The colonel smiled briefly, then finally sighed and shook his head. “I can appreciate your desire to find this boy’s mother, Miss Clouston. Sincerely, I can. But I must weigh that well-meant desire against the importance of your personal safety, as well as that of the captain’s. Federal patrols routinely scour the area looking for deserters.”
“But, Colonel”—Lizzie’s voice gained the slightest edge—“you said yourself that with your written permission, a soldier could leave Carnton for a certain amount of time without breaking the parole of honor or fear of Federal reprisal.”
Roland nudged her arm ever so slightly with his elbow.
“But,” she added, dismay shading her features, “if you deem the trip too risky at this time, then I’ll understand. And we’ll simply have to wait.”
Roland detected a flicker of uncertainty in McGavock’s features. Having played many a game of chess with the man, he knew his next move. He took Lizzie by the elbow and rose, using the table for support. “Miss Clouston, I believe we have our answer. Thank you, Colonel, for hearing us out.”
She looked at him as though he’d sprouted horns. Either that or she wanted to tear into him right then. They got as far as the door when the colonel pushed his chair back from the table.
“Captain Jones.”
Roland paused and tossed Lizzie a quick wink before turning. “Yes, sir, Colonel?”
“There’s a family who lives in Thompson’s Station. Dr. Elijah Thompson, the town’s namesake. I’ll write to him and request lodgings for Miss Clouston. And for you as well, room permitting. I would feel much more comfortable agreeing to this if I knew her needs were guaranteed to be cared for.”
“I agree completely, sir. That’s my utmost concern as well.”
Roland felt her nudge his arm ever so slightly and curbed a grin.
McGavock came around the table. “I’ll write a letter to Dr. Thompson immediately and ask for his reply posthaste.”
Roland extended his left hand. “Thank you, sir.”
Roland closed the door behind them, and Lizzie threw her arms around his neck.
“That was brilliant!” she whispered. “But how did you know he was wavering?”
Roland ran a hand down her arm, her nearness rousing desires he hadn’t felt in a while. “I’ve played chess with him, remember?”
He stepped back, needing to put some distance between them, and saw the subtle hurt in her eyes. She briefly looked away, but when she looked back the hurt was gone.
“Thank you, Roland. We’re close to finding Levi’s mother. I can feel it!”
ROLAND AWAKENED DURING the night with a muscle cramp in his right calf. He’d been working that system of George’s pretty hard. He straightened his leg, gritting his teeth until the knot in his calf gradually loosened. Dr. Phillips had said this would happen and that drinking a good amount of water might help.
Roland pushed from the cot and reached for his crutches. Another soldier had taken Winder’s bed a couple of weeks back, which had been fine by him. Somebody should use it. He still saw James just about everywhere he looked, yet there was a comfort in knowing the young man was done with the struggles and strife of this world. That he was home.
Roland ran a hand over his face, still a little foggy. He crossed the room as quietly as he could, poured water from a pitcher into a tin cup, and downed it. Then drank a second cup. His thirst slaked, he made his way back to the cot and looked around. Something didn’t feel right. Then it registered. Taylor. His knapsack and pallet were gone.
Roland checked the other bedrooms, but Taylor was nowhere to be found. Roland returned to Winder’s room and gave Smitty a swift kick.
Smitty lifted his head. “What the—”
“Where’s Taylor?” Roland whispered.
Smitty looked beside him and cursed. “I told him not to do this! If he gets me sent back to that prison, I’m gonna—”
Roland was already on his way to the staircase. He took the stairs as quickly as he could, knowing where Taylor would head first. And sure enough, when he peered out the back, he saw the barn door slightly ajar. Roland looked over at the cabin where George was staying. All was dark. If he took the time to wake up George, Taylor would be long gone.
Roland peered inside the barn. Silver slices of moonlight fingered their way through the cracks in the roof, and he spotted movement in a stall toward the back. He made his way there and found Taylor saddling up a horse. And not just any horse. The colonel’s stallion. Idiot. The thoroughbred pranced and snorted nervously in the stall, giving Roland opportunity.
“Taylor!”
The man spun. Roland caught him in the jaw with a crutch, but Taylor didn’t go down. He charged. Roland turned but couldn’t escape Taylor’s momentum. They both went sprawling.
Taylor punched and missed, his fist connecting with the ground. He spat out a curse. Roland managed to stand. And when Taylor came at him again, he got him with a left hook under the jaw. Taylor went down on all fours, but not for long. He grappled for something in the hay beside him, then stood.
“Now comes the time I teach you that lesson, Jones.”
Roland saw what was in his grip and grabbed a wooden stool. He managed to block Taylor’s first lash of the whip. But when Taylor brought it down again, the crack sliced the air and the strap caught Roland on the side of the neck. He felt the sting of flesh tearing and staggered back, dropping the stool. His right leg gave way, and he went down hard on his back. The stallion went wild, kicking the stall door. Taylor raised the whip a third time, and Roland braced himself for the lash.
“Get ready to die, you—”
But the whip didn’t come down. The barn spinning, Roland struggled to stand, the side of his neck pulsing hot. He heard the distinct sound of bones crunching, and Taylor let out a scream. George had the man’s fist in his hand. Taylor fell to his knees, screaming curses loud enough to wake the dead. George threw the whip across the barn and strode toward Roland as the barn door flew open. Soldiers filed through the doorway, moonlight glinting off their bayonets.
A Federal officer stepped forward. “Identify yourselves!”
His head fuzzy, Roland didn’t recognize the soldier or any of the men with him. “Captain Roland Ward Jones,” he managed, an arm coming around his shoulders to keep him upright. “First Battalion. Mississippi Sharpshooters. Adams’ Brigade. And Federal prisoner here at Carnton.”
Taylor continued to scream, clutching his hand, until the officer instructed in language Taylor could understand to shut up. Taylor gave his name and rank through clenched teeth.
“And you are?” The soldier walked closer.
“I’m George, sir.”
“And which of you can tell me what’s going on in here?”
“Cap’n Jones here was tryin’ to stop that man from leavin’, sir.”
“You lyin’ black son of a—”
Taylor didn’t see the rifle butt coming. He fell face forward, stone-cold, on the ground.
“Is this true, Captain Jones?”
“Yes, sir.” Roland nodded, holding his neck. “We all took an oath under the parole of honor. And if one of us leaves, then—”
“The rest of you go to prison,” the officer finished. “Have you experienced one of our prisons before, Captain?” The officer glanced back at his comrades, and they laughed along with him.
“Actually, sir”—Roland blinked to clear his vision—“with all due respect, I have.”
The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Where were you?”
“Shiloh, sir.”
“And how were the accommodations there?”
Already seeing where this was headed, Roland felt a wave of fatigue wash through him. Or maybe it was the loss of blood. Whichever, he found he couldn’t quip about the war anymore. Or prison. Or soldiers killing each other. All he could see was Lizzie’s face, and he wished again that they’d met in a different time and place. Wished he’d been a better man. “It was prison, sir,” he final
ly answered. “And somewhere I never want to be again.”
The officer stared, his demeanor appraising. “Butler!”
A soldier stepped forward. “Yes, sir.”
“See to this captain’s injuries. And, Stewart!”
“Yes, sir,” a second man echoed.
“Clean up this piece of trash off the barn floor and get him ready to march.”
Sitting against the stall, Roland grimaced as the attendant saw to his neck.
“He got you right along the collarbone, Captain,” the young soldier said. “I’ll bandage you up as best I can, but you’ll need a few sutures.”
“I appreciate your tending my wound, but I doubt a Federal doctor will be sparing any sutures on me.”
“Who says you’re going to prison, Captain Jones?”
Roland looked up at the officer in charge. “You’re . . . not taking us all with you?”
The officer knelt beside him. “You look as dog-tired of this war as I am, Captain. If you and I were in command, I do believe we could find a way to put an end to all this. Right here, right now.” He raised a brow.
Roland’s throat tightened, only too aware of George listening beside him. “Yes, sir. I believe we could.”
The officer rose. “Fall out!” But he didn’t leave with the others. His gaze shifted to George. “You’re a free man now. You do know that, don’t you?”
George hesitated. “Yes, sir. I do.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
“Yes, sir. But don’t free mean that I get to choose?”
The slightest hint of admiration touched the man’s eyes. “It does.”
“So for now, sir, I’m choosin’ to stay here. I might choose different down the line. Dependin’ on what comes.”
The officer looked between the two of them and nodded, then turned and left.
Roland heard what George wasn’t saying and yet was. And though it struck a dissonant chord within him, he forced himself to look past that and to his own life through the lens of George’s—through the lens of his own life over the past few weeks and months. He’d been powerless to change anything. Had no control over his future. Felt like a prisoner in his own body. And he would’ve done just about anything to be given the chance to change that. What man wouldn’t?
Roland looked up and saw George’s outstretched hand. And grasped it.
CHAPTER 41
“You’re certain you still have the written order signed by the colonel?”
Roland eyed Lizzie seated beside him on the wagon bench. “How many times do you plan on asking me that?”
“I’ve only asked once since we left.”
“And three times before that.”
“But I haven’t actually seen the order for myself since we’ve been in the wagon.”
“But I have. So trust me, Lizzie.”
With a slight tilt of her chin, she faced forward. But he saw the corner of her mouth tip. He also felt the curve of her thigh rubbing against his own with every jostle and jolt of the wagon. With a good five miles yet to be covered, he estimated he would combust in about half that.
He’d been none too certain that Colonel McGavock would give final approval to his request to accompany Lizzie. And without Dr. Thompson promising lodgings for her, the colonel likely would have said no. He reached up and felt his neck, the sutures healing well but starting to itch.
“Does it still hurt?”
“Not much.”
“I’m so grateful they didn’t take you. Or the others.”
“Me too. I’m only sorry I held up our trip by a couple of weeks.”
“Nonsense.” She smiled. “You needed time to heal.”
They rode in silence for the next mile, then she sighed.
“I think about James a lot. Do you?”
He nodded. “Every day.”
“I can still see him with that artificial arm, pulling his hand back.”
“I can still see how he looked at you that last morning.”
She nodded. “Me too.”
He looked down at her, and a blush crept into her cheeks. He faced forward again, already having had several conversations with the Lord about this trip and about her. She was young still—no matter what she said—and of child-bearing years. He’d seen her with Hattie and Winder, and with the younger soldiers in the house. She was born to be a mother. To rob her of that would be to rob her of one of life’s greatest joys. And he couldn’t—wouldn’t—do that to her.
But he did need to discuss something with her. Wanted to get her perspective. He simply hadn’t worked out all the details in his mind yet. But he was getting there.
A cold March wind nipped at their backs while a warm sun shone overhead. The wagon bumped and jarred along the rain-rutted road, and when Lizzie reached down and gripped the seat between them, he offered his arm as extra insurance. She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and held on. Even when the road smoothed, she kept it there.
They arrived at Thompson’s Station shortly before noon and went first to the school, figuring that held their best chance for finding someone who’d known Levi. School was in session, the classroom full, and Lizzie spoke with the teacher during lunch.
“His first name was Levi. He would’ve been thirteen or fourteen years old. Unfortunately, that’s all we know.”
The young teacher shook her head. “I’ve been teaching here for almost four years, and I’ve never had a student by that name. I’m sorry.”
“If we wait,” Lizzie said, never one to give up, “would you allow me to query your students? We’ve come all the way from Franklin, and I’d like to exhaust every possibility before we return.”
The young woman agreed, but as Roland had feared, when the time came no child raised a hand.
He assisted Lizzie back into the wagon, then struggled to climb back in himself. He stowed his cane beneath the bench seat. Would he ever regain the strength he’d had before the battle at Franklin? He spotted a mercantile ahead and drew the wagon to a stop. “Let’s get something to eat, then we’ll canvas the businesses.”
Using some of the money Mrs. Polk had sent him, he purchased meat, cheese, bread, and milk from the mercantile, and they ate in the wagon. He hoped the rest of the money, which he’d sent to his mother, had arrived safely. After they ate, he managed to get through the businesses on one side of the street while Lizzie visited the other. His right leg ached with fatigue, but he wasn’t about to come this far only to give up.
“Here.” Lizzie pointed to a bench outside a barbershop. “Could we sit for a few minutes?”
Knowing she was resting on his account, he complied.
He gauged the sun overhead and knew that if they were to get home today—which seemed likely, since they’d done everything short of combing the hillsides—they only had another hour or so before they needed to head back in order to reach Carnton before dark.
“Maybe we’re not meant to find his family, Roland.” Her voice was fragile. “Still, to have gotten this far . . .”
Sensing and sharing her frustration, Roland looked beside him to see her rubbing the smooth white stone. He gestured. “Why don’t we get back in the wagon and I’ll drive back through town. We’ll go up and down every street. We’ll knock on every door.”
Her smile bloomed, and she nodded and stood.
“But first,” he continued.
She sat back down.
“I want to talk to you about something. Get your opinion on a . . . business prospect.”
She eyed him. “You want my opinion? On a business prospect?”
He tried to smile, appear more relaxed than he felt. And failed. He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, his stomach in knots, and covered his right hand with his left so that he almost appeared whole again. “I’ve been thinking about sharecropping. On my estate back in Mississippi. Maybe giving George and his family some of the land and working out a system where I’d get a share of the crops they raise. Either that, or I l
ease him the land for a set amount, and he gets to keep whatever profit he makes.” He shrugged, unable to look over at her. “If that works out, I figure maybe some other sl—” He caught himself. “Some other freedmen might be interested in—”
She slipped her hand between his and squeezed tight. “Look at me, Roland.”
He did and was rewarded with the sweetest smile he’d ever seen from her. And that was saying a lot. He held her hand between his, emotions warring within him. He saw not a trace of condemnation or I told you so in her eyes.
“I know the coming changes are going to be difficult for you. They won’t be easy for any of us. No matter what side we were on, we all need to get on the same side.” Her eyes watered. “Or none of us will make it through this.”
He nodded, then looked away. “The one thing I have trouble getting past . . . is my grandfather, and my father. By acknowledging that I believe slavery was a mistake—” He grimaced. “No, not a mistake. That it’s a sin.” Her grip tightened on his. “I feel like I’m condemning the two men who most shaped my life. And my faith. It’s like I’m saying they weren’t good men after all. That their lives didn’t measure up.”
“No,” she whispered. “You’re not saying that at all.”
He felt the gentlest touch on the side of his face and looked back.
“You’re simply admitting that they were flawed men. That they did things that were wrong. And hurtful. And that they needed an extraordinary amount of grace to cover their sins. Which describes every single one of us.”
He shook his head. “I was so certain I was right that night. The first time we had this conversation. I was bent on teaching you a lesson, you know.”
She smiled. “Oh, I know. I could see it in your eyes.”
He stood and pulled her up with him, tempted to pull her the rest of the way to him. But, with restraint, he released her hand and gestured. “How about we get back in the wagon and start knocking on those doors?”
He released the brake and snapped the reins. They drove for the better part of two hours, stopping and talking with everyone they saw. Leaving no stone—or front door—unturned. But nothing. No one had ever heard of Levi. Roland began to wonder if maybe Preacher Bounds had gotten it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Thompson’s Station. Or maybe the man’s memory had failed him. And yet, when Bounds had come by that day, the pieces of the puzzle had just seemed to fit.
With this Pledge Page 38
