Songs of the Shenandoah

by Michael K. Reynolds

  “The morning you leave.” Pieter lifted the weapon and placed it across his lap.

  “I understand,” Muriel said. Davin could sense she had regretted bringing them here. Perhaps it was the knowledge of the risk they might have brought if they had been followed. Maybe this was what was bringing her such unease.

  Yet the more he observed Muriel, the more he became fascinated with the posture she took, the subtle bending of her lip, the shifting away of her blue eyes, the lifting of her light red brows. Something about this journey was shifting her countenance, was lowering her pretenses. The tough, and at times surly woman, was yielding to inner fragility—a gentle rose, someone more vulnerable, more conflicted. This made him even more drawn to her because though she was speaking with their hosts, he knew she was communicating with him, welcoming Davin to the inner reaches of her soul.

  “It’s just . . .” Anika struggled to get the words out. “It’s just that all of this is a bit odd to us. We help people come up north. There isn’t anything we can do about assisting you to go south.”

  “We only need guidance in how we can evade the soldiers.” Muriel stood. “I don’t know this area, but there must be a way to get around them.”

  “Most unusual,” Pieter droned.

  Anika sighed. “I wish there was something we could do.” She looked at Seamus with eyes of compassion. “Do you think it wise to take this minister any farther on this journey?”

  Davin put his bowl down. They were getting nowhere. He had no energy to explain what they were doing, and it was obvious the old man wanted no part of this. They would have to find a way on their own.

  “I help the preacher man.”

  The voice, deep and weathered, startled Davin who rose to his feet. There, blending in the shadows of the doorway leading to another room in the house, was a tall black man, whose white cotton shirt was unbuttoned and hanging loosely on his muscular frame.

  “I take these folks.”

  “Jacob.” Anika didn’t seem surprised, and her tone retained her tenderness. “But you only just arrived.”

  “Dat means the path still in my head the ways I see it.”

  “Where did you just come from?” Davin asked.

  Jacob stepped into the light of the room, revealing gray, tight curls and scars on his face and chest, ones that had long since healed. “I just comes up from ’Lanta.”

  “You mustn’t allow Jacob to do this.” Anika stepped toward Muriel. “They’ll kill him. He barely made it in and he’s still healing from the bites from the hounds he shook.”

  Davin saw an unfamiliar emotion rising in Muriel. Was she losing herself in all of this? She was biting her lip as if to fight back tears. The gesture of this man had affected her in some strange manner.

  Jacob walked over to Seamus, bent down, and put a large hand on his chest. “He dyin’, the preacher is.”

  “Yes.” Davin went over and grabbed his brother’s hand. “We know. We’re just trying to bring him to his family before he . . . passes.”

  “Then we don’t wait.” Jacob’s eyes were soft and tender, seemingly so misplaced in this man’s body, which Davin assumed was chiseled from many years on the plantations he had heard so much about.

  How could he ask this man to risk everything, when his brother had little chance of making it home? Unless this, like Muriel and Mr. Miller, was another angel sent to protect the soldier of God.

  Davin began to choke with emotion on the thought of this notion. Even on the brink of death, Seamus was teaching him about faith.

  “Come,” Jacob said, this time with authority. “We need it dark. We go now. Or the preacher, he die.”

  Chapter 43

  The Patriots

  “Ma’am. You seriously want to go there?” The ferryman pointed at the Manhattan skyline, which was blackened with smoke.

  Clare got shoved backward, as refugee passengers disembarked on the Staten Island port and blended into the large, frantic crowds along the shore. The July heat and heaviness of the air only added to the foul disposition of the people. She waved an arm up to the man with the bushy beard and tired face, who was leaning down over the railing of the ship, and he merely shook his head.

  “My family is there. I must go.”

  “Listen, ma’am, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t haul you back.”

  She wasn’t finished. After what she had gone through to get from Gettysburg to this point, Clare was determined to swim across the Hudson if she must. What should have amounted to a three- or four-day trip ended up taking her an excruciating week, with all of the delays in available transportation, checkpoints, and carriage breakdowns. And through it all, she wrestled with sleepless nights, anxious about what might be happening back home.

  Clare went to shout up at the ferryman one more time, but he turned and disappeared out of sight. She lifted her luggage and forced her way through crowd, moving upstream against the flow of angry currents.

  After being battered with elbows and insults, Clare made it to the gangway and climbed up, trying to make progress while avoiding being seen. By the time she made it to the top, she had a moment of relief, only to bump into the ferryman who grabbed her arm with force.

  “Our orders were quite clear, ma’am. We can take passengers out of the city, but no one goes inside. Can’t you tell? Manhattan is under siege. It’s not a place for a woman. Or for anyone.”

  “You don’t understand. I am with the New York Daily. A reporter.”

  “You could be Mary Lincoln herself and I ain’t taking you across. Those are United States Navy ships out there with young eager lads looking for an excuse to fire those cannons.”

  A short, stocky man came up to the two of them. “What is the problem, Emmet?”

  Clare recognized the uniform. She held out her hand. “Captain. I am Clare Royce.”

  He gave her a cold stare.

  “Of the New York Daily.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “Captain, sir. I am seeking passage back. I’ll pay anything you want. I need to get back. It is most urgent.”

  It was almost as if he took satisfaction in her pleading tone. But finally he turned to the ferryman. “Send her to the lower deck with the others. Should make for some interesting . . . conversation.”

  “But, Captain.”

  “Do as I say. Then let’s push off.”

  “Yes, sir.” The ferryman went to lift up Clare’s luggage, but she grabbed it herself and followed him. She wasn’t sure what lay ahead for her, but at least she was on board. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “You may want to wait on thanking me.”

  The ferryman winded around the few remaining passengers and took her to the other side of the ship. Then he opened a wooden door that was lit below with lanterns. From the noise rising up, it appeared to be the engine room. He waved her in with mock formality.

  Clare went down the wooden steps and after just a few, she saw there were about a half dozen brutish-looking men sitting around the large iron steam furnace, their faces blanched and their clothes damp with sweat.

  One of the taller men, who had a green plug hat and bushy sideburns, had been leaning against the wall but he straightened. “What do we have here?” He lifted his hat and gave a bow. “Welcome to the revolution.”

  She didn’t respond but sought out a place where she could keep to herself. But as the door closed on them above, the only available choice was for her to sit on the steps. Clare set her suitcase down and noticed that each of the men were without any belongings other than brickbats and other crude weapons.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  “The name is Fergus.” The man leaned back against the wall. He looked her over as if he was trying to read her intentions. The boat lurched and the other men grabbed on to whatever they could to keep their balance. “And this
would be the time where you would tell me yours.”

  “Clare. Clare Royce.”

  “Where you from, Clare Royce?”

  What did he mean? “The city. Manhattan.”

  Fergus smiled. “No. Before you came across the pond.” His brogue was heavy.

  “Oh. Roscommon.”

  “Donegal.” He nodded to the others, who seemed less interested in conversation. “Same as these lads. Although, not Donegal. Let’s see. Two from Cork. A Dubliner. Then let’s see . . . Connall from Mayo, right boy?”

  One of the oldest of the men nodded and shifted his stick into his other hand.

  “And then Jimmy there, he says he’s from Waterford, but we can’t believe anything he says.” He raised his arms. “Why we’ve got the makings of a right, proper Fenian party, don’t you think?”

  Every grain of wisdom in Clare told her to keep quiet, but her anger and disappointment in herself won the battle. “What are you doing, Fergus?”

  There must have been something in the way she said it that caused them to exchange glances of surprise.

  “Why, pretty lady, whatsoever could you mean?”

  “A fine thing you’re doing, making a shame of our people. You’re going to go over there, smack a few heads, break some glass, and burn some buildings, all in the name of our oppressed people?”

  This brought a mixture of laughter and angry faces. But she didn’t relent.

  “Who are you? Brian Boru? Hugh O’Neill? Rory O’Donnell? You one of the lost earls?” She tried to think of other Irish heroes of the past.

  He crossed his legs and arms. “And suppose I was? Suppose I didn’t want to stand by and continue to be bloodied and bludgeoned by everyone else in the world? Maybe we are tired of having boots pressing against our necks. Maybe this is our time. To be heard.”

  “Do you know how many of our people have been slaughtered in this war?” The man named Connall spoke now, but without any attempt at charm. “They get old General Tommy Meagher, tell him to gather his countrymen like the fools that they be. Give him a green flag with a harp, name it the Irish Battalion and put them all on the front line. Call them heroes while their mothers are left childless. And now the wealthy and privileged want to take more of our babies while they stay home in their city mansions, peering out their windows from above?”

  “So you fight back?” Clare spit out.

  “You’re right we do,” Connall said.

  “You brave patriots. All of you.” Clare stood. “You get bullied, and what do you do? You become the bully yourself. You repay cruelty . . . with cowardice.”

  “Wait,” Fergus said. “Now I recall you. You’re that Negro-loving reporter from the Daily, aren’t you, lassie?”

  “That is the only true thing you’ve said.” Clare reached down for her suitcase.

  Fergus pounded his brickbat on his palm. “And you are fine with us Irish dying so your Negroes can step over our bodies to take our jobs?”

  Clare’s moment of bravery was wavering, and she could sense violence roiled in the air. If they saw her shaking knees, it would betray all she had said to them. So she lifted her shoulders and spoke as firmly as possible.

  “Let me be clear in saying this, and I mean this with every part of my heart. You, sirs, are not my Ireland. You are some foul creatures who crawled aboard ships or up through the sewers of these streets.

  “Do what you want, as you will. But don’t tarnish the name of our fair land. You, sirs, are not my Ireland. When you do your foul, disgusting deeds, lay down your banner and do it as the thieves you are. Don’t you dare call yourself Irish.”

  Clare stomped up the steps, drew her breath, and prayed that the door handle wasn’t locked.

  Chapter 44

  Enemy Lines

  The shattered glass crunched under the weight of Clare’s boots, and she stared at the ragged hole where the front window of the New York Daily used to be.

  All around her were the sounds of scattered, throbbing crowds, an eerie blending of terror and glee. Shouts of anger. Cries of babies. Cheers. Laughter.

  Down the road which was lined with tall buildings, smoke flared from windows and roofs. Much of what she saw now was similar to every street she passed on her way from the harbor. There were no pushcarts or carriages, just people running on foot, and at the turn of every corner, she risked the chance of running into a frenzied mob.

  Clare walked to the front door of the newspaper Andrew’s father had built, which was now in tatters. The splinters and shards of wood showed signs of having been mauled by an ax, surely wielded by some madman brought to a froth by the wild encouragements of his cohorts.

  This was the kind of damage she would expect from a battle fought in a city. It would make sense if it was the workings of the Confederate army. But no. It was an attack by an enemy within. They had turned on their own people.

  Her heart pounded as she stepped inside. What would she find in the debris? Bodies? Blood? She would never forgive herself if Andrew was gone. What a regrettable choice it was of hers to cover the story of Gettysburg. She thought the purpose was to catch a glimpse of her brothers, but was it merely about her own ambition? Away from her family chasing down her next great story?

  Clare started to cry but then strengthened herself on the sharpening stone of fear, her senses heightened once again.

  The devastation was instantly apparent. Glass lay like shimmering diamonds, papers fluttered with the wind coming through the broken window, and desks were shattered, their contents sprawled across the floors. Even the walls and staircase railing fell prey to the blade of the ax and whatever other cruel instruments were used.

  What about the press? Clare stepped forward. “Hello?”

  “Who is that?” The voice was familiar and defeated.

  “Owen?” Clare hurried into the pressroom and only briefly noticed that the great machinery had been battered and covered with black ooze. There sitting on the floor in the middle of the violent debris was Andrew’s editor, his curly brown hair disheveled and his face splattered with blood.

  Clare fell to her knees beside him. “Oh my goodness, Owen. Are you all right, dear?”

  He nodded over to the press with profound sadness. “I . . . I tried Clare. There were too many of them. There was nothing I could do. They just kept coming at me.” Owen winced and then put both of his hands around his leg.

  “What is it?” Clare looked down and saw it was bent.

  “They . . . broke it. I tried, Clare. You need to believe that I did.”

  “I am going to take care of you. Don’t you worry.” She looked around to see what there was she could use.

  “No!” He reached over and grabbed her hand. “You must go.”

  “I am not leaving you. I don’t care if they come back.”

  “No. Your sister Caitlin left just before . . . the mob arrived here.”

  “Why? Why would she leave you?” As she asked the question, the horror of the answer crept into her mind. “Where are they?”

  “No one thought they would attack our neighborhoods.”

  “Where are the children?”

  “They are home. With Cassie. That’s why Caitlin left.”

  The words were difficult to come from her trembling lips. “Where is Andrew?”

  “He’s been fighting with the militia since this had started. But . . . we haven’t seen him.”

  As Clare stood, the instincts of a mother took over and there was no fear, no time for contemplation, just the rush of horror at the prospect of any danger coming to Garret and Ella. How could she have ever left them!

  She paused for a moment, now conflicted at the thought of leaving Owen lying there alone in pain.

  “If I could stand, I would go as well,” Owen said.

  Clare nodded and then she turned and ran.


  The smoke was everywhere, and buildings that normally would be surrounded by firemen passing pails of water were left alone to become ash. She ran past mothers carrying babies in their arms, young boys throwing rocks, and old women casting bricks from windows.

  Some policemen tried frantically and heroically to stay the madness, but many others stood by idly or even contributed to the bedlam, joining in the perverse sport of tearing down anything that symbolized civility.

  There was no escaping the target of this unfettered aggression—the immigrants and their families from Africa. For as rabbits being chased by rabid hounds, it seemed as if every terror-filled black person was being hunted in the streets.

  Clare wished she could do something. To stop the evil. But all she could do was run, tripping and falling over the flotsam of rebellion flung across the smoldering paved roads.

  Yet despite her singular focus on making it back home to her babies, something brought her to a halt. A horrific sight that caused her pain to the depths of her soul. As she came across a crowd, she noticed them gathered around a lamppost.

  Their faces were contorted, open mouths of anger, fists and sticks raised, and they celebrated the result of their sick labors. With eyes wide and white with fear, a black man had been stripped naked and strapped by his neck to the top of the post.

  Clare screamed. It was almost inaudible among their revelry. The man was grasping the wire around his neck to loosen it, and then he kicked, another one, and then he was limp.

  She leaned over out of breath and started to choke on her vomit. Then Clare spat the acid out and glared at the gathering as they hit the body with sticks.

  Then she ran.

  The last mile of her journey was a blur as she tried to block out all of the hate around her. Clare only wished she could run with her eyes closed and erase the terrible visions from her mind. Could she not just wake from all of this? A nightmare, the worst she ever dreamt?

  But there would be no reprieve.

  Finally Clare came to her block, and as she rounded the corner on the curve, there was another crowd gathered at the end of the street.