Under the Stars and Bars (10 page)

‘It’d be best,’ Red agreed. Then, as they rode at the head of the Company’s four-abreast column in the wake of the herd of captured horses, he went on, ‘Reckon Uncle Devil can find use for even a bunch of Yankee crow-bait, Cousin Dusty.’

Red had the Texan’s inborn contempt for the lack of horse-savvy shown by the majority of Yankees who opposed them.

‘Likely,’ Dusty replied. ‘He’ll be pleased to get them.’

‘Pleased enough to give us a furlough?’ Red suggested, but he did not sound too hopeful.

‘Maybe,’ Dusty grinned. ‘Only it’s more likely he’ll have something else in mind for us when we get back.’

* * *

General Jackson Baines Hardin, better known as ‘Ole Devil’, scowled at the sheet of paper in his hand. Considering that he held an official communication from an important member of the Confederate States’ Government, his whole attitude was anything but polite, impressed or respectful.

There was always something sardonic, devilish even, in Ole Devil’s sharp-featured, tanned face and black eyes. It told of a temperament fiery, explosive, hard-as-nails, but with the saving grace of understanding human nature and possessing a sense of humour. Tall, ramrod-straight, his lean figure was ideally set off by the uniform of a Confederate States’ Army’s major general. No martinet or blind disciplinarian, he was held in the greatest respect and admiration by the man who served under him.

Since assuming command of the Confederate’s Army of Arkansas and North Texas, Ole Devil had halted the Yankee’s formerly triumphant advance across the Toothpick State and ended the Union’s hopes of invading Northern Texas. In the opinion of many expert observers, if the South had been able to supply him with more men, arms and equipment, he might have thrown the superiorly-numbered Union forces into retreat and pushed them out of Arkansas. As it was, he held the lands west of the Ouachita and Caddo Rivers, compelling the North to retain numbers of troops on the eastern banks who might otherwise have been diverted to more profitable battle-fronts.

By skilfully deploying and manipulating his limited manpower, Ole Devil not only held his ground, but struck hard, telling blows at his enemies. Under his command, he had fewer regiments than those available to his Union opposite number. However, his soldiers had a higher morale and showed a greater determination in action. That could be accounted for by the fact that they were predominantly Texans or Arkansans, fighting to protect, or regain their home States.

While Ole Devil’s infantry held the banks of the Ouachita River and its tributary, the Caddo, his cavalry crossed to raid, harass or destroy the Federal Army’s personnel and supplies. For the most part native Texans, his cavalrymen had been born and raised in a land where a horse was no mere means of transport, but a vital necessity to life. Taught early to handle weapons and ride, trained by fighting against Mexican
bandidos
, bad whites, or hostile Indians, his Texans were well-suited to the Napoleonic art of making war support war. The Lone Star State fed, clothed and mounted them, but they relied upon the Yankees to produce their specialised military requirements. At a conservative estimate, three-quarters of Ole Devil’s command carried Union-manufactured weapons and fired Northern-made ammunition at their Federal enemies.

All in all, the Confederate States’ Government had good reason to feel satisfied with Ole Devil’s handling of the Army of Arkansas and North Texas. Yet there were times when his superiors annoyed and exasperated him. He not only had to retain control of the west side of the boundary rivers with little more than their moral support, but occasionally they passed to him the damnedest requests or instructions.

Coming to his feet, Ole Devil glared across the desk at the man who had delivered the message. They were in what had been the library of a fine old colonial-style house on the outskirts of Prescott. Presented by its owner as a combined headquarters for the general and the Texas Light Cavalry, the building and especially Ole Devil’s office had been as carefully maintained as while in its owner’s hands. There was a kind of spartan comfort about the room which suited Ole Devil’s personality and particularly matched his present mood.

‘Have you read this blasted thing, Beau?’ Ole Devil demanded, waving the document angrily.

Major Beauregard Amesley could hardly have avoided doing so. Before the War, he had been a fencing master with a justly-renowned
salle des armes
in New Orleans. He had been wounded early in the conflict between North and South and left with a permanent limp that precluded further active service. So he had accepted the post as Ole Devil’s aide-de-camp. In addition to handling the general’s affairs, Amesley also gave fencing instruction to the young officers of the Texas Light Cavalry and they in turn occasionally put his lessons to good use.

‘I have, sir,’ Amesley admitted, then stood like a man waiting for an explosion to take place.

The wait was not prolonged. Cutting loose with a furious blast of a snort, Ole Devil flung the offending paper on to the desk.

‘So I’ve got to release this Captain Bertram Gilbertson, of the New Hampstead Volunteers, have him escorted from Murfreesboro to the Snake Ford of the Caddo and there exchange him for Captain Charles de Malvoisin.’

‘You know why, sir.’

‘I know why!’ Ole Devil confirmed grimly. ‘Young de Malvoisin had to be clever and cross the Ouachita on an unofficial raid, then got himself captured. Now we have to arrange for him to be set free. If his men hadn’t escaped, I’d say to hell with him. God blast all hot-headed young French Creoles. I should never have let him into my command.’

‘His father’s not without influence in our Government, sir,’ Amesley pointed out in a placatory manner.

‘Influence!’ Ole Devil spat out the word as if it burned his mouth. ‘What the Southern States need, Beau, is more cooperation and coordination and a whole heap less influence. Well, damn it, I suppose we’ll have to waste men and time to effect this infernal exchange.’

‘The order stresses the extreme urgency of making it, sir,’ Amesley said.

‘That’s probably so that young de Malvoisin can be on hand to attend his sister’s birthday ball,’ the general sniffed. ‘Do you know anything about this Gilbertson, Beau? Are we getting a fair trade?’

‘I’m not sure, sir,’ admitted Amesley. ‘His name doesn’t mean anything to me but the New Hampstead Volunteers aren’t the best outfit Buller’s got. Even if he did put up most of the money to organise and equip it.’

‘If Gilbertson’s got two legs, two arms, a pair of eyes and ears that work, the Yankees are getting the best of the deal,’ Ole Devil rumbled. ‘Who can I send to handle the exchange?’

‘Gilbertson has the right to expect an officer of equal rank as his escort, sir. It’s military courtesy and a convention of war.’

‘If that’s supposed to be a comfort to me, Beau, believe me, it isn’t one.’

‘No, sir,’ Amesley replied. ‘Company “C” came in last night.’

‘I saw Dustine’s report,’ Ole Devil answered. ‘It hardly seems fair to give him the chore, he did so well. Still, it ought to be straightforward enough. A furlough even, although I don’t suppose he’ll think of it that way.’ Grinning frostily, he raised his voice in a bellow. ‘Sergeant major! Give Captain Fog my compliments and tell him I want to see him as soon as convenient; whether it’s convenient or not.’

* * *

Gripping the knife so that its long blade extended below the heel of his hand, the big man rushed at Dusty Fog. Up whipped the man’s right arm, then it propelled the weapon downwards in the direction of the small Texan’s shoulder. Throwing up his hands, Dusty crossed his wrists and interposed them between himself and the knife.

Descending into the upper section of the X-shape formed by Dusty’s arms, the man’s wrist came to a halt before the knife could reach its collar-bone target. Transferring his left hand rapidly to the man’s right wrist, Dusty laid his thumb along the back of the knife-hand. Advancing a pace towards his attacker, Dusty curled his right arm underneath and behind the raised elbow to fold its fingers over the inside of the trapped hand. All the time, Dusty continued to move his feet. He stopped alongside and facing towards the man’s rear, elevating the ensnared arm. Delivering a swift stamping kick to the back of his assailant’s right knee, Dusty tumbled him to the straw-covered floor of the big barn. Immediately on feeling the other going down, Dusty released the arm to avoid injuring him.

Excited and interested comments rose from the assembled soldiers. A dozen recently-enlisted recruits, they were undergoing the final stages of their training before joining the Texas Light Cavalry’s Companies. The demonstration of unarmed self-defence had been put on at the request of the big, burly sergeant who sprawled at Dusty’s feet.

‘You all right, Ditch?’ Dusty inquired.

‘Sure, cap’n,’ the sergeant replied, rising and retrieving the blunt knife.

‘That’s what I figure’s the best way to handle a feller using a knife Indian fashion,’ Dusty told the recruits, ‘Don’t try to grab at and catch hold of the arm. If you miss it, you’re dead. Cross your Wrists and block his hand, then do it like I did. Only do it fast— You’ve got something to say, soldier?’

One of the recruits was a tall, well-made youngster slightly less than Dusty’s age. Handsome, black-haired, he had an air of cocky self-assurance. While the small Texan had been speaking, he muttered to his companions.

‘That’s
bueno
when you’re facing Injuns,’ the recruit answered, showing no embarrassment at being singled out. ‘Only it wouldn’t work so good happen you come up again’ a greaser or somebody’s knows how to handle a knife properly.’

Looking the speaker over, Dusty silenced the sergeant’s angry rumble. All too well Dusty knew Tracey Prince’s kind. Full of notions about the extent of their own salty toughness, they frequently needed convincing that the small captain held his rank by something more than being Ole Devil Hardin’s nephew. Dusty had always found that a practical demonstration worked far better than words.

‘I’m not sure how you mean, soldier,’ Dusty said quietly, in a tone that would have screamed warnings to any member of Company ‘C’, ‘Give him the knife, sergeant. Then he can show us what it’s all about.’

‘Yo!’ answered Ditch, offering Prince the knife hilt first and eyeing the recruit in a pitying manner.

The sergeant’s attitude went unnoticed by Prince. Flickering a grin at his companions, the recruit accepted the training weapon and stepped into the centre of the open space. He held the hilt so that the blade protruded ahead of his right thumb and forefinger. Crouching slightly and showing that he had picked up some skill in the use of a fighting knife, he suddenly assailed Dusty with a series of rapidly-executed slashes and jabs. None came close to connecting with the fast-moving captain. Nor, at first, did Dusty attempt to disarm his attacker. Instead he contented himself with evasive tactics, side-stepping, twisting away, ducking beneath or bounding clear of the weapon.

Hearing his companions’ sniggers combined with his repeated failures to infuriate Prince. Letting out an exasperated snort, he tossed the knife from his right hand and caught it in the left. Executing the exchange with smooth precision, he drove his weapon into a savage thrust directed at his unsuspecting victim’s midriff.

Unfortunately for Prince, his ‘victim’ was anything but unsuspecting.

Swinging his left foot to the rear, Dusty pivoted his torso away from the advancing blade. As the knife rushed past him, carried onwards by the impetus of Prince’s lunge, Dusty whipped up his right arm. Striking beneath Prince’s right forearm, Dusty forced it into the air. Then the small Texan’s left hand flashed across to grip Prince’s raised wrist. Bending his right elbow, Dusty removed his blocking arm and carried it in front of his chest. From there, he lashed the heel of his clenched fist into the soldier’s solar plexus.

Breath exploded from Prince’s lungs, for the blow had not been a light one. The knife clattered to the floor as he clutched at the stricken area and doubled over. Releasing the trapped wrist, Dusty caught the discomforted Prince by the scruff of the neck and gave a sharp heave. Flung bodily across the barn, the recruit landed on his hands and knees in an empty stall.

‘Now I’d say that’s a tolerable fair way of handling a feller who uses his knife like a greaser,’ Sergeant Ditch announced and the other recruits laughed.

At that moment, the regimental sergeant major arrived and delivered Ole Devil’s message verbatim.

‘I reckon it’s convenient now,’ Dusty grinned, collecting his gunbelt from the wall of a stall and buckling it on. ‘How many of these fellers’re for me, Sergeant Ditch?’

‘Only three, cap’n,’ Ditch answered apologetically. ‘You don’t get your old hands killed off fast enough to need more.’

‘I’ll try to change that,’ Dusty promised. ‘If you think they’re ready, have them move their gear to my Company’s lines when they get through here.’

‘Yo!’ the sergeant replied. ‘Trouble being, I’m not sure one of ‘em’s ready yet a-whiles.’

Following the non-com’s sardonic glance to where Prince was climbing slowly to his feet, Dusty nodded agreement. However, one did not waste time gossiping when General Ole Devil Hardin said come as soon as convenient. Collecting his hat, Dusty left the barn with the sergeant major. Prince lurched from the stall and scowled at his companions, noticing the mocking grins on their faces.

‘I likes a feller’s quits when he’s ahead,’ Prince declared. ‘If—’

‘If Cap’n Fog’d been so minded,’ Ditch put in coldly, his patience wearing dangerously thin, ‘he’d’ve bust your arm, or your fool neck. You’ve maybe seen Tommy Okasi around headquarters?’

‘That Chinee runt’s works for Ole Devil?’ Prince replied. ‘Sure, I’ve seen him.’

Going by the recruit’s tone, he did not regard the sight as being worthy of interest or comment.

‘Tommy allows he ain’t no Chinee, but comes from some place name of Japan—wherever that be,’ Ditch elaborated. ‘No matter where he hails from, he knows some jim-dandy fighting tricks and he’s taught Cap’n Dusty all of ‘em.’

Although the claim tended slightly towards overstatement, none of the recruits felt like challenging it. They had just seen enough to warn them that Captain Dusty Fog possessed some out-of-the-ordinary knowledge and ability when it came to bare-handed fighting.

However, Ole Devil Hardin’s Oriental personal servant had not taught Dusty all his extensive repertoire of ‘jim-dandy fighting tricks’. He had, nevertheless passed on sufficient knowledge of ju-jitsu and karate—all but unknown at that period in the Western Hemisphere—for Dusty to possess a decided advantage when tangling with larger, heavier men.

‘Could be they ain’t so all-fired “jim-dandy” second time you go again’ ‘em,’ Prince muttered, wanting to avoid sounding impressed.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Ditch growled. ‘Nobody I’ve met’s been hawg-stupid enough to take a second whirl. Happen you feel so inclined, you’ll maybe get your chance. You, Berns ‘n’ Svenson can tote your gear across the Company ‘C’s’ lines as soon as you’re dismissed.’

‘Company ‘C’,’ repeated Prince, delighted to learn that he would soon be on active duty. Then the full significance of the words struck him. ‘Hey! That’s—’

‘Yeah,’ Sergeant Ditch finished for him with a malicious grin, ‘That’s Cap’n Fog’s Company.’