The Devil Gun

Ten months ago 2nd Lieutenant Jackson H. Marsden had been honour cadet of his year at West Point Military Academy. Only three months back he received a commendation for his handling of the rearguard action when the Federal forces met with a bloody repulse at Poison Springs. It had been but two weeks since his company commander gave Marsden a strong hint that he was marked for early and rapid promotion. Now he was a deserter and in the next few days, a week at most, would also be a traitor.

Yet it must be done. Loyalty to his country, or rather to the division of his country that he chose to serve, could not stand against the horrible results of the plan he chanced to discover. No man who lived out West—even a man in his early twenties—could fail to be deeply disturbed when contemplating the full meaning of that plan. The fools who spawned the scheme could have no idea of its full and true implications. Or they were so blinded by their bigotry and hatred of the Confederacy that they did not care what terrible and hideous situation their scheme bore in its wake. Marsden did not know which, ignorance or bigotry, accounted for the actions of the men behind the scheme, nor did he greatly care. All he knew was that he must do something to prevent the scheme’s completion.

Born into a family of career soldiers, the decision to desert and become a traitor did not come easily. Already he had lost two brothers and several cousins in the bitter fighting of the Civil War. From his earlier days he had been trained in discipline and loyalty, taught that he must do his duty. He served well, putting aside his disappointment at being assigned to the 8th ‘Stedloe’s East Coast’ Zouaves, an infantry regiment, when he hoped for a place in a cavalry unit, and gained distinction if only in the little-publicised campaign to bring Arkansas back into the Union.

At last he came face to face with a situation not envisaged in any military textbook; something militarily and morally wrong—as far wrong as it was possible for inexperienced human beings to get—and he knew he must do something to correct the wrong.

Merely seeing his commanding officer and laying the facts before him would not do. Serving as one of the few regular officers in a volunteer regiment, Marsden knew how slight was the bond between himself and the volunteer officers. While Colonel Stedloe might be a brilliant businessman and showed some courage in action, he could hardly be expected to see all the ramifications of the scheme to which he gave his consent. A regular officer with experience in the West would have discarded the scheme when Captain Castle and Lieutenant Silverman presented it. Stedloe not only accepted the scheme, but gave it his full support and blessing. If he saw any lack of enthusiasm from his regular officers, he probably attributed it to jealousy, for little love was lost between the career soldiers and the amateurs who joined only to fight the South. Perhaps Marsden could have killed the scheme, but he was out of camp on outpost duty during its conception and the other three lacked experience on the frontier, so could not offer objections. In fact, seen with inexperienced eyes, the scheme had much to commend it and its successful conclusion could do much to not only hasten the end of the War, but also might easily bring about Union victory. The commanding general, no career soldier, would view it in that light.

Marsden, lacking support from his own kind, spent a sleepless night. By dawn he reached a decision. Say nothing to anybody, not even to Rory McDougal, West Point companion and fellow career lieutenant in the Zouaves, he took his horse from the lines, used the ferry across the Arkansas River and rode west towards the Ouachita Mountains. That had been the previous morning and by now his absence must have been noticed. Of course Rory would cover up for him as long as possible, thinking he had gone to visit a charming young ‘lady’ of their acquaintance. Rory would never suspect Marsden of going over the hill, deserting, and might lay his disappearance to action by a fast-riding troop of Southern cavalry making a strike to beard the Union Army in its Little Rock den. Maybe some of the volunteer officers would be suspicious, suspicion came naturally to their kind. Even now a search might be organised with the intention of bringing him back.

The thought brought misery to Marsden. No matter how this affair came out, his career in the Army was finished. A court martial, dismissal from the service at least, more likely a firing squad, awaited him—even if the Confederate Army believed his story and did not hold him as a prisoner of war.

With the Ouachita River ahead, apprehension by Union forces grew less while still remaining a possibility. Although the victory at Prairie Grove in December 1862, the capture of Arkansas Post, battle at Helena and fall of Little Rock in ‘63 put the Union in possession of all North-Eastern Arkansas, they made little progress in gathering the rest of the state from Confederate hands. In fact the Union’s defeats that year at Poison Springs, Mark’s Mill, Pine Bluffs and Jenkins’ Ferry had prevented further conquest of Arkansas. So the land between the Arkansas and Ouachita Rivers belonged to neither side and was the scene of many bloody skirmishes. The nearer one came to the Ouachita, the less chance of meeting Union forces; yet this also added to the chance of detection should one meet a Union patrol. So close to the Ouachita a lone officer would attract attention. While the Zouaves had given up their flashy uniforms—copied from the French-Algerian troops which gave them their name—and dressed as did most of the Union Army, it would take experienced men only a close glance to know that Marsden belonged to the infantry. No foot-soldier would be so close to the Ouachita River without written authority from his colonel, and certainly would not ride without an escort. If seen by a Union cavalry patrol, Marsden knew he could not think up a convincing story enough to prevent its commander taking him back for investigation and Colonel Stedloe was smart enough to guess at the reason for his lieutenant’s presence on the river.

So Marsden rode slowly, keeping to low ground and avoiding sky-lines, alert all the time for hostile presences. Wending his way through the rolling, open country, he saw no sign of other human beings. However, he could not risk crossing at a ford or shallow stretch for such might be under Union surveillance. Knowing the Confederate cavalry’s skill as raiders, the Union forces concentrated on preventing crossings of the Ouachita rather than attacking the rebels beyond the river, and kept watch on places where an easy crossing might be made.

Soon he came to the wooded country bordering the Ouachita and, with the sun beginning its downward slide towards the western horizon, rode along the river bank searching for an available crossing place. At last he found a spot that might satisfy his needs. The tree-dotted banks dropped steeply on either side, the river forming a long, deep, slow-moving pool between them and offering no difficulty to a skilled man. Having seen no sign of life on either bank for the past hour, Marsden decided to make his crossing.

Before starting the descent, Marsden swung from his saddle, took out his field glasses and made a careful search of the surrounding country. He was a tall, slim young man, yet gave the impression of strength, with black hair and a ruggedly handsome face. As a result of his pretence of going to Little Rock when leaving camp Marsden wore his black Burnside felt hat, its right side turned up and fastened with his State’s coat of arms insignia, the bugle badge of the infantry on its front, together with the regiment’s number, and black plume curling up the right side. Instead of his comfortable field uniform, he wore a single-breasted dark blue frock coat with a stand-up collar; a sword belt carried his straight infantry sword and an Army Colt in a closed-top holster. Dark blue trousers with a one-eighth of an inch stripe of sky blue-the colour of the infantry—and well-shone Jefferson shoes completed the outfit. Not a dress a man would wear when riding on lawful patrol in no-man’s-land between the Arkansas and Ouachita rivers.

All Marsden’s early training had been concerned with cavalry work, so he knew how to handle a horse during swimming. First he stripped off his clothing and wrapped it carefully in his poncho. Strapping the protected bundle firmly to the saddle, he swung afork his bay horse and eased the animal down the slope. In a well-organised crossing, the horse would have been stripped of its saddle, the latter being ferried across along with the rider’s property, but Marsden had to make do as best he could. He knew a horse was a powerful natural swimmer capable of carrying even a fully equipped man on its back for some considerable distance, so the bay would not be impeded or endangered by the saddle.

Not for the first time Marsden found himself blessing his lessons in horsemanship as a boy, for they enabled him to select a fine mount and gave him the confidence and ability to handle the horse in any conditions. Before the horse took three steps down the slope, Marsden knew he would need all his ability. Not only did the slope prove to be deceptively steep, but the earth under the horse’s hooves gave little support and began to shift beneath the animal. Feeling the horse’s hooves churning and sliding, Marsden used all his skill to keep the bay under control and prevent it from a panic which might bring about a helpless slide down the slope at an ever-increasing speed.

Down went the man and horse, still a cohesive unit, with Marsden guiding his mount as well as he could, keeping it clear of the trees which grew on the slope. It said much for his skill on a horse that he kept the bay from crashing into any of the trees, although he grazed his bare legs on more than one occasion.

An instant too late Marsden made a shocking discovery. The slope fell away in a sheer drop of some twenty feet instead of coming down at an angle to join the river; something which could not be seen from the top of the bank. Man and horse saw the danger at the same moment. Throwing back his weight in the saddle, Marsden hauled back on the reins in a vain attempt to stop the downward slide. Then, seeing he could not halt the slide, he gave the horse its head. With the moving earth carrying it onwards, the horse gathered itself and launched out from the edge of the fall, as if trying to leap across the width of the Ouachita.

For a moment it seemed to Marsden that he and the horse hung suspended in the air, then the law of gravity took hold and they plunged down towards the river. Even as he gave a silent prayer that there might be enough water to break their fall, Marsden kicked his feet from the stirrup irons and thrust himself clear of the horse. Side by side they struck the water and Marsden felt himself going down, the icy chill biting into his naked body as the green-looking river swarmed over him. Deeper and deeper he went, until his feet hit the rocky bed of the river. He bent his knees, then thrust with his feet, propelling himself up towards the surface, Above him, he could see the bay’s legs and body, with its reins trailing down. Marsden kicked out with his legs, driving himself forward and chancing a kick from the bay’s churning hooves as he reached towards the reins. If the bay once got clear, he could not hope to catch up with it, strong swimmer though he was. The horse had been winded by the fall, but seemed to be recovering. Even as Marsden’s hands closed on the slick leather of the reins, he felt the horse starting to swim. Then Marsden’s head broke the surface. Desperately he clung to the reins and succeeded in slowing the horse sufficiently for him to swim close. A grab with his freehand caught hold of the bay’s mane and he drew himself nearer to the horse.

Marsden found himself on the upstream flank of the horse, but realised that his mount had turned towards the shore they just left. While that was only to be expected, Marsden wanted to cross the river. When a horse swims, only its head remains in plain view, the rest of the body being just below the surface; so Marsden knew that the reins could not be used in steering the animal. He drew himself forward until the saddle partially supported his weight and while in that position managed to knot the reins in such a manner that they would not trail down and entangle the bay’s legs. With that done, he slipped back into the water, clinging to the mane with his left hand. Scooping up a handful of water with his right, he splashed the bay’s face. Twice he did this before the bay started to swing away from the east bank of the river. Not unnaturally the horse showed some reluctance to leave the land which lay so close to it, but Marsden continued splashing until he had his way and the bay’s head pointed west. The current was negligible in the deep hole and so Marsden had no difficulty in keeping the horse pointed straight across the river. He found much the same formation of land at the other side, a sheer wall rising some twenty to thirty feet at the water’s edge.

‘We’ll just have to take a chance, horse,’ he said gently and looked around.

As far as he could see, the wall continued for at least half a mile in either direction. The question arose of which way to go. After a moment’s thought, Marsden allowed the horse to turn its head downstream. They might as well take advantage of what little current flowed through the deep pool, Marsden decided.

After the first shock of contact, the water was not too cold, but Marsden knew he must get out as soon as possible. With the sun setting, the temperature of the river would drop. Even now, the west bank being in shadow due to the setting sun, he could feel a chill creeping through him and knew it would become far worse as night set in.

Not for almost a quarter of a mile did any sign of relief come and even then it offered small comfort. A crack in the face of the wall led down to a shelf of dry rock which thrust out into the water. Eagerly the bay made for land and Marsden made no attempt to prevent it. Hooves sliding on the Wet rock, the horse drew itself up onto solid ground and Marsden gratefully hauled himself out in the bay’s wake.

Once ashore, the young officer looked around him and studied his position. The rocky out-crop on which he stood made a shelf some thirty feet long and fifteen wide, and the crack in the wall clearly went all the way to the top. This latter was proved by the animal dung which lay scattered about the rock, although no tracks could show upon such a hard surface. Marsden, a keen hunter, examined the different droppings with interest, recognising wapiti, Kansas whitetail deer and black bear faeces. Only the first and last of the trio interested Marsden at that moment, for a whitetail could climb where no horse might follow. However, Marsden figured he ought to be able to take as sure-footed a horse as the bay anywhere either a bulky bull wapiti or a black bear managed to walk.

On further examination a chilling fact became plain to Marsden. The bear’s droppings appeared to be much fresher than he cared to think about. While the black bear might not be as dangerous as a grizzly, meeting one in the confines of that crack would be mighty hectic for a man armed only with a sword and revolver.