Synopses & Reviews
Chapter One
Fanned by the wind, a lock of hair flamed from her shawl, scorching across her forehead. I would tell you that her hair was red as blood, to give you the vividness of her, but such would be untruthful. I know the look of blood, see. Her own would spot the snow before my eyes. Her hair was a darker thing than blood, though not so dark as her story.
But I must not go too quickly. There was blame in this death, and a bitter portion of it was mine. Had I not lain abed with General McClellan's own typhoid upon me, I might have come north a month the sooner, as Mr. Nicolay and Mr. Seward firstintended. Our agent might have lived. Better it would have been for the widow and the little one, not to speak of the poor, blundering fellow himself.
They had tormented him before they killed him. I saw the marks of their work when I come fresh from the train that morning, fair running from the station, with ice on the streets of the town, and my leg bad in the cold, and the weakness still upon me from the fever. The coroner's assistant held the coffin open for my arrival, then disappeared. The Irish priest kept the widow away from the box. Kind doing that was. I ran into the church all snow-pestered and unready for the shock of it. How long I stared at the dead man I cannot tell you now. Long enough, though, to singe my eyes. Twas small of me to gobble so much time, for the widow was keening away in a locked room. But such matters bind us, and we forget consideration. My hands curled into fists beside the corpse, and not only to fight the cold there in that church. There is cruelty, I thought. Savagery. I had not seen so grim a sight since India and the inferno of the Mutiny.
When I finally stepped away, two paddies nailed the box shut. Muttering and careless, they made it clear enough that they wanted no part of the business. But the priest fell hard upon them and soon they were jumping about and jabbering their sorties. Their voices took me back. I knew those accents from my old red regiment, the gurgling of that unextinguished tongue, harsh as lye-water in the mouth. Each fellow smelled of whisky.
The priest brought in the widow then, holding herup on her feet with one big arm. His other black sleeve held her babe. The little thing was bawling as if it knew all.
Beneath a statue of the sort the Irish idolize, the woman found her strength. She plunged forward, young and worn in her tattered dress, black shawl flying about her. Flinging herself upon the raw pine, she nearly upset the bier. Splinters soon bloodied her hands for the beating she gave the boards. Her wailing echoed in the empty church, raising a swell of laughter beyond the doors.
"The hoor's upon 'im now," a woman cried, triumphant. Her voice pierced the walls. "Oh, bring ye out the traitor's hoor. We'll give 'er what she's a-coming."
To calm the widow, the priest forced her babe into her arms. The woman's raw hands bled on the infant's face and wrappings. They prayed then, in the different way they do, all Latin and sorrow. The priest had eyebrows that met in a black knot and his shoulders were those of a navvy. Not young, not old, there was a worn solidness to him. He might have done for an elder soldier, had he not been a soldier of his faith. His name was McCorkle and he was no more born to America than I was.
About the Author
Owen Parry is the author of two previous novels featuring Major Abel Jones: Faded Coat of Blue, winner of the Herodotus Award, and Shadows of Glory, which was selected as one of the Best Books of the Year by the Washington Post and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.
Fascinated by the Civil War since childhood, Parry wrote his first book on the subject, a history of the conflict, at age twelve. That book was ultimately rejected by an interested publisher, which proved fortunate for Mr. Parry's subsequent writing career, since young Owen, with the best intentions, had made extremely liberal use of the work of others. He has since learned more of the etiquette of writing, and a little more of life.