by J. T. Edson
Major Buller’s gallant charge took his men over the top of the rim. On the level ground at the top of the Moshogen Valley he urged his men on after the wild fleeing rebels. Waving his gun he exhorted his hard riding troop to greater efforts, cheering them on in their pursuit of the running enemy.
Then the rebels weren’t running any more. One word from Red Blaze brought the troop wheeling in a tight turn and hurling back at the amazed Volunteers. Only this time they made their charge with guns in hand. The wild rebel war-yell rang out and the men of Troop C, Texas Light Cavalry charged the New Hampstead Volunteers, shooting as they came. There was a difference in the shooting. Where the Volunteers were unskilled and shot wildly these gray clad riders were very skilled and sent their bullets with some precision. They did no wild shooting, sent no bullets harmlessly into the air, just fired fast and accurately.
Buller was shocked at this reverse of procedure. In the wild rush he remembered one rule he’d learned in listening to soldiers talk. The best way to dissuade an enemy was to shoot down the leader. He saw the young red-haired rebel lieutenant coming at him and lined his ornate butted Navy Colt. It was unfortunate for Buller that Red Blaze also learned that same rule, learned it well and acted on it with both speed and skill.
The long barreled Army Colt in Red’s right hand barked, flame lanced from the muzzle, licking out towards Buller. The wind caused by the fast running horses whipped away the black powder smoke and Red could see everything clearly. He saw Major Buller rock back as the .44 bullet hit him. The man still clung in his saddle and Red came closer, then fired again. A blue edged hole appeared in the center of Buller’s forehead, then, even as a trickle of blood oozed from the hole, Buller slid down from his horse and crashed into the grass. Even as Buller’s body hit the ground the other Volunteers were dragging their horses to a halt or trying to turn the wild struggling animals to make good their escape.
The New Hampstead Volunteers found themselves in an unenviable position, one which steadier, better-trained troops might have been excused for spooking under. They were leaderless, almost every man’s gun empty and it took even a well-trained man time to strip foil from the combustible cartridges, ram them home into the chambers, then set on the percussion caps. It was a thing few, if any, men could do while on the back of a horse. The Volunteers were not skilled and, even without the stress of being fired at, took time to fumble their way through the difficult reloading of percussion loaded and fired revolver. Their position now left but one alternative. Flight, get clear as fast as a horse could take them.
Packard, the man who might possibly have rallied them, did not know what he should do for the best. He knew his gun was empty and his decision as to action was helped when a bullet hit his horse and dropped it from under him. With commendable presence of mind he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and landed on his feet in front of the onrushing rebel cavalry. A bullet tore Packard’s hat from his head and he knew what he must do. Hitting the ground he proceeded to render a very satisfactory impersonation of a corpse. Flat on the ground, face down and hugging himself to the grass, hearing the thunder and pound of hooves all around him, Packard lay and let his men extract themselves as best they could from the danger Buller brought the troop into.
Demoralized and leaderless, the Volunteers dropped their guns and scattered like quail flushed from a cornfield. Nor was their going slowed by hearing a dull, booming roar as the charge under the bridge exploded.
~*~
Dusty Fog brought his black horse to a sliding halt and looked down at the river. The Moshogen Bridge was strongly made but it was not proof against the explosive charge. He saw the young Union lieutenant moving weakly, saw that he’d not been hurt by the flying timber. Dusty also saw that the center of the bridge was gone and the two ends sagged down into the river, the current straining against them and likely to drag them in any time. He was satisfied with the morning’s work, the bridge was gone, it would be long enough before the Yankee Army could move vital supplies or heavy artillery trains over to fight against the South. They’d have the delay of travelling up-or downstream to the next bridge over the river.
‘Bugler, sound the recall!’ Dusty called as he turned back and rode towards his men. The call rang out loud and the Texas Light Cavalry men came back fast in answer to it. Red Blaze rode up to make his report and Dusty acknowledged his salute. ‘Good work, Red. You handled your side well. I’ll note it on your record.’
‘How about their wounded and arms?’ Red inquired, indicating the unhorsed and wounded Volunteers and the discarded revolvers which lay among the dead.
It was the habit of the Confederate Army to replenish their shortage of arms with battlefield requisitions. Dusty’s own troop was now armed with a consignment of new 1860 Army Colt revolvers snatched from under the noses of the Yankees in the raid which brought him his third collar bar. He looked down at the weapons on the ground and shook his head.
‘Joslyns, Pettingills?’ he laughed. ‘Not worth picking up. We’ll have to leave their wounded but it won’t be long before their relief force arrives.’ He looked around to make sure all his men had returned. ‘Take a point, Kiowa. Troop, right by fours. Forward yo!’
Swinging into four-abreast formation the troop followed Dusty away from the Moshogen Valley. Dusty had completed his assignment and wanted to lead his men clear without casualties. A shrewd commander never wasted his men’s lives needlessly.
~*~
Packard lifted his head from the dirt and looked around him cautiously. He made good and sure the Confederate troop was nowhere in sight. They were fading off into the distance, travelling at a steady trot and not looking back. With his person safe the big man pushed himself to his feet and surveyed the situation. Apart from two or three wounded there was no sign of any other living Volunteers. He ignored the wounded and went to where Buller lay, face down on the ground. One glance at the gory mess which was the back of Buller’s head, told Packard that nothing could be done for his commanding officer.
Bending over, Packard took up Buller’s ornate butted, fancy looking Navy Colt. Hefting the gun Packard sniffed, it was so like the Buller brothers to have good weapons, while their men were armed with any cheap trash that could be obtained. His own revolver was a Manhattan, one of the better imitations of the Colt which were blossoming out through the north due to war conditions easing the vigilance of the patents office. He discarded the Manhattan, did not even trouble to go back and pick it up. The Colt would do Buller no more good, so he slid it into his own holster and bent over the stiff form again. Quickly Packard went through the body’s pockets and took the fat wallet from inside Buller’s jacket. Emptying the money from the wallet Packard dropped it to the ground and walked towards the edge of the rim in a belated interest in the fate of the bridge they should have guarded.
Two things met Packard’s gaze and attention when he looked down at the shattered timbers of the bridge. The first was a distant bunch of riders approaching the Moshogen River along the Corn Road; that would be the advance scouts of the big artillery convoy which was moving up on the battlefront and relying on crossing the bridge to reach their destination. The other thing he saw was young Cogshill laying by the side of the river. The lieutenant was trying to force himself up on to his hands and knees; he appeared to be hurt, but Packard made no attempt to go down and help him.
Packard realized that General Buller would be furious when he heard that his brother’s stupidity and panic cost the Union Army a much-needed communications link. However a scapegoat might possibly be found. As second-in-command, Cogshill’s actions would come under close scrutiny. With good management most of the blame for the bridge’s destruction could be laid on the lieutenant’s head. General Buller would be grateful to the man who gave him the means to whitewash his brother.
Unaware of his impending danger Lieutenant Cogshill managed to get to his feet. He swayed and the world seemed to spin around him, for he was weak from loss of blood and from
pain. He looked at the wrecked bridge and groaned to himself at the sight. This was his first independent duty and he’d failed in it. True, Major Buller was in command, but the regular officers would blame Cogshill, he was the regular officer and should show the Volunteers how to carry on in the correct manner. The blame for what would be a major set-back to Grant’s war plans lay heavily on Cogshill’s young shoulders as he started to walk slowly up the slope, looking for what was left of the troop.
Chapter Two
The Texas Light Cavalry were billeted on a large farm some fifty miles to the south of the Moshogen River. They’d been brought back out of the firing line for a well-earned rest and refit, so were making the most of the time. The big, comfortable old farmhouse was taken over as quarters and mess for the officers and for the regimental office.
Behind the big main building the enlisted men made use of the outbuildings or lived in the neat, tented lines in the orchard. Beyond them, under guard, were the horse lines, the regiment’s horses grazing free, remuda style under watchful men. From the left a smoking fire in the blacksmith’s shop showed that the regiment’s farriers and smiths were hard at work, readying the horses or arms for the next round with the Yankees. For the rest of the camp there was not much activity as the men took advantage of their leisure time and lounged around in groups talking, gambling or cleaning their guns.
Around the camp the sentries were not relaxing. They were men born and raised in Indian country and knew that a lazy sentry often wound up as a dead sentry. So they kept to their appointed places and kept alert. That paid when the commanding officer of Troop C was around and Captain Fog was in camp right now. He did not take kindly to sloppy, lazy sentries.
The sentry on duty at the main gates leading to the farm brought his Spencer carbine, a battlefield capture, off his arm and held it across his body as he saw a party of horsemen approaching the gates. He stood fast, watching the riders. They appeared to be three Confederate troopers, a sergeant and a blue-coated Yankee lieutenant. The sentry guessed what this party was, an escort bringing a prisoner to the rear of the fighting area, heading him for the Southern prisoner-of-war camp at Andersonville.
‘Sergeant of the guard!’ yelled the sentry, not moving from his place to allow the approaching party entry to the farm.
The big, lean, dark sergeant in charge of the escort lounged in his saddle, then stiffened as Dusty Fog came from the guard tent followed by Billy Jack and the sergeant of the guard. Throwing a salute, the sergeant said:
‘Sergeant Ysabel, Mosby’s Rangers, reporting with a prisoner, Cap’n Fog.’
The man’s Kentucky drawl held more than a hint of an Irish accent. Billy Jack grinned, recognizing the other as an old friend.
‘Howdy, Sam,’ he greeted, stepping forward and holding out his hand. ‘Where’s young Lon to? Don’t see him along.’
‘Riding scout for Colonel John,’ Sam Ysabel replied, then jerked his thumb to the young Union Army lieutenant. ‘Just brought this Yankee officer in, Cap’n.’
Dusty looked at the young prisoner and smiled in a friendly manner. ‘Good afternoon, mister. Dismount please and I’ll have your horse tended. Bugler! Officer of the day!’ Dusty waited until the bugle call’s notes rang to a close then looked at Ysabel. ‘Take your men to the cook shack and get them a meal, Sergeant. What’re your orders from Colonel Mosby?’
‘Deliver the prisoner to the Texas Light Cavalry, then return, either today or first thing in the morning if we got here too late.’
Red Blaze came up at a run, his saber bouncing at his hip, his face a trifle flushed at the constraining clutch of his collar and cravat. Red was the officer of the day and that meant wearing the correct uniform, discarding his comfortable skirtless tunic and wearing the one as laid down in dress regulations. He came to a halt and threw Dusty a salute.
The young Union lieutenant watched all this with some interest, wondering why the men snapped into military action around this small, insignificant looking captain. Sergeant Ysabel, the prisoner’s escort, was not the sort of man who gave his respect just because of rank, that the prisoner knew. Yet he was acting respectful and not making the word ‘Captain’ sound like a jibe as his use of other ranks often appeared to. He was sitting up and acting respectful to this young captain, so were all the others.
‘Your name, mister?’ Dusty inquired.
‘Dailey, sir. Third Cavalry.’
‘Mr. Blaze, escort Mr. Dailey to your quarters and make him comfortable. Keep him with you until we can arrange to pass him back to Andersonville. I’ll sign your receipt for the lieutenant, Sergeant. It’ll be too late for you to head back to the Rangers today. Billy Jack, see to the accommodation.’
Dusty accepted the paper which Sam Ysabel held out to him. He knew something about this dark looking sergeant of Mosby’s Rangers. Sam Ysabel was a smuggler who worked the Rio Grande River, one of the best, who made his living following the night trails, running contraband. That made no difference to Dusty, his home county did not border the Rio Grande and his father, once County Sheriff, now Major Hondo Fog of the Texas Light Cavalry, never found cause to deal with smugglers. Ysabel was now a useful and respectable member of the Confederate Army and doing an exacting job of work along with his son, the boy who was later to become one of Dusty’s most loyal and trusted friends.
Red and Dailey walked off side by side. There was no antagonism in Red’s attitude, for he was never the man to hold any grudge against an enemy. To Red, Dailey was just another young man, a new face and a guest to be taken care of until he could be moved on to the south. Looking back to where Dusty stood talking to Billy Jack and Sam Ysabel, Dailey asked:
‘Who is that small captain?’
‘Who, Dusty?’ asked Red, pride in his voice. ‘That’s Captain Fog, Troop C. I reckon you might have heard of him.’
There was interest in Dailey’s glance as he looked back at the small man and admiration in his voice. ‘I’ve heard of him. He was the most talked-of officer at West Point. He isn’t very old, is he?’
‘Almost eighteen, couple of weeks older than me,’ replied Red, taking Dailey into the farmhouse, through to the rear, where he occupied a small room previously allocated to a very junior servant. He waved Dailey into the only chair and sat on the edge of the small table. ‘You’ll be all right here, but I don’t know about at Andersonville. I’ve heard things are a mite bad down there. I’m sorry about it, but there’s nothing I can do. Was I you I wouldn’t try and escape from here. It’d rile up ole Dusty and nobody’d get no peace while he stayed riled. That’d rile the boys and they’d get mean. You’ve got fifty miles across country to the nearest Yankees and we’ve a sergeant called Kiowa who can track a bird through the air. Be real foolish trying to escape.’
Dailey managed to smile. Escape was much on his mind at the moment, it was the only thing filling his thoughts. He was a prisoner and wanted desperately to be free, to get back to the regiment he’d so recently joined and get back into the excitement and glory of the war. At first, remembering all he’d been told about sloppy discipline and unmilitary ways of the Confederate Army, Dailey thought he would be able to escape with no great trouble. So far he’d found nothing slipshod or poorly disciplined about what rebel troops he’d seen, certainly there was none in either Mosby’s Rangers or the Texas Light Cavalry, both of whom were armed, trained and equipped as well as any regular Union regiment. He’d been given no chance to escape on the journey to this farm and doubted if he would get a chance while here. What he’d seen so far warned him of that.
There was a knock at the door and Dusty came in. Dailey came to his feet and slammed into a rigid brace, for he knew that here was an officer who would expect the correct military courtesies extended. Red also came to his feet, a sheepish grin on his face.
‘At ease, gentlemen,’ said Dusty, then grinned at his cousin. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Sure, Dusty. We’ll get by.’
Dusty sat on the edge of Red�
�s bed and smiled at Dailey. It was a relaxed, friendly smile as he waved them to their seats again.
‘Relax, Mr. Dailey, we’re not after tricking any military secrets out of you. If you don’t mind me asking, how did you come to get captured?’
‘On a routine patrol,’ replied Dailey, cheeks flushing at the thought. ‘I was taking a small detail out in safe territory, or should have been, according to our reports. Our information was that there were no enemy troops in the area and we must have been taking things easy. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, the way the Mosby men just seemed to come out of the ground. We were in open country and they just seemed to come from nowhere. They took us with hardly a shot fired, disarmed and set my men afoot, then took me with them.’
‘The fortunes of war, mister,’ drawled Dusty, reading the misery in the young man’s voice. He’d lost his patrol and been captured on what was probably his first independent command. ‘One of the first rules when fighting Light Cavalry is expect anything, regard any formation with suspicion and be ready for them where they shouldn’t be.’
In years to come, when serving as an Indian fighting officer, Dailey was to remember that advice, save the lives of his men and prevent his scalp from decorating a Sioux lodge. Right now he was too miserable at being taken a prisoner to worry about good or bad advice. He wanted to talk and take his mind off his misery.
‘You’re the same Captain Fog who blew up the Moshogen Bridge, aren’t you?’
‘The same.’