Songs of the Shenandoah

by Michael K. Reynolds

  “So?”

  What was the old trader asking about? Did he want to get paid for the supplies in the cabin? He shrugged his arms.

  “The word? What was it?”

  “The word?” Seamus laughed. “You mean the word in my sermon? At least one person was listening, I suppose.” He thought back to where he left off when he had been so abruptly interrupted. “It’s the one word that gives us the power for freedom in all circumstances.”

  “Yeah. What is it?”

  “Forgiveness, Fletch. The word is forgiveness.”

  The man glared at him with his one good eye while the other wandered as he seemed to be pondering the meaning. Then he put his hat on his head. “I believe that soldier did you a fine favor ’cause that word woulda had you lynched.” Fletch turned and waddled his way outside, leaving Seamus alone.

  “Forgiveness,” Seamus whispered to himself.

  Suddenly aware of the danger that lay ahead and the shortness of time he had remaining, Seamus blew out the candles in the church. He went outside where the road in front of the church was a scramble of wagons and carriages.

  Seamus looked to the darkening sky. He could already smell the smoke.

  Chapter 55

  Sierra

  “Do you know the trouble I got into the last time I spoke to a horse?” Seamus ran his fingers across the coarse chocolate-colored mane of the animal his daughter considered one of her best friends.

  It seemed so long ago when he was alone in his rustic cabin in the Rocky Mountains, wildly bearded, freezing, and on the brink of starvation. Had it really been fifteen years since he rescued the army horse in the stagecoach crash, the same event where he discovered Ashlyn’s letter that led him to her?

  More than time passing, it was the man in his past who seemed so distant. Back then he was grizzled, alone, and desperately seeking his sense of purpose in the world. How empty his life was without Ashlyn and Grace.

  And without forgiveness.

  Was Fletch right? Was it better his sermon was never completed? Or should he have insisted they all sit down so he could finish? He chuckled. That wasn’t going to happen.

  “What am I going to do with you, pretty lady?” He gave Sierra a carrot, and her lips extended and then her large teeth grabbed it from his hand and began to chomp.

  Looking around the inside of the barn, which Grace had done a good job of keeping clean, he considered his options. The Union cavalry had descended quickly around Taylorsville, and in the short time it took him to get back to Whittington Farms, they were already close by, burning farms in the perimeter around him.

  He could saddle up Sierra and make a run for it, but only at the risk of appearing to be a fleeing soldier or spy, and this choice could easily lead to him getting shot or arrested. And they would certainly confiscate or destroy Grace’s beloved horse then.

  Seamus couldn’t bear letting his daughter down.

  Sierra paused eating her carrot, and her ears perked to alertness.

  “What is it, girl? Do you hear something?”

  Seamus’s nerves tensed and his senses heightened. He had been in many battles. Why was he reacting this way now? He looked down at the cane in his hand. Was his injury causing him to feel insecure and vulnerable? Or was it that it had been more than a year since he was in the thick of a battle?

  Suddenly the latch snapped and the barn door creaked open. Seamus positioned himself between the entranceway and Sierra, as a father would in protecting his child.

  The stench of burning crops entered with the breeze, and standing before him was a soldier adorned in full battle regalia.

  Yet the uniform was not blue. It was gray. Seamus stepped back, planting his cane in the hay on the floor.

  The man gazing at him was Colonel Percy Barlow.

  “Seamus. I was so hoping I would find you here.” Percy’s uniform seemed to be without wrinkle or blemish, his hat bore the full flourish of a feather, and his broadsword hilt shone with luster.

  But the face of the man in the impeccable outfit was worn, defeated, and there was sadness in the blond-haired officer’s eyes Seamus had never before seen.

  “Percy?” Seamus surprised himself. His nervousness was now replaced with an overwhelming compassion.

  “I believe you are the only man who can help me now. Who can relieve me of my burden.” Percy stepped inside, his polished boots contrasting with the matted straw on the floor.

  “Where have you been?” Seamus could almost feel the pain in his healed wounds at the sight of this man. “No one has seen you since—”

  “Since Gettysburg?” Percy passed by Seamus and patted Sierra on her broadside with his white gloved hands. “A fine mare, this one.” Squinting with the pain of something buried inside, Percy looked up to Seamus. “Where have I been? Since I . . . since I shot you in the back?”

  “Yes. Since then.”

  “On the run. After I watched your body crumple to the ground, imagine my grief in seeing there were several faces looking back at me from among the wounded on that hill. We weren’t as alone as I had believed. And . . . I expected you to die.”

  Seamus jolted. Was Percy here to finish the job? He clenched the handle of his cane. “I cannot say I regret your expectations falling short.”

  Percy tucked his hands behind his back and circled around the interior of the barn. “If one was to be killed in here . . . shot . . . left to bleed to death . . . no one would know who to blame. The body would be discovered in a day, maybe two, and all would surely believe it was just another unpardonable crime by our northern invaders. And the Yanks?” He turned to Seamus. “They wouldn’t waste any time investigating it either. Truly, it seems so perfect, does it not?”

  “I suppose you may be right.” Seamus glanced around for a shovel, a crowbar, some tool he would be able to grab.

  The colonel pulled out a revolver from his holster. He popped out the cylinder and eyeballed the chambers and then gave it a spin, which clicked cleanly as it turned. “Have you seen one like this? I don’t believe so. At least if I am to believe what I was told. That this was one of Samuel Colt’s own custom models. That was what General Breckinridge told me when he gave it to me. Said I would have a brilliant career. Ha! My career.” Percy pulled back the hammer. “You know what I used this very weapon for? Do you?”

  Seamus’s knees began to quiver.

  “I thought one bullet would solve all of my problems.” Percy pointed the weapon at Seamus. “One shot. Then I would have Ashlyn back. My daughter. I would get to make that choice again. And this time . . . I would choose rightly.”

  The mention of his wife and Grace stiffened Seamus’s nerves.

  “But you know what I learned when I shot you? Hmmm? I knew even as the flint was firing. Before you hit the ground.” He glared at the gun. “There was only one way for the bullet to save me. To take away my pain. And I didn’t even have the courage for that.

  “And now . . . I am hoping you do.” He spun the weapon, and with the handle out, he offered it to Seamus.

  Seamus took the weapon from Percy’s hands.

  “Yes.” Percy eyes watered. “You have every reason to do this. For all I’ve done. To protect your wife. Your precious daughter. I will be out of your life forever. It will be as if I never existed. Do this now and no one will know.”

  The craftsmanship of the revolver was unlike any Seamus had ever seen. He ran his fingers over the cold metal, and it brought back memories of his days in the Mexican War, the whistles of musket balls, explosions all around him. How long had it been since he shot at a man? How would it have felt for Percy to fire this at his back on that rainy evening on that bloody field in Gettysburg?

  Seamus’s fingers moved to the hammer, and he carefully pulled it back and guided it slowly until it rested safely on the pin. He leaned down and slid the gun back into
Percy’s leather holster.

  “Do you have any idea of how many soldiers I talked out of putting barrels in their mouths?” Seamus’s voice was stern. “So many of them I came upon . . . strewn across muddy fields, their arms or legs blown off and scattered away from their bodies. Their faces disfigured and them begging me to take them out of this world. To end their pain.”

  Percy squeezed his eyelids shut, but Seamus continued. “And these were good men. Fine soldiers. With wives waiting for them at home. Children missing their fathers. So if I had not been willing to compromise my beliefs for those men, why . . . why would you ever think I would do this for you?”

  The colonel stumbled backward. “Don’t you want . . . revenge?”

  “I do. I am planning on revenge of the worse kind for you.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  Seamus gripped the man’s shoulder. “You, sir. You are going to be the only one in all of Taylorsville required to listen to the entirety of my sermon.”

  “Your sermon?”

  “Yes. It’s one I’ve been preparing for all of my life.”

  Chapter 56

  When Trees Whisper

  Davin didn’t know how much his beloved Strider could endure. And yet after nearly two days of riding, he continued to press even though he was quite fond of his horse.

  All around him were the signs of the devastation he feared. The skies were blackened with rising billows, fields were ablaze, and everywhere he looked, the carcasses of livestock lay scattered, their throats slashed and left either to burn in the flames or to be scavenged by buzzards and coyotes.

  Yet as he galloped through the smoldering countryside, he clung to whatever hope remained. If he could get to Whittington Farms before his fellow cavalrymen, he would use his rank to every advantage, even if it resulted in him getting court-marshaled.

  As he drew closer to Taylorsville, Davin tried to recall the location of the farm by referencing it against the background of the Massanutten Mountain range, which was draped with autumnal colors. He halted and allowed his horse to walk him over to a stream by a patch of trees. Then he opened his side leather pouch, extracted a map, and unfolded it.

  One thing was for certain, he could spare no time getting lost. But these farms appeared so similar to one another, especially with most of them burned. Was he already too late?

  And with everything appearing abandoned, he couldn’t count on finding a local, let alone trusting one to give Davin proper directions. He felt a twinge on his neck and smacked his palm against it, then looked at the crushed mosquito and splash of his own blood on his hand.

  It was unusually quiet. So much so that Davin could hear the loud lapping of his horse as it quenched what must have been a bitter thirst. He stroked Strider’s long, sweat-soaked neck, then turned his attention back to the map. He pinpointed his current position and glanced up at the mountains and then again at the paper in his hands.

  He was much closer than he thought. Perhaps just a couple of miles. Davin folded his map and tucked it back into the pouch.

  A shot rang out, and in a panic he looked up to see a mounted soldier leaping from the woods across the stream with a revolver firing. Davin’s horse reared and whinnied and suddenly it began to topple back.

  Davin struggled to keep his balance, but he was lurched backward and was now helpless as the great beast fell to the ground, the full force of its weight coming down upon him. Pain seared through Davin’s leg, and rather than his horse continuing to struggle, it collapsed motionless, trapping its rider beneath it.

  Panic came over Davin. He was unable to move much at all. His legs and hips were pinned, and his weapons were out of arms’ reach.

  “Easy, easy, soldier.” The man standing over him was dressed in Confederate gray, with a long officer’s broadsword in his scabbard and blond sideburns reaching down from either side of a plumed hat. He pointed a revolver at Davin.

  So this was how it was to end? How could he have allowed himself to be ambushed? It was foolish enough for him to be traveling alone in enemy territory. But to take his eyes off of his surroundings for even a minute was inexcusable for a soldier of his experience. The rebels were defeated, but they certainly wouldn’t give up this territory without seizing any opportunity for retaliation.

  He extended his arms in surrender and closed his eyes, waiting for the sound of the explosion at any moment. Then he heard boots scraping across the dirt. Davin opened his eyes to see the man sitting on a fence post nearby.

  “Doesn’t look like you’re going anywhere.” The soldier holstered his handgun and pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette from his pocket, put it in his mouth, and then struck a match. He cupped his hands, lit the end, and then waved his wrist to extinguish the flame. “Beautiful time of the year for the Shenandoah Valley, wouldn’t you say?”

  Davin had come so close to seeing Seamus again. Perhaps even Muriel. To fall just a couple of miles short, and now to die here on the road . . . Was there a way out of this? Did he have a knife in reach?

  “What’s your name?” The man blew smoke into the air.

  What should he tell him? His name and his rank? What difference would it make? With all of the destruction caused by his own people, Davin could hardly expect this soldier would follow any protocol. “Lieutenant Hanley.”

  The words startled the man. “You don’t say? Why, I know a man named Hanley.”

  Of course he would. “That’s my brother. Seamus.”

  The man tilted his head back and laughed. “It would seem Seamus’s God has a strange sense of humor.” He hopped down from the fence, walked over to Davin, and crouched down. “You do look like him.” He held out a hand and Davin shook it cautiously. “I am Percy Barlow. Colonel Percy Barlow. How are you enjoying your visit to our fine land?”

  Davin remained silent. This man had all power over him. One misstep and it would be over.

  “Let me answer that for you. Not . . . too . . . well.” Percy laughed heartily. He threw his cigarette on the ground and pulled his revolver out again. He pointed it at Davin’s head, his hands beginning to shake.

  This time, Davin didn’t close his eyes. He watched the man’s face twist with conflict and turmoil.

  Suddenly Percy stood. “Why this isn’t proper. Two officers. Gentlemen.” He set the gun tantalizingly close to Davin, bent down, and lifted on the horse’s hindquarters, grunting, and gave it a shove.

  In one motion Davin freed himself, grabbed the weapon, and then stumbled to his feet.

  Percy stepped back and dusted his hands. “Is that any way to return my generosity?”

  Davin looked down at the exceptionally crafted weapon in his hands. “You wanted me to have this.”

  “A duel. How about that, Lieutenant Hanley? I win and all of you Yankees go home. You kill me and we’ll set all of the captives free.” He pulled his sword from his hilt and held the point vertically in front of his face.

  “You’re mad.” Davin pointed the gun at him. “Put that blade down.”

  “Tell your brother.” Percy lowered the sword slowly. “Tell him he may forgive me, but I will never forgive him. Never.” Percy’s teeth clenched. “For a man’s pride, his dignity, respect—that is all he has. Nothing else matters.”

  Davin stepped back. “Put down that weapon. I won’t tell you again.”

  Percy smiled and relaxed his shoulders, then with eyes bulging with hate he lunged toward Davin.

  The shot seemed to echo for a long time, and Percy crumpled to the ground and his horse darted back toward the woods.

  Davin flipped the body over, and there was a tear in the chest pocket of Percy’s jacket where blood was oozing out. Then Davin placed his fingers on the colonel’s neck. No pulse.

  He went over to Strider, relieved to see the horse was gone. He wasn’t suffering. Davin stood, dropped the colonel’s g
un on the ground, and limped southward as the world burned around him.

  Chapter 57

  The Burning

  Thirty minutes ago the Yankees had left Whittington Farms with their torches, taunts, and yelps of glee. The fields still glowed with small fires, flying embers, and the air was rank with the smell of burning corn.

  Seamus slumped on the wooden stairs of his front porch, watching all of his labors of the past few years turn to ash. He had thought his preacher’s collar would earn him some mercy, and as he looked over at his blackened barn and his smoldering crops, he realized how futile this hope had been.

  At least they didn’t burn down the house. There was this to celebrate.

  But his heart grieved for the people of his town, of his congregation, who had farmed here for generations. How would they ever be able to rebuild their lives once again? Although the fertile Shenandoah Valley had been generous in its yields, the war needs of Jefferson Davis had stripped clean most of the harvest, and even before the torching, those who lived here were barely able to survive. The fires would prove to be the last indignity.

  Seamus glanced up toward the dirt road leading into his farm. Something approached in the distance. He squinted. After a few moments, he discerned a figure emerging through the smoky haze. A Union soldier.

  Hadn’t they done enough damage? Were they coming to take more pounds of flesh?

  Something was wrong. The soldier lumbered forward with a heavy limp. A few more steps and Seamus recognized the face of the bearded man. Seamus reached for his cane and pushed himself up to his feet.

  “Davin?”

  “Seamus!” Davin loped his way forward, almost dragging his foot along the way.

  The two brothers met in a strenuous embrace, both hobbling to keep their balance and sobbing with joy.

  “Oh, Seamus, you must forgive me.” Davin put his hands on his head and surveyed the devastation. “I tried . . . so hard to get here. I could have stopped them.”

  Seamus no longer cared about the damage, the smoke; he was joyous. He grabbed a handful of Davin’s hair. “Is this really you, little brudder? Can this be?”