by BJ Hoff
“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.
PART ONE
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.”
JEREMIAH 29:11
1
An Afternoon in the Park
But one little rebel there,
Watching all with laughter…
ALICE MILLIGAN (1886-1953)
Brooklyn
May 10, 1849
Little 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.
Sitting up in bed, feeling even more restless and bored than usual, Nora Whittaker watched Evan’s Aunt Winnie attend to the household chores. Chores she should be doing herself.
The older woman was scurrying about the room like a ballerina, humming cheerfully and whisking a feather duster over the furniture with fluid motions. Despite her pique at feeling so worthless, Nora had to smile. Aunt Winnie was petite and lithe in a rose-colored morning frock, her blond coiffure fresh and neat. Indeed, she looked for all the world as if she should be presiding over a Fifth Avenue tea instead of cleaning house.
Evan’s aunt returned Nora’s smile, making a graceful pirouette as she gave the wardrobe a few hasty swipes. Standing off as if to admire her work, she nodded with satisfaction, then came back to the bed and sat down beside Nora.
“You’re just lying there seething because you can’t be up doing your own work,” she said, taking Nora’s hand. “I can tell.”
Nora’s smile gave way to a sigh. “That’s the truth. I feel so—”
“Bored?”
“There’s that,” Nora admitted. “But mostly I’m feeling guilty. And entirely useless.”
“But you’re not useless, and you certainly have nothing to feel guilty about! Oh, I know you must be weary beyond imagining of just lying in, but taking care of your baby is much more important than housework, dear!”
“Aye, I know,” Nora agreed. “It’s just that I hadn’t counted on having to stay in bed all this time. It seems the next two months will drag on forever.”
“But they won’t,” Aunt Winnie said practically. “And in the meantime, you must remember that it will all be worthwhile in the end. And,” she added, her tone allowing for no argument, “you must also remember that I don’t mind helping out. Not in the least. To the contrary, I’m actually enjoying it. I’ve never kept house before, you know.”
At Nora’s startled look, Aunt Winnie went on to explain. “My first husband, George Mountjoy, was outrageously rich—didn’t Evan tell you about him? Goodness, even George’s servants had servants!” She put a hand to her cheek. “Dear George. We’d been married only seven years when he passed on.”
She paused, giving her flawless coiffure a reassuring pat. “My next husband—Neville—wasn’t exactly rich. But he was Old Family, you see. His servants were ancient, like the rest of the family, but he had an entire household of them, so I never got to do anything domestic there either. Except,” she added with a deep sigh, “for pouring tea.”
For the life of her, Nora couldn’t decide whether to laugh or commiserate. Impulsively, she squeezed Aunt Winnie’s hand—a small hand, delicate and exquisitely manicured. “I can’t imagine how you managed. Being widowed twice, I mean. When Owen—my first husband—died, I wanted to die, too.”
“I know,” Evan’s aunt said with another small sigh. “But one does one’s best.” She looked at Nora, her expression brightening. “And at the moment, you are to do your best to stay strong and cheerful. For the baby. And for Evan, too, of course. Just see how happy you’ve made him, Nora. You’re very good for Evan, dear, you really are!”
Nora looked away. “Lately, I feel more burden than blessing to Evan,” she confessed softly. “The man has little to look forward to each day when he comes home. An invalid wife who can do nothing at all but lie here like a great lump.”
“Oh, pshaw!” Aunt Winnie retorted. “Such foolish talk! So long as Evan has you to come home to, you won’t hear him complaining, I promise you! Goodness, his heart floods his eyes every time he looks at you. Why, if a man looked at me the way my nephew looks at you, I’d simply swoon! Really, I would.”
Nora laughed. “You’d best have a caution about Mr. Farmington, then, I’m thinking.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” replied Evan’s aunt, the faintest hint of pink flushing her cheeks.
Nora lifted one eyebrow, but Aunt Winnie merely smiled prettily, saying, “Lewis is a thoroughly charming man.”
“He is, indeed,” said Nora.
“Well,” said the other, springing to her feet, “I must get on with the dusting. I’ll start dinner in a few moments, dear, before Lewis and Evan arrive from the yards.”
“Perhaps Mr. Farmington would stay for the meal if you’d ask,” Nora suggested.
“Oh, we can’t, dear! Lewis is taking me to see Macready at the Astor Place theater tonight. I’m going to change here before we leave so I won’t have to stop at the flat on the way.”
She started toward the door, then turned back. “As for you, my dear, I want you to do what I do when I’m tempted to feel sorry for myself.”
Unaware until this instant that she had been feeling sorry for herself, Nora stared.
“I take pen and paper and make a detailed list of all the things I’m thankful for,” explained Aunt Winnie, smiling. “Then, once I’ve written them all out plain to see, I read each one aloud. By the time I’ve finished reading the list, I’ve forgotten why I was feeling blue.” She stopped. “Would you like me to get you some writing paper, dear?”
Again Nora burst into laughter. “Yes, please do, Aunt Winnie.”
Evan’s aunt beamed. “Wonderful! You’ll head your list with Evan and those delightful children, of course. And the little one on the way.”
“And you, Aunt Winnie,” said Nora sincerely. “You will also be at the very top of my list. Sure, you are a special blessing to us all.”
Approaching the bank of the pond, Tom glanced down over himself. He saw that his shirttail was out, and grinned. If Johanna could see, she would be wagging her finger. She was as bad as Aunt Nora when it came to shirttails tucked in and noses wiped clean.
With a backward glance, he reassured himself that the girls were still out of view. Then he turned back to the bullfrog.
If the creature knew he was being stalked, he seemed to be enjoying the game. Having leaped atop an old fallen tree trunk that lay across the narrow end of the pond, the bullfrog now sat studying Tom with fat, bulging eyes, as if waiting to see what came next.
Grinning at the frog, Tom trundled on, imagining the shrieks he would get from the girls when he shook that old frog in their faces. Or, better yet, slipped it up under Dulcie’s petticoats.
His grin widened and he put on speed.
I’m going to get you, sure enough, you funny-looking old frog. Going to get you and scare those silly girls out of their wits!
Reaching the gnarled tree trunk, Tom looked at the pond. This part of the water was almost completely coated
with big leafy plants and some other green, slimy stuff. Tom thought the pond looked a bit disgusting, with all those things growing out of it.
Turning back to the bullfrog, he watched as it flicked out its tongue to snatch a bug from the air. Tom imitated it with his own tongue, then grinned and stepped gingerly onto the log.
The frog’s bulging eyes gave no hint of fear. Tom decided this was going to be easier than he’d thought.
Foot over foot, Tom began to pace off the distance between him and the bullfrog.
“I’m coming to get you, old Bull-Frog. You and me, we’ll have ourselves the time of it, we will! Just don’t you be moving, now. Stay…right…there.…”
Suddenly, Tom’s foot slipped on the log. His heart raced. He lurched forward, then weaved, finally righting himself.
The frog didn’t so much as blink, just sat staring at him. Ignoring the pounding of his heart, Tom wondered if frogs could think, and if they could, what this one was thinking right now.
“Do you want to play, old Bull-Frog? Want to help scare those silly girls?”
A cloud passed over the sun, and all at once the afternoon seemed to go dark, as if the sky were sliding down to meet the pond. The wind that had been blowing most of the afternoon now turned sharper, slicing over the water and causing Tom to shiver in his shirtsleeves. He wished he’d worn his jacket, as Aunt Nora had cautioned.
He was close enough now that he could almost look right into the frog’s eyes. When the creature still made no attempt to move, Tom slowly crouched down to his knees, then dropped to his belly. Hugging the log, he began to creep forward. He didn’t take his eyes off the bullfrog.
But he hadn’t counted on the rough, splintered bark of the tree trunk. “Blast!” He jerked when the bark raked the tender skin exposed by his loose shirttail.
Suddenly, as if Tom’s sharp movement had set off a warning, the frog leaped from the tree trunk into the pond.