. Starting to spring aside, it was his intention to make a run for the workshop and attend to the fuse before being compelled to surrender.
Unable to halt herself, Monica stumbled on to the barrel of the soldier’s rifle. With his nerves already strained to breaking point, he involuntarily completed the pressure of his forefinger on the trigger. Down lashed the big side hammer and the Spencer hurled its .56 caliber bullet into the woman’s left breast. The soft lead cone smashed its way through her as she was flung backwards and it narrowly missed Lyle.
Ignoring Monica’s fate, Lyle began to run. One of the soldiers, remembering that the Rebels wanted his officer alive, hurled his rifle. It struck Lyle’s legs, tripping him and sending him crashing down. Before he could recover, several soldiers leapt upon him and he was dragged bodily towards the bridge.
Chapter Seventeen – This Time It’s My Rules
Major Kade F. Lyle watched Sergeant Major Billy Jack placing the mahogany gun box on the table and opening its lid. Then he turned his attention to the only other occupant of the room.
The time was shortly before sundown and Gable’s island was in the hands of the Confederate States’ Army. Or had been, for all but the three men had retired across the bridge and were awaiting the completion of the work which had brought them so deep into Union-held territory.
On the surrender of Lyle’s men, Captain Dusty Fog had led his party to take charge of the island. In accordance with their orders, the remainder of Company ‘C, apart from a couple of scouts out on the flanks, had hurried to join their commanding officer and help prevent the Yankees from causing trouble.