Eddie Landers took Ronan from the deep countryside to a busier road.
“From here you’ll get to the town of Callan in county Kilkenny. And you’ll know the minute you cross the county border—I always do. Ask for a man called Mick Walsh; he’s a builder, and they call him ‘Mick the Brick,’ but don’t call him that to his face. He likes to be addressed as Michael. He may know where the man is. And when you find our old friend, tell him I said it’s time for him to come in off the road. He’s too old now for the traipsing and tramping. If he ever needs a place to live, I’m sure I could fix him up.”
They shook hands. “Thank you,” said Ronan.
“You know where I am,” said the vet. “Any time. Have you enough money on you, do you need any?”
Ronan shook his head and thanked him again, and the car that had once been green and now sported widely the brown of rust, that had traveled two hundred thousand pell-mell miles, snorted away.
Mick the Brick had not seen the Storyteller, but he knew a woman in Kilkenny city who kept an eye on all of these things.
The woman in Kilkenny city did indeed “keep an eye” on many things, she said, but not on the current whereabouts of the Storyteller. A teacher of her acquaintance, she said, down in Mullinavat, was interested in such things, and he might know.
The man in Mullinavat told Ronan that the woman in Kilkenny city confused him with a man in Mooncoin, who lived by the river; and the man in Mullinavat said, “D’you know the song?” and he sang a few bars: “Where the thrush and the linnet their sweet notes entwine/With you, lovely Molly, the Rose of Mooncoin.” Ronan thanked him, and the man said, “I think I got the words of that verse wrong, but ’tis the only verse I know.”
In Mooncoin, he never met the man. Certainly such a figure existed; Ronan established that; but the man’s wife said he had a headache and couldn’t come to the door. She asked what Ronan wanted, and she said, “The old Storyteller? He was here, but not for a while. I know who’ll know. There’s a Mrs. Colfer in New Ross who always puts him up—she’s easy to find, she has the bakery.”
Mrs. Colfer’s married daughter said her mother was gone to Lourdes on a pilgrimage and would not return for two days, but Ronan was welcome to stay, they did bed-and-breakfast. While he stayed there, they served bread mostly and some ham and many eggs. The stay restored him; by the time Mrs. Colfer returned from Lourdes, a full week had gone by since he met Eddie Landers and heard the tale of Jonathan Swift.
When Mrs. Colfer saw Ronan, she lit up.
“You met our Celia, she’s the married one, but did you meet Catherine at all? She’s about your age.”
Mrs. Colfer evidently ate a lot of her own baking. Ronan made a polite noise, and Mrs. Colfer said, “I’ll tell you what, Celia says you’re a history student, there’s a great piece of history on here tomorrow night.”
Mrs. Colfer led Ronan to a poster in the hallway of the bakery: “The True Story of the 1798 Rebellion. In Song and Story.”
The poster showed three happy men with dark hair and dark eyes, peas in a pod, and the words beneath them read, “Three Furlongs from Home.”
“Who are they?”
Mrs. Colfer looked at Ronan as at an ignoramus. “Is it under a stone you live?”
“How do you mean?”
“How do I mean? They’re famous the length and breadth of Wexford.”
“But I’ve never been in Wexford before.”
“Your loss.”
“But—what are they?”
“They’re triplets.”
“No, I mean—are they historians?”
“What?! Why would they be that? They’re country-and-western singers. Billy, Shane, and Ronnie Furlong.”
“But—”
“You keep saying ‘but.’ D’you know what? You’ve more butts than a goat.”
“What I’m asking is, how do country-and-western singers tell the story of the 1798 Rebellion?”
“Catherine’d love to go. She’s a big fan. Catherine’ll get the tickets, you can pay her. It starts at eight sharp.”
At nine o’clock that night, Ronan sat squeezed tight on a backless bench beside Mrs. Colfer’s daughter, in a “hall” with walls and roof of corrugated steel; bare earth was the floor. They had been there for more than an hour, but no performer had yet appeared. A “bar” (a series of naked trestle tables) ran the length of one wall and sold whiskey, gin without tonic, and bottles of lager beer. Ahead, on a “stage,” men came and went, stopping to chat, laughing, fixing speakers and cables. Some blew into microphones—“One, two, three, four, testing, hallohallo”—and handled banter from the crowd.
“Are them suits coming back into fashion?”
“Make sure you finish every song together.”
One or two men plunked a guitar and hustled short riffs; a bald man bruised the buttons of an accordion.
Finally, at ten minutes past ten o’clock, various characters slouched onto the podium and took up positions. Soon, one by one and each stopping to chat along the way, three men came to the fore. In their late forties at least, they wore check shirts with pearl buttons and dog-eared buckskin fringes, long blue dungarees, and cowboy hats. A smattering of applause broke out, pierced with two-finger whistles. For the life of him Ronan could not work out how he might come to hear from these men’s lips the history of Ireland’s most heartbreaking rebellion, the near-and-yet-so-far Insurrection of 1798.
The balding man with the accordion picked up a microphone and blew into it. “Testing, testing. Ladies and gentlemen. Hallo, hallo, hallo, and give a big hand to the singers you might think are racehorses, judging from their names. But they’re thoroughbreds all right, here they are—the most famous triplets in all county Wexford, Ronnie, Shane and Billy—Three Furlongs from Home.”
Under cover of the applause, Ronan said to Catherine Colfer, “Are there lots of triplets in all Wexford?”
“No—they’re the only ones.”
“So why did he call them ‘the most famous triplets in all Wexford’?”
Catherine looked at him as at a wall and said, “Well, if they’re the only triplets in county Wexford, they’re the most famous triplets in county Wexford, aren’t they?”
A Furlong stood forward.
“D’evening, ladies and gentlemen, or should I say boys ’n girls, we’re all young inside. I’m Chet, this is my brother Brett, and over there on slide guitar is our brother Ever-ett—and we’re the—Three Furlongs from Home!”
Loud applause and whistles.
Ronan said, “I thought their names were Shane and Billy and Ronnie.”
“They are.”
“But he just said they were called Chet, Brett, and Ever-ett.”
“Ah, those’re their stage names, no one takes any notice.”
The three Furlongs, at a sign from Chet, whipped off their cowboy hats and shouted a wild. “Yeeeee-haaaaa!”
Ronan asked, “And where’s ‘Home’?”
“That’s where they’re from,” said Catherine.
“You mean there’s an actual place with the name ‘Home’?”
“Yeah. We all have one.”
“Have we?”
“Yeah. I’m from home. You’re from home.”
Ronan felt a rising irritation. “No. I mean—what is the name of their native place? Is their native place called Home?”
“You’re very particular,” said Catherine. “They’re from Enniscorthy.”
“So why don’t they call themselves ‘Three Furlongs from Enniscorthy’?”
She looked at him with matchless pity.
“Were you ever at the races? Because if you were, you’d know that when the horses are coming to the finish, they’re four furlongs from home, and then they’re three furlongs from home, and then they’re two furlongs from home, and so on.”
Onstage, the Furlongs began to pick at guitars and banjos.
Ronan thought aloud. “So—if there were only two of them, if they were twins rather tha
n triplets would they be Two Furlongs from Home?” He broke off. “I don’t think I understand this at all.”
The Furlongs began to sing. Their renderings had a ruinous nostalgia; “Nobody’s Child,” followed by “Shall I Ne’er See You More, Gentle Mother?”
“Why are their songs so—mournful?” said Ronan beneath the ever-louder applause. He felt too polite to say “terrible” or “maudlin.”
“Shhhhhh-up, will you?”
Two more songs followed, about an emigrant girl with tuberculosis and the shooting of a beloved pet dog. A boy appeared with a tray and several full pint glasses.
Chet lifted his glass and looked at it.
“We must be careful not to get ineeberated.”
Ronan said, “I think he means ‘inebriated.’”
Catherine said, “If he meant it, he’d say it.”
Chet, Brett, and Ever-ett swigged from their large drinks, put the glasses down, and walked together to the front of the stage. They assumed mournful expressions. Chet did the talking.
“Now, ladies ’n gentlemen or, should I say, boys ’n girls, we bring you the Wexford Trilogy, our famous rendition of the seventeen-ninety-eight rebellion in song and story. As some of you may know, this can be very heartrending, and we’d be grateful for no applause till we’re finished. So”—he waved his hand expansively and rippled guitar strings—“Music, maystro, please.”
The bald man on the accordion squeezed out eight bars of unmistakable lament. Each Furlong removed his cowboy hat and bowed his head; and each, Ronan saw, had identical bald circles. When the accordion ended its sobbing, Chet raised his head high, put on his hat, looked nobly into the distance, and began to intone.
IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD SEVENTEEN HUNDRED and ninety-eight, the people of Wexford rose up against the oppressor, England, who had captured most of our land for centuries. There are three Wexford songs that tell the story of the Rising, “Boolavogue,” “Kelly of Killanne,” and “The Croppy Boy,” and as I provide the verbal narration, my brothers and me will sing these songs as musical illustrations of this gallant but tragic time. Take it away, Brett.
At Boolavogue when the sun was setting
O’er the bright May meadows of Shelmalier
A rebel band set the heather blazing
And brought the neighbors from far and near.
Any of you here from the parish of Shelmalier tonight cannot but feel a burst of pride oozing from your stout heart at the memory of what your neighbors did when called to arms. But they weren’t the only ones. Take it away, Ever-ett.
It was early, early all in the spring
The small birds whistled and sweet did sing.
Changing their notes from tree to tree
And the song they sang was, Old Ireland Free.
Yes, that was surely the song they sang, because an Ireland not free will always be a prisoner, because no prisoner is ever free. But the Croppy Boy, who heard the birds changing their notes from tree to tree, he knew those birds must have heard something—it was the call to arms they heard, and he answered that call.
A note of historical importance here, ladies ’n gentlemen, or should I say boys ’n girls, because we’re all young inside; he went and got his hair cut—he got it cropped so that he would look like one of the French revolutionaries who, nine years earlier, had cast off the yoke of slavery and stormed the palace of oppression called the Back Steel in gay Paree. And that’s why he and his comrades-in-arms were known as the Croppies, on account of the cropped hair. And he wasn’t the only hero—here’s the man we all adore, I’ll sing this myself because the tempo is quicker.
What’s the news, what’s the news, O my bold Shelmaliers
With your long-barreled gun of the sea?
Say what wind from the south blows his messenger here
With a hymn of the dawn for the free?
Goodly news, goodly news, do I bring youth of Forth,
Goodly news shall you hear, Bargy man.
For the boys march at dawn from the south to the north
Led by Kelly the boy from Killanne.
Yes, all you boys ’n girls from Forth and from Bargy, you can all give yourselves a pat on the back and stand up there with the massed ranks of the people from Shelmalier and take your places among the nations of the earth.
Another historical note—the wind from the south was from France, who were sending an army to help us, but as we well know, not all wind is beneficial, and the French ships were blown off course. The gallant men of Wexford with their famous haircuts went ahead anyway and rose up guided by the hand of God himself—or at least his representative here on earth. Take it away, Brett.
Then Father Murphy, from old Kilcormack,
Spurred up the rocks with a warning cry;
“Arm! Arm!” he cried, “for I’ve come to lead you,
For Ireland’s freedom we live or die.”
Thank you, Brett. The game was rightly on now. Father Murphy, a horse of a man, was not alone in his valor. Sometimes I prefer to speak the words because they’re like poetry. So—
Tell me who is that giant with gold curly hair
He who rides at the head of your band.
Seven feet is his height with some inches to spare
And he looks like a king in command.
And everyone here from the slopes of Mount Leinster tonight knows the answer to that question.
Ah, my lads, that’s the pride of our bold Shelmaliers
’Mongst our bravest of heroes a man.
Fling your beavers aloft and give three ringing cheers
For John Kelly, the Boy from Killanne.
Shelmalier is getting a lot of mentions tonight—I hope the rest of you aren’t too jealous, that’s history for you. And another historical note, a beaver is a hat—here in Wexford, anyway. Wasn’t John Kelly some man? Seven feet was his height with some inches to spare—to continue the poetry, he was as tall as a ladder and as golden as a stack of corn. On with the story.
The rest of the country was supposed to break out in a rash that same week—a rash of rebellion. But the rash wasn’t widespread. Isn’t that funny? Normally you wouldn’t want a rash not to spread—and it would. And here was a rash people wanted to see spreading—and it didn’t. It spread in Wexford, though, and the red color a rash usually has—it was blood this time, spilled by Father Murphy and his men. Take it away, Brett.
He led us on ’gainst the coming soldiers,
And the cowardly Yeomen were put to flight;
’Twas up at Harrow the boys of Wexford
Showed England’s regiments how men could fight.
Look out for hirelings, King George of England,
Search every kingdom where breathes a slave,
For Father Murphy from county Wexford
Sweeps o’er the land like a mighty wave.
A mighty wave is what he surely was. And he wasn’t the only fish in the sea—here comes my boy with his gold, curly hair.
Enniscorthy’s in flames and old Wexford is won
And the Barrow tomorrow we’ll cross.
On a hill o’er the town we have planted a gun
That’ll batter the gateway of Ross.
All the Forthmen and Bargymen march o’er the heath
With brave Harvey to lead in the van
But the bravest of all in that grim gap of death
Was young Kelly the boy from Killanne.
Another important historical note here—the brave Harvey was of course, Bagenal Harvey, a member of the United Irishmen, the revolutionary group led by Theobald Weolfe Tone who started this rebellion, and when I say “brave Harvey to lead in the van,” I mean that he was up in front and not in a vehicle. And while my boy John Kelly was fighting, let us not forget Brett and his men. All yours, Brett.
We took Camolin and Enniscorthy,
And Wexford storming drove out our foes;
’Twas at Slieve Kilty our pikes were reeking
With the crimson st
ream of the beaten Yeos.
At Tubberneering and Ballyellis
Full many a Hessian lay in his gore;
Ah, Father Murphy, had aid come over
Our green flag floated from shore to shore!
Ronan looked at Catherine; she sat, hands folded, rapt and evidently in thrall; no support there. He glanced around the audience; all sat still and enraptured.
On the stage, a new development dragged his attention back to the Three Furlongs from Home. Brett and Ever-ett struck up a wild, throbbing strumming on their instruments, and Chet stepped forward a pace, freshly urgent.
ANOTHER HISTORICAL NOTE, LADIES ’N GENtlemen: a Hessian was an English soldier, German but English at the same time. But things are never what they seem, and no man is safe till he’s free; the tide turned against the mighty wave, and the armies of Albion poured across our virgin lands with the ruthless power of a helicopter and crushed us once more beneath the heel of the mighty enemy. Take it away, Brett.
At Vinegar Hill, o’er the pleasant Slaney,
Our heroes vainly stood back to back,
But the Yeos at Tullow took Father Murphy
And burned his body upon the rack.
God grant you glory, brave Father Murphy
And open heaven to all your men;
The cause that called you may call tomorrow
In another fight for the green again.
Yes, indeed, “God grant you glory, brave Father Murphy”—but instead of that, you were hung, drawn, and quartered, and when they were burning you on the rack, they stuck a pike through you to make the point that this is what would happen to all rebels. And I have a sad verse myself, for all good things were coming to an end in the year of Our Lord seventeen-ninety eight.
But the gold sun of freedom grew dark over Ross
And it set by the Slaney’s red wave
And old Wexford stripped naked hung high on a cross
Her heart pierced by traitors and slaves.
“Traitors and slaves”—never was a truer word spoke. Come in, Ever-ett.
Ireland Page 46