The Path to Glory
A Common Thread
by
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"When Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood
God blessed the green island, and saw it was good;
-- William Drennan
They killed my Pap that bitter cold mornin’ of my birthday, January first, in the year of our Lord, Eighteen hundred an’ twelve. I was ten that day, Pap was twenty-eight. Gunned down, he was; murdered for sure. Stood against the wall an’ shot through the heart by a fifty-caliber Brown Bess, in the hands of a Redcoat firing squad. It might as well ripped my Ma’s heart out at the same time, ‘cause she was just as well as kilt that very day, trouble was, her dyin’ took another three years.
Speakin’ as we are about trouble, you could say trouble was Pap’s middle name. For sure, he ne’er backed away from it an’ in Ireland, long sufferin’ as she was, there was always some Republican trouble brewin’. O’course, if there wadn’t any at the time, the lads could be relied upon to whip up a good scrap with His Lordship at Dublin Castle.
But anyone that knew Michael O’Neill, my Pap, would tell you how he was passionate about his true love; Ireland. He was one tough mick, for sure an’ fightin’ the enemies of our homeland came first in his life; I suppose at times, e’en before his flesh an’ blood fam’ly. Don’t get the wrong impression, Pap was lovin’ o’ his fam’ly; Ma, Katie an’ me, that I know for sure. But, he wadn’t ne’er around much of a night an’ that was most perplexin’, especially to Ma.
A powerful trunk of a man, tall an’ raw boned; an oak, he was. After supper, ‘least when he was home, I remember times he sat by the fire, me an’ sis Katie propped up nearby, Ma in the kitchen cleanin’ up. Pap liked taking his special evenin’ pipe from the mantle an’ I recollect as how it looked like a child’s toy, dwarfed in his big hands. Then he’d open the crumpled, draw-string leather pouch he carried in his coat pocket, carefully sniffin’ the pouch contents.
"Och! Stout blend. A man’s smoke, this one. Och!" he’d say, although I know for sure Ma sneaked a pipeful now an’ then o’ the very same blend. Anyway, he’d pack the bowl full, just to suit him. He’d place the pipestem past his lips, locking it in place in his teeth at just the right spot. A match, drawn from his shirt pocket raked across the sole of his shoe, burst into flame.
We’d study it, me an’ Katie, fascinated the way Pap took long, hard draws on the pipe while holding the match to the bowl to get it started. Sometime, I found my own lips movin’ at the same time as Pap’s as if I was lightin’ my own pipe. Once, Katie watched Pap an’ then myself an’ said, "Hughie, what is it you’d be doin’?"
"Tis nothin’," I said as I stopped my mimicry when bein’ discovered.
"Daft I think ye are, the way yer actin’."
"Well, be fer mindin’ yer own bus’ness then," I said, "an’ then maybe there’ll be no questions in yer litt’le mind ‘bout my own sanity."
Pap hollered out as the match near burned his fingers before the pipe was lit sufficient to give a good smoke. "Ouch! Mary an’ Joseph," he barked, sheepishly lookin’ at Ma an’ bein’ extra careful to allow no cursin’ break his lips ‘round Ma an’ Katie. Me, o’ course, I already knew all the words an’ practiced their proper use when out runnin’ with the lads. But, ‘round Ma, saints help us, there was a diff’rent story for sure. Ma ne’er allowed no cursin’ of any kind in her house an’ them that broke her rule, paid a dear price for a forgetful slip o’ the tongue. One time Jimmy Clarke, my pal from ‘round on Francis Street, near the market, was standin’ by our kitchen door to the alley an’ he accidentally let out with the worst one of all! A mortal sin, Ma called it. Lord a’ mercy, Ma screamed like the banshee, causin’ Jimmy to near lose his water as Ma bashed the broom ‘cross his backside. He was tryin’ real hard to get out the back door, but his feet failed him an’ he was down on all fours scramblin’, with Ma in hot pursuit.
She let him live that day, but marched him straight home an’ told on him to his own Ma. Mrs. Clarke dragged poor Jimmy to Saint Catherine’s that very day. He had to attend regular mass for three months an’ had to go to confession ev’ry Saturday. Knowin’ Jimmy as I do, I couldn’t imagine him tellin’ Father O’Bannion a whole weeks worth of impure thoughts. Why, he’d be sayin’ Hail Mary’s the rest of his life. Anyway, Jimmy Clarke, once a stout lad, was ne’er the same after that.
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About the Book
"Ev’ry Irishman prepares himself to one day shake hands with Doom. Sudden death ain’t no stranger to the Irish poor. Pap’s day came January first, Eighteen-hundred an’ twelve, my birthday, I’ll be thankin’ ye very much. I’ll tell ye how it happened, ‘though it pains me now as much as ever."
A quote of Hughie O’Neill in The Path To Glory: A Common Thread.
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Steve Mallon has written a compelling historic novel as big as the disparity between Old World and New. His sweeping story begins with hopeless prejudice and ends with two men locked in the brutal, life and death struggle for freedom. The Path To Glory: A Common Thread is thoroughly researched and historically accurate. A boy becomes a man when he travels an emotional journey and realizes his own place in the vulgarity of man’s inhumanity toward his fellow men on the Florida frontier. This example of pure storytelling takes place just following the transfer of Florida’s verdant territory from the weakening Spanish Crown to American’s hungry for land at any cost. The transfer treaty guaranteed citizenship to all occupants - unless they were Negro or Seminole Indian.
And now the saga of Hugh O’Neill, Florida frontiersman, begins with his new life in a new, but violent world; as violent as his dear sweet Ireland, the world he fled to escape and sorrowfully left behind. This is a story with building action and adventure on every page. An epic portrayal of a new breed of American who must survive against all odds.
About the Author
Steve Mallon is a Cincinnati native, who now resides in Florida. He attended Princeton High School, where he had the great fortune of studying Creative Writing under John Engle. Later at Miami University, he honed his future story telling skills. He has held a hand full of exciting and adventurous jobs but considers himself made up mostly of law enforcement officer, private detective and college professor. Today, on four college campuses throughout Florida, he teaches and trains private investigators.
Steve’s father gave him the gift of voracious reading and Steve likes to read and write about his favorite things: the Irish, Florida history and the Seminole Indians. His main character in The Path To Glory is a personification of all those favorites. He is currently working on his next Hugh O’Neill saga entitled The Cross of Uzita.