Dusty Fog's Civil War 10 Read online

  Bag in hand, the girl obeyed. She thrust open the carriage door, paused to catch her balance and leapt down. Lashing the reins on to the whip, which he had thrust back into its holder, Dusty rose on the seat. He let out another yell, which caused the horses to lunge forward into the harness once more and start running, then sprang clear. As Dusty lit down on the sidewalk, the carriage tore away along the street.

  “Down there, Dusty,” Belle suggested, darting to the small Texan’s side.

  Flights of steps ran down into small areas that opened into the houses’ basement kitchens and Belle led the way out of sight. No sooner had they gone than feet clattered, hooves drummed and some of their pursuers turned on to the street. Gun in hand, Dusty flattened himself by Belle against the area wall and listened to their hunters pass them.

  “So far, so good,” Dusty breathed. “Only we’d best find some better place than this to hide afore they find that buggy’s empty.”

  “Let’s see if we can get into the house. Most of them are empty, their owners went up river when the Yankees came,” Belle replied, walking to the door and reaching for its handle. “This’s probably a waste of time—Hey, it’s not.”

  At Belle’s turn of the handle and push, the door swung inwards. Followed by Dusty, the girl entered a kitchen, that, before the War, would have held several servants. Only a pair of elderly Negroes stood in the room, the man reaching for a butcher’s knife on the table at which they stood.

  “Put it down and keep quiet, friend,” Dusty said quietly, holding his Colt but not threatening the man.

  “What do you want, mister?” the man asked, still holding the knife.

  Before Dusty could answer, an old white woman entered the kitchen. Despite her faded old clothes, she still retained an air of breeding. Tall, slim, the woman stood studying the newcomers and her face showed no fear.

  “What is it, Sam?” she asked.

  “Don’t be frightened, ma’am,” Dusty told her.

  “I wasn’t aware of being frightened, young man,” she answered. “May I ask what brings you here. And put that gun away. This isn’t Texas and you won’t need it.”

  Clearly the old woman recognized a Texas drawl when she heard one. Her eyes darted from Dusty, as he returned the Colt to his waistband, to Belle. The girl spoke up:

  “We’re in trouble, ma’am.”

  “That strikes me as being obvious. Come here, girl, and show me your hands.”

  Flashing a smile at Dusty, Belle crossed the room towards the old woman. The small Texan remained at the door, holding it open a little so as to watch and listen to the noises in the street. With her hands held out like when, as a child, she stood inspection before going in to meet the guests at a tea party, Belle allowed the woman to scrutinize her carefully. Then the old woman glanced at the bag and ledger Belle set down on the table before showing her hands.

  “You’re dressed as a maid,” the woman remarked. “But you’ve a lady’s hands and voice. A lady and a Texan who’s obviously a soldier and doesn’t look like the kind to be a deserter. I may say that you two interest me. Just what are the Yankees after you for?”

  “Robbing a shop and shooting a man in it,” Belle replied.

  “Killing him?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Was he the owner?” demanded the old woman, a different note coming into her voice and a glint flickering in her eyes.

  “No,” Belle answered. “I believe he was one of Pinkerton’s men.”

  “A member of the Yankee Secret Service?”

  “He certainly didn’t work for Madam Lucienne.”

  “Is that why you took the ledger?”

  Belle nodded agreement. Realizing that she stood in the presence of a very shrewd, discerning woman, she decided to tell the truth. Unless Belle missed her guess, she could rely on the woman’s loyalty to the South and need not be afraid to disclose her identity.

  “My name is Boyd—” she began.

  “One of the Baton Royale Boyds?” asked the woman.

  “My father was Vincent Boyd of Baton Royale,” Belle admitted.

  “Who had only one daughter, Belle by name. Belle Boyd, who is also known as the Rebel Spy.”

  “That’s what they call me. Although I doubt if the Yankees know it’s me they are hunting.”

  “Then they won’t search so thoroughly,” guessed the old woman, directing an inquiring glance in Dusty’s direction.

  “May I introduce Captain Dusty Fog?” Belle said. “He is assisting me on my present assignment.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” Dusty drawled, closing the door and crossing the room.

  Even in occupied New Orleans Dusty’s fame had spread amongst the Southerners and the old woman beamed delightedly. However they did not allow her pleasure at meeting Dusty to interfere with the business on hand.

  “It may be as well if you go and hide in case a search is made,” she stated.

  “How about your servants, ma’am?” asked Dusty.

  “You can trust Sam and Jessie as you trust me,” she answered. “Come along.”

  Leading Belle and Dusty into what had once been a comfortable study, but which showed signs of having various furnishings removed, the woman—she introduced herself as Mrs. Annie Rowley—supplied them with a very good place of concealment. At times members of many New Orleans families found the need to keep out of sight for a few days: maybe to avoid somebody wishing to issue a challenge; or, when dueling became illegal, to hide after a duel until a suitable arrangement could be made with the court to overlook the matter. Clearly the Rowleys belonged to that class, for the old woman operated a disguised switch and a section of wall paneling slid back to reveal a small, comfortable and ventilated room.

  “Go in. I’ll have food brought for you,” she said.

  Dusty and Belle exchanged glances as the same thought ran through their heads. Life in the occupied city could not be easy for Mrs. Rowley. Too old to work, her normal sources of revenue taken by the War, she clearly had to sell items of her property to support herself. So feeding two extra people would create a serious drain in her resources. Yet she might take offence at any offer of payment. Receiving a nod of agreement from Belle, Dusty took a chance.

  “May we offer to help pay for the meal, ma’am?” he asked.

  “I would like a lemon if one can be bought,” Belle went on.

  “There was a time when your offer would have offended me,” Mrs. Rowley admitted. “But I’m afraid the War caused many things to change in my life—”

  “This’s stolen money,” Dusty warned with a grin as he started to empty his pockets.

  “I thought ‘booty’ was the term when it’s taken from the enemy in time of war,” smiled the woman. “It’ll spend well enough at the market no matter what we chose to call it.”

  “Can your servants raise a lemon?” Belle asked.

  “Land-sakes, girl,” Mrs. Rowley answered. “That’s a strange fancy. There are lemons for sale, I’ll have Jessie bring some.”

  “Only one,” Belle corrected.

  “I’ll tell Jessie,” promised Mrs. Rowley. “Now you two had best hide.”

  Like most of its kind, the secret room offered reasonable comfort in the shape of a bed, table and chair. Entering, Dusty and Belle watched the door start to swing shut behind them. Then Dusty rasped a match on his pants’ seat and lit the lamp on the table. With a sigh Belle stretched on the bed, the ledger and bag at its side. She glanced at the closed door, then to Dusty.

  “Well,” she said. “Have we made a mistake?”

  “We’re caught in a box canyon if we have,” he answered, thinking how much the Yankees would pay for the capture of the Rebel Spy and himself. Taking a small box from his pocket, he opened it to expose twelve combustible cartridges and a similar number of percussion caps. “I’ll fill that empty chamber just in case. Then we’ll grab some rest.”

  Neither really thought the old woman would betray them and were fatalistic enough to rea
lize they could do nothing but wait to find out. So, after Dusty replaced the discharged round and put out the lamp, they settled down to rest. Neither had any idea how long they lay in the darkness, Dusty seated on the chair with his boots on the table and Belle on the bed. At last they heard a creaking and the door began to inch slowly open.

  Gun in hand, Dusty came to his feet and Belle rolled from the bed gripping her Dance ready for use. Then both knew they did not need to fear treachery. Slowly the door continued to open, allowing light to creep gradually into the room in a manner which permitted their eyes to grow accustomed to no longer being in complete darkness. If there had been a betrayal, the enemy would just jerk open the door and move in while the sudden advent of light dazzled the pair inside.

  “It’s all clear now,” Mrs. Rowley said, smiling in at them.

  “Did the Yankees come?” asked Belle, returning her Dance to the bag.

  “Came and searched the house, then went away satisfied,” replied the old woman. “From what their sergeant said, it’s assumed that you’re just ordinary thieves and slipped back to the waterfront area. He didn’t hold out much hope of finding you.”

  “The two men at the shop couldn’t have talked yet then,” Dusty commented. “Likely the one I shot can’t and it’ll be a spell afore the other’s able to, the way you slammed him into the wall, Belle.”

  “I’ve a meal ready for you, and your lemon,” the woman told them. “And Sam’s watching the street in case the Yankees come back.”

  After eating a good meal, Belle took her bag and ledger to the table and started to work. From the bag she lifted her jewel case and extracted the brooch which held the lens. With it she examined each unused page of the book. To do so she stood by a window and allowed the light of the afternoon sun to fall on the paper. The lemon had not been bought for eating purposes and its use soon became apparent.

  “I can’t find any traces of pen-scratches,” she said at last. “But I’ll try the usual tests.”

  “You figure Madam Lucienne used invisible ink?” asked an interested Dusty.

  “She left information in the ledger some way,” the girl replied. “We use two kinds of invisible ink. One appears when you apply lemon juice to the paper and heat produces the other.”

  Although both tests were tried on various pages, no writing appeared and at last Belle reluctantly admitted that however Madam Lucienne left her message, invisible ink had not been used.

  “Could be inside the ledger’s bindings,” Dusty suggested.

  “It could be,” admitted Belle. “Could we have a knife, please Mrs. Rowley.”

  “Of course,” answered the old woman, having been an interested spectator.

  Carefully Belle slit open the leather binding of the ledger, checking its inner side and the stiffeners without result.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Yet Madam Lucienne told me the information was in it.”

  “She might have written a message in among the other writing in it,” Dusty offered.

  “It’s possible,” the girl said. “Let’s try and see.”

  Turning to the first page, Belle started to read. She tried taking the first letter of each order, but they made no sense. Then something caught her eye. Somebody in Baton Royale had bought a ball gown, a person she had never heard of and at a plantation which Belle could not recall. Yet the name did not help her any nor the address and she cursed the bad luck which prevented Madam Lucienne from being able to give her more information when they met; the meeting had been terminated by the arrival of a Yankee naval captain and his wife at the shop.

  After the failure with the address, Belle read on to learn how a Mrs. J. Bludso of the Busted Boiler Inn in New Orleans bought a silk ball gown. Finishing the page, Belle turned over no wiser than when she began. Nor did enlightenment come until three more pages went by. Suddenly the girl stopped, sat staring thoughtfully at the ledger for a moment and then turned back to the first page.

  “Something, Belle?” Dusty asked.

  “Listen to this and tell me what you think,” she answered. “One silk ball gown for Mrs. J. Bludso, the Busted Boiler Inn, price twenty-five dollars.”

  “So?”

  “On the next page the order is repeated and on the third.”

  “You said Madam Lucienne was mighty popular,” Dusty pointed out. “Likely a woman’d keep going to her if she got good service.”

  “Three times in less than two months?” Belle replied.

  “I would for bargains like that,” Mrs. Rowley put in. “You show me any place that can supply a silk ball gown for twenty-five dollars.”

  “If I find one, I’ll keep quiet about it, buy some and make a fortune,” smiled Belle. “The Busted Boiler’s in the waterfront district; it’s, or used to be, the gathering place for the riverboat engineers.”

  “And young Jim Bludso was engineer of the Prairie Belle,” Mrs. Rowley recalled. “Only she went down trying to ram one of Farragut’s gunboats before the surrender. I know engineers made good money, but not enough for one to shop regularly at Madam Lucienne’s.”

  “This’s what we want, Dusty,” Belle stated. “It must be.”

  “She’d be taking a big chance putting it down that way,” Dusty objected.

  “Not so big,” Belle replied. “I doubt if a man would see any significance in the entries. I might not have but for that false address in Baton Royale above the first mention of Mrs. J. Bludso.”

  “What’re we going to do then?” Dusty asked.

  “Go to the Busted Boiler and see Jim Bludso,” the girl replied.

  “Do you know it?” asked Mrs. Rowley.

  “We can find it,” Belle answered.

  “Wait until after dark and I’ll send Sam to guide you,” the woman suggested. “It’s little enough I can do for the South, so don’t argue.”

  Accompanied by the old Negro, Belle and Dusty passed through the evening-darkened streets. Clearly the Yankees attached little importance to their visit to Madam Lucienne’s shop, for only normal patrols moved through the streets. Even if the two men should be dead, the military authorities most likely took the attitude that the killers had disappeared into the city and organizing a search capable of producing results would take more men than they had available. Whatever the reason, none of the patrols met during the journey gave Belle, Dusty and the Negro more than a casual glance in passing.

  At last Sam halted. They had long since left the elegant area behind and walked through streets which grew narrower, dirtier, more crowded. Much of the atmosphere of the waterfront departed with the city’s surrender. In times of peace the area boomed with unceasing life and gaiety, as wild and hectic as in any gold camp or—in later years—town at the end of the long cattle drives from Texas to Kansas. Many of the saloons, dance or gambling halls and other places of business were closed, but some remained open in the hope of grabbing trade from the U.S. forces.

  The Busted Boiler was a small hotel set back off a street facing the river and comprised of businesses concerned with the riverboat trade. At one time it served as a gathering point for most of the riverboats’ engineers; and there had been sufficient of them to ensure the owner a steady custom. After directing his companions to the place, Sam disappeared into the darkness and they walked towards its doors. In passing they glanced through the windows at the right of the door and did not like what they saw. Yankee sailors and marines sat around the dining room, or leaned at the bar. Only a few civilians were present, mingling with the uniformed men and apparently on good terms with them. At a table in the center of the room, a big, wide-shouldered man whose curly black hair showed from under a pushed-back peaked civilian seaman’s hat sat dining with a trio of U.S. Navy petty officers and clearly all enjoyed their meal.

  “What about it?” Dusty asked.

  “I don’t know,” Belle replied. “Stay out here and cover me while I go ask for Bludso.”

  “Are you taking your bag?”

  “No—but I’ll take t
he parasol.”

  After assembling the parasol into its harmless form, Belle left her bag in Dusty’s keeping and entered the hotel. The arrival of a woman attracted no special attention, although Belle saw men studying her with interest. Then a bulky Negress waitress came to a halt before the girl.

  “You wanting something?”

  “Is Jim Bludso here?” Belle inquired.

  “He sure am, gal,” grinned the Negress. “Does you-all want him?”

  “I’m his sister,” Belle replied.

  “Ain’t dey all, gal?” asked the Negress and ambled away.

  Crossing the room, the Negress halted by the big civilian with the three petty officers. A puzzled expression flickered across his face as the woman spoke and indicated Belle. One of the petty officers made a comment and his companions laughed, then the civilian rose and walked in Belle’s direction.

  Studying the man, Belle formed an impression of strength, toughness and capability. He wore a short coat, open-necked shirt, trousers tucked into sea-boots and a long-bladed knife hung sheathed at his left side. Good-looking in a rugged, tanned way, he grinned as he drew near.

  “Why howdy,” he greeted. “Are you-all a sister on my mammy or pappy’s side?”

  “Why Jim,” Belle replied. “Pappy’s for sure. He told me to come here and speak to you about your extravagant ways. Three silk ball gowns for your wife, for shame.”

  If the words carried any special meaning to the big man, he gave no sign of it. The smile never left his lips and he took the girl’s right arm in his big left hand. Gently but firmly he turned her towards the door.

  “Let’s us go someplace quiet where we can talk about it,” he suggested.

  “Why I just adore big strong men,” Belle purred. “But I don’t need force—”

  “You keep on walking like we the best of friends, gal,” Jim Bludso ordered. “If you don’t, I’ll bust your arm.”

  Belle carried the parasol in her left hand, but did not offer to take it apart as a means of defending herself. To do so in the hotel invited capture. Once outside, she and Dusty between them ought to be able to handle Jim Bludso. Unresisting, she allowed herself to be steered towards the front door.