The Big Gun (Dusty Fog's Civil War Book 3)

by J. T. Edson

  It was the Parrot 30-Pounder rifled cannon. Eleven feet long, it weighted more than four tons and could throw a devastating shell more than two miles. It was a piece of pure Yankee hell...

  And now the Union troops were using the Big Gun to bombard Rebel forces along the Arkansas line. Only Yankees would think of toting the Big Gun around. And only Dusty Fog could put it out of service...

  THE BIG GUN

  DUSTY FOG’S CIVIL WAR 3

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Corgi Books in 1973

  Copyright © 1973, 2015 by J. T. Edson

  First Smashwords Edition: November 2015

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Our cover features The Very Forest Seemed to Fall, painted by Andy Thomas, and used by permission.

  Andy Thomas Artist, Carthage Missouri

  Andy is known for his action westerns and storytelling paintings and documenting historical events through history.

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges ~*~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  For Brian J. Barker, who looks like a young Brady Anchor

  Author’s Note

  While complete in itself, this book continues the story begun in You’re in Command Now, Mr. Fog

  Chapter One – I’m Going to Give You a Chance

  Grasping Conrad Blucher by the arms, Privates Block and Grilpan dragged him across the hall and into the dining room. As Mama Lukie turned from where she had been about to lower and extinguish the crystal chandelier, the burly, blue-clad soldiers flung their captive to the floor.

  ‘Massa Con—!’ the Negress began, her fat face showing alarm and concern.

  ‘Get the hell out of here, Mama!’ Block commanded and swung his heavy boot hard against Blucher’s ribs. ‘Stay put, you peckerwood i son-of-a-bitch. The major’s going to want to talk to you when he comes.’

  ‘What’s all this ab—?’ Mama Lukie commenced indignantly. ‘You can’t do things like that to Massa Con—’

  ‘You heard me, you old bitch!’ bawled the black-haired and bearded soldier, swinging towards the massive woman. ‘Get the hell out of here.’

  Throwing a glare which would have terrified practically every Negro in that part of Arkansas, Mama Lukie stalked with considerable majesty out of the room. The soldiers watched her go, grinning at each other, then turned their attention to the man on the floor.

  Dazed, his face bloody, Blucher crouched against the sidepiece and rubbed his ribs where the kick had landed. He was thickset, middle-sized and in his late forties. Going by his now rumpled suit, the shirt—from which the collar and cravat had been torn when he was captured—and Hersome gaiter boots, he was a fairly prosperous businessman of some kind.

  Still massaging his ribs, for the kick had not been light, Blucher looked about him. He saw most of the familiar sights which he might have expected on a visit to his old friend Eli Cable’s home. The long table, at which Blucher had frequently dined, was set for two people. Overhead, the chandelier, mate to the one which illuminated the entrance hall, was still throwing out its light. None of the pictures, furnishings, or other treasures of the room were missing. In fact, everything looked a neat and orderly as when Eli’s first wife or—after her death—young Harriet had run the household. That figured. Even if Eli’s second wife had not proven as efficient a house-manager as her predecessor, Mama Lukie and her husband Oscar—the family’s butler—could be counted on to maintain the expected high standards.

  The Yankees had neither looted nor despoiled Cable Grange, Blucher decided at the conclusion of his examination. Of course, going by what he had seen and heard from some of the Negro workers before he had been jumped by the sentries, the Union’s Army of Arkansas had good reason for holding on to the property. Possibly the officer in command of the detachment was a man of taste and wished to continue living in style.

  The sound of feet on the stairs, followed by a short conversation between Mama Lukie and an educated, if arrogant male, Northern voice, drove the thoughts from Blucher’s head. The Negress commenced a protest against the behavior of the sentries, but was halted by the man on the stairs and ordered to leave the rest of the work until morning. Then the footsteps continued across the hall, approaching the double doors of the dining room.

  The man who entered was tall, wide-shouldered and slim-waisted. Apart from an expression of hard arrogance, that a thin black moustache and tight lips tended to emphasize, he was very handsome. With his curly hair and excellent physique, he would catch the eye in any crowd and many women might find him attractive. He had on a white silk shirt, open to display a bare and hairy chest, skin-tight dark blue riding breeches with scarlet stripes down their outer seams, and Hessian boots. As he strode forward, he exhibited the posture of a horse-soldier, but the color of the breeches’ stripes implied that he belonged to the Union Army’s Artillery.

  ‘What’s all this, Block?’ the newcomer demanded brusquely.

  ‘We caught this peckerwood bastard sneaking around and talking to the blacks, sir,’ the bigger of the privates replied.

  ‘You did, huh?’ Major Kade F. Lyle purred, studying the disheveled civilian with no more interest and less compassion than a farmer might have displayed towards a worthless animal. ‘Stand up, man. What do you have to say for yourself, damn it?’

  ‘I—’ Blucher began, slowly easing himself on to his feet and standing with his back to the sidepiece.

  ‘You can start by telling me who you are,’ Lyle suggested icily, stroking at his moustache with the knuckle of his left forefinger.

  ‘My name is Conrad Blucher and I own the Perry County News—’

  ‘A Secessionist newspaperman, huh?’ Lyle sniffed and his tone implied that there could be nothing lower. ‘And what brought you out here on Nimrod Lake, newspaperman? Were you looking for a story of Union Army atrocities against helpless civilians, or spying for your cowardly Rebel soldiers who’ve run away and left you?’

  ‘Neither,’ the civilian answered once more fingering his ribs. ‘I came up the river to visit Eli Cable and his family.’

  ‘You came over twenty miles, just on a social call?’ Lyle sneered. His whole bearing was mocking and derisive, but under it was a very real menace and a suggestion of natural cruelty. ‘That was real neighborly of you.’

  Blucher looked warily from the major to the two privates. Their kepis, tunics and trousers bore evidence that they too were members of the Artillery; but there was a hard look about their surly features which was alarming. There was hostility and menace on the enlisted men’s faces, mingled with an eagerness to inflict pain.

  From what the newspaperman had seen in the workshop, the Yankees had good reason for wanting their affairs to remain a secret. However, unless he was no judge of character, all three of them would have had similar attitudes even if there had been nothing of importance happening.

  Ever since the sheer weight of numbers opposing the Confederate States’ Army of Arkansas and North Texas had forced it to withdraw to the south and west, there had been rumors of strange happenings in Cable Grange. Knowing something of Eli Cable’s experiments, Blucher had grown curious. So he had finally—and against his wife’
s advice—decided to visit the Grange and find out what, if anything, was taking place.

  Brought up the Fourche la Fave River by two Negro oarsmen, Blucher had studied the island upon which—at considerable expense—Eli Cable had built his home and workshop. Everything had appeared pretty much as usual; except for a pair of massive Vandenburg Volley guns which were positioned to sweep the sturdy bridge that connected the island with the northern shore of Lake Nimrod. There had been the usual boats drawn up above the water’s edge, but no sign of guards. While the comfortable houses of the Negro workers were mostly in darkness, there had been lights upstairs and down at the large, Colonial-style main building.

  Deciding against approaching the bridge, for its end was illuminated by fires blazing in basket-like iron cressets and the cabin close to it was clearly occupied, Blucher had landed on the south side of the island. At the workshop he had come across Cable’s foreman; a brawny, intelligent Negro called Beckett. Before the two Yankee soldiers had arrived and captured Blucher, using far more force than had been necessary, he had gathered a fair amount of alarming and distressing information.

  Somehow, from his scrutiny of the three soldiers’ expressions, Blucher did not think they would take kindly to learning the extent of his discoveries. Being a poker player of some proficiency, he tried to school his features into an innocent and disarming expression.

  ‘I’ve known the Cables for years,’ the civilian said. ‘And, as they haven’t been down to Perryville for some time, I thought I’d come along and find out if they were all right.’

  ‘And what made you think they wouldn’t be all right?’ Lyle challenged.

  ‘Nothing particularly,’ Blucher lied, yet with an air of telling the truth. ‘I just felt puzzled when none of the family came into Perryville for supplies or anything.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you come to the front of the island, instead of sneaking in the back way?’ the major demanded and his attitude implied that he had trapped his victim.

  ‘It’s easier—and safer—to land at the rear,’ Blucher countered, confident that he could prove the statement. ‘The river’s main channel comes by the front. As you know, there’s a fairly strong current and a steep bank on either side of the bridge. So everybody who comes by boat lands around the back.’

  ‘And your only intention was to visit your friends, the Cables, and make sure that they are all right?’ Lyle asked.

  ‘That’s all,’ the civilian confirmed and, once again, he had the appearance of complete honesty.

  ‘Then why did you go to the workshop instead of coming straight to the house?’ Lyle snapped.

  ‘I saw lights in it and went to see if Eli was working late,’ Blucher replied, deftly avoiding another trap. ‘He usually keeps a jug of corn there.’

  ‘You went inside?’ Lyle asked.

  ‘I didn’t need to,’ Blucher answered evasively. ‘Beckett came out. Your men attacked me before we could do more than greet each other.’

  ‘Well?’ Lyle growled, glancing at the soldiers.

  ‘They was talking outside when we catched him, major,’ Grilpan confirmed reluctantly. ‘But we don’t know how long he’d been there.’

  Watching the civilian during the conversation, Lyle had grown more angry at his failure to establish that the other was lying, or possessed knowledge of what was being done on the island. Yet Blucher may have seen the device in the workshop. In which case, he probably had sufficient imagination to assess its full potential. Possibly, too, the Negro foreman had given Blucher information on other matters which Lyle would have preferred to remain a secret.

  There was far too much at stake for Lyle to want word of his activities to reach the Confederate States’ Army. Although he had not taken an active part in the campaign, he had drawn conclusions from what he had heard when talking to other officers. The Rebels’ retreat had been more of a carefully planned and executed withdrawal than a rout, followed by a panic-stricken flight. So they might still be—in fact, probably were—a force to be reckoned with. He had too much respect for the raiding abilities of the Southrons’ Cavalry to want them to learn what he was doing.

  Nor, if it came to that, Lyle any wish for his superiors to make a premature discovery of his intentions. An ambitious, unscrupulous man, he meant to lay the foundations of a great and prosperous future upon the work he had in hand. So he felt disinclined to take chances. Especially when the prevention offered so few difficulties.

  All Lyle had to do was dispose of the intruder. He could have Blucher shot as a spy and doubted that ‘Cussing’ Culver would delve too deeply on receiving a report of the incident. The commanding general of the Army of Arkansas most probably would have too many other worries to be concerned about the death of an obscure Southron newspaper owner.

  The only thing left to decide was how to arrange the killing. An idea came to Lyle’s mind; one which would offer him some enjoyment and pleasure, as well as guarding against possible repercussions at a later date. He had no faith in the loyalty, or honesty, of his enlisted men. So, with an eye on his future, he did not intend to leave himself open to attempts at blackmail, or other pressures to remain silent regarding the incident. He must remove Blucher in a way that could not be turned against him in a few years’ time, when the hatreds of the War Between the States had died down, and which would also serve as a warning to the two privates that he was not a safe man to cross. Fortunately, he had everything available to do this. All that remained to do was for him to set the scene.

  ‘Do you know what I think you are?’ Lyle inquired, in a voice that was dripping with icy politeness.

  ‘What?’ Blucher said warily.

  ‘A liar,’ Lyle declared, spitting out each word deliberately. ‘A liar and a lousy, cowardly, sneaking Secessionist spy.’

  ‘Under the circumstances,’ Blucher gritted, angry despite himself, indicating the two soldiers, ‘it doesn’t take much courage to make such a statement.’

  ‘You mean to suggest that I wouldn’t have dared to say it if my men weren’t here to protect me?’ Lyle suggested, satisfied that his plan was working and the civilian had snapped at his bait.

  Suddenly, with a flash of intuition, Blucher had an inkling of what was happening. He had once seen a professional duelist provoking a challenge and the conversation had followed similar lines. There was, he realized, only one thing to do. Play along with the Yankee and hope for a chance to fight back.

  ‘I mean that I’m in no position to give you the only answer a gentleman knows for such an accusation,’ Blucher replied, forcing himself to remain calm. ‘If I wasn’t your prisoner, I wouldn’t be compelled to swallow your insults.’

  ‘You mean that you’d call me out under your famous Southron Code Duello?’ Lyle asked, the mocking expression growing more pronounced.

  ‘That’s just what I’d do,’ Blucher confirmed. ‘But I wonder if you’d have the guts to accept, Yankee?’

  ‘That is soon settled,’ Lyle declared and he could not hide the triumph that came with the words. ‘As the challenged party, I believe I have the choice of weapons?’

  ‘You do,’ the civilian conceded.

  ‘Then these are my terms,’ Lyle said. ‘We’ll face each other along the table, each with a revolver lying before us. At the count of three, we each pick it up and fire. Is that acceptable to you?’

  ‘It is,’ Blucher answered, doubting if he would be given any other choice even if he disagreed and, as far as he could see, the terms were fair enough. ‘I don’t have a revolver, but I expect you have the answer to that.’

  ‘I have,’ Lyle replied. ‘Block, go and fetch the pistol box from the dressing-table in my quarters.’

  ‘Yo!’ growled the bearded soldier and slouched out of the room.

  Silence dropped after Block had taken his departure. Lyle stood aloof, watching the civilian and hoping to detect some trace of fear or anxiety. In this he was disappointed, for Blucher was a man of considerable courage. Private Grilpan
was a morose, bitter man who rarely spoke and, anyway, knew that his superior did not encourage idle conversation with the enlisted men.

  For his part, Blucher spent the period of Block’s absence wondering what fate had in store for him. He knew that there was little hope of leaving the island alive. Having reconciled himself to that fact, he was grateful for the opportunity—no matter how slight—of being able to make a fight for his life before he was killed. While there was life, there was also hope. Perhaps he might survive and be able to carry a warning to the Confederate States’ Army of Arkansas and North Texas. He had no idea how they were faring, but believed that they might cease to retreat once they had crossed the Ouachita River. If so, they would be faced by the peril created from Eli Cable’s inventions.

  At that moment, Block returned carrying an oblong mahogany box which he placed on the table. Without speaking, Lyle walked over and raised the box’s lid. Following him, Blucher saw that it held two very fine English Tranter Army revolvers and their accessories. The weapons, .44 in caliber, had five and seven-eighth’s-inch long octagonal barrels, double-action mechanisms, no cocking spur on the hammers and straighter, less hand-fitting butts than those of an Army or Navy Colt. There were brass percussion caps on the nipples of the cylinders and the chambers which showed above the recessed bottom of the box had round lead balls, covered with a coating of grease to prevent the danger of a multiple discharge, in them.

  ‘Choose the one you want, they’re both equally lethal,’ Lyle said, almost politely. ‘Then Block will put it on the table for you. As you see, I don’t intend to take any unfair advantage.’

  ‘Neither will I,’ Blucher stated and indicated the upper weapon. ‘I’ll take that one.’

  ‘Let him see that all the chambers are loaded and capped, Block,’ Lyle ordered and, after that had been done, continued to Blucher. ‘Are you satisfied?’

  ‘I am,’ answered the civilian, for every chamber appeared to be in a firing condition.