With this Pledge

by Tamera Alexander

  So while she didn’t possess any truly special gifts—not like singing or playing the piano or being especially adroit at knitting or sewing—her ability to memorize was exceptional. So she’d become a teacher instead.

  “There you go, Corporal.” She gently but firmly tugged the knot to secure the bandage. “Now try to rest. A surgeon will be by soon, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He clenched his jaw tight, his eyes glazing. Perhaps due to the loss of blood, or shock. Or both.

  Lizzie moved to help his friend and applied pressure to the abdominal wound until a corpsman finally arrived. She rose carefully, her legs aching from kneeling so long. She counted thirty men in the best parlor alone. With scarcely any space to walk, she stepped over the soldier she’d finished tending to help another whose arms were badly injured.

  Most of the men, beards all wild and wooly, were ill-clad for winter and barefoot, the soles of their feet cut up and bruised. Some had fashioned shoes from threadbare gunny sacks and odd bits of cloth. But the dried blood caked on the bottoms of their feet revealed what little protection their ingenuity provided. Over the last three years she’d read accounts of battles in the newspapers—some overly graphic, or so she’d considered them at the time. But now she saw that the journalist’s pen—and her own imagination—had grossly failed to depict the awful truth. This war was exacting far too high a price. From both sides. And slavery stood at the center of the debate.

  Yet she knew it wasn’t that simple. Towny and his family had never owned slaves, yet he’d been one of the first to sign up to fight. What is a man supposed to do, Lizzie, when an army shows up to occupy his land? His home? His possessions? He fights, that’s what he does! Towny’s eyes had blazed with conviction that night.

  Even though she hadn’t agreed with his decision to join the war, she could better understand fighting in defense of home than she could fighting for ideals and values she considered wrongheaded and vile. For years they’d read in the newspapers about a divided Congress striving to reach a compromise, but by 1860 any whiff of a settlement seemed all but dead. Eleven seceded states later and this war was born.

  When the McGavocks entertained, Lizzie was sometimes invited to join them for dinner, depending on who their guests were. She’d heard every argument in support of states’ rights along with the need to rein in President Lincoln’s overreach in government. But even the argument about states’ rights boiled down to a state’s right to maintain the institution of slavery. Her own father, who owned slaves, had sided with the Confederacy. She’d attempted once, at the outset of the war, to share her differing opinion with him, but he swiftly and firmly put an end to that conversation. So she held her tongue.

  She looked around the parlor. Most of the men appeared to be in their late teens to midtwenties. She doubted whether any of them had ever owned slaves, much less extensive property. After all, if a man owned more than twenty slaves, like Colonel McGavock, he was released from the obligation to fight, because the Confederacy needed food for the army and relied on those plantations and estates to contribute it. No, the men in this room looked more like farmers, laborers, railroad workers, perhaps accountants or mercantile owners. She guessed that most of them simply woke up one day to find a war on their doorstep.

  She finished wrapping the wounded lieutenant’s arms, tied off the bandages, and moved to help the next man.

  Colonel McGavock’s connection to the War Department kept him well informed, and based on what he’d shared with her and Mrs. McGavock earlier that week, the Army of Tennessee, under the command of General Hood, was the last standing army for the Confederacy. General Lee and his men were still besieged by General Grant in Virginia. So that meant the men in this house and those wounded yet still alive on the battlefield a short distance away were the Confederacy’s last hope.

  But with the Confederate government all but bankrupt and the Federal Army outnumbering the Southern forces by almost three to one, it seemed a dim, if not already dying, hope at best. A hope that Lizzie could not support, much less champion, no matter her love for family and—

  “Miss Clouston! Your assistance is required!”

  She looked up, a blood-soaked cloth in her hand, to see one of the surgeons making his way toward her across the crowded parlor, his focus intent.

  “We need assistance in surgery, ma’am. Colonel McGavock suggested you might be of aid.”

  She hesitated. “I’m . . . most willing to be of any help I can, Doctor. But I’ve not been trained in the specifics of—”

  “Have you ever administered chloroform? Or ether?”

  “No, sir. Though I have read accounts of such.”

  “That will be sufficient, under the circumstances. I’ll guide you through the rest. The most important thing—” He looked her square on. “According to the colonel, you possess a stalwart constitution and are a compassionate woman whose sensibilities will not be easily offended by the aftermath of war.”

  Despite her unsteadiness a moment earlier, Lizzie nodded, finding “the aftermath of war” a rather sanitized description for the carnage all around them. “Colonel McGavock is gracious in his assessment, Doctor. But in this regard, I do possess a sturdy constitution.”

  “Then tonight you’re a surgical assistant, Miss Clouston. There are at least forty men upstairs on the second floor, with at least that many waiting outside, and more to come. They need surgery now or many of them are going to die. Keeping the men sedated during the procedures is crucial to saving as many as we can.” He leaned closer, his voice lowering. “For as long as the chloroform holds out.”

  Sobered yet further, Lizzie nodded. “Of course. I’ll come upstairs straightaway.”

  The surgeon left the parlor and she shadowed his path, mindful of where she stepped. She spotted attendants loading the deceased onto stretchers before carrying them outside, and she hesitated, recalling again what the young boy who’d died in her arms had whispered.

  With no time to spare, she crossed the room, wiping the blood from her hands on her apron. She hastily searched the boy’s clothing, his desperate tone so clear in her memory. I done grieved over h-how I left things ’tween us, Mama. His thinning voice had faltered. But I didn’t take it with me like I said. I-I left it. Buried. Way back on our land. ’Neath that ol’ willow. And now . . . somehow it makes dyin’ easier knowin’ you’ll have it.

  What did that mean? Knowin’ you’ll have it. Have what? Oh, that she’d had time to ask him, but he’d slipped too swiftly beyond the veil.

  His shirt pocket proved empty, but his pants pockets yielded a thin stack of envelopes bound with string both horizontally and vertically, as one would tie a package meant for posting. Only the string was tied in a knot, not a bow. Next she withdrew a pocketknife absent its inlaid ivory, an oblong stone with a well-worn surface, and a page torn from a Bible and folded with care. The Book of Psalms—she glimpsed the heading at the top, along with a name scrawled in poor penmanship—Thaddeus.

  With a last look at his youthful face she said a prayer for his mother, wherever she was, then stuffed the items into her skirt pocket. She traced the surgeon’s steps into the front entrance hall, where the ache inside her deepened.

  Every spare space in the front hall and farm office was filled with bleeding, dying men. Every niche and corner was occupied, the thick floorcloth and fine upholstered furniture soaking up their blood. Even in the shadows beneath the stairs, soldiers sat slumped against the wall like wounded animals gone off by themselves to die. Stretcher bearers continued to carry more men up the stairs, struggling beneath the weight of their task. Feeling as though she’d walked into some horrible nightmare, Lizzie briefly squeezed her eyes tight and opened them again, half expecting to see the home as it had always appeared, pristine and in order. But the scene remained unchanged. Then rising above the cacophony of chaos and death she heard familiar words.

  “‘The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to—’”
>
  The ragged voice broke, and Lizzie turned in the direction of the shuddering sigh that followed.

  Not too far from her, a soldier sat slumped against the wall, his head bowed, the front of his shirt soaked through with blood. “‘ . . . to lie down . . . in green pastures. He leadeth me . . . beside still waters.’”

  The man grimaced and clutched his belly, yet continued to recite, his voice halting. Lizzie hurt for him and was grateful when she saw an attendant bend down to help him. Whispering a prayer for him, for all of them, she managed to pick her way to the staircase.

  Hand on the stair rail, she’d started up when she felt a tug on her skirt and looked down.

  “Please . . .” A soldier, his voice raspy, rose up on one elbow, a jagged gash on the side of his head and his tattered trousers of homespun butternut stained a deep crimson. Hand trembling, he held out an envelope. “Would you see that . . . this gets to my daughter?”

  With a grimace he fell back, and a fresh flow of blood seeped from the hastily applied field dressing on his leg. Lizzie tucked the envelope into her skirt pocket and carefully edged back his trousers to inspect the wound.

  She clenched her jaw. Needing something, anything, to use as a tourniquet, she spied a decorative silk cord looped around a vase on a nearby table and grabbed it. She wrapped the cord around the man’s upper thigh and pulled taut. He let out a groan. His face went ashen.

  Lizzie knelt over him, willing him to stay conscious. “What’s your name, soldier?”

  “Pleasant—” He gasped. “Captain Pleasant Hope, 46th Tennessee Infantry.”

  She gripped his hand. “That’s a fine name, Captain Hope. I’ll keep your letter in my care. And if the time comes, I’ll do exactly as you’ve asked. But until then, I need you to—”

  An explosion shook the floor of the house, sounding closer than any of those previous, and for an instant everyone held a collective breath. Lizzie instinctively looked into the family parlor at the clock mounted on the wall to the right of the fireplace. A quarter past five. Only an hour had passed since the first exchange of gunfire? It felt like forever. How long would the battle last? Surely with night falling the fighting would end. It would have to. How could they fight when they couldn’t even see each other?

  She looked back down. “As I was saying, Captain Hope, I need . . .” Her words trailed off. The captain’s eyes were still open, but his gaze was dull and fixed, his hand slack in hers. Lizzie pressed her fingers to the side of his throat, then slowly released her breath. “I’ll do as you’ve asked, Captain Hope,” she whispered and gently closed his unseeing eyes.

  “Quickly, gentlemen! Bring them inside!”

  Hearing Mrs. McGavock’s voice, Lizzie looked back to see her employer directing yet another wave of stretcher bearers through the front double doors. Beyond them, darkness had indeed fallen and taken with it the unseasonably warm temperatures. Replacing the warmth, a chilling wind swept into the entrance hall as though to remind them that December was mere hours away.

  “The farm office is already full,” Mrs. McGavock continued, “as are the best parlor and family parlor. But we still have space. Put them in the dining room. And in the family bedrooms upstairs.”

  Mrs. McGavock’s steady tone carried authority worthy of a general’s rank, and the men obeyed without question. Lizzie’s gaze briefly met hers and so much was said in their wordless exchange.

  Bracing herself for what awaited upstairs, she continued up the steps toward—

  “Mama?”

  Lizzie turned back and spotted Winder standing in the doorway of the farm office. Her spine went rigid. What was he doing out of the kitchen! And Hattie and Sallie stood huddled close beside him.

  Lizzie cut a hasty path back down the stairs and across the entrance hall, eager to usher the children back to where they belonged. She scanned the foyer for Colonel or Mrs. McGavock. And where was Tempy? She’d promised to keep the children with her. Yet the children weren’t Tempy’s responsibility, Lizzie knew. They were hers. She was their governess, after all.

  She grasped little Winder by the hand. “What are you all doing up here? I instructed you three to keep to the—”

  “They’re bleeding so bad,” Hattie whispered, tears pooling. “All of them.”

  Winder looked beside him. “’Course they’re bleedin’. They been shot by them dang Yankees. I told you that’s what we were hearin’ from the kitchen.”

  Lizzie squeezed his hand. “Winder, don’t speak in such a—”

  “Miss Clouston—” Sallie tugged on Lizzie’s sleeve. “I’d like to go home now, please.” The girl’s chin trembled and her already stricken expression grew more so.

  Lizzie placed a hand on her slender shoulder, thinking about how Sallie’s parents had brought her here to keep her safe from the war. But how could anyone have predicted this?

  “I’m afraid going home isn’t possible right now, Sallie. But I will see you all safely back to the kitchen. Where you were supposed to stay until I returned to—”

  “Miss Clouston!”

  Recognizing the deep voice, Lizzie straightened and looked behind her, cringing. Severity darkened John McGavock’s expression, and she rushed to explain. “Colonel McGavock, sir, I’m so sorry. It was my intent that the children remain in the kitchen, away from all this. But I should have taken better care to—”

  “Miss Clouston,” he began again, his tone hinting that excuses would not be brooked.

  Lizzie briefly bowed her head and prepared herself for the uncustomary reprimand, hating that she’d disappointed him.

  “My dear woman, this is not your fault. I, too, wish there were a way for these children not to see this. But this has been brought to our door—with the Lord’s knowledge, I must believe. And there is no escaping it.”

  She realized she’d been mistaken. It was anguish, not anger, that shadowed his gaze.

  “So let us help them navigate this terrible journey.” He peered down at Hattie, then at Winder, and lastly at Sallie, his wiry gray beard brushing the edge of his vest. “Would you not agree, Miss Clouston?”

  Her throat tightened with both regret and relief, and she nodded. She trailed her employer’s focus to the children and, even now, saw in their expressions that this “terrible journey” was already burning through their innocence, an innocence she would have fought fiercely to protect for a great many years longer. But Colonel McGavock was right. This was their world, for better or worse. The world in which they would grow up. However much she might wish it were not.

  “Thank you, Colonel McGavock,” she whispered. “For understanding.”

  Impressed with the need to be upstairs, she also knew she couldn’t leave the children alone. But what to do with them in such a situation? Then a thought came. “Colonel, the soldiers are thirsty. If you’ll permit me, I’ll fetch pails and ladles, and the children can help distribute water and tea to the men.”

  The colonel nodded. “Excellent idea, Miss Clouston. But I’ll see to the children for now. Dr. Phillips is waiting for you. Your talents will be better utilized alongside him and his colleagues. I’ve already assured him you’re more than up to the task.”

  Hoping that would prove true, Lizzie climbed the staircase, mindful of the wounded leaned up against the wall and of the soldier below still struggling to recite the psalm. But when she reached the second-floor landing, she spotted a surgeon in one of the bedrooms, bone saw in hand, feverishly cutting on a soldier’s arm, and her confidence ran screaming.

  CHAPTER 3

  Lizzie’s body flushed hot, then cold. Prickles of sweat broke out on her arms and legs. She breathed in and out. I am of stalwart constitution. I am of stalwart constitution. The air was considerably cooler on the second floor, and she soon realized why. The jib window leading to the balcony from the schoolroom at the far end of the hallway was open, as were all the windows that she could see. She welcomed the chill.

  Similar to downstairs, the wounded lay everywhere.
She stepped mindfully among them, their piteous groans and pleas echoing those of their comrades on the floor below. She looked to the left first and checked for Dr. Phillips in the McGavocks’ bedroom, then crossed the hall to the guest quarters directly opposite, where the scene beyond the open windows brought her stock-still.

  The fields stretching northwest behind the house, where the McGavock property joined that of the Carters, were engulfed in flames. Fires billowed high like scalding tongues reaching up into the dark night sky. She saw a flash of light in the distance and heard an explosion, the reverberation reaching the wooden planks beneath her feet. Her chest ached. Lord, when will this end?

  The groans of the injured pulled her back, and seeing no sign of Dr. Phillips, she continued down the corridor to check Hattie’s room on the right. She turned toward Winder’s bedroom across the hallway and found her attention drawn to a soldier lying on the floor. Why he, in particular, drew her focus when there were so many others, she couldn’t say. Then it became clear. Though seriously injured—the bone of his right thigh laid bare and the flesh on his left torn to ribbons—he maintained a demeanor of calm. He didn’t thrash or moan or cry out like the others. He didn’t curse or weep. His face—what little she could see of it past the full, unruly beard—was pale, yet betrayed no sign of suffering save the slightest corrugation of his brow and the thin white line of his tightly pressed lips.

  Perhaps the man was already dead and his body had begun to—

  His eyes fluttered, then slowly opened. He stared upward for the longest time, then took a measured breath. His gaze settled on her. “Are you among the living, ma’am?” he asked, his deep voice languid and graveled. “Or the dead?”

  Despite the serious nature of his question, Lizzie felt her mouth briefly curve. “I am among the living, sir. As are you.” Though for how much longer he would inhabit this realm, she couldn’t say. Surely the sands of his hourglass were nearly spent. She knelt beside him. Seeing him more closely, she realized he was older than most of the other soldiers she’d seen. Her age at least, if not a few years older. “You’re at Carnton, the home of Colonel John McGavock. In Franklin, Tennessee,” she added.