Songs of the Shenandoah (19 page)

“Sir.” It was difficult for Seamus to even use those words.

“Private . . . Hanley. I have every intention of exposing you as the fraud you are. When the general learns who you are, I shall draw great pleasure from hanging you myself.”

“I was exonerated of that . . . sir.” Seamus glanced to see the surprised faces of his friends.

Percy leaned in close enough for Seamus to smell the whiskey on his breath. “You . . . will never be exonerated of anything in my mind. I will never forgive you for what you have done. You've . . . stolen . . .”

Seamus wanted to say something. He wanted to defend himself. He didn't steal Ashlyn from Percy. He rescued her. When she was abandoned and unloved.

Percy turned to Scripps and the doctor. “I would suggest you keep a fair distance from this traitor, unless you would like to be dragged through the same mud.” He glared at them until Scripps responded meekly.

“Yes . . . sir.”

Percy spat on the ground and then he took a couple of steps and stopped. He turned around slowly, then walked back up to Seamus's face. “Another thing. I have some scouting duties to do. In Taylorsville. Might just have to check in on your . . . wife. See how she is doing. What she thinks about her decision.”

Seamus's fists clenched and his teeth grinded.

This drew a sick smile from Percy, who like an animal must have sensed the emotional response and now was coming in for a kill. “And I'll be sure to check in as well . . . on your misbegotten daughter.”

That was all he could take. Seamus thrust his fist in the air and it landed squarely on Percy's cheek. Then he sprang on the colonel and the two toppled onto the cold dirt and rolled toward the fire.

Seamus felt fingers probing toward his eyes and he moved his head. Then he felt a knee in his groin and buckled over just as he looked up to see Percy about to swing a rock toward him.

Seamus thrust his forearm up to Percy's wrist, and the pain seared as bone met bone, yet it dislodged the small boulder that fell harmlessly to the side. Seamus managed to get on top of his opponent and his knees pinned Percy's arms. And then in a flurry his fist was striking cheek, and then nose, and before he could hit again he found himself being yanked backward.

Trying to fling himself again, he was restrained by both Scripps and the doctor as Percy crawled to his feet. Once standing, he brought his hand to his nose, now pouring blood over his fingers.

“Let me look at that.” The doctor stepped forward.

Percy held up his hand. “Stand back!”

Seamus panted, his chest heaving with anger, which was now giving way to the harsh reality of what he had just done. What was he thinking to have fallen prey to these taunts! What foolishness.

Percy pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose, and even in the dim light, it could be seen turning wet and red. “You both . . . you saw what this man did.”

“Yes.” The doctor glanced at Seamus with disappointment. “We saw everything.”

Seamus put his hand to his lip, and it was already swelling and moist as well.

Percy dusted off his clothes with his free hand. “You men saw him jump me.”

Seamus understood immediately the awkward position in which he had placed his friends. And how could he have done this to his family? What a horrible way to throw his life away.

“Did you hear me?” Percy's eyes boiled with rage. He turned to Seamus. “You'll be hung in the morning. I'll see to it. And with witnesses to prove it.”

Scripps stepped forward. “Yes, sir. I did see it all.” There was sadness in his voice.

Percy's shoulders lowered and a twisted smile came over his face. “Good man—”

“What I saw was you, a highly decorated soldier of war . . . getting a solid whooping by a man of the cloth. Ain't that how you saw it, Doctor?”

“I wouldn't have believed it so, had I not seen it with my own eyes.” The doctor nodded at Scripps. “I would have thought all along the colonel would have taken the preacher.”

“He jumped me.” Percy stepped back.

The doctor spoke to Scripps as if only the two of them were there. “My thinking is the colonel would want us to keep this hushed.”

“It's hard to lead men in war with a soured reputation,” Scripps added, with a smile curling.

Percy's gaze darted from the doctor to Scripps and back again. Then he straightened. “So . . . this is how it's going to be?”

“Well now, Colonel,” the doctor said, “the way I see it, it's all up to you.”

“Very well.” Percy lifted the handkerchief from his nose and looked down at it, then placed it back again. He pointed a finger at Seamus. “This isn't over, you know. Far from it.”

With the crazed look of a caged animal, he turned and disappeared down the path he arrived from, toward the distant masses of campfires and tents.

All waited in silence until Percy had left entirely, then Seamus turned to his friends to see their faces bathed in anger. Before he could offer gratitude or repentance, Scripps poked him in the chest with his finger.

“You do that again, son, and I'll hang you myself.” The chaplain circled back over to the fire and prodded it back to life.

“I'm . . . sorry.”

The doctor stared into the darkness toward where Percy had disappeared. “I wouldn't worry about being sorry. I would be concerned about finding a way out of this battalion. Maybe out of this war.”

The thought of bowing under the pressure of Percy's vengeance was foreign to Seamus. He had run his whole life. He was finished running. “I don't see that—”

“Men like that.” The doctor appeared to have no interest in hearing what Seamus had to say. “They won't stop until they get what they desire.”

“The doctor is right.” Scripps sat down, lifted the can, and dug in a spoon. “I don't know what you did to that man . . . and I don't want to know. But he won't stop until you're dangling from a noose.”

Seamus made his way over to the fire and sat. He had been reckless. He would be wiser from here on out. In an army of thirty thousand men, it was not impossible for him to keep his distance from Percy.

But what about Ashlyn? Grace? How could he protect them from Percy's unrelenting thirst for vengeance?

Maybe there was only one way.

Chapter 22

The Fortunate Ones

Manhattan, New York

October 1862

“My dear friend, there have been no greater days in this nation of opportunity.” Tristan lifted a hand to the rim of his tall beaver-skin hat to keep it from falling off due to the bouncing of the carriage on the cobblestone road. He bore a smirk that boasted of both brilliance and prosperity. As always, he was impeccably dressed and groomed, which was a requirement when borrowing his father's buggy.

“Some would argue with that notion, I am afraid.” Davin wore tailored clothes as well but could never keep up with his friend, who seemed to have something new each day. He glanced out the window to the street merchants and the many passing by, and it seemed as if it was a distant land outside.

“That's just it, my Irish laddie,” Tristan said. “You see this world through the eyes of your poverty. It will never leave you. Once you've dug your fingers through the soil for sustenance, the stain of dirt never leaves your thinking.”

“Who was it who told you arrogance was an attractive trait?”

“My arrogance is merely my being honest about my confidence. It would make a liar out of me to wear humility like some proud flag. But take comfort, my friend, as you can be both humble and truthful.”

Tristan was so skilled at insults, Davin found it entertaining. Even when he was the target of his friend's cruel sport.

“You and your beloved heritage.” Tristan pulled an apple from his pocket and brushed it against his royal blue vest before biting into it noisily. “Ease up, dear fellow. I just mean to educate you of the world.” He wiped some of the apple juice from his lip. “You see, while you and your people are there planting roots and hoeing dirt and whatever it is that you do, you have no idea of how many other poor saps are doing precisely the same thing.”

The carriage stopped and they waited for the driver to open the door before descending. Tristan stopped at a food stand and picked up a potato as the vendor eyed him warily. “But meanwhile, people like me are deciding what this is actually worth.” He put the potato back on the pile of others and nodded to the disappointed merchant.

“Maybe I am happy at pulling potatoes . . . and gold . . . out of the ground.” Davin hopped to avoid a mud puddle. “Perhaps that is who I am.”

“Let's certainly hope this is not true,” Tristan said. “I have much greater expectations for you.”

They skirted across an intersection and dodged a wagon pulled by two large horses. “And who would ever want hard labor when soft labor is so much more pleasant and profitable?” Tristan snickered. “I wasn't going to share this with you, but now I must. Do you know that it took you ten years in those gold mines of yours to build your small pile of wealth?”

“I remember every day of it.”

“As I am sure you would, kind sir.” Tristan paused and put his hand on Davin's shoulder. “Do you know in our partnership, my father and I made all you earned in ten years in less than ten hours? We accomplished more with our soft hands with a pen in it than you did with a shovel.”

Davin tried not to show his disappointment, which would only feed Tristan's satisfaction. But Davin always suspected he got the worse of their dealings, and this, confirmed with his friend's own boastful lips, made his stomach turn.

Tristan grabbed Davin by his lapels. He straightened them out and then dusted his shoulder. “There you are. Fit to present to a king.” He gave him a light slap on the cheek. “Are you frightened?”

“No.”

“You should be.” Tristan's eyes widened. “My father may seem like a decent enough chap at social gatherings, but when it comes to his business interests, he is not one to be trifled with. A very powerful man, my father. That he has requested a meeting with you is something that should not be taken lightly.”

“How so?” Davin wasn't nervous before, but his friend's words were making his heart pace quicker.

“It means only one of two things. Either he wants to congratulate you.”

“Or?”

“He wants to kill you.”

Davin tried not to give his friend the pleasure of a reaction, but he must have failed.

“Oh, don't worry. He usually doesn't kill my friends.”

Davin gave a nervous laugh in response, but how much truth was there to all of this? One of the things he had learned in the California mine country was a distinct distrust of everyone. Gold had a way of being poison in the veins of men. Davin knew firsthand what it could do to a man. It could cause him to steal from his own brother.

They headed toward the entranceway of the tall building, and the door was opened by a slender man in a bellman's uniform. After traveling through a lobby with marble floors and brass railings and up a well-lit, winding staircase, they came up to a room with large, smooth-polished oak doors. Tristan tapped on it with the back of his hand, stuck his head inside, then turned and waved Davin in to enter.

They walked inside a large office, and sitting behind a massive desk, with neatly piled papers on either side, was a man dipping into an inkwell and scribbling away at a scrolled document. From this angle, they could only see the top of the man's bald head, the broad ring of gray, bushy hair protruding from the sides.

Alton Lowery seemed to be more of a shadow patron in his son's life. Though Davin always knew Alton was the source behind Tristan's investing ventures, it was rare to see the two of them together.

Tristan began to speak, but his father held up a finger. Alton's beaked nose bobbed with concentration on his task.

A chill skittered down Davin's back when he realized they were not alone. He glanced back to see there was a large man with a face etched with scars who was tending to his fingernails with a knife. Although Davin couldn't recall the man's name, he knew he rarely left Alton's side.

They stood in front of Tristan's father in uncomfortable silence until he finally dipped the pen in the inkwell with a succinctness of completion. Then he lifted the scroll close to his eyes, blew on it, and admired his handiwork.

“I will need to get this to the alderman.” Alton spoke with a voice both raspy and high in tone. “We'll need to keep our conversation brief.” He stood, not gaining much height, and seemed as if he recognized Davin for the first time. “Come, boys. Sit in your chairs.”

The two of them sat in the black leather seats and watched as Alton leaned back in his chair, which squeaked as he rocked. He clasped his hands together and narrowed his eyes in a way that pierced through Davin. Then he turned abruptly to Tristan. “This young man . . .”