Dusty Fog's Civil War 10 Page 8

  “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 realized 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 realized 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 traveling 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 realized 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 realized 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 center 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 behavior 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 realized 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.

  “Not that I’m ungrateful,” Dusty drawled as the journey resumed. “But you could’ve got killed coming in to help me. The idea was for me to take all the risks and chance getting blown up.”

  “Like I said,” Belle replied. “It would be me who had to face Company ‘C’ if anything happened to you.”

  “You think you’ve got problems,” grinned Pinckney. “I’d not only’ve had Dusty’s company after me, I’d be running from your bosses too, Belle, if that ’gator managed to kill both of you.”

  “Damned if I guessed it,” Dusty said in a resigned voice. “But I had the least to worry about of us all.”

  Eight – A Snag to Miss Boyd’s Plans

  Before the War came, New Orleans ranked as the United States’ second greatest port; and at the height of the cotton-gathering season its volume of trade exceeded even New York’s. The city’s waterfront area spread along the river for four miles and at times ocean-going or river-boats filled almost every inch of the frontage, in some cases lining out three or four deep. Then there had, been a constant coming and going, boats arriving or departing with cargoes and helping the New Orleans banks to hold a greater combined capital than those of any city in the land, with the possible exception of gold-rich San Francisco.

  The War changed all of that. When Farragut brought his fleet of iron-clad ships into the Mississippi, all hope of peaceful trading ended. Such riverboats as could fled up the river, others were sunk by the Yankee ironclads’ guns. When defeat became inevitable, the waterfront glowed red as stocks of cotton, sugar, molasses and other produce were set on fire to prevent them falling into enemy hands.

  Altogether the Federal garrison at New Orleans topped the fifteen thousand mark, while the Mississippi Squadron numbered forty-three major vessels and many smaller craft. However their ships took up only a portion of the riverfront and much more lay empty, deserted, with blackened, gutted ruins bleakly facing the mighty river.

  Shortly before midnight, three days after leaving Alexandria, the Jack crept through the darkness towards a derelict stretch of wharf. Ballasted down to the limit of safety, the little boat had wended its way past Yankee artillery batteries and by U.S. Navy guard ships. The covering of foliage which served them so well during the majority of the journey had been discarded that day at sundown and within sight of the city, for it would attract too much attention and might be investigated.

  After disarming the Brooke torpedo and tangling with the alligator, the remainder of the trip proved uneventful. Once they lay up for two hours against a mud bank while a Yankee transport took on fuel at a wooding. During the second night they drifted silently by one of the big Conestoga-class gunboats, with Pinckney breathing curses at the turn of fate which made him pass up such a tempting and open target. The Yankee vessel went on its way, crewmen acting like they rode on a pleasure-cruise and blissfully unaware of the danger so narrowly averted.

  As they approached the dock, a gurgling sound told Dusty that the Jack pumped out its ballast. Slowly t
he boat rose higher in the water, but instead of stopping edged between the piles of the wharf. An air of alert tension filled the Jack’s crew and the cox’n went forward with a hooded bull’s-eye lantern in his hand. Standing on the wet deck forward, he darted an occasional glimmer of light by which Pinckney at the wheel steered. It was an eerie sensation, passing between the piles supporting the wharf. Then the light showed a small jetty and Pinckney brought his boat to a halt alongside it.

  “This’s as far as we go,” he told his passengers in a low voice. “Look around, cox’n and make sure all’s secure.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the cox’n replied and stepped on to the jetty to fade away into the blackness.

  “This’s some place you have here, Cord,” Dusty remarked when the cox’n returned with the news that all was safe.

  “A bunch of us David-class captains rigged it up when we saw that New Orleans must fall,” Pinckney replied. “We only use it in emergencies, but the Yankees haven’t found it.”

  “How long can you lay here, Cord?” Belle asked.

  “We’re short on food, but I can stay until tomorrow night. Likely have to, there won’t be time to run clear of the defenses before morning. Will that be any good to you?”

  “Hardly. It’ll take all tomorrow at least to get what I need. If I can get food for you, are you game to wait two more nights?”

  “I can get my own food,” Pinckney assured her. “All right, I’ll stay on for three days, but I’ll have to pull out by just after sundown on the third night.”

  “Thank you, Cord,” Belle said sincerely. “If we aren’t back by then, go. In that case Dusty and I will take our chance of slipping through the Yankee lines and make our way north through our own territory.”

  “When do we start, Belle?” asked Dusty.

  “Not before morning,” the girl answered. “I don’t know if the Yankees still impose a curfew, but even if they don’t we’d attract attention walking through the streets at his hour.”