With Great Sorrow

December, 1861

Rosaleen

Chapter One

My husband smelled of cut logs the day he left for war.

“I can handle that, son,” Mr. Joyce had said, but Emmett kept doing things he felt needed to get done anyway. The logs were last on a long list of tasks that he insisted on doing. Hats and coats and gloves were purchased, for Steven and I and Mr. Joyce, even though only Steven needed new ones, having outgrown last year’s. School fees were paid. Wills were drawn. The cellar was stocked.

And still, as he paraded down Merrimack Street with the rest of his regiment, he continued to glance over his shoulder every few paces, a crease of concern etched into his forehead. He had forgotten nothing and still, the piece of himself he was leaving behind, the piece that belonged to Steven and to me, it pestered him. I could see it in his raised shoulders, his clenched jaw.

He put on a smile for us at the train station, trying to joke with Steven, to make him smile just a small smile, until the last minutes. Our son was usually a serious boy. But more so today. Sometimes I wondered if he got it from Mr. Joyce.

“Take care of Cocoa while I’m gone,” Emmett said.

“Yes, Da,” Steven said.

“Make sure you give her the best scraps of ham when your ma isn’t looking.”

He winked at me when he said it and I gave him a faint smile. It did nothing to hide the tears streaming down my face. I hugged him tight and inhaled him deeply. That’s when I smelled the pine.

“Come back to us,” I said quietly.

“Before you even get a chance to miss me,” he replied.

“I already miss you,” I said.

I pulled away and watched his smile waver. He coughed away the tears and sobs that were threatening to make their way into his throat. He squatted down to talk to Steven.

“You’ll be brave, won’t you?” he asked Steven.

Steven nodded forcefully.

“And you’ll be good for your ma? Help her around the house?”

Steven nodded again. Emmett brought his hand to Steven’s face.

“All will be well,” Emmett assured him. Steven grabbed Emmett’s hand and kissed it.

“I know,” Steven said. “You’ll beat them.”

I watched Emmett’s eyes finally fill with tears and he gave a true smile this time.

“That we will,” he said. “That we will.”



He stood again, took my face in his hands and kissed me one last time.

“Off I go then,” he said quietly. I held his hands for just a moment, keeping him rooted. I studied his face. It was more handsome with every passing year. As I grew wrinkles around my eyes and softness around my waist, Emmett’s features seemed to become more refined. Stronger. Or perhaps it was only my love for him that had solidified. The sky was particularly blue that morning. The striking blue of early winter. His eyes matched perfectly. I sniffed and buried the selfish feeling of holding him there forever deep into my chest. We had already uttered our deepest fears and greatest confessions to one another lying in bed over the past couple of nights. I knew there was nothing more to say. I nodded and let him go.

He boarded the train without us, not looking back at all. Suddenly I felt like a young girl again, watching him walk away from me when we first arrived in America. I wanted to run after him. To bang on the train’s doors. To scream. But instead I stood on the platform with Steven. Quiet. Watching. The other wives and children and parents and brothers and sisters did the same. We all wore the same look of poorly hidden and all-encompassing fear. I recognized most of those faces. This was an Irish regiment after all.

This was not the first sendoff parade that Lowell had given. The Yankee troops had gone in April of that year, along with a few Irish militia men, and we foolishly thought that might be all who would go. Emmett was slightly disappointed to be missing out on the fun.

“You’re far too old,” I told him, half in jest. Those early regiments were full of much younger men. Hardly men at all.

Lowell had been among the first of Massachusetts towns to sacrifice men to the cause, before any battles had been fought. They were killed in the riots in Baltimore and their widows lived among us. After the Battle at Bull Run, we were all shocked at the carnage. And the casualties continued to climb. Now, men of all ages were enlisting. More and more regiments formed each month.

Still, these sendoffs were meant to be joyous occasions. Bands accompanied the troops and played marching tunes. Children cheered from the sidewalks and waved American flags. Dignitaries spoke of the soldiers’ bravery, the strength of the union, the noble cause. Emmett and I didn’t need reminding but it surely boosted the spirits of many others who required much convincing in the first place.

Steven and I stood on the platform for too long, gazing at where the train once was. Steven finally interrupted my thoughts.

“Ma, you’re squeezing my hand awfully hard,” he said.

I let go right away and scoped him into my arms instead. He was too old to be held but I felt an irresistible need to protect his small body with my own. He let me for only a moment before pushing me away. I put him down.

“Don’t you worry, Ma,” he said, once back on two feet. “Da is smart and brave. And he promised us he would come home.”

I looked at his earnest face and realized he believed that with every ounce of his being like only a child could. He gave me a small smile, just big enough for me to barely see the dimples his da had given him. His eyes were Emmett’s too, a deep blue and sincere. But his hair. His unruly black hair was all mine and I loved it. Unlike the rest of Steven, his hair rebelled no matter what I did.



I looked around for Mr. Joyce. He had come, too, although he had hung back when it was time for us to say our goodbyes. Like a da for so long to Emmett and I, Mr. Joyce was now like a grandda to our son. I found him sitting on a bench with Nessa’s da. She had been here, too, to see Quinn off, but now she was nowhere in sight.

“Afternoon, Mr. McHugh,” I said, greeting them both. Steven rushed to Mr. Joyce.

“Did you see how gallant Da looked?” he asked eagerly. Mr. Joyce nodded.

“I’ve never seen a soldier so handsome as your da. In fact, the sight of him will probably send those rebels running.”

Steven beamed. “I think so, too.”

***

With Great Sorrow

Copyright © 2022 by Lisa Boyle. All rights reserved.