‘The review’s formed up to the north of town and well clear of it,’ Red Blaze reported with satisfaction as he rejoined his cousin on the edge of the woodland in which they had captured the Yankee mortar platoon. ‘There’re none of our folks watching that I could see.’
After securing the prisoners, Dusty had sent Red to join their forward scout, under orders to reconnoiter and learn if the attack could be made without endangering Confederate property or lives. From what the red head had just said, he could continue with the bombardment.
‘Make a map of how the land lies,’ Dusty ordered, for they were about a mile and a quarter from Little Rock and the rolling nature of the ground hid the town from his view. ‘No patrols out?’
‘Nary a one,’ Red snorted and nodded to where the forward scout lay looking cautiously over a rim about three-quarters of a mile ahead. ‘Kiowa’s riled, he allows the Yankees’re selling him and us short not keeping watch.’
With that he dismounted and, clearing a piece of ground, made a rough map of the area they hoped to bombard. Having completed his task, he collected his big brown horse which had been waiting patiently, ground-hitched by its dangling reins, mounted and rode back in the direction from which he had come.
Dusty studied the map for a moment, then looked towards his departing cousin. In his mind’s eye, Dusty pictured the geography of the area. Then he turned and waved the two mortar wagons forward.
‘Line them on Kiowa,’ he told the men leading the horses.
Although considering themselves the elite of the best damned cavalry regiment in the Confederate States’ Army, the men detailed to act as gun crews sprang to their work with a will. The novel means of carrying the war to the enemy, combined with a desire to show the new Yankee general what kind of opposition faced him, gave zest to their movements. However, the two sergeants temporarily appointed chiefs-of-piece watched the men and controlled their high spirits.
Guiding the leading wagon, Sergeant Stormy Weather halted it so that its pole yoke lined directly at Kiowa Cotton on the distant rim. Sergeant Lou Bixby brought his wagon around until it stood alongside the other and also pointed in the required direction.
Normally the mortars would have been operated from a bed of stout timbers, to prevent the continued recoil sinking them into the ground and to facilitate altering the alignment or replacing them on the wagons when the time came to move on. Knowing that there would be time for at most three shots, and intending to destroy the platoon’s equipment before he left, Dusty did not bother with such refinements. Going behind the wagons, he checked on their alignment. Each of the mortars weighed 1,852 pounds, so he wished to save his men from the exertion of using the handspikes to alter the aim as much as he could.
Satisfied, Dusty told the men to make ready the mortars. Weather and Bixby secured the ropes of the windlass at the rear of the wagons to the horns of the mortars, then unfastened the stout pins connecting the limber portions of the wagons to the rear sections which carried the weapons. While the limbers were being removed and the wagons’ slip-ways lowered to the ground, Dusty joined Billy Jack’s party by the caisson.
‘Dang the luck!’ the sergeant major moaned, watching two men lift an eighty-seven-and-a-half pound round shell—raising it between them in the grip of the specially-designed shell-tongs—from the forward of the three ammunition chests. ‘The blasted things’re filled, so we can use them.’
‘Do you know how to?’ Dust inquired.
‘I figured you just stuck the shell in the hole ’n’ hoped for the worst,’ Billy Jack answered languidly, taking a long, tapered wooden fuse from a box and studying the time-graduations marked down its length. ‘Likely they’re all wrong and’ll go off in the barrel.’
‘Don’t you ever look on the bright side?’ Dusty demanded.
‘Sure I do. I ‘member the last time real well. It was eight years, three months, two weeks ’n’ four days back, come sundown. One of our good borrowing neighbors done fell down our well as he was coming calling.’
‘What happened?’
‘It warn’t the drinking well, so we figured it’d be a plumb waste of time to pull him out ’n’ left him there,’ Billy Jack explained, then dropped his pose for a moment. ‘Range’d be around a mile ’n’ a quarter, I reckon.’
‘Near enough,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Forty-five degrees elevation. We’ll give ’em twenty seconds first go and alter it for the next if we’re wrong.’
‘Should have a big enough target, anyways,’ the sergeant major drawled, using the point of his knife to pierce the wall of the fuse at the required graduation. ‘Or was you-all figuring on dropping the shells on top of Trumpeter’s fool lil Yankee head?’
‘I’ll settle happy enough for scattering his review,’ Dusty answered.
With the fuses cut, he and Billy Jack fitted them carefully into the holes at the bottom of the shells. Ignited by the detonation of the main firing charge, the priming compound would burn down the inside of the wooden tube until reaching the opening cut by the sergeant major. There it would set off the five-pound bursting charge and explode the shell. While it did not work every time, the method gave a reasonable chance of success.
Wasting no time, the crews of the mortars had slid the pieces to the ground and removed the carriers. Selected for their strength, burly men wielded the handspikes and made adjustments to the directions in which the barrels pointed. Due to the care in positioning the wagons, they had little to do before Dusty announced his satisfaction. Removing the wooden tampions from the muzzles, the chiefs-of-piece gave the orders to load. First the powder charges went into the twenty-eight inch tubes and were rammed home. Then the men handling the tongs maneuvered the shells into position.
Maybe the Texans did not move with the skilled precision of a trained artillery team, but they still carried out their duties at a good speed. Watching them, Dusty saw his earlier decision to have them trained to use artillery weapons justified. At the time it had been merely a means of keeping them occupied during a period when they were resting between patrols. The training was now paying off in that it allowed him to strike at the Yankees.
While the men completed the loading, Dusty looked about him. Two of his men stood some distance away, ready to cut the telegraph wires between Little Rock and Hot Springs and prevent warning of Company ‘C’s’ presence being sent ahead of them. Half-a-dozen more were headed west with the Yankee platoon’s horses, for the heavy draught animals would not be able to keep up with the Company’s mounts in the event of a hurried departure. The remainder of the Company, less those employed on the mortars, kept watch on the surrounding country.
‘Sure hope them fuses work like they should,’ Billy Jack said in a tone that hinted he doubted if they would. ‘Likely they’ll make the shells bust in the barrel. Being so, I’ll stand away somewheres safe. Like at the end of this-here lanyard.’
Considering that the eight-foot long lanyard connected to the friction-primer in the right-side mortar’s vent-hole, the gloomy prediction failed to worry the men who heard it. In fact Sergeant Stormy Weather hardly looked up from working the lever that tilted the barrel to the required angle of fire.
‘All set, Cap’n Dusty!’ announced the burly, jovial-featured Weather.
‘Ready to go,’ confirmed the tall, dapper Sergeant Bixby by the other mortar.
‘Let ’em go!’ Dusty ordered.
Instantly Billy Jack and Bixby gave sharp tugs at their lanyards, operating the friction-primers. Steel rasped over the highly-combustible priming compound and ignited it, sending a spurt of flame into the powder grains of the main charge which turned rapidly into a terrific volume of gas. Set alight by the burning powder, the fuse began to operate. With a deep roar, the shell vomited from the left side mortar. A moment later, the second ball curved into the air.
Standing on the saluting base, General Trumpeter scowled as he watched the mass of men before him preparing to start the review. He frowned, thinking of the doubt he had seen on the faces of the senior officers under his command when he had spoken to them on the subject of his plans to defeat the Rebels. Maybe the Union Army’s superior numbers, weapons and technology was swinging the War more and more in their favor on the other battle-fronts, but that did not apply in Arkansas. There the C.S.A. held firm and showed no sign of weakening. In fact, if the South had been able to send more men and equipment to Ole Devil Hardin, Trumpeter’s colonels figured they would be hard-pressed to hold on to the land they had already taken.
In accordance with the policy of the Union’s high command, the pick of the troops and weapons were reserved for the Eastern battle-zones. Most of the top brass favored concentrating on striking down the heart of the Confederacy. After that had been accomplished, Texas—possibly the least affected of the Southern States by the major issues of the War—would be more ready to accept offers to surrender. So Arkansas had become garrisoned by green regiments, or those found wanting in the hard tests of combat. Poorly trained, demoralized by continual defeat, the men before Trumpeter were far from being ideal material for his dreams of conquest and fame. In fact he found himself doubting the wisdom of having so publicly stated his intentions when being assigned to take over the deceased General Buller’s command.
Tall, slim, dark-haired, his handsome features were marred by a perpetual expression of arrogant superiority and an air of condescension. He made a fine figure in his smart blue dress uniform. Yet his military service did not extend beyond the start of the War and his background was not West Point but an Eastern civilian college. More politician than soldier, he had attained his rank with the patronage of powerful friends in the antislavery lobbies of his State’s Legislature and the Federal Congress, aided by a chronic shortage of officers in the Union Army. For many years before the War, the Southern States had supplied the majority of the U.S. Army’s officers, most of whom had returned to their homes on Secession. Few of the non-coms showed the necessary qualities to make officers, so the vacancies had been filled by men who at other times would have scorned to join the Army.
One of that kind, Trumpeter had passed rapidly up the promotion ladder, without any great effort or risk. Aware of the possibilities offered by military acclaim when back in civilian life, Trumpeter had sought for a way by which he might reach the public’s notice. Buller’s death had offered it. There had been some reluctance among the other generals at taking over the unsuccessful Army of Arkansas. So Trumpeter’s appointment met with no objections.
On his arrival, he had soon found that he faced a far more difficult task than he had imagined while riding a desk in far-off Washington. However, he possessed ideas that the routine-dulled brains of the career-soldiers could never have produced; two of which were already being put into effect. When they brought results, he would convince the weak-spined jellyfish before him that the Rebels across the Ouachita were no different from the other scum who formed the Confederate States. After which there would be replacements. Trumpeter meant to bring in men whose agreement with his ‘liberal’ beliefs made them worthy of carrying out his schemes of conquest.
Trumpeter’s scowl deepened as he studied the contingent from the 6th New Jersey Dragoons. On first meeting their colonel, be had mentioned his scheme to obtain remounts of a standard equal to that of the Rebel cavalry. Colonel Verncombe had expressed doubts that they could be delivered without strong escorts and would be subject to constant harassment or loss to the raiding Texans. So Trumpeter had not mentioned the plan he had thought out and already set into motion. He had hoped that the results of his brilliant scheme would make their appearance in time for the review, but they had not arrived. When they came, he could confound the doom-predicting Verncombe and—
An eerie double screech rose, growing louder by the second to chop through Trumpeter’s thoughts. It was a sound which some of the men present recognized, although their general failed to identify it. Down from the sky curved a black ball and another followed it. Before Trumpeter had time to decide what was happening, the first shell exploded.
By accident, rather than deliberate, planned knowledge, the detonation of the first bursting charge took place at almost the ideal moment for maximum effectiveness. Exploding in the air about fifty yards above the centre of the assembled men, the shell sprayed a hail of .58 caliber musket balls on to them. Screaming and plunging, a horse went down while three men also fell. An instant after the first shell went off, the second burst and added its deadly cargo to that of its predecessor.
Coming so unexpectedly, the two shells threw the whole of the review into complete confusion. While the actual damage inflicted by the flying musket balls was not great, the side-effects proved to be all that Dusty could have desired. The cavalry and artillery suffered most. Caught in the process of mounting, men were flung from their startled, rearing horses. In the case of the cavalry, that meant only animals bolting with empty saddles; but the field artillery saw several of their cannon and caissons being dragged away by uncontrolled, frightened teams.
‘Sponge those barrels out real careful!’ Dusty warned his men, his eyes on Red who had rejoined Kiowa on the distant rim.
Plunging the sponge on the end of a ramrod pole into a wooden bucket filled with water, a good-looking young private called Tracey Prince heard the words and grinned. He removed the sponge, shook it to get rid of excess water and thrust it into the barrel of the right side mortar to douse any remnants of burning powder. Not until he had checked that all was well did Sergeant Weather give the order to reload. Working just as fast and carefully, Sergeant Bixby’s men recharged the second piece.
Seeing Red’s obvious delight at the result of the first shots, Dusty made no alteration to the cutting of the second pair of fuses. Nor did he consider that the recoil had thrown the solid weight of the mortars sufficiently out of line to make any major corrections necessary.
Again the mortars boomed as he gave the order to fire. Standing behind them, Dusty saw that one shell was veering away from the other. It would not be far enough out of line to fall into the town, but he decided against chancing a further volley. He had no wish to continue the bombardment, with its indiscriminate slaughter. Having achieved his purpose of bearding General Trumpeter in the other’s Little Rock den, Dusty intended to make good his escape. To have ruined the review and retired without loss or casualties would have a greater effect than staying until driven away by the Yankees.
‘Stack the rest of the charges and shells around the mortars!’ Dusty barked. ‘Bring the wagons and caissons up between the stove-pipes. I want everything wrecked when we leave.’
In addition to meeting the agent, Dusty had been told to raid and do whatever damage he could while in enemy territory, so he had the means to destroy the loot completely. Red and Kiowa still remained on the rim, which meant that the Yankees had not yet organized a force to attack and drive Company ‘C’ away. While his men carried out their orders, Dusty wondered what was happening outside the town.
All was confusion and pandemonium after the arrival of the first pair of shells, Fifty-five seconds later, before any semblance of order could be restored, the third shell burst in the air above the tangled, cursing mass of men. Having heard the banshee wailing of the shells’ approach, discipline was forgotten and soldiers of all ranks flung themselves to the ground. Some of the cavalrymen who had managed to retain a hold of their horses’ reins let loose and dived for safety. Trying to maintain control over his platoon, a lieutenant of Stedloe’s Zouaves felt the wind of a close-passing musket-ball against his cheek. Fortunately for the future peace and security of the Sovereign State of Texas, 1st Lieutenant Jackson Marsden escaped without injury.
Staring with fascinated horror, Trumpeter saw the second shell falling in his direction. Throwing himself from the saluting dais, he heard the missile explode and musket balls strike the stand he had quit an instant before. Rage filled him as he wondered which Rebel was responsible for the murderous attempt on his life. However, he stayed on the ground until sure that no other shells were coming.
Excited and amused by the chaos he saw displayed before him, Red Blaze did not forget his duty. There had been no attempt at organized reprisals and, studying the way the Yankees acted, none would be speedily forthcoming. So he nodded to the tall, lean sergeant at his side.
‘I’d best go tell Cousin Dusty what’s happened, Kiowa.’
‘Yo!’ replied the other. ‘I’ll stay on here a spell like Cap’n Dusty said.’
Nobody, except possibly his mother, would have called Kiowa Cotton handsome. At best he looked like a particularly evil brave-heart Indian warrior hunting for the white-eye brother’s scalp. Yet he was a good soldier, well-suited by birth and upbringing for the important duty of guiding Company ‘C’ on their missions behind the enemy lines. Bare-headed, armed with a Remington Army revolver and bowie knife, he was to stay behind until pursuit was formed and sent after them, then take word of it to Dusty.
Collecting his horse, Red rode back to where Dusty was fitting the end of a coil of quick-match fuse into the hole in a shell. The men had worked fast and everything was as Dusty required by the time his cousin arrived.
‘How’d it go, Cousin Red?’ asked Dusty.
‘You sure ruined his review,’ Red replied. ‘I haven’t seen so much fussing, coming and going and running around since that time you and me brought a skunk to Cousin Betty’s birthday party.’
‘Let’s hope the Yankees don’t catch us and lick us the way she did,’ Dusty grinned. Tommy Okasi had taught their cousin, Betty Hardin, to be proficient at ju-jitsu and karate. On the occasion Red had mentioned, she put her lessons to good use in dealing out summary punishment to the offenders.
‘They’ll not be fixing to come after us for a spell yet,’ Red guessed. ‘You scattered the Dragoons and they’re the best outfit Trumpeter’s got. Need any help here, do you reckon?’
‘Nope,’ Dusty decided, wedging the cord-like fuse into place. ‘Head out with the company. I’ll catch up with you.’
Riding off, Company ‘C’ heard the roar of an explosion and, looking back, saw their leader approaching. Where the Yankee mortar platoon had been, only a large, smoking crater and scattered remnants of wood and metal remained. There was nothing of its equipment the Yankees could salvage.