by Tara Johnson
They eased down beside each other on the parlor’s settee. Cadence smoothed her skirts to accommodate the wide hoops. Drat the fashion!
Elida took her hand. “Since the moment we met, I felt like we could be the greatest of chums.” Her gaze dropped to her lap as she released Cadence’s fingers, her brown eyes filling with sadness. “Which is what makes this visit so difficult.”
Cadence puzzled over Elida’s words. “What’s wrong?”
“My husband and I are leaving Washington. He’s given up his appointment at Christ Church.”
Cadence sucked in a light breath. “I had not heard.”
Elida’s brow furrowed. “He’s taken the pastorate at a smaller church in Fredericksburg. He believes our work here is coming to an end, and that, combined with the changes war will bring to Washington, makes it the ideal time to leave.” Her shoulders sagged with an unseen weight.
“You and your husband will be missed. Your leadership and spiritual guidance have blessed many. Although we are new to the church, your influence has been easy enough to see.” Cadence spoke past the cotton in her throat. “And I shall miss our visits most of all.”
Elida’s brown eyes became glassy. “We will write. Yes?”
“Of course.”
Heaving a tremulous sigh, Elida shut her eyes for the briefest of moments. “Which brings me to my favor. Do you remember me telling you about my baby girl, Rose? It was one year ago I lost her to influenza.”
Cadence’s throat ached at the sorrow shadowing the woman’s face. “Yes, of course I remember. A more painful loss I cannot imagine.”
“The past year has been the most difficult of my life, but God has been faithful. I know I’ll see my baby girl again.” She looked up at Cadence. “The most difficult thing about leaving Washington has been the thought of not being near my Rose’s grave.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Not being here to check on her, to put flowers on her headstone, to keep vigil over her resting place—” her lips trembled—“it shreds my heart.”
A vise squeezed Cadence’s chest. “Would you like me to care for her grave?”
Elida expelled a tight breath. “Would it be a terrible inconvenience? It would bring me such comfort to know her resting place was being tended by loving hands.”
Cadence’s eyes stung. “I would be honored. I’ll visit every week, and if you send me your address, I’ll even write and let you know how things fare.”
The young mother’s face crumpled as she fell into Cadence’s embrace. “Bless you. May the Almighty repay you for your kindness.”
As she rubbed her friend’s shuddering back, Cadence forced down her own tears. It wasn’t nursing, but it was something she could do.
“Find out what task Providence has ordained you to do and then do it.”
“Come. Show me Rose’s resting place and I’ll make sure she is loved and looked after. I promise.”
OCTOBER 1861
Cadence placed the bouquet of red mums at Rose’s headstone and adjusted the snowy-white bow before easing back on her heels. She smiled as she patted the still-green grass and allowed her skirt to billow around her as she settled to the ground.
“Good afternoon, sweet Rose. Your mother sends her love. She misses you terribly but knows Jesus is taking such good care of you.”
She breathed in the fresh scent of the autumn air. Sunshine mingled with the cool nip of approaching change. In the distance, the steady thumps of drilling soldiers, with their synchronized footfalls and rat-a-tatting drums, charged the air as they marched down Pennsylvania Avenue in a grand parade. The continual, frenetic buzz of Washington contrasted with the serenity of the cemetery. Fresh mounds of churned earth filled every corner and row. She sighed. The war was only supposed to last a month, two at the most. It was now approaching six with no end in sight. How many more plots would be filled by year’s end?
She returned her attention to the tiny headstone. “Perhaps it’s silly to always sing you a lullaby, but I can’t help but think that you would love a song. If I were a mother, I would want someone to sing to my baby girl. I’ve not yet sung you this one, but it’s my favorite. One my mother sang to me. I always feel closer to her when I hear it.”
She closed her eyes, remembering Mother’s dark, silky hair, the way her eyes would light up when she was excited . . . how her laughter sounded like silver. Papa said she and Mother looked so much alike, save Cadence had Papa’s bright-blue eyes. With a deep sigh, she cleared her throat and sang.
“Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee,
All through the night.
Guardian angels God will send thee,
All through the night.
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,
Hill and dale in slumber sleeping,
I my loved ones’ watch am keeping,
All through the night.”
A gentle breeze rife with the loamy scent of leaves closed the lullaby like a whispered benediction.
“You are an angel if ever I’ve heard one.”
With a startled gasp, she turned to see a middle-aged man staring at her. He boasted bushy whiskers and was well dressed in a finely tailored suit, a gold chain winking from his vest. His eyes were both intelligent and sorrowful. She rose on wooden legs.
“Forgive my frivolity, sir.”
“Do not ask forgiveness for such a gift. Your voice is exquisite. I’ve never heard such beauty.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”
He nodded toward the headstone. “Your child?”
Smoothing her skirts, she shook her head. “No, the daughter of a friend. I visit her grave as a promise since her mother cannot.”
“Kind of you. I come to visit my son, killed at Bull Run.”
“My condolences.”
He quickly shuttered his stark pain behind a gentle smile. “He fought bravely. I could ask for nothing more.”
“Yet you miss him.”
“Desperately.” He gave a slight shake of his head. “My apologies. I’ve not yet introduced myself.” Bowing, he grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips before brushing it with a genteel kiss. “Congressman Daniel Ramsey, at your service.”
She curtsied as he released her hand. “Cadence Piper. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Congressman.”
“The pleasure is mine. Join me for a stroll?”
With a nod, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow as he led her through the rows of headstones. He seemed so solemn a man, yet not cross.
“Have you fared well these past months, Miss Piper?”
“Better than most, given the state of affairs. My father is too old to fight and has opened a business that has seen a fair amount of success, considering the circumstances. My mother has already passed on to her reward. I have no sweetheart away fighting, no other siblings I need fear for.”
She refrained from telling him about Tate. What good would it serve?
He sighed, his barrel chest heaving. “Indeed, you have been blessed. Untainted in some respects. We have two sons. One lost to us, the other not yet old enough to enlist.”
“Your wife?”
He shook his head. “Luke’s death has been difficult for her.”
The soft hiss of grass beneath their shoes broke the silence. “You bear a heavy burden, sir. Both at home and politically.”
“Indeed.” A sad smile tugged his whiskers. “Though now perhaps you understand why your song moved me so. Beauty, grace, truth . . . these things become all the more sacred for want of them. Thank you for such a gift on a difficult day.”
She didn’t know what to say. Singing a lullaby didn’t feel like a gift, but who was she to argue with a man who needed such simple encouragement?
He lifted his wiry brows. “Are you ready to leave?”
She looked back at the tiny grave. “Yes. I’ll return soon.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
They strolled in companionable silence down the gentle rise of the hill,
past the iron boundary, and back into the bustling streets. The noise and clamor seemed twice as thick as only an hour before.
“Where do you wish to go?” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the hawkers, rattling wagons, and shouts.
“I live on Judiciary Square. It’s not far.”
He frowned. “I’ll escort you. I hate to see any lady walking among such disquiet.”
As he maneuvered them through the clogged streets, the throng suddenly parted. Congressman Ramsey halted, his entire form stiffening at the sight crossing the road before them. Cadence looked down the street and gasped.
Hundreds of men shuffled past, all of them filthy and emaciated in battered blue Union uniforms. Their complexions were sallow and chalky beneath their scraggly beards and long hair. They sagged along in the shadow of the US Capitol dome, but they looked beaten down . . . haggard and near death.
“Oh, Mr. Ramsey, who are they?”
“Our poor soldiers returning from the battlefields.” He released a long exhale and bowed his head. “God, have mercy.” A muscle twitched near his eye.
“Such brutality.” She blinked. “I don’t understand it.” Something inside her spirit churned. If she could only do something . . .
Congressman Ramsey turned to her, a fire blazing in his expression. “Sing for them.”
“Pardon?”
“Will you sing for them, Miss Piper? Fan the flames of their patriotism. Give them hope.”
She stared at the pitiful souls shuffling by. “I am nobody, Mr. Ramsey. I haven’t the ability to do such a thing.”
“The Almighty moves hearts, but he has given you a voice so his message can be heard. Just sing from your heart and let him do the rest.”
One of the soldiers turned and looked at her then. The emptiness, the hollow ache shook her down to the core. She nodded and allowed the congressman to lead her to the line of soldiers slowly scooting by.
He held up his hands, his voice booming through the air. “Gentlemen, we stand here before you today a grateful people.”
Some of the soldiers paused and glanced at him. Others kept looking straight ahead as if they didn’t hear. Regular people in the street stalled, observing the odd spectacle. He continued.
“Though our hearts and minds cannot imagine the horrors you’ve endured, we humbly thank you for your service. Thank you for your courage. Thank you for protecting our children and daughters. Thank you for protecting our freedom and for your fight to preserve this great Union. Do not give up. Stand strong. Salvation is of the Lord!”
He turned to Cadence and gestured for her to begin. Every limb quivered like preserves, but she inhaled a fortifying breath.
“O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming . . .”
From the corner of her eye, she watched the soldiers stop. Men and women, children and the aged, all of them circled around her.
“Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight
O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?”
Men removed their hats. The thin soldiers stiffened to attention. Several of them lifted their shaking hands into a salute. Her heart pounded against her ribs.
“And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.”
Voices lifted in unison around her. Some robust, others hoarse, but it didn’t matter. A swelling of sound filled the street so strong, she felt as if she could fly. She lifted her face to the sky and smiled.
“O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?”
A moment of silence held suspended as she finished the last note, followed by thundering cheers and applause. She looked down to realize the soldiers had dropped their knapsacks at her feet. Tears were streaming down their grimy faces.
“Thank you, miss. Thank you.”
Congressman Ramsey wiped his eyes. “Well done, Miss Piper. Would it trouble you if I asked your father’s permission to have you sing for other patriotic events in the city?”
“I—uh, I’d be honored.”
Her mind spun as she was crushed by well-wishers and admirers. Who would have thought singing a lullaby in a graveyard would have led to this?
Dr. Joshua Ivy looked over the group of soldiers walking into the hospital. These men deserved better. Those who were saved would likely be sent straight back to the battlefield, and those who were wounded badly enough would probably never leave the hospital alive. The disturbing reality ate at him like a cancer.
The line of soldiers entering suddenly ended. He frowned. The captain had said there should be at least one hundred more. Walking out the hospital doors, he glanced down the street lining Judiciary Square. A crowd had gathered, and he could hear . . . singing?
He walked toward the crush of people: starving soldiers, residents of Washington, men, women, and children. All of them were focused on one person. He pushed his way through the crowd and stopped.
In the midst of the throng stood a young woman, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her dark, glossy hair was pinned up, but the pins did little to hide her thick mane of curls. Sky-blue eyes. Her lips were full and pink, framed on either side by dimples. Her cream-colored bodice highlighted every womanly curve she possessed, accentuating her tiny waist before flaring into a wide skirt. But it was the lush melody spilling from her lips that held him spellbound.
She sang, her voice lilting like a spring breeze, yet it was not breathy. No, it wrapped around him like an embrace, tugging, binding him without touch. His pulse skittered when the melody lifted on tiptoe. Gooseflesh broke out on his arms when her voice tapered back down to earth, spinning him around and around.
Cheers and applause broke the sacred spell. He startled back to reality with a snap. She stood among the soldiers, accepting their handshakes, their tears as if, as if . . . she were the object of their worship. They’d even dared to throw their knapsacks at her feet. He bristled.
Who did this vain slip of a girl think she was, parading her beauty about like a peacock? He’d seen her type before. Young girls with romantic ideals about war. Miss Dix had done an admirable job keeping them out of his hospital, yet nothing stopped them from seeking the attention they so desperately needed elsewhere.
Clamping his jaw, he strode forward. “I’m the head physician at Washington Infirmary. If you’re a wounded soldier, we will be administering your health examinations posthaste.”
Several of the soldiers turned to stare at him before picking up their knapsacks, their former excitement replaced with looks of resignation. He marched back to the hospital, sneaking one more glance at the woman as he departed.
Just what he needed. A mockingbird perching right outside his roost.
Chapter 4
THE BELL IN FATHER’S TOY SHOP jangled overhead as Cadence pushed the door open, a laden basket in her arms. A mother and child were at the counter paying for their purchases. Father looked up as he bade them good-bye. When he spied Cadence, a smile stretched his mouth wide.
“Well, if this isn’t a pleasant surprise!”
She nodded upon passing the mother and child, but when the door closed behind them, she moved to kiss his cheek. “How are things in the shop today?”
“Better now that you’re here. Something smells heavenly.” He sniffed in a melodramatic fashion. “Louisa’s fresh-baked biscuits?”
“Of course, along with blackberry preserves and cheese, and I made cinnamon cake this morning.”
He placed his hand over his stomach. “Is it my birthday?”
She shook her head. “Am I not allowed to spoil my father from time to time? Besides, I have an errand to run and thought I might as well visit you while I’m out.”
He took the basket with a chuckle and unpacked its contents. “I’m glad you did. As to business, t
hings have been quiet this morning. I pray it’s only a temporary lull.”
Cadence unwrapped the fluffy biscuits and studied his careworn face. “Is there news I’ve not heard?”
He sighed. “Nothing overly alarming. This morning’s paper held tidings of battles heating up in Virginia. The gentlemen I’ve spoken to believe Congress is worried. Things are not looking favorable for the Union.”
She pulled the preserves from the basket and glanced out the front window, watching the people scurry by as if they too were abuzz with some kind of frantic worry. “Do you ever wonder if Tate is—?”
He looked away, his shoulders slumping. “All the time. But it serves no purpose to dwell on it or wonder.”
Her throat constricted. Indeed. Her brother had chosen, albeit poorly, and now he must live with the consequences. If only Mother hadn’t died.
If Cadence had been a better nurse, Mother might have lived and Tate would still be with them.
Dorothea Dix might have been right to turn her away.
Forcing a brightness she didn’t feel, she spread the food before Father.
He studied her face, his brows pinched. “You’ve set two places here.”
“I thought we might enjoy a midday meal together.”
The slight wince in his expression stung, despite his quick attempt to mask it. “As much as I would enjoy it, my dear, I’m afraid I simply haven’t the time to visit. Customers, you know.”
“I thought you said it had been quiet.”
He looked away, refusing to meet her eyes. “Afternoons are always busier than the mornings. You understand, don’t you?”
A cold feeling washed through her chest. Pasting on a smile, she attempted a chirpy response. “Of course. Customers always come first. I have an important errand to run anyway.”
He smiled and gave a sigh of relief. “Good, good. Thank you for the lunch, Songbird. You’re a good girl.”
Ignoring the sharp twist in her stomach, she took her leave, her sights set on Washington Infirmary. She would think about Father another time. She must find out what had happened to those poor wounded soldiers. They’d haunted her sleep last night and every waking moment since. They’d been so beaten down. So . . . lifeless. Until the simple strains of an anthem ignited a spark not yet extinguished.