Songs of the Shenandoah (39 page)

“What happened?” Davin noticed Jacob limping over to a fallen tree. Then the large man reached down to his ankle.

“I sorry for this.” Jacob snapped off a branch and tossed it.

Davin knew the grave situation they were now facing. He would have no way of carrying Seamus by himself, and if he flung his brother over his shoulder, it would rip open his wounds. Which was why he was relieved to see the runaway limp back over and reach down and clasp the handles.

They were off again, but with each step, Davin could almost experience the searing pain in Jacob's injured ankle. At first, the man was able to hop along at a good pace, but with each step he slowed further, until it was apparent he could barely hold himself upright.

Wishing there was some way to relieve Jacob of the burden, all Davin could do was urge the man on. Because the longer this took, the more dangerous it would be for Muriel.

Finally they started heading down a slope, and to his great relief, Davin saw the road below.

Please, God, let Muriel be all right. Please let Jacob make it to the road.

Now with Seamus's weight bearing downhill, Jacob could continue forward with short hops on his good foot, and they made it quickly to the bottom.

Muriel must have heard them coming through the bushes because she ran up and, seeing Jacob's struggles, relieved him of the handles. “We must hurry!”

“What is it?” Davin didn't even get the opportunity to celebrate seeing her again.

“I made it through town, but there was an old lady who was eying me suspiciously as I passed through. She could have been there to scout, which means we could be followed at any moment.”

They scurried to the wagon and loaded in Seamus, who was now awake and moaning.

“Jacob,” Muriel said. “I know the way from here. You should go.”

“We can't send him off with his ankle injured,” Davin said. “He can barely walk. If we leave him here, he'll either starve or be captured.” As he spoke these words he realized his intentions to set both Muriel and Jacob free were dashed. Their present circumstances had sealed them in this together for good. At this point, there was only one choice but to press forward, all together. They weren't all that far from Taylorsville, and if they could somehow make it there, they would all have refuge.

Muriel bent down and ran her hands over Jacob's ankles. “Davin is right. It's terribly swollen already. It will be two weeks before you'll be able to walk freely. Get in the back of the wagon.” She nodded at Davin. “You as well.”

He didn't like the idea of leaving Muriel alone up front, but she said this with such force he followed her directions, and soon the three men were packed in tightly.

Muriel climbed up to the wagon seat, and almost instantly they were moving again with speed. Davin remembered they had tied his rifle to the bottom of the wagon. It would be useless to them down there, but there hadn't been time to retrieve it either.

It was difficult for him to move in the cramped space, but he worked his way to the front where he could see Muriel urging all she could from the tired horse. By now, the sun was emerging, which made the road easier to see as it winded down through the trees to the farming valley below.

They had only traveled a mile or so when Muriel looked back and her shoulders slumped, and she began to slow the wagon.

“What's going on?”

“Lie down. Both of you.”

“No,” Davin said.

“Let me take care of this.” Her expression held both concern and calm. “You must trust me.”

Jacob lay prostrate as directed, but Davin remained perched where he could peek out the opening.

In a moment, they could hear and feel the sound of horses approaching, then three men came up to Muriel standing in the road, waiting to greet them.

He was only able to see the men's faces briefly before they stepped out of view, but two of them were young and bore enough of a resemblance to be the sons of the oldest, a portly man with a wide-brimmed black hat.

“Why, gentlemen, is there some reason you would come upon us with such great haste?” Muriel spoke with the soft accent of a well-bred Southern woman.

At first Davin thought there must be another lady speaking, but he was shocked to see these words coming from Muriel's own lips.

“The fact is, Mama told us you passed through Garson in a bit of haste yourself, little lady.” It must have been the older man. “We reckon when somebody comes through without the courtesy of a salutation, it means they're holding. Holding something of value. Figured we ought to check for ourselves.”

“Well now, gentlemen, I surely can understand your curiosity. But I'm supposing you don't recognize me. Otherwise you wouldn't be messing with me on account of my uncle. He always was rather protective of me.”

“And why should I care who your uncle is?”

Davin pressed his ear against the canvas of the wagon to try to hear, but their voices became muffled. Then the men started to laugh. Then he heard the sound of steps as they were approaching. Davin turned just in time to see the pudgy face of the older man appear at the back of the wagon. A grin emerged and then a cackle before he pulled his head out again.

“Looky there. She ain't lying none.”

The two younger men took their turns at peering in and glanced at each other in amazement, then they withdrew in laughter as well.

“Well, if she ain't just like her uncle.”

“I'll say.”

After some more cordial, filtered conversation, Davin heard the horses leaving and he watched out the back as the three men galloped away.

He climbed out the front of the wagon opening and stumbled onto the bench beside Muriel just as she was pulling away, and the jolt nearly unseated him.

Once he righted himself, he looked over to Muriel as his stomach knotted. “What was that? What did you tell those men?”

Muriel didn't answer for few minutes, and then she turned to him with sadness in her eyes and spoke with a slow drawl. “I merely told those men the plain truth.”

“Really? And what was that?”

“That I am the niece of the most notorious slave catcher in the South. And a Confederate spy.”

Chapter 46

The Wreckage

Clare had never seen Andrew so despondent.

Perhaps it was the bandage wrapped around his head. Or that the presses of the
New York Daily
continued to be silent. Then again, it most probably was the devastation of the building's interior, which other than a board being placed on the shattered front window remained in the same condition it was following the riots a week ago.

At least the family was safe. The children were doing fine, all things considered. Andrew's condition was much improved after taking a brick to his head while serving for the militia and sitting out most of the uprising in the hospital. The news on Cassie was also encouraging. Although she endured a brutal beating, she was healing well and already insisting on doing her chores again.

But the mortal blow appeared to be the newspaper that Charles Royce had founded and which his son, Andrew, had toiled so gallantly to keep its doors open.

“After all we've been through, we can't just give in.” Owen readjusted the cap on his head.

Andrew leaned back in his office chair with his hands clasped. “Tell me honestly. What is your assessment of the press?”

“Well, there were quite a few blows with a sledge, I'll admit to you.” Owen shifted in his chair. “But the old lady, she's built like a canon. I can fix her. She'll be singing again, I promise you that.”

“Oh, Owen, those are sweet words to the ear,” Clare said. “Where would the
Daily
ever be without your talents?”

“And what about the ink?” Andrew crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

“The ink?” Owen went to blurt out a response but then stammered and lowered his eyes. “That's the real hurt there. Those brutes poured it all over the equipment. It will take a barrel of patience to get it done, but I'll get her cleaned up, even if I don't sleep until I do.”

“How long, Owen?” Andrew pressed.

Owen looked up to the ceiling and his lips moved as if he was counting. “Let's see, if I was doing it myself . . . maybe . . . three, four weeks.”

Andrew's chin sunk to his chest. “Four weeks! Even three weeks with the press down and no revenues coming in will sink us to the bottom of the Hudson.” He placed his hands on the back of his head. After a moment he threw his hands up. “We're done. There is nothing else we can do.”

He stood up and walked over to the gold-framed painting of Charles Royce, whose pudgy cheeks, glistening eyes, and stern demeanor resonated with strength. Andrew removed it from the wall and admired it. “Father, I did all I could. You certainly deserved a more capable son.”

“Oh, Andrew.” Clare's heart ached for her husband. “Owen is right. Surely we will find a way to persevere as we always do. After all, who has more experience with hopeless than we do?”

“Yes. We've dealt with hopeless. And impossible. And impassible. And . . . and . . . all of those wonderful expressions of despondency. But it appears hopeless has finally had its way with the once-glorious Royce dynasty.” With his bandage, Andrew looked as if he had just limped off a battlefield, which in many ways he had.

A tap sounded on the door to their office. The handle turned and Caitlin stuck her head inside. “Umm . . . you might want to come out and see this.”

“Is everything all right?” Clare's pulse triggered. Could they bear any more hardship?

They exited the office, and she saw Cyrus Field sitting outside holding a package with a bow. Clare instantly knew why he was here and she wasn't in the mind-set to engage with the man. In the midst of Gettysburg and the draft riots, the report on his failed attempt at launching the Transatlantic Cable had come out and it was highly unfavorable. He certainly would be desperate for a supportive story from Clare.

He started to stand and extend a hand but Caitlin intervened. “Mr. Field,” she said, “could you give us just a few moments?”

Cyrus nodded, his face turning red, and he retreated back to the chair.

It was then Clare noticed the chatter below. Caitlin led them to the balcony looking over the first floor, and there with brooms in their hands, picking papers off of the ground and carrying in what appeared to be a new window, was what seemed to be half of the congregation of their recently adopted church.

Directing the traffic and barking commands was the Reverend Zachary Bridger.

“What is this?” Andrew's mouth opened wide.

The reverend waved at them and then worked his way through the crowd of joyfully working dark faces and met them halfway up the staircase.

“I hope you don't mind us coming by without a proper invitation.” Zachary let out his deep, loud laugh.

“How is Cassie?” Clare clasped his hand with both of hers.

“Oh, that woman is fine, fine, fine. The fact is, all of this was her idea, but I wish I would have claimed it myself. This newspaper has been the only voice our people have had. And this is no time for my people to be silenced, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Andrew?”

“That is a lot of hands down there,” Owen said. “I think I'm going to put some of them to work on that press.” He hustled down the stairs.

“Reverend Bridger.” Andrew took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. “This might be the greatest act of kindness I have been granted. But I am afraid even if we clean things up, we just won't have the wherewithal to continue.”

“Yes, right.” The reverend, who always was impeccably dressed, reached into his black jacket and pulled out an envelope. “Now there isn't too much in here as my folk ain't the kind to be hiding diamonds in their mattresses, but we passed the hat and it seemed as if everyone was willing to do their part, share a little. Can't think of one who didn't, although that old codger Evans probably pulled a coin or two out if I know him well enough, and I surely do.”

Andrew held out his palm as if to say he couldn't accept it, but Clare snatched the envelope gratefully from the pastor's hand and thumbed through the contents. “Why, Reverend Bridger, this is so very generous.”

The reverend patted his forehead with a handkerchief and looked down lovingly on the people who were laboring below. “Indeed, we are poor in pocket, but God has us rich in spirit, now don't He?”

Clare laughed. “Indeed He does.” She put her arm around Andrew, who was still dumbfounded, and she rested her head against his shoulder. As she did, Clare saw her other guest waiting patiently in his chair.

“Oh dear. I have forgotten about poor Cyrus.”

She walked over to the man whose face showed some irritability but cheered up instantly when Clare arrived. He shook her hand with enthusiasm. Clare pointed toward the office door, and once he entered she followed in after him.