Kopp Sisters on the March

by Amy Stewart

  It was a difficult maneuver to practice, because the recipient of the hold would, in a practice session, know what to expect, but they ran through the first half of the move over and over, ending with a gentle nudge to the back of the leg but not going so far as to push their partner down. “If you ever have to use this move, you won’t have any trouble with the last part,” Constance had assured them. “Once you’ve gone this far, you’ll know exactly how to overcome him.”

  She stood at the edge of the clearing and watched them with some pride. Here was the Amazonian corps Geneva Nash had warned against. They weren’t large, most of them, but they were fierce, and utterly determined to learn every move Constance taught them.

  She’d once imagined, back when she was deputy sheriff, that she might have a role to play someday in training women for law enforcement work. There was no such academy in existence anywhere that Constance knew of, and no formal instruction of any kind for women going into the profession. Most of the sheriffs and police chiefs hiring women had no idea what they might do, and therefore no plan for how to train them. Only a woman who had done the job could prepare another woman to do it.

  Constance lost her chance to carry out a scheme like that, but this—wasn’t this the next best thing? Even if these women never went to France, she thought, look at what they’ve learned to do. Who could say how they might put their training to use?

  Hilda spotted Constance and ran over to her, still out of breath from her drill.

  “How do we look?” she asked Constance.

  “You look like warriors.” There was no other word for it. Even in their skirts and shirtwaists, and their hair pinned up, they’d become soldiers.

  Hilda’s cheeks were flushed, and her countenance was triumphant. “Tonight we are. Look what Sarah brought.” She pointed to the edge of the clearing.

  Constance knew before she turned around to look. The guns.

  There they were, four of them: two rifles and two revolvers, placed carefully in the grass atop a pile of jackets.

  “What did I say about weapons?” Constance said furiously.

  Sarah stood her ground: there was no other way to describe it. Her feet were planted as staunchly as tree trunks, her arms crossed stubbornly over her chest. “I’ve had a week to imagine what might’ve happened to Jack. You know as well as I that a German could’ve put a bullet in him by now. I intend to return that bullet the first chance I get.”

  “Oh, Sarah,” Constance said. “Don’t let yourself think that way. Surely the mail’s been lost. You’ll hear from him—”

  “You don’t know that. If it were your brother, you’d feel just as I do.”

  “I might,” Constance said. “But these guns—they were locked away. I checked them myself.”

  “Locks have keys,” Sarah said. “Nobody’s going to miss them. The case was covered in dust and shoved under a pile of tent stakes and ropes. No one’s so much as looked at that case since we set up camp. Hack and Clarence have probably forgotten it’s there.”

  “They most certainly have not!” Constance said. “They’re soldiers. I can assure you they’re well aware of the gun case. It was issued to them, for their use.”

  The other women were all standing around her in a semi-circle now. Margaret said, “I wouldn’t blame you if you were opposed to what we’re trying to do. Plenty of people were against rifle training in these camps. That’s why we don’t have it.”

  “I never said I was against—”

  But Margaret pressed on. “I remember what they said. Why not learn to knit, instead of shoot? As if any of us are untrained in knitting.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Constance said, “but you’ve stolen these weapons. I can’t allow it.”

  “We’ve only borrowed them,” Sarah said. “We can have them back in an hour, if we start our training now.”

  “Or you can put them back immediately,” Constance said. “Camps have closed over less than this. You heard about what happened in Newark. They shut down a camp over six girls misbehaving.”

  “Those girls were drinking cocktails with their wireless instructor,” Sarah said. “I’m talking about training for war, which is precisely what this camp is intended to do.”

  “And we are,” Constance said. “We can train without weapons. There’s plenty to learn.”

  “Maybe she’s right,” Hilda said. “Do you remember the anti-suffragist cartoons last fall? One of them showed women soldiers stopping in the heat of battle to powder their noses. What a distraction we’d be!”

  “No one’s going to war to powder her nose,” Constance said stormily. She was being worked over by all of them and she knew it.

  “But your point is taken,” Margaret said. “We don’t need to train with guns. Let the men meet the enemy.”

  “They’re our enemy too,” Constance said. She knew, at that minute, that she was sunk.

  Margaret held her breath. All of them did. They were so young, some of them—just barely Fleurette’s age, but with such seriousness of purpose.

  Constance couldn’t help but wish she had the last twenty years to live over, starting right at that moment, with these young women for comrades. What a life she could’ve led alongside them! It was foolish of her to think of forty as old, of course, but she couldn’t help it, when she considered the two decades that stood between her and the youngest of these women. For most of those years she’d been at home, keeping house, helping to raise Fleurette, and doing her mother’s bidding. These girls had such bold and brilliant prospects ahead of them.

  She had to admit that women made awfully good shots. They were more methodical than men, and more practiced in the kind of fine and precise work that was the secret to good marksmanship. They weren’t brutal or careless with a weapon, as a man might be. Every one of these women would be cool, calculated, and competent—if they were shown the way.

  And what a thrill it would be for them, to put a target in their sights, to squeeze the trigger, and to see how perfectly they could hit it!

  “One hour,” Constance said. “And you won’t fire tonight. I’ll show you how to handle them, but that’s as far as we go for now.”

  No one wanted to give her time to change her mind, so all five women rushed over to the guns at once. Constance had them sit in a semi-circle around her. She settled down on her knees, her skirt in a pool on the ground, and looked over the weapons.

  They were wonderfully heavy and cool. Although she hardly ever fired a gun as a deputy, she missed the security of wearing it against her hip.

  She started by unloading each of them.

  “Who taught you to do this?” Bernice asked.

  Constance pretended not to hear. “I want you all to see that the chamber is empty.” She lifted her lantern so that they could each have a look. “Never trust what anyone tells you. If the gun’s in your hands, it’s loaded until you prove otherwise. Look inside the chamber yourself.”

  She passed the revolver around and they each took their turn. Constance was pleased to see that each one of them handled it carefully, and pointed it down at the ground without her having to tell them to do so. They were thinking about the consequences, as she knew they would.

  “That’s fine,” she said. “Now let’s do the rifle. Did any of you hunt with your fathers?”

  None of them had.

  “My brother took me out once or twice,” Constance said. “Now, this might not be the rifle you’ll see in France. They’re using artillery guns over there. But you know they’re fighting out in the countryside, among villages and farmhouses. I have no doubt that rifles like these are in circulation.”

  Once again, she showed them how to break it down and make sure it was unloaded. The rifle was well-oiled and in good form. It made a satisfying sound as it came apart and locked together in her students’ hands.

  “Your stance is a little different with a pistol than it would be with a rifle,” she said. “I want you all to stand up and put your feet ju
st so.”

  She was in the middle of demonstrating, and had the pistol out in front of her, aimed into the trees, when she heard a rustling in the shadows and a feminine shriek.

  “Don’t shoot!” came a familiar voice, followed by laughter.

  Into the circle of yellow light cast by the lantern stumbled Roxie and Fleurette, followed by Hack and Clarence.

  The girls were grinning, delighted at having caught Constance in an illegal act, but Hack and Clarence were wide-eyed and terrified.

  “Are those— Do you have— Are those our guns?” asked Clarence.

  23

  THESE BOYS ARE going to make terrible soldiers, Beulah thought. They abandon their posts to walk in the woods with us. They can’t keep track of their own weapons. Now a woman twice their age in long skirts has a pistol in her hand, and they’re absolutely terrified. What are they going to do when they’re facing down the Germans?

  Constance tucked the pistol in her belt as if she did it every day. Fleurette had been awfully coy about her older sister, but Beulah was ever more suspicious that she’d done something in the line of police work before. She carried herself that way, and it wasn’t just because she’d been appointed camp matron.

  But if that was true, why was it such a secret? Who would want to hide a thing like that?

  Constance said, “The guns aren’t loaded. These girls are all planning to go to France directly, as soon as camp is over. They wanted some training in firearms for their own protection. I told them I would give a demonstration, but nothing more. This is entirely my responsibility.”

  Hack took a few steps forward and peered down at the other guns, still arrayed on the pile of jackets. “Are these ours? We never took them out of the supply shed. They’ve been locked, and we carry the keys.”

  He felt around on his belt for a ring of keys and held them up to the light of Constance’s lantern.

  “Your keys are there,” Sarah said, “and Constance shouldn’t be the one to take the blame. I stole the guns. I borrowed a key from Clarence and returned it right away.”

  Clarence fumbled for his own keys. “They’re on me all the time, Hack! I swear I never take them off. Unless . . . You didn’t come and get them while . . .”

  “I did,” Sarah said. “I lifted them while you were in the shower. But I didn’t look.”

  Beulah couldn’t help but laugh. That sounded like something she would do. One of the first things she learned on Mayo Street was how to slip her fingers into a man’s pockets, whether he was wearing the pants or not.

  Every girl turned around and looked at Beulah when she laughed. They were taking this far more seriously than she was. Even Fleurette looked horrified. It took a minute for Beulah to understand why: she and Fleurette, too, had been caught doing something wrong.

  “It doesn’t matter who took the keys,” Constance said briskly. “I’m the matron of this camp and I should’ve put a stop to it. You can take the guns back now. I don’t suppose I have to ask what the four of you were doing in the woods after curfew.”

  “We only went out for air,” Fleurette said. “The boys were escorting us back to our tent. Isn’t that their job?”

  “I’ve heard enough from you,” Constance said, just sharply enough to make Beulah shrink back, too. “But Privates Hackbush and Piper should’ve known better. You’re here to guard the camp, not to carry on with girls in the woods.”

  “Then I suppose we’re all in a bit of a pickle,” Hack said.

  Beulah had to give Hack some credit: the boy could think on his feet. He was about to bargain his way out of this mess.

  “I’ll tell you what, ladies,” he said. “If you’re serious about going to France, we’ll show you how to fire a weapon. But you won’t put a hand on these guns unless we’re right here with you.”

  “And you won’t put a hand on these girls,” Constance said.

  “We never did!” Clarence protested.

  “They really didn’t,” Fleurette said, with just enough disappointment in her voice to make everyone laugh this time.

  But Constance didn’t look convinced. She stood with her arms folded across her chest, frowning down at the two men. What must it be like, Beulah wondered, to tower over everyone else like that? A woman of her size might actually stand a chance against the Germans.

  “Did you say,” Beulah asked, as long as everyone remained silent, “that all of you are going to France?”

  “I’ve already booked my passage,” Sarah said.

  “I’m trying to get on the same ship,” said Margaret, “and I’ve written to some friends back home to take up a fund so that we can bring Fern and Hilda with us.”

  “I’ll be leaving from Florida,” Bernice said.

  It was starting to occur to Beulah that she’d been sneaking out with the wrong crowd after curfew. If she still intended to go to France—and what else was she to do when camp ended?—she needed a woman like Margaret on her side.

  “A battalion of ladies invading France,” Hack said. “I don’t think they intended that when they organized this camp.”

  “Well, we intended it all along,” Margaret said.

  “I think it’s awfully brave of you,” Clarence said. “I have three sisters at home and I can’t imagine any of them out here doing what you’re doing.”

  “They might surprise you someday,” Constance said. “I’ll allow another night of training, and this time you can bring the guns. But one of you has to stay behind and guard the camp. We’ve left it unattended, and that can’t happen again.”

  “Hack’s the better shot,” Clarence said. “I suppose he ought to be your rifle instructor. I’ll take guard duty.”

  “You can take turns at guard duty and I’ll give the lessons myself,” Constance said. “These girls are my responsibility.”

  Hack cleared his throat and said, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, ma’am, but where did you learn how to handle a pistol?”

  “Our brother taught her,” Fleurette said, before Constance could answer. “He taught all three of us, when he got married and moved away from the farm. He thought we ought to be able to protect ourselves. But I didn’t take to it. Of the three of us, Constance is the best shot.”

  24

  IT WAS ABUNDANTLY clear to Constance that there was no privacy at camp, not even in the woods. If Hack and Clarence could find them, anyone could. And it was all too easy for the girls to be spotted returning to their tents after curfew. To avoid the appearance that any of them were sneaking around on their own, Constance insisted that they walk out of the woods with her. She could always claim, if asked, that they had merely extended their night patrol.

  But Hilda and Fern trailed behind, and peeled off, unnoticed, from the group to make their own way back to their tents. It was their great misfortune to be recognized by Tizzy Spotwood, who was at that moment walking back from the latrines.

  Tizzy was still stewing over the confiscation of the Victrola and the other privileges Constance had taken away from her and her friends. Constance had made good on her threat and relocated the girls to the very center of camp, which Tizzy believed to be an unfashionable neighborhood. As she was now situated right next to Constance’s tent, she didn’t hesitate to complain, loudly and often, about the injustice that had rained down upon her and her friends.

  Constance regarded Tizzy as the kind of girl who was accustomed to being given the very best of everything. If she was put in inferior accommodations or given anything less than the very finest on offer, she assumed it was the result of neglect or incompetence on someone else’s part, and saw it as her duty to step forward and demand that to which she was entitled. In fact, she seemed to believe it to be a special skill of hers to go around finding fault, and took pride in doing it well, which is to say, loudly, frequently, and always within earshot of her friends. She liked an audience.

  So when Tizzy spotted two girls across the campground, moving between the tents, she went directly to Constance, who
was only just then returning to her own tent.

  “I suppose you noticed those two on your rounds,” Tizzy said.

  Constance straightened and looked around. She would not be intimidated by this girl. “I saw them.”

  “Well? What are you going to do about it?” She jutted her chin out in the manner of a mistress berating a servant.

  “You ought to be in bed,” Constance said.

  But Tizzy wasn’t put off so easily. “They’ll have to have a demerit. They weren’t going to the latrine. No one else is permitted to be out after nine.”

  “I’m aware of the rules, Miss Spotwood. Good night.”

  Tizzy gave an aggrieved little tsk but went into her tent anyway.

  The next morning, after breakfast, Norma caught up with Constance on their way to pigeon class. “Moving those girls next to us was your first mistake.”

  “And what was my second mistake, and my third?” Constance asked.

  Norma was so surprised to be asked that it took her a minute to compose a list. Before she could recite it, Constance said, “The least you could do would be to keep Fleurette and Roxie in the tent at night.”

  “If they don’t sneak out while I’m putting the pigeons up for the night, they wait until I’m asleep,” Norma said. “I’m not in the habit of sleeping with one eye open.”

  “I noticed,” Constance said. Norma’s snores were legendary. No one slept as soundly as she did.

  “You’re going to have to punish Fleurette, and that Roxanna. I never did like that girl.” That Roxanna was the only way Norma ever said her name.

  “Oh, but she speaks so highly of you.”

  “There’s something out of kilter about her,” Norma persisted. “She can’t seem to make up her mind about where she comes from. Half the time she sounds like a southerner, but she claims to have grown up on Park Avenue.”