Songs of the Shenandoah (21 page)

“All right, Mother.” He stepped forward to Davin and held out a hand.

Davin took it and shook it firmly. Was he truly sending this poor boy to his tomb? Then he remembered the instructions Tristan had given him earlier in the day. “Here, I'll need you to sign something for me.” He pointed toward the envelope he had given the woman and she pulled out the letter and opened it, eyeing it suspiciously. “Neither of us can read.”

“Oh, don't worry. It's the usual language. It just confirms our arrangements. I need to turn that into the draft officers.” Davin went to his desk against the wall and lowered the flap, which folded down into a flat surface. He pulled out a pen and dabbed the silver tip into ink and held it out to Billy, who shifted uncomfortably.

“Well, go ahead, son.” The woman gave him a nod. “It's not like we have any other choices.”

Billy moved over and took the pen from Davin, then with a shaking hand signed an X at the bottom of the page.

Shame oozed from Davin's pores. What had become of him? As a boy he would have considered this all to be adventure. Now as a favored member of society, had he become a coward? Or was what Tristan had said true? That patriotism was best expressed when the greatest contributors to the well-being of the city continued on their path for prosperity. As he said, this was the only way to preserve this ailing country's wealth and standing among other nations.

Still, whatever explanation Tristan had fashioned, it wasn't settling well with Davin.

Billy handed him the pen and gave him a mournful nod. “Don't worry.”

“I'm sorry?”

The boy smiled nervously. “I'll serve well . . . in your stead.”

The woman glared at Davin and folded up the envelope, then jammed it down her cleavage. “Remember the name William Walsh. That's the brave young man who's risking his life for you. My boy. Let's go, son. He didn't pay us for a clear conscience.”

The two of them strode out the door and Davin pressed it shut behind them. He leaned back against it and listened as the sound of their feet faded.

He suddenly felt warm and nauseated. Davin moved over to the marble water basin in front of the mirror. He cupped his hands in the bowl and then splashed the liquid against his face.

As the moisture dripped down, he stared for a long time, hoping to see the man he once was.

Chapter 24

Bright Flashes

Fredericksburg, Virginia

December 1862

The explosions around Muriel were so loud and brilliant that Caitlin seemed to struggle breathing.

“You've got to keep it together.” Muriel gripped her friend by the shoulders and peered deep into her eyes. But even she was getting rattled by the proximity of the blasts. She was supposed to be safe from all of this artillery fire, but it was not the rebels to blame. It was the incompetence of the Yankee commanders. Why wouldn't they cover their flank?

“What are you doing, girl?” Nurse Hollins, a woman with a slight hunch to her back but otherwise built of steel, glared down at Caitlin. She handed Caitlin towels that were red and soaked. “Bring us some fresh ones and hurry. These boys are dying as you're standing there.”

Muriel reached out and grabbed them. “She is having a hard time of it. I'll go with her.”

“Then hurry along. You're needed with the doctors.” Nurse Hollins gave Caitlin a dismissive shake of her head.

With her arm around Caitlin, Muriel escorted her to the boiling cauldrons. Arms stirred the wooden paddles in a frenzy. They were washing the clothing as fast as they could, but the pile of soiled linen was steeped high on the dirt. Muriel tossed the clothes in her hand onto the pile, then scurried Caitlin out of sight behind the supply tent.

Caitlin slid to the ground and cried openly, although her wails were muted against the background of artillery bursting around her as well as the screams of dying, desperate men.

“Caitlin?”

It was as if the world's madness was pounding in Muriel's head. And who wouldn't be affected by the visions of twisted, contorted men, breathing their last as blood spurted around them? The odor of death crawled through Muriel's consciousness like black, billowy smoke through her nostrils.

“Caitlin?”

“Muriel?”

“Yes. We need to go, dear.” A bright light and a loud concussion erupted. Muriel flinched but then focused on Caitlin again, mustering strength and calm in the midst of their hellish environ.

“Muriel?”

“Yes. I'm right here. We need to go. The Confederate boys are breaking through. It's no longer safe here. They are evacuating the hospital tents.”

“How?” Caitlin struggled to her feet, then staggered. She looked at Muriel. “How . . . how do you do it? Do this?”

Muriel guided her around the tent. “Come on, Caitlin. You've done what you can.”

They entered into a flurry of men running in fear, horses limping with gashes in their loins, and gurneys being carried between jogging soldiers. And again the flashes and the screams. “Aren't we . . . winning?”

“No,” Muriel shouted above the noise. “The Irish Battalion is being slaughtered. It's quite terrible.”

Caitlin tried to pull free of Muriel's arm. “Then we should go . . . help them.”

“Quiet, Cait. You are done for this battle.”

Nurse Hollins scurried up to them. “Is she injured?”

“She is fine, ma'am.” Muriel reshifted her arm around Caitlin.

“Then we'll need you back up front, Muriel.” Nurse Hollins lifted Caitlin's chin. “Poor child. She isn't made for all of this. But then, who is?”

Suddenly a loud whirring was heard, and out of the corner of her vision Muriel saw something fly into the hospital tent beside them. And in a violent percussive burst of sound and light and hurling dirt, it vanished before her. Muriel pulled Caitlin into the tall weeds and they ran and tripped and rose again for several minutes.

A blur of screams and panic surrounded them, then a large shadow was upon them and she spun to see a Union cavalry officer with the stripes of a captain.

“What are you doing here?” His unshaven face was spattered with blood and, though handsome, was gnarled with the horror of war.

Muriel glanced around. In the madness of the moment, they had actually made their way closer to the battle's front lines. Now along with the sounds of the rebel yell and the anguish of the defeated and fallen, there was the whirring of musket balls flying around them.

Muriel pulled Caitlin to the ground and they tumbled into a thorny brush.

The captain's horse was anxious, and he fought to hold it steady with the reins. He reached a gloved hand out to them. “Come, I need to take you out of here.”

Yet before he barely extended his arm, a horrible thud sounded. His eyes widened and he toppled over, his steed scurrying away.

Muriel crawled over to the soldier and lifted his head. A round hole dented his forehead and blood oozed out.

Caitlin collapsed to the ground. “I . . . can't . . . do this anymore.”

Muriel crawled back. “I know, Caitlin. We need to get you away from this.” She lifted her head and glanced around, gathering her bearings. Then she paused and her mouth opened. “I can't believe it.”

“What?”

“It's the 69th. They are rushing the hill again. I swear it's the tenth time.”

“The Irish boys?” Caitlin struggled to push herself up.

“See the green flag in the distance? They are making a run. Bless their dying hearts.” Muriel shook her head. “What fools are these generals anyway?”

A soldier's voice rose above the brutal cacophony. “Please. Please somebody help me.” It carried the familiar twangs of the South.

“Are we among the enemy?” Caitlin lay flat. “We'll be captured.”

Muriel's muscles tightened. “Stay here.”

Now Caitlin was grabbing her arm. “No! I won't let you go.”

“Please. I beg you. I see you ladies.”

“I won't let him die.” Muriel yanked her arm free and crawled away, leaving Caitlin alone.

After flattening herself with each whistle of a musket ball, Muriel finally made it over to the rebel soldier, who looked no older than sixteen. His eyes were open, but she could tell by the gasping of his breaths he was almost gone.

“He doesn't look evil.” It was Caitlin standing and peering down. “He just looks like a boy.”

Muriel yanked her to the ground.

“He's a Confederate,” Caitlin said.

“They bleed out all the same.”

Caitlin lifted the canteen from the boy's side, unscrewed the cap, and then hoisted it to his lips. He smiled briefly, then his eyes closed and his body settled, the last gasps of life seeping from it.

Muriel folded the soldier's arms over his chest and nodded as if to say a prayer.

Then as the sounds of the battle rose fiercer around them, Muriel looked to Caitlin and spoke with firmness. “We need to get you back. Now.”

“Yes,” Caitlin whispered.

Muriel knew this would be Caitlin's last battle. She would see to it herself. It was time for her friend to go home.

The thought of being separated from the one person Muriel cared for and loved in the world was painful. But it was for the best.

From here on out, she would be friends to no one. There would be no more confusion. No more questioning her decisions.

It would be easier that way.

Chapter 25

Emancipation

Manhattan, New York

January 1863

“Oh, Andrew, what wondrous news have I!” Clare walked up to her husband standing next to a pair of legs protruding from under the eight-cylinder steam press, with a scattering of wrenches and bolts on the cold ground.

“Where are the children?” Andrew's face was splattered with ink and bore that look of exasperation that was increasingly becoming more of a standard part of his expression.

“Cassie is watching them. I just couldn't wait . . .” She saw the disappointment in his eyes. “What is it?”

Andrew cleaned his hands on a cloth and clenched his jaw. “Mr. Lincoln has issued his Emancipation Proclamation, and we will be the only newspaper in America that won't be able to proclaim it ourselves.”

“He has? He went through with it? How did Abe ever get the votes?” Clare thought through the ramifications of what she just heard. This would change everything. It would alter the entire tone and purpose of the war. “How marvelous!”

“Yes. Just fantastic.” Andrew slapped his hand on the machine, which ten years earlier had been the envy of most of the other newspapers in town. “Anything, Owen?”

This was met with a groan and the clanking of tools from below.

Clare's mind spun with urgency. “Well . . . then I should get my notes together for the story. I'll need to get a response from the mayor and—”

“Clare.” Andrew even had ink spatter on his glasses. “You don't understand. There will be no story. We're finished.”

Clare's initial excitement drained, and now all she could feel was empathy for him. How could anyone work harder and with such few rewards for his labor? “Oh, dear Andrew, I am so sorry.” She put her hand on his cheek and her fingertips blackened with ink.

Suddenly there was a noise from the old press, and it struggled to grind forward. After a couple of false starts, it began to churn and then the cylinders spun steadily.

“Owen!” Andrew slapped the legs beside him. “You did it, my sweet boy. Come out here so I can kiss you on the lips.”

The man rolled out from under the press and crawled up to his feet, adjusting his cap, his brown curls flowing from under it. He ignored the celebrations and attended to his patient with all of his focus, reaching down and adjusting levers and tightening bolts. Then he stood back up and rubbed his chin. “I wish she was doing better.” Owen always spoke of the press as a captain would of his ship. “I may have earned us a few days. Maybe a week. If we don't get those parts changed, we'll be down for good.”