LAMONT'S LIARY

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Instead of doing crosswords until 3 AM, or reading about sewage disposal in medieval castles, I got caught up in the genealogy sites on a few nights before Christmas.  (As for medieval sewage disposal, a Privy Counselor had it tough.  King Alfred had Irritable Bowel Syndrome.  Just think about that.)

 

Now, probably, one of you, or your kids, or grand kids or our cousin Ann (ArmyMothr) nee Lamont already know, or have already seen my couple "discoveries".  But if not, they may be of interest.

 

I pulled up Charles Lamont’s registration of death, signed by dad.  His signature evolved over the years, but the "D.A." was definitely his. 

 

Anyway,

 

I always thought Charlie was born in Montreal, and maybe he was.  But the death certificate says it was Ontario.  It also gives his birth date as October 12, 1863.  Most other places I’ve seen—like Census reports—his birth year works out to 1870.  If his birth year really is 1863, it would go along with what I remember Mom saying, i.e.: Charlie had no birth certificate, so he always lied about his age--if it could benefit him.

 

I don't know what's true, but I do know that death registrations are notoriously inconsistent.  If you go by the Nova Scotia death registrations of the Larkin Sisters, their mother, Bridget was born in four counties. 

 

It’s a difficult time for the families, and oral tradition becomes biblical certainty faster than a pipeline route becomes an ancient tribal burial ground.  On the other hand, Flora (that's grandma, or great grandma, or great great grandma, as the case may be), was alive and lucid in 1945.  She would have known the details, and you might expect her to want to be correct. 

 

If she wasn't just sitting back and enjoying the moment--if you know what I mean.  

 

I also found a family of VanWycks in Ontario, with a widowed head of household and a Charles Lamont listed as labourer.  That might fit the “I think the old woman took him in” story that Dad mentioned.  But, then, I think the VanWycks lived too far west--it was north of Toronto.

 

Leaving Charlie, in frustration, comme d'habitude, I started searching church records in Ireland for the Larkins. 

 

I found the baptism of Thomas Christopher Larkin, son of Matthew Larkin and Bridget Murnane, in Dublin.  Tommy was born on December 8th 1874 and baptized on December 12th (sure, and isn't that a wonderful day to be baptized?).   

 

Bridget and Matt were said to be living in the “Royal Barracks” at the time.. The "royal" bit seemed out of context, since Great Aunt Mary was the one raving against the Brits (in The Sacred Tales of Haligonian Spinsters).   

 

Sadly, little Tommy Larkin died 19 months later.  The family was still living in the Royal Barracks, because the burial record had "6th Dragns” written beside his entry.  I'm guessing that means they were paying the diggers.

 

It was easy to check out the 6th Dragoons—more properly the 6th Inniskilling Dragoons—and they were, indeed, barracked at the Royal Barracks in Dublin.

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We obese seniors on fixed incomes have no need to sleep during the dark hours, when there's all that daytime television (and a broken-down Lazy Boy) for daytime snoozing.  So I dug around some more and found Matt’s mustering out/pension medical.

 

Matthew Larkin, aged forty, was 5 foot 7.5 inches tall, with a fresh-faced complexion, brown hair and grey eyes (just like mine 😊).  He was born in County Tipperary in a town with an illegible name, but I think it might be Rosecrea.  He’d spent 20 years in the dragoons, as a farrier (so that part of mom’s story is true), and did 7 years of India service--kinda romantic, if your weren't one of the conquered people. 

 

It looks like he’d been working at O’Callaghan Mill in Country Clare for a year at the time he applied for a pension, which--and I'm guessing--was 18 pounds a year. I watched every episode of Downton Abbey, so I feel confident that 18 pounds a month would have made the family Earls or Dukes, so 18 a year was  nothing to sniff at.  There were veterans with much smaller pensions.

 

As for whether Matt was a good Irishman or not--who's to say?  It's true that he worked for the bad guys, but in fairness, there probably weren't a lot of jobs when he joined up, just after the famine.  So, at worst, he was a fella who knew which side his potatoes were buttered on. 

 

The Royal Barracks are still there in Dublin, by the way, but now they're called the Collins Museum.  Those of you who have been there, may have walked right by it without realizing you might have struck up a conversation with dead people. 

 

Here's the best thing about my late night peregrinations (that's Falconing while in pajamas, and it's against the law for women in Saudi Arabia).  I found a picture of the 6th Dragoons taken at the Royal Barracks in 1875.  It's  impossible to make out any faces--well, maybe a couple at the front.  But, unless he was on sick call (or at Tommy's burial)  Matthew Larkin would surely be in there, somewhere, looking back at his great-great-great-great grandchildren.  Imagine that.

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And he was probably thinking what a fookin' waste of time this is, pulling out the dress woollies, then standing around like a boonch of fookin' eedjits.

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The Sixth Inniskilling Dragoons, unmounted parade, 1875  

 

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