With this Pledge

by Tamera Alexander

  Hattie and Sallie looked at each other and grinned. Winder, however, stopped dead in his tracks.

  “I got in trouble for goin’ in there last time, Miss Clouston. Mama said I ate too many of Tempy’s tea cakes. And it took forever ’fore I could have ’em again.”

  Lizzie’s heart warmed as she remembered that incident. How she loved this boy. “It’s all right, Winder. We have your mother’s permission to go inside, I promise. Come along.”

  She opened the door and a bevy of scents reached out to them—fresh ground flours and meals, an array of spices ranging from cinnamon to nutmeg to oregano, and above it all the sweet scent of dried apples, peaches, and pears. Tempy worked tirelessly when it came to storing up summer fruits and vegetables, and was equally skilled at turning those stored goods into culinary treasures.

  Lizzie placed the oil lamp on the stone floor. “Have a seat, children.” She sat on a barrel of molasses, her mind racing.

  Sallie sucked in a breath. “I forgot Clara! May I go back and get her, please?”

  Hattie jumped up. “I’ll go with her. We’ll be like those explorers you told us about!”

  Lizzie held up a hand. “I’ll go get Clara. Meanwhile, I want you three explorers to discuss what you think it might be like to be inside a pyramid in one of those rooms. Each of you write down three things you might see or feel or smell while in that room. Then when I get back, we’ll share our lists with each other.”

  The children nodded, though Sallie didn’t look quite as convinced.

  Lizzie reached behind her for a tin. “And of course every explorer needs nourishment.” She removed the lid and held out the container.

  “Tea cakes!” Winder yelled and grabbed two, then paused and looked up at Lizzie, who gave an approving nod.

  After serving the girls and seeing her three charges settled, she slipped from the larder and closed the door behind her. Tempy stood staring out one of the kitchen windows.

  “Miss Clouston, you best come see this.”

  Lizzie joined her and saw two large groups of Confederate soldiers moving their way. Trees lining the serpentine brick walkway out front blocked the rest of the view. “Yes, Mrs. McGavock and I saw them earlier, before I brought the children downstairs. I wanted to say something to you but couldn’t. Not in front of them.”

  “What’s goin’ on, ma’am? Why’s that army marchin’ this way?”

  “I don’t know. But from what I saw earlier, there are just as many Federal soldiers holed up over by the Carters’ house.”

  “Oh great God be with us all,” Tempy whispered.

  Lizzie said a silent amen. “I need to run upstairs and get Sallie’s doll. Would you keep an eye on the children for me until I get back?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I surely will.”

  Lizzie hurried up the steps and through the dining room and started up the staircase.

  “Miss Clouston . . .”

  She turned to see Mrs. McGavock peering out the front door, which stood slightly ajar. Reading the woman’s expression, Lizzie joined her. “The children are safe, ma’am. They’re in the kitchen with Tempy, and—”

  Mrs. McGavock opened the door the rest of the way and Lizzie fell silent. Despite her feelings about this war, the sight spreading out before her was spellbinding. That great sea of butternut and gray they’d seen from a distance earlier advanced toward them in columns that seemed to stretch out forever across the Harpeth Valley, nearly two miles wide. No sound jarred the tranquil afternoon other than that of the soldiers’ rhythmic footfalls and the occasional trill and chatter of a barn swallow. Most of the soldiers looked so young, and they marched with spirits high and rifles at the ready straight across Carnton’s fields and front lawn as the warm Indian summer day drew to a close.

  On closer inspection, Lizzie realized that some of them weren’t carrying rifles. While it was common knowledge that the Southern army was less adequately equipped than their Northern counterpart, seeing that fact evidenced so crudely in the weapons some of the soldiers wielded was sobering, to say the least. Pitchforks, knives, pickaxes, even shovels. And it only added to the measure of the almost tangible grit and determination she could feel with each forward step the soldiers took.

  “The mighty Army of Tennessee,” Mrs. McGavock said softly, her voice a mixture of pride and dread. “Twenty thousand men, the colonel tells me.”

  While Lizzie was stirred by the sight and shared the sense of dread, she couldn’t share the same sense of pride. Because for all the reasons given to support the Confederacy’s cause—states’ rights, economic concerns, protection of home and land, and families’ futures—they all seemed to lead back to the continuance of slavery. And though she had yet to voice her opinion in this household, she was very much in accord with the North on that count. In the same breath, she only wished it wasn’t taking a war to find some semblance of common ground.

  Carrie McGavock stepped outside onto the front portico, then descended the steps and followed the brick path to the front gate. Lizzie shadowed her steps.

  The neat columns of soldiers briefly broke ranks as they circled around the house, marching in quick time straight toward the mass of entrenched Federal troops waiting for them just south of the Carters’ house. Lizzie studied the men’s faces as they passed. Fierce determination marked some, weariness and fatigue others. Then she heard it. Music. From somewhere within the throng rose the South’s oh-sobeloved “Dixie.” She spotted the brass band as they marched past, the fading rays of sunlight reflecting off their instruments. After “Dixie” came “Bonnie Blue Flag,” then “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” The latter tunes seemed far too rousing and frivolous to accompany an army’s charge, yet she heard some of the troops singing along as they—

  A stray gunshot sounded from the advancing forces, and she and Mrs. McGavock both turned and hurried back toward the portico. When they reached the steps, they heard someone calling out to them.

  “Ladies! Please, I must prevail upon the house!”

  Lizzie turned to see a man hurrying up the brick walkway.

  Mrs. McGavock took a step forward, squinting. “Reverend Markham? Is that you?”

  The man’s steps slowed as disbelief clouded his features. “Caroline Elizabeth Winder?” His voice held disbelief. “Could the woman before me be the same young girl I knew back in Louisiana?”

  A slow smile curved Mrs. McGavock’s mouth. “She would be one and the same, Reverend. Except it’s Mrs. John McGavock now. Those closest to me call me Carrie. And it’s been several years since I was that young girl. And since our paths have crossed.”

  “Yes, it has been.” He looked over at the soldiers still pressing forward. “Or several lifetimes, it feels like.”

  The tender understanding in Mrs. McGavock’s expression rendered any verbal response unnecessary. Footsteps behind them drew their attention. “Reverend Markham,” Mrs. McGavock continued, “allow me to introduce my husband, Colonel John McGavock.”

  Following swift introductions, a pause settled in, and Lizzie detected a subtle change in the reverend’s demeanor.

  “Colonel McGavock, Mrs. McGavock, I need to inform you that your home has been designated the division field hospital for the wounded of Loring’s Division. On behalf of General Hood and the great Army of Tennessee, we’re grateful for your devotion to the Confederacy and to your fellow countrymen.” He solemnly extended his hand and Colonel McGavock shook it, and in doing so accepted the selection of his home without hesitation. But what else could he do? Armies never requested. They took. Even when it was your army.

  “Reverend, our home is yours,” the colonel responded. “We’ll make ready as best we can in the time that we—”

  From somewhere behind them, a cannon boomed. Its echo thundered across the valley. A high-pitched whistle set the very air on edge, and just as Lizzie looked west toward the Carters’ house, an explosion rocked the ground beneath her feet. Instinctively, she ducked. Her whole body tensed.


  “Ladies—” The colonel took both her and Carrie by the arm. “Back inside the house.”

  As though that cannon blast had been a signal, an eruption of artillery fire exploded in the distance behind them. Halfway to the door, Lizzie glanced back at the reverend but found he was already running for the gate. She was nearly inside the house when she heard it . . .

  An eerie screech, unearthly and primal, rising like a phantom chorus from the Confederate soldiers. The air trembled with the sound of it. Amid volleys of musketry fire, the squall rose in a fearsome swell over the valley, and her spine tingled with a prickly chill. The Rebel yell. She’d read about it, had heard men speak of it, but had never heard it herself.

  Hearin’ it will strip the courage clean outta your backbone, a man once told her. And though she’d questioned it then, she believed it now. How could an enemy hear that and not shudder?

  Close on Colonel and Mrs. McGavock’s heels, she raced to the family parlor to peer out the window to the fields behind the house. Fire and smoke poured from the Federals’ entrenchment line as though they’d unleashed hell itself on the Confederate Army advancing across the open field. Men were cut down by the dozens midstride, rifles not yet raised to shoot. Still the Rebels surged forward. But it was too far an expanse to cross. The field was too deep.

  Lizzie pressed a hand to the windowpane, unable to breathe. It’s too far. Turn back! she screamed on the inside. But by some depth of courage and strength of conviction she’d never known, the men pressed forward, stepping over fallen brothers, pitching forward only to struggle to their feet again. Pushing, pushing to make the Federal breastworks. Smoke and fire soon engulfed the valley.

  “Carrie! Miss Clouston!”

  Lizzie turned to see the colonel pushing furniture up against the wall. His wife ran to help him.

  “Where are the children?” he asked.

  “In the kitchen with Tempy,” Lizzie answered.

  He nodded. “We need to make room for as many men as possible. Carrie, you and Miss Clouston work together down here. I’ll go upstairs and do what I can there.”

  Lizzie grabbed hold of one end of an upholstered settee, Mrs. McGavock the other, and they hefted it up against the wall. They moved a marble-top table and wingback chairs to the side of the room, then did the same with the furniture in the best parlor. And all the while, war raged on the other side of the wall.

  They hurried to the dining room next, then emptied the table of dishes Tempy had already set for that night’s meal and shoved them into the sideboard.

  Breath coming hard, they crossed into the farm office. Mrs. McGavock went immediately to the Grecian rocking chair, and Lizzie read her mind. The chair was a gift from the late President Andrew Jackson to the colonel many years earlier and held great sentimental value.

  Lizzie grabbed hold of one side. “Why don’t we take it down to the kitchen? Then the colonel can decide what to do with it later.”

  “Very good.”

  They managed to get the chair down the steps, but maneuvering the last turn into the kitchen presented a problem. Tempy rushed to help, and between the three of them they managed it. Lizzie looked over to see the children standing in the doorway of the larder. wide-eyed uncertainty etched the girls’ expressions, while curiosity painted Winder’s.

  “Winder says there’s fighting outside,” Hattie said, looking between her mother and Lizzie.

  “I only told her ’cuz it’s true!” Winder responded, making a beeline for a window.

  Lizzie caught hold of him. “Children, I need you to stay in the larder awhile longer.” She looked to Mrs. McGavock, wondering if she wanted her to stay here or go back upstairs with her.

  Mrs. McGavock’s gaze shifted to Tempy. “Tempy, I want you to stay with the children until Miss Clouston returns. She and I have a few more things to do upstairs. But I’ll send her back soon,” she added, her tone growing more maternal, as though she’d intended the last comment for the children’s sake as well.

  Lizzie gave each of her charges a quick kiss on the head and guided them back inside the larder. Just before closing the door, she pointed to the tin of tea cakes and winked.

  Back upstairs, she worked furiously alongside Mrs. McGavock to move things out of the way, making room for what was to come. And somewhere between the cannon blasts and rifle fire she caught the faintest strains of the Confederate brass band still playing in the distance.

  Hands on hips, Carrie McGavock paused in the entrance hall. “I wish we were better equipped to help them—had more to offer in the way of medicinal supplies.”

  But when the front doors burst open a moment later and stretcher bearers began carrying in the wounded, Lizzie realized that nothing could have prepared them for what crossed that threshold.

  CHAPTER 2

  For all the death she’d seen in her life, Lizzie had never seen anyone die. She cradled the bloodied cheek of the smooth-faced soldier before her. He was only a boy, no more than thirteen years old—scarcely half her age. And as he took his last ragged breath, she would’ve sworn she felt the tug of heaven’s tide drawing him home. But it was his final words, whispered with such urgency, that wedged her heart in her throat. The scream of artillery shells and thundering cannon blasts shook the very air around her, and it sounded—and felt—as though the world were coming to an end.

  She looked again into the young boy’s countenance and found it growing steadily paler in death. Even as her heart broke further, she wrestled with what to do with his final words. Perhaps if she could learn where he—

  Sharp commands issued from the entrance hall, and she turned to see more stretcher bearers pouring through the front doors with more injured men. The wounded already crowded the best parlor and spilled over into the farm office across the hallway. Their wails and moans tore at her.

  How could these men still be drawing breath with bodies so broken, shattered by artillery and rifle fire? They’d been shot, bludgeoned, gouged, and bayonetted. Most clutched their sides and abdomens, others their heads. One man sat leaning forward in a wingback chair groaning and holding his arm tight against his chest. Only, upon closer inspection, Lizzie realized that the appendage he held so tenaciously was completely severed. She steeled herself. Not one to swoon, much less faint, she gripped the edge of a small table, needing to feel something solid.

  The pungent haze of spent gunpowder, campfire smoke, and blood was inescapable, as were the odors of sweat and unwashed bodies. Soldiers called out for their mothers, for their sweethearts, for a drink of water. Others cursed the Yankees with language so foul Lizzie felt each word like a pinprick. Still others prayed in piteous voices to be relieved from their awful suffering. And during it all, surgeons moved among them, dressing wounds and shouting orders.

  “Bandages! We need more bandages!”

  “Move this soldier upstairs!”

  “Morphine! We need morphine!”

  “Miss Clouston, you think Lieutenant Townsend is somewhere in this army of men?”

  Lizzie glanced behind her to see Tempy standing with wads of fresh bandages in her arms. She took a steadying breath. “No, Tempy. Thank goodness, he’s not. In his letter today, he wrote that Tucker’s Brigade was being sent south of here. Away from Franklin.”

  Towny hadn’t told her precisely where his brigade was being ordered, of course. The soldiers were always mindful that mail could be intercepted by Federals. When she first read of his being sent farther south, she’d felt a touch of disappointment. Now she was grateful beyond imagining.

  “Well, thank you, Jesus, for that,” Tempy said softly, then deposited the fresh bandages on a side table. “I best get more of these, Miss Clouston. Looks like we’ll be needin’ them.”

  Lizzie knelt to help the next soldier, a young man lying on the floor clutching what remained of his right arm.

  “I think I’m done for, ma’am.” He groaned, his eyes glistening with emotion. “Them Yankees done managed to kill me.”

 
“Not yet they haven’t,” Lizzie said softly and attempted a smile. “And we must work to keep it that way.” She pushed back strands of hair from her face and checked the makeshift tourniquet corded tightly around the corporal’s upper arm. Deciding she could do no better, she focused on the deep gash on his lower leg instead.

  “Federal got me with his bowie knife, ma’am. He was swingin’ it wild.”

  Lizzie winced. “I can see that.”

  “You think one of them docs can save it?” He took a sharp breath. “My leg, I mean?”

  “Why you wantin’ to keep that leg of yours, Bowman?” The soldier lying next to him grinned even as he clutched his own abdomen, his shirt soaked through with blood. “You know you never could dance worth a lick!”

  Both soldiers laughed even as their eyes told the truth of their pain, and Lizzie recalled how Towny and other boys she’d known used to jest at the most inopportune times.

  She retrieved a nearby basin of water and rinsed out a bloody cloth. “I’ll clean the wound as best I can, Corporal, then bandage it. One of the surgeons will need to look at it later, as well as see to your arm.”

  She worked hurriedly, mindful of other soldiers who needed tending. The continuing barrage of rifle and cannon fire, plus what she’d witnessed earlier when peering through the family parlor window, painted an all-too-vivid image of how these men had sustained their injuries. She’d counted nearly a dozen surgeons working either inside the home or out in the yard. They’d offered the household little instruction on how to help, so Lizzie simply did what she knew.

  Through the years she’d watched her father in his pharmacy in downtown Franklin, so she had some knowledge of the primaries in doctoring. Whenever the town’s physician was otherwise engaged, people turned to druggist Edward G. Clouston for help. Lizzie had actually entertained the idea of following in her father’s footsteps when she was a girl. Either that or becoming a doctor. Until she’d realized that such opportunities were rarely open to a woman.