The Luck of the Bogans Page #6

"The Luck of the Bogans" is a charming story by Sarah Orne Jewett that explores themes of fortune, community, and resilience in a rural setting. Through the eyes of its characters, the narrative delves into the lives of those living in a small town, highlighting their struggles and triumphs against the backdrop of their relationships with one another and the land. Jewett's vivid descriptions and keen observations bring to life the unique culture and character of the Bogans, ultimately revealing the profound connections that shape their experiences and outlooks on life.

• Short story

								


The angry father pointed his son's companions to the door, and after a
moment's hesitation they went skulking out, and father and son
disappeared up the stairway. Dan was a coward, he was glad to be
thrust into his own bedroom upstairs, his head was dizzy, and he
muttered only a feeble oath. Several of Mike Bogan's customers had
kindly disappeared when he returned trying to look the same as ever,
but one after another the great tears rolled down his cheeks. He never
had faced despair till now; he turned his back to the men, and fumbled
aimlessly among the bottles on the shelf. Some one came, in
unconscious of the pitiful scene, and impatiently repeated his order
to the shopkeeper.

"God help me, boys, I can't sell more this night!" he said brokenly.
"Go home now and lave me to myself."

They were glad to go, though it cut the evening short. Jerry Bogan
bundled his way last with his two canes. "Sind the b'y to say," he
advised in a gruff whisper. "Sind him out wid a good captain now,
Mike,'t will make a man of him yet."

A man of him yet! alas, alas--for the hopes that had been growing so
many years. Alas for the pride of a simple heart, alas for the day
Mike Bogan came away from sunshiny old Bantry with his baby son in his
arms for the sake of making that son a gentleman.

III.

Winter had fairly set in, but the snow had not come, and the street
was bleak and cold. The wind was stinging men's faces and piercing the
wooden houses. A hard night for sailors coming on the coast--a bitter
night for poor people everywhere.

From one house and another the lights went out in the street where the
Bogans lived; at last there was no other lamp than theirs, in a window
that lighted the outer stairs. Sometimes a woman's shadow passed
across the curtain and waited there, drawing it away from the panes a
moment as if to listen the better for a footstep that did not come.
Poor Biddy had waited many a night before this. Her husband was far
from well, the doctor said that his heart was not working right, and
that he must be very careful, but the truth was that Mike's heart was
almost broken by grief. Dan was going the downhill road, he had been
drinking harder and harder, and spending a great deal of money. He had
smashed more than one carriage and lamed more than one horse from the
livery stables, and he had kept the lowest company in vilest dens. Now
he threatened to go to New York, and it had come at last to being the
only possible joy that he should come home at any time of night rather
than disappear no one knew where. He had laughed in Father Miles's
face when the good old man, after pleading with him, had tried to
threaten him.

Biddy was in an agony of suspense as the night wore on. She dozed a
little only to wake with a start, and listen for some welcome sound
out in the cold night. Was her boy freezing to death somewhere? Other
mothers only scolded if their sons were wild, but this was killing her
and Mike, they had set their hopes so high. Mike was groaning
dreadfully in his sleep to-night--the fire was burning low, and she
did not dare to stir it. She took her worn rosary again and tried to
tell its beads. "Mother of Pity, pray for us!" she said, wearily
dropping the beads in her lap.

There was a sound in the street at last, but it was not of one man's
stumbling feet, but of many. She was stiff with cold, she had slept
long, and it was almost day. She rushed with strange apprehension to
the doorway and stood with the flaring lamp in her hand at the top of
the stairs. The voices were suddenly hushed. "Go for Father Miles!"
said somebody in a hoarse voice, and she heard the words. They were
carrying a burden, they brought it tip to the mother who waited. In
their arms lay her son stone dead; he had been stabbed in a fight, he
had struck a man down who had sprung back at him like a tiger. Dan,
little Dan, was dead, the luck of the Bogans, the end was here, and a
wail that pierced the night, and chilled the hearts that heard it, was
the first message of sorrow to the poor father in his uneasy sleep.

The group of men stood by--some of them had been drinking, but they
were all awed and shocked. You would have believed every one of them
to be on the side of law and order. Mike Bogan knew that the worst had
happened. Biddy had rushed to him and fallen across the bed; for one
minute her aggravating shrieks had stopped; he began to dress himself,
but he was shaking too much; he stepped out to the kitchen and faced
the frightened crowd.

"Is my son dead, then?" asked Mike Bogan of Bantry, with a piteous
quiver of the lip, and nobody spoke. There was something glistening
and awful about his pleasant Irish face. He tottered where he stood,
he caught at a chair to steady himself. "The luck o' the Bogans is
it?" and he smiled strangely, then a fierce hardness came across his
face and changed it utterly. "Come down, come down!" he shouted, and
snatching the key of the shop went down the stairs himself with great
sure-footed leaps. What was in Mike? was he crazy with grief? They
stood out of his way and saw him fling out bottle after bottle and
shatter them against the wall. They saw him roll one cask after
another to the doorway, and out into the street in the gray light of
morning, and break through the staves with a heavy axe. Nobody dared
to restrain his fury--there was a devil in him, they were afraid of
the man in his blinded rage The odor of whiskey and gin filled the
cold air--some of them would have stolen the wasted liquor if they
could, but no man there dared to move or speak, and it was not until
the tall figure of Father Miles came along the street, and the patient
eyes that seemed always to keep vigil, and the calm voice with its
flavor of Bantry brogue, came to Mike Bogan's help, that he let
himself be taken out of the wrecked shop and away from the spilt
liquors to the shelter of his home.

A week later he was only a shadow of his sturdy self, he was lying on
his bed dreaming of Bantry Bay and the road to Glengariff--the hedge
roses were in bloom, and he was trudging along the road to see Biddy.
He was working on the old farm at home and could not put the seed
potatoes in their trench, for little Dan kept falling in and getting
in his way. "Dan's not going to be plagued with the bad craps," he
muttered to Father Miles who sat beside the bed. "Dan will be a fine
squire in Ameriky," but the priest only stroked his hand as it
twitched and lifted on the coverlet. What was Biddy doing, crying and
putting the candles about him? Then Mike's poor brain grew steady.

"Oh, my God, if we were back in Bantry! I saw the gorse bloomin' in
the t'atch d' ye know. Oh wisha wisha the poor ould home an' the green
praties that day we come from it--with our luck smilin' us in the
face."

"Whist darlin': kape aisy darlin'!" mourned Biddy, with a great sob.
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