by J. T. Edson
The words came to an end as Jacques and his companion saw—and were amazed more than puzzled—by what Belle was doing.
The girl had decided against having a handbag of any kind with her, and the nature of her attire had prevented her from bringing even a weapon as small as a Derringer single-shot pistol or one of its many copies manufactured with ease of concealability in mind. However, the omission did not mean she was without adequate means of defending herself. She had, in fact, come prepared for the contingency that she knew would arise once her companion was satisfied that cheating was taking place and she announced this in the way she had done. Nor was she placing her reliance solely on the bracelet with the sharpened section of its rim given to her by Captain Anatol de-Farge as a means of defensive or offensive action. She had been warned of the risks that would be entailed, but was counting on the element of surprise giving her an opportunity she intended to make the most of.
Grasping the dainty and fragile-looking parasol at the top of the rolled canopy in her left hand, Belle did not intend to make use of its special function for the moment. Nevertheless, despite realizing that she must carry out her other idea to provide the effect she desired, she found forcing herself with more effort than she had anticipated would be needed when planning for such a contingency. What she intended to do was something that her upbringing came close to revolting against. However, she steeled her resolve by recollecting that she had permitted herself to be stripped to the waist while supposedly fighting with Roxanne Fortescue-Smethers in the ring at Captain Anatol de-Farge’s gambling house near Baton Bayou— where there were men who might have recognized her despite the change of hair color and if the mask she wore had been displaced—for a far less important reason than the serious business she was engaged upon this night. Sucking in a quick breath, she compelled herself to use her right hand to give a sharp tug at the waistband of her crinoline dress. Doing so proved this to be a garment in two portions. As was intended and had always happened when she practiced the move before a full-length mirror in the privacy of her room at Rose Green-how’s home, the hem of the skirt opened.
On the girl giving the required quick shaking motion from her hips, the liberated skirt began to slide downward. The unexpected development was followed with interest by the gazes of more than one pair of masculine eyes, but she was concerned only with the effect it was having on the two men. What was brought into view was both satisfying to their lascivious proclivities and puzzling. While the falling away of the garment showed that she was wearing abbreviated white frilly-legged satin pantalets, and that the red slashes of suspender straps descended to support black stockings adding to the allure, she had on sharp-toed black riding boots with moderate heels instead of the kind of footwear that might be expected to be in accord with the kind of ensemble she had selected to give credence to her role as “Magnolia Beauregard.”
As soon as the girl started the discarding of the skirt, having been told on the way to the gambling house what would happen—as both had agreed it was practically certain to occur— when the need to do so arose, Brambile rose and swiftly slid out the blade of the sword that was concealed in his ebony walking cane. However, he did not start to put it to use. Instead, he just held it where the clearly razor-sharp and needle-pointed Toledo steel could be seen. Knowing there could be a need for an even more potent means of controlling the situation, he sent his right hand to pass with an equal alacrity behind his back beneath the loosely fitting white frock coat, to emerge holding a Colt 1860 Army Model revolver that had had its loading lever removed and barrel shortened to two inches. However, the modification did not cause it to be any less effective as a weapon at the close quarters he would need to use it should the situation demand.
“Drop the screw box!” the gambler demanded, leveling the gun at the dealer. All suggestion of being of advanced years had fallen away from him, but just a hint of Colonel Culpepper returned to his voice as he continued dryly, “Or would you care to take odds on avoiding a new head?”
While Brambile was having his command obeyed, at the other end of the table a potential threat to Belle and himself was being nullified.
Seeing that one of the massive bouncers was coming her way, Roxanne stood up with a vehemence that sent her chair skidding across the well-polished floor and warned him vocally that he should change his mind on the issue. Being employed for bulk and muscle rather than intelligence, he neglected to accept the suggestion. Thrusting forward his right arm, he was ready to shove the redhead aside when he found that his idea was fraught with problems he had not envisaged. A shake of her right wrist caused a bracelet similar to the one de-Farge had given to the slender girl to slide down until she could grasp it by the unsharpened portion.
Knocking the approaching hand aside with her left forearm and using the skill she had acquired during the real and faked fights in which she had engaged for the entertainment of de-Farge’s customers, the redhead swung the disguised weapon so its cutting edge laid open his cheek. Jerking her elegant dress’s skirt with her other hand until it was high enough to allow the required freedom of movement, she used her left foot to give an added impetus as he staggered back, his hands going to the bleeding gash. Tripping, he sat down on the floor with a thud that drove all the breath from his lungs and rendered him incapable of doing anything other than sit there.
“Keep out of it!” Roxanne commanded as men who were acting as dealer and supervisor at a nearby table given over to chemin de fer rose from their places.
While speaking, the redhead crouched with the bloodstained bracelet grasped ready for use. The demeanor she presented and the look on her face made her appear to be as dangerous as a bobcat facing up to a pack of hounds. Both being shorter and less heavily built than the bouncer with whom she had dealt so effectively, also being employed for their manipulative skills with a deck of cards rather than the brawn required to deal with recalcitrant players, the pair took the warning she gave to heart and resumed their seats to await developments on the part of others more capable of tackling the furiously glaring woman.
Before either Jacques or Hunt could recover from their surprise and start moving again after the unexpected development had caused them to halt a short distance away, Belle stepped clear of the skirt and went into action. Having disliked the way in which Hunt had looked her over on arrival and since, she made him the first subject of her attention. Gliding forward, she whipped her right leg upward. The way she did so proved she had not forgotten the suggestion made by Captain Alexandre Dartagnan while they were discussing the means she had employed when attempting to go to the assistance of Alfred Higgins on the night of the abortive robbery in Richmond.
Rising between the inadvertently parted thighs of the gambling house’s tall and gaunt partner, the toe of Belle’s boot— which proved even more efficacious than the footwear worn for savate boxing would have been—struck upon a most vulnerable portion of his anatomy with considerable force. Even as he was letting out a strangled gurgle of agony and folding over, his assailant gave her attention to his partner, thinking that the result produced by following Dartagnan’s advice made doing so worthwhile under the prevailing conditions.
However, on this occasion, the girl did not try to use the same kind of tactics.
Instead, having grasped the parasol just below its handle as soon as she no longer needed her other hand for helping retain her balance while delivering the devastating kick, Belle gave a twist at it in opposite directions with both hands. On separating into two portions, the handle section—which had a small metal ball on top—was swung in a whip like upward arc. Proving to be attached to a coil spring that emerged from being telescoped into the interior, the ball was given an added impetus as it struck Jacques on the temple with a resounding thwack. With eyes glazing, his head snapped around and his bulky body crumpled like a rag doll from which all the stuffing has suddenly been removed, and he fell flaccidly to the floor.
“Calm yourselves, ladies and gentlemen!” Brambile
thundered as the second of the men attacked by the girl went down. ‘The charge made by my companion is true. Cheating is taking place in this game, and I can prove it!”
Having laid down his sword while speaking, the gambler quickly removed a silver whistle from his left-side outer jacket pocket. In answer to the shrill and loud blast he gave upon it, the front and other doors of the room were burst open. Soldiers, men wearing the distinctive blue uniforms of the Atlanta Police Department, and a few civilians entered swiftly. The latter group included Alfred Higgins, whose skill at manipulating his “twirls” had gained them admittance, and their surprise arrival had allowed them to silence any chance of an outcry being given by the staff who were working other than in the main room. Since they were all carrying revolvers, their entrance caused the remainder of the gambling house’s staff to put aside any thoughts of hostilities.
Nor did any of the people who had been playing the various games raise any objections over what had happened. There were no laws prohibiting gambling in the city any more than elsewhere through the South, so they were all motivated by a desire to find out whether the allegations of cheating could be substantiated. Introducing himself and finding that he was known by reputation if not sight to a number of the crowd, Brambile soon satisfied them on the matter by demonstrating the use of the screw box and describing how other malpractices had been carried out. Having been told that they would be able to recoup whatever losses they had incurred that evening— although some of the more senior officers wanted to know what had caused the gambler and “Miss Beauregard” to arrive so fortuitously and accepted the promise made by Colonel Charles Jeremiah Mason that he would submit a report in writing the following day—they all settled down to await the return of the money.
While the men were attending to things, Belle went to thank Roxanne for not having exposed her as well as for preventing the participation of the bouncer and other members of the staff. In return, the redhead assured Belle that the feeling regarding not having been given away were mutual and that things were far from being as they appeared in her case, then promised to make a full explanation at a more propitious moment. Belle agreed to the arrangement and suggested that Roxanne should avail herself of the offer to recoup her losses, and she said that she would be delighted to do so with perhaps a little added to the actual sum. She also remarked with a twinkle in her eyes that it was a pity Jacques and Hunt did not have a ring set up so they could earn themselves some money by entertaining the gamblers with another stirring and profitable “fight.” Also amused by the proposition, the girl said she doubted whether her superior would be in favor of her taking part in such a thing.
~*~
“I would like to congratulate you on a most excellent piece of work last night, Miss Boyd, Mr. Brambile,” Colonel Charles Mason announced once the pair were seated across from him at his desk. They had been asked to be there at nine o’clock in the morning and had felt it incumbent upon them to arrive punctually, which he showed signs of appreciating. “When he recovered from your—attack, ma’am, Hunt proved to be most cooperative in the hope of saving his neck. With Jacques being dead and unable to deny the charge, he claimed he was not involved in the blackmailing which obtained military secrets for the North and had, in fact, only learned such was taking place that evening. We found all we needed to know and retrieved all the latest acquisitions from the safe which he opened for us. There will be nothing more going to the Yankees.”
“Do the names of the victims have to be made public, sir?” the girl asked, having learned after leaving together what brought Roxanne Fortescue-Smethers to the gambling house so fortuitously and hoping to avoid having the cause of Lieutenant Phillipe de-Farge’s suicide become known.
“We don’t intend to do so,” Mason declared. “It won’t achieve anything other than ruin some promising careers, and I feel sure none of them will ever make a similar mistake after I or the commanding general have interviewed them. I trust you don’t feel too badly over what happened to Jacques, Miss Boyd?”
“I don’t,” Belle replied. “Although I would have preferred that it didn’t happen.”
Having been told before she left the gambling house that the blow to the temple from her spring-loaded weapon had caused such a severe concussion that its recipient died without regaining consciousness, the girl had felt only a slight remorse. The man she had struck down was an enemy of the South— who could also be considered a traitor, it having been discovered from Hunt that he was born in Nashville, Tennessee, a state that had espoused the Confederate cause—working for financial gain rather than patriotism or support of the Union.
Belle had taken additional solace from also having been convinced that, having the accusation of cheating made, the pair would not have hesitated to take reprisals of a severe nature against herself and Brambile. Considering the lecherous way in which Jacques and Hunt had looked at her, probably these would have even entailed rape where she was concerned. What was more, she had accepted when becoming a member of the Confederate States Secret Service that her duties might entail the taking of another human being’s life. It was also her sworn intention to kill George Tollinger and Alfred Barmain if she was granted an opportunity.
By her action when dealing with Jacques, Belle Boyd had taken another step along the road that would lead to her becoming known as the Rebel Spy.
Part Three – Mission Into Enemy Territory
Chapter One – You Sound Like Johnny Rebs!
“Howdy, fellers,” Captain Jethro “Stone” Hart greeted with his Texas drawl made rougher and more crude-sounding than was usually the case, as he and Sergeant Standish “Waggles” Harrison rode into view along a small track leading from a clump of trees to where a corporal and two cavalrymen in Union blue were approaching from the opposite direction. “You headed for Washington?”
“Sure,” the corporal answered, looking in disdain at the pair and something close to envy when starting to study the excellent quality of the horse each rode while leading another just as good. However, neither he nor the enlisted men were showing any surprise at seeing from where they had emerged. “We’re on furlough. How about you?”
“Taking these hosses to our colonel in Glissade,” Stone lied, noticing that the shorter and older of the two enlisted men was eyeing him in a more speculative fashion than the non-com. “Trust him to have fine critters like these here, you should see what we get give’ to ride.”
“That’s for sure!” Waggles declared vehemently, making no attempt to hide the fact that his origins also were in Texas, although having no need to give the words a simulated suggestion of possessing lower educational standards than was the case with his superior. As he was speaking, the gaze of the older cavalryman swung his way and became more contemplative. “Hell, I wouldn’t’ve been seed dead riding what I’ve been give’ was I back to home.”
If the Captain and Sergeant had been dressed in the usual fashion as required by their having been seconded to the staff of General John Bell Hood’s Texas Brigade of the Confederate States Army, the speculation would have been understandable. However, instead of their smart and well-cared-for cadet-gray cavalry attire, they had on slovenly uniforms of a style similar to that of the three Yankees seen by Waggles just in time for them to halt and allow the third member of the party to take cover with the packhorse that was carrying all they needed for the journey they were making. Realizing that the trio were coming their way, Stone and his noncom advanced to see what could be done to avoid letting the presence of their companion become discovered.
Just over six feet tall and in his mid-twenties, there was none of Stone’s usual smartness of appearance about him. His black hair showed untidily from beneath a grubby U.S. Cavalry kepi and covered the cheeks of his handsome face with stubble. Selected to conceal the fact as far as was possible, as was his deliberately slouching posture, his slender frame gave no suggestion of its whipcord power. Of a bad fit, despite the triple chevrons of a sergeant attached out
of alignment on his sleeves, the rest of his uniform was no more clean and gave suggestions of neglect rather than hard usage. If looked at more closely than was happening, it would have been obvious that the saber in the slings at the left side of his waist belt was of more excellent manufacture and kept in better condition than his attire implied should be the case. The closed top of the holster on the right prevented the turned-forward walnut butt of his Colt Model of 1860 Army revolver from being seen. If it had been examined, its first-rate condition would have indicated that it, too, was better maintained than his slovenly demeanor would have led one to expect.
Matching his superior in height, around ten years older, Waggles was more heavily built without being bulky. His rusty-brown hair just as uncombed and his leathery brown unemotional face also in need of a shave, he had taken care to ensure that he was no more smartly dressed. Nevertheless, the weapons that duplicated those of Stone—except for the saber being of a slightly lower quality—were equally indicative of regular care and attention.
Standing in concealment but able to watch what was taking place, Belle Boyd was ready to prevent any sound leaving either of her two excellent riding horses or the pack animal left in her keeping. Her face streaked by dirt and hair covered with a black Burnside hat liberally coated with trail dust, she had on clothes similar to those worn by the two Texans. However, the weapon at the left-side slings of her belt was an epee de combat made to her specifications by a master cutler in Richmond who had at first seemed puzzled by her insistence upon the features she required—such as a knuckle bow hand guard on the handle—and then, accepting that she knew exactly what she wanted, produced a superlative example of his workmanship. It was designed to be easily taken apart, and, when necessary, the blade would be transported in a hollow walking stick while the handle would be concealed among feminine attire in her baggage. Chosen to ride properly in her Union Cavalry-pattern holster was a Colt Model of 1851 Navy Belt Pistol, a six-shot .36-caliber revolver despite its name, with a seven-and-a-half-inch octagonal barrel.