by J. T. Edson
*The normal Army model had an eight inch barrel.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
GENERAL TRUMPETER, MEET CAPTAIN DUSTY FOG
PATROLLING outside the eastern wall of General Trumpeter’s residence was not a duty Private Sloan regarded with enthusiasm. Unlike on the other three sides, no gates pierced his part of the wall. So he could not stop and chat with the stationary sentries. The duty would have seemed less onerous if there had been any logical point on keeping watch that side. In addition to the ten-foot stone wall around the property, the nearest dwellings — a pair of smaller houses some fifty yards away — had been commandeered and were occupied with Union personnel. Anyways, who the hell among the Rebs would figure on sneaking in and killing old ‘Bugle-horn’ Trumpeter. Fact being, from the hash he had made of things since his arrival, the Confederate States Army ought to be real keen to leave him in command.
Just about the only consolation Sloan could find came from his clothes. No longer did Zouave regiments wear fancy copies of frog-eating French uniforms, but dressed like honest-to-God American soldiers. He preferred even a forage cap to the Zouave fez. Over his infantry uniform, he wore an overcoat with a shorter cloak than that sported by cavalrymen. Around the coat was his well-polished cartridge-box belt, with leather sling, passing diagonally from the cartridge box on his right hip to the left shoulder, cap box, bayonet scabbard and canteen; although Sloan could not see the point of carrying the latter.
The sound of footsteps drew his attention to the gap between the adjacent houses. Bringing his rifle and bayonet to the required position — In case it was the officer-of-the-day making rounds, rather than expecting to need the weapons — he gave the prescribed challenge.
‘Halt. Who goes there?’
‘Now you-all don’t think lil ole me’s a Johnny Reb soldier, do you?’ answered a feminine voice.
Peering through the darkness, Sloan made out the figure of a girl coming towards him. Small, dainty, wearing a sleeveless white blouse and a skirt of glossy black material, she walked with an attractive hip-sway. Lowering his rifle, Sloan grinned. Every enlisted man knew that the officers entertained ladies — a very loose definition — in their quarters, regardless of Regulations. So he saw nothing suspicious about her presence.
‘Where you going, gal?’ Sloan demanded, figuring he had best not ask where she had been.
‘Home,’ she replied. ‘Don’t you-all tell me it’s not allowed.’
‘It’s after curfew,’ Sloan pointed out. ‘I’m supposed to holler for the sergeant of the guard.’
‘If you do, he’ll only take me off someplace and — scold me a lil,’ the girl purred. ‘Now a big, strong, handsome gentleman like you won’t let that happen to me, will you?’
What do I get if I don’t?’
‘A kiss — for starters.’
Figuring that he could take the chance, even if no more than a kiss came out of it, Sloan leaned his rifle against the wall. Then he took a stride forward and put his arms around the girl’s waist. From what he felt, she wore nothing under the blouse. She was warm, inviting, yielding to the force of his charm. As he lowered his face, she brought up her hands to his shoulders. Savouring in anticipation the coming kiss, he became aware that three men in uniform were approaching from the gap through which the girl had appeared. They were cavalry soldiers, going by their uniforms, but no Union cavalry wore gunbelts of that kind.
Even as Sloan’s grip slackened, the girl slipped her right leg between his spread apart feet. At the same time, she thrust up her hands. The bases of her palms rammed with some force under his chin. Bright lights blazed briefly before Sloan’s eyes. Deftly the girl hooked her advanced leg behind his left foot as the force of the double blow caused him to retreat. Tripping, he fell backwards and his skull smashed into the wall as he went down.
‘Nice going, Cousin Betty!’ Dusty Fog complimented, as he, Kiowa and Billy Jack sprang forward.
‘Is he dead?’ Betty Hardin inquired worriedly, watching the gangling sergeant major kneel by the sentry’s motionless body.
All too clearly Betty saw what Rose Greenhow had meant about the unpleasant nature of a spy’s work. There had been nothing gay, romantic, or noble in tricking the sentry, necessary though it might have been.
When Kiowa had returned, saying he had back-tracked the dead guerilla for five miles without learning anything, Dusty’s party made ready to travel. With Betty wearing boy’s clothing and all non-essentials left behind, they had made a fast but uneventful ride from Prescott.
Leaving Red and Sandy to guard the horses and, when the time came, cut the telegraph wires, Dusty took Betty and his men into Little Rock. Visiting Wexler, Dusty found him preparing to send a warning about Trumpeter’s bounty offer. On learning of the events in Prescott, he put all his knowledge at Dusty’s disposal. Not only had he made a very accurate map of the general’s residence, but he gave a complete description of its staff and the manner in which it was guarded. With that done, he had continued to tell of the most recent developments.
Since Rose Greenhow’s escape and learning — through rumours started by Wexler — of Hoffinger’s ‘treachery’, Trumpeter had become suspicious and uncommunicative; which explained the undertaker’s delay in discovering the offer had been made. Not even the officers who had delivered the notes knew of the contents. On learning of the general’s actions and obtaining one of the letters, Wexler had arranged for it to reach Colonel Verncombe. Little love was lost between the Dragoon and Trumpeter. Knowing Verncombe to be the most senior officer under the general, Wexler had hoped that something might come of the colonel learning such an offer had been made.
Disinclined to wait in the hope that something might happen, Dusty had decided to go on with his plan. From what he had learned, he considered the eastern wall offered the best point of entry — if its sentry could be removed in silence. Rather than chance stalking the man across the open ground, he had arranged for Betty to act as a decoy. Warned of what she might need by Rose Greenhow, Betty had brought along suitable clothing. Consisting only of the blouse and skirt, borrowed from a girl who knew Billy Jack very well, the weight of her disguise had been negligible and proved its worth. Picking a time shortly after the sentries had been changed, she had done all Dusty required. The way she had handled Sloan was her own idea, backed with the training received from Tommy Okasi.
‘He’ll live,’ Billy Jack answered, unbuckling Sloan’s cartridge belt.
‘You’re nearest his size,’ Dusty told the sergeant major. ‘Get dressed pronto and start walking his beat.’
‘I allus knowed you aimed to bust me,’ Billy Jack complained as he drew the cartridge-box’s sling over the sentry’s head. ‘Only I never figured it’d be to private in the Yankee Army,’
‘And a puddle-splasher at that,’ Betty went on, smiling weakly. ‘Why I’m shamed by your meanness, Cousin Dusty.’
Glancing at his cousin, Dusty grinned. Often he had seen new recruits on their first dangerous mission relax and gain confidence from Billy Jack’s gloomy wailing. Betty appeared to have thrown off her worry and concern, caused by the way she had deceived the sentry.
While Dusty kept watch, Billy Jack removed Sloan’s accoutrements and overcoat. He donned the garments himself, heaving Betty and Kiowa to rope and gag the unconscious sentry.
‘How’ll I do?’ Billy Jack inquired, putting on the Yankees kepi.
‘You’ll get by, happen you keep your boots out of sight,’ Dusty replied.
Yankee infantry wore trousers and Jefferson bootees, but the overcoat was too short to hide the discrepancy.
‘You could walk kind of scrunched up,’ Betty suggested.
‘If that’d’ve been Cap’n Dusty,’ moaned the sergeant major, ‘He’d’ve told me to cut a foot or so off my legs.’
‘I had thought of that,’ Betty assured him, ‘but it would take too long.’
‘Let’s go!’ Dusty ordered. ‘You all know what to do. If I’m not back to yo
u three minutes after any shooting starts, I’ll be dead, so get away.’
‘Yo!’ Kiowa answered, with as near emotion as he ever showed, moving to stand with his back to the wall.
Dusty placed his right foot in the sergeant’s cupped hands and thrust upwards with his left leg. Assisted by Kiowa’s lift, he rose and swung himself on to the garden wall. Lowering himself on the other side, he dropped into the garden. There he crouched against the wall, searching for signs that his arrival had been detected. Wexler had claimed that no sentries patrolled inside the grounds, but precautions cost nothing and kept a man alive. Certain at last that he was undetected, he began to move across the garden.
Passing amongst the bushes, Dusty pictured what his companions would be doing. Beyond the wall, Betty and Kiowa were dragging the sentry away while Billy Jack walked the beat. Then the girl would return, ready to stand and talk with the sergeant major if the north or south wall sentry happened to look. Out with the horses, Red and Sandy waited for sounds of shooting before cutting the telegraph wires. To do so earlier might prevent a routine message from going out. That would alert the Yankees, for cutting the wires was a regular habit of the Texas Light Cavalry when on patrol in Union territory.
On reaching the corner of the house, Dusty looked along its front. He saw nobody and kept moving. Once he had to creep on hands and knees beneath a window, with Yankees officers talking inside the room, but he reached the big old white oak which — if Wexier’s description had been correct — reared before the window of Trumpeter’s office.
The gnarled condition of the trunk offered sufficient footholds for him to climb the twelve foot or so to the lowest branch. By keeping on the house’s side of the trunk, he avoided detection by the main gate’s sentries. Once in the branches, he moved fast. Nor did reaching the general’s balcony prove difficult. Stepping from a branch on to the stone balustrade, he saw a chink of light glowing from the centre of the drawn drapes. That meant the room most likely had occupants. However its windows were open, relieving Dusty of the task of forcing an entry.
Advancing on silent feet, Dusty looked through the tiny gap in the drapes. Going by the single star on the epaulettes of the man standing by the desk, Dusty had found General Trumpeter’s room. The other’s actions caused him to wait instead of entering. Slipping a .32 calibre metal-case cartridge into the cylinder of a Smith & Wesson No. 2 Army revolver, Trumpeter pivoted its barrel down to connect with the frame. Even as Dusty prepared to step through the drapes, a knock at the door changed his plans. With an almost furtive, guilty air, Trumpeter cocked the revolver and placed it in the open right hand drawer of the desk. Dusty felt puzzled by what he saw. Surely a brigadier general, even if he was a soft-shell appointed for political rather than military reasons, ought to know better than leave a cocked revolver lying around.
‘Come in,’ Trumpeter called, without closing the drawer.
A young lieutenant entered, the one-eighth of an inch gold cord down the outer seams of his trouser leg showing him to be a member of the staff. Behind him came a big, burly man wearing the double-breasted jacket and eagle-insignia of a colonel. Even without the buff facings of the uniform, different in shade to the normal cavalry yellow, Dusty recognized Colonel Verncombe of the 6th New Jersey Dragoons. He had seen the colonel from a distance on more than one occasion during the fighting at the Snake Ford.
‘You can go, Mr. Frost,’ Trumpeter said and Dusty thought that he detected a signal pass between the general and lieutenant.
‘What do you know about this?’ Verncombe demanded, stalking to the desk as Frost backed from the room and closed the door.
Without looking at the sheet of paper thrown before him, Trumpeter scowled at his visitor and replied, ‘There’s still a difference in our ranks, Verncombe!’
‘To hell with rank!’ Verncombe barked, tapping the paper with his right forefinger. ‘Did you put this damnable thing out?’
What if I did?’ challenged Trumpeter and sat down.
‘It’s monstrous, that’s what. A general in the United States Army using his official position to settle a personal vendetta.’
For a moment Trumpeter did not reply. His eyes flickered in the direction of the door and Dusty formed the conclusion that he expected somebody to arrive. Then the general swung his gaze back to Verncombe. In a casual-seeming gesture, Trumpeter inched his right hand towards the open drawer.
‘Watch your words, Vemcombe!’ Trumpeter spat out. ‘Your conduct is mutinous — and not for the first time.’
‘If my conduct is mutinous, I’d like to know what you call your own,’ the colonel blazed back. ‘Having young Fog murdered by some stinking guerilla won’t excuse your mistakes.’
‘Have a care, Verncombe!’ Trumpeter snarled, speaking loud and darting another glance at the door. ‘You’ll go too far!’
Suddenly everything became clear to Dusty. Now he understood why Trumpeter had loaded the revolver and placed it cocked in the open drawer. The exchange of signals between the general and Frost, taken with the interest in the door and over-loud comments gave the game away. Unless Dusty missed his guess, Trumpeter planned to kill Verncombe and had done so before the other produced the damning bounty offer or spoke mutinously.
What was more, Dusty knew why. After so many failures Trumpeter must be under heavy fire from Washington and in danger of losing his command. So he planned to use an old method of worming out of difficulties. Select a scapegoat, someone who could be blamed for all the failures. And who better than the most senior colonel in the Army of Arkansas. Accuse Verncombe of everything — after he was dead and unable to refute the charges — and escape the consequences.
There might even be a more personal reason for selecting Verncombe. Whatever small credit accrued from the Snake Ford affair had gone to the colonel. Everybody knew — and Trumpeter knew that they knew — Verncombe had done well in straightening out his superior’s muddles. So the general had every reason to hate the burly, competent Dragoon.
Dusty understood the whole situation; including that he must intervene or see the colonel murdered. From all appearances, Verncombe was too angry to see his danger and was headed for a carefully laid trap.
‘Howdy,’ Dusty said, stepping quickly through the drapes and letting them fall back into place. If anybody outside had seen the flicker of light, they ought to be unaware of its cause. Or too uncertain to think it worth investigating.
‘What the—?’ Trumpeter gasped, staring goggle-eyed and jerking his hand from the drawer. Shocked by the sight of an armed Confederate cavalry officer in his office, he continued with almost inane gravity. ‘Who are you?’
Verncombe did not need to ask. Small the newcomer might be in feet and inches, but he gave the impression of far greater size. More than that, the colonel had seen Dusty during the brief Snake Ford campaign. A cold, sardonic grin twisted at Verncombe’s lips; but he made no attempt to draw the revolver from his waistbelt holster despite Dusty’s empty hands. Instead he turned his eyes to the general and performed the introduction with almost correct formality.
‘General Trumpeter, meet Captain Dusty Fog.’
‘F-Fog!’ Trumpeter repeated and could not prevent himself from asking, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to make you call off those guerillas who got your bounty notes,’ Dusty replied.
Silence fell on the room, except for Trumpeter’s laboured breathing. Sitting rigid in his chair, he stared as if mesmerised at the small Texan, without saying a word. It was left to Verncombe to break the silence. Even he needed a good thirty seconds to recover from finding himself in such an unbelievable situation. Through it all Dusty stood just inside the room. Legs slightly apart, he balanced on the balls of his feet and every fibre of his being stayed tuned ready for instant action. Having answered Trumpeter’s question, he waited for the next move to be made.
‘And if he won’t?’ Verncombe inquired at last.
‘He’ll do it, colonel,’ Dusty a
nswered, sounding gentle as a summer breeze. Yet under the soft-spoken words lay a greater menace than could have come from the screamed-out threats of a lesser man. ‘He’ll do it — or see if he can do better against me than Buller did.’
There the Yankee officers had the whole matter laid before them as plainly as if the small Texan had spoken volumes in explanation. Either Trumpeter rescinded his offer of the reward, or he faced Dusty Fog with a gun in his hand. Still the general did not speak and once more Verncombe took up the conversation.
‘You know about this letter then?’
‘I know,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Because of it, a girl of seventeen was murdered.’
‘How do you mean?’ Verncombe demanded.
‘A guerilla had one of the letters and figured to collect the bounty. A cousin of mine, a young, pretty girl, colonel, got dressed in one of my uniforms and walked through Prescott wearing it for a joke. Only she didn’t get all the way through. The guerilla saw her and, it was dark, figured he’d found me. He walked up and shot her.’
‘The hell you say!’ Verncombe breathed and glared at Trumpeter.
The words broke Trumpeter’s spell and he jerked himself upright in the chair. Up to then the shock of being confronted, in the supposed safety of his own residence, by the cause of his misfortunes had held him immobile, Seeing his subordinate’s cold contemptuous scowl jolted him back to reality. While aware of the peril, he also figured that it might help him out of his difficulties.
‘Take him prisoner, Verncombe!’ Trumpeter commanded.
‘You put that bounty on him,’ the colonel replied, little realizing that he was approaching another trap. ‘I don’t need the money, so do your own dirty work — If you’ve got the guts.’
A flat refusal, or even any hesitation to obey, was what Trumpeter had hoped would happen. Now he had the excuse he wanted to kill — no, carry out a justifiable execution of Verncombe. It would merely be an extension of a plot hatched earlier that day, The major difference was that the colonel had come unbidden instead of being sent for.