Please, God! Don’t be my home.
She knew it was terrible to pray as such, but all she could think about now were the faces of her children. If anything happened to them!
As she drew closer, it was apparent the mob was farther down the road, and they were not attacking any house but were huddled around something in the center of the street. Clare was grateful they were distracted so she could slip into her home unnoticed.
She leapt over the short, black iron fence and landed in her garden, her boots crushing several of the tulips she had so meticulously planted. Then she ran up the brick walkway and leapt up the stairs.
She froze. The front window had been smashed and the door was ajar.
Clare picked up a large stone and gripped it tightly. She was prepared to crush the skull of anyone she encountered. Anyone who would do harm to her children. Her teeth clenched and her body began to quiver with rage.
Then she was inside. “Garret! Ella!”
She moved toward the kitchen, passing through the dining room where glass was scattered across the wooden floors.
“Caitlin! Where are you?”
“Clare?”
Before Clare could enter the kitchen, she saw the barrel of a shotgun poking out at her, and then the terrified face of her sister holding on with trembling hands to the weapon.
“The children? Caitlin, where are the children?”
“What?” Her sister’s lips were trembling.
“Garret. Ella.” Clare pointed to the shotgun.
“Oh. Yes.” Caitlin lowered it and set it against the wall.
“Where are they?”
Caitlin moved back into the kitchen and Clare trailed her. Her sister opened the pantry door, and there sitting on the floor, cuddled tightly with fear, were Garret and Ella.
When they saw their mother, they sprung up and were instantly entwined in her affection. She gripped them tightly, and the tears flowed, serenaded by the high squeaks of their sobbing.
She glanced up to her sister, and then held a hand out her face. “Thank you, Caitlin. Bless you. Bless you.”
But then a dark thought came upon her. “Where is Cassie? I thought she was with you.”
“She was,” Caitlin said, breathlessly. “When they came, she handed me the . . . the gun and said the crowd meant the children no harm. She said she would draw them away.”
Clare stiffened. “Stay with the children!” The strength of her command caused Garret and Ella to step back, and Caitlin bent down and pulled them close to her.
In the living room, Clare grabbed the shotgun, which she had never before fired and probably had no idea how to shoot. But it didn’t matter. There was no time to think. With only a few angry steps, she was running out the door over the lawn and fence into the street. Then she pointed the shotgun at the center of the crowd.
“Get away!”
A few remained from the large group she had initially seen. They must have already moved on to their next place of violence. To target their next victims. The expressions on the faces of those remaining were more of shock and remorse than hate. They stepped back and through their parting, Clare saw a figure lying on the ground.
“Back away!” She flared the weapon and several of them turned and fled.
“Is she dead?” asked a young man.
Clare flopped to the ground and put her arms around Cassie, who lay motionless, her eyes swollen, and a thin stream of blood dripped from her nose.
Clare looked up to the sky, of which both the murky haze and dark clouds obscured the sunlight, and she screamed.
Chapter 45
The Woods
“Remember, friends. It’s not the soldiers you need to fear.” These parting words from Anika’s lips echoed disturbingly in Davin’s thoughts.
They were about to cross the most dangerous geography in America, and neither the soft rain or the early morning darkness would provide much protection. Lawlessness reigned and thieves and murderers preyed without impunity on hapless sojourners in these constantly shifting border regions between the South and North.
“How much farther?” Davin tightened his grip on the handles of the makeshift litter they had made to carry Seamus through the wooded areas of the lower mountains.
“Some.” Jacob had provided the same response each of the many times it was inquired in the last few hours. The man who led this haggard footrace through the moist foliage carried the front end of the gurney as if it was weightless. And for most of the distance he had been pulling Davin forward over toppled trees and bushes and through low-lying branches and spiderwebs that struck their faces often.
Davin didn’t like the plan at all.
After leaving the safe house and using many unmapped side roads, they had come to a point in their travels when they encountered a huge dilemma. All of the paths narrowed into a low mountain pass and through a small town that had a high risk of being congested with bandits or soldiers or both. Yet any attempt to circle around this point using roads would extend their journey by as much as a day.
With Muriel fearing that Seamus might not survive the detour, they decided to risk going through the dangerous town. But only after emptying the wagon of Davin, Seamus, and Jacob.
This was Muriel’s idea. She argued with success that she would have the best chance of passing through safely if she didn’t have to explain why she was transporting a deserting Union soldier, an injured rebel pastor, and a runaway slave.
So Jacob and Davin were tasked with carrying Seamus by foot, through the woods surrounding the mountain village. Once past the town, they would meet up with Muriel at a rendezvous point where they would continue their journey by wagon.
But now Davin regretted agreeing to this strategy. Why would he have allowed Muriel to travel alone in darkness through a land of villains? He was relieved at the thought the sun would soon rise, but perhaps that would put her in even more danger.
More and more he was questioning why he had allowed her to come along at all. Was he so blinded with his drive for restitution with Seamus that he had risked the life of this woman? Forget that he was falling in love with her. What right did he have to put anyone else at risk in this desperate pursuit? And what about Jacob?
If they made it safely to the other side of town, Davin would send both of his companions on their way.
This decision was what pushed him through the pain in his lungs and the weariness in his arms and legs as he tried to keep up with Jacob. Soon. It would only be him in danger.
Suddenly he felt the litter being yanked from his hands, and it was all he could do to keep it from sliding through his grip. He then stepped awkwardly on one leg and the momentum began to pull him to the ground.
All he cared about was keeping Seamus from tumbling as it would rip out the stitches. If his brother started bleeding again, he would surely die. All of this was going through Davin’s mind in the instant he guided the body toward the ground.
Jacob must have shared his commitment because between the two of them, they managed to lower Seamus’s gurney to the moist ground without dumping their fragile patient.
“What happened?” Davin noticed Jacob limping over to a fallen tree. Then the large man reached down to his ankle.
“I sorry for this.” Jacob snapped off a branch and tossed it.
Davin knew the grave situation they were now facing. He would have no way of carrying Seamus by himself, and if he flung his brother over his shoulder, it would rip open his wounds. Which was why he was relieved to see the runaway limp back over and reach down and clasp the handles.
They were off again, but with each step, Davin could almost experience the searing pain in Jacob’s injured ankle. At first, the man was able to hop along at a good pace, but with each step he slowed further, until it was apparent he could barely hold himself upright.
Wishing there was some way to relieve Jacob of the burden, all Davin could do was urge the man on. Because the longer this took, the more dangerous it would be for Muriel.
Finally they started heading down a slope, and to his great relief, Davin saw the road below.
Please, God, let Muriel be all right. Please let Jacob make it to the road.
Now with Seamus’s weight bearing downhill, Jacob could continue forward with short hops on his good foot, and they made it quickly to the bottom.
Muriel must have heard them coming through the bushes because she ran up and, seeing Jacob’s struggles, relieved him of the handles. “We must hurry!”
“What is it?” Davin didn’t even get the opportunity to celebrate seeing her again.
“I made it through town, but there was an old lady who was eying me suspiciously as I passed through. She could have been there to scout, which means we could be followed at any moment.”
They scurried to the wagon and loaded in Seamus, who was now awake and moaning.
“Jacob,” Muriel said. “I know the way from here. You should go.”
“We can’t send him off with his ankle injured,” Davin said. “He can barely walk. If we leave him here, he’ll either starve or be captured.” As he spoke these words he realized his intentions to set both Muriel and Jacob free were dashed. Their present circumstances had sealed them in this together for good. At this point, there was only one choice but to press forward, all together. They weren’t all that far from Taylorsville, and if they could somehow make it there, they would all have refuge.
Muriel bent down and ran her hands over Jacob’s ankles. “Davin is right. It’s terribly swollen already. It will be two weeks before you’ll be able to walk freely. Get in the back of the wagon.” She nodded at Davin. “You as well.”
He didn’t like the idea of leaving Muriel alone up front, but she said this with such force he followed her directions, and soon the three men were packed in tightly.
Muriel climbed up to the wagon seat, and almost instantly they were moving again with speed. Davin remembered they had tied his rifle to the bottom of the wagon. It would be useless to them down there, but there hadn’t been time to retrieve it either.
It was difficult for him to move in the cramped space, but he worked his way to the front where he could see Muriel urging all she could from the tired horse. By now, the sun was emerging, which made the road easier to see as it winded down through the trees to the farming valley below.
They had only traveled a mile or so when Muriel looked back and her shoulders slumped, and she began to slow the wagon.
“What’s going on?”
“Lie down. Both of you.”
“No,” Davin said.
“Let me take care of this.” Her expression held both concern and calm. “You must trust me.”
Jacob lay prostrate as directed, but Davin remained perched where he could peek out the opening.
In a moment, they could hear and feel the sound of horses approaching, then three men came up to Muriel standing in the road, waiting to greet them.
He was only able to see the men’s faces briefly before they stepped out of view, but two of them were young and bore enough of a resemblance to be the sons of the oldest, a portly man with a wide-brimmed black hat.
“Why, gentlemen, is there some reason you would come upon us with such great haste?” Muriel spoke with the soft accent of a well-bred Southern woman.
At first Davin thought there must be another lady speaking, but he was shocked to see these words coming from Muriel’s own lips.
“The fact is, Mama told us you passed through Garson in a bit of haste yourself, little lady.” It must have been the older man. “We reckon when somebody comes through without the courtesy of a salutation, it means they’re holding. Holding something of value. Figured we ought to check for ourselves.”
“Well now, gentlemen, I surely can understand your curiosity. But I’m supposing you don’t recognize me. Otherwise you wouldn’t be messing with me on account of my uncle. He always was rather protective of me.”
“And why should I care who your uncle is?”
Davin pressed his ear against the canvas of the wagon to try to hear, but their voices became muffled. Then the men started to laugh. Then he heard the sound of steps as they were approaching. Davin turned just in time to see the pudgy face of the older man appear at the back of the wagon. A grin emerged and then a cackle before he pulled his head out again.
“Looky there. She ain’t lying none.”
The two younger men took their turns at peering in and glanced at each other in amazement, then they withdrew in laughter as well.
“Well, if she ain’t just like her uncle.”
“I’ll say.”
After some more cordial, filtered conversation, Davin heard the horses leaving and he watched out the back as the three men galloped away.
He climbed out the front of the wagon opening and stumbled onto the bench beside Muriel just as she was pulling away, and the jolt nearly unseated him.
Once he righted himself, he looked over to Muriel as his stomach knotted. “What was that? What did you tell those men?”
Muriel didn’t answer for few minutes, and then she turned to him with sadness in her eyes and spoke with a slow drawl. “I merely told those men the plain truth.”
“Really? And what was that?”
“That I am the niece of the most notorious slave catcher in the South. And a Confederate spy.”
Chapter 46
The Wreckage
Clare had never seen Andrew so despondent.
Perhaps it was the bandage wrapped around his head. Or that the presses of the New York Daily continued to be silent. Then again, it most probably was the devastation of the building’s interior, which other than a board being placed on the shattered front window remained in the same condition it was following the riots a week ago.
At least the family was safe. The children were doing fine, all things considered. Andrew’s condition was much improved after taking a brick to his head while serving for the militia and sitting out most of the uprising in the hospital. The news on Cassie was also encouraging. Although she endured a brutal beating, she was healing well and already insisting on doing her chores again.
But the mortal blow appeared to be the newspaper that Charles Royce had founded and which his son, Andrew, had toiled so gallantly to keep its doors open.
“After all we’ve been through, we can’t just give in.” Owen readjusted the cap on his head.
Andrew leaned back in his office chair with his hands clasped. “Tell me honestly. What is your assessment of the press?”
“Well, there were quite a few blows with a sledge, I’ll admit to you.” Owen shifted in his chair. “But the old lady, she’s built like a canon. I can fix her. She’ll be singing again, I promise you that.”
“Oh, Owen, those are sweet words to the ear,” Clare said. “Where would the Daily ever be without your talents?”
“And what about the ink?” Andrew crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.
“The ink?” Owen went to blurt out a response but then stammered and lowered his eyes. “That’s the real hurt there. Those brutes poured it all over the equipment. It will take a barrel of patience to get it done, but I’ll get her cleaned up, even if I don’t sleep until I do.”
“How long, Owen?” Andrew pressed.
Owen looked up to the ceiling and his lips moved as if he was counting. “Let’s see, if I was doing it myself . . . maybe . . . three, four weeks.”
Andrew’s chin sunk to his chest. “Four weeks! Even three weeks with the press down and no revenues coming in will sink us to the bottom of the Hudson.” He placed his hands on the back of his head. After a moment he threw his hands up. “We’re done. There is nothing else we can do.”
“Oh, Andrew.” Clare’s heart ached for her husband. “Owen is right. Surely we will find a way to persevere as we always do. After all, who has more experience with hopeless than we do?”
“Yes. We’ve dealt with hopeless. And impossible. And impassible. And . . . and . . . all of those wonderful expressions of despondency. But it appears hopeless has finally had its way with the once-glorious Royce dynasty.” With his bandage, Andrew looked as if he had just limped off a battlefield, which in many ways he had.
A tap sounded on the door to their office. The handle turned and Caitlin stuck her head inside. “Umm . . . you might want to come out and see this.”
“Is everything all right?” Clare’s pulse triggered. Could they bear any more hardship?
They exited the office, and she saw Cyrus Field sitting outside holding a package with a bow. Clare instantly knew why he was here and she wasn’t in the mind-set to engage with the man. In the midst of Gettysburg and the draft riots, the report on his failed attempt at launching the Transatlantic Cable had come out and it was highly unfavorable. He certainly would be desperate for a supportive story from Clare.
He started to stand and extend a hand but Caitlin intervened. “Mr. Field,” she said, “could you give us just a few moments?”
Cyrus nodded, his face turning red, and he retreated back to the chair.
It was then Clare noticed the chatter below. Caitlin led them to the balcony looking over the first floor, and there with brooms in their hands, picking papers off of the ground and carrying in what appeared to be a new window, was what seemed to be half of the congregation of their recently adopted church.
Directing the traffic and barking commands was the Reverend Zachary Bridger.
“What is this?” Andrew’s mouth opened wide.
Songs of the Shenandoah Page 28