it was for her too. As I slipped out the door, she had continued to twist the medal around and around.
I should have known then. I had seen the medal clearly but with the excitement of the night, with the IRA after me and with the British right outside Kathleen’s window, it hadn’t made sense. I glanced at the letter again. It made sense now. Kathleen had been wearing a St. Brigid medal— St. Brigid, the patron saint of mothers and babies.
CHAPTER FOUR
Limerick City
January 1922
It was cold and gray when I first saw Limerick in the distance. Like they had been when I fled, the fields were barren, waiting for the first planting in six weeks’ time. Hayricks dotted the landscape, and trails of smoke—white swirls against a dark sky—rose from the chimneys of the white-washed stone cottages that we passed. In the hills, I noticed an old man tending a flock of sheep. They were clustered together under the watchful eye of a collie who circled the flock, keeping the strays from wandering too far. I thought of my grandfather.
In addition to the pigs, my grandfather had tended a flock, some three dozen sheep. When I was eight, it became my job to help shear them, once in the spring and once in the fall. It was tough, dirty work, but so were most things on the farm. Like the man I now saw out my window, my grandfather had a collie to help him. I think that dog understood my grandfather better than my grandmother ever did. Using nothing more than hand signals, sometimes over great distances, my grandfather and the dog worked as a team and never lost a single animal. My grandfather died in my tenth year and my father—sick himself I later realized—sold the flock the day of my grandfather’s funeral. Like I would do years later, the dog disappeared one day, broken-hearted I’m sure that both the man and the sheep he loved were gone. Four years later, my father, God rest his soul, died of consumption, and the responsibility for running the farm had fallen on the shoulders of a scrawny fourteen-year-old boy named Frank Kelleher.
Big Frankie indeed.
___
“Look!”
The sound of the woman’s voice brought me back to the present. I glanced behind me and smiled. The young mother, holding the baby in her arms, was pointing out the window to the steel gray surface of the river as the train entered the valley.
“That’s the Shannon,” her husband said.
I had spoken to them briefly when we boarded. They were from Wexford and were visiting the man’s relations in Limerick, something denied him for the last few years due to the war. His wife had never traveled farther than Waterford and, to her it seemed, Limerick was a world away. Relying on the name I had used for the last year, I had introduced myself as Michael O’Sullivan from New York. We had chatted about Ireland. They were tired of the war and supported the Treaty, even if it meant an Ireland divided.
They chatted excitedly, and I half listened as the husband told her about the river and what lay ahead. I stopped listening. I already knew what lay ahead on the river, but I wondered now what lay ahead for me. On the journey over, I learned that although the fighting had stopped and the British would soon be leaving, the mood in Ireland was changing. For two years we had fought side by side, united in our desire to drive the English out of our country. But now, there were growing tensions between those who supported the proposed treaty with Britain and those who didn’t. The supporters, Free Staters they were called, celebrated our independence, a victory that had been centuries in the making. But the Anti-Treaty faction saw that the freedom Britain offered wasn’t free at all. Ireland was to remain a dominion of the British Empire, and the Irish government would be required to take an oath of allegiance to the throne. How was that different from today? I wondered. Worse, Britain laid claim to three of Ireland’s most valuable ports and proposed
I should have known then. I had seen the medal clearly but with the excitement of the night, with the IRA after me and with the British right outside Kathleen’s window, it hadn’t made sense. I glanced at the letter again. It made sense now. Kathleen had been wearing a St. Brigid medal— St. Brigid, the patron saint of mothers and babies.
CHAPTER FOUR
Limerick City
January 1922
It was cold and gray when I first saw Limerick in the distance. Like they had been when I fled, the fields were barren, waiting for the first planting in six weeks’ time. Hayricks dotted the landscape, and trails of smoke—white swirls against a dark sky—rose from the chimneys of the white-washed stone cottages that we passed. In the hills, I noticed an old man tending a flock of sheep. They were clustered together under the watchful eye of a collie who circled the flock, keeping the strays from wandering too far. I thought of my grandfather.
In addition to the pigs, my grandfather had tended a flock, some three dozen sheep. When I was eight, it became my job to help shear them, once in the spring and once in the fall. It was tough, dirty work, but so were most things on the farm. Like the man I now saw out my window, my grandfather had a collie to help him. I think that dog understood my grandfather better than my grandmother ever did. Using nothing more than hand signals, sometimes over great distances, my grandfather and the dog worked as a team and never lost a single animal. My grandfather died in my tenth year and my father—sick himself I later realized—sold the flock the day of my grandfather’s funeral. Like I would do years later, the dog disappeared one day, broken-hearted I’m sure that both the man and the sheep he loved were gone. Four years later, my father, God rest his soul, died of consumption, and the responsibility for running the farm had fallen on the shoulders of a scrawny fourteen-year-old boy named Frank Kelleher.
Big Frankie indeed.
___
“Look!”
The sound of the woman’s voice brought me back to the present. I glanced behind me and smiled. The young mother, holding the baby in her arms, was pointing out the window to the steel gray surface of the river as the train entered the valley.
“That’s the Shannon,” her husband said.
I had spoken to them briefly when we boarded. They were from Wexford and were visiting the man’s relations in Limerick, something denied him for the last few years due to the war. His wife had never traveled farther than Waterford and, to her it seemed, Limerick was a world away. Relying on the name I had used for the last year, I had introduced myself as Michael O’Sullivan from New York. We had chatted about Ireland. They were tired of the war and supported the Treaty, even if it meant an Ireland divided.
They chatted excitedly, and I half listened as the husband told her about the river and what lay ahead. I stopped listening. I already knew what lay ahead on the river, but I wondered now what lay ahead for me. On the journey over, I learned that although the fighting had stopped and the British would soon be leaving, the mood in Ireland was changing. For two years we had fought side by side, united in our desire to drive the English out of our country. But now, there were growing tensions between those who supported the proposed treaty with Britain and those who didn’t. The supporters, Free Staters they were called, celebrated our independence, a victory that had been centuries in the making. But the Anti-Treaty faction saw that the freedom Britain offered wasn’t free at all. Ireland was to remain a dominion of the British Empire, and the Irish government would be required to take an oath of allegiance to the throne. How was that different from today? I wondered. Worse, Britain laid claim to three of Ireland’s most valuable ports and proposed
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