Songs of the Shenandoah

by Michael K. Reynolds

  “How would you . . . ?”

  Alton laughed. “I own this town. The senators, the aldermen. I merely asked who was on the list. There is great power in that, you know. Have you any idea what people would do to have their names taken off the list?”

  “I don’t understand.” Was it true? Was Davin going to war?

  “Don’t worry.” Tristan looked to his father as if confirming it was all right to continue, which Alton answered with a nod. “We have a substitute in place for you.”

  “A . . . substitute?”

  “Yes,” Alton cackled. “That’s how it works. There are those who die on the front line in the name of freedom . . . and those who live to prosper from it.”

  “It’s been arranged,” Tristan said. “You’ll meet him tomorrow.”

  Davin didn’t understand entirely what was being said but sensed he was indebted for it nonetheless. “Well . . . thank you, sir.”

  “Oh.” Alton wagged his finger again. “We don’t bother with gratitude. That’s the currency of the impoverished.”

  “Then what—?”

  Alton looked toward his son.

  Tristan cleared his throat. “It’s your brother. Well, not your brother, but your sister’s husband.”

  “Andrew?” Davin gripped the arms of his chair. “What does he have to do with this?”

  “It’s all right, boy.” Alton held up his hand. “We just want to share some information with you.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Do you know the trouble they are facing?” Alton tapped his hand on the desk.

  “At the Daily? Yes. I mean I know they are going through hard times.”

  “Hard times don’t explain it sufficiently. They are about to fold. And it’s a shame. Not a bad paper at all. And your sister is a fine journalist.”

  “I still don’t know . . .”

  “Andrew is a proud man.” The words came out Alton’s mouth with measure. “He needs a friend in times like these. Are you able to be that friend?”

  Davin was growing more confused. First he learned he was scheduled to be drafted into Lincoln’s army, and now he was discovering that Clare and Andrew were in a dire situation. But how could he assist them? They already refused his offers to help.

  “I have a solution for them. One that will bring all of their advertisers back to them. For as easily as they left, they can return once again.”

  “And what would that solution be?”

  Alton nodded and the large man walked over and opened the door. “You’ll know when to speak up. You’ll even know what to say. I’m confident of that as you are obviously a bright young man.” Alton stood and reached across his desk and shook Davin’s hand with a soft, fleshy one.

  Then Alton looked to his son who stood along with Davin. “And the substitute?”

  “Tomorrow.” Tristan turned to Davin. “I’ll let you know what you need to do.”

  Davin wanted to say something, to ask more questions, but he felt swept down the currents, drowning in his own indecision. So many thoughts swirled around his head, but one was paramount.

  He didn’t want to go to war.

  “Thank you, sir.” Davin left with Tristan. What dark contract had he just signed?

  Chapter 23

  The Substitute

  The tapping on the door startled Davin, causing his pulse to pound.

  He had been sitting in a chair reading David Copperfield under the lantern light of his studio. He should have been better prepared. “One moment.”

  Davin scurried around and picked up a few stray items of clothing and tucked them in his drawers. Living alone was a luxury few enjoyed in Manhattan, especially at his age. He was so far removed from those days when he and four of his siblings shared the same straw mattress in Ireland.

  He walked over to the door, turned the brass handle, and opened it to the face of a frightened teenage boy. He was slender, with blue eyes and light red hair under a moth-worn wool cap. On the side of his cheek, difficult to see in the limited light, was a blotch of pink, a marking he most probably carried since birth.

  Behind him stood a stocky, large-breasted woman, tightly wound in her black coat and scowl. She gave the boy a firm push, and the two entered the room with the woman appearing to discern as much as she could about Davin from his living arrangements, which made him feel somewhat exposed.

  “I wasn’t aware you were going to bring . . .” Davin spoke to the boy but watched the woman as one would a thief.

  She spun and curled her face into a frown. “What? You aren’t believing a mother would want to look in the eyes of the man sending her precious child off to war? Have you been reading what they’ve been doing to the Irish lads? Sending them in like fodder, they are. It’s a plain horror, it is. Some Irish kings will be clawing their ways up out of their graves for what they’ve been seeing. No. Raised this one up since he was a sprout of green popping his head above the soil. A poor way to feed my family, it ’tis.”

  “Are you saying you don’t want to go ahead with this?” Davin just wanted them both to leave.

  “What? And let the rest of me little ones starve? Begging on the streets. No, William here is a hero. Taking his family’s burden on his shoulders.” She glanced toward the door where her son seemed to be cowering against the wall. “Well, William. Say something, child.”

  He lowered his eyes to ground and tucked his hands in his back pockets. “Name’s Billy,” he said in a whispery voice.

  “Pleasure, Billy.” Davin pointed to the couch, just large enough to fit two. “Did you want to sit down some?”

  “We won’t be long,” the woman responded. “Just here to complete our affairs.”

  “Oh yes. Of course. It was a thousand dollars, yes? That was the agreed-upon price?” Davin wanted this all to be over as soon as possible.

  “A thousand dollars for a child’s life.” The woman closed her eyes and shook her head. “Dear Lord, please forgive me for I know not what I do.”

  Davin looked over to Billy, who seemed barely sturdy enough to lift a musket over his shoulder, let alone use it as a weapon. “Is that right?”

  Billy shrugged and glanced at his mother.

  “A fine amount . . . if he was cattle being sold on the market.” The woman blew a strand of hair hanging in her face. “A thousand dollars. Do you have it in cash?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” Davin went over to the mantelpiece and then paused a moment. He felt uncomfortable having this much money in the house. Tristan had brought it over earlier in the day. Davin gave the mother and son a questioning glance, and then he moved to the coatrack and pulled down his jacket, fumbling around to find the inside pocket. For a moment he thought the envelope was missing. But then with some relief, his fingers discovered it. “Would you like to count it?”

  “Wouldn’t you if it was your child? If it was in exchange for your boy’s life?” She grabbed the envelope from his hand and pulled out the bills. Then she went to the corner table where Davin had a lantern and began the tedious process. She would lick her fingers, peel off a bill, move her lips in counting, and then stack it neatly in a pile, taking time to tuck the edges together. When she was finished, she nodded at her son. “It’s all here, William.”

  “All right, Mother.” He stepped forward to Davin and held out a hand.

  Davin took it and shook it firmly. Was he truly sending this poor boy to his tomb? Then he remembered the instructions Tristan had given him earlier in the day. “Here, I’ll need you to sign something for me.” He pointed toward the envelope he had given the woman and she pulled out the letter and opened it, eyeing it suspiciously. “Neither of us can read.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. It’s the usual language. It just confirms our arrangements. I need to turn that into the draft officers.” Davin went to his desk against the wall and lo
wered the flap, which folded down into a flat surface. He pulled out a pen and dabbed the silver tip into ink and held it out to Billy, who shifted uncomfortably.

  “Well, go ahead, son.” The woman gave him a nod. “It’s not like we have any other choices.”

  Billy moved over and took the pen from Davin, then with a shaking hand signed an X at the bottom of the page.

  Shame oozed from Davin’s pores. What had become of him? As a boy he would have considered this all to be adventure. Now as a favored member of society, had he become a coward? Or was what Tristan had said true? That patriotism was best expressed when the greatest contributors to the well-being of the city continued on their path for prosperity. As he said, this was the only way to preserve this ailing country’s wealth and standing among other nations.

  Still, whatever explanation Tristan had fashioned, it wasn’t settling well with Davin.

  Billy handed him the pen and gave him a mournful nod. “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  The boy smiled nervously. “I’ll serve well . . . in your stead.”

  The woman glared at Davin and folded up the envelope, then jammed it down her cleavage. “Remember the name William Walsh. That’s the brave young man who’s risking his life for you. My boy. Let’s go, son. He didn’t pay us for a clear conscience.”

  The two of them strode out the door and Davin pressed it shut behind them. He leaned back against it and listened as the sound of their feet faded.

  He suddenly felt warm and nauseated. Davin moved over to the marble water basin in front of the mirror. He cupped his hands in the bowl and then splashed the liquid against his face.

  As the moisture dripped down, he stared for a long time, hoping to see the man he once was.

  Chapter 24

  Bright Flashes

  Fredericksburg, Virginia

  December 1862

  The explosions around Muriel were so loud and brilliant that Caitlin seemed to struggle breathing.

  “You’ve got to keep it together.” Muriel gripped her friend by the shoulders and peered deep into her eyes. But even she was getting rattled by the proximity of the blasts. She was supposed to be safe from all of this artillery fire, but it was not the rebels to blame. It was the incompetence of the Yankee commanders. Why wouldn’t they cover their flank?

  “What are you doing, girl?” Nurse Hollins, a woman with a slight hunch to her back but otherwise built of steel, glared down at Caitlin. She handed Caitlin towels that were red and soaked. “Bring us some fresh ones and hurry. These boys are dying as you’re standing there.”

  Muriel reached out and grabbed them. “She is having a hard time of it. I’ll go with her.”

  “Then hurry along. You’re needed with the doctors.” Nurse Hollins gave Caitlin a dismissive shake of her head.

  With her arm around Caitlin, Muriel escorted her to the boiling cauldrons. Arms stirred the wooden paddles in a frenzy. They were washing the clothing as fast as they could, but the pile of soiled linen was steeped high on the dirt. Muriel tossed the clothes in her hand onto the pile, then scurried Caitlin out of sight behind the supply tent.

  Caitlin slid to the ground and cried openly, although her wails were muted against the background of artillery bursting around her as well as the screams of dying, desperate men.

  “Caitlin?”

  It was as if the world’s madness was pounding in Muriel’s head. And who wouldn’t be affected by the visions of twisted, contorted men, breathing their last as blood spurted around them? The odor of death crawled through Muriel’s consciousness like black, billowy smoke through her nostrils.

  “Caitlin?”

  “Muriel?”

  “Yes. We need to go, dear.” A bright light and a loud concussion erupted. Muriel flinched but then focused on Caitlin again, mustering strength and calm in the midst of their hellish environ.

  “Muriel?”

  “Yes. I’m right here. We need to go. The Confederate boys are breaking through. It’s no longer safe here. They are evacuating the hospital tents.”

  “How?” Caitlin struggled to her feet, then staggered. She looked at Muriel. “How . . . how do you do it? Do this?”

  Muriel guided her around the tent. “Come on, Caitlin. You’ve done what you can.”

  They entered into a flurry of men running in fear, horses limping with gashes in their loins, and gurneys being carried between jogging soldiers. And again the flashes and the screams. “Aren’t we . . . winning?”

  “No,” Muriel shouted above the noise. “The Irish Battalion is being slaughtered. It’s quite terrible.”

  Caitlin tried to pull free of Muriel’s arm. “Then we should go . . . help them.”

  “Quiet, Cait. You are done for this battle.”

  Nurse Hollins scurried up to them. “Is she injured?”

  “She is fine, ma’am.” Muriel reshifted her arm around Caitlin.

  “Then we’ll need you back up front, Muriel.” Nurse Hollins lifted Caitlin’s chin. “Poor child. She isn’t made for all of this. But then, who is?”

  Suddenly a loud whirring was heard, and out of the corner of her vision Muriel saw something fly into the hospital tent beside them. And in a violent percussive burst of sound and light and hurling dirt, it vanished before her. Muriel pulled Caitlin into the tall weeds and they ran and tripped and rose again for several minutes.

  A blur of screams and panic surrounded them, then a large shadow was upon them and she spun to see a Union cavalry officer with the stripes of a captain.

  “What are you doing here?” His unshaven face was spattered with blood and, though handsome, was gnarled with the horror of war.

  Muriel glanced around. In the madness of the moment, they had actually made their way closer to the battle’s front lines. Now along with the sounds of the rebel yell and the anguish of the defeated and fallen, there was the whirring of musket balls flying around them.

  Muriel pulled Caitlin to the ground and they tumbled into a thorny brush.

  The captain’s horse was anxious, and he fought to hold it steady with the reins. He reached a gloved hand out to them. “Come, I need to take you out of here.”

  Yet before he barely extended his arm, a horrible thud sounded. His eyes widened and he toppled over, his steed scurrying away.

  Muriel crawled over to the soldier and lifted his head. A round hole dented his forehead and blood oozed out.

  Caitlin collapsed to the ground. “I . . . can’t . . . do this anymore.”

  Muriel crawled back. “I know, Caitlin. We need to get you away from this.” She lifted her head and glanced around, gathering her bearings. Then she paused and her mouth opened. “I can’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the 69th. They are rushing the hill again. I swear it’s the tenth time.”

  “The Irish boys?” Caitlin struggled to push herself up.

  “See the green flag in the distance? They are making a run. Bless their dying hearts.” Muriel shook her head. “What fools are these generals anyway?”

  A soldier’s voice rose above the brutal cacophony. “Please. Please somebody help me.” It carried the familiar twangs of the South.

  “Are we among the enemy?” Caitlin lay flat. “We’ll be captured.”

  Muriel’s muscles tightened. “Stay here.”

  Now Caitlin was grabbing her arm. “No! I won’t let you go.”

  “Please. I beg you. I see you ladies.”

  “I won’t let him die.” Muriel yanked her arm free and crawled away, leaving Caitlin alone.

  After flattening herself with each whistle of a musket ball, Muriel finally made it over to the rebel soldier, who looked no older than sixteen. His eyes were open, but she could tell by the gasping of his breaths he was almost gone.

  “He doesn’t look
evil.” It was Caitlin standing and peering down. “He just looks like a boy.”

  Muriel yanked her to the ground.

  “He’s a Confederate,” Caitlin said.

  “They bleed out all the same.”

  Caitlin lifted the canteen from the boy’s side, unscrewed the cap, and then hoisted it to his lips. He smiled briefly, then his eyes closed and his body settled, the last gasps of life seeping from it.

  Muriel folded the soldier’s arms over his chest and nodded as if to say a prayer.

  Then as the sounds of the battle rose fiercer around them, Muriel looked to Caitlin and spoke with firmness. “We need to get you back. Now.”

  “Yes,” Caitlin whispered.

  Muriel knew this would be Caitlin’s last battle. She would see to it herself. It was time for her friend to go home.

  The thought of being separated from the one person Muriel cared for and loved in the world was painful. But it was for the best.

  From here on out, she would be friends to no one. There would be no more confusion. No more questioning her decisions.

  It would be easier that way.

  Chapter 25

  Emancipation

  Manhattan, New York

  January 1863

  “Oh, Andrew, what wondrous news have I!” Clare walked up to her husband standing next to a pair of legs protruding from under the eight-cylinder steam press, with a scattering of wrenches and bolts on the cold ground.

  “Where are the children?” Andrew’s face was splattered with ink and bore that look of exasperation that was increasingly becoming more of a standard part of his expression.

  “Cassie is watching them. I just couldn’t wait . . .” She saw the disappointment in his eyes. “What is it?”

  Andrew cleaned his hands on a cloth and clenched his jaw. “Mr. Lincoln has issued his Emancipation Proclamation, and we will be the only newspaper in America that won’t be able to proclaim it ourselves.”

  “He has? He went through with it? How did Abe ever get the votes?” Clare thought through the ramifications of what she just heard. This would change everything. It would alter the entire tone and purpose of the war. “How marvelous!”