"Don't pay any attention to Ellie. Sure, we'll bring you somethin', Angus. Maybe some fresh biscuits and ham."
"I'd be much obliged. But just to make sure I know it's you, give me some sign."
"Like what?"
"Can you whistle like a whippoorwill, Miss Madrigal?"
The red-haired young woman pursed her lips and made the soft, sweet sound of the bird. Almost immediately, the sound was repeated in the wooded area upriver.
Angus grinned. "That'll do fine," he said, and then disappeared in the direction of the bridge.
"Come on, Ellie. Let's get goin'."
"You're not really goin' to do it, are you, Madrigal?"
"What? Come back later? Who knows. Maybe I will. And maybe I won't."
Several miles west of Roswell, Captain Mars Ferrell of the Union army had just left General Garrard's tent to return to his own when two Federal scouts rode into camp. Seeing them, Mars hurried toward them to get the news.
"Were you successful, Corporal?" he asked one of the men.
"I think so, sir. There's a bridge crossing the river near a town called Roswell. It was still standing a few hours ago."
Ferrell nodded. "Come with me, Corporal. The general might want to question you, himself."
The soldier dismounted, turned his horse's reins over to the other scout, and followed the captain to General Garrard's tent. Within a few minutes, he was summoned inside.
The bearded general, large and imposing, sat at his campaign desk with the lantern light casting grotesque shadows on the canvas. He lit a cigar, blew the smoke upward, and then motioned for the corporal to come closer. "Captain Ferrell here tells me you found a bridge still intact, Corporal."
"Yes, sir. Or it was several hours ago. But those Johnny Rebs move pretty fast when they want to."
"Then we must move even faster to capture it." The general spread his map. "Show me just where the bridge is located, Corporal."
The young soldier gazed down at the military map and found the meandering Chattahoochee River. Then he pointed his finger at the small dot. "Here, sir. Right below this little town."
The general took his pen and circled the area. Then pushing the map aside, he said, "That's all, Corporal. You may go now."
As the scout left the tent, Garrard turned to Mars Ferrell. "Rouse the men, Captain. We'll move out in an hour. If we wait until morning, it might be too late."
A few minutes later, the tent held only one man—Kenner Garrard. He stared down at the open map with the two cities, Atlanta and Savannah, marked in red. Between the two cities lay the entire state, marked for destruction—its roads, its crops, its houses. Sherman had ordered that nothing be left standing that would feed or sustain the Confederacy, either military or civilian. Understanding what was ahead, Garrard folded the map and made ready to move out.
The retreating Confederate soldiers steadily crossed the Chattahoochee bridge with all the equipment they had been able to drag from the mountain. But their hearts were heavy. The general they had fought under for so long had been replaced by Hood. And the men who had been so proud to fight under Johnston felt betrayed, almost as if Jefferson Davis had asked Mr. Lincoln himself which general he'd rather fight against in the battle of Atlanta.
Angus Smithwick, looking for some sign of Perkins's men, was getting worried. He couldn't wait much longer. Straining his ears, he heard only the sound of a whippoorwill in the distance.
Madrigal stood alone in the fog where the sandy white road emerged from the woods. Holding the basket of food on her arm, she waited, but no birdsong returned her call. She pursed her lips again and this time whistled louder. Then a similar sound answered her.
She walked forward until a soldier suddenly appeared out of the mist before her.
"Gosh, Angus, you don’t have to scare a girl to death."
"I'm sorry, Miss Madrigal. But I wasn't expectin' you back this soon."
"I know I'm early, but I came to tell you that the Federal troops have been spotted headin' this way. Here, take the basket and get on across the bridge quick as you can."
"I can't leave yet. Perkins's men haven't showed up."
"They're not goin' to, Angus. They got captured."
"How do you know that?"
"A man came into the commissary less than half an hour ago. He told Mr. Rowdybush, the manager."
"Then, I'd better get on settin' fire to the bridge."
"I brought some people to help you, Angus. That is, if you want them to."
"Where are they?"
"Back in the woods a few hundred yards. I'll go and get them."
Quickly, Madrigal turned and disappeared, while Angus grabbed a ham biscuit from the basket and began to eat.
Through the fog the town people moved stealthily, with Flood, Ellie, and some of the children gathering small twigs and pieces of pine. Mr. Rowdybush carried a bucket filled with kerosene oil from the store. With Angus directing the women, they crept onto the bridge and placed the pine knots and the debris from the nearby woods into a pattern along the full stretch of the covered bridge. Coming up behind them, Angus and Mr. Rowdybush poured the kerosene oil over the wood and trailed the remainder down the sides, to soak the wooden trusses supporting the planked bridge.
Then Angus came back and stood beside Madrigal on the north approach. "Better get on home, ma'am. There's goin' to be an awful bonfire now. Wouldn't want you to get hurt. Especially after you've been so kind."
"You think I'd leave now, Angus? Just when the fun's beginnin'?"
Angus grinned. "Then, at least, take cover upriver. If there're any Yankees around, the fire and gunpowder's sure to draw them here."
"Well, good-bye, Angus. And take care of yourself."
Quickly looking to his left and then to his right, the young soldier leaned over and whispered, "You sure are pretty, Miss Madrigal."
She smiled and said in a saucy manner, "Would you like to kiss me good-bye, Angus?"
He needed no further urging. He touched her lips with his own, then turned and started running onto the bridge, while a smiling Madrigal watched him disappear.
"You gonna give me a kiss, too, Miss Madrigal?" a mocking voice called out from the dark.
Madrigal whirled to find the culprit who had witnessed her exchange with Angus. "You shut up, Puckka Knox. I'd rather kiss a spit frog than you."
Puckka hoisted himself from the truss and followed Madrigal. "You want me to tell Mr. Roche he's got a tart for a worker?" he threatened.
"That's not fair. And you know it."
"Well, then, give me a kiss 'cause I'm goin' off to fight, too."
"Your mama won't let you."
"She won't know till it's too late to stop me. Come on, Madrigal. One kiss and I'll keep your secret."
Madrigal didn't believe him, but she disguised her anger. With her voice as sweet as she could make it, she said, "All right, Puckka. You win. But let's get farther away, so nobody will see us."
The boy followed Madrigal into the wooded area. She stopped and turned around in an inviting manner. Puckka reached for her, pressing himself against her.
"Damn you, Madrigal. You didn't have to bite me." He wiped the blood from his mouth and said in a threatening voice, "I'll get even with you for this. I swear I will."
A satisfied Madrigal walked away and vanished into the crowd with the others. But Puckka, stung by Madrigal's contempt for him, raced across the bridge to join the soldiers on the other side.
Angus bored a hole in the middle of the bridge, then inserted the pipe filled with gunpowder. It was especially designed by the Feds for blowing up bridges, but now it was being used against them. Taking the slow-burning cigar lighter, Angus attached it to the piece of metal. He gave the signal for Mr. Rowdybush to set fire to his end of the bridge. Then he began to run for all he was worth to the other end of the bridge.
The fire from the bridge lit up the river, with the fog only partially blanketing the deed that had been done that night.
<
br /> At Rose Mallow, a tired Allison lifted her head from her pillow. The explosion had awakened her. Quickly, she got up, checked on the sleeping baby, and then put on her robe. By the time she reached the front porch, Rebecca was already there.
"The noise wake you, too, Miss Allison?" Rebecca asked.
"Yes. What do you think it was?"
"There's a fire down by the river, looks like."
"Then it must be the bridge."
The two women stood on the porch in silence while they watched the night sky light up with flames. The guns that had bombarded the land for weeks were strangely silent. But that fact gave Allison no comfort. The Federal troops were on the march now. Burning the bridge wouldn't stop them.
"Rebecca, I'd like for you to get your bedclothes and move into the bedroom next to Morrow and me."
"Yes, Miss Allison. I'll do that right away."
Rebecca left the porch and returned to her quarters, built on the side of the summer kitchen. A woman alone in a big house was extremely vulnerable to the bummers and looters that traveled in the ruts left by an invading army. Especially so, when that house was isolated from any near neighbors and the woman was as pretty as Captain Forsyth's widow.
Rebecca reached under the mattress and removed her knife. With the bedclothes in the basket and the knife rehidden in the pillowcase, Rebecca left her room to bed down in the main house.
"I'm moved now, Miss Allison," she said, returning to the porch via the hallway.
"Thank you, Rebecca. I'll rest easier knowing that you're in the next room."
"Wouldn't hurt none to put the cap'n's pistol by your side, too."
"I haven't fired it since…Coin was here on furlough. I'm not sure I remember how to use it."
"Then you'd better start practicin' in the orchard. I have a feelin' you might need it sooner than you think."
"Let's go back to bed, Rebecca. It's the dawn that will get here sooner than we think. Or want."
The two disappeared into the house while flames devoured the Chattahoochee bridge below, denying Garrard's troops an immediate access to Atlanta, the rail center of the South.
Chapter 6
In that area of river bottom land between Smyrna and Roswell, the hot July sun bore down on devastated farm yards. Carcasses of piglets, slaughtered needlessly, were spread out beside young laying chickens with their necks wrung. Fences had been pulled down, gardens trampled over, and in one yard a rosewood piano had been dragged from the house to serve as a trough to water the horses.
The Union army had already foraged the land, carting off what it wanted and then leaving behind nothing of value that the Rebels might use. Sherman's scorched-earth policy was apparent everywhere as General Kenner Garrard and his cavalry rode upstream to occupy the town of Roswell.
Captain Mars Ferrell rode at the general's side, his blue eyes taking in the rape of the land, his nose recording the stench that could not be denied. The hostile, accusing looks of the women and children standing by their burned-out houses caused Mars to keep his hand on his revolver in case he needed to defend his general from ambush.
At that moment, Mars had no sense of pride and honor as a Union officer. Foraging by an invading army was to be expected, but wanton destruction that left women and children hungry and homeless was not the reason he had joined the army. He thought of his own mother and sisters, safe at home with plenty to eat, clothes to wear, and adequate shelter. Then he remembered Vicksburg, and his cousin Emily and her two children, hiding in the caves and starving to death during the siege of that city.
The general's voice prompted him to return his thoughts to the military imperative before him. "Captain, make a note of these orders for my men," Garrard said. "They are not to burn down any private homes, or they will answer personally to me."
"Yes, General," a relieved Mars replied.
"And pass the word to the other officers. I want them to discourage the troops, as much as possible, from plundering and pillaging the countryside."
Mars nodded. He knew the first order would be much easier to implement than the second.
They rode at a steady pace beyond the few scattered remnants of civilization and burned-out ruins of a cotton mill on Sope Creek. The Confederate army had fallen back across the river, leaving a small band of Georgia Militia , made up of young boys and old men. They were no match for Garrard's troops. With only one man killed and a few wounded, the Union soldiers reached the banks of Willeo Creek, a few miles to the north of Roswell. There, they halted and made camp for the night.
In the town below, the hopes that a small manufacturing center would be bypassed had been crushed. And the people made plans for its imminent occupation by the enemy.
That night, Pheenie Peters, of the militia, rode to warn the people in the isolated areas away from the town square. It was his knock at the front door of Rose Mallow that awoke Rebecca. Armed with her knife, Rebecca crept down the hall and cautiously peered through the beveled glass by the front door.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" she called out, not recognizing the dim figure framed by moonlight.
"It's me, Pheenie Peters. Tell Miss Allison to hide anything she wants to keep. The Yankees are fixin' to occupy the town."
With that, Rebecca put down her knife and opened the door. She walked onto the porch and talked in low tones with Pheenie. Then, a few minutes later, she walked back into the house to wake up her mistress.
Anxious not to wake Morrow also, Rebecca tiptoed into Allison's bedroom and leaned over the bed. "Miss Allison," she whispered. "You need to get up." Her voice had no effect on the sleeping woman. "Miss Allison," she repeated, and this time touched her on her arm. Rebecca's action brought immediate results. Startled out of a sound sleep, Allison sat up and reached for the pistol hidden under her pillow.
"It's all right, Miss Allison. I didn't mean to startle you, but we've got work to do."
"What's wrong, Rebecca?"
"Pheenie Peters just came to tell us the Yankees will be here by mornin'. We got to hide what's left of your silver. The Spode, too, and anything else they might want to cart off."
A sleepy Allison put on her robe, followed Rebecca out of the bedroom, and lit a candle in the dining room. "You find some baskets, Rebecca, while I get the linen to wrap the china in."
By the dim light of the lone candle on the dining room table, the two women carefully packed the precious china and the few remaining pieces of silver.
As they worked, Rebecca began to talk to help them both stay awake.
"Pheenie said two of the Reverend Pratt's sons slipped into town earlier tonight. They wanted to make sure the family was all right. Then they helped them hide their valuables in the eaves of Great Oaks."
"It seems to me that would be one of the first places the soldiers would look."
"Not if they think they're already gone. The boys named the west side of the attic 'Macon' and the east side 'Augusta,' so their papa wouldn't be lyin', in case the Yankees ask him where his valuables are. He can look at them straight as an arrow and say they were sent on to Macon or Augusta for safekeepin'."
Allison looked at the pitifully small valuables on her own table. "Looks like we'll only need to say 'Jonesborough,' if it comes to that."
"But you've got your trunk with your beautiful weddin' dress and lace veil. I hear that a woman's clothes aren't even safe from them. We'll have to hide your blue silk dress, too."
"Yes. I would hate to lose it. I was saving the dress for the day Coin came home." Allison turned her head and became busy, wrapping another piece of china to put in the basket.
Soon they were finished, taking the few goods up the stairs and placing them under the eaves of Rose Mallow. With that chore done, the two women went back to bed to await the morning and the invaders.
Not all the citizens were as destitute as Allison Forsyth and the other widows whose husbands had fallen in battle. Dr. Pratt and his wife, a member of the King family, had chosen not to flee a
s so many others had done, but to remain at Great Oaks, the large, redbrick plantation house.
Situated in the heart of the town, Great Oaks was surrounded by oak-shaded lawns, thirty acres of tall, young corn, several acres of sorghum, and outbuildings holding bushels of wheat, cured hams, and other supplies for the winter ahead. Too green to be harvested or too bulky to be carted away, the crops, unlike the non-perishables hidden in the attic, remained in sight, vulnerable to the approaching army.
They came with the thunder of hoofbeats—the men dressed in regulation blue, their polished muskets, like their leather boots, catching the glint of the early morning sun.
Behind the cavalry came six thousand mules harnessed to a thousand springless wagons. Their progress was recorded in the deep, rutted roads that no longer resembled roads once the army had passed.
By midmorning, General Garrard, after allowing the Pratts to remain, set up headquarters at Great Oaks, while the cottage and school dormitory on the grounds housed Mars Ferrell and some of the other officers on Garrard's staff.
All morning, the air was filled with oaths, whistles, and shouts as orders were barked back and forth.
"Private, unhitch those mules and get them into the corral."
"Sergeant, take a squad of men across the street and remove the pews to make room for the wounded."
"Corporal, take two men with you and stand guard at the commissary to discourage the men from looting."
With the sound of pegs being hammered into the ground, a tented city for an occupying army began to take shape under the oaks as far as the eye could see. The noise was compounded by the hee-haws of mules, the creak of wagon wheels, and the sound of the church organ, wheezing its last, as the soldiers ripped it from the church along with the pews.
Within a few hours, the Union troops had turned the town into an army camp, complete with quartermaster stores for their provisions. With one enemy subdued, they now faced a new one, less visible but just as deadly—the harsh July sun.
Along Vickery Creek, the mill wheel turned, the spindles and looms made their usual noise, while the French flag drooped in the listless heat.
The Roswell Women Page 4
