Michael Devlin and the Cheyenne

By John Flanagan

Penniless Irish immigrant Michael Devlin arrives in New York City, USA, in 1864, the third year of the American Civil War. With a group of friends from his home in County Galway, he enlists in a cavalry regiment. After basic training, they are thrown into the Union Civil War against the Confederate South. On a reconnaissance mission, Michael discovers he is unable to fire on Confederate soldiers. To avoid the taking of human life, he volunteers for duty with a special unit of cavalry in Denver, Colorado.

Michaels mission in the Mounted Cavalry in Fort Weld, Denver, Colorado, was to escort a tribe of Cheyenne Indians from a traditional Indian village to a new reservation one hundred miles away. Among the Indian nations, a reservation was a euphemism for a prisoner of war camp. It was the depth of winter; harsh inclement weather would claim many Indian lives. Beaten and whipped, the weakened Cheyenne tribe could travel no further on the forced march. Michael witnessed US soldiers sadistically slaughter defenseless braves, women and children. The killings had a profound effect on Michael and change the course of his life. On learning of a secret government conspiracy to exterminate American Indians by means of genocide, Michael becomes a leader of the persecuted Cheyenne tribe. He initiates several triumphant and bloody skirmishes against the murderous US Cavalry soldiers. He leads the remainder of the Cheyenne tribe to eventual freedom after a long exodus to Mexico.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504965897

John Flanagan

Trish Purnell-Webb is an Australian clinical psychologist who became the first certified Gottman therapist in Australia in 2013. She then continued her training to become the first master trainer and consultant for the Gottman Institute in Australia in 2015. She has been in private practise as a psychologist since 1997 after a twenty-year career in organisational training and development in both government and corporate organisations while also raising three children with the help of her husband, Mark. Trish has always been fascinated by the impact relationships have on our sense of well-being and satisfaction, whether they are work relationships or intimate relationships. In her work providing executive coaching to senior members of organisations throughout Australia, she came to understand that intimate relationships had a profound effect on an individual’s ability to perform in life. This led her to explore the question “How can we help people have more successful relationships?” It also led her to the research work of John and Julie Gottman, and her fate was sealed. Since 2009, Trish has focussed on working with couples both in her private practise in Burleigh Heads, Queensland, Australia, and on training therapists throughout Australia, New Zealand, and Asia to become more effective in successfully working with couples. Along with her business partner, John, Trish also runs couple workshops across Australia and New Zealand using the evidenced-based Art and Science of Love Couples Workshop developed by John and Julie Gottman. Trish conceived of this book as a resource for couples to use as a relapse prevention tool after they complete either a workshop or couples therapy with Gottman-trained therapists. Trish still lives on the Gold Coast with her husband of forty-one years and is the proud grandmother of five beautiful grandchildren to whom she devotes much of her time. John Flanagan is a mental health accredited social worker in private practise, completing his bachelor’s of social work in 1988 and later a master’s in gestalt therapy. He was the first social worker to become a certified Gottman therapist in Australia in 2015, and he became the second master trainer and consultant in 2019. John has had an extensive history in direct service delivery with couples, families, and young people, as well as in organisational development and training. He has developed a practise that utilises a range of experiential therapies combining these approaches in his work style. John has also completed his Certificate IV in workplace training and assessment and has delivered a broad range of training, both accredited and non-accredited. John knows the incredible value in attending to relationships, as well as the importance of how they are formed, maintained and developed. In over thirty years of working within complex environments and relationships, he has developed a strong speciality in understanding and guiding complex interactions and relationships. He has provided training to many individuals and human service organisations in Australia, New Zealand, Malaysia, Hong Kong, and the United States about creating positive work cultures, managing challenging clients, resilience, and communication. Over the last twenty years, John has provided a range of psycho-educational group programs to Australian veterans and their families in areas such as trauma, post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, anxiety, and resilience.

Book preview

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2015 John Flanagan. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  12/14/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6590-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-6589-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015919906

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Dedication: For Madelaine and Liam,

  Ben and Jamie.

46683.png

Michael Devlin was as poor as the proverbial church mouse; he had been since the day he was born. When Michael was an infant, his father, Paudi, like many across the barren landscape of Clifden, in County Galway, Ireland, was a penniless tenant farmer. The tiny holding sat on the fringes of the Atlantic Ocean. When the scourge of the Potato Famine enveloped the land in 1845, his father lost hope and the will to live. A neighbor found him floating in the incoming-tide amid the rocks on the seashore. Growing up in a small mud cottage, Michael and his mother Ainne took over the working of the tiny plot of land. Together, into his teenage years, they eked out a living from the meagre resources available to them. The main source of sustenance came from Michael’s illegal fishing on private land and crustaceans left behind in rock pools as the tides receded. When his father had died he left behind him a 10 foot clinker boat. Michael used it to ferry parties of local Anglo-Irish gentry and officers of the British occupational forces to choice fishing locations. It was back-breaking work with which he was forced to persevere as it was the only source of income for him and his mother. By the time he was 18 years old he was 6 feet 1 inch tall and had powerfully muscled shoulders and arms. Michael was well-known and liked in the small fishing village in which he lived. He had a quiet even temperament and personality. His sleek black hair was swept straight back. When his smile broke out it was said that it set many a maiden’s hearts aflutter. Of late Michael was no longer the very amiable colleague and friend in the small cluster of houses in the village where he lived. While it was known Michael had an even temperament; he also proved to have a volatile temper when provoked. At this juncture in his life he is angry about a lot of things; the British Penal Laws not the least amongst them. Ireland was invaded in the year 1171 in the reign of King Henry 2nd of England. The infamous Penal Laws were imposed for the purpose of keeping the Irish populace subdued and docile; not unlike sheep in a field, was the aphorism Michael often used. The British invaders abolished Gealige, the Irish language; its usage punishable by death. Total illiteracy among the subjugated people was the aim of the British overlords. It was forbidden to attend grammar school. It was forbidden to buy land or own a horse worth no more than a pittance in value. He could not attend Catholic worship. He had a teacher friend who was made redundant because of his profession, who made Michael a gift of many of his books. In the cold, damp squalor of his mud cottage, he taught himself to read and write by the turf fire and candlelight.

In February 1864 Michael’s mother Ainne died, leaving him alone. He knew he had to leave Galway to make something of his life. He thought of joining the thousands of impoverished laborers and tenant farmers who were leaving to find work in Britain and Australia. Most immigrants wanted to go to the United States but the cost was prohibitive, even in the coffin ships that sailed across the Atlantic Ocean to the New World. He bided his time, buoyed up by his youth and natural zeal.

Early one morning in April in the year 1864, we find our 18 year old hero illegally fishing in the Owenglin River in Clifden, County Galway. He had become an expert fisherman over the years. His fishing tackle was the most rudimentary imaginable, consisting of a stripling quickly pulled from a tree with a length of catgut, a bent pin and worm attached. Michael selected a spot where he knew the fish were abundant. He was both poaching and trespassing on private land. For his offence, under British Penal Laws, if apprehended, our penniless tenant farmer could lose his small holding, and spend some time in jail.

A sudden thunderous noise and ground shaking disturbed the pastoral calm where he was quietly fishing. He looked through the blind in which he was hiding along the river’s edge. Coming straight at him was a deer hunt in full flight. Over 50 horses, riders and hounds were bearing down on the very spot in the river where he had chosen to fish. At the last instant the hunt riders veered to his right and jumped across the fast flowing river, missing Michael’s hiding place by what seemed a matter of feet. He threw himself on the ground and curled into a ball. Chaos ensued all about him. Hysterical, yelping dogs forded the river and sniffed at Michael as they passed over him, and tore off again on the scent of the deer. Caught in the frenzied blood lust of the chase, the hounds paid scant regard to any other distractions. Over the next few minutes, several slower riders made the jump until silence reigned again in Michael’s poaching blind. As he got to his feet and brushed the dirt from his clothes, a shadow above him blocked out the light of the sun. Just inches above his head a struggling rider, a woman, was moving too slowly to safely breach the river. It was obvious to Michael she wasn’t going to make it. The horse came down heavily on his side of the steep bank. The impact jolted the rider out of the saddle, throwing her back into the river. She went under immediately. When she re-emerged she began thrashing the water and screaming in terror. Michael watched her from his vantage point. She started to flow with the fast current of the deep river and in moments she was twenty yards away. Then she went under a second time. Michael had difficulty coping with the dilemma into which the drowning woman placed him. She belonged to a class of privileged gentry who wouldn’t care less if he was crushed beneath the hooves of the galloping horses. The woman was probably dead already. She was gone alright, he decided as he looked around, there was neither sight nor sound of her. Feeling suddenly ashamed Michael ran along the bank of the river. Seeing a piece of colored cloth just under the surface he took a running dive into the water. When he went under he grabbed the arm of the submerged woman and kicked back to the riverbank. He reached out and grabbed a tree stump, gasping for air as he dragged her up to the surface. There was no movement from her as he pulled her up on the bank.

He quickly cleared away gorse and brambles beneath her limp, prostrate body and turned her face down on the ground. After straightening down the folds of her dress he began pressing firmly on her back. There was no response. He cursed himself for not trying to save her sooner. The seconds passed. He tried to resuscitate her one last time. As he pushed harder he heard a choking, hoarse sound as water jettisoned from her mouth. Her body convulsed as she began to cough; gasping desperately for air. Finally, totally exhausted, she collapsed and cried fitfully with her head resting on her arm. Michael judged her to be a young woman about his own age. She was also beautiful, he thought, as he looked at her face. Rank and privilege seemed to enhance the natural beauty of women. Very likely she had spent the greater part of her life on horseback, and would look with disdain upon the social class he represented. He smiled to himself, thinking she might prefer to drown rather than be rescued by someone of his inferior status. Eleanor Chalmers raised her head, stopped crying and looked up at the roughly hewn young man staring down at her. Her moistened hazel eyes stared blankly at him as she slowly recovered her senses. She brushed her auburn hair back over her forehead and struggled up into a sitting position.

You fell into the river, Miss. Said Michael.

The sound of hoof beats rang out nearby. Michael jumped up and shouted to them. Three horsemen came riding up, dismounted and ran past Michael to assist the young woman. The older of the men proved to be Eleanor’s father, Henry Chalmers, the Resident Magistrate of Galway. One of the younger men was Jack Chalmers, Eleanor’s brother. The third man assisting Eleanor to her feet was James Prendergast, Eleanor’s suitor. He was the type of person Michael detested. Prendergast was a West Brit dandy, an Irishman who aped the foppish antics of his British masters. He was known for his eccentricity of manner and rudeness. When he saw the torn knee breeches and coarse attire of Michael, Prendergast yelled at him to remove himself from their company forthwith. As Michael turned to leave, Eleanor, a young woman of forceful character, remonstrated with Prendergast. She said Michael had just saved her life and regaled them with the details of Michael’s gallantry. The upshot was that Michael was invited to afternoon tea the following day by the Magistrate. The aggrieved Prendergast angrily mounted his horse and galloped away. He was furious. It was unheard of; a ragged peasant being entertained at the Manor House, and trespassing on private land to boot. As he whipped his horse and picked up speed, he resolved that if he met Michael Devlin again he would use his riding crop on him; put manners on the cur.

Michael had no way of knowing that by diving into the river to save a drowning young woman, how fateful and far-reaching the consequences would be.

Dressed in the same ragged clothes Michael duly turned up at the Manor House for tea the following day. As they sat in the spacious living room, the Magistrate Henry Chalmers and his son Jack expressed their gratitude and admiration to Michael for his brave deed. When Eleanor came down the staircase to join them, Michael could not but look in awe at her elegance and beauty. He had to make a physical effort to avoid rudeness by not staring. He riveted his attention on Henry Chalmers and his son Jack to avoid embarrassing himself, for it was too difficult to divert his eyes from Eleanor. For Michael, she seemed an unattainable treasure well beyond his dreams. She wore a grey wool skirt and a white lace blouse with mother-of pearl buttons. Her auburn-colored hair was caught in a ray of light as she approached the table. Michael stood up first and pulled back the chair for her to sit down, a gesture that did not go unnoticed on the Magistrate. A scent of heather and roses reached him as she smiled and sat down beside him. As afternoon tea progressed, Magistrate Chalmers and his son Jack were not in the least condescending towards their penurious guest. They were admiring of him and grateful for rescuing Eleanor from the river. They did however quite reasonably expect to have to engage in mundane small-talk; in deference to sparse, if any, intelligence or education on the part of their guest. The Magistrate was dumbfounded therefore as Michael began to speak. The family became intrigued and quickly realized they made a grave error in assuming they would be entertaining an impoverished, country bumpkin for afternoon tea. Michael proved to be personable and engaging, his ragged clothes notwithstanding. The penniless tenant farmer before the Magistrate was not only holding his own in a broad variety of subjects, but modestly reprimanded them when they erred. He talked about European politics and the British, French and Spanish opening gambits in the American colonies. The Magistrate came to delight in the witticisms and sharp repartees of his guest. Finally curiosity overcame him and he asked Michael how he came by such a fund of knowledge. Michael replied that since the British Penal Laws in Ireland forbade Catholics from acquiring knowledge or the most elementary education, he taught himself, by candlelight, how to read and write. An old retired professor he brought fish to, loaned him books and the leading British newspapers. A ‘Hedge Priest’, a fugitive teacher on the run because of the Penal Laws, also became his tutor. The Magistrate, a retired ex-British Army Officer, expressed his profound regret for the harsh, restrictive laws imposed on Irish Catholics.

As the afternoon tea progressed the Manor House rang with laughter. The Magistrate, Eleanor and Jack were impressed and delighted by Michael’s humor, demeanor and pleasant company.

They couldn’t help themselves admiring and enjoying Michael’s company and were sorry when the afternoon tea came to an end. It was the intention of the Magistrate, and his son Jack, to do something tangible for Michael, to reward him for saving Eleanor’s life. With that he was invited back to the house a few days hence, the Magistrate saying he would have news for him. Michael said his goodbyes to the Magistrate and Jack. Eleanor, chatting and smiling, walked with Michael to the door. As she was about to close the door behind him, she called after him in a low voice.

Do you like dancing…?

Miss…?

Do you like to dance?

Yes Miss. I don’t get much of a chance to do so, but I do like to dance…

On Saturday night there’s a dance at the crossroads. I’ll be there with my brother Jack at 8 o’ clock, if you’d like to go.

I’ll be there Miss, you can be sure of it… She smiled at him and closed the door slowly. She leaned against it thoughtfully and listened to Michael’s footsteps recede down the footpath.

Our hero is a rational, sober-minded young man, in the prime of his life. He is very attracted to Eleanor Chalmers, a stunning beauty just one year younger than his 18 years. She wants to continue seeing him. The frustration building up within Michael is because of the social and class disparity subsisting between Michael’s world and Eleanor’s. In his mind he knows that his longing to make the Magistrate’s daughter his own was in the realm of fancy, the stuff of dreams. He was not faint of heart, but for her sake he must face reality. He was a small-holding farmer, without a penny to his name. How could he in all conscience condemn her to a life of penury, of impoverishment? If he followed his natural inclination, abject privation would soon decimate her beauty; she would lose her social status. Whatever he might aspire to outside of Ireland, if he remained at home, the odds were against him ever rising above the destitution into which he had been born.

Eleanor had fallen in love with Michael from the moment he came to visit them in the Manor House. His character and manner, his certain yet modest self-assurance, spoke for all the virtues she needed to see in a man. In the little time she had known him he was attentive, considerate and mindful of her. He had turned up at the crossroads dance just outside the village of Clifden. It was one of the happiest nights of her life as Eleanor danced reels and jigs with Michael. By now she had become contemptuous of the amorous overtures of the popinjay James Prendergast. She hid when he came calling, to the chagrin of her father who saw Prendergast as the only eligible bachelor in West Galway. She wasn’t prepared when Michael told her they shouldn’t go on seeing each other. She was emotionally devastated and refused to listen to Michael when he pleaded the life of hardship and social isolation that would be hers if she married him. He begged her to give him a chance to make a success of his life, to be worthy of her, that was all that mattered to him, to make himself worthy of her. Could she wait, could she possibly wait for him to make something of himself? He would go to the New World, to America, he believed he would do well and they would be together for the rest of their lives. His ardor and passion made her relent; she said yes, she would wait, yes, of course she would wait.

The dandy Prendergast was in a rage. In the small rural community of Clifden, in County Galway, nothing went unnoticed. It had been brought to his attention that Eleanor was seen at a crossroad dance, dancing with Michael Devlin. One night after Michael walked Eleanor home, he turned and went back towards the village. Prendergast waited in the shadow of a toolshed until Michael went by. He threw caution to the wind as he rushed at Michael, with a raised pick-axe handle poised to strike. It was the noise of gravel beneath the heels of Prendergast that alerted Michael. His quick reflexes and superbly conditioned physique saved him from serious injuries. He took the full force of the blow on his arms. Michael had been rowing boats since he was a youth and brushed away the blow as Prendergast ran for his life. Michael chased after him. When he caught up with him Prendergast began wailing and begged for his life.

What kind of a man are you? said Michael, Hiding in the shadows, waiting to attack me. You could have killed me. I’ve a good mind to…

Please, I…

You cowardly wretch. If you try something like that again I’ll find a deep hole in that bog over there, and drop you into it.

A few days later Michael received a note from Magistrate Chalmers, asking if he would come to the Manor House on the following day. When he arrived he hoped he might see Eleanor, but her father said he asked her to fetch something in the village, so that they could be alone. They sat down opposite each other in the living room.

Eleanor has told me everything, young man. I find your behavior very admirable, very considerate. She has fallen head over heels for you, my boy, and she would have married you if you had asked her. As her father, I can’t thank you enough for the honorable stand you took. Anyhow my boy, let’s get down to brass tacks. You tell me, how can I help you, how can I reward you for saving my daughter’s life.

Sir, it was my duty as a man to help any woman in distress, I do not expect to be rewarded for that. But, if you could see your way to find a berth for me on a sailing ship bound for the colonies in America, I would be very grateful. And I will pay you back the cost of the passage over time.

It was done; and sealed with a handshake. Not only did the Magistrate find a berth on a ship, the SS Nubia, bound for New York, he provided Michael with a character reference, and gave him a sum of money to tide him over while he got on his feet in his new surroundings.

Many of the sailing ships of the year 1864 were disease ridden and rat infested. A lingering putrescence infected many immigrants for whom the voyage to the New World would end in suffering and death while still at sea. Aptly named Coffin Ships, typhus broke out on board when lice ridden rats spread bacteria among the passengers. The lack of basic medicines, hygiene and care heightened epidemics. The covered, diseased carcasses were slipped silently over the bulwark of the ship into the deep, to prayers recited by the ship’s captain. Michael was very fortunate to be isolated when the contagion spread aboard the ship. Magistrate Chalmers had arranged for him to have his own cabin. He was attended to with some deference by the cabin crew, having taken the trouble to buy a new suit of clothes, a hat and fashionable boots. On the passenger list he was registered as Michael Devlin, Gentleman.

Michael disembarked from the ship in New York City harbor, in the third year of the American Civil War. His robust good health had seen him emerge unscathed after a long arduous trek across the ocean, a voyage that claimed the lives of 12 passengers after the outbreak of typhus. For a while after he set foot on land he functioned as if in a dream. The city was light years removed from the pastoral calm of Clifden, the Galway village in which he had been born and raised. When he had cleared Customs he stood transfixed amid the vibrant, bustling metropolis of New York City. A lull in the fighting between the Union and Confederate forces in the Civil War afforded a relative calm to the city. Teeming, scurrying pedestrians crowded the sidewalks. The noise of carriages and horse-drawn trams; yelling newspaper sellers and ships sirens filled the air. He had to bend his neck back to see the top of buildings. A horse and buckboard drew up alongside of him at the sidewalk. The driver was an elderly, savvy man who already knew what Michael was looking for and where he came from.

Hey Irish, he said, you looking for lodgings? They got places in Brooklyn, if you’re looking for somewhere safe.

When Michael shrugged his shoulders, the driver threw his travel bag into the buckboard and told him to climb aboard. The driver explained to him the only really cheap place for rooms in New York City was down in the Bowery. But it was rampant with criminals and drunken soldiers on furlough; he’d be mugged for certain. The rent he was charged in Brooklyn was exorbitant but he had no recourse but to stay there. After two days of settling in, he went out and looked for work. As he had no special skills or training he was offered jobs at wages that scarcely allowed him to pay his rent. Finally he stood among a group of longshoremen in the Brooklyn dockyards. He was picked out of the crowd because of his height and impressive physique. The job was to load freight from the docks into the holds of ships. He found himself working next to Irish immigrants. Four amongst them were from County Galway. He got the surprise of his life when he saw an old friend Kevin Mulvey, who was from his home town of Clifden. Kevin introduced him to Lorcan Brannac, Seosamh O’Suilleabhain, and Padraig Reilly, all Galwaymen like himself. After a few weeks, they met regularly in a local Bierkeller. Kevin told Michael they were all working in the dockyards just long enough to save some money, and then they would join the army together, the US 2nd Cavalry. As Michael looked at him askance, Kevin explained that because he had spent his life under British rule in Ireland, he was practically illiterate, that it would be years before he could get anything but dead end jobs. He had been making enquiries at a US army recruiting office in Brooklyn.

I was told as long as me and the lads were in good physical health we could enlist in the army, said Kevin, becoming excited as he talked to Michael. The recruiting Sergeant told me, if we signed up for a two year hitch, the army would feed and clothe us, and we’d all have a chance to study. He said the pay wasn’t great to begin with, but with promotion we would get increases. Lorcan asked him what kind of work we would have to do and he said with the Civil War going on we’d be all needed at the front if we joined the infantry. But, and listen to this Michael, if we joined a Cavalry Unit we would just be doing reconnaissance, on horseback plus we would all get horses. All my life in Ireland I wanted to own my horse but I couldn’t afford one. And now, can you believe it, I’m just three weeks in America and I can have my own horse if I join a Cavalry regiment.

Michael got caught up in Kevin’s infectious enthusiasm. He was at a point where he had to make some definite decisions soon; the rent he was paying and the trolley car fares to his work at the docks were chipping away at his dwindling savings. While listening to Kevin and his friends, he made a snap decision. He would join the army with them.

Michael, Kevin, Lorcan, Seosamh and Padraig, enlisted in the army recruiting center in Brooklyn in November of 1864, with several other Irish inductees. They were sworn in and taken to the nearby Fort Hamilton Garrison. Here they were provided with uniforms and firearms and began an intensive basic training program. Time was spent on the firing range assembling and disassembling the Spencer Carbine, rifle and the Colt revolver. By the time basic training was completed Michael had earned a sharp-shooters medal with his Spencer rifle. A much longer time was spent in the stables, adapting to the horses they were partnered with. It was months before the new recruits were able to put the horses through their paces in close order drill. Kevin was a notable exception. In a matter of days he established an immediate rapport, a strong bond with the lively chestnut assigned to him. Kevin earned the envy and admiration of the Company for his daring horsemanship. He had renamed the 15 hands-high chestnut, Clifden, after his village in Ireland. Experienced troopers gaped in wonder as Kevin, standing bareback astride Clifden with the reins clasped in his hands, cleared the 5 foot high fences of the corral. He went galloping about the Garrison to rousing cheers and applause.

New York City during the Civil War in 1864 was a tumultuous, noisy Capital. Soldiers were everywhere, on parade, marching to military bands, bivouacking and training in close order drill with smallarms in city parks. Yelling newspaper boys confirmed the welcome news that Union General William T. Sherman was burning and rampaging through Atlanta, Georgia. It was a brutal campaign causing countless confederate deaths and wanton destruction, but it gave rise to the expectations that the war might soon be over.

New orders were issued that would affect the 1st Platoon, Charlie Company, 2nd Armed Cavalry Regiment, to which Michael and his Irish friends belonged. The gathering intensity of the Civil War brought new dilemmas for the Union army; Abraham Lincoln and his Generals found themselves fighting a war on two fronts. The Indian Wars to the west of the country were siphoning off valuable manpower, equipment, weapons and treasure from the Union war chest. Battle-weary troops were mustered to support General Sherman’s march through Georgia.

For Michael and Kevin, initiation to the American Civil War proved a baptism of fire. As Cavalry of First Platoon of Charlie Company they reconnoitered enemy held ground. On horseback they scouted ahead of the infantry, noted Confederate movements and positions and doubled back to their own lines. It took courage and daring; slow-moving soldiers on horseback made easy targets. In a skirmish with Confederate scouts across an open field, Michael and Kevin were pinned down in a hastily dug foxhole. It was a revelation for Michael to see how Kevin conducted himself in a life threatening situation; he was calm and focused as he aimed the Spencer rifle and fired, with bullets whistling around him. Across the sparsely covered field Michael saw three Confederate soldiers facing them. Michael, the better shot of the two, raised his rifle and took aim at the gray-uniformed, barely concealed soldier lying prostrate, 40 yards ahead of him. It was his first time for him to shoot the Spencer rifle in the heat of battle. Kevin had already shot two of the soldiers. Michael released the safety catch, took a deep breath, aimed and fired. At the last instant he moved the bullet’s trajectory away from the soldier’s chest to his arm. The soldier audibly yelled, clutched at his arm and sunk deeper into the brush out of sight. Across the field they could hear shouting. The wounded soldier was picked up, thrown roughly up on his horse as the confederate scouts retreated. Michael and Kevin stood up in the foxhole and watched as the enemy soldiers galloped away. Kevin was elated, excited, but lapsed into silence when he looked at Michael. Later Kevin told his Platoon leader and anyone who would listen, about the two men he had killed from the foxhole. Michael felt he didn’t understand or discover certain aspects of his own character until that moment in the foxhole with Kevin. He was numbed, disquieted by the incident; left in a state of trauma. At the last moment he had deflected his aim and let the soldier live. It was as if his will was at variance, opposed and independent of his own volition and choice. As he thought of it later he knew with certainty it would have taken away any sane reason he had to go on living, if he had taken the life of the young Confederate soldier. The introspection left Michael’s confidence wallowing in self-reproach and doubt. It seemed to him at that moment that he had floated through much of his life in a dream-like state, without thinking of the domino-like consequences of ill-conceived decisions. Joining the US army was one of them; how could he not have known what it would make of him; a paid killer of a living, breathing human being, a murderer, which in essence is what a soldier is; talk of patriotism and survival notwithstanding. But, he argued to himself, tyranny must be confronted, opposed. It was something he had never really thought about before. Should despots continue to rule, when among the enslaved, a man’s conscience mitigates against a call to arms?

That night Michael left the noisy barracks and found his way to the stables. He was glad to find them empty. He went to the stall to see the horse that was assigned to him the day before. It was a thorough bred chestnut with fine lines. It was brisk and energetic though right now it looked half-asleep on his feet. Michael knew it was just sheer luck to get such a wonderful animal. The Quartermaster Corp had serial numbers for the horses; the numbers were randomly attached to soldier’s serial numbers. Michael was looking with renewed interest at the chestnut. The horse had previous owners, judging by the nasty stirrup and lash marks on its underbelly and back. He moved the horse gently to the back of the stall. There he spread a soothing emollient over the cuts and bruises. He picked up a curry comb and gently groomed the horse. An occasional snigger told him the chestnut was enjoying the attention. Perhaps it was the distress of shooting at the confederate soldier earlier in the day that caused Michael to digress in thought, to absent himself a while from the pervasive madness of the war. He knew he could be put up against a wall and shot for what he did today; he could be branded a coward and cashiered out of the army. He finished grooming the chestnut and felt the better for it. As he closed over the half-door of the stall he looked up. A hastily written sign was nailed above the door with the word ‘whiskey’ on it. He reached up and pulled it down and broke it across his knee. He threw it aside.

Well fella, he said, as he patted the chestnut, that’s no name for a fine horse like you. From now on, your name is Prince.

The Mess Hall in the Fort Hamilton Garrison was serving the evening meal. The hall was equally filled with infantry and Cavalry troops. The new sense of impending victory in the Civil war was palpable among the assembled soldiers. General Sherman was continuing to cut a wide swath through Georgia as he marched the Union soldiers towards the sea. The large mess hall was redolent with excitable and unmistakable Irish, German and Italian accents. With his tray filled with food, Michael looked about for a table to sit at in the crowded mess hall. He finally found a place. When he was seated he looked up to see Kevin standing opposite, his tray also filled with food. Michael nodded and pointed to an empty chair. It seemed to Michael that Kevin took an inordinate amount of time to make up his mind to sit with him, or find somewhere else. In the end Kevin roughly threw the tray of food on the table and sat down. Michael felt his friend had begun to distance himself from him after the incident in the foxhole. Kevin took up a fork and began to pick at his meal as he looked at Michael.

I’m so mad at you I can’t think straight, said Kevin, I don’t know what happened to you in that foxhole, I could be dead and buried thanks to you. I’m putting in for a transfer to Able Company, I don’t ever want to be trapped in a foxhole with you again… I might as well shoot myself…

Kevin was so incensed he shouted expletives at Michael. He stopped suddenly and looked around him. He was drawing attention to himself in the packed Mess Hall. He finally became quiet when he looked at Michael again. He was just sitting there, looking at him with a profoundly disturbed expression on his face. Kevin then swore to himself for shouting at him.

We’re lifelong friends Michael, for Chrissake, and we’re 3,000 miles from home. We should be looking after each other. He said in a lower calmer voice. What the hell happened to you? You fired one shot all the time we were out there, and you missed on purpose. Bullets were flying past our heads…

I couldn’t shoot that kid in the field…

He was trying to kill you…

I know that, but I couldn’t…

Why did you join the goddam army in the first place…?

Michael spread his hands apart.

I don’t know what happened to me in that foxhole, and that’s the God’s honest truth. It just suddenly dawned on me I’d be snuffing out the light; the life of a human being. I didn’t want to put you in danger, Kevin, you know that. That kid, in the field there, he looked no more than 15-16 years old…

Michael pushed the food tray away and looked steadily at Kevin.

You don’t have to transfer to Abel Company, Kevin, to get away from me…

Oh, I was just running off at the mouth; that was a hell of a scare you gave me…

No, I understand, and you were right. Out there on the front lines, I could put everyone in danger… No, I’m trying to get assigned to someplace in the army where I won’t have to shoot anyone. The thing is I don’t want to leave the army in disgrace, with a dishonorable discharge. They’d get to hear about it at home in Galway, my family name would be ruined…

Michael took out a large brown envelope from an inside pocket and pushed it across the table to Kevin.

What’s this, said Kevin with mock surprise, are they pinning medals on you already…?

There was a new notice posted on the bulletin board over at Headquarters. They’re looking for Cavalry soldiers for the Indian Wars, out West in Colorado. The word is that all infantry units will be deployed to the southeast following General Sherman’s march through Georgia. The whole country wants a quick end to this war, so fighting with the Indians has got to stop. That’s why they’re looking for Mounted Cavalry. They want to make a final push against the Indians; to round them up and confine them to the Reservations.

That could be dangerous work. Did you volunteer to go to Colorado?

That’s my marching orders you’ve got there. It’s that or I spend the rest of my time in a jail cell and called a coward. It wasn’t a difficult decision for me to make. It nearly cost you your life fighting alongside me…

Hell, I’m not going to say anything…

I know that Kevin, but don’t you see I put everyone in harm’s way just by being there. How long do you think it would take before I’d be court-martialed and kicked out of the army? I couldn’t live with that… No, here’s how I have it figured. I’ll go and work with the Indians; it’s just like routine work, rounding them up. I wouldn’t have to shoot anyone. For the time I got left in the army; I’ll keep my nose clean and get out with my honorable discharge…

You could get more than you bargained for. The Comanches, the Sioux, the Cherokees, they’re still hostile…

Oh, just a few isolated cases; I’ve been keeping up with the newspapers. There’s only a few warring tribes left. Where I’m going to in Denver Colorado there’s only Cheyenne and a few Paiute; they’re peaceful. Their Chief, Running Bear, keeps signing new treaties to stop his tribe from being massacred. The Indian Wars will soon be a thing of the past, Kevin. Thousands of immigrants are migrating west from all over Europe; it will be twice that number when the Civil War is over. They’re building railroads all the way to Saint Louis, Missouri. No, I’ll join the Cavalry and go to Fort Weld in Denver, Colorado for the remainder of my time in the army. What trouble could there be? Winter is coming. The Cheyenne will be given food and warm clothing on the Reservations.

Well, said Kevin, I hope for your sake it’s going to be that simple. So tell me, how are you getting to Colorado, It’s what, about 1700 miles from here?

"As soon as we’re ready, Headquarters will put us all on a troop train, the horses will travel