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 battlef
ield.”
Chapter 34
The Correspondents
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
Union Camp
July 3, 1863
“What brings you here, Clare?” Ben Jones flashed his familiar smirk, but it was filtered with the weariness of covering a long war. “Doing a story on Pennsylvania’s summer squash harvest and stumbled into this little scuffle? I haven’t seen you out in the field since that . . . picnic at Bull Run.”
Clare tried to think of some clever retort, but her soul was winded. Besides, Ben was right. She had only been to a few actual battle sites and this would be her last.
The two of them had peeled away from their vantage point above the battleground in order to take a respite from the unfolding drama below. But it didn’t keep them away from the sound of the explosions and the distant screams of war in the background.
He took a draw on his hand-rolled cigarette, and for a moment she understood why one would take on such a vice.
“Why am I here?” Clare sat on a boulder. “I suppose we couldn’t bear to be the only newspaper without a field correspondent anymore.”
“No, my dear. You should know you can’t lie to a trained reporter.” He tapped off a cigarette ash.
Long before she arrived from New York days ago, and even as she watched the Pennsylvania farm countryside from train and carriage windows, she admitted to herself why she was here. Certainly part of it was to be able to confront the enemy face-to-face, with her pen if not the sword.
But her real desire was to see her brothers, perhaps for the last time. Clare had a bad feeling about this battle and was inexplicably drawn to being here.
Yet by the time she had arrived at Gettysburg, it was too late and perhaps all of this was a waste. The conflict had already begun, the troops were entrenched, and it was impossible for her to get close enough to see Davin, let alone even know where to find him amid the madness.
War appeared organized and simple when it was traced on a general’s map, but she had learned that once the first shots were fired, chaos prevailed and the survivors and winners of the conflict were those who could rise above the panic.
And if her brother Seamus was out there fighting for the other side, he was only one of tens of thousands of faceless specks crawling up green hills in gray uniforms, through flashes of light and rising smoke to be hacked down and rendered lifeless. She could only hope and pray that Seamus was back home dragging a hoe on some farm in Virginia.
“How have you survived?” Clare asked.
“That would depend on your definition of survival.” He glanced upward. “I had thought the despair, the darkness, that it was all about the losses we’ve suffered. But here today, the generals are telling us this is the Union’s greatest victory and all I can see are thousands of dead soldiers on both sides. And still, the shadows remain. Even in victory.”
Ben flicked his glowing cigarette on the soil, then pulled a watch out of his chest pocket. “I suppose I should get my story wired in. There is a telegraph booth for us, but a line is forming already. What about you?”
Clare flapped open her leather satchel and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “The northern front earns a rare Robert E. Lee defeat. But at what cost is victory? The quiet fields of harvest give way to a calamitous portrait of twisted bodies and ephemeral dreams.”
“Well stated. Shall I send it in for you?” He held out his hand.
She always liked Ben, but journalism was war as well. Her trip to Gettysburg came at a great cost and inconvenience to Andrew and the Daily, not to mention her children. So Clare felt obligated to write powerful and protected articles while she was here. “I should telegraph it in myself.”
He grinned, not as if he got caught, but as if he admired her professionalism. “I’ll always have a heart for the Daily, you know. I don’t believe in regrets in life, but . . . I wish I had stayed and fought it out with you and Andrew. What you are doing there is important.”
“Thank you, Ben. Your words will bring great encouragement to my husband.”
He made his way up the hill and then down the dirt road that led to the makeshift telegraph station the reporters collaborated on setting up as their link to New York.
Imagine if Cyrus had succeeded with his cable across the Atlantic? She would have been able to share news of this battle with Europe. Poor Cyrus. The continued failures of his efforts were under investigation by a committee, and the report was due out any day. Clare had already heard the news would be damning. Still, she believed he would somehow persevere.
Clare made her way back up to the hill, where other correspondents and artists seemed to be breaking down for the day, most certainly to jockey for telegraph time and to send their drawings off with couriers. The sun was descending, and the three-day battle seemed to be winding down as well.
The clouds had been darkening, and the first flashes of lightning filled the sky, although blending in with the occasional flashes of ordnance.
Suddenly a strange feeling overwhelmed her as she looked down on the smoldering and cadaverous rolling hills. An impending danger. Something terrible was about to happen.
She could sense it in every core of her being.
Chapter 35
The Retreat
These were to be Confederate skies—bold, bright, and destined to secure victory against the impossible odds.
But instead, the impending darkness crept over fields piled with bodies of so many sons of misfortune, their last movement, brief spasms, hands raised in flailing desperation and groans and wails to be unanswered, except for the thunder that played in harmony with the smattering of artillery rounds.
All was lost. And all that was left for the once-brilliant maneuvers of Southern generals was a retreat of haste.
The lightning cast illuminations on the land of the dying, and before him Seamus grieved with the agony in the face of Anders, who wrestled to free himself.
“Please, Chaplain Hanley. I ain’t meaning no disrespect, but he’s out there.” Anders pointed up the hill, to someone he believed was alive among the hideous and contorted pile of bodies. The rest of the Southern battalion had begun their hasty retreat. Amid orders and shouts, they limped off in pain and defeat.
Which left Seamus and Anders eerily alone.
Seamus glanced up at the peak of the hill. Inexplicably, the Union soldiers had not followed to finish the task of decimating Lee’s army. At any moment, he expected the shadows to rise and the fury of the North to sweep down the hillside.
“I won’t let you go out there, Anders. Your father, your mother, my daughter—they would never forgive me.” He looked at the boy’s eyes, hardened by what they had seen. There was no longer any mission left for Seamus in this battle at Gettysburg. All that remained was to see to the promise he had made Fletch back home.
“It ain’t a right thing. Leavin’ my friend to die. I’m tellin’ you, sir, he’s just up a ways.”
“And so are snipers, all around us, my son. You are a brave lad, but the fight is done in us now. Come, let us go together.”
Another brilliant flash and the ghosts rose again, twisted bodies and faces, framed in a mist that was either fog or smoke. Seamus sensed the danger was impending. Step-by-step, rifles pointed, hundreds of Union soldiers would emerge over the hill.
The boy’s body relaxed and he nodded at Seamus. One glance back up the hill, and then defeated he began to turn and they were walking side by side.
But it was only a feint, and in an instant Anders was racing through the open field stepping over bodies and slipping, then rising again and approaching the crest of the hill.
He moved with alacrity. “Anders!” It was all Seamus could do. The boy slipped from his grip.
Then just as the boy rose above the peak of the hill, a shot sounded, then another, and Seamus watched in horror as the
boy’s body jerked and fell backward, tumbling down.
“No!” Seamus closed his eyes. What was he to do now? He couldn’t save them all. The battle was lost. He would fight another day.
He turned and his shoulders slumped. There was a voice in his head. It was Pastor Asa. “What if all of our lives are spent with the purpose of saving one? Would it be worth it then?”
Seamus lowered his chin to his chest and turned back. Now the distance seemed so far, so impossible to survive a run. What about Ashlyn? His daughter, Grace? Should he not retreat for their benefit?
Then he heard Anders pleading, rife with pain. “Seamus!”
Surely the boy was dying and there was not much he could do. If he made his way up the hill after him, Seamus would only serve as an escort to gates out of this world. Was he ready to die? To leave his wife and daughter?
He glanced down to his side where his canteen hung. The water of life, as Chaplain Scripps once referred to it. If he could give the boy his last sip and hear his final petition to God, it was the least he could do for Fletch and Coralee. He suddenly knew his promise to Fletch was much deeper than the old moonshiner understood. There was no better way to care for the boy than to be there for him to make his peace with the Father.
Seamus prayed for protection and started his way forward, but he had only taken a few steps before he heard the pounding of hooves and the rattling of a bridle, followed by a neigh.
“Have you not heard the orders?”
Seamus spun, and in the foggy twilight was the confident figure of a man mounted on a horse, its front legs rising.
“The order was to retreat, soldier!”
The lighting flashed again. And though it only briefly illuminated, he clearly saw who was before him.
“Seamus Hanley!” The words came out with deliberation and vileness.
Seamus was speaking to a shadow again. “Colonel Percy Barlow.”
The thunder rocked through the valley, and it added to the tension of the moment. And if not for movement of the horse struggling against its reins, there wouldn’t be any motion at all.
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