by J. T. Edson
From Bludso and Willie, Belle had learned the simple code by which the riverboat engineers lived. Always tend to and care for the engines; heed the pilot’s bell and instructions; never let the boat be passed by another.
Attempting to uphold the last condition had been the cause of many a disaster. Boilers had exploded, because they had been subjected to excessive pressures and strains. In the excitement of the races, boats had been run aground or had struck snags—fallen trees carried by the current until sinking one end into the river’s bed—although that had been the pilots’ faults rather than the engineers’.
Even without racing, the danger of fire was always very real upon the riverboats. Due to the vessel’s specialized requirements, it had to have its superstructure constructed as lightly as possible. In addition to making use of the thinnest available timbers, every top-class boat had to be well painted and carry much decorative carving and fretwork which rendered it highly inflammable.
To further save weight, the boats were powered by engines working at high pressures of at least 120 lb. per square inch; using standard types of locomotive boilers fed by a general service pump known as the ‘doctor’. The small, rapidly steaming boilers—each vessel carried sufficient to power the paddlewheels—were wood-burners and required a large grate-area to ensure complete combustion. This could not be obtained, so the chimneystacks vomited out sparks, flames and glowing embers amongst the clouds of black smoke. The sun-dried nature of the vessel’s timbers needed little encouragement to catch fire.
‘We ain’t never had a fire on the Belle,’ Willie had told the girl on the night before they had reached her old home town of Baton Royale. ‘And I sure enough hopes we never does.’
‘I should think so,’ Belle had replied. ‘It would be terrible.’
‘Massa Jim always allows that if it happens, he’ll hold her nozzle again’ the bank while everybody gets ashore.’ Willie went on.
‘He’s just about cussed enough to do it,’ Belle had praised, visualizing what would happen to Bludso if he should ever be compelled to keep his promise.
On arriving in Baton Royale, Belle had found the Stream Queen at the landing stage. Despite having reached the town ahead of the Prairie Belle, the other boat had not taken its departure when the Belle had cast off.
There had been considerable delight amongst the crew of the Prairie Belle at finding themselves ahead of their hated rivals. When Belle had inquired about the reason for the Stream Queen’s delay, she had been treated to a variety of possible motives. One had been that Bascoll did not dare take his ramshackle old bucket through the Baton Royale Glide after nightfall.
Of all the reasons, that had been the one that struck Belle as the least likely. A mile below Baton Royale, some freak of the terrain caused the river to flow fast and deep with hardly any shallows. On either side, the shoreline fell away steeply from the manmade levee bank into at least ten feet of water. Although the current would thrust a boat along at a fair speed, the area was not regarded as being particularly dangerous. So she had concluded that the crew’s summation was founded more on contempt for Bascoll’s abilities than upon actual fact.
‘Did it hurt you, seeing Baton Royale again?’ Bludso inquired, turning his back on the Stream Queen.
‘A little,’ Belle admitted. ‘But I couldn’t see where my home used to be from the landing and I didn’t want to go ashore in case somebody recognized me.’
‘Is that why you’ve stayed on board at all the other halts?’ Bludso asked with a grin.
‘You know it’s not,’ Belle replied. ‘If I’d landed, I’d probably have wound up fighting off one of my many rivals.’
‘Shucks, there ain’t that many of them,’ Bludso protested. ‘It just seems that way.’
‘I’m sure it does,’ Belle smiled ‘Did your red-haired friend like her hat?’
‘She sure did,’ Bludso confirmed, then his face lost its smile. ‘Damn it, Belle, it had to be Bascoll. But I don’t see how they managed to set it up in the time.’
‘Or me,’ Belle said soberly. ‘Have you any other enemies?’
‘None’s’d go that far,’ Bludso replied.
Motives for the attempted killing had been discussed many times during the journey, but were doomed to be forgotten that night. Underfoot, Belle could sense that a force almost as powerful as the Prairie Belle’s paddle wheels was gripping the hull and carrying them forward. Even more aware of the change, Bludso walked in the direction of the controls. Until they had passed through the Glide, he would be constantly on the alert for the pilot’s instructions.
Walking at Bludso’s side. Belle looked along the lamp-lit deck. Negro stokers were feeding cordwood into the yawning, glowing mouths of the furnaces, but they did not hold her attention. Up by the forward boiler, Willie was speaking to the gambler, Brunel. Even as Belle watched, the white man swung away from the Negro and walked—hurried would have been a better word—towards the stairs leading to the boiler deck.
‘What did Brunel want down here?’ the girl asked.
‘That’s what I’m wondering,’ Bludso replied. Then, as Willie came up ready to support him in the passage through the Glide, he repeated Belle’s question.
‘Allowed he’d spilled ink all over his carpetbag and spoiled most of his clothes,’ the Negro answered. ‘So he’d bundled ’em up and fetched ’em down to get shut of ’em. I was too late to stop him pitching them in.’
‘The coal torpedoes!’ Belle shrieked.
All in a single flash of intuition, the girl had seen the answers to many of her assignment’s puzzling aspects.
At last she knew why O’Reilly had spoken the truth to Darren about the consignment’s departure. She also understood why he had been carrying the ‘coal torpedoes’ in his carpetbag and for the organization taking the chance of robbing the hotel to retrieve them. Brunel’s lack of activity had also been explained. So had the references made by Andy and Mick outside the warehouse, with regard to finishing the trip on Bascoll’s boat.
Everything was suddenly, frighteningly, almost unbelievably clear!
Regrettably, Belle’s understanding had come just too late!
With a thunderous roar and a sheet of raging flame, the forward boiler exploded. Blazing chunks of wood flew in all directions. The furnace’s stoker screamed briefly but hideously as the sheet of leaping fire engulfed him. Such was the force of the detonation that the Prairie Belle’s massive bulk heaved ponderously. Its starboard paddle wheel lifted clear of the water, spinning wildly and hurling spray; then it regained an even keel.
Thrown off balance, Belle was flung against the control panel. Bludso’s weight collided with her and sandwiched her against the board. Winded and unconscious, she slid to the deck as he lurched away. The incident had one benefit. Cushioned by Belle’s slender body, Bludso suffered no injury and retained the use of his faculties.
With the effects of the explosion felt throughout the boat, pandemonium reigned. Seeing the fire growing rapidly, the deck passengers, roustabouts and stokers who had not been flung overboard hurled themselves into the river. Their actions were understandable, for they could see the full threat of the conflagration.
On the boiler-deck, glassware and crockery cascaded to ruins on the floor. Men and women went sprawling in all directions. Screams, shouts, crashes and moans filled the air. Lamps left their hangers and rained down to create further fires.
Clinging to the handgrips of the wheel, the pilot had managed to avoid deserting his post. Ignoring his visitors, who had been tumbled from the bench at the rear of the pilothouse, he followed the instructions laid down by Captain Yancy for such an emergency. Without needing to check, he knew which was the nearer bank. So, catching his balance, he swung hard on the wheel. Heeling slightly as the push of the current caught her, the Prairie Belle responded to the helm and started to turn. The pilot hoped that Jim Bludso was at the engine’s controls. Without him, the boat would not be able to fight the pressure of the river
and complete its turn towards the shore.
On the main deck, Bludso shook his head and sprang to the controls. Like the pilot, he had learned the proposed drill to be followed in the event of a fire. No instructions had come from the pilothouse, but the engineer knew what he must do. Being closest to the port bank, they would head in that direction. So Bludso reduced the revolutions of the left side wheel. He knew that merely directing the bows against the levee would not be sufficient. The boat would have to be held in position for long enough to present the passengers with an opportunity of escaping. So the wheels must be kept turning—and that could only be done from the engineer’s control panel.
Bludso knew just how slight his chances of getting clear in time would be, but he did not let that lessen his resolve to continue doing his duty.
‘Willie!’ the engineer called, trying to see through the flames. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Shook is all,’ answered the Negro. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Get Belle ashore.’
‘I can’t leave you-all, Massa Jim!’
‘You can. There’s no sense in us both staying. And I want to know that somebody’ll be around to tell the truth about the explosion.’
‘But—!’ Willie groaned.
‘Do like I tell you!’ Bludso roared. ‘You’ve never failed me afore, old friend.’
‘I’ll do like you says,’ Willie promised, bending to lift the unconscious girl from the deck.
‘Another thing,’ Bludso put in. ‘Before you go, take my old Ames Knife—and when you lay hands on that bastard Brunel, use it for me.’
Twelve – There’s No Way You Can Stop Me
‘Brunel escaped from the Prairie Belle,’ Belle Boyd told General Handiman as they sat in Stenhouse’s hotel suite at New Orleans. ‘Darren saw him on shore, but we lost contact with him after that.’
‘He wasn’t aboard the Stream Queen when she arrived,’ the head of the Secret Service replied. ‘I had Lieutenant St. Andre of the New Orleans’ Police Department 13 make a search as soon as it docked.’
Belle was once more the elegant, fashionable lady, dressed in an outfit which she had purchased in Baton Royale. Yet her face showed signs of grief and of the deep strain she had been under. She had had little rest since the night of the Prairie Belle’s fire.
Carried on to the levee by Willie, the girl had recovered consciousness in time to see the end of the drama.
Due to Jim Bludso’s gallant act of self-sacrifice, the blazing boat’s bows had been held against the river’s bank while all its other occupants had fled. The engineer had stuck to his post until the end, going through what must have been hell as the flames raged higher and the heat had become unendurable in its intensity. Boiler after boiler had exploded, ripping the once magnificent vessel to pieces. Knowing that he had no hope of surviving, Jim Bludso had carried out his promise at the cost of his own life.
Learning what had happened from Willie, Belle had immediately started to search for Brunel. Darren had seen the gambler on the levee, but they could find no trace of him there or in the town of Baton Royale. Remembering Andy’s comment about having to finish the ride to New Orleans on Bascoll’s boat, Belle had insisted that Stenhouse telegraph to Madame Lucienne and ask for her to arrange to have the gambler arrested when the Stream Queen arrived. Carrying out Belle’s instructions, Stenhouse had also asked that accommodation be arranged for himself and his two agents.
Taking the first available boat, Belle, Willie, Darren and Stenhouse had journeyed down to New Orleans. They had been met at the dock by Madame Lucienne’s Negress maid, bringing a letter from her employer. In it had been instructions as to the hotel at which she had arranged for the two men and Belle to stay. To Belle’s delight, Lucienne had also sent along her trunk. Learning where he could contact Belle, Willie had set off alone and in search of the man who had been responsible for his friend’s death. Before they had separated, Belle had obtained the Negro’s promise that he would inform her as soon as he had located Brunel. She had also asked that, if possible, Brunel should not be harmed before she was on hand. It was her intention to try to take the man alive and induce him to answer her questions.
On the point of going to visit Madame Lucienne, as a start in her hunt for Brunel, Belle had been summoned to Stenhouse’s suite. Darren, who had delivered the message, had agreed to go to Lucienne’s fashionable and exclusive dress shop immediately. There he would tell the woman everything that had happened and save any further waste of time. Much to her surprise, Belle had found that General Handiman was with the coordinator.
While going through her story for Handiman’s benefit, Belle had seen him show a hint of puzzlement on more than one occasion—particularly when she mentioned a point that had not struck her as being consistent with the other facts. At the same time, Stenhouse had displayed a growing alarm and apprehension.
‘Anyway,’ Stenhouse remarked, exhibiting an air of relief which did not ring true. ‘At least the consignment will never reach Ireland.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ Belle replied.
Big, heavily built, Handiman looked more like a prosperous businessman or planter than the head of the United States’ Secret Service. He glanced at Belle in a speculative manner as she spoke.
‘Why is that, Miss Boyd?’ he asked.
‘There’s no way they could recover the rifles,’ Stenhouse went on. ‘Even assuming that any could have survived the explosions. The river—’
‘I know all that!’ Belle interrupted. ‘And I’m sure the Irishmen planned everything so we’d be led to such a conclusion.’
‘Go on, please,’ Handiman requested, waving Stenhouse to remain silent.
‘It all fits,’ Belle obliged. ‘They knew that we were on to their game and wanted to throw us off the track. So, somewhere or other, they transferred the rifles and ammunition to other containers. Then they let the bales and weighted boxes go on the Prairie Belle, making sure that Darren knew about it. O’Reilly, or whatever his name was, should have accompanied the shipment. When he was killed, Brunel took his place. They planned to wreck the boat in an area where, even if we wanted to check, it would be impossible to do so. The Baton Royale Glide was the finest place for their purpose.’
‘The uniforms, boots and hats were on the boat,’ Stenhouse reminded her.
‘What use would the Irish nationalists have for them?’ Belle answered. ‘The rifles would be useful, but they wouldn’t need uniforms. And leaving the bales intact, making sure that Darren could see and identify the contents, did much to divert attention from the possibility of the boxes not containing rifles and ammunition.’
‘They’ve gone to a lot of trouble, just for a hundred rifles,’ Handiman remarked. ‘Of course, that many repeaters might go a long way in winning Ireland back for the Pope.’
‘How’s that?’ Belle inquired, a vague recollection of something she had been told struggling to burst through her memory.
‘Didn’t you know?’ Handiman smiled. ‘I’m assured, by an Irish waiter in my Washington club, that is what they’re trying to do.’
‘Then it’s not likely that an Irish Protestant would be helping them?’
‘I’d say it’s highly unlikely, Miss Boyd,’ Handiman corrected. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because Darren said that O’Reilly had agreed to work for him out of dislike for Molloy,’ Belle answered.
‘And—’ Handiman prompted.
‘According to O’Reilly, Molloy was a “Protestant son-of-a-bitch”,’ the girl elaborated. ‘He is also one of the few Irishmen involved in the affair. “O’Reilly’’ and Opal certainly weren’t. Nor were Brunel and Bascoll. And I heard mention of somebody they called “the Frenchman” as one of the leaders.’
‘The two men who made the purchase were French—’ Stenhouse began.
‘Who spoke with such obvious Irish accents that they aroused suspicion,’ Belle put in. ‘I’ve little respect for nationalist agitators of any
kind, but I don’t believe they would be that stupid.’
‘You think that somebody other than Irish nationalists might be involved, Miss Boyd?’ Handiman inquired, darting a cold glare at the co-coordinator who was showing increasing alarm.
‘It’s possible, though I can’t think who,’ the girl replied. ‘Everything points to them being Irish. Perhaps too obviously. Men with French names and Irish accents would be sure to start us thinking on the required lines. Using Molloy’s—an Irishman’s—warehouse kept us thinking that way. So did “O’Reilly” adopting a brogue when he was dealing with Darren. And giving a typical Irishman’s excuse, religious bigotry, for betraying his employer. Even the name they had given to the consignors of the shipment, the “Shamrock Supplies Incorporated” would help keep us thinking they were Irish.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with you,’ Handiman declared.
‘Thank you,’ Belle answered. ‘Perhaps you can tell me who, other than the Irish, they might be.’
‘You mean that you haven’t told her?’ Handiman growled, staring at his worried-looking male subordinate.
‘Well, sir,’ Stenhouse began hesitantly. ‘You see—That is—’
‘What haven’t I been told?’ Belle demanded suspiciously.
‘There are men in the South fermenting discontent and advocating that the Southern States should secede from the Union,’ Handiman elaborated. ‘According to our reports, they are hoping to stir up an armed rebellion.’
‘The Ku Klux Klan?’ Belle asked.
‘They’ve practically disbanded now that the worst excesses of Reconstruction have been ended,’ Handiman replied. ‘It’s possible that some of the Klan’s more radical members are involved, but we’ve no proof of that. In fact, we’ve no concrete evidence of their existence, other than fairly reliable rumors.’
