Songs of the Shenandoah (22 page)

Andrew let out a deep sigh. “Well, at least the papers will print for another day.” He turned to Clare. “I suppose we'll be in need of that story after all. Should I assign it to someone else? It's going to be a late evening.”

“You'll do so at your own peril.” Clare gave the press a pat. “This is the story this old fellow was born to print.”

Some muffled shouts sounded from the front of the building, and Clare looked up toward the front hallway to see a group of men making their way toward them in a huff.

“Just what we needed.” Andrew wiped sweat from his forehead, and it only managed to streak the ink further. “That's Tammany Hall folk. Boss Tweed must be sending his lackeys.”

“Here to offer a few editorial suggestions, to be certain.” Owen turned to Andrew. “Now before you swing back, I need to remind you how dearly we need those new parts. Try to tread softly, will you?”

The men marched up to Andrew looking like street thugs dressed in business attire.

“Mr. Sweeney,” Andrew said with a forced flourish. “To what shall we owe this great pleasure?”

The man, his face peppered with black and gray stubble, had a pub-reddened nose. He gave a cursory nod and lifted his hat. “Just a courtesy visit, Mr. Royce. 'Tis all. Do we have somewheres to speak? Perhaps a wee bit more private.”

“What you have to say can certainly be said before Clare and Owen.” Andrew had the appearance of an Indian chieftain, with the ink streaked like war paint. He glared down at the other two men, who seemed less committed to this confrontation than their leader, whose green top hat matched the color of his jacket and vest. “Speak freely.”

Mr. Sweeney curled a smile, more a weapon of confidence than an expression of joy. “Oh, Mr. Royce, I do intend to do that. I do.” He tucked his hat under his arm. “And I pray you'll offer a more . . . tender ear to our words this time. We Irishmen take great issue with your man in Washington, as we were accustomed to oppression in our fair homeland but won't tolerate it none here. Now, I know we've had a fair disagreement here or there in the past. But as a courtesy to your dear father Charles, may he rest in peace, I must warn you of the great displeasure spreading through the Five Points.”

He turned to Clare. “Now, dear lady, I am pleased you are hearing this as well. Because there is uncertainty about you among your people. Are you for us or against us? For now is the moment to choose your side and do so wisely as we intend to battle fiercely over this.”

Clare clenched her teeth. “Thank you, sir. Yes. The
New York Daily
will always be a devoted friend of the Irish. As it will with all people who are being oppressed by the cruelties of these times.”

He cringed. “Yes, and surely after the bloodletting of Fredericksburg, with our brave Irish lads thrown to body heaps like rubbish—”

“Yes, Mr. Sweeney, of which we reported with great earnest.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Royce. Yet perhaps not with the zeal of one wishing an end to this godforsaken, purposeless war.”

Clare knew arguing with people like Mr. Sweeney served little purpose but continued against her greater wisdom. “Well now, you have read enough of my words to know there is a cause that is worth both fighting and dying for.”

“I don't see where this is leading to a proper resolution.” Owen stepped forward and gave Clare a subtle nudge.

Mr. Sweeney pushed Owen aside and the men next to him stiffened. “And dying might be what happens if this . . . this newspaper continues to take the side of the Negroes against its own people.” He glared at Owen. “You should be ashamed of yourself, a man of Derry like you, boy.” He pointed to Andrew and spittle came from his mouth. “I can see this Englishman treating us like such, but you, sir, ought to be boiled in ink.”

Andrew's eyes narrowed and his frame stiffened. Clare knew he wasn't bothered at all by what the man said about him, but he would not stand by as she was being insulted. What had she started? The last thing the
Daily
needed was to be in yet another skirmish.

“Was that a threat I heard?” Andrew guided Owen back with his arm.

“You most certainly did.” Mr. Sweeney dusted his hands together. “I came here with good intentions, but I leave in the foulest of tempers. I will report back to Tammany Hall that their recommendation of banning all merchants from tossing a penny at this . . . paper, should be taken fully to heart.” He stepped forward. “I only came here in kindness to your old man, Andrew. You have disgraced him. We'll be dancing the day your doors are closed for good, and it will be soon I can tell you that. Good day.”

With that he spun, the tails of his coat flying, and just as they entered, the entourage marched their way out of the office, the anticipated slam of the door not disappointing.

The three of them stood silent. Clare realized they weren't alone as a dozen or so of the newspaper's staff had made their way from their desks and were staring blankly at them.

“It's all right, everyone.” Andrew spoke with a loud voice to those nearby and those leaning down over the upper balcony. “The press is back up and it will need to be fed with compelling stories. Today is a historic day for our country, and the
Daily
will tell it with a full and unfettered voice.”

With some grumbling and shaking of heads, the employees retreated to their desks and Clare eyed Andrew with admiration. How did he remain so composed with the fires of dismay raging around him?

Owen was wiping his hands with a cloth, and then he tossed it to Andrew. “That was a fine speech, boss. But I suppose now that we've lost the last of our Irish merchants, you've got other plans for us to pay our people. That's not to mention ye ol' press there. It isn't going to heal itself.”

Andrew sighed. “That's the good thing about this being God's newspaper. He'll be the one to fix it, because it's certainly beyond my doing.”

“You believe that, don't you?” Owen scratched his chin. “You do know how much this paper means to me?”

“I do.” Andrew patted Owen on the shoulder. “Some days I believe it matters more to you than me. Now. Go make sure that drum is going to spin. I'm going to share some encouraging words with my reporter here, and we're going to make some news.”

Owen nodded and headed back to the press, leaving Andrew and Clare alone.

“What are we going to do?” Clare took the cloth from his hands, removed his glasses, and started to rub away the ink from his face.

“I'm a mess, aren't I?” He smiled at her.

“You have never appeared more handsome.” She dabbed at his cheek. “Andrew?”

“Yes?”

“Have you thought about speaking to Davin?”

Andrew jerked his head back. “What about?”

Why wasn't this clear to him? They had spoken about this on several occasions. “You know. About my brother helping us out.”

He relaxed his shoulders. “Oh. That again. Let me ask you a question. What about your Cyrus Fields and his grand scheme for his precious cable? How many times has he offered you, his most fervent supporter, a stake in his company?”

Clare poked the cloth on his nose. “That's hardly a comparison as Cyrus's stock isn't worth much as it is. And you know why I would never accept it anyway. But Davin is different. He has the means to help us and he is family as well. And it so happens he's been quite successful, which is no crime.”

Something changed in Andrew's expression. Was it shame? Had she insulted her husband by talking about Davin's wealth?

“Why, Andrew, he could solve all of our problems and without causing himself much discomfort at all.”

Clare wiped his forehead, which now seemed wrinkled with worry again. She was not comfortable questioning her husband's integrity, but was Andrew's pride getting in the way of doing what was best for their family? Maybe it was time for her to make a stand. Perhaps her brother could offer more than mere funding. Would Andrew be able to humble himself enough to get some counseling on how best to conduct his business?

“Clare?”

“Yes?”

“Remember when you first showed up today?”

“Uh . . . huh.”

“You had good news.”

She paused. Was he trying to change the topic of their discussion? “Oh yes! I did have good news.”

He took the towel from her hand. “I could certainly use some of that right now.”

“It's wonderful. I received a letter from Caitlin today. She's coming home.”

Andrew's face tightened. “She's not hurt?”

“Oh no. Well, perhaps. She said Fredericksburg was all she could handle. Muriel supposedly is doing just fine. Caitlin described her as a war hero. But isn't it glorious? Caitlin is coming home.”

He nodded, his gaze drifting.

“She can help us here. Have you read what she wrote on behalf of the Sanitary Commission? It's really quite strong. I believe with a bit of mentoring she could do well.”

“That does please me.” Andrew held her hands.

“It's just, I so need my family to be safe. To survive through all of this. If something would happen, I would never forgive myself for bringing them from Ireland . . . to . . . well, all of this.”

She looked to Andrew for affirmation, but all Clare could see was sadness. There was something he wasn't telling her.

“Andrew. What is it?”

He gripped her hands. “We better let Cassie know you'll be late tonight. Bless her for all of the help she provides.”

Andrew made his way to the staircase and sauntered up slowly, deep in thought.

Clare mourned this moment. Because it was the first time she ever sensed he was keeping a secret from her.

Chapter 26

The Funeral

The pipes bellowed through the vast chamber darkened with grief.

They stood off at the back of the crowded St. Patrick's Cathedral as the somber notes of Mozart's Requiem rose from the symphony at the front of the majestic building. Davin, who had never ventured into this sanctuary before, was awed by the architecture, with its vaulted domed ceilings. As he thought about it, he couldn't remember the last time he was in any church.

In the midst of the thousand or so who wore black and veils and cried openly was General Meagher himself, the leader of the 69th Irish battalion. Despite the sad purpose of their gathering, Davin felt strangely drawn to his fellow countrymen, and it reminded him of the wakes of his youth.

It was difficult to see from their distant vantage point, but the archbishop of New York was presiding over what appeared to be a large coffin, meant to represent the many Irish soldiers who had fallen in the Civil War. The last battle in Fredericksburg had nearly wiped out the Irish Battalions, and this requiem was as much a political statement as a chance to mourn.

Although they were being hailed as the bravest of the soldiers fighting for the North, the presiding sentiment was that the Irish were merely the most expendable.

Davin leaned into Andrew and whispered, “Should we be finding a place to sit?”

Andrew raised his eyebrows. “If they knew the publisher of the
New York Daily
was here, they might be tempted to put me in that coffin up there.”

“Are you going to tell me why you wanted to meet here?” Davin already knew but hoped that Andrew would just get on with it. He didn't see why there was any need for pretense. Everyone knew the
Daily
was on the cusp of collapsing.

“Do you know what a Requiem is?” Andrew's tone wasn't patronizing, but it also wasn't that of one who was about to ask for a favor.

“I have a notion.” Davin would play along.

“There were seven hundred Irishmen who climbed to their deaths at Malvern Hill. With the green flag of their battalion hosted with pride.”

He knew this. Why would an Englishman be giving him this lesson in history?

“They stepped over bodies. Slipped in the pools of the blood of their friends as they pressed forward.”

Unease grew in Davin's stomach. Was it the dark mood of this room? Or was it the way Andrew was speaking? Maybe he shouldn't help the man at all.

“What do you think drives a man to do something like that?” Andrew's head nodded to the sway of the music. “To sacrifice everything.”

“I don't know.” Was there anything he believed in that profoundly? Was there anything he would die for?

“Here.” Andrew reached into his jacket and pulled out what seemed to be a few pages from the
Daily
. “We printed these today. Have you seen these?” He handed them to Davin.

“What are they?”

“Go ahead and read them yourself.”

Davin unfolded the paper. What he saw was a list of names in fine print. “I don't understand.”

“See if you recognize any of them. Those are the fallen of the Irish Battalions. Each of those names there represent the hopes of a mother for her son. A father for his boy. A generation lost.” He reached out to take it back, but Davin withdrew it.