The boys started laughing, and Stephen and Michael joined in, and then the boys from the Hickory Gang and James McKenna and Barney, all of them slapping one another on the back—the greatest joke ever.
Not a woman in the place joined in the hilarity. Gracie whispered, “James Mulloy.”
Jamesy saw my face. “It was funny, Mam, to have Uncle Patrick pop up like that, saying, ‘You can’t shoot the neighbors!’” he said. “And to think, if he hadn’t, James Mulloy might have killed me, or me him, or maybe both of us, all three. How strange would that have been?”
“All right now,” James McKenna said. “Order! Order! Tell us, Patrick, how did you happen to spring up like some pooka?”
Patrick had been standing near the kitchen, not saying anything. I’d hardly spoken to him except to thank him and to say he looked well. He did—clean-shaved and erect. The uniform suited him. “Captain Kelly, Brevet,” Jamesy had said, which means a commission given on the battlefield. He never changes—his eyes sharp and bright. Fifty-three years old, but moving like a young man, while James McKenna and Barney, not much older, seem old and frail.
“I was with Grant on Orchard Knob,” Patrick said. “Observing— liaison for Tom Sweeny, who’s a general now.”
“And a Fenian,” Daniel said.
“From above,” Patrick continued, “I could see both sides, the Confederates dug in above, the Union soldiers waiting to charge. Along the top of the ridge I saw a green flag with harps and shamrocks—the Rebel Sons of Erin; and directly below, a similar flag—the banner of the Irish Legion.”
Heads shaking in the room. “Ah,” “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” and “Poor old Ireland.”
“And did you try to stop the battle, Patrick?” I said.
“Oh, Mam,” said Jamesy.
“I would have if I could, Honora,” Patrick said. “I’d have thrown the cloak of invisibility around the whole lot.” He stopped, sipping his punch.
“Well, you couldn’t do
that
, of course. So what did you do?”
“I rode through the mountain pass to their position.”
“And then, the luck!” Jamesy said. “The pipes saved us. Uncle Patrick saw the silver bits on my pipes shine in the light of the setting sun, right, Uncle Patrick?”
“I did, Jamesy.”
“And came up behind us.”
“A miracle,” Molly said. “A certain miracle. Thanks be to God.”
“A mearbhaill,” I said to Máire.
“Thanks be to God,” Lizzie echoed. “Saved.” Rejoicing with us, though no one had appeared to rescue her own son. Killed six months ago.
A great murmur of gratitude then in our parlor.
“When do you go back, boys?” Barney asked.
“Go back?” I said. “They’ve come home. Surely the army doesn’t expect—”
“The army does, Mam,” Jamesy said. “Lucky enough to be here now. Without Uncle Patrick we’d be in camp with the rest of them. After Uncle Patrick got Daniel and me and James Mulloy away from the battlefield—”
“James Mulloy, too?” Gracie said.
“Of course,” Daniel said. “Couldn’t let my brother-in-law-to-be stumble around in the dark.”
“Though the dark was a good thing—let us get up through the ravine, and then, well . . .” Jamesy stopped.
“Then what?” I said. “Where have you been for a month, and why couldn’t you send a letter or telegram? Didn’t you know how worried I’d be? You—”
“Wasn’t possible, Honora,” Patrick Kelly cut me off.
“Later, Mam,” Jamesy whispered to me.
Hours later, after more toasts and singing and even a round of jigs and reels, with Jamesy piping on the instrument he’d somehow managed to bring home, our guests left.
“A real hooley,” Máire said.
“It was,” I agreed, but there were questions to be answered before we slept. Only Patrick, our two soldiers, Máire, and I were left sitting before the fire. I’d sent Stephen and Michael to see Molly and the McKennas home. Gracie and Bridget were downstairs, reading a very long letter from James Mulloy.
“So,” I said. “Tell me, Patrick. Why couldn’t you let us know our sons were alive?”
“Don’t blame Uncle Patrick,” Jamesy said.
“I’m only asking Uncle Patrick,” I said.
Patrick started laughing. At least he’d sat down in the chair across from us. “Uncle Patrick, the old man of the mountain, will tell you. Here we were: two Union soldiers, one Johnny Reb, and a fellow in buckskins with some very dodgy paperwork—behind the lines, both lines, and one of us with a rifle ball in his leg.”
“What? Who?” Máire said. “Are you all right, Daniel?”
“Wasn’t me, Mam.”
“Jamesy?” I said. My God. Wounded.
“I’m fine, Mam. But the closest doctor Uncle Patrick knew was across the Tennessee border in Georgia. Confederate territory. Not a bad wound, Mam. Only in my calf. Of course, if the rifle ball had stayed in there . . . But getting me better took a week or so, and we had to kind of hide. There’s these Home Guard fellows around—James Mulloy stayed with us, said he claimed us as his prisoners, just in case. But then I was better and Uncle Patrick got his pass from the Reb general.”
“Pass?”
“That general was a Fenian, too,” Daniel told me.
“So we could start back north. Slow enough going, though we had a horse for some of it, because of stopping for the meetings.”
“What is Jamesy talking about, Patrick?” I said.
“We’ve Fenian Circles in both armies, and our numbers are growing,” Patrick said. “Often the camps of the two sides aren’t that far, and I can arrange joint meetings. The men pledge not to discuss the present war, and I can give news of the Brotherhood to both and remind them that when this conflict ends we will unite to free Ireland.”
“Fifty thousand have taken the oath, Mam. Imagine, fifty thousand!” Jamesy said.
“What’s this oath, Daniel?” Máire asked.
“A secret, Mam.”
“I’ll secret
you
. Tell me,” Máire said.
“I can’t. Explain, Uncle Patrick,” Daniel said.
“Not such a secret anymore,” Patrick said. “In March we’ll convene an Irish National Fair, here in Chicago. The Fenians will be the sponsors, but we’re inviting all Irish organizations throughout the country to deliberate, raise money. And I’ve met with your colonel Mulligan. He’ll be one of our main supports, Honora.”
“You can help us get ready for the Fenian Fair, Mam,” Jamesy said. “We’re on the organizing committee—official delegates from the Legion. Uncle Patrick fixed it—he’s the senior delegate for the Brigade and the Legion and a lot of other regiments. General Sweeny ordered him that special uniform.”
“Very nice,” Máire said. “Now I want to hear that oath.”
“Nothing you wouldn’t promise yourself, Honora,” Patrick said, and smiled at me. “Go on, Jamesy, Danny O.”
The two stood up very straight. “I pledge my secret word of honor,” they began, “as a truthful and honest man . . .” Deep, strong voices.
“That I will labor with earnest zeal for the liberation of Ireland from the yoke of England,” they said together, “and for the establishment of a free and independent government on Irish soil.”
They looked at Máire and me.
“Uncle Patrick says we are the first sons of Ireland able to make our ancient dream come true,” Jamesy said.
“My dream is to have the war over and all of you alive and well and giving me grandchildren,” I said.
“That will come, too, Mam.”
So confident, as if living to father children is ordained. Jamesy had come close to death. I looked over at Patrick. He’s proud of them, I thought, proud of that confidence. They’re battle-tested now. The Fenian Fair in March, and Jamesy wants my help. Jamesy. Sitting here next to me. Alive. And Patrick Kelly had saved him. Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Blessed Mother. My son’s alive.
I
F THE FENIANS
can do
this
,” Máire said to me as we joined the crowd surging into Bryant Hall, “surely freeing Ireland should be no bother to them.”
Here it was, opening day, March 28, and the Irish National Fair was a success already. And no question as to who was behind it. Everyone—including the newspapers, even the
Chicago Tribune—
called the weeklong convention Chicago’s Fenian Fair.
“The biggest, most elegant hall in Chicago, and we’ve filled it,” Máire said.
There hadn’t been an assembly of free, proud, prosperous Irish people since the ancient gatherings held at Tara. No British soldiers to intimidate us. The men in uniform were our own Irishmen representing the fifty thousand members of the Fenian Brotherhood serving in both the Confederate and Union armies. They would become the force that would liberate Ireland. The fair would raise the money they needed.
Máire and I strolled past booths displaying Waterford crystal, Parian china, Connemara marble crosses, silver tea sets, gold watches, fine linen tablecloths, yes, but hand-knit sweaters and socks, too, blackthorn walking sticks and lengths of tweed—all donated, to be sold for the Cause. Illegal to do such fund-raising in Ireland.
There’d been a grand parade this morning. Máire and I cheered our sons. Daniel, Jamesy, Michael, and Stephen strode alongside Patrick Kelly, who carried Grellan’s crozier. “Kellys Abu!” Thousands marched with them—governors, congressmen, city officials, every Irish organization, all the workingmen’s clubs, the police, firemen. It took hours for the parade to move by us.
And now here was the same con-glom-er-a-tion, as Owen Mulloy would say, trying to get a look at the prizes for the lottery that had been advertised in the papers for weeks. Some items filled one whole section of the hall: five magnificent rosewood pianos, seven “richly appointed” billiard tables—worth one thousand dollars each—and a six-foot-wide oil painting: “The Arrest of Sir Edward Fitzgerald,” given by the Mooneys of Belfast.
“I bought one hundred chances on that,” a man said to us.
We knew him—John Kelly, who owned a big saloon called the Parlour on Archer. A generous fellow.
Colonel Mulligan had donated a gold rifle mounted in a glass case. In a printed statement behind the glass, Colonel Mulligan promised to “devote all my heart and all my strength to the cause of Irish Nationality.”
“Look,” Máire said. She pointed to the list of contributions by military units: three hundred dollars from the Irish Brigade and five hundred dollars from the Irish Legion and big sums from all the Irish regiments in Ohio, Michigan, Massachusetts, New York, Kentucky, Tennessee, Louisiana, South Carolina.
“It’s Patrick Kelly got all those,” I said. Each theater in Chicago had donated a night’s box office to the Cause. “Patrick arranged that, too,” I said.
“Well, here comes our host now,” Máire said. “Captain Kelly, looking very handsome, and smiling to boot.”
“Why not? The fair’s a great success,” I said.
Patrick had Jamesy and Daniel, Stephen and Michael, and Bridget and Gracie with him.
“Mam, look what Uncle Patrick bought for us,” Bridget said. She and Gracie both held up knitted shawls.
“And for us,” said Stephen. He and Michael showed me frieze jackets.
“They’ll fit right in,” Patrick said, “when Ireland’s a republic and we can all go home.”
Máire laughed.
“Nothing to laugh at, Mam,” Daniel said.
Máire took the shawl from Gracie and wrapped it around her. “I’ll go back to Ireland anytime,” she said, “as long as I have a return ticket in my pocket.”
I looked at Patrick. And that’s the answer you’d get from most people here, I wanted to say to him.
“The Irish won’t really be respected in America until we have a nation of our own,” Jamesy said.
“We’re fighting for the Irish nationality,” Daniel said, “to be who we are.”
“What I am right now is hungry,” Máire said.
“I’ve arranged a table in the gallery for you during the banquet,” Patrick said. “No ladies are allowed at the dinner, I’m afraid, but you’ll see everything and hear the toasts and music and speeches.
“And eat the food?” Máire said.
“The very best,” Patrick answered.
A grand evening altogether. So much enthusiasm was generated for heading off to free Ireland that the lieutenant governor of Illinois (not Irish) stood up to plead “You can’t all go back. We need you.”
“No worries,” Máire said to me.
But now we were home, sitting by the fire. “The fair was a good job of work,” Patrick said. “We raised fifty thousand dollars in the week.” Máire and I were on the sofa. Patrick, in his shirtsleeves, leaned back in what had become “his chair” after three months. He’d be gone tomorrow, and Jamesy and Daniel with him, going south to join the last big campaigns of the war, he said.
The Irish Legion would march with General Sherman to capture Atlanta and then on to the sea, while Colonel Mulligan and the Irish Brigade would advance with the army attacking Richmond.
“Thank you, Honora, for all your help,” Patrick said, “and you, Máire, for your hospitality. Longest I’ve ever lived in one place.”
“Glad to have you, Uncle Patrick,” Máire said.
Firelight flashed against the crystal glasses we’d won at the fair and turned the whiskey gold. The boys were at McKenna’s, the girls downstairs. Only the three of us.
Patrick lifted his glass. “To you,” he said, “the Keeley sisters and to all the gallant women of Ireland—our real heroes.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Máire said, and did.
I raised the glass to my lips. Water in mine.
Patrick drained his glass, then stood up. He rolled down his sleeves and put on his uniform jacket. A bit more heft to him—probably never eaten well and regular in his life.
After he’d gone, Máire turned to me. “You’ll miss him,” she said.
“Of course. We all will. Michael and Stephen and Bridget have learned so much about their da from Patrick’s stories. And Daniel and Jamesy—”
“
You
, Honora,” Máire interrupted me. “You’ll miss him.”
“I have enjoyed helping with the fair.”
My conscience hadn’t bothered me too much over the letter writing or even the long discussions with Patrick by the fire. Arguments, really. Couldn’t the Fenians use all this money and support and clout to fight the Sassenach Daniel O’Connell’s way, with political pressure, agitation—not physical force? I’d say to Patrick. The mere threat of fifty thousand Fenians invading might convince the British to withdraw from Ireland, I said. Patrick said he didn’t hold out much hope for a bloodless revolution. We’d fling history at each other late into the night. So, yes, I would miss Patrick Kelly, but I didn’t like the way Máire was shaking her head at me, that half-smile.