A Fine Irish Lad

The fellow depicted on the vintage postcard above brings to mind one of our old family stories. Many of the details have been lost in the mists of time, but here is how I remember it from my Grandfather.

One fine spring day sometime in the late 1600s, in a seaport town in one of the Northern counties of Ireland, a young and handsome fellow named Daniel was out for a stroll. Heading off to the village for a pint with the lads, he was dressed in his better clothes and sported an attractive wooden walking stick he had carved himself. Employed as a servant on a huge estate, he had a bit of responsibility and was allowed off the premises for estate business and on his day off. No finer fellow sauntered about the village, and his flashing dark blue eyes and shock of black hair and strong figure made many a lass smile. As he approached the town, a rider on an impressive and spirited black horse galloped up beside him. A stern, authoritative voice called out in English, "Stop, you!"

Daniel turned to look at the rider, but continued walking. He could see the man on the horse was a high born Englishman, decked out in velvet coat, plumed hat and rich leather boots. Daniel sidestepped the horseman, but didn't speak.

"I said stop! I expect to be obeyed," the rider said.

Daniel stopped but stayed on the road, avoiding the brambles nearby. "Yes, sir?" he said.

"I've been admiring your walking stick. I want it. Give it to me." He man on the horse held out his hand.

Daniel said, "No, sir. Tis me own stick. I made it meself. Tis not for giving, nor tis for sale. Good day to ye, sir," he said with a tip of his hat. He took a step to move beyond the horse and rider blocking his way.

The rider fumed and frowned. "I said I want that stick," he bellowed. "You must give it to me! Do you know who I am?"

"No, sir," Daniel said, "I've never seen nor heard of ye."

"I'm a nobleman in His Majesty's Service and I demand your stick!" The horse reared up at the sound of the angry and shouting man on his back. Daniel quickly stepped aside to avoid the stallion's hoofs.

"An English lord, sir?" Daniel asked.

"Yes, of course, you piece of Irish filth. I demand you give me that stick!"

"Of course, m'Lord," Daniel said with low bow. "Come and get it."

The enraged Englishman turned several shades of crimson and began to flail at Daniel with his sword. The horse grew more skittish and twisted and turned against the rider's movements, further angering the rider. "Unruly Irish beast! Steady boy."

Daniel ducked the rider's sword and blocked the thrusts with his walking stick. The horse threw the rider and galloped off toward the fields. The Englishman scrambled to his feet and fell on Daniel's neck, beating at him with his fists. Daniel dropped his stick and fought back.

The Englishman grabbed the stick and swung it at Daniel. Daniel wrestled it back from him and turned on him, raining blow after blow on the hapless man. "No one takes what is mine!" Daniel screamed at the man as he beat him. "Do ye hear me?" Soon blood pooled on the ground near the Englishman's head.

When Daniel realized the man was unconscious and might be dead, he knew it meant he would die, too, hanging from one of His Majesty's gallows. An Irishman's life meant nothing to the Crown and he knew it. Daniel wiped the walking stick in the grass, gathered up his hat and rucksack, and strode toward the village docks. He wasn't too messed up himself, though he did look a bit more worse for wear than he usually looked when he went to town. He avoided the pub but said hello as calmly as he could to all he met along the path.

When he arrived at the docks, he found a spot behind some crates and hastily but quietly dropped his stick into the bay. He then sought out the captain of the biggest the best looking vessel in the harbor, where men loaded cargo and animals in a steady and rhythmic stream. "Are ye sailing, soon, Captain?" Daniel asked the tough looking older man who stood before him on the deck.

"Aye, lad. When the tide turns this afternoon."

"Can ye use another hand, sir?"

The Captain stared at the slightly disheveled Daniel and asked, "In trouble, lad?"

Daniel returned his steady gaze. Small and muscular, with a thicket of curly carrot-colored hair and a fellow Irishman, Daniel knew if he couldn't trust him, he'd be a dead man soon. "Maybe, sir," he answered hesitantly.

"You'd better tell me the truth and be quick about it or I'll turn ye in for sure," the Captain said. "Follow me, lad." They went below to the Captain's quarters. Daniel told him of the incident on the road. With no hesitation, the Captain said, "I hate the English. Welcome aboard. And stay below decks until we sail. The soldiers might come looking for ye."

"Oh, the saints be praised, sir! God's blessings on ye!" Daniel reached out to shake the Captain's hand. "I'm mighty grateful to ye. Where are we going, might I ask?"

"The New World, lad. To the King's new colonies on the other side of a wide and terrible ocean."

Daniel became a sailor and learned his trade well. As an older man, he was a captain himself and sailed out from Boston and Portsmouth. His children and grandchildren thrived in the New World. One of his direct descendants and namesakes was a hero of the American Revolution. As an old man, that descendant went on to rise to the rank of general during the War of 1812. More descendants went on to pioneer all across the US and in every generation the men fought in the wars against the enemies of freedom, proudly adhering to the unspoken family motto of "No one takes what is mine!"