Their first assignment was to smuggle quinine, morphine, and lengths of gray flannel cloth to Jefferson City. There the contraband would be relayed south to Springfield and, with luck, into General Price’s hands.
Amélie and Kate made voluminous skirts from the flannel, sewing several dozen home-knit socks into the panels. The morphine and quinine were concealed in velvet rolls. These were worn around the coil of hair at the back and crown of the head. Though velvet rolls were no longer looked upon as the height of fashion, they were still worn by some women and were not considered archaic enough to attract attention. At their waists the women tied white aprons. To further give them a matronly look they draped their shoulders in gigantic grandmother shawls.
Kate’s younger brother drove the buggy. Apple cheeked and blue eyed, bursting with self-importance, Jack Shelby was all of fifteen. This was to be his first adult responsibility, and he wanted to prove himself worthy of it. Though forbidden to take firearms, he had secretly concealed his hunting rifle under the seat, prepared, as he later told Amélie and Kate, to contend with any damn Yankee who barred their path.
As it happened the rifle nearly got them caught. On the second day, as they approached Marthasville, they were stopped by a Yankee officer leading a band of cavalrymen. Suspicious, he ordered the buggy searched. The women’s portmanteaus were thrown open and pawed through but only an embarrassing change of underclothes, some toilet articles, and a pair of nightdresses were found. Then a fat corporal, puffing and wheezing, discovered the rifle.
Amélie, as surprised as the officer at its presence, nevertheless was quick with an explanation. “With meat so scarce, Jack’s been trying to shoot us a rabbit.’’
“Civilians are not allowed to carry firearms.’’ The officer was a gruff man with a bulbous nose and small, close-set eyes.
“Yes, but a boy’s rifle—’’
“A boy’s rifle killed my colonel,” he said, eyeing the velvet rolls with their secret cache of quinine.
There was a small silence. Amélie felt sweat gather at the back of her neck. Kate Emory’s hand, creeping across the seat, clasped hers. But the gesture was less than reassuring. Amélie knew Kate’s fear matched her own. It was a lonely road without a house in sight and not a single traveler beside themselves. All the stories she had heard of women accosted by Yankee soldiers came back to her. Just last week a woman driving a buggy had been stopped by bluecoats on Manchester Road, stripped to the skin, then raped.
“I assure you,” Amélie heard herself say, ”my brother has no intention of using his gun except on rabbits.” Though her heart was thudding in her ears, she held her head high. Oh, God, she prayed, don’t let them see how scared I am. Or wonder at Kate’s white face. Please, don’t let Jack break down and start to blubber.
The officer’s eyes dropped to her lap. “And you’re not hiding contraband under your skirts?”
She flushed. “I swear on my honor.”
“So . . .” He let out his breath. There was a long, agonizing pause. “All right, I'll take your word for it. Go on, but we’ll keep the rifle.”
They rode in numb silence for a half hour, afraid to talk or to stop, before Jack Shelby’s shoulders began to heave with sobs.
“Now, now Jack,” Kate admonished, “there’s no need for that. But you shouldn’t have brought the gun. What good would it do except get us in trouble?”
“What will Ma say?” Jack sniffed. It was Mrs. Shelby he was afraid of, not his father, a shadowy figure at best.
“We won’t tell her,” Kate said. “Will we, Amélie?”
“Of course not. No one need know. And, Jack, you held up very well.” She threw him that crumb, which he received gratefully.
“Did 1?”
“Yes. You’re a fine, brave boy, Jack.”
Afterward she was glad she had given him those few words of praise. He was killed two weeks later by a bushwhacker’s Spencer as he was fording a stream on horseback. Delivering a message to one of the outlying farms a link in their underground system, he was mistaken for a Yankee because of his dark blue coat. A Confederate guerrilla had ambushed and shot him.
When his body was brought home, Mrs. Shelby went rigid as if turned to stone. Her face was terrible to see, but she did not cry out or weep. Instead, in a voice that sounded strangely disembodied, she gave orders as to what was to be done. Then she went into her room and did not come out until Jack was buried two days later.
While relatives and friends came to call Amélie sat in the back parlor, a hard knot in her breast. The world seemed to be growing darker and darker. Through her mind passed fragmentary pictures—the mob rioting in Baltimore, a woman weeping over her husband on a Virginia railroad embankment, a man in blue throwing up his hands as a bullet shattered his brain at Missionary Ridge. When would it all end? Jack Shelby, who had less of an idea of what it was all about than any, was dead. Jack Shelby with his rosy cheeks and blue eyes hiding his rifle under the buggy seat, Jack wanting to take on the Yankee army, Jack, his mother’s last born, her baby. It was more than the human heart could bear.
But life went on. In January Fort Fisher on the Carolina coast fell to the Yankees. A month later Charleston capitulated. But Southern hopes stubbornly persisted. While Lee fought with a depleted, exhausted army no loyal Confederate would admit to the possibility of defeat. Mrs. Shelby was like one driven. She hardly slept. She had organized various social clubs, sewing bees, and literary evenings, through which she carried on her work.
Amélie, along with the others, was sent on several other missions, made doubly difficult by winter’s freezing weather. But no one thought of complaining. Once, carrying firearms hidden in a sack of potatoes, the horse-drawn sled Amélie was riding got stuck in a snowbank. A passing farmer with a team of mules pulled her out. She thought herself highly fortunate until he began to question her suspiciously. Where had she obtained the potatoes? Where was she taking them? She managed to bluff her way out of the predicament, going as far as to offer the farmer half the potatoes for his trouble. The offer was made in such a way, however, that the farmer would have felt foolish had he accepted.
One late afternoon Amélie, coming back to the Shelbys from one of her trips, found a letter waiting. It was from Babette. She had written once before, a short scrawl saying she was well and enjoying the winter season in Nashville. There had been only the briefest mention of Freddie and Amélie wondered if he had come any closer to proposing; She eagerly began reading.
Dear Amélie,
I have such wonderful news AT LAST! I am to be a bride! Yes, your little sister is going to he married! Tomorrow at noon!
So, Amélie thought, heaving a sigh of relief, Frederick Geyser has finally come around.
You’ll never guess who the lucky bridegroom is. Give up? Our mutual acquaintance, Damon Fowler.
Amélie thought, No, this is just a joke. Babette's being coy and impish. Teasing. No!
Damon and I will be married by a justice—he thought it the best way. Of course I would have preferred a traditional wedding. But what with the war and not being home and all, / suppose I have to concede. Damon says . . .
* * *
Damon, Damon, Damon.
It was true. Not a joke, not a tease. Babette was going to marry Damon Fowler.
Amélie sat down with the letter in her hand, feeling as though a canister of shot had exploded under her feet.
Chapter
❖ 18 ❖
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Crumpling the letter in her hand, working it into a tight ball, she thought, I can’t go to pieces. I can’t.
Voices reached her from the dining room. In a moment someone would come out to the hall and ask, “Anything the matter, Amélie?”
And what could she say?
No, she mustn’t weep or laugh or give any hint of her agitation.
Oh, but why? Why? Why had Babette married him? Because he had asked her, because she wanted a husband. Amélie was sure Babette
had not the least inkling of her own feeling toward Damon. And if she did, would it have made any difference? Amélie didn’t know. Babette had always been attracted to Damon (as any woman would be) and with her disregard of principle and honor would not hesitate to marry a Yankee who was responsible for her brother-in-law’s death.
But it was toward Damon that Amélie felt the most bitter. He didn’t love Babette. On the contrary, he had nothing but scorn for her. He had married her out of spite, out of a desire to hurt. As if I care, Amélie thought. It means nothing to me.
Yet behind her assumed indifference was the knowledge that she cared very much. And as she ascended the stairs to the room she shared with Kate her mind continued to dwell on Babette and Damon. Like a tongue obsessively probing an aching tooth, the painful query came back again and again. Why did he have to do it? Why?
She took off her damp cloak and sat down to remove her shoes. Am I jealous? she asked herself. But that’s nonsense. I wouldn’t have Damon Fowler on a golden platter. He’s not worthy of shining my shoes. Why should I go on torturing myself over a man who killed my husband and stole his watch? It’s daft. But images of Damon and Babette exchanging wedding vows, the dark face bending to kiss the uplifted one, persisted. Amélie pictured them in the hotel room with the wine-red portieres and the red upholstered chair, saw them making love on the same bed where she had clasped Damon to her naked breasts. The same bed where he had told her he loved her. It made her sick to think of it. The dissembler, the blackguard!
Trembling, she got out of her dress, petticoats, and corset and put on a wrapper, tying it tightly at the belt. Then she stretched out on the bed, facedown, muffling her sobs in the pillow.
As Amélie sank into troubled sleep, Babette, miles away, lay awake next to Damon wondering why her new husband could only make love to her when he was drunk. Not that it wasn’t wonderful, not that he wasn’t better than any man she’d ever had. But if only . . .
Turning, she rose on an elbow and looked down at him. He had his back to her, the broad, sinewy shoulders slightly hunched in sleep. She ran a finger lightly over the muscled arms, their steely strength making her skin crawl with excitement. He was so masculine, so virile! He mumbled something she could not catch and rolled over on his back, one arm outflung. Still she sat gazing at him, drinking in his masculine perfection, the furred chest, the flat stomach and beneath it the instrument, now quiescent, that gave her such joy. His brow wore its habitual frown, but it was still a terribly handsome face, strong, assertive. What a contrast to Freddie. Ugh! An old, wheezing man with white, flabby arms. And to think she might have married him instead of this wonderfully passionate man. What luck to have come upon him that day on Broad Street.
She sank back on the pillows, remembering.
She had seen him from afar, head and shoulders above a small knot of people on the curb waiting for a convoy of cannon and artillery to pass. By hurrying she had caught up with him.
One word led to another and he invited her to stop and have an early supper. He took her to a respectable restaurant, one that catered to families, and treated her with a deference and cool courtesy she found distracting. She would have preferred more intimacy in their conversation, an oblique mention of their lovemaking in the gazebo at Arbormalle, perhaps. But he managed to steer the conversation adroitly from personal matters. Not until he had emptied a liter of wine and started on another did he ask about Amélie.
“Oh, she’s gone off to Missouri,” Babette said blithely. “She enjoys seeing new places, meeting new people.”
“I see.”
“She still mourns Thaddeus, you know. Sill very much in love with him, though I could never see why she found him attractive in the first place.” She sipped at her wine, gazing beguilingly at him over the rim of her glass. “She thinks you killed him, you know.”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
Babette reached out and grasped his hand. “Of course you didn’t. I never for one moment believed you did.”
He gave her a long, appraising look.
“I tried to persuade her,” Babette went on. “But once Amélie’s mind is made up nothing will change it. I don’t like to say this, Colonel, but she positively hates you. And she’s wrong, so wrong.” She smiled sweetly at him, squeezing his hand again, noticing how his eyes flickered over her bosom.
After the meal he had brandy with his cigar. When they rose to go he said, “The officers are giving a party this evening, not too far from here. Would you care to attend?”
“Why—I’d love to! But I must change into something more suitable.”
“No need to,” he said. “You are dressed quite properly for the occasion.”
She was wearing a street dress, a blue merino she had done over from a gown Kate—now restricted to mourning clothes—had given her before she left for Missouri. Babette’s skilled needlework had transformed the dowdy, unfashionable gown into a rather fetching creation.
“But won’t I seem out of place?” Babette asked. With the gold Amélie had given her she had recently purchased a dark green velvet dress with a scooped neckline, and she was dying to show it off.
“Not at all.”
The moment they arrived at the party, already in full swing in the crowded back room of a tavern, Babette saw why the appropriateness of her dress did not matter. There wasn’t a single woman there who would have been accepted through the front door (and perhaps the back door, too) of Arbormalle. They were, with possibly one or two exceptions, professional tarts. Flaunting painted cheeks and lips, dressed in sleazy sateen cut low to show their breasts, they cavorted, drank, sang, and sat on blue, booted knees with an abandon even Babette found a little shocking.
Damon Fowler, his hand on her arm, paused in the doorway surveying the tipsy scene. Then he turned to Babette and gave her a long, enigmatic look before he spoke. “I’m sorry. Miss Townsend, I had no idea it would be like this.”
She wondered if it was true. Nevertheless a respectable woman would have immediately accepted his apology and asked to be taken home. Babette had no real desire to be classified with these paid doxies. On the other hand once Damon escorted her back to the Emorys she knew she would never see him again. And she wanted to. It came to her with a rush of feeling just how much she wanted to. He was the kind of dark devil she dreamed of while in other men’s arms.
Babette was saved from making a decision by a chunky, cigar-smoking officer who called, “Damon!” He came staggering toward them, a mug of foaming beer in his hand.
“So you got here—late as usual—and on my birthday.” Then noticing Babette he said, “Oh, pardon, I didn’t realize ...”
“May I present Miss Townsend,” Damon said formally. “General James, my superior.”
Brigadier-General James immediately came to attention. “A pleasure. Miss Townsend. You won’t rush off? You must have at least one toast in my honor.”
Babette glanced quickly at Damon’s impassive face, then with a sweet smile said, “Of course, if it’s your birthday— just a small one, General.”
Space was made at his table. The small toast, Madeira for Babette, brandy for Damon, was followed by another toast, then a third, and a fourth. Soon Babette was dancing in Damon’s arms to the wild fiddling of a Tennessee country tune. She was no longer sober but didn’t care. She hadn’t had so much fun in ages. The smoke-filled room rang with a boisterous; sensual animalism, drunken laughter, loud voices, the stamp of dancing feet. Here and there couples were openly embracing. Two men had come to blows over a ripe blonde whose gown had been ripped open in the mélee, a dispute quickly settled by a third party who dragged the offending officers away.
Babette clung to Damon as he whirled her dizzily about, her cheeks crushed against his shoulder. Through her crinolines she could feel his strong legs guiding her and it added to her excitement. When the music stopped for a few moments, she threw her arms about his neck and drawing his head down kissed him with reckless ardor.
&n
bsp; He pushed her away. Holding her by the shoulders he looked down at her from hooded eyes.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
He grasped her arm and, forcing his way through the crowd, pulled her to the stairway. When he started to ascend she hung back playfully, clinging to the newel post.
“Where are you taking me, Colonel?” she laughed.
He jerked her loose and, swinging her into his arms, started up the stairs. Smothered against his chest she felt the wild quickening of her heart. Oh, it was wrong, wicked! She ought to cry out, scream, call for help. But she never did what she “ought” and she wasn’t going to start now. Not with this dark, thrilling madman carrying her off.
Going along the corridor he tried several door knobs before he found an unlocked one. The room was small and dingy with water-stained wallpaper. A candle flickered beside a rumpled bed. Damon strode to it and tossed Babette among the pillows. Then he went back to the door and turned the key.
Babette sat up, laughing. “You don’t believe in asking, do you?”
“No,” he replied, coming back, standing over her. “Not when I already have the answer.”
“Oh, Colonel,” she began in her customary flirtatious manner, but the expression in his face halted her. In the uncertain candlelight he looked demoniac, his dark eyes glinting with an odd savagery that drove an icy wedge into Babette’s heart. She had never been afraid of a man in an amorous situation. There had never been any cause to. She had always been in control, had always felt she could manipulate her lovers, except for those first moments with Captain Gruber who, after their initial encounter, became like putty in her hands. But now she had met an adversary, a man who would refuse to be led or teased. Yet his mastery only seemed to add to his desirability.
Honor's Fury Page 22
