The Radical Element

by The Radical Element- 12 Stories of Daredevils, Debutantes

  As Pauline worked, Rose knit her fingers between strands of the draft horse’s mane, feeling as though she were moving in a dream. She’d forgotten the earthy smell of a horse and the feel of its hair beneath her palms, like coarse velvet. Something tugged in her chest. Whenever she had ridden Hurricane, she’d felt like the wind itself, free and unyielding.

  Pauline stepped on a wooden crate and climbed up behind her, sliding her hands firmly around Rose’s middle, squeezing her legs around the horse to keep them steady.

  “You’re sure about this?” Rose asked.

  Pauline nodded. “Are you?”

  Rose took a deep breath. Right after the accident, her mind had gone to a dark place, defeated and frustrated. It had been her father’s belief in her that had pulled her out of it, and the lessons she found in the Bible, reminding her that she couldn’t sit by and benefit from an unjust system. She’d tried so hard not to let Pauline down after the accident. To prove that she was still useful, that she recognized the risks Pauline was taking, and that she would always help where she could. Now, Pauline’s presence gave her all the strength she needed. Ever since that first day in the graveyard, saving the rabbit by chasing off those boys, they’d taken courage from each other.

  “I’m ready.” She picked up the reins. “Squeeze your heels into his side.”

  She felt a jolt as Pauline signaled the horse, and, with a snort, it took a step forward.

  Rose grinned. She and Pauline were a team again. She’d been so afraid after the accident that her missions were over, and that if anything went wrong for Pauline, she wouldn’t be able to protect her. But now she started to see a future where the two of them could work side by side to help the Union. Tears started running down her face.

  “Pauline —” she started, but couldn’t finish. She wanted to tell Pauline how much this meant to her. The horse, their mission, and most of all, Pauline herself. Pauline and she, they were more than coconspirators. They were more than Lord Firebrand. They’d be there for each other in hard times and in good times, no matter the danger, always trusting in each other’s strong heart.

  By the time they reached Milford, Rose’s spirits were soaring. The horse had obeyed their every command, almost as though he had sensed the importance of their mission. They spotted the inn as soon as they crossed the bridge, and guided the horse into a copse of maple trees tucked by the riverbank.

  “Give them this note and the silver paperweight,” Rose said, “or they might not believe you.”

  Rose handed Pauline the silver paperweight from her uncle’s library and a note she’d written while Pauline had fetched May. Pauline slid off the back of the horse and, after making certain no one was watching, ran around back. It was only a few moments before she came out with an elderly couple with pale but kind faces, the husband leaning on a cane, the wife with thinning white hair twisted in a knot.

  The woman’s forehead knit together as she looked between the note in her hand and Rose atop the horse, half hidden in the maple branches. She glanced at the road in the distance. “Your maid says Lord Firebrand sent you?” she asked in a low voice.

  Rose nodded.

  The elderly couple exchanged a cryptic look, and the man cleared his throat. “You’ve wasted your time. We’ve no association with such a criminal.”

  “Of course not,” Rose said. “But if you did, or if you knew someone who did, we have a message on his behalf. A certain military captain has been arrested, but we’ve brought the package he was supposed to deliver.”

  The old man looked keenly around the trees, as though expecting the Confederate army to burst out from behind the bushes. “This isn’t some game you girls are playing?”

  “It’s no game,” Rose promised. Her heart was pounding; she was risking just as much as the innkeepers. Pauline was risking far more.

  Pauline lifted the top layer of Rose’s skirt, revealing the maps hidden in Rose’s petticoats. The innkeeper’s eyes went wide as he unfastened one of the maps and unrolled it, eyes tracing the nautical courses. “Nancy, look!”

  The wife rested a hand on his shoulder, beaming. Quickly, she and Pauline unfastened the rest of the maps. Then the woman ran into the stable to fetch an old feed bag, which they stuffed the maps into. From high on the horse, Rose kept an eye on the nearby road.

  “You’ll get them to General McClellan?” Rose asked.

  “We will,” the man said. “By tomorrow, that Confederate shipment will be captured. Do me a favor and thank Lord Firebrand for his work. A wonder, that man is.” He lowered his voice. “Is he truly a British lord?”

  Rose and Pauline exchanged a look.

  “Ah . . . he certainly is,” said Pauline.

  The man chuckled to himself and carried the maps into the inn, but his wife lingered. She stroked the horse’s flank. “I have a feeling that the true thanks might be due elsewhere. After all, it isn’t an English lord I see before me now, nor a Union spy. It’s two girls.” She smiled kindly. “Whoever Lord Firebrand is, he’s fortunate to have you on his team. I daresay if I was in trouble, I’d turn to the two of you before any English rogues.”

  She winked, glanced at the road, and hurried back inside.

  They rode back to Drexel Hall in triumph and slipped into the stables. May helped Rose ease carefully off of the horse and into the wicker-lined seat of her chair.

  “So what do we do now?” Pauline asked as soon as May was gone.

  Rose leaned forward to stroke the horse. She couldn’t stop thinking about the young man who had trusted the two of them, the young man with such delectable eyes and an even more attractive spirit. Was he worth one more risk?

  She gave Pauline a sly smile. “How do you think Lord Firebrand would feel about a prison break?”

  Pauline cocked her head. “I thought we were out of nitroglycerin.”

  “I’m still in correspondence with that Italian chemist’s apprentice. He’s coming back to America next month for another round of lectures. . . .”

  Pauline’s eyes lit up. “In that case, I pity the prison guards holding Henry. I think Lord Firebrand just found his new mission.”

  Though the masked rebel known as Lord Firebrand is fictional, female spies during the Civil War were a matter of fact. Most notable was the Union spy and founder of the Underground Railroad, Harriet Tubman, as well as Union spy Elizabeth Van Lew and Confederate spies Antonia Ford and Belle Boyd. These women — especially if they were young, attractive, or of high society — used their position to gain valuable information from male officers, which they then might pass along to their connections by hiding notes in their elaborate hairstyles or hoopskirts.

  I love writing about brave girls who are often underestimated, like Rose and Pauline. I hope you like reading about them, too. And I hope you feel inspired by these women who fought for what they believed in, not on the battlefield but in the daily choices they made to risk their lives to build a better world.

  Special thanks to Dhonielle Clayton, Anna Henshaw, Daniel Pierce, Beth Revis, and Ryan Graudin for their thoughtful notes and expertise.

  I step onto the ridge of the roof of the First Presbyterian and open my parasol.

  Well, it isn’t exactly my parasol; I thieved it from my sister, Pearl. She carries a painted blue silk parasol all summer long so the sun won’t darken her skin — which is dumb as bricks, if you ask me, ’cause Tulsa is Indian Territory, half Creek and half Cherokee. Most of our neighbors got Indian blood and brown skin; it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But Pearl’s a priss. Always worried people might talk. That’s only one of the ways we’re different, Pearl and me.

  I just about live for making people talk.

  Right now, down there on the southeast corner of Fourth and Boston, there’s a whole crowd hollering up at me. They started gathering when I pushed open the shutters on the bell tower, and the crowd kept on growing as I stepped onto the ledge, flung myself onto the sharply pitched roof, and climbed up to the ridge.

  �
��What the heck are you doing, Ruby?” Fred yells.

  Fred’s got no imagination at all. What does he think I’m doing? I’m certainly not about to jump to my death. I swear, I don’t know what Louise sees in him.

  I can hear her down there, too. Louise Whitehill and I have been best friends since we were little, and I can just picture her, her dark eyes squinched up, hiding her face against Fred’s chest, scared to watch for fear I’m going to fall and break my fool neck.

  I take a tentative step forward. The church isn’t that tall. Not compared to the fancy Opera House or that new high school they’re building. But it’s tall enough that walking it makes my heart race and my head spin a little. It’s taller than our porch roof and a sight taller than the rail fence behind the schoolhouse. It will be the tallest thing I’ve ever walked.

  I take a deep breath. Miss Etta wouldn’t be scared. She’d be flashing that pretty red-lipped smile of hers. Last summer when Archer Brothers was in town, she crossed the high wire and didn’t wobble once. Did a perfect pirouette in the middle. I remember how the whole crowd watched, hushed, and held their breath, and then exploded in furious applause when she finished.

  If she can do that, surely I can do this.

  I take another step. Then another. Below me, my crowd hushes. By now somebody’s probably run to get Momma. And Uncle Jack. My skin shivers at that thought, but I daren’t look down. I’ve got to keep my eyes locked on the other end of the ridge. Above it, the sky is a stormy blue-gray just the color of Miss Etta’s eyes. To the east, storm clouds are gathering.

  A breeze flutters the hem of my second-best blue dress and tugs at the parasol. It’s probably making my hair go all askew, even after I sat so patient and let Pearl do those pretty braids around the crown of my head. She smiled all secretive and proud while she did it, and I know she thought I was finally taking an interest in some boy. But no boy can make me feel like this.

  I take another step. I hear the rattle of wagon wheels, the clip-clop of hooves, the thud of my own heartbeat. The crowd’s quiet, but I can feel their eyes on me. All those eyes. It feels magnificent.

  Up here, I am strong and brave and beautiful. Up here, no one can touch me.

  I am almost there. Just a few more steps. I imagine the applause when I reach the end. I imagine how tomorrow morning I’ll go down and meet the circus train at the depot and tell Miss Etta. She’ll be so proud. Proud enough to agree to my proposition, maybe.

  The wind blows a little harder. Too hard. It catches the parasol and lifts it, and, distracted, I hold on when I should let go. I lean too far and lose my balance. My right foot slips off the ridge, and I fall.

  I let go of the parasol and grab for the ridge with both hands, but I miss and start sliding down the roof, feetfirst, on my belly. Flailing, my fingernails clawing against the shingles, boots scrambling for purchase, I bump and skid down toward the drainpipe.

  The crowd is shouting, panicked. Louise screams. The sliding seems to last forever, scraping up my palms and snagging my skirt. Finally, toward the bottom of the roof, I catch myself. I hang there, my breath coming fast. My shoulder throbs.

  After a minute, I scuttle sideways like a crab, inching back toward the bell tower. When I get there, I rise to my feet, unsteady, both arms out for balance. I climb back to the window ledge and crawl inside, bloody and defeated. Not so untouchable after all, I guess.

  In the privacy of the bell tower, I take a slow inventory. My shoulder hurts like heck from how I caught myself, and my palms are all scratched up and bleeding. My skirt’s got two big jagged tears, and there’s another one in my right sleeve. My straight-as-a-pin hair has fallen out of Pearl’s pretty braids and hangs in clumps around my face. I’m pretty sure there’s a bruise already rising on my hip and a brush burn on my forearm. At least my petticoats stayed down; I don’t think I could bear the indignity of having shown everybody my knickers, too.

  Still, no point hiding in here. Louise is sure to come find me sooner or later. And accidents are part of the business, Miss Etta says. Long as you get back up, there’s no shame in it.

  There’s a smattering of applause when I walk out. Not nearly so much as there would’ve been if I hadn’t fallen, but enough that I smile and drop a curtsy for the crowd.

  Louise rushes up and hugs me fierce. She’s wearing her new pink hat with the flowers on it, but beneath it her brown cheeks are wet with tears and her full pink lips are trembling. Lord, she’s pretty. The prettiest girl in town if you ask me, with her glossy black hair and high cheekbones and big brown eyes.

  “You could have died!” she shrieks.

  “Well, I didn’t. I’m right here,” I say, a little bit thrilled at the reminder she still cares. She’s been awful preoccupied with Fred ever since he gave her that ring.

  “That was pretty brave,” Fred says. “For a girl.”

  “I’d like to see you try it,” I retort.

  Louise clings to him. “Don’t you dare.”

  I turn away. Louise used to cling to me almost like that. She’d look up at me with a smile like I hung the stars in the sky, and I’d daydream about leaning down and kissing her. Then she took up with Fred, and I realized she only wanted to kiss boys.

  While they canoodle, my eyes dart nervously through the crowd. There he is. Uncle Jack, storming toward me just like a big angry bull. Momma trails behind him, her shoulders hunched, making herself as small as possible.

  Louise extracts herself from Fred and grabs my hand. “You all right?” she asks. “That looked like it hurt.”

  I raise my chin. “Nothing but my pride.”

  She shakes her head, the flowers in her ridiculous hat bobbing, as she examines me with gentle fingers. “You’re a mess. Lord, look at your palms. You’re bleeding!”

  I barely get a chance to enjoy the attention before Uncle Jack is on me.

  “What were you thinking, making a spectacle of yourself like that?” He grabs my arm roughly, and I try to pull away but can’t. “Ruby Porter, are you wearing rouge? What do you think you are, an actress? A prostitute?”

  “A performer,” I correct him. Maybe the rouge was too much. I ordered it from a catalog because I couldn’t exactly buy some from Uncle Jack’s store. But I know Miss Etta wears it when she performs. Lipstick, too. It makes her lips look as red as fall apples.

  “You see all these people gawping at you? At your momma and me?” Uncle Jack roars, and Louise and Fred beat a hasty retreat. Louise has bandaged me up often enough to know what his temper’s like.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t kill yourself, Ruby! You could have broken your neck.” Momma jumps between us, patting my arms, her brown eyes full of worry. Like she hasn’t seen me broken before. Like most of my bruises haven’t come from the man at her side. Like all her tears and sorrys are worth a damn.

  Pearl sashays up behind them, torn blue silk and splintered steel ribs in her hands. “You stole my parasol! Ruby, someone could have thought that was me up there!”

  I look at her — not a molasses-colored curl out of place, not a speck of dust on her — and let out an unladylike snort. “Not likely.”

  “Oh, you think this is funny?” Uncle Jack’s big hands fist at his sides, and Pearl shrinks back. “What about you, Pearl? You think this is funny? We got us a pair of comedians here?”

  Pearl fidgets with her skirt, avoiding my eyes. “I think it’s scandalous, is what it is,” she says primly.

  My shoulders slump. Fact is, nobody in this town is going to stick up for me anymore. It was one thing when I was five, or eight, or eleven, or maybe even thirteen. But I’m seventeen now, and even Louise thinks it’s time for me to find a nice boy and settle down.

  That’s why I’ve got to get away. Soon, before I stop wanting things altogether. If I ever get that hangdog, faded look Momma’s got, like every bit of spark in her has gone out — well, then Uncle Jack will have won, and I just cannot bear that.

  Back home, he backhands me so hard, it sends me tumb
ling clear across my bedroom. My head knocks into the armoire, hard, and I see stars. Blood trickles down my forehead, warm and wet, but I wipe it away and scramble up. Long as you get back up, there’s no shame in it. Miss Etta was talking about falling, not being knocked down, but it’s sort of become my personal motto.

  Uncle Jack doesn’t like it. He’d rather I cower on the floor and cry.

  He hits me again, with a closed fist this time, right in the stomach. It knocks me breathless, and I fall to my knees.

  Stupid, I think, wiping away the tears pooling in my eyes, determined that he won’t see them. It is stupid, not brave, to keep getting up. To keep defying him. I should be an obedient, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth little priss like Pearl — or I should at least do a better job of pretending. I think of Momma’s words on the walk home. You’re seventeen now, Ruby, and you need to consider your reputation. What will people think?

  Folks thought I was marvelous, up there on the church roof. I know they did. For a minute, they forgot I was scrappy little Ruby Porter, and I was a star.

  Do you see Louise acting like that? Men don’t want a girl who sasses them and tries to walk fences. They want a girl who’s pretty and sweet and doesn’t make any trouble. They want a girl who acts like a girl.

  But Momma’s never seen Miss Etta. She’s more than just pretty. She’s the most beautiful woman in the world, and the bravest. She doesn’t bow down to anybody.

  Uncle Jack stands in the doorway, his breath coming fast, his face flushed beneath his reddish-brown whiskers. “You have a roof over your head and food to eat because of me, Ruby Porter. Because of my charity. I could’ve tossed you and your momma and your sister out on your ears when Ma died, but I didn’t. And this is how you repay me? Embarrassing me like that in front of the whole town?” Spittle flies from his mouth. “You might not care about our good name, but the rest of us do. If you can’t act respectable, then you won’t leave this house.”