With this Pledge

by Tamera Alexander

  “You’re lookin’ right nice this mornin’, Miss Clouston.”

  Lizzie turned toward Lieutenant Taylor, whose flirtatious smile had the exact opposite effect of his intention, she felt certain. Not to mention, the way the man sometimes looked at her made her skin crawl. Only two days ago he’d complained most of the day about his amputated leg hurting “somethin’ awful.” But today that was apparently no longer the case.

  “Lieutenant Taylor, you appear to be feeling considerably better today. You must have rested well last night.”

  “Oh, I did, ma’am. Had me some real sweet dreams. But I, ah . . .” He ran a hand over the several days’ growth on his jaw. “I’d sure enjoy me a nice hot shave this afternoon.”

  Lizzie smiled, two steps ahead of him. “Of course you would. One of the sisters will be free soon enough, and I’m certain she’ll be happy to assist you.”

  His gaze leisurely trailed her up and down. “I was hopin’ you’d do the honors, ma’am.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “I assure you, Lieutenant Taylor, the last thing you want is me holding a razor to your throat.”

  Smitty snickered softly, and Taylor punched him hard in the arm. Lizzie chose to ignore it. “But again, one of the sisters will be happy to oblige, I’m sure.”

  To her surprise, Taylor’s smile only broadened, and he tipped an invisible hat to her. “Some other time then, Miss Clouston.”

  If she didn’t know better, she might’ve guessed he’d been into Colonel McGavock’s brandy, but that was impossible. Not only because the brandy was locked in a cabinet in the colonel’s farm office, but because Lieutenant Taylor wasn’t mobile enough to get down the stairs yet. Granted, he did have a pair of crutches, but he wasn’t too steady on them. Nor had he, or any of the other amputees, received their artificial limbs yet. Those should be coming soon enough, according to her recent conversation with Jake Winston.

  Jake and his wife, Aletta—a woman Lizzie had come to deeply respect and admire, and felt blessed to call a friend—had become quite adept in recent months at designing and fitting artificial limbs for the wounded. They’d visited Carnton in recent days and had fitted all the soldiers for artificial arms and legs. The increasing demand for their work was keeping the couple far too busy.

  Focusing her thoughts, Lizzie approached James as he lay waiting, and she felt an unwelcome sense of déjà vu. Only this time, a blanket covered the makeshift surgical table and a tarp had been spread out beneath.

  “Good morning, James.” She smiled down at him, his face upside down to hers. And even more than the first time they’d met here in this very spot, she saw the fear in his eyes and wished she could say something to relieve it. But everything she thought of seemed so weak and inconsequential compared to the strength he needed in this moment.

  Dr. Phillips joined them and placed a gentle hand on the young man’s shoulder. “All right, soldier. You know the routine.”

  “Yes, sir. I-I do.” Shuler swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet.

  Lizzie picked up the cloth and bottle of chloroform. “I’ll be right here when you wake up, James.”

  “If he wakes up,” came a coarse whisper from the corner.

  The lieutenant’s breath caught. “Wh-what did Taylor say? Did he say ‘if’?”

  Lizzie exchanged a look with Dr. Phillips, then leaned closer. “Listen to me, James. You’re in very good hands. Dr. Phillips knows exactly what he’s doing. And I’m here for you. I won’t leave your side for a minute.”

  “I’m here for you too, Shuler,” Roland volunteered from across the room.

  “Me too, Shuler,” Lieutenant Conrad said, his timid voice sounding rather emboldened.

  Emotion pooled in James’s eyes and he nodded. A tear slipped down his temple. Lizzie gently wiped it away, then tented the cloth over his nose and tipped the bottle ever so—

  “Wait!” Shuler whispered.

  Lizzie held the bottle in check.

  “Miss Clouston . . .” He blinked. “Would you speak somethin’ over me as you put me under? Anything. I don’t care what. I just want to hear your voice. The sound of it does me good.”

  His request brought tears to her eyes. “Of course,” she whispered. Then as she reached for what to recite, her mind went blank. She couldn’t think of anything. Not a paragraph from a book, not the beginning of a story. Not even—

  Then it came to her, and she smiled down at him. “‘The LORD is my shepherd,’” she said softly. “‘I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.’” She tented the cloth over his nose, aware of him watching her. “‘He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.’” She tipped the bottle ever so slightly, until it dripped . . . dripped . . . dripped. “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’”

  His eyes fluttered closed, but his hands remained fisted at his sides.

  “‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil.’”

  Gradually, his fists went lax on the table.

  “‘My cup runneth over.’”

  His body went limp. And Dr. Phillips, scalpel in hand, began.

  “‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,’” Lizzie continued, leaning close to James’s ear. “‘And I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.’”

  “Lieutenant Shuler . . .” Dr. Phillips leaned over the bed. “Can you hear me, soldier?”

  Roland raised up on his cot to see the young lieutenant’s face better. It had been a good two hours since the doc completed the surgery, and Shuler should have awakened by now.

  Perched on the bedside, Lizzie brushed the hair back from the man’s forehead, and Roland had no trouble whatsoever picturing her as a mother with children of her own. How blessed those children would be to have her in their corner. He had yet to talk to her about their conversation last night, but he’d felt a sense of peace between them when she’d walked into the room. But knowing her as he did, she’d make sure that conversation was continued at the first possible moment. And he was counting on it.

  He only hoped she’d given his perspective some thought, as he’d given hers. In his experience, abolitionists often didn’t think the issue through on a thorough enough level. Which, he was certain, was the case with her. She had a kind and caring heart, no doubt about that. She simply needed to be shown a broader perspective. Then she would understand.

  The doc placed the bulb-shaped end of the stethoscope against Shuler’s chest. “His heart sounds fine.”

  Lizzie peered up, worry in her eyes. “You don’t think I administered too much chloroform?”

  The doctor shook his head. “No. You performed excellently, Miss Clouston. As good as any attendant who’s ever assisted me. Better, in fact. Those young boys don’t possess near the bedside manner you do. But neither do I, for that matter.” He smiled, then looked back at Shuler. “I’ve seen this on occasion, this resistance to awaken following surgery. Though, granted, it usually occurs in older patients. But there’s no need to be alarmed yet.”

  “I told you he wouldn’t wake up.”

  Roland glared across the room, looking forward to the day he could put Taylor in his place. “Taylor, I—” But before he could finish his sentence, Lizzie was up off the bed and marching toward the second lieutenant.

  “Lieutenant Taylor, you are a hair’s breadth away from being carried from this house and placed in one of the outbuildings, without benefit of care, until the Federal Army can be contacted to come and escort you to prison. Do you understand me?”

  Taylor grinned up at her. “You’re not in charge around here, missy. Your threats mean nothin’. If I have to, I’ll take up my case with Colonel McGavock.”

  Lizzie stared. “Whose idea do you think this was to begin with?”


  Taylor’s grin faded. “Well, it’s not my fault that—”

  Lizzie held up a forefinger, looking every bit the schoolmarm. Or schoolmaster. “Not. One. More. Word.”

  Taylor’s face went beet red, and Roland wondered if the man’s head would explode from keeping all that bull and guff bottled up inside him. One could only hope.

  Lizzie strode back to the bedside, took Shuler’s hand in hers, and bent close to his face. “James Campbell Shuler,” she whispered, her tone tight with emotion, “if you can hear my voice, I want you to squeeze my hand.” She waited, her attention glued to his features, her own growing more desperate. “James, I said . . . squeeze my hand.”

  She sucked in a breath and looked down at the lieutenant’s hand clasped in hers, then over at the doctor—and smiled. Roland felt a stirring in his chest as the young soldier’s eyes flickered open. Lizzie pressed a quick kiss to the lieutenant’s forehead, and Shuler grinned like a young boy.

  “I’m still here,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

  “Of course you’re still here, James.” Lizzie beamed. “And everything with the surgery went perfectly.”

  Dr. Phillips briefly examined him, then reached into his leather satchel and withdrew a bottle. “Miss Clouston, let’s give him two grains of morphine to help ease the pain. Slightly more if he needs it. He can have this up to three times a day.”

  “Actually, I have a bottle right here on the—” She paused and searched the bedside table. “Oh, I must have taken it back downstairs.” Then she turned and looked back across the room. Her eyes narrowed. She strode to where Taylor sat, reached down, and grabbed his dingy knapsack.

  “What are you doin’? That’s mine!” He reached for the pack.

  It was all Roland could do not to come off the cot. Or at least try. But he had a good mind about how that would end up.

  Lizzie easily evaded Taylor’s efforts and rifled through the contents. “Yes, the pack is yours, Lieutenant Taylor. But this”—she held up a bottle of morphine—“is the property of the Confederate Army.”

  Taylor shook his head. “I don’t know how that got in there.” He looked around. “Smitty probably did it.”

  Private Smith gawked. “It weren’t me. You told me—”

  Taylor socked him in the jaw, then pointed at Roland. “It musta been that no-good darky that belongs to Captain Jones. I seen that boy in here rootin’ around everybody’s stuff.”

  Before Roland could respond, Lizzie threw the pack back at Taylor’s chest.

  “We both know it wasn’t George, Lieutenant.” She held up the bottle. “I’ve a good mind not to give you any more of this at all.”

  Taylor’s face blanched. “That ain’t your call! I’m a soldier of the—”

  “It might not be her call, Taylor. But it is mine.” Dr. Phillips stood over him. “And you just lost one dose a day.”

  “But, Doc, I’m hurtin’—”

  “Try anything like this again and you’re on your way to Nashville. I’ll load you onto the flatcar myself. Now shut your mouth and be grateful I’m not taking you to the station right now.”

  Taylor did as Phillips said until the doctor left a few minutes later. Then he grabbed his crutches, managed to stand after a couple of tries, and hobbled to the bedroom across the hall, glaring at Roland and Lizzie as he did.

  “That man,” she said beneath her breath, feeling Shuler’s forehead.

  Roland eyed her. “Remind me not to play baseball with you, Miss Clouston.”

  She shook her head, then a smile tipped her mouth. “I do have a pretty strong throw.”

  Roland laughed softly. “As evidenced. But can you skip rocks?”

  “With the best of them.”

  He felt a definite truce between them, especially when she came over and sat in the chair by the hearth.

  “About what we were discussing last night,” she said in low tones.

  He already knew where she was headed. “Say no more. It won’t go any further.”

  Her eyes widened. She seemed surprised. “Thank you. I will tell them. I simply want to tell them in my own time.”

  He nodded. “Understood. It’s not my business to share anyway. And I’m sorry that I broached the subject the way I did. It was rude of me.”

  She held his gaze for a beat, then smiled. “Yes, it was.”

  He laughed, knowing more than ever how lucky a man Lieutenant Townsend really was. Last he’d asked her, Lizzie hadn’t received word from him following the battle in Nashville. But he knew she would tell him when she did.

  She rose to leave, then paused. “Have you received any word from the preacher? About when he might be coming to see us?”

  “Not yet. But we will. If there’s one thing he is, it’s dependable.” Yet with every day that passed since George had gone into town looking for him, Roland wondered if Bounds had ever gotten his note. Perhaps he had moved on south with the army, per the doc’s latest update. Whatever the case, Lizzie’s fading hope was evident in her wistful expression, and Roland knew how much this meant to her. Whatever he needed to do, he was going to help her find that boy’s mother.

  CHAPTER 32

  Lizzie headed toward the kitchen to get the children’s midmorning snack. Customarily she didn’t hold class on Saturday mornings, but since she and the children had missed so many lessons earlier this month, they were making up for lost time—with Mrs. McGavock’s blessing. But even with the Christmas tree adorning the table in the front entrance hall and candles lit and set in the windows, it simply didn’t feel like Christmas Eve. Not with all that had transpired in the past month.

  Thus far, the definite highlight of recent days had been her lessons with Tempy and George. She looked forward to their time together and was impressed with the questions they asked and the progress they were making. George remained impatient to begin reading. But as she’d told him more than once, he had to learn to walk before he could run. She’d also visited Mr. Townsend earlier that week when she’d gone into town to see her parents and to order teaching supplies. Seeing Towny’s father had done her heart good. She relayed the news Dr. Phillips had shared about the army wintering in Tupelo. Mr. Townsend hadn’t received any word from Towny either, but was clinging to the hope that his only son was still alive. She was doing the same.

  The nightly readings from A Christmas Carol had also been a bright spot. But tonight would be their last, following a dinner of beef stew and Tempy’s fried dried peach pies.

  As Lizzie entered the kitchen, she smelled the buttery aroma of pie-crust frying in the pan. She inhaled deeply. “It wouldn’t be Christmas Eve, Tempy, without your fried pies. The soldiers are in for a treat!”

  Tempy smiled. “I always like makin’ ’em. Makes me feel closer to my mama somehow. Even though she been gone now for more years than I can recollect.”

  Lizzie moved closer so she could watch how Tempy was cooking them. “Do you have any family left? That you know of,” she amended, knowing how slave families were often separated.

  “My sister and brother may still be out there somewhere, but I got no way of knowin’. I always think, though, come this time of year, how fine it would be for one of ’em to walk through that door and surprise me.”

  Lizzy wished that could happen, even while knowing the likelihood was slim. Since she and Tempy had started their lessons together, their conversations were fuller and richer. They were becoming friends instead of two women who worked in the same house. And Lizzie liked the change.

  “You ain’t heard from your Lieutenant Townsend yet?”

  “Not yet. I keep hoping to.” Lizzie saw the tray for the children mostly ready. All except for the glasses of milk.

  “Last time he came by, did y’all have a chance to talk ’bout your weddin’ plans?”

  Lizzie retrieved glasses from the cupboard, then paused. “That night he was here, he asked me to marry him. Right then. He’d already stopped by the preacher’s house in town to arran
ge it. He even gave me his mother’s ring for safekeeping.”

  Tempy turned and looked back, her gaze appraising. “I had me a feelin’ somethin’ was goin’ on when he raced up them stairs that night. I guess from the looks o’ things, Miss Lizzie, you told him no.”

  “I simply couldn’t do it. It felt too quick. And . . . not right.”

  Tempy paused from turning the pies, spatula in hand. “Why not right?”

  Lizzie debated whether or not to share her and Towny’s last conversation. Specifically the part about how she’d been honest with him about why she’d said yes. She told herself her hesitation was due to her not wanting to disparage Towny in any way—but really, she didn’t want to risk Tempy thinking any less of her. So she told her.

  Tempy said nothing at first, just stared. “You told your Lieutenant Towny that? Just straight out, that you was marryin’ him in order to have children?”

  “Well, no. Not as candidly as I just told you, but I did finally manage to get the words out. I felt like I had to be honest with him.”

  Tempy blew out a breath. “You’s sure one brave woman, Miss Lizzie.”

  Lizzie didn’t know quite how to react to that.

  “What did he say, once you told him?”

  “He said he loved me and that he thought our friendship love would grow into more of a married love over time. And I am very fond of Towny. I’ve known him forever. And as you’ve said, he’s going to make a wonderful husband. I simply wish that I—”

  “Loved him like you think a wife ought to love her husband.”

  “Yes,” Lizzie whispered. “And I wonder if those feelings are ever going to grow between us.”

  Tempy carefully flipped the peach pies. “What kind of feelin’s you think you was gonna have, ma’am?”

  Lizzie struggled to put it into words. If she could’ve said, What I feel when I’m with Captain Jones, that would have been easiest. But she didn’t dare.

  “You talkin’ ’bout them feelin’s that make you go all squishy inside.”