Shortly after Belle Boyd was rendered unconscious by the pistol thrown at her, two of the men who had been on the fox hunt earlier in the evening and a pair of Negroes clad in attire suggesting that they were field hands rather than members of the mansion’s domestic staff dashed into the room.
Already from below the sounds of fighting had died away from the ground floor, although there were other indications that activity of a hostile nature was continuing in the grounds.
Furthermore, originating from somewhere on the ground floor, there were other noises suggesting that efforts were being made to put out the fires that had been started in various parts of the mansion. These had been started, using kerosene, by the members of the mob holding a grudge against the owner of Baton Royale plantation for his part in curtailing some of their unsavory activities. Therefore, although Belle and the others on the upper floor were unaware of the problem, because of the highly inflammable nature of much of their surroundings as well as the fluid employed to set each blaze going and the primitive means that were being employed in an attempt to douse the resulting blazes, the men fighting the fires were finding great difficulty in achieving anything against the ever-growing flames.
Realizing the danger posed by the spreading conflagration, the quartet had come to the second floor to give whatever succor was needed to its occupants and ensure that there were no more of the attackers about. It had only needed a quick examination to inform them that there was nothing anybody could do for the owner and his wife. However, as neither had put in an appearance down below, they had surmised that the daughter of the house and possibly her former maid were upstairs. It had been the biggest of the Negroes who guessed where the women could be found.
“Quickly!” snapped Phillipe Front de Boeuf, iv the young white man in the lead. Dressed as he had been during the hunt, although lacking the most undesirable qualities some of his family had had and one at least still possessed, he had the size and bulk for which most members his family had long been renowned. v “Get them downstairs and outside.”
“You ’tend to my li’l lamb first!” Mattie Jonias croaked, trying to force herself up from a kneeling position while still keeping her right hand clasped to the wound in the right side of her torso just below her massive bosom.
“We’ll see to you both!” Front de Boeuf asserted. He was a medical student and knew enough about such injuries as the old Negress had sustained to appreciate the danger of what must be done, but he was aware there was no other choice if she was to be saved from the flames. “Danny, help get Belle downstairs. We’ll see to Auntie Mattie.” His eyes went to the woman and he continued in a gentle voice, “It’s going to hurt, but we have to carry you out of here.”
“Not ‘til my li’l lamb’s safe away!” Auntie Mattie denied heatedly and weakly, trying to fend off the approaching men with her hands. “You get to toting her off downstairs, Sammy-well!”
“I can do it easier’n the two of us, boss,” stated the shorter of the Negroes, which did not make him small or feeble in build.
“Very well,” assented the young white man who had almost landed on the girl when they took the fall with their horses in the woodland. “I’ll fetch along these swords and pistols. I know how much Belle cared for them.”
“Get some clothes for her from the bedroom closet, sir!” Auntie Mattie said, making the words more of a demand than a request. “They’ll be a whole heap more use right now than them fool weapons of her’n regardless of how she would insist on playing with ’em.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the young Southron answered, instinctively speaking with the politeness he would have employed if it had been his own colored “mammy” addressing him. “I’ll ‘tend to it!”
Refusing to let the two big men lift her until she had seen the girl being borne through the door in the arms of “Sammy-well” and her instructions regarding the collection of garments being obeyed, the elderly Negress submitted to being removed as soon as she was satisfied that all was being done as she wanted it. Although the of necessity swift way in which she was being carried by the shoulders and upper thighs between the equally massive and well-muscled pair caused her great pain, she did not allow more than the occasional extra-heavy exhalation of breath to give an indication of her suffering. There was, she realized, a pressing need for haste. Already the flames were gaining to such an extent that she realized there would be little saved of the mansion that had been her home for a great many years. She wondered how the girl she had done so much to raise—and secretly admired for qualities that were not a normal requisite of the wealthy Southron maiden— would react when she learned what had happened.
Although some more of the men tried to come to the floor and fetch down the bodies of Electra and Vincent Boyd, the ferocity of the conflagration defeated them. In fact, the staircase was already beginning to quiver with an increasing violence as the still-unconscious girl and injured Negress were being carried down. The latter had only just arrived on the comparative safety of the ground floor when flames began to lick upward to consume the steps; a few seconds later, the staircase collapsed, cutting off access to the upper portion of the building from that direction. Having stopped to gather up Belle’s weapon in addition to the clothing he had grabbed at random—including some of the masculine attire and the boots she had worn for the hunt—Front de Boeuf was the last to descend, and it was only by taking a flying leap before reaching the final six or so feet that he was able to escape being trapped by the disintegration of what had been part of the pride of Baton Royale’s fixtures.
Driven backward by the heat and fumes, with the exception of the men who had come in the hope of effecting a rescue, all who were driven from the mansion by the flames stood in silence as they watched impotently the destruction of what had been a fine and happy home. While Front de Boeuf was putting his medical training to use in what was to prove a successful bid to keep Auntie Mattie alive until a more experienced local practitioner of the healing arts could arrive, the rest expressed their feelings in whatever way their temperaments called for. Their vocal efforts were accompanied by the wailing of the Negresses who had followed their menfolk when it became apparent that an attack upon the mansion was taking place and, some of them at least, had played a not-ineffective part in helping to rout the mob.
Furthermore, it was only with some difficulty that the furious women were restrained from dealing in a most painful manner with the three men who had failed to make good an escape. Not that, in view of the less-than-gentle way they were treated to extract information that would be of help to the local peace officers when investigating the cause of the attack, they were inclined to consider the change of sex where their interrogators was concerned to have been noticeably more beneficial. Regardless of coming from well-to-do families and having been raised with a strict respect for the due processes of the law, the young guests on what had turned out to be Vincent Boyd’s last hunt had had no qualms over the means employed by Joe Lassiter. Claiming to have Seminole Indian blood, he had applied what he said were methods acquired from that nation of savagely efficient swamp-dwelling and -fighting warriors to procure the answers.
~*~
“What happened to Momma and Poppa?” Belle Boyd asked in tones redolent of the grief she was trying to keep in check after she had recovered sufficiently from the blow by the thrown pistol to take notice of her surroundings. She was sitting up with her back resting against a stone wall that she had often rested against while playing on the grounds of the mansion. “Please tell me, Reverend Jacob!”
Once safely removed from the burning building, the still-unconscious girl had been carried to a small summer-house that stood unscathed by the attack not far from where her home was being gutted by the fire. On carrying out a quick examination of her injury, before starting to do what he could for Auntie Mattie, Phillipe Front de Boeuf had satisfied himself that she was in no immediate danger. There was a blue-black contusion on the side of her head where the contact with the weapon was made, but the skin had not been cut. Concluding that there was nothing more he could do for her at that moment, he had given instructions to the little Negress who served as her maid to get her into some more adequate attire. Leaving this to be carried out, knowing there was no need for him to remain to supervise the covering of the skimpy undergarments—which he had checked and found to his relief carried bloodstains from her assailants and were not caused by her own having been shed in the fighting—he had returned to devote his full attention to the elderly woman who had insisted that he see to the needs of her “li’l lamb” first.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, child,” the oldest member of the hunting party replied, his voice brittle with anger and remorse. He was the Reverend Jacob Keith, and as minister of the Episcopalian church at Baton Rouge, he had always been a good friend of the Boyd family. He had known the girl since the day she was born, and in addition to officiating at her christening, had often been a coconspirator with her father where the less-than-conventional aspects of her education were concerned. A sturdy and cheery man in his early fifties, he was respected by his parishioners for his warmth, and the pithy sermons he preached were much admired by the majority of those who heard them. Furthermore, his keenness to indulge in all kinds of hunting and fishing, as well as a tolerance toward drinking hard liquor provided it was done in moderation, except on Sundays or the recognized church holidays, endeared him to the younger male members of his community. However, he had never relished less anything he had carried out in accordance with his duties around the parish than the task he was now facing. “But they were both killed.”
“I saw it happen,” Belle said in a voice barely louder than a whisper, but in tones redolent of her deep sense of bitterness as she remembered how she had failed to shoot either of the men who had done the killing. Then a shudder she could not restrain ran through her slender yet curvaceous frame and she asked in only a slightly less softly spoken voice, “Where are they now?”
“We had to leave them where they fell,” Keith answered just as quietly, and he felt the girl’s hands tighten upon his in a grip that made him wince. ‘Tm sorry, Belle, but there was nothing else we could do. By the time you and Auntie Mattie had been brought down, the stairs were too far gone with the flames for anybody to go up again. There wasn’t a shortage of volunteers, black and white, to make a try by the servants’ stairs, but I found it was the same there and wouldn’t let them take the chance. Knowing them as I did, I felt your mother and father wouldn’t have wanted lives lost for them under the circumstances.”
“I know that,” the girl admitted, and realizing just how tightly she had hold, loosened her grasp on the minister’s hands. She looked toward where her home was rapidly being reduced to a blazing ruin and with a shudder braced herself. “Momma and Poppa always loved Baton Royale so much. Somehow I think they would feel more content to know they are still with it even though it’s almost gone.”
“I think they would, too, although I probably shouldn’t come right out and say so,” Keith asserted, being opposed to cremation as a prelude to burial in most circumstances. “How do you feel?”
“My head aches, but I’m all right otherwise,” Belle replied. Then she let out a gasp and made as if to stand up. “Where’s Auntie Mattie?”
“They brought her out safely,” the Reverend answered, laying gently restraining hands on the girl’s shoulders and feeling the wiry strength he already had cause to know was possessed by her trim body.
“I think I saw her shot,” the girl gasped, but felt too weak to get up and look for herself. “In fact, I know I did. It happened while she was saving my life.”
“She was shot, all right, and is suffering from a bad wound in the torso,” Keith admitted. “But young Front de Boeuf is doing all he can for her, and he’s proving surprisingly good at it after the trouble his family had to get him to take up medicine instead of joining the Army or going ranching in Texas with his uncle Winston. Fortunately, Doctor Soames is dining with the Thatchers. They’re sure to have heard the disturbance, and the Colonel is sure to come with men to find out what’s happened, so he will be able to take over when he arrives.” vi
“How about Poppa Jonias?” Belle wanted to know, fresh thoughts flooding back and causing her to realize that the post of butler was so ably performed by Auntie Mattie’s small and always cheerfully efficient husband that he was sure to have been waiting somewhere on the ground floor ready to admit the members of the hunt when they arrived from helping Joe Lassiter attend to the muck ponies they had used.
“He was knocked unconscious by one of them,” the minister replied. “But they got him out and he’s come ‘round. As Mattie can’t, some of the other women are taking care of him.”
“I hope they are some she approves of,” Belle remarked, feeling the need to say something completely inconsequential to relieve her tensed nerves and being all too aware how her former “mammy” and now mentor was very aware of the social distinctions. “I wouldn’t dare say so to her face, but Auntie Mattie has always struck me as being something of a snob.”
“And you’re well advised not to say so, my girl, for shame,” Keith asserted, knowing the reasons for the remark and wanting to help bring about the desired result.
Before any more could be said, Lassiter and one of the party who had ridden his muck ponies in the hunt came up dragging a bedraggled, bloodied, and obviously very frightened man between them.
“This son of a bit—!” the huntsman began, then brought the words to a halt as he realized he was speaking in an inappropriate fashion under the prevailing conditions, regardless of his own feeling on the subject. “Sorry, Be—Miss Boyd, Reverend. This stinking river-rat just can’t wait to start answering questions.”
“Don’t let them—!” the clearly terrified and already suffering captive yelled, looking at the minister.
“I’d say that all depends on you,” Keith answered with no sign of sympathy. “I want to hear everything that will help the law get the rest of you scum.”
“So do I,” Belle declared, and she no longer looked like the young and friendly girl whom the minister had known from the day of her birth. Rather, she was even more cold and pitiless in the way she appeared than Lassiter, for all his Seminole blood. “Especially about the two men who killed my parents. Because I’m going to see both of them dead!”
“No, Belle,” the minister said quietly, despite guessing that he was speaking in vain. He also realized that it was one of the very few times he had thought of the girl in terms of her sex. “That’s no work for you.”
“Yes it is, Reverend Jacob,” the girl contradicted with vehemence. “Poppa always wanted to have a son and couldn’t, so he trained me to take that place. Now it is up to me to be the son he always wanted, and that is what I intend to do.”
At that moment, Belle Boyd was set upon the path that would gain her the sobriquet Rebel Spy.