Bold Sons of Erin Read Online Free Page B

them low, for loyalty was not among his virtues. The poor devils were but his stepping stones to power. He fought for them when he needed them, and against them when he did not.
    He loved books and literary evenings. But he did not much like men.
    “Nothing but damned trouble,” Mr. Gowen said sharply, without specifying the object of his scorn. This time, he shut his fist around his watch.
    I shall always remember young Mr. Gowen the way he appeared that day. So strong and brisk and confident. As if he had been born to rule the world. I knew the fellow thought little of me, for I had been but a clerk in a coal company countinghouse before the war took all of us in thrall. I was a small man, though an honest one. I wanted only a quiet life, with my darling wife and our son—and now young Fanny, my ward—with chapel on Sunday, morning and evening both. But war will have its way with every man.
    Mr. Gowen, as we all knew, had bought himself out of danger from the draft, although his brother served with our 48th. Mr. Gowen had explained that he could not serve the colors, although it was his fervent wish to do so, because of family and business obligations.
    He had ambitions that the war annoyed.
    I sat and let him speak his anger out, for I was weary and did not want a scrap. After my return to Pottsville from the boneyard, I had gone home in the dray-cart hours of morning to set my uniform to soak in the tub in the yard. Fanny woke and wanted to help—she always sensed me near—but I did not want her to touch the leavings of death. Orphaned, she had seen enough at fourteen years.
    And I thought, again, in the almost light, of the odd woman in the trees. Of the vileness of her doings with my fingers. If Mrs. Boland was not mad, her actions were all the worse for her wicked sanity. Twas not a matter I meant to share with anyone.
    Fanny had a smile for me, as Fanny always did. She stayed out in the cold to keep me company. All quiet like. I had a soft spot for her that, curiously, my Mary did not share. But I will speak of that at the proper time.
    Fanny slept in the kitchen then and always rose with the larks. The lass had been a lark of sorts in Glasgow. She perched and watched me in the morning gray, wrapped in a shawl my Mary had cast off, with her mass of ginger hair awaiting the dawn. She did not pester me with queries, but always was content to see me near, no matter my doings. At last, I sent her into the house to get up the morning fire. I had to wash before my dear wife rose.
    I did not want my Mary or young John to smell the death on me. It carries a contagion, see. I do not mean the contagion of disease, but a contagion of the heart. I did not wish to bring death into my house. I tolerate no hint of superstition, but my Mary Myfanwy was in the family way, thanks to our blessed visit late in the spring, and even the soundest Methodist fears illluck. I wished to keep the hard world from our threshold, to banish death through prayer and will and love.
    And my son was already frightened of me, his rarity of a father, and of the new scar set upon my cheek during my recent sojourn in Her Majesty’s kingdom. Our John was not yet two, but old enough he was to fear a stranger. And cruel war makes strangers of us all.
    After a proper breakfast, with my Mary not quite content with my explanations, young John antic, and Fanny quiet and watchful, I enjoyed my daily interlude with the Bible, then took myself along to the county offices, to seek both Mr. Gowen and the sheriff. I wished a local writ to return and dig up that grave proper by light of day, for there was murder and mischief in those doings. But the sheriff had been detained at home, enchanted by his blankets, and the ancient clerk in the courthouse explained that Mr. Gowen might be found at his private offices, pursuing the business of law. A district attorney’s list of clients swells.
    I marched back down along Centre Street, which was still a black muck from a