The Floating Outfit 20 Read online

  Already shouts from the buildings told of alarmed men and soon rifle barrels began to appear at windows. With almost two hundred and fifty yards to cover, the muzzle-loading rifles did not pose too serious a threat, although bullets began to whistle through the air around the soldiers. Then Dusty saw something more deadly dangerous than the rifles.

  Three men burst into sight from the side door and under the lean-to of the main building. Showing practiced speed, they sprang forward and stripped the tarpaulin from the thing which had earlier interested Dusty. What they exposed to view handed the small Texan a shock.

  What appeared to be a flat tray was mounted on the wheels of an artillery carriage and across the tray twenty-five metal tubes lined in the direction of the attackers, each holding a .58 caliber bullet ready to be vomited out in their direction. Asked what arms he might have expected to find among the guerillas, Dusty would never have thought of a Billinghurst Requa Battery gun; yet one faced him and already a hand tugged at its firing handle.

  ‘Get down!’ Dusty roared.

  And not a moment too soon!

  Down dropped the Requa’s hammer, striking the waiting percussion cap. A tiny spurt of flame sparked into the train of gun powder which lay in a groove beneath the base of the cartridges. With a sullen, rapid roaring, the barrels fired in turn, starting at the center and working outwards on each side. Twenty-five bullets hissed through the air and formed a more deadly threat than any muzzle-loading rifle.

  Two men, slower than their companions, each caught a bullet and crashed to the ground. The rest, having dived for cover at the sight of the gun and hearing Dusty’s warning, avoided the deadly blast of the Requa. Which did not mean they were out of danger. Despite its clumsy appearance, given the right equipment and training, a skilled Requa crew could get off six or seven volleys a minute. From the way they moved, the trio behind the gun possessed all the requisites to keep up the top rate of fire.

  Pulling on one of the levers which rose at the rear of the Requa, the gunner opened the breech. Already his companions held a ‘magazine’, a metal bar pierced at barrel-wide intervals with holes through which bullets were placed and held in position for insertion to the twenty-five breeches. After the gunner pulled out and discarded the fired ‘magazine’, his men slid its replacement into the holes. Then he ran a train of powder from his flask into the channel, to ignite the bullets, and closed the breech. In something under ten seconds the Requa stood ready to turn loose another twenty-five death-dealing missiles.

  The Requa Battery gun, an early attempt to produce a volume-of-fire weapon, had limitations in use. While the barrels could be moved laterally to spread the charge, their movement was necessarily limited. Nor could the gun be traversed unless the whole carriage be moved, which rendered it useless against target which moved across its front. In wet weather the train of powder in the groove easily became soaked and inoperative; although that did not matter in the present case. In spite of its limitations, the Requa posed a serious problem to Dusty’s men. The gun found its ideal conditions against a body of men advancing towards it along a fixed line—it was mostly used in defense of the narrow covered bridges which crossed most rivers in the Eastern battle areas—and Dusty found his command in that unenviable position.

  ‘Keep down and don’t waste powder,’ he called. ‘How are they?’

  ‘Denny’s hurt bad,’ Billy Jack replied.

  ‘This feller’s dead,’ another Texan went on, kneeling by the side of the Yankee he had drawn to shelter.

  ‘Do what you can for Denny,’ Dusty said. ‘Red, Captain Hardy, get your men moving into position. Keep well up on the slopes.’

  ‘Yo!’ came two replies.

  Gathering the men assigned to them, the two officers moved off to attend to their duties. By going well up the valley sides and keeping to cover, they made their way without loss around to where they could watch and cover the rear of the buildings. Each officer had men carrying shoulder arms, rifles of various types in Red’s case and Spencer carbines in the hands of the Yankees. The dead Union soldier reduced Hardy’s party by one, but Dusty felt the seven-shot carbines of the others prevented the need of his sending a replacement.

  A few shots at the rear of the building drove back those of the guerillas who showed signs of trying to escape. Using a Spencer carbine looted from the Yankees, Red tumbled one of the corral guards and the other ran the gauntlet of fire to reach the main building in safety. Out on the range, the two men tending to the grazing remuda took in the situation and decided on flight. That reduced the guerillas’ chances of escape, but would only make them fight the harder.

  With the rear bottled up, Dusty studied the buildings. Some shots came from them, but his men wasted no powder in replying. His eyes took in the horse tethered by the rear door and he knew what he must do. Only one man among the guerillas rated the special consideration of having his horse so close to hand. By his cold-blooded disregard for human life and willingness to kill as a means of ending opposition, Hannah could take such a precaution. If he reached that powerful animal, he had the means of escape; and of all the guerillas, Hannah was the man Dusty wanted most. So, much as he hated the idea, Dusty reached a decision.

  ‘Thad! Thad Baylor!’ he yelled.

  ‘Yo!’ replied the sharpshooter.

  ‘Kill that horse by the main building.’

  A hundred yards behind the attackers, Thad Baylor settled himself down to do his work. Placing the barrel of his heavy rifle on his folded jacket, which rested upon a rock selected as being just the right height, Baylor cuddled its butt into his shoulder. He closed his left eye and focused the other through the telescope sight. Close by his hand lay a range-finding stadium; a brass plate with a sliding bar which ran up a graduated scale. Fixed to the bottom of the stadium, a twenty-five inch cord enabled its user to hold the plate at exactly the right distance from the eye, while he studied his target through the hole in the brass and adjusted the bar to learn what distance separated them.

  With that rifle, made by his own hands—Baylor was a skilled gun-smith whose deadly accurate shooting brought employment as a special-duty sniper—he could hit a man at seven hundred yards. The horse stood no more than five hundred yards away and offered a larger target.

  Satisfied with his aim, Baylor squeezed the trigger, watched the side hammer drop on to the percussion cap and felt the solid jar of the recoil against his shoulder. Through the cloud of whirling powder-smoke, he saw the horse collapse kicking wildly, and then go still.

  Dusty nodded in cold satisfaction. That put Hannah in the same position as his men, without a horse on which he might make an escape.

  ‘And now all we have to do is fetch them out,’ the small Texan mused.

  Three – Free Passage for the Women

  ‘The gun’s got here, Cap’n Dusty!’ called one of the soldiers.

  Turning, Dusty saw that the mountain howitzer’s party had wisely halted beyond rifle range.

  ‘Keep them penned in, Billy Jack,’ he ordered and moved back from his position to dart away in the direction of the howitzer.

  Dusty’s way lay by Baylor and he found the sharpshooter going through the tricky business of reloading the rifle. Halting to pass on orders, Dusty sat down in cover and waited until the other finished.

  To make the most of the rifle’s accuracy-potential, a sharpshooter did not just tip powder down the barrel and ram home a ball on top. Baylor slid a brass tube into the barrel of his rifle, then tipped a carefully measured amount of gun-powder down it. In that way he ensured that none of the powder grains lodged in the rifling but all arrived at the chamber. Removing the tube, he slipped the rifle’s false-muzzle from a pocket, fitting it into place.

  Before rifling the barrel, when making the rifle, Baylor turned down its muzzle slightly and carefully cut off the last two inches. The cut-off portion was fitted with four pins, and holes to correspond with them were drilled into the end of the barrel. With that done, barrel and false
muzzle received their rifling grooves and the mouth of the latter was reamed out slightly to make ‘starting’ the bullet easier. Using a false-muzzle ensured the correct seating of the bullet—which was slightly larger than the bore size, although smaller than that of bore and rifling grooves, to make for a gas-tight seal and extra power—and protected the true muzzle from wear or damage that would spoil the rifle’s fine accuracy.

  After fixing on the false-muzzle, Baylor placed home a carefully molded, sized and weighted bullet. Nor did his attentions end there. Next he fitted a bullet-starter over the end of the false-muzzle, moving down its piston until the prepared cavity fitted over the head of the bullet. A firm tap thrust home the piston and drove the bullet down into the barrel proper. Putting aside the starter, Baylor finished seating the bullet with his ramrod.

  ‘I want that Requa silencing, Thad,’ Dusty said as the man placed a percussion cap on its nipple. ‘Only don’t fire until I tell you. Then drop the gunner.’

  ‘Yo!’ Baylor answered.

  He hated the work his shooting skill brought, but the sights at the ravaged village made him feel less sympathy than usual with his victims. Settling down to rest his rifle again, he made sure that the barrel could line on the Requa’s gunner. Finding it would do so, he waited for the order to shoot.

  Having made use of Baylor’s special skill before, Dusty knew the other’s feelings on the subject of long-range selective killing. So the small Texan did not want to delay for too long and give Baylor a chance to brood. One small consolation came as Dusty realized that, with the War over, Baylor should be able to return to working as a gunsmith and stop killing.

  Things were not to work out so easily for Baylor and at a future date Dusty would once again find himself asking the sharpshooter to use his skill to take a human life. iv

  Leaving Baylor, Dusty made his way to the rear. Twice bullets hissed by the small Texan’s head and once lead churned the dirt under his feet, but he reached his support weapon without injury.

  By the time Dusty arrived, the howitzer’s crew had already assembled their piece and the sergeant stood waiting for orders for its use.

  ‘Loaded with shell, Cap’n,’ the non-com announced. ‘Reckon you can hit the buildings from here?’ asked Dusty.

  ‘Once we get the range.’

  ‘You’ve only got thirty two rounds, sergeant,’ Dusty pointed out, nodding to the four narrow boxes standing to the rear after being unloaded from the two ammunition mules. ‘A half-pound exploding charge’s not all that powerful, so we’ll have none to spare if we need to handle all six cabins and the big place.’

  ‘Reckon not, sir,’ admitted the sergeant, surprised that a cavalry officer, even Captain Dusty Fog, should know so much about artillery matters.

  A howitzer was designed to throw its shell in a high arc and could not be depressed for level fire. While ideal for lobbing its charges over obstacles, it did not offer extreme accuracy of the kind Dusty required.

  ‘Could you tilt the stock up on a rock and bring the barrel into line that way?’ Dusty inquired.

  ‘Not without risking busting something,’ the sergeant replied.

  ‘The War’s over,’ Dusty reminded him. ‘Let the Yankees worry about repairing any damage if they want the gun.’

  ‘Now me, I’d never’ve thought of that,’ grinned the sergeant. ‘Which’s likely why I never made captain.’ He looked around and pointed to the left. ‘Lay hold and haul her to that flat rock there, boys.’

  Springing to the howitzer, the four men crew moved it into the position indicated by their sergeant. By resting the stock of the trail upon the top of the rock, they tilted the barrel down so that it pointed towards the buildings. Taking up his position behind the gun, the sergeant looked along its thirty-nine inch tube and gave orders to the number three man.

  ‘Trail right,’ said the sergeant and the man swung the trail in the required direction. ‘Trail left. A touch more. Steady!’

  Setting down the trail, the number three took the vent-pick from his pocket, inserted it down the vent, pierced the cloth of the cartridge and exposed its powder ready for the primer. After fastening his lanyard to the primer, the number two man slipped the primer into the vent and stepped aside.

  ‘Fire!’ barked the sergeant, looking towards the target. A tug on the lanyard and the howitzer jerked as its powder charge ignited. Its recoil slid the trail back across the rock, but no damage occurred. From where he stood, Dusty could see the flight of the shell. Like a black streak, it converged with, then struck the wall of the main building by the door and burst through. No explosion followed and the sergeant gave a low, disgusted grunt.

  ‘Damned Borman fuses,’ he snorted. ‘We should ought to complain to the Ordnance Department.’

  ‘Ours, or the Yankees’?’ asked Dusty, for the fuses probably came from raids on the enemy.

  ‘There’s that,’ admitted the sergeant. ‘Give her half a second less on the next one, Ezra.’

  ‘Yo!’ answered the number two man, who served as ammunition carrier and fuse cutter.

  ‘Do you get many misfires?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘That depends on the fuses, but we get a few every time there’s sustained fire,’ the sergeant replied, watching the loading and checking that the fuse had been cut correctly.

  Working with practiced speed, the crew loaded their piece and lined it again. Whether the reduction of burning time affected things, or the fuse functioned better than its predecessor, on the second try the shell passed through the wall and burst inside the big building.

  Without needing further orders, the men went through the reloading routine. The number one man sponged out the tube, then rammed home the charge. Before they completed their work, an interruption came.

  ‘White flag from the big cabin, Cap’n Dusty!’ yelled Billy Jack.

  Although Dusty could see the flag, he felt puzzled. It hardly seemed likely that Hannah’s band would surrender so easily, knowing their fate for the attacker on the small village. Yet none of the guerillas fired as he walked back towards his men. The big building’s front door opened and a woman came out. Carrying the white flag over her shoulder, she advanced towards the Texans.

  ‘Keep down, all of you!’ Dusty barked as the woman shouted something to the occupants of the other cabins. Then, as she drew nearer, he went on, ‘Hold it there.’

  Obediently the woman came to a halt. Nobody would ever regard her as beautiful, or even good-looking. She stood maybe five foot nine, with a muscular development many a man might envy. Raw-boned, with few of the feminine curves which attract male admiration, she wore a plain riding habit and white blouse. Her inscrutable face told nothing, but her eyes flickered glances about her, while a large nose hooked over a rat-trap mouth and rock-hard jaw.

  ‘I want to talk to your boss,’ she declared in a harsh, rasping voice.

  ‘I’m in command here,’ Dusty informed her. ‘Speak your piece.’

  ‘Why for you abusing us poor folks I—’

  ‘If that’s all you have to say, turn ’round and head back,’ the small Texan interrupted. ‘You know why we’re here.’

  ‘You fixing to stay on and fetch us out, no matter how long it takes?’

  All the time she spoke, the woman continued to look around. If a man had stood before him, Dusty would have suspected the other was studying the situation and assessing the danger. Maybe that was why Hannah sent out a woman, figuring she could look around without arousing suspicion. A shrewd move, if correct, provided she knew enough to appreciate fully what she saw.

  ‘That’s why we’re here,’ he told her.

  ‘We’ve a tolerable strong place down there, soldier-boy,’ the woman warned, nodding to the cabins.

  ‘And you’re stuck in it,’ Dusty replied. ‘There’re three more companies and a battery of Whitworth rifles not far behind and coming fast.’

  Clearly the woman understood that Dusty used the term ‘rifles’ when meaning Whitworth rifled
cannon. Through the War, the British-built Whitworth ‘rifles’ gained a reputation for accuracy far exceeding that of any smooth-bore cannon. While a Confederate artillery battery rarely had more than four guns, as opposed to the Union Army’s six, that number could speedily reduce the cabins to rubble, and at a range beyond which any shoulder rifle, or the Requa, might reach them.

  ‘There’s women in the big cabin,’ the woman said after a brief pause.

  ‘Prisoners?’ The word cracked from Dusty’s lips before he could stop it.

  ‘Sure,’ she replied, just a shade too quickly.

  ‘You’re a liar. Hannah never takes prisoners.’

  ‘There’s still women down there,’ the woman insisted. ‘You aiming to start shooting with ’em inside?’

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Let me go down and fetch the gals out.’

  Having already been thinking about the women he knew accompanied most guerilla bands, Dusty saw an answer to his problem. Certainly leaving them in the cabin would seriously impede his handling of the situation. So he gave his agreement to the woman’s proposal.

  ‘All right. Go fetch them out. I’ll give you no more than fifteen minutes to do it.’

  ‘That’ll be long enough.’

  ‘It’d better be!’ Dusty snapped. ‘While you’re convincing the women, let the men know how things stand. After you’ve brought the gals out and clear, any man who wants can follow as long as he comes with his hands in the air and no weapons on him. I’ll see they get a fair trial.’

  Not a great inducement to surrender, as Dusty knew, for no court would show mercy to the ravagers of the Quaker village. However he had to make the offer and hope that some of the guerillas would accept it.

  ‘I’ll tell ’em,’ promised the woman and turned to walk back towards the cabins. Before entering the main building, she stood for a moment and spoke to the occupants of the cabins; but the words did not reach Dusty’s ears.