Brandon was unsure where Sean first learnt of his dismal beginning. Most likely he’d overheard a conversation in Uncle Fergal’s cottage. For his own father often crossed the fields to visit his brother, particularly on those occasions when his new wife, Cait, was in a rage. Brandon recalled nothing about his mother. She remained a mystery until he was eight, when his father came to him and they walked to the crumbling stone wall. There, in the shadow of the ruins of Carraig Phadraig, he shared the story of her final hours.
Brandon cupped his head and thought of his father, to whom the story really belonged. Somehow, this tale – his father’s story – had also become Sean’s. But he supposed it belonged to every one of the men grouped about the fire and that worried him, for the telling of it would bond them, as Sean knew it would, and there was no escaping the strength of shared pain.
‘Brandon’s mother and grandparents lay chilled and white on the dirt floor of their cottage for five days, in a netherworld where life and death fought for their souls. His father, Liam, knew who would win. The diabhal. He felt him stalking. Lapping the cottage like a wild dog. Waiting. Had the fiend been one of us he would have fought the beast. Strangled him senseless with his bare hands. But what was a man to do, when the sickness came? He had no choice.’ Sean paused. There was a growing murmur from the listening men.
‘Liam left them in that final, fatal hour, and climbed the rise to the ruins of Carraig Phadraig with Brandon in his arms. He expected the boy to die as well. That’s when he began fretting about the burials. For who back then could afford a coffin?
‘But there was one that was being reused to bury the dead. It was the best he could do. Something proper and dignified. Except, except—’
Sean broke off, the emotion raw in his voice. ‘He laid them out with my own father as helper and then one at a time placed each of his family members in that coffin and carried them to the graveyard. The coffin was set above a hole and the hinged bottom fell open as intended. It’s a terrible thing for a person to be dropped like that. To land with an inglorious thud, to hear the crack of one skull hitting another. He didn’t want that for Brandon. It was difficult enough for my uncle having his wife and parents buried that way.’
The fire sputtered and an ember fizzed, shooting a spray of red into the blackness above the heads of the listeners. The man beside Brandon clapped him on the shoulder. The rum was passed directly to him, and this time Brandon gladly accepted.
‘The English,’ said Hackett. ‘The damn English. It was the sending of our food to England during the bad times that made things so terrible. There would have been plenty enough to feed all of Ireland if they’d kept it there. But no. They had to take what we grew with our own hands and send it away. And who among us could have afforded the little that was left to buy? They tried to kill us all. They killed your mother, you know, as sure as if they’d shot her, Brandon.’
‘She died of the sickness,’ he said.
‘The Almighty sent the potato blight but the English created the famine. My father taught me that,’ said Hackett.
The men shouted in agreement.
‘Quiet! I have news,’ Hackett continued. ‘I’ve been in contact with our Fenian brothers in America. The raids into Canada were unsuccessful. The British were too strong.’
‘No!’ said Arthur Henderson.
The circle tightened in shared anger.
‘Had the uprising in Ireland happened at the same time, as planned, Britain would have had two wars to fight, in the home country and Canada. We may even have bartered with Britain to exchange Ireland’s freedom for possession of their province of Canada,’ said Hackett, his voice laced with disappointment.
Brandon was intrigued with the thought of Irishmen coming up with such a plan. Although he’d grown up hearing tales of his fellow countrymen opposing the English, some of them paying harshly for their beliefs, he’d never considered the possibility of a well-organised large-scale uprising. He was both surprised and worried by this knowledge, for he only wanted peace.
‘The Americans interrupted our supply lines. It seems for all their dislike of Britain for not supporting the Union during the Civil War, the Americans are more concerned with keeping the peace. For the moment, the movement is stalled, but rest assured, they’ll take up the fight again and so must we,’ concluded Hackett.
‘When did all this happen?’ Brandon whispered to Sean.
‘Last year,’ said his cousin.
‘So what now?’ asked Arthur Henderson, his grey hair shining silver in the firelight.
‘We make our point in the old way. We take our justice as best we can. For those of you whose families suffered. For those who were forced to pay tithes for the upkeep of the Church of Ireland, those damnable William of Orange men, I say now is the time to remind people that we have not forgotten. Who’s with me?’ cried Hackett, rising to his feet.
The circle of men grunted and stood. Sean tugged at Brandon, forcing him to stand.
Flares were lit. Hackett held a torch aloft, the light playing across his features. ‘We do this tonight, and then we go our separate ways. Two months from today we meet again.’
The group moved away, following the course of the river, with Hackett in front.
‘Come on,’ urged Sean.
Brandon was dragging his feet, ensuring they remained at the rear of the group. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Revenge,’ said Sean.
Brandon grasped his cousin’s arm. ‘You best tell me what troubles you’re leading us into.’
Sean pulled away impatiently. ‘Hackett’s father was killed by a Protestant working for the Constabulary back in the ’30s. They were trying to take his cattle because he’d refused to pay tithes to the church. This happened in County Wexford and it just so happens there are two Protestant families from the same county about five miles from here.’
Brandon felt a sourness grip him. It was as if he were back in the old country, a young boy running scared and hungry from a father he adored. He mumbled Saint Patrick’s name and pulled hard at Sean’s arm.
‘You’re talking about something that happened over thirty years ago. And those people are innocent. What are they planning to do to them? You can’t tell me you want to be a part of this.’
Sean shrugged him off and began to move faster. ‘And you can’t tell me that you’re prepared to sit on your arse and do nothing, Brandon. We’re downtrodden because we’ve allowed ourselves to be downtrodden. Well, not here. Not in this country.’
‘Why would you want to risk all that we’ve worked for? Take revenge on innocent people for Hackett’s misplaced retribution, for the sake of religion,’ said Brandon.
‘The sake of religion?’ repeated Sean. He stopped and pushed Brandon in the chest so that he stepped back, unbalanced. It was the first time since their childhood that Brandon had felt any real threat behind one of his cousin’s physical strikes.
‘There is a devil in you,’ hissed Sean.
‘Perhaps there is a devil and angel in all of us,’ said Brandon. ‘Which are you tonight?’
Sean hesitated and then, throwing Brandon a look of disgust, he disappeared into the darkness.
Brandon felt as if he were suffocating. Every bit of progress that they’d made over the previous years was at risk of being destroyed in the next hours, and all for the sake of the bitterness that oozed from men who used patriotism as an excuse for retaliation. He watched the dipping torchlights until they faded and then he turned in the opposite direction, heading back to the slide and the bullocks. The moon had risen. It hung whole and new. He tried not to think of what might be happening further along the river. All he could do was wait. He sat in the dark, tense and watchful, thinking of his family, of the life he hoped for in New South Wales, while apprehension at Sean’s involvement gnawed at him. Eventually he fell asleep.
‘Brandon! Brandon!’
Brandon woke slowly and pushed himself up into a sitting position by the slide. In the east, the horizon wa
s not yet visible. ‘Sean? What’s the matter?’
‘I have to get out of here.’ Sean’s breathing was ragged and the words caught in his throat.
Brandon, still groggy with sleep, reached for the waterbag and squirted his face, and then shook his head to wakefulness. ‘What’s happened?’
As he asked the question, he immediately recalled the previous night’s events. Fearful of what might have occurred, he tugged on his boots and got to his feet, pulling his shirt over his head so that he was dressed in an instant.
‘Things got out of hand.’
The shortness of the sentence carried with it a deadly implication. Brandon could feel disaster in his bones.
‘How? Tell me?’
‘We don’t have time for explanations.’ Sean strode to where the hobbled bullocks grazed and led them towards the slide.
‘Tell me what happened,’ Brandon said again, following him.
‘First things first. Help me.’
Moved to action by his cousin’s anxiousness, Brandon helped Sean rest the wooden yoke across the necks of the first pair of bullocks and then fastened it to the U-shaped oxbow underneath. He grew more uneasy as each moment passed. Hackett was a strong leader for those who believed in the cause and Sean was a patriot, eager to follow.
‘What happened?’ he repeated, his patience gone.
Sean moved to the next pair of bullocks. ‘Trust me, cousin. I’ll explain later. It’s best that we leave. We should go back and pick up the rest of the cut timber.’
‘So the coppers will be after you? Is that what you’re telling me?’ Brandon reached for his cousin’s shoulder and held tight.
Sean ran a hand across his mouth. ‘Probably.’ He looked Brandon in the eye, defiant.
‘Damn it, Sean!’ Brandon released his grasp.
‘It’s done now, so don’t be giving me one of your speeches on our shiny new life. If you’d been there to help, things might have turned out differently,’ Sean said bitterly.
‘How? We’re cousins. I went to that meeting with you. I’ll be tarred with the same brush, you can be sure of that.’
Sean grumbled in reply and attached the pole to the swivel beneath the centre of each yoke. The bullocks lifted legs, shifting their positions. One of them bellowed.
‘What about Maggie?’ asked Brandon.
‘What about her?’ Sean drank from the waterbag lying near the cold embers of the campfire and then placed the stew pot in a bag and threw it into the slide.
‘We have to tell her we’re leaving.’
‘You tell her. Then catch up,’ replied Sean.
‘No. This is your doing. You’ll be the one to tell her, Sean. Not me. If the coppers are after you, then it’s likely we’ll be hiding out for a time. I made promises. If they can’t be kept then Maggie should know the truth.’
‘You’re worried about what she thinks of you,’ said Sean, scratching at something on his cheek. ‘Considering she’s only your stepsister, you’re mighty considerate.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, she’s your cousin.’
Sean splashed water on his face and stood quite still as if weighing up their options. ‘Come on then. But let’s make it quick.’
Chapter 25
Half an hour later Brandon and Sean stood in the open doorway of Maggie’s room at the Minchins’ lodging house. They were trying to comprehend the sight in front of them.
Maggie called out, startled, and the boy in bed with her pushed back the covers and quickly stood, indifferent to his nakedness. He was around Brandon’s age, with strong arms and beady black eyes. He moved protectively in front of Maggie, who sat up, clutching a blanket to her body.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Brandon yelled at the boy.
‘Stop it, please!’ said Maggie.
‘Who do you think you are?’ the boy queried. ‘Barging in here.’
Brandon elected to answer with his fist. The blow struck the boy in the nose and he fell back onto the edge of the bed, before immediately standing again. Maggie screamed. Sean placed a restraining hand on the young man’s chest and the boy glared in return.
‘Be quiet,’ said Brandon. ‘Maggie, get your things. We’re leaving!’
But Maggie was staring at Sean, who stank of smoke. The growing daylight revealed smears of ash and something red that could only be blood on his clothes. She shrank back against the wall, clearly unsure.
The boy was furious. ‘Who the hell are you? You pasty-faced—’
‘Don’t be calling us names, you turnip-nosed cretin,’ shouted Sean.
‘It’s a sin, what you two have done. A sin! Do you hear me?’ cried Brandon.
‘Yes,’ agreed Sean, giving the boy a shove. ‘Clear off, before I tell your father.’
‘Father? Whose boy is he?’ asked Brandon.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ replied Sean.
The boy gathered his clothes and boots from the floor and pushed his way past Sean and Brandon. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Maggie,’ he called out loudly.
‘Come on, Maggie,’ Brandon said sternly, wishing he could run the boy down and throttle him black and blue.
‘No!’
He took her by the wrist, his anger almost at boiling point. ‘I swear I’ll drag you out in nothing but God’s glory if you don’t do as I say!’
She shook him off and looked to Sean for assistance.
‘You know what he’s like once he decides on something, Maggie. Gather your things and come outside and speak with us, and then you can decide whether to come with us or not.’
Sean’s solemn tone made the difference. Maggie shook Brandon off and snatched her dress from a peg on the wall.
‘Wait outside, by the horse stall around the side of the house,’ she told them, glaring at Brandon.
People could now be heard in another room, so the two quickly retreated from the house and ran the short distance to the narrow horse stall.
‘That boy is Niall Hackett,’ Sean finally revealed, breathing heavily.
‘Not—’ Brandon could hardly believe what he was being told.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Sean. ‘I met him yesterday with his father.’
‘Damn it!’ Brandon began to pace back and forth. ‘I can’t believe she would do such a thing. I can’t believe it. It’s our fault. We left her alone for too long.’
‘Brandon, listen to me. It’s wrong what’s she’s done, I’m not disagreeing, but think on it this way. Maggie has someone to care for her.’
‘Care for her? Th-that b-boy?’ asked Brandon furiously.
‘We can’t have her with us on the road. You know that. It wouldn’t be fair to her,’ said Sean.
‘I’m not leaving her here,’ he argued.
‘She’d be better off staying. She has a job and a place to live and if Niall marries her—’
‘Marries her? Maggie marry a Hackett? Over my dead body. Anyway, if it hasn’t happened yet and he’s already bedding her I don’t think he has a wife in mind. He’s just a boy.’
‘He’s your age, Brandon. And Maggie’s fully grown. She can look after herself.’
Brandon pointed a finger in Sean’s face. ‘No she can’t. She’s my responsibility. I promised my father. I won’t hear another word about it.’ He dropped his hand and glanced back towards the cottage. ‘Tell me now, before she gets here. What happened last night? How much trouble are you in?’
Sean leant against the horse stall, his head set back at an angle. ‘We were meant to burn their houses. That was all. But one of the women rushed us and she was cut. She’ll live, but she was cut bad.’ He rubbed at his forehead. ‘It was me. I was the one who did it. I know. I know. To hurt a woman. But I tell you, Brandon, she flew at me like a banshee. And the others, well they were busy trying to burn the house and she ran out screaming ungodly things and flung herself at me. The rest of her family followed. Her man wasn’t there. They said after that he was a cedar-getter made good and had come to the Valley to
start anew with his family. Why wasn’t she seeing to her children? Why did she do it?’
‘Why did you do it?’ countered Brandon angrily. ‘They’re here for the same reasons we are. A new life.’
‘Are you worried about my soul, cousin? If you are, I can find a priest and confe—’
Brandon spoke over the top of him. ‘They’ll know it was done by Catholics. Who else would attack Protestant Irish? You’re all fools and you’re being led by a fool.’
Sean struck his head once against the boards and then straightened. ‘Then it’s a fool I am, Brandon, but at least I’m a Republican fool.’
Maggie ran across to where they waited, her face flushed. Brandon expected her to be sharp with rage, however she waited expectantly for one of them to speak, a fancy shawl about her shoulders that he doubted she had the money to afford.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘Is it because of the escaped nun?’
‘What nun?’ said Sean.
‘She spoke in Lismore about the dreadful times she had while in a convent in America. They say the horrors she put up with were something dreadful. They made her eat worms and a priest tried to rape her, so she ran away and now she’s writing a book about it. She converted to Protestantism. She’s travelling all over, giving lectures about how bad Catholics are. A fight broke out in the streets of Lismore afterwards. She’s caused a dreadful brawl between the Green and the Orange men.’
Brandon gasped. ‘When did this happen?’
‘A few weeks ago. I think. I’m not sure,’ said Maggie.
Brandon looked at Sean. ‘You can bet that bastard Hackett had more on his mind than what he told us last night, then. A little extra revenge for an outspoken woman.’
Around them, the village was stirring. The clip-clop of a horse and the scream of a child reminded Brandon that very soon word would spread of last night’s disaster. ‘Come on. Let’s just get away from here and out of sight so we can talk.’
He’d not expected his stepsister to comply so readily, however the three of them walked quickly from the village, cutting through an area pegged out for a dwelling, where lengths of piled bark waited for use on the yet-to-be-built roof. To their right lay the river. Behind them, in the distance, two distinct lines of smoke stretched into the sky.
The Cedar Tree Page 16