Songs of the Shenandoah (14 page)

“I see you struggling against this, son.” He pulled up his knee and cradled it in his arms. “Just listen for a moment. Really listen.”

They sat in silence for a moment. As they did, the sounds of the mountains rose, the birds, the insects, the creaking of the trees, an unseen creek gurgling, and the humming of the wind.

Several minutes went by. “Hmmm . . .” Pastor Asa smiled sweetly. “I call this the songs of the Shenandoah. This is the music that lifts my soul. It's here where I can hear His voice.”

His voice? Ha! Seamus ruined the life of his family by listening to that voice. How much better their lives would have been if he had never taken Ashlyn from her ministry in San Francisco.

“Seamus, I don't know what your life has been about. I don't know all you've been through. And I am not here to say I have faced more hardship or fewer troubles. None of that matters anyway.”

“None of that matters?”

“No. Of course not. We all have different circumstances. If we believe we are to measure God's favor through our circumstances, that becomes the greatest distraction of all. You see . . . the hearing. Hearing His voice. It's not with this.” Asa pointed to his ear. “No. I come here to quiet my soul. The birds don't speak to me.” He laughed. “There is only one way to hear these songs. These songs of the Shenandoah. It's through trust. Through faith. When you do, you know only one voice matters.”

“But He lied . . . to me.” As the words came out, Seamus wanted to pull them back. It was the worst of blasphemy and he knew this. But it was also what he believed.

He expected an angry retort from the pastor. But what he received was much worse. No response.
Is he judging me?

Finally Asa spoke. “How did He lie to you?” His eyes glistened with concern. “Go ahead. Speak freely, son.”

“My . . . wife. She trusted me. I was called to those mountains. Those tents. I was going to be Paul the tentmaker! It was so clear to me.” He picked up a small pebble and tossed it over the edge. “It was just my own arrogance, I suppose. The more I pressed, the more I failed.”

“Tell me about your brother. What is his name?”

“Davin. I have already forgiven him long ago. It's not what's doing me harm, if that's what you're thinking.” Seamus thought back to the day when he first saw his younger brother in the pub in San Francisco thirteen years ago.

“You're smiling, Seamus. What was that about?”

“Oh, I'm just thinking of my brudder when he was eleven, just a lad. When I first seen him after he stowed away in a ship and sailed for a couple of months. Just to come find me. To rescue his older brudder.”

“Did his older brother need rescuing?”

There were hanging posters of him as a wanted man for stealing a horse from the United States Army. Percy had just arrived to San Francisco and was threatening Seamus's burgeoning relationship with Ashlyn. “Yes. I suppose I did.”

“Hmmm. Do you think maybe that is what it was about?”

“What?”

“Well, you abandon your thriving ministry in San Francisco. You spend every dollar you've saved. In poverty, you end up in the very camp your brother owns. Do you suppose it was your turn to rescue him?”

Seamus scoffed at the notion. “Some rescue! Rolling down the hill in the mud. Shaming myself in front of my brudder and all of his workers. Only thing I did well was prove what a fool I was. A broke and broken-down fool.”

Asa didn't say anything. Those patient, peaceful eyes knew he had more to say.

“Do you know . . . ?” Seamus glanced up, embarrassed his voice was cracking. “Do you know when I decided to give up my wild dreams? My chasing of the wind, as it were? When we found out that Ashlyn's uncle had left Whittington Farms to her. We had nothing. No way of getting home. I had to go back to my brudder, the one who humiliated me, and ask him for the money to bring us back here. I can recall the look on his face. The pity. The shame. There was a time, you know, when I was the boy's hero.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Seamus wiped the tears from his eyes. “Sure. What else would you like to know?”

“What do you think about a man who spent his entire life in suffering. In pain. In failure. But somehow, through his misfortune and his struggles, what if he was able to save the life of one other person? Not physically. But spiritually. Eternally. Set one person on the right path. If all he accomplished was to have that impact on another, would you consider that man's life a failure or success?”

This immediately brought up thoughts of Shila, the young Indian who at the cost of his own life saved Seamus when he was about to perish in the snowy banks of the Yosemite Mountains more than thirteen years ago. Shila's display of selflessness and faith changed Seamus forever. If not for the boy. If not for his sacrifice, where would Seamus be? Then his sister Clare came to mind. How many times had she lifted Seamus up when he thought he would never rise again?

“See.” Asa reached over and fastened his pack. “Until we can answer that question, I don't believe we can truly serve others. That we can be in ministry.” He slid his arms into the straps. “Because there is only one answer, I believe, that makes you worthy of serving.”

The question penetrated through Seamus's thoughts. Until this moment, he always believed he needed to save hundreds of souls to please God. He laughed inside at his own arrogance. What if it was only one? Would his life be worth it to him?

“Are we leaving now?” Seamus leapt down and then held his hand up to Asa.

“Oh no.” The old man took his hand. “I've got to show you what I brought you up here for.”

“I thought it was . . . all of this for me to see.” Seamus panned the view.

“No. Come, son. You called God a liar, right? I've got your evidence to the contrary. It's just a ways ahead.”

Before Seamus could respond, Asa was on the trail and climbing once again with intensity. Beyond the crunching sounds of their boots on the soil and twigs, Seamus tried to listen to the songs of the Shenandoah.

Was that what had happened? Had he allowed the noise of the world to clutter His voice? Had he sought out the approval of men ahead of the affirmation of God? It all sounded so easy now. He could have preached it a hundred times himself. As they walked together, Seamus's mind filled with comforting thoughts, and he welcomed them as if they were the return of a favored friend.

What Asa had shared as “just a short ways ahead” ended up being a couple miles farther. But the time passed quickly for Seamus and he felt lighter with each step. His senses grew alive. His spirits rose. Where have You been?

I never left.

Finally they had wound their way to another ridge on the mountain and Asa, who had once again made his way ahead, waited for Seamus with expectation.

As Seamus came closer, he saw another valley beginning to unfurl before his eyes. Soon he was at the edge, and around him the wind began to swirl. Stepping gently with his boots, because the ground seemed unsteady and the drop below was several hundred yards, his heart pounded as he witnessed the spectacular setting below.

It had been nearly fifteen years since he had served in the army, first on the side of the United States Army, and then for the Mexicans. His switch to serve in the San Patricios Battalion, an Irish division of the Mexican army, nearly got him hung. Instead, he received forty-nine lashes, was branded with a
D
for
deserter
, and then set free.

The pain of the moment, the smell of his flesh burning, and the ultimate loneliness of abandonment seared through his memory.

“Can you believe it?” Asa gave him a wry look. “There are some thirty thousand men in Stonewall Jackson's army down there. I saw them settling in a couple of days ago. It's amazing how quickly they set up their camp.”

“The Union army?”

Asa shook his head. “Can't be far off. It will be a matter of weeks when they clash. A terrible thing this war. A terrible shame.”

They were camped alongside a creek, a blur of motion below, a sprawling city of men, horses, artillery and—” Seamus froze.

“You see it?” Asa reached up and squeezed his shoulder. “When I heard your story yesterday . . .” Asa shook his head.

Down below as well were hundreds of rows of tents.

“I don't understand . . .” But this wasn't the truth. Seamus comprehended it all well enough but he didn't like what the voice was saying.

“They came to us last week. A couple of officers. They were asking . . . no begging for chaplains. I was tempted myself because so many of our young men, our boys, are down there. But I'm much too old to be running from battlefield to battlefield.”

Seamus ran his fingers through his hair. “I don't think I can.”

“I know, son. It's all sudden. But I can tell you this. You'll have one of two choices. You can either obey God's voice, the vision He planted with you. Or you'll be obeying Jefferson Davis's bugle and be drafted into military service. You're of the age still.”

“But what will Ashlyn say?”

“She'll be given a choice. A bayonet or a Bible. I don't think that will be nearly as difficult for her as it will be for you.”

Seamus couldn't stop staring at the rows of tents. There was no question it was aligning with his vision, almost as if pulled straight from his dreams. Of what he felt called to do. But his stomach wrenched. What an odd sense of humor God had. Bringing him back to the place in his life where he experienced so much pain. The mere thought of being among soldiers again made him nauseous.

“But . . . I don't . . . I don't believe in the cause.” Even mentioning this aloud would be enough to sentence him to hanging as a traitor. Especially with the town believing all along he was a Northerner.

“Nor do I.” Asa pointed down below. “At least not that cause. The book of Joshua. Chapter five. The words spoken by the commander of the army of the Lord. That is how I answer when asked.”

Seamus could vaguely remember the passage. He knew that there were a lot of battles and bloodshed in that book. It had been so long since he spent much time in his Bible. “Then if I don't believe in the cause. What am I to do? How could I be of service?”

Asa shrugged, apparently realizing Seamus didn't recognize the verse. “I imagine you need to merely follow orders. From the One who matters.”

Seamus couldn't deny it. Looking down at the camp below, he felt a strange draw. As frightening as it was, Asa was right. It was where Seamus needed to be. “You know. They'll kill me. When they find out who I am.” Instinctively his hand went up to the scar on the side of his face, his fingertips feeling the rough edges of his skin.

“Yes. They probably will. And me for recommending you since I won't lie about knowing.” Asa nodded toward the trail, and they started to head out, but not before Seamus gave Stonewall's army one last view.

They pressed down the trail as Seamus's mind whirled with questions and doubts. What would Ashlyn say? He reached into his pocket and pulled out the picture he was never without. Then he smiled. He already knew what she would say. It would be after her initial protests. Long after she cried. And prayed. He knew what she would say.

I trust you.

Chapter 16

The Promise

Kernstown, Virginia

March 1862

Seamus sat in the wagon, bouncing along the rocky road, his mind drifting to the sadness in his heart as he waved good-bye to Ashlyn and Grace.

He felt as if it was the most difficult task he ever faced. Would he ever see them again? No. Now that he was back in conversation with God, he was certain that was a question he did not want answered. It would not serve him at all to know his fate.

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.”