Songs of the Shenandoah (11 page)

“We are not here to find husbands for women,” Mrs. Jennings said flatly. “Our only obligation, our sole mission is to serve our soldiers, and we have made a sincere promise to President Lincoln that the Sanitary Commission would in no way be a hindrance to his brave and righteous war effort. With so many of those boys starved for affection and attention from a female, it would be a great injustice to them and their mothers to offer up such temptation. I'm quite sorry, but that is our final decision.” She began to write on Caitlin's application.

“Wait.” Mrs. Jennings glanced up. “What is this? Are you related to Clare Royce?”

“Yes. She is my sister.”

“Clare Royce of the
New York Daily
?” asked Miss Patterson.

“Yes. That would be the one.”

The two older women looked at one another. “Well, I wish you would have mentioned that to us from the start.” Mrs. Jennings rested her pen down. “Your sister and her husband have been great friends to the Sanitation Commission.”

Miss Patterson nodded. “Yes they have indeed. And as a matter of some coincidence, we have requested on many occasions that Mrs. Royce come in person and report on our operations. We're quite proud of them, you know.”

“So,” Mrs. Jennings continued, “if we were to reconsider your application, do you think you could provide the reporting yourself?”

“Well . . . I don't know. I help out at the newspaper, of course, but I have never considered myself—”

Muriel held her arm out. “Caitlin is overly modest. She is an excellent writer. I have read her stories myself.” Caitlin's work at the
Daily
was almost strictly limited to clerical work and assisting with the classified ads. But how difficult could it be to write some stories on the activities of the Sanitary Commission's volunteers?

“Then it's surely settled.” Mrs. Jennings returned to writing on the paperwork. “There is a shift leaving in two days. Will this be sufficient time?”

All of the sudden, Muriel realized the finality of all of this. Two days? Was she really prepared to abandon Clare and leave the relative safety of Manhattan to head toward the front lines?

“Absolutely. Will that be all now?” Muriel stood and held out her hand to Miss Patterson. After shaking it, she extended a hand to Mrs. Jennings, who shook it without looking up from her notes.

“Very well, ladies,” Miss Patterson stood and straightened her dress. “We welcome you to the Sanitary Commission where we will expect you to serve your country with devotion and diligence.”

“Yes, ma'am. Good day. And thank you.” Muriel grabbed Caitlin by the arm and led her from the room.

Caitlin glanced back before they started down the long hallway and then whispered in Muriel's ears, “What horrible manners! I hope you did not listen to a single cruel word they uttered.”

“Had they been untrue I would have protested. Today I have learned what a virtue it is to be plain and simple. Not a single bullet will go astray on account of my graces.” She laughed and leaned into Caitlin. Maybe her poor uncle, bless his soul, had a vision for her larger than merely getting married.

“But,” Muriel said, “we must do something about your intolerable beauty. I fear you possess the credentials to single-handedly lose the war.”

“Oh, you are a terrible tease.”

They exited the hallway and continued out of the waiting room and were shortly on the streets, where the brightness of the midday sun caused Muriel to cover her eyes.

All around on the streets of New York City, they passed by mothers, with babies in their arms, and children playing. Muriel tried to extinguish her thoughts of the humanity of this place. It was difficult as she walked alongside Caitlin, who had become her good friend. Muriel thought of the Royces she would be leaving behind.

And then there was Davin. Was Caitlin right? Had she become emotionally drawn to him?

She needed to rise above these sentiments. Hadn't she learned by now?

First losing her parents. Then bonding with her uncle, as flawed as he was. And look what happened to him?

Yes. She needed to leave all of this before it became too real. Before she got too close.

Chapter 13

The Emptiness

Taylorsville, Virginia

February 1862

“What hour is it?” Ashlyn pulled Seamus's timepiece from his pocket.

They sat together in the wooden pew of the Taylorsville church as a packed sanctuary of mostly well-dressed women, children, and old men squirmed in their seats and chattered.

“It is time for us to go.” Seamus smiled at his wife, amazed that at thirty-five years of age, she still looked as angelic to him as the first day he saw her in a photograph. Her long, auburn hair was fashioned atop her head and tucked under a black, plumed hat, with two curls reaching down on either side of her cheeks. Ashlyn only had one nice Sunday dress—burgundy with white lace trimmings—but she had taken such good care of it and it fit her so well she appeared wealthy, well beyond their means.

“You are not going anywhere, Seamus Hanley.” She tapped her finger on his nose.

Seamus sighed. There was so much to do at the farm in order to prepare for planting season. If it wasn't for Tatum and Mavis there would have been no harvest last year, and he felt obligated to assist them as much as possible. He had remembered much from the days of his youth on his family's potato farm in Ireland. Yet there was so much new to learn in understanding the land of the Shenandoah Valley.

Last year's corn crop was rich and bountiful, and it had provided plenty for not only the Hanleys, but for Tatum and Mavis as well who earned a fair share. But they weren't the only ones who received a generous portion of the yield. Seamus glanced toward the front of the church where Fletch sat next to his wife, Coralee.

It was painful for Seamus to agree with Fletch on a “gentleman's tithe” of Whittington Farm's provision in exchange for the services and conditional freedom of Tatum and Mavis. At the time of the arrangement, Seamus could not afford to buy their release outright, although he was hopeful with a good season this year, they would be able to do just that.

Sitting quietly next to his mother and father was Anders Fletcher, whose only attempt at dressing up for Sunday was wearing a clean white shirt under his black suspenders. He turned back toward them, as he did through most of the Sunday services, showing his full-cheeked face with long sideburns, his head topped with bushy, brown hair. When he caught Seamus's protective glare, he turned away.

Seamus looked to his daughter, Grace, who had her mother's beauty but none of her interest in Southern flair. In her plain tan dress, she looked the part of a country girl. Ashlyn was right about their daughter. Farm life had suited her well and taught her about humility and hard work. The cantankerous teenager had given way to a more gentle-spirited young lady. It was even her own idea to postpone her wish of having a horse so they could afford to build a small hutch for Tatum and Mavis under the great oak tree at the far end of their property.

He glanced to the front of the church where the pulpit seemed barren without Pastor Asa Hudson looking down upon them. Pastor Hudson often began his preaching with a measure of insightful challenges to their faith, but he never neglected to finish without heavy measures of unabashed grace. As he would often say, this cruel world provided enough condemnation, he wanted his message to offer spiritual salve to his congregation's wounds.

“Where is the good pastor?” Seamus turned before realizing he had interrupted Ashlyn's conversation with Grace. The two of them had developed a sweet friendship, once again something he credited to their life in the Shenandoah.

Before his question was answered, he heard murmurs from the fellowship and looked up to see Pastor Hudson's wife making her way to the front of the church.

“My dear friends.” Ethel was a short woman, her gray hair fastened with a blue bow that matched her dress. Both her voice and disposition were soft and cheerful. She raised her hands to quiet them down, and they acquiesced. “I am terribly sorry to inform you that Asa has chosen not to preach this morning. He fully expects, Lord willing, to be hurling fire and brimstone at each and every one of you next week.”

A mixture of responses varying from surprise to consternation ensued.

“That fellow's only gots to work but once a week.” Abe Durham scratched at his white whiskers. “I reckon he ought to be here on the Sabbath.”

There were grunts of affirmation and protest to what the wheat farmer had uttered.

“Has he taken ill?” a woman piped in from the back.

“No,” Ethel said. “He is quite well. Just he has decided not to preach today and wishes you all the best.”

Voices rose from the gallery.

“What are we to do without a word from God?”

“In such difficult times as these?”

“We've been waiting all week.”

“Not even a verse to meditate on?”

As Seamus heard this, he felt the familiar knot in his stomach. It sounded to him as if sheep were bleating. How quickly they had turned on Asa. Certainly Seamus, of all people, knew and understood the pain a congregation could cause to its pastor. How easily does the faithful man fall!

The widow Nell Turner's deep drawl broke in. “Don't seem right he couldn't spare a kind word or two.” She spoke from behind the black veil, the one she wore every Sunday, even though her husband passed away three years ago.

“I am afraid that won't happen today.” Ethel gave a strange, desperate glance toward Ashlyn.

“Seamus.” Ashlyn grasped his arm and locked in with her brown eyes, the one she brandished whenever she needed a favor or was about to make a demand. “Please do something about this. Surely you can help out dear Pastor Hudson?”

Grace who was sitting on the other side of Ashlyn leaned in with a mischievous smile. “Yes, Da. Do something.”

Seamus clenched his hands around his Bible, which was worn from its time in gold country. “Do what exactly?”

“Go up.” Ashlyn gave him a playful nudge. “And say a few words.”

“C'mon, Da. It's been so long since we've heard you preach.” Grace brushed back the long brown curls draped over her beaming smile.

“I will certainly
not
.”

“All right. All right.” Fletch stood and faced the congregation with his hands held high. “There is no need for us to waste such a fine Sunday, now we're all here. I suppose I could share some, seeing as the good reverend ain't figuring us worthy of his time.”

There was a smattering of applause but mostly derisive laughter.

“Finally a sermon I'll wake for,” Abe Durham bellowed on account of his poor hearing. “Ol' Fletch is gonna share his shine recipe.”

The mere sight of Fletch moving toward the pulpit was enough to cause Seamus to spontaneously rise to his feet. What was he doing? Seamus apologized as he stepped by Lara Banks who was cradling her sleeping baby. Once he made it to the aisle, he was committed. He would appear more foolish by returning to his seat now than pressing forward.

So with his legs beginning to wobble, he pressed forward to the pulpit, without any notion of what he was about to say.

Chapter 14

The Reluctant Sermon

Although he had given up his own ministry life, Seamus had enough pastor left in his soul to know allowing Fletch to speak in Asa's church would not be a good idea. Seamus couldn't permit the man to defile this sanctuary with whatever might spill from his lips.

When Fletch saw him approaching, the bent-over man rested his palm on the wooden lectern and furled his brow in a challenge of wills.

Seamus went around to the other side, slapped his Bible down, then fumbled through the pages, hoping there would be some sudden inspiration. “Sit down, Virgil,” he said with a firmness that didn't conceal his anger.

To his surprise, the large man waved his arms in surrender and wobbled his way back to his seat. “Let's hear what the Yank has to say.”