Dusty Fog's Civil War 9 Read online

  Dusty grinned and let the statement ride, knowing that the Colonel had high regard for Red’s sterling qualities and meant nothing by his growled-out tirade. Wanting to get through so that he could finish his other work, and catch some sleep, Dusty told his uncle of his company’s activities after separating from Red. At last Blaze nodded with satisfaction. From what Dusty told him, the stirring-up process had worked real well.

  “I expect Major Amesley’ll want your report in writing, Dustine,” he said. “But see to it after you’ve had some sleep.”

  “Yo!” Dusty replied, rising and saluting.

  On leaving the colonel’s office, Dusty went through the rear of the building and found, as he expected, a bowl of boiling water waiting for him. Already his striker had taken his saddle to his room and brought down the box with cleaning gear for the guns.

  Normally Dusty would not have thought of emptying both his guns at the same time, but he figured that in the safety of his regimental headquarters he could dispense with the precaution of always keeping one weapon ready for use. Unbuckling his gunbelt, he removed and laid it on the small table by the wall. After taking off his hat and jacket, he put them with the belt. He drew the two revolvers from their holsters and carried them to the table in the centre of the yard, putting one down by the steaming bowl of water while he prepared to clean the other.

  While the 1860 Army Colt could truthfully claim to be the finest fighting handgun of its day, hard-hitting, accurate, robots and well-constructed, if only functioned correctly when given proper care and attention. Since the correct functioning of his guns could mean the difference between life and death, Dusty always devoted time to their maintenance. After a prolonged period of regular use, like the past few days had called for, more than a mere cleansing of the barrel and cylinder’s chambers was necessary.

  After setting the right-hand Colt at half cock, Dusty took the basic precaution of removing the percussion caps from the cylinder nipples. Not until he had guarded against accidental discharge did he drive out the wedge which held the barrel and cylinder on the lock frame’s base pin. Turning the cylinder slightly, he worked the ramming lever under the barrel so that its head pressed against the partition between two of the chambers and so forced the barrel free from the base pin. Next he removed the cylinder from the base pin and carefully worked the bullets out of the chambers. Although the base of each paper cartridge had been tom on loading, to facilitate the ignition of the enclosed charge, the powder could be used again and the lead remolded into fresh bullets; so Dusty made sure he drew each load correctly and set them where they would be safe from splashing water. Placing the barrel and empty cylinder into the water, he turned his attention to the lock frame.

  Pieces of exploding percussion caps often worked down into the mechanism of the gun, and a careful man removed them regularly. It said much for the ingenuity of the Army Colt’s designer that the mechanism was so simple an ordinary user could strip and assemble it without needing to call upon the service of a trained gunsmith. Using the screwdriver which came in the case with his guns, Dusty removed the three screws holding the butt grips in place. He then unfastened the screw which connected the main spring to the trigger guard and turned the spring from under the hammer’s tumbler. Removing three more screws allowed him to take off the trigger guard and he twisted away another to gain access to the double spring which bore on the trigger and bolt. Next he removed the trigger and bolt by unfastening two screw-pins. Lastly he released the screw-pin which allowed him to withdraw the hammer, its hand still attached, downwards through the lock frame.

  With that done, Dusty set to work on the second Colt, repeating the process and finally started to give every part a thorough cleaning. While working, he heard footsteps approaching and looked up at a man and a girl who came towards him. For a moment he hardly recognized Belle Boyd, as she wore a stylish gray dress and a large-brimmed hat from under which hung long red hair. At her side strode General Ole Devil Hardin. Tall, ramrod straight, immaculate in his uniform of a full general of the Confederate States Army, Hardin’s lean, tanned face had the look of a hard disciplinarian tempered with a sense of humor. His face showed no expression, but relief glinted in his usually hard black eyes as he studied his illustrious nephew.

  “Carry on with your work, Dustine,” Hardin greeted as Dusty lowered the lock-frame in preparation to render military courtesy by coming to attention and saluting. “Pleased to see you back, boy.”

  “So am I, Dusty,” Belle went on, trying to sound formal but belying the effort with her warm smile.

  “Which same makes three of us,” Dusty answered with a faint grin.

  “Rough trip, boy?” asked Ole Devil.

  The grin died away and Dusty nodded his head. “Rough enough, sir, I lost seven men when we tangled with a battalion of Yankee cavalry. Had to run near on four miles before we lost him. I think they were the 8th Pennsylvania Regiment.”

  Which, as Hardin knew, meant that the Yankees did belong to the regiment named. Dusty was well enough schooled in his work to know the need for accurate identification of an enemy force.

  “Good,” Hardin growled. “The 8th are based to the east. You’ve pulled out at least some of them and will have everybody’s attention on the west.”

  “I hope so, sir,” Dusty replied. “Cousin Buck will have it hard enough on his assignment. Anything I could do will help him a mite.” He paused for a moment, giving his attention to cleaning the lock-frame, then went on, “What’s next for me, sir?”

  “How’s your company?”

  “Horses are about done, but a few days will see them right, or we can draw from the regiment’s remounts.”

  “It’s time your men came off active duties for a time,” Old Devil stated, having already seen the condition of the horses Dusty brought back from the patrol. “How’d you like a furlough, boy?”

  “Back home in Texas, sir?” asked Dusty, trying hard to hide the eagerness in his voice.

  “’Fraid not. In Matamoros.”

  Using a rod, Dusty fished one of the barrels from the water. His eyes went first to the girl, then swung back to Ole Devil. “Matamoros in Mexico, sir?”

  “If there’s another, we’re not interested in it,” Ole Devil replied, watching Dusty start to clean the barrel. “It’s a right lively place for a young feller to spend a furlough in, or so they tell me.”

  “And if it’s any inducement, Dusty,” Belle put in. “I’ll be going there with you.”

  “Why not tell me the assignment, sir,” Dusty suggested.

  Turning his grim face towards Belle, Ole Devil smiled one of his rare smiles, “I told you we might as well lay our cards straight on the table, Miss Boyd.”

  “It’s usually the best,” she agreed. “Only in my line one gets used to taking the long way around.” She turned back to Dusty and watched him thrusting the cleaning rod through the Colt’s barrel while its head dried the moisture from it, “You see, Dusty, I’m taking that Yankee gold to Matamoros and I’d naturally prefer to have a reliable escort along with me.”

  “The town’s lively all right, Dustine,” Old Devil continued. “A lot of our people went down there when the Yankees took over Brownsville. Then deserters from both sides began to trickle in. All the usual type of riff-raff and adventurers have moved there, it serves as a handy point for smuggling blockade-run goods into Texas and that game doesn’t attract many saints. Then there’s the French garrison and most likely a fair amount of Mexicans who are getting ready for the big rebellion that’s brewing down there against Maximilian...”

  “You’re forgetting somebody, General,” Belle stated.

  “Who, ma’am?”

  “Yankee spies. Pinkerton runs a mighty efficient organization and won’t have overlooked a good bet like Matamoros.”

  “He’ll likely have them there,” Dusty agreed, “and in touch with the U.S. Navy ships on blockade service along the Texas coast. All in all, I can think of a whole heap safer p
laces to take the gold.”

  “That’s why Miss Boyd wants an escort, Dustine,” Ole Devil said.

  “Preferably you, Dusty,” Belle went on.

  “I’m game, if that’s the way you want it, sir,” Dusty answered.

  “Damn it, that’s not the way I want it. But with a shipment of arms due to arrive at Matamoros in the near future, I’d like to see the South lay its hands on them.”

  “So that’s it,” Dusty breathed, then raised the barrel and looked through its now shining bore.

  “The shipment is one I arranged for in England just before I left,” Belle explained. “The man gathering it is not one of our supporters, but a merchant captain with a shady reputation. Normally when he insisted on payment in gold, I would have ignored the offer, especially with the conditions he laid down. But I saw the consignment. New Enfield rifles—”

  “Which are as good guns as a man could ask for,” Dusty interrupted. “For infantrymen that is.”

  “Better than anything we have from our own sources,” Belle replied. “He is also supplying a large quantity of ammunition and British powder is the best in the world. The consignment is worth the money.”

  “You saw the consignment?” asked Dusty.

  “And had it checked by a gunsmith.”

  “Why is there such a delay in his arriving at Matamoros, and why go there instead of running the blockade to bring the guns into a Southern port?”

  On hearing Dusty’s questions, Belle felt certain she had done the right thing in requesting that the small Texan be appointed her escort for what she knew must be a dangerous mission. Clearly he aimed to take nothing, not even her loyalty, to chance; and she admired him for his caution.

  “Captain Smee, the owner of the consignment, is no supporter of the Confederate States, which is why he says he will deliver to Matamoros rather than risk running the blockade. As for the delay, his ship is in dry-dock receiving a thorough re-fit after damage gained, I feel sure, in some illegal enterprise. He is quite willing to sell his arms to us, but only if we come to Matamoros for them. In Matamoros he can find other customers. The Mexicans fighting to establish one of their own in command as Presidente could use those arms. So could the French army of occupation. Even the Yankees would buy the consignment rather than see it fall into our hands.”

  “I think of four, that jasper Smee would rather sell to us,” Ole Devil commented. “The Mexicans might like the arms, but I doubt if they’ve the kind of money to pay for it. As the French can have arms shipped from France at less cost, they won’t go so high. Maybe the Yankees would buy the shipment. In fact they’re certain to try. They can use those arms just as well as we could. So I want that shipment in our hands, Dustine.”

  “That figures, sir,” Dusty said quietly, for he knew the situation well.

  “Smee has done this sort of thing before, though not dealing with us,” Belle continued. “The arms are packed in boxes marked ‘Farm Machinery’ or something equally innocent. Not that he needs to go to any great lengths.”

  “The Yankees control Brownsville and can cover the mouth of the Rio Grande,” Dusty warned. “And they’ve blockade-ships in the area.”

  “But Smee sails under the British flag,” Belle pointed out.

  At that time Britain was still the major world power and sane heads in the Federal Government fought shy of antagonizing the great country across the Atlantic. Opinion in Britain still remained sharply divided on whether to give active support to North or South in the War. A chance insult, an affront against the Union Jack, would give added weight to the arguments of the interests favoring the South. Earlier in the War, a Yankee naval ship’s interference with British merchantmen on the high seas caused a diplomatic storm that only considerable tact and some concessions prevented from developing into anything worse. So while under the laws of war ships of a blockading squadron had the right to search neutral vessels trying to enter an enemy port, Matamoros lay in the territory of a neutral nation and the Yankees had no right to interfere with a British ship making for it.

  “Which means the Yankees will either have to stop us buying the consignment,” said Ole Devil, “or prevent us from receiving it after the purchase. Miss Boyd will handle the purchase, Dustine. But it will fall on you to ensure its safe delivery. I won’t tell you how to accomplish that. It will depend on conditions in Matamoros.”

  “It won’t be easy, sir,” Dusty replied.

  “I know. That’s why I’m allowing you to take Mr. Blaze with you.”

  “Red?”

  “He was christened Charles William Henry,” Ole Devil growled dryly.

  “Reckon he remembers that, sir?” grinned Dusty. “Who’ll be commanding the Company while we’re away?” Due to their considerable successes in the field and the fact that they handled most of the difficult raiding chores for the regiment, Company C regarded themselves as the elite of the elite; a crack fighting outfit pride of achievement to boost them. Such men regarded their officers as being only one shade lower than God and would never take to following any other leaders without considerable fuss. Any officer placed in command of Company C, even temporarily, would have a restive outfit to control until he won their respect. Another point Ole Devil had to remember was that all the men capable of taking over Company C, and making a go of it, already ran their own companies and would not care to change. However, the General knew the only way out of his difficulty.

  “I’m putting your father in command,” he replied. Dusty’s father, Hondo Fog, held rank of major and acted as second-in-command of the Texas Light Cavalry. With his forceful personality he could take over Dusty’s company and maintain it as the small Texan would wish.

  “It’s time Company C came off active duty anyway,” Ole Devil went on. “I’ll keep them around the camp. A spell of guard detail, drill and work here won’t hurt them.” It would also give the outfit time to catch up on their rest and allow the horses to regain that peak of condition so necessary in the work Company C handled. Dusty felt relieved to know that his men would not be on patrol while he went on the assignment to Matamoros.

  “How do we get there, sir?” he asked.

  At that moment Hardin saw the fatigue-lines on Dusty’s face. “Damn it, boy!” he barked. “Leave it until tomorrow. Finish cleaning your guns and then go get some sleep. That’s an order.”

  Dusty nodded in agreement. That was one order he intended to carry out.

  Seven – Disturbing News for Miss Boyd

  “And in conclusion, I say again how deeply grieved I am at having to send you this news, and how 1 sympathize with you in your loss; but I repeat that your son died gallantly while performing his duty and in so doing helped to save the lives of his comrades.

  Yours sincerely,

  Dustine Edward Marsden Fog, Captain, Texas Light Cavalry.”

  Laying down his pen, Dusty looked at the letter before him and wondered if he could have expressed himself any better, or maybe lessened the blow of having to tell parents that their son would never come back from the War. A feeling of anger and frustration hit him at the thought. How the hell could one soften such a blow? However, he knew that he must write the letter. Hating the task bitterly, he still did it to the best of his ability and, although he never learned of it, his letters did in some small measure help the grieving parents.

  Seven letters lay on the table before him, six of them already sealed in the addressed envelopes ready for dispatch. One of the letters bulked larger than the rest. Belle Boyd had written to the parents of the corporal who gave his life for her and added her condolences to Dusty’s message.

  Coming to his feet, Dusty stretched himself and grunted as his muscles protested at the strain. However, his young frame had become hardened to strain and he felt refreshed by a long night’s sleep. Actually it had been closer to a full evening, night and morning’s sleep, for he went to bed as soon as he completed cleaning and reassembling his Colts and did not waken until almost nine in the morning.
A bath and shave, although that latter had not yet become a daily necessity in his case, refreshed him. After eating breakfast alone in the dining room, the rest of the officers already being about their duty, Dusty returned to his room on the upper floor and set to work at writing his reports and the letters to his dead men’s parents.

  Like any outdoorsman, Dusty hated to be cooped up in a room. Having completed his paperwork, he decided to take a stroll around the camp. He wanted to see Belle Boyd and discuss the assignment, but he also wished to make sure that his men were all right and that the horses received correct care and attention.

  A faint smile flickered across his face as he took up the jacket, now cleaned, pressed and with the metal work gleaming, from where it hung behind the door. His striker, a man with some thirty years’ army service behind him, looked ominous and muttered about the Manual of Dress Regulations every time he handled the skirtless jacket. In fact, since a certain Lieutenant Mark Counter, something of a Beau Brummel although a man of considerable courage and ability, introduced the skirtless jacket which became popular with the younger bloods of the C.S.A., considerable controversy raged around the propriety of an officer wearing such a garment. The older set, always inclined to damn anything modern, made rumbling noises at the flouting of dress regulations, but many of the younger officers wore and found the jacket comfortable. At that time Dusty and Mark had not yet met, i but the small Texan figured the other to be a shrewd judge of what a fighting cavalry officer should wear. The hanging skirt of the regulation jacket was an infernal nuisance and also a serious hazard when forced to make a rapid mount over the rump of a horse, while the skirtless jacket gave greater freedom of movement under all conditions; and, to Dusty’s way of thinking, looked even smarter than the old style.

  Dusty and Red shared a room on the upper floor of the building, although expecting to be evicted to live with the other junior officers in the tented lines if senior members of the C.S.A. came on an extended visit. Knowing that Dusty needed rest, Red had left early and not returned. So Dusty donned his jacket ready to go out in search of his second-in-command.