Exile on Bridge Street by Eamon Loingsigh Page B

deflated.
    â€œWhere ye from, bhoy?”
    â€œTulla.”
    â€œAh, father in the East Clare Brigade, is he?”
    â€œHe is, an’ my brother too. Do you know what may’ve happened to them this week?”
    â€œThey was called off durin’ the Risin’ we heared, countermanded out in the country,” Mr. Lynch said as the others mumble in confidence. “What’s yer name?”
    â€œGarrihy.”
    â€œGarrihy, eh? Tulla? Come on here, bhoy,” Lynch says, touching his chin, then directing me to the end of the bar.
    I sit up at the end with my elbows as we meet at opposite sides.
    â€œWhere’ve ye been stayin’ here New Yark, Manhatt’n?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBrooklyn?”
    â€œ. . . No.”
    â€œWell where then?” he says, standing tall. “Oh . . . ye don’t talk, is that it. Yer as mysterious as the mist, aren’t ye? Ye gotta be in Brooklyn then because they love bein’ quiet. Irishtown is it?”
    I am still quiet.
    As he walks away, I call to his back, “How can I send a letter to my mother? I was sending her letters, but the return address was my uncle’s place, but he . . . moved. And anyway, he won’t give them to me.”
    He comes back and pushes his face close to mine, “Yer uncle’s Joe Garrity, ain’ it?”
    I look at him and because of the shock, I’m not able to deny it right off.
    â€œYou an ILA bhoy down there? Brooklyn? The name Thos Carmody familiar? He’s missin’, ye know. Thos Carmody is. Know anythin’ ’bout it, do ye?”
    Again I’m taken aback.
    â€œNo, yer not ILA are ye? Yer Dinny’s,” he nods his head and grits his teeth in thought. “Bet ol’ Dinny don’t know ye’re here neither.”
    A man sits at the bar and Mr. Lynch excuses himself. After serving a drink, he speaks with another man for a moment, who leaves out the front door. I have the look of torture in the face, unsure what to do with myself now with the idea of my returning home being shot to shit as it is.
    â€œSo,” Mr. Lynch says returning. “Ye can’t go home and join the Volunteers. Yer uncle’s dead. Ye don’t know what’s been done with yer da or brother and yer mother’s all alone in Tulla. Well, I’d be scared o’ that too, for the Brits’ll come and arrest all the suspected IRB and Volunteer men. Break up the brigades. Out in the country where there’s no aut’ority is the most dangerous place fer a lone mother to be. Ye got sisters?”
    â€œTwo.”
    â€œCould get ugly for them, ye’ve a fair assessment on it. We’ve all got family back there, though, but we here can help in other ways. Our County Claremen’s Evicted Tenants Protective and Industrial Association along with the Owen Roe and John Mitchel clubs and others here in the city have functions, and we send funds back to the place for various t’ings, freedom included. But now’s a bad time fer goin’ back or comin’ here. Why not bring yer mother here after the war? And the sisters as well?”
    I shrug my shoulders.
    â€œI know ye want to fight and kill Brits, we all do, but the smart man . . . the t’inkin’ man sees that it’s a better life in America fer yerself and yer family, is it not?”
    â€œMy uncle thought so.”
    â€œWell,” Mr. Lynch says, leaning on the bar closer to my face. “Maybe he chose the wrong side at the wrong time? Word was he had a mouth on ’em, but not the meat to back it, so someone cut ’em, burned down McAlpine’s Saloon with himself in it. Is that what you heared?”
    I don’t answer.
    â€œSome say t’was Dinny Meehan’s men did it. The law locked up a good few of ’em too, but let ’em go all except one—Connors I t’ink’s the name. The leader they’re callin’ him, Connors, but I know as