A Matter of Honor (Dusty Fog Civil War Book 6) Read online

  Before the brunette could falsely ascribe the support to Major General Benjamin Franklin Butler, a Radical Republican politician-turned-soldier known to oppose the Lincoln Administration and who, being of higher rank, might be regarded as more ‘important’ than Buller, there was an interruption.

  While approaching the farm, Mary had taken precautions against being followed. She had left Martin Blick half a mile away to keep watch upon the trail leading to the Washington road and had instructed her third adherent to patrol around the building in case anybody should manage to pass without him raising the alarm.

  ‘Who’re y—?’ Eric Lubbock commenced, the second word turning into a cry of agony, from close to the front of the house.

  Grabbing at his revolver, alarm causing him to move swiftly yet in an ill-advised fashion, Graham swung around and wrenched open the front door. Before he could go through, he sprang aside. Hands clutching at the hilt of a knife which was protruding from his chest, Lubbock stumbled across the threshold and crumpled face down on the floor. As he was going down, footsteps pounded hurriedly along the porch.

  Snarling startled curses burst from the deserters and, springing from where they sat at the table, each reached for the Army Colt—with which they had insisted upon being supplied by Mary—tucked into his waistband.

  Despite wearing the epee de combat and taking pride in her skill at using it, the brunette made no attempt to draw it from its sheath. Instead, silently blessing the precaution she had taken of crossing the room to place the deserters between herself and Graham before starting the discussion, she turned to jerk open the door of the kitchen and went through without waiting to learn the identity of the newcomers. The way in which Lubbock was silenced warned they were unlikely to be police who had learned of and come to arrest the deserters. Every instinct she possessed suggested they were more than just robbers, so she concluded discretion the better part of valor and elected to make good her escape regardless of what befell her fellow conspirators.

  With that thought in mind, showing a coolness Graham would have been advised to employ, the brunette closed and bolted the door behind her. As she ran to the side entrance, she heard the crash of shots from the sitting room. Hoping that neither deserter nor any of her adherents survived to implicate her, she unfastened the door. Drawing it cautiously open, she slid the sword from its sheath and left the house. Stepping as quietly as she could manage, she hurried towards the lean-to by the barn where her party had left their horses. A sigh of relief came involuntarily as she discovered the intruders had not left a guard on the animals. Replacing the weapon, she unfastened her bay gelding. Leading it from the shelter, she mounted and set off at a gallop.

  ~*~

  Each carrying a shotgun with the barrels cut down to about eighteen inches, held in a position of readiness, three figures rapidly entered the sitting room in a loose arrowhead formation which prevented any of them impeding another’s line of fire. In the lead was a burly man clad in the uniform of a Union soldier, and a second, wearing clothing suggesting he was employed in some form of sedentary occupation was at the right. While the last of the trio also wore masculine attire, the open necked black shirt, matching riding breeches and Hessian boots exhibited beyond doubt the wearer was a slender, bareheaded and beautiful young woman with boyishly cropped short black hair. Like her companions, she had a sidearm on her person. In her case, it was an ivory handled Dance Bros. Navy revolver—a Confederate manufacturer’s copy of the Colt Navy Model of 1855—in the open topped low cavalry twist draw holster on the right side of a Western style gunbelt.

  Receiving word of the plot to assassinate President Abraham Lincoln, Mrs. Amy Culter and Belle Boyd had agreed that the attempt should be foiled at once. Each was sufficient of a realist to accept that the Confederate States were unlikely to avoid defeat, and they realized such an act, apparently by Southrons, would arouse animosity to so great a pitch throughout the North only an unconditional surrender, accompanied by reprisals of a virulent nature, would be acceptable to the Union. The madam’s excellent sources of information had already alerted her to the connection between Mary Wilkinson and the deserters. Indiscreet remarks by the latter when paying a clandestine visit to a low priced brothel had suggested where they were being hidden.

  Given the services of two competent and trustworthy male agents, the Rebel Spy had planned her campaign. Although born in the North, each held to the Southron belief that any State finding its policies were at odds with those of the Federal Government should be allowed to secede from the Union, a major cause of the War, so were serving the Confederate States against their own people. Supplied with horses by the soldier, having reverted to her natural hair color and washed away the body stain, Belle and her companions had followed the brunette’s party without being detected. A skilled hunter, despite his sedentary occupation as clerk in the Army’s Medical Department, the civilian had killed the first of the lookouts in silence. Being compelled to rely upon a throw instead of thrusting the weapon home by hand, he had failed to prevent the dying Eric Lubbock from giving warning of their presence. However, to counteract this, the door to the farmhouse had been opened for them.

  Even as Kendall was liberating the Army Colt from his belt, the soldier halted just clear of where Lubbock had fallen and opened fire. Held just above waist level, the shotgun bellowed twice in very rapid succession. There was no need for careful aim. Instinctive alignment was sufficient at such close quarters. Starting to spread as they left the twin cut down ten gauge barrels, eighteen .32 caliber buckshot balls engulfed and swept the shorter deserter from his feet, although not all of them hit him in the torso.

  Showing what some people would have considered an even greater competence, the more slender and clerkly-looking civilian discharged his weapon a fraction of a second after that of his male companion. However, he restricted himself to a single chamber load. This proved sufficient. Before Blunkett could complete lining the revolver he was holding, he too was caught in a spray of soft lead balls and went sprawling lifeless to the floor.

  Finding himself confronted by a young woman, who seemed vaguely familiar, gave Graham the courage to respond after the fashion of a cornered rat. Spitting out vile obscenities in a voice high with something close to hysteria, he thrust forward the Colt he had drawn and cocked involuntarily. For all his seemingly advantageous position, as he started to snatch at the trigger, he was to fare no better than either of the deserters.

  Swinging her borrowed shotgun with the deft speed of much training, Belle depressed the forward trigger by a smooth squeeze instead of the frightened jerk being employed against her. Her wiry strength notwithstanding, the savage recoil caused by only one powder charge being detonated rocked her on to her heels and the barrels were tilted towards the ceiling with a force beyond her control. However, fortunately for her, this happened an instant after the load had cleared the muzzle and it was not deflected.

  The young man was so close, the nine balls had not separated to any great extent when all of them plowed into the center of his chest. Literally picked up and thrown backwards, the barrel of his revolver was jolted aside as its hammer was falling. When it barked, it was no longer in alignment upon its intended target. The margin was small, but proved to be just enough. Passing through the material where the raised right sleeve joined the bodice of the black shirt, the bullet went by the girl without touching flesh.

  ‘Where’s the Wilkinson woman?’ the civilian asked, glancing around the sitting room through the wafting clouds of powdersmoke.

  ‘I saw that door over there closing as we came in!’ the soldier replied. Throwing a quick look at the shotgun, he dropped it and reached for the flap of his military pattern holster, going on, ‘God damn it, I’m empty!’

  ‘Have mine and don’t take chances just because she’s a woman!’ Belle instructed, holding forward the smoking weapon. ‘There’s still one load in it, but I used the other!’

  Accepting the shotgun, the soldier ra
n across the room. Finding the door was fastened, he lowered his left shoulder and charged to burst it open. About to follow the men into the kitchen, Belle heard the drumming of hooves outside the building. She and her companions had seen the horses in the lean-to while approaching the farmhouse on foot, but had decided against doing anything to prevent them being used for an escape. By sheer bad luck, the omission was offering the brunette a means of fleeing.

  Eleven – I’ve No Fat Blonde to Help Me

  ‘Wilkinson’s riding off!’ Belle Boyd called, spinning around to leap over the body of Alister Graham and running out of the front door of the farmhouse with the civilian on her heels.

  ‘Missed, god damn it!’ the man growled, having brought up and fired the second load from his shotgun after the rapidly departing brunette.

  ‘No chance of getting her with a handgun, either!’ the Rebel Spy estimated, making no attempt to draw her Dance Bros. Navy revolver. Instead, she started to sprint towards the lean-to, continuing, ‘But we mustn’t let her of all of them get away!’

  Although Belle and her companions had followed Mary Wilkinson’s party on horseback until approaching her destination, it had not been possible to ride all the way. Instead, they had left the animals hitched to a bush while dealing with Martin Blick and closed in upon their quarry on foot.

  Entering the lean-to, the Rebel Spy studied the remaining horses. The conclusions she drew, based upon her considerable experience in matters equestrian, were not encouraging. Neither animal was what she would have regarded as being top quality. They were, in fact, the kind of mounts hired by livery barns to customers who knew no better than to accept them, or were not too choosy over what was ridden.

  Hoping the brunette was no better mounted, Belle unfastened what her instincts suggested would prove the better horse. Before the civilian had reached the lean-to, she was mounted and setting the animal into motion. Although she was still able to see her departing quarry, she knew the chase would be long and its outcome anything except certain. Nevertheless, she had no intention of giving up the pursuit. As she had told her companion, of all the conspirators, Mary Wilkinson was the one they could not leave alive. If this was done, the brunette might find other assistants and continue the attempt to have President Abraham Lincoln assassinated.

  One thing soon became obvious to the Rebel Spy!

  There was so little to choose between the two horses that the outcome would depend upon the relative ability of the riders!

  Making an assessment as the pursuit continued, Belle felt confident she had the edge. While the brunette was a competent horsewoman, she had never before found reason to ride with her life at stake. On the other hand, there had been several occasions when only skill and daring—acquired in part when she had accompanied her father and male neighbors on fox hunts across rough country before the War— had saved the Rebel Spy from being captured by the Yankees. What was more, she was lighter and, possessing superior ability, could get more out of her mount.

  Glances taken to the rear warned Belle that, as she had suspected, the civilian was unable to keep up with her. A city dweller, despite his capability as a hunter and stalker of human beings, his use as an agent for the South lay in other directions. Not that she cared. Regardless of her duty in the matter, having heard what had been said by the brunette about her in her character of ‘Francoise’, she wanted to settle accounts with Mary personally. What was more, although the distance between herself and the brunette was decreasing noticeably as they drew away from the man, she realized the chase must be ended before they come too close to any other human habitation. The farmhouse was sufficiently removed from its nearest neighbors for the shooting to have gone unheard, but this would not be the case if the pursuit was protracted.

  ’Mademoiselle Wilkinson!’ the Rebel Spy called, employing the accent used while being “Francoise” and projecting her voice in the way she had learned on the hunting fields of Louisiana. ‘I’ve no fat blonde to help me now, so why do you run away?’

  While the words reached her with complete clarity, it was a few seconds before their import struck the brunette. Looking over her shoulder, she let out a hiss of surprise which turned to fury as she recognized that her pursuer—the civilian being out of sight in the woodland through which the chase was now taking place—was the slender ‘French Canadian’ girl who had soundly beaten her in their fight. Prudence should have dictated that she kept going, but prudence was something she only rarely employed. Without even waiting until she could make sure ‘Francoise’ was alone, she started to turn her horse and to draw the Navy Colt from its holster on the pommel of her saddle.

  Shrieking out a profanity, Mary sent her mount to meet the approaching rider. As she did so, it seemed ‘Francoise’ was having second thoughts about repeating her challenge. Instead of advancing to meet the charge, or showing any sign that she was even carrying a weapon, the ‘redhead’ was slowing her horse. Wondering if ‘Francoise’ was expecting them to fight with bare hands, the brunette decided she was going to pay dearly for the error if this should be the case. Despite the fact that ‘Francoise’ was unable to see the gunbelt and its holstered revolver from her position, Mary Wilkinson felt no greater a compunction over what she was intending to do than when she had offered to wrestle at the dinner party given by George Wigg, intending to attack an—she had assumed—unsuspecting and harmless victim.

  Thrusting forward and cocking the Navy Colt, Mary lined it at the slender figure she was approaching and squeezed off a shot. Immediately, she discovered that such an act was ill advised under the circumstances. Although she had used the weapon regularly enough to have achieved reasonable competence, this was the first occasion she had fired from the back of a horse. Nor was the animal between her legs used to having a firearm discharged from so close to its head.

  Instantly, it gave notice of its alarm by squealing in terror and throwing itself into a rearing swing away from the offending sound. Acting more on the instincts acquired at riding than by conscious thought, she managed to grab hold of the pommel with both hands and, at the cost of allowing the revolver to fly from her grasp, was able to remain astride the saddle. For a few seconds, her full attention was occupied in regaining some semblance of control over the badly frightened animal. When this was achieved, she found that to all appearances fortune was favoring her.

  By pure chance, the bullet fired at Belle had hit her horse in the head!

  Although the Rebel Spy had almost halted the animal she had not fired, suspecting that to use her Dance from its back would produce the same kind of response experienced by the brunette. But she was unable to free her feet from the stirrup irons as the horse collapsed. In going down on to its right side, it caught her leg beneath it. Pain seared through the trapped limb, but she was granted a few seconds vitally required respite by the way in which her assailant’s mount was behaving. Only the leg was giving indication of injury, but she was able to visualize the gravity of her situation. Not merely to visualize, but to try to counteract it. Liberating her left foot, she placed it on the seat of the saddle and shoved with all the strength she could muster. Unfortunately, even though only the right ankle and foot were pinned, the dead weight of the horse was far too great for her to free herself in such a fashion.

  Looking at the trapped girl, Mary realized the advantage she was being offered by her lucky shot and she almost flung herself from the saddle in her eagerness to make the most of it. Glancing around, she discovered her Navy Colt had landed on soft ground into which its muzzle was buried. Concluding the barrel would in all probability be so badly plugged it would need cleaning before a shot could be sent through it in safety, she was not perturbed. It would, she decided, be vastly more satisfying to kill the ‘redhead’ with cold steel.

  ‘I don’t know why you got into this, you pox-riddled scraggy-gutted tail peddler!’ the brunette declared, drawing satisfaction from watching the ineffectual attempts of her intended victim to get free from the dead a
nimal as she swept the epee de combat out of its sheath and swaggered forward. ‘But this is as far as you go!’

  ‘Is it?’ Belle asked, stopping the non-productive shoving and bringing the Dance from beneath her.

  Cupping her left hand around the right for added support, the Rebel Spy rested both wrists on the saddle. While taking aim with the aid of the rudimentary sights, she thumb cocked the hammer. Flame erupted in a glowing muzzle flash as she squeezed the trigger. Despite the pain being caused to her trapped lower leg and the awkward firing position, she held true.

  Savoring the thought of how she would take her revenge, Mary appreciated her own peril a fraction of a second too late. Flying upwards at an angle, the .36 caliber soft round ball ejected through the seven and three-eighths inch long barrel of the Dance, entered beneath her chin. Driven onwards through the brain, it was halted by the roof of the skull. Halted in her tracks and killed instantly, she nevertheless remained standing for a moment. Then, the epee slipping from her lifeless grasp, she toppled slowly, as if reluctantly, backwards.

  ‘You’re one person I don’t regret killing, Wilkinson!’ Belle breathed, realizing she would have no need to take further action to protect herself from the brunette and had removed one threat to the life of President Lincoln.

  ‘Thank god you’re all right, Miss Boyd!’ the civilian ejaculated, riding up a few seconds later and starting to dismount. ‘I couldn’t make this god-damned plug run fast enough to keep up and, ’though I saw what was happening, I was still too far off to be able to help.’

  ‘I guessed that was what happened,’ Belle admitted truthfully. ‘But I got her anyway. Can you help me free my leg, please?’

  ‘It isn’t broken!’ the civilian announced, after having contrived to move the dead horse sufficiently for the Rebel Spy to be able to withdraw her foot and remove the boot to examine it. ‘But it’s so badly sprained you’ll not be walking on it for a few days.’