by J. T. Edson
‘Likely, mister,’ the captain answered dryly. ‘Take two men, Red, go with the lieutenant and collect all his gear.’
‘Yo!’ answered the redhead and grinned at Marsden. ‘Just point it out and we’ll get it back for you.’
‘That jasper there’s wearing my weapon belt, most likely has my Colt in the holster, but I don’t see my sword anywhere.’
‘Now don’t you worry none about them,’ smiled the redhead, but it was a cheery smile not a malicious leer. ‘We’ll take care of them for you.’
Marsden nodded. For the moment he had almost forgotten that he was now a prisoner of war. ‘I expect so,’ he said. ‘Ashley there had my wallet.’
After seeing Marsden started on his task of recovering the property looted from him, the captain gave his attention to the bushwhackers. Or rather Jill Dodd brought his attention to them by stepping forward and speaking.
‘What about us?’ she asked. ‘Why have you come here?’ A momentary flicker of surprise crossed the captain’s face as he heard Jill speak, but he made no comment about such a girl’s presence among the bushwhackers.
‘You all know that after Quantrill’s raid on Lawrence, Kansas, the Confederate and Federal Governments outlawed unofficial raiding bands?’ he said.
‘General Chetley never objected before,’ Jill pointed out. ‘General Chetley isn’t in command any longer. By order of General Jackson Baines Hardin, all irregular groups are to disband or join the regular forces and take service in the Army of the Confederate States.’
‘And if we don’t?’ snapped Jill.
‘Also by order of General Hardin, any group continuing to stay in operation after warning by an officer of the Confederate Army will be treated as hostile and shot on sight.’
‘Damn it to hell!’ Jill shouted. ‘We’re fighting the Yankees too. Why only two weeks back we were over the Ouachita raiding their outposts.’
‘Sure,’ agreed the captain, his voice suddenly cold and grim. ‘You hit a couple of outposts and stirred up an area into which one of our patrols went to destroy an important supply depot. The Texas Light Cavalry lost some good men, and missed their chance through you. That’s why I’ve been out with a patrol looking for Ashley.’
‘We didn’t know,’ Jill gasped.
‘And most likely wouldn’t have cared either,’ growled the captain. ‘I found your main camp, burned it down.’
‘You did what?’ hissed the girl.
‘That’s right, I burned it down. I found evidence there that Ashley had been trafficking in prisoners of war—and I also found property belonging to a group of Southern sympathisers who were attacked and robbed.’
A look of shock came to Jill’s face at the words. ‘That must have been when Ashley sent Thad, myself and six of the men on a scouting mission. I didn’t know about the attack on our people. But I can’t believe he would do such a thing.’
‘I can show you evidence,’ the captain told her. ‘There were four in the party killed. Two more badly wounded and the only woman wished that she had been killed.’
‘Is that why you shot Ashley?’
‘I shot him to prevent him killing me, but knowing he was Ashley doesn’t make me feel any worse. Now, ma’am, I’ll get on with my business,’ said the captain, and he turned his attention to the watching bushwhackers. ‘All right, you have your choice, enlist in the army, or return to your homes.’
‘By cracky, cap’n,’ Thad said, stepping forward, ‘fellers’s can move as neat as your boy’re worth siding. I’ll come with you, if I can. Maybe you wouldn’t’ve found it so easy to get our look-out happen I’d been there instead of guarding the Yankee soldier-boy.’
‘Kiowa there’d’ve took you like the rest, hombre,’ remarked the sergeant-major, indicating a tall lean, Indian-dark sergeant, and speaking as if discussing the crack of doom.
‘Drop it, Billy Jack,’ ordered the captain. ‘You’ll ride with us when we leave, soldier. Any more of you?’
Feet scuffled and glances were exchanged, but none, of the other bushwhacker males offered to give up their free life for the discipline and danger of fighting in a formal outfit.
‘I’ll go with you,’ Jill announced.
‘We’ve no place for a woman, ma’am,’ smiled the captain. ‘If I was you, I’d go back home.’
‘Home?’ Jill spat the word out as if it tasted bitter as bile. ‘My home is in Little Rock.’
‘Then come with me to Hope and I’ll find you accommodation.’
‘Like hell! I’ll make out on my own, thank you very much.’
With that Jill turned and stamped angrily away. The captain watched her go, gave a sad shake of his head and swung back to the men.
‘Collect your horses and gear, all of you!’ he barked. ‘Remember this. If I see any of you in a bushwhacker band again, I’ll order my men to shoot.’
Turning, the captain walked over to where Marsden stood with Red Blaze. One of the bushwhackers looked at the sergeant-major and asked:
‘Reckon he’d do it?’
‘Mister,’ answered the lean non-com. ‘When Cap’n Fog says a thing, you’d best believe him, ‘cause he sure as hell aims to do it.’
‘Is he the Cap’n Dusty Fog?’ breathed the bushwhacker almost reverently.
‘There’s not two of ‘em,’ admitted Sergeant-major Billy Jack miserably. ‘And you’d best get moving afore he decides to take you all in and find out who rode with Ashley when them Southern folks was killed.’
‘Captain Fog?’ Marsden gasped, feeling foolish at repeating the small Texan’s introduction, but unable to think of anything more adequate to say. ‘This is a pleasure and an honour, sir.’
It was also, although Marsden did not mention the fact, the best piece of luck to come his way since he first heard of Castle and Silverman’s plan.
Over the past year Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog’s name had risen to prominence, until many folk ranked him equal to the great Colonel John Singleton Mosby as a fighting cavalry leader. Some even claimed that Dusty excelled Mosby in the art of light cavalry raiding. To the Union Army, Dusty Fog’s name spelled serious trouble. At the head of his troop of the Texas Light Cavalry, he struck like lightning, caused havoc like a Texas twister, and disappeared like sun-melted snow only leaving more damage in his wake. Although only eighteen years old, Dusty had caused more than one Union veteran cavalry commander to wonder whether he knew his trade after all. Yet not only did Dusty Fog’s name stand high as a raider, he was also a chivalrous enemy and no man need fear falling into his hands.
However, the latter consideration did not entirely account for Marsden’s relief and pleasure at discovering his rescuer’s identity.
‘You’d better explain how a Union infantry lieutenant comes to be on this side of the Ouachita. Or did they take you on the other bank?’
Marsden smiled. No officer on fighting service would wear dress uniform, a point Dusty appeared to have noted already.
‘I crossed the river to find you, sir,’ Marsden explained. ‘Well, not you exactly, but a Confederate outfit, preferably one from Texas.’
‘You’d best explain that, mister,’ Dusty said. ‘Only leave it until we’re on the move. I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble from this bunch. And I want to get back to camp as soon as I can.’
Ten minutes later the soldiers departed and the bushwhackers gathered in a disconsolate bunch.
‘What do we do now?’ asked one man.
Nobody appeared to have any suggestions until Jill moved forward. ‘Bury Ashley, then break camp,’ she ordered. ‘We’ll strike west and across the Texas line until this blows over. Then we’ll start raiding again. Nobody’s going to stop me fighting the Yankees.’
CHAPTER FOUR
MARSDEN’S INFORMATION
On leaving the bushwhackers’ camp, Dusty and his troop escorted Marsden to the town of Hope by the shortest possible route. During the ride Marsden managed to convince Dusty of the importance of his
business without going into details of Castle and Silverman’s scheme. For his part, Dusty studied Marsden and assessed the other’s character, deciding that such a man would not lightly become a deserter and traitor. So Dusty accepted the other’s word and promised an immediate interview with General Ole Devil Hardin on their arrival at the regiment’s headquarters.
The Texas Light Cavalry were encamped around the large, stately home of a wealthy Union supporter who fled when the flames of war grew in Arkansas. While riding through the smart, tented lines, Marsden found himself studying the excellent dress, equipment and spirits of the men. All appeared to be well-dressed and armed, also to be better fed than their Union opposites beyond the Ouachita. A party of men who passed Dusty’s troop, each leading a packhorse loaded with beer and wapiti meat, gave Marsden an indication of the way the Texans fed. Southwest Arkansas might not be rugged frontier any more, but it still held vast herds of game; and should these fail the resources of Texas lay close at hand. Naturally the Confederate forces in Arkansas lived well.
Another reason for the well-being became apparent with a little thought. The Texas Light Cavalry might be a volunteer regiment, raised and financed by wealthy Texans, but its officers had seen combat before the War. A few served in the Texas War of Independence in 1836, others during the Mexican War of 1842, and most against either Indians, Comancheros or other Mexican bandits. So the officers possessed practical knowledge of fighting that few Eastern bred volunteers had had a chance to gain. The rank and of the regiment consisted of men who could ride and shoot almost as soon as they could walk, were trained and skilled in all the arts of cavalry warfare.
‘Take over, Cousin Red,’ Dusty told his second-in-command on their arrival at the horse lines. ‘Unless you’d rather escort Mr. Marsden to see Uncle Devil.’
‘Who, me?’ yelped Red Blaze, who tried to keep as far away from his uncle as possible. ‘No, sir, Cousin Dusty. I’ll see the troop, you go visit Uncle Devil.’
‘Tell my striker to have Mr. Marsden’s gear taken to our quarters, Red,’ Dusty ordered, handing his horse’s reins to his guidon carrier. ‘This way, Mr. Marsden. We’ll likely find the General at headquarters building.’
A coloured servant took the two young officers’ hats as they entered the big, Colonial-style white house. The servant had been in the former owner’s employment but left behind when his master fled and took service with the new occupants.
‘De General’s in conference in de library, Cap’n Dusty, sah,’ the servant explained. ‘Got your pappy, Colonel Blaze and another colonel-gennelman with him.’ He rolled his eyes warningly. ‘If Ah was you-all, Ah’d steer clear of him, sah.’
‘I have to see him, Henry,’ Dusty replied.
‘Well. Ah has done warned you, sah. Don’t you say Ah didn’t.’
With that the Negro turned and waddled away, shaking his head sadly in contemplation of the folly of the younger generation.
For all his brilliance as a cavalry leader, and abilities in other directions, Dusty hesitated a moment before raising his hand to knock on the library door. From inside the room, now converted to Ole Devil’s office, came an angry bellow which Dusty knew all too well.
‘But damn it to hell, John don’t those foo—the General Staff back East realise I’m fighting a war here too? I’m not asking for much——’ The voice died away as Dusty, sucking in a deep breath, knocked on the door, then resumed with, ‘Come in, damn it. Don’t stand beating the door down.’
‘Mister,’ breathed Dusty, opening the door. ‘Your information had best be real important.’
With that he ushered Marsden into a big, book-lined room. The four men at the desk in the centre of the room all looked at the new arrivals. Hondo Fog, senior major of the regiment, looking like an older and taller version of Dusty; bulky but iron hard Colonel Blaze; lean, ramrod straight, hawk-faced Ole Devil Hardin; the other colonel, a man of just over medium height, well-built, handsome, black haired and giving a hint of a cavalryman’s build even though seated in a chair; all sat eyeing the two young officers coldly. Marsden only just held down a gasp as he recognised the younger colonel. That was the Grey Ghost, John Singleton Mosby himself. Yet Mosby mostly served farther east and should not be in Arkansas, unless—
‘I’m in conference, Captain Fog!’ growled Ole Devil scowling at his favourite nephew as if Dusty was a copperhead Southern supporter of the Union.
‘Mr. Marsden requested an interview with you, sir,’ Dusty replied. ‘He says it’s a matter of extreme urgency, sir.’
The mention of Marsden’s name drew all but Mosby’s attention to the young Yankee. Giving a nod, Ole Devil told Marsden to come up and state his business.
‘I hardly know where to begin, sir,’ Marsden said after marching smartly to the desk and throwing up a salute fresh from the pages of the drill manual.
‘Try at the beginning, Mr. Marsden,’ Ole Devil suggested. ‘How did you come to be captured?’
‘I found Mr. Marsden held prisoner at Ashley’s camp, sir,’ Dusty put in.
‘Which doesn’t explain how he got there.’
‘The bushwhackers caught me while I was looking for a Confederate outfit to which I could surrender, sir.’
Marsden saw a slight stir among the men, read added interest in their scrutiny and drew in a deep breath.
‘Why did you want to surrender, mister?’ asked Colonel Blaze.
‘I learned of a plan to cause the withdrawal of most, if not all, of the Texas troops from the Army of the Confederate States, sir.’
‘And?’ prompted Ole Devil.
‘The plan calls for arming the Comanche, Kaddo and Kiowa tribes, sir.’
‘That plan was suggested two years ago, mister,’ Ole Devil said coldly. ‘I believe the idea was to supply the Indians with worn-out flintlocks in return for their assistance at fighting the Southern forces in Texas. It fell through when somebody pointed out that they wouldn’t confine their activities to the Confederate Army, or even just to Southern sympathisers.’
‘This is a different plan, sir,’ Marsden insisted, marvelling a little at Ole Devil’s knowledge of Union affairs. ‘The people putting it through—’
‘Grant and Sherman would never authorise it,’ objected Ole Devil.
‘They know nothing about it, sir. Nor will they until the plan is brought to a successful conclusion. Faced with a fait accompli, one resulting in the withdrawal of all Texas troops from the conflict, it would hardly be politic for even Generals Grant and Sherman to object.’
Looking around the table, Marsden guessed he had made his point. Texas put some 68,500 men under arms in the Confederate forces, skilled fighting men. Its beef herds helped feed the South. Along its coast-line lay many ideal spots where blockade-running ships could land vitally needed supplies. If anybody made a plan which caused all that to be withdrawn from the Confederate cause, not even the two senior generals in the Union Army would dare to openly criticise the methods used by the plotters.
‘And you think a few flintlocks will bring the three tribes together?’ asked Dusty.
‘Not flintlocks,’ Marsden answered. ‘Three hundred Sharps’ breechloading rifles, ten thousand linen cartridge rounds—and the services of an Ager Coffee Mill gun.’
‘An Ager Coffee Mill gun?’ repeated Dusty.
‘Yes. It’s a—’
‘Mister, I know what it is,’ Dusty grunted.
Machine guns, repeating firearms, had long been a military dream and nightmare. A few types had made their appearance during the Civil War. The Confederate Army made use of the William Rapid Fire gun, an effective one-pounder repeating cannon. On the Union side, the Barnes and Ripley guns were tried, but the Ager Coffee Mill gun proved to be the only practical model—the Gatling not having made its debut at that date—and offered the Yankees a deadly addition to their armoury. Deadly, but not perfect, as Dusty pointed out.
‘It’s got its bad points, mister. If you fire it at over one hundred and twenty roun
ds a minute, it burns the barrel out.’
Surprise at Dusty’s knowledge prevented Marsden from remarking that the Confederate Army possessed no arm, not even the Williams gun, capable of equalling the Ager’s rate of fire. Instead he said:
‘Think of the effect such a gun would have upon men who know only weapons that need reloading after each shot.’
‘That’s a good point, Mr. Marsden,’ Ole Devil stated and a low rumble of agreement echoed his words. ‘You mean that the men behind this scheme mean to present an Ager to the Indians?’
‘Yes, sir, and instruct them in its use.’
‘How did you come to learn of this scheme, Mr. Marsden?’ asked Hondo Fog.
Starting with his return from outpost duty, Marsden told the men everything about his discovery and decision to desert and bring word to the Confederate troops.
‘Couldn’t you have informed your own higher authority?’ Mosby inquired.
‘I doubt if General Thompson would object to it, sir,’ Marsden replied. ‘And it would take too long for word to reach General Sherman. You see, the plan has already been put into operation.’
‘When?’ snapped Ole Devil, sitting forward in his chair.
‘The wagon with the rifles and ammunition left eight days ago. The Ager was taken after them on the day before I returned from outpost duty. That was how I learned of the scheme. Castle is my company commander and when I came to report I heard he had left camp. So I started asking questions and learned what he was up to.’
‘And they can contact the Indians—without leaving their scalps on some coup-pole?’ Ole Devil asked.
‘They think so, sir. Castle and Silverman wouldn’t willingly go into any danger. Their rendezvous with the arms wagon is where they meet a Union agent who trades with the Indians and can contact the old man chiefs of each tribe.’
‘His name?’
‘I’m not sure, sir. The best I could learn was that they call him the Parson or something like that.’
