Irish Love

by Andrew M. Greeley

  At this moment, the whole case seems involved in mystery arising from the evidence of independent or so-called unimpeached witnesses, respecting whom be it observed, a sifting public inquiry might elicit facts and motives of great importance for the elucidation of truth, and on the other, from the dying declarations referred to.

  The exceptional nature of the case, as it now stands, with all its circumstances, would seem to call for exceptional consideration on the part of the Government by instituting a public inquiry.

  As regards the official incriminated, towards whom I have no feeling in one way or the other, one could not help thinking that, at the inquiry referred to in the memorandum, he was witness in his own case and it might seem more satisfactory—if not necessary—in order to satisfy reasonable public expectation at a public inquiry where there would be an opportunity afforded of questioning all parties concerned with the prison, if it was fully proved that he had not seen Casey on any other occasions than those referred to in the memorandum.

  I have the honor to remain, Your Excellency’s faith-ful servant,

  John Joseph Kane, Bishop of Galway and Killmacduff

  Dublin Castle, June 23

  My Lord Archbishop,

  In the temporary absence of Sir Robert Hamilton, I am desired by the Lord Lieutenant to acknowledge the receipt of Your Grace’s letter of the 25th of May, which His Excellency has read with attention.

  I am directed to inform you that His Excellency is unable to alter his decision that Sir Robert communicated to you in his letter of 24th May and His Excellency must decline to reopen the question.

  W. S. B. Kay

  Undersecretary

  That was that. We tolerate you leaders of popish superstition in Ireland because you are able to restrain your people and thus make our administration of this perverse people somewhat easier. However, we concede courtesy to you only as a matter of convenience. We really don’t take you seriously, and we don’t believe any “confessions” made in one of your popish religious services. The matter is closed.

  Except it wasn’t closed and would never be closed. The Catholics of Ireland were convinced that the Crown had bungled badly, hung an innocent man, and sent four innocent men to jail. Even some of the Protestants, including their reporters, were uneasy at the allegations. The Earl Spencer was a monster to the former and a bungler to the latter and so he will be remembered.

  “You’re a real fire-eater, Edward,” Tim Harrington said to me. “It wouldn’t take much to send you into the streets.”

  “I don’t think so, Tim. Like you I fight with words, not weapons.”

  He raised his thick black eyebrows.

  “Why is that, Edward?”

  “My father fought in our civil war. He went in as an eighteen-year-old Second Lieutenant and came out four years later as a twice wounded Brevet Lieutenant Colonel. He was the only man of his original company to survive. He taught me that war never solves anything.”

  Tim sighed, as the Irish do, and said, “He’s surely right, yet sometimes you have to fight for your own freedom. If the English don’t learn, someday they’ll have a mass revolution here that they will not be able to win. It won’t be like ‘98 or ’48 or ’67. The whole people of Ireland will rise.”

  “Is that what you’re fighting for in Parliament and what Bishop Kane is fighting for in his letters?”

  “We’re fighting to tell the truth. We know we’ll lose, though we always hope that this time it will be different. We’re trying to tell the world how immoral and stupid the English rule here is. What else can we do?”

  Indeed, what else can they do?

  26

  Galway Town, August 1, 1883

  I came back here from London for unfinished business. I don’t believe in dreams. They merely tell us what we have been worrying about. However, Myles Joyce continues to come to me in my dreams. He reminds me gently of my obligation to Nora. What obligation, I ask him? The obligation you accepted in the Green Street Court, he replies with a sad smile. I gave you responsibility for her and you accepted. No one can give his woman to someone else, I plead. His smile grows sadder and then he fades away. I wake up with a start, covered with sweat.

  I do not dream of her. The desire I once felt for her, nothing more than shallow youthful lust, is gone. She was so haggard and worn when I saw her last spring it was impossible to want to possess her. Yet, if she does not disturb my dreams, why do I think I recognize her in London whenever I see a pretty girl with long black hair?

  This is a fool’s venture. Yet I must try. It was not a good summer for crops in Ireland. There will not be, the Irish M.P.s tell me, another famine unless the winter is as cold as last winter. Yet the weak and the old and the very young will be at risk again. My conscience tells me that unless I take Nora and Mary Elizabeth to America when I return the first week in October, they will both die this winter. Perhaps the indefatigable Josie will die too. It is within my power to save them. I don’t want this power, but I have it. If Myles of my dreams is correct, I also have the obligation.

  Yet, I can succeed only if I can persuade her to come with me, to risk once again the demand of a man in her life. Both Josie and Bishop Kane tell me that she refuses to consider marriage. Perhaps she will not want to resist me. I have no reason to think that, no reason to think that when she sees a horseman in the valley, she may imagine that I have come for her. I will surely have to persuade, perhaps insist. I am willing to do that, though I do not know what the consequences will be for me or for her. One part of me fears failure in this suit. Another fears success.

  Tomorrow I will have supper with Bishop Kane and seek his advice.

  Galway Town, August 2, 1883

  “How will your family react to this strange woman from a savage land when you bring her into their house?”

  He refilled my wineglass. Like all good Irishmen we kept our business to the end of the meal.

  “We will shortly find a place of our own.”

  “Still, you will be near your family. Will they dislike her?”

  “No, m’lord, not at all. My family is very open and warm. Besides, she has one important qualification.”

  “And that is?”

  “She’s a Galway woman!”

  He laughed. “Good for them—and the child?”

  “Children … My mother is impatient to be a grandmother.”

  “Children?”

  “Josie; I cannot separate her from Nora. She needs Nora and Nora needs her.”

  “What an extraordinary young man you are, Edward Hannigan Fitzpatrick. You are prepared to ride over the Maamtrasna a bachelor and come back with a bride, a daughter, and a niece at the age of … How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two, m’lord.”

  “You think you are capable of assuming such obligations?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You love her?”

  “I see her every day on the streets of London.”

  “If she rejects you?”

  “I’m not sure I’ll accept rejection.”

  He smiled and sighed. “You are a romantic, Edward Fitzpatrick.”

  “I will not dispute that, m’lord.”

  “She will always compare you to Myles, you realize that?”

  “I would not blame her for that. Perhaps she will see in me characteristics that she can love.”

  “It may take her a long time to love. You are prepared to be patient?”

  “Certainly.”

  He shook his head sadly.

  “Marriage is not an easy matter, Edward, even when begun under the best circumstances … .”

  I realized that I was talking myself into a passionate pursuit of Nora Philbin Joyce. Would I really carry her off if she refused me? The thought that I might somehow do just that made me feel bold.

  “I will bring them down here. My friends the Corbetts will take care of them for two months while I finish my work in London, so that they can recover their health and strength. I w
ill ask you to preside over a marriage. Then we will go to America.”

  “You have it all planned out?” he smiled again, not approvingly.

  “Yes, m’lord.”

  “One suggestion, if I may?”

  He filled my wineglass again.

  “Surely.”

  “Do not speak to her of love. For all I know she may love you already. She would be wise if she did. Presently, however, she is quite incapable of thinking about love.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “She is a canny peasant, Edward. She may be much more than that. Nonetheless, she is a peasant. Such women understand the need for bargaining. Offer her a bargain. If she will come with you, you will save her life and her daughter’s … . And of course the life of that appealing little ruffian. Such a bargain demands rather little: marriage to a man who will be good to her in return for the life of her child. It will seem an appealing bargain.”

  I grinned.

  “M’lord, I had not thought of such a strategy. Thank you for your wise advice.”

  I had planned that dinner with the Bishop would make me cautious, careful, prudent. It has, alas, only made me more passionate. Tomorrow I will ride over the mountains to Maamtrasna and seek my destiny.

  Galway Town, August 4, 1883

  As always Josie waited for me on the road, standing patiently in the bright sunlight. How, I wondered, did she know I was coming?

  “Good afternoon, Miss Josephine Philbin,” I said, tipping my hat.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Edward Fitzpatrick, sir,” she said with a respectful curtsy.

  “How are you keeping, Miss Philbin?”

  “As well as can be expected, Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir.”

  I climbed out of the buggy to lead the horse up the last yards to the house.

  “And your aunt?”

  She sighed.

  “She is not well, sir. She has never been well, since her husband died.”

  “No worse, I hope?”

  “A little worse, I think, sir. Sometimes she has the fight left in her, if you take me meaning, like when we forced Tom Casey to admit his crime.”

  We was it?

  “And sometimes not?”

  “More often not, sir.”

  “And your pretty niece?”

  “Poorly, sir. She is so pretty, but she is sickly.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Josie.”

  “Yes, sir … Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir?”

  “Yes, Josie?”

  “Neither will survive the winter, sir. Even if John Casey doesn’t have us all killed.”

  “He’s making threats?”

  “Threats are being made, sir. He doesn’t have as much power as he used to.”

  “I see,” I said, clenching my fists.

  “Will you do something, Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir?”

  “I will endeavor to do so, Josie.”

  This time I did not give her any money. I had other plans.

  Nora was at her usual post, on the rocker in front of the house, next to the ever-present spinning wheel. She was knitting a thick sweater, for her child perhaps. Mary Elizabeth was in a cradle next to her. Nora was humming the haunting Connemara Lullaby.

  “Here’s Mr. Fitzpatrick, Aunty.”

  Nora looked horrible, thin, wasted, old. Had I come too late?

  “She always seems to know when you’re coming, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I fear that she’s fey. In any case, Jesus and Mary be with you.”

  “Jesus and Mary and Patrick be with you,” I replied.

  I sat on the tree stump near her chair.

  “I’ll wet the tea, Aunty.”

  “Thank you, Josie.”

  The Irish like to approach matters indirectly. So do we Irish Americans, though not with quite so much circumlocution. My impulse was to offer my bargain immediately. However, I restrained myself and told her about London.

  “You did good work there, I’m sure, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she said, perhaps mocking me just a little.

  “I wouldn’t say that, Nora. I did what I could, what I had to do.”

  “What you can do, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she said, “is usually very good indeed. You have the Irishman’s gift for words.”

  “Which is not as great as that of the Irishwoman.”

  She laughed and then her laugh turned into a cough.

  I must get her out of here. Today.

  Josie arrived with the tea. Nora permitted her to pour it. Mary Elizabeth stirred and whimpered. Nora picked her up and crooned softly to her. The child, very pretty and very pale, went back to sleep.

  “I think I’ll run to our house for a minute,” Josie said and scampered off.

  The little brat was probably fey indeed. Or maybe she had guessed.

  “I have a bargain to propose to you, Nora,” I said heavily. Wrong tone of voice.

  “A bargain, Mr. Fitzpatrick?” she looked at her tea.

  “Yes …” I said, suddenly losing my breath.

  “And that bargain is?” She sipped the tea thoughtfully.

  “I want you, Nora. With all the power of my soul, I want you for my own.”

  Not very good. What else could I have said?

  “Whatever do you mean?” Her haggard face set in a grim mask.

  I had prepared several scenarios on the ride over the mountains. I could not find them anywhere in my head.

  “I mean,” I said as my face flamed, “that I want your body in my marriage bed.”

  She flushed too.

  “That is improper language, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

  I ignored that comment.

  “In return for which I will bring you and your daughter with me to America.”

  “That is an inappropriate offer of a bargain,” she said, frowning angrily. “It is, however, interesting.”

  “I hoped you would find it so.”

  She lifted the sleeping child into her arms.

  “For my own life, I care nothing. In effect, then, you want my body in exchange for granting life to my daughter?”

  “And to Josie.”

  “Josie?” she seemed surprised.

  “I will take her to America with us.”

  “Why ever would you do that?”

  “Because you need Josie and Josie needs you. It would be wrong to separate you.”

  “You’re really quite an astonishing man, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she said, examining me carefully with her searching blue eyes. “In exchange for myself, you give new life to the only people in the world that I love.”

  “That’s the bargain I propose,” I said awkwardly.

  Josie had been the turning point. Perhaps she thought I was crazy, but generously crazy.

  “I’m afraid that there’s not much left to my body,” she said, still searching my face.

  “That could easily be corrected.”

  “When would you propose agreement on this bargain?”

  “Now. Immediately.”

  “Now!” A hand flew to her breast. “You propose to take me up here, at this moment?”

  “Certainly not. I propose to take you and your daughter and your niece down to Galway, stopping at Outhergard tonight, where you will live with friends of mine, the Corbetts. They will take care of you until I return from London at the end of September. We will then have a wedding and go to America.”

  “And your family?”

  “You have the one indispensable quality to win their acceptance.”

  “And that is?” A look of shrewd peasant calculation spread over her face.

  “You’re a Galway woman.”

  She blushed again.

  “You are a strange man, sir. Very strange.”

  I was afraid I was beginning to lose her.

  “That’s what my mother says.”

  It was an inspired response. She actually grinned at me. “How old is your mother, Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

  “Let’s see … Forty-one I believe.”

  She was startled. “She must have been, what, seventeen w
hen she married? … The same age I was.”

  “My father was eighteen. His regiment was leaving for our civil war. They admit that they were crazy. They still are to some extent.”

  She changed the subject.

  “And if I should reject your bargain?”

  “I will not tolerate rejection.”

  “Pardon?” Her hand flew once more to her breast. She was suddenly afraid of me. I sensed that this was not a bad development.

  “If you don’t come willingly now, then I will carry you off.”

  “Carry me off?”

  “I will come to your house some night soon, bundle you up, and drag you to my carriage. Then I will collect Josie and Mary Elizabeth and we’ll disappear into the night.”

  I must have said it with considerable conviction.

  “You desire me that much?” she said, not quite able to believe it.

  “I want you, and I want to save the lives of the three of you.”

  “I believe you really would carry me off by force,” she said thoughtfully. “That doesn’t give me much choice, does it?”

  Would I have done so?

  I don’t know.

  Yes, I would have done so.

  Then Josie reappeared, at just the right minute. Indeed the dirty-faced mite was fey.

  “Josie,” Nora called to her. “Mr. Fitzpatrick has a very unusual suggestion. He proposes to take all three of us to America. Do you want to go to America, Josie?”

  “Oh, yes, I do!” the child shouted and rushed over to embrace me. “Please! Mr. Fitzpatrick! PLEASE!”

  “Very well, then, run down to your house, kiss your ma and your da, tell them that we’re going to America, and bring along your things. Tell them that they may have my cow and my house and whatever I leave.”