Dusty Fog's Civil War 9

by J. T. Edson

“Boats!” he growled. “Trouble ahead.”

  Loud in the night rang a series of blasts from the Rosebud's whistle. In echo to it came a spurt of flame from the right side boat, the crack of exploding powder, and an instant later Dusty felt something strike the side of the Rosebud under the level of the main deck. Following the shot from the boat cannon, oars dipped down and tore apart the river’s surface as powerful arms propelled two big naval launches forward and on a course to converge with the approaching riverboat.

  Raising his leg, Hogan delivered a powerful kick to the big box they had used for cover. It appeared to be of poor construction, for the sides burst open and fell outwards. Grabbing quickly, the pilot’s cub caught the falling top of the box and flung it aside. In less time than it took to tell, the box had gone and its contents stood revealed. Mounted on a swivel instead of the usual artillery carriage, a box of ammunition by its side, stood a Williams rapid-fire cannon, its one-pounder barrel pointing ahead.

  Dusty and Red might have felt surprised, or delighted, to see such an effective weapon at that moment, but neither had time. Long used to reacting swiftly in an emergency, they wasted no time in idle speculation. That shot meant the approaching boats did not bear welcoming friends and so they took the appropriate action. Two Henry rifles raised swiftly, their butts snuggling against shoulders and their barrels lining on the boats. Trained fingers squeezed triggers and worked loading levers, firing bullets, ejecting empty cases and replacing them with loaded rounds so the cycle could be repeated and a hail of lead sweep into the oncoming boats.

  Nor did Hogan and the cub react with any less speed or decision. Jerking open the lid of the ammunition box, the cub took out a self-consuming paper cartridge. The gun already held a charge as was proved by Hogan not operating the mechanism so that loading could take place. Standing behind the gun, he gripped the firing handle with his right hand, while his left took hold of the weapon’s reloading crank. Hogan knew that the left-hand launch, not having fired the four-pounder boat cannon in the eye of its bows, offered the greater menace at that moment, so he gave it his attention. Turning the Williams on its swivel, he took sight and his thumb depressed the lever on the side which served as a trigger.

  The whip-like crack of the Williams merged with the rapid beating of the two Henry rifles. Muzzle-blast flames stabbed out and a one-pound, 1.75 inch ball tore from the Williams. At so short range, even a light ball could inflict damage on the timbers of a launch. The ball struck the boat just over the water-line, burst through and ripped into the leg of the ensign who prepared to open fire with his own cannon. A scream burst from the young officer’s lips. His hands jerked convulsively, one tugging the firing lanyard and the other swinging the gun so it pointed away from the Rosebud when it fired. As a result the four-pounder’s ball missed the riverboat.

  On firing, Hogan twirled forward the cranking handle and the breech opened. The cub dropped in the charge he held and bent to scoop another from the box. Around went the handle, the breech closed and sheared the end from the cartridge to expose the powder to the percussion cap’s spurt of flame—said cap being automatically fed on to its nipple from a spring-loaded container. Long before either cannon in the launches could complete the tedious process of muzzle-loading, the Williams fired again and a third time; each ball hammering into the boat.

  Voices yelled, women screamed and feet pounded on the boiler and promenade decks as the passengers heard the sounds of the fight. However, the pilot and men on the bows refused to be distracted, knowing that the safety of the boat and all aboard her depended on their attention to duty.

  The Yankee attack had been well-planned. Two big launches—each with a crew of twenty men armed with cutlasses and either Navy Colts or Spencer carbines—had come up the Mississippi under oars, slipping by the shore batteries and guard boats during the night. On reaching the point where the Atchafalaya cut off from the main river, the launches turned south and laid in wait for the Rosebud to make her appearance. Given surprise and the backing of the four-pounder boat cannon each launch carried, the Yankee force should have been able to sink the big side-wheeler; and might have succeeded but for the alertness of the pilot and Red Blaze—and the inventive genius of Mr. Tyler B. Henry and Captain Williams, C.S.A.

  Handled by two men skilled in their use, the Henry rifles caused havoc and confusion out of all proportion to their size. Lead raked the two launches, striking down the men at the oars and throwing the others off their stroke. Equally deadly, perhaps even more so, the Williams added its quota to the rout of the enemy. Time after time, working at almost the full sixty-five rounds per minute maximum speed, the rapid-fire cannon drove its balls into the side of the launch on the left side of the river. As the number of holes grew, so water began to pour into the rocking launch. Then the weight of the cannon took the bows down and the crew plunged into the water.

  Caught in the repeated hail from Dusty’s Henry, the right-hand launch swerved violently into the path of the approaching Rosebud. Swinging the tiller, the coxswain tried to steer his charge out of danger; but he only partially succeeded. The Rosebud caught the launch a glancing blow, hesitated for a moment, then the thrust of the paddles drove it on. Jolted by the impact, the nearest cresset tipped over and dumped its flaming contents into the passing launch. Yells rose as the Yankees sailors tried to avoid the down pouring fire. A man, his shirt blazing, screamed and dived into the river. Then the launch capsized and its crew found themselves floundering in the water.

  With the safety of his passengers to consider, Boynes did not hesitate in his actions. Behind him men struggled in the water, some wounded and bleeding in a manner likely to attract the attention of any hunting alligator which caught the taste of gore, but he could not stop to render aid. Already some of the attacking party had reached the shore and their metal cartridge carbines cracked. Calmly Boynes dabbed his cheek where glass from a breaking wheelhouse window splintered it and then he rang up full speed ahead. On the main deck, the cursing engineer, riled at missing what sounded like a real good fight, laid hold of the controls and increased the pace of the turning paddle-wheels.

  Lowering their hot, smoking rifles Dusty and Red looked back down the river. A few spurts of flame showed where the Yankee sailors on shore took final shots at the departing Rosebud, but neither Texan wasted lead in replying.

  “That was close,” Dusty said.

  “Real close,” agreed the mate and slapped a hand fondly on the breach of the Williams guns. “But we sure showed them how the old Rosebud can fight.”

  “Wonder what those Yankees were after?” the cub put in.

  “Figured to stop this load of cotton getting down to Morgan City,” Hogan answered. “What else?”

  While Dusty and Red would have given the mate a good answer to his question, neither offered to do so. The small Texan took one final look back along the river before going to the boiler deck in search of Belle and Amesley.

  After passing through a congratulatory crowd, he entered the lounge and went to where Belle stood alone.

  “Major Amesley’s up with the captain,” she explained. “What do you think, Dusty, was the attack by chance?”

  “Could be, but I doubt it,” he replied. “Anyway, we’re through them now.”

  “We’re through the Mississippi Squadron’s effort,” the girl corrected. “Next time it will be the Yankee Secret Service. I’ll bet they’re watching for us in Morgan City in case the sailors failed to stop us.”

  Twelve – Miss Boyd Sees a Snake Fight

  Before the War, and the Yankee blockade increased its importance, Morgan City had been such a small place that it hardly rated the second portion of its name. Even now, though vastly grown due to the sudden increase of trade and prosperity, there was little sign of permanent settlement, as the majority of the new buildings appeared to be of a flimsy nature, hurriedly erected and made of whatever materials came to hand.

  Although three ocean-going ships lay at the docks or just of
f-shore in Atchafalaya Bay, the arrival of the riverboat Rosebud still drew a crowd of loafers. Mingling with the crowd and looking no different from many of its members, two agents of the U.S. Secret Service gave the approaching Rosebud a careful examination.

  “Looks like she’s seen some fuss,” Joe Riegel, tall, heavily built, and dressed like a waterfront idler, remarked, nodding to the raw plug in the cannonball hole under the Rosebud's bows.

  “She got through though,” Murt Fanning, also tall, lean and wearing cheaply elegant clothes that looked much too good for him, answered.

  They watched as the riverboat came alongside the dock, its two side-wheels giving a maneuverability no screw-driven vessel her size could equal. Down came the gangplank with a rush almost as soon as the boat came to a halt. Urged on by a mate, roustabouts darted about their tasks and soon the passengers began to come ashore. In accordance with tradition, the most socially prominent passengers left first. The Yankee spies studied Amesley and Belle as Boynes saw them off his ship.

  “Reckon that’s her?” Fanning inquired.

  “Can’t see any other blonde gal with a reb general, can you?”

  “Nary a sign. What now?”

  “We follow ’em, that’s what. Most likely they’ll be putting up at the Dixie Plaza, but Flora’ll want to know if they don’t.”

  The mention of their superior’s name brought a wry twist to Fanning’s lips. “Can’t say that I go a whole lot on taking orders from a woman.”

  “You tell it to her then,” grinned Riegel. “Only make your will afore you do it. Come on, let’s get clear and along the street towards the Plaza.”

  On leaving the boat, Amesley and Belle waited for Dusty to join them and spent their time saying their goodbyes to various people or avoiding invitations to visit. A general, even one in a non-combatant outfit, could expect good service and a two-horse open carriage rolled up, its driver seeking business.

  “Have the bags put aboard, Mr. Blaze,” Amesley ordered. “We’ll go to the hotel and you can follow us with the men.”

  “Yo!” Red replied, glancing at the crowd and feeling pleased that he would not be responsible for the safe keeping of the money.

  While the loading of her and Amesley’s baggage went on, Belle sat in the carriage looking about her with interest. Her eyes went to the three ships, passing from one to the next, estimating their readiness for sailing. Not until the bags, with the money hidden in false bottoms, had been safely stowed and the carriage began to move off did she mention her conclusions. She sat at Amesley’s side, facing the driver, while Dusty took the opposite seat.

  “How well do you know Morgan City?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

  “I shipped out of here on my way to Europe,” Belle replied. “We’re in luck, Dusty, the Snow Queen's in.”

  “Which ship was that?” Amesley asked.

  “The three-masted, screw-propeller craft painted lead-gray, laying off-shore. She’s a fast sailer, used to run ice to the south before the War.”

  A vessel employed in the business of transporting ice from the northern states to countries which never saw snow had need of great speed. Such a quality also was of use to a blockade-runner.

  “Will she do for us?” asked Dusty.

  “I know her captain. Stacey Millbanks is a loyal Southron and a good man. I wouldn’t care to trust the gold aboard the Dora and the South Star’s only just arrived, she’s still taking off her cargo.”

  “Then it’s the Snow Queen for us,” Amesley stated. “How do we find Captain Millbanks?”

  “We’ll do it after we’ve been to the hotel and settled in,” Belle replied.

  After following Belle’s party to the Dixie Plaza Hotel, the two Yankee spies prepared to deliver their information to the controller of the U.S. Secret Service ring in Morgan City. They walked along the main business street of the town and passed through a side alley to enter an area of tents and wooden buildings all devoted in one way or another to entertaining visitors to the city. Set back in a clump of trees, the small house attracted little attention; nor did its owner wish it to, for anybody who wanted to use its amenities could easily learn of its whereabouts and needed no help in finding it.

  “Where’s Flora?” Fanning asked the bulky man in the loud check suit as he came towards them on their entrance.

  “In her office. You don’t reckon she’d be laying with one of the sports, now do you?”

  Scowling, Fanning shoved by the bouncer and walked across the comfortable lounge. A few scantily-dressed girls who sat around the room gave Fanning and Riegel hardly a glance, for neither were of any use in the business way, being employed, or so the girls imagined, by the madam of the house as touts to steer in customers.

  “They’ve arrived, Flora,” Riegel announced. “The Rosebud pulled in with a hole in her. It looks like the Mississippi Squadron tried to stop her.”

  “And failed,” Flora hissed, coming to her feet. “Is the girl Belle Boyd?”

  “We’ve never seen her,” Fanning pointed out.

  “Nor have I, that I know of,” Flora said, her voice a low, hate-filled hiss. “But she exposed one of my friends in Richmond and broke up a good spy-ring. I want her stopped, you two. Don’t forget, if it’s Boyd, she has fifty thousand dollars of our money.”

  “She’s at the Dixie Plaza now,” Fanning put in.

  “As it’s the only decent hotel in this Godforsaken town, she would be,” answered Flora. “But she’ll be wanting to contact Captain Millbanks as quickly as she can.”

  “Why Millbanks?” asked Fanning. “There’s three boats in—”

  “You don’t think she’d be fool enough to trust herself and our fifty thousand in gold, to Duprez of the Dora, and the South Star won’t be ready to sail for at least three days. No. The Snow Queen's our ship.”

  “Do we get word to the blockade ships?” asked Riegel.

  “And have them bungle it again?” Flora spat out. “No. We settle Boyd here in town. I don’t know what she aims to do with that gold, the pigeon message didn’t say. But whatever it is, those soldiers will be lost without her. Get rid of Boyd first and the rest will be easy.”

  “How do we get rid of her?”

  “How the hell would I know, Fanning?” Flora spat out. “Watch for a chance. It—Wait though. If I know Millbanks, he’ll be at the snake fights all this afternoon. And if I know Boyd, that’s where she’ll go looking for him. Get over there, you pair. If you can arrange an “accident” to her—do it.”

  ~*~

  “Snake-fights!” Dusty said as he and Belle walked towards where an excited, shouting crowd of men and women gathered at the foot of a slope on the edge of town. “I’ve seen dog-fights, cock-fights, even bull-fights. But I’ve never heard of snake-fights before.”

  “You soon will have,” Belle smiled back. “Don’t ask me what the fascination of them is, but they’re very popular down here.” While speaking, she and Dusty mingled with the people surrounding a twenty-foot wide, five-foot deep pit dug in the ground, its sides lined with shiny metal sheets. Pointing to a slim, handsome man in the peaked hat and uniform frockcoat of a sea captain, Belle continued. “There’s our man, Dusty.”

  However, Dusty’s attention was riveted on the bottom of the pit, and the two snakes which had just been tipped into it. Harsh and menacing came the warning burr from the big, thick-bodied snake on the far side’s tail rattles as it landed in the pit, slithered a few feet and then coiled itself defiantly. Up raised the flat, triangular-looking head, jaws opening to show the hideous fangs and the flickering forked tongue. The big diamond rattlesnake lay in the pit, evil as sin and a whole heap more deadly.

  Showing much less caution than when he unloaded the rattlesnake, the promoter of the snake-fights tipped the second contestant into the pit. Four feet long to the diamondback’s five and a half, and nowhere as bulky, the round headed, somehow pop-eyed challenger did not appear to have a chance of survival. For a moment it darted at the sides
of the pit, trying without success to climb the metal-sheathed walls. Then it became aware of the diamondback’s presence. Instantly it stopped trying to escape. The slim body curved into an elongated “S” and the small head raised high as it studied the coiled horror in the center of the pit.

  Silence dropped on the watching crowd. Only the incessant buzz of the rattler’s warning call sounded. Wriggling forward fast, the slim snake avoided a strike by the diamondback’s powerful, poison-backed jaws. Like a flash the thin body began to curl around the thick, harsh-scaled length of the other snake. The diamondback began to throw itself wildly around the pit, thrashing and struggling to break the steadily-tightening hold laid upon. Again and again the diamondback slashed and drove its head at the other. Slowly but surely, the slim snake’s coils tightened and it moved nearer and nearer the spade-shaped, evil head. From a long tangle the two snakes became a knot, then a ball of pulsating movement. For almost fifteen minutes the struggle raged, beginning with fast movement and slowing gradually until at last all movement ceased.

  “Well, I’ll be damned if that skinny ole snake ain’t killed the rattler,” said a soldier at Dusty’s side.

  “He for sure has,” grinned the civilian standing next to the private. “Reckon that’s five dollars you owe me.”

  A faint grin came to Dusty’s face at the words. That “skinny” killer belong to the Lampropeltis Getulus family, the king snake, which lived exclusively on other snakes, killing their prey by constriction and to a certain extent being immune to the other’s poison. Apparently the soldier did not know that in such an affair the king snake almost invariably won the fight.

  Before Dusty could enlighten the soldier, Belle tugged gently on his arm and led him to where Captain Millbanks stood holding a wooden box that had small holes drilled into its top.

  “May I speak with you on a business matter, Captain Millbanks, please?” she greeted.

  Turning, Millbanks looked first at the girl, a hint of recognition on his face, then he turned his gazebo Dusty for a moment, studied him with eyes which knew how to read a man’s true potential.