The Bloody Border

by J. T. Edson

  Although shrewd, capable, efficient and successful, Eve had received little public acclaim and was hardly known beyond her organisation. The lack of recognition sometimes annoyed her, but she also recognised its value. While Pauline Cushman received publicity, being boosted as the North’s answer to Belle Boyd, no mention of Eve ever reached the Yankee newspapers. So she went her way unsuspected, achieving far more than the so-called ‘Scout of the Cumberland’s’ often-told exploits.

  From the little she had seen since her arrival aboard the steam-launches’ depot ship, Eve knew she faced a formidable task. Guided by Kraus, she rode some five miles upstream on the Rio Grande’s southern bank and talked with a number of unsavoury people who made their living along the bloody border between Texas and Mexico. At the end of it, she felt that she was wasting her time. When Kraus brought up the matter of reporting rebel troop movements, for money of course, all agreed; even those who, she suspected, never crossed the river. On the other matter discussed, the results had been far less satisfactory. To be fair to him, Kraus had warned her from the start about that.

  When asked to spy on and report the movements of the Ysabel family’s smuggling trains, the border dwellers’ attitudes changed fast. A few refused profanely and point blank. Others seemed unwilling, frightened almost, to talk about it and their eyes took on a far-away look as they evaded even the question of whether they had seen the Ysabels go by in the past. Only two offered to help and they did so with such blatant insincerity that Eve doubted if anything would come of it.

  On the way back to town, she thought about the matter. Even with the aid of the steam-launch flotilla, borrowed from the Mississippi Squadron, catching the Ysabels in the act would be anything but a sinecure. So she decided to concentrate her efforts at the source of the supply. The shipments brought into Matamoros could only arrive because some important French officials were looking the other way. If she produced proof against them, their superiors would be forced to make them carry out their duties correctly. Failing that, she could find evidence of Garfield helping the Ysabels and rebel spies. Then the U.S. consul could approach the French and demand that Garfield be ordered from the city for breaches of diplomatic privilege. Causing the Confederate consul’s removal ought to throw the landing organisation into confusion long enough for the steam launches to learn the vagaries of the Rio Grande. Skilled veterans of the Mississippi campaign, they should be able to cope with the problems of blockading a smaller river.

  Returning to the hotel, she found Ffauldes’ message and visited him after eating with a French colonel who gave much helpful advice and a permit to travel after the curfew hour. She noticed the men keeping watch from the street on the Confederate consulate as her hired carriage drove up and learned the reason the moment she met Ffauldes.

  Tall, lean, with a gaunt face that bore a mixture of assumed superiority and an avaricious nature, Abner Ffauldes wore a rumpled town suit and grubby shirt. His attitude showed that he resented the woman’s presence. Like all liberal-intellectuals, Ffauldes hated any authority he did not wield himself. Eve Coniston had arrived the previous day with a letter from Pinkerton himself, giving her virtual control of the Matamoros detachment.

  “Where is she now?” Eve asked, although willing to guess at the answer.

  “Across the street there,” Ffaulds replied. “We’ve had her under observation ever since she arrived. Well, soon after she arrived anyway.”

  “And how did she manage to reach the rebel consulate?”

  “Dressed as a Mexican girl. Hell! She looked and dressed just like one and rode in on a donkey cart.”

  “You didn’t expect her to come down the street in full Confederate Army uniform and waving the Stars and Bars, did you?” Eve said dryly, hoping her own uneasiness did not show.

  All too well she remembered the Mexican girl at the hotel’s plaza. Something about that whole affair had struck her as wrong from the start. The French sergeant showed, even unconscious, signs of greater agony than would arise from being pushed and falling over backwards to crack his head on the ground. Wishing to avoid becoming involved in French-Mexican affairs, she had kept her conclusions to herself. What if that terrified Mexican girl had really been— Eve did not care to take that line of thought any further. So she prevented herself from doing it by resuming the questioning.

  “You’re sure it was her?”

  “Joe Giss and one of his men were over the wall, hidden in the grounds, and heard Garfield call her by name,” Ffauldes answered. “As soon as he got out and told me, I put every available man to watching the house.”

  “You had a man in their garden?” Eve asked.

  “And not for the first time,” Ffauldes replied, smirking with smug satisfaction. “One or two of them go over the wall at night, using a leather pad against the broken glass, and lie up in the bushes all day.”

  “Our men?”

  “They work for us. Either Joe Giss or one of his men go in.”

  “And what does it cost us?” said the practical Eve.

  “Fifty dollars a day for one or both of them,” Ffauldes answered, losing some of his smirk. “I’m making a list of French and other callers Garfield sees.”

  “And what they talk about?”

  “Sometimes—Look, Giss and the other man take their lives in their hands every time they go over the wall—.”

  “They’re well paid for doing it,” Eve pointed out. “Fifty dollars a day! Couldn’t any of your own men—?”

  “None of them have that kind of experience,” Ffauldes told her sulkily. “It paid off today well enough. We know the Rebel’s Spy’s there.”

  What Ffauldes omitted to mention was the number of times the watcher in the grounds had failed to bring back any worthwhile information. In his bigoted hatred of the supporters of the Confederacy who dared to oppose his own lofty ideals, Ffauldes overlooked the fact that the watching had, to that day, gained little more knowledge than was gathered by the normal lookouts outside the consulate’s grounds. To know he was putting one over on the rebels satisfied him. What he did not know was that only rarely did Giss take the chance of entering the garden, or how most of the watching from within had been carried out by men with only a scanty knowledge of English. That Giss had gone in the previous night had been brought about by Eve’s presence in the town. After meeting her, Charlie Kraus had warned his partner that there would need to be an improvement in their service if they hoped for it to continue. So Giss went in with the half-breed and, in trying to gather some information of sufficient importance to satisfy Eve, had been discovered and lost his man while escaping.

  “Have you seen her yourself?” Eve inquired, having formed a poor opinion of Joe Giss during their one brief meeting the previous evening.

  “I saw her!” Ffauldes replied with considerably more enthusiasm than a mere glimpse of the South’s top spy appeared to merit. “She’s using a room at the front of the house, upstairs.”

  “And she’s still there?”

  “My men are covering the whole building, there’s no way she could leave.”

  Before any more could be said, the door flew open and an excited-looking man dashed in.

  “There’s trouble across the river, Mr. Ffauldes!” he said. “We saw a flash, like an explosion, then rockets and flares started going up.”

  Darting to the window, Eve looked through it and saw the glow in the sky. She swung hurriedly to look at the men.

  “Is the Rebel Spy still across the street?” she hissed.

  “Sure,” the newcomer answered. “We saw her once at the dining room window, wearing a fancy gown.”

  “How long since?” Eve asked.

  “Maybe half, threequarters of an hour back,” the man replied. “I’m near enough certain she’s still in there. Garfield’s been talking to somebody just now and I could see the hem of her dress from just in front of him.”

  “It may not be her,” Eve said, half to herself. “I think she’s here to—. Come
on, we’ll go to the waterfront and see what we can learn.”

  “The curfew—!” Ffauldes croaked.

  “I know about it!” Eve snapped. “The French won’t enforce it on members of the U.S. consular staff going to see what’s happening across the river.”

  “That’s for sure,” the lookout agreed. “They’ve never stopped us being out after curfew yet.”

  “Who’s going with you?” Ffauldes asked.

  “Leave the men on watch in the upstairs rooms and get the rest,” Eve answered. “If the attack came from this side, I want whoever launched it.”

  “I’ll go harness the coach,” the lookout offered. “There’re enough of the boys upstairs without me.”

  While Ffauldes gathered the, men and his lookout prepared the coach, Eve went upstairs to interview the other watchers. She found all the men awake and showing considerable zeal in keeping the consulate under observation. However none could state for certain that he had seen the Rebel Spy in the last threequarters of an hour or more.

  “Shucks,” one of them said. “She come up, put a frock on and give her shirt and pants to a nigger maid for washing.”

  Listening to the man, Eve realised that the eager scrutiny of the other house had not been caused by news of her arrival. Taking a telescope, she lined it at the consulate and had the window of Belle’s room pointed out. While it lay in darkness, she decided that its interior would be visible in daylight or with a lamp lit inside.

  “You saw her?” Eve repeated her opening question.

  “And how,” grinned the man. “She come in there dressed like a greaser. I saw her peaking out of the window. Must’ve figured we couldn’t see into the room or weren’t watching, ‘cause she stripped, went for a bath and when she come back we knew for sure she was the Rebel Spy.”

  “Why?”

  “She got dressed in men’s clothes. Dark shirt, riding breeches, like she’s worn afore. Had a black wig on when she come in dressed like a greaser gal and under it she’d real short black hair.”

  “Could it have been a man dressed in woman’s clothing?”

  “Lady!” the lookout answered. “Believe me, that was no man I saw.”

  “You mean she stripped standing in front of the window?” Eve asked.

  “Naw!” he replied, sounding just a touch disappointed. “Back by the bed. Must’ve figured we couldn’t see that far into the room. But we could. Boy! Those app__* Well, we could see her good, all of her.”

  “Miss Coniston!” Ffauldes yelled from downstairs. “The coach’s ready.”

  Although feeling doubts about what she had just heard, Eve put them aside. She could finish questioning the man later, but if they hoped to catch whoever had raided the shipping a start must be made immediately.

  Two men sat on the coach’s box, while four more crammed inside with Ffauldes. Hardly had Eve climbed in than the driver started the two-horse team moving. Before they had covered half the distance, a French army patrol stopped them.

  “United States consular staff,” the driver replied in answer to the challenge. “We’re going to—.”

  “Monsieur!” Eve called through the window and the officer turned her way. “My husband in on a ship in Brownsville harbour. These gentlemen are taking me to see if all is well. I have a pass from Colonel Ponthieu.”

  “Of course, madame,” the officer replied. “You may pass.”

  Continuing its journey through the streets, the coach came to a halt as close to the waterfront as the French would allow. Again an officer came up, a major this time, but he accepted the story of concern for the welfare of Eve’s ‘husband’ and raised no objection to the party going forward on foot.

  “I want to take a boat out to the ships, major,” Eve went on, after acknowledging the permission. “Will that be possible?”

  “It is on your own responsibility, madame,” he answered. Like all army officers and Government officials, the major had recieved ambiguous instructions regarding his treatment of important Americanos del Norte; no matter which side in the War they served. Faced with the possibility of a long, arduous task in subduing Mexican resistance to their rule, the French high command dare not antagonise either the Confederate or Federal Governments. So they tended to order a blind eye turned to both sides’ breaches of diplomatic conduct, or to be obliging to members of each.

  More than that, Eve’s request struck the major as being perfectly natural. Due to the prevailing conditions in Brownsville, with a hostile population waiting to rise against the occupying forces and constant harassment from Ford’s command, the Yankee officers hesitated to bring in their wives. So a number of service families lived in Matamoros. Naturally they would be worried and wish to learn of their husbands’ fate. Assuming Eve to be the wife of at least an army colonel or naval captain, the major decided she had been requested by the other wives to gather the required information.

  Entering the boat accompanied by Ffauldes and another man, Eve set them to rowing across the river. The rest of her party spread out in an attempt to find the raiders.

  Flares and lanterns illuminated the Waterbury and depot ship. From all appearances, the raid had been at least a partial success. Water spurting out of hoses and the clanging of pumps aboard the Waterbury told of the fight to save her. Even as Eve’s boat approached, she saw one of the forward Dahlgren nine-inch cannon tumble over the side through a gap cut in the bulwarks. A further gap at the stem told that the steam sloop’s captain had jettisoned some of his armament in the bid to stay afloat. Yet, even with the reduction in weight of four—two from each side—9,200 pound cannon, the sloop lay low in the water. Beyond her, the depot ship listed far over to port and looked in a more sorry plight even than the Waterbury.

  Kusik, the man rowing at Ffauldes’ side, knew naval procedure for he raised his voice in a hail. “Waterbury ahoy! Permission to come aboard!”

  “Who the hell are you?” demanded an exasperated voice. “If they’re from some stinking newspaper, turn the hoses on ‘em!” roared the burly captain, appearing at the rail.

  “We’re U.S. consular staff from Matamoros!” Ffauldes yelled hastily.

  “Lay alongside aft and come aboard!” ordered the captain grudgingly and Eve heard him continue in a lower tone, “A woman! That’s all I need right now. A damned woman coming aboard asking stupid questions.”

  “I’ll report him to the admiral comm—!” Ffauldes began. “Shut your mouth!” Eve snapped. “He’s right, but I have to go aboard.”

  She could sympathise with the captain, doing everything in his power to save his ship and faced by the arrival of what would probably amount to nothing more than useless sightseers. However she wanted to learn if any of the raiders had been seen and might be identified.

  Boarding the Waterbury presented no problem, for she lay low in the water. Two sailors reached through the gap in the bulwarks, caught Eve’s wrists and swung her up on to the deck. Kusik followed by his own efforts and Ffauldes struggled up after the other two.

  “You understand I’ve no time to spare, madam,” the captain told Eve, giving her a scowl along with the salute.

  “You may tell the ladies ashore that there’ve been no casualties in either vessel.”

  “Thank you, captain,” she replied. “And the damage?”

  “We’re holed in the bottom, have plugged it with hammocks as best we can but are still making water. The Grayson is in worse shape than us. I’ve had no report from her. You are from the consulate?”

  “I’m with the Secret Service,” Eve answered, her voice holding just a touch of pride. “Did anybody see the attackers?”

  “See them!” growled the captain, sounding more angry than ever. “One of my officers had his hands on her and—.”

  “Her?” Eve prompted. “There was a woman involved?”

  “Damn it, can’t you see I’m—,” the captain blared, then gave a resigned shrug. “Very well. It will come out later anyhow. Mr. Thurley. Lay aft here.”

&
nbsp; “Aye aye, sir!” answered the abashed midshipman who had commanded the guard boat, running up to the party.

  “Tell the lady about your outstanding achievement tonight. Mr. Thurley,” ordered the captain. “And while you’re at it, tell her about that damned wig you brought aboard with that blasted greaser down the coast last night. I’m going below to inspect the damage.”

  Slowly the midshipman told of Belle’s ‘capture’ and escape, clearly hating to admit his failure to civilians, especially when one of them was a woman. If he came out of the affair still retaining his commission, he would be lucky; and he knew it. So he spoke carefully, weighing out each word with the view to how it would sound repeated before a court martial. Showing tact and using skilled questioning backed by sympathy, Eve drew out all the details.

  “It could have happened to anybody,” she finally said with more compassion than she felt. The Rebel Spy had been in Yankee hands and escaped. No member of the U.S. Secret Service could regard that news with equanimity. However she wished to let the young man down as lightly as possible in view of what his superiors would do to him. “What was that about a wig?”

  Thurley did not hesitate with his answer. On that matter at least he could maintain a clear conscience, being covered in his actions by the captain’s stringent orders.

  “That was last night, ma’am. We heard shots from the shore and saw a fight by a fire. Captain sent me ashore with a party to investigate. The fighters ran before we landed. Hey though! One of them was a woman—the same one we caught tonight, I’ll bet. At least they both had the same sort of short black hair. The two men with her were Americans, frontiersmen from the look of them.”

  “What baggage did they have?” Eve asked eagerly.

  “Two trunks. They carried them off. The bigger man took one and she helped the youngster with the other.”

  “And you didn’t give chase?” Ffauldes put in.