Lying fully dressed on her bed in the best room of the Plaza Dixie Hotel, Belle Boyd looked up at the roof and smiled wryly. It seemed ironic that she who had given so much and taken so many chances for the South should be regarded as persona non grata in a Confederate Army officers’ mess. Of course she realized that if she had announced her true identity, the mess door would be flung open and a welcome accorded to her; but she could not let it be known that she was Belle Boyd.
So Belle found herself alone. The local garrison issued invitations for ‘General’ Amesley and his staff to be guests at dinner and, rather than go into lengthy explanations or arouse suspicions, the three officers accepted. At which point a snag cropped up. While the local officers’ ladies would have felt honored to make the acquaintance of the Captain Dusty Fog of the Texas Light Cavalry, they strenuously and vocally objected to meeting a non-combatant general’s aime on social grounds. Showing remarkable tact, the garrison commander avoided the issue by making the affair a strictly male function.
After some argument, Dusty and the other two left Belle in the hotel. Dusty warned her not to go out, remembering that one of the men who nearly caused her death at the snake-fight pit escaped and might want to try again. Smiling a little at the small Texan’s concern for her welfare, Belle agreed to remain in the hotel and spend as much time as possible in the safety of her room.
After the incident at the snake-pit, things moved fast. First the local law was summoned and, sizing up the officer correctly, Dusty took him aside to tell him almost the full story. Being a stout Southron as well as a peace officer, the town marshal only needed to learn Belle’s identity to make him willing to cover up the killing of Riegel as an accident. With the legal side cleared, Belle spoke to Millbanks and found him willing to take them to Matamoros. He could not sail until the following afternoon, but Belle suggested that the bulk of the luggage, including most of the money, went aboard immediately. Accepting the girl’s judgment, the men made all necessary arrangements and transferred the baggage to the safety of the Snow Queen. Doing so left them free to accept the garrison officers’ invitation, but doomed Belle to a lonely, boring night at the hotel.
She wore one of her specially designed skirts and a plain white blouse, not bothering to dress formally when going to dinner in the hotel. Relaxed in her room after the meal, she turned over the events of the day in her mind. Given time, she could have tried to trace the man who made the attempt on her life. As she would be sailing the following day, the best she could do was hand the matter to the local branch of the Confederate States Secret Service. They knew of the existence of the ring and might possibly be able to trace it through the dead man.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts on how she would handle the investigation. Rising, she crossed the room to find the fat, pompous desk clerk outside.
“There is a person downstairs asking to see you, ma’am,” he announced in a voice which showed that he did not approve of the “person” as being suitable to visit a guest at the hotel. “He sent up this note.”
Taking the grubby envelope offered to her, Belle first noticed that its flap had been sealed down. Obviously the sender did not intend to have the message read by a snooping hotel employee during its delivery to Belle. Tearing open the flap, she extracted a sheet of equally grubby paper and looked down at the one line of writing upon it.
“I have something to sell to you, Miss Belle Boyd.”
Slowly Belle’s eyes lifted to the man’s face, but she had such control over her emotions that he never noticed any change in her expression. “Who brought this for me, please?”
“A peddler called Jacobs,” the clerk replied. “He has a hat box with him.”
“Then you can bring him up.”
“Up here?” yelped the man.
“It’s quite proper for a lady to interview a tradesman in privacy,” she smiled. “He’s probably bringing me a new hat I ordered.”
After the man left, Belle closed the door, went to her bed and drew out the small bag which contained her overnight items. Reaching into the bag, she took out an object which she concealed under the bed’s covers. Shortly after, the clerk ushered in a tall, thin, bearded and dirty-looking man of Hebraic appearance. Pausing for a moment as if waiting for an invitation to stay and act as chaperon, the clerk gave an indignant sniff when it did not come, turned and left the room. Belle’s visitor swung on his heel and thrust the door into a closed position and faced the girl—to look into the barrel of the Dance she produced from beneath the bed covers.
“I don’t know you, Mr. Jacobs,” she stated.
“I’m only a poor Jewish peddler, Miss Boyd,” he replied, standing very still. “A famous lady like you wouldn’t know the likes of me.”
“Then you want something?”
“Only to make a few cents trading.”
“What have you to trade?” Belle asked, looking down at the large hat box in Jacobs’ hands.
“Something a bit more valuable than a hat.”
“Put the box down and tell me more.”
Setting the box on the floor, Jacobs looked up at the girl. “Is that business, telling what I know before we talk money.”
“It’s how I do business,” Belle warned. “We’ll start with you telling me how you know my name.”
“Come now, Miss Boyd,” Jacobs purred. “A business man never tells his sec—”
His words trailed away as he stared at Belle. Still keeping the gun in her right hand lined at the man, Belle reached towards her middle with her left. The skirt she wore had been designed with the needs of her profession in mind and a pull on the buckle freed the waist band, allowing the skirt to drop free to the floor. Underneath Belle did not wear petticoats and the removal of the skirt left her lower regions exposed; which proved to be quite an eye-bugging sight. Her drawers were considerably shorter than a young lady of good-breeding usually employed as buttock covering. Suspender straps made black slashes down the white thighs and connected with black silk stockings. The contrast of colors served to show Belle’s magnificent legs to their best advantage. High-heeled, calf-length shoes graced her feet and added to the general sensuous effect.
While never having heard the word, Belle was aware of the psychological impact the removal of her skirt and appearance it left would have upon Jacobs. He stood with his mouth trailing open and eyes bugging out like organ stops, feasting his licentious gaze upon her lower limbs.
“I learned savate in a New Orleans academy,” she remarked. “It’s very painful, as you will find out if I don’t get my answers.”
“Suppose I walk out?” he asked, his voice a trifle hoarse.
Without taking her Dance out of line, Belle threw up her left leg in a standing high kick that rose with sufficient power and height to rip off half his nose if it connected. Although Belle stood some distance away, Jacobs retreated hurriedly until his back struck the wall.
“Is there any need for all this foolishness?” he asked in what should have been a growl but came out as a whine. “I came here in all good faith to see you—”
“How did you learn my name?” Belle interrupted and delivered a horizontal stamping side kick which dented the brass knob on the bed post, still without taking her gun out of line. “Don’t try to open the door; I’ll shoot you and swear that you attacked me, if you try it.”
Jacobs hurriedly jerked his hand away from the door handle. Not for a moment did he doubt that the girl meant every word she said. Anybody playing the dangerous game of spying could only be a success and stay alive by possessing a ruthless nature and no false sense of the value of human life.
“I was on the dock this morning when the Rosebud came in,” he yelped. “Feller next to me pointed to you and said, ‘That’s Belle Boyd. I saw her in Atlanta.’ Well, I told this feller to keep quiet as we didn’t know who might be listening and he shut his mouth. Only I’d heard him. Seeing’s how I’d something that the South needs, I thought you’d be the best market.”
“You’re selling information that could help the South?” she hissed.
“I’m only a poor man, Miss Boyd. Trade’s become bad these days. A man has to make a living.”
“What have you to sell?” she snapped.
“It’s worth a hundred dollars,” Jacobs answered. “In gold.”
“Landsakes!” Belle gasped. “Do you have the entire war plans of the Yankee Army?”
“No!” growled the man.
“I can’t think of anything else that would be worth a whole hundred dollars in gold.”
“How about a buried telegraph wire running from Morgan City to the mouth of Atchafalaya Bay, the other end being visited by men from the Yankee blockade ships every night to take word of ships leaving the dock?”
“You’re either joking, or lying,” Belle remarked, hiding the interest she felt. “Which is it?”
“Can I open the hat box?”
“Do it real slow and watch what you bring out. Make sure I can see what you are doing all the time.”
Moving slowly, Jacobs raised the lid of the box and placed his hand inside. He used only the tips of his thumb and forefingers to bring an object into sight and toss it on to the bed.
“Go and lean forward with both hands against the wall and your feet spread well apart,” Belle ordered, not touching or looking at the object.
“Don’t you trust me?” Jacobs whined.
“In a word, no,” the girl answered. “Go do what I said.” Not until Jacobs had assumed a posture which did not allow swift movement did Belle relax and study the object he tossed to her. Only by exercising all her willpower did she prevent an exclamation of surprise leaving her. The thing on the bed was a new model sending and receiving key which bore the markings of the U.S. Military Telegraph Department on it.
“Does this prove anything?” she sniffed. “You can stand up and turn around.”
Obeying the order, Jacobs waved a hand towards the machine. “It proves there is a telegraph station around here.”
“Or that you picked up the key from some soldier who collected it on the battlefield.”
“When I see the money, I’ll tell you where the station is.”
Reaching into her vanity bag, Belle took out and flipped two double eagles to the man. He caught them and tested each with his teeth, but made no attempt to examine the dates.
“I said a hun—” he began.
“If we find the station you can collect the other sixty,” Belle replied.
Jacobs thrust the money into his pocket and gave a shrug. “This’s the last time I ever do anybody a good service.”
“You’ll make me weep in a minute,” Belle answered. “Where is it?”
“Down back of the cathouse—that’s a—”
“I know what it is; and where.”
“Down back of the cathouse there’s an old fisherman’s cabin. Empty now, or was. The station’s in there, keys hid under the floorboards—”
“Sounds awful chancy to me,” Belle said. “Anybody might go in there and find the station.”
“Not many folks go down that way. The folks at the cathouse don’t take to having prowlers around back. A lot of their sports wouldn’t want it known they go down there.”
“I suppose not,” Belle smiled, then became serious again. “Suppose they, the Yankees, miss that key?”
“It’s a spare, I left the box it was in. Maybe they won’t notice for days.”
“All right. Come around tomorrow and I’ll give you the other sixty—if I find you’ve told the truth.”
“Are you going there yourself?”
“Me? Certainly not. I’ll send along a troop of soldiers. Get going—and if you tell anybody my name, I’ll see you regret it.”
“I’m an honest pedl—” Jacobs protested.
“I’m sure you are,” Belle purred. “But watch what you peddle. A man could meet with a bad end, trading in some kind of goods.”
A few years later Belle’s warning may have come back to Jacobs as he was shot down by a member of a criminal gang that he had tried to sell to the Texas Rangers. iv
After Jacobs left Belle’s room, the girl closed and locked the door. Swiftly she turned his information over in her head. Knowing the manner in which professional informers could gather items of interest, she wondered how much of Jacobs’ story might be true. She doubted if he learned her name in the manner he claimed, although it could just possibly be true; she had been a blonde while working against the Yankee spy-ring in Atlanta and still used the same wig. Then her eyes went to the telegraph key. It was a model only recently introduced, not one of the old Beardslee Patent Magneto-Electric Field Telegraph machines with which the Yankees went into the War and that failed to stand up to the rugged usage of active service. Of course the key could be a souvenir picked up on some battlefield, but it seemed to be in too good condition for that.
For a moment Belle thought of sending word to Dusty or the members of the local Secret Service field office and asking for assistance. Then a thought held her. Despite the fact that they had proved their worth many times over, Belle Boyd, Rose Greenhow and other female members of their organization still found a certain reluctance on the part of the Confederate States armed forces’ top brass to recognize their use. Many of the senior officers clung to the belief that a woman’s place was in the home and objected to Southern ladies being allowed to do such work as spying. If word got out that Belle had fallen for an ancient informer’s trick and wasted good money on a false alarm, further fuel would be added to the flames of objection which blazed whenever the subject of women spies rose in high places.
So Belle decided to make the preliminary investigation herself. Nothing dramatic, of course, like trying to take the station single-handed, but enough to ensure that she would not waste time or lose prestige by sending the men from the field office on a wild-goose chase.
The overnight bag held her dark blue shirt, riding breeches and gunbelt and it was work for a moment to change out of the clothes she wore to dinner. After strapping on the belt and holstering her Dance, she drew back the covers and, using the bag, her wig and items from the room, made what would pass for a sleeping shape in the bed. If anybody should happen to look into her room, she did not want an alarm raised through her absence. Leaving the hotel offered no difficulty, even if she could not use the stairs and front door for obvious reasons. In case of fire, each room had a coil of rope secured to the wall near its window. Belle raised the window sash, tossed out the rope and slid down it hand over hand to the street at the rear of the hotel. Being used only for tradesmen delivering to the businesses lining the main street, nobody walked the area into which Belle slid. She paused for a moment to get her bearings, then walked along the back street. By keeping to the shadows, she hoped to reach her destination without attracting any attention.
After leaving Belle’s room, Jacobs hurried downstairs and passed through the hotel lobby. The desk clerk scowled, but said nothing, figuring that the peddler must have made a sale as he did not carry the hat box. On the street outside the hotel, Jacobs threw a cautious look in either direction before walking hurriedly away. He went fast, with many a backwards glance. Making sure that he was not followed, Jacobs passed through the entertainment section of the town and reached the small, unobtrusive building which housed the Yankee spy-ring. Apparently he was known there, for the bouncer admitted him and led him to the office used by the madam.
Flora lounged on the couch when the door opened, but she came to her feet as she recognized her visitor.
“Well?” she said, as the door closed behind Jacobs.
“I saw her and did like you told me. She fell for it.”
“And she agreed to come look the cabin over?”
“Sure she—”
“You’re a liar!” Flora snapped out. “What did she really say?”
“Th—That she’d send soldiers.”
“That’s more like the Boyd I know,” Flora purred. “Now get the hell out of here and keep going. My men’ll be watching to make sure you don’t go near anybody else to peddle your wares.”
“I—I’m loyal to the North!” Jacobs wailed.
“Then the best I can wish is that you’d go over to the other side,” Flora replied. “Get going.”
At the door, Jacobs turned and looked back at Flora. “It looks like your idea didn’t work.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “It looks that way.”
However, after Jacobs left the room Flora gave a cold, calculating smile. While she expected Belle to tell the man that soldiers would make the investigation, Flora knew the Southern spy would only do this as a precaution, and was certain to look into the matter herself.
That was why Flora acted as she did. Why she sent the telegraph key and told of the message-passing station which had been set up at such hardship and effort. One of the spies exposed by Belle Boyd in Atlanta had been more than just a friend, he was Flora’s brother and met his end standing back to a wall while facing a line of Confederate Army rifles. Since that time Flora had prayed for an opportunity to lay her hands on Belle Boyd. Now chance threw the rebel spy Flora’s way and she did not intend to miss her opportunity—even if she had to use the most valuable secret her ring possessed as bait to draw Belle into her power.
Going to the room’s second floor, Flora looked out and called, “Beth, May!”
Two tall, buxom girls, a brunette and a blonde, entered the room. Wearing cheaply garish frocks and jewelry, they gave an impression of hard flesh under the tawdry finery.
“She’s going to be there?” asked May, the brunette.
“It’s all arranged,” Flora agreed.
“We’ll teach her that no lousy madam’s going to open another place up close to our house,” Beth spat out.
While Flora reckoned her girls could be relied upon not to support either side in the War, she thought it might be better if the two selected to side her believed they dealt with a rival madam who planned to convert the old fisherman’s cabin into a house which would steal some of their trade, rather than mention that the woman they were to attack was the South’s most legendary Belle Boyd.
“Sure we will,” Flora agreed, glancing at the girls’ hands. “Take those rings off before we go.”
Both girls opened their mouths to object, knowing the value of the heavy, embossed rings offered for offence and defense. However, Flora insisted. The girls thought that all they would do was work their victim over, leaving her a battered but wiser woman. Flora aimed to make sure that Belle Boyd never spied again. Knowing that the disappearance of so important a person would cause a stir, Flora aimed to take no chances. The town marshal was no fool and knew an indecent amount of things one did not expect of a small town lawman—he had been a captain on the New Orleans Police Department before the arrival of the Yankees; keen, conscientious, the kind who kept up with the latest developments in criminal investigation. Flora intended to dump her enemy’s body in the bay where the alligators would dispose of it, but knew that something might go wrong. Faced with a badly battered body, the marshal knew enough to understand the significance of any ring-cuts on the face. He would know that somewhere were rings that bore traces of human skin and blood. While the rings might inflict more damage on Belle Boyd, Flora did not want them using if doing so helped the law to locate her.
With the rings removed, the girls followed their employer from the house and went to the cabin where they made their preparations for the arrival of their prey.