Although Paupin probably could not have opened the safe with a bobby-pin, he found little difficulty in doing so using his tools. While the safe-breaker handled his part of the affair, all the others worked hard. Half an hour later Belle Boyd stood watching the counterfeiting plates, faces scratched and marred, bubbling in a container of acid to complete their destruction. In the cellar Dusty Fog waited to start the fire which would consume all the money already printed and the paper to make more. The printing-press had been ruined, inks, dyes and chemicals poured out of their containers.
“Ready, Belle?” he asked as the girl entered.
“When you are,” she replied and passed a thick notebook to him. “Put this in your pocket. It’s details of the entire business, what shipments they’ve sent off, where to, stuff like that.”
“It’ll be handy,” Dusty admitted. “Willie and Jim’ve gone up to clear those jaspers out of the house.”
“I saw them,” the girl smiled. “Willie’s taking along a bottle of whisky he found, says it will cure his rheumatism—if he ever gets it.”
“There’s nothing like being prepared,” Dusty grinned. “I’ll start the fire, Belle. Get going.”
By the door of the cellar Dusty rasped a match on his pants’ seat and tossed it into the center of the room. At first only a tiny finger of flame rose, but it grew by the second. A composition of benzole, coal tar, turpentine, residum and crude petroleum could be relied upon to burn well, as the makers of the incendiary shells from which it came knew. Watching the fire spread and grow, Dusty doubted if the Yankees would recover any part of their counterfeiting plant. To slow down any fire-fighting force which might arrive, Dusty spilled the last of the composition on the floor and up the cellar’s wooden steps. Almost before he reached the top, he saw the first fingers of flame creeping after him.
All the lights were out in the hall by the time Dusty reached it. Already Bludso and Willie had dragged the bound and gagged Yankees from the house and far enough along the path to be safe should the whole house take fire. On Dusty joining them, the party hurried along to the main gates. So far no sign of the fire showed and muttered congratulations passed among the raiders.
Pulling open the gate, Jim Bludso allowed Belle to lead the way. Followed by Paupin, then Willie, the girl stepped on to St Charles Avenue. Just too late she heard the grass-muffled feet of approaching men and saw several soldiers running towards her. By keeping to the wide, tree-dotted grass border of the street, the soldiers had escaped detection until almost too late.
Clearly the men came ready for trouble. Without challenging, the leader of the approaching party brought up his revolver and fired. Then a rifle cracked and its bullet struck the gate just in front of Dusty, causing him to take an involuntary pace to the rear. In doing so, he prevented Bludso from leaving.
“Run for it!” Belle shouted.
More shots rang out as the girl darted off along the street, closely followed by Willie and Paupin. Gun in hand, Dusty tried to go through the gate. Once again lead drove him back and a glance told him that there could be no leaving through the front entrance.
“We’ll have to try the back, Jim!” he snapped, throwing a couple of shots at the rapidly approaching soldiers.
While Dusty did not hit any of them, he caused the soldiers to slow down. Turning, Dusty raced with Bludso along the path. Half of the soldiers approached the gates cautiously and the remainder charged by in hot pursuit of Belle’s party. Already a small glow of fire showed in the house, but Dusty and Bludso ignored it. Hurdling the bound men, they ran along in front of the house, swung down the side and reached the rear. By sticking close to the wall again they avoided the chance of running into trip-wires and reached the rear gate. Although Dusty was prepared to shoot open the lock, the need did not arise.
“They’d got slack!” Bludso said. “The key’s in the lock.”
Swiftly the engineer turned the key and Dusty drew open the bolts. Opening the gate, they stepped out. Nobody challenged them, the narrow street at the rear of the houses being deserted. Dusty transferred the key to the outside of the gate and turned it in the lock as Bludso closed the exit. With that done they moved off silently and could hear the first of their pursuers running towards the gate.
“It’s locked!” yelled a voice. “They must still be in the grounds.”
“Guard the gate, two of you,” barked another. “The rest come with me to see if we can put out that fire.”
“But those two—”
“Leave them. If they’re roaming around the garden, we’ll soon know it.”
“Where now, Jim?” Dusty whispered.
“Back to the Busted Boiler as quick as we can. If I know Willie, he’ll be taking Miss Belle and Saul there. Likely we’ll meet up on the way.”
Lead sang its eerie ‘splat!’ sound around Belle’s head as she ran along St. Charles Avenue, but none of it touched her. By keeping to the edge of the street, she and her companions offered a far harder target for the Yankee soldiers. The quarter moon did not give much light and the trees which lined the Avenue threw shadows not conducive to accurate shooting. Realizing this, the soldiers stopped using their rifles and concentrated on running their quarry down.
The strenuous activities of the previous day and night, following upon a long journey in the cramped conditions aboard the Jack did not leave Belle in the best of physical condition. While Lucienne had shown her skill as a masseuse to remove most of the stiffness from Belle’s bruised body that morning, she could not entirely eradicate the effects of the prize-fight. So the girl felt herself weakening. Discovering that they drew ahead of her, the two men slowed down.
“K—Keep going!” she gasped and tried to run faster.
Then her foot slipped on the projecting root of a tree and she stumbled. At another time she might have saved herself, but she moved too slowly. Bright lights seemed to be bursting in her head as she crashed into the tree’s trunk and she slid down in a dazed, helpless heap to the ground.
Hearing Belle’s cry of pain, Paupin and Willie skidded to a halt. Yells rose from the pursuing soldiers and one’s rifle cracked. The bullet flung splinters from the tree, causing Paupin to stop as he went to help the girl. Bayonets glinted dully on the soldiers’ rifles, a more deadly threat than bullets in the poor light. It would be certain capture, or death, to stay and fight; but to run away meant that Belle Boyd, the Rebel Spy, must fall into enemies’ hands. Paupin realized that the result would be the same for Belle no matter which way he acted. However if he and Willie escaped to take the news to Dusty—always assuming the Yankees had not caught the small Texan—something might be done to rescue the girl. It was a slight chance, but better than no chance at all.
“Run, Willie!” he snapped, knowing what fate a Negro helping in such an affair could expect. ‘We’ve got to find Cap’n Fog.”
Only for a moment did Willie hesitate. His thoughts on the matter ran parallel in all respects to Paupin’s. So both men turned and ran on again, striding out at their best speed. Behind them, Belle tried to rise and to order them to save their own lives. Exhaustion welled through her and she became conscious of men around her and voices which seemed to come from a long way off reached her ears.
“One of ’em’s down!” yelled the leading soldier, swinging his bayoneted Sharps rifle into an attack position.
Next moment another of the party jerked the cover from a bull’s eye lantern he carried and illuminated Belle with its light.
“Hold that cat-stabber back,” bawled a sergeant. “That’s a woman.”
Immediately the man with the ready bayonet held his thrust and the rest of the party came to a halt as they stared at Belle. Although the sergeant urged most of his men on after Paupin and Willie, the pause allowed the two men to increase their lead still more.
Slowly the dizziness left Belle and her eyes focused on the scene. Four soldiers formed a loose half circle in front of her, standing tense and watchful in the light of a lantern. Looking beyond them, Belle saw a trio of civilians approaching. The white bandage around the center civilian’s head identified him even before Belle could see his face. It seemed that Dusty’s bullet had done less damage than they guessed, for Turnpike came towards Belle with his companions. At Turnpike’s right side stalked a big, burly, bearded young man. The third of the group was smaller, thin, with a weak face and narrow, shifty eyes.
“So you managed to get one of them,” growled the burly man, sweeping by the soldiers and bending over Belle. “Hey! It’s a woman.”
“I’d never’ve guessed,” grunted the senior soldier present. “Reckon he must’ve learned things like that in college.”
Although the burly civilian threw a savage glare at the soldier, he chose to ignore the comment. Instead he turned back to Belle and reached towards her hood. Suddenly he changed his hand’s direction, shooting it down to grab her left wrist. Not until he had drawn the bracelet off did the bearded man offer to remove Belle’s hood.
“We’ve got one of their big ones here, boys,” the bearded man stated. “Only their best get these bracelets.”
“What’s wrong with the bracelet, Ike?” asked the smallest of the trio.
“I saw one of our men with his throat slit near on from ear to ear with one after he went to arrest Rose Greenhow,” the bearded man answered. “This slut—”
“I recognize her!” Turnpike yelped, thrusting by the other. “She’s the one who came to the shop.”
“Are you sure, Melvin?” asked the bearded man.
“I’m sur—”
“Fire! Fire!”
At the sound of the two words shouted from along the street, Turnpike and his companions jerked around. A faint red glow showed over the wall around Gaton’s property, growing brighter by the second.
“They’ve done it!” snarled the bearded man. “They’ve done it!”
“It wasn’t my fault, Lorch!” Turnpike yelled back. “Damn it, you and Bartok know I did all I could.”
When Turnpike had dashed from his office, he had failed to find any transport. Not fancying such a long walk, he had waited in the hope of seeing a passing hire hack, but none came. At last Lorch and Bartok, two more agents, returned in a carriage from making some investigation of their own. When Turnpike explained matters, the two men agreed to accompany him. On their arrival at the colonel’s house, Turnpike met the guard commander and caused a further delay. Instead of telling the officer of his fears, Turnpike asked for the telegraph service to be tested. When no answer came, he knew that he guessed correctly. The guard turned out and moved fast, but too late as the fiery glow at Gaton’s house showed.
“Get down there and see if you can save anything!” Lorch growled. “The safe ought to come through a fire and it’s locked.”
“I’ll send some of the soldiers in to carry it out,” Turnpike answered. “The officer of the guard has the key.”
With that he turned and raced back towards the house. After watching Turnpike depart, Lorch took a pair of handcuffs from his jacket pocket and secured Belle’s wrists behind her back. Then he hauled her roughly to her feet and gripped her right arm in his big left hand.
“You come quiet,” he warned. “Make fuss for me and I’ll break your arm. I’m not one of your Southern gentlemen and I don’t think it’s wrong to hit a woman.”
“You’d probably find it easier and less dangerous than hitting a man,” she replied and the soldiers chuckled.
“Easy there, college boy!” growled the oldest soldier as Lorch gave Belle a hard jerk. “I’m not Southern neither, but I don’t stand for no man-handling a gal.”
Nor did his companions if their low growls of agreement meant anything. So Lorch held down his anger at the interruption and started to walk towards the burning house. Belle went along, but she knew that she had never been in a tighter spot than at that moment.
Turning a corner which momentarily hid him from the following soldiers, Willie tore off his hood and threw it aside. “Keep going, Massa Saul!” he ordered. “Draw ’em off. I’s a-going back to see if I can help Miss Belle or learn where they-all taking her.”
“Where’ll I go when I lose ’em?”
“Head back towards the Busted Boiler. If you go the way we come, you ought to meet the others.”
With that Willie swung behind a tree. Leaping up, he caught its lowest branch and hauled himself up. Hardly had the Negro swung his feet out of sight than the soldiers rushed around the corner. Paupin kept running at the fringe of the shadows and yelled as if encouraging his companion. Then the soldiers went by and Willie cautiously dropped to the ground. Taking the bottle of whisky from his pocket, he looked sadly at it.
“Lordy Lord!” he sighed, drawing the cork. “What a waste.”
After splashing a liberal amount of the whisky on to his clothes, Willie filled his mouth and then spat it clear again. Moving carefully, he slipped across the street and stalked along in the shadows until close to the gates of the Gaton house. Assuming a drunken stagger, he walked across the Street and when the two sentries at the gate saw him they concluded that he came from a house on the other side of the Avenue.
“W’a’s going on, gents?” he inquired in a drunken voice, breathing whisky fumes into the nearest soldier’s face.
“You’d best get going, Rastus,” the soldier replied, drawing back a little. “It’s none of your concern.”
Willie saw Belle standing handcuffed inside the gate, but knew he could not hope to achieve anything in the way of a rescue. Playing for time, he pretended to be concerned about a cousin who worked at the house and watched Turnpike returning, followed by Bartok.
“They’ve bust open the safe!” Turnpike snarled. “Everything’s gone. Killed Gaton, too.”
“And he was the only one we’ve got who could make up the right inks,” Bartok wailed. “It’ll be months before we can get things going again. They may have found the record book, it wasn’t in the safe.”
“All right,” Lorch answered, taking hold of Belle’s head with one hand. “So we’ve got a mighty important prisoner here. She’ll know where we can find the rest. Once we get back to our headquarters, we’ll soon make her talk.”
“It’s not that easy,” Turnpike warned. “That damned soldier told his officer about the girl. The stupid, sentimental old fool insists she’s his prisoner and insists we hand her over to him.”
“Like hell!” Lorch barked.
“You aiming to argue it with him?” Turnpike inquired. “He says we’re not to torture her and that if we try it, he’ll stop us.”
“He might, if he found us at it,” Lorch answered. “We’ll take her—”
“He knows where our headquarters is,” Bartok interrupted.
“And that’s where he’ll go looking for her,” Lorch replied. “Only she won’t be there. We’ll take her to—”
“Madam Lucienne’s shop,” Turnpike put in. “There’ll be nobody around and I’ve got a key. While we’re at it, we may as well learn if there’s anything in the shop. She may know.”
“The shop it is then,” barked Lorch.
While talking, the men had been walking Belle along. Suddenly they became aware that somebody followed them. Turning, the men looked at Willie who wobbled uncertainly along in their wake. A white man would have been immediately suspect, but none of the trio connected a Negro with Belle.
“Where’re you going?” Lorch demanded.
“I’se been to a marrying and’s going home, sah,” Willie answered, breathing a cloud of whisky fumes into the bearded face. “Down that ways, sah.”
As Willie had taken an opportunity to wash his mouth out again, Lorch did not doubt his drunken appearance. Watching Willie stagger off, Lorch gave a snort.
“Do you reckon he’s all right?” Bartok asked.
“He’s drunk,” Lorch answered. “Come on, let’s get the carriage. The soldier reckons they’ve two of the rebs cornered in the garden and he’s setting up sentries to keep them in until morning. We’ve time to be on our way before he misses us.”
“He’ll never think of looking for us at the shop,” Turnpike purred, laying a hand on Belle’s shoulder and sinking his fingers into her flesh. “I’m looking forward to this.”
Belle did not reply. Not a flicker of expression had she allowed her recognition of Willie to show. Darting a glance over her shoulder while pretending to free herself from Turnpike’s grasp, Belle saw that the Negro had already disappeared into the alley between two houses. While she guessed that Willie was going as fast as he could to fetch help, Belle wondered where he might find it.
Cursing the officer of the guard for his insistence that they did not torture the girl, Turnpike, Lorch and Bartok hustled her back to the big house from which they came. On arrival they found that a well-meaning servant had unhitched, fed and watered the two horses from the carriage. Calling the man a number of things—but not a poor, down-trodden victim of the vicious rebels, their usual term for a Negro—Bartok and Turnpike went to re-harness the team. Although only Lorch remained with her, Belle knew better than try to escape. The bearded man watched her too carefully and was so powerful that she could not hope to defeat him with her hands secured behind her back.
With the horses hitched, Bartok took the driver’s seat and his companions placed themselves on either side of Belle in the back. The quickest way to Madam Lucienne’s shop would have taken them by the front of the Gaton house, but Lorch ordered Bartok to turn in the other direction. If the officer saw them leave that way, he would think they were going to their headquarters. Long before he learned his mistake, Lorch expected to have gained all the information possible from the girl. After that it would be up to Allen Pinkerton, as head of the Secret Service, to make excuses to the Army.
“What’s your name?” Lorch growled as the carriage clattered through the darkened streets.
“Martha Lincoln,” Belle replied. “You may know my husband, Abraham.”
“Have your fun while you can, girlie,” Turnpike snarled.
“She’s a spunky little devil, that’s for sure,” Lorch went on and laid his hand on Belle’s thigh. When she tried to pull away, he grinned at her. “Don’t worry, peach-blossom, there’s not enough room here.”
With that, he nipped the tender flesh on the inside of her thigh. Only with an effort did Belle hold down a gasp of pain. She felt afraid, more so than ever in her life, as the man released his hold. All too well she knew what kind of men held her in their power. Young intellectuals, well-educated, but with all the bigotry and intolerance of their kind, hating all Southerners for daring to oppose their beliefs, the trio would not hesitate to torture her, or worse, if they could do so without risk to themselves.
Belle wondered what had happened to Dusty and Bludso. Although the Yankees believed the two rebels to be in the garden, Belle doubted it. Knowing the dangers, Dusty and Bludso would not stay in the house’s grounds unless they had no way out. She did not dare try to raise her hopes by imagining the two men would be able to effect a rescue.
No chance of escape presented itself during the drive to Lucienne’s shop, despite the fact that it took twice as long as it should. Given a practical piece of work, Bartok proved sadly lacking in ability. When it became apparent that Bartok was lost, Lorch insisted they stopped and asked a passing patrol for directions. Even then the bearded man found it necessary to keep a check on Bartok to prevent him from taking a wrong turn.
At last the carriage rolled along the dark, deserted Le Havre Street and halted outside Lucienne’s shop. Climbing down, Turnpike took a key from his pocket and went to the shop’s door. While Lorch and Bartok made Belle leave the carriage, Turnpike entered the shop. He found and lit a lamp, standing it on the counter.
Bringing Belle in, Lorch shoved her on to a straight-backed chair. He bent her torso forward until he could haul her arms over the back of the chair and growled orders to his companions. Held in such a manner Belle could not struggle and Bartok brought a length of stout cord which Lorch used to fasten the handcuff’s links to the rear legs of the chair.
“You’re going to talk now, peach-blossom,” he told her and gripped the neck of her shirt.
With a savage jerk Lorch ripped the shirt down the front. He continued pulling and tearing until Belle sat naked to the waist. Lust showed on all the trio’s faces as they stared at the round swell of her bust.
“You’ve been in the wars, peach-blossom,” Lorch purred, fingering the mottling of bruises on her ribs. “I thought you messed up your face when you fell against the tree. Who did it?”
“Maybe it was some feller she used to mistreat as a slave,” Turnpike sneered, eyes fixed as if by a magnet to her naked torso.
“Whoever it was, she proved a damned sight tougher than you,” Belle hissed.
“Why you—!” Turnpike began, lunging forward with the intention of driving his fist into her face.
Belle kicked up, hoping to catch him where it would do the most good. Instead of striking his groin, her boot collided with his shin. Letting out a howl, he hopped on the other leg and clutched at his pain-filled limb. Then he flung himself back just in time to avoid a second kick. Almost foaming at the mouth in his rage, Turnpike drew his Smith & Wesson and lined it at the girl.
“Quit that!” Lorch bellowed, shoving Turnpike’s gun-arm aside. “If you kill her, we’ll learn nothing.”
“Let me work on her face with the butt then!” Turnpike snarled.
“Not just yet,” Lorch answered and moved around to where Belle could not kick him. Cupping his hand almost gently under her left breast, he flicked its nipple with his thumb. “Let’s try another way first.”
“Get your filthy Yankee hands off me!” Belle said and the contempt in her voice raked Lorch like a whip. “I’d as soon be mauled by a pig.”
Drawing back a pace before the raw scorn showed by the girl, Lorch glared at her for a moment. Then he slashed his left hand around, driving the back of it viciously into Belle’s bust. The girl’s body stiffened and she could not stop a cry of agony bursting from her lips.