The Story Of Long Jonn Slone McRoen

< Excerpt from my novel FATE > 

By DAF

The Sisters...

All six children, five daughters, and one son, Jonn were home-schooled by their mother and hired private tutors. The Slone McRoen daughters matured into capable young women, competing with any male in the county in education and the traditionally male-dominated sport of fox hunting. Four daughters would live out their lives as spinsters, possessing a level of independence and education that rendered them unsuitable for marriage to the men of their era. As a result, they found themselves ill-suited for the traditional matrimonial expectations that dictated a woman's role as a wife and mother. The youngest daughter will marry Billy 'Limey' Stone, the foreman of the family limestone quarry. In a society that often prioritized domesticity and subservience for women, the five daughters became representatives of a different kind of woman for her times. Engaging in various pursuits, art, literature, science, or social activism for women's rights and the right to vote. They were seen and heard, challenging the conventions of their time and inspiring other women to reconsider the limitations placed on them. Certain renowned men expressed openly their admiration for the five sisters, enchanted by their charisma and the unique qualities that set them apart but confessed they lacked the understanding of how to comprehend the complexities of engaging with such a woman, fearing that their insecurities might just be laid bare in the presence of someone so challenging. In social events in the 'Big House', reserved men often hesitated to make conversation with the five sisters and felt they stood on safer ground with their own peers, some of who would place a wager on who might try to approach and impress one of the five sisters. Some man, feeling tipsy with false courage fused with sherry would take on the wager, and with grand gestures and witty banter would try to impress one of the sisters, but after a short time would find themselves walking away like a scolded dog with his tail between his legs, knowing that it required more than a sober or tipsy surface-level charm to impress, which would normally work well with a woman with fewer expectations and knowing her place within society when she was looking for a future husband.

The open mindset of their parents, who had entrusted their daughters to think critically and question the status quo believed in the importance of education and personal freedom for women. While well-intentioned, it was by all means a radical notion in an era when marriage was often seen as the foremost and only choice for women. But their parents, in retrospect, had set their daughters apart from the societal norms that dictated a woman's worth and identity that was tied to a hitching post of marriage .. any deviation from this expectation was often met with skepticism or outright disapproval but was also seen as a challenge to the established order of church and government.

Throughout the years, some men found themselves captivated by the charm and beauty of one of the Slone McRoen sisters. Each besotted man, at various stages in his life, experiences feelings of loneliness, and some had nurtured a deep affection for one of the five sisters, at one time or another, captivated by her distinctive traits or the charm of her personality. However, despite their hopes and dreams to marry one of the sisters, and for their seed to be carried on to the next generation, they would ultimately face the harsh reality of rejection. That stark reality felt both isolating and painful, which, for some men, would be the hardest thing they felt they would have to face in life.

One middle-aged and obsessed man carries with him a complex personal history that was shaped by marriage. His wife, an African woman, who was rumored to be of royal lineage, a connection that added an air of mystique in the early years of their union and some mystery as to how he earned his fortune. It was said her family was involved in the transatlantic slave trade, which saw countless of her people taken from their homelands and sold into slavery to sugar plantations in Cuba. He was known to be captivated by the five sisters and would have settled for the hand of any one of them if given the chance. His admiration for their beauty and charm was the talk of Stradhaven, and was often seen lingering near their home, 'The Haven', known locally as the 'Big House', hoping for a chance encounter with one of the Slone McRoen sisters. It was rumored, and behind every rumor, there is some truth, that he tried to bribe the sister's parents with completely outright ownership of a granite quarry near Lungnaquilla in the Wicklow mountains. This granite quarry, known for its high-quality stone, could have been a prized possession that would have secured the family's financial future for generations to come .. but it was not to be. He would often bring the sisters lavish gifts, from jewelry to rare books, knowing their love for books, hoping to win their favor and impress them with his sophistication for the better things in life. The five sisters, each had their own aspirations and desires for what life had to offer other than marriage, and so, remained spinsters throughout their long lives. A woman's mind can be her best ally, while foolishness maybe her worst rival.

The Dilemma...

As the rumors of the quarry offer near Lungnaquilla in the Wicklow mountains spread throughout Stradhaven and further afield, people became divided in their opinions about the mysterious romantic figure who was willing to go to great lengths for love, others saw him as a mere opportunist and a fool in using his wealth to manipulate a woman's heart and possibly influence her parent's dilemma. Despite his efforts, the sisters remained elusive. They would share known glances when his name was mentioned and who remained undeterred in his conquest to win the heart of at least one of them. In this unfolding drama, the sisters continued to enjoy a full life in their pursuits and horse riding. They knew, and their parents knew, they would make their own choices when it came to marriage and be free from the constraints of social expectations, wealth, or the offers of quarries, which was met with a mixture of intrigue and later skepticism, that could be placed as a women's intuition kicking in. As the seasons changed, the obese man's persistence began to wane, and then no more was heard of him. The experience of rejection can be varied for each man. Some have a feeling of deep sorrow, others as if something had died within them leaving them a bad taste for future female relationships, while others will seek out the companionship of men. Yet, all of the five sisters shared a common belief, the bittersweet ache of longing for something that would never come to fruition because the sisters were bonded to each other by family .. their dilemma.

As their peers settled into domestic life and motherhood, the five sisters found themselves isolated where society viewed their unmarried status as a failure .. though it made them more independent when they started referring to themselves as the 'Five Lamps'. This originated from a crude saying in Dublin City, 'Do you know the Five Lamps?' .. telling someone to shut up or to feck off .. without saying it literally to their face. The five sisters often faced scrutiny and judgment from relatives who could not understand their choice to remain single. This scrutiny was compounded by the fact that, in the extended family and busy-body outsiders who did not widely accept the parent's teachings and beliefs that their daughters had a mind of their own. Their mother, in her own right, was a wealthy woman, inheriting her share from her father's business of quarrying granite in the southeast of Scotland. She was a gentle and passionate woman who believed it was her duty to foster a well-rounded education for her daughters and Jonn and prepare them for the challenges they would encounter in life. She laid out a curriculum of traditional subjects like mathematics, literature, and science which left little room for marriage, but it also included practical skills and the arts, which for some could replace marriage. Their mother excelled, particularly in watercolor painting, exhibiting her work both in Dublin and Scotland, and in time each of the five sisters would also exhibit.

       Young Jonn, the only boy in the family, was doted on by his parents and his five sisters. The relationship between Jonn and his sisters was healthy, characterized by mutual support and encouragement toward each other that would last well into their late years. With that mix of Celtic blood, Irish and Scottish running through his veins, and two opposing dogmas living in an appropriate harmony under one roof was to make the boy Jonn neither here nor there. This juxtaposition created a gung-ho attitude within him, though it was never a problem. He was to develop early in life, mentally and physically, and had a more fluid and dynamic understanding of people, acquiring it through his father's genes it was said. He grew up caring less about authorized religions and more about the adventures that life had to offer. The stories of brave Celtic warriors and wise druids resonated more with the young Jonn and his adventurous spirit as his mother ignited a deep-seated desire within the young Jonn to explore the world beyond Stradhaven and blue limestone quarries, leaving him yearning for personal freedom and self-discovery .. it became his dilemma.

Long Jonn was in Trinity College in Dublin studying for a degree in geology and anthropology when his parents died within two days of each other in the family home, 'The Haven' during Christmas week. His father died from the rich man's disease, gout, in his seventy-first year, and his mother, forty-eight hours later from a broken heart. The timing of their deaths in Christmas week added an unbearable loss to the tragedy for the siblings who will be forever marked by the memory of their parent's deaths and the love they had shared and passed on. Christmas will never be the same again for the Slone McRoen family, affecting not only the family itself but also the entire village of Stradhaven, where the majority of the men were employed by Slone Stone Quarry. Long Jonn, as the sole male member of the Slone McRoen family, became heir to the family business.

Long Jonn Slone McRoen...

                                        Was born in Ireland in the midlands into an affluent limestone quarrying family. His father was of Catholic Irish descent, and his mother came from a Protestant Scottish background. Both parents, liberated in thought and spirit, embraced a progressive view that surpassed the traditional boundaries of their time. They believed that love and understanding should be the cornerstones of their family, determined not to let any external forces, political or religious dogma, dictate the terms of their relationship or the values they instilled in their children. Their home was a haven of open dialogue and exploration, where questions were encouraged, and differing opinions were expected and respected. The parents motivated individuality and fostered an environment rich in creativity and critical thinking, encouraging their five daughters to be strong and independent thinkers and instilling the same values in young Jonn.

Jonn Slone McRoen grew up to be a striking presence in any company that was characterized by his free-spirited nature, with a hearty laugh and a flippant attitude. As a child, the sound of stomping and running footsteps resonated throughout the big house, The Haven, where his father's four Irish wolfhounds, running alongside the young Jonn would accompany him in their playful pursuits. The hallways and polished wooden floors would come alive with the energy of his youth and laughter and the excited barks of the wolfhounds as he raced from room to room with the hounds bounding alongside him, their long legs effortlessly keeping pace and the patter of their big bear-like paws creating a symphony of sound that filled the big house with a sense of boisterous adventure.

He grew up in a large affluent household, built by his grandfather, the man responsible for opening up the quarry and boosting the local village of Stradhaven by providing employment. The walls of The Haven were adorned with tapestries of Irish mythological scenes, oil paintings of the surrounding countryside, family portraits by known artists of the time, and a couple of fine watercolors painted by Jonn's mother of the Slone Stone Quarry that his father always cherished. The Haven, the name given to the house by his grandfather was known locally as the Big House was a sprawling estate, surrounded by lush gardens kept by his mother and a dairy farm, his father's pride and hobby.

Long Jonn Slone McRoen was the youngest male child born to loving free-thinking parents and five sisters. He enjoyed a childhood life of home-schooling and private tutors, privileged and pampered, along with the family's respect in political and social standing that made him feel invincible. All the siblings of the Slone family chose to adopt their mother's maiden name as a tribute to their affection for her, incorporating it into their Irish family name by referring to themselves as Slone McRoen.

Jonn grew to be six feet tall and sinewy, which earned him his lifelong nickname from his sisters, Long Jonn. His long limbs and slender frame gave him an almost spindly appearance, especially when he walked, both graceful and awkward as if he was still growing into his body. His clothes, loose-fitting shirts, and trousers hung awkwardly on his lanky frame. He inherited his father's distinctive long nose, a Slone trait, protruding from an oval face with a ruddy complexion. His red hair and height are from his mother's Scottish genes.

That nose, while not attractive, added character to his appearance and was often the subject of light-heated teasing when he was growing up. Young Jonn was skilled in bare-knuckle boxing taught by his father, who in his excitement during a sparring lesson broke young Jonn's nose. However, his mother and sisters were distressed but Jonn took it in good faith as did his father, telling him jokingly that he was just making some improvements. They expressed concern as they considered the potential consequences of a broken nose, which might result in mockery and social alienation. In a world where appearances often dictate assumptions, they knew that a broken nose might lead to a misguided admiration or, worse, aggressive advances from men who believed Jonn was a fighter .. given that appearances are frequently subject to judgment. Women of social class might distance themselves from Jonn, either out of discomfort or a misguided belief that Jonn had somehow brought this injury of a broken nose through recklessness or prone to bad behavior. Then there are the women of a lower social class who would find Jonn's broken nose quite an attraction and would feel protected in Jonn's company from unwanted advances. Both his mother and five sisters recognized how quickly perceptions could shift based on something as superficial as a broken nose .. but Jonn would go through life explaining how his father gave him that broken nose by accident and deliberately by fate. As time passed, mother and daughter's apprehensions began to dissipate, realizing that it enhanced young Jonn's masculine charm as he got older and boosted his self-assurance, the catalyst for growth that also instilled in him ample confidence. Despite his appearance, young Jonn was never upset with his broken nose, reassuring himself and telling his father it made him look more manly, and other men would think twice before going a couple of rounds with him.

Open House...

The first Sunday of every month was an 'open house' event in the 'Big House' for local musicians and writers from diverse backgrounds and various locations far and near, and like-minded thinkers who shared a passion for the arts would assemble at The Haven to engage in debates and music, drink tea or something stronger and indulge in good grub. Ireland's liberty would be discussed, though not openly, so as not to offend the goodwill and hospitality of the Slone McRoen family. The Haven had cultivated an environment where open dialogue was encouraged but, out of respect for the 'ban an ti', certain political subjects remained sensitive, ensuring that the Slone McRoen family's hospitality and goodwill remained unblemished. The Sunday event would feature poetry readings, a favorite of Long Jonn's sisters where they took turns sharing their verses, exploring themes of nature, loss, and love that would create a sense of connection among attendees as they listened, especially the bachelor's in the group, some of whom were infatuated with the sisters. That 'Sunday event' became more than just an event. It became a cherished tradition that nurtured creativity and built friendships that celebrated the diverse talents of those who gathered in The Haven until the house was closed up, calling the end of an era.

Each of the Slone McRoen children was nurtured and encouraged to pursue their passions and develop their unique identities where creativity flourished free from the constraints of societal expectations and religious restraints. It was how young Jonn acquired a fondness for debating and his pursuit of adventure. Young Jonn Slone McRoen relished the opportunity to challenge ideas and express his viewpoints in learning from others. He honed his skills in critical thinking and public speaking under the watchful eye of his father. The debates became a platform for him to express his wishes for the people of Ireland to govern their own country. From a young age, Jonn had shown a keen interest in the political landscape of Ireland, often engaging in discussions with his father about the country's future and the various paths it could take toward achieving peace and independence out from the yoke of the British Crown. Jonn's father always assumed that his son would enter into the life of Irish politics, where it was known that young Jonn advocated for a free Ireland to be achieved through an agreement or alliance with dialogue rather than with 'freedom fighters' .. some called him a romantic and told him he would be pissing against the wind if it was just gabbing he was going to do for Ireland's liberty. Jonn's father had instilled in his son the values of diplomacy and understanding from an early age in making Jonn aware of the importance of listening to different perspectives and finding common ground rather than a gun in his hand, reassuring him that running a quarry can be like running a country, it just needed stability and the resilience to persevere. He would often recount to Jonn stories of historical men who had successfully negotiated complex political situations through peaceful means where unity and cooperation could replace division and strife .. reminding Jonn that a tree is known by its fruit, a man by his deeds and struggles.

The scars of conflict ran deep in Ireland, nobody denied that, least of all Jonn, but the wounds of its history and the recent past were still fresh in the minds of many a man and woman when Jonn decided a life in politics was the path he was going to take. However, Jonn remained steadfast in his belief that through personal tolerance, empathy, and his adherence to compassion, though the country was running short of these attributes and nobody denied that, a brighter future might just be forged, and he was going to help do it. This belief was not merely an abstract ideal for Long Jonn Slone McRoen, it was the guiding principle that shaped his worldview and aspirations and it was this freedom of mind that ignited Jonn's quest for adventure before he settled into a political career and a family business. His mother encouraged him to explore the world and embrace new experiences without fear of the unknown, encouraging him to travel beyond Stradhaven to other countries and return to Ireland enriched by his adventures. From her reading of travel books, she would describe to Jonn at a young age, places like the bustling markets of Marrakesh or Timbuktu, which for centuries explorers tried to reach but the long and dangerous trek proved too much for most of them but encouraging Jonn that it was waiting there just for him. She would say to Jonn in her lilting Scottish accent...

''Don't let commitment or the quarry hold you back, it will be there when we are all dead and gone and you return. There is so much out there to learn and experience in meeting new people, their customs, and their culture. Immerse yourself Jonn in their ways of life and you might just learn something invaluable, but one thing is for sure, if and when you return to Ireland, you will be enriched hopefully by the adventures you have had, because each destination offers a unique perspective on life .. but everything rests in your fate.''

Jonn hiked through the woods and countryside of Stradhaven, the village where his father gave employment to the men in his blue limestone quarry, thinking about his mother's words that maybe she was encouraging him to live the life that she would have wanted to live. With her encouragement echoing in his mind, he began to dream of the possible adventures that lay ahead and fate. He envisioned himself wandering through ancient ruins like in his mother's stories, tasting exotic foods, learning new ways to look at life, and forging friendships with people from all walks of life, however, the top of his food list would always be Irish bacon and cabbage. His father used to tell young Jonn when he was sparring with him...

''You can put an Irishman anywhere in the world but you can't take his Irishness away.''

He visualized returning to Ireland with his heart enriched with memories and an open mind open to a wealth of new ideas and perspectives embarking on his political career. He envisioned himself standing before assembled crowds in markets and outside churches after the priest, working hand-in-glove with God Himself would chastise the congregation for their vices, urging them to reflect on their actions and seek forgiveness. After the priest had his say and the defeated people left the church, Jonn would take advantage of the moment, channeling the essence of the sermon into his insights for a free Ireland. He would speak of liberty and the power of the people standing together for a better future for Ireland, where every Irishman and woman had a voice and a stake in the nation's progress. But for now, this was just a dream of young Jonn's. His spirit of exploration was unbounded in his adventurous spirit in the thrill of stepping outside of his comfort zone of the 'Big House' The Haven, and Stradhaven village. His mother was the catalyst to inspire Young Jonn Slone McRoen to embark on his world travels.

Closing Doors...

After burying his parents in the family plot in the local Catholic cemetery, where the entire village of Stradhaven and members of their mother's family came from Scotland gathered in falling snow on a cold Christmas Day to pay their last respects to a couple that was loved by many but had their foes too. The cemetery, flanked by its revered Irish Yew trees, its monastic ruins attributed to Brendan the Navigator, and its towering stoic Celtic limestone crosses remained shrouded in the solemn tranquility that affects a community in grief. The air was heavy with a perceptible sense of loss as if the very earth beneath their feet also shared in their sorrow. Each living soul that Christmas Day at the graveside was absorbed in their reflections and recollections of the Slone McRoen couple, who were known for their fairness, generosity, and integrity towards everyone. Quarrymen stood in clusters about the cemetery, their faces etched in a mixture of sadness and gratitude for their employment at the quarry, and wondered where they stood now in the future regarding their jobs. Others recalled the warmth of the Slone McRoen's smiles and the unwavering support they had given in times of need in the community, and the lady of the 'Big House', as she was known by the people of Stradhaven, who organized charity events and lending support to those less fortunate found solace in their shared memories.

In that hallowed ground, where rich men and poor men, the known and the unknown all find their resting place in this consecrated ground, where the distinctions of the once-lived dissolve into dust. Here, in the shadow of ancient yews that have witnessed countless burials and were planted by men long gone, the essence of humanity is laid bare, and we are reminded that in the end, we all perish. And the solitary suicide, buried on the far side of the cemetery wall​, in accordance with the church law at that time for those who took their own lives. Intricately carved Celtic limestone crosses, quarried from Slone Stone Quarry to create headstones that convey messages to future generations, and make a statement to those who pass by, that they too once​ lived. Standing stones ​symbolize the life and death of those who now rest in peace, and only because it was formidable to find peace during their lifetime. The craftsmanship of these crosses evokes a sense of timelessness and the Celtic tradition's deep cultural and spiritual heritage. Each design carries a significant meaning, symbolizing the cyclical nature of existence .. life and death. These hand-carved designs are not merely decorative, the interwoven bands and motifs tell stories of faith, resilience, and the interconnectedness of life and death that are deeply rooted in Irish history .. and Jonn's character. They embody the identity, spiritual, and historical journey of an island people who have faced adversity since time immemorial. ​To Jonn's character, these Celtic crosses will resonate in time on a personal level with his Irishness.

The overcast sky was a solemn gray on that Christmas Day, the type that would make you stay put in bed if you had that luxury. Snowflakes danced lazily down as the two coffins were lowered into the grave to sit side by side for all time .. undisturbed .. one Roman Catholic draped with the Irish flag, and one Scottish Protestant draped with the Scottish flag .. the irony in Ireland's dilemma. A local Uilleann piper and a Bagpiper from Scotland played the Piper's Lament, jigs, and reels in the background that drifted across the open fields where bleating sheep lifted their heads wondering what all the fuss was about. Snow settled on the dark coats of the mourners and melted away reluctantly. To Long Jonn, who is now a mature and financially secure young man in his early twenties, the entire situation felt surreal, bordering on disbelief and hilarity. He struggled to come to terms with the reality of his parent's deaths, and that both had died within a short time of each other. The emotional weight of their absence felt unbearable in Jonn questioning how everything could change so rapidly. The suddenness of his father's death left little time for him to process his grief, and then his mother, who just gave up grieving for her husband, slipped away quietly and died. Sadness, anger, confusion, and an overwhelming sense of loss shrouded The Haven, even the four Irish wolfhounds sensed something was wrong.

Long Jonn, standing at his parent's graveside, looking down at the draped coffins went through the last couple of days in his mind when the Rosary was recited in the 'Big House' until the time of the funerals at the request of some of the villagers in honor of the beloved departed souls from this earth. None of the siblings wanted to upset traditions and kept their peace, knowing it felt insufficient for God Himself to fill the void left by their parents. As the rhythmic lilting of prayers echoed throughout the rooms of The Haven the atmosphere had a sense of reverence and sorrow, unlike the gaiety times of 'open house' when music and laughter filled the 'Big House'. Each bead of the Rosary slips through the old fingers of women like the fleeting moments of life itself. Their soft murmurs intertwine in Jonn's mind with the memories of laughter and love that once resonated within the walls of The Haven. Outside of the 'Big House', several of the villagers and quarrymen gathered in small groups in temperatures dropping below five degrees. Quarrymen, who spent their days extracting blue limestone from Mother Earth knew all types of weather conditions. They learned to read the skies, predicting the time of the day and the changes in the weather with an instinct honed by years of experience. The rugged quarry faces they exposed and worked in were regarded as living entities that demanded respect and acknowledgment that fed their families. Disheartened by the prospect of entering into the 'Big House' for fear of drawing any attention to themselves they stood outside. Their breath was visible in the cold air, their faces etched with sympathy, each one offering their silent prayers for Bossman Slone and his good wife. Quarrymen, some smoking pipes, looked hardy but tired from years of grueling work and stood with their arms crossed, shifting their weight in working boots that could be on their feet up to eighteen hours a day. Moving from one foot to the other in a futile attempt to ward off the cold that seemed to seep into their body as well as their spirits, heightening their fears and doubts about what their future might be now that the Bossman Slone was dead.

Flickering candles in the dim light of the drawing room with the non-stop Rosary and mourners grouped and responding in hushed tones where the two coffins were laid out for the wake cast gentle shadows that danced along the walls with their oil portraits of Long Jonn's parents .. a solemn reminder of the lives that had touched them all. But the 'real wake' was going on in another room of the drawing room with 'real music' and 'real Irish Whisky' with laughter and eating soda bread, pork and cabbage. Some of the quarrymen, who ventured inside for a glass of 'real Irish Whiskey' as clear as spring water held in calloused hands that knew what hard work was. He remembers his five sisters sitting together in the corner of the drawing-room, their hearts heavy with grief, each grappling with the despair of their loss. They exchanged glances across the room with Jonn, who gave them a slight smile of reassurance in remembering why they called themselves mockingly, the 'Five Lamps' .. they were not telling anybody to feck off now in their shared understanding of the importance of honoring their parent's legacy .. they smiled back in the bond that held them together as a family. The siblings felt a comfort in knowing their parents had touched so many lives as they watched the four Irish wolfhounds drift from room to room and settle under the two coffins, heads low to the ground.

As Long Jonn left the graveside, he gave a knowing nod to his sisters, who stayed behind with some of the mourners chatting about the good times with their parents and reassuring Billy 'Limey' Stone, the foreman of the quarry and some of the quarry men that their jobs were safe, and the quarry would remain in production, as long as there is a Slone McRoen alive.

Closed House...

Long Jonn Slone McRoen strolled away from the cemetery. The gentle crunch of newly fallen snow beneath his boots was the only sound that accompanied him and bleating sheep, who paid no attention to him, and not a single crow was heard in the landscape, remarking to himself that there were always crows to be seen in cemeteries. The absence of their familiar caws added to the serenity as if nature had paused, and the beauty of the snow-covered fields felt like God's cruel joke. Trees stood tall and silent, their branches heaving with the weight of snow. Long Jonn lingered for a moment, inhaling a deep breath of cold crisp air. As he surveyed the surrounding white landscape, a vast expanse of pristine snow, he realized he was alone, and experienced a profound sense of loneliness that he started to weep. The realization struck him like a sudden gust of wind, he took a step backward, not knowing what to do. He closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the cold to seep into his bones, hoping to find solace in the surrounding stillness, but instead, he came face-to-face with his grief. It was a stark contrast to the muffled whispers and quiet sobs of his five sisters and the pipes playing their lamentation that had filled the cemetery that cold Christmas morning.

When he returned to the 'Big House', he was greeted by the pitiful sight of his father's four Irish wolfhounds sitting on the top granite step of The Haven, waiting for their master's return. Each hound, with their towering stature and gentle behavior, embodied the spirit of loyalty to Long Jonn's father. As he walked up the sweeping graveled driveway, the dogs stirred, their ears perking up one by one hearing his footsteps, even in the fresh snow, with tails wagging that spoke of excitement in recognizing Long Jonn. The largest and oldest of the four wolfhounds was a magnificent purebred gray, named Finn McCool. He let out a deep resonant bark that echoed through the stillness of the late morning, as if calling out to a long-lost friend. The other three wolfhounds were of varying shades of gray and light brown mix now joined in the chorus of joyful barks as Finn McCool encouraged them on.

Long Jonn Slone McRoen paused for a moment, taking in the scene before him of The Haven, with its weathered limestone facade and ivy-clad walls, its granite steps leading up to a double front door that was always open to everybody and anybody, and especially on the first Sunday of each month for 'open house'. The Haven was a living testament to a family history. A house filled with love, laughter, and the bittersweet memories of those who had come and gone, some famous, some infamous, and others making their way in life. Long Jonn could almost hear the echo of his father's laughter while he sparred with him on the front lawn, the harpsichord music of his mother drifting on the air, and his sisters, busying themselves in the herb and flower gardens at the rear of the 'Big House' and quoting some of their poetry and favorites of others. Mary Anne Holmes was well-liked by the five sisters when she visited several times The Haven, and sometimes with her brother, Robert Emmet, the Irish Republican, orator, and rebel leader whose ambition was to unite Ireland and overthrow the British Crown and Protestant ascendancy in Ireland. He was convicted of high treason and hanged. Robert Emmet and Long Jonn were to be frequently observed in the gardens of The Haven in extensive debates regarding the political landscape of Ireland, the quest for self-governing, and the social issues facing the country with Finn McCool sitting nearby and the other wolfhounds keeping guard. Robert Emmet's vision for Ireland was one of a republic and nothing less, where the rights of all Irish-born citizens would be upheld. Long Jonn, on the other hand, brought a different perspective to their dynamic debates. He emphasized the need for strategic planning and coalition-building engaging the broader populace in the struggle for independence. Long Jonn's romantic approach could complement Robert Emmet's rebellious nature, but it was never to be.

As Long Jonn climbed the granite steps, all four hounds scampered forward, their massive bodies brushing against his wet coat in a flurry of excitement. Bending over, Long Jonn buried his hands in their thick fur, feeling the warmth radiating from their bodies that was warming his hands. At that moment, his grief seemed to lift in remembering, it was what his father did when he greeted his hounds after returning to the 'Big House' from a day at the quarry or checking on his herd of milking cows. Each hound nuzzled against him, their breath had that milky scent from their early morning warm milk and bread that his father always gave them to ease their guts into the day. Long Jonn stood up, turned, and looked out over the familiar landscape that shaped his childhood now covered in a blanket of white virgin snow. The sprawling fields stretched out before him and the distant outline of the woods where he played and explored as a child with his sisters, now covered in snow with the odd black crow flying to and fro to only he knows where to.

As he sat in the big drawing room, where the Sunday 'open house' was always held, the walls adorned with family portraits in oils by well-known artists of the day, and fine countryside scenes by his late mother in watercolors. He found himself unable to suppress a bitter chuckle at the irony surrounding his parents' deaths, recalling a conversation held in this very room with his father just a month prior. During that father-and-son talk, his father listened intently, pride shining in his eyes as Jonn spoke about his future now that he graduated from Trinity College Dublin where he had earned his degrees in geology and anthropology, and what he had planned to do, with his father's blessing, and some of his 'borrowed' money. The 'borrowed money' his parents had provided for his degrees, Jonn promised to pay back when he began work in the quarry. They had laughed about it then, his father joking that he would have to start a crowdfunding campaign to repay the money since his birth .. Finn McCool stretched out in front of the blazing log fire and yawned.

As he sat in the silence of the drawing room, the loss struck him like a cold hand on his back. Long Jonn was unaware of the fragility of his father's life as they talked about him returning to Stradhaven and joining his father in the quarry. His parents, who had nurtured him and his dreams, now felt like the future ghosts that would forever haunt him in the corners of his mind. Now, he found himself wrestling with the grief he could not accept in the cold drawing room and the daunting task of managing the estate and the quarry that his father had left behind in his will to Jonn and his five sisters. That surreal nature that he was feeling was compounded by the fact that he always viewed his parents as invincible. Samson and Mrs. Samson, as young Jonn and his sisters humorously called their parents, addressing them directly in their playful mood, the family jokes that only they understood. His parents were the pillars of strength who had weathered life's storms with amazing grace and resilience and now their deaths were some kind of joke that he was not in on. That bitter chuckle escaped his lips again, a mix of disbelief and sorrow and how the cruel twist of fate could act without warning. He began to weep again.

In the days that followed their passing, it was non-stop snowing doing its best to keep the siblings housebound and locked into their memories. Long Jonn oscillated between moments of deep sorrow and unexpected levity as did his five sisters, like the brass pendulum of the grandfather clock in the hall that their mother brought from Scotland with her when she got married to the Irishman she deeply loved. It was as if they were caught in a whirlwind of emotions, each one vying for his attention, each one a reminder of what they had lost .. but Jonn's five sisters were coping better with their grief .. there was a house to run along with its farm and a quarry to keep open .. local families depended on it. Long Jonn knew that he had to come to terms with his parent's deaths .. and swore to himself he would honor their memory and the Slone McRoen name.

Romantic Sentiment And A Tragic Accident...

Long Jonn's father, known as Bossman Slone was a man of ambition and characterized by a romantic sentiment that was obvious to all. He constructed a folly tower on the grounds of The Haven in the first year of their marriage, assuring his wife that from the tower's summit, she would be able to see the quarry and catch sight of him waving to her. In the early years of their marriage, Long Jonn's father found himself increasingly consumed by the demands of his work at the quarry, he wanted it to succeed, to make his wife proud of him. The long hours there often kept him away from early morning till sundown, driven by that ambition of his and a sense of duty that he felt he owed to his wife, leaving her to gaze out from the folly tower alone. But their love for each other was so strong that it caused them the pain of separation. Each time she stood on the summit of the tower she felt his absence, and he, in turn, felt the pull of her longing .. it was the bittersweet ache of love.

The tower, built from limestone from the quarry with its carved gargoyles of the four winds by a local craftsman became a cherished retreat for her over the years. She would often climb the winding staircase that spiraled upwards, her 'stairway to heaven', as she called it, where the cool midland breeze would tousle her long brown hair, and the setting sun would cast a golden glow over the landscape, giving the appearance that life was good and that there truly was a divine presence in the midlands of Ireland. She could see the limestone quarry in all its glory from the top of the tower, with its jagged cliff faces and quarrymen toiling away, the rhythmic sound of their hammers echoing back to the 'Big House' .. or the distant song of a lark that also reached her ears. She closed her eyes momentarily, allowing the sounds to cocoon her, a melody that stirred something deep within her evoking memories of her father's granite quarry in Scotland.

She listened to her husband's voice at night, sitting in front of the blazing log fire in the small parlor they liked to sit in at the back of the 'Big House' after dinner when they were on their own. The stone had served as the unifying force between them in their relationship. He was filled with Irish pride and passion as he described the beauty and strength of the blue limestone of the midlands he quarried. He also mentioned how fortunate he was to smell the gasses released from the stone during the cutting process that were enmeshed within it during its formation. It was not just talking about working with the stone but connecting to it on a deeper level, which might be hard for people to understand, but she understood when she would remind her children as they matured into young adults that...

''A relationship was like the act of quarrying .. both requiring effort and patience.''

That quarry sound that echoed throughout the landscape brought back memories of her father's granite quarry. Each metal-to-metal clink of the tools against the stone transported her back to her childhood and the scent of freshly hewn granite. And when she allowed herself to feel remorse, remembering that overcast Friday when she was a young woman who just turned eighteen on that fateful day .. she felt remorse. That 'unlucky' quarryman, who came to tell her mother that her husband had an accident in the quarry and fell between two blocks of granite, snapping his neck...

''A tragic accident mam .. tragic.''

Because the men drew matches at the quarry and he got the short one, that' unlucky' quarryman arrived at their front door panting like a rabbit after being chased by whippets. That 'unlucky' quarryman, short and stocky, she will never forget. When he began to speak, it could have been reminiscent of Judas, his voice low and quivering, hat in hand and shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. That unfortunate quarryman returned to the quarry a marked man, the bearer of bad news. He was the uninvited messenger who remained long after Jesus had been taken down from the cross.

    Stone Mad Young Billy Stone...

Following her four years of suffering in an abusive marriage, Billy's father, upon his decapitation in some British war, enabled his mother to walk away from the chains that bound her by law to a man who caused her so much misery and despair. With the legal constraints of marriage no longer binding her to her vows and England, she could finally reclaim her identity and freedom and returned to her birthplace in County Kerry, Ireland, hoping and knowing it would offer her solace and a chance for young Billy, free from the shadows of her past to grow up without an abusive father threatening him. He grew up in Ireland from the age of two when his Irish-born mother returned to Kerry from England and an abusive marriage. Billy's father served in the British Navy under Horatio Nelson and fought with him in the French Revolutionary Wars losing an eye. However, his father was a simple man and easily led, who had spent his life at sea and only knew the camaraderie of his fellow sailors, taking orders and fighting wars. His problem was that when he was on leave his violent nature would have no limitation, with Billy's mother on the receiving end of a fist or boot. He died in the battle of Trafalgar along with his hero Horatio Nelson as ships clashed, cannon balls ripped sail and men's limbs in a chaotic dance of destruction. Billy Stone's mother returned to Ireland after years of enduring emotional and physical abuse at the hands of a man who viewed violence as his only means of existence. Returning to Ireland was not just a physical location, it was a reclamation of her identity and the chance to start over again in creating a nurturing environment for her young son, Billy.

Billy Stone was raised in Kerry by a loving mother in the small cottage inherited from her small-time farmer-fisherman bachelor uncle. The cottage, with its whitewashed stone walls and thatched roof, was built among rolling green hills by her mother's brother with its front door facing the Atlantic Ocean and the constant rhythmic roar of the waves crashing against the rocky shore during the day and at night. The cries of seagulls were always within hearing distance, yet they held little attraction for the young Billy Stone .. in contrast to his late father, a British Navy man, who often voiced to his son his frequent complaints about feeling unwell while on land and his affection for the navy and the ocean and a life at sea that was the only true existence for a man who could call himself a man. Billy harbored no fondness for the sea and made it known to his mother that he was staying put on dry land. The ocean for Billy represented a boundless realm of unpredictability and only served as a constant reminder of his father, whom he only came to know about through his mother. These painful memories were often tinged with bitterness and anger of a man who had failed by all accounts to live up to her expectations, how he had let her down, and the unpaid bills he would leave behind when he returned to sea. She had never spoken of him as a virtuous man, yet young Billy was the sole positive result of their union that had been fraught with challenges for her throughout her marriage.

The ocean, with its vast expanse of water and its ever-changing moods along with pirate stories and mystery, remained a backdrop in his life that held little allure for him, while other boys of his age dreamed of sailing the seas or becoming fishermen, and if that did not work out .. a pirate life could always be found on a young boys mental list. Billy remained indifferent to such boyhood dreams .. it was the earth beneath Billy Stone's feet that captured his heart and imagination. From an early age, Billy developed an insatiable passion for collecting stones. He was never without a favorite stone of the day tucked deep in his pocket when he attended the local one-room school with its wooden desks arranged in neat rows and a large chalkboard that bore the marks of countless years of lessons, that gave him a satisfactory education to go out into the world, largely due to the efforts of the spinster Miss Phibbs .. the schoolteacher who dedicated herself wholeheartedly to her young students.

That one-room schoolhouse served as a refuge where children of all ages gathered because they wanted to be with Miss Phibbs, who treated them with the care and respect befitting their youth, which some might not have had at home. A middle-aged small woman with abundant patience and kindness and a warm smile that could brighten even the dullest of overcast days. She could cause each child to feel valued and understood. Her passion for teaching was evident in how she engaged her students, using stories and songs to bring the otherwise mundane curriculum to life and at least enjoyable for a young child. Billy Stone was no simple boy, unlike his father. Miss Phibbs had high hopes for young Billy Stone's future. Billy knew that the lessons he learned from Miss Phibbs and the friendships he made within those four walls would stay with him long after he left that modest one-room school with its uniquely Irish tradition of the Sacred Heart picture and its burning light of divine love hanging on the wall in place of honor, where all innocent children could see and be mesmerized beyond their understanding. That gaze of the Sacred Heart picture was always looking at him and him alone and would be a lasting memory for young Billy Stone of his school days. He regarded Miss Phibbs as a second mother, but it was a sentiment that was shared by all the children who were fortunate enough to attend her one-room school in Kerry. Each day after school hours, young Billy would wander alone in the fields and hills near his home, his eyes scanning the ground for stones hidden among the grass and sheep tracks, drawn to their unique shapes and colors. Some were smooth and round, polished by time and weather, while others were textured and rough, bearing the marks of their journey through time. They would be brought home to be shown to his mother who would examine each stone as Billy would remind her, and not for the first time, of the forces of nature that had shaped that stone and the landscape around them. She would study each stone, running her fingers over their surfaces, feeling the smoothness of the polished and the roughness of the scarred stones before young Billy added them to his extensive collection .. reminding her that they were her stones too. It was a shared passion, the bridge between a mother and her son.

The Betrayal Of Youth...

Following his short boyhood and school days, young Billy took a job at the local gravel quarry as a tea boy and runner to support his mother who was diagnosed as having one lung when she was admitted to the hospital in Tralee after collapsing while shearing their five sheep. Billy Stone began his journey to manhood caught between the carefree days of childhood and the responsibility of caring for his mother. This was the tender age when he first felt the pressure to conform to the ideals of maturity, to shed the innocence of youth without the guiding hand of a father .. it was an emotional awakening, both mentally and physically for young Billy Stone. The ideas he developed during this period were valuable lessons regarding trust and empathy, which ultimately proved to be unreliable when young Billy felt betrayed by fate. He also came to understand that maturity could be easily frayed by misunderstandings or acts of treachery, particularly following the death of his mother on the eve of his seventeenth year. Her death left him in turmoil with grief and shattered any illusion of invincibility he might have had about himself. He came to learn that not everyone would stand by him in his darkest moments.

       His mother's passing not only left a void in his life but also exposed the vulnerabilities in his relationship with his girlfriend Bridget Black from his school days whom he had envisioned as his partner for life. Her behavior became increasingly demanding, petty, and resentful, leading to misunderstandings that further exacerbated his grief. The realization that Bridget was jealous and prioritizing her own needs over his commitment to his mother .. was a harsh wake-up call for him. The trivial matters she fixated on seemed to Billy to pale in comparison to the overwhelming loss he was experiencing for his mother. Bridget's resentment manifested in sharp words and into arguments followed by cold silences when Billy would call her Black Bridget. Billy Stone began to question the relationship that he thought was built on trust and love. Still, now, he saw it as a facade that crumbled under the weight of real-life struggles, leaving him to wonder if they were truly compatible, finding himself in a cycle of frustration and disappointment. A sudden realization hit him early one morning with the force of a lightning bolt when he was out attending to the five sheep before a breakfast of salted porridge and starting his day in the gravel quarry.

Gray clouds hung low with the assurance of rain later in the morning, seagulls flew high on the wind, and the gentle bleating of sheep on the grassy hillside was all but a backdrop to his thoughts. As Billy moved among the sheep, checking their health, his mind drifted to Bridget Black, compelling him to face the reality of their relationship. What he once perceived as love, was now fraught with unforeseen difficulties that he had never anticipated, revealing the cracks in their relationship that began to unfold. The silences that crept into their arguments stretched between them like chasms that could go on for days. As he watched the sheep graze peacefully the realization struck him that love was not just a feeling, it was a commitment that required understanding and honesty, and that was not coming from Bridget Black in his time of grief. It forced him to reevaluate his relationship and to become more discerning about whom he allowed into his trust. The storm of emotions within him swirled like the gray clouds gathering on the horizon, but he was ready to face what fate had in store, ready to embrace the truth, no matter how painful it might be. He had nothing to lose, knowing now that his mother was dead and not coming back, but he was not going to end up making the same mistake as she did in her youth. Her death enabled him to see Bridget Black as the woman she was if he was to marry her. Billy Stone dared to change his life when his heart had a reason .. he moved away.

Billy Stone's Striking Out...

The most significant sadness that burdened young Billy Stone was the passing of his cherished mother, and the memories of the sacrifices she made to ensure that Billy had a life free from a violent father. Young Billy dug the grave for his mother and laid her to rest in a pine coffin lined with her favorite quilt blanket in a quiet corner of the local cemetery, burying her with his extensive collection of polished and rough-hewed stones. He arranged the small stones around her in the coffin, telling her, the polished stones would remind her of the good times they had together, and the rough-hewed stones symbolized the challenges they had faced. It was a mosaic of memories and emotions laid out in stones. Billy felt a sense of peace wash over him. He knew he had created a fitting tribute to his mother and a place where her spirit could rest in peace.

After selling off the sheep and their one milking cow they called Betty, and the thatched cottage, Billy Stone left Bridget Black, Kerry, the Atlantic Ocean, and its salty breeze behind. He expressed his gratitude to Miss Phibbs and her humble one-roomed schoolhouse that served as the nurturing ground for his curiosity, enriching his young mind with stories of adventure and fostering that passion for learning when he called into her schoolhouse to say his goodbyes. Five days following the sale of Betty the beloved milking cow, her lifeless body was discovered at the base of a cliff, with the Atlantic Ocean attempting to pull her out to sea, it was a cruel reminder of nature's indifference. It was presumed she was trying to find her way home to the Stone thatch cottage, the place she had known as home since the time she was bought, part cash and one lamb by Billy's mother at Tralee Cattle Mart.

Billy Stone relocated to the midlands of the island, known for its blue limestone quarries. The landscape, with its rolling hills and rugged terrain that stretched endlessly before him, was a stark contrast to the Atlantic Ocean and the coastal beauty he had grown up in. The limestone quarries, with their pale blue stone, held a certain allure for the young Billy Stone, displaying a promise filled with possibilities that awaited him. He made a silent promise to himself that he would embrace the challenges ahead, just as the quarries had weathered the test of time. As he settled into this new environment, renting a small cottage in the local village with not a seagull in sight, Billy felt new hope ignite within him, a chance to make his own identity and honor his mother.

Having spent his early years learning his trade, he felt he was well-versed in its complexities from understanding the geological formations to handling the tools of quarrying. His broad hands bore the calluses of countless hours spent drilling, chiseling, lifting, and carving. His mind was filled with the knowledge of stone types and their extraction method. He could identify the perfect site with a mere glance of the quarry for removing the stone from Mother Earth. Billy Stone found employment at Slone Stone Quarry, where the owner, Bossman Slone, who had a deep-rooted passion for the stone and was a seasoned quarryman, as was his father, with an eye for talent in recognizing Billy's skill for the stone and affectionately referred to him as 'Limey', telling him...

''With a name like Stone, he could call him nothing else other than 'Limey'.''

It was more of a playful nod to the limestone, rather than an indication of Billy's heritage as the son of an Englishman, a fact that remained unknown to others, including Bossman Slone, due to Billy's strong Kerry accent, which led people to believe he was entirely of Irish lineage. For Bossman Slone, it was a way to inject humor into their conversations, a whimsical remark in Irish sarcasm that was not intended to imply any serious implications, a way to engage in banter without delving into the complexities of family history. The fact that Billy Stone's father was a British sailor only heightened the irony of calling him 'Limey' .. and the fact that Billy Stone worked in limestone quarries throughout the country since leaving school at the age of twelve .. he regarded it as a compliment coming from Bossman Slone. Though the word 'Limey' was steeped in historical connotations and used in a derogatory manner to describe the British race, particularly sailors, the nickname carried a different definition to Billy Stone. Still, the contrast between the playful reference and the reality of his background highlights the humorous joke that can occur in social interactions .. but the irony was not lost on Billy.

Billy 'Limey' Stone's commitment did not go unnoticed, impressed by Limey's work and his ability to collaborate with the other workers, Bossman Slone made the bold decision and designate him as foreman after two years of his employment with Slone Stone Quarry. Despite his youth and the weight of responsibility that came with the position, his friendly demeanor allowed him to make strong relationships with his fellow quarrymen. If Bossman Slone made Limey foreman it was good enough for the quarrymen, as very few were willing to take on the responsibilities that go with running a quarry.

Limey Stone would often arrive at the quarry before the other quarrymen, ready to tackle the day's challenges with enthusiasm and a positive attitude that made the other men comfortable. Limey made it a point to engage with each quarryman before the day's work began knowing that the nature of their work was dangerous, and the possibility of a man dying on the job was always on everyone's mind. The quarry with its unstable rock formations posed a constant threat to the safety of each man that accidents could happen in the blink of an eye. Limey Stone ​never had any man die on the job and emphasized the need for teamwork and watching each other's backs, reinforcing the idea that their lives depended on their collective awareness and cooperation regardless of their personal feelings towards each other. Bossman Slone was happy to let Limey have more of an active role in the quarry.

The towering cliffs of limestone loomed above and below the earth with their intricate patterns and textures. Each limestone face told a story of ancient geological processes, whispering secrets of the earth's history to Billy 'Limey' Stone and those who paused to listen. When the stone was extracted from the earth Limey would say to the men...

''Did you not hear her cry boys .. listen .. it's akin to taking her child away .. there, did you hear her now?''

The lament Limey referred to was not just a metaphor, it was a reflection of the earth's pain, a cry that echoed in the quarries that he believed he was the only one who heard it all the time. His passion for the stone became the defining aspect of his identity and the reason for his fate crossing paths with Long Jonn Slone McRoen. The quarrymen often remarked when they saw Long Jonn and Limey together that they were both stone-mad, shaking their heads at the sight of two grown men consumed by their passion for the stone. Their fates, though different, were intertwined by their mutual respect and fascination for the blue limestone. Billy 'Limey' Stone's connection to the stone was a little more than visceral and instinctual, it was his gut feelings that talked to the stone. Long Jonn Slone McRoen was an academic, his knowledge of geology allowed him to appreciate the stone, but he also had a family obligation to Slone Stone Quarry.

Billy Stone And The Grim Reaper...

Billy 'Limey' Stone and Long Jonn Slone McRoen were of the same age with the only common forte between the two men was their love of stone. Billy Stone, an only child, attended a one-room schoolhouse in Kerry until the age of twelve, reared by a widowed mother in a hand-to-mouth existence on a hillside in a thatched cottage facing the Atlantic Ocean in County Kerry. The steady sound of waves crashing, the cries of seagulls and bleating sheep were the constant backdrop to his childhood serving as the only music he heard until he reached an age when he could attend local wakes with his mother. There, he witnessed a solitary fiddle player going through his endless repertoire of lamenting tunes that could send the mourners into a trance welling up with tears that would not normally be shed for the deceased if he or she was alive.

In a thatched cottage in County Kerry at his first wake, young Billy Stone came to know what it meant to be Irish with adults drinking, eating, and laughing with the dead figure of what was once a living-talking human being lying in a wooden box nearby, stiff and ashen, accompanied by the musty odor of decay that could sap any goodness out of a man and the air he breathed. It was a stark reminder of mortality that hung in the atmosphere like an uninvited guest within spitting distance. It was a peculiar juxtaposition of the living and their laughter ringing out like the conflicting sublime against the backdrop of grief that coexisted in a delicate balance of religion and culture.

The music flowed effortlessly from the lone fiddle player, capturing the sheer human nature of loss and longing. A symphony of emotions ranged from deep despair for some, to fleeting moments of longing for a better way of life yet to come .. God Himself promised that. Lamenting music that served as a personal purge, allowing some of the mourners to confront their emotions or to find some semblance of peace amidst the misery in their hearts, for others, it helped to renew friendships that distance and time had put between them. To young Billy Stone, he was witnessing islanders, his people for the first time in their mourning of their deceased that seeped into their hatred of colonialism that was eroding their Irishness. Remembering the stories Miss Phibbs told him, Billy realized that he was detecting more than just a display of sorrow or resentment that had been building for generations, but also the struggle for dignity and self-determination of a people who would not be colonized.

In those times, young Billy Stone acquired one of life's lessons in the fragility of existence and began to understand the intertwining of happiness and sorrow in the mere act of just living, as well as the complexities inherent in being Irish, and remembered the time with Miss Phibbs, his one-room schoolhouse teacher when she said, in one of her idiomatic philosophies...

''Being Irish meant embracing a legacy of resilience, where the pain of loss was often met with the celebration of life, where both are essential to the human experience in survival, whether you accept it or not .. but don't forget it, because .. someday you will meet up with it in the form of The Grim Reaper.''

This little fact of life stood to Billy Stone who found some solace in the reality that his mother did not endure excessive suffering in her final days but died with grace and dignity. As he watched her take her final breaths, he felt a profound sense of gratitude for the sacrifices she made so he could have a somewhat better life away from his dominating father. Surrounded by the soft glow of fading light coming from the turf fire, Billy found solace in the sense that she was free .. free from pain, free from the burdens of this world with the hope she was in a better place. Billy frequently reminded himself that the pain and anxiety that often accompanied death were absent with his mother in her final hours, she seemed to drift gently away with a feeling of acceptance. The illness that had plagued her for so long had finally taken its toll and Billy Stone was now alone.

Long Jonn And The Grim Reaper...

In contrast, Long Jonn Slone McRoen's encounter with The Grim Reaper was a far more singular and defined experience only because he never experienced a crisis of death that was close to him, or a hand-to-mouth existence, or begin a life of hard work at the age of twelve to support an ailing mother with one lung. His life was surrounded by the comforts of a stable upbringing that never knew what hunger was. His sole encounter with Death came with the passing of his parents within days of each other. This fact of life marked a significant turning point in his understanding of mortality and grief and left an indelible mark on his character, which is the part of living that is ignored by the majority of human beings. His parent's demise served as the pivotal turning point in his life, forcing him to confront the harsh realities of life that he was protected from, but, it would also boost his future gung-ho attitude to live each day as it came. The loss of his parents, who were always there for him and his five sisters left a significant void in his life with an overwhelming sense of loss and abandonment. Wrestling with anger, confusion, and despair further deepened his sense of isolation from any divine presence that he might deem worthy of his attention. The sorrow he felt was deep.

Long Jonn Slone McRoen approached life with a carefree flair and thinking and attended Trinity College Dublin, where he earned his degrees in geology and anthropology. Trinity College, a prestigious institution founded in 1592 that is recognized for its rich history and academic reputation, and it was anticipated by his parents that Jonn would attend. But it was also Long Jonn's wish because it served as a vibrant forum, a melting pot of ideas, where both students and faculty engaged in lively debates that spanned a wide range of topics, from literature and philosophy to politics and religion, to the arts and humanity .. as well as extracurricular explorations into gambling, sexuality, and Dublin's nightlife.

Long Jonn thrived in the bustling environment of Trinity, debating with fellow students and professors, some of whom were still student-minded, also die-hard members of the Society of United Irishmen making a name for themselves that held diverse opinions on various aspects of Irish politics and the future for a free Ireland. Through these debates, he explored political ideology, delving deeper into the historical context surrounding the struggle for Irish freedom, as well as some things that might not have been said openly in The Haven, locally known as the Big House, where a Scottish Protestant mother and a Roman Catholic father provided a loving environment for their children .. unlike the political situation of the country. It was also where Long Jonn would hone up on his Irish history and strengthen his friendship with Robert Emmet, who had been expelled from Trinity College due to his revolutionary political views and enticing a rebellion against British rule in Ireland. He would listen intently to everybody's arguments, considering their points of view while also sharing his views on nationalism identity and the quest for independence. It also reassured him that Irish politics was the road he wanted to go down when he returned to Stradhaven. Their insights and critiques pushed Long Jonn to think critically and express his ideas more clearly and equipped him with the understanding necessary to navigate the complexities of the country's political landscape, in stating, while in the company of some die-hard fanatics of the United Irishmen, that...

''People who proclaim that the voice of government correlates to the voice of God should not be heeded.''

 In time, Long Jonn was to develop a pragmatic approach to politics, rather than a bellicose approach.

Long Jonn was known for his frequent attendance at 'extracurricular activities' rather than the authorized lectures at Trinity College. His reputation was not built on his academic achievements or participation in formal lectures paid for by his father, but rather for his unwavering commitment to the vibrant and often raucous discussions in the college's common rooms and courtyards. These debates also characterized the free-thinking side-line activities of the renowned institution that were not printed in the syllabus but were on offer to the students who were not afraid of speaking their minds or making a name for themselves, be it good or bad.

Long Jonn, characterized by his spontaneous and lively nature, was a regular at these gatherings, where ideas would clash with opinions, but for Long Jonn, it was the thrill of intellectual sparring that edged him on. This sometimes resulted in the odd duel, a tradition that seemed to be as much a part of the gatherings as the debates themselves. When words failed to settle disputes, the aggrieved parties would often take their disagreements to Phoenix Park, where the challenge of honor could be met with steel, pistols, or fists. These duels, while sometimes serious in preserving pride and honor were often more theatrical than lethal, though the odd unfortunate has died or been maimed for their bravado. Following the resolution of the dispute and the exchange of handshakes and bets, the defeated, if still standing and the victorious, buying the first round of drinks, would find their way to the taverns located in some of the more seedier places of Dublin City, as well as to the occasional excursion to The Hell Fire Club in the Dublin mountains. The taverns were known for their rowdy behavior and colorful clientele that no decent man would be seen in but provided the perfect backdrop for young men wanting to live on the edge of life. More than often it was here that their debates would continue, often becoming more spirited as the night wore on and the porter and ale flowed freely.

The taverns became a second home for Long Jonn Slone McRoen. But occasionally, Long Jonn and his friends would hire a coach and venture further afield To The Hell Fire Club, a notorious gathering place located on Montpellier Hill in the Dublin mountains. This infamous private club was known for its debauchery, secretive rituals, and scandalous reputation. It attracted those with a taste for the unconventional. Long Jonn, ever the trill-seeker, was drawn to the allure of the club, as well as a diverse crowd of intellectuals, aristocrats, writers, artists, clergy, and politicians from both sides of the fence, and free-thinkers where the boundaries of morality were often pushed to their limits. The allure of The Hell Fire Club lay not only in its hedonistic pursuits but also in the opportunity it provided for unrestrained debates. Here, Long Jonn could engage with some of the most provocative minds of his time, exploring ideas that challenged societal norms, and philosophical discussions that danced with blasphemy, Lucifer and God Himself. The nights there were filled with wild revelry and rivalry pushing the boundaries of conventional thought with a sense of danger that made Long Jonn feel alive. This was the place where the ordinary was left behind along with your money and clothes at the front door, and the extraordinary took center stage in an otherwise mundane life, leaving an indelible mark on all who dared to enter and 'know thyself'.

A Political Stance...

Long Jonn, despite his privileged upbringing liked to visit the houses of ill repute in Dublin's Monto and the quayside taverns where he would buy rum for the sailors and whalers, who would entertain Long Jonn with their accounts of voyages across vast oceans to foreign lands of exotic people, never the likes to be seen in Ireland. Long Jonn would often lose track of time and sit for hours listening to their stories of foreign lands and adventures. The taverns, well known for their raucous situations and colorful clientele, were a stark contrast to the polished halls and 'open house' Sundays of his younger days in his family home The Haven in Stradhaven, and the limestone quarries of the midlands.

Monto was a favorite haunt at the weekends of Long Jonn's in Dublin's flourishing red-light district that operated in a maze of back alleys and cobblestone lanes. Notorious for its lively nightlife and the drags and underbelly of Dublin's society, it was also a world that fascinated him. It was here, amidst the dimly lit streets and rooms of brothels filled with the sounds of laughter and rowdy singing that he offered up his virginity to the Greek god Pan with his goat-like legs and mischievous grin. The primal instincts that troubled Long Jonn were no longer hindering him in declaring a sexual liberation for all Irish virgins when he relinquished his virginity to a woman old enough to be his mother. Monto was crammed with brothels, shebeens, taverns, and burly Madams you did not want to argue with. Monto, a stone's throw from Dublin's City center, the railway station, the docks, and the numerous British army barracks and soldiers on leave from various provinces across the country served as a constant reminder of British authority, with thousands of troops stationed in Ireland to protect British interests. On the steps of every brothel, women and young girls displayed their wares in everything from an evening dress to a night dress or, little-or-nothing, and if boys were your preference, that could be provided too. Many women working the streets were often addicted to alcohol and opium or both and were most likely homeless and destitute, ending up in local courts around the country for soliciting or other crimes, such as stealing, pick-pocketing, indecency, vagrancy, or public disturbances, such as being drunk.

The soldiers, drawn from various regions across England, barracked in local towns and cities further congealing the military's presence and the realities of everyday life in a militarized society for the Irish. The army brought with it a ready-made clientele for the prostitution business to flourish in the country. As the demand grew, so did the number of women who entered the so-called profession out of desperation and necessity. While some soldiers may have formed genuine relationships with some local women, others perpetuated a cycle of exploitation and abuse. The interactions between soldiers, local women, and men were often fraught with tension spilling over into pent-up violence .. the impact of colonial rule.

''The British army's presence in Ireland was not just a matter of military strategy or brute dominance...'' was the opening sentence when Long Jonn met with Robert Emmet at a heated political debate that led to blowups of the angry crowd calling for Irish independence. Hushing the crowd to simmer down, Long Jonn continued in a calm voice...

''I know, as we all do here, that the presence of soldiers on the island and some still young enough to be on their mother's tit...''

Leading to boisterous yelps and wolf cries in the crowd echoing the collective appreciation of Long Jonn's sarcasm as he continued...

'' British soldiers on the island is leading to increased tensions, and what a fine example of it we had here tonight .. but .. as we all know, the British presence in Ireland is contributing to the shaping of Irish identity with the growth of nationalist sentiments on the uprise...''

That said, a loud cheer erupted from the assembled crowd with hands clapping and boots stamping. Robert Emmet rose to his feet with a broad grin on his face from ear to ear. Long Jonn, at the age of twenty-four and standing six feet two, with striking red hair, inherited from his mother's Scottish genes, and that infectious charisma that made life, as it was, enjoyable for a wealthy young man whose money derived from his father's limestone quarry in the midlands. All eyes were focused on Long Jonn now, extending his arms wide, signaling to the crowd for silence. He was fully in his element, nothing could hinder his self-esteem now. The atmosphere was charged with excitement and fighting talk. Long Jonn cherished that moment as the cheers and some tears started to fade. Robert Emmet felt a fatherly pride rise in him for Long Jonn Slone McRoen as the crowd calmed down enough to enable Long Jonn to continue...

''The bad relationship between the British and Irish over the centuries is what we have now today .. British military presence in an infestation of colonial power enforcing British laws and policies that disregard the rights of the Irish people in doing their damnedest in killing off Irish culture, whatever about its people, its nothing short of a genocide...''

Sarcastic jeers and derogatory boos rang out from the now-pent-up crowd. Robert Emmet, still standing, was punching the air in rallying the crowd to pick up stones and pikes again. Long Jonn paused for a few minutes, waiting for the crowd to simmer down in its own time, and then continued...

''This military occupation serves only to reinforce the authority of the British government, creating a climate of fear and repression that will suppress any Irish form of nationalism, and God forbid, any aspirations for self-government unless we take up arms and fight .. or, are we going to wait until other times and other men will do the fighting for justice for a free Ireland so our country takes her place among the nations of the world, then, and mark my words, not till then can we call ourselves a free nation once again.''

Long Jonn Slone McRoen sat down to the deafening roars of wild Irishmen.

Long Jonn's Privilege...

Long Jonn had his days of merriment too, like the time when he and three young bucks were out on the town after sitting for their final exams at Trinity College. With the excitement of finishing and some would say, their carefree college days, the young men were eager to celebrate their academic achievements before the results of their papers were even marked and known. They strolled down through busy streets, their spirits high, laughing and joking, reminiscing about their college days and the time fueled by brandy to see how many days and nights they could go without sleep, which reminded Long Jonn when they played cards for twenty-four hours without sleeping and said...

''I think I was playing cards half asleep that time when we did an all-nighter.''

Shaking his head in disbelief...

''And need I remind you .. you lost that bet in paying for our ale for the next two days, which meant you had to wear that ridiculous mask to lectures the next day.''

His friend replied laughing and clapping Long Jonn on his back, now that he had Long Jonn's attention and said...

''Do you think we could still pull off an all-nighter again Jonn .. I mean, we might not be as young as we used to be, but I bet we could give it a try for old time's sake.''

''Only if we have the brandy.''

Replied Long Jonn, with a mischievous grin.

The melodic sound of Irish voices resonated, some talking in their native Irish dialect of where they were born, and the odd fiddle player rolling off his jigs and reels on Grafton Street which was named after the first Duke of Grafton, who was the illegitimate son to the English King Charles ll. It was a lively environment for their carnival mood and sharing stories. Their laughter resonated off the cobblestones as they made their way up to Monto, to spend the night clinking glasses and their money with the pulsating rhythm of Irish music. They playfully nudged each other like teenage boys with the expectant thrill of a possible new experience with women who remained nameless. They felt an unspoken sense of freedom between them. They exchanged knowing glances when they encountered a blind workhorse tethered outside a brothel to the railing. No doubt its owner, also in his working clothes was spending his hard-earned cash on women and that 'intoxicant firewater of the cheap kind' that could leave you feeling the next day that you had left your head somewhere .. but just could not remember where.

The workhorse, its large milky eyes clouded with the mist of blindness seemed to gaze into the grimy surroundings, oblivious to the laughter from both young and old as they walked by, or some, stopping to make some humorous remarks at the expense of the horse and its owner. Fueled by the mix of that earlier teenage mischief the young bucks exchanged glances, each glance was a silent agreement that heeded the shenanigans within them. With a sense of comradery and foolishness, accepted from their privileged background and a shared desire to break free from the expectations that came with it .. they felt invincible, a band of brothers united. They were not just privileged young educated men embracing the wild spirit within, they were the architects of their devilishness that ignited the sparks of excitement that flowed through their veins and the shared understanding that they were untouchable .. at least for now.

Their laughter spread among them, drawing the attention of passersby. They felt the world was theirs for the taking in their tailored clothes and polished shoes, to carve out their own identities and pleasures. With every laugh and every shared glance, Long Jonn untied the workhorse from the railing, and with a sense of come-what-may, they led the blind workhorse down the cobbled lane, laughing at the absurdity of their actions and drawing the attention of passersby who watched in disbelief of four young gentlemen in their fine clothes and polished shoes leading a blind workhorse with one passerby commenting...

''The blind leading the blind, I've seen it all now.''

Their antics took a turn for the worse when they pushed the blind workhorse into a nearby haberdasher's shop, startling the horse, who panicked, its body tensing, and then did what came naturally, urinated and defecated on the polished wooden floor .. the commotion sent fabric rolls and hats flying. The haberdasher, a middle-aged stout man with a bushy mustache, emerged from a backroom with his arms raised and screaming wife. His eyes wide with shock and disbelief, cursed the young bucks in his broad Dublin pronunciations of English phrases that would only be heard in an army barracks. Long Jonn and his friends were laughing uncontrollably at the situation and the unfortunate blind workhorse, standing in its own confusion and mess on what was once a polished wooden floor started to back out of the haberdasher's shop. Before long, the commotion attracted a large crowd outside and the laughter inside quickly faded as the young bucks realized the gravity of their actions when a local constable arrived on the scene and arrested all four who started to laugh again.

Long Jonn Slone McRoen and his three privileged friends paid on-the-spot fines to the constable's pocket and compensated the damages to the haberdasher and his hysterical wife and continued their way up to Monto lilting...

''Skid-ree idle-diddle dum skid-ree idle-diddle dah whack fol the dah day...''

Family Affair...

Fate unfolds in every life, irrespective of personal aspirations. Long Jonn Slone McRoen was free from Trinity College, earning his degrees in geology and anthropology with honors despite his wild lifestyle and nights. However, he was not entirely free in the manner he had envisioned he would be, but he was on the threshold of what he considered freedom to be in his personal life .. traveling. The atmosphere in the Big House was charged with excitement since Long Jonn's return from Dublin not just as a brother, but to continue in the role of his deceased father as 'bossman' at the Slone Stone Quarry.

The Slone McRoen siblings continued in the tradition of their late parents by holding family meetings every Monday morning during breakfast where significant discussions would take place. These breakfast meetings were held to discuss and organize the week's events related to the Big House, the running of the farm and the milking herd, and other topics that might involve family members on a more personal basis. His sister's hearts swelled with pride for Long Jonn's academic achievements and how he had grown into a fine young man full of confidence, reminding them of their father when he was alive. However, during their more leisurely evenings when relaxing in the drawing room with the oil portraits of their parents listening in, Long Jonn would touch on the subject of future travels and politics, and how Irish politics increasingly influenced his self-perception in how he saw himself in life. It was something that seeped into his very being that came about when debating with men at the forefront of political actions in Dublin during his Trinity days. He would describe to his sisters how he viewed himself and his role within Irish politics, should the opportunity present itself for him to effect meaningful change for the country, and the responsibilities that came with such a role highlighting the need and commitment he would give to the people. He believed that true progress for Ireland could only be achieved through a collective embrace of national identity and unity of its people.

As his sisters listened to Long Jonn while doing their embroidery or reading, it became obvious to them that at the heart of his aspirations lay this deep-seated belief in Irish nationalism that was not just some political stance, it became the guiding principle that shaped his vision for the future. He told his sisters that Robert Emmet had already introduced him to other influential men, mostly activists who held significant influence and had the support of the people. In sharing these thoughts with his sisters, Long Jonn was sounding them out for their understanding and encouragement, knowing that their support would be invaluable to him in the future .. but he had no reason to doubt their support, they just nodded their heads as Long Jonn talked beyond their bedtime. Long Jonn always had aspirations that were also encouraged by his late mother to travel to foreign lands before he settled down to the business of quarrying stone in the midlands of Ireland, marriage, family life, and the expectations that came with it. His five sisters knew that too, but nothing about his adventures into Monto, The Hell Fire Club, or Dublin's temptations that were on offer to a privileged young man with money in his pockets who was prepared to live life as it came.

It was during one of these Monday breakfast meetings that Paddy Boyd, the farm manager, and Billy 'Limey' Stone, the quarry manager, were also invited to breakfast to hear their reports in their managed areas. Paddy Boyd reports to the sisters and Long Jonn that they will be able to meet the brewery quota for barley on time and that two of the milking cows were not yielding at the moment. Limey Stone reports that he has one man out of work due to a twisted ankle, and later in the week, they will be opening a new face on the east side of the quarry once the roadway is laid, otherwise, all is good. The sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the breakfast room, promising a warm day ahead, and with Paddy Boyd leaving to attend to the milking herd, the fields and crops, and Limey Stone having already departed for the quarry and its blue limestone, the atmosphere in the breakfast room was calm. As the sisters contemplated their thoughts, a subtle tension began to weave its way into their sanctuary when the silence turned to the talk about Long Jonn's aspirations to do some traveling to satisfy his 'wanderlust' as his eldest sister referred to it, before he settled into a life of politics, quarrying and the Big House.

Her voice, though soft, carried an underlying attention that cut through the comfortable atmosphere in the breakfast room attracting the attention of her sisters and Long Jonn...

 ''Long Jonn...''

His eldest sister spoke when all eyes focused on him, some smiling and some a little anxious...

''To stand in the bustling markets of Marrakesh or roam around the trails of the Andes .. and God forbid, the wild jungles of Borneo .. however, maybe one should postpone such adventures in Borneo due to the political stance now. I believe the political landscape in that part of the world can be unpredictable at the best of times. But I read in last week's papers that some Englishman by the name of Brook is poking his nose around out there, presenting himself to be some kind of White Rajah. As I see it, this man Brook is attempting to position himself as a figure of power and influence among the local inhabitants, sure the man has not a drop of nobility in him .. the audacity of it. In my opinion, his motivations seem to stem more from personal gain and the bully-ho adventure of it .. sure he is nothing short of a common mercenary who just got lucky and had a bigger gun. Think about the ethical implications of this situation in Borneo, it is nothing less than a take-over .. colonialism, nothing less than imposing his will on others under the guise of leadership, his actions should be scrutinized. Here I am, rambling on this fine day about another country so far away that faces a similar plight to our own, and may very well be unaware of our little island in the Atlantic Ocean also under that boot of colonialism. Life...''

Feet shuffled under the table, Long Jonn, with a surprised look on his face, smiled at his older sister across the table when she continued, folding her arms across her chest like some motherly matron...

''We all know how father valued the quarry and the village it supports and the confidence he had in you Long Jonn to assume responsibility, but we also know how much you have always wanted to travel since young, this longing for exploration and adventure was the little boy in you but it seems it has always been part of you that mother helped to encourage .. and now you express a yearning to engage in Irish politics. And God only knows, and I can only suppose that this venture into politics stems from your roots of our Irish Catholic and Scottish Protestant blood and the people you socialized with while in Dublin...''

She took a moment to gather her thoughts, her gaze drifting around the room that remained silent, nobody spoke, but sat quietly digesting the words that had been spoken. In her moment of sisterly attachment, she then continued...

''It feels like we're all swept up in this adventure of yours to travel that has brought us together in ways we might not have anticipated. This opportunity to pursue your dreams .. not that we would ever think of stopping you .. and Himself only knows that mother would rise from the grave at the thought of it, leaving father to turn over in his coffin to continue his well-earned undying rest.''

The atmosphere in the breakfast room was lightened by that touch of sarcasm, prompting laughter from everyone present.

Long Jonn shifted in his chair when the laughter died down to the odd giggle. Glancing around the breakfast table he noticed his sisters were smiling at him, now he could sense an undercurrent of mischief in the air. He knew then that they were toying with his feelings and that some form of agreement had been drafted between them at some other time. It was a familiar routine that they played out countless times with their younger brother when they were all a little more immature but devious to know the consequences. Long Jonn leaned back in his chair, a sly smile crept onto his face, ready to engage in their playful banter. The closeness of their lives when they were children with free-thinking parents could easily blur the lines creating an undercurrent of desire that added another dimension to their relationship. He understood that while they might be toying with his feelings and prospects now, it was still part of the intricate dance of siblinghood that bonded them, along with the presence of sexual undertones that could accompany such interactions with flirtation consistently hovering in the background. Conversations in banter could be laced with double meanings and innuendos, where innocent remarks could easily be interpreted as being suggestive to a stranger listening in, but, it was what bonded them .. and so, the fool wanders, the wise man travels, and Long Jonn takes his sabbatical for at least two years with his sister's blessings.

''Skid-ree idle-diddle dum skid-ree idle-diddle dah whack fol the dah day...''

Last Call...

After experiencing his years of freedom in Dublin and Trinity College .. quarrying, with its grueling labor and the weight of responsibilities of the family tradition that goes with it .. the prospect felt increasingly suffocating to Long Jonn. The thought of rising before dawn in winter and summer, making his way to the quarry, where the air he breathed could be thick with dust and the relentless sound of chiseling echoing like a drum in his ears was not something he wanted to do right now, leaving the quarry in the capable hands of Billy 'Limey' Stone and his sisters. Limey Stone entered into matrimony with Long Jonn's younger sister after she became pregnant with their first child. Together, they welcomed over the years, three sons and two daughters into the family. Their relationship remained affectionate and devoted until the end of Limey Stone's life when a drill extension being tested, snapped and pierced his chest in the Slone Stone Quarry during a routine testing of a new drill extension designed to enhance efficiency and safety in quarry operations.
The prospects of marriage and the Big House, with its imposing presence and legacy it represented all seemed to beckon Long Jonn toward a future that was predetermined by birth .. but that too he will leave behind for fate to take care of, whereas, his politics will always be with him, no matter what part of the world he finds himself in. He resided for a week in Dublin in a modest hotel close to the docks, a place that had seen more prosperous times, yet still had a certain nostalgic charm from its earlier days. Each morning, Long Jonn would sit by the small window at breakfast watching the activity of the docks as sailing ships and British naval brigs came and went, their hulls glimmering in the early morning sunlight. Later in the morning, he would take walks to familiar places alone. The cobblestone streets stirred a sense of nostalgia in Long Jonn, reminding him of his college days and the friends he once had. He visited Trinity College, reconnecting with former acquaintances and some of his professors who had played a role in shaping his academic mind. As he walked through the familiar halls, a wave of memories washed over him. The atmosphere in the college was alive with students hurrying about, some nodding to him, maybe thinking he was a professor. He was drawn to the quieter corners of the college grounds where he had once spent hours in spirited debating. He looked for his anthropology professor whom he was fond of, and found him in his pipesmoke-smelling room surrounded by his books and papers, still passionately engaged in his work. They talked about old times over a glass of sherry with Long Jonn telling him he was on his way to Africa to study some of its lesser-known communities and hopefully, making his way to Borneo to meet Wallace. The old professor sat in his inherited cow leather chair that had seen better years for wear, smiling and listening to Long Jonn and thinking if only he was young again. He would end his days in that musty room overlooking a small courtyard, found dead slumped over his desk .. a lonely man who was passionately concerned about the welfare of humanity.

Long Jonn's visit to Trinity College was not just a trip down memory lane, it was a reaffirmation of who he was. In the evenings, he would go up to Monto and its familiar haunts where the only locals there were to sell their white skin bodies, illuminated by the warm yellowish glow of street gaslights before departing for Africa and its dark-skinned bodies who depended on moonlight. He was interested in understanding their unique customs, traditions, and particularly their politics and the challenges they faced. He was also planning to go to Borneo, where he had heard from a friend of his from his Trinity days that Alfred Russel Wallace, the renowned naturalist and explorer, was conducting some research there in the rainforests.. besides, Long Jonn was curious about the activities of this White Rajah whose reputation for both friendship and ruthlessness with various factions within his realm employing a mix of charm and cunning to achieve his goals, had spread far beyond the borders of Borneo. In his political thinking mind, Long Jonn harbored suspicions that it could merely be another takeover masquerading as a Rajah. He felt as though the facade of a monarchy was simply a smokescreen for a more ruthless agenda that prioritized control over the welfare of the local people. He wanted to see for himself the impact of Brook's authority on the local communities of Dayaks, Chinese, Indian, and Malay, and how his actions were shaping the country's politics. ​Irrespective of the results, ​Long Jonn understood that nothing is more noble than the pursuit of humanity, nor has any significant achievement ever been realized with a degree of confidence under colonial rule.

Come What May...

Long Jonn's canvas bag was sitting in the corner of his hotel room and ready to go. Packed with clothes and some of his favorite reading books, medication the family doctor gave him, a retired ​Anglo-Irish who served in Africa and witnessed the worst atrocities of the Zulu wars, and a cherished copybook of handwritten poems and some small watercolors of the 'Big House', The Haven from his ​beloved sisters. Packed and ready to embark on a journey that promised to be adventurist .. but it was not to be. On his last night in Dublin City, Long Jonn visited some of the taverns along the docks to engage in conversation with sailors and drink some of Dublin's famous stout before retiring to bed for an early departure the following morning, weather permitting, boarding the three-masted ship that would take him to France, from where he intended to make his way down the African coast.

When Long Jonn was leaving the small hotel for his last night out in Dublin's fair city, he met the proprietor of the modest hotel in the hallway. She was a stoutish middle-aged woman from Connemara, with a warm smile and a hearty laugh. She liked to indulge in her afternoon stout with a hard-boiled vinegar egg. Her love for life was evident in her rosy cheeks and the way she carried herself with a sense of comfort and familiarity that made her guests feel at home, some even calling her mother. Long Jonn reminded her of his early morning departure to France, not that he needed to, and assured her that he would be settling his account then. They stood talking for a while, telling her he appreciated the warmth and hospitality she had shown him during his stay. She waved her hand dismissively, insisting that it was no trouble at all, telling Long Jonn...

''You've been a fine guest, my boy .. just you make sure to come back and visit us again .. sure we'll have a pint of the black stuff and a couple of my vinegar eggs with it.''

Her eyes twinkled with mischief.

Long Jonn Sloan McRoen walked towards the tavern where he heard the sounds of traditional Irish music coming from. As he walked, he felt a sense of gratitude tinged with sadness for the experiences he had in Dublin before leaving Ireland, knowing that each moment would be a cherished memory he would hold dear in Africa. Stepping inside to the warm pipe smoke-filled air, the atmosphere was lively and boisterous. A jaunty small group of musicians played in the corner near the open fire, their spirits high with their own jigs and reels being played as if there was no tomorrow. Long Jonn fell into the company of a couple of sailors who had just come into port from Liverpool that morning. His laughter mingled with theirs as they shared stories and clapped along to the lively music that allowed everyone to set aside their worries, if only while they were there. He felt the weight of his impending journey lift from his shoulders, replaced by a sense of freedom and adventure, and reminded himself that .. he who is a wise man by day is no fool by night .. but that sense of come-what-may was taking over. He was no longer consumed by anxiety about leaving his sisters in Stradhaven to care for the quarry and the farm or what might even happen next to him. He began to feel reassurance in the understanding that life is a series of experiences laid out by fate in recognizing that every twist and turn had its objective. In the warm atmosphere of the tavern and the Irish music lifting his apprehensions away, he began to realize that while he may not always have control over the outcomes, he did have the mental capacity to choose how he would react to them and with that realization, he said his goodbyes to his new friends in telling them for the umpteenth time that he was off to Africa in the morning.

Leaving the tavern on his own around midnight to make his way back to his hotel room in a light rain that started to fall for a well-earned sleep he joked to himself...

''Well, that's just Irish for yea, a nice send-off .. I probably won't see any bloody rain while I am in Africa.''

As he strolled and caught sight of the hotel, he turned down a narrow lane to relieve himself and his bladder of some of the stout he drank throughout the night. With his face mere inches from the red brick wall, he remarked to three sailors passing...

''Too much piss is bad, but too much of good stout is barely enough, you would agree lads?''

The three stopped after passing Long Jonn. They exchanged glances, a silent agreement passing between them, and turned back. Long Jonn, oblivious to the impending danger, continued doing his business. They stood behind him, having the courtesy to wait until he was finished urinating. As he turned adjusting his clothing he was startled to realize that the three sailors were behind him. With a swift and practiced motion, the taller one swung a heavy cudgel, hitting Long Jonn on the side of his head, the dull sound of wood meeting flesh and bone echoed in the lane, rendering him unconscious. Long Jonn crumpled into their open arms before he even had the chance to react. The three sailors wasted no time, with the smell of urine stout still in the air they dragged his limp body into the shadows, making sure that no one was about before hoisting him up and walking out of the lane, arms around Long Jonn as four friends out drinking for the night and now drunk, making their way back to their ship. Long Jonn Slone McRoen was press-ganged.

Fried Kippers...

Long Jonn's canvas bag was sitting in the corner of the proprietor's room for two weeks and ready to go, but no Long Jonn. When Long Jonn failed to come down for breakfast on the morning of his departure for France and to settle his account, the proprietor became worried. Being an astute judge of character, she could tell that Long Jonn was a man of his word .. so she went to his room on the top landing. After knocking on his door and calling Long Jonn's name several times with no response, she decided to unlock the door with her key. As she turned the key in the lock, calling out again, a sense of unease came over her, she now knew something was wrong. She pushed the door open slowly, the old hinges creaking softly, and poking her head around the door called out again...

''Mr. Jonn, you know what time it is, breakfast is on the table waiting for you .. I made your favorite, seen it's your last day with us .. fried kippers.''

Her voice was excited, conveying the flutter of nerves in her chest. The curtains were still drawn. She entered the dark room, her eyes scanning for any sign of life .. but no Long Jonn. She called again, still silent, as she walked across the room and opened the curtains she noticed his bed was still made up, and an out-of-date newspaper lay open on the small table beside the bed. She caught sight of the faded canvas bag in the corner of the room where Long Jonn had left it and realized at that moment that Long Jonn had not returned to his room the previous night, leading her to wonder if he was in some kind of trouble.

Before departing, she glanced around the room, searching for any clue that might explain his disappearance. Her pulse quickened as she recalled the last time they spoke on the landing, maybe he had met up with the wrong people, or perhaps caught up in something dangerous, thoughts ran through the woman's head. She realized she had to take action, whether that meant searching for Long Jonn or notifying the authorities before it became too late. As she exited the room, she noticed a small piece of crumpled paper protruding from the top of the faded canvas bag, she carefully removed it, unfolding it with care, it was Long Jonn's home address.

War Laddie .. War...

They were twelve hours out from Dublin port when Long Jonn woke up with a sore head and jagged nerves. For a moment, he thought about Finn McCool, the great, and now elderly Irish wolfhound that his late father cherished so much. He would swear he heard the soft thud of Finn's paws on the wooden floor of The Haven .. it was what woke him up. However, unbeknownst to Long Jonn, Finn McCool had passed away in the 'Big House' at the very moment he was thinking of him. Finn was already venturing on a different journey that would take him beyond the confines of the 'Big House' and into people's memories, forever etched in the hearts of those who loved him. Long Jonn was also venturing on a journey, but not the one he had intended to take.
       When Long Jonn woke up he was stunned to discover he was on a British naval brig and no land visible in any direction. The salty tang of the sea air filled his lungs. Confusion clouded his mind as he tried to remember his last night in Dublin. He struggled to piece together how he came to be in such a dilemma. He remembers after an enjoyable night in the tavern walking back to the hotel in the rain and relieving himself in a laneway and three sailors standing behind him .. and that's all. But now, he was on the hard deck of a British brig, and the smell of sea air replaced the smell of stout and pipe smoke. Long Jonn heaved himself up from the deck, feeling the lump on his head, his heart racing as he took in his surroundings. The brig was bustling with activity, focused on their tasks. The crew seemed oblivious to his presence. The Union Jack fluttered proudly in the wind from the mast, a stark reminder he was aboard a British vessel, and the implications of that realization sent a shiver down his spine.

       Long Jonn's mind filled with questions that had few answers. Leaning over the side and seeing nothing but sea and a horizon stretching endlessly, he realized he had been apprehended and pressed into service by those three sailors in the laneway in Dublin. As he stood, swaying slightly with the motion of the brig he was now determined to uncover the truth as to why he was there. Long Jonn made his way across the deck, dodging the swinging ropes, and sailors who paid no attention to him. He approached a burly sailor who was coiling a length of rope. He called out, his voice hoarse...
 ''Excuse me sir .. but where are we going...''
The sailor turned, his brow furrowing in confusion, and took a long look at Long Jonn and his clothes, and said...
 ''Who are ye, mate .. you look like you've seen a ghost .. ahhh, it's the captain maybe ye are looking for .. well speak of the divil, here he comes now .. where are we going indeed .. war laddie .. war.''

    Captain Hansom Hansen...
                                                  He entered the British Navy at the tender age of sixteen, a mere boy, but more than competent for his years. He first saw action shortly afterward where he demonstrated remarkable bravery for a boy of his age, it also instilled in him a deep sense of duty and loyalty to his country. He rose slowly but steadily into the officer's ranks over the years, earning him the respect of his superiors and the jealousy of his peers. His years in the navy included service in the Caribbean, and the West Indies, as well as confrontations with the notorious Barbary Pirates. These encounters with the pirates were not merely skirmishes at the time, they were a threat that plagued trade routes to maritime shipping. Hansom Hansen would admit these early years were filled with adventure and danger. Still, they shaped his character, honed his skills to become a naval officer, and influenced his perspectives on leadership and, more importantly, strategy. Hansen's experiences in dangerous situations honed his strategic thinking to assess risks carefully, weigh potential outcomes, and make decisions under pressure. He came to understand that strategy was not just about planning, it was about being able to pivot and adapt to changing circumstances, a skill that was often tested during his early years at sea. His ability to remain calm and focused in the face of danger became a hallmark of his leadership and the respect of the crew.
       His first command was a sloop of war, The Jackal, a formidable presence on the high seas and a vessel that would become synonymous with his name. When it was remarked that Hansen and The Jackal were at sea keeping stringent watch on enemy shipping routes and safeguarding British merchant ships from the ever-looming threat of piracy, that anxiety was lifted from other captains, though, Captain Hansom Hansen found the sea a more persistent adversary than the enemy at times. Despite long spells at sea, scurvy, a disease that plagued many a naval ship of the time was absent aboard The Jackal. A well-organized system of regular supply ships kept the sailors provided with fresh food and water. His insistence on maintaining cleanliness and hygiene among the crew on the sloop and a balanced diet helped to prevent the outbreak of other diseases, and for this, he gained respect from his peers, but more so from his crew where every member felt valued.

        Captain Hansom Hansen bid farewell to The Jackal when it was sunk off the Barbary coast, coming to the aid of a ship of the Order of Malta. This resulted in the loss of half his crew and his left hand. He was taken by surprise when Berber pirates, sailing an Xebec off the coast of Algiers with bigger cannons overpowered The Jackal and sank her, taking surviving crew members as prisoners to be sold as Christian slaves in the slave market in Algiers. Hansom Hansen made his escape when he was presumed dead when he was seen floating face down in the water. He recalled what happened to the captain of a British Navy ship, also patrolling the Barbary coast, when he was rescued two days later...
 ''From the haze of cannon smoke, a sleek Xebec emerged, its red and black sails billowing like the wings of some predatory bird from Hell. I tell you captain as Almighty God is my witness, she was armed with bigger cannons and manned by fierce Berber pirates who were prepared to meet their Allah that day. She came straight at The Jackal with her ruthless intent of destruction and capturing my brave crew. Deplorable captain .. some of these men were with me a long time...''
While Hansen was getting his thoughts together he was being attended to by the ship's doctor in dressing his wounds, dehydrated and drowsy, he continued...
''The battle was fierce and chaotic, cannonballs whistled through the air, splintering wood and limb...''
Holding up his hand and drinking some port, he continued...

''But these pirates were ruthless, they just kept coming at us, their superior firepower overwhelming The Jackal's defenses. Amid the fray and from what I can recall, a cannonball struck the deck, sending wood and metal flying and causing a devastating explosion and me losing my left hand. I remember the pain burning through me as I struggled to maintain command and then I remember being in the water and everything became blurred, and here I am now, telling you my story .. as God is my judge...''

    Long Jonn's Predicament...
                                                   Captain Hansom Hansen of The Jackal was now the captain of a British Navy twenty-gun brig The Fox, with six eighteen and four twenty-four pounder carronades, and three ten and seven twenty-four pounder cannons when the seas were fraught with war, and the call to arms echoed across the British Isles. It was at this time that Long Jonn was pressed into service from Dublin's port. Long Jonn's fate would intertwine with that of The Fox and its Captain. The once busy ports were now hauntingly quiet, with merchant ships sailing out of ports to sea with skeleton crews of men either too old or too young leaving them vulnerable to enemy attacks. Although reinforcements, whether through voluntary enlistment or the more coercive measures of conscription, press-ganged, as what happened to Long Jonn, warships were still undermanned. It seemed that every available able-bodied mariner in the British Isles had already been swept up in the tide of war, drafted or pressed into naval service when Captain Hansom Hansen and Long Jonn encountered each other for the first time. Fate will unite them in ways they could never have imagined.
       Though armed with ten cannons and carronades, The Fox was still undermanned. Her original crew was weary of the relentless demands of naval life at war. Captain Hansen knew that the success of their missions depended, not solely on the brig's firepower, but also on the proficiency and well-being of his crew, their fate was now in the hands of the Almighty. Captain Hansen was feeling the burden of his leadership. He was apprehensive about this war that was easy for old politicians to instigate with an air of confidence but hard for young men who would be compelled to act upon the rhetoric born out of pride and arrogance. The situation was anything but simple. Young, and not-so-young men, often hyped up with a mix of idealism and naivety were the ones who would bear the brunt and blunt of the decisions that were made in parliament, in the comfort of private clubs and at fine dinner tables. These men would be the ones who would be forced and marched into battle, facing the chaos and brutality of other men on the opposite side who had the same done to them, and politicians who discussed in theoretical terms would sleep soundly at night. Men filled with propaganda saturated in idealism that their fate and their country's expectations rested heavily on their shoulders. But, all the romanticized notions of glory and honor that often came from back-and-forth talk felt increasingly naive in the face of the stark reality when they were fighting for their life while other men grew rich from the profits of war.

       Each day blurred into the next with the weather not being too kind to The Fox and her crew. The harsh conditions at sea and the uncertainty of their mission weighed heavily on Captain Hansen as well as the crew. He observed the weariness etched on their faces, the way their shoulders slumped under the burden of their duties with some men having to do the work of two men. Days marked by the relentless rhythm of drills to keep the crew brainwashed into what to do naturally when the time comes of a probable conflict, but it will come sooner than they expected. A well-armed brig was of little use if its crew were too tired to respond effectively in battle, and Captain Hansen knew only too well that the crew's morale was as crucial as his ammunition. When he was on his own, he found solace in prayer, seeking guidance and strength not only for himself but also for the men who depended on him .. he was also seeking forgiveness for taking other men's lives in the past. He had lost count, not that he was counting, but .. he had lost count. Captain Hansom Hansen prayed with all his self-imposed faith for the wisdom and the courage to face whatever challenges awaited him and to regain his original ideals in serving his country.
       As the captain approached Long Jonn, with a direct gaze into his eyes, he regarded him with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, he extended his right hand. Both men had a firm handshake, but neither smiled. Captain Hansom Hansen spoke first in a civil tone...
 ''Captain Hansom Hansen laddie. There seems to be some misunderstanding my dear man, and judging from your clothes .. I can see you are no seaman but a laddie of some means. Normally civilians are not press-ganged, but my laddies told me they saw you fraternizing with sailors in some tavern along the waterfront and took you to be some 'adventurer' come seaman off duty...''
Long Jonn's survival instinct kicked into play when he considered this man standing before him to be a fair man, answered...

 ''Yes .. there seems to be some mistake here, which I am sure we can rectify like the gentlemen we are .. maybe a mistaken identity by your men?''
Captain Hansen smiled at the innocence of Long Jonn and spoke warmly... 
 ''My laddies were just filling their quota when they came upon you in that laneway in Dublin the other night .. but regarding rectifying any mistake you might think that was made .. I am afraid it's too late for that now, but between here on this brig and where you might want to be, we are in the middle of fighting a war, and some advice, if I may .. it would be best for your survival sake to accept your fate and knuckle down.''    
       Long Jonn was not happy to hear what he had just heard from Hansen. Looking around him at the brig and the impulsive activities of its crew, he began to fret. Long Jonn's heart and mind raced as he watched Hansen observing the crew. The implications of Hansen's words were now loud and clear to Long Jonn. His mood was filled with uncertainty and the salty taste of the sea mingled with the metallic tang of nervousness in his mouth. Long Jonn stood tall, his fists tightly clenched, the whiteness of his knuckles betraying his struggle to manage the escalating anxiety within him. He had not eaten for two days, remembering his fried kippers, the simple food he had taken for granted, and his unpaid account at the hotel. His gnawing hunger only intensified his worries when he could almost taste the crispy fried skin and the smokey flavor of the kippers. But the reality of his situation loomed larger than his cravings for fried kippers and his unpaid bill. As he stood there on the scrubbed deck of The Fox, looking like a white sheep among black, while minutes ticking away in slow motion felt like hours hanging that wouldn't pass over into the midnight zone, he thought he should not let anxiety dictate his actions any longer. He felt a surge of determination boost within him. He knew he needed to take control, to find a way out of this predicament. Taking deep breaths of sea air in, he unclenched his fists, he could feel the blood flowing back into his fingers. His mind began to settle down in reasonably biased thoughts for Long Jonn to assess his situation. It was time to face up to his new 'adventure' .. Africa and Borneo will have to wait .. for now. Captain Hansom Hansen had already left Long Jonn to his realization and thoughts when he shouted out in a tone very distinct from that which he had used with Long Jonn...
 ''Listen up laddies .. we need to keep alert now .. we will be entering the waters of those garlic-eating yobbos soon .. we have faced them before and come through stronger for it .. this is just another battle .. remember who you are, we will overcome.''

   The Battle Within...   
                                    The burly sailor who had been coiling the length of rope earlier ambled over to Long Jonn, his pace was confident with an all-round smile revealing brown stained teeth from his years of chewing plug. His eyes sparkled with the cocksureness of a teenager full of curiosity and defiance teetering on the edge of innocence, but ready to challenge the boundaries set by adults and God Himself. He leaned against the brig's railing that creaked slightly under his weight, crossing his arms and the salty breeze tossing his gray shoulder-length hair tied back with a worn leather thong he side-looks at Long Jonn, who was now dumbfounded but slowly getting himself together .. he paid the burly sailor no heed and said... 

 ''I don't bloody fathom why this is happening to me .. I'm supposed to be on my way to Africa to study Zulu tribes and then to Borneo for more of the same and now here I am caught up in another of England's bloody wars...''
Long Jonn glanced at the navy man, who remained with his arms folded across his chest like a silent sentinel amidst the chaos of their surroundings while Long Jonn lamented...
 ''Where are we going man? I have no place here, and I certainly don't intend to fight in the wars of the Sasanach on their behalf .. no sane Éireannach would think of doing it .. Robert Emmet would be distraught and turn in his grave if he thought that I was fighting for the Sasanach rather than opposing them. It is essential to clarify that my stance in politics is rooted in my commitment to justice and the rightful independence of the Irish people. Do you know that Robert Emmet, who passionately fought for the cause of Irish Nationalism gave his life for it, and envisioned a free Ireland would likely feel a profound sense of betrayal if he thought that I was aligning myself with those very same people who have historically sought to undermine Irish self-identity, culture, and independence. There I go, ranting and raving again...''
       The burly navy man uncrossed his arms, unfazed by Long Jonn's outburst. His expression softened as he regarded Long Jonn with his brown eyes, and if Long Jonn was to look into them, he would have noticed a flicker of understanding, that came with a mixture of compassion as if he too shared Long Jonn's for-there-go-I predicament. Long Jonn continued, thinking out loud as he considered the futility of his circumstances...
 ''The thought of fighting for a British cause, other than Ireland's would be unbearable. I would be but a pawn in their bully war games, a mere Irishman to be used and discarded when the tides of war shifted, and I am sure there are others on this brig who share my plight, others who seek to break free and go home to their families, others who...''
The burly navy man turned and faced Long Jonn...
 ''Careful laddie .. ye words here talk of treason now .. men have got hung for less .. come, let's see what we can get ye to eat, with all this fighting spirit in ye, sure ye must be famished .. ouch, sorry, the pun was not intended.''
       After eating some salted pork, beans, and hardtack Long Jonn was shown several hammocks below deck for sleeping, but the burly navy man told him not to regard anyone of them as a personal hammock, you sleep where you found one empty. For now, Long Jonn slept. Throughout the night, he could hear commands resonate and heavy footsteps reverberate from the deck of the brig. Sleeping navy men remained sleeping, undisturbed in knowing it could be their last mortal sleep. The muffled sounds of men-at-war preparing for a man-of-war echoed around The Fox. The rustle of canvas sails being unfolded and the crash of waves against the hull created a symphony of new sounds with the impending chaos that was anticipated for Long Jonn who no longer slept as he tried to imagine the scene that was unfolding on deck. The Fox seemed to hum with anticipation as if it too sensed the battle that would come from over the horizon. 

        It was all but a reminder of the stakes that lay ahead that day. The early morning air was fresh and charged with the scent of sea brine, but if one was astute enough, one would also pick up on the human fear drifting in the air. The crew of The Fox was unaware of the impending man-made tempest fast approaching beyond the horizon. Discontented foreign voices manning three frigates, voices stemming from longstanding grievances accumulated within governments had festered for far too long. A hatred ignited by perceived injustices inflicted by those who sought to monopolize sea power and resources. Long Jonn sensed destiny was sitting on his shoulders. He was feeling very uneasy. Captain Hansom Hansen was on deck all night. He was feeling very uneasy too. His echos of commands to his eighteen-member crew were a haunting reminder that the battle was not just a distant possibility that was talked about, but the imminent reality that it was coming to meet them .. and now. And then they emerged like phantoms from the mist with the intent to sink The Fox and her crew.
 ''Three frigates on the horizon manned with bigots and not surprising.''
Shouted Captain Hansom Hansen. Men scurried to their battle stations. The crew smiled, comprehending Captain Hansen was in top form. Their morale was high and The Fox in the hunt was not going to run from frigates with bigots.

     Yo .. Caravaggio...
                                  Long Jonn Slone McRoen stood on the scrubbed deck of The Fox, his face set in a harsh expression as the frigates rapidly approached. His jaw tightened, and, as was his habit, his fists clenched as a wave of frustration overcame him, charged with an intensity that made it hard for him to breathe. He knew this feeling, a physical manifestation of his emotions he struggled to contain. It often came in times of anger or determination when debating for the cause of an independent Ireland, a silent promise he made that he would not back down, no matter at what cost. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, a persistent drumbeat that echoed his rising agitation to suffocation. Right now, Long Jonn was a coiled spring, ready to unleash that pent-up energy that had been building up in him since press-ganged onto The Fox.
       Three frigates, their sails menacing in the wind sailing through the choppy waters with an unsettling grace. Their dark hulls sprouted fountains of saltwater into the air, glistening like threatening swords, a reminder of the impending violence that was about to unfold. The humid air was oppressive, laden with the tension of impending conflict. Each glance exchanged between navy men was charged with intention, and if audible, it resonated with the anxieties of those prepared to encounter their fate. Voiced and unvoiced prayers were whispered to God Himself knowing that the clash of steel, the roar of cannon, and the cries of battle would soon shatter the fragile hope of outstretched arms. On the days when the sun does not shine and when a farewell to arms is not in sight hindering young men from living as old men with the sea .. this was one of those days.
       One frigate veered sharply to the left and another to the right, while a third, a larger frigate was directly heading towards The Fox, its dark hull gliding through the water with astonishing speed. The burly navy man came from behind Long Jonn and clutching his arm, like a mother would to her child, pulled Long Jonn towards a carronade on the starboard side.

 ''Get to that gun there laddie and do what I tell ye.''
       His voice booms over the sound of the crashing waves and the near and distant shouts of a crew that were nothing but strangers to Long Jonn. He knew the names of nobody but Hansom Hansen. The adrenaline rushed through his veins. He could see the enemy frigates closing in, their flags snapping like rabid dogs. Men try to avoid the thought that this might be their final day on God's earth. Some, find themselves caught in a whirlwind of personal emotions tied up in family obligations to push aside the nagging awareness of their mortality .. as for others, it could be these very thoughts that can inspire them to live and fight for this day. Their faces showed a mix of determination and fear when at their posts loading cannon and carronade. He saw the glint of metal swords being handed out by a young boy with blond hair and no more than fourteen, but for some unknown moment of reason .. Long Jonn thought of Caravaggio, the Italian painter of light and dark, whose own violent attacks held a particular kind of logic that was justifiable given the complexities of his character and whose passions often led him down the path of conflict, leading to writing libelous poems, jail time for fighting on the streets and eventually to murder, in defending his name and the reputation of a prostitute.       
       Caravaggio throughout his life was marked by the sin of poverty, a violent nature, and a relentless pursuit of authenticity. He was the product of his time and his family's fate. The struggles and adversities he faced infused his work with a raw intensity that resonated deeply with the human condition .. and Long Jonn. Caravaggio never painted a naval battle scene or any battle scene for that matter. His paintings depicted an erotically provocative nature of violent struggles, torture, and death. Long Jonn often felt that Caravaggio's portrayals of religious devotion possessed a certain rationale that he found acceptable when it came to religious painting for the common man. Caravaggio's life was a vivid reminder to Long Jonn that creativity often emerges from the depths of some kind of turmoil, be it personal or forced on, and that the actions behind one's rationale logic can be as intricate and multifaceted as the very art produced by the artist. In the face of the impending battle and thinking about Caravaggio on the deck of The Fox helping to load a carronade with powder and shot with the intention to kill. Long Jonn realized that a deeper understanding of the human spirit and its capacity for both creation and destruction and the delicate balance that exists between the two with a fine line between sanity and insanity was all too human, even for Caravaggio. No one was going to fight today's battle for Long Jonn Slone McRoen by proxy who was hoping to keep his head by the end of this day, unlike Caravaggio, who relished in decapitating a saint's head .. in paint. Long Jonn understood that there were times when a choice had to be made, and this was one of those times.

    Frigates And Bigots...
                                        As he reached the carronade, Long Jonn took a moment to steady himself. He glanced back at Captain Hansen standing on the stern barking out orders to a crew who depended on their ability and pent-up survival instinct to fend off the impending attack of three frigates with bigots in safeguarding The Fox from capture. Captain Hansen had the practice of referring to the enemy as 'bigots'. His use of the word was not merely a casual insult, nor an accusation, it was a call to action, to spur his crew into a fighting spirit to defend The Fox and motherland. Long Jonn was now a long way from Tipperary.
 ''Like this laddie like this .. ye with me here .. ye life may depend on it?''
       His hands gripping the cold metal of the gun, Long Jonn watched the burly navy man load powder and shot into the carronade. The frigates were already within firing distance of The Fox .. and then all thunder broke loose. Long Jonn had never experienced the sound of cannons discharging before, nor at such proximity, and certainly not on a British Naval brig in some sea he did not know, let alone where he was. The thunderous booms reverberated through the wooden hull of The Fox, shaking him to his Irish core. At such close-range firing, the cannon smoke smelled like a heavy acrid mix of sulfur to Long Jonn, he also thought of rotten eggs. Each blast was deafening from a frigate firing simultaneously from the port side and starboard side. He could see the sails of the larger frigate on the starboard side making its way to the stern of The Fox.
 ''Don't worry laddie, ye get used to it .. they just like a pack of dogs barking.'' 

.. shouted the burly navy man. Long Jonn, wide-eyed and trembling with the certainty of the uncertainty happening. He shot a glance at the burly navy man realizing he did not know his name. The acrid scent of gunpowder filled the air. Long Jonn's heart palpitated. As a child, he had read tales of naval battles and pirates, of ships locked in fierce combat where every man was a hero, but no amount of reading could have prepared him for the reality of this day. The sight of the cannons belching out iron balls and smoke like firey dragons emerging from Valhalla to exact retribution. As the cannons fired, iron balls hurtled through the air with a ferocity, hot and merciless. The battle transported Long Jonn back into his boyhood days in Stradhaven and the land of myth, where ancient Irish legends of Druids and dragons soared through the skies of the midlands unleashing their wrath upon the unsuspecting raiding barbarians. The billowing clouds of sulfur smoke twisted and curled like the tails of these mythical creatures. The lines between reality and fantasy blurred for Long Jonn, obscuring his rationalism. Yet, it was the cries and shouts of wounded men, some dying as unsung heroes, and the jeering bigotry words in foreign tongues of the 'bigot' enemy that shocked Long Jonn back into reality. He realized that he was no longer a press-ganged civilian .. but an Irishman caught in the milieu of an Englishman's battle that would test his nerve .. and compassion.
      Long Jonn, a man who was accustomed to the sight of expansive green fields dotted with sheep grazing that looked like cotton balls and hedgerows in his homeland now found himself confronted by the vast and unfamiliar expanse of an intimidating sea that brought death and ruin. Uncertainty physically and mentally inundated his mind, but that was the state of Long Jonn's mind now. Each passing moment was obscured by any glimmer of clarity, doubts swirling around him like dark clouds. He found himself physically trapped, where hope and despair intertwined in a chaotic dance with his mind unable to move forward. The relentless barrage of baggage 'what-ifs' left him feeling worthless. Long Jonn's surroundings reflected his inner chaos. He knew he had to confront his situation to stay alive. He knew that the sight of men in battle or dying, the deafening sound of human cries and cannons, and the putrid smell of blood and death in his surroundings would evoke emotions within and influence his present decisions. This constituted his reality.
        Glancing at the carronade ready to fire its first shot Long Jonn watched the burly navy man light the fuse, sparks danced along the wick, hands to his ears Long Jonn braced himself. Then, with a deafening roar, the carronade exploded. Long Jonn, was caught off guard by the sheer force of the blast, the sound echoing in his ears and drowning out all other sounds around him. He was pushed onto his back. As he hit the deck of The Fox with a hard thud to his head, he lay there, dazed and disoriented, watching the shredded sails flapping in the wind and coiling smoke teasing him. He could feel the vibrations of The Fox beneath his aching body, and the choking 'rotten egg' smoke, a reminder, not that he needed it, that he was still at sea in other men's battle. He struggled to regain his senses. Slowly, he heaved himself up on his elbows. Trying to shake off the disorientation, wiping blood, bits, and hair from his face, in realizing that it was not his. A metallic tang lingered in the air, a twisted vision where the rules of reality no longer applied. His hands trembling, he felt a chill creep down his spine. He glanced around, his eyes darting from one man to another he realized he needed to move whether he was ready for it or not .. he wiped his face one last time. The sight that greeted him was one of chaos and a dead burly navy man, missing his head, a reminder to Long Jonn of Caravaggio's decapitations in paint. Hollers of enemy 'bigots' added to the chaos. They had boarded The Fox. He realized that this was just the beginning for him and the end for others.
        The near and distant cries of men, punctuated by the relentless roar of cannon fire from the frigates, the splintering of timber that rang out like the cracking of bone, the shredding of sails that now flapped helplessly in the wind, and the sound of swords clashing in a dance of death that was being played out on the deck of The Fox. The ringing of British and bigot steel, like church bells spoke of men locked in a struggle for their very lives .. they were not fighting now for motherland. This vortex of sound, smoke, and pent-up fury wrought by the clash of wills, a symphony of destruction that made Long Jonn realize that the battle was not just taking place in the physical world but also psychologically against the very forces of chance and circumstances that sought to dictate Long Jonn's fate and those around him .. who had no names. Long John understood that the outcome of this fierce man-made contest of power and control rested, not solely on the whims of chance and circumstances, but on his own resolve and cunning in the situation that his fate threw him into. Long Jonn decided he would not simply be a mere pawn in other men's wars, instead, he would take charge of his destiny, albeit, a misguided perception of having control over his fate. The road to Hell is paved with well-meaning intentions.

     Human Stuff...
                             Long Jonn, now up on his unstable legs, his head numb from the explosion, said a hasty goodbye in a mock Irish brogue to the decapitated burly navy man in telling his lifeless body...
 ''What honor is there in a victory that came at such a price as your life .. ye know what I mean .. you have been there before when you had your head on your shoulders.''
        With a cutlass in his right hand that he picked up from the deck, he made his way to the stern where Captain Hansom Hansen was fighting off three 'bigots'. Stepping over the young angelic blond-haired boy, who had previously been distributing cutlasses with enthusiasm earlier, now lay lifeless on the deck of The Fox. A jagged piece of wood protruded from his chaste chest, resembling a needle stabbed into a ragged straw-filled voodoo doll. It was a cruel mockery and an end to a short-lived innocent life. As a boy, the world had a vast expanse of possibilities when he used to tell the burly navy man that someday he was going to captain his own brig. That boy, with his once bright blue eyes, had been a beacon of hope and joy to the navy men on The Fox. He was a reminder to all on the brig of the innocence that existed in a world often marred by war and they once held when they were his age. Long Jonn felt a deep pang of sorrow for that boy lying there and thought .. what a shameful waste .. and all for a motherland he never actually got to see. His once bright blue eyes, now dull and lifeless, stared blankly at Long Jonn searching for answers to questions beyond his innocence, immature eyes probing into the complexities of a world that had become harsh and unforgiving. It was hard enough for an adult to understand much less for a boy of fourteen years who now lay lifeless on the deck of The Fox.
       That boy's cherubic face, frozen in the moment of his last breath was some mother's son. A fetus who had been nurtured for nine long months in his mother's womb for the motherland. That boy, who went to sea at the age of twelve years so his mother and siblings would not have to go hungry became a mere casualty of a war he did not know anything about. A mere casualty of the ambitions and greed of the Crown driven by the fixations for control and dominance, who wielded their influence with little regard for the lives they affected and which led to the boy's death. That boy's life and the countless other lives that were sacrificed on the altar of greed became another statistic in the battle for economic and cultural hegemony became but a heart-wrenching loss for a mother who had given her son, just like countless other mothers who brought their children into the world, only to have them die in wars on foreign seas and lands. Long Jonn will be haunted in his later years by his memories of that boy when addressing political rallies in Ireland, where he urged Irish mothers to commit their sons to the service of their country. The dreams of the young are so easily sacrificed on the whims of the old.
       Long Jonn could now hear the clash of bigot and brutish steel ringing in his ears when the deafness from the explosion of the carronade was letting him go. As he now fought his way to the stern in defending himself from 'bigots' swords he could hear the shouts and cries of dying men lying on the deck, the desperate struggle of men surrendering to their fate. He could see the tall figure of Captain Hansen not too far off fighting fearlessly. A man characterized by strength and determination, his movements were both fluid and precise, reminiscent of a dancer enjoying himself .. and maybe he was. Why Long Jonn was making his way towards Hansen remained a mystery, even to him, all he could tell was that he was merely acting on his instinct. However, it was because of Hansen's direct orders that Long Jonn found himself engaged in some battle aboard a British Navy brig on some unknown sea. Regardless of the circumstances and the questions asked, it was destined to be his fate.
       Captain Hansom Hansen had an uncanny ability to see the potential in others, inspiring a positive or negative force within them that they had never realized existed. He observed Long Jonn making his way towards him, engaging in combat but skillfully disarming his rivals, sending them sprawling to the deck without inflicting any lasting harm leading Hansen to consider the possibility that Long Jonn just might be a pacifist. For a brief moment, their gazes met, but neither man smiled, despite the intensity of the gaze. It was a moment suspended in time, maybe a recognition of two souls and their respective paths, or maybe the acknowledgment that they were both fighting for something greater than themselves, whatever lay beyond their understanding, it left only the significance of their gaze. Long Jonn was unable to dismiss the impulse that this situation was influenced by more than mere coincidence, as he fought his way toward Hansen.
       Shadows of men danced around him, the sound of their shouts, the clash of metal flickering in the murky daylight, and the distant roar of carronade and cannon all added to the chaos that echoed in his ears. It was then that the realization struck him like some profound spiritual enlightenment. Long Jonn recognized that this was not a random encounter, it was a carefully orchestrated event that he had no control over. This was the web of fate that had been spun especially for him before he was born. The time for hesitation was over, he was demanding human righteousness for being press-ganged to The Fox and was prepared to confront whatever challenges lay ahead.

    Long Jonn's Shift...
                                    The brig rocked violently beneath his feet. The sound of cannon fire escalated and echoed like thunderclaps, the frantic shouts of men embroiled in the fierce battle of life for self and death for Crown. Long Jonn, fueled by adrenaline and a burning desire for justice, would confront Hansen for having him press-ganged .. no, it was now a kidnapping from Dublin's docks into this madness of sacrifice and loss of life. He observed the faces of men, just nameless men to Long Jonn, their expressions an amalgamation of fear and desperation as they fought. It was unlike anything he had ever witnessed before. Each man had a story to tell before this day .. each face was etched with lines of worry and tension in telling its own story now. Their eyes were wide in manic panic, some clenched their jaws tightly as if trying to suppress their madness within. Others indicated a determination to defy or die fighting in defying, not just against some external force, but against their own inner demons. It was a battle for survival that stripped away any civility between men and laid bare the raw primal instincts that lay dormant in every man until a day like this when it was needed for their survival. The fear in each man's eyes was not just for their lives, but the lives of those they maimed or killed. 

       For a fleeting moment that will have a lifetime impact, Long Jonn understood the depth of humanity amid a bloody battle being fought on the deck of The Fox. His heart ached for the suffering of others around him and yet, he felt an overwhelming urge to leave his fellow souls caught in the relentless tide of suffering and hatred. The wounded, the fallen, the dead .. was this humanity where every person at some time shared the same hopes and fears, the same dreams for a better tomorrow that are not confined to any one culture or society but resonate across borders and through generations reflecting our common humanity in striving for a peace that is often more fleeting than the duration of any war and is now caught in a relentless tide of warfare, a cycle of suffering and despair.
Long Jonn's political perspectives were evolving, and the achievement of peace could only be realized through the disarmament of conflicting nations. The pursuit of peace alters into a problematic challenge when long-standing, deeply rooted grievances, passed down through generations, are addressed through violent means, it was what Long Jonn always voiced in his debates with Robert Emmet. Long Jonn, once a man who held steadfast to traditional views, now found himself questioning the very principles that had guided him for so long. But it was the experience of warfare on The Fox that brought it home to him.
       He would face Hansen. He would no longer allow himself to be a pawn in what he regarded as Hansen's battle. His life was turned upside down by the very man he now sought to confront but just for some consolation in his own mind. Long Jonn's determination now crystallized into a singular objective of confronting Hansen and voicing the pain and anger that had festered within him since his first day on The Fox .. it became an obsession with Long Jonn for justice and closure .. if only in emotions that would be voiced in angry words without any violence. Words may show a man's anger but his actions will always convey his true meaning .. Long Jonn was well aware of that as he stood four arm's length away from Captain Hansen.
      As he gripped the hilt of his cutlass, flash recollections of his Trinity days in Dublin came to his mind, recalling the duels that were fought and the subsequent drinking sessions, only to end up in Monto and its notorious brothels. He could almost hear the echoes of laughter and the clinking of glasses and tankards as opposed to the clashing of metal and cries and shouts of men in battle. The memories were bittersweet. As he stood on the deck of The Fox, the weight of the cutlass in his hand felt like a reminder that the only battles he fought were with sharp words of bravado. Long Jonn straightened his back with a deep breath, allowing his anger to chill. He noticed that Hansen gave a slight smile. But Long Jonn was baffled by his own emotions by this stage, which oscillated like the brass pendulum of his mother's ancestral clock standing in the hall of The Haven that seemed to echo the conflicting feelings that churned within him at this moment. No doubt, but Long Jonn had experienced a shift in his convictions and attitudes. It was a profound shift that affected the very core of his identity, but it will be a slow-burner in his life.     
        Whether it was an honest smile or a sarcastic smirk, Long Jonn, now standing two arm's lengths away from Hansen, was uncertain. He took a deep breath trying to steady himself and focused on Hansen, searching for any remotest sign that might clarify the meaning behind that smile that seemed to mock him. He thought of his mother, and not for the first time that day, who had always advised him in the past to trust his instincts. Long Jonn took a hesitant step forward. Captain Hansen shouted out while still fighting off two men...
 ''You have come to help me, laddie?''
 ''It looks that way.''
But Long Jonn was not sure of himself .. something deep within him stirred.
 ''Stay close to me. I need to push forward and rally the men.''
Pushing forward was never going to happen. Captain Hansen was now being pushed to the rail of the brig. With a clean swipe of a 'bigot's' sword, Hansen lost his right arm causing him to tumble overboard. Long Jonn felt the sharpness of a cutlass across his back.

    Well-Meaning Intentions...
                                                   The chaos of the battle raged around him. The shouts of men mingling with the cries of the wounded echoed across the deck with the clash of steel and the roar of cannon and carronade. The cutlass blade sliced through his shirt with deadly intention, leaving a thin line of crimson in its wake, he staggered back, shock and pain coursing through him. He turned to face his aggressor who was anticipating him to defend himself but Long Jonn retreated three paces back, grabbed the rail of The Fox, gave a smile and a salute with his cutlass, which caught his assailant off guard and then dropped overboard into cold waters that were streaked with rivers of blood, floating bodies and shredded sails.
        Captain Hansom Hansen was visible not far from Long Jonn, battling to keep himself above water with his remaining functional arm while blood streamed from his amputated limb. The turbulent waters swirled around him. His face showed determination and fear as he fought against the waves from pulling him under. His breath came in gasps, a reminder of the pain taking over. Hansen could feel the weight of his body dragging him down into the deep. Long Jonn, a strong swimmer, propelled himself through the cold and unforgiving waves towards Hansen, who was now submerged. The seawater stinging his eyes, Long Jonn fixed his gaze on the location where Hansen had last been. As he swam he understood that every second counted, he knew that the crisis was far from over. He was no longer angry with Hansen or his own dilemma of being press-ganged onto The Fox. He realized he had to play out fate and maybe try to shift the options in his favor .. it restored his confidence in trusting his instinct .. he felt good about that.
       By the time Long Jonn reached the location where Captain Hansen was last seen he was no longer afloat. Long Jonn dived beneath the surface, searching for some sign of Hansen. The murky water created a sense of confusion within Long Jonn. His body was feeling the cold water pressing in on him. He was unable to locate Hansen. He resurfaced. Gasping for air he looked around frantically to check if Hansen had emerged, but there was no sign of him, nothing to indicate he had materialized from the depths. Long Jonn felt the pull of the current and taking in a deep breath he dived again, letting his instincts lead the way. As he descended, the world above him faded away, replaced by a haunting stillness that surrounded him. Persevering against his tiredness and the stinging pain from the gash on his back from the bigot's cutlass, the constant reminder of the icy temperature, and the limited air in his lungs, Long Jonn saw Hansen slowly sinking to the bottom. He reached out with his now freezing hands, followed Hansen to the bottom, and grabbed him from behind. Captain Hansen offered no resistance, his body felt limp and unresponsive in Long Jonn's grip when they floated to the surface which seemed agonizingly so far away. Long Jonn was gasping for air when they finally broke the surface, his lungs burning from the seawater that seeped in. He could feel the strain in his body, his exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him. Despite the sensation of his stamina ebbing away, he clung tightly to Hansen who was draped over him, their bodies intertwined in a macabre dance of zigzagging and bobbing in the water.
       Hansen's face was pale, his lips tinged a dark blue, near to purple. Long Jonn could feel the warmth from his own body seeping into Hansen's lifeless skin wrapping around him like death's mantle. As Long Jonn fought against the relentless pull of waves and exhaustion his limbs felt like dead weights .. Hansen was becoming a dead weight too. Long Jonn scanned the horizon with every ounce of his strength as they bobbed up and down in the water. Floating debris and bodies from the frigates and The Fox were all around them. For a moment, he thought he saw the blond-haired boy, lying face down, drifting away from him. In that fleeting belief, the boy's stillness evoked the feeling of the tragedy that lay around them, prompting the image of Icarus in Long Jonn, nor was he the causality of his actions, but was the victim of old men sitting high and mighty who plied bullish fighting words that sent young boys to battle. He was a casualty of a system that preyed upon the vulnerable.
        Long Jonn's mind was now calm, reaching to a blank and slipping into a peaceful numbness .. he felt he was passing out, not just from exertion but from the sheer terror of what he had been just through. The fighting on The Fox was still ongoing in the background. Pulling himself together, Long Jonn heard what he knew to be his voice.

 ''Hang on Hansen, hang on.''
His voice resembled a holler but was barely audible over the crashing waves and the distant sounds of battle in the background that seemed to be moving further away from them now.
 ''We're going to make it .. you'll see .. God and Crown won't let you down. Oh, I still have my Irish sarcasm about me in the face of death .. we Irish are good at that, but I'm sure you know, being a Sasanach.''
There was no response from the man. Long Jonn tightened his grip on Hansen whose face was ashen, his lips a sickly purple streak of two lines sketched across his sullen face. Despite the sensation of his own life ebbing away from him and his hands going numb, Long Jonn tried to maintain a firm grip on Captain Hansen. As he gasped for air he noticed Hansen was not gasping for air, his body was heavy and unresponsive to Long Jonn's words. He struggled to keep himself and Hansen afloat. Desperation clawed at his throat as he spat out salted water. Hansen was slipping away from life, if not already gone, but Long Jonn was not giving up, striking Hansen's face in a desperate attempt to revive him saying...  ''Despite my well-meaning intention, I did not jeopardize my life going after you for you to die now.''
However, Captain Hansom Hansen had already departed.

     The Powder Keg...
                                   Long Jonn Slone McRoen kept himself afloat by clinging to an empty powder keg after releasing Captain Hansen to drift on the sea only to sink into the murky depths below​ where the sunlight does not shine. As Hansen's lifeless body drifted further away from Long Jonn he thought that maybe under different circumstances they might have been friends. He felt he was enacting the core of Hansen's life as a naval officer, where the remains of a once-proud officer who once commanded respect and admiration could find solace now in the depths. Cold-biting seawater sent shivers through his body as he fought to keep his grip on the keg. A smirking smile crossed Long Jonn's face as he realized that the powder keg bore the emblem of a defiant lion standing guard over a ship's anchor. Was it some figment of his imagination, a cruel joke played out by his mind? It seemed to mock him at that moment, bobbing in the water like some marionette. A mix of fascination and apprehension clouded his mind. He felt a deep chill enter his body as he floundered​ to comprehend the sight before him.
       Here he was, in some unknown sea, known for his defiance against the British for occupying his homeland in being kept afloat by one of their powder kegs. It all seemed a little too ironic for Long Jonn, that the powder keg beneath him once filled with explosives would have helped countless skirmishes and insurgencies in Ireland. It was a paradox, one of life's little cruel jokes played out by fate. This sea may have been unknown to Long Jonn, however, despite the doubts he harbored about his present situation, his commitment to a liberated Ireland still burned brightly within him and all the more so, because he was alive at this moment. Having survived a battle that could have easily ended his days in an unknown sea far from his island, Long Jonn felt that his time had not yet come because he believed he carried within him the past ghosts of a free Ireland. Each wave that slapped against the powder keg seemed to align with his heartbeat, a rhythmic reminder of the struggles and sacrifices made by those who had come and gone before him. The memories of stories told, battles fought and lost haunted him, but he decided to embrace the uncertainty that now lay ahead. 
       The feeble sun was as high as it was going to get that day. As he gazed out over the churning waters and the salty spray stinging his face, the sounds of splintering wood and the cries of men still rang in his ears. Long Jonn closed his eyes again, but told himself, only for a moment, allowing the sun's dim warmth to seep into his salty skin. That faint sunlight on Long Jonn's face felt like a cool breath of life blowing in on him, infusing him with a sense of calmness and renewal, despite the ongoing battle on The Fox and the confusion in his mind that was now building up. When Long Jonn let his grip on Captain Hansen go to drift on the sea which he assumed to be Hansen's whole life, he considered it to be an appropriate end for a naval captain. But the powder keg, once a container of explosives that could be used against his people, now served as his only lifeline and friend in this vast​ and unforgiving sea. Long Jonn could feel his body numbing in the cold water, even though the faint sun was a small comfort for him.
        He could see The Fox from his floating powder keg being stripped of her carronades and cannons. Eight survivors, the sole survivors from a crew of twenty-two were with Death. Eight bloodied survivors where Death that now loomed over them like some dark cloud were gang-planked to the larger frigate where they would face the prospect of being press-ganged into fighting against their fellow countrymen or the option of death by decapitation .. the lamentable compensation for going to war. The prospect of being press-ganged, which was always talked about among the crew, would have weighed heavily on their minds as they boarded the bigoted frigate .. however, facing execution by decapitation was hardly a more promising outcome, but it was a physiological scare tactic that worked every time.​ It also served as a reminder that in this world, ​once born, we ​become victims and therefore intrinsically​ subjected to the practices​ of survival, frequently at a devastating cost. Each man would have had his reason for joining the Navy. The younger members of the crew upon enlisting for the adventure, gradually transformed through years of indoctrination into individuals who perceive their commitment as a duty to crown and country, losing sight of their own identities in the process. The ideals​ of bravery and patriotism are hammered into their minds that, that sense of 'good intent' would feel like a cruel joke when decapitation or service against their own was the choice given by the enemy .. either way, it questioned the very foundation of their loyalist and Christian beliefs. The friendships they forge are often rooted in shared experiences of hardship and sacrifice, yet these bonds also serve to reinforce the notion that their personal desires are secondary to the greater good​ of crown and country. Each day they become more like the cogs in a vast machine. Each one performs their duties with precision but loses touch with the passions and any dreams that once defined them. Each man and boy has sacrificed not only their individual identities but also the very essence of what it means to be human. They are the living dead, battling for a cause that had long since lost its morality​ once a war was declared.

       Long Jonn drifted out to sea .. unnoticed. He had escaped the clutches of Death. He watched as the flames engulfed The Fox, the black smoke curling into the sky, it was a final farewell that could be seen by friend and foe for miles around. Having been stripped of anything useful to the bigots, and for her loyal service to the British Navy, The Fox, once a proud brigantine was sent to the depths to end her days. The adventure that Long Jonn had planned in The Haven, his family home in Stradhaven, in the midlands of Ireland in going to Africa and then on to Borneo to meet with Wallis has instead led him down the path signposted 'fate'. Long Jonn drifted for four days on his British powder keg. Hallucinating he became aware of what haunting whispers the sea was confiding in him, scattering its secrets like the seeds of contempt of long and forgotten voices from beneath its surface. It was tormenting Long Jonn as he drifted into the unknown.
                                           
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