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

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.

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

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.