Cursed! Blood of the Donnellys

by Keith Ross Leckie

  “Yeah. It’s north of town here on the Roman Line road. That’s for Roman Catholic. Pretty well all Irish out there.” He found the number. “It’s registered to Patrick Farrell. I know him. He went to the States.”

  “Did he clear any of it?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Then I can claim it, right?”

  “Yes. You can do that. Just hope Farrell doesn’t come back within seven years and claim it back.”

  Johannah studied the various parcels marked in red. “I don’t like this, Jim. It’s so uncertain. I want to own the land. Could we buy forty acres, farther out from town?”

  Johannah pointed to a small patch some nine miles west of Lucan.

  “Look at this little one here.”

  “No, too far. I like the sound of this hundred acres. Why don’t we just go and have a look at it? Get an idea of what’s available.”

  Johannah glared at him. “I think we need to buy.”

  Jim ignored her. Vinnie held his peace.

  They piled Johannah and Will in the cart and headed back out of town, out past the church and north along the Roman Line toward the land, four miles distant, excited anticipation giving a lightness to Jim’s step.

  “Can we just ask about a mortgage, Jim? See what they say.”

  “I know how that works with banks. It’s the game they play. One missed payment and they take the farm away and sell it to the next man. But this is our land for the taking, Jo. Free land! Earned with our sweat.”

  “I’m not sure, Jim…”

  “I’m sure,” Jim told her. “I’ve never been so sure.”

  Johannah could not deny her misgivings; to claim someone else’s land on a legal point, there were so many pitfalls. But on a beautiful day in early summer, passing fields of optimistic green with lofty trees towering overhead and the mesmerizing blue sky beyond, everything was possible, and God could not help but smile on their endeavours. And very soon they had arrived at the acreage.

  “This is it!”

  “The Farrell lot,” Vinnie said, studying the map, impressed.

  “The Donnelly lot, lad. Get it straight.”

  It was a most verdant time of the year and everything was lush, very green, a wall of trees, all they had dreamed of.

  “Oh Jim. It’s…beautiful.”

  Jim could hardly contain his excitement, looking at what would be their land. Was their land, from this day on. With an elaborate bow, he extended a hand to Johannah to help her from the cart.

  “M’lady! Welcome to your kingdom.”

  Johannah laughed, took his hand and stepped down, holding Will in one arm.

  “Thank you, m’lord.”

  She stared breathlessly into the wilderness they would tame together.

  “There are a few trees, Jim.”

  His enthusiasm was not to be diminished.

  “Ah, only a handful. Clear them out in no time, won’t we, Vinnie?”

  “Before you can turn around three times,” Vinnie offered, trying to match his enthusiasm. “And we need the logs anyway.”

  From up the road, the squeak and rumble of wagon wheels long preceded the arrival of a grizzled, bare-headed young man in dirty overalls who was driving a team of oxen down the Roman Line. Jim waved to him and the man hauled back on the reins and brought the huge beasts and the cargo rig to a stop.

  “Isn’t it a beautiful day, sir?” Jim asked him, his heart made light with the finding of the land. “And that’s a fine pair of animals you’ve got there.”

  “Thank you. Yes, they are.”

  “You got a farm close by then?”

  The man gestured over his shoulder. “Fifty acres, one concession back.”

  “Good. Then we’re your new neighbours. I’m Jim Donnelly, this is my wife, Johannah, and our friend Vinnie O’Toole. Oh, and young Will, the sprat.”

  The man stayed on the wagon seat but when the others came forward, he reached out enthusiastically to shake hands all around.

  “James Keefe. Welcome to Lucan. So you bought Farrell’s place?”

  “It’s mine now.”

  “Good. Never liked Farrell much. You got a couple trees there to keep you busy. Might want to borrow my beasts for moving logs and pulling stumps.”

  “I’d be much obliged.”

  “Come over when you get settled and need ’em. I own the farm out here and my brother owns the hotel across the way from St. Patrick’s Church down the Roman Line, so you needn’t be a stranger in either place. Good luck to you.”

  Keefe waved, gave a grunt to the oxen, a flick of the reins, and continued on his way.

  “You see that? Only the first of many new friends. What do you say, Johannah, my love? Are we home?”

  She could not resist his contagious enthusiasm and her smile confirmed that he had her.

  “Let’s make it so,” she told him.

  Beaming, Jim selected a new axe from the cart and strode across the ditch and up to a fine elm the width of a man’s head. He glanced at the others with a significant grin, spit on his hands with no less reverence than a priest preparing the Mass, raised the blade over his shoulder and with a mighty swing, followed by the applause of Vinnie and Johannah, sliced deep into the first tree.

  To Your Good Health

  Inside Keefe’s Hotel was a line of shot glasses on the bar touching rims and filled by one long pour, with remarkably little spillage, and consumed almost as quickly by a line of patrons and the glasses replaced just so for another round. Jim and Vinnie were introduced by James Keefe to the tavern’s owner, his brother Michael. The neighbours, all Catholic of course, gestured to them, each with beer or whiskey in their hands, greeting them with friendly faces while James Keefe went on introducing other patrons for the benefit of Jim and Vinnie.

  “…these two ugly lads are the Feehleys, Pat and Joe. This individual is a Hogan by the name of Robert. The wee fella there is John Purtell and over there are the Kennedy brothers. The Kennedys breed like rabbits. No one can remember all their names. They’re starting to give ’em numbers.”

  Jim was delighted to meet the men he would live among. He and Vinnie smiled, nodded and shook some hands.

  “Jim Donnelly. Pleased to meet you all.”

  “Vincent O’Toole. How do you do?”

  Just then a big red-faced man, John Carroll, came up to them. He had two men with him and Jim noticed that Keefe deferred to him, stepping back a little.

  “Evening, Mr. Carroll.”

  “Hello, Keefe. Who’s this, then?”

  “Jim Donnelly, just over from Tipperary. And his friend Vincent. Bought the Farrell place.”

  Carroll shook Jim’s hand, sizing him up.

  “Really? The Farrell place. Good for you. Nice chunk of land. Did Pat give you a good deal?”

  “Yes. A good deal.”

  “What would that be? Under eight hundred pounds?” he asked pointedly.

  “Maybe.”

  Carroll studied him, then suddenly gave a generous laugh. “A man who doesn’t want his business public. I respect that. Good luck to you with it. Let me know if I can ever help you out.”

  “Thank you.”

  A small, wiry man with a heavy moustache and a canvas cap walked into the bar. Carroll noticed him, gave him a moment to walk deeper into the bar and called him out.

  “Thomas Dunn. Just the bollocks I was looking for.”

  Dunn looked up at Carroll in shock, then searched around for an avenue of escape, but Carroll’s two men had stepped around behind to block his way. Dunn turned to face Carroll. In front of the other men present, Dunn stood up straight and assumed a level of dignity.

  “You have no call to talk to me like that, John Carroll.”

  Carroll slapped him across the face with the back of his hand.

&
nbsp; “Oh but I do, you see. You’ve been stealing my firewood again, haven’t you?”

  “No, I…”

  “Don’t lie to me, ’cause I found out what you done with it. That’s the worst part. You sold a wagon load of my wood to that Protestant blacksmith, McBain.”

  “I didn’t know he was Protestant…”

  “With a name like McBain? You’re a lying Blackleg!”

  Jim had the strange feeling he had been through all this before, several thousand miles away, a Blackleg called out in a tavern.

  “And you know what we do with Blacklegs. It’s time for the barrel!”

  Dunn’s face went white. Carroll’s two men grabbed him by the arms. Jim was strongly hoping that this wasn’t what he thought it was. Vinnie looked at him askance.

  Carroll turned to Jim. “Donnelly. Come out and see the fun.”

  Jim hesitated as Carroll waited for him at the door, but then in the interest of diplomacy, Jim followed him with Vinnie behind.

  On the road outside the tavern, Jim’s apprehensions were realized. The practice had been imported here in all its cruel detail, the punishment Jim and the Whiteboys had employed with such righteous enthusiasm in Borrisokane. Carroll’s men used the last of an armful of wilted wild rose briars with numerous long thorns to line the inside of a large beer barrel. Carroll’s men escorted Dunn out, gagged, shirtless and with his hands tied tightly behind his back.

  “So Dunn, you were warned, now weren’t you?”

  Dunn could not hide the terror in his eyes as Carroll’s men forced him inside the barrel, quickly put the barrel top in place and began to secure it.

  Despite himself, despite the promises made to Johannah, the rose barrel opened up the anger that still lived deep inside him. That anger he once focused so intensely on Magee, that deposit of hate bequeathed to him by all his forefathers since the days of Cromwell. Despite the prospect of a new life here, despite the love of a good wife and a child, despite having no real quarrel with any man in this country, least of all the poor wretch in the barrel, the desire to fight or to cause someone pain still stirred his blood. He was ashamed of it.

  Carroll was watching him. “Have you seen this punishment before, then?”

  “No,” Jim told him, for it was none of Carroll’s business if he had.

  “It’s rather poetic with the lovely, sweet-smelling roses causing such pain by the thorns, don’t you think? Rather like a woman.”

  Carroll was pleased with his metaphor. Jim remained silent. Carroll’s men turned the barrel on its side and they started rolling it down the dirt road. Dunn’s muffled screams and curses could be heard from inside.

  Vinnie turned to Jim, saying quietly, “This is horrible. So it is.”

  The patrons from the tavern watched the barrel roll, some grim, some amused. A short distance down the dirt road, the men turned the barrel and rolled it back. Jim exchanged a look with Vinnie. As it approached, the screams now reduced to moans, Jim stepped out to stand in the barrel’s path, caught the rims in his hands and brought it to a stop. The men rolling it looked at him in surprise.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Donnelly?” Carroll asked him.

  Just then came the sound of cantering hooves and Jim turned to see a substantial figure in a black constable uniform ride up to the men on the road. Jim watched them all shy away. They feared the newcomer. The big policeman, whose name Jim would find out was Constable Vincent Fitzhenry, dismounted.

  “What’s going on here?” He was a head taller than most of them. “Who’s in the barrel?” He looked askance at the other witnesses. “Carroll? Kennedy?”

  No one faced up to him. He stepped over to the closest of Carroll’s men, took him by his shirt, twisted it with one gloved hand and pulled his face up close to his own.

  “I asked a question.”

  The man gasped for breath. “It’s Dunn.” Muffled moans could be heard from inside the barrel, lying on its side. The policeman let go of Carroll’s man.

  “Get him out.”

  Other men from the tavern quickly pried the lid off. A bloody Dunn spilled out of the barrel and lay groaning among the roses on the dirt road, bloody pinpricks all over his face, back and shoulders. Two men helped him up to his feet.

  “Dunn? I’ll write up charges. Who ordered this?”

  “No one, Constable Fitzhenry. I was cleaning the barrel and fell in. She started to roll is all.”

  “Along with the roses?”

  “They were for my sweetheart.”

  Some of the men gave a muted laugh. Fitzhenry looked at Dunn in frustration.

  “Why are you protecting them, Dunn? Tell me the truth. I’ll arrest a few.”

  “’Twas my own fault, Constable.”

  Fitzhenry turned to Carroll.

  “I’d take you in for assault, Carroll, if I thought I could make it stick. Next time, I promise you, I will charge you with something. All of you. It can’t go on like this.”

  “But we’re all being as good as lambs, Constable.”

  Fitzhenry gave Carroll a last look, then remounted.

  “Keefe? Make sure Dunn gets cleaned up and send him home safe.”

  “Yes, Constable.”

  “No more of this. I warn you.”

  Then Fitzhenry rode away. Carroll and his men went back into the bar for drinks, as did the other patrons. Michael Keefe took Dunn into the kitchen to clean him up. Jim stayed outside a moment with Vinnie, unwilling to fall in with Carroll’s crowd so easily.

  “I thought I had left this kind of shite back in Tipperary, Vinnie.”

  “I don’t know, Jim. It might be a new land but I don’t think people change much.”

  “We’re going to have to be careful.”

  James Keefe came back outside.

  “Come on, Jim, Vinnie. Carroll’s buying a round!”

  Jim and Vincent followed Keefe inside.

  * * *

  Over the following days and weeks, Jim, Vinnie and Johannah cut a great number of sod bricks from a small open meadow on the land and then, using lumber to reinforce them, piled them to form the walls of a temporary hut. Johannah became quite skillful at the work. Her nails were broken and dirty, her apron stained with mud and she worked with little Will secured in a sheet on her back, but she was adept at piling the dirty sod. At the end of a day, she would collapse on the bed, aching and exhausted. She had never been so challenged, never worked so hard, but with the sod walls and a roof of poles, bark and oilcloths, they were building a house and a world. Johannah had never been so happy.

  Jim and Vinnie opened up a hundred-foot-square clearing back from the road and planted some barley and corn. A smoky fire was constantly consuming the green trunks and branches. When the rains came, they quickly turned the raw dark earth of the new clearing into mud but it was a warm summer rain and they continued to work, their hands and clothing coated in dirt and their faces spattered. They washed and took water from a little stream that ran south through the property, and they dammed it with sod and branches to create a modest pool where they could bathe. Once, the summer rain turned torrential for almost a full day and it was impossible to work, so they all took shelter under the unfinished pieces of oilcloth and bark that was their roof. The brush fire was impossible to keep going and the little dam gave way in the swollen stream. On that day, they were wet and muddy and somewhat miserable as they looked out at the rain, but they were building the future.

  “The rain comes, the rain goes,” Vinnie said philosophically.

  “One step at a time,” Johannah offered.

  “And the rain’ll help that barley and corn,” Jim said.

  “Absolutely,” Vinnie agreed. “On a summer day like today, my mother would make full use of this rain.” Vinnie smiled at a memory. “She’d divide up a cake of soap and give us all pieces and send
us out to wash our hair. If it kept up, we could soap up the clothes too and so we’d clean ourselves and the clothes. Once we pulled her outside with us all soapy and danced in the rain. She was laughing…”

  Johannah had intuited from his stories that his mother had later remarried and moved in with a new man who did not want children, so Vinnie and his siblings had been thrown out and left homeless.

  “You must miss her.”

  Vinnie looked out into the rain. “Yeah,” he said finally. At that moment, there was a sudden increase in the downpour and the shelter of the makeshift roof proved marginal.

  “Well?” Johannah held up a large white bar. “I’ve got the soap!”

  Vinnie’s face broke into a huge smile.

  “Let’s go,” said Jim, holding baby Will, and all four of them ran out to wash and dance in the warm summer rain.

  * * *

  Jim and Vinnie finished the roof of their little house and before long, the humble hut was transformed into a small but dry and cozy cabin that they hoped would house them for their first couple of years of life in Canada. Johannah transplanted wild black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace into beds outside the door with meadowlarks and red-winged blackbirds singing on sunny branches nearby. Jim was pleased to see Johannah add her homey touches to what he called “the estate,” an inverted horseshoe over the door and makeshift curtains on the glass window Jim had bought in town. Inside the cabin, they had a table and chairs and a trunk, a small double bed Jim managed to build and a crib for Will. Jim had constructed an attached lean-to shed out of sod where Vinnie had established his own small bed and living quarters among the shovels and seed.

  “It’s not quite the Shelbourne,” Vinnie said, referring to a luxury hotel he had once seen in Dublin, “but probably next best.”

  “Don’t be expecting room service,” Johannah warned him.

  Together, they planted a few more late crops—potatoes, lettuce and three types of beans—in the truck patch, and Johannah grew to love working the earth with baby Will on her back. Jim and Vinnie built another sod shed for the pony and a pig, and a rough coop for a handful of chickens they bought from the Whalen farm just across the line. From Jim, Johannah learned the messy business of killing and plucking a chicken and became very good with the hatchet.