The Big Gun (Dusty Fog's Civil War Book 3) (5 page)

‘
Stand
still, Owen, Stewart!’ the major growled at his lieutenants.
‘They’ve got us cold.’

‘
That’s being
real
sensible,’ First Lieutenant Charles William Henry
Blaze—whose fiery thatch of hair had earned him the nickname
‘Red’—drawled and turned his gaze to the startled civilians. ‘You
fellers’re newspapermen, I’d say. So you don’t want to get killed
before you can write
this
story. Which being the case, don’t make a
sound.’

‘
What
the hell do you want?’ Culver demanded, staying half-risen from his
chair.

‘
You,
general,’ Dusty replied and, suddenly, in some strange way, he
appeared to have grown. No longer did he look small, young and
insignificant; but seemed to be the biggest
man
present. ‘It’s
your
decision. Yell for help, make a fight
of it, and there’ll be a whole lot more than just you in here get
killed. Call the play wrong and you’ll lose another company of
Lancers.’

Although Culver had had a few
drinks, they were insufficient to dull his mind. So he was able to
understand the full implications of the situation. If he raised the
alarm, he would most likely die. Even if he survived and escaped
capture, the Lancers would be slaughtered as they came to
investigate. There was nothing more sure than that. Young as
that
big
blond Texan might be, he was a menacing, commanding figure.
Culver could not detect the slightest hesitation, weakness or lack
of resolution about him.

Faced with the choice between capture and
practically certain death if he attempted to resist, the general
thought fast. His career was already under a cloud, due to his
failure to prevent the Rebels from reaching safety with all their
supplies, equipment and other material. There was to be a court of
inquiry into the affair, from which he would be highly unlikely to
escape with an unblemished reputation. Perhaps, provided he handled
things properly, being captured would give him a way out of his
difficulties. It would not help his Army career, of course, but he
was thinking of his future as a politician after the War.

‘
What
will you do to my escort if I yield to your demands?’ Culver asked,
with none of his usual profanity.

Although the general addressed
the words to Dusty Fog, who was studying him with level
gray eyes and an
impassive face, they were heard by the three newspapermen. Culver
was unable to resist darting a quick glance at them, hoping to see
a favorable reaction. They seemed interested, but he could not be
sure what other emotions he had unleashed by his
question.

‘
Not a
thing, unless we’re driven to it,’ Dusty promised. ‘I can’t say how
bad hurt your sentries are, but we don’t want to kill without
reason. So we’ll take their horses, to make sure they can’t follow
us. But that’s as far as it’ll go on our side.’

‘
Our
horses,
’
growled the Lancers’ second lieutenant, tensing.
‘Like—’

‘
Stay
put, feller!’ Red Blaze advised, thrusting forward his right hand
Colt. ‘Me and this old plow-handle out-rank you, so that’s an
order. Anyway, losing the horses’s better than losing all your men.
Some of our fellers’re toting scatter-guns and they’re surely
evil.’

‘
Don’t
make trouble, Stewart!’ commanded the major, face red with anger
and humiliation. ‘We’re licked!’

While speaking, the major watched the three
Texans. He saw nothing to give him hope or comfort. Despite his
appearance, that lanky sergeant major handled the two Colts in a
skilled manner. If the rest of the Company were equally able, his
men would not stand a chance. So, much as he hated to do it, he
continued to yield to the inevitable.

‘
You’re sure that nothing worse will happen to the Lancers?’
Culver asked, being determined to instill a sense of his concern
over the enlisted men’s welfare in the civilians’
memories.

‘
You’ve got my word on it, sir,’ Dusty declared, guessing
what the general was trying to do.

‘
Then
I’ll go with you and save their lives,’ Culver stated and wondered
if he should insert a comment to the newspapermen regarding the
advisability of such a decision.

After a
moment
’s
thought, Culver concluded that he had said enough. His words would
read very well, when they were reported in the newspapers. Instead
of being labeled as the general who failed to make good on his
boasts, people would think of him as the noble, gallant officer who
had
been
willing to sacrifice his freedom to prevent his soldiers from being
killed.

Suddenly Culver became aware of
the Rebel captain
’s scrutiny. There was a faint smile on the young blond’s
lips. With the sickening force of a kick in the stomach, the
general became uncomfortably suspicious that his line of thought
was known to his captor.

That was truer than Culver
imagined. On learning of Culver
’s presence with the three civilians,
Dusty had guessed what was behind it. So he had taken that aspect
into consideration when making his arrangements. He had gambled on
Culver, faced with the consequences of failure, being willing to
gain some acclaim if given the chance. From what had happened,
Dusty’s summation was correct. However, he refused to let a sense
of triumph make him careless.

‘
Lie
face down on the floor, gentlemen,’ the small Texan said,
indicating the lieutenants.

‘
Do
it!’ the major gritted when his subordinates showed an inclination
towards refusal.

‘
And
you’d best come to the door of the tent, major,’ Dusty suggested,
as his order was obeyed. ‘I want you to call out your guard
commander and see that anybody else who shows knows what’s
happening.’

‘
All
right,’ the major sighed, watching his captor for any hint of
carelessness and failing to find it.

While Dusty supervised the
major, standing just too far away for there to be any danger of
being tackled by him, Sergeant Major Billy Jack backed to the torn
wall of the tent. At his signal, three enlisted men entered. They
were told to disarm the lieutenants, then gather up
Culver
’s
travelling gear.

‘
You
gents stay peaceable and you’ll not get hurt,’ Red told the
newspapermen.

‘
Count
on us for that,’ declared one of the trio. ‘Like you said, I’d hate
to get killed before I’ve written
this
story.’

‘
Talking about the story,’ the second newspaperman went on,
‘what’s your captain’s name?’

‘
It’s
Dusty Fog,’ Red replied, full of pride in his cousin’s success.
‘Likely you’ll be hearing it plenty from now on.’

General Jackson Baines Hardin
had the tanned,
lean and hardy look of born fighting man. Black haired, just
touched with gray at the temples, his face had a slightly
Mephistophelian aspect which partly accounted for his sobriquet,
‘Ole Devil’. He was a complete contrast to his captured counterpart
in the Union Army. There was none of Culver’s bombast and profanity
in Ole Devil’s bearing or speech. Intelligent, morally and
physically courageous, capable, tolerant and understanding—if
inclined to be harsh and ruthless when confronted by stupidity or
inefficiency—he had the saving graces of breeding, modesty and a
sense of humor.

The men of the Confederate
States
’ Army
of Arkansas and North Texas admired, respected and trusted Ole
Devil, although he had but recently assumed command. It had been
due to his excellent planning and superb leadership that they had
completed their successful withdrawal to south of the Ouachita
River.

Standing on the
judge
’s
rostrum, with his feet spread slightly apart, Ole Devil presented a
commanding, imposing figure. In a subtle way he was paying tribute
to the quality of his audience by having taken special care with
his appearance.

A white Jeff Davis campaign hat
rested squarely on his head. He had fastened back the lapels of his
cadet-
gray,
double-breasted full dress coat to the top button in each row of
eight which narrowed from four inches apart to three inches at the
bottom. That exposed his white shirt’s collar and a black silk
cravat fastened in the fashion of a bow tie. The stand-up
collar—bearing the three gold stars encircled by a laurel wreath
insignia of his rank—the cuffs of his sleeves and fringed
waist-sash were of cavalry yellow. His ‘chicken guts’ were formed
from four strands of gold braid, being further indications of his
status as were the two strips of gold braid—5,’8” wide and 1,’8”
apart—along the outer seams of his riding breeches. Over the
waist-sash was buckled a well-polished black weapon belt that
supported a horse-soldier’s saber at the left and had a revolver
holstered butt forward on the right. Highly shone Hessian boots,
with glittering spurs on their heels, completed his smart
uniform.

Despite its proximity to the
enemy, the
courthouse at Arkadelphia—seat of Clark County,
Arkansas—was crowded with gray-uniformed officers. It was possible
to distinguish in which branch of the service they were employed by
the color of their collars, cuffs, trousers’ stripes and, where
applicable, the tops of their kepis. Infantry, blue; Artillery,
red; Cavalry, yellow; Medical, black; Engineers and Staff;
buff.

Occupying the front row of
seats were the colonels and lieutenant colonels who commanded Ole
Devil
’s
regiments. Their exact status could be established most easily by
respectively three, or two, gold stars on their collars. Majors
showed only one star, but their sleeves also carried triple gold
braid Austrian knots to show that they held field rank. Next came
the majors and senior captains; the leaders of the companies or
batteries in the colonels’ outfits.

Slowly Ole Devil swept his gaze around the
room, reading interest, speculation and anticipation in every face.
Probably they had already guessed at his reason for gathering them
together and were eagerly waiting to discover exactly what the
future held in store for them. His news would surprise many, please
some but disappoint others.

The general had known several
of the men present before he had assumed command of the Army of
Arkansas and North Texas and all had served him well during the
withdrawal
.
Through their efforts, it had been a planned retirement and not a
rout followed by an undisciplined flight
for safety. Having spent the past
seven days in organizing their new defensive positions, he was
taking the earliest possibility to warn them of the kind of
conditions they would soon be facing.

‘
Well,
gentlemen,’ Ole Devil said, in tones that carried to every corner
of the room. ‘Firstly, I want to say—which will probably be a cause
for relief to some of you—that I don’t intend to make such
gatherings a regular habit. We’ll leave mass councils of war,
complete with long, flowing bursts of oratory, to whoever is sent
to replace General Culver.’

There was a burst of laughter.
Before his capture, General
‘Cussing’ Culver had gained a name for frequently
assembling every available officer—not merely those commanding
regiments and companies or batteries—and indulging in long, verbose
speeches as he explained his future policies.

‘
However,’ Ole Devil went on, when silence had returned, ‘I
felt that, on this occasion, I should bring you all together and
explain the situation. We have crossed the Ouachita and the work of
consolidating our positions is well in hand. As most, if not all,
of you have guessed, this is as far as we go.’

A low rumble of satisfaction
rose from the assembled officers. Looking at the rows of faces, Ole
Devil saw no evidence of defeat or disillusionment despite the fact
that they had withdrawn from the State
’s capital and left much of Arkansas
in the Yankees’ hands.

‘
How
soon will we be taking the offensive, sir?’ asked the tall,
handsome, debonair Colonel Beauregard Gaylord; who had financed,
recruited and trained his own cavalry regiment, Gaylord’s Dare
Devils.

‘
We
will not, at this time, be taking the offensive, gentlemen,’ Ole
Devil warned

‘
Will
we after we’ve been reinforced, sir?’ Colonel Harvey Barnett of the
1st Arkansas Rifle Regiment wanted to know.

‘
That’s one of the things I wanted to explain,’ Ole Devil
said soberly. ‘We aren’t going to be reinforced. From now on, we
will have to rely upon men recruited in Arkansas and Texas to keep
our regiments up to strength.’

‘
In
that case, how can we hope to regain the land we’ve given up?’
Barnett demanded, in a polite, respectful manner, and several of
his regiment’s officers muttered their agreement.