Songs of the Shenandoah (18 page)

As Fletch's cart faded in the distance, a thought troubled her. Would Seamus be able to keep his end of the agreement?

How could she allow this thought to take root! She crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders as if to chase the idea away.

But this wasn't the first time this concern pressed upon her. In fact, a question had been plaguing her since he left many months ago.

Had she given Seamus a proper good-bye?

Chapter 20

The Chaplains

Seamus tried to steady his hands from shaking.

Sitting on a tree stump in a clearing of the woods, he felt stiff and uncomfortable in his black chaplain's jacket, and the white collar around his neck made this even worse. But what he felt most uneasy about was that he was in the vicinity of tens of thousands of soldiers preparing for battle and he didn't have a gun. He looked over to see Chaplain Robert Scripps, arms crossed, watching him closely.

Seamus clenched his fingers into fists. “It's nothing. Just the Irish shakes. Runs in our family.”

The chaplain, who was a short, bald man with a closed-cropped gray beard, pursed his lips then smiled. “Yes. I see it runs in a lot of families out here on the battlefield.”

Seamus looked toward the woods before them, which earlier in the morning were gloriously decorated with the green leaves of spring. Now they were bent and disfigured, trampled by the boots of soldiers and the dragged artillery of a Confederate battalion that lumbered through in somber anticipation of their impending fate.

Left behind were the support teams breaking down mess tents, officers tracing maps with their fingers, medical personnel nervously preparing their supplies, and a few chaplains of varied denominations preparing themselves to do battle with men's souls.

A burst of ordnance was heard, followed by calls of bugles and rattling of gunfire.

“It's begun,” said Scripps.

Seamus tapped his foot on the ground and clasped his hands together. “So we . . . just wait here?”

“We do.” He looked up to Seamus with fatherly eyes. “Don't worry, my friend. You'll dip your beak in the action before too long.”

“Can you tell me—?”

“Again?” Scripps exhaled. “All right. We wait until we're beckoned. Won't be long as one thing this war can be relied on is making wounded. We'll accompany the medical boys there, and the ones they ignore are the ones without hope. That's our handiwork then. To console the inconsolable.”

“And how . . . are we consoling them?”

The man pulled his tin canteen from his belt. “This here is the water of life. With them screaming in your face and clawing at your coat with their bloody hands, you'll feel as useless as a headless tick. But at least you'll be able to give a dying man a drink. As they're bleeding out, that's what they'll be begging for.”

Seamus pulled out his Bible from his coat. It was the pocket-sized one Asa had given him as a parting gift. “Do we read a passage or say a prayer?”

Scripps scratched behind his ear. “Oh yes, I like to give them a Sunday school lesson, perhaps blend in a bit of theology. You know, make sure they're knowledgeable about Trinitarianism.”

Had this man been on the warfront for too long? “Surely, you're not suggesting . . . ”

“Listen, son. I'm just trying to prepare you for what you're about to see.”

“I've been in battles before.”

“As a soldier?”

Seamus nodded.

“And as a chaplain?”

“Not . . . till now.” Seamus didn't know what difference it made.

“Then you have no idea what you're about to encounter.” Scripps twisted the cap on his canteen and took a sip. “When you're a soldier, you see your friend fall, you get to shoot back. When you're a surgeon and the kid's bleeding to death, you get to cut off a limb, pull out a bullet, wrap a wound. Us? We get to be the last one to lie to them. The last face they see on earth, and it's the face of a liar.”

“Surely you don't . . .”

Scripps leaned forward. “The kid asks you, ‘Mister, will you tell my mother I love her?' What do you say? ‘Nah, son, I'd have to visit five thousand mothers after this bloody battle.' So you tell him, ‘Sure, son.'”

Seamus squirmed on the stump, which was growing increasingly uncomfortable as was the conversation.

“I see you're looking at me strange. But really, I'm doing a good service. The kid looks at you and says, ‘Am I going to heaven?' And you know he's the one that lanced some mother's son with point of his bayonet, and you say, ‘Sure, kid, and save me a good seat for when I get there.'”

“You've been doing this too long, I think.” Seamus turned away.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You go running through those trees today, waving your Bible, and prepared to save a hundred souls.” He raised the canteen. “Just don't forget your water of life, and when you're looking in their dying eyes and being the last liar they see on this blood-soaked earth, you remember what Scripps said.”

Anxious shouts shot from the woods, followed by a loud rustling of the branches and leaves that drew Seamus to his feet, just in time to see a dozen or so baby-faced Confederate soldiers burst through, their eyes wide with terror.

“Are we being overrun?” Seamus looked around to find anything that would work as a weapon.

Scripps laughed and waved at the soldiers as they raced by them. “You are green at this. You've never been in the back lines, have you? That's what sifted out by the cannon fire.”

The fleeing soldiers streaked past the camp and out of the clearing into another patch of trees, but right into the path of the rear sentry. There were shouts of “halt” and then shots rang out accompanied by screams.

Seamus winced. “Should we . . . go?”

“Nah. We can't console them all. We start with the officers, especially those with a chance to survive and give us a good report. Then the war heroes and the unremarkable. We leave the deserters for last.” Scripps stood and brushed the dust off of his coat. “All right, young Chaplain Seamus Hanley. Time to make a name for yourself. The angels will be watching you closely.”

A few of the medics had fastened on their backpacks and were working their way to the opening in the woods. One of them whistled and waved the two chaplains over. Scripps had removed an apple from his pocket and rubbed it on his sleeve.

Seamus's pulse spiked and his knees shook. Scripps was mad perhaps, but he was right about one thing. This was a more frightening assignment to Seamus than rushing an infantry line. He felt more inadequate than ever before. What could he offer these dying soldiers?

They didn't move far into the trees when the horrific screams of wounded and dying men reverberated through their souls. The medics ran forward with Seamus close behind. He glanced back and saw that Scripps was in no hurry.

As the hollering increased, he ran toward the desperate pleas. What foolishness his promise to Fletch seemed now. How could he protect Anders without bullets?

He looked down to his side and was relieved to see he hadn't forgotten the canteen.

At least he had the water of life.

Chapter 21

Campfire

Seamus pulled off his cold, blood-soaked sock and cringed at the sight of his foot, blistered and bruised.

“You better not let the doctor see that.” Scripps stoked their campfire with a long stick. “He's liable to put a saw to it while you're sleeping.”

“I best be taking a look at that, Preacher.” Dr. Taylor Fellowes, a Southern gentleman who seemed as misplaced in this rebel camp as any other, groaned his way up from the boulder he was sitting on and made his way over to Seamus.

Seamus was too tired to protest. The white-bearded man pulled a monocle from his pocket and leaned in close to his battered foot. He shook his head, drawing Seamus's attention to the feather rising above the man's hat. The doctor lifted the bottle of whiskey he had beside him, bit off the cork, then tilted it, allowing the alcohol to pour pain on the toes.

“Let's see now.” The doctor tugged at his beard, his face highlighted by the flashing of the flames.

“I don't like the way you said that.” Seamus leaned in to examine the foot himself.

“It's all right,” Scripps said. “You've got two of them anyway.”

“What is it, Doctor?” Seamus had learned to ignore most of what came out of Scripps's mouth. Although the only outward sign that he was a minister was the collar on his neck, Seamus had grown to realize the man's awkward attempts at humor was the grip that kept him from sliding down the slope of madness. Survival depended on finding some way to stay above the evil of war.

“You've earned your soldier's boots, all righty,” the doctor said. “Welcome to Jackson's army, son.”

“You've seen quite a few feet like these, eh?” Seamus's toes began to get cold so he put his socks and boots back on. He felt embarrassed to have even shown his injured feet to the doctor. What with all of the injuries the man had treated in the last few months.

“Much worse, I fear.” The doctor moved back to his boulder and pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette. He lifted a stick from the ground and dipped it into the orange glowing coals of the fire, then used it to light his smoke. “I've told the general what these marches are doing to his boys.”

“You got to speak with General Jackson? What did he say?” Seamus tucked his feet back into the boots, wincing as he did.

“Let me guess.” Scripps worked at opening a rusted can. “He answered with a Bible verse. Perhaps comparing himself with David. And we all . . . we're his rough companions.”

“Nope.” The doctor threw the stick back into the fire. “In fact, never looked up from the letter he was writing, and I thought he hadn't heard a word I was saying. Then he said to me in a quiet voice, ‘Dr. Fellowes, I pray every night I can soon send them back home to their mothers. And I pray every night there will be a home to send them to one day.'”

“Was that all?” Seamus tied the laces on his boots.

“No. Then he stopped writing his letter, looked up to me with those blue eyes, and added, ‘I have not yet prayed for their feet, but rather that they be able to march faster.' And that was it.”

“It's a rare thing to be able to speak to him at all.” Scripps snapped his opener on the can and turned it slowly. “Few ever get to talk to that man.”

“As it turns out, he is more open to advice about headaches than he is about tactics.” The doctor looked past Seamus. “Well, I wonder what he wants.”

“Speaking of headaches,” Scripps scoffed.

Seamus turned in the direction they were looking and saw a man in an officer's uniform approaching. The gait and air of confidence was clearly recognizable. Percy Barlow. Or Colonel Barlow as he was known around here. What did he want? Seamus stood at attention with the others.

“Sit down, men,” Percy said to the doctor and Scripps, but they remained standing. He walked over to Seamus and stood just a few feet before him, looking him over from eyes to boots. “I was told I would find you here, cowering in minister's clothing. But I thought I would see it for myself. How many know you're a deserter?”

The very words brought shame to Seamus. He felt his knees buckling, and it made him angry he was allowing Percy to have this effect on him. “That was a long time ago . . . and another war.” He wished he could see the responses in the eyes of his friends, but he had to keep his attention focused on his superior officer.

Percy turned to the doctor and Scripps. “Did you know the company you are keeping? An embarrassment to President Davis's army? To the cause? I'd be interested in just what your cause is, Seamus Hanley.” He spit out the name like bile.

“I haven't found him to be yellow at all, sir,” Scripps said. “In fact, he's braver than most. Perhaps you're thinking of the man of his past.”

Percy didn't peel his gaze from Seamus. “You just wait. When your back is turned, he'll show who he really is. Keep an eye on our horses. Did you know he was a horse thief?”