The Brothers O'Neill

By Michael Corey

"The Brothers O'Neill" is a story told in the perspective of two brothers: one named Finn, who leads a rash and reckless life of gambling, scamming, and drifting, and Sean, who lives a strait-laced life with a successful marriage and career. This is a dramatic story based in Northern Ireland in the 1970s during the Troubles, infused with romance

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Corey Author
• Release date: May 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9798218127046

Book preview

The Brothers O’Neill

by

Michael Corey

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This story was inspired by the creative genius of my wife, Cathy, whose plot ideas, daily critiques, and tireless research allowed the story to be created. We were both inspired by her father who emigrated from Ireland (which provided the foundation of the book), his family in Carrickmacross, and all my Irish friends who allowed me to become one of them. Finally, I want to again thank my fabulous editor, Meagan Maher, for her profound interest in the project and the skills to bring life and color to my thoughts. Additional thanks to my daughter Maura, an accomplished film editor, and those who also helped by reading the book from the very beginning: Tom Schlossberg, Robin Millard, and Janis Gatchet.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to 3,500 men, women, and children who died in Ireland between the early 1960s and the late 1990s. The almost 40-year period was called the Troubles, and it was a conflict between Protestants and Catholics in Northern Ireland. Although most thought it to be religious, it was primarily political and nationalistic, with an ethnic and sectarian dimension. In essence, the Protestants wanted to remain within Great Britain, and the Catholics wanted a united Ireland. Compounding those differences, in 1969 the Unionist government of Northern Ireland requested help to assert the authority of the United Kingdom, and over time 300,000 British soldiers were deployed under the name of Operation Banner. In addition to those killed, over 50,000 people were injured, Irish and British alike. The story is also dedicated to a man who emigrated from Ireland before the Troubles began. He was a humble man, a wonderful man, and without him this story could not have been told.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements…5

Dedication…7

An Irish Prayer…9

Prologue…10

Volume 1: Sean

Finnegan’s Wake…19

Chapter One…20

Chapter Two…23

Chapter Three…30

Chapter Four…32

Chapter Five…36

Chapter Six…42

Chapter Seven…46

Chapter Eight…49

Chapter Nine…53

Chapter Ten…57

Chapter Eleven…60

Chapter Twelve…65

Chapter Thirteen…68

Chapter Fourteen…72

Chapter Fifteen…76

Chapter Sixteen…80

Chapter Seventeen…85

Chapter Eighteen…90

Chapter Nineteen…95

Chapter Twenty…98

Chapter Twenty-One…103

Chapter Twenty-Two…107

Chapter Twenty-Three…112

Volume 2 – Finn

The Wild Rover…115

Chapter One…116

Chapter Two…120

Chapter Three…125

Chapter Four…129

Chapter Five…134

Chapter Six…142

Chapter Seven…147

Chapter Eight…152

Chapter Nine…157

Chapter Ten…163

Chapter Eleven…167

Chapter Twelve…171

Chapter Thirteen…176

Chapter Fourteen…182

Volume 3 – Sean

The Orange and the Green…189

Chapter One…190

Chapter Two…194

Chapter Three…198

Chapter Four…201

Chapter Five…206

Chapter Six…211

Chapter Seven…216

Chapter Eight…220

Chapter Nine…225

Chapter Ten…229

Chapter Eleven…233

Chapter Twelve…237

Chapter Thirteen…240

Chapter Fourteen…244

Chapter Fifteen…248

Chapter Sixteen…251

Chapter Seventeen…257

Chapter Eighteen…261

Chapter Nineteen…269

Chapter Twenty…273

Chapter Twenty-One…277

Epilogue…280

AN IRISH PRAYER

May you never forget what is worth remembering,

nor ever remember what is best forgotten.

Prologue

            The mournful sound of the ship’s horn pierced the ears of Patrick Sean O’Neill as he stood fixated on the departure dock about to leave his home for the last time. It was a cold and rainy December day in 1926. Patrick stared quietly looking at the letters on the side of the ship he was about to board for his long trip to America. The letters spelled out the words T.S.S. Letitia, and in his hands, he held the ticket that would take him away from his beloved Ireland.

            The sky was a steel gray, and the stinging drops of rain being blown in from the sea were a reminder of a chill he would never forget. Nor would he ever forget how his Mammy and Da, or the ever-present peat fire could chase away the cold from his body at the end of each day.   

The ticket read: Section C; Room 800; Berth number 4; departure Londonderry, Ireland to New York City, U.S.A. He held the ticket inside his wool coat, protecting it from the rain, with water dripping into his eyes from the brim of his cap, mingling with tears of possibly never seeing his home and family again.

A uniformed man waved Patrick and dozens of other men and women to walk up the gangplank onto the ship. As he pushed past slower climbers who were also moving up to the deck, Patrick carried a battered suitcase which held the few possessions he was taking to his new home (wherever that might be). In his suitcase were two wool shirts, a sweater knitted by his mammy, two pairs of woolen pants, frayed underwear, and three paperback books written by Mark Twain. The pocket of his wet tweed coat held his passport and an unopened letter his mammy had given to him before he left his house for possibly the last time.

            As he reached the top of the gangplank and turned to look down at hundreds of people waving goodbye to their loved ones, no one waved back at Patrick, as he was now all alone and on his own. After the crew had untied the large ropes from the cleats on the pier, the ship pulled slowly away, churning past a breakwater, before it picked up speed and fought its way through rolling gray waves; waves that blended into the same-colored sky that hid behind the cold winter rain that chilled Patrick to the bone.

Shivering, Patrick found his way to the lower deck and his bed in room 800, occupied by three other young Irishmen chasing their dream. The accommodations were sparce as he and his three new bunkmates shared a space that was even smaller than his bedroom at home. 

The first night they were out to sea, Patrick sat alone on his bunk and opened the envelope his mammy had given him. The letter, which was written on a single piece of white paper, read:

Patrick, your Da and I feared that this day would one day come, but always keep God in your heart and find the dream He intends for you. And always remember, you are the dream that He intended for me.

And with the letter was a St. Christopher medal and chain, the patron saint of travel which his mammy hoped would keep him safe. Patrick wiped his tears and silently prayed he would see her soon but knew he would not. He put the chain around his neck, with the medal hanging on his chest just below his chin. Patrick knew he would think of his mother every time the medal touched his skin. And he did. 

For days on end after his departure, Patrick spent most of his time reading his Twain books to keep from getting sicker from the endless up and down motion of the ship caused by the rough seas. The pungent smell of unwashed bodies and clothes touched by vomit was a smell unlike any he had ever experienced. And even worse, the heat below the deck was so oppressive he occasionally would find his way to the top deck and lie for hours in the bottom of a lifeboat, looking at a sky full of stars and hoping one was shining for him.

Patrick’s only solace on the trip was to talk with other young men and women emigrating to a new home and hear the stories about what had prompted them to leave a land they all loved. He kept thinking about the great times he had in local pubs with his friends, Sunday dinner roasts with his family, absorbing the warm heat of a peat fire in his home’s fireplace, and fishing for salmon in the creek that ran through his farm, but mostly he could only think about his Mammy and Da. They had instilled in him the love of reading, the ability to work hard and dream, his affection for the rolling hills of County Monaghan, and the understanding of the importance of family.

            Patrick O’Neill was 21 years old and the second son in a family of six siblings born and raised in the village of Carrickmacross in County Monaghan. As was tradition in Ireland, the first son inherited the farm from his father, and any other sons were forced to find other ways to make a living, which was almost impossible at that time in the Emerald Isle. Although well-educated and quite intelligent, Patrick had no choice but to do what tens of thousands of other Irish born did — leave their homes and go to America to find a way to survive.

Patrick was a thin, gentle man with brown hair and protruding ears who was a romantic and voracious reader of all the stories about America. His favorite books were written by Mark Twain, and young Patrick’s fervent wish was to one day be able to see the Mississippi River. He was enamored by the descriptions by Twain of towns like Hannibal and characters like Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer, but he was also enamored with the vastness of the country and the opportunities provided to those who wished to work hard. Patrick’s work ethic was second to none, and he knew in his heart that, if given the opportunity, he would prove to be the best hire anyone could possibly make.

Aside from the few possessions he carried, Patrick had little money left over after paying his passage across the Atlantic Ocean. But not having money would not deter him from building a new life in America. After all, Patrick Sean O’Neill was determined and ready. But first he had to survive the trip across the ocean, and if he was able to stop throwing up the little food he ate, he might be strong enough to face an uncertain future in the land of Twain.

            After days of fighting back nausea from the tumultuous seas, bad food, and sick roommates, Patrick grew ever excited that his journey was about to end. He was nearing the coast of the U.S. and the beginning of an adventure that would forever change his life. Patrick was about to realize his dream of becoming an American citizen, hopefully find a good Irish girl to marry, and build a good Irish family. As the T.S.S. Letitia was pulling into the large New York harbor, he stood on the deck shoulder to shoulder with many others like himself, and with his chest bursting with anticipation, he stared at the large beacon that beckoned him; the Statue of Liberty. It was positioned on a small island, with its arm and flame held high toward the sky, saying, "Welcome to your new home."

Less than a mile away was another small strip of land which Patrick discovered processed immigrants as they entered the U.S., and the small strip of land with an imposing building was called Ellis Island. The T.S.S. Letitia pulled up to a pier and tied up. After being given instructions, the exhausted passengers disembarked one by one into the large building.

The big room that Patrick entered was roped off to lead everyone single file to a long counter with a dozen officials dressed in uniforms asking questions and reviewing papers. Patrick’s papers showed personal information about his name, age, health information, where he was from, and the name and address of the person in the States who was his official sponsor. In his case, it was a distant cousin Tom O’Neill who lived in New York City, a relative Patrick had never met. Tom was one of two brothers who emigrated from Ireland to the U.S. years earlier. The other brother, Jack, lived in Chicago. 

As Patrick finished showing his papers to a stern and humorless man behind the counter, he was directed to someone referred to as the doctor. After a few probes and looking in his mouth, the doctor stamped his papers and sent him on his way. Patrick walked out of the imposing building clutching his suitcase and the papers which indicated he was now entering the United States of America.

For a moment, Patrick stared at the bright sun welcoming him to his new home and then began to take the short walk to a nearby dock. He got on a ferry filled with fellow passengers from his ship and crossed a short distance on the boat to another dock in an area called Manhattan. Tucked away in his passport were written instructions on Tom’s address and directions on how to get there. Patrick was about to spend his first night in a country where everyone walked fast, talked loudly, and put signs in their windows that said, "No Irish need apply."

Tom warmly welcomed Patrick to his small apartment home with his wife, Sheila, and their two small children. The apartment was two rooms on the fourth floor of a building in an area called Hell’s Kitchen, a neighborhood of predominantly Irish Catholics. Both Tom and Sheila made him feel comfortable, and following a few drinks of Irish whiskey after he arrived, Patrick tasted his first American meal. After dinner and a few more Irish whiskeys, he was given a couple of blankets and was instructed to sleep on the worn couch next to the children.

Patrick left the apartment each morning to try and find a job, any job, and was disappointed that he was not able to join Tom at his work at the Port Authority, as dozens of Irish immigrants were already trying to do. Tom and Sheila never put any pressure on Patrick to move out and always included him in their meals, but after a couple of months, he could feel the financial strain he was creating and decided it was time for him to leave.

With no job prospects in sight, Patrick thought the best alternative was to move on and try to get one in Chicago. Thus, the journey continued for Patrick O’Neill, praying desperately Chicago would be his destination. As he was deciding to take a train from New York to Chicago, the young Irishman impetuously bought an additional ticket to continue from Chicago to St. Louis. He understood St. Louis, strangely named for a canonized King of France, was on the Mississippi River close to the Twain town of his dreams: Hannibal, Missouri. This might be the last time in his life he would be able to see the mighty river, and once he fulfilled his dream of touching the water and imagining Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn floating on a raft, he would travel back to Chicago to begin a new life on his own raft.

            When Patrick departed the train station in St. Louis, he continued his adventure by hitch-hiking to Hannibal. All he knew from a map he purchased at the terminal was that Hannibal was about a hundred miles north. He walked with suitcase in hand to the closest large street and put his hand in the air with his thumb pointing up.

            Within minutes, he was picked up and began one of dozens of conversations with friendly Americans who were more than happy to help him get to the town he was obsessed to see. And after a long day of traveling, he reached the outskirts of the small town and stared at the large, fast-moving river, and it was just as he imagined. Patrick Sean O’Neill was awestruck, and his fantasy had now become reality. The next day, after walking and sitting for hours on the banks of the Mississippi, he hitch-hiked directly to Chicago to meet his other American cousin, Jack, who lived in a town called Cicero, the home of Al Capone and his rival, Bugs Moran.

            Jack O’Neill was an Irish-born American who had settled in the Chicago area suburb of Cicero, was married to a Czech girl, and had three children with her in only five years. The town they lived in was occupied mostly by Bohemians from Central Europe but was also a haven for criminals who terrorized the citizens of Chicago and its surrounding towns. Although Jack was honest, it was impossible not to encounter bootleggers and men who would hurt you for money if you didn’t pay them for protection. One of those who paid for protection was his boss, Larry Dugan, who owned the only lumber yard in Cicero. The yard operated successfully without any interference because of the protection payments, and Jack had a good paying job and the attitude, See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

Each week, Jack would take home a check after working like a dog in the yard loading lumber and doing any job Mr. Dugan required. One day Jack told Mr. Dugan about his cousin from Ireland, who had just moved into his small home, and wondered if he would consider him for a job. Dugan said that if he worked as hard as Jack, he would consider hiring him as a salesman, which he did, and Patrick’s employment lasted for well over a couple of decades.

The two cousins worked with a third employee who was a pretty, young girl named Maggie Finnegan, who worked in the office as Mr. Dugan’s secretary and keeper of the company books. She had curly red hair, a great smile, and a beautiful face and was not over five feet tall. Maggie was educated and lived with her Irish parents in Oak Park, another suburb of Chicago.

She was exactly Patrick’s age, unattached, and immediately taken with the shy Irishman, and he was smitten with her. They married a year later, and after years of trying to have a family, two boys filled the house with joy and laughter. 

The brothers, Sean and Finn O’Neill, were less than a year apart in age. Since Maggie was unable to get pregnant in the first years of their marriage, they adopted a month-old boy from the Cradle Orphanage in Evanston, a nearby suburb in Chicago. The shock of the adoption was that she was unknowingly pregnant with a second child who was born less than eight months after young Sean was brought home.

Patrick, Maggie, and the boys left their small home in Cicero and settled down in the neighboring Catholic community called Berwyn. Their new house was not far from his job and not far from the criminal activities of Capone and his minions, which would one day impact their lives, but in an unharmful way. After they moved into their quaint brick bungalow, their second son, Finn, was born. Sean was named after his father’s middle name, and Finn was the shortened version of his mother’s family name, Finnegan. The family spent the next many years living a rather normal suburban existence. 

Maggie left her job at the lumber yard and became a secretary for a local public high school. Patrick successfully moved up the employment ladder at the lumber yard and became the number one salesman. During the infrequent times the family was able to take some days or weeks off, they would just load themselves into their four-door Dodge, that Maggie named Beulah, and drive to Wisconsin for some good, old-fashioned lake time. And during those years, as the boys grew older, a saga of the O’Neill brothers began to develop, and what a saga it would be …

Volume One: Sean

Finnegan’s Wake

Chapter One

            It was Cinco de Mayo, May 5, 1976, when I got a call from my cousin Fergal in Dublin that changed my life forever. On the scratchy international call, Fergal almost shouted, Sean, your brother, Finn, is dead! 

Those were not the words I ever wanted to hear, but I was not surprised to hear them. I had been expecting to hear bad news all my adult life because of Finn’s outrageous behavior, but I did not expect the bad news to come from a distant cousin in Ireland.

What happened? I asked, almost not wanting to hear the rest of his explanation. 

He was found this morning floating in the Liffey, Fergal said. Sean, he died from a gunshot to his chest. 

I was stunned and silent for a moment, and he continued, You need to come to Dublin quickly to claim the body and handle arrangements for a burial here or in the States. 

A gunshot to the chest? Who would want to shoot Finn? I know he was a bit crazy, but he was harmless.

It’s rumored that he was involved with the IRA, running guns between the States and Belfast.

I knew what Fergal was saying could very well be true. Finn certainly could be that stupid, that reckless. I also knew what Fergal had suggested was what I had to do. I needed to get to Dublin immediately.

            I left my downtown Chicago office and drove to my home in the western suburb of Hinsdale to tell my wife, Mary Kate, what had happened and pack for a trip to Dublin. Before I left my office, I instructed my secretary to get me a ticket on Aer Lingus in the afternoon, which would get me to Dublin at 9:30 a.m. after a stopover at Shannon International Airport. I also had her book me a room for a week at the Shelbourne, the iconic hotel just off Grafton Street. 

I returned home, and my beautiful wife, Mary Kate, had a not-so-beautiful look on her face when she greeted me at the door. She must have known my early return did not mean anything good.

Sean, what’s happened?

I embraced her. Honey, Finn is dead.

Her arms squeezed tightly around my shoulders. Oh my God, Sean, who told you?

I got a call from my cousin Fergal that he was found dead, floating in a river. He was shot.

She again gasped, and her eyes welled up with tears. Sean, I am so sorry. I know how much you loved him. Does your mother know?

Not yet. It won’t be easy to tell her. I need to go over to her house to give her the news.

            Mary Kate helped me pack as I needed to run over to the bank to get money for the trip and then see my mother. After I finished at the bank, I stopped at my mother’s house, which I dreaded, but knew I had to do. When I walked through the door, she greeted me with the warmth and expression of love she always gave me, her older son. 

I walked up and put my arms around her shoulders and could not keep from choking up when I said, Mom, I have very bad news. Cousin Fergal from Dublin called me. Finn has died.

She jerked back and started to sob. No! she shouted, and as she clung to me, I walked her over to the sofa. I went quickly into the kitchen to get her a glass of water. When I returned, she said between intermittent sobs, Sean, I think I need something stronger than that. 

I poured a small glass of Irish whiskey and