The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  “And the Irish attacked them?”

  “No. The hunt was west of here, and Lord Wray had a sizable party.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Two Irish boys were playing between the line of beaters and the lords. They were but wee, but they spooked the line, the beaters mistaking them for attackers. Shots rang out. Both boys were wounded so severely that huntsman Craig put them out of their misery with his knife.”

  Dear Lord, thought Jake.

  “Soon after, two crazed Taigs attacked the line. Several men were hurt, and three killed, and one of the wounded died several days later. The two Irish were slain as well in their attack. The wounded were sent south in one of the carriages, and the lords had their lunch in a pavilion not too far from our present inn.”

  Jake was stunned, “They didn’t leave?”

  “It is said Huntsman Craig informed Lord Wray of what transpired, and his advice was to immediately abandon the hunt. Lord Wray did not.”

  “Why not?”

  “It was his land. When does a lord flee his own land?”

  “In that exact circumstance: when there is blood on the ground, the enemy’s numbers are unknown, there are wounded, and nothing is lost by retreat.”

  “British lords do not retreat from their own lands. Such a thing would be ridiculous.”

  “Very well. So, what happened next?”

  “The Ó Brollachain unearthed their ancient wheellocks and arquebuses. They lined up at the edge of the forest, and fired a mighty volley at the hunters inside the pavilion. Young Lord Wray took a grievous flesh wound to the thigh – and he was not the only man hurt. After the first volley, the party quickly took cover and returned fire. There was a stalemate, but the hunters had taken casualties, and this prompted swift action. Under fire, horses were harnessed to carriages. They left everything behind but themselves and their muskets and took to the road. By this time the Ó Brollachain powder was mostly expended, and the hunters were able to escape without further loss. But there was only one casualty who mattered: young Lord Wray. He was from one of the premier noble families of Ireland, much less of Ulster. This incident was now an affront to the Crown.”

  “An Irish uprising whilst Britain was at war.”

  “Yes. Back then, we were fighting across the entire world: against France, Spain and Austria. We could not face a second front in Ireland. It would not do.”

  “Were troops nearby?”

  Ivor snorted, “There were more than a dozen regiments across the island. An entire full-strength battalion, over a thousand men with two light cannons, was dispatched from Londonderry to clear the Forest of Ards. Two companies and the heavy weapons were led by the battalion commander up the Letterkenny road, the two remaining companies were commanded by the executive officer, and left by sea. Their orders were to kill or capture every Catholic soul squatting in the Forest of Ards.”

  “How many were there? Irish, in the forest?”

  “Perhaps thirty, if you count the women and children.”

  “So, a thousand men – with two cannons - against thirty men, women, and children.”

  Ivor grinned, “Sends a message, it does. The Irish were expecting them by the road. They had a way of weaving branches together into obstacles. They dug pits, placed sharpened wooden spikes, and had rocks and javelins ready to throw. They didn’t expect anyone by sea, and the second column took them from behind and burned the village. The rest of them were encircled to the west of it. They fought to the last, they did. None survived that battle.”

  “There were survivors, though.”

  “Indeed, a woman, her twin infants, and a girl - her older daughter - were captured by cavalry to the north of Ards. If there were any more of them who lived, no one told of it.”

  “And what happened to them? The woman and her children?”

  “The four of them were sold on the docks of Londonderry, for something over a pound sterling. The infants were taken from the mother and thrown into the sea. She fought her captors, and was brained by a heavy keychain. She never woke from her wound. The girl was sent to Montserrat. If she survived the journey to the Americas, they could sell her for over five pounds. The Irish didn’t take well to the tropics, you see, and sold much cheaper than the blacks. Sometimes they were bred together, the black and Irish. It was said the offspring were much smarter than the African, and could still weather the climate.”

  Jake was absolutely sickened, but he forced himself to show no emotion. He was an agent for the Eltis family, here to retrieve a necklace. “Interesting,” he finally said.

  And that was that. Back to Londonderry.

  Jake found lodging in an old medieval establishment called The River Inn. The plump matron, one Missus MacAdams, was quietly friendly, and sat him down for dinner in the main hall after he was settled. He soon found himself in front of a ham and mutton pie, with peas and something called champ – which ended up to be mashed potatoes, chopped scallions, cheese, butter, and cream. He washed it down with stout, and was surprised at the pleasantness of the meal.

  He was waiting for dessert, and writing in his journal, when he became vaguely aware of an argument. It did not disturb him until it became quite heated.

  Missus MacAdam’s voice - quiet and unflappable, “Sir, you are simply not in a suitable state for dinner.”

  “Thas not true!” shouted a drunken voice, in a thick Irish brogue, “I am a true son of Erin, and thas why you are ejectin’ me!”

  “No, that is quite untrue, sir. And I assure you that you are in no fit state for company.”

  “Thiss inn belonged to my people. Not your people! This belongs to the Kingdom of Tír Chonaill! I am Aodh Dubh Ó Brollachain! I am a true son of Ards! Éirinn go brách!”

  Jake jumped from his chair, and sent it flying. He nearly ran toward the argument.

  “Sir, I do not mean to disappoint you, but this establishment was built in 1684, not 1648.”

  “Oh,” said the now defeated voice, “I misread. I’m terribly sorry. May God smile upon ye, beautiful lady, and this fair place. I will get me gone.”

  Jake rounded the corner, just in time to see Ó Brollachain try to kiss MacAdams good-night. She would have none of it, tugged him by the sleeve, opened the door, and gently pushed him out.

  “Fare thee well, Madame,” he said with a flourish and a bow.

  And the door was shut.

  Missus MacAdams turned to Jake, “I am terribly sorry, Mister Loring.”

  “Please, I must speak to this man immediately.”

  Missus MacAdams did not even blink as she reopened the door, “As you wish, Mister Loring.”

  And out into the rain went Jake. He looked around in the darkness, and saw no one. He shouted, “Mister Ó Brollachain!” but there was no answer.

  ***

  The man in the cell stirred. Jake waited patiently, sitting on a wooden bench padded with coarse blankets. A lantern on the wall gave him enough light to write in his journal, should that necessity arise.

  “Where am I?” the man said.

  “You are in jail, in Londonderry.”

  “Again? What did I do?”

  “Nothing in particular. You are Irish, as well as a drunk. For a man such as you, in a town such as Londonderry, a stiff breeze would be cause enough for imprisonment. But I will answer your question properly: you are here because I contacted the authorities, and had you brought here.”

  The man looked at him with innocent incredulity, “Why would you do that?”

  Jake sighed, “I finally found you, just outside of town. I begged you for help, and offered you a princely sum for your thoughts.”

  “How much?”

  “A guinea.”

  “You offered me a guinea for me thoughts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what did I say?”

  “You told me to do something obscene and physically impossible.”

  The man shook his head in wonderment.

  Jake con
tinued, “I tried again the next day. I offered you three guineas. You nearly knocked me unconscious. I must say, you are remarkably strong and quick for being so old and decrepit.”

  “I am woefully sorry, sir. My most sincere apologies. I most likely hit you with a bottle. The weight of it makes up for me age.”

  “I lost my patience with you, and had the constables bring you here.”

  The man spotted what rested on the floor next to Jake. “If I could ask, what is inside that keg to the side of your foot, young Master?”

  “It is good Ulster porter inside this keg, sir.”

  “Could I trouble ye for a mug?”

  “You can have as much as you want, but it is expensive.”

  “Please, kind sir. I have not a farthing. And if I do not drink, I feel as if I will die. The shakes are upon me already.”

  “I do not require money. In fact, if you earn the contents of this keg, I will give you three guineas for your trouble.”

  “I dunna understand.”

  “Then I will enlighten you. When you were brought here, you still would not help me, nor answer my questions. I decided to let you stew for a bit. You have not been allowed to drink on purpose.”

  “You are torturing me for information then?” the man said sadly.

  Jake wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. He kept his face stern, “Yes.”

  “What on earth would I know, that you would interfere with me life in such a manner?”

  “Do you wish to drink, and be free, and be paid for your troubles?”

  “I suppose I do, sir.”

  “Your name is Aodh Dubh Ó Brollachain.”

  The man’s face twisted and turned dark. He did not reply.

  “Answer me, sir,” said Jake.

  “Who told you my name?”

  “You did, when you claimed my inn for the kingdom of Tír Chonaill.”

  “I don’t want to answer any of your questions.”

  Jake wanted to let the man go, but held stern. “Mister Ó Brollachain, you are going nowhere, and drinking nothing, unless you answer my questions. You have two choices before you now. You can aid me, and secure your freedom, or thwart me – in which case I will cruelly leave you be for several hours, and return with my keg when you are truly in dire straits.”

  The man began to cry, softly, like a child. “I was but wee.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  “I will talk of anything but me past.”

  “That is precisely what I wish to talk to you about. Your history, but most importantly, the history of your clan, the Ó Brollachain.”

  “It is a common name.”

  “You are of the Ó Brollachain clan of Ards, are you not?”

  “No.”

  “I have caught you in a lie, sir. For you have said so yourself, in a drunken stupor.”

  “I lied then, not now.”

  “I will leave you be, for the nonce.” Jake stood.

  “No! No, please!”

  Jake kept standing.

  The man pulled himself closer to Jake, “Please.”

  “No.”

  “You humiliate me. You shame me.”

  “Do I? Or do I expose humiliation and shame that was put there by another?”

  The man seemed to grow even older, right before Jake’s eyes. He spoke softly, “The latter, sir.”

  “Your name, sir?” Jake said, shocked at the coldness of his own voice.

  “My name is Aodh Dubh Ó Brollachain, of the Ó Brollachain of Ards,” he said, as if he was lost in a daydream and far away.

  Jake found himself shaking. Part of him did not want to proceed, afraid that his expectations for this man were far too high.

  Ó Brollachain brought him from his thoughts, “What do you seek, young master?”

  Jake uncorked the keg, and filled a large mug resting on the ground. He maneuvered it between the bars and handed it to the man. Ó Brollachain emptied it to the dregs in a single draught. “Thank you,” he said.

  “I seek any knowledge of Sinead Ó Brollachain. Did you know her?”

  The most curious look came over the man’s face. “Ah,” he said, “Your presence, and your inquiries, now make perfect sense.

  Jake’s excitement almost turned to fear. Something strange was happening. “Why does it not surprise you that she is the subject of my inquiry?” Jake said, in a hollow and shaky voice.

  He replied in an even voice, “Her name was Seonaidh Iníongael Ó Brollachain, which means Gift of God, Daughter of the Gaels, of the clan of Ó Brollachain. Of our little clan, there was less than two score, and we all knew each other’s hearts like the back of our own hands.” He handed the mug back to Jake, “Know this,” he continued, “There are many things sacred to the Gael of Ards. We had no books, no theater mummers, just ourselves and the night fire. We can spin yarn with our stories, sir. We have memories like stone cisterns, and magic in our souls for the telling. What you ask of me is sacred to my people, for we are storytellers. You will ask me no questions, but listen to my voice, as I tell you what you seek. Will you do this now?”

  He was a different man. Jake nearly whispered, “Yes, I will, sir.”

  The man sat up, and crossed his feet. His eyes went wide, and his hands came up. To Jake, the man’s face was only in outline, as the flickering light of the lantern played upon it. He began to speak, in a bold voice, “To answer your question, I must take ye to a time before I was born. Almost a hundred years ago, in the fell, cold year of Our Lord 1748. His name was Athair Mac Giolla Eoin. He was a priest, but he was also a man of Tír Chonaill, and therefore a Gael. The Gael are an old people, and we are a bit more draíochta, more magic, than the newer races of man. We must be mindful of things that could affect our cinniúint, the mystical force that determines destiny, fate and luck. A Gael must be cautious not to upset the devil, or even the lesser creatures of mischievous intent.

  “Athair Mac Giolla Eoin’s flock were the Gael who lived in Ards, a place of meadows, sandy beaches and dark forests. It was thick with the history of the Gael, this place. Ancient forts and tombs lie buried in its loam from the time of stone. A ghost, the Bhiorog Ó Baoighill, prowled the night, and wailed for the dead. In the times of legend, Diarmuid and Gráinne, in their flight from Fionn Mac Cumhaill, took refuge in the stone cairns of Ards.

  “But now, I take ye to late Autumn. The branches were dark claws, and the ground spotted with patches of early snow. The wind blew off a cold, angry ocean, and stabbed through clothing like knives of ice. For Athair Mac Giolla Eoin, this hardship had to be endured, for he had no church, and said mass outdoors in the middle of the night, on a special rock imbued with natural draíochta.

  “He was a priest of darkness by necessity, for he was an outlaw just for practicing his faith. A newer people, called the Béarla, had come a century before, and sacked the kingdom of Tír Chonaill with a butcher’s grace. What few Gael who survived were shipped across the ocean in chains. This was a terrible irony, for the first prophet who brought the faith of Christ to the Gael had come first as their slave. In memory of him, the Gael had not taken slaves for a thousand years and became the first men of earth to do so. The dual tragedies of butchery and slavery resulted in an empty, lonely land - the population of the entire island of Ériu, not just Tír Chonaill, had been cut in half. Soon a people called the Albanach, the allies of the Béarla, came from across the sea to claim the land of the Gaels. What few Gael were left had hidden in the deep forests, and only now ventured into the daylight of roads and villages. What they found horrified them. Not only had the language and law of the Gaels been banned, but their ancient Catholic faith as well. Any misstep, any crossing of the savage Béarla or their Albanach allies, and a Gael found himself in chains, following his ancestors across the ocean. It was a dark time indeed for Tír Chonaill, and the Gael of Ards.

  “The Wray clan of the Béarla then held lordship of Ards. They did not usually interfere with the Gael, but who would bother what is hidd
en, and slinks unknown in the dark? No Gael plowed sunny fields in Ards, only the Wray Béarla and their oathed men. Half the Gael lived on potatoes and trap game. But it was God’s will, come what may. Suffering was the lot of man and the fruit of the world. The Gael did not complain, although sometimes he mourned or became angry. His only recourse was potato liquor. We call it poitín, for it is made in a pot still.

  “The ears and nose of Athair Mac Giolla Eoin itched in a way he understood - the Ó Brollachain clan expected him, and were growing impatient. But they would have to wait; Athair tarried for a purpose. He had seen omens of cinniúint relating to their clan and had to find out what they meant. Íosa Críost, the human aspect of God, communicated with his followers through the Spiorad Naomh, a mystical, invisible force that touched all things. If the Spiorad Naomh spoke to man, it was a matter of faith and salvation to listen.

  “Athair Mac Giolla Eoin came to the fairy place. It was a beautiful bramble, a dark corner of the forest where rowan, oak and hawthorn warded evil and shaded the sun; where shrubs and ferns covered the ground. Stones jutted from the earth like teeth at the height of a man. Athair Mac Giolla Eoin knew if white draíochta, the working of the Spiorad Naomh, was afoot, it would speak to him here. But first, he had to make peace with the place itself. He spoke to it, ‘I am Athair Mac Giolla Eoin’, he said to the wind, ‘A Gael of Tír Chonaill, which is no more. From the time of stones, we have respected and preserved the fairy places. I come in peace to listen to God through the Spiorad Naomh.’

  “And Athair Mac Giolla Eoin waited. The only sound was that of water dripping from the moss of the trees. Then he heard the whistles of a wren. Just as quickly it was gone. He waited for another call, as a wren will sing forever, but nothing followed. He knew then that he had been answered, and given permission to enter. He walked around the point of the tallest stone, under the branches of the rowan tree. He knelt to see what he could see.

  “Lo! There was a bird’s nest on the ground. An old collared-dove cock sat in the nest, watching him with a calm, ready stare. A chick, resting in its egg with part of the shell still on the top of its head, looked up at him with nothing more than curiosity. Between them and leaned on its edge, sat a gold coin. Athair Mac Giolla Eoin reached in with two fingers and pulled it out. Yet neither bird moved.