With this Pledge

by Tamera Alexander

  “Would you at least be willing, Captain Moore, to allow me to write General Folsom and remind him of our agreement that—”

  “Folsom’s the one who wrote the order, Colonel.”

  Moore pulled a document from his breast pocket and handed it to Colonel McGavock. The resignation in the colonel’s expression stripped away what little hope Roland had remaining. The colonel handed the order back.

  Moore gave Roland a last look of warning, then strode from the room toward the hall. “If your name was called, you have five minutes to get to the wagon out back. Or we’ll come back for you and escort you down.”

  Lizzie pulled free of the soldiers holding her and raced to Roland’s side. She touched his face, his arms, then his face again. “Are you hurt?”

  He gently pushed her away. “I’m fine.”

  She shook her head. “No, you’re not, you’re—”

  “See to Conrad, Lizzie! He needs you to help him or he won’t be able to do this. And things will go bad very fast.” He spotted George entering the room with Sister Catherine Margaret and Sister Mary Grace.

  Colonel McGavock knelt beside them. “Captain Jones, may I help you up?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d appreciate that.” Roland looked at Lizzie. “Go. And watch the clock. You don’t want them coming back up here.”

  CHAPTER 34

  “Lieutenant Conrad, you must look at me.” Lizzie gently turned the man’s face toward hers. “I’m truly sorry this is working out this way, but we are still at war. And you are a prisoner of the Federal Army. Now . . .”

  “But, Miss Clouston, we haven’t finished reading that book yet. The one with the ghosts.”

  Lizzie steeled herself against the tears rising in the man’s eyes. And in her own.

  “I know. But you know what? I’ll send the book to you once you’re all settled in at the hospital there. All right?”

  “It won’t be the same without you reading it.”

  She forced a quick smile, feeling the seconds ticking by. “Sister Catherine Margaret is gathering your personal belongings for you. And George here”—Lizzie glanced beside her—“is going to carry you down to the wagon.”

  Conrad looked up at him. “You belong to Captain Jones. Isn’t that right?”

  George didn’t answer immediately, and Lizzie looked up to find his expression inscrutable.

  “Yes, sir. I do,” he finally answered.

  “So that means you’re a good Negro.” Conrad nodded. “Seeing as you belong to him.”

  Lizzie cringed inwardly. She knew Conrad no longer had full use of his faculties following his injuries, but still . . . She sneaked a look in George’s direction as he knelt beside them.

  George placed a large hand on the lieutenant’s arm. “It matters who we belong to, don’t it, sir? Says somethin’ ’bout who we are.”

  “It does.” Conrad sniffed. “It matters a lot.”

  A smile dawned on George’s face. “I’m a good man, sir. Least, I tries to be. Now, come on and let me tote you outside. I’ll take good care goin’ down all them big windin’ stairs.”

  As George lifted the lieutenant in his arms, Lizzie caught George’s attention and whispered, “Bless you.”

  Lizzie followed them from the bedroom, sneaking a look back at Roland, who was watching her from his cot. She understood why he’d pushed her away, but she also knew he had to be hurting. She gave him a quick nod, then checked the clock on the mantel.

  Only one minute remained . . .

  She hurried to catch up with George and the lieutenant, who trailed behind Colonel and Mrs. McGavock and the nuns, who were all helping the other four soldiers to descend the staircase.

  “Miss Clouston!” Sister Catherine came alongside. “If you’ll permit me to speak with Lieutenant Conrad before we reach the wagon, I have an idea that I believe may be of help.”

  “Yes, Sister, please. But do it quickly!”

  Lizzie managed to get George’s attention before they reached the back door. “Sister Catherine has an idea.”

  Sister Catherine took hold of Lieutenant Conrad’s hand. “Lieutenant, I need for you to be Catholic. Only for a day or so.”

  Conrad’s eyes widened. “But I’m not a Catholic, Sister. I’m a good Baptist.”

  The nun smiled. “Yes, I know. But if you could be Catholic, only for a little while, then I would be allowed to go with you in the wagon. And I can make certain that you—and your other fellow soldiers—are all safely delivered to the hospital in Nashville.”

  “But wouldn’t that be lyin’, ma’am? To say I’m Catholic when I’m not?”

  Sister Catherine spoke quickly. “Do you remember the story of Rahab the harlot, in the Old Testament? How she hid the two spies when the king came looking for them? She told the king’s messengers that the spies were not in her home, even though they were. Because she knew the king had sent his men to do them harm. So she protected them.”

  Lizzie peered out the front door and spotted Captain Moore headed back to the house, a detail of soldiers with him. The other wounded men were already being loaded into the wagon. “Hurry, Sister!” she whispered.

  “Much like Rahab, Lieutenant, I can protect you. And the other four wounded men. But only if one of you is Catholic. Do you understand?”

  Conrad slowly nodded, his features somber. “Catholics do believe in God. Right, ma’am?”

  Sister Catherine laughed. “Oh yes, Lieutenant. We do very much believe in him. Now I simply need you to . . .”

  Lizzie heard footsteps on the front portico and hastened outside. “Captain Moore! Lieutenant Conrad is coming right now. It simply took us a little longer to—”

  “Out of my way, miss.”

  Hearing George’s footsteps behind her, Lizzie acquiesced and stepped to one side.

  George met the captain at the door. “Ready for me to put him in the wagon, sir?”

  From Lizzie’s perspective, the captain looked almost disappointed that they’d made it in time.

  “Yes. Put him in the back with the others.”

  George moved down the portico steps with the lieutenant—and with Sister Catherine Margaret right on their heels.

  Captain Moore followed. “Where do you think you’re going, Sister?”

  Sister Catherine paused in the yard, as did George.

  Still on the portico, Lizzie moved slightly to the left for a better view. And when she saw the rosary Lieutenant Conrad clutched in his hand—and heard his whispered, “Hail, Mary, full of praise. The Lord is with me”—she felt a sinking feeling inside her. She wasn’t Catholic either, but one of her best friends growing up was, and she’d heard Christina pray the rosary many times. But never quite like this. If Captain Moore knew the rosary . . .

  Sister Catherine laid a gentle hand over Lieutenant Conrad’s, and Lizzie noticed the nun squeeze his hand ever so slightly until he halted midprayer.

  “I am merely doing my duty, Captain Moore. I will accompany Lieutenant Conrad to Nashville, as allowed in the guidelines published in 1861. They state, ‘Any prisoner of war who is facing the uncertainty of death, may beseech his captors for a source of spiritual guidance by which his faith shall be instructed to greater—’”

  “You’re not going, Sister. This man is not near death. But he might be, if you interfere further.” He motioned to George. “Get him on the wagon. Now.”

  With a gentle hand to George’s arm, Sister Catherine belayed the order. “Captain Moore, may I assume you’re familiar with General William Rosecrans?”

  A muscle twitched at the corner of the captain’s eye. “Sister, everybody in the Federal Army is familiar with General Rosecrans.”

  “And have you had the opportunity to be in his company, Captain?”

  Captain Moore eyed her, then shifted his weight. “No, Sister. I have not.”

  Sister Catherine smiled. “You may not be aware then, Captain, that General Rosecrans is Catholic. He has great esteem for sisters of the faith. He is himsel
f, in fact, a great advocate of assuring that every man—Federal or Confederate—is granted the opportunity for spiritual guidance and encouragement that—”

  “There’s no room for you in the wagon, Sister. And we don’t have any extra horses.”

  “I can walk, Captain.”

  “It’s over twenty miles to Nashville.”

  Sister Catherine briefly bowed her head. “God will provide me the strength.”

  Grave-faced, the captain glared at the nun, then looked over at the wagon, then back again, and Lizzie prayed with everything in her that God would somehow provide a way.

  “Hanson!” Captain Moore shouted, spittle flying from his lips.

  A young soldier stepped forward, boyishly handsome, with an innocence about him that reminded Lizzie of Lieutenant Shuler.

  “Yes, sir?” the soldier responded.

  “The nun rides with you!”

  “Yes, Captain!”

  The weight in Lizzie’s chest lifted by half.

  The captain and his soldiers headed for their horses, and George strode toward the wagon near which the McGavocks and the other nuns stood. But Sister Catherine hurried back up the portico steps.

  She grabbed Lizzie’s hands, her eyes twinkling. “I need you to pray for two things. First, that Captain Moore does not develop a sudden hankering to brush up on his military guidelines.” She leaned in. “I was quoting from a book of service issued by the Holy Sisters of Charity.”

  Feeling her mouth slip open, Lizzie shook her head.

  “And second, that he does not ask me further about General Rosecrans . . . whom I have never met.”

  Lizzie hugged her tight. “Thank you for doing this, Sister. And please take care of yourself.”

  A light slipped into Sister Catherine Margaret’s eyes. “Psalm 27, Miss Clouston. Do you know it?”

  Lizzie hesitated. “I know I’ve read it before, but—”

  “Well, read it again. Soon. And be encouraged! Now . . .” The sister glanced over her shoulder. “The other nuns are going to be so jealous. I get to ride all the way to Nashville with a handsome young soldier! And who knows, he may even be Catholic!”

  Lizzie’s smile faded as the wagon rumbled down the long graveled drive. She saw Conrad begin to wave, and she waved in return until the wagon disappeared around the bend at the far end of the road.

  “Thank you, Mrs. McGavock. This is a right handsome muffler.” Seated in a chair by the fireplace in Winder’s room—his first attempt at such—Roland draped the knitted scarf around his neck, wishing they all felt more jovial today. Especially since the women had worked so hard to make everything so nice. Though he continued to be on uneasy speaking terms with the Lord, he still thought Christmas Day should be a time to celebrate, not to mourn. “It’s most kind of you and the colonel, ma’am. I hope he helped you knit all of these if he’s taking some of the credit.”

  Mrs. McGavock smiled. “He helped by staying out of my way.”

  Roland laughed softly. That sounded like something Weet would’ve said. Oh, how he missed her today. Lena too. What was it about Christmas that made the heart turn home? The festive decorations, the comforting food and drink, and, of course, the memories that crowded in. Even the violinist in the corner playing Christmas carols—“Hark! the Herald Angels Sing,” “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” “Joy to the World,” “It Came upon a Midnight Clear”—while expert at his craft and filling the house with music near fit for heaven, only contributed to Roland’s melancholy mood.

  The colonel looked him over. “Are you sure you’re faring well after the incident yesterday with the soldier? It appeared as though he got pretty rough with you.”

  Roland shrugged off the comment. “I’m fine, sir. He’s a young officer. Newly appointed, I’d bet. Seems they always have something to prove.”

  Mrs. McGavock gestured. “Would you like something else from the buffet, Captain? I’ll be happy to get it for you.”

  Roland put a hand to his belly. “I couldn’t eat another bite. Well, except maybe for another one of Tempy’s fried pies.”

  “It would be my pleasure!”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Roland felt honored when the colonel claimed the ladderback chair beside him.

  “It would seem, sir, that the artificial limbs are a definite win with the soldiers.” He smiled and nodded toward Lieutenant Shuler, who was walking around encouraging people to shake his wooden hand, only to pull it back real quick at the last second. But the men with artificial legs . . . Roland had grown so accustomed to seeing the amputees absent their limbs that now to see them walking around normal-like was a tad unnerving. Some wore trousers that hid the makeshift legs, which really played with the mind. Most of the men with artificial legs were getting the hang of them, but some were still holding on to walls or using crutches to navigate their way. Twenty-four men remained at Carnton, and each one of them, Roland included, hoped the Federal Army took their time in coming back.

  He’d been continuing his exercises. He did them three times a day. Early in the morning before sunrise, and shortly following lunch when the soldiers in his room either slept or met in other rooms to play cards or checkers. Then he went through the repetition again at night after everyone was asleep. Not that anyone would tattle on him to Dr. Phillips. But the doc had harped on and on to them about the importance of waiting to walk or exercise until they’d healed properly, so Roland wasn’t taking any chances. And he was being smart about it. When he grew light-headed, he rested for a minute. When he started hurting, he stopped. He knew Dr. Phillips still wouldn’t approve, but he had to do something to contribute to his healing and regaining his strength. He’d added push-ups as well. And he did it all from his cot, which he now considered a lifeline.

  Colonel McGavock fingered his beard, a glass of punch in his hand. “Captain Jake Winston and his wife, Aletta, do a fine job making them.”

  His thoughts having trailed, Roland backtracked to what they’d been talking about. Artificial limbs. “Yes, sir, they do.”

  “They’ve taken an old warehouse in downtown Franklin,” the colonel continued. “They’ve done quite a bit of work to it and are helping wounded soldiers to recuperate there. They’re an extraordinary couple.”

  Roland spotted Jake and his wife out in the hallway speaking to Lizzie and Tempy, who was serving. Jake was a fellow sharpshooter, but he’d lost a portion of his vision due to an injury. It was especially troubling to learn, because Jake Winston had been one of the best.

  Conversation came easily between Roland and the colonel, and they covered a variety of topics before Colonel McGavock dropped his voice by a degree.

  “So, Captain Jones, I see you routinely reading the newspaper from front to back and every page in between. What is your view of what awaits us?”

  Roland weighed his response before answering. From what he’d witnessed firsthand, John McGavock was as fine a man as they came, and far more generous with his wealth than most. His wife was cut from the same cloth. Some of the men had taken to calling Carrie McGavock the Angel of Carnton, a title the woman had more than earned through her nurturing compassion and near constant attention to the soldiers. Although, at least for him, another woman already held that rank. The McGavocks lived in a beautiful home with nice furnishings, but nothing ostentatious that he’d seen thus far. A well-grounded second-generation Scotch-Irish family from Cairn, Ireland. But he wasn’t certain where the colonel’s thinking was in relation to the Confederacy. Did McGavock consider it a lost cause, as he did? Or was he one of those still clinging to the weary dream?

  “Well, Colonel,” Roland began, choosing his words carefully. “First, sir, I appreciate you making the newspapers available to us. And second, I don’t think we can trust the newspapers much. Especially the ones from Nashville.” He gave a soft laugh. “Not that we can’t glean information here and there. But the Federal Army currently holds sway over most every publication in that city, so I don’t think you’
ll get much of a fair reading from any of those.”

  “Hear, hear,” the colonel said, downing his punch as he watched his wife from across the room.

  Roland had noticed that about the McGavocks before. They still sought each other out in a crowd, which said a lot about them as a couple. He wondered what it said about him that he knew exactly where Lizzie was right now, and had ever since the Christmas celebration had started. She looked especially pretty tonight. She’d done something different with her hair. He liked it. Although he’d prefer to see it loose and down around her shoulders.

  “Continue, Captain. Please.”

  Roland obliged, sensing the colonel desired bluntness. “To cut to the heart of the matter, sir, I believe the future of the Confederacy is bleak.” He felt John McGavock’s attention turn to him, but kept his gaze on the flames in the hearth. Staring at a fire was comforting; there was something fascinating about watching a force of nature that, when contained, could help keep a man alive, but if unleashed would destroy with merciless ferocity.

  “From what I gathered from senior officers in the weeks leading up to the battle here,” he went on, “the Confederate Treasury is cranking out millions of dollars in notes unbacked by gold. And the Confederate States as a whole are nearly bankrupt. As we both know, sir, wars are expensive. Our last army in the field took a severe beating here, both physically and in the morale of the men. Then in Nashville, we were beaten again. But that time we were sent running. And it does something to a man on the inside when he turns his back on his enemy and runs. There’s something innately wrong about it. So if General Lee can’t find his way out of Virginia past Grant, which, from all reports, seems doubtful . . .” Roland looked over at him. “I believe we’re done for, sir.”

  McGavock’s stare turned appraising. “Remind me never to solicit your opinion if I do not earnestly wish to hear it, Captain.”

  At first Roland thought he might’ve offended his gracious host. But John McGavock’s slow nod, coupled with the sad resignation in his eyes, said he was in full and complete agreement. They sat in a silence Roland might have considered comfortable if not for the shared sense of impending doom and dread of the unknown.