Charlie felt like anything but a hero, overwhelmed as he was by his anxiety for his Emily and by the work of running the farm single-handedly. In addition, he was responsible for the maintenance and repairs of three households, although sometimes one of his Slack nephews would come to help. And now his mother was dying; his father would likely follow. Then he would be the head of the family at Long Point. He dreaded the thought of being the only man left to deal with so many strong-willed, opinionated women, all wanting their own way. Perhaps Annie and Lottie would marry someday, but Ellen would be there forever. In the last few years he had thought about taking Emily and Fergie and moving to America, where it was always said there were plenty of jobs. Or even going West. Emily blanched whenever he hinted at the idea of going away. She loved their house and being so close to both of their families. But sometimes Charlie felt as if he were one of the windmills that he built, going around and around without profit or gain. No matter how hard he worked, he had no control of the grain prices or the weather; a bad season or an economic calamity in the outside world could easily bring them all to the edge of poverty. It seemed his family was much poorer than they had been when he was a child, even though his sisters had their own incomes. He felt they should all be more prosperous. Perhaps it was his fault. Perhaps he was not managing money as well as his father did. Perhaps he was just not meant to be a farmer.
Charlie thought of the pile of books he kept on his bedside table, works of history, biography and travel. He longed to read them but at night he was too tired and during the daylight hours he had no time. His mind was hungry for knowledge yet it often went for weeks at a time unfed. Well, it was his own fault. He should have traveled more when he was young, like his father-in-law Squire McArdle, or his own father, who had gone to England at age fifteen and then traveled across the ocean. He, Charlie, had never even been to Montreal. His entire world was Long Point Farm; here he was born and here he would probably die, amid drudgery, illness and increasing poverty. But at least he had Emily and Fergie.
Fergie was five years old and Charlie and Emily’s pride and joy. His blue eyes shone with an intelligence, alacrity and wit beyond his years, albeit he was small for his age. They continually marveled at his ability to quickly absorb substantial amounts of information. He took in the world around him with thoughtfulness and endless curiosity. They were constantly startled and delighted by his precocious assessment of life and poignant reflections about the people around him. He loved animals, especially horses, and said he wanted to ride in horse races when he grew up. Not that he had ever been to a horse race, but he had heard of them, and liked the idea. He and Emily read together a great deal; he was close to reading by himself, although he was not yet old enough to go to the old stone schoolhouse across the road. They had recently had his photograph taken, wearing his best velvet suit. They smiled at his confident and astute manner that blazed forth even in the finished photo. He spent his days running between the three houses, spending time with Grandma and Grandpa, then with the aunts and ending up eventually at home.
Charlie surveyed the horizon again, and this time he saw the Red Ensign waving frantically from the window of what had been Bridget’s old room. Carrying his scythe, he hurried across the hayfield to the house. Father MacDonald, wearing a black cassock and biretta, was climbing out of his buggy. Fergie stood on the porch, staring at the priest with awe; he had never seen a man in a “dress” before. Fergie had closely-cropped light-brown hair and a sturdy frame that promised to someday be as stocky and muscular as his father and grandfather. He was gently blowing on the green poplar whistle, which Charlie had made for him. Charlie unharnessed Father’s horse and took it to the stable.
“How is your Pa taking it, Charlie?” asked the priest.
Charlie could not answer. He led the horse to water and gave it a rub down, but when he tried to speak he choked instead. Finally, he coughed and said, “It’s a hard time for us, Father.” Father MacDonald nodded and patted him on the back. Charlie led Father to the house and to his parent’s room on the ground floor where his sisters were all crowded outside the door. Father MacDonald entered the room and Pa and Lottie left so that Ma could make her last confession. Bridget went over to Pa and took his hand. Pa was hunched over, his face fallen. Bridget helped him into a chair. He could have been two hundred years old. Mick sat on a bench in the corner and Charlie sat down next to him. There was no sound but his sisters sniffling.
“How’s Emily?” Mick asked.
“She’s recovering. Her sister Kate is with her.”
Ma’s confession did not take long. Father opened the door and as many as could crowded into the room to witness to Ma’s reception of the sacrament of extreme unction. They were led by Pa, who was upheld by Lottie and Bridget. Mick and Charlie hovered in the doorway. Charlie gazed at his mother. Ma appeared so tiny in the bed that, but for her wizened visage and white hair showing from under her nightcap, she might have been mistaken for a child. Charlie remembered the last time he had taken his parents to have their photograph taken some years ago. Ma had not wanted to go; she had a toothache, which she said was driving her mad. Pa persuaded her to go because they had an appointment, which he had no wish to break. In the picture her mouth was contorted; she looked like an angry faery. Pa extracted her tooth when they returned from the studio in Gananoque. He was glad they had some photos of her so that generations to come would have some idea of what she looked like. But none of the photographs caught his mother’s smile, which was sweetly audacious even when toothless. Charlie wished there was a picture of her when she was young. Pa always said she was beautiful and he spoke of her as if she still were. Charlie realized, now that he himself was married, that Pa would always see Ma as she was when they were young.
They each took a moment to say goodbye to Ma, to hold her hand and search her eyes for some awareness of their presence, for recognition. As Charlie leaned over her, she reached up and touched his face. “My wee lad, my baby boy,” she whispered. “Katy saved you for me. She’s calling for me now. She’s still watching over you. And I’ll be watching you, too.” He kissed her and said goodbye. There followed the long vigil, as she passed into unconsciousness and her breathing became more laborious. They sat motionless; there was no sound but weeping, the rattle of rosary beads, and the ticking clock on the parlor mantelpiece. Afternoon came. At three o’clock, she breathed her last. His father bent his head into his hands and sobbed aloud.
Charlie walked out the door and towards the fields. He had to be alone. He did not want to be with anyone, not even Emily. He had to be under the sky. Then he gazed down the lane to Ellen’s house and the Saddle Rock. He observed Fergie sitting alone on the Rock and, though alone, the child appeared to be talking to someone. Charlie strode over to the Rock; Fergie slid down and into his arms. His face was tear-stained.
“Who were you talking to, lad?”
“My friend George,” replied Fergie.
“Ah, so George was here again,” said Charlie, rumpling his son’s hair with a look of concern.
“Is Grandma in heaven?” asked Fergie, abruptly changing the subject.
“Yes. Come, let’s walk together.” Hand-in-hand, they strolled through the cascading greens of the pasture, of emerald, apple and bottle-green, dotted with Queen Anne's lace, buttercups and chicory, rippling into patterns of endless complexity.
CHAPTER 17
Winter Sunset
December 8, 1886
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd!
Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd --
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
─ “Scent of Roses” by Thomas Moore
Pa was never the same after Ma died. He sat all day long in front of the new stove in the kitchen of the homestead, with her empty chair beside him. Charlie, Emily, and Fergie spent as much time with him as possible, trying
to brighten his days, but he was inconsolable. Pa would occasionally turn towards Ma’s empty chair, having forgotten for a moment that she had gone. Then he would gaze ahead of him, as if he were seeing beyond time.
“Go sit with Grandpa,” Emily would whisper to Fergie, who then hastened to sit near Grandpa’s feet on one of the rag carpets made by Ma on her loom. In no time at all, they heard Pa relating to Fergie the long history of the O’Connors.
“Our ancestor was Mulrooney, bold King of Connaught in AD 700. Our family came to embrace four principle branches: the O’Connor Don, the O’Connor Sligo, the O’Connor Roe, and those of Corcumro. The chiefs of the O’C Don were styled Princes of Siol and King of Connaught. Those of the O’C Sligo were Princes of Liol Murray; the O’C Roe were Princes of Fergal; the O’C Corcumcro, Princes of Corcumrudh. The possessions of the Don were located in the present County Roscommon, the Sligo in County Sligo, the Roe in King’s County, or Offaly, as it was called, and the Corcumro in County Clare.”
Fergie could be heard making the appropriate comments and asking the right questions. “What a lad,” thought Charlie, chuckling to himself.
Emily had recovered from her last miscarriage, but there was no sign of another child. They had both dreamed of having a large family, but that dream was not to be.
“We are so blessed to have Fergie. He is a very special boy,” she said, contemplatively.
“He is,” agreed Charlie, thinking to himself of the prophecy of Mrs. Barnes, which he knew Emily was thinking of as well.
“I am glad he has these moments with your father. It will be something to tell his grandchildren about.”
“Yes, it will.”
The day came again when Charlie and most of his siblings were saying farewell to a dying parent, but this time the place was at Charlie and Emily’s house, where the spare room downstairs was larger than any of the rooms at the old homestead. They had carried Pa there for the last few weeks of his final illness
“What day is it?” murmured Pa from his bed..
“It is December 8, the feast of the Immaculate Conception, Pa,” Annie said gently, from her chair next to Pa’s head. “And Charlie’s birthday.”
“Aye. Our Charlie was born on Our Lady’s feast, the day she was preserved from all stain of original sin, preparing her to become the Mother of Our Savior. ‘Tis grand, it is, to be born on a feast of the Mother of God.” Pa’s voice was weak and scratchy. “And to die on her feast as well. ‘O, Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee.’ Is Charlie here?”
“I’m here, Pa.”
“Did you hear that, lad? Your birthday is to be my birthday into eternity. Now, am I wearing me brown scapular?” He was always conscious of the promise of Our Lady to St. Simon Stock that those who died wearing the Carmelite scapular would be speedily delivered from the fires of purgation in the next world.
“You are, Pa,” said Annie. “Fr. Spratt even brought you a new one when he anointed you this morning.”
“I’ve been anointed? Ah, yes, I remember. Did I receive Holy Viaticum?”
“You did, Pa,” affirmed Charlie.
“Charlie and Annie are here, but who else? My eyes darken. You all look shadowy.”
“I’ll open the curtains,” said Emily. She opened the curtains of the window facing West, where the faltering sun was sending forth flares of glory, tinting the swirling clouds in an array of violet, saffron, rose, and sapphire. With the room illumined, Pa surveyed his children, Joanna, Mick, Ellen, Margaret, Bridget, Charlie and Annie.
“Well, there you all are. And Mary’s in New York State,” he mumbled. “But where’s Lottie?”
“Lottie’s in New York, too,” Annie told him.
“Ah, that’s right. Yet another daughter who married a Yank. Well, I’m going soon, my children,” said Pa. “I ask your pardon for all the times I may have been harsh or impatient. For any of my failures as a father . . . may God forgive me. And I ask for your forgiveness as well.”
“Of course, Pa, we forgive you,” Mick choked. Ellen choked back a sob and Joanna, Margaret and Bridget began to cry softly.
Annie folded her arms and donned a mock expression of offense. “I don’t know, Squire O’Connor, if I can be forgiving the time you switched me in the woodshed for something Lottie did.”
“Begorrah,” coughed Pa. “What’s that?”
Annie went on in feigned outrage. “Oh, you don’t remember do you, old man? I am referring to the time Lottie, that rascal, mixed pepper with the sugar in the sugar bowl, and everyone assumed it was I that did it. Because, of course, Lottie was an angel who would never have thought of such a fiendish trick. I took the punishment for her, and she did not confess her crime until three years later, the night before her confirmation, because she had made a general confession and the priest told her she had to own up.”
Pa started to chuckle. “Oh, aye, I recall it now. Poor Annie. Well, please forgive me for your Ma’s sake.”
Tears deluged Annie’s face. “Of course, I forgive you, you mad old Irishman.” And she kissed his cheek.
“Now then!” exclaimed Pa. “‘Tis my sacred duty to give you all an example of how to die! Help me, children, to recite Psalm 50, if you can remember it. Have mercy on me O God according to thy great mercy.”
“According to the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my iniquity,” responded Charlie.
“Thoroughly wash me of my iniquity and of my sins cleanse me,” replied Ellen.
“For I acknowledge my guilt, and my sin is before me always,” Charlie recited. Then they all joined in, except for Annie whose weeping prevented her.
When they had finished the Miserere, Pa, whose breath was coming in gasps, whispered: “Salve Regina.” Hail Holy Queen.
Emily took up the chant in her melodious voice: “Mater misericordiae, vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve.” Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope.
Bridget joined her. “Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevæ, Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle.” To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this vale of tears. The rest joined in, even Annie. While they were singing, Pa let out a long breath. The song ended and they all thought he was gone. No one made a sound, except Ellen. She took up her missal and began to say aloud the prayers for the departed soul. Without warning, Pa opened his eyes, declaring: “Brigit! I’ve brought you roses!” And he died.
Part V
Fergie’s Choice
Then from the dawn it seemed there came, but faint
As from beyond the limit of the world,
Like the last echo born of a great cry,
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice
Around a king returning from his wars….
And the new sun rose bringing the new year.
─from “The Passing of Arthur” in Alfred Lord Tennyson’s The Idylls of the King
CHAPTER 18
The Wake
December 9, 1886
“But the souls of the just are in the hand of God, and the torment of death shall not touch them.” ─Wisdom 3:1
The rosary for the soul of Squire O’Connor came to an end. Supper was served; everyone plunged into the meal with a hunger sharpened by grief and loss. Fergie had not realized how hungry he was until he smelled the salty pink and black ham and beheld the burnished, well-basted turkey. He took one of Mother’s china plates and with great effort tried not to pile it too high, for Mother had taught him never to be greedy. Joe Bevins did the same, and the two boys sat at the feet of Father, Uncle Mick and the other uncles, so they could better hear the men’s conversation. No one had to tell them that children were to be seen and not heard; they were big boys now and anyway they preferred to listen to the stories about Grandpa O’Connor to chattering with the little ones. Joe referred to the Squire as “Grandpa” as did most of the local children, even those who were not relatives. The dis
course lagged as the food was consumed, but picked up as the whiskey and beer were brought around, washing down the last crumbs of Mother’s delicious applesauce cake.
Uncle Mick recalled Grandpa’s jokes and sense of humor. “Remember how Pa told the story of when they were naming the townships? He was a member of the committee, and the evening was wearing on. Pa said that they had this one poor little bastard without a sponsor, so it was named ‘Bastard Township.’ Pa always chuckled over that one.”
“Michael, the children are listening,” said Aunt Ellen, in her precise manner of speaking. She had taught for many years, and was the family authority on propriety, manners and correct English usage. As she cleared the dishes away, she said, “Tell about what Pa did when he was juryman. He helped to get rid of a very absurd practice.”
“You can relate it better than I can, Ellen,” said Uncle Mick.
“Oh, I don’t have time right now for storytelling,” lamented Aunt Ellen. “There are far too many dishes to do.” She disappeared into the kitchen with a stack of plates. She had no children of her own, being the old maid of the family, but was an encyclopedia of family history, as well as having an infallible memory for the birthdays of all of her brothers and sisters, nieces, nephews and cousins.
“Very well, I will tell of it,” said Uncle Mick. “While Grandpa was serving as juryman on one occasion in Brockville while Judge Draper was presiding, a Catholic was placed in the witness box. Now in those days, it was common practice to draw a cross with pen and ink upon the back of the Bible when a Catholic was to be sworn. In the aforesaid instance, as the clerk began to sketch the cross on the Testament, Grandpa stood up and inquired by whose authority he did it. This stirred up a lively discussion in the courtroom. Grandpa pointed out to all present the absurdity of the practice, and spoke to persuasively that the judge ordered it to be omitted. It was never done again in the court house of Brockville.”
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