With this Pledge

by Tamera Alexander

  In his farewell address to his men, General Hood wrote that he alone was responsible for the orders issued in the Tennessee Campaign. He’d penned that he had “strived hard” to do his duty. Lizzie would be the first to admit that she was not able to think about General Hood and his actions without being back on that battlefield. Without her senses recalling every painful, heart-wrenching detail. She took in a deep breath, held it, then gave it slow release. And as she had many times, she gave General Hood over to God, knowing she lacked the compassion—and the right—to pass judgment on what he’d done.

  Because when the Judgment Day came and everyone’s sins were laid bare, she knew that no nails would be left clutched in anyone’s hands or stuffed in anyone’s pockets. Including her own. That everyone would have driven their very last nail into the hands and feet of Jesus. So, yes, even as she struggled to move forward and seek understanding of all that had happened, she would leave Hood and this entire, horrible war at the cross of Christ.

  As she made her way down Lewisburg Pike, she looked toward the fallow fields where so many were buried. She’d walked the field only once since she’d walked it that December first morning. The graves, hastily dug six months ago, were marked with crude wooden boards that bore the soldiers’ names, ranks, and units. The men had been buried in graves roughly two and half feet deep and wide enough to lay two men side by side. She’d learned that when they’d buried young James. It comforted her to know that he was buried beside someone from his unit. A fellow Rebel.

  But already the graves were showing wear, the heavy spring rains having beaten down upon the field as though trying to rid the earth of the memory of the blood spilled there. But no amount of water could ever wash away the memories. Not from her. Not from anyone who’d witnessed and experienced what had gone on here. She hoped people would remember the sacrifices. That they wouldn’t forget. Oh, Lord, please don’t let it be forgotten . . .

  Missing Roland keenly in that moment, she pulled his well-read letter from her pocket and unfolded the stationery, already knowing each word by heart.

  My dearest Lizzie,

  Two weeks have elapsed since we left Franklin, and we are still prisoners. It is a short period of time, yet the anxiety and suspense of years seems concentrated in it. Those and only those who love deeply and devotedly can fully appreciate the torture of being separated from those who are far dearer to them than life itself.

  I often imagine being transported back to Carnton, and fancy that I am resting in Winder’s bedroom watching with restless impatience for the appearance of her who is dearer to me than the whole world beside. Such pleasing imaginings are short-lived, however, and sober reason whispers that circumstance shall for a time separate us. But as you say, my love, we have nothing to fear because we know who holds our lives in the palms of his hands. Those words are written on my heart, and I aspire to live by their truth a little more each day.

  Hence, I console myself with the reflection that this state of things will soon be over, and that at no distant day I will be able to claim you as my own. And in ecstatic happiness that will then be mine, I’ll forget all of these transient trials and sufferings. My dearest Lizzie, shall it not be so—I feel assured that no effort of yours will be wanting to bring so desirable a result.

  Please give my kind regards to the Colonel and Mrs. McGavock, Hattie and Winder, and Tempy. But save the most treasured and intimate for yourself.

  Yours forever,

  Roland

  She folded the letter and slipped it back into her pocket. When she rounded the bend, she spotted a man in the distance, limping, his head lowered, his gait afflicted. He walked with what looked to be a stick, the kind one found on the side of the road. She thought of all the young men who’d been wounded in the war, their once-whole bodies now broken and bent. Peace—fledgling and fragile as it was—had come at such a dear price, and she prayed that this still-too-divided nation could hold on to it.

  She looked down the road again and squinted. Then slowed her steps. Her heart quickened. “Roland,” she whispered, her voice scarcely audible. She said his name again, louder this time, and the man’s head came up. He went stock-still, his posture strained as though he were trying to make sense of what he saw. But Lizzie ran for all she was worth, and saw that he too was hurrying toward her. She crossed the greater distance and raced into his arms, her tears flowing.

  “My dearest Lizzie,” he whispered against her hair, kissing her forehead, her cheeks.

  “Oh, my love . . .” She held his handsome face in her hands. He looked older, wearier. Yet as she looked into his familiar gray eyes, she felt a stirring inside her that no words could capture.

  He kissed her tenderly, then drew back as though wanting to take her in. A slow smile edged up one side of his mouth. “I’ve come to sweep you off your feet, Miss Clouston. If you’ll still have an old, invalid man like me.”

  “Captain Jones, I’ll have you any way I can get you, sir.”

  A brow raised. “Is that a promise?”

  “Oh yes . . . It’s a promise. For as long as we both shall live.”

  EPILOGUE

  Lizzie sat at the writing desk—what was now her desk—in the sitting room off the master bedroom, pen in hand. She’d written this letter so many times in her mind, yet had never committed it to paper. It was time. The scratch of the pen against the stationery accentuated the quiet summer afternoon.

  August 14, 1866

  Oak Hill

  Dearest Susan, or should I say, Weet—

  It is with a heart of gratitude that I write these words to you. Words you will never read unless, of course, those who have gone on before us are able, with God’s consent, to look back into this earthly realm. Whichever is the case, I wish to thank you for loving your husband as well as you did. And for writing him so faithfully during the war. It is through those letters (which I’ve now read in their entirety) that I first fell in love with Roland.

  Lizzie shifted in the chair, her back already beginning to ache. She rested a hand on her belly and smiled, eager for October to arrive. Only eight weeks until their first child was due. At least she hoped it would only be their first.

  Lena’s and your untimely departure left a gaping hole in Roland’s life, one I am earnestly and with great joy seeking to fill. At first I feared I would not be able to take your place. Then I realized how foolish a thought that was. Not because your love was not wide or deep enough, but because our hearts are capable of far more love than we might imagine. When one love leaves, another never “take its place.” Rather, I believe, the heart grows to encompass that new love.

  The world is much changed since you left. But I believe those changes—at least most of them—are for the better. Especially here in Yalobusha. We still have far to go in how we view one another, but we are making great strides in that continued struggle. I believe you would be proud of Roland and the changes he has made to the farm. The changes he has made with George. George’s wife, Sophia, tells me that you were always kind to them and their children, and from what I’ve come to know of you in your letters, I believe it.

  Lizzie peered out the window, across the garden of lilies, to the long drive leading to the main road. Their guests should be arriving anytime, but everything was ready. She and Rachel had been preparing for days.

  To Lizzie’s delight, Ezra and Rachel, the couple who had served as the Jones’s house slaves for so many years, had decided to stay. Roland was paying them a wage now. She was so proud of what he was doing here. While the first year of sharecropping had been successful, it had not been without its challenges. But as she’d once told George, everyone had to learn to walk before they could run. Which reminded her of Roland.

  He’d insisted they not marry until he could walk down the aisle without aid of his cane. So they’d married almost a year to the day of the night they met at Carnton. And since they’d married in Carnton’s best parlor, it was a very short aisle, as Roland had jested. Carr
ie McGavock had decorated the house so beautifully for their ceremony and reception following. The day was everything Lizzie had ever dreamed of. Granted, she and Roland hadn’t wed in a field of flowers with only a preacher for a witness, as she’d envisioned her wedding as a young girl. But the happiness she felt that day—and now—was meant to be shared. And that she’d been able to share it with Johnny, who’d returned home to them safely—save a still healing shoulder wound—was an extra blessing.

  She and Carrie had both cried the day she and Roland left Carnton for Yalobusha. Hattie and Winder too. Lizzie still missed those precious children more than she could say. Even Colonel McGavock had grown misty eyed as he’d bid her and Roland God’s richest blessings. But it was what the colonel had whispered in her ear, much as her own father had done that day, that touched her heart the most. Stay true to who you are, my dear. And always follow God’s lead.

  A warm breeze wafted in through the window, and her gaze was drawn to a point in the distance where the fields dotted with wildflowers met the edge of the woods. And though she was far from Franklin, Tennessee, she thought of Towny and the last morning he’d come to her at Carnton. He was still so dear to her, and always would be. So it had thrilled her when she’d seen him in town shortly before she and Roland married. And in his company, a beautiful young woman who looked adoringly up at Towny as surely as if he’d hung the moon and stars. Towny and Becky had wedded about a month before she and Roland. She’d attended the wedding with her mother, and her heart had warmed when Towny slipped Marlene’s ring—which Lizzie had long since returned to his father—onto Becky’s finger, his gaze only for his beautiful bride. She wished them all the—

  Lizzie sucked in a breath, feeling little Carrie kick. Roland was certain she was carrying his little namesake, but her instincts told her they were having a girl. And if they did, they’d already agreed that her name would be Carrie McGavock Jones.

  Lizzie heard the front door open downstairs, followed by Roland’s boot treads across the foyer, and knew she needed to hurry.

  One last thing, Susan . . . Roland’s mother and sisters have accepted me warmly into this home and into their lives. But I know Mrs. Jones still misses you dearly, because she speaks of you often. Very often. Every day, in fact. So if you’re able, I would appreciate you putting in a good word for me on that end. Perhaps between the two of us, I will one day win her over.

  Lizzie smiled to herself, not having intended to write that. The creak of a wagon brought her head up. Sure enough, their guests were coming up the drive.

  Thank you, too, for planting the rows of lilies along the berm outside your bedroom window. I’ve always admired people who are gifted at gardening. They spend their time making the world a more beautiful place by what they do. And that is certainly what you have done for me. I look forward to meeting you and your precious Lena when I get home.

  With deepest gratitude—

  The bedroom door opened behind her, and Lizzie hastily signed her name to the letter as Roland’s arms came around her.

  He nuzzled her neck. “The sisters and Conrad are coming up the drive, Mrs. Jones.”

  Lizzie lifted her face for his kiss, ever grateful to have him in her life. “I know. I heard them.”

  He looked down at the desk, his eyes narrowing. “Writing a letter, are we?”

  She turned it over. “Yes. One I’ll let you read later on. But for now, let’s go greet our guests! I’m so glad Conrad was able to come with them.”

  “Sister Catherine says he’s doing well, and that everyone in Franklin brings their shoes to him.” Roland leaned down and kissed her belly, running his hands over the ever-increasing swell. “Roland Junior, we’ll see you soon, little fellow.”

  Lizzie swatted his arm. “Her name is Carrie.”

  “Whichever it is, I already love him or her with all my heart. Just as I love you.”

  “And always will?” she asked teasingly.

  He answered with a promise that didn’t need any words.

  AFTERWORD

  Thank you for taking Roland and Lizzie’s journey with me in With This Pledge. Civil War history has long been of interest to me, and when I learned about Roland and Lizzie meeting and falling in love following the Battle of Franklin—a pivotal five hours in the final outcome of the war—I knew I wanted to write their story. I also wanted to tell the story of what happened within the walls of Carnton both that dreadful night on November 30, 1864, and in the days, weeks, and months following.

  I’m deeply indebted to the extraordinary folks at Carnton in Franklin, Tennessee, who invited me into the wealth of their historical knowledge, and to David Doty, the great-great-great-great-grandson of Captain Roland Ward Jones, and for granting me full access to family documents and historical keepsakes. I read through the shared family letters countless times (and sincerely hope Weet doesn’t mind us sharing her letters so widely).

  I’m also indebted to Eric Jacobson, CEO of the Battle of Franklin Trust (Carnton), for his years of extensive research about the Battle of Franklin and for his passion about informing current culture about this critical page in American history. Thank you, also, to Brian Allison for his extensive research into the specific soldiers who were at Carnton following the battle and who convalesced there for months following.

  If you’re interested in knowing more about the Battle of Franklin, Carnton, Roland and Lizzie, and the McGavocks, I invite you to visit the With This Pledge book page on my website (www.TameraAlexander. com). Click the link titled, TRUTH OR FICTION, and you’ll open up a page chock-full of “insider information” about this book, as well as a list of recommended reading.

  Among the “real” characters in the novel (based on people who truly lived) are Roland, Lizzie, John and Carrie McGavock, Tempy, Dr. Phillips, George, Hattie, Winder, Captain Pleasant Hope, James Shuler, E.M. Bounds, and many of the officers in the Confederate and Federal armies. With only two exceptions (entries from Towny and Levi), every document and letter in this novel is authentic. I deeply appreciate the opportunity to weave history into the fabric of my stories, but doing so in With This Pledge was especially meaningful. And challenging. Any mistakes are my own.

  The texts I pored over and studied while writing this story are too numerous to mention here, but to say I’m grateful for the many historians who have written about this tumultuous time in America’s history is an understatement.

  Freedom. Choices. Promises.

  These three themes run with vivid undercurrent through this story, just as they continue to run through our still too-divided United States. Far too many struggles of the late nineteenth century continue to plague the headlines of newspapers today, and only through the power of Christ can we overcome these obstacles and break down barriers and become one. The ground at the foot of the cross is level. We are each created in the image of Almighty God, and therefore are image bearers for his glory. It is my continued prayer that we’ll strive with ever increasing fervor to see one another through this eternal lens.

  Transatlantic slavery was an abhorrent evil. And as President Lincoln professed, this country had to bear a price for that wickedness. Yet there is more slavery in the world today than in the nineteenth century. If you would like to know more about fighting this evil in our world—and in your backyard—visit www.inourbackyard.org.

  Lastly, much as Levi fought in the place of someone else, so we too have One who has fought—and is fighting—in our stead. You have a champion and his name is Jesus. He is everything you need. Reach out to him. He’ll meet you wherever you are. And every promise from the Living Word of God is true and everlasting.

  I’m grateful for you, friend.

  Until next time,

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my family: from the depths of my heart . . . Thank you. Especially this time.

  To Deborah Raney, my writing critique partner, and so much more: a thousand peanut butter twists.

  To the Ladies of Coeur d’Alene: your bra
instorming skills are stellar. So is your love and laughter.

  To Jocelyn Bailey, my editor at HarperCollins: your insight and clarity made all the difference in this story. As did your patience as I wrote and rewrote. And rewrote.

  To my fabulous team at HarperCollins (Amanda Bostic, Paul Fisher, Allison Carter, and Jodi Hughes): working with you is an absolute joy.

  To Natasha Kern, my agent: you are an ever-present encouragement and strength. Thank you, dear friend.

  To you, dear reader: thank you for taking yet another journey with me. You allow me to do what I do. You make it all worth it.

  To Jesus, my beloved Rabbi: continue to take me down roads I would never choose for myself. Only let them lead me ever closer to you.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  1.Before reading With This Pledge, had you heard about Carnton in Franklin, Tennessee? Were you familiar with the Battle of Franklin and with the history of the final months of the Civil War?

  2.Did you feel closer to Lizzie or to Roland in the novel? Which of them did you identify with most? Are you from the North or the South? How do you think your own personal heritage shaped your perspective as you read the novel?

  3.Lizzie felt powerless to change her world due to the social mores and restrictions placed on women during the 19th century. Have you ever experienced the brunt of such restrictions? If yes, how did you meet those challenges? Did your situation change?

  4.Roland Jones was a slaveowner in real life and held extensive properties in Yalobusha, Mississippi. How did knowing this about him shape your view of him and the opinions he so staunchly held?

  5.Though we don’t know the real name of the older black woman who served as cook to the McGavocks, we do know that she was “left behind” when the rest of the slaves were moved South during the war. What are your thoughts about Tempy’s character? And if you could write the rest of her story, what would it be? (Stay tuned . . . There’s more for Tempy in books two and three!)