by J. T. Edson
‘On what grounds?’ the President asked.
‘Major Buller’s actions are not under question.’
‘Confine yourself to answering the questions, Captain, not giving opinions,’ warned the President of the court.
‘Yes, sir. I heard no official military order given. Mr. Cogshill followed the troop up the slope.’
‘Followed!’ Meadows bellowed. ‘You say he followed the troop. He did not obey the orders given by Major Buller?’
‘What orders?’ Dusty came back evenly. ‘I could hear what was shouted with fair accuracy. There were no orders unless, “Shoot ’em” or “Get them”, class as orders in the Union Army.’
‘But Mr. Cogshill hesitated before following Major Buller, even in the absence of a formal command?’
‘He did. And so would I in his position. His place was to defend the bridge, not to be taken in by a worn-out old Kiowa trick that wouldn’t fool a green one-bar fresh out of Military Academy.’
‘We’re not here to establish what you would or wouldn’t do, Captain, nor to listen to your views on military tactics, profound though they may be. Confine yourself to answering the questions,’ Meadows snapped.
‘My apologies, sir,’ answered Dusty.
‘You said Mr. Cogshill hesitated before following his commanding officer?’
‘No, sir. I said he hesitated before leaving his place of duty.’
‘Don’t split hairs with me, Captain!’ roared Meadows. ‘You said hesitated.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thank you, Captain. What happened when Mr. Cogshill reached the top of the slope?’
‘Mr. Cogshill saw myself and my sergeant-major and came back to try—’
‘You mean he left his troop in the face of the enemy?’
‘To come back and try to prevent our blowing the bridge, sir.’
‘He turned tail from a fight and came back—’
‘Not exactly, sir,’ Dusty interrupted. ‘My troop was outnumbered by the Volunteers, he came back to face odds of two to one. Even when wounded in the shoulder he was trying to press home his attack. We were compelled to knock him from his horse before we could get clear of him.’
There was a rumble of talk through the court, instantly checked by the President. This was a far different sounding story to the one Parkard’s evidence implied and for the first time there was a gleam of hope on Silvain’s face.
For another half hour Meadows put Dusty through a grueling cross-examination but nothing could shake the story and at last Dusty was dismissed and Billy Jack called in. Meadows studied the miserable, slow looking Billy Jack and opened a savage onslaught on him, trying to tangle his evidence. That was where Meadows made his mistake and was met by a defense as stout as Dusty’s and just as unshakeable.
Hamley came towards Dusty, two tall men in foreign-looking uniforms following him. ‘Captain Fog,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to meet Colonel Sir Charles Houghton-Rand and Colonel Baron Ulrich von Dettmer.’
Dusty drew himself to a brace and shook hands with the two men. Houghton-Rand was a medium-sized, spare-looking man, tanned and hard looking, yet his mouth looked as if it would smile easily. Von Dettmer was tall, his hair cropped short, his face scarred with the saber cuts which told of his class. The two men appeared to be interested in Dusty’s tactics and they talked about cavalry matters until Billy Jack made his appearance followed by the men from the courtroom. Billy Jack’s was the last evidence and the court was cleared while the board considered the case and reached their decision.
Excusing himself, Dusty went to meet his sergeant major and wondered how Billy Jack could manage to look even more mournful at this time. Dusty wondered how the cross-examination went.
‘How’s it feel, Billy Jack?’
‘Fair,’ drawled the miserable one. ‘I won me two hundred dollars at poker last night. Got real lucky.’
‘Sure, real lucky,’ agreed Dusty. ‘There’s only one thing wrong that I can see.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s Union money, you can’t spend it when we get back.’ The two talked on, then separated and Dusty went to join a group of the Third Cavalry officers he’d met the previous night. They were silent and untalkative as they waited for the order to return to the courtroom. It was a grim and solemn business, waiting to see the result of the court and none of the men felt much like making small talk.
The court was recalled soon after the men trooped back into the courtroom. The President of the Court and the other officers were in their places, Cogshill once more standing before them. Before General Chambers, on the table, lay Cogshill’s sword, it would either be returned to him, or broken in the next few minutes. The young lieutenant stood rigid, trying to hold his face expressionless and immobile.
There was hardly a sound in the room. A man moved in his seat and there was a squeak which echoed loud in the unnatural silence. A man sniffed and it rang out like the bellow of a cannon. Then not even those sounds were heard as the President of the Court rose to his feet and cleared his throat.
‘Lieutenant William Kirby Cogshill,’ he said in a hard voice which told nothing of which way the verdict had gone. ‘It is the finding of this court that your actions at the Moshogen Bridge were correct and that you are to be exonerated from all blame. Also that all charges against you are proved false and will be struck from your record.’
With that the President of the Court lay Cogshill’s sword with the hilt facing towards him. The courtroom was suddenly full of noise. Men moved forward to gather around and congratulate Cogshill. He stood as if he did not believe his ears while his sword belt was buckled on. Then he turned and looked about him, his eyes went to the man who saved his life and he forced his way through the crowd towards Dusty Fog. Smiling shyly he held out his left hand to Dusty.
‘I can’t thank you enough for coming, Captain Fog,’ he said, and winced at the strength of Dusty’s grip. ‘I’m sorry I have to shake with my left hand, as you see my right is out of action.’ There was no bitterness in the way Cogshill spoke of the wound Dusty gave him and the warm smile robbed the words of any sting. He could feel no bitterness to the small, soft talking man who’d come, at considerable risk to his own life.
‘I hope you’ll soon be well, mister,’ replied Dusty. ‘I shouldn’t think a forty-four ball through the shoulder is a pleasant companion.’
Hamley came over, beaming with delight and congratulated the young officer, then turned to Dusty. ‘On behalf of the officers of the Third Cavalry I would like to offer an invitation to a regimental ball, Captain Fog. Your company will be much appreciated.’
‘When, sir? I have to get back to my own regiment.’
‘Tonight.’
‘Then thank you, sir. I’ll be pleased to accept,’ replied Dusty, for there was no chance of his getting back to the Confederate lines before morning. ‘And now I’d like to get into a more comfortable and sensible uniform.’
Hamley laughed, he’d been one of the chief objectors to the skirtless tunic in the previous night’s discussion. They walked away side by side followed by admiring glances from the junior officers of the Third Cavalry. Yet the admiration was not directed at the man in the Union blue uniform, but at the small man in cadet gray.
~*~
The big hall of the Third Cavalry headquarters was cleared of all signs of the fencing school, for the ball. The walls were decorated by the regiment’s flags, guidons and captured Confederate colors. The regimental band were on a raised dais, dressed in their best uniforms and looking unusually smart. The officers of the regiment were all in their best clothes and there was an exceptional smartness about their appearance, more so than an ordinary ball appeared to call for. The ladies of the regiment were all dressed in their best, as were the visitors, mostly officers from other regiments stationed nearby, but with a fair sprinkling of the upper class of Moshogen’s social set, the mayor and the bigger businessmen. It made a gay and brilliant scene, the dresses of the
women and the shining metalwork of the men.
For all of that there was an air of expectancy about the place. Dusty could feel it as he made his way among the officers, exchanging small talk with them. He could not make out what the excitement was all over, there did not appear to be anything unusual in the ball so far and the Third Cavalry were not so recently from the battlefront to make this their first ball for some time.
Dusty was no dancer, he could perform the steps but needed to be forced hard before he would do so. He much preferred to stand and watch the others, leaning on the bar, a drink in his hand, with the other bloods. He stood by the bar now, a mint julep in his left hand, a relaxed look on his face as he listened to the unmarried and unattached officers around him passing comments about their companions who were lucky enough to have female company.
It was much the same sort of scene as would be shown at any Texas Light Cavalry ball, only the color of the uniforms was different. The same groups formed, the same sort of action went on, even the same tunes were being played and around him the same laughing talk of things military, the exchange of stories, the ever-present chatter as the young bloods waited for a chance to dance.
Two men entered the big end doors of the room, although the party at the bar did not notice them. One was Montreigen, wearing his full uniform and looking even more mocking and handsome than ever. By his side stood a huge, bloatedly fat man in the uniform of a Brigadier-General. He was a fat man, but he was not happy fat, his face was somehow pig-like and there was a mean, vicious look about him. His eyes, small for so large a face, went slowly around the room and came to a halt on the small figure at the bar, the man in the cadet gray uniform. The fat man nudged Montreigen, who looked at the bar and nodded. Then the two started forward across the floor towards where Dusty Fog stood talking with a group which contained Colonel Cogshill and the two military observers.
It was unfortunate that Dusty was talking about the trick which drew the Volunteers from the bridge.
‘Well, I tell you, I’d never have tried it against regular soldiers. But I allowed the Volunteers likely hadn’t done any Indian fighting and they might fall for it—’
‘What’s this Confederate prisoner doing here?’
The roaring voice sounded over every other noise in the room. The band stopped playing and the talk all died away. Every eye went first to Dusty Fog, then to General Cornelius Buller. Dusty did not speak, he looked the big General up and down without any great interest.
Colonel Cogshill’s face darkened in sudden anger at this breach of etiquette, but he controlled his features and held his voice even as he replied:
‘Captain Fog is the invited guest of my regiment. He’s no prisoner, but here under Cartel—’
‘Cartel?’ Buller spat the word out coarsely. ‘You damned regulars think war’s a fool game. If he’s here in that uniform he’s a prisoner and I’ll thank you to have him disarmed, ready to be escorted to the nearest prison camp.’
‘Gentlemen!’ Cogshill’s one word cut like ice across the angry murmur which rolled up from his men. He was aware that the two foreign observers were trying to look away and avoid taking notice of Buller’s breach of good manners.
‘Get it done, Cogshill,’ Buller growled. ‘Or I’ll have Montreigen here do it for you.’
Montreigen’s face lost its supercilious sneer for an instant. He knew Dusty Fog would never give up his sword without a fight and Montreigen remembered the last time he crossed blades with the small Texan. The swarthy man was no brave when he failed to hold the advantage and he did not hold it now. He did not relish a fight with Dusty Fog, not when watched by hostile men who would prevent any unfair play.
Cogshill’s face was flushed red with suppressed rage. His honor, the honor of his regiment and his country was at stake here. He could not disobey a direct order given by a Brigadier-General, even one which should never have been made. On the other hand he could not bring himself to disarm this young Texan who came to give evidence which saved his son’s life. Cogshill knew that Grant or Sherman would never allow this and would release Dusty as soon as they heard, but the damage would have been done. There was the certainty that Buller did not intend to let Dusty reach the prison camp alive.
‘That’s an order, Colonel!’ Buller snarled, he’d learned early that rarely would a regular officer disobey a direct order.
‘Then I protest the order,’ Cogshill snapped back.
‘What order is being protested, gentlemen?’
The soft-spoken words brought the attention of every person in the room to the two new arrivals who stood at the door. One was a middle-sized, stocky, bearded man wearing the uniform of full General and whom Dusty recognized as U. S. Grant, General-in-Chief of the Union Army. The other man, the speaker, was a tall, thin, civilian. A man wearing a sober black suit, white shirt and a black tie. A man with a thin, intelligent bearded face. Dusty bit down an exclamation of surprise as he recognized the man from sketches and pictures he’d seen. It was President Abraham Lincoln, the supreme head of the Union. They came forward, Lincoln looking mild, but Grant was beard bristling with rage.
‘What order is being protested, gentlemen?’ Lincoln repeated as he came to the party at the bar.
‘General Buller wishes to take Captain Fog a prisoner, sir,’ Cogshill replied, stiffening to attention.
Lincoln ignored Grant’s angry grunt and turned to Buller. ‘A mistake, Cornelius?’ he asked. ‘You did not know how Captain Fog came to be here, I suppose.’
‘It was a mistake,’ growled Buller, making the only reply he could. He felt Grant’s eyes on him and knew his time in the Union Army was running out. His hate of Dusty Fog rose even higher.
Buller turned to the bar and snarled an order for a drink of whisky and Lincoln nodded to the others. The band started to play again and talk welled up, but it was more subdued. Some of the enjoyment was gone from the ball now and the men drew away from Buller, leaving him standing with Montreigen clear of the rest.
Dusty and the young officers started talking once more, the talk was slightly strained and he turned it to hunting. Then the men around him stiffened up and he found General Grant by his side.
‘Are you Ole Devil’s kin, Captain?’ he asked.
‘Nephew, sir.’
‘My compliments to him when you get back,’ Grant grunted, then saw the way Dusty was looking around the room. ‘Is something worrying you?’
‘Just wishing I’d a couple of troops of the Texas Light here now, sir.’
‘You don’t need protection, Captain,’ Grant sounded huffed at the implications of further danger to Dusty’s life.
‘I know that, sir,’ replied Dusty grinning broadly. ‘I was just thinking of the haul we could take back with us.’
Grant scowled at Dusty, then looked at the people in the room. Then threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Boy, when the War’s over there’ll be a place and commission in the Union Army for you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ answered Dusty. ‘There’s only one thing, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You haven’t won yet.’
For a moment Grant’s beard bristled and the men around Dusty prepared to duck, for the General-in-Chief was known to have a quick temper. Then a twinkle came into Grant’s eyes and he began to laugh. Repeating his request that Dusty greet Ole Devil for him Grant moved on to talk with the senior officers.
The ball went on, but with a more sober aspect, which was not entirely due to the presence of President Lincoln and General Grant. Buller was alone at the bar as Montreigen joined in the dancing. The big man drank whisky after whisky and his face grew more mean and vicious at every moment. Then as the band came to a stop at the end of a tune he raised his voice.
‘I want to give you a toast!’ he bellowed, raising his glass. ‘To the Union and the downfall of those lousy rebel traitors.’ There was a complete silence all over the room. Not a move from the crowd as every eye went to the sm
all man in the cadet gray uniform of the Confederate Army. Dusty did not move and his face never changed expression but he put his glass deliberately on the bar top. Then man after man put his glass down and Grant barked out:
‘There’s no call for that, Buller.’
‘Man’s a damned bore,’ Houghton-Rand said sotto voce, but it carried around the room.
Dusty made no move, but his face was hard and there was a tightness to his lips. A man who knew him would have warned Buller that the time was coming to hunt for the storm-shelters, for Dusty Fog was getting riled. For all that Dusty held himself in control, only the way his clenched right hand tapped against his side showed any sign of how he felt. He was pleased that his cousin Red was not along. Red Blaze would not have stood for Buller’s actions, he would have swung a fist.
The music started once more but the bandmaster was having trouble in keeping his musicians’ attention and the dancers were not more than half trying to keep up a festive appearance. The officers of the Third Cavalry were seething with rage and the general feeling among them was that Buller should have the door indicated to him and then be thrown through it.
Buller poured another drink down his throat and moved along the bar to stand before Dusty and look down at him.
‘So you’re this Captain Fog, are you?’ he snarled, the hate dripping from his whisky-loaded breath. ‘Just what I’d expect for a lousy corpse robbing rebel.’
Dusty’s cheeks showed two spots of color, but he held his voice. ‘I’m an officer of the Confederate States Army, sir, I’d like that remark explaining.’
‘My brother was carrying nearly two thousand dollars and a new Navy Colt. Neither were on his body when he was brought in.’
‘And you’re saying I took them?’ Dusty’s voice dropped to little more than a whisper.
‘That’s just what I’m saying.’
‘Mister, you’re a liar!’
Dusty’s right hand knocked the catch from his holster flap as he spoke, for in Texas no man used the word liar unless willing to back it with a Colt. Buller’s face went almost purple and his fist clenched. For a moment he thought of smashing his fist into the small Texan’s face, but even in the throes of whisky fury he was able to think sensibly. He remembered what happened to Packard, a man skilled in the fistic arts. If Packard did not stand a chance against the small Texan Buller knew just how much chance he would stand.
