With this Pledge

by Tamera Alexander

  But in the end, considering the US government’s determination to mandate how the South would live and conduct its business, he’d felt as though he’d had no choice but to defend hearth and home. To defend his land, his family’s honor, and their future. He’d attended the Charlotte Democratic Delegation in April of ’60 where he’d prayed some semblance of peace would come through negotiation. But when a backwoods congressman from Kentucky, one bent on abolishing slavery, won the Republican nomination, he and everyone else in the South knew what was coming down the pike. And sure enough, Abraham Lincoln won the White House. But before Lincoln could take office, seven states seceded, Mississippi being second among them. Then on the heels of Fort Sumter, four more states followed suit. What gave a man—or a government, for that matter—the right to tell its people how they were going to live? To simply come in and take away a man’s livelihood, his ability to provide for his family? Roland’s chest tightened with emotion.

  He’d counted the cost before entering this war, and had decided it was a price he was willing to pay. But hindsight was challenging that original conclusion. Because what he saw so much more clearly now was that when a man decided to stand firm on a conviction or belief, it was never he alone who paid, but everyone who knew and loved him.

  He looked at Miss Clouston, her head still bowed. Debating with himself, he finally reached over and gently covered her hands on her lap. She didn’t pull away.

  “Every man out there yesterday knew the likelihood that he would die, ma’am. We all went in having accepted that.”

  She slowly met his gaze. “I know, but . . .” She firmed her lips, her chin trembling. “I saw the Federal entrenchments. And they were just as you described. What I can’t understand”—she briefly closed her eyes—“is how you all saw that and yet still chose to charge across that field to . . .” Her voice broke, and she simply looked at him, her gaze communicating what she could not.

  “For love of home and family,” he said softly, guilt tugging hard at the irony of that conviction. He’d left those he loved in order to defend them. Only to have them die while he was away.

  For the longest time she stared at him, then gave him a tentative, watery smile and nodded. Reluctantly, he withdrew his hand.

  A moment passed, and she blew out a breath and wiped her cheeks. She sat up a little straighter, the strength of character he’d first seen in her last night returning. But having glimpsed the vulnerability behind it, however briefly, made the resiliency he saw in her now even more of a treasure.

  “This morning, Captain, when you were with fever, you kept asking for someone named George. You said you couldn’t find him.”

  “Really.” He narrowed his eyes. “I said that?”

  She nodded. “Is he a member of your family? Or a friend?”

  Roland thought about her query before answering, having had time to consider how integral a person George had become to him through the years—which he wouldn’t have expected, considering each of their positions—and how all that was set to change once the Confederacy fell. “He’s both, I guess you could say. George is my manservant. And a most trusted one. He’s been with me since we were children. I intend to send for him.”

  Her eyebrows rose slightly. “George is a slave.”

  She said it matter-of-factly, yet he sensed a hint of question—and perhaps disapproval—in her tone, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  “That’s right.” He eyed her. “What? You don’t consider us Mississippians cultured enough to have manservants?”

  The look she gave him said she wouldn’t be so easily baited. It also confirmed the disapproval he’d glimpsed seconds before. “It’s not that. I simply didn’t—” She straightened, then glanced about as if concerned others might overhear their conversation. “I simply assumed George was someone else. Do you own many slaves?”

  He held her gaze, hearing polite yet undeniable censure this time. “Seven currently. That number was considerably higher before the war. But the last letter from home informed me that six more have run off.”

  She didn’t say anything. Aloud, anyway. But whether the woman knew it or not, her eyes communicated plenty. He knew there were pockets of abolitionists all over the South. Counties in the middle of slave states that had voted against secession, and that had even given aid to the Federals. But to find one of those persons here, on an estate such as Carnton, and at the home of such a prominent plantation owner as Colonel McGavock—now that was surprising.

  “You said you intend to send for George?” she asked, obviously desiring to change the subject.

  Roland hesitated, not as eager to brush it aside as she was. Especially not with her. He found himself wanting to know more about her. More than she apparently was willing to reveal. And to think he’d thought her sorrowful over the Confederate States being poised on the brink of losing this war. Yet considering the present company around them and feeling the laudanum slowly working its way through his body, he simply nodded. “I hadn’t planned on it, but now that this has happened”—he gestured to his legs—“I’ll need help being transported to the nearest Federal hospital. Wherever that is. Usually with wounds so severe, I’d have to stay behind, which would mean being taken prisoner by the Federals.”

  She frowned. “But the Federals have left. They’ve gone on to Nashville, I hear.”

  “Yes, for now. But they’ll be back. Fort Granger, one of their outposts, is only a short distance from here. And the US Army still occupies Nashville, remember. Nashville’s the second most fortified city in the country, with Washington, DC, being the first. So rest assured, they’ll be back. Over the next day or two, every soldier who isn’t able to walk his way out of here with what’s left of the Army of Tennessee will become a prisoner. The Federals will likely take those men to either a hospital in Nashville or a prison up north.”

  She stared. “You state it so matter-of-factly.”

  He managed a shrug. He felt anything but cavalier about the prospect, especially considering his injuries—and his own options if George couldn’t get here in time. “It’s war, Miss Clouston. And there are protocols. Besides, I’ve been taken prisoner before. Although, having experienced that, I’m none too eager to repeat it.”

  Her brow furrowed. “When was that? And where?”

  “At Shiloh. Back in April of ’62. I got exchanged pretty quickly, though, so I didn’t have it rough for long. Not like some others. The men who were badly wounded, even those sent to the Federal hospitals, a lot of them didn’t make it.”

  Without warning, the muscles in his back went from aching to screaming, and he sucked in a breath. He needed to move, no matter the resulting pain in his legs. “Miss Clouston, would you be so kind as to help me change positions?”

  “Of course. Where is it hurting?”

  Where does it not hurt? he wanted to reply, but didn’t. “My lower back, mainly.”

  She knelt behind him on the floor. “What if I were to slip something beneath your neck? Something like”—she glanced around, then reached for something under the bed—“this.” She held up a stuffed bear. “Winder hasn’t played with him in ages, and I think it will provide the support you need.”

  He grimaced. “Whatever will stop the pain.”

  She slid her hands beneath his head, and although her touch felt heavenly, he braced himself, the mere anticipation of more pain causing him to break out in a cold sweat.

  “Relax, Captain, and let me do the work. I haven’t lost a head yet.” She peered down at him, a smile curving her mouth.

  Roland tried to return it but couldn’t.

  She gently lifted his head and slipped the stuffed animal beneath his neck. Roland gritted his teeth, waiting for the pain in his legs to escalate—but it didn’t. In fact, after a moment or two, the spasm in his lower back began to subside. Eyes closed, he released a held breath.

  “Better?” she whispered.

  “Oh yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  His eyes watered
with relief, and he lay there for a moment reveling in the sheer absence of at least a portion of the pain—and in the softness of her hands on his body. He opened his eyes and found her staring down at him. But as soon as his gaze connected with hers, she looked away.

  “Miss Clouston?”

  Roland turned his head in the direction of the tentative voice and spotted a little boy peering wide-eyed into the room from the side of the doorway. Judging from his expression, the lad was hesitant to enter.

  “Winder . . .” Miss Clouston rose and went to him.

  She knelt down and must have asked him a question because the boy nodded, his eyes fixed on hers. Miss Clouston tousled his hair and lifted him into her arms. He hugged her neck tight, then held on as if that were second nature to him.

  Miss Clouston took him around the room and introduced him to every soldier by name and rank until they finally came to him.

  “And this, Winder, is Captain Roland Jones, from Mississippi. Captain, this is Master Winder McGavock, Colonel John McGavock’s son—and my all-too-grown-up seven-year-old charge.”

  “Nice to make your acquaintance, Winder.” Roland saluted the boy with his bandaged right hand, which drew an instant grin and a salute in return.

  Winder’s attention shifted. “You found Horace!”

  “Yes, we did,” Miss Clouston interjected. “He’d somehow been stuffed beneath your bed.” She gave the boy an admonishing look, which the child pretended not to notice. “But when I was looking for something to serve as a pillow for Captain Jones, Horace immediately crawled out and graciously agreed to help.”

  “Which,” Roland added, “has earned him a special citation of merit medal that I’m certain he’ll share with you.”

  The boy’s brows shot up. “Can I see the medal, Captain?”

  “May I see it,” Miss Clouston gently corrected.

  “Sure you can. It’s over there in my knapsack in the corner. It’s in the inside pocket.”

  She lowered the boy to the ground, and Roland caught a glimmer of delight in her expression. Perhaps he was making up ground for her earlier disappointment in him. Odd that he cared so much about her opinion. But he did. Winder retrieved the knapsack and joined them again. Miss Clouston took a seat on the child-size chair, stifling a yawn, and Winder cozied up beside her.

  Feeling another wave of the laudanum’s effects and grateful for it, Roland nodded. “It’s just inside the pocket there. But you must hand it to me first, Winder, and let me formally present it to you and Horace.”

  Winder did as instructed, soberly handing the contents to Roland, who made a show of clearing his throat.

  “Master Winder McGavock, it is with greatest honor that I confer this citation of merit upon you and Sir Horace the Bear for your generosity and service to the Army of Tennessee.” Roland would’ve sworn he saw the little boy’s chest puff out with pride. “And specifically to you, Winder, for your kindness in sharing your bedroom with all of these soldiers. And your bear with Captain Roland Ward Jones, First Battalion, Mississippi Sharpshooters, Adams’ Brigade.”

  Winder’s eyes lit up. “You’re a sharpshooter?”

  Roland held a forefinger to his lips. “I still need to confer your medal,” he whispered, able to sense the boy’s excitement. “Hold out your right hand, please, Master Winder.”

  Winder complied, and Roland placed the “medal” into his tiny palm.

  The boy studied it, then looked back. “Looks kind of like a button to me.” A touch of suspicion colored his tone.

  And Roland didn’t miss the Aha—he caught you! expression on Miss Clouston’s pretty face. But he forged on, still remembering what it was like to be a boy.

  “That’s because, Winder”—he motioned the lad closer, lowering his voice—“these medals are largely given in secret. They’re made to be sewn onto a young man’s coat. Do you see the eagle on the front?”

  Winder nodded, studying it up close.

  “That’s a symbol of courage and honor. And it’s there as a reminder to whoever’s wearing this that he is a man of courage and honor. Because real heroes don’t have to wear big shiny medals on their chests to show others who they are or to prove themselves worthy. No, sir. Real heroes are the ones who do what’s right even when no one’s looking, and who give up something for someone else even when it costs them dearly. Like you’ve done with your bedroom. And like Sir Horace here is doing by serving as my pillow.”

  Winder looked at him, then to the button, then back to him and leaned down and hugged Roland’s neck. “Thank you, Captain Jones.” He straightened. “I’m gonna ask Tempy to sew it on my coat right now!”

  “We might want to wait until tomorrow to ask Tempy,” Miss Clouston said. “She’s been very busy today cooking and taking care of everyone in the house.”

  Winder hesitated, then finally nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” Then just as quickly, his focus shifted, and he pointed to Roland’s bandaged right hand. “Does that hurt?”

  “Winder . . . ,” Miss Clouston quietly corrected.

  “No, that’s all right.” Roland held up his hand, its bandaging leaving no question as to the absence of his fore, middle, and ring finger. “It doesn’t hurt too badly right now. But it did sting an awful lot when it first happened.”

  “Did the doc give you back your fingers after he cut ’em off?”

  Roland enjoyed the look of horror on Miss Clouston’s face.

  “And that, Master Winder,” she said, rising and nudging him toward the door, “will be all of the questions for tonight. Captain, we bid you a good evening, sir. I need to get the children to bed. But either Sister Catherine Margaret or one of the other nuns will be here with you all throughout the night. Some family members and neighbors have come to help as well. I hope you’re able to get some sleep.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I hope you rest well too. And while I wish I could award you a citation of merit as well, I fear, madam, that the medal fine enough to reward you for your courage and honor has not yet been forged.”

  She held his gaze for a beat, then quietly dipped her head and left the room hand in hand with her young charge. Roland watched her go.

  An abolitionist at Carnton. Though not an outspoken one, it would seem. He wondered if the McGavocks knew. Somehow he doubted it, based upon Miss Clouston’s quiet nature. But as he’d learned in his life, still waters ran deep. And given enough time, even the smoothest river could carve through rock.

  He’d encountered people of similar opinion to Miss Clouston before and—especially considering the outcome of the battle last night—was all but certain that the North would win out in the end. Because the Confederacy was on its last leg, for lack of a better term. A condition he knew a little something about. If the North did win this war, changes were coming, and he’d had plenty of time in recent weeks to contemplate them. And it unnerved him, though he didn’t like to acknowledge it. He didn’t know what that new world would look like. He only knew it would look vastly different from this one.

  It also meant he’d likely lose his estate. Oak Hill. Then again, he’d already lost what was dearest in this world to him. Losing his home and even the family land would pale in comparison, if not for his continuing duty to care for his mother and unmarried sisters, along with his aunt and young female cousins from Georgia, who’d recently sought refuge at Yalobusha after Sherman had finished his work in Atlanta. Plus, there was George and his family and the remaining slaves. No, he had to find a way to keep the estate. To keep their home.

  He closed his eyes and struggled to picture both Susan’s and Lena’s smiles, which were becoming less and less clear to him with each passing day. He hadn’t been back home since he’d gotten news of their deaths. He wasn’t even there when they’d been buried. His eyes burned with emotion. Because he’d been away fighting. Fighting to keep them safe.

  CHAPTER 13

  Lizzie ushered Winder down to the kitchen where Mrs. McGavock, Tempy, and Hattie sat at the table in th
e corner looking as worn and weary as she felt. For a half second she wondered where Sallie was, then remembered that the girl’s parents had traveled down from Nashville earlier to take her home.

  “Hot cocoa?” Tempy offered, half rising.

  Lizzie shook her head. “No, thank you, Tempy. All I want is my bed.”

  “Can I sleep with you tonight, Miss Clouston?” Hattie asked.

  “Me too!” Winder pleaded, tugging on her hand.

  But Mrs. McGavock shook her head. “Children, we’ll make you a pallet upstairs as we did last night. Miss Clouston needs some time to—”

  “It’s fine. Truly. They’re welcome to stay in my room with me, if it’s agreeable to you and the colonel.”

  “You’re certain, my dear?”

  “We’ll be fine in my room. And you’ll be right next door in case they need anything.” Lizzie bid them good night, then remembered. “I went to see my parents in town to tell them about what happened here and that we’re all right. They’re well too. Papa’s busy delivering what medicine and supplies he has. Mama’s helping as she can.”

  Carrie nodded. “I imagine they’re helping many.”

  “They send their greetings to you and the colonel.” Lizzie didn’t want to deliver this next news. “I also stopped by the Carters’ house on my way back.”

  Carrie leaned forward. “How are Mr. Carter and his family? I believe the grandchildren were there this week too. Were they overrun?”

  “They’re mostly all right. Now. And yes, Federal officers took over the house for their quarters. The Carters were holed up in the basement during the fighting. His daughter told me that bullets started flying in, breaking through the windows.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” Carrie asked.

  “No. They stuffed coils of rope into the openings. But there were twenty-four of them down in that basement in the dark from the time the battle started until early this morning. Mr. Carter and his eldest son, his daughters and his nine grandchildren, along with their slaves and the Lotz family. They said they thought the battle would rage on forever. There must be a thousand or more bullet holes in the house and the outbuildings.”