You're in Command Now, Mr Fog Page 2

  Still only in his late teens, the second lieutenant looked like a hothead who would not be over-fond of discipline, nor well-versed in military strategy. He sat his big brown horse with the easy grace of a natural rider, a’fork a low-horned, double-girthed saddle that was definitely not an official Government Issue.

  Apparently the luff was somebody important’s favorite son, or nephew. The sharpshooter could imagine no other reason to account for him having attained that rank. In age, he would probably match that of the shavetail—a young eighteen, at most—but he was nowhere such a fine physical specimen.

  Although no more than five foot six inches in height, the luff had a sturdy enough figure. It might, the sharpshooter told himself, be more the result of a tailor’s efforts than natural. Dusty blond hair showed from under his Jeff Davis hat and his tanned face was fairly good looking. However, nothing suggested to the Yankee watcher that other than family connections had pinned the second gold strip to his collar. He too used one of these hefty and—to the sharpshooter’s Eastern-raised eyes—unusual saddles. Like the shavetail, he looked completely at ease on the back of the large bay gelding. Which proved little. Most rich kids, particularly down South, were taught to ride early and given ample opportunities to improve their equestrian skills.

  The trio remained in cover, studying the open ground and taking notice of all that developed. At first, their attention was directed at the mountain battery and they appeared to be discussing it. While the shavetail and the captain talked, the short-grown luff continued to dart around what the watcher regarded as being nervous and anxious glances. So, not surprisingly, it was he who first observed the appearance of the Long Island Lancers and he drew his companions’ attention to them.

  Directing the telescopic sight at the captain’s face, the sharpshooter saw that he was speaking. He appeared to be telling the first lieutenant to go somewhere, then addressed the shavetail. Most likely he would be making arrangements to lead his men to the battery’s rescue. In which case, he must be stopped. A surprise attack from the flank might easily throw the Lancers into confusion. Freshly recruited back East, as yet untried in combat, armed with what the sharpshooter—and many better-informed, senior soldiers—regarded as hopelessly obsolete and antiquated weapons, they were such an uncertain element that he felt disinclined to rely upon their stability when they came under fire. Especially against the well-led, battle-hardened veterans of the Texas Light Cavalry.

  Excitement filled the sharpshooter as he laid his sights on the captain’s head. Here was his chance to take a significant part in the baffle. By killing the captain, he would put that undersized luff in command. That would ensure the destruction of the battery, allowing the Vandenburgs to do their work without interruption.

  Satisfied that he was laying the foundations of his promotion, the sharpshooter squeezed the trigger. He felt the thrust of the recoil against his left shoulder and the swirling gasses from the detonated powder momentarily obscured the target. Not that he doubted he had held true. His shooting instincts reassured him that he had aimed correctly. Sure enough, as the smoke was wafted away in the breeze, he saw the captain pitching from the saddle. The campaign hat had been torn off by the bullet and the captain’s skull was a bloody ruin. There was no doubt that he had been killed instantly.

  A crackling and crashing amongst the bushes not far from the chestnut tree caused the sharpshooter to look away from his victim. Bursting into view, glaring upwards, was a tall, lean, Indian-dark corporal of the Texas Light Cavalry. He was on foot, but moving with a deadly purpose that was menacing in the extreme. Skidding to a halt, he snapped the butt of his Henry rifle upwards, sighting straight at the sharpshooter’s hiding place.

  Even as the Yankee soldier tried to work the trigger guard lever as a preliminary to reloading, flames spiked wickedly from the Henry’s muzzle. Slashing through the foliage, a flat-nosed 44-caliber bullet ploughed into his left breast. Letting the rifle slip through his fingers, he followed it as it fell out of the tree. He was dead before his body struck the ground. So he never learned how he had made the mistake that would cause the Union Army to lose the Battle of Martin’s Mill.

  Chapter Two

  “Here comes good old Doug—Captain Staunce and his boys,” announced Second Lieutenant Charles William Henry Blaze, whose ever-untidy, fiery thatch of hair had affixed to him the sobriquet “Red”, pointing to the mountain battery. “They can sure handle those wheel-guns.”

  The change in the wording of Red’s first sentence had been brought about by a belated recollection of how his Company’s commanding officer regarded over-familiarity between the various grades of rank. Having caught the cold glare of disapproval darted his way by the captain, he had revised his comment and made it more acceptable.

  Despite the alteration, Captain Otto von Hertz continued to scowl. A young man like Mr. Blaze would never have been permitted to attain officer’s status in the Prussian Army, especially in the cavalry. In von Hertz’s opinion, the red head lacked the necessary aptitude to control the enlisted men, or to maintain discipline. He was far too lax and easy-going in his ways for that, despite being a member of one of the trio of Texas families whose money had recruited, equipped and organized the regiment in which von Hertz was serving.

  The Prussian had to admit that the majority of the Fogs, Blazes and Hardins in the Texas Light Cavalry were capable and efficient officers, if somewhat unorthodox in many of their methods. Von Hertz’s second-in-command was one of that number.

  In spite of First Lieutenant Dustine Edward Marsden Fog’s lack of formal military training and background, von Hertz considered him to have the makings of a very good officer and soldier. The small Texan had already proven himself capable of handling men and appeared to have gained the respect of the hard-bitten veterans of Company ‘C’. All in all, he was a much more satisfactory subordinate than the captain had expected at their first meeting.

  “I hope they can handle them well enough,” von Hertz answered, turning his gaze to the howitzers. “The Vandenburgs will tear the infantry to pieces unless they are silenced.”

  Several years of living in the United States had failed to remove completely the harsh, Teutonic timbre from Captain von Hertz’s voice. Nor could he ever obliterate the suggestion that he was consciously forcing himself to speak in what he would always regard as a foreign language. In moments of stress, he had been known to revert explosively to his native German; which was mighty disconcerting to the majority of the Texans under his command. They spoke only English, with maybe some Spanish, or an Indian dialect thrown in.

  All through the years in which he had served, first in the Federal then the Confederate States’ Armies, von Hertz had regretted that he could not drill the men under his command to the rigidly disciplined precision attained by German soldiers. He had managed to instill some military training into the members of Company ‘C’ and could count on them to carry out his orders. It was not enough for his own satisfaction, but ought to be adequate whilst carrying out the duty to which they had been assigned.

  While his cousin and von Hertz watched the battery dashing to a position from which it could bombard the Vandenburgs, First Lieutenant Dusty Fog was subjecting the whole area to a thorough scrutiny. In particular, he studied the woodland fringing the river. That was where the counter-measures against the howitzers could be expected to make an appearance. Soon, too, he would be going there to carry out a delicate, difficult and dangerous mission. So he wished to form an impression of what he might be headed into.

  The sharpshooter would have been amazed if he had known the nature of the assignment which had been given to that small, insignificant-seeming youngster.

  A quarter of a mile was not a distance over which a detailed examination of a person could be made even with the aid of a powerful telescopic sight. So the sharpshooter had missed much that would have been informative about Dusty Fog’s appearance. Nor was the soldier given to forming a deep analysis of character
. He tended to allow his first impressions to rule his judgment. If he had been a more perceptive man, he might have reached a very different opinion regarding the short first lieutenant and been less likely to think of him as a “luff”, the highly derogatory term for one of his rank.

  There was an air of command about Dusty Fog which would have been obvious to more discerning eyes than those of the sharpshooter. Young, but already blooded in battle, Dusty Fog was ready, willing and able to accept responsibility. Nor was his attitude born out of a cocky, arrogant, over-inflated self-importance which had been sponsored by the knowledge that he had powerful family connections and influence behind him. He had none of the bombast that often came when a small, very young man found himself in a position of authority over his physical superiors. Instead, he carried himself with the indefinable assurance of one who had been born with the gift of leadership.

  If the sharpshooter had taken the trouble to look, think and deduce, instead of dismissing Dusty as a “luff”, there were many pointers to his true potential. The horse was one. Almost seventeen hands, it was a blaze-faced bay gelding which showed power, speed and spirit in its every line. Only a strong, exceptionally capable rider could handle such a mount. Dusty occupied its Texas range saddle in a relaxed effortless manner that emphasized he was in complete command. Yet his control had not been established by cruelty, or imposed by such heavy-handed dominance that the animal no longer had a will of its own.

  What the watcher in the chestnut tree took to be anxiety and nervousness, as the small Texan continually scanned the surrounding terrain, was no more than natural caution mingled with an awareness of various possibilities. Dusty was searching for anything that might interfere with the plans that his uncle, General Ole Devil Hardin, had made for capturing and holding the bridge until the supply column had crossed. Wishing to avoid drawing attention to Martin’s Mill, Ole Devil had not caused it to be guarded. Instead, he had been counting on taking the Yankees by surprise; but had not left that to chance.

  Presented with the duty of scouting the area the previous afternoon, von Hertz had assigned the task to two of the half-a-dozen Prussian-born soldiers who had served with him in the United States’ Army before accompanying him to the South at the start of the War Between the States. There were, Dusty had considered, several men better suited to carry out the duty. His opinion had not been sought and, when he had hinted at it, von Hertz had claimed that none of the Texans—experienced Indian fighters though they undoubtedly were possessed the military training to form a correct assessment of the situation, The two men had returned with what, on the face of it, had been adequate information.

  According to von Hertz’s scouts, the citizens of Martin’s Mill had fled and left the hamlet unoccupied when the enemy had made an appearance. A battalion of Lancers had accompanied the 18th “Wisconsin” Heavy Infantry and the three Vandenburg Volley Guns, but had taken an almost immediate departure in the direction from which they had come. Following their orders to the letter, the scouts had returned as soon as they had seen the Yankees taking up defensive positions on the northern side of the river.

  It would have been better, Dusty had believed, if the scouts had displayed more initiative and less blind obedience to orders. One of them should have continued to keep the Yankees under observation, while the other returned with the information they had already gathered. Instead, they had followed the captain’s instructions to the letter and without having attempted to think for themselves.

  Fortunately, von Hertz had agreed with Dusty on one point. The departure of the Lancers did not necessarily mean that they could be discounted as a factor. Suspecting that there might be scouts watching them, they might have been playing tricky. After giving the impression that they had left, they could easily have doubled back after dark and concealed themselves ready to take cards once the fighting began.

  If Dusty had been in command of Company ‘C’, he would have chosen men used to thinking for themselves and told them to —

  “Everything is ready for you to carry out your assignment, Mr. Fog?” von Hertz inquired, diverting the small Texan’s thoughts from the men he would have selected for the scouting mission and the discretionary instructions he would have given to them.

  “Yes, sir,” Dusty replied.

  “Corporal Cotton hasn’t returned, I see,” the captain went on coldly.

  “No, sir,” Dusty admitted and glanced to where a short, white-haired, old corporal and six private soldiers sat their horses some feet away from the remainder of the Company. “I’ve told Corporal Hassle to come with me if Kiowa’s not back in time.”

  “You should have consulted with me before sending Cotton to scout the woods!” von Hertz protested indignantly. “I’m most displeased that you did not.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dusty said, in a flat, expressionless tone.

  “There was no need to send him,” von Hertz went on. “Even if the Yankees had sent men up here to keep watch, they would already have returned to say that our force was coming.”

  From the rim of the slope came the ringing notes of bugles and the rapid rolling thunder of drums. Formed up in their companies, enlisted men’s bayonets and officers’ swords twinkling brightly in the mid-morning sun, the 1st “Arkansas” Rifle Regiment were commencing the assault. They intended to advance in three waves, each comprised of two companies, at two hundred yards intervals. On the flanks of the leading wave, which would bear the brunt of the attack, rode the supporting companies supplied by the Texas Light Cavalry.

  At the sight and sounds of activity from the main body, von Hertz’s words came to an abrupt halt. Although the captain and Red Blaze turned their eyes to the rim, Dusty continued to keep the wooded land along the northern bank of the river under observation.

  “It’s sure lucky those folks ran out of Martin’s Mill before the Yankees arrived.” Red remarked. “They’d’ve hobbled us good if some of them’d stayed in their homes.”

  “We couldn’t have allowed them to influence our action,” von Hertz pointed out. “They would have had to take —”

  “Just like we figured, sir,” Dusty interrupted, pointing to where the blue-clad riders were emerging. “The Lancers did come back, all of them.”

  “So they did,” von Hertz agreed, following the direction indicated by the small Texan. “And we are ready for them. You may go and attend to your duty, Mr. Fog. Good luck.”

  “Yo!” Dusty replied instantly, giving the cavalryman’s traditional assent to the receipt of an order.

  If the sharpshooter had refrained from firing for another minute, or even thirty seconds, Dusty Fog would have ridden away and been delayed in—maybe prevented from—taking command of the Company. The mission upon which he was about to embark had considerable urgency and was so important that he had set his horse into motion as soon as the single word had left his lips.

  However, acting as he believed in the best interests of the Union, the sharpshooter selected that moment to complete his pressure on the Sharps’ trigger and turned loose the bullet.

  On the point of addressing Red, von Hertz took the bullet in his temple. Killed instantly, he was slammed sideways and lost his seat on the saddle. Alarmed by its rider’s actions, the horse snorted and plunged forward. In death, von Hertz’s left hand had tightened on the reins. So, although he was pitched lifeless to the ground, his grasp prevented the animal from running away and being seen by the enemy.

  “What the—?” Red ejaculated.

  Any further words were chopped off by the brown gelding moving restlessly in response to the behavior of von Hertz’s startled horse. Deftly Red regained control of his mount and swung his gaze to his cousin.

  Halting his bay, Dusty twisted his torso and stared in the direction from which the shot had come. His left hand flashed across to the flap of the close-topped holster on the right of his belt. Being unable to locate the enemy sharpshooter, he did not attempt to complete his draw. Nor, apparently, was there any need for hi
m to do so.

  “Kiowa’s got the bastard,” Red guessed, when the second shot—obviously from a different weapon—sounded. “It’s lucky you sent him on that pasear, Cousin Dusty.”

  “Not lucky enough!” Dusty growled, looking down. Hearing the startled exclamations and sounds of movement which arose from the enlisted men, he swung his attention towards them. A hard, commanding note came to his Texas drawl as he raised his voice, “Quieten it down, damn you. Keep them back and silent, you sergeants!”

  Barked-out orders from the sergeants brought about the effect desired by Dusty. While the men looked about them, searching for further enemies, they fell silent and remained in their ranks. Their concern on that score was relieved by the sound of Corporal Kiowa Cotton’s voice reaching their ears.

  “He’s cashed and there ain’t no more of them!”

  Accompanied by the Company’s sandy-haired, good-looking young guidon carrier and the stocky, older bugler, Sergeant Major Goering galloped forward. The bulky warrant officer sprang from his saddle and knelt at von Hertz’s side. One glance told him all that he needed to know. The captain was no longer able to command Company ‘C’; but there was still a vitally important duty to be carried out. So his eyes lifted towards the Company’s second-in-command.

  Goering had never been unduly worried about who was placed above him in the chain of command. Befehl ist befehl, orders are orders, was a dictum deeply ingrained by his long years of military service. It was for the officer to make the decision on what line of action was to be taken, while Goering saw to it that his superior’s wishes were carried out. However, he understood the importance of their mission and realized how high the price of failure would be.