The Pledge, Value

by Jane Peart

  ZONDERVAN

  The Pledge

  Copyright © 1996 by Jane Peart

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

  ePub Edition August 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-86664-0

  Value Edition, 978-0-310-29215-9

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Peart, Jane.

  The Pledge / Jane Peart.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-310-20167-5

  I. Title. II. Series: Peart, Jane. American quilt series ; bk. 2.

  PS3566.E238P54 1996

  813’.54—dc20

  96–7450

  * * *

  Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers printed in this book are offered as a resource to you. These are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of Zondervan, nor do we vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Edited by Robin Schmitt

  Interior design by Sherri Hoffman

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Part One

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Part Two

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Three

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Part Four

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Crazy Quilt

  American Quilt Series Bonus Selection

  Prologue to The Promise

  How to Make the Heart-in-Hands Quilt

  About the Publisher

  Share Your Thoughts

  Part One

  Hillsboro, North Carolina

  Spring 1861

  Prologue

  Johanna Elizabeth Davison sat at the small maple desk in her bedroom, writing a letter to Wes, when she heard her aunt’s voice calling, “JoBeth, come down here at once! Harvel’s brigade is marching by. Do hurry!”

  She tucked a stray dark curl behind her ear, then put her pen back in the inkwell. Before getting up, she slid the half-written to Wes letter under the blotter. Hurrying into the hallway, she met her mother, Johanna, just coming from her sewing room. They exchanged glances. Although full of understanding, her mother’s eyes held a message that JoBeth dared not ignore. JoBeth nodded and together they went down the winding stairway to the hall, where Aunt Jo Cady stood at the open front door.

  “Come along, you two!” she called over her shoulder as she went out onto the porch, down the steps, and along the flagstone walk to stand at the gate. JoBeth and her mother followed.

  The May morning was warm, bright with sunshine. Residents from the houses on the street were rushing out to the strip of grass on either side of the road. In the distance, they could hear the drums beating, the brisk sound of marching feet, the clatter of horses’ hooves. Then the line of gray-clad soldiers rounded the bend and came into sight. People began to shout hurrahs and wave small Confederate flags.

  Where had they got them so soon? JoBeth wondered. North Carolina had only seceded a few days before. Although, of course, secession had been discussed for months, ever since South Carolina’s secession and Fort Sumter. When President Lincoln called for troops from North Carolina to subdue the sister state’s rebels, Governor Ellis’s response had been immediate. “I can be no party to this violation of the laws of this country and to this war upon the liberties of a free people. You can get no troops from North Carolina.” The state had enthusiastically rallied to the Confederate cause.

  After that things had happened with lightning speed. JoBeth’s uncle Harvel Cady had immediately formed a brigade, and there had been no lack of men ready to join up.

  As the soldiers marched by, everyone began to clap. The officers were mounted on splendid horses and crisply uniformed with shiny braid and buttons, sash fringes streaming in the wind, sabers glinting. Harvel, leading astride his gleaming, roan-colored mount, did not look at his relatives nor show any sign of recognition. It would have been unsoldierly to do so. But as he went by his mother, he seemed to sit a little straighter, jutting out his chin with its bristle of mustache and well-trimmed beard.

  Among the rows of erect soldiers were many JoBeth knew—boys she had played with, had gone to school with as children, later had danced with, flirted with, teased. Now they were almost unrecognizable with their military bearings and their new, serious expressions, eyes straight ahead, not looking to right or left.

  As she looked at the passing parade of familiar faces, JoBeth felt an enormous sadness. Only one person was missing. For her, the most important one: Wesley Rutherford, who was at college in Philadelphia. And even if he were here, he would not have been in the group. Wes had already expressed his deep doubts about the division among the states, saying, “Both North and South fought to create the United States; we shouldn’t break apart now.”

  Next month, when he graduated, Wes would come back to Hillsboro, where he had made his home with his relatives, the Spencers. JoBeth worried about what would happen then. Will and Blakely, twin cousins his own age, had already gone to Raleigh to enlist.

  In spite of the warmth of the day, JoBeth shivered. She had a feeling of impending trouble, a kind of premonition. The bright day seemed to darken. Suddenly, even though surrounded by family, friends of a lifetime, she felt cut off from everyone else. All at once JoBeth realized that she was the only one in the crowd not happily cheering.

  Chapter One

  After supper, JoBeth helped Annie, the Cadys’ elderly cook, in the kitchen, drying the dishes and putting away the silver, one of JoBeth’s regular household chores. It wasn’t until JoBeth went back upstairs to her bedroom that she had a chance to complete the letter she had started earlier.

  She was more aware than ever, from the evening’s dinner-table conversation, that war was now inevitable. Hillsboro was a hotbed of anti-Union sentiment. This was what Wes would be returning to in a few weeks. What would be his reaction? More to the point, how would they respond to his reaction? All his talk of brotherhood, settling differences peacefully, not taking up arms—all part of his Quaker grandmother’s influence an
d his years at college in Philadelphia—was in direct opposition to what had been discussed among her relatives.

  JoBeth pulled her half-finished letter out from under the blotter on her desk and began to write.

  Everything here is talk of war. My uncles were here for supper, and the whole evening was spent in blaming President Lincoln for bringing about all this trouble. Uncle Madison kept pounding on the table and booming, “States’ rights.” Of course, Harvel and Munroe agree. They say, “If we’re invaded, we’ll defend ourselves.” Would the president really send troops into North Carolina?

  JoBeth paused, thinking about what had led up to all this. All the previous fall and winter, JoBeth had witnessed the growing resentment against the government in Washington. Every Thursday evening, friends and associates of her Uncle Madison gathered at the Cady house. Before the country’s present crisis, it had been an evening of convivial fellowship, friendly conversation, congenial company, sometimes a game or two of cards. More recently it had become increasingly political. Often voices rose in not-so-gentlemanly confrontation. Most of the men present believed strongly not only in states’ rights but also in the Union, and roundly put down the idea of secession as seditious and not to be considered.

  The ladies of the house were never a part of the discussions, although they heard Madison’s own opinions the next morning at breakfast. No one offered any comment. It would have been useless to do so, because naturally Uncle Madison never expected any difference to be voiced in his own household. However, JoBeth knew that Wes’s views were almost directly opposed to her uncle’s. This troubled her a great deal.

  She dipped her pen in the inkwell and started writing again.

  I wish you were here. All this would be so much easier if you were here to explain it to me. I miss you. I can’t wait to see you.

  JoBeth hesitated. Her pen hovered uncertainly. How should she sign this? Would “Love” be too bold? Although she did love Wesley and was pretty sure he loved her, too, they had not said those words to each other. Although they had nearly done so the day before he had left last Christmas.

  JoBeth wished she had some small piece of poetry or something she could send with her letter, as Wes sometimes did with his. She reached into the pigeonhole in the desk, brought out his last letter to her, and read the poem he had enclosed.

  Never seek to tell thy love,

  Love that never told can be;

  For the gentle wind doth move

  Silently, invisibly.

  Certainly that said something, she thought as she read it over. Through their correspondence this year, they had become much closer. It had been easier somehow to write about feelings than to speak about them. JoBeth tapped the end of the pen thoughtfully against her chin. Finally deciding that “discretion was the better part of—” she simply wrote

  As ever,

  JoBeth

  She sealed the letter and again slipped it under the blotter. She would take it herself to the post office the next day and mail it.

  As she got ready for bed, JoBeth thought of last summer. It had been a wonderful summer, a perfect one. At eighteen, JoBeth was an accepted part of the lively circle of young people in Hillsboro. Parties, picnics, dances, church socials, barbecues, and outings at the river. Wes spent half the year with his grandmother in Philadelphia while at college, but his summers were spent with his cousins in Hillsboro.

  Of course, they had known each other long before that. In fact, Wes Rutherford was JoBeth’s first friend in Hillsboro. JoBeth, her mother, and JoBeth’s little brother, Shelby, had come back to live there after her doctor father, Ross Davison, had died. Her mother’s family had lived there for several generations, and there were lots of aunts, uncles, cousins. Still, JoBeth had felt forlorn.

  She missed her father, their mountain home, Granny Eliza, her cousins, and the life she had known. Life with her great-aunt Josie and great-uncle Madison was as different as could be from their life before. Here there was order, discipline, and nonnegotiable times to do everything from morning prayers before breakfast to wearing starched petticoats and high-button shoes that pinched little feet used to going bare six months of the year.

  At first she was desperately homesick for the mountains, her freedom to roam, to wade in the streams, to pick berries and wildflowers. Gradually, with the natural resilience of children, she and her brother adapted to life in town, Shelby sooner than JoBeth. A quiet, handsome little boy with a naturally sweet disposition, he quickly became the household pet. Aunt Cady declared he reminded her of her own two boys, now both grown-up men.

  JoBeth was entirely different. She was restless, imaginative, stubborn, often a trial to her mother and frequently the despair of Aunt Cady, who had envisioned bringing up a perfect, ladylike little girl.

  In spite of their differences in personality, JoBeth and Shelby were very close. They played, read together, shared each other’s secrets, and were each other’s confidantes.

  JoBeth blew out her lamp, climbed into the high, poster bed, recalling her first meeting with Wes.

  That fall she had been enrolled in school. Shelby was too young, so JoBeth had to go alone. In a small town where everyone knew everyone else, she had felt lost and lonely. It was agony for her to sit quietly among a roomful of strange children.

  One day soon after the beginning of school, JoBeth had been making her way slowly homeward, limping from a blister forming on her heel from the new shoes, when she met John Wesley Rutherford.

  Wes, as he had told her he was called, was the Spencer twins’ cousin. JoBeth had heard about him at the Cady dinner table, where all local news was discussed. His mother—Mr. Spencer’s younger sister, who had “married North”—had recently died. Wes, her only child, had been sent to stay with his Hillsboro kin.

  That day, Wes had offered to carry her books so she could slip off her shoes and walk the rest of the way on the soft grass. In that unusual gesture of compassion, JoBeth knew that Wes was different. Different from most boys their age, whose delight was teasing and tormenting girls. He was certainly different from his cousins, the boisterous Will and Blakely Spencer. Those two rode their ponies to school, then raced each other home with wild whoops, scattering dust and stones in their wake.

  Wes had shown her a stream that ran under a stone bridge near the churchyard, where she could soak her burning foot in the cool water to ease its soreness. He had sat there with her on the bank, and they had talked easily. The fact that they had both lost a beloved parent gave them an immediate bond. From that day they had become friends.

  Why was she so drawn to Wes? JoBeth wondered. Perhaps he reminded her in some ways of her adored father, had those same qualities she admired: loyalty, idealism, and personal honor.

  Wesley was not particularly handsome, although JoBeth liked his looks—the sandy-brown hair that always seemed tousled, the strong, straight nose, the slow smile. He had a sensitive face with an intelligent expression and candid eyes. What JoBeth found most appealing about him was his generous nature, his honesty and openness. There was no shallowness at all in Wes Rutherford.

  Was what she felt love? A kind of love, certainly. They had been friends for what seemed like forever. She felt more comfortable with Wes than with anyone else. She could share things with him, even the not-so-nice things, as when she was feeling upset or angry with someone or had had her feelings hurt. Wes always seemed to understand whatever her mood was, glad or down in the dumps. He could always make her laugh, too, jolly her out of the doldrums. Over the years, Wes and JoBeth’s friendship had remained strong. Last summer it had reached another level. Both eighteen, they had discovered new things about each other. When Wes returned to college in Pennsylvania, they had written to each other. When he came for the Christmas holidays, they had spent a great deal of time with each other, and things had taken a decidedly romantic turn.

  She had missed him terribly when he left, and through their letters that winter, they had become closer. Now JoBeth was count
ing the days until Wes came home.

  Was this what love is? She would just have to wait and see.

  June 1861

  Chapter Two

  Madison Cady, home for his midday dinner, was a solidly built man in his early fifties with graying blond hair, kind blue eyes, a pleasant expression. A successful merchant, he had the self-confident look of someone secure in his position in the community and in his role as head of the household. Seating himself at the head of the table in the dining room, he glanced around with satisfaction. Nodding to his wife at the other end, her widowed niece, Johanna, on his right, and her pretty daughter, JoBeth, on his left, he greeted them, then bowed his head and intoned the family grace.

  Annie, in a crisp turban and white apron, came in from the kitchen and stopped beside his chair, holding a tray on which were two bowls. As he helped himself generously to a serving of rice and then some okra and tomatoes, he casually remarked to JoBeth, “By the way, missy, I ran into a friend of yours as I was coming out of my office. Young Wesley Rutherford.”

  JoBeth nearly dropped her fork. Her heart beat excitedly. She looked at her uncle expectantly as he went on.

  “Just off the noon train, as a matter of fact. Told me he’d graduated college.”

  JoBeth held her breath, waiting for more information.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, yes, he sent his kind regards to you, madam”—he inclined his head to his wife—“to you, Johanna”—he nodded at JoBeth’s mother, then paused, chuckling, and turned back to JoBeth—“and he said he hoped to come in person to give his regards personally to you as well, young lady! I told him I thought you’d be mighty happy to hear that, seeing as how you’ve just about worn out the rug on the staircase, and the path to the postbox, near every day lookin’ for a letter from Phil-a-del-phi-a.”

  “Oh, Uncle Madison!” she exclaimed in amused indignation.