A Matter of Honor (Dusty Fog Civil War Book 6)

by J. T. Edson

  Despite having freed herself, Belle discovered another disadvantage of the thick carpet. Flannery was taken unawares by her tactics, but his skill at wrestling helped him reduce the impact as he came down upon the yielding surface. What was more, he proved able to react with disconcerting rapidity when she tried to continue her attack. Catching her right ankle as she launched a kick towards his head, he gave her a shove of such force it sent her reeling to crash into the wall. Leaping up swiftly, he lunged to grasp the front of her blouse before she was able to prevent it and drew back his other fist for a punch.

  Although unable to avoid being caught, Belle was far from helpless as the loss of the parasol had not left her completely unarmed. Shaking down the broad metal bracelet, she gripped it and swung her right arm in a chopping motion an instant before Flannery could strike at her. The edge which caught his face was very sharp and gashed open his cheek. Snarling in a mixture of rage and pain, he heaved with such force she was once more flung away from him. However, on this occasion, she had regained sufficient control over her movements by the time she reached the end of the passage to stop just clear of the window.

  Turning, Belle found the lieutenant was already coming towards her. In his anger, which had increased by having touched his gashed face and realizing he would be scarred for life, he was making his attack after the fashion of a rage-blinded fighting bull charging a matador. Stepping aside at the last moment, she avoided his reaching hands and snapped a kick to his groin. The furious curses he was uttering changed to a croak of torment. He began to fold at the waist, but was not halted. Instead, he rammed head first into the window. Sash and glass shattered as he went through to fall to the hard packed ground of what a later generation would refer to as a ‘parking lot’.

  ‘Damn it!’ Belle breathed, turning to hurry along the passage without offering to look outside and ascertain how badly her attacker was hurt, although sure he would be in no condition to interrupt her departure. ‘I’ll never be able to explain away what happened, so I won’t be able to stay around Buller!’

  Retrieving her reticule and parasol, the Rebel Spy drew consolation from the thought that she had at least discovered the nature of the terrible liquid which the General intended to employ against the Confederate troops in Arkansas. Furthermore, she had retained her liberty and, while it was unlikely she could regain the general’s confidence, she would be able to help seek out a means to counter the terrible threat the liquid posed.

  Seven – It’s the Rebs!

  ‘They’ll do!’ Major Gerald Buller asserted, his manner disinterested, at the conclusion of a perfunctory inspection of the two ranks of soldiers standing alongside their saddled horses. ‘Mount them up and we’ll get going!’

  ‘Excuse me, sir!’ First Lieutenant Kirby Cogshill replied, instead of giving the appropriate order. ‘Our relief isn’t even in sight yet.’

  ‘That’s their fault, not mine!’ Buller claimed and swung on to the saddle of his fine bay gelding with the skill acquired hunting foxes back east. ‘We finished our duty here at daybreak, which’s well past, so we’re going!’

  ‘But the bridge, sir—’ Cogshill began, indicating the object to which he was referring with a gesture of his right hand and refraining from mounting his equally spirited brown horse.

  Apart from being around six foot in height and having the same badges on their headdress, there was little in their attire to suggest the speakers were both members of the New Hampstead Volunteers’ Company ‘A’.

  Handsome, except for his features starting to show the ravages of dissipation, Buller resembled his elder brother in that he was bulky and running to fat. Except for his headdress, from beneath which showed longish black hair, his attire was of the same style worn by Lieutenants Martin Flannery and Robert Cryer. Brimless and with its crown, decorated by a gold tassel, extending to dangle almost to neck level at the right side, the exception was based upon the less elaborate ‘bonnet de police’ undress, cap of an officer in the Chasseurs a Cheval of the French Imperial Guard; upon which their elaborate uniform was based. Suspended on the slings at the left side of his weapon belt was a saber curved in the fashion of a Persian scimitar and, butt forward in the closed top holster on the right rode a Tiffany handled Colt Model of 1855 Navy revolver.

  More slender and clearly much fitter, at twenty-one, Cogshill was some ten years younger than his superior. He kept his light brown hair shorter and his freckled, good-looking face expressed a greater strength of character. Born into a family which had provided competent officers for the Army of the United States since the War of Independence against Great—as it was then—Britain, he had won his commission via attendance to the Military Academy at West Point. Despite having been sent to serve with a regiment of volunteers, his uniform was of the vastly more utilitarian pattern proscribed by the Manuel of Dress Regulations. While having been purchased privately, his saddle, Colt 1860 Army revolver, saber and the rig upon which the last two were carried, also all conformed to the rules governing such items.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ Buller challenged, his manner redolent of irony, watching the reaction of the enlisted men to his wit. ‘It looks fine to me. How about you, Mr. Packard?’

  ‘I’ve never seen a better built’n anywheres in this whole god-damned Toothpick State, major,’ replied the man to whom the question was directed, also making no attempt to look at the bridge. ‘And, ’less I miss my guess, ain’t none of them stinking Johnny Rebs come ’round in the night and snuck it away.’

  Not quite as tall as the officers, Sergeant Major Alden Packard was thickset and muscular. His brutal face had a broken nose and other indications that he had fought in the bare-knuckle boxing bouts which were still popular, but he had had sufficient sense to quit before his wits suffered permanent damage. Like Cogshill and the enlisted men, he was dressed and equipped in the fashion of the regular Army. Although his uniform was strained at the seams by his bulk, it was all hard flesh. Prior to having accompanied the Bullers into their regiment, he had been employed as a foreman who could enforce the will of the elder brother upon their employees. As in civilian life, although he had hoped for the pay and privileges of an officer, he held his present rank more by virtue of his fistic prowess than other qualifications.

  ‘It’s not real likely the gutless bastards would even try by night and even less by day,’ Buller claimed. ‘Or maybe you’re forgetting we’ve run them clear across the Ouachita River and that’s a good thirty miles from here?’

  ‘Mount up!’ Packard bellowed, before Cogshill—to whom the mocking question was addressed—could reply. ‘We’re pulling out!’

  Watching the order being carried out with alacrity, but none of the orderly skill of well-trained cavalry soldiers, Cogshill was annoyed and concerned. Nor was the former emotion caused by what he knew to be a deliberate attempt to undermine his authority with the enlisted men. Being a professional soldier, albeit as yet unblooded in combat, he knew the strategic value of the bridge under discussion. Running down the northern slope of the Mushogen Valley, the Old Corn Road passed over it and ascended the southern incline. It offered the only place in many miles at which heavy traffic could cross the wide and swiftly flowing Mushogen River. To the untrained eye, it looked easy to defend and, the lieutenant was willing to admit, this was the case providing sensible precautions were taken. Apart from a few clumps of flowering dogwood bushes, which the guard should have searched if they had not been ordered to parade for inspection by their commanding officer, the terrain was open on each side as far as the skyline.

  Having been well trained for his work, Cogshill was worried about the lax way in which the guard duty was being performed. He did not underestimate the skill and courage of the enemy. While the Confederate States’ Army of Arkansas and North Texas were beyond the Ouachita River, they had withdrawn there in an orderly fashion rather than being ‘run’ before the arrival of the Bullers. Furthermore, they were showing no signs of continuing their retreat.
Instead, they were standing their ground and their very efficient cavalry constantly raided the Union forces, causing a steady drain of men and materiel by their efforts. They had, in fact, frequently struck even further north than the ‘good thirty miles’ they had retired; which was the reason for the predecessor of Brigadier General Moses J. Buller insisting upon a guard being mounted to protect the bridge.

  ‘Well, Mr. Cogshill,’ the major growled, swinging on to the back of his bay. ‘Are you coming with us, or staying here?’

  ‘Yo!’ the lieutenant answered, his tone flat and showing no emotion.

  Even if his training at West Point had not stressed that officers should not air differences of opinion in the hearing of enlisted men, Cogshill was too wise to make more than the traditional response and mount his fine looking blaze faced bay gelding. He was aware that Buller longed for an opportunity to have him and the other few regular officers removed from the regiment. While another professional could have achieved this in a number of ways, the major lacked the requisite military knowledge. For all that, the lieutenant had no intention of paving the way for a charge of either insubordination or disobedience of orders to be laid against him.

  While the conversation was taking place, one of the enlisted men had looked past the officers and sergeant major. Glancing idly up the southern rim, he noticed a number of mounted men appearing on it. Being a green rookie, his first thought was that the relief guard was approaching. Then he realized this was incorrect. In the first place, the newcomers formed a single line along the rim instead of appearing in a double file. Secondly, even at the distance separating him from them, he saw that the uniforms they wore were not of the dark blue which practically all the Union Army were now wearing. Rather, the color was a yellowish-grey which he remembered having heard described as, ‘butternut’.

  Almost twenty seconds went by before the implication of the color struck the volunteer!

  ‘Up there!’ the enlisted man yelled, his voice squeaky with excitement and alarm, ‘It’s the Rebs!’

  Instantly, as they turned their horses in the direction indicated by the volunteer, the difference between Buller and Cogshill became obvious. After taking in the sight, while his superior did nothing more than stare up the slope, the lieutenant prepared to give orders the moment he discovered the intentions of the men on the rim. For his part, a cold chill of anxiety hit the major as he realized he was for the first time confronted by some of the ‘Johnny Reb scum’ he had frequently boasted he would rout in battle. He found the prospect more disconcerting, almost frightening, than exhilarating.

  Seeing he and his men were observed, the tall young officer in the center of the rank swept off his white campaign hat to show fiery red hair and a freckled, pugnaciously handsome face. Waving the headdress in a forward motion, he shouted a single word. However, it needed no more. Showing a discipline and riding skill far beyond that of the Volunteers, the gray-clad newcomers started to ride down the slope. Watching them, Cogshill began to have grave doubts over the ability of his men to hold the bridge. Not only did the Rebels appear to be veterans, but the weapons they drew were mostly Colt 1860 Army revolvers; arguably the finest handguns yet made. Against them, the guard had to depend upon much cheaper Pettingill, Joslyn, Manhattan, or Metropolitan revolvers, and had in addition received far too little training in their use.

  Even as the lieutenant was forming his far from palatable conclusions, Buller took matters from his hands!

  ‘Get them!’ the major howled, hauling his ornate Navy Colt from its holster. ‘Shoot the bastards down!’

  ‘Move yourselves, damn you!’ Packard supplemented, liberating his Manhattan Navy revolver.

  Following the example of their superiors, the enlisted men armed themselves. Then, although the attackers were still beyond the range at which anything other than a very lucky hit might be expected, they all fired. Alarm bit into Cogshill as he saw the difficulty the men started to have in controlling the horses. However, it appeared their aggressive actions had paid off. In the wake of the shots, the Rebels—none of whom had been hit—made rapid turns and rode in the direction from which they had come. The lieutenant could hardly believe his eyes. However, the major decided his theories about the cowardice of the Confederate soldiers were true.

  ‘After them!’ Buller bellowed, setting spurs to his mount and waving his smoking revolver as it set off. ‘We’ll massacre the bastards!’

  Remembering a lecture on the tactics employed by Indians, Cogshill was not allowed to mention it. Inspired by the example of their commanding officer, the enlisted men followed him in more of a wild rush than a disciplined charge. Watching them go by, the lieutenant was torn between two conflicting duties; to accompany his Company and try to bring order to its members, or remain and guard the bridge. Deciding the former might be the wiser course, as he could form a more accurate idea of what was going on, he signaled for his restlessly moving mount to go after the others.

  Reaching the top of the slope, filled with a growing suspicion that they were playing into the hands of the enemy—who were holding their formation remarkably well for a mob running scared—instinct caused Cogshill to look back. Immediately, he reined his horse to a halt. What he saw warned him he might disobey the orders of his superior officer and quit his company at a time when they might need the knowledge acquired during his training. It went beyond trying to save the half-trained Volunteers from the folly into which he was convinced they were being led. Aware that his conduct could be misinterpreted should anything go wrong, he swung and started his horse galloping down the slope. Before he had covered half the distance, there was a commotion from his rear. It warned him that he had been correct in his assumptions with regards to the behavior of the Rebels. For all that, despite his assessment of what was taking place, he refused to turn back.

  ~*~

  ‘Blast that Yankee luff!’ Sergeant Kiowa Cotton growled, more admiration than anger in his tone despite employing a derogatory name for a first lieutenant. ‘He’s seen us and’s on his way back, head down and horns a-hooking!’

  ‘Some folks want everything too damned easy,’ replied Captain Dustine Edward Marsden “Dusty” Fog. ‘And, before you tell me, I’m one the same as you.’

  Anybody who had spent a reasonable amount of time travelling around what had once been the United States of America would have known that, although from different strata of society, the speakers were born and raised in Texas.

  Tall, lean, so dark and hawk-nosed the reason for his only known given name was obvious, the sergeant looked like—and was—a dangerous man to have as an enemy, a quality acquired mainly from his maternal parentage in a mixed-race marriage. On his close-cropped black hair was a yellow-topped kepi, bearing a silver five pointed star-in-a-circle badge with a laurel wreath motif around the star which was embossed with the letters T.L.C. A tight rolled red bandana trailed its long ends over the front of his waist length, double-breasted, cadet-gray tunic. Ending in the knee-high leggings of Kiowa moccasins, his yellow striped riding breeches were encircled by a Western-style gunbelt. At the left side, butt forward for a cross draw, was holstered a Remington 1861 Army revolver and the sheath at the right carried a massive bowie knife. As his hands were otherwise filled, he was carrying a Henry repeating rifle suspended by its sling across his shoulders.

  Despite having won promotion to captain in the field, and being given command of the Texas Light Cavalry’s hard-riding, harder fighting Company ‘C’, Dusty Fog was not yet eighteen. Standing not more than five foot six in his black Jefferson boots, there was something about him which explained how he had earned his rapid ascent to that rank and how he had already acquired something close to legendary status in Arkansas. xiv There was a width to his shoulders, tapering to a slender waist and powerful legs, suggestive of strength beyond average. His white campaign hat was thrust back on shortish dusty blond hair. Tanned by the elements, the face it exposed was handsome without being eye-catching. Intelligent in
its lines, its gray eyes and a mouth which, though firm, could smile easily, indicated he was far from a rank-conscious bullying braggart holding his post merely as a result of family influence. Instead, he had the indefinable air of a born leader who had matured early and beyond his years in the harsh realities of war.

  The small Texan’s physique was enhanced by the uniform he wore in a way which civilian attire would never achieve. However, despite being a disciplinarian of the finest kind—one who lived by the spirit rather than the wording of military regulations—he was clearly not averse to breaking some of the Confederate States’ stipulations with regards to dress and equipment. His tunic had the proscribed double row of buttons, seven to the row, four inches wide at the top and two at the bottom, but it lacked the skirt ‘extending halfway between hip and knee’. Like the cuffs of the sleeves and stripes down the legs of his tight fitting riding breeches, its ‘stand up’ collar was of the correct cavalry yellow. However, it was open and, instead of the official black cravat, his neck was encircled by a flowing scarlet silk bandana. On his sleeves, rising from the wrist to the bend of the elbow, was the elaborate double gold thread Austrian knot ‘chicken gut’ insignia of his rank. As a further indication that he was a captain—more easy to read than the number of threads—there being no epaulettes, he had three one inch long, half inch wide gold bars on his collar. He too wore a buscadero pattern gunbelt, but his supported a matched brace of bone handled Army Colts in open topped cross draw holsters.

  Having been assigned to patrol in the direction of the bridge over the Mushogen River and see if it could be destroyed, Dusty had known he was faced with a formidable task. Never one to throw away the lives of his men recklessly, he had spent twenty-four hours in the vicinity studying the situation without the presence of himself and his Company being discovered. However, the nature of the terrain had precluded any hope of launching a surprise attack by day. Nor, due to the full moon, would it be more feasible at night. Regardless of the latter, his very competent half Kiowa scout had contrived to reconnoiter the camp at close quarters. Near enough, in fact, to overhear Buller instructing Packard to have the guard ready to march out early in the morning whether their relief—which had apparently not arrived before noon instead of shortly after dawn on three previous occasions—had put in an appearance or not. Ever ready to turn a situation to his advantage, the small Texan had outlined a plan which he considered would allow the assignment to be carried out with the minimum of casualties among the men.