“I trailed that rabbit too, Lieutenant, but my gut tells me no. Think about it. It took us nearly two hours to get Cheatham’s and Stewart’s corps onto the field and ready for action. By then it was already four o’clock. It would’ve been well after sundown before Lee could’ve gotten his men positioned. And I got pretty close to those Federal breastworks. I don’t think our artillery would’ve had much effect on them.”
“So you’re saying it was suicide from the very beginning?” Defeat weighted the younger officer’s voice.
“No, I’m not saying that at all. Whenever a soldier offers up his life for his country, for what he believes is worth dying for, I’d never call that suicide. That tarnishes the man’s sacrifice, and the honor that first led him to fight. But what I am saying is that I’ve had plenty of time to lie here and think back through things, wondering had we done this or that, might it have turned out differently. Maybe if Hood had directed the main assault against some other part of the breastworks, we could have penetrated the Federal line better than we did, however briefly. But again, Schofield had the advantage of higher ground, Waltham. He would’ve seen it coming, and he would have quickly adjusted. What I think really happened . . .” Roland leveled his gaze. “I think Hood looked across the Harpeth Valley, saw the Federal Army within reach, maybe even saw Schofield himself. And Hood wanted to get him before Schofield had a chance to slip away again. So he took that chance.”
“Which cost us seventy-five hundred of our men,” Waltham said, his voice thinning. “A third of our army, Captain Jones. They say near two thousand are lying dead on the field. Or were. They’ve been burying them since yesterday. It’s just not right.”
Roland shook his head, aware of Taylor and Smitty and another soldier whose name he didn’t recall talking amongst themselves and looking his way. Then he saw her. Miss Clouston walked into the room, and he felt a measure of the weight lifting from deep inside him.
With a basket on her left arm and coffeepot in hand, she began serving the men. She looked more rested this morning. She’d pinned her hair up again, but he could already see a few rebellious brown curls working their way free. He waited for her to look his way. Willed her to. But she didn’t.
“I’m sorry about what happened to you, Captain Jones.”
Roland glanced back to see Waltham staring down at the worn soldier’s blanket that covered his legs, empathy shading his features. Thanks to Sister Catherine’s ingenuity, he now wore an older pair of Colonel McGavock’s britches—cut off up high on the leg—so he could remove the blanket without fear of offending any of the females in the house.
“Thanks, Waltham. You too. Grapeshot?” He motioned to the young lieutenant’s right arm, bandaged at the elbow following the amputation.
Waltham nodded. “I was out early this morning trying to shoot, but . . .” His laughter had a flat edge to it. “I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. And that’s not an exaggeration.”
Roland held up his right hand. “It’s not like I could do much better.”
“I’ve seen you shoot with your left, though, Captain Jones. There’s hope for you yet.” A shadow passed across Waltham’s face. “Have the doctors said anything about you walking again?”
Roland stared down at his legs. “Not yet. Doc Phillips hasn’t given me much hope for even keeping this one long term.” He gently touched his right leg, working to appear more optimistic than he felt. “I aim to prove him wrong.”
Waltham rose to his feet. “If anyone can, Captain, it’s you. And I’m not the only one who holds that opinion, sir.”
Moved more than he cared to admit, Roland nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant Waltham.”
Waltham saluted him and Roland returned it, then held out his left hand. Waltham accepted it, then turned and left.
Always keen to Miss Clouston’s whereabouts in the room, Roland glanced back in her direction again. But she still didn’t look his way. If he didn’t know better, he might think she was ignoring him on purpose. And when she came within three of feet him and still didn’t make eye contact, he was certain of it.
“Good morning, Miss Clouston,” he offered.
Finally she turned. “Captain.” A stiff smile not hers by nature briefly turned her lips. “How are you this morning?”
Roland eyed her. If this woman ever decided to try her skill at poker, she’d get fleeced the very first hand. What he didn’t understand was why she was attempting to ignore him.
“I’m doing all right, Miss Clouston. How are you, ma’am?”
“Oh, I-I’m well.” Her gaze was flighty and landed anywhere but near him. “Would you care for a soda muffin and some coffee?”
“I’d be much obliged.” He held out the tin cup Sister Catherine Margaret had left with him, and she filled it. “Thank you. That bread sure smells good. I guess that’s more of Tempy’s cooking?”
“Actually . . .” She handed him a warm muffin, a flicker of uncertainty shadowing her eyes. “Mrs. McGavock and I baked these this morning, what with Tempy being so busy with the laundry and cooking up several pots of broth.”
Roland took a bite, then raised the muffin in a mock toast. “Delicious! My compliments to the cooks.”
A hint of pleasure brightened her expression. “Thank you. I actually wasn’t sure if they would be any good or not. They’re only soda muffins. But with trying to feed so many, we had to do something fast.”
“Well, as I said, they’re delicious.”
She didn’t respond, only stared at him, and he would’ve given much to read her thoughts. To know what was going on behind those eyes that could sparkle like sunshine through stained glass when she laughed. At the moment they resembled more the deep blue of a late summer night sky. Enchanting and fathomless.
“You’re sitting up,” she finally said, her voice soft. “That’s good progress.”
“I suppose.” He raised a brow. “But at this rate it’ll be Easter before I’m able to walk again.” It was humbling to realize how he must appear in her eyes. So broken and crippled. But he still had breath within him. That was something. “I just hope that Dr. Phillips will . . .”
From the corner of his eye, he spotted Winder tiptoeing across the bedroom, apparently trying to sneak up on Miss Clouston. Mischief colored the boy’s expression, but considering the basket of muffins and pot of coffee Miss Clouston held, Roland thought it best to warn her. He gave her a quick wink. “Don’t turn around just now,” he whispered, “but you’re being stalked.”
Her eyes widened in conspiratorial fashion, and she braced herself.
“Yeeeeah!” Winder squealed, then let out a high-pitched yelp and grabbed her about the legs.
With surprising—and impressive—agility, Miss Clouston slid the basket handle farther up her arm, transferred the coffeepot to her left hand, and tickled Winder in the ribs with her free hand until the boy dissolved into a pile of giggles.
“That . . . tickles me!” he managed amidst laughter.
“Well, that’s what a young man gets for sneaking up on his governess!” Miss Clouston’s laughter was light and airy, and Roland noticed that several of the wounded men who’d been sullen and keeping to themselves now wore hints of smiles.
Laughter was a powerful medicine. Much like the quiet charm and tender compassion of this beautiful woman. She was Southern through and through, except for her undisclosed abolitionist leanings. Which he was eager to explore once opportunity allowed.
She looked down at him, and something about the way she tilted her head made his heart give an odd double beat.
“Men of the mighty Army of Tennessee!” came a booming voice, and every gaze turned toward the doorway, Roland’s included. Standing in the hall was General Cheatham, his face like stone.
CHAPTER 15
“To every Confederate soldier within earshot of my voice . . .”
Lizzie sobered at the presence of the commanding officer, and Winder did the same, pressing into the folds of her skirt. A
ll conversation fell silent. Even the ever-steady cadence of moaning and groaning quieted. The general’s voice, steeped in Southern heritage, carried easily, and she had no doubt his words reached downstairs to the entrance hall and beyond.
“We move out at noon, men! Less than two hours from now. To all the wounded: Those who are stable enough to travel, you’re with your unit. General Bates’s division is headed south to Murfreesboro. The rest of us are pushing on toward Nashville. General Hood’s orders.” The general shifted his weight, his hand gripping his scabbard-clad saber. “We lost sixty-nine field officers to casualties the other night, including fourteen generals. Of those, five were killed, as you know. Eight were wounded, and one was captured. Fifty-five regimental officers were either killed, wounded, captured, or are missing. So when we make camp, we’ll reassemble troops. If you’re not able to travel, then you will remain here. And when the Federal Army arrives . . . and they will arrive soon enough . . .” He stared hard across the gathering of men. “You will forthwith become prisoners of the Federal Army. But know this,” he added quickly, “I give you my word that every appeal will be made to the honor of the United States government to allow you to remain here at Carnton until you’re stable enough to be transported under Federal guard either to a hospital in Nashville or to prison for the duration of this conflict.”
Lizzie heard finality in the general’s tone, along with weariness and an undercurrent of regret. Silence, thick and heavy, seemed to blanket the house. The general’s gaze moved steadily over the soldiers until it came to Captain Jones, where it lingered.
She saw a look pass between the two men, one that led her to believe they were familiar with each other beyond the simple chain of command. And that, perhaps, the two of them were privy to knowledge the others weren’t. Looking back toward the hallway, she spotted Dr. Phillips, along with several corpsmen.
The general faced forward again. “May our gracious Lord strengthen you all and keep you in the days ahead.” Then he saluted, his posture ramrod straight. “And may our great God be with the mighty Army of Tennessee!”
With one voice, the soldiers repeated the last declaration and saluted their commanding officer. Many were forced to salute with their left hand, Lizzie noted. Dr. Phillips entered the bedroom along with corpsmen who carried crutches. They began helping the men to stand, and her throat tightened as she watched the wounded soldiers hobbling out of the room and down the stairs. Most didn’t seem well enough to be walking, much less traveling, but she guessed that whatever pain they would endure was preferable to being left behind to such an uncertain and unfavorable fate.
Winder hugged her legs tight. “The soldiers can stay if they want to. I don’t mind sharin’ my room.”
She ran a hand through his hair. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I’m sure they’ll receive fine care wherever they’re going.” But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true. Especially for the soldiers too seriously wounded to risk being moved.
She looked over at Captain Jones, who sat with his back against the wall watching other soldiers from the second floor make their way to the staircase. She could all but read his thoughts. She wondered if he’d sent word yet for his manservant. If George didn’t arrive soon, who would assist the captain in leaving before the Federal Army arrived? And even if George did arrive in time, how would the man transport him? Would George bring a wagon? Or would he depend on a stretcher?
It hurt her to imagine the pain Captain Jones would endure while being jostled in a wagon over the rutted winter roads, much less being dragged over rough ground on a makeshift pallet for miles on end.
“Miss Clouston.” Dr. Phillips’s voice cut into her thoughts. “A word with you, please, ma’am.”
“Certainly, Doctor.” She motioned for him to give her a minute, then she gently coaxed Winder to loosen his hold on her legs.
From her peripheral vision she felt Captain Jones looking in her direction. And for reasons she couldn’t define, his attention stirred her. Made her very much aware of being a woman. With that realization came an increased level of discomfort. Because he was a married man. He ought not be looking at her in that manner. If he was looking at her at all. She sneaked a glance at him. He wasn’t. He was looking more through her, as though lost in thought.
She gave an internal shake of her head, feeling more than a little foolish now. Whatever it was about this man that attracted her to him, she was eager to see him returned to his wife. Even though part of her was already dreading his departure.
Lizzie knelt, placed the basket and pot of coffee on the floor, and looked Winder in the eye. “I need to speak with Dr. Phillips, Winder. But I have a very important task for you. Are you willing to help?”
The boy nodded, curiosity sparking his expression.
“The soldiers leaving here today have a long journey ahead of them, and I imagine they’re going to grow quite hungry. So I want you to take this basket around to every soldier you see and ask him if he’d like to take a muffin with him. And when these muffins are gone—”
“I’ll go get more from Mama in the kitchen?”
She nodded. “That’s exactly right.”
He grabbed the basket and raced first to Captain Jones, which she found telling.
“You want to take a muffin with you, Captain? To fight them dang Yankees?”
The captain smiled. “Thanks, Winder, but I’ve already got one.” He held up his partially eaten muffin as evidence, then pointed to Winder’s chest. “That’s a mighty fine-looking medal you’re wearing today.”
Beaming, Winder peered down at his shirt. “Miss Clouston sewed it on for me this morning. She said Tempy had too much to do already. And since I don’t like wearin’ my coat, she sewed it on my shirt instead!”
“She did a fine job. Now head on out there and do your duty, young man!”
Winder returned the captain’s salute and dashed into the hallway. Lizzie peered after him, making certain he was doing as told, before she gradually looked back at Captain Jones. He was definitely watching her now, and his expression held an uncertainty she hadn’t seen from him before. Or perhaps he hadn’t allowed her to see.
She joined the doctor by the far window.
“Miss Clouston,” Dr. Phillips began in a quiet voice, his countenance somber, “I want you to know that it’s only after much deliberation—and after having witnessed your strength of character under the most difficult of circumstances—that I am making this request of you.”
Lizzie stared, not at all certain she wanted to hear whatever he was going to say next.
“From all calculations, ma’am, there are roughly three dozen men here at Carnton who are physically incapable of going with us when the army moves out. For them to travel now would, I believe, result in their certain demise. And I fear the only chance these men have of—”
“Doc, you might as well include me in this conversation, since I’m one of those men and I can hear every word you’re saying.”
Lizzie turned to see Captain Jones sitting alone by the hearth, his casual smile belying the tension in his gravelly voice. The number of wounded in the bedroom had thinned out considerably. Only four men remained, Second Lieutenant Shuler and two others—Second Lieutenant Taylor and Private Smith.
Dr. Phillips offered a conciliatory nod. “I’m sorry, Captain. It wasn’t my intention to—”
“I know that, Dr. Phillips.” The captain gave a single nod. “But it doesn’t change the fact that sooner rather than later, Federal officers are going to be walking through that doorway with the aim of collecting prisoners. It appears as though I might be included in that number. So if there are decisions to be made, and I think there are, I believe I have a right to be part of that process.”
Dr. Phillips grabbed a straight-backed chair from in front of the fireplace and set it beside the captain. He gestured for Lizzie to sit, but she opted for Winder’s Poynor chair instead. As she sat, her gaze connected with the captain’s, and in
his gray eyes she saw courage mingled with dread. But she also glimpsed an acceptance—and even a peace—she couldn’t begin to identify with.
“Captain Jones.” The doctor settled into the chair. “There is no ‘might be included’ in your case, sir. If you leave this house, you’ll not only never walk again, the effort will likely kill you. Your injuries are—”
“What if I were to say that I’d absolve you of any responsibility, Doc? That my death, should that occur, would not be laid at your feet.”
The doctor shook his head. “I bent to your will once before, Captain Jones. And rightly so, as I’ve confessed to Miss Clouston here. Because though I do not believe I served you best by letting you keep that leg, I do think there’s a fair chance you’ll live through this. But to willfully allow you to be moved this soon would rip every suture from your wounds and would most assuredly dislocate the bone we’ve just set, which could puncture an artery. It’s a miracle that didn’t happen to begin with.”
“And you think the men who inflicted this damage to his body are going to be more careful with him—and with these other soldiers—than their fellow soldiers would be?” The question was out of Lizzie’s mouth before she could think to soften her tone and reframe it in a more genteel fashion, much less remember to whom she was speaking.
Both men stared. But it was the sly glint of admiration in Captain Jones’s eyes that gave her the courage to continue.
“All I’m saying, Dr. Phillips, is that—”
“I know what you’re saying, Miss Clouston.” The surgeon leveled his gaze. “And I understand. And if you’ll both give me half a chance, I’ll lay out a plan that—while unconventional—I think has a fairly good chance of succeeding.”
Lizzie promptly closed her mouth, then opened it again. “I’m sorry, Doctor, if I spoke out of turn. But it issues from honest concern. I simply want to see Captain Jones safely returned to his wife, and the rest of these soldiers returned to their families as well.”
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