by J. T. Edson
“They for sure ain’t ’cording to what that shiftless son of Cousin Tildy-Mae’s allows,” Auntie Mattie affirmed. “I reckon, happen he could, he’d get that ole Underground Railroad to fetch him right on back home again.” Then she gave a shrug as if considering that nothing else needed to be said on the subject of her clearly less-than-favorite nephew. “Anyways, you bear in mind what I told you about staying clear of the piney woods after dark.”
“Don’t I always bear everything you tell me in mind?” Belle challenged.
“Just so long’s how it’s something you wants to take heed of,” the elderly woman replied dryly, but once again grew serious. “Only this time, honey, I want you to do it.”
“I will,” the girl promised, and as she had rarely seen or heard her former nurse and present mentor behave in such a grave manner, meant what she said.
Even as Belle was making the promise, suddenly sounds originating from outside at ground level came through the window of the room that she had opened on arriving as an aid to keeping it cool.
Going by what she heard and deduced, the girl felt certain that the noises boded nothing good.
Having been sleeping on the front porch as usual, first one and then the other of Belle’s bluetick coonhounds, which were trained to hunt solely for raccoon and opossum, began to give the kind of quizzical barking that always greeted people on arrival. However, this comparatively friendly behavior was followed by the roaring growls that precluded the attitude of merely announcing the coming of visitors. She knew such a reaction was unlikely to take place if the followers of the hunt were coming, particularly as Joe Lassiter—who was well known to Bugle and Blue, having bred and trained them as a birthday present for her—would be with them.
Even as the girl exchanged a glance with Auntie Mattie and concluded that the same thoughts were assailing both of them, there was an even greater cause for the alarm both were experiencing.
Two shots sounded, and in the wake of each, one and then the other of the blueticks gave screaming yelps indicative of having sustained a very serious—perhaps even fatal—injury.
Before Belle could reach the window to look out and investigate the reason for her hounds’ being shot, there were shouts uttered by numerous masculine voices and the sound of running feet drawing rapidly closer.
Because of what had preceded the latest development, the girl realized the speakers were definitely hostile in their reason for paying the visit.
Next came a crashing that implied that the front entrance to the mansion had been burst open.
The latest extremely worrying noise was followed by a yell of alarm that Belle and Auntie Mattie identified as coming from the latter’s husband, who was the butler and majordomo for the Boyd family.
Chapter Three – Kill the Southern Scum!
For all their often-stated hatred of all wealthy slave-owning Southrons, it had never been the intention of Alfred Tollinger and George Barmain to be part of the mob of riffraff they were accompanying through the darkness toward the mansion of Vincent Boyd’s Baton Royale plantation.
The pair, who were unwittingly to create a most bitter and deadly efficient foe for the federal armed forces and authorities throughout the years of the War soon to come—and a most loyal servant for the United States when the hostilities were brought to an end—had spent a considerable amount of the money they had been grudgingly supplied with to cover their expenses before leaving Washington, D.C., on entertaining the group they were with in a most unsavory riverside tavern while inveigling them into making an attack on the Boyds’ mansion.
Lacking knowledge of the area, Tollinger and Barmain had been directed to the tavern by a less-than-prominent businessman of the local community who had never made known to any of his neighbors his adherence to the political beliefs they practiced. Although they had been assured by him before setting out on their assignment that they would find there men who would be of the greatest use when they reached their objective, he had declined—on the grounds that urgent matters elsewhere demanded his immediate attention—to take any active part in what they intended to do.
However, when the pair arrived, they discovered that the place to which they had been sent offered them the support they would need, even though it was not a kind they would have selected had they been allowed to make a selection. Neither support for the cause being extolled by them—being either completely indifferent or totally opposed to doing anything that might help cause all slaves in the South to be set free—nor the sharing of their “liberal” pretensions over other issues had caused the support to be forthcoming. Rather, with the exception of a trio of exceptionally villainous-looking men from the vicinity who claimed they had a personal grudge to settle and carried along the means to bring it about, the rest were solely motivated by the prospect of acquiring the loot taken from the reputedly very wealthy Boyd family, who owned the property.
Unfortunately for the pair, when the promise of support was given, they had been informed in no uncertain terms that they were to go along. Guessing that a refusal would cause a refusal of the others to participate and might even cause painful repercussions upon them, or at least the loss of the money they had been incautious enough to let be seen while paying for the drinks. Even with those considerations having to be taken into account, they would have lacked the courage to concur if they had not possessed the means to use the dose of cocaine apiece that was needed to give an additional boost to the marijuana cigarettes they smoked as an aid to retaining their self-confidence, which was never strong unless under the influence of narcotics.
For all their having been chosen by men whom it would have been most ill-advised of them to refuse—although compelled would be a more apt description for the means employed to make them go—to carry out the task of arousing anti-Secessionist feelings in Baton Bayou Parish, as the State of Louisiana called what would have been counties elsewhere in the United States, and the surrounding districts, the pair were far from being imposing specimens of manhood likely to inspire support or reliance in their capability of being leaders of men.
Like many of their background and upbringing, the pair had been born into an affluent middle class-middle management stratum of society. From their early childhood, they had been sheltered from anything that might put them into competition with others and imbued with a false sense of personal brilliance capable of taking them to the top of whatever they might deign to attempt. Having met while attending a college already becoming noted for its emphasis upon “liberal” rather than purely educational instruction, they had formed the kind of close relationship that had led Martha Jonias to refer to them as “unfortunates” after the fashion of the day. On graduating, they had quickly discovered themselves unable to obtain the sort of lucrative employment they had felt was high enough to meet their lofty ideas of their respective worth. Instead of seeking something more in keeping with their abilities, if such could have been found, they had drifted into the fringes of the entertainment industry without achieving any greater success. However, this had led them into active participation in the policies advocated by others of their ilk. This had led to them being sent upon a mission to Louisiana that, sensing it might entail taking risks and put them in danger, they would have preferred to avoid.
While costly when new, the three-piece dark-colored suits of the latest Eastern mode, white shirts with celluloid collars, and Hersome gaiter boots worn by Tollinger and Barmain were now grubby and unkempt—more through neglect than because of wear under harsh conditions.
Sporting a derby hat no more clean than his person and the rest of his attire, Tollinger was about six feet tall and skinny in build. Although he believed he possessed great charm, there was an air of ordinariness about him that did nothing to assist his aims to reach great heights with as little effort on his part as possible. He had a gaunt, sallow face with hollow cheeks and thick, sneering lips, giving an added petulance to his large mouth, and his sunken eyes did nothing to lessen the e
xpression.
Having on a flat cap of a style rarely seen anywhere near the Mississippi River and hardly ever west of it, Barmain had a porcine cast of features only a fond mother would have called good-looking. Nor were they improved by his having a drooping straggly black walrus mustache and unkempt greasy long hair. Some three inches shorter than his companion, he had a portly and obviously flabby build that caused him to perspire for the slightest reason. This left him permanently with a stale stench that, although he regarded it as giving him a oneness with the “little people” for whom he professed great concern over the way they were downtrodden by the higher levels of society—while always speaking of them when in the presence of his own kind—was likely to be considered unpleasant to the nostrils of anybody with a delicate stomach.
Despite having been brought to a state of drunkenness in which they were willing to engage in the enterprise proposed by the two Easterners, having covered the distance on foot from the tavern to their destination, all of the riffraff had sobered sufficiently by the time they reached the front gates of the grounds around the mansion to move quietly along the gravel-covered path toward the front of the large and well-lit main building in the hope of taking their intended victims completely by surprise.
Before the hoped-for surprise could be achieved, the two bluetick coonhounds had detected and given notice of the men’s coming. To make matters worse, the aggression being shown by the two large and obviously fierce animals after having started to bark warned they would not be frightened away with any means quiet enough to avoid detection by the occupants. Before the attack could be put into effect, instead of trying to find quieter means, a couple of hard cases ended the threat by shooting the approaching hounds with their pistols.
“Come on, men!” Tollinger yelled, his New England accent high-pitched by the excitement induced from having taken, for the second time that night, what a later generation would call a “fix” by “mainlining” under the pretense of answering the call of nature in the bushes shortly before the mansion came into view. “Unless Boyd’s come back from hunting, there’ll only be his wife and daughter at home.”
“And their niggers won’t lift a hand to help them,” Bar-main supplemented, his voice having a similar accent and sounding even less masculine. Also “high” as a result of duplicating his close friend’s action after using a similar excuse, he continued in a wild scream, “Kill the Southern scum!”
Having made the comments and exhortation, each drawing the Smith & Wesson No. 1 First Model revolvers with which he was supplied before leaving for Louisiana, the pair started toward the house at a run. If they had had greater experience than was obtained from the limited acquaintance they had had with such devices, they would have been less confident in the guns as a means of offense or defense. Despite the rimfire cartridges being only .22 in caliber, they were impressed by the knowledge that each had no fewer than seven shots available before there would be any need to reload and doing so was a far simpler, more rapid, process than when handling a percussion-fired, generally six-shot revolver. Without being aware of the disadvantages from their enforced type of armament, having no great amount of courage even when under the influence of the narcotics, they controlled the rate of their advance to ensure that there were several of the hard cases ahead of them.
Passing the dead hounds, the leading men—a burly pair armed with Colt Model of 1848 Dragoon revolvers—lowered their shoulders to charge at the front door. Although this gained the access that was required, it had not been necessary. Vincent Boyd never kept the front entrance to his home locked. Nor, until that moment, had their ever been any need for him to do so. Crossing the threshold, they were confronted by a clearly startled small, chubby, and immaculately attired Negro. Before Tobias Jonias could do more than give the cry of alarm that was heard by his wife and Belle Boyd upstairs, he was sent sprawling unconscious to the floor by a blow from the barrel of the heavy revolver in the hand of the taller of the leading intruders.
Bellowing in delight at having obtained access to the premises with such ease, the other two “liberals” and remaining hard cases swarmed after the first pair. While Tollinger and Barmain were accompanied by some of them in following their inadvertent leaders up the wide stairs leading to the upper floor of the building, the rest scattered through the rooms on the ground floor in search of loot to plunder.
~*~
Thankful for having loaded the pair of Manton dueling pistols before going to take the bath, as she had occasionally added small sums by betting on her ability to use them with skill to the satisfactory allowance received weekly from her father—the winning being more important and enjoyable than the actual money involved—Belle Boyd cocked back each hammer on taking them in turn from their box without waiting to discover what threat might be posed by the commotion downstairs. Holding them ready for use, she darted across the room and went through its door.
On entering the passage, Belle saw that she was not a moment too soon.
Already the girl’s mother and father, the former looking like an older version of herself, were coming from their quarters. Each was carrying a Colt revolver, supplemented by a cavalry saber in the case of Vincent Boyd, and she knew they were as capable as herself of using the weapons. This was proved by her father turning and firing to send a bullet into the torso of the first ruffianly-looking man to reach the head of the stairs from the ground floor. However, there were too many others closely following for Boyd to deal with them all unaided. Even as Belle was raising and firing the pistol in her right hand, she saw her mother shoot at the next of the attackers.
Unfortunately, Electra Boyd and Belle had inadvertently selected the same target. Struck in the head and chest by the two bullets, the second of the men who had forced the entrance into the mansion was twirled around and dropped without being allowed to use his own weapon. While the girl was changing her pistols, being a better shot with her right hand, she saw the men she suspected as being the “unfortunates” mentioned by Auntie Mattie when delivering the warning about the possible danger of going hunting alone in the woods at night. Without knowing their identity, she concluded that they were posing a most dangerous threat to her parents.
Somehow having been pushed into the forefront of the mob while ascending the stairs, Tollinger and Barmain were the next to arrive on the second floor. They were most alarmed when they discovered that the women they had believed would be the sole white occupants of the mansion were accompanied by its owner. What was more, as was proved by the fate of the first pair to confront Boyd, his wife, and the slender, skimpily clad girl who was obviously their daughter, each of them was proving to be most competent in handling the weapons they were holding.
Fright close to a sensation of numbing terror erupted through both of the “liberals” simultaneously when a full appreciation of their danger struck home. However, the realization provoked each to respond with greater alacrity than would have been the case if granted time to think. Bringing up the Smith & Wesson revolvers in the kind of double-handed way they had discovered on the few occasions when they were carrying out practice, they sighted and began to shoot as fast as they could squeeze the trigger to operate the double-action mechanism. By chance rather than any kind of deliberate intent, they selected different marks at which to fire.
Firing from such a close range, and aided by the light weight and far-from-potent recoil kick of their weapons, Tollinger and Barmain were able to make hit after hit upon their inadvertently chosen victims. The former sent each bullet into the body of Electra Boyd and the latter directed his attention to seeking the same general target on her husband. Even with the puny powder load and diminutive .22-caliber loads that were all the early example of metal cartridge-handling weapons could handle, the cumulative effect of seven pieces of lead driving into the torso in rapid succession was too great for either recipient to be able to fend it off.
Although Boyd managed to discharge his Colt Model of 1848 Dragoon revolver,
its .44-caliber ball went over Bar-main’s head and he followed his wife, her Model of 1849 Pocket Pistol—also a revolver despite its given name—remaining unfired, in going down. Seeing what had befallen her parents, a scream that seemed closer to animal than human burst from Belle. However, she did not restrict herself to just the vocal response. Letting the discharged pistol drop, she sent her liberated left hand to join the right on the butt of its mate to adopt the same kind of shooting posture the “liberals” were using and sighted on the head of the one who had fired at her mother.
Barmain should have died at that moment.
However, just as Belle completed the required pressure on the set-trigger of the excellently made British pistol and its hammer snapped downward toward the waiting percussion cap that would have set off the powder in the chamber, impelled by a desire to be first to select booty, the foremost of the other men jostled him aside. Through the swirling white smoke of the exploded charge, the girl saw him struck in the shoulder by the bullet she had dispatched with the intention of avenging the attack upon her mother.
Alarmed by what he realized had been a very close escape from injury or perhaps even death, the shorter of the “liberals” allowed the rest of the hard cases to go by. Being made aware by the repeated metallic click’s of the descending hammer, instead of detonations, which were sounding that his revolver was empty, Tollinger behaved in the same fashion. Then, exchanging glances as they mutually—and without the need for discussion—concluded that the resistance being put up was much greater than they had anticipated and could be reaching an unacceptably dangerous level, the pair swung around to return hurriedly to the ground floor and left the building.
Added to the realization that the commotion might be heard by the Boyds’ neighbors and bring armed assistance, knowing how competent it was certain to be, what Tollinger and Bar-main saw happening closer at hand was sufficient to send them scurrying along the gravel path toward the front entrance of the property as fast as their legs—given the impulsion caused by fear of the consequences—could carry them. From the continued sounds of conflict that followed them, they realized that the fighting inside the building was still going on and their only desire was to put as much distance as possible at the greatest speed they could muster between themselves and what they had caused to happen.
