Songs of the Shenandoah (20 page)

“Davin,” Tristan offered.

Alton's gaze sighted on Davin once again. “Yes, of course.” He rocked a few more times. “Davin Royce, correct?”

“Um . . . no, sir. The surname is Hanley.” Davin put his hand to his mouth and coughed, trying to clear his unexpected tenseness.

Alton put his hand to his forehead. “Yes. Your sister, she was Clare Hanley before marrying Mr. Royce, isn't that so?”

What did his sister have to do with any of this? Davin shifted in his seat.

“Tristan speaks quite favorably of you, young man. You know this, I'm sure.”

Davin glanced to his friend expecting his familiar smirk, but Tristan sat with stiffness and was devoid of his typical élan.

“Well, it's true. Tristan believes the world of you. Has my son shared with you . . . our issue?”

Davin sought some explanation from Tristan's expression, but there were no clues on his friend's face. Tristan had been unusually vague about the purpose of this meeting. What had he gotten them into?

Alton pushed back from his chair and walked over to the window, his arms clasped behind his back. “Tristan says you are a shrewd investor.”

“I've done well, yes.” Davin couldn't help but notice the richness in decor of the office. “But perhaps not by your standards.”

The man spun around. “Standards? Never judge yourself by another man. That's what the poor do. You make your own standards. You should never apologize for your success, for every part of it has been hard wrought.” The sunlight came through the window in a way where half of his face was brightly illuminated. “Gold, right?”

“Yes . . . sir.”

“I envy you, boy. You know that?”

“No, sir.”

“Take my son here. Despite what he tells you, he doesn't know anything about innovation or a decent day's labor.” Alton came over and patted Tristan on the shoulder.

Davin didn't like seeing his friend humiliated. It returned difficult memories of how Seamus was taunted by his father many years ago when they were growing up in Ireland. His first instinct was to defend Tristan, but strangely, he was enjoying his friend's vulnerability at this moment. It suddenly made him much more likeable.

Alton reached over to where a globe sat on the corner table and held it up to the light. “Work is what happens when the sword of failure is looming over your head. When you can sense the sharpness of the blade. When you know your mistakes could cost everything you have. My son here has lived under the umbrella of my patronage. His mother wishes it to be that way, and so it is. But you. You know what it's like to be under the sword. To be on the lowest rungs of society and then to rise above it all.”

He gave the globe a spin. “Not even I have experienced where you've been, boy. My father gave me a start, much as I've given Tristan. And his father before him. So what's left for us? To sustain? To preserve the wealth for future generations to follow? For my son here?” Alton put the globe back in its place. “No. If we lose our taste of the hunt, we become consumed by the prey. Once the blade gets dull and the sword is no longer a threat, we become toothless, domesticated, unable to survive the wild.”

Alton plopped back in his chair and sighed. “So how did it feel?”

“I'm sorry, sir?” Davin was still trying to figure out why Alton had mentioned his sister. He glanced back to see that the hulking man had put his knife away and was now eyeballing him with his arms crossed.

“To become wealthy after having nothing.” Alton clenched his fist. “To pull the gold from the ground with your bare hands, like a carrot.”

“I suppose . . . it was pleasurable.”

Alton wagged his finger. “Uh-uh-uh. Try again. This time, really think of how it felt.”

Davin swallowed. He thought back to the excitement he experienced when he first struck gold. And what the feeling was when he went to the next claim and found more. Then again when he met Tristan and they launched the hydraulic mine.

“You got it, boy!” Alton's eyes widened. “I saw it on your face. Go ahead and tell me. Put it to words.”

“I was just thinking, of my times of discovering gold.” Davin struggled to read this man. Should he answer plainly?

Alton leaned forward and the chair groaned. “Yes?”

“Well, sir. It seemed no sooner had I placed the gold in my hand that . . .”

“Yes?”

“That I began thinking of ways to get more.”

Alton slapped his hand on the desk. “It's insatiable. And we need more and more.”

Did he really believe this? Davin wondered if he was describing himself, or what he feared he would become? Was this what drove him away from Seamus? Was he being cruel because he wanted Seamus to leave him alone? His gaze met Alton's. “You mean, that drive, it never goes away?”

“It's how we know we're alive.” Alton shook his head and laughed. “I like this boy. I really do.”

“I told you that you would, Father.” Tristan lowered his eyes.

“You were right, son. He is worth preserving. And investing in.”

Davin moved stiffly. “Sir?”

“Oh. Didn't Tristan tell you?” He wrinkled his brow.

“Uh . . . no, Father. I thought it best if he heard it from you.”

Alton leaned back in his chair. “I had expectations that . . . Well, you can tell him now.”

Tristan turned to Davin. “You've been selected.”

“What?”

“It's a terrible war, boy.” Alton's eyes were upon him as talons once again. “The battlefield has been unkind to your Irish brethren. I'm certain you know that the casualties have mounted . . . and been so unfairly doled out.”

“Selected?” Davin's head began to feel light.

“Your name,” Tristan said. “You are set to be drafted.”

“How would you . . . ?”

Alton laughed. “I own this town. The senators, the aldermen. I merely asked who was on the list. There is great power in that, you know. Have you any idea what people would do to have their names taken off the list?”

“I don't understand.” Was it true? Was Davin going to war?

“Don't worry.” Tristan looked to his father as if confirming it was all right to continue, which Alton answered with a nod. “We have a substitute in place for you.”

“A . . . substitute?”

“Yes,” Alton cackled. “That's how it works. There are those who die on the front line in the name of freedom . . . and those who live to prosper from it.”

“It's been arranged,” Tristan said. “You'll meet him tomorrow.”

Davin didn't understand entirely what was being said but sensed he was indebted for it nonetheless. “Well . . . thank you, sir.”

“Oh.” Alton wagged his finger again. “We don't bother with gratitude. That's the currency of the impoverished.”

“Then what—?”

Alton looked toward his son.

Tristan cleared his throat. “It's your brother. Well, not your brother, but your sister's husband.”

“Andrew?” Davin gripped the arms of his chair. “What does he have to do with this?”

“It's all right, boy.” Alton held up his hand. “We just want to share some information with you.”

“What would that be?”

“Do you know the trouble they are facing?” Alton tapped his hand on the desk.

“At the
Daily
? Yes. I mean I know they are going through hard times.”

“Hard times don't explain it sufficiently. They are about to fold. And it's a shame. Not a bad paper at all. And your sister is a fine journalist.”

“I still don't know . . .”

“Andrew is a proud man.” The words came out Alton's mouth with measure. “He needs a friend in times like these. Are you able to be that friend?”

Davin was growing more confused. First he learned he was scheduled to be drafted into Lincoln's army, and now he was discovering that Clare and Andrew were in a dire situation. But how could he assist them? They already refused his offers to help.

“I have a solution for them. One that will bring all of their advertisers back to them. For as easily as they left, they can return once again.”

“And what would that solution be?”

Alton nodded and the large man walked over and opened the door. “You'll know when to speak up. You'll even know what to say. I'm confident of that as you are obviously a bright young man.” Alton stood and reached across his desk and shook Davin's hand with a soft, fleshy one.

Then Alton looked to his son who stood along with Davin. “And the substitute?”

“Tomorrow.” Tristan turned to Davin. “I'll let you know what you need to do.”

Davin wanted to say something, to ask more questions, but he felt swept down the currents, drowning in his own indecision. So many thoughts swirled around his head, but one was paramount.

He didn't want to go to war.

“Thank you, sir.” Davin left with Tristan. What dark contract had he just signed?

Chapter 23

The Substitute

The tapping on the door startled Davin, causing his pulse to pound.

He had been sitting in a chair reading
David Copperfield
under the lantern light of his studio. He should have been better prepared. “One moment.”

Davin scurried around and picked up a few stray items of clothing and tucked them in his drawers. Living alone was a luxury few enjoyed in Manhattan, especially at his age. He was so far removed from those days when he and four of his siblings shared the same straw mattress in Ireland.

He walked over to the door, turned the brass handle, and opened it to the face of a frightened teenage boy. He was slender, with blue eyes and light red hair under a moth-worn wool cap. On the side of his cheek, difficult to see in the limited light, was a blotch of pink, a marking he most probably carried since birth.

Behind him stood a stocky, large-breasted woman, tightly wound in her black coat and scowl. She gave the boy a firm push, and the two entered the room with the woman appearing to discern as much as she could about Davin from his living arrangements, which made him feel somewhat exposed.

“I wasn't aware you were going to bring . . .” Davin spoke to the boy but watched the woman as one would a thief.

She spun and curled her face into a frown. “What? You aren't believing a mother would want to look in the eyes of the man sending her precious child off to war? Have you been reading what they've been doing to the Irish lads? Sending them in like fodder, they are. It's a plain horror, it is. Some Irish kings will be clawing their ways up out of their graves for what they've been seeing. No. Raised this one up since he was a sprout of green popping his head above the soil. A poor way to feed my family, it 'tis.”

“Are you saying you don't want to go ahead with this?” Davin just wanted them both to leave.

“What? And let the rest of me little ones starve? Begging on the streets. No, William here is a hero. Taking his family's burden on his shoulders.” She glanced toward the door where her son seemed to be cowering against the wall. “Well, William. Say something, child.”

He lowered his eyes to ground and tucked his hands in his back pockets. “Name's Billy,” he said in a whispery voice.

“Pleasure, Billy.” Davin pointed to the couch, just large enough to fit two. “Did you want to sit down some?”

“We won't be long,” the woman responded. “Just here to complete our affairs.”

“Oh yes. Of course. It was a thousand dollars, yes? That was the agreed-upon price?” Davin wanted this all to be over as soon as possible.

“A thousand dollars for a child's life.” The woman closed her eyes and shook her head. “Dear Lord, please forgive me for I know not what I do.”

Davin looked over to Billy, who seemed barely sturdy enough to lift a musket over his shoulder, let alone use it as a weapon. “Is that right?”

Billy shrugged and glanced at his mother.

“A fine amount . . . if he was cattle being sold on the market.” The woman blew a strand of hair hanging in her face. “A thousand dollars. Do you have it in cash?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Davin went over to the mantelpiece and then paused a moment. He felt uncomfortable having this much money in the house. Tristan had brought it over earlier in the day. Davin gave the mother and son a questioning glance, and then he moved to the coatrack and pulled down his jacket, fumbling around to find the inside pocket. For a moment he thought the envelope was missing. But then with some relief, his fingers discovered it. “Would you like to count it?”

“Wouldn't you if it was your child? If it was in exchange for your boy's life?” She grabbed the envelope from his hand and pulled out the bills. Then she went to the corner table where Davin had a lantern and began the tedious process. She would lick her fingers, peel off a bill, move her lips in counting, and then stack it neatly in a pile, taking time to tuck the edges together. When she was finished, she nodded at her son. “It's all here, William.”