It wasn't long before Tom reappeared. Spread upon a nearby bush were the girl's dress and underthings. Seeing them, Tom quickly removed his uniform and then stood upon the bank, straining his eyes for a glimpse of Madrigal in the water.
She rose slowly out of the shadows, walking toward him, with the moonglow caressing her body. Tom wasted no more time on the shore. He, too, slid into the creek and purposely made his way toward Madrigal. As they met, she opened her arms to embrace him, offering her lips to his own eager mouth.
"Madrigal," he whispered, feeling the soft skin of her body as part of his own. With a shiver, he moved his hands along the curves of her firm, young breasts until he could stand it no longer. They went down together in the water, rose upward again for air, meeting and parting in a mating ritual as primitive as the land and water around them.
In the distance, the wolf continued to howl, but Tom Traymore was only aware of his powerful hunger for the red-haired girl he had watched from the moment the train had pulled out of Marietta.
And when his urgent need had received gratification, Tom continued to hold Madrigal and stroke her hair—a gentle thing that she had never known before.
"I love you, Madrigal."
She quickly dispelled the feeling that had surged within her. Her goal was more important. "By tomorrow, you won't even remember this happened between us."
The sadness in her voice made him deny her words. "That's not true. I'll always remember. And I'll always love you. When this nightmare is over, I give you my word that I'll find you, Madrigal, and I'll take you to my farm in the hills."
She shook her head. "No, Tom. You must forget me. I have this dreadful feeling that I'll die before we get to Nashville."
"Don't say such a thing. That's tempting fate."
Madrigal hesitated. "If only…" She sank against him and she could feel his excitement begin to stir again.
"What if I was to help you escape? I could do that—but only after we reach the city and I'm relieved of duty. Once General Webster takes over…"
"You'd do that for me, Tom?"
"I'd do anything for you. You know that."
A noise along the bank stopped their conversation. Madrigal put her hand to his lips. "Let me get out first. So no one will catch us together."
Later, Allison, who was still awake, heard the boxcar door slide open and then shut. She felt Madrigal brush against her as the red-haired girl groped her way toward the sleeping space next to Flood. A few drops of water landed on Allison's face. So Madrigal had not escaped, after all. She'd gone swimming instead. Probably with Tom Traymore.
At that moment, Allison's only desire was to protect Madrigal from being found out by the others, especially Rena and Addie. Perhaps it was because she felt guilty and partly responsible for the young girl's behavior. If Allison had not longed for a refreshing bath, she never would have urged Madrigal to seek out Tom.
Now it was too late. Whatever had happened between the two was beyond calling back. Both she and Madrigal would have to live with the consequences of that night.
Chapter 18
Now the hunger began. All rations were gone. Tempers flared, babies cried, and the great cast-iron water buckets chained to the sides of the train had little liquid left in them. It grew increasingly difficult to find a spring or a watering hole along the way, and many of the women, already ill, suffered even more from lack of water in the summer heat.
Allison, ill with the fever that had spread through the boxcars, had not yet fallen into delirium as some of the others had. It was left to her to be aware of Addie's satisfied voice admonishing them all.
"I told you not to bathe in the creek. But no. Nobody listened." In a particularly crowing manner, she had a few personal words for Allison. "I guess you're sorry now, Allison, that you, of all people, didn't heed what I said. Especially with a baby to take care of. And your milk gone sour with the fever."
Allison had no strength to argue with the woman. Perhaps Addie was right. If so, she had done a terrible thing, risking Morrow's life as well as her own.
But how she longed for the cool feeling of water on her skin, even now—the same longing as on that other night. All she could think to say was "My poor Morrow. My poor baby."
She tried to lift her head, to get a glimpse of the child lying in Rebecca's arms, but she was stopped.
"Just lie still, Allison," Alma Brady said, wiping Allison's brow. "Don't try to get up."
"But Morrow…I have to see to Morrow."
"She's all right now. She's asleep."
"Are you sure she isn't ill, too? She's so quiet, and I haven't even fed her."
"Rebecca's watchin' over her."
Allison returned her head to the small bundle of goods that served as a pillow. It was strange to have Alma Brady take over, mopping her face, sitting beside her, and talking in a soothing, reassuring manner. Only several days before, Alma had been the one needing consolation.
But life changed swiftly from day to day, hour to hour, in the train the women had labeled "Sorrow." They were the forgotten, cast from memory as surely as if their names had been obliterated from the pages of a family Bible, with no hope left of being returned to their families.
The railroad was now secure against the Confederates, even though Hood, thinking only of military expediency and not of the women, had sent Wheeler's cavalry to raid the lines above Atlanta. But Sherman had gotten through the supplies he needed for the siege of that city, making the unnecessary removal of Wheeler's cavalry from the battle one more blunder in Hood's defense of Atlanta.
Realizing she was growing weaker, Allison spoke to the woman sitting beside her. "Rebecca, I think it's time to get out the shears."
Rebecca understood. But she mourned the task ahead—the cutting of Allison's beautiful blonde hair to conserve her strength.
The woman removed the shears from the bundle, but still she couldn't bring herself to begin until Allison urged her on. "Go ahead, Rebecca. Cut it."
"Yes, Miss Allison."
A few minutes later, Allison's head was completely shorn and the beautiful blonde hair lay at Rebecca's feet.
But the cutting of her hair didn't help. Allison grew continually worse, threatening to lapse into delirium, that dangerous twilight of the mind. It was Alma who attempted to draw her back to reality by recalling their first meeting under the water oak.
"Do you remember that day, Allison, at the mill when we sat together and fed our babies?"
The hypnotic tempo of the train wheels became, in Allison's mind, the same unceasing rhythm of the mill wheel with the water rushing over it. Allison smiled. "I remember. You were going to make a dress out of blue silk and move to Atlanta."
"Yes. To find a new papa for my little Robert." Alma leaned over and whispered, "I brought the material with me, Allison. It's in my bundle. But I don't need it now. When you get well, I want you to have it."
Allison's violet eyes became sad. "No, Alma. You keep it. I won't have need of it either."
"Oh, but you will. You're goin' to get well, Allison. I can tell. And it'll look so pretty on you. A lot better than on me. I think I knew, even when I bought it, that silk was much too fancy for the likes of me."
Alma wiped Allison's brow again and then nodded to Rebecca to change places with her. Unknown to the sick woman, Alma took Morrow, settled down in the corner of the boxcar, and unpinned her calico dress. Soon, the hungry baby was nursing greedily at Alma's full breast. A subtle change came over the woman. Allison, the mother, was forgotten, as Alma's entire attention was now lavished upon the baby.
Despite Flood's and Rebecca's efforts, Allison continued to grow worse with each mile traveled. As the fever took over her body, fear—a nebulous, ugly thing—took over the mind like the fog that crept over the Chattahoochee, obliterating the landscape. Still, she struggled—to see, to hear, to feel, to be reassured time and again that her baby was not dead beside her.
While the train made its appointed stops f
or water, for the women to scavage for food along the way, and for the guards to dig other graves, Allison knew little of what was going on. Yet a cool, wet cloth, a strong hand forcing her to drink from a cup—all these became landmarks along her dark, unknown journey, with voices constantly probing, urging her back to reality.
"My Miss Allison is a strong woman," Rebecca said, more to bolster her own troubled mind than to reassure any of the others. "I remember when she and Mr. Jonathan were little. It was always Miss Allison who got over things quicker—while Mr. Jonathan took twice as long to get well."
Another day passed and by midafternoon, Flood, sweeping her large hand along Allison's face and brow, felt encouraged. "She doesn't appear nearly so hot today. Maybe the fever is beginnin' to break."
Flood was right. Just as insidiously as the fever had come upon Allison, so it began to leave her. And when the train stopped one evening not long after that, Allison, although weak, was lifted out of the boxcar by Flood and placed in a comfortable position on the ground, where Rebecca had spead a shawl as protection against the evening dew. Then the women left her alone to forage for food for their evening meal before it got too dark.
They spread out into the woods, searching for sheep sorrel, wild carrot, berries, nuts, and roots, with the children admonished not to eat anything until it had been declared safe by one of the women experienced in wild plants.
Madrigal was the first woman to return from the woods. In the boxcar, she had kept to herself, not helping with nursing Allison back to health, or with taking care of the baby, either. She was no good at that sort of thing. But when it came to finding food to eat, she was one of the best.
"Here, I've brought some pine nuts and blackberries for you," she said to Allison, and thrust them in her lap.
A surprised Allison, with dark smudges under her eyes attesting to her illness, looked up and said, "Thank you, Madrigal. This is very kind of you."
"Just consider part of the debt paid," Madrigal said, and then flounced off to eat by herself. She had not intended to gather food for anybody else. But the blackberries had reminded her of poor Ellie and that day at the bridge. And then she remembered it was Allison Forsyth who had come to Ellie's rescue at the institute, keeping her from bleeding to death that night.
Soon the other women returned. Some had been lucky; others not so lucky. But the table became a communal one, with small offerings set forth—a meager spread for the hungry women.
Then Rebecca, sitting beside Allison, recognized the faint, tantalizing aroma of meat cooking in the open not far from them. With a sudden longing for real food, she looked down at the few berries remaining in the palm of her hand. "Somebody musta raided a henhouse," she said to Allison.
One by one, like animals scenting their prey on the wings of the wind, the other women lifted their heads to get the full benefit of the aroma, all the while knowing, like Rebecca, that their empty stomachs would never taste the coveted meat.
"Probably Alonzo Puckett," Flood said. "I notice he always manages to eat better than any of the other guards."
But Allison began to lift her head in another direction, with her eyes searching the northern sky, now filled with stars. "Surely we should be reaching Nashville soon. And then we'll all be having a nice meal, don't you think?"
"Well, it won't be a bit too soon for me." Flood placed the last pine nut in her mouth and made a crunching sound with her teeth. Her clothes now hung loosely on her large frame, and her hair, stringy and dirty, held the grime and soot of the train journey.
"Rebecca, would please bring Morrow to me? I think I'll try to feed her now."
"You sure you feel up to it, Miss Allsion? Alma won’t mind a day or two longer."
"That's just it, Rebecca. I can't rely on Alma forever. A day or two longer and I may not have any milk left."
Rebecca stood up and went off to find Alma. Madrigal, alone in a small copse, finished her food and wiped the berry juice from her chin.
"Madrigal? Are you in there?"
She recognized Tom's voice. "Yes, Tom."
Soon he was sitting beside her, offering her a piece of chicken. "Here, I brought you a drumstick. Hurry and eat it before the other women find out."
Madrigal needed no further prompting. She tore into the half-cooked meat with a ferocious appetite. And she didn't stop until the bone was picked clean. During that time, Tom sat beside her and watched, his eyes shining with the love he bore the young red-haired woman.
When she was finished, she suddenly felt guilty. "Did you have any chicken, Tom? Or was that your piece?"
He hesitated. "I won’t ever lie to you, Madrigal. It was mine. But I got more pleasure out of watching you enjoy it than I would have if I'd eaten it myself."
Madrigal nodded and accepted Tom's love offering, dismissing a momentary twinge of guilt as she thought of her plans when they finally reached Nashville.
Like Madrigal, Alma had also sought out a secret place, apart from the other women. In her arms she held Allison's baby. No. Her baby now. She'd even changed her name, for Morrow sounded too highfalutin' to suit her. As the baby began to cry, Alma rocked her in her arms. "That's all right, Lovey Lou," she crooned. "You don’t have to cry. Mama's gonna take care of you from now on."
At that moment, the past week's events became confusing to Alma. She vaguely remembered a baby being buried along the tracks some time back. And she even remembered his name. Robert. At times, she'd thought that the baby might have been her own, but then all she had to do was to gaze down at the pretty, little fair-haired baby at her breast to know it wasn't true. Her baby, little Lovey Lou, named for her grandmother, was alive.
"Where are you, Alma?" Rebecca called out.
Alma listened and smiled but did not respond. She had deliberately chosen the secluded spot so that she and her baby wouldn't be disturbed by the others.
Rebecca kept calling, but the voice was now farther away and Alma relaxed. But then other voices took up the cry and Alma knew that she should go back to camp with the others.
"Alma, where are you?" Rebecca's voice was closer now.
The woman sighed and emerged from her hiding place. "I'm here, Rebecca. But please be quiet. Or you'll wake little Lovey Lou with all your shoutin'."
Rebecca frowned at the name. "Why didn't you answer before?"
"I was too busy feedin' my baby."
"You mean Miss Allison's baby."
"No, Rebecca. This is my baby girl, Lovey Lou. Don't you remember? We buried Allison's little boy, Robert, by the railroad tracks."
Alma began to croon as she walked along the moonlit path with Rebecca. She took no notice of the other woman's moan or the tightening fist that clutched at her troubled bosom. Alma was far too intent on the baby in her arms.
By the time they reached the edge of camp, Rebecca was aware of the problem that faced her. Her mistress would have to know. But how to tell her? And what to do about Alma, especially if Allison were still too sick to feed her child?
"Don't you want me to carry the baby a while?" Rebecca suggested.
"That's awful kind of you, Rebecca. Maybe if you hold her for a minute or so, I'll take care of the necessaries."
Rebecca took the baby and said in a careful, soothing voice, "We'll be in camp, Alma."
They parted and Rebecca hurried as fast as she dared to the area where Allison lay. "I found her, Miss Allison. Here she is." Rebecca gave Morrow to Allison, and without any explanation as to where she'd found her, she hurriedly left Allison's side to seek out Flood.
Allison held the baby in her arms for the first time since her illness. Her arms were weak and the baby felt heavy, but she didn't mind. "Hello, Morrow," she said, gazing down at her child. "I've missed you. Did you know that?"
In the full moonlight, the baby resembled a small cherub, peaceful and asleep. It was a pity to waken her, yet Allison knew she must try to feed her. Once awake, Morrow did not cooperate. Instead, she set her mouth rigidly and turned her head away,
causing a sense of rejection to overwhelm the weakened Allison.
There was no mistaking Flood's large bulk as she ambled down the path. Rebecca, waiting for her, stepped in front of her. "Flood, can I speak to you for a minute? We've got a terrible problem."
"What is it, Rebecca?"
"It's Alma."
"Has she got the fever, too?"
"Not that I know of. But her mind's powerfully confused. She thinks Miss Allison's baby is her own."
"You must be mistaken, Rebecca."
"I don't think so. Just a few minutes ago, she told me how sorry she was for Miss Allison losin' her baby boy, Robert."
"My Lord! You mean she can't remember whose baby died?"
"Looks that way. She's even changed Morrow's name. Calls her Lovey Lou, instead. What are we gonna do about it, Flood?"
"Have you told Allison yet?"
"No. I was waitin' to talk to you first."
But before Flood and Rebecca reached camp, Allison had become aware that Alma's fierce maternal love had been transferred to Morrow.
"You got no business holdin' my baby, Allison, in your weakened condition," Alma said, rushing over to where Allison sat. "Here, give her to me."
"I beg your pardon, Alma?" A startled Allison stared up at the angry woman.
"I said, I want my baby back. You got no business holdin' Lovey Lou like that. Rebecca was s'posed to watch after her till I got back."
Morrow was torn from Allison's arms, while Madrigal, sauntering into camp, looked on in amazement. She saw the anguished look on Allison's face and went to her defense. "Alma, give Morrow back to Allison."
"No, Madrigal. Leave Alma alone for now."
In triumph, Alma gazed at the two and then hurried to the edge of the camp, where she carefully wrapped the baby in her shawl and lay down beside her to go to sleep.
"Alma's gone feather-headed, Allison. Why did you let her get away with taking your baby from you?"
"For Morrow's survival, Madrigal. My milk evidently isn't to her liking."
Allison turned her head, and a tear escaped down her cheek. "Oh, Coin," she said, with a great longing for her dead husband.
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