Shadows of Glory

by Ralph Peters

  SHADOWS OF

  GLORY

  Owen Parry

  [Ralph Peters]

  STACKPOLE BOOKS

  Books by Ralph Peters

  Nonfiction

  Lines of Fire

  Endless War

  Looking for Trouble

  Wars of Blood and Faith

  New Glory

  Never Quit the Fight

  Beyond Baghdad

  Beyond Terror

  Fighting for the Future

  Fiction

  Cain at Gettysburg

  The Officer’s Club

  The War After Armageddon

  Traitor

  The Devil’s Garden

  Twilight of Heroes

  The Perfect Soldier

  Flames of Heaven

  The War in 2020

  Red Army

  Bravo Romeo

  Writing as Owen Parry

  Faded Coat of Blue

  Call Each River Jordan

  Honor’s Kingdom

  Bold Sons of Erin

  Rebels of Babylon

  Our Simple Gifts

  Strike the Harp

  Copyright © 2000 by Owen Parry

  Published by

  STACKPOLE BOOKS

  5067 Ritter Road

  Mechanicsburg, PA 17055

  www.stackpolebooks.com

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. All inquiries should be addressed to Stackpole Books, 5067 Ritter Road, Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania 17055.

  Printed in the United States

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover photo courtesy of the Library of Congress, reproduction number LC-DIG-cwpb-03920

  Cover design by Tessa Sweigert

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Parry, Owen.

  Shadows of glory / Owen Parry.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8117-1134-0 (pbk.)

  ISBN-10: 0-8117-1134-X (pbk.)

  1. Jones, Abel (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. United States—History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Fiction. 3. Welsh—United States—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3566.E7559S53 2012

  813'.52—dc23

  2012003815

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-8117-4891-9

  To Maisie,

  Who endured many a battlefield

  GLENDOWER:

  I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

  HOTSPUR:

  Why, so can I, or so can any man;

  But will they come when you do call for them?

  —Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part I

  ONE

  I SAW HER FIRST AT THE BURYING, BEHIND THE WICKED crowd. With the mob of them cursing and shaking their fists in the snow, twas her I saw. Still as if frozen she was, and only her eyes betrayed the fire devouring her. Aglow like embers in a winter hearth, those eyes would burn us all, and haunt me when she was gone.

  Fanned by the wind, a lock of hair flamed from her shawl, scorching across her forehead. I would tell you that her hair was red as blood, to give you the vividness of her, but such would be untruthful. I know the look of blood, see. Her own would spot the snow before my eyes. Her hair was a darker thing than blood, though not so dark as her story.

  I should have felt the queerness there at once, from the way the rest of the Irish kept off her. Careful they were with the lovely, though otherwise a bad pack. The men slurred and jostled. Drunk under noon, some of them were, and ragged. Bleezed with spite, their women put me in mind of white-faced crows, hard and deprived. Even the little ones come hating to the holy doors that day. For the Irish fear an informer more than the devil, and death excites them always. I worried that the coffin would not pass the gauntlet they made outside the poor boards of their church. As the representative of our Federal authority, I should have made order my business. And I meant to. Then the look of Nellie Kildare drew me from my duty, and I leaned—one fateful moment—on my cane.

  But I must not go too quickly. There was blame in this death, and a bitter portion of it was mine. Had I not lain abed with General McClellan’s own typhoid upon me, I might have come north a month the sooner, as Mr. Nicolay and Mr. Seward first intended. Our agent might have lived. Better it would have been for the widow and the little one, not to speak of the poor, blundering fellow himself.

  They had tormented him before they killed him. I saw the marks of their work when I come fresh from the train that morning, fair running from the station, with ice on the streets of the town, and my leg bad in the cold, and the weakness still upon me from the fever. The coroner’s assistant held the coffin open for my arrival, then disappeared. The Irish priest kept the widow away from the box. Kind doing that was. I ran into the church all snow-pestered and unready for the shock of it. How long I stared at the dead man I cannot tell you now. Long enough, though, to singe my eyes. Twas small of me to gobble so much time, for the widow was keening away in a locked room. But such matters bind us, and we forget consideration. My hands curled into fists beside the corpse, and not only to fight the cold there in that church. There is cruelty, I thought. Savagery. I had not seen so grim a sight since India and the inferno of the Mutiny.

  I am a poor beast, as all men are, and would not question the Good Lord’s grand design. Still, I wonder at that which He allows.

  When I finally stepped away, two paddies nailed the box shut. Muttering and careless, they made it clear enough that they wanted no part of the business. But the priest fell hard upon them and soon they were jumping about and jabbering their sorries. Their voices took me back. I knew those accents from my old red regiment, the gurgling of that unextinguished tongue, harsh as lye-water in the mouth. Each fellow smelled of whisky.

  The priest brought in the widow then, holding her up on her feet with one big arm. His other black sleeve held her babe. The little thing was bawling as if it knew all.

  Beneath a statue of the sort the Irish idolize, the woman found her strength. She plunged forward, young and worn in her tattered dress, black shawl flying about her. Flinging herself upon the raw pine, she nearly upset the bier. Splinters soon bloodied her hands for the beating she gave the boards. Her wailing echoed in the empty church, raising a swell of laughter beyond the doors.

  “The hoor’s upon ’im now,” a woman cried, triumphant. Her voice pierced the walls. “Oh, bring ye out the traitor’s hoor. We’ll give ’er what she’s a-coming.”

  To calm the widow, the priest forced her babe into her arms. The woman’s raw hands bled on the infant’s face and wrappings. They prayed then, in the different way they do, all Latin and sorrow. The priest had eyebrows that met in a black knot and his shoulders were those of a navvy. Not young, not old, there was a worn solidness to him. He might have done for an elder soldier, had he not been a soldier of his faith. His name was McCorkle and he was no more born to America than I was.

  I prayed my own prayers. Off to the side, and quiet like. I will not be small and think the Good Lord tends only to us chapel folk. For all the pagan coloration, there is a faith in your Irish Catholic that must call down pity from above. They do the best they can with what they know, and I would not damn them out of hand. But then I have found good among the Hindoo and the Musselman.

  I prayed first for the dead man, then for his shattered family. Careful I was not to face their painted statues, but looked to the windows and Heaven beyond. Next, I gave my thanks. First for my Mary Myfanwy and our little John, and then for the passing of the old year. I believe I was as glad to see the back end of 1861 as was Mr. Lincoln himself.
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  I will not forget that awful year. First the coming of the war and the separation from my family, then the savaging of our Northern pride and the ruination of my leg at Bull Run. After that I fell into the Fowler matter—the needless, bitter death of that young man—and next come the typhoid that would have been the end of me in an army pest house had my friend Dr. Tyrone not taken affairs in hand. He was gone to the western armies now, called to Cairo, Illinois, and I missed him and waited on a letter. I prayed for Mick Tyrone. Not just in that cold church, but nightly. He was one of those stubborn, educated Irishmen who will not ask God’s favor for themselves. And I wished a blessing on dear Mrs. Schutzengel, my Washington landlady, all girth and goodness, and then on that no-good Molloy, who doubtless would have been eyeing the communion silver had he been by my side. Finally, I prayed for the mob grumping and growling beyond the shut doors of the church, for such was my duty as a Christian.

  The priest lifted the woman and child away from the coffin. He started in to barking, all sour, “Come ye now. Come here, ye.”

  I thought he was admonishing the Lord.

  Twas the pallbearers he was addressing. Bent things they were. The two who had labored with hammer and nail scuttled forward again, followed by a pair of their butties. Each wore the dirt of a lifetime polished into his face, and they had not a full set of teeth between them. I could not understand a word they said. But they did not want to shoulder the load. That was clear from the way they glanced toward the noise beyond the doors.

  They hoped in vain for rescue, for the priest, Father McCorkle, was a very Caesar with them.

  “Out now, and into the wagon,” he said against the widow’s sobs. “And none o’ your capering nonsense.”

  The priest arranged the procession with himself in the lead and the widow trailing closely, with her infant swaddled against her. By rights, the bereaved should have followed the coffin, but the priest knew his doings. He was no slave to ritual, I will say that for Father McCorkle. So the box bobbed behind the mourning wife and the little one as we started down the nave, with the pallbearers cowering at the thought of the mob.

  I brought up the rear at a respectful distance, wondering if I could not have raised myself from my convalescence sooner. Had this poor fellow died because I lolled out a sick man’s leave, reveling in Christmas by my own hearth while he did our nation’s duty? I was not yet recovered to my full strength, but strong enough I would have been to come by rail. I should have sensed the urgency. But Mr. Nicolay himself told me to gather my health first, and didn’t I grasp the excuse of it like a bad child? How easy it is to fall from our duties. And the results are as bitter as Peter’s denials. I had only reached New York City when the coded telegram from Mr. Seward overtook me, instructing me to make all possible haste.

  I well recall that foggy night in Washington when Mr. Nicolay, who was Mr. Lincoln’s confidential secretary, recruited me with the warning, “They killed the last man we sent up there.” And now “they” had killed another on the back roads of New York. Yet, we knew not who “they” were, but for a rumored Irishness. Mr. Seward, the fierce blaze of brains who had become our secretary of state, feared insurrection. New York was his state and he knew the war was not popular with all the souls left to the Union, least of all with the Irish lately come among us.

  Mr. Lincoln himself had taken an interest in the matter, for much had begun to fray. As if the Confederates were not enough, rumor had the English on the edge of war with us, for their sympathies lay with Richmond. Canada, domain of eskimaux and the mighty bear, sheltered our enemies. To top it, some young fool of a naval officer of ours had boarded one of the Queen’s ships to seize a pair of Rebels. My adopted country needed every honest man to stand to. And selfish Abel Jones had let better men down, enjoying his fever.

  The priest threw open the doors. The stove inside the church had gone unlit and the nave stood dreary chill. Still, I was unprepared for the blast of wind and snow that swept in. Twas cold as death’s own hand.

  A gray world waited beyond those doors. The snow rushed against a near, gray sky. The gray-wrapped mob wore gray faces. They had tramped the earth to a gray muck. It was a prosperous little town this Penn Yan. You saw that even on a skip from the railway station. But you would not have sensed it from this worst of buryings.

  I expected a great howling to greet the opened doors, like the delight of Mr. Gibbon’s Romans at their spectacles. Instead, the crowd fell silent. The mob parted before the priest, just wide enough for an unhindered passage, and our little procession descended into the slush. The pallbearers went slowly, careful of the ice on the steps and fearful of their neighbors. They crouched beneath their load like beaten dwarves. I followed apart and last, for I wanted the local Irish to see me proper. I had hit upon a strategy in the church, if I may dignify a moment’s inspiration with such a mighty term, and wanted every man to mark my presence. But let that bide.

  One voice—twas a woman’s, for they are ever the boldest—cried, “Look at the traitor’s slut, would ye? Look at the informer’s hoor and ’er bastard. Bury ’em with ’im, says I . . .”

  That set them going again. Loud as the sounds of battle. The gauntlet tightened around us. More than a hundred of them there were. A bandaged fist shook in my face, and then I realized it was not bound in bandages, but in rags to keep off the cold. None of them dared touch us yet. But our safety was fragile.

  Twas only the power of the priest that held them back. I saw that. He was their own even when he stood against them.

  But I could feel the devil’s hand descending.

  There is wicked, see. At that moment of danger, did I think of the poor widow and the infant in her arms? Oh, no, not Abel Jones. I thought of the fine new uniform I wore under my greatcoat, the grand blue frock with the oak leaves and the handsome striped trousers my Mary Myfanwy had presented me for my Christmas, an incitement for me to finish my cure and rise from the bed. So proud she was. When I told her it was too grand a cut for the likes of me, she reared right up and said that John Wesley himself wore silver buckles on his shoes, and silk, too, and a bit of braid was becoming to an officer newly risen to his majority. Ever proud of her I was, and heathen proud of my new soldier suit—though I had meant to leave such doings behind. I knew how she had saved and sewn to outfit me. So, too, we fall from duty. Selfish man that I was, I thought not of the unfortunates before me, but of the risk to my precious new uniform.

  That, too, would be torn in time.

  I bullied myself round to my task again and straightened my back. I am not one of these tall fellows, but I do show strong in the chest and shoulders. I kept my cane tight to my bad leg to brace my stride. A major of United States Volunteers shall not be daunted by a pack of hooligan Irish.

  “Give way, you,” I ordered one great lout.

  “Why, ye little Welsh cod,” he answered hard. But give way he did.

  The priest led on in silence. A buckboard wagon waited in the street in a canyon of snow, the horses smoking. A shabby carriage lined up just behind.

  I thought we were safe. Twas then I saw her, that woman who would reach into our souls. Well to the rear she stood, beyond the want of the wind-scraped faces—narrow as lies—and the pair of worried police fellows, their slouch hats wreathed with snow. It was as if she had called my name. As if a cry of “Abel Jones!” slashed through the mob. When I turned, I found those eyes upon me. Under that flame of hair.

  Look you. There is a quality in some folk, though not in many, that commands us to see more fully than is our custom in the to and fro. They grant us a peek at the richness of life, and tantalize us with possibilities. The girl, God bless and forgive her, might have been the only one of the hundred of us who was fully alive on that day of death.

  And so alive she was! Framed in the dour propriety of her garments—they were not rags—her skin had the whiteness of porcelain. The snow on her shawl showed filthy by compare. She was white as clean milk, as good paper. But for
the burning spots on her cheeks. Her features were clear and definite, with a handsome angularity that scorned common beauty. Slender and tall, she stood encased in dignity. The sight of her stopped me cold.

  And a snowball smacked the back of my head.

  My hat tumbled, and with it the mob’s hesitation fell away. They surged around us, stinking of sweat and whisky and homemade salves. Now I am an old bayonet, may the Good Lord forgive the follies of my youth, and my cane soon cleared a space about me. But I was not the object of their wrath. Twas the coffin they were after, and the widow.

  The wooden box went down, pursued by screams. The priest set about him with his fists, cursing like a heedless sergeant, and none dared strike him back. He pulled the woman and child against himself and they disappeared as the crowd surged in again, with the snow twisting and screwing to confuse us all.

  “Oh, feed the turncoat bastard to the dogs,” a voice shouted. “Burying’s too good.”

  “Judas!” a harridan shrieked. “Judas!”

  I heard a wrenching and breaking, and wordless howls of rage.

  Then the world changed. The crowd’s pitch dropped of a sudden. Their motion slowed, then froze. One voice hushed another as a hard sobriety fell upon them. Slowly, one by one, they began to move again. Backing off, shunning their purpose. I heard gasps, and slivers of devout language from the women. The aura of children caught out settled over the crowd.

  They had gotten their way, for all the good it did them. The box lay broken open in the muck, and the corpse had spilled onto its back. They all got a gander at the devil’s handiwork then. I do not think they saw his cast-off suit, or even the broken skew of the fingers. No, they all saw what I had seen at first look, and no matter the rumors they might have heard, the brute doings shocked the hardest of them.

  The top of the man’s head—scalp and flesh—had been burned away, the skull charred and the eyes cooked out. Only the bottom of his face remained human, streaked here and there with pitch roasted into the skin. He had died with a grimace of agony. The coroner had taken the rope off him, of course, but the neck was still pinched small and scarred deep where the noose had gripped. The thought of death by hanging has always held a special dread for me, but I hoped for this man’s sake the hanging had come before the other business.