“But…I was asking around. I could never live like this, with feuds and violence.”
“That’s just how life is.”
“No. No, I don’t think so. Not in other towns. Not in other families.”
“We’re just defending ourselves. We have no choice.”
“No, I think your family chooses it. It’s not normal, Jen. I could never get married or raise kids in the middle of this. I couldn’t, I…I’m sorry.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…I’m sorry, Jenny.” He studied her sadly for a moment. “Goodbye.”
“But, we…”
He mounted his horse and she watched him ride off, angry with herself for the tears that wanted to come.
* * *
Just as dawn broke, a company of soldiers, the Fourth Rifle Brigade of the Sixth Battalion from London, came marching into Lucan to capture the Donnellys.
After arriving at the now-empty Fitzhenry’s, the soldiers heard a distant fiddle playing and followed the sound into the Queen’s Hotel across the street, where they found Will Donnelly waiting for them, playing a lonely serenade at the bar with a drink in front of him. They surrounded him at gunpoint. He stopped playing, put down his fiddle, looked at them calmly and finished his drink.
In the barn behind the hotel, six soldiers confronted Michael Donnelly and Fanny Carroll sleeping in the hay, their clothes half off. The soldiers aimed their rifles at Michael. As Fanny grabbed her dress to cover up, Michael began to laugh at it all.
The company commander heard pistol shots out in the street and led eight soldiers down a Lucan side street to where Tom was engaged in target practice against a wall with the two pistols he had taken from the constables. They spread out into a half-circle behind him, pointing their weapons at his back.
The corporal shouted, “Drop the guns!”
Tom turned for a moment to look at the commander with his strange half-smile, then casually aimed and took another shot at the wall.
“I said drop them or we shoot!”
There was a crazed moment when it was apparent Tom thought about taking them all on. The nervous young soldiers looked down the sights of their rifles, spoiling to have a reason to fire them. Tom did think about his options for a moment, both ways, then he opened his hands and the pistols fell into the dirt.
* * *
Will and his brothers were to appear before the London spring assizes to answer the earlier charges of assault against the Flanagans and more charges from the Victoria Day battle. The authorities seemed to forget about Jim Currie and the Keefe brothers’ involvement and no charges were ever pressed against them. Carroll’s entire focus was on the Donnelly boys. He had arranged that they were denied bail, so they spent a month together apart from family and friends in the filthy London jailhouse. Will coached his brothers on their testimony, to speak clearly and confidently and never let the accusations make them angry. Be unconcerned, even smile, to indicate to the jury the charges are ridiculous. Johannah visited them often with food and clean clothes.
The charges against the Donnellys were heard in Courtroom C, the largest of the three modern courts, as there was a substantial audience to be accommodated from Lucan, both for and against the brothers. All the Donnellys were there save Jenny, who had decided to stay home to feed the beasts and keep the home fires burning. Carroll had been busy and the Donnelly boys were charged with a long string of offenses against “Our Lady the Queen, her crown and dignity.” The prosecutor read them out against each defendant, starting with Will.
“…assaulting a constable, disturbing the peace, resisting arrest…”
They all sat on a bench, chained hand and foot, before the overflowing courtroom: Michael, Tom, Robert, James, Patrick and Will. Will was stoic, Michael was bored, James desperately needed a drink and Patrick’s knee constantly bounced up and down as he glared at the prosecution. Johannah, Jim and John were in the second row.
“…assault with a firearm, common assault, illegal possession of a firearm, assault with intent to kill, uttering threats, attempted murder…”
The curious press had come to report. One journalist had spoken to Johannah and she believed he was sympathetic to them. His name was Frank Simon and he was from the Toronto Mail newspaper. He had a somewhat honest face compared to the other muckrakers and was respectful. Father Connolly was also there, in his suit and clerical collar, to make sure his justice was done, and in front of him, sitting with the prosecutor, was Jim Carroll. Judge George Morgan turned to the Donnellys.
“How do you plead?”
Will spoke for them all.
“Not guilty, Your Honour. We acted in self-defence. We were having a lovely dinner toasting the Queen when these private men you call ‘special constables’ decided to make trouble for personal reasons.”
There were groans and whispered declarations for and against them in the courtroom. There were quiet calls of “shame” and Will was unsure if they were for what he had claimed or what Carroll had done. As the case continued, Jim Carroll made a detailed statement of the events at Fitzhenry’s tavern that night. He implicated all of them in the litany of crimes, even Robert, who he testified had assaulted him, a police officer in the course of his duty, by hitting him on the head with a table leg. Jim Donnelly called out in the middle of his testimony, “You’ll sup sorrow yet, Carroll.”
Judge Morgan told Jim if he spoke out again, he’d be barred from the courtroom. Carroll called the first witness for the prosecution: Paul Toohey.
“I saw da whole ting. Them Donnellys is evil. The constaples comes up to them, eh, and day say…day say. The constaples say…”
The judge intervened. “Sir! You’ve been drinking.”
“No.”
“Yes, you have. I can smell your breath even from here.”
“Jus’ a nip…”
John Donnelly, sitting in the courtroom, looked at Will and subtly patted his coat, under which was an all but finished bottle.
“Get out of my courtroom before I have you in contempt!” Carroll stood up in alarm as he watched as Toohey was escorted out of the courtroom. He glared at John and Will. The prosecutor gestured for him to sit down. “Next witness!”
Carroll’s next witness was Thomas Ryder. John had had a serious word with him.
“But it was Will Donnelly you saw fire the shot that wounded Constable Carroll. Correct?”
Will fixed the witness with a look that left no doubt to his intentions should Thomas Ryder prove an enemy to the Donnellys. There was deep apprehension in Ryder’s voice.
“Well…” said Ryder. “It could have been. And then again, I can’t be sure. There was just so much going on…”
Ryder would not meet Carroll’s eyes as he left the witness box. After that, the prosecutor was looking around for witnesses in the courtroom.
“Constable Dearing?” There was no response. “Constable Braythwaite?” Still no response. They hadn’t shown up. Carroll began to appear panicked.
“Don’t you have a Constable Berryman on your witness list?” the judge asked.
“He’s still in hospital, Your Honour,” Carroll told the judge. “After he was assaulted by Tom Donnelly!”
The Donnelly defence lawyer, a man named Quinn, objected that this assertion had not been proven and Judge Morgan had the statement stricken from the record.
“Have you any other witnesses, Constable Carroll?”
Carroll glared at Will, then turned to the judge and shook his head.
“Rather poorly prepared, Special Constable Carroll. Let the record show there are no more witnesses for the prosecution.”
The witnesses for the defence included Sam Keefe and Pat Whalen, who asserted that the Donnelly actions were all in self-defence, and a senior police constable who had not been involved in the altercation gave his opinion that the attempt
ed arrests by Carroll were not technically legal under the circumstances.
The one mistake defence lawyer Quinn made was having Robert testify. Will should have warned him. While on the stand, Robert pointed at Constable Jim Carroll and testified, “That constable is lying! He said he saw me hit him on the head but he couldn’t have seen me hit him on the head because I was behind him when I did it!”
The brothers all groaned and shook their heads at Robert’s public admission. There was some muted laughter in the courtroom. Robert looked over at his brothers, wondering why they were all so disappointed with his astute defence.
“What? What’s wrong? I was!”
Judge Morgan declared a ten-minute recess to review his notes, and when he returned, he promptly addressed the court with his ruling.
“I’m afraid this has been a very poor showing by the prosecution. So many witnesses missing, including the other constables. And very little useful evidence. It is little more than Special Constable Carroll’s word against the Donnelly family’s. I do find Robert Donnelly guilty of assault on a constable by his own admission and I sentence him to nine months in prison.”
“No, but he was lying!” Robert said again, very upset, pointing at Carroll. Johannah, too, was stricken by Robert’s sentence but she was anxious to hear the rest of the ruling.
“As for the other charges, bearing in mind the lack of solid evidence and some indication of a personal grudge held by Constable Carroll, I can only find the defendants on all counts not guilty.”
In shock, Father Connolly suddenly stood up in the court, his face red, and addressed the judge directly.
“What do you think you are doing? You can’t just let them go! They’re a scourge.”
Judge Morgan turned toward the priest, revealing his offence at this interruption.
“I don’t offer editorial advice on your homilies, Father. You will be quiet in my courtroom.”
“If you magistrates do not do justice by them, then I will have them punished!”
It was clear from the judge’s expression Father Connolly had crossed a line.
“Another word out of you, Father, and I’ll have you charged and arrested for threatening! Now sit down.”
Connolly took a moment, searching unsuccessfully for words, then he finally sat.
“Save for Robert Donnelly, all the defendants are free to go.” Judge Morgan told the court. “And as a personal observation, I do suspect the free use of liquor is at the bottom of Lucan’s problems. If you were to take liquor away, I’d wager the Donnellys would be as innocent as lambs. This trial is concluded.”
Will saw the journalist Frank Simon copy down the quote, “as innocent as lambs.” Will turned to his mother and nodded toward his brothers as the guards unlocked their chains.
“The Lucan Lambs,” Will said out loud and they all laughed.
* * *
Outside the courthouse, the Donnellys’ high spirits were tempered by the loss of their favourite brother for nine months. They waited outside the side doors of the courthouse until the constables escorted him, still in shackles and with a lost expression, to the wagon that would take him away to the jail.
“We’ll come and visit,” Johannah told him. “It won’t be long, baby. Be brave.”
“You’re a Donnelly, Robby. Be strong,” Patrick instructed.
They all waved as the wagon left to take him to the London jail and as he was driven away, he seemed to take heart and he waved to them and almost smiled.
Frank Simon came up beside Jim and Johannah with a notebook. “Do you have a statement, Mrs. Donnelly?”
“The courts in their wisdom have realized my boys, beyond merely defending themselves, are innocent. Including my son Robert, who was convicted today, but we will work on getting him out early.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Go back to Lucan and celebrate.”
Among the bystanders was James Ryder, who saw Johannah talking to the journalist and shouted out to them from a safe distance away.
“TO HELL WITH THE DONNELLYS!”
His brother Thomas added, “AND THEIR OLD WITCH!”
Johannah’s cheeks turned red. Will and his brothers were all ready to go and shut their faces but Johannah called out, warning them.
“Will! Leave it alone, now. Let’s get to the wagon and go home. We have won.”
Through substantial self-control, Will and the others made their way to the wagon, ignoring the Ryders’ taunts.
Jim Donnelly held his son James back and spoke quietly with a smile. “Jamie, did you hear what they called your mother?”
“Yes, Da.”
“In good time, they must be punished.”
“Yes, Da. I understand.”
The Elopement
It was dawn when the large wagon full of Donnellys headed north after a very late stop at Keefe’s tavern and moved slowly up the Roman Line. John was at the reins. Jim and James were asleep. Will was an outrider on horseback. Tom, Patrick and Michael were passing a bottle and singing yet again, though quieter out of respect for those asleep. They had been celebrating all night, from Fitzhenry’s to the Central to Keefe’s, and were now heading home.
We’re poor little lambs who’ve lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We’re little black sheep who’ve gone astray,
Baa—aa—aa!
Johannah was sitting on pillows in the wagon, quietly enjoying the boys’ celebration and the sweet victory of the trial. The Donnellys were redeemed. Will held in his hand the evening newspaper someone had ridden in with from London. The headline read: “LUCAN LAMBS LET LOOSE.”
“Gentlemen-rankers out on a spree,
Damned from here to eternity,
God ha’ mercy on such as we,
Baa! Yah! Baa!”
Patrick made the comment, “I have to say it again. I already miss Robert. It isn’t fair.”
“We’ll petition to get him out early,” Johannah told them.
“Goddamn Carroll.” Patrick’s eyes blazed.
“C-c-c-c-could have been much worse,” John cautioned.
Their wagon rolled past the farm of their disapproving neighbour Jean Thompson, who was out in the chicken pen collecting eggs. She looked up at the Donnelly boys and they turned and sang to her:
We’re poor little lambs who’ve lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We’re little black sheep who’ve gone astray,
Baa—aa—aa…
Her hands on her hips, Jean Thompson glared at them and they waved cheerfully back at the old crow.
They arrived home and realized they’d have to carry their father and James and maybe Michael to bed. They would start with their unconscious father. While they were getting themselves organized, Johannah got out of the wagon.
“I want to tell Jenny what happened. She’ll be worried.”
“She won’t be up yet,” Will warned her.
“Then I’ll get her up.” Johannah went on inside.
As they were dealing with the snoring bodies, their mother came bursting out of the house with a note in her hand. “Lord give me patience!”
“Ma? What’s going on?” Will asked her.
“Jenny’s gone. She’s taken her things. She’s gone off with that Currie boy.”
“That son of a bitch Protestant!” said Patrick.
“Shhh! If your da finds out, he’ll kill him. The stove’s still warm. They can’t be gone that long. I’m going after them. Any still able are welcome to join me after you put Da to bed.”
The brothers hurriedly carried their father inside while Johannah went to saddle a fresh horse. They were on the road to Goderich fifteen minutes later, riding hard: Patrick, Tom, Michael and Will, led by a mother intent on retrieving her daughter.
Two hours lat
er, they spotted them up ahead in Currie’s buckboard, with Jenny’s arm around Jim. Jenny heard them coming and turned to see her family approach. She cursed under her breath. With lovemaking and then packing, and then feeding the damn horses, she and Jim had left leaving too late. Jenny picked up the whip and began driving the horses to go faster. Then Currie took the whip away from her.
“We can’t outrun them. We’ll have to have this out.”
He pulled on the reins and the buckboard stopped. The Donnellys dismounted and surrounded them. Patrick silently approached the wagon and grabbed and dragged Currie out of the driver’s seat. Jenny jumped out.
“Wait! Don’t hurt him!”
Will took her arms gently but firmly and held her back. Tom and Michael restrained Currie for Patrick to hit. He punched him a good one in the face.
“Don’t hurt him!” Jenny repeated.
Johannah turned on Jenny as her brothers continued with Currie. “So it’s come to this. Running off with a Protestant in the middle of the night.”
Patrick punched Currie again, hard enough that Tom and Michael almost went down with him.
“I love him. I want to marry him.”
“Don’t be silly. You can’t marry him. Neither church will have you. Friends will turn away. It will be a blight on the family name.”
“A blight on the family name?” Jenny shouted this, half laughing, half furious as she continued. Fist raised, Patrick paused his assault on Currie to listen.
“A blight! We’re the Donnellys for godsakes, Ma! We have the most blighted name in Biddulph County!”
Johannah was taken aback, struggling to find words.
“You’re coming home,” she said finally. “That man…is not of our Church.”
Jenny’s eyes flashed and she took a step toward her mother. “Our Church? What has the Catholic Church ever done for you?” Jenny said, pointing a finger at her. “That priest treats you—treats us all”—making a gesture toward her brothers—“like dirt! The Church would have let Da hang! They wouldn’t even christen me, would they, after that? You said I was christened but I wasn’t, was I? I checked the record.”
Cursed! Blood of the Donnellys Page 32
