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  This time it was the doctor who stared, then looked from her to Captain Jones as though seeking assistance in knowing how to respond. But Captain Jones’s attention was fixed on her, his expression one of question. Even confusion.

  “Miss Clouston,” the doctor began.

  But the captain raised a hand even as a shadow passed across his face. “What I think the doctor was about to tell you, Miss Clouston . . . is that my dear wife, Susan, died from influenza last year. Along with our child. While I was away at war.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “I-I’m so sorry for your loss, Captain,” Miss Clouston said softly, myriad emotions chasing across her face.

  Roland could all but see layers of misunderstanding falling away. He was certain he’d told her Susan was gone, along with Lena, when she’d read Weet’s letter aloud to him. But he honestly couldn’t remember now. His time at Carnton had largely been a blur of morphine, laudanum, and pain. What was clear to him, though, was that she’d not known until now.

  “Thank you, Miss Clouston. I appreciate that.” He met her gaze, wondering if he was imagining the flicker of relief he saw in her eyes.

  “So,” she continued, her tone uncertain, “you’re alone.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I am now.” Then another reason occurred to him as to why she might be relieved. Maybe she’d considered some of his actions toward her improper. And he had to admit, if he’d still been married, the overlong looks and even the brief times they’d touched would have been just that.

  He was eager to set accounts straight, but he couldn’t exactly do that with Dr. Phillips present. He’d have to broach that subject later, if he were ever alone with her.

  He glanced over at Shuler, Taylor, and Smitty. He wasn’t surprised they were among those staying behind, considering their injuries. Shuler had only lost an arm, but the young man, so slight of build, had been plagued with fever during the night and, as Dr. Phillips had shared, was of compromised health to begin with. As for Taylor and Smitty, they were amputees and thick as thieves, even in relation to their wounds. They’d both lost their left legs below the knee. But it was their gut wounds that had them staying behind, he felt certain.

  Nevertheless, he was grateful to discover the three of them still jawing with some of the men who were departing, not having overheard the exchange.

  Dr. Phillips cleared his throat. “Now, back to the plan I was about to share . . .”

  Listening to what the surgeon had to say, Roland found the bulk of his own attention centered on the woman seated in the child’s chair beside him. Compassionate, caring. And with a quiet beauty that drew a man’s eye. How had she not been snapped up by some lucky fellow before now?

  “So while I realize that what I’m suggesting is not how this process would customarily proceed, I believe that—”

  “Wait.” Roland blinked, the doctor’s words registering. “You’re not proposing that Miss Clouston take the lead in this, are you?”

  The doctor looked between them. “That’s precisely what I’m proposing, Captain. And furthermore, if you’ll consider the reasons I shared, I believe this may be our best chance of—”

  “It’s out of the question.” Roland shook his head. “I’ve seen how the Federal Army treats Southern women. It’s not respectful, sir. Far from it. So I can’t condone placing Miss Clouston in such a—”

  “Captain Jones.”

  Roland looked over to see Miss Clouston staring at him, her expression claiming a slightly superior air. “If there are decisions to be made here, and I think there are . . .” Her voice held the sweetest measure of scolding. “I believe I have a right to be part of that process. Would you not agree?”

  Dr. Phillips laughed softly. “Oh yes, Miss Clouston. You will do quite well.”

  Heart beating fast, Lizzie stood beside Colonel and Mrs. McGavock on the expansive rear porch of the house and watched regiments of the Federal Army march across the fields toward Carnton. For the past three days they’d kept watch, and what General Cheatham had said about the US Army returning soon enough was proving true. The soldiers were still some distance away, the formation in front astride horses. But as she watched wave after wave of blue coats appearing over the rise, a cold stone of fear settled in the pit of her stomach.

  It wasn’t that she’d never seen Federal soldiers, or was afraid of them. The US Army had occupied the town of Franklin for the better part of three years. But after witnessing the carnage on the battlefield, having seen with her own eyes the brutality left scattered across the Harpeth Valley by the hand of both armies, she felt a fear stir inside her seeing the two groups in such close proximity to each other and under such duress.

  A bitter December wind swept across the fields and seemed to blow right through her. As the day stretched into afternoon, the more the gray skies portended rain. Or perhaps snow, if temperatures continued to drop through the night.

  Struggling to focus on the task she’d been given, she found her own memory acting the traitor as it dredged up scenes from the battlefield—specifically those she’d seen just before she’d been warned away from the main breastworks. The Federal Army’s few hundred losses paled in comparison to the over seven thousand Confederate dead and wounded. Seven thousand . . . When Colonel McGavock shared that figure with her, she’d had difficulty wrapping her mind around it. And still did. But each death was tragic. Both Confederate and Federal.

  The closer the regiments came, the deeper the talons of doubt sank into her. As Dr. Phillips had laid out his proposal and the likelihood of its success, she’d seen the wisdom in his words. For obvious reasons, Federal officers held predisposed animus toward plantation owners, so having a more neutral party—and a woman—gently campaign for the wounded soldiers to be allowed to stay at Carnton to convalesce made sense. As did informing the Federal officers of the extent of each man’s injuries, of which she was well versed. But now, thinking of what would happen if her persuasive efforts proved unconvincing, she wondered if Colonel or Mrs. McGavock might not be better candidates for the task. Yet when the colonel had agreed with the doctor’s recommendation, Lizzie realized she had no choice, despite Captain Jones’s adamant objections.

  He’s not married . . .

  Even as nervous as she was now, the surprise of that discovery still felt fresh. And it had come as a surprise to her, followed swiftly by an inexplicable sense of relief. At the time, she’d told herself her relief was due to the fact that his not being married better explained the times when she had found him watching her. Not that his behavior had ever been inappropriate. But if she were married, she wouldn’t want her husband looking at another woman the way that Captain Jones sometimes seemed to be looking at her. And right or wrong, she liked the way he looked at her, and the way she felt when he did. Even though she knew she shouldn’t.

  She briefly bowed her head, shame warming her face. With no small effort, she narrowed her thoughts to the moment at hand. And now that the moment was here, what burdened her most was what would happen to him and the twenty-eight other soldiers inside the house if she failed.

  Of the hundreds of men from the Southern army who’d been at Carnton, only these twenty-nine remained, all resituated among the four family bedrooms on the second floor. Before the soldiers had left Carnton, she’d searched the sea of beleaguered faces, looking for Towny, hoping he would stop in to say good-bye. He’d promised to come see her before he left. Yet she found it impossible to hold the unfulfilled promise against him, knowing why the army had to leave so quickly.

  Word from the nuns who’d also been helping with the wounded in town was that every available house, school, church, and public building in Franklin was being used as a hospital now. Forty-four in all. Three of them for wounded Federals, the rest for Confederates. Each building, including Carnton, had been marked with a red flag.

  Dr. Phillips and the other physicians had accompanied the army, but he’d sworn that he or another surgeon would be back at regular intervals to
check on the men left behind. She’d heard soldiers talking amongst themselves before they’d left, saying that General Hood had plans to lay siege to Nashville in coming days, but she prayed that wouldn’t be the case.

  Because if the Rebels had been beaten so soundly here at Franklin, where General Schofield had only hours to entrench his army, how much more perilous would it be for General Hood’s soldiers to face the enemy in a city the Federals had consistently held almost since the beginning of the war? And where they outnumbered the Southern army three to one?

  A broad-chested Federal soldier astride a white stallion led the procession, and as he drew closer Lizzie could see his gaze—wary and appraising—sweep the surrounding area. She swallowed hard, then felt a hand close tightly around hers. She drew strength from Carrie McGavock’s grip.

  The Federal commander reined in and dismounted. Before his second boot even touched the ground, a young private stepped forward and took the reins. Never looking at the younger soldier, the general crossed the distance with minimum strides and stopped just shy of the bottom step. Gleaming stars denoting his rank accentuated his pristine blue uniform, and his leather boots were polished to a sheen.

  “Colonel John McGavock?” The general’s hand rested on the hilt of his scabbard-clad sword. He ascended the porch steps, his footfalls heavy. “General Folsom, United States Army.”

  “Welcome to Carnton, General Folsom. Allow me to make introductions.”

  General Folsom waited as Colonel McGavock introduced his wife, then Lizzie. The general’s expression, polite, mildly aloof, never changed. No question in Lizzie’s mind—the man was formidable.

  He gave a single nod. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Colonel. And that of your wife. And governess.” He gave Lizzie a cursory glance. “In accordance with US Army regulations, we’ve come to Franklin, and to your estate, to collect Confederate prisoners and escort them to Nashville.”

  His accent was thick. Boston, perhaps? Or New York. Lizzie couldn’t tell. The man was taller than she’d first estimated too, and despite knowing that both armies were guilty of atrocities, she couldn’t help but wonder . . . Was he the one who had shot Towny? Or Captain Jones? Or had he killed Captain Hope and Colonel Nelson? Her gaze slowly moved over the dozens of soldiers behind him. She’d learned that on the night of the battle, Federals had marched dozens of wounded Confederate prisoners with them to Nashville, then had put them on flatbed railcars and shipped them to Federal prisons. Yet it was no less, she knew, than what the Confederates would have done had the tables been turned. She’d heard stories of Andersonville in Georgia, after all. She hadn’t wanted to believe them, but—

  Suddenly aware of the silence, Lizzie felt an invisible hand push her forward. “General Folsom.” She curtsied, Dr. Phillips’s guidance returning in a rush. “Welcome to Carnton, sir. You and your men must be parched after traveling such a distance. Should you desire, please help yourself to water at the well.”

  “Thank you, miss. But we drank from the river as we crossed.”

  Reading determination and the slightest impatience in his demeanor, she continued. “In the interest of time, then, allow me to escort you to the Confederate wounded inside, sir.”

  “I believe you mean Confederate prisoners, Miss Clouston.”

  She dipped her head. “Yes, of course, General. If you’ll follow me.”

  She turned and walked to the door, hearing him behind her. She could feel his eyes on her, but she didn’t turn. Without hesitation, he reached for the door handle.

  “After you, miss.”

  Lizzie nodded her thanks and preceded him into the entrance hall.

  “Cox!” the general called behind him.

  Lizzie glanced back to see a group of soldiers respond with rifles at the ready. The troop followed them into the house. She spotted Tempy’s backside as the woman shooed Hattie and Winder back into the farm office and away from the door. The neighbors who’d come to help in recent days had left, including the colonel’s sister-in-law Louisa McGavock. But the nuns, currently tucked away in the kitchen, had volunteered to stay and assist. So the house was oddly still.

  “The men are upstairs on the second floor, General.” Lizzie moved toward the stairs when, without warning, the familiarity of her surroundings shifted. She’d been living in this house for eight years. Yet over the course of the last few days, all that was familiar was gone. She’d been so busy caring for the wounded, helping to cook and clean, that she hadn’t fully taken in the enormity of the transformation.

  Bloody handprints and streaks marred the wallpaper and door-frames. Deep crimson stains soaked every upholstered settee, chair, and footstool. She’d worked with the nuns to remove the piles of soaked bandages and the pots into which the soldiers had emptied their stomachs, or worse. But the lingering splatters and spills remained. As did the smells. And the floorcloth . . .

  She glanced down at her own boots, which she’d given up salvaging long ago, then at the boots of General Folsom behind her. Not quite so pristine now. She couldn’t imagine a person seeing this—and the condition of the men upstairs—and not being moved to compassion. Yet the general’s expression revealed not a trace of the horror she continually felt when considering what humanity could do to its own.

  She ascended the stairs, her heart racing as though she’d already climbed six flights. And with every breath, she prayed. Only her prayers had no words. Only silent, heartrending pleas.

  CHAPTER 17

  Lizzie paused at the top of the second-story landing and waited for General Folsom and the other soldiers. Hands clasped at her waist, she hoped she put forth a demeanor of calm collectedness. Never mind the knots twisting her stomach.

  “General Folsom, there are twenty-nine men who were deemed by the surgeons to be too seriously injured to leave Carnton when the Army of Tennessee departed. Or to be moved at all at present. These men understand that they are now prisoners of—”

  He held up a hand. “No fanfare is required, Miss Clouston.” General Folsom shifted his weight and stared down at her. “While I appreciate from a tactical standpoint what you’re attempting to do, it won’t change the outcome. We’re here to take prisoners to Nashville, where they will either be admitted to a hospital or sent to prison. And that based upon our doctor’s recommendation. So please stand aside and allow us to carry on.”

  His tone, genteel enough, left little margin for negotiation. But what little margin was left she grabbed hold of.

  “If you will allow me, General, the injuries of these men are so severe that—”

  “Their injuries were sustained while assaulting the Federal Army of the United States of America, Miss Clouston. And just as the Confederate Army has taken prisoners, so will we. It’s a necessary part of war.” He turned to the men behind him. “Sweep the rooms. Check up there too.” He motioned to the staircase leading to the attic.

  The soldiers scattered, two of them heading upstairs.

  “General . . .” Lizzie took a step toward him. “That’s the attic. There’s only storage up there. No one is—”

  “I appreciate the hospitality that has been shown to me and my men thus far, miss, but I will not allow you to interfere with this prisoner transfer. We’ll search the house same as we’re currently searching the barn and other outbuildings. Dr. Nichols!”

  One of the remaining soldiers stepped forward. In his early thirties, Lizzie guessed, he had a studious air about him. But in lieu of a rifle, he carried a leather satchel.

  “Yes, sir, General?”

  “Examine the prisoners, Doctor. Then make ready for travel.”

  Dr. Nichols nodded and entered Colonel and Mrs. McGavock’s bedroom. The general followed. Lizzie went as far as the door, feeling the fragile threads of hope inside her being ripped apart stitch by stitch.

  Dr. Nichols knelt before Private Cumming. “What’s the nature of your wound, soldier?”

  The pale young private—eighteen years old—looked down, then back
up again, as though the question were absurd. “Cannonball took my legs right out from under me, sir. I’s runnin’ one minute, then felt a flash of fire and looked down, and they was gone. Then I was tryin’ to crawl back to my unit when grapeshot bit my arm all up.” He nodded to the bandaged stump on his left side.

  Lizzie’s throat tightened. Jesus, you are the Great Physician. Intervene for these men. Please intervene . . .

  The doctor nodded. “Yes, I clearly see your injuries, Private. My question is, why weren’t you evacuated with the others?”

  The private looked at him, his brow furrowing. “Doc said something ’bout me bleedin’ bad if I’s to move. So I just been lyin’ here still as a church mouse, sir.”

  Lizzie stepped inside the room. “Dr. Phillips sutured the femoral artery in Private Cumming’s upper right thigh. The private nearly bled out on the table. To move him now would mean—”

  “Thank you, Miss Clouston.” The general looked back, his tone not at all appreciative. “That’s twice I’ve warned you, miss.”

  The doctor moved on to Second Lieutenant Meeks. “And you, soldier?”

  “Minié ball slammed into my right thigh. Cracked the big bone, the doc said. But what kept me behind was this.” He lifted his shirt to reveal a twelve-inch gash, red and swollen, on the right side of his abdomen. “A bluecoat got me with his bayonet. Doc Phillips said I shoulda died then and there, but I didn’t. He sewed me up best he could and said that my gut was all—”

  He paused, then looked at Lizzie. As did the doctor. And finally, the general.

  Lizzie met the general’s gaze straight on, yet said nothing.

  Finally General Folsom sighed. “Speak, Miss Clouston.”

  “The bayonet perforated the second lieutenant’s colon and stomach. It also nicked his lung. Fluid has been collecting in the lower left lobe, and pneumonia is—”

  General Folsom raised his hand, then turned back. “Continue, Doctor.”