Cursed! Blood of the Donnellys

by Keith Ross Leckie

  Will laboured hard beside his father—they spit on their hands in unison—and Jim set the example for Will of the joy and virtue in honest labour. Despite his club foot, Will was strong and agile. He and other boys dragged the green cuttings into a pile to be burned. There were a dozen men and their families with them who had come to help clear on Maloney’s farm. The team of Keefe’s oxen strained to extract the stumps with stubborn roots that had burrowed deep into the ground like the fingers of huge hands and were not surrendering easily. Johannah had told Will the story of Vinnie O’Toole’s death and he knew she would be thinking of him this day.

  The women set up an efficient kitchen on top of some wide stumps cut smooth and level, close to the action, where they prepared a good lunch for the workers with the offerings they had brought: chicken stew, roast pork, boiled river perch, slices of venison and moose, bread and lard, and potatoes and greens. They joked and laughed, appreciating the rare social time together. Will’s mother was popular among the women and could turn a joke as well as any. She played down her finishing school accent and Will noticed she even mangled the Queen’s English now and again just a little because it “were” fun to do. A crippled man with a threadbare top hat sat on a log nearby and played a pleasant fiddle for them and it was altogether an enjoyable day.

  Pat Farrell had also come to Maloney’s, along with his son, Billy, with whom Will went to school. They spoke rarely but neither were they enemies. Farrell would now even give Johannah and her sons a stern nod of greeting. Will was relieved that apart from a wary look or two, for the past years Farrell and his father had ignored each other. He noticed that Father Connolly, who had suggested Jim Donnelly stay home from Maloney’s clearing bee, kept an eye on them as well. Big John Carroll, who had sided with Farrell at the land hearing, had brought horses and worked there among them with his son Jim, his team hauling away the lesser logs that Keefe’s oxen left behind. Jim Donnelly ignored him as well.

  Will had dragged some heavy branches to the burn site. He gave his mother a wave and a wink. He left the work for a moment to talk to his pals Martin Hogan and Pat Whalen. They had their eye on John Carroll’s son Jim, walking toward them carrying a bundle of spindly branches under one arm. Jim was a heavy-set, clumsy boy. Will turned to the others.

  “Watch this.”

  Will casually tossed a large candy cane out onto the path some distance in front of Jim Carroll as he approached. It was attached to Will’s wrist by a black string. Will walked around an adjacent tree and sat down on a stump nearby, facing away. Coming down the path, Jim Carroll spotted the candy cane in front of him and went to reach down for it with one free hand. As they all watched, Will casually tugged the string and the candy jumped three feet farther down the path. Perplexed, young Jim continued after the candy cane. Just before he reached it, Will pulled the string again and it jumped another two yards. Frustrated but determined, Jim Carroll dropped his wood and ran toward the candy. Will turned and stuck out his good leg for Jim to trip over and he fell on his face. Will, Martin and Pat shared the laugh. With a long, hard pull on the string, Will brought the candy cane back around the tree to catch it in his hand. Young Jim Carroll stood up to face the tricksters.

  “I don’t want any candy cane from Club Foot Billy. You’ve got a devil’s hoof!” Jim Carroll made the sign of the cross with his dirty fingers. “Get away from me, devil!”

  Suddenly Will was fiercely on his feet, his fists ready. He took two steps toward Jim Carroll, coiled to strike him.

  Carroll yelled and ran. Will turned to the other boys, laughing, and put the candy cane in his mouth.

  There was a figure clearing brush near Will dressed in old trousers, boots and a rough shirt. At the sound of the derisive laughter, her green eyes turned toward him.

  “You going to be the slacker there all day, Will Donnelly, with that candy in your mouth, or you going to do something useful?”

  The slender girl in a plaid shirt and wool breeches was dark-haired Nora Kennedy, a couple of years younger than Will, whose father owned the stately farm just west of St. Patrick’s Church. Her mother was a prissy stick and disapproved of her daughter’s masculine clothes. Will had always liked the girl’s spirit.

  “Myself, I like the idea of slacking, Nora.”

  “Well, you know what they say,” she countered. “If you’re going to do nothing, don’t do it here.”

  Will made a monkey face at her, picked up the axe and went back to trimming a felled hemlock. Nora studied him for a moment, then returned to dragging brush.

  Other young girls, in the sort of frilly dresses Mrs. Kennedy would have chosen for Nora, brought buckets of cool water around to the men working. One of these girls was Maggie Thompson, a golden-haired beauty with a dazzling smile. Their place was a decent farm on the third concession, just off the Roman Line. The father was a rough man who had done well with corn and beef cattle and his wife made up for his lack of pedigree by “putting on airs,” as Johannah described it.

  Maggie approached Will and passed the ladle of water to him with particular care. “Hi, Will. Your throat must be dry in this sun.”

  “Thank you, Maggie. I could use a drop. That’s a pretty dress.”

  “My mother bought it in Toronto. I’m surprised you noticed.”

  “Have you heard this one? ‘A mocking eye, a pair of lips. That’s often why a fellow trips!’”

  Maggie laughed lightly, charmed. Nearby, Nora overheard the lame conversation and rolled her eyes as she wiped a sleeve across her dusty, sweat-clad forehead and continued dragging the next pile of brush to the fire. Maggie’s mother saw the exchange between Will and her daughter and found it far too familiar.

  “Maggie! Come over here.”

  “But I still have water.”

  “Don’t talk back! I said, come here.”

  Maggie revealed to Will a look of irritation at her mother’s orders, picked up her bucket and did as she was told. Will watched as she was subjected to a small lecture. He knew what it was about. Even after all these years, the Donnellys were still considered squatters by some, people who pretty young girls do not talk to. His mother was clearly right about Mrs. Thompson.

  * * *

  Jim was just beginning to fall a young ironwood tree when warning yells sounded as a medium-sized oak on the other side of the clearing cracked and began to topple. John Hogan’s voice boomed too late: “Keefe! Look out!”

  The tree crashed down into the underbrush and there was a cry of surprise and pain.

  “It got Keefe!”

  Jim and Will and several other men rushed to the crown of the fallen tree. Underneath, his leg cruelly pinned under a substantial limb, was Jim’s friend James Keefe moaning in agony.

  “Oh…oh…oh!”

  “We’ll get you out, James!”

  The men quickly began chopping the branches around him.

  “Easy! Stop chopping!” Jim ordered them. “Use the bucks, for godsakes!”

  The men brought the gentler saws, anxious to free Keefe but careful not to cause more suffering in their haste. Minutes later, four of them carried Keefe out of the bush and laid him in Hogan’s wagon, where Ethyl Keefe had prepared blankets. The leg was crushed—they could see the pain was extreme and he was losing blood. Jim put an oak twig between his teeth and fashioned a tourniquet from his handkerchief. Hogan had already hitched up his horses.

  “I’ll get him to Dr. O’Hara.”

  “I didn’t see him there,” Farrell said suddenly. It was Farrell who had felled the tree. “I’m sorry, Keefe,” Farrell called out to the prone man in the wagon, but in his agony, Keefe was past hearing.

  Hogan climbed aboard, took hold of the reins and set off with Keefe gasping and moaning in the wagon, his distraught wife sitting beside him, holding his hand. They all watched as the wagon disappeared down the Roman Line. Then they all stared at Pat Farrell
.

  With his land being cleared so quickly, Maloney was sympathetic about Keefe, but also clearly hoped it wouldn’t slow the day.

  “Terrible thing. But he’ll get good care. Pray they save the leg. We must be careful, boys. Have an eye. We’re all working hard, getting the job done. And thanks be to you for it.”

  Will saw his father give Farrell a hostile glance as the men went back to work.

  The day had been a productive one and as the shadows began to lengthen, the men could all feel proud of their work, their hands and backs aching as they should and the blue sky open over more than four acres almost ready for planting. The only blot on the day was Farrell almost killing Keefe. It was an incompetent accident but not seen as malicious or intentional, except by Jim Donnelly. Thankfully, a rider brought word from O’Hara, the Catholic doctor beside the post office, that Keefe would keep his leg.

  Johannah and the other women began to pack up the leftover victuals from the rough plank tables with the help of their younger boys and girls.

  “James! Michael!” Johannah called. “Take these over to the wagon. We’ll head back soon.”

  There were goodbyes as other families headed home in carts and wagons with sleepy children while the men went back to work for a couple more hours. Johannah left Will to stay with Jim and made off home with the wagon and the other boys. Will and Jim would help clean up that fifth acre for Maloney before nightfall.

  The workers lingered a little after the meal, some of them sitting on the stumps of the trees they’d felled, enjoying a pipe or a discussion about new crops or the best breed of horse for riding versus cart versus plow. Jim Donnelly liked the tough little breed of horse called the Canadian—Bob Whalen had two—that had become popular and could do all three tasks. Young Will put on the crippled man’s top hat and tried out his fiddle with interest. After a few screeches of bow against strings, and a little of the man’s patient instruction, Will was delighted to stroke a couple of clean, pretty notes.

  “By God, we might have a fiddle player in the family!” Jim was delighted.

  Maloney came around to clap the men on the back and thank them again, so pleased was he with the outcome of the day. Father Connolly had just gone off deep into the woods for private matters and it was the moment Maloney had been waiting for.

  “Sure I’m blessed with good neighbours. Look what we’ve done today!”

  With most of the women and children and Father Connolly gone, Maloney took from under his coat a couple of forty-ounce bottles of Seagram’s rye whiskey and passed them around to thank his neighbours for their work.

  “There you are, lads. You’ve never deserved the ‘cathar’ more.”

  The crippled man took the fiddle back from Will and began to play a reel. They passed the bottles quickly among them, long, fast, deep swallows, eyes watching for Father Connolly’s return. Farrell was one of the first to take his portion from one bottle. Jim took a pull from the other.

  And so the mood of the labourers was refreshed and Maloney expressed his pleasure again: “Yes, it’s a good day.” And all agreed, and there was talk of previous clearing parties on other holdings and the prosperity of the current farms that would now soon come to Maloney. They discussed new machinery being developed for clearing and farming and the pros and cons of using dynamite versus oxen on the stumps.

  One man by the name of Martin McLaughlin owned the largest farm in the Lucan area and had ordered a new combine thresher from the Toronto firm Massey Ferguson. He was proud of it and extolled the machine’s abilities. He would need one-quarter the manpower this coming harvest. McLaughlin was a small man with a thick head of hair, prematurely white, though he was only twenty-eight. He had a large wife who was very active at St. Patrick’s and had several young children. He seldom spoke in public, was considered shy, but he was wealthy so the other men listened attentively when he listed the benefits of his new combine.

  The conversation then went to previous accidents and Jim was not coy about raising what happened to Keefe. He confronted his neighbour.

  “Now what about that tree, Farrell? You want to explain yourself? You never much liked Keefe. Did you mean to do it? Or was it pure stupidity?”

  It seemed there was a fight pending and Maloney interrupted.

  “Oh come on now, Jim, you don’t want to stir up trouble. It was an honest accident…”

  “I stand by what I asked.”

  Jim could see Farrell was feeling the whiskey now and they were both ready for confrontation.

  “Everyone knows I meant Keefe no harm, Donnelly. What are you saying?”

  “Everyone knows you and Keefe have had words, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, in falling a tree like that on Keefe’s head. You didn’t mean to, fine. Then I guess it was pure stupidity.”

  “Donnelly…you’re the biggest horse’s arse ever drew breath.”

  “At least I don’t steal a man’s land!”

  “Oh yes, you do! You’re a fucking thief!”

  “Da!” Will called out. “Don’t fight!”

  But without further delay, Jim and Farrell went at each other with a maniacal intensity that had been bubbling beneath the surface for three years, held in check by the priest’s warnings and sobriety until now. Together they made the sound of fists on faces and the usual accompaniment of blood flying. No man dared to come between them in this contest, at least until they tired. Farrell was the bigger man, but Jim was quicker. Under the influence of the whiskey, most of the onlookers were cheering them both on. They were a fair match and punished each other terribly. The quiet McLaughlin did not cheer but he watched with fascination.

  The combatants stumbled into Maloney’s potato patch, throwing punches, then falling and wrestling on the ground, crushing the plants.

  “You’re ruining my spuds. Get out of there!” Maloney called out to them, but they were deaf to any calls for peace.

  Jim Donnelly and Pat Farrell were up on their feet again, swinging their fists at each other’s faces. It scared Will Donnelly to see the fury of his father’s attack and his blood being spilled, but there was fury on both sides. Farrell’s son, Billy, was also upset, standing beside Will as their fathers went at it.

  “They’re going to kill each other,” Billy Farrell said to Will Donnelly.

  “No. No, they’ll be all right. They’ll tire themselves out in another minute or two.”

  It was John Carroll who threw Farrell the hickory axe handle. Farrell picked it up and threatened Jim with it and then Jim was truly seeing red. Hogan tossed Jim a tree branch as thick as a forearm. Farrell and Jim Donnelly circled each other, brandishing their clubs. They both swung and smashed each other, each landing punishing blows to his rival’s body, bruising and cracking ribs. The other men continued to watch and cheer them on, savouring the brutal fight that every one of them had predicted.

  It was then Father Connolly returned from the woods. He was deeply alarmed as he came upon the fight—Farrell and Donnelly bloodied, their clothing torn, their faces distorted in pain and hatred.

  “Stop this! In the name of God. Two Catholics fighting. You’ll kill each other!”

  The priest’s words distracted Jim and with a lucky blow, Farrell’s club found his head and knocked him decisively to the ground. Farrell raised the club again and was about to finish Jim off, when Father Connolly came between them.

  “Stop this now. Stop! That’s enough!”

  Truly, few would disagree Farrell was about to kill Jim then and there, so Jim owed his life to the priest. Father Connolly and the other men, including Carroll, pulled Farrell away. Bloody and battered, Jim struggled slowly to his feet alone. Will tried to help him but his father shouted, “Get away!”

  Jim stood there groggy and unsteady, the club still in his hand. He called out through bloody, swollen lips, “Farrell…you piece of shite.”

&n
bsp; Farrell heard this and suddenly pulled away from the grasp of the men and turned back. He ran at Jim, club raised, roaring. Alert now to his attack, Jim feinted neatly to the side. As the other man missed him and stumbled past, he instinctively landed a glancing blow with his club to the side of Farrell’s head to send him on his way. Farrell went down on his hands and knees in the ruins of the potato patch.

  In that moment it was as if an irresistible force took Jim over, something carnal and primitive, an animal instinct to ensure there would be no more threat to himself or his family, to finish off the fight for good. And in that moment he saw the face of George Magee as the cottages burned, he heard the cries of Lucy O’Toole, the keening of the mother of the dead Ryan twins, and finally the determined swing and crack of the sledge as his father brought it down on the heads of the ponies. And in that moment it was Magee he was fighting, finally avenging his father, it was everything all together, the rage and the shame, the legacy of every cruel injustice inflicted on him and his family forever.

  Without hesitation he lifted the rough club with two hands and swung it down on the back of Farrell’s head with all his might. Farrell’s body flattened down among the plants, blood flowing from his ears and nose, face turned to one side. He lay still with his open eyes staring beneath his caved-in skull, his lips moving. Bob Whalen stepped between Jim Donnelly and Pat Farrell to prevent further violence but the animal savagery that had invaded his friend was just as quickly finished. And so was Pat Farrell.

  Jim Donnelly looked at the bloody club in his hand, amazed at what he had done.

  John Carroll and Father Connolly went to Farrell. The priest knelt beside him, placing a gentle hand on his bloody head.

  “Pat? Pat, can you hear me, my son?” Farrell’s eyes continued to stare, his lips moving slightly, then his raspy breathing slowed and became shallow. Father Connolly began a whispered prayer.

  “Behold, O Lord, this Thy servant and in Thy loving mercy, good Lord, deliver him. From darkness and doubt, good Lord deliver him…”