The Day The Irish Invaded Canada “They say the sun never sets on the British empire – well baby, it’s setting.” Frank McCourt Prologue The Irish Are Coming Guelph, Ontario Deputy Sheriff Richard Woods was fast asleep behind his desk. The night shift during the week in the town of Guelph, Ontario, was rarely eventful. So after his last rounds of the night, Woods succumbed to temptation and allowed himself a nap. Just as the sun was rising, he was shaken from a deep sleep when the office door burst open. Phil Mendes, a local farmer, ran into the office screaming, “Deputy! Wake up!” Woods was startled at the demeanor of the normally shy and reserved Mendes, who was waving his arms as he screamed. “What is it?” Woods asked as he sat up in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “It’s a mother-lovin’ army! The Irish army! They’re invading!” Woods slumped back in his chair and chuckled, “The Irish army, you say? Invading? Oh Phil, that’s a good one.” Woods stretched and yawned, "Who sent you to –“ “No one sent me! I’m not kidding, you bloody fool!” Mendes yelled. “Now Phil,” Woods said with a smirk, “do you suppose that these Irish boys just decided to swim across the ocean and –“ Woods was interrupted by the high-pitched, unmistakable wailing sound of bagpipes. The smile fell off his face as he rushed to the door, followed by Mendes. Once out on the street he turned towards the noise and was shocked to see soldiers marching up the street. Hundreds of soldiers. Carrying long rifles and marching towards him. He had never seen such an awesome display of military force. He tried to pull his revolver out of its holster but his hand was shaking too hard. One of the approaching soldiers stepped off the road, dropped his rifle from his shoulder, and aimed it towards Woods. The deputy spun and ran for his life. He turned the corner of the next building, and then sprinted through the town square, past the church, through the cemetery and into the woods. He didn’t stop or look back once until he was far up a hill that overlooked the town. When he could run no more he stopped, gasping for air, both terrified and confused. As he gained his breath and his composure, his fear gave way to shame when he looked down and noticed the large, wet stain that was spread out across the front of his pants. Chapter 1 Tea With the King Carrickshook, Ireland Joseph O’Connell kissed his son, Danny, on the forehead and said, “Goodbye son. I’ve got to go see the king.” “The king??” exclaimed the boy, “Oh da’, can I come too?? I’ve never met the king.” “No son,” his father replied, “We’ve got some adult business to tend to with the king. No children allowed.” O’Connell walked out to the street, joining several of his neighbors. He turned back for a moment, waved to his son, and then the group walked hurriedly together towards town. Each of the farmers was carrying a pitchfork or a hoe. The British had been taxing the Irish to support the Protestant Church of England. And since the vast majority of the Irish were Catholic, the general populace didn’t take too kindly to this. After several centuries of British dominance and oppression, the island was a smoldering powder-keg on the brink rebellion. So in 1831, the Tithe War erupted in Ireland. All across the country, the people refused to pay what most considered to be an inequitable tax. But what began as passive resistance soon turned violent. The Tithe War spread like wildfire and thousands of British troops would eventually be poured into the country to protect the tithe proctors and process-servers. And in the township of Carrickshook, a donnybrook broke out between local peasants and the police. The Irish peasants, armed with farm tools and fueled by righteous anger (and perhaps a wee nip o’ the whiskey), ended up killing 18 policemen. O’Connell returned to his home that night with blood smeared across his overalls – blood that was not his own. His son and his wife, Kathleen, ran to him as he stepped inside the house and closed the door. Danny clutched his leg while his wife Kathleen wrapped her arms around his shoulders and asked, “Joseph, are you alright??” “Alright for the moment,” replied O’Connell, “But my dear, something very bad happened back in town. And we must leave tonight. Pack only what we can carry on our backs.” The O’Connells would depart for America three days later. And Joseph would be one of just several of the participants in the fight in Carrickshook who would escape the vengeance of the British authorities. For many years afterwards he would tell new acquaintances that he immigrated to America to pursue a better way of life. This, he told himself, was to some extent factual. Because indeed, living in America was certainly better than hanging at the end of a rope in a town square in Ireland. Chapter 2 The Secret Brotherhood New York City “Step forward, lad,” said Captain James Stephens. And Patrick O’Connell did as he was commanded. “Is it your intention to join the Fenian Brotherhood?” he asked. The obviously nervous young man hesitated for a moment and then answered, “Yes, sir.” “And do you swear to God and to your fellow brothers that you will keep forever secret the existence of The Brotherhood, along with all the names in its membership?” Again, Patrick needed a moment to collect himself before replying, “Yes, sir.” “And do you swear to fight for a free Ireland and give your life for Her if called to?” While he certainly was committed to fighting for Ireland, he also had every intention of living to see the day when She was finally free of the British yoke. But he knew what was expected of him and replied, “Yes, sir.” The I.R.B. (Irish Republican Brotherhood) was first established in 1857 in the United States as a provisional government for an independent Ireland. But the I.R.B. was much better known by its nickname, The Fenians Its founders, John O’Mahoney and James Stephens, were two of the leaders of the Young Ireland uprising of 1848 who had escaped from English capture and found their way to New York City. And in New York City they found many willing and able recruits. “Reach your right hand out, lad,” Stephens commanded. And again, he did. Patrick held his hand out over the table in front of him, which was covered with the battle flag of the Fenian Irish Republican Army. Captain Stephens grabbed Patrick’s right hand with his left, then swiftly brought up a knife with his right hand and sliced it across the top of Patrick’s thumb. Small squirts of blood dropped down on the flag and Patrick bit my lip to keep from crying out. Stephens then pressed a white cloth onto his thumb. “Welcome to the Brotherhood,” he said in a deep, solemn voice, “You are now a Fenian warrior.” The Fenians were named after the legendary “Na Fianna” of ancient Ireland. These Fenians were a band of mythological warriors that served as bodyguards to the “Ard Ri” – the Irish High King. Long forgotten, the term “Fenian” would become synonymous in the 19th century with the underground movement to establish a free and independent Ireland. This ritual was repeated for the other seven recruits behind him. The Fenian flag, stained with the blood of its eight newest members, was then lit on fire and burned while the recruits and veterans watched in silence. When the ceremony had ended his grandfather, Joseph O’Connell, approached him and shook his hand. “Welcome,” he said with a tear in his eye, “I am so damn proud of you, young man.” The elder O’Connell was indeed a proud grandfather, though a bitterly disappointed father. For his son, Danny, had settled for what his father considered a small life – a small farm, on a small plot, with a small family. He seemed happy enough, O’Connell thought, but his boy had no ideals, no dreams, and no passion. And as he shook his grandson’s hand, he thought that perhaps revolutionaries skipped generations. Because he sensed in Patrick the same patriotic zeal that had always burned in his own heart. Chapter 3 Mister Roberts Goes to Washington Washington, D.C. It had been yet another long day of meetings with his cabinet to address the ever-growing list of issues and problems involved with the reconstruction of the recently defeated Confederate states. But a weary Andrew Johnson had one more meeting to attend before concluding his business for the evening as President of the United States. This appointment, though, was not on his official calendar. Nor was it noted on any official documentation anywhere within the White House. The President rose from his chair to greet his two visitors. Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton, made the introduction, “Mister President, this is Colonel William Randall Roberts.” Colonel Roberts extended his hand to the President and said, “President Johnson, it is an honor to meet you, sir. On behalf of the Irish people I thank you for seeing me regarding this most urgent matter.” Johnson motioned to the two other men to sit down. In no mood for small talk, he got right to the business at hand, “Colonel Roberts, what is it that the government of the United States can do for you and your people?” Roberts again thanked the President for his time and attention, and then presented a brief overview of the current political situation in his homeland. Johnson’s impatience was obvious in his facial expression – Please, Colonel Roberts; I’ve heard this tale of woe many times before. Roberts sensed that his window of opportunity was closing fast and got right to the point. “We have an army of 12,000 men, Mister President,” said Roberts, exaggerating by quite a few thousand to get the President’s attention, “All Irish-Americans. Ready to invade Canada.” “Invade Canada??” replied an incredulous Johnson, “For what purpose, Colonel??” Roberts stated in his most calm, soothing voice, “Mister President, after generations of British oppression and many futile uprisings at home, we have found the key to our freedom. We will simply take the empire’s Canadian jewel hostage.” He leaned forward and quietly added in his most reassuring voice, “Then we make a trade. Canada for Irish independence.” Colonel Roberts then sat back and let his words linger. To speak any further now would be to overstate his case, and to buy back what he was selling. He knew very well of the simmering resentment in Washington towards England. And he knew how to exploit that resentment. Just as the English had disregarded neutrality laws during the Civil War and openly supplied arms and ammunition to the South, so too could the American government assist the Irish in their rebellion by overlooking the same neutrality laws so recently scorned by the British government. Johnson turned towards Stanton and the Secretary of War responded with a nearly imperceptible nod – Yes, Mister President, the payback we’ve been looking for has come and found us. And the thought was not lost upon either man that, for a very small investment, all of Canada just might drop right into their hands. “Colonel,” asked Johnson, “what can we do to help you without, of course, being too obvious in our assistance?” Roberts had anxiously awaited this question, “Mister President, with so many munitions left over from the war gathering dust, perhaps Secretary Stanton can redirect some of that material in our direction. Through some very discreet middlemen…” Chapter 4 Scaling the Stone Wall New York City After a day at the mill and an evening of drill sessions, the men in Patrick’s Finian regiment retired to The McSorley Tavern for some refreshments. And over pints of ale some of the Civil War veterans in the group told their stories of Gettysburg, Shilo, The Wilderness, and other blood-soaked battles of the war. He listened with awe as one veteran, Terry Horgan, recounted his exploits in the battle of Fredericksburg, “The rebels charged our lines, screamin’ their blood-curdling Rebel Yell.” “’Hold your fire, boys!’ screamed the sergeant, ‘Take your aim and fire on my command!’ So I looked down the sights of my rifle. And God as my witness, who do I find in my sites but a tall, bearded reb’ general - Stonewall Jackson himself.” Patrick hung on Horgan’s every word as he continued his story, “So the rebs are running towards us and Stonewall is leading the charge, waving his big sword. I keep my aim set on him and then the sergeant yells, ‘Fire!’ So I pull the trigger. And a split-second later I see Jackson lurch backwards and fall off his horse.” Horgan smiled and concluded, “And that, boys, was the turnin’ point of the entire war.” Heads nodded in approval and Patrick sat in stunned silence, unaware that the legendary General Jackson had actually been accidentally shot by his own men after the Battle of Chancellorsville. “Have another pint, handsome?” Patrick turned and saw the beaming smile of Meg, the new barmaid at McSorleys. He had admired her from afar for the past week but had not gathered enough courage to speak to her. Caught completely off guard and a bit nervous, he stammered for a moment. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she announced. She took a pint of ale off her tray, placed it on the table in front of him, and smiled and winked at him. Then she turned and continued on her way. After a few more ales he decided to say something to her the next time she passed by. Not knowing what to say, when the moment arrived he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind, “Your eyes sparkle like diamonds.” She stopped and for a moment seemed taken aback by his comment. Patrick cringed with fear, afraid that he had just made a fool of himself. But in a moment she seemed completely at ease and replied, “Well thank you.” They made their introductions and some small talk. Then she said, “I’ve got to get back to work. Perhaps we can talk more later?” As Margaret walked out of hearing distance, Horgan mimicked Patrick using an exaggerated, high sing-song voice, “You have eyes like diamonds!” And his comrades roared with laughter, which they used to cover up their envy. Chapter 5 Maria, Gratia Plena New York City For most young men of his time the thought would come during a moment of passion. But for Patrick it would arrive at, of all unlikely places, a church. Specifically, it happened at Saint Josephs church during the procession at the 11:00 AM Sunday mass. For every fine Irish Catholic gentleman with proper intentions would escort his lady to Sunday mass at his church. Once he and Meg were steadily dating, Patrick - being both a fine young gentleman and one having proper intentions but lacking in a church - hurriedly adopted Saint Josephs as his own. It happened during the singing of the “Ave Maria.” At first the organ’s pipes blasted the introductory notes. Then the voices of the worshipers joined in. But soon the organ and the singers faded. And he heard the voice of an angel. As Meg sang Patrick was transfixed by the heavenly sound of her voice. Soft, delicate, perfect. Never in his entire life had his ears been bathed with such beauty. And the thought arrived. I’ve got to do everything in my power to make this girl my wife. The memory of the Ave Maria lingered for weeks. Until finally it was time for action. “Please marry me, Meg,” Patrick asked on bended knee. “Patty,” she replied, “I’m sorry, but it’s just too soon.” Undaunted, he continued to pursue the issue. Finally Meg relented. “Yes,” she said, “I’d love to. But…” “But what?” he asked anxiously. “My Daddy. He’ll want to meet you. Know your prospects,” she continued. “My prospects are unlimited!” he replied, “I’ll make a fortune. I’ll make you a queen and you’ll live in luxury!” “No, you don’t understand. Daddy’s a lawyer. In Philadelphia. He’s always wanted all of the best for me,” she said as she turned away, “You’re a mill worker. And you don’t have a dollar to your name.” Her eyes welled with tears, “Daddy will never approve…” He pursued every idea he could think of. Run away? No, she wanted a proper wedding. Tell her father he was an Irish Patriot? No, Daddy never did fancy rebels. Rob a bank?? She giggled. No, Daddy wouldn’t be terribly thrilled with a prison wedding. For a long time the two sat together in a dejected silence. Then Meg brightened, “Wait, I’ve got an idea.” “What?” asked Patrick. “Mister Michaels,” she replied, “He’s my godfather. And he’s a banker here in New York now. You can go see him. He’ll know what you can do.” Chapter 6 D-Day "We are the Fenian Brotherhood, skilled in the arts of war, And we're going to fight for Ireland, the land we adore, Many battles we have won, along with the boys in blue, And we'll go and capture Canada, for we've nothing else to do." -Fenian soldier's song Fort Erie, Ontario General John O’Neill, Civil War veteran and former Colonel of the 7th Michigan Cavalry, launched the first wave of the attack on Canada with a force of 1,300 on June 2, 1866. Meanwhile the thousands of Irish volunteers who had gathered in villages and towns all along the New York-Canadian border to join the Fenian army were being organized into the second wave. Under General O’Neill this small Fenian army crossed the Niagara River near Buffalo and captured Niagara Village and Fort Erie. Here the tricolor flag of the present-day Irish Republic was raised for the first time ever. In turn, the Irishmen were attacked at Ridgeway by a Canadian volunteer militia force from Toronto and Hamilton, which they defeated killing and wounding more than 50 of the Canadians. The Fenians then camped for the night amidst rumors of a vast Canadian and British force converging rapidly upon them. Patrick volunteered to join the night watch. After a long day of marching and fighting there wasn’t much competition for that duty. As darkness fell he wandered north until he reached The Queens Way road, which ran from Fort Erie to Toronto. He walked for several hours until he encountered a Canadian scouting party. Pushing a white handkerchief into the bayonet on his rifle, he approached cautiously. “Halt! Who goes there?” a soldier shouted in the darkness. “A messenger. For General Blake,” Patrick replied. He was quickly disarmed and searched, and then blindfolded and led to a horse-drawn carriage. The carriage brought Patrick to the enemy encampment and he was led into the general’s tent. His blindfold was removed and he found himself standing in front of a large table covered with maps. General Francis Blake looked up from his chair at his latest visitor. “General,” started Patrick, “I’m a friend of Mister Michaels.” Blake nodded in recognition of the name, or – more accurately – codename, “You’re with that rabble?” “Well… yes sir,” Patrick stammered, “Seventh Finian regiment -” “Rabble!” Blake repeated, “You’ve got – what – about a thousand men?” Again Patrick hesitated, “Yes, sir.” “And about 4,000 still waiting to cross the river?” the general asked nonchalantly. “Yes… sir,” replied an unsettled Patrick. “You’re surprised at how much we know?” Asked Blake, “You take us for bloody idiots?? You think you can mass an army on our border without anyone taking notice??” The general knew that in war, information could be as potent a weapon as gunpowder and shot. Patrick had no answer. “That will be all. You may leave now,” Blake concluded. “Uh, General Blake,” he asked hesitantly, “What about the compensation I was promised?” “Compensation??” the general growled, “Let me give you some compensation, young man. Within 24 hours the 15,000 men under my command will attack your sorry excuse for an army on three sides. Your vaunted General O’Neill will then have two choices – go back where he came from or face utter annihilation.” His voice was rising as he spoke, “This certainly isn’t the first visit we’ve received from our neighbors to the south, but I will do everything within my power to ensure it’s the last!” The American invasion of Canada during the War of 1812 was still a sore point with many loyal Canadians, including one Lieutenant General Francis T. Blake. “So as compensation,” Blake was now shouting, “I will allow you to save your own ass - and run for your life - back to where you came from!” Chapter 7 The Patron Saint Intervenes Washington, D.C. Secretary Stanton presented an urgent telegram to President Johnson: Dear Mister President: We have started crossing the river and our mission has begun. And we do so knowing that the blessing of Ireland’s patron saint, Saint Patrick, is with us. But a large enemy force is approaching with surprising speed. Even if we can get all of our men across in time, we will still be outnumbered three to one. With support from the American army our men will wipe this enemy from the field. We most humbly request your assistance. Your obedient servant, Colonel William R. Roberts The President read the telegram, then rubbed his eyes and sighed, “Mister Secretary, what in God’s name have we gotten ourselves into? “ “Mister President,” answered Stanton, “The latest reports state that they sent about 1,000 men over the border, and have another 4,000 still waiting to cross. Quite a bit less than the 12,000 we’d been promised.” Johnson shook his head in disgust, “This is a no-win situation. The people have no stomach for another war. Yet to leave American men to slaughter, unaided and so close to our own borders… after we supplied them arms… well that would be political suicide for this administration.” “And this Saint Patrick of theirs,” Johnson added ruefully, “Is he the patron saint of Ireland, or the patron saint of Hopeless Causes and Pointless Gestures??” The two sat together in silence for nearly five minutes, contemplating the imminent disaster of either choice. But then Stanton had an idea, “Mister President, I think we have a way out.” Chapter 8 Cousins Across the Pond Washington, D.C. “Mister Secretary, I must insist that these criminals be extradited to face British justice,” urged British ambassador, Michael Parfitt. “What they have done is nothing short of an act of war against the crown!” Parfitt stopped and tried to collect himself. He sat back in his chair and surveyed Secretary Stanton’s White House office. A generation ago British troops had burned this building to the ground. Certainly, Parfitt mused, demands of the British ambassador were taken a bit more seriously back then! But so much had changed since then. The European powers watched with equal parts fascination and horror as the American Civil War reaped carnage and destruction on both combatants and civilians, the likes of which the world had never seen before. If they can do that to each other, God only knows what their combined forces would do to us! No, the boots of British soldiers would not be marching through the city of Washington again anytime soon. Stanton had no intention of considering any such extradition and half-heartedly offered a response, “Rest assured, Mister Ambassador, that these men will be brought to justice -within the American legal system, of course.” Seeing he was getting nowhere Parfitt resorted to the tactic well known by diplomats - and lovers - who are powerless to get their requests and desires met. He repeated the same pleas and demands, only in a louder voice, “Mister Secretary, they initiated a military invasion of British territory! Surely you can see that the king cannot let this go unpunished!” Stanton rose from his chair, signaling that the meeting was now concluding, “Yes, Mister Ambassador, I do understand your point. And we will give it our utmost consideration.” Stanton shook Parfitt’s hand, led him to his office door, and when the ambassador was gone he considering the issue closed. A force of 10,000 Canadian militia and 5,000 British regulars had attacked the 1,300 Fenians. Opposed by overwhelming numbers, and with no American army troops arriving in support, General O’Neill decided to withdraw his troops across the Niagara River by barge back to Buffalo. His plan was to regroup and strengthen his army by connecting up with the Fenians who were preparing for the next wave of the attack. But the Johnson administration had seen this venture go from a low-risk opportunity to a potentially explosive disaster, so Stanton deftly maneuvered a way out. General O’Neill and his men were intercepted by the captain of the warship the USS Harrison and escorted to back to safety in the U.S. At the same time Lt. General Ulysses S. Grant had journeyed to Buffalo to observe the Fenian activities and had ordered the border closed, preventing the remaining Fenian troops from crossing at Fort Erie. Stanton’s plan was simple and effective. One, get them back alive. Two, be sure that they can’t go back and try again. And three, act as if none of it had ever happened in the first place. By the time Stanton would entertain Ambassador Parfitt, O’Neill and his officers had been arrested and detained by the U.S. army. Several weeks after their arrest all of Fenian leaders were quietly released. None of them would ever be charged with a crime for their involvement in the invasion and the Johnson administration quietly swept the entire issue under the proverbial rug. The Fenian movement in America had lost its momentum and would never again pose a serious threat to Canada. Chapter 9 The Road to Perdition New York City Terry Shea was wiping down the bar when he looked up and noticed another customer walking towards him, “Sir, I’m sorry but we’re closed for the night.” Patrick had lingered across the street from the tavern’s entrance for three consecutive nights, monitoring the traffic in and out. Not once seeing the young lady he was looking for, he couldn’t wait any longer so he walked in and approached the bartender, “I’m looking for the new girl, Meg. Hasn’t she worked here the past few nights?” “Oh yes, the new girl,” responded Shea, “She left abruptly a few weeks ago. Didn’t say goodbye to anyone. Just disappeared. Folks think she’d had enough of New York and headed back home.” “Of course, back home to Philadelphia,” answered Patrick, “I figured that was a possibility. I can find her there.” ”Philadelphia?” asked Shea, “Wrong direction. If she went home she was going in the other direction. North. To Canada.” ”No, that’s not right,” Patrick insisted, “Her father’s an attorney down there. She’s from a prominent Philadelphia family and –“ Shea cut him off, “Not likely, lad. Check with her roommate, Sheila. From what I’ve heard she was looking for a lost earring one night and found some of that girl’s papers hidden away. Canadian papers - official documents, travel papers, things like that.” Patrick mind was spinning as Shea continued, “Sheila mentioned it to a few of us and we thought it was a bit odd. But nobody wanted to stick their nose in someone else’s personal business. Plus we all adored that girl.” Shea paused, then added, “Well, except for Mary. Mary didn’t like her one bit. Said she was probably some sort of spy or something like that. We all laughed it off. A spy? That sweet little girl??” Patrick turned without another word and staggered out of the tavern. That sweet little girl, indeed… And finally all of the pieces of the puzzle fit together. Meg… The money… Mister Michaels… General Blake… Canadian papers… What a god-forsaken fool I’ve been!! Chapter 10 The Prodigal Son Buffalo, New York Danny O’Connell answered the knock at his front door and was stunned at what he saw. Standing in front of him was his son, Patrick - filthy, exhausted, and gaunt. The two men faced each other silently for a long, awkward moment. For their parting exchange several months earlier had not been pleasant: “Son, I want you to reconsider. This, this… ‘expedition’ - as you call – it’s madness. Futility…” “If you were a true patriot you wouldn’t say that!” “Oh you’re startin’ to sound like your grandpa again.” ”Good! He’s a great man - and I hope I can be just like him!” “Patrick, you’re young and you’ve got such a bright future ahead of you. Don’t risk losing it all for this.” ”And then what, turn out like you?? A tired, boring, old man??” At that comment the father recoiled, feeling as if he’d been punched in the stomach. The son stormed out of the house without saying another word. Finally Danny said to his son, “Good Lord, what happened to you??” Patrick’s eyes welled with tears, “There was… a girl…” The father reached out to embrace his son and the young man fell into his arms. Yes, of course, there was a girl… The pain and anger of their last exchange was now gone. His son had returned a changed man. Wounded, yes, but the father knew that these were the type of wounds that could – and would - eventually heal. Too old too soon, pondered the father, and too smart too late. Epilogue Return of the Princess Ottawa, Ontario Margaret Browne returned to Ottawa, the capital of the British Canada, to a heroine’s welcome. The social and political circles buzzed with stories of her extraordinary bravery amidst the hated Yankees and the Irish thugs. She was presented the Queen’s Gallantry Medal, Great Britain’s highest civilian award, by Governor William Kennett. She would be the only woman on the North American continent to ever to be awarded the gallantry medal. But for Margaret, her mission had never been about medals or acclaim. Instead, it had been about her oldest brother, Joe. Joe Brown was a volunteer in the Queen’s 37th Canadian regiment. Until that fateful night outside of Dublin when he was killed by Irish guerillas in an ambush. His sister raged at his fate, “The gutless bastards shot him in the back! In the middle of the night!” And since they wouldn’t let a woman carry a rifle into battle, she would find her own way of avenging her beloved brother’s death. Governor Kennett deeded to her 500 acres of prime northern Ontario farmland as a dowry for her service to the crown. Beautiful, intelligent, uncommonly brave, and now wealthy as well, Margaret was the most sought after maiden in the capital. The ensuing social season was a whirlwind of formal dinners, dances, and gentleman callers. Of the many handsome and charming young men who offered marriage proposals, Margaret chose Dennis Fentie. Fentie, a bright young lawyer with a promising future, had impressed Margaret with his thoughtfulness and sincerity. All agreed that Mister and Misses Dennis R. Fentie would make a formidable couple. On their wedding night, while her husband slept the blissful sleep of a newlywed, Margaret turned away from him and stared off into the darkness. And at that moment she realized that no man - neither her many suitors, her new husband, nor anyone else – would ever love her and bring her such joy as that silly, beautiful, foolish, wonderful Irishman she had left behind in New York. Her eyes welled with tears. Then she summoned all of her strength and courage – and blinked them away. Historical Footnote Keys to the Castle Dublin, Ireland Michael Collins, leader of the Irish War of Independence from 1919 to 1921, was to arrive in Dublin Castle on January 16, 1922, to receive the handover of the castle on behalf of the new Irish Free State government. Lord Lieutenant FitzAlan and the British garrison were in formation for the ceremony exactly at the appointed time of 10:00 AM. Collins and the Irish army arrived twenty minutes later. FitzAlan tersely greeted Collins with, "We’ve been waiting for you for twenty minutes, Mister Collins." To which Collins replied, "Well we've been waiting for this for two hundred fucking years, Mister FitzAlan."
Copyright © 2004 Paul McCarthy |