Free The Bloody Border by J. T. Edson Page B

held a powerful fishing pole. Turning towards the speaker, the third Negro answered.
    “We’ns out fishing for t’pon, sah,” he said, holding up his line with a small bait-fish kicking on the hook. “They am running just now.”
    Seeing the man in his ragged shirt and pants, nobody would recognise him as the immaculate butler from the Confederate consulate. To the midshipman, raised in New England, the trio in the boat looked like any other ragged, ordinary negroes to be seen south of the Mason-Dixie line.
    “Guard boat ahoy!” bellowed a voice from the steam-sloop moored just inside the harbour entrance. “What’s that boat doing?”
    “It’s just some coons fishing, sir,” the midshipman called back. “Want for me to move ‘em on?”
    “No, they’re doing no harm. If they catch one, have it sent aboard here.”
    “Aye, aye, sir.”
    “Could you-all put out that light, sah?” the butler asked. “It am scaring the t’pon and I’d surely not want Cousin Rastus along there to catch one if I don’t. When dat happens, his missus done takes on and boasts about it and that gives my woman the miseries and I don’t get a lick of peace.”
    “We wouldn’t want that,” grinned the midshipman and gave the required order.
    Light or no light, the tarpon did not appear to be frightened away and it seemed that Cousin Rastus’ wife would have nothing to boast about the following day. Dropping in his bait as the light went out, the butler allowed it to float down the river. Barely had it gone three yards when there came a vicious swirl in the water and the fishing pole bowed over violently. Then a tarpon shot into the air, rising in the kind of leap fast gaining its kind the reputation of being superb sporting fish. Again the tarpon jumped, arching its body high as it tried to throw the hooks embedded in its jaws.
    Just about to give the order to resume their patrol, the midshipmen closed his mouth. Sitting back, he watched the spectacular fight, pleased with the break in the monotonous routine.
    Treading water in an effort to stem back against the current, Belle Boyd heard the commotion and guessed what had happened. It seemed that the fates looked kindly on her enterprise. At best she hoped that the Negroes would be allowed to carry on fishing, but expected them to be ordered away. Having a tarpon take the bait was a choice, unexpected piece of luck.
    Luck or not, she refused to relax and become complacent. Across the bay, Shafto ought to be releasing his keg torpedo towards the second ship by that time. She must wait until sure before turning free the piece of driftwood from which her own device hung suspended below the surface.
    Of the two, Belle was handling the more dangerous assignment. True Shafto had swum into the harbour, but sufficient tarpon had shown inside for him to pass unnoticed, or unsuspected. His torpedo consisted of a water-proofed wooden keg containing one hundred pounds of gun powder, with conical pine ends giving a streamlined shape easy to handle in the water, weighted down to the desired level. As long as he avoided knocking the five percussion detonators on the sides and top of the keg, he ran little risk from the torpedo.
    Designed to counter chain armour, the device hanging so close to Belle was a more tricky thing entirely. Its firing charge, in a metal cylinder l6½ inches long and with a diameter of 11½ inches, might be less than the keg’s but the firing mechanism was more complicated. Attached to the bottom of the cylinder, a propeller operated gears which released a spring-loaded plunger to fire the charge. As long as the propellers pointed forward, the torpedo remained inoperative. When its driftwood support swept against the target, the dangling torpedo swung under the armour, turned and set the mechanism into operation.
    A good idea, directing the charge where it would do most damage and explode at the right time. However—and here lay the snag—if for any reason the