Under the Stars and Bars (14 page)

* * *

If Prince had heard the two veterans’ words, they would have given him pleasure by their implication of acceptance into the elite ranks of Company ‘C’. However, at that moment the recruit had far too much on his mind to be interested in his companions’ good opinions of him. Crossing the path, the horses splashed into the water and moved steadily forward.

Ahead the woods still lay silent. The trees, bushes and grass looked no different to those which they had just left. For all that, Prince knew the woodland on the eastern bank was different.

Very, very different!

Menacingly and dangerously so!

To the rear were friends and comparative safety. Ahead of Prince and Dusty, the Yankees dominated the whole eastern side of the Caddo. Even now, blue-clad soldiers might be peering and leering along the barrels of Springfield rifles at the two intruders.

Prince ran the tip of his tongue across lips that suddenly felt dry.

‘Was you ever in Arkansas before the War, Tracey?’ Dusty inquired, without relaxing his vigilance.

‘N-Nope!’ Prince croaked, startled by hearing the small Texan’s voice rather than at the question.

‘Or me,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Seen a fair bit of it since the War started, though. Trouble is I’ve still not met Annie Breen.’

‘Huh?’ Prince gulped.

Although he had already started to make his name as a lady’s man, which would eventually be the cause of his death,
¹⁴
for once the mention of a woman brought little of Prince’s usual eager response.

‘According to the song, she lived out this way,’ Dusty elaborated. ‘Or was it from Kentucky?’

‘Wha—?’

‘How’s the song go,

‘
Come all you lads of Arkansas,

To you a tale I bring,

Of Annie Breen from old Kaintuck—
’

‘Hell, there’s no wonder I’ve never run across her.’ Swivelling his eyes from the bank ahead, Prince stared at the small Texan for a moment. It seemed impossible that an experienced soldier, riding into possible danger, could think about the words of a folk-song.

The force of the current’s thrust compelled Prince to return his attention to the horse between his legs. However, underfoot the firm gravel of the river’s bed offered a safe footing and the animals found little difficulty in wading. Returning his gaze hurriedly to the eastern shore, Prince stiffened in his saddle.

Was that a rifle’s barrel, black and evil-looking, thrusting its way out of a clump of dogwood bushes?

‘Anyways,’ Dusty’s voice came quiet and unconcernedly to Prince’s ears. ‘I don’t reckon it’d be worth meeting her now. That song was written back in the ‘forties. She’d be a heap too old for either of us. Easy, it’s only a branch.’

A faint sigh of relief broke from the recruit. For all the flow of care-free chatter, his captain was also watching what lay ahead.

By that time they had almost reached the centre of the river. The water had risen nearly to the tops of the saddles’ rosaderos,
¹⁵
but came no higher. By raising their feet from the stirrup-irons, the riders avoided wetting their boots. Doing so called for a careful watch to be kept on one’s balance and for a short time it held Prince’s full attention.

As the level of the water subsided, the recruit returned his feet to the stirrups and resumed his scrutiny of the woodland. Darting his eyes back and forwards, Prince saw what he thought was a man spread-eagled behind a rock. Closer examination showed it to be a fallen tree-trunk.

Or was it?

Captain Fog had stopped his horse and was reaching towards his gunbelt!

With a feeling of shock, Prince reined in his mount. Instinctively his right hand dropped towards his hip—to feel nothing more protective than the material of his breeches’ leg.

‘Nobody around after all,’ Dusty remarked. ‘But we’d best strap on our belts now. Then we’ll be set to cover Kiowa and Surtees while they come over.’

‘Yo!’ Prince replied, hoping that his commanding officer had not noticed his involuntary gesture.

Lowering their gunbelts to the more usual position about their waists, Dusty and Prince connected the buckles. With that done, they started their horses moving. Prince could not prevent himself sucking in a deep anticipatory breath as he followed the small Texan. Ascending the gentle incline of the eastern bank, they crossed the trail that had been enlarged by Federal patrols and went into the thick undergrowth beyond it.

With a cold, sinking sensation biting into his stomach, Prince realised that he was now inside enemy territory. The fact that he was the first of his recruit-intake to get there never occurred to him. His full attention was given to staring around. At any moment, he expected to see hordes of Yankee soldiers swarming in his direction.

Glancing sideways, Prince was impressed by Dusty’s attitude of calm, detached alertness. The small captain, whom Prince had previously been inclined to deride—if only silently—had clearly made such crossings many times and regarded them as commonplace. It was comforting to know that one served under so competent and courageous an officer. From that moment, Tracey Prince joined the ranks or the many who regarded Dusty Fog as being the tallest of them all.

Having taken up concealed positions among the bushes, Dusty told Prince to keep a watch on the upstream section of the trail. Then he waved to the men on the other side. Joining the advance party, Kiowa and Surtees flashed cheery, friendly grins at Prince.

‘You handled that just like a veteran,’ the bugler praised.

‘Better,’ Dusty corrected. ‘Us young ‘n’s don’t have you Veterans’ creaking old bones to slow us. And I’ll have the Henry, Kiowa. That’s how I got it.’

‘Never did have time for no Yankee metal-case gun, anyways,’ the sergeant sniffed, returning the rifle. ‘Give me something I can get fodder for.’

‘Where’d Gilbertson come out, if it’s him we’re trailing?’

‘Upstream a mite, Cap’n.’

‘Let’s go get him,’ Dusty ordered, retaining the Henry in his right hand.

Flushed with pride at the knowledge that he had won his companions’ approbation, Prince watched the sergeant move a short way along the river’s bank. Dropping from his saddle, Kiowa bent and picked up something that his keen eyes had detected as it lay half concealed in the mud at the edge of the water. Signalling to the others to join him, he held his find towards Dusty.

‘He must’ve dropped it as he come out of the river, Cap’n,’ the sergeant guessed. ‘Likely he didn’t want to chance stopping to pick it up.’

‘It’ proved to be a Starr Army revolver, covered with mud. Taking it, Dusty found that four of the chambers had been emptied.

‘Or figured he wouldn’t be likely to need it again,’ Dusty replied with satisfaction. The discovery of the Starr had given them the first real proof that they were following the right tracks. ‘It’s the gun he used to kill Ollie Svenson.’

‘He ain’t sticking to the trail, though,’ Kiowa observed, indicating the evidence that somebody, or something, had forced a path through the bushes.

‘That figures,’ Dusty answered. ‘If he had, he might’ve been seen by one of our patrols. He’d want to get into cover rather than chance that.’

‘Yeah,’ Kiowa agreed.

Turning their horses in the direction taken by the man they were following, the Texans rode on. Their way led them through the thick woodlands which flanked the Caddo at that point, then into the more open, rolling country.

‘He’s not turning to go up to the Snake Ford,’ Kiowa remarked, letting Dusty come alongside his horse.

‘I wasn’t expecting him to,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Way he left us, he’ll not want to go there and be asked questions.’

With each stride, the horses carried their riders deeper into enemy-held terrain. Prince felt his tension rising again as he kept up a constant surveillance of his surroundings. Watching the flanks, he forgot to look ahead. He had his attention drawn forcibly in that direction as Kiowa once more brought the party to a halt. Staring in the line indicated by the sergeant’s pointing forefinger, Prince stiffened and gulped. Several thin columns of smoke rose from beyond a rim about a mile in front of them. From what the recruit saw, the tracks they were following went towards the smoke.

‘What do you reckon, Kiowa?’ Dusty inquired.

‘Company of ‘em at least,’ the sergeant replied. ‘And this-here’s the “New Jersey” Dragoons’ stomping grounds.’

That had been one of the factors taken into consideration by the small Texan before he led the way across the river. The 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons was a regular Army regiment, commanded by career officers. Most efficient of all Buller’s outfits, the Dragoons were one Yankee force in Arkansas that even the Texas Light Cavalry regarded as dangerous.

‘Take a point, Kiowa,’ Dusty ordered. ‘If that’s where Gilbertson’s going, so’re we.’

Allowing Kiowa to build up a lead of almost a hundred yards, Dusty started the remainder of the party moving. Prince looked at the smoke-columns, trying to estimate how many men had been responsible for making them. While he could not decide upon an accurate figure, he felt certain that his own group would be heavily outnumbered. That the man they were following was heading towards the smoke grew more positive by the minute. Watching the big captain, Prince wondered what he hoped to accomplish with a sergeant and two privates if Gilbertson had joined up with a large number of Dragoons.

Ranging ahead of the others, Kiowa kept an especially keen watch for the Dragoons’ vedettes and pickets. If the men ahead had been in camp for a day or longer, they would have taken such defensive precautions. He saw none and at last dismounted, leaving his horse ground-hitched while he continued up the slope on foot. Flattening down on his stomach, he crawled the last few feet and peered cautiously over the rim from behind a bush. What he saw explained away the Dragoons’ lack of guards around their camp-site. Moving back with equal care, the sergeant returned to his patiently-waiting horse.

‘It’s a full company of ‘em, Cap’n Dusty,’ Kiowa reported. ‘They’re just finishing packing and’ll be pulling out soon.’

Listening to the softly-spoken, unemotional words, Prince decided that they would trail along after the Dragoons and try to sneak Gilbertson out of the Yankees’ next night-camp. It would not be easy—

‘Is he with ‘em?’ Dusty asked, cutting across the recruit’s thoughts.

‘Yep,’ confirmed the sergeant. ‘He’s there. I saw him stood talking to the Dragoons’ major.’

‘What’re we going to do now, Cap’n Dusty?’ Surtees inquired.

‘Go and get him back,’ Dusty replied and handed his Henry to Kiowa.

‘You mean you’re aiming to ride over that rim and ask the Yankees to give him back?’ Prince gasped, watching the small Texan unbuckle his gunbelt.

‘Nope,’ Dusty said, quietly but with determination. ‘I’m going to tell them to hand him over.’

* * *

Crystal clear in the morning air, the notes of a bugle-call rang out from the rim overlooking the camp-site used the previous night by Troop ‘G’ of the 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons. Having been pulled in for breakfast, the men from the vedettes and pickets were sitting around the dying fires instead of being stationed about the surrounding area. The remainder of the Troop stood with their horses in four files, being inspected by the captain and two lieutenants.

Startled exclamations burst from the enlisted men and officers as they looked in the direction from which the call sounded. Then eyes turned towards the piles of Springfield carbines, left stacked while their owners completed the final tasks of breaking camp, and the soldiers gave thought to their holstered revolvers.

‘Blasted Rebs!’ yelped a young soldier, jerking open his holster’s flap.

‘Leave it be, son,’ ordered the grizzled veteran at his side, watching without any concern as two riders approached down the slope. ‘They’re coming in to make a parley.’

‘What the hell?’ demanded Major Galbraith, swinging away from Gilbertson and examining the cause of the disturbance. ‘Take up defensive positions, men!’

Swiftly, with the efficient, purposeful actions of well-trained troops, the Dragoons sprang to obey. Each section of four left its horses in the care of one man and the other three erupted into motion. Pyramids of carbines disintegrated with disciplined speed. Gripping their saddle-guns, urged on by barked-out commands from the officers, the Dragoons fanned out and took up positions which would allow them to meet an attack from any side. Dropping to the ground in whatever cover they could find, the enlisted men swung their carbines into firing postures.

‘No shooting, men!’ Captain Miller called and the non-commissioned officers repeated the warning.

Major Galbraith watched his men assume a state of all-round defence and nodded his approval. If the surly Volunteer at his side knew anything about military matters, he would be impressed by the Dragoons’ efficiency. With that thought come and gone, Galbraith turned his attention to the approaching pair of riders. A long-serving career-officer, the major recognised the significance of what he saw.

Going by the ‘chicken guts’ on his sleeve, the small, young-looking man at the left was an officer. In his right hand, he carried a rifle’s ramrod to which a white bandana had been fastened like a flag. Raising a bugle to his lips, the second rider blew another loud call on it. Neither of the newcomers appeared to be carrying arms of any kind.

That was the traditional, established procedure for requesting a truce or a parley. The white flag and lack of weapons announced the two men’s pacific intentions, while the repeated bugle calls proved that they did not mean to surprise the enemy soldiers.

Dishevelled, unshaven and bleary-eyed, Gilbertson stared up the slope in horror. At first he could hardly believe that he was awake and felt that he must be dreaming. Recognising the newcomers, he felt a growing sense of foreboding. Spitting out a low, savage curse, he dropped his right hand across to close on the hilt of his sabre.

‘Is something wrong, Captain Gilbertson?’ asked the tall, lean, leathery-faced major as he became aware of the Volunteer’s perturbation.

Taking warning from the Dragoon’s tone, Gilbertson held down the reply which he had been about to give. Instead he nodded in the direction of the Texans and said, ‘You’ve got a good catch here, Major.’

‘I don’t follow you,’ Galbraith growled.

‘That’s young Fog,’ elaborated the Volunteer. ‘Hardin’s nephew.’

‘And that’s a white flag he’s carrying,’ the Dragoon pointed out coldly. ‘So I’ll hear what he has to say.’ Looking around, Galbraith raised his voice. ‘Stand to your arms, men. Captain Miller, Mr. Coulson, Mr. Hargrove, make sure that nobody opens fire unless the Rebs make a hostile move.’

‘Yo!’ came the answer from the Troop’s subordinate officers.

Squaring his shoulders, Galbraith set the peaked Dragoon forage cap straighter on his head. Another sweeping glance around the camp-site assured him that all was ready, in case—which he doubted—the Confederate soldiers planned some treachery. If they did, they would meet with a hot, and well-deserved, reception. Satisfied, he strode forward and passed through his Troop’s defensive circle. Filled with curiosity, and fears for his own safety, Gilbertson followed the major.

Young, insignificant almost in appearance, or not, the Confederate captain knew military convention and etiquette. Coming to a halt at least a hundred yards from the nearest defender, so that he could not see too many details of their armament and disposition, he handed the white flag to his bugler. Dismounting, he left his black stallion with its reins dangling free and advanced a further fifty feet on foot. Coming to a halt before the Yankees, he threw up a smart salute directed at Galbraith.

‘Fog. Captain. Texas Light Cavalry, sir,’ Dusty announced formally as the Dragoon returned his salute.

‘Major Galbraith, 6th “New Jersey” Dragoons,’ the senior of the two Federal officers acknowledged, then indicated the man hovering behind him. ‘This is—’

‘I know who he is, sir,’ Dusty interrupted politely but coldly. ‘Captain Gilbertson was my prisoner—’

‘And he escaped?’

‘No, sir. He ran away after giving me his word of honour that he wouldn’t escape. So I’ve come to take him back. Will you order him to get ready, please.’

‘What’s this?’ Galbraith barked, swinging furiously to glare at Gilbertson. ‘Is it true?’

Not that the Dragoon needed to ask, or to see the guilt on the Volunteer’s face, to know the answer. Ever since Gilbertson had arrived that morning, Galbraith had grown increasingly doubtful of his veracity. The captain had spun a reasonably convincing story of his carefully-planned and executed escape from Murfreesboro, but there had been points left unexplained in the telling. One of them being how he had regained possession of his sword. It would have been taken from him at his capture, to be held by the Rebels until his release.

Of course, a man who had won the admiration and respect of his enemies might have his sword returned as a tribute to his courage or ability. Gilbertson did not strike the hard-bitten Galbraith as being that kind of officer. Nor would he have had, in the Dragoon’s opinion, sufficient notions of honour to take the chances involved in gaining possession of his sword before escaping.

Captain Fog’s words had confirmed Galbraith’s suspicions, although the Dragoon had fought against the one answer that would have explained everything. More than that, they had placed an entirely different complexion on Gilbertson’s presence. Any officer who escaped from captivity by fair means deserved praise and approbation. That did not apply to the methods by which the sullen Volunteer had attained his freedom.

‘Damn it, Gilbertson!’ Galbraith blazed when the Volunteer did not answer. ‘Is this true, or isn’t it?’

‘It’s true, sir,’ Dusty put in. ‘Last night in the hotel at Amity, he gave his word, in the presence of my bugler, not to escape before dawn.’

‘In Amity?’ Gaibraith growled.

‘Yes, sir. I was escorting him to the Snake Ford to be exchanged for one of our captains. We had a run in with some guerillas and during the fighting, he killed one of my men and ran. I’ve come to take him back.’

Being fully aware of guerillas’ habits, Galbraith could guess that the Texans had been fighting to protect their prisoner. Which only made Gilbertson’s actions the more reprehensible.

‘Well?’ the Dragoon spat at the Volunteer.

‘All right,’ Gilbertson snarled. ‘So I saw my chance and took it.’

The calm admission struck Galbraith dumb for a moment. He could hardly believe that an officer in the United States’ Army would brazenly make such a confession. In fact, the Dragoon did not want to believe it. So he sought desperately for some excuse or mitigating circumstance—even though he doubted if there could be one against such a charge.

‘You understood what you were doing when you gave your word?’ the major demanded, hoping that the other would answer in the negative.

‘Of course I did!’ Gilbertson yelped, his college-educated superiority revolting at the suggestion that there might be something he did not know.

‘And after giving your word,’ Gaibraith breathed, ‘you still ran?’

‘I’d every intention of running, that’s why I gave it,’ Gilbertson declared. ‘What the hell do you think war is, some kind of game to be played by rules?’

‘You’ll have to go back!’ Galbraith stated.

‘If he was stupid enough to thi—’ Gilbertson continued, then the full implication of the Dragoon’s words penetrated his mind. The flow of bombastic rhetoric gurgled to an uneven halt and he stared in amazement at the cold-faced, angry major. ‘Wha-wha——?’

‘You’ll have to go back with Captain Fog,’ Galbraith elaborated grimly. ‘Damn it all, man. If you don’t care about your own honour, think of how this action of yours will look in the eyes of the world. The Union Army—the whole United States—will stand condemned unless you go back.’

‘Who’ll know about it?’ Gilbertson asked scornfully. ‘My father will see that Buller hushes it up.’

‘
I
’ll know, for one,’ Galbraith pointed out. ‘And so will Captain Fog.’

A deep, bitter sense of frustrated fury tore at Gilbertson. Filled with the arrogant, egoistical self-importance of the ‘liberal-intellectual’ college student, he had entered the Union Army certain that his superlative brilliance must destine him for great deeds. Like many another of his kind, he had found himself sadly lacking in practical knowledge once faced with the harsh realities of life. So he had failed to achieve even a modicum of success in a field which he had always regarded as being the province of men with limited intelligence.

To have been captured by the despised Rebels, in his first essay at active duty, had rankled and hurt. Especially as it had been through his own stupidity and inefficiency that he had fallen into their hands. To know that he was gaining his liberty at the expense of freeing one of the hated Southerners had been an intolerable humiliation.

Not that he had thought of refusing the offer, or passing it to one of his companions in Murfreesboro. Such a sacrifice was not in keeping with his small-minded, self-centred nature.

He had already been thinking of escape during the journey to the Snake Ford. Seeing the youth and general insignificance of his escort’s leader, he had felt sure that slipping away could be accomplished with no difficulty. Doing so would reassert his sense of self-importance, humiliate Ole Devil Hardin, and prevent the Rebel prisoner from attaining freedom.

Being fully aware of the convention of war concerning an officer’s parole, Gilbertson had intended to make use of it. Even if that short-grown Texan had not suggested a truce until dawn, the Volunteer had meant to do so. Gilbertson had seen his opportunity in the Amity hotel, taken it and had finally reached what ought to have been safety.

Then that infernal Rebel captain had appeared and demanded—not asked,
demanded!
—that he be returned.

To make matters worse, Galbraith—a stinking career officer—clearly intended to comply with the small Texan’s wishes.

Gilbertson’s full, bigoted hatred reached a boiling point as he considered the lousy trick fate had played on him. To have escaped, found his way across the Caddo, then to have fallen in with a lousy, stupid career officer who believed in conventions and out-moded codes of honour.

‘Him!’ the Volunteer screeched, throwing a glare of loathing at Dusty. ‘Who the hell cares what a lousy Secessionist pecker-wood
¹⁶
thinks?’

‘I care,’ Galbraith barked and turned his back on Gilbertson as he addressed the Confederate officer. ‘Captain Fog, I apologise on behalf of the United States Army and—’

Wild with rage, fear and near panic, Gilbertson slid the sabre from its sheath. If he killed the Rebel officer, he would present Galbraith with a
fait accompli
. The Dragoon major would have to conceal the fact that the incident had happened, if only to preserve the honour of his sacred Union Army. With Gilbertson’s father so influential in New Hampstead affairs, General Buller could be counted on to prevent too close an inquiry into the matter. In fact, Buller would exert his authority as the commanding general in Arkansas to prevent any military disciplinary action being invoked against Gilbertson.

So the Volunteer believed that he had nothing to lose and everything to gain if he killed Dusty Fog. Having attended fencing classes in college, Gilbertson knew he could handle the sabre well enough to dispatch an unarmed, unsuspecting victim; no matter how good the other might be when using a revolver.

‘He’ll tell nobody!’ Gilbertson screeched and sprang by Galbraith to launch a savage cut directed at the side of the small Texan’s neck.

Shouting the threat merely served to increase Dusty’s awareness of his peril. Watching the Volunteer, even while being addressed by Major Galbraith, Dusty had noticed the stealthy withdrawal of the sabre. Nor did the young Texan need to strain his brain to follow Gilbertson’s line of reasoning.

What came as a surprise was the speed and precision of the Volunteer’s attack. For once in his life, Dusty had come close to making the mistake of underestimating the potential of an enemy. Nothing he had seen of Gilbertson during their short acquaintance caused Dusty to form a high opinion of the other’s military prowess. So the ability displayed by the Volunteer’s attack was completely unexpected.

Two things saved Dusty as Gilbertson leapt forward in a
flèche
attack. He had observed the preparations for it and he knew enough about fencing to establish in what manner his assailant meant to strike. Held in supination, with the back of the hand pointing towards the ground, the sabre could only be used for a cut at the chest, abdomen, or side of the head. The second factor in saving Dusty was his own superb speed of reaction.

Knowing where the sabre was aimed, Dusty threw his left leg outwards and bent his right knee. Ducking his head and lowering his torso, he sank below the sweeping thirty-six inch long blade.