The Floating Outfit 34: To Arms! To Arms! In Dixie! (A Floating Outfit Western)

by J. T. Edson

  From their positions on the stage, the committee was unable to see the fronts of the portraits. They could, however, tell by the reactions of the audience and the appearance of the masked men that something far out of the ordinary was happening. Then they had further cause for alarm, and much closer to hand.

  Three more masked men walked from the left side wings. Only one, the bulkiest if not tallest, was openly armed. He too carried a sawed-off shotgun. By his clothing, which matched that of the watchers at the exits, he was of inferior social standing to his empty-handed companions. One of them was taller than the armed man, although slighter in build. The other was something over medium height, well-made and carried himself with a brash, straight-backed swagger seen mainly amongst arrogant, rank-conscious Army officers. Their attire was that of wealthy gentlemen attending an informal, yet important, social gathering with their equals.

  Showing symptoms of alarm, the three male members of the committee rose hurriedly from their chairs. The woman also came to her feet, moving with considerable speed for one of her age. Darting a glance towards the intruders as they approached, she made as if to move towards the front of the stage.

  ‘No sudden moves, fellers!’ warned the bulkiest of the trio, gesturing with his shotgun and employing a tone in keeping with his clothing. ‘Just sit down a spell and nobody’ll get hurt.’

  From his perplexed expression, Sabot had been completely taken aback by the unexpected turn of events. His whole being left an impression that he had no idea what was going on. Then the burly man’s growled-out words seemed to jolt him out of his state of shock and aroused an instinct to protest. Bracing back his shoulders, he stalked grimly towards the masked intruders.

  ‘How dare you come in here,’ the magician demanded, bristling with righteous indignation, ‘interrupting my perform—’

  Striding by his better-dressed companions, the burly man snapped around his shotgun with casual-seeming, yet trained precision. Its butt thudded against the side of Sabot’s jaw and knocked him staggering to sprawl on to the floor at the rear of the stage. As the magician collapsed in a huddled heap upon his hands and knees, a rumble of protest rose from the audience. Immediately, the men at the exits elevated their weapons to a greater position of readiness. It seemed likely that the people in the auditorium would rush the intruders and avenge their benefactor.

  ‘That’s for you, you Yankee-loving son-of-a-bitch!’ bellowed Sabot’s assailant, in a voice that carried above the protests of the audience. ‘Anybody’s foot-licks to the blue-bellies like you do deserves anything he gets from a loyal Southron.’

  Backed by the very real, deadly menace of the shotguns at the exits, the man’s statement served to quieten down the expressions of disapproval. His words recalled certain feelings many of the audience had harbored concerning Sabot’s friendship with the disliked blue-bellies. Remembering, they were less inclined to take active measures to avenge his injuries. Especially when doing so might result in death or injury for many of themselves. At least, they would not make the attempt without another, stronger and more personal reason for doing it.

  Inadvertently, the female member of the committee suggested just such a reason.

  ‘Wha-what do you want?’ she shrilled, clutching even tighter at her vanity bag and displaying far greater alarm or concern than Princess Selima Baba was showing. ‘If this is a robbery—’

  Again the menacing rumblings crept through the audience. Men who would have hesitated to take action on behalf of a ‘Yankee-lover’ were prepared to be defiant in defense of their property.

  Two – You Won’t Stop Me Leaving

  Clearly the taller of the unarmed intruders on the stage did not underestimate the potential danger to his party that had been caused by the elderly woman’s suggestion. The mask he wore concealed whatever expression might be on his face, but his whole attitude was one of quiet reassurance as he swung in her direction.

  ‘Calm yourself, ma’am,’ the man requested politely. His voice was that of a well-educated Southron gentleman. ‘I assure you that we have not come here to commit a robbery.’ Turning from the woman, he faced the audience and raised his arms in a signal for silence. ‘Please remain seated, ladies and gentlemen. There is no cause for alarm. You have my word that we mean no harm to any of you.’

  Such was the apparent honesty in the man’s tone that the audience started to relax once more. Even the most unthinking of them realized that outlaws would hardly go to so much trouble to commit a crime that would yield only small returns. The loot that they might hope to gather would hardly justify the risks.

  To strengthen the point made by their spokesman, the watchers at the exits relaxed. The shotguns sank to point at the floor, implying that their wielders no longer felt a need to remain vigilant. Natural curiosity caused the men and women at the tables to settle down and await further developments.

  ‘You there, shameless foreign woman!’ barked the second of the weaponless newcomers, in a hard, commanding voice that had traces of a well-educated Southern accent. ‘Go over and attend to your master.’

  ‘Sure thing, mister,’ Selima answered, with a remarkably American-sounding voice considering that she had been ‘rescued from a life of sin in the Sultan of Tripoli’s harem’. ‘Anything you say.’

  Crossing the stage with the same sensually jaunty, hip-rolling gait that had graced all her movements—drawing numerous lascivious glances from the men on the committee and causing the elderly woman to deliver almost as many disapproving glares—the girl halted and bent over her employer. She did this in a manner which prominently displayed the full curvaceous quality of her buttocks under their flimsy pantaloons. Nothing in her posture and behavior implied that she harbored fears for her own safety, nor concern over her employer’s possible injuries. Rather she comported herself with the air of one who was playing a well-rehearsed scene from a melodrama—but was playing it remarkably badly.

  Watching the way in which Selima carried out his companion’s order, the taller of the unarmed pair made a gesture that might have indicated annoyance. It almost appeared, to at least one observer, that he took exception to the brunette’s too casual acceptance of what should have been an alarming and unprecedented sequence of events. However, he made no comment on the matter. Instead, he returned his attention to the restlessly moving audience.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ the tall man boomed out, his words reaching every corner of the auditorium. ‘You are all probably wondering why my companions and I have seen fit to intrude upon your evening’s entertainment in such a manner. This charming lady’—he indicated the elderly woman as she sat staring intently at him and bowed slightly in her direction—‘suggested that we might be contemplating a robbery. That is not so. Instead of taking from you, we hope that we may be able to help you regain something that we have all lost. We want to give you back your—FREEDOM!’

  An excited, yet also disturbed rustle of conversation arose amongst the audience, swelling louder in the dramatic pause which followed the speaker’s final shouted word. Most of Sabot’s guests were aware that, taken with the four dangling portraits, the speech they had heard carried serious, dangerous implications. The civil law enforcement authorities and, more particularly, the local Army commander might easily call it treason.

  Despite their understanding, the men in the audience hesitated. As usual in times of stress, or when faced with a situation completely out of the ordinary, the majority were waiting for guidance on how to act. They were also hoping that somebody else in their number would accept the responsibility of becoming their leader.

  Aware of how a crowd’s mentality worked, the spokesman of the intruders scanned the auditorium. He saw a figure stand up at the table reserved for the most important members of the audience.

  ‘You have a question, sir?’ the masked man inquired amiably, pointing in the other’s direction.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied the man from the audience. ‘I intend to leave.’


  Instantly every eye focused upon the speaker. Tall, slim, in his early fifties, he dressed fashionably and in perfect taste. His whole appearance hinted at military training and self-confidence. Most of the audience recognized him as Colonel Alburgh Winslow, attorney-at-law, a member of the Louisiana State’s Legislature and owner of the Shreveport Herald-Times, Well-liked, respected as a pillar of the community, the people in the auditorium figured that his lead in the affair would be worth following.

  So the rest of the audience sat back and waited to see what the masked men’s response would be. And, more important, to discover how Colonel Winslow would react if his intention of leaving should be opposed.

  ‘You served in the Army of the Confederate States, sir?’ asked the spokesman of the intruders, in flat, impersonal, but neither threatening nor angry tones.

  ‘I had the honor to command the 6th Louisiana Rifles under General Braxton Bragg, sir,’ Winslow answered, returning politeness with civility. ‘But I have also taken the oath of allegiance to the Union—’

  ‘That was your right, sir,’ the spokesman conceded courteously. ‘Most of us present took it in good faith and the belief that the Yankees would honor their side of it.’

  ‘They sure as hell didn’t do that!’ bawled a male voice from the rear of the auditorium and a mumble of concurrence rose from his area.

  ‘You are free to leave, sir, if you so wish it,’ the masked spokesman stated, when the hubbub had died away. ‘All I ask is that you will give me your word as a Southern gentleman that you will not speak of what is happening here before tomorrow morning at the earliest.’

  ‘You won’t stop me leaving if I do?’ Winslow asked.

  ‘Your word will be sufficient guarantee for us, sir,’ replied the spokesman. ‘We’ve no intention of stopping anybody leaving. All we need from those who go is an assurance that they will do nothing to prevent the rest of us from continuing with this meeting.’

  There was a shuffling of feet, but still nobody showed any inclination of accepting the offer to depart. They were still awaiting Winslow’s lead.

  ‘I’ll go further,’ the shorter of the unarmed intruders went on, drawing the elderly woman’s gaze to him until she seemed to be hanging on to his every word. Through the slits in his mask, his eyes raked the six prominent citizens who shared Winslow’s table. ‘We, all of us in this room, would prefer those who aren’t loyal to the South to leave immediately.’

  ‘Let the gentleman pass there,’ the spokesman ordered the guard nearest to Winslow. ‘Let anybody pass who wants to—’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Winslow drawled, after a moment’s thought. ‘I’ll stay and hear you out.’

  Taken with the second man’s comment on loyalty to the South, Winslow’s refusal to accept the offer to depart brought to an end the muttering and inclinations amongst the other patrons who had intended to leave. They were mostly businessmen who had regained some measure of their prosperity after being impoverished by the War. Some drew an appreciable amount of their business from the Army, so had no desire to take a part in what Colonel Szigo would certainly regard as a treasonable assembly. On the other hand, they had no wish to label themselves as disloyal to the Southern States. That could be just as damaging, perhaps even more so, to their local business prospects. So they concluded that they would accept Winslow’s guidance and remain. Later, if necessary, they could disclaim any association with the sentiments expressed by the intruders.

  Assisted by Selima, Sabot the Mysterious dragged himself erect. Leaning on the girl’s shoulder, with a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth, he scowled at his assailant. Jerking a thumb contemptuously in the magician’s direction, the spokesman instructed his armed companion to remove the Yankee-loving trash and attend to his injury. Going over, the burly man herded Selima and Sabot into the wings and beyond the audience’s range of vision. The couple went without protest. Any concern the guests might have felt was lessened by the reminder of Sabot’s ‘Yankee-loving’ tendencies and the thought that his hurts would receive attention.

  ‘Ma’am, gentlemen,’ the masked spokesman said, drawing the elderly woman’s gaze from the departing magician, girl and their escort. ‘Perhaps you would oblige me by returning to your seats in the auditorium?’

  ‘We sure will, mister,’ confirmed one of the male members of the committee, rising with alacrity.

  Sharing their companion’s desire to be disassociated with the masked intruders, the other two men showed an equal haste to quit the stage. Although she flashed another quick look at where Sabot’s party had disappeared into the wings, the elderly woman wasted no time in following the three citizens.

  With the stage cleared of all but himself and his smaller companion, the tall, imposing, masked figure commenced a carefully thought out and excellently delivered speech. He started by reminding the audience that, from the earliest days of its conception, the United States had agreed upon one certain matter of policy. If any State should feel that its policies and domestic arrangements were not in keeping with the remainder, or that the Federal Government’s decisions were against its best interests, it had the inalienable right to secede, withdraw, from the Union.

  ‘This is the right that the people up North refused to grant us,’ the man went on, his voice throbbing with emotion. ‘They begrudged us our heritage, envied our way of life and culture. But they wanted to keep right on digging their grasping Yankee hands into our pockets. They didn’t want the Southern States, but they did want the money which was wrung from us in taxes. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why those noble Abolitionists up North fought to retain the Union.’

  Going by the growl which sounded from the main body of the hall, there was considerable agreement with the man’s words. At the table holding the important members of the community, more than one pair of eyes darted worried glances at Winslow. Giving a quick shake of his head in reply to the unasked questions, he flickered a look towards the elderly woman. She sat on a lower-priced table, subjecting both the masked men on the stage to a careful scrutiny and listening intently to the response to the speech.

  Covering the South’s original victories, the speaker touched briefly upon the behind-the-scenes reasons why the first thrust of successes had not been exploited to the full. He also intimated that, in the event of another clash with the Yankees, there would be no such loss of advantage. Then he praised the gallantry, courage and loyalty of the Confederate States’ Army and Navy as they had battled against a numerically, industrially and economically superior enemy.

  ‘They might have had better arms, food and supplies,’ he stated proudly, ‘But, by the Lord, they didn’t have better men!’

  ‘And this time we won’t be fighting them alone,’ the second man announced, after the thunder of applause which had greeted the other’s declaration had ebbed away. ‘Our friends in Europe are willing to send arms, equipment, supplies to help us fight the Northern oppressors.’

  ‘Which friends in Europe?’ Winslow challenged.

  ‘We can’t mention the country, for obvious reasons,’ the spokesman answered. ‘But I give you my word as a Southern gentleman that a powerful European country is prepared to back us in our fight for freedom.’

  ‘For what price, sir?’ Winslow demanded.

  ‘That will be decided between our two Governments,’ the spokesman replied, hiding any displeasure he might be feeling at the questions. He pointed to the first portrait on the right, continuing, ‘You may ask why we should need the aid of a foreign country. There is the answer. That is how the Yankees make war. Not against soldiers, but against the harmless, defenseless civilian population.’

  Without giving Winslow an opportunity to extend the questioning about the identity of the European country that was willing to ally itself to the Confederate cause, the spokesman enlarged upon the horrors of Sherman’s ‘march to the sea’.

  Winslow realized that he was being frozen out, but did not try to force the issue. To do so
might swing the crowd even further in the masked intruders’ favor. Its more impressionable members would recollect that the spokesman was willing to take Winslow’s word as a Southern gentleman on the matter of keeping silent after he had been allowed to depart. So the Colonel ought to return the compliment by accepting the spokesman’s assurance—backed by his word—that the European ally existed.

  Deftly the spokesman drew a lurid picture of how Sherman had implemented a policy of wholesale arson during ‘the march’. Not content with the hardships that had been caused to the civilian population, he had given his verbal and written assurance that no man under his command would be placed on trial or punished in any way for looting.

  ‘And so, my friends,’ the spokesman continued. ‘Whole families were stripped bare of their possessions and left destitute, while Yankee officers and enlisted men amassed fortunes under those damnable orders which gave them the right to loot and pillage with impunity. Yet, debased as they were, Sherman’s marauders did not sink to the depths of Butler or Smethurst.’

  There would be few in the audience to argue against that point.

  Enlarging upon the former officer, the spokesman told of how he had ‘acquired’ and converted to his own use some eight hundred thousand dollars held in the Dutch Consul’s office in New Orleans. Probably, the masked man went on, he had further increased his fortune by other, undisclosed thefts. Certainly he had permitted his soldiers to go even further in their excesses than Sherman had allowed and to do worse than burn or loot Butler’s most notorious order—which, although the man omitted to mention the fact, General U. S. Grant had rescinded as soon as it had come to his attention—had read, If any woman give insult or offence to an officer or soldier of the Union Army, she shall be regarded and held liable to be treated as a woman of the streets plying her avocation! According to the spokesman, Butler’s troops had eagerly grasped the opportunities offered by such a vicious, ill-advised command decision.