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  Carrie shook her head. “God bless them.”

  “There’s one more thing.” Remembering the heartbreak in Fountain Carter’s eyes, she had a hard time speaking. “Mr. Carter told me they found his son Tod less than two hundred yards from the house. He was shot several times. He’s badly hurt and delirious. A doctor extracted a bullet from his head, but the family hasn’t been given any hope for him to live.”

  Her own eyes glistening, Carrie bowed her head. “I’ll make a visit tomorrow and see what I can do for them.”

  Lizzie trailed the children’s path up the narrow staircase to the three bedrooms situated directly above the kitchen—Tempy’s, hers, and a third bedroom that usually remained vacant. But not tonight.

  She felt as though she were groping her way through a thick fog. Every muscle in her body ached with fatigue, and her eyes burned from lack of sleep. She found the children’s bedclothes in the third bedroom at the end of the hall, along with Colonel and Mrs. McGavock’s trunks that sat near the foot of the bed. Odd how life oftentimes came full circle. This had been the colonel’s room when he was a young boy. No doubt it held special memories for him.

  Even now, with hog killing day a good two weeks ago, the strong aroma of salted pork—ham shoulders, roasts, fatback, and bacon—seeped through the shared wall with the smokehouse on the other side. She was grateful now that the colonel had taken advantage of November’s especially cold weather to organize the hog killing earlier than usual. They would need the extra meat to feed the soldiers for however long they were here. Which wouldn’t be long, per Captain Jones.

  She shouldn’t have been so surprised to discover he was a slave owner. He was older, in his early thirties, she guessed, and seemed to be a man of means. Or had once been. No doubt the war had significantly reduced his financial holdings, much as the McGavocks’ wealth had been affected. Although, as far as she knew, the McGavocks were still comfortably well off and were still very generous with that wealth. But the prosperity of these large estates had been built on the backs of slaves. So what would the McGavocks do after the war? How would their lives change? More importantly, how would Tempy’s life change? She massaged her temples, more tired than she could ever remember being.

  “What are you going to read to us tonight?” Hattie asked after changing into her nightgown.

  “Oh, that Christmas book. You promised!” Winder piped in, still clutching his “medal” in one hand. “The one with ghosts! And that bad man.”

  Lizzie added more wood to the low-burning fire in the hearth, having known this moment would come. “I’m sorry, children, but the book is back in Winder’s bedroom. However . . .” She spoke over their disappointed groans. “I’ve read this book numerous times and happen to have some of the opening paragraphs committed to memory.”

  Instantly their groanings ceased, and they climbed into bed and beneath the covers. In moments like these, Lizzie was grateful for her knack for recollection. Like flies swarmin’ to warm honey, her father always said in that Scottish brogue of his. Any bit of knowledge comes close enough to my sweet Lizzie, it’s stuck fast and done for! She could read something once and pretty much commit it to memory. Though how much she could depend on her recollection tonight, she didn’t know.

  She settled on the edge of the bed, the softness of the mattress and her pillow beckoning. But she still needed to change from her soiled shirtwaist and skirt into her gown after the children were asleep. She would love a hot bath too, but that would have to wait.

  “A Christmas Carol,” she started with as dramatic a flair as she could muster. “By Charles Dickens.”

  The siblings glanced at each other, smiling, and Lizzie marveled again at how resilient children were.

  “Are you going to do the voices?” Winder whispered.

  “Of course she’s doing the voices,” Hattie countered. “She always does the voices.”

  As was customary, Lizzie waited until they were absolutely still before she started. “‘Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.’”

  Winder’s eyes gained a spark, while Hattie’s widened.

  “‘The register of his burial,’” Lizzie continued, “‘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.’”

  “When’s the part with the ghost?” Winder whispered.

  To which Lizzie merely raised an eyebrow. His mouth flattened to a thin line.

  Lizzie continued narrating, but after a few moments, being so tired, she felt certain she was forgetting sentences here and there. “‘Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner!’”

  Winder beamed. Hattie bit her lower lip.

  Her memory fading, Lizzie closed her eyes to concentrate. “‘Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes—’”

  Lizzie looked back and, just like that, discovered both children fast asleep, eyes closed, little mouths slack. She released a long sigh. Thank goodness. She tilted her head back and angled it from side to side, the muscles in her shoulders corded tight.

  Knowing how Winder would feel if he lost what Captain Jones had “conferred upon him,” she gently pried open the boy’s palm and placed the brass eagle button on her bedside table. Clever thinking on Captain Jones’s part. He was a most kind and caring man, and articulate in conveying his thoughts.

  For love of home and family, he’d told her.

  He’d no doubt been thinking of his wife when he’d said that earlier. Which, knowing that, made Lizzie feel even more uncomfortable because of her response to him when he’d briefly touched her hand. The captain had been attempting to comfort her, she knew. An innocent gesture on his part, and scarcely more than other soldiers had done in conveying their thanks during the past hours. But when he’d covered her hands with his and looked up at her—she stared at her shadowed reflection in the mirror on the wardrobe door—something had stirred inside her. A longing, a desire akin to a thirst begging to be quenched. The mere memory of it caused her breath to quicken.

  But Captain Roland Jones was a married man, and she was betrothed. And while that alone was more than enough to give her pause—and make her rethink the amount of time she spent with him—what added to her anxiety was her attraction to him. To his easy smile and kind manner. And those intense gray eyes. Why couldn’t she feel those things for Towny? Would she ever feel them?

  Towny was her dearest friend. She’d known him since they were nine years old, and she’d always looked up to him, admired him. Her love for him would grow into something deeper, she simply had to trust in that. She was going to marry Towny, and they would be happy together. They would have children, and he would be a wonderful father. And in the near future, she hoped, Captain Jones would be returning to his wife. If what he’d said held true, he would first be sent to either a Federal hospital or prison. For his sake, she hoped it was the former, and that his manservant, George, arrived in time to help. She rose and crossed to the washbasin, eager to dismiss the doubts.

  She poured tepid water from the pitcher into the bowl and washed her hands and face. Checking again to make certain the children were asleep, she quickly disrobed, ran a damp washcloth over her neck and chest, arms and legs, then donned her gown, shivering, her body chilled and goose-fleshed.

  She unpinned her hair and ran a brush through just enough to smooth out the tangles—never mind the usual 150 strokes—and turned down the oil lamp and climbed into bed. Or tried to. Winder was already sprawled out on her side, so she carefully scooted him back over and climbed in beside him.

  For a moment she simply lay still, relishi
ng the softness of the feather mattress beneath her and the gradual lessening of tension as her tired muscles began to relax. She heard the creak of wagon wheels from outside and thought of all the wounded men lying on the floors in the house or, worse, on the cold, hard ground in the yard. And all those still on the battlefield.

  A barrage of images burned into her conscience pulsed one after another in the darkness before her, and she shut her eyes tight, not wanting to see them. But still they came, along with fresh tears. Beyond exhausted, she soon realized sleep was keeping its distance, so she rose, turned up the oil lamp, and reached for her skirt.

  She withdrew the contents from the left pocket, knowing that somewhere Thaddeus’s mother was waiting for word from her precious son. Perhaps she was scanning a newspaper even now, praying not to find his name on the latest list distributed by the War Department. It was odd. She’d begun to refer to the boy by his first name, as though the two of them had formally met during his lifetime, instead of during his final moments. She fingered the stack of envelopes—three in number—still bound with string, then her focus centered on the knot.

  People usually tied bundles of letters with a bow so they could be reread more easily. The knot represented such permanence, such a firm decision, she was hesitant to cut it. It was one thing to be given a letter to be passed along to someone else, but to knowingly open a letter without its having been entrusted specifically to your care was something else entirely. And yet Thaddeus was dead. These letters might contain information that would help her reach his family and give them the message he’d spent his last breath leaving.

  She retrieved her scissors from her sewing basket and positioned them over the string, debating, legitimate reasons for why she should cut it flitting through her mind. And yet the knot finally won out. She laid the scissors back on her bedside table alongside the letters. Thinking better of leaving the letters out, especially when sharing a room with the children, she tucked the thin stack safely in the drawer of the bedside table.

  She picked up the pocketknife next and, with her forefinger, traced the empty slot where the inlaid ivory had once been. She fingered the worn oblong stone again, but it was the page torn from the Bible that drew her most. She carefully unfolded it. Printed along the top, beside his scrawled name, was The Book of Psalms.

  Growing chilled, she slipped beneath the covers of the bed, the warmth from Winder’s little body radiating heat into hers. She turned the torn page from the Psalms over in her hand. Several of the verses were underlined. Counting front and back, the section contained chapters 62 through 67, along with the first verses of chapter 68. She’d read through the Psalms many times, so some of the verses were familiar to her. But why this single page? she wondered. She gave the chapters a quick perusal, then refolded the page and tucked it next to the letters in the drawer and withdrew the contents from her right skirt pocket.

  She held the envelope to the lamplight, remembering its author with vivid—and painful—clarity. There was no address on the front, but the envelope wasn’t sealed, so Lizzie withdrew the single piece of paper and unfolded it. She was relieved to find a name and address at the top of the page, and beneath that, For our child.

  She felt herself holding her breath as she read.

  Dear Child,

  It is with pleasure and delight that I write you a few lines, which will be the first letter you will ever receive, and one, too, which I hope you will preserve until you can read it. By the misfortunes of war, I have been separated from your mama, but by the blessings of God, I hope to soon return to you, never more to leave you, until death shall separate us. My dear and only child, be a good girl, ever love and obey your affectionate mama, and don’t forget your first letter writer, who has not nor never will forget you, who daily prays to God, in his infinite mercy, to spare, bless and protect you amid the troubles of this world, and should you live to become old, may God bless you and prepare your soul in this life to go to that happy world after death.

  Your father,

  P. M. Hope

  Lizzie pressed a hand to her midsection, the ache inside her growing until she couldn’t contain it. Choking on a sob, she laid the letter aside and reached for her pillow. She pressed her face into its softness to muffle the cries, then curled onto her side away from the children, not wanting to awaken them.

  After what seemed a very long time, her spirit and body spent, she gave herself over to sleep, willing it to take her away from all this. At least for a little while. As she drifted on the edge of consciousness, she prayed for the wounded, for the town of Franklin, for Towny . . . and for Captain Jones. All the while listening to the muted weeping coming from the bedroom next door, followed by the deep timbre of Colonel McGavock’s voice that let her know he was comforting his wife.

  But it was Thaddeus’s youthful features and the pleading in his voice that wove in and out of her dreams.

  CHAPTER 14

  The next morning Roland sat on the bedroom floor, the wall at his back for support, and read the contents of the field orders for a second time. He struggled to reconcile General Hood’s message with what he knew firsthand to be true.

  December 1, 1864

  General Field Orders, Hdqrs. Army of Tennessee

  No. 38

  Near Franklin

  The commanding general congratulates the army upon the success received yesterday over our enemy by their heroic and determined courage. The enemy have been sent in disorder and confusion to Nashville, and while we lament the fall of many gallant officers and brave men, we have shown to our countrymen that we can carry any position occupied by the enemy.

  By command of General Hood:

  A. P. Mason, Assistant

  Adjutant-General

  “‘That we can carry any position occupied by the enemy?’”

  The audacity of Hood’s statement issued late yesterday afternoon, in light of the battle’s outcome, nearly burned a hole in his chest and mirrored the bewilderment in Lieutenant Waltham’s expression.

  “I know.” Waltham settled on the floor beside him and glanced at the soldiers lying close by, as if questioning whether he could speak freely.

  “It’s okay in here, for the most part.” Roland surveyed the room, the tension among the men noticeably higher today. And with good reason, considering that eleven more soldiers—two in this room alone—who had seemed on the mend had died during the night from their injuries. That, and they’d gotten word that the Army of Tennessee would soon be moving out. Colonel McGavock had graciously agreed to send the telegram Roland had written his mother requesting she send George posthaste. But he held little hope that George would arrive in time. “Most of the men in here would agree with us, Waltham. Except for Taylor and Smitty across the room there.” He noted the two men deep in conversation by the door. “In their eyes, General Hood can do no wrong.”

  Waltham gestured to the field order. “It’s as if Hood was watching a whole different battle.”

  “Or more like he’s trying to cover his own backside after what happened on the way here this week.”

  “You think he used the battle here in Franklin to try to get back at Schofield for what happened in Spring Hill?”

  Roland sighed. Waltham was a fine lieutenant, but he was a good deal younger and still looking for a way to make sense of all this. Something that was difficult enough to do with life in general, much less with war.

  “It’s only my opinion, Waltham, but I think Hood is desperate, and looking to make up ground wherever he can. He was furious when Schofield managed to get his army past us in Spring Hill. It shamed him.” Roland briefly closed his eyes, having gone over these scenarios at least a hundred times. “I think he’s still bruised over how Sherman bested him in Atlanta. And remember, Hood and Schofield go back a ways. They were classmates at West Point in ’53. Schofield graduated near the top of his class, Hood at the bottom. So I think what happened last night was part battlefield strategy and part personal pride.”
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  Waltham leaned in. “A lot of the men think Hood never should have attacked, Captain Jones. That he should have moved off to the east across the Harpeth River and flanked Schofield out of his breastworks.”

  Roland shook his head. “With as wide open as that field is and with the Federals commanding the high ground, Schofield would’ve seen any flanking and would’ve started moving out. I overheard this morning that the existing bridges across the Harpeth were impassable due to recent rains. All except for a railroad bridge. From what I can piece together, once Schofield arrived in town Wednesday morning, he quickly discovered that the river was too deep to ford. So he set a detail to planking up that trestle bridge as fast as they could. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he was already moving his supply wagons across the Harpeth even before we charged.”

  Waltham stared. “So you’re saying you think Schofield was already planning to leave? That he hadn’t intended to fight?”

  “I’m saying I think it was his intention to get to Nashville that night. Which he did, as we now know. Dr. Phillips was here awhile earlier and told me he’d gotten word from General Cheatham that the Federal breastworks were abandoned by midnight after the battle. Schofield left behind their dead and severely wounded and hotfooted it to Nashville.”

  Movement at the door drew his attention, and Roland looked over, hoping. But it wasn’t Miss Clouston.

  She hadn’t been in yet this morning, which struck him as odd. Yet a lot more people were tending the wounded in the house today—the nuns and several neighbors were helping. Maybe Miss Clouston was assisting Dr. Phillips in another area. Or maybe she was seeing to the children. She was the governess, after all.

  “Maybe if we’d waited,” Waltham continued. “Maybe if General Hood had given time for Stephen Lee’s corps to catch up with us. Lee had the artillery, after all. You think that would’ve made a difference?”