“It must have been terrifying to see these things. All of this noise, violence and blood. You must have felt overwhelmed…confused…”
“No, sir. I seen what happened very clear. I see it over and over.” I turned to the jury because I wanted them to believe me. “I think I’ll see it every day ’til I’m in my grave. There was some men looked familiar. Others I think I knew. But the names I named was those I saw,” and I pointed them out to make it certain.
“Jim Carroll…James Ryder and his brother Tom…Martin McLaughlin…John Purtell…and John Kennedy. Of them, there ain’t doubt in my mind.”
At the end of the cross-examination, I could see the Donnellys was satisfied and the six defendants was looking none too cheerful. John Purtell’s face were crumpled up in grief and sorrow, though whether it was for the ones he helped kill or for his own hide that was about to be hung, I did not know.
I headed home that Friday in a closed wagon with my three constables looking after me. I figured I were safe now as I’d said my piece in the court and done any damage I could to the Peace Society. No reason to kill me now. Why’d they blame me? I didn’t have much choice. They should blame themselves in their evil minds for letting me live.
I really wanted to put this thing behind me, get them images out of my head and go back to normal. So when Saturday comes I sneak out my window to get away from the police officers and go over to St. Patrick’s where I was an altar boy, as I always did before the trouble, to sweep up, dust the altar and polish the candelabra before the services the next day. I liked the quiet in the sanctuary on a Saturday afternoon. The dust were rising from my broom, the low sunlight comes sparkling through it, coloured by the stained glass of the window showing a smiling Saint Paddy. I even began to almost forget for a while what had happened.
My quiet was broken when a carriage pulled up outside the doors of the church and I heared the lock of Father Connolly’s study open. He comes out with his eyes on the double front doors of the church and I were shocked to see he held a shotgun in his hand. I stepped behind the statue of Saint Mary and he didn’t see me. But who came in next were none less than a full bishop in a long black coat and one of them funny hats like a muffin. There was two young priests with him as he walked up the aisle toward Father Connolly, who slid the shotgun outta sight behind a pew and called out to him.
“Bishop Walsh! Your Excellency! Oh, it’s so good to see you…” Father Connolly went down on his knees and kissed the bishop’s ring. “Terrible things have happened. It’s been a nightmare for me…”
“Yes. Our concerns are not so much with your well-being, Father. Now get up. I don’t have all afternoon.”
It were clear the bishop didn’t think much of Father Connolly by the way he talked to him. He made a beeline for the study and Father Connolly followed him. One priest stayed with the bishop while the other stayed near the front doors, watching them. He stared at the stained glass of Saint Paddy, walking back and forth on the squeaky floor. Being so caught up in this with the murders and all, I know what I wants. I wants to hear what that bishop had to say. So as the young priest walks on the creaky floor with his eyes on the window, looking at it from different angles, so did I move to a place outside the study door. One, two, three steps and stop. One, two, three steps and stop. In twelve steps I were at the door, unseen or heard by him and I slipped behind the curtain to listen at the door to what was going on in the office and it were worth my trouble. Oh, Bishop Walsh were not pleased.
“You can imagine our deep concern, Father Connolly. Many years ago, we brought you in to deal with the troubles in this parish, but not to contribute to them! Is it true you gave your blessing to this…‘Peace Society’?”
The bishop was pacing.
“Well, I…”
“Never mind. I don’t really want to know. All I know is that if six members of this ‘Peace Society,’ which you formed in the name of St. Patrick’s and the Holy Church, are convicted of multiple murders…it’s just unthinkable.”
“I am so sorry, your Excellency. I…I…”
Father Connolly sounded like he might cry, but the bishop were unmoved, his voice cold.
“Father Connolly…for God’s sake, pull yourself together.”
“But what will we do? I am implicated in all of this.”
Father Connolly did then sob a bit for a moment. The bishop continued impatiently.
“Listen to me. It is not too late. These situations can be dealt with. Appropriate measures are already being taken.”
“Really?” Father Connolly sounded almost joyful. “I’m so grateful.”
“Well, we’ll see. Just stay out of it. Don’t talk to anyone. Not a word.”
“Upon my soul, Excellency.”
The bishop stood then and headed for the door followed by his young priest.
“Yes,” the old boy told Connolly as he went out. “Your soul, indeed.”
When I left the church I had to get back home before the constables knowed I were gone so I couldn’t get to Will at Whalen’s Corners to tell him what I heared. I figured I could talk to him in the courtroom on Monday morning, but on Monday when we got there, the constables wouldn’t let me near him. They said I couldn’t talk to him on account that he could “influence my testimony.” I don’t think anything he could say to me would make my testimony any worse for the defendants, but I never got a chance to tell him what I heared at St. Patrick’s.
Justice is Done
On Monday morning, bright and early, what was left of the Donnelly family—Pat, Robert, Jenny, Nora, Jim Currie and Will—reassumed their seats at the front of the courtroom. Aemilius Irving of the prosecution had a couple more witnesses to present and then William Meredith would present the defence. Will was ready to hear what desperate gambits they might come up with to save their skins.
Again the courtroom was packed, only this time there appeared to be more enemies than friends, antagonists who bore the scars of fights and feuds and grudges with the Donnellys, and more clustered out in the hallway, damning the constables who would admit no more inside. Everyone present could hear them swear and they once rushed the constables, who were nearly overcome. To hell with them, Will thought. To hell with them all. As the proceedings were about to begin in the small, packed courtroom, the clerk of the court stood up to make an announcement.
“Silence in the courtroom! Silence! I am here to inform you that Judge Armour has unfortunately fallen ill. It is not serious and the court wishes him a quick recovery. His replacement is Judge Matthew Cameron. All rise!”
They all stood as Judge Cameron swept into the courtroom and took his seat behind the bench. He was a slender man with sad eyes and he was clean-shaven but for long curly tufts of mutton chop beard that were joined under his chin, across his throat. Will noticed that Father Connolly seemed markedly relieved and wondered what sort of mischief was afoot. Judge Cameron’s voice called out ahead of his clerk, quickly getting down to business, “Court is now in session.”
* * *
Patrick Whalen, who had taken Johnny O’Connor into town to see Judge MacPherson, was on the stand and very uncomfortable. Prosecutor Irving was not getting the answers he wanted.
“You have told the constables of the men you recognized at approximately one-thirty a.m. riding back into town on the Roman Line on the morning of the murders. Who were they?”
Though the day was cool, Whalen’s forehead glistened and he appeared deeply uncertain. He looked around the silent courtroom, finding the stony faces of the Peace Society listening, their eyes unblinking.
“Well…it was very dark.”
And Will’s heart sank. Irving became exasperated.
“But you told the constables their names. Tell us those names now.”
Whalen was almost in pain. Will realized the Peace Society had gotten to him. “I wasn’t looking too close. It was d
ark. I just looked straight ahead.”
“But you knew them. They called out to you. You told the constables the names before. You repeated them to me. Say them now.”
Whalen looked around the courtroom again and at the defendants. He swallowed hard. He glanced up at Will and then quickly away. Will couldn’t believe he would betray them like this. Whalen appeared suitably ashamed, staring at the floor.
“I was mistaken. I don’t know who they were.”
Will lowered his head and closed his eyes.
The last witness for the prosecution was Martin Hogan, who had been with Will and John during the attack. They had called his name in the courtroom and in the halls and outside on the street. They had taken a fifteen-minute recess to send messengers to check taverns and stores in the vicinity. The blacksmith Martin Hogan had disappeared.
At precisely fifteen minutes, Judge Cameron called the courtroom to order. “Let’s get on with this!”
It was time now for William Meredith to present the defence. He chose as his first witness James Toohey, brother of Dennis and Paul and a buddy of the Ryders.
“We was at the Ryder barn that the Donnellys burned down.”
“Objection! There is no proof that…”
“Sustained. Go on, witness.”
“Yeah, we was at the burned barn with James and Tom Ryder, trying to find tools and stuff in the ashes. Terrible thing. They was with us all night, searching through the destruction. They never left.”
Next was Michael Heenan, who had once had a dispute with the Donnellys over the price of a mare.
“No, McLaughlin’s calf was pretty sick. He came home early from the Keefe wedding. We all stayed up with her most of the night. And McLaughlin was there all that time.”
The next was a man Will had never laid eyes on before by the name of Thomas Kinsella.
“At midnight that night, after the Keefe wedding party, Purtell and Kennedy bought me a drink at Hennessey’s Hotel in Strathroy. We played cards and they was there ’til almost dawn.”
“That’s a lie!” Will could no longer contain himself and the judge pounced on him.
“One more outburst, Mr. Donnelly, and you will be removed from the courtroom.”
Prosecutor Irving patted Will’s shoulder with sympathy but also encouragement to obey.
Constable Berryman, the man mountain, came forward and was sworn in. Berryman, his face and head still bearing witness to the beating Tom had given him, told the court, “That night, Jim Carroll was assisting me on a case in Grafton. He was with me all night.”
By mid-afternoon Will and his family were numb. The testimony for the defence was all a lying connivance! And yet it was accepted. No one else was standing up to scream “liar,” though the impulse hit Will several more times over the course of the day.
Prosecutor Irving cross-examined each witness aggressively but they all just repeated what they had said as if by rote and would offer nothing more, nor less.
“Was McLaughlin’s calf male or female?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Who else was with you at the Ryder barn?”
“I don’t recall.”
“What was the case in Grafton Mr. Carroll was assisting you with?”
“I don’t remember.”
When Irving appealed for the judge to instruct them to answer questions more fully, Judge Cameron sided with the witnesses. And when Irving became aggressive with anyone, he received a warning from the judge to “stop bullying” the witnesses.
When he could do no more, Mr. Irving sat down and Judge Cameron gave his charge to the jury.
“The truth is, when all is said and done, the only real evidence against these men is the testimony of a confused young boy and that of an angry brother and son of the victims, himself with a record of criminal violence, who no doubt wants revenge. But we are not here for revenge. We are here for justice.”
Prosecutor Irving, seeing all benefit of his work slipping expeditiously away, was suddenly on his feet.
“I object, Your Grace, to the biased nature of your charge to the jury. You are not telling them what they should think about but rather what they should think.”
“I will allow the record to duly note your objection, Mr. Irving, but you have interrupted me in my charge to the jury, which is not your right. I want you to sit down now so I may finish.”
Irving hesitated, then recognized clearly the battle was not on a level playing field. More words from him would not help. He sat down in his chair.
“As I was saying, we are here for justice. The defendants before you are all respected men of the community,” Judge Cameron continued. “Landowners and church-goers, fathers and husbands, friends and neighbours. And other respected men of the community have testified they were nowhere near the Donnelly farm that night. Can they all be lying? Gentlemen of the jury, what you must ask yourselves: Are you prepared to see these six farmers and family men, pillars of this community, taken from their wives, taken from their children, taken to the jail and hanged by the neck until dead? It could mean the effective destruction of this community! And all on nothing more than the word of an addled boy and an accused criminal? I would ask you to think very hard on it. Now please go and determine your verdict.”
The Donnellys were all numbed to hear the bias of the judge’s charge. After the jury had retired and the court was adjourned, Frank Simon of the Mail said as much to Will: “I’ve never heard a charge so strongly opinionated. It could be grounds for a mistrial.”
Will did not want to think about that. He made encouraging comments to his family members, although he himself had doubts. But surely the jurors would find the truth.
After an hour the jury returned. This short sequester was good, Will thought, the conclusion obvious. The courtroom filled again quickly and Cameron wasted no time. The defendants were ordered to stand, their faces like granite but for Purtell, whose mouth was moving and eyes flittering around the courtroom.
“Mr. Foreman? What is your finding?”
The foreman of the jury stood.
“My Lords, we find the prisoners…NOT GUILTY of murder.”
The courtroom exploded with contrasting emotions. Patrick stood up and hurled obscenities at the jury members. The family and the friends of the defendants were overjoyed and some rushed forward to shake their shackled hands or to thank the jurists. Will examined each face of those jury members looking for contradiction or disagreement but they were all, in the shame they must feel, determinedly without expression.
“Case dismissed” the judge proclaimed. “The defendants are discharged. The session is closed.”
Judge Cameron, his job done, quickly exited the courtroom. Guards swiftly removed the shackles and the defendants stepped down from the dais onto the floor to greet family and friends, hugging them and shaking their hands. Congratulations and laughter filled the air and the press asked them questions about their relief. It was only reporter Frank Simon who came to Will and placed a hand on his shoulder in condolence. The jury members began to reveal that they were pleased with themselves, not wanting the responsibility for six men being executed, six more families devastated. Father Connolly was deeply relieved and moved among the freed prisoners, shaking hands.
Patrick, Robert, Jenny, Nora, Jim Currie and Will sat on the front bench in frozen, shocked defeat while everyone seemed to be moving around them. Johnny came and sat with them in silence for a moment, then finally spoke to Will.
“They figured out just how they wanted everything to go long before I even had that bible in my hand, didn’t they?”
Will nodded slowly.
Crown Prosecutor Irving sat down with them, held Jenny’s tear-moistened hand and spoke forcefully to Will.
“There is a just God in heaven who sees all and he needs no jury or courts to mete out his own retribution
.”
Will seemed to find some solace in this idea. “Thank you, Mr. Irving. I hope so. I can still hear her voice. I can’t believe she’s gone.”
And Jenny began to cry again. They all remained there in silence until long after the courtroom had cleared.
* * *
The Peace Society showed up at the Queen’s Hotel to celebrate with the freed men, as did Judge Matthew Cameron and Father Connolly. Society members were pouring the defendants free drinks and referring to “The Accomplishment.” A marginal fiddle player was ruining a jig. John Purtell was quite drunk. He kept staring at his hands and rubbing them obsessively.
Outside, a lone figure in a duster approached the tavern. Will Donnelly paused just outside the door a moment to listen and he heard someone say, “They couldn’t find them guilty. It would mean hanging half the township!”
The nervous laughter went on too long. Will stepped inside and raised his voice above the chatter just as the fiddle music stopped.
“YES GENTLEMEN…DRINK UP!” he called out from inside the doorway. The celebrants fell silent and the musicians froze. The six defendants were lined up at the bar, convenient for Will’s intent.
“In fact, I insist you all have a drink on me.”
It could have been the commanding tone in his voice, or curiosity about what he had to say, or the two double-barrelled shotguns, cocked and pointed toward the former defendants. In any case, Will had their attention.
“Fill your glasses.”
Will gestured to the bartender with the barrels of one gun and the man scrambled to fill the vigilantes’ glasses with whisky. Then brought a shot of whisky to Will, who had two more pistols in his belt.
“Now…a toast to the Donnellys. Repeat after me: “Here is a toast to the Donnellys who we murdered.”
The vigilantes stood silent, unmoving. Will fired one shot into the ceiling above their heads, then aimed both guns at them again. A scattering of debris flew and a cloud of plaster descended slowly to the floor, a light dust on the surface in the liquid of each glass. No one moved or spoke. Will stared into their faces to give the warning.
Cursed! Blood of the Donnellys Page 39
