by J. T. Edson
Swiftly, with the efficient, purposeful actions of well-trained troops, the Dragoons sprang to obey. Each section of four left its horses in the care of one man and the other three erupted into motion. Pyramids of carbines disintegrated with disciplined speed. Gripping their saddle-guns, urged on by barked-out commands from the officers, the Dragoons fanned out and took up positions which would allow them to meet an attack from any side. Dropping to the ground in whatever cover they could find, the enlisted men swung their carbines into firing postures.
‘No shooting, men!’ Captain Miller called and the non-commissioned officers repeated the warning.
Major Galbraith watched his men assume a state of all-round defense and nodded his approval. If the surly Volunteer at his side knew anything about military matters, he would be impressed by the Dragoons’ efficiency. With that thought come and gone, Galbraith turned his attention to the approaching pair of riders. A long-serving career-officer, the major recognized the significance of what he saw.
Going by the ‘chicken guts’ on his sleeve, the small, young-looking man at the left was an officer. In his right hand, he carried a rifle’s ramrod to which a white bandana had been fastened like a flag. Raising a bugle to his lips, the second rider blew another loud call on it. Neither of the newcomers appeared to be carrying arms of any kind.
That was the traditional, established procedure for requesting a truce or a parley. The white flag and lack of weapons announced the two men’s pacific intentions, while the repeated bugle calls proved that they did not mean to surprise the enemy soldiers.
Disheveled, unshaven and bleary-eyed, Gilbertson stared up the slope in horror. At first he could hardly believe that he was awake and felt that he must be dreaming. Recognizing the newcomers, he felt a growing sense of foreboding. Spitting out a low, savage curse, he dropped his right hand across to close on the hilt of his saber.
‘Is something wrong, Captain Gilbertson?’ asked the tall, lean, leathery-faced major as he became aware of the Volunteer’s perturbation.
Taking warning from the Dragoon’s tone, Gilbertson held down the reply which he had been about to give. Instead he nodded in the direction of the Texans and said, ‘You’ve got a good catch here, Major.’
‘I don’t follow you,’ Galbraith growled.
‘That’s young Fog,’ elaborated the Volunteer. ‘Hardin’s nephew.’
‘And that’s a white flag he’s carrying,’ the Dragoon pointed out coldly. ‘So I’ll hear what he has to say.’ Looking around, Galbraith raised his voice. ‘Stand to your arms, men. Captain Miller, Mr. Coulson, Mr. Hargrove, make sure that nobody opens fire unless the Rebs make a hostile move.’
‘Yo!’ came the answer from the Troop’s subordinate officers.
Squaring his shoulders, Galbraith set the peaked Dragoon forage cap straighter on his head. Another sweeping glance around the camp-site assured him that all was ready, in case—which he doubted—the Confederate soldiers planned some treachery. If they did, they would meet with a hot, and well-deserved, reception. Satisfied, he strode forward and passed through his Troop’s defensive circle. Filled with curiosity, and fears for his own safety, Gilbertson followed the major.
Young, insignificant almost in appearance, or not, the Confederate captain knew military convention and etiquette. Coming to a halt at least a hundred yards from the nearest defender, so that he could not see too many details of their armament and disposition, he handed the white flag to his bugler. Dismounting, he left his black stallion with its reins dangling free and advanced a further fifty feet on foot. Coming to a halt before the Yankees, he threw up a smart salute directed at Galbraith.
‘Fog. Captain. Texas Light Cavalry, sir,’ Dusty announced formally as the Dragoon returned his salute.
‘Major Galbraith, 6th “New Jersey” Dragoons,’ the senior of the two Federal officers acknowledged, then indicated the man hovering behind him. ‘This is—’
‘I know who he is, sir,’ Dusty interrupted politely but coldly. ‘Captain Gilbertson was my prisoner—’
‘And he escaped?’
‘No, sir. He ran away after giving me his word of honor that he wouldn’t escape. So I’ve come to take him back. Will you order him to get ready, please.’
‘What’s this?’ Galbraith barked, swinging furiously to glare at Gilbertson. ‘Is it true?’
Not that the Dragoon needed to ask, or to see the guilt on the Volunteer’s face, to know the answer. Ever since Gilbertson had arrived that morning, Galbraith had grown increasingly doubtful of his veracity. The captain had spun a reasonably convincing story of his carefully-planned and executed escape from Murfreesboro, but there had been points left unexplained in the telling. One of them being how he had regained possession of his sword. It would have been taken from him at his capture, to be held by the Rebels until his release.
Of course, a man who had won the admiration and respect of his enemies might have his sword returned as a tribute to his courage or ability. Gilbertson did not strike the hard-bitten Galbraith as being that kind of officer. Nor would he have had, in the Dragoon’s opinion, sufficient notions of honor to take the chances involved in gaining possession of his sword before escaping.
Captain Fog’s words had confirmed Galbraith’s suspicions, although the Dragoon had fought against the one answer that would have explained everything. More than that, they had placed an entirely different complexion on Gilbertson’s presence. Any officer who escaped from captivity by fair means deserved praise and approbation. That did not apply to the methods by which the sullen Volunteer had attained his freedom.
‘Damn it, Gilbertson!’ Galbraith blazed when the Volunteer did not answer. ‘Is this true, or isn’t it?’
‘It’s true, sir,’ Dusty put in. ‘Last night in the hotel at Amity, he gave his word, in the presence of my bugler, not to escape before dawn.’
‘In Amity?’ Gaibraith growled.
‘Yes, sir. I was escorting him to the Snake Ford to be exchanged for one of our captains. We had a run in with some guerillas and during the fighting, he killed one of my men and ran. I’ve come to take him back.’
Being fully aware of guerillas’ habits, Galbraith could guess that the Texans had been fighting to protect their prisoner. Which only made Gilbertson’s actions the more reprehensible.
‘Well?’ the Dragoon spat at the Volunteer.
‘All right,’ Gilbertson snarled. ‘So I saw my chance and took it.’
The calm admission struck Galbraith dumb for a moment. He could hardly believe that an officer in the United States’ Army would brazenly make such a confession. In fact, the Dragoon did not want to believe it. So he sought desperately for some excuse or mitigating circumstance—even though he doubted if there could be one against such a charge.
‘You understood what you were doing when you gave your word?’ the major demanded, hoping that the other would answer in the negative.
‘Of course I did!’ Gilbertson yelped, his college-educated superiority revolting at the suggestion that there might be something he did not know.
‘And after giving your word,’ Gaibraith breathed, ‘you still ran?’
‘I’d every intention of running, that’s why I gave it,’ Gilbertson declared. ‘What the hell do you think war is, some kind of game to be played by rules?’
‘You’ll have to go back!’ Galbraith stated.
‘If he was stupid enough to thi—’ Gilbertson continued, then the full implication of the Dragoon’s words penetrated his mind. The flow of bombastic rhetoric gurgled to an uneven halt and he stared in amazement at the cold-faced, angry major. ‘Wha-wha——?’
‘You’ll have to go back with Captain Fog,’ Galbraith elaborated grimly. ‘Damn it all, man. If you don’t care about your own honor, think of how this action of yours will look in the eyes of the world. The Union Army—the whole United States—will stand condemned unless you go back.’
‘Who’ll know about it?’ Gilbertson asked scornfully. ‘M
y father will see that Buller hushes it up.’
‘I’ll know, for one,’ Galbraith pointed out. ‘And so will Captain Fog.’
A deep, bitter sense of frustrated fury tore at Gilbertson. Filled with the arrogant, egoistical self-importance of the ‘liberal-intellectual’ college student, he had entered the Union Army certain that his superlative brilliance must destine him for great deeds. Like many another of his kind, he had found himself sadly lacking in practical knowledge once faced with the harsh realities of life. So he had failed to achieve even a modicum of success in a field which he had always regarded as being the province of men with limited intelligence.
To have been captured by the despised Rebels, in his first essay at active duty, had rankled and hurt. Especially as it had been through his own stupidity and inefficiency that he had fallen into their hands. To know that he was gaining his liberty at the expense of freeing one of the hated Southerners had been an intolerable humiliation.
Not that he had thought of refusing the offer, or passing it to one of his companions in Murfreesboro. Such a sacrifice was not in keeping with his small-minded, self-centered nature.
He had already been thinking of escape during the journey to the Snake Ford. Seeing the youth and general insignificance of his escort’s leader, he had felt sure that slipping away could be accomplished with no difficulty. Doing so would reassert his sense of self-importance, humiliate Ole Devil Hardin, and prevent the Rebel prisoner from attaining freedom.
Being fully aware of the convention of war concerning an officer’s parole, Gilbertson had intended to make use of it. Even if that short-grown Texan had not suggested a truce until dawn, the Volunteer had meant to do so. Gilbertson had seen his opportunity in the Amity hotel, taken it and had finally reached what ought to have been safety.
Then that infernal Rebel captain had appeared and demanded—not asked, demanded! —that he be returned.
To make matters worse, Galbraith—a stinking career officer—clearly intended to comply with the small Texan’s wishes.
Gilbertson’s full, bigoted hatred reached a boiling point as he considered the lousy trick fate had played on him. To have escaped, found his way across the Caddo, then to have fallen in with a lousy, stupid career officer who believed in conventions and outmoded codes of honor.
‘Him!’ the Volunteer screeched, throwing a glare of loathing at Dusty. ‘Who the hell cares what a lousy Secessionist peckerwood thinks?’
‘I care,’ Galbraith barked and turned his back on Gilbertson as he addressed the Confederate officer. ‘Captain Fog, I apologies on behalf of the United States Army and—’
Wild with rage, fear and near panic, Gilbertson slid the saber from its sheath. If he killed the Rebel officer, he would present Galbraith with a fait accompli. The Dragoon major would have to conceal the fact that the incident had happened, if only to preserve the honor of his sacred Union Army. With Gilbertson’s father so influential in New Hampstead affairs, General Buller could be counted on to prevent too close an inquiry into the matter. In fact, Buller would exert his authority as the commanding general in Arkansas to prevent any military disciplinary action being invoked against Gilbertson.
So the Volunteer believed that he had nothing to lose and everything to gain if he killed Dusty Fog. Having attended fencing classes in college, Gilbertson knew he could handle the saber well enough to dispatch an unarmed, unsuspecting victim; no matter how good the other might be when using a revolver.
‘He’ll tell nobody!’ Gilbertson screeched and sprang by Galbraith to launch a savage cut directed at the side of the small Texan’s neck.
Shouting the threat merely served to increase Dusty’s awareness of his peril. Watching the Volunteer, even while being addressed by Major Galbraith, Dusty had noticed the stealthy withdrawal of the saber. Nor did the young Texan need to strain his brain to follow Gilbertson’s line of reasoning.
What came as a surprise was the speed and precision of the Volunteer’s attack. For once in his life, Dusty had come close to making the mistake of underestimating the potential of an enemy. Nothing he had seen of Gilbertson during their short acquaintance caused Dusty to form a high opinion of the other’s military prowess. So the ability displayed by the Volunteer’s attack was completely unexpected.
Two things saved Dusty as Gilbertson leapt forward in a flèche attack. He had observed the preparations for it and he knew enough about fencing to establish in what manner his assailant meant to strike. Held in supination, with the back of the hand pointing towards the ground, the saber could only be used for a cut at the chest, abdomen, or side of the head. The second factor in saving Dusty was his own superb speed of reaction.
Knowing where the saber was aimed, Dusty threw his left leg outwards and bent his right knee. Ducking his head and lowering his torso, he sank below the sweeping thirty-six inch long blade.
There had not been a moment to spare. So close did Gilbertson come to success that the edge of his blade sliced into the upper part of the campaign hat’s crown and ripped it from Dusty’s head. Throwing himself aside, Dusty landed erect and facing his assailant.
‘Get set, Cap’n Dusty!’ Surtees bellowed. ‘I’m com—’
‘Stay back there!’ Dusty answered.
If the Dragoons saw his companion charging forward, without being sure of why, they might open fire. That would end any hope of retrieving Gilbertson and making him pay for his treachery. Fortunately Surtees had been a soldier long enough to take even an unpalatable order; and possessed sufficient faith to figure his captain could get out of the present difficulty without requiring help. So he made no attempt to start the horses moving.
Crouching side by side on the rim above the camp, Kiowa and Prince had watched Gilbertson launch his treacherous attack. With a moaning splutter of invective, the young recruit snatched up Surtees’ Enfield rifle and cradled the butt against his shoulder.
‘Quit that!’ ordered the sergeant, placing the palm of his left hand on to the rifle’s hammer and preventing his companion from cocking it. ‘You know what we was told to do.’
Before leaving the two soldiers, Dusty had given strict and definite orders. Under no circumstances were they to make their presence known to the Yankees. If the flag of truce should be violated, they must watch what happened; but remain concealed. Then they were to return at all speed and inform Ole Devil of Dusty’s fate. Producing Dusty’s gunbelt and Henry would be evidence that he had been unarmed at the time. The incident would be a powerful propaganda weapon for Ole Devil. So, much as doing it went against the grain, Kiowa aimed to carry out his captain’s orders.
‘The bastard’ll kill Cap’n Fog!’ Prince blazed, trying to tug the rifle free from Kiowa’s grasp.
‘Cap’n Dusty don’t kill that easy,’ the sergeant answered. ‘Which you’d be’s like to hit him as the Yankee from here, with a strange rifle. Look! That Dragoon major’s taking cards.’
‘Gilbertson!’ Galbraith bellowed, but he knew that no words could halt the wild-eyed, raging Volunteer.
Spluttering curses, Gilbertson charged at the unarmed Texan. Watching him draw near, Dusty noticed that the Volunteer’s hand was no longer in supination.
He must mean to try for another target! With the knuckles pointing downwards in pronation, any cut could best be directed to the opponent’s flank.
So it proved. Around flashed the saber, directed towards Dusty’s ribs. A leap to the rear carried the small Texan clear, then a rapid crouch downwards followed by a bound to the right took him beyond the reach of the backhand chop that came after the cut had ended.
Galbraith’s breath hissed through his teeth as he visualized the consequences of the treacherous attack. No matter how his people tried to hush it up, the story would come out. Very soon the whole world would know that a Yankee officer had broken his word and violated a flag of truce; and how an unarmed man had been vilely betrayed, then done to death.
The incident would reflect badly upon the integrity o
f the United States’ Army; bring disrepute to the 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons; and be damning in the extreme to Major Galbraith himself as the senior officer present and the man who had accepted the correctly-requested call for a truce.
There could be only one answer.
Stop Gilbertson!
To hell with the influence the Volunteer’s father might wield in New Hampstead, or in the Federal Congress. No matter how General Buller would react when learning of Galbraith’s actions. Whatever happened as a result of it, Gilbertson must be prevented from committing a cold-blooded, dastardly murder.
Watching Dusty as he started to draw his saber, Galbraith decided that the young Texan knew something of fencing. Both of his evasions had shown a knowledge of where the blows would be directed. Of course most wealthy young Southerners received instruction in handling saber or epee-de-combat. Galbraith’s every instinct told him that Captain Fog could hold his own against the Volunteer, given a chance to do so.
The problem facing Galbraith at that moment was how best to put Captain Fog in a position to defend himself. Flashing across his right hand, the Dragoon slid his saber from its sheath.
‘Here, Captain Fog!’ Galbraith yelled, spiking the point of the saber into the ground and, springing aside, left the weapon standing erect. ‘Take this and defend yourself.’
‘Blast him!’ Prince spat out, still trying to tear his rifle from Kiowa’s grip, ‘that Yankee major sure ain’t doing much.’
Seeing the major’s action, Gilbertson snarled and pressed forward his assault with vigor and determination. At Galbraith’s words, Dusty flickered a glance by his attacker.
Some distance separated the small Texan from the sword; which raised the question of how to reach it.
Returning his full attention to Gilbertson, Dusty sprang aside as the other rushed up. Although he did not like the idea, Dusty darted by the man and headed towards the Dragoon’s saber on the run. Swinging around, mouthing obscenities, Gilbertson gave chase. Striding out fast, the unencumbered Texan drew away from his assailant whose progress was not helped by slashing wicked cuts at his departing enemy.
