It was a typical knife of its kind, a rough stag handle with a 5 inch sheepsfoot blade. The base of the blade bore the stamp of the IXL, George Wolstenholm & son company, of Sheffield England. The rough stag was the preffered material of sailors in the old days, for the texture gave a good grip with wet or cold hands. A steel bail was mounted at the end of the handle so the knife could be tied off to the owner. least it go overboard to Davy Jones locker.
This particular knife was shipped from the factory in the early years of the 20th century, and ended up at a chandlers shop in the harbor of a small fishing village just to the west of Sligo, Ireland, on Sligo Bay. It sat in the case for a short while before being purchased by a young woman. The woman worked in the cannery where the cod and herring were prossesed, a hard demanding job that paid little in a poor country, but it was the job that was taken by the wives of the fishermen who went to sea and brought back the catch. The young woman was the wife of a fisherman, and with three small children already, money was tight, so her mother watched the children durring the day and she worked and waited for her man to come home from the sea. This could be a trying time, as sometimes a boat never came home. In the towns church mass would be said for the missing men, and there would be a few more widows to watch the sea with sad eyes.
This one young woman had saved a few small coins here and there for some months for her husbands birthday, and had bought the knife for him. He was due home that day, and as she walked to work at the cannery she cast an uneasy eye on the sea. But when her shift was over it was with relief that she saw the fishing trawler The Celtic Maid, tied up to the old stone quay. One of the cannerys lorries was parked by the quayside and the load of cod was being shifted. A lean young fisherman saw her and climbed up to great her. Every time he looked at his young wife he thanked the Lord. He knew he was not a handsome man, with his craggy features, but he wondered that he ended up with a raven haired beauty with eyes the color of where the sea and sky meet. He saw the lines of fatigue in her face.
"Its good to see you again, luv." she told him after a brief embrase and kiss.
"I wish you'd quit the cannery job, We can get by without it and the wee lads need you home" he said.
" Nonsense, mums watching the little ones, and we do need the money. The rents almost due again"
They walked holding hands to the small attic apartment they had, where Mary Devlins mother had a pot of stew ready. Over dinner there was small talk, then with a quiet "Happy birthday, dear" Mary laid the paper wrapped package in front of her husband. He did not say much as he examined the beautifull example of Sheffield cutlery, but he was a taciturn man to start with and Mary Devlin was used to his ways. Finally he simply thanked her, and she saw the brightness in his eyes and knew he was pleased and touched.
The knife was put to work the very next day. The Celtic Maid set out for a run, as the grizzeled captain called it. Durring the day a few lines had to be spliced, and Liam cut squared ends and with a marlin spike, rove the new lines into one, smooth enough to pass through the pulleys. That night as the weather turned bad they made a clandestine meeting with a blacked out small frieghter just off Inishmurry, a small island in Donegal bay. The captain of the Celtic Maid was one of those who sometimes carried a cargo other than fish, and the windfall money was shared with the small crew. In the wind and tossing waves some crated were lowered to the deck of the trawler, and carried below. The last crate was just touching the deck when the rising storm slammed the Celtic Maid against the frieghter and the crew tried to undo the rope holding the crate. The seawater had swollen the hemp and Liam snatched out his new knife and in two swipes severed the rope, letting the Celtic Maid swing free of the frieghter. Once bellow deck the grizzeled smuggler captain pried open the boxes to check the contents. The lamplight glissened on nested Thompson machine guns smeared with greese.
"The lads will appreatiate these in the cause. It will give the brits something to think about on this Easter." he laughed. He turned to the young fisherman.
" Quick thinking cutting the rope, Liam. We could have been hurt by to many bangs, eh? Then Micheal Collins and his bunch would have to throw rocks!"
They made port just before dawn, in a light but steady rain. A man standing in a doorway saw them come in and whistled, and a lorry appeared out of an alley, and in just a few moments the crates were on thier way. The crew dispersed home to get some sleep. Liam got home just as his wife was rousing for her shift at the hated cannery. As he settled into bed besides his wife she spoke to him.
"Liam, I got a letter from my cousin Barry, you remember him? They emigrated to America a few years ago. He thinks we should join him, and says its a good place. He's in Maryland, on a place called the Chesapeake bay, and he says theres good jobs for a man who can handle a boat. Good money and an easier life. Why don't we think about it? Don't we want the boys to grow up in a better place, without the poverty and violence?"
"Aye lass, I do want that. But I can't go now, its almost Easter and there's a chance we can pull it off." he muttered sleepily.
"Aye, and some day pigs might fly." she replied and got out of bed to go to the cannery.
Liam lay there sleep coming slowly in spite of his tiredness. Many thoughts went through his mind, and the strange name Chesapeake came up often.
Easter Sunday 1916 came and went, and like most uprisings, this one failed with the loss of lives on both sides. New widows in Ireland and England both mourned losses. Liam grew bitter and gave into his wifes pleas, and they left Ireland behind. By steamer they crossed the grey North Atlantic to New York, and once through the Ellis Island nightmare it was a rail trip to Maryland. At Baltimore they were met by Mary's cousin who had crossed the Chesapeake in his own fishing boat. He had done well in a few years, saving his money and now having a boat of his own.
With little more than the clothes on his back and a few things in his pockets, Liam looked for the first time at the blue waters of the Chesapeake that was to be their new home. The calm bay sparkeled like a diamond field, stretching away to a faint line of land miles distant. Rich wooded land bordered the waters and as they motored from Baltimore to the eastern shore he knew they had come to a better place. His young sons stared eagerly at thier new home.
In time the young Irishman found a job with a man named Sharpe, owner of a crab and oyster boat out Cambridge at the mouth of the Choptank river. Sharpe was impressed with the hard work of the Irish fisherman, as he hauled up the heavy crab traps and learned the trade. Slowly he was accepted by the men of the commercial dock, and was invited into the shack. The shack was just that, at the end of a pier, it was a rough bar where the watermen hung out for a drink. One day Liam took out the Sheffield knife to cut something, and one of the men good naturedly ribbed him.
"Jeez Irish, you carry a folding cleaver around with you?"
"It cuts what I want, and I don't need a toothpick in my pocket when there's work to be done." he replied with matching good nature.
One day Liam was invited to go quail shooting. He had never handled a shotgun before, but his new friends were eager to share thier favorite sport with him. Then after the game was bagged they sat down at the edge of a field to clean thier catch. Liam watched what they did, but had trouble using the big sheepsfoot blade for the delicate tast of filleting the breast of quail. His friends differed in advise as to what they thought was the best knife. One told him to get a good barlow knife, another said something called a stockman was the best choice. But the sailors knife had been a hard saved gift from his wife Mary, so he kept it for use on the boat. For many years he would carry the Sheffield knife out of sentiment, and it became kind of a trademark of his. Eventually he bought a small sheath knife for his hunting, and kept it with his shotgun.
Time came and went, and one day Sharpe told him that he was retiring. He had grown old on the water, and both of his sons had no interest in being watermen. One was a buisness man in Balitimore, and the other had went off for a career in the Navy. Sharpe asked Liam if he was interested in his fishing grounds. A deal was struck, and for the first time in his life, Liam Devlin became his own boss. As the years passed, aided by his three sons, he did well enough to buy a new boat to replace Sharpes old workboat. Being seasoned by the experiance of bad weather on the North Atlantic, he had the new boat built stronger and heavier than the typical bay workboat. He thought of his mother , who had died young working in the town cannery, and he named the boat in her honor. It was to be The Lady Anne.
The 30's came and went, and the depression did not affect his family that much. Then the war came, and two of his son's went off to the war. It was a sad time, but he had a grandchild by then. His youngest son had left his wife and young baby in his care, and he took great pleasure in the young boy. Durring those war years, his grandson was on the Lady Anne more than anyplace else. A very special relationship grew between them that would remain untill his death. He tought the little boy how to steer the boat, to watch the wind and chop. When the war was over, his sons returned, and there was a bitter fight with his youngest one.
"My new job is in Washington, Dad. My family belongs with me." his son told him
"He's waterman born! His place is here!" the aging fisherman yelled back.
His son went off to Washinton, and the house on the Choptank river seemed empty to the salt and pepper haired fisherman. But the boy came back on hollidays and summers. He tought the young boy to shoot quail, and rig the crab traps. On the summer evenings he'd let the boy whittle with old sailors knife. It seemed huge in the small young hands. One summer day at the hardware store in town he bought the boy his first knife. It was a simple barlow style knife. The boy looked at it and asked why he couldn't have one just like his grandad had. The old Irishmen thought for a moment.
"Because lad, it's not a very good knife for our life here, but I carry it because your grandmam gave it to me so many years ago, before we left the old coutry. Its a part of me now, and the weight of it lets me keep my balence. Besides, I don't want to hurt my Mary's feelings." he told the boy in his soft Irish brogue. "A smaller knife would be handier though"
The boy understood and treasured the barlow knife.
Not long after that, on a family trip to town the boy was with his grandmom at the same store. The boy stared in the case holding the pocket knives, with his grandad looking over him. In the post war years some of the fine German knives were making thier way to the states, and in the knife case was some new Hen and Rooster pocket knives. The beautifull textured stag cought the man and boys eyes. Mary Devlin saw the looks and took notice.
A few months later on his birthday, Mary laid a small paper package in front of her husband. He looked up in surprise and she told him to open it. He took up the stag handled Hen and Rooster and examined it lovingly.
"But I alread have a knife Luv, one that you gave me back in the old country!"
"Its old by now, and its too big for this life. Oh, I know you well by now Mr. Devlin sir. And you're not apt to get rid of it out of respect for herself. Yes I've heard your friends make jokes about your pocket clever. Now you can carry a knife like a real Marylander, not an imigrant from the old country without so much as two coins to rub together!" she playfully scolded him.
He stood up and put the Hen and Rooster in his pocket, and felt almost uneasy at the lack of weight. But it was a new sensation. He walked over to the mantle over the fireplace in the living room and put the IXL sailors knife on it. He turned to his wife and told her that it would always have a place on the mantle just as she would always have a place in his heart.
By now it had been more than 30 years since that day in Ireland that his wife had given him the sailors knife. The stag was worn smooth, and had a deep buttery patina. the blade was worn, but still had alot of service left in it, with a good snap to the spring. He told his grandson that it was to be his when he grew up, and the boy regarded it with as much awe as if it were the family sword of royal liniage.
The Hen and Rooster became the pocket knife of Liam, cleaning quail, and a million other chores one would use a pocket knife for. When he passed from this world well into his 80's, the Hen and Rooster was still in his pocket. But by his bedside with a note written in pencil on a scap of brown paper "to my grandson" taped to the top of it, was a cigar box with some of his effects in it. One of those effects was the big stag handle sailors knife.
To this day it is a treasure to his grandson, and has a place on the mantle. It had been handled with awe by the great-great grandson.
This particular knife was shipped from the factory in the early years of the 20th century, and ended up at a chandlers shop in the harbor of a small fishing village just to the west of Sligo, Ireland, on Sligo Bay. It sat in the case for a short while before being purchased by a young woman. The woman worked in the cannery where the cod and herring were prossesed, a hard demanding job that paid little in a poor country, but it was the job that was taken by the wives of the fishermen who went to sea and brought back the catch. The young woman was the wife of a fisherman, and with three small children already, money was tight, so her mother watched the children durring the day and she worked and waited for her man to come home from the sea. This could be a trying time, as sometimes a boat never came home. In the towns church mass would be said for the missing men, and there would be a few more widows to watch the sea with sad eyes.
This one young woman had saved a few small coins here and there for some months for her husbands birthday, and had bought the knife for him. He was due home that day, and as she walked to work at the cannery she cast an uneasy eye on the sea. But when her shift was over it was with relief that she saw the fishing trawler The Celtic Maid, tied up to the old stone quay. One of the cannerys lorries was parked by the quayside and the load of cod was being shifted. A lean young fisherman saw her and climbed up to great her. Every time he looked at his young wife he thanked the Lord. He knew he was not a handsome man, with his craggy features, but he wondered that he ended up with a raven haired beauty with eyes the color of where the sea and sky meet. He saw the lines of fatigue in her face.
"Its good to see you again, luv." she told him after a brief embrase and kiss.
"I wish you'd quit the cannery job, We can get by without it and the wee lads need you home" he said.
" Nonsense, mums watching the little ones, and we do need the money. The rents almost due again"
They walked holding hands to the small attic apartment they had, where Mary Devlins mother had a pot of stew ready. Over dinner there was small talk, then with a quiet "Happy birthday, dear" Mary laid the paper wrapped package in front of her husband. He did not say much as he examined the beautifull example of Sheffield cutlery, but he was a taciturn man to start with and Mary Devlin was used to his ways. Finally he simply thanked her, and she saw the brightness in his eyes and knew he was pleased and touched.
The knife was put to work the very next day. The Celtic Maid set out for a run, as the grizzeled captain called it. Durring the day a few lines had to be spliced, and Liam cut squared ends and with a marlin spike, rove the new lines into one, smooth enough to pass through the pulleys. That night as the weather turned bad they made a clandestine meeting with a blacked out small frieghter just off Inishmurry, a small island in Donegal bay. The captain of the Celtic Maid was one of those who sometimes carried a cargo other than fish, and the windfall money was shared with the small crew. In the wind and tossing waves some crated were lowered to the deck of the trawler, and carried below. The last crate was just touching the deck when the rising storm slammed the Celtic Maid against the frieghter and the crew tried to undo the rope holding the crate. The seawater had swollen the hemp and Liam snatched out his new knife and in two swipes severed the rope, letting the Celtic Maid swing free of the frieghter. Once bellow deck the grizzeled smuggler captain pried open the boxes to check the contents. The lamplight glissened on nested Thompson machine guns smeared with greese.
"The lads will appreatiate these in the cause. It will give the brits something to think about on this Easter." he laughed. He turned to the young fisherman.
" Quick thinking cutting the rope, Liam. We could have been hurt by to many bangs, eh? Then Micheal Collins and his bunch would have to throw rocks!"
They made port just before dawn, in a light but steady rain. A man standing in a doorway saw them come in and whistled, and a lorry appeared out of an alley, and in just a few moments the crates were on thier way. The crew dispersed home to get some sleep. Liam got home just as his wife was rousing for her shift at the hated cannery. As he settled into bed besides his wife she spoke to him.
"Liam, I got a letter from my cousin Barry, you remember him? They emigrated to America a few years ago. He thinks we should join him, and says its a good place. He's in Maryland, on a place called the Chesapeake bay, and he says theres good jobs for a man who can handle a boat. Good money and an easier life. Why don't we think about it? Don't we want the boys to grow up in a better place, without the poverty and violence?"
"Aye lass, I do want that. But I can't go now, its almost Easter and there's a chance we can pull it off." he muttered sleepily.
"Aye, and some day pigs might fly." she replied and got out of bed to go to the cannery.
Liam lay there sleep coming slowly in spite of his tiredness. Many thoughts went through his mind, and the strange name Chesapeake came up often.
Easter Sunday 1916 came and went, and like most uprisings, this one failed with the loss of lives on both sides. New widows in Ireland and England both mourned losses. Liam grew bitter and gave into his wifes pleas, and they left Ireland behind. By steamer they crossed the grey North Atlantic to New York, and once through the Ellis Island nightmare it was a rail trip to Maryland. At Baltimore they were met by Mary's cousin who had crossed the Chesapeake in his own fishing boat. He had done well in a few years, saving his money and now having a boat of his own.
With little more than the clothes on his back and a few things in his pockets, Liam looked for the first time at the blue waters of the Chesapeake that was to be their new home. The calm bay sparkeled like a diamond field, stretching away to a faint line of land miles distant. Rich wooded land bordered the waters and as they motored from Baltimore to the eastern shore he knew they had come to a better place. His young sons stared eagerly at thier new home.
In time the young Irishman found a job with a man named Sharpe, owner of a crab and oyster boat out Cambridge at the mouth of the Choptank river. Sharpe was impressed with the hard work of the Irish fisherman, as he hauled up the heavy crab traps and learned the trade. Slowly he was accepted by the men of the commercial dock, and was invited into the shack. The shack was just that, at the end of a pier, it was a rough bar where the watermen hung out for a drink. One day Liam took out the Sheffield knife to cut something, and one of the men good naturedly ribbed him.
"Jeez Irish, you carry a folding cleaver around with you?"
"It cuts what I want, and I don't need a toothpick in my pocket when there's work to be done." he replied with matching good nature.
One day Liam was invited to go quail shooting. He had never handled a shotgun before, but his new friends were eager to share thier favorite sport with him. Then after the game was bagged they sat down at the edge of a field to clean thier catch. Liam watched what they did, but had trouble using the big sheepsfoot blade for the delicate tast of filleting the breast of quail. His friends differed in advise as to what they thought was the best knife. One told him to get a good barlow knife, another said something called a stockman was the best choice. But the sailors knife had been a hard saved gift from his wife Mary, so he kept it for use on the boat. For many years he would carry the Sheffield knife out of sentiment, and it became kind of a trademark of his. Eventually he bought a small sheath knife for his hunting, and kept it with his shotgun.
Time came and went, and one day Sharpe told him that he was retiring. He had grown old on the water, and both of his sons had no interest in being watermen. One was a buisness man in Balitimore, and the other had went off for a career in the Navy. Sharpe asked Liam if he was interested in his fishing grounds. A deal was struck, and for the first time in his life, Liam Devlin became his own boss. As the years passed, aided by his three sons, he did well enough to buy a new boat to replace Sharpes old workboat. Being seasoned by the experiance of bad weather on the North Atlantic, he had the new boat built stronger and heavier than the typical bay workboat. He thought of his mother , who had died young working in the town cannery, and he named the boat in her honor. It was to be The Lady Anne.
The 30's came and went, and the depression did not affect his family that much. Then the war came, and two of his son's went off to the war. It was a sad time, but he had a grandchild by then. His youngest son had left his wife and young baby in his care, and he took great pleasure in the young boy. Durring those war years, his grandson was on the Lady Anne more than anyplace else. A very special relationship grew between them that would remain untill his death. He tought the little boy how to steer the boat, to watch the wind and chop. When the war was over, his sons returned, and there was a bitter fight with his youngest one.
"My new job is in Washington, Dad. My family belongs with me." his son told him
"He's waterman born! His place is here!" the aging fisherman yelled back.
His son went off to Washinton, and the house on the Choptank river seemed empty to the salt and pepper haired fisherman. But the boy came back on hollidays and summers. He tought the young boy to shoot quail, and rig the crab traps. On the summer evenings he'd let the boy whittle with old sailors knife. It seemed huge in the small young hands. One summer day at the hardware store in town he bought the boy his first knife. It was a simple barlow style knife. The boy looked at it and asked why he couldn't have one just like his grandad had. The old Irishmen thought for a moment.
"Because lad, it's not a very good knife for our life here, but I carry it because your grandmam gave it to me so many years ago, before we left the old coutry. Its a part of me now, and the weight of it lets me keep my balence. Besides, I don't want to hurt my Mary's feelings." he told the boy in his soft Irish brogue. "A smaller knife would be handier though"
The boy understood and treasured the barlow knife.
Not long after that, on a family trip to town the boy was with his grandmom at the same store. The boy stared in the case holding the pocket knives, with his grandad looking over him. In the post war years some of the fine German knives were making thier way to the states, and in the knife case was some new Hen and Rooster pocket knives. The beautifull textured stag cought the man and boys eyes. Mary Devlin saw the looks and took notice.
A few months later on his birthday, Mary laid a small paper package in front of her husband. He looked up in surprise and she told him to open it. He took up the stag handled Hen and Rooster and examined it lovingly.
"But I alread have a knife Luv, one that you gave me back in the old country!"
"Its old by now, and its too big for this life. Oh, I know you well by now Mr. Devlin sir. And you're not apt to get rid of it out of respect for herself. Yes I've heard your friends make jokes about your pocket clever. Now you can carry a knife like a real Marylander, not an imigrant from the old country without so much as two coins to rub together!" she playfully scolded him.
He stood up and put the Hen and Rooster in his pocket, and felt almost uneasy at the lack of weight. But it was a new sensation. He walked over to the mantle over the fireplace in the living room and put the IXL sailors knife on it. He turned to his wife and told her that it would always have a place on the mantle just as she would always have a place in his heart.
By now it had been more than 30 years since that day in Ireland that his wife had given him the sailors knife. The stag was worn smooth, and had a deep buttery patina. the blade was worn, but still had alot of service left in it, with a good snap to the spring. He told his grandson that it was to be his when he grew up, and the boy regarded it with as much awe as if it were the family sword of royal liniage.
The Hen and Rooster became the pocket knife of Liam, cleaning quail, and a million other chores one would use a pocket knife for. When he passed from this world well into his 80's, the Hen and Rooster was still in his pocket. But by his bedside with a note written in pencil on a scap of brown paper "to my grandson" taped to the top of it, was a cigar box with some of his effects in it. One of those effects was the big stag handle sailors knife.
To this day it is a treasure to his grandson, and has a place on the mantle. It had been handled with awe by the great-great grandson.
