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Chapter One – Jonathan Is Born

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“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! The baby’s coming!” screamed Shannon Kennedy, her voice echoing through the rafters of the old farmhouse as a summer storm brewed outside. Sweat clung to her brow, her red hair matted to her temples as she gripped the bedpost like a sailor bracing for a gale. On that humid August afternoon in 1845, deep in the farmland of Lake County, Illinois, she was giving birth to her twelfth child — and sixth son — with the help of her neighbor and midwife, Katie O’Donnell.

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“You’d think you’d have this birthing business down to a science, like a cow calving in spring,” Katie teased in her thick Irish brogue, her sleeves rolled up as she busied herself with towels and hot water.

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“Aye, it’s a wee bit easier, but it still hurts like the devil himself,” Shannon groaned. “Where’s me man?”

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“I sent Mary-Francis to fetch him from the field. He’ll be here soon enough,” said Katie, dabbing Shannon’s forehead with a damp cloth.

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No sooner had she spoken than the bedroom door burst open. Patrick Kennedy filled the doorway — a bear of a man, broad-shouldered and caked in mud, smelling like the very earth he’d been tilling.

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“Did I miss it? Did it already happen?” he asked, breathless.

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“No, it’s still coming,” said Katie. “But for the love of Saint Brigid, change those clothes before you make us all swoon from the stench.”

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“I don’t care about the smell,” Shannon gasped. “Just stay here, Patrick. I need you.”

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Patrick knelt beside her. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, lass. I’ve been praying this little one takes his first breath.”

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That last line hung heavy in the air. Of Shannon’s eleven births, only four daughters had survived. Seven little souls had been born silent.

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“Push, Shannon, push!” Katie commanded, her voice steady as a battle cry.

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“Oh Lord above—it’s coming! It feels like it’s tearing me in two!” Shannon cried, gripping Patrick’s hand so tightly that his knuckles went white.

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“Holy Christ, woman, you’re crushing my hand!” he yelped, trying to pull away.

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“Be happy she’s not holding your testicles, Patrick,” quipped Katie without missing a beat. “One more good push now—give it all you’ve got!”

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With a final, primal scream, Shannon bore down, and a slick, silent infant slid into Katie’s hands.

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“It’s a boy,” Katie whispered, but her voice lacked joy.

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“Is he breathing?” Shannon asked, her voice trembling.

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Katie said nothing. She rubbed the baby’s back. No cry. She blew softly against his lips.

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Nothing.

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Patrick’s face hardened. He snatched the baby from her hands, the cord still pulsing faintly between mother and son. Holding the child by the ankles, he slapped his tiny backside—once, twice—until a sharp crack filled the room.

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“Breathe, my son! Breathe, Goddammit!”

 

And then—a miracle.

“Waaahhh!”

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The cry was small, hoarse, but alive.

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Shannon collapsed back into the bed, sobbing with relief. Katie wrapped the newborn in a towel and placed him in her mother’s arms.

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“Patrick, you have a son,” Shannon whispered through tears.

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Patrick’s face split into a grin as wide as the Illinois plains. “I have a son. I have a son!” He burst from the room, muddy boots thudding across the floorboards as he raced out into the open field. Under the gray sky, he danced a clumsy jig, shouting to the heavens, “I have a son! Me, Patrick James Kennedy, have a son!” His laughter broke into tears as his four daughters came running from the porch.

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“Daddy, it’s a boy? We have a baby brother?” asked nine-year-old Mary-Francis, her freckles bright against her pale skin.

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“Yes, lass,” Patrick said, pulling her close. “You’ve a brother at last.”

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“I’m so happy, Father! Can I take him for a walk?” piped red-haired Mary-Katherine.

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Patrick chuckled. “Walk him? He’s not a pup, child, and he’s only been on this earth for minutes!”

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“Then I’ll put him in my doll buggy and take him to the pigsty,” she offered brightly.

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“You’ll do no such thing!” Patrick barked. “He’s not a toy, and if I hear you so much as think of it, I’ll tan your hide. Understand?”

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“Yes, Father,” she said meekly. But as she turned to her sister, she whispered, “I’ll ask Mama. She’ll say yes.”

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Back in the bedroom, Shannon cradled the tiny bundle as Patrick took a seat beside her, his massive hand gently brushing the baby’s cheek.

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“Look at what you’ve done, my darling,” he murmured, his eyes glistening. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive.”

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“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Shannon said, smiling faintly.

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“Don’t you go encouraging him, Shannon Kennedy,” Katie warned as she cleaned up the room.

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“You need rest, and he needs to keep his dirty paws to himself.”

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Patrick grinned. “Aye, I’ll wait a month.”

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Katie smirked. “A month, is it? That’s for when the child’s a girl. You’ll wait two years for a boy.”

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“Two years?! The McMahons didn’t wait that long!”

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“Then perhaps the Lord will forgive your impatience when you’re as fruitful as the McMahons,” Katie shot back.

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Shannon laughed weakly. “We’ve four Marys already, Patrick. Don’t you dare start naming sons after yourself.”

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Patrick puffed his chest. “What’s wrong with Patrick Junior? Or Patrick the Second? Or maybe even Jesus!”

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“Jesus?” Shannon scoffed. “The poor lad’ll think we’re forever yelling at him every time we stub a toe.”

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Katie cackled. “He’s right about one thing, though—you’ve run out of Marys. Maybe name this one Shannon, after his mother.”

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Patrick recoiled. “Shannon? For a boy? He’ll be scrappin’ his way through school by the time he’s six.”

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“And that’ll make him all the stronger,” Shannon replied. “But fine, if you hate it so, let’s choose a name that’s his alone. What about... Jonathan?”

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Patrick considered the name, rolling it over like a smooth stone. “Jonathan,” he repeated slowly. “Strong. Steady. A name that’ll command respect. Never Johnny, never John. Always Jonathan.”

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“Agreed,” Shannon said softly, gazing down at the infant. “Welcome home, Jonathan Michael Kennedy. We’ve been waiting for you a very long time.”