With this Pledge

by Tamera Alexander

  But Tempy gently lifted her chin. “You think I don’t know how you feel, ma’am? That I don’t see the difference in you?” The older woman shook her head. “You done forgotten that first day you come to Carnton all those years ago?”

  Lizzie looked at her.

  “You and me, we was standin’ right over there.” Tempy pointed toward the back door in the corner. “I’d done took my own wash off the line from dryin’ and was takin’ it upstairs when you said, ‘Let me get that for you.’ And you done toted that basket up them steps for me to my room.” Tempy’s chestnut-colored eyes softened. “Ain’t nobody ever done that for me before. So don’t you go thinkin’ that I don’t know who you are, ma’am. ’Cause I do. I always have.”

  Lizzie met her gaze full on. “So are you saying you’ll let me teach you?”

  A flicker of trepidation shone in Tempy’s eyes again, then that flicker slowly warmed to joy. “I reckon if you can abide tryin’ to teach an old woman, the least I can do is try to learn.”

  OVER THE NEXT hour, Lizzie and Tempy served the steaming buckets of broth to men on the back and front lawns, while the surgeons performed amputations on makeshift operating tables set up beneath the trees. As Lizzie moved among the wounded, she did her best not to focus on the appendages piled as high as the tables.

  Whenever her gaze connected with Tempy’s, they exchanged knowing looks. Lizzie was thrilled at the prospect of teaching her. Which, oddly enough, these soldiers were partly responsible for. Because in seeing their sacrifice and courage, she’d found a measure of her own. And since Tempy’s room was next to hers on the second floor of the kitchen wing, they’d have the privacy they needed.

  “Miss Clouston!”

  She glanced up to see Dr. Phillips and an attendant striding toward her. Dr. Phillips took the buckets from her and handed them to the young soldier.

  “Miss Clouston, I need your assistance, please.”

  Lizzie followed him to the shelter of the back porch, where he turned.

  “I’ve just received word that an ambulance will be arriving anytime.” His voice lowered, and he briefly looked away, the muscles in his jaw cording tight. “It’s carrying four of our generals who were killed in battle tonight.”

  “Four?” Lizzie looked up at him.

  “Actually, five were killed, I’ve been told. But one of them was taken to another field hospital to be treated and died there. I don’t know who they are yet, but every man here who’s able will want to pay his last respects to these leaders. So we’ll lay out their bodies on the back gallery here. I haven’t been told the extent of their injuries. But I’d be greatly obliged, Miss Clouston, if you’d help make these men as honorable in appearance in death as they were in life.”

  Still absorbing the news, Lizzie nodded. “Of course, sir.”

  Moments later, a four-wheeled ambulance pulled to a stop in the side yard. The driver, a middle-aged soldier, set the brake and climbed down, then spoke in hushed tones to Dr. Phillips. Two younger ambulance corpsmen climbed out from the back, their expressions somber.

  She didn’t recognize the first officer they unloaded from the back of the ambulance, so marred with dirt and blood was the man’s countenance. But the second, she did. General Patrick Cleburne.

  She’d seen the young Irishman’s likeness often in the newspapers alongside reports about the war. Reporters described him as quiet and soft-spoken, but possessing an undeniable air of authority and competence. Towny, an admirer of the man, had told her that Cleburne was the highest-ranking military officer of foreign birth in the Confederate Army. And judging by the pained expressions on the faces of soldiers already looking on, to say General Cleburne was beloved by his men would be an understatement.

  Dr. Phillips returned to her side. “Brigadier General John Adams,” he said solemnly, watching along with her as the corpses were carried to the rear gallery and gently laid beneath the western windows. “Major General Patrick Cleburne. Brigadier Generals Hiram Granbury and Otho Strahl.”

  All names she knew. All names any Southerner would recognize.

  “And I was told just now,” the doctor continued, “that the fifth was General S. R. Gist of South Carolina.” Defeat burdened his deep sigh. “When you’re finished, Miss Clouston, please meet me back upstairs, and we’ll continue with the surgeries.”

  Feeling that ever-present weight growing heavier inside her, Lizzie nodded, then went inside the house to fetch fresh cloths and a bowl of water. When she returned to the back gallery, men were already gathered around the bodies of the generals. Some hastily wiped away tears. Others worked to choke them back.

  One of the ambulance corpsmen who’d helped transfer the bodies to the porch stood close by, his cheeks streaked with dirt and emotion. “I’d be obliged if you’d allow me to help you, ma’am.”

  “Of course,” Lizzie whispered and dipped a cloth into the water. She wrung it out and handed it to him, and he began wiping the dirt and blood from General Adams’s face. After a moment, he looked over at her as though asking what he should do next.

  Lizzie paused from smoothing the damp cloth over General Cleburne’s face and beard, and positioned Cleburne’s hands one atop the other over his abdomen. The young corpsman did likewise with Adams. The two of them worked silently as soldiers looked on.

  General Cleburne’s gray coat was unbuttoned, his white linen shirt beneath stained with blood on the left side. He was in his sock feet, his boots apparently having been stolen. By a Federal soldier, she reasoned. Because none of these Southern sons would have so dishonored the man. His sword belt was also missing. Another trophy of war, perhaps.

  Lizzie determined that nothing could—or should—be done about the blood on their uniforms. Any attempt to disguise that would feel like a diminishment of the sacrifice they’d made. Especially General Adams, whose body had been pierced with at least nine bullets. General Cleburne, from what she could tell, had suffered a fatal shot directly to his heart. General Strahl’s bloodstained uniform bore three bullet holes. And General Granbury’s bore at least that many.

  “Here you go, ma’am.”

  Lizzie peered up to see the second ambulance corpsman holding a kepi.

  “This cap belonged to General Cleburne, ma’am.”

  She nodded and took the kepi and laid it on his chest. She recalled the description Captain Jones had painted of the battlefield as he’d surveyed it yesterday afternoon, and the image brought a measure of dread. She couldn’t begin to imagine marching, much less running headlong, into a fortified line of guns, bayonets, and cannons all aimed at the very heart of the field upon which she trod. And yet these men had done that very thing. The shuffle of feet drew her focus upward, and she saw a heavily bearded officer cutting a path through the men who, once they saw him, saluted and made way.

  “General Govan,” they whispered as he passed.

  Govan kept his gaze straight ahead and nodded to Lizzie. “Ma’am,” he said in a deep, even voice, then looked down at the generals. He stood at attention, eyes glistening, then slowly lifted his bandaged right hand and saluted. He held the posture for a long moment, and no one moved. Once he brought his hand down, he looked around.

  “I had the honor of serving with these four fine men, as did many of you.” His voice carried in the night. “Yesterday afternoon, before General Cleburne took to the fight, I turned to him and said, ‘Well, General, few of us will ever return to Arkansas to tell the story of this battle.’ To which Cleburne replied with words I’ll never forget, words that are indicative of the man he was. General Cleburne said, ‘Well, Govan, if we are to die, let us die like men.’” For the first time, Govan’s voice wavered. “And die like men these officers did.”

  The general moved to stand at the foot of each body and saluted each fallen soldier in turn. The wounded who were ambulatory followed suit. Others saluted from where they stood leaning up against the house or from where they sat, and Lizzie gained a deeper sense of the camaraderie th
at war forged between men.

  Still, injustice burned within her at the grand scale of senseless death and bloodshed. And while General Cleburne’s words—let us die like men—held the most honorable intentions, she would rather he had lived like a man. That they all had lived.

  The back door opened, and she heard two distinctive chimes from the clock in the family parlor. Two o’clock in the morning. Chilled near to the bone, she gathered the cloths and bowl and went inside.

  She deposited the items on the floorcloth beside two empty buckets, then started for the stairs. She spotted Mrs. McGavock kneeling to offer a soldier a drink, and wondered if the young man had any idea who was serving him. He might be aware that Carrie McGavock was the wife of the property owner, but did he realize what a treasure this woman was?

  As Mrs. McGavock rose, her attention shifted to Lizzie, and she gestured that she wanted to speak. Lizzie met her halfway, only then seeing that the hem of her employer’s skirt was also stained with blood, just like her own.

  “Miss Clouston, I’ve heard that we lost several generals tonight in the battle. And that the bodies have been brought here.”

  Lizzie relayed the sad details, feeling the woman’s deep sigh.

  “So much death and suffering,” Mrs. McGavock whispered. “Too much.” She grasped Lizzie’s hand. “My dear, you’re working so hard. Perhaps you should slip away and get some rest. Just a few moments at least.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to sleep, ma’am. Not with so much to be done and still having breath within me to do it. Which I know is something you can understand.”

  Tenderness filled her employer’s eyes, and Carrie nodded. “The colonel and I have moved a few of our belongings into the bedroom beside yours, so we’ll be staying in the kitchen wing with you and Tempy. For a few days, at least.” Her voice lowered. “I think it’s best to have some distance from all this for the children. And for us as well, until life returns to normal.” Sadness moved into her expression. “If ‘normal’ is something that will ever return to this house. Or to those of us who will live through this night.” She gave Lizzie’s hand a parting squeeze, then returned to her task.

  Lizzie watched her go. Here she’d finally gotten the courage to offer to teach Tempy, only to hear that the McGavocks were moving into the bedroom beside theirs. Not ideal, to say the least. But they would find a way to work around that. She started up the stairs, then paused.

  Above the moans and pain-induced mumblings of the wounded, she sensed a sudden quiet. Already feeling the truth resonating inside her, she turned and walked into the dining room where Colonel Nelson lay in quiet repose. For all the suffering he’d endured, he now looked as though he were merely sleeping, so natural was his expression. “You finally have the peace you sought,” she whispered and pulled the thin blanket up to his chest.

  She walked up the steps, the staircase leading to the second floor seeming taller and longer than usual. Her eyes felt heavy and irritated from lack of rest, and she wished she could curl up into a tiny ball, go to sleep, and then awaken to discover this had all been a horrible dream.

  But seeing Dr. Phillips standing beside the surgical table, another soldier lying before him, she knew she wasn’t dreaming. And sleep was a long way off.

  A FEW HOURS later as the sun peered up over the horizon, Lizzie watched the dawn transform the dark night sky into a golden wash streaked with pink and violet. Her gaze skimmed the hills to the distant east as morning stretched out across the highest treetops. The iced bare winter branches sparkled like diamonds in the distance, and she sighed. How could so beautiful a morning follow so tragic a night?

  As Dr. Phillips sutured the remains of another soldier’s arm, Lizzie shifted her weight, her feet throbbing in her boots, her lower back aching. A handful of soldiers in the room, Captain Jones among them, had slept fitfully off and on through the night, while the rest hadn’t slept at all, pain their constant companion. She was grateful when Dr. Phillips suggested they take a short break.

  “I need to grab more coffee, ma’am, and speak with the other surgeons about where we are with remaining patients.”

  Lizzie nodded, then crossed the distance and collapsed onto Winder’s tiny chair and unlaced her boots. She would’ve liked to have removed them, but the condition of the carpet made walking in stocking feet inadvisable. How would they ever get this much blood out of the carpet? Was it even possible? She doubted it. And it was like this in nearly every room of the house.

  Scarcely able to keep her eyes open, she drew her knees to her chest, rested her head on her arms, and was instantly, blissfully adrift. But even in sleep, she still heard the echo of what the young soldier Thaddeus had said to her.

  “Miss Clouston.”

  Lizzie tried to shut out the voice, but it grew insistent.

  “Miss Clouston.”

  She lifted her head and blinked. It took a few seconds to focus. “Yes, Dr. Phillips?”

  “With first light the ambulance corpsmen found more wounded on the battlefield, ma’am. A brigade that fought on the western flank, and they need our help.”

  Lizzie rose, unsteady on her feet, then realized her boots were still unlaced. She sat back down and tied them, aware of the doctor gathering instruments and stuffing them into his leather satchel.

  “George?” came a hoarse whisper. “George, are you there?” Captain Jones, eyes clenched tightly, thrashed his head from side to side. “I can’t find you, George. Where are you?” His voice grew desperate, and he stretched out his bandaged hand as though trying to grasp something only he could see.

  Lizzie knelt beside him. “Shhh, Captain, you’re dreaming,” she whispered and laid a hand to his forehead. “Everything is going to be—” His skin was like fire. His shirt was drenched. “Dr. Phillips! Come quickly!”

  In a blink, the surgeon was at the captain’s side. He examined the sutures, then took the captain’s pulse. His head came up slowly. “It’s what I feared. It’s surgical fever.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Lizzie took in a breath, reality hitting her like a physical blow.

  “But it may not be gangrene,” Dr. Phillips added hurriedly. “Sometimes a patient will have a fever following surgery that’s only temporary, so let’s not jump to a false prognosis.”

  Lizzie knew his intent was to hearten her, but the very fact that he had warned against this outcome left his encouragement hollow. “I’ll get some cold water and cloths.”

  He nodded. “And I’ll check the other men for fever.”

  Lizzie fetched the things from the kitchen and met Dr. Phillips on her way back upstairs.

  “I examined the other men.” He paused at the bottom of the staircase. “There’s no more fever. Not yet, anyway. I administered laudanum to the captain and left the bottle on the hearth, in case he grows more restless. It won’t do for him to thrash about in his condition. He can have another teaspoonful in three hours. More, if you deem it necessary.” He glanced past her toward the open front doors where an ambulance waited. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Dr. Clifton and I are going to see about the men in Tucker’s Brigade.”

  “Tucker’s Brigade?” Lizzie frowned.

  “Yes. I mentioned the wounded men still on the battlefield. A great many of them are from Tucker’s Brigade.”

  “But that’s not possible, Doctor. Tucker’s Brigade was ordered south.”

  “They were, until General Hood ordered them back here two days ago. Tucker and his men marched without stopping and arrived just before the battle commenced. From what I’ve been told, they suffered great losses. Many were killed. Either that or captured and taken prisoner to Nashville.”

  Lizzie could scarcely breathe. Towny . . .

  “Dr. Phillips,” an attendant called. “We need to go, sir.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Miss Clouston. Take care of Captain Jones. And try to get some rest yourself, if you can. We have a long day ahead of us.”

  Lizzie watched him leave
, his image blurring in her vision. Towny was here? She pressed a hand to her midsection and searched the faces of the wounded men in the entrance hall, then the ones on the stairs, all while praying that her dearest friend was still alive.

  LIZZIE BATHED CAPTAIN Jones’s face and neck with cool water. She unbuttoned his shirt, plunged the cloth into the basin again, and rubbed his chest down. Disoriented with fever, he attempted to push her away time and again, but she persisted, her focus torn between her obligation to care for him and her desire to get to the battlefield. And to Towny.

  “George,” the captain whispered, his expression pained, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. “George, where are you?” His face suddenly contorted. “I’m sorry, Weet. I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

  Lizzie leaned closer. “Captain, if you can hear me, you must lie still.”

  He pushed her away again, harder this time, and Lizzie checked the clock on the mantel. Over two hours had passed. She reached for the laudanum. It took several attempts to get the dosage of medicine through his parched lips, but she finally managed it. Even with him wounded and fevered, the captain’s strength was formidable.

  “Weet,” he whispered after a moment, his voice thick with longing. “I miss you . . .” He took a deep breath and tears slipped from the corners of his eyes. “George . . .” He mumbled something unintelligible, then gave a deep sigh.

  Lizzie laid a hand on his forehead. Still warm, but a bit cooler to the touch, she thought. What did the captain feel so at fault for? And who was George? His son, perhaps? She continued to apply cool compresses, grateful when the laudanum finally took effect and he began to rest easier. God, please let him live.