Honor's Fury

by Fiona Harrowe

Amélie frowned. “Willie won’t respect you.”

  “Respect!” Babette said scornfully. “Willie wants me. I can tell when a man wants me, the way his eyes go up and down. But he isn’t going to get a thing until I have a ring on my finger.”

  “No one would be happier about that than I. Papa, too.”

  “You can’t deny he’s a good catch,” practical Babette pointed out. “Since Cousin John’s legally adopted him, he will inherit his money. Besides, he’s turned out to be very handsome, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so. But you haven’t said anything about love.”

  “Love.” Babette meditated for a few moments. “I guess I could love him as well as any man. Maybe not passionately, though.” She paused again, her head cocked, gazing at her sister. “Do you love Thaddeus passionately?”

  “Certainly,” Amélie said quickly. “Of course I do.”

  Thaddeus tried to dissuade Amélie from accompanying him to his company’s rendezvous, suggesting she say her good-byes at the house.

  “With feeling running so high, there’s no telling what kind of trouble we may run into on the streets.”

  “This early in the morning? I doubt it. At any rate, Papa will be with me.” Thaddeus’s own father, feeling the onset of a chill, had elected to bid his son adieu the previous night.

  “I do want to come,” Amélie implored. “Please, Thaddeus.” At last, he relented.

  They set off in John Harper’s buggy, clattering through the empty streets. Except for a few shopkeepers pulling down their boards and unfurling their awnings and a Negro sweeping the sidewalk in front of a greengrocer’s on Cathedral Street they saw no one.

  “It looks peaceable enough,” Amélie said.

  They arrived well before seven at the Relay Stables, where the troops’ horses were kept. But others were not as prompt and with one delay and another it was nearly ten o’clock before the Rangers cantered out of the yard, taking the road to Virginia.

  Amélie watched them go with a constricted throat. How gallant they all looked, from their plumed hats to their gleaming spurs, riding off like knights of old to do battle! Even the most unsentimental cynic, she thought, could not help but be moved at the sight of these brave young men sitting their horses with such unconscious grace, bent on a life-risking mission to protect their homes and the honor of the South.

  By the time Thaddeus was out of sight Amélie began to miss him and to look forward to his return. If the war would be a short one, a month, two, three at the most as the experts predicted, then she had not long to wait. By then she would know if she was carrying Thaddeus’s baby. A boy, she mused, Thaddeus’s son whom they would name Charles after Grandfather Townsend.

  “I’d give anything to be going with them.” Her father’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  “Everyone can’t, Papa. Some are needed at home.”

  “Home,” he echoed bitterly. “If Maryland were like Virginia or South Carolina where every red-blooded man is for the Confederate cause, I wouldn’t mind. I’d go back to Arbormalle and put in corn and potatoes, raise pigs and beef to feed the Confederate Army. But as it is, we might be feeding the Union.”

  “Papa, we can’t be sure. The state may secede yet.”

  “I hope you are right.”

  Since they hadn’t eaten breakfast, Amélie thought it would cheer her father to have coffee and crullers at a small French restaurant on Pratt Street they patronized whenever in Baltimore. It was run by a little man with a black, drooping moustache, René Chanson, who affected a Gallic accent though his family had been Baltimoreans for three generations.

  The café was crowded, but M. Chaçon, recognizing them, came forward with his familiar smile and found them a table near the window.

  When Garvin explained his reason for being in the city, Chaçon shook his head sadly. “A bad business, a bad business, ze war. And now everyone iss in an uproar.” He lowered his voice, dropping his accent. “I am a sympathizer, you can be sure, Mr. Townsend. And there are many of them here in Baltimore. But, also, many who are not. I’ve just had it on good authority that the Massachusetts Sixth Regiment has arrived at the President Street train station. They are on their way to Washington, D.C.”

  Garvin, sugar tongs poised over his coffee cup, said, “That means they will have to transfer to the Camden Station. Are they marching or being transported in cars?”

  “Cars. One has already gone by. Look!” He pointed at the window. “Here comes another.”

  A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk and as a car drawn by a team of horses came abreast people began to shout abuse at the soldiers riding inside.

  “Damn Yankees!” “Go back to yer Boston beans!”

  “Hang Lincoln!”

  “Hurray for Jefferson Davis!”

  A large stone went flying through one of the car windows and Amélie had a glimpse of a pale, frightened face. The crowd grew, the jeering became more insulting as car after car began to pass, the horses straining at their harnesses. Several more stones and bricks were hurled and the crash of broken glass could be heard above the yelling. Once the barrel of a rifle appeared at a gaping window but no shot was fired.

  During all this excitement the café had emptied. Those of Southern persuasion joined the detractors, shaking fists, adding their voices to the uproar.

  Garvin had gone white. “I know how our people feel,” he said, “but I deplore mob violence.”

  As he spoke a contingent of city police hurried by to be met by the same raillery.

  “Judas!”

  “Helping the enemy!”

  “Traitors!”

  “The authorities will keep the worst of them under control,” Chaçon assured Amélie and Garvin. “Mayor Brown has pledged himself to order on the streets.”

  “He has his work cut out for him,” Garvin grimly remarked, twitching at his collar.

  Amélie and her father waited another half hour until the commotion had died down, then said good-bye and left.

  Garvin’s face looked strained as he clucked at the horse. “I’d have felt better if you had remained at the house as Thaddeus suggested.”

  “Now, Papa, we’ve not been hurt, have we?”

  “Thank God, no. But I won’t breathe freely until we get out of Baltimore and back to Arbormalle.’’

  As they rode they saw that the streets, instead of returning to their normal pedestrian flow, had begun to fill up. In the crowd were many who were armed with sticks and clubs. They muttered and jostled one another, shouting curses, waving clenched fists, brandishing their weapons. There was a heated, feverish, frightening intensity to their faces that gave Amélie a nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “Why don’t they get into uniform and go off and fight like soldiers,” Garvin asked, “instead of behaving like bullies?”

  Traveling along Pratt Street they reached the intersection of Gay Street opposite the docks, only to find the road barred by piled-up paving blocks and sand. Garvin stopped the rig, undecided, his ashen brow under his hat brim beaded with sweat.

  “Papa,” Amélie said, “why don’t you drive up on the sidewalk? We can get through that way.”

  Following his daughter’s advice Garvin clattered his rig up over the curb while people made way for them. Back on the street again they progressed at a fairly good clip though the crowds grew denser. At South Street a man in a forage cap wearing a red sash rushed out and grasped the horse’s bridle. “Yankee or reb?” he demanded of Garvin.

  “Let go of the horse,” Garvin ordered in a cracked voice, gripping the whip in one hand.

  The ruffian pulled a revolver from his belt. “Yankee or reb?”

  A middle-aged gentleman in a buff coat detached himself from the onlookers and ran forward. “You idiot!” he cried, knocking the man’s gun from his hand. “That’s Mr. Townsend, one of the best defenders of states’ rights. Don’t you know what side you’re on?” He turned to Garvin. “Hello, Mr. Townsend. I believe we’
ve met in your cousin’s house. I’m Holmes, Jack Holmes.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, Mr. Holmes,” Garvin said, distracted. “This is my daughter, Mrs. Warner. We’re on our way to the Harpers now.”

  “Then I would suggest you double back and take the turnoff on Commerce Street. They’re expecting the soldiers who haven’t been able to go through on the cars to march on foot to Camden.”

  Garvin turned the buggy around. They were approaching South Street when they saw a crowd, numbering about three hundred, carrying placards and Confederate flags pushing forward. From the opposite direction a detachment of Union troops marching four abreast at a quick step were headed on a collision course with the angry mob. Garvin had just enough time to pull the buggy into a ship chandler’s yard to avoid being caught between the opposing forces. The crowd halted, yelling wildly, screaming abuse at the Yankee militia, hurling stones and bricks at them.

  Suddenly a shot rang out and a woman who had been standing on the sidelines crumpled to the ground.

  Garvin went rigid, hanging onto the reins of the restive horse. But Amélie hitched up her skirts and jumped down, hurrying to the woman’s assistance.

  Another staccato burst of fire galvanized Garvin into speech. “Amélie, Amélie! Come back!”

  He got out of the buggy and had reached the sidewalk when a flying bullet carried his hat away. A look of glazed astonishment widened his eyes before he fell forward. Amélie, seeing him go down, rushed to her father’s side. He lay on his back, his eyes closed. Blood was seeping through his hair, trickling down his blanched forehead.

  “Papa!” she cried, kneeling. She lifted his hand, trying to feel for his pulse, but could not find it.

  “Papa!” He was dead. She was sure of it. And all because she had suggested they stop at Chanson’s. If they had gone straight on to the Harpers’ house they might have missed all this. Or if she had only stayed in the buggy.

  "Papa—speak to me!”

  The clamor had reached fever pitch. Civilians were snatching the Union soldiers’ hats, their flags, and pennants. Those closest pummeled the uniformed men with their fists, others lobbed stones. Pistols went off, punctuating the air with acrid plumes of smoke. The Massachusetts Sixth, untried in riot or battle duty, had been cautioned not to use force but now they began to fire back.

  No one paid the slightest attention to Amélie, her father or the fallen woman. The latter, lying still, her skirts spread out, one hand resting on her breast, seemed asleep. She’s dead, Amélie thought with rising panic, and Papa, too. Oh God, what shall I do?

  A shrill voice heard above the pandemonium yelled, "Marshal Kane! The police!”

  The marshall, leading about forty policemen, panted up, weapons drawn. The men formed a line between the soldiers and the crowd.

  “Keep back or we'll shoot!” Kane shouted. “Keep back!”

  Amélie bent over her father, wiping the blood from his brow with the hem of her petticoat. He must be alive, she reasoned, if he’s still bleeding. She was tearing a piece of her petticoat off to staunch the flow when she became aware that someone was kneeling beside her.

  “Here, let me,” a masculine voice said, taking the torn strip from her hand.

  She was too distraught to be astonished. The masculine voice belonged to Damon Fowler.

  Chapter

  ❖ 4 ❖

  With surprising gentleness Damon Fowler lifted Garvin and wound the strip about his head, tying it with a deft twist of his brown fingers.

  “Is he . . .? Will he be all right?” Amélie asked, her mouth dry with anxiety.

  Damon Fowler bent his dark head to Garvin’s chest. “His breathing is shallow but I daresay he’ll come around.”

  Dressed in meticulously tailored gray broadcloth, his brushed top hat set aside, he exuded an authority, a calm competence that tempered Amélie’s apprehension. For the moment she forgot what a cad he was.

  “Do you have a conveyance?” he asked.

  “Yes, a buggy.” She pointed to it.

  The Massachusetts Sixth and its angry harriers had moved on. Left in their wake was the dead woman, now attended by a younger one weeping over her, two fallen civilians, and a soldier. A pair of policemen had been left behind to guard the bodies.

  Damon Fowler hoisted Garvin over one shoulder, the stout older man seemingly of little weight to him. “If you will bring my hat, Mrs. Warner?”

  With the comatose Garvin propped between them on the buggy seat, Fowler took up the reins. “You must give me directions. I’m not well acquainted with Baltimore.”

  She told him to follow Pratt Street and turn on Howard. Amélie, with her arm about her father’s slumped shoulders, winced at every jolt over the cobbled street.

  “I hardly expected to see you here,” Damon Fowler said, guiding the horse with casual ease as if they were out for a Sunday drive.

  “We escorted my husband. He joined his . . .” She paused, suddenly realizing she might be giving away a military secret.

  “I see,” Damon Fowler said, overlooking her pointed hesitation. “So the lines have been drawn and we are rushing to the colors.”

  The wry, mocking twist to his lips ruffled Amélie.

  “I was given to understand you went home to Massachusetts.”

  “I did, but I’ve come back. With the Sixth Regiment.”

  “You didn’t waste time.”

  “No. I’ve not got my uniform yet, but we were expecting trouble in Baltimore—although not to this extent-— and I had to go on. I’m here with a commission to meet with Mayor Brown this afternoon to discuss the situation.”

  She glanced at his profile, the thick, black brows, the high, arched nose, the strong chin, and suddenly the moonlit night on the gazebo porch came back to her. Those kisses, the way she had clung to him wanting more, his arousal, her excitement. Her face went hot with the memory.

  “. . . there’s no direct railroad route to Washington from the northeast,” he was saying. “Trains must come to Baltimore first, then another line connects with the capital. So we’ll have to work out a way for our troops to be transported safely through your city.”

  He hadn’t noticed her discomfort, nor did it appear he would. Perhaps he had forgotten. Perhaps kissing girls and bedding their sisters (she mustn’t forget Babette) was so commonplace to him, he hardly gave it a thought. I’m not going to think about it either, Amélie told herself. He means nothing to me. A stranger who was kind enough to help me home with Papa. I should do the courteous thing and thank him.

  But she couldn’t. He was the enemy. She said, “You can hardly blame the citizens of Baltimore for feeling they are under attack when they see trainload after trainload of Union soldiers debarking here.”

  “I do blame them,” he replied smoothly, ignoring the tartness of her voice. “It’s one thing for a soldier to face battle and be able to repel an assault by returning fire and another to be confronted by a mob and have your hands tied.”

  These were sentiments very close to her father’s but she would not give him the benefit of even partial agreement.

  “Turn here,” she directed shortly. “It’s two blocks up the street.”

  Her father hadn’t stirred but he was still breathing. She felt the faint movements of his chest against her arm.

  “You can’t win this war,” Damon Fowler said, breaking a silence. “Surely you must know how outnumbered you are by the North.”

  “It’s not numbers that defeat a foe but spirit,” she said. Her chin went up. “And we have more than enough of that.”

  He laughed under his breath. “You romantic fool! And do you think spirit is going to provide you with cannon, with cloth for your tents and uniforms, with transport, medical supplies? Why all you have are country roads and—”

  “Stop!” she ordered, her eyes ablaze. “If we don't have them, we’ll get them. We’ll capture yours!"

  He smiled, his admiring eyes going over her face. “Perhaps you will,” he said.

&nb
sp; They did not speak again until they reached the house. John Harper, who must have observed them from the front window, ran down the steps, anxiety written on his face.

  “What’s happened? We’ve been out of our minds here. I sent Beau to inquire and he hasn’t returned.” Beau was their Negro butler.

  “We—Papa got hit by a bullet. This is Mr. Fowler who was kind enough—”

  “Yes, yes. We met at the wedding. Let’s carry Garvin in. I’ll send Bessie to fetch the doctor.”

  Ella and Babette appeared in the doorway. They both spoke at once. “What is it?”

  “Papa was hit during the riot,” Amélie answered.

  Babette, suddenly recognizing Damon, exclaimed, “Why—it’s Mr. Fowler!” in a pleased voice Amélie felt hardly suited the occasion.

  The women stepped aside and John and Damon carried Garvin into the parlor. John shouted for Bessie, their Negro maid, and before they had stretched Garvin out on the sofa she was on her way to get the doctor.

  August, brought downstairs by the commotion, peered into the parlor but did not enter.

  Babette, watching from the marble-mantled fireplace where she had stationed herself, was more interested in Damon than she was in her father. Her Papa was too tough, too invincible, too mean to be seriously wounded. Certainly he wouldn’t die. But for Damon to be here now—what a marvelous coincidence! And how handsome he looked, how virile! She shuddered as she remembered the way he had kissed her, his tongue twining with hers, the wonderful, unspeakable liberties he had taken with her breasts. Her nipples grew taut at the memory. She wondered if Willie could play and tantalize, too, if he could make her shiver and gasp.

  “He hasn’t come around,” Amélie said, worried, bringing Babette sharply back to the present. “Perhaps we should try brandy.”

  They could get only a few drops past Garvin’s slack mouth. Amélie knelt beside him, chafing his wrists.

  Finally his lids flickered and he opened his eyes just as the doctor walked into the room. The doctor, a short, fat man, red in the face, was out of breath and obviously disgruntled by his hasty summons.