The Rebel Spy (7 page)

“Reckon the Yankees’d be used to seeing them, then,” Dusty drawled.

“I’d say so,” agreed Pinckney.

Looking at the wooded banks of the river, Dusty sucked in a breath. He did not wish to appear foolish and hesitated before offering what might be an impractical suggestion.

“I’ve got a fool notion that you might like to try, Mr. Pinckney,” he said, and after explaining it finished, “Mind, I don’t know sic ‘em about boats or if it’ll be possible to do.”

“It’d be possible all right, but riskier than all hell,” Pinckney answered. “Just how important is this mission you’re on, Miss Boyd?”

“So important that its failure could cost us the war,” Belle told him. “And any delay increases the danger.”

“Then it’s important for us to take the chance,” Pinckney decided. “We’ll give your ‘fool notion’ a whirl, Captain Fog. Take her ashore, cox’n.”

Deftly swinging the
Jack
nearer to the bank, the cox’n watched for a place where there would be sufficient water close in for them to stop without running aground. Not until two miles fell behind them did he find the kind of place he wanted and during that time Pinckney explained Dusty’s scheme to his attentive crew. If the grins of the three men proved anything, they felt no concern at chancing their lives to the small Texan’s ‘fool notion’.

With the
Jack
bobbing in a bay just deep enough to keep her afloat, but offering some slight shelter should any Yankee warship happen to pass, the party went to work. Taking the field glasses used by the look-out, Belle went to a place from which she could keep watch on the river and left the men to handle the work. Putting aside all thought of rank, Dusty and Pinckney helped the three enlisted men to cut branches and bushes, then take the material to the boat. With a sense of urgency driving them, the men secured their gatherings until all the upper deck and its fittings lay hidden under a ragged, yet natural-appearing, mass of vegetation. While the sailors added the finishing touches, Pinckney and Dusty discussed the dangers which lay ahead.

“We’ll have to go with the current when anybody’s watching,” the lieutenant warned. “And stay as far away as possible from whoever is watching. It’d be best if we ran by Baton Rouge in the dark, too. The Yankees only have small garrisons in most places, but they hold the major cities with strong forces.”

“How about fuel?” asked Dusty.

“We’ll need to pick some up. I know of a couple of secret supplies left by the cutting parties from the different woodings.”

Having made a long trip on a riverboat, Dusty knew about woodings. Professional wood-cutters made their living by hewing timber and collecting it at established points along the river for sale to passing boats. Pinckney explained that the Yankees destroyed some of the woodings, but maintained others to supply fuel for their vessels. Under the guise of co-operating, some of the wooding owners laid on secret wood-piles for use by such Confederate ships as might need it while on raiding missions along the river.

With everything ready, the party ate a meal made up from supplies brought aboard in Alexandria. Then they boarded the foliage-draped
Jack
and started moving once more. After a few adjustments had been made, the cox’n announced that he could see well enough and discovered that the boat answered to the wheel in a satisfactory manner.

For three hours they travelled downstream without seeing anything to disturb them. Before the War there would have been other boats on the move, people working on the banks, but most activity had been suspended due to the danger of becoming involved in a clash between the two opposing forces. Suddenly the look-out turned from where he peered through a gap made in the foliage.

“Boat dead ahead, sir,” he said, offering Pinckney the field glasses.

“Stop engines!” the lieutenant ordered after studying the approaching vessel briefly. “Run us as close as you can to the starboard bank, cox’n. Not a sound or movement from any of you after that.”

With the engine stopped, the
Jack
drifted on the current. Gradually and in as near a natural manner as he could manage, the cox’n steered them across the river and then held the boat so that it continued to move but did not swing in the direction of the approaching enemy craft.

“It’s a steam-launch,” breathed the sailor at Dusty’s side as they peered through the foliage.

Dusty studied the other craft as it drew nearer, holding out in the centre of the wide river and making good speed even against the current. In appearance it resembled a large rowing boat, but with a powerful steam-engine installed. A twelve-pounder boat-howitzer rode on a slide-carriage at the bows, while the launch’s spar torpedo hung on slings alongside instead of extending before the vessel as it would when ready for use. Although only thirty foot in length, the steam-launch carried a crew of seven men and possessed sufficient armament to blow the Jack out of the water even without using the spar-torpedo.

Nothing Dusty had ever done in action or during his patrols ever filled him with a nervous strain to equal that of watching the Yankee steam-launch go by. Born on the great open plains of Southern Texas, the largest river he had seen until joining the Army was the Rio Hondo and that looked like no more than a stream compared with the width of the Big Muddy. His eyes flickered to the Sharps carbines and his right hand touched the grip of the Army Colt at his waistband. Neither weapon offered much comfort when he considered the strength of the enemy’s armament.

Belle could sense Dusty’s tension and smiled a little, which helped relieve her own. However, having seen the small Texan’s cold courage at other times, she knew he would do nothing that might endanger their mission.

On came the launch, drawing closer, coming level and then passing them. Not one of the Yankee sailors did more than glance at the floating foliage. Soon the two vessels lay so far apart that Pinckney decided they might chance using their own engines. With the added thrust of the
Jack’s
propellers, they quickly ran the Yankee launch out of sight.

“How’d you like it, Captain Fog?” grinned Pinckney.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” drawled Dusty sincerely. “Give me leading a cavalry charge any old time at all.”

Chapter 7

The
Jack
continued to make good time, without meeting any other shipping or needing to do more than cut off their engines while passing some river-edge town or village. At around three in the afternoon, Pinckney told his passengers that they would soon be stopping to take on fuel at a secret dump left by Confederate supporters working out of Mendel’s Wooding.

“We’ll have to run in there behind that island,” he went on, pointing ahead. “Unless it’s silted up or something, there’s more than enough room and water for the
Jack
and we’ll be hidden from anybody who might happen to be coming along the river in either direction.”

“It may be as well to take a look before we pull in,” Dusty suggested. “If you put me ashore, I’ll go.”

“Two pairs of eyes are better than one,” Belle remarked. “I’ll go with you.”

“Follow the bank then,” Pinckney told them. “You’ll see a flowering dogwood tree about a hundred yards along it and the wood-pile’s hidden under a dead-fall near to it.”

“Mind if I take one of the carbines?” Dusty asked. “A dead-fall’s a good place to find a bear, if you have bear down here.”

“We’ve some,” admitted Pinckney. “But there’s a Yankee garrison at Mendel’s Wooding and if they hear a shot, they’ll come running.”

“Looks like a carbine won’t help us then, Dusty,” Belle said and opened her bag to take out the parasol handle. “It doesn’t make any noise—.”

“And won’t stop a bear, either,” grinned Dusty. “We’ll just have to hope there’s not one there.”

“I’ll come with you,” Pinckney decided. “I know just where the wood is and can tell whether it’ll be any use to us.”

Parting the foliage, Dusty, Belle and Pinckney slipped through, into the water and waded ashore. Back on his native element, Dusty moved with easy confidence, gliding ahead of the other two and searching around him with careful, all-seeing eyes. Coming to a halt, he waited for the other two and pointed ahead.

“ ‘Gator,” he said. “Just look at the size of it, too.”

Belle and Pinckney were more used to seeing alligators, but admitted to themselves that the specimen ahead could be termed a real big one. Full sixteen feet long, with a bulk which told of good feeding and long years, the alligator lay with its broad, rounded and flat-looking snout pointing to the water of the channel. Hearing Dusty’s voice, it lifted its powerful body on legs which appeared too slender to support it. Letting out a long hiss, it plunged into the channel’s water to create a considerable disturbance before disappearing under the surface.

As the water parted under the impact of the alligator’s arrival, something black, rounded and inanimate showed briefly above the surface. Briefly or not, Belle and Pinckney saw enough.

“A torpedo of some kind!” the girl exclaimed.

“Looks that way,” agreed Pinckney.

“Then the Yankees have found the wood-pile,” Dusty growled.

“Not necessarily,” Pinckney replied. “They’d figure this channel’d be a place where one of our raiders might hide and left a torpedo here instead of having to guard it.”

“We’ll have to move it before we can fetch the Jack in,” Belle stated.

“That’s just what we’ll have to do,” agreed Pinckney quietly.

“Can you do it?” the girl asked.

“I’ve had to do it a couple of times.”

“It might be as well for us to make sure there’s enough wood on hand for it to be worth while,” Dusty commented.

“There’s that,” Pinckney agreed.

Going first to the flowering dogwood tree and then making a circle of the dead-fall, Dusty found no sign of new or old tracks which would tell that the hidden wood had been discovered. While he did not put himself in Kiowa’s class as a reader of signs, Dusty reckoned he knew enough to locate any left by inexperienced men. Finding nothing, he went to the dead-fall—a tree fetched down in a storm and supported on a clump of rock in such a manner that a hollow remained underneath. Under the dead-fall, hidden by what looked like part of the tree’s branches, lay piles of cut timber. Calling up the others, Dusty told them of his negative findings. Then he stepped aside and allowed Pinckney to take his place.

“What’d you expect to find?” Dusty asked, after the lieutenant rose from examining the wood.

“An old riverboat trick was to hollow out a log, fill it with gunpowder then plug up the end so it looked natural,” Pinckney explained. “Then when the stokers tossed it on to the boiler fire—.”

“I don’t reckon it did the boilers any good,” grinned Dusty. “Is this lot all right?”

“As far as I can see,” Pinckney replied. “Let’s see about that torpedo.”

“What kind is it?” asked Belle.

“I didn’t see much,” Pinckney answered. “But I reckon it’s a Brooke, or a copy of it. The Yankees’ve fetched a few in un-exploded, I’d say.”

“They might know about Turtle torpedoes too,” warned the girl.

“Hell’s fire, yes,” Pinckney barked. “I’d forgotten all about them.”

“What’re they?” Dusty asked.

Belle explained how the Brooke torpedo consisted of a copper case holding the explosive charge and bearing either percussion or chemical detonators positioned to be struck when a passing boat made contact. As an added aid to the built-in buoyancy chamber, the Brooke rode on a wooden-spar that extended down to its anchor; which made the fast-developing art of mine-sweeping more difficult. As an added precaution against removal, the Turtle torpedo had been developed. Looking roughly like a turtle’s shell, the torpedo lay on the bottom with a length of wire connecting its detonating primer to the Brooke. Should anyone attempt to drag away the Brooke torpedo, its weight activated the Turtle’s primer and one hundred pounds of explosive went off beneath the surface.

“So we’ll have to send a man down to check,” the girl concluded. “And if there is a Turtle, he’ll have to cut it free.”

“Which’s dangerous,” Pinckney continued. “The Brooke might’ve moved and pulled on the Turtle’s primer so that a touch sends it off. If that happens while I’m cutting the wire—.”

“In that case,” Dusty interrupted. “You’d best let me do it.”

“You?” asked Pinckney.

“It’s a matter of simple priorities,” Dusty replied. “You can’t be spared, Cord, or there’ll be nobody to run your boat. Nor can any of your crew. And Belle has to reach New Orleans. I can’t handle her work. So that makes me the most expendable of us.”

True enough, as a matter of pure, cold-blooded logic, but not the kind of decision most men would have cared to make.

“How well can you swim, Dusty?” Pinckney asked, dropping the formal mode of address for the first time.

“Well enough, under and on top of the water. Tell me what to look for and how to handle it, then I’ll have a try.”

“I’ve got some wire cutters in the
Jack
—.”

“Let me fetch them,” Belle suggested. “You tell Dusty what to do.”

“Go to it,” Pinckney confirmed and after the girl left went on, “find the Brooke, but don’t touch it. Then if you dive you can follow its spar to the anchor. I don’t reckon the water’ll be more than ten, twelve foot deep if that. Feel real carefully around the anchor until you touch the Turtle’s connecting wire. Then come up and let me know what you find.”

Stripping off all but his underpants, Dusty entered the water. Pinckney watched and decided that the small Texan could swim well enough to handle the work ahead. On locating the Brooke, which—being designed to handle shallow-draught riverboats—did not lie too deep, Dusty sucked in a breath and dived. He found little difficulty in locating the anchor, merely following the wooden spar down to the bed of the channel. Before his air ran out, he traced the edge of the anchor block and felt the thin wire. With cold apprehension he realised that the connection between the anchor and the torpedo was taut.

Long practice had taught Dusty to keep his eyes open under water and he could see a little way in the dark canal. Forcing himself to stay down, he kept one finger touching the wire as he followed it from the Brooke. Not three feet away lay the rounded shape of the Turtle. Before Dusty could do anything more, lack of air sent him to the surface. By that time Belle had returned, but she swung her back to Dusty as he broke water and gasped in a long breath.

“It’s a torpedo,” Dusty declared. “With a Turtle on the bottom. The wire’s taut, too.”

“That’s bad!” Pinckney growled.

“Maybe,” Dusty said. “I’m going to try to lift the Turtle and move it closer to the Brooke, then cut the wire.”

“That’ll be risky!” Belle gasped, throwing aside the proprieties and turning to face Dusty.

“No more risky than cutting the wire while it’s tight,” Dusty pointed out and dived again.

Going down seemed longer, but Dusty forced himself to concentrate on his object. He found the Turtle and lowered his hands, fingers probing around its edges and finding them partly buried in the gravel bottom of the channel. At last he managed to get a grip on the underneath. By that time his lungs felt on the point of bursting, but he forced himself to carry on. Going up for air and diving again would not be easy and he preferred to get the business over in one go if he possibly could. So he tightened his grip and lifted. For an instant the Turtle remained stuck, but then it moved. Dusty forced himself to think, not acting blindly. Whatever he did, he must move the Turtle towards the Brooke. If he drew it away, the pressure might pull hard enough to operate the primer and fire the charge.

Slowly the Turtle rose and moved in the direction of the Brooke’s anchor. Setting down his burden, Dusty gently felt for the wire. Relief flooded through him as he found it to be hanging loose. The main danger had passed. All that remained to do was clip the wire and remove the Brooke torpedo. Gratefully Dusty rose once more to the surface. One look at his face told the watching pair of his success without needing words.

“Pass me the wire clippers, Belle,” Dusty requested. “I reckon it’s safe to cut them apart now.”

“Everything’s all right then?” she asked, handing him the powerful instruments collected from the
Jack
.

“I’ll tell you better the next time I come up,” Dusty grinned. “If I come up slow enough that is.”

“You be careful!” Belle ordered. “If anything happens to you, it’s me who will have to go back and explain to Company ‘C’.”

“Now there’s concern for you, Dusty,” Pinckney chuckled.

Once again Dusty dived down through the water, following the Brooke’s spar until he could see the Turtle resting in its new position. However the task proved more difficult than he imagined. After three attempts Dusty managed to clamp the jaws of the clippers around the wire. Fighting against the time when lack of air would drive him back to the surface, he applied pressure on the handles. It must be a straight cut. Any jiggling or twisting at the wire in an attempt to weaken it might drag out the primer and explode the Turtle. Then the wire parted, its separated ends falling away.

Even as Dusty realised he had completed his task, a feeling that all was not well bit into him. As his danger-instinct screamed out its grim warning, he became aware of a shape moving through the water in his direction and travelling with an ease that no human being ever attained under such conditions.

Since reaching a greater length than most others of its kind, the bull alligator ruled that stretch of the Mississippi and claimed the channel as its especial den area. While it might dive into the water at the approach of man, the alligator feared nothing when in its native element. Sensing the presence of another large creature under the channel’s surface, it came back to defend its territory. Gliding forward with the effortless-seeming way of its kind, the alligator located Dusty and moved in to attack. With a thrust of its powerful tail, it surged in the small Texan’s direction.

Never had Dusty’s lightning-fast reactions stood up to such a test. From seeing the alligator rushing at him to doing something about it took only a split second. Nor would there have been time for any greater deliberation on the problem. Digging his feet into the channel’s bed, Dusty propelled himself backwards. Yet so close was his escape that the alligator brushed against him in passing. Desperately Dusty threw one arm around the alligator’s thick neck, while his legs locked around the rough scaled body. With his grip established, Dusty hung safe from the brute’s jaws and tail; but felt like the man who caught a tiger by the tail. If he released his hold, the alligator would turn on him again.

“I think he’s going to make it!” breathed Belle as the seconds ticked by.

Suddenly the even surface of the water bulged and churned. Once more the Brooke torpedo’s head showed briefly, but neither Belle nor Pinckney had eyes for it. Both stared at the sight of Dusty clinging to the alligator as they swirled into sight and disappeared once more beneath the surface.

“Lord!” Belle gasped, reaching for her Dance. “We forgot that bull ‘gator!”

Although both she and Pinckney drew their weapons, neither offered to fire. Not only could they see no sign of Dusty, but both realised that the sound of shooting would attract any nearby Yankees as effectively as if the torpedoes went off. If it came to a point, Belle doubted her ability to hit the alligator in its brief appearances, with Dusty clinging so close to it.

“Bring me a cutlass, cox’n!” Pinckney yelled, reaching the same conclusion as Belle and aware that the weapon’s arrival might come too late.

Equally aware, Belle made her decision. Swiftly she twirled the Dance back into its holster, then unbuckled and allowed the belt to slide to her feet. Darting forward, she gripped the metal ball of the parasol handle, tugging to draw out the full wicked length of the billy. Even as Pinckney realised what the girl meant to do and opened his mouth to order her back, Belle plunged into the water.

Rising again Dusty and the alligator rolled into sight, the small Texan being raised clear of the surface. Although Belle struck out hard, she knew she would reach the spot too late for that appearance. Then something happened which lent an added urgency to the need for rescuing Dusty. Lashing around, the alligator’s tail struck the water scant inches from the Brooke torpedo’s head. If the tail struck, or the brute’s body collided with the swaying torpedo, an explosion must surely result. Once more man and reptile disappeared beneath the boiling surface of the channel. Belle swam closer, conscious of her own danger. While Dusty held the neck and body, he could not grip and keep closed the murderous jaws. Seeing the girl’s arms or legs as she swam, it might grab hold of her.

The danger did not take form and Belle saw the struggling pair rising to the surface. Treading water, she watched and waited. Up they rolled, with the small Texan retaining his hold with grim and deadly determination. Stripped to his underpants, his powerful muscular development showed. Biceps bulged, their veins standing out from the skin, under the effort of holding on. Dusty’s face showed strain and approaching exhaustion as he opened his mouth to drag air into his tortured lungs. Yet he still retained his hold and did not seem aware of Belle’s nearness.

Sucking in her breath, the girl took aim and struck with all her might. The force of her effort caused her body to rise in the water. Around, up and down lashed the murderous billy. Its coil-spring bowed and snapped straight, propelling the pliant but powerful steel shaft with increasing force. All too well Belle knew the danger. If the metal ball of the billy caught Dusty’s arm, it would splinter bone and cause him to lose his hold.

Never had the billy seemed to move so slowly. Then it descended, the ball smashing on to the top and centre of the alligator’s skull. Although unaware of the girl’s arrival, Dusty heard the wicked crack of impact and felt a convulsive shudder run through the alligator’s giant frame.

“Let go, Dusty!” Belle screeched. “Turn him loose and head for the bank.”

The words meant nothing to Dusty in his dazed, half-drowned condition. Yet he sensed a difference in the alligator’s behaviour as it began to sink again. Instead of forging its way down, the reptile sank slowly and in a limp manner.

Flinging her billy ashore, Belle dived after and caught Dusty under the armpits in an effort to drag him back to the surface. She failed to do so, but help came fast. Disregarding the cutlass his cox’n waved while dashing along the bank, Pinckney also discarded his belt—he had removed his sword on entering the
Jack
so as to conserve the boat’s limited space—and plunged into the water. Striking out fast, Pinckney reached Belle and dived under to help. Between them, Belle and Pinckney managed to haul Dusty back to the surface. In his half-drowned condition, the small Texan could not maintain his hold on the alligator. As he felt the body slip away from him, Dusty’s head broke the surface and he sucked in air. On being released, the alligator’s body continued to sink until it came to rest on the bed of the channel.

Belle and Pinckney hauled Dusty towards the bank, while the cox’n plunged forward, wading in to lend them a hand. A few seconds later Dusty lay on solid land and looked weakly up at the anxious faces around him.

“Wh—Where’s the ‘gator?” he gasped.

“Belle got it,” Pinckney replied. “Although I’m damned if I know how she did it.”

“I just whomped that ole ‘gator over the head with my billy,” the girl smiled. “It’s not the first time I’ve done it. When I was around eleven back on the plantation I and a boy cousin made a regular game of killing ‘gators by sneaking up and cracking them over the skull with a piece of timber. Lordy me! I’ll never forget mama’s face when she learned how Willy and I carried on while we were out walking.”

“Thanks, Belle,” Dusty said. “And you, Cord. Lord, I’ll be old afore my time working with you pair.”

For the first time Belle realised the exact scanty nature of Dusty’s attire and came hurriedly to her feet. Nor did her soaking shirt and pants lead to modesty, so she decided to make adjustments and save embarrassment all round.

“I think I’d better find something dry to wear and go get changed into it,” she said casually.

“Go to it,” Pinckney replied. “We’ll see to moving the Brooke, bring the
Jack
in and take on the fuel. You take a rest, Dusty, you’ve earned it.”

Shortly before sundown the
Jack
, loaded with fuel and under the mass of foliage, crept out of the channel. Before leaving, Pinckney stripped the detonators from the torpedo and replaced its harmless shell back in position. If the Yankees had left the Brooke, they would find it in place should they check. Expecting the torpedo to be connected to the Turtle, it hardly seemed likely any inspecting crew would attempt to raise the Brooke in order to make a close examination. So they might continue to assume all was well and never suspect the guardian of the channel rode impotent and useless on its spar.