The Roswell Women

by Statham, Frances Patton

  Then a new sound pierced the mountains—a train whistle signaling an approach to the trestle.

  The women couldn't tell in which direction the sound came. They only knew they were in the middle of the trestle bridge with the roaring gorge beneath them and the safety of solid ground too far away.

  In panic, they slipped and stumbled as they rushed to the other end of the trestle.

  "Maggie," a woman screamed. "Maggie."

  Allison turned around. The six-year-old was no longer in sight. Fannie Morton fell onto the track, with one foot between the crossties and her arms frantically reaching downward.

  "What's happening?" a guard asked.

  "I think a little girl fell off the bridge," Allison said.

  "Maggie! Maggie!"

  The guard's face was severe. "I'm sorry," he said, and walked over to Fannie Morton. "Get up, ma'am. Can't you hear the train coming?"

  "But it's my little Maggie. She's fallen. We've got to save her."

  The guard shook his head. "It's too late. We have to keep going."

  "But we can't leave her. She's down there somewhere in the water."

  The guard took her arm, helped her up, and began to walk with her. "We've got to keep going," he reiterated.

  Through the driving rain, the women finally reached the land beyond the trestle. Forming lines on each side of the tracks, they kept moving, while behind them the impatient engineer, who had caused the panic by blowing the locomotive whistle, began to edge the empty train onto the rickety cornstalk bridge.

  Twenty minutes later, the women and children were loaded once more on the train.

  In boxcar eleven, sadness was mixed with relief. The women with children held them close, grateful that disaster had not come to them; while at the same time, they grieved for Fannie Morton in the loss of her child.

  Flood had always liked Fannie. She'd been a good worker in the mill. With a sudden need to comfort her, Flood called out in the darkness, "Fannie?"

  There was no answer.

  "Fannie? Where are you?"

  Still there was no answer.

  "I didn't see her get in the boxcar again," Madrigal said.

  "Where could she be?" Rebecca whispered to Allison. "You think she got into the wrong boxcar?"

  "No. I think she's probably making her way down to the gorge at this very moment," Allison replied.

  "If she went to look for Maggie, she'll never find the child in all that water."

  "But don’t you see, Rebecca? She has to try. No mother would do less."

  Allison bit her lip to keep from joining the weeping. The Roswell women were now no different from the Indians. A new trail of tears had begun. Regardless of the loss of lives, they would still be forced onward to an alien land.

  She held Morrow even closer and thought of her dead husband, Coin. Silently, Allison Forsyth made a vow to him to protect their child with her very life.

  Chapter 14

  Two evenings later, the long, mournful whistle of a train cut through the quietness of the Tennessee countryside as the engineer signaled his approach into Chattanooga.

  The sound came as no surprise to the mayor and fifty other townspeople, both men and women, who were bunched together in small groups and lined along the platform of the Western and Atlantic Railroad. They had been waiting for over an hour for the deportation train to arrive.

  The news had come over the wire that afternoon. Used to seeing troop trains with cannons, horses, and wagons on their way south to the battlefields, they now waited to see the human cargo being shipped north.

  Lanterns gave a dim light to the railroad yard, with the office of the provost marshal in the background resembling a country store with its porch and tin shed roof. On the siding, away from the main track, empty wooden boxcars, stamped with the initials USMRR, the official logo for Mr. Lincoln's military railroad, rose in the semidarkness.

  "It's comin'. I saw it just around the bend," a young boy called out, rushing onto the platform to join the others.

  All eyes were directed toward the tracks. Then the bright light beam of the diamond stack woodburner locomotive came into view, its large pilot truck wheels making sparks on the track as the engineer applied the brakes. The train passed by the roundhouse and then the depot, itself. The wheels continued rolling slowly until all twenty boxcars had passed from the main track and come to a full stop in the siding yard.

  Tom Traymore and Alonzo "Lonnie" Puckett, the guards for car eleven, didn't wait for the new guards to relieve them that night. Impatiently, they swung down from the train and began to walk back toward the depot. They had little free time before resuming the trip to Nashville the next morning.

  One of the first in military uniform to reach the platform where the mayor waited, Tom looked up as the man stepped in front of him.

  "Corporal, is it true," the mayor asked, "that this train actually contains four hundred and fifty Southern women and children?"

  "A few men, too," Tom said. "All mill workers."

  The corporal, off duty until morning, hurriedly passed through the crowd. He could feel their hostility, and he was glad the other troops were visible. He had no stomach for this job of guarding women. But lately, he hadn't had much stomach for fighting, either.

  "Come on, Puckett," he said to the soldier beside him. "Let's go find the nearest tavern and get drunk."

  The new guards swept into action, walking along the boxcars to take over their evening duties.

  In the darkness of boxcar eleven, Allison Forsyth listened and waited for the sound of the sliding bolt. Being confined for so long had already taken its toll among the women, as if by being treated like animals thay had lost part of their humanity.

  Petty arguments had erupted in the boxcar over the most trivial things. But above the pettiness was the fear that they might starve before they reached their final destination.

  Allison was almost certain that someone had stolen part of her food ration, but she would say nothing about it until she could examine the bundle in the light. But when the light came, she was too anxious to smell clean, fresh air again. As soon as the guards slid the door open, she and Rebecca were in the first line to jump from the car.

  Once on the ground, she turned around to watch Flood and Madrigal attempting to get Ellie down. For the past several hours, the young girl's brow had felt hot to Allison's touch. Seeing her now in the lantern light, Allison realized the hazards of the trip were doubly dangerous for the girl who had lost so much blood.

  Gathering what dignity she had left after being shut in the boxcar for two full days, Allison smoothed her skirts, lifted her chin, and began to walk alongside Rebecca, while the guards closed in to take them to a shelter for the night.

  Seeing Allison with her baby, a man stepped from the crowd. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said. "Can we get anything for you and your baby?"

  Allison looked down at Morrow, asleep in her arms. And then she remembered the others in equal need.

  "Anything will be appreciated," she replied. "All of us with babies need fresh linen. But if you have any influence with the military authorities, perhaps you could get them to send a doctor. So many of our women are ill with fever…."

  "Please move on," the guard's curt voice commanded the civilian. "You're to have no conversation with any of these women."

  "I'll see to a doctor," the man called out. "And we'll bring food to you, too."

  "Poor things," a woman's voice murmured. "They look so exhausted."

  "Keep your chins up, " another voice called out. "This war ain't over yet."

  The second man quickly faded into the background to avoid the soldiers on guard.

  That night, the women, divided into groups by boxcar numbers, had little to say to each other. They ate the food brought to them by the townspeople and, still hungry, they lay down to sleep in a ramshackle old building with guards posted outside to keep them from running away.

  Bone-weary and dirty from the jolting, grimy trip al
ong the rails, Allison longed for a cool, refreshing bath and a change of clothes. But the women had been allowed only enough water to drink, with a surreptitious dipping of their handkerchiefs to rub the dirt from their faces when the guards weren't looking. Allison, who had always prided herself on her immaculate appearance, even in her faded calico, made one small obeisance to tidiness. She took out her brush to remove the tangles of her long blonde hair, then did the same for Morrow, gently gathering the small wisps of hair into a curl on the top of her head.

  Then the doctor, promised to them, came and looked over the women and children ill with fever. Allison watched as the kindhearted man examined Ellie and merely shook his head. From his action, Allison knew that Ellie's chances for survival were not good.

  But to the women, even kindness shown to them was at a premium, and they were grateful to the doctor despite his being unable to help them.

  In a restless manner, Allison struggled to find a more comfortable spot for the night. And she reached out to reassure herself that Morrow, so quiet in the basket beside her, was still all right.

  Later, the same doctor stood before the provost marshal. He had been appalled at the poor condition of some of the women, including Ellie Barnes. And he had decided to seek out the only man who could do some-thing about it. But so far he had not met with any success.

  "Some of these women are much too ill to be moved," Dr. Powers warned. "If you have a shred of humanity about you, you will allow them to stay here until they either get better or die."

  The provost marshal shook his head. "I'm sorry, Doctor, but orders are orders. If I don’t reload them all on the train first thing in the morning, there'll be hell to pay." He stood up and began to walk toward the open door. "You'll be gratified to know, I'm sure, that provision has been made for them to take several days' rest once they get to Nashville."

  "Some of the women won't make it all the way to Nashville," the white-haired old doctor warned.

  "It's a fact of life, Doctor, that many lives are lost in wartime."

  "Soldiers, yes. But not innocent women and children—"

  "The general evidently doesn't see them as innocent," the provost marshal interrupted. "Else he would not have arrested them for treason. Now, if you will excuse me, we've got to put down fresh straw in the boxcars."

  The mayor, who had been standing silently by Dr. Powers all this time, shook his head. "Well, we tried, Hiram. Heaven knows we tried."

  The doctor, tight-lipped and grim, said nothing in reply. He began to walk down the steps, feeling his way along the rustic banister until his feet touched the muddy ground.

  "Mark my words, Edward," the doctor said finally. "We'll all live to regret this act of inhumanity."

  But the mayor was not so sure. "People forget too easily, Hiram. I'll bet within six months no one will remember the plight of these women—especially if Grant and Sherman bring the South to her knees in that time."

  Still, the old doctor shook his head. "A dastardly business. That's what it is. A dastardly business."

  Holding his lantern and doctor's satchel, Dr. Powers parted company with the mayor. In the distance, the sound of music in the saloon penetrated the air as he made his way to the house on the corner.

  Inside the saloon, Tom Traymore took another swig of whiskey. It burned going down his dry throat like the first swallow of rotgut Tennessee mountain moonshine fresh from the still.

  He held up the glass to the light to see the sediment in the bottom. But his mind was on something other than the whiskey.

  "You noticed that little redhead on the train?" Tom Traymore asked his friend, Lonnie.

  "Yeah. But we'd better steer clear of her. I heard one of the women say she shot a soldier back in Roswell."

  "I heard that, too. But can't say as I blame her. He broke her door down."

  "I think he broke more than her door," Lonnie answered with a laugh.

  Tom Traymore didn't respond. He sat and finished his whiskey. He was damned tired of the war. And he began to think of the family farm farther back in the hills.

  He always became maudlin when he had too much to drink. That was the time the "lonelies" set in, when he longed for the sight of the sun first rising up over the mountain, shining on the tall slash pines and the hardwoods—that first sun-tipped sight that told him autumn was coming soon. He thought of the apples in the orchard, now turning ripe and red, and of the rows of corn beyond, bending low under the weight of the full-kerneled ears.

  His pa was old now, too old to work the farm alone. Tom hadn't intended staying away for three whole years. Most of the other soldiers had left after two years, for-getting to return to the fighting once the fields were planted.

  He banged his empty glass against the counter. "Another whiskey," he bellowed, hoping for the next drink to dull his mind and stop the lonelies.

  "We’d better go, Tom," Lonnie said. "Drunk or sober, we got to get back on that train tomorrow morning."

  "One more drink, Puckett. That's all I want. Then we'll go."

  "All right, Tom."

  A few minutes later, the two staggered out of the saloon to sleep off the whiskey in an empty boxcar in the siding yard next to the rail station.

  In the building where the women slept, Flood Tompkins lay awake and listened to Ellie's shallow, rapid breathing. She reached up to touch the bruise on her head, wanting to feel the pain, to remember; for she still felt responsible for what had happened to Ellie.

  Tonight, she was glad she didn't have any children of her own—for the pain would be even worse, if that was possible. Earlier in her marriage, she'd been disappointed not to give Sproule any babies—a big, strapping woman like herself. But then they'd both gotten over the disappointment and gone on to live their own lives.

  Sproule was the only man who'd ever made her feel like a woman. Now he was dead, and she sorely missed him. Maybe that was why she dressed so often in his old clothes—to feel closer to him and to remember the years they'd been together.

  In the dark, Flood patted her chemise to make sure the small packet was still there. It wasn't much money, but at least it was Union money, which was the only kind that was any good now. If she could, she would have bought some medicine for Ellie, but Dr. Powers had said that there wasn't any medicine that could help her now even if he could get some.

  Ellie began to mourn, and Flood sat up. "What is it, Ellie?"

  "Please. Please don’t hurt me."

  "It's all right, Ellie. Truly it is. Flood's right here beside you."

  But Ellie refused to be comforted. Speechless for almost two weeks since the ravaging in the village, she now began to talk as her fever reached a dangerous pitch and swept her into delirium. Her cry became an animal's cry as she seemed to relive those terrible moments when Flood had been unable to come to her aid.

  Allison, reaching into the pocket of her dress, pulled out the small flask containing the phosphorus. Its brief glow lit up the small corner where Ellie lay. The bloodcurdling scream coming from Ellie's throat brought Flood to her knees and the guards rapping on the door.

  "Quiet in there," a guard yelled. "You want to wake the dead?"

  Allison knelt over the young woman as the babies in the room, awakend by the noise, joined in the crying. "Rebecca, can you see to Morrow?" she asked.

  "Yes, Miss Allison."

  Allison turned her full attention to Ellie, now caught in the throes of a convulsion. Her body began its awful trembling, and Allison, afraid she would harm herself, thrust a linen cloth between her teeth, while Flood held her down, keeping her confined until the shaking began to subside.

  During that time, Madrigal stood by, helplessly.

  In the distance, the sound of music and the high, tinkly laughter of women—camp followers—floated over that portion of town. Madrigal lifted her head to listen. It wasn't fair. She and Ellie should be the ones having fun that night instead of being cooped up like chickens waiting for someone's Sunday dinner.

 
; They'd never even had time to plan the celebration they talked about that day before the Union troops came to Roswell. But one day soon, she vowed, she and Ellie would have all the fun, all the music—and yes, all the men—that they wanted.

  Ellie was not aware of Madrigal's hopes and dreams that night. Her fever continued, with her screams bringing a renewed rapping on the door by the guards.

  All during that night, Flood and Allison took turns sitting up with Ellie. If Ellie were lucky, by morning the fever would be broken and perhaps all the ghosts that had previously silenced her would also be banished from her mind.

  Chapter 15

  The railroad yard came alive in the early morning light; the sound of a rooster vied with the irritating, high-pitched buzz of a sawmill somewhere along the tracks.

  Tom Traymore awoke with a headache and a bad taste in his mouth. Then he remembered the terrible whiskey of the night before and was not surprised. With his eyes bloodshot and his head reeling, he sat up and called out to his partner, Alonzo Puckett.

  "Come on, Lonnie. We'd better get a move on," he said, gathering his equipment and musket before jumping from the boxcar.

  The telltale aroma of coffee brewing and bacon frying floated through the air as the two began to walk along the tracks. Tom knew that if they wanted to get in on the coffee, they wouldn't have much time. And he suspected that Puckett needed a hot cup of coffee about as bad as he did.

  The two walked past the deportation train where contrabands—the blacks who followed the Union army—were already hard at work loading wood for the locomotive to burn on its way to Nashville.

  Then the irritating noise that had awakened Tom began again. The sawmill, mounted on railroad wheels, stood on the siding track with black smoke rising out of the tall funnel while logs were cut—the larger ones to replace crossties or bridge timbers and the smaller pieces for fuel for the engines.

  Tom stopped to watch the process for a few minutes. He hoped they would cut a plentiful supply, for he was afraid the woods along the rail tracks to Nashville had been stripped clean already. The farther away from the train they went in search of wood to burn, the more likely it was that they would run into a bunch of Rebels.