“Is that the school master whose writings he often talks about – the man whose poetry and stories he read in the hall the other night?”
“It is,” Triona said. Marcus and himself were great friends when they were both in Conradh na Gaeilge in Dublin years ago. Marcus used to write pieces for An Claidheamh Solais, the paper that was edited by Piarais. That time when Marcus lifted the land rents, Mac Piarais wrote a long letter to him in praise of what he had done, and he asked him to write a long report on what he did so that he could publish it in the Claidheamh Solais. But Marcus wrote to him and he asked him not to mention anything at all about it. He said he had done nothing except what he was obliged to do, and that he deserved no credit for doing that. He also said that accounts were carried by the other papers unknown to him, and that he had sent letters to all of them explaining that.”
“Wouldn’t you think that Marcus would be delighted to see an account of the good things he had done in the papers?” Nansai said.
“He is the type of person,” Triona said, “he doesn’t like badness, or too much of the praise, especially praise from the paper.”
“Maise I believe he is right,” Nansai said. Didn’t we often hear rumours about nonsense in the papers.”
Between then and sunset it so happened that there were a group inside the Co-operative shop at the Droighead, and they were chatting as usual. Seimin Ban, the Greasai Rua and Conor Mor Guildea were there. There was a woman there who was weighing brown flour and brown sugar; there was a man there who was choosing a pick; and there was a little girl there who was looking for a new pair of shoes. Con Mac Carty, the manager of the shop was also there. Con was a handsome lad, a lad who had a great interest in music. His parents were from Gleann Ceo but he was born and reared in Glasgow.
They were talking about the great price that cattle ands pigs were making, and they were complaining about the high prices of the goods in the shops. You could hear references to Suvla Bay, and Verdun. But they had a new topic of conversation in the past few evenings – the fight between Oglaigh na hEireann and the British soldiers in the city of Dublin. No paper had come to Gleann Ceo during the previous week, so the only stories they had were hearsay. Dublin was burned to the ground, if it was true; thousands were dead; the Germans were coming ashore in the south of the Country and driving up the country with arms; a bad army had arrived from England and it was coming from Dublin killing and burning, on its way. The people were thinking that, the country would be devastated by them.
“A group of youngsters with no sense!” the Greasai Rua said. “A pack of scoundrels who don’t know what they are doing! Thinking that they will defeat England with their little guns. A few lashes of a sally rod by right, is what every man of them should get.”
“Be assured they will get just that if they continue with this,” Conor Mor said; “and it is good enough for them. I am afraid that the Country is finished with Home Rule now, even though it is already in the Statute Book.”
“They should be hanged by right.” Seimin Ban said. “They have the Country destroyed. England won’t buy cattle or animals from the people; and they paying three times the price for them until now. Fighting with England! Fighting with a Nation who could bring about our death with starvation within one month.”
“It is a destructive deed,” the Greasai Rua said. “The people were doing well and there was plenty of money in the country, and we were about to get Home Rule, after this fight. But that is up in the air now with the Cornell’s crowd in Dublin. Any kind of death is good enough for them.”
They heard the sound of the motorbike coming into the street, and it wasn’t long until Marcus Mac Alastair darkened the door. He came in with his usual long strides, and his fair hair falling into his eyes. But he was not as happy, that evening, as usual. He had newspapers with him, and he threw them down on the counter at the same time as he was greeting the people within the shop.
“We are talking here,” the Greasai Rua said, “about this racket that the scoundrels in Dublin are making. What is the best story you have heard about them in your travels?”
“Greasai Rua,” Marcus said, as he walked towards the Greasai Rua, and laid his hand on his shoulder, “the day will come, and it is not too far away when you won’t call ‘scoundrels’ to the great men who gave their heart’s blood, to the last drop, for my sake and for yours. It happens that I knew quite a few of them, Greasai, and they are far from being scoundrels.” His voice was shaking and he had tears in his eyes. He smelled of spirits, and the Greasai thought that he had a good drop taken. But he was not sure.
“Greasai,” Marcus said again, “don’t let me hear that word coming out of your mouth again, referring to the great warriors who challenged the empire on the streets of Dublin. Padraig Mac Piarais was no scoundrel, Greasai, but a gentle poet who deserted the big life for the sake of his Country. Listen to him, Greasai:
‘Do thugas mo chul ar an aisling do chumas
/I turned my back on the dream that I created,
‘S ar an rod seo romham m’aghaidh do thugas.
/And on the road ahead I set my face.
Do thugas mo ghnuis ar an rod seo romham,
/I offered my cheek to the road ahead,
Ar an gniomh dochim ‘s ar an mbas do gheobhad’./On the
job to be done and on the death I might get.’
“Study that noble talk, Greasai. It was no pretence, you must know. He was as good as his word, and he is lying in live lime in Arbour Hill this summer evening. He could have been enjoying the evening just like me or you, Greasai. He was an educated man, he had a Degree in Law, a private school in an upper -class area just outside the City, a great writer, a fine young handsome man, in the prime of his health. He could have built a beautiful castle, have a wife, and spend his life in luxury. He could have amassed wealth, and get enjoyment from life. He could have had the life of a nobleman amongst his learned friends, while using his pen. But as he said himself in the poem, Greasai, he turned the back of his head to the lot, and he set about doing a deed that would awaken slaves out of their slavery. It wasn’t today or yesterday that he thought of that, Greasai; and he has it done now exactly. He went out on the streets of Dublin and he struck a blow that was deliberate and forceful. He went out and he shook the British throngs, and he had fewer than a thousand men. He created a republic, and he and his little brigade of great men defended it against the throngs of British during the week just passed. He did not surrender until he had the principal street of the City in a fireball every side of him, and men women and children who were not fighting at all being shot at by the British in the streets. He surrendered, Greasai, when he had done all that he could do. He was taken out at dawn a few mornings ago, Greasai Rua. He was put standing against a wall and he was executed; and he is lying in lime in Arbour Hill tonight. And he was not the only poet who was executed, Greasai. Mac Donncha/Mc Donagh, Pluincead/Plunket, are in the lime, as well, and they are finished composing their little poems. There are plenty others in the lime with them, Greasai. Thomas O Cleirigh is, the gallant and generous man who spent half his life in prison by the British. There are thirteen of them in the lime, Greasai, and I believe there could be more. They have Seamus O Conghaile, and he is wounded, and they have Sean Mac Diarmada, from the back of that mountain out there. Poor funny man Sean, I believe that they will put him in front of the firing squad one of these mornings and they will execute him.”
Tears filled Marcus’s eyes because he knew Sean Mac Diarmada very well. Greasai Rua was speechless, as were all the men in the house. This kind of talk delivered from the heart of such an emotional passionate person put a whole different look on the story. They had always known that Marcus Mac Alastair was not given to badness or lies; and when they heard this love that he had for the crowd that the people of the Gleann were downgrading, they did not know what to say. But one thing was settled in their minds, at any rate; that it was no credit to the English to have put Padraig Mac Pia
rais to death. Certainly they felt a kind of anger stirring in them towards the British.
Marcus left them reading the papers and he faced his bike for Dun le Grein.
A short while after sunset that same evening, Pol an Greasai Rua happened along the road on his way to a music session. His beret was on the side of his head, and his red straggly hair sticking out under it at the peak an falling by his face. He was a fine pleasant young boy. He was well built and developed in good proportion. He was popular. When he was half way between the Droighead and Conor Mor’s house, he turned up the mountain to where Una was milking her cows on the hillside.
”Well Pol Rua, “ she said, “ are you on your travels again tonight?”
“God bless your work,” Pol said, and he threw himself down on a bunch of heather and took out his pipe.
“Maise, referring to God, you make an old person out of yourself,” she said, and she skitted the milk from one of the teats between his two eyes. “Yourself and your blessing!”
Pol only laughed at her. The good man was admiring her dark brown tresses, and her roguish cheeks, and her infectious laughter, and the devilment that was in her. He was used to herself and her tricks. She would be great with him today and cool tomorrow. She would be mocking him. She would fight with him over little things that were not worth mentioning He would be shivering in his skin dancing, in case she left him crying in front of everyone. Something she often did. Because she was very attracted to strangers, and there were quite a few handsome young fellows in from the towns to the new hall at the Droighead. Pol often cursed the first day that the same new hall was built. And it was difficult to blame the poor fellow. The young man who brought his first love dancing, and who intended to enjoy a good night with her and who only got the chance to do one round with her, until he saw her sitting with some young fellow from far away, no doubt you couldn’t blame him for cursing the place. He often promised himself that he would not have anything more to do with her, but he knew that was silly. He would have it all forgotten the next day, and he would be off on the road hoping to lay his eyes on the beautiful damsel again. No matter what she did to him he would still put his right hand into the fire for her. She could do her worst to him he would still put one hill on top of another for her.
She had a new story for him this evening; the worst story he had heard so far.
“Did you hear that I am leaving you?” she said.
“Maise where would I hear the like of that Una,” he said, “Where would you be going away from us?”
“I am going to England next month,” she said. “I am getting work in an armoury factory. There are two girls from Ballinashee working in the factory already and they are making piles of money. What would I be doing wasting my time here?”
This left Pol winded. He couldn’t talk for a minute, in case his voice would be shaking.
“Will the old pair allow you to go?” he said.
“Are they going to allow me to go, is it?” she said. “Do you think that I am a child? Maybe they would be able to use the stick on me. They are not happy with me of course, but that is not going to stop me. Not an inch. I’ll be over in England a month from today and I’ll be earning loads of money.”
“What will the old pair and the young lads do without you? Of course your grandmother will not be able to do much soon, and she drawing towards eighty years.”
“Feargal can get out there and bring Nansai Seimin Ban in. He is long enough breaking his neck after her. And he is the right age for marriage.”
“It is well I know that the same Feargal would not bring a strange woman into the house as long as his grandmother is still alive. He wouldn’t have the heart to do it, and it is well you know that, Una.”
“Well let Peadar bring in a woman.”
“Pol could only laugh, even though his heart was breaking. It was no use talking to her. A complete devil may care, he thought; but if she was an outlaw as well as a devil may care, she had his heart broken and no relief for it. If he was a poet, he might say, ‘ that it would have been better for him to have no eyes than ever to have seen her.’
“Una, sister,” he said, “I am asking you to put your heart in your home place and stay at home. I have money saved and I will build a new house at the Droighead when this fight is over, and if you marry me, we will have a great little life together. Do Una, because if you go you will leave a pain in my heart.”
He was left petrified with the way she laughed at the poor fellow.
“In the name of God,” she said, but you are a funny man. My dear Lord, but we are the babies? I won’t be a week gone until you will be going with some other woman.”
“You are my choice above every other woman in the world,” poor Pol said, “and I won’t ever look at another woman for life. I adore you, sister, stay at home with us, because if you go this Gleann will be a lonesome place after you.”
“Pol, brother, you haven’t an ounce of sense. Do you not know that I wouldn’t marry a miner from Gleann Ceo? Are you trying to say that I could set my heart in my native home, washing miner’s clothes, and rearing a family, and making an old woman out of myself, and me only at the beginning of my life? This is the promise that I have, Pol, to enjoy my youth while I have it; and when I am getting on in years, I will marry some man who has plenty of money, let him be young or old.”
He gave her no answer at all. What could he say? Her mind was made up and she would not be changed. They went down the hill towards the highway.
HALLOWEEN
It was Halloween; and a few merrymakers were gathered together in Mac Alastair’s parlour at Dun le Grein. There was a great big fire in the grate and a good pile of nuts, apples, and grapes on the table. The supper was over, and everyone was sitting around the fire eating fruit, and laughing and talking, and playing tricks, and telling stories, and singing songs, and occasionally listening to the lonesome cry of the wind at the top of the chimney, and outside the closed doors.
Marcus was stretched on his back on a sofa at one end, smoking his pipe. Triona was sitting beside him on a stool, and Marcaisin was lying on his mouth and nose on the hearth rug., and not a worry on any of them except eating the grapes in their hands. Over at the other end opposite Marcus, Old Nabla was as delighted as any grandmother would be looking at all her descendants around her. Feargal Guildea was there and Nansai Seimin Ban on his knee. Peadar Guildea was also there, himself and Conn Mac Carty, the lad who was born in Scotland and who was the manager in the Co-0perative shop. Conn was a pleasant young fellow, and he had his whistle under his chair, and he had a glass of spirits in his hand, and he was singing a song by Robert Burns, that lonesome song called, My Nannie’s Awa. He was in a great mood for music that particular night; and if he sang one song he sang a dozen of them. The Burns songs that he liked the best were: Ca’ the Yowes tae the Knowes, Highland Mary, Ye Banks and Braes o’ Bonnie Doon and such. But he also sang another song as well: Auld Scotch Songs, Loch Lomond, Annie Laurie. And when he had the last one sung, he picked up the whistle and he played The Campbells are Coming, until you thought that you could see the rough mountains and the deep valleys, that are in the North of Scotland; until you thought that you could see Clann Ailin marching into battle; until you could say that you could see with your own two eyes their little kilts, their knives and their big swords; until you would think that you heard the battle cry they gave as they charged in to attack the enemy.
“Maise, may your sickness for the whole year not be that long, brother,” old Nabla said, ”the woman that you are meant for will be a lucky woman.”
“She will have no scarcity of music at any rate,” Marcus said, “what ever else she might want.”
Triona got up and she passed the drinks around. She gave the first one to the piper.
”I an certain,” she said, “that you are thirsty.”
“What happened to Pol an Greasai when he did not join us tonight?” Nansai asked.
“Ah, the bold Pol is as he
is,” Conn Mac Carty said. “His heart is broken since Una left.”
“He is as bad as Burns when he was lamenting Nannie,” Marcus said.
“Does she write to him?” Nansai said.
“She sent him a card after she left,” Conn said, “and he is carrying that card night and day. He would not part with it for gold or silver.”
“I’m sorry for the poor fellow,” Nabla said.
“What he should be doing is praising God, that he is free from her,” Triona said. “God protect the man who would be married to our Una.”
“Oh, Maise, the creature! Nabla said. “Sure she is young and silly yet. Didn’t you often hear that the youth must subdue themselves? We have seen the like of her before and they were the best of women in the end.”
“She was a very beautiful girl, Maise” Nansai said.
“Being beautiful isn’t enough,” Triona said. “She was not right to leave the old pair over there depending on a servant girl; even though she is a fine young girl. I don’t like to say a sharp word about any Christian; but I will say this much, and I’ll say no more; the day might come yet when she will be damn glad to return to live with the old pair.
“I did my best to advise her,” Marcus said, “but she wouldn’t listen to me.”
“Marcus does not like referring to what he offered her,” Triona said, “but I am going to tell you now. One evening a week before she left he asked her to meet him here. She arrived all right. He took her down into this room and I was with them, and he begged her to stay with the old pair until they passed away – the old pair who had reared her so carefully and made a pet of her since she was left with them as a baby. He told her that when the old pair were gone and Feargal was married (this caused Nansai to blush), that he would give her three hundred pounds spree, and permission for her to marry Pol an Greasai, or any foreigner for that matter. But he might as well have been talking to Sliabh an Iarann. She just laughed at him and told him to mind his own business. That’s our Una for you now.”
West, in the Foggy Valley Page 11
