Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
It is said that in all the world there is nothing so strong, so dutiful, or so binding as a daughter’s love for her father except, perhaps, that for her erring brother.
— ANONYMOUS
Mississippi, March 1834
“You what?”
“Don’t look at me like that, Angel. I had no option. My honor, Papa’s honor, is at stake.”
“Yes, I know. But a duel? At midnight tonight? How could you be so foolish?”
“Foolish, am I? Lowdry called Papa a… Well, I cannot repeat the word in your presence. But it was a bad word, and it was said in front of Papa’s new congregation.
And in front of my new… Well, no matter.
The fact is I had no choice but to agree to a duel.
Even you would have done as much had you been there. ”
“Oh, Julian.” Angel spread her hands nervously down her apron.
“You know as well as I do that Papa has been called many things, in many different places.” She gazed at her blond-haired, blue-eyed brother with a glance mixed with humor, though her heart was, for the moment, introspective.
“Remember the time we were stationed at that railroad town, and he invited all the Asian workers to our house?” She grinned.
“And then there were those times he spoke up for the Catholic Irish in his sermons.”
“There is nothing wrong with that.”
“But in the English and Protestant town of Wayside, Pennsylvania?”
“Prejudice is a very great evil.”
“Yes, I know,” replied the similarly blonde-haired and blue-eyed Angelia.
“But there are ways to go about changing a person’s mind—and ways that…
Well, there are methods that cause trouble.
I know Papa considers these things that he does to be a part of his work, his faith.
And I know that we’d long ago decided to turn the other cheek when we admitted we cannot change him, nor do we want to.
But really, even I think Papa has gone too far this time.
This is the South…the Deep South. Feelings run high here.
There is already criticism in the North for what these plantation owners are doing with their slaves, and yet slaves are a part of their economy.
Papa simply cannot go amongst these slaves against the plantation owners’ wishes.
I know he hopes for a quiet evening of Bible reading and perhaps the opportunity to preach to them of freedom—but he dare not do it—not without serious repercussions. ”
“Then you agree with these…these…”
“No, of course I do not.” She pulled a face.
“I find the practice of slavery repulsive—and those who condone it bigots. But hadn’t we discussed all this before we came here?
Hadn’t we decided to try to change the people gradually?
To plant seeds of doubt in their minds as to their activities. Perhaps to sow new ideas.”
Julian Honeywell, Angelia’s junior by a mere year and a half, frowned at her. “Well, it’s no use to lecture me about it now, dear sister. The deed is done. The time for the duel is set. If I don’t appear, I will be branded a coward.”
“Better a coward than dead.”
Julian flashed her a look she knew only too well. She had gone too far. With his chin raised and his blue eyes glaring down at her, he as good as challenged her. He would cease speaking to her altogether if she didn’t back down and apologize.
And if he didn’t talk to her—as he had done so many times in the past—where would she be? She didn’t even know where this duel was to take place.
After untying the apron from around her waist, Angelia knotted the material up in her hand, whereupon she began wringing it within her grasp. “Please understand. I’m sure your honor is important, and perhaps it is better to be dead than to be labeled a coward. But—”
An explosion of shattering glass abruptly ended their argument as a rock flew in through the window.
Angel gasped. “What in the world?”
Carefully, both she and Julian tiptoed to the rock, which had landed on the threadbare rug. Attached to it was a note that read, Get out of town now, or pay the consequences.
Not again. Were they to be run out of yet another parish?
A shadow stirred on the lawn in front of their house, and glancing through the broken window, Angelia beheld a sight she had hoped she would never see—a burning effigy, the likeness that of her minister father.
Grabbing hold of Julian’s hand, she asked, “Where is Papa now? What has he been doing? And don’t tell me he went to the plantations. Please tell me he has not been preaching freedom to the slaves.”
Julian gave her a wide-eyed stare. “I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That’s exactly where he is, what he’s been doing.”
“Oh, Julian, no. How could he? Doesn’t he know that—?”
Crash!
Another flying rock careened into their living room.
“What now? Isn’t one threat enough?”
Crash!
In flew another object, this one slightly less objectionable, being no more than a stalk of corn, followed by a tomato, a head of lettuce, another tomato.
“What is going on here? Is the entire town assembled on our lawn?” She peeked out through the shattered glass.
“Julian,” she gasped. “Come look. Who is that fellow those men are chasing? There, off in the distance. He looks to be running for his life. It looks like…like… No, it cannot be.” She grabbed hold of her brother’s hand.
Julian brushed her away as he crossed the room. Two quick strides were all it took to carry him to the gun rack, where he picked up a rifle and a pistol, the weapons already primed.
“Dear Lord! It’s Papa!”
“I know. I see it. Go out back!”
“I can’t. I need to go to Papa.”
“Go out back. Now! Hitch up the wagon. We’ll make a run for it and catch up to Papa. He’ll have to take care of himself until then.”
“But…but…we might be too late.”
Julian paused. “If we show ourselves on our front lawn now, we’ll suffer the same fate as he.
You know that.” Julian must have seen her face fall, for his next words were more comforting.
“Come now. He’ll be all right. He’s a fast runner—look at all the experience he’s had doing it.
We’ll meet up with him on the outskirts of town. ”
“But—”
“Go! Now!”
“Oh, of all the ridiculous…” she muttered as she grabbed hold of her hat, stomping toward their parish’s back entrance. “Must we always leave a town in a hurry? What a life. One would think that a minister’s daughter would have more sense than to…”
The rest was lost to the wind as the door gave way, and Angelia Honeywell hurried toward their buggy.
Luckily the barn was only a few steps from the house, and she was able to quickly round up and hitch the two horses to the wagon.
She had no more than snapped the harness into place when the gunshots started.
Angel drew a deep breath, glanced skyward, the action seeking divine explanation, and then, lifting her skirts, hurried back inside the house, where she found her brother kneeling next to the window, trading shots with a mob of people outside.
Hurrying to the gun rack, Angel picked up two pistols that had been carefully mounted there, checked their priming and settled herself next to her brother, leaning forward to take aim and shoot.
The fact that she accomplished this with an attitude as though this were as familiar to her as a Sunday sermon was perhaps telling.
“Did you hitch up the horses to the wagon?” asked Julian.
“Yes.”
“All right. On the count of three, we’ll both take aim, shoot and run. Ready?”
“Yes.”
“One, two. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Three!”
Both sister and brother jumped up, took aim, shot their pistols and ran.
One shot from outside came a little too close as she fled, causing Angel to complain, “My hat!”
“Forget your hat.”
“Oh! I will not,” she muttered. “I vow, I’ve lost more hats in these escapes of ours than I care to think about. And I so liked this one.”
“Forget it.”
“Not this time.” She swooped up the hat from the floor as both she and Julian ran out the door, where they commenced to jump aboard the waiting wagon.
Without pause, Julian picked up the reins and yelled, “Yah!” With a quick jerk, they were away.
Reaching up to take hold of her headgear as the wagon bumped over the uneven ground, Angel glanced back once. She watched as the townspeople realized she and Julian were escaping and began to chase them, several of the men there taking parting shots at them.
Angelia ducked a carefully aimed blast.
“Here.” Julian shoved a rifle at her. “Use it.”
Grasping the weapon into her hands, Angelia might have been handling something as conventional as a tea set, her expertise was such. Spinning around and bending down so she could use the buggy’s seat to steady her hands, she took aim and shot into the air.
A discharge from the one of the townsfolk’s rifles whizzed by her.
“Damn,” Julian muttered.
“Goodness gracious!” she said. “That shot was close. You don’t suppose they’re really aiming to hurt us? That’s never happened before. Usually the people in the parish just fire into the air in warning, much like I did.”
“Don’t fire into the air this time. You’re our only defense right now.”
“Come now. You know that I can’t purposely aim at them. What if I were to hurt someone?” She dropped her glance to Julian, and what she saw made her gasp. “You’ve been hit. Dear Lord, are you badly hurt?”
“It’s just a scratch.” He winced when she touched the injury.
“A scratch? You have a bullet lodged in there, and that’s going to require attention.
” She took a good look at her brother, who sat beside her stiff and white-faced.
“Why are they shooting at us?” She returned her attention to the task at hand and took aim with the rifle. “We haven’t done anything, have we?”
Another bullet flew by them, and she fired.
In response, there in the distance, a man fell.
A man fell?
What? Had she done that? Surely not.
Not in all her earlier escapades had she ever hit or maimed another human being. She shot to warn only.