Coming Home

 

Prologue

 

 The Atlantic Ocean, 1867

 

 He was going home.

 

Home. Such a simple word. And for so long now, such an unattainable dream.

 

Yet as he stood on the deck of the Mary O’Connor, he thought maybe he’d finally find a real home once again.

 

When Johnny comes marching home again . . .

 

He looked seaward. The salt wind tugged at his hair. Spray stung his eyes. Gulls wheeled and shrieked overhead. Open water lay beyond the horizon, and beyond that still, his new life. In a few weeks, the Mary O’Connor would dock in Galway Bay, and from there he’d head for the small village his parents had spoken of with such love. He felt a stirring of emotion, the first spark of excitement since—

 

Deliberately he cut off the thought. He was no longer a soldier. There would be no more Rebel yells, no more guns, no more battles. He was no longer Captain Callaghan, so-called hero of the Irish Brigade.

 

He was just plain Cavan Callaghan, an Irishman searching for peace.

 

What would Ireland be like? For as long as he could remember, he’d heard his parents speak wistfully of the country they’d left behind. The green fields and sea-swept coast. The heather-strewn countryside filled with wild strawberries and prickly gorse. They’d spoken of the people, too, but especially of his father’s brother.

 

The last of the Flynns now, except for himself.

 

His mother had said the village of Ballycashel lay some nine miles from Galway City. What would he find there? He knew about the Hunger, of course. Had any of his family survived?

 

 Or would he find the same devastation he’d confronted on his return from the war?

 

 A ripple of sound floating on the briny breeze told him he wasn’t alone. Recognizing the delicate notes of a penny whistle, he glanced around. One of his fellow passengers, obviously an Irishman, lowered the instrument from his lips and smiled, his foot tapping in jig time.

 

The piper began playing anew, and a raw slash of anguish ripped through Cavan’s gut. He knew the words well, and the tune the man played so effortlessly and with such emotion.

 

He’d prayed never to hear them again.

 

The minstrel boy to the war has gone,

In the ranks of death you’ll find him . . .

 

He squeezed his eyes shut, the ‘ranks of death’ marching through his memory.  So many friends,  his comrades-in-arms, who would never return . . .

 

His brother.

 

With a hard shake of his head, he strode away from the haunting melody.

 

He was going home. And there he would find peace.

 

There would be no more war.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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