Dusty Fog's Civil War 9

by J. T. Edson

  “Landsakes!” Belle gasped. “Do you have the entire war plans of the Yankee Army?”

  “No!” growled the man.

  “I can’t think of anything else that would be worth a whole hundred dollars in gold.”

  “How about a buried telegraph wire running from Morgan City to the mouth of Atchafalaya Bay, the other end being visited by men from the Yankee blockade ships every night to take word of ships leaving the dock?”

  “You’re either joking, or lying,” Belle remarked, hiding the interest she felt. “Which is it?”

  “Can I open the hat box?”

  “Do it real slow and watch what you bring out. Make sure I can see what you are doing all the time.”

  Moving slowly, Jacobs raised the lid of the box and placed his hand inside. He used only the tips of his thumb and forefingers to bring an object into sight and toss it on to the bed.

  “Go and lean forward with both hands against the wall and your feet spread well apart,” Belle ordered, not touching or looking at the object.

  “Don’t you trust me?” Jacobs whined.

  “In a word, no,” the girl answered. “Go do what I said.” Not until Jacobs had assumed a posture which did not allow swift movement did Belle relax and study the object he tossed to her. Only by exercising all her willpower did she prevent an exclamation of surprise leaving her. The thing on the bed was a new model sending and receiving key which bore the markings of the U.S. Military Telegraph Department on it.

  “Does this prove anything?” she sniffed. “You can stand up and turn around.”

  Obeying the order, Jacobs waved a hand towards the machine. “It proves there is a telegraph station around here.”

  “Or that you picked up the key from some soldier who collected it on the battlefield.”

  “When I see the money, I’ll tell you where the station is.”

  Reaching into her vanity bag, Belle took out and flipped two double eagles to the man. He caught them and tested each with his teeth, but made no attempt to examine the dates.

  “I said a hun—” he began.

  “If we find the station you can collect the other sixty,” Belle replied.

  Jacobs thrust the money into his pocket and gave a shrug. “This’s the last time I ever do anybody a good service.”

  “You’ll make me weep in a minute,” Belle answered. “Where is it?”

  “Down back of the cathouse—that’s a—”

  “I know what it is; and where.”

  “Down back of the cathouse there’s an old fisherman’s cabin. Empty now, or was. The station’s in there, keys hid under the floorboards—”

  “Sounds awful chancy to me,” Belle said. “Anybody might go in there and find the station.”

  “Not many folks go down that way. The folks at the cathouse don’t take to having prowlers around back. A lot of their sports wouldn’t want it known they go down there.”

  “I suppose not,” Belle smiled, then became serious again. “Suppose they, the Yankees, miss that key?”

  “It’s a spare, I left the box it was in. Maybe they won’t notice for days.”

  “All right. Come around tomorrow and I’ll give you the other sixty—if I find you’ve told the truth.”

  “Are you going there yourself?”

  “Me? Certainly not. I’ll send along a troop of soldiers. Get going—and if you tell anybody my name, I’ll see you regret it.”

  “I’m an honest pedl—” Jacobs protested.

  “I’m sure you are,” Belle purred. “But watch what you peddle. A man could meet with a bad end, trading in some kind of goods.”

  A few years later Belle’s warning may have come back to Jacobs as he was shot down by a member of a criminal gang that he had tried to sell to the Texas Rangers. iv

  After Jacobs left Belle’s room, the girl closed and locked the door. Swiftly she turned his information over in her head. Knowing the manner in which professional informers could gather items of interest, she wondered how much of Jacobs’ story might be true. She doubted if he learned her name in the manner he claimed, although it could just possibly be true; she had been a blonde while working against the Yankee spy-ring in Atlanta and still used the same wig. Then her eyes went to the telegraph key. It was a model only recently introduced, not one of the old Beardslee Patent Magneto-Electric Field Telegraph machines with which the Yankees went into the War and that failed to stand up to the rugged usage of active service. Of course the key could be a souvenir picked up on some battlefield, but it seemed to be in too good condition for that.

  For a moment Belle thought of sending word to Dusty or the members of the local Secret Service field office and asking for assistance. Then a thought held her. Despite the fact that they had proved their worth many times over, Belle Boyd, Rose Greenhow and other female members of their organization still found a certain reluctance on the part of the Confederate States armed forces’ top brass to recognize their use. Many of the senior officers clung to the belief that a woman’s place was in the home and objected to Southern ladies being allowed to do such work as spying. If word got out that Belle had fallen for an ancient informer’s trick and wasted good money on a false alarm, further fuel would be added to the flames of objection which blazed whenever the subject of women spies rose in high places.

  So Belle decided to make the preliminary investigation herself. Nothing dramatic, of course, like trying to take the station single-handed, but enough to ensure that she would not waste time or lose prestige by sending the men from the field office on a wild-goose chase.

  The overnight bag held her dark blue shirt, riding breeches and gunbelt and it was work for a moment to change out of the clothes she wore to dinner. After strapping on the belt and holstering her Dance, she drew back the covers and, using the bag, her wig and items from the room, made what would pass for a sleeping shape in the bed. If anybody should happen to look into her room, she did not want an alarm raised through her absence. Leaving the hotel offered no difficulty, even if she could not use the stairs and front door for obvious reasons. In case of fire, each room had a coil of rope secured to the wall near its window. Belle raised the window sash, tossed out the rope and slid down it hand over hand to the street at the rear of the hotel. Being used only for tradesmen delivering to the businesses lining the main street, nobody walked the area into which Belle slid. She paused for a moment to get her bearings, then walked along the back street. By keeping to the shadows, she hoped to reach her destination without attracting any attention.

  After leaving Belle’s room, Jacobs hurried downstairs and passed through the hotel lobby. The desk clerk scowled, but said nothing, figuring that the peddler must have made a sale as he did not carry the hat box. On the street outside the hotel, Jacobs threw a cautious look in either direction before walking hurriedly away. He went fast, with many a backwards glance. Making sure that he was not followed, Jacobs passed through the entertainment section of the town and reached the small, unobtrusive building which housed the Yankee spy-ring. Apparently he was known there, for the bouncer admitted him and led him to the office used by the madam.

  Flora lounged on the couch when the door opened, but she came to her feet as she recognized her visitor.

  “Well?” she said, as the door closed behind Jacobs.

  “I saw her and did like you told me. She fell for it.”

  “And she agreed to come look the cabin over?”

  “Sure she—”

  “You’re a liar!” Flora snapped out. “What did she really say?”

  “Th—That she’d send soldiers.”

  “That’s more like the Boyd I know,” Flora purred. “Now get the hell out of here and keep going. My men’ll be watching to make sure you don’t go near anybody else to peddle your wares.”

  “I—I’m loyal to the North!” Jacobs wailed.

  “Then the best I can wish is that you’d go over to the other side,” Flora replied. “Get going.”

  At the do
or, Jacobs turned and looked back at Flora. “It looks like your idea didn’t work.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “It looks that way.”

  However, after Jacobs left the room Flora gave a cold, calculating smile. While she expected Belle to tell the man that soldiers would make the investigation, Flora knew the Southern spy would only do this as a precaution, and was certain to look into the matter herself.

  That was why Flora acted as she did. Why she sent the telegraph key and told of the message-passing station which had been set up at such hardship and effort. One of the spies exposed by Belle Boyd in Atlanta had been more than just a friend, he was Flora’s brother and met his end standing back to a wall while facing a line of Confederate Army rifles. Since that time Flora had prayed for an opportunity to lay her hands on Belle Boyd. Now chance threw the rebel spy Flora’s way and she did not intend to miss her opportunity—even if she had to use the most valuable secret her ring possessed as bait to draw Belle into her power.

  Going to the room’s second floor, Flora looked out and called, “Beth, May!”

  Two tall, buxom girls, a brunette and a blonde, entered the room. Wearing cheaply garish frocks and jewelry, they gave an impression of hard flesh under the tawdry finery.

  “She’s going to be there?” asked May, the brunette.

  “It’s all arranged,” Flora agreed.

  “We’ll teach her that no lousy madam’s going to open another place up close to our house,” Beth spat out.

  While Flora reckoned her girls could be relied upon not to support either side in the War, she thought it might be better if the two selected to side her believed they dealt with a rival madam who planned to convert the old fisherman’s cabin into a house which would steal some of their trade, rather than mention that the woman they were to attack was the South’s most legendary Belle Boyd.

  “Sure we will,” Flora agreed, glancing at the girls’ hands. “Take those rings off before we go.”

  Both girls opened their mouths to object, knowing the value of the heavy, embossed rings offered for offence and defense. However, Flora insisted. The girls thought that all they would do was work their victim over, leaving her a battered but wiser woman. Flora aimed to make sure that Belle Boyd never spied again. Knowing that the disappearance of so important a person would cause a stir, Flora aimed to take no chances. The town marshal was no fool and knew an indecent amount of things one did not expect of a small town lawman—he had been a captain on the New Orleans Police Department before the arrival of the Yankees; keen, conscientious, the kind who kept up with the latest developments in criminal investigation. Flora intended to dump her enemy’s body in the bay where the alligators would dispose of it, but knew that something might go wrong. Faced with a badly battered body, the marshal knew enough to understand the significance of any ring-cuts on the face. He would know that somewhere were rings that bore traces of human skin and blood. While the rings might inflict more damage on Belle Boyd, Flora did not want them using if doing so helped the law to locate her.

  With the rings removed, the girls followed their employer from the house and went to the cabin where they made their preparations for the arrival of their prey.

  Fourteen – A Demonstration of La Savate

  Approaching the fisherman’s shack, Belle Boyd studied it with distaste. Set close to the edge of Atchafalaya Bay, the building did not exude a welcoming air. Small, one-roomed, dark and deserted, yet still in reasonable condition, was how the cabin appeared to the girl. All around her the mangrove swamp and canebrakes closed in, making the winding path along which she walked gloomy, eerie almost, when one listened to the mysterious noises of the swampland at night.

  If she had seen a light, or anything to hint that the telegraph station’s crew were present, Belle would have returned to town and gathered assistance. No coward, Belle also did not rank folly among her achievements. While she could handle a revolver with some skill, matching shots against a bunch of desperate Yankee spies would prove too much for her. She knew her capabilities and recognized her limitations. If forced to by circumstances, she would have tackled the gang, but given a chance or choice in the matter, she intended to fetch help to make more certain the capture and destruction of the Yankee’s message-distribution organization. Finding the building in darkness, she decided to check and confirm Jacobs’ information.

  Drawing her Dance, she approached the front door of the building. She doubted if the Yankees maintained a guard on the cabin when not using it; to do so might invite unwanted curiosity. In all probability the telegraph key would only be connected when in actual use and might even not be present at other times. However, the wires could not be rolled up and hidden between messages. Finding them would he all the proof she needed.

  Gently she gripped the door handle, twisting and shoving at it. The door opened silently, a significant point that Belle grasped. If the cabin had been unused for some time, its hinges ought to screech a protest when working. Trying to peer through the stygian blackness of the building’s interior, Belle moved forward. Eyes and ears worked hard to pick up any hint of danger; but her nose made the first detection. The significance of the faint aroma of perfume did not, however, strike her quite quickly enough. Even as she realized that such a scent had no place in a Yankee spy-ring’s telegraph station, a hand caught her shoulder, jerked hard and heaved her towards the darkness in the center of the cabin.

  Taken by surprise, Belle had no chance to resist. The hand gripped her and pulled hard; as she shot forward, Belle heard the door slam to. The light flooded the room from a lantern hanging in the center. Belle saw a big brunette stood with hands still gripping the lantern’s covers, but that one did not constitute the immediate danger. Unable to halt her forward rush, Belle advanced straight into the round-arm swing the waiting Flora launched at her. Woman-like, Flora used the flat of her hand instead of her knuckles. Even so, the force of the slap sent Belle spinning across the room and caused her to drop her gun. Pain knifed through her and her head spun from the blow. Only just in time did she manage to twist herself around so that she struck the wall shoulders first instead of colliding face-on.

  “Get her!” Flora screeched.

  Only one thing saved Belle. The two girls aiding Flora expected to be confronted by a rival cathouse madam dressed in the conventional manner. Unable to see more than a blurred shape in the doorway, Beth carried out her part in the plan to perfection by grabbing Belle and thrusting her forward. Nor did May show any less ability in lighting the lantern at just the right moment. In doing so, she illuminated not a cathouse madam in a dress, but a beautiful girl wearing men’s clothing and carrying a gun. The shock of the unexpected sight held Beth and May off for just that vital second Belle needed to regain control of her slap-scattered wits.

  One thing Belle knew immediately and without needing any heavy thought, she must fight if she hoped to escape with her life. Although her Dance lay in the center of the room, leaping for it would be suicide while all three of her attackers remained on their feet.

  After screaming her order, Flora hurled herself straight at Belle. Fury and hate over-rode caution and made the redhead act without thinking of the consequences. Or it may have been that she believed a high-born Southern lady like Belle Boyd would prove easy meat. If that had been Flora’s thought, she would swiftly find disillusionment.

  Moving clear of the wall, and seeing the other girls recover from their surprise, Belle prepared to handle Flora’s hair-reaching rush with something a damned sight more effective than curl-yanking. Up rose Belle’s right leg until its calf was parallel to the floor and the sole of her high-heeled shoe aimed at Flora. Straightening her left leg, Belle leaned backwards slightly and thrust forward the right in a stamping high kick. Full into Flora’s sizeable bust crashed the foot. Sick agony tore into the Union supporter; her eyes bulged and her mouth opened in a hideous shriek of pain. She stumbled backwards, momentarily out of the fight.

  From her assault on F
lora, Belle brought down her leg, pivoted and lashed up the kind of high kick which so impressed Jacobs at the hotel. Only this time she stood close enough to land home. The toe of her left boot caught Beth’s top lip, although it must be admitted that Belle aimed to smash it under the other’s chin, crushing the flesh up and splitting it before continuing to squash the nose. Squealing in agony, blood gushing from lip and nose, blinded by tears, Beth spun around and reeled away.

  Fingers dug into Belle’s hair from behind as her third attacker came within reaching distance. May lay on a one-handed hold, her other fist driving into Belle’s back just above the kidney region. Even the back kick which Belle launched automatically, catching Mary just over the right knee, failed to release the tearing grip on the Southern girl’s hair. It did, however, serve to hold the big brunette at arms’ length instead of closing in to continue her assault. Fiery pain burst into Belle’s head and almost drove thoughts of effective defense from it. Luckily she retained sufficient control to know that she must free herself before the other two attackers recovered and came to lend their friend a hand.

  Tilting backwards as if dragged off balance, Belle brought up both hands to clamp over the fingers which still dug into her hair and pressed them firmly against her skull. Using her left leg as a pivot, Belle twisted around while still retaining her hold on the trapped hand and halted when she faced towards the other girl. May squealed as the leverage on her hand bent her wrist at an unnatural angle. On being released, her automatic reaction was to stagger back.

  Up drove Belle’s left foot, aiming at May’s lower body. However, May had been in brawls before and, hurt or not, knew a thing or two. Her hands shot forward to catch Belle’s kicking ankle.

  “Come on, you pa—!” May began, feeling that her companions left too much for her to handle alone.

  The words were chopped off, for Belle knew more than a few tricks and was prepared against the possibility of someone trapping her in that manner during a kick. Twisting her body, she brought her free leg up from the floor, turning so it passed over the trapped limb. Drawing the left leg back, Belle stabbed it out in a stamp to the center of May’s face. Again May felt the sickening impact of the kick and it cut off her demand for assistance. She lost her hold and stumbled away, hand clawing to her bleeding nose.