Free Songs of the Shenandoah by Michael K. Reynolds

that appeared much younger. And it was the kind of face that could never disguise bad news.
    â€œCome in,” Andrew said, rolling his eyes at Clare.
    â€œSorry to be disturbing you.” Owen stepped in and snapped the door shut behind him.
    Clare appreciated few people more than Owen. He had started at the Daily when he was a newsboy, selling papers before the sun and most of the city rose. Then he worked his way into the press room and was soon recognized as the best mechanic. Finally, he made the big jump to editorial and had been Andrew’s chief editor the last couple of years. He wasn’t a writer by any means, but he did seem to have a natural sense for business, much more than her husband.
    But what Clare appreciated most about Owen was his character. He was as reliable as they came and as good a friend as Andrew had. Whenever there were grumblings among staff about Andrew’s leadership, Owen would quickly douse the flames. More than a few blamed Owen’s lack of talent for the demise of the Daily , but Clare was not among them.
    â€œHaven’t I told you never to visit unless you’re bearing good tidings?” Andrew rubbed the back of his neck.
    â€œYes. But then I would never get to see you.” Owen leaned back against the door. His tight brown curls spilled from the sides of his cap.
    â€œThen be about it,” Andrew said, “so I can get along with the grieving process.”
    â€œIt’s Mr. Murphy.”
    â€œOh dear,” Clare said. “Is he pulling his advertising again? Does he believe we’ll shut down without him?”
    â€œWell.” Owen took off his hat and scratched his head. “There may be some truth in that. He happens to be our largest advertiser.”
    Andrew tapped his hand on the desk. “Clare, I warned you that story was going to push our readers to their limits.”
    â€œBut really, Andrew. This notion that we’re going to empty the Five Points of every black soul and put them on ships back to Africa. We have to speak out about such . . . drivel, even if it’s coming from the mouths of my own dear people.”
    Owen rocked on the balls of his feet. “I believe the line Mr. Murphy protested to in particular was the one where you said . . . what was it? Oh yes, that—”
    â€œThat we should put every fool Irishman who proposed such an idea on a train headed south so they can trade in their potatoes for Jefferson Davis’s cotton.” Clare’s stomach tightened. “I know what it said, Owen. I wrote it.”
    Andrew chuckled. Was the man capable of getting angry at her?
    Owen held his hands up in surrender. “I am merely sharing the news. That’s what I do here. I am a professional newsman. Occasionally, I’ll throw in a minor suggestion, you know one like, ‘Let’s try not to anger our last three customers.’”
    â€œWe still have three?” Andrew raised a mocking eyebrow. “And you said you came with bad news.” He leaned forward. “Wait. You’re still standing here. Please tell me you don’t have more to share.”
    â€œâ€™Fraid so. It’s Ben Jones.”
    Andrew adjusted his glasses on his nose. “What did he do this time?”
    â€œHe packed his desk.”
    â€œHe’s leaving us?” Andrew brought his hands to his face. “Now? He’s our last remaining war correspondent. Where?”
    â€œWent to the Times .” Owen placed his hand on the door handle.
    The Times ? Ben Jones was too good a reporter to work at such a place. Clare wanted to say something to Andrew to console him, but she couldn’t think of anything. With the armies of the South and North facing off in a couple of days, it would be ruinous for the Daily if they had no coverage of the confrontation.
    â€œWe could send Zimmerman,” Owen said.
    Andrew flopped back in his chair. “We’re not doing a theater review. And he