by J. T. Edson
She came out of the Louisiana bayou, a hard-riding young beauty who had seen her parents killed in cold blood by agents from the North. Driven by her desire for revenge, Belle joined the Great Cause. That took her into the heart of a nation cleaved in two, and closer to her parents’ killers. Joining the Secret Service of the Confederacy, she pitted her courage, wits and fighting skills against the Union’s best agents. But while she spawned a legend with her daring escapades and undercover work, her greatest challenge still lay ahead, on a mission deep behind enemy lines – to stop a deadly new weapon from entering the war!
MISSISSIPPI RAIDER
DUSTY FOG’S CIVIL WAR 1
By J. T. Edson
First published by Bantam Doubleday Dell in 1996
Copyright © 1996, 2015 by J. T. Edson
First Smashwords Edition: March 2015
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges ~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
For Joy, Marlene and Celia,
the “Three Wise Monkeys” of my “spiritual” home, the Half Moon In Melton Mowbray,
even though they don’t care for Matilda the Hun
Author’s Note
For the benefit of new readers, but to save our “old hands” from repetition, we have given a “potted biography” of Belle “the Rebel Spy” Boyd in the form of an Appendix.
When supplying us with the information from which we produce our books, one of the strictest rules imposed upon us by the present-day members of what we call the “Hardin, Fog and Blaze” clan and the “Counter” family is that we never under any circumstances disclose their true identities or their current whereabouts. Furthermore, we are instructed to always include sufficient inconsistencies to ensure neither can happen, even inadvertently.
We would like to emphasize that the names of people who appear in this volume are those supplied to us by our informants in Texas and any resemblance to those of other people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
We realize that, in our present permissive society, we could use the actual profanities employed by various people in the narrative. However, unlike various other authors, we do not concede that a spurious desire to create “realism” is any excuse for doing so.
As we refuse to pander to the current trendy usage of the metric system, except when referring to the caliber of various firearms that had always been measured in millimeters—i.e., Walther P-38, 9mm—we will continue to employ miles, yards, feet, inches, pounds, and ounces when quoting distances and weights.
Lastly, and of the greatest importance, we must stress that the attitudes and speech of the characters is put down as would have been the case at the period of the narrative.
J.T. EDSON,
MELTON MOWBRAY,
Leics.,
England
Part One – The Need to Know
Chapter One – You’re a Woman!
Rising slowly from behind a grove of royal and cabbage palms that grew on all sides of the fair-size clearing, the full moon caused their trunks to shine dim and ghostlike in its early rays. Overhead, almost at meridian, strange patterns of fluffy clouds billowed and the Seven Sisters (Pleiades) played hide-and-seek among swiftly moving, ever-changing thunderheads. From deep within the swampland to the right, the resounding voice of a great horned owl could be heard above the multitudinous croaking of bullfrogs. Every now and again, the deep belly grunt of a bull alligator echoed from the edge of a marshy watercourse nearby. Perhaps disturbed by the predator, a night heron glided above the treetops and its golden eyes flashed briefly in the glow of the small campfire in the center of the open ground before it vanished into the surrounding blackness. Insect noises in uncountable variety and locations floated on the gentle breeze. In the course of their nocturnal hunting, nighthawks banked and zoomed on silent wings. Also questing for food, an occasional leather-winged bat darted through a crazy pattern of flight in its efforts to catch black gnats or other of the tiny flying creatures drifting in swarms.
However, while conscious of the sounds, the half a dozen human beings gathered around the fire in the center of the open ground appeared to be paying little or no attention to them. Of different heights, builds, and ages, with one exception—whose headgear was black, broader-brimmed, and had a higher crown—the group wore white straw “planter’s” hats, loose-fitting jackets over white shirts and silk cravats of various colors, and riding breeches tucked into the calf-high legs of their boots. Their attire and voices indicated they were well educated and wealthy Southrons, which was not surprising since they were in the woodland fringing the Mississippi River at Baton Bayou Parish, Louisiana.
Despite the situation between politicians from both sides of the Mason-Dixon line being grave, with much talk of the Southern states seceding from the Union because of what were clearly irreconcilable differences upon many issues—as was allowed in the Constitution—their main subject of discussion was the possibility of a good night’s sport. In fact, the only reference to Yankees was when one of the group commented how little common sense or decent behavior could be expected from men who—instead of running their quarry for sport by night and allowing it to escape when cornered more times than otherwise, as was done in the South—set the hounds on its trail and selected places to lie in wait for it to pass, then, as so often happened due to the habit of both the red and gray species of fox when pursued to move in a circle around its normal domain, shot it.
Regardless of the comments upon the time of day selected by Yankees for hunting, because sport rather than acquiring a trophy and making an easy kill were the main incentives, throughout much of the South—especially from the late spring and summer months through to early fall—even early-morning hunting for a fox was rarely successful. This was because, as soon as the sun came up and caused the temperature to rise, conditions became too hot for the quarry, hounds, and horses to last long enough to make for a worthwhile chase.
At night, however, it was not unusual for a mature dog fox to run for three and a half to four hours before being caught and “treed.” The term was particularly apt where the Southern gray fox was concerned. When hard-pressed and finding it was about to be caught, it would either climb into a leaning tree or go down a gopher hole. Although one was only rarely caught on the ground, unless it had developed the habit of feeding upon chickens and other small domesticated creatures, once treed the majority of them were left unharmed.
Suddenly, disturbing the man sprawled on the ground by its head, an unprepossessing-looking bay stallion “muck pony” tethered a short distance from the other mounts of the same strain gave a snort and gazed southward into the night. i At the same instant, the big bluetick coonhound acknowledged as “strike dog” and leader of the pack by the other eight members of various breeds uncoiled from his sleeping position on the short grass. Rising swiftly to his feet, with his sensitive nose sniffing the night breeze, he stood tense and alert. Soundless though they were except for the inhaling of breath, his movements had the effect of bringing the rest of the hounds from their somnolent postures. ii
“My ole Quincy hoss smells him a fox, or maybe a bobcat,” commented the only member of the party not gathered around the fire, coming to his
feet from where he had been sitting near the now-alert muck pony stallion and motioning with his head in its direction. Though tall, lean, and leathery faced, the way he was dressed and his voice suggested he came from a lower class of society than the others. His name was Joe Lassiter and he was the owner of the pack of hounds. Therefore, his words and actions brought silence, and turning his gaze to the bluetick, he continued just as quietly, “That ole Speed dog’s got him the scent!”
Even as the words were being spoken, the sharp bark of a fox rang out from downwind. Instantly, Speed bounded forward with a bugle-voiced bawl that set the rest of the pack to duplicating his actions. Such was the speed of his actions, he hit the end of the leash that secured him to a bush and turned a complete flip. However, he came up immediately, baying furiously and trying to get free. Hurrying over while the hunters at the fire were rising, Lassiter started to liberate the hounds, commencing with Speed. The moment each was freed, it tore away with the speed of a frightened pronghorn antelope. By the time the last of the human beings was by his mount, which—like all the rest—had often been used for such hunting and showed agitation over the prospects suggested by the commotion, the wild and excited baying of the hounds was already a good half-mile away.
Having liberated the last of the pack, Lassiter strode swiftly to where his stallion was behaving in just as restive a fashion as the other horses. Bounding astride the blanket that served him as all the saddle he needed, he scooped up the reins of his Indian-style hackamore and, apparently all in one motion, set off. While far from a graceful-looking animal, the muck pony showed a surprising turn of speed. However, swiftly as it and its rider moved, the exception in the matter of attire was almost as rapid. Showing a deft ease that bespoke considerable experience in matters equestrian, the hunter in the black hat swung astride a dun gelding with lines indicative of a preponderance of American Five-Gaited Saddle-Horse blood and was away across the switch grass while the rest were still mounting. However, once they were on their horses, the others followed with alacrity and also displayed the skill at riding that almost every Southron of their class acquired.
Past the woodland fringing the river, much of the terrain over which the hunt showed signs of taking place was over hard-sand prairie covered with short switch grass, which would have offered a close-to-ideal footing for any type of riding horse. However, interspersed in various sizes and patterns across fair amounts of it were clumps of scrub palmetto, shallow lakes and ponds, hammocks—as the local population called hammocks of trees—sloughs and muck pockets making the surface quite treacherous to ride over at even a canter, although the muck ponies could handle it better than the other purebred breeds most wealthy Southrons rode at other times.
Guided by experience handed down from their predecessors in the sport of hunting at night as practiced in the Southern states, while following Lassiter at a fast trot, wherever possible the rest of the party rode more or less abreast instead of keeping to a single file. It had been found that doing so presented less chance of injury being sustained should there be a mishap. In case somebody’s horse lost its footing and went down, there would not be an animal following that might step upon the rider or become entangled with the one lying on the ground. Therefore, at least in the early stages of the hunt before the quarry was set moving, the members of the party would try to allow each horse plenty of running room.
At a signal from their host, Vincent Charles Boyd—owner of the Baton Royale Manor plantation, within the bounds of which he maintained the less productive area as a place offering sport for his friends and neighbors—the party drew rein about two hundred yards from where the pack was busy attempting to get the track of their quarry lined out. Seeing where they were, the more knowledgeable followers informed the others that they would be in contention against Ole Silver Lightning, a dog-gray fox with a reputation for giving a good chase before contriving by some means to escape.
Showing their inherited great keenness and dedication to the task, every member of the pack was assiduously working a hammock offering thick cover. Cabbage palms, water oaks, a mixture of several scrub hardwoods, and a variety of vines made it hard for the pack to get the wily creature moving in a straight line. The scent was fresh and the anxious hounds, especially those younger and less experienced, tore through the heavy cover like mad things. For almost two minutes there was considerable confusion as members of the pack dashed here and there without achieving anything except raising a clamor with their eager voices.
Then, just as Lassiter was about to try to enforce some kind of order, the unmistakable bugle bawl of Speed sounded like a clarion to the north of the hammock. Instantly, recognizing the baying of their acknowledged leader, and being all too aware of what was portended by it, the rest of the pack almost literally tore holes through the vines inside the mound as they went rushing to join Speed. In a few seconds, more and more of them began to add to the clamor as they set off along the line the bluetick had discovered.
Having started to move as soon as they heard Speed’s voice, the hunters cut around the side of the hammock.
No sooner had they arrived at the north side than the pack led by Speed jumped the fox as it was trying to sneak away undetected, and the chase was on in deadly earnest.
Judging by the response that came, the muck ponies, frequently used for such a purpose, seemed to enjoy the prospect of the chase and the wild music of the pack as much as did their riders.
Serving respectively as the master of hounds and chief whipper-in, Boyd and Lassiter were politely accorded the privilege of being the first off the mark. However, as at the camp, the slender figure with the black hat was next into motion by a slight amount. The speed with which the dun gelding took off, on receiving the signal to do so from the heels of boots that had no spurs as an added inducement, would have stood a good chance of dislodging a less competent rider. This did not occur, and, also contriving to remain mounted despite the display of energy with which the other close-to-frantically-eager muck ponies also responded to the sounds they knew so well, the rest of the party instinctively scattered to the right and left out in the wake of their three leaders and not one of them was more than a few yards to the rear.
“View halloo!” a young man making his first appearance at Boyd’s plantation yelled incorrectly, as the fox was nowhere to be seen. The man was evidently seeking to prove he had ridden with more formally carried-out hunts that followed the lead of their English counterparts. “Tally ho! Yoicks!”
None of the other followers offered to raise any outcry or correct their companion. Instead, they—and he, to give him credit—concentrated upon what they were doing. There was plenty of open space in the terrain now being traversed, so the riders all allowed the enthusiastic animals to have their head. The ride to the hammock had been sufficient to warm up the horses, and they could run without the danger of pulling a tendon. However, swiftly as they were moving, there was no danger of their running in too close to the pack, which had been close to a quarter of a mile away when the chase commenced. A horse such as the muck pony could travel at a faster clip than any hound for a mile or so, but after that the positions were reversed and the pack slowly began to draw ahead.
For about an hour, although the real reason was that keeping to the fairly open switch-grass terrain was a benefit to its own running, Ole Silver Lightning seemed almost as if wanting to give its pursuers a chase to remember. However, with the hounds pressing, once again giving the impression of possessing tactical skill rather than merely acting upon instinct, it began to seek out much less easy ground through which to travel.
Because of the changed tactics, the dog-gray fox had succeeded in increasing the distance between itself and its human pursuers—although the hounds were less affected—when the hunt was approaching a narrow strip of scrub palmetto. Being aware of the danger, Boyd, Lassiter, and the rider in the black hat caused their mounts to slow to half speed before reaching the treacherous footing and so were able to cross
it without mishap. Not so the rider to the left of the rough arrowhead formation they had adopted. He had either failed to see or underestimated the danger posed by the palmettos, so his horse hit it at top speed.
Down went the animal as its feet slid from under it, its tail pointed skyward. Showing great skill and presence of mind, the young rider quit the saddle and sailed spread-eagled through the air for about fifteen feet to land facedown and skid onward a short distance in front of the upturned horse. Expecting him and his mount to be seriously injured, the latter having turned a forward somersault and descended with its head bent back beneath it, the rest of the party began to halt their horses. Much to the relief of the other followers, both made their feet after a few seconds. Except that they had collected plenty of mud and, knuckling the sticky black goo and water from his eyes, the man looked as if he had lain belly first in a hog wallow, neither gave any indication of having been hurt.
“Are you all right, Jubal?” Boyd inquired solicitously.
“I’ve felt better, Uncle Vincent,” the young man replied with a wry grin as he worked his limbs tentatively, then looked to where Lassiter was restraining his mount’s eagerness to resume the chase. “But nothing’s broken. I’d better take my horse back to the house, even though he won’t be pleased about that.”
“Better luck next time,” the tall, gray-haired, and distinguished-looking plantation owner commiserated. Cocking his head, he listened to the fading sound of the hounds’ trail music for a moment and estimated they were at least a mile ahead by now. “Let’s go, the rest of you.”
Watching his companions set off again, the young man who might have counted himself fortunate to have escaped without serious injury or even being killed gave a sign of disappointment. Then, adhering to the training in such matters he had received from boyhood, he started on foot and, leading the horse by the reins—which had been passed to him by Lassiter prior to departure—proceeded in the direction of his uncle’s home.
