Not Quite Dead

by John MacLachlan Gray

  For the most part, however, injuries were superficial. Most of the men swung not true shillelaghs but regular walking sticks of oak and brass, which they waved in the air as though whipping a horse, with none of the skill of the true Whiskey Dance. Nonetheless, it was clear that, were the fighting to go the hour, the boyos would be lost to discouragement if not injury. Therefore, the lieutenant, according to custom, stood ready to claim the lead Orangeman, to call him out and thus spare his own people.

  O’Reilly watched the fighting keenly, gauging the rhythm of it, awaiting the proper moment to initiate a match with the “cock of the tin …”

  “Is that Fergus Kelly?” he cried suddenly, stepping forward and raising his bhata against the pillar with a sharp crack. The shout was well timed, for it cut through the room like a siren.

  Leaning against the bar, Kelly raised his bhata in return, and answered in the traditional way. “Throth and it is that same on the sod here. And is that Dougal O’Reilly?”

  “The same, ma buchal, and how is your mother’s son, Fergus?”

  “Can’t complain as time goes, and how is yourself, Dougal?”

  “In good health at the present time, thank God and gentle Mary.”

  Kelly’s bhata gave the bar a thunderous clout for emphasis: “Only take this anyhow to mend your health, ye bloody popist.”

  “May God help the filthy Protestant who would disturb a civilized meeting of honest men,” replied the lieutenant, and delivered a blow to the pillar as if to split it in two.

  By now the general fighting had stopped entirely, anticipating a duel between chiefs. All stepped back to clear a space on the floor, that they might witness the sportive crack to come. For their part, the Na Coisantoiri took this opportunity to pull their wounded aside in preparation for an exit, for that is the drill—first the diverting action, then the tactical retreat.

  “Fergus Kelly, do you have the sand to face me without your bum-boys behind you?”

  “There be no bum-boys but yours, Dougal O’Reilly, popist frig that you are, And are those your choirboys I see?”

  This exchange signaled the beginning of the stage known as wheeling—a ritual joust of wit and insult, accompanied by huzzahs from supporters, so that one built upon the other, until the two came to blows.

  “A red nail on yer tongue, Kelly, and a red stone in yer throat, and may the devil roast the jigger off ye.”

  “I’ll see to it that you never comb a gray hair. Your bread is baked, Dougal O’Reilly, and it’s a fact.”

  “It is I who will break your head for you, Fergus Kelly, may you go stone-blind so that you will not know your wife from a haystack.”

  “Short life and an evil death to you.”

  “May the devil cut your head off and make a day’s work of your neck.”

  “Cromwell’s curse to you. A death without a priest in a town without a clergyman, on a high windy gallows and with Oscar blowing.”

  “And the curse of sweet Mary on you. May the seven terriers of hell sit on the spool of your breast and chase you over the hills of Damnation.”

  “Dougal O’Reilly, you popish rascal, I am ready for you. I have what you’re going to get in for you a long time!”

  “Fergus Kelly, you are claimed!”

  “O’Reilly, you’ll get it, please God!”

  Before the name of the deity had come clear of Kelly’s mouth, the lieutenant sprung for him. Making a feint as if he intended to lay the stick on his ribs, O’Reilly swung it past without touching, and bringing it swiftly around his own head, made his move with a powerful backstroke, right on the temple of the taller man. As a reward, in an instant his own face was spattered with the blood that sprung from the wound.

  Undeterred, Kelly staggered forward, holding his bhata two-handed as an extension of the arm and fist. He was looking to work close, for he was not used to the lieutenant’s pionsa style, like classical saber fighting, well suited to his military past. Instantly O’Reilly sprung back, and was again advancing with full force when Kelly, turning a little, clutched his opponent’s stick in his right hand. Being left-handed himself, the lieutenant struggled to wrench the cudgel back, when Kelly gave him a terrible blow upon the back part of the head, which laid O’Reilly stunned on his face on the floor.

  There came then a deafening shout from the Orangemen while Kelly stood waiting for O’Reilly to be in the act of rising, when he planned to deal the popist a blow across the head.

  The cool of the lieutenant was remarkable. “Look at your party coming down upon me,” he shouted to Kelly, who turned momentarily to order them back—and now the lieutenant was up on his legs.

  In fairness, it was impressive to see the cool of both men as they faced one another, eyes kindled with fury yet tamed to the wariness of experienced combatants, calculating upon the contingent advantages of attack or defense.

  To the men watching it was a moment of artistic interest as the wiry man and the powerful man stood in opposition. No man’s judgment could name the man likely to be victorious. Nor, on viewing these two contrasting frames, made equal by science and elegance of form, could the eye miss the bulges in the trousers of both men— likewise, the gooter of every man in the room, Devlin included, had become similarly dilated with passion for the fight.

  Sensing the tension of the moment, the lieutenant raised his cudgel and extended it transversely between himself and his opponent. Kelly instantly placed his against it—both weapons forming a St. Andrew’s cross so that the two stood foot to foot, though with the head of the smaller man in line with the chest of the other. Their necks were laid a bit back as was the weight of their bodies, for balance, their fierce but calm features only a foot apart.

  Now O’Reilly made an attempt to repeat his former feint, though with variations, taking his measure to land another blow, this time on the left temple. His move was rapid, but equally quick was the eye of the bigger man, whose cudgel was up in ready guard to meet the blow. The two weapons met, with such surprising power that they bent across each other into curves. An involuntary huzzah followed from all parties—not so much at the skill of the two men as in admiration of the cudgels themselves, and the judgment with which they must have been selected. And certainly the instruments did their duty. In a moment the two shillelaghs crossed each other in the opposite direction, and again the sticks curved as the two men stared at one another, their eyes burning, while the sight and smell of blood kindled a deeper ferocity.

  Now Kelly made a move to practice on O’Reilly the feint that had been practiced on him. Anticipating the blow, the lieutenant stopped the blow with his hand, intent upon holding the staff aloft until he might visit Kelly, now unguarded, with a leveling blow.

  As Kelly pulled on the cudgel with his collected vigor, O’Reilly suddenly released his hold; Kelly, having lost his balance, staggered back. A serpent could not have struck more quickly than the action of the lieutenant as his cudgel rang with tremendous force on the unprotected head of his enemy. Kelly fell, or rather was shot, to the floor, as though some superior power had dashed him against it, whereon he lay, quivering spasmodically from the blow.

  A peal of triumph rose among the Ribbonmen as O’Reilly stood over the enemy, awaiting his return to the conflict. Yet Kelly did not stir.

  Gouge him! Gouge him! shouted the Na Coisantoiri.

  O’Reilly stooped a little, peered closely into his opponent’s face and exclaimed: “Why then, is it acting the dead man you are? I wouldn’t put it past you!”

  Gouge him!‘The boys shouted in unison, and began pounding their sticks rhythmically on the floor, in the way that African savages pound spears upon their shields.

  Nodding assent, O’Reilly reached out with the little finger of his right hand, the one with the uncut nail, and plucked out Kelly’s eye, which rolled onto the floor like a monstrous white tear. Now the lieutenant bent down, took Kelly’s eye in his finger and thumb—and put it in his pocket.

  No man chose to break the wond
erful silence as O’Reilly strode to the bar and accepted a glass of the good whiskey. Meanwhile, able-bodied boys assisted the injured to their feet, while others dropped to their knees and began collecting teeth from the floor.

  “I think the sport is over, gentlemen,” he said, raising the glass. “Good health to all here.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTTEEN

  * * *

  Germantown, Philadelphia County

  As you approach Fern Rock Station and the country mansions of Meetinghouse Road, well before you reach the open expanse of the Germantown Cricket Club, the fifty-foot wooden tower with its crown of thorns becomes impossible to ignore, being fathoms taller than any neighboring tree or steeple.

  The Quakers, Shakers, and Dippers who first settled Germantown regarded the builders of that tower with uncommon hostility—that their first gesture upon arriving in the New World was to proclaim to one and all that the Communists of Economy Manor had reached a point some twenty feet closer to heaven than anyone else.

  The occupants of the weaver’s cottages at the far side of the pitch would have gladly burned the offending structure down. As though anticipating such an attack, the first thing the Communists built after the tower was a stone wall. Then they constructed dormitories with slit windows on the first floor so that, were an attacker to mount the stone wall, he would be standing in front of a firing squad.

  Should the intruder penetrate even further, gun holes were drilled into all outside door frames; as a last resort, it was said that tunnels had been laid to facilitate a quick evacuation to a concealed location.

  As far as the Communists were concerned, such precautions came from hard experience comparable to the Jews in Germany. To be at odds with one’s neighbors had long ago become an assumption, even a perilous source of pride.

  The movement known as communism had been antagonizing traditional guardians of power ever since the fourteenth century, the Dark Ages, when hospital beds and social assistance of all kinds disappeared with the monasteries, and Communist institutions became the hospitals and almshouses of their time.

  Naturally, the papacy deplored these incursions, for the stated reason that such sects easily lapsed into heresy—a word with such heavy freight that persecution followed as night follows day, led by militant orders such as the Jesuits.

  With the discovery of the New World, it was natural for Communist denominations to look abroad for a more favorable circumstance.

  At first, America showed as inhospitable a face as did Europe. Virginia remained strictly Anglican, while Massachusetts was resolutely Puritan—albeit in watered-down form after an excess of witch-burning. The spiritual terrain had been staked out, fenced, and as jealously guarded as in Europe.

  In Pennsylvania, however, the first settlers happened to be Dutch Quakers and English Utopians, for whom religion was a quest, not a proclamation from above. When William Penn toured Europe with guarantees of religious liberty as part of his “holy experiment,” it inspired a rate of immigration to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania that would not be surpassed until the Irish famine.

  Around 1690, forty colonists (the biblical number did not go unnoticed) established a community in an area south of Philadelphia, in what would come to be known as Germantown. Land was purchased with the patronage of Augustin Herrman, a landholder in Bohemia, and named Economy Manor, after the abstemious ethic that prevailed among members at the time.

  At first, the physical plant consisted of two forty-foot-square dormitories to house the members and separate the sexes. These rectangular buildings stood on an angle to face a third structure known as the Tabernacle of the Women of the Wilderness—a meeting hall topped by the tower, maintained by anointed priestesses whose purpose was to perpetuate the essence of the colony despite time and change.

  Shunned and reviled by Protestants, Catholics, and Anglicans alike, the original sect lasted approximately twelve years; in that time they developed a creed—an eclectic blend of occultism and apocolyptic Christianity—that had nothing to do with the one they arrived with, at which point their Bohemian patron abruptly repudiated the sect and withdrew all support. However, he was unable to reclaim the Pennsylvania property, whose value had appreciated to upward of five hundred dollars an acre. And so the settlers continued to await the coming of the rebirth of the world, watching through telescopes all night long.

  In the center of it all remained the Women of the Wilderness, whose knowledge drew increased veneration the more incomprehensible it became, until the sisters were credited with supernatural feats of all kinds.

  Economy Manor languished in obscurity until 1720, when Conrad Beisel arrived, a vigorous, practical man, thanks to whom the colony was reborn. By the early part of this century, Economy Manor included a gristmill, a community barn, carpenter and blacksmith shops, a sawmill, a cannery, a woolen mill, a distillery and wine cellar, and five hundred and fifty acres planted in wheat, rye, tobacco, and hemp.

  Upon Beisel’s demise, the colony again languished until 1847, when it fell under the leadership of a Swede named John Root who had been recently discharged from the army of the Mexican War, and had somehow demonstrated an ability to influence the weather. Root immediately abolished the vow of celibacy, causing particular bitterness among elders who had passed the age of fertility.

  By the end of the year Root was accused by a fellow Communist named Jensen, of murdering a Jewish peddler. At the trial, Jensen was standing by a courtroom window when Root appeared in the doorway, called his name, shot him dead, and escaped.

  Into the leadership role stepped one Lieutenant Dougal O’Reilly, under whom John Root had served in the Mexican War, and with whom Root had made a private arrangement.

  O’Reilly, however, harbored different ambitions. After inspecting Economy Manor and noting its potential as a defensive position for the Irish Brotherhood, he prepared to claim the property for himself, in perpetuity. Immediately he set about getting rid of its remaining cult members—the sisters excluded, for his army of street orphans drew benefit from their cooking, sewing, and nursing skills.

  In the months following, male Communists died at an accelerating rate, until within a year the residents consisted of O’Reilly, Devlin, the Na Coisantiori and, in their crumbling tabernacle, the Women of the Wilderness.

  The Women of the Wilderness seemed to take their new role in stride. Economy Manor had seen so many changes of personnel and doctrine that they had long ago ceased to differentiate between regimes. What they themselves believed was a mystery they were not prepared to answer, if indeed they knew themselves.

  Surprisingly, they continued to accept single women from outside the commonwealth as new members. By what process and to what creed these conversions took place was, like everything else about them, a mystery.

  By 1849, Economy Manor was a ruin. The only buildings standing (and only just) were the dormitories and the tabernacle. Of the rest, all that remained were foundations—massive, medieval-looking edifices made of stone, out of all proportion to the makeshift wooden buildings they had supported. When the remaining structures collapsed as well, it would appear as though a race of supermen once occupied the land.

  IN THE MEN’S dormitory candles had been extinguished early, as was the usual practice after hard fighting. Bunked in their Spartan quarters like schoolboys at Eton, those members of the Na Coisantiori who remained awake tended to their injuries with the assistance of three sisters, keen for a taste of motherhood after a lifetime of pointless celibacy.

  From the kitchen below could be heard a low rumble of conversation, a meeting of high command.

  Blur-‘an agers!

  Devlin pushed the torn shred of newsprint across the table after reading the article for the fourth time; this he swapped for the half-empty bottle of Old Pepper.

  “You wonder at the cheek of the man,” replied Lieutenant O’Reilly. To Devlin, in the meager light of a single candle, O’Reilly’s empty socket was like a bottomless hole.

  DICKENS
COMING TO AMERICA

  by Sanford W. Mitchell, The Philadelphia Inquirer

  America’s reading set is all a-twitter over the planned reading tour of Mr. Charles Dickens. Already appearances by the literary lion have been scheduled in Boston, Worcester, Harvard, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Richmond, and Washington. The Young Men of Boston have announced a public dinner in his honor, and a “Boz Ball” will take place at the Park Theatre in New York, where Mr. Francis Alexander has been engaged to undertake his portrait. In Washington, he will attend a levee with the president.

  THE LIEUTENANT HELD the scrap of newsprint to his good eye and pretended to read, though in truth he could barely discern his own name. But by the way Devlin had harped upon this man Dickens during speech after speech, O’Reilly suspected that Devlin had something in mind, should he appear close at hand.

  As an American for whom personal advancement was the whole purpose of life, the lieutenant could never see the point behind his partner’s eruptions. Nor did O’Reilly comprehend the depth of Devlin’s anger. Why would a man waste his wrath on a man he had never met—and a writer of books? No doubt it was the same inner rage that inspired him to stab a publisher in the mouth with a marlin spike.

  There are two ways to disguise a conspicuous crime—by cleaning it up, or by making it worse. As always, O’Reilly made the best of a delicate situation, and proceeded to turn Topham’s demise to his own material purpose.

  Though Irish by race, there existed a gulf between the two men that would only grow wider—between an American citizen looking to his future in the New World, and a new immigrant, still seething over injustices that had driven him there in the first place.

  Despite his allegiance to the spirit of America, O’Reilly continued to pay lip service to the auld sod: in America as in Europe, to be an accepted member of a race and religion could mean the difference between prosperity and death. Only a fool discarded bonds of blood and history out of hand.