Thompson Rich Man's War, Poor Man's Fight

1. Auflage 2011
ISBN: 978-1-937520-24-3
Verlag: First Edition Design Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Wasserzeichen (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 100 Seiten

Rich Man's War - Poor Man's Fight, is the story of two Scot - Irish families who left Ireland for the promise of a better life in America. While accurately set in time and place, this is not a battle by battle account of Civil War history. It is the story of a determined people who were pressed into a war by a country who spurned their kind and used them as pawns so their wealthy sons could be kept out of harm's way.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Thompson, Daniel

Leseproben

Part Two - Duncan Cassidy's Story Duncan  
 
-Chapter One  
As usual, it was early morning when I joined my brother, Douglas, in Father’s butcher shop. Cassidy Meats sat on a corner across from the central bridge over the River Liffey in Dublin. It was late spring of 1860. We went to work for Pop early in the morning, just as we had since I was ten years of age. With Mother and my younger brother, Douglas, and sister Erin, we lived in the apartment on the second floor over the shop. We swept the floor behind the meat case, spread fresh shavings on the floor, and did other odd jobs during the early morning hours while Pop waited on his customers. Erin came down from the apartment above to visit Pop. She was his pride and joy. Erin got her features from father’s side of the family. Her shiny black hair laid like silk on her shoulders as she sat on the counter watching customers come in. Ladies stopped to pinch her pink cheeks and pat her silky, black hair. Getting attention was never a problem for Erin. She was always noticed and normally brought smiles to people's faces. The Irish have a special place in their hearts for black-haired children. They brought back stories of special children who live near the sea and quietly live their lives in small, remote fishing villages. As one of Ireland's black haired children, Erin was known for her inner peace. She was a beautiful child, never requiring much attention to keep her happy. I always wondered where she found her internal calm. I knew that it was not from Father’s side. His family was always in trouble with the local authorities over their political involvement and resistance to authority. But she did get her outward features from his family. "Actually, black- haired Irish children were much more likely to be the result of marooned Spanish fishermen from the days of the armada and lost ships that were bashed against the rough coast and became incapable of returning their sailors to their homeland. They moved in with the locals of the peninsula and cast their blood line to generations of Irish shore men," Father often explained. "Regardless of views of their origin, black haired children of northern fishing villages are accepted as a gift from the sea," Father would continue. "Their natural charm is part of the blessing that they bring to their village. Mother believes that Erin’s quiet confidence comes from an inner peace, deep within her soul." “She is a gift child,” as Mother occasionally reminded my brother Douglas and me." The store was especially busy in the morning and usually stayed that way until dinner hour. We usually received a fresh delivery of spring lamb and rear quarter mutton delivered from the country, and we needed to prepare portions from it for sale. There were a few who could afford life’s better offerings, including spring lamb, and then there were the masses who could barely afford mutton trimmings and chicken feet. We moved from County Antrim when I was a small boy. My brother, Douglas was a wee lad and my sister, Erin, was not born when we were forced off of our land on the Ard Peninsula. Pop operated a small sheep farm that had been passed down through his family over several generations. It sat beneath the hills of the peninsula beside a small stream and meadow that we used to raise hay for our livestock. The famous hills that the natives called The Drumlins cover County Down and extend to Strangford Lough where they pop up off shore like tiny islands on a freshwater lake. They lay just to the west of our broad meadow and surrounding stone fences. We spent hours and sometimes days as a family looking out onto the sea near the resort town of Bangor. Most commoners of Dublin ate mutton shoulder chops, a cut much cheaper than anything off of a spring lamb. Father often said that stewed mutton was the national aroma of Ireland. Mutton ends up in shepherd’s pie and its cousin, the game pie. Mother threw in everything but Pop’s chopping block with a few root vegetables and stewed until tender. "A spare boot and socks adds proper seasoning,” Father would say jokingly. I finished cleaning up at the coming of the dinner hour. Douglas covered the meat trays and began taking them down to the cellar where they would stay cool through the rest of the day and night. When I finished, I took some trimmings around back as handouts to some of Dublin’s poor folk. Even after the heavy hand of our landlord laid upon father's earnings, we considered ourselves fortunate in those times and gladly shared our relative fortune with those who had even less. Fortunately, we had food on our table every afternoon when we returned to the apartment above the shop. Most nights, Pop brought up butcher’s cuts for our supper. We seldom ate market meat that the wealthier folks in town afforded. I do not remember any of us complaining about Mother’s meals. She had a special gift for making a good meal out of scraps. It was a talent held by most Irish home cooks, and it was the beginnings of great Irish dishes like shepherd’s pie and meat and potato pies that were offered at local pubs. Father's business kept the five of us fed. Butcher's cuts and a few vegetables was certainly better than most commoners of Dublin saw on the table at the end of a work day. Like many tradesmen, Father did not own the shop or our quarters above. He rented both from our landlord, Mr. Sullivan, and that is where the troubles lie. As was the practice in many businesses in Ireland of the time, the landlord purchased the goods that we sold in the store. In our case it was meat from a farmer that Mr. Sullivan had an agreement with. The meat was delivered, and Father sold it at prices that Mr. Sullivan established. Mr. Sullivan collected the receipts at the end of the week with Father held responsible for shortages. As Father once put it, "It's a good thing that I am in the meat business. If I were a blacksmith, we would be eating nails for supper." Difficulties with Mr. Sullivan were a constant source of distress. America promised independence from those like Mr. Sullivan.  
 
-Chapter Two  
As we prepared to leave Dublin for New Orleans, I fretted over a young lady with whom I had fallen in love. She was Ellen Michaels, a tall, thin lass with mystic appeal. She had long auburn hair that she braided and let fall down her back. I fell in love with her quick smile and her light heartedness which enhanced Ellen's natural beauty. The difference between Ellen and the other young women in our neighborhood was that she was frequently dressed in the work clothes that she wore around her father’s blacksmith shop. Ellen never fussed over her appearance. Her hair was tied in a long braid, leaving long bangs hanging over her brow. Her figure was tucked away under bib overalls and a work shirt, causing me to wonder what mysteries were hidden under her rather rough attire. When I came upon Ellen the first time, she was throwing rocks from the bridge into the River Liffey like a school boy passing time. Our first meeting came after finishing supper one evening. When I approached, I saw what I thought was a young man dressed in work clothes. She stood at the bridge with the top of her bib overalls tied around her waist. She leaned on her elbows, looking entertainingly into the water. I could not determine more about her until I got closer. “Good day,” I said. “And good day to you,” she replied. She turned and smiled. I was nearly knocked over. I was faced with beautiful green eyes and a broad smile. The cap came off, releasing a long braided strand of auburn hair that had been bundled inside of her cap. “I am sorry. I thought,"…… I knew that I was reacting without thinking and had not finished my blundering thought. “You thought that I was a boy. Right?” she asked. “Yes, well, I……am sorry,” I stumbled. “I just…….,” and I did it again. I was completely baffled and making a perfect ass of myself. “It’s all right, I get that a lot. Do you come here often?” she asked. “Nearly every evening,” I said. “I come by on a walk after supper.” “Where do you live and what do you do?” she asked. “I work for my father in the meat shop, over there, across the road,” I said, and pointed towards our store. “We live in the apartment above.” “I live in an apartment above my father’s shop, as well” she said. "He is the blacksmith." I saw Ellen's smile for the first time. Her pert little face was in such contrast to her work clothes that I could not help but smile. Her features were fine and her modest charisma jumped out from the confines of her dark bib overalls. “As you can see, I work with my Father in the shop,” she went on. “My name is Ellen Michaels,” She reached to take my...