by J. T. Edson
‘Captain Fog,’ Dailey whooped in delight. ‘You’ve handled a sword before.’
‘I’ll confess I have,’ agreed Dusty, watching Montreigen all the time.
‘I seem to have under-called you, Captain,’ remarked Montreigen. ‘Suppose we try without the masks, it always bothers me.’
‘Any way you want, Major.’
Dusty dropped his eyes to the floor as he spoke. It was pure luck, or perhaps instinct that made him do so. What he saw warned him that another attempt on his life was planned, a subtler attempt than Packard’s way. Montreigen’s boot toe moved forward and pressed down as he lifted his rapier, pushing the protective button from the tip of the blade. Once more the rapier was a deadly weapon, not just a sporting implement. This was to be the next try at his life.
The smile stayed on Dusty’s face, but it did not reach his eyes any more. The prudent thing would be to point out that missing button, but it would tip Montreigen’s hand, warn him that Dusty was aware of the danger. The next try might be something less detectable.
It appeared General Buller wanted Dusty out of the way badly and that either he or his men were shrewd enough to know the fencing school would attract Dusty. If Packard’s try failed there was Montreigen ready on hand to make another attempt. The swarthy Volunteer major knew it would be easy to trick Dusty into a fight, or perhaps force a duel on him. This way was the safer, a friendly bout with the button-tipped rapiers, only there was an unfortunate accident. During the bout the tip must have slipped from Montreigen’s rapier. A fast pass, a thrust and Dusty Fog was down, dead or too badly wounded to give evidence at the court-martial. No one would be able to prove it was other than an accident. Montreigen must be one of Buller’s best and most trusted men to be taking such a chance.
Actually Montreigen was as close to Buller as any man ever got. He was a New Orleans dandy, down on his luck and always short of cash. He was also wanted for a murder in the old city and now worked for Buller, trying to instill the social graces into the General.
With this thought in mind Dusty did not mention his missing button. Montreigen would apologize about it and be free to try some other trick. It would be best to get it over with right now. The man was tricky, most likely a professional duelist, well versed in every dirty trick of the game but Dusty knew a trick or two himself. He watched the triumphant sneer on Montreigen’s face and adopted the correct stance. There were nudges and whispers among the watchers as the two men faced each other. A keen anticipation ran through the crowd, they expected a good show now for they knew how good Dusty was.
‘En garde!’
Montreigen immediately started a fast attack designed to prevent anyone seeing the missing button until it was too late. Dusty was compelled to concentrate entirely on defense for a time, fighting a savage protective battle to keep the lethal point from pricking his flesh. The sneer on Montreigen’s face broadened, his eyes gleamed. The reward General Buller offered to the man who put Captain Fog out of the way was as good as in his pocket.
The blades hissed and clashed and Montreigen was forced to slack off his fast but tiring attack. Instantly Dusty’s hands flickered and Montreigen found that he was no longer facing a right-handed fighter. The rapier was now in Dusty’s left hand, not just held in the left hand but handled completely left-handed. Dusty was transformed and the sudden change of styles threw Montreigen completely off-balance. In his time Montreigen had met left-handed fighters, but never one who could change from right to left in such a manner and so completely.
Dusty’s ambidextrous prowess stood him in good stead right now. Montreigen was confused by the sudden move and was unable to adjust himself to the change. Before the other man could set a defense against Dusty’s style a fast attack began. Dusty forced home his attack like lightning. His rapier tip seemed to encircle and wind around the other blade, then with a wrench Dusty tore the rapier from Montreigen’s hand, flipping it into the air. It came down point first and the crowd let out a concerted gasp as the rapier stuck in, quivering.
‘No button!’ Hamley growled, moving forward, suspicion showing plainly on his face.
‘An accident perhaps?’ Dusty inquired, face showing nothing of what he felt. ‘That so, Major Montreigen?’
‘A most regrettable accident,’ replied Montreigen.
Plucking out the rapier Dusty went and picked up the button, slipped it on the tip firmly, then handed it to Montreigen. Coolly Dusty dropped the tip of his own weapon and repeated the move Montreigen made, pushing the button from his weapon. He knew Montreigen was watching him. Then holding the un-buttoned, dangerous weapon in his hand Dusty looked at the other man, their eyes locking.
‘Try again, Major?’
There was no sound throughout the room as all eyes went to Montreigen. Not one of the watchers saw Dusty’s move and wondered what was behind the challenge. Of all of them only Montreigen knew. A bead of sweat trickled down his face and at last he shrugged.
‘No more for today, thank you.’
With that he walked to a side table, lay his rapier on it, picked up his coat and left the room. There was a moment of silence, then Dailey laughed and stepped forward.
‘I’ll try a few passes, Captain Fog,’ he said.
Dusty did not accept the challenge right away. He bent and picked up the button, then slipped it on to the tip of the rapier. The other men looked at each other and Hamley moved forward.
‘That happened twice,’ he growled.
‘Why sure,’ agreed Dusty. ‘Like Major Montreigen said, a most regrettable accident. I reckon we’d best try the training sabers, don’t you?’
With Montreigen out of the way Dusty relaxed and spent a most enjoyable afternoon in the fencing school. He proved to the others that he was as adept with the saber as he’d been with the rapier and by the time they broke up to dress for dinner he’d made many friends.
The entire situation was bizarre, Dusty realized as he washed and dressed for dinner. He was in the presence of his enemies, yet these men were also his friends. They’d played at fighting all afternoon and the next time they met there might be no play, but just deadly earnest fighting. Yet neither they nor he felt the slightest animosity towards each other. The feeling was one of mutual respect, for they saw in him a master of their trade and he saw them as brave and good soldiers who were relaxing before going out to perform their duty.
The dinner was a lively meal, the talk ranged from horses to the comparative merits of the Colt Army and Dragoon revolvers. It was much the same as the conversation in any Confederate mess, the small talk of soldiers. Dusty felt relaxed and at home in the company and even though his uniform was of a different color he was one of the men at heart.
The subject of the missing rapier button was not mentioned until just before he and Major Hamley turned in for the night. The Major was sitting on the edge of his bed, stripping off his shirt, when he looked at Dusty.
‘Do you think Montreigen losing the tip was an accident?’ he asked.
Dusty’s eyes were mocking. ‘Don’t you?’
Hamley did not reply for a moment. Then he grunted, ‘Buller’s taking a big chance pulling a deal like that. I know who signed that letter to you, so does he. They’d break him in a moment if they thought he’d—’ The words tailed off as Hamley saw he was saying too much. ‘The Union Army’s not behind any of this.’
‘I know that,’ replied Dusty. ‘Don’t worry, none of this will get back to my people. I’d like to see Buller though.’
Hamley smiled. He could guess that any meeting Dusty Fog had with General Buller was likely to prove dangerous, if not fatal, for the General had almost wished such a meeting could be arranged. Hamley was a career officer and had no time for men like Buller who were using the sacred ranks of the Army to forward their own ambitions.
Dusty removed his skirtless tunic and hung it over the back of a chair. The tunic had been the subject for a lengthy and heated discussion in the Mess after the meal. The Union of
ficers were unable to decide if it was a good thing or not. Dusty was satisfied that the uniform was the best possible for casual wear and so wore it.
He made no more mention of the two attempts on his life, for he did not wish to embarrass Hamley. The Major was acting as his host and Dusty did not wish to ask any leading questions which might put Hamley in the position of having to criticize a superior officer. They both knew who was behind the attempts and why they were being tried, so did not need to discuss them. For all that Dusty got the idea, from odd scraps of conversation, that Buller was far from being liked or respected by the other members of the Union Army. He also got the feeling there would be considerable relief in certain high-up Army circles if Buller’s teeth were permanently drawn. Dusty promised himself that if the chance presented he would personally attend to the teeth drawing.
‘I hope Billy Jack and Unwin’re all right,’ he remarked as he climbed into bed and lifted the Army Colt from his left holster.
‘They are,’ Hamley replied, laying his gun on the chair by his bed. ‘I went to check just before we came up here. They were playing poker with the sergeant-major and most of the top three bars.’
Dusty felt relieved. Billy Jack, despite his appearance, was no fool. He was a fast thinking and acting, intelligent man, and a fighting man from soda to hock. A product of the Texas range country, Billy Jack cut his teeth on the butt of a Walker Colt and grew up fighting bad Mexicans or Indians. The end result was a man who was well able to take care of himself and Billy Jack could do just that. He was not the sort to be easily forced into a fight, or provoked into anything rash. If he was pushed into a corner he could take care of himself. Dusty doubted if Buller’s men would bother with Billy Jack until Dusty himself was safely out of the way. The two Confederate soldiers were safe as long as Dusty was alive—and he intended to stay alive for a long time.
‘Did you hear about the Packard hombre?’ Dusty inquired just before Hamley put out the light.
‘Yes,’ replied Hamley, looking at Dusty with some interest. ‘His skull’s fractured and he’ll never be the same again. How did you manage to throw him like that? I’ve never seen a trick like it.’
Dusty laughed. The tricks Tommy Okasi taught him often affected people the same way, for it would be many years before the secrets of ju-jitsu and karate were widely known in the Western world.
‘It’s a wrestling trick I learned from a good friend. Reckon it works.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Hamley, blowing out the lamp. ‘I reckon it does.’
With that they settled down to sleep. Dusty pulled the sheets and blankets up and lay on his side, facing the door, his gun in his hand. Even in sleep he must be prepared for a further treacherous attack from the hirelings of the evil man he was going against. Just before he went to sleep Dusty wondered how General Buller was going to take the news that two attempts at removing him failed and that one of Buller’s picked men was now in hospital, badly injured.
Chapter Three
The Court House of Moshogen Town was solemn and foreboding as Dusty waited to give his evidence the following morning. The main courtroom presented a grim scene, which not even the blue uniforms of the assembled army officers, the glinting, shiny hilts of their swords, the high polish to their buttons could dispel. The usual Sunday clothes of the town inhabitants, such as attended the court, were missing for once, the army having taken over.
Inside, at a long table, sat the five presiding officers, a Brigadier-General, two colonels and two majors from other Union Army units. There was also the law officer from the Judge Advocate’s Department, present to assist the board in any legal difficulty. Also from the department were the two counsels, Meadows for the prosecution, looking cold and hard as befitted a man about to break another; and Silvain for the defense, a thin, worried-looking man, knowing how little chance he had of getting Lieutenant Cogshill from this even with his life.
The young lieutenant stood rigid, trying to hold his face expressionless, but the strain was leaving its mark on him. He wore his best uniform, his sword belt with the sheathed sword, laying on a small table behind the President of the Court, Brigadier-General Chambers, a noted Cavalry and Indian fighting officer and an old friend of Ole Devil Hardin.
The court was silent as the charges were read out, they sounded damning in the extreme and every eye was on the straight-backed young officer who might soon be awaiting the firing squad. Due to Packard being incapacitated through an injury, as the prosecution counsel put it, his evidence would have to be read from his official report and sworn statement. It put the defense counsel in a spot as he’d hoped to cross-examine, but there was no chance of avoiding it for the post surgeon doubted if Packard would ever be able to talk or think rationally again, even if he recovered from his ‘accident’.
The evidence of Packard’s statement was damning in the extreme. It was also a pack of lies with just enough half-truths to make it hard to break. Buller’s own lawyer worked very hard to get such a strong and convincing story, but the end product justified the effort. On the strength of it and without any stout evidence to prove otherwise Cogshill was guilty of leaving his command in the face of the enemy, of failing to obey the orders given by his commanding officer.
Silvain’s face grew longer and more troubled as he listened to the evidence, for there was no chance of questioning the witness. Things looked bad for Cogshill and two enlisted men from the Volunteers did not help. They so obviously knew nothing at all about the business of their testimony that neither defense nor prosecution could make anything from them.
‘Call Captain Fog!’
Every eye was on the door of the room as it opened. There was a low rumble of talk checked instantly by the President of the Court. The men privileged to be in the courtroom looked at this small, immaculately dressed young man who entered. They all wondered if this could really be the Captain Dusty Fog of whom they’d heard so much. He looked young, very young, although he was every inch a soldier. For such an official occasion Dusty wore the correct uniform, skirted tunic of cadet gray, with buttons and gold dollar bars gleaming. The black sword belt with attached pistol holster, cap box and combustible-cartridge case, was polished to reflect the scene, the hilt of the Haiman saber glinting in the light. He was as smart as any Union Army man, his striker had seen to that.
Dusty halted in front of the table and saluted the court. The President looked up without showing any sign of recognition: ‘You are Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog, Texas Light Cavalry, Army of the Confederate States of America?’
‘I am, sir,’ Dusty answered and was sworn in.
‘Captain Fog,’ Meadows stepped forward as he spoke. ‘You led the raid on the Moshogen Bridge?’
‘No, sir. I commanded the troop. The actual attack on the bridge was made by my second-in-command, Lieutenant Blaze. I was on the other side of the river, in the woods and with my sergeant-major attended to the destruction of the bridge.’
‘You say you were on the other side of the river, Captain,’ barked Meadows in a tone which put fear into witnesses throughout the East. He indicated a well-drawn map of the area which was on a large blackboard to one side of the court. ‘I take it you mean you were concealed on the northern side.’
‘Yes, sir, in the woods.’
‘Was no search made of the woods then?’
‘No, sir. Lieutenant Cogshill suggested it, but the major refused, saying the Northern side was Union held country and was safe.’
‘I see,’ growled Meadows. ‘And you were within so close a distance that you could hear what was said—and still remained undetected? Come now, Captain Fog. Is that likely?’
‘It depends on how well the horses are trained. Our mounts are trained not to make any more noise than necessary. The wood offers good thick cover and we took extra care that our horses did not make any noise. It was an awkward moment when the Lieutenant suggested searching the woods.’
‘Didn’t you expect a search to be made?’
/>
‘One always expects as much luck as could normally be on the cards. I hoped there would be no search made.’
Meadows snorted. ‘And if a search had been made?’
‘That doesn’t come under the province of this court, Major Meadows,’ the President put in.
‘You have my reports of the attack, sir,’ Dusty said, as Meadows snorted once again. ‘Also the report made out by Lieutenant Blaze after the fight.’
The President was watching Dusty and holding down a smile. It hardly seemed more than a couple of weeks before that he’d stood in the church in Polveroso City and watched Dusty christened. The boy had grown into a soldier, such a man as the General wished was under his command.
‘Tell us in your own words what happened,’ Meadows ordered.
‘The Union troop crossed the river, but instead of forming up guards and taking their post they were lined up. At the same time I was moving towards the edge of the woods by the bridge ready to move as soon as Mr. Blaze drew the troop away. In accordance with the battle-plan I arranged, Mr. Blaze made his charge towards the bridge, then on being fired upon turned and pretended to run. The Union troop followed as I hoped they would, allowing myself and my sergeant-major time to blow up the bridge.’
The men were all professional soldiers here, with the exception of the few Volunteers who were present. None of the regulars needed any more explanation of the destruction of the bridge, they could guess how it was done.
‘Did Mr. Cogshill go with the troop?’ Meadows asked, leaning forward to give point and emphasis to the question.
‘He followed it.’
‘Did he obey the orders given by his superior officer—or didn’t you hear that part of it?’
‘What orders?’ Dusty answered. ‘The major appeared to panic—’
‘Object to that remark, demand it’s struck from the records!’ Meadows barked out the interruption savagely.
