“Are you sure that spirit isn’t plain old pigheadedness?” Babette asked.
“A little pigheadedness helps, too,” Amélie said. “Wait and see.”
Captain Gruber was transferred and the man who took his place arrived in late July. An elderly Ohioan, he had been a bank clerk in civilian life, a thorough, meticulous sort who went over Gruber’s records with a fine-tooth comb. Babette and Amélie, reading a thumbnail biography of him in the Exchange in which he was praised as being a “stickler for the rules,” were worried that he would send the military to the house again. But as weeks went by and nothing happened they breathed easier. Amélie also noticed that the tall man with the stooped shoulders no longer shadowed her. Nor, as far as she could tell, did anyone else. When Amélie felt sure the Federal watchdogs had been called off she resumed her volunteer work at the Confederate prison hospital.
It was there she got into a conversation with an orderly, a rebel captured in a skirmish at Lexington, Tennessee while on a raid with General Forrest. He introduced himself as Bill Pitts and when Amélie gave her name he asked if Thaddeus Warner was her husband.
“You know Thaddeus?” she asked excitedly. It seemed like a miracle. “Lieutenant Warner of Bancroft?”
“That I do.”
“How wonderful! I can hardly believe it. It’s been so long since I’ve heard from him. Tell me . . .” Her joy dimmed when she saw the look of compassion in the soldier’s eyes. “He’s not been captured—or hurt?”
“No, it ain’t nothin’ like that,’’ Bill Pitts said, trying to be kind.
“What happened?’’ she asked with a thick tongue.
“He got hisself caught at Fort Donelson and was hanged as a spy.’’
The room paled, the long line of cots with the wounded dissolving into a sick blur.
“You ain’t goin’ to faint, Mrs. Warner? Please—here.’’ A chair was put under her trembling knees.
Thaddeus was dead, hung as a spy.
She heard herself asking, “When—how long ago?’’ All her dreams of a life together, the house they would build, the rooms they would furnish, the children they would have, were shattered.
“Two, three months.’’
Thaddeus would never come back to her.
“He was with the Maryland Rangers,’’ she said in a voice so low the orderly had to lean forward to hear.
Oh, couldn’t there be some mistake?
“Well, ma’am, when an outfit loses lots of men they put what’s left in other regiments. Companies under General Forrest—he was our commander—came from all over.’’
“But a spy,’’ she said, not listening, still talking to herself. “How could that be?’’ Her father had always held that even in the service of a good cause, spying was dishonorable, a hypocritical game of false representation only the lowest indulged in. To take people into your confidence and then betray them, he said, was something a gentleman would never do. The end never justified such means. It demeaned a person.
But the South was not winning as handily as it had hoped. Resources were running low. Amélie had only to look at the hungry, rib-lean Confederates in the hospital, many of them in tatters, their blistered feet without shoes, to realize the widespread lack of food and equipment. The Confederates, blasted by a superior force, falling back, had to use every means in their power and if spying would help them she could not see how it could be called dishonorable.
Bill Pitts was saying, “Ma’am? Your husband warn’t a spy. He was scoutin’, when they collared him.’’
“Scouting?’’ With a great effort she pulled herself out of numb shock. “But I don’t understand. Why wasn't he taken prisoner then?’’
“I guess them Yanks thought he was spyin’”
“And no trial, of course,’’ she said bitterly. “Just a summary execution. Do you know how his capture came about?’’
“Yes, ma’am. You see, it happened like this. There was four scouts went out, and one was Lieutenant Warner. And they separated the way they allus does. Some while later, Howie—he’s from Berry Hill up there in Tennessee—he heard horses and voices a-comin’ and he hid in the trees. Pretty quick through the dark he seen these Yankees ridin’ along, one, an officer, holdin’ a rifle to a bareheaded reb that was Lieutenant Warner. He heard the Yankee say, ‘ . . hangin’ is too good for you.’ ’’
“Would you know from which regiment or company these Yankees were who took my husband?’’
“No, ma’am. But Howie said they called the Yankee officer Major Fowler.’’
Chapter
❖ 14 ❖
Oh, but it couldn’t be true! it couldn't.
“You are sure?” she asked Bill Pitts.
“Yes, ma’am. It happened at Fort Donelsen, near Nashville, Tennessee.”
She had never believed in predestination or in any of the superstitious notions that held that one’s life was guided by fate. Yet it was hard not to believe so now. Was it a twist of destiny, an inevitability, that the man she had come to grips with as enemy/lover should kill her husband? Of all the thousands and thousands in blue why Damon Fowler?
And yet, why not? The war was full of tragic coincidences, of brother killing brother, of fathers facing sons on the battlefield, of friend pitted against friend.
But if Bill Pitts was correct, Damon Fowler had not shot her husband in an honorable fight, he had executed him as a spy. Wrongfully. That he knew Thaddeus made the act all the more reprehensible.
Major Fowler hates us, Amélie thought, and everything we stand for. He despises the South and would like to see us all shot or hung or reduced to a conquered, spiritless people. Even when he made love to me he despised us. And he called me a fanatic!
If Amélie still had doubts about her husband’s death they were laid to rest when Babette, through channels Amélie forebore to question, confirmed it. Her account was more meager than Bill Pitts’s and differed in one notable respect. “He was shot,” Babette said, “not hanged.”
Amélie had spent the past two nights weeping, remembering the childhood she and Thaddeus had shared, how they had grown up together, how they had fallen in love and married. She had sobbed once more when she composed a letter to the Warners, her heart going out to them for the loss of their only son. Her grief for Thaddeus was deep and she would have liked nothing better than to have retreated into private mourning, but she was determined not to go to pieces as she had over little Charles. The circumstances of Thaddeus’s death had hardened her. His murder (for that was the way she saw it) by the hand of Damon Fowler had steeled her in a way that the wounded and dying prisoners and the Yankee soldiers in the streets of Baltimore had failed to do. She had always been for the cause, had always wanted to give what she could, but now her desire to serve burned like a bright, hot flame. If only she could wipe every Yankee off the face of the earth, Damon Fowler foremost! She hated him now with a pure, undiluted hatred that dispelled all the doubts she had struggled with earlier.
“Thaddeus is buried in Tennessee,” Amélie said to Babette. “That’s if the Yankees have the decency to bury our dead. But I can’t leave him in a strange country, in an unknown grave with no one to tend it.”
“What do you mean?” Babette asked.
“I’m going to bring his body back.” She would disinter little Charles and lay them side by side in the family vault.
“But that’s daft,” Babette said. “A fool’s errand. Do you think it makes any difference to Thaddeus?’’
“I promised. I swore to him he would be buried at Bancroft. I can’t go back on my word. It would haunt me for the rest of my life.’’
“But must you go now?’’
“Yes, while there is still someone at Fort Donelson who can tell me where to find his grave. I can’t wait. I promised, Babette. And if you don’t understand that then all the explaining I do will be so many wasted words. You needn’t come along, Babette. Mrs. Jasper will be happy to take you in.’’
“I c
an’t let you go alone.’’
“Oh? That’s very sisterly of you. Or is it that you’ve become bored with the city?’’
“I do declare! You accuse me of the basest motives.’’ Then her face broke into a wide grin. “It’s both, I guess.’’ She flung her arms about Amélie’s neck. “I do love you, silly.’’
It was not usual to reclaim a relative or husband’s body for home burial even while the war was in progress. But more often than not, as in Amélie’s case, it was a complicated and costly endeavor. Travel had to be arranged beforehand, safe conduct passes obtained, railroad schedules dovetailed. There was no direct route across the three or four states—a distance of over twelve hundred miles—Amélie and Babette must pass and they had to plan accordingly.
They hit their first snag when they found that in order to obtain rail passage out of Baltimore they must prove they had taken the oath. For Babette the matter was a simple one. She had sworn allegiance once; she could do so again with no trouble to her conscience. Amélie had a hard time of it but in the end her anger and her single-minded purpose conquered her scruples. She was going to bring Thaddeus home if she had to lie and cheat to every bureaucratic Yankee on the way. The need for adhering to moral standards had long since vanished.
Full of resolve she marched down to the provost marshal’s office. But when the oath was read to her again, her whole being revolted. She just couldn’t swear, couldn’t put her name to that heresy. The Yankee administering the oath, the former bank clerk who had taken Captain Gruber’s place, noticed her hesitation and sneered.
“Stick in your craw, does it?”
He had the chalky pallor and bloodless lips of an invalid, pale hair, pale eyes, and bony fingers that tapped impatiently. His palpable contempt brought her back up. I can’t and I won’t, Amélie thought, not for him or anybody.
Babette said, “Let me talk to her for a few moments. Captain.”
She took Amélie aside. “Do you or don’t you want to fetch Thaddeus?”
“I can’t sign, Babette,” Amélie whispered back. “There must be some other way. I’ll walk to Tennessee before I sign that awful document. Please—let’s get out of this place. It’s making me sick.”
Two days later, quite by chance, Amélie was offered an opportunity to ride the train without taking the hated oath. Horace Johnson, one of the doctors who worked in Union as well as Confederate prison hospitals, was planning a visit to his elderly mother in Bristol, Virginia. He was going by rail and, hearing of Amélie’s dilemma, invited the sisters to accompany him. By posing as his nieces they could travel on his permit.
“We’ll call it an errand of mercy,” he said. “Once past Washington you’ll be able to connect with the Orange and Alexandria line, which will take you into the heart of the Confederacy. It will be a long, roundabout route but much safer than going up through Ohio and Kentucky.”
Later Amélie was to wonder whether the doctor was unaware of the true nature of wartime rail travel through Virginia or was merely trying to reassure them. But on the day she left for Camden Station she had no thought of danger. Instead she felt hopeful, optimistic. She anticipated a tedious, tiring journey yet was glad to be embarking on a mission, glad to be moving instead of sitting and waiting in the house on Cathedral Street. When she locked the door behind her she felt an exhilarating tingle in her breast. Though she told herself she had undertaken a somber chore, the spirit of adventure was infecting her as it had infected Babette. She had never been outside of Maryland and the world beyond, as turbulent and confused as it was, beckoned. In some obscure way, too, she believed that by bringing Thaddeus’s body home against odds and over a battle-torn country she was making her own symbolic gesture of defiance.
On reaching the station she had a few bad moments during which an officious underling of the stationmaster demanded to see her permit. Dr. Johnson, a little man who barely came up to the ticket taker’s chin, brandished his umbrella, and raising his voice demanded, “Let us pass, sir! I am Dr. Johnson—these are my nieces. If I have another rude word from you, I’ll report you to Police Commissioner Kane, who happens to be a good friend of mine.”
They were allowed on board without further difficulty.
The train was crowded with civilians, both men and women, and a sprinkling of bluecoats. It surprised Amélie to see people other than those in the army traveling. Dr. Johnson explained that the human race had a natural itch to be on the move and always had, and would find a way to get about no matter what the circumstances.
He was a cheerful man, a little vain but not obnoxiously so, and a good traveling companion. He had never married, he said with a twinkle in his eye, because he had never found the right woman.
They changed trains in Washington where the doctor by judicious use of his furled umbrella managed to work his way through the crowd and obtain box lunches for the three of them. By the time they reached Alexandria where they would spend the night they had all become good friends.
Alexandria’s terminal was a vast sea of railroad yards where the chugging and chuffing of engines on their way to roundhouses mingled with the sound of hammer on steel. Acres of rail and timber neatly stacked awaited the needs of the U.S. military railroad, a treasure trove the Confederates, lacking their own foundries and cut off by the blockade, would have given much to possess. The military construction corps, Dr. Johnson explained, used the lumber for the building and repair of bridges and trestles. This small item of information should have given Amélie a clue as to what the journey might entail, but it didn’t.
Upon boarding the Orange and Alexandria the next morning, Amélie observed that there were many more soldiers now than civilians. Looking out of the window before they started, she could see armed guards posted atop the freight cars they carried behind. When Amélie asked Dr. Johnson about them he said it was nothing to worry about.
“It’s a matter of form. Occasionally a rebel band will pop up trying to cause mischief. But this area has been combed out pretty well. Gives the Yankee bluecoats riding shotgun something to do besides drink and cuss.”
They had been on their way less than an hour when Amélie became aware of a Yankee soldier across the aisle staring at her. She got a good look at him when he rose and strolled to the end of the car. She leaned over and whispered in Babette’s ear.
“See that man? Do we know him?” He had paused at the door and was looking their way.
Babette drew in her breath. “Yes. He’s the sentry at the provost marshal’s office.”
“I think he’s recognized me,” Amélie said, a coldness seeping through her veins. “What shall I do? You have a permit but I don’t.”
He had disappeared through the door but Amélie knew he would be back. Possibly he had gone to get the conductor, or worse, stop the train.
She leaned over and in a low voice explained the situation to the doctor.
“Well, what of it?” he asked. “It’s his word against ours. We’ll deny any accusation he may make. Your name is Amélie Johnson and you are my niece. That’s all there is to it.” He patted her arm. “Don’t fret. I’ll take care of the matter and give him a good piece of my mind into the bargain.”
Amélie tried to relax by looking out the window. They were riding through wooded country, the elms and maples beginning to turn color though it was only early September. A stream ran beside the track, disappearing now behind a bend or around a steep bank, coming out again, the water brown with fallen leaves. Amélie made an effort to concentrate on the passing scene but her head would swing back to the door of the car as if jerked on a string.
The little doctor dozed; Babette yawned loudly. “I’m hungry,” she said. “Are we going to stop soon so we can get some food?”
“How can you think of eating at a time like this? Oh! Here he comes again, Babette. And he has someone with him. He looks like a Yankee officer.”
Then it happened.
Amélie was never able to sort out the turbulent sequence
of events. It all came too fast, a rushing, revolving pandemonium of fear, shouting, and pain. Did the terrified screams come first or was it the violent jolt? Or did both occur simultaneously? She was never sure.
The jarring, crashing, earth shattering sound exploding in her eardrums swayed the car in which they were riding. It hung precariously for a moment, then as it tumbled over Amélie was thrown across the aisle. She hit her head against the edge of the seat and, before blacking out, thought she heard shots.
She couldn’t have been unconscious for more than a few moments because the shots and the screaming were still going on when she opened her eyes.
“Babette ...,?” she whispered hoarsely.
A tongue of flame leapt up at the end of the car.
“Babette?” she repeated louder through cracked lips.
Voices, pleadings, moans rose among the twisted bodies. A baby wailed in intense, piercing notes, its cries lancing through the confusion. Two men were climbing up over the seats of the sloping car toward the windows. A soldier was helping a sobbing woman through a gaping, glass-shattered hole.
“It’s the Rebs!” a man’s voice shouted.
“Fire!” another screamed. “The car’s on fire!”
The single flame at the end of the car divided into two, then three, four. There was the smell of scalding steam, burning creosote, and velour. Amélie struggled to sit up, an effort complicated by a heavy weight on her legs. She looked down. It was Babette.
“Darlin’?”
For several horrible moments Amélie thought Babette was dead. She was so white—so still. Amélie quickly pulled her legs out from under her sister. Her own head ached but she seemed to be all of one piece.
“Babette . . . ?”
The fire was eating its way up the car. Around her those who could were crawling over inert bodies toward the windows. Amélie grabbed Babette under the armpits and began hauling her up the leaning car. The shots had stopped but the shouting continued.
Honor's Fury Page 16