"We'll stop here and rest," Tom said, turning his head to look at the women hidden under the wagon's canvas hood. He had reached the entrance to one of the familiar caves that sprinkled the landscape. And a spring of water was not far beyond.
Madrigal, who had elected to return to her place with the other women, raised her sleepy head and looked out. The area Tom had chosen seemed desolate and raw, with outcroppings of limestone—the barrenness of the land giving an unwelcome appearance with no promise of shelter or water. But Madrigal had no call to question the soldier who had brought them this far.
"All right, Tom," she said, and then jumped from the wagon. She brushed her hand through her hair, and with sleep still disturbing her equilibrium, she stumbled over the back wheel as she began to walk toward the soldier, who was busy unhitching the horses.
Rebecca, Flood, and Allison joined Madrigal, their reactions to the land much the same. But their spirits were light. The time of stress had gone from them, with their wariness gradually subsiding at each stretch of road they put behind them.
Allison, in a burst of thankfulness, looked at Rebecca and smiled. "Just think, Rebecca. Because of Tom Traymore and Madrigal, we might be in Savannah less than a month from now."
"And whatever Miss Araminta chooses to do or say to us will be just like water off a duck's back. Won't it, Miss Allison?"
Allison laughed. "We've come through a lot together, to be sure. Do you realize how lucky we are to be here at this moment?"
"We're not out of the woods yet," Flood warned, "in more ways than one. We still got a long way to go."
Madrigal was silent. She looked at the women and then gazed back at Tom, who had stopped unhitching the horses to listen.
Suddenly, all the women were doing the same, their sense of security severely shattered as they heard the telltale bark of a hound and a stealthy movement in the woods not far from them.
"Quick, we've got to hide," Tom said.
"But where?" Madrigal asked.
"In the cave ahead. I'll show you. But once you're in, don't utter a single word."
"What about the horses, Tom? And the wagon?" Madrigal was still worried that their presence would betray them.
"I'll lead them away from the cave."
"But, Tom—"
"Don't worry, Madrigal. Here, take my revolver. And whatever happens, don’t come out of the cave until you hear my voice telling you to."
The women fled through the underbrush, with Tom, barely visible, leading the way. Rebecca held on to Allison to keep her from stumbling with the baby, and Flood and Madrigal clasped hands so that they wouldn't get separated.
Tom stopped when he reached the cave entrance. Stepping aside, he motioned for Madrigal to go in.
Seeing the uninviting black hole, she wailed, "I'm scared of caves."
"Hush, child. And get yourself on in. We don't have time to be afraid." Flood gave her a push, walked in herself, and Allison and Rebecca followed.
A flapping of wings greeted their invasion. Madrigal moaned as the creature brushed past her face to escape into the openness of the woods.
Tom disappeared. In total blackness, the women crouched in the cave and listened. They tried to separate the creak and roll of the ambulance wagon from the alien sounds that crept closer from the opposite direction. And in that suspension of time, as they held their breath and strained to hear what was going on in the wooded area beyond the cave, the same erosion of spirit that had threatened to paralyze them during those last days of captivity now descended on them in heavy measure.
No one was more aware of what was at stake than Allison. For her, the idea of freedom had become a powerful hunger, a constant struggle to regain it once it had been lost. Looking at Morrow, blessedly asleep in her arms, Allison forgot all else but that single hunger, far surpassing the needs of the flesh. The debilitating fever, the lack of food and cleanliness—all these degradations of the body had merely served to make that spirit stronger.
A voice finally came roaring through the woods. "I know you're in there. We have the traitor who helped you. So, you might as well give yourselves up."
No one inside the cave moved. Allison, Rebecca, Flood, and Madrigal merely waited and listened.
"Did you hear me? This is Wolf Perkin, your guard. I'll give you thirty seconds longer. If you're not out by then, I'm sending the dog in."
Still, no one responded except Madrigal, who slowly drew up Tom's gun and waited.
"…twenty-eight, twenty-nine…Thirty."
Wolf Perkin took the baby shoe and held it before the hound's nose. Then he released the dog. "Sic 'em, Devil," he ordered and, standing astride as he had done that day on the boxcar, the guard smiled and waited for the hungry dog to reach its quarry.
Chapter 22
The baying of the hound as it leaped through the opening of the cave caused Morrow to awaken and begin to cry. Suddenly, another sound shattered the isolated terrain—the shot coming from the revolver in Madrigal's hand.
With a surprised whimper, the wounded hound fell to the limestone floor of the cavern.
Morrow continued to cry as the four women remained in the darkness with the feral eyes of the hound gazing upward.
"Devil, boy!" Wolf Perkin called out. The hound whimpered again in response, attempted to get up, and then slid back to earth with his wounded front leg refusing to support him.
Wolf Perkin had not counted on the firearm. And he certainly hadn't counted on his hound being wounded or killed. The anger that comes when a cornered animal turns to defend itself and harms the chaser swept over Wolf, clouding his judgment. Devil had been with him during his entire tour of duty. The dog had served him well, but now he was of no use to Wolf anymore. Still, he deserved to be avenged. Cold-bloodedly, Wolf raised his rifle and aimed it toward the opening of the cave.
"No, Wolf. You can't shoot the women." Tom Traymore's voice held an uncommon anguish. His words brought back a semblance of sanity to the other men standing with Wolf.
"He's right, soldier," one of the men agreed. "You can't shoot the women. Put your gun down."
"They hurt my dog."
"They were merely defending themselves. I'd do the same in their situation."
But Wolf was still angry. The women deserved to be punished, especially the one who'd used the gun.
"Then I want the one who shot my dog," Wolf insisted. "Come out, whichever one of you did it. If you don't, heaven help every last one of you."
Inside the cave, the four women remained huddled together. "Give me the gun, Madrigal," Allison insisted.
"No, Allison. I can't let you take the blame for somethin' I did."
"The authorities know you've already shot a soldier, Madrigal," she argued. "There's no telling what they'll do to you for a second offense. No, it's safer to let me walk out with the gun."
"I'll take the blame," Rebecca said, moving in front of the others.
"No, you can't," Flood said. "It's too dangerous for you, too. Here, give me the gun."
The stalemate continued with each offering to take the blame until Madrigal said, "Why don't we just throw away the gun and walk out together?"
But Allison did not consider it a good idea. One of them would have to answer for it eventually. "There's no need for all of us to be punished equally," Allison said. "And I believe the authorities will be kinder to a mother and her child."
Before anyone could stop her, Allison called out, "All right. I'm coming out." She took the gun from Madrigal and whispered, "Wipe your hands in case you have any gunpowder on them."
It was not so much a sense of bravery that made Allison take over. She felt guilty. It was her fault for slowing them all down. If it had not been for Madrigal and Tom waiting for her, while Flood went back to find her, they would have stood a better chance of escaping.
Tom Traymore was just as surprised as Wolf Perkin when Allison, with Morrow, emerged from the cavern opening. A small baby foot was barely visible in the folds of the
shawl. And on the ground where Wolf Perkin stood, lay the matching baby shoe that Wolf had dropped.
The first vestige of sun came through the trees, encircling Allison and the baby in her arms with an ethereal halo of light. For a brief moment, the men, seeing the fragile blonde-haired woman standing there and looking at them with a mystical sadness in her eyes, were suddenly tempted to kneel, as if they were in the presence of some sacred vision. Then the image of the revolver in her hand was superimposed over the other, eradicating that puzzling, fleeting feeling in the hearts of the men before it could take root.
Allison walked over to Wolf and handed him the gun. "I think your dog is merely wounded."
The other three women were close behind Allison; for they did not wish any harm to come to her. Wolf gazed at Allison, and then he looked at the others. He narrowed his eyes and then barked instructions to the men with him.
"All right, put those three back into the wagon with the traitor. And you, Allison Forsyth—wait here, while I see to my hound."
Wolf whistled. "Devil, come here, boy. Come here."
Inside the cave, the dog whimpered. Slowly, he began to move, his bloody foreleg forgotten at the sound of his master's voice.
As the dog struggled to reach Wolf, the man looked at him and raised his rifle again.
"No," Allison cried out. "Please don’t. The dog isn't hurt that badly."
Wolf Perkin ignored Allison's cry. The shot rang out as Wolf put a finish to the hound at his feet.
"Come, give your baby to one of the women in the wagon," he said. "You're riding back with me."
"No. Morrow stays with me."
He raised his hand as if to strike Allison. "You'll do what I tell you without arguing."
"I think that's enough, soldier," one of the cavalrymen intervened. "The woman and her child should ride in the wagon with the others."
Wolf whirled at the sound of the voice. "I'm in charge here. And if I say this woman is riding with me, she'll do it without any interference from you."
"What's your rank, soldier?"
"I'm a corporal, on special assignment, charged with guarding these women."
"I believe your jurisdiction ended, Mister Perkin," Allison commented softly, "once we reached Nashville and were put under General Webster's command."
At her words, a slight smile hovered on the cavalryman's face and then disappeared. "As your superior officer, Corporal Perkin, I order you to allow this woman to return to the wagon."
Wolf Perkin glared at the other soldier, seeing in the faint light his sergeant's stripes.
"Don't worry, Corporal. You'll be given full credit for their capture in my official report."
Wolf turned and, swallowing the bile in his throat, strode toward his horse tethered to a nearby cedar.
"All right, ma'am," the sergeant said. "Take your baby and climb into the wagon. We've got a long trip back to Nashville ahead of us."
The arduous trip began again, over the same rough terrain they had traveled, until they hit Donelson Pike, the road that led back to Nashville.
With one of the soldiers driving the ambulance wagon, the others, including Wolf Perkin, rode in convoy, determined that no one would escape this time.
"I'm sorry, Madrigal." Tom Traymore, with his hands and feet tied, leaned his head against the inside of the wagon.
"It's not your fault, Tom," she answered.
"Maybe if I'd gotten a boat instead…"
His lament hung on the air, like a wisp of smoke curling and then disappearing. No one blamed him for their capture. He had done his best, but their dash for freedom had been aborted. It was as simple as that.
By evening, Tom Traymore was in the military stockade, while the four women, resting in a more closely guarded cell away from Alma and the others, waited to be shipped northward toward Louisville, Kentucky.
John Hunt Morgan, a Confederate cavalry officer from Kentucky, had been luckier than the Roswell women. For two years, the officer had led his troops on raids throughout Kentucky, Mississippi, and Tennessee, striking at the heart of the Union arsenals and supplies and taking hundreds of prisoners.
Then, with a series of raids into Ohio, his luck ran out and he was captured. But after four months in the Ohio Penitentiary, his bid for freedom was successful. And now, in the late days of August 1864, he was back with his men, riding through the countryside and striking its strategic supplies and railroads. His actions were so daring and swift that the damage to Union morale was even worse than the damage done to their military supplies.
Because of his exploits, the women on the deportation train took on new hope, praying that the man would become their deliverer.
At the same time, the news of Morgan's exploits was being followed by another Kentuckian—Captain Glenn Meadors, wounded in the skirmish at Ashby's Gap, and now recuperating on the horse and tobacco farm that he owned jointly with his brother, Rad.
The sandy-haired, medium-height soldier sprawled in a porch chaise and gazed out at the fenced acres of bluegrass meadow. On the table in front of him, he had deliberately set his empty julep glass on his brother's letter, causing the ink to blur and run.
Thinking of Morgan's exploits, he smiled. Rad was probably incensed by now. And anything that made Rad angry afforded Glenn additional pleasure.
It had been that way for as long as Glenn could remember—the two brothers pitted against each other, always on opposite sides. Just like Kentucky itself, divided in loyalty. Glenn had thrown in his lot with the Confederacy, while Rad had chosen to remain in the Union.
Still, the plantation was a mutual problem, binding them together as family, despite their differences in politics.
The land, caught in the long shadows of early evening, was still beautiful, albeit a shabby version of the way it had been before the war. The fences now needed painting. The tall bluegrass begged for mares and their capering foals. And the fields, once golden with burley tobacco, lay fallow, like the curing sheds with no smoke spiraling from the chimneys. Even the servants' houses were empty, with the last two black men conscripted into the Union army to dig ditches and to keep the levees from overflowing.
The house was empty, too, except for the young woman Glenn had brought from town to cook his meals and to tend to his other needs.
As he moved his injured shoulder, a slight stiffness was all that remained. He was almost well, and it wouldn't be long before he left and rejoined his outfit. But the letter that had been waiting for him ar Bluegrass Meadors reprimanded him even as it fluttered with the sudden breeze sweeping the porch. Only the julep glass anchored it and kept it from sailing into the wind that kicked up the gravel dust down the long driveway.
Glenn didn't need to renew his memory as to his brother's instructions. He remembered them well. But he couldn't follow them even if he wanted to. He'd already spent the money earmarked to hire someone to take care of the place until they both returned from the war. Only a miracle would do. But Glenn had run out of miracles as well as money. There wasn't a chance to hire someone now. And he could see his brother scowling at the empty fields and a vandalized house when he returned. As usual, he, Glenn Meadors, would get the blame for it.
"Your supper's ready, Glenn."
The soldier glanced up at the young girl standing in the doorway.
"I'll be in, in a minute." Glenn continued to sit, watching the darkness creep along the fields like some slow, devouring creature swallowing the land that his brother loved.
In the same darkness, the deportation train struggled over the rough terrain, stopping at times so that the new guards, who had no sympathy for their cargo, could remove the tree trunks placed across the Louisville and Nashville Railroad tracks to hamper its progress toward the Ohio River.
The present train was no better and no more comfortable than the first. The only difference was that Allison, Madrigal, Flood, and Rebecca had been separated from their companions in boxcar eleven and placed in another boxcar with those women and
children marked for incarceration at the refugee prison barracks in Louisville, if they were still lucky enough to reach that city.
Allison wiped the perspiration from her face. Morrow had finally gone to sleep after a fretful afternoon that had been nerve-wracking to them all. "Madrigal, have you heard any of the guards say how much longer it will be before we reach Louisville?"
Madrigal fought hard to control her nausea. Her voice was brittle. "I'm not the one you should ask, Allison. These new guards won't have a thing to do with me. They look at me like I'm poison."
"I guess they're afraid they'll wind up like poor Tom," Flood said.
Rebecca, who had been silent for well over an hour, finally spoke. "If this trip's the same length as the one from Marietta to Nashville, then I expect it'll be another week, at least."
"Oh, I hope not," Allison said. Then she brightened. "Maybe only six more days. Remember, we lost nearly a whole day crossing the trestle bridge on foot and then stopping for Marcus Stagg."
"You shoulda gone on with the man, Allison. I expect you'd be better off with him than you are now."
"That's not true, Madrigal. And you know it as well as I do. No, whatever happens, we're much better off sticking together."
The train whistle tooted, but the wheels gave no evidence of slowing down. In fact, the train picked up speed, hurtling through the darkness in record time and causing the women to lose their balance as it shunted from side to side.
Allison coughed, and like the others, she stretched and searched for a more comfortable position on the stale straw. But the comfort she sought eluded her.
As sleep finally came to her bone-weary body, Allison had a disturbing dream of Rose Mallow and the decaying gazebo where she had hidden her husband's picture. In the dream she frantically dug up the box. But when she opened it, the wedding picture had been ruined by the passage of time. She carried the box to the gazebo seat and sat down. Like viewing a stranger from a distance, an unemotional Allison Forsyth watched the blonde woman holding the box and weeping. Then the sleeping Allison curved her body around her child and dreamed no more.
The Roswell Women Page 16