Songs of the Shenandoah (31 page)

“And what is all of this about poor Andrew?”

Clare jumped and turned to see him standing in the doorway with his mischievous grin. “What a horrible person you are to sneak up on two ladies while they are trying to gossip.”

Andrew came over and kissed Clare on the top of her head. “It's not called sneaking if I'm entering my own home. Although I suppose it's mostly the bank's home now.”

Heat rose in her face. “Andrew, please don't burden Cassie here with our financial concerns.”

Cassie raised her hand. “I alreadys know you be on hard times. That's another reason Zachary wants me to help with your children.”

Andrew took off his jacket and rested it on the arm of the chair, and he also put a brown paper-wrapped package there as well. “The better question would be, who doesn't know we're bankrupt? We might as well print it on the front page of the paper for the two or three people in Manhattan who still don't know.” He motioned his hands. “Here's our headline: Hapless Son Single-handedly Sinks Royce Empire.”

“No, there ain't no truth in that, Mr. Royce.” Cassie's tone always changed around Andrew, as she chided him with the authority of a woman who once changed his diapers as his nanny. “Your pappy be proud about his boy, what you does with his newspaper. I tell you this. The
Daily
does its speaking for God. And He ain't worrying none about whethers you have money or you don't. Why if Mr. Moses still be around, he come to my boy Andrew and he say, ‘I got ten things I want you to print and I ain't gonna print it nowheres else. Because you's the only one darin' to speak the truth.'”

Andrew cocked his head. “Now, Cassie. I may have to have you preach that at my office for all to hear. Maybe we would stop losing good people to those other newspapers.”

“Oh no, we didn't lose anyone else, did we?” Clare hated the thought of her husband facing yet another obstacle.

“No.” He pointed two fingers at them. “Quite the contrary. As it turns out, we just earned ourselves the largest advertising customer we've had in five years. Just today, they committed to ads in our paper for a full year.”

Both Clare and Cassie clapped. It was refreshing to hear good news.

“Who is it, Andrew?” Clare loved seeing her husband shine with hope.

“It's a firm named . . . Angus . . . umm . . . Angell Finch, that's right. A boot company of all things.”

“Maybe our prayers are being answered after all,” Clare said. “Is that why you came home early? To share this news?”

“Oh!” He went over to his jacket and pulled out an envelope and held it up.

Clare stood and clasped her hands. “Is it?”

“It is.”

“From which one of my never-writes-to-me brothers?”

“Private Davin Hanley.”

Clare snatched it out of his hand and retreated back to her chair. “Should I get you some tea?”

He waved her off with a smile.

Her hands started to shake as she looked on the table for a knife. Not finding one she lifted her spoon and dragged the handle end under the envelope flap. After slicing it open, she pulled out the letter slowly. Then she fanned her face with her hand.

“If he's writing, that means he is alive, Clare.” Andrew's words were calming, but she couldn't push away the thought it might be Davin's last letter to her or written from some battlefield hospital bed.

“Oh thank You, Jesus, he is alive.” Cassie held her hands up.

Clare remembered how little Cassie followed the war. “Do you know about Chancellorsville?” The blank look she received answered her question. “It was Davin's first battle, and it so happened to be the most humiliating defeat of all for the Union. And again, it was our Irish boys, the 69th and the 88th regiments, wouldn't you know, that held the lines while the rest of the army retreated.”

“It was a defeat, yes, but there at least was the news about General Stonewall Jackson.” Andrew leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

“Oh Andrew,” Clare said, “I don't cheer any man's death.”

Andrew addressed Cassie. “He was shot in the arm by his own men. Died a few days later as a result of the wound.”

“That's horrible.” Cassie always got emotional when they spoke about such things. “Just terrible. People goin' about shooting one another. And this Stonewall man. You say he's a friend of Davin's?”

He cleared his throat and pointed to the letter. “Maybe you should read that.”

Clare waved it in her hand and shuddered. Then she handed it to Andrew and he unfolded it as he walked back over to where he had been standing.

She watched his every facial expression looking for the smallest of clues that would reveal what was written. Even as a journalist it was difficult to get information about deaths and casualties. Especially with the toll being so high at Chancellorsville, they were still sorting through the bodies and injuries.

What would she do if Davin had received some terrible wound? If he had lost a leg or an arm? When she had pulled him and Caitlin from their shanty in Branlow and sailed with them to America, she did so with the full expectation that she was bringing them to a better life.

Had she made a terrible mistake? Would they have been much better to rough it out on the Hanley farm, just as her family had done so many generations before?

Was the reason she brought them here to pursue her own ambitions as a journalist? Was it the fame she had received as a woman in a man's industry? She had always believed her decision to bring them back to Manhattan to be for their own good. And to support Andrew's ministries and roles here. But all along, had it been about her?

“What does it say, Andrew?” Clare didn't like the seriousness of his expression. “Is he injured?”

“That little boy should have never left us,” Cassie said. “How many times have I said this. Should have never gone.”

Andrew held up his hand and then flipped the piece of paper and continued reading. Then he released a slow exhale. “He's fine. Davin is fine.”

Cassie pounded the table. “Sweet Jesus. Why didn't you just say that all the while? You had me and Miss Clare in a knot. You always was a misbehaver. Since you was wee high. I ought to have spanked you a few more times when I had a chance, and I got a mind to do it now.”

“The only one who ever cried when you chose not to spare the rod was you, Miss Cassie. You never did have a heart for punishment.”

“And look at you now, all full of mouth on account of my weak heart.” She shook her head.

“What does it say?” Clare held out her hand.

Andrew looked down at it again. “Let's see. The Irish Battalion was not supposed to be in the battle at all, but they were ambushed by Jackson's army.

“Many of the men in his regiment did not make it out alive. But they held firm, and he was one of those who had been able to hold off the advance and they were able to just barely retreat to safety.”

Clare put her hand to her chest. “Thank You, Lord. Was that all?”

“Well no. He writes quite some about Muriel. Rambling really.”

“Muriel? Are you sure?” He had seemed so indifferent to their nanny when she was in New York.

Cassie's face brightened. “The redheaded girl? We seen her all of the time at our Underground meetings. Always full of questions.”

“She was quite useful around the newspaper as well,” Andrew said. “We certainly missed her when she left.”

“Not to mention how much our children loved her.” Clare waved her hand at Andrew again. She wanted to read every word for herself. “Who would have thought Davin would show interest in a woman who was . . . well so spirited and brilliant? Most men find themselves intimidated by this, don't you know?”

“I know how precisely . . . disconcerting that can be.” Andrew handed Clare the letter.

“Maybe our boy Davin, he's just like Caitlin,” said Cassie.

Clare didn't look up from the letter. “Oh, how so?”

“Maybe he's just grown up some.”

“Maybe out of the ashes of this war there will be some good after all.” Clare halted. “Andrew, you didn't say anything about this. It says he is very concerned that we are in danger. They believe Lee's army may have its sights on New York.” She set down the letter. “Then the rumors may be true.”

“And that isn't the kind of thing he should be writing in his letters.”

“If them Southern boys makes it to New York, we'll be finished for sure.” Cassie rubbed her wrists. “We'll all be in chains again.”

“Which brings me to my next surprise.” Andrew grabbed the wrapped package on the chair and left the room.

Clare glanced up. “Where is he going now?”

“Yes. That one there always has his surprises.”

“Why, Cassie, I think you may be right about Davin.”

“Of course I is. Now what is I right about?”

“These are the words of a young man in love.” Clare put her hand over her mouth and laughed. “Listen to this. ‘I only wish my eyes were open to Muriel when we were both in the city, when we could have freely walked on the banks of the Hudson and could have enjoyed the trees blossoming in Central Park.'” She giggled. “Oh dear boy! He's quite smitten.”

“You sure that's him writing?”

“There's more. Oh, this is not as cheery.” Clare held the letter up to the light of the window. “He says, ‘Instead we are surrounded by the screams of dying men and injuries and horrors beyond description, yet Muriel is a remarkably calm spirit in the tempest.'”

Cassie gasped.

Clare looked to Cassie and then followed her gaze to see Andrew standing in the doorway, dressed in a military uniform. She dropped the letter and stood, nearly knocking her chair to the ground.

“Well? What do you think?” Andrew spun around with his hands raised to his side.

“I think you should remove it immediately.” Clare's voice began to waver.

The front door slammed and they all looked to the entranceway to see Garret entering, chewing on an apple. He gave a double nod when he saw his father. “Da's going to war?”

“He most certainly is not.” Clare propped her arms on her waist. “Andrew . . . what?”

“Now that's one boy who shouldn't be about bullets,” Cassie said.

“All right, you two, that is enough of your fussing.” Andrew seemed disappointed in their response. “I am afraid to say you are both correct. I am not going to war, and I should not be around gunplay. If you paid any attention you would know this is not Union blue. This is merely a state militia uniform.”

“But they are drafting state militia.” Clare went over to him, not wanting to share with him how handsome he looked.

Andrew gave her a hug. “These are the times we are facing. The rebels are moving up toward Pennsylvania. Manhattan has been stripped of most of its Union officers. Clare, there is genuine concern that the Confederates could come to New York. Why, if we are defeated here it would be over for our cause. There is pressure on Lincoln from our own people to end this war. They asked for us to post a call for recruits for the militia in the
Daily
, and I thought . . .”

“You thought what, Andrew?”

“That it's time for me to do my part. Not to sit idly by.”

“Idly by? Don't you know how important the
Daily
is to the war effort?”

“If the rebels come to Manhattan, Clare, there will be no
Daily
. There will be no North. And if they don't come here, then I'll be able to return this uniform unused.”

“I think you look brave, Da.” Garret reached out and felt the material. “Can I tell my friends?”

Clare walked over to the bay window and peered outside. Was her whole world shattering? And what could she do about it by cowering in her own house? Maybe Andrew was right. Perhaps it was time for them to get more involved. For her to take her position at the
Daily
with a greater level of seriousness.

She couldn't bear a weapon, but she could influence others through her pen. Could she use it to protect the men in her life? Andrew? Seamus? Davin? And her children?

Turning, she saw her husband pulling Garret into his arms. “Andrew?”

“What? What now, Clare?”

“I understand why you feel you need to wear that uniform. It's this sense that we can do more. That we
should
do more. So . . . I must share with you what has been on my mind. It's been bothering me for several weeks now.”

Andrew didn't say anything, but she could tell he knew.

“If the rebels are coming. If this could be the end of the war. If my brothers could be fighting it on either side. Then I need to cover that story. And I need to cover it from the battlefield.”

Chapter 34

The Correspondents

Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

Union Camp

July 3, 1863