With this Pledge

by Tamera Alexander

  “Where is the Army of Tennessee headed now?” Sister Catherine asked.

  Colonel McGavock gestured. “Down south to Spring Hill, then on to Columbia. The streams are still swollen from the rains, so it’s making the going a little rougher.”

  Mrs. McGavock shook her head. “I only pray it’s making it rougher for the Federals too. Which may give our boys something of a lead.”

  Only then did Lizzie notice how quiet Tempy was beside her. Lizzie looked over. She couldn’t make out the precise definition of Tempy’s features in the shadows, but somehow she knew that Tempy felt much as she did. Glad to hear this news, because it meant a step toward freedom for so many. Yet heartbroken at all the needless, senseless death. Lizzie turned back toward the colonel when she felt Tempy take hold of her hand. Lizzie squeezed tight.

  Sister Mary Grace stepped forward. “What can we do, Colonel?”

  “Pray,” he said simply. “That God will see us all through this to whatever waits on the other side.”

  Both sisters immediately returned to the house. Lizzie stared out into the night, the sound of rifle fire echoing across the valley once again. She squeezed the hands of the women on either side of her, feeling as though they were on a precipice about to take a plunge. And whatever came of it, good or bad, they were destined to take it together.

  Roland awakened to distant gunfire and to the sound of horses and wagons. At first he thought he was dreaming, then as he listened more closely, deep in his bones, he knew the truth. His eyes felt hot and gritty. A punishing fist squeezed his heart tight. Grateful for the dark, he didn’t bother to wipe away the tears. His chest ached with regret and loss, disappointment and dread, but he didn’t make a sound. He lay still in the darkness and listened, somehow knowing he needed to memorize this moment. Needed to take it in. Needed to remember what the Confederacy sounded like in its final moments.

  CHAPTER 28

  “Are there any more questions, men?” Colonel McGavock asked, the strength of his voice belying the lines of weariness on his face.

  Conrad slowly raised his hand.

  “Yes, First Lieutenant Conrad.”

  “Can we . . . stay here, Colonel?”

  The colonel’s expression gentled. “First Lieutenant Conrad, you and every other soldier here will continue to remain at Carnton until you’re deemed well enough to leave. And as I stated before, at that point you will either go to a Federal hospital or to prison.”

  Roland listened even as his attention was drawn beyond the windows in Winder’s bedroom, where all the soldiers had gathered, to the first light of dawn edging up over the distant hills. It seemed too beautiful a morning to follow so tragic a night. Shortly after five o’clock that morning, Colonel McGavock had awakened the men who’d somehow managed to sleep through the night and had delivered news of the Confederate retreat.

  Seeing tears in some of the men’s eyes even now, Roland was grateful he’d had the opportunity to work through that privately. He wondered if Lizzie had heard from Lieutenant Townsend. Roland hoped he was all right, for both the lieutenant’s and Lizzie’s sake.

  “A warning as well, men,” the colonel continued. “Since there are currently more Federal troops in this area, there’s a higher chance a patrol will stop by to check the roster of soldiers convalescing here. So unless you have spoken to me and I have personally cleared you to leave Carnton for a certain task—at which time I’ll provide you with a written order stating such—you are bound by the oath you took to remain here. And if any one of you tries to leave or rejoin the Confederate Army, every one of you will be immediately taken into custody and sent to prison. Any other questions?”

  “Where’s the Army of Tennessee headed after they meet up in Columbia?”

  Roland bristled at Taylor’s query. Not only due to the lack of respect Taylor showed by not using Colonel McGavock’s honorary title, but because the question also prodded his suspicions. He had a feeling Taylor and Smitty were up to something.

  “I don’t have that information, Lieutenant Taylor,” the colonel answered. “And I doubt the men I spoke with during the night even knew themselves. Those orders will likely come down from General Hood today.”

  Frazier, a private from Alabama, huffed. “If Hood’s even still in charge after the catastrophe that his leadership has—”

  “You shut your trap, Frazier!” Taylor yelled, then lunged for the private who sat on the floor in front of him.

  “Gentlemen!” Colonel McGavock shouted. “Gentlemen!”

  Taylor managed to get in the first punch before Frazier even knew what was coming. But Frazier, a good deal heavier with a layer of muscle beneath his bulk, swiftly delivered a solid right hook to Taylor’s jaw. Taylor went down, but not for long. Smitty, along with another of their contingent, helped push Taylor back up, and the melee continued, with several other soldiers taking sides.

  A shrill whistle cut through the shouting and name-calling, and Roland turned to see Sister Catherine Margaret standing in the doorway with Sister Mary Grace, Sister Angelica, and the rest of the nuns shoulder to shoulder behind her. He couldn’t have been more pleased to see the women if he’d been Catholic. Both Taylor and Frazier paused in their fighting, as did the rest of the men, and the sisters quickly took advantage of the moment. They separated the men and, with George’s help, began taking them back to their rooms. Roland looked over at Colonel McGavock and read the same relief—and grief—on his face that Roland felt.

  It still wasn’t quite real to him. The defeat. Even though he’d told Lizzie last night that a defeat was what he expected. And though Colonel McGavock never said the war was over, he had painted a bleak future for the Confederate States. Until the night of the battle here in Franklin, Roland had honestly thought the Confederacy stood a good chance of coming out on top. That everything that he and so many others had fought for would lead to victory. All the blood that had been spilled. All the lives lost. For what?

  “Captain Jones . . .”

  He looked up. “Sister Catherine.”

  She took his left hand in hers. “How does this new and most challenging day find you, Captain?”

  The sincerity in her tone, in her question, had a greater impact on him than Roland would have imagined. He thought for a moment, remembered back to that night they’d sat talking only a few feet away, and met her gaze once again. “Sometimes life on this side of the veil is far more difficult than I think it should be. But then, God’s promises do not eliminate suffering, do they, Sister.”

  She leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Well spoken, my son.” Her eyes shone with a light from within. “The Lord dwells with us in this present moment as surely as he already inhabits those in the future. He sees every step and will guide each one too, if we ask him.” She leaned closer. “So do ask him, Captain.”

  Roland nodded, not quite trusting his voice. If only the Lord knew how to save a twenty-five-hundred-acre estate that had been in the Jones family for three generations but had fallen into ruin on his watch. How would he provide for his mother and sisters? And George and his family and the rest. George had been so faithful to stay while so many others had left. But now. Roland looked down at his legs. He couldn’t even stand up, much less take a step and walk.

  He hadn’t spoken to the Lord in a long time, not like he used to before the Lord took Susan and Lena from him. And he didn’t really feel like it now. But the wordless plea working its way up from somewhere deep inside him seemed to rise of its own accord. And if what Preacher Bounds said was right—When faith ceases to pray, it ceases to live—Roland knew his faith was living on borrowed time.

  His back against the wall, he carefully scooted forward and leaned back on his pallet. Moving still hurt, but not nearly as much as it had at first. Grateful to see that the bedroom had all but cleared out—Shuler was still dozing in bed, the morphine doing its work, and Conrad was reading—Roland stared up at the ceiling and searched for the right words. Words that would persuade
. That would open heavenly doors, so to speak. A moment or two passed, and he came up blank. So he decided that simple words were better than nothing. He took a deep breath.

  Sister Catherine says you see every step, and that you’ll guide each one too—if I ask. So, Lord, this is me . . . asking. He paused, not fool enough to think that the Almighty would answer him that quickly. But still, he waited. He studied the ceiling as seconds ticked by, then he sighed. I don’t rightly know what’s coming next in life, what to expect now that things have worked out this way. Which wasn’t the way I anticipated, based on how I thought you were leading me. What I mean is, you didn’t exactly work things out like I thought you would.

  Roland felt a stab of bitterness, but knew enough to know that the Almighty wasn’t keen on being blamed, even though he was the one in charge. And you already know this, Lord, but I can’t walk. I can’t even stand right now. And I need to. Sorely, I need to. I have people depending on me. A lot of people. So if you could see fit to help me heal quickly, that’d be much appreciated. More quickly than Taylor and Smitty, for sure.

  He had no desire to be transferred to prison anytime soon. But neither did he want to end up there due to some hoople-headed stunt Taylor pulled. Because, as Dr. Phillips had said, going to prison in his current condition would guarantee his death.

  Roland shifted on the pallet, his back beginning to ache. He wasn’t really sure how prayer worked, and he wished Preacher Bounds were there so he could ask him. He’d always thought of prayer as something you did when you got to the end of your rope. That God expected you to run on your own strength and get the job done. But that if you needed more, he was there to help. Roland had made it a priority years ago to run the race God set before him, and he’d attempted to do that the best he could.

  He scoffed beneath his breath. Little good that had done him.

  He’d asked the Lord to watch over Susan and Lena while he was away fighting for his home and family. And the Almighty hadn’t come through on that one either. And what about the war? He’d sought God’s wisdom on that as well, about whether or not to take up arms and fight. He thought he’d heard a resounding yes on that count. Yet there again, it hadn’t panned out. You’re not quite keeping up your end of the bargain, are you, Lord?

  The longer he lay there, the more his mind and gut churned, and the angrier he became. His emotions spiraled until they hit rock bottom, all the guilt, shame, regret, and fear balling up tight. Preacher Bounds says that a believer is in your hands and there’s nothing we should fear. But I got to tell you, God, I’m not feeling too secure in your hands at present. If this is what it means to be safe in you, then I might be better off on my own. The words were coming now. He no longer had to search for what he wanted to say. He thought about the autumn moon he’d seen on the battlefield.

  Why did you save me that night, make me think you had a reason for me to still draw breath, when I’ve been shown time and again that I’ve got nothing? I’ve lost my family. My home. I’m a cripple. A man “in my prime”—he recalled what Sister Catherine had said—trapped in an old man’s body. I can’t move. I can’t do anything myself. I have control of nothing! And after I thought I’d never love again, I meet Lizzie, and she’s got more of my heart than she’ll ever know. But she’s pledged to someone else. But you knew that when you sent me here.

  A sharp pain in his side caused him to suck in a breath, and only then did he realize how hard his chest was heaving, his teeth gritted tight, fists clenched at his sides. Bitter emotion burned his eyes. You say you’re the strength of my life. Is this what you call making me strong, Lord? He raised his head and looked down at his legs. Because if this is your idea of strength, then I think I can do better on my own.

  “You’re certain they would be receptive to that, Colonel? Considering all that’s happened in the last couple of days?” Lizzie didn’t like to question him, especially in front of Mrs. McGavock, but what he was proposing seemed a little untimely to her. And no offense to Charles Dickens, but the bulk of her thoughts were centered on Towny and on what would happen next to the Confederacy.

  “I think because of all that’s occurred, Miss Clouston, along with the uncertainty we’re facing, this would be a great boon to their spirits.”

  “Tempers are running high among the soldiers, Lizzie.” Carrie sighed. “Especially this afternoon. Yesterday’s defeat has been hard on all of us. The men are restless, wanting to know more when there’s no more to share.”

  The colonel’s look turned sheepish. “I already took the liberty of telling them you’d be willing to start tonight. And that anyone who wanted to participate should let George know and he’d make sure they were ready.”

  “I think a story is exactly what they need,” Carrie added gently. “Tempy has plenty of tea cakes made, and hot chocolate is warming on the stove.”

  Catching a spark of their hopefulness, Lizzie nodded. “I’ll get the children ready for bed, then we’ll make our way upstairs.”

  “Very good.” The colonel nodded his approval, and Carrie smiled.

  As Hattie and Winder changed into their bedclothes, Lizzie shared the plan with them. When they discovered they’d be starting the novel from the very beginning, they both grabbed their pillows and raced upstairs. Lizzie retrieved the book and followed, hoping that at least a handful of the men would be interested. She would have one, at least. She knew she could count on Lieutenant Shuler.

  When she gained the top stair, she found the second-floor hallway full. Soldiers and nuns sat packed closely together on the landing and overflowed into the thresholds of the bedrooms. Every soldier was present. Some sat on chairs; others lay on pallets on the bare wooden floor. A few sat on the stairs leading up to the attic. Roland, she noticed, was on one of the cots that had arrived earlier that morning—but still looked no more rested than he had yesterday. George was beside him, sitting on the floor. Tempy was there too, having already served everyone tea cakes and hot chocolate.

  Lizzie felt the weight of their expectation and hoped she wouldn’t disappoint.

  CHAPTER 29

  “Good evening, gentlemen. Sisters. And children.” Lizzie took her seat. Staring out at her audience, she felt far more “onstage” than she’d imagined when first agreeing to read.

  “Are you going to do the voices?” Lieutenant Shuler asked from a cot near the front.

  “She always does the voices,” Winder countered, grinning back at him.

  Lizzie simply smiled and opened the book. “A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Or the title that Master Winder likes best . . . A Ghost Story of Christmas.”

  “I like that one better too!” Shuler piped up, and several other soldiers agreed.

  “‘Stave One,’” she read and held up the book, wanting everyone to have a chance to see the decorative chapter title. “‘Marley’s Ghost.’”

  Winder grinned and scooted a little closer, as did Hattie. Lizzie waited until everyone was absolutely quiet before she began.

  “‘Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge’s name was good upon ‘Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.’”

  Soft chuckles rippled through the soldiers, while the nuns sat wide-eyed, staring.

  As Lizzie read aloud, knowing most of the opening paragraphs by heart, she sneaked occasional looks around the entrance hall, including in Roland’s direction. He didn’t seem nearly as engaged as the others, and she wondered if perhaps he’d read the book before.

  “‘The door of Scrooge’s counting-house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Scrooge had a very small fire, but the clerk’s fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn’t replenish it, for Scrooge kept the coal-box in his own room.’�
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  “Selfish,” whispered Sister Mary Grace, then she clapped her hand over her mouth. The reaction drew a smattering of laughter.

  As Lizzie read, she delighted in catching the subtle changes in expressions from her audience.

  “‘“A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!” cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge’s nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.’”

  “‘“Bah!” said Scrooge’”—Lizzie lowered her voice—“‘“Humbug!”’”

  She picked out Shuler’s laughter among the crowd, finding it interesting to see which lines drew laughter from some yet not from others. But it was Roland’s laughter she was listening for. She glanced over at him and found him looking at her. Intently. But he wasn’t smiling. She turned the page and continued.

  A moment later her gaze fell to a section of dialogue between Scrooge and his nephew—the nephew insistent to know the reason behind his uncle’s refusal to attend Christmas dinner at his home—and her cadence slowed.

  “‘“Why did you get married?” said Scrooge.’” Lizzie stared at the question on the page, the nephew’s oh-so-candid and honest reply already resonating inside her. “‘“Because I fell in love.”’”

  Her throat tightened. So simple and easy a response from the nephew. Why had she never noticed it before? And why did her thoughts immediately go to Roland?

  Aware of the sudden silence in the room, and of her placement of a pause in the story where Dickens had intended none, she continued, careful not to look in Roland’s direction. She added a touch more drama to her voice in hopes of covering her blunder.

  “‘“Because you fell in love!” growled Scrooge, as if that were the only one thing in the world more ridiculous than a merry Christmas . . .’”