My Kingdom

By Michael F Donoghue

In the spring of 1914, Daniel has completed a deployment into India's North Western Frontier. Returning to London, and the British Army Reserves, Daniel embraces a new life with his family ... until Britain declares war. Daniel reports for duty and arrives in France with the British Expeditionary Force, while the conflict is still a mobile war. During the retreat from Mons, Daniel's battalion receives orders to go into action. The Irish are eager, but the German Hammer appears unstoppable. Although a small French village will become synonymous with his regiment's valor, Daniel's wife, Mary, and sons Steven and David, are in the dark without word of their loved one's fate. Finally, The Times publishes The Honor Roll. Daniel's name is among the columns of those listed as Missing. One uncertain word has changed their lives forever. This stirring epic chronicles the entire tragedy that becomes World War One. From the home front and its hospital wards, to the battlefield and beyond, if you read only one book to commemorate the Great War's centennial, let it be My Kingdom. Inspired by real events and real people.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael F Donoghue
• Release date: Nov 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999447304

Michael F Donoghue

Thank you very much for considering one of Mike's novels. Michael F Donoghue lives in Ottawa, Canada. He is father to three inspirational adults and husband to a wonderful wife. His passion for writing fulfills his interest in science, technology, politics, and history. If any one of these topics interests you, they form a compelling narrative to this exciting novel and will continue to underscore future stories, including the next in the Sophia series: The Human Continuum.

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Author’s note to the reader

~

A picture is said to be worth a thousand words. If that is true, is it also possible for a thousand pictures to be worthy of just one word? An answer, perhaps?

The question I asked was: If I were to write a novel about your early life, would you prefer it come to a different conclusion, an alternate ending, so to speak, than the one you experienced? The question came to me while interviewing my uncle. He had been providing details for my story. This particular answer was only one of many, of course, but when I heard it, I knew my story would turn on a single word.

I would have asked my father the same thing had he not died of cancer when I was a young man. I enjoyed listening to my uncle, while he refreshed stories I had heard before. Others I hadn’t. I always knew my father and uncle were only boys when tragedy put them on a path beyond their control. I remember my father relating the outcome of those events. The lives of two young brothers were changed in ways I was left to imagine.

I should therefore mention that, while this novel is primarily a work of fiction, it is inspired by real people and real events. And although literary license was needed to accommodate my uncle’s response, with certain exceptions, which I will explain in the ‘Afterword,’ the broader facts herein represent actual events. While many characters remain part of the historical record, others are imaginary, designed, I hope, to fulfill the expectations of an entertaining historical fiction. I also changed a small number of names.

My uncle provided valuable information pertaining to my grandfather as well, and I should add this story is as much about his life as it is my father’s and uncle’s. I unfortunately never met my grandfather. He died long before I was born. However, if I could meet him, if I could cross that vast expanse of distance and time, I would love to spend hours listening to the details of his eventful life, his service in the British Army, his time in India, his experience as a soldier in the Great War.

During one of our many phone calls my uncle related a conversation he had had with his aunt. You’ll never be as tough as your father was, she said to him. When I first heard those words I thought they were heartless, if not hurtful. Yet after uncovering much of what my grandfather lived through, I now appreciate the context in which they were spoken. And this she said to a Second World War Veteran, a tank driver who stayed in Germany with the Allies’ Occupational Army long after the war ended.

Although my father went on to marry, raise a family and have successful career, my Uncle David remained a bachelor his whole life. I sometimes wonder if his scars ran much deeper than he was willing to admit. I learned some time ago that his regiment figured prominently in a well-known World War Two epic film. More on that in the ‘Afterword’ too.

In truth, I honestly can’t say how closely my grandfather resembles the character I created in this novel. If anything, I believe he was an ordinary man, like so many others, who was undaunted by the call of extraordinary circumstances.

I could go on about what compelled me to write this story, from where I drew further inspiration, but maybe it’s time I return to the question I posed to my Uncle David, the one where I asked him: ‘Would you prefer a different ending to the story of your early life?’

Well, as you might have imagined, his answer was, of course, Yes!

CHAPTER ONE

The summer of 1912

India’s North West Frontier

You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!

Though I've belted you and flayed you,

by the livin' Gawd that made you,

you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din

Rudyard Kipling

The crowded train slowed then squealed to another stop. Daniel felt the stiffness in his legs, and he considered getting up to stretch them. A breath of fresh air would do him well, however the thought of losing his seat tempered his discomfort. More passengers would soon board the car; it was already nearing capacity.

Daniel glanced at Sully, his mate beside him, and then cast his eyes over his fellow Munster Fusiliers. It was obvious the heat was hard on the Irish. Perspiration stained everyone and everything. But as stifling as their car was, Daniel knew there was no point in trying to open the window. The Sindh would not abide that. What rides on a desert wind will find its way into the smallest of crevices.

Having entrained from Karachi after a three-week sea voyage, it was assumed the rest of their journey would be filled with simple pleasures, the sheer delight of placing one’s feet on solid ground being the first on everyone’s mind. Still, Sully’s spirit was the first to digress. On the second day he likened their rail car to a metal oven on wheels. Daniel agreed, reluctantly, knowing his friend’s usual enthusiasm could only be tempered by words not far from the truth. Daniel, on the other hand, had learned a British soldier should entertain no illusion and, therefore, few expectations.

Sully looked at Daniel and shook his head. Passengers were boarding yet again, this time from both sides. Some reconciled themselves to the coach’s exterior running boards, while others climbed higher. Sully’s worried eyes were drawn to the back of the car, while Daniel’s rose toward the footsteps on the roof.

The enclosure creaked under humanity’s burden, as the rear door was flung open. Ah, Sully stammered. We’re full in here. To Sully’s dismay, however, his words fell on deaf ears; a rush of local villagers poured in.

Sully’s tone worsened with the bump of each additional passenger. I’m sure … there will be … another train along very shortly, he said, as if he knew he was being ignored. Beside Daniel, Sully sat next to aisle, more exposed to the onslaught.

Having grown up in London, Daniel and Sully were accustomed to the omnipresence of humanity. In all of its hurriedness, they were familiar, but this was something on a different scale. Every market needs its buyers and sellers, its farmers and artisans, wanting to barter their wares, but here, it seemed, everyone had a reason to be on the move.

The center aisle was a bustle of overcrowding, but as quickly as Sully’s demeanor was deflated by the press of his fellow passengers, so was it reinvigorated by the sight of a beautiful young woman moving among them. Dressed in a white shalwar kameez, her hooded face shone like a gem indifferent to its tumbling through a polishing stream. Sully’s thoughts were as richly embroidered as was her robe. His heart suddenly leapt when, in passing, she smiled. Watching as she moved to the other end of the car, Sully was instantly enchanted.

Daniel looked at Sully and smirked. He was amazed how quickly his friend could be smitten.

The women are so attractive in this part of the world, Sully mused.

The North-West Frontier was, in its own way, a splendor of both beauty and ruggedness. It extended, Daniel discovered, from the city of Karachi and the Arabian Sea in the south, through the Sindh Desert to the mountain ranges of the north. Their reward for enduring the three-day train ride: the magnificent snow covered peaks of the Hindu Kush and their elder, the Himalayas.

Daniel glanced between Sully and the face to which his friend was now mesmerized. She was indeed compelling, but as the train got underway, her exchanges befitted a more modest disposition. She cast a timid glance at Sully. This drew him in even further.

Not taking his eyes of her, Sully soon caught a glimpse of the woman lowering her hood. Her dark silk-like hair was allowed to descend down her back. I could live the rest of my life with a woman like that, he said.

The train rocked side to side, causing its occupants to move as one.

The rest of your life is a long time, my friend.

Suddenly a horrible memory caused Sully’s trance to come to a screeching halt. He could see his mother berating his father, the way she incessantly did. He remembered his vow to remain uncommitted, if necessary, forever unmarried. The risk of enduring what his father did seemed all too daunting.

Frightfully, he agreed.

There’s a good woman for you out there somewhere, Sully, just as there was for me.

Daniel pulled a picture from his left breast pocket just as Sully recoiled. Oh no, he gasped.

What now?

That blasted McCarthy is pretending to be a gentleman. He’s giving up his seat to her.

Daniel smiled. Why do you torture yourself?

I can’t help it, mate, Sully said, returning his friend’s gesture in kind. He glanced down at the picture in Daniel’s hand. And you’re lecturing me about love at first sight.

The wrinkled photograph of Mary captivated Daniel’s attention, as it always did, for an imperceptible period of time. Her long black hair framed such a beautiful face. He could still remember the first day her soul unveiling eyes peered into his, illuminating the best of him in return. But it was her laughter that Daniel always replayed in his mind. Its essence defined her charm. She was so beautiful, so compelling, and he missed her more than he was willing to admit, even to his best mate.

Sully laid his head back and tried to take his mind off his most recent infatuation. Although he was somewhat successful at his endeavor, his friend was not.

Daniel straightened himself into a frustrated posture. How am I going to get through this? he thought. The rhythm of clicking rails accompanied every waking thought and fitful rest. Like a native mountain snow leopard, the approach of despair lurked just beyond the limit of his defenses. Images he longed to relive ran through his head. Scenes of Mary laughing while Steve played with his newborn brother caused Daniel’s head to slump forward, a little further than one’s should.

Sully opened his eyes. Everything alright, Danny?

Bearing the khaki uniform of the same regiment since the beginning, James Sullivan’s military career paralleled Daniel’s at every turn. The only exception? Each of them seemed be in timely possession of a resolution to any disadvantage experienced by the other.

Ah! Daniel sighed, as he looked out the train window. Seated closely, Daniel and Sullivan continued to bump shoulders while the train travelled the rickety track. The line, which sometimes scribed an otherwise monotonous landscape, followed the Indus River. At one time Daniel coveted this posting, as many young soldiers did. He found it excitingly exotic, before he met Mary.

Daniel looked down again as if consolation existed somewhere below him. I’ll be all right once we get there.

You’ll be fine, Danny, James started. His tone was intended to be uplifting. Why, I’d take marching any day over this oversized coffin. He glanced to see if he was getting Daniel’s attention. I say, they call this a railroad? Why, I’ve seen better, he stopped abruptly and did a double take towards Daniel.

What? he said. A reflection of Sully’s smile was beginning to dawn Daniel’s face.

I was just trying to take your mind off …

Thanks just the same, mate, Daniel interjected.

Daniel then put his head back against his seat and closed his eyes.

You’re a good friend Sully, he said.

As are you, my friend, as are you! Sully ran his fingers over his light colored moustache, and then glanced passed the soldier in front of him, trying to get another glimpse of the woman. He then straightened his short blonde hair, hoping she would look back. Sully was a handsome man, even more so than Daniel. And being closer to five-foot nine than ten, he was for once happy to have shorter legs than Daniel. He slid himself forward until his knees touched the seat ahead. He slouched a little and closed his eyes.

With the adventure already testing the limits of his endurance, Daniel took a few moments to quiet his mind. He tried to focus his thoughts elsewhere, on a memory from long ago. Then, as Daniel finally found some solace in sleep, his mind gravitated backward in time. Into the past, it travelled, until it found a lesson that punctuated his challenging youth.

~ ~ ~

"Everything your ‘eart, mind and soul requires boys … you can find within you!

Even during your most challenging moments, Father Benoit continued, during his class at London’s St. Mary’s Orphanage. I would like you to always remember what ‘as served me so well over the years."

Seek and ye shall find, Father repeated, in his Belgian-French accent. Seek and ye shall find. I am sure you ‘ave ‘eard that one before.

Compulsively, he pushed his thick framed spectacles to the top of his nose before pacing over the rooms creaking floorboards. In North-Hyde, London, the old converted Napoleonic era barracks were originally built to protect a canal-side gunpowder depot. More recently, it had been forced to house as many as six to seven-hundred boys.

But, find what? he asked, before turning to engage his young class. What did He mean?

Father paused for a moment. Does anyone ‘ave an answer? He looked intently back and forth from the front of his class. Can someone tell me who or what we are seeking? Or where we can find it?

He paused briefly. Disappointment began to fill the void left by the absence of any answer.

Surely someone ’as been paying attention, a flustered Father suggested.

A brief silence further tested the young priest. Yet, only after his composure was fully tested, and the answer to his question had been forced to the tip of his tongue, his hopes were rewarded with the show of a hand.

Daniel! Father shouted, pointing to the only boy willing to reward his patience.

Daniel, he heard his name called again.

Daniel. Wake up. We’re here, Sully announced. He smiled at his friend after jostling him from a deep sleep.

As the brakes began to slow the train, the sound of squealing metal pierced Daniel’s ears. Squinting, he looked out his small window. His eyes finally glimpsed what he had imagined for so long: Nowshera, on India’s North-West Frontier, his new home for the next two years.

On the Kabul River, Nowshera was just east of the Khyber Pass and the Afghanistan border. Daniel’s journey into the ‘Raj’, or British rule of India, was a pilgrimage into the mystique that had become the essence of British military life and customs abroad. Columns of British regiments alongside Indian army sepoys fought to maintain a colonial presence in some of the world’s most beautiful, challenging and historic lands. Elephants and camels would accompany Daniel’s battalion, as they marched forth under the distant shadow of ancient legions. When he finally stepped off the train, the ground beneath his very feet still echoed with the tremors of Alexander the Great and his armies.

Having left his family far behind in England, Daniel arrived in India in the summer of 1912 with an enthusiasm thinly armoring his innermost feelings. He quickly found, however, that immersing himself in a soldier’s daily routine was the best way to both honor the commitment of his regiment and distract himself from thoughts of home.

Though Daniel was the type of man who preferred an explanation over accepting things at face value, he learned a soldier’s duty early on. Follow orders without question. For some men though, simplicity is never completely devoid of complexity. For in this principle is found the vantage point from which most moral ambiguity can be viewed. Whether a thin veil of convenience or opportunistic cover to be exploited, Daniel discovered for himself, a young soldier often enlists with a degree of naivety, a perspective that frequently becomes the first victim of his military career.

As time passed, Daniel found the social structure or Caste system in India a constant reminder of the frustrating inequities that one’s birth could reward or deny. Yet without the acceptance of such a class differentiation, he knew the British Army in India would struggle to function. As Daniel wrestled with the threshold of his conscience, it sometimes became a point, if not an irritant, not lost of some of his mates.

One such occasion arose about a year into Daniel’s posting. It was customary for the battalion, during the hottest days of summer, to leave behind only enough soldiers to garrison the fort. The rest retreated to their cooler camp in the nearby hills. While most were willing to take their turn enduring the unremitting heat, others of both thinner composure and thicker disposition embodied the reasons why they rarely answered a cool mountain revelry.

Punkah Wallah, Hendrick shouted from his disquieted charpoy bed.

The over-head swinging fan, or punkah, hung still over everyone on the left on his side of the room. Hendrick’s voice was, as usual, the first and the loudest to be heard.

Their kutcha type bungalow was made primarily of mud-dried bricks; its mud and wheat chaff plaster finish being similar to most of the architecture in that region. Its roof was both tiled and peaked, and the floor was consistent with the walls. The bungalow’s interior contained twenty beds, ten to a side, with a punkah, or roof-hung fan, over each bed. A common draw rope culminated in the hands of the Punkah-Wallahs as they sat, one for each side, pulling ceaselessly outside the front of the barrack.

Hendrick roared again. Punkah Wallah, I said, damn it!

As Hendrick rose from his chair, Daniel could see the anger in his face, the severity of which being compounded by losing successive hands at cards. It was just before lamps out, and the men were taking care of matters, personal and otherwise, in advance of their enforced blackout.

I’m gonna retire that wallah meself, Hendrick grumbled. He put on his boots and made his way to the front door.

After interrupting the letter he was writing home to his boys, Daniel shook his head and followed Hendrick by about a dozen paces. Concerned the young wallah would suffer for falling asleep at his task, the other Punkah Wallah exhausted the small handful of stones they each held in reserve to throw at the other on such occasions.

Wake up, Wallah! he blasted.

Hendrick’s angry look foretold his vengeful mood. As Daniel joined Hendrick on the landing outside the bungalow, the lamplight from the barrack faintly illuminated the disturbance.

Wallah want my boot? Hendrick repeated. Aye, Wallah want my boot up yur backside? He tried his best to strike fear into the boy, as he stood over him in a very threatening manner.

Look, I good Punkah Wallah! the boy stated nervously. Having awoken and already resumed his burden, he continued to plead, I not stop again, mister, I not stop again!

He’s just a boy, Hendrick, Daniel intervened. He only stopped for a moment.

The young boy’s non-descript Shalwar kameez hung loosely on him. It seemed almost in tatters.

Stay outta this one, Donoghue! Hendrick blustered. With a slight turn of his head, he glared at Daniel.

Turning back to the boy, he added: If you stop swingin that, I’ll be swingin this! Hendrick said. He pointed to the rope and then clenched and shook his fist in a demonstration of what awaited the boy if he fell asleep again.

Come on Hendrick. You’ve made your point, Daniel stated. He has the look of fear on his face. There’s a vision that should help you get to sleep.

I’d prefer the sigh’ of fear on yur face Donoghue!

Your bullying tactics don’t intimidate me, Hendrick, Daniel jousted, with an unconcerned expression.

They don’t, do they? Hendrick took a step closer to Daniel in a blustering attempt to unnerve him. Then maybe we should ‘ave it out in the ring?

Hendrick stood a good three inches and forty pounds larger than Daniel.

I’ll step into the ring with you anytime.

Hendrick looked as though he was ready to lunge toward Daniel. How ‘bout we settle this right now? he growled, before a familiar voice pierced the darkness.

Hendrick! Sergeant Bertrand blasted. Stand down, Private.

The Sergeant stepped out of the darkness and into the glow emanating from the barrack. Daniel and Hendrick quickly came to attention, facing the Sergeant on duty.

That’s enough, Bertrand stated. His raspy voice was as severe as his demeanor. You can deal with your differing opinions in the ring this Sunday. Until then, I don’t want any further disturbance. Do I make myself clear?

Yes, Sir! Daniel and Hendrick snapped in unison.

Daniel had run into the likes of Hendrick before. And it was the orphanage that taught him how they should be handled. Boxing lessons were intended for boys who didn’t want to find themselves disadvantaged by bullies, whose only inclusive nature was to never discriminate between size and age. Though Daniel’s skills were sometimes overwhelmed by brawn, his adversaries respected his desire to stand up, as long as he could, for what he believed in.

Hendrick, you take a walk to cool off, the Sergeant ordered.

Yes Sir! he responded, giving Daniel a vindictive scowl. He reluctantly descended the couple of stairs to the dusty compound before being on his way.

And be back by lamps out, Private.

As for you, Donoghue, if you’re so concerned about your Punkah Wallah, why don’t you stay by his side until lamps out, just in case he needs your assistance again? The sarcasm in his tone matched his expression.

Yes, Sir, Daniel replied, half-heartedly.

The Sergeant then turned and was consumed by the darkness.

Feeling a sense of awkwardness, Daniel looked at the boy’s older counterpart before turning back toward the young boy. Well then, my friend, do you have a name?

Daniel made his way over and sat down on the bench just beside him.

I’m Mac, he said, in his native Pashtu accent.

Mac, Daniel repeated, surprised. Where did you get a name like that?

From the Cam … Cameronians, the boy replied. The Scottish Rifles. They raised me.

You don’t say. Well, you speak English well, just the same.

The Scots teach me fine, Sir! he said, with a detectable hint of the upper Highland.

Daniel nodded his head in agreement. "They did Mac, they certainly did. My name is,’ he started to say before Mac interrupted him.

Will was my last friend! He was with the Scots, he was.

Daniel was surprised by Mac’s enthusiasm, however he was familiar with how these sorts of conversations sometimes unfolded. As with his own sons, he allowed the boy’s innocence guide the conversation. I see, and where’s Will now? he asked.

My friend left when the Scots left, he said. A boyish sadness infiltrated his tone. He watched out for me, when I was a boy. Like a father would!

A boy? Daniel asked, being perplexed by the boy’s perception of his maturity. How old are you now, Mac?

I do not know, but I do man’s work now, I do man’s work now! he repeated. A hint of pride inflated his words.

Yes, you do, Daniel agreed. He glanced over to the other wallah, who seemed many decades his senior.

Well, my name is Daniel.

I will call you Dan, Mac quickly interjected.

Dan, it is, Mac.

While the young boy continued his task unabated, Daniel looked out over the darkened compound. A few lamplights flickered in the distance. The cantonment, or encampment, was a collection of structures, which were sprawled over a diameter of three miles. Located on a sandy plain, it was surrounded by low lying hills on the west, south and east sides. To the north was the Kabul River.

Like its counterpart, Peshawar, 20 miles to the west, it contained everything a military establishment required: administration offices, enlisted barracks, mess, hospital, armory and stables. Many officers lived off-site, some with their families. And while Daniel now lived a world apart from his own wife and sons, he was never so far away that he lost touch with what made him a worthy husband and father, a good man, for that matter. It was the unexpected that sometimes closed the distance. A conversation, perhaps, which reminded him of his loved ones back home.

Daniel clasped his hands and rested his arms on his knees. If you don’t mind me asking, Mac, what happened to your real father?

My father is dead, Dan, my mother too.

The second admission seemed to offer a more accurate testament of the boy’s age. Mac’s voice wavered slightly under the obvious strain of having to survive on his own at such a young age.

That’s tough, Mac. I know what it’s like to grow up as an orphan. He looked down while reflecting for a moment on their common adversity. While wiping the perspiration from his forehead, Daniel tried to clear his mind of the unsettling thoughts wanting to jump the queue in his mind. Self-discipline won out, as he turned his attention back to Mac.

Have you any relatives?

Yes, Dan but they don’t want me. His manner fluctuated with the tone of their conversation.

I’m sorry to hear that, Mac.

My father was Muslim and my mother, Hindu. Neither side wants me. Mac’s head drooped with a realization that would undoubtedly undermine the tough exterior of any young soldier.

Daniel’s sense of empathy couldn’t help wanting to embrace another abandoned soul. If there was a deficit from which to start one’s life, it lay more distantly concealed in Daniel than young Mac. He paused for a few moments, as Mac pulled dutifully on his rope. After a short pause, Daniel couldn’t help but to inquire further. Then you are free to choose your own religion, Mac, Daniel said.

I have no religion, Dan, Mac stated, matter-of-factly. Mac looked straight out into the darkness and sighed. The excessive summer heat continued to burden the onset of night.

If they do not want me, I do not want their religion. Mac began to pull his rope more energetically. His thrusts seemed fueled by a sense of frustration.

Fair enough, Mac, fair enough. Daniel paused a moment again before the next obvious question came to mind.

But then, do you believe in God?

I believe in my own God, Dan, Mac stated. There was a hint of empowerment in his voice.

You are wiser than your years, Mac. I believe in my own God, too. Daniel mused: I wonder sometimes if it’s simpler that way.

It is for me, Mac said, looking upward at Daniel. My God knows me and I know my God.

Yes, Mac, and He knows when to look out for you, doesn’t He?

He does, Mac agreed, as he dutifully pulled on his rope. Another brief pause came and went, as their perceived commonality was drawn closer with each connecting thought.

Do you think we have the same God, Dan?

Maybe we do, Mac, maybe we do.

‘I think we do. I think the God that listens to me is the same God that speaks to you, Dan." Mac looked up at Daniel and smiled.

Your God speaks to me? Daniel wondered out loud. He straightened his back and tilted his head slightly. Mac’s revelation caught Daniel by surprise, in a pleasant sort of way.

And when He does, Dan, you listen.

You think so? Daniel seemed delighted by Mac’s perspective.

Yes, Dan. When I asked for His help tonight, Mac suggested, pausing until the sincerity of eye contact could be made, He sent you!

Daniel couldn’t help smiling. I suppose He did.

Yes, He did, just like my last friend, Will, Mac said, continuing his rhythmic responsibility.

Well then, Mac, I’m glad I was listening.

I think you listen well, Dan. Better than most.

Daniel thought for a moment wondering to whom Mac was referring.

To you or to God, Mac?

Both. If you didn’t listen to my God, I think you would not have listened to anything a young Punkah Wallah would have to say.

Daniel laughed. He couldn’t help feeling pleasantly surprised by the wisdom of the young lad. How old did you say you were, Mac?

But, before Mac could answer, Daniel’s demeanor changed slightly. He got up confidently from his bench. He could see Hendrick coming out of the darkness, indicating it was almost lamps out and time to return to his bunk. Hendrick jumped the two steps to the veranda and gave Daniel a disgusted look as he entered the barrack with a quick stride.

Well, Mac, I think it’s time for me to retire. Daniel looked out into the darkness and took a deep breath. It was a pleasure talking with you! He turned to look at Mac before making his way to the door. He reflected, for a moment, on how tolerance is sometimes unexpectedly rewarded.

Then leaving his young friend to his task, Daniel turned his thoughts toward his own sons and the letter he was now inspired to finish.

CHAPTER TWO

Saved by the Post

In love of home,

the love of country has its rise.

Charles Dickens

And for what would you boys be waiting, may I ask? their royally sanctioned friend asked. The white haired postman slowed to a stop in front of the boys’ house.

Please stop teasing us, Mr. Deevy, Steve said, with a less than playful spirit.

Steve and Dave waited in the same spot every day, at the end of their short front walkway. In the Chiswick suburb of London’s west end, the brothers stood outside their row-house, hoping the words of their father would soon echo within.

I can ass … ssure you, Master Steven, Mr Deevy sputtered, adjusting his coal-scuttle hat. The Royal Post is a very s … s … serious matter!

I should think so! Steve agreed. His brother Dave glared at Mr. Deevy’s round spectacles then grimaced at his over-grown moustache.

Mr. Deevy started to complete his thought when an unexpected comment undermined his authority.

Is that why it takes so long to deliver to the pub? Mrs. Usher interjected, simultaneously shuffling both her letters and feet across the yard next door.

Taken aback by the boys’ nosey neighbor, Mr. Deevy steadied himself by putting his hand on one of the walkway’s brick columns. His mouth hung open, but his tongue was left stilled by his unresponsive wit.

Mr. Deevy! Dave pulled at this trouser leg. Mr. Deevy, he repeated.

Ah, he grunted.

Mr. Deevy flung his arm through the air of frustration that surrounded him. After shaking his head at Mrs. Usher, he turned his attention back to the boys.

Mr. Deevy stuttered when excited. Yes, l… lads, what can I do for you?

Dave stepped from the narrow dirt road back onto the sidewalk. Is it possible for you to reverse your route? he asked.

Reverse my route … w … w … why would I do that?

That way the pub would come after our house and not before!

Mr. Deevy couldn’t help hearing the laughter coming from Mrs. Usher’s front door. He glanced up to the clouds and rolled his eyes in their direction.

Well, do you want me to ch … ch … check or … or not? he asked, flustered.

As he pretended to dust Mrs. Usher’s comments off the sleeves of his navy-blue serge uniform, Dave tried to peak under the tarpaulin of Mr. Deevy’s dark red wicker handcart.

Yes, yes, Mr. Deevy, please check for us, Steve pleaded. Don’t mind my younger brother.

Mr. Deevy laughed. You know, I … I was beginning to think I’d arrived home l … late for s … s … supper!

Stop it, Dave! Steve growled, slapping down the cart’s tarpaulin.

After exhausting any remnant of defeat from his lungs, Mr. Deevy noticed Mary, the boys’ mother, smiling in the front window of their sand-colored brick house. Though their letter carrier was one of their most familiar visitors, she and the boys were used to a parade of callers arriving at their gate.

Mid-week found the rabbit woman in front of their walkway. Mary could choose between English and Ostende, the latter being the more luscious. After two well-placed slits, Steve and Dave would watch in amazement as the skin came off in seconds. They were comforted to know a pair of cozy gloves would live on.

Saturday brought the bell of the muffin man. Muffins and crumpets for sale, he called. His spotless apron was of the same linen which covered his wares. The boys often sat at the kitchen table, watching as their mother spread a thin layer of precious butter over the coveted treat.

On Sunday morning, the shrimp and winkle man soon became the focus of every neighborhood cat. Winkles, a common shellfish, were enjoyed with Sunday afternoon tea. And although the milkman arrived daily, it was the postman who could be counted upon to deliver more than just letters from afar.

Mr. Deevy winked at Mary, as if to take her into his confidence. He paused again for effect. This time though, just long enough for the boys’ longing faces to soften his big heart.

Well then, let me see, he said, looking into his satchel. What is the house number here?

He pulled a letter, as if magically from his bag, and read its address. 10 Hogarth Lane. He glanced momentarily at the house. Yes, this must be the place. He adjusted his small spectacles while looking down at the letter.

Masters Steven and David, he said, handing the small package to Steve. Does that look like Donoghue to you? Mr. Deevy chuckled and directed a broad smile toward their mother in the window.

Dave instantly became fidgety with excitement, as he looked at the package in his brother’s hands. Steve, on the other hand, seemed to fall into a trance. He turned slowly, as if with great care for what he held, and began making his way to the front door of their house. With Dave in tow, their eyes were hopelessly glued to the item Mr. Deevy had just delivered.

And would you believe? the Postman said loudly, bringing them back for an encore.

What do we have here? Mrs. Daniel Donoghue, he said, pulling another timely gift from his bag.

As David returned and took it gently from his hands, Mr. Deevy looked up at Mary through the white-sashed window. The tips of her hands met, as they covered her mouth. It was obvious her prayers had been answered as well.

Mommy! shouted David.

The boys burst through the front door of their small flat. As Mary stood in the hallway with her sons jumping at her feet, she looked out at Mr. Deevy through the open entryway. While wiping the tears from her eyes, she exchanged a wave with him. After returning her smile, Mr. Deevy moved on, allowing Mary to refocus her attention on her exuberant sons.

Dave was almost giddy. Look, it’s from Daddy!

He pensively gestured for his mother to take what appeared to be more of a package than a letter. Seeing that it would be harder for Dave to give than for her to take, Mary slid the small parcel from his hands.

Would you like to wait ‘till later, boys? their mother asked, trying to settle their moods. Steve and Dave followed her to their small kitchen at the rear of the modest London row-house.

’Till bedtime, you mean? Steve asked. It had become customary for Mary and the boys to read their respective letters from the comfort of their beds.

Can I read it this time?

Now old enough to read, Steve no longer needed the help of his mother to understand most of his father’s words. The three of them took their usual places at the small kitchen table.

I don’t see why not, Mary agreed. With her right hand, she fixed Dave’s blonde hair, combing it with her fingers. Why don’t we read it together? she asked.

Steve sat back in his chair, fearing his mother would try to do the same to his darker cut. But Mary was wise to her son’s independence. She smiled and looked into his eyes for as long as Steve would allow.

Then will you read us yours tomorrow? Dave asked. His chair was next to the window.

Yes, but if you don’t mind, boys, I’ll read my husband’s letter when I go to bed, and then I’ll repeat your father’s words to you in the morning. You understand, don’t you?

Of course, Mum! said Steve. Dave nodded in agreement.

Alright. How about I hold the letters until bedtime?

Dave’s eyes were full of enthusiasm. Be careful with it, Mum! There’s something valuable inside.

Mary smiled before getting up from her chair. Why don’t I put them on your bedside table for safe-keeping?

On Steve and Dave’s agreement, Mary left the kitchen through the front parlor, the second of only two rooms on the ground floor. Venturing upstairs, she entered the boys’ room and placed the package on the small table between their beds. Theirs was one of only two bedrooms, the other across the hall being hers and Daniel’s. Their ‘two up and two down’ home was very modest, but consistent with most neighborhood dwellings.

While Mary’s family had lived in London’s west end for as long as anyone could remember, Daniel’s arrived from the county of Tipperary in the wake of the Irish potato famine. Daniel’s grandfather, of the same name, arrived in Chiswick (pronounced Chisick) with his young bride in the late 1840’s. The expanding London suburb, with its close proximity to a meander of the River Thames, was regarded at the time as the ‘Great Garden of London’. Its nurseries, which were lined with fruit trees, supported a thriving demand for market gardeners. It was here that Daniel’s grandfather reached for and found the most rewarding fruit of one’s labor, a renewed sense of hope for the future.

Daniel Sr.’s son, David, was born and married in Chiswick, but when he was discovered to be too great a supporter of the parish’s 350 year old brewing history, he was let go from his position as a laborer with the Thornycroft & Company ship building yard. In later years, Daniel’s father’s occupation was recorded as ‘Ship’s Fireman.’ As a young boy, Daniel witnessed a terrible argument between his mother and father, the one where his father announced he had joined Merchant Navy. He was seldom seen again.

Though the young Daniel despaired he would never recover, it was his mother who, throughout those tumultuous years, filled his soul with words of encouragement. It was she who prepared Daniel for that special day, the day in which he first heard the sound of his Mary’s voice. And if on that day Daniel’s life changed forever, it was from the cry of his first born son that an unbreakable commitment was realized. He would, indeed, live up to a higher standard and become the father he wished he had.

Is it time yet? David asked, as his mother washed the last few dishes. He had just come in from using the outside lavatory, the last part of the boys’ bedtime routine.

But, Dave, Mary laughed, we’ve only just finished supper,

Dave plopped himself into a chair at their tiny kitchen table. I don’t know what to do.

Dave noticed his mother seemed to be preoccupied with something beyond her small window. He looked out the one to his right. Looking beyond the gooseberry bushes, which lined the brick walls on either side of their back yard, and over the Montbretia that softened the privy at the end, the pinkish hue of a fading sunset caused Dave’s young mind to consider simple pleasures, those which his mother obviously enjoyed.

What’s your brother doing? she quietly asked. Her thoughts returned to her task.

He’s drawing something.

Why don’t you join him? Mary glanced between David and the dish, which she was now drying.

I don’t know. It looks too complicated.

I think your brother is going to make a fine draftsman one day.

Mary turned toward the front parlor where Steve was lying on the floor, oblivious to their conversation.

What do you think I’ll be when I grow up, Mum? Dave planted his elbows upon the table and rested his chin upon his hands. His mother put down her towel to give him her full attention. What sort of career would you like to have, if you could choose one?

Dave tilted his head. I’m not sure exactly. His contemplative expression entertained his mother.

Well, you do have some time to think about it.

Maybe - I - could – be … Dave began, while looking around the room for inspiration. His eyes settled his father’s letter to his mother.

I could be a soldier, like Daddy!

You want to be a soldier? Steve interjected. He now stood at the entrance to the kitchen.

Why not? Dave retorted. It’s what Dad is! Dave stiffened his posture confidently.

A soldier is a very honorable choice, David!

Steve walked into the kitchen and stood behind the chair next to Dave’s. Why did Father become a soldier, Mum?

That’s a good question, Steve, and I’d be happy to answer it for you both, but may I first make a suggestion?

Both Steve and Dave nodded in agreement.

Why don’t we get ready for bed early? We can talk about it before you open the letter from your father.

Alright, they both agreed.

Then, why don’t you get changed first? I’ll be up directly.

Steve and Dave ran for the narrow stairs, competing for who would reach the top first. Steve, now six and David, four, lived just down the street from Mary’s parents, Ellen and Patrick Curtin. Although Daniel’s career, and the monetary struggles that went along with it, never sat well with Patrick, Daniel was gratified to know that his sons held a high place in his father-in-law’s heart.

The front door of the house slowly opened.

Hello! Is anyone home?

Is that you, Mum? Mary poked her head around the corner from the kitchen and looked down toward the entryway.

It is, Ellen replied. I hope you don’t mind me letting myself in?

Of course not! Mary rested her apron over a chair before greeting her mother in the front hall.

Hello, Gran, Steve hollered from above. He then Dave appeared in their nightgowns at the top of the stairs.

Well hello, boys!

Dave’s excitement surfaced again. Did you hear we got a letter from Daddy this afternoon?

I did hear a commotion on the street earlier today, she said, playfully. "Is that what all the excitement was about?’

Yes! Mary interjected. Mr. Deevy led them on for all it was worth!

I suppose that’s why you’re ready for bed early tonight, isn’t it? Their grandmother glanced from Mary upward to the boys.

It is, Gran, Dave replied.

And Mum’s agreed to let me read Dad’s letter this time, Steve proudly added.

Well then, I won’t keep you any longer, Ellen said, turning her attention back to Mary. I just wanted to mention to your mother that your grandfather would like to know if you all could come for supper this Sunday.

Oh yes, Mum can we? Dave shouted.

Would you make our favorite dessert? Steve asked.

We’ll see, their mother replied, tempering their enthusiasm.

Ellen could tell there was something amiss, but she said nothing.

Mary turned to her boys still at the top of the stairs, asking: Would you boys mind jumping into bed? I’ll be up right after having a word with Gran.

Mary’s expression turned slightly serious, as if she had something other than desserts on her mind.

Oh, alright! Steve reluctantly agreed.

Good night then, boys.

Good night, Gran, they said, before turning for their bedroom. Mary glanced up the stairs to make sure they had a moment to themselves.

She then got straight to the point. You know that we love to come over. It’s just …

It’s your father, isn’t it? Ellen stated, matter-of-factly.

Mary’s eyes spoke for her. You know I love Father.

And he loves you, Mary, very dearly.

I know that, but sometimes the things he says about Daniel! The way he goes on about the social standing of a soldier. How I could have done better. I’m sorry Mum but …

There’s no need to apologize, dear, Ellen interjected. She could feel her daughter’s frustration.

Mary’s soft spoken nature was emboldened. Next time … I’m going to say something!

Well, Ellen paused, maybe it would be better if I had a word with him first.

Mary sighed before resurrecting her composure. Would you? I’m at odds with him enough as it is. And he … you are both so generous.

You know, Mary, you will never have to worry. After all, it is not he that holds those purse strings from which you and the boys benefit.

Mary wanted to say something, but before she could offer her appreciation, Ellen shook her head and laughed. If your father ever had to deal with mine… Patrick should count himself lucky that his father-in-law passed before we met.

Mary’s eyes brightened. You never told me about that.

What is it about the men in our family? Ellen asked, smiling. She turned for the front door.

I should like to know, Mary interjected.

Maybe all fathers are overprotective. I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. Ellen added, opening the door. After stepping through its threshold, she turned around. Say goodnight to the boys for me, will you.

She descended the few stairs to the walkway.

Of course, and … Mum.

Ellen looked back at Mary.

Yes, dear?

Gratitude spilled from Mary’s eyes. Thank you. Thank you for everything.

Just then Steve arrived at the top of the stairs. Mum, are you coming?

I’ll be right there. I’m just watching Gran safely to her house.

We’ll see you this Sunday, then? Ellen asked.

Of course you will.

After closing the door behind her and walking up the stairs, Mary found the boys needing only a few light-hearted words to settle them. Steve and Dave nestled into their shared bed, while their mother lit the wall mounted gaslight.

Before we get to your letter, boys, she said, do you still want to know why your father became a soldier?

Steve looked at the letter in his mother’s hands.

Can we do that after? Dave requested, I don’t want to fall asleep before we get to Dad’s letter!

Mary smiled. Is that alright with you, Steve?

Steve nodded.

Alright then, Mary said, holding out the parcel. Who’s going to open it?

I’ll do it! Dave stated. Seeing as Steve is going to read it.

Seems fair, Mary agreed, giving Dave the small package.

Dave instantly began to work the knotted string loose. His fidgeting fingers tried different strategies. He flipped the bundle several times, before the limits of his dexterity and Steve’s patience intersected in frustration.

Just break it! Steve said, raising his voice.

Give him a chance, his mother said softly, supporting Dave’s efforts.

There! Dave proclaimed, as the string was released. After tearing its folded edges open, Dave found a letter as well as two small objects wrapped in a beige cloth-like material.

Would you look at that! he gasped. A small figure appeared from the unrolled cloth.

It’s an elephant carving, Steve announced. He held the small object up close to see its sculpted detail. It was barely two inches in length.

What do you think it’s made of? Dave asked, glancing up at his mother.

While etching the moment into memory, Mary smiled. What do you think it could be? she asked, challenging them to use their imaginations.

Ivory? Steve asked. With his eyes hardly blinking, they remained focused on the small white elephant cradled in his hand.

Mary passed the small piece of paper to Steve. Why don’t we read your father’s letter and find out.

Alright, he agreed. Will you hold this for me while I read? Steve handed his mother his small carving as Dave broke his attention away from his gift. Steve unfolded the dry paper and found his father’s words on the opposite side. He cleared his throat to read:

~

Dear Steven and David, August 25, 1913

~

I hope you are both well. I am writing to you again from the Munsters’ camp at Nowshera, India. It is still very hot here, hotter than anything at home. While daytime temperatures often exceed 120 degrees, during the night they can cool off to a biting cold. Thank you so much for your last letter. And, yes! I too wish I was swimming with you at your favorite spot on the banks of the Thames. The river that flows through Nowshera is called the Kabul. It offers some relief from the heat as it is supplied by the melting snow caps of the nearby Hindu-Kush Mountains.

That reminds me, I hope you received the ivory elephant carvings I enclosed for each of you. Before I explain the signi … signif … ‘significance,’ Mary interjected, looking over to help Steve, ‘significance … of your carvings,’ Steve continued, ‘I’ll bring you up to date on the regiment’s conditions and exploits.

We have just returned to our barracks after a two-week expedition throughout our territory. A typical day, while on campaign, is as follows: we rise before dawn and march until mid-day. At that point we make camp and take shelter from the hot, hot sun. While the afternoon passes slowly, the evening allows for some time to write and think of how much we miss our loved ones at home.

The people who live throughout the Frontier never cease to amaze me. While many villagers are grateful to see us, there are some that are fiercely independent. Nevertheless, you might be glad to know, the values we instill here are the same ones that have made the empire successful at home and around the world. I look forward to sharing with you further, both in letters and in person, the principles that define a good boy, a decent man and a great nation.

That brings me to the elephants you may be holding in your hands. In case you were wondering, they were carved by one of our bhisti’s after returning from this last excursion. A bhisti is a local Indian man or boy who carries the much-needed water for the marching battalion. The figures he carved for you are a likeness of an elephant in our Bearer Corps. Her name was Mahana eka, or ‘Great One’ in Hindi. I say ‘was’ because, although she was a sight to behold, she unfortunately died on the last day of our expedition. When I told our bhisti I would buy two carvings for my sons, he said he hoped your elephants will remind you of the qualities that Mahana eka represented.

He told me they are DUTY- to carry out the task that is expected of you, or that you have agreed to; LOYALTY- being faithful to one’s commitment or obligation and COURAGE- the ability to face danger without fear, knowing that your actions may benefit others more than yourself. I hope your Ivory elephants, which came from her modest tusks will remind you of the qualities that can be found in both man and beast alike.

As it is getting late, I will have to conclude, leaving you with one thought. Someday, when my time in India nears its end, I hope my commitment to the regiment will be remembered as proudly as Mahana Eka’s. I trust it will make for you, as it will for me, a family reunion that will be as meaningful as it is rejoiced.

Boys, please look after your mother. It serves my spirits well knowing you are there in my place.

Until I return, God