by Tara Johnson
Cadence gave her a look. “I concur.”
Miriam shooed the children toward the door. “Come on now, children. Your mama and new sister need some rest.”
Groans met the announcement. Penelope kissed the baby’s head and murmured, “See you soon, little sis. I’ll show you how to make paper dolls tomorrow.”
James wrinkled his nose. “Babies can’t make paper dolls.”
Penelope glared at him. “It’s never too soon to learn.”
Etta scrambled off the bed and turned back to the baby, her hands propped on her hips. “I the baby.”
Miriam rolled her eyes and ushered them out of the room as Cadence and Joshua laughed.
Cadence turned to her husband as he eased down next to her in bed. “What are you thinking, Doc?”
He never took his eyes from the bundle in her arms. The tender light in his eyes glowed as he smoothed his hand over the thatch of dark hair and reverently whispered, “She’s perfect.”
Cadence’s chest swelled with love as she drank in the long lashes, chubby cheeks, and tiny grunting sounds. “Just like her father.”
“That’s not what you said while delivering her.”
“Oh, hush.”
His laughter wrapped around her like an embrace as he kissed her cheek. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. You were very brave.”
“I had a good physician.”
“True.”
She placed the squirming bundle in his arms. The baby blinked and looked into Joshua’s face, studying, memorizing. Cadence watched as his heart melted into a puddle of wax.
She leaned against him. “I’m so glad you were able to be here.”
“They haven’t needed me in the field hospitals nearly as much as they have at Judiciary Square. With so many wounded arriving every week, it’s more important for me to be here.”
She laid her head against his chest and breathed in the scent of him. “I’m glad. It’s so hard when you’re gone.”
“And just think of all the help you’ll have once Papa Piper and Uncle Tate see this living angel.” Joshua grinned. “You’ll never have a moment’s peace.”
Laughing, she eased against the pillow. “I rarely do now.” Since Tate quit working for Congressman Ramsey and began taking over more of the toy shop, Father was over nearly every day, spoiling the children dreadfully. She absently ran her fingers over her daughter’s dimpled hands. “Some days the congressman’s betrayal still doesn’t seem real.”
Joshua’s jaw tightened. “God sees. He’ll repay. Ramsey may hold office now, but none of his deeds are hidden. The Knights may wield power at the moment, but someday their names will be blotted from history. Truth and goodness will always prevail.”
He leaned over to kiss Cadence’s head, then brushed a kiss against his new daughter’s cheek. The baby wrinkled up her nose, and Joshua laughed, causing Cadence’s dark thoughts to flee.
“Do you wish you’d had a boy?”
“Of course not. We’ll have one of those next time.” He winked.
She groaned as he kissed her lips.
“Well, Mrs. Ivy, there is one matter of business which begs our attention.”
“Indeed.”
He tilted his head and studied the little girl in his arms. “What will we name her?”
“It’s not my fault you’ve disliked every name I suggested.”
“Suggest better names then.”
She sighed. “I was thinking . . .”
“Yes?”
“What about the name Liberty?”
He looked down at his daughter, their daughter, a slow smile spreading across his handsome face. “Perhaps Liberty Ann? Ann for the woman who took me in, alongside Father Hopper, and loved me as her own.”
Cadence nodded. “Perfect.”
“Liberty Ann Ivy. Libby for short.” He grinned. “I love it.”
“It only seems fitting. You fighting to free so many, and God giving each of us freedom from our pasts. It’s a beautiful name.”
From downstairs, the sound of Miriam’s robust singing drifted through the walls.
“Pass me not, O gentle Savior,
Hear my humble cry;
While on others thou art calling,
Do not pass me by . . .”
“That’s beautiful.” Cadence let the words and melody soak into her spirit. “I’ve never heard that song before.”
Joshua shrugged. “Miriam has been singing it all night. She took the children to a revival meeting last evening and said she heard it there. It’s a new hymn.”
“Who is it by?”
He frowned. “I’m not sure, but I think she said Fanny Crosby.”
Warmth spread through Cadence’s middle. Of course.
Joshua smiled when the baby cooed and wrapped her fingers around his own.
“Whatever will we do with ourselves when they are all grown, Mrs. Ivy?”
Leaning down, she breathed in Liberty’s fresh scent and kissed her velvety-soft cheek. “The next thing, my love. We’ll do the next thing.”
A Note from the Author
WHILE ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT is completely fictitious, the character of Cadence Piper is loosely based on a very courageous woman named Elida Rumsey. Young, beautiful Elida was desperate to do her part in the Great Conflict but was turned away by Dorothea Dix. Elida was known throughout Washington for her beautiful singing voice and was called upon to use her gift at various benefits. She was the very first person to publicly sing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
When starving soldiers were released from Libby Prison in a prisoner exchange, a young Navy Department clerk named John Allen Fowle sought out Elida and asked her to sing in order to rouse the soldiers’ spirits. Her popularity grew among the troops from that day forward, and she was soon labeled “The Songbird of the North.” Elida organized libraries for recuperating soldiers and even took food and provisions to the battlefronts to give to the sick and dying. It was in the heat of battle that she began nursing the wounded. Upon seeing fresh blood pumping from the arm of her very first patient, she fainted. Elida resolved that would never happen again and immediately went back into the field hospital to nurse those who needed her. She eventually became the youngest member of the Massachusetts Army Nurses.
Because of their popularity, John and Elida were married in the Hall of the House of Representatives. They had four biological children, adopted two orphaned soldiers’ children, and took in two emancipated slave children. I chose to honor Elida Rumsey by using her first name for one of my characters in this book—Cadence’s friend, the mother of baby Rose.
While researching this story, I was horrified to learn the depths of evil perpetrated by the Knights of the Golden Circle. I had heard of the secret society before, but only in the realms of treasure hunters seeking the rumored fortune the Knights supposedly left behind. These forerunners of the KKK funded much of the Confederacy, and their influence reached even into the Union ranks. A particularly haunting memoir by Edmund Wright, one of the few who managed to leave the Knights and paid a high price, laid a rich foundation of research for this novel. My character Edmund Warwick was inspired in part by this brave man. Many historians believe that both Jesse James and Lincoln’s killer, John Wilkes Booth, were also members of the Knights.
Fanny Crosby is one of my favorite songwriters of all time. When faced with the possibility of giving her a cameo in All Through the Night, my imagination took flight. Just before penning her part of the story, I went to sing and speak to some inmates at the Little Rock penitentiary. When it came time for worship, one of the inmates stood and led us in a beautiful rendition of “Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior.” Seeing the tears in his eyes as he lifted his face to heaven, I marveled at how Crosby’s touching words still move so many today.
In the epilogue, I had Miriam humming this hymn as she went about her work after hearing it performed at a revival service in 1863. In reality, “Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior” wasn’t written until 1868
. I wanted to wrap up Cadence and Joshua’s story with the reminder that all of us long to be seen . . . and there is a God who sees and hears us, even in the darkest night.
Chapter 1
APRIL 12, 1861
HOWELL, MICHIGAN
“Cassandra Kendrick! What have you done?”
Cassie cringed at the slurred, booming voice hovering just beyond the barn door. She crouched, pressing her back against the prickly wood wall, and breathed through her mouth lest the sweet motes of hay floating around her cause a sneeze. She could not let Father know her whereabouts. Not until his temper cooled or his alcohol-sodden brain plunged him once again into a sleeping stupor. For him to find her in his current condition would not bode well.
In her eighteen years, history had taught her that much in abundance.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
The ominous timbre slithered down her spine. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Thud, thud, thud.
Her pulse pounded dully in her ears, the rhythm far too rapid. Could he hear?
His sluggish footsteps faded, as did his familiar curses. She allowed her back to relax a fraction and dropped her head against the barn wall, wincing when strands of her hair stuck and pulled against the splinters of wood.
Breathe in; breathe out.
She waited for several long moments. He had deceived her before. She had crept from her hiding spot only to have his meaty fingers clamp around her throat.
The barn door squeaked open on rusty hinges. Her breath snagged, but it was Mother’s careworn face that appeared. Sunlight streamed around her silhouette.
“He’s gone.”
Uttering a sigh of relief, Cassie pushed away from the wall and brushed poking shafts of straw from her skirt. “He found out, then?”
Mother nodded. “Came from town and went straight to the crock.”
Cassie grimaced, imagining his reaction when his calloused fingers scraped the inside of the empty container. “He didn’t accuse you, did he?”
Mother waved her hand in dismissal, though the tight lines around her eyes remained. “It doesn’t matter. He laid not a hand on me. In truth, it’s unlikely he’ll remember come tomorrow.”
Cassie stepped over tackle and crates, squinting against the bright sunlight. She straightened. “I’m not sorry. You know I’m not.”
“I know.” With a sad smile, Mother turned to leave, murmuring instructions over her shoulder. “Time to hang the wash.”
That was all? No reprimand? Cassie said not a word. Avoiding Father was the part she had fretted over most, but fearing her actions had disappointed Mother . . .
Perhaps Mother wasn’t sorry either. The thought gave her pause.
Cassie trudged through the grass-splotched yard as chickens squawked and flapped around her skirts. The worn garment tangled around her ankles.
At least she’d bought them time. Yes, she’d taken the only money to be had from the crock, but the tax man’s demands were sated. If Mother had agreed with her actions, why did she not say so? Why could she never stand up to Father?
Before they had rounded the corner of the cabin, a wagon careened down the dirt road in front of the house, churning up splatters of mud and jostling with enough clatter to wake the dead. Cassie frowned. The driver was recognizable enough. Peter, her sister Eloise’s husband, jumped from the bouncing wagon a hairsbreadth after he’d set the brake. His blond hair was windblown as if tossed by a dervish. His eyes were bright, sparkling with an excitement she’d rarely, if ever, witnessed from the sulky man.
Mother’s face filled with sudden angst. “What’s wrong? Is it Eloise?”
“Of course not.” His Irish brogue lilted high as his chest puffed out with a billow. He hooked his thumbs around his suspenders. “You’ve not heard the news, then?”
Cassie stepped next to Mother’s side. A cold stone sank in her stomach. “What news?”
His lips curved into a smile, revealing crooked yellow teeth. “Why, war, sister. War has been declared.”
Chapter 2
APRIL 15, 1861
NEW YORK CITY
Gabe Avery snaked his way through the swarm of people clogging Broadway, suppressing the urge to vent his frustration at the slow progress. After growing up in the city, he was rarely bothered by the crowds anymore, but this was different. Urgency bade him hurry. He must know if the rumors were true.
As he tipped his hat to an older matron coming toward him, he almost collided with a wayward boy of no more than six. The dirty moppet scurried past him without a pause, reminding him of a rat slinking between broken crates in an alley. He shook his head. The lad was likely to cause an accident.
The odor of horse dung mingled with the sharp sting of axle grease as people and carriages clattered past. Only a little farther . . .
There. The Brady Gallery was within view. A pulse of euphoria traveled his veins.
Please, God, let him say yes. . . .
He slowed as he approached the prestigious gallery and stopped to catch his breath. He’d been here dozens of times before, but never had he been so anxious. So unnerved. Tugging his vest into submission, he inhaled a thick pull of air, grasped the doorknob, and tugged.
He stepped into the gallery, his senses heightening despite the calming effects of green strategically gracing the papered room. Faces met him at every turn, each photographed form boxed within a gilt frame. Some somber, some cheery. Some lithe of form and some frumpy.
All of them were fascinating.
The faintest traces of iodine wafted toward him. Someone must be readying glass plates for exposure in the back.
His boots sank into the plush carpeting as he stepped into the main salon. A solitary couple perused the displays, murmuring softly to each other as they commented over the Imperials. The painting-size photographs were so lifelike, he felt if he reached out and touched the glass, the images would jump in response. Gabe stood off to the side and fisted his hands behind his back, willing his frayed nerves to cease their buzzing.
A man stepped through the dark-green velvet curtains concealing the workrooms from the gallery. Gabe’s breath strangled as every coherent thought scattered from his head.
The man was of medium height but exuded quiet confidence with his slow, smooth gait. His dark hair was peppered with gray, though most of the hair of his goatee was still black, and he wore a cream-colored duster. The spectacles perched on his aquiline nose framed dark eyes that were sharp, missing nothing.
It was him. Mathew Brady.
Gabe wiped sweaty palms against his trousers and cleared his throat. “Mr. Brady, I presume?”
The man smiled faintly, causing slight lines to crinkle around his eyes. “One and the same.”
Gabe offered his hand, and Brady shook it with a firm clasp. “Mr. Brady, sir, I have long been an admirer of your work. Your advances in daguerreotype and imprint images have inspired me.”
Brady’s dark brows rose, his scholarly features lightening. “You have studied the science of photography?”
Gabe paused, trying not to babble like an overwrought child. “Indeed. Your brilliant portraits fueled my interest in profound ways.”
“And have you a camera?”
His tongue almost tripped over the stem of words bubbling to burst forth. “Yes, sir. I’ve worked and saved diligently over the past several years and recently acquired my first.”
“What model?”
“An Anthony camera, sir.”
Brady raised his brows higher. “Impressive. There are none better. I employ Anthony cameras exclusively in my own studio.”
Gabe released a tight breath. Yes, he knew. He knew every detail about the renowned portrait gallery and the methodology of its master.
“What’s your name, son?”
He’d never introduced himself? “Forgive me. My name is Gabriel Avery.”
“And what brings you to my studio today, Mr. Avery?”
His mouth was cotton. “I
heard a rumor you are considering undertaking a remarkable endeavor. Is it true that you are planning to photograph views from the war?”
Brady’s goatee twitched in response. “News of my fanciful daydreams has spread already?”
Fearing he’d overstepped propriety, Gabe could do little more than nod. “Word travels fast, sir.”
“Indeed.” Plucking the wire-rimmed spectacles from his nose, Brady drew a square of dark cloth from his coat pocket and began to polish the lenses, a frown pulling his mouth into a grim line. “It’s become an ambition of mine, I confess. The magnitude of such a historic event calls for an accurate record, wouldn’t you say?”
“I agree entirely. Is it true that you have considered hiring photographers to complete it?”
Brady gave a nod. “I have weighed the merits of it, yes.”
Gabe’s heart leapt. “If I may be so bold, I’d like to apply for the job.”
“I figured as much. Do you have examples of your work?”
Gabe’s fingers nearly knotted. So much so, he fumbled over the clasps of his satchel. Removing the samples he’d so carefully selected, he handed them to the photographer.
Brady hooked his spectacles back over his ears and onto his nose before perusing the photographs, his face void of expression. Gabe’s heart raced as he waited, each second drawn longer than the last.
Finally Brady spoke. “These are quite good. You certainly are adept at using the chemicals for the wet-plate process, although you still have some to learn about the proper use of light to acquire sharper, crisper images.”
“Yes, sir.” Gabe held his breath.
Brady pursed his lips. “Unfortunately, none of my plans are definite as of yet. And you can imagine the staggering expense of mounting such a venture. Equipment, traveling darkrooms, horses and their feed, chemicals, plates, tripods . . . to say nothing of the government’s cooperation with such a venture.”
Gabe’s heart sank like an iron anchor. The disappointment tasted far more bitter than he’d imagined.