Trinity: A Novel of Ireland

by Leon Uris

  "Can we talk, Daddy?" Conor said.

  "Sure, soon as I get in and clean up."

  "I'd like to talk to you now."

  "Well, if it's that important," he, answered, sitting up on the wall, "what's on your mind?"

  "Seamus is going to the new national school," Conor said.

  "I know that. Fergus and I spoke of it at great length."

  "Well, I was kind of hoping that, you know, our family and the O'Neills always do things together and maybe I should be going to school with Seamus."

  I smiled grandly in the affirmative that it was my wish also, but I was wary over Conor's caution. He usually plunged into the heart of matters without hemming and hawing.

  "It's not like cooring up a pair of horses to make a plow team," Tomas said. "It's a completely separate and independent decision for each family to make on its own. The O'Neills are in a different situation. Seamus has an older brother to help Fergus. Your hands are needed by me."

  "I talked it over with Liam. He doesn't want to go to school and he's near as big as I am and could do most of my work and I promise to keep up my part and be no burden."

  Tomas hardened. "You'd no right to discuss the matter behind my back."

  "It wasn't behind your back, Daddy. Liam wants my chores. Half the time he's hanging onto me to do them and he's never so happy as when he's up in the fields with you."

  Tomas came off the wall slowly, thinking deeply as he did. He knew how persistent Conor could be and I reckoned he didn't want to make a command out of it. Conor's plea seemed logical . . . "Well, now, I'm not against school, mind you," Tomas said, seeming to want to act reasonable. "On the other hand, there's only so much schooling you need and you more than likely know enough now."

  "But I don't," Conor shot back. "All I know is catechisms."

  "What the hell do you think they'll teach you in that school?" Tomas snapped, turning irate. "They know nothing about Ireland, they care nothing about Ireland. You'll be learning English history, English laws, saluting the Union Jack and singing "God Save the Queen." They won't so much as teach you the legend of Finn MacCool or The Cattle Raid of Cooley." There's only one reason they're putting up national schools and that's because they're after creating loyal British subjects."

  "But, Daddy," Conor pleaded, "I want to learn how to read so's I can read anything and I want to know about adding and multiplying and what makes the heavens and the seas. I swear I'll close my ears when they're teaching British things."

  "No . . . it's no good, lad, it's no good." He tried to walk away but Conor was around in the front of him, blocking his path. "Ma said . . ."

  "Your ma's tongue is like a yard of vinegar. She could start a fight in an empty house." He brushed past, then turned and softened a mite. "Conor, let me tell you something. You won't be needing all that education. Your bread is baked for life. You'll be coming into the land."

  Tomas had given Conor his most precious gift, the farm. Since the famine it had been illegal to divide farms into smaller farms. The lease or ownership had to be passed on intact to a single heir. More often than not this inheritance was held by the parent as blackmail and competition between children could be fierce. As a rule the father would wait till the last possible instant before making a decision, usually when faced with his own death or the emigration of his sons.

  "I said the farm will be yours," Tomas repeated.

  Conor remained motionless and wordless as well. In that instant I knew something terrible was taking place between them.

  "No matter," Tomas said, covering his hurt, "you'll wake up tomorrow knowing the importance of it and you'll just sing with joy, lad." He reached for his son as I had seen him do a hundred times, and waited for a return of his affection. None came. Tomas sagged back and seemed to age before my eyes. He continued down the path, then called back in a fit of anger. "You've had enough of Father Cluny, too! I don't want any more goddamned celibates teaching my kids!"

  And he disappeared into Dooley McCluskey's public house.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  There were six of us Catholic kids from four villages at the first day of the national school and we found each other fast. As opening ceremonies were held in the yard under the Union Jack, we clung to one another trembling. A shiny new room greeted us, still smelling of paint and polish and filled with Protestant kids all starched and squeaking in their fine dress and shoes. We slunk off to the rear of the class and huddled together with a giant-sized picture of Queen Victoria glowering at us, and awaited the doomsday appearance of the teacher.

  A tall, thin and seemingly delicate man stood before us like a bishop about to announce our damnation. I thought my heart was going to bounce out in the aisle as he tapped a ruler on the desk.

  "My name is Andrew Ingram," he said. "I am from Scotland, Edinburgh. In a few days I'll know all your names as well. I taught in a national school in Wales for five years and asked to be transferred to Ireland when I learned there were openings here. I never forgot the beauty of Donegal from boyhood holidays and, being Scottish as well, I do love my fishing."

  Well, I'll tell you, he was obviously not a farmer and it seemed to me he was far too soft for the likes of Cromwell descendants, Ulstermen and croppies. Sure it was only a matter of minutes before he was being tested by Sandy Hanna, grandson of Luke, the biggest and toughest kid in the school. Sandy seemed more than adequate to withstand an ash-branch rodding from the frail Mr. Ingram as he screeched chalk over his slate that sounded like a bagpipe being tuned up.

  Mr. Ingram stopped talking amid the giggles and spotted Sandy Hanna. "You there."

  Sandy ignored him and kept screeching away. Mr. Ingram stepped down into the classroom, into the aisle and over his desk. We dared not breathe much less move.

  "What is your name?"

  "Sandyhanna," he answered like it was one word. More giggles in the form of tacit applause for Sandy.

  "Sandy, you will kindly stand up when you are addressing the class or myself." Sandy swaggered to his feet as tall as the teacher and half again as broad from pitching hay. "Tuck in your shirt," the teacher said.

  He made a meaningless gesture at his shirttail, then folded his arms in defiance. Mr. Ingram smiled, kindly like. I was starting to get a hint that his soft manners were highly deceptive and, therefore, suspect. He turned away from Sandy and spoke to the class. "I am grateful for this opportunity so early in our relationship to explain a few simple rules. Once we all understand them, and you in particular, Sandy, we're all going to get along just fine with no problems whatsoever." Oh, he was a cool number and by this time even Sandy Hanna was getting the idea. Mr. Ingram walked slowly and deliberately to him. Sandy was getting nervous but he had made his bed and had to stand his ground. As Mr. Ingram sized him up Sandy shifted from one foot to the other, gulping as he did.

  "I don't believe in the ash rod or humiliations because I should like to assume we are all going to behave like ladies and gentlemen."

  He was puzzling us, this Mr. Ingram, but he had our undivided attention as well. Sandy had slowly been wilted like a man receiving condemnation from the priest before the entire village.

  "Sandy, you will kindly apologize to your classmates and assure me that you will behave. Otherwise . . . find your way home and return when you are ready to be a gentleman."

  Confidentially, it was my opinion that Sandy wanted to apologize more than anything in the world but he had gotten himself in too deep. "I done nothing to apologize for," he said halfheartedly.

  Mr. Ingram turned his back, went to his desk and sat down. "Leave the school," he said in the same soft voice he had used throughout.

  Sandy didn't budge. This was it. All the kids' eyes burned on the pair of them as Mr. Ingram returned with that same deliberate calm. What we then saw was quicker than Father Lynch's blackthorn stick. He snatched Sandy Hanna's hand and in a motion worthy of Finn MacCool spun him around and had him in an arm lock, wrist lock and thumb lock with a single hand. Sandy scream
ed as Mr. Ingram shot him through the door like the mighty cannon of Athlone!

  We were utterly, totally and completely mesmerized. It was all over for Sandy Hanna, who just stayed out in the yard and cried, then crawled back into the class begging not to be sent home, and then blurted out the most heart-wretching apology you'd ever want to hear.

  We never had much trouble with discipline after that.

  Each of us stood in turn and gave our names and village with Mr. Ingram's eyes playing on the six shivering papists in the rear who had identified themselves in a dead giveaway with the names of O'Neill, O'Kane, O'Connor, O'Doherty, O'Bannon and O'Toole.

  "There is one more rule that each and every one of you is going to understand clearly," he said. "We are a family here, all of us." Then, leaving out the "O" and "Mac" from the beginning of our names, he seated us alphabetically,

  I don't know what I can rightly say about my feelings for Mr. Ingram. In my short time of life and in most of my life afterward there always seemed to be someone who needed to beat us down, be it the Orangemen or land agents or gombeen men or Constabulary or our own priests. Mr. Andrew Ingram was the very first person in my life, if you don't count Charles Stewart Parnell, to ever make me feel like an equal and very important human being.

  Most of the Protestant kids had had a fair measure of schooling. We were very far behind. There was no counting the extra hours Mr. Ingram spent to help us. Pretty soon all the girls were in love with him and, like I said, he never had much trouble again from the boys. He had earned his spurs in Wales teaching the kids of coal miners and they weren't exactly a soft bunch.

  A few months after his arrival there was some rumbling and grumbling against him from the Protestant ministers in the district and the Grand Masters of the Orange Lodges. They didn't like some of the books he was using because they were supposed to be filled with evil ideas. They also objected to the fact he was spending too much time on poetry and nature classes and not teaching enough English history and Protestant religion.

  Dirty rumors spread around that he had left Wales because he had gotten a girl into trouble. Other rumors had it that he liked young boys and that was why he was a teacher. A storm was rising and meetings were being called. He rode it out with his own kind of quiet dignity. The two times he was called before the school board he tied his inquisitors into knots by his range of knowledge and likewise exhibited an intimacy with the Bible that petrified and silenced the preachers.

  Mr. Ingram was extremely popular with the students and had taken on many of their personal problems. He had singlehandedly established a neutral sanctuary where compassion and reason prevailed in a place that knew little of each, and we were terrified that we were going to lose him.

  Then the Lord sent an angel in no less a form than Lady Caroline Hubble herself, who, with understatement, invited him to the Manor to tutor children of some of the foreign workmen. After it became known that Mr. Ingram attended plays and concerts in the Long Hall and gave a poetry reading there himself, opposition to him disappeared . . . thank God.

  I remembered everything I was taught in the national school because I had to learn it once for myself, then teach it to Conor. He waited for me every day at the crossroad and while things were still fresh in my mind we would hide out in the old Norman keep and go over the day's work. I would tell him about the goings on in the class so he'd feel a part of it and he came to know almost all of the kids from my description.

  After a time Conor waited for me a bit farther down the road at Josiah Lambe's blacksmith shop. The smithy was a source of wonderment with its magic pools of fire silhouetting the brawny Mr. Lambe as he hammered and the sparks flew in the execution of highly secret formulas passed on by the fairies.

  In village life the blacksmith was second in importance only to the priest. Mr. Lambe could certainly be that important except he was a Protestant. The Upper Village had lost its own blacksmith to emigration during the famine. At that time Josiah Lambe's father, who did the smithing for the Protestants, took on work for the Catholics as well. By unwritten code he always hired a Catholic as his assistant and another as his apprentice and thereby continued to work for both communities.

  He ran Conor away from the shop twenty times but Conor returned a twenty-first and that happened to be the very day his apprentice took a job as assistant to the blacksmith in Clonmany. I was to find him operating the foot treadle on the double bellows and a week later Conor was making nails. He was so excited you would have thought he had given birth to them, personally.

  "These are rose heads in this bin," he said, "and these are tender hooks and horseshoe nails here, and scuppers." My, he was beaming. I praised him forcefully after intimate examination of his work. Of course I had seen all these nails before but not made by Conor.

  Tomas didn't like it, but from a practical standpoint it was hard for him to object. Liam was capable of doing a full day's work in the fields and the money Conor began to earn was too important for the family to pass up so he eased into being Mr. Lambe's new apprentice.

  Of a day late, in the autumn we had a holiday from school. Not a holiday after a saint or even something like Christmas or an English holiday but a holiday sacred to the Ulster Protestant alone. I met Conor at the forge and went into town with him to help him make deliveries. When the last was done Conor took the horse to Mr. Lambe's house, stabled it and we walked back toward the Upper Village. As we reached the outskirts of town we heard sounds of powerful hymn singing coming from the Presbyterian church.

  "The Prods are having a thanksgiving for their harvest," I said knowingly, "that's why school is closed."

  "What are they thanking for?" Conor asked.

  "I'm not quite sure I know."

  "I don't get it. You know how nervous our daddies and mas get at late harvest, what with the rents due and winter coming."

  I shrugged. "Mr. Ingram just didn't explain it."

  "Listen to them singing, would you? It's queer if you ask me. Come on, let's have a look."

  "Oh, Jaysus, no," I said, backing away. "The last time we got into a Protestant church, we like to got ourselves killed."

  "Come on, runt," he said, tippy-toeing up the steps. After assuring myself escape routes were available and we could make a clean getaway, I followed to the front window and we stared in like two goats peering through a hedge. The sight inside made me gasp. Both sides of the altar were piled high with loaves of bread and sheaves of corn. There were turnips and cabbages and great pumpkins and carrots and parsnips and onions all shiny from scrubbing and baskets of nuts in fancy designs. There were big juicy apples and tomatoes and berries and all kinds of food we rarely saw and never ate. Arrayed below the altar was a stuffed pig, lambs and turkeys fancy dressed for a feast The preacher had his arms spread and was praising God for the bountiful harvest and they sang out again about their rejoicing.

  "Let's go," Conor said abruptly.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked to the road, retaining his fierce silence indicating he was deep in thought or hurting or both.

  "Maybe their God is better than ours," I ventured.

  "Like hell, it's the land they stole that's better."

  I walked about a half step behind until we came to the schoolhouse. Conor stopped. His eyes watered and the muscles of his face, quivered from tightly clenched teeth.

  "I think you'd better blurt it out," I said,

  "Blurt nothing."

  “It's sticking out all over you, Conor, and I don't want to be spending the day with you if you're going to be mad all the time."

  "Aw, go to hell."

  "Hey, Conor, I know a secret way into the school," I said. Actually it wasn't so secret because Mr. Ingram always kept the back door unlocked. Conor followed me in tentatively, his eyes hungering as he played them over the desks and blackboard all filled with arithmetic problems.

  "Here's where I sit," I said, "and right next to me is that girl I was telling you about who brings me apples an
d honey cakes and all those things to eat."

  Conor ran his hand over the top of my desk, then slid into my seat and straightened himself, folding his bands as though Mr. Ingram were going to call on him.

  "Hello there."

  Conor jumped up startled as Mr. Ingram entered from his side office.

  "Ah, a good day to you, Mr. Ingram," I said. "We was just passing by and my very closest friend Conor Larkin wanted to see my desk."

  "Hello, Conor, I'm Andrew Ingram."

  Conor shook his hand suspiciously. Mr. Ingram didn't have to ask why he wasn't attending school. He had already been to all the priests in the district to urge them to urge their parishioners to send more kids but met with little success.

  "Conor reads and writes!” I said proudly.

  "I'm glad to hear that," Mr. Ingram answered.

  "Seamus has been teaching me."

  "I see. Well, you've a good teacher. Seamus is one of my star pupils. He’ll be after my job soon."

  "Not to worry about that, Mr. Ingram," I said. "I'm only doing this because Conor is my best friend."

  "I'm very pleased, Seamus. One of the best things that can happen to a teacher is to produce his own missionaries. Is there any chance of you coming to school, Conor?"

  "I'm afraid I'm too busy. You see, I'm the apprentice for Mr. Lambe and I work for my daddy as well. Besides, my daddy doesn't fancy the school . . ." I tried to poke Conor to be quiet but he went on . . . "He says you don't teach anything really Irish here."

  "I see," Mr. Ingram answered, showing no irritation.

  Even though Conor was trying to walk taller than he was, he couldn't help but look at the bookshelves which ran from floor to ceiling down one entire side of the room. The sight of them ate away at his show of pride, for his desire was unbearably apparent.

  "Do you suppose I could lend you a book, Conor?"

  "Which one?"

  "Well, let's see here. Perhaps we can find something Irish, even in the Queen's realm. Here's one. The Bardic Tradition of the Middle Irish Period ."