Though Waters Roar

by Lynn Austin

  “Isn’t this marvelous?” Bebe asked.

  To Lucy, it was anything but marvelous. The gawking spectators who lined the parade route were mostly men, in town for the next day’s presidential inauguration. They stared at her as she marched past, making her feel naked and exposed. It was one thing to dress up for a ball or to be on display for her husband’s important clients. It was quite another thing to parade down a public street with a picket sign, deliberately drawing attention to herself. It went against everything that Grandmother Garner had taught her. Proper young ladies did not allow themselves to be publicly conspicuous.

  In spite of Lucy’s self-consciousness, everything went well for the first few blocks. Then she sensed a change in the mood when one of the spectators shouted, “Go back to your kitchens, where you belong!” The other men rewarded him with cheers and laughter, and soon more men began to jeer and shout. The farther the women walked, the worse the taunting became. Lucy was shocked to hear cursing and foul language and filthy jokes. She forced herself not to cry.

  “Ignore them, Lucy,” Bebe told her. “It’s to their shame, not ours.”

  Lucy knew that her mother had sometimes endured public humiliation while holding vigils in front of saloons, but Lucy had never been treated this way in her life. Women were supposed to be revered and respected, not made to be the butt of jokes.

  Soon the men were no longer content to stand alongside the curb and shout rude comments. Hundreds of them surged into the street to try to halt the parade. When the men had managed to squeeze the procession down to a single file, Lucy dropped her sign on the ground and gripped her mother’s arm, terrified that they would become separated.

  “Keep moving forward, ladies,” Bebe shouted to encourage everyone. “We can’t let these brutes stop us.” Lucy held on tightly. She saw several policemen up ahead and breathed a sigh of relief, certain they would restore order. Instead, the policemen joined in the mockery, laughing at the crudest, most ribald jokes Lucy had ever heard. Bebe shouted above the noise, “Pay no attention to them, ladies. Keep marching.”

  The women’s perseverance seemed to anger the men. Lucy saw rough hands reaching out toward her, grabbing and shoving and groping. Someone stuck his foot in her path and she stumbled forward, nearly tripping. She lost her grip on her mother’s arm, and when she turned to find her, Lucy saw another woman trip and fall flat on the pavement. A second woman tripped over the first one, then others tumbled down on top of them. She heard Bebe shouting, “Stop! Help them up! They’re being trampled!”

  In spite of her tiny stature, Bebe managed to steer the parade around the fallen women, then she quickly took charge, helping the uninjured ones to their feet. But the women on the very bottom of the pile hadn’t fared so well. Several of them sat on the pavement moaning, bruised and bleeding. One woman cradled a broken arm, another a rapidly swelling ankle. The first woman to fall wasn’t moving at all.

  “Somebody call an ambulance,” Bebe shouted. “People are injured over here.” Lucy stood above her mother, wringing her hands. “Go on without me, dear,” Bebe told her. “I’m going to stay here until the ambulance comes.”

  “No. I don’t want to get separated.” Lucy backed away a few steps and watched as Bebe and a few other women tried to administer first aid. She felt faint and wished she had brought her smelling salts. The parade that continued to stream past them seemed absurd to her now. What good were decorated floats and marching bands when women sat huddled on the street, mocked and weeping and bleeding?

  “Where is the ambulance?” Bebe asked again and again. When it finally arrived, the driver was as enraged as the women were.

  “I would have been here sooner, but they wouldn’t let me through! I had to fight my way through all the spectators just to get here. I’m sorry, but I had to park about a block away.”

  “Come on,” Bebe said, “I’ll help you get these people to the ambulance.” Lucy followed her mother and the others, feeling nauseous. The taunting continued, even though it was obvious that the women were injured. Lucy battled tears. Women were supposed to be placed on a pedestal, admired as gentle creatures, the weaker sex. She wanted nothing more to do with this march. All she wanted to do was to go home and crawl into her bed and weep.

  Lucy never did reach the end of the parade route at the Treasury Building. She read about the inspiring pageant that she had missed in the newspaper the next day. One hundred women and children had presented an allegorical tableau on the steps of the building, dressed in flowing robes and colorful scarves to portray Justice, Charity, Liberty, Peace, and Hope. Trumpets had sounded and a dove of peace had been released. The New York Times called it “One of the most impressively beautiful spectacles ever staged in this country.” Meanwhile, Woodrow Wilson, the newly elected president, had arrived at the railway station expecting to see a huge crowd and had found only a handful of people. Everyone else was watching the suffrage parade.

  Lucy also learned that more than one hundred women had to be shuttled to the hospital by ambulance before the day ended. The chief of police had finally called the secretary of war, requesting that the cavalry be sent from Fort Myer to help control the crowd. They arrived too late to do Lucy’s dignity any good. After the last patient had been helped to a hospital, Bebe finally noticed Lucy sitting forlornly on the curb.

  “My poor dear,” she said, stroking her windblown hair from her face. “Where would you like to go? Shall we find the other marchers and see the end of the parade?”

  “I want to go home.”

  They walked the eight blocks to the train station. Lucy paid for two extra fares so they could have a compartment all to themselves. The tears she had bravely held back all day could finally flow.

  “I feel dirty and tattered and heckled and scorned. I’ve worked so hard for the suffrage movement, but it hasn’t done one bit of good. Those men will never accept us as equals.”

  “Why are you doing all of this, Lucy? Why did you want to go to the march today?”

  “Because I vowed to change and to become a better person. Alice is married now, and Harriet doesn’t need me, and . . . and I just felt so empty and worthless. I could barely get out of bed in the morning.”

  “Oh, Lucy, only God can fill the emptiness you feel. Why didn’t you turn to Him?”

  “Because I couldn’t! I needed to make it up to Him first, for the way I’ve lived all these years and for all of the shallow choices I’ve made. I felt so guilty for the way I treated Daniel. He died a hero, just like Daddy and his own father had, while I’ve done nothing worthwhile all of these years.”

  “Listen,” Bebe said as she pushed her own handkerchief into Lucy’s hand. “Harriet told me what Daniel’s pastor said at the funeral, and it sounds to me that Daniel’s faith was what motivated him. He didn’t just pull up his socks one morning and resolve to be a better person. God changed him from the inside out.”

  “I tried to change and do something meaningful for God, but I’m just so tired of it all. I didn’t feel like I was part of the parade today—I hated it!”

  “I think you may have gotten everything turned around, dear. You’re supposed to work with God, not for Him. Let Him change you first, and then He’ll give you the strength and motivation you need for each task.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do now?”

  “You need to stop all this work and go away by yourself for a while. Start talking to God. Let Him fill the emptiness in your life. Then, once you get to know Him, He’ll tell you what He wants you to accomplish next.”

  Lucy couldn’t seem to stop crying. “I’m so sorry for disappointing you. I’m sorry I can’t do all of the things you do.”

  “Oh, Lucy,” Bebe said, pulling her into her arms. “I don’t expect you to fight the same battles that I do. We’re two different people, just as my mother and I were two different people. God arranged the events in my life to give me a different task than the one He gave to Hannah, and He has a different plan for y
ou, too. Once you put God in the center of your life, I know He’s going to use you. And He’s going to use you just the way you are right now.”

  “But how can He? I’m so shallow and empty-headed and . . .

  and all I’ve ever cared about is socializing.”

  “Do you honestly believe that women should have the right to vote?”

  “Yes, but I hated marching and picketing and being heckled today. I would rather die than make a public spectacle of myself again. If God tells me that I have to do that all over again—”

  “God has never told anyone to grab a picket sign and march for woman suffrage. What He does tell us to do is to feed the hungry and help the oppressed and share His love with others. Women of faith could change the world if we were given half a chance.

  But what we’ve discovered is that we won’t get that chance until we’re treated as equals. The fight for suffrage is simply a means to a greater end.”

  Lucy blew her nose, then leaned her head against Bebe’s shoulder. She wondered how her mother had grown so wise.

  “God never asks you to be someone you’re not, Lucy. He asks you to use the talents you already have. You are in a perfect position to use your club friendships and the social connections you have to butter up our legislators and convince them to support suffrage. Have tea with politicians’ wives, get them to support our cause, too, so they’ll pressure their husbands. Hold dinners and other events to raise funds for candidates who do endorse suffrage. Your natural charm and social skills will get you through doors that are closed to me. And these are things that you love to do and are skilled at doing.”

  They were almost home. Lucy finally dried her tears and pulled herself together. “Will you promise me something, Mother?”

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “Promise me you won’t tell John what happened today. Or how useless I was.”

  Bebe hugged her tightly. “Your secret is safe with me, Lucy.”

  CHAPTER

  25

  Much to my surprise, Tommy O’Reilly returned to my cell with the necessary paper work to spring me from jail. I had been rescued. I stood outside on the front steps of the police station a few minutes later and inhaled deeply. Fresh air and freedom had never smelled so good.

  Tommy took my elbow and guided me forward. “Now that I’ve sprung you from jail, where would you like me to take you?”

  “I know the secret password to a little speakeasy down the block.”

  “Very funny, Harriet. How about if I take you home?”

  “Well, I suppose I should go home and prepare my Sunday school lesson for tomorrow. . . .”

  “Seriously? You mean you weren’t making that up about teaching Sunday school?”

  “I knew you didn’t believe a word I said.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Harriet.”

  “No? What exactly did you mean?” I stopped walking and stood with my arms crossed, feeling belligerent for some reason. Tommy halted, as well.

  “I meant that you’re so smart and modern. . . . Sunday school seems so . . . old-fashioned. Aren’t Sunday school teachers usually elderly women with snowy hair and whalebone corsets and high-button shoes?”

  I had to laugh, in spite of myself. “You’re describing the teachers I had when I was a girl. Look, I may be modern in some ways, but I’m old-fashioned in others. If you’re really going to keep me on a leash all weekend, then you’ll have to come to Sunday school with me tomorrow.”

  “Fine. So, should I take you home now? So you can prepare your lesson?”

  I remembered that I would have to face my father if I went home, and I shook my head. “No. I don’t want to go home. Take me to that café over there and buy me a cup of coffee.”

  I thought he would argue with me, but he didn’t. We walked across the street, and since Tommy was wearing his police uniform he was greeted with smiles and nods of respect as we entered the café. We took a seat in a booth. Tommy’s coffee was free. Our waitress batted her eyes at him and offered him a piece of blueberry pie to go with it. “It’s free, too, Officer O’Reilly. Just for you.” I don’t know why, but I had the urge to kick her in the shins.

  He gave her his finest smile. “No thanks, Sue. Just coffee tonight.”

  Once we had our coffee in front of us, Tommy picked up where he had left off. “Listen, Harriet, I’m sure your family must be very worried about you. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since I arrested you. Why don’t you at least call them and let them know you’re all right?”

  “Has anyone telephoned the police station looking for me?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Well, there you are.” He continued to stare at me, waiting, and I knew I owed him an explanation. “Look, I can’t call my grandmother. She joined the Women’s Christian Temperance Union and took the pledge not to drink alcohol before I was even born. After all the hard work she has done to get Prohibition passed . . . well, she’ll murder me. And then you’ll have to arrest her, too.”

  “I understand that. But what about your parents?”

  “My mother isn’t worried about me because she isn’t even home.”

  “Where is she?” He poured about a tablespoonful of sugar into his coffee and stirred it patiently.

  “Don’t you ever read the newspaper, Tommy? The U.S. House of Representatives passed a suffrage bill in January of 1918, and—”

  “I was over in France in 1918. I think I missed that piece of news.”

  “You fought in the war?” I asked in awe. He nodded. “Was it as bad as everyone said it was, with mustard gas and trenches and everything?” He nodded again. Who knew that Tommy O’Reilly’s life could be so interesting? I wanted to pursue this topic of conversation further, but Tommy was a relentless interrogator.

  “Let’s get back to your mother.”

  “I haven’t seen much of her since the bill passed and the momentum started building toward a suffrage amendment. And by the way, did you hear about the women who protested outside the White House all during the war? Wasn’t it ironic that President Wilson had you fighting for freedom and democracy halfway around the world while denying those same democratic freedoms to half of the population of America—its women? Did you hear how the suffragettes were eventually thrown into jail and force-fed with tubes shoved down their throats when they went on a hunger strike?”

  He held up his hand to stop me. “So is that where your mother is? In jail?”

  “Are you kidding? She wouldn’t be caught dead in jail. She prefers to work behind the scenes, throwing parties for political candidates—she’s great at throwing parties. Anyway, last year the suffrage bill passed in the Senate, too, but then it had to be ratified by two-thirds of the states. She has been hard at work, and now all we need is one more vote. My mother is in Tennessee right now, probably on her knees, praying for their legislature to ratify the amendment. If they vote to pass it, we’ll win. Women will finally have the right to vote.”

  “That’s a fascinating story, Harriet. So tell me, is your father in Tennessee, too?”

  His question caught me by surprise. “Huh? . . . No. No, he’s here in town. But I don’t want to involve him.”

  “You’re his daughter. I’m sure if you had called him last night, he would have come down and bailed you out of jail, wouldn’t he?”

  “Not unless I cried a gallon of tears. That’s what Alice and my mother used to do whenever Grandma Bebe got arrested, but I’m not the type to weep and beg. Why do you think women want the right to vote, Tommy? It’s so we can stand on our own two feet and be taken seriously. We’re tired of depending on a man to run to our rescue and bail us out whenever we’re in trouble.”

  Tommy bit his lip, staring at his coffee and frowning fiercely in what I guessed was a desperate struggle not to laugh. “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  I suddenly figured out the joke, and it was on me. My indignation vanished. “Oh. You’re a
man. And you just bailed me out of jail, didn’t you?”

  “It seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do.” His smile broke free, and I almost smiled in return. “But I didn’t think of it as rescuing you,” he quickly assured me. “If I’ve learned anything about you over the years, Harriet Sherwood, it’s that you can take care of yourself. I’m sure you would have managed just fine if you had to spend another night or two locked up. Even the trustee was a little frightened by you. But I know there has to be more to your story than what I can see on the surface.”

  “And so you’re going to follow me around like this until you crack the case? Our city is going to need a pretty big police force if they have to assign one cop for every person out on bail.”

  He looked down at his coffee. He was still stirring it relentlessly, causing a tiny typhoon in the cup. “I have a confession to make, Harriet. I don’t have to follow you all around. I trust you not to flee. I’m following you because I want to.”

  “Because you want to—what? Torment me? That’s what you always did best, you know. All through school, you were always pulling my pigtails or taunting me or bullying me.”

  “You know why I did all those things?” he asked. He looked up at me with a shy grin on his face. “Because I liked you.”

  “You’re joking. If you liked me, then tormenting me was a pretty stupid way to show it.”

  “I know. But I was a kid,” he said with a shrug. “What did I know about women? I liked you because you weren’t like all the other girls. You had guts. You were just a little bit of a thing—you still are. Yet you stood up to me like someone three times your size. I admired you for that. I still do. I just wish that you hadn’t . . . you know . . .”

  “Broken the law?”

  “That’s what we need to talk about. Tell me what’s going on. Convince me that you’re innocent.”

  “I’m not innocent. You caught me red-handed. . . . But there are innocent people involved. And as I told you last night, they’re the ones I’m trying to help. The really bad criminals are the ones who belong in jail. But if the people I’m protecting are arrested, then innocent children are going to go hungry.”