Free Shanty Irish by Jim Tully Page A

answer—“it’s away I’m goin’ before the morning sun!”
    Bottles of liquor were on the kitchen table.
    The five men drank.
    â€œGawd Almighty,” the ex-convict jerked the words—
    â€œWhat a hell of a price—what a God damn hell of a price—I’ll burn in Hell forever before they get me agin—”
    â€œJohn—John—” muttered my mother.
    â€œBiddy—be kind,” urged my father.
    â€œYes Biddy—you and all—it’s the mud of Ohio I’m shakin’ from my feet forever—and never again will I look a horse in the face.”
    He jerked one of the bottles from the table. The whisky gurgled down his throat like water.
    â€œGod in Heaven, John,” implored my mother. He looked at her, the quart bottle in his left hand, nearly empty.
    His magnificent body trembled as if fire had shot it through. A rough bravado came to him.
    â€œBiddy,” he ripped out, “it’s thirteen years I was in Hell for horses that are dead and the hunger of woman so great I’d have slept with a hag—”
    He looked about him sternly—
    â€œThere’s only one way to know a prison—Biddy—steal horses—God damn my black soul a fool I’ve been, eating my heart out till I wished to God the jail would burn—thirteen years—think of it—the same place at the table—the same grub—the same cell.” He shuddered. “God Almighty.”
    A noise was heard outside.
    His father and mother entered.
    Long separated, they were not joined in the misery of their son’s homecoming.
    They advanced with hesitation. They looked at their eldest born as if he were from a strange land.
    A gust of wind blew the door open. It made the lamp smoke.
    There was scarcely a greeting.
    â€œThere is much I niver can say,” mumbled the old man.
    â€œAnd much that I daren’t,” added the old lady.
    The ex-convict laughed bitterly. His teeth showed white and strong in the light.
    â€œThere’s much I never want you to say—enough has been said and enough has been done—it was I that took the punishment—that had the mares of horrible night in my cell.”
    The horse thief’s mother smiled forlornly.
    â€œIt was not alone were ye punished—we who niver stole horses suffered the nights and days with ye,” she snapped.
    â€œMaybe so,” returned the son quickly, “but I was the one who went to the pen and stared at the night till my eyes burned hot in my empty head.”
    â€œAnd will ye,” asked the mother, “take Aggie Regan with ye as yere wedded wife—she’s been waitin’ all these years.”
    The ex-convict laughed again.
    â€œIndeed and I shall not—I’ll pick up a woman when I get there.” He gurgled another drink. “It won’t be hard now that I’m out of jail.”
    The old lady looked at her son with scornful eyes.
    An uncle peered out of the door.
    â€œIt will soon be light in the east,” he said.
    Several roosters crowed, one after another. The group listened. My grandmother passed within a few feet of my father. Both their faces were stern set.
    They did not speak. It was through them that all the brood of trouble was in the room. But of that they were not aware.
    â€œSo ye won’t take her with ye,” my grandmother snapped, as if it had suddenly dawned upon her.
    â€œMay the Mither of God forgive me for bringin’ into Ireland a child with nayther a heart nor a soul,” she moaned.
    â€œMother—please,” pleaded my mother. “John will soon be leaving us.”
    â€œYes mother—soon will I be leaving—and forever and forever—that will be long enough—the damn sun can burn everything in Ohio—and no bucket of water would I pour on it.” He looked at my mother—“except you Biddy—yere too white an egg for a black