With this Pledge Page 33

  He saw Lizzie out in the hallway again. But this time she was alone. The cheery countenance he’d glimpsed earlier when she was in the company of guests was gone. She looked like he felt on the inside—weary, worried, and uncertain. Which he found interesting since, based on the current tide, she was on the winning side of the war.

  They’d originally planned to have the final reading of A Christmas Carol last night, but the Federal patrol’s unannounced visit changed that. It simply hadn’t seemed right, so they’d all voted to wait. That had suited him fine. While he enjoyed listening to Lizzie’s voice as she read, the story itself had taken a darker turn with the second ghost’s visit. And though he knew it was only a story, he found himself thinking about it at odd moments—like now—and seeing himself through Scrooge’s experiences. The similarities were disturbing. So as he did every time this happened, he purposefully turned his thoughts elsewhere.

  He hoped the men who’d been taken were holding up well. Especially Conrad. Knowing Sister Catherine Margaret was with them helped ease his mind. The woman was a force of nature all her own.

  Roland shifted in the chair, his back muscles beginning to ache. He’d appreciated the evening, but was ready to put this Christmas and this year—this war—behind him.

  “Here you are, Captain Jones.” Mrs. McGavock returned, china plate in hand. “There are plenty more where that came from.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  The colonel rose and offered his left hand. Roland shook it.

  “Captain, it’s always a pleasure. I’m sorry you’ve suffered such wounds, but I’m grateful God saw fit to bring you to our home.”

  “It’s I who am grateful, sir. Your hospitality and generous hearts are helping us all to heal—far more, I might add, than Dr. Phillips’s snake oil ministrations.”

  “Do I hear my name being taken in vain?”

  Roland laughed along with the McGavocks, already having spotted the good doctor working his way toward them. After a brief exchange, the couple resumed their circulation among their guests, and Dr. Phillips claimed the now vacant chair.

  The doctor exhaled through his teeth. “Captain, I believe I am ready for this Christmas to come to a close.”

  “Although I’m grateful for everything our host and hostess have done for us, I could not agree more. Do you bring any more news since you last visited?” Roland took a bite of the fried pie.

  “None that’s good, I’m afraid. The army is still scattered. Regiments in disarray. They’re supposed to be making their way toward winter camp in Tupelo, but the army’s in ruinous condition. A shell of what it was even six months ago. Also, there’s rumor”—the doc’s voice lowered—“that Hood is going to resign.”

  Roland stopped chewing midbite.

  “Word is,” Phillips continued, his gaze forward, “that he’s humiliated, utterly crushed by what happened here and in Nashville.”

  “And with good reason.”

  Phillips nodded but said nothing else.

  Roland let the news settle within him. If the rumor proved true, General Hood would take leave of commanding the Army of Tennessee scarcely six months after being appointed to lead it. Roland set aside his plate, no longer hungry.

  “So . . . how’re you feeling this week, Captain?”

  “All right. Better than all right, actually. Except for my back. I’d really appreciate a lie-down about now.”

  When Phillips didn’t respond, Roland glanced over—and found the man looking at him. “What?”

  “Anything you want to tell me?”

  Hearing a tone in the man’s voice, Roland didn’t know how Phillips had found out about his exercising. He only knew that he had. Roland reached for innocence he’d lost long ago. “No. Nothing I can think of.”

  “You’re sure.”

  Roland nodded, then Phillips glanced down at the blanket covering Roland’s legs.

  “I’m a doctor, Jones. I’m trained to notice things.”

  “Trained to notice,” Roland scoffed. “Through a blanket?” He shook his head, letting his smile show. “Who squealed on me?”

  “You have to ask?”

  He thought for a minute. “Taylor!”

  Phillips’s laughter said he’d guessed correctly.

  “I give you my word, Doc. I haven’t put any weight on my legs yet. I’m just lifting them up and down. And bending them a little.”

  “Even though I told you not to until I gave you the go-ahead.”

  “Pretty much.” Roland feigned a grimace.

  “How did you get into that chair?”

  “George helped me. Sitting in a chair seemed more befitting for a party than lying on the cot the whole time.”

  “After everyone leaves, I want to check your legs.”

  “Fine by me. You’re the doctor, after all.”

  Phillips gave him a droll look.

  A minute later, Lizzie happened to glance their way and smile. Roland returned the gesture.

  “Miss Clouston’s a fine young woman.”

  Roland nodded. “She is that.”

  “Is she still betrothed to that young lieutenant?”

  Roland looked over.

  Phillips shrugged. “Word travels.”

  “Yes. She’s still betrothed.”

  “Does she know how you feel about her?”

  Roland resisted the urge to look beside him again, not all that surprised that the doctor had noticed. As he’d said, he was an observant man. “I’m pretty sure she has some idea of my feelings.”

  “But?”

  “As you said, Doc, she’s betrothed. She’s given her pledge, and she’s a woman of her word.”

  Phillips seemed content to let it go at that, and Roland was grateful. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss it.

  Lizzie had told him she hadn’t heard from Lieutenant Townsend yet following the battle of Nashville. And there had come a moment, late one night, when he’d allowed himself to consider what might happen if Townsend had been killed. If Lizzie were no longer pledged to another man. As soon as the thought had come, he’d banished it, ashamed. Any man who would think such a thing wasn’t worthy of Elizabeth Clouston. He gave a rueful sigh.

  Almost an hour later, everyone seemed to have had their fill of both delicacies and conversation, and what guests there were from town took their leave. The nuns began helping the men get ready for bed.

  George moved Roland from the chair to the cot, and Roland was careful not to meet his gaze. As much time as he and George had spent together in their lives, Roland had quickly realized they’d never had much physical contact. Being carried by your manservant was not something any man relished, but there was something about being dependent on George in this way that Roland found especially uncomfortable.

  As promised, Phillips returned a few minutes later. Lizzie was with him.

  “All right, Captain, let’s have a look at those legs.” Already the doc’s tone held a hint of disapproval.

  Roland stretched out on the cot, his feet slightly hanging over. Lizzie held an oil lamp aloft as Phillips examined him. Roland caught her attention, shot a look at the doc, and rolled his eyes. She tried unsuccessfully to curb a smile. Roland realized something then. When he’d first met her, he would’ve sworn the woman could scarcely hold a smile. Now the reaction seemed to come far more naturally and more often. And it suited her.

  “More light, please, Miss Clouston.”

  Lizzie moved closer to the bed. So close Roland caught the sweetness of whatever scent she was wearing. They’d talked some earlier in the evening, but they had yet to continue their conversation from several nights ago. Part of his eagerness to heal, to be able to at least move again on his own, had to do with her. They were friends. He’d accepted that, for the most part. But he wanted time to talk to her. Alone on occasion. Get to know her better. For whatever time he had left here at Carnton. Yet it was a fine balance, he knew. Because the sooner he walked without aid, the sooner he went to prison
.

  Dr. Phillips straightened, and Roland could tell by his frustrated expression that he wasn’t pleased.

  Phillips gave him a look. “The healing in your legs simply isn’t coming along as quickly as I’d hoped it would, Captain.”

  Roland stared. “But that can’t be right, Doc. I—”

  “And I believe the reason is—”

  Frustrated, Roland held his tongue.

  “—that you need to get your lazy buttocks off that cot and get to exercising.”

  Phillips laughed. But it was Lizzie’s reaction—she grinned and gave his forearm a quick squeeze—that felt like a rush of morphine and coffee shot straight into his veins.

  Roland smiled. “As soon as I’m able to kick again, Doc, I’m comin’ for you.”

  Phillips gripped his left hand and gave it a firm shake. “I’ve never been more pleased to have been wrong, Captain. Both tonight . . . and that other night.” Phillips glanced beside him at Lizzie, whose features softened with pleasure.

  Roland swallowed. “I owe you both a lot.”

  Phillips looked over at George, who stood off to the side. “I need to find out what you’re putting into those poultices, George. And how you’re applying them. I think those have greatly accelerated the captain’s healing.”

  “I be happy to tell you, sir.”

  The silence lengthened, and Roland felt Lizzie looking at him. He clearly read in her eyes what she was thinking. Aren’t you going to thank George too?

  Feeling that twinge of unease again, Roland shifted his gaze. “And . . . George. Thank you as well.”

  George lifted his head and met Roland’s stare. “You welcome, Cap’n Jones.”

  BY THE TIME breakfast was served the next morning, Roland was famished. His appetite had definitely increased since he’d started his daily exercise, and Tempy had noticed. She’d begun giving him extra servings of hoecakes, eggs, and bacon. And he ate every bite.

  As he finished his second cup of coffee, Dr. Phillips walked into the bedroom.

  “Morning, Doc. I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

  “You know me. I couldn’t leave without having one more of Tempy’s breakfasts.”

  Hands in his pockets, Phillips crossed to the window and stared out. Roland looked over at him, then realized the room had emptied out. Even Shuler, who stuck pretty close to his bed these days, was gone. Roland set his empty coffee cup on the floor beside the cot.

  “Whatever you’ve come to say, Doc, I think you need to say it.”

  Phillips slowly turned to face him. “You always have been a bottom line sort of man.”

  “I thought you were too, Doc. That’s something I’ve always liked about you.” Roland narrowed his eyes. “I think that may be the only thing.”

  Phillips smiled, then leveled his gaze. “I want you to know before I tell you this, Jones, that this may not apply to you.”

  Roland forced a laugh. “Why am I not reassured by that?”

  Phillips closed the door, grabbed a chair from the corner, and sat down across from him. Roland felt a slight shudder.

  “Despite the medical advances that have been made in recent years, there are still so many things about the human body we don’t—”

  “Just say it, Doc, all right? For both our sakes.”

  Time slowed to a crawl, and Phillips’s gaze turned rock steady. Roland felt his pulse kick up a notch.

  “For men with extensive injuries such as yours, where the blood supply has been compromised to certain parts of the body for a lengthy period of time, there can be notable increases in the inability of the patient to procreate. This doesn’t mean you cannot still enjoy the act of marriage, and that—”

  Roland held up a hand, his attention stuck on one word passed over far too quickly. He swallowed. “Are you saying I can no longer father a child?”

  “I’m saying that due to your injuries, there is a chance you may not be able to.”

  Roland blinked, and all he could see was the fading image of Lena’s sweet face. “What . . . are the odds?”

  “Shooting from the hip? Sixty to seventy percent.”

  “That I’ll be able to?”

  Phillips’s silence answered before he did. “That you won’t,” he said softly.

  Roland’s chest tightened, and he let out a held breath. “I appreciate you telling me, Doc.”

  “But just remember, Jones, this may not apply to—”

  “I understand. I may be fine or . . . I might not.” His eyes burned. He turned away, eager for Phillips to leave. “You best be on your way, or Loring’s Division may up and move on without you.”

  For a moment Phillips didn’t respond. Then he rose, returned the chair to its place, and reached to open the bedroom door.

  “Hey, Doc?”

  Phillips looked back.

  “Why are you telling me this now?” Roland asked, then attempted a cavalier tone. “Is it because of the way you’ve seen me looking at Miss Clouston?”

  “No. It’s because of the way I’ve seen her looking at you.”

  Roland felt a stab of pleasure mixed with pain. “Last thing, Phillips.” He struggled to keep his voice even. “If I had let you take my leg when you wanted to that night, would that have made any—”

  “No. That would have made no difference.”

  Roland nodded. “Good to know.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Lizzie dressed in the dark, doing her best to be quiet, not wanting to awaken Hattie and Winder. Especially after the night they’d had. She grabbed her Bible from the bedside table and tiptoed softly down to the kitchen, mindful of the worst offenders among the creaky stairs. The kitchen was dark and still, and she walked to a window and stood for a moment in the quiet, staring out the window into the night. The sun, still tucked in slumber, wouldn’t rouse for a while yet, and she watched transfixed as grayish tufts of clouds wafted across a thumbnail moon. Towny, are you still alive?

  Images of the battlefield at Franklin rose in her mind, but she shut them out, refusing to believe he’d met with that end. During the past week she’d intentionally reached back into her memory, recalling the years they’d grown up together. Towny had always watched out for her, championed her. When they’d shared lunches he’d always given her the best portion of whatever his mother had packed for him. He was a good man. Patient and unselfish. And it was growing easier for her to imagine building a life with him. And the catalyst for that, at least in part—which she wasn’t proud of—was Roland’s reticence in recent days.

  Though they’d spoken on several occasions, it felt different between them. He was distant, preoccupied. She knew he was struggling, both with wondering if he’d ever walk again and with what his own future held if he did. She heard the other soldiers conjecturing about what-ifs, but Roland kept his thoughts to himself. As she’d been reading The Three Musketeers to James—the book the young man had chosen of those she’d given him—she’d tried to engage Roland as well, but to no avail. She’d noticed how difficult it had been for him to thank George the other night. He was wrestling with hanging on to the past order of things even as he knew in his heart—because he had admitted as much to her—that their world was changing.

  Sunday services at most local churches had been temporarily suspended due to the entire town caring for the dying and wounded. But services were set to resume this next week, and the McGavocks were planning to attend with their children. Lizzie had already volunteered to stay and help the nuns with services for the soldiers, wanting to give Colonel and Mrs. McGavock and Hattie and Winder time to be a family together.

  She heard a creak from overhead and paused, listening, hoping it wasn’t Winder. The boy had awakened during the night, as he had twice in the past week, kicking and thrashing, his little body covered in sweat. Unlike Hattie, he hadn’t screamed. Lizzie had held him as he’d clung to her, burying his face in the crook of her neck as though trying to burrow to somewhere another world away. He, too, was strugglin
g to make sense of what had happened here. Much as they all were. And, perhaps, much as they always would.

  Her eyes watered. She loved these children so much. She wished she could reach into their little hearts and restore their innocence. Erase all they’d seen and heard in the past weeks and months. Despite the current trajectory of the war, she feared the days ahead and all the conflict yet before them.

  She’d read in the newspaper earlier that week about General Sherman’s plan to redistribute roughly four hundred thousand acres of fertile plantation land along the strip of coastline stretching from Charleston, South Carolina, to the St. John’s River in Florida, including Georgia’s Sea Islands as well as a portion of the mainland. Sherman proposed to give the land to newly freed black families, some of whom had been following his army as his soldiers had marched south “demonstrating the Union’s might and destroying sources of food Southerners had saved for the winter,” as the article stated. The journalist then reported that desertions were on the rise in Robert E. Lee’s army in Virginia. Men who’d heard of what Sherman had done were abandoning the fight and returning to protect their families.

  If what the newspaper printed were true, Sherman believed his campaign would help shorten the war. And while Lizzie prayed fervently for the war to end, she feared his tactics would have a devastating ripple effect. Although Carnton had food stores that, if managed frugally, should see them through the winter months, many families in Franklin and in the smaller communities beyond had so little. Only yesterday she’d helped Tempy and Mrs. McGavock box up food that Carrie, with George’s help, had distributed to widows and orphans in Franklin. The Union wanted to break the backs of Southern plantation owners, that much was clear to her. And though it had taken her a long time to reach, then accept, this conclusion, she knew that negotiation between the two sides had never been possible. Not with owning human beings at the core of the conflict. One side and one side only would be left standing after this war was done. But how many tens of thousands of people—both white and black—would starve to death as this country struggled to regain its footing after the war? There had to be a different way to negotiate the land. To work together. To find common ground once slavery was abolished. And it had to be abolished before this country could move forward.