The Bloody Border by J. T. Edson Page B

‘Cousin Rastus’ ’ boat, the Ysabel Kid stood holding his Mississippi rifle ready to shoot anybody who used a light in an attempt to locate the swimming girl.
    However the attempt could not be made. Nor did the guard boat’s crew try to find Belle by rowing upstream. Rockets rose into the air from both ships, flares glowed to illuminate the harbour, rattles and drum rolls sounded the alarm. In the flickering glare of artificial light, the midshipman saw his boat’s crew would be needed more urgently than in making a search for their escaped prisoner, even though she claimed to be the Rebel Spy.
    Taking in water fast through the gaping hole ripped in her bottom, the Waterbury would need every hand at the pumps or for other work if she was to be saved. Nor did the second ship look to be in any better shape, holed at the waterline and already beginning to list. Desperately concerned with trying to keep their vessels afloat, nobody gave a thought to the second boat even though one of the rockets revealed it held two Negroes and two white men. Before the rocket’s glow died away, Rule Shafto reached the boat and hauled himself aboard.
    “Belle—?” he asked.
    “Coming now,” the Kid replied, pointing.
    A tired Belle reached the boat and once again felt hands taking hold of her. Only this time she knew them to be friendly and did not struggle against their pull. Up she rose, over the boat’s gunwale and flopped exhaustedly on to a thwart.
    “You all right, Miss Belle?” the Kid asked anxiously, raping a blanket around her.
    “Ye—Yes,” she replied. “Ru—Rule—?”
    “Here,” Shafto answered, sounding just as exhausted. “Get going, boys.”
    Without needing urging, the Negroes started to row the boat at angle upstream and towards the Mexican shore. Already the explosions and confusion in the Brownsville harbour were attracting attention. However the French did not maintain any naval force in Matamoros harbour, so any danger would come from their army patrols.
    “Maybe the Yankees’ll cut loose with their cannons,” the Kid remarked as he and Shafto’s white assistant took up two more oars.
    “That’s not likely,” Belle replied. “If they miss, the ball will probably ricochet into Matamoros. They won’t risk that.”
    “I’d say they’ve got their hands full right now, without bothering about us,” Shafto went on. “Make straight for the hide-out, boys.”
    “We’ve got clean away,” the Kid breathed as the boat pulled alongside a wooden pier.
    “Maybe,” Shafto answered. “There’s still the French curfew and Yankee Secret Service to beat. George, you’d best stay down here for the night.”
    “Yes, sah, Massa Rule,” replied one of the negro oarsmen. “We’ll do that.”
    “How about Amos and his men?” Belle inquired, meaning the butler.
    “They’ll lay up until morning and then come ashore,” Shafto explained. “If possible we want to avoid them being tied in with this raid.”
    Belle could understand the reason for the precaution. If the Yankees could prove Garfield knew of the raid, he would be discredited. Even if the French allowed the Confederate consulate to continue, it would be so closely watched that its use as a base for further operations would become negligible.
    They landed unseen, leaving the boat at its moorings and with nothing to show they had used it. Then they went to the place from which the expedition had been launched. Ostensibly a warehouse owned by a British trading company, the building served as a base for shipping Texas-grown cotton and other produce, or storing goods run through the blockade until the Ysabels could arrange for their delivery across the Rio Grande.
    Leaving the Negroes with the white man, Belle, the Kid and Shafto pushed on through the town’s curfew-emptied streets. Guided and aided, by the Kid’s cat-keen eyes and remarkably keen ears, the trio avoided contact with the French patrols enforcing the curfew. The wisdom of