You're in Command Now, Mr Fog

by J. T. Edson

  “We’d best let the boys know for sure what you’re planning, Mr. Blaze,” Hassle replied. “Which ain’t going to be easy, without letting the Yankees know at the same time. One of the sneaky bastards talks Mex.”

  “He does,” Red agreed. “I reckon you speak Comanch’, Vern?”

  “Some.”

  “How about the rest of the boys?”

  “They all hail from my neck of the Nemenuh xviii country and’ve had dealings with the red varmints. Likely they’ll speak about’s much’s me, only maybe not so good.”

  “Good enough for them to understand what I want done?” Red wanted to know.

  “I reckon I can get it through to ’em,” Hassle decided. “Only could be that Yankee talks Comanch’ as well as Mex.”

  “You’re getting to sound like Billy Jack,” Red warned. “Way I see it, I reckon it’s Spanish more than Mex he speaks. So he won’t know Comanch’. We’ll have to take that chance.”

  Raising his voice, Hassle used the dialect of the Tanima—Liver Eaters—band to ascertain that the other enlisted men could understand him. Receiving their assurances that they could, he outlined Red’s wishes.

  “What’s that, Garcia?” Sergeant Lipski called, as the old timer’s voice reached him.

  “I don’t know,” the man in question admitted. “It’s not Spanish.”

  “Stop that bellowing, damn you!” Red yelled, trying to sound impatient and annoyed. “Let’s go, there’s none of the blue-bellied bastards around here.”

  “I ain’t sure on that, Mr. Blaze,” Hassle protested, The boys allow —”

  “You heard me!” Red interrupted. “There’s none of them closer than the bridge. The Lancers were covering this part, with the feller we run off in case anybody came after they’d pulled out. Come on, time’s a-wasting.”

  With that, Red strode around the trunk of the tree. He went with an apparently reckless disregard for possible danger. For all that, he was as alert as an old buck whitetail deer which had been hunted regularly. If he had looked, he would have seen his men emerging from their places of concealment, but with the wary caution arising from greater wisdom and experience. Or so it appeared to the watching Yankees.

  Cradling the Spencer’s butt to his shoulder, Lipski watched the Texans moving into view. He was not surprised to see the enlisted men displaying more care than the young officer. So far as he could tell, however, they did not realize how dose they were to the main body of his pickets.

  Certainly the shavetail did not suspect the danger. Just as Lipski had figured, he was a hot-head. It was unlikely that such a man would pose any serious threat to the destruction of the bridge. In fact, the sergeant intended to make sure that he did not.

  With the rifle’s barrel turning in Red’s direction, Lipski remembered the ancient corporal.

  The old timer had not yet made his appearance!

  That realization came just a moment too late for Lipski.

  Instead of leaving the shelter of the oak tree, Hassle had peered around its trunk. From his position, he had been able to make out sufficient of the Yankee sergeant to be aware of what was happening.

  “Back!” Hassle snapped, as the Spencer rifle’s barrel started to move.

  Instantly Red propelled himself swiftly to the rear and sideways. Nor was he a moment too soon. He heard a sharp bang from amongst the dogwood’s foliage and, as a bullet ploughed home, a spurt of splinters erupted from the oak’s bark about level with his head.

  Stepping from his hiding place, with the Henry already lifting to his shoulder, Hassle sighted and fired in what appeared to be a single flowing motion. There was a violent flurry of movement which set the dogwood tree’s leaves shaking. Then a Spencer rifle tumbled out, followed by the spasmodically jerking body of the Union infantry sergeant.

  Like Red, Hassle did not linger in the open. Having fired and made his hit, he sprang rapidly for the safety offered by the sturdy trunk of the old oak tree. Two bullets hammered into it, instead of finding their billets in his body.

  Many more shots sounded as the Texans and the rest of the pickets opened fire at each other. One of Red’s men spun around, hit in the head and dead on his feet. Having exposed himself while he was aiming at a Yankee infantryman, he had been killed by another whose presence he had failed to detect.

  With lead whistling around them from numerous places, the Texans were driven back into hiding. It was obvious that the Yankees had set out a strong picket force.

  “There’s close to twenty of ’em,” Hassle computed, looking at Red. “And more’n half of ’em’s got Spencers. I’d say we’re pinned down, Mr. Blaze.”

  “Just like Cousin Dusty figured we might be,” Red replied. “They got Ted.”

  “He was unlucky, no more,” the corporal drawled. “It wasn’t your fault All the boys knows what you wanted ’em to do and that it wouldn’t be easy. You took the biggest chance of all.”

  “I’ve still got to get to the bridge,” Red declared, hiding the relief he was experiencing at Hassle’s words. He had been blaming himself for the soldier getting killed. “The woods on the other side’re more open than these. So Company ‘A’ll’ be in an even worse tight than us. So I’m open for suggestions, smart or otherwise, was they to be offered.”

  “We could try rushing ’em, horns a-hooking,” Hassle said dubiously. “Some of us’ll get killed for sure, but maybe the others’ll get through.”

  “We daren’t go betting on a ‘maybe’, Vern,” Red pointed out.

  “One man, moving fast and sneaky, might get down to the river, happen the rest of us keep the Yankees busy.”

  “It’s possible,” Red drawled.

  “You fixing to call for a volunteer, Mr. Blaze?” the corporal inquired hopefully, although his summation of the youngster’s character had already told him what the answer would be.

  “I’ve already done it,” Red announced with a grin. “And, like a dad-blasted fool, it was me who said ‘I’ll go’.”

  “Try saving some of that lead!” Hassle bellowed, as the other members of the detail exchanged shots with the Yankees. Then he looked at Red and went on, “That’s the way it should be, Mr. Blaze. Are you going to handle it the way Mr. Fog was fixing to?”

  “If it was good enough for Cousin Dusty, it’s good enough for me.”

  “You’ll have to slip by any more of ’em’s been staked out between here and the river.”

  “Sure, unless I can get around them.”

  “There’s that,” Hassle conceded, “ ’cepting you don’t have time to go too far around.”

  “So I’ll not go too far, but move faster,” Red answered.

  “Are you going on foot, or as the Good Lord intended when he made us miserable sinners smart enough to catch ’n’ tame hosses?”

  “Like I said,” Red replied, looking around and thinking fast. “I dearly hate walking, unless there’s a horse under me doing it. And that goes double for running.”

  “Running’ll be a right good way for you to go,” Hassle admitted. “Except I don’t reckon them Yankees’ll be too pleasured, happen they see you lighting out.”

  “I’m not counting on letting them see me go,” Red declared. “Tell the boys to cover me.”

  While the corporal gave the necessary orders in Comanche, Red leaned his Spencer against the trunk of the tree. Removing his weapon belt, the youngster took the Colt from its holster.

  “I don’t want anything slowing me down,” Red told Hassle, placing the belt on the ground. “Start cutting loose and make them think we’re fixing to rush them.”

  Throwing back his head, Hassle let out the kind of war-whoop used when the Tanima Comanche rode to attack the hated white brother. Then he thrust the Henry around the side of the tree. Sighting in the direction of one of the pickets, he threw three shots as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever. The remainder of the detail, who had stopped shooting, resumed their bombardment. Instantly every picket in the vicinity, suspecting that
this was the prelude of an attack, replied with hot lead.

  Red waited until the exchange of fire had built up. Hoping that the attention of the Yankees was set on his men, he sank to his stomach. Hassle stepped over him, swapping the Henry for his Spencer carbine and using it from the other side of the trunk. Knowing what the corporal was trying to do, Red wriggled rapidly across the open land that separated him from a clump of bushes. At every writhing movement, he expected to feel a bullet crashing into his body, or close by, warning that his departure had been observed. It did not happen and, reaching the bushes, he rose cautiously. Hassle’s ruse had worked. Being fired on with different weapons from either side of the oak, the Yankees did not know that Red had slipped away!

  Keeping in concealment if possible, or running swiftly across such open spaces as came his way, Red darted rapidly through the trees. He had covered about three hundred yards when he saw Wilbur and the horses. The enlisted man was behaving sensibly, Red decided. Having heard the shooting, he had halted instead of leading the animals to where they might be seen by the Yankees.

  “Turn my horse loose, Wilbur!” Red called, as he approached the soldier.

  “Yo!” Wilbur replied.

  To give the soldier credit, he did not for a moment think that Red was deserting their companions. Instead, he realized that the young officer was carrying out the most important part of the assignment.

  Releasing his hold on his horse’s bridle, the soldier sprang to set free Red’s gelding. Before the youngster arrived, Wilbur had also removed Hassle’s reins from the brown’s saddlehorn. Running up, Red grasped the saddlehorn in his left hand and vaulted on to his mount’s back. He was about to ride away when he noticed how Wilbur was staring towards the shooting. There was an almost pleading expression on the soldier’s face as he swung his gaze towards his officer.

  “All right,” Red said with a grin. “Fasten up those fool critters and go help the boys.”

  “Gracias, Mr. Blaze!” Wilbur whooped delightedly. “Good luck.”

  “Likely I’ll need it,” Red answered, starting his horse moving and turning it to the south. “You go careful. There may be more of ’em around.”

  Encouraging his gelding to a fast trot, Red listened to the continuing sounds of conflict. Clearly his detail was still contriving to hold the attention of the Yankee pickets. Beyond the woods, going by the noise, the fighting was carrying on with unabated fury at the hamlet and where Company ‘C’ was locking horns with the Lancers.

  Despite all the activity elsewhere, Red’s passage through the woods proved to be uneventful. Apparently he had been fortunate enough to have selected a route which was taking him clear of any vedettes set out by the Yankee sergeant. Or they had quit their posts and moved in to help the main body of the picket. Whatever the reason, he came into sight of the Ouachita River without finding use for the Colt in his right hand.

  The river lay at the foot of a fairly steep slope. Having seen nothing to disturb him, Red started to make the descent.

  Raising a Spencer rifle to his shoulder, a Union Army infantryman sprang from behind a bush ahead of Red. The man was so close that he seemed unlikely to miss.

  Chapter Fourteen

  With the lance’s point passing the head of his bay gelding, Dusty Fog tightened his legs’ grip on the saddle and inclined his body to the right. He had to tilt himself farther than he had expected. Even then, he barely escaped being impaled. The lance’s diamond-shaped head brushed his left shoulder in passing, but it did him no harm and the corporal’s horse carried its lifeless burden by his mount.

  Dusty found that he was still in danger. Looming up on his right, a lieutenant belonging to the Lancers’ second company was turning a revolver towards him. Hanging by his legs alone, almost beyond the point of balance, Dusty was in no position to protect himself.

  Wild with excitement and elation at the success of their volley, the men of Company ‘C’ gave no thought to being outnumbered. Already they had whittled down the odds against them and felt that victory was assured. So they charged recklessly into the fray. If it came to a point, few of them would have been able to halt, or even divert, their fast-running homes.

  “Yeah! Texas Light!”

  Uttering their war-yell, the Texans rushed into the Lancers’ ranks. Collisions were unavoidable, but the men of Company ‘C’ were the better riders and came out of the impacts more successfully than their opponents. They had another advantage, being armed with weapons that could be wielded at close quarters.

  Sabers swung in glistening arcs, until their blades were reddened with blood. Revolvers thundered and flung death indiscriminately at man or beast Lances drove into flesh, or were parried to leave their wielders exposed to the would-be victims’ counter-measures. Men yelled, cursed, or shrieked in pain. Struck by steel, or flying lead, horses screamed, snorted, reared high, plunged, or collapsed kicking wildly.

  To the right and slightly behind Dusty, Sandy McGraw was carrying out his duty by sticking close to his commanding officer. Seeing the small Texan’s predicament, the guidon carrier acted fast. Swinging up the Colt in his right hand, he thumbed off two shots as fast as he could squeeze the trigger and work the hammer. He hoped to hit the Yankee officer. Instead, the first bullet missed. The second struck the neck of the lieutenant’s horse. Down went the animal, front legs buckling under it, to hurl its rider from its back. Losing his revolver, the lieutenant rolled under and was trampled by Dusty’s big gelding.

  Even as Sandy intervened, Dusty was grabbing for the saddlehorn with his right hand. Taking hold, he pulled and regained a more secure, upright seat on the gelding’s back. A Lancer was passing on Dusty’s left. Seeming to move of its own volition, the bone-bandied Colt pointed and hurled a bullet into the soldier’s ribs as he went by.

  Then Dusty found that there was nobody in front or on either side of him. For a moment he was puzzled. Realization flooded over him. He was clear of the Lancer’s shattered ranks, having cut and shot his way through them.

  Looking behind him, Dusty discovered that the main force of the attack had been halted. Some of the Lancers, who had been on the ends of the ranks had avoided the confusion and continued to charge towards the battery. They were few in numbers and Sergeant Major Smalley’s defending force appeared to be dealing with them in a satisfactory manner. Certainly they were not impeding the four howitzers’ rate of fire.

  The battery was operating independent fire now, with each diminished crew doing its best to attain the greatest speed in reloading and retraining its piece. Following the crash of the Number Four howitzer, there was a much louder than usual detonation at the hamlet.

  Curving downwards, the piece’s twelve-pound shell plunged into the open chest at the front end of the Vandenburg Volley Guns’ solitary ammunition caisson. Ignited by the flash of the howitzer’s powder charge going off, the fuse had been burning steadily during the flight. The minute spurt of flame reached the shell’s half-pound burster charge at precisely—if luckily—the right moment.

  Although the caisson’s crew must have realized their peril, they were unable to escape. The shell exploded before any of them could attempt to spring away from the danger area. So did the mass of paper cartridges into which the missile had descended, to be followed in rapid succession by the contents of the second and third chests.

  In one blinding instant of roaring sound, the whole of the three multi-barreled weapons’ ammunition supply disintegrated. Along with it went the crew of the caisson, blown into oblivion.

  Several of the Texans, including Sandy McGraw and the bugler had also fought their way through the Lancers’ disrupted formation. However, the majority were still battling in a wild, savage, no-quarter-asked-or-given melee. Dusty knew that he must return and support his men.

  Hooking the fingers of his right hand under the off-side rein, the small Texan ignored the explosion of the caisson. He was more concerned with regaining control of his mount. Having accomplished that, he started
to guide it in a half circle so that he could get back into the fight.

  Riding towards the mass of struggling figures, Dusty decided that his strategy had worked. He did not allow himself to grow complacent. The fight was not yet over, nor was the safety of the battery assured. The Lancers had been hard hit by Company ‘C’s’ opening volley and were continuing to lose men. For all that, they still had the advantage of numbers. If somebody could organize them and coordinate their efforts, they would still be a force to reckon with.

  “Company ‘D’!” roared a voice, in an educated Northern accent. “Company ‘D’! Rally around, men! Make for the guns.”

  Attracted by the words, for they seemed to have sprung out of his own thoughts, Dusty sought for and located the speaker. It was the captain who had commanded the rear company; a tall, handsome, well-dressed and expensively equipped young man—but clearly one who knew his duty. He alone of the officers was trying to bring some kind of order out of the chaos. There was a chance, Dusty decided, that he might succeed if he was permitted to do so.

  Although Dusty was interested by the captain’s attempt to rally the Lancers, he did not permit it to hold all his attention. Which was just as well. He saw a burly, blue-clad soldier approaching to his right and was conscious of a second, on the left and to the rear, coming his way.

  Hearing the shattering roar, and feeling the blast of the explosion, Colonel Middleton—commanding officer of the defending force—took his attention from the advancing Rebels. He stared for a moment at the smoking crater where the caisson had been, Then he turned his gaze to the three massive, cumbersome Volley Guns which had cost his small force so much effort and hard work during the forced march to Martin’s Mill. Due to the accurate shelling, not one of them was able to operate. So, except as a morale factor, the loss of their ammunition would make little difference to the outcome of his mission.

  Swinging his gaze to the Lancers, Middleton concluded that they would not be able to help him hold the Rebels away from the bridge. That was yet another point in his summation of the situation. Everything he could see told him that his position was rapidly becoming untenable.