Honor's Fury

by Fiona Harrowe

  She drew herself up, eyes flashing. “I want to see the provost marshal!’’ She had faced worse than Mr. Corckle at Missionary Ridge. “I demand it, do you hear? I demand a trial!’’

  He went out, slamming the door and locking it.

  Hours went by. No one came, not even the nuns at supper time. Miss Hill lay down on her pallet and, between coughing fits, sobbed. Amélie paced the floor, pausing now and again to thump on the door, shouting, “I demand a trial!’’

  A week later Amélie, together with a coughing Miss Hill, who leaned heavily on her arm, was ushered into the provost marshal’s office. A half dozen other women were already present. Amélie recognized two of them as Mrs. McClure and Mrs. Clark. Involved in smuggling, they had been arrested months earlier and taken to Chestnut Street Prison. The women, pale and anxious, sat in a row of chairs facing the provost marshal at his desk. No one spoke.

  The marshal, clearing his throat, began to read from a paper, a long, legal-sounding proclamation, the gist of which was that all the women imprisoned for disloyalty were to be banished.

  “And to where will that be?’’ Mrs. McClure wanted to know.

  “Virginia City, Nevada,’’ came the reply.

  “Nevada! Why, that’s the end of the earth! Shall we be able to take our families, our children?’’

  “No.”

  Two of the women began to cry. Miss Hill, slumping against Amélie, fainted and had to be carried back to their room.

  They were to leave in the morning. Amélie's demand for a trial had been ignored. Sentence had been passed and there was no appeal.

  Chapter

  ❖ 20 ❖

  The next day the women were assembled again at the provost marshal’s office, where wagons waited outside to take them to the train.

  “Whoever tries to escape will be shot,” the provost marshal informed the exiles.

  However, to show he was not the monster he imagined they thought him, he had allowed their children to come and say good-bye.

  It was a terrible scene. Amélie, watching mothers clasp their small sons and daughters, listening to the weeping and wailing, felt as though thumbscrews would have been an easier form of torture. Mrs. McClure’s two-year-old daughter, blond curls wrapped in rags, clung to her mother’s skirts, looking up at her with large, frightened eyes. The Haines’ five children were a pitiful sight, too, the younger ones sobbing, the older ones bravely suppressing tears while Mrs. Haines held the baby in her arms, covering its small face with kisses. Why, Amélie asked herself, had these women felt it necessary to embark on dangerous work rather than remain safely in their homes? Why had they left their warm hearths, the protective circle of family to venture out into the swampland of intrigue and peril?

  They need not have lifted a finger to help the rebels.

  They could have claimed neutrality and gone about their lives without dishonor or blame. But they had refused to sit by and instead had exposed themselves to the hazards of illegal activity, risking their freedom for a cause that at times must have seemed distant if not hopeless.

  Amélie supposed there were a variety of reasons.

  Most had men fighting in the war; some, like her own Thaddeus, had been killed, others imprisoned. Revenge may have motivated a few. Loyalty, honor, the Southern penchant for fighting stubbornly against overwhelming odds.

  Amélie, crushed against a wall, saw a familiar figure draped in black edging her way through the crowd. It was Mrs. Shelby.

  “I’ve only a few minutes, Amélie,” she said in a low tone, speaking through her veil. “So listen carefully.

  The train stops to take on water at a way station near Moberly Mill. It’s called Alexander. It will stop during the night. You must contrive to get off without being seen. A man will be waiting. He will help you.”

  “But how will I know him?”

  “It isn’t likely at that hour and at that place for anyone else to be loitering there.” She pressed a small, heavy bag into Amélie’s hands. “They’re yours. Gold and coins. Kate got them from your money belt. Good luck, my dear.”

  The railroad car in which the women were installed was an old one, called into service by the war’s exigencies.

  It had a double row of hard-benched seats, the wood splintered and scarred, and a bare floor stained with tobacco juice. Up ahead the engine puffed asthmatically, rattling and swaying as it drew the passengers across a frozen landscape. At the last minute Miss Hill, too ill to travel, had been left behind. Amélie sat with Mrs. McClure.

  “Have you ever been over this route before?” Amélie asked.

  “Many times. My husband’s people have a large farm near Morrison.”

  “Where is that?”

  “On this side of Moberly Mill and the Alexander water station.”

  Amélie wondered when they would reach her destination. How long would it take on this creeping train? They made so many stops. In this pitch-black night how would she know she had reached the station? For a moment she was tempted to ask Mrs. McClure. But she couldn’t. Not that she didn’t trust her, but it might make it difficult for her companion later on if she should succeed in escaping.

  Dusk drew on. The lowering sky, banked with gray clouds, turned darker. They crossed a frozen river where bare-limbed trees laced with snow leaned over the ice.

  In the distance a chimney rising from a dun colored farmhouse sent a thin column of white smoke into the frosty air. The interior of the car became colder. But no one lighted the square stove that stood at the center. The women sat slumped or upright, dozing, silent, their ashen faces pinched with cold. They stopped at Centralia where Amélie hoped they would be fed. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and some of the women had not eaten at all. A soldier came through the train carrying a pail of steaming tea.

  “Sassafras! Do any of you ladies care for sassafras tea?”

  They took turns drinking from the same tin dipper. Nothing else was offered, not even a crust of bread. With a jolt the train started again. Soon Amélie began to worry that she would fall asleep. Her eyelids grew heavy, and the soothing, monotonous clickety-clack of the wheels sent her chin sinking lower and lower on her breast. She pulled herself up with a start. This would never do.

  She got up and balancing herself walked to the end of the car. A guard wearing a peaked cap. his jaw moving in slow, rhythmic motion, leaned casually against the door.

  “I need some air,” Amélie said. “I feel a little ill. Perhaps it was the tea.”

  He opened the door and she stepped out. Standing on the platform, the cold wind revived her. It was dark night now. Beyond the moving train dark, shadowy shapes slipped by. No light shone; no moon was visible, not even the glimmer of stars in the black sky. If only I can stand here, she thought, until we get there. But the soldier was peering at her through the window, tapping at the glass, motioning her to come in.

  “Did you think I was going to jump off and break my neck?” she asked sarcastically.

  “We can’t take any chances, ma’am.”

  She resumed her seat next to Mrs. McClure. Before long she was nodding again, struggling to keep her eyes open. The lids seemed weighted with lead, her mind drugged. How long she slept she didn’t know, but the train jolting to a halt awakened her. Shading her eyes, she peered through the window. She saw a water tower and was able to make out the first three letters—Ale Alexander? Yes, it must be, she thought, breaking into a cold sweat. They had either passed or stopped at Moberly Mill while she dozed.

  She looked to the front of the car. A guard was there, barring the door; the same was true at the back. Oh, God, what was she to do? She couldn’t say she needed air again.

  Just then Mrs. Haines got to her feet.

  “You ladies remain seated!” the soldier in front shouted, bringing his rifle down and pointing it at her. “I don’t want you trying tricks.”

  Desperation twisted and writhed like a serpent in the pit of Amélie’s stomach. This was her chance! If she m
issed it she would go on like the others to Virginia City.

  Mrs. Haines drew herself up. “Can’t you get the stove started and give us some heat? If you don’t you’ll have a dozen corpses on your hands.”

  The soldier walked down to the stove and kicked the door open. “There’s hardly enough wood to make a blaze.”

  “Better than nothing,” Mrs. Haines said. “You could chop up the back of that bench.”

  The other soldier came down to have a look. The train started sliding back, then forward. Amélie got to her feet and stepped quietly out in the aisle. The soldiers did not see her until she was down at the end of the car pulling the door open. They both shouted but she went through, a blast of air slamming the door shut. The train was picking up speed. Before she could give herself time to think, she swung open the steel gate and, taking a deep breath, jumped.

  Though the snow cushioned her fall it stunned her and she rolled helplessly over and over down the enbankment. When she came to rest she lay on her side, dazed, breathing heavily, listening to the diminishing clackety-clack of the cars. A few moments later she heard the train screech to a halt. Amélie sat up and, looking down the track, saw the lighted windows of the last car casting long, yellow oblongs in the snow. Steam from the engine rose in white clouds as the train began to back up.

  She scrambled to her feet, her one instinct to run. No! She couldn’t do that. She wouldn’t have time. Better to hide. She glanced quickly around. A clump of bushes, some bare trees. The water tower on stilts of wood. She ran toward it and stationed herself behind one of the supporting timbers.

  The train stopped opposite her. Four soldiers carrying lanterns descended. There was an excited conference interspersed with cursing and condemnation.

  Three of the soldiers went off in different directions. The one who remained cast his lamp rays through the crossbars of the water tower’s underpinnings. Amélie, hugging her skirts tightly, stood against the timber, frozen with fear, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure the man could hear it. But by some miracle he failed to see her. After a long while during which Amélie died a half dozen deaths, the other guards came clumping back. “No sign of the bitch.”

  “We can’t leave without her.”

  “Sure we can. We’re late as ’tis. She’ll freeze in the snow. Don’t look like there’s a house for miles.”

  Amélie waited until the train had disappeared down the track before she sank down to her knees with relief. She remained there until the last toot-tooooot in the distance echoed into the chill silence, piercing her with loneliness. No sign of life, no sound except that of her own breathing. Where was the man who was to help her? Perhaps he had been frightened off by the returning train. Should she stay at the water tower or strike off on her own? In which direction should she go? She was still debating when she heard footsteps and saw a figure loom up across the tracks.

  “Mrs. Warner?”

  She stumbled toward him and a pair of strong arms reached out and steadied her.

  “I’m Royce Woodson,” he said.

  She was too surprised to acknowledge the introduction. Royce Woodson, the same man she had seen in the Gratiot Street Prison courtyard, the Confederate Miss Hill had tried to help escape.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, worried at her silence.

  “Yes, yes.” She drew in her breath. He was no longer wearing his tattered uniform, but a dark greatcoat and a slouch felt hat. “But you—I’ve seen you at Gratiot. How did you manage to get out of prison?”

  “It was simple,” he said, and laughed. “I hid in the dairyman’s wagon and rolled right out the gate. I couldn’t believe it myself. Then I made tracks for Mrs. Shelby’s— I’d heard of her—while a prisoner—and skulked in her garden until nightfall. She told me about you, how you had been banished, and together we set up a plan whereby you and I would make our way south using the underground.”

  “But we’re northwest of St. Louis now. Wouldn’t it have been easier for you simply to strike out in a southerly direction?”

  “Where the Union bloodhounds would be watching for me? I had to throw them off the scent.”

  “Well—I am grateful.”

  “We haven’t made it yet, Mrs. Warner. Can you walk?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  It was a long hike. Fortunately the snow was thin and hard packed; there were no drifts to flounder and wallow through. Nevertheless Amélie soon felt as though her feet had ceased to exist. Tortured, then numbed, they became plodding mechanical appendages. And the wind! It was wild, whipping and whining about her ears, tearing at her cloak, savaging her skirts. The icy blasts went right through her, down to the bare skin, down to the bones, freezing their very marrow. She clung to Royce Woodson’s arm, stumbling over the rutted ground, trying not to drag on his strength. The wind prevented conversation even if Amélie had had the breath for it. All she could manage was to keep upright, putting one frozen foot before the other.

  They went on walking, an endless motion in a dark void. Though her tear-blurred eyes searched for a glint of light, some sign of a smoking chimney, some movement, she saw nothing but the endless snow marked by tufts of dried grass and skeletal trees. At one point her dazed mind wondered if Royce Woodson knew where he was going, whether he was leading her in circles. Gathering all her strength she shouted, “Are we almost there?”

  “Not far.”

  It began to snow, a whirling fall of flakes that stung her cheeks and soon covered her hooded head and cape. Suddenly a light appeared across the next hollow. Someone was carrying a lamp.

  “Look!” she shouted. “Look!

  But Royce Woodson did not seem to see or hear. Closer they came and she saw now that the face above the lamp’s glow was Damon Fowler’s with the familiar bearded jaw, straight nose, piercing eyes. “Oh, Damon, help me,” her heart cried. And then he disappeared into the falling flakes.

  She was hallucinating. No food, the long train ride, the cold had at last affected her mind. Suddenly Amélie’s foot went down into a hole; there was a twist of pain and she remembered no more.

  She opened her eyes to wavering candlelight and a feeling of warmth in her limbs. Her feet were resting on a flannel-covered hot brick.

  “My dear, you’re awake.” An old woman with a wrinkled face and beaked nose appeared at the foot of the bed.

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re safe,” the old woman replied. “I’m Mrs. Bowen. Me and my husband are for the cause. So never fear. You’re almost into Harrisburg. Can you take some refreshment?”

  She was helped up on the pillows and offered a bowl of turnip soup. Nothing had ever tasted so delicious.

  Two days later Amélie and Royce set out for the next house in the underground chain that assisted fleeing Confederates. Their ultimate destination was New Orleans, where they hoped to slip aboard a ship bound for the East coast. Amélie, tired and war weary, was ready to go home. Royce was eager to return to his native Virginia and lend support to the rebels now holding a besieged Petersburg against the Yankees. Despite recent Confederate defeats, he told Amélie, the war was far from over.

  Royce was an optimistic young man, easygoing, cheerful, seemingly untouched by imprisonment or the hardships he had endured. Tall, tawny haired, good looking with a cleft, clean-shaven chin, he had clear gray eyes that met one’s gaze with disarming frankness. Royce (still a bachelor, he admitted with a grin) came from yeoman stock, proud people who farmed acreage north of the James River. His Virginia drawl had a twang to it that put him in a class below the planter aristocracy, but Amélie found his manners equal to any gentleman’s. The fact that he, a farmer, had been elected captain of his company was proof enough of his intelligence and ability.

  Amélie liked him for other reasons. He was a sympathetic, understanding person, a good listener, and before long as they travelled on the back roads, either on foot or sharing a bony horse, she found herself telling him about her home, her husband and his death, and her experien
ces at Lookout Mountain. She told him about Damon Fowler, too, not that she had been in love with him, but that he had killed her husband and married Babette.

  “She was lonely, I expect,’’ Royce commented.

  “Babette lonely? I can’t imagine my sister lonely. Wherever she goes she has a host of friends.’’

  “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t lonely. You can be that way even with people shaking your hand or laughing at your jokes.’’

  “Are you ever lonely?’’ she asked, giving him a keen look.

  “Often,’’ he answered, then added with a broad smile, “excepting now with present company.’’

  They posed as brother and sister, moving in an oblique line toward the Mississippi River. At Mammoth Spring they crossed the Arkansas border. Though Arkansas’ Confederate army had been soundly defeated at Pea Ridge, Chickasaw Bluffs, and Prairie Grove, her scattered forces continued to fight a hit-and-run guerrilla action against the Federalists, burning and looting the homes of their sympathizers. Royce and Amélie found the people they stayed with poverty-stricken and bitter. Many of them resented the rich class of river planters who had managed to load their wagons with their furniture, Negroes, and families and flee to Texas.

  “Left us poor folk to fight their war,” one shopkeeper in Walnut Ridge complained.

  Royce and Amélie were not offered transportation as freely as they had been in Missouri. Often they walked, trudging through rain and mud for an entire day. Royce was more wary now than he had been when they started their journey. Many times because he didn’t like the “look” of a farmhouse they stole into the barn and there spent the night.

  “Some of these people would turn you in just for a chaw of tobacco,” he remarked.

  Toward the end of February they reached Osceola, Arkansas, a town on the west bank of the Mississippi River. It was a chill, damp day, the melted snow running high in the ditches and the wind smelling of raw earth. They had been there only a few hours when Royce by a stroke of good luck got work on a steamer, the Lady Faire, sailing south to New Orleans. The captain had put in at Osceola to sell lumber and being shorthanded had taken Royce on. No questions were asked, no papers or permits required. Royce made an arrangement with the captain to allow Amélie, still posing as his sister, to travel as a passenger, the fare to be paid out of his wages.