With this Pledge Page 18

  He needed to focus on finding a way to keep his plantation. How he was going to accomplish that here at Carnton, near flat on his back and almost three hundred miles from Yalobusha, Mississippi, he didn’t know. But at least he had some time to figure it out.

  “Measles,” she said. “Of all the things that Federal doctor could have said. That about scared me to death.”

  “It didn’t do my heart much good either. Although . . .” He scratched his chest and grimaced. “I did notice the start of a rash earlier.”

  Her brow furrowed, then just as swiftly her eyes narrowed, and she smiled. Truly smiled. “Nice attempt, Captain.”

  He laughed. “Roland, please. If you’re comfortable with that,” he added, reading hesitance in her eyes. “It just seems that with all we’ve been through, we could at least be on a first-name basis.”

  She held his gaze for a moment, then finally nodded. “Elizabeth. But friends and family call me Lizzie.”

  “Seeing as how I already consider us to be friends, I think I’ll choose Lizzie.”

  She nodded again, and Roland knew, even as he’d said it, that while being Elizabeth Clouston’s friend was a privilege and an honor, friendship wasn’t all he would have wanted with this woman. If they’d met at a different time and place in life. Then again, she might not have even considered him, due to their differing views on the Confederacy. And namely, slavery. Either way, it was a moot point.

  Movement at the door drew his attention, and Colonel McGavock entered the bedroom, his wife beside him. The couple spoke to the men as they passed, then the colonel acknowledged Roland with a tilt of his head. “Captain, it’s good to see you sitting up.”

  “It’s good to be sitting, sir.”

  The colonel glanced at his wife. “My dear, Captain Jones here is quite the chess player, I hear.”

  “Is that so?” A hint of mischief lit Mrs. McGavock’s expression, similar to what Roland had witnessed in her young son’s. “My husband enjoys a rousing game of chess, Captain. But I’ll give you forewarning: he does not like to lose.”

  “I’ve never met a man worth his salt who did, ma’am.”

  A glint shone in the colonel’s expression. “Let me know when you’re ready for a match, Captain.”

  “Will do, sir. And thank you.”

  He’d met Colonel McGavock over the course of recent days and had been impressed with the man. McGavock’s generosity in opening his home to the wounded of Loring’s Division constituted an enormous sacrifice. Not only in a financial sense—damage to the home had to be extensive, and feeding and caring for so many soldiers had no doubt cut into the family’s food stores—but in an emotional sense as well. What mental and physical toll it had taken on the man’s household, he could only imagine. Especially on young Winder and Hattie. Although each time he’d seen the children, they seemed to be weathering the storm well. He’d always heard that children were stronger than they appeared, but since Lena had died at scarcely a year old, he hadn’t had the opportunity to learn that as a parent.

  “Gentlemen . . .” The colonel turned to address the room. “As I relayed to the soldiers in the other bedrooms moments ago, before General Folsom departed, he charged me with administering an oath to each of you. This oath places every soldier here under a parole of honor. You will be granted certain liberties and freedoms in exchange for your solemn pledge that you will not attempt to escape—either to return to the Confederate Army or to return to your homes—and you will not participate in espionage of any nature against the Federal Army or the United States government. When you are well enough, you will either be sent to prison for the duration of the war or you could be used as collateral in a prisoner exchange. I gave General Folsom my word that I would personally administer this oath to each of you, and if any man did not agree to these terms, I would contact the Federal Army immediately. In that event, the soldier will forthwith be transferred under escort to a Federal prison in Nashville—no matter the extent of his injuries. Furthermore, if even one prisoner violates his parole, his violation will negate every freedom and privilege for every other soldier here, and you will all be sent to prison without delay. Are there any questions about the oath? Or any violation of it?”

  Silence blanketed the room.

  Colonel McGavock unfolded a piece of paper. “When you hear your name, please respond with either aye or nay.”

  “First Lieutenant Harold Conrad.”

  Roland looked at Conrad, who first looked at Miss Clouston, then at him. Roland mouthed, Aye, to the man even as regret over Conrad’s injuries knifed him. Ever humble and kind, Conrad was now a ghost of the man and exemplary officer he’d once been.

  “Aye, sir,” Conrad said softly, then looked back.

  Roland nodded and mouthed, Well done.

  Conrad smiled and saluted him.

  “Second Lieutenant James Shuler.”

  “Aye, sir. And thank you, sir, to you and your family for givin’ us quarter.”

  Colonel McGavock gave a single nod, then continued. “Captain John P. Hampton.”

  “Aye, sir, Colonel McGavock.”

  “Second Lieutenant George E. Estes.”

  “Aye, Colonel.”

  “Second Lieutenant Hiram Taylor.”

  “Aye.” Taylor stared up at McGavock, a flat note of belligerence underscoring his response.

  McGavock paused and gave Taylor a look that to some might have appeared innocuous. But Roland, even having known the colonel so briefly, read clear warning. As should have Taylor, if the man had a lick of sense.

  Roland knew then that he had to outpace the young second lieutenant in healing, if only so he could take Taylor down when the man tried to escape—which he would, Roland felt sure. It was only a matter of time. He had no intention of going back to prison, and certainly not because of something Taylor did. He wanted to live, and had been given a second chance from the Almighty to do just that.

  “Captain Jones.”

  Roland nodded. “Aye, Colonel McGavock.”

  “Private Clement Smith,” Colonel McGavock continued.

  “Aye.” Smitty glanced at Taylor and cocked that crooked little grin of his, and Roland made it a goal to take his first step by Christmas. No matter the pain it took.

  LATE THE NEXT evening Roland spotted Sister Catherine Margaret and two other nuns in the hallway making their rounds, oil lamps in hand. With the soft glow of golden light on her face, Sister Catherine Margaret appeared almost angelic, which seemed only fitting.

  She stepped quietly into Winder’s bedroom, where a single oil lamp had been left burning on the table by the hearth. Its illumination mingled with the flicker of the white-and-orange flames to give the room a warm, homey feel. He’d been lying there on the floor, flat on his back, quietly appreciating the ambience for the past couple of hours—along with the blessing of not being in a Federal prison.

  “Evening, Sister,” he whispered from his pallet, mindful of the other men in the room already asleep, thanks in large part to Colonel McGavock breaking out those bottles of celebratory wine. The man’s generosity stood up to its reputation, and more. It had been good wine too. In fact, the colonel had left a partially full bottle beside his pallet.

  “You’re still awake, Captain Jones?”

  “I couldn’t very well go to sleep without bidding you good night, Sister.”

  She grinned and shook her head. “You, my dear captain, are what young nuns fear most. A handsome—and good-hearted—man.” She made a show of casting the lantern’s light onto his face. “At least I think there are marks of handsomeness beneath all that dark hair and beard.”

  Roland laughed beneath his breath.

  “But alas . . .” She settled in the Windsor chair by the hearth. “The passing years have served to remove that temptation from me.”

  “You were tempted, Sister?” he asked, at the same time wondering if he should. But his curiosity wouldn’t let him not.

  “Oh my, yes.” She nodd
ed. “Just because a woman becomes a nun doesn’t mean she ceases to be a woman, Captain Jones. No more than you becoming a captain has made you forget what it was like to be a private, or a second or first lieutenant.” She leaned her head back. “I can remember the days before I took my vows . . .” She sighed, her voice barely above a whisper. “And sometimes, in remembering, I catch glimpses of who I was then and can see myself more truthfully than I did at the time. Which, in turn, sheds light on who I have become, and how far I still have to go to become who I hope to be in Christ before I die, if that makes any sense.”

  Roland widened his eyes. “That’s a mite too deep for me, Sister.” That earned him the laugh he’d been aiming for. “Actually, what you said makes perfect sense. What I don’t quite understand is how, when you’re young and so eager to get on with life, the years seem to crawl by. Nothing ever comes quickly enough. Then suddenly, one day you look back and—just like that—you’re the age of that person you used to think of as knocking on death’s door.” He laughed softly and stared into the flames in the hearth. “Yet somehow, despite time’s passing and all that’s happened to me—and all that didn’t happen that I hoped would—there’s a part of me that still feels the same inside. That still feels like I did when I was first starting out.”

  “Why, Captain Jones, I didn’t realize you were a romantic.”

  He laughed. “I’m not. I’m just old.”

  Her smile deepened. “You feel old right now, Captain. But you’re a man in the prime of his life. The best years are ahead of you, I’m certain of it.”

  “And how do you know that, Sister?”

  “Do you know the Lord Jesus, Captain?”

  While he didn’t find her question particularly surprising, he did ponder the ease with which she asked it. “Yes, Sister. I do. And I’m most grateful for it.”

  Her sigh held contentment. “For those who are in Christ Jesus, the best is always yet to come. Believe that.”

  “I do,” he answered after a moment. “I just wish I believed it more.”

  Her chuckle surprised him. “Welcome to faith, Captain Jones.”

  A comfortable silence settled between them, the fire in the hearth crackling and popping as the flame devoured the wood.

  “How is it that you’re still awake, Captain, while the rest of your companions slumber?”

  He pointed to the bottle of wine beside him and smiled. “I only had a glass or two, while they might have had a bit more. But that’s all right. None of them drank to excess. And after what they’ve been through, they deserve a good night’s rest and the chance to forget about their troubles, at least for a while.”

  “And what about you? Do you not deserve those things?”

  He rearranged Sir Horace beneath his neck, the bear’s stuffing having flattened considerably from use. “There was a time I drank to try to forget. But in my experience, Sister, dulling a memory doesn’t empty it of its power. Or its pain. It just pushes it off to the side for a while. But it always returns.”

  A moment passed.

  “What painful memories have you pushed to the side, Captain Jones? With or without benefit of wine?”

  He looked over at her, wondering at the twists and turns his life had taken to deliver him here—in Franklin, Tennessee, philosophizing with a nun late into the evening. “My wife and child died last year while I was away fighting. Influenza. I didn’t even know about it until nearly a month later, when the letter from my mother finally caught up with me.” He still had that letter, same as every letter he’d received from his family since he’d left for the war. But that was one he didn’t care to reread. “Even though I know they’re both safe and contented with the Lord, that doesn’t stop me from wishing they were still here. Which is selfish, I know. Wanting to steal them from heaven.” He gave a soft laugh to cover the emotion in his voice.

  The silence lengthened, a soft wind whistling around a corner of the house.

  “I’m so very sorry, Captain . . . for such a painful, terrible loss.”

  The tenderness in Sister Catherine Margaret’s tone brought a lump to his throat.

  “Sometimes,” she continued, staring into the fire, “life on this side of the veil is far more difficult than I think it should be. Especially for those of us who belong to God. But then again, his promises do not eliminate suffering.”

  “No, they do not,” he said softly.

  “And yet, with all my heart,” she continued, “I trust that God knows best.” A slow, almost sad smile turned her mouth. “Even in those moments when I’m fairly certain I might know better.”

  “It does me good to hear you say that, Sister.”

  “Why? Because it shows my lack of faith?”

  “Because it shows that one can have great faith and yet still question. At least on occasion. Which is heartening to someone like me.”

  They sat in comfortable silence until a shadow in the hallway drew his attention. When he saw who it was, he felt a distinct stirring in his chest. Lizzie, he almost whispered, then thought better of it, considering present company. “Miss Clouston. Join us, please.”

  Lizzie tiptoed across the room. “I promised Second Lieutenant Shuler I’d bring him an extra blanket.” She looked at Shuler, who lay sleeping in the bed only feet away, then paused and looked back at Roland. “You gave him yours, Captain.”

  Roland shrugged. “He was cold. Said he couldn’t get warm, so I tossed him mine. Besides, I’m closer to the fire, and Tempy brought me a sheet earlier.”

  Lizzie knelt and spread the thicker blanket over his legs and chest, then gently tucked it close. He caught a whiff of lilac soap and wished he could finger the brown curl teasing her temple. He told himself it wasn’t wise to allow his thoughts to take this trail, but his thoughts didn’t listen. He’d seen her earlier in the day, but they’d only exchanged pleasantries. Living in such close proximity to the other soldiers, combined with being immobile, made privacy nearly impossible.

  Her pale complexion looked like a rendering from an artist’s brush in the fire’s glow, and when her eyes met his, he was both sorry—and grateful—that Sister Catherine Margaret was in their company.

  “Thank you, Miss Clouston,” he said softly.

  Her eyes glimmered as though she shared a secret with him, and he couldn’t help but smile.

  “You’re welcome, Captain Jones.”

  “Sister Catherine Margaret,” came a whisper, and they looked to see one of the other nuns gesturing from the doorway. “It’s time for vespers.”

  Sister Catherine Margaret rose. “Here, Miss Clouston. Take my place. The captain and I were waxing not so eloquently about life and time. And I’m certain, though you are considerably younger than I, that you will have much to contribute.”

  Lizzie shook her head. “And I’m certain I will only disappoint on both counts.”

  The nun only smiled and patted the chair. “While I am not a prophet, Miss Clouston, I do feel quite certain that, in this instance, disappointment is not a possibility.”

  Even in the dim light, Roland saw the blush creep into Lizzie’s cheeks as she looked down and away. Watching her, he wondered again if she might look differently at him than she did the other soldiers. But even if she did, he already knew that didn’t matter. Because despite the subtle wink Sister Catherine discreetly slipped him as she left the room, he had nothing to offer Elizabeth Clouston except friendship. And if friendship was all he could have with her, he would take every moment she gave him, and try not to dream of something more.

  The seconds stretched, and Lizzie still seemed hesitant to meet his gaze.

  Finally he cleared his throat, determined to set her at ease, while also not waking the others. “Why don’t you go first. Share one of the most meaningful things you’ve learned about time . . . in ten words or fewer.”

  The start of a smile touched her lips, then swiftly vanished. She sat up straighter in the chair, folded her hands in her lap, and looked like she was about t
o deliver a formal recitation. She briefly narrowed her eyes, and he imagined she was silently counting the words to make sure her response fit into the parameters.

  “One of the most meaningful things I’ve learned about time, in ten words or fewer: The older a person gets, the more swiftly time passes.”

  Triumph lit her expression even as Roland held up a hand.

  “Lizzie Clouston!” he whispered. “You little eavesdropper. You were out in the hallway listening to what I said earlier!”

  “I most certainly was not, Roland Jones!”

  He enjoyed the defiant jut of her chin. And how she said his name.

  “Wait!” She stilled. “Truly? That’s what you said too?”

  “Absolutely. Though you said it far more succinctly.”

  A single eyebrow rose. “I wasn’t given much choice.”

  They laughed softly together.

  “But it’s true, isn’t it?” She leaned forward in the chair. “Don’t the years seem to be moving more swiftly than they once did?”

  “Without question. Even though, as Sister Catherine and I were just discussing, I can’t really say why that is.”

  The fire burned low, and she retrieved another log from the wood box to the right of the hearth and laid it on top. Knowing he should be the one doing that, Roland could only watch silently.

  “Perhaps . . .”

  Her voice was so soft he had to watch her lips to make sure he didn’t miss anything. Not too unpleasant a task.

  “Perhaps it’s because once you reach a certain age, as we have, you’re most likely closer to the end of your life than to the beginning.”

  He considered that. “Sort of like it takes a lot longer to push a cart up a hill than to push it down the other side once you’ve reached the top?”

  Her serious expression turned decidedly less so. “If I’m not mistaken, Roland, I believe you just said I was . . . over the hill.”

  Reacting to the spark of playfulness in her features, he laughed. “If you’re over the hill, Lizzie, then I’ve already got one foot in the grave.” He looked down at his legs. “Oh wait . . .”