Under the Stars and Bars (15 page)

There had not been a moment to spare. So close did Gilbertson come to success that the edge of his blade sliced into the upper part of the campaign hat’s crown and ripped it from Dusty’s head. Throwing himself aside, Dusty landed erect and facing his assailant.

‘Get set, Cap’n Dusty!’ Surtees bellowed. ‘I’m com—’

‘Stay back there!’ Dusty answered.

If the Dragoons saw his companion charging forward, without being sure of why, they might open fire. That would end any hope of retrieving Gilbertson and making him pay for his treachery. Fortunately Surtees had been a soldier long enough to take even an unpalatable order; and possessed sufficient faith to figure his captain could get out of the present difficulty without requiring help. So he made no attempt to start the horses moving.

Crouching side by side on the rim above the camp, Kiowa and Prince had watched Gilbertson launch his treacherous attack. With a moaning splutter of invective, the young recruit snatched up Surtees’ Enfield rifle and cradled the butt against his shoulder.

‘Quit that!’ ordered the sergeant, placing the palm of his left hand on to the rifle’s hammer and preventing his companion from cocking it. ‘You know what we was told to do.’

Before leaving the two soldiers, Dusty had given strict and definite orders. Under no circumstances were they to make their presence known to the Yankees. If the flag of truce should be violated, they must watch what happened; but remain concealed. Then they were to return at all speed and inform Ole Devil of Dusty’s fate. Producing Dusty’s gunbelt and Henry would be evidence that he had been unarmed at the time. The incident would be a powerful propaganda weapon for Ole Devil. So, much as doing it went against the grain, Kiowa aimed to carry out his captain’s orders.

‘The bastard’ll kill Cap’n Fog!’ Prince blazed, trying to tug the rifle free from Kiowa’s grasp.

‘Cap’n Dusty don’t kill that easy,’ the sergeant answered. ‘Which you’d be’s like to hit him as the Yankee from here, with a strange rifle. Look! That Dragoon major’s taking cards.’

‘Gilbertson!’ Galbraith bellowed, but he knew that no words could halt the wild-eyed, raging Volunteer.

Spluttering curses, Gilbertson charged at the unarmed Texan. Watching him draw near, Dusty noticed that the Volunteer’s hand was no longer in supination.

He must mean to try for another target! With the knuckles pointing downwards in pronation, any cut could best be directed to the opponent’s flank.

So it proved. Around flashed the sabre, directed towards Dusty’s ribs. A leap to the rear carried the small Texan clear, then a rapid crouch downwards followed by a bound to the right took him beyond the reach of the backhand chop that came after the cut had ended.

Galbraith’s breath hissed through his teeth as he visualised the consequences of the treacherous attack. No matter how his people tried to hush it up, the story would come out. Very soon the whole world would know that a Yankee officer had broken his word and violated a flag of truce; and how an unarmed man had been vilely betrayed, then done to death.

The incident would reflect badly upon the integrity of the United States’ Army; bring disrepute to the 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons; and be damning in the extreme to Major Galbraith himself as the senior officer present and the man who had accepted the correctly-requested call for a truce.

There could be only one answer.

Stop Gilbertson!

To hell with the influence the Volunteer’s father might wield in New Hampstead, or in the Federal Congress. No matter how General Buller would react when learning of Galbraith’s actions. Whatever happened as a result of it, Gilbertson must be prevented from committing a cold-blooded, dastardly murder.

Watching Dusty as he started to draw his sabre, Galbraith decided that the young Texan knew something of fencing. Both of his evasions had shown a knowledge of where the blows would be directed. Of course most wealthy young Southerners received instruction in handling sabre or
epee-de-combat
. Galbraith’s every instinct told him that Captain Fog could hold his own against the Volunteer, given a chance to do so.

The problem facing Galbraith at that moment was how best to put Captain Fog in a position to defend himself. Flashing across his right hand, the Dragoon slid his sabre from its sheath.

‘Here, Captain Fog!’ Galbraith yelled, spiking the point of the sabre into the ground and, springing aside, left the weapon standing erect. ‘Take this and defend yourself.’

‘Blast him!’ Prince spat out, still trying to tear his rifle from Kiowa’s grip, ‘that Yankee major sure ain’t doing much.’

Seeing the major’s action, Gilbertson snarled and pressed forward his assault with vigour and determination. At Galbraith’s words, Dusty flickered a glance by his attacker.

Some distance separated the small Texan from the sword; which raised the question of how to reach it.

Returning his full attention to Gilbertson, Dusty sprang aside as the other rushed up. Although he did not like the idea, Dusty darted by the man and headed towards the Dragoon’s sabre on the run. Swinging around, mouthing obscenities, Gilbertson gave chase. Striding out fast, the unencumbered Texan drew away from his assailant whose progress was not helped by slashing wicked cuts at his departing enemy.

Putting on a burst of speed, Dusty reached the sabre. Down stabbed his right hand in passing, entering the hilt and plucking the weapon from the ground. However, although armed, he did not halt and face the Volunteer immediately.

Known to its users by the unflattering sobriquet ‘The Old Wrist-Breaker’, the Model of 1840 sabre—copied from the French Army’s 1822 type—had been replaced in the Union Army by a lighter, slimmer-bladed variety in 1860. Following the lead of their Federal contemporaries, the Confederate arms manufacturers had produced the more easily-handled Model of 1860 pattern for their cavalry. Specially made for him by the company of L. Haiman & Brother, Dusty’s sabre was even lighter than the standard type. So he needed a brief respite to adjust to the heavier weapon in his hand.

With the knucklebow of the guard hanging downwards, Dusty gripped the front of the handle by the first joints of the thumb and forefinger and curled the other fingers less tightly about it. The weight of the sabre was mainly supported by the pommel-end of the handle pressing against the heel of his palm. Held in such a manner, the hand could be turned from pronation through to supination so as to make the best use of the blade’s cutting edge, the eight-inch long false edge on the back, or the point.

Having obtained the necessary grip, Dusty thrust five more long strides that pulled him clear of Gilbertson. Then he brought himself to a turning halt and faced the Volunteer. Pointing his right foot in the fighting line towards his attacker, Dusty turned his left toe outwards to stand on parted, slightly bent legs. Keeping his trunk erect, he tucked his left hand’s thumb into his waistband. With his point raised, adopting an on-guard position in
tierce
, he waited for the Volunteer to reach him.

On the rim, Kiowa removed his hand from the Enfield rifle. Grinning at Prince, the sergeant relaxed.

‘Likely the major’s done enough,’ the dark-faced Texan drawled.

So swiftly had everything happened, that Dusty held the sabre and prepared to engage Gilbertson before the majority of Troop ‘G’ realised that something had gone wrong with the parley. Then excited voices raised, drawing other Dragoons’ attention. Forgetting their duty, ignoring the possibility of a Rebel cavalry force lurking ready to attack, the enlisted men stood up to obtain a better view of the fight. No less interested, the captain and two lieutenants converged at the double on Galbraith.

‘What the hell’s happening, Tam?’ demanded Captain Miller worriedly.

‘Gilbertson wants to murder Captain Fog,’ the major answered, without taking his eyes from the combatants. ‘I just evened things up.’

‘But—But——!’ Miller croaked.

‘It’s better this way,’ Galbraith stated and told his subordinates why Dusty had come and asked for the parley.

‘The hell he did!’ Miller spat as he heard of Gilbertson’s escape. Although he shared with his superior a repugnance for the Volunteer’s behaviour, he felt that he should say something more. ‘Are you letting this go through all the way?’

‘Right to the end, Fred.’

‘If Gilbertson loses—’

‘I think that Captain Fog won’t take the matter further.’

‘And if he wins?’

‘That’s what I’m counting on not happening, Fred,’ Galbraith admitted frankly.

Miller watched Dusty and Gilbertson, wishing that he could share his commanding officer’s optimism. From what the captain could see, the issue was still very much in doubt.

Without hesitation, probably because he could not stop himself in time, Gilbertson plunged towards the small Texan. Counting on his extra reach, weight and strength, the Volunteer delivered a barrage of slashes and cuts that kept Dusty on the defensive for almost a minute. Trying no such refinements as thrusts, feints or lunges, Gilbertson continued to expend his energy in a hurricane assault of orthodox speed and force.

For his part, Dusty concentrated on following Beau Amesley’s often-repeated advice to let the eye and the feet save the arm. The weapon he held was longer and heavier than the one to which he had become accustomed, so he used the passing seconds in gaining its feel, hang and balance.

Satisfied at last that he knew the sabre, Dusty changed his tactics and took the offensive. Like a rubber ball rebounding after being thrown at a wall, Gilbertson went into a retreat. Forced to withdraw and parry desperately, he rapidly lost the ground gained during his abortive whirlwind, carpet-beating assault. With growing anxiety, the Volunteer began to admit that he might be facing a man approaching his own skill. Gradually, however, he was compelled to swallow his bigoted pride and accept that once again a Rebel was proving superior to him.

‘There,’ Kiowa said in satisfaction, watching Gilbertson being forced to give ground. ‘I told you there wasn’t nothing to worry over.’

‘You telled me,’ agreed Prince. ‘Only one thing worries me now.’

‘What’d that be?’

‘What’ll happen after Cap’n Dusty’s licked that Yankee son-of-a-bitch?’

That point had also occurred to Kiowa, but he did not mention the matter to his companion.

Dusty originated another attack, bounding forward with his blade in pronation as it went for a cut to flank. Down dropped Gilbertson’s point, executing a parry in low
tierce
. Falling back a little, with his blade held ready for a lunge, Dusty decided that the Volunteer intended to follow up the parry with a cut at his arm. When the blow came, Dusty made a parry in
seconde
and raised the attacking weapon. With his opponent’s blade taken out of line, Dusty disengaged it and brought off a rapid cut to the head.

Seeing the danger, Gilbertson spread apart and bent his knees, to duck beneath the arc of Dusty’s blow. From the position he had gained, the Volunteer could have legitimately cut at Dusty’s chest or abdomen. Instead, while still crouching, he swept his sabre around in an attempt to strike the small Texan’s legs.

A low, angry mutter rose from the Dragoon officers, for such a tactic was regarded as a deliberate foul in a fencing match or during a serious duel. However, they saw that Dusty was aware of the danger and did not intervene.

Realising that he dealt with a man to whom honour, ethics and fair play had no meaning, Dusty had watched for and been ready to counter Gilbertson’s foul manoeuvre. Bounding into the air, bending his knees and tucking his feet beneath him, he passed over the Volunteer’s sabre.

On landing, Dusty stumbled slightly. Not sufficiently to throw him off his balance, but enough to make his sabre waver from its hitherto near-perfect guard. Thrusting up from his crouch, Gilbertson brought around his own weapon in a savage inwards beat and tried for a
sforzo
disarmament. Using his extra weight, the Volunteer struck the side of Dusty’s blade with considerable force. Gilbertson hoped that the impact would so loosen the small Texan’s hand on the hilt that he would lose his hold of it and he would be unable to parry the coming lunge or cut.

Although Dusty’s strength and control prevented the former from happening, he could not stop his blade being forced to his attacker’s left. Carried forward by his impetus, Gilbertson found himself approaching a position of
corpse-a-corps
. Before the sabres’ hilts met and their users halted chest to chest, the Volunteer saw a chance offered. Prompted by his fear of defeat, he took it. Bringing his left hand from his hip, he caught hold of the back of Dusty’s blade. Keeping his fingers extended, to avoid the cutting edge, Gilbertson prepared to take advantage of his latest piece of foul play. Up swung his sabre, ready to smash the iron knucklebow of the guard into the Texan’s face.

Once again Dusty’s lightning fast reactions saved him. Feeling his blade gripped and immobilised, he guessed what Gilbertson intended to do even before the other’s right hand began to lift. This latest attempt at foul play warned Dusty that he could not treat the Volunteer as an honourable enemy and so must fight fire with fire.

With Dusty Fog to think was to act.

Up rose the small Texan’s right foot, then drove down to smash the heel of his boot against the top of Gilbertson’s forward instep. Pain caused the Volunteer to yelp, flinch and relax his grasp on Dusty’s sabre. Oblivious of the furious shouts that rose from behind him, Dusty rotated his wrist to the left almost 90
^o
By tugging back on the hilt, he drew the cutting edge across Gilbertson’s involuntarily clutching fingers. Again the Volunteer cried out, even louder, as the edge bit into his phalanges. Jerking his hand from Dusty’s weapon, he took a long stride to the rear. Doing so caused his down-driving hand to miss.

Having set his sabre free, Dusty also started to withdraw. The knucklebow of the Volunteer’s weapon almost grazed Dusty’s face in passing, but it failed to strike him.

In a flash, the small Texan retaliated. With his hand in supination, he propelled his blade around to pass over Gilbertson’s left shoulder. Slicing into the side of the Volunteer’s neck, the sabre almost removed his head from his shoulders. Throwing his weapon aside, the man spun around and went down. He landed on his back spreadeagled and lifeless.