Songs of the Shenandoah (9 page)

“I should go as well.” Clare headed toward the door, then paused. “We're going to make it through this.”

Then she scurried out the door and headed home, trying to convince herself of those very same words.

Chapter 10

Bull Run

Prince William County, Virginia

July 1861

In the distance, the rockets flared with brilliant flashes, accompanied by rising plumes of black smoke. Far away as well were the muffled sounds of explosions, musket shots, bugle calls, and the screams and shouts of men.

But as Clare and Owen approached in their bouncing wagon toward the ridge where most of the journalists had gathered to view the battle, what they saw was more remarkable than the fighting itself.

For several miles along the way, they had passed what seemed to be the entirety of the Washington elite, all of whom had come to take in the spectacle of war as if they were attending a foxhunt.

On either sides of the road, they were strewn out on blankets and chairs, pouring from bottles of champagne and wine and snacking on sandwiches, bread, and cheese.

“Had I known how pleasurable these battle assignments were, I would have petitioned Andrew for this job years ago.” Owen guided his wagon off of the road and around a black carriage that had gotten stuck in the mud.

“I believe that is Ben Jones over there.” Clare pointed to a ledge where a gathering of men and women stood, dressed more for a presidential ball than the first major conflict of the war.

As they got down from the wagon and walked over to where others were standing, Clare could understand why this particular location was chosen by the other reporters. The ledge overlooked the broad territory surrounding the Manassas River.

“Are those soldiers?” Clare's heart started to pound as she realized the movement of the terrain below was actually many thousands of soldiers exchanging blows. They must have been a good mile away from the confrontation, too far to see the actual hideous details of battle, but the evil of war penetrated through her bones. Maybe this was a big mistake for her to be here.

What a strange juxtaposition it was to see the merry gathering nearby her! Picnicking and cavorting while their sons were dying in the distance.

“Over there.” Owen pointed to an area at the end of the ridge where several men were drawing on easels. “At least some of them are working.”

They moved their way through the crowd, overhearing conversations splattered with gossip and drunken laughter.

As they approached, they saw the
Daily
's former war correspondent in an earnest conversation with several other distinguished-looking men. Ben Jones was tall and gaunt, with neatly combed and oiled hair, parted at the center. When they were just a few steps away, Ben glanced over and his eyes broadened. He excused himself from the conversation and came over and greeted Owen with a handshake.

“I promise, I was intending on removing that piece of gum from under the desk.” He nodded to Clare.

Her first impulse was to be angry at the man. Andrew had been good to him and deserved more of a notice than he received. At the same time though, she couldn't be too harsh on those employees who had left the
Daily
. Their financial difficulties were not well concealed, and if others had an opportunity to have a more reliable income, how could she fault them for leaving?

Ben nodded over toward their wagon, which had two bales of hay in the back and a tired-looking horse up front. “It's good to see that Andrew provided his new correspondents with such fine transportation.”

“And it's good as well to see such excellent reporting coming from the
Times
.” Clare always appreciated Ben's wit. “We always wondered how they fashioned such quality stories. Now we know.”

A gasp came from the crowd, and many of the conversations halted and some moved closer to the ledge to see what was happening below.

Ben nodded in the direction of the illustrators and they started moving over. “Apparently, this quaint little rebellion won't be dusted away in a day.”

“Wasn't this supposed to be a short battle?” Owen asked.

“That's why we have all of this.” Ben pointed to the carriages. “Everyone thought they were going to enjoy a lovely day in the park and didn't want to miss the entertainment. We've got senators here, judges, wives, mistresses. Apparently a better ticket than the Washington Symphony.”

“All of this while men are dying below.” Clare wondered what would come over someone to be so calloused.

Ben leaned in. “And I thought I would have to count cannon blasts. This makes for a much more interesting story.”

Clare knew the answer, but she needed to ask. “So . . . why did you leave us?”

He shrugged his arms. “The
Times
offered me nearly double. I am afraid they are sensing the once proud Royce institution is just a few gusts of winds away from toppling.”

“Well,” she said, “their senses are keen, I fear.”

“The
Daily
will be back strong.” Owen's eyes narrowed. He never did get along too well with Ben.

“Yes, I'm sure it will.” Ben turned to face her. “And just on the off chance it doesn't, you let me know if you need a new job. I'm sure the
Times
would love having the great Clare Royce. Besides, it pays better and I know Andrew could use the money.”

“You are a heartless man, Ben Jones. I am so thrilled we fired you.”

A loud explosion sounded, and some shouts came out of the group.

“That was dreadfully close,” a woman nearby said.

“They are still far away,” said another.

The three of them came to one of the illustrators, who had just put in a blank canvas and was sketching away.

“What's happening down there?” Ben asked.

“See for yourself,” the illustrator said. “It looks like them Southern boys have us on the run.”

“They are retreating!” came a shout.

This was closely followed by howls and shrieks, and in short order people hurried themselves back to their carriages. Anxious horses neighed, and a few of them took off without their passengers. The artists who were drawing the battle scenes scurried to gather up their drawings. Two Union soldiers raced toward them on horses.

A man, who Ben Jones had identified as a senator, stepped up to the approaching cavalrymen. “What is the meaning of all this? Why are you turning and running?”

“Move along, sir!” replied the soldier.

“Do you know who I am?” the senator retorted.

“We're being overrun. It's not going to matter who any of us are in about five minutes.”

These words seemed ample enough to silence any further protests. As all were retreating in a frenzy, Clare stepped forward to the hilltop and peered down. The Union army was now in full disarray and in mad retreat. Being pulled up the hill were the large cannons of the North, although some were being abandoned.

Left discarded behind them were the lifeless sons of a thousand mothers, being stepped over like they were bags of flour.

Pouring across the river through pontoons were the victorious Southern troops, with raised sabers and banners, in full pursuit while crying out in shrill screams that were a blend of terror and mockery.

A strange thought occurred to Clare. Was Seamus out there somewhere? Was he fighting for the other side, cheering on the defeat of his own family? How could he have abandoned her again?

A shattered nation. A torn family.

“Clare.” Owen's voice was frantic. “We must go.”

But she couldn't pull herself away from the display of anger and violence unfolding below. It was as if America itself was crumbling before her, sweeping away the dream she had pursued with such vehemence.

“We can't tarry.” Owen's hand clasped her arm.

Almost in a moment slowed in time, she saw something approaching in the corner of her eye. She looked up in time to see something flying in their direction. Suddenly, she was yanked to the ground and Owen was on top of her just as the explosion ripped through her trance. And then they were showered with dirt.

He pulled them up and they were running toward the wagon, dodging carriages and even full-sprinting soldiers. They leapt to their seat as another sound echoed and Clare covered her ears.

Deftly Owen turned the wagon, and with a few steps their horse was pulling them out of danger, seeming equally motivated to retreat. They maneuvered around obstacles and slower vehicles. It was a good twenty minutes before they cleared out of the fray enough to feel it was safe to stop again.

Now she was focused on her obligations to Andrew and the
New York Daily
. It was her job to bring her readers to the front lines of the battlefield, and she would do it with excellence.

The pounding of her heart subsided, and Clare pulled out paper and pencil and scribbled down her thoughts as fast as she could, the tip of the graphite scraping noisily. Even though they had spent such a short time on the ridge, there were so many images she wanted to describe and so many emotions to put to words before they were lost.

Owen knew her well enough not to disturb her while she was about her work, but after a few minutes, Clare had filled several pages and he must have sensed it was the right time to speak. “What shall we make of all of this?”

Clare looked up and saw soldiers approaching, but without haste and frenzy. For today at least, the battle was over. However, their shoulders and disposition slumped in defeat, and she shared their despair with both her prose and her tears.

Chapter 11

The Painted Face

Caitlin seem terrified of what she was about to see.

Muriel worried if this idea of hers was a mistake. Despite both of them having sat on this uncomfortable wrought-iron bench for a tortuous length of time, Caitlin couldn't peel her gaze from the front door of the Blue Goose.

What was so obvious to Muriel was so difficult for Caitlin to grasp. This seemed to be the only way to help her friend come to grips. And what irony! For her to be assisting Caitlin when it came to men. What did she know about them?

“Maybe you should go home, Cait dear.” Muriel had been at her side this whole time, trying to lighten the mood with gentle conversation. “It isn't necessary for you to be here, you know. I already told you what I saw. There is no need for you to suffer any more.”

“No,” Caitlin asserted. “I need to see for myself. I have been engaged to this man for more than a year.”

Engaged? Hardly. Muriel had known from the beginning that Martin was only engaged with his work and himself. Maybe that was why Muriel seemed to attract only disinterest and disdain from men. She was on to them. She knew what they were thinking before they did.

But then again, that was her being too kind to herself. Yes, she was a smart lass, but men weren't interested in that. They wanted pretty and quiet and she wasn't good at either. Even her uncle, who along with her aunt had raised her since her parents died on the ship to America, had tried to bring her down gently when it came to her aspirations for marriage.

He told her when she was young that some women could be cared for and others would have to learn to care for themselves. For many years she thought he meant it as a compliment, but the truth became clearer once she was of wooing age and realized few were lining up to woo her.

He foresaw her as a spinster even when she was a child.

But it made no sense to her that Caitlin would fall to the same fate. After all, she had the appearance all men craved. If only Caitlin could crave a finer breed of men. What poor taste she had!

Maybe she was being too difficult on Caitlin. It could be there just weren't that many good men out there. It was no secret that most so-called gentlemen in Manhattan partook in what they dismissed as harmless sport. Prostitution was as common a vice as hard liquor and cigars.

“We've been here for more than an hour and haven't seen him.” Caitlin's voice was laced with hope. “Are you certain you didn't make a mistake?”