by J. T. Edson
Trumpeter’s scowl deepened as he studied the contingent from the 6th New Jersey Dragoons. On first meeting their colonel, be had mentioned his scheme to obtain remounts of a standard equal to that of the Rebel cavalry. Colonel Verncombe had expressed doubts that they could be delivered without strong escorts and would be subject to constant harassment or loss to the raiding Texans. So Trumpeter had not mentioned the plan he had thought out and already set into motion. He had hoped that the results of his brilliant scheme would make their appearance in time for the review, but they had not arrived. When they came, he could confound the doom-predicting Verncombe and—
An eerie double screech rose, growing louder by the second to chop through Trumpeter’s thoughts. It was a sound which some of the men present recognized, although their general failed to identify it. Down from the sky curved a black ball and another followed it. Before Trumpeter had time to decide what was happening, the first shell exploded.
By accident, rather than deliberate, planned knowledge, the detonation of the first bursting charge took place at almost the ideal moment for maximum effectiveness. Exploding in the air about fifty yards above the centre of the assembled men, the shell sprayed a hail of .58 calibre musket balls on to them. Screaming and plunging, a horse went down while three men also fell. An instant after the first shell went off, the second burst and added its deadly cargo to that of its predecessor.
Coming so unexpectedly, the two shells threw the whole of the review into complete confusion. While the actual damage inflicted by the flying musket balls was not great, the side-effects proved to be all that Dusty could have desired. The cavalry and artillery suffered most. Caught in the process of mounting, men were flung from their startled, rearing horses. In the case of the cavalry, that meant only animals bolting with empty saddles; but the field artillery saw several of their cannon and caissons being dragged away by uncontrolled, frightened teams.
‘Sponge those barrels out real careful!’ Dusty warned his men, his eyes on Red who had rejoined Kiowa on the distant rim.
Plunging the sponge on the end of a ramrod pole into a wooden bucket filled with water, a good-looking young private called Tracey Prince heard the words and grinned. He removed the sponge, shook it to get rid of excess water and thrust it into the barrel of the right side mortar to douse any remnants of burning powder. Not until he had checked that all was well did Sergeant Weather give the order to reload. Working just as fast and carefully, Sergeant Bixby’s men recharged the second piece.
Seeing Red’s obvious delight at the result of the first shots, Dusty made no alteration to the cutting of the second pair of fuses. Nor did he consider that the recoil had thrown the solid weight of the mortars sufficiently out of line to make any major corrections necessary.
Again the mortars boomed as he gave the order to fire. Standing behind them, Dusty saw that one shell was veering away from the other. It would not be far enough out of line to fall into the town, but he decided against chancing a further volley. He had no wish to continue the bombardment, with its indiscriminate slaughter. Having achieved his purpose of bearding General Trumpeter in the other’s Little Rock den, Dusty intended to make good his escape. To have ruined the review and retired without loss or casualties would have a greater effect than staying until driven away by the Yankees.
‘Stack the rest of the charges and shells around the mortars!’ Dusty barked. ‘Bring the wagons and caissons up between the stove-pipes. I want everything wrecked when we leave.’
In addition to meeting the agent, Dusty had been told to raid and do whatever damage he could while in enemy territory, so he had the means to destroy the loot completely. Red and Kiowa still remained on the rim, which meant that the Yankees had not yet organized a force to attack and drive Company ‘C’ away. While his men carried out their orders, Dusty wondered what was happening outside the town.
All was confusion and pandemonium after the arrival of the first pair of shells, Fifty-five seconds later, before any semblance of order could be restored, the third shell burst in the air above the tangled, cursing mass of men. Having heard the banshee wailing of the shells’ approach, discipline was forgotten and soldiers of all ranks flung themselves to the ground. Some of the cavalrymen who had managed to retain a hold of their horses’ reins let loose and dived for safety. Trying to maintain control over his platoon, a lieutenant of Stedloe’s Zouaves felt the wind of a close-passing musket-ball against his cheek. Fortunately for the future peace and security of the Sovereign State of Texas, 1st Lieutenant Jackson Marsden escaped without injury.
Staring with fascinated horror, Trumpeter saw the second shell falling in his direction. Throwing himself from the saluting dais, he heard the missile explode and musket balls strike the stand he had quit an instant before. Rage filled him as he wondered which Rebel was responsible for the murderous attempt on his life. However, he stayed on the ground until sure that no other shells were coming.
Excited and amused by the chaos he saw displayed before him, Red Blaze did not forget his duty. There had been no attempt at organized reprisals and, studying the way the Yankees acted, none would be speedily forthcoming. So he nodded to the tall, lean sergeant at his side.
‘I’d best go tell Cousin Dusty what’s happened, Kiowa.’
‘Yo!’ replied the other. ‘I’ll stay on here a spell like Cap’n Dusty said.’
Nobody, except possibly his mother, would have called Kiowa Cotton handsome. At best he looked like a particularly evil brave-heart Indian warrior hunting for the white-eye brother’s scalp. Yet he was a good soldier, well-suited by birth and upbringing for the important duty of guiding Company ‘C’ on their missions behind the enemy lines. Bare-headed, armed with a Remington Army revolver and bowie knife, he was to stay behind until pursuit was formed and sent after them, then take word of it to Dusty.
Collecting his horse, Red rode back to where Dusty was fitting the end of a coil of quick-match fuse into the hole in a shell. The men had worked fast and everything was as Dusty required by the time his cousin arrived.
‘How’d it go, Cousin Red?’ asked Dusty.
‘You sure ruined his review,’ Red replied. ‘I haven’t seen so much fussing, coming and going and running around since that time you and me brought a skunk to Cousin Betty’s birthday party.’
‘Let’s hope the Yankees don’t catch us and lick us the way she did,’ Dusty grinned. Tommy Okasi had taught their cousin, Betty Hardin, to be proficient at ju-jitsu and karate. On the occasion Red had mentioned, she put her lessons to good use in dealing out summary punishment to the offenders.
‘They’ll not be fixing to come after us for a spell yet,’ Red guessed. ‘You scattered the Dragoons and they’re the best outfit Trumpeter’s got. Need any help here, do you reckon?’
‘Nope,’ Dusty decided, wedging the cord-like fuse into place. ‘Head out with the company. I’ll catch up with you.’
Riding off, Company ‘C’ heard the roar of an explosion and, looking back, saw their leader approaching. Where the Yankee mortar platoon had been, only a large, smoking crater and scattered remnants of wood and metal remained. There was nothing of its equipment the Yankees could salvage.
CHAPTER THREE
DO I EVER TAKE FOOL CHANCES?
‘I BET ole Trumpeter’s pot-boiling wild over us getting away from him after busting his review,’ Red Blaze enthused as he rode with Dusty Fog and Billy Jack ahead of the Company.
‘He’ll be after our hides for certain sure,’ Billy Jack agreed dolefully. We should’ve told that Yankee luff we was Company ‘A’.’
‘And have Trumpeter get all riled at Brother Buck? For shame,’ Red protested. ‘Let him ‘n’ Brother Pete find their own Yankee generals to get riled at ‘em.’
After firing the salute in General Trumpeter’s honour, Dusty and his men had headed west out a good pace. By night-fall they had crossed the Saline River, making for the narrows which separated Lake Hamilton from Lake Ouachita. Kiowa had caught
up shortly after they pulled out at dawn. He brought news that the Yankees had sent out a patrol three-companies strong, but it travelled slowly and would be unlikely to catch up with them. Nor would the garrison at Hot Springs be alerted to their presence. Not only had the telegraph wires been cut, but three long sections were carried off by the Texans. Trumpeter had sent a mounted courier with a message for the garrison commander at Hot Springs. However, Kiowa stated that he would not arrive. The spare horse, bearing a New Hampstead Volunteers’ saddle, led by the scout gave confirmation to his statement.
Continuing their journey, and travelling at a speed possible only to master horsemen and first-class mounts, they crossed Garland County, avoiding the hamlets of Jessieville and Mountain Valley. At no time did they see any sign of pursuit, nor had word of their coming reached Hot Springs, for no force came from the town to intercept them.
By mid-afternoon they were riding through the lightly-wooded country parallel with but a mile from the northern shore of Lake Hamilton. The conversation between Red and Billy Jack ended abruptly as they saw the bare-headed Indian-dark Kiowa Cotton approaching from where he had been riding forward scout.
At a signal from Dusty, the fifty-strong main body of the company came to a halt. They needed no further orders, adopting a formation permitting an all-round defence should one prove necessary. The out-riding pickets to the rear and flanks also stopped, maintaining their vigil while awaiting instructions.
‘Come across a bunch of fellers with some hosses up there by the narrows, Cap’n Dusty,’ Kiowa announced, halting his horse and getting as dose to a salute as he offered to anybody.
‘Soldiers?’ Dusty asked.
‘Ain’t wearing uniforms if they are. Got maybe a hundred head of real good hosses and two wagons along. There’s ten of ‘em, toting what look like Burnside carbines and revolvers.’
Digesting the information, Dusty nodded approvingly. Trust Kiowa to bring in all the pertinent details, such as the nature of the other party’s armament. Burnside carbines, being single-shot, were not as dangerous as Spencer or Henry repeaters, but, firing metal-case cartridges, could be re-charged faster than a muzzle-loader. Such details were important in the event of a fight. Before Dusty could speak, Billy Jack injected the kind of comment they had come to expect from him.
‘Could be a trap, Cap’n Dusty; ‘n’ when we spring it, they’ll jump us and wipe us out to a man.’
‘What do you reckon, Cousin Red?’ Dusty inquired, ignoring the gloomy words.
‘If they’re civilians, we’ll have to go real careful,’ Red answered ‘You mind what Uncle Devil told us about steering clear of doing anything the Yankee newspapers can call atrocities.’
Since the start of the War, the Rebels and the Yankees had learned the uses of propaganda. Each side eagerly published stories of the other’s atrocities, or blew up minor unsavoury incidents out of all proportion, as a means of stirring their people’s patriotic indignation or creating an unfavourable image of the enemy to the rest of the world. Fully aware of how effective such propaganda could be, Ole Devil Hardin had given strict orders to his officers regarding their treatment of Union or non-aligned civilians they came across while on patrol.
We’ll go take a look, anyways,’ Dusty decided. ‘How does the land lie where they’re camped, Kiowa?’
‘They’re out in the open, clear of the woods. We can get up to maybe a hundred yards of them without being seen. One thing I know for sure. There’re no blue-bellies about. I looked real careful and if there is, they’re hidden under the water ‘n’ not breathing enough to make bubbles.’
Which meant that no Union force was watching the party by the narrows, ready to swoop on and destroy any Confederate patrol that made its appearance. However Dusty intended to take precautions.
‘I’ll come with you, Kiowa. Bring the company along after us, Cousin Red. Don’t show yourselves until you figure I need you. And be ready for anything. I’d hate like hell to see Billy Jack get wiped out to a man.’
‘It’ll come sooner or later, anyways,’ the gangling sergeant major replied. ‘So don’t you go putting yourself out special on my account, Cap’n Dusty.’
‘What’re them fellers doing, Kiowa?’ Red asked.
‘Making camp for the night, looked like,’ the scout answered. ‘They don’t have any guards out, nor even fellers riding herd on the hosses.’
‘They could be guerillas, Cousin Dusty,’ Red warned. ‘Don’t you go taking any fool chances with them.’
‘Do I ever take fool chances?’ Dusty smiled.
‘Not more’n once a week,’ Red admitted.
‘Trouble being,’ Billy Jack put in mournfully, ‘you ain’t had your go at it yet this week.’
Chuckling and promising to take care, Dusty rode off at Kiowa’s side. Red gave the signal which spread the company into a mounted skirmishing line, then led them at a slower pace after his cousin. The main body had covered almost a mile when they saw their commanding officer and scout halt and dismount. Realizing that Dusty meant to study the mysterious party before going closer, Red further reduced the company’s speed.
Leaving the horses ground-hitched, Dusty and Kiowa stalked cautiously to the edge of the woodland. Standing behind a stout old oak tree, they looked at the open ground bordering the narrows between the two lakes.
First Dusty examined the pair of wagons, standing with their teams unhitched. They appeared to be ordinary farm vehicles, with plain canopies that were open at the ends. From his position he could see into them. While they carried loads of some kind, they held neither concealed men nor weapons. That reduced the risk of the party acting as bait for a trap, a possibility Dusty had considered.
The horses took Dusty’s attention next. As Kiowa had claimed, they were a fine selection. Grazing quietly on the rich grama grass beyond the wagons and men, they stayed together in a way that hinted they had been long in each other’s company. An exceptionally fine bay stallion was tethered clear of the others. Clearly the men trusted the horses to remain bunched, for nobody was riding herd on them.
So Dusty turned his eyes to the party gathered at the fire and saw what might be the answer to the lack of care. All but one were poorly dressed and looked like a gathering of town-dwelling manual workers who normally had small contact with horses. That they wore revolvers suspended at their sides — although not in such efficient holsters as the Texans sported — and had Burnside carbines stacked in neat pyramidal piles close by came as no surprise. Most men carried arms when travelling. Deserters, hunted by the military, often had to steal to stay alive. Worse than them, there were gangs of guerillas, who looted and pillaged under the guise of fighting for the Union or Confederacy, to make travelling hazardous. In fact, apart from the exception, the men might fall into one of these categories; although deserters or guerillas normally took greater precautions when in camp.
From all appearances, the exception was the party’s leader. He wore a suit of big-city style, derby hat, spats and glossy shoes, but had removed his cravat and collar. The gunbelt about his waist looked out of place when taken with his warm, confiding, sunny cast of features. Short, round as a butterball, he exhibited an air of jovial respectability rarely, if ever, seen among the human wolves who called themselves ‘guerillas’.
‘Could be Yankee soldiers,’ Kiowa remarked after a moment. ‘Their cavalry use plenty of Burnsides.’
‘Sure,’ Dusty agreed. ‘But civilians up north can likely buy them.’
While most of the companies manufacturing firearms sought for bulk orders from the military, they augmented their profits by offering their products on the open market. The Burnside was a reasonably good gun, easy to operate and maintain and priced at a level within the reach of civilians. Finding so many of them together might be no more than coincidence. Even the fact that their owners had piled them military-fashion proved nothing, for the men could have seen soldiers doing it.
What do you reckon then?’ Kiowa wanted to
know.
‘I don’t reckon they’re blue-bellies disguised to trap us, but we’ll play it careful,’ Dusty answered. ‘You and I’ll go to them and hold their attention until the Company gets here.’
Returning to their horses, they mounted. Dusty signalled for Red to keep coming. Then he and Kiowa passed out of the shelter of the trees. A big, burly man standing with the chubby dude saw them appear. Dropping his hand towards the flap of his holster, he growled a warning. Although most of the others showed anxiety, or reached for their revolvers, the dude displayed no alarm. Instead he spoke in a calm, reassuring manner and tapped the left side of his jacket. The words did not carry to Dusty’s ears, but he saw the men refrain from drawing their weapons. Although they stood with empty hands, they formed a group behind the big man and scanned the woods beyond the approaching Texans with suspicious eyes.
Only the dude appeared completely unmoved by the arrival of the two Rebels. Leaving his companions, he padded almost daintily in the pair’s direction as they halted their horses. While he seemed a mite puzzled — only to be expected when meeting Confederate soldiers so far in Union-held territory — he showed neither animosity nor concern.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ the dude greeted in a cultured New England accent, darting a glance beyond them. ‘Welcome to our camp. If you wish to have a meal, feel free to join us.’ He paused then continued, ‘Are you alone?’