Lizzie briefly bowed her head. So much for a dose of femininity helping to ease the tension. And also contrary to what Dr. Phillips had thought, providing an explanation about each soldier’s injuries only seemed to be further frustrating the situation.
The next few soldiers answered the doctor’s questions at surprising length. Contrary to what she would’ve guessed—that these men wouldn’t wish to speak about the frightful experience they’d endured—she discovered that most of them were, in fact, eager to share at least some of what they’d been through. Perhaps with the unconscious hope that the retelling would somehow dilute the strength of the memory.
Dr. Nichols finished his inquiries, and they moved next to Winder’s room. Several of the soldiers who’d searched other parts of the house returned and followed them, shadowing their path. Seven soldiers occupied Winder’s room now. But Lizzie couldn’t bring herself to look at Captain Jones, who was seated on the floor by the hearth. Not because she thought she would see I told you so in his eyes, but because she knew she wouldn’t. She would see only compassion and understanding, not a trace of blame for what was going to happen to him and the rest of these men who had already given so much. And she feared that seeing that tender measure of undeserved mercy would lay her battered defenses to waste.
Dr. Nichols began his line of inquiry with First Lieutenant Conrad, whom Lizzie had found to be a kind, humble sort of man, a cobbler from Alabama, a widower with no children who mostly kept to himself. Although she wondered if that had always been the case, or if his reticence was due, at least in part, to his recent injuries.
“I lost my arm to grapeshot, Doc,” Conrad began, touching his bandaged head. “And a blue coat sabered me in the head. Cut me near clean to the skull, Doc Phillips said. He patched me up, though. Said I got me some sort of—”
The first lieutenant’s mouth moved but no words came. After a moment, he looked over at Lizzie. Confusion and entreaty riddled his eyes, yet as much as she wanted to respond, she knew that doing so would not help Conrad’s plight. So she said nothing.
General Folsom stepped into Conrad’s line of sight, blocking his view of her. “Say it, soldier. Say what’s wrong with you.”
“M-Miss Clouston?” came the first lieutenant’s shaky whisper. “C-can you help me, please, ma’am?”
Lizzie bit her lower lip, her chest aching with restraint.
“Well . . .” The general looked back at her. “I underestimated you, Miss Clouston. You’ve certainly done your homework. You’ve tutored every one of these men to parrot back what you believe will lead to a—”
“She hasn’t ‘tutored’ any of us, General Folsom.”
The air in the room evaporated, and Lizzie hiccuped a breath. She looked at Captain Jones and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, even though she knew it was too late.
General Folsom turned. “What did you say to me, soldier?”
Captain Jones didn’t blink. “I said, sir, that she hasn’t tutored any of us. Miss Clouston was there. She assisted Dr. Phillips in surgery for nearly thirty-six hours straight. So almost every absent arm and leg among us, every stitched-up hole and gash, she saw it all. Miss Clouston is simply continuing her effort to keep us alive. After you Federals did all you could to put us in the grave.” A slow smile turned his mouth. “Which is only fair, sir. We were trying to do the same to you. Only you did it better this time.”
Lizzie was certain her heart had stopped a few seconds back and her body simply hadn’t gotten word yet. What was Captain Jones thinking, speaking to a Federal officer in that manner? A man hardened by war who would likely think nothing of the captain, and every other wounded soldier here, dying on their way to Nashville.
General Folsom strode to where Captain Jones sat on the floor. “Name and rank, soldier.”
“Captain Roland Ward Jones, sir. First Battalion, Mississippi Sharpshooters, Adams’ Brigade.”
“A sharpshooter?” The general eyed his bandaged right hand. “Were you any good?”
“He was one of the best, sir,” Lieutenant Shuler offered from across the room, his tone unapologetic. Even faintly proud.
“Is that so, Captain?” General Folsom stared, awaiting a response.
Finally Captain Jones shrugged. “I managed to do all right, I guess.”
Again Lizzie held her breath. But then . . .
The general gave a soft laugh, not caustic like earlier, but one of a more humored nature. Then he turned to face her, his humor quickly fading.
“Was it as Captain Jones said, miss? You assisted the doctor?”
Lizzie nodded. “Yes, General.”
His eyes narrowed. “And had you done that before, Miss Clouston? Assisted a surgeon?”
For some reason, the question took her back to the night of the battle, to the moment when Dr. Phillips first sought her out and asked her much the same thing. Emotion tightened her throat as she realized how swiftly life could come unhinged. How fragile and fleeting it really was. How many lives had been changed—and lost—since that night? Since the war started? And even now, how many women and children were praying for loved ones who would never be returning home?
Aware of the general’s continuing stare, Lizzie shook her head. “No, sir.” Her voice was meeker than she would have liked. “I had not.”
“And you’ve never seen war so close up before now, have you?”
It wasn’t a question. “No, I have not.” A burning sensation flooded her eyes, and she clenched her hands to keep them from shaking.
“And the hard truth, miss, is that even with all you’ve witnessed here in this house, you still haven’t. You’ve only seen the outskirts of war. And even that from a distance. You may have assisted a doctor with the wounded in this home, which is a commendable contribution. For either army. But a woman knows nothing of real war or the cost it exacts from a man. Or the glory that comes with fighting for your country.” He took a step closer. “So while I do not doubt that you care about what happens to these men, the fact remains, they’re prisoners of the Federal Army, and they’re going to Nashville.” His gaze never left hers. “Doc, get these men ready for transfer.”
“Yes, sir, General!”
General Folsom strode toward the door, and the shaking within Lizzie worsened.
She swallowed past the constriction in her throat. “You’re mistaken, General Folsom.”
Her voice came out barely above a whisper, but the commander stopped dead in his tracks. And when their eyes met, Lizzie was certain she felt the wood planks beneath her feet partially give way. But whatever restraint had held her tongue in check moments earlier suddenly let loose.
“I’ve seen more than the outskirts of war, sir.” She tried to mask the tremor in her voice. “I went to the battlefield the next morning. I saw what both armies did to each other. Thousands lay dead or dying on the field.”
He stared at her, his expression inscrutable. But he didn’t tell her to stop.
“So while you’re right in one sense, General . . . I have not been to war. I did not charge headlong up that battlefield in full view of my enemy entrenched behind breastworks. And I cannot begin to comprehend the courage it took to do such a thing. But I do know what it’s like to walk among the mangled and lifeless bodies of thousands of men who did. Men in gray. And men in blue. I walked the ground drenched with their blood. I saw the agony—and even hatred—captured in their expressions when they died. I’ve sat with too many men in their final moments as they’ve breathed their last, their bodies torn apart by shot and shell. And, to a man, none of them spoke of the glory of war in those final moments, sir. None of them bragged about how many Federals they’d killed. And I believe it would’ve been the same if I’d sat with your men. The dying speak about what’s most important to them. These men spoke of their wives and children, and how they wished to return home to see them one last time.” Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. She took a steadying breath. “So for you to tell me that because I
am a woman, I know nothing of war . . . That simply isn’t true, sir. You know one facet of war.” She lifted her chin. “But I know another.”
He stared, his gaze appraising. “Are you quite finished, Miss Clouston?”
Resisting the inclination to look away, she nodded. “Yes, sir. I am.”
“Good. Now if you’ll be so kind as to help these men pack up and—”
“General Folsom!”
Attention turned to Dr. Nichols, who was examining Captain Jones.
The physician wore a stricken look. “Sir . . . I think it’s the measles.”
Disbelief swept the general’s face, and he uttered a curse. The rest of the Federal soldiers took a hasty step back, some going as far as the hallway. But Lizzie could only stare at the captain, sharing his obvious surprise. Measles. She needed to get him quarantined from the other soldiers. And the children! Winder had been in the captain’s company that very morning!
The general hesitated, clearly torn. “You’re certain, Doc?”
“Certain enough that I wouldn’t advise risking the spread of the illness to our men. Especially since it’s doubtful most of these men will recover from their injuries, sir.”
Lizzie winced at the doctor’s choice of wording, but knew from what Dr. Phillips had said that his estimation wasn’t far off.
General Folsom blew out a breath. Resignation etched his features. “Well, Miss Clouston, looks like you’ll be keeping these men after all. Although I very much doubt you’ll be as eager to tend them now. Move out, men!”
The general strode from the room and down the stairs, his soldiers trailing closely behind.
Lizzie could scarcely believe it. First, that the army was leaving. And second, that after all the captain and these other men had endured . . . now this. Measles had swept through town years earlier, killing dozens. Scarcely a family had remained untouched. It simply wasn’t fair.
The last to leave, Dr. Nichols hesitated in the doorway, satchel in hand. “Miss Clouston, I trust you’ve had experience with this illness before and will know what to watch for. How to treat it.”
“Yes, sir. I have.”
“Good.” He glanced toward the now empty staircase, then back at her, his voice lowering. “I also trust you’re aware that measles can be misdiagnosed on occasion. Certain rashes and skin irritations often masquerade as this disease.” He gave a gentle shrug. “A misdiagnosis can happen to any doctor. No matter his experience—or which army he serves. Does that make sense to you, ma’am?”
An oddness in his tone led her to look at him more closely, and she read something in his expression she couldn’t quite interpret. Yet instinct told her not to question it.
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“Good. Because I wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstanding between us about this.” He glanced back at the soldiers still watching him from the bedroom, the subtlest smile turning his mouth. “You were right, Miss Clouston.”
She stared, not following.
“For a moment the other afternoon, when the Confederates marched onto that field . . .” His eyes narrowed as though seeing something in the distance. “We were all spellbound as we watched them from the breastworks. The sunlight was hazy, the day near spent, and in their yellowish-brown uniforms the Rebels in the front seemed to be magnified in size. One could almost imagine them to be phantoms sweeping along in the air. On they came . . . And in the center, their lines seemed to be many deep and unbroken, their red-and-white tattered flags with the emblem of St. Andrew’s cross as numerous as though every company bore them, flaring brilliantly in the sun’s fading rays.”
He shook his head as though the clouds of memory were thick before his face. “Never, Miss Clouston, have I witnessed such a grand display of military precision as I did when the Army of Tennessee took the field that day. How those men marched forward in the face of such overwhelming adversity. We all watched in amazement. Some of us, even admiration. Despite their being the enemy.” He gave a gentle nod. “Take good care of these men, ma’am. They are among the finest.”
He bid her a quiet good day and descended the staircase.
Lizzie stood absolutely still for a moment, drinking in what he’d said, what had just happened. Then she looked across the room at Captain Jones and knew the expression on his face reflected her own numb disbelief. And overwhelming gratitude. Both to a Federal doctor and to the Great Physician.
CHAPTER 18
Later that afternoon, Roland replayed the scene in his mind and still had trouble believing it. The Federal Army had left without taking him and the other prisoners. In his mind, as General Folsom and the regiment had waited for the doctor to finish his examinations, he’d found himself already making peace with death, something he’d done many times over the past three years. But making peace with death was a tricky thing, because death wasn’t something one merely acknowledged once and then it was done. Death was stealthy, shadowed. And above all, unreliable. Just when you were certain you were done for—that death had tapped you on the shoulder and your last breath was only a breath away—death would slip right past you. Much like what had happened with him the other night on the battlefield, before he’d spotted that big autumn moon.
But today, right here in this bedroom, he’d watched death be outwitted. And he still couldn’t quite reason how Miss Clouston had done it. He’d give most anything to go back and listen to her again, to have the words she’d spoken to the general—so bold, yet with a decidedly feminine strength—captured so he could hear them again.
He smiled, thinking about it. Thinking about her. She’d been trembling like a leaf. Yet how much he and the rest of these men owed her. Because even though he wasn’t eager to admit it to himself, he knew Dr. Phillips was right. If he’d tried to leave here with his regiment, the effort would have met with a bad end. And the trip to Nashville in company of the Federal Army almost certainly would have killed him.
Even shifting the slightest bit caused his legs to throb with pain that shot all the way up his back. As long as he stayed still—either lying or sitting—the pain was manageable. But when he moved his legs . . .
As if his thoughts had summoned her, Miss Clouston appeared in the doorway of the bedroom with a large stew pot, and Tempy beside her with a basket. He spotted the nuns beyond them in the hallway, along with Colonel and Mrs. McGavock and their children carrying similar containers.
“Is anyone hungry?”
Miss Clouston’s smile—and the aroma of whatever was in the pot she carried—filled every corner of the room, and his mouth watered even as something else deep inside him responded to her kindness. To her wit and compassion. To her.
She carefully situated the pot on the brick hearth beside him and looked over. “Captain Jones, would you care for some of Tempy’s famous chicken and dumplings?”
“Oh, they ain’t my dumplin’s, Captain Jones.” Tempy gestured. “Miss Clouston, she done made these.”
Miss Clouston pursed her lips. “But it’s your special receipt, Tempy.”
“Ain’t no special receiptin’ ’bout it, ma’am. You just throw together some flour and eggs, toss in a bit of sour milk and maybe some salt, if you got it. Then drop ’em on top of the chicken simmerin’ in the pot.”
“Which proves my point!” Miss Clouston eyed her. “That while I made them, it’s you who showed me how.”
Tempy grinned and shook her head. “For a woman with so much learnin’, ma’am, you can be right stubborn-headed.”
Miss Clouston laughed, and Roland was drawn to the lightness of it. Like parched ground in the deep of summer, he drank it in. He enjoyed seeing the two women so cheerful, especially after recent days. He ran a hand over his full beard, looking forward to that cleanup and shave Sister Catherine Margaret had promised him.
Miss Clouston handed him a steaming bowl of chicken and dumplings and a spoon. “Here you go, Captain.”
He nodded. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. And thank you, again, f
or what you did this afternoon. For all of us.” His gaze swept the room.
“Hear, hear!” Shuler added from a few feet away, and Conrad and the other soldiers echoed their thanks. Even Taylor and Smitty.
“You’re all most welcome, gentlemen. But it wasn’t because of me or anything I said. It was Dr. Nichols—and the Lord—who saved you all.”
“Mmm-hmm. That’s right.” Tempy nodded and began serving cornbread to the other soldiers. “But sometimes the good Lord, he chooses to work through human hands and feet!”
Miss Clouston only smiled and shook her head, then ladled the creamy stew into bowls and served the others. Roland couldn’t help but notice the way the other soldiers watched her. But it was only Taylor’s overlong stare that bothered him. The man’s attention held a good deal more than kindly meant appreciation. Taylor happened to look in his direction then and, as if sensing his displeasure, gave Miss Clouston—whose back was to him—a once-over that made Roland eager to walk again so he could cross the room and knock that leer right off the man’s face.
Being in the same regiment, he and Second Lieutenant Taylor had had their share of run-ins before. But being cooped up with the man—and his coadjutor, Private Smitty—for what could be weeks on end didn’t bode well. Taylor had an arrogance about him that often accompanied newly appointed junior officers. That, combined with an overinflated opinion of himself, made for a volatile mixture.
Miss Clouston returned and claimed the diminutive chair beside him, and Roland found himself thinking, again, about her reaction at discovering that he wasn’t married. Recalling her look of relief made him wonder if perhaps she viewed him a tad differently than she did the others. Yet even if she did, which would be farfetched, it didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t the man he used to be. He aimed to get better, to walk again. But there was no guarantee of that. The only guarantee he had was that of likely losing his estate in the very near future, along with any way of earning a livelihood. He could scarcely provide for all the people depending on him now; how could he provide for a wife and children? The thought brought reality to the forefront.
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