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itsawhumpsideblog · 4 months ago

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In The Ranks Of Death You Will Find Him, Book 1

Content notes: The first battle and all that goes with it; the trauma of survival; a sprained ankle; another difficult family conversation; the introduction of the only romance plotline I've ever written and liked. The chapter title and lyrics are from The Minstrel Boy, the song that inspired Rory. This was probably my first "favorite song" (yes, back in the cassette tape days) and has been a favorite ever since. The first two verses are Irish, written in the late 1700s, but the third verse is an Irish-American Civil War-era addition. As in past chapters, this is the version I grew up with, although there are others that I think are prettier. Listen here: https://youtu.be/N3kEd7jiAVQ And a bonus song, the inspiration for Jack (who is the only one of the boys not to have inspired a chapter title). The song is Banks of Newfoundland and the version is by Great Big Sea! Listen here: https://youtu.be/rIynC1KndZQ

"The minstrel boy to the war is gone

In the ranks of death you will find him.

His father's sword he has girded on

And his wild harp slung behind him."

~The Minstrel Boy

In late May, we were finally ordered away from our drill site of the past few weeks. We packed up everything we could carry, and fell into formation one hot morning to march into rebel territory.

"Mary, Mother of God," Jack swore when we stopped for water mid-day. "If I ever make it to our camp, it's going to be a genuine miracle."

Patrick grinned as he scooped water in his tin cup. As usual, he looked cooler than the rest of us did. He took a long drink and then held Rory's beloved fife as Rory went over to the creek to fill his canteen.

It was a long day, but that night we were camped with several other regiments- the 13th and 79th New York regiments among them- and we found we had been assigned to Sherman's brigade of McDowell's division. There was more drill, more Virginia heat, and plenty of thunderstorms to drench us every afternoon. Sometimes I welcomed the rain for the cool it brought, and sometimes I cursed it for the humidity.

It was late July. We had been in the army for two months now, with only a month left to go, and we hadn't seen any fighting.

"Remind me again why we enlisted," I grumbled after a particularly long, hot day. We were sitting around in front of our tents eating cold beef and hard tack, because it was too hot to light a fire and too tiring to put more effort into our meals.

"For the adventure of it, of course," Patrick laughed. "I just can't for the life of me figure out why I didn't let Declan come with us. He's missing all the fun. This would've cured his war fever for certain."

Jack shook his head. Ted laughed. "Patrick, lad, you did a good thing making your brother stay home. He's surely getting more work done than we are."

Having had that conversation, of course the next day we were ordered to pack up and start marching. We were headed for a town called Manassas, and perhaps, so they said, for a battle. We were excited, a little nervous, and highly skeptical that there would be any excitement. We forded a river at a place called Sudley Springs in the mid-morning and at noon we were on a hill, watching cannon-fire before us and trying, on the advice of our officers, to choke down a little hard tack and drink some water.

"You're going to need all your strength, boys," Sergeant O'Malley cautioned us. He stopped in front of Rory. "You doing all right, Coleman?"

"Yessir."

"Not nervous, are you?"

"Nosir."

"Good lad."

It was a white lie- we were all a little nervous. They said there were some ladies from Washington who had come to watch the battle. Somebody was supposed to have seen them, but all I could see were soldiers, and lots of smoke and it was scaring me.

A little before one o'clock we were ordered to fall back, off the hill where we had been waiting and past some woods.

"What do you suppose that means?" Jack asked nervously.

"We're just moving back so we can get a running start," Ted replied, all confidence. "If they'd just put the boys of the 69th in, then they'd see how fast the Rebs can run." He laughed and we tried to join him, but it sounded thin and insincere even to my own ears.

It was a little after two when we got the order to move again.

"All right, boys," called an officer, "We've got our orders. Up on that hill-" he pointed "- Ricketts' battery has been captured by the Rebels. We're going to get it back." We started forward and I realized I was sweating, but not from the heat. The sweat pouring down my back was ice cold.

I didn't have much time to think about it, though, because as we crossed Bull Run and started up the hill towards the battery we were going to try to rescue, the first of a storm of bullets flew past us.

Next to me I saw Patrick duck and then laugh and blush, standing up straighter. Ted flinched and seemed to shake himself. His jaw was set tight and he gripped his gun. We fired when we could, or were ordered to, and advanced grimly up the hill.

The first of our men died in that volley and I'll never forget the sounds of it. Lead striking flesh and bone, the way they screamed when they fell, all of it was a blur in my mind but stayed fresh in my senses for days afterward. We went on, through it all, leaving the fallen where they lay, and I shook as the bullets whistled over my head.

I was afraid to look around to see whether my friends had made it. I could see Patrick beside me, out of the corner of my eye, and Ted on the other side, but Rory and Jack weren't in formation with us and I wondered where they were in all this- whether they had stayed behind or come with the regiment into this lead rain.

As we got closer, I noticed, somehow, that there was a little house on top of the hill, near where the guns were. The windows were shot out, and for a split second I thought I saw a woman's form in the window. No, I thought, of course there isn't anyone inside, and I gave myself a mental shake and turned my attention back to the task at hand.

I remember fewer of the details than I had expected to, although my sensory impressions are perfect when I close my eyes and allow the memories of that first battle to surface in my mind. The details of some of our other engagements are clearer after all these years, but then, they were made up of less anticipation if not less raw fear.

Off to our left, a grey shape came through the mist. We spun almost as one man towards the direction from which they came and were trying desperately to get them in our sights when, luckily, there was a yell.

"Hold your fire!" a voice screamed. "They're our boys!" My hands shook as I turned back to the hill. That we had come so close to firing on our own men, dressed as they were in grey uniforms, frightened me. We knew that a few regiments wore grey. We had seen them before and should have known their position. The enemy was in front of us- fellow New Yorkers were on our flank.

We took the cannons, and all around me men fell. Some were dead right away, and made no noise. Others screamed and cried. I saw one young soldier, not much older than myself, fall holding his side. Blood was pouring through his fingers and he was crying out in Irish, curled up on the rusty grass. His voice haunts me to this day. When I closed my eyes that night, all I saw was him lying there. I never knew his name and I don't care to guess what happened to him in the end, but for days afterwards, whenever I lay down to sleep, his voice echoed in my ears and the sight of him stained my dreams.

We had taken the cannons at the top of the hill, so near the little house with its windows shot out, when the order came to retreat.

"Just get out of here," the officer shouted who gave us the order. "Just get the hell out." Almost in a body, we turned and ran.

I was halfway down the hill when it occurred to me to look for my friends. I had been so caught up in loading and firing and keeping my feet moving in the right direction, in stuffing down the panic I felt, that I had stopped paying attention to who was next to me. Suddenly I was worried- I turned to my right to find a stranger there. It wasn't Patrick. My heart dropped and I whirled around to the left and found that Ted was just a few feet from me, whole and running as fast as he could. It brought me some relief, but not much. We made it to the stream and scrambled through it, then kept on going, more slowly the farther we got, towards Washington.

I couldn't find Patrick. I looked all around, barely watching where I was going, nearly blinded with panic. As I got farther from the sound of guns and the battlefield, my head cleared. The more aware of my surroundings I was, the more frightened I was for Patrick. After several minutes, I stopped still and a man I had never seen before promptly plowed into me.

"Watch where you're going!" he fumed, probably out of the sheer fright we all felt, and I apologized without really thinking about it.

I felt the need to do something, and I knew that I would never be able to live with myself if I didn't find Patrick. The thought that he might be ahead of me never entered my mind. I was consumed with the idea that he was wounded or dead, and that he had been left on the hill by that house, where we had been fighting.

I turned and began struggling back the way I had come through the stream of men, determined to find Patrick. I had been walking for only a few minutes when I heard something.

"Micheál!" a voice shouted and my breath caught. "Micheál!" I spun around, searching the crowd of uniformed men, and after a moment I saw Patrick, waving to me. He was limping and I ran over to him.

"Patrick," I gasped, out of breath and shaking. "Are you wounded?"

"No," Patrick said in disgust. "I've sprained my foot." He rolled his eyes. His face was dirt- streaked, as my own was, and there were rivulets of sweat running through the soot on his cheeks.

"How did you manage that?" I asked, laughing with relief.

"I tripped crossing the stream. I was trying to catch up with you and Ted when we retreated."

"I was ahead of you?" I asked, trying to figure out where we had lost one another.

"Yes, I was next to you until we started back down the hill, and then I fell behind." So he had been there almost until the moment I looked around. I felt better about that.

"Come on, let's go catch up with the others," I suggested

"I'll try," Patrick agreed. We went on, but the going was slow, with Patrick limping, and after a little while I got impatient.

"Here, lean on me," I told him. He sighed, embarrassed, but slung an arm around my shoulders and we followed the line of men on towards the capitol.

Somehow we managed to catch up with Ted. He looked relieved and came over to walk with us. "We've all made it," he said. "I saw Rory and Jack a bit ago. They were sent back for the wounded- as stretcher bearers, you know." We nodded and Ted put his arm around Patrick, taking some of his weight onto his own shoulder so that we could move faster. Again, Patrick looked embarrassed and he frowned. Patrick hated having to admit that he needed help with anything.

We kept going and by the time we stopped retreating we had gone a good long way. At last we could sit and make a fire, eat something and rest for a while. Patrick sat down by the fire while Ted put on a pot of coffee and I went to wet a rag in the nearby creek to wrap Patrick's sprained foot.

"Ouch," he said, making a face, and then he looked disgusted. "I feel like an idiot," he complained. "Men getting shot all around me, and I only tripped."

I shrugged. "Your good luck again, I suppose."

"That it is."

Ted finally lounged next to us in the waning light. "I'm with Patrick," he informed me. "All the things that could have happened back there and the lad takes a spill? That'll be a fine story to tell the girls at home. A proper hero he is." Ted looked at Patrick and shook his head. "What were you doing, dancing out there? Did your shoelace come untied?" The relief of stress was enough to set us laughing and we tried hard to stifle the noise, but couldn't stop. We went from laughter as though at a joke, to hysterical laughter that wasn't funny and from which we couldn't calm down.

Then, Jack and Rory returned and the looks on their faces sobered us right up.

Jack's face was white and drawn. His eyes weren't focusing properly and he looked unsteady on his feet. Rory's eyes were empty and his expression very carefully blank. They came over to the fire and Rory took Jack's elbow and helped him sit down. Rory sat down, too, one arm reassuringly around Jack's shoulders. Jack ran one shaking hand through his hair and stared into the fire with wide, horrified eyes.

"What's happened to him?" Patrick asked in a shocked voice.

"He'll be all right," Rory said, his voice steady. "He just needs rest." He looked at Patrick's bandaged foot. "And what happened to you?"

"I tripped," Patrick said in disgust. "Jack, what happened?" To our horror, tears began to roll down Jack's face in torrents.

"It was-" he started and had to stop and take a deep breath. Collecting himself, he continued in a shaky voice, "They sent us back for the wounded. God, it was awful. He died on the stretcher. We were right out front of the field hospital and he died. He gave me his letter and he died-" Jack's voice broke and we stared at each other, helpless, as Jack buried his face in his hands. He sobbed, his shoulders heaving, and Rory silently pulled out a sooty handkerchief and gave it to Jack. His arm still around Jack's shoulders in that silent gesture of comfort, he explained in his usual way.

"He was a drummer, younger than me. We were taking him to a field hospital. He gave Jack a letter for his mother- I don't think he had the chance to send it before the battle. We were standing out front of the hospital when he died." Rory was silent for a moment. Then, his voice thicker than it had been before, he added, "Jack's just taking it hard. That's all." Struggling to master his emotions, he motioned for a cup of coffee, the first time I had ever seen him ask for anything. Surprised, I handed it to him and he pushed it into Jack's hands and made him drink.

Jack downed the hot liquid in just a few sips. Tears were still falling down his sooty face and when he had finished half the cup he handed it wordlessly back to Rory. Rory took a few sips of his own and then stood, pulling Jack up with him.

Jack seemed in shock and did as he was told. His arm still around Jack, Rory walked him in the direction of the creek. When they came back, Jack's face was clean, though he was still sobbing and his eyes were puffy and red.

"Lay down, there by the fire," Rory said quietly. Jack lay down; facing the flames, his head on his knapsack, and Rory covered him with a blanket. He sat down next to Jack who lay crying quietly until exhaustion set in and he finally slept.

Rory nodded, satisfied that Jack would be all right, and after a moment he spoke.

"It was worse than anything I've ever seen," he said solemnly. "And I've… I've seen some bad places before. This was different." There was a long silence. We had been there, too, and seen our own nightmares, but watching Rory and Jack had made me acutely aware of the fact that when the order came, we had turned and run and that they had cleaned up after us, in a manner of speaking. I felt suddenly guilty.

"He'll be all right in the morning," Rory said, looking over at Jack, whose face was more peaceful in the firelight. "It was just a shock for him. It was a hard place to be."

We nodded and the discussion ended there. We didn't waste much time in laying down for the night, although I, at least, lay awake for a long time.

Duty for the next couple of days was very light. Not only was the army recovering from the battle, but our ninety-day enlistment was up on the 25th of that month and we were to be sent back to New York.

Sergeant O'Malley excused Patrick from duty for those couple of days. His foot was still painful and so swollen he couldn’t put his shoe on. We gave Patrick the jobs of tending the fire and preparing supper and between us we handled anything he might have done before. Then, finally, the day came when we helped him onto the train for the trip back to New York.

The train was quieter this time, I noticed, and not just from the loss of over a hundred voices. Our own conversations were more subdued, and there was no boasting or daydreaming of killing rebels. We'd seen that, and we knew what it meant now.

We perked up some, though, when we finally got off the train. There was to be a parade through the streets and it seemed more in line with what we had expected when we signed our enlistment papers.

We formed up, our uniforms dirtier than they had been, our ranks somewhat thinned, and marched proudly past cheering crowds, all come out to welcome us home. This was what I had envisioned when I had enlisted. Honor and glory, pretty girls and parades, the battles fought and finished and the group of us home in one piece, to be made much of. Then I thought back to a conversation we had had on the train.

"So, will you be staying home for good?" I had asked, curious. My own mind was long made up- after all I had seen, there was no way I could stay away. It had been terrible, and terrifying, but the war had to be won. We had to fight.

Patrick had shaken his head. "I can't," he said, and Jack and Ted agreed.

Rory merely shrugged. "What would I go home to?" he asked, and that was that. We would all be re-enlisting.

That thought dampened my enjoyment of the parade, knowing that the war was far from over for me and my friends. I could only hope that our next homecoming would be this glorious. Then I looked around again and the cheering crowds and buildings of New York City, such a far cry from that little house on the battlefield, brought me back to the present, which I was enjoying.

I saw Rory smile shyly as a young girl thrust a flower into his hands. Ted laughed and thumped him on the shoulder and then accepted with a bow a flower from the same girl. I shook my head and Jack laughed at me. Patrick snickered at the look on Rory's face, and then went back to concentrating on getting through the parade. He had refused to stay behind and his foot was mostly healed, but he was still limping some.

When at last we were given leave to go, Patrick leaned on Rory's shoulder and mine to go the few blocks home. Ted's mother met us at the end of the parade route, and we watched in amusement as she and his crowd of siblings rushed over.

"Oh, Teddy," his mother exclaimed as she hugged him, "it's so good to have you back." It was funny to see big Ted submitting to hugs from a crowd of girls, all with their hairpins just exactly in place and their aprons starched, in contrast to his mud and dirt. His little brother, too, was freshly washed and combed and Ted picked him up and let the little boy ride on his shoulders.

"Are these your friends?" Mrs. McGrath asked her son, motioning to us.

"Yes," he replied. "Mother, this is Jack, Rory, Micheál and Patrick. Boys, this is my mother and the rest of the clan." He laughed.

"How do you do, ma'am," we said politely and she smiled.

"It's good to meet you, boys. Now, Teddy, we'd best be getting home. Your father will be home soon, and he'll be wanting to see you." She took the littlest girl by the hand and looked expectantly down the street, clearly ready to get going.

"I'll be seeing you, lads," Ted promised, and headed home in the middle of that crowd of girls.

Jack was the next to leave, though as it turned out he lived only a few blocks from my own home and walked most of the way there with us.

"We'll be enlisting together, won't we?" he asked and the three of us nodded.

"Don't think I could go off again without you lads," Patrick grinned and Rory nodded, much more seriously.

"Well, then, I'll be seeing you about," Jack told us and with handshakes all around, he went home.

Rory stood still outside our building, not following us as I helped Patrick inside, and he had his old, frightened look on his face.

"What's the matter, lad? Come on in," Patrick said, motioning to him to follow us.

"You don't mind?" Rory asked, timidly, and Patrick understood suddenly.

"Of course not," he said. "You're to stay with us as long as you like. Come, now, let's go see how the families are getting along." Rory smiled shyly and followed us up the stairs.

At last we were on the third floor, where Patrick's family lived and where I suspected I might find my own family as well. Sure enough, when we opened the door, they were all inside. Maura and Mother were darning socks with Mrs. Murphy while Bridget and Colleen washed dishes, Declan was working sums on his slate from a schoolbook open on the table, and Mr. Murphy was reading an old newspaper.

There was a collective gasp as we entered and our families stood, almost as one, and hurried over to us.

We just had time to get in the door when we were smothered by hugs and kisses from our mothers, Mr. Murphy clapping us on the shoulder, and our sisters cheering. It was, in truth, rather embarrassing. Rory smiled sadly as he watched the scene.

"Patrick," his mother exclaimed, after a moment, "were you wounded?" She had seen the way he was standing, and she looked shocked and worried. Patrick flushed red.

"No," he admitted. "I've wrenched my foot, that's all."

"Come, sit down and I'll have a look at it," his mother said, and his father helped Patrick to sit down and put his foot up on a chair.

"Mother," I interrupted, putting a hand on Rory's shoulder, "this is our friend Rory. He's got no place to go in the city- do you think he could he stay with us for a bit?"

"Of course he can," Mother said. She smiled kindly at Rory and I saw him relax. "Rory, it's good to meet you. Why don't you come in and sit down? Bridget, put some coffee on for the lads."

Rory and I sat down at the table, across from Patrick, and I looked around, taking in all the familiar details of home. Mrs. Murphy had examined Patrick's foot, which was swollen and reddened.

"You've not broken it," she decided, "but you've sprained it, sure. Better bandage it, and put you to bed." Patrick rolled his eyes, and was about to protest, but Mrs. Murphy's mind was made up. He allowed her to lead him over to the big bed in the corner of the main room, with the trundle bed underneath it, and he relaxed against the pillows, clasping his hands behind his head.

"Now I feel like we've really made it home," he said to Rory and me, grinning. There was a long silence between us, broken by Bridget who came over and announced in her bossy way,

"Supper's ready. Come on, Micheál, and bring your friend with you. Patrick, Colleen said she'd bring a plate over."

"Thanks, lass," Patrick grinned, laughing a little at all the ways in which the girls had not changed. Declan, however, seemed to have changed much more. He was quiet and a little sullen looking. He closed his schoolbooks with a snap and practically threw his slate in the corner. He said little, but he looked at Patrick and I, and particularly Rory, who was his own age, with envy in his eyes.

We went back to our own home after supper, down a flight of stairs.

"We'll be back tomorrow," I told Patrick as we left and Rory smiled and waved a little as he shut the door behind us.

That night was one of the best I had ever spent. Unlike Patrick, I slept in the small second room. With all the girls in my family, they needed more space. Mother got the largest bed in the main room, and the girls slept on a trundle bed and a cot. My cot was as I had left it, exactly. I was touched and a little saddened by the fact that they had not put the room to use while I had been gone.

Rory offered to sleep on the floor under his coat, but Mother refused that. Instead, she went across the hall and borrowed a cot from our neighbors, who had an unused bed since their oldest son had gone off to sea, and we fit it snugly into my little room. Then mother insisted that he borrow a nightshirt from me and that we both take baths.

She drew a tub of water and, to Rory's obvious relief, let us take it into my room to bathe. Rory undressed and got into the tub and when I turned around, his privacy assured, I winced at the sight of the scars on his back, now long healed but still visible.

When he had finished it was my turn to wash away the dirt of three long months. We had bathed in the army, of course, but it was different to be home with a tub of hot water, and not wading into a creek and hoping the soap didn't float away. Few things in my life ever felt so good as that warm bath, and when we were finished, we dried off and got into bed.

Being home was like a dream. When I woke the next morning, it took me several long minutes to remember where I was and it wasn't really until I opened my eyes that it sunk in; I was home.

Mother and Maura were working that day and so was Bridget, which meant that they were gone by the time Rory and I woke up. I left Rory sleeping, his face perfectly peaceful, and went into the larger room. Colleen had gone off to work with Bridget and Declan, I knew, would be at school. That meant that Patrick was alone upstairs. I went back to my room to dress, and left a note for Rory before heading upstairs to the Murphy's apartment.

Patrick was more or less as we had left him. Though he had washed and dressed in a nightshirt, he was still in bed, lounging among the pillows. He grinned and waved as I came in the door and sat up cross-legged.

"Where's Rory?" he asked.

"Still sleeping," I replied. "I left him a note, but if he doesn't come over soon I'll go back downstairs and see if he got it."

"That sounds like a good plan," Patrick said. He paused a second. "Micheál, Mother thinks I’m staying home."

"Uh-oh," I said. "There's going to be a scene, isn't there?"

"There is. At your house, too, I suppose."

"Probably."

We sat silent, brooding on the conversation we would eventually need to have with our families, when there was a tap on the door and Rory came in. He smiled shyly at us, and walked over to sit on the floor by Patrick's bed. He had dressed in his uniform again, having nothing else to wear.

"You found my note," I guessed.

Rory looked confused. "Note?" he asked

"I left you a note, telling you where I was," I replied.

He ducked his head, blushing. "I can't read, Micheál," he said in a quiet voice.

"Oh," was all I could think of to say. "Sorry."

"No matter," he replied graciously. "I'll learn someday," he added, smiling at the thought. "I'd like that."

It was a quiet day. With our families gone and no work for us in the city, we had nowhere to go and not much to do- for once. It was a quiet couple of weeks, in fact, as we ran errands for our mothers and began planning for the future.

When the day came, however, there were no two ways to break the news. The call went out late in August for volunteers to join the 69th New York Volunteer Infantry- we had been members of the militia before- and we simply went back and enlisted.

"Again?" Mother cried when I came home with the news. I just nodded. "And you, too?" she said, looking at Rory. She had grown fond of him, for all he didn't talk, and Rory liked being mothered. She frowned and asked, with despair in her voice, "There's nothing I can do to stop you?" We shook our heads.

Mother came over and hugged each one of us. "Take care of yourselves. Come home all in one piece, and when the war is over, you come back here with Micheál, Rory." We promised that we would, and not long after came the day when we were told to report again.

It was November and we were about ready to leave New York. We were ordered to form up on the morning of the 18th for a ceremony before we left the City- we were to be presented with a flag made by Tiffany and Co, and, I figured, to hear a lot of boring political speeches.

I was right about the ceremony. We stood there, our legs going numb, for longer than I cared to think about while politicians spoke, while the flag was presented, and while more politicians spoke. The part I was looking forward to, not necessarily happily but for which I was waiting, was leaving for the war again.

The flags were handsome, I had to admit that. One was a big American flag, and the other flag was our new regimental one. It was green, with a golden harp on it and our regimental number on a banner across the top. Rory, who was musical, liked the harp in particular. What I liked most was that when the flag was presented the ceremony was over.

It was a familiar scene at the train station, not long after. Patrick and Rory and I had found seats on the car and were looking out the window, watching Ted's mother kiss him goodbye, and looking around for Jack. He was nowhere to be seen, and Patrick and I were leaning out the window, searching the crowd in case he was looking for us.

"Hello, again," Ted greeted us as he bounded up the stairs into the car and sat down next to Rory. "It's been a while since I've seen you lads. Where's Jack?"

"Haven't seen him yet," I replied. "It's odd he's not here yet."

"Hmm. That it is. He was coming back for sure, was he?"

"Last I heard."

"When did you last hear?"

"Tuesday. He told me he'd meet me at the train." No sooner had I said this than we heard footsteps come running up the aisle of the car and Jack sat down next to me. He was breathing heavily and had arrived just in time- no sooner had he taken a seat then the train began to move.

"I've made it," Jack panted. He sat with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, trying to catch his breath. When he at last sat up, his hair stuck in a dozen different directions, he explained, "I had a letter this morning." He stopped and took a few more gasps. "I was trying to finish a reply and get it mailed, but…" he shook his head. "Never mind," He laughed. "I probably should have started writing it this morning."

"Who'd you have a letter from?" Ted asked, and Jack blushed. We all stared at him, amused to see this new side of our friend.

"Sinead Rafferty," Jack muttered, and I realized that I remembered him talking about her before.

"Sinead, hmm?" Ted teased. "She's your girl?"

"I guess so," Jack said, smiling to himself.

"What did she have to say?" I asked.

"She's coming to New York," Jack burst out, as soon as the words had left my mouth. He was grinning broadly. "I… I wrote her and told her to come. I said I would find her a place to stay. She's like you, Micheál, she's always wanted to come to America, and she's finally found the money, working for some Englishman that owns a house in Dublin. She wrote to say she'd gotten passage on a ship and she'll be here soon as she can."

"But you won't be there when she arrives, will you?" Ted pointed out.

"That's what took so long getting here," Jack explained. "I just got the letter this morning and I had to find someone to meet her, and then I had to write her to let her know I've enlisted again." He had been starting to catch his breath, but he was out of breath again with excitement.

"Are you going to propose right away, or will you wait a bit?" Ted teased and Jack blushed again.

"Who said I was going to propose at all?" he replied, getting obstinate.

"You didn't have to say-" Ted began, but Patrick cut him off.

"That's good for you both," he said to Jack. "Ted, leave the lad alone, will you? He'll propose when he's ready, and besides, he can't do it from the other side of an ocean." Ted snickered and Jack colored up again. They managed to keep the argument going until we had almost left the city and were well on our way back to the war.

Masterpost

#historical whump #slow burn whump #whump novels

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