Cursed! Blood of the Donnellys

by Keith Ross Leckie

  “All right, lads. That’s all we can hold. Get the wagons out of here!” Mick ordered. Two Whiteboys were at the reins and the full wagons charged out of the warehouse, rumbling off toward hungry mouths down the river. Jim gave Mick a look.

  Jim picked up a can of coal oil and heavily doused a nearby crate.

  “Are you sure you want to do that Jim?”

  “Why not? If we can’t have the rest, neither can the English!”

  He lit the crate on fire with his torch.

  “Such a waste.”

  “It’s a war, Mick!”

  Jim began moving up and down the aisles, pouring coal oil on everything in the warehouse until the can was empty. One of the Whiteboys followed him with the torch, lighting fire points that grew and joined each other. The warehouse would soon be an inferno. Feeling the heat on his face, Jim was suddenly standing before the tenant houses as they blazed before him and George Magee looked on. Lucy’s screams were in his head. Then the image of his father’s body floating face down. He was satisfied this food would never see England.

  * * *

  Johannah sat very still in the generous winged chair, the chair on which she had climbed as a child, one of the last pieces of furniture left in the once-lavish parlour after her father’s debtors had finished with it. She had once enacted exotic adventures here in this room under the Broadwood and Sons piano that her mother so loved and played well. Those times, along with the instrument, were now gone. The paintings by Wilson and Constable, scenes in which she would lose herself, had been taken like the ones in her bedroom, the faded outlines on the wallpaper their only traces. There had been the gilded books of classic English and French stories she could read at an early age—she remembered names from faraway places, like Timbuktu, Siam, Xanadu and the Amazon River, but the shelves were now empty, the promises of other worlds beyond hers now gone. What was once a room of cultural enlightenment was stripped bare.

  Johannah had decided she must leave Ballymore as soon as possible. She would arrange for a coach the next day to take her…where? And what about Jim? The rediscovery of their love had been so sudden. Would he come with her? To Dublin or back to London? She would need to make an income—she would take nothing from her father—she could teach or perhaps become a nurse. She had to get in touch with Jim. But that was for tomorrow. Tonight she would confront her father one last time.

  She sat in near darkness, choosing not to light a lamp, watching as the shadows grew longer in the room, the colours flattening and merging into an imperfect darkness, which suited her mood. It was deep into night when she heard her father arrive home, his footsteps echoing in the almost empty house. He carried a lamp into the parlour, placed it down on a small desk and poured himself a substantial drink of his whiskey, a now much cheaper brand. He finished half in a swallow, put down the glass, then turned, startled to see Johannah in the chair facing him.

  “Johannah. What are you doing sitting in the dark?”

  “Waiting for you.”

  “What is it?”

  She studied his face for a moment in the lamplight.

  “Is it true? You drove the tenants off the land and then burned down their cottages so they couldn’t return?”

  She could see he was caught off guard. He took a moment to regain his bearings.

  “I asked the tenants to leave. I had no choice. The estate was losing money fast. Beef prices had tripled in England. Cavendish gave me his orders. We needed the pasture land.”

  “So it is true.” She stared at him bitterly.

  “Most of those families hadn’t paid their rent in a year. They had to go. I didn’t want to bring in the soldiers. They left me no choice.”

  “You burned them in their houses. Your soldiers shot the Ryan brothers!”

  “They had a gun.”

  “You killed Lucy!”

  “The cottage was already burning when she ran inside.”

  “You killed her.”

  He came toward her, his voice taking on a new bloodless tone. “Now listen to me. I wasn’t going to let a gaggle of pig-headed peasants hold me ransom, breeding like rats. It was them or us.”

  Johannah now stared at him with loathing. “Don’t include me in your disgusting cadre.”

  “Oh you are very much a part of this. You were born into privilege and enjoyed the benefits. Everything has a price.”

  He studied her and Johannah could see his rising emotions shifting to what she had seen in him before. He moved toward her as a predator toward prey and she felt fear. Then his eyes were suddenly diverted by something out the window. She turned to see a glow had appeared in the sky like a late sunset. Her father stared in shock at the distant flames and spoke beneath his breath: “The warehouse.”

  For a moment, he stood frozen by the image of the flames. Then he turned and ran from the room. It took Johannah a moment to catch her breath, free of her father’s toxic presence. She moved to the window. The distant smoke and flames were rising above the warehouse and for a moment she savoured the sweet justice of her father’s tragedy.

  * * *

  Inside, the warehouse was becoming a very satisfactory inferno with barrels and crates engulfed and flames travelling up and beginning to consume the roof beams. Jim was admiring the results of their efforts.

  “All right! Let’s go!” he called to the others. “The soldiers will be out front. Out the back way.”

  The rest of the Whiteboys headed for the back exit where they lifted the bar, opened the heavy door and scrambled out of the burning warehouse into the back alley. Just as Mick and Jim were about to join them, they heard the first animal screams. Somewhere, there were horses trapped.

  Mick grabbed Jim’s arm. “Come on! Too late!”

  “No. We can’t leave them.” Jim pulled away. He ran back inside with Mick’s voice in his ears. “Jimmy! For Christ’s sake!”

  In an extension at the back of the flaming warehouse as yet untouched by the flames, Jim pushed open a wide gate and went inside the stable to find half a dozen agitated horses in three stalls. The smoke was growing thick and the horses were panicking as the roar of the fire grew louder and the flames crept quickly toward them. Jim stayed low under the smoke and kept his voice calm.

  “Easy now, beauties. It’s all right. You’ll be fine.”

  He slid the wooden bolt and swung open the door of the first stall, then the second. The horses reared back, hesitant at first, but he entered each stall and chased them out. Four horses ran off through a wider door, out into the night. Jim went to the third and last stall and slid the bolt, but before he could open the door, a figure appeared in the open doorway through the heavy smoke. It was George Magee with his pistol drawn.

  “Who’s there! Come out, you bastards!”

  He fired a shot that splintered the wood a foot above Jim’s ear.

  Jim opened the last gate as Magee prepared to shoot again through the smoke. The final horse left alone was a fine black mare and as she headed toward the open doors, Jim grabbed hold of her mane and was able to hoist himself up on her back. Slung on the opposite side of the horse, he rode out of the inferno past the furious Magee.

  “You dirty blaggard! I’ll send you to hell!”

  Magee took aim and fired two shots over the horse at where Jim’s hand and leg grasped hold and missed Jim by inches as horse and rider galloped out of the stable.

  Now free and away in the cool dark of the night, Jim guided his fine new mount down the street toward safety. Looking back, he could see a furious Magee emerging from the flaming warehouse, signalling to the soldiers in front of him.

  “Shoot him, damn it! Don’t hit the horse!”

  Three soldiers stopped to aim as Jim rode past, his body a low profile hanging off the opposite side of the mare. Following Magee’s instructions, the soldiers all fired high and missed both man and hor
se. Jim caught a glimpse of Mick watching from a darkened doorway, giving him a half salute as it appeared Jim’s escape would be made good.

  Now well past and away from the soldiers who were reloading their muskets, Jim sat up straight on his mount and guided the horse toward the buildings at the end of the block and the entrance to a side street, sure that once he was round the corner he would be free and clear. But as he leaned into the corner, a soldier suddenly leapt out—he barely saw him—and swung his musket well, hitting Jim in the chest and knocking him off his mount onto the street. He landed hard, his head bouncing off the surface, and lay half conscious on the greasy cobblestones as the soldiers arrived and gathered around him, muskets pointed at his heart. Magee ran up to have a look at him.

  “I know this man. Tie him up and get him to the lock-up. He’ll hang for this.”

  Jim cursed his bad luck. He turned his head around to study the warehouse one last time. The two wagons of meat and food would have had time to get to the poor huts. They accomplished their goal. Although a wagonload of firemen had arrived and were dousing the buildings on each side, the flames that now swallowed the warehouse would guarantee the total destruction of Magee’s exports. Jim was happy. He hoped Mick and the boys had finished making their escape—this was his last thought before he passed out.

  * * *

  The Borrisokane lock-up was off the town square, built from thick limestone blocks, with four cells, all four by six feet, with windows so tiny they were almost not worth the bother. Though the jail was run by constables, two soldiers had been ordered to stand guard outside. Inside, Jim lay recuperating in one of the cells on a narrow, stinking straw cot. On the rough wooden walls separating the cells, seen in the dim light, there were crude markings of skeletons, hanging men and hundreds of cross-hatchings counting long days in the lock-up. It was not his first time here but never for troubles so serious. He stared at the wall and thought of Johannah.

  His head ached and his ribs gave shooting pains with each breath where the butt of the musket had cracked them. They had used that wound during questioning an hour after he was arrested. Two soldiers had held him up while a burly third had punched his wounded ribs and the corporal demanded the names of the other Whiteboys. They only stopped when he spit up blood and passed out again. They promised to be back in an hour for the names. Jim would give them up, sooner or later. He closed his eyes and tried to rest his aching brain. He wondered if Johannah knew he was arrested. To have found her again and then so soon after, this misfortune; the Donnelly curse was alive and well.

  Just then, he heard the sound of the heavy outside door opening. They have come again, he thought. It hadn’t been an hour. He was not ready. He worried that he might not have the strength to resist. But then a familiar voice was speaking to the constable in the outer room and Jim was suddenly alert.

  “…even the dregs of society must have a chance to save their souls. It is what our Lord would want.” The voice called out to him. “Are you ready for your confession, my son?”

  He could not believe his ears. It was Mick. Was there still hope? Might he still hold Johannah again? As they entered the cells, it was all Jim could do to play along and not give Mick away.

  “Thank goodness you’ve come, Father,” he called out evenly. “I want to confess.”

  “Open the door, now. I want to see his eyes so I know this poor wretch is sincere.”

  Jim wondered if there was any chance the constable would actually allow this. After a hesitation, to his surprise the young policeman inserted his big key, turned it and opened wide the cell door. Jim squinted into the light. There stood Mick, serviceably dressed as a priest in white collar with the guard behind him holding a lantern, his musket casually under his arm. When Mick winked, Jim had to stifle a laugh and play the serious penitent.

  “In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost…may God forgive me.”

  Mick turned, pulled the musket from the surprised policeman and with a quick, clever upward movement, hit him in the side of the head with the heavy barrel. The constable fell, unconscious. Mick whistled his signal to the boys.

  Outside the lock-up, four of the Whiteboys came out of the shadows and clubbed the two soldiers on duty. They dragged their unconscious bodies back into the shadows beside the building. Inside, Mick and Jim quickly tied up and gagged the semi-conscious police officer. Mick locked him in the cell and took his pistol.

  “Sorry, my son. God bless you.”

  Mick and Jim burst outside onto the deserted street to join the four other Whiteboys. A dog barked in the distance, but otherwise they were undiscovered.

  “Thanks, boys,” Jim told them.

  “Split up and let’s get out of here,” Mick ordered.

  As they were about to run in different directions, Jim looked back to see one soldier, who had been unconscious on the ground beside his musket, was coming to. The boys had not tied him and his hand found the weapon. He scrambled groggily to his knees, raised the barrel and fired a shot at them, missing them all. Mick turned, raised the pistol without aiming and fired back in retaliation. The ball hit the soldier between the eyes, tossing him backwards. For a moment they stopped and stared with shock at the smashed face, the body so suddenly still and flat—the first man they had killed, and an English soldier at that.

  They heard the sound of boots on cobblestones—a large patrol approaching at a run, a sergeant’s voice shouting them on. Jim’s eyes went back to the dead soldier for a moment. They had not wanted this, to take a life. Musket fire hit the lamppost and the brick wall beside them. The soldiers moving up the street could see them now and were within range.

  “Jimmy! Come on!” Mick called out. “For the love of God.”

  Jim turned away from the dead soldier. The Whiteboys divided into pairs with Mick and Jim together and they all made a run for it.

  The Plan

  There was a pounding at the door and Raffy and Johannah opened it together. The young corporal she had seen at the soup line stepped into the foyer to report to her father. George Magee took the young man into his study. From the large panelled dining room next door, Raffy and Johannah listened to the description of the murder of the soldier and the escape of the Whiteboys. She glanced through the door to see her father’s red face about to explode as he took it in.

  “At least we had the ringleader, Donnelly. Now we have nothing!”

  At this, Johannah froze. He was talking about Jimmy! She would have been naive not to suspect that Jim was involved with politics, and even maybe the Whiteboys, but arson and murder?

  “How could you let him escape?” her father went on. “They have ruined me. I have lost everything. I want them all, dead or alive.”

  “A mounted regiment from Limerick is on its way, sir.”

  Magee put on his coat, buckled on his pistol belt and headed for the door with the young corporal on his heels.

  “Come on. We can’t wait. We’ll hunt them down. Every one!”

  “It’s only a question of time, sir.”

  After the men had passed without a word and left the house, Johannah turned to Raffy.

  “I have to help Jimmy.”

  “You best stay out of it.”

  “I can’t, Raffy!” She held the older woman’s eyes for a moment. “I love him.”

  They could hear Magee and the corporal ride off into the night.

  Raffy studied her gravely. “And when did all this come about?”

  “A couple days ago. All my life.”

  Raffy thought for a moment. Johannah watched her face anxiously.

  “You love the boy? You’re sure?”

  She nodded, her eyes wide. “I’ve never been so sure.”

  “And he loves you?” Johannah nodded and Raffy sighed deeply, considering the problem.

  “Well, there’s no life for him in Ireland now. He has to get
out. Even England won’t be safe. There are ships leaving Dublin every day.”

  “All right. Let’s help him. But how can we find him?”

  “I can get word to him.”

  Johannah stared at her in surprise.

  “You know the Whiteboys?”

  “A nephew.”

  “Then do it, Raffy, please!”

  * * *

  In the streets of Borrisokane, small patrols of soldiers moved swiftly along the cobblestone streets through the town searching for Jim and Mick. The other Whiteboys had dispersed. Their chances were better alone. Jim had thought of going home to say goodbye to his mother and Theresa and little Bridget. No matter what the future held, he would not see them for a long time.

  “You must be daft, man,” Mick told him. “You can’t go home. The soldiers’ll be crawling all over the place.”

  Jim realized of course he was right. His mother would be weeping at these new troubles and Theresa would shaking her head at him.

  It was Ryan’s boy Andy who found them hiding in a blind alley they often frequented and delivered the surprising message.

  “The lady wants to help you. She wants to meet,” the boy told them.

  “Magee’s daughter?” Mick exclaimed. “This is madness, Jimmy.”

  “She loves me. She’ll not betray us.”

  “How can a lovesick pup know that? It’s a trap for sure or I’m the Pope.”

  “What other chance do we have?”

  Alone now, keeping to the shadows, Mick carrying the musket, they crossed a street, ran across the commons and the pastureland beyond. Twenty minutes later they came to a stone wall bordering the Cavendish estate lands and climbed over. At the second building, the main stables, they came to a window with unlocked shutters. Again the concern of entrapment came to Jim, but is this not the last place the soldiers would look? It was smart on Johannah’s part and, either way, he surrendered himself to her mercy. He and Mick slipped through a window into the stable.