With this Pledge

by Tamera Alexander

  As innocent an observation as it was, he realized it was the first time he’d truly taken notice of a woman since Susan’s passing nineteen months ago, almost to the day. And the noticing felt traitorous to his wife’s memory. Thinking of his precious Weet again, and of Lena, an aching sense of loss moved through him. I listen every evening after the train cars pass down below for your footstep on the front porch; could I but hear it what pleasure it would bring.

  He knew the words of that letter almost by heart. He should have been there with them. If he had, maybe he could have prevented what had happened. A gnawing pain rose up inside him, a pain that had nothing to do with his physical injuries, yet felt just as real and raw. And he questioned, as he had many times before, the cost of his decision to leave behind his family to go and fight. To serve beneath a leadership he’d questioned more times than he could count—especially when serving under General Hood.

  From the moment he’d learned about Mississippi seceding from the Union, he’d known he would take up arms. What honorable man wouldn’t defend his state, his home and land, his family? But while he was away defending them from the Federals, another enemy, unseen and even stealthier, had invaded their home and stolen his life away. He squeezed his eyes tight, the mixture of anger and loss causing them to burn. Grief coupled with regret had a way of bending even the strongest man’s knees, and there were moments, like now, when he was certain he’d be crushed beneath the weight of it.

  Which was why, as he’d been lying on the battlefield, feeling the lifeblood pour out of him, he’d been ready—even eager—to join Susan and Lena in the hereafter. Until he’d looked up to see that big autumn moon. Then he’d known, even while part of him longed to die and be done with this world, that it wasn’t his time yet.

  “And though I’m certain Lieutenant Shuler embellished the exchange with Dr. Phillips far more than would align with the truth—”

  Roland blinked, only now hearing what Miss Clouston had been saying. She glanced back at him.

  “—I’m grateful that the doctor listened, and that what you wanted done—or not done, in this case—was affirmed. However . . .” She rose, looking pointedly at his right leg. “The doctor is already concerned about gangrene. As am I. So we’ll have to make sure to keep the wounds clean.”

  Roland managed a nod, his emotions shredded about as badly as his legs. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

  “This is a good-tastin’ soup, ma’am. What is it?”

  Touched by the sincerity in the young soldier’s tone, Lizzie refilled the ladle and held it to his mouth—his left arm amputated just inches below the shoulder, his right bandaged and immobile in a remnant of what had once been one of Mrs. McGavock’s foundational garments. She wondered what the corporal would think if he knew a woman’s chemise was holding him together. “It’s warm bone broth. Colonel and Mrs. McGavock are working to have something more substantial for you all tomorrow.”

  He looked up. “Don’t rightly see how that could be, ma’am. This is the best-tastin’ thing I’ve had for as far back as I can string my thoughts together.”

  Touched by his gratitude, Lizzie received similar comments from the rest of the men she served on the second floor. Since Dr. Phillips wasn’t back yet, she returned to the kitchen and refilled her pail with broth, then retraced her steps upstairs.

  Not particularly hungry, she knew she needed to keep up her strength, so she filled the ladle to almost full and drank the warm broth, feeling it travel all the way down. Though it didn’t begin to compare to Tempy’s beef soup with vegetables, the brew put something on her stomach, which was good.

  She still couldn’t believe that Captain Jones had actually admitted to her that he thought the Confederacy was going to lose the war. She’d seen the struggle in him to even say the words aloud. And she’d struggled to keep her true feelings hidden. She only prayed that the captain was right and that this war was almost over.

  She served the wounded men bedded down in Colonel and Mrs. McGavock’s bedroom and those few on the second-story gallery porch outside, the night having turned bitter cold. After filling her bucket again, she served the soldiers in the guest room, then started into Hattie’s bedroom, only to discover Hattie and Sallie already there with Carrie McGavock. The three worked their way through the maze of wounded men scattered among Hattie’s childhood—her dollhouse with porcelain dolls sitting leaned up against it all wide-eyed and watchful, the cradle nestling her stuffed bear, the diminutive table and chairs where Hattie served tea to imaginary friends. Sallie held the bucket with both hands while Hattie dipped the ladle in and carefully lifted the broth to the soldiers’ mouths. Mrs. McGavock spoke with each and every man she passed, touching their heads, their shoulders, giving comfort as only a mother could give.

  Lizzie stood for a moment, watching. How would this night change these dear girls? How did a nine-year-old cope with something like this? And how could she, as the family’s governess, ever find a way to explain it all? To help them navigate their way through the indelible memories that would shape not only who they would become but how they perceived the world. Namely, their Northern neighbors.

  Having no answers, only more questions, she crossed the hall to Winder’s bedroom. Her gaze was drawn to Captain Jones as soon as she entered the room. But apparently he’d finally drifted off to sleep. The rest would do him good.

  Every soldier offered broth drank it hungrily, then looked up at her as though she’d bestowed upon them the elixir of life. With everyone fed—fed being a generous term—she knew she should go look for Dr. Phillips to see if she could assist him. Colonel and Mrs. McGavock and the children were seeing to the men inside the house, and there was nothing else she could do for now. Her arms and legs ached, and her body longed for rest, but she had only to look around her to be reminded of how grateful she should be. How grateful she was.

  She checked on Captain Jones one last time. Still sleeping soundly. She set the pail of broth beside him, thinking of the letter from his wife. The beautifully phrased sentiments. And the love behind them.

  A vacancy caused in my heart by your absence . . .

  I listen every evening after the train cars pass down below for your footstep on the front porch . . .

  . . . a thousand kisses to my beloved Roland.

  While she thought about Towny often and hoped he was well and wanted him to return, could she say she’d experienced a “vacancy in her heart” due to his absence? Or that she listened every evening for a footfall on the porch while praying it was him? And about those thousand kisses . . .

  Towny had kissed her. Once. The January morning he’d left to return to his brigade. It had felt a little odd kissing him, but she reasoned that was because she’d never been kissed. So the experience was new to her. Everything would be new to her.

  Her thoughts flew back across the years to her twelfth summer when she and her mother had been sitting on the front porch shelling beans one afternoon. “Kissing and all that such is something husbands and wives do, Lizzie. Some more often than others. But you shouldn’t fear it, because it isn’t unpleasant. Not once you’re accustomed to it.”

  In the years since, Lizzie had acquired considerably more knowledge on the subject, thanks to her friends who were already married. But something about the wording in Susan’s letter tugged at her, naggingly so. And as Lizzie stared at Captain Jones—at the strength in his features, his well-muscled shoulders and arms—she found the thread of her thoughts taking a decidedly more intimate turn. She quickly turned away and busied herself by adding two more logs to the fire, then watched the flames crackle and pop as the wood ultimately surrendered to the heat.

  With time, she would come to feel for Towny what Captain Jones’s wife obviously felt for her own “beloved Roland.” Lizzie nodded to herself as though that confirmed it. Once she and Towny were married and had consummated that relationship—a shiver went through her, though whether pleasurable or not she wasn’t sure—her feelin
gs would change. They would grow; at least that was what others had said. So there was no more reason to wonder or worry about “kissing and all that such.” Determined to put that thought behind her, she left the room without a backward glance.

  As she descended the staircase and passed through the main entrance hall, she heard Colonel Nelson still crying out, his pleas now peppered with expletives. The poor man. She questioned whether such language was part of his usual dialect or merely a response to the pain. With a hasty prayer that the children wouldn’t hear, she paused in the doorway of the dining room. Petitioning the Almighty to heal was quite familiar to her, but given what she knew about Colonel Nelson’s condition, praying for healing didn’t feel thoroughly honest. So she gave voice to the soft whisper in her heart instead. “Lord, please take him home. Relieve him of this torture and take him home.”

  Minutes later, as she left through the back door, she paused, wondering if the soldier who’d been reciting the psalm was still—

  But he was gone. Only a bloodstain on the wallpaper testified that he’d been there.

  Heart heavy, she heard the clock in the family parlor strike midnight—and Colonel Nelson’s agonizing cries only grew louder.

  CHAPTER 8

  Lizzie paused on the crowded back gallery porch, her eyes swiftly adjusting to the torch-and lantern-studded darkness beyond—and her chest clenched tight. The view from the guest room window on the second floor hadn’t revealed the entire truth. Wounded men filled the back lawn, the outbuildings, the barn, the empty slave houses. As many men as occupied the house, even more were out here. Everywhere she looked, men lay on the cold, wet ground, either awaiting a doctor’s care or recovering from it—or no longer in need of it. And as if the men who’d lived through the battle hadn’t already suffered enough, icy rain and sleet now pelted down from the dark night skies.

  Like the soldiers inside, these men were ill-clad for such temperatures. Most had no coat. No blanket. Many were without shoes and socks. Lizzie looked heavenward, ashamed of the questions foremost in her thoughts yet unable to quell them. And though she would never give voice to them lest anyone else hear and judge her, the questions rose silently, even demandingly.

  Why? And where are you in all of this?

  She didn’t doubt that God was watching. That he was present. That he saw every man and even knew each of their names. She’d walked with the Almighty long enough that he’d proven his presence to her time and again. And yes, this was war. And in war, as despicable as she found it, men died. And each death was tragic. But what she couldn’t reconcile was why so many had to die. And so brutally. How many ways would men devise to kill each other? How many more fathers, brothers, sons, and husbands would be sacrificed before this war ended? Before some sort of agreement or compromise was reached? Slavery had to be abolished. There was no question. But at what cost would this nation dictate that that end would come?

  For nearly four years now this conflict had been tearing the country apart. What was it Towny had written in a recent letter? Something about how, when his regiment had reached the border of Tennessee, they’d seen a sign that read “Tennessee—A Free Home or a Grave,” and they’d all let out a cheer as they passed.

  But as she looked out across the sea of broken and lifeless men, she didn’t see a free home. All she could see were graves waiting to be dug. Hundreds if not thousands of them, considering those dead or dying on the field. And as she thought of Towny again, she was so grateful his orders with Tucker’s Brigade had taken him far from Harpeth Valley and the town of Franklin.

  She searched the yard for Dr. Phillips and finally spotted him beneath an oak tree near the smokehouse speaking with another surgeon. She made a path for him, head down to shield her eyes from the sleet and hugging herself for warmth. Dr. Phillips chose that moment to look up. And when he saw her, he shortened the distance between them.

  “You don’t need to be out here, Miss Clouston. I’ll be back inside shortly.”

  “I need to be of assistance, Doctor. Wherever that may be.”

  He hesitated. “The men out here could use something warm to drink. The Negro woman has been serving them, but there’s only one of her and—”

  “Tempy,” Lizzie supplied. “Her name is Tempy, Dr. Phillips. You met her upstairs.”

  He looked at her, then slowly nodded. “Yes, Miss Clouston. Tempy. She’s been—”

  “Say no more, Doctor. I’ll be back with more broth in a few moments.”

  Lizzie wove a path through the wounded men to the back door of the kitchen, irritated by the surgeon’s common oversight. How did a person get to the point where he considered others lesser than himself based solely on the color of one’s skin? She didn’t know Dr. Phillips well, by any means. And he might not hold to the common view about slaves. But he’d obviously made no attempt to even remember Tempy’s name. And this after all Tempy was doing to help.

  As soon as Lizzie opened the back kitchen door, the savory aroma of beef broth greeted her, and she found Tempy at the stove using a large measuring cup to scoop the broth into pails.

  Tempy looked up. “Land sakes, ma’am, you done look frozen clean through.”

  “I’m fine. Cold and tired, but fine.” Lizzie moved close to the brick hearth, relishing its heat and that from the stove. She shivered in response. “Everyone on the second floor has been served. So I’ll help with those outside.”

  “You best have yourself a cup of this first.”

  “I had some earlier, thank you. I’m fine.”

  Tempy looked at her, her expression saying she begged to differ, but she said nothing more.

  Once they’d filled several pails, Tempy slipped a ladle into each. Lizzie reached down to pick up two of the buckets, but Tempy waved her off.

  “Not ’til you eat a bite of somethin’ solid, ma’am. Here, take this.”

  Lizzie looked down at the piece of cold cornbread in Tempy’s hand, and her stomach stirred with hunger. But how could she eat when so many others were suffering and going without? She shook her head. “I’ll eat later.”

  Tempy didn’t move. “Miss Clouston, I know the look of bein’ worn. And I’m tellin’ you, ma’am, you best eat somethin’.”

  Lizzie’s eyes filled. But she shook her head again. I can’t, she mouthed.

  Tempy leveled a stare. “You takin’ care of lots of people tonight, ma’am. And you starvin’ yourself just ’cause they can’t have any of this right now ain’t gonna help ’em. No, ma’am. It’s gonna hurt ’em. ’Cause if you go down, who’s gonna carry the weight you been carryin’ here tonight? Nobody. That’s who. We each got our jobs and we got to do ’em.” She dipped an edge of the cornbread into the warm broth and held it out again. “So come on now. Eat it fast, so we can get back out there.”

  Feeling scolded, yet lovingly so, Lizzie looked at the bread in Tempy’s hand, then took it and ate. The day-old cornbread tasted like the finest of fare, and she realized how often she ate without thought. With only the most fleeting sense of gratitude. Even when Colonel McGavock said grace before a meal. Seeing herself and her abundance of blessings in light of others and their lack carved out a deeper awareness inside her, and a depth of appreciation she’d not known rushed in to fill the space.

  “Thank you, Tempy.”

  “You welcome, ma’am.”

  Lizzie’s gaze brushed hers, and she thought back to yesterday morning when Tempy had studied the globe with such curiosity and longing. That moment seemed another world away now. Yet Lizzie still felt that tug inside her, and she wished she could offer Tempy what she was offering Hattie and Winder. An education. The power of knowledge to change yourself and the world around you. Only, here in Franklin, Tennessee, that wasn’t allowed. Not yet. Not for someone like Tempy.

  Lizzie bent down to pick up the pails of broth and saw the hem of her skirt soaked six inches deep in blood. A price the soldiers in this house had willingly paid for what they believed in. What price was she willing t
o pay for what she believed? Something locked tight deep inside her slowly opened and began to unfurl. Her heart started pounding.

  She turned and looked at Tempy. “How would you like to travel to those places you saw yesterday morning? Those places on the globe.”

  Tempy stared at her. “What you mean, ma’am?”

  Lizzie set her pails on the floor. “What I mean is . . . Would you like to learn to read and write? If you knew how to read, you could travel to all of those places and learn so much about the world God made, all without ever leaving Carnton. Because you could read what other people have written. People who’ve been to those places and who tell you what it was like.”

  Tempy frowned, then glanced over her shoulder. “What you doin’ askin’ me all this? This ain’t somethin’ that can happen, ma’am, and we both know it. First, ’cause the law says I can’t. Second—” She briefly bowed her head. When she looked up again, defeat shuttered her gaze. “’Cause I’m older than them hills out there, Miss Clouston. I reckon I’m too far gone for you to teach me, even if people said you could.”

  Lizzie took the pails from Tempy’s grip and set them on the floor beside hers, then she grasped Tempy’s hands—her own so pale and colorless, Tempy’s so dark and work-worn. “And I reckon that you’re going to be an excellent student.”

  Lizzie managed a smile, but Tempy pulled her hands away.

  “You don’t know what you sayin’, ma’am. Even if I did want to be learned by you, what would the colonel say? And Missus McGavock? They wouldn’t take to it. Not one bit. And if anybody else learned what we was doin’ . . .” She shook her head, fear displacing the defeat in her expression.

  “The world is changing, Tempy. Right before our very eyes. I don’t believe it’s right, what they’ve done to you. What they do to Negroes. I never have. I believe we’re created in the image of God. All of us. And while I’m so sorry the men in this house and those on the battlefield are suffering, I’m grateful beyond words that the North is winning this war. Or at least they appear to be. Because this needs to end. And I’m sorry, so sorry that I’ve never said anything to you about this before now.” Ashamed, she bowed her head.