The Rebel Spy

by J. T. Edson

  “That wouldn’t stop us opening the box for long,” Red said. ‘We could easy bust in the lid.”

  “Didn’t need to,” Billy Jack put in. “He’d already give me the key—”

  “And didn’t make his move until after I’d told you to leave opening it up,” Dusty pointed out. “I reckon we’ll let an armourer take a look at that box.”

  “If you’re thinking what I know you’re thinking,” Billy Jack said fervently. “Thanks for stopping me.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Dusty assured him. “I’d rather have the devil I know than start getting a new sergeant major used to my ways. Get ready to pull out.”

  “You Want the usual doing, Dusty?” asked Red.

  Only for a moment did Dusty hesitate. No matter how often he did it, he could never quite reconcile himself to taking horses from his enemies.

  “Do the usual,” he said. “Take them all.”

  True to the code of the Texas range country, Dusty did not lightly set a man a-foot. An old Texas saying ran, ‘A man without a horse is no man at all.’ To the majority of people in the Lone Star State being set a-foot ranked as the worst possible fate and not infrequently led to the horse-less one’s death.

  However Dusty accepted that he must take all the horses; not only because his Company expected it, but as part of his duty as an officer in the Confederate States Army. He knew that the loss of the supplies would have a great demoralising effect on the Yankees—as also would his act of leaving them two-thirds of the medical supplies—and so he put aside his distaste in the interests of his duty.

  Thinking of the medical supplies brought up another point and Dusty acted on it.

  “Red,” he said as his cousin turned to supervise the loading of the box on to a wagon. “Pick out two horses—no, mules if they have them—and leave them as a team for the ambulance.”

  “It’ll be mules then,” Red replied.

  Strolling over to the officers’ fire, Dusty said, “We’ll be pulling out now, Captain Wormold.”

  “You didn’t have your cup of coffee,” Wormold answered, determined to prove he could accept defeat gracefully.

  “I’ll have it now then,” Dusty smiled, glancing around him. Already the wagons had been prepared to move, their teams hitched up by men assigned to the duty. Another party arrived with Company ‘C’s’ horses and Billy Jack, without waiting for instructions, ordered half of the men guarding the Yankees to mount up. Everything ran with a smooth, orderly precision which allowed no opportunity for the Yankees to make a move at changing the situation. At no time were they left without armed men ready to quell any attempt at escaping or overpowering the rebels.

  “You’ll find your vedettes, pickets and riding patrols hawg-tied and gagged at the picket sites,” Dusty remarked, sipping at the coffee.

  “Are any of them injured?” Wormold demanded.

  “Sore heads and rope-burned necks is all.”

  That gave Wormold the picture of how and why his circle of guards failed to raise the alarm. It also did nothing to lessen his admiration for the skill showed by the Texans. Stalking a lone vedette might be fairly simple, but silencing a full picket offered greater difficulty and that did not include the collection of the communicating patrols which passed constantly between the grand guard and pickets. Yet those Texans brought it off and performed most of the delicate work without any supervision from their officers. Wormold shuddered as he thought of the noiseless approach, the silent swish as ropes flew out to settle about Yankee necks, or gun butts descended to silence any Union out-cry. If the rebels were the sadistic, blood-thirsty fiends the liberal newspapers made them appear, Wormold would be burying at least half of his command the following morning instead of freeing hands and attending to minor injuries.

  Sipping appreciatively at his coffee—the Union blockade of Texas’ coastline putting it among the commodities in short supply—Dusty watched the final preparations to leave. Billy Jack sent the guidon-carrier and another man to collect Oliver and carry the bound man to the wagons.

  “What’s this, Captain Fog?” Wormold asked.

  “I’m taking Mr. Oliver along,” Dusty replied.

  “As a hostage?” growled the first lieutenant.

  “Wake up, mister!” Dusty barked. “Oliver’s carrying a box full of Confederate money. He knew what he was carrying and it’s likely for distribution to Yankee spies. So he’s coming with me, mister. If our brass decide he’s innocent, I’ll be disciplined and he’ll be returned with apologies.”

  Clearly the lieutenant understood the subtle differences between a harmless enemy civilian and an agent employed as pay-master and go-between for spies. If he did not, Wormold and Benson knew for they made no objections. In fact Wormold began to transfer his indignation and rage from Dusty to Oliver. No professional soldier cared for spies, although admitting they had their uses, and Wormold liked Oliver a whole lot less when considering that the man had been willing to throw away many lives to safeguard his secret.

  “We understand, Captain Fog,” he stated.

  “Then I’ll thank you for the coffee and be on my way,” Dusty replied. “I’m leaving you a couple of mules to haul the ambulance.”

  “Thanks,” Wormold answered, understanding the reason for selecting that particular kind of team. Mules could not travel at the speed of horses and one trained for harness-work showed a strenuous reluctance to being saddled for riding. While Dusty left the Yankees with the means of hauling their medical supplies, he prevented them from using the animals as a way of sending for reinforcements. “You seem to have thought of everything.”

  “I try, Captain,” Dusty smiled. “I surely try.”

  Looking around his denuded, disarmed, horseless camp after the sound of the rebel hooves faded into the distance, Captain Wormold decided that Dusty did far better than merely try—he made a damned good job of it.

  Chapter 3

  A Talented Yankee Gentleman

  Captain Buck Blaze looked like a slightly older, not so pugnacious version of his brother Red. However he lacked Red’s genius for becoming involved in fights, which might be thought of as a blessing. Annoyance of the kind which might have sent Red off on the hunt for a brawl filled Buck as he watched the way Miss Belle Boyd stood laughing and chatting with that preacher who came on a visit from back East to the Regiment.

  Not that Buck had anything against preachers, even one as well-dressed and handsome as the Reverend Julius Ludlow. Nor, if the truth be told, could Buck lay any claim to Belle’s affections. What riled him was that he had escorted Belle to the ball and, until one of their host’s servants brought her a note which she read, she had behaved in a perfectly correct manner. Then, for no reason at all, she had excused herself and went over to lay the full weight of her charm on Ludlow—and, mister, that was a whole load of charm to be wasted on a visiting preather.

  Without a doubt Belle Boyd could claim to be the most beautiful and best dressed woman attending the ball. Of course, as the other ladies present repeatedly told themselves, the horrid Yankee blockade prevented people who didn’t have influential friends from obtaining the latest fashion dresses. Perfectly true, too; and it seemed that Belle possessed the necessary qualifications for beating the blockade. The dress she wore was white silk, with a light blue sash about its waist, cut on the latest Eastern lines guaranteed to attract the attention of every male and envy of each woman present.

  While the other women might make catty comments about her clothes, none could fault her in the matter of looks. A tall, willowly girl—but not skinny by any means—her neatly coiffeured brunette hair framed a beautiful face with lines of intelligence and breeding on it. Small wonder that she attracted attention among the guests at the ball.

  Certainly Ludlow gave no sign of wishing to leave Belle’s company. After coming from the floor at the end of a spirited Virginia reel, he listened to something the girl said, nodded and escorted her towards the open doors of the big room. Several of the wom
en exchanged glances and disapproving clucks at the sight. Buck felt his annoyance grow. Normally he did not profess to sit in judgement on other people’s morals; but he felt that Belle should remember who she was and, if she wished to use a mild flirtation as a means of relaxation, should select somebody more suitable than a preacher.

  Then Buck found himself wondering if there might be some deeper motive behind the girl’s actions. He could hardly believe that she found the need to relax in such a manner, even after her last trip. Maybe Belle possessed some deeper reason for her interest in Ludlow. If so, she might require help. Buck could not forget the slight, but significant change which came over Belle as she read the note. Although she had a mobile face, he knew it usually showed only such emotions as she wished to have seen. On reading the note, a blank, expressionless mask momentarily replaced her friendly attitude. Then she slipped the note into her vanity bag, excused herself in the formal way which gave no real reason, and left the party of young people with whom she had been talking. Going over, she began to exert all her charm on Ludlow and, preacher or not, he showed no reluctance to be so charmed.

  “Come on, Buck, don’t you-all stand day-dreaming,” said his identical twin brother, Pete. “The Swinton gals want for you and me to take them home after the ball.”

  “Huh?” grunted Buck, coming Out of his reverie. “Sure, Pete.”

  “It’s lucky for you that I didn’t say give me that new hoss of yours,” Pete grinned. “You’re not starting to think about Belle as your gal, now are you?”

  “Nope. I’m just a touch curious.”

  “Over why she’d go for a preacher when there’s a handsome, gallant, dashing young Cavalry captain all ready to lay his fame and fortune at her dainty feet?”

  “Something like that,” smiled Buck. “What’s she see in that feller, Pete?”

  “How’s that?” Pete asked.

  “Take away his fancy preacher’s clothes, curly brown hair, good looks and soft white hands,” drawled Buck, “and what’ve you got?”

  “You,” Pete replied. “Let’s go talk to the Swinton gals. If Belle’s wanting a change of company, she’s old enough to pick it.”

  “But if she knows something about that preacher—,” Buck began.

  “She’s full capable of handling it herself,” Pete finished. “All you, or I, could do is spoil things for her and that’d get her riled.”

  “Which same I wouldn’t want to happen,” drawled Buck. “Come on, Brother Pete, you’re keeping me and the Swinton gals waiting.”

  “It’s hell being born into a family of ready liars,” Pete sighed and the brothers walked across the floor.

  Standing on the porch, Belle sucked in a deep breath and vigorously plied her fan.

  “Lordy lord!” she said, looking at Ludlow. “Isn’t it hot?”

  “I’m afraid our host’s house isn’t large enough for his ambitions,” he replied. “Inviting the General’s staff and officers from the near-by Regiment as well as the local gentry does crowd everyone together.”

  “Could we possibly take a stroll, do you think?” Belle asked, peeking coyly over the top of her fan. “Lordy, isn’t that forward of me. But I feel that if I go back inside just yet, I’ll just melt right away.”

  “I wouldn’t want that to happen,” Ludlow answered and took her arm.

  As they walked Belle prattled on in an empty-headed manner, sounding like the kind of rich, pampered, spoiled Southern belle portrayed on stage in the highly patriotic Yankee plays of the moment. Ludlow listened, making only such ‘no’ or ‘yes’ comments as the situation demanded. While doing so, he directed their feet towards the stables. Its doors stood open and lanterns hung inside to illuminate the interior. Edging Belle towards the doors, Ludlow peered inside to ensure that the building was unoccupied.

  “And I said to Susie-Mae Swinton—,” Belle continued with the pointless story she had begun when he suddenly thrust her through the doors and into the stables. Shock came to her face as she stared at the man. “Why—Why Julius Ludlow. And you-all a man of the cloth—for shame!”

  “It won’t work, Miss Parrish—if that’s your name,” Ludlow growled, moving towards her and taking what appeared to be a large, heavy key from his pocket. “I reckon you’d best drop that vanity bag.”

  Still maintaining her expression of fright and shock, Belle stared down at Ludlow’s right hand. In it he held the key with three fingers through the ring handle, the fore-finger curled around a stud on the bar. Belle noticed that the bar of the key appeared to be hollow. While aware of what the other held, she tried a bluff.

  “Just what do you think you’re playing at?” she asked. “You didn’t need to push me in here just to show me your old church key.”

  “Drop it, Miss Parrish!” Ludlow growled. “That wig fooled me at first, but you’re the girl I saw fencing with Buck Blaze at the camp. And even if I hadn’t seen you there, I’d know. Up until the time you came over to me, you made real intelligent conversation. What was in the note?”

  “Note?”

  “I saw the coon bring it to you. And I won’t ask you to drop that bag again. Do it right now.”

  “Why I don’t know what you mean,” Belle insisted and slipped the bag from her fingers. “I do really think you’re deranged in your head, Ju—.”

  “No you don’t,” Ludlow answered. “And you’re acting wrong again. If you really thought this was only an old church key, you’d be screaming your head off for help right now.”

  “I always heard one should humour crazy people,” Belle said, her hands plucking nervously at the dress sash.

  “Keep them where I can see them!” Ludlow ordered. “This key-gun’s only .36 but this close it’ll kill—.”

  Silk rustled as the sash and skirt of Belle’s dress parted company from the bodice to slide down to the ground. What it revealed, along with the unexpected nature of her action, halted Ludlow open-mouthed and staring in his tracks. Belle wore neither under-skirt nor petticoats; understandable on such a warm evening, even if the Yankee blockade did not place such items in very short supply among the Southern ladies. However instead of the usual knee-long drawers one might expect a well-bred young lady to wear, Belle stood exposed in a pair of the most daring, short-legged black under-garments Ludlow had seen on, or off, a stage. Although of slim build, Belle had shapely legs muscled like a dancer’s. A dancer’s, or a— Just a shade to late Ludlow thought of another type of person who acquired such muscular development in the legs; although it must be admitted at that time very few women came into that particular class.

  The instant her action distracted Ludlow, Belle moved fast. First she flicked her fan at the man’s face and instinctively he brought up his right hand to protect his features. In doing so he took the key-gun out of line of the girl. Up rose her right leg, the white of the thigh flashing against the black suspender straps and black silk stockings, to drive the toe of her high-heeled calf-high boot with some force straight into Ludlow’s groin.

  Agony ripped into Ludlow with such severity that it caused him to double over and the gun dropped from his fingers. Nor did he find time to recover from the nauseating torment which filled him and prevented cohesive thought from warning him of danger. Bringing down her right foot from delivering the kick, Belle glided forward. No longer did her face look frightened, but held an expression of grim determination. Throwing her weight on to the right foot, Belle thrust her left leg up. Bending the left knee and pointing the toe down, she propelled it with all her strength to crash into Ludlow’s offered face. The force of the attack caused Belle’s knee to burst through the material of the stocking and lifted Ludlow erect. He did not stay that way for long. Drawing back her right fist, she whipped it across to collide with Ludlow’s jaw. A solid click sounded and the man spun around, crashed into the side of a stall, then slid down into its straw.

  None of Belle’s attack gave any sign of being made by a thoroughly scared, scatter-brained girl of the kind she acted
earlier. The punch whipped around with the skill and precision many a man might have envied; while the way she kicked would have done credit to any of the French-Creole savate fighters Ludlow had seen in New Orleans.

  Blowing on her stinging knuckles, Belle worked the fingers and looked in Ludlow’s direction. Unless she missed her guess, he would not be troubling her for at least a couple of minutes. So she decided to make herself more presentable. If any of the guests should happen to come to the stables, her state of undress would call for more explanation than she cared to give.

  Taking up her sash and skirt, she gave them a shake to remove any traces of their contact with the ground. After donning the skirt, she took up her vanity bag and the key-pistol. Slowly she turned the latter over in her hands, making sure that she kept the barrel pointing away from her. Although Belle knew of such things, the pistol she held was the first of its kind to come into her hands.

  From what Belle could see, the pistol had been well made. Its outer surfaces showed the dull, rust-pitted appearance one expected from the main key of an old church. The inside of the barrel had the clean, shining glint of new metal. Most likely it incorporated some kind of easily removable barrel-cap when not in use to prevent its true purpose being detected. She would know when they searched Ludlow.

  Originally such pistols had been designed for use by jailers, serving to open the cell doors and provide an instantly available weapon should a prisoner try an attack. Belle knew the one she held must be of more modern construction and wondered how it worked. It might make use of the metallic cartridges becoming so popular among the Yankees; or take a charge of loose powder, ignited by a percussion cap, to fire its bullet. Although curious to learn, Belle knew better than to experiment. The time might come when she could use such a device, but she preferred to allow a trained gunsmith to learn how it operated.

  Hearing footsteps approaching the stables, Belle dropped the pistol into her bag. She glanced again at Ludlow, seeing no sign of recovery, and moved towards the door. From the poor quality of his clothing, the man who approached her did not attend the ball as a guest. He was big, well-built, yet looked neither slow nor awkward. Studying the man, Belle concluded it might be unwise to try savate on him should he be an enemy. Given the element of surprise, she might be able to render him helpless. If she failed, he looked strong enough to half kill her.