‘I’d sure hate the puddle-splashers to shoot down one of our boys who’s riding dispatch, Kiowa,’ Red said as they watched the patrol march away. ‘There’s no need to keep going.’
‘We headed back to the Company?’ the sergeant inquired.
‘Not by what you’d call the quickest way,’ Red answered. ‘I’ve been thinking about what Cousin Dusty’s trying to do—’
‘And?’
‘The Yankee’ll have at least three batteries against our one — soon’s they can get the guns from the other fords to the Snake. Which they couldn’t do happen somehow they was to lose all their hosses in the night.’
‘They do say Yankees are real careless with their stock,’ Kiowa grunted and fingered the knife on his belt. We could go see if it’s true.’
‘That’s just what we’ll do,’ Red decided; then a thought struck him and caused a grin to flicker across his face. ‘Wouldn’t it be a pistol if those guerillas take them fake orders to sell to the Yankee soldiers? I’d give money to see old Trumpeter’s face, happen he thought up this fancy twirl-me-round, when he gets his own orders handed back to him?
oooOooo
* Soft-shell: a liberal-intellectual.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BEING a man who enjoyed his creature comforts, the Yankee general who had originally captured Little Rock selected a fine old colonial-style house in the best section of the town for his official residence. Ever optimistic, subsequent generals saw no point of seeking other quarters when at any time they might be continuing their advance towards the borders of Texas.
On the afternoon of the fourth day after his grand review had been disrupted and ruined, General Horace Trumpeter paced restlessly about the first-floor front room which had been converted into his private office. Back and forwards he tramped; from the door, passing the large desk in the centre of the room and almost brushing against the drawn-back, heavy drapes of the window in turning. Once he came to a halt by the window, glowering across the balcony into the foliage of the fine old white-oak tree which spread so close to the balustrade. The sight of the tree and the well-kept gardens stretching to the high walls surrounding the property gave him no pleasure that day. Scowling across the lawns and flower-beds, liberally dotted and lined with decorative bushes, he gave an angry snort, then resumed his walking and thinking.
Normally his thoughts would have been directed to the future, planning the country that he intended to build after the War ended. It would be a fine country, where all men were equal — guided and directed, of course, by himself and a carefully selected few of the liberal elite — and worked for the common good. In his day-dreams, he could imagine himself as President, respected by all, receiving the adulation of the masses as the saviour of the Union and creator of a land which was ‘all for the people’. They were the dreams first formed as a college student and the War had presented him with an opportunity to bring them to fulfilment.
Such thoughts did not wing their delightful way that afternoon. In tune with his thudding feet, two words repeatedly throbbed inside his head. ‘Dusty Fog! Dusty Fog! Dusty Fog!’ Even before he had come to Arkansas, Trumpeter had heard the name. He had been one of those who raised their voices in protest against the Texan being permitted to attend and give evidence at Kirby Cogshill’s court martial. For the most part, Trumpeter had put the tales of Dusty Fog’s abilities and talents down to nothing more than propaganda by the Confederate States. Trumpeter knew that he could not perform the feats credited to the Texan; which meant that no lesser mortal could do them. Since his arrival in Arkansas, he had seen evidence which would have caused a less egotistical man to change his mind.
The previous night Hoffinger had returned, bringing the news that the first consignment of remounts had fallen into enemy hands. That had been bad enough, but more so when Trumpeter’s brilliant scheme to outwit the stupid Rebels had failed so badly. Far worse had been the discovery that the peckerwood* responsible for the loss was the same man who ruined the review.
Thinking back to the difficulties he had experienced in obtaining the money to purchase the remounts, Trumpeter cursed Dusty Fog’s name. There would be career officers in plenty willing to crow ‘I told you so’ when the news of the failure went the rounds. Feeling the pinch financially, Congress would display an even greater reluctance to hand out money that might be put to more spectacular, vote-catching use on the important, successful battle fronts.
No matter how he looked at recent events, Trumpeter could see only one bright spot. Brilliantly conceived, his plan for ruining the morale of Ole Devil Hardin’s troops would still carry him through and win the acclaim he desired. Four assaults halted with heavy losses to the Rebels would make impressive reading in the Northern newspapers. More so when it would be remembered, pointed out even by a reporter-friend who had followed him to Little Rock, that before his arrival the Union’s Army of Arkansas had known little other than continual defeat.
With the exception of ordering the batteries to the selected fords, the plan had been made and partially implemented before Trumpeter left Washington. Nor had he taken any of his new subordinates into his confidence. Only he and the trusted agent with the forged orders knew of the plan. While Trumpeter told himself that his reticence stemmed from caution and fear of discovery by the Rebel’s efficient Secret Service, he knew it was because he wanted to be sure of success before announcing that the scheme had been tried.
So, knowing no better, the guards on the fords would regard the opportune arrival of the artillery as proof that their new general could out-think and out-plan the enemy. Such a belief in his omniscience would be of the greatest use in building up his troops’ confidence, and holding it until the time came when he could make public the story of how he had tricked the Rebels and paved the way for the conquest of first Arkansas, then Texas. Glancing out of the window in the course of his perambulations, he saw something which jolted him from his day-dreams. A smirk of triumph twisted at his lips as he came to a halt. Accompanied by a dishevelled, travel-stained 1st lieutenant, Colonel Verncombe came through the front gates. Anticipation tingled through Trumpeter as he watched the sentries break off their salutes to the visiting officers. Having expected reports of the repulses to arrive since noon, he decided that Verncombe must be bringing the first. Probably Verncombe wanted to deliver his congratulations in person. That, from a career soldier, would be a most satisfactory tribute.
Crossing to his desk, Trumpeter forced himself to sit down and assume a calm, passive appearance. When Verncombe arrived, the general wanted him to suspect nothing. That way, the approbation for showing the forethought to reinforce the fords’ guard with artillery would be so much more pleasing. Time seemed to drag as he waited. At last he heard feet thudding on the passage beyond the door and he looked down at the papers on the desk. Without raising his head, he called, ‘Come in’ when a knock sounded. His aide, a tall, slim lieutenant, entered to say that Colonel Verncombe requested an interview.
On being brought into Trumpeter’s presence, Verncombe got straight down to business. Almost as soon as he had completed his salute, he started speaking and the words were not in the form of congratulations.
‘Did you arrange for fake orders to be delivered to the Rebels on the Snake Ford of the Caddo — general?’
Something in the colonel’s tone rang a warning bell in Trumpeter’s head. Raising his eyes, he scowled at Verncombe’s coldly angry face until the other belatedly added the final word. While Trumpeter rarely remembered military courtesy to his superiors, he expected it blindly and at all times from his juniors. Failing to stare down the Dragoon colonel, Trumpeter stiffened in his chair.
‘I don’t understand your question, colonel,’ Trumpeter said and his voice held a warning.
‘It’s simple enough — sir,’ Vemcombe replied, too old a hand to permit his anger to lead him to indiscretion. ‘Did the general arrange for false orders to be delivered to the Rebels, causing them to make an assault on our guard at the Caddo River’s Snake Ford — sir?’
‘What makes you think I did?’ Trumpeter demanded cautiously, guessing that something had gone wrong and determined to avoid making any statement which might lay the blame where it belonged, on him.
‘Yesterday the Arkansas Rifles launched an attack on the ford and, despite a battery of our artillery having been moved in, took it from us.’
‘
Took
it?’ The words burst from Trumpeter’s lips before he could stop them.
‘Yes — sir. The attack was made at battalion strength and with cavalry cover from our side of the river?
‘And then what happened?’ the general gritted.
‘The guard on the ford and battery of Napoleons were captured,’ Verncombe told him, ‘after suffering heavy losses.’
Wanting a scapegoat, Trumpeter swung his cold gaze to the Dragoon lieutenant. Although haggard, travel-stained and dishevelled from long exertions, the young officer was not wounded in any way.
‘How did you come to escape, mister?’
‘I didn’t escape—’ the lieutenant answered, cheeks reddening at the implications which he read into the question.
‘You call me “sir”!’ Trumpeter barked.
‘I didn’t escape —
sir
,’ the lieutenant answered, stiffening into a brace. ‘We were
all
released by the Confederates. They mostly turn their captives loose out here. Captain Fog even—’
‘
Who?
’
Trumpeter almost screeched the word as he leapt to his feet. Dropping back a hurried, involuntary stride, the lieutenant threw a startled glance at Verncombe. Then the young officer stared at the general’s shocked, white face. A long thirty seconds went by before the lieutenant could think up and make his reply.
‘Ca-Captain Dusty Fog, sir. It was him who took us from the rear and captured the battery.’
‘Are you sure it was him?’ Trumpeter asked, struggling to regain his pose of imperturbability. He sank into his chair and waited for the answer, hoping against hope that the lieutena was wrong.
‘There’s no doubt of it, sir,’ the young Dragoon replica. ‘It was Company ‘C’ of the Texas Light Cavalry; although it came as a helluva — a real surprise when I learned who he was.’
‘How’s that?’ Trumpeter spat out.
‘I’d always heard he was a giant of a man. But he’s small and not more than eighteen at the most. Only when he speaks to you, you forget about him being small. And you should have seen how those Texans jumped when he spoke to them—’
‘Yes!’ Trumpeter interrupted testily, wondering when last anybody had jumped to obey
his
commands.
All too well the general remembered Savos’ and Hoffinger’s descriptions of their captor. Each of them had commented at length on Dusty Fog’s small size and laid much emphasis on the fact that his personality had caused the captives to forget such minor details as feet and inches of height. It seemed unlikely that there could be three, or even two, Confederate cavalry captains so identical in appearance on the Arkansas battle-front. Much as Trumpeter hated to face the fact, he knew that Captain Dusty Fog had once again been responsible for ruining his plans for aggrandizement.
‘They turned us loose, sir,’ the lieutenant went on, determined to exculpate himself from the unspoken insult Trumpeter had laid on him. ‘Even gave us horses and made litters to carry our wounded. Captain Fog talked to me while his men and the Arkansas Rifles started to erect defences on the rim above our positions. It was he who mentioned the forged orders, sir. From what he implied, the Rebels knew they were fakes, but acted on them to capture the battery and our side of the ford. As soon as we were out of sight of the Rebels, I took the best of the horses and rode as fast as I could to report to Colonel Verncombe.’
‘How about it?’ Verncombe went on. ‘Did you have the fake orders passed out, general?’
Overlooking the fact that the colonel spoke in a manner anything but polite or militarily correct when addressing a one-star brigadier general, Trumpeter shook his head. If Fog had spoken the truth, the Rebels must have suspected the man who delivered the forged document. With luck, he had been killed not captured. At any rate, Trumpeter had no intention of admitting his connection with the abortive attempt, especially to a subordinate officer and career soldier.
‘I know nothing about it,’ the general lied. ‘If the—’
Never had a knock on the door been so welcome to Trumpeter’s ears. Turning from Verncombe’s accusing eyes, he called for whoever knocked to come in.
‘Lieutenant Silverman of the Zouaves is here, sir,’ Trumpeter’s aide announced on entering. ‘He’s asked to see you on a matter of extreme urgency.’
‘Show the lieutenant in, Mr. Frost,’ Trumpeter ordered, only too pleased to be given a chance to dismiss the Dragoons. ‘If you gentlemen will excu—’
Before the ‘gentlemen’ could be sent from the room, Silverman entered. Of middle height, he was stocky, sallow-faced and wore an untidy uniform. Like the Dragoon lieutenant, he gave the impression of having done some hard, fast travelling. Being of ‘liberal’ persuasions, he had burst in on Trumpeter, wishing to flaunt his success in the faces of the two Dragoon career soldiers who Frost had told him were present. In his left hand, be held three sheets of paper which Trumpeter thought looked unpleasantly familiar.
‘Sir!’ Silverman said, coming to a halt, saluting and offering the papers almost in one movement. ‘While on patrol along the Caddo River, I came into possession of these orders issued by Hardin. He’s planning an offensive and has ordered attacks on three fords along the Ouachita.’
Fighting to hold down his emotions, Trumpeter had to force himself to take the papers from Silverman’s hand. Then he stared at them as if mesmerized. Without any doubt, as he saw straight away, they were the orders forged with such care and attention to detail at his instigation in Washington. Not until certain that he had composed his features into an impassive, blank mask did the general look at the beaming Silverman. From the expression on the Zouave’s Hebraic face, he expected praise and commendation for his actions.
‘How did you come by these?’ Trumpeter asked, hoping that his voice sounded less strained to the listeners than it did to his own ears.
‘From a guerilla I met on the Ouachita,’ Silverman explained. ‘I was on my way to commence a patrol when I met him. He’s a good man who circumstances prevented from enlisting in the Army—’
‘What kind of circumstances?’ grunted Verncombe.
‘I don’t think we need concern ourselves with that, Colonel,’ Trumpeter put in coldly, ‘Go on, Mr. Silverman.’
‘As soon as I saw the contents of the orders—’ Silverman began.
‘You came rushing here with them,’ Verncombe finished him. ‘Didn’t you think that you should warn the men guarding the fords?’
‘I — I sent my sergeant to do that,’ Silverman answered sullenly. ‘And, anyway, as I had the orders it didn’t seem likely that the attacks would be made. So I came here as fast as I could to hand them over to General Trumpeter.’
‘You did the right thing, Mr. Silverman,’ Trumpeter praised, although he wished that the other had come at a more opportune moment or waited until the Dragoons had left the office before displaying his trophies. ‘I’ll mark your report to that effect.’