by Leon Uris
Dary remained fragile but despite his mother's pampering grew to be a lovable boy. He was a gentle one with sharp wit and a grand knack of persuasion that made him a leader over the bigger and stronger kids. He was the shanachie, the maker of tales, and everyone in the village shared Finola's delight that he was a special child.
Because of his size Dary came to certain understandings about himself. From the time he knew he would become a priest, he felt the first principle of being a good one was the ability to bear pain and mortifications as Christ had borne it. He was able to defeat larger enemies with the weapon of compassion. His ability to endure more punishment than anyone could invoke and to never show tears downright frightened would-be tormentors. Dary was truly the son of Tomas Larkin in more ways than Tomas realized.
*
Conor and I drifted into the "brotherhood" of drinking bachelors, a fixture in post-famine life. The older men, both married and single, who drank with us had largely given up on life.
Those of our own age were mostly marking time. A few would come into their parents' land. Others would emigrate or leave for the city . . . or give up on life also. Lads with no possibility of inheriting land had no desire to get involved with the girls nor were they particularly attractive as prospective husbands. The burden of marriage was looked upon as a fateful finality. Courting and chasing with no intention of marriage was a sin, so we courted little. Most of the girls would accept a serious advance only with the idea of marriage. With the normal pursuit of girls whacked out of our life by the Church and economics of the land, we found our respite in the "brotherhood" of drinkers.
Liam was a good plain lad who seemed to accept his landless status without rancor. He had neither the charm, wit nor strength of his older brother and father, and little of the brain of his smaller brother. It was coming time for Liam to make a decision as he neared his twentieth year, to leave or to remain and wither. Liam, with his limited capacities, became more and more torn. The lands unknown out there were frightening but the living example of those who stayed behind was equally terrifying.
The weak of Ballyutogue who lacked the courage to emigrate stood every chance of remaining lifelong celibates. At best they might stumble into a late-in-life marriage. We had a full complement of the old toothless uncles and old maid aunts who never loved or married but stayed on to live in the byre or hayloft on a dole of a few pennies for helping around the farm. As our villages filled up with this kind, and the strong departed, our strain became weaker. Despite, the plight of too many people and too many landless people, Father Lynch insisted on babies and insisted that we remain in the poverty of Ireland rather than emigrate where we would "live among heathen niggers and Chinamen.
Liam Larkin edged to his moment of truth a frightened young man.
Brigid and the girls had the sorriest lot of us all, for their choices were almost nil and their fate sealed. They vied hard to get husbands even though marriage meant a life sentence of servitude and perpetual pregnancy, for what else was there? They could become the old maid aunt, a dried-up potato, or they could join the convent and become a nun. Emigration was far more difficult for a girl. The chance of a full, rich life didn't seem to exist. With the hammer of chastity pounding on them from birth, fear of committing the most mortal sin circled them like a vulture on death watch. Brigid and her girl friends were denied the release of drinking, sports and roaming that the lads were allowed. How long the days would be for them between laughter, how long the nights without pleasure.
Brigid Larkin was no beauty but the daughter of the likes of Finola and Tomas could not be without certain qualities of handsomeness. She seemed content to take the course of finding herself a lad who would have land and never leave Ballyutogue. The Larkin name would mean a decent dowry, so her chances in the husband seeking competition were quite good.
Conor! There was a lad! He wasn't behind the door when they passed out good looks. He grew strapping and tall like his daddy and, although he could outdrink and outfight anyone around, his true strength was in his softness. You could hear the angels weep when that boy sang, and there was music in his poems, which were seen only by Dary and myself, for he was not a man to boast.
Mr. Lambe's blacksmith shop had a constant stream of lassies seeking repairs on things which weren't broken. Even the Protestant girls were after him. Conor never got to nesting with a single bird, for his eye was always out on the horizon. He became a master ironworker, the peer of Mr. Lambe, and with the old blacksmith slowing up considerably, he took on much of the responsibility of the forge. Josiah Lambe had had the disaster befall him of fathering four daughters, all of whom married farmers, and gossip was strong that Conor would be coming into the shop. The two of them had the special bond of men who worked side by side creating out of iron.
We'd meet by night in the shebeen or the public house with the bachelor brotherhood and gamble on cards or dog races in town or anything there was to gamble on. Coming from Armagh, the Larkins had brought the game of road bowling with them, and after Tomas retired from the sport, Conor became the undisputed champion of slinging the two-pound iron ball on the course that ran the road from the Upper Village to the Township. We'd gamble on that, too, burning hungry invaders after Conor's crown.
Conor Larkin was our leader. Everyone accepted that he would take over when Tomas left but he never committed himself to it. He was more like himself on those pensive mountain walks with Dary and me, by the stream, reading a new poem. It was eight years since our summer in the booley house but our hearts never left it. The awful battle of wills between Conor and Tomas went on and on. Tomas slowed some but remained the dominant figure among us as Kilty had before him. He quit his heavy drinking after a time and settled to being the boarder of Finola, who now hung onto her sons fiercely, daring the lassies to come near those proudest possessions of the Irish mother.
*
It was just after the corn harvest that the terrible letter came from the president of the Baltimore Fire Fighters Benevolent Association telling us that Ed had been killed in the line of duty. Throughout the years we had grown to a dear relationship and I'll never get over the fact I didn't get to meet him again. Ed carried an insurance policy of fifteen hundred American dollars which was left to me on the condition that I use it for an education. His death became my liberation.
My inheritance was the event of the year in Ballyutogue. Can you imagine the advice I was getting? In came Father Lynch with the face of a Lurgan spade and the heart of a wet fortnight. Arguing with a tongue that could curdle cream, he insisted that a liberal gift to the Church (meaning himself) would win points with the Almighty. The pressure became fearsome, with my ma encouraging Father Lynch's intervention to push me into the seminary.
The money was more than enough to see me through college, which I craved and thought I'd never live to see. Conor demanded I stick to my guns and, thanks to God, enough of the Larkin steel had rubbed off on me over the years to enable me to make my stand. Things were still in a state of monumental discussion the day Kevin O'Garvey sent word that the money and papers had been received. Enough heat was on to melt the skin off my back, but I made the first defiance of my parents since the riot at Bogside, coming to my entire height of five feet and four inches and announcing, "I am going to Derry to consult with Mr. Ingram."
It sounded more like a wake with the weeping and wailing that followed.
"What on earth can you do with that education but become a priest!" my ma pleaded.
"I intend to become a teacher and perhaps a writer as well." There! I said it!
"But what of Father Lynch!"
"Father Lynch closes minds, I intend to open them."
Oh, my ma clamped her hands over her ears to hear no more of that and my daddy merely scratched his head till I thought he'd wear out his scalp. Even as I left for Derry they were both in St. Columba's praying for my immortal soul.
Mr. Ingram was headmaster of the largest school in all of Derry, and he
and Miss Enid had two children of their own. I was never so proud as on entering his office and seeing the bookends we had given him right there on the shelf behind his desk.
The choice of schools was extremely limited. Trinity College in Dublin was an unobtainable dream. It had been an ascendancy institution for centuries and, even if a Catholic could get in, the bishops forbade it on pain of excommunication. Mr. Ingram advised me of a new Catholic college in Dublin run by Jesuits, but the curriculum was extremely limited for non-religious studies.
"It seems to narrow down to Queen's College in Belfast."
God, that sounded frightening. He put me through a series of tests that lasted almost a full day and after he evaluated them I went to his home. I could see by the worried expression both he and Miss Enid wore that the results were not good.
"You've kept up on your English and literature well enough but you're going to need quite a bit of private tutoring to make the entrance examinations. Knowing your capacity for work, I'd say you'll be ready after four or five months of penal labor."
Tutoring! My dreams went flying and the gravy ran out of me.
"How much will all that tutoring cost?" I peeped.
"Do you still play the flute?" Miss Enid asked.
"Aye."
"How about two tunes a night?"
"I don't think I understand," I answered.
"I've had a hunger to teach since I've been stabled with the two children," she said. "We've a splendid attic room, grand for studying by day and daydreaming by night. We'll get you all plumped up and ready for Queen's, so go home and pack your things and let's get to work."
I bit my tongue and did everything I possibly could but I cried nevertheless and when I could talk again I said that I'd make them proud.
"You've done that many times already," Mr. Ingram answered.
*
The drinking brotherhood, virgins one and all except for Conor, who had done some fucking with Protestant girls, gathered for a last blow at Dooley McCluskey's.
They told me not to break too many hearts in Derry and surely I would knock them dead when I got to Belfast. Me . . . Seamus O'Neill, the first college student in Ballyutogue's history. Make a million and buy the earldom from Lord Hubble . . . all except for Conor were done in with joy . . . he was hurting.
… my back was sore from all the slappings and my ears rang with huzzahs to beat the world. McCluskey sprang for a round of drinks, a rarity between wakes, then pointed to the clock. The stage to Derry would be due in the diamond soon . . . outside the pub and under the hanging tree we all fell all over each other one more time . . . then McCluskey himself held everyone back so's Conor and I could make the walk to the Township alone . . . and we did with no words between us and we waited in the diamond. . . and pretty soon, the stage came . . . "Good-by, runt," he said, putting an affectionate head lock on me, then slapped my bottom and pointed to the coach . . .
… am I ever to forget Conor Larkin standing there alone in the diamond as we clip-clopped away. . . just standing there . . . his hands shoved deep in his pockets his cap on in its jaunty crooked way. . . looking out to that horizon where I was heading.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Liam entered the forge near quitting time. Conor waved to him, pulled a glowing metal from the fire, laid it over a hardie on the anvil and in a few moments had it beaten into the scooped-typed lazy bed digger preferred by most of the farmers of Ballyutogue. He ordered the apprentice boy to bank the fire and clean up the shop, untied his heavy leather apron and slapped Liam on the back.
Outside at the well, Conor dunked his face and assembled himself. Liam handed him a letter and watched his brother's face break into a grin as he ripped the envelope open.
"Aye, there's a lad," he said. "Seamus has passed all his tests for Queen's and has moved to Belfast to his Uncle Conan. I'll stop on the way home and read this to Fergus and Mairead." He folded it and shoved it into his pocket for rereading later. As he set to go, Liam seized his arm and held him in place.
"I was in Derry yesterday," Liam said with nervous speed. "I got the word from Kevin O'Garvey to come in and see him."
"About what?"
Liam plopped on the big rock by the wheelwright's hub band. He hung his head and nibbled at his lip.
"About what?" Conor repeated, sensing trouble.
"Do you remember when I went to Derry for the special wool marketing auction last year?"
"Aye."
"I went to see Kevin at the same time."
"About what?" Conor asked apprehensively.
"Suitable emigration. He's been looking into the matter for me."
Conor reacted like a snared rabbit with a jolt of fear shivering him and shutting his voice down. His eyes widened as Liam scooped up a handful of pebbles and pitched them out to the road one at a time. "I'll be leaving in a matter of days," he said.
"Why have you kept this a secret!" Conor snapped.
"It wasn't exactly no secret. Everyone knows I was up to emigrate. One minute I wanted it and one minute I didn't. I just didn't know how to make up my head on the matter, Conor. You know, I was just confused."
Even as Conor agonized he patted his brother's shoulder in understanding. The weight of it was like an anvil on his back and his mind continued muddled.
"Where are you going, Liam?" he managed.
"New Zealand," Liam answered.
"New Zealand! You can't go there, man. It's too bloody far!"
"What difference does it make how far?"
"Oh no, you're daft, man," Conor said, seizing at the straw. "We've not the money to send you there, it's no good, no good at all." He paced and beat his hand into his fist, trying to find one more straw. "Call it off. Then we'll talk it over."
Liam shook his head, puzzled. "I can't. I've signed onto a scheme to work off my passage. They've large ranches in the southern half of the country and they need sheepmen, farmers and drovers. It will take two years to pay the fare but then I'll be in the clear. I hear tell there's land to be had, so in another two or three years after I work my passage, I might be able to buy some of my own."
"See there," Conor cried, "it's a bloody trick, like the famine ships. I'll not let you get into a scheme like that. Once they get you there you'll be working your passage for life . . . that's it . . . you can't go, Liam."
Still confused over his brother's seizure, he gestured to cut it off. "It's a legitimate plan. Kevin himself assures me of that. It was originated by a dozen Irish immigrants who've made it big and we're being supervised by the Church. Kevin has already sent three lads out of Derry and they're all starting to do well."
Conor knelt on a knee, deflated, and his eyes darted a bit wild. He knew he'd better calm down. There was only one way to go at it and none other. "New Zealand," he whispered.
"So much the better for my chances," Liam said.
"New Zealand," Conor repeated as though they were the heaviest words in the language. He looked up to Liam with deliberateness. "I'm putting something to you straight. I don't want you to go. I've my own trade and I'm earning almost as much as a carriage maker. Would you stay here if Daddy agrees to pass the farm to you?"
Liam shook his head. "Now it's you talking daft. You've got to know I've never felt ill of you because the land is rightly yours."
"But if Daddy were to agree."
"He won't, I know he won't."
"If he does," Conor insisted, "would you stay?"
"Aye," Liam answered as if in a sweet dream, "that's all I've ever wanted. Oh, holy Mother, I know every dear inch of every plot and every stone in every wall. Conor, I chill all over with fright when I think of going so far away. We never got to talking about it because I didn't want to get my hopes up, but there's a couple of lassies looking right good to me and I would be after courting one of them if only . . . oh, Conor, what the hell are we talking about? Tomas will never agree. Listen, you've got to know I hold no ill feeling to you."
Conor grabbed his brother
's arms fiercely. "We're talking to Daddy, Liam, and we're going to make him see."
Liam backed away. "You'll have to do the talking I could never face Daddy with it."
"I'll do it, I'll do it."
There was a positive time Tomas entered his cottage and that was after the rosary was said and before supper was served. When Brigid, Dary and Finola got off their knees, the men came in. Supper was held in its usual silence.
"Are you going to make lace tonight, Brigid?" Conor asked as she cleared the table
"I've no plans to."
"Go visit a girl friend . . . and take Dary with you."
"Oh, listen to himself," Brigid snipped back.
Brigid half jumped out of her skin as Conor's fist all but split the table. She'd never seen him act that way. As all their eyes inter-played the sense of pending battle was obvious.
"You'd best do what your brother says," Tomas said softly.
"Come along, Dary," Brigid said, "sounds like there's going to be a haymaker." She banged the door after herself deliberately. The three men sat in stone silence and Finola whined under her breath as she shuffled around the fire.
"Liam's leaving for New Zealand next week," Conor snapped.
"Oh, Mary save us!" Finola cried.
"Quiet, Ma," Conor commanded. He leaned over the table so that he was nose to nose with his father. "Daddy, I'm telling you to ask Liam to stay."
Tomas slurped at his tea.
"I'm an ironmaster and I'll not take the farm," Conor continued. "Now you tell Liam you want him to have it!"
Tomas drank again with deliberateness, set the cup down slowly, his eyes moving from one son to the other. "You'll not be making decisions that are mine to make," he said.
"And you'll not be making decisions that are mine to make!" Conor shouted.
"You're just saddened to see your brother leave. It's a part of our life none of us will really get used to no matter how many times it happens. How many nights I've lay awake crying to be able to keep the both of you. It's not the way in Ireland and it will never be so long as we're tenants in our own country."