Читать книгу Settling The Score - George McLane Wood - Страница 11

Chapter Five

Jeff was bone-tired. They’d been marching without stopping since sunup. He’d eaten some salted beef and hardtack for his lunch while they were moving. Now he sat on a tree stump, his left leg across his right knee. He was inspecting a large blister on his left heel where his boot kept rubbing it. They were camped by a creek for the evening. It was almost dark, and Jeff was too dang tuckered out to eat any supper. He’d just finished drinking his third cup of canteen coffee, to fill his grumbling belly. His new sergeant, a religious man, walked by and noticed Jeff nursing his heel. “What you got yourself there m’boy, a blister?”

“Yes, sir, and it’s a big’un too.”

“Don’t sir me, boy. I ain’t no officer. Ain’t you got no socks to wear?”

“No, I ain’t got no socks, I’ve heard of ’em, but I ain’t never seen none. I’ve went barefoot till I was joined with you folks.”

“Stay put where you be, younker, I’ll brung you a pair, my old lady knits mighty fine socks.”

He returned with the socks. “Here, try these ’ens on fer size. The next Reb you dispatch, check to see if he’s wearing socks. If he is, take ’em off him. He won’t be needin’ ’em where he’s agoing, though, most of them fellers I’ve witnessed lately ain’t even wearing shoes, much lessen socks. Oh, and you be sure you put some carbolated grease on that heel blister before you pull them socks on, younker.”

At first light, Jeff was awakened by people already up; some fellows were moving about, some loudly talking, some fellows were praying quiet like, and others were eating their breakfast of salted beef and hardtack. Jeff knew that stuff wasn’t tasty, but it was filling. He’d slept in his given socks and now he’d carefully pulled on his scuffed boots. He stood, carefully, his blister had quit hurting since he’d smeared it good last night with carbolated grease. Maybe it was gonna be all right, he’d see. Jeff refilled his canteen with water from the creek. He drank it and refilled it, knowing he’d be thankful he did in a little while. Next, with his back to the creek bank, Jeff emptied his bladder into the red dirt, and now he was ready to march.

Jeff fell in step with his group of soldiers, and the regiment began marching at daylight. They stopped at noon, ate, and were resting under a grove of trees. A cavalry troop leading a string of riderless horses came by, stopped, and made inquiries. Jeff’s new colonel called his men to attention and asked;

“Can anyone in this company stay mounted on a galloping horse while firing his weapon accurately? If so, does he want to join these horse soldiers and be willing to die sooner than later? This captain here says he needs a few more able-bodied men who can ride horses and sharp-shoot the enemy dead from the backs of galloping horses. If any of you can do that, speak up. This young fool wants to ride up ahead of us and fight some rebel foot soldiers. If you wanna die sooner than later, he says to come, mount yourself a horse and join him.”

Jeff was tired of marching, facing the hot sun, choking on dust, walking with blistered heels, so he immediately volunteered. He’d ridden a horse at a gallop, and he could hit with a musket ball what he aimed at. Jeff was plumb tired of being a foot soldier, he figured he’d make a better horse soldier dead then a marching, blister-footed soldier alive, anytime.

“Here, sir, here I am, I’m your man, count me in. I fit all them qualifications you’re looking for. I’ll make you a fine horse soldier.”

So for the rest of the war, Jeff fought the Confederates from the back of a horse. He wore a pistol on each hip, two pistols in his waist belt, and a .50-caliber Sharps rifle in his saddle scabbard. Three horses had been shot from under him. He had two musket ball holes in his hat, several in his great coat, but so far, no musket ball or pistol bullet had found its mark anywhere on Jeff’s hide, knock on wood. He’d been promoted twice. Jeff was now a sergeant, and he had twenty cavalrymen he was responsible for.

At nineteen, Jeff Nelson was mature and clean-shaven, which was rare. He stood six feet tall and lean as a cane fishing pole. He had grown into a rugged cavalryman, a fighting machine, and a cold-blooded killer of men. When he walked, which wasn’t often, Jeff walked on the balls of his feet, like a cat. He often loomed in front of someone; which made some people nervous to be around him. Jeff forever stayed focused on his army duties. He’d become a professional. His superiors thought he was a grand fighter.

“Sergeant Nelson, front and center, on the double, pronto!”

Uh-oh, Jeff knew right away he and his men was being volunteered for another duty.

“Yes, sir, what’s up, Captain?” His captain was alone. He took Jeff by his arm, and they walked off by themselves. His captain lit a small black cigar and offered Jeff one, who declined. The officer spoke in a low voice. “Sergeant, there’s a fast stage wagon coming toward us on yonder road even as I speak. A little bird tells me it might be carrying a Confederate strongbox of gold and silver. I want you and your twenty horse-pistols to go and ambush that wagon, kill all them rebels, and bring that money back to me, post haste. You figger you can do that, Nelson, without gettin’ yourself and your men killed?”

“What does post haste mean, Captain?”

“It means go do it in a hell of a hurry, son.”

“Yes, sir, we can do that, sir.”

“Good man! Now fall out and go do it. I’ll be right here, waiting for you. Oh, and keep this between you and me, Nelson, and remember, post haste.”

“Mount up, men, we got us an errand to get done for our captain, post haste.”

“What does post haste mean, Sergeant?”

“Never mind, Corporal Smith.”

Jeff and his twenty horse soldiers of C Troop lit out at a trot on the road. He’d sent one man riding ahead to scout and see how far away that stagecoach was, and to pick a good spot for an ambush. An hour later his scout was seen coming back, galloping toward Jeff like the hounds from hell were after him. He was waving his arm.

“Hold up, men.” Jeff sat his horse and waited. His scout rode up! “That wagon’s right behind me, Sergeant, there’s a dozen rebels escortin’ her too, and they ain’t no more than ten minutes behind,” said the scout.

“Good job, soldier! Corporal Smith, you take ten men to that side of the road, hide behind those trees where you can’t be seen by the enemy. You watch me, Corporal. The rest of us will be on this side of the road. We’ll fire when the enemy gets even with me. Corporal, you and your men begin firing at once from your side. We won’t be taking any prisoners, Corporal, you savvy?”

“I understand, Sergeant, loud and clear.”

“Now, everybody, move it!”

“Fire, men!” With shouting and shooting, blue gun smoke filled the morning’s still air. The ambush lasted a total of three minutes. “Hold that team of “horses, trooper,” Jeff shouted. It was all over. Twelve rebel soldiers were dead, including their wagon driver. “You four troopers, hide these bodies in that grove of trees yonder. Corporal Smith, assign a driver for that wagon and then assemble the men for return to our company’s bivouac.”

An hour and a half later, Jeff and his troopers rode into their company’s campsite. His captain would be pleased with Jeff and his twenty men. The other troopers weren’t there, least not all of them. Oh, some were, but they were dead, but the rest of the horse soldiers were gone. There had been a battle from the looks of things, as best Jeff could tell. From the looks of it, their C Troop had been ambushed. Thirteen troopers were dead, including his captain. The rest of their cavalry’s C Troop were gone, vanished! Where? God only knew. Jeff and his twenty troopers were alone.

“I’ll look in the wagon, trooper. You go help with the burying detail, then get yourself some grub.” Jeff crawled into the wagon, an iron strongbox sat behind the driver’s seat. No lock was on the box. Jeff opened it and saw it was filled with six cloth sacks. He opened one. It contained gold and silver coins.