You won't find this Civil War story ANYWHERE else.

'Sorrows Whisper Still', an extract from 'How the Irish Built America', by Margot McMahon

Two fiction exclusives in two consecutive posts?!

Yup, you read that right.

That’s what makes the Society of History Writers so special. It’s the ONLY space on Substack dedicated to bringing writers of history and historical fiction together to share their experience, grow in their craft, and share their writing exclusively with a growing worldwide audience.

And the engagement data for the Society’s newsletters backs this up: readers are most engaged with guest articles (in terms of likes and comments). I am honoured to provide this space to spotlight your writing and share it with colleagues and readers across the world.

So, without further ado, our guest writer for today…

Margot McMahon (check out her profile HERE) is a sculptor and writer who explores the themes of ‘human, plant, and animal forms’. She has been awarded by the National Sculpture Society and Soka Gakkai International, and the Smithsonian collects her art. The Smithsonian!

I am delighted to feature an exclusive extract of her novel, How the Irish Built America, which is currently being revised for publication. Structured around two parts, the first book deals with events leading up to the Civil War, whilst the second book includes the Civil War and its aftermath in a tiny wilderness settlement. 

A little spooky, a little tense, and a whole lot of intrigue, Sorrows Whisper Still is the perfect introduction to Margot’s written work. Do make sure to share your thoughts and feedback in the comments, especially whether any parts of the narrative connected with your own experience or particular interest in the Civil War period.

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Sorrows Whisper Still

Margot McMahon

In a misty fog, sugar maple leaves of smoky ochre and burgundy flutter as Betsy and John tether their horse and carriage in front of his brother’s first floor home below The Hall. Mass was served upstairs before their new church was raised across the turnpike. Softly spoken greetings from others aching from loss descend with the fog as they flow into the candlelit cabin. A solemn column of mourning neighbors climb the familiar stairs where their families had worshipped on Sundays. Today they sit in rows of two by two, fearful, hopeful, searching for a moment’s peace. John points Betsy to two empty spaces on a bench near the back of the room.

As neighbors silently move benches and chairs to sit, John wonders, “Can there be peace after war? There is nothing civil about this or any war.” The emptiness consuming John makes him doubt his finding peace is possible. John studies the lamenting parents as they wander in nearly ghosts themselves. Everyone has heard the rumors from Sherman’s March. Surely other soldiers, like his brother Archibald, must have survived. Nothing John can say would be worse than his broken-hearted brother living with having convinced Johnny to join him on Sherman’s March. As he avoids looking into his neighbors’ eyes, he knows what they are thinking: let their dead son miraculously return home. He feels the same thing.  Even while knowing Johnny passed away from injuries in Annapolis. He and Betsy are amongst the few who could bury their son’s withered body. 

John’s sister, Mary Jean introduces, “Frances Haines Movey, the infamous speaker and transcendental guide who journeyed to us from Lilydale, New York.” John and Betsy are hesitant to clap.  “Be at ease as we are each going on a journey without leaving our seats. It is safer than feeding chickens in the morning. Our esteemed guide will show us into a realm, a vision, an experience, and bring us safely back to this gathering. Allow yourself this journey. I am honored to introduce you to Francis Haines Movey.” Mary Jean glances at John and nervously steps aside. John feels coerced into attending what aims to be a healing performance. He puts his arm around Betsy knowing she is too fragile to cope with any more distress.

“Good evening,” Francis begins, with a confident quiet voice. “We will take a moment as I read a poem to allow you time to fix your intentions to our meeting.” John smells the odd rosemary, thyme, and maybe primrose incense. When Mass was here, frankincense and myrrh purified the air for the prayers of the faithful. The strange incense, fluttering candles, and cool fog set a spooky tone. Betsy sneezes beside him and gently blows her nose. “Each of you has your unique loss, your own need to connect with another beyond the veil. While you may share your intentions with a loved one, this is your journey. If you feel the need to draw or write, there are tables along the walls with paper. A person on the other side of the thin veil may want to reach you. They may have tapped you and want to be remembered. They may have something to communicate with you. Make your intentions to visit with a son, or maybe more, crystal clear with a visualization while I read from William Blake:

“My spectre around me night and day
Like a wild beast guards my way;
My Emanation far within
Weeps incessantly for my sin.

A fathomless and boundless deep,
There we wander, there we weep;
On the hungry craving wind
My Spectre follows thee behind.

He scents thy footsteps in the snow,
Wheresoever thou dost go,
Thro' the wintry hail and rain.
When wilt thou return again?”

  “Are you comfortable with your feet placed firmly on the floor?” Francis says. “Bring your hands together with pressed palms to focus your attention inward. We will begin your journey.” He takes a moment’s pause as the rustling of boots and clothing settles. John and Betsy release their handhold. “Together recite the seasons, beginning with autumn backwards.”

The congregation mumbles back through the seasons. Francis begins, “Relax the skin around your skull, feel its warmth, a slight tingle. This relaxation will go deeper as we progress. Relax your forehead and feel the heat and tingle, then your eyes, your face, your throat, chest, abdomen, thighs, calves, toes, bottom of your feet and heels.” He gives them a moment to unwind into their calm. “Out loud, say the days of the week forward beginning with today, Monday.” Francis asks them to picture a place in nature with birds singing, trees rustling, and the scents of grasses and trees. Then he allows a pause for the image to float into their consciousness, “Beginning at ten, count down as you will go deeper and deeper into relaxation. Feel your chest and shoulders go into a greater calm. Any sound you hear will aid you in going deeper.”

John’s neighbor slips off the bench after falling asleep. Mary Jean aids him while the group stays in their alpha state, a state of wakeful relaxation. Alert, calmed by hands pressed together at their solar plexus, they remain focused on their vision of nature.

“Say your name out loud three times.” Francis says as John follows his spirit guide. A calmness consumes John’s suspicious doubts. Mary Jean convinced him to come, Betsy backed her up. He allows the peace to enter his soul, slow his bloodstream, and quiet his sore heart.

“John, John, John,” he whispers softly while he hears the comfort of her voice by his.

“Betsy, Betsy, Betsy” she breathes beside him. Deeper or in Delta state, the slowest brain waves, he closes his eyes in meditation.

Francis slowly continues, “Visualize a white flat wall and imagine moving it twenty degrees above the horizon. Picture the face of the deceased individual you want to summon into that raised wall.” John prayed while remembering the last time he hugged his son with the stench of gangrene in an Annapolis hospital. “Imagine their left profile. Envision the back of the head. Visualize the face of your loved one by turning their head to the right. Look straight into their eyes. See them come closer. Be with them.”

A few people shuffle to the tables to draw images that presented themselves. John visualizes his dear Johnny’s youthful and beardless face. The gravity of an old man comes through the eyes of his rounded child’s face. John is not prepared to feel his young son look as weary and ancient as water. It is why he did not want to come. These feelings are not of the natural world. What were he and Betsy thinking that this would be any comfort? Yet, they need some understanding of Johnny’s brash decision to join Sherman’s March. “Why? When the war was nearly over?” This is the question that brought him here.

The feeling of Johnny’s loss flow over John like a fog of sorrow. Johnny’s feeling expresses his sorrow for all he would miss; his sister’s First Communion, his baby brother’s first steps, his younger brothers-Andrew and Patrick- learning to hunt. John blinks as he realizes Uncle Archibald will show them. John shivers with the thought of guns, war, and hunting. A calm flows through John as wispy as mist over the water.  He hears, “I have no pain or sadness or hunger.” His hands shake because no one is speaking. Having been calmed by praying to Jesus prepared him slightly to connect with his dead son’s soul. The calm isn’t his nor are these words his thoughts. These must be Johnny’s. How is John feeling Johnny’s desires? “I chose to be part of my time and experience the war before it ended.” John empathizes with his son’s choice. He feels a warm glow inside, that relaxes his tense neck and arms, from the connection with his son. Johnny is at peace. John realizes his sorrow is only his own self-interest to overcome. Johnny is fine. Maybe this spirit-connection opens the door for Johnny to be spiritually present at family celebrations?

Johnny’s glimmering image fades away as quickly as he had come. With a deep stillness, John summons a forgiveness for his son running away to war. He feels a relief that Johnny is at peace. Slowly he reaches his hand to calm Betsy’s shaking hand beside him. Her palm is sweaty. Tears are streaming down her flushed cheeks. The heaviness of his heart in his chest has not yet lifted. He savors this awareness of his son resting in peace. The room stirs with sobs, hiccups, moans, and benches scraping the floor. A few couples rush to leave the room and hurry down the stairs.

Had he communicated with Johnny, or was it his imagination? It doesn’t matter. He felt his son’s presence momentarily. He offers his forgiveness for Johnny running off to war with no goodbye or blessing. John feels gratitude for Johnny having the freedom for his own choices. He remembers how his choice to leave Ireland was imposed on him. They had shared an intimacy as if constructing a table together, side by side. John looks up as people hurry out of the meeting place. Like a magic lantern show, he watches a figment appear behind Francis. A scene that only John sees.

The faded outline of a narrow trench appears with stretchers. A soldier with a spade, another nonchalantly lights a cigarette while sitting on a cannonball. Bullets whizz around. Four or five soldiers are calmly playing cards. They know only eight gunners were left, only one gun remains usable. If any of them looked up into the whizzing bullets, they would see nearly nothing but a HE, symbolizing the enemy over there, behind a whitish stone wall, and only eighty-five yards away below bursting puffs of white smoke. That all fades to blinding white.

Some women sob. Men utter blasphemies. John realizes others are seeing the trench images. Everyone in the audience watches the scene. Several with gaping mouths. But, not Francis who is facing them and continues unaware.

Francis says, “We will conclude with a few more stanzas of William Blake. If you joined with your intentions today, praise yourself for the connection, and please, go in peace. Write your treasure of this connection in your diary if you received a message. Congratulate yourself.” As Francis reads the poem, another projection slowly appears behind him. 

“’Let us agree to give up love,
And root up the Infernal Grove;
Then shall we return and see
The worlds of happy Eternity.”

“Where is he wounded?” is asked in a vision appearing with stretcher bearers panting from their ascent uphill. Their feet lift with difficulty out of sticky mud. A cannon ball whistles over, explodes a crater beside them.  Mud splatters the man on the stretcher. Other unexploded balls lay half sunk in muck.

“In the leg” or “in the arm” is answered crossly in half breaths. Or, no answer if no head raises on the canvas stretcher. Bullets whizz around. Nearby a large cast-iron cannon is readied with an orderly pile of cannonballs in a pyramidal stack that focuses in and fades into blackness.

During Mass, it is not uncommon for disturbed neighbors to rush out of the room. Betsy clings to John who remains frozen on his bench as the scene before him changes to unspeakable battles between life and death with brothers and childhood friends. What atrocities the spectre-Johnny could not share appears in large scale scenes before the terrified Hall of fragile mourning parents. John’s mouth is dry from the horrifying sights. His wide-open eyes don’t blink.

Horses whinny, carts squeak, green ammunition wagons groan, stacked muskets stand silently surrounded by dirty bivouac, ugly and disordered. The commotion is from a loss of knowing what to do, no one to direct the muttering soldier who carefully knots a broken shoelace. One unkempt soldier waters a thirsty horse. His uniform reeks of sewage and sweat. Another enters a sagging tent filled with scents of gangrene, iodine and turpentine on bandages of severely wounded survivors- most on the muddy floor. Some on cots. Almost all amputees. Stern. Suffering.

“How long since you were wounded?”

“It’s been over five weeks now.” says a man with one leg.

“Do you feel pain still?”

“When it rains, I feel pain in my lost calf. Otherwise, it’s fine.”

“How were you wounded?”

“I set the cannon and stepped aside when He hits me in the leg, and I fall as if into a hole. That leg is gone. The other is shredded.”

“Are you saying there was no pain?”

“It was as if something hot was pressed against my leg,” the Bluecoat said.

“And no pain after?”

“Only when they were drawing the skin together to stich the bleeding-it stung then.”  John thinks he hears, “May God speed in your recovery,” as the image fades to burnt sienna.

Francis recites while another grim apparition appears behind him, 

“And throughout all Eternity
I forgive you, you forgive me.
Our dear Redeemer said:
‘This the Wine, and this the Bread.’”

A solitary man no more than sagging skin on bones curls under the agony of his suffering. Both arms are amputated at the shoulders. A tart green apple sits on the table before his hungry stare. A howl and scream burst from the tent opening beside him.

The stench of gangrene-dissolving flesh, splintered bone, and seeping blood rises from the Hall’s floor boards in spindly columns. Mary Jean lifts a feinting parishioner, “These images must come from so many apparitions in one place?” There is now a combination of men and women in the room upchucking and stampeding out of The Hall. Echoing footsteps resound as the projections continue. Francis stoops to attend a few who are crumpled near him, “I’ve not seen anything like these horrors!” As people flee The Hall, some trip over each other while some fall down the stairs or are pushed. Betsy hides her eyes in John’s shoulder. He is barely breathing with the phantoms stupefying him. Just then the image fades into a gray haunting under a sagging muddy tent.

Through the tent opening, they bandage and operate. Pale, unyielding surgeons with red up to their elbows reach and pull at a man consumed by chloroform. John can smell the iron in the dripping blood. Delirious, the amputee chants hymn and rhythm of indecipherable parochial songs. A sharp curved knife cuts through youthful flesh to find the elbow joint. The teeth of a saw are pulled and pushed through bone like a green tree branch. His delirium bursts open into harrowing, heart stopping screams and curses. His dominant arm is tossed into a bloody pile in the soaked canvas corner. Another man squirms, silently writhing on his cot, in his mental torture of anticipation. It is horrible yet hopeful work. War is ghastly sights of sheer blood, suffering, agony, and death. There is no glory.

John has no memory of leaving his seat, stumbling down the stairs and out into the fresh pine-filled air. He only feels a certainty he will never enter The Hall again. The insignificance of being reduced to a guilt- ridden worm who walks into the brilliant night full of bustling repeating mundane tasks haunts John. There is no relief in leaving behind the stench and sorrow as it troubles the life stream of all who have witnessed such suffering. Without recognition of his actions, John places the bit behind his mare’s teeth. With a pounding heart, he helps Betsy into their carriage, calls, “Giddy-up!” Their carriage carries their burden past the newly built Saint Rose of Lima church that houses their secret wishes and now, sorrows whispering still.

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We’d love to hear about your experiences and connections to the piece!

Margot’s creative expertise is exploring ‘human, plant, and animal forms’ in sculpture and writing, a unique contribution and one that enables her to deal with the physicality of our experience in this world. That physicality is something that connects us deeply with those who went before us: though they had, at times, understandings of the world different to our own, their lived experience was as embodied as our own.

How did you feel as you read this extract of Margot’s novel, particularly the parts where the supernatural creeps in and enmeshes two perspectives within one body? Is the supernatural something that switches you off from historical fiction, draws you in, or something else entirely? What are your own experiences with reading or writing historical fiction?

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