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  In fifteen minutes, the Company was ready to march. Smiling, Hoffinger held out his hand to the small Texan who had bested him.

  ‘I hope General Trumpeter’s not too riled at you for losing the remounts,’ Dusty said, shaking hands. ‘Tell him from me that we’ll likely need them in our retreat across the Red River.’

  ‘That’s one excuse I won’t use,’ chuckled Hoffinger. ‘I feel that by now he will be very touchy when that particular stream is mentioned. Good-bye, Captain Fog. With no disrespect, sir, I hope our paths don’t cross again.’

  ‘They might if you try to fetch in more of these remounts,’ Dusty warned.

  ‘That is a remote contingency, sir,’ Hoffinger sighed. ‘My continued employment depended on delivering this bunch.’

  ‘I’m real sorry to spoil it for you,’ Dusty said. ‘But I reckon a feller as talented as you’ll find some way of earning his living. Adios.’

  ‘That young man is going to annoy General Trumpeter before he’s through,’ Hoffinger told Glock as they watched the Texans drive the horses into the water.

  ‘He’s already done it,’ Glock answered, fingering his stomach and grinning with grudging admiration. ‘Damned if he didn’t fire a salute for the general, Billy Jack told me. Out of two of our mortars and right into the middle of a review Trumpeter was holding. Yes sir, Mr. Hoffinger, Trumpeter’s going to hate Dusty Fog’s name.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WE’VE GOT TO STOP THOSE GUNS!

  ‘THERE’S something up, Mr. Blaze!’ growled grizzled old Corporal Vern Hassle, bringing his horse to a sliding halt after returning at speed to the four-man scouting party sent ahead to learn what force of Yankees guarded the Snake Ford of the Caddo.

  It was almost noon on the day following the capture of Hoffinger’s horses and Company ‘C’ were travelling south-east as fast as they could manage accompanied by the remounts and heavy draught animals. They had seen no sign of pursuit, but Kiowa kept watch on their back-trail. The previous night, in camp, Dusty and Red had studied their maps and decided where they could best make their crossing into Rebel territory.

  Every ford along the Caddo and Ouachita Rivers was guarded by detachments of Confederate and Union troops. In addition, both sides kept patrols moving along the rivers’ banks to watch for infiltration by the enemy. On their way out, Company ‘C’ had crossed at an unguarded stretch of fast-flowing water through which only expert horsemen could pass. Using the same place on their return would be dangerous for they had a large bunch of riderless horses with them. To make a crossing would be a lengthy process and leave them open to attack should a Yankee patrol locate them.

  While there had been two fords closer, Dusty had selected Snake Ford. The other two had to be approached across open, level ground with no chance of taking the Yankees by surprise. Snake Ford lay in a wide, winding valley. Being of little military importance, it was held by a company of Stedloe’s Zouaves and a platoon of Dragoons. On the other side, a full battalion of Arkansas Rifles could be swiftly brought up to support the Texans in their crossing. The strength of Rifles stemmed from the fact that the ford was in the centre of their regiment’s patrol area, rather than concern over holding on to it.

  Wanting to make his dash across the river with few if any casualties, Dusty had sent Red ahead to see if the Yankees were watching their rear. Trained in Indian warfare, Vern Hassle ran Kiowa a close second in ability. He had advanced to make a scout and his return heralded trouble.

  ‘What’s up?’ Red demanded.

  Before Hassle could reply, Red heard the staccato blast of a bugle blowing the ‘alarm’. Faint shouts wafted back to the Texan’s ears, followed by the crackle of rifle shots.

  ‘That!’ Hassle replied. “When I left, the Arkansas boys were forming up like they’re fixing to attack the ford — and there’s a battery of cannon on this side.’

  ‘Let’s go!’ Red barked. ‘Is anybody watching this way, Vern?’

  ‘Nope,’ the corporal answered; then the four horses were running.

  Urging their mounts to a gallop, Red’s party raced across the remaining half mile and drew rein just before reaching the rim overlooking the Snake Ford. Dropping from his saddle, Red slid free the Henry rifle from its boot. Before leaving the horses ground-hitched, he told the others to take their carbines and ammunition. Thrusting a box of .44 bullets, taken from his saddle-pouch, into his tunic, Red advanced on foot until he could see the river.

  The trail along which they had ridden wound down a gentle slope and across about a quarter of a mile of level ground before entering the water to emerge on the other bank which had the same general features. As the name implied, the Caddo made a S-shaped curve at that point. To either side of Red, the downwards slope extended until it eventually fell in a sheer wall to the water. There was, however, an area of about half a mile down which one could ride to reach the ford.

  All that Red had expected to see from his study of the maps. What came as a shock was the sight of the Arkansas Rifles battalion formed up in line of battle and starting to advance determinedly down the opposite slope. That and the battery of Model 1857 12-pounder Napoleon gun-howitzers facing the Rebels on the Yankees’ shore. From all appearances, the whole battalion, colours flying and bayonets fixed, were moving to the attack. Their numbers would have been adequate against the normal guard, even if the assault led to casualties from the enemies’ rifle fire. The same did not apply when they must advance across more than eight hundred yards of open country, in the face of artillery bombardment, before reaching the river.

  Red knew that a well-served Napoleon could fire two aimed shots a minute, using spherical case or solid shot. When the range shortened, the guns would switch to canister and speed up their rate of fire. Canister, each one holding twenty-seven balls, turned the Napoleons into a kind of giant shotgun and dispensed with the need for taking careful aim. It could not be put into use successfully until the enemy came within three hundred and fifty yards range; but after that every gun in the battery could get off up to nine shots before the attackers reached it. Such a volume of fire might easily wipe out the whole battalion.

  Already solid shot was crashing among the advancing soldiers, the Yankee battery commander wisely forgetting spherical case due to the uncertainty of the timing-fuses’ operation. Down by the river, the Zouaves and Dragoons crouched in their defensive positions and exchanged shots with the Rifles’ skirmishers, So far the Yankee infantry did not fire at the main body of the attackers. Almost half a mile was not a distance over which the average soldier, armed with the U.S. Model of 1861 rifle-musket could be counted on to make a hit.

  On marched the Arkansas Rifles, keeping their ranks well despite the canon-fire. In front strode the colour party, bearing the regiment’s battle-flag, and officers with drawn swords. The enlisted men carried Enfield rifles at the high-port. It would be several minutes before they were close enough to put the rifles into effective use and all that time the Napoleons would continue to fire at them.

  ‘We’ve got to stop those guns!’ Red snapped.

  ‘You mean for us four to charge down there and do it?’ asked Tracey Prince.

  ‘Just three of us,’ Red corrected. ‘Vern. Take my horse and ride relay to the Company. Tell Cap’n Fog what’s coming off here.’

  ‘How about you?’ the old corporal inquired.

  ‘We’re going to move down the rim, find places to settle in and start to shooting,’ Red explained. ‘Move it!’

  ‘Yo!’ replied Prince and Private Tarp Hayley eagerly, each holding a Sharps carbine. Like Red’s Henrys the Sharps were battle-field captures and effective weapons in skilled hands.

  Studying the battery as he and his companions passed over the rim, while Hassle hurried off to deliver the message, Red concluded that it had only recently arrived and come hurriedly. He could see no sign of the battery-wagon — which carried tents and supplies for the guns’ crews — the travelling forage or six reserve caissons of ammunition w
hich normally accompanied the Napoleons when they moved. While there had been some attempt to conceal the guns behind bushes, the crews had not raised protective earth-works. Nor had the three ammunition chests been removed from the guns’ caissons and brought closer to the pieces. So far the crews had fed their guns with charges brought from the limber’s chest. Their teams and the Dragons’ horses were held among a clump of trees over by the left side wall.

  ‘Fan out and find cover!’ Red snapped to Hayley and Prince. ‘Don’t bother with the Zouaves, go for the gun crews.’

  Swiftly they separated and each found a place which he felt suited his needs. Red flattened behind a rock, setting the box of bullets close to his left hand. Three hundred yards lay between him and the nearest cannon. The battery, spaced at around fourteen yards intervals and allowing a further two yards per gun, covered an eighty-two yards front. Which meant even the outer pieces were in range of his Henry or his companions’ Sharps carbines.

  Grimly Red set his rifle’s sights. With the wind blowing towards the Confederate side of the ford, Dusty might not hear the fighting. That meant there would be a delay before help could come. So Red knew what must be done. Unless the guns’ rate of fire was reduced, the Arkansas Rifles faced terrible losses. The bellowing of the Napoleons and sight of Confederate soldiers falling told him that.

  Taking aim, Red squeezed the Henry’s trigger and felt the recoil’s kick against his shoulder. Through the swirling powder-smoke, he saw the chief-of-piece for the third gun from the left stagger and fall. Down and up flicked the Henry’s lever, throwing an empty cartridge case into the air. Before it landed, Red had swung the barrel and shot the number-one man of the crew. Caught in the act of ramming a solid shot down the barrel, the soldier collapsed and snapped the shaft of the rammer. Until a spare could be brought up, the gun was out of action.

  Swiftly Red changed his point of aim, raking the fourth from left gun with half-a-dozen bullets. He hit two men and threw the rest into such confusion that the piece went unfired. From the sound of carbine shots on either side of him, he knew that Prince and Hayley were doing their part in slowing the battery’s rate of fire.

  Already the artillerymen were beginning to realize that the bullets did not come from the Arkansas Rifles and started to look for their new assailants. All too well they understood the danger to themselves. In the days of its greatest exponent, Napoleon Bonaparte, cannon-fire and especially canister had been a most deadly weapon to employ against unprotected bodies of troops. While canister was still terrible, improvements in hand-held arms had rendered it less effective and it no longer had the advantage of superior range over rifles. So the Yankees wanted to make the most of the canister before the Arkansas Rifles came too close.

  Seeing his men go down, the major commanding the battery swung to look at the slope. In doing so, he inadvertently saved his life. Kneeling behind a rock some thirty yards to Red’s right, Hayley had selected the major as his next mark. He touched off his shot just as the officer moved and missed.

  About the same distance to Red’s left, Prince rested his carbine on the lip of the hollow in which he crouched, sighted and fired. Caught in the head, the number-three man of the far left cannon spun around and with a spasmodic gesture flung away the vent-pick with which he had been about to prick open the loaded serge powder bag to make way for the insertion of the friction-primer. Cursing, the chief-of-piece fumbled in his pockets for another vent-pick, without which the gun could not be fired.

  The major raked the slope with his field-glasses and located his attackers. Only three men, but they posed a serious threat to the battery’s efficiency. Snapping an order to his orderly, he sent the man racing with a message to the Zouaves’ commanding officer.

  Watching the orderly, Red guessed at the nature of his mission. Across the river, the Arkansas Rifles were still marching at quick-time with their colonel striding in front of them. Not until within a hundred yards would they make their charge. The harassing of the Napoleons must continue if the charge was to succeed.

  Although his Henry still held five rounds, Red rested its butt on the ground and began to reload. Opening the magazine-tube after forcing its spring towards the muzzle, he fed ten flat-nosed .44/28 bullets base first down the tube to refill it. While working, he blessed the fact that he had brought the Henry along instead of his Spencer — also a battle-field capture. The Spencer might be more powerful, but had a slower rate of fire and only a seven-shot magazine.

  While Red reloaded the Henry, his companions’ single-shot carbines continued to crack. Clearly they were having some effect, for the Napoleons’ fire slackened,

  ‘Bunch of Yankee puddle-splashers coming, Mr. Blaze!’ called Prince.

  ‘Go for the battery as long as you can,’ Red replied, closing the magazine tube and returning to his firing position.

  A dozen Zouaves led by a sergeant ran by the guns towards the slopes, but they would have to be ignored until the last minute. Already the Arkansas Rifles had entered the zone in which canister could be used against them. Nor did they show signs of halting while rifle fire beat down the menace of the Napoleons.

  With a grim-set face Red poured bullets at one of the centre guns. Watching men go down, he noticed that the piece at the left of the line stood unattended. Clearly he and his men had inflicted sufficient casualties for the battery’s commander to concentrate the depleted crew on other guns.

  Down below, a Springfield rifle banged. Its .58 calibre ball spattered rock chips from Red’s cover. Changing his line of sight, the red head sprayed lead at the Zouaves. He dropped the sergeant and one man, then wounded another before the rest took cover. The speed at which he had fired warned the Yankees that they were facing a good shot armed with a Henry, fastest-shooting rifle of the War. So they flung themselves to shelter instead of carrying out their orders. Once more Red turned his attention to the Napoleons.

  When the Texans continued to shoot at his guns, the major sent another message to the Zouave entrenchments. Red saw the Infantry major stare up the slope and hesitate, wanting to retain as many men as possible to meet the Rifles’ onslaught. Yet he also saw the danger if the harassment of the battery continued. Its fire had already been reduced to a half and at a time when it should be at its highest. So he gave an order which sent a further twenty men under the command of a lieutenant towards the slope.

  Seeing support on its way, the first party of Zouaves resumed their advance. Darting from cover to cover, they ascended the slope. Once again Red began to reload the Henry. Unnoticed by him, a Zouave rose from behind a bush and lined a long-barrelled rifle at him.

  Catching a movement from the corner of his eye, Tracey Prince turned his head to take a closer look. He saw the Zouave behind Red and twisted around to aim and fire his carbine. In doing so, he saved his and Red’s lives. Even as he moved, another Zouave appeared and took a shot at him. The bullet spanged off the rock where Prince’s body had been resting an instant before, but without affecting his accuracy. The Sharps spat and blood masked the face of the man beyond Red. Dropping his Springfield he turned and stumbled blindly down the slope.

  On firing, Prince swung to face the threat to his own existence. Standing in plain sight, as the reloading could be done faster that way than when kneeling or prone, the second Zouave went about it with trained speed. Clearly he was a veteran, fully capable of making the best time possible at the tedious business of recharging the obsolete, muzzle-loading Springfield rifle. Already he had withdrawn a paper cartridge from his belt-pouch, torn open its base with his teeth, poured the powder into the barrel, used the covering as a wad and thrust the round ball into the muzzle. Resting the cup-shaped end of the ramrod on to the ball, he drove it to the bottom of the barrel. No less speedily he removed the rod, dropping it once clear of the muzzle, and drew back the hammer to half cock.

  Although black powder fouled badly when discharged, firing one bullet did not build up sufficient residue to make thrusting home the next r
ound a difficult process. So in slightly less than twenty seconds after missing Prince, the Zouave was ready to fit a percussion cap on the nipple and try again.

  Unfortunately Prince held one of the weapons which rapidly wrote a finish to the cheap-to-produce, easy-to-maintain muzzle-loading rifles with which both sides had been armed at the start of the War.

  While turning, Prince had shoved forward the Sharps’ trigger-guard. This in turn caused the breech block to descend into its loading position. Like the rifle, the carbine fired a non-metallic cartridge; but he did not have to bite it open. Slipping the bullet into the chamber, he returned the triggerguard to its normal place. As it closed, the knife-edge of the breech block sheared through the linen base of the cartridge. Nor did he need to fumble with percussion caps.

  The Maynard-primer, which looked like and acted in the manner of a child’s roller-cap pistol, had failed to meet the stringent demands of war. Amongst its other faults, the allegedly waterproof coating had allowed the patches of fulminate to become damp and inoperative. So the United States Army had gone back to the slower, but more certain, individual copper cap for the Springfield. The Sharps used the simple, effective Lawrence disc-primer. Operated by a spring-fed magazine built into the frame, the primer fed percussion discs on to the nipple of the carbine’s breech and utilized the falling hammer to place them there as well as igniting the fulminate. In that way, the Lawrence primer did away with capping by hand and increased the Sharps’ rate of fire.

  Making a snap alignment of the sights, Prince squeezed the trigger. The .52 calibre Sharps bullet tore into the Zouave as he was taking a percussion cap from its box. Twisting around, he fell back out of the Texan’s sight.