Praise for
Michael Reynolds
Michael Reynolds’ Songs of the Shenandoah is destined to become a classic. Third in a series of brilliant historical novels, the last is by no means the least. From the coast of Newfoundland through Manhattan and onto the battlefields of the Civil War and beyond, Reynolds has penned a sweeping epic that will leave the reader breathless. Do not miss this masterpiece!
Kathleen Y’Barbo, best-selling author of Flora’s Wish and Millie’s Treasure from the Secret Lives of Will Tucker series
Reynolds winds up his series of novels with one of his best works of fiction and some of his finest writing. By turns romantic, dramatic, suspenseful, and colorful, as well as being rich with powerful prose and dialogue, Songs of the Shenandoah is a sweeping conclusion to his Heirs of Ireland trilogy. It will be one of your best reads of the year.
Murray Pura, best-selling author of The Wings of Morning and Ashton Park
Michael K. Reynolds—what a find! I started reading his debut novel Flight of the Earls and couldn’t put it down. A gripping family series set during a fascinating time in Irish-American history.
—Dan Walsh, best-selling author of The Unfinished Gift
Michael Reynolds has given us a stunning debut novel—a saga that will capture both your heart and your mind as you journey back in time to experience triumph in the midst of crushing—except for Christ—circumstances. A soaring chronicle of immigrant America and beleaguered Ireland that will keep you reading late into the night.
Stephanie Grace Whitson, Christy finalist and best-selling author of historical fiction
From the Irish potato famine to the seedy streets of New York, Michael K. Reynolds takes the reader on a moving adventure. The writing sings, the story thrills, the characters are unapologetically realistic, and the message of hope and trust shines even in the grit. A novel not to be missed!
Sarah Sundin, award-winning author of With Every Letter
Michael Reynolds’s debut novel Flight of the Earls, hauls you into an Irish family at the beginning of the potato famine. Sending their grown children to America might save them all. Clare lands in New York City to find another kind of famine, lack of morals, all encompassed by greed and corruption. Clare’s dogged fight to keep her family alive amidst overwhelming odds makes her a standout heroine. I heartily recommend Flight of the Earls and look forward to the next. Michael Reynolds is an author to look out for.
—Lauraine Snelling, author of the continuing family saga of the Bjorklunds, the Blessing books, as readers call them, and the new Wild West Wind series with Whispers on the Wind and coming, A Place to Belong
My ancestors on my grandfather’s side immigrated from Ireland during the great potato famine. It’s something I knew but didn’t really understand until reading Flight of the Earls by Michael K. Reynolds. The questions, fears, and hopes of a generation come to life through this novel. I found my emotions wrapped up in the middle of it . . . a sign of good fiction!
Tricia Goyer, best-selling author of thirty-three books, including Beside Still Waters
Songs of the Shenandoah, Digital Edition
Based on Print Edition
Copyright © 2014 by Michael K. Reynolds
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
978-1-4336-7821-9
Published by B&H Publishing Group,
Nashville, Tennessee
Dewey Decimal Classification: F
Subject Heading: UNITED STATES—HISTORY—1861-1865, CIVIL WAR—FICTION LOYALTY—FICTION FAMILY—FICTION
Publisher’s Note: The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
Scripture quotations are taken from the New International Version (niv), Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by the International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. Also used is the Holy Bible, King James Version.
For my family
who contributed immeasurably
to every word in this book.
You bring sweet melody to my life,
a song which never ceases to inspire.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As I compose these last words concluding the Heirs of Ireland series, I realize countless are those who have assisted me in the joyful labors of bringing these characters and stories to life.
My eternal gratitude goes to Jesus Christ who brings all inspiration and purpose to my writing.
And then there is my beloved wife Debbie, the lead character in my life, who has sacrificed greatly in the writing of these novels, and served as my faithful companion throughout this wild publishing journey. My daughters Kaleigh, Mackenzie, and Adeline have been such a blessing as they’ve tolerated with grace and understanding my many long nights and weekends in the office as my deadlines approach.
For Sheila, my mother and number one fan, who provided precious feedback and unyielding support. Also, for my father Philip who encouraged his son tremendously as did my sisters Cathy and Jacqueline and my good friend Larry Smith.
I am blessed with the world’s classiest and most capable literary agent in Janet Kobobel Grant of Books & Such Literary Agency, whose patience and mentoring has helped craft my career.
My hat goes off to all of my friends at the Books & Such Literary Agency, and my many author friends as well, who promoted my writing and lifted my spirits during challenging times. And to the folks at the Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference, who have positively impacted the careers and souls of many authors.
Blessings as well to my “inner circle” of Allen Batts, Jim Johnson and Greg Latimer, godly men who keep me grounded in my faith through deep valleys and the highest peaks.
For Julie Gwinn, who gave this writer his first publishing opportunity, and made the dreams of this trilogy come to fruition. And to the rest of the gifted team at B&H Publishing Group including Jennifer Lyell who carried the torch forward, my talented cover artist Diana Lawrence, book designer Kim Stanford, and marketing assistant Patrick Bonner.
Special thanks to my editor, Julee Schwarzburg, who has such a unique talent at bringing out the best in a writer. Not only is she a genius at what she does, but she is a pleasure to work with as well.
And for my Author Insiders and friends on Facebook and Twitter who are so willing to share news about my novels around the world. What you do makes a huge difference.
Thanks as well go out to my staff at Global Studio, who put their heart and talents to work in publicizing the author and his books.
All historical fiction novelists rely heavily on the painstaking efforts of scholars. There were so many excellent resources I depended on for the research of this book, chief among them being: Gotham by Edwin G. Burrows and Mike Wallace, A Thread Across the Ocean: The Heroic Story of the Transatlantic Cable by John Steele Gordon, The Library of Congress Illustrated Timeline of the Civil War by Margaret E. Wagner, The Untold Civil War: Exploring the Human Side of War by James Robertson, Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era by James McPherson and The Civil War series of documentaries by Ken Burns.
Finally . . . I have tremendous gratitude for my readers, who honor me with the gift of their time and imagination. And especially those who make the effort to thrill me with heartwarming reviews, kindly worded letters and who share me with their friends.
Prologue
The Cable
Trinity Bay, Newfoundland
August 16, 1858
The mahogany clock inside the telegraph station ticked brightly in contrast to the unnerv
ing silence in the room, and Clare Royce caught herself similarly tapping the tip of her pencil on her open notebook.
As the storied reporter for her husband’s paper, the New York Daily, she was rarely far from her pad of paper, and for some reason not clearly understood to her, this story was personal to Clare.
Clare regretted not being here eleven days earlier when Cyrus Field, the mastermind of this wild-eyed venture, first arrived with the telegraph wire in tow aboard the great ship Niagara. Upon arriving in the early morn, he rode a dinghy to this remote landing in Newfoundland, a place of fog-enshrouded shores of blue waters and seemingly endless woodlands. He announced with glee, “The cable is laid” to all who would listen, thus signaling the beginning of a historic conversation between two continents: the elegant lady of Europe and the nubile beauty of North America.
Upon hearing this news, Clare came as quick as she could from New York, wanting to be at this location when Queen Victoria of England sent the line’s first official message to President Buchanan of the United States.
As Clare sat here waiting, her thoughts drifted along the thousands of miles of cable laid across the murky floor of the Atlantic Ocean, which when it descended to depths below no doubt provided a curious distraction to the finned, shelled, and clawed inhabitants of the sea before it reached the bottom, there to rest among waving algae, jagged coral, and soft mud.
What completed Clare’s fascination of this glorious line of one man’s lofty imagination was its destination, an island off of the westernmost point of Ireland, a nation which had never escaped the most cherished places of Clare’s heart.
It was there, in the green-grassed coastal village of Valencia, where the other end of the telegraph wire was connected, laid by the crew of the ship Agamemnon. Several weeks earlier, this British vessel had started midway in the Atlantic alongside the American-owned Niagara, and after splicing the cable between them, the two ships lay their thread like two spiders heading toward opposite worlds.
Clare imagined the sailors of the Agamemnon, with saltwater-drenched pants, carrying the cable through the frothy waves to the sandy beach, then looking up to the craggy rock cliffs of the Irish island. Clare wished she could have been there alongside them to gaze upon the lush hills dotted with stony hovels and foraging sheep and cattle.
Had it truly been more than a decade since she had carried her brothers and sister away from the death clench of the Emerald Isle’s potato famine to the richer shores of America?
Oh how the sons and daughters of Ireland floated away like tragic driftwood from that land! Pushed by uncaring tides to distant lands, where there they were plucked from the waters with hands of mockery and scorn.
Still, as forgiving as her people were to the indignities they faced, Clare knew the sailors of the Agamemnon would be welcomed ashore with grace and ebullience. She could almost see the orange and yellow hues of the rising morning, and the entire populace of fishermen and farmers out early to cheer, assist, and experience the arrival of the mighty ship and its remarkable cargo.
She looked over toward the telegrapher’s oaken desk, who with his balding pate and narrow frame seemed too frail for an assignment of such significance. Hovering around him, in between nervous pacing, was Mr. Field.
Cyrus had a stern disposition that belied his kindly nature, and he wore a short, scraggly beard that sprung out from beneath his chin. His intense eyes were monitoring every detail of the process.
Clare had never met a more fanatically dedicated man in her life, and she saw him as both a heroic and tragic figure in his tireless and failure-weary endeavor to connect the Old World and the new with his cable.
And she identified with Mr. Field’s fall from financial graces. For just as his paper empire had collapsed as a result of the great banking crash of ’57, the Daily and the Royces’ place among the wealthy had fallen as precipitously.
Now with great success about to be realized, Mr. Field would be able to make a triumphant return to his good fortune.
Clare panned the room and took in the curious mix of well-dressed financiers and telegraph technicians. Some had nodded off in their chairs, with arms folded and heads tilted. Those who remained awake kept their heavy-lidded gazes upon the brass hammer of the telegraph.
Which is why they almost all became startled when the door snapped open and a tall, blond man with round spectacles entered, escorted by a brisk breeze.
Clare was always lifted by seeing her husband, Andrew. For fear she would miss the precise moment when the queen’s message arrived, Clare had fended off all of his pleaded requests that she take a break to sleep in their lodging, or at least walk along the beach to clear her mind. But this didn’t take away her appreciation of his care and concern for her.
Andrew stepped lightly on the creaking wooden floorboards and slid into the chair by her side. He unwrapped a handkerchief in his hand, revealing some carefully sliced apples and cheese, and held it out to her.
Clare noticed a few irritated glances by some of the others in the room. She reached out and gratefully accepted several pieces of the food. She bit into one of the apple slices and savored the sweetness of the juice.
Clare leaned into his shoulder, which smelled like ocean air. She was careful not to clip the pin tenuously holding up her hair. Too tired to care what she looked like, she rested in the comfort that Andrew always made her feel beautiful. So many years had passed since her long black hair, fair complexion, and sapphire-blue eyes had drawn the unwanted gaze of many a man. Yet now in her late thirties, even the emergence of a few strands of gray in her hair and lines under her eyes had not tempered his affection for her.
He whispered in her ear, “I hate to be the one to ruin this somber moment, but at great personal risk I have followed the full length of this telegraph cable and have made a most remarkable discovery.”
“Oh you have, Mr. Royce?”
“Yes I have, mon chéri, and after rowing tirelessly out across these churning waters, imagine my distaste in learning that Cyrus’s dear cable has not made it clear across the Atlantic as stipulated.”
“It has not?” Clare found it amusing when her playful Englishman tried wooing her in French. She reached out for his hand and wrapped both of hers around it to warm it for him. He had certainly aged as well in their ten years of marriage, but his etched features made him appear distinguished.
“No, I am afraid your Cyrus has deceived us all,” he intoned with a mischievous whisper. “As a duty-bound journalist, I must report to you that we discovered the cord wrapped loosely around the fluke of a full-grown gray whale.”
Clare snorted out a laugh and covered her mouth when she realized she had attracted hardened glares from many of the serious faces in the room. She squeezed his arm. “Must I send you back outside? You are more trouble than both our two children combined. And not nearly as adorable.”
The mention of their eight-year-old son, Garret, and their six-year-old daughter, Ella, seared Clare with guilt. She had no intention of being away on assignment for several days. Not only was it unfair of her to be away from the children for so long, but it was a mistake to have dragged Andrew along. He labored to keep up with his responsibilities at the Daily, and being away from his office would only put him that much further in arrears.
“What do you suppose Her Majesty will have to say?” He nodded toward the telegraph.
Clare sat up and tucked a few loose strands of hair back in her bun. “Well, since it’ll be passing through Ireland, I am certain it will be something quite eloquently stated.” She tried to think of something clever, but her mind was numb from the lack of sleep.
“Something like . . .” Andrew shifted to his fake royal accent. “Had you unsophisticated Yankee minions merely paid your proper tea levies, we would have laid this grand wire decades ago.”
She tried to hold back her laughter, but she was unsuccessful. Th
is time it was the bald telegrapher himself who gave her a crooked expression. Clare waved her hand in apology.
For fear she would not be able to contain herself if she looked her husband in the face, she closed her eyes. But her lips sought out his ear. “I love you, Andrew Royce.”
He gave her a firm embrace, then she heard his voice turning soft and sincere. “Even if . . . ?”
“Especially because.”
Andrew suffered with the knowledge he was struggling to keep the Daily at the financial strength it heralded when his father was running it. But since Charles Royce had passed, they both learned unsavory details of how the old man had reaped such success.
Andrew’s main shortcoming was not being able to clean up the business dealings of the paper without simultaneously washing away its profits. It pained Clare to come to this conclusion, but it was becoming clear they couldn’t blame all of the Daily’s suffering on her husband’s ethics alone. He just wasn’t as gifted a proprietor as his father was.
“You miss it, don’t you?” Andrew’s expression was one of a sudden discovery. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
She was about to protest. To tell him it was because of her fascination with the miracles of science. Or due to her journalistic curiosity. These were true, but Andrew always knew deep inside her heart, in places she was uncomfortable visiting herself.
“It was . . . a more simple life.” Her thoughts drifted to her days on the Hanley farm in Ireland; of living in tight quarters; of feeding from their soil and cutting turf from bogs for fires; and sweet dances of celebration with the entire village, all of whom were both lovingly flawed and part of an extended family.
But this was a sheltered memory, one that would frame perfectly as a painting. For Clare’s last experience of her homeland more than ten years ago was one of crop failure, starvation, and death. And even on their scarcest of days in America, there wasn’t the remotest of comparisons to the poverty she had once endured.
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