by Tara Cowan
He looked at her, studying her face.
“Can you not…take some time away?”
His expression gentled, and he took her hand in his and studied her for a time before shaking his head infinitesimally. “We are so unprepared in the event of war,” he said softly, suddenly confiding in her. “We haven’t proper Naval ranks so that we may have authority as a branch—no admirals, I mean, only captains, so that we must always bend our will to the army generals. Our ships—what few we have—are in terrible disrepair, and as a branch we are so small… There are so few men… I believe we must rely on volunteers among the immigrants, and how we shall manage when they speak no English, I…”
“John Thomas, how much are they relying on you?” she questioned, knowing well that bright minds were few and far between, especially highly trained ones. He met her eyes, and she felt she had a pretty firm grasp of the truth. “What are they having you to do?”
“We are redesigning our ships.” He looked out the window. “I ought not tell you that, but they’ll be seen being built soon enough.”
“You are designing them?”
He looked back at her. “Lending my assistance. A sad state, is it not?”
“No, of course not. I merely hope you are given your due.”
He pressed her hand, gently tugging her across the seat and slipping his arm around her. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “You are a darling. Likely I am not being paid enough, but who is? We are all doing what we must just now.”
She settled into his side, grateful for his warmth. “You are speaking of war as though it is certain, despite the new President’s claims to the contrary.” She lifted her head, searching his profile. “What do you know that I do not?”
He looked at her, and then back out the front window, where the driver was dimly visible. “Once we are inside,” he said, squeezing her hand.
Shannon swallowed as the driver pulled up before the house. He got down and helped her, and she looked over her shoulder, in the general direction of the White House, thinking that the Lincolns were there now, perhaps hosting tonight, perhaps, like them, on the point of turning down the lamps and going to bed.
John Thomas peered down at her and then touched her arm, looking toward the house and waiting. She turned, walking with him up the flagway, and waiting while he unlocked the door. She moved past him once it was open, her skirts gently brushing this and that, and waited in the foyer while he bolted the door.
Once they had stepped across the threshold into the bedchamber, he closed the door, and she stood waiting, eyes fixed upon him. He turned back toward her, looking grim, but hesitating.
“Tell me.”
“The Confederates have fired upon Fort Sumter for thirty-four hours and been met with return fire. The United States Army has surrendered the fort, and it is now in the possession of South Carolina.”
Shannon did not move, merely stood in the middle of the room, her color draining. “But you can see Fort Sumter from Ravenel House!” she exclaimed, feeling an inward tremble. Hostilities, gunfire, war… Perhaps they happened in Europe or Africa, but not mere miles from one’s home.
He touched her arm. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I have not heard that any civilians were injured, or that the houses were touched. And your family is in the sea islands presently, are they not?”
“Yes, but…” She could not seem to string two thoughts together. She looked down, seeing John Thomas’s hand, his dark sleeve, white shirt peeking beneath, but she could not process it. “But hostilities have begun, then,” she said softly, looking up, meeting his eyes. “Truly, this is war.”
He nodded, and her eyes filled. He took another step forward, his other hand coming up to her elbow, his eyes scanning her face as though he didn’t know what to do.
She turned her head away, closing her eyes. “Please, I…” She needed to sit, was afraid her legs would give way soon if she did not. She walked toward the bed and sank down, her skirts pluming around her. She hugged her arms around herself, and he sat down next to her, wrapping an arm about her, drawing her in to him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissing her temple. She began weeping, and he drew both arms around her tightly, his voice rasping as he whispered to her.
“How shall I survive it?” she mourned, emotion giving her voice an edge.
He held her against his chest for perhaps an hour. When her emotion was spent, and they both stared into the fireplace, he said softly, his voice not quite his own, “I am sorry. It was not what you bargained for, when you married me, and left your family.”
She looked up at his defeated tone, her lips parting. She had not realized that he had been thinking in such a way, and thought of Lizzie’s words. “No,” she said earnestly, reaching up and taking his face in her hands. “No, my dear man. You are worth it to me, don’t you see? I’m sorry if I do not say it, but…” Her eyes swept his beloved face. “Sorry if I am a shrew–”
“Shannon,” he whispered passionately, apparently overcome. “You are my life. And whatever is to come, we will face it together.”
“Yes.” Her eyes closed, and she whispered, “Yes, we shall.” Their lips touched, and danced, giving, deepening, until time was lost. Shannon felt his hands come on either side of her, and his body gently nudge hers down, and she pulled him closer.
Shannon was awakened in the stillness of the early morning. Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw John Thomas lying beside her, his cheek on the pillow. His blue eyes were upon her face, and she met them. He had laid waste last night to any misguided notions that he no longer desired her.
His hand came up and gently smoothed her hair before tucking it behind her ear. “You were sleeping so peacefully,” he said softly.
In general, she didn’t see him in the mornings. She contemplated it and studied him leisurely.
His eyes roved her face. “Are you well?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she said. “I told you I should be.”
He continued to regard her steadily, his expression losing some of its worry. His hand covered her cheek, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead, as though savoring her. She knew he could not say that he had desired her during those months, but his shaking hands the night before had told her. He could not just now find the words to say what she meant to him, but the way he looked at her, serious, contemplative, and gentle, said more. She remembered standing with him on the balcony at Santarella when they’d first kissed, and feeling terror in the marrow of her bones. And she felt it again now, fear that her life was beyond her control.
Washington, D.C., November 1861
Chapter Forty
Shannon watched in a sort of muted horror as the war opened before her eyes, as the ladies of her circle began sewing for the soldiers, as mail routes were closed between Richmond and Washington with the occupation of Alexandria, as the army seemed to take over Washington and one could not take a single step without seeing ten men in blue. Hospitals were set up, medical units prepared, nursing staffs gathered, munitions counted, defenses bolstered. The Union high command was stunned, could not seem to act or gather together a solid plan. John Thomas called it embarrassing.
They would soon have one alleviation in the form of Adams, who was coming to Washington to lend his aid to the Treasury Department. Apparently, the Secretary was an old friend of the family and desired a young genius at his side as preparations for a long war (for no one was saying it would be short any longer) were made.
Lizzie, having stunned her family by refusing Mr. Winthrop’s offer of marriage, had suffered an interview with Miss Dix, and was found to be unsatisfactory to join the Nursing Commission, as she was neither past thirty nor ugly. “Who cares for that when men are suffering and dying!” John Thomas had exclaimed during a rare moment at home.
“Indeed, I do not know,” Shannon responded, her head bent over her sewing. “I daresay she fears
younger ladies will be exploited by men, both the doctors and the soldiers.” She was a little surprised he should want his sister in such a situation, but the Congregationalists never failed to shock her with their radical ways.
Jonathan Whitcomb had been commissioned in the army as a chaplain and was being sent to Kentucky, a wrench for Patience and dear little James. Still, she had the support of her family and his and, though the young Whitcombs had moved to a cottage of their own shortly after little James’s birth, she was returning to the parsonage for the duration of Jonathan’s time away.
Charles had announced his intention to join the army, which naturally left his parents apprehensive, but they did not attempt to change him from what he felt to be his duty. He was sent under McClellan’s command in the Army of the Potomac, which was making plans to drive toward Richmond, if McClellan could ever gather the courage up, Shannon thought with a curl to her lip.
But she had little time these days for thinking of her loyalties. She had promised him once to keep her thoughts to herself, and she made a splendid job of it. She could not overtly support the war effort, but human suffering and need was something different altogether, as she had learned from her brief time as a Haley.
Her mother-in-law wrote to her, asking what could be done for the effort. Shannon could never see soldiers in their tents looking chilled to the bone without thinking of the men she loved, and so she told them to send scarves and gloves and stockings. She soon had more boxes of those than she could give out in Washington thanks to the industrious ladies of Massachusetts, and she and Phoebe began searching about for places in the most need. John Thomas, looking at her tenderly while she stood amidst the piles of crates in their foyer with her notepad, promised his aid, and soon she had addresses of likely regiments.
She wondered often when she was alone about her family. What had become of them? Was Frederick involved in military action? Had he been one of the many to be taken by disease in camp before he even had a chance to fight? These thoughts disturbed her mind more than she ever let her husband know, sometimes bringing her within an inch of hysterics.
She did receive one answer in November when they heard that a Confederate ironclad sank two wooden Union ships. It was a horrid blow to the Union, confirming all that John Thomas had been confiding to her about the state of the navy and how no one with any sense would listen and do what ought to be done. In the reports from the massive battle, which began to come to them in the following days, even Northern propaganda could not hide the impressive Southern naval efforts. The recent victories were headed by three captains, one of them named Frederick Ravenel.
Shannon, having been handed the paper by a mute John Thomas, looked up, thunderstruck. “I cannot believe it,” she breathed, lifting her fingers to her lips.
“Can’t you?” He looked away. “I can.”
She studied him, seeing suddenly that he missed Frederick. She was thankful she had noticed. She reached to cover his hand, and his eyes met hers. She pressed her lips together and admitted, “I am sorry if it angers you, but I am so very proud of him.
“How could you not be?” he said shortly. He got up, brushing his fingers through his hair. “I am myself.” He walked toward the door, only to be met by the manservant, who stepped through the door, so that he must stop.
He looked startled and said softly, “Yes? You needed something?”
“Forgive me, suh, but this arrived by special messenger.”
John Thomas’s brows drew together, and he took the letter, murmuring, “Thank you,” as he looked at the direction. He continued to stare at it a moment overlong. He looked up at Shannon, brows still drawn. “From South Carolina,” he said.
Her lips parted. “Impossible.” Her heart quickened.
He studied it, brushing his thumb over the direction. “It seems…” His brows drew together. “A flag of truce, perhaps.”
“Addressed to me?”
“To me,” he said, in more confusion still.
She swallowed, and waited, her hand at her high collar, as he broke the seal. He read for a few moments, before finally looking up, his face pale, lips parted, his eyes upon her face.
“What is it?” she demanded, gripping the handkerchief with the rose pattern which was in her hand.
He hesitated before bringing her the letter, kneeling next to her, and putting one hand on her shoulder. Her heart hammered against her ribcage, a sickening feeling unfurling in her stomach, heat spreading to her veins.
She hesitated, looking at him again. She read to the bottom and saw her father’s signature.
My Children,
I address this letter to you, John Thomas, because I want you to be near to comfort her when she reads it. I have no notion of whether this will make it to you, of whether you are still with her at home or off in battle, but I knew I must try and have been reliably informed that there is a chance such mail might not be denied.
In short, Shannon, your mother, found, some weeks ago, a lump in her breast, which we have since learned is cancerous. We have seen four physicians, all of whom tell us the same: her time is short.
There is no easy way to tell you this: I pray your husband is with you. I pray for your comfort.
There is so much to say, but I refrain in hopes that this letter will find you, that the Federals feel it is unnecessary to deny or censor it. Know that you are in our thoughts every moment, in our prayers constantly.
Your Father
Shannon awakened, feeling the heaviness of her eyes and a weakness in her spirit. The room was darkened, a fire glowing in the hearth. She blinked, attempting to see the clock above the mantle. Past ten o’clock. She had been asleep since the afternoon.
She felt a hand run over her hair and turned her head, seeing John Thomas sitting beside her, for once not in his uniform, but instead in his shirtsleeves. Her eyes flitted over him. “You are still here,” she said weakly. She had seen him only two hours in the last week combined. She had long since ceased wondering when he slept: he didn’t.
He reached for her hand, holding it tightly, eyes gentle on her face. She thought of how tenderly he had held her earlier, how much she had missed his embrace. She teared up now, meeting his eyes, and realized that his eyes also were misting.
“I cannot fathom it,” she whispered.
He fingered the white cuff on her nightgown, looking down at it. “She is…such a great lady.”
Shannon bit her lip, tears running freely down her face. “It seems impossible that I cannot go to them.”
He touched her cheek, looking into her eyes. He swallowed. “What can I do?”
She covered his hand, turned her head, and kissed his palm. His thumb stroked her temple, while his worried eyes continued to search her. “Nothing, John Thomas. You are here.”
The look in his eyes deepened further still. “I do love you so,” he said.
She studied his face, memorizing every curve and dip, every little perfection and flaw. Her brother’s friend. She still thought of that, occasionally. Of meeting him two years ago, and lying in bed with him now.
She held his eyes, and she could see it, how deeply he felt. It frightened her, the way he looked at her. “You are going to leave me, aren’t you?” she said softly.
He swallowed, holding her eyes. She bit her lip. “How long have you known?”
“Since last night,” he said softly, reaching to tuck her hair behind her ear. “It is why this morning I…” He swallowed. “I didn’t know how to tell you. How to part from you.”
“You…will captain a ship?”
“Yes.”
“And enforce the blockade?” she asked softly.
He held her eyes for a beat. “I must, Shannon,” he said at length. “You know I must.” His voice was soft, gentle.
She turned her head away. “When?” she said, the word sounding scra
tchy, forced from her throat.
“Next month.” A long silence passed. “I oughtn’t to discuss it now, but…time seems so short. I have to provide for your care and safety while I am away.”
She closed her eyes, promising that she would not again dissolve. “You have always provided for me, John Thomas.”
He leaned forward, kissing her forehead tenderly. He lay back and regarded her for a long moment. “As to money for you, I will execute a power of attorney.”
“To Adams?”
“To you.”
She lifted her brows slightly. “But it isn’t money I wish to speak of,” he said. He studied her as if memorizing her now. He hesitated. “I would prefer that you pass the war in Boston, Shannon.”
Her brows drew together. “But Washington is our home.”
“I know,” he said softly. “But you would have the support of my family, an entire community. You would be safer, farther away from the action, and…it would give me peace of mind.”
She blinked. It was all too much. Her mother, him, her home. “Do you know how I shall be treated there?” she said, sitting up. “With scorn, and suspicion, and I… At least here there are those who are sympathetic. But even so they gaze at me with a look in their eyes that says rebel. And I have done nothing but support this cause. It is merely for my birth, my accent, my history. In Boston I shall be a pariah!”
He looked at her in disbelief. “You are the wife of a naval captain. You shall have the protection of my entire family. Tell me who will close his door to you in such a circumstance? You have…built up an illusion–”
She stiffened. A silence grew and thickened the air. She turned and got up, walking over to the fireplace. She felt his eyes following her. She supposed she had imagined she was the only officer’s wife not invited to Mrs. Hempstead’s charity circle. Or that Mary Linwood whispered behind her fan to her daughter when she passed her in the street. She stood looking into the fire. Setting aside how disastrous it could be to John Thomas, she was unaccustomed to it entirely.