Last week we were singing songs with the Germans across No Man’s Land, the area between the trenches. But this week we’re out to kill one another. It’s a crazy world! Don’t worry, though. The Allies are holding every inch of ground, and the Germans won’t get past the Marne River to capture Paris, which is what old General Ludendorff has in mind! Our commander, Brigadier-General Douglas MacArthur, is a young soldier, but every inch the commander that Ludendorff is! All the soldiers here have great faith in him!

More and more Americans are pouring in, but I have to hand it to the French soldiers and the British, for they’re good fighters. Right now, though, they’re exhausted after so many years in combat and welcome us Yanks with open arms!

I see it’s chow time — more hardtack and mutton, so will stop for now. Keep your letters, photos, and socks coming. 

Love to you all,

Mike

P.S. I knew you’d like Shawn — he’s a fine fellow.

When Laura stopped reading, she dropped the letter in her lap, tears stinging her eyes. If only her brother could come home from the horrors he described.

Here she was, in a beautiful home, and the biggest problem she faced was whether to go out with Joe or Shawn. A wave of despair washed over her. And poor Michael was being shelled and constantly surrounded by mud, blood, and death.

She held her hand over her eyes, wondering if Michael would approve of Miss Paul and her meetings. Yes, she thought. She was sure of it. Michael, just like Father, would applaud her suffragist activities.

Chapter Eleven

Monday morning, May 1, 1918, was to be an extra-special day for the suffragists. The morning dew sparkled on the tulips along the iron fence in front of the Women’s Headquarters at 14 Jackson Place, and the smell of cherry blossoms filled the air. Something else was in the air, too; a sense of excitement and exuberance swept through the women in the crowd. It was as if this rally were the last hurdle to jump before they reached the finish line.

Laura swelled with pride as she joined the ranks of women in Lafayette Square, where they gathered in front of the door of their cream-colored tiled mansion in anticipation of Alice Paul’s speech. Laura wished Cassie were here, but she had foolishly told her parents about the rally, and Dr. Whiting forbade his daughter to miss school. He even personally had chauffeured her to the steps of Jefferson High.

Laura’s excitement heightened as she observed the hall’s facade. A red, white, and blue banner was draped dramatically on one side of the door, while on the other was the purple, white, and gold banner, the tricolor of the Women’s Party.

When Miss Paul emerged, a loud cheer greeted her as the slight woman waved. Her voice carried throughout the hushed audience. "The pickets need everyone’s support," she exhorted. "This week will be grim, with prison staring us in the face again, but remember, we will gain more and more Americans' sympathy. Police Chief Bentley will find that if he arrests us, the climate is very different from when I went to prison last October!" She stopped to study her audience, then smiled. "I have deep faith in every one of you and want you to know your efforts are appreciated.

"Now," she said, adjusting her spectacles, "for our strategy. We will keep our same pattern, six pickets at the east gate and six pickets at the west gate. Again I must remind you that it will not be easy, and anyone that desires to drop out is free to do so with no censure whatsoever."

The women stirred restlessly, obviously with no intention of dropping out, eager only to begin their show of strength in front of the White House.

Miss Paul went on. "I’ve asked fifty of you to accompany me to the Senate today, to lobby for our amendment." She paused, searching the crowd in front of her, then, pointing a finger at a striking brunette, she called, "Miss Younger, please come forward."

A young woman in the audience modestly walked to a place by Miss Paul’s side. "I give you Miss Younger," Miss Paul said loudly. "The woman responsible for organizing our lobby efforts. Since she took over the Lobbying Committee, twenty-two senators have changed their minds about the suffragist amendment, and they, in turn, are persuading their fellow congressmen to vote the right way! Please, a round of applause for Miss Younger!"

The clapping sounded sharp and loud in the early-morning air. Miss Younger held her arms above her head, smiling broadly.

Miss Paul signaled for silence and continued. "Never give up hope. I leave you with the same words I spoke a year ago. If a creditor stands before a man’s house all day long, demanding payment of his bill, the man must either remove the creditor or pay the bill. Well, Mr. Wilson has tried to remove us and failed. It’s time now that he pay the bill. Our asking price is only the ballot!"

Laura felt a thrill shiver through her as the hurrahs went up from all sides. Although most of the women were young, their ages ranged all the way up to the eighties. Lavinia Dock, standing beside her, was sixty, and Mary Nolan, near Miss Paul, was seventy. The Reverend Olympia Brown was eighty-four. Despite their ages, they were young in spirit and leaders in the movement, serving prison terms and taking part in parades and rallies.

When Miss Paul left, most of the women disbanded, going to their jobs or back to their homes, while the twelve pickets that were to stand their hourly vigil marched proudly and slowly forward, a banner’s length apart. Four of them carried a lettered banner: HOW LONG MUST WOMEN WAIT FOR LIBERTY? Eight of them carried the purple, gold, and white colors. The suffragist colors fluttered brightly in the sunlight. Laura couldn’t wait to serve these faithful women who showed such courage and determination. How she longed to be one of them!

Giving the dignified banner carriers one last, admiring glance, Laura moved into the house.

She poured coffee into six mugs for the east gate pickets, and as she went outside with the steaming cups on a tray, the sun suddenly dipped behind dark clouds and the light blue sky changed to an overcast gray. Thunder rolled in the east, and a flash of lightning sparked across the clouds.She noticed that several boys had entered the square. Their belligerent attitude signaled trouble.

A few raindrops splattered her face, and realizing that the women wouldn’t want coffee in the rain, she retreated to get umbrellas from the supply room. She remembered that Refna Slocum, one of the pickets, had a history of colds, so Laura wanted to be certain she was kept as dry and comfortable as possible.

Back outside with umbrellas, she maneuvered her way through the mushrooming groups of young boys, clutching the six umbrellas tightly under her arm. Her heart hammered, for she didn’t much relish running the gauntlet of these sneering anti-suffragists.

Though the rain-splattered cobblestones were slick, she hurried toward the pickets at the White House gates. However, she slipped on one of the raised stones and went sprawling on all fours, hitting the sides of her face, the umbrellas flying before her. She touched her cheek and saw some blood on her fingers. Her cheeks burned fiery red from her humiliation, not from blood.

One young man pointed at her prostrate figure and hooted, "There’s a suffragist for you. Can’t even stand on her own two legs and she wants the right to vote! Boys, have you ever heard of anything so dumb?" He turned to his fellow hecklers and chortled, "She wouldn’t know what to do with the ballot if she got one… which she ain’t gonna!"

With their jeering laughter ringing in her ears, Laura rose painfully. There was no gallant Joe or Shawn in this mob to dash forward and help her to her feet. She brushed at her white blouse and gray skirt, but it was hopeless. The dirty rainwater had soiled her school outfit. Her hair, too, loosened from its clasp, tumbled down around her shoulders, and the loud catcalls unnerved her.

Stooping, she picked up the umbrellas with shaky hands. Very much aware of her disheveled appearance, she hurried past the smirking faces surrounding her, stumbling once. She kept her eyes resolutely fastened on the women holding the placards while the thought flickered through her head that these boys were her own age — between fourteen and sixteen. Young enough to be rowdies, yet old enough to know better. Where were the police? she wondered. No doubt, as so many times in the past, they were staying discreetly away. Chief Bentley didn’t want to do any favors for the pickets. If the public wanted to harass them that was too bad, but it was none of his affair.

One of the boys dashed up to Refna, tore the sign from her hands, and threw it to one of his companions, who commenced to rip it to pieces.

Laura, dropping all the umbrellas except one, rushed at the skinny, grimacing boy, swinging the black umbrella like a bat. "Stop it, you bully! Leave her alone!" she shouted.

"Catch me if you can," crowed the hoodlum, darting just beyond the range of the umbrella’s spiked top.

Dismissing him, she turned her attention to Refna, rushing to her side. "Are you all right?" she asked, opening the umbrella and holding it over the gaunt woman’s head.

Refna’s eyes gleamed with determination. "I’m fine. Just bring me another placard, Laura." Holding the umbrella high overhead, Refna stared straight ahead as her shoulders shifted slightly in her canvas coat. There were tiny white lines around her thin lips. Why, she’s afraid, thought Laura, afraid of these young hooligans! She wanted to cry for her, to take her place, not to let her suffer alone amidst the taunts and the pelting rain.

"Hurry, Laura," Refna said between chattering teeth.

"I wish I could take your place," Laura offered sympathetically.

Refna nodded, smiling briefly. "Run back and find a bigger sign. President Wilson goes to the Senate this morning, and we want him to be sure to see our message."

Laura nodded grimly. The president must realize that these women would continue to picket just as long as it took to obtain their demands. With her chin firm and her head high, she didn’t hear or see the hecklers as she went back to the mansion.

The next day at school, Mr. Blair noticed Laura’s skinned cheekbone but said nothing.

Laura, quiet and subdued, kept her eyes on her history book. The section on U. S. Grant’s presidency was boring, and she’d be glad when they came to Theodore Roosevelt. She much preferred recent history to what they were studying now.

"Laura, tell the class what mistakes U. S. Grant made during his presidency."

Oh, no, she groaned to herself, still staring at the blurred page before her. Why would he call on her, knowing that she was absent yesterday and hadn’t read the assignment?

"Laura?" His voice rose in irritation.

"I don’t know, sir," she answered evenly.

He sniffed and tapped his forefinger on his text. "I thought as much." Staring disdainfully at her for a few seconds, he finally said, "See me after class."

"Yes, sir," she mumbled. If he found out what she had done yesterday, there was no telling what he might do.

She rubbed her bruised cheek ruefully. He had certainly observed her appearance. It was all she could do this morning to keep her mother and Sarah from seeing the bruise, but the generous rouge she applied had hidden it from eyes that were busy with morning chores. However, she couldn’t hide it forever. Besides, she had no excuse for missing school, and her mother would never be dishonest and write a note for her.

After class her pounding heart proved justified when Mr. Blair pointed an accusing finger at her cheek. "Did you get that bruise at the suffragist rally yesterday?"

Her hand involuntarily flew to her cheekbone, too flabbergasted to reply.

"Oh, you needn’t look so surprised that I’ve discovered your secret. Dr. Whiting and I had an interesting chat yesterday when he told me that he wouldn’t allow Cassandra to attend the rally." He directed a thoughtful frown in her direction. "But you, Laura, being a headstrong, obstinate, unthinking young girl, decided you didn’t need to abide by the rules. So you played hooky from school and evidently were involved in a brawl while listening to that radical, Alice Paul."