Songs of the Shenandoah

by Michael K. Reynolds

  For his part, Davin had no desire to celebrate as this part of the country brought back poignant memories of his voyage to return Seamus back home. Especially now upon learning of a rumor that was causing him great distress. Could it possibly be true? Has the war come to this? And at what price victory?

  He veered off Main Street and hurried up the wooden stairs to an office building with the words “Gordon Chafee, Attorney-at-Law” painted in gold on the glass window. He went to the bright red door guarded by a private.

  “Lieutenant Hanley, sir.” The man saluted.

  “I am here to see the colonel.”

  “Yes, of course. Let me see if he is available.” The private opened the door and Davin entered without awaiting a welcome.

  “Colonel Jenkins.” Davin stepped in to see the gray-haired officer attending to paperwork at the desk of a finely appointed office.

  The colonel looked up and must have noticed the distress in the private’s face. “It’s all right, son. You can leave us alone. Come in, Lieutenant Hanley.”

  The private left and closed the door behind him. The colonel waved Davin to a chair across from him at the desk.

  Having sat in the creaking leather chair, Davin realized how sweaty he was in his warm uniform. His anxiousness to see the colonel had caused him to ride his horse hard in order to get answers from his superior officer.

  Colonel Jenkins opened the bottom drawer, pulled out a bottle of gin, and set two glasses on the desk, but Davin waved him off. “Are you sure? The barrister was kind enough to have left me a bottle. True Southern hospitality I would call it.”

  “No thank you on the drink, sir.”

  “Well, Lieutenant, you seem preoccupied.” The colonel poured himself a glass of the clear liquid. “Speak plainly.”

  “Colonel, sir, I heard something that . . . I found troubling.”

  The colonel’s hair, although gray, was full and well brushed, and this combined with his thick, black eyebrows and cleft on his chin gave him a distinctive appearance. “You’ve heard of ‘The Burning,’ I suppose?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. So it’s true?”

  “It seems philistine, doesn’t it? Here in the peak of harvest, to have orders to burn every field in the valley, and to slaughter every cow, pig, and sheep?”

  Davin always respected the colonel, as he was a competent, well-liked military officer who didn’t seem as infatuated with the trappings of war as were most of his colleagues. “That is what I heard. Is this solely on General Sheridan’s orders?”

  “All the way to General Grant on this one. I am afraid this isn’t an order that will get countermanded by conscience. This is one of those we do and try our hardest to forget we did. That’s the war, Lieutenant.”

  “But, sir. How will these people feed themselves? They will starve.”

  “The point is to starve out General Lee. The Shenandoah Valley has served as his personal kitchen for the Army of Northern Virginia. I suppose General Sheridan is only trying to smoke the bees out of the hive.”

  Davin now questioned the wisdom of his visit. He should have known it would be futile to protest, and now it would be more difficult to operate surreptitiously. “Will there be any exemptions? To the burnings?”

  Colonel Jenkins placed the cork on the bottle and set it back in the bottom drawer. “You mean for a certain pastor in the town of Taylorsville?”

  “Yes.” Davin worried as to whether he should have confided in the colonel in regards to his brother. But how else would he find out about Muriel?

  “It will be a clean strip. Not another loaf of bread or ear of corn will be served from this valley until hell comes to claim all of us. No exceptions.”

  Davin felt the sudden urge to leave. “How soon will they be in Taylorsville?”

  Colonel Jenkins gave him a worrisome look, like that of a father to a son. “They are moving up from Staunton and should make their way up within a couple of days. But, Lieutenant Hanley.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re a fine officer. Many, including myself, have taken notice of you. It would be a shame to see you throw it all away in some hopeless effort to try to stop what is inevitable.”

  Davin stiffened. “I understand your concern, sir, and it is noted.”

  The colonel stared at him for a few moments and laughed. Then he emptied the contents of his shot glass. “I would expect as much from you.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now about that other matter.”

  “You were able to follow up on that, sir?” With all of the attention given to the recent battle, Davin wasn’t expecting any progress on his request.

  “Yes. You wanted me to inquire about that woman . . . the Confederate spy.”

  “Muriel McMahon.” His heart pounded.

  “Well, it turns out her real name is Muriel Perkins, and I don’t have many details to share.” He leaned over and lifted a folder on his desk and opened it up. “It does indicate here that you reported her as a Confederate spy. But according to this, Muriel Perkins had already turned herself in several weeks earlier with a letter of confession left at . . . let’s see . . . the residence of Anika and Pieter Vandenbroek. Do you recognize those names?”

  “Yes sir, I do.” Davin couldn’t share this was the couple who gave them shelter on his unauthorized journey to bring his brother home. But a letter of confession? What could this mean? Why would she sign her own death certificate? “I appreciate you took time to look into it for me, sir. I am much obliged.”

  All Davin wanted to do was to leave the office. His time was short if he was going to make it to his brother’s farm in time. And now there was another possibility, one he had not given much hope for until this moment.

  Perhaps Muriel had evaded capture. Maybe she was still at his brother’s home and was merely in hiding. After all she had done for Seamus, his brother would do just about anything to protect her.

  “Lieutenant Hanley?”

  The mention of his name jarred him from his thoughts. “Yes, sir?”

  “Be careful, son.”

  Davin stiffened his legs, squared his shoulders, and gave the colonel a firm salute.

  He turned and walked out the door, thanking the private on his way past. When he arrived at his chestnut mare, he gave a quick inventory of all he had. Yes, he had all he needed to travel for a few days.

  He untied the horse and began to trot his way down the dirt road. Davin would have to restrain himself until he passed all of the main sentries. With his rank he would have few obstacles making it out of town. Once there, he would ride at full pace.

  He glanced to the side for a moment and saw he was being saluted by a black soldier, who was tall, strong, and impressive looking in his uniform.

  “Jacob?”

  The man paused, then seemed to recognize him as well. “Sir?”

  Davin stood before the very slave who had risked all to help him deliver Seamus to safety. “Jacob!” He leaned down and grasped the man’s hand and shook it firmly. “What happened? How did you . . . ?”

  “The man with dat crooked neck. He done freed me few days after I seen you gone. Drove me cross the border hisself.”

  Davin tried to remember the man’s name who had delivered both Jacob and him to the trader’s camp but couldn’t recall it. None of that mattered. Jacob was free and serving with the Union army.

  “It’s mighty well to see you, Jacob. You are a good man, and I’m sure you are a fine soldier as well.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about bein’ no good man or good soldier, sir. But I knows God ain’t finished with Jacob yet.”

  “No. I suppose He is not.” Davin saluted the runaway slave and continued out of the beleaguered town of Winchester.

  He was anxious to make haste and it took all of his discipline and patience to wait until he could open to a full gallop.


  In the meantime he pondered Jacob’s words. Davin knew God wasn’t finished with himself either. But what about Muriel? Would he see her again? Was there any chance she remained at Whittington Farms? If so, she was in terrible risk of being captured and hung.

  Up in the distance, it seemed the skies were already darkening with smoke. Or were those merely storm clouds?

  Finally Davin passed the last outpost, and the hooves of his horse thundered against the fertile land as he was heading south now, deep into the Shenandoah Valley.

  Chapter 54

  The Message

  “Do you not think it wise to consider changing your sermon this morning?” Ashlyn whispered to Seamus during a brief lull in their duties of greeting congregants at the door.

  “It is, I am afraid, too late for that my dear bride.” Seamus adjusted his collar constricting his neck. “But it is not too late for you to take my lovely daughter home so she can avoid the embarrassment of seeing her father stoned.”

  “Speaking of your lovely daughter.” Ashlyn, who was wearing her long, blue dress, pointed with a finger of her white gloved hand. “I find it so dear how she continues to dote on young Anders, even with his condition being as it is. I believe it is a fine testimony to her character.”

  Seamus observed his daughter approaching on the walkway leading up to the old wooden church, her arm under the elbow of Anders’s remaining good arm. His left sleeve was folded up to nearly his elbow. Ashlyn was right. When the young man returned to Taylorsville with his injury, Grace never wavered in her affection for him. If anything, it grew stronger.

  Ashlyn gave Grace a hug as she came up, while Seamus tapped Anders on his shoulder.

  “You’re getting along better each day,” Seamus said.

  “He’s an inspiration.” Grace beamed at Anders.

  “I don’t know what all the fussin’ is for,” Anders said. “I still got one good arm left.”

  They entered the doors of the church and behind them trailed Anders’s parents.

  “Good morning, Coralee.” Ashyn held her hand out to the woman, who wore black from her hat to her shoes with Fletch accompanying her in his usual overalls.

  “There is nothing good about today. Nothing at all.” Coralee pulled out a fan from her purse and flapped it open. “This is the darkest of all Sundays I fear.”

  “Fletch.” Seamus held out a hand to the smuggler who shook it and offered a disconsolate nod.

  More entered into the small church sanctuary, and it was clear the mood was more akin to a funeral procession. As the parade of grief filtered by him, Seamus reconsidered Ashlyn’s advice. So many widows and parents had lost husbands and sons. They had sacrificed so much and would no doubt be unwelcoming to today’s sermon.

  It had been months since Pastor Asa had died rather suddenly. When Seamus assumed leadership of the tiny Taylorsville church congregation, the transition had not been easy as Asa was beloved and had baptized and married most of them. But for the most part, they no longer saw Seamus as a Northerner. Whether he was comfortable with it or not, they believed he was now one of them.

  Much of this could be credited to Ashlyn’s deep roots in the community and her heart for caring for others. Although Seamus was the pastor, it was her love of Taylorsville’s people and history that allowed them to forgive any of his reservations about their traditions.

  But it also was his service in the war. Even though he was in the position of chaplain, the South treated all of their Confederate veterans with a high degree of honor, and Seamus was no exception.

  Most of all, it was Seamus’s growing love and acceptance for his congregation. They were flawed and difficult at times, but they were the people God had trusted to him to shepherd. And who was he to complain of the shortcomings of others?

  So with all this being considered, and with his hands shaking at the prospect of what he was about to say, was it worth risking this hard-fought rapport with the people?

  Seamus already knew the answer, because it was a message God had not only shared with him, but insisted that he deliver to others. It was as if all of his life was leading up to the words he was about to preach.

  “I think that’s all of them, Pastor Hanley.” Ashlyn gave him her usual smile of assurance, the one that brought dimples to her cheeks.

  Now that the last of the stragglers had arrived, he escorted Ashlyn inside to her seat next to Grace, who ever since Anders had returned sat in the front row with the Fletcher family.

  When Seamus made his way to the lectern, there was a hush among them in anticipation of what he might have to say. He could see in their faces an anxiousness, a craving for some word of encouragement. They were all desperate for something to ameliorate their pain. To soften the hurt of defeat. As he panned the faces, he saw mostly women, children, and the elderly. Each of them now locked gazes with him, thirsty for the waters of restitution.

  He closed his eyes briefly, then exhaled. “As I am sure you are all aware, our precious valley has been lost. Our own brave General Jubal Early has been defeated. Having nobly defended this territory on our behalf, he and his army have been driven south, leaving us at the mercy of the soldiers of the opposition.

  “Many of you have suffered both personally and dearly for the sake of this war. Sons. Husbands. Brothers. Lost. Generations impacted by this tragedy. As you all know, I am not here to judge the merits of this conflict, and many of my opinions are not shared by most here.”

  There was an uneasy shifting in their seats at this reminder.

  He glanced to Ashlyn and drew strength from her lifted chin and steady gaze. No stumbling of speech on his part would erode her support as she understood the intentions of his heart.

  “It is not my aim today to instill any sense of hope in the plans and intentions of our generals in striving for victory, nor to dissuade you of that possibility. Neither do I claim a stake in those outcomes for my interests lie solely in the strength of your faith and your proper expression of this faith.”

  Seamus looked out among them for some sense of affirmation, but there was only numbness and some emerging hints of discomfort.

  His throat felt dry and he coughed in his hand. “We all see the danger rising on the horizon, a terror approaching, and we know these well to be the orders of the Union’s General Philip Sheridan. It is by his command that the fields of the Shenandoah have been put to the torch, and our livestock scattered or slaughtered.”

  There were groans and gasps from the assembly.

  “The reports are they will be here tomorrow. For those who remain behind, we will be helpless to stop them.”

  “We are not helpless!”

  Seamus held up his hand. “It is beyond our strength to protest because we are overrun. Our boys have fought bravely. Many have laid their lives down to protect us. But it is over now.”

  “It will never be over!”

  “We’ll fight to our last breath!”

  “We will be stripped of all we possess.” Seamus raised his voice to speak above the clamor. “So what can we do?” He lifted his Bible and opened it to where a red ribbon was holding its place.

  “Hear this from the book of Proverbs: ‘If thine enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat; and if he be thirsty, give him water to drink: For thou shalt heap coals of fire upon his head, and the Lord shall reward thee.’”

  “How can he speak this way!”

  “Shall we bake them bread as they burn our fields?”

  “We will spit in their faces.”

  “They may believe us to be captives,” Seamus said. “There is one word in which we have great power. One that is capable of breaking all chains. It is not bitterness. It is not anger.”

  The doors at the back of the church flung open and light filtered into the room. It was a Confederate soldier, but sun behind him was shadowing his face.

&n
bsp; “Come in, friend,” Seamus said. “You are not too late.”

  “I am here on the general’s orders. The Yankees are approaching and will be here within a few hours.”

  The congregation rose to its feet as one, and panic beset them all.

  “You have all be ordered to leave Taylorsville,” shouted the soldier, who now could be seen as young and his face bright with terror. “Up northeast you will find sanctuary. But you mustn’t delay.” These last words were unnecessary as the flock had already begun emptying out of the church to sounds of nervous chatter and shouts.

  Seamus’s shoulders slumped for a moment. But then he shifted to concern for his family, and he walked over to Ashlyn who was in discussion with the Fletchers.

  “Fletch has offered to take us to his cabin,” she said. “They have provisions.”

  “That’s very kind.” Seamus rested his arm on the man’s broad shoulder. “You are a good friend to us.”

  “We should git on with it.” Fletch pointed them toward the door of what already was an empty room.

  “What about Sierra?” Grace’s eyes glazed with concern. “The Yankees are killing all of the animals.”

  Seamus pulled his daughter into him and kissed her head. “I’ll go back and take care of your horse, Gracie.”

  “Oh, Seamus, do you think it wise?” Ashlyn asked, her forehead wrinkling.

  He pulled her in as well and the three of them embraced. “I’ll be fine.” They held each other for a while, and then he stepped back and nodded down to his pastor’s clothing. “I’ll be wearing this. They won’t cause me any harm.”

  Seamus turned to Anders. “You will take care of my ladies?”

  “Yes, sir. I will do that.” The young man corralled them toward the door, and they reluctantly made their way out, leaving only Fletch standing behind.