Songs of the Shenandoah

by Michael K. Reynolds

  He thought back to his time on the mountain with Pastor Asa. Yes. There was something the man had spoken while they were high above. From Joshua. He had read it many times. Seamus smiled and a sense of peace came over him.

  Then he saw Ashlyn’s face. He fumbled for his pocket and pulled out the photograph, the one that had long since faded. He couldn’t see it well in full daylight, and he certainly couldn’t see much now. But it didn’t matter. She was with him.

  He brought her picture to his lips. In all of his ministry to others, all of his good works on the battlefield, he had neglected his most important assignment. He was reminded of how desperate he was to find Ashlyn when he first saw her face in this photo, which he discovered in a letter among the wreckage of a stagecoach crash. He traveled more than a thousand miles across impossible terrain to meet her for the first time.

  He dreamed of calling her his wife. And now what? Had he taken the gift she was from God for granted? What was holding him back now? Why hadn’t he written but a few times? Why hadn’t he insisted on taking a leave as others had?

  There was an answer to this question. But he just didn’t know what it was.

  And now he was out of time. Would he see her again? Would this be his last day?

  Seamus was unable to walk through the camp without getting a wave or handshake and tonight was not an exception. But he was worried others would see the grimness of his expression. He had endured dodging artillery fire, exploding ordnance, and whistling musket balls and bullets.

  Yet he hadn’t been this uneasy since the beginning of his service. What was he so afraid of? Maybe it was because he respected the man with whom he was about to speak. This was a man he didn’t want to let down.

  But now what would happen once he visited General Jackson? After all Seamus had gone through in surviving disasters, what a way for it all to end. Maybe this was the proper response to decisions he made long ago. Maybe it was merely what he deserved.

  As he approached the officers’ tents, which were peppered with guards and much more serious-minded soldiers, there was a palpable sense of anxiety in the air. Seamus had recognized this before. It was the smell of the air just before the rain. He knew what this meant.

  They were about to go to battle.

  “Who goes there?” A cavalry officer tending to his horse looked up with alarm. But before Seamus could answer, his demeanor shifted. “The general was asking for you, Chaplain. He just returned from his meeting and he’ll be pleased you showed up early.”

  It was unnerving for Seamus to be noticed. He was used to it with the noncommissioned soldiers, and even the younger officers, but he didn’t know many of the senior leaders personally. Had they all been talking about him? Did they all know of his past?

  The captain tied his horse to a post and then motioned with a gloved hand for Seamus to follow. They wove their way past several of the administrative tents and exchanged salutes with several officers until they came to what Seamus recognized as General Jackson’s tent.

  “Wait here.” The captain turned. “General?” There was a sound from inside, and then he entered and Seamus heard muffled voices.

  Did he even want to hear what was being said? He took off his hat and rocked on heels to try to reduce some of the wobbling in his knees. He glanced around and noticed a scurrying of activity even though it was getting late in the evening.

  Orders were being delivered. No doubt even the soldiers in the camp would know of their impending plans by the time Seamus had returned. If he was returning.

  Don’t think that way. He started to pray but stopped when he sensed someone staring at him. He tried to glance around without appearing startled, but it was difficult to see too much with only the light offered by lanterns.

  Then he saw him. Just a hint of the man. But then as a shadow, the officer turned and disappeared in the darkness between two of the tents.

  “Percy,” Seamus whispered.

  “The general will see you now.”

  The captain’s voice returned him to his present danger. He was holding the flap of the door open.

  “Oh. Yes. Thank you, Captain.” Seamus gave him a nod, then straightened his hair with a brush of his hand.

  He went inside, prepared to accept his fate.

  Chapter 31

  Stonewall

  If it was under any other circumstance, this would have been an opportunity Seamus would have cherished.

  The inside of the general’s tent was stark but well kept. Just a small bed, a table with two chairs, a trunk, and a desk where he was sitting reading under candlelight.

  “General.” Seamus breathed out slowly.

  The general pulled back a ribbon to mark his page and then closed the book, on which were inscribed the letters Holy Bible. He stood and was still dressed in his uniform, although his sword and hilt were resting against the wall. The top buttons of his jacket were unfastened, and his long beard nearly reached down to his shirt.

  Seamus didn’t know what the protocol was between a chaplain and a general of such high rank, but he clicked his heels and gave a firm salute nonetheless.

  The general tucked his hands behind his back and examined Seamus with eyes that were both intense and kind. He turned, lifted his candle, and set it on the edge of the table. The general rolled up a map, tied a leather cord around it, and held it up to Seamus.

  “I pray over each and every one of these.” He pointed for Seamus to have a seat. “I must beg your forgiveness because I will need to keep this meeting quite brief. Not even time to offer you something to drink.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t drink.”

  The general smiled at him. “Well, I drink water on occasion.” He picked up his Bible from the desk and plopped it on the table in between them. With a groan, he slid into the chair opposite Seamus. Then again, he peered at him with his steely eyes.

  Seamus shifted in his chair.

  “Do you know why you are here, Chaplain Hanley?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “You do? And what would that be?”

  What was he thinking? Should he try to be surprised by Percy’s allegations? What if that wasn’t what the general wanted to discuss? But then, of course it was.

  “For I will give you a mouth and wisdom, which all your adversaries shall not be able to gainsay nor resist.”

  Seamus leaned in. “I am here to face the consequences of my past, General Jackson.”

  The general pulled the black leather Bible toward him and ran his fingers over the cover. He pointed to Seamus’s face. “Is that?”

  Seamus lifted his hand to his cheek and his fingers traced over the scar, where the branding iron once seared.

  “How did it feel? When it was pressed into your face?”

  The question alarmed Seamus. “The worst pain I have ever experienced.”

  “And . . . how many lashes?”

  “Forty-nine. Or so they told me. I didn’t stay conscious for all of them.”

  “Would you not consider those consequences?” The general turned his head.

  Seamus didn’t know where this was leading. “Quite so, sir.”

  “Do you not believe in forgiveness, Chaplain Hanley?”

  “I suppose I would not be much of a pastor if I didn’t.”

  The general’s shoulders lifted and there was a slight bend in his lips as if he didn’t know how to fully smile. “Do you know General Lee remembers you?”

  “What? I mean, sir?”

  “You served with General Lee?”

  Seamus recalled his missions in the Mexican War and having served under the leadership of a military engineer, who was Captain Lee at that time. “I was with him when I . . .”

  “Deserted?”

  This word always irked Seamus. He did not desert; he did not run away from the battlefiel
d. What he did was change sides and fight for the other army. “Yes.”

  “A genuine member of the San Patricios Battalion. Don’t see those too often.”

  “Most were hung. I was one of the fortunate ones.”

  The general flipped through the pages of the Bible. “When I mentioned your . . . situation to General Lee, he said you showed bravery. He had the same question I had.”

  “Why did I fight for the Mexicans?”

  The general nodded, his eyes probing for more than words.

  “Never understood that much myself. I was lost in those days. Didn’t have much to cling to.”

  “And now? Are you committed to our cause?”

  That was the question Seamus was terrified of, the one he hoped he wouldn’t hear. Would it be selfish for him to answer this honestly? Should he lie for the sake of Ashlyn and Grace?

  “For I will give you a mouth and wisdom, which all your adversaries shall not be able to gainsay nor resist.”

  Seamus tapped on the Bible. “There is a verse. It was given to me by another pastor. When I told him . . .” He paused and swallowed. “When I told him I didn’t believe in the Southern cause.”

  He looked for a response in the general’s face. Even the slightest of twitches, but the general was as unmoving as he was in a spray of bullets.

  “He shared with me a passage in Joshua.”

  General Jackson held up a hand. Then he flipped through pages, and after some crackling of paper, he drew the candle in close. “‘And it came to pass, when Joshua was by Jericho, that he lifted up his eyes and looked, and, behold, there stood a man over against him with his sword drawn in his hand: and Joshua went unto him, and said unto him, “Art thou for us, or for our adversaries?”’”

  The general raised his head. “Is this the one, Chaplain Hanley?”

  Seamus was amazed. “It is, General Jackson.”

  Then the general nodded and continued. “‘And he said, Nay; but as captain of the host of the Lord am I now come. And Joshua fell on his face to the earth, and did worship, and said unto him, What saith my lord unto his servant?’”

  He paused and turned the Bible toward Seamus. “Here, Chaplain, you read the rest.”

  Seamus drew the candle closer. “‘And the captain of the Lord’s host said unto Joshua, Loose thy shoe from off thy foot; for the place whereon thou standest is holy. And Joshua did so.’” He closed the book slowly and then pushed it back.

  “Is that you, Chaplain Hanley? You find yourself on God’s side?”

  “Is there any other side to be?” Seamus’s hands clenched the sides of his chair. He realized he might sound arrogant. “I am a very flawed man, General Jackson. I am only here to provide some comfort to the hearts and souls of these men.”

  The general tugged on his beard. “Let me ask you this. Not as your superior officer, but as a man seeking a deeper understanding of God.”

  How possible was this? Here this man would decide life or death for Seamus. “Sir?”

  “Tomorrow, we go to battle again. And again, as it has been in each of these conflicts, I will order young men, boys, to their deaths. And on the other side of the river, there are good officers. Good men, I know, because many I have served with before. They will read their Scripture as I do. They will pray. Each of us convinced that we are in God’s will.

  “And when our boys, our soldiers, learn tonight of our plans, they too will speak to their Maker, petitioning for His caring hand. For their protection. And to be in His will. On both sides of the river. How is this, Chaplain Hanley? Who will God choose?”

  This was something Seamus had pondered many times himself. Because as disinterested as he was in the institution of slavery, he had met fine soldiers, true men of God, in the Confederate army. “I suppose, General, that this is the wrong question.”

  The general raised his brow.

  “Or at least the wrong observation.”

  “How is that?” The lines etched in the general’s face made him look weary.

  “If there are soldiers, men, women, thousands and hundreds of thousands praying on either side, desperate for their Father, then maybe the victory is already won.”

  General Jackson smiled broadly and then tapped his hand on the table. “Well . . . that is certainly a fine way to end our conversation.” He stood and Seamus rose as well.

  Would he be getting out of this alive?

  The general gripped Seamus by the hand, wrapped his other around it, and tugged on it firmly. “I have a message from General Lee, and it’s one I share as well. He would like to thank you for your service to our men.”

  Seamus feared meeting the general’s eyes, for it might cause him to get emotional. Only earlier this evening he was wondering if all of his efforts were futile.

  “But, Chaplain. There is one thing.”

  “General?”

  “Your accuser. Colonel Barlow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He is not a man who knows forgiveness.”

  Seamus nodded. Then he turned and left the general and his tent. Once outside, Seamus buttoned his coat and pulled in his arms to try to warm himself up.

  Because there was a strange chill in the air.

  Chapter 32

  Chancellorsville

  Chancellorsville

  April 1863

  Davin nearly fell asleep to the muted sounds of distant artillery as he sat in his Union blue uniform, which appeared distinctively newer than those of his fellow soldiers.

  So when the loud explosion discharged, it caused him to flinch. He blinked and glanced over to see if the others noticed he had jumped.

  Barry was sitting nearby, cleaning his rifle, and he spoke without looking up. “It’s all right, Davey boy. We all remember our first day of battle. Don’t we, boys?”

  About a dozen soldiers were within speaking distance. Davin’s full regiment as well as others were scattered across a grassy field peppered with cow excrement and located not more than a hundred yards away from a rather impressive farmhouse.

  Off to the left was where the fighting was heavy. A conflation of flashes of ordnance bursts, dirt flung in the air, the echoing of trumpets, the shouts of men, and the neighing of horses. But it was far enough away from Davin to cause grumbling among his fellow Irish soldiers who weren’t pleased they were being left out of this confrontation with the Confederates.

  Off to the right, a thick forest of trees served as a barrier of protection, making their assignment comfortable and uneventful. The Irish Battalion had received a rare reprieve from its typical position on the front lines, perhaps another nod to the political outcry to the disproportionate number of casualties they had suffered in this ill-fought war.

  Yet there was a bustle of activity near the farmhouse with officers coming and going because it was where General Joseph Hooker and his aides were commanding the Union’s efforts. Certainly they were inside monitoring progress through maps and reports from sentries who raced up in sweat-soaked horses.

  Private Maloney lifted his rifle and pointed it at Davin. “You’re as skittish as a mosquito on a frog’s tongue, and that’s with all of the good sport being more than a mile away. What will you do when the lead starts clipping those pretty ears of yours?”

  Despite the discomfort of having the barrel of a weapon pointing in his direction, Davin kept his nerves so as not to feed the brute’s pleasure. Private Maloney, with his farmer’s shoulders and bulldog face, held the title of corporal a few months ago before he was caught sneaking out on an unauthorized soiree in one of the neighboring towns.

  Davin reached out calmly and gripped the barrel and pushed it aside.

  “Back off, Maloney,” said Barry. “You’re a fine one to be provoking anyone, seeing as no one in the battalion has proved faster at fleeing from musket balls than you, dear friend.”<
br />
  “Is that so? And I suppose you’ve had a musket ball planted in your head as I have?”

  “Ah, indeed.” Barry laughed. “And I will remind you it was in the back of your hard skull, which only further proves my point.”

  “I told you. It was in the back of my skull because I was behind rebel lines. They snuck up on me, barefoot cowards. General Burnside came up to me hisself afterward and tells me I was his bravest Yank that day.”

  “And that did him good and well. Ol’ Abe has Burnside washing dishes for Mary Lincoln now.”

  “What do you think about General Hooker anyways?” Davin fumbled through his haversack for something to eat. He pulled out some hardtack and then bit into it, nearly cracking a tooth.

  “I dread today,” Barry said.

  “Why’s that?” Maloney pointed his rifle toward the trees. “Pow. Pow. Pow.”

  Barry took out a handkerchief and shined up his bayonet. “Well, Mr. Robert E. Lee has whipped every one of Abe’s generals, and I’m sure we’re just another battle away from Hooker being hooked.”

  “And why would that be bad?” Davin kept his eye on Maloney as it wasn’t beyond him to accidentally shoot one of his own. He noticed the new shoes the pudgy private was wearing and smiled. Only Muriel was able to discover him to be the boots benefactor and she swore not to tell anyone.

  “Why he’s fed us better than the rest,” Barry said. “If we can’t never taste victory, we can at least say we tasted good food.”

  “Will you look at that cheeky fellow?” Maloney pointed to the sky beyond the trees.

  A brown hot-air balloon rose swiftly while being tethered by a long rope.

  “Is she one of ours?” Maloney shielded the sun with his hand.

  Barry scoffed. “If it was ours, it would be behind us.”

  “I know that.” He lifted his rifle. “Maybe I should empty it of its hot air.”

  “Save your bullets,” Barry said. “You might need one for the back of your head. You couldn’t hit that balloon even if you were standing atop one of them trees.”