But Sherman had taken away more than her home, her way of life. His action had breached the very foundation of her soul, the mores and principles by which she'd always lived and viewed the world, that same vision that governed all women brought up in the gentle traditions of the South.
These ideals had been stripped away from her as surely as bark splitting from a tree. With each mile, each further humiliation, the dead past had fallen away. For a time, when she was struggling with the loss, she had felt the vacuum. Then, gradually, without her becoming really aware of it, a stronger Allison had emerged, until now she could look at her situation and realize that, from now on, she would be responsible for her own fate.
Allison turned to her child and smiled. "It's always a shock, isn't it, little one, when you let go of a dream and begin to face reality."
Morrow waved her arms. "Ma-ma," she said, showing two small teeth as she smiled and attempted to climb from the basket.
Royal Freemont's house was situated a distance from the main road, the same as Bluegrass Meadors. In the distance, it, too, was framed by trees, but the fence bordering the drive was made of unpainted split rails, a more rustic approach to a house not quite so elegant as the one she'd just left. But as Allison turned into the avenue of trees, she stifled the nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach.
The white-haired man seated on the porch pushed his straw hat off his forehead and gazed myopically at the carriage making its way up the drive. Big Caesar, his black man that he'd hidden from the conscription officer, was barely visible in the cotton field as he harvested the second picking from the stalks.
Royal Freemont, taking a break from the fields, set down his glass of bourbon, calmly reached for his rifle, and waited for the carriage to come closer.
He hated the war—and most of the men involved, Rebel and Yankee alike. Nothing made sense—the abolitionists in the Northeast, saying they were fighting to free the poor black man from slavery while the draft riots in New York had resulted in blacks being hunted down throughout the city and killed. And the Colored Orphan Asylum being burned. And the South saying they were fighting for state's rights, liberty, and independence, while the men in the West straddled both sides of the fence.
And all the time, one section of the country was growing prosperous while another section was starving—with the war giving an excuse for lawless bands from both camps to rove the countryside to plunder and pillage.
The carriage came closer. Royal now recognized a lone woman headed up the driveway. He hated all women, too. And he'd just as soon have this one turn right around and go back to where she came from.
Instead, Allison pulled the carriage up to the steps and, taking the baby into her arms, climbed down. "Mr. Freemont?"
The man relaxed his hand on the rifle. "Yes?"
"My name is Allison and this is my child, Morrow. We're part of the family that Major Meadors, your neighbor, hired to run Bluegrass Meadors while he's away."
"You're a Rebel, aren't you?" the man inquired. "Taken from the prison over in Louisville."
Allison didn't deny it. "I have come, Mr. Freemont, to see if I might purchase one of your milk cows."
"You husband should have come. I don't do business with a woman."
Allison's face flushed. "My husband is—" She stopped. She could not tell him that her husband was dead. And she certainly couldn't tell him that Major Meadors had made a mistake of hiring four women and no man. "He's busy in the fields, Mr. Freemont."
Morrow chose that moment to smile and reach out toward the man. He looked at the baby for a moment and then said, "You have any money? I mean, good money?"
"Yes." She reached into her pocket and pulled out the knotted handkerchief. "A gold eagle."
At the sight of the gold coin, Royall called out to the man in the hearby field. "Big Caesar, go to the pasture and bring up Daisy Belle."
The black man set down his crocker sack. He walked to the railing and repeated, as if he hadn't heard the man correctly. "Daisy Belle?"
Big Caesar looked at Allison. Slowly he began to walk past the barn and then disappeared into the clump of trees at the edge of the pasture.
"Well, you might as well sit down on the steps and wait."
"Thank you, Mr. Freemont."
The man picked up his bourbon glass and, pretending to ignore the woman, he began to sip the last of the liquid.
"What happened to your hair?"
"I had the fever."
"A pity. A woman doesn't look right with such short hair."
Allison shrugged. "It doesn't matter. It will grow out again."
A few minutes later, Big Caesar returned with the Guernsey cow. Royal stood and walked over to the animal. "Well, here she is. Shall I have my man tie her to the back of your carriage?"
Allison took one look at the cow. She cleared her throat and then said, "I don't like the looks of this animal, Mr. Freemont, especially for the money I'm paying you. Don't you have a better one—one without the bloat?"
Big Caesar coughed and turned his head away from his master.
Allison couldn't tell which action had made the man so furious—hers, in refusing the animal, or Big Caesar's.
"Well, don't stand there, Big Caesar. Take Daisy Belle back to the pasture and bring one more to her liking."
"Yes, Mr. Freemont."
It didn't take long for the black man to return. This time the milk cow looked like a prize specimen. Big Caesar waited for Allison to inspect the animal.
With a nod, Allison said, "She'll do fine, Mr. Freemont."
"Of course she will. Big Caesar has just given you one of the best cows in my pasture."
As the black man went back to the cotton field and picked up his crocker sack, Allison slowly left the driveway of the house belonging to Royal Freemont. Tied to the back of the carriage was the milk cow purchased for her daughter Morrow.
While Allison made her way back to Bluegrass Meadors, she inwardly thanked Major Rad Meadors and the only humorous entry in his journal—concerning Royal Freemont and his cow, Daisy Belle. Otherwise, the problem cow might now be tied to the rear of her carriage.
Chapter 26
The purchase of the cow by Allison heralded a new era. The gold coin that she had clung to ever since her wedding day was gone—the last material symbol linking her to the past.
But in its place a knowledgeable legacy far more important was reawakened as Allison, used to running Rose Mallow in its earlier days before the war eroded all of her resources, took full responsibility for the running of Bluegrass Meadors. She threw herself into all of the work, all of the chores, delegating to each woman her fair share of that work. But it was Allison who got up earlier and stayed up later, planning the day ahead. And when she needed advice, she went to Rad Meadors's journal, which soon became a guide for their daily lives.
Then the day finally came when Allison knew they could wait no longer. The weather was perfect and the tobacco fields were ripe.
The first morning of a new week, as the sun crept over the hills and began to light the meadows with its blinding rays, the four women left the cottage and followed the meandering path past the paddocks. At the edge of the field where the log curing barns were standing, Allison stopped.
Just as she had once carried Morrow in a basket to the woolen mill, so Allison brought her child to the fields in a basket. But this time the basket was much larger and deeper. And when she'd reached the poplar tree at the edge of the field, Allison took the rope, doubled it over, and anchored the basket to one of the limbs. She was careful to lift it only a few inches off the ground to allow for the circulation of the air; yet it was close enough so that Morrow would not hurt herself if she happened to fall out.
Allison, Rebecca, Flood, and Madrigal were a strange-looking crew, dressed as they were in old work clothes found in the attic of the cottage. While the straw hats and veils provided little respite from the sun for their heads, so the gloves on their hands provided scant protect
ion from the steady, unmerciful jolt of cutting the tobacco stalks.
After an hour, with little talk among them, Madrigal stood up and stretched her back. She gazed at the knife she held in her hands and then looked at the rows of tobacco waiting to be harvested. "I'd rather be back at the mill workin' ten hours a day," she complained.
"And I'd rather be havin' tea with the queen of England," Flood said, working beside her. "But since there's not much chance of either one, guess we'll have to keep on cuttin' the tobacco."
"And I could do with a cool drink of water about now," Rebecca said.
"What about it, Allison? You think we could take a break now?"
Allison looked at Madrigal and then back at the tobacco. "Let's finish this row first."
The women went back to work, with the knives serving as machetes. Faster they cut, and when they reached the end of the row, Madrigal let out a whoop, threw down her knife, and walked toward the shade of the tree.
Rebecca came back with a cool bucket of water from the pump. And within minutes, they had all partaken of it, including Morrow, who had awakened from her nap.
Each day was the same, with the women getting farther from the cottage and the tobacco barns. An entire week went by, and all the while the grueling sun etched its mark on the women's faces, despite their use of hats and veils. On wooden slab altars adjacent to the barns, they spread the ripe tobacco leaves to dry to a golden brown in the same uncompromising sun.
Several times, as the women worked in the field, Allison would glance up to see a man in the distance watching them. He never waved or spoke. He merely stood and watched. And then he would climb back into his buggy and disappear. Allison had no need to wonder who he was, for she had recognized Royal Freemont, the neighbor down the road.
Once all the tobacco was dried, the women hung the leaves in the well-ventilated barns for curing. And when that was done, they returned to the cottage, promptly fell into their beds, and slept around the clock.
In the cool of the evening, when the harvesting was over, Flood sat on the porch with Allison and her baby. As Flood's attention turned to the barns at the edge of the razed fields, Allison said, "We'll have to see about the next tobacco auction, Flood."
The woman nodded. "I didn't think we could do it," she said. "Get it ready for market. But we did."
Allison noticed the sense of satisfaction on Flood's face. And she was hesitant about spoiling it. "I'll feel a lot better once the tobacco's out of the barns and in the warehouse."
"What are we goin' to do about the bare stalks, Allison?"
"First, we'll cut as much as we can for winter fodder. After that, we'll have to wait and see what the weather does. Rad—Major Meadors, that is—usually sets fire to the fields to get rid of the rest. But it's so dry around here that I'm afraid the fire might spread."
Flood nodded. "Whatever you think best, Allison, we'll follow up on it."
"Thank you, Flood." There was no need to say more. Once they'd left the prison, the two women had come to an understanding and appreciation of each other. For though Flood was supreme when it came to running a mill, she depended entirely on Allison in this alien environment of land, horses, and tobacco.
A few minutes later, Rebecca returned from milking the cow and Madrigal from the paddocks where she had been watching the foals. All four went into the cottage to eat their evening meal. When the dishes had been washed and put away in the cupboard, Flood, Rebecca, and Madrigal said good night. But, as usual, Allison lingered by the candlelight in the parlor and read from Rad Meadors's journal.
For those weeks that swept August off the calendar and brought in a new month, the women were completely isolated, with no news of the war reaching them. Success now rode in almost every direction with the Union troops. In the Western campaign, Sherman took Atlanta and began his destructive march to the sea, burning plantations and fields, slaughtering animals, and leaving nothing behind to feed a hungry people. But the taking of that city had little effect on the women at Bluegrass Meadors. Another event was far more relevant. For about the same time, in a raid at Greeneville, Tennessee, John Hunt Morgan, the Kentuckian hero of the Confederacy, was finally caught and killed by Union cavalry. And in that group was one Rad Meadors.
As Allison lay sleeping, a group of ragtag men and boys, attaching themselves to the Paw-Paw Militia, was heading in the direction of Bluegrass Meadors to avenge Morgan's death. And in that group was a disillusioned Puckka Knox.
He had not gotten far from Louisville when his sister, Caddie, died. A week later, his mother Rena had followed. And with her death, the last restraints of civilization disappeared. Puckka was free to do as he pleased.
And it pleased him to join that group of deserters and bushwhackers that always follows in the wake of an invading army, culling the remains that a foraging army leaves behind. Those men, seemingly born to pillage and plunder if given an opportunity, were a source of embarrassment to both the Union and Confederate sides. But the South, so steeped in tradition and the gentlemen's code, was particularly aghast that any of their own could be capable of such behavior.
The men crept silently down the long, fenced lane of Bluegrass Meadors. In their hands they carried clubs wrapped in kerosene-soaked rags, ready to be ignited at a sign from their leader.
Puckka stood and looked at the brick mansion silhouetted in the moonlight. "I'll take the big house," Puckka said. "Anybody else want to come with me?"
But the leader held up his hand. "We're only goin' to burn the fields and the tobacco barns. That's all—a little calling card for the major."
"But what about the house?"
"That's not to be touched. Out of respect for the other brother, Captain Meadors, who's fighting on our side."
A few of the men grumbled, but in the end they obeyed their leader, igniting their torches and rushing through the fields, leaving a trail of fire that spread among the dry stalks. Quickly they struck, and quickly they disappeared, while the aroma of burning tobacco rose on a golden cloud that spread over the land.
The skyline became an arc of flames, with a sudden breeze sweeping through the trees and carrying with it the sparks that threatened disaster to the entire plantation.
With the increasing glow upon the horizon giving a false dawn, Allison awoke. She rebelled at the idea of getting up, for she felt that she had only gone to bed a few minutes previously. But as she sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes, the odor of tobacco assailed her.
"Rebecca! Flood!" she screamed. "Wake up! I think something's wrong."
She rushed to the window to look out. The fear that had nagged at her during the entire harvesting of the tobacco became reality. The barns were afire and the wind, blowing from that direction, sent sparks, like a thousand tiny lights, toward the porch of the cottage itself.
"Madrigal, wake up! Flood, Rebecca, get the buckets. We've got to save the barns."
The nightmare began, with the women stumbling sleepily out of the cottage. Madrigal took up her position at the pump, filling the buckets with water, while the other three women ran back and forth in a vain effort to save the barns. But the water had little effect upon the fire. It continued to burn out of control, the log barns with their treasure and the stubble in the fields lighting up an area that could be seen for miles.
"Allison, you'd better get the baby out of the cottage. Looks like we might not be able to save it, either."
Allison, with her face blackened by the smoke, heeded Flood's warning. She left her place in line and rushed back inside the cottage just as the dry timbers supporting the porch began to smoulder.
As Allison carried Morrow toward the redbrick mansion and placed the basket on the porch, Royal Freemont and his man, Big Caesar, raced down the road in a carriage.
Without a word, they took their places with the women, pumping water and becoming part of the bucket brigade. But they, too, finally gave up on the barns, for the tobacco had been ruined. Instead, they turned their attention to the cot
tage, which was already on fire.
Three hours later, as the sun appeared on the horizon, all who'd fought the fire so valiantly were slumped on the porch of the mansion and looking at the ruins.
"It's all gone," Allison lamented. "Everything we worked so hard for."
"We don’t even have a roof over our heads," Madrigal said.
Charred land in every direction greeted them. Only a piece of the tin roof and the stone chimney marked where the cottage had been. And the stubble in the fields was all that was left of the once flourishing tobacco crop. There was no trace, either, of the two tobacco-curing barns at the edge of the field.
"Looks like you'll have to move into the big house," Royal Freemont said matter-of-factly. He stood up and motioned to Big Caesar. "Got to go home now. Plenty of chores waiting for us there."
"Mr. Freemont—"
He waved his hand at Allison. "No need to say anything. Little enough we could do. Just wish we'd been here in time to help save the tobacco crop."
As the two men drove away, Flood said, "I feel exactly like I did that day when the soldiers burned the mill."
"But it wasn't the Yankees this time," Madrigal said. "Big Caesar said it was retribution from some of the Paw-Paws wantin' to get revenge for Major Morgan's death. He heard it was Rad Meadors's bunch that cornered and killed him."
Flood looked up. "They could have burned Mr. Freemont's place, too."
"That's why they had to wait, to make sure they were gone, before they came to help us."
"Well, we've got the cow, Miss Allison. And the orchards," Rebecca said, trying to cheer her up.
"And we certainly won't go hungry this winter," Allison joined in, "with all the food we preserved. We're just lucky, I guess, that we stored the majority of it in the mansion's pantry."
"Well, are we goin' to do what Mr. Freemont said?" Madrigal asked. "Move into this house for the winter?"
"I suppose it's the only thing we can do," Allison replied.
Madrigal immediately stood up. "Then I know which room I want. It's the one at the head of the stairs, with the canopied bed and the sittin' room."
The Roswell Women Page 19