Davin laughed and loosened himself from the grip, then he winced.
“What happened to you?” Seamus pointed to Davin’s leg. “Come let us broken warriors have our rest.”
They carried each other, arm in arm, Seamus leaning on his cane, and they used the porch railing up the stairs to settle next to each other in a sitting position. They both let out a groan as they sank in place.
Davin put his hands around his lower leg. “It may be broken.”
“I should get something for that.” Seamus went to rise but Davin tugged him back down by his shirt.
“No, Seamus. I am too tired. And too happy to see you. Let us . . . just rest.” Davin pulled out his canteen, unscrewed the top, and offered it to Seamus, who took a drink before returning it. Davin lifted it to his lips and swallowed several times before clearing off the moisture from his lips with the back of his hand. “When?” He pointed to the scorched earth.
“You just missed the show.”
“If only I could’ve pushed harder. Rode faster.” Davin pulled up his pant leg.
“Well, little brudder. You always did run a wee bit late.”
Davin raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be more bitter about all of this? I mean, you ought to shoot me. Or something.”
“That would make you the second person making that request today.” Seamus clasped his hands around his knee. “I don’t know. I suppose it would have been hard to explain to my congregants why the pastor’s farm was the only one spared.”
“So you’re back in the pulpit again?”
Seamus smiled. “You aren’t going to hose me down again, are you?”
“Ah, Seamus, that’s something I ain’t proud about. That’s one of the greatest regrets of my life.”
“It shouldn’t be.” Seamus put his arm on Davin’s shoulder. “Do you know, that’s what brought me out here? Looking back at it now, I see it was all part of God’s tapestry. Every stitch. And here I am, with a wife I love, a beautiful daughter, and I live in this place.”
Davin glanced around at the scorched fields, then back at Seamus.
“Isn’t as impressive as it was yesterday. But maybe this is what it will take for these folks to actually listen to my sermons.” Seamus nodded to Davin’s leg. “How did you get that?”
“This.” He pulled up the pant leg, revealing a large purple discoloration. “I got it while . . . killing the last man I hope I ever have to.”
Seamus’s demeanor changed. There was a weariness in his eyes, a shadow in his soul. “I am sorry.” Then he was Chaplain Hanley again. “Would you like to talk about it?”
“Not much.” Davin leaned back on his palms and peered at something unseen in the distance. “It’s just. It was strange.”
“Go ahead.”
“It was as if I shot the man I almost became.”
Seamus closed his eyes at the beauty and depth of what his brother just shared. It was hard to imagine this grown man once had been the freckle-faced boy he chased in the grassy fields of their Irish farm.
He pulled Davin in close to him and his brother rested his head on his shoulder and wept. They remained quiet for a few moments before Seamus spoke again. “I, for one, am proud of the man you’ve become.”
Davin sat up, wiped his eyes, and laughed with embarrassment.
“You know, we should find a doctor for that leg.”
His brother leaned down and rubbed his leg again before he turned to Seamus and spoke with some difficulty. “What about the doctor I left behind?”
Seamus’s heart filled with sorrow. If the letters hadn’t reached Clare, then Davin would have no way of knowing himself. “Muriel was a precious gift to us, Davin. She nurtured me night and day. She saved my life.”
In Davin’s brown eyes a deep yearning emanated, a lingering hope that he would see Muriel again. Now he needed to know. Seamus had performed this role of telling mothers and fathers and wives that their loved ones were gone. But it was even more painful to tell this to his own brother. “I am afraid I fell short when it came to saving her life.”
“What do you mean?”
“After she had been here for a couple of months, some men came to get her one night. I don’t know why. It all happened so quickly. She tried to free herself, a shot was fired. Then they dragged her body into their carriage, and she was gone.”
Davin drew his hand to his face and he was still for several minutes.
Seamus could see his brother’s spirit emptying. “You loved her, didn’t you?”
“A fine way I showed it.”
“It’s not you, Davin. It’s this war.” Seamus thought of saying more, but sometimes just sharing in the silence was the best way to ease the pain.
After a few minutes he suddenly remembered something. He tapped Davin on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back. I have something for you.”
He grabbed his cane, rose, and hobbled into the house. Seamus entered the kitchen, pleased to see that other than knocking a few dishes on the floor, Grace’s horse hadn’t caused too much damage. It still wouldn’t be safe to bring her outside yet.
He rubbed her head. “My brother is here, Sierra. And don’t worry about his blue coat, he’s one of the good ones.”
Seamus went to the room he used as his office, and in the oak desk he opened the bottom drawer and shuffled through papers until he had found the sealed envelope. Then he went back outside and handed it to Davin who had gathered himself.
“What is it?” On the front of the envelope was written in large letters: “Confidential. For Davin Only.”
“We found it in Muriel’s room when she left. Believe me. We were tempted to open it but considered it her last request. We would have mailed it but feared it would only be lost.”
“I am glad you didn’t.” Davin traced his fingers over his name. Then he flipped it over. After pulling out his knife, he opened it carefully. He pulled out a document, which he unfolded.
Seamus anxiously awaited to see what it was, but his brother appeared confused. Then Davin’s eyes widened and he laughed.
“Well?” Seamus leaned in.
Davin smiled and held up the piece of paper. “She bought Jacob’s freedom. This is the deed of ownership.”
“Jacob?”
“That runaway slave.” Davin extracted another piece of paper from the envelope.
“A letter?” Seamus was prying now, but the suspense overran his manners.
“Just a note.” He shook his head as if trying to decipher something.
“What does it say?”
Davin handed it to him.
Seamus read the line a few times, but now understood his brother’s confusion. “Whence again ye shall find the gold in your heart.”
“Is that from the Bible?”
“Not the one I read.”
Davin glanced down, then looked out to the fields. “What are you going to do now? Now that this is all gone?”
“You mean after I find a doctor to treat that leg?”
“Yes. After that. Are you going to keep farming?”
Seamus smiled at the question as he never considered quitting. “Yes. I will continue to be . . . a farmer of men.”
Davin started to fold the papers and put them back in the envelope. “Listen, Seamus. While you’re busy, you know, doing your farming of men, what would you think about me lending a hand here on the farm?”
“What about . . . ?” Seamus pointed to his brother’s uniform.
“My term is up. They wanted me to reenlist, but I’m through.” He grinned through his pain. “My whole goal, after all, was to conquer Taylorsville. What’s left to fight for?”
They both laughed. Seamus looked at his brother. “Are you serious? Would you like to stay? Because, we would love to have you. I mean, I would need to talk to Ashlyn, but ever
since you saved my life, she’s been rather partial to you. But there is one . . . problem.”
“What would that be?”
“We put all we had into this harvest. I don’t know how we’ll even be able to afford seed.”
Davin tapped at his shirt pocket and then unbuttoned it. He pulled out a small glass vial and displayed it to Seamus. At the bottom was a gold nugget.
“That’s right, you probably have plenty of those.”
“No. This would be the last.” Davin rattled it.
“That’s all? What happened to all of your gold?” Seamus held up his hand. “No. Don’t bother telling me. I like you much better when you’re broke like me. Besides, it’s like we’re back in Ireland again, you know, the two of us.”
Seamus enjoyed seeing the joy trickle back into his brother’s eyes. “Davin?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think now that you and your brave lads have vanquished Taylorsville, we might get better mail service? Maybe you could get one of my letters to actually make it to Clare.”
“I suppose a soldier of my rank and importance might be able to arrange for that.”
“Good.” Seamus looked out to the fields and beyond where the smoke cloaked the sun, making night arrive early across the Southern skies. “’Cause I need to let her know we’re all right. That we’re all going to get through this.
“And that our little brudder has grown into a fine young man.”
Chapter 58
The Cable
Trinity Bay, Newfoundland
July 1866
“Why is it that I could sit here and rest in your arms forever?” Clare kept her eyes on the horizon as the sun tucked under the water’s edge in a burst of orange. Seagulls dipped overhead and seals bickered on craggy rocks along the shore, which was dotted with anchored and moored ships and boats. She nestled against Andrew, enjoying his warmth in the cool air as both of them rested on a sea-worn wooden bench perched on a hill overlooking the coast.
“How did you know those same words were about to spill from my lips?” Andrew stroked her long, black hair.
“Because we are getting old, and that’s what old couples do. They share each other’s thoughts ’cause it’s cheaper that way.”
They were lulled by the crashing of the waves, and Clare couldn’t remember when she last felt so comfortable, so relaxed. It had been a year since the war ended and the Daily’s unwavering antislavery positions and support of Abraham Lincoln had won it favor once peace was settled. The worst days of their financial struggles seemed to be behind them at last.
“Shouldn’t we be joining the others?” Andrew spoke with regret.
Clare lifted her head to look back to the telegraph station up on the hill. The past few days had been filled with many exhausting emotions. First there was the nervous expectation as they and many other reporters were there to witness the Great Eastern emerging triumphantly through the fog hovering over Trinity Bay. The mighty ship arrived as part of Cyrus Field’s latest attempt of laying cable across the Atlantic Ocean.
There was the waving of flags, the raucous cheers, the tiny boats filling the harbor; all part of the exuberant greeting by the residents of this tiny fishing hamlet joined by many distinguished visitors from around the world. Then was the jubilant celebration by those privileged to be in the small, humid telegraph building to experience the miracle of this version of the Great Atlantic Cable first coming to life.
Through this all, there had been little sleep.
Which is why Clare sunk back into Andrew’s arms. “Let’s just enjoy this a little while longer.”
“All right. But remember. It was your Mr. Field who insisted we remain inside the telegraph station this afternoon. Something about a surprise.”
“I am so thrilled for dear Cyrus.” Clare observed the gentle swaying of the Great Eastern resting far offshore. She marveled at the thought of this remarkably engineered ship spooling out cable all the way from Ireland to here in Trinity Bay. “Hopefully, the line doesn’t fail after a few weeks as it did . . . what was that? Eight years ago? I am afraid if it does Cyrus will surely hurl himself from this cliff.”
“Or more likely, be hurled by his investors.” Andrew reached for her hand and pressed his lips against it.
“And those scoundrels will be the same ones parading him on their shoulders should this all work, telling him they believed in him all the time.” Clare looked up to Andrew and even in the fading light could see how much he had aged since their last visit here.
“Andrew?
“Yes?”
“That terrible war . . . our difficulties with the newspaper . . . how do you think all of this has affected our children?”
“Hmmm. Maybe it would make them stronger. More reliant on their faith.”
Clare could hear the doubt in his voice and she shared his fears. She glanced as far as she could and imagined she could see her beloved Ireland in the distance.
“We should join the others.”
“Yes.” Clare felt her eyes closing. “But let’s first say a prayer for Cyrus.”
“Mrs. Royce. Mrs. Royce.” Clare felt a tug on her arm and opened her eyes. A full moon illuminated the otherwise dark sky. How long had they been sleeping on the bench?
“What is it?” Andrew was groggy.
One of the telegraph operators stood in front of them, a stocky man with thin, pointed eyebrows.
Clare sat up abruptly. “Oh no. Did we miss Cyrus’s surprise?”
“I believe it is right here, Mrs. Royce.” The man beamed as a father holding a newborn. “We have received many messages already through the wire. Including this one, with your name on it.”
“What?” Clare reached out for the handwritten note.
“It came from Valentia. That’s Ireland, of course. I recorded it myself as it arrived. It’s quite official. Now you have something to pass down to your grandchildren and theirs as well someday.”
“Thank you so much, sir.” Clare rubbed her shoulders, numbed by the cold, and she waited until the man had left them to make his way back up to the station. Then Clare queried Andrew with her eyes, who in return only offered a shrug. She angled the piece of paper so it would catch as much of the moon’s radiance.
Clare. My Great Encourager. My Success Is Yours. Listen Closely To The Music. Cyrus.
Despite her well-seasoned journalist skills, Clare was unable to pry a single additional clue out of Cyrus in Newfoundland. All she learned was that he had made arrangements for the cable to be among the first of those wired from Ireland.
The peculiar message provided entertainment as Andrew and Clare tried to unravel its cryptic meaning on their long trip back to Manhattan.
Since it was nighttime, with everyone slumbering when they returned home, they tiptoed their way to the mantelpiece. Clare pulled down the music box and carried it to the couch, and they sat, setting it between them.
Andrew struck a match and lit the oil lamp on the table beside them, which revealed once again the exquisite craftsmanship of Cyrus’s gift. Clare opened the smooth teak lid, reached inside, and winded the tiny metal crank. The music sounded and the two of them listened as one would to a symphony performance. When it winded down, slurring the final notes, Clare cranked it up again and they tried to discern clues within the melody.
“Maybe he just wanted us to listen to the music together.” Clare closed the top and ran her fingers over the smooth surface. “It is romantic, wouldn’t you say?”
“I have a thought.” Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out a small knife.
“Andrew, what are you doing? You’ll scratch it.”
“Here, hold the lantern close.”
He flipped the box upside down and examined it closely. Then he lowered the blade. “There!” Something snapped.
“Don�
�t break it, Andrew.”
“No. Look. There’s a panel. Bring that candle closer.”
“Oh, Andrew, does this remind you of anything?” She grabbed on to his arm.
“You mean when we were in the graveyard, uncovering your Uncle Tomas’s hidden ledger book? Or should I say Patrick Feagles?”
Clare slapped his arm. “You should say neither.” She shook her head. “Poor . . . miserable Uncle Tomas.”
Andrew slid the knife under the interior panel and lifted it. Beneath this was a small chamber in the box, and inside this was a folded document. He pulled it out as Clare brought the lantern closer.
“Is that . . . ?” Clare put her hand to her chest.
“It appears to be . . . original issue stock of the Atlantic Telegraph Company. No. No. Can that be true?” Andrew adjusted his glasses. “My dear lady, we are suddenly very, very rich.”
Clare squealed, and then remembering the children were asleep upstairs, she covered her mouth. Then she froze. “Andrew. We can’t accept this.”
“And why would we not?”
“For the same reason we wouldn’t take it before. And the time before that. And the time before that. Oh, Andrew. We write newspaper articles on Cyrus’s project. It’s as good as taking a bribe.”
“Ahh.” Andrew held up a finger. “But that, my dear sweet Clare, is the beauty of the music box. You never knew this stock existed. Therefore, it never compromised your writing. Mr. Cyrus Fields is a veritable genius.”
Clare tried to object but couldn’t argue with his logic. It was beginning to be more about her pride and stubbornness than anything to do with integrity. At this point, it would be unfair to her family to continue to refuse this blessing. “I will just write one last story about the music box. We’ll let everyone know about Mr. Cyrus’s persistent generosity.
“Why, Andrew, do you know what this means? We can finally purchase the new press for the newspaper. We can hire more people so everyone won’t have to work as many hours. All that we had hoped to do.” She expected this to bring a smile to him, but instead he sunk back in the couch and looked away. “What is it? What did I say?”
Songs of the Shenandoah Page 34
