Their auras were ever present in the darkness of the boxcar. Madrigal, with her fidgety and impulsive behavior; Flood, with her quiet, calm strength, soothing and familiar; Addie Wickes and Rena Knox, carved from a darker hue, breathing with a vehemence that often wounded. And dear, quiet Alma, so accepting of life's harshest measures. But it was Rebecca Smiley who had been the greatest source of comfort to Allison. As always, she was both rose and thorn, offering Allison that strange combination of friendship and servitude, with Rebecca herself choosing the time when she would be one or the other—mentor or servant.
The women sat in the boxcar, listening to the approach of the other train. The wooden boxcar rattled as the powerful engine passed by. But then, voices were heard again, and the train carrying the women made no effort to pull out. Soon, Allison heard the door sliding open.
"All right. Out you come," Alonzo Puckett said, once the brief light of the late afternoon was visible.
They needed no urging. With an agility acquired in the past few days, the women jumped onto the ground.
A puzzled Allison looked around her. Wondering at first if they had stopped for the night, she quickly decided there must be another reason, for there was no visible shelter for them, unless they were to remain in the boxcars. But that possibility was much too cruel to contemplate.
The countryside seemed desolate, with only a rough, wooded sentry house built along the periphery of the tracks. A few curious guards in blue left their posts and walked closer to stare openly at the women streaming out of the cars.
On the rise above the sentry house, in a small grove of trees, Allison saw Stagg's fine leather-trimmed carriage with two chestnut horses resting in the shade. And slightly beyond the trees, the three empty wagons, with their drivers tending to the teams of mules. The blonde-haired woman took a few steps forward to get a better view, but Alonzo Puckett admonished her. "You're not to get out of line, ma'am. We got to wait for Mr. Stagg."
"Who's he?" Madrigal asked.
"You'll find out soon enough."
"Well, pardon me for askin'." Her sarcasm was lost on the soldier.
While the women watched, the man, Marcus Stagg, approached the train. He was rotund, with a plaid vest partially obscuring the mound of flesh that shook as he walked. Muttonchop side whiskers framed his round face, giving him the appearance of an old gray lion.
But the resemblance stopped there. His walk was not that of a jungle cat, lean and sinuous, but rather a waddle on thin, stovepipe legs that seemed much too small to carry the bulk of his upper body.
Seeing him in all his sartorial splendor, with the gold chain of his watch fob stretched across his enormous stomach, Madrigal whistled and said, "Just look at the prick-me-dainty comin' toward us."
"Madrigal, watch your language, girl. He must be some important person. And it wouldn't do to rouse his ire."
Madrigal glared at Flood and then returned her attention to the man disappearing toward the front of the train.
Marcus Stagg stopped at the first boxcar, made a brief perusal of the women, and, evidently not liking what he saw, walked on to the next. Narrowing his eyes, he began to point, first to one woman and then another.
"Step over here, please," the guard called out to each one so selected. A brief murmur rose in the group, as the women were slow to respond. And fear gripped the women around Allison. They had dreamed of being rescued by their own soldiers. But this was different.
"You notice he's only pickin' out the strongest?" Rebecca whispered.
"And the ones without children," Madrigal added, moving closer to Flood.
"I don't like it," Flood said. "Don't like it one bit. There's something shady about that man."
"I saw a man like him in Savannah once. At a slave auction," Allison said. Suddenly realizing the effect her words had on Rebecca, she quickly assured her, "Don't worry, Rebecca. I won't let him take you from me. Here, hold Morrow."
Allison took the shawl from around her shoulders, wrapped the baby in it, and handed Morrow to the black woman.
Realizing what Allison intended, Rebecca said,"No man's gonna think this is my baby, Miss Allison."
"He might if you keep her covered up and her face turned away from him."
"But what about you?"
"We can all pretend to be sick, or something," Madrigal said. "He wouldn't want to choose anybody sick with the fever."
Marcus Stagg continued to edge his way past each boxcar, pointing to certain women and then moving on, as if he knew exactly what he was looking for. Finally, he approached the women in boxcar eleven.
Surveying the twenty women, he first pointed to Madrigal and then abruptly changed his mind. "No, not that one. She isn't quite right in the head. A pity."
Madrigal didn't move. She was too intent on keeping her eyes crossed and her mouth open, like the harmless village idiot who had drowned the previous year near the millrace gate. As much as she wanted to escape from the train, she felt it in her bones that it would be disastrous to leave with this man, whoever he might be.
The man walked on, selecting first one and then the other, rapidly moving down the line until he saw Allison Forsyth.
She stood quietly, with her eyes on the ground. Small and fine-boned, she exuded grace and beauty. Even though her clothes were no better than the others around her, there was something different about this woman that caused Marcus Stagg to stop and examine her more closely.
Still looking down at the ground, Allison felt his presence and heard his raspy breathing as two enormous feet, encased in polished leather and splayed at angles, came into view. Startled, she felt a hand lift her chin, and despite her resolution, she met the curious gaze of the man before her, full force.
Marcus Stagg smiled while he took in her face and then traveled insolently over the length and breadth of Allison's figure. With a satisfied nod, he finally turned to the soldier beside him and ordered, "Guard, put this woman in my personal carriage. I have other plans for her."
Chapter 17
The sinking sun hurled its final rays past the sweet gum tree on the nearby hill, hovered on the horizon, and then disappeared, leaving only elongated shadows as a remembrance of its former presence. Along the line of trees, an ungainly crow flew toward the west, its raucous cry causing one of the mules to bolt.
"Whoa, mule," a surprised driver shouted, using an oath for emphasis. The wagon halted, and then the quiet of the late afternoon returned.
Rebecca Smiley, standing a few feet away from Allison, mercilessly pinched the baby she was holding, and at its cry, she stepped forward, removed the shawl, and thrust the child toward Allison.
"Here, you'll have to take your sickly baby back, Miss Allison. I'm scared to take care of her any longer. I think she's comin' down with the smallpox like some of the others we buried today."
At her words, Stagg jumped back and placed his handkerchief over his nose. "Stay where you are, woman," he said to Rebecca, and then stared at Allison in a new light. She didn't look nearly so enticing to him now. As he stared at her, he decided her amethyst eyes were a little too bright and her cheeks a little too pink—not at all a good sign for such a fair-headed woman.
"Let's move on, guard, to another car. I've changed my mind. I don't want any women from number eleven."
"What about the women you already selected?"
"You know which ones they are. Tell them they can go back to the boxcar."
"And the blonde-haired woman?"
"Don't you dare sully my carriage with her," Stagg snapped. "I'd be dead of the pox in less than a month if I were to take her with me."
"The black woman isn't speaking the truth, Mr. Stagg," Alonzo Puckett said. "No one on this train has come down with smallpox."
"And what would you call the spots on my little Robert's face?" Alma asked. "The baby you buried this afternoon?"
Marcus Stagg glared at Alonzo Puckett and moved on quickly, placing as much distance as possible from the supposedly infected bo
xcar. "It's getting dark and I don’t have any more time to waste."
Once the man was out of hearing distance, Rebecca said, "I'm sorry I spoke so uppity to you just now, Miss Allison. I'll take the baby back if you want me to."
Far from being miffed, Allison was grateful. "You saved us all, Rebecca. But I'll hold on to Morrow in case he comes back this way."
"Well, I never thought I'd see the day," Madrigal said. "Alma, of all people, makin' up such a lie. And with a straight face, too."
"Speakin' of faces…" Flood laughed in spite of herself. "Looks like you've suddenly come to your senses again."
But Addie was not so grateful at the turn of events. Pushed out of one of the wagons, she marched angrily back to the boxcar and stood in front of Madrigal, the one she'd blamed for all her ills ever since that night in the village.
"My one chance to leave this godawful train and somethin' had to spoil it. What did you do, Madrigal, to make Mr. Stagg so mad?"
"Shut up, Addie. You don’t know what you're talkin' about."
"I see that you're still stickin' up for that little hussy, Flood. Seems to me that you'd have found her out by now, like Rena and me."
"Mama, I'm hungry," Caddie Knox cried.
"Hush, Caddie. We've got other things to think about besides our stomachs right now."
The three wagons soon disappeared over the hill with sixty of the women. For a few minutes longer, Marcus Stagg sat in his carriage and stared at the siding where Allison still stood, holding her baby. Yes, it was a good thing that the black woman had spoken up when she did. A few minutes later, both she and the heavyset woman would have been in one of the wagons, and the blonde-haired beauty, despite having a child, would have been sitting beside him in his own carriage and then infecting him in his own bed that very night.
Marcus pulled out his handkerchief again, wiped his brow, and brooded over the close call he'd had. But then his mind turned to the sixty skilled workers. Even if a few of them died, he would still have enough to make a difference in his textile mill. Only now he planned to stay away from them all until he made sure they weren't sick. He'd let his manager work with them until the threat of infection was gone.
Leaving the hillside beyond the tracks, he clucked his tongue and whistled through his teeth. With the response of his nervous horses, he quickly disappeared in the direction his wagons had taken. At the speed he was going, it wouldn't take long to catch up with them and then leave them in the dust.
Back at the train, the engineer was busy consulting with the sentries. And when it was agreed that the best course was to remain where they were for the night and get a quick start early the next morning, he signaled the guards with several short toots of the whistle and allowed the fire in the engine to die down to stoked embers.
By now the women could read the signs as well as the guards. "Looks like we're gonna camp here after all," Flood said.
For Allison, the heat had been uncommonly irksome all day and she longed for a nice, cool bath. She gazed longingly through the last vestiges of light at the stream running in an easterly direction from the track. "If we stay here for the night, I wonder if they would allow us to take a bath in the creek?" Allison said.
"Why don't I ask Tom Traymore?" Madrigal quickly suggested.
"Oh, you wouldn't have any trouble gettin' him to say yes, Madrigal. In fact, he would probably take great pleasure in watchin' you bathe." Addie spoke with her usual venom. "But don’t think the rest of us are goin' to take a bath in front of a man."
"We'd all keep our dresses on, Addie." By now, Allison had become impatient with the woman. "There's nothing wrong in that."
"Suit yourself. As for me, I'll keep my dignity."
"And something else, too," Flood said sarcastically, wrinkling her nose as she spoke.
While some of the women settled down to make fires to cook the rancid bacon, others walked to the creek to get water to heat for coffee.
Madrigal deliberately went farther down the creek than the others. As she looked back, she saw Tom Traymore heading her way. And the plan she had nourished ever since Ellie died took full root in her mind.
"Can I help you with that bucket, Madrigal?"
The red-haired woman turned around and smiled. "No, thank you, Tom. But there's somethin' else you could do if you had a mind to."
"And what's that?"
"Let me go swimmin' in the creek tonight."
"I couldn't let you do that, Madrigal. The other women would get mad."
"Not if you let them do the same thing. The women were the ones who asked me to speak to you about it. We've all been cooped up in those hot boxcars for so long, we resemble draggle-tail chickens gettin' ready to molt."
When she saw that he was mulling it over, Madrigal smiled again and leaned toward him, moistening her lips with her tongue. "I'd make it worth your while, Tom."
"What do you mean by that?"
"We could swim together later tonight—just the two of us, without anybody watchin'."
From the look on his face, Madrigal knew she had won. But her ultimate goal was not the swim in the creek. It was escape before they reached Nashville—with Tom Traymore helping her.
"I'll see what I can do."
"I'll be waitin' for you tonight after everybody else has gone to sleep."
Later, at supper, the announcement was made. The women who wished to bathe would be allowed to do so, boxcar by boxcar, with the guards standing watch on the banks.
It was such a small concession toward the women to cause such pleasure. Forgotten were the hard day, the sadness of the burial site, and the less than human treatment that had been their lot from the moment they had been removed from the town of Roswell.
With a sense of anticipation, the women from Allison's boxcar awaited their turn, holding on to the carefully hoarded bits of soap and removing the remaining pins from their hair.
Allison took her hairbrush out of her bundle, and with deft, sure strokes, she worked on the tangles, listening all the while to the numbers being called in succession. When she heard number eleven she stood up and began to walk toward the creek with Rebecca, holding the baby, walking by her side.
A torch light flickered on the water, still muddy from the recent rains. But Allison didn't care. She sank into the shallow part of the water not far from the bank and, taking the soap, lathered herself—calico dress and all. Her petticoat floated on the water like sails, and her blonde hair, with all the pins removed, hung over her shoulders in heavy strands. When she had finished bathing, she reached out for Morrow, who cried at the first trickling handful of cool water gently cupped onto her small body.
But then the sounds of delight took over, up and down the creekbank, as the women laughed and splashed together.
Allison remained at the edge of the creek only long enough to give Morrow a quick rinse; then she climbed out to dry the baby with a linen from her bundle before she became chilled.
"I didn't know water could feel so good to tired old bones," Flood commented, sinking into the creek like a small behemoth, with only her head visible above the waterline. "I certainly am grateful to Madrigal for speaking up for us."
"Where is Madrigal, anyway?" Rebecca asked.
"Time to get out," Alonzo Puckett ordered, before anyone could pursue the subject.
"Oh, can't we stay in just a little bit longer?" one of the women begged.
"No. The other women are waiting their turns."
With a small amount of grumbling, the women emerged and stood on the banks. Those who had washed their hair twisted the strands dry and plaited them into one long pigtail down their backs. Now they didn't even mind that they were to spend the night in the boxcars with the sliding door closed. They were cool and clean—a nice reprieve from the humid, sweaty day. And some of them carried fresh twigs to place in the boxcars as a freshener for the stale air.
"Oh, there you are, Madrigal. I didn't see you down at the creek. What happened to you?"
&
nbsp; She looked at Flood but was glad it was too dark for the woman to see her eyes. Flood could always tell when she was lying.
"Oh, I decided to have another cup of coffee, instead."
"And since when did you start drinkin' coffee, Madrigal?" Rena Knox inquired.
"When my steppa's cow got hit by a wagon."
At Rena's disbelieving snort, Madrigal said, "I never said I actually liked the stuff. But sometimes when you're hungry, you eat or drink a lot of things you don’t really like—just so your stomach won't bleat like a goat."
"That's right, Mama," Caddie defended.
"Hush up, Caddie. Nobody asked you."
An hour later, all of the women except Allison and Madrigal were asleep, with a soft snoring coming from the corner where Flood lay.
Then the stealthy sound of the door being slid back caused Allison to lift her head in the dark and listen.
She recognized Tom Traymore's voice. "Madrigal, " he whispered. "I've come for you."
Allison heard a slight movement near her and felt a foot stumble over her outstretched leg. Quickly she drew it up and turned on her side, while Madrigal squeezed through the opening made for her.
"What's happening?" Rebecca whispered.
"Nothing. Go back to sleep, Rebecca."
If Madrigal had a chance to escape, then Allison would not spread the alarm.
Neither Tom nor Madrigal said a word as they crept past the tracks and the sentry house. The pale moon had risen in the sky, giving the landscape a silver patina and painting the clumps of birches along the water with the same fool's silver tints. In the distance, an owl hooted and a wolf howled, causing a deer to scamper into the wooded area downstream.
At the water's edge, Tom suddenly disappeared, leaving Madrigal alone for a few minutes. Madrigal smiled and proceeded to remove her clothes. Making little noise, she slid into the water, as she had done so many times along the Chattahoochee, and began to tread water, while her eyes remained on the bank.
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