Songs of the Shenandoah (35 page)

Clare had lingered in Gettysburg for two days after the battle had ended, and she had yet to get any answers.

With more than twenty thousand casualties, it was understandable that the soldiers would be busy and the doctors would have no time for a reporter's questions, but she found it excruciatingly frustrating that she couldn't find out anything about Davin. Not from his superior officers. Not from the men in his battalion. They could only say that he was missing, and although they couldn't confirm he was a casualty, they hadn't seen him for several days.

Was he out there lying in some field? One among the many bodies being stacked and waiting for the embalming surgeon? The mere thought made her stomach churn, but until his death was confirmed, she clung to the fading hope that he was still alive.

Equally frustrating was her inability to locate Muriel. In the last day, Clare had gone from hospital tent to hospital tent, past the carts stacked with body parts, and peered in to see some of the worst horrors mankind had ever witnessed. But still no Muriel.

Clare was determined to get the answers she was seeking. Finally she hunted down a lead. Clare was told that Nurse Hilda Meldrickson was the type of woman who put her nose into all things, and if anyone knew where Muriel was, it would be this Sanitary Commission officer.

But to pursue this lead meant Clare would have to endure the screams and the moans as the surgeons performed their awful craft.

In little more than a day, the doctors and nurses and their teams had set up what appeared to be a city of tents, each overfilled with the diseased and dying. It took Clare most of the day to track Nurse Meldrickson down, and when she did, she found the lady to be in the foulest of moods. Which under the circumstances, certainly was understandable.

Clare skipped exchanging pleasantries with the woman glaring down at her and got to the point. “I am seeking a woman by the name of Muriel McMahon. My understanding is that she reports to you.”

The mention of Muriel's name seemed to crack the brittleness of the woman's expression. But only momentarily. “There are many people who report to me. May I ask who you are and what business you have in the matter?”

“I am Clare Royce, a correspondent for the
New York Daily
, and I have some questions for her.”

Nurse Meldrickson leaned back on her heels and crossed her arms. “In that case, Miss Royce, I have no comment on the matter.” She turned to go into a tent.

Clare grabbed her by the arm, perhaps a bit too brusquely, and this was met with a glare of daggers.

“I am very sorry, Nurse Meldrickson. Please forgive me as I am quite exhausted.”

“As we all are.” She freed her arm from Clare's grasp.

“Wait. I am not here in the capacity of a reporter. I am here as Muriel's friend. She was our nanny and I'm quite concerned about her.”

The nurse flared her nostrils and looked at Clare from shoes to forehead, her lips curled. But then she seemed to soften. “I have not seen Muriel for several days now.”

“Several days? Hasn't she been helping out with the wounded?”

“She hasn't been here to help a single soul. Before the first shot was fired, I was approached by some officers and they were quite insistent that they needed to speak with Muriel. I shared this news with her, and she seemed . . . affected by it, frankly. I had not seen her since.”

Clare lowered her head.

“I'm sorry,” the nurse said. “I wish I had more to share with you. I do. Muriel was a fine nurse for us, with the skill of a doctor. She will be missed. Now, I must . . .” She pointed to the door of the tent.

“Yes, of course. Thank you.”

What was that all about? What could the officers had wanted to discuss with Muriel?

“Clare!”

She looked up to see Ben Jones jogging toward her. He stopped and put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Here, this telegram came in for you from the
Daily
.”

Clare took it from him and noticed that it wasn't in an envelope.

“The army opens everything coming in,” he said for explanation.

“I suppose then, you can tell me what it says.”

He shrugged. “I can't help my curiosity. I am a journalist.”

She read the words slowly:

THE MILITIA HAS BEEN CALLED TO SERVICE. THE
DAILY
HAS BEEN THREATENED. PLEASE COME HOME. ANDREW.

“What does this mean?” Clare looked up to Ben's concerned eyes.

“The news is just coming in on this, but it appears it's about Lincoln's draft. They are giving a three-hundred-dollar exemption, which means the wealthy can buy safety for their sons. The poor, and the Irish in particular, have had it. And they are blaming the blacks for the war in the first place. It looks quite serious. Many of us in the press corps are making plans to head back as soon as we can, but finding transportation will be difficult.”

How could this be? Here she was desperately trying to find out if her brother was alive, and now she had to worry about her family back home. What should she do?

“It's worse,” Ben said. “The word we're hearing is that the newspapers are going to suffer retaliation. Well, at least those who have been supportive of what they are calling ‘The Negro Cause.'”

“The
Daily
,” she whispered.

But was she too late?

Chapter 41

Crossroads

“You know, if you sat next me to up here, I wouldn't have to shout.” Davin turned back and saw Muriel peering out of the shadow of the covered wagon, seeming to enjoy the sprawling farm countryside.

“And how would that look? A Union soldier with a civilian beside him? That would only stir curiosity.”

Muriel was right. So far he had only drawn friendly waves from those who passed by or observed him from the fields. To their eyes, he simply appeared to be a supply driver. “But if you were beside me, it would mean my neck wouldn't hurt so much from turning to admire your pretty face.”

She strained to speak above the rattling of the wooden wheels on the gravely roads. “If I felt you meant that, I would certainly be flattered.”

That was it. Davin pulled on the reins and then pulled up hard on the brake. “Why must you do that?”

“What?”

“Not believe me. When I tell you how lovely you are?”

Her light red eyebrows bent in and she stared at him for a moment before speaking. “We are out of camp now. No longer am I the only woman under fifty years of age. So you can enjoy these beautiful farm girls. And without any discomfort in your neck.”

“Who did this to you?”

“Did what?”

“Made you so unlovable.”

“Unlovable?” Hurt shone in her blue eyes.

“Not that you are unlovable, but that you won't allow yourself to be loved.”

“Davin, you must keep this wagon moving. It will appear suspicious for us to be stopped for no reason.”

“I am not starting this wagon again until you answer my question.”

Muriel crossed her arms. “Then your brother will never make it home.”

He should have known better than to square up against Muriel. She would always have the advantage. Davin released the brake, tugged on the reins, and then they were grinding away on the dirt road once again.

What was indisputably beautiful was the farm country they were traveling through. Muriel had been navigating them through remote country roads, and in this part of Maryland, it was hard to know a war was raging.

This was their second full day of travel and it had been surprisingly uneventful. Whether the Union army was busy recovering from its wounds or chasing retreating Confederates, they were nowhere to be seen so far. Yet Davin was well aware that all it would take was one scout team, soldiers coming from the other direction, or even a curious farmer and they could risk being arrested and even hung for deserting their posts.

“My uncle.”

“What?” Davin didn't intend to have so much anger laced in his response.

“My uncle,” Muriel shouted. “He told me when I was young that I wasn't going to earn a good husband with my appearance. He said I would have to try harder than other women.”

What kind of man would say something like that to his niece?

“He wasn't being mean,” Muriel added. “He was a practical man and I appreciated his honesty.”

“What about your parents? Didn't they treat you with more kindness?”

“They died.”

“What?” They were almost shouting at one another now, making it an awkward conversation.

“When we came to America, I was only a baby. They died of yellow fever aboard the ship.”

What would he say now? What Davin originally intended as a compliment was now becoming a discussion not designed for hollering. “Well, your uncle was mistaken.”

Muriel didn't say anything for a few moments, and he glanced back to see if she was finished speaking. Had he pushed her too far? “Thank you, Davin, but there are traits more significant than a person's appearance, are there not? That's all my uncle was trying to teach me.”

It was clear. She wasn't going to take praise without a fight. Davin decided to talk about something else. Anything else.

“How is he doing?”

“My uncle?”

“No.”

“Oh, your brother?” she said with relief in her voice. “He is still coming in and out. Part of that is the morphine we've given him. This road isn't doing him any favors for his pain.”

“Imagine how much more difficult this would be without Mr. Miller's generosity.” The carriage builder had given them a strong horse and his finest wagon, which because of the craftsmanship of its springs, absorbed much of the bouncing.

And Mr. Miller joined them as outlaws. Despite their pleadings, he insisted on helping them flee past the Union army. Under the evening sky and through muddy roads, he drove them down the first mile of their voyage, while they hid in the back just in case they were halted. Peculiarly, they encountered neither Yanks guarding the back roads nor signs of the rebels who had drifted away as elusive apparitions in the night. It was as if the great battle was merely some unruly dream.

“Your brother should be dead already,” Muriel said flatly. “For us to have the good fortune of encountering Mr. Miller, and even now to have these roads clear for us, maybe God does protect His soldiers.”

He enjoyed the idea of Seamus being a soldier for God. “You know, I used to revere my brother because he was able to rise against the cruelty of our father, and the difficulties of his life. He was an outcast, one who would shake his fist at the skies. But when he became a . . . man of God . . .”

“You lost your hero,” Muriel said.

“I thought he was a coward. A man should find happiness and respect on his own, right?” Davin rued the words, but they were true to how he thought back in California.

Was this why he had cheated Seamus? Why he misled his brother about the mine of Ashlyn's late father? Everyone believed the claim was finished and drained of its gold. But years later when Davin returned to the mine, he made a discovery. An untapped vein. The mother lode.

“I thought I earned it. Why should anybody else know?”

“What are you talking about, Davin?”

He didn't feel comfortable enough to share this inner conflict of his soul. Was what he did truly wrong? Why did Seamus deserve to know? If his brother didn't care about the gold, and even preached against it, then why include him in the riches of the stake?

Looking back to that time, Davin could clearly see now this decision was the fork in the road with his relationship with his brother. Somewhere in those mountain trails of the Sierra, Davin chose the gold over everything else.

“Hello. Are you there?”

Davin cleared his throat. “I'm sorry. I was thinking of somebody I used to know.”

It wasn't the wealth. It never was about the money for Davin. It was the independence that had seduced him. The spirit of the West, the chance to be his own man. This was the Golden Calf that had swept him away. And now, the romance had lost its luster. This independence he once cherished only led to loneliness, a place Davin no longer wanted to reside.

He reached into his pocket and shook the vial of gold, then held it up for Muriel to see. “My last nugget. All of those years under the cracking sun with picks, shovels, and pans, and this is all that remains.”

“Well I say it's good to get rid of what's ill begotten.”

Her statement gave him pause, but then she didn't approve of the hydraulic mining. She wasn't aware of half of it! But she was right. He couldn't wait to dispose of the last of it. To cleanse it from his blood.

“You know,” Davin said. “I figured out why I am doing this.”

“Doing what? Rescuing your brother?”

“Yes. Except I am not rescuing my brother.” Davin thought of throwing the vial into one of the fields, but he gave it one more shake and returned it to his pocket. “Seamus is rescuing me.”