‘What do you reckon to them?’ Keeping his field-glasses to his eyes, Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog turned his attention from the original objects of his scrutiny. Big, piggish of face, his almost bloated fat body straining the gold-lace-trimmed blue uniform’s seams, General Buller stood with several of his senior officers on top of a small knoll about half a mile from the two Rebels’ position. The Yankees were looking or pointing across the Akansas River to where a small, derelict steamboat bobbed at its moorings by the eastern bank. Beyond the old side-wheeler sat a cluster of dilapidated log cabins. Neither the boat nor the buildings seemed to merit the attention lavished on them by Buller’s party. A sense of expectancy bit into Dusty as he turned his glasses in the direction indicated by his companion. At least he was going to see the reason for his being given orders at Prescott to ride as fast as possible to Pine Bluff and contact Huntspill. Focussing the glasses on the new subject, Dusty felt both puzzled and a sense of anti-climax.
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