The sun slowly began to rise out of the mist and fog of the cold January morning. Snowflakes sparkled in the sun as they drifted down to earth, only to be trampled on and turned to muddy slush in the busy Chicago streets.
Liam O'Conell sat at the end of the long empty dining room table, sipping hot black coffee, the Chicago newspaper spread before him as he read the lists of the wounded and dead, five pages of fine type - to many, just names, to him, names he knew. Many had passed through his doors of the recruitment office. Young lads full of life, ready to go and fight for their Uncle Sam. Now many would be coming home on trains in pine boxes to be claimed by loved ones or buried on the battlefields where they took their final breath of air. He picked his cup up again and brought it to his lips as he sipped the hot black brew, then he folded the paper and laid it aside.
"Good morning, Mr. Liam! What can I get you for breakfast this morning?" asked a slender lady with graying hair tied in a bun.
"Good morning, Annie. Well, let's see, some hot biscuits and fried ham would be nice, along with some eggs. Just make sure you cook plenty as I got three hungry boys sleeping upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms."
She smiled, "Yes, sir, I saw the mess those boys made in the water closet last night, but I am sure it was the first real bath they have had in ages with real soap and hot water."
"True, my dear lady, so true. I guess I should head upstairs and awaken the little devils so I can get them ready to depart south for Cairo."
Annie detected sadness in Liam's voice as he spoke the last words about the boys' departure. She prayed that Liam and his wife would have a 2nd child, a son this time, for she could see in his face what a joy it was for him to be around the lads at work and helping the youth of Chicago.
Liam stood and walked out of the dining room into the living room, then began to walk up the stairs when there was a loud knocking on the front door. He headed toward the front of the house and to the door.
He turned the knob after unlatching the chains and removing the iron bolt that held the door firmly locked from the inside.
A messenger stood on the steps, dressed in a dark blue army uniform, his cap pulled tightly over his ears and his jacket collar pulled up tightly around his neck to block as much of the cold air as possible.
"Telegram, sir!" and the soldier saluted.
Liam saluted back. "Thank you and please come inside to warm yourself."
"Thank you, sir." The soldier followed Liam inside and over to the fireplace where the fire burned brightly, giving off welcome warmth from the cold outside.
"Liam unfolded the thin sheet of paper in which the message was written.
TO: QUARTERMASTER LIAM O'CONELL, CHICAGO, IL FROM: A. LINCOLN, WASHINGTON CITY
Quartermaster O'Conell, it displeases me to hear of what happened while three of our fine boys were being examined for enlistment to the service of our country. I will be frank with you. I agree to the placement of the Doctor in confinement in Fort Dearborn but I would like to make a suggestion as a lesson to all of our Doctors working in our service. You may, under my direct orders, have the Doctor Watson put to death by firing Squad at noon today. I be damned if he deserves a court martial. A. LINCOLN
Liam let out a low whistle as he refolded the paper. The private looked at him but did not say a word. It was none of his business when some one was dispatched a message he just delivered them. "Private, follow me, please."
Liam walked toward one of the doors leading out of the living room and opened the door. They walked inside. The small office was warm but not overheated. A small fire was kept burning in the small room during the day, in case someone needed to use the big desk to write or if Patrick came home early from his office in the Illinois Central Station.
Liam sat down behind the big desk and pulled out a white sheet of paper. He wrote several paragraphs and then folded the telegram inside and placed it in an envelope, then sealed it with a dose of wax, then he stamped it with the family seal and addressed it to Commander Russell at Fort Dearborn. "Private, make sure this reaches the desk of Commander Russell at Fort Dearborn before the 11 o'clock hour of today!"
"Yes, sir!" The private saluted. "Anything else, sir, before I take my leave to deliver your dispatch?"
"No, Private, that is all! Thank you for asking and your quickness on bringing the dispatch to me. You and thousands others are what we need to win this bloody war."
Liam stood and shook the private's hand, then saluted. The private saluted again and walked out of the office and down the hall. Liam heard the front door being closed as the private closed it and walked to his waiting mount. The soldier mounted his horse and galloped down the drive and onto Michigan Ave.
Liam walked back out of the small office and reclosed the door. Then once more he turned and began to climb the stairs.
Davie, John, and Ernest all were deep into their dreams still, warm and comfortable under the thick blankets of the big bed and the soft goosedown pillows below their heads. They did not hear Liam when he opened the door and walked into the bedroom. Liam looked over at the big bed and the three sleeping boys. What a peaceful sight, the three with their arms wrapped around each other, Davie in the center with his two young charges, holding them tightly while they slept. If only he had a way to capture this moment in time forever. Liam stood there and looked down on the boys for what seemed the longest time, but it was in reality only a brief moment. He walked over to the big window and pulled back the curtains, letting the soft light of the morning sunshine into the room and onto the boys. Then he noticed for the first time Davie in this new light and how the boy's red hair shone in the light, a little long, reaching the nape of his neck, but the curls and the brilliance of the dark red really stood out on the white pillow and the boy's milky white skin.
He quietly clicked open his gold pocket watch to look at the time - 7:30 am, time to get the lads dressed and ready for breakfast. Annie would be wondering about the delay, since it had been over an hour since he told her what to prepare.
"Davie, John, Ernest, time to get up, sleepy heads. It is a new day, my boys, and a what grand day to start your new adventure." He popped John and Ernest lightly on their behinds to get them to begin to stir.
The three yawned and Ernest sat up, looking confused at first at where he was. Then he smiled at Liam, "Good morning, sir."
"Good morning, Ernest, my lad. Wake the other two up, will ya. Looks like my slap on the rump worked only once out of two."
Ernest smiled, then he started to shake Davie awake and his brother. "Come on and wake up. No sleeping while on duty," and he giggled.
Davie yawned again and slowly opened his eyes, then they popped open when he saw Liam laughing at Ernest as he was shaking the two other boys. John finally woke up, yawning and stretching, and he threw the covers back, exposing all three of their chests and stomachs. Liam just winked when John realized they were not alone in the room and tried his best to cover back up.
"No, no, my boyo, you're not covering back up. Time to get dressed, and remember, there are no secrets in the Navy."
John peeked from beneath the covers. "Umm, SIR, we're naked!"
Liam laughed, "My boyo, you were naked yesterday, remember? I don't think Davie has forgotten that already."
Davie blushed, "Yeah, I got shot at while naked. I don't think I could forget that." Then he laughed.
Davie said, "All right, time to get up," and he pulled the covers off the two brothers and himself and climbed out of bed. His penis, in the standard fashion of a seventeen-year-old, stood out like a battering ram on an ironclad. All 8 inches of uncut manhood flapped as he walked over to the table and bent over to pick up his duffel bag, exposing his smooth ass cheeks to Liam and the brothers. Liam tried hard not to stare at the perfect mounds of milky white flesh exposed to him, the spots where the splinters of wood had pricked them shone like little red freckles. The two brothers noticed Liam and smiled at each other. "Umm, Davie, you better protect your hindquarters!" giggled John.
Liam looked over at John and smiled at him. Davie had picked up the blue underwear and socks and he smiled too at Liam. "Liam can look, he is a good guy." Liam broke into a smile.
"Thanks, Davie, my lad."
"No, thank you, sir, for everything you have done for us. It really means a lot to us poor boys. Most others would not have cared if we were clean and had a good sleep. They would just have stamped their paperwork and continued on."
Liam stood there for a moment speechless. "Thank you, Davie, for those kind words of thanks. They mean a lot to me." The boys had dressed while listening to Davie and Liam speak to each other as friends and not as a high ranking officer and a midshipman. They tied their shoes and brushed their jackets, then all walked out of the room together, headed for the breakfast table. The three stopped in front of a large mirror hanging on the wall right outside the room. Their reflections in the glass caught their attention and the three turned to look at themselves. Gone were the dirty, messy hair and the tattered street clothes. The three faces staring in the mirror were those of three handsome boys going off to war, their blue uniforms' clean brass buttons shining, their sailors' caps perched on their heads. Dark brown hair flowed from beneath two, with crimson red out from under the third, US Navy printed in gold on the black band that circled the dark blue caps.
Liam stood back and looked and smiled as these boys saw themselves for the first time as more than poor Irish and street orphans. The pride shown in the faces, the eyes, and in their standing like they were kings of their own destiny, and for the first time they were. Then he walked up behind them and stood as he placed his hands on John and Ernest's shoulders and smiled with these three lads. He stood like a proud father, tall and erect, beard and mustache neat and trim, his large wide-brimmed officer's hat on his bright red hair. "My lads, there is going to be a special stop before I see you off on your train south, and that is a photographic studio. I want my own photo of my special boys so I can place one here at home and one on my desk. I never have seen such a proud bunch since this damned war started."
"Now, my band of brothers, let's go and have breakfast."
The three boys looked at Liam and smiled, then Davie asked, "How did you know we adopted each other as brothers?"
"Well now, my laddies, if one could not see the bond between the three of you, that person is blind." He slapped the boys on their backs, "Shall we dine now?"
"Yes, father."
Those two words hit Liam like a cannonball. Then, in amazement, the three boys looked and saw a tear forming in Liam's eyes. The three hugged him tighter and closer as if he really was. "Thanks, lads. Come on, Annie is waiting for us."
They walked down the stairs and entered the large dining room. Annie heard them and walked out from the kitchen. "Ahh, there is my band of soldiers and sailors, then the big man of the house, Mr. Liam," she smiled.
"Now, if you will excuse me, I will return with breakfast for you gentlemen." Annie walked back into the kitchen, soon returned with a fresh pot of hot coffee and 4 clean mugs on a large silver tray. Annie set the pot of coffee on a tile and then sat a clean mug in front of each of them, then she sat a bowl of sugar and a small container of fresh cream on the table.
Annie then turned and headed back into the kitchen as Liam poured the hot coffee around the table, filling the boys' mugs to the brims. "Drink up, my boyos! Enjoy some Irish cream, the best coffee one could ask for."
Davie reached for the sugar and added several teaspoons to his mug, then added a little cream and stirred it. John and Ernest added a lot of sugar and cream to theirs and waited for it to cool down before taking their first sips. Liam sat back and drank his black and strong as he watched the younger boys sip their strong coffee. They would get used to it fairly quick on the Navy.
"John, Ernest, would you two prefer fresh milk instead of coffee with your breakfasts?"
"Yes, sir," answered the brothers. "We never had coffee so strong before. Where we stayed it was like hot colored water. If it is no trouble to Miss Annie."
"No trouble at all, my wee ones, and it is Mrs. Annie O'Riley, but you can call me Mrs. Annie or Annie, my boyos," she spoke as she placed a large plate of hot biscuits on the table, fresh from the large oven located in the kitchen. Then she sat molasses and honey and other jams on the table and some fresh butter. "I will be back with the ham, eggs, bacon, and some hash potatoes. I thought the boys would like to have some breakfast potatoes since I know one of the three is one of the finest Irishmen in the Navy and the cutest. He will be a heart breaker, all the young lasses will be after his hand. I just hope no Southern Belle tries to steal him away and persuades him to join their side."
She bustled back into the kitchen while everyone just looked at Davie. His cheeks once again were bright red.
"If he keeps on blushing, we're going to rename him Blushing Boy'. Now won't that be a fitting name on a ironclad, the blushing boy in blue."
Davie swatted at John. "Will you hush up before I have to bend you over my knee and whip that butt of yours."
Liam laughed, "I knew I was right when I called you three a `band of brothers'."
Everyone laughed at the comment made by Davie.
"Well, me boyo, if you're going to whip someone's hindquarters, you best be taking him out behind the woodshed and not here at my table." Davie looked up at Annie as she sat two glasses of cold milk on the table for John and Ernest.
"Yes, Ma'am." Davie replied. He blushed as he answered, as he thought that he might enjoy whipping those cute buns.
Breakfast passed quickly as the four ate in silence, the mood darkened as they realized in a few hours they would depart for the war and they might not return or, if they did, it would be in a plain pine box if they were lucky enough.
They stood up from their places at the big wooden table and went upstairs to retrieve their bags. They came quietly down the carpeted stairs, toting the big bags full of clothes. Once they walked out the front door, they no longer would be boys, but men.
The three followed Liam out the front door to the waiting carriage. Joe helped the boys store their bags on the carriage roof, then held the door with a smile as they climbed in. They took their seats just as the night before and, once ready, Joe picked up the reins to the horses and lightly snapped the whip over their backs and the carriage eased out of the drive, the morning snow falling harder and faster as the north wind chilled the city that was beginning to awaken. The heavy blue wool coats protected them from the chill of the cold January morning as the carriage continued on toward a photography studio owned by Matthew Brady. He had already made a name in the photography business, recording the horrors of war forever on glass plates.
The carriage weaved through the brick streets, passing the wagons and carriages headed to the railroad station located on the south side of South Water Street, on land that the railroad had recovered from Lake Michigan a few years before as the charter lines were being completed of the Central Railroad. The central railroad was now known as the Illinois Central. The central station was the largest in the midwest. Joe eased the carriage to a stop in front of the wood building that housed the indoor studio. Joe climbed down from his seat box and opened the door for Liam and the three boys and then closed it. Joe walked with a slight limp as he headed a few doors down to the barber shop while the gentlemen had their photographs taken. He knew it would be a while before they were finished.
Davie walked up to the door and opened it. John, Ernest, and Liam followed Davie inside. The bottom floor was warm and cozy, not overheated like many of the buildings in town this time of year. The room was dark and imposing. A slender young man walked over to greet them.
"May I help you gentlemen today?"
"Yes sir, you may. I want to have a portrait made of these three fine lads before they head out."
"Yes, sir, would you like for them to be hand tinted also?"
"Yes, I would," replied Liam.
"Please follow me, gentlemen." The young photographer led them up a set of stairs to a large skylighted room with a bench and a backdrop of dark red hanging on a wall.
"OK, gentlemen, would you please step toward the bench and backdrop, please."
Liam motioned for the three boys to move over to the backdrop. They walked over and stood in front of the red covering where the morning sun shone through the glass skylights and lit their faces in a soft glow.
"Sir, would you like to be in the photograph also?" asked the photographer.
"Not this one. I want just the lads, then we can take another one with myself included."
"Very well, sir," spoke the photographer as he walked over to the large box camera mounted on a tripod. He ducked under the black covering and looked through the lens, then came back from under the covering. "Boys, I need you to move closer together. I would like the oldest of the three to stand behind the younger ones while they sit on the bench." The boys moved into the new positions. The photographer ducked back behind his camera once again and did his sightings for the new positions. He looked again and realized something was missing. Ah, the Union banner. He stood up and walked over to the backdrop and pulled a braided cord and a large garrison flag dropped down behind the boys. The photographer noticed Liam's smile as the large flag unfurled against the dark red. The photographer walked back to his camera and poured the proper amount of flash powder on the pan, then slipped the wet glass plate into the proper position behind the lens. "OK, boys, big smiles. Now on the count of three."
"One"
"Two"
"Three"
There was a bright flash as the powder exploded, casting a bright white light onto the boys. "Very good." He removed the wet glass plate from the back of the large camera and carried it quickly to a darkroom where he would develop it. He picked up a new blank plate and placed it in the back of the camera and motioned for Liam to join the three boys. Liam walked over and joined the three boys. He stood beside Davie and placed his right arm on Davie's shoulder and his left on John.
The photographer nodded and then ducked under the covering and once again he began the countdown to three. The fresh charge of flash powder went off. They held their positions until the photographer nodded and removed the glass plate, then off he headed to the darkroom, then walked back out. "My assistant will have the prints ready in about 1 hour. Would you like to wait or have them delivered to you?"
"Have them delivered to my home on Michigan Ave. Please."
"Very well, sir. The cost is two dollars per print. How many do you wish to have?"
"Two each, sir." Liam reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten- dollar note and handed it to the photographer.
"Follow me, please." They stepped behind the photographer as he led them back to the first floor. The photographer walked over behind a large counter and pulled out a sheet of paper and a quill pen. He wrote down the address, then a receipt for Liam, and he unlocked the cash drawer and removed a two-dollar note and handed it to Liam.
They thanked the man and walked out the door into the cold morning. The snow pelted down on their heavy topcoats and kepi caps. Joe stood with the carriage door open, waiting for them to enter. They entered the carriage and took their seats and Joe mounted the driver's bench and the carriage began to head toward the Railroad station on South Water Street.
The boys chatted about this and that. All were excited, for none of them had ever ridden the steam cars before.
The heavy wet snow blew in from the north. The prisoners in Fort Dearborn had a single stove in the large wooden room. Doctor Watson shivered in the cold. A thin blanket was all that he had to cover up in and it did not help much. There were a lot of other people locked in the room, both men and women, most accused of spying for the rebels, then there were the deserters from the Army, ones that ran when the firing was the hottest, and others who would not obey orders of their superiors. They would be tried and, if convicted, branded for life or hanged. The dark room was beginning to lighten, as the morning grew closer to the noon hour. The old windows moaned with each gust of the wind, chilling all in the room and, during the night, one broke and fell on top of a helpless man, cutting deep into his neck. The man died before anyone could help him. The prisoners listened to the guards talking past the heavy wooden door about a message the warden had received that morning about someone being shot at noon. The prisoners gathered in small groups and discussed who it might be. Was it one of them in this cell or someone in another cell in the complex they talked about? Who the lucky one was to be able to escape this hell-on-earth place. Over across the lake, away from the old Indian fort on the small island, they could hear the soft tolling of the church bells ringing out the 11 o'clock hour, one hour till they found out who would die today.
The warden was puzzled at first over the direct orders from the President and the handwritten note from the Quartermaster but he learned quickly not to ask questions about such matters, but to do as told by the men who held the high command.
A cannon boomed over the lake. The old British 6-pounder was a relic from the War of 1812 and used to salute the town on every hour during the day. It was also used to signal trouble by mixing a special red powder with the black powder, so when the gun fired the smoke was a dark red. The signal gun was located on the roof of the casemate cell and every time it fired, part of the roof shuddered from the boom, causing dust to float down on the prisoners as to remind them of why they were there.
The warden listened for the signal gun to sound, then looked over to his secretary. "Private Lewis, go retrieve the Doctor Watson!" "Yes, sir, Warden Russell."
The young private headed out of the door and toward the large cell that held the spies. Lewis selected two soldiers to follow him with their muskets to help him escort the Doctor Watson back to the warden's office. They moved quickly through the parade ground and to the casemate cell and Lewis explained to the guards who the Warden wanted to see in his office. The guards nodded and lifted the heavy wooden bar that held the door shut from the outside. The two soldiers who were with Lewis walked in the room. Lewis barked out, "Watson, step forward now!"
The doctor stood and walked forward, dropping the thin blanket to the wooden floor where another man snatched it before it touched the floor completely. The other prisoners in the room knew who was going to die now. The two soldiers stepped in behind him with their muskets leveled at his back, the bayonets poking him to make him move on. Once outside in the parade ground, the doctor looked around, trying to figure out how to escape these mere boys playing soldiers. He slowed to a slow pace, waiting for one of the bayonets to prick his back. The one on the right did and he swung around, fists flying, and struck the soldier in the mouth. The boy went down. The doctor then dropped to the ground and rolled toward the soldier still standing and grabbed his legs, causing him to fall and to lose grasp of the musket. The doctor reached out now to grab one of the guns when he felt a heavy boot come down, stomping his balls into the snow. The doctor screamed like a woman and grasped his now swelling balls. Lewis looked down and kicked the doctor in the stomach. The warden heard the scream and raced out of his office onto the parade ground in time to see what was happening. He walked over to the standing soldiers, one with blood trickling down from the busted lip.
"PRIVATE LEWIS, WHAT IS GOING ON HERE!" shouted the warden.
"Sir, he tried to escape. He hit Bob in the face and then tripped Scott, causing them both to fall. I took action by stomping those nuts of his in the snow, sir."
"I see, Private Lewis. Is that how it happened, soldiers?"
"Yes, sir," replied Bob and Scott.
"Well, well, now, prisoner Watson goes and hurts one of my fine soldiers. What do you have to say for yourself, you British pig?"
Watson spit in the snow, then slowly stood. "I am glad we lost the revolution so that all the filthy Irish trash could have a proper home in the wild where they belong." The doctor sneered as he spoke, his voice hard and cold.
The warden's face turned angry as his blood boiled. "I see, you British trash, and, after the orders I received from the president this morning, a bullet is too good for you. I am glad the quartermaster included a note about you. As I am also Irish, you scum, I find fuckers like you to be worth nothing, not even the air you breathe in your filthy lungs. You will die today but not by a bullet, sir. Privates, carry the good doctor over to the post we have erected for him."
"Yes, sir." They grabbed the doctor roughly under his arms and dragged him to the center of the parade ground. There he was shoved against the oak post and the iron cuffs clamped around his wrists so he could not move.
Warden Russell looked at his watch - 11:30 am. Then he looked up at the parapet where the signal gun sat, its stubby nose pointing over the gray lake. "Gunners, fire the gun to let Chicago know that we have rid the world of another traitor!"
"Yes, sir, Warden!" The gunners loaded the piece and then lit a slow match to ignite the powder charge when the warden gave the command to fire.
"Gentlemen, I want you to watch closely as I do this and I want you to understand what happens here stays here today. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," replied the three privates.
"Very good. Now, Scott, please hand me your musket."
Scott handed over the musket to the warden. They stood back as the warden walked closer to the doctor, his face dark and angry, his eyes blazing blue fire as each step took him closer to the British Pig that stood, unable to move, unable to protect himself, unable to do a damned thing but stare at the big Irishman walking toward him with the musket, the barrel glinting in the morning sun.
"Time to die, you British filth!" The three privates looked on as the warden took the bayonet and sliced it up between the doctor's spread legs, cutting away the fabric of the trousers. The trousers slipped from the doctor's hips and Russell used the bayonet to finish pulling them down to expose the doctor's shriveled manhood to the cold air. The doctor shivered as the bayonet brushed his skin. Russell smiled when the doctor shivered from the touch of the sharp cold iron blade.
Then, without saying a word, the warden thrust the bayonet up, ripping and cutting into the doctor's exposed nut sack. The doctor screamed in pain as the iron cut and sliced, then the warden looked up to the gunners. "FIRE THE GODDAMNED GUN NOW!"
The gunner touched the touch hole and the gun roared over the lake. The six-pounder jerked back on its carriage, the muzzle smoking. The warden thrust again into the doctor's bleeding nuts and with a swift slice cut the hanging bloody balls off and they fell to the ground. The doctor passed out from the pain, his head hanging limply as his life blood poured onto the fresh white snow beneath his feet. The three privates stood in shock, not able to move as the warden, like a possessed demon, wiped the blade on the doctor's dirty white coat. Then the warden stood back and cocked the hammer on the musket, brought it to his shoulder, and leveled it at the doctor's forehead and pulled the trigger. "Let him hang there for now. Then take him and burn him. I do not want to stain such a proud land with his filth as he rots in the ground!" The warden spit on the doctor and walked back to his office after returning the musket to Scott. He turned back around. "You're dismissed, Gentlemen."
The three privates just stood there for a moment. They all wondered what had that man done. Then they headed back inside the wooden buildings of the fort to get warm and to think and ponder what they had just witnessed with their eyes.
The carriage arrived at the large brick Central station on South Water Street. Joe pulled it under the large overhang in front of the three- story building dressed in red brick and marble. Joe climbed down as porters rushed to the carriage, waiting to gather the luggage of the passengers inside. When Joe opened the door, they stepped back when they saw the blue uniforms of the passengers, then once again stepped forward when they saw the family crest on the door. They knew to whom the carriage belonged. Liam nodded to the black porters and told them that he did not need their services. They nodded and stepped back out of the way.
The three boys grabbed their bags from the roof of the carriage and waited for Liam to lead the way to the boarding area for the trains. Liam led them through the heavy glass doors with fancy brass covering them, into the main waiting area of the station, their shoes echoing on the marble floors. The station was crowded with people coming and going back and forth. Porters toted bags of luggage as newsboys hawked the morning paper. The porters worked for the high class hotels in the city and they would carry your bags for a price. The poor immigrant passengers fended for themselves, some carrying everything they owned in old cases and bags. Then you had the merchants carrying their wares in small cases and bags thrown over their shoulders. Ticket agents stood behind glass cages with gilded brass bars in the front. Large train boards hung on the walls, listing the trains for the Illinois Central and the Michigan Central lines. Blue clad soldiers stood in companies with their officers, waiting for the troop trains heading south. Liam led them out to the train sheds that covered the six tracks that led into the station. Six trains stood steaming in the cold air. Liam had looked at the boards and found train #7 was leaving for Cairo on track six, so he led the boys over to the train and met the conductor standing on the platform; they exchanged words. Then Liam pulled out three passes, stamped and signed by the war department and motioned to the three boys standing beside him. The conductor looked at the passes, then took his brass ticket punch and punched the cards and handed them back to the boys.
Liam pulled the three boys aside and pressed gold coins into Davie's hand. "Davie, this is for the three of you and your trip to Cairo. I wish I could go with you to make sure you made it safely, but alas I must stay here. You take care of John and Ernest for me, understand?"
"Yes, sir, I do," replied Davie.
"Very good, my boy. I want each one of you to know how proud I am to have had you as my guests in my home last night. Even more I am proud to have let me pose with the three of you in the photograph and that I consider you as my own sons."
Liam, for once in many years, had tears flowing down his face into his beard. He was not ashamed to show them as people looked on at the three boys and the high ranking officer. They figured they were his sons and smiled, but they also felt their hearts go out at the sadness in the man's eyes. They knew that they might not come home again.
The steam whistle blew at the head of the long passenger train. They would board the last car out of six that already was crowded. They hugged Liam and said their goodbyes as they climbed the iron steps to the platform of the car.
Davie, John, and Ernest waved their hats in the air as the train jerked into motion. Liam stood and watched and waved back, then broke into a smile as the famous three saluted him and he returned it. Then he watched from the platform as Davie put his arms around the two younger boys like an older brother. The tears fell from his face as he watched the train disappear around the curve and over the long wooden trestle on the shore of Lake Michigan. Liam put his hat back on his head and wiped away the tears. He never noticed the photographer who snapped a photo of him and his boys as they said their goodbyes. The photograph, once developed, would be rushed to the printing presses of the Chicago paper, then on to every paper in the Union. The caption under it read 'The fond farewell of a father to his sons.' Liam lifted his head as he heard the engine blow her lonesome cry as she turned and headed south for Cairo as the cannon boomed over Lake Michigan.
This chapter is for my greatest friend and cousin, Brent, for he was here when I needed him the most. Thank you, brother, for showing me true friendship. This chapter is also for Mark, the boy of my dreams and my greatest friend who knows all of my secrets. I only wish he were mine. Then to you, Chris, my sunshine way out west, I wish only the best to you in everything you do.
Then to my friend Michael, you're the best in many ways. The best in life to you, my friend.
Now to my readers, this is also for you, for what I write is part of me, so when I share me, I consider you my friends.
I wish to thank Ed for all that he has done for me; thank you, Ed. I can't forget my great friend Willy either and the wonderful trip to North Carolina. What Ed and you did for me there, I am forever grateful and in your service.
As always, please E-mail me your comments at Swarri1349@aol.com Thanks for spending a little time with me. "Once I dreamed of a golden shore and my perfect boy."
I'm not a poet, so I will stop there. Stephen