The Bloody Border (6 page)

“I can imagine they would,” Belle smiled grimly. “That boy scares me.”

“That boy scares a whole heap of grown men along the border,” Shafto told her. “I went down to the waterfront to see what’s happening across the bay and have word sent to Colonel Ford, asking him not to make any moves against the Yankees tonight if he could avoid it.”

Belle nodded in satisfied agreement. Despite his failure to locate the two men in the garden, she knew Shafto to be a shrewd, capable agent. Only the fact that he could not be spared from his work in Matamoros, and his absence would probably be noticed, had prevented him from being assigned the task of delivering the money to General Klatwitter. Many men in Shafto’s position would have protested, maybe even have acted in a sulky, uncooperative manner under the same circumstances. He not only gave the girl every aid, but showed himself capable of acting on his own behalf when a forgotten point arose.

Across the Rio Grande, Colonel ‘Rip’ Ford commanded a small force trying to retake Brownsville from the Yankees. Trained in Indian warfare, Ford wore down the superior enemy strength by raids, alarms and darting attacks. If he should launch one that night, the Yankee ships would be on the alert; far more so than might be the case otherwise.

“Will Colonel Ford cooperate?” she asked.

“He always has before,” Shafto assured her. “The situation across the bay’s still the same. Three of the launches have been lowered from the ship, but haven’t left the harbour. Up to the time I left, only the
Waterbury
had put out its chain armour.”

As a precaution against attacks by torpedo or war-ram, Yankee ships at harbour or lying off Southern ports often hung a curtain of ‘chain armour’ around their sides from about eight feet above the water-line and extending some twenty-four inches below the surface. Made of lengths of chain-cable lashed together and suspended from a rod, the ‘armour’ offered some protection and lessened the effect of a ram’s charging impact or torpedo’s explosion.

“The new drifting torpedo’s designed to go under the armour,” Shafto replied. “By the way, I’ve arranged for a good man to follow that Corstin woman when she comes back to the hotel.”

“That’s good,” Belle said. “I’ve a feeling there’s more to her being here than meets the eye.”

They stood in the hall talking and then went on with their plan for confusing the Yankees. Returning to her room accompanied by a Negro maid, Belle changed into a dress. She handed the male clothing to the maid and asked, with gestures, for it to be washed. Sure that the Yankee watchers read her scrubbing motions correctly, and would see nothing wrong in a Southern girl expecting a coloured servant to wash clothes worn only for a short time, she followed the maid from the room. Then, to the maid’s surprise, she cancelled the order and took the clothes back again. However, being used to the eccentric ways of white fools, the negress asked no questions.

Shortly before dark the Kid returned, but he came neither in his usual clothing nor as a poor peon. Instead he arrived dressed in the style of a
vaquero
and riding his huge stallion which had turned into a piebald. Clothed in such a manner, he could wear his normal weapons. So the Dragoon Colt hung in its holster, the bowie knife rode its sheath and his Mississippi rifle was in the saddleboot.

“It’s an old trick,” he explained, seeing the girl studying the black patches on the stallion’s white coat. “Some powder a
Pehnane tsukup
, old man, makes up for us. It stands up to a fair washing in river or rain.”

“I don’t think anybody across there will recognise you,” Belie replied, curiosity satisfied. “Are you ready?”

“Why sure,” the Kid answered. “Pappy’ll be waiting for you when we’re all through. With luck, we’ll win you a day’s head start afore they know you’ve gone.”

oooOooo

* Tehnap’: an experienced warrior.

Chapter 6

Rising to the surface, a tarpon over five foot long sent a swirling eddy in the direction of the Yankee guard boat and submerged again. By that time such appearances had become so common that the sailors rowing guard across the mouth of Brownsville’s harbour no longer commented when one occurred. At that early hour of the evening, hardly past eight o’clock, they acted in a far more lax manner than later in the night, or on another station. Further north along the coast, attacks by Confederate submersibles, war-rams or other surface vessels kept the blockading fleets constantly on the alert. No such alarms had come in Brownsville, Colonel Rip Ford being a plainsman, skilled at land fighting but with no knowledge, or means, of making war on water.

However the relaxed performance of duty did not cause the men to overlook the two boats out on the river. One halted some way upstream, hanging in the current, while the other dropped down closer to the guard boat’s line of patrol.

“Ahoy there!” the midshipman commanding the guard boat called. “What boat’s that then?”

At the same moment he nodded and a man uncovered the head of a bull’s eye lantern to illuminate the other boat. Two Negroes lowered heavy weights on ropes to halt the boat’s progress and the third held a powerful fishing pole. Turning towards the speaker, the third Negro answered.

“We’ns out fishing for t’pon, sah,” he said, holding up his line with a small bait-fish kicking on the hook. “They am running just now.”

Seeing the man in his ragged shirt and pants, nobody would recognise him as the immaculate butler from the Confederate consulate. To the midshipman, raised in New England, the trio in the boat looked like any other ragged, ordinary negroes to be seen south of the Mason-Dixie line.

“Guard boat ahoy!” bellowed a voice from the steam-sloop moored just inside the harbour entrance. “What’s that boat doing?”

“It’s just some coons fishing, sir,” the midshipman called back. “Want for me to move ‘em on?”

“No, they’re doing no harm. If they catch one, have it sent aboard here.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Could you-all put out that light, sah?” the butler asked. “It am scaring the t’pon and I’d surely not want Cousin Rastus along there to catch one if I don’t. When dat happens, his missus done takes on and boasts about it and that gives my woman the miseries and I don’t get a lick of peace.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” grinned the midshipman and gave the required order.

Light or no light, the tarpon did not appear to be frightened away and it seemed that Cousin Rastus’ wife would have nothing to boast about the following day. Dropping in his bait as the light went out, the butler allowed it to float down the river. Barely had it gone three yards when there came a vicious swirl in the water and the fishing pole bowed over violently. Then a tarpon shot into the air, rising in the kind of leap fast gaining its kind the reputation of being superb sporting fish. Again the tarpon jumped, arching its body high as it tried to throw the hooks embedded in its jaws.

Just about to give the order to resume their patrol, the midshipmen closed his mouth. Sitting back, he watched the spectacular fight, pleased with the break in the monotonous routine.

Treading water in an effort to stem back against the current, Belle Boyd heard the commotion and guessed what had happened. It seemed that the fates looked kindly on her enterprise. At best she hoped that the Negroes would be allowed to carry on fishing, but expected them to be ordered away. Having a tarpon take the bait was a choice, unexpected piece of luck.

Luck or not, she refused to relax and become complacent. Across the bay, Shafto ought to be releasing his keg torpedo towards the second ship by that time. She must wait until sure before turning free the piece of driftwood from which her own device hung suspended below the surface.

Of the two, Belle was handling the more dangerous assignment. True Shafto had swum into the harbour, but sufficient tarpon had shown inside for him to pass unnoticed, or unsuspected. His torpedo consisted of a water-proofed wooden keg containing one hundred pounds of gun powder, with conical pine ends giving a streamlined shape easy to handle in the water, weighted down to the desired level. As long as he avoided knocking the five percussion detonators on the sides and top of the keg, he ran little risk from the torpedo.

Designed to counter chain armour, the device hanging so close to Belle was a more tricky thing entirely. Its firing charge, in a metal cylinder l6½ inches long and with a diameter of 11½ inches, might be less than the keg’s but the firing mechanism was more complicated. Attached to the bottom of the cylinder, a propeller operated gears which released a spring-loaded plunger to fire the charge. As long as the propellers pointed forward, the torpedo remained inoperative. When its driftwood support swept against the target, the dangling torpedo swung under the armour, turned and set the mechanism into operation.

A good idea, directing the charge where it would do most damage and explode at the right time. However—and here lay the snag—if for any reason the propeller case turned early, there would be a premature explosion.

Slowly she drifted closer to the steam sloop, seeing its bulk looming up ahead. Then she decided that the time had come.

Using the device by which the two men had entered the consulate grounds, Belle, the Kid and Shafto had left unseen by the Yankee observers. They passed through the town to where the Negroes and Shafto’s man waited with the boats. Already the torpedoes lay aboard ‘Cousin Rastus’ ’ boat and they moved into position. With the greater distance to cover, Shafto left first and Belle followed when sure he would be almost in place. The tidal current ran at a good speed, sweeping into the bay in a manner calculated to carry home the torpedoes. Everything went according to plan, without any hitch to delay or endanger its effective working.

Belle released the driftwood, watching it lurch forward and holding down a gulp of concern. No explosion came, so all must still be well beneath the surface. Turning, she started to swim away in the opposite direction and towards he guard boat. At first she went carefully, using a breast stroke and keeping her feet beneath the surface to minimize be noise she made. However, on drawing close to the boat, he struck out and splashed with her arms.

“What’s that?” one of the boat’s crew asked, turning his head her way.

“Another tarpon,” replied his companion on the thwart. For a moment Belle thought that the men would dismiss her as another of the big fish. However the midshipman looked her way and came to his feet.

“Tarpon, hell!” he ejaculated. “It’s a swimmer. After him, men!”

Powerful arms worked the oars, sending the boat leaping in Belle’s direction. She continued to swim, giving the impression that she was seeking to escape. Surging up, the boat ranged alongside her and hands reached down to catch her by the arm.

“Come on, mate,” said a voice. “Don’t struggle or I’ll have to crack your skull. You shouldn’t’ve tried to run, you’d never reach the other side.”

Just as Belle hoped, the men thought of her as a deserter from one of the ships. She intended to alter that as soon as possible. Another set of arms came down to catch her free wrist. Then the two sailors started to haul her upwards. Bracing her feet against the side of the boat, she struggled against the pull. With a growl of annoyance, the man on her left released her wrist with one hand and grabbed at the front of her shirt. She felt his hand close, loosen, feel at her breast then jerk away.

“Hell’s fire. It’s a woman!” the sailor gasped.

“Get your stinking Yankee hands off of me!” Belle hissed, sounding as feminine as she could manage.

Excitement welled up among the boat’s crew and all thought of the fight between the butler and tarpon were forgotten. Then the midshipman’s voice cut through the undisciplined row.

“Belay that bilge!” he barked and waited until silence fell on the crew. “Put a light on her, Torrey. Let’s see what the hell we’ve landed.”

‘Landed’ might be too premature a term, for the two sailors had not yet hauled Belle into the boat. The discovery that their captive was a woman handed them sufficient of a shock that they just sat holding her instead of raising her over the gunwale. Hanging in their hands, both bare feet firmly pressed against the side of the boat. Belle prepared to hand her captors another shock. She felt a slight upwards strain and knew the men had partially recovered from the surprise of their original discovery—and the explosions of the torpedoes still had not come to give the diversion she needed.

“You’ll make ensign at least for this, brassbounder,” she told the midshipman in a voice throbbing with well-assumed venom. “You’ve just captured Belle Boyd.”

Once again the pull upwards ended and the sailors stared at her.

“The Rebel Spy!” a man announced in an excited voice. Then he and all but Belle’s captors of the crew started to stand up, wishing to take a look at the legendary figure.

Despite all his attempts, Pinkerton, then head of the United States Secret Service, had failed to prevent news of Belle Boyd’s activities from appearing in the Yankee press. So her fame had spread and there could be few members of the Federal armed forces who had not heard of the Rebel Spy. Aware of that fact, Belle used it to buy her a little more time. Once in the boat, escape would be far harder than while still outside.

Even as the sailor with the lantern uncovered its face and directed a beam of light on Belle, showing without any doubt—due to the way the soaking shirt clung to her torso—that she was a woman, the required diversion came.

Carried against the side of the
Waterbury
, the piece of driftwood hung against the chain armour. Not so the torpedo which dangled at the end of a six foot triangle of rope fastened to the driftwood. Continuing forward, the torpedo passed beneath the hem of the armour and, as the rope drew tight, lifted until the pressure of the water forced it against the bottom of the sloop. Having achieved its purpose in circumventing the chain armour, the torpedo needed only to complete its work. The current beneath the sloop acted on the torpedo’s propellors, causing them to turn, operate the gearing that released the coilspring. Up slammed the plunger, hurled by the released spring, to strike the detonator. With a dull roar, the powder charge ignited. A gaping hole ripped in the
Waterbury’s
bottom, allowing the muddy water of the Rio Grande to gush in.

Nor did the effect end there. Still suspended on the side of the guard boat, Belle felt the concussion-spread wave arrive. Unlike the sailors, she expected—or hoped for—the explosion and was ready to take advantage of it. Given time, the guard boat’s crew might have realised why the Rebel Spy had been found so close to a Yankee warship and raised the alarm; but that time was not granted to them. Taken completely by surprise, two of the standing men went over the side as the boat rose and pitched on the wave. The lantern flew from its holder’s hand, struck the gunwale and flopped into the river.

No less startled than their companions, the two men holding Belle relaxed their grip. Ready for that to happen, the girl thrust herself backwards. Using all the strength in her powerful legs, she tore free from her captors’ surprise-loosened hands. She went away from the boat, twisting around and diving beneath the surface of the water. Then she started to swim upstream in search of her companions.

At the same moment that Belle jerked herself free from the sailors, the second torpedo made its presence felt. Caught by the spreading wave from the Waterbury, the keg torpedo crashed into the side of the second ship. Crushed against the side, two of the torpedo’s percussion detonators sparked their fire into the waiting charge. One hundred pounds of gun powder exploded with a roar that far exceeded the water-deadened boom of the drifting torpedo’s detonation. For some reason the ship’s captain had not ordered his chain armour to be spread, so the torpedo exploded against the bare side and blasted open a large hole.

Only by an effort of balance and skilled handling did the midshipman and crew prevent the guard boat capsizing. Horrible oaths ripped the air and gurgling yells rose from the two men in the water. Then the midshipman realised that his prize captive had escaped. Standing up, he glared around him. He saw that the Negro fishing boat was rowing hurriedly away from them, which did not surprise him. No Negro would wish to become involved in the fighting between rebels and Yankees. However there was no sign of the girl.

“Torrey!” he yelled. “Where’s that god-damned lantern?”

“Over the son-of-a-bitching side!” the sailor answered.

Although Torrey would never know it, the loss of the lantern probably saved his life. Upstream, in ‘Cousin Rastus’ ’ boat, the Ysabel Kid stood holding his Mississippi rifle ready to shoot anybody who used a light in an attempt to locate the swimming girl.

However the attempt could not be made. Nor did the guard boat’s crew try to find Belle by rowing upstream. Rockets rose into the air from both ships, flares glowed to illuminate the harbour, rattles and drum rolls sounded the alarm. In the flickering glare of artificial light, the midshipman saw his boat’s crew would be needed more urgently than in making a search for their escaped prisoner, even though she claimed to be the Rebel Spy.

Taking in water fast through the gaping hole ripped in her bottom, the
Waterbury
would need every hand at the pumps or for other work if she was to be saved. Nor did the second ship look to be in any better shape, holed at the waterline and already beginning to list. Desperately concerned with trying to keep their vessels afloat, nobody gave a thought to the second boat even though one of the rockets revealed it held two Negroes and two white men. Before the rocket’s glow died away, Rule Shafto reached the boat and hauled himself aboard.

“Belle—?” he asked.

“Coming now,” the Kid replied, pointing.

A tired Belle reached the boat and once again felt hands taking hold of her. Only this time she knew them to be friendly and did not struggle against their pull. Up she rose, over the boat’s gunwale and flopped exhaustedly on to a thwart.

“You all right, Miss Belle?” the Kid asked anxiously, raping a blanket around her.

“Ye—Yes,” she replied. “Ru—Rule—?”

“Here,” Shafto answered, sounding just as exhausted. “Get going, boys.”

Without needing urging, the Negroes started to row the boat at angle upstream and towards the Mexican shore. Already the explosions and confusion in the Brownsville harbour were attracting attention. However the French did not maintain any naval force in Matamoros harbour, so any danger would come from their army patrols.

“Maybe the Yankees’ll cut loose with their cannons,” the Kid remarked as he and Shafto’s white assistant took up two more oars.

“That’s not likely,” Belle replied. “If they miss, the ball will probably ricochet into Matamoros. They won’t risk that.”

“I’d say they’ve got their hands full right now, without bothering about us,” Shafto went on. “Make straight for the hide-out, boys.”

“We’ve got clean away,” the Kid breathed as the boat pulled alongside a wooden pier.

“Maybe,” Shafto answered. “There’s still the French curfew and Yankee Secret Service to beat. George, you’d best stay down here for the night.”

“Yes, sah, Massa Rule,” replied one of the negro oarsmen. “We’ll do that.”

“How about Amos and his men?” Belle inquired, meaning the butler.

“They’ll lay up until morning and then come ashore,” Shafto explained. “If possible we want to avoid them being tied in with this raid.”

Belle could understand the reason for the precaution. If the Yankees could prove Garfield knew of the raid, he would be discredited. Even if the French allowed the Confederate consulate to continue, it would be so closely watched that its use as a base for further operations would become negligible.

They landed unseen, leaving the boat at its moorings and with nothing to show they had used it. Then they went to the place from which the expedition had been launched. Ostensibly a warehouse owned by a British trading company, the building served as a base for shipping Texas-grown cotton and other produce, or storing goods run through the blockade until the Ysabels could arrange for their delivery across the Rio Grande.

Leaving the Negroes with the white man, Belle, the Kid and Shafto pushed on through the town’s curfew-emptied streets. Guided and aided, by the Kid’s cat-keen eyes and remarkably keen ears, the trio avoided contact with the French patrols enforcing the curfew. The wisdom of taking an indirect route to the consulate showed on their arrival. Reaching the rear of the grounds, they found the Yankee watchers gone from the street, probably to investigate the disturbance at the river. So they entered the grounds through the rear gate without being detected.

Once inside, however, Belle went ahead with her plan of allowing the Yankees to know that she had taken an active part in the raid. Before going upstairs, she had water tipped over her. Then, in her room, she lit the lantern and felt sure her soaked condition would be noticed. If so, the watchers ought to take the point that she had recently been in the water.

Standing at the foot of the bed, where she knew the men across the street could see her, she steeled herself for a further disrobing. After peeling off the wet garments, she took up a towel and began to dry herself. With that completed she started to dress in the clothing bought for her by Shafto. Pulling the black shirt and trousers on over a change of underwear, she looked around the room. Everything was as she left it. Her trunks stood open, clothing inside. However the money and a few vital items had been unloaded before the trunks came up and were waiting for her down below, packed in a set of saddlebags.

Then, acting as if on an afterthought, she crossed to the window and started to draw down the hanging drapes, but not to the bottom. While the men across the street could still see into the room, their view had been curtailed. For one thing they could no longer see higher than slightly above the girl’s waist as she walked about, although they were still able to look on to the bed.

Leaving the room, she found the Kid waiting in the hall.

He also wore a black shirt and pants, they being the only matching garments Shafto could find of suitable sizes. Belle thought the colour distinctive enough for their purpose.

“Reckon I’ll get by?” he asked, with a glance at the room’s door.

“I think I’ve a better shape.” Belle replied with a smile. “But with the curtains drawn down, it’s likely the Yankees won’t notice the difference. You’d best not walk around too much though.”

“That’s for sure,” he answered, also grinning. “I’ll give you ‘n’ pappy a day’s head start, more if the Yankees look to be fooled.”

“And then?”

“I’ll come after you.”

“Will you be able to find us?”

“I’m
Nemenuh
, of The People, the Comanche,” the Kid told her with quiet, reassuring dignity. “I’ll find you.”