Songs of the Shenandoah (12 page)

The “Yank” was a nickname the town had given him, but never was it uttered so boldly in front of him. Although the town had warmly welcomed Ashlyn and her daughter back home, there was still visceral distrust for him, even though it had been more than a year since they arrived.

He rolled up his sleeves and peered out at the faces now looking up to him, a montage of shock, veiled disgust, and whispers. Then there was Ashlyn, who had pulled out a handkerchief and was dabbing her eyes, her visage lit with pride. Leaning into her shoulder was Grace, who now seemed more concerned than encouraging.

Seamus was determined not to embarrass her in front of all of these people. But the shaking of his knees and his hands were conspiring against him. How long had it been since he was in this position?

The memory of his last act as a minister of God weighed heavy on him. Suddenly, he could smell the fresh spring air of the Sierra mountains, hear the warbling birds, and see the snow melting into newly wrought streams. A setting to behold on any other morning, but not as he marched down the boulder-strewn trail out of the gold mining camp, his clothes soaked and muddy, the laughter of mockery following behind him.

He had sworn he would never preach a kind word to fools again!

Seamus looked down at his Bible, the pages still showing signs of the water damage they suffered that day. But he would never replace this book. It was inscribed by Reverend Charles Sanders, or Brother Chuck as everyone knew the kindly man.

The reverend was the one who saw something in Seamus and encouraged him to pursue the collar. Brother Chuck believed in him. Mentored him. Prayed for him. And although the man was wrong about Seamus being meant for ministry, he still remained a father figure to him.

Seamus saw much of Brother Chuck in Asa. They both were pastors who had a devotion to God that seemed beyond reason. The two of them suffered the indignities of gossip, slander, and ingratitude from the very people they served with such devotion. Perhaps this was why Seamus found himself on the podium. He was here to defend the honor of both of these men.

Or was there another reason? There was a stirring in his heart as he looked out at those peering up to him. He wanted to be angry at them. He wanted to lash out at their attitude toward Asa. But something else was coming over him. Something he had been missing for so long.

Seamus glanced at Ashlyn and Grace and saw the longing in their eyes for him to be the man of God he once was. How much had he injured them while he had been drifting away? He turned away because he didn't want to cry, but the effect was complete. The hardness in his spirit melted and he felt the weight of his burden being lifted.

What passage could he share? What could he say?

Tell them.

No. Only Ashlyn knew why. He hadn't even told Brother Chuck.

Tell them.

“I'm sure you all are wondering why I am standing before you. No. You all know already. How do I know? Because you all are tireless gossips. In fact, this entire town is full of the most intolerable gossips I've ever endured.”

The entire congregation stiffened in their seats. He had them. And he was invigorated with an energy he had not experienced for some time. He expected to see Coralee glaring at him, but instead she seemed distant and sad. Again a glance at Ashlyn revealed there wasn't a trace of worry. She knew and gave him a nod. Had a man ever had a more faithful encourager?

“You all know I left California. From the gold country. You also are aware that I was a minister of the faith, I was. A servant of God. A preacher. A missionary. Did you know this, friends?”

They nodded almost with a sense of guilt.

“And you all have been dying to know why I left the service. Have you not?”

Tell them.

“Today, you are all going to learn the answer. Your curiosity will be appeased at last. Because I am going to speak of something only dear Ashlyn knows. And I am quite certain she did not tell any of you. Shall I speak it? Would you like to know about my failure? All about my disgrace? Care to hear my confession?”

Seamus clasped his hands and brought them to his lips and bowed his head. What was he doing? He closed his eyes and thought of Ashlyn working at
La Cuna
in San Francisco. She was so happy in her ministry to the prostitutes in the city. They were both happy.

His eyes moistening, he lifted his head and smiled at Ashlyn. “My wife. You knew her as a wee girl. A young woman. But she was revered . . . adored . . . beloved in San Francisco. Did you all know my dear bride started a charity, an orphanage for babies? But more than that, one that reunited mothers with their babies. Not any mothers. Painted ladies. The fallen. Imperfect people, like me, and yes, you, dear ones.”

Tell them.

“But I stole that all away from her, I did.” Seamus opened his Bible and ran his hand over the pages. “God gave me a vision.” He laughed. “Or so I believed. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't think about anything else. Just kept hearing this voice . . . telling me I was to preach to men. I was to live in a tent and go where men were living in tents. Out there in the foothills of California, in the mountains, and by the streams, there was no shortage of men living in tents.”

He looked to Fletch and saw the man handing a handkerchief to Coralee, who was wiping her cheeks with her bare hand.

“So you know what my dear Ashlyn said when I confided this to her? Hmmm? She said . . .” Seamus began to choke on his words and paused. “She said the three most difficult words a woman can ever tell her husband. Would you know what those are?”

Seamus's gaze moved from person to person and from the old to the very young, each were braced on his every word. “My wife said to me, ‘I trust you.'”

“So we passed my wife's sweet ministry onto another, and we took every last dollar we had and built a small church, much like this, in Sacramento City. See I wasn't yet willing to live in a tent. But men were living in tents there. I thought that would do. Appease the voice I was hearing.

“But . . . but nobody came. Hardly anyone. No one wanted to hear about the evils of wealth in a place where gold nuggets were rolling through the streams. Yet I wasn't finished. So I decided the problem was I didn't have enough faith in me. I needed to actually live in a tent. I told my dear wife I was going to get me a burro and take the church to the hills. Where the men were hurting. Where they needed to hear a message of hope.

“And you know what my wife said when I told her this? Even after my church had failed?” He met Ashlyn's gaze. “You remember, dear?”

She nodded back.

“She told me, ‘I trust you.' I was not going to betray her confidence this time. I was determined, I was.” He slapped his hand on the lectern, which startled many of them.

Tell them.

“So I went off by myself to a very large gold mining camp. I knew they didn't want me there. I knew they didn't want to hear what I had to say. But I was stuck on it. Perseverance. Am I right?”

He closed the Bible and held it up in his left hand. “‘Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.'”

He lowered his arm and set the book back down, then he ran his fingers over the cracks of the leather. “Large camp. Hundreds there. And I would talk to the men when they were working. I'd even pick up a shovel. Swing a pick. Join them at their dinners. But they weren't off on Sundays. Couldn't come to my service. Hear me preach. So one week, I told them they needed to take the day off. At least in the morning. For a few hours. And they did. A few, not many. And I thought maybe, just maybe, this was meant to be.

“Meanwhile, I was missing my wife and daughter. Visiting some. But we were nearly broke. Something needed to happen. So I spoke to the owner of the camp and asked him if he would support me. I knew him well. And he was a wealthy man.”

Seamus looked down the aisle to the entranceway, and the light was shining in brightly. Someone was standing there but off to the side, so Seamus couldn't see who it was. “But this owner. He not only told me he wouldn't give me a flake of gold, but that I needed to be off his site by sunrise. Said I was hurting production, he did.”

He could remember that Saturday evening well. Walking alone to his tent in the cool air, feeling broken, desolate.

“‘But when they deliver you up, take no thought how or what ye shall speak: for it shall be given you in that same hour what ye shall speak.' Does anyone know the next line in that verse?”

“‘For it is not ye that speak,'” the widow spoke through her veil, “‘but the Spirit of your Father which speaketh in you.'”

“Yes!” Seamus stepped forward. “So I was determined. That night, by candle and moonlight, I prayed and prepared for the sermon they all needed to hear. I was so anxious I barely did sleep at all.”

He looked back up in the doorway, and this time he could clearly see who it was. It was the diminutive figure of Pastor Hudson, leaning against the frame. What was this about? Seamus glanced over to Ashlyn and Grace. Had he been set up?

“So . . . I was sleeping in my tent, which was up on a hill leading down to the river, a fast-moving one. Suddenly, I was awakened by a clamor. I was under attack. Or so I believed. Then I felt my tent starting to give way. It was sliding and I panicked because I could tell I was heading down the hill. I scrambled to find the opening of the tent, but it was already buckling and tumbling. I crawled. Finally getting my hands out, I clawed at the mud, and it was like an avalanche.

“Next I knew I was out and could see what was happening. Three men were pointing a nozzle and hose at the ground around me. These great hoses they used for mining. And before I could do anything about it, down the slope I went, with the mud and the tent and we all ended in the icy river. Wet. Ashamed.”

He clenched his fist and set it against his mouth. The congregation no longer wore faces of condemnation but now were softened with compassion . . . and pity.

“It all happened quickly. Meanwhile, there was the laughter. By now, most of the camp was up and joining in, pointing fingers at the fool preacher with harshness in their voices. And there, holding the hose in his hand, was the owner. A young man. A handsome man. I knew him well.”

“Who was he?” shouted Abe Durham.

“It was my brother. My brother Davin.”

The people in the church were hushed, many of the women were reaching for their handkerchiefs.

“I left without a word. Found the tent downstream a ways and only retrieved one item.” Seamus lifted his Bible. “I went down the mountain and that was the end of my ministry days.”

He turned to Nell. “And what else in the passage?”

She had opened her Bible and read from it. “‘And the brother shall deliver up the brother to death, and the father the child: and the children shall rise up against their parents, and cause them to be put to death. And ye shall be hated of all men for my name's sake: but he that endureth to the end shall be saved.'”

“So. My apologies for the length of this story. I know I am just a stranger among you. But I wanted you to know who I am. A failed man. Oh, if you only knew how true this was! Unworthy of speaking before you. And not much of a farmer either, if I am being honest. But I just couldn't bear hearing words of unkindness toward our pastor. Not only to him, but to one another. Look at us. All of us. What great shortcomings we possess. But we are family, are we not? I mean, Abe, you have already lost your boy in this war. Nell, you've never healed from the loss of your husband. These are the times that try a man's soul. Should we not spend our time together, encouraging one another?”

As he panned the room, their heads were down. Should he say anything else? Or just let these words soak in. He lifted his Bible and glanced up to see Pastor Hudson coming toward him with an unrestrained smile. It was then that Seamus saw another man leaning in the front doorway of the church. In his brief look he could only see it was a Confederate soldier.

“And I have just witnessed Elijah emerging from his dark cave!” Pastor Hudson reached out and gripped his hand, then put his arm around him, and they both faced the congregation. Asa was a short man in his sixties, but he possessed uncanny strength. “What say you, kind people? Can my brother preach?”

“Pastor Hudson!” exclaimed several voices both in surprise and shame.

“Have you been here alls the while?” Abe Durham asked. “If you was, I wanted you to know I didn't mean no ill.”

Then a slow, deliberate clap sounded, and one by one they all turned in their seats to look back toward the doorway. As the soldier stepped out of the bright light, Seamus recognized him as a man he hadn't seen since San Francisco. Immediately, his gaze met Ashlyn's and she shared his terror and concern. He glanced at Grace and could see she had no idea who this man was or what he meant in her life.

“Why it's Captain Percy Barlow,” Pastor Hudson said with a strange reservation in his voice.

Many of the older women in the church turned their gazes to Ashlyn.

“Yes, it is I.
Colonel
Percy Barlow.” He was a couple inches shorter than Seamus, but he stood erect, with blond hair and a tightly trimmed mustache and goatee. Seamus eyed the man who was dressed perfectly in his gray cotton uniform, his cavalry hat in hand. It was twelve years since Seamus had last set sights on the man, the one who had fathered Grace. The one who had run off when he learned he had a daughter.

“That was a mighty fine speech you just shared,” Percy said brashly as came forward. “Seamus Hanley, correct sir? Why I never forget the face and name of a man I saw on a poster.”

The words cut through to Seamus's core and his stomach muscles clenched. He glanced at Grace, who seemed confused.

“You know Seamus here?” Pastor Hudson seemed unsurprised by Percy's tone.