by J. T. Edson
“This’s as far as we go,” he told his passengers in a low voice. “Look around, cox’n and make sure all’s secure.”
“Aye aye, sir,” the cox’n replied and stepped on to the jetty to fade away into the blackness.
“This’s some place you have here, Cord,” Dusty remarked when the cox’n returned with the news that all was safe.
“A bunch of us David-class captains rigged it up when we saw that New Orleans must fall,” Pinckney replied. “We only use it in emergencies, but the Yankees haven’t found it.”
“How long can you lay here, Cord?” Belle asked.
“We’re short on food, but I can stay until tomorrow night. Likely have to, there won’t be time to run clear of the defences before morning. Will that be any good to you?”
“Hardly. It’ll take all tomorrow at least to get what I need. If I can get food for you, are you game to wait two more nights?”
“I can get my own food,” Pinckney assured her. “All right, I’ll stay on for three days, but I’ll have to pull out by just after sundown on the third night.”
“Thank you, Cord,” Belle said sincerely. “If we aren’t back by then, go. In that case Dusty and I will take our chance of slipping through the Yankee lines and make our way north through our own territory.”
“When do we start, Belle?” asked Dusty.
“Not before morning,” the girl answered. “I don’t know if the Yankees still impose a curfew, but even if they don’t we’d attract attention walking through the streets at his hour.”
“You sure would,” agreed Pinckney. “I say grab some sleep and leave here at around eight or so in the morning. That way there’ll be enough folks on the streets for you to have a chance.”
“That’s what we’ll do,” confirmed Belle. “And the sleep will be welcome.”
Although the hidden dock offered none of the comforts of home, the Jack’s party slept well. Next morning Belle went behind some of the pilings and changed into one of her dresses. She then worked on a wig, altering its hair-style to fit the part she must play. When finished, the girl looked like a lady’s maid in the employment of a rich family. With her other property packed in the bag, she and Dusty accompanied the cox’n through a trapdoor cut in the floor of a gutted warehouse and came out on a deserted side-alley.
“Go down that ways and you’ll come out on Thrift Street,” the cox’n said. “Do you know it, ma’am?”
“Well enough to go to where I’m going,” Belle answered.
“Good luck then,” the man said, admiration on his face.
Dusty had often marvelled at the manner in which Belle could slough off her natural air of charm and good-breeding. On changing clothes she walked and talked like the wearer of such dress would.
Any doubts Belle might have felt about Dusty faded away. Without his uniform he became small, insignificant in appearance, an attribute he would turn to his advantage on more than one occasion during later years.*
“Where’re we going?” he asked as they mingled with the early morning crowd on Thrift Street.
“To see one of our best agents,” the girl replied, then raised her voice as a pair of Yankee soldiers approached them. “Don’t you-all drop the bag, Jeremiah, or the mistress’ll tan your fool hide for sure.”
Neither of the soldiers, members of an infantry regiment on garrison duty in the city, as much as glanced at the passing pair. Dusty grinned at Belle and started to look back at the soldiers.
“Whooee!” he began. “I never thought to pass—.”
“Don’t look back!” Belle hissed. “Act like you’re used to seeing Yankees around.”
“Why sure,” Dusty said. “I’m sorry, Belle.”
“Don’t be,” the girl told him. “I’d make mistakes handling your work.”
“Talking of that,” Dusty drawled. “Do something nice for both of us in future, Belle gal.”
“What?”
“Don’t ask for me on another chore like this. It’s plumb rough on the nerves.”
A faint smile flickered across Belle’s face at the words. Most spies felt concern when they passed through enemy-controlled streets. Certainly Dusty handled himself well, considering that it was his first mission.
Although the girl had to pause and think a couple of times and once ask a passing man for directions, she and Dusty made good time through the streets. They passed other Yankee soldiers and sailors, with Dusty studiously ignoring his enemies. To help take his mind off the tricky nature of their business, Belle told him something of the person they went to contact.
“Her name is Madam Lucienne and she runs what used to be one of the most popular—and expensive—dress shops in New Orleans.”
“A dress shop?” Dusty asked, for the nature of the business did not seem to go with the dangerous work of spying.
“Don’t sell her short,” Belle smiled. “Madam Lucienne had a ‘past’, or so Mama always used to tell me. Of course she never told me what the ‘past’ was; but you know what it means.”
“It sure covers plenty of ground,” Dusty replied.
Having a ‘past’ might mean no more than coming from the wrong section of society, or gaining a divorce after an unfortunate marriage. Being connected with the theatre might also give a woman a ‘past’, or any of a number of other things. Whatever aspect put Madam Lucienne in the category of having a ‘past’, she appeared to have overcome it if she ran a successful business in the old city of New Orleans.
“ ‘Past’ or not,” Belle said. “She’s the best agent in New Orleans, with contacts all over the city.”
“Reckon she can help us?”
“She probably knows about the counterfeiting plot all ready, if not of the plant’s location. Even if she doesn’t, she’ll know where we can find the men we need for the work.”
“I’d been wondering how you planned to handle things,” Dusty remarked. “It looked like a chore for more than the two of us.”
“It’ll need more than us, for sure,” Belle agreed. “We’ll need somebody who knows how to break open the safe, for a starter.”
“And Madam Lucienne knows somebody like that?”
“Knows the right man, or how to find him. We’re nearly there, Dusty. It’s around this corner and along the street.”
Naturally the rich Creoles did not wish anything so sordid as a business section close to their homes; nor would they want to wander too far when shopping. The street on to which Belle and Dusty turned catered to the whims of the elegant and wealthy citizens. Before the War every shop along it would have been open and doing good business. Only a few remained in operation, but all seemed to find trade, if from a different class of customer.
Across the street from the shop bearing the discreet sign announcing that Madam Lucienne owned it, a smart carriage drawn by two good horses stood at the sidewalk. A colonel, wearing a uniform that carried the scarlet facings and trouser stripe of the artillery, escorted his wife into a milliner’s shop, having just left the carriage. Apart from the colonel and his driver, a smartly-dressed artillery private, who already mounted the carriage seat again, there was no sign of Yankee troops. As the woman was in her late middle age, plump, homely and well-dressed, Dusty assumed her to be the officer’s wife. The small Texan could also see how some of the street’s occupants still found business.
It was Dusty’s first visit to a big city shop and he found a big difference from the places to which he had become accustomed. Even in Arkansas, a comparatively civilized area, shops tended to be on the general store lines, with their wares exposed attractively on display. Not so in Madam Lucienne’s exclusive establishment. Dusty could see no sign of the clothing she sold, only comfortable tables, chairs dotted about the tastefully-decorated front room, and fitting cubicles erected along the walls.
Behind the small, elegant counter which faced the front entrance stood a tall young man who failed to blend into the surroundings and looked out of place in the room. He wore a good suit, h
ad a sallow, lean face with an expression of supercilious condescension, with lank long hair and a general impression of needing a good wash. Looking up from the thick, leather-bound ledger he was reading, the man studied Dusty and Belle.
“Is Madam Lucienne here, sir?” Belle asked mildly, ducking a curtsy to the man and her very attitude warned Dusty that all was not well.
“No,” the young man answered, his voice holding a Northern accent. “I’m her—assistant.”
Dusty darted a glance at Belle, finding her to be expressionless yet tense. While completely inexperienced in such matters, Dusty felt Madam Lucienne would be highly unlikely to accept such a man as her assistant in a fashionable business.
“I came to collect Mrs. Beauclaire’s new ball gown,” Belle told the man. “Is it ready yet?”
“Not right now.”
Even as the man replied, a voice sounded from the open door behind him and which led into the rear of the building. “It’s no use, Kaddam. There’s no sign of the old bitch’s rec—!” While speaking, another tall, lean young man appeared at the door. Apart from a drooping moustache, he looked much like the first. Halting, he chopped off his words and looked across the counter. “Who’re they?”
“Couple of servants,” Kaddam replied. “Come after Mrs. Beauclaire’s new ball gown.”
“Get them out of here.”
“You heard Mr. Turnpike. Get out.”
“Yes sir,” Belle answered meekly, nudging Dusty in warning. “We’d best go, Jeremiah.”
“Hold hard!” Turnpike barked as Belle started to turn.
“What’s wrong, Melvin?” Kaddam asked.
“There’s something about this I don’t like,” Turnpike answered and began to move forward, reaching into his jacket’s right side pocket.
Moving with his usual speed, Dusty scooped up the heavy ledger—which Kaddam closed and laid aside on their entrance—and spun it sideways. Its hard edge caught Turnpike in the face, halting his advance and causing his right hand to emerge empty from the pocket.
In a continuation of the move Dusty’s left hand slapped down on the counter top and he vaulted upwards. Kaddam began to take action a good five seconds too late. Out lashed Dusty’s left leg, driving his boot full into Kaddam’s advancing body. Caught in the chest by a solid boot heel, powered by a leg toughened from long hours of hard travelling, Kaddam croaked and reeled backwards. Going over the counter even as he kicked Kaddam, Dusty landed before Turnpike. Spluttering curses and spitting blood from his damaged lips, Turnpike threw a wild punch in Dusty’s direction. Dusty ducked under the blow, slamming his right fist hard into Turnpike’s solar plexus. With an agonised croak Turnpike went back and doubled over. On the heels of his first blow, Dusty whipped up his left hand to meet the down-swinging jaw. A click like two colossal billiard balls connecting sounded and Turnpike snapped erect once more. Glassy-eyed and limp, he shot back through the door and landed sprawled out on the floor.
Although Belle wished to avoid trouble, she realised that she must take a hand in Dusty’s play. Leaping forward, she stamped her right foot on to the back of Kaddam’s rear knee. Thrown off balance as his leg doubled under him, Kaddam went to his knees. Before the man could recover, Belle hitched up her skirt and kicked again. She sent her left foot crashing into the centre of Kaddam’s shoulders and propelled him head first into the wall. When Kaddam hit the wall, he arrived with enough force to knock himself unconscious.
“Who are they?” Dusty asked as Kaddam collapsed limply to the floor.
“Some of Pinkerton’s men,” the girl answered. “They must have caught Madam.”
“Looks that way. Or killed her. Reckon we ought to look around and see?”
“There’s no time. They were looking for her records and more of them might be coming. She’s not a prisoner here and we can’t help her if she’s dead. Empty the cash draw, take the money with you.”
“Make it look like we robbed the place, huh?” Dusty said.
“That’s it,” Belle agreed. “I’ll take the ledger, what they were looking for is in it.”
“Won’t they think things when they find it’s gone?” asked Dusty.
“We’ll have to chance it and hope they think we took it along for the leather binding,” Belle replied. “This’s going to make things difficult for us, Dusty.”
“It sure is,” Dusty answered, scooping the money from the cash drawer into his jacket pocket. “What’ll we do now?”
“Find someplace safe where we can look through this ledger and see what we can learn.”
“And if we don’t learn anything?”
“I’m trying not to think of that,” Belle admitted frankly. “But if we don’t I’ve another contact. He’d help for money, not through loyalty to the South.”
Despite her calm words, Belle knew just how much harder grew the situation. Yet, no matter what happened to her, Madam Lucienne would try to leave some message behind. On their previous meeting Lucienne had said if anything went wrong the ledger would tell Belle where to find help, but did not have a chance to explain how.
Picking up the book, Belle opened it and glanced at the first page. It held nothing but a list of customers’ names, addresses and prices paid. Nor did the subsequent pages prove any more enlightening to the girl’s rapid examination. Not that she really expected they would. Madam Lucienne would hardly make the prying loose of her secrets all that easy.
“I reckon we’d best get moving, Belle,” Dusty said quietly.
“You’re right,” she replied, and tucked the book under her arm.
With Dusty carrying the girl’s bag, they made for the door. Unnoticed behind them, Turnpike dragged himself to his feet. Almost maniacal rage mingled with the pain that twisted his face as he lurched to and leaned against the side of the door. From his pocket he drew one of the metal-cartridge firing .32 calibre Smith & Wesson revolvers popular among Northern supporters who hailed from the less firearm-conscious East, lined it at Dusty’s back and fired a shot. Still feeling the effects of Dusty’s handling, Turnpike did not have a steady hand. So his bullet passed between the pair without touching either of them, flying on to pass through a glass panel of the door.
At the sound of the shot, Dusty let Belle’s bag drop and whirled around. His right hand fanned across, gripped the Colt’s butt and slid the weapon from his waistband. Going into what would one day be known as the gun-fighter’s crouch—Colt held waist high, in the centre of his body and aimed by instinctive alignment—he cut loose in the only manner possible under the circumstances: for a kill. Only one thing stood between Turnpike and death, the fact that Dusty carried his gun in a different manner than usual. Drawing from the waistband made just the slight alteration which turned what should have been a bullet between the eyes to a nasty graze across the side of the head. Even so, Turnpike jerked back, spun around, and fell out of sight through the door.
“Get the hell out of here, Belle!” Dusty barked, unsure of how seriously he hit Turnpike and conscious that the other did not drop his gun before disappearing.
Swiftly Belle scooped up her bag, knowing Dusty might need both hands free, and darted to the door. Keeping his Colt lined on the opening behind the counter, Dusty followed. Without looking back, Belle jerked open the door and stepped out. Clearly the bullet breaking the window attracted attention. Across the street, the carriage’s driver stood up on his seat and looked in the girl’s direction. Not that he worried Belle; her interest centred on another pair of soldiers further down the street. Although cavalrymen, they were on foot and worked for the Provost Marshal’s Department (Military Police as such did not yet exist). Their main function was dealing with breaches of the peace and acting in place of the normal New Orleans police.
On hearing the window break, the two men halted and waited to see what caused it. When Belle appeared, they started towards her. At that moment Dusty joined the girl. Although he no longer held his revolver, the soldiers increased their pace and slipped free their
clubs. Dusty realised that to start shooting would not be advisable and glanced across the street.
“Head for the carriage, Belle!” he ordered.
Even though the driver saw Belle and Dusty headed his way, he took no action. Driving his commanding officer’s carriage did not call for carrying weapons, so he wore neither sword nor revolver. Instead of making some move, he just stood up in the carriage and stared. Against a man like Dusty Fog such hesitation could only bring disaster. Bounding up on to the seat, Dusty lowered his head and butted the driver in the body. Taken by surprise, winded by the force of Dusty’s attack, the driver shot backwards off the seat and landed rump-first on the sidewalk.
Belle pitched her bag into the back of the carriage and followed it. Before she could do more than enter, Dusty grabbed the reins and slapped them against the rumps of the two horses. There was not even time for him to feel grateful to a fate which put a sedentary non-combatant soldier as driver instead of a veteran who would have been far more difficult to handle.
“Yee-ah!” Dusty whooped. “Giddap there!”
A spirited pair, the horses needed no further encouragement. Lunging forward, they threw their weight into the harness and almost jerked the buggy’s wheels clear of the ground as they started it moving. Dusty thought back with gratitude to buggy-races between the Regiment’s young officers. From them he learned how to handle a fast-moving vehicle and pair of team horses. That knowledge came in very useful as he guided the carriage away. Although the two cavalrymen gave chase, on foot they stood little chance of keeping up with the speeding carriage and neither thought to use their guns.
“Keep going, Dusty!” Belle said. “We’ve got to get away.”
oooOooo
