Honor's Fury

by Fiona Harrowe

  Amélie did not look forward to it either. But when she pictured Thaddeus lying somewhere on a cot or on the ground begging for a sip of water, or for someone to brush the flies from his fevered brow, she went with an iron determination to keep going until she dropped.

  One late night an exhausted Amélie came home to find Babette waiting up for her.

  “A man from the city council was here today,” she said. “He wants us to come down tomorrow to the provost marshal’s office and swear an oath of allegiance.”

  “What?” Amélie asked, not understanding, irritated with Babette who looked crisp, rested, and fragrant in sprigged muslin.

  “An oath of allegiance to the United States government. He says all the women—and their families—who are helping at the hospital must sign the oath.”

  "I'll do no such thing!” Amélie undid her bonnet and dropped into a chair.

  “We must. We have a prisoner in the cellar.”

  “I know that.”

  He had arrived the night before, tapping at the back window after Sadie had gone home. In rags, without shoes, he apologized for his appearance. His boots had worn out, he said, and he hadn’t been able to kill a Yankee with shoes to fit his feet.

  “That poor soldier in the cellar is all the more reason why I won’t take that oath,” Amélie said.

  “But if we don’t they’ll get suspicious.”

  “Do you believe for one moment—after what I’ve seen and been through—that I’m going to go down there like a sacrificial lamb and swear to that ...” She shook her head. “I couldn’t. I can’t. Not if they put red-hot pincers under my nails. And neither will you.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure.”

  “Well, I am. Papa said I was to look after you, that you were to obey me.”

  “Papa isn’t here. He’s on Waxwing, safe and sound. He's not in danger of going to jail. And if he were, he’d take the oath in a minute.”

  “Babette!” Amélie sprang to her feet, her arm raised in hot rage, a fury egged on by the intuitive knowledge that Babette was probably right.

  Babette backed away, her eyes blazing with defiance. Amélie’s hand dropped. She took a deep breath as she slowly sank back into her chair. “It’s late, Babs. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  The next morning they were having breakfast when the police came to fetch them. They weren’t under arrest, but the police had orders to round up those who hadn't yet signed the oath of allegiance and take them to the provost marshal’s office for that purpose. Amélie tried to put them off. She wanted to warn the Confederate in the cellar, but the men were brusque.

  “Fetch your bonnets, ladies.”

  At the provost marshal’s office Amélie and Babette were ushered into a small room where the flag was prominently displayed in one corner and a portrait of George Washington looked down from the wall. The man behind the desk, a craggy-faced, balding blond past his first youth, put aside the cigar he had been smoking and got to his feet as they entered.

  “Good morning, ladies. I am Captain Gruber.” His heavy-lidded eyes went over the sisters in practiced assessment.

  Babette fluttered her lashes. “Good morning, Captain.”

  Amélie said nothing but stared at him in defiance and scorn.

  “You are ...” He scanned the paper one of the policemen had handed him. “Miss Townsend?”

  “That’s me,” Babette said, dimpling.

  “And Mrs. Warner. I’m sorry to disturb you at this early hour.” His voice had traces of a German accent. “But the formalities will be brief. Won’t you please sit?” He indicated two armchairs. Babette sat, but Amélie remained standing.

  “I prefer not to,” she said coldly.

  “Very well. I’m sure the gentlemen who brought you here have informed you of the situation,” the captain went on. “The oath is required by all Baltimore citizens.”

  “All?” Amélie queried contemptuously.

  “Those that are suspect,” he amended with a smile that showed uneven white teeth.

  “I refuse to take it,” Amélie stated flatly, “as a matter of principle.”

  “I see. Then we shall assume you are working against the Union.”

  “I don’t see how that follows.”

  “Come now,” Captain Gruber cajoled, trying a different tactic. “It will be quite painless.”

  “Not to me.”

  He shrugged. “Have it your way. It would do no good to force you. The oath should be taken freely, willingly. And what about you. Miss Townsend?”

  Babette did not look at Amélie. “I appreciate my sister’s sentiments. But I am more of a realist. I find no difficulty in taking the oath.”

  “Good.” He brought out a legal-looking document. “Raise your right hand, Miss Townsend, and repeat after me.”

  Amélie’s eyes went dark with suppressed fury. She wanted to throttle her sister. Babette was actually taking the oath! How could she? How could she betray her heritage, her upbringing? How could she betray the man she was going to marry?

  Amélie walked to the door and stood there with her back turned, unable to face the captain, Babette or the policeman who stood quietly by, leaning against the wall. The sound of the scratching pen made her shudder with revulsion. Babette was selling her soul to the blue devils. Let her. She washed her hands of her sister. She would never speak to Babette again. Never.

  It was over. “Shall we go, Amélie?” Babette said matter-of-factly.

  The captain came from around the desk. “We shall escort you home.”

  “There’s no need for that,” Amélie said in a voice that was hard with dislike. “We arrived in our own buggy and can go back the same way.”

  “Nevertheless, since you have not signed, Mrs. Warner, we must search the house.”

  She bristled. “It’s already been searched.” She thought of the ragged Confederate in the cellar waiting for nightfall so he could move on. “You will find nothing, I promise you.”

  “Then you won’t mind our going through the house.”

  “Indeed, I will! I won’t have such an intrusion by strangers.”

  “I myself will attend, so that you may be sure all is done correctly.’’

  “You haven’t a warrant.”

  He smiled unpleasantly. “I’m afraid a warrant at this stage is beside the point.”

  They found the little Confederate within five minutes. Neither Babette nor Amélie had a chance to warn him. It all happened so fast that Babette, even if she had been so inclined, did not have a chance to play the same trick of hiding him under her skirts as she had done with the first escaped prisoner.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Townsend, Mrs. Warner,” said the captain with his disagreeable smile as the two policemen removed the woebegone soldier, “but you are all under arrest."

  Chapter

  ❖ 12 ❖

  The sisters were momentarily too stunned to speak, but it was Babette who finally found her voice, one that oozed coquetry and again made Amélie want to choke her.

  “Why, Captain Gruber, that awful soldier must have sneaked into our cellar while we were gone.” The lashes, dimples, and charming drawl were brought into full play. “We would never willingly hide anybody like that.“

  “I would like to believe you, Miss Townsend, but the evidence is against you.” Captain Gruber looked down at Babette’s bosom from under his heavy lids, contemplating the curvature straining against the cloth. “Tell you what I’ll do. Since our jails are pretty full I’ll put you under house arrest.”

  “You mean we must stay here under guard? But that surely doesn’t mean me, Captain.” Babette displayed pearly teeth in an ingratiating smile. “Not after I’ve signed the oath.”

  “I’m afraid it does mean you. Unless you can prove you were not in collusion with your sister.”

  Amélie waited for Babette’s reply, waited with a kind of bitter skepticism for words that would set Babette free and leave Amélie to bear the blame and punishment.<
br />
  But Babette surprised her. Tossing her head, looped silver earrings jingling, she retorted, “Now you know, Captain, I wouldn’t leave my sister in the lurch. So don’t ask it of me. Besides she’s no more guilty than I, are you, darlin’? So there! And what’s more Amélie’s been working like a slave every day at the hospital.”

  “The Confederate prison hospital,” he amended, amused, clearly taken with Babette but apparently not letting it get in the way of duty.

  “Goodness!” Babette exclaimed. “She’s only been carrying out her Christian duty.”

  “Unfortunately for the wrong side.” He turned to Amélie and gave her a curt bow. “Again my apologies. But you have a record that bears looking into, a husband fighting for the Rebs, and sympathies with the South, and now we find you helping a prisoner of war escape.”

  Amélie lifted her chin, fixing him with icy eyes. She wasn’t about to defend herself to this boor or to beg for release. “It seems the Yankees would have better things to do than harassing defenseless women,” she stated coldly. “And now we are confined to the house. For how long, may I ask?”

  “The duration,” he answered.

  “You mean until the war ends?” Babette asked, aghast. “We can’t go out at all? Not even for the marketing?”

  “Your servant can take care of that. You’ll have to make the best of it.” He picked up his hat. “Under other circumstances . . .” His eyes raked Babette again. “But that’s another matter. Good-bye, ladies.”

  Babette walked him to the door. “Captain,” she said sweetly, “I know you are only doing your duty and I don’t hate you. No. Really, I don’t. And to show that I mean it—why, come to tea. Yes, have tea with us. Tomorrow?”

  Amélie, overhearing this, seethed anew. As soon as the door closed on the captain, she strode into the little hall and confronted Babette. “How could you?” she spluttered. “How could you make up to that weasel?”

  “I could because I am not going to sit in this house day after day, for God knows how long. If we’re sweet to him, butter him up, he might call off his watchdogs. But if we’re not there’s still the possibility we might go to jail. Mary Meadows did. I went to see her the other day; it was horrible.”

  “I’d rather go to jail than cotton to a skunk in Yankee uniform.”

  “You say that because you haven’t been, Melie. You’re standing here in this clean entryway with the parlor on one side and the dining room on the other and your bedroom with its soft, lovely bed upstairs, not in a jail cell with its stink and hard cot.”

  “I know about those things better than you, Babette. Nothing is ever going to make me kowtow to, or beg favors of, a Yankee.”

  Babette thought her sister a fool. It was all very well to have high ideals but when they interfered with the comfort and pleasure of living it was best to shove them to the background. It was silly to get all tangled up in politics, a man’s concern that had no bearing on a woman, silly to waste energy and passion on a quarrel that was not of their own making. Hiding runaway prisoners had been fun, the danger intriguing, especially when the men still looked handsome and gallant in their uniforms. As far as Babette was concerned, concealing men in the cellar, whisking them out from under Yankee guns, was a game and had little to do with the cause Amélie so heatedly espoused. At least it was that way in the beginning. But now, she had to admit, the game might be going stale, as witness this last Confederate, shabby, ragged, and barefoot. She strongly suspected he wasn’t a prisoner at all, but a deserter. According to rumor, Lee’s army, while invading northern Maryland and pleading for recruits, had lost more soldiers through desertion than it had gained through its call to arms. Truth to tell, she couldn’t blame the men for wanting to go home. Small thanks they received for being shot at. What glory was there in being dead?

  Nor could she understand Amélie’s refusal to take the oath. If she had just said a few meaningless words the police would never have come to the house to make their disastrous search. They could have remained free to come and go as they liked. What if Amélie did tell a little white lie? What if she did say she supported the United States government when she didn’t? She could go to confession, say a few Hail Marys, and have her conscience wiped clean.

  And now they were locked up in the house and couldn’t go to market, to church, to visit friends, couldn’t go anywhere. Because of Amélie’s “principles” Babette would have to miss the Jaspers’ Saturday night party. The blue tulle dress that she had so painfully refurbished with velvet ribbons and ruched bows would remain unworn in the wardrobe, hanging there as a reminder of what she was missing.

  Well, she wasn’t going to stand for it. Life was dull enough. She wasn’t about to sit home nights playing solitaire or staring at the four walls. There had to be a way out. She could sneak off, of course, and would if she thought she could get away with it. But the idea of being disgracefully apprehended, perhaps while waltzing in some swain’s arms, made her discard the idea.

  However, there was the Yankee captain. He was the key, she felt, the only one who could unlock the door to their confinement. She recalled the way he had looked at her, the gleam in his eyes as it fastened on her breasts, on her full, pouting mouth. She knew she could sweet-talk him into rescinding their house arrest if only she could speak to him alone. But how could she manage it? Considering Amélie’s very obvious hostility, Babette doubted if Captain Gruber would accept her invitation to tea. Well, she would just have to go to him. The more she thought about it the more the idea appealed to her.

  The next afternoon, as Amélie napped upstairs in her bedroom, Babette wiggled into the tulle dress. Low cut, revealing the white swell of her breasts, it was decidedly inappropriate for daytime wear. But she wanted to look her most enticing and she knew how the iris-blue color set off her hair and eyes, how the tight, off-the-shoulder basque emphasized the petal-soft skin of her neck and arms. She patted a curl into place, then took her bonnet and her shawl from the peg behind the wardrobe door. Sneaking down the stairs, she peered out through a side window and saw a Yankee soldier strolling past on the opposite side of the street. A patrol, she guessed, for he was staring at the house. She wondered how many other Southern sympathizers were under house arrest. The Federals couldn’t possibly keep a constant eye on them all. She waited until she saw the soldier round the corner. Then quickly and soundlessly so as not to draw Sadie from the kitchen where she sat dozing in a chair Babette slipped out the door.

  It was a long walk to the provost marshal’s office, but Babette dared not risk taking the buggy. She felt that by blending in with the pedestrians she was less noticeable. She suffered for this, however, for by the time she reached her destination a blister had formed on her right heel and it took an exercise of will to keep from limping.

  “I'm here to see Captain Gruber,” she stated in a firm voice to the sentry at the door.

  Inside she gave the same peremptory message to a blue-coated sergeant seated at a desk, scribbling in a ledger.

  “And about what business is that, ma’am?” he asked sarcastically, looking up from the ledger.

  “None of yours, I’m sure,” Babette snapped. “Just tell him Miss Townsend is here.”

  A minute later the captain came through the inner door. “Miss Townsend!” he exclaimed in pleased surprise.

  “I just had to see you, Captain. It’s about my sister.” She glanced at the sergeant who was watching them both.

  “Yes, of course,” the captain said curtly. “Won’t you come in?”

  He shut the door behind her. The room was thick with cigar smoke and seemed dingier than it had been the day before.

  “Please, sit.” Gruber offered her the armchair.

  She sat down, throwing the shawl back from her shoulders, undoing her bonnet. He pulled another chair out from the wall, seating himself opposite her.

  “You’re breaking orders by being here, Miss Townsend,” he scolded. But his eyes were going over her shoulders and breasts i
n a way that contradicted the disapproving tone of his voice.

  “I know. But there wasn’t any other way to see you alone. And I simply had to.”

  “About your sister?”

  “I couldn’t speak yesterday—you see, she would have denied it. Amélie is really a Unionist at heart. She’s just against signing oaths—on principle.”

  “Is that so?” His smile reflected amusement and his eyes a hot, leaping light.

  “Yes,” Babette said, adjusting a red-gold curl. “She doesn’t believe in oaths. She said it’s like having a man swear he doesn’t beat his wife. It’s an insult, she maintains. She really does have an aversion to oaths.”

  “But not to hiding Confederates in the cellar.”

  “She—we—didn’t know about him!” Babette cried. She touched his knee and he grasped her hand, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles in a slow, sensuous caress. Babette felt a little thrill run up her arm. “Don’t you believe me?” she asked a little breathlessly.

  “Not so much as a word,” he said. Still the thumb, broad, strong, with a square-cut nail, went back and forth.

  Babette pulled her hand away. “I think you are a—a rounder,” she declared, pouting prettily, her cornflower-blue eyes conveying a charming dismay.

  “Yep. I’m a rounder,” he agreed, retrieving her hand.

  “Is there no way you can help us?”

  The thumb again, moving deliberately, speaking more eloquently than words.

  “It’s hateful being cooped up in the house, Captain. I’m sure you can think of some way to release us.”

  “Possibly.” His hooded eyes were undressing her. Glancing down she noticed a suspicious bulge in his trousers. He was aroused, and the thought twisted her own loins with a bittersweet ache. It had been so long since she had been made love to properly. She didn’t count the three incidents with Confederates in the cellar, once rolling on the floor, twice backed against the damp wall, her pantaloons draped about her ankles, her gown about her ears. No, she wanted to be made love to, to be kissed, fondled, to have someone tingle and titillate her naked body until she glowed, just as Willie and Damon Fowler had done. This man with the hooded eyes and the look of a rake could do it. But First certain rules must be observed.