World Without End

Dennis Ford

Description

Laurence Mahler returns to Petersburg, Virginia, where he experiences paradisiacal romance with Sharyn Strahy and hellish war between the Union and the Confederacy.

Nothing could have been different.

Laurence Mahler returns to Petersburg after five years in the North.

He never felt he belonged in the places where he was away from home. And he never felt he belonged in the place that’s home. Adrift and directionless, he’s a freethinker troubled by Virginia’s secession. He feels loyalty neither to the Confederacy or to the Union.

He meets Sharyn Strahy, an intelligent and ambitious young woman of means. They fall instantly in love—but the time for romance is not propitious. The quivers of love fly amid the darts of Civil War.

Encouraged by Sharyn, Laurence enrolls in a school where all the courses are pass-or-die. Enlisting in the Confederate army, his life changes in a sudden maturity when he surrenders the peaceable halls of academia for gruesome battles in grim places like The Wilderness.

Nothing could have been different in Sharyn’s life.

Enthusiastic for Confederate victory, Sharyn learns the ghastly cost of total war when she volunteers in the Virginia Hospital. The grotesque deformations she views in men made in the image of God reveal the error of her heedless patriotism. Innocence is always the first virtue obliterated in the majesty of rebellion.

Sujets

• Historical
• Confederación de Sistemas Independientes
• Nursing
• The Wilderness
• Confederacy
• Loyalty
• Siege of Petersburg
• Morality
• Federal Union
• Petersburg
• Virginia
• Civil War
• Romance
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: iUniverse
• Date de parution: 19 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781663249685
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Also by Dennis Ford
Fiction
      Red Star
      Land sman
      Things Don’t Ad d Up
      The Watc hman
      Tracks That Lead To Joy
Humor / Belles Lettres
      Thinking About Everyt hing
      Miles of Thou ghts
      My Favorite W ords
      The Road Taken A gain
Family History / Genealogy
      Eight Generat ions
      Genealogical Ja unts
      Genealogical Mus ings
      Genealogical Troves ~ Volume One
      Genealogical Troves ~ Volume Two
      Genealogical Troves ~ Volume T hree
Psychology
      Lectures on Theories of Lear ning
      Lectures on General Psychology ~ Volume One
      Lectures on General Psychology ~ Volume Two
World Without End
 
 
 
 
 
 
DENNIS FORD
 
 
 
 
 

 
WORLD WITHOUT END
 
 
Copyright © 2023 Dennis Ford.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
 
 
 
iUniverse
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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,
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ISBN: 978-1-6632-4967-8 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6632-4966-1 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-6632-4968-5 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023900134
 
 
 
iUniverse rev. date: 01/18/2023
Contents
July 4, 1860
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
June 30, 1862
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
May 6, 1864
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
April 2, 1865
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
 
for my family
I see it now, the hill, Poplar Hill we called it for the pale of trees that once graced its brow like jewels in a crown of green. Like so much in my long life, the trees are gone, but the hill is there. The hill consoles the closing hours of my journey through life. The images of earth fade and the ghosts who inhabit the badly-lit corridors of memory ascend the footpaths in a youth long passed.
Like a pet of greater strength than her mistress, my mind wanders where it will go. The leash of corrected vision, the collar of intellect, the clasp of deeds left undone, lead my gaze from the Book I hold though rarely read to the encased lock of black hair I use for a mark in place of a holy card. Truth be told, I seldom opened the Book since that April day. I know the message contained in the Book, but I find no solace in the promise of salvation. The Lord raised Lazarus from the grave twenty centuries ago. In our time the Lord raised only the torment of grief. Preachers assure us that God forgives our trespasses. I believe the preachers and I can never forgive God.
The black strands belonged to my young man—he has never grown old. The strands are in miniature like the file of poplars that once pierced the horizon. Rising to the sky, the trees cut the clouds, riving the glare of light primeval, refracting it into form, daubing and spinning it into animation. The poplars that stood on the hill were like the jagged fins of a fish that, snagged at the western end, spat the dusk for b lood.
I accept that the past is gone and finished. It can never be summoned into being anew. They are but ghosts who cavort on the hill. Still, who would cruelly vex an old woman by erasing the beautiful images that stave off the aches of advanced age? When I think of the ghosts on the hill I pretend that I’m young and that the swains of Petersburg visit to court me. Such reminiscences are vain thoughts out of place in my decrepitude, but they are all I’m left with.
Of those suitors, honorable men all, there was one who became my ideal beau, my perfect beau. He was the truth of my life. In turn, I stayed true to him. The tumultuous events of our time together showed that, falsely judged frivolous, the words and deeds of youth are precious. How those events concluded for me and my beau with the black hair proved that love does not end, can never end, in d eath.
July 4, 1860

Chapter One

Late of Harvard College, Laurence Mahler left his uncle’s tavern at three in the afternoon. He was ordinarily prompt in his habits, but for some reason he fell behind schedule. He wanted to look his best at the Fourth of July picnic at Powhatan Manor, the great house owned by the Strahy family in the Delectable Heights district, but his wardrobe was limited. He owned a black suit and a gray suit. After long deliberation, he chose the black suit. It was the suit he wore at graduation and it was a little less threadbare.
He walked to the corner of Wythe St. and turned right onto Sycamore. Mr. Strahy was vice president of the Excelsior Tobacco Consortium. Other executives of the tobacco industry would be at the picnic. Railroad executives would be present. So would bankers and grandees of industry and finance. So would members of the Petersburg Common Council. He feared that, arriving late, he offended their generosity in inviting him. The Mahlers weren’t of the gentry. They weren’t among the privileged classes. The Strahys wouldn’t forgive his tardiness. Nor would they forget it. They wouldn’t invite him to the next Fourth of July picnic.
It was the first time he was on Sycamore St. since arriving home. Everything looked prosperous and better built. Paved sidewalks replaced planks. Gas-fueled lamps stood on the street corners. Every store in the mercantile district was open for business. Every store was stocked with goods. When he left for Harvard five summers ago, his uncle’s tavern, The First Stop, was in a run-down section of the city. When he returned, the tavern looked as if it relocated in a fashionable neighborhood. Even the bargain shops on the side streets appeared as genteel as the boutiques on the boulevards. Clearly, Petersburg had done well in his absence.
He crossed the tracks of the Petersburg Railroad that ran through the center of the city. There was no need for vigilance. The engines that hauled the cars could be heard long before they pulled in sight of the station.
Pinckney’s Pharmacy was on the corner. Mr. Pinckney was long gone. To keep the business, the current proprietor, an outsider from Richmond, kept the name. Waldron’s Lumber Yard was across the street. The piles of wood in the yard, flat pieces of various lengths, were stained with the overnight rain. Jarvis’s Grocery was next to the lumber yard. Samuel Jarvis, the hefty proprietor, was visible in the entrance. He stood poised over a bin of carrots. The apron he wore fit over his stomach like a sack over a melon. Laurence waved, but Mr. Jarvis didn’t return the greeting.
Laurence stepped toward the curb as an elderly man in a black suit and cape approached. The man carried a gold-tipped walking stick and wore a black broad-brimmed hat that concealed the upper portion of his face. “Good afternoon,” Laurence said cheerily. He recognized the man as they passed. It took a few additional seconds to connect the image with a name—Dermot Paulson, rector of St. Peter’s Episcopal Church. It was too late to take back the greeting. It wasn’t too late to replace civility with spontaneous enmity. Reverend Paulson was his mentor’s theological bête noire. Charles Browning and the reverend were long-time rivals for the souls and minds of the impressionable young men of Petersburg. Dr. Browning left the contest for souls to the reverend. He didn’t think souls were winnable. Until his recent dismissal from the Classical Academy, a dismissal engineered in part by Reverend Paulson, Dr. Browning had been content to win the minds of the students.
Reverend Paulson stopped and stared. Laurence’s lanky frame led from scuffed shoes to lightly frayed lapels on rounded shoulders. His black hair was combed flat and unparted. His complexion was fair. His eyes were bright and notably gray. Reverend Paulson made no pretense to be polite. He cringed, as if disagreeing with himself. He raised a finger and said “Hmmm” without moving his lips. As if he encountered one of Satan’s soldiers on a public street of their Christian city, he took two steps to the side and proceeded at a quickened pace.
Laurence knew he was recognized. He added the exclamation Reverend Paulson left unsaid—“It’s you!”
The clock on the courthouse spire was visible from the spot where Laurence stood. So was the time—3:30. When he saw the clock, he realized he walked in the wrong direction. The sun was alongside his left shoulder. For him to arrive at Powhatan Manor, the sun needed to be alongside his right shoulder. He should have turned the opposite way onto Sycamore.
When he left the tavern, he was fashionably late. He was now unfashionably late. He abr