Sons of an Ancient Glory (3 page)

And, more than likely, die with it as well.…

Like an ominous dark cloud, the reality of the Union hung over the day, threatening to spoil what should have otherwise been a grand occasion. For at any moment now, Peg would be delivering a new babe—the first which Dan had fathered.

The other three boys were his dead brother's sons. After Brian was hanged for treason in '98, Dan had taken Peg as his wife and the boys as his own. Today would mark the first fruit of their marriage, and by rights he should be thinking of nothing else.

But the ache for his country would not go away, not even for the thought of a new child. Hundreds of years of English oppression had finally come to this, Ireland's greatest humiliation. A paper union, unwanted, despised—a loathsome offspring of corruption, binding the people to an enemy who counted them as less than human.

An insistent nudge from young Emer Costello, next to him, jerked Dan back to his surroundings. He glanced up to see John McNally, inside, beckoning to him and the boy.

“'Tis bitter cold for the wee lad,” said McNally, pointing to Barry, who stood shivering in the wind. “Bring him inside. We'll make room.”

Parting the crowd, Dan squeezed himself and little Barry through the narrow doorway. Like his own cottage, McNally's place had two rooms, with rock from the hills for a floor. On one wall leaned a rough wooden box which held pieces of cracked pottery and plates. In the chimney corner stood a bed of straw, covered with a heavy gray blanket. The turf fire was low, but seemed to offer a great warmth after the harsh sting of the wind.

As he and Barry crowded in among the family, Dan nodded respectfully to O'Casey, who seemed to take no notice. Obviously intent on his own dark thoughts, the Storyteller's finely webbed face was set in a deep scowl, his hands clenched and anchored on one knee.

“Union!”
he hissed, the venom in his tone making a curse of the word. “'Tis nothing short of a rape of the country, and that's the truth! The English have ravaged us again, this time with the help of our own politicians!”

“'Tis said the votes were all bought, every last one of them!” offered the eldest McNally son from the chimney corner.

“Bought, coerced, bribed!” shot back the Storyteller. “Every vile means known to the Crown was employed, and aren't we all well-acquainted with most of them?” Suddenly, the grizzled old man bent over the stool, as if exhausted.

Dan had witnessed O'Casey's long silences before and knew he might not speak again for hours.

No matter. What was there to say, after all? The foul deed was done, and would not be undone, at least not in the foreseeable future, God help them all.

Some claimed the Union would be a fine thing for Ireland, that she would share in the riches of the Crown and enjoy equal rights for all—even the Catholics and the tenant farmers. Others, however—and these Dan knew to have a better understanding of such things—claimed the new agreement would serve only to bring Ireland more completely under the heel of the British oppressor, that indeed it would be the end of what small freedoms remained to the Irish.

Dan knew he was not as clever a man as some, but he could not help but believe that union with their centuries-old enemy would bring nothing but disaster for Ireland.

Before he could drift further into another fit of melancholy, the quiet of the cottage was pierced by the sound of shouting outside. His head snapped up when he heard his name called.

“Dan Kavanagh! Where's Dan Kavanagh?”

Dan hoisted Barry into his arms and shoved through the crowd. Charging out the door, he found young Joey Mahon barreling up the yard. The lad's thin face was flushed, his eyes fairly dancing with excitement.

The boy stumbled in his haste, then righted himself. “You're to come right away!” he croaked, shifting from one foot to another like a jittery chicken. “Jane O'Dowd said I was to fetch you home without delay!”

A blow of panic struck Dan. He hugged little Barry so tightly to his chest that the tyke let out a wail of protest. “'Tis the babe, then?” he choked out.

Joey Mahon's narrow face cracked to a wide grin. “Not the
babe
, Dan! Oh, not at all, at all! The
babes
!
Two
babes, says Jane O'Dowd!” The boy stopped, gasping for breath. “You've two new sons, Jane says, and you're to get movement under you and come at once!”

Dan stared at the boy. Dazed, he clutched Barry to still the trembling of his hands. “Two?” he said, convinced he had not heard him clearly.

Young Joey's head bounced as if it were on a hinge. “Aye,
two
!” he insisted, his chin bobbing up and down.

“Two,” Dan repeated softly to himself. “Two sons.”

It was beyond the power of his imagination. He stood like a great lump, staring numbly at the Mahon lad. The worried murmurs nearby now swelled to cries of amazement, then shouts of laughter and congratulations. Men crowded close in. A few crossed themselves, others slapped Dan on the back and pumped his hand.

Dan's head buzzed like a hive full of bees, but at last his legs found life. Twisting free of the well-wishers, he took off at a run, wee Barry chortling in his arms.

Joey Mahon trotted along beside them, his words spilling out in ragged gulps as they ran. “What will you be naming the both of them, Dan? Now you'll be needing two names instead of one!”

Not breaking his stride, Dan glanced at him.
Names?
They had already decided on a name: Brian, for his dead brother. Sure, they had given no thought to needing
two
names!

“And what of the harp, Dan?” Joey Mahon piped on. “Who will claim the Kavanagh harp, now that you've two new sons?”

Dan looked intently at the boy. That question, at least, required no decision on his part. “Why, the harp will belong to my firstborn, sure,” he said, slowing his pace only slightly as they passed the Quigley cabin. “Eldest son of the eldest son. When my brother Brian died, the Kavanagh harp was passed to me. Now it will belong to the elder of the twins—Brian, his name shall be, after his uncle. 'Tis only fitting.”

A fine, cold rain had begun to fall since they left McNally's place, and already the ground was turning slick with mud. Joey Mahon almost careened into Dan as they turned the corner and started up the road toward the cottage. Putting out a hand to steady the boy, Dan stopped, setting Barry to his feet. “Here, now, lad,” he said to Joey Mahon. “Will you be seeing to Barry for a bit while I go inside?”

Taking Barry's chubby hand in his, the lad nodded. “Aye, Dan, I'll take him on home with me. You'll be wanting to visit with your new sons a spell, I expect.”

Something in wee Barry's eyes made Dan hesitate. The tyke was staring up at him as if he felt himself abandoned. After another instant, Dan changed his mind and again lifted the boy to his shoulder.

“On the other hand,” he said, looking at the child in his arms, “perhaps he'd best be staying with me. No doubt,” he added with a smile, “Barry will be glad to meet his new brothers.”

Joey Mahon looked a bit disappointed, but merely nodded and said politely, as was his way, “Aye, Dan. I'll just be going, then. But you can send for me later, if you've need of some help.”

For a moment Dan stood watching him trudge down the road, a small, solitary lad whose mother had died giving birth to him. The thought made him squeeze Barry a bit closer to his heart, then take off at a near run toward the cottage.

It had turned out to be a fine day, after all. Let there be union with England—what of it? A man should not be fretting over politics on such a day as this. There would be time another day to think on such solemn matters.

A man with a full quiver of sons had more important things to consider. “Isn't that so, lad?” he said, grinning at the round-faced wee boy in his arms as they approached the cottage door. “An Irishman with five lads under his roof has greater things than Union to study over. Greater things indeed, and God be thanked.”

Ah, and weren't there some things that England could not steal from Ireland? The glory of the island's past and her hope for the future were renewed with every fine son born to a man.

That being the case, it did seem to Dan Kavanagh that he had done more than his part for his country.

P
ART
O
NE

LIGHT OF PROMISE

 

New Beginnings

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

J
EREMIAH
29:11

But one little rebel there,
Watching all with laughter…

A
LICE
M
ILLIGAN
(1886-1953)

Brooklyn

May 10, 1849

L
ittle Tom Fitzgerald grinned when he spied the frog at the edge of the pond. It was just a little bullfrog, but big enough, sure, to bring some fun. Big enough to scare some
girls
.

Looking back over his shoulder, he saw that his sister, Johanna, and her friend, Dulcie, were still at the edge of the park where the woods began. They were looking for the nest of baby rabbits they'd discovered the day before.

The yellow-haired Dulcie was giggling. Dulcie was always giggling, because she was a girl and she was silly. Tom expected Johanna would giggle, too, if she could. But his big sister could neither hear nor speak; she merely gave forth with her funny, whispered laugh at Dulcie's foolishness.

Tom didn't think Dulcie was funny at all. In truth, he didn't even like their next-door neighbor very much. She treated him like a baby, teasing him and calling him “Little Tom,” even though he had cautioned her not to.

Other than the bossy old Dulcie, most everyone else called him just plain “Tom” these days. He was four years old, after all, close on five, so it was time to be treated like the big boy he was. Aunt Nora and Uncle Evan were trying, although they often forgot. Johanna still treated him like a wee wane, but somehow his sister's fussing didn't bother him quite so much.

Even so, she had provoked him more than a little in the park this afternoon. Too intent on finding the bunnies to pay Tom any heed, she hadn't even come to his defense, as she usually did, when Dulcie began to tease and order him about. Finally, he'd wandered off by himself, in search of something more interesting than silly girls or baby rabbits.

Then he had spotted the frog. The odd-looking creature had just been sitting there, on the bank of the pond. When Tom took a few steps toward him, he hadn't moved a bit. It was almost as if he were glad for the company.

Now, glancing again from the girls to the bullfrog, Tom stuffed his hands in the pockets of his breeches and started toward the pond. He walked with deliberate slowness, so the frog wouldn't catch on that he was after him. Here and there he kicked a stone, pretending to have nothing more on his mind than taking a stroll through the park.

He imagined himself an Indian brave, like the ones in some of Uncle Evan's bedtime stories. A warrior, that's what he would be today, a warrior on the way to the river, where he would launch his canoe and catch some fish for his family.

Tom wasn't quite sure whether Indian warriors actually went fishing or not. Glancing down over himself, he frowned at the boots Aunt Winnie had made him wear because of the mud in the park. One thing he was almost certain of: Indian warriors did
not
wear boots.