Though Waters Roar

by Lynn Austin

  “You were so courageous, Mama, hiding the slaves the way you did and helping them escape.”

  “I didn’t have any courage, Beatrice. I had God. Over the years, as I drew closer to Him and saw His faithfulness in my life over and over again, I learned to trust Him. But I learned it the hard way— by being tested. That’s why I urge you to turn to God. Ask Him to show you how He wants to use your marriage for His glory.”

  “But I’m miserable there. How can I possibly do any good?”

  “There are still many evils in the world, even though slavery has been abolished. And if Horatio can’t stop drinking, it sounds like he’s as much of a slave as those poor Negroes were. God wants us to fight evil and take part in His redemption. You always said you wanted to do something important with your life, remember? Maybe this is what God is asking you to do.”

  Bebe wasn’t so sure. She was still angry with Horatio, and she still couldn’t face the idea of going back to Roseton and living with him and his parents after overhearing their conversation. Yet she couldn’t deny what Mama was saying, either. She had long admired Hannah’s faith and her willingness to risk going to prison for what she believed.

  “How did you know what God wanted you to do, Mama?”

  “Have you been reading His Word, Beatrice? It’s the best way to get to know God and discover His will. And prayer, of course. I spent a lot of time praying. I did it all day long, while I worked. I still do. And see these weeds we’ve been attacking?” Hannah yanked out a dandelion and held it up. “They’ll take over this garden and choke out all of the good vegetables if we don’t get rid of them— every day. We can’t see His will clearly until we get rid of our anger and bitterness and all those other weeds that choke out His life. Give up your right to them.”

  “But Horatio broke my heart. How can I go back to him? I’m not even sure I love him anymore.”

  “Ask God to heal your broken heart. He can put the pieces back together the right way so you’ll be able to love your husband the way God does—forgiving him seventy times seven and wanting only the best for him. Ask God to give you Christ’s love for Horatio, not your own imperfect love.”

  Hannah stood and surveyed the row they had just tended. She offered Bebe a hand and pulled her to her feet. “I won’t lie and tell you it will be easy, Beatrice. If you want a fruitful life, it requires a lot of hard work, and daily attention—just like this garden does. But love is the most powerful force there is—Christ’s love and our love for one another. It has the power to change us and to save the whole world. It can surely save your husband.”

  Five days after Bebe arrived at the farm, Horatio drove into the barnyard in a new runabout. Bebe saw him through the kitchen window as she was cleaning strawberries to make jam. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. When he drew to a halt, her first impulse was to run upstairs and hide.

  “Mama, please! I’m not ready to talk to him yet. Send him away . . . or . . . or tell him I’m not here—”

  “He’s your husband, Beatrice. You belong with him.”

  “But I don’t want to hear what he has to say. I won’t believe a word of his lies anyway.”

  “You don’t have to believe him. But you do have to listen to him with an open heart and with God’s love.”

  “I’m not ready to forgive him. And his parents said such hateful things about me. How can I go back there and live with them?

  How can I forgive them?”

  “Do you deserve forgiveness? None of us do. But we need to forgive each other because God forgave us.”

  Horatio had walked around to the front of the house. He knocked on the door.

  “Go answer it, Beatrice.”

  “This is too hard! I can’t do it!”

  “That’s what you said during the war when you had to take over your brothers’ chores, remember? And do you remember what I told you then? We can do all things through Christ who strengthens us.”

  Horatio knocked again, louder.

  “Go on, Beatrice. I’ll be praying for you.”

  Bebe walked through the house, whispering a prayer for help. She drew a deep breath, then opened the door and looked up at her husband’s pale face. He still looked handsome to her with his hair the color of mown hay, and his copper-flecked mustache and beard. His eyes filled with tears.

  “I don’t blame you for leaving me, Beatrice. I know I lied to you. But I’m telling the truth when I say that I love you. Please forgive me. Please give me another chance.”

  Bebe couldn’t speak through the knot of tears in her throat. Horatio dropped to his knees.

  “Please . . . I can’t live without you. I don’t want to try. I’ll change, Beatrice, I can change, I know I can. Can’t we please start all over again?”

  Bebe longed to believe him. She prayed for the strength to believe him. Then she dropped to her knees, too, and took him in her arms, knowing that she needed forgiveness as much as he did.

  Grandma Bebe and I finished the pot of tea at the same time that she finished her story. “So you see, Harriet, I loved Horatio dearly, but liquor had a very tight grip on him at times. We had some wonderful years together when he was sober. But it drove me to my knees—and to the railroad stations to smash whiskey barrels—when he wasn’t. Living with him was like soaring on a swing—high in the air one day, feet dragging on the ground the next. But the Lord used the circumstances of my marriage to bring about something good for many, many people.”

  I stared at Grandma in disbelief. “Was that story supposed to make me eager to get married? I’m sorry, but I still say no thanks!”

  Grandma Bebe laughed. “You’ll have to fall in love in order to understand, Harriet. When you do, I promise you that everything I just told you will make perfect sense.”

  I was about to ask another question when the telephone rang. Grandma got up from the table and climbed onto a little stool to answer it. I had always admired Grandma for being among the first people in Roseton to purchase a telephone and to have electricity wired into her home. But the man who’d installed the telephone had hung it too high on the wall for Grandma to reach, insisting that all telephones needed to be hung at the standard height.

  “Poppycock!” Grandma had told him. He had ignored her protests and mounted it at the standard height, just the same.

  “Hello?” she said into the mouthpiece. “Yes, Lucy. Yes, Harriet is here. . . . Yes, I see . . . I’ll tell her, dear. . . . Good-bye.” She replaced the receiver and smiled at me as she stepped down from the stool. “Your mother is looking for you. You’re needed at home.”

  “Did she say why she wants me? She’s not going to make me go shopping with her, is she? Grandpa Horatio may have had nightmares about the war, but my recurring nightmare is of the time that Mother and Alice made me shop for that horrible dress with all the flounces and frills and furbelows. I don’t ever want to—” I stopped short, struck by a newer version of my nightmare. “Mother isn’t going to make me dress up in something horrible for The Wedding, is she?”

  “Well, you can’t go looking like that.”

  “Why not?” The century was only a few years old, but I’d already discarded my voluminous petticoats in favor of the modern, streamlined look and shorter hemlines. Mother thought I looked scandalous— even though my high-button shoes covered my ankles. “If Mother thinks I’m going to get all done up like a Gibson girl, she’s going to be sorely disappointed. I refuse to wear one of those enormous hats with all those ridiculous feathers. And I steadfastly refuse to wear a corset. Ever! Even if I do get a figure someday.”

  Grandma Bebe rested her hand on my arm. “Calm down, dear. Your mother didn’t say anything about shopping for hats or cor- sets. She would like you to come home and help Alice address her wedding invitations. She said you have lovely penmanship.”

  I moaned. “Do I have to? You were going to practice your temperance speech on me, remember?”

  “Next time, dear.”

  “And you didn’t f
inish telling your story. What about the right to vote? When did you join the suffragettes?”

  “That story can wait for another day.”

  “Can’t I please join the suffragettes with you?”

  Grandma shook her head. “Your parents said no, and I have to respect their wishes.”

  I huffed in frustration. “Please don’t make me go back to that crazy house.”

  “Stop being melodramatic, Harriet, and get going.” Grandma made sweeping motions as if trying to shoo me out the door with a broom.

  I dragged myself to my feet, sighing and making faces, hoping Grandma would feel sorry for me. Instead, she smiled and wiggled her fingers to wave good-bye. I got as far as the back door and turned around.

  “Are you sure I can’t stay a little longer? You never told me what happened to Horatio. Did he give up the bottle for good that time? You tell all of your stories in bits and pieces, Grandma, and you never finish any of them.”

  “Another day, Harriet,” she called as she walked from the kitchen to her dining room. “Go home.”

  I realized as I slouched down the street toward home that even though I was thirteen years old, I didn’t know what had become of my grandfather. I had never met him, nor had I ever visited his grave.

  In fact, I had no idea if Grandfather Horatio was dead or alive.

  CHAPTER

  14

  In the frantic weeks before Alice’s wedding, my mother’s greatest fear was that Grandma Bebe would get herself arrested again and cause a family scandal. Grandma did have a reputation in town, make no mistake about that. In fact, one of my more memorable fights with the school bully, Tommy O’Reilly, occurred when he started teasing me about her on the way home from school one day.

  “Harriet’s grandma is a jailbird!” he announced in a singsong voice, loud enough for all of the other kids to hear. His father was the town constable, so he had firsthand knowledge of every arrest in Roseton. I should have ignored him but I didn’t.

  “I dare you to cross the street and say that to my face!” I yelled in a very unladylike manner. Tommy shouted even louder.

  “Jailbird! Jailbird! Harriet’s grandma is a jailbird!”

  I sprinted across the street and tried to kick him in the shins, but he knew me well enough by then to sidestep my foot. He laughed and said, “You’re going to be a criminal just like her!”

  I took a swing at him and my fist smacked into his chin. He howled like a baby. “Ow! Ow! You broke my jaw! I’m telling my father to arrest you!”

  “Hit her back,” one of his friends advised.

  “Naw, let’s get out of here. Her whole family is crazy! You’ll be sorry someday, Harriet Sherwood!”

  I was sorry immediately. My hand hurt so badly I was certain I had broken a few bones. At least my parents never found out about the fight because it hadn’t taken place on school property, but my hand was sore for a week.

  I hated the fact that Tommy O’Reilly had been right: I did grow up to be a jailbird just like Grandma Bebe. This was only my first offense, but Grandma had been arrested several times, following in the footsteps of her heroine, Carrie Nation, who had a reputation for smashing up saloons with a hatchet. Carrie had an alcoholic husband, as well, but other than that she and my tiny grandmother were as different as night and day. Carrie stood nearly six feet tall and weighed at least one hundred eighty pounds, according to the policemen who were required to arrest her. I read one newspaper account where she described herself as “a bulldog, running along at the feet of Jesus, barking at what He doesn’t like.” She inspired Grandma’s temperance group to adopt some of her hatchet wielding tactics—giving my mother good cause to be worried.

  “Why not let me live at Grandma Bebe’s house until after the wedding is over?” I asked my mother. “She’ll stay out of trouble if I’m with her.”

  “What about school?”

  “I can walk to school from her house. It isn’t that much farther.” My plan had a dual purpose: It would keep me away from the wedding mania that had taken control of my house, and it would provide me with a new route to school that didn’t include crossing paths with Tommy O’Reilly—who might be seeking revenge for his aching jaw and injured dignity.

  My mother eventually agreed, and I packed a satchel. Deep inside I hoped that I would get to see my grandmother and her axe in action. That’s why I was thrilled when she got a phone call from one of her temperance friends on a Saturday night, and the two of them arranged a meeting. I was even more thrilled when Grandma let me come along with her.

  The saloon they had chosen was down by the river near the brickyard. Out of the dozen women who showed up, I was the youngest protester by about fifty years and the only one without gray hair. I craned my neck, trying to get a peek inside the “den of iniquity” while Grandma shouted to the saloon owner through the open door, asking for permission to come inside and pray. She didn’t seem surprised when he refused.

  “Never mind, ladies. Let’s all stand out here near the curb,” Grandma said. “Remember, we have strict orders from the police not to block the sidewalk or the doorway.”

  The women arranged themselves in a long row, and after some preliminary throat clearing we began singing hymns. Horses and wagons drove past us on the street, and laborers hurried by on the sidewalk, but nearly every man raised his hat in respect as he passed. After we’d sung two or three hymns and a small crowd had gathered, one of the ladies told the tearful story of how her son had fallen into the clutches of Demon Rum in a saloon just like this one. When she finished her sad tale, the prayer meeting began—and it lasted so long that I began wishing I had a whiskey barrel to sit on. Finally the prayers tapered off, and we ended the meeting with another hymn. I hoped that the hatchets would come out now and I would witness a little excitement, but the ladies simply wished each other a good night and went home. My first temperance meeting was a great disappointment.

  “I don’t see how praying and singing hymns is going to accom- plish anything,” I told Grandma when we returned to her house. “I didn’t see any drunks suddenly turning sober.”

  “Progress doesn’t happen overnight, Harriet. But if we close down the saloons one by one, the men will finally get out of that terrible atmosphere. A change of scene always worked very well for Horatio—especially when he took a vacation from the city altogether. I noticed the beneficial effects of good country air for the very first time when he came to fetch me from my father’s farm after I ran away. We ended up staying there with my parents for a week. . . .”

  “This week has flown by,” Horatio said as he and Bebe walked along the path from the barn to the river. “It’s so peaceful compared to the city. I feel different here.”

  He looked different to Bebe, too. The sun had bronzed his face during their long walks and burnished his hair. His hands no longer shook the way they had at first. “Why don’t we move here, Horatio? Maybe Franklin could help you find work in town.”

  “That’s tempting,” he said with a sigh. “Especially when I see how happy Franklin is. But I owe a debt of loyalty to my parents. My father worked hard to build up our family’s business, and I’m his only son.”

  “But you hate working at the tannery.”

  “I know. But I need to try again, for his sake. We need to go home, Beatrice. I think it will be better for both of us this time. And I’m going to keep my promise to build you a house of your own.”

  Bebe wanted to trust him, but she was still afraid. They walked until they reached the spot where the swing used to be, and as she looked up at the frayed rope she tried not to think of Horatio’s other broken promises. She listened in the afternoon stillness to the sound of the wind in the leaves and the murmur of the river.

  “Let’s build a small house,” she told him. “Just big enough for the two of us. I want to cook for you, and—”

  “You shouldn’t have to cook. I’ll hire servants.”

  “But I like to cook. I’ve missed being in the
kitchen. Besides, my biscuits are much better than the ones your cook makes.” She had hoped to make him smile, but he stood looking into the distance, his face somber. Bebe wondered what he was thinking. “Horatio?”

  He turned back to her, and his gaze was tender as he studied her face. He loved her. She had no doubt. “Let me hire just one servant then, my sweet Beatrice. I insist. So you won’t become overly tired.”

  She smiled up at him. “Very well. Just one.”

  “Things will be different this time,” he said as he drew her into his arms. “I promise.”

  They returned home to a reception that was as frigid as the first one had been. It reminded Bebe of the first winter morning every season when she would awaken to a coating of frost on the hardened ground and tree branches that were barren and brittle. She knew from her mother-in-law’s expression that Mrs. Garner hadn’t hoped for reconciliation. She didn’t speak a word to Bebe for three days.

  The first thing Bebe did was to throw out the whiskey bottle that Horatio kept in their bedroom. He handed over his key to the liquor cabinet in the drawing room and Bebe made sure it always remained locked.

  “I’ve cancelled my membership in the club downtown,” he told her. “I promise I’ll stay away from there.”

  Horatio rose early every morning and went to work with his father, even when his nightmares kept him awake much of the night. Father and son arrived home for dinner together in the evening, and Bebe could see their relationship begin to change. Their conversations flowed more easily and the men seemed much more relaxed at the table. Mrs. Garner remained cool and distant, but Bebe consoled herself with the thought that she and Horatio would be moving out soon. Whenever the family carriage wasn’t in use, Bebe borrowed it to search for a home of her own to purchase, unwilling to wait for a new one to be built.

  On a warm autumn afternoon three months after she and Horatio reconciled, Bebe found the perfect house. She met Horatio in the foyer the moment he returned from work that evening and told him about the house before he even had time to remove his hat.