by J. T. Edson
The previous night Hoffinger had returned, bringing the news that the first consignment of remounts had fallen into enemy hands. That had been bad enough, but more so when Trumpeter’s brilliant scheme to outwit the stupid Rebels had failed so badly. Far worse had been the discovery that the peckerwood iii responsible for the loss was the same man who ruined the review.
Thinking back to the difficulties he had experienced in obtaining the money to purchase the remounts, Trumpeter cursed Dusty Fog’s name. There would be career officers in plenty willing to crow ‘I told you so’ when the news of the failure went the rounds. Feeling the pinch financially, Congress would display an even greater reluctance to hand out money that might be put to more spectacular, vote-catching use on the important, successful battle fronts.
No matter how he looked at recent events, Trumpeter could see only one bright spot. Brilliantly conceived, his plan for ruining the morale of Ole Devil Hardin’s troops would still carry him through and win the acclaim he desired. Four assaults halted with heavy losses to the Rebels would make impressive reading in the Northern newspapers. More so when it would be remembered, pointed out even by a reporter-friend who had followed him to Little Rock, that before his arrival the Union’s Army of Arkansas had known little other than continual defeat.
With the exception of ordering the batteries to the selected fords, the plan had been made and partially implemented before Trumpeter left Washington. Nor had he taken any of his new subordinates into his confidence. Only he and the trusted agent with the forged orders knew of the plan. While Trumpeter told himself that his reticence stemmed from caution and fear of discovery by the Rebel’s efficient Secret Service, he knew it was because he wanted to be sure of success before announcing that the scheme had been tried.
So, knowing no better, the guards on the fords would regard the opportune arrival of the artillery as proof that their new general could out-think and out-plan the enemy. Such a belief in his omniscience would be of the greatest use in building up his troops’ confidence, and holding it until the time came when he could make public the story of how he had tricked the Rebels and paved the way for the conquest of first Arkansas, then Texas. Glancing out of the window in the course of his perambulations, he saw something which jolted him from his day-dreams. A smirk of triumph twisted at his lips as he came to a halt. Accompanied by a disheveled, travel-stained 1st lieutenant, Colonel Verncombe came through the front gates. Anticipation tingled through Trumpeter as he watched the sentries break off their salutes to the visiting officers. Having expected reports of the repulses to arrive since noon, he decided that Verncombe must be bringing the first. Probably Verncombe wanted to deliver his congratulations in person. That, from a career soldier, would be a most satisfactory tribute.
Crossing to his desk, Trumpeter forced himself to sit down and assume a calm, passive appearance. When Verncombe arrived, the general wanted him to suspect nothing. That way, the approbation for showing the forethought to reinforce the fords’ guard with artillery would be so much more pleasing. Time seemed to drag as he waited. At last he heard feet thudding on the passage beyond the door and he looked down at the papers on the desk. Without raising his head, he called, ‘Come in’ when a knock sounded. His aide, a tall, slim lieutenant, entered to say that Colonel Verncombe requested an interview.
On being brought into Trumpeter’s presence, Verncombe got straight down to business. Almost as soon as he had completed his salute, he started speaking and the words were not in the form of congratulations.
‘Did you arrange for fake orders to be delivered to the Rebels on the Snake Ford of the Caddo—general?’
Something in the colonel’s tone rang a warning bell in Trumpeter’s head. Raising his eyes, he scowled at Verncombe’s coldly angry face until the other belatedly added the final word. While Trumpeter rarely remembered military courtesy to his superiors, he expected it blindly and at all times from his juniors. Failing to stare down the Dragoon colonel, Trumpeter stiffened in his chair.
‘I don’t understand your question, colonel,’ Trumpeter said and his voice held a warning.
‘It’s simple enough—sir,’ Verncombe replied, too old a hand to permit his anger to lead him to indiscretion. ‘Did the general arrange for false orders to be delivered to the Rebels, causing them to make an assault on our guard at the Caddo River’s Snake Ford—sir?’
‘What makes you think I did?’ Trumpeter demanded cautiously, guessing that something had gone wrong and determined to avoid making any statement which might lay the blame where it belonged, on him.
‘Yesterday the Arkansas Rifles launched an attack on the ford and, despite a battery of our artillery having been moved in, took it from us.’
‘Took it?’ The words burst from Trumpeter’s lips before he could stop them.
‘Yes—sir. The attack was made at battalion strength and with cavalry cover from our side of the river?
‘And then what happened?’ the general gritted.
‘The guard on the ford and battery of Napoleons were captured,’ Verncombe told him, ‘after suffering heavy losses.’
Wanting a scapegoat, Trumpeter swung his cold gaze to the Dragoon lieutenant. Although haggard, travel-stained and disheveled from long exertions, the young officer was not wounded in any way.
‘How did you come to escape, mister?’
‘I didn’t escape—’ the lieutenant answered, cheeks reddening at the implications which he read into the question.
‘You call me “sir”!’ Trumpeter barked.
‘I didn’t escape—sir,’ the lieutenant answered, stiffening into a brace. ‘We were all released by the Confederates. They mostly turn their captives loose out here. Captain Fog even—’
‘Who?’
Trumpeter almost screeched the word as he leapt to his feet. Dropping back a hurried, involuntary stride, the lieutenant threw a startled glance at Verncombe. Then the young officer stared at the general’s shocked, white face. A long thirty seconds went by before the lieutenant could think up and make his reply.
‘Ca-Captain Dusty Fog, sir. It was him who took us from the rear and captured the battery.’
‘Are you sure it was him?’ Trumpeter asked, struggling to regain his pose of imperturbability. He sank into his chair and waited for the answer, hoping against hope that the lieutenant was wrong.
‘There’s no doubt of it, sir,’ the young Dragoon replica. ‘It was Company ‘C’ of the Texas Light Cavalry; although it came as a helluva—a real surprise when I learned who he was.’
‘How’s that?’ Trumpeter spat out.
‘I’d always heard he was a giant of a man. But he’s small and not more than eighteen at the most. Only when he speaks to you, you forget about him being small. And you should have seen how those Texans jumped when he spoke to them—’
‘Yes!’ Trumpeter interrupted testily, wondering when last anybody had jumped to obey his commands.
All too well the general remembered Savos’ and Hoffinger’s descriptions of their captor. Each of them had commented at length on Dusty Fog’s small size and laid much emphasis on the fact that his personality had caused the captives to forget such minor details as feet and inches of height. It seemed unlikely that there could be three, or even two, Confederate cavalry captains so identical in appearance on the Arkansas battle-front. Much as Trumpeter hated to face the fact, he knew that Captain Dusty Fog had once again been responsible for ruining his plans for aggrandizement.
‘They turned us loose, sir,’ the lieutenant went on, determined to exculpate himself from the unspoken insult Trumpeter had laid on him. ‘Even gave us horses and made litters to carry our wounded. Captain Fog talked to me while his men and the Arkansas Rifles started to erect defenses on the rim above our positions. It was he who mentioned the forged orders, sir. From what he implied, the Rebels knew they were fakes, but acted on them to capture the battery and our side of the ford. As soon as we were out of sight of the Rebels, I took the best of the ho
rses and rode as fast as I could to report to Colonel Verncombe.’
‘How about it?’ Verncombe went on. ‘Did you have the fake orders passed out, general?’
Overlooking the fact that the colonel spoke in a manner anything but polite or militarily correct when addressing a one-star brigadier general, Trumpeter shook his head. If Fog had spoken the truth, the Rebels must have suspected the man who delivered the forged document. With luck, he had been killed not captured. At any rate, Trumpeter had no intention of admitting his connection with the abortive attempt, especially to a subordinate officer and career soldier.
‘I know nothing about it,’ the general lied. ‘If the—’
Never had a knock on the door been so welcome to Trumpeter’s ears. Turning from Verncombe’s accusing eyes, he called for whoever knocked to come in.
‘Lieutenant Silverman of the Zouaves is here, sir,’ Trumpeter’s aide announced on entering. ‘He’s asked to see you on a matter of extreme urgency.’
‘Show the lieutenant in, Mr. Frost,’ Trumpeter ordered, only too pleased to be given a chance to dismiss the Dragoons. ‘If you gentlemen will excu—’
Before the ‘gentlemen’ could be sent from the room, Silverman entered. Of middle height, he was stocky, sallow-faced and wore an untidy uniform. Like the Dragoon lieutenant, he gave the impression of having done some hard, fast travelling. Being of ‘liberal’ persuasions, he had burst in on Trumpeter, wishing to flaunt his success in the faces of the two Dragoon career soldiers who Frost had told him were present. In his left hand, be held three sheets of paper which Trumpeter thought looked unpleasantly familiar.
‘Sir!’ Silverman said, coming to a halt, saluting and offering the papers almost in one movement. ‘While on patrol along the Caddo River, I came into possession of these orders issued by Hardin. He’s planning an offensive and has ordered attacks on three fords along the Ouachita.’
Fighting to hold down his emotions, Trumpeter had to force himself to take the papers from Silverman’s hand. Then he stared at them as if mesmerized. Without any doubt, as he saw straight away, they were the orders forged with such care and attention to detail at his instigation in Washington. Not until certain that he had composed his features into an impassive, blank mask did the general look at the beaming Silverman. From the expression on the Zouave’s Hebraic face, he expected praise and commendation for his actions.
‘How did you come by these?’ Trumpeter asked, hoping that his voice sounded less strained to the listeners than it did to his own ears.
‘From a guerilla I met on the Ouachita,’ Silverman explained. ‘I was on my way to commence a patrol when I met him. He’s a good man who circumstances prevented from enlisting in the Army—’
‘What kind of circumstances?’ grunted Verncombe.
‘I don’t think we need concern ourselves with that, Colonel,’ Trumpeter put in coldly, ‘Go on, Mr. Silverman.’
‘As soon as I saw the contents of the orders—’ Silverman began.
‘You came rushing here with them,’ Verncombe finished him. ‘Didn’t you think that you should warn the men guarding the fords?’
‘I—I sent my sergeant to do that,’ Silverman answered sullenly. ‘And, anyway, as I had the orders it didn’t seem likely that the attacks would be made. So I came here as fast as I could to hand them over to General Trumpeter.’
‘You did the right thing, Mr. Silverman,’ Trumpeter praised, although he wished that the other had come at a more opportune moment or waited until the Dragoons had left the office before displaying his trophies. ‘I’ll mark your report to that effect.’
Despite his general’s approval, Silverman could see that Colonel Verncombe was less impressed with his brilliant grasp of the situation and prompt action. The Dragoon eyed him coldly and said:
‘Mister, I hope for your sake that your sergeant reached the fords in time to give a warning—or that those orders are fakes.’
‘Fa—Fakes?’ Silverman yelped, thinking of the fifty dollars he had paid for them. “Good man” or not, the guerilla had insisted on being remunerated for his trouble before handing them over.
‘It’s a possibility, Mr. Silverman,’ Trumpeter admitted. ‘They may have been put out by our Secret Service—’
‘Which means that your guerilla friend killed one of our spies, mister,’ Verncombe went on.
‘Mr. Silverman couldn’t know that, Colonel’ Trumpeter interrupted coldly. ‘He acted correctly and in a manner which I approve. We don’t know that these are fakes. After all, whoever was killed must have delivered the first set of orders and been allowed to go on with the others.’
‘Not necessarily—sir,’ Verncombe objected. ‘How loyal is that guerilla of yours, mister?’
‘I—I’ve never dealt with him before,’ Silverman answered warily. ‘But I’ve heard good reports about him from other officers. He told me that he’d killed the Rebel courier on the other side of the river and I’d no cause to think he lied.’
‘Of course, he wouldn’t offer you anything that might show the orders were forged, would he?’ Verncombe demanded.
‘I—I don’t follow you, sir,’ Silverman muttered.
‘If he’d killed a courier on his way to Ole Devil with the forged orders and a report, he’d know they wouldn’t be worth anything to him,’ Verncombe explained. ‘So he wouldn’t say anything about it.’
‘It’s possible,’ Trumpeter admitted, willing to clutch at any straw as long as it held the conversation away from his share in responsibility. ‘Did he say or do anything to make you think might have other documents taken from the courier?’
‘No—sir,’ Silverman answered, applying the honorific as Trumpeter showed disapproval of its omission by him for the first time. ‘If he’d had any more, I’m sure he’d have passed them on.’
‘Unless he figured he could get a better price somewhere else,’ Verncombe sniffed, for he had no illusions about the loyalty or honesty of the average guerilla leader.
‘As I said, Colonel,’ Trumpeter declared when Verncombe swung to face him. ‘I know nothing about forged orders. Perhaps the plan to use them was made in General Buller’s time?’
‘You ordered the artillery to move up,’ Verncombe pointed out.
‘Yes,’ admitted Trumpeter, thinking faster than ever before in his life. ‘I found an order left by General Buller for reinforcing the four fords with batteries of artillery and put it through. It was possible that there were developments afoot of which I hadn’t been informed.’
Opening his mouth to ask another question, Verncombe closed with the words unsaid. Already he had gone to the very boundaries of military etiquette and a demand that he be shown Bullet’s order might lead to his facing a court-martial for gross insubordination. From his wary attitude, Trumpeter had recovered after the first shock at seeing the documents. He could be counted on to know how he might best defend himself against criticism—no matter how justified—by an officer of lower rank.
‘You wanted to say something, Colonel?’ Trumpeter challenged.
‘Only to ask for orders, sir,’ Verncombe replied blandly, figuring that if the commanding general could lie he was at liberty to do so. ‘Mr. Aston says that the Rebels were making preparations to hold the eastern bank of the Snake Ford. What action does the general plan to take—sir?’
Ignoring the thinly-veiled sarcasm in his subordinate’s voice, Trumpeter quickly marshaled the facts and tried to reach a decision. The Snake Ford of the Caddo had little military significance. Two of the reasons for selecting that area had been its lack of importance and distance from the main battle-zone. So, on the face of it, there seemed little need and no urgency to act. For all that, he knew there could be only one answer. As long as the Rebels occupied the eastern side of the ford, they would be a constant reminder of his failure. Not knowing of his thwarted grand plan, people would only remember that his predecessors had at least managed to hold on to the land already captured.
So, regard
less of the cost to his command, the Rebels must be driven back to the western bank. Looking at Verncombe’s cold, impassive face, Trumpeter saw a chance of taking his revenge on the colonel.
‘Your regiment will retake the ford, Colonel Verncombe,’ Trumpeter announced with the air of one conferring a favor.
‘We’ll need artillery support—sir,’ Verncombe answered, aware of the general’s intentions and the price for failure.
‘There are three batteries at the neighboring fords,’ Trumpeter told him. ‘I’ll give you an order for them. Then you’ll have all the support you need.’
Chapter Nine – They’ve Captured Mrs. Greenhow
General Jackson Baines Hardin, better known as Ole Devil was a tall, slim, tanned man who sat the chair behind his desk as if riding in full review. Hawk-faced, with eyes that hinted at a sense of humor under the grim mask, he was a different kind of soldier to his opposite number across the Ouachita. Tough, hard as nails, strict without being a blind martinet, Ole Devil Hardin had won the respect of his men on the battle-field and by his interest in their welfare.
Nothing on his face showed his feelings, or that he was studying his favorite nephew carefully, but he nodded in satisfaction as Captain Dusty Fog completed a verbal report on the recent activities of Company ‘C’.
It was over a week since the capture of the Snake Ford from the Yankees and during that time Dusty’s Company had taken a major part in defending the rim above the river. Ole Devil had been in full agreement with the decision to hold the recovered territory and had acted with characteristic speed. Reinforcements, including trained artillerymen to take over the Napoleons, had been rushed to the Caddo. Their arrival increased the already serious problems faced by Colonel Verncombe. Already the Dragoons had been delayed by lack of artillery support. On their return from delivering the warnings about the forged orders, Red Blaze and Kiowa had crossed the Ouachita and succeeded in running off every horse belonging to the batteries brought up to repulse the attacks which never came. By doing so, they had deprived Verncombe of the cannons at a time when they would have done him most good.