Songs of the Shenandoah (7 page)

“Have you ever seen such a gathering of muttonheads?” Tristan Lowery, with his perfectly coifed blond hair, sat in the open window frame of the five-story stone building his family owned. The flustered shouts of the mob outside echoed up through the room.

Davin got up from the burgundy studded leather chair and joined his friend, the son of one of the most successful traders in Manhattan, in observing the scene below. Quite a distance down, hundreds marched through the paving-stone streets waving American flags and pumping fists and singing songs of patriotism, both of here and Ireland.

“Like sheep to the slaughter.” Tristan, who at twenty-six was just a few years older than Davin, had the soft complexion and hands of the favored class, with rosy cheeks and the droopy eyelids of boredom. “What do you think about all of your people now, dear fellow?” He made a poor attempt of bleating like a lamb. “Baaah . . . baaah.”

Tristan's most relied-upon form of entertainment was to skirt on the edges of Davin's anger. Tweaking and probing and retreating just prior to the kettle boiling. Davin often wondered why he befriended him, and hoped it wasn't merely for the pleasure of being able to loiter among the city's elite.

For within the confines of this narrow, privileged fellowship, Davin was able to dip into the pools of prestige, excess, and cultural play. He wasn't foolish. There was a part of him who knew his membership was limited and that he would be tossed at some point when his friend grew weary of his companionship. But at least for the time being, it was another adventure for him to grasp before the expiration of his ephemeral youth.

There was an element to pulling riches from the earth through your own risks, efforts, and strains that gave men a certain intoxicating sense of accomplishment and entitlement.

Yet there was also something Davin had learned he could not extract from the ground. Could not draw up with his own hands. For all of his fortuitous discoveries, there was a deeper yearning in his soul for something more than the high society, fine clothes, and attention from women his wealth had attained.

Even from his early days of finding gold, he recognized he was losing part of himself. The boy with the passion to seize life with both hands. The heart he once had for others. It seemed as if the more he obtained, the more numb he became.

Was this all life had to offer? Just another mountain to climb? Another hole to dig? It seemed he had so much more wisdom when he was ten years old, but that was somehow buried in the dust of the Sierra mountains.

And what of Seamus? All of these years Davin had looked up to his older brother, but what value would there be in following his lead now? Seamus had pursued God, and look where that had taken him?

Davin had a sense he wouldn't find too many answers in his peculiar friendship with Tristan. But at least he could be entertained, distracted from the emptiness.

“My Irish . . . lambs . . . have a long tradition of fighting for freedom and country.” Even as he said these words Davin had a thickness in his throat. How distant he was from the people below. How could he have spent so many years thinking and living that way?

“Really, young prince?” Tristan leaned his head back and lazily peered down. “The Hiberians have a long tradition of being defeated. We can only hope, for the good of my own dear, sweet hide, that they have learned how to fight since arriving.”

Tristan lifted his glass of bourbon to his lips and sipped noisily. Then he swung both of his legs outside of the window and let them dangle.

Davin flinched. “What are you doing?” There was a playful madness in his friend which both irritated and intrigued him.

“Go get them Southerners, boys! Hear, hear, all you brave young lads.”

He saw the glass loosely gripped in Tristan's hands and Davin worried he might throw it down.

“Get Fort Sumter back for us, good chaps! Your nation and Abraham need you!”

Davin was relieved to see the clatter below was drowning out Tristan's mockery. He probably appeared as just another of the dozens of women and children leaning out of their sills and waving arms. Davin went back to the chair and sank down.

“Come back in and stop being such a fool. You'll regret this one day when one of those boys takes a bullet for you.” Davin glanced around the sitting room, which smelled of cigars and fine liquor. The walls were of dark mahogany, and carefully placed gas lamps brought diffused light to paintings of hunting landscapes interspersed between heads of mounted animals and stuffed birds.

Tristan climbed back in, hopped down, and dusted his vest as if from the world outside. He went over to a table containing crystal decanters of a variety of cordials. “You'll never understand this, Davin.”

“Understand what?”

“It's the difference between . . . being golden and finding gold.” He poured his glass full and set the decanter down.

“Is anyone fond of you?” Davin had been blunted to most of what came from Tristan's mouth.

“Seriously, dear laddie. It's just the way it's always been.” He opened up a wooden box and pulled out a cigar and drew it under his nose. He offered it up, but Davin shook his head.

Tristan cut the end off and then struck a match, giving the cigar a deep draw and exhaling the smoke slowly. He blew out the match and then sat on the couch adjacent to Davin.

“So what does your father say about all of this?” Davin rarely got to see Alton Lowery, but when he did, he was always impressed with the man's brilliance.

“It's not good news for us, I am afraid.” The ashes on the tip of his cigar glowed red.

“So this will be a serious war, then? Does he believe that?”

Tristan raised his eyebrow. “The problem, dear friend, is not the war, but the length of it.”

“But everyone is saying it will be over soon. The South don't stand a chance.”

Tristan pulled out his cigar and pointed it at Davin. “And that is precisely the problem.”

“I . . . don't . . .”

“You are new at this, aren't you? I have to keep reminding myself that not too long ago you were pulling potatoes out of the soil. There are few better opportunities to profit than during these times . . . of great strife.”

He folded his leg over the other and glanced at the ceiling. “And with such limited time of opportunity . . . well, we'll just have to be . . . opportunistic.” Tristan lifted his glass from the table beside him. “What about your dear sis?”

The abruptness of the shift of the conversation caught Davin off guard. “What?”

“Your sister. The fighting sword of the Irish, the defender of the new Black empire, Clare Royce, grafted by marriage into the once-mighty Royce empire.”

Davin tensed. “You know. There is going to be a time . . . soon, I think, when this potato grubber is going to clear out a few of your teeth.” He didn't mind the barbing when it came to him, but his family was another matter.

“No, truly. I admire your sister. Wonderfully talented reporter. It's just . . .”

“It's just what?”

“Her poor sap husband has really devastated the
Daily
. Fine fellow, dreadful businessman. I . . . we . . . just can't see how it will be able to sustain itself much longer.”

Davin clearly noticed that the fortunes of his sister and her husband had taken a turn, but he had no idea they were in such a position. But then again, it was just Tristan. Who could believe what came from his mouth?

“It's a shame, really,” Tristan said. “Andrew Royce opens that mission for the supposed downtrodden and squanders all of his father's wealth into it. Only to see it fail.”

Davin never before had an unkind thought when it came to Andrew. But now that he was older, he had learned there were many sides to people and that life was complicated. How could Andrew have allowed his fortune to dwindle and leave Clare in this position?

Tristan tapped his cigar and let the ash fall to the carpet. “Of course, they do have you now. Fresh from the Sierra Nevada mountains with gold bulging from your pockets.” He raised an eyebrow at Davin. “Problem solved.”

Tristan could say many things that would cause Davin to want to strangle him. The difficulty was, there always seemed to be some underlying truth in what he shared. Tristan seemed to have some inner understanding of the dark reaches of man's soul, which seemed to be the source of how he was able to rise above others.

“They haven't asked me for a penny.” Davin spoke through clenched teeth.

“You know, dear fellow” Tristan said. “There are many people, friends of my father, who would be willing to swing their . . . patronage . . . back to the
Daily
.” He snapped his fingers. “They've drifted into the weeds. But they can certainly find themselves again. We all believe in second chances.”

Sounds rose from the window, the crowds stirring again. They blurred in the background as Davin was distracted by his inner thoughts. Was Clare in danger? What a travesty for her to come to America to seek her fortunes, only to have them slip through her hands.

He had believed she was different than Seamus, who he had given up on long ago on that river in the mountains. It was a cruel prank Davin had played that day on his older brother, but it was all with good intentions. To try to cleanse him of his frivolous pursuits. Seamus was wasting his life in trying to save men's souls.

But Clare? She had come to Davin's rescue so many times before.

Maybe this was his chance. His moment to help in the way he best knew how.

Chapter 8

The Doctor

How strange to see men so anxious to participate in war!

It wasn't easy for Davin to tunnel his way through the frantic crowds on the streets leading to Clare's quiet neighborhood, but he was determined to not only speak to his sister, but to escape the clattering.

As he observed the faces of those parading in angry protests against South Carolina's attack on Fort Sumter, he wondered why he didn't share their angst. Was he not proud of his new nation? Did he not have an obligation to stand up for the country that allowed him such a great changing of his fortunes? Perhaps it was because he came from California, where the politics of division and slavery seemed so distant and less important.

And what did he believe in all of this? Was he losing his Irishness? His willingness to fight for a cause? Could it be that he didn't have a cause?

Then again, maybe Tristan had a point. Let the rest of the world be distracted by the madness while the wise among them used the diversion to seek profit.

When he arrived at the front of the Royce home, a man was already walking to the front door. He scooted to catch up to him. “May I be of some service, sir?”

Startled, the young man turned. He was wearing a uniform and reached into a pack slung over his shoulder and pulled out an envelope. “A telegram, sir. Do you live here?”

Davin paused for a moment. This was his home, wasn't it? Even after all of the years, he still felt part of the Royce family. “Yes, of course.”

The man handed him the envelope and then had him sign a piece of paper. He tipped his hat. “Good day, sir.”

Davin watched him go away and then instinctively turned and opened the door and entered. Once inside, he regretted his unintentional impertinence, but it would be foolish to go back outside now.

“Hello there? Clare?” Davin took off his hat and tucked it under his arm. He looked around the hallway and, following his discussion with Tristan, saw things through a more-jaundiced eye. The once-proud Royce Manor was now sagging and seemingly defeated. Gold-leafed paper was curling from the walls, paint was chipped, the wood on the stairway bannister was cracked, and even the ceilings seemed to droop.

A young boy arrived in the hallway at such a speed that when he tried to stop, his feet skidded across the smooth floor. His eyes widened in fear at first, but then he relaxed.

The boy turned and shouted, “Muriel! A man's here.”

Davin realized with some embarrassment that he hadn't visited more than once or twice since the Christmas dinner.

Behind him turning the corner came Muriel, dressed simply in the clothes of a housemaid. He hadn't paid much heed to her appearance when he last saw her, but now that she was standing before him, he did. She was not unattractive by any means, pleasant enough with red curls, fair skin, and a gentleness to her demeanor. But Davin's high-society standards had blunted him from appreciating any but the most physically striking of women. Mostly she was one he would normally pass by on the street without giving a second glance.

Muriel dried her hands on her apron. “Why, Garret, that is not just a man, that is your uncle.” Her words had a melody to them from Ireland, but also an unfamiliarity to them that made it difficult for Davin to determine from which county she had arrived. She turned to him. “Davin, is that right?”

“Uncle Davin it is.” He knelt beside Garret. “Did you know I was your age when I last lived here?” He tapped the top of the boy's head. “Where's your mother?”