Songs of the Shenandoah

by Michael K. Reynolds

  Adding to the dewy freshness of the sights were the vibrant sounds of this warm day. Upon passing ponds and trickling streams they heard the chirrups of bullfrogs, a fluttering of insect wings, and the woodsy gossip between warblers and chickadees. Adding to the chatter were the arguments of gray squirrels and the tapping of woodpeckers foraging for termites in the bark.

  At almost every turn, a clear vantage point of the vast farmland below offered insights into why this part of Virginia was the chief food provider for much of the South, which made it a strategic priority of defense by the Confederate army.

  The sun was well above the horizon in the east, yet the bending of light remained, casting interesting shadows and shapes on slopes around them. Just when Seamus was wondering if their ascent would ever end, they rounded a corner and came upon a large granite boulder perched on the cliff’s edge, which almost appeared to be a couch carved out of stone.

  “Ah, my morning respite. Come, son. Have a seat with me.” Asa climbed his way onto the boulder and then plopped his backpack beside him, which he opened and began to probe inside.

  Seamus didn’t waste time in following the pastor up as he was anxious to rest his throbbing feet. He was no stranger to difficult work and labored for many hours each day on the farm, but this steep climb put a strain on muscles and joints he seldom used.

  Once he settled, Seamus took in the spectacular valley beneath him. For miles and miles he could see the rich quilt of hundreds of farms weaved together, of corn, hay, barley, and herds of horses, sheep, and cattle. It was a magnificent setting, and with the pain of the climb behind him Seamus now understood why his friend frequented this location.

  “This morning should be painted on canvas.” Asa took in a deep breath, and it was as if his entire body smiled. He pulled out a knife from his pocket and unfolded it open. Then he sliced into a small block of orange cheese and offered a piece to Seamus, which he gladly accepted.

  The pastor carved one for himself and savored it. Then he pointed down below with his knife. “Look. There is the Grimwald farm. And that’s where the Simpsons live. Yours is just out of view, but I can see the farms of most of our congregants here. This is where I come to pray as much as I can.” His wrinkled face glistened with sweat, which he wiped with the back of his hand. “I pray for you and Ashlyn and Grace. But especially for you.”

  “Oh?” Seamus laughed. “I suppose I am in need of much prayer.”

  “Yes you are. As I am as well.” A small tuft of his silver hair blew in the wind. He narrowed his eyes, as if he was measuring what he was about to say. “I hope this doesn’t come across as presumptuous.”

  “Go ahead, Pastor.” Seamus lowered his eyes.

  “I have been through your valley before.”

  Valley? Of course he has.

  “No.” He smiled and sliced another piece of cheese. “Not the valley down there.” Asa reached out the knife and Seamus pulled off the slice. He had forgotten how much better food tasted when in the wilderness.

  “No. I am talking about the valley of shadows. The darkness.”

  Where was all of this heading? Seamus missed his old mentor Brother Chuck dearly and wondered if Asa could fill that role here in Taylorsville. “I don’t know. I believe I left this darkness you speak of . . . back in California. We are doing well now since arriving. Ashlyn. Grace. Myself.”

  “I’m afraid the valley is not something you can move away from. It comes with you everywhere you go.” He pressed his hand against his chest. “It lies in here. And oh, it is painful. Worse than any wound. But I suppose you don’t need to be told any of this.”

  The sun had shifted to where it was beginning to get in his eyes. Seamus put his hand above his brow to block it. “Maybe life was meant to be difficult for us. Some more than others.”

  Asa squinted. “You believe this?”

  Seamus glanced down. He thought he saw a carriage moving on a distant road. “I hope it’s not true, actually.”

  “It doesn’t need to be.” Asa pulled a handful of strips of dried meat out of his pack and handed one to Seamus. “I have the answer, if you are asking.”

  “That looks like Fletch’s possum jerky.” Seamus reached out for it and bit into it, and the taste of salt and smoke filled his mouth.

  “Or it could be the skunk.” Asa chuckled. “You have to learn to laugh at them.”

  “Is that your secret?”

  “No. That’s just so you don’t strangle them.” Asa took a bite and chewed, then he tilted his head. “The valley. The darkness. No. That’s a place we lose ourselves in. We can’t blame that on a moonshiner. Or some disappointment in our pasts.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Asa lifted his canteen, uncorked the top, and took a drink. “It isn’t the people in your church. The neighbors. The crooks. The murderers.” He waved his arm around him. “The world, which crushes in on us. The death of a nation. The battles of war. We’ll always have those.”

  Seamus was struggling to understand.

  “Those aren’t what control us. Those are merely the distractions.”

  “The distractions?”

  “Yes, son. From the gift.”

  “The gift?” Seamus worried if there would be a point to all of this.

  “The ability to listen.”

  “I am listening.”

  “No. All you hear are the noises. And you’ve allowed them to press on you. To wear you down. Just as what happened to me.”

  Asa had a peace in his green eyes, a stillness in his soul, that Seamus yearned for, but it seemed so distant. Had Seamus ever experienced that? Yes, he had. But so long ago. And the Southern pastor had no idea what Seamus had been through. From the deep disappointment he saw daily in his father’s eyes. To his many failures in life.

  “You don’t like me comparing my life to yours, do you?” Asa jutted his chin out. “No one could ever be in as deep or dark of a valley as you? Isn’t that what you think? That’s the biggest lie of all.”

  Who was this man? How was he able to peer deep into the hidden chambers of Seamus’s heart?

  “I see you struggling against this, son.” He pulled up his knee and cradled it in his arms. “Just listen for a moment. Really listen.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. As they did, the sounds of the mountains rose, the birds, the insects, the creaking of the trees, an unseen creek gurgling, and the humming of the wind.

  Several minutes went by. “Hmmm . . .” Pastor Asa smiled sweetly. “I call this the songs of the Shenandoah. This is the music that lifts my soul. It’s here where I can hear His voice.”

  His voice? Ha! Seamus ruined the life of his family by listening to that voice. How much better their lives would have been if he had never taken Ashlyn from her ministry in San Francisco.

  “Seamus, I don’t know what your life has been about. I don’t know all you’ve been through. And I am not here to say I have faced more hardship or fewer troubles. None of that matters anyway.”

  “None of that matters?”

  “No. Of course not. We all have different circumstances. If we believe we are to measure God’s favor through our circumstances, that becomes the greatest distraction of all. You see . . . the hearing. Hearing His voice. It’s not with this.” Asa pointed to his ear. “No. I come here to quiet my soul. The birds don’t speak to me.” He laughed. “There is only one way to hear these songs. These songs of the Shenandoah. It’s through trust. Through faith. When you do, you know only one voice matters.”

  “But He lied . . . to me.” As the words came out, Seamus wanted to pull them back. It was the worst of blasphemy and he knew this. But it was also what he believed.

  He expected an angry retort from the pastor. But what he received was much worse. No response. Is he judging me?

  Finally Asa spoke. “How did He lie to yo
u?” His eyes glistened with concern. “Go ahead. Speak freely, son.”

  “My . . . wife. She trusted me. I was called to those mountains. Those tents. I was going to be Paul the tentmaker! It was so clear to me.” He picked up a small pebble and tossed it over the edge. “It was just my own arrogance, I suppose. The more I pressed, the more I failed.”

  “Tell me about your brother. What is his name?”

  “Davin. I have already forgiven him long ago. It’s not what’s doing me harm, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Seamus thought back to the day when he first saw his younger brother in the pub in San Francisco thirteen years ago.

  “You’re smiling, Seamus. What was that about?”

  “Oh, I’m just thinking of my brudder when he was eleven, just a lad. When I first seen him after he stowed away in a ship and sailed for a couple of months. Just to come find me. To rescue his older brudder.”

  “Did his older brother need rescuing?”

  There were hanging posters of him as a wanted man for stealing a horse from the United States Army. Percy had just arrived to San Francisco and was threatening Seamus’s burgeoning relationship with Ashlyn. “Yes. I suppose I did.”

  “Hmmm. Do you think maybe that is what it was about?”

  “What?”

  “Well, you abandon your thriving ministry in San Francisco. You spend every dollar you’ve saved. In poverty, you end up in the very camp your brother owns. Do you suppose it was your turn to rescue him?”

  Seamus scoffed at the notion. “Some rescue! Rolling down the hill in the mud. Shaming myself in front of my brudder and all of his workers. Only thing I did well was prove what a fool I was. A broke and broken-down fool.”

  Asa didn’t say anything. Those patient, peaceful eyes knew he had more to say.

  “Do you know . . . ?” Seamus glanced up, embarrassed his voice was cracking. “Do you know when I decided to give up my wild dreams? My chasing of the wind, as it were? When we found out that Ashlyn’s uncle had left Whittington Farms to her. We had nothing. No way of getting home. I had to go back to my brudder, the one who humiliated me, and ask him for the money to bring us back here. I can recall the look on his face. The pity. The shame. There was a time, you know, when I was the boy’s hero.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Seamus wiped the tears from his eyes. “Sure. What else would you like to know?”

  “What do you think about a man who spent his entire life in suffering. In pain. In failure. But somehow, through his misfortune and his struggles, what if he was able to save the life of one other person? Not physically. But spiritually. Eternally. Set one person on the right path. If all he accomplished was to have that impact on another, would you consider that man’s life a failure or success?”

  This immediately brought up thoughts of Shila, the young Indian who at the cost of his own life saved Seamus when he was about to perish in the snowy banks of the Yosemite Mountains more than thirteen years ago. Shila’s display of selflessness and faith changed Seamus forever. If not for the boy. If not for his sacrifice, where would Seamus be? Then his sister Clare came to mind. How many times had she lifted Seamus up when he thought he would never rise again?

  “See.” Asa reached over and fastened his pack. “Until we can answer that question, I don’t believe we can truly serve others. That we can be in ministry.” He slid his arms into the straps. “Because there is only one answer, I believe, that makes you worthy of serving.”

  The question penetrated through Seamus’s thoughts. Until this moment, he always believed he needed to save hundreds of souls to please God. He laughed inside at his own arrogance. What if it was only one? Would his life be worth it to him?

  “Are we leaving now?” Seamus leapt down and then held his hand up to Asa.

  “Oh no.” The old man took his hand. “I’ve got to show you what I brought you up here for.”

  “I thought it was . . . all of this for me to see.” Seamus panned the view.

  “No. Come, son. You called God a liar, right? I’ve got your evidence to the contrary. It’s just a ways ahead.”

  Before Seamus could respond, Asa was on the trail and climbing once again with intensity. Beyond the crunching sounds of their boots on the soil and twigs, Seamus tried to listen to the songs of the Shenandoah.

  Was that what had happened? Had he allowed the noise of the world to clutter His voice? Had he sought out the approval of men ahead of the affirmation of God? It all sounded so easy now. He could have preached it a hundred times himself. As they walked together, Seamus’s mind filled with comforting thoughts, and he welcomed them as if they were the return of a favored friend.

  What Asa had shared as “just a short ways ahead” ended up being a couple miles farther. But the time passed quickly for Seamus and he felt lighter with each step. His senses grew alive. His spirits rose. Where have You been?

  I never left.

  Finally they had wound their way to another ridge on the mountain and Asa, who had once again made his way ahead, waited for Seamus with expectation.

  As Seamus came closer, he saw another valley beginning to unfurl before his eyes. Soon he was at the edge, and around him the wind began to swirl. Stepping gently with his boots, because the ground seemed unsteady and the drop below was several hundred yards, his heart pounded as he witnessed the spectacular setting below.

  It had been nearly fifteen years since he had served in the army, first on the side of the United States Army, and then for the Mexicans. His switch to serve in the San Patricios Battalion, an Irish division of the Mexican army, nearly got him hung. Instead, he received forty-nine lashes, was branded with a D for deserter, and then set free.

  The pain of the moment, the smell of his flesh burning, and the ultimate loneliness of abandonment seared through his memory.

  “Can you believe it?” Asa gave him a wry look. “There are some thirty thousand men in Stonewall Jackson’s army down there. I saw them settling in a couple of days ago. It’s amazing how quickly they set up their camp.”

  “The Union army?”

  Asa shook his head. “Can’t be far off. It will be a matter of weeks when they clash. A terrible thing this war. A terrible shame.”

  They were camped alongside a creek, a blur of motion below, a sprawling city of men, horses, artillery and—” Seamus froze.

  “You see it?” Asa reached up and squeezed his shoulder. “When I heard your story yesterday . . .” Asa shook his head.

  Down below as well were hundreds of rows of tents.

  “I don’t understand . . .” But this wasn’t the truth. Seamus comprehended it all well enough but he didn’t like what the voice was saying.

  “They came to us last week. A couple of officers. They were asking . . . no begging for chaplains. I was tempted myself because so many of our young men, our boys, are down there. But I’m much too old to be running from battlefield to battlefield.”

  Seamus ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t think I can.”

  “I know, son. It’s all sudden. But I can tell you this. You’ll have one of two choices. You can either obey God’s voice, the vision He planted with you. Or you’ll be obeying Jefferson Davis’s bugle and be drafted into military service. You’re of the age still.”

  “But what will Ashlyn say?”

  “She’ll be given a choice. A bayonet or a Bible. I don’t think that will be nearly as difficult for her as it will be for you.”

  Seamus couldn’t stop staring at the rows of tents. There was no question it was aligning with his vision, almost as if pulled straight from his dreams. Of what he felt called to do. But his stomach wrenched. What an odd sense of humor God had. Bringing him back to the place in his life where he experienced so much pain. The mere thought of being among soldiers again made him nauseous.

  “But . . . I don’t . . . I don�
��t believe in the cause.” Even mentioning this aloud would be enough to sentence him to hanging as a traitor. Especially with the town believing all along he was a Northerner.

  “Nor do I.” Asa pointed down below. “At least not that cause. The book of Joshua. Chapter five. The words spoken by the commander of the army of the Lord. That is how I answer when asked.”

  Seamus could vaguely remember the passage. He knew that there were a lot of battles and bloodshed in that book. It had been so long since he spent much time in his Bible. “Then if I don’t believe in the cause. What am I to do? How could I be of service?”

  Asa shrugged, apparently realizing Seamus didn’t recognize the verse. “I imagine you need to merely follow orders. From the One who matters.”

  Seamus couldn’t deny it. Looking down at the camp below, he felt a strange draw. As frightening as it was, Asa was right. It was where Seamus needed to be. “You know. They’ll kill me. When they find out who I am.” Instinctively his hand went up to the scar on the side of his face, his fingertips feeling the rough edges of his skin.

  “Yes. They probably will. And me for recommending you since I won’t lie about knowing.” Asa nodded toward the trail, and they started to head out, but not before Seamus gave Stonewall’s army one last view.

  They pressed down the trail as Seamus’s mind whirled with questions and doubts. What would Ashlyn say? He reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture he was never without. Then he smiled. He already knew what she would say. It would be after her initial protests. Long after she cried. And prayed. He knew what she would say.

  I trust you.

  Chapter 16

  The Promise

  Kernstown, Virginia

  March 1862

  Seamus sat in the wagon, bouncing along the rocky road, his mind drifting to the sadness in his heart as he waved good-bye to Ashlyn and Grace.

  He felt as if it was the most difficult task he ever faced. Would he ever see them again? No. Now that he was back in conversation with God, he was certain that was a question he did not want answered. It would not serve him at all to know his fate.