The Roswell Women

by Statham, Frances Patton

  "I don’t understand, Captain Ferrell. Are you trying to tell me that I am under arrest, like a common criminal? Surely there's some mistake."

  "I only wish it were, ma'am. I have a wagon waiting outside to take you to Marietta. You and your servant have fifteen minutes to gather any possessions you want to take with you."

  "This is ridiculous. I demand to see General Garrard to clear up this terrible misunderstanding."

  "There is no misunderstanding, I assure you. Your name is on Théophile Roche's ledger. The others in the mill village have already been gathered up and are on their way, at the direct insistence of General Garrard. Nothing you could say to him would cause him to make an exception to General Sherman's orders."

  "But why is he sending us to Marietta?"

  "You're going to be shipped north, over the lines."

  An unsmiling Allison picked up the baby basket from the pergola while the Union officer walked to the front of the house where the wagon and its driver waited.

  "Rebecca," Allison called out, rushing inside the house to find her servant.

  Mars Ferrell was true to his word. In fifteen minutes, he left the porch and walked into Rose Mallow to find Allison and to escort her to the army wagon.

  As the wagon pulled out of the long driveway, Allison turned and kept her eyes on Rose Mallow until it was no longer visible. With Rebecca at her side and Morrow in her arms, she realized the nightmare, that had started the previous month, had not stopped.

  The long , slow drive was far different from the one she had taken in June when the Reverend Pratt had sent his comfortable carriage for her. That day had been stormy and raining, with the wheels of the carriage bogged down in the muddy ruts of the road. Now there was no elegant carriage to cushion the jolts of the road or to shield the burning July sun from her face.

  But two things were the same. The people who had stood on the side of the road the day of the memorial service and watched her pass were also there today.

  She felt their curiosity now, even as she had felt their sympathy a month ago. And the same desolation overwhelmed her. "Oh, Coin," Allison whispered, barely moving her lips. "I'm glad you can't see what has befallen us."

  In bitterness, she remembered her conversation with Théophile Roche.

  "May le bon Dieu forgive me for what I have promised today."

  "May the good Lord bless you, instead, Mr. Roche. For you have just saved my life."

  "I hope you still feel that way a month from now. As for myself, I'm not so sure."

  Chapter 11

  While the frightened women from the three mills settled into the barracks of the institute and waited helplessly for the military authorities to arrange their rail passage, Harry Newman's report generated an incredulous response from the North.

  A new correspondent publishes a story, which, we trust, for the sake of the officer implicated, as well as our own good national name, may prove to be unfounded. It is to the effect that General Sherman, finding in Roswell, Georgia, four hundred factory girls, employed in a large cotton factory at that point, ordered the whole of the unfortunate creatures to be sent north of the Ohio.

  General Sherman has shown on two or three occasions that ability as a military commander is quite compatible with something not far removed from imbecility in respect to civil matters. He writes stupendously foolish orders on things political, and is evidently incapable of administering a village on practical principal.

  But it is hardly conceivable that an officer, wearing the United States commission of Major General, should so far have forgotten the commonest dictates of decency and humanity (Christian apart), as to drive four hundred penniless girls to seek a livelihood amid a strange and hostile people.

  We repeat our most earnest hope that further information may redeem the name of General Sherman and our own from the fightful disgrace which this story, as it comes to us, must inflict upon one or the other.(New York Commercial)

  At the Georgia Military Institute, the women were unaware of the furor churning on their account.

  In the heat of the crowded barracks near the Marietta train station, Madrigal sat by the cot where her friend Ellie lay. Each small freckle across Ellie's nose seemed magnified because of the ashen color of her skin.

  A worried Flood hovered nearby. "The wagon trip wasn't good for her, with all the jolts. I see she's bleedin' again, and that can't be a good sign."

  "I wish I knew what to do for her," Madrigal said. "It breaks my heart to see her like this."

  As the door to the barracks opened, Flood and Madrigal looked up. They saw Allison Forsyth, with the crying baby, and her servant, Rebecca, escorted through the door by the guard, who pointed toward the two vacant bunks. Then the door was locked again.

  "Well, just look who's come in, Flood," Madrigal said. "The lady of Rose Mallow, herself. Good evenin', Mrs. Forsyth."

  "Madrigal, be civil," Flood warned.

  Allison, burned by the hot sun, removed her bonnet and sat on the vacant bunk not far from Ellie's. She nodded to Madrigal and Flood, but said nothing. She was still an outsider and she felt it. The two short days working in the mill had not been sufficient to forge a bond with any of the women.

  Within a few minutes, Rebecca had draped Allison's cape to shield her from the curious eyes in the room. Soon, Morrow was nursing noisily at Allison's breast.

  Later, Allison lay on her cot with the baby finally asleep beside her. She still did not comprehend fully what had happened to her. But she knew she didn't belong in this room with the other women. It was apparent by the curious looks directed at her, the shutting out from the intimate little groups that had gathered around the room.

  Gazing at nothing in particular, she became aware of blood seeping through the counterpane on the cot next to hers. Quickly, she sat up and, forgetting that she was an outsider, she said, "Madrigal, what's wrong?"

  At first, Madrigal stared at her the way the other women had done. But then her worry compelled her to answer. "It's my friend, Ellie. She's hurt awful bad. And me and Flood don’t know what to do for her."

  "What happened?"

  "It was the soldiers, comin' into the village several nights ago, that did it. Ellie hasn't been the same since. She hasn't spoken a word, either. Just stares like a voodoo doll with a pin stuck in her."

  "We must get a doctor for her."

  A puzzled expression swept over Madrigal's face, as if questioning why Allison Forsyth would be concerned for one of them.

  "We tried, Mrs. Forsyth. There's not one anywhere near here."

  "Then we'll have to take care of her ourselves, or she might bleed to death." Allison reached into her bundle and pulled out a white cotton petticoat. "Quick, Madrigal, tear this into tiny strips for me."

  Madrigal needed no further prompting. Both she and Flood began to rip the petticoat into shreds while Allison gazed around the room. "Does anyone in the room have some Spanish moss?"

  No one spoke. Finally, a voice said, "Addie Wickes has a pillow stuffed with it."

  "Nobody's takin' my pillow from me. It came all the way from Darien, and I'm not partin' with it."

  "Give Mrs. Forsyth the pillow, Addie," Flood ordered.

  "Well, if you ruin it, you'll have to pay me for it."

  Allison ignored the woman's remark. She worked quickly, with Rebecca helping her, while Flood and Madrigal, unable to do anything else, held the cape a second time for privacy.

  Allison was no stranger in dealing with hemorrhage, for she had been afflicted with it immediately after Morrow was born. Within a few minutes, Allison had used the small strips and moss until the surgical packing was right. "Now, we need to prop your friend up, to make the blood clot. She mustn't be allowed to lie flat.

  "Someone, go to the door and inform the guard that we need more water."

  The women around Allison stared at her, not certain that what she was doing would be any help to Ellie. And they resented her using most of their supply of water.

>   Rebecca, keeping an eye on the baby, rushed over to the cot just in time to prevent her from rolling onto the floor. "I declare, she's gettin' strong," she said, "You see that? She turned right over and nearly fell off the cot."

  "Then I suppose we'll have to put her back in the basket, although I hate to do it," Allison said, realizing how little air was circulating in the hot room.

  "You won’t have to put her back in that hot basket, Mrs. Forsyth. I'll sit on the cot and watch her for a while." Allison looked up to see Flood standing by the cot. "It's the least I can do while you help poor Ellie."

  For the next hour, Allison attended to the sick young woman, changing the surgical packing when needed. She glanced up from time to time to make sure her child was all right. And she smiled when she saw that Flood was holding Morrow in her lap and fanning her while she talked to the baby.

  Later, when food for the women was brought, Ellie seemed better, so Rebecca and Allison returned to their own allotted space in the barracks while Madrigal stayed by Ellie's side, spoon-feeding her as if she were no older than Morrow.

  That night , in the darkness, the tears of the women began again. All around her, Allison heard weeping , but by that time she was too tired and numb to join in.

  Along a deserted road in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, a night rider galloped at full pace with only the moonlight to guide him. His saddlebag was filled with official Confederate dispatches intended for General Jubal Early's headquarters.

  The general had routed the Federals at Kernstown, and his cavalry was pursuing the retreating General Crook, who was headed for Williamsport on the Potomac.

  As the rider passed by a dark wooded area, his horse grew nervous, as if sensing danger within the woods. The rider lifted his head for a brief moment and peered at the trees, but the woods revealed nothing. He spurred his animal, which needed no further urging. The horse picked up speed, its hoofbeats pounding against the road in a lonely race with the wind.

  In the woods beyond, night sounds began to follow the progress of the rider—a whistle here, answered by a birdsong in the distance.

  Suddenly, a shot rang out, then another. The rider fell from his horse and landed with a thud upon the hard earth. The riderless horse continued its steady pace along the stretch of woods until another shot brought the animal down.

  Within seconds, a small band of Union soldiers emerged from the woods. "Get the saddlebag, Horace," a voice whispered.

  When that was done, the group took to the woods without looking back at the Confederate courier lying on the road with the pale moon shining down upon him.

  Later that night, one of General Crook's staff officers sat in his tent and, by lantern light, sorted out the mail from the contraband saddlebag. The general would be interested only in the official dispatches, not in the personal letters of the Confederates writing home. He had his orders to destroy those. Taking the personal letters, he threw them into the waste basket. Early the next morning, one of the men would come, as usual, to pick up the trash for burning.

  Soon after reveille, when the soldiers had eaten their breakfasts, Private Ledlie Grosvener walked toward the officer's tent. He was careful to touch nothing but the bucket set in the tent opening. Hoisting it onto his shoulder, he began to walk toward the barrels, which were already smoking with the morning's trash. Ledlie was always curious about the contents of the buckets he picked up from the officers' tents each morning, so this time he lazily perused each piece of paper before relegating it to the flames.

  "Looky here. Here's a letter from a Confederate captain to his wife. Just look at that fancy handwriting."

  He spoke to his friend, Zach Turner, who was standing a few feet away.

  "I didn't know you could read, dumbhead."

  "Better than you can, I betcha."

  "Well, then, why don't you just prove it and read that letter to me?"

  Ledlie scowled at Zach. "And how would you know whether I was readin' it or just makin' it up?"

  "That's easy, Ledlie. "If you start out by readin' 'I take my pen in hand,' then I know you're makin' it up."

  "And what's wrong with that? Both letters I wrote to my pa this year, I started that way. Everybody does."

  "Not those Johnny Reb officers. I hear they write fancy things, like their penmanship."

  "We'll just see how fancy." The soldier was irritated, and he tore open the letter as he backed away from the burning barrels.

  "My darling wife, " Ledlie read, " It is with a sense of extreme gratefulness that I am able to write you to let you know I am alive. "

  Zach looked at Ledlie. "Seems to me that ain't much different from 'I take my pen in hand.' Keep readin'."

  "You must have heard by now of the terrible battle in the wilderness, where the counterattack of the Federals killed many of our Army. If a picket had not brought a message for me, I would have been buried with my men.

  As it was, I was severely injured and lay unconscious in a woodsman's hut for ten days. When I came to, the wound in my leg kept me immobile.

  Any day now, I will go back to my regiment. They need officers so desperately. I count the months and days until I see my beloved family once more. Take care of Morrow. It is for these little ones that we are fighting so hard to save our land. Be strong and know that I love you more than words can tell.

  Your devoted husband, Coin Forsyth, Captain, C.S.A."

  When Ledlie finished, he said, "Well, guess that proves to you I can read 'bout anything."

  "You stumbled over a lot of words," Zach teased. Then grinning, he said, "But I guess you couldna made up the letter. Ain't your style."

  An officer walking by stopped when he saw the two soldiers seated on the ground. "Don't you have work to do, Private?" He gazed directly at Ledlie when he spoke.

  "Yes, sir. Right away." Ledlie hopped up, took the large waste bucket, and emptied it into the burning barrel. Flames licked at the name "Allison," and soon there was nothing left of the letter.

  At Marietta, the general in charge of arranging rail transportation as far as Nashville for the mill women was upset. In his headquarters at the rail yard, he glared at the man standing before him.

  "We've got one track to bring in all the supplies—forage for the horses and ammunition and medical supplies for the battle of Atlanta. My men are being picked off like flies by the Johnny Rebs, hiding behind the trees and dynamiting the rails and bridges. It's hostile territory all the way between Marietta and Nashville, and here I get this durn-fool order to stop the military supplies and use my rolling stock to transport a bunch of women."

  The general stopped as the sound of an engine whistle penetrated the yard. Then he continued with renewed fervor. "I've seen some mighty ridiculous orders in my day, but this one is the worst of the lot. No, Sergeant. You can go and tell your general that I'm running these trains, and I'm not about to take on four hundred and fifty women and squalling children. I have a war to fight. And a break in the rails at Snake Gap Tunnel that needs fixing."

  "General, you better look to see who personally signed these orders."

  The general picked up the orders. "My God, he can't mean it."

  "But he does, sir. And the sooner you start, the sooner you'll be rid of them."

  That night, the officer in charge of the Marietta station requisitioned the food supply listed in the orders—nine days of rations for each woman and child. And he began the mammoth task of allotting boxcars for the train to carry the women passengers as far north as Nashville. After that, they were General Webster's concern, not his.

  Chapter 12

  With guards surrounding the barracks to keep them from escaping, the women settled into another night of waiting. The cots were far too close together for the slight breeze to circulate. Already some of the women were ill with fever, and the close confinement had caused tempers to flare periodically.

  Allison lay awake, her face wet with perspiration. She longed to get up and walk onto the porch of Rose Mallo
w to seek some relief from the stifling heat, but that was impossible. They were all prisoners , with no control over what their fate might be.

  Each day had passed more slowly than the previous one until a week had gone by. But the passage of time, however slow, had brought an ever-growing hope to some of the women that Sherman might rescind his orders and allow them to return home.

  That prospect was on Madrigal O'Laney's mind as she lay awake in the dark.

  "Miss Allison?" she whispered. "Are you still awake?"

  "Yes, Madrigal. What is it?"

  "Fannie Morton heard someone talkin' about us tonight. It sounded like we might be moved from here soon. You think maybe they've changed their minds and might let us go back home?"

  "I doubt it, Madrigal. Especially now that our army is trying to retake Roswell."

  "Have you ever been north?" The young woman didn't sound afraid, merely curious.

  "Only as far as Virginia. Then I sailed from Savannah to Newport on the northeast coast one time."

  The hungry baby awoke and began to cry, ending the conversation.

  By morning, the women's hopes of returning to Roswell were crushed. After their scanty breakfast, the door to the barracks opened for a second time. A scowling Union officer demanded silence and attention from the women as he stood before them. Then, in a monotonous voice, he read from the paper in his hand.

  "Now hear this. In approximately one hour, you are to be ready to move out. Arrangements have finally been made for your transportation north. Take only what you can carry. Once you have been checked off the list for loading, you will be given nine days' food rations. You must not squander the food. It will have to last until after you cross the Ohio River into Indiana."

  The officer didn't wait to answer any questions. He left, and the door was locked behind him.

  "I want to go home," a child's voice cried. "Mama, I want to go home."

  "Hush, Maggie," Fannie Morton admonished her child.

  "This is all your fault, Madrigal O'Laney," a woman accused. "If you hadn't shot that soldier, we'd all be home now."