Songs of the Shenandoah (38 page)

All around her were the sounds of scattered, throbbing crowds, an eerie blending of terror and glee. Shouts of anger. Cries of babies. Cheers. Laughter.

Down the road which was lined with tall buildings, smoke flared from windows and roofs. Much of what she saw now was similar to every street she passed on her way from the harbor. There were no pushcarts or carriages, just people running on foot, and at the turn of every corner, she risked the chance of running into a frenzied mob.

Clare walked to the front door of the newspaper Andrew's father had built, which was now in tatters. The splinters and shards of wood showed signs of having been mauled by an ax, surely wielded by some madman brought to a froth by the wild encouragements of his cohorts.

This was the kind of damage she would expect from a battle fought in a city. It would make sense if it was the workings of the Confederate army. But no. It was an attack by an enemy within. They had turned on their own people.

Her heart pounded as she stepped inside. What would she find in the debris? Bodies? Blood? She would never forgive herself if Andrew was gone. What a regrettable choice it was of hers to cover the story of Gettysburg. She thought the purpose was to catch a glimpse of her brothers, but was it merely about her own ambition? Away from her family chasing down her next great story?

Clare started to cry but then strengthened herself on the sharpening stone of fear, her senses heightened once again.

The devastation was instantly apparent. Glass lay like shimmering diamonds, papers fluttered with the wind coming through the broken window, and desks were shattered, their contents sprawled across the floors. Even the walls and staircase railing fell prey to the blade of the ax and whatever other cruel instruments were used.

What about the press? Clare stepped forward. “Hello?”

“Who is that?” The voice was familiar and defeated.

“Owen?” Clare hurried into the pressroom and only briefly noticed that the great machinery had been battered and covered with black ooze. There sitting on the floor in the middle of the violent debris was Andrew's editor, his curly brown hair disheveled and his face splattered with blood.

Clare fell to her knees beside him. “Oh my goodness, Owen. Are you all right, dear?”

He nodded over to the press with profound sadness. “I . . . I tried Clare. There were too many of them. There was nothing I could do. They just kept coming at me.” Owen winced and then put both of his hands around his leg.

“What is it?” Clare looked down and saw it was bent.

“They . . . broke it. I tried, Clare. You need to believe that I did.”

“I am going to take care of you. Don't you worry.” She looked around to see what there was she could use.

“No!” He reached over and grabbed her hand. “You must go.”

“I am not leaving you. I don't care if they come back.”

“No. Your sister Caitlin left just before . . . the mob arrived here.”

“Why? Why would she leave you?” As she asked the question, the horror of the answer crept into her mind. “Where are they?”

“No one thought they would attack our neighborhoods.”

“Where are the children?”

“They are home. With Cassie. That's why Caitlin left.”

The words were difficult to come from her trembling lips. “Where is Andrew?”

“He's been fighting with the militia since this had started. But . . . we haven't seen him.”

As Clare stood, the instincts of a mother took over and there was no fear, no time for contemplation, just the rush of horror at the prospect of any danger coming to Garret and Ella. How could she have ever left them!

She paused for a moment, now conflicted at the thought of leaving Owen lying there alone in pain.

“If I could stand, I would go as well,” Owen said.

Clare nodded and then she turned and ran.

The smoke was everywhere, and buildings that normally would be surrounded by firemen passing pails of water were left alone to become ash. She ran past mothers carrying babies in their arms, young boys throwing rocks, and old women casting bricks from windows.

Some policemen tried frantically and heroically to stay the madness, but many others stood by idly or even contributed to the bedlam, joining in the perverse sport of tearing down anything that symbolized civility.

There was no escaping the target of this unfettered aggression—the immigrants and their families from Africa. For as rabbits being chased by rabid hounds, it seemed as if every terror-filled black person was being hunted in the streets.

Clare wished she could do something. To stop the evil. But all she could do was run, tripping and falling over the flotsam of rebellion flung across the smoldering paved roads.

Yet despite her singular focus on making it back home to her babies, something brought her to a halt. A horrific sight that caused her pain to the depths of her soul. As she came across a crowd, she noticed them gathered around a lamppost.

Their faces were contorted, open mouths of anger, fists and sticks raised, and they celebrated the result of their sick labors. With eyes wide and white with fear, a black man had been stripped naked and strapped by his neck to the top of the post.

Clare screamed. It was almost inaudible among their revelry. The man was grasping the wire around his neck to loosen it, and then he kicked, another one, and then he was limp.

She leaned over out of breath and started to choke on her vomit. Then Clare spat the acid out and glared at the gathering as they hit the body with sticks.

Then she ran.

The last mile of her journey was a blur as she tried to block out all of the hate around her. Clare only wished she could run with her eyes closed and erase the terrible visions from her mind. Could she not just wake from all of this? A nightmare, the worst she ever dreamt?

But there would be no reprieve.

Finally Clare came to her block, and as she rounded the corner on the curve, there was another crowd gathered at the end of the street.

Please, God! Don't be my home.

She knew it was terrible to pray as such, but all she could think about now were the faces of her children. If anything happened to them!

As she drew closer, it was apparent the mob was farther down the road, and they were not attacking any house but were huddled around something in the center of the street. Clare was grateful they were distracted so she could slip into her home unnoticed.

She leapt over the short, black iron fence and landed in her garden, her boots crushing several of the tulips she had so meticulously planted. Then she ran up the brick walkway and leapt up the stairs.

She froze. The front window had been smashed and the door was ajar.

Clare picked up a large stone and gripped it tightly. She was prepared to crush the skull of anyone she encountered. Anyone who would do harm to her children. Her teeth clenched and her body began to quiver with rage.

Then she was inside. “Garret! Ella!”

She moved toward the kitchen, passing through the dining room where glass was scattered across the wooden floors.

“Caitlin! Where are you?”

“Clare?”

Before Clare could enter the kitchen, she saw the barrel of a shotgun poking out at her, and then the terrified face of her sister holding on with trembling hands to the weapon.

“The children? Caitlin, where are the children?”

“What?” Her sister's lips were trembling.

“Garret. Ella.” Clare pointed to the shotgun.

“Oh. Yes.” Caitlin lowered it and set it against the wall.

“Where are they?”

Caitlin moved back into the kitchen and Clare trailed her. Her sister opened the pantry door, and there sitting on the floor, cuddled tightly with fear, were Garret and Ella.

When they saw their mother, they sprung up and were instantly entwined in her affection. She gripped them tightly, and the tears flowed, serenaded by the high squeaks of their sobbing.

She glanced up to her sister, and then held a hand out her face. “Thank you, Caitlin. Bless you. Bless you.”

But then a dark thought came upon her. “Where is Cassie? I thought she was with you.”

“She was,” Caitlin said, breathlessly. “When they came, she handed me the . . . the gun and said the crowd meant the children no harm. She said she would draw them away.”

Clare stiffened. “Stay with the children!” The strength of her command caused Garret and Ella to step back, and Caitlin bent down and pulled them close to her.

In the living room, Clare grabbed the shotgun, which she had never before fired and probably had no idea how to shoot. But it didn't matter. There was no time to think. With only a few angry steps, she was running out the door over the lawn and fence into the street. Then she pointed the shotgun at the center of the crowd.

“Get away!”

A few remained from the large group she had initially seen. They must have already moved on to their next place of violence. To target their next victims. The expressions on the faces of those remaining were more of shock and remorse than hate. They stepped back and through their parting, Clare saw a figure lying on the ground.

“Back away!” She flared the weapon and several of them turned and fled.

“Is she dead?” asked a young man.

Clare flopped to the ground and put her arms around Cassie, who lay motionless, her eyes swollen, and a thin stream of blood dripped from her nose.

Clare looked up to the sky, of which both the murky haze and dark clouds obscured the sunlight, and she screamed.

Chapter 45

The Woods

“Remember, friends. It's not the soldiers you need to fear.” These parting words from Anika's lips echoed disturbingly in Davin's thoughts.

They were about to cross the most dangerous geography in America, and neither the soft rain or the early morning darkness would provide much protection. Lawlessness reigned and thieves and murderers preyed without impunity on hapless sojourners in these constantly shifting border regions between the South and North.

“How much farther?” Davin tightened his grip on the handles of the makeshift litter they had made to carry Seamus through the wooded areas of the lower mountains.

“Some.” Jacob had provided the same response each of the many times it was inquired in the last few hours. The man who led this haggard footrace through the moist foliage carried the front end of the gurney as if it was weightless. And for most of the distance he had been pulling Davin forward over toppled trees and bushes and through low-lying branches and spiderwebs that struck their faces often.

Davin didn't like the plan at all.

After leaving the safe house and using many unmapped side roads, they had come to a point in their travels when they encountered a huge dilemma. All of the paths narrowed into a low mountain pass and through a small town that had a high risk of being congested with bandits or soldiers or both. Yet any attempt to circle around this point using roads would extend their journey by as much as a day.

With Muriel fearing that Seamus might not survive the detour, they decided to risk going through the dangerous town. But only after emptying the wagon of Davin, Seamus, and Jacob.

This was Muriel's idea. She argued with success that she would have the best chance of passing through safely if she didn't have to explain why she was transporting a deserting Union soldier, an injured rebel pastor, and a runaway slave.

So Jacob and Davin were tasked with carrying Seamus by foot, through the woods surrounding the mountain village. Once past the town, they would meet up with Muriel at a rendezvous point where they would continue their journey by wagon.

But now Davin regretted agreeing to this strategy. Why would he have allowed Muriel to travel alone in darkness through a land of villains? He was relieved at the thought the sun would soon rise, but perhaps that would put her in even more danger.

More and more he was questioning why he had allowed her to come along at all. Was he so blinded with his drive for restitution with Seamus that he had risked the life of this woman? Forget that he was falling in love with her. What right did he have to put anyone else at risk in this desperate pursuit? And what about Jacob?

If they made it safely to the other side of town, Davin would send both of his companions on their way.

This decision was what pushed him through the pain in his lungs and the weariness in his arms and legs as he tried to keep up with Jacob. Soon. It would only be him in danger.

Suddenly he felt the litter being yanked from his hands, and it was all he could do to keep it from sliding through his grip. He then stepped awkwardly on one leg and the momentum began to pull him to the ground.

All he cared about was keeping Seamus from tumbling as it would rip out the stitches. If his brother started bleeding again, he would surely die. All of this was going through Davin's mind in the instant he guided the body toward the ground.

Jacob must have shared his commitment because between the two of them, they managed to lower Seamus's gurney to the moist ground without dumping their fragile patient.