Songs of the Shenandoah

by Michael K. Reynolds

  Clare knew the answer, but she needed to ask. “So . . . why did you leave us?”

  He shrugged his arms. “The Times offered me nearly double. I am afraid they are sensing the once proud Royce institution is just a few gusts of winds away from toppling.”

  “Well,” she said, “their senses are keen, I fear.”

  “The Daily will be back strong.” Owen’s eyes narrowed. He never did get along too well with Ben.

  “Yes, I’m sure it will.” Ben turned to face her. “And just on the off chance it doesn’t, you let me know if you need a new job. I’m sure the Times would love having the great Clare Royce. Besides, it pays better and I know Andrew could use the money.”

  “You are a heartless man, Ben Jones. I am so thrilled we fired you.”

  A loud explosion sounded, and some shouts came out of the group.

  “That was dreadfully close,” a woman nearby said.

  “They are still far away,” said another.

  The three of them came to one of the illustrators, who had just put in a blank canvas and was sketching away.

  “What’s happening down there?” Ben asked.

  “See for yourself,” the illustrator said. “It looks like them Southern boys have us on the run.”

  “They are retreating!” came a shout.

  This was closely followed by howls and shrieks, and in short order people hurried themselves back to their carriages. Anxious horses neighed, and a few of them took off without their passengers. The artists who were drawing the battle scenes scurried to gather up their drawings. Two Union soldiers raced toward them on horses.

  A man, who Ben Jones had identified as a senator, stepped up to the approaching cavalrymen. “What is the meaning of all this? Why are you turning and running?”

  “Move along, sir!” replied the soldier.

  “Do you know who I am?” the senator retorted.

  “We’re being overrun. It’s not going to matter who any of us are in about five minutes.”

  These words seemed ample enough to silence any further protests. As all were retreating in a frenzy, Clare stepped forward to the hilltop and peered down. The Union army was now in full disarray and in mad retreat. Being pulled up the hill were the large cannons of the North, although some were being abandoned.

  Left discarded behind them were the lifeless sons of a thousand mothers, being stepped over like they were bags of flour.

  Pouring across the river through pontoons were the victorious Southern troops, with raised sabers and banners, in full pursuit while crying out in shrill screams that were a blend of terror and mockery.

  A strange thought occurred to Clare. Was Seamus out there somewhere? Was he fighting for the other side, cheering on the defeat of his own family? How could he have abandoned her again?

  A shattered nation. A torn family.

  “Clare.” Owen’s voice was frantic. “We must go.”

  But she couldn’t pull herself away from the display of anger and violence unfolding below. It was as if America itself was crumbling before her, sweeping away the dream she had pursued with such vehemence.

  “We can’t tarry.” Owen’s hand clasped her arm.

  Almost in a moment slowed in time, she saw something approaching in the corner of her eye. She looked up in time to see something flying in their direction. Suddenly, she was yanked to the ground and Owen was on top of her just as the explosion ripped through her trance. And then they were showered with dirt.

  He pulled them up and they were running toward the wagon, dodging carriages and even full-sprinting soldiers. They leapt to their seat as another sound echoed and Clare covered her ears.

  Deftly Owen turned the wagon, and with a few steps their horse was pulling them out of danger, seeming equally motivated to retreat. They maneuvered around obstacles and slower vehicles. It was a good twenty minutes before they cleared out of the fray enough to feel it was safe to stop again.

  Now she was focused on her obligations to Andrew and the New York Daily. It was her job to bring her readers to the front lines of the battlefield, and she would do it with excellence.

  The pounding of her heart subsided, and Clare pulled out paper and pencil and scribbled down her thoughts as fast as she could, the tip of the graphite scraping noisily. Even though they had spent such a short time on the ridge, there were so many images she wanted to describe and so many emotions to put to words before they were lost.

  Owen knew her well enough not to disturb her while she was about her work, but after a few minutes, Clare had filled several pages and he must have sensed it was the right time to speak. “What shall we make of all of this?”

  Clare looked up and saw soldiers approaching, but without haste and frenzy. For today at least, the battle was over. However, their shoulders and disposition slumped in defeat, and she shared their despair with both her prose and her tears.

  Chapter 11

  The Painted Face

  Caitlin seem terrified of what she was about to see.

  Muriel worried if this idea of hers was a mistake. Despite both of them having sat on this uncomfortable wrought-iron bench for a tortuous length of time, Caitlin couldn’t peel her gaze from the front door of the Blue Goose.

  What was so obvious to Muriel was so difficult for Caitlin to grasp. This seemed to be the only way to help her friend come to grips. And what irony! For her to be assisting Caitlin when it came to men. What did she know about them?

  “Maybe you should go home, Cait dear.” Muriel had been at her side this whole time, trying to lighten the mood with gentle conversation. “It isn’t necessary for you to be here, you know. I already told you what I saw. There is no need for you to suffer any more.”

  “No,” Caitlin asserted. “I need to see for myself. I have been engaged to this man for more than a year.”

  Engaged? Hardly. Muriel had known from the beginning that Martin was only engaged with his work and himself. Maybe that was why Muriel seemed to attract only disinterest and disdain from men. She was on to them. She knew what they were thinking before they did.

  But then again, that was her being too kind to herself. Yes, she was a smart lass, but men weren’t interested in that. They wanted pretty and quiet and she wasn’t good at either. Even her uncle, who along with her aunt had raised her since her parents died on the ship to America, had tried to bring her down gently when it came to her aspirations for marriage.

  He told her when she was young that some women could be cared for and others would have to learn to care for themselves. For many years she thought he meant it as a compliment, but the truth became clearer once she was of wooing age and realized few were lining up to woo her.

  He foresaw her as a spinster even when she was a child.

  But it made no sense to her that Caitlin would fall to the same fate. After all, she had the appearance all men craved. If only Caitlin could crave a finer breed of men. What poor taste she had!

  Maybe she was being too difficult on Caitlin. It could be there just weren’t that many good men out there. It was no secret that most so-called gentlemen in Manhattan partook in what they dismissed as harmless sport. Prostitution was as common a vice as hard liquor and cigars.

  “We’ve been here for more than an hour and haven’t seen him.” Caitlin’s voice was laced with hope. “Are you certain you didn’t make a mistake?”

  Muriel grimaced with compassion. “Oh, dear Cait. I wish it weren’t so.”

  “How did . . . how did you find him?”

  “I told you.” Muriel tucked her red curls behind her ear. “I’ve always been good at having a sense of people. I knew of his nature the first instance I met him.”

  Caitlin rolled her handkerchief in her palm. “Well. That certainly is a skill I have been without all of these years.”

  “It could be worse.”

&nb
sp; “How? How could it be worse? Do you know how many times this has happened to me? Do you know how many poor choices I’ve made with the men in my life?”

  Muriel lowered her head. “It could be worse . . . if you had never been loved by a man.”

  “Oh, dear.” Caitlin put her hand on Muriel’s shoulder. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. Your kindness shows through for all to see.”

  “And we know how much men favor kindness above all things.” Her eyes glistening, she looked up and smiled at Caitlin.

  “Many men would wrestle a wild boar for a chance with such a brilliant woman.”

  Muriel laughed at her friend’s choice of words. “Perhaps they consider time with me just as wrestling a wild boar.”

  “Oh, Muriel. You know what I intended.” She gave a mischievous smile. “Why it’s a fact I know someone dear to me who is smitten with you.”

  Heat rose to Muriel’s cheeks. “Please don’t be speaking about Davin.”

  “Why not? You know I speak truly. Every time he sees you, his eyes betray it. Believe me. I know my brother.”

  “And who says having your brother interested in me is something I fancy?”

  “Because, my dear Muriel, I know you as well.”

  Muriel grimaced, but more at the irony of what Cait had said. Oh, how little her friend knew about her. She felt a twinge of guilt about this, the one she experienced every time Caitlin, Clare, or Andrew showed her kindness. And worse of all were those dear children Garret and Ella. What would they think one day when they learned of her past, who she really was? Did Muriel even know who she was herself? She had spent so much time pretending, it was difficult to know. “Well, I suppose your brother is all right. Bearable at least.”

  The two giggled as sisters would.

  They had only known each other for seven months or so, but Muriel had shadowed just about everything Caitlin did. Whether it was joining her at Underground meetings or working together at the newspaper, they spent time with one another nearly every day. Even with Muriel focusing on her studies in medicine. Caitlin and the Royce family had proved perfectly suited to her intentions. Better than she could have ever expected.

  But something disturbed Muriel. She had never planned on feeling so loved by this family.

  “You are exactly what my brother would need to straighten him out.” Caitlin seemed to enjoy the role as matchmaker. If only she could use those talents better on herself.

  “So, that’s it. Now I’m medicine for your little brother.”

  “Well, you both are of the same age. He’s quite handsome and you are as well.”

  Muriel waved her hand. “Your brother has tastes in qualities I do not and will never possess.”

  “Pure nonsense, Muriel McMahon. What he needs is a brilliant Irish girl to get . . . to get him back.”

  “Back?”

  “Oh, I do wish you knew my brother when he was a boy. So precious. Such a perfect gentleman.” Caitlin’s eyes glanced upward. “Did you know we nearly died in each other’s arms? Back in Ireland?”

  “How sad.”

  “I don’t know. There is something sweet about it as well. We became close, closer than any brother and sister could be at that moment. When I see him now, I still see the boy.”

  “You shouldn’t be hard on him now.” Muriel tapped the point of her worn boot in the ground. “It’s natural after him being in poverty for so long to be drawn to wealth. I’m sure it will be a passing phase for him. You’ll see the boy again.”

  As these words came out of Muriel’s mouth, she looked across the street and her disposition fell.

  “What is it?” Caitlin traced her gaze to across the street and saw Martin, disheveled and swaggering, as he was escorted out the front door by a woman clothed in a silky blue dress, with a feathered boa and a brightly painted face. Martin hugged and kissed the woman with familiarity and then she waved at him as he hailed a cab, completely unaware his fiancée was observing all of this.

  “I’m so terribly sorry.” Muriel put her arm around Caitlin’s shoulder.

  Caitlin’s eyes moistened but then she seemed angry at the tears.

  A carriage pulled up to Martin, obscuring him from their view. They saw his head briefly as he stumbled into his seat, and then the driver gave a sharp crack of his whip and it was away.

  “What do I do now?” Caitlin drew her handkerchief to her face.

  “You grieve. You get angry. You forgive. And then you find yourself a much, much better man.”

  Caitlin let out a grunt that was half laughter and half tears. “You make it sound so simple.”

  “Of course I do. I have no experience myself.”

  “Oh stop that.” Caitlin seemed grateful to have a friend with her. “We’ll just have to find those better men together. Won’t we?”

  Muriel stood. “Come up, you. Let’s get you home.”

  Caitlin rose. “What’s with the smile? Now you’re mocking me?”

  “Hardly. It’s just that I’ve got some news to share and it concerns you as well.” What was she doing? It was Muriel’s intention to leave the Royces and the Hanleys behind before she got any closer to them, but here she was again, refusing to let them go.

  “Oh really? How so?” They started walking toward home, arms locked together.

  “I have plans,” said Muriel. “Big plans. And now they include you, seeing as you are suddenly quite available.”

  “Are they exciting?”

  Muriel laughed. “Come. I’ll let you decide for yourself.”

  Chapter 12

  The Sanitary Commission

  “Next!”

  The old woman’s shrill voice caused Muriel to awake from her drifting thoughts. She had been sitting with Caitlin in the cold waiting room for more than an hour and now could hardly believe it was finally their turn.

  “It’s us, Cait. Are you ready for this?”

  “No. I am not.” It had been two weeks since her engagement with Martin ended, and Caitlin hardly seemed motivated to do anything. It had taken no little effort for Muriel to drag her to this interview.

  “I am Miss Patterson. There are many others waiting. Will you be coming, or should I take note of your indolence?” The lady standing before them in the gray dress lifted her chin, and the many wrinkles of her face seemed to converge to her pursed lips.

  “Yes, of course. I mean, no on the indolence. Yes that we’re coming.” Muriel cast a glare to Caitlin out of view of the pettish woman.

  Miss Patterson led them out of their waiting room and down a long hallway, which echoed with the angry sounds of the woman’s heels striking the hard floor. Caitlin leaned in and whispered in Muriel’s ear, “You shall never be forgiven.”

  “What I am sure you are saying,” Muriel gave her an awry smile, “is you will never forget my kindness for including you. Come now. For several months now, your dear sister Clare has been serving the war effort through her brave reporting. Don’t you think we should do our part as well, however small?”

  “I am quite unclear on how trouncing about a muddy battlefield dodging artillery fragments is . . . any small part.”

  “Oh, why must you be so maudlin?” Muriel sighed. “I will merely be putting my medical training to good purpose, and you will be able to offer your . . . many talents to our brave soldiers.”

  “And what talents would I have that would be any help at war? Shall I polish the cannon balls?”

  “Oh, Cait, sometimes you are so incorrigible. Don’t you feel helpless with the idea that our nation’s sons and fathers are defending our beliefs while we’re back home, knitting by warm, cozy fires?”

  Miss Patterson stopped, turned, and held her hand out toward an open doorway where another woman in a black petticoat, who could have been their escort’s sister in dourness, dipped into an i
nkwell and scribbled on a piece of parchment without bothering to acknowledge their entrance. She was not as old and had a long slender face, with her black hair pulled so taut in a bun it seemed painful.

  The two of them entered a Spartan room. Miss Patterson held out a hand pointing to two empty chairs. Then she circled the table and sat next to the other interviewer, who still had yet to lift her head from attending to her notes.

  They sat and watched the pen scurry across the paper for what seemed like several minutes, until finally, the last punctuation of what must have been an emphatic sentence was done with both flair and force.

  The woman gave her document a read, blew on the ink with puckered lips, and then slowly raised her head and offered a curt smile. “I am Mrs. Jennings. And who do we have here?”

  Miss Patterson slid over the two applications. “The redhead is Muriel McMahon and the pretty one there is Caitlin Hanley.”

  “Pretty one?” Mrs. Jennings gave Caitlin a disapproving glare. “You do realize what the mission of the Sanitary Commission is?”

  “Why yes,” said Muriel. “It is for us to bring comfort and assistance to our ailing and injured soldiers, to provide healthier and more sanitary conditions at their camps—”

  Mrs. Jennings held up her hand. “I was not asking you.” She pointed at Caitlin and narrowed her eyes. “I want this one to answer that question.”

  Caitlin cleared her throat. “It is my understanding . . .” She paused. “I was told there is great concern that our soldiers are dying more from disease than from the enemy’s weapons. It is believed a woman’s touch would be most useful.”

  “A woman’s touch?” Mrs. Jennings face squeezed into a revolted scowl.

  Muriel leaned forward. “What my friend intended to say much more gracefully is women would be most useful in cleaning these military campsites, preparing nourishing meals, and tending to our wounded men. In such dire times, all of our beloved country’s assets must be accounted for.”

  Mrs. Jennings continued her assault of Caitlin. “Are you aware, young lady, that we have been most purposeful in avoiding providing any distraction to our young men on the battlefield? That is why we do not allow for young . . . pretty . . . women to apply.”