Although black powder fouled badly when discharged, firing one bullet did not build up sufficient residue to make thrusting home the next round 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.
Hayley set his sights on the number-six man as he lifted a round of canister from the limber of the gun on the right of the battery. Engrossed in his work, the Texan forgot to stay alert. As his carbine cracked, three rifles banged like an echo. All three bullets found their billet in Hayley’s body and he died without witnessing the excellent result of his last shot. The short-barrelled Sharps carbine lacked the extreme long-range accuracy of the Company’s excellent rifles. At ranges of around three hundred yards, the impact point of the bullet might vary by several inches no matter how carefully it had been aimed. Flying down the slope, Hayley’s lead ploughed through the round’s paper covering and into the serge bag of black powder. Ignited by the heat of the bullet, the two-and-a-half pound charge exploded. Caught in the blast, the remaining charges in the limber detonated. The numbers five, six and seven crew members disappeared in a flash of raging light and roar of sound. Flung from their feet, the remainder of the gun’s crew and of the neighbouring piece stayed down until sure that there would be no sympathetic explosion from the next limber’s chest.
After shooting Hayley, the three Zouaves hurled themselves into the nearest cover. They had seen enough of the Texans’ deadly shooting not to risk standing exposed while reloading their rifles. Others of their party continued to advance. In the lead, the young lieutenant made for Red’s position with his sword in the right hand and revolver in the left.
Pumping lead through the red-hot barrel of his Henry, Red was momentarily dazed by the limber’s disintegration. Across the river, the Arkansas Rifles were wavering under the hammering of the Napoleons, reduced though it had been. They also faced the volley-firing of the Zouaves and Dragoons. So Red ignored the danger to himself and concentrated on getting off as many aimed shots as he could at the battery.
CHAPTER SIX
EVEN as Red worked the Henry’s lever and tried to remember how many bullets he had fired since last replenishing the magazine, he heard the wild, ringing notes of a bugle blowing the ‘charge’. Twisting his head involuntarily towards the sound, he saw Dusty galloping over the rim, followed by most of the Company.
A revolver barked close at hand, its bullet tearing the hat from Red’s head. That brought his attention to more pressing matters than admiring his companions’ riding skill, or blessing his cousin’s timely arrival. Swinging to face the direction from which the shot had come, he saw the Yankee lieutenant looming towards him. Again the Zouave’s revolver spat. Its bullet struck the barrel of the Henry and spun it from Red’s hands. With a yell of triumph, the Zouave sprang forward and swung up the sword. Red threw himself to one side, right hand turning palm-out to close on the butt of the off-side Colt. Fetching it from leather as he landed on his back, he fired upwards. Caught under the chin by the bullet, the Yankee officer staggered into the path of one of his men who was trying to draw a bead on Red. Thwarted in his attempt and seeing the Rebel cavalry rushing down the slope, the soldier dropped his rifle and fled.
Knowing that he could not join in the charge while afoot, Red holstered his Colt and rolled across to pick up the Henry. He found that the bullet had only glanced off the top of the octagonal barrel. Satisfied that the rifle was operative, he turned his eyes towards the battery once more.
On hearing Hassle’s news, Dusty had wasted no time. Signalling in the flanking pickets to increase his fighting-strength, he had left Sergeant Weather and six reluctant men to control the captured horses and brought up the rest as fast as he could. By the time he reached the rim, he had been prepared to launch an immediate attack. Many Confederate cavalry regiments placed their assault emphasis on firearms, but the Texas Light Cavalry always made use of their sabres in a charge. So every man his reins fastened to the saddlehorn, guiding his horse with knees while holding a sabre in one hand and revolver in the other.
‘Yeeah, Texas Light!’
Loud rang the Texans’ battle-shout, mingling with the bugler’s spirited rendition of the ‘charge’, sounding above the drumming of over fifty sets of thundering hooves. Forming a single line parallel to the river, the grey-clad riders urged their horses with wild, grim determination.
Becoming aware of the new peril, the crew of the number three gun sprang to its trail-bar. Under the profane urgings of the chief-of-piece and battery commander, they lifted the stock of the gun and started to drag its 2332 pounds of tube and carriage around to face the Texans. Red and Prince saw what was planned and turned their weapons towards the gun. Under the combined hail of fire, three men fell and the remainder were prevented from bringing the piece to bear on Company ‘C’.
Taking heart at the sight of the cavalry, the Arkansas Rifles raised a cheer. Their line, faltering before the depleted battery’s canister, straightened and pressed forward. From a hesitant walk, they swung back into quick-time and built up to a double march into the shallow water of the ford. Down went the bearer of the regimental colour, shot by a Zouave. Although badly wounded, he kept the flag held in the air until another member of the colour guard took it from his hand. Having done his duty, the stricken man collapsed and lay still.
Even as Dusty led his men down the slope, he wondered what had caused such an attack to be launched on the ford. It could be part of some new offensive planned by Ole Devil after Company ‘C’ had left on their current mission. Yet he doubted if his uncle would permit an unsupported assault.
Not that Dusty devoted much time to idle conjecture. Although Red and Prince had prevented the turning of the Napoleon, Company ‘C’ did not ride unchallenged. Some of the Zouaves and Dragoons had turned from the advancing Rifles and opened fire on the approaching cavalry. A cry of pain from behind him told Dusty that at least one of the bullets had taken effect.
The ground shook and trembled to the thundering hooves. Best mounted of the Texans, Dusty had drawn slightly ahead of the Company. Suddenly he felt a sharp jolt run through his racing horse and knew what it meant. The big black horse — one of three he had broken and trained — screamed, staggered and started to go down with a bullet in its chest. Instantly Dusty kicked his feet from the stirrups, tossing his right leg up and across the saddle. As the horse crumpled forward, he sprang from its back. His momentum carried him clear, but he was in danger of being ridden down by the rushing men behind him.
Looking back, he saw a riderless horse approaching in the lead of the Company. Twirling away the revolver, he sprang forward to catch hold of the empty saddle’s horn and vaulted astride. The leather was slick with the previous user’s blood, but he retained his seat and charged onwards. Without any conscious thought on his part, he drew the revolver ready for use.
Springing away from the half-turned gun, the sergeant chief-of-piece rushed at Dusty and lashed out with his short artillery sword. Down flickered the small Texan’s Haiman sabre, catching and deflecting the Yankee’s blade. Then Dusty lunged, driving his point into the man’s chest and dragging it free as the horse carried him by. A revolver crashed from the left, its bullet fanning the air by Dusty’s face. Almost of its own volition, the bone-handled Army Colt lined and barked an answer. Hit between the eyes, the battery commander let his smoking revolver drop and followed it to the ground. Hardly aware of having shot the Yankee major, Dusty whirled his horse in a rearing, sliding turn to see where he could best direct his activities.
As always under such conditions, Dusty later remembered only flashes of what followed, brief, flickering cameos from the bloody fight raging on the Snake Ford of the Caddo. While shooting the Yankee major, he saw that the Arkansas Rifles had crossed the river and were engaging the defenders with bayonets. Bodies lay in the water and the down-stream current was tinged a pinkish-red with their blood.
Not far from Dusty, charging forward with his Enfield and bayonet at the ready, an Arkansas Rifles private made for a terrified Zouave drummer-boy. Letting his bugle fall, the boy sank to his knees. At the last moment, the soldier swerved and left the boy kneeling unharmed, with eyes closed and lips moving in a soundless prayer.
An artilleryman lined his revolver at one of the passing Texans. Before he could press the trigger, he was knocked sprawling by Billy Jack’s horse. He was not given a chance to recover. Rushing up, the Rebel who had spared the drummer-boy plunged home the bayonet and pinned him to the ground.
One of the Napoleons roared, hurling its charge of canister indiscriminately into the wild hacking, thrusting scrimmage of Yankees and Rebels before it. Blue- and grey-uniformed bodies tumbled together, torn open by the flying 1.5 inch balls from the cannon. Reining his horse alongside it, a Texan sprang from his saddle. He landed on the tube, miraculously keeping his balance while kicking one of the crew in the face and cutting down the chief-of-piece with his sabre. Then he pitched sideways, shot by the lieutenant who commanded the two-piece section to which the gun belonged. An instant later the officer also lay dead, shot in the back of the head by an Enfield bullet.
Sweeping away from the rest of the Company, Vern Hassle and six men descended on the four Yankees who had been detailed to watch over the artillery’s and Dragoons’ picketed horses. One of the Union soldiers tried to fight. Without slowing his horse, Hassle cut loose with his old Dragoon Colt. He hit the man and hurled him backwards. Another of the horse-minders went down before the last two threw aside their unfired carbines and raised their hands in surrender. Leaving half of his party to deal with the prisoners, Hassle set the others to work calming the Yankee horses and preventing any from tearing free and escaping.
On the edge of the trenches, the Arkansas Rifles’ tall, lean colonel and the major commanding the Zouaves fought a savage duel with their swords. Seeing his chance, Colonel Barnett went into a near-classic lunge and spiked his point between the other’s ribs. Behind the colonel, a Dragoon sergeant flung up and lined his carbine. Charging in, a mounted Texan almost severed the Yankee non-com’s head from his shoulders before he could fire.
As the fight ebbed his way, an artillery lieutenant sprang on to a caisson and jerked up the lid of the forward chest. Drawing his revolver, he pointed it downwards. A fanatical Unionist, he intended to take as many of the hated Rebels with him as he could, without regard for his own men who would also perish. Reining his borrowed mount around, Dusty raised his Colt shoulder high. Sighting on the Yankee officer, he fired — and not a moment too soon. Rocked backwards by the .44 ball, the lieutenant got off his shot. The bullet flung up splinters from the edge of the chest, but did not hit and explode the charges inside it.
Then the fight was over. Assailed from two sides, left virtually leaderless the Yankees discarded their rifles or carbines. Hands shot into the air and yells of surrender rang out. Despite the growing trend in the East towards Southern defeat, the Confederate States’ Army of Arkansas had scored another victory on the bloody banks of the Caddo River.
Returning his Colt to its holster, Dusty rode towards where the Arkansas Rifles’ colonel stood glaring around. Instead of showing pleasure, or gratitude for Company ‘C’s’ assistance, Colonel Harvey Barnett eyed Dusty with every indication of fury.
‘Where the hell have you been, damn you?’ Barnett roared as Dusty swung from his saddle.
A slight frown creased the small Texan’s face at the furious greeting. After bringing his men on to the scene at such an opportune moment, he felt that he deserved a more civil and reasonable response. Any commanding officer would be shaken after suffering heavy losses, but Barnett’s attitude hinted at snore than that. From the way he had spoken, it almost seemed that he not only expected Company ‘C’ to arrive but felt they should have come earlier in the attack.
‘Raiding across the Ouachita, sir,’ Dusty answered, holding his temper in check and sticking the point of his sabre into the ground to leave his hands free.
‘Raiding!’ Barnett blazed, face almost white with rage. Then, with a visible effort, he regained control of his emotions. ‘I’ll speak to you when I’ve attended to my duties, Captain Fog. And you’d be advised to see to your own.’
‘Yo!’ Dusty answered, saluting.
Wondering what had caused the colonel to act in such a strange manner, Dusty saw Sandy McGraw approaching. He told the guidon-carrier to retrieve his saddle from the dead horse and handed over his sabre. Walking to rejoin his men, he saw Red and Prince standing on the slope looking at the still shape of Tarp Hayley.
‘What in hell’re them puddle-splashers doing, Cap’n Dusty?’ Billy Jack demanded, coming over. ‘They could’ve got wiped out, attacking that way, if we hadn’t happened along.’
‘Sure,’ Dusty replied. ‘Secure the prisoners, see to the wounded, put pickets on the rim to watch for Yankee reinforcements.’
‘Yo!’ Billy Jack answered.
Half an hour went by and Dusty’s orders were well on their way to completion. Red had just returned to report that the Company had lost six dead and eight wounded when Dusty saw Barnett and the Rifles’ stocky, middle-aged adjutant, 1st Lieutenant le Branche, approaching. Before they reached the young Texans, the two officers halted and stared up the slope. Having heard no warning from the pickets he had had put out, Dusty turned to learn what attracted their attention. He saw Kiowa and Weather driving the captured remounts and draught horses down the slope. Facing Barnett, Dusty found that the expression of anger had returned to the colonel’s features and felt surprised at the reaction. He could not see why the evidence of a successful raid should bring such a response.
‘Where did you get those horses?’ Barnett demanded, gritting out the words.
‘I took most of them from the Yankees out by Lake Ouachita, sir.’
‘You mean that you have the audacity to admit you went off on a raiding mission without first reporting yourself to
me
?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ Dusty said, completely baffled by the comment.
The Texas Light Cavalry rarely received orders to report to a ford’s guard before entering Yankee territory. On his present assignment, Dusty had not even made his crossing anywhere near the Snake Ford.
‘Damn it, Fog! You’re not deaf and don’t act the innocent with me!’ Barnett raged. ‘Were you, or were you not under orders to give my battalion a cavalry screen and support during the attack on this ford?’
‘I was not, sir!’ Dusty stated flatly.
Soft-spoken the reply might have been, but it held a ring of truth. Barnett stiffened, staring hard at Dusty’s face.
‘If you weren’t, then who was?’ the colonel growled. ‘And where the hell are they now?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir. I’ve been over the Ouachita for six days on a general reconnaisance and raiding mission. It’s only by chance that I came back this way and I’ve seen no sign of any other cavalry unit.’
Being aware, and mostly approving, of Ole Devil Hardin’s policy of sending cavalry raiders across the Ouachita, Barnett thought of his own losses and his anger did not lessen. However he no longer blamed Dusty for his misfortunes or the failure of the cavalry cover to arrive. At first, and more so when he had seen the captured horses on the rim, Barnett had suspected that Dusty was sent to support him but had crossed the river on a self-appointed raiding mission.
‘My apologies, Captain Fog,’ Barnett said. ‘I see you aren’t at fault. In fact if your men hadn’t harassed the battery my losses would have been far heavier!’
‘That was Mr. Blaze’s work, sir,’ Dusty corrected.
‘I’ll see that you’re commended for it, Mr. Blaze,’ Barnett promised, then frowned and went on, ‘This whole damned affair’s been bungled somewhere.’
‘How’s that, sir?’ Dusty asked.
‘This morning I received orders from General Hardin to take this ford by noon today.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘As a crossing for our troops when we commence an offensive tomorrow.’