Story

PROLOGUE Patrick Murphy was one of those people for whom nothing ever seemed to go wrong. We grew up together and, as children, it was always I who caught the smack Patrick missed as he dodged the farmer whose fields we had invaded, or I who recieved the penance for talking during Mass, though it was Patrick who had laughed aloud. I resented him like hell, and sometimes downright hated him. Strange thing was, he was my best friend. Now, the other mystery to me is how somebody as purely golden as Patrick was could choose to spend his time with such a Jonah as myself. Where Patrick succeeded, I failed. Where Patrick had good luck, my bad luck was the only luck I had at all. I used to joke that if Patrick ever made it to the end of the rainbow, he would find two pots of the leprechauns' gold but if I made it, I would be bitten by the leprechaun. The height of Patrick's good luck came in 1858, early in the year, when his parents decided to move the family to New York. I was out working with my father in his fishing boat and when we docked, Patrick was standing there. "Micheál!" he called as the boat docked and when I got out, looking curiously towards him, he blurted out, "I'm going to New York!" I stared. It was unlike Patrick to lose composure, but he was shaking with anticipation and wringing his hands. His grin stretched from ear to ear and as I walked back to the villige with the day's catch in a net he was dancing down the road beside me. "Da's bought the tickets," he explained, "Mother didn't want to tell us until it was sure, but we're going, Micheál.We're really going." He kept telling me all the details, but I tuned him out mentally. Losing Patrick and his parents and siblings, who had live next door to us my entire life was not a thought I liked. I guess I had imagined us all growing up and staying in the village forever, though when I gave some thought to the idea it wasn't at all what I would have wanted for my sisters and brother. But Bridget was supposed to grow up to marry Declan, Patrick's brother, and Patrick would go into his father's blacksmithing trade and I would inherit the boats, and we would grow to be old men who sat around our daughters' houses smoking smelly pipes and reliving the old days. Instead, Patrick and Declan and Colleen and the rest would be leaving for New York at the end of the month. I wanted to go, too- Patrick had all the luck. I was sick of starving in this green wasteland. In America, Patrick wouldn't go hungry and his mother and father would be able to find work and his brothers and sister could go to school. At 15, it was assumed that neither Patrick or I needed any more schooling and would go off to work, and I envied Patrick his opportunities, which he neither asked nor worked for. Patrick was staring off into the distance, running his fingers through his red hair. "You know, Micheál, I'm going to miss you." I nodded glumly. "I wish you could come with us." He knew how I dreamed of America. For all I resented him his good looks and his lucky ways, he was my best friend and we shared everything. Patrick left me in peace then and we walked in silence back to town, dragging my fishing net. We bid each other goodbye at the doors of our cottages and I went inside. Mother had the potatoes off the fire already and we were waiting for Da to get home from the boat. " Micheál, did you hear about the Murphy's'" my sister Maura asked as I walked in. I nodded. Maura looked at me sympathetically over her sewing. "I'm sorry they're leaving," she said, as though she didn't mean it for my sake. "It'll be right strange, not having them next door. I don't know what we'll do for entertainment if Declan isn't here to be getting himself into mischief." She laughed and turned back to the skirt she was repairing. We had a month before Patrick and his family left, and in that month Patrick and I spent as much time together as we possibly could. We had always spent most of our free time together, but now we began doing chores in tandem, and for me at least every evening parting was tinged with the sick reminder that he would be leaving soon. Boys aren't supposed to feel these things, or talk about them if they do, but I had never lived without Patrick and wasn't sure what I would do when he left. At last the day arrived. The Murphy's had sold or given away everything they couldn’t take with them and were ready to leave in the morning for the harbor, to sail to New York where Patrick's Aunt and Uncle lived. "Micheál'" Patrick said absently as we pulled my boat up out of the water, "Will you write to me'" "I'll try," I told him honestly, though I was unsure where I would get the materials. Mother taught us to write in dirt in front of the fire, and paper could be scarce- ink even scarcer. Pat nodded. "I'll write you back," he said. That evening, before we went inside, Patrick clapped me on the shoulder and said, his voice unusually thick, "Take care of yourself, boyo." Instead of going inside, I went around the house and out to the hills in the dark. I wandered around aimlessly until my eyes were no longer red and I could speak without my voice catching. I must not have been out long enough, though, because Mother's and Maura's eyes followed me sympathetically all evening. When we woke the next morning, Patrick and his family were gone. Chapter 1 When I think back on the next year, all I remember of it is constant hard work. The crop that year was poor, the fish weren't biting, and it was a cold winter. If Patrick were here, I thought to myself often, it wouldn't be like this. It's probably warm in America, and Patrick is stuffing himself with potatoes. I received a letter from him once, with a piece of blank paper enclosed so that I could write back, which I did. I thought that was it- that we would never hear from him again and that we would lose track entirely. I was wrong. In January of 1860, when I was sixteen, there was an accident out on the water. It was a stormy winter day and Da and I were thoroughly bundled up when we left the house that morning. "It's going to be a hard day, lad," Da said, simple statement of fact, as he scanned the water, but we put our boats out anyway. The waves were high, and it took all of my strength to steer my boat out through them, upright and fairly straight. It was a long morning; hauling in the nets was harder than usual with the waves buffeting the boat this way and that. I kept sight of Da's boat most of the day and didn't worry when it was out of sight. He knew what he was about, and I was confident in my ability to get back to shore. I guessed at what midday might be- the cloud cover was too thick to see the sun properly and of course nobody in my village owned a watch, except the priest. When at last I made it to shore, my arms aching, my boat lighter than it usually was, the catch not having been very good, Da was standing on the shore peering out into the ocean. "Over here," I called and he looked relieved. "I expected you long since," he explained as he helped me pull the boat well past the waterline. "I wasn't looking forward to telling your mother you'd drowned." He laughed, but shortly. This close to the sea, drowning deaths were hardly funny. We walked back to the cottage for the mid-day potatoes and allowed ourselves longer than usual for a rest. When we went back to the boats, it was sleeting, but there would be no staying in. That would mean giving up a little more of the money that was so hard to come by, or a few more fish to feed my Mother and sisters. We wrapped up in an extra coat apiece and took an extra old scarf and I pulled my cap low over my eyes as we went back to the beach. "Try to stay in sight of me, lad," Da said seriously as we pushed the boats into the water. "It's going to be a bad afternoon." He clasped my shoulder for a moment before we parted. I thought this was odd of him. As Da had predicted, the water was even rougher than it had been that morning. We kept well in sight of each other, but it was a fight and I spent as much time rowing against the current as I did tending the nets. It was beginning to darken and the waves were, unbelievably, higher than that morning. I was about to call to Da to see if he was ready to row back to shore when I realized I couldn't see his boat. I rowed in the direction that I had last seen him and, making slow progress, was just close enough to see a huge wave pick his boat up and fling it. I thought for a moment that it would land upright, but as it flew down the other side of the wave, the boat tipped, swamped and began to sink. Da kicked out, waves crashing over him, and I began to row furiously towards him. It seemed like an eternity when I got to where he was. He wasn't kicking any more, and when I reached out of the boat to catch hold of his coat, a wave swept me away. Rain was pouring down now, so hard I could barely see. I wiped a rough, wet sleeve over my eyes and tried again. A wave broke over me, into my boat, but it had shoved Da closer to me. I caught his arm and pulled, terrified of tipping my own boat in the process. I was leaning right over the water, my oars thankfully still floating in my half swamped boat as thunder began to echo across the water. In the dark, it was a burst of lightening that allowed me to pull Da into the boat, bringing the sea with him. I had only time to make sure he was face up, before I had to grab the oars and begin pulling towards what I hoped was land. It seemed like hours that I fought against the water, wind and waves. The rain fell in sheets, the depth of the water in the bottom of the boat increased and it was a long, tiring time before the boat ran aground on the beach. By this time I was sobbing in fear and exhaustion, but I was so panicked that it was nothing at all to jump out of the boat and pull it up past the high, lapping tide line. Suddenly, two dark shapes appeared out of the dark. "Micheál'" called a voice, "is that you'" "Aye," I whispered, dropping to the beach. I could feel the ground underneath my cheek and I lay still in the rain, too exhausted to move. A moment later, strong arms were turning me over and a man was peering into my face. I recognized him after a moment- Seamus Lynch, who worked a farm close to the coast. "He's alive," Seamus announced and his brother Aiden's voice said grimly, "I'm afraid his Da's drowned." "No," I gasped. "It can't be. I pulled him out. He's not drowned. He's alive! He's alive, look!" I tried to get up. I stumbled to the boat and collapsed again against the side of it. Da hadn't moved and I started to cry, tears mixing with the rain that still beat against my face. "Better get the poor laddie home," Seamus sighed. "Can you stand'" he asked me gruffly, but I was too exhausted and shocked, and after a moment he picked me up. "You'll stay here'" he asked Aiden, who nodded. "I'll send a few men back from town for the boat." Seamus carried me home, and I was so tired that I nearly fell asleep on the way there. He kicked at the door, his arms being full, and when Mother opened it she screamed. "What happened'" She gasped. "Looks to me like there was an accident," Seamus said in his deep voice, sounding vastly uncomfortable. "My husband-" Mother said and the way Seamus shook his head, she knew right away what he meant. Burying her face in her apron she collapsed onto the stool by the fire. Seamus carried me into the house as my sisters hurried in from the bedroom. They saw me and saw Mother crying and began to cry as well. Maura held little Bridget, who was only 13, in her arms. "Maura, can I put him down someplace'" Seamus asked and Maura tearfully nodded. "Mother," she began and Mother rose and went with Maura to the bedroom. They came back with a cot and as many blankets as they could find and put the cot by the fire. I was shivering with cold still, though I had been inside for a few minutes, and though I had been sweating from all my efforts to row to shore. Seamus lay me down on the cot and left to go back to the shore to help Aiden bring my Da to the churchyard. Meanwhile, Mother and Maura stripped all my wet clothes off me and lay them out around the room to dry. Maura toweled my wet black hair, which stood out against my pale skin in even sharper contrast than usual, while Mother put a dry nightshirt on me. I was too weak to sit up and too much in shock to help them. Maura put more peat on the fire while Mother tucked the blankets around me. She pulled the chair up next to the cot and sat with me. For the first time since I was very small, I cried myself to sleep. Sometime during the night, I developed a fever. When Mother woke in the morning, her first sunrise as a widow, I was delirious. I had thrown my blankets off in the night and was babbling in my native Irish. The rain continued to pour. Da's funeral was that day, in the wind and rain. Most of the town came anyway, and Mother went with Bridget, but Maura stayed home to watch over me. I don't remember much of the day, except that I was unaccountably frightened of the water Maura tried to force past my lips. I thought I was swimming in the ocean, and I could see Da reaching towards me. I saw Patrick in a boat far away on the horizon, and then in the water, drowning in front of my eyes as the waves pulled him away. I called and called for him until I was hoarse and Maura was frightened. She tried piling on more blankets, and then she tried taking them off, but nothing worked. I sobbed for Da, reached out for Patrick's hand which I could see so clearly, and terrified my sister. I was ill for several days, and it was more than a week before I could get out of bed. Our neighbors came by in a steady stream, bringing food they couldn’t spare and spending time they didn't have to do the chores Da and I would have done and some of Mother's and Maura's, too. Mother worked in a numb, clockwork fashion and Maura ducked outdoors to cry when she thought nobody would notice. For my part, when my fever finally broke and I was awake to think coherently again, I was still in complete disbelief that Da was gone- and that I had been unable to save him. For many nights I lay awake, picturing the towering waves, feeling the rain again on my face, seeing Da lying in the boats. I couldn’t sleep until it was light again and Maura or Mother came over to help me drink some water and eat a little bit of a potato. With them awake, without the night to make my feverish dreams come alive, I could rest at last. More than at any other time since he had left, I wished that Patrick were there. I had always believed that in some small way his good luck rubbed off on me. He would have come around to try to cheer me up and even if it didn't work, I would have felt less alone. Patrick would have known how I felt, as he always did. Da had been gone for only a little more than two weeks, and I was only just up and around again when, one night at supper, mother looked around at us and sighed. The three of us looked up expectantly- she had the look on her face that preceded a great announcement. We knew that look. "Since your Da died," she began, "It's only going to get harder for us here." There was a long pause. Maura and I traded curious looks. "I think it's time we left," Mother said. My heart skipped a beat. In the days I had laid in bed, my dream of going to America had intensified. I no longer wanted to fish the ocean, and, if I was being honest with myself, feared going out alone in my boat again. "I'm going to buy us tickets on the next ship to New York," Mother announced, and in her tone of voice we could hear that it was a final decision. "I've written to Finbar and Kathleen already. We'll try to find them and find a home in their neighborhood." We were going to America. It was more than I could believe and I leaned on the table, overcome. I still wasn't strong, but at that moment I felt as if I wanted to dance. Then, of course, I felt guilty. If Da was alive, we would be staying in Ireland. He hadn't wanted to immigrate and I knew it. It was as if I was choosing between my Da and my dream. Suddenly, I wasn't so excited any more. But I would be going to America, to New York. We were really leaving. As Mother had promised, she worked diligently on buying tickets for our passage. We had little to take with us- what we could sell was sold to raise money for the tickets. The Priest organized a donation of a little money from the parish when he saw how hard we were working to raise the funds to leave, and then, one day, a letter arrived for us from America. "Dear Fiona," I read it aloud to Mother, who didn't read well," We are so sorry to hear about what happened to poor Cormac and we have been keeping you in our prayers since we left, but particularly since we got your letter. We are also sorry to hear that poor, dear Micheál is ill, and we hope he will soon be well. If you have time to write to us, perhaps a week or maybe two before you board the ship, write when you will be arriving and we will all meet you at the docks. If you don't have the chance to write to us, come to our home. (Here they included their address, in a building in New York) We will be glad to see friends from our home whenever you arrive and will be glad to have you with us until you find a home of your own. Life here is good, though hard for us Irish. Still, we have all found work and Patrick feels confidant that he can find work for Micheál with him at the docks. Until we meet again, in New York, Finbar and Kathleen Murphy, Patrick, Declan and Colleen Underneath his parents' letter, Patrick had written to me personally. Micheál, lad, (he wrote) So you're coming to America at last! It'll be good to have you around again. The other fellows here are all right, and the girls are a sight for sore eyes, to be sure, though now I've said it I'll have to be sure to be the one to post the letter or Ma'll have me scratching that bit out, and the work isn't bad at all. It's not out on the sea, not for most of us, but it's good hard work all the same. You'll be right at home working on the docks where I do. It'll be good to see your family, good luck finding a ship that comes soon. Pity you're feeling ill. Here's hoping you're better by the time this letter reaches Ireland. ~Pat I grinned as I finished reading Patrick's letter to myself. "It was for me," I explained to Mother who was looking at me curiously. She would be no happier than Mrs. Murphy to read Patrick's observations. I smiled for the first time since Da died. I was going to America. I would walk the streets of New York and work on land and for once my sisters might have enough to eat. It was going to be a dream come true. Chapter 2 Dream come true or not, it was far from immediate. Mother dictated a response to the Murphy's at once, leaving a blank space for the date on which we would arrive in New York. We would find a ship, send the letter, and then leave a few weeks later. The day came at last when we were ready to leave the village we had lived in longer than my lifetime. My grandparents, all four of them gone now, had been born in the village as had my parents, my sisters and I. Now we were leaving. Only Da would stay forever. The day before we were to leave, Mother spent the entire day at Da's grave, now covered with fresh spring grass. "Do you want me to go get Mother'" I asked Maura, who was making supper. She stood up from the fire, her face red and loose strands of her hair, dark as mine, curling around her face. She wiped her forehead with the back of one hand and shook her head. "Better leave her," she said. "She'll never get this chance again." "But she'll be hungry," Bridget objected from across the room, where she was darning her stockings. "Maura, let me take her a potato." "If you like, darling," Maura smiled. Bridget was six years younger than Maura, and our pet. "Is your stocking finished'' "Almost," our sister said, and after a few more minutes of intense concentration, put her knitting aside and walked over to take a few potatoes and a jar of water for Mother. She left, walking off with the last of the sun on her back, humming a sad song. Bridget was gone for a long time and when she and Mother came back, long after dark, their eyes were red. Without a word, Mother kissed all three of us and went to sleep in her usual place for the last time. I was still sleeping in front of the fire and I lay awake that night until the fire was almost out, trying to memorize everything about that room. Before I knew it, the sun was coming in the window and waking me up. We ate cold potatoes for breakfast that morning, left over from the supper Maura had prepared the night before, and then packed the few things we had left to take with us. There was the long journey to the port city from which we would leave, then the problem of finding lodgings for the next few weeks, and some work to do while we waited for tickets and a ship to America. The first thing we did was buy our passage on a ship that would leave in August, and then we posted our letter to the Murphy's. A mail ship would be leaving soon- that was good. It would be nice to have somebody meet us in New York. I couldn’t imagine what people did who had nobody waiting in New York for them, and felt fortunate. After we had gotten our tickets, Mother took us to a boardinghouse we had passed and knocked on the door. "Yes'" asked the lady who opened the door. She was wiping her hands on an apron and smiled at Bridget, who looked nervous. "We're looking for a place to stay for a few weeks," Mother told her. "Leaving for America, are you'" the lady wanted to know, and we all nodded. "I've had many such staying here. You're lucky- a ship just left this week and there are plenty of rooms. How many will you be needing'" Mother looked a bit startled. "Just one, I should think." "All right, then, come in," the lady said, waving us into the front hall of her home. "Now, then," she said, showing us to a room on the second floor, "You'll have a nice window out to the street. There will be no gentleman callers, no drying your wash out the window and no drunkenness, not that you look the type for any of that foolishness. Still, you never know." Mother still looked a little in shock. "Thank you," she managed and we crowded into the little room we had been assigned. There was a bed, large enough for Mother and Bridget to share, and we had enough blankets for Maura and me to sleep on the floor. "Micheál, are you sure you won't take the bed'" Mother pressed. She was afraid I would get sick again. "I'm fine," I insisted. "I'll sleep here." I dumped my bundle in a corner that didn’t look too drafty. "Not if you leave your things in a heap like that, you won't," Mother said, exasperated, shaking her finger at me. "If you'd like, you can put your things there and sleep under the bed, but I doubt you'll fit." I grinned and took the hint, stowing my bundle under the bed with Maura's and Bridget's. The next day, we were off to look for work. We were lucky- when we all arrived back at home that night, Mother and Maura were engaged as laundresses and Bridget had somehow sweet-talked Mrs. O'Toole, the owner of our boardinghouse, into giving her a few pennies to darn socks and run errands. It played to her strengths. Desperate, I had taken work on a fishing boat, stuffing down the nerves and frightened shaking that had overtaken me when I had set foot in the boat. It had gone well, considering, and I was relieved to learn that fishermen here used larger boats and didn't go alone as Da and I had been forced to do. So, until the first week in August, we worked hard all day and slept like rocks at night. I saw little of my mother and sisters, except at supper, and we saved up every little bit we could earn. Passage was paid for, but there was food to buy and a few supplies for the voyage, as well as the rent to pay. I was exhausted in body and spirit when finally I collected the last of my pay and had my last short night's sleep before we reported, early on August 6th, to the ship we would board to New York. I was thoroughly excited. This was a moment I had dreamed of for years and my breath caught in my throat as I stepped from the gangplank to the deck of the ship. I wanted to stand at the rail and look out over the water, and then wave goodbye to Ireland, but Mother took me by the arm and steered me down into the lower deck, to steerage class where we would be spending the voyage. It was cramped down there, and didn't smell too nice, but I'd been sleeping in a corner for weeks now and was accustomed to discomfort. We arranged our few belongings as neatly as we could on a bunk in as private a corner as we could find, and only then was I allowed to go up on deck and have a look around. Bridget followed me and when we got up on deck, with all those sailors shouting and hauling on ropes and hurrying everywhere, she took my hand and clung close to me. I walked over to a fairly quiet spot and we stood there silently looking back at the land. "I'm afraid," Bridget said in a small voice. "Of what'" I asked her. "I don't know. But I don't think I want to leave Ireland. Da's there." "Da's not there," I said firmly. "Da's in heaven now." Bridget nodded after a minute. "Micheál'" she said, "what are we going to do when we get to New York'" "Well, the Murphy's are coming to get us," I said. "Mr. and Mrs. Murphy will be waiting for us, and Patrick will be with them and so will Colleen and Declan." I poked her under the ribs. "Are you excited to see Declan again' He's probably a big boy by now, you know that'" Bridget blushed red and forgot to be sad in her indignation. "I don't care," she huffed. "But I want to see Colleen." I grinned. "Well, then, you'll be in luck." I hugged her around the shoulders and she wrapped an arm around my waist. "You're not leaving us like Da, are you Micheál'" she asked, her face buried in my coat. "Of course not, Bridget," I grinned. "All four of us will end up in America in a few weeks, and stay there together forever, until we're all old and grey." "Maura will never want to be old and grey," Bridget laughed. "Think of her without her pretty hair." I admitted that I couldn't, and when Maura suddenly walked up behind us and tapped our shoulders, my little sister and I burst out laughing. Mother had followed her and she smiled at us, sadly as she did now that Da was gone. "I'm glad you're all so happy," she commented, and we stood there, just our family, arms around each other, and watched as Ireland faded in the distance. Having been around ships all my life, I had no trouble on the water and, to all of our relief, neither did my Mother and sisters. We were the lucky ones, though. Plenty of the people around us were seasick, and anyone who wasn't quickly got in the habit of staying on deck in all but the worst weather to escape the stench of sick that got into everything on the lower decks. My least favorite time was at night, when there was no going on deck and no escaping the smell and noise of the other passengers being sick. The family in the next bunk all seemed to be sick the entire voyage. There was a boy my age and one day, when we happened to be sitting next to each other, the weather being too bad for me to go up on deck, we started talking. "Too bad about the weather," I commented to nobody in particular and he wiped his hand across his green face and nodded. "You should go on deck more often," I told him, not really thinking and certainly well used to dealing with seasick passengers in my boat. Patrick, for example, didn't sail well. "The air's good for seasickness." He nodded listlessly. "I've heard." "Suit yourself," I shrugged. "You must not be from the coast." He shook his head and after swallowing determinedly he said, "We lived on a farm. I've never been in a boat in my life." "I fished," I told him. "It's not so bad really. By the way, my name's Micheál O'Suilleabhain." "Jack Lynch," he grinned and we shook hands. "I'll be glad when we get to America," he groaned. "I don't see how you could stand working in one of these floating coffins." I laughed. "It's not so bad, I tell you. You get used to it." He shot me a weary look. "You've obviously never been seasick." "Sure, I have. In heavier waves than this, though." I frowned, thinking of the day Da had drowned. I didn't remember being seasick then. I'd been too frightened and working too hard to think of my stomach. Jack made a face and seemed about to say something when all of a sudden he turned and began retching into the bucket that didn't seem to move from his side. I turned my head. I don't have a particularly weak stomach, but who wants to watch that' When he finished, Jack lay down instead of starting another conversation and I turned back to where my sisters were playing a game. The next day was much clearer and when I saw that Jack was awake and, temporarily, not vomiting I talked him into going on deck with me. We talked for hours, having nothing else to do, and it became a daily routine for him to complain that he wanted to stay in his bunk and for me to drag him topside anyway. He was thinner than I, what Mother called rail-thin, and a year younger. He had light brown hair and a habit of running a hand through it when he was thinking. We talked about what we had left behind and I told him the story of my Da. I talked about Patrick, and all the trouble we had gotten into as children. Jack grinned as I told him about the time Patrick and I had tried to climb one of the cliffs down to the sea, until our neighbors had caught us and threatened us with the hiding of a lifetime if we didn't get away from the cliff. Jack buried his fingers in his hair and stared out to sea for a long time. "My best friend was a lass named Sinead," he said quietly. "She's lived in the next cottage all our lives. She cried when we left for the ship." "I'm sorry," I offered awkwardly and he shrugged, looking preoccupied and sad, different from any expression I'd seen on his face. I realized with a bit of a shock that he looked more lovesick than anything else and quickly changed the topic of conversation. The day we finally arrived in New York, after a lifetime's anticipation on my part, I was so excited I could barely contain myself. I spent the morning at the railing, waiting for the first glimpse of land. I saw it at the same moment the sailors did and nearly toppled over the railing in my excitement. I leaned out so far over the water that I began to lose my balance and Mother had to pull me back on board. My sisters laughed at me and Jack, who had coaxed his family above decks for once, grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. "Don't get too excited there, Micheál," he teased me. "You might never make it." I blushed a little and laughed, but I leaned out over the rail regardless. I watched the land draw nearer and nearer and I was shocked at the sheer immensity of everything. When we drew closer, the ship docked on an island and we were sent to an island to speak to the immigration officers. A big, sour looking man sat behind a desk with a huge book open and a pen poised over the page. "Name'" he barked. I thought quickly. This was my chance. "Michael O'Sullivan," I told him and he was about to write it down when Mother gave me a funny look and said loudly, "No, it's not." "Of course it is," I tried, but she shook her head. "His name's Micheál O'Suilleabhain," she insisted and then, to my deep embarrassment, she spelled it for him. I couldn’t tell whether the immigration man was paying any attention to her or not, and I leaned forward, trying to see how he had spelled my name, but his hand was over my name as he wrote Bridget's, Maura's, and Mother's names down in his ledger. We were passed on to a doctor, then, in the next room. He looked in our eyes and ears, asked us about our recent health, and stamped our papers. We were free to enter America. I was in awe as we finally left the immigration processing building and walked to the ferry that was finally to take us to New York City. I was breathless with anticipation. My palms were sweating, my heart was racing and I couldn't look around at everything fast enough. I realized partway to the city that I had lost track of Jack and his family and was sorry for a moment. I hoped we'd see each other again. When we finally disembarked, right there in New York City, we all stopped in our tracks. We weren't sure where to go next, whether the Murphy's had gotten our letter and where we would find them in any case. We looked around at each other, unsure. Maura was clutching her bag close to her, Bridget was staring around at everything in unabashed awe, and suddenly from behind me I heard a whoop. "Micheál!" a voice screamed and I whirled around in time for Patrick to practically leap on me. He tousled my hair and wrung my hand and we were both grinning from ear to ear. "Mother! Da! I found them!" he yelled and suddenly his family emerged from the throng, huge smiles on their faces. Mrs. Murphy hugged Mother and Colleen and Bridget ran to each other, squealing. Mr. Murphy came over to shake my hand saying, "I'm sorry about your Da, Micheál, he'd have loved to be with you for this." I nodded solemnly and felt a little uncomfortable, but Patrick didn't let that stay for long. "Da, don't pester him," he said. "He's just gotten here, can't you let him be happy about it'" I expected his Da to wallop him right there on the dock, but instead Mr. Murphy laughed. "Right you are," he said and wrung my hand. "In any case, it's good to have you and your family around again," he told me. Declan was standing behind him and when his eyes caught Bridget's I nudged Patrick and pointed. "Hmmm," Patrick murmured. "I've been waiting for this one all week." Declan followed Colleen over to talk to Bridget and he shook her hand formally and blushed a little. It had always been a running joke with Patrick, Maura and I and even, at times, our parents, that the young ones would marry one day, a tradition not unusual in our village, and the whole family was now watching them closely. "Glad you're here," Declan told my sister, seeming shy. I was right- he had grown up a lot in the year and a half since we'd seen them, and as I was observing this it occurred to me that Patrick and I, too must have changed. Patrick was taller than I remembered him, and his shoulders were broader. He was stronger, a fact I attributed to his work at the docks, and I had no doubt that he probably had none of the nerves that I would experience when he was around the pretty girls who had rated a mention in his letter. I shook my head. I didn't think I'd changed that much at all, but Patrick's mother, having hugged my mother and Maura, came over to me. "Oh, Micheál, look how tall you've gotten!" she exclaimed. "I can't believe it's been so long." I submitted to the fussing and finally Mrs. Murphy said, "You must be hungry. Why don't we go home and we'll eat something'" We nodded, and I realized all of a sudden that it was evening and the sun was sinking low behind the buildings of (my heart skipped a beat) New York City. No sooner had it sunk in that we were really here than I was exhausted. I followed Patrick home in a stupor and was barely even hungry for my bread and potatoes. Once I had eaten to Mother's satisfaction, Patrick showed me to the cot where I would sleep. There wasn't much room, but I would have the space to myself. Patrick and his brother would share a cot, Bridget and Colleen wanted to share, and Mother and Maura would share a third. Lucky for me, I thought sleepily as I drifted off. Chapter 3 Our lives in New York were hard, as Patrick's mother had hinted in her letter so long ago, but they were good, too. I got work with Patrick at the docks, unloading ships, and in a way it was like old times. We spoke more English than we had at home, but we were living in the same building that the Murphy's did and now, instead of running next door, we were forever running up and down stairs between apartments. It was the fall of 1860 and Patrick and I were 17 when I really became aware of the politics of my new home country. I had gotten into the habit of reading the newspaper over the summer. If I managed to have a few extra pennies I bought it from one of the newsboys on the street, or scrounged old editions out of the garbage when money was too tight. There was talk of rebellion in the southern states if Abraham Lincoln was elected. I wasn't overly concerned with the politics of the thing, but Patrick followed them closely. "If the South secedes, Micheál, there's going to be a war," he said very seriously one evening. "They won't, though," I replied. "That'd be crazy." Patrick just shrugged. "Could happen, if Lincoln's elected." "Do you suppose we'd have to go in the army'" I asked. Patrick shrugged again. "Don't know. I think I'd have to go. I've been here too long I suppose," and he laughed. "I don't think I could watch the country fall to pieces now." Patrick, as usual, was right. Lincoln was elected that year and was inaugurated March 4th of 1861, just four days before Patrick's 18th birthday. Patrick was immensely satisfied with the outcome and considered the inauguration his birthday present. As Patrick had predicted, the Southern States began to secede and just a week after the inauguration, Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi, South Carolina and Texas were calling themselves the Confederate States of America and had written their own constitution. Everything happened fast from then on. In April, the Union arsenal at Fort Sumter, in South Carolina, was fired on by the "Confederate States of America" and the war began in earnest. My birthday was later that week, and Patrick joked that his birthday present might have been the inauguration, but that mine was the war. Of course we weren't going to stay home and miss the excitement, and one afternoon Patrick and I left work and went to join the militia. We found ourselves in a long line of men standing in front of the recruiter's table. The recruiter himself looked rather surprised to see such a gathering and went through the line methodically, asking for birthdates, names, heights, hair and eye colors. We were nearly to the front of the line when all of a sudden Patrick, who had been lounging and looking bored, stood straight up. "Hey!" he called. "What the devil do you think you're doing, boy'" I looked curiously to the young man stepping up to the table, and realized with a start that it was Declan. There was fire in Patrick's eyes. He marched to the head of the line and collared his brother. "What the devil are you playing at'" he asked again. Declan looked sullen. His jaw stiffened in the same stubborn manner Patrick should have recognized in himself, and he burst out, "I'm enlisting and you're not going to stop me." "Of course I am," Patrick insisted. He turned to the recruiter. "He's only sixteen," he explained and gave Declan a much more gentle push towards the door. "Go home, laddie. I'll be there soon." "Fine," Declan spat and left. Patrick and I looked uneasily at each other as he joined me again in line. At last it was our chance. Patrick stepped up to the table, self-confidently, and the recruiter looked him up and down. "Name'" "Patrick Murphy," Patrick said confidently, his familiar accent ringing through the room as the rest of the line looked on. Something about Patrick made other people stop and watch him. "Age'" "18 this past March 8th." This passed without comment as the recruiter wrote down the information. "Where were you born'" Patrick gave the name of our village. "In Ireland," he clarified. "Occupation'" "Dockworker." "Hair'" "Red," Patrick laughed. "Eyes'" "Green." "Height'" "Six feet." "Can you write'" Patrick nodded. "Sign here," the recruiter said tersely, and with a flourish Patrick picked up the pen and signed his name. Then it was my turn. We went through the same routine. "Name'" "Michael O'Sullivan," I said and glared at Patrick when he laughed. He was like Mother- unwilling to get used to the Americanization of my name. He never called me anything other than Micheál. The recruiter, however accepted my answer but, when I answered truthfully that I was 18 he looked at me strangely. Shaking his head, he wrote that down too and moved on. "Where were you born'" he asked me, in the bored tones of one who had asked the same questions a hundred times. I answered with the name of the same village as Patrick and he looked at us more closely for a moment before moving on. "Occupation'" "I work at the docks." "Hair'" "Black." "Eyes'" "Blue." "Height'" "Five feet, eleven inches." "Can you write'" "Sure, I can." I signed my name as Patrick had done and we were officially enlisted. When Patrick and I arrived home, not much later, we were the property of Abraham Lincoln himself for the next ninety days. We had our orders to report in two days, to be marched on a train to, as far as we could guess, march south to end the rebellion in time to be home when our enlistment ran out. We were in high spirits until I opened the door of my apartment and realized that nobody was inside. A little more cautiously, we went up to the Murphy's apartment and opened the door to find our families sitting inside. Declan looked daggers at us both as we came through the door and our mothers had clearly been crying. Maura was staring determinedly at her sewing and Bridget and Colleen were nowhere to be found. Patrick's Da, who had taken it upon himself to be father to my sisters and I as well, was staring out the dirty window to the street and when he turned and we saw the look on his face, I felt Patrick brace himself for the impact. "What have you done'" Mr. Murphy said in a terribly quiet voice, and I heard Patrick gulp air. "I've enlisted," he said more steadily than I would have done. I added, too loudly in the silent, still room, "So have I." I heard my mother sob and out of the corner of my eye I saw Maura brush her hand quickly across her eyes. "Micheál, I've lost your Da," Mother said. "I can't afford to lose you, too." "Mother, nobody's going to die," I protested. "I'm not, sure, and Patrick's not either, so don't worry!" She shook her head. "You can't get out of this, can you'" "No!" I exclaimed. I was about to say more when Patrick poked me. I quickly closed my mouth. Mother just shook her head. Somehow, no more was said about the war that evening, or about our enlistment. In fact, nothing was said until the morning we were going to leave. I didn't sleep much the night before. When I woke for breakfast with Mother and my sisters, the mood was sullen and sad. Very little was said over breakfast, until I rose to go. "I should-" I began awkwardly and Mother began to cry. I could see from their red eyes and the way Bridget wiped her nose that it had been a long night for my family. Maura came around the table and gave me a hug. I realized with a start that though she was still four years older than I, she was now much shorter. "You be careful, Micheál," she said. "And write us." She choked up and hugged me tighter. I took a long look at Bridget, too, as she hugged me. She was taller than Maura, too, though she was only 16, and I was suddenly sorry that I was going to miss the next three months with them. Surely it wouldn't be any more than that, I comforted myself, and at last turned to Mother. I had been most worried about saying goodbye to Mother, but when the moment came she held up well and I was relieved. "Be careful, my son," she told me and then, simply, "Until we meet again, Micheál." I couldn’t make myself speak and I waved and tried to smile as I walked out the door. I felt better when I met Patrick on the street, however. I could see that we weren't the only ones saying goodbye to our families at that moment, and the flying flags and crowds of people in the streets made me feel better. Just like that, I was excited for the adventure which I was sure we were about to have. When I think back on it, I realize: We had no idea. After hours of hurrying up in order to wait, we were at last marched to the train station to go south. Patrick and I marched side by side, grinning. We were about to start off on the adventure of a lifetime. It was crowded when we got to the train, and Patrick and I milled around with the rest waiting to board it. Near us, a woman was tearfully bidding her son goodbye. "Be careful, Teddy," she begged, wiping at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Come home safe to me, you hear'" "I will, Mother," the boy replied, sounding embarrassed. She hugged him and then he submitted to hugs from a group of girls, apparently his sisters, and a very small brother. At last, he tore himself away from his family to a chorus of, "Bye, Teddy! Write us! Come home soon!" Patrick and I, when we finally stepped onto the train, found a set of benches that were empty and next to a window, looking over the platform where crowds of people waved to their loved ones about to leave for the war. We sat next to each other and relaxed at last, but we had only been sitting there for a minute or two when a strangely familiar voice said from my elbow, "Micheál'" and I turned around in surprise. A tall, skinny young man was standing next to me, running his hand through his brown hair. "Jack!" I cried, jumping up to shake his hand. "And where did you come from'" "I could ask you the same," he laughed and then looked at Patrick, sitting on the bench and watching us, curiously. "And is this Patrick, himself, the famous Patrick Murphy'" "That I am," Patrick grinned, standing to shake Jack's hand. "Pat," I said, "Jack Lynch, seasick all the way from Ireland to the New World. Jack, Patrick Murphy, the apple thief." They had both heard stories of each other, and laughed. Jack sat down from us and after a second another boy sat down beside him. "I didn't think I'd ever make it on this train," the boy said, in an Irish accent like we all had. It was the boy from the platform, the one with all the sisters. He looked around after a second, as if he'd just noticed us for the first time. "You don't mind me sitting down here, do you'" he asked. We shook our heads, amused. I liked him already. "Name's Ted McGrath," he said, pronouncing it the Irish way- McGraw- and again there were handshakes all around. We introduced ourselves and settled back into talking about the war, and what we expected from it, and about all the heroic things we planned to do. "I tell you, we'll have those rebels running back down South in a week- at most," Ted declared. "When they let us Irish boys at it, we'll show them down in Dixie how things are to be." We laughed and agreed. All President Lincoln really needed was us. "They'll promote us, sure," Jack chipped in. "Captain Patrick Murphy," Patrick mused and nodded. "I like the way it sounds. With Lieutenant Micheál O'Suilleabhain by my side." "Michael," I said automatically and the three of them laughed and shook their heads. "You can take the lad out of Éire, but you can't take Éire out of the lad," Patrick joked. Jack and Ted laughed and I rolled my eyes. It was then that we noticed the boy standing quietly at Ted's elbow, looking uncomfortable. "Can we help you with something'" Patrick asked kindly and the boy colored up. "Begging pardon," he said with an accent that matched Patrick's but was thicker- perhaps he had come more recently from Ireland- "but could I sit down' The other seats all look to be full." "Of course," Patrick said, gesturing to the seat opposite himself, next to the window. "Ted, Jack, shove over and give the lad some room to breathe." The younger boy looked grateful and sat as far in the corner as he could squeeze himself. "And what's your name'" Patrick asked the newcomer. "Rory Coleman," he answered. "If you don't mind me asking, Rory, how old are you'" Ted wanted to know. "Near eighteen," Rory replied in that frightened voice. "How near eighteen'" Ted asked dryly. "Nearer seventeen," Rory amended, blushing and then when Ted raised an eyebrow, he admitted, "Sixteen." "That I'd believe," Ted said, satisfied. "Will you tell anyone'" Rory whispered, looking around anxiously. "Not a soul, right lads'" Jack assured him, looking seriously at us. We nodded, but Patrick looked uncomfortable. "I've a brother your age, Rory," he said. "I didn't let him enlist and I know you didn't ask me but I think you'd be better off at home." Rory frowned a little and, blushing, worked up the courage to ask, "What makes you think that'" Patrick looked startled. "You're too young for the army, that's all. We'd all be better off at home, only the rebels have started this and it's up to us to put a stop to it. But you're too young. We're all of enlistment age." Jack colored a bit and chuckled. That was when I remembered that he wasn't eighteen yet and I laughed, too. Rory shook his head and looked down at his feet. "I wouldn't be better off at home," he said, so firmly that we let the matter drop. We slowly went back to joking around, with Rory sitting quietly watching us and laughing sometimes at something we said. Soon enough we talked ourselves out and exhaustion overtook us. Ted, to our amazement, leaned over and folded his arms on his knees and, laying his head on them, went to sleep. Rory leaned against the side of the car and watched the distance speed by. Jack whistled under his breath. I looked around at everyone else in the car and wallowed in boredom. We reached the train depot at Washington, D.C before dark and were herded out to set up tents. "All right, men," the officer in charge shouted at us. "You'll collect your blankets and a day's rations and sleep here tonight. Tomorrow you'll get your uniforms and begin in the army in earnest. Dismissed!" We collected what we needed for the night and set up next to each other, the five of us in two tents. We talked about how difficult it would be to sleep, and we were right. The ground was hard no matter how I lay on it, and everywhere I tried to put my head there seemed to be a rock. I could hear the other boys tossing and turning, and it was hours before I was ready to be asleep. Chapter Four Then, the next morning, we were awoken for the first time by reveille. It was a sound I would get used to someday, but on that morning, waking up fully dressed and with a red mark where my face had been pressed against a rock all night, I was more exhausted than I had been in a long time. It was worse than my long hours at the docks- at least in New York, or at home in Ireland, I had come back to a real home at night and slept in relative warm comfort. I got up anyway and hauled Patrick out of the tent. At the sound of the bugle he had merely smiled in his sleep and turned over. "Wake up," I grumbled at him, shaking his shoulder. "Come on, lazy." After a moment his eyes opened and after another split second they focused and he sat up quickly, then stood and left the tent. "Well," he commented, stretching, "that wasn't so bad." "Speak for yourself." Around us, men were coming out of their tents, yawning in the crisp spring air and stretching. Fires were started and coffee was put on to boil. After a moment, the flaps of the tent next to us were thrown open and our new friends made their way out. Jack looked around at the field full of white tents and campfires and grinned. "We've made it boys," he said and Ted, stretching his arms over his head and yawning, nodded. Rory, following behind them, said nothing, a shy shadow, but he gazed with those solemn eyes out over the tents and gave a satisfied nod. Soon, our fire was started and we were eating the hard biscuits we had been issued, and drinking some coffee that Ted had made. We were just waking up enough to start wondering how we would know what to do next, when a bugle call was sounded and a sergeant came through yelling, another sound we would get used to. "That means fall in! And that means you, and you and you," he informed us at a roar, shoving men into place and kicking dirt on a fire that one man had been putting fresh wood on. "You've got to get going, laddie!" the Sergeant replied to the stunned look on the man's face. "You've no time for that! We've things to do!" The man must have decided that it would be futile to argue; he stood up and headed off with the rest of us. As you can imagine, our attempts to fall into some kind of formation were not met with approval. "What the hell kind of a formation is that' You're in the army now, not back on the farm digging potatoes! Stand up straight there! You, get your hands out of your pockets!" Ted moved his hands to his side, looking furtive and the Sergeant laughed. He paused for a moment in front of the five of us, who stood shoulder to shoulder. "Mary, Mother of God," he sneered. "They've enlisted children." He looked strong Ted, the tallest of us, up and down. "Do you shave'" "Yessir, I've been shaving a few years now," Ted replied. The sergeant shook his head. "How about you'" he barked at Rory, and Ted moved closer as if to step between them. "Stand still at attention!" the Sergeant snapped, and turned back to Rory. "Well' Do you'" "Yes-yessir," Rory stammered quietly. The Sergeant snorted, but he left Rory alone. Harsh, he could be. Cruel, he wasn't and it didn't take a particularly discerning mind to sense Rory's fear. "You likely looking lads are going to be fitted out in uniforms like real soldiers," the Sergeant yelled. "You'll go over to that tent and pick up one of everything they've got and then you'll trade until you've got what fits you. And if those bastards at the quartermaster's give you any trouble, you tell them Sergeant Tom O'Malley'll have their hides and if they still gives you trouble, you come find me and I'll deal with it myself and you can be sure there'll be no more trouble. Right! Dismissed!" Reeling slightly from the ordeal and trying to figure out what to make of our Sergeant, we meandered over to the quartermaster's tent. There was a wait, and then each of us was loaded down with shirts, drawers, pants, a pair of shoes, blankets and the like. Everything we could carry and possibly more- Ted ended up carrying Rory's shoes after he dropped them for the third time- and we were sent back to our tents to put them on. With no women around for miles, we changed right there in front of our tents, exchanging brown trousers for sky-blue and civilian hats for army issue caps. Patrick struggled with a shirt twice the size he needed, while Jack laughed over a pair of pants that came past his knees, but no further. We looked around after a moment and realized that Rory was nowhere to be seen. "Rory, lad'" Jack called, looking around, and from inside their tent a voice answered, "I'm in here." "Why'" Ted asked, but Rory said simply, "I'll be out when I'm dressed." He could evade a question better than anyone I had ever met. "But why-" Ted began and pulled the tent flap back and looked in. Then he stopped cold. His eyes widened and, curious, we gathered around too and one by one fell silent. Rory stood inside the tent in his army pants- he had been lucky enough to find a pair that fit him- but with his shirt off. He was staring at the ground, but we were staring at him. We could see across his back and up his shoulders, disappearing into the waist of his trousers, a web of fine pink scars and open red cuts. His right shoulder was a massive blue bruise and there was a healing cut on his chest. Ted stepped over and put a huge hand on Rory's shoulder. "Lad, what happened'" he asked quietly, a tone of voice we had not yet heard from him. Rory looked up then, meeting Patrick's eyes. "I told you I wouldn't be better off at home," he repeated in a shamed whisper. Patrick just nodded. "How old is that cut'" Jack asked. Rory shrugged. "Maybe a week, now. The cuts on me back are newer." "He should see the doctor," Jack said firmly. "Come on, Rory. Let's go find him," he continued in a kind tone. Rory shook his head. "I'll be fine- I always am," He began, but Ted shook his head. "You're going to see the doctor, lad," he told Rory firmly. "And no arguing from you now. Put a shirt on." Rory did as he was told, his eyes never leaving the ground, and then Ted took his shoulder- the left one- and steered him out of the tent. We quickly dressed in our ill-fitting uniforms and followed. Ted marched Rory down the company street, shame written all across Rory's features, until he found Sergeant O'Malley." "Sir!" Ted called, seeing the Sergeant about to leave. "What is it, boy'" The Sergeant asked and Ted presented Rory. "We're looking for the doctor, Sir," he said, and the Sergeant laughed. "No fancy doctors around here," he said, "but there might be a surgeon or two." He looked Rory up and down. "Something wrong with the little one here'" "He's sick," Ted explained lamely. The Sergeant rolled his eyes. "Couldn't stay away from the girls his first night'" he asked sarcastically, but then he took a better look at Rory. "I'm sorry, lad," he said and put a hand on Rory's shoulder. It was the bruised one, and Rory winced, a funny look crossing his face. The Sergeant caught it and was suddenly serious. "Did I hurt you'" There was silence. "Answer me now," he said in a voice that was not going to allow for argument. "Me shoulder's bad," Rory whispered and I could see that the Sergeant wasn't going to believe that was the whole story. He didn't press, either, though and sent us in the direction of the Surgeon's tent. It wasn't a real building, just a large tent with a couple cots inside, and another tent off to one side where he examined his patients. Surgeon Matthews himself was probably the only man in camp who wasn't Irish. He was American, from Boston, and a short, round man with spectacles perched on his nose. He smiled pleasantly as we walked Rory over. "Hello, boys," he greeted us. "How can I help you'" Some kind of instinct caused us all to look at Rory, but he just blushed and looked at the ground. "Rory needs you to take a look at his back," Patrick supplied after a long silence. "What's wrong with Rory's back'" The surgeon asked kindly and when we all fell silent again, he looked bewildered. "Has the cat got your tongues'" he asked us and then said, "All right, then, which one is Rory'" We pointed. "Well, Rory, take your shirt off and let me see whatever it is your friends are so worried about." Slowly, Rory unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it painfully off. Comprehension dawned in the surgeon's eyes and then shock, when Rory turned around by way of silent explanation. "Hmmm, that's not good at all," the surgeon said. "Sit down here," he indicated a chair, "and I'll be right back." He went off to fetch something, and we all stood in silence until he got back. The shade of red across Rory's cheeks was starting to look permanent- it was clear he didn't like attention, even if he needed it- and he hadn't taken his eyes off the ground yet. It was a few minutes before the doctor came back accompanied by a short, plump young woman with flaming red hair, redder even than Patrick's. She smiled at us. "It's so quiet in here," she marveled. "I thought you must have left your Rory." We shook our heads and Ted, a funny look on his face, said, "Sure, and we wouldn't do that to the poor lad." The nurse smiled. "Of course you wouldn't." She walked around to have a look at Rory's back and her eyes widened, but she didn't comment. "Boys, this is Frances Leary," the surgeon said. We all murmured polite greetings, and I noticed that Ted's eyes never left the girl, who was spreading some kind of a salve on Rory's back. "Poor little thing," she murmured. "You've been badly used, haven't you'" Silence from Rory. While she worked, the surgeon examined Rory's shoulder. He probed at it and lifted Rory's arm, testing the movement. "It's not broken," he said at last, "and you're lucky for that. It looks like it was a pretty near thing. I'm not going to ask you what happened," he said, his jaw set tight, "but you'd best stay away from whoever did this, whoever it was." He shook his head. "All right, Nurse Leary, let's bandage his back and put this arm in a sling." The nurse held Rory's bad arm up while the surgeon wound bandages around his body. Next, he tied a sling and helped Rory settle his arm into it. "Nurse, will you take this boy to a bed'" he asked and she put an arm around Rory, though he could walk just fine, and led him to a cot in the tent next door. "Now, do any of you know what might have caused that'" the surgeon wanted to know. We shook our heads. "We only met him on the train yesterday," I explained. "None of us has ever seen him before, right lads'" There was agreement from the other three. "We just saw this morning- Ted caught him changing to his uniform." The surgeon shook his head angrily. "You did right bringing him here," he said. "He can stay and rest a few days and when he's healed he'll go with you. You can come back and see him, if you like. It might do him good. Who knows, he might even speak," the surgeon laughed and we smiled. Some chance of that. An hour later we were at drill, having shown up late to threats of guard duty from our officers. When he saw that there were only four of us, the sergeant asked, "Did they send the little one home'" "No, sir, he's in hospital," Ted answered. The sergeant nodded and ordered us into formation. It was going to be a long afternoon. We drilled late into the afternoon, and by the time we were finished I was dropping with exhaustion. We went back to our tents when we were dismissed, grateful not to be on guard duty that night, and ate dinner quickly and without enjoyment. "Shall we go see Rory'" Patrick suggested after dinner, just as my eyes were beginning to close. "Suppose we ought to go spend a few minutes with him, yeah," Jack agreed, stifling a yawn, and we rose and walked to the surgeon's tent. We ran into Nurse Leary outside the tent and she smiled when she saw us coming, rubbing at our eyes. "It's been a long day for you, has it'" she laughed and we nodded wearily. She continued, "I'm sorry you've come all this way for nothing, but I just left your friend and he's sleeping." "How is he'" I asked her. "Exhausted, poor thing," she replied. "I don't know what on earth he's been through that he should be so tired. I'm sure he didn't sleep last night, he was asleep in seconds when he lay down and he only woke for about half an hour for some supper. Why don't you go get some sleep yourselves and come back tomorrow'" We said that we would and went back to the tents. In minutes we were asleep. The next day was more of the same. We woke up uncomfortable from a night on the ground and went for drill. Today, it was different- when we formed up on the drill field, there were ten boys, a few of them not older than I was, standing there in neat grey uniforms. They were watching us coolly and just knowing that they were watching made me feel inadequate. I tried to stand as straight as I could at drill, to march as sharply and handle my gun as competently as it was possible for a man to do, but they still found fault with every step and breath we took. It was a long morning, but in the afternoon I could feel the improvement, just a little at a time. That evening, we went to see Rory again. We dragged ourselves to the hospital tent after drill, where Rory was still alone, though possibly not for long. The surgeon was seeing to a line of men who stood outside his tent when we walked in. "Here to see Rory'" Nurse Leary asked as we arrived. We smiled and nodded. "Hope he's awake," Jack mused. "It'd have been a shame to walk all this way for nothing." "Hardly for nothing," Ted objected, throwing a glance in the direction of the pretty nurse. Patrick snorted and elbowed Ted, who drove his much stronger elbow straight back into Patrick's skinny side. Patrick absorbed the blow and rolled his eyes. "He's awake," said the nurse, looking infinitely amused. "You're free to just go in." We did so, opening the front of the tent and ducking inside. Rory was lying in a cot in the middle, propped up on a pillow against which his curly dark hair stood out in stark contrast. He wasn't wearing a shirt, just the bandages and the sling on his arm. He looked better than when we had seen him last. The circles were gone from around his eyes and he both looked at us and smiled shyly. "How are you'" Patrick asked as we gathered to stand around the bed. "I'm better, thanks," Rory said, ducking his head. This was a feat for a boy lying on his back, but he was shy enough to manage it. Exhausted, we made ourselves comfortable sitting on and around the bed and he slowly relaxed in our presence. It was, I felt, a step forward. "You wouldn't believe the fun you're missing," Jack told Rory sarcastically. He explained how drill was going and what we had been up to. "And you're lucky enough," he finished, "to be in the hospital and miss all of this exciting work we're doing." "I'm not sure lucky quite covers it," Rory said dryly. And Jack shrugged; perhaps that was so. "I came from Ireland with my family five years ago," Rory said quietly and instantly we stopped moving, stopped talking, nearly stopped breathing in order to hear the story. Typical of him, it was terse and quietly told, no extra details, no elaboration. "And then me mother and father died. I was on the street, until they sent me out of New York on the Orphan Train. I went to Western New York. I was thirteen, then, and I was almost too old, so I was chosen first. They thought I would be helpful on the farm." Rory shrugged with his good shoulder, and then continued, slowly, "I did everything I could. And, when I couldn't, they whipped me. Last week, I spilled soup. I forgot to brush the horses in the morning. I tried to run away. Then I ran away for good, while they were gone to town for the day. And I came to the army." He fell silent and the story was over. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Ted breathed. I realized that I, too, had been holding my breath. There was a long silence which Rory, being Rory, did not break. It was Jack who finally spoke. "You're here now," he said, clearly casting about for something to say. "And you'll never have to go back." Rory nodded in relief. We were silent when we finally left the hospital tent, leaving Rory there sound asleep. We were all deep in thought, and sort of shocked by Rory's revelations of that evening. We wished each other good night and simply went to sleep. Chapter Five We drilled under the watchful eyes of those little grey-coated slave drivers day after day. Rory's back healed and when he joined us again we were surprised to find that he seemed to know what he was doing. At least, he knew his right from his left, which many of the recruits did not. Still, his gun was nearly as tall as he was and he was a slight boy. Strong, it was true, but not big enough to haul his gun along with any amount of equipment. I often saw the Sergeant watching him at drill as he sweated and struggled to manage the gun and the drill. One day, the Sergeant pulled Rory aside, which we had been expecting, and then, to our surprise, asked Jack to come as well. "Boys," he said to them, "We all know neither of you should be here. If I'd been your recruiter, you wouldn't be." Jack looked amazed- he'd thought he was passing for eighteen perfectly well- and when he opened his mouth to protest, Sergeant O'Malley held up a hand. "It's no use boy, I know what I know." Jack closed his mouth and looked sullen. "I think," our Sergeant continued, "that we can strike a deal that'll serve both our purposes. You'll stay with the army and I won't be worrying about Coleman tripping over that musket every time he picks it up. What would you think of drumming'" he asked, looking at Jack, "and you," he said, turning his stern gaze on Rory, "do you think a fife might suit you'" Jack and Rory traded looks and Jack shrugged. "I don't see why not," he allowed. "I don't know how to play, though." "That's just fine," Sergeant O'Malley said. "We'll get you a drum and then some lessons. A few of the men here know what they're about. Finding a fife teacher will be more difficult, but let's see what we can do." He started off, leaving Rory and Jack standing still, and when he realized they were no longer following, he turned around. "What are you waiting for' Come on, never put off until tomorrow what could have been done today." And he turned briskly and kept going, Jack and Rory jogging to keep up. By the time they got back to camp, we were sitting around the fire, cooking supper and dying of curiosity. "What was that all about, then'" Patrick asked, and then noticed the instruments. The drum, strapped around Jack's neck, was hard to miss and Rory took his fife out of his pocket and held it out to show us. "We've been detailed as musicians," Jack explained. "Can you play at all, either one of you'" Ted asked bluntly. "Not a bit," Jack said. "In fact, I haven't tried it out yet." "Come on, then," we encouraged him. "Let's hear you play some rhythm." Jack picked the sticks up clumsily and beat a little bit on the drum until somebody from the next fire, his face safely obscured by the dark, yelled peevishly, "Shut up that drumming. Hasn't today been bad enough yet'" With a hearty laugh, Jack stowed his stick and leaned back against his drum. "How about you'" he asked Rory. "Suppose you can get a sound out of that thing'" "I think I can," Rory said with a quiet confidence and to our complete shock, he put the fife to his lips and played "Lorena" so sweetly that I felt my jaw drop. "Rory, you can play'" Patrick asked, though the answer was obvious. Rory just nodded. The same voice from the next campfire called back, "Drummer, you ought to take a few lessons from your friend there. We'll hear that again any day, laddie." Rory fairly glowed. In late May, we were finally ordered away from the site of all our drill of the past few weeks. We packed up everything we could carry, and fell into formation one hot morning to march into rebel territory. "Mary, Mother of God," Jack swore when we stopped for water mid-day. "If I ever make it to our camp, it's going to be a genuine miracle." Patrick grinned as he scooped water in his tin cup. As usual, he looked cooler than the rest of us did. He took a long drink and then held Rory's beloved fife as Rory went over to the creek to fill his canteen. It was a long day, but that night we were camped with several other regiments- the 13th and 79th New York regiments among them- and we found we had been assigned to Sherman's brigade of McDowell's division. There was more drill, more Virginia heat, and plenty of thunderstorms to drench us every afternoon. Sometimes I welcomed the rain for the cool it brought, and sometimes I cursed it for the humidity. It was late July. We had been in the army for two months now, with only a month left, and we hadn't seen any fighting. "Remind me again why we enlisted," I grumbled after a particularly long day. We were sitting around in front of our tents eating cold beef and hard tack, because it was too hot to light a fire and too tiring to put more effort into our meals. "For the adventure of it, of course," Patrick laughed. "I just can't for the life of me figure out why I didn't let Declan come with us. He's missing all the fun. This would've cured his war fever for certain." Jack shook his head. Ted laughed. "Patrick, lad, you did a good thing making your brother stay home. He's surely getting more work done than we are." Having had that conversation, of course the next day we were ordered to pack up and start marching. We were headed for a town called Manassas, and perhaps, so they said, for a battle. We were excited, a little nervous, and highly skeptical that there would be any excitement. We forded a river at a place called Sudley Springs in the mid-morning and at noon we were on a hill, watching cannon-fire before us and trying, on the advice of our officers, to choke down a little hard tack and drink some water. "You're going to need all your strength, boys," Sergeant O'Malley cautioned us. He stopped in front of Rory. "You doing all right, Coleman'" "Yessir." "Not nervous, are you'" "Nosir." "Good lad." It was a white lie- we were all a little nervous. They said there were some ladies from Washington who had come to watch the battle. Somebody was supposed to have seen them, but all I could see were soldiers, and lots of smoke. A little before one o'clock we were ordered to fall back, off the hill where we had been before and past some woods. "What do you suppose that means'" Jack asked nervously. "We're just moving back so we can get a running start," Ted replied, all confidence. "If they'd just put the boys of the 69th in, then they'd see how fast the Rebs can run." He laughed and we tried to join him, but it sounded thin and insincere even to my ears. It was a little after two when we got the order to move again. "All right, boys," called an officer, "We've got our orders. Up on that hill-" he pointed "- Ricketts' battery has been captured by the Rebels. We're going to get it back." We started forward and I realized I was sweating, but not from the heat. The sweat pouring down my back was cold. I didn't have much time to think about it, because as we crossed Bull Run and started up a hill towards the battery we were going to rescue, the first of a storm of bullets flew past us. Next to me I saw Patrick duck and then laugh and blush, standing up straighter. Ted flinched and seemed to shake himself. His jaw was set tight and he gripped his gun. We fired when we could, or were ordered to, and advanced grimly up the hill. The first of our men died in that volley and I'll never forget the sounds of it. Lead striking flesh and bone, the way they screamed when they fell, all of it was a blur in my mind but stayed fresh in my senses for days afterward. We went on, through it all, leaving the fallen where they lay, and I shook as the bullets whistled over my head. I was afraid to look around to see whether my friends had made it. I could see Patrick beside me, out of the corner of my eye, and Ted on the other side, but Rory and Jack weren't in formation with us and I wondered where they were in all this- whether they had stayed behind or come with us into this lead rain. As we got closer, I noticed, somehow, that there was a little house on top of the hill, near where the guns were. The windows were shot out, and for a split second I thought I saw a woman's form in the window. No, I thought, of course there isn't anyone inside, and I gave myself a mental shake and turned my attention back to the task at hand. I remember fewer of the details than I had expected to, although my sensory impressions are perfect when I close my eyes and try to remember that first battle. Other engagements are clearer in my mind, but then, they were made up of less anticipation if not less raw fear. Off to our left, a grey shape came through the mist. We turned and tried to get them in our sights when, luckily, there was a yell. "Hold your fire!" a voice screamed. "They're our boys!" My hands shook as I turned back to the hill. That we had come so close to firing on our own men, dressed as they were in grey uniforms, frightened me. We knew that a few regiments wore grey. We had seen them before and should have known their position. The enemy was in front of us- fellow New Yorkers were on our flank. We took the cannons, and all around me men fell. Some were dead right away, and made no noise. Others screamed and cried. I saw one young soldier, not much older than myself, fall holding his side. Blood was pouring through his fingers and he was crying out in Irish, curled up on the rusty grass. His voice haunts me to this day. When I closed my eyes that night, all I saw was him lying there. I never knew his name and I don't care to guess what happened to him in the end, but when I next lay down to sleep his voice echoed in my ears and the sight of him stained my dreams. We had taken the cannons at the top of the hill, so near the little house with its windows shot out, when the order came to retreat. "Just get out of here," the officer shouted who gave us the order. "Just get the hell out." Almost in a body, we turned and ran. I was halfway down the hill when it occurred to me to look for my friends. I turned to my right to find a stranger there. It wasn't Patrick. My heart dropped and I whirled around to the left and found to my relief that Ted was just a few feet from me, whole and running as fast as he could. We made it to the stream and scrambled through it, then kept on going, more slowly the farther we got, towards Washington. I couldn't find Patrick. I looked all around, barely watching where I was going, nearly blinded with panic. As I got farther from the sound of guns and the battlefield, my head cleared. The more aware of my surroundings I was, the more frightened I was for Patrick. After several minutes, I stopped still and a man I had never seen before promptly plowed into me. "Watch where you're going!" he fumed, probably out of the sheer fright we all felt, and I apologized without really thinking about it. I felt the need to do something, and I knew that I would never live with myself if I didn't find Patrick. The thought that he might be ahead of me never entered my mind. I was consumed with the idea that he was wounded or dead, and that he had been left on the hill by that house, where we had been fighting. I turned and began fighting my way through the stream of men back the way I had come, determined to find Patrick. I had been walking for only a few minutes when I heard something. "Micheál!" a voice shouted and my breath caught. "Micheál!" I spun around, searching the crowd of uniformed men, and after a moment I saw Patrick, waving to me. He was limping and I ran over to him. "Patrick," I gasped, out of breath and shaking. "Are you wounded'" "No," Patrick said in disgust. "I've sprained my foot." He rolled his eyes. His face was dirt- streaked, as my own was, and there were rivulets of sweat running through the soot on his cheeks. I shook my head. "Come on, let's go catch up with the others." "I'll try," Patrick agreed. "Here, let me lean on you." He slung an arm around my shoulders and we followed the line of men on. Somehow we managed to catch up with Ted. He looked relieved and came over to walk with us. "We've all made it," he said. "I saw Rory and Jack a bit ago. They were sent back for the wounded, as stretcher bearers you know." We nodded and Ted put his arm around Patrick, taking some of his weight onto his own shoulder so that we could move faster. We kept going and by the time we stopped retreating we had gone a good long way. At last we could sit and make a fire, eat something and rest for a while. Patrick sat down by the fire while Ted put on a pot of coffee and I went to wet a rag in the nearby creek to wrap Patrick's sprained foot. "Ouch," he said, making a face, and then he looked disgusted. "I feel like an idiot," he complained. "Men getting shot all around me, and I only tripped." I shrugged. "Your good luck again, I suppose." "That it is." Ted finally lounged next to us in the waning light. "I'm with Patrick," he informed me. "All the things that could have happened back there and the lad takes a spill'" he looked at Patrick and shook his head. "What were you doing, dancing out there' Did your shoelace come untied'" The relief of stress was enough to set us laughing and we tried hard to stifle the noise, but couldn't stop. We went from laughter as though at a joke, to hysterical laughter that wasn't funny and from which we couldn't calm down. Then, Jack and Rory returned and the looks on their faces sobered us right up. Jack's face was white and drawn. His eyes weren't focusing properly and he looked unsteady on his feet. Rory's eyes were empty and his expression very carefully blank. They came over to the fire and Rory took Jack's elbow and helped him sit down. Rory sat down, too, one arm reassuringly around Jack's shoulders. Jack ran one shaking hand through his hair and stared into the fire with wide, horrified eyes. "What's happened to him'" Patrick asked in a shocked voice. "He'll be all right," Rory said, his voice steady. "He just needs rest." He looked at Patrick's bandaged foot. "What happened to you'" "I tripped," Patrick said in disgust. "Jack, what happened'" To our horror, tears began to roll down Jack's face in torrents. "It was-" He sobbed, "They sent us back for the wounded. God, it was awful. He died on the stretcher. We were right out front of the field hospital and he died. He gave me his letter and he died." We stared at each other, helpless, as Jack buried his face in his hands. He sobbed, his shoulders heaving, and Rory silently pulled out a sooty handkerchief and gave it to Jack. His arm still around Jack's shoulders in that silent gesture of comfort, he explained in his usual way. "He was a drummer, younger than me. We were taking him to a field hospital. He gave Jack a letter for his mother. He didn't have the chance to send it before the battle. We were standing out front of the hospital when he died." Rory was silent for a moment. Then, his voice thicker than it had been before, he added, "Jack's just taking it hard. That's all." Struggling to master his emotions, he motioned for a cup of coffee, the first time I had ever seen him ask for anything. Surprised, I handed it to him and he pushed it into Jack's hands and made him drink. Jack downed the hot liquid in just a few sips. Tears were still falling down his sooty face and when he had finished half the cup he handed it wordlessly back to Rory. Rory took a few sips of his own and then stood, pulling Jack up with him. Jack seemed in shock and did as he was told. His arm still around Jack, Rory walked him in the direction of the creek. When they came back, Jack's face was clean, though he was still sobbing and his eyes were puffy and red. "Lay down, there by the fire," Rory said quietly. Jack lay down; facing the flames, his head on his knapsack, and Rory covered him with a blanket. He sat down next to Jack who lay crying quietly until exhaustion set in and he finally slept. Rory nodded, satisfied that Jack would be all right, and curled up to go to sleep himself. I wondered whether Ted or Patrick heard Rory crying later that night, as I did when I woke suddenly to stumble to the sinks, but we never spoke of that night again. Chapter Six Duty for the next couple of days was very light. Not only was the army recovering from the battle, but our ninety-day enlistment was up on the 25th of that month and we were to be sent back to New York. Sergeant O'Malley excused Patrick from duty for those couple of days. His foot was still painful and so swollen he couldn’t put his shoe on. We gave Patrick the jobs of tending the fire and preparing supper, things he could do sitting down, and between us we handled anything he might have done before. Then, finally, the day came when we helped him onto the train for the trip back to New York. The train was quieter this time, I noticed, and not just from the loss of over one hundred voices. Our own conversations were more subdued, and there was no boasting or daydreaming of killing rebels. We'd seen that, and we knew what it meant now. We perked up some, though, when we finally got off the train. There was to be a parade through the streets and it seemed more in line with what we had expected when we signed our enlistment papers. We formed up, our uniforms dirtier than they had been, our ranks somewhat thinned, and marched proudly past cheering crowds, all come out to welcome us home. I thought back to a conversation we had had on the train. "So, will you be staying home for good'" I had asked, curious. My own mind was long made up- after all I had seen, there was no way I could stay away. It had been terrible, and terrifying, but the war had to be won. We had to fight. Patrick had shaken his head. "I can't," he said, and Jack and Ted agreed. Rory merely shrugged. "What would I go home to'" he asked, and that was that. We would all be re-enlisting. I saw Rory smile shyly as a young girl thrust a flower into his hands. Ted laughed and thumped him on the shoulder and then accepted with a bow a flower from the same girl. I shook my head and Jack laughed at me. Patrick was not there- he had been left sitting on a bench at the train station and we were going to go back for him when the parade was finished. When at last we were given leave to go, the four of us hurried back for Patrick and he leaned on Rory's shoulder and mine to go the few blocks home. Ted's mother had gone to the train station to meet him, and we watched in amusement as she and his crowd of siblings rushed over. "Oh, Teddy," his mother exclaimed as she hugged him, "it's so good to have you back." It was funny to see big Ted submitting to hugs from a crowd of girls, all with their hairpins just exactly in place and their aprons starched, in contrast to his mud and dirt. "Are these your friends'" Mrs. McGrath asked her son, motioning to us. "Yes," he replied. "Mother, this is Jack, Rory, Micheál and Patrick. Boys, this is my mother and the rest of the clan." He laughed. "How do you do, ma'am," we said politely and she smiled. "It's good to meet you, boys. Now, Teddy, we'd best be getting home. Your father will be home soon, and he'll be wanting to see you." "I'll be seeing you, lads," he promised, and headed home in the middle of that crowd of girls. Jack was the next to leave, though as it turned out he lived only a few blocks from my own home and walked most of the way there with us. "We'll be enlisting together, won't we'" he asked and the three of us nodded. "Don't think I could go off again without you lads," Patrick grinned and Rory nodded, much more seriously. "Well, then, I'll be seeing you around," Jack told us and with handshakes all around, he went home. Rory stood still outside our building, not following us as I helped Patrick inside, and he had his old, frightened look on his face. "What's the matter, lad' Come on in," Patrick said, motioning to him to follow us. "You don't mind'" Rory asked, timidly, and Patrick understood suddenly. "Of course not," he said. "You're to stay with us as long as you like. Come, now, let's go see how the families are getting along." Rory smiled shyly and followed us up the stairs. It was slow going, for he and I had to help Patrick with every step. At last we were on the third floor, where Patrick's family lived and where I suspected I might find my own family as well. Sure enough, when we opened the door, they were all inside. Maura and Mother were darning socks with Mrs. Murphy, Bridget and Colleen were washing dishes, Declan was working sums on his slate, a schoolbook open on the table, and Mr. Murphy was reading an old newspaper. There was a collective gasp as we entered and our families stood, almost as one, and hurried over to us. We just had time to get in the door when we were smothered by hugs and kisses from our mothers, Mr. Murphy clapping us on the shoulder, and our sisters cheering. It was, in truth, rather embarrassing. Rory smiled sadly as he watched the scene. "Patrick," his mother exclaimed, after a moment, "were you wounded'" She looked shocked and worried, and Patrick flushed red. "No," he admitted. "I've wrenched my foot, that's all." "Come, sit down and I'll have a look at it," his mother said, and his father helped Patrick to sit down and put his foot up on a chair. "Mother," I interrupted, putting a hand on Rory's shoulder, "this is our friend Rory. He's got no place to stay- could he stay with us for a bit'" "Of course he can," Mother said. "Rory, it's good to meet you. Why don't you come in and sit down' Bridget, put some tea on for the lads." Rory and I sat down at the table, across from Patrick, and I looked around, taking in all the familiar details of home. Mrs. Murphy had examined Patrick's foot, which was swollen and reddened. "You've not broken it," she decided, "but you've sprained it, sure. Better bandage it, and put you to bed." Patrick rolled his eyes, but Mrs. Murphy's mind was made up and besides, his foot was hurting him badly. He allowed her to bind it in wet cloths and then let his father help him to the bed in the corner of the room. The Murphy's apartment, like ours, had only two rooms and the girls traditionally slept in the trundle bed under Patrick's, while their parents had the small private room. Patrick lay back on the pillows and Colleen went over with a folded blanket to put under his foot. He put his hands behind his head and yawned. "Now I feel like we've really made it home," he said to Rory and me, grinning. There was a long silence between us, broken by Bridget who came over and announced in her bossy way, "Supper's ready. Come on, Micheál, and bring your friend with you. Patrick, Colleen said she'd bring a plate over." "Thanks, lass," Patrick grinned, laughing a little at all the ways in which the girls had not changed. Declan, however, seemed to have changed much more. He was quiet and a little sullen looking. He closed his schoolbooks with a snap and practically threw his slate in the corner. He said little, but he looked at Patrick and I, and particularly Rory who was his own age, with envy in his eyes. We went back to our own home after supper, down a flight of stairs. "We'll be back tomorrow," I told Patrick as we left and Rory smiled and waved a little as he shut the door behind us. That night was one of the best I had ever spent. Unlike Patrick, I slept in the small second room. With all the girls in my family, they needed more space. Mother got the largest bed in the main room, and the girls slept on a trundle bed and a cot. My cot was as I had left it, exactly. I was touched and a little saddened by the fact that they had not put the room to use while I had been gone. Rory offered to sleep on the floor under his coat, but Mother refused that. Instead, she went across the hall and borrowed a cot from our neighbors, who had an unused bed since their oldest son had gone off to sea, and we fit it snugly into my little room. Then mother insisted that he borrow a nightshirt from me and that we both take baths. She drew a tub of water and, to Rory's obvious relief, let us take it into my room to bathe. Rory undressed and got into the tub and when I turned around, his privacy assured, I winced at the sight of the scars on his back, now long healed but still visible. When he had finished it was my turn to wash away the dirt of three long months. Few things in my life ever felt so good as that warm bath, and when we were finished, we dried off and got into bed. Being home was like a dream. When I woke the next morning, it took me several long minutes to remember where I was and it wasn't really until I opened my eyes that it sunk in; I was home. Mother and Maura were working that day and so was Bridget, and couldn't stay home so they were gone by the time Rory and I were up. I left Rory sleeping, his face perfectly peaceful, and went into the larger room. Bridget had gone off to work with Colleen and Declan, I knew, would be at school. That meant that Patrick was alone upstairs. I went back to my room to dress, and left a note for Rory, hoping that he could read it, and went upstairs to the Murphy's apartment. Patrick was more or less as we had left him. Though he had washed and dressed in a nightshirt, he was still in bed, propped up on pillows. He grinned and waved as I came in the door and sat up. "Where's Rory'" he asked. "Still sleeping," I replied. "I left him a note, but I'll go back down in a bit and see if he got it." "That sounds like a plan," Patrick said. He paused a second. " Micheál, Mother thinks I’m staying home." "Uh-oh," I said. "There's going to be a scene, isn't there'" "There is. At your house, too, I suppose." "Probably." We sat silent, brooding on the conversation we would eventually need to have with our families, when there was a tap on the door and Rory came in. He smiled shyly at us, and walked over to sit on the floor by Patrick's bed. He had dressed in his uniform again, having nothing else to wear. "You found my note'" I asked. Rory looked confused. "Note'" he asked "I left you a note, telling you where I was," I replied. He ducked his head, blushing. "I can't read, Micheál," he said in a quiet voice. "Oh," was all I could think of to say. "Sorry." "No matter," he replied graciously. "I'll learn someday. I'd like that." It was a quiet day. With our families gone and Patrick laid up, we had nowhere to go and not much to do- for once. It was a quiet couple of weeks, in fact, as Patrick's foot healed and we began planning for the future. When the day came, however, there were no two ways to break the news. The call went out late in August for volunteers to join the 69th New York Volunteer Infantry- we had been members of the militia before- and we simply went back and enlisted. "Again'" Mother cried when I came home with the news. I just nodded. "And you, too'" she said, looking at Rory. She had grown fond of him, for all he didn't talk, and Rory liked being mothered. "There's nothing I can do to stop you'" she asked, despair in her voice. We shook our heads. Mother came over and hugged each one of us. "Take care of yourselves. Come home all in one piece, and when the war is over, you come back here with Micheál, Rory." We promised that we would, and not long after came the day when we were told to report again. It was November and we were about ready to leave New York. We were ordered to form up on the morning of the 18th for a ceremony before we left the City- we were to be presented with a flag made by Tiffany and Co, and, I figured, to hear a lot of boring political speeches. I was right about the ceremony. We stood there, our legs going numb, for longer than I cared to think about while politicians spoke, while the flag was presented, and while more politicians spoke. The part I was looking forward to, not necessarily happily but for which I was waiting, was leaving for the war again. The flags were handsome, I had to admit that. One was a big American flag, and the other flag was our new regimental one. It was green, with a golden harp on it and our regimental number on a banner across the top. Rory, who was musical, liked the harp in particular. It was a familiar scene at the train station, not long after. Patrick and I had found seats on the car and were looking out the window, watching Ted's mother kiss him goodbye, and looking around for Jack. He was nowhere to be seen, and Patrick and I were leaning out the windows searching the crowd, in case he was looking for us. "Hello, again," Ted greeted us as he bounded up the stairs into the car and sat down next to Rory. "It's been a while since I've seen you lads. Where's Jack'" "Haven't seen him yet," I replied. "It's odd he's not here yet." "Hmm. That it is. He was coming back for sure, was he'" "Last I heard." "When did you last hear'" "Tuesday. He told me he'd meet me at the train." No sooner had I said this than we heard footsteps come running up the aisle of the car and Jack sat down next to me. He was breathing heavily and had arrived just in time- no sooner had he taken a seat then the train began to move. "I've made it," Jack panted. He sat with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, trying to catch his breath. When he at last sat up, his hair stuck in a dozen different directions, he explained, "My mother didn't want to let me go. She's sure I'll be killed. I didn't get out until I explained that I'd be killed for certain if I didn't go, and by firing squad, too." He laughed a little. "It was a dream she had." We grinned- we didn't put much stock in dreams like that, and it was just as well for us that we didn't. I dreamed similar on many nights before battle. I would sleep and see Patrick shot, see Rory bleeding, see my own coffin sometimes. We were sent south to Washington on the train, and then we were marched to a place called Camp California. A few other regiments joined us there, and mostly what we did was drill, day in and day out. My everyday life was less than exciting, but my friends and I learned to make our own fun, and to keep ourselves as entertained as we could while we were stuck in camp that winter. The first snow fell early that year, at least by Virginian standards. It snowed the first week in December, and we came out of the hut we had constructed to find a blanket of white all over the ground. "Great," I grumbled. "Now we've got to walk through this for the firewood, so we'll really appreciate it." I had been on picket duty the night before, and exhaustion was making me sarcastic. "Cheer up, Micheál," Jack grinned. I rolled my eyes and felt something hit my chest. When I looked down, my coat was covered with cold, powdery snow. Jack looked like the cat who'd eaten the canary. "What did you do that for'" I asked, and Jack opened his mouth with a smart answer only to find himself with a faceful of snow. The look went from self satisfied to shocked. I looked to the direction the snowball had come from to find Patrick calmly dusting his hands off, his nose stuck a little too high in the air. "You're welcome," he told me and started to walk off, when he and I were both hit at once by huge icy projectiles, more the size of cannonballs than snowballs. A little went down my collar and I shivered. It was Ted, and Jack let out a cheer before he too was hit with a snowball the same size. He spluttered, and Ted let out a hearty laugh. "Thought you were safe, did you, lad'" he chortled, and the three of us bent over and began to pelt him. To Ted's credit, he fought well, but there were three of us and only one of him and he was going to lose the fight. He knew it as well as we did, but he kept on flinging snow, until all of a sudden Rory came walking over from behind him. Rory was watching the snowball fight and grinning, his arms full of logs for the fire, and he was making a beeline for the little tent we had constructed to sleep in for the winter when Patrick's snowball missed its intended target and smacked Rory in the chest. There was a long pause as Rory looked down at the snow, surprised, and then a scramble as he dropped the wood in the snow and picked up a handful to fling back at Patrick. "That's the way!" Ted cheered, laughing, and he and Rory began packing more snow and flinging it back at us until all the snow in front of our tent was muddy and we were all laughing and exhausted. Our uniforms were also wet and muddy, and when the last cannon-sized snowball smacked into Jack's chest, he cried out, "Lads, they got me," and fell over into the snow, laughing so hard he had to gasp for air. "And the Union wins, of course," Ted said slyly, scooping up a few logs before retreating into the neutral territory of our winter quarters. We had gotten creative with the construction of these quarters, digging down into the ground and putting our tents on top for a roof. This gave us space for four bunks, two on each side, and for Ted, the biggest and therefore the worst strain on our bunks, to sleep on the floor in the middle. To get out, we had to climb a couple feet to ground level, but we were warmer and better insulated down there, mostly underground. We had packed the walls with sticks to hold them still and stomped down the dirt floor, then put in a rudimentary fireplace with a barrel Ted had scrounged from someplace for a chimney. It was very cozy, and actually warm enough at night, so that it was difficult to convince ourselves to go outside, particularly on windy days. We had even rigged up a door which kept the snow out. It was very like a home, we thought, and it was nice to have some place permanent. I got to know my friends a little better for living with them- almost too well. We learned that Ted snored and that when Jack got up to go to the sinks in the middle of the night he didn't look where he was going, and the result was usually that Ted woke us all up swearing after Jack stepped on him. Rory, in contrast, was a near perfect housemate. He was quiet, which we had all known since the previous spring, when we had boarded the train together, and he slept silently, too. He was also good to have around on boring evenings, because he was for some reason not shy when music was involved, and he was willing to play his fife as long as we liked, or to sing for us. His voice was deepening practically as we listened, as he approached his 17th birthday, and he was a pleasure to listen to. He barely spoke to us, and never to strangers, but he was often invited to the firesides of various members of our unit to sing and he never turned down an offer, nor did he seem nervous about performing. It amazed us all, and pleased us immensely. Chapter Seven A week before Christmas, I was sitting on the lower bunk which was what passed for my personal space that winter (Patrick had taken the bunk on top, Rory and Jack shared the bunk opposite) when Patrick came through the door holding a well tied package. "We've got mail," he announced, tossing the package and catching it again. "Don't drop that," I cautioned. "You don't know what they've put in it." "Yes, Mother," Patrick teased and I sat up to open it with him. On the bunk opposite mine, Jack sat up to watch and Rory climbed down from his bunk, where he had been lying on his back playing his fife. I took out my knife and cut the string on the package, and we spread it out on my bunk, our friends watching curiously. Rory had a sad look in his eyes, as he always did when we spoke of our families, or received letters from them. This time, however, we found three letters inside the package, three warm pairs of socks and three new pairs of gloves, each with a different set of initials embroidered into it. There was also cheese and sausage, handkerchiefs, and a little whiskey, purely for medicinal purposes of course. "Look at that," Patrick said, with a sly smile as he spread out the contents of the package. "The girls have knitted you gloves, Rory, and socks." He handed Rory his pair and stuck his own on his bunk. "And there's a letter for you, too. Read them aloud, Micheál." I handed Rory his letter to open while I sliced the envelope of my own with my knife. I saw him turn it over to examine the wax seal on the back- Maura had put her best into the first letter Rory had ever gotten, the result of a discreet letter home from Patrick- and Rory was enchanted. With one finger he traced his name on the front, moving his lips as if sounding it out, and he smiled. Dear Micheál, I read, I wish I had more interesting information to share, but life is going on as normal here at home. Mother and I are working, and so is Bridget. She and Colleen knitted the gloves for you themselves, and they are very proud of their work, especially the idea of putting your initials on them. Bridget sends all her love, and she wants you to know she's putting special care into the next package. She would also like you to send her greetings to Rory and Patrick and all your friends in the army. Mother sends her love as well, and she prays for you each morning and night as do I, Your sister, Maura Patrick's letter was next. Dear Patrick, Do you like the gloves' Bridget and I knitted them specially for you. They are the warmest we could make and so are the socks. Mother would like to know if you have heard from Declan, or if he is maybe with you' He ran away from home a week ago, and Mother and Da are sure he's gone to join the army, and they are hoping he's with you. We would feel much better if he was, then we would know he was safe. We are hoping for word from him soon and we will let you know if we hear anything. Love Colleen When I had finished reading Patrick's letter, Rory cut his open slowly and carefully, almost reverently. He split the top of the envelope, taking pains not to touch the letter inside, nor to disturb the seal, and he handed me his letter, looking a little ashamed. Dear Rory, I read, enjoying the pleased expression on his face immensely, We were so pleased to have you staying with us this summer! It was nice to meet one of Micheál's friends and we enjoyed your company, particularly your music. Are you still playing the fife in the army' Bridget has some music she will send you in the next package and she hopes you like it. It is very pretty, and she will try to find a few more songs to make it worth your while. We pray for your safety as we pray for Micheál and Patrick, and hope you will return with them when you get furlough. Yours truly, Bridget, Colleen and Maura Rory's face was glowing and he was grinning from ear to ear when I finished reading the letter to him. "How do you like that," Ted said amiably. "And those nice warm socks, too," he said, examining the gloves and socks enviously. "Guess you won't be going cold on picket duty." "I guess not," Rory said quietly, still smiling broadly. We toasted our sisters in the whiskey they had sent and ate some of the food and it was then that I noticed that Patrick was brooding. After the celebrations were over, he dropped down to sit next to me on my bunk and put his chin in his hands. "What's wrong'" I asked, studying his face. "Declan," he replied. I had suspected as much. "I should have known he would run off," Patrick burst out, and the other three looked over in surprise. It was completely unlike Patrick to get upset. Patrick sighed. "I hope they hear from him soon," he said, "and I hope they write me when they do." "They will," I comforted him. "Declan's no fool. He'll get what he wants and then write home- you know how your brother is." Patrick cracked a smile. "You're probably right," he admitted, and clapped me on the shoulder before climbing back into his own bunk. I heard him tossing and turning late into the night. Much of the next week was spent in making plans. There were a couple of occasions coming up- one was Christmas and the other was Rory's seventeenth birthday. In fact, they came in the opposite order, with Rory's birthday on the 24th and Christmas the next day. It was clear to us that if Rory had ever celebrated his birthday, which we doubted, it had not been for many years now. We had great plans in the works and the only downside to it all was that Rory was beginning to look left out whenever we snuck around with the preparations. There had been a letter to the girls, since the mail was still moving reliably in those days, requesting a scarf or similar for a present and Patrick was organizing the decoration of a somewhat lopsided cake that Jack had put his best efforts into, and also some of the skin on his right hand. He'd had a difficult time convincing Rory that he had burnt it putting wood on the fire in our hut. By the night of the twenty third, we had received an impressive package from home and had the cake decorated with fruit and some whipped cream and had hidden it with a trustworthy Sergeant. We spent most of the 23rd sneaking around to make sure the preparations were finished. We were planning to decorate the tent while Rory slept, with popcorn balls and a small fir tree so that the decorations would be useful to both holidays. That night, we waited until Rory had gone to sleep. In order for this to work, we had to feign sleep ourselves and I had thought I was doing well until I felt something poking me. I rolled over and opened my eyes to find Patrick standing over me holding a lantern and looking amused. "Got a little too into the act, did you, lad'" He chuckled, and I had to smile as I rubbed my eyes. "Maybe a bit," I acknowledged as I rolled out of my bunk. I narrowly missed Ted, who was also just waking up, but when we left the tent as stealthily as we could, Jack was already standing outside with his coat pulled tight around him, blowing on his hands to warm them. He had an axe tucked under his arm to chop down the tree. "Let's get this over with," he whispered, "and then we should build the fire up as hot as we can. I'm frozen already." There was a chill wind whipping around us, and my coat did little to protect me from it. "We've got to find a tree," Patrick whispered. "Let's go see if the sentry will let us go into the forest." We nodded, too cold to stand around and talk about it and we headed in the direction of the forest, near which a sentry was posted. Inside my mittens I had my fingers crossed. If the sentry was friendly, there would be no problem. I could come up with the names of a few men, however, who would be more than happy to detain us a while. Long enough for hypothermia to set in, at least. Luckily for us, the man on sentry duty was a friend of Jack's from home. He had lived in Jack's building and let us by with a cheery threat of, "If you desert, Jack Lynch, I know where you'll be heading back to," and a laugh. We walked into the forest by the light of Patrick's lantern and drew a little closer to each other. Somehow, darkness is more frightening in the biting cold and we wanted to be closer to the light. Luckily for us, we didn't have to go very far to find a tree we liked. It was about as tall as my waist, and had room for the popcorn balls we had made, at great expense, and which were intended to be eaten as dessert, so as not to let them go to waste. We cut the tree with Jack's axe- I can't really say that we chopped it, because it was too small for that. With just a little more patience we could have uprooted it entirely. As it was, Ted took the tree on his shoulder and we hurried back in the direction of camp. "Friend or foe'" the Sentry greeted us. "Friend," Patrick told him confidently. "Advance, friend, and give the countersign." We were at a complete loss. We didn't know the countersign and couldn't begin to guess. "Don't you know it'" came the sentry's laughing voice. "Christmas tree'" Patrick joked. "Pickled herring," Ted chimed in. "Or maybe it was hedgepig. I can't remember." "How about 'let me through, Aiden Connor, or I'll bash your head in'," Jack supplied dryly. "That sounds about right," Connor chuckled. "Merry Christmas, lads." "Merry Christmas, Connor," we replied and headed back to our own tent. Once we got there, we stole next door to fetch the popcorn strings and decorate the tree with them. We dig a hole in the floor, which was just dirt anyway, off to one side of the door, nearest Rory's bed, and set the tree trunk in it, then used the excess dirt to hold the tree in place. We wrapped the popcorn strings around it, then went to bed at last, still shivering. Ted was the last to lie down, having drawn the short stick and therefore being the one to stoke the fire. This time, I found it extremely difficult to go to sleep. I couldn't wait to wake in the morning and see Rory's face. When I finally drifted off, however, I slept heavily all night long. I woke in the morning when Patrick nudged me with his foot- he was climbing down from his bunk. I rubbed my eyes and it took me a second to remember the night before. Then, I was wide awake and my eyes swung to Rory's bunk. He was eyeing the tree, and looking as though he had questions he was afraid to ask. "It's for you," Ted supplied. "Happy birthday, Rory." "Yeah," the other three of us chimed in. "Happy birthday!" Rory ducked his head, but we could see how wide his smile was. "Thanks, lads," he said in his shy voice. "What's more," Patrick jumped in, "We have presents for you." He produced the package from where he had hidden it under his greatcoat at the foot of his bunk. "For me'" Rory asked, wide eyed. Patrick nodded, his own grin as wide as Rory's. It was one of those aspects of Patrick's personality that was just about too good to be true. He loved to give things to other people, and he seemed to enjoy it more than receiving things himself. He told me once that he liked the looks on their faces- it made his time seem worthwhile. "Open it," Jack urged, leaning over Rory to join in the fun. Rory pulled his knife out of his pocket and slowly cut the string on the package, savoring every moment. He folded the paper back from the items carefully and to his obvious delight the first thing on top was a card. The girls had clearly gone to a lot of work with it. Maura, who drew well, had sketched a camp scene with a group of boys who were clearly us. I was impressed- you could tell from the picture who we were supposed to be. There was Jack grinning at Ted, who was poking the fire with something. Patrick's head was thrown back in laughter and I looked to be shaking my head over something. Rory wore his usual solemn look, but Maura had managed to capture the sparkle in his eyes and that soft way he had of smiling to himself. I couldn't imagine where she had gotten the supplies. Rory marveled over the drawing for long minutes, examining the fire, each of our faces, the trees. "It looks just like us," he said in amazement. We agreed. "Open it," Jack suggested, his patience gone. Rory did so and, with a light blush, handed it to me to read. Dear Rory, Happy Birthday! We hope that you have a wonderful celebration and many happy returns of the day. Then each family member had written a short note and signed their name: Son, Many congratulations on your birthday and merry Christmas! ~ Finbar and Kathleen Murphy Dear Rory, We hope you enjoy the card, Maura put lots of work into the drawing. Bridget hopes you have the chance to eat lots of sweets and that they are not too expensive for soldiers. If they are, she will send you some more in the future. Yours, Bridget and Maura Rory, Be careful of Patrick, he believes in birthday punches, or at least he does for his little sister, Colleen But the best letter came from my mother. When I read it aloud, Rory looked down at his hands and smiled that dreamy smile that meant he was thinking seriously. His eyes were shining with tears that he didn't want to shed when he looked back up. Dear Rory, Take care of yourself, and enjoy your day! I hope you like the preparations the lads have made. They think the world of you, if you don't know it you should. We agree with them- it was a joy to have you with us this summer, and the house seems quite empty without you. We are anxiously awaiting the day when we can see you again. Love, Mother O'Suilleabhain Rory stared at his hands for a long time. His chin was trembling and he was taking deep breaths, as though to keep himself from crying. After a few minutes, we pretended not to see a tear drop from his face to his hand, or to see him draw a hand across his eyes. As soon as he felt it was proper, Jack burst out, "Have a look at your presents!" Rory laughed and put the card aside with great care before turning back to the package. The most obvious item was a scarf, a lovely blue one, with long tassels at each end. Rory picked it up to admire it, and embroidered near the tassels were his initials, R. C. in lighter blue. He wrapped it around his neck, grinning, and turned back to the package. The next thing there was a St. Christopher medal, something I recognized as Mother's choice. St. Christopher was the patron saint of the military and travelers, and Mother had been praying to him for us every night since we had first enlisted, and this gift would come with her special blessing. There was an orange in there, too, which the cold had kept good for Rory, and a generous handful of candy. Rory removed all his gifts to examine them, and handed around one piece of candy for each of us. We tried to refuse, but he wouldn't let us and I realized as I took the gift that this was his way of trying to do something for us, an unusual occurrence. We thanked him and ate the candy, good molasses candy I could see my sister having made herself. Then, that evening, there was the cake. Rory had walked around all day wearing his new scarf, his chest stuck out proudly, showing off for the first time. The other men noticed as well. "That's a nice scarf you've got, lad," Sergeant O'Malley said with a wink. "Present from your sweetheart'" Rory went scarlet. "It- I- it was-" he stuttered and the Sergeant laughed. He winked and walked on without another word, leaving Rory standing there speechless, his hand on the tassels of his scarf. After a long pause, during which Jack bit his lip until it nearly bled to keep from laughing, his face turning red from bottled-up mirth. Patrick was grinning widely, and I had a feeling that he was also trying to hold in his laughter. "Rory, lad, come back here for a minute," he suggested. Ted was in the tent next door, waiting for the signal to come in with the cake. Rory, who never disagreed with what was asked of him, followed Patrick inside. Before ducking in, however, Jack doubled up, his laughter exploding. "Did you see the look on his face'" he asked between gales of laughter, holding his sides, tears running down his face. He wiped them with his sleeve. "Ah, poor Rory," he chuckled, "but it was just so funny…" he had a good laugh and I waited as patiently as I could, rolling my eyes, and after a second, Patrick stuck his head out. "Jack, do you know we can hear every word in here'" Jack's eyes went wide. "Oops." "That's right. Now why don't you come inside'" "Right. Sorry, Rory," Jack said, blushing as he went inside, but Rory just shrugged. He was laughing a little too, though he was still blushing. Looking around at us, Patrick raised his eyebrows and Jack and I nodded. Rory looked mystified. Without warning, Patrick stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled so loudly that the three of us ducked instinctively and covered our ears. Ted came through the door just a second later. "Jesus Mary and Joseph, lad, what the hell did you do that for'" he grumbled, shaking his head, but after a second he brightened up. He was holding the cake and he offered it to Rory. "Happy Birthday," he said and Rory's jaw all but dropped. "Cake'" he blurted out, and we were so happy to have shocked him out of himself that we all started to laugh again. "Cake," Ted affirmed, and he pulled out his pocket knife in anticipation. "Would you like a slice'" Rory nodded enthusiastically, and slices of cake were handed all around. Out of the darkness that night came a voice, the last thing we heard before going to sleep- "Thanks for the birthday, lads." It was Rory, masking his shyness with the dark, but sounding as though he had never been happier. The next day was Christmas, with more gifts from home and more sweet things from my sister. It was almost less eventful than Rory's birthday. We had eaten most of our food to celebrate that, though we were careful with the cake and finished it for Christmas dinner. We spent the night with the rest of the regiment, though, around a huge fire that company B had made. It was a chilly night, but we sat as close as we could to the fire and ended up in the middle of a huge crowd of men and so were warm enough. There was music, and a boy even younger than Rory played the fiddle while his father played the bagpipes. They played the old songs I remembered from Ireland, songs I had always heard sung at celebrations in town, or songs my Mother had sung to us. Everyone was quiet and listening intently, no doubt remembering the old country and the families we had left behind. That boy sure could play. When they finished their concert, there was a long silence. I looked around at my friends- I'm that kind of person- and studied their faces. Jack, typical of him, was grinning and Rory was looking dreamily into the fire. Patrick had his chin in one hand and I was surprised to see Ted actually wipe away what might have been a tear- although then again, it might just have been a speck of dust. Finally somebody broke the silence and a group of men danced a jig and performed a little, and then we all sang in unison, the entire regiment belting out whatever tunes we could think of to sing. "The Girl I Left Behind Me" was sung twice, as was "Silent Night" and my throat was sore by the time we were finished. There was a midnight Mass to be celebrated, and all five of us went in a group. "It's been years since I went to Mass," Rory confessed quietly as we took our places. "On the farm, they didn't believe in that." Jack shook his head and Ted looked angry- we heard little about Rory's years on that farm, but what little we had heard gave us cause to hate the place intensely. Patrick just put his arm around Rory's shoulders and said, "Well, you'll celebrate Mass in style tonight, lad. No place like an army camp, eh'" He laughed a little. "And my mother said the army'd ruin me." There were chuckles from the few men within earshot, and we made ourselves comfortable for a Mass that was very cold, but which still managed to feel like home. We finally headed back to our tent more than an hour later. On the one hand, I was unwilling for the evening, which I had enjoyed immensely, to be over and on the other I was suddenly so homesick that I wanted to go to sleep and wake up on another ordinary day when there was nothing to miss at home. January consisted of more drill, more snow, more picket duty and monotony. We near froze and it took all the wood we could find to keep warm at night. In early February, however, Thomas Francis Meagher took command of our Irish Brigade, as a Brigadier General, and when the news was passed around camp- and news passes particularly quickly in army camps- there was a huge spontaneous celebration. There was more dancing and singing, whiskey was removed from the hiding places in which any man with whiskey left to hide had been secreting it, and the bottles were passed around. Our officers watched and participated in the celebrations with great amusement, and toasted the General themselves, as well. Out by one of the many bonfires that had sprung up, fire being a necessity for any celebration that winter, I was standing with my friends, warming my hands, when one of the men looked over in our direction. "Coleman, lad'" he asked. Rory looked up, curious. "Would you sing for us, or play something on that fife of yours'" The man looked slyly at Jack. "No need to accompany him, though, Lynch. He makes pretty enough music without your thumping." Jack laughed good naturedly. His drumming was better than it had been, to be certain, but it was nowhere near as good as Rory's fife music, nor so pleasing to the ear. Rory nodded and drew from his pocket the fife that he always kept close by him- I had seen him sleep with it in his hand- and blew experimentally over the instrument. It was freezing cold and he needed a minute to warm it up, but after a few seconds he began a beautiful rendition of "Home Sweet Home" and the group around the fire lapsed into a silence. After that was finished, he put his fife away and sang a few tunes. We all sang along- beautiful though Rory's voice was, it was more fun to sing these songs in chorus. Chapter Eight Those events were the high point of our winter- other than that, it was lots of drilling and plenty of trying to keep warm. I was actually grateful when, one day in March, we were told to gather what we needed and prepare to march. At least, we thought, we would be warm. Beneath the joking, though, I was nervous. I remembered how things had gone last time. I remembered vividly how it had felt to worry about Patrick, and the sounds of Jack and Rory crying after their ordeal tending the wounded. Still, I gave myself the mental shake I needed and sternly told myself to "be a man, Micheál." We got into formation, and I was comforted to notice that the whole regiment was humming with nervous noise. "Well, here we go again," Ted commented, seeming not to worry about the fact. Rory nodded and I was a little surprised to see how calm he looked. He appeared totally unafraid. His mouth was set in its usual serious expression and he was surveying his surroundings without a hint of unease. Only Jack looked as I felt- genuinely nervous. Patrick, being Patrick, was grinning with excitement. We marched off, away from Camp California and at some point on the long, tedious march the rumor spread that we were going back in the direction of Manassas. I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to pretend that didn’t bother me. As it happened, however, we didn't make it that far. We were at a place called Warrenton Junction, a name I didn’t hear until later, when we were told to halt. A shot was fired, and when I heard the whinny of a horse nearby I realized we were dealing with the Confederate cavalry. We were ordered to fire, and I realized I was shaking with nervousness. Then, the skirmish was over, as soon as it had begun. There were no dead, and no wounded. We had fired a few volleys, the Confederates had fired a few back, but they had fled. There was no more danger from them and it was all over. My hands shook for an hour afterward and cold sweat dripped down my back. Jack laughed when it was over. "Well, that was exciting," he said, but his face was pasty. Patrick looked at both of us, concerned, and put a hand on my shoulder briefly. I looked over at him and nodded calmly. I would be fine. "We'll be going back to camp," came the order, not very much later and the whole regiment seemed to deflate a bit. We had been expecting something more, at least that we would be away from camp for a prolonged period. Instead, we went back to Camp California to reclaim our old spots and our old campfires. This was disappointing, but we didn't have much longer there to wait than we had waited for the skirmish to be over. Just a few days later, we were again ordered out. We were to take everything, we were told. We would be shipped down the coast for a campaign there. Jack had been looking nervous ever since we learned that we would be sailing to our next location, and I grinned as I remembered our voyage to America. "Have you been on the water again since then'" I asked him as we stood waiting to board our transport, the "Columbia". She was a fine steamer and looked like a smooth sailor, to my practiced eye. I appreciated anything larger than the fishing boats in which my Da had drowned. "No, not once," Jack said, frowning. "And I’m not looking forward to this a bit, either." "What's the matter'" Ted asked and Patrick, who had heard the story a dozen times, answered, "Jack gets seasick." "No matter, lad," Ted said airily, "We'll stay up on deck and you'll be fine. We'll only be on the water overnight." "I'm not sure that'll help," Jack said grimly and he was right. I was happy to be on the water again, where I felt I belonged. We stayed on the deck, instead of going below, and I walked over to the edge and leaned out over the water and let the wind blow my hair back and cool me off. Patrick joined me after a moment. "Puts me in mind of Ireland," he said, "you on a boat, the wind, the clouds like that and the stars…" "Puts me in mind of my Da," I said softly. Patrick nodded. In January, it had been three years since the accident. "Do you remember," Patrick began, his voice barely more than a whisper, "when we were young, your Da and mine took us out on the boats to teach us to fish' The sun was shining, and the hills were that bright green and the cliffs stretched all the way up to the sky." I nodded. "I remember." "And then our Da's took one boat off to do some real fishing where we couldn't ruin their catch and left us alone to practice rowing about. They were never out of sight, but they seemed so far off." "And I got scared," I recalled. "And you promised-" "I'd always be there when you needed me. Like brothers." "Like my brother," I nodded. We stood that way in the wind, under the stars, for a long time, staring out over the water in the direction of home, staring as though, if we looked long enough, green, shining Ireland would appear over the horizon. Our concentration was broken after long minutes when Jack staggered to the railing and leaned over it. He clung to the side of the ship and lost his supper, then his dinner and, as far as I could tell, his breakfast, too. "Mary, mother of God," Patrick muttered. "You weren't kidding a bit, were you'" "He can't sail," I affirmed. "Jack, can we do anything'" He shook his head, and stayed bent over the side until there was no more breakfast to lose, and then, knowing that it was safe, he sank down against the side, white and shaking. We covered him with a blanket and took our ease sort of sitting or lying around him, and fell asleep. We woke in the morning to find Jack already wide awake, grey faced and looking off into the distance. The ship had docked- that was what had woken us- and we picked Jack up and hauled him off the ship. He started to look better almost as soon as we got onto solid land again, and by the time we marched off he was normal again, and starting to complain that he hadn't eaten. That afternoon, we got straight to work. We were to lay down roads and dig gun emplacements for the artillery which would arrive in the next few days. We had dinner after we had set up our tents, and then began digging. Within half an hour we had stripped to our waists and were sweating and, although we tried to ignore it, burning in the sun. Patrick and Ted were on the road crew, while Jack, Rory and I dug gun emplacements and looked forward to the setting of the sun. Mid afternoon on the fourth day, one of the men came running over, looking for an officer who was directing the digging. "Sir," the man panted, "There's been an accident." Everyone within earshot stopped digging and turned their attention to the conversation. "What happened'" the officer asked. "A tree fell on one of the men, sir. He's dead." "Do you know who it was'" "Patrick-" the man panted, and my blood ran cold for a second, "Casey, sir. From Company B." The officer shook his head. "I'll be writing a letter home to somebody, I suppose. Who were his messmates'" "I don't know, sir," the man replied, "but he had a note on him, with his wife's name and address." The officer nodded solemnly. "I'll send her a letter tonight, then." And with that we turned back to our work. That was how life went in the army. We were at this work into May. Our camps, though not quite as nice as our winter quarters, got to be very nice. A few of the men made pine bough arches for the ends of the rows of tents, and we hung ornaments of various kinds between the tents, just to make camp look nice. Emerging from the tent one morning, Patrick started laughing and when I poked my head out to see what was so funny, he simply pointed to a shamrock hung on a tree between a couple of tents. It was huge and gaudy and how they had made it with the materials that could be found locally, we had no idea. There was also, in this low, wet location, an outbreak of malaria among the troops. We were lucky enough not to catch it, any of the five of us, but plenty of the men in our company spent time in the hospital. We had been in this camp for a week when a letter arrived for Patrick. It was from his sister, and when it was handed to him he tore it open as fast as he could, hoping for news of his brother. He wasn't disappointed. Dear brother, We've finally had a letter from Declan and so I'm writing you just as I promised I would. As we suspected, Declan has run off and enlisted. He is a private now, he tells us, but he won't say what Regiment he's in. He's afraid that Da will go and bring him back, and tell his officers that he's too young to be in the army. He has plenty to be afraid of, Da is that angry. Mother is just sad. She misses you and she's terribly worried about Declan. We all are. If you should see or hear of him, please find out what you can and let us know. He did promise to write to us, though we can't write to him, and I will be sure to let you know how he is doing. We are all well, by the way, and we were delighted to receive your last letter. Say hello to Micheál and Rory for us, and the other boys. Your sister, Colleen "Well," Patrick said, tight-lipped, when he had finished the letter. "Now we know. The lad's run off, like a fool." He shook his head. "He'd better take care of himself, that's all I'll say." It wasn't, of course. "I can't believe he'd just run off and leave Mother and Da like that, and then, when he finally gets it in his head to write after all this time and tell them he's alive, he won't even tell them where he's gone! Colleen hopes I'll see him' Well, he'd better hope I don't. I think I'd wrap my hands around his neck and throttle some sense into him!" I I ignored the ranting, only nodding every so often to keep up appearances. Patrick was letting out a few months' worth of frustration, and I knew that his anger burned hot and fast and that he'd cool off soon. On May third, we had a false alarm like the one we'd marched off to at Warrenton Junction. We were told that we'd be marching to Richmond, but by the time we arrived at Williamsburg, not that far away, the fight was over and the Rebels had been handily dispersed- by somebody else. We were left to get back on ships and be sent, yet again, to a place called West Point ("Isn't that supposed to be a bit farther North'" said Patrick.) where we began to work our way more slowly towards Richmond. All along the way we dug trenches and laid down roads until we were exhausted. This was not, it seemed to us, what we had come for. In fact, it was the end of the month before anything happened which was worth relating. As it happened, General Meagher had organized what the men were calling a "Chickahominy Steeplechase", a day to leave the trench digging behind and relax. The General had certainly made his plans well. There were going to be horse races, on which men were betting, and also sack races on which the men were also betting, but smaller sums and less seriously. Even the drummer boys were to have a mule race, and Jack was looking forward to participating. He had been spending every evening for the last week getting acquainted with his mule, a stubborn old mare he called Daffodil. "You'll see when I win," he would say, turning up his nose when we laughed at him. "Daffodil's a good girl. She won't let me down." And he'd smile in an obnoxious, superior way and go back to brushing his donkey and giving her grass out of his palm. Though the sound of cannon fire had been echoing all day, the festivities began as planned with one of the horse races, for which we were all excited. Even the men who did not have money riding on the outcome came to watch, and each of us had a favorite. Patrick and I had a private bet- there was no money involved, but the winner would be doing the loser's picket duty on some dark, rainy night. It was a high-stakes wager. We watched as the men confidently mounted their horses and took off on the track that had been laid out. "Come on, laddie," Patrick was yelling, enjoying the thrill, not caring if he won. I'm a nervous spectator, and simply watched in silence, gnawing on my nails as the horses flew out of sight and then, presently, back into it. Patrick's horse was in the lead, and won by a great length. "Oh, well, guess that's a few more hours sleep," Patrick teased me as he went over to pet the horse who had run so well for him. There was a prize for the winner, and after it was given out half the brigade went to find those who owed them money, or tried to slink away without being noticed by those to whom they were in debt. The mule race was not much later, and I was glad of it because Jack had been increasingly obnoxious as the time drew closer. He was promising to show us all what Daffodil was made of and there was nothing we could say to make him stop talking about the race. We knew perfectly well what would happen; donkeys were involved, and therefore the race would drag on as the boys tried to urge their mounts forward and, simultaneously, convince their competitors' mounts to stay where they stood. It was going to be neither, though chances were good that it would be comical. The seven musicians who had been elected to participate- to nobody's surprise, Rory was not interested in riding a donkey to be laughed at by the better part of the Brigade- mounted their donkeys and sat in anticipation, clinging on as the donkeys stomped and scraped against each other. When the signal was given to start the race, however, we could only stare in shock. As the other donkeys plodded forward, in more or less the direction their riders had been hoping for, Daffodil trotted neatly forward and, presently, out of sight in the direction the horses had gone. The other donkeys trailed behind, providing plenty of humor for the wags who offered commentary, but they had only just disappeared when Jack and Daffodil came back into view, still at a calm trot. Jack's nose was so far in the air that I thought he was trying to sniff the clouds. Patrick was weeping with laughter and most of the Brigade applauded Jack and Daffodil as they crossed the finish line, lengths ahead of the other competitors. Dropping the rains, Jack leaned over and hugged Daffodil around her neck. She danced backwards and a hearty voice cried out, "Laddie, it doesn't count if she goes back across the finish line!" Even Jack had to laugh at that, and he urged Daffodil well across the line before dismounting and stooping to hug her again. He was awarded a prize, and he pulled some carrots out of his pockets for Daffodil as he accepted it. There was a round of applause for Jack, underscored by cannon fire, and one for his "trusty steed" as he credited her in the dramatic acceptance speech he made- Jack was that sort of boy. Afterwards, as the next race started, Jack took Daffodil off to find the best patch of grass and to give her a good rub-down and make a fuss over her. He was that sort of boy, too. The sack race was half over when, all of a sudden, there echoed over our cheers and laughter the sound of cannon fire, as there had been all day, but louder this time. The officers conferred briefly, and then issued the order to be ready to leave at a moment's notice. That put an immediate stop to the festivities. When we reached our tent, Jack was coming from the other direction at a run and within minutes we had our equipment on, had gathered our guns or, for Jack and Rory, instruments, and were assembled. We were to take as little as possible- just two days worth of rations and none of our belongings. We got ready, and then waited to be ordered to the battle. Soon enough, the orders came for us to go and, squaring our shoulders and taking up our guns, we went. Chapter Nine It was late that night, getting on 10 o'clock, when we arrived at the battlefield- or at least where it had been the day before. We were greeted when we arrived there by the sight of lights moving across the fields. As we got closer, it became apparent that these were chaplains and surgeons. One of the Chaplains came over to us, asking for the surgeon of our regiment. "God bless you," he said, upon being directed to him. "Can you help us'" "Of course," came the reply. "Tell me what to do. It was explained, well within our hearing, that they were searching the battlefield for the wounded, to bring them in before it was too late, and before the battle began again. "We only have the night," the Chaplain explained. "I wish I could say there was some likelihood of rest, but there's no good chance of that." "Of course not," our surgeon replied. "No matter." He took up his lantern and left with them, as did both two Chaplains of our brigade, and the quartermaster. For our part, we went off to another part of the field to rest, farther from where the fighting had taken place. After what we had seen, I was shaken. Jack looked a little pale, too, but I noticed that, as always in times of stress or fear, Rory looked calm, as though he had sealed the important part of his feelings away where they would be intact when this was all over. His expression was serene, and his eyes looked far off in the distance. When we were told to make ourselves comfortable for the night, we checked the ground thoroughly before we lay down. We were right close to the action when an officer with a General's insignia rode up the next morning with our orders. "Good, you're here," he was heard to say, and he gave our officers their orders. We were to be supporting some of the troops who were being pushed back by the rebels. It would be our first real battle since Manassas; I held out no hope that we would only be meeting skirmishers this time, that they would turn and run. They hadn't done so yet, they weren't going to just because the Irish Brigade showed up on the field. We advanced, General Sumner beside us. "Boys," he called out over the roar of guns and cannon, "I am your general. I know the Irish Brigade will not retreat. I stake my position on you." He looked so confident in us that for a moment I really felt better. I felt as though I could get through whatever we were about to do, and I headed forward, doubly determined. Patrick had his jaw set in that determined way, and Ted was glaring. They were as frightened as I. I wondered what my own face looked like. My boost of confidence lasted only so long, however. As we advanced we came upon the first of the wounded and, as at Manassas, this reminder of what awaited us made my knees go weak. There was a man right in front of us who had been shot through the body. He was lying flat on the ground and when I got a look at his face I realized he was dead. He wasn't the only dead man we saw in that moment either, but worse than the dead were the wounded, some of them screaming, some just lying completely still, their gasping for air the only clue that they were alive, and others urging us on with their dying breaths. There was a long scream and when I realized it was my own voice, that I was giving vocal vent to the adrenaline flowing through my veins, I had the unreasonable reaction of feeling embarrassed. I felt myself blushing, even as I hollered, and it wasn't until I snuck a look to see if anyone was looking at me that I realized that the voice was not only mine. Patrick's mouth was wide and Ted looked to be yelling something specific, though the noise was too great for me to determine what. We stayed in that place and fired into the rebel ranks. After a couple of volleys I learned to aim for a uniform and not to wince when a man fell. I don't know how long we were there, yelling as loudly as we could, and firing into their ranks, but I do know that every time they tried to gain another few yards of ground we strode forward and took a few yards of our own. Before I knew it, we were fighting hand to hand, and I was too caught up in everything that was happening to worry about what I was doing. It was a matter of killing or dying, and I did everything I could to kill and not to die. A confederate came at me, and I could see a knife in his hand. Gripping my gun, I knocked his hand aside and brought the butt of it down on his shoulder. He yelled and backed, off, only to be shot through. Patrick clasped my arm, just for a second, until I had to use my own gun to throw a man off of Patrick's back. He and Ted and I fought with our backs together for I don't know how long until at last we were ordered back. As we began slowly the way we came, I was shocked to see men still on the battlefield. Had they been there the whole time' I saw that Ted was watching too, and Patrick explained for us; "The surgeons," He said, pointing, "and the Chaplains. They've been there since before we started fighting." I nodded, in awe, and we fell quiet as we retreated back to the position we had come from. I was trying desperately to catch my breath. My throat felt sore. I looked over at Ted to see how he was holding up and was amazed to find that he actually looked refreshed. "Aren't you exhausted'" I croaked and he laughed. "Why would I be tired'" he teased. "No, lads, this gets my blood going better than anything I've ever done." He stretched, flexing his strong arms and settled in again, leaning on his gun and waiting for further orders as we all were. We were ordered back into camp, across the River, and we settled in again. Once again we pitched tents and built up a fire pit and made ourselves comfortable. We drilled, still, and one late night when Patrick had picket duty, he called in his won bet and I lost some extra sleep. We also seemed to have more free time than before, as the drill schedule lightened up. One night, sitting around the campfire, we drifted into one of our rare reflective moods. As you can imagine, it was hard to get us all serious at once, but in general we all seemed to share moods, so that if one was happy the others were as well and when one was upset the others were upset on his behalf. Never again in my life would I be so close to a group of people. There was something weighing heavy on my mind. "Patrick," I asked, "If I died…" I trailed off, turning the thoughts over in my mind. "What if I died'" "You're not going to die," he replied automatically, in a firm voice. "What if I did'" Ted, at least, took me seriously. "We'd write your mother," he said solemnly. "And have the chaplain pray over you. And we'd bury you someplace peaceful." "Nobody's going to die," Jack put in. He was an optimist to a fault. "At least, not any of us," he added as an afterthought. He knew as well as we did that somebody was going to have to die. "Just a bunch of Rebs." But even Jack couldn't turn the conversation lighthearted. "If I die," came a quiet voice, "nobody will even notice." It was Rory and when I looked over he was wearing what I thought of as his 'battle face'. It was that stoic expression that was such a shock on a timid boy. "Rory, we'd notice," Patrick protested. "Sure," Rory said, smiling sadly at him, "But it's not the same. If you die, your Mother and Da will miss you. If Micheál dies, his sisters will be sorry. If Ted dies, he'll have that clan of girls wishing he was there." This was a long speech, and he paused. "If I die," he said slowly, after long minutes, "It won't make much difference to anybody." Another long pause. "So if anyone dies," Rory finished, staring into the camp fire with his face set so calmly, the way he took all disaster, "it had better be me. Better me than you." I snuck a look around, as was my habit. Patrick looked very solemn and Jack looked downright shocked. Ted, though, looked like he understood and he put a hand silently out to grip Rory's shoulder. Rory looked over at him and smiled a little and then went back to the fire. "Rory," Ted said after a minute, "will you give us a song'" Rory nodded, always willing to oblige such a request, and began to sing "The Vacant Chair". It was a sad song for a somber evening, and our minds were at home while Rory sang the song of a family whose supper table would have one place forever empty. There was no more conversation that night, and after a while we all went silently to bed. When we woke in the morning, it was hot and sunny, a beautiful Virginian summer day, and I couldn’t feel any of the melancholy and bad feeling of the night before. The whole week was like that and after a few days the heat was just about unbearable. Coming off sentry duty one day, Ted stacked his musket and stripped his shirt clean off. "Do you think it could be any hotter'" he asked, throwing himself on the ground. "Careful what you wish for," Jack replied. "In August," I added, "you'll see how hot it can get. Don't you remember'" "Wish I didn't," Ted replied, and pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face with it. Suddenly Jack, who had been lounging back on one elbow, sat up straight and said, "Let's go swimming." Everyone sat up at that idea, for the first time feeling like there was a point to having woken up that morning. "What are we waiting for, then'" Patrick asked, and we all sluggishly got to our feet and headed off in the direction of the river. It wasn't until we were getting close enough to see it that we perked up and began to move a little faster. When we reached the grass near a slower part of the river, we stripped off down to our drawers and waded into the water. "Ooh, that's cold," I complained, and Patrick, who was already in up to his waist, splashed me. "Stop whining, Micheál, and dive in," he laughed. I shook my head and was about to splash him back when he dove away into the river. He surfaced, swimming like a fish and his hair streaming water. Ted waded in, roughly as he did everything, spraying water and splashing it back at Jack, Rory and I, who preferred to get in more slowly. After a second, more or less drenched, Jack shrugged and dove in. He came up gasping and grinning. "It's cold!" he exclaimed, and immediately dove back under and popped up again downstream. Even Rory smiled and waded out to duck under the water where it was deeper, leaving me standing alone on the bank. I disliked cold water intensely now, although as a child I had enjoyed swimming. I was making my way slowly into the water when I realized that Rory and Jack were in the water in front of me but that Patrick was nowhere to be seen. I looked around frantically, unreasonably nervous that I couldn't find him and just as I opened my mouth to yell, somebody grabbed my shoulders. My breath caught in my throat. Suddenly, Jack and Rory were next to me, grabbing my ankles and I realized with a start that it must be Patrick and Ted grabbing me under my arms and I began to laugh. The four of them carried me, kicking and protesting and laughing, out to the middle of the river. "One," Patrick called, "two…three!" The swung me to one side, then threw me into the river. Water went straight up my nose and it was extremely cold. I could feel myself being pulled slowly downstream and then surfacing. I was only a couple feet from my friends when I stood up, spitting river water and laughing. Patrick looked smug, Jack was struggling to stand up, and even Rory was laughing, his arms crossed over his chest. I realized, seeing the old scar, that he hadn't been shy about taking his shirt off. Now that I was finally wet, I could enjoy the water and swimming, and as soon as I had gotten the river water out of my nose, I splashed Patrick as hard as I could. He ducked, holding up an arm to shield his face, and laughed. "And what was that for'" he asked, looking thoroughly amused, as well as smug. "Well, I'm sure you put them up to it," I told him, only mock angry by now. I jumped on his back, and wrestled him under the water. Being Patrick, he stood up a second later and tossed me off, back into the water. Jack, being Jack, however, jumped on Patrick again until Ted peeled him off and we splashed and tried to duck each other until we were thoroughly exhausted. Holding onto a rock, I let myself drift in the current as I floated on my back and watched the puffy white clouds float overhead. Rory and Ted had taken places sitting on one of the huge rocks that dotted the stream, Patrick was standing straight, looking pensively downriver, and Jack was still paddling around downstream, trying to do handstands in the current. "Lads, watch this," he called and dove, hands first. His feet came up briefly, and then tipped back over in the direction of the current. Jack surfaced after a second to add, "Wait, watch this," and dive back down. Again, his feet rose, went over and fell into the water like the hands of a clock. Again, Jack surfaced. "No, wait, watch. I'll have it this time." He didn't, of course, but he came closer- his legs flailed in the air before he went back under. Finally, when he surfaced, he lay still in the water, paddling up and down lazily on his back. You could almost forget that there was a war on, and that we were supposed to be fighting it. We stayed in the water until the sun started going down, and at twilight we finally gathered up our uniforms and walked back to camp in our drawers, still dripping but, for once, cool enough. Rory seemed to forget his scars entirely until we got back to camp and had to walk past a few other campfires to get back to our tents. Then he realized that several gazes followed him every time he walked past and he was suddenly embarrassed again. He paused to pull on his shirt and flushed bright red. Jack caught his eye and simply shrugged and rolled his eyes- of course we didn't care, let the others stare if they were going to. This got a small smile out of Rory, but he pulled his shirt the rest of the way on anyway. The next few weeks were the same. Drill, chores, sweating and swimming, day in and day out. I had a few letters from home, where my sisters told me that it was hot and uncomfortable in the city, just as it was out here in the country. Maura wrote to say that she had met a young man, a Sergeant in the army who had been wounded and discharged, and that they were going to be married. She would wait, though, she said, until I was home to give her away. This made me smile, and I wrote congratulations to both of them and promised to be home as soon as I could so that they wouldn't have to wait any longer. Patrick had a letter, too- his family had heard little more from Declan, only that he was doing well. He had been sick a little earlier in the spring, but he was better again, he said, and he would not be coming home. He refused to tell them what regiment he was in or where he was, but promised that some of the men in his company knew his address and could get in touch with them "in case" as he so ominously wrote. Patrick looked angry as he read this letter, and took a long, solitary walk to cool off afterward. On a cloudy day in late June, we were ordered away from our camp to a place called Gaines Mill. The orders came in that afternoon, fortunately not on a day when we might have been off swimming. We hurried to gather our weapons and accoutrements, and then to fall in. We weren't far from the battle, and only had to march a few miles. It was better than some marches we'd done, and as always when such orders came the adrenaline was flowing and I felt like I had enough energy for two soldiers, at least. We met up with another brigade just before we crossed the bridge over the Chickahominy, our swimming spot, when we met a huge group of retreating men. There were teamsters driving horses first, and, fearing for our limbs, we jumped back and let them freely across the bridge. They were followed by crowds of men on foot. "What happened'" our general demanded, catching a Lieutenant by the arm. "Sir, we were cut to pieces," the man replied, out of breath entirely. "And you turned around and ran'" "Sir, it was better than dying there!" "Sure, and it's no honor to your country," he commented coolly. "Company G!" he called, and we marched forward. "Captain Duffy," he said, "You will escort these gentlemen back to the battlefield." He nodded sharply and turned around. "All right, lads," Captain Duffy said. "Fix bayonets!" He ordered us forward and, like herding cattle, we rounded up the men who were pouring back towards the bridge. It was difficult to look them in the eye at that moment. As we forced them back into some kind of order, some of them had panic in their eyes, and I was terrified that they would try to fight us. I wasn't sure what we might be ordered to do if they tried to keep running, but I pointed my bayonet into the crowd of men and they moved away from it, into lines. The panicked looks intensified, but I saw that some of the men simply looked defeated. They shouldered their muskets with sighs and went resignedly into formation and back to the battle. "You don't know what it's like out there, boys," one man protested, his face tired. "They've been shooting at us for hours. It's no use, us going back." Ted just shrugged. "Doesn't matter if it is or not," he said in his familiar brogue, his voice tinged with the excitement he always felt before battle. "Orders are orders, and ours are to make you follow yours." "Ted, that barely makes sense," Patrick objected. "Speak plain English for the man." "This is hardly the time," Patrick responded. "Now, you, get back into your lines and off we go." He motioned with his bayonet and the man's shoulders sagged, but he got back into formation and we drove steadily towards the rebels. Bullets began to fly over our heads with that eerie droning sound they made, and yet we went forward. I could hear a drum, and knew it must be Jack. Not being able to see him and Rory, it was my habit to concentrate on the strength of the drumbeats and to worry if they sounded fainter. We had been ordered simply to advance and advance we did, up a hill in front of us, until we reached its crest. I thought we must be crazy- the rebels were actually breaking through our lines in places, and I felt surrounded by their shot and shell, but we kept going. "Halt!" came the order at last, and this we did, holding fast to our position. The man next to Patrick was shot and fell onto Patrick's shoulder. Patrick himself staggered and righted himself on my shoulder, causing me to fire into the air a little as my balance shifted. Then, there was an eerie moment where the firing from the confederate line almost completely stopped. I had just enough time to fire off another shot and then, feeling the silence more than hearing it (a battlefield is never quiet) I looked around in confusion. Ted and Patrick were doing likewise, and at that second a volley tore into the right flank of our line. The orders came fast and furious to march in an oblique to the right, in order to return fire, and this we did. I had my gun at my shoulder and was firing round after round until at last the fighting stopped. That was all the energy I had at the time, to think that it had stopped and that I wasn't required to load the gun again, to put it to my shoulder, and to send another rebel to heaven or to hell. It was a relief. Chapter Ten We stayed right where we were that evening, the men trying to get some sleep if they could, knapsacks for pillows and the summer air plenty warm enough to make blankets unnecessary and unwanted. The clouds parted and the moon shone brightly enough for us to see. I was sitting with Patrick and Ted, picking grass absentmindedly when Jack and Rory came over, holding a stretcher. Jack looked none too happy; he never did learn to take his duties as a stretcher bearer with any degree of composure, but Rory was calm and collected. "There are a lot of wounded to be moved," he said matter-of-factly. We nodded and stood to help him, taking one of the stretchers. Not knowing what to do, we took Rory's lead. It was something new to see him bending over, checking a man's pulse, talking to him, reassuring him as he was moved onto a stretcher, and then hefting the stretcher as though it were nothing to carry the man to a field hospital. "Let's walk a bit," Rory suggested. "Most people start closer to the hospital, and sometimes the men farther out in the field have to wait." We nodded, willing to do anything Rory asked of us. We walked a far distance around the edge of the field to a spot not too far from the hospital- it was impossible to walk past the imploring voice of the wounded, and Rory stopped by a clump of trees. "Jack," he directed in a quiet voice, "go fill our canteens." Jack collected them and went to the river. "He's going to vomit," Rory informed us. I had seen Jack's face and agreed. Rory bent over a soldier lying on the ground not far from the trees, almost right at our feet. "Help me," the man begged and Rory nodded. "Of course," he said. "We'll have you back to the hospital in no time, sure. Where are you hit'" "My arm." "Ah, now, that's not so bad," Rory said cheerfully, taking a look. "I've seen worse heal." I briefly wondered where, and then realized that he was just being kind. He didn't have any more idea than I did. "We'll take you back," Rory was saying, "and get you patched up." He and Ted put the man on a stretcher and Rory moved over to speak to another man, also lying at our feet. We picked up the stretchers as Jack came back. Jack gave each of the men some water on the way to the hospital, where we lay them both out in the yard of the house. We made trip after trip, and while I caught myself yawning once or twice, Rory never seemed to tire. Jack left every so often to be sick where nobody could hear, but he held up as well as he could and did everything that was asked of him and more. You couldn’t fault his courage, even if his stomach was weak. We had been moving the wounded close to the farmhouse hospital for near on an hour when Patrick and I went to see to a young soldier leaning against a tree, one of a few soldiers in that immediate vicinity. We saw as we got closer that his uniform was grey. He looked up wearily when he saw us, and I heard him mutter, "Thank God," as his head dropped back against the tree. Patrick knelt down next to the boy. "Where are you hit'" he asked, as Rory had taught him and the boy smiled a funny smile. "Feels like everywhere," he said in a voice so quiet that I was reminded with a jolt of Rory. "I think it's my hip, though. And my shoulder." He pointed with his left hand and in the light we could see the right shoulder of his uniform, as well as most of the right leg of his trousers, drenched in dark blood. "I don't think it's still bleedin'," he drawled. "If I kin just get some rest and heal up I expect I'll be good as new." I nodded, mulling over his words- I had never heard a Southern accent before. "Well, we'll take you to the hospital," Patrick promised. "They'll see to you there. Do you want some water'" "Wouldn't say no," the Southern boy smiled and Patrick lifted the canteen to his lips. "Say," the boy continued when he'd drunk, "Why don't you leave me here a bit and take Caleb first'" "Who's Caleb'" I asked, curious. "One o' your boys. He's right there. Caleb, you awake'" "Mmhmm." The sound was a vague murmur in the dark, and we would have missed the speaker entirely if we hadn't been told where to find him. "Caleb, these boys are gonna take you to the hospital." "Mmhmm." "He's real bad," the southerner said to us. "He's shot in the body. Now, I don't know about you boys but I've seen some pretty hard fighting and that wound's bad but if the doctor sees to it he might make it." We nodded. "We'll be back for you as soon as he's at the hospital," Patrick promised, but the confederate stopped us. "You make the doctor see him yourselves, else he's not gonna have a chance. Do they keep him waiting, he'll die in the next hour." "We'll do it," Patrick promised rashly. I wasn't so sure of our powers of persuasion, but I kept my silence. We went over to where Caleb lay. He groaned once as we lifted him onto the stretcher, and then lay silent as we made our way to the field hospital. We met Jack and Rory as we got closer. They were bringing in a man at whom Rory nodded and then shook his head. If Rory wasn't holding out hope, I thought, the man must really stand no chance. Caleb, however, might still stand a chance and so I pulled Rory aside once we had laid the stretcher down. "Can you fetch a doctor for this lad'" I asked. "He… we think he has a chance, if only a doctor could see him." Rory gave me a strange look but, in charge or not he was still Rory and never said no to a direct request. After he had hurried off, Patrick looked at me. "Do you think we should go back now, after that other lad'" he asked doubtfully. "No," I replied. "We said we'd stay with his friend. We'd better do it." Patrick nodded. Caleb was stirring on the ground, and Patrick knelt down next to him. He motioned to Jack for a canteen, which Jack handed over promptly, and lifted it to the boy's lips. "Just a little, now," I cautioned. Patrick nodded and after the boy had taken a few sips he moved the canteen. "You can have some more later," he whispered and Caleb nodded briefly. Patrick sat there on the ground, holding Caleb so that he could breathe more easily, until Rory came back with a lady following him. Rory just gestured to the figure on the ground in Patrick's arms and the lady knelt down to examine Caleb. "That doesn't look too good," she whispered frankly. "Still, I've seen worse heal." From the authority in her voice, I could tell that she, unlike Rory, meant what she said. "Go fetch some water," she instructed us. "We'll get his shirt off and put a bandage on that, and then he'll stand a chance." She shoved a towel into Jack's hands and he took off for the river, carrying the two empty canteens. The canteens with water still in them were used to wet Caleb's clothes and wound, to loosen his jacket and shirt where dried blood has stuck them fast to his body. He moaned as the cloth came free, but managed to hold still and silent as the clothing was removed from his body. The lady inspected the wound as she cleaned it and we watched anxiously as her face cleared. "Not so bad as I'd feared," she said. "Look, just a tear in the front and out the back." To Caleb she added gently, "That's much better for you. We'll just bandage it up and you lie still for a bit and you'll be as good as new." His face contorted a bit- he was trying to smile but not having much success. The lady bandaged the wounds and folded his shirt for a pillow, then put his jacket over him. It was far from ideal. But there was no alternative. Patrick gave him some more water and stood up. "Let's go," he said to me. "There's still Caleb's friend out there." "Right," I agreed, remembering, and we took up the stretcher and started back as fast as we could. "How is the lad'" that quiet, anxious voice greeted us as we got closer. "What did the doctor say'" "A nurse saw to him," Patrick said. "She thinks he might make it." I could see the confederate's smile in the moonlight. "Say," he said abruptly, "what are you two paddys called'" I bristled but Patrick laughed. "Paddy," he replied. There was a chuckle from the boy. "A paddy named Paddy," he laughed. "Patrick," my friend amended, more seriously. "And you'" he asked, looking at me. "Michael," I said, pronouncing it the American way and Patrick shook his head. "Micheál," he corrected. "Which is it, then'" I sighed. "Micheál," I said. "It's the Irish way of saying Michael." "Nice to meet you, Patrick and-" He stumbled over my name- "Micheál." In his accent, it sounded like there ought to be a "w" in the spelling. I smiled in spite of myself. "I'm Dan," he told us. "I'd shake hands, but…" his voice trailed off. He laughed and then groaned abruptly. "Sorry," he apologized. "I thought I was doin' better but I'm still hurtin' some." "Right," Patrick said hastily. "Let's get you to the hospital then." We lifted the stretcher as gently as we could, and hurried off in the direction of the field hospital. All the way there, I worried. What, really, were Caleb's chances' What if he had died before we got there, or if he had been taken indoors and we couldn't find him' Dan would, I suspected, be heartbroken. My breath came faster with nerves as we neared the hospital and I caught Patrick looking around anxiously. It was hard to see in the dark, and I hoped we were going in the right direction. Then, in the middle of all those prone bodies, somebody stood up and waved. It was Jack, and we hurried over gratefully. "Good," he said in great satisfaction. "You've made it." "How's Caleb'" Dan asked and Jack shrugged. "Ask him yourself." "I'm better," came a voice, weak, but clearly stronger. "Thank God," Dan replied, his voice genuinely reverent and not a little relieved. "Rory's gone with the nurse," Jack explained to us. "He said he'd bring her back in a bit to see after your other friend." We nodded and sank down on the ground next to Dan and Caleb- I was highly reluctant to leave them now. Dan had reached out with his good hand and was holding Caleb's hand tightly as they lay on the ground next to each other. Jack and Patrick and I settled down on either side of them, a little bit protectively, and waited for Rory and the nurse to return which, after several minutes, they did. "Ah, now I get to meet you," the nurse said kindly to Dan, and I scooted out of the way so that she could bend down to examine him. She had brought bandages and, saying little, she bandaged his hip and shoulder and made him as comfortable as she could. "Do you have any water'" Dan asked Patrick. As it happened, the last of the water had gone to Caleb only a few minutes earlier and Jack was promptly dispatched to fetch more. The nurse left to look after her hundreds of other patients, and we stayed with Dan and Caleb, thoroughly exhausted. Caleb drifted off to sleep after a few minutes, but Dan was still wide awake, staring at the sky, and we tried to make conversation to keep his mind off of his situation. "How long have you been in the army, Dan'" Ted asked. "A few months," Dan replied. "I joined up in February." He paused. "I guess the war's over for me, now." "You might be one of the lucky ones," Jack said. Looking around at the other men in the yard, Dan was forced to agree. "Did you all enlist together'" he asked, looking around at the five of us. "Sort of," Patrick replied. "We all enlisted about the same time, but we met on the train when we left New York City. Now, Micheál and I have known each other since we were wee lads back in Ireland. We grew up next door to each other. His sister's going to marry my brother." His voice caught after a second. The standard joke, which had delivered by force of habit, wasn't quite so funny these days, with Declan missing. "We've known that for years," I grinned, to cover Patrick's faltering voice, and added, "I met Jack on the ship over from Ireland. Lad spent the whole voyage puking his guts out over the side." Now that the others had seen Jack on a ship, there was a round of stifled laughter. Even Dan grinned. "I could have guessed he'd have a weak stomach," Dan put in. "I seen his face when he looked at Caleb's wounds. Thought he was gonna lose his supper right then and there." "If he did, you'd probably get to see his dinner and breakfast, too." We laughed again, trying to be quiet and not disturb those around us, but happy to have some of the tension relieved, even- or perhaps especially- at our friend's expense. Jack returned with the water and, seeing how gingerly he picked through the crowd of wounded men, we grinned and when he looked at us his face took on a puzzled expression. "What'" he asked, but we just shook our heads. "How did you come to meet Caleb'" I asked, and realized almost right away that it was a bad question to have asked, although there had been no clue to that. Dan's face went solemn and his voice was choked when he explained, "I've known Caleb all my life." "Neighbors'" I asked, putting my foot that much farther in my mouth. "Cousins," Dan replied. "Don't know how we both ended up here. I'm from Virginia and his people are up in Maryland, closer to Pennsylvania, really, and I heard he enlisted but I never thought I'd see him. He's just sixteen. He shouldn't even be here." We all looked instinctively at Rory who blushed and ducked his head. "Rory enlisted young too, like Caleb," Patrick explained. "I was old enough to enlist," Dan went on. "And like I said, I knew Caleb went in the army, but he was a drummer and his Ma said he wouldn't see no fighting and so, I thought… and then I got hit and I saw him lyin' there, too, not five feet from me. I can't think how that happened but his Ma'd kill me if I let anything happen to him and I-" his voice broke and Rory opened his mouth as if to speak, but Dan cut him off again. "-I don't think I'd forgive myself either." Rory looked downright worried, and Patrick leaned over Dan, pressing his good shoulder so that he lay back. "Relax, laddie. The war's over for him too. They'll send him home and he'll be all right and when this is all over you'll both have a grand story to tell your children." Rory nodded approvingly as Dan seemed to relax. "Just look at him, sleeping there," Patrick went on. "Why, he'll be right as rain in a while and maybe the war will be over before he's old enough to enlist for real." There was a long silence and when Dan sniffed a little, his eyes still teary with pain and exhaustion and worry, Patrick kept on. "Do you know," he said, seemingly out of nowhere- only I knew him well enough to see that he had been wracking his brain for a story to tell- "When Micheál and I were… was it thirteen, Micheál'" I shrugged, and then nodded. It didn't matter, so long as Dan calmed down. Patrick continued in a soft, soothing voice, "When we were thirteen, Micheál's Da and mine took us to the city for a few days…" He talked on about our childhood in Ireland, nothing important, but just amusing little stories. I was surprised he had remembered some of those things; the time we had "run away" and slept outdoors for almost a week, the time we had dared each other to dive off one of the cliffs and had been about to leap accidentally to our deaths when the priest happened to catch us in time to give us the hiding of our young lives, the time we had tried to bake bread… I was grinning when at last Patrick stopped talking. "He's asleep," he said quietly, motioning to Dan. Indeed, Dan was resting at last, still holding Caleb's hand. We were ordered away before they woke the next morning. We wanted to leave a note, but we had no paper and so instead Jack found the nurse who promised to give them our best wishes and who herself wished us luck. I felt bad leaving there, and I wished there was some way to know what happened to those boys. I regretted not having the chance to say goodbye to them, and I knew that I would wonder for the rest of my life whether they had made it home. Chapter Eleven We left Gains Mill before the sun rose, and on our way back to our old camp we destroyed the bridge behind us. The 88th New York of our Brigade was the last to cross, although I heard that General Meagher crossed last of all and had to wade through, and we went back to our old camp. Our things were as we had left them; our tent was there and our fire pit. It was shaping up to be a hot day, and yet we crawled into our tents without stopping to eat. We were ready to collapse with exhaustion and there was not a man left awake that day. I went into my tent and didn't even bother to lay out my blanket. I simply took off my cap and jacket and balled the jacket up for a pillow and within minutes I was asleep. I woke late that day, so disoriented by the feeling of waking to bright sunlight that I wondered for a long minute where I was. It was light, and I should be waking up while it was still dark, and to the sound of a bugle… not in this leisurely way, not feeling really rested… And then it all came flooding back. Marching, battle, Dan and Caleb- and I rolled over on my back, sweating, and stared up at the tent pole, really just a branch we had cut. I lay there for several minutes until Patrick stuck his head in. "Morning," he chuckled. "We're going swimming. Want to come'" My hair was already soaked with sweat and I readily agreed to go. Swimming that day was not as playful as the last time we had been in that river. We were still tired and all of us were thinking of the boys we had left behind at that hospital. We got into the water to cool off and just sat there, leaning against rocks or floating or paddling around. Nobody felt like putting in any effort that day. Ted actually fell asleep sitting in the water. We let him sleep until we were ready to go. We ate a cold supper again that night, and let the clear summer sky provide the light we needed. We were lounging around what was sometimes our fire pit, and therefore our usual spot, when the orders came for the Brigade to march immediately to Savage Station. We got up slowly, not really wanting to fight, lacking the energy to move, and started to gather our guns. I was dreading going into battle again, and I have never felt so relieved as I did when, just a few minutes later, the 69th was ordered off on picket duty. This was an odd thing to feel- picket duty was not the safest assignment we could have, though today, at least, it was every bit as safe as the alternative. We packed up and went off to do our turn on picket. I took playing cards in my knapsack; we would be on picket for some time and then behind the picket lines to rest a while. It was, thank God, not an eventful night. Patrick and Ted and I took our turns on picket and played round after round of cards. We got some more sleep, and woke later feeling refreshed. That was lucky for us; that night, as darkness fell, we were again ordered into formation. Our destination that night was White Oak Swamp and we marched all night to reach it. By the time we got there, I was exhausted again and nearly asleep on my feet. Ted was yawning widely and even Patrick was rubbing at his eyes. And as it turned out, it was another relatively uneventful day. We arrived at our destination in the morning and were marched into position on a hill, in the hot Virginia sun. "And of course there's no running to the creek today," I grumbled, taking my hat off and fanning my face with it. My friends ignored my complaining. Patrick and Ted were engaged in a debate over some political matter in which I had no interest, Rory was playing softly on his fife, and Jack was engaged in throwing nuts at a squirrel that sat under a nearby tree. He had a handful of nuts that he had pensively gathered off the ground and was carefully taking aim and flicking the nut in the direction of the squirrel. Forgetting where he was, Jack moved closer to the animal and tried again. He was so absorbed that he didn't notice that, somehow, the eyes of almost every man in the regiment were on him. The squirrel ran up a tree and Jack changed his aim until a nut hit home. The squirrel chattered and scrambled up a few more branches. Then, as Jack continued to flick things at it, it flicked a nut back and hit Jack squarely in the forehead. As he stepped back in surprise, the squirrel ran down the branch causing a few nuts to fall onto Jack's drum. The men of the regiment laughed then, bringing Jack back to himself. He turned to see us watching him and he laughed good-naturedly and went back to his place in line. Rory, equally oblivious to his surroundings, was softly picking out a song on his fife. He played the same few notes over and over, each time with a subtle change, until at last the notes arranged themselves into 'The Battle Hymn of the Republic" and then Rory took a deep breath and played an entire experimental verse. When this turned out as he had hoped, he played again, more confidently, and I sang along, just for fun. Patrick and Ted stopped bickering after a few lines and joined in and Jack sang lustily along, his voice loud and enthusiastic and not particularly musical. Slowly, the number of singers grew until most of the regiment was singing along in chorus. The other fifers and drummers joined in on their own instruments and Rory ended up having to lead the song twice for those who didn't catch on quickly enough. The battle began that afternoon, but we were not really part of it. We stayed right where we were as the artillery, not far from us, began firing. Some of the men of our regiment went to the artillerists to help man the guns, but there was only so much help needed and most of us stayed where we were. Late that afternoon, we had been lulled by inactivity into a sense of complacency. We were tired and hot and paying less attention to the battle as it seemed unlikely that we would end up being part of the fighting. Then, from somewhere in the distance, I heard a funny sort of thudding sound. It wasn't cannon fire, nor was it muskets. It wasn't a marching army- too loud for that. It wasn't until the source of the sound was nearly upon us that I heard something else that made me laugh out loud. With the pounding of hundreds of hooves, we could hear braying and then suddenly the regiment was set upon by a huge herd of army mules. "Hey!" Jack exclaimed, jumping to his feet as the mules came over the hill. "Where on earth did those things come from'" "I couldn't tell you, boy," said our Sergeant, overhearing, "but we'd better catch 'em, and quick. Here, you try and grab a hold of one as soon as you can." I had assumed it would be easy to catch those mules, but I was wrong. I was no farm boy, that was for certain, and when the stampeding mules got too close my courage, which had never yet prevented me from facing armed men, failed and I turned and dodged out of the way of the mules. Patrick laughed at me until a big mule brayed right in his face and then he let out a squeak that would have embarrassed our sisters and dodged behind me. "Brave lad, aren't you'" I asked, rolling my eyes and laughing at the spectacle. Ted was dealing with the mules the only way he knew how- he had one around the neck and was hanging on tightly. At last the mule gave up and it seemed to roll its eyes at having this big strapping boy hanging around its neck. He was more determined than the plow, or a wagon and the mule let Ted have his way. It stood still and began tasting his hair. "Hey!" Ted yelped "Get off me!" But as soon as his loosened his grip the mule saw its chance and began to start forward again. "Hang in there, McGrath," the Sergeant laughed. He himself was struggling with a couple of mules that were still harnessed together, but he nearly split with laughter as Ted sighed and offered the mule his hair again. Jack, in typical style, had caught one of the mules by jumping on its back. He was leaned over, whispering into its ear, and then to our amazement he sat up straight and, using its mane to steer, began riding it around to corral some of the other mules. Rory was as surprising: he assumed his battle face and calmly caught two mules by the mane and held on so tightly, walking in a calm manner backwards as they tried to continue on, that the mules eventually calmed down and gave up to eat grass. It wasn't long before the men who were supposed to have been minding the mules came along after them and helped us drive them back to their carts. When the men detailed for that task returned, we were still chuckling over our odd luck and had almost forgotten the ever more distant sounds of the battle. The battle we were in two days later, though, was one that I would never forget. It was late in the day on July 1st of 1862 and we were ordered to support the Fifth Corps at Malvern Hill, where it was being badly handled by the rebels. We had been sent forward with the 88th Regiment of our brigade, and we were constantly engaged in an odd maneuver in which one regiment would lead the advance while the other moved behind, reorganizing and pulling themselves together, and then we would switch. It worked, for a time, until the Rebels mounted an attack on our flank and the 88th moved to our left to cover us there. We had to fight side by side from then on. It was an incident which happened while we were advancing that made the greatest impression on my mind; it was an incident which, even after these years, I can't think of without being taken back to that day in the heat and smoke and which I cannot relive without hearing the screaming of bullets and men in my mind. We were advancing and as usual most of us were hollering as loudly as we could, firing as often as we were able, and putting every ounce of our effort into taking a few feet of ground at a time. Not far ahead of us, well within sight, was a thick stand of trees out of which a company of confederates were firing steadily on our ranks. After a time, they actually emerged from the trees and charged us, just one company against our regiments. Their officer was a good-looking young man, and a braver man I have rarely seen since. Very little can compare to some of the acts of courage I saw in the army, and even very few of those can compare to the chances this officer took in firing on us during our advance. "That officer has got to be taken down," our own officer said, and we could hear him with unusual clarity. "If he isn't taken down," our officer went on, "we're going to lose a lot more men before we get to those trees." "I'll do it," offered one of the Sergeants. Driscoll was a good shot; whenever there was something of this sort to be done he was the one to do it and he rarely missed his mark. For that reason, he was also a popular forager. Very calmly, Driscoll waited for the officer to show himself through the trees. The next time the Confederate company dared to venture out to fire on us Driscoll coolly raised his rifle, sighted quickly but carefully, and pulled his trigger. The officer's face, which I was watching closely though I still fired my own gun in the direction of the enemy, took on a look of complete shock. He went totally pale and the crumpled onto the grass. His company would no longer trouble us as they had been doing. "It's too bad," our officer commented. We always appreciated bravery where we saw it, in the Rebels as well as in our own men, and I never stopped regretting the death I saw. "Go see if he's dead," the officer continued, and Driscoll nodded. He went a little ahead of us, for he would be shielded somewhat by the stand of trees, and knelt next to the young Rebel officer. He turned him over gently and went as pale as I had ever seen a man. We couldn't hear the short exchange, but we all saw it. The young officer's face was filled now with pain and confusion. I saw his lips form the word 'Father'' and Driscoll nodded slowly. He put his arms around his son and held him close as the young officer slowly raised his arm and hugged his father. Then, slowly, the Rebel went limp. Driscoll laid him gently on the grass and closed his eyes. He straightened the boy's uniform and brushed his hair back, then leaned over and kissed his son's forehead for the last time. Then he stood and came back to his place in line. Tears were rolling down Driscoll's face and as we advance forward he seemed to throw himself at the enemy. When the smoke cleared, Driscoll lay in front of our line, dead. We did not speak of the incident afterwards: it is not in the nature of soldiers, nor of boys, to sit around and discuss their feelings about any incident. We simply kept going, as we knew we had to. Not long after Driscoll and his son died, the order came to fix bayonets. Grimly, we followed the order and prepared for a charged. It was in this charge that one of the men of Company B, a private named Peter Rafferty was wounded. "Get to the rear," one of the officers yelled to him, seeing him stagger upward, but Rafferty shook his head. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I can't do that," he said and kept forward, holding his gun level at the enemy. The officer shook his head and muttered something under his breath, but it was too late now and Rafferty charged forward with the rest of us. It wasn't long before he was shot again, and not just once. The officer appeared to swear under his breath but there was nothing he could do personally- he had the rest of the company to lead. The man who had been marching next to Rafferty bellowed for a stretcher bearer and it happened to be Jack and Rory who answered the call. Jack was, as always, pale at the sight of blood and simply doing what Rory told him to. They placed the stretcher on the grass next to Rafferty and quickly picked him up and put him on it and began struggling to the rear. I shot Jack a grin and nodded to Rory and we charged up the hill to meet the Confederates. We fought them literally hand to hand. We were so close that we could see their faces as we ran our bayonets through them, and they, similarly, were the last witnesses to the final words of many Irish soldiers. When we found ourselves with some room, I reached for another round- only for my fingers to close on air. My jaw dropped and I looked frantically around. Patrick only fired off another shot before his eyes met mine. He looked hopeless, and I knew that we were now in the same predicament. Patrick's spine stiffened and I could tell that he was steeling himself for the next charge forward when the order came to retreat. We didn't like to go, once we had gotten into a battle, but we had no ammunition with which to fight and so at last we turned and retreated hastily out of the reach of the Confederate guns. We re-grouped as soon as we could and marched back, in much more ragged condition, towards our old camps. We could not have been prepared for what we found there. My brigade arrived in time to see our camps burn; all our belongings in our tents were in flames and we could only stand and watch the fire shine in the dark. I could see the faces of my friends clearly. Ted's jaw was open and Patrick's face was bleak as he surveyed the ruined ground. "Where are Jack and Rory'" was all he could manage. I shook my head- I didn't know. We promptly went in search of them and in a moment when I had assumed things to be as bad as they could get, things promptly got worse. Jack and Rory were nowhere to be found. We were annoyed at first that we couldn't find them- it could be tedious searching for one or two men through the entire brigade- but our annoyance quickly turned to worry and then to something approaching panic. We went to find Sergeant O'Malley, who we trusted above almost anyone else. "Rory and Jack-"I began and couldn't go on- we had run to find the Sergeant and I was out of breath. "Rory Coleman and Jack Lynch are gone," Patrick supplied. "We think they were captured." "Don't be too hasty," Sergeant O'Malley cautioned us. "They might be around, looking for you, too and you just haven't run into each other yet. I'm sure they'll show up." We nodded, but we weren't so sure that this was the case and when, the next morning, Rory and Jack still had not shown up, we could only assume that they had been captured. "We know they didn't desert," Patrick said firmly. Ted and I agreed. We knew Jack and Rory; they would never do that. There was no question. "And…" Patrick hesitated. "Are we sure they weren't… wounded' Or killed, God forbid'" Ted and I thought about it. The truth was, we weren't sure at all and that was our fear, that Jack or Rory was wounded and we had left them behind. "I saw them with a stretcher, right before we charged," I said uncertainly. "And I saw them on the way back," Ted agreed. "Really'" "Yes, when we were retreating. You know how Rory gets. They were having some trouble with the stretcher- they weren't moving as fast as we were and I couldn't get to them to help them, and there was no way they were going leave that man behind. You know Rory," he repeated. We nodded; of course we did. "Then we know they made it through the battle," Patrick summarized. Unfortunately, that was all we knew. Chapter Twelve It was hard to accept that Jack and Rory were gone, and equally difficult was the fact that all of our belongings were gone, up in flames with our camp. Luckily, my letters from home were safe in the pocket of my jacket, but everything else I had was gone. I thought of Rory's Christmas presents- the card from my sisters, the scarf and gloves, and I knew that he hadn't been carrying them when he was captured. They were gone, now. Not, I realized, with a pang of regret, that Rory needed them now. Our regiment was much smaller now than it had been. We had fewer than 300 men now, less than half of those who had marched off to battle with us before this campaign. Some of our officers declared the intention to go back to New York to try to recruit more men. I envied them. Hearing of their plans, I was suddenly homesick. I was a little bit in luck, though. In early August, there was a package from home. I had written a long letter telling Mother, Maura and Bridget everything that had happened to us. I had left nothing out; from the mule race, to the battles; from Dan and Caleb to Jack and Rory's capture. It was the longest letter I had written since I enlisted, but I felt better when it was sent and sealed. A few weeks later, I got a reply: Dear Micheal, We're sorry to hear that it's been such a long month for you and we are praying for better luck for you in the future. As for the things you lost in the fire, we will send new of whatever we can. Do you know if Rory was carrying his St. Christopher medal' We hope so, but if not we will send another. Here is a fresh shirt and some socks, anyway. Maura says that she hopes you will come home soon so that she can be married, and Bridget hopes you will come home so that you will be here with us again. I just want you safe, wherever you are. We are praying for you and for your friends, especially for Jack and Rory. Love, Mother Patrick also had a letter from his family, saying many of the same things and also sending some necessities that we had lost in the fire. We were grateful, but I remember that summer as a hollow one, solemn and full of worry for our friends. That's not to say that there were no good times, but it was at that moment very much a time of all work and no play for us. In August, we were again ordered to march, prepared for battle, and there were rumors of another fight at Manassas, a place to which I had no desire to return. There was a fight; again the Union fought hard and was routed. We showed up too late to fight, which didn't bother me in the least. We kept a road open for the troops heading back to Washington, and I passed the battle of Second Bull Run without hearing a shot fired. Nothing felt the same without Jack and Rory. I missed Rory's music and quiet competence in any stressful situation; it helped me stay calm too. I missed Jack's antics and the way he had of finding fun in any situation. Patrick and Ted and I looked out for each other twice as diligently, now. It was just not the same without all of us there. And then, one day in September, we were sitting in front of the tents we had received as replacements for the ones burned all those months ago after the fighting at Malvern Hill. I was writing a letter home and grinning over a funny picture Maura had drawn for us, and Ted and Patrick were playing cards. We all looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps to see Sergeant O'Malley standing there, looking like he was about to burst. "Lads, I have news for you," he said, unable to conceal the delight in his voice, "It's about Lynch and Coleman. There's to be a prisoner exchange." Our jaws just about dropped. "They're coming back'" Patrick asked, disbelieving. Sergeant O'Malley nodded. "They're spending a couple days in the hospital, and then they'll be sent back here or discharged." "Why would they be discharged'" Ted wanted to know. "Well," the Sergeant cautioned, "we don't know what the conditions were like in prison. I don't want to think about it either, but they may be sick, or starving. If they aren't fit to come back to the army, then they'll be given honorable discharges and sent home." We nodded more seriously. "But the important thing is," he said, "they're coming back North, and you'll be able to see them again soon." We thanked him for the news and as he walked off again we turned and began pounding each other on the back, cheering. I could never remember being so happy in my life, except maybe the day we arrived in America. We immediately perked up, all three of us. The card game grew noisier and more boisterous and I joined it, leaving my letter to another day. The next few days were torture for us. My first thought upon waking the next morning was that Rory and Jack might be coming back. I couldn't wait to see them and was going crazy with anticipation. It didn't really occur to me that they might not be as usual after whatever they had been through in that southern prison, and I don't think it occurred to Patrick or Ted either. It was a full week before Sergeant O'Malley came by again with news about our friends. "They're in the hospital, now," he told us. "If you'd like to go see them, I don't suppose you'd be missed from afternoon drill." He grinned and winked at us. "Yes, sir!" we responded enthusiastically and quickly got ready to go. The hospital was not far off, but it wasn't a short walk either and we wanted to be there as quickly as possible. We took the things that Mother and the girls had sent to replace what Rory and Jack had lost in the fire, all packed in a knapsack along with some food that we could spare. We arrived a little later at the hospital, and realized we weren't sure where to go next. There were a couple of buildings, and we didn't know how to go about finding Rory and Jack in them. We stood there, looking around in confusion and shrugging at each other until at last a nurse hurried by with a tray in her hands. "Excuse me, miss," I began but she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I can't stop," she replied and kept going. I blushed, embarrassed at my failure. "Let me try," Patrick smiled and when the next nurse who passed by, this time carrying a load of wash, Patrick stepped over and said pleasantly, "Miss, may I help you with that'" Without waiting for her answer, he took the wash from her and carried it in the direction she was walking. "Thank you," she said, smiling at him. "Is there anything I can do for you'" "I hope so," Patrick said, so earnestly that I had to roll my eyes. "We're looking for a couple of our friends," he explained. "They were just exchanged- they've been in a southern prison since July- and our Sergeant thought we might be able to see them." "Ah, that'll be the boys they sent up from Libby Prison," the nurse nodded. We were almost to a building now and as we approached the door I stepped forward and held it for her and Patrick, who was still holding the wash. "Those boys are in this building," she told us, "and as soon as we get the wash where it's supposed to be I can take you up to see if you can find your friends." We thanked her and hurried to distribute the wash into the correct piles. The woman was smiling as we did so. "I've never seen boys so happy to do this kind of work," she remarked and we all laughed a little self-consciously. At last we had finished and we straightened up from the work, looking around at last, and ready to be going. "All right," she said, "let's go see if we can find your friends. What are their names'" "Rory Coleman and Jack Lynch," Ted told her and she shrugged. "They don't sound familiar, but none of the men do outside my own ward. I can pretty well rule out the first floor, then." We followed her up the stairs to the second floor and to the long ward there. We entered this room to find the walls lined with cots. It was a long, thin room with each cot separated by a chair and small table. Perhaps half of the beds were full. "Most of the wounded are in another ward now," our guide explained. "The men here are sick with something or have been sent north from a prison, like your friends. We don't have patients like that often, but of course now we've got a group." I thought I recognized some men from the Irish Brigade, even one or two who might have been in my regiment, but neither Jack nor Rory was in that room. We walked up and down the rows, peering into the faces we saw there, and it was no easy task. When we left that ward, the nurse took a long look at our faces and stalled entering the next ward for as long as she could, trying to let us rest. "You get used to it," she said gently as she led us into the second room. Jack and Rory were not there, nor were they in the first ward on the third floor. As we entered the fourth room full of beds, drained and terrified that we would not find our friends, a cry met us at the door. "Patrick! Ted! Micheál!" cried a voice, and as we looked frantically around to place it, we saw a soldier struggling to sit up in bed. "Jack!" I gasped and we hurried over to find Jack lying in bed, weak and thin. He was coughing and looked feverish, but he was clearly happy to see us. He grinned and stuck out a hand to shake our hands. He motioned to the next bed, and there was Rory, smiling at us in his shy way. We hugged both of them, just happy to see them alive, and at last Jack lay back on the pillow, beaming. Rory had not tried to sit up and I worried about this. "How are you lads'" Patrick asked and Ted added, in his blunt way, "You don't look too good, either of you." "Thanks, Teddy," Jack said sarcastically and Rory just laughed a little. "I'm all right," he said and, as if to prove it, sat up quite easily and reclined on the pillow. "It's just nice to be in a real bed after sleeping out in the open like that in prison," he added, as if sensing my fears. He plumped the pillow and smiled. We all turned to Jack who was pretty clearly not all right. I had seen people look worse and had been sicker myself- I thought of the night Da had drowned- but if anyone needed to be in the hospital it was Jack and not Rory. "I'm fine," Jack said defensively, feeling our eyes on him. He rubbed one hand across his forehead and then coughed at length into his fist. "Now that I'm free again, eating and all, there's nothing wrong." This was such a blatant lie that only Jack could have told it. "There were a lot of men sick in prison," Rory explained. "There was fever going around. I guess Jack caught it." "How long has he been sick'" Patrick asked. "A few weeks now. He was worse before. Most were." We looked at Jack again, processing this information. "I'm fine!" Jack protested, but when he tried to sit up as Rory had done he yawned and fell back on the pillows. "Sure," he admitted, "I'm not as well as I could be but I'll be all right in a few days." Rory smiled at him. "Of course you will," he said. The nurse had been occupied on the other side of the ward, but she came over now and took a spoon and a bottle of medicine out of the pocket of her apron. "Take this," she said and helped him sit up to swallow the spoonful. After a few minutes he stopped coughing and, now that he was calming down, no longer as excited by our being there, he closed his eyes and went slowly to sleep. Rory looked over to check on him and when he was sure that Jack was comfortable he sat up straight, folding his legs under the blanket and leaning on one hand. He was thinner than before, as Jack was, but he didn't look so changed, really. He was still recognizably himself. This pleased me. "I'll probably be out of here in a few days," Rory commented off-handedly. "They just want to fatten us up." He laughed softly and cast a glance over at Jack. They seemed to me to have grown closer. Rory looked out for Jack and Jack kept Rory's life interesting. It was something they both needed. "Do you still have your fife'" Ted asked. "Just curious." Rory nodded. "It's under the bed," he explained. "Jack lost his drum, though. They didn't let him keep it." "Too bad," Patrick grinned. "The men will probably miss his drumming." They hated Jack's incessant practice and this comment made Rory laugh. Then he asked the question we had been dreading. "Do you have my knapsack'" he wanted to know. "My scarf from your sisters is in there," he said to me, "I kept the card, though, and the St. Christopher medal your mother sent." I felt a little sick at having to deliver the news. I was glad Jack was asleep; I wanted to break it to him slowly. "Rory," Patrick said gently, "after you two were captured we marched back through our old camp. When we got there- it was on fire." He paused, letting this news sink in. Rory looked shocked but, to my relief, only that. He really was doing fine, I realized. He wasn't just saying it. "Everything's gone," Ted added, trying in his rough way to say it kindly. "I'm afraid we lost all our things. Tents, too." I remembered, then, what I had in my new knapsack. "My sisters knitted you another scarf," I told him, producing it. "We wrote and told them what had happened." "Did you tell them I was captured'" Rory wanted to know. I nodded. "Everything." "And they still made me a scarf'" "Of course," I said. "We knew you'd come back." I tried to smile. Of course we hadn't been sure of any such thing. He smiled contentedly and I thought that this was the most that I had ever seen him so happy. He asked after our families, and kept looking over to check on Jack. We watched Jack, too, worried about our usually lively friend. It was not Jack, I learned later, about whom we should have worried.