by J. T. Edson
“And if the guarding has to be done, why the hell couldn’t they have some of them other fellers doing it?” Devlin muttered, thinking sourly about the regiment of Negro soldiers who were camped in the vicinity.
A bitter, prejudiced man who hated colored people—and every other racial or religious group—on principle and without thought, cause or reason, Devlin could not see why his regiment should be required to perform any duties while there were members of lesser breeds available.
The sound of a horse’s hooves diverted Devlin’s thoughts at the point. Turning, he stared south across the bridge to where a rider was approaching from the direction of Searcy. Although the moon had not yet come up, Devlin’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. In a few seconds with the rider half way across the bridge, the sentry could discern that he was a soldier of some kind.
Maybe even an officer, Devlin silently warned himself. With so many from every outfit at the meeting, there was likely to be plenty of them going back and forth before the night was through.
One thing Devlin had learned early in his brief career as a soldier was that officers always expected a man on sentry duty to act in the correct military manner. So he had better do what was expected of him.
“Halt!” Devlin shouted, bringing up the rifle to hold it at waist level and, without bothering to cock back the big side. hammer, swung its muzzle to the front. “Who goes there?”
“Friend,” answered the rider, slowing but not stopping his large, powerful mount. He had an accent that was far different from the tall, lean soldier’s broad Irish brogue. “Easy there with that rifle, mister. It’s bad enough having to ride dispatch all night without getting thrown down on every damned which ways a man turns.”
Having challenged the other soldier, Devlin found himself uncertain of what he should do next. On being posted, he had received no instructions as to his conduct. However, the response implied that the rider was not an officer and so would be willing to overlook any improper behavior.
“Come ahead slow and easy,” Devlin ordered, although the rider was continuing to advance anyway.
Drawing nearer, the rider proved to be smallish and conveyed an impression of youth. He sat his big horse with an easy, effortless grace that would have been obvious had Devlin had experience in such matters. His right hand grasped the reins, while the left for some reason was tucked into The open front of his double-breasted cloak-coat. On his head was perched a kepi with the usual crossed sabers insignia of the U.S. Cavalry across its top. The cloak-coat concealed his tunic, but the weapon belt strapped over it appeared to be of the normal pattern. So did the saber which dangled from the pommel of a saddle that differed in several respects from the issue McClellan, but not to Devlin’s inexperienced eyes. No horseman, he failed to notice that the saddle was unlike those he had seen used by various cavalry outfits. Riding breeches and Hessian boots emerged from below the cloak-coat. Despite the darkness, Devlin could make out the yellow stripes along the legs of the breeches.
“I’d be tolerable obliged happen you’d point that rifle some other way, friend,” the rider said amiably, as the muzzle of the weapon was almost touching his mount’s chest. “Or do you reckon I’m a Johnny Reb’s’s come all this way behind the lines to blow up the bridge?”
Although still undecided what he should do, Devlin turned aside the rifle to avoid it striking the horse. He looked up as the rider loomed above him, left hand still hidden inside the cloak-coat. Stepping backwards a couple of pace,, the sentry felt a momentary alarm. There was something wrong, but he could not decide what it might be. Then he decided that he was worrying for nothing. No Rebel would be likely to act in such a relaxed, friendly manner.
“It’s only me duty I’m after doing,” Devlin pointed out, returning the butt of his rifle to the ground.
“Why sure, answered the rider, taking his hand from the front of the cloak-coat. It emerged empty. “I don’t know which of us’s got the lousiest chore, friend, you or me.”
“At least you’re going someplace,” Devlin commented, watching the other swing from the saddle. “I just have to stand here, and the devil of a bit of good I’m doing. Like you said, none of ’em’d dare come this far behind our lines.”
“That’s for sure,” agreed the rider, releasing his reins so that they dangled in two separate strands below the horse’s bit.
Ever since the other man had replied to the challenge, Devlin had noticed the way in which he spoke. There was something about it that did not seem right. His clothes, equipment and attitude appeared correct, but the voice—Realization struck home!
“Hey!” Devlin ejaculated, retreating a further two steps and starting to raise the rifle. “You sound like these goober-grabber vii bastards who live around these parts.”
“Easy on there, friend,” the rider protested in amiable tones. He showed no alarm other than to spread his hands clear of his sides—so that it almost looked as if he meant to slap the horse’s rump with the right—and showing that they were empty. “I’m always having this same son-of-a-bitching trouble.”
“How do you mean?” Devlin inquired.
“My folks had a ranch in North Texas and I growed up there,” the rider explained. “Only them Secessionist bastards run us out. So I joined the Army to get back at them. And now, every time I open my mouth near on, somebody takes me for a Reb.”
The sentry had not been long in the Army, but he did not wish for the smaller, younger, yet clearly more experienced soldier to realize how short his period of service had been. So he did not intend to display the uncertainty he was feeling. At the back of his mind, getting stronger all the time, was the belief that the other man could not be an enemy, no matter how he talked.
“It don’t cost nothing to be careful, bucko,” Devlin commented, lowering the rifle once more and adopting what he hoped would be the tone of a seasoned veteran. “No offence meant by it.”
“None took, friend,” drawled the rider.
“You’ll likely have been in Searcy for that officers’ shindig,” Devlin suggested, wanting to keep the other man talking as a means of relieving his own boredom. “What’s it all about?”
“What do you reckon it’s about?” countered the other.
“I’m damned if I know,” Devlin admitted. “All our officers, ’cepting the officer of the day’s there. Same with the other outfits, I’d say.”
“It is with mine,” confirmed the rider, turning to his horse and opening its near-side saddle pouch. He removed a bottle and went on, “I got took there to run messages. So I reckoned I was entitled to help myself to something to keep the cold out. How do you feel about soldiers drinking on duty, friend?”
“That all depends on who’s doing the drinking,” Devlin answered, eyeing the bottle with considerable interest.
“My pappy allus allowed it’s a mortal sin for a man to drink alone—unless there’s nobody else around to take a snort with him,” the rider stated, drawing the cork. “Here, friend, help yourself to a nip. I’ve already had me a couple. It’s a good way to keep out the miseries on a night like this.”
If Devlin had been a more observant man, he might have noticed that the bottle was still remarkably full; considering that it was supposed to have, already been sampled. Instead of seeing, he accepted it and took a long drink. The liquor burned pleasantly down his throat and made him even more determined to hold the rider in conversation, so that he might be offered other drinks.
“Now that’s what I call good whiskey,” Devlin declared, wiping his mouth on his right sleeve without returning the bottle. “The luck of the Irish to you, young feller.”
“I’m having my share of it,” thought the small horseman, conscious of the bone handled Colt 1860 Army revolver which was thrust into his breeches’ waistband and pressed against his right ribs. “And so are you. If you’d been smarter, I might’ve had to kill you, which wouldn’t have done either of us any good.”
After only six weeks with t
he Texas Light Cavalry, Dusty Fog was carrying out his first independent assignment.
They had been six weeks of hard work under a demanding, but fair, superior officer and constantly watched by interested, or critical, eyes. During the period, Dusty had continued to develop his ability to control larger, older, more experienced men. He had also improved his knowledge—already obtained at Judge Blaze’s small military academy—of how to carry out caracoles, riding and maneuvering in echelon, or the various other cavalry drills and minor tactics.
On the whole, Dusty believed that he had acquitted himself in a satisfactory manner. In addition to earning his superiors’ approbation, he had already built up a basis of trust and faith in his abilities amongst the hard-bitten veterans of Company ‘C’. Billy Jack’s whole-hearted support, taken with the manner of Dusty’s arrival at the regiment, had been of the greatest help in achieving the latter.
For preventing the loss of the herd and capturing, or killing, every member of the Union’s cattle-stealing expedition, Dusty had been allowed to retain his rank of first lieutenant. That had made him second-in-command of Company ‘C’.
To an equally fortunate, but less able young officer, the appointment might have been a disastrous failure. Supported by an inborn instinct for leadership, natural intelligence and the strength of his personality, Dusty had avoided the many pitfalls that threatened a man placed in his position.
Being aware of its value, he had demonstrated his ambidextrous wizardry with the two Colts and had impressed men who were fully capable of understanding the excellence of the display. In addition, he had given convincing proof of his skill as a horse-master. On two occasions, he had been compelled to prove himself physically. Each time he had taken on a bigger, stronger, heavier man and beaten him thoroughly, yet in a way that did not humiliate the loser.
Maybe the enlisted men were not yet ready to accept Dusty as fit to command the Company in action, but he was working towards the point where—if it should become necessary—they would be likely to do so. Until then, he was satisfied with the thought that he had been considered capable of carrying out an important scouting mission.
News had reached the Texas Light Cavalry of a Union Army’s remount depot having been established about ten miles north of Searcy, across the Little Red River and near to the trail to Newport, the seat of Jackson County. Even more significant, if one remembered General “Cussing” Culver’s boasts regarding the future conduct of the War in Arkansas, the Yankees were commandeering every available horse and all the fodder they could lay their hands on in the territory under their control. It all suggested that Culver was making preparations for a major offensive.
Wanting further and more definite news, Colonel Blaze had decided to send out a scouting detail. It had been Company ‘C’s’ turn to supply the men for such a task, but Captain von Hertz was required at headquarters. So the colonel had taken the opportunity to discover how Dusty would carry out one of a cavalry officer’s main duties; the gathering of information from behind the enemy’s lines.
On receiving his orders, Dusty had asked for permission to select the men who would accompany him. It was granted grudgingly by von Hertz, especially when the youngster had named two of the recruits he had brought from Texas. However, as Sergeant Billy Jack and three veterans were to complete the party, the captain had agreed to the arrangement.
Having made preparations which had met with Billy Jack’s approval, the party had set off. They had passed through the Yankees’ forward positions at night and without difficulty. Avoiding being seen by the enemy, they had travelled towards Searcy.
During the journey, the Texans had seen two parties of Yankee officers heading in the same direction. At a ford over the Bayous des Arc River, they had watched General Culver and his staff going over, then disappearing up the trail to Searcy. Clearly something of importance was going to take place in the town.
Waiting until sundown, Dusty had allowed Billy Jack and Sandy McGraw to try to enter Searcy and see what could be learned. Sandy’s uncle lived in the town, which had been the reason for Dusty asking to fetch him along. The rest of the detail had pushed on to the Little Red River. They had found the bridge was guarded. By only one man, but with the possibility of reinforcements nearby. He was at the northern end, which made any chance of sneaking up on him almost impossible.
Recollecting how Hotchkiss had tried to trick him and his men, Dusty had come prepared to resort to similar methods. Apart from the colors, which were not too important before the moon rose, the Armies of the North and the South wore a similar style of uniform. The cloak-coats particularly were identical in cut and line; a point which more than one Confederate cavalry raider had turned to his advantage. Only the hats were different and Dusty had been ready to deal with that. Every member of his party had brought a U.S. Cavalry kepi, taken from Yankee prisoners and held at the regiment for just such a purpose.
For the first time, Dusty had been grateful to von Hertz for insisting that his junior officers always wore the regulation pattern gunbelt. Apart from the lettering on its buckle, it was an almost exact duplicate of the Union Army’s issue. Only the saddle was different, but Dusty had gambled on it going unnoticed in the darkness and when seen by an infantryman.
Having donned the kepi, Dusty had placed the Colt where its availability was concealed. Approaching the sentry, he had been ready to draw and shoot if necessary. Or, as he had drawn nearer, had hoped to merely throw down on the man and threaten him into silence. He had managed to come close enough to make the latter feasible, without needing to do it. There had been a bad moment when the sentry had become aware of his accent, but it had passed over. However, while showing his bare hands, Dusty had been neither helpless nor harmless. If his explanation had not been accepted, he had planned to slap the horse’s rump. That would have caused the high-spirited animal to bound forward. Even if it had not struck the sentry, it would have distracted him for long enough to let Dusty tackle him.
When that danger had passed, Dusty had set about the business of obtaining information. He had brought the whiskey from the regiment, figuring that it might serve the kind of purpose to which he was now putting it. He had already learned that only one officer remained at the soldier’s camp and felt sure that he would be told much more if he played his cards right.
Remembering his father’s comments on the way to win confidence, Dusty led Devlin to talk about his grievances. By the time the sentry had taken a couple more drinks, the small Texan knew a fair amount about the formation of the Chicago All-Irish Volunteers, the quality of its officers and noncoms, and its readiness for war. After listening to the man’s grouses, Dusty turned the conversation to a matter of more immediate interest.
What do you reckon old “Cussing” Culver’s come to Searcy for?” Dusty asked, knowing that the enlisted men often picked up rumors or hints of their superiors’ intentions.
“You know officers,” Devlin replied, sounding disinterested. “They’re allus getting together for one thing or another and devil the thought for the likes of you and me.”
“Some of us’re figuring it might mean old ‘Cussing’s’ going to have us do what he’s been telling everybody he’ll do, run the Rebs back to Texas.”
“Is that the way of it, do you think?” Devlin inquired and again sampled the contents of the bottle.
“It could be,” Dusty drawled guessing that the other had neither knowledge nor thoughts on the matter and was not especially interested
“Well, it’s not before time, if that’s the way of it,” Devlin sniffed. “Just so long as we’re not expected to have to keep on doing the dirty work for them other fellers.”
“Other fellers?” Dusty repeated. “What do you mean?”
“Aren’t you with them hosses in the valley?” Devlin asked.
“Nope,” Dusty replied and continued with the answer he had decided to use in the event of such a question. “I’m in the New Jersey Dragoons. Try another lil nip, frie
nd.”
“It’s kind you are,” Devlin stated, the words being punctuated by the call of a whip-poor-will repeated twice from the southern bank of the river. “And it’s lucky you are not to be having any truck with them Negroes. Soldiers, they calls themselves.”
Having heard the “bird’s” call, which told him that Billy Jack and Sandy had rejoined the detail, Dusty was considering taking his departure. The moon would soon be coming up and he wanted to have his men across the river before that happened. However, the reference to Negro soldiers required investigation.
“What’s up with them?” Dusty inquired.
Taking another, longer drink, Devlin launched into the required explanation. A recently formed regiment of Negro infantry had travelled West with his own outfit. From the start, there had been friction between them. In addition to resenting the Negroes’ assumption of equality, the members of the All-Irish Volunteers had noticed that the colored soldiers appeared to be better armed and equipped than themselves.
“You should see them uniforms and tents ’n’ everything they’ve got. And every last mother’s son of ’em’s got a breech-loading rifle,” Devlin continued, glaring bitterly at the weapon in his left hand. “And good Americans like us have to make do with these damned things. Colonel Milligan tried to make them swap with us, but them stinking softshells’s viii is their officers—may the Devil take them all—wouldn’t let it happen.”
Once more Devlin raised the bottle and the level of the whiskey sank lower. Then he continued with the catalogue of his regiment’s grievances against the Negro soldiers. Not only had they been allowed to use the same kind of railway cars during the first stage of the journey from the East, but their officers had insisted that they were given the first choice in accommodation.
