by J. T. Edson
‘An hour,’ supplied Mrs. Cutler, although the General had glanced in an interrogative fashion at the redhead standing by her side.
‘As always, Tante Amy is being far too kind and considerate,’ Francoise declared, wrapping her cloak around her. ‘Your meeting with the General Staff is clearly a matter of urgency, M’sieur le General, so I can be ready to leave in not more than thirty minutes providing I can have the first use of M’sieur Wigg’s douche bath.’
‘You can do that all right,’ Buller assented, again without offering to consult his host. ‘I’ve always heard the victor gets the spoils and you sure as shit was the victor. So thirty minutes it is. Make sure the coach is ready and waiting by then, Mister Cryer!’
‘Yes, sir!’ the junior of the lieutenants answered sullenly, also requiring an angry scowl from the General before he added the second word.
‘And what about Lotte, General?’ the madam prompted, as Cryer was stalking away followed by Flannery.
‘Horace!’ Buller barked. ‘Seeing’s how my aides are busy, ha—will you have your men carry the gal for Mrs. Cutler?’
‘If you wish, sir,’ Colonel Horace Trumpeter replied, after a brief pause to glance at his obviously willing companions, and knowing he had been given an order regardless of how it was worded. ‘See to it, gentlemen.’
‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Mrs. Cutler said. ‘Come along, Francoise. Mr. Baxter will show us to the bathroom.’
‘Hey there, you fellers!’ the General called, directing the words at the three young men in civilian clothing who had gathered around and were examining the battered and still unconscious brunette. ‘When Miss Wilkinson comes ’round enough to know what you’re saying, tell her even though she’s lost her bet I’ll let her know what happens at my meeting with the “General Staff” if she drops by at my hotel in the morning.’
‘Bet?’ queried the tallest of the three.
‘She’ll know what it’s all about!’ Buller snapped. ‘Just you make sure she gets my message!’
Neither a sense of honor, nor a feeling of respect for a gallant fighter, was responsible for the invitation. Although the General had not met Mary prior to the dinner party, nothing he had seen or heard about her led him to assume she would prove a good loser. Suspecting she would be in a most vindictive mood when she regained her faculties and might even think he had tricked her into becoming involved, hoping that she would be seriously injured, he was trying to prevent her from carrying out her threat of reporting him to the General Staff. He could not believe she had any definite information, but realized she might fabricate something which would cause an investigation into his affairs. Should this eventuate, his secret would almost certainly be discovered. Being, with a few exceptions, men of honor, he had no doubt that his superiors would neither approve nor sanction the methods of waging war which the young chemist he had financed claimed to have discovered, and which had led him to Washington, District of Columbia.
~*~
‘I want that old whore-house madam and both her pox-ridden tail-peddlers killed!’ Mary Wilkinson profanely informed the two young men riding with her in the hired coach which was taking them away from the—as she now regarded it—disastrous dinner party given by George Wigg. She had gone there filled with confidence that she would be invited to participate in high, if not legal, matters of national policy, and she was leaving in the knowledge that she was now unlikely ever to be even taken seriously by her fellow conspirators after what they had seen happen to her. A savage bitterness filled her voice and the obscenities she uttered did not seem out of place. ‘And I want it doing tonight!’
Huddled upon the forward seat of the vehicle, the formerly sensual and sulky beauty of the yellowish-brunette was marred by her left eye being puffed until no more than a discolored slit, her nose and top lip being swollen, and her now ashy gray features looking haggard. Her whole posture indicated that she was still experiencing the effects of the beating she had taken. Nor was the sensation in any way lessened by the remembrance that the punishment had been inflicted by the slender redhead she had believed would prove a helpless victim with whom she could play like a cat tormenting a mouse.
Over an hour had elapsed between Mary having regained consciousness and being able to stand unaided. Even then, every movement she made was a source of agony. Only the bitter hatred she was feeling towards the three women she held jointly responsible for her suffering and humiliation had supplied the inducement she needed to clean herself in the douche bath and dress in a shirt and pair of trousers borrowed from her host. Light though it was, the touch of the former garment had caused such added pain to her bruised bosom and sore torso that she had not donned her cravat and cutaway coat before leaving the mansion. In fact, she was so filled with self-pity she had failed to notice that certain orders she had issued were being ignored. Instead, boarding the carriage with two of her companions, she had waited until they had left the grounds before making known her wishes.
‘Oh Christ, Mary!’ Eric Lubbock protested in his near whining Mid-West accent. ‘W—We can’t do that!’
‘I—It’s too damned risky!’ claimed Martin Blick, sounding just as alarmed by the prospect.
The pair, and Alister Graham, the third member of Mary’s coterie, were much alike in physique and mentality. All were tallish, lean, sallow-faced, with long hair and straggly beards. Claiming to have such poor eyesight it precluded enrolment in the armed forces and actually going to fight the Southrons for whom they professed a mutually vociferous hatred, each wore spectacles when in public. They ‘served’ the Union by acting as correspondents for radical newspapers and made certain they were never sent on assignments which might place their respective lives in jeopardy. All gave their adherence to the brunette because of her willingness to be sexually forthcoming, rather than out of any feelings of respect for her beliefs. Each was, however, more under her thumb than any cared to admit.
‘Don’t be alarmed, darlings!’ Mary snapped, having no illusions so far as the courage—or lack of it—of her companions was concerned. ‘I don’t expect either of you, or Alister to do the killing. After you’ve dropped me off at the hotel, fetch Blunkett and Kendall to me?’
‘Blunkett and Kendall?’ Blick repeated, showing no enthusiasm.
‘Yes!’ the brunette confirmed. ‘I didn’t have a chance to mention them to Wigg because of that yellow-bellied bastard, Trumpeter, so they might as well do something for me to earn their son-of-a-bitching keep!’
‘You can’t do anything to that red haired girl who bea—!’ Lubbock began, then decided to rephrase what he had realized just in time would have been a most tactless comment under the circumstances. ‘To that French-Canadian girl.’
‘Why not?’ Mary demanded and it was obvious she was needing to exercise considerable self control to hold back anger over what had almost been said.
‘Buller took her with him,’ Blick explained, as the other correspondent looked at him for support. ‘Even if we knew where they’ve gone … !’
‘How the hell do you mean, “even if we knew” ?’ Mary hissed, glaring savagely at her companions. ‘Alister is following them, like I told him Isn’t he?’
‘Well, no,’ Blick admitted. ‘There wasn’t any need after what Buller told us.’
‘Well, isn’t that just too god-damned kind of him!’ Mary sneered, showing no excess of pleasure, when she had received the message relayed from the General. ‘But the only way he’s going to have me keep quiet is by letting me in on whatever he’s up to with Aaranovitch And letting me kill that scraggy red haired whore with my bare hands!’
~*~
While Mary Wilkinson was describing the terms she intended to demand as the price of her silence, Buller and his party were approaching their destination. What he had learned during the journey increased his hopes that the visit would prove worthwhile.
On leaving the dining room at Wigg’s mansion, the redhead had kept to the schedule she had set herself. What
was more, she had clearly made the most of the thirty minutes which she stipulated was all she would need to prepare herself. While away, she had contrived to stop the bleeding from her nostrils, washed away the perspiration and grime in the douche bath, very successfully concealed the few marks on her face which had accrued during the fight, dressed and, before the time had expired, been ready to take her departure.
Although he had heard something of the exceptionally high standards required by Mrs. Amy Cutler of her ‘young ladies’, particularly with regards to the way they had to dress when outside the brothel, Buller had been pleasantly surprised by what he saw on the slender girl when she returned from performing her ablutions. Her garments had been as stylishly elegant, tasteful and respectable as those of the madam. Nor had she appeared ill at ease, or out of place, wearing them.
Clad as she now was in a black two piece travelling costume and frilly bosomed white silk blouse—which set off without blatantly flaunting her lissome and curvaceous figure—with the sharp toes of black high-button shoes just visible beneath the hem of the skirt, Francoise might have been an invited guest rather than an employee of a brothel hired to provide an unusual form of entertainment at the dinner party. A large white straw ‘Lavinia’ hat, secured by a blue satin band which passed under the chin and was secured by a bow on top of the crown, prevented her shorter than fashionable hair from being seen. The dainty, furled light blue parasol and small, matching reticule she was carrying would have been just as acceptable in polite society as her attire and modest amount of facial make-up. Nor would the bulky gold ring on the second finger of her left hand and the broad bracelet—of obvious foreign manufacture and apparently made from silver—around her right wrist be unsuitable as jewelry for a ‘good’ woman.
Studying the appearance of the beautiful redhead, Buller concluded she was even better suited for the purpose he had in mind than he had first envisaged. As had frequently happened prior to his entering the Army, either because they shared his taste in such a bizarre form of entertainment or wished to ingratiate themselves by pandering to his whims, acquaintances in Arkansas had sought to produce women willing to fight before him. Such events had become as regular occurrences at his headquarters as they had formerly been in his home. There was considerable betting on the bouts, so he too was always on the lookout for contenders.
Having seen how competently Francoise had behaved in combat against two heavier opponents, the General had already decided she could be of use to him when he heard her comment saying how much she enjoyed fighting. He had seen there were added advantages when he discovered that, unlike the usual type of contender procured by himself or his associates, she could convey the impression of being a ‘good’ woman, present as one of the guests rather than having been hired to perform. Nor had the information he had acquired from her on the journey led him to revise his opinion.
Such was the secrecy Buller felt it advisable to employ that despite having enlisted men in his entourage who were far more competent at driving, he had delegated the task of driving the coach to his junior aide-de-camp. With the possibility of the distant storm approaching, Flannery had been far from pleased when informed he was to ride on the box with Cryer instead of inside. However, although he had drawn the correct conclusion with regards to the seating arrangements, the reason for them had failed to come to fruition.
On placing an arm around her shoulders as a prelude to even more intimate fondling, although she had shown little sign of after-effects from the fight, Buller had been told by the redhead that she only responded to the kind of pain caused by such treatment when she was in bed. Normally, he would have ignored the comment, but was sufficiently impressed by her potential as a fighter to refrain rather than chance antagonizing her. Her next remarks had implied the result would be well worth waiting for until his business was completed and they could return to his suite at the hotel.
If Francoise had been interested in where they were going, the blinds being pulled down at all the windows, she had given no sign of it. Instead, she had told the General enough to increase his desire to have her accompany him when he returned to Arkansas. She had said she adopted her present way of life due to the death of her parents leaving her with little money. Having no training for earning a respectable living, she had decided to put her proclivity for fighting— developed in a tomboy childhood—to use. Finding the only way to do so was via people like Mrs. Cutler, she had gained experience in Canada before coming to the United States in search of more lucrative employment. However, while such combat stimulated her sexually, she was not a prostitute. It was her ambition to find a wealthy patron for whom she could contend, offering him the benefits of the stimulation, instead of needing to work out of a brothel. Doing the latter, she had asserted, generally resulted in being given opponents who were afraid of getting hurt. This caused the kind of restrictions being placed upon her which required playing at fighting such as had happened with Lotte, and she was grateful for the intervention by the female guest as it allowed her to show how competently she could perform. Satisfied he had found what he wanted, Buller had offered to be her sponsor. Much to his annoyance, he found she had reservations over accepting. These stemmed from his reason for visiting Washington.
Although the War Between the States was progressing favorably for the Union almost everywhere else, this did not apply in Arkansas. There, opposed by a force which had access to superior sources of supply than those available to other regions of the South, and who were fighting a campaign ideally suited to the temperament of many of its members, the ‘Johnny Rebs’ were doing far more than just holding their ground. To be fair to Buller, however, this state of affairs was not of his making. He was placed in command, he had come to suspect, because no other general wanted the task, due to his predecessor being abducted from what should have been a safe camp by a Confederate cavalry patrol and carried off as a prisoner. xii Nor, despite his undoubted ability as a businessman and organizer in civilian life, had he proved any better able to even reduce the constant attrition caused by raids from similar patrols employing tactics modeled upon those of the ‘horse-Indians’ of Texas, against whom many of them had frequently been in contention prior to enlisting to fight the ‘Yankees’.
That Francoise should have known of the difficulties facing Buller had not struck him as suspicious, or even come as any great surprise. In spite of attempts made by his predecessor to prevent news of what was happening being spread, it had done so, and was common knowledge in Washington. What had annoyed him was her declaration that, interesting as she had found his proposition, she felt it would be unsafe to accompany him to Arkansas. Wanting to relieve her anxieties, he had explained that he was on his way to see a man who would help solve his predicament. When he had confessed he did not know exactly what form the relief would take, she had remained reluctant to accept his offer. When she had admitted she would otherwise have been willing to accept his patronage, despite having another potential sponsor safely ensconced in Washington, he had promised she could accompany him and see for herself the discovery made by David Aaranovitch.
‘We’ve arrived sir!’ Flannery announced, with the slight delay he always made before applying the honorific. He descended from the box of the Concord coach which had come to a halt shortly after the promise had been made, and had thrown open the left side door. Directing a scowl redolent of hostile disapproval at the second occupant, he went on without consulting his superior officer or offering to remove his colpack headdress as a sign of respect for her sex, ‘You’ll have to stay in there until we’re through.’
‘Sacre bleu. How strange are the ways of the United States’ Army, M’sieur le General,’ the redhead commented. Paying not the slightest discernible attention to the man who had addressed her, she elaborated in a polite tone which was nevertheless underlaid with resentment and annoyance, ‘In the Army of my country, a subordinate officer would never take it upon himself to give orders to the guest of his superior without
at least asking whether they meet with the approval of his superior.’ She paused for a moment, then shrugged and concluded, ‘But if such is the way in your country, even though you did promise to take me in to see this wonderful discovery of the chemist you personally have hired, I will stay here as the lieutenant orders.’
‘You’re coming with me, Frenchie!’ Buller declared, despite having considered asking the redhead to remain in the coach until he had ensured Aaranovitch was justified in the claims made for his discovery. Antagonism over the thinly veiled disrespect accorded to him by Flannery, combined with a desire to make a suitable impression upon Francoise, caused him to revise his decision. Silencing with a prohibitive glare the protest his subordinate was on the point of making, he rose and continued in tones of finality, ‘Come on. We’ll go take a look!’
Five – This Will Win the War
Brigadier General Moses J. Buller having indicated that she should leave ahead of him, Francoise paused for a moment on reaching the open door of the Concord coach. Showing annoyance over the disregard of his superior for his wishes, First Lieutenant Martin Flannery was backing away and made no attempt to help her descend. Giving a contemptuous glance and sniff, accompanied by a toss of her head which further expressed her unspoken feelings over such an exhibition of bad manners, she stepped to the ground unaided, and ignored the baleful glare he directed her way.
