With this Pledge

by Tamera Alexander

  Lizzie recognized the verse from the Bible, though she couldn’t recall exactly where it was found. Unwavering conviction filled the colonel’s eyes, and though she was still struggling to reconcile what had happened here in this home and on that battlefield, she nodded, wishing she had a deeper faith in that regard.

  “Also, Miss Clouston, along with the telegram tonight came a response from my contact at the War Department.”

  Lizzie’s spirits brightened, until he shook his head.

  “I wish I had more hopeful news. I’m afraid he has no record of a Thaddeus having served in Loring’s Division.”

  “But . . .” She frowned. “That was the name I found on one of the belongings in the boy’s pocket. Perhaps he was in a division other than Loring’s but was brought here to Carnton by mistake?”

  “My contact had that same thought, so he checked the military rosters of every other division here at Franklin that day. He found six Thaddeuses listed. Two of them died last year near Chattanooga, three died in Atlanta earlier this fall, and the other Thaddeus—in his twenties—is at the front in Nashville right now. I’m so sorry, Miss Clouston. I wish the inquiry had turned up something helpful to you. It’s a good thing, what you intended to do.”

  A heaviness settled in Lizzie’s chest. “Thank you, Colonel McGavock. I appreciate your checking for me, and am grateful for your colleague’s thoroughness.”

  Disheartened, she helped collect the empty trays and soiled napkins throughout the bedrooms. How could the boy not be listed anywhere? Didn’t the army keep better records than that? Yet she wasn’t willing to give up. Roland had said he might have another idea. She only hoped he did.

  As she helped Tempy clean up in the McGavocks’ bedroom, she prayed. For Thaddeus’s mother, whoever and wherever she was. For Towny. For the Confederate—and Federal—armies. She even prayed for General Hood. But despite her prayers, she ached inside, imagining Towny and the thousands of other soldiers hunkered down somewhere on the outskirts of Nashville in the freezing cold. But it was envisioning the carnage that would soon engulf the men once the battle started that weighed on her the heaviest.

  “Miss Clouston, would you help me, please?”

  Lizzie looked up to see Sister Catherine Margaret in the doorway. “Of course, Sister.” She set aside her stack of trays and soiled napkins and followed her to Winder’s bedroom, surprised to find Roland already asleep. She knelt beside him.

  “I gave him some laudanum a few moments ago to help him rest,” the nun whispered, opposite her. “He’s not been sleeping well, he said. But it seems the laudanum is already doing its work. So with your help, we’ll remove the bandages George applied along with a poultice earlier today, then we’ll gently wash the incisions. We won’t bandage them again, though. We’ll let them air for the night.”

  Sister Catherine pulled back the blanket and sheet, and Lizzie realized she’d not seen Roland’s leg wounds recently. Remembering how Dr. Phillips had painstakingly sutured the ribbons of flesh cut to pieces from grapeshot, she was surprised at the extent of healing that had taken place in such a short time. The process had to have been so painful for him. Yet he never complained.

  “If you’ll gently lift the captain’s right leg, Miss Clouston.”

  “Yes, of course.” As carefully as she could, she lifted his leg enough for Sister Catherine to remove the bandages. They did the same with the left, then took turns wiping the incisions clean with warm water. Lizzie watched his face. If doing this caused him pain, his expression didn’t show it.

  She’d intentionally put some distance between them in recent days, but she missed his company. His quick wit. Their conversations. Any misunderstanding about our friendship was solely on my part, he’d said the afternoon she’d told him about Towny.

  It had taken a moment for his meaning to sink in, but when it had, she’d felt her world go slightly off-kilter. He admitted he’d misunderstood their friendship. That he’d thought it was leading to something more. Or at least that was how she interpreted his comment. It would explain why he’d reached for her hand the night they’d sat by the hearth talking. The night Towny had shown up.

  She looked into his face, grateful for the chance to watch him while he slept. Had Weet ever lain awake and watched him like this? Surely she had. Judging by the letter Roland had asked her to read, Weet—or Susan—had loved him very much. And they’d had a child together. A little girl. Who was gone now too.

  Roland shifted a little and sighed, and Lizzie and Sister Catherine paused momentarily. But when he didn’t wake up, they continued. Lizzie liked the way Sister Catherine had cut his hair. Shorter but not too short. Still touching his collar. The stubble shadowing the sides of his face made her wish she could run a hand along his jawline. Towny’s face was naturally smoother. He’d only grown a beard once and it had come in thin in places, so he’d shaved it off. She’d told him she liked him better without it anyway. And she still did.

  Roland was well muscled through his shoulders, chest, and arms, which would help him greatly, she thought, once he began the regimen that would get him walking again. Looking at him, she wondered how it would feel to be held close in those arms, to be kissed by him, to feel the roughness of his face on her cheek. His lips on hers. To stare close up into those steel-gray eyes. The thoughts felt traitorous, and with good reason. But the next felt even more so. What might her future have held, had she not been betrothed to Towny when she’d met Roland? That was something she would never know.

  Then again, perhaps her accepting Towny’s proposal when she did was part of the “all things working together for good” in her life, as the colonel had said earlier. She’d simply have to trust that that was the case, regardless of what her heart told her.

  Sister Catherine gestured. “All done, Miss Clouston,” she whispered. “Now on to my next patient.”

  Lizzie eased Roland’s leg to the floor, then pulled the sheet and blanket back into place. She rose and hadn’t gone three steps when she heard his deep voice.

  “Lizzie?”

  She turned back to find him watching her.

  “I’m praying tonight,” he whispered. “For your Lieutenant Townsend.”

  She smiled down at him, able to hear the laudanum in his voice. “Thank you, Roland. I’ve been praying that General Hood would change his mind.”

  “I’ll pray for that too.” He yawned and rubbed his eyes. “But it’s not likely. The man was bested here in Franklin, and I think he’s determined to get revenge. Hood’s like a wounded animal. There’s no reasoning with him.”

  What he said made sense. Colonel McGavock held much the same opinion. Thinking of the colonel jogged her memory. “We received an answer back about Thaddeus.”

  Roland blinked and came a little more awake.

  “But it wasn’t good news, I’m afraid. They couldn’t find any record of his being here at the battle.”

  “But that’s impossible. He was here.”

  “I know. So I’m hoping that whatever idea you were referring to the other night might still be an option.”

  He nodded and yawned again. “I’ll do the best I can.”

  She smiled. “I wouldn’t have expected any less. Oh, and per Dr. Phillips’s instructions, Colonel McGavock ordered several cots from the quartermaster earlier this week, so you should be off the floor very soon.”

  “That’s good,” he whispered. “That’s real good.”

  A handful of seconds passed, and she figured he’d fallen back to sleep. She turned to go.

  “Lizzie?”

  She paused, realizing the laudanum was definitely having an influence.

  “I’m grateful we’re friends again,” he said softly, his eyes slipping closed.

  “Me too,” she whispered, doubting he heard her. “Far more than you know.”

  CHAPTER 26

  The next morning tension filled every corner of the house. The air pulsed with it. Roland shifted on his pallet on the floor, ready f
or that cot Lizzie had told him was ordered last night. The men, including him, were sullen and moody, snapping at each other and even at Tempy and the nuns as they’d cleared the breakfast dishes earlier. No one had eaten much, same as no one had slept much all night. Everyone’s thoughts were centered on Nashville and Hood’s attack.

  All Roland could think about were the remaining men in his regiment and how they were likely fighting right this minute. While part of him wished he were beside them, he also knew that if he were there, he wouldn’t be fighting with the same fervor he’d fought with before. Because he’d glimpsed the ending on the battlefield the other night. And like someone who was reading a novel but skipped to the back and read the last page out of turn, he felt as though he already knew how this story was going to end.

  He looked at the clock on the mantel—nearly half past eleven—then outside the window, where another night of ice and snow had coated the trees and hills and everything else he could see in its frozen grip. He studied the sketch on the pad of paper in his lap and ran the tip of the pencil over the wide curve that represented the Confederate troops entrenched around Nashville. No matter how many times he worked the scenario in his mind, he always came to the same conclusion.

  Footsteps on the second-story landing drew his attention. Sister Catherine entered the bedroom, carrying a basket of medicinal supplies. Lizzie followed with fresh cloths and a basin of water. Time to change bandages for those who needed it. Lizzie’s gaze eventually moved to him, but Roland sensed she might have wanted to look sooner. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part.

  The women tended to Conrad first, and the once-strong, now much-too-feeble first lieutenant rambled on about how to fix the heel of a man’s boot. Conrad seemed to lapse back into his former life whenever he got nervous or the memories became too dark. Lieutenant Shuler was still sleeping. The young man had had a rough night of it, a lot of pain, he’d said. Roland hoped the morphine they’d given him earlier would help. Captain Hampton and Lieutenant Estes, the quietest in the bunch, had taken advantage of the colonel’s offer to borrow from his library and were both reading.

  In the corner of the room, Taylor and Smitty argued over a game of checkers, Taylor occasionally punching Smitty in the arm. At least Taylor wasn’t still going on about what a great military leader Hood was.

  Finally Lizzie came and knelt beside him. “Afternoon,” she said quietly and reached for his right hand.

  “Afternoon.” He gave a nod. “And thank you.”

  With a fleeting smile, she gently began removing the old bandage. She looked tired. Beautiful, but tired, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes more pronounced. No doubt she was thinking of Lieutenant Townsend, wondering where he was and worrying for him, hoping he was all right. But she also had to be heartened, at least to some measure, thinking that the North was going to be victorious.

  He watched her as she cleaned his hand wound, working gently yet methodically. If she’d been born a man, she would have made a fine doctor. She was certainly smart enough and had a compassionate nature people responded to. She leaned closer, inspecting the stitches on his palm, and he caught a whiff of lilac and a sweetness that was distinctly feminine.

  She glanced down at the sketch he’d drawn. “What’s that?”

  Grateful for the distraction, he forced himself to refocus. “Just me, thinking on paper.”

  Her expression encouraged him to continue.

  “I’ve been going over different scenarios of what might be taking place in Nashville. What strategies each side might be employing. It helps me occupy the time.”

  She finished wrapping his hand in a fresh bandage, then pulled Winder’s chair closer. She took a seat. “You said ‘scenarios.’ Is there one that rises above the others in your mind?”

  “It’s only my opinion, mind you, but yes. With what I’ve seen of the tactics of both the Southern army and the Northern, I believe General Thomas—commander of the Federal troops in Nashville—will try to turn the Confederate left flank.” He ghosted the tip of the pencil along the same curve from a moment earlier. “This represents our troops. And this . . . farther north up by Nashville . . . is the Federal line.” He traced a path with his forefinger along the dark line at the top of the page. “Sherman did the same thing to break Hood’s final hold on Atlanta, and it worked. It’s the same strategy the Union’s employed since the war started.” He sighed. “Turn the Confederate left flank.”

  Lizzie leaned forward, looking closely at the drawing. She pointed. “You’ve made marks along the Confederate front.”

  He nodded. “For the different brigades.”

  “Do you know which brigade is stationed along each portion of the line?”

  He looked at her and knew what she was really asking. “What brigade is Lieutenant Townsend in?”

  She stared for a moment, then softly answered, “Tucker’s.”

  He looked back at the paper and pictured from memory the overlay of assignments from the battle at Franklin. “For Franklin, Tucker’s Brigade was stationed here.” He pointed to the far left and northwesternmost edge of the curve. “But Hood could well have adjusted the positions according to what spies told him or to movement he observed on the ground.”

  For the longest time she stared at the pencil drawing. Finally she looked up. “Do you think this could be the end?” she whispered. “Of the war, I mean.”

  He studied her gaze—her eyes a robin’s egg blue, maybe a shade darker. He couldn’t quite remember when it was that he’d first realized what a jewel this woman was. Was it that first night when he’d looked up, not knowing if he was dead or alive, and thought her an angel? Or in the days following, when he’d realized she truly was one?

  “I think, Lizzie, that what happened here in Franklin”—he lowered his voice, not only so others wouldn’t hear, but because he wasn’t sure his own voice would hold beneath the weight of truth—“has determined the outcome of the war. And I believe that what will happen in Nashville . . . will be the nail in the Confederacy’s coffin.”

  She firmed her lips, and her chin trembled the slightest bit. But she nodded. And he glimpsed the internal struggle going on inside her that he’d imagined moments earlier.

  “I’m praying for him,” he whispered. “For your Towny.”

  Her eyes filled with emotion. “Thank you, Roland.”

  The way she looked at him threatened to plant a seed of hope within him. Don’t go there, he told himself. She’s a promised woman.

  “He’s a good man,” she added softly.

  He struggled not to reach out and cradle the side of her face. “You wouldn’t be with him if he were not.”

  “Hood’s the best leader this war has ever seen!” Taylor pronounced from across the room. “Them Federals will be hightailin’ it back north when he’s done with ’em.”

  Smitty let out a whoop, and Roland took a deep breath.

  “I’ve had to sit here and listen to those two jawing on about Hood all morning.”

  Lizzie opened her mouth to respond, then apparently thought better of it.

  “What?” he pried gently.

  She narrowed her eyes. “It’s about General Hood. I saw him that day, Roland. On the battlefield here in Franklin. The morning after.”

  “You saw Hood?”

  She nodded. “He was sitting astride his horse, not too far from the Federal breastworks. Full-bearded, with a long tawny mustache, and absent a leg.”

  “That’s Hood, all right. He lost that leg at Chickamauga.” Though he knew she’d gone to the battlefield that day, it still hurt him to think of all she’d witnessed. Things a woman should never have to see. Of course, she’d seen almost as bad right here at Carnton.

  “I didn’t know who he was at first.” She kept her voice low. “But I asked one of the soldiers, and he told me. General Hood was staring out across the fields. The closer I came to him, the more I expected him to look my way, but he didn’t. It was as though I weren�
�t even there. And . . .” She paused. “I’m almost certain he was crying, Roland. And though someone else might have felt sorry for the man”—she stared at the fire crackling in the hearth—“I couldn’t. Because as I looked back across that field, all I felt was fury. And injustice.”

  Roland watched her, her gaze transfixed. For the longest time, neither of them spoke.

  “Miss Clouston?”

  They looked back to see Tempy standing in the doorway, an envelope in hand.

  “Letter come for you just now, miss. I figured you’d want to see it straightaway. I think it’s from your Lieutenant Townsend.”

  The older woman crossed the room and handed Lizzie the envelope. Conversations around them fell silent.

  “Thank you, Tempy. I appreciate you bringing it up to me.”

  She fingered the envelope, and Roland couldn’t decide whether she was eager to read the letter but didn’t know how to excuse herself to do so—or if, for whatever reason, she wasn’t eager to read it, yet didn’t want to convey that feeling either.

  “I hope it holds good news,” Sister Catherine offered, changing the bandage on Smitty’s leg.

  “Me too, Miss Clouston,” Shuler said from the bed, and Roland looked over, only now aware that the young man had awakened.

  “Who’s Lieutenant Townsend?” Conrad asked from across the room.

  The question, draped in such innocence coming from Conrad, seemed to grow overloud in the quiet. Even Taylor and Smitty looked up from their game of checkers. And Hampton and Estes from their books.

  Lizzie finally lifted her gaze. “Lieutenant Townsend is . . . my fiancé.”

  “You’re betrothed?” Surprise colored Shuler’s tone.

  Lizzie looked over at him and nodded.

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” Shuler sighed. “Somebody asked you before I could.”

  The young lieutenant’s smile hinted at his intended humor. But it was the quick look Sister Catherine shot in Roland’s direction that made Roland feel most uncomfortable.

  Lizzie opened the envelope, withdrew the letter, read it briefly, then looked up. “It’s about Nashville. Not what’s happening now, of course, but from earlier this week.” Her gaze scanned the room. “I can read it aloud, if you like.”