A Matter of Honor (Dusty Fog Civil War Book 6)

by J. T. Edson

  Throwing up her left fist as she was released, Mary sent it in an uppercut to the imposing bosom of the blonde. Although it elicited a croaking cry of pain, the blow failed in its primary purpose. Rocking on her heels instead of retreating, Lotte retaliated with a roundhouse slap which left a red hand-print on the cheek of the guest. Squealing in anger, Mary forgot her training and responded in the same fashion. Unlike herself, Lotte was able to move away on being struck. However, before the brunette could capitalize upon her advantage, there was an interruption.

  Running from where she had been pushed, Francoise showed a similar disinclination to ‘settle a quarrel’ with the other ‘young lady’. Instead, bounding into the air with legs spread apart, she placed her hands upon the stocky shoulders and went over the blonde as if playing leapfrog. Alighting in front of Mary, she caught a second slap which was intended for Lotte. As her head was jolted around, she was placed in jeopardy. Grabbing the shoulder straps of her white cotton bodice, the brunette jerked them around until they pinioned her arms below the elbows. Not only did the tight fitting material grip and render defense with her hands impossible, but her firm breasts were bared by the garment having been pulled downwards. However, as had been the case with Lotte, Mary was not allowed to make the most of the opportunity she had created. Taking her hand from the cheek slapped by the intruder, the blonde once again caught and heaved the redhead out of the way. Having done so, she lunged to grab the brunette by the hair. Pure reflex caused Mary to behave in a like manner as she felt as if the top of her head was being ripped off. While starting to pull, she also contrived to shove herself from the corner. Spinning around, tugging and jerking at the hair they were grasping, she and the blonde blundered towards the third woman.

  Being unable to use her hands as an aid to retaining her balance, Francoise tripped. The thick padding of the mat saved her from injury, or even being temporarily incapacitated by the landing. Seeing the other two approaching, she made no attempt to return the bodice to its previous position. Instead, wriggling her arms upwards, she liberated them at the cost of leaving herself bare to waist level. Nor was she a moment too soon. Swinging one another around without watching where they were going, Lotte and Mary were on the point of trampling her underfoot. Rolling clear of the embattled pair, she came to her knees. Diving to catch them both around the legs, she brought them down in a sprawling heap. However, before she could get clear, each made an involuntary grab for her. Caught by the hair and the displaced bodice, she was dragged into a squirming mass of struggling femininity which displayed none of the scientific fighting employed earlier.

  The spectacle created by the latest development was one which the watching men found amusing and not without erotic attraction. Three divergent types of female pulchritude were shown, each at its respective best by comparison with the other two. This was enhanced when, seeking to inflict suffering by any means available, wildly clutching hands tore off Lotte’s bodice and ripped away the already damaged shirt to leave Mary clad in breeches which suddenly split along the back seam to show scarlet silk knickers and black stockings. Nor was it a matter of being two against one. Despite their earlier reluctance to fight, Lotte and Francoise were now treating each other just as roughly as they did the beautiful brunette. Furthermore, considering the disparity in their weights, they appeared evenly matched. The redhead was fast, surprisingly strong and with gymnastic ability which came close to that of a contortionist in making use of her slender, wiry body. On the other hand, for all her bulk, the buxom blonde proved remarkably agile. Nor, although it was her first involvement in such a fracas, were the efforts of the brunette to be despised.

  After having crossed the mat twice in their mindless mauling, pure chance each time causing them to reverse direction when the edge was reached, the trio struggled on to their knees at one of the open sides. Caught by a swinging punch from Lotte, Mary was toppled to the floor. Being granted a chance to do so, Francoise sprang to her feet and retreated to the center of the mat. Spitting obscenities in English and German, the blonde started to rise almost as quickly. Glaring around as she rubbed the back of her hand across her face and saw the blood it had collected from her nostrils, she was clearly meaning to charge at the redhead.

  Although, as when tussling with Lotte at the beginning, Francoise had not been showing any of the skill used against Mary, once they were all fighting on the mat, she proved it was no fluke which had allowed her to cope so well. Going to meet the blonde, she crouched beneath the reaching hands. Hooking her arms around Lotte’s knees and snapping them together, she exhibited the wiry strength her slender body was capable of producing by lifting her captive. Swung around and thrown backwards, the blonde staggered on landing. Going over the edge of the mat, she sat down on the floor. Winded by her descent, she was helpless to protect herself. Darting across, the redhead kicked her under the chin. Pitching on to her back, she sprawled supine and unmoving.

  Forcing herself on to hands and knees, Mary was wishing she had never allowed herself to be tricked—as she was now convinced she had been—into fighting. What she had gone through during the thrashing, churning brawl on the mat went far beyond anything in her previous experience. No boxing or wrestling bout in which she had engaged at college had ever been conducted with such primeval savagery. However, she was given no option over whether to continue. As they had when Lotte was first sent to the floor, Flannery and Cryer obeyed a signal from their superior. Going forward, they raised the gasping brunette to her feet. Giving her just as little chance of resisting, or expressing her views on the matter, they thrust her towards where the redhead was rendering the buxom blonde hors de combat.

  Retreating to the center of the mat, Francois reverted to the tactics employed when first meeting an attack by Mary.

  While the exertions she had undergone had slowed her to some extent, the same applied even more so to the brunette. Stepping aside as Mary tried to grab her, she snapped a kick to the stomach and pivoted to send another to the split open seat of the ruined white breeches. Driven against the wall, the brunette turned and shoved herself away with hands reaching more to fend off the approaching redhead than for taking offensive action. Ducking beneath them, Francoise butted her in the chest and she went back once more into the corner. Rebounding helplessly, she collided with the still loweredhead. Feeling her legs encircled by the wiry arms, she was lifted and forced to turn a half somersault over her assailant, then she landed flat on her back.

  Partially dazed by the fall, although the padding of the mat had served its function by reducing the impact, Mary was still sufficiently in possession of her faculties to counter what was intended to happen next. Stepping around, Francoise raised her right foot. Before she could stamp with it, acting upon a primitive instinct for self-preservation rather than through conscious memories of lessons in unarmed combat, the brunette grabbed for and caught her by the ankle. Thrusting herself into a sitting position, Mary gave a twisting heave at the captured limb. Shoved away, the redhead was unable to avoid falling to her hands and knees. Thrusting while this was happening, taking Lotte by the ankles and drawing her away from the mat, Mrs. Cutler covered her with one of the cloaks then resumed watching the fight.

  By the time the redhead was up, so was the brunette. Although Mary was now thoroughly frightened and wanted to get away, she was not allowed to do this. Seeing Francoise clearly intended to stop her leaving, she lunged in the desperate hope of battering a passage by sheer weight. The attempt failed miserably and painfully. Meeting her instead of dodging, the fists of the redhead felt like knobs of bone without any covering of flesh as they drove into her bosom, stomach or face. Oblivious of the increasingly wild punches being landed in return, Francoise kept her up unremitting punishment of the heavier girl.

  Going into what would have been a clinch at boxing, the brunette sought to restrain the redhead from continuing the rain of blows. In her struggle to escape, somehow Francoise managed to interlock fingers with Mary and they
commenced a primitive trial of strength. Earlier in the fight, this would have proved advantageous to the more weighty brunette. Now, she was feeling the effects of the strenuous brawl. The same applied to the slender redhead, but she had suffered less and was in even better physical condition than her opponent. For all that, she did not have things all her own way. Gasping for breath, blood from their nostrils splashing unheeded off their chins on to heaving bare bosoms and being washed away by the copious perspiration each was shedding, they devoted all their respective energy to the struggle. First one would be compelled to move back a few steps, then she would contrive to bring herself to a halt and the other would have to retire a short way.

  At last, almost as if receiving and acting upon a signal, the young women snatched their hands free. Stumbling apart, each essayed a punch with such vigor that—on missing the intended targets—they turned in a mutually involuntary circle. For once, Mary came off best. Linking her fingers as she went, she slammed the interlocked fists between the slender bare shoulders to send Francoise in a reeling sprawl which ended in a kneeling posture facing the corner of the room. About to flee, the brunette saw what she believed to be a chance to prevent the redhead from following. Moving forward exhaustedly on spraddled apart feet, ready to turn and run if the other showed any sign of rising, Mary grabbed her from behind by the hair and one shoulder with the intention of crashing her head against the wall.

  Watching what was happening, the spectators brought their vociferous encouragement of the respective combatants to an end. It seemed that, in spite of all she had suffered at the hands of the redhead, the brunette was going to be victorious. Their feelings were mixed as they reached the conclusion.

  No matter whether in favor or against such a result, all knew Mary would be even more insufferable after winning.

  Feeling herself gripped, Francoise was galvanized into motion. Realizing she could not escape from the fingers buried into her hair, she gave a sudden twisting writhe and the other hand was unable to retain its grip upon her sweat sodden shoulder. Bringing her right arm from supporting her against the wall, she bent and drove it backwards. As she was struck between her spread apart thighs, a strangled moan burst from the brunette and she staggered away from her apparently helpless intended victim. Collapsing to her knees in the center of the mat, she clutched at the stricken area and doubled over keening in torment.

  Rising, the redhead went after Mary. Grasping her by the hair with both hands and dragging her erect, Francoise held her head up in the left and swung a roundhouse right cross to her jaw. Spun around and sent tottering away, she rammed bosom first into the wall. Flattened against it, she was starting to slide down when she was pulled around. Completely helpless and defenseless, she could barely raise a moan as a knee was driven into her stomach. Crumpling forward, she wrapped her arms mindlessly around those of the slender redhead. Throwing them off without difficulty, despite clearly being close to exhaustion, Francoise stepped away and allowed the brunette to topple face forward to the mat. Moving until standing astride her, the redhead rolled her over and, gripping her sweat matted hair, drew her into a sitting position. About to hit her again, Francoise realized it was not necessary. On being released, Mary flopped back flaccidly and unconscious.

  Four – You Can’t Take Her With Us

  ‘What a fight that was, by god!’ Brigadier General Moses J. Buller enthused, leading some of the spectators onto the mat. His porcine features were glistening with perspiration and his gaze ran lasciviously over the half naked victress. ‘You whipped her real good, Frenchie!’

  ‘I always try to “whip her real good”, as you say, M’sieur le General,’ Francoise answered breathlessly. Her English was heavily accented in the French fashion, as might be expected of one who had been introduced by such a name and who came from Sault-Sainte-Marie, Ontario, Canada.

  Swaying with exhaustion, but making no attempt to conceal her bare bosom from the blatantly lecherous scrutiny of the guest of honor or attempting to staunch the blood which dribbled from her nostrils, she darted a glance at Mrs. Amy Cutler and went on, ‘There is nothing I enjoy so much as fighting with another woman, particularly when I am not given the order to hold back.’

  ‘There isn’t, huh?’ Buller said pensively, finding the information interesting and concluding the madam had instructed her two ‘young ladies’ merely to make a pretense at fighting.

  ‘Nothing, M’sieur le General,’ the slender redhead confirmed and waved a hand towards the motionless, apart from the heaving unclad bosom, figure at her feet. ‘But I hope I did not do the wrong thing in beating this lady?’

  ‘She brought it all on herself!’ Buller asserted. Having swung a coldly challenging glare toward the three young men who had accompanied Mary Wilkinson and receiving no response, he continued, ‘Didn’t she, Wigg?’

  ‘W—!’ the undertaker began, but realized he was likely to antagonize either the brunette or the General no matter which way he replied. Deciding that the latter wielded a much greater authority and was clearly in favor of what had happened, he finished, ‘Miss Wilkinson must have known the risks involved when she took it upon herself to join the fighting. I hardly think we can blame this young woman for defending herself when she was attacked.’

  ‘That’s how I see it, too!’ Buller declared, once again glaring at the brunette’s adherents, and his tone warned he would brook no objections. Then he looked at Mrs. Cutler and continued in a milder manner, ‘Just as soon’s she ready to go, I’m taking Frenchie here out to dinner with me, Amy.’

  ‘I must admit Francoise has certainly earned such a treat, General,’ the madam replied, nodding her head in approval. Draping the other cloak which she had collected over the exhaustion-slumped shoulders of the slender redhead and moving her away from the supine brunette, she went on, ‘So, providing she feels up to accepting your most kind invitation, of course, I don’t have the slightest objection to her going to dinner with you.’

  ‘I feel up to it, Tante Amy!’ the beautiful girl claimed eagerly, if still more than a trifle breathlessly. Without making any attempt to draw the long black garment around her and conceal her perspiration-soaked, bruised, sore looking and otherwise unclad torso, she smiled at Buller in a conspiratorial fashion and announced, ‘I would like nothing more than to go to dinner with you, M’sieur le General.’

  ‘Then that is settled, my dear,’ Mrs. Culter claimed and, waving a hand to where the buxom blonde from Germantown, Philadelphia, was groaning and stirring beneath the cloak which was covering her, she went on briskly, ‘If you would be so good as to have somebody carry poor Lotte for me, Mr. Wigg, I will go and help Francoise make ready to leave with the General.’

  ‘You do just that, Amy!’ the burly guest of honor authorized, giving his host no chance to express a point of view at the request. Taking a bulging wallet from the inside pocket of his double breasted full dress blue Union Army tunic, he extracted some of the banknotes it held and, handing them to madam, instructed, ‘Have her ready to go as fast as you can. I don’t want to be late getting to—!’

  ‘You can’t take her with us!’ protested First Lieutenant Martin Flannery.

  In spite of his name, the saturnine features of the speaker had lines more suggestive of Mid-European than Celtic origins. Tall, slim, with long black hair, his accent was Connecticut rather than Irish and implied he came from the same area as the General. However, in addition to the possession of considerable wealth, he was also of a higher social status than the general.

  ‘David Aarano—!’ commenced the shorter, close to portly, pallid and surly featured Second Lieutenant Robert Cryer, running a pudgy hand nervously through long brown hair going thin on top, his voice suggesting he was of a similar background and birthplace to Flannery.

  The uniforms worn by the protestors were cut in a fashion indicating they served with one of the regiments formed purely to take part in the War Between the States, which therefore, was regarded as being superior to the
dictates of the Manual of Dress Regulations for the regular Army. While Union blue in color, the waist-long and tail-less ‘dolman’ jacket had lines of gold braid across the chest and was trimmed with white fur. A ‘barreled’ sash around the waist had cords, ‘barrels’ and tassels of gold. Tight fitting, the light blue riding breeches disappeared into black ‘Napoleon’ leg boots, the tops of which extended to above knee level at the front.

  Removed on their arrival at the mansion, each black fur ‘colpack’ busby hat had a red ‘bag’, with piping, tasseling and ‘raquette’ hanging cords of gold. The heavy brass badge, based on the coat of arms of their home State, was surrounded by the lettering, ‘NEW HAMPSTEAD VOLUNTEERS’ and was, in each case, tarnished and unpolished.

  ‘When I want advice from either of you, I’ll ask for the son-of-a-bitch!’ Buller interrupted, his savage glare having brought the less than cautious words of the junior lieutenant to a halt. ‘If I say she’s coming, that means she comes!’

  ‘But sir—!’ Flannery began, cheeks reddening.

  ‘M’sieur le General!’ Francoise put in, with a mixture of politeness and petulance. ‘If my presence will not be acceptable to these two young officers, who I assume are under your command, I will abide by their wishes and, much as I was looking forward to it, will forget about coming to—dinner—with you.’

  ‘I said I was taking you, so that’s what I’m going to do!’ Buller replied in tones of grim finality, despite having started to experience second thoughts regarding the advisability of having issued the invitation. His assertion was prompted by the fact that he had had to glower at Flannery before he was accorded his due honorific, and also by the realization that to change his mind so soon after making his declaration would convey the impression to the other guests that he was allowing his actions to be dictated by his subordinates. ‘Cryer, you go and make sure the coach will be ready for us in … ?’