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Rescuing Rose

By Susan Pope Sloan

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Thursday, July 7, 1864
Roswell, Georgia

Something foul was afoot, and this time it was more than a few mice chewing on the machine belts.
Her loom slowed without warning, and Rose Carrigan clutched at the cotton threads tangled in her fingers. The customary high-pitched whine in the room plummeted to a deep growl as all the machines shuddered to a stop. Shuttles paused mid-sweep, setting the bobbins that fed them to dancing on their spindles. Puffs of cotton drifted like falling snowflakes in the still air.
The wide-eyed faces of her co-workers mirrored Rose’s bewilderment. A glance at the narrow window to her left revealed the hazy blue of a summer sky. Hours until quitting time.
Whispered questions buzzed but dropped like swatted mosquitoes at a sudden commotion.
A column of blue-clad soldiers burst through the door.
The bearded leader glowered at the workers. “Out! Everyone outside, now!”
The order bounced from wall to wall. Pointing their rifled muskets, the Union soldiers swept down the aisles and prodded the workers away from their stations.
Dear God, the war had arrived at Roswell’s door. Men with fierce expressions crowded closer. The odor of sweat and filth on their wool uniforms robbed her breath. Memories threatened, but she forced them back.
Rose followed the other weavers into the blinding, blistering sunshine. A sea of blue uniforms circled the factory. Rose threaded her way between her coworkers and groups of haughty soldiers. Snatches of conversations fluttered and fell away. Rumors and speculation of what would happen now. The clamor rose as the crowd swelled.
Rose veered to the left, searching for Celeste. The horde surged around her, and she stumbled. Why didn’t she see her? The afternoon heat settled like a cloak over her shoulders and stifled her breath. Fighting the rising panic, she whirled in a circle, seeking the face so like her own.
“Celeste.” She raised her voice. “Celeste!”
Out of the chaos, a familiar voice called her name, and Rose turned toward it.
Celeste twisted her way through the press of people.
“Thank heavens you’re safe.” Rose clasped her sister’s hands as the crowd pushed them along to the top of the hill that faced the mill. Although Celeste had turned twenty last month, Rose couldn’t shake the feeling of responsibility for her, heavier since the death of their father.
Shouted orders echoed above the rumble of disgruntled murmuring, drawing Rose’s attention back to the now-deserted mill. A torch sailed through the air and disappeared into the building’s top floor. In moments, fire engulfed the four-story structure. Rose gasped and clutched her sister’s arm.
Panic clawed at her throat, urging her to run, but where to? Soldiers and horses formed a living barrier to keep the workers trapped between the fire and a larger phalanx in town.
Black smoke puffed through every crevice, marring the summer sky, its acrid odor drifting across the hillside. With fascinated horror, she watched the structure bow to the flame and crumble into a pile of blackened bricks and charred beams.
Heat from the fire intensified the stifling temperature. Perspiration slid from brows and sprouted in armpits, darkening homespun shirts and blue wool uniforms alike.
It was July, after all. And this was Georgia.
Rose and Celeste, along with the other mill hands, watched in silent terror, transfixed by the sight of such wanton, deliberate destruction. Machinery and ashes of cotton bales lay in scorched heaps on the ground. With the mill gone and the war on their doorstep, what would become of them?
The screen of smoke spread insidiously, stretching its tendrils as far as the eye could see. The crowd shifted, growing restless. Rose cupped her hands over her mouth to block the smoke from her lungs, but her eyes stung and watered.
Celeste raised the tail of her apron to cover most of her face.
A commotion rippled along the edge of the crowd as a uniformed rider guided his horse around the throng. His gaze skimmed over the workers, seemed to assess the scene in mere seconds. Rose lifted her face and dared to meet his scowl. Could he read her scorn, or did he only see the confusion and disappointment that men would stoop to such barbarity?
His jaw clenched, and he looked away. A few words to his men set them scurrying. They pressed against the people and herded them like cattle away from the scene of destruction.
“Go home now.” The soldier closest to them moved through the crowd. “You’ll get orders for your removal tomorrow.”
Celeste dropped her apron and gaped. “Our removal? What does that mean?”
Someone nearby spat a bitter answer. “Well, it’s for sure and certain we can’t stay here no more. No mill. No work. No food. Ain’t nothin’ left here.”
<<>>
Puffs of red dust billowed around Captain Noah Griffin as he spurred his horse away from town on the road toward Marietta. He was glad to leave that wretched inferno behind. Glad he didn’t have to witness the horror and despair on the faces of displaced workers as they watched the destruction.
Coward.
He absorbed the truth of the accusation. Oh, he found the courage to act in time of battle. Nobody could say he ran from danger. Like the mythological creature that shared his family name, he flew into the fight, sometimes without proper caution, much to the dismay of his old arms instructor.
The aftermath of battle, however, sickened him. More and more he shunned the celebration after a victory, preferring solitude. He needed the solace of nature to cleanse his soul of the carnage. Destruction that he’d participated in—again.
Another vision eclipsed that of the carnage. The woman who dared to challenge his scrutiny as he searched the throng for his junior officer. Her eyes shot daggers, but tears coursed her cheeks. She couldn’t know how he hated when his orders destroyed women’s lives, and he did what he could to mitigate the damage. When he joined the military, his goal was to secure the country through law and order. Would that even be possible now?
His current assignment allowed his escape. Whenever General Garrard needed a temporary messenger, he called on Noah. Knowing Noah to be an accomplished rider with a hound dog’s nose for direction, the commander relied on his speed and skill.
Right now, though, Noah needed to work off his frustration at the havoc they’d caused in Roswell, inhabited mostly by women. The primary objective of this campaign was to secure the Chattahoochee River. He failed to see how robbing women of the means to feed their children advanced the Union cause.
Movement in the thick stand of pines ahead warned him to stay alert. Without changing his pace, he swept the area for danger. He was at a disadvantage traveling an unfamiliar road, and he braced for trouble.
A dozen yards in front of him, a young buck sprang from the foliage. Noah pulled on the reins as Hercules sidestepped to avoid the deer. The stag halted and stared, as though taking the measure of the intruders. When it darted away, Noah blew out the breath he’d sucked in.
“Thank You, Lord. Guess I needed reminding You oversee everything. Even with the mess we’ve created, there’s still beauty here.”
Giving his faithful steed an appreciative pat, Noah adjusted his seat. “Let’s get this letter delivered, boy.” Both man and beast would be ready for a proper meal and a few hours of rest. They settled into an easy canter, alert to danger on the path.
<<>>
Rose still gripped her sister’s hand as they joined their neighbors trudging toward the workers’ quarters. Even in this blistering heat, Celeste’s cold fingers signaled her deep distress. Rose whispered words from a Psalm she had memorized as a child. “He will give His angels charge over thee.” It was a promise of protection, but she grappled with this new reality. The Union Army spread over the area like the foul stench from Marietta’s paper mill when the wind blew from that direction.
For months distant guns had thundered near Roswell, but its residents trusted the Confederate forces to stand between them and the howling enemy. After all, the Johnny Rebs stood firm last year at Chickamauga, despite their heavy losses. Surely, they could repel the encroaching enemy again.
The determined bluecoats, however, didn’t give up. They’d returned and pushed steadily southward: Dalton, Resaca, Adairsville, Kennesaw Mountain. Residents of Roswell wondered if they would be next. With no railroad, the small town existed only because of the mill.
Rose continued the soft recitation. “They will bear thee in their hands...”
Celeste turned to her. “What’s going to happen to us now, Rose?”
“I don’t know.” She paused at the end of the street to catch her breath. Mothers and children hurried past them, taking different paths to their cottages. “I heard they took down Monsieur Roche’s French flag at the woolen mill and held him at gunpoint too.”
“Silly man. He should’ve known that ruse wouldn’t work. Why would the Yankees care whether the flag flying over the mill was Confederate or French?”
“I guess he thought a foreign flag might provide some kind of immunity.” Setting up mill supervisor Roche as a partner had been a crafty move by the owner, but it still didn’t save the building. According to the rumors, they’d shipped finished fabrics and raw materials to other towns as the Union army advanced. It angered Rose that their employers cared more about the goods at the mill than the people.
Rose ran a hand over her face and shook her head. “Ah, no sense trying to figure out why people act the way they do. At least we’re alive and well.”
“And we still have each other.” Celeste placed her other hand on top of their linked fingers and squeezed.
Eyes burning with unshed tears, Rose regarded her sister, now her only family. People often thought they were twins, with their similar size and coloring, though better than two years separated them. She poked Celeste in the side. “Your hair is falling down.”
Celeste sniffed and tossed her a look of chagrin. “When isn’t it falling down?” She reached up to tuck the wayward chestnut strands back into the chignon. The stringent style didn’t flatter, but it kept the hair safe from grasping mill machinery, and it proved cooler in the summer heat. “Days like this, I miss having hoops in our skirts. These petticoats are hot without them.”
Rose agreed. Hoops would be cumbersome, not to mention dangerous around the machinery. Finding work in the mills had seemed the best choice last year, with the Federals hovering around Chattanooga, so close to their home in Dalton. With Da sick and most of his congregation leaving, she had convinced him to move so she and Celeste could find jobs.
Resetting a few of her own hairpins, Rose pondered the prospect of yet another move. They had no choice, but this time, it would only be the two of them.
Rose announced her decision as they reached their little cottage. “We are going to gather our belongings so we’ll be ready to move out as soon as the army leaves.” Her voice conveyed more confidence than she felt. Once again, men who cared nothing for them forced her and Celeste from their home, saw them merely as hindrances. This time, she’d push back.
Celeste started. “But where will we go?”
“Farther south, I suppose. Let’s ask Janie where we might find employment.” Janie Wilson has stepped in as a mother figure when the sisters came to Roswell. “I imagine others will be thinking the same, so we need to be sitting on ready, as Da would say. The Lord will guide our steps to the right place.”
Celeste pushed open the front door. “Did the army destroy the company store and the warehouses? I didn’t think to look that way or to ask anyone.”
Rose followed Celeste inside and sank onto a cane-straw straight-back chair. “Not as far as I know. But there couldn’t have been much left there after Mr. Barrington King divided the provisions.” That was one thing the owner had done right by his workers before he left town. At least they’d all have something to eat for a few days.
“I wonder where they’ll get enough food to feed that army.” Celeste fingered the yellow curtains at the window where she stood.
Weariness pressed Rose. Why couldn’t they put down roots for good? All she wanted was a place to call home.
She cast about for a word of hope, something to lighten the darkness hovering around them. Forcing a cheerful tone, she slapped the tabletop. “Well, there is one good thing about this sudden turn of events.”
Celeste turned troubled eyes her way and voiced her doubts. “And what would that be?”
Rose’s lips twitched, striving for a smile. “We can sleep late tomorrow. No mill to report to at dawn. And packing up ought to be easy since we won’t be carting any furniture this time.”

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