Songs of the Shenandoah

by Michael K. Reynolds

  His neck felt uncomfortable and he stuck his fingers underneath the white collar and tugged on it to try to loosen it up a bit. How long had it been since he wore one of these?

  Asa had provided his clothes as a gift. He insisted for his safety that Seamus look as much the part of a chaplain as possible. Although the war had caused bitterness to grow deep, both sides had a restrained reverence for men of the cloth. So, Seamus wore black pants, a black shirt, a white collar, and a minister’s black hat.

  “How handsome you are.” Ashlyn had said to him in a whispered voice, tears blending with pride and remorse as she fastened one of the buttons on his shirt he had missed.

  “Well . . . we’re here.” The wagon slowed to a stop, and Seamus’s unlikely driver pulled the brake. Fletch climbed out and walked around, and the two of them unloaded Seamus’s belongings.

  “I appreciate the ride,” Seamus said. “That was kind of you to tote me.” But he knew something was on Fletch’s mind. Seamus waited patiently, as the man with the stoop and the crook in his neck struggled to ask for help.

  “There is something. Something I’ve been aimin’ to ask.”

  “About your boy?”

  Fletch sized up Seamus with his one good eye.

  Seamus put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “You want me to look out for Anders.”

  “Yes. I do. He means much to his mother and me.”

  “You’ll be pleased to know that my daughter, Grace, has already put in that request on your behalf.”

  A strange smile came to the man, as if a crack in a piece of old pottery. Then it disappeared. “She fancies him?”

  “She does. And I fancy her.”

  Fletch cleared his throat, then straightened himself. “I’ll take mighty fine care of your girl. And Ashlyn too. Rest assured. Just . . . bring my boy safely back home.”

  This was something out of his control, beyond his capability, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do but nod. “Oh, there is another thing to settle between us.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I will do all I am able to bring Anders back safe to you, Fletch. I’ll mind him as if he’s my own son. This I promise. And I have a favor to ask in return.”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to release Mavis and Tatum. I want their freedom.”

  Fletch turned his head and spit. Then he pointed a finger in Seamus’s chest. “You bring my boy back alive, Reverend, and I’ll set those two free as the wind. On my honor.”

  He held out his large, weathered hand, and Seamus shook it, wondering just how valuable the man’s word was anyway. But it didn’t matter. Seamus now had something he could fight for. He could believe in.

  Then he flung his haversack over his shoulder and walked away. From Taylorsville. From the farm. From Grace. From Ashlyn.

  But for the first time in a long time, Seamus didn’t feel alone.

  Chapter 17

  Gratitude

  Manhattan, New York

  Clare was ashamed they had never done this before. All these years and never once! But she supposed they had been victims of their own routines. But now that her mind was upon the task, she was filled with anticipation.

  “Where are you taking me?” Andrew craned his neck toward the window of the fast-moving carriage. “And does this coachman plan on bringing us there alive?”

  Clare was surprised to hear the humor in his voice. Especially after completing such a difficult task the day before.

  Thinking back to yesterday at their church, she recalled the man with his hat in one hand and his long arm reaching down and tracing his fingers over the brass plate that read, “Charles Royce & Family.” He bit his lip as he glanced around the rising expanses of the historic church, with its great stone walls and carefully crafted stained-glass windows. In the front was the altar and podium where the droning voice of the aging Reverend Tannerbaum would bellow out exhortations to the congregants, many of them among Manhattan’s wealthiest.

  Her heart sunk as she remembered Andrew’s eyes glistening behind his glasses. He wasn’t enamored of the prestige of church membership and was more embarrassed than anything for their family to have such a prominent permanent seating in the church. But the difficult part for him was the ongoing erosion of his father’s empire, something that wore heavily on Andrew’s tall shoulders.

  “Well,” Andrew had said. “We were hoping to get five hundred dollars for it.”

  “That will do.” The man reached into the inner pocket of his long-tailed jacket and pulled out a checkbook and a pen. “Say no more. I won’t haggle a fair price. Who should I write this to again?”

  Heat rose to Clare’s face. How could this impertinent man not know who her husband was? Then she pointed to the brass plate. “Andrew is a Royce. The founders of the New York Daily. I’m sure you have heard of it?” Her husband reached out for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She exhaled and smiled. “Andrew Royce. Write the check out to Andrew Royce, please.”

  Clare had pulled Andrew’s hand in and clasped it with both of hers. She looked into his eyes and saw the look that had become so familiar in his beautiful green eyes: failure. These years had taken a toll on him and his once-blond hair was now equal parts gray.

  She wished there was something she could do to relieve the pressure he put on himself every day. But what could they do? What was left? They had already mortgaged their home, and if not for the generosity of their landlord, they’d be out on the street. The newspaper was bleeding dollars each month, and it was only a matter of time before they would have to shut it down.

  But today was a new day, Sunday, and remarkably, as he always seemed to do, Andrew had bounced back from this disappointment. Now, all Clare wanted to do was to keep his mind off of his worries.

  The carriage jolted and the four of them bumped against one another. “I suppose I shouldn’t have told them we were in such a hurry.” Clare smiled at Garret and Ella sitting across from them, who were giggling with delight at the turbulent ride.

  “Did you dress yourself this morning, Ella?” Clare looked at her daughter’s hat, which was badly mismatched with her dress.

  “I picked it out for her.” Garret fastened the button of his jacket. “Why?”

  “She looks glorious,” Andrew said.

  “Thanks, Da.” Ella tapped her shoes together.

  “This isn’t the way to our church.” Andrew gave Clare a querying glance. “We haven’t missed church as a family for . . . I can’t remember when. But then I suppose we don’t have a place anymore.”

  “Are we going to the new park?” Garret gripped a handle when the coach jumped again.

  “Nobody said anything about missing church.” Clare looked at her son’s uncombed black hair and sighed. He was old enough to watch his younger sister at home, but Garret at twelve still needed someone to take care of him. But Andrew spent most of his day at the newspaper and Clare’s schedule was frantic as well. Since Caitlin and Muriel had left for their assignments with the Sanitary Commission, Clare was forced to beg her friends for help. There just never seemed sufficient time in the day.

  The coach halted to a stop. Their driver was as unskilled with braking as he was driving in a straight line. Clare was most relieved they had arrived safely as this was all her idea. She had wanted the family to walk here, as they would be taking much fewer carriage rides now, but they would be late as it was.

  Garret bolted out the door before the driver opened it and Ella was right behind him.

  Andrew looked out the window and then turned back and raised his eyebrows. “You think this is a good idea?”

  “Why not? We should have come a long time ago. At least to show our support.”

  “Are we even allowed to?”

  “Let us find out for ourselves.”

  “All right.”
He motioned for Clare to get out and then he followed and paid the coachman while Clare joined the children on the side of the hard-packed dirt road.

  The driver made no delay in getting back up on his seat and out of this neighborhood, which was one of the poorest in Manhattan. The streets had only a few merchants out this morning, one selling hot corn and another displaying fruit.

  Rows of multistoried tenement buildings lined either side of the streets. A couple of them were boarded up, some with broken glass. And those that had windows were mostly covered with clothes hanging precariously from lines and flapping in the wind.

  However, standing before them was a large brick building, which seemed oddly out of place because it was architecturally attractive and appeared new, with freshly painted white shutters and doors.

  And although the large wooden doors were closed, the sounds of celebration and music could be heard brightly from the street. Chills skittered over Clare at the joyful singing, and she crossed her arms and rubbed her forearms.

  “What is that?” Garret seemed intimidated enough by the strangeness of his surroundings that he, along with Ella, stood close to Clare and Andrew.

  “That,” Clare put an arm on his shoulder from behind, “is a church.”

  Ella tilted her head to the side. “It doesn’t look like a church.”

  “And what is a church supposed to look like?” Andrew smiled at Clare. He obviously had a change of opinion on her idea.

  Clare gave Garret and Ella a gentle shove and they headed down the brick walkway, which was edged on either side by plainly but carefully groomed grasses and flowers.

  “This is beautiful.” Andrew reached for Clare’s hand. “Why haven’t we—?”

  “Supported them sooner? I don’t know. I am ashamed to think why.”

  There must have been someone watching from the windows inside, because one of the large doors opened before they could reach the handle, and the merriment of vibrant voices chorused together, with clapping of hands and stomping of feet.

  Can you feel the ground, it’s rumblin’?

  And there’s whispers in the wind.

  A black man greeted them, who was thin and bent, with gray curly hair and a white jacket and pants. He eyed the four of them with both surprise and confusion.

  Can you feel the ground, it’s rumblin’?

  And there’s whispers in the wind.

  A mulatto woman, wearing a bright yellow hat and dress, pushed past the man, giving him a scowl, and waved them in.

  The woman shouted above the music. “Y’all just come inside. I’m Mrs. James. Don’t mind Mr. James one bit. Come now.”

  Andrew smiled at Garret, whose face was blanched with alarm, and reached a hand for Ella. They entered to a large, tall- ceilinged room, and nearly every space was filled with gyrating and applauding and singing black faces, mouths opened and hands raised in glee.

  For that sweet day is arrivin’

  When my Jesus comes again.

  The woman escorted them to the last row of the church, which like the others was a long, crude, backless bench. But for now, these were mere obstacles to the wildly, waving throngs of celebrants who except for a few of their oldest members were on their feet.

  For that sweet day is arrivin’

  When my Jesus comes again.

  “Get on, y’all.” Mrs. James shooed others to press farther in, creating some cramped space for the four Royces who stood stiffly and tightly together.

  As they were slowly noticed by those around them, the response was the same. The congregants stopped and pointed them out to others, and when the singing ended, they were surrounded by many strange stares.

  “Sit yourself down,” Mrs. James said, with little effect as more and more folks stood around and murmured to one another. Finally the whispers had taken over any voices until nearly two hundred white-eyed gazes were directed their way.

  Ella scooted over to Clare and buried her face into her stomach. Garret pressed up against Andrew.

  “What is it?” came a familiar booming voice from up front. “Now what’s going on back there? C’mon, my brothers and sisters. Seat yourselves down.”

  One by one, they followed the man’s directions and soon, like a tumbling of dominoes, they had all folded their way into their seats, leaving the Royces as the only ones in the congregation still standing.

  Except for the large, broad black man standing on the podium looking at them. His expression of irritation soon gave way to a toothy smile, and then he started to laugh, at first deep and slow, but then it graduated to a full hearty roar.

  His mirth proved too hard to resist, and soon the laughter spread from one congregant to another until nearly the entire room was convulsed with cheer and pointing fingers at the Royces.

  Clare should have been more bothered by having hundreds of these strangers laughing and pointing fingers, but she knew the man at the front too well, the good Reverend Zachary Bridger. There wasn’t an unfriendly thought in the man’s character.

  He was married to Cassie, the woman who for many years was a maid to the Royce family but who ended up being a prominent participant in the Underground Railroad. Still, even with important responsibilities, she still served as an occasional volunteer nanny for Andrew and Clare, just because she loved them and the children.

  A scream arose from the front of the church, and soon Cassie, with her arms raised and waving, moved as quickly as her body would allow her down the aisle toward them. “Oh, dear Lord! Look who’s come!”

  When she arrived at the back of the church, her full brown cheeks brimming with cheer, she clasped her plump hands on Andrew’s forearm and tugged. “Come now. We’re gonna bring you up front.”

  Andrew’s face reddened, but he knew their friend Cassie was an undeniable force and that whether they walked on their own powers or were dragged by virtue of her strength, they were moving forward.

  Now that Garret and Ella recognized the woman who had helped to raise them, they showed signs of relief and followed Andrew out with less reticence than he was displaying.

  The laughing had died down and there were no remaining signs of trepidation on the gazes of the congregation as Clare and her family walked toward the pulpit, but now there was a gentle curiosity. Clare could only imagine the questions they all had. Who was this white family invading their church?

  The reverend beckoned them up to the podium, which wasn’t much more than a crudely constructed platform with a couple of steps. Now it was Clare’s turn to feel embarrassed, but they were no longer in control of the situation, and surrendering to the moment they moved to the reverend’s side.

  They stood close to one another, facing the large gathering. Although it was clear that the members of this church weren’t affluent by any means, Clare was struck by how well they were all dressed for their Sunday service. She could only imagine how much of their monthly earnings had gone into the clothes they were wearing.

  Clare recognized a few of the people gathered, ones who had been at Zachary and Cassie’s wedding. Ten years ago they had gotten married in a small ceremony. This was before Zachary started his church, and not too long after he had escaped from a plantation in Savannah.

  “Y’all may not know who these folks are.” The reverend put his arm around Andrew and pulled him so abruptly, it made his glasses tilt on his face. “This good man right here is the publisher of the New York Daily.”

  A gasp burst from the group and they exchanged glances.

  Andrew pressed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and glanced nervously at Clare.

  “Now I know many of you aren’t readers yet, but there are enough of you to know there isn’t a greater friend to our cause than the Daily.”

  Clare could see by the responses that many of them were not only aware of the Daily, but of the stance it had taken on behalf of the aboliti
on movement and the treatment of blacks in Manhattan. The work she and Andrew had done was never for recognition. It was always about saying what was in their hearts and minds. The only feedback they had received to date was having angry customers pulling their advertising.

  “And this lady here.” Zachary walked over and released his deep chortle. “This fine woman. This is Clare Royce and I think you all know—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, his loud voice was drowned out by spontaneous cheers and shouts from the audience, and they rose to their feet and applauded and some hopped and raised their arms.

  This continued for so long that Clare realized they weren’t only honoring her family, but they were celebrating their victories, their advances. How many of these standing before them had suffered in their road to freedom? How many had struggled to persevere not only against those who wished to enslave them, but those of her own people, the Irish, who had made them feel most unwelcome?

  Clare began to cry, and though many emotions surged through her, disappointment drove to the surface. They could be doing so much more. More stories. Pressuring the community’s leaders with their commentary. She looked over to Andrew and knew he was sharing her thoughts.

  Forgive me, Lord. Here I have been thinking we’ve been struggling and suffering, yet we haven’t even started. We haven’t even begun the fight.

  Once the cheers and shouts died down, Cassie guided them down the steps, and several of the congregants gave up their seats so the four of them could sit front and center. It was the last thing Clare wanted to see happening, but there was no use in turning down this act of kindness and generosity.

  “I feel as if we should all sing again, our deepest thanks for our Lord’s provision. For His deliverance. What say you, my brothers and sisters?”

  The answer came in a burst of singing, first a few in the back rows, and then within moments the entire church was shaking at its beams, clapping and stomping.

  Can you feel the ground, it’s rumblin’?

  And there’s whispers in the wind.