Chapter 278: American Dream
Killian gestured toward the enforcers gathered within the cabin. Where moments before he had seen little more than hardened men of questionable trade, he now regarded them differently—not as thugs, but as the possible foundation of something larger. Instruments of order. The first pieces in a deliberate expansion.
"If we have a State," he said, measured and precise, "we have votes in Congress. And with votes come Senators. With Senators..."—he allowed the thought to settle—"those ’gentlemen’ in New York will be obliged to seek our consent before passing any law that concerns us."
His tone remained calm, almost analytical.
"The American system is not chaos—it is a code. And a code may be understood... and used. We need not beg for power. We will take it, lawfully, through their own provisions. Their territory laws will grant us the means to build something of our own."
His gaze lifted slightly.
"A place where the name Vance carries as much weight as Adams."
Cormac did not answer at once.
He studied the young man in silence, his expression shifting—subtly, but unmistakably. For the first time, what he saw was not merely intelligence.
It was something more dangerous.
Not a desire to escape servitude—but to reshape the very structure that produced it.
"A State of our own..." Cormac murmured at last. A faint, predatory smile touched his lips. "That is a thing a man might die for."
He leaned forward again, the brief approval giving way to practicality.
"But before any of that, Killian, we must survive the docks of New York—with little more than the clothes we wear. Tell me—have you a plan for the first day?"
A short pause followed.
"Or are we to live on talk of States while we starve in the streets of Broadway?"
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"And another matter—the Irish already there. Most are bound by contract. They cannot simply leave, not yet. How do you expect men to follow you... when their very lives do not belong to them?"
Killian allowed himself a faint smile.
"For now, it does not matter," he replied. "We are not founding a State tomorrow. Such a thing will require years of preparation—perhaps more."
He rested his hand lightly against the table.
"In the meantime, we begin with what is possible. Those Irish who have completed their contracts... those who stand free—we gather them. We form our own organization. A body capable of protecting our neighborhoods."
His voice lowered slightly, though it did not lose its clarity.
"If the law is used against us, then it must be made costly to enforce. They will think twice before pressing too hard—if we possess both the numbers and the means to answer."
Cormac considered this, then tilted his head.
"You mean something like the Jews in London?" he asked.
Killian nodded once. Though inwardly, other images stirred—visions not yet realized. Districts shaped by shared origin and mutual defense. Places where identity itself became strength.
"That is the idea," he said. "We rely upon one another. Protection becomes unity—and unity, in time, becomes movement."
He paused briefly.
"It will be easier, then, to gather men willing to go west. To build something new."
A flicker of thought passed behind his eyes.
"There are also the native peoples of this land. If we can reach an understanding with them—if we can secure their cooperation—then we strengthen our position further. With enough ground and enough people, our claim becomes... difficult to deny."
Cormac said nothing. The others listened.
"From what I can see," Killian continued, "this United States may have its unwritten rules—but within its own system lies the means to rise. To become masters, as they are."
His expression hardened slightly.
"But a State cannot be secured by words alone. To hold land is to defend it. Others may challenge us—the native tribes, or even the government itself, sending settlers to weaken our hold."
He let the implication linger.
"We will require arms. Organization. Discipline. A force sufficient not only to build—but to endure."
Silence followed.
Killian did not elaborate further—but his thoughts did not remain still.
He knew what lay ahead, though he did not yet speak it.
The young republic was already turning toward industry. Toward the creation of armories—national, centralized, controlled.
But in the future he had seen, power did not rest solely with governments.
It rested with those who supplied them.
If he could gather the right men—Irish smiths cast aside by circumstance, native craftsmen skilled in metal and fire—there was the possibility of something greater. Not merely an armed community, but a foundation of industry.
A source of power that did not depend on permission.
A force that, once established, would make even the boldest hesitate before crossing him—or his family.
If I control the craft of the weapon, Killian reflected in silence, then I control the State.
His gaze lowered slightly, though his expression gave nothing away.
If I supply the rifles, the settlers will not merely be neighbors—they will be bound to me. Their safety will depend upon my forge. Their strength... upon my supply.
He glanced toward Siobhan, who had rested her head upon her folded arms, weariness overtaking her.
I will give them their Irish State, he resolved inwardly. But the arms that defend it will bear my name.
The thought did not disturb him.
Every shot fired in defense of our borders... a return to my house.
His brow tightened faintly. Beneath the calm surface, there was ambition—quiet, disciplined, but vast.
He said nothing.
Then, from beyond the door, voices rose—loud, urgent, spreading through the ship like fire through dry timber.
"We are reaching New York! New York!"
The cry traveled quickly along the narrow, salt-worn passage.
For a moment, the tension within the cabin broke.
Cormac rose at once, pulling on his heavy coat. Siobhan straightened, her fatigue forgotten, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fragile hope.
Killian was the last to move.
Carefully, he pushed his thoughts aside, burying them where they could not be seen. His expression settled into that of a tired traveler—measured, unremarkable.
Yet as he stepped from the cabin and made his way up the steep wooden stairs, his heart beat with a steady, controlled anticipation.
At the top, the Atlantic wind struck them—cold and bracing. It carried with it a scent unlike anything of Ireland. No peat, no damp stone.
Instead: pine timber, roasting coffee, horse manure, and the sharp, briny edge of a harbor in full motion.
There was no grand monument to greet them.
No towering figure to mark their arrival.
Before them stretched a forest of masts—hundreds of vessels crowded together. Merchant ships, brigs, schooners from distant ports, their rigging forming a tangled web against the pale morning sky.
New York lay beyond.
But it was not the vast city of Killian’s visions.
It was smaller. Denser. A compact settlement of red brick and white-painted wood gathered at the southern edge of Manhattan.
To most, it would appear a thriving port.
To Killian, it appeared something else entirely.
A beginning.
"A small place..." Siobhan whispered, gripping the railing as she stared ahead. Her eyes fixed upon the church spires—the tallest structures in the town, rising like pale fingers toward the sky. "It is not a fortress, Killian. Only... a town."
Cormac let out a short, rough laugh. Yet even as he did, his eyes moved restlessly, scanning the docks below—watching for customs officers, or the sharp-eyed runners who hunted new arrivals for profit.
"It is a town of gold and mud, Sio," he said. "Look at the banks. That mud—"
He gave a slight nod toward the shoreline.
"—that is where we shall dig for our place."
Killian did not answer.
His gaze moved beyond the spires, beyond the houses of merchants and the crowded markets.
He watched the smoke.
Dark, heavy plumes rose from the foundries and smithies along the East River—thick with soot, constant, alive.
Where others saw labor—
Killian saw power.
There, he thought. That is the heartbeat.
The steady rhythm of hammers striking anvils seemed almost audible, even from a distance.
"It is not Ireland," Killian said at last, his voice lowered so that only those closest to him could hear. "In Ireland, the land belongs to those damned Englishmen. Here..."—he paused briefly—"even with their hidden rules, the land belongs to whoever can take it."
He glanced toward Siobhan.
"Look at them. Every man here is running toward the same thing—to make a fortune, to become a master. Most will fail. Some will gain a little land, if they are fortunate. Others will end in the streets."
A faint pause.
"But it is still a chance."
Cormac allowed himself a small smile. Then, after a moment’s thought, he leaned slightly closer.
"You should teach your sister to use a weapon," he said quietly.
Killian gave a faint shrug.
"She already knows. In Ireland, as you well know, life is not so peaceful. While I was saving for our passage, I feared someone might break into the house. It seemed... prudent."
Cormac nodded once, satisfied.
The ship groaned as it turned toward the wooden piers of South Street. Below, the docks stirred with relentless motion. A confusion of voices filled the air—English, Dutch, German, and the distant cadence of sailors from the Caribbean and beyond.
It was not a single city, but many, layered atop one another.
Killian’s gaze shifted.
He saw them—the "gentlemen." Men in silk waistcoats and powdered hair, standing upon the balconies of their counting houses. They watched the harbor with the stillness of hawks, their attention fixed upon the arriving ships.
Upon the people.
There was calculation in their eyes. And something colder.
They looked upon the newcomers not as equals, but as necessity—and inconvenience.
You see us as labor, Killian thought, his hand resting lightly upon Siobhan’s shoulder. As hands to build your docks and sweep your streets.
His grip tightened, just slightly.
You do not yet see what arrives with us.
Cormac nudged him, drawing him back.
"The gangplank will be down in a moment," he murmured, his hand subtly checking the blade concealed within his sleeve. "Keep your head low. Let them see nothing more than a boy and his sister."
A brief pause.
"I will attend to any welcome that proves... unfriendly."
Killian inclined his head.
The ship settled. Ropes were cast. Wood met wood with a hollow, final sound.
Then, at last, he stepped forward.
As his boots touched the mud-slick planks of the Manhattan dock, the weight of the year—1794—seemed to settle upon him.
He possessed nothing. No fortune. No standing. No allies beyond those who stood beside him.
But he carried something else.
A knowledge of what was to come.
"A new life," he murmured quietly, his gaze fixed upon the modest town before him—
—unseen, as it would one day become the greatest city in the world.
