Dusty Fog's Civil War 9

by J. T. Edson

  “That’s Smee’s ship, Dusty,” Belle said.

  “She’s not coming right in,” he replied.

  “I never thought she would. We’ll go out by rowing-boat and visit with her captain.”

  “We will,” Dusty agreed. “But not the money until after I’m satisfied that the arms are worth it.”

  “You’ve got a suspicious mind, Captain Fog,” smiled the girl.

  “Why sure,” Dusty grinned back. “But I only got it after I tied in with you.”

  An hour later, after returning to the hotel which housed them and making all the necessary arrangements, Belle and Dusty sat in a shore-boat handled by a burly Mexican and skimmed towards the Lancastrian. The ship now rocked gently at anchor and a gangway hung down the side. With considerable skill, the Mexican boatman laid alongside the gangway and Dusty took out money to pay him.

  Belle climbed the gangway ahead of Dusty and stepped on to the deck, halting to look around her. Some half a dozen or so seamen dressed in the usual fashion stood about, eyeing her with interest, but she ignored the glances, directing her attention to the two men who approached. Captain Smee looked much the same as on their previous meeting; tall, gaunt, miserable of feature. However, she could not recall having seen the tall, powerful man who followed on his heels. Clearly this one was a ship’s officer, for he wore the same style peaked hat as Smee, a frock coat and trousers tucked into sea boots.

  “Good afternoon, Captain Smee,” Belle greeted, sensing that the man did not recognize her.

  Then recognition came to Smee’s face. “It’s Miss Tracey, isn’t it?” he said. “But you had—”

  “We ladies do change the color of our hair occasionally,” Belle smiled. “May I present Captain Edward Marsden of the Confederate States Army? Captain Marsden, this is Captain Smee, of whom I have told you, and—”

  “My—mate,” Smee introduced, reading the question in Belle’s unfinished sentence and inquiring glance at the other office. “Mr. Stone.”

  Apparently Stone belonged to the strong, silent class, for he acknowledged the introduction with nothing more than a grunt and did not offer his hand. Ignoring the other’s silence, Dusty looked around him and then turned to Smee. “You don’t have many men about, captain.”

  “They’re all—” Smee hesitated and threw a quick glance at Stone, then went on. “They’re all ashore except for an anchor watch. I didn’t want too many knowing about the arms.”

  That figured; Smee could find himself in serious trouble if it became known that he sold arms to the Confederate States while in a neutral port.

  “Speaking of the arms,” Belle put in. “May we see them?”

  “They’re in the forward hold,” Smee answered. “Do you have the money?”

  “It’s on shore, and will stay there until I’m satisfied with the consignment, captain,” Dusty stated.

  “Come this way then,” Smee growled.

  With Stone following on his heels, Smee led Belle and Dusty to the hatch which gave access to the forward hold. Climbing down, he turned the wick of a lantern hanging from a beam and illuminated the cargo. He waved a hand towards a long row of variously shaped boxes.

  “There they are. The same weapons Miss Tracey saw in England.”

  “My apologies, sir,” Dusty answered. “But I’ve my duty to do; and my orders are to check the arms before accepting them. You don’t object?”

  After throwing a quick glance in Stone’s direction, Smee gave a shrug. “Why should I object? There’s a crowbar, open any box you want.”

  Picking up the bar Smee indicated, Dusty walked along the row of boxes. He noticed that a couple had been opened recently and gave them his first attention. Forcing up the lid, he lifted out one of the rifles. Although smothered in grease, as one might expect, the weapon proved to be in excellent condition, and after a thorough cleaning would be ready for use. After selecting from three other rifle boxes, Dusty sampled among the boxes of ammunition, again finding everything to be satisfactory.

  “They’ll do,” he said, returning to the others. “When we get outside I’ll signal to my men to fetch the money along.”

  “I explained to Captain Smee and Mr. Stone that we didn’t consider it safe to have that much money standing on the dock for any length of time, Edward,” Belle remarked. “The captain has invited us to take a meal with him while we’re waiting. If it’s all right with you, I’ve accepted.”

  “You’re handling the play, Miss Tracey,” Dusty agreed.

  On the deck again, Dusty removed his campaign hat and waved it twice in an anti-clockwise direction over his head. Standing on the dock, Red saw his cousin’s signal and signified to that effect by repeating it. Turning, the young lieutenant swung astride his waiting horse and rode back towards the better part of town.

  With the formalities handled, Smee led his guests to a door set in the poop-deck. Beyond it lay his quarters, two fair-sized cabins which gave him far greater space and comfort than that allocated to his officers or men. In the first cabin a table lay set ready and Smee waved his guests into their seats. The taciturn Stone followed the party in and drew up a chair without saying a word.

  Dusty looked around the cabin, glancing at a couple of good pictures on the walls, then towards an open case holding a pair of fine epée de combat. While not mentioning the swords, he wondered about them. Smee did not strike Dusty as being the kind of man who would own such weapons.

  Following Dusty’s gaze, Smee seemed to think that an explanation was needed. “I picked them up cheap,” he remarked, nodding to the case. “There’s always a good sale for a fine sword in Mexico.”

  At that moment the door opened and a steward entered. Yet he was a most unusual type of man to be handling such a sedentary occupation, being six feet tall, burly and weather-beaten. Carrying a large tray, he approached the table and began to serve out the soup course.

  Conversation did not prove to be a success during the meal. Although Belle tried to draw Stone into speech, he restricted his answer to non-committal grunts or terse comments of “Yes” or “No.” Nor did Smee improve matters, for he appeared to have little small talk. In fact he acted as nervous as a hound-scared cat, throwing many worried glances towards the cabin’s main door.

  While watching Smee, Dusty happened to glance in Stone’s direction and noticed that the man held his knife in the left hand. So did Belle and Dusty if it came to that—but Smee used his right for the same purpose. Nothing Dusty had seen about Stone, apart from the mate’s scarcity of conversation, hinted at a lack of knowledge of etiquette. Yet he sat holding his knife in the wrong hand—for a European.

  A tingling sensation ran down Dusty’s spine. At the same moment the steward leaned over to pass a plate to Smee and his white jacket trailed open. Underneath, strapped to his belt, hung a long-bladed sheath knife. Or was it just a sheath knife? A second look showed that the blade was curved and its handle had the shape of an old-time pistol’s butt. Such a weapon had significant overtones to a man who studied weapons as Dusty had.

  Casting a glance at Belle, Dusty tried to read from her face if she felt as concerned and uneasy as he did. Not by as much as a flicker of an eyelid could he decide and so sat back to await developments.

  “Shore-boat coming off,” announced a seaman, poking his head around the door after knocking.

  The door closed again and the steward moved around the table, approaching it from behind Dusty’s back and reaching out big hands towards the small Texan. Suddenly, and without giving any indication of his intentions, Dusty caught up the plate from before him and hurled it over his shoulder full into the steward’s face. Taken by surprise, the man gave a startled yell as the plate shattered on striking him. He went back a couple of steps and before he caught his balance had Dusty’s thrown-over chair wrapped around his legs.

  In almost the same move that he hurled back the plate and thrust his chair from under him, Dusty’s hands caught the edge of the table. With a heave, he tipped t
he table over into Stone’s lap. The mate, starting to rise and reaching towards his waistband, let out a yell as plates, cups and other contents of the table cascaded into his lap. Pure instinct caused him to rise and back off hurriedly. His legs became entangled with his chair and it tipped over, bringing him crashing to the floor.

  Smee began to rise, his face working and mouth opening to say, or shout, something. Under the circumstances Dusty did not dare waste time learning which. Coming erect as he hurled over the table, the small Texan pivoted and delivered a karate forward stamping kick which caught Smee in the center of his chest, chopped off his speech unsaid and pitched him and his chair over.

  “Get the hell out of here, Belle!” Dusty barked. “It’s a trap.”

  Even as Dusty made his first move, Belle had been thrusting back her chair. Stone’s continued silence had first aroused her suspicions, taken with the fact that she had not seen the man and been introduced to an entirely different first mate while in England. Nor had his breach of European table manners gone unnoticed by the girl. Belle had also seen the steward’s knife, recognizing it for what it was. Everything added up to a highly disturbing fact. Somehow or other, she and Dusty had walked into trouble. Stone’s silence meant that if he spoke, his accent would give him away as not being British. One did not need to be a mental genius to figure things out after reaching that conclusion.

  Rising, Belle darted to the door of the cabin and pulled it open. The big seaman who brought word of the shore-boat’s arrival stood outside. Seeing the girl, he sprang forward, hands lifting towards her. Belle rocked back a pace and slammed the door with all her strength; its sturdy timbers struck the man and staggered him back. Before he could recover and rush forward once more, Belle had slid home the bolts and spun around.

  “Go through the night cabin and up on to the poop-deck!” she shouted.

  No seaman, Dusty did not know what the hell the girl meant by poop-deck; but he could only see one way out of the cabin now the main entrance was barred. Giving forth a string of good Yankee curses, the steward whipped out the naval dirk which had so interested Dusty—at that time the curved bladed variety still remained the more usual type issued to members of both U.S. and Confederate Navies and the pistol-grip handle was much favored by Yankee seamen.

  Steel rasped as 4he Haiman Bros, saber slid from its sheath. Dusty cut across as the steward tried to block his way to the night cabin’s door. A cry of pain burst from the man’s lips as the blade of Dusty’s saber slashed into his right forearm. The knife clattered from a hand the steward would never use again and he reeled blindly aside, clutching at his wound as he went to his knees.

  Belle made the door of the night cabin in one bound, jerking it open and running across to the companionway which led to the poop-deck entrance. Throwing a glance at Stone as the man rose and leapt towards the cased epée de combat, Dusty decided to put off a fight until after he warned his friends of their danger. Darting through the night cabin’s door, he slammed it to and sprang across to the companionway, passing Belle without formality. One shove threw open the hatch cover and Dusty swung out on to the raised poop-deck. Already two of the seamen made their way towards the deck, cutlasses which had been kept hidden, but ready for use, gripped in their hands.

  “Red!” Dusty roared, leaping to meet the men as they swarmed up the companionway. “It’s a trap. Yeeah, Texas Light!”

  In the shore-boat, which held all their property ready for a hurried departure on going aboard the Lancastrian, Red and the others heard Dusty’s yell mingle with startled, pure Yankee curses from the watching seaman at the head of the gangway. Even as the significance of the seamen’s speech struck Red, he saw them produce cutlasses.

  “Yeeah!” he yelled in answer to Dusty’s war shout. “Cold steel, Billy Jack. Watch the boatman, Major, Dick. Let’s go up and at ’em, Texas Light!”

  Remembering the warnings given by the French about breaches of neutrality, Red thought fast and gave a necessary order. While a sword fight might pass unnoticed from the shore, one could be certain that the sound of shooting would attract attention. Apparently the Yankees appreciated that fact as well as did the Texans, for they met Red and Billy Jack’s rush with cold steel instead of lead.

  Belle drew herself on to the poop-deck as Dusty met the first rush from below and looked to see how she might best help out. A sound from below took her attention and she looked back in the direction from which she fled. Epée in hand, Stone burst from the day cabin and rushed up the companion way. While he saw Belle, he made the mistake of dismissing her as a factor. Going on his knowledge of Southern girls, gained in the days before the War, Stone expected Belle to do no more than scream a warning to the Texan who would most likely have plenty on his hands without that distraction.

  Resting his sword hand on the edge of the hatch, Stone forced himself upwards. Like a flash, Belle raised her right leg and stamped it down hard. The high heel of her boot spiked into the back of Stone’s hand, bringing a startled yelp and causing him to release his hold of the epée. Even as the sword clattered to the deck, Belle brought off a stamping kick to Stone’s face and tumbled him back down the companionway. A glance across the deck warned her that she must help Dusty—and quickly before it was too late.

  At first, Dusty held the two men from gaining a foothold on the poop-deck. Then he saw a third sailor in the act of swinging up from the main deck so as to climb the rail and attack from the flank. A swift bound to the rear carried Dusty into position, but he knew there would not be time to turn and use his saber. Instead his left arm lashed around the back of his fist driving full into the climbing man’s face and pitching him off his perch. While he had removed one danger, Dusty saw that the other two seamen had reached the deck and came rushing at him, one slightly ahead of the other.

  Around and out lashed the leading man’s cutlass. Dusty shot back his left leg and went into a near-perfect turning passata sotto. As the cutlass hissed over his head, Dusty thrust upward. The point of his saber bit in under his attacker’s breast bone and drove up to split his heart.

  Unable to reach Dusty with his blade, due to his companion blocking his way, the second man launched out a kick. The tip of his heavy sea boot smashed into Dusty’s right shoulder and flung the young Texan over. Dusty’s arm went numb and the saber fell from his hand as he went rolling to the edge of the deck. At which point Belle took a very effective hand. A jerk at her waistband freed the skirt and she bounded clear to rush across the deck. For a vital instant the shock of her actions froze the seaman into immobility. While Belle had taken the precaution of wearing her riding breeches under the skirt, she still presented an eye-catching picture—more so to a man who had been at sea and away from female company for several months.

  Sheer instinct made him beat at the flickering blade of Belle’s epée and he realized that the girl meant her attack. Already two more men, one with his nose running blood, were climbing to the poop-deck and Belle knew she needed help.

  “Red!” she shrieked, lunging and driving her epée into the first man’s forearm. “Get up here quickly!”

  While willing to obey, Red found carrying out the request difficult. He and Billy Jack might be better hands with a sword than the two men blocking their path, but fighting upwards put them at a disadvantage. It was all the two Texans could do to hold off the slashes launched at them and neither found chance to make an offensive. Watching from the shore-boat, Amesley thrust himself to his feet and mounted the ladder. Behind him, Dusty’s striker remained watching the Mexican boatman and protecting the party’s baggage. Advancing until he stood behind the two Texans, Amesley drew his epée. For a moment he waited, then saw his chance. Out flickered the blade, passing between Red and Billy Jack to sink into the thigh of one of their attackers. Jumping forward, Red smashed the hilt of his saber against the side of the wounded man’s head before he recovered from the shock of the sudden attack. The seaman hit the side of the gangway and plunged into the water. A mo
ment later his companion went reeling back from a cut to the body launched by the gangling sergeant-major.

  “Get to Dusty quick!” Amesley ordered.

  Springing to the head of the gangway, Red and Billy Jack raced towards the stern and hoped they might arrive in time. Bursting from the entrance where he had been guarding the Lancastrian’s crew, a seaman charged along the deck. Amesley halted and met the attack. While handicapped by his injured leg, he still retained the marvelous control of his sword which made him famous as a maitre d’armes. Clumsy slashing had never been a match for the skilled use of a point; and so it proved. Two quick parries, then a lunge and Amesley’s epée tore into the sailor’s body, dropping him bleeding to the deck.

  On the poop Belle displayed her skill with a sword by holding back the attackers who tried to get by her. Fighting desperately, she gave Dusty time to rise. With his right arm still numb and useless, Dusty bent and caught up the saber in his left hand. He came alongside Belle, caught a slash launched at him, deflected it and laid open its deliverer’s belly by a quick riposte. Then he saw Stone appear once more at the hatch top. Before he could disengage from the seaman, Dusty watched Stone make the deck. Turning, the small Texan left Belle to handle the seaman and sprang to meet the advancing Stone.

  Never had the ambidextrous ability Dusty developed as a boy—a kind of defense to draw people’s attention from his lack of height—been of such use. With his right arm too numb and sore to be of use, he could still handle the saber almost as well with his left. In fact the left-hand style of fighting, which Dusty adopted completely, gave Stone, used to handling opponents who fought from the right, some trouble. Taken with the fact that Stone had become accustomed to wielding a naval sword designed, like the saber, for cut-and-slash tactics, Dusty’s left-hand style kept him alive. Even so he knew it would be a close thing in his present condition. The two men came up close, sword hilts locking together. At one side Belle gave a quick glance at the men as they strained against each other and she knew the fight must be concluded speedily before somebody on shore noticed it and informed the authorities.