Homeward Bound: A Roswell Women Short Story

Written for my mother, Patsy Carman Hendricks, for teaching me about hope.

The smoke that rose above Roswell in July of 1864 was not the familiar white plume of the cotton mills, but a greasy, black smear against the bright Georgia sky. For sixteen-year-old Elizabeth Banner Baldwin, named for her two grandmothers but called "Eliza," the sight was a visual metaphor for the sudden, complete shredding of her secure world.

She was one of nearly 400 textile workers—primarily women and children—who had been rounded up by order of General William T. Sherman. The mills, the Union commander declared, were supplying the Confederacy, and so they were to be destroyed, and the workers sent North, far from the war zone.

Eliza stood numbly on the makeshift parade ground, her meager bundle clutched tightly in her hand. The hot, damp air felt heavy with dust and dread. They were told they were being sent to Union territory, possibly as far as Indiana, to prevent them from manufacturing again. The collective grief and fear of the mill workers—some of whom had children too young to walk—was a palpable, choking thing.

“Do not let your thoughts be troubled and do not be afraid,” Eliza looked up to the heavens above. “I have faith, Lord, but how are we to do this?”

“I’ve been asking Him the same thing!”

"Shh!" Eliza pressed her fingers to her lips.

Martha raised her voice to Eliza, "You are supposed to be the one with all the answers, since you can read and all! Much good all that learning has done for us!” Martha was twenty, a young widow whose husband had been killed at Gettysburg, and she had only started work in the mills a week before the Yankees showed up. Eliza had worked on the loom closest to Martha’s, and they had become friends, with Martha listening to the Scripture that Eliza would quote. Eliza was known in the mill for being a “Scripture Mutterer,” someone who had memorized The Good Book and could apply the appropriate Scripture in the proper time. Her late father had been a Methodist circuit preacher, also killed at Gettysburg with Martha’s young husband.

Martha’s eyes were wide and red, already seeing the desolate horizon of an unknown Northern state.

Eliza, small-framed but possessing a fierce, internal wire of determination, took a breath. “We are going North, Martha, just as they say. But we are going home first. One way or another. We must keep our wits about ourselves—and pray!” Eliza searched her mind for the Scripture that the Lord pressed on her heart. “Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” She finished, “First Thessalonians 5:16-18.”

The forced march began under a broiling sun. It wasn't a brutal military column, but a guarded convoy of wagons, mostly carrying the youngest and the sick, flanked by Union cavalry tasked with keeping the workers moving. Their destination, for now, was the train depot that would take them out of Georgia.

The first few days were a blur of dust, exhaustion, and despair. They were given scant food—mostly dried jerky and hardtack—and allowed little rest. Eliza knew that many of the women, broken by the loss of their livelihoods and the threat of permanent exile, would keep going north until they were settled somewhere else. But Eliza’s mother was an invalid back in Marietta, too fragile to have been moved by the Union troops, and Eliza’s only goal was to get back to her.

She had to escape. But how? They were constantly watched, and the guards rode far out on the flanks. “God, deliver me!” she prayed. “Show me a way—please, my Lord, make a way!”

Eliza began to observe. Her greatest asset was not strength, but the meticulous attention to detail she had learned working the spindles for ten hours a day.

She noticed two things: firstly, the Union guards, confident in the women's despair, were becoming lax, often riding far ahead to enjoy the shade of the pine forests, leaving the actual column to be managed by a couple of weary sergeants on foot. Secondly, the goods in the convoy wagons were not entirely military supplies. A few wagons were packed with bales of confiscated cotton and other raw materials taken from the mills, items too valuable to burn. On the fifth day, their column was forced to stop near a small, deep ravine. A flash flood from a summer storm had washed out a small bridge. The guards dismounted, cursing, and began the laborious work of rerouting the wagons. This created the perfect cover: noise, confusion, and distraction.

Eliza had spent the previous night whispering with Martha. “It’s the bales,” Eliza whispered to her now. “The ones at the back of the third wagon. They’re lashed down loosely.”

Martha paled. “You can’t be serious. We’d be crushed! It’s bad enough we are sopping wet and like everyone else, could be dead walking with influenza! If we walk....”

“We are walking! We will NOT get influenza; I rebuke those thoughts in the name of Jesus!” Eliza leaned into her friend. “We’ll wait until they start moving the wagons down into the ravine bed. When the rear of that third wagon dips, the bales will shift. It’s the best chance we’ll get for cover. We must take this chance—there may not be another one!”

As the sun began to sink, the guards finally managed to maneuver the first wagon down the steep incline. The process was deafening, the screech of wood and the shouting of the men creating a bubble of chaos. When the third wagon began its slow, grinding descent, Eliza acted.

“Now!” she hissed.

She and Martha moved to the rear of the wagon, feigning exhaustion as they leaned against the canvas side. As the wagon hit a sharp bump at the crest of the ravine, the loose ropes on a pair of cotton bales strained. Eliza, quick as a cat, slipped her knife—a gift from her father she’d hidden in her bodice—and cut one of the ropes.

The moment the wagon pitched forward, the two bales of cotton, each weighing hundreds of pounds, tumbled free. They didn't crash; the steep bank cushioned their fall, allowing them to roll silently into a thicket of scrub oak and pine brush at the edge of the woods, momentarily hidden by the wagon's canvas cover.

Eliza and Martha threw themselves down the embankment and squeezed into the small, dark space between the two bales, pulling pine needles and dead leaves over themselves. “Be with me, Lord,” Eliza prayed. “I trust in Thee!”

The column continued to move. No one noticed the two missing mill hands. The focus was entirely on maneuvering the heavy wagons. The confusion bought them time. They waited, hearts hammering, until the last sounds of the cavalry’s hooves faded into the distance. It was the deepest dark of night when Eliza finally moved. “Eliza, our Lord is indeed keeping us safe!” Martha reached out to Eliza, and together the two women prayed, rejoicing that the escape had been successful, but now the real test—the journey home—was about to begin!

Both girls knew they were miles and miles from home, but the best guess was that they were north of Roswell, cut off from any familiar roads. Their first move was to find water and food. They followed a small stream, knowing it would eventually lead them toward civilization. Although they had boarded and worked at Roswell's mills, they were actually from the nearby town of Marietta. "It feels as if it's on the other side of the moon!" Martha lamented as she followed Eliza.

“We can’t walk the main roads,” Eliza reasoned, sharing a handful of foraged nuts with Martha. “We’ll be picked up as stragglers, Confederate or Union. We have to walk at night and keep to the woods.”

Their journey quickly became a brutal test of endurance. The summer heat was oppressive, and the hills of Georgia were thick with mosquitoes, chiggers, and the fear of wild animals.

On the third evening of their escape, they made a breakthrough. Following a barely used deer path, they stumbled upon an old, secluded farmstead. The windows were shuttered, but a plume of smoke rose lazily from the chimney. Eliza approached cautiously, remembering the kindness and the danger of dealing with strangers in the war.

She knocked softly on the door. “We are two women going home—Christians—please, help us!” she said into the door. “All we ask is a little food and water…We come from the Roswell Mills…” and suddenly, Eliza recalled her mother's favorite Scripture of Matthew 7:7-8, and she said it, this time loudly, “Ask, and it will be given to you; Seek, and you will find; knock, and the door will be... Please, whoever hears me, we are from the Roswell Mills!”

The door was opened by an older woman with sharp, knowing eyes, and she finished for the young woman. “The door shall be opened to you!” “Roswell mill hands,” Mrs. Louise Calhoun stated, not asking. She pulled them inside immediately, scanning the tree line before barring the door.

“How did you girls get away? Why, we all heard the Yankee vermin are sending women and children North as prisoners! Sit! You look like two skeletons wrapped in muslin.” Mrs. Calhoun was a widow whose two sons were fighting with the Confederate forces far away. “We had heard what that devil Sherman did, rounding up women and babies! You girls must rest! I’ll prepare some of my fresh bread and a little honey left—not much, but it’s better than nothing! You’ll sleep tonight. An angel must be watching over you girls....”

The girls slept that night under patchwork quilts, only to be awakened by the dawn and the smell of sizzling rabbit for breakfast. As the girls ate, Mrs. Calhoun discussed how they could return home. She didn't offer a direct route. Instead, she provided the crucial knowledge needed for a stealth escape.

“You’re going the wrong way, following the river,” Mrs. Calhoun advised, spreading a crude map of the local paths on her table. “The Union patrols follow the water for easy marching. You must go deeper into the mountains. Find the ‘Iron Horse Trail.’ It’s an old miners’ path. Only smugglers and the mountain men use it now. It runs parallel to the railroad, but a good distance away, until you get to Kennesaw Mountain.”

She supplied them with two small pouches of cornmeal, a block of salt pork, and a worn compass that pointed true. Crucially, she gave them a piece of advice: “Trust the black gum trees. They grow where the land is highest. Trust the Lord with your footing—He shall lead you! And wear the sun on your left shoulder in the morning to keep true south.” The girls were greatly relieved to be given a gourd each with a stopper to preserve and refill precious, life-giving water, along with a sling crafted from animal hide.

Armed with this local wisdom, Eliza and Martha set out again, this time following a purposeful, hidden path. The Iron Horse Trail was rough—climbing and descending jagged, steep hills—but it was empty of soldiers. They walked, guided by the sun's position in the daytime and the compass needle by the light of the moon.

As they neared Marietta, the Union presence thickened. Marietta was currently the center of General Sherman’s advance to Atlanta, and the area around Kennesaw Mountain was swarming with troops. Here, their luck nearly ran out. Resting in the shadow of a massive boulder, they heard the sharp, clear voices of Union soldiers patrolling a nearby logging road.

“We’re too close,” Martha whispered, trembling. “We have to go back.”

Eliza looked up. Towering above them was Kennesaw Mountain. There was no going around it; it was too well-guarded. They had to go through it. Eliza remembered stories from her childhood: tales of hidden caves and hollows used by the Cherokee high on the mountain slopes. They started climbing, scrambling up the back side, away from the roads. The girls would stop at every opportunity to top off their water supply, not knowing when the next chance would present itself.

The climb was exhausting, but the air was clear and calm. They spent a nervous day hiding in a narrow crevice, watching the smoke of distant campfires, and praying that the Lord would, indeed, keep directing their way home. “See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!” Eliza whispered, “First John 3:1.”

It was during their descent on the south side of the mountain that Eliza found her final path home. The slope was covered in a dense growth of mountain laurel and rhododendron, the perfect hiding place. They slid, crawled, and pulled themselves down, moving slowly toward the familiar sight of the town of Marietta.

As they reached the base of the mountain, they found themselves on the outskirts of their hometown. The Union occupation was visible everywhere: soldiers on horseback, tents pitched in the town square, and supply wagons blocking the streets.

“We made it,” Martha leaned into Eliza for support, suddenly feeling exhaustion overtake her petite frame. “We made it!” Eliza hugged her friend closely and whispered, “We are almost home... Keep praying, Martha! We must keep going! Praise Him as we struggle and praise Him as we get home!”

The girls couldn't walk in. They would be recognized instantly as mill hands, and now, as escapees.

Eliza waited until the setting sun cast long, obscuring shadows, then donned her disguise.

Back at Mrs. Calhoun’s, Eliza had traded her worn mill dress for a patched, shapeless smock and wrapped her head in a dirty kerchief, disguising herself as an old field hand. Martha did the same. Moving with the purposeful shuffle of farm workers returning late from the fields, they entered Marietta. They kept their eyes down, ignoring the shouts of the soldiers and the frightened whispers of the townsfolk. Eliza knew the town intimately. She led Martha not through the main streets, but through the alleyways, over fences, and past the backyard gates that only lifelong residents would know.

Finally, they reached the narrow street where Eliza’s small, wooden house stood. It was dark, silent, and undisturbed. “This is where we part, Martha,” Eliza whispered, turning. “You know the way to your aunt’s house. Be careful. We shall see one another in better times!” Martha embraced her friend's frail body, feeling the bones protruding through the worn fabric of Eliza’s clothing. “I know a Scripture, Eliza! It’s one I have kept in my heart since we started.... I had hope I would say it to you.”

“What is the Scripture?” Eliza smiled.

“When I think of no candle, He is my candle: ‘Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path’ of Psalm 119:105!” Martha gripped Eliza’s arm, her eyes full of silent gratitude and relief.

“God bless you, Elizabeth Banner Baldwin, my Scripture Mutterer! Tell your mother I send my love.”

Eliza watched Martha disappear into the dusk, then turned to her own door.

She lifted the latch—a familiar, comforting sound—and slipped inside.

The house was dim, lit only by the last rays of the moon through the window. The air smelled of woodsmoke and sickness. Oh Lord Jesus, she prayed, let Mama be here...

Eliza found her mother in bed, frail and nearly skeletal. The moment she saw Eliza, her faded eyes widened, and a sound that was half sob and half laugh escaped her. “Eliza! Oh, my child, I thought they had you forever!”

Eliza collapsed onto the bed, clinging to her mother, burying her face in the thin, familiar cotton blanket. “I’m home, Mama,” Eliza whispered, the words catching on a wave of exhaustion and victory. “The mill is gone, but I’m home. I followed the iron horse, but I used the black gum trees to get here.”

Her escape had been successful, not through confrontation or violence, but through using the quiet, forgotten parts of the land, the kindness of strangers, and the deep, guiding knowledge of the north Georgia terrain. She had left the column that was marching toward an unknown fate in the North and found her way back to the only place she belonged.

“Mama... My Scripture for you,” she laid her lips next to her Mama's brow and kissed it. “Enter His gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name.” She finished with a triumphant smile, “And I am home, Mama. Praise God, I am home! That’s Psalm 100:4!”

The immediate crisis of the Roswell march was over, yet the war was now right on their doorstep. General Sherman's forces had indeed captured Marietta, and the continuous roar of Union artillery fire aimed at Atlanta became the new soundtrack of their lives.

Eliza's escape was a personal victory, but it did not change the environment of scarcity and danger. She used the resourcefulness honed on the road to keep herself and her mother alive. She learned to line up early for the scant rations distributed by the military, to barter with the local farmers who dared sneak supplies past the pickets, and to keep their home secure against looters. Always, always, she would praise the Lord for His faithfulness and pray for the safe return of her friends who were still prisoners, now somewhere up North. No word had come about any other escapes of the Roswell women and children.

Mrs. Baldwin, Eliza's mother, had noted early on that Eliza was running a fever, saying she was decidedly under the weather, a state Eliza had ignored in favor of the immediate need to escape. Now, the fever subsided, replaced by a persistent clarity of homecoming that they had made it, despite the odds, home!

Martha, who had made it safely to her aunt’s farm further south, sent a coded message months later via an elderly courier, confirming she had found refuge.

Eliza, for her part, had saved her mother. From the fear that her only child had possibly perished just as her husband, the Reverend Baldwin, had at Gettysburg, Eliza's mother recovered. Be it miracle, be it rejoicing, be it just His will: both women were joyous; they were together again! Martha's aunt had written how relieved she was to have Martha home and that she was learning to read with her aunt from The Good Book. Slowly, Martha was learning how to read!

They had endured the significant displacement, but the journey home—the process of recovering stability, security, and hope—would be the long march itself. The physical scars of the mountain laurel and the heat faded. Still, the indelible knowledge of how quickly civilization could crumble, and how utterly reliant she was on her own wits, became the new thread that ran through Eliza’s life. “Not my own wits,” Eliza smiled, looking as she so often did, to heaven, praising the very One that had led them home!

She would never again hear the clatter of wagons without remembering the terrible column heading north, and the quiet, desperate moment she had chosen the dark earth over the open road, following the direction of the black gum trees back to the single person who needed her most. As the years passed, both Eliza and Martha would tell their children and their children's children of the chance they took to make it home: “Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer! Romans 12:12!”

For more information on the Roswell Women, visit: Dillman, C. M. (2003). Deportation of Roswell Mill Women. In New Georgia Encyclopedia. Retrieved Nov 3, 2025, from https://www.georgiaencyclopedia.org/articles/history-archaeology/deportation-of-roswell-mill-women/