Five Belles to Hell

by Tony Masero

  Corinth sagged and glowered at his captor, ‘What you want?’ he asked.

  ‘My sister. She still alive?’

  ‘How would I know,’ Corinth answered glibly.

  Lomas flicked out with the skinning knife hand he had drawn from behind his back and carved a slice from Corinth’s sound ear with the razor sharp blade.

  Corinth screamed out and clasped the wound. He gritted his teeth and twisted his lip, ‘She was alive last time I seen her,’ he admitted.

  ‘Where is she now?’

  Corinth was looking at him cautiously from beneath lowered brows, ‘I don’t know, I swear it.’

  Again Lomas flicked out and the knifepoint seared Corinth’s nostril cutting a slash up his nose.

  ‘There y’are,’ said Lomas. ‘Now you can smell twice as good. You want to answer my question?’

  ‘What are you doing, man. Stop cutting on me, I can’t tell you anything.’

  Lomas was tiring, he was thinking of Ladybell and this brute riding on top of her. His anger rose in him and he whipped the blade across Corinth’s chest, slicing through his jacket and shirt. Corinth sobbed in pain and backed up hard against the tree trunk behind.

  ‘Talk!’ ordered Lomas.

  ‘She’s with a cousin of Wayland’s,’ gabbled Corinth.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Fellow called Paramount Bliss.’

  ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘No, I swear it. That’s his title, Paramount Bliss.’

  ‘Where’s he at?’

  Corinth squirmed, ‘What you going to do with me?’ he asked. ‘I give you that and then you plan on doing me harm?’

  Lomas drew the pistol and Corinth’s eyes widened, and then he relaxed as Lomas tossed the gun aside.

  ‘There,’ said Lomas. ‘No guns, that’s a promise. Now where is she?’

  Corinth sniffed, his eyes going from the disappeared gun back to Lomas. ‘Alright, she’s up along the Richmond Peninsular. Place called Brevet Landing, Bliss has a place there. Now, you going to let me go? I told you everything.’

  ‘Not quite everything,’ said Lomas and Corinth froze as he saw the shutters come down in Lomas’s cold stare.

  ‘What? What else is there?’ Corinth faltered.

  ‘You raped my baby sister, didn’t you? You beat her and raped her until she couldn’t stand.’

  ‘Not me!’ bellowed Corinth as he saw the thin skinning knife flick towards him. ‘No, it was the others. Little Wait, Dane and Devlin, it wasn’t me. I never done that.’

  ‘Not what I heard.’

  Stillness had descended over the forest; there was no birdcall and the slight breeze that had run through the trees earlier stilled. It was almost as if the forest lay in wait and held its breath.

  ‘Tell me, Corinth. What would you do with a gang of men who beat on and raped a helpless widow woman?’

  Corinth stared hard at the long curved blade in Lomas’s hand and he watched mesmerized as its razor edge tainted with his blood gleamed dully in the wicked half-light.

  ‘You ain’t going to do anything to me,’ his voice trembled and he backed up hard against the tree, trying to scrabble away up its rough unforgiving bark. ‘No, you ain’t. Please, Bell. Don’t…. PLEASE!’

  Lomas advanced slowly towards him.

  All the folks in Nigger Town heard the scream. It went on for quite a while, the awful noise echoing down the valley and out of the trees.

  Then there was silence and very soon the birds could be heard singing again.

  Chapter Eight

  Kirby was more like his old self.

  He still used a cane to get about but was finding that he needed the stick less and less now. He could work in the vegetable patch and enjoyed it as a means of overcoming the stiffness found in his recuperating body.

  Lizbette and he had settled into a pleasant life and found happiness in each other’s company. And it was for that reason that Kirby avoided delving into the recesses of his mind. He knew his history was there for the taking but he would rather remain in ignorance in case it took away all he had with Lizbette. He had come to love the small woman deeply and she responded in a calm caring manner that left them both contented in their isolation on the cliff top

  As he waited for her in their garden, he stood in the sunshine looking across the broad river and counted his blessings.

  She smiled coyly at him as she came out of the house. Dressed in her, now ill-fitted, best clothes. She had done what she could to make herself look presentable and her attempts charmed Kirby as he watched her walk slowly towards him in a splayfooted waddle, her tiny swollen body struggling to carry the coming child. But she glowed healthily with the prospect of the birth and her eyes sparkled joyfully as her time came nearer.

  ‘You look a picture,’ he called to her.

  ‘I don’t feel it,’ she replied.

  ‘Can you make the walk?’

  ‘Of course, its not often a girl gets a wedding day and I intend to be there at the altar for this one, baby or not.’

  It was six months before when Lizbette had told him they had a child on the way and, a little late perhaps, they had decided it would be best if they legalized the birth rather than let the child suffer a stigma of bastardization throughout its life. So they planned to make things right before a preacher.

  It was a fair hike for them to the nearest community with a church and preacher, as they had no horse or mule. Their existence had been frugal and latterly they had lived on what Kirby could catch in the river and what they grew in their garden.

  With the war over, life was somewhat freer now without the fear of rampaging armies charging across the countryside but poverty still was a burden that beset the South and there had been no way that the couple could afford a pony. There had been some gold originally, found in the money belt around Kirby’s waist but that had long gone now, being used up sustaining them in the early years when Kirby was incapable of any movement.

  They set out slowly walking side by side, with Lizbette holding onto Kirby’s arm as he used his cane to help him along. It was nine miles to the nearby coastal village of Brevet Landing and they knew it would take them a long day to get there at the slow pace they maintained unless a friendly carrier passed by and gave them a ride.

  Brevet Landing was a small fishing village set at the bottom of a deep rocky valley that brought a creek down to the water’s edge. Beyond the village steep-sided cliffs that opened out and surrounded a roughly circular harbor protected the entrance into deeper water. The stone built quay along one protected curve was populated with fishing vessels and at one time daring blockade runners had left from there to carry mail and cotton across to England and France and return with cargoes of mail and weapons for the South. It had been a bold enterprise and not undertaken lightly, needing the best and most courageous of crews with speedy lightweight vessels to outrun the Union’s gunships.

  One such ship was still anchored in the bay, a schooner rigged, side-wheel steamer with twin funnels and masts. It looked a sleek vessel, long and elegant with the old Southern Navy’s CSS prefix whitened over and replaced with a simpler ‘SS Phantom’ painted there.

  ‘What a sight,’ said Lizbette from the wagon seat. Pleased by the view and the fresh scent of brine soaked air.

  The pair had been lucky and received help from a passing farmer bound in with milk and butter for the village and he carried them on his cart along with the churns and barrels.

  ‘Sure is, ain’t it?’ agreed the grizzled farmer.

  ‘What’s a fine ship like that doing here now?’ asked Kirby.

  The old man ran a knowing finger alongside his nose, ‘That would be Paramount Bliss’s vessel,’ he said. ‘He was one of the blockade runners back in the day, now I think its something a sight more profitable he uses that ship for.’

  ‘Smuggling, you mean?’ asked Kirby.

  ‘Couldn’t say, young fellow. Couldn’t say at all,’ he gave Kirby a sly grin. ‘But we al
l has to get along as best we can right now, don’t we?’

  ‘I guess so,’ agreed Kirby.

  Slowly the wagon creaked its way down into the village where they thanked the driver and dismounted onto a cobbled street near the water.

  ‘Best of luck to you and the little one,’ the kindly farmer called to them as he waved his departure.

  Kirby noticed Lizbette was looking flushed and he moved her into the shade of one of the tall, flat fronted building buildings that sided the roadway.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asked.

  ‘A little hot is all. Might we rest a moment?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, sitting her down on a convenient set of steep house steps that let onto the roadway.

  As he did so, the front door opened above them and a burly, black bearded man with oily looking dark curling shoulder length hair stood at the doorway above. He wore a black leather vest, large brightly colored neckerchief and a long sleeved, stripped sailor’s shirt with the cloth stretched to bursting by the brawny muscles of his tattooed arms. There was a gold earring glinting in one ear and small bladed dagger scabbarded at his back in the broad leather belt.

  ‘And you see it’s done by the time I get back!’ he bellowed into the house before slamming the door shut.

  He turned to see Kirby helping Lizbette up on her feet to make way for him.

  ‘What’re you two doing here?’ the man growled, looking down at them with distain.

  ‘I apologize,’ said Kirby. ‘The lady was overcome and just resting a moment.’

  ‘Well, do it somewheres else,’ said the man dismissively. ‘Can’t abide you wandering beggars.’

  He stepped down and was about to brusquely brush past when Kirby caught his arm.

  ‘We are no beggars, sir.’

  The man dragged his arm away, ‘Let go of me, you vermin. I’ll break your head you touch me.’

  ‘Watch your manners,’ snapped Kirby. Something was rising in him, some forgotten urge that came up from deep inside.

  The man looked Kirby up and down, ‘Or what?’ he sneered.

  ‘You can see the lady’s condition, I’ll have you curb your tongue and speak more softly.’

  The big man smiled but not in a friendly way, then he shook his head. ‘Don’t that beat all,’ he sniggered. ‘Your sort, you wander the country looking for handouts and expected to be treated like gentlefolk into the bargain. Get on before I see you off.’

  ‘You must be a big man around here,’ Kirby observed, looking the fellow over and already an intuitive plan of attack forming in his mind. It came naturally without Kirby even thinking about it. A hard step on the man’s toe, a knee in the balls. Spin him around and grab his knife, then bury the blade in his windpipe. Quick and remarkably vicious. Even as he considered it Kirby was surprised and wondered where such thoughts came from so readily.

  ‘Listen,’ the man said, pushing his face close to Kirby’s. He was tall and he had to lean forward to confront the shorter Kirby. ‘I’m Paramount Bliss and any time you need to find me just ask for that name. I’ll be ready and waiting.’ He barked it loudly, his spit spraying over Kirby.

  Kirby was about to move, his body was tensed and ready to spring when he felt Lizbette’s hand on his arm.

  ‘Kirby,’ she said. ‘Please.’

  Kirby stepped back, he was confused by his dark thoughts but his angry eyes never left Bliss.

  ‘Yeah, that’s about it. Ain’t it?’ snorted Bliss, his lip curling in confidence at what he saw as victory. Then with a last dismissive glance at the couple he turned and strode away.

  Lizebette watched Kirby as he stood there, still tense with his gaze fixed on Bliss’s disappearing back.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  Kirby broke his stare and turned to her, ‘Nothing, honey. The world is full of assholes, that’s all. Come on, lets go see the preacher.’

  Lizbette frowned as they moved off. She was sensitive to Kirby’s moods and had seen his dark thoughts over the years grow more frequent. As if a hidden and forgotten self was struggling to get free and rise again to the surface. She did not know what his past had been but feared it was something far more dangerous than the man she had come to know and love.

  The preacher was taking his lunch when they called on him and he said they could have a simple ceremony later in the day if they so wished. It was unusual but given the obvious state of Lizbette the preacher deemed it best to waive the normal procedures and get them wed as soon as possible. The hour of three o’clock was set for the ceremony.

  They needed wedding rings and whilst Lizbette had one that had belonged to her mother, Kirby had none so he set out to find a store and buy himself a simple band. Lizbette was tired from the journey and decided to find a quiet spot on the quay and rest whilst Kirby did his shopping.

  Kirby found the village a maze of narrow streets and it took him a while to find a general store. Once there he coerced the owner to part with a cheap second-hand brass wedding ring for a dollar, promising himself he would buy a proper gold one once he was in funds again.

  He had a few cents left in his pocket and decided it had been a while since the taste of good whiskey had crossed his lips and today would be a good day to remind himself.

  The bar he found was not far from the quay, it was a busy tavern whose swinging sign outside identified it as ‘The Angel’ and that seemed a propitiously named place to celebrate his marriage to the angel who had saved his life. The crowd inside were mostly fishermen who were enjoying a taste after bringing in their catch and the air was thick with pipe smoke and the smell of fish scales and wet boots.

  Kirby found his way to one end of the packed and noisy counter and ordered up his drink. He took a deep breath as he studied the full glass and mentally toasted his marriage and the prospect of a new family. The glass was on his lips when he heard the rough voice call from the opposite end of the bar.

  ‘Managed to scrounge up enough for a drink then, you bum.’

  Kirby saw it was Paramount Bliss who was staring at him. Fellow sailors surrounded the man, a rough looking bunch who obviously looked to Bliss as their leader.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked a man wearing a tar-coated seaman’s hat with a flopping brim and standing at Bliss’s elbow.

  ‘Some itinerant, Billy boy,’ supplied Bliss. ‘Was on my doorstep with his slut. The whore had a belly full of child on her and this one was looking for a handout.’

  A silence came over the room and all heads along the counter turned to Kirby waiting to see how he would respond.

  Kirby’s blood had turned to ice and a hard lump had locked onto the rear of his brain. The knot pressurized him and he felt his eyes swelling as the anger seethed in him. Slowly he raised the glass to his lips, tasted a sip and then swallowed the whole in one go. He set the glass down hard on the counter, his eyes never leaving Bliss.

  ‘Oho!’ said Billy. ‘Seems you’ve upset the boy, Paramount.’

  ‘I’ll do more that,’ sneered Bliss. ‘Given half a chance.’

  ‘Hey,’ called Kirby in reply. ‘What makes an insulting fool like you think he has enough sass to live out this day?’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ roared Bliss, breaking into a disbelieving laugh.

  ‘Best heed it, lunkhead,’ said Kirby. ‘I will kill you for the foul-mouthed dog you are, you keep pushing on me.’

  Bliss and those around him laughed raucously at what they perceived as Kirby’s bold impudence.

  ‘You don’t know who you’re talking to, stranger,’ said the man Billy, in an advisory capacity. ‘This is Captain Paramount Bliss. He is the hardest, meanest blockade running captain these shores have ever seen. Twenty times he ran the blockade and came back safe. Why, he gnaws on shark’s teeth and bites off whales tails for breakfast.’

  ‘Doubtless he shits sea shells along with his brains afterwards,’ quipped Kirby.

  ‘Maybe he does at that,’ laughed Billy until Bliss, who was not amused, brushe
d him off with a sideways blow of his massive forearm.

  ‘I’m going to take you apart,’ he warned, moving away from the counter. Men lining the bar scattered before him as he made his way down towards Kirby.

  In a leap, Kirby was over the counter and behind the bar before Bliss could reach him.

  ‘Come on, you stupid bully,’ Kirby taunted. His leg hurt with the unused activity but he ignored the pain and his old limber self dodged the broad grasping hands as Bliss reached across the bar to grab at him.

  ‘You’re a sea faring man, ain’t you?’ asked Kirby, catching up a filled tankard lying on the bar top and throwing its contents full in Bliss’s face. ‘Swim out of that.’

  Bliss spluttered and bared his teeth against the foaming shower of beer, his cheeks reddened and his eyes rounded in anger. ‘You’re dead,’ he warned sullenly.

  Before more could be said a hand rose up high above Bliss’s head, it was briefly silhouetted against the light from the doorway, then it descended with a heavy clunk and Bliss’s eyes glazed over. He slid forward, a bemused look on his face as his hands reached out to the bar top to keep himself standing. But his eyeballs rolled to white and he gave up the attempt and dropped to the floor with a heavy clatter. As he fell, he revealed a man with a white drooping mustache behind who held a heavy pistol in his hand.

  ‘Howdy, Kirby. Been a while,’ said Lomas.

  ‘I know you?’ asked Kirby uncertainly.

  ‘Sure you do. Come on out from behind there before the rest of these idiots get any wild notions.’

  Lomas kept the restless men in the bar covered as Kirby made his way back. His brain was racing as images and thoughts came tumbling in one after the other. It was all coming back to him in a rush. He could not restrain it any longer and as if Lomas was the key, the floodgates opened and all memory of his past poured into his consciousness again.

  ‘You’re Lomas Bell,’ he said, as they backed out of the doorway. ‘The Marshal.’

  ‘Course I am,’ said Lomas. ‘Saving your ass yet again.’

  ‘We worked with Pinkerton?’

  ‘That’s right. Where you been, we had you given up for dead?’