Rich Man's War, Poor Man's Fight , livre ebook

First Edition Design Publishing - Daniel Thompson

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148 pages

English

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Rich Man's War - Poor Man's Fight, is the story of two Scot - Irish families who left Ireland for the promise of a better life in America. While accurately set in time and place, this is not a battle by battle account of Civil War history. It is the story of a determined people who were pressed into a war by a country who spurned their kind and used them as pawns so their wealthy sons could be kept out of harm's way.

Sujets

Historical fiction

Informations

Publié par	First Edition Design Publishing
Date de parution	24 septembre 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781937520243
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Rich Man’s War
Poor Man’s Fight

by

Daniel Thompson

Copyright Daniel Thompson 2011

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form, except for brief quotes used specifically within critical articles and reviews.

ISBN 978-1-937520-24-3
Published by First Edition Design eBook Publishing
September 2011
www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com

Father’s Press (PRINT)
Lee’s Summit, MO
www.fatherspress.com
Acknowledgements

To my wife and champion, Jean , I wish to express my thanks for her untiring patience and support. Without her tolerance for the endless hours I spend researching and writing, no work would ever come to fulfillment.

To my editor and cheerleader, Nan Stark , I thank her for her grammatical coaching and endless hours of editing re-writes.

Cover art from original oil painting by the author, titled 'Erin.'
Prologue

My razor sharp, bone handled steak knife slices through my finely marbled porterhouse steak, and I am reminded that I, William Brannan, am among the few who can receive a table in this dining room by simply telling the maitre'd when I expect to arrive. I know that I am among the fortunate few, considering my humble arrival in the port of New York in November of 1861.
I often look back to that year and my fate that began to unfold as I arrived from Ireland. I was alone and frightened by this awesome and vibrant city. Now, having worked my way up the social ladder through skills my beloved Grandfather passed on to me, I know that this crowd would not give notice to an Irish immigrant in these times any more than when I stepped foot in the Port of New York years ago.
Duncan, the man sitting across the table from his beautiful sister, Erin, and I have been in business together for three years. We actually make these very steak knives that this restaurant, the famous Delmonico's, provides for their loyal customers.
Erin moves her delicate hand and the knife she so primly grasps in it, across the fine piece of roast beef that sits upon her plate with two puffs of Yorkshire pudding and a stack of fresh green beans. As Gustav, our noted waiter would put it, "the pudding and beef are afloat in a fine sauce of beef reduction.” He makes all of Delmonico's meals sound so good.
As for me, I say, “Any day without mutton is a good one.”
Erin’s silken black hair and pool blue eyes are more than most people can resist. Her fine features, highlighted by the sun beaming through the west window, set her figure awash in the radiance of the sun. She is a wonderful sight to behold on this Sunday, autumn afternoon, and I am proud to be her husband. I am sure that a small portion of the glow radiating from this beautiful woman can be attributed to the much anticipated child that she now carries in her womb. We are both so proud.
Erin is the only woman I have ever known who announces her presence while remaining totally silent. Her stunning beauty draws attention without so much as a nod. Her black hair with hues of blue, frames her silken white skin and azure eyes. Like fine black silk, her hair falls onto her shoulders and cascades down to lie upon her white blouse as if to direct one’s eye to the features of her slim but bountiful figure.
Erin simply enjoys dining in this place. She pays little attention to men who tip their hats as they pass our table, nor to the women who whisper behind their napkin masks. She is among the few who enjoy coming here for the fine food and service. The political and social functions that have been a part of Delmonico's reputation since opening have probably never occurred to her.
Gustav usually places us at a window table and will apologize to the point of embarrassment if he cannot. He is an expert in catering to the wishes of prominent people who vie for his favors. Erin is his favorite. The Princess of Wales, heaven forbid, would be forced to wait while Gustav seats Erin.
Once Erin has finished her beef and Yorkshire pudding, she will order a small Edelweiss for dessert. It is a challenge that always exceeds her capacity, but it never seems to deter her from trying. She always asks for a small serving of this delicacy of thin layers of buttery wafers between inches of sweet cream, topped with a pink icing and a drizzle of chocolate. She never gets one to her specifications. Gustav always makes sure that there is a heaping serving available for Erin every Sunday afternoon. She tries to decline his offering, “I just couldn’t,” she will say and then politely accept the offering when Gustav returns with it. She will take the whipped cream, one prim spoonful after another and set off a gaggle of whispers from the ladies sitting at nearby tables, their menus hiding their comments.
I truly love this woman. She and Gustav play the crowd of lady wish I coulds like a fine Stradivarius. Gustav announces his special offerings using Erin as a living marquis. This drama produces a chuckle for me each and every Sunday. If the crowd had any idea where Erin, Duncan and I came from, it would set off an even more noticeable gaggle than Erin’s dessert order.
The irony of these pompous matters occurs to me as we enjoy acceptance in a crowd that would have asked Gustav to remove us from the dining room six years ago. He would have summoned the cops who wait near the back door for a hand out in exchange for their front-door vigilance and class conscious cleansing of this dining environment.
Erin knows what she is doing, and I love her for it. Having come across the Atlantic with only a single change of clothes and the hope of St. Christopher's blessing, she deserves to be forgiven for the drama that she and Gustav produce.
Delmonico's has been in business since 1837, and has been serving the finest cuts of meat for well over thirty years. Notwithstanding its excellent meals and service, it is the place for young businessmen to be seen.
Although, it is not my habit, the real wheelers and dealers of New York prefer not to dine in public. They ask for a private room. Gustav escorts them out of sight to one of the side rooms where they can be assured of their absolute privacy.
This lot of physicians, lawyers, business tycoons and the higher echelons of city, state and federal politics seek the smoky side rooms where they won’t be bothered with social climbers and those who would impose themselves and their concerns upon them.
New York is a place with a recognized social order, and Delmonico's has always been the gateway which excludes the commoner who is left standing on the outside, wondering, What in the world is all of the fuss about ? while the elite carry on with their business, safely tucked away in seclusion.
As an Irishman, I know what it feels like to live among the hopeless and be denied admittance to such places. I came to town under much different circumstances. Now, I enjoy my new found ability to maneuver in this society, pretending I belong with all of this “old money.”
I am William Brannan, from the tiny village of Clifden on the Connemara and the port of Galway, Ireland. I do not take my turn of fortune for granted, and I truly enjoy hob knobbing with the elite of New York. They must wonder, where in the world did a young Irishman get enough clout to dine at Delmonico's and to walk in with the most beautiful woman in all of New York?
Ours are strange stories. While Duncan and I do not speak of them, I am sure that we both remain aware of our humble beginnings and the forces of fate that brought us together.
Part One - William Brannan's Story

-Chapter One

On my day of arrival in New York City, seven years ago, the busy port was boiling with activity. The ebb and flow of the work being carried on about me continued as if unaware of the importance that this day held for me. I had envisioned people standing on the pier watching me come off of the ship as if I were a noteworthy arrival. Instead, I must have been seen as just another Irish immigrant who the city had yet to determine how to house, feed or employ.
I spotted a port official's desk and began to work my way down the long ramp from the immigrant ship Malabar onto the pier, unsure of my expectations. I took my introduction to hustling New York like a rookie prize fighter who had been shoved into the ring to face a challenger of a much heavier class.
The crowd shoved back as I tried to move forward to join the mass ahead of me. With my small shoulder bag pressed against my chest, I pushed forward to process my arrival in America. This was my welcome to America in the fall of 1862 and the beginning of my awakening to a distressed city and a troubled country.
When I finally stood before the port agent, he mumbled, “Name, place of birth and age.”
“ William Branham, Clifden, Ireland, 17 years old,” I said, happy that I got all of that information out without becoming a burden on the man’s obvious limited patience.
I watched as he searched for my entry on the ship’s passenger log. My anxiety rose before he found my record and placed a check on the sheet, next to “William Brannan, Clifden, 17.”
I did not fully understand the significance of it at the time. Later I learned that my name had just been officially changed. The records would indicate, for whatever official purpose, from this day forth, William Brannan, born 1844, Clifden, Ireland .
The ninth day of November, 1861 would be a day that I would remember forever. It is on that day that I began my new life in my adopted country. The new sights and sounds of New York that enveloped me after I rose from the darkened lower decks of the Malabar marked the introduction to my story and the beginning of my new life in America.

-Chapter Two

I started to ask the man why my name had been spelled differently than the way I had previously seen it. Just as I was about to do so, he said, “Next. Name, place of birth and age.”
An o