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Excerpt
#3
Clara found her place at her looms at Ivy Woolen Mill, and as she
waited for the bell, she regarded the women and girls around her. Some appeared
nervous and quiet. Others seemed unbothered as they chatted and laughed in
small clusters. Temperance was looking at her. Clara turned around to avoid her
glare.
The bell sounded and they took their places, and the machines
whirred into motion with a roar.
Clara tended to her looms, replacing bobbins as they ran out of
weft, her thoughts on the advancing army. Hours passed, and gray wool cloth
formed on the looms before her, and then it happened: The bell tolled, far too
early to signal the noonday break.
A warning bell.
The blood rushed from Clara’s hands. This was it. At first, the
overseer kept the looms running, so Clara and the other weavers kept at their
work. But not long after the bell tolled, a noise reverberated from somewhere
outside, layered on top of the din and tremble of the power looms.
Clara regarded the others; her own wonderment reflected in their
faces.
Seconds later, several doffer boys from the spinning room rushed in,
shouting and pointing toward the river. A new scent mingled with the oil and
sweat: woodsmoke. Clara exchanged a look with the woman across the aisle. She’d
smelled it too. The overseer hurried down a long aisle toward the stairwell.
The looms were still running. He returned moments later, his expression
inscrutable.
Clara was anxious to see for herself what the doffers had witnessed.
The machines kept running, and though she risked reprobation, she left her
place and hurried to the stairwell. Several others crowded around her at the
window. She let out a cry, and her hand flew to her mouth. Even though she’d
suspected what it was, still it was hard to believe the sight.
Flames consumed the covered bridge. Even at this distance, the heat
warmed her face. Large planks fell to the river with an unholy crash and
sizzle.
A soldier in blue ran past Ivy Mill toward the bridge. The sight of
Union troops was like the realization of a dream. More soldiers followed,
racing down the road from town toward the river.
The Union soldiers yelled and pointed their guns across the river.
On the far bank, the Roswell Battalion fired back.
“Get back inside!” the guard shouted to several doffer boys who’d
run outside for a closer look at the fighting.
The day had taken on a dreamlike quality. Their mills and this
sleepy town, this isolated place of hard work and no small amount of suffering,
had become a battlefield. After three long years, the war had found Roswell.
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| my thoughts |
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Website: https://helenhollick.net/
Amazon Author Page: https://viewauthor.at/HelenHollick
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Helen