Sean, my sixteen year old brother, was now taking the brunt of my father's rage. “A younger son does not have to be more ignorant than his elder brother. He could stand tall, and march bravely into the face of truth without the example of a brother. He does not have to turn his back on the right path, just because he is younger.”
Sean seemed unmoved by my father's ravings. He didn't raise his head, or visibly show any sign that he had heard the hot words. But I knew he had, because I knew my brother. He was hurting. Just as I was hurting.
We did not wish to shame him. We wanted his praise and love as we had once had it. But now, there was only talk of the rebellion. Of death. Of justice. Of sacrifice. Of brave men and cowards.
“Patrick.” My father barked roughly, demanding at last a response from me.
I raised my head slowly, and took in the sight of my father. He was red in the face, like he'd drunk one too many pints at the town pub. He was staring at me so intensely, I worried that his heart might seize and stop.
His mouth was working rapidly, but no words emerged. He was too angry for words.
My mother suddenly stood, her arms wrapped tightly around her thin waist. “Patrick,” she whispered, her eyes glued to my father. “Patrick, don't let your anger take you too far. This family is all we have.”
At the sound of my mother speaking his name, my father's body shuddered, and all the breath left his body in a single, drawn out exhale.
I watched him—waited for his next words.
He spoke them slowly, so I would not miss them. “You will join the United Irishmen, or you will find yourself on the street.” He glanced at Sean, and it may have been my imagination, but I believe it was harder for him to say these next words, to include my brother in his threats. “Both of you will go.”
“No!” My mother cried, rushing to gather Sean's head in her arms. She clung to her youngest child, tears streaming down her face as she pleaded with her husband. “Patrick, please. You can't do this! Your own children!”
“No children of mine will support the British.” He grunted stubbornly.
I watched Sean. He was just raising his head, still cradled in my mother's arms, but I could see the determination on his face. He was my younger brother, but when it came to action, he was always the first to respond.
“Mam,” he whispered, “let me up.”
“No,” she gasped, clinging to him more tightly. “No, Sean.”
Gently but firmly my brother pried her arms away, and then he pushed back in his chair and stood to face my father. His voice was nearly a whisper. “I've always believed in the cause, Da.”
“Then why haven't you joined?” My father demanded, seeming unsoftened by both my mother's tender display, and my brother's calm words.
“I've been waiting.” Sean glanced at me, and now it was my turn to look at the table top. “First for Patrick, like you assumed. But also for Mother.” He reached out and took her hand, but then focused right back on father. “I didn't want all the men in her life disappearing.”
While my mother's quiet cries filled the room, my life flashed before my eyes. First, like how I'd always pictured it. Growing older in this house, eventually marrying—perhaps even Sarah McKenna, like I'd often imagined—and quietly growing old with my paintings.
But even as I envisioned it, I knew it was an impossible dream. Perhaps there had once been a time when such a fate would have been possible. But no longer.
I stood, suddenly drawing every eye to me. “I will go. I will join the cause.” Though my father had been yelling a mere instant before, his face was already softening in victory—his lips were twitching, preparing to speak.
I held up a quick hand, halting his words of praise. “I have one condition,” I stated.
My father's eyes narrowed while he waited, his lips pressing firmly together. I purposefully avoided looking at my mother, my brother. “And it is?” He grunted.
There was no surrender in my stance. “Sean stays here. He's too young.”
“Nonsense!” Father burst out. “Mere boys are joining—”
“Sean will stay here,” I repeated firmly.
Suddenly I was back on the grass, the memory of that vivid moment fading as the pain began to come back to me.
I was not in the kitchen, staring my father down. I was dy-ing on a roadside that had turned into a battlefield the moment we'd ambushed the British cavalry.
Ironically enough, it had been my first major battle.
It would be my last.
My senses were returning, now that the killing stroke had been dealt. The bullet that had ripped through my chest and pierced my heart had pushed me harshly to the ground. I never saw the soldier that shot the rifle, and yet he'd had the power to take my life. It seemed so unfair.
It had been so shocking, so abrupt; I hardly felt the pain after the initial bite of lead. Slowly the shouts of men and cries of beasts had faded. I was alone with my thoughts.
I was now becoming aware of the pain. The searing, burn-ing hole in my body. My shirt was drenched in blood. My blood. My hands were covered in the sticky substance. I tried to tell myself it was paint. Only paint.
I swallowed with herculean effort, choked on the blood in my throat, and shuddered with the realization that I was living my final seconds.
The worst part was that this sacrifice—my life—meant nothing. The rebels would possibly win this battle—perhaps they already had. They would acquire the needed cannons, and boost their moral with the victory. There would be losses, of course, but they would be acceptable. I was a
