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

  The slender redhead found she was in front of a small and somewhat neglected looking mansion. Although its ground floor was otherwise in darkness, light flooded through a door which was opened at the rear of the entrance hall. A figure carrying a lamp came out and approached the main entrance. Glancing to left and right, she discovered there was dense woodland in each direction. The coach prevented her from seeing what was to the rear. However, she showed no greater interest in where she might be than she had during the journey from Washington, District of Columbia. Instead, moving aside so that Buller could pass her into the building, she turned her attention to the front door as it was opened.

  Tallish, slender yet wiry, the man framed in the light of the lamp he was carrying appeared to be in his late thirties. Black hair was cropped close to his skull and, apart from a scar along his left cheek, he was swarthily handsome. Nevertheless, his pencil-line moustache tended to emphasize rather than distract from lips which suggested arrogance and cruelty. He wore a frilly bosomed white silk shirt, opened far enough to show a hairy chest, light blue riding breeches similar to those of the two lieutenants and brown boots with Hessian legs. His whole bearing as he crossed the porch exuded a swaggering truculence such as came to one who felt supremely confident of his ability to enforce his will upon others.

  ‘Hello, you’re earlier than I expect !’ the man greeted, his voice having the timbre of a culture which had been acquired later in life than if it had come as a result of birth and upbringing. It offered however no suggestion of his origins other than they were north of the Mason-Dixon line. The words came to an end as his gaze went to the beautiful young woman, then he continued, ‘Well now, what have we here?’

  ‘She’s with me,’ Buller answered shortly, his intonation implying, “She’s mine, so stay away from her!”

  ‘I always said you had good taste, General,’ the man declared, striding onwards with an arrogance mingled with the grace of an athlete. If he detected the meaning behind the chilling response, he ignored it and asked, ‘Will you present me to the young lady?’

  ‘There’s—!’ Buller began, but his eyes turned from the mocking gaze directed at him. ‘This’s Major Montreigen. He’s been looking after things here for me.’

  ‘Major Saul Montreigen,’ the man elaborated, halting in front of the redhead and ignoring the glowering General.

  ‘Enchante, M’sieur le Majeur,” Francoise answered, showing no sign of noticing the right hand which was extended in her direction, her manner that of merely making a conventional response to a person she considered of little importance.

  ‘Enchante defaire votre connaisance, mademoiselle,’the scar faced man said with bad grace, allowing the proffered hand to fall to his side and continuing to speak in the same language. ‘Or should I say, “madam”?’

  ‘M’sieur le Majeur speaks the French?’ Francoise inquired, reverting to her heavily accented English, without confirming her unmarried status.

  ‘Very well, mademoiselle,’ Montreigen boasted, running his gaze over the redhead in a speculative fashion and still speaking French. ‘I learned while I was running a salle des armes in New Orleans before the War. Is that where you come from?’

  ‘But no, m’sieur,’ Francoise denied. ‘I am from Sault-Sainte-Marie, in Ontario, Canada and this is as far into the United States as I have been. You will excuse me for continuing to speak the English, but as I hope to stay in your country I wish to learn to speak it much better.’

  ‘You speak it pretty good right now, Frenchie,’ Buller praised, delighted by the way in which his companion was treating his scar-faced subordinate. ‘Is everything ready for me to see?’

  ‘Aaranovitch went to get things ready for you when we saw the coach,’ Montreigen replied, the question having been directed at him. ‘I’ve seen what it does, so I’ll stay and keep the young lady comp—!’

  ‘I’m taking her with me!’ the General asserted. ‘But there’s no need for you three to come. Let’s go take a look, Frenchie.’

  ‘It’s no sight for a woman!’ the major protested.

  ‘She’s said she wants to see what’s doing and that’s good enough for me,’ Buller answered, too aware of the other’s ability as a womanizer to consider leaving the redhead behind. ‘Take these two for a drink while you’re waiting, Montreigen. Come on, Frenchie, the sooner we’ve seen what’s doing, the sooner we can go to dinner.’

  ‘Where’d he find her?’ the major asked, his tone harsh, after the General had taken the redhead by the arm in a proprietorial fashion and led her into the mansion.

  ‘That madam, Mrs. Cutler, fetched her and another tail peddler to Wigg’s party,’ Flannery answered, showing an even greater resentment over the cavalier treatment to which they had been subjected by their superior.

  ‘Did she, by god?’ Montreigen said. ‘I wouldn’t have thought Wigg would even have known Amy Cutler, much less hired some of her girls to happy things up.’

  ‘Not some, only two,’ corrected the first lieutenant and explained what had happened.

  ‘Damn my luck, I’d have liked to see the hot-assed Mary Wilkinson having the shit beat out of her,’ the major growled, at the conclusion of the description, then nodded after the departing couple. ‘Why’s he taking her to see what Aaranovitch’s got for him, though?’

  ‘Don’t ask me what goes on in that uncouth bastard’s mind!’ Flannery snapped indignantly. ‘Bobbie and I tried to talk him out of bringing her with us, but you know what he’s like.’

  ‘Better than either of you, it looks like,’ Montreigen stated dryly. ‘You’ve both been around him for long enough to know better than let him see you’re against anything he says he’s going to do. That only makes him all the more goddamned bull-headed set on doing, just to prove he’s the Big Boss. I suppose he’s figuring on taking her back to Arkansas to fight other women for him?’

  ‘That could be what he’s got in mind, him finding it so god-damned amusing and horn-raising to watch,’ Flannery conceded grudgingly, despite realizing that the major was correct in his assessment of the way their superior invariably reacted to opposition to his intentions. ‘He asked her to come with us at Wigg’s as soon as she told him how much she liked fighting, but we couldn’t hear what they said to each other in the coach on the way here.’

  ‘He asked her to go to Arkansas?’ the major queried.

  ‘No, just to have dinner with him when he was through,’ Flannery corrected. ‘And we know what that means.’

  ‘Sure,’ Montreigen grunted. ‘He wouldn’t ask her to go off with him while Amy Cutler was listening. She wouldn’t take kind to losing a girl that good. Only, when he asked her, she could have fought shy on account of how badly things are going for him in Arkansas. That being, he’s showing her that he’s got something to turn the tables on the Rebs.’

  ‘Why should he go to all that trouble?’ Second Lieutenant Robert Cryer inquired. ‘He’s never had any difficulty getting women to fight for him out there.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Montreigen admitted. ‘Only they all look like what they are.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Flannery asked.

  ‘Like I said, everything about them shows what they are,’ the major answered and, seeing neither lieutenant showed signs of enlightenment, elaborated, ‘They’re either cheap whores, or poor white trash, fighting because they need the money.’

  ‘She’s only a whore herself,’ Cryer exclaimed. ‘If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t have been with Mrs. Cutler.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ Montreigen replied, with the kind of patience frequently shown when explaining a point which should be obvious. ‘But, get her dressed right, talking and acting the way she does, and she’d pass as one of the guests. The way she acted when he introduced us put me in mind of those nose-in-the-air, high-and-mighty, “old family” French-Creole gals I came across while I was in New Orleans.’

  ‘She said she’d never been there,’ Cryer pointed out sulkily, glancing to where the
couple under discussion had disappeared, through the door at the far side of the entrance hall.

  ‘I’m not saying she has,’ the major countered. ‘All I said was, she put me in mind of those high-toned Creoles. Neither the gal she was put up against, or the fellers who’re watching would expect her to be able to fight as good as you reckon she can, and Buller could make a killing betting on her.’

  ‘But we know about her,’ Cryer reminded.

  ‘And he’ll warn you to keep quiet,’ Montreigen stated.

  ‘What is it that Aaranovitch has come up with?’ Flannery asked, deciding against mentioning certain speculations aroused by the conversation as he wanted to keep all the credit to himself should they prove correct.

  ‘It’s everything he said it would be and will do all Buller wants,’ Flannery assessed, after describing an experiment he had witnessed. Then he nodded towards the closed door and concluded, ‘One thing’s for sure. That redheaded gal’s going to wish she’d stayed out here with us. When you see the son-of-a-bitch working, that stuff concocted by Aaranovitch is like to turn your stomach.’

  ~*~

  ‘Good evening, Mist—General Buller!’ David Aaranovitch greeted, rising from the rocking chair he had been occupying and peering through spectacles with strong lens intended for reading or working at close quarters. Removing them, he blinked a couple of times at the newcomers as if unable to believe what he was seeing. Then he continued in his high-pitched New England accent, ‘What is she doing here?’

  Of slightly less than medium height, scrawny, narrow-chested and round shouldered, the speaker was far from an imposing physical specimen. Under an untidy mop of frizzy mousey-brown hair, having an over large nose, bulging eyes and a badly shaved receding chin, his pallid and pimply features were thin. He was wearing a grubby and much stained long white coat which hung open to display an equally dirty collarless white shirt and yellowish-brown Nankeen trousers with legs so long they almost obscured the toes of his badly scuffed and apparently never cleaned black boots.

  ‘I’ve brought her to see what you’ve done for me,’ Buller answered, glancing around. ‘So I hope it’s as good as your letter made it out to be.’

  Formerly the main kitchen for the mansion, the sizeable room had been converted into a well- equipped scientific laboratory. The most noticeable objects, standing on a long and sturdy bench which had originally been used for preparing food, were three of the very large glass bottles known as ‘carboys’. They had been removed from the wooden or wicker containers which were employed to offer greater safety when in use for transporting acid or other corrosive fluids in quantity. Two were empty and open, their glass stoppers being alongside them, but the other had a deep layer of soil in it and was closed. Nearby, in cages, were half a dozen brown rats.

  ‘It is, I can assure you of that,’ Aaranovitch declared. ‘But I hardly think the young lady should be here while I demonstrate.’

  ‘Is it that dangerous?’ Buller demanded, glaring about him with obvious consternation.

  ‘Not so much dangerous as most unpleasant to watch,’ the chemist corrected, smiling in a superior fashion. ‘There’s nothing for you to be afraid of.’

  ‘Afraid?’ the General barked and, as was his instinctive reaction in times of stress, took out his bulky silver cigar-case. ‘I’m not afraid, damn it. What do you say, Frenchie, are you game to see what’s doing?’

  ‘That is why I came, M’sieur le General,’ Francoise replied. ‘And, as you will find out, I never go back on anything I say I will do.’

  ‘Which I’m counting on you to prove later,’ Buller asserted, eyeing the redhead in a knowing manner. Opening the case, he took out a thick cigar as he went on, ‘All right, young feller, let’s be seeing what you’ve been spending so much of my money on.’

  ‘Very well,’ Aaranovitch assented, his air of superiority being replaced by petulance. He looked around as he was speaking and his voice took on a note of warning as he saw what his sponsor was holding. ‘Don’t light that cigar until after I’ve finished. The compound is highly combustible.’

  ‘Combusti—?’ Buller began, refraining from reaching into his trousers pocket for matches.

  ‘That means it catches fire easily,’ the chemist explained.

  ‘I know what the son-of-a-bitch means!’ the General snarled irritably, replacing the cigar and returning the case. ‘Just what the hell is it you’ve come up with?’

  ‘What you asked me for,’ Aaranovitch replied. ‘Something which will give your troops an ascendancy over the weapons and fighting skills of the Rebels they are up against.’

  ‘I should god-damned hope it will!’ Buller growled, waving his right hand in a gesture which encompassed all the paraphernalia in the room. ‘I’ve paid out enough money for you to do the son-of-a-bitch for me.’

  ‘The results more than justify your expenditure,’ Aaranovitch claimed, his thin features showing annoyance. ‘In fact, what I have discovered will prove so effective that, once it becomes known, no nation will dare go to war against another in case it should be used against them.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ the General demanded. ‘“When it becomes known”?’

  ‘You can hardly keep its use a secret,’ the chemist pointed out. ‘And, after you’ve shown how effective it is, every military nation will be clamoring to buy the formula and make it.’

  ‘You can leave that side of it to me!’ Buller ordered, then went on with an impatient eagerness, ‘Let’s see what it is and does.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Aaranovitch replied. Crossing to the safe in a corner of the room, he unlocked and opened the door. Reaching inside, he turned, holding a bottle containing a yellowish-brown liquid. ‘I began by trying to produce the kind of virulently toxic compound you wanted to poison the rivers, lakes and wells used by the Rebels, but decided this offered a far more practical solution.’

  ‘What is it?’ Buller asked, piggy eyes glinting avariciously.

  ‘A mixture of dichloro—!’ the chemist commenced, but his thin face took on a cunning expression. ‘I think it is best that I keep the formula to myself for the time being, as—insurance, shall we say?’

  ‘Why you—!’ the General spat out, his porcine features darkening with anger. Realizing he was in no position to adopt too high-handed an attitude, he halted his words and, giving a shrug, forced a humorless grin and went on in a milder tone, ‘All right, I suppose I can’t blame you for playing it cagey. I just hope that stuff is as good as you reckon.’

  ‘You will soon be able to judge that for yourself,’ Aaranovitch stated smugly.

  Going to the workbench, the chemist removed the glass stopper from the bottle and tipped some of the liquid into one of the open carboys. Almost immediately, a yellow vapor began to form. Having ‘corked’ the bottle as soon as he stopped pouring, he set it aside to take up and don a pair of thick leather gloves. Opening a cage, he reached for and caught the rat it held. Dragging the squealing and wildly struggling animal out, he managed after a couple of tries to thrust its head into the neck of the carboy and shoved it onwards.

  Falling to the bottom of the transparent vessel on being released, the rat contrived to land on its feet. Following the dictates of its instinct, it started to run through the evaporating liquid. Almost immediately, it gave a screech of pain and bounded into the air as if stung or finding the surface it was crossing too hot to bear. On alighting, it toppled and its feet pawed at its eyes. Rolling and thrashing around, its shrieks became what in a human being would have been a strangled coughing. After a few seconds of what was obviously tremendous torment, the violent convulsions ended and it subsided into the still growing cloud of vapor. In addition to the pads of its feet being red and raw looking, several severe blisters had formed on the bare flesh of its belly and tail.

  ‘As you can see,’ Aaranovitch was saying while the events were taking place, speaking with the calm detachment of a lecturer addressing students in a classroom. ‘In addition to giving of
f toxic gasses when exposed to the air, the fluid causes severe burning with destruction of the tissue with which it comes in contact. Its power of penetration of the skin is very considerable due to its capability of producing lipoid solubility. As a result of its action, the vapor creates a strong irritant effect on the eyes, lungs and skin. Furthermore—!’

  ‘Good God Almighty!’ Buller ejaculated profanely, having been staring so intently at the carboy he had paid no attention to the comments by the chemist. ‘Did you see that, Frenchie?’

  ‘Yes!’ the redhead replied, her face set in lines of loathing.

  ‘You haven’t seen it all,’ Aaranovitch stated, pointing along the bench. ‘The effects of the fluid and its vapor is lingering and not easily destroyed by weathering. I poured some on the soil in that carboy six days ago. Watch what happens.’

  Collecting another rat, the chemist removed the stopper from the carboy and thrust it in. Falling to the soil without injury, it soon exhibited similar symptoms of distress to those of the first animal. Its suffering was more prolonged before it too succumbed.

  ‘Well?’ Aaranovitch inquired triumphantly, replacing the glass stopper.

  ‘You’ve done the son-of-a-bitch!’ Buller enthused, rubbing his hands together in delight. ‘This will win the war for me. Frenchie, you can come to Arkansas now and know you’ll be safe.’

  ‘Perhaps, M’sieur le General,’ Francoise answered, showing less enthusiasm and, clearly making an effort to conceal the revulsion she was experiencing. She turned her gaze from the gruesome contents of the carboys. ‘But how are you going to be able to put the Rebel soldiers into such bottles?’

  Six – I Should Kill You

  ‘Welcome to my-sh humble abo—abodsh, Frenchie-gal!’ Brigadier General Moses J. Buller announced, with the solemnity of one who had drunken not wisely but too well. Needing to brace himself still further against the slender redhead, who had taken over the task of guiding and supporting him from Lieutenants Martin Flannery and Robert Cryer, he kicked the door closed in their faces. ‘Let’sh you ’n’ me get undresh—under-esheded—get our clo-eshes off quick, so’s I can find out if you-sh ash good in bed-sh as you are-sh at fighting.’