Inside the mill, a nervous Allison worked at her loom, her concentration broken by the murmurings of the other workers as Madrigal came back down the aisle.
"I saw a soldier on horseback," the red-haired girl announced. "He watched the mill wheel turnin' for a while, and now he's disappeared."
"Get back to work, Madrigal," Flood said, motioning for her to return to her loom across the aisle from Allison. "We still have work to do."
"Don't you think I’d better go and tell Mr. Roche first about the man on horseback?"
"I'm sure he knows what's goin' on."
Reluctantly, Madrigal went back to her loom, but her head turned every few minutes toward the open door of the mill. The soldier on horseback did not reappear, so she eventually stopped watching the door.
Morrow began to cry and Allison tried to quiet her with a soothing voice. "Hush, baby. Don't cry now. Go back to sleep." She moved her foot and started to rock the basket.
"That's not goin' to help," Madrigal said with a frown. "She's probably wet."
Allison nodded. "Hungry, too."
"Well, I'm sure Flood won't mind if you change her and feed her a little early."
Madrigal's encouragement was all that Allison needed. "If Flood asks for me, please tell her I won't be long." Allison picked up the basket with the baby and hurried out of the mill to a cool spot under a tree facing the water.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize anyone was here." She gazed at the other woman, already seated and nursing her child who was a little older than Morrow.
"That's all right. Plenty of room for both of us. I'm Alma Brady and this here's my little boy, Robert, named for General Robert E. Lee. What's your baby's name?"
Allison hesitated only briefly. She looked down at the baby in her arms. Beads of perspiration lined the pink cherub mouth and the blonde wisps of her hair were matted together from the heat. For the sake of the baby, she could not afford to be modest. She needed to remain under the shade of the water oak.
"Her name is Morrow," she replied, sitting down. "And I'm Allison."
"Oh, I know who you are. Ellie told me. Looks like we're in the same fix. My husband, Henry, was killed at Snake Creek Gap, right below Dalton."
"Captain Forsyth was in Virginia."
The woman politely ignored the tears in Allison's eyes. "When this war's over, I'm goin' to take the fancy blue silk material I bought from my first mill money, have a dress made from it, then move to Atlanta. And if I'm lucky, I'll find a new papa for my little Robert." She stared down at Morrow, who was hungrily nursing. "You ought to do the same for your young'un."
A startled Allison looked up. "I'll never marry again, Alma. I loved Coin—Captain Forsyth too much."
"I loved my Henry, too. But when your man's dead and gone, you got to think of the livin'. That's what my mama always used to say. Well, I'd better get goin'. I've stayed out here 'bout as long as I can without gettin' in trouble with Flood."
Alma stood, rebuttoned the front of her dress, lifted the baby boy to her shoulder, and began to walk away, leaving the tree-shaded spot to Allison.
Once the child had been satisfied, Allison returned to the redbrick mill, where she took up her place again in front of the loom. She had worked only a few minutes when the whistle blew three short blasts.
"What's wrong, Flood?" a voice called out. "It's not near quittin' time."
The women looked toward the door. An unsmiling Théophile Roche stood beside Captain Ferrell.
"Evacuate the women and children, Mr. Roche. I have orders to destroy the mill."
"But, monsieur, did you not see the French flag flying overhead?"
"I did. But there's no Union flag flying beside it. You are manufacturing goods to be used by the Rebel forces. That is unlawful."
"How can it be unlawful, monsieur? I am not a Confederate. I am a citizen of France. If you burn down this mill, it will be against international law."
"I have my orders from General Garrard, Mr. Roche. Nothing you say can change those orders. See to your workers, if you don’t wish them harmed."
The women and children fled from the mill as the soldiers entered and began to rip the overhead shafts powered by the waterwheel. Standing helpless in groups on the hillside, they watched while the machinery they had worked on a few minutes before was dismantled, dragged outside, and relegated to the watery grave of Vickery Creek.
"Save the overhead beams, Corporal," Mars ordered. "We can use them later in rebuilding the bridge."
With that done, the mill was put to the torch. Flames licked at the structure, with a burnt offering of wool permeating the air with its acrid odor. Rebecca and Allison stood together, observing the destruction. "Let's go home, Rebecca," Allison urged.
Not looking back at the engulfing flames, the two, taking turns carrying Morrow, dejectedly retraced their route along the banks of Vickery Creek. They continued walking in complete silence until they reached the small orchard belonging to Rose Mallow.
Allison stopped, "Look, Rebecca. Someone has stripped the last apples from our trees."
But Rebecca was not looking at the trees. She was staring instead at a group of soldiers standing in the breezeway between the house and the summer kitchen. And while she watched, another soldier came into view carrying the utensils from the kitchen.
An irate Rebecca began to run toward the soldiers, shouting, "You put that stuff down. Ain't right for you to steal Miss Allison's things."
"No, Rebecca. Stop," Allison called out, afraid that some harm would come to the woman. But it was too late. The soldiers had already seen her.
Chapter 7
There were six of them. For a moment, the surprised soldiers stood like guilty schoolboys. But with Rebecca's steady progress resembling an angry hen scuttling to protect her brood, their mood changed. They no longer looked like schoolboys but men, hardened in battle, accustomed to taking what they wanted by force.
"Rebecca," Allison called again. "Stop."
Allison's sharp warning had little effect on the woman. She paused only long enough to glance at Allison and then continued toward the soldiers, who were filling their sack with confiscated goods.
Quickly, Allison placed the basket containing Morrow on the ground and then took the baby in her arms. She hurried to catch up with Rebecca before she reached the back steps of Rose Mallow; for she knew that the black woman lost all caution when she became angry.
"I'll deal with the men," Allison said. "Here, you see to the baby, Rebecca." Disguising her fear, Allison looked at the soldiers, her violet eyes studying one face and then another until she came to the one who looked the most uncomfortable at being caught stealing.
"Gentlemen, as you have already learned, I have few possessions. So I would appreciate your leaving quietly, without taking anything that belongs to Rose Mallow."
The boy with the guilty expression made as if to put back the stolen goods, but an ugly voice admonished him. "No, Robby boy. Drop the kitchen wares into the sack with the other things. We'll be needing them to cook with tonight."
"But Raynor, it's not quite right, is it, to steal from a woman?"
"Who said anything about stealing? This is a Rebel household. We're foraging, my boy, for what we need. Take the sack on to the wagon in front and don’t pay any attention to the woman."
The boy glanced apologetically at Allison. Then he picked up the sack and left the breezeway.
"Miss Allison!" Rebecca protested, moving forward with the baby in her arms.
"Stay where you are, black woman. Or I'll slit your gizzard with this here knife."
The look on the leader's face showed that it was no idle threat.
"Do as he says, Rebecca."
The two women remained motionless before the steps of the breezeway until they heard the wagon leave the front yard. Then, taking Morrow with her, Rebecca rushed up the back steps and into the house. But Allison, wanting to put off the sight of the ransacked house for as long as she could, slow
ly walked to the front entrance of Rose Mallow and sat down on the wisteria-vined steps.
She watched the dark smoke from the burning mill rise steadily over the treetops and spread its dark cloud beyond the town square. Not only had the Confederacy lost an important source of cloth, but the women had lost their livelihood, too. For Allison and Rebecca, it was even worse. It was not likely that Roche would pay them for the little work they had done. Now they had no hope of acquiring enough money to hire someone to take them all the way to Savannah. They would have to wait for Araminta to send a carriage.
"What are we going to do?" Allison asked aloud, with no one to hear her. Tugging at the collar of her calico dress because of the heat, she stood and went inside just as Rebecca was walking down the steps of the attic.
"Morrow and I made a tour of the house, but I guess you want to see for yourself what the soldiers took away. While you look, I'll go ahead and give the baby her bath and get her ready for bed. At least they didn't take away the cradle."
The long shadows of the evening spread along the length of the hallway. The tin washtub, used to catch the rain, had disappeared along with the fainting couch beyond the stairs. The crystal vase in the hall niche was gone, too, with the wilting flowers trampled on the floor.
"What about the trunk in the attic, Rebecca?"
The woman was silent.
"The silver? My grandmother's Spode?"
"They're all gone, Miss Allison."
She nodded her head and began to walk slowly into the front parlor. As she did so, Rebecca went to the kitchen with the baby. She knew her mistress would want to be alone.
The parlor mantel was bare. Allison's most prized possession, the wedding picture in its silver frame, was gone. "No," she cried out, responding for the first time to the pillage of her house. But somehow, she couldn't blame the soldiers—only herself. "Oh, Coin, please forgive me."
She knew she should have buried the picture in the orchard for safety. But she'd been selfish. She had wanted it where she could look at it each day. Now, because of her, Morrow would never know the joy of seeing her father's likeness.
As she had on the day of the memorial service, Allison remained in the parlor and grieved. She found no comfort in her sorrow. As much as she wanted to deny it, Allison knew that her own memory of Coin's face would diminish with time. So it was a double loss—for the child who had never seen her father and for the wife who had loved him dearly, but would never see him again.
That night, the sounds of an alien army celebrating its latest victory floated along the banks of the Chattahoochee. And the people in the occupied town of Roswell rested uneasily.
With the burning of the mill, there was no need for the two women at Rose Mallow to rise before dawn. Allison slept fitfully until Morrow demanded her morning feeding. Then she rose and dressed in the only dress that the soldiers had missed—the black one hanging out to air in the shade of the pergola. In its place hung the newly washed calico muslin she'd worn to the mill the day before.
As the sun crept past the old dial in the garden, a man on horseback rode up Roswell Road and turned into the long graveled drive that led to Rose Mallow. The man's military uniform was covered with dust, making its difficult to tell its color—blue or gray.
Allison stood on the porch and watched the rider approach. Her heart began to beat rapidly. There was something about the way the man sat his horse that reminded her of Coin. But, of course, that was impossible. Coin was dead and the town was occupied by the enemy. Seeing a sack slung over the horse, Allison called to Rebecca and fled into the house.
"Go to the door, Rebecca. And inform the soldier that he's too late. Everything of value in the house has already been confiscated." Even her pistol had been taken along with her bed pillow, so Allison was at the mercy of anyone who came.
She stood near the empty fireplace and looked out the long window that faced the porch. She watched the soldier dismount, remove the sack from his horse, and walk up the front steps.
Then came Rebecca's voice. "You're too late, soldier. There's nothin' left in this house for you to take. So you can just go back where you came from."
"My name is Captain Mars Ferrell. Please give my compliments to your mistress and inform her that I wish to see her on an important matter."
Rebecca eyed him suspiciously but did as she was told, leaving him to wait on the porch while she went into the parlor.
"You heard him, Miss Allison?"
"Yes."
"You want me to let him in?"
"I don’t have much choice, do I, Rebecca?"
"No'm."
"Then send him in."
The soldier paused in the parlor doorway. "Mistress Forsyth?"
"Yes?"
Allison slowly turned to face the Union officer. Her violet eyes revealed her pain; for her first impression had been correct. The man before her resembled her husband in stance and manner. He had the same boyish look on his face, the same color eyes. But the slight resemblance worked to the man's disadvantage; for he was alive and Coin was dead.
"Captain Mars Ferrell, at your service, ma'am."
Allison's voice was harsher than she intended. "I'm afraid I can't ask you to be seated, Captain. As you see, even my chairs have been taken by your men."
"My apologies. If it were possible, I would return them to you. But it's too late. However, I do have a few things in the sack that I would like you to examine. I was told by a Mistress Pratt that they might belong to you."
The soldier proceeded to remove the items one by one, laying them on the floor at Allison's feet—the long-handled spatula that had come from the kitchen, the lace veil to her wedding dress, a large serving spoon of her silverware, and the teapot and three cups of her Spode china. She viewed them all without emotion until she saw the familiar silver frame. Allison gave a cry and immediately stooped to retrieve the treasured picture.
With tears blurring her vision, she hugged the wedding picture and, for the first time, showed her gratitude. "Thank you, Captain Ferrell. You don't know how much this means to me to have the picture of my husband returned." Abruptly, she stood up, walked to the mantel, and put it in its place of honor. The sun, coming through the open window, picked up the gold in Allison's hair.
Mars Ferrell found himself unable to take his eyes from the woman. He had first seen her likeness in the wedding portrait the men were passing around the campfire the previous evening. There had been something vulnerable about her that had caused him to want to protect her from the ribald comments of the soldiers. By the light of the flames, she had seemed too beautiful to be real. Now, seeing her in person, he realized the picture had not flattered her. She was even more beautiful. And even more vulnerable.
For the first time, he became aware of the black dress. "Your husband is dead?" Mars inquired.
She turned from the mantelpiece. "Yes. He was killed in Virginia. That's why I'm so grateful to you, Captain Ferrell, for returning his picture to me."
"He should have seen to your well-being, madam. Sent you somewhere safe, out of reach of the war, instead of leaving you here at the mercy of any bushwhacker who happened to come along."
His comment caused a bitterness to her voice. "He thought I would be safe in my own home, Captain. The fault doesn't lie with him, only with—"Allison stopped. It would not do to offend the man who had taken the trouble to return her few possessions to her.
But the Union captain had no hesitation in completing her thoughts aloud. "Only with the foraging soldiers, I think you were going to say." He moved toward the hallway. "I beg your pardon, ma'am, but I have to get back to headquarters."
Allison followed him to the open front door and watched as he removed his horse's reins from the hitching post and mounted. "By the way, madam, a guard will be stationed at the road to prevent a recurrence of yesterday."
"Thank you, Captain."
She watched until the rider disappeared down the long, tree-lined drive. By the time Rebecca
reappeared, Allison was alone again.
"I suppose I should have invited him to have some blackberry leaf tea, Rebecca. Especially since he was nice enough to return the teapot and three of the cups."
"Miss Emma would turn over in her grave if she thought a Yankee was drinkin' out of one of her prize Spode teacups."
"But he was a gentleman, Rebecca. You could tell that by his manner."
"A Yankee gentleman, Miss Allison. That's the worst kind."
"Well, let's be grateful for the few things he was able to rescue. Why don’t you fix a pot of tea and we'll have it on the porch. Then, you can help me find a place to bury the wedding picture. I don’t want to risk losing it again."
"We're out of blackberry leaves," Rebecca said. "I'll have to gather some more to brew."
Allison nodded. "Do we still have some parched okra seeds?"
"Yes'm. That's the one thing they didn't take yesterday."
"Then, we'll have make-believe coffee, instead." A wistful Allison added, "When this war is over, Rebecca, I vow I'm going to have real coffee, with cream. And Morrow will have a bonnet of soft silk instead of woven cornshucks."
"And I'm gonna have real pearl buttons instead of these persimmon seeds," Rebecca added, looking down at her patched calico dress.
The two women stared at each other and laughed. "Things have to get better, don’t they?"
"I guess so. Seems they can't get much worse, Miss Allison."
Chapter 8
At The Bricks, Madrigal O'Laney finished eating her breakfast and watched the open door for Ellie. A large horsefly zoomed inside and Madrigal, taking her apron from the kitchen chair, began chasing the insect throughout the apartment.
"What're you doin', Madrigal?" a voice inquired.
"Oh, hello, Ellie. Come on in," she said. "I'll be ready to go just as soon as I chase this horsefly out the door."
"Won't do a bit of good," the tall, slender Ellie advised. "They're all over the place. Ten to every horse, I reckon. Flood says she's never seen so many horses, mules, and wagons. Or soldiers, either. They're spread all over Preacher Pratt's lawn and ruinin' his fields, too. Just like they ruined the mills."
The Roswell Women Page 5
