The Roswell Women

by Statham, Frances Patton

  "Yes,Ben. It feels good." And she began to cry in shame.

  The heat of the room now clothed the two bodies, wet with perspiration. Caleb teased her breast and laughed. "You can't tell me you didn't enjoy that too, redhead."

  Madrigal moved away from him and was silent. He may have had his way, but she wasn't through with him yet.

  She rolled over again and whispered, "I wanted you, Caleb. The minute I saw you today, I wanted you."

  He reached up and touched the burn on his cheek. "Well, if you were that sure, girl, why did you have to push the candle in my face?"

  "I'm sorry about that, Caleb. I really am. Come on, let's get up and let me show you how sorry I am. I'll fix you somethin' to eat. And some coffee would taste mighty good, too, don’t you think?"

  "I reckon so, but I can't stay much longer. Got to sneak into camp before that Captain Ferrell comes poking his nose around the tents."

  Madrigal reached out for her wrapper, put it on, and then leaned over toward Caleb. "I'll be downstairs when you're ready."

  While Caleb began putting on his uniform, Madrigal walked down the steps like a sleepwalker. Not lighting a candle, she groped her way to the cracker barrel in the kitchen to retrieve the gun.

  In the mill village, with its meandering trails connecting one house to the other, a frightened Ellie ran to Flood's house. She had heard the drunken soldiers.

  "Quick, Flood, let me in," Ellie called, knocking at the door.

  "What's wrong, Ellie?" Flood asked, opening the door to the frightened girl.

  "There're some soldiers comin' into the village. They're up to no good, I know."

  "Ellie, nobody's goin' to harm you. You're scared of your own shadow these days."

  "But I heard somebody cry out, Flood, down the road. It sounded like Alma. But I was too scared to go and see."

  "Well, stay here with me till you get over bein' so scared."

  "Thank you, Flood. I don’t know what I'd do without you."

  The large, heavyset woman listened to the noise along the road. And she, too, began to grow a little uneasy.

  "I think I'll just go and get out of these nightclothes, Ellie. I won’t be gone long."

  Lighting another candle, Flood moved from the living area into her bedroom. But instead of dressing in the calico dress she'd taken off an hour before, she pulled out her husband's clothes instead and put them on. It wouldn't hurt any, if the soldiers happened to come by. Better than having two females alone in the house.

  She had managed to twist her hair up and put it under her husband's cap when a knock sounded at the door. Quickly, she walked back to the living area where Ellie was standing, ready to flee at the sound.

  "Ellie, get in the bedroom."

  The young girl needed no prompting. She ran from the room while Flood went to stand by the closed door.

  Lowering her voice, she said, "Who's there?"

  "Private Maybry Elliot, on official army business. Will you please open the door?"

  Flood debated with herself, but in the end there was nothing to do but open the door. She had already heard what happened to Mr. Roche. And she knew there was some survey going on about the workers in the mills that had been burned down.

  She stood in the dim light with Maybry Elliot and his friend, Jed Riley, staring at her. But the clothes had done their work.

  "May we come in, sir," Maybry said, "to ask you a few questions concerning the mill?"

  Flood stood back to allow them to enter. Maybry pulled an official looking paper from his pocket and then began to question Flood. "You were a worker at the Ivy Woolen Mill?"

  'Yes."

  "Are there any other workers, besides you, here in this house? A wife or daughter, maybe?"

  "No one else livin' here," Flood answered curtly, recognizing the smell of whiskey about them.

  Ellie, overhearing the conversation, was relieved. She left the safety of the bedroom to return to the living area.

  "Good evenin', Miss Ellie," Maybry said, grinning as he recognized the young girl from the encounter that morning.

  "Good evenin'."

  At a nod from Maybry, Jed walked toward Flood. "Sit down, mister. In that chair yonder."

  Taken by surprise, an angry Flood saw the revolver pointed at her. "Why?"

  "Because we aim to have a little fun with your daughter here. And we don’t intend to be interrupted. Sit down, mister," he said again, this time in a harsher voice.

  "Ellie, run—"

  Flood's admonition came too late. Maybry had already grasped the girl's arm. "Now, don’t be scared, Miss Ellie," Maybry cautioned. "If you treat Jed and me right, no harm will come to your pa."

  Flood got up from the chair, but Jed said, "Sit down, mister, or else I'll knock you sidewinded."

  "Please, let us go," Ellie begged. "We haven't done any harm to you."

  Both Maybry and Jed ignored the pleading of the young girl. "You ready to go first, Maybry?" Jed asked.

  "Yeah. Since it was my idea, I think I deserve the first try. Come on, Miss Ellie. Let's find some place private where your pa won’t be causin' a stir."

  "W—what do you plan to do?" Ellie's voice was barely above a whisper.

  "Don’t you know, Miss Ellie? I'm plannin' to treat you right."

  "I—I want you to go, instead."

  Maybry laughed. "If we do, it won't be for a long while. Now, don't be scared of me, Miss Ellie. I'll be very gentle."

  "Flood!" Ellie's pathetic voice caused Flood to jump from her chair to go to her aid. But Jed took the revolver and hit her on the head, sending her reeling.

  "That's right. Sit back in the chair, mister. There's not one earthly thing you can do to stop our little bit of fun tonight."

  Flood felt the blood dripping from her head. She put her hand up and then, dazed, glanced at the redness on her hand. In a few minutes, Ellie's cry caused Flood to grit her teeth and she acted as if she were going to leave the chair. But Jed, watching her, said, "You want another blow, mister?"

  She sank down in the chair again and closed her eyes to fight back the tears. She waited, but no sounds came from the room beyond. Then, finally, Maybry appeared.

  "All right, Jed. It's your turn now. I'll take over the gun to keep Papa to his chair."

  "You were gone a mighty long time, Maybry. I just hope there's enough left for me."

  Twenty minutes later, the two soldiers left Flood's house. For a moment longer, Flood sat in the chair. Then, with a heaviness of heart, she began to walk slowly into the bedroom. "Ellie?" she called out. "Are you all right, Ellie?"

  At The Bricks, Madrigal O'Laney waited for Caleb to appear in the kitchen. As arrogantly as his drunkenness would allow him, he walked down the stairs and toward the table that had been set with two plates and two mugs.

  "You have it ready, Madri-gal?"

  "Yes, Caleb."

  She turned around and pointed the pistol at Caleb's heart. As the candle flickered, the gun fired.

  "You bitch," Caleb cried out for the second time that evening. He gazed at her in disbelief, but seeing her with the gun still aimed at him, he staggered toward the doorway while he held his side.

  For a long time after Caleb had left, Madrigal sat at the kitchen table with Ben's gun in her hand. The candle burned low and then went out. But Madrigal O'Laney didn't seem to notice.

  Chapter 10

  At Great Oaks, where General Kenner Garrard maintained his headquarters, there had been a flurry of activity since early morning. People of the town had come and gone to protest the ravaging of the mill village and The Bricks.

  In the dining room, now the personal office of the general, Garrard stood up and walked to the window to look out. His face was stern as he viewed the tents in all directions. At the knock on the door, he turned around.

  "Yes?"

  "Captain Ferrell reporting to you, General."

  Garrard looked at his secretary. "Send him in."

  "General," Mars said, saluting
his commander.

  "Sit down, Captain Ferrell." Garrard indicated the chair at the end of the dining-room table. "You corroborated the story?"

  "I'm afraid so, sir."

  "How many men were involved?"

  "There're all closemouthed, but as far as I can determine, about twelve, all from the same brigade. One man was shot rather badly by one of the young women. A Private Caleb Rabb. He was taken to the church by his friends. I haven't questioned him. The surgeon says he's too weak to talk since he's lost so much blood.

  "But there's no doubt who shot him—a Madrigal O'Laney who worked in the woolen mill. Shall I bring her in, General?"

  Garrard's eyes were piercing as he stared straight at his subordinate. "Ferrell, what would you do if a Confederate soldier broke into your house and raped your sister?"

  "Beg pardon, sir, but I'd kill the bastard."

  "Exactly. The private got what he deserved. So I see no need to arrest the young woman yet. Especially with the orders I've just received from General Sherman."

  Garrard did not elaborate. Instead, he sat and tapped the table with his thumb. Then he looked through the window again at the tents.

  "As much as I deplore their action, those twelve men are my soldiers, and I'm afraid if they stay in this town, their lives won't be worth Confederate scrip.

  "Ferrell, have that entire brigade moved back to Willeo Creek. Immediately."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And Ferrell, we're getting too many casualties for the church to hold. The Bricks will soon be empty. Direct the surgeon to be ready to move most of the heatstroke victims when I give the word."

  Once Mars Ferrell was gone, the general returned to Sherman's letter, which was in front of him. He didn't like the orders stated in it any more than he liked dealing with the aftermath of his own order for whiskey for the soldiers.

  In the Field, near Chattahoochee.

  General Garrard.

  GENERAL:

  I assure you, in spite of any little disappointment I may have expressed, I feel for you personally not only respect but affection, and wish for your unmeasured success and reputation, but I do wish to inspire all cavalry with my conviction that caution and prudence should be but a small element in their characters.

  I repeat my orders that you arrest all people, male and female, connected to those factories, no matter what the clamor, and let them foot it, under guard, to Marietta, whence I will send them by cars to the North….

  The poor women will make a howl. Let them take along their children and clothing, provided they have the means of hauling or you can spare them….

  In your next letter, give me as much information as you can as to the size and dimensions of the burned bridge….

  W.T. SHERMAN

  Major General, Commanding.

  By midmorning, Sherman's orders had been set in motion. Armed with the names of the mill workers, the soldiers began to round up the women and children, over four hundred of them.

  Madrigal, sitting by the bed in Flood's house, stared down at Ellie. She held her hand and continued talking to her, but Ellie made no response. She acted as if she were faraway—too far away for Madrigal's voice to reach her.

  "Poor Ellie. She's been like that ever since last night when I found her," Flood said. "I'd hoped seeing you might make some difference."

  Madrigal looked at Flood. "Is your head feelin' better, Flood?"

  "A little. And what about you, Madrigal?"

  "Oh, I'll be all right. I've had bad things happen to me before."

  "Rena Knox is spreadin' the rumor that you're to blame for all this. And some of the other women believe her. I just wanted you to know, Madrigal, that I don't think that at all."

  "Thank you, Flood."

  Still worried, Flood said, "You figure you'll get into any trouble for shootin' the soldier?"

  "I don't know. But it's too late to worry about it. And I'd do it again if it happened today." Madrigal stood up. "I have to get back to the apartment. Mr. Rowdybush said he'd send someone to fix my door. But I'll be back soon as I can."

  Madrigal left the village and began to walk back to The Bricks. But the events that occurred during the next hour kept her from returning to Flood's house.

  Deeming it too heartless to make the women and children walk the sixteen miles to Marietta in the intense heat, General Garrard requisitioned one hundred and ten springless army wagons and put one of his captains, Worth Goodfellow, in charge of rounding up the women.

  Down into the meandering roads of the mill village the wagons went, stopping at each house while the drivers and guards checked the names from a master list.

  A great wail ascended once the women realized what was happening. Just as Théophile Roche had been arrested for treason for running the mill, so were the women, whose only crime had been in taking the places of their husbands, fathers, and brothers, now fighting in the Confederate army.

  A crying Alma was torn from her aged grand-mother's arms and loaded onto a wagon. "Mama Lou," she screamed as the old woman stood, her own tears streaming down her face, seeing her granddaughter and the baby Robert for the last time in her life.

  The same scene was repeated over and over—young women torn from their families and loaded on the wagons with their few possessions tied up in a bundle, while the drivers and guards looked the other way and pretended they had no part in what was taking place.

  "Wait. Please wait," a woman begged. "I have to find my Caddie. I can't leave without my child."

  Flood, dressed in her brown calico dress, hurriedly bundled her few possessions, including her husband's clothes, and then lifted Ellie, also dressed in calico, with a counterpane wrapped around her, to carry out to the wagon.

  Up and down the mill village roads the wagons went, with the July sun bearing down on the women and children. As each wagon was filled, the vehicle took its place in the massive convoy for the trip to the Georgia Military Institute in Marietta, where the women were to be placed under guard until arrangements could be made to ship them north by rail.

  As he sat under the shade of one of the old trees at Great Oaks, a reporter from the New York Tribune, Harry Newman, was bored. He had been assigned to General Garrard's cavalry, and while they were engaged in battle he had written many stirring pieces for the civilians back home.

  Now, with the fighting at a near standstill, he had little to write about until the crossing of the Chattahoochee and the taking of Atlanta. His last piece had been a human-interest story about the men who had gathered ripe, juicy blackberries in the woods and thrown them into a boiling pot of water with sugar, cornstarch, and crackers to make a dessert fit for the gods.

  But as the army wagons began their trek out of the mill village and onto the main road, Harry realized that something unusual was happening. The air was filled with the cries of terrified women, of babies crying, and of old women trailing behind the wagons and weeping like Rachel for her lost children.

  "What's happening?" he asked one of the officers coming out of headquarters. "Why are these women being taken from the village?"

  "They're being arrested for treason."

  "What's their crime, Captain?"

  "They had the misfortune of working in the mills."

  Harry left headquarters and began to run in the direction of the village. He knew he had the news scoop that all reporters dream of but seldom get.

  He followed the progress of the wagons, saw the women and children being forced from their homes. Then he sat down at the entrance to the village, pulled his paper and pencil out of his pocket, and began to write:

  …Only think of it! Four hundred weeping and terrified Ellens, Susans, and Maggies transported in the seatless and springless army wagons, away from their lovers and brothers of the sunny South, and all this for the offense of weaving tent cloth and spinning stocking yarn.

  Newman continued to observe and to write. Seventy-two hours later, the village was empty and he had finished his story.

>   As he saw one of Garrard's aides climbing into a wagon, he called out, "Captain Ferrell, do you care to make a statement for the newpaper concerning the Roswell women?"

  "No."

  "But it's true, isn't it? They're going to be sent north by rail on express orders of General Sherman?"

  "That's correct. Newman. Now, if you will excuse me, I have my own orders to carry out."

  At Rose Mallow, an unsuspecting Allison sat in the shade of the pergola and rocked her baby to sleep. She had always loved the pergola with its scuppernong vines giving it shade. But now she loved it even more; for it was under the pergola that she had chosen to bury the silver frame holding the picture of her husband.

  The guard stationed at the entrance to her long driveway had made her feel relatively safe. But she had made a vow to herself to protect the portrait for her daughter. As soon as she heard from Araminta, she would dig it up again to take it with her to Savannah.

  She was no better off than she had been before her brief sojourn as a weaver in the mill. Her food supply was low. Even the blackberries, once so plenteous in the woods, had been stripped by the soldiers, leaving the Roswell residents with none for their own bowls. She had even dug up the smallest potatoes from the hill.

  "Miss Allison?"

  "Yes, Rebecca?"

  "That Captain Ferrell is here to see you again."

  "Send him here to the pergola, Rebecca."

  "Yes'm."

  Seeing him in full military uniform striding toward her, Allison stood. "Good afternoon, Captain."

  "Mrs. Forsyth, I'm afraid I have bad news for you." His face was severe, the lines between his eyes wrinkling against the sun.

  "Yes?"

  "You worked in the Roswell woolen mill with your servant, Rebecca, did you not?"

  Allison nodded. "But I'm afraid my career didn't last long, Captain. I worked for two days before the mill was burned down. Why do you ask? Are you making reparations for the lost salary?"

  "No. Merely ascertaining for myself that you were a worker in the mill, however short."

  "And how does this concern you, Captain?"

  "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to come with me. General Sherman has ordered that all mill workers are to be arrested for treason."