Cursed! Blood of the Donnellys

by Keith Ross Leckie

  “Miss me?”

  She hid the knife and threw her arms around him and embraced him with all her might, burying her face in his neck, shaking, holding back tears. He held her tight, sensing her deep need, and did not let go. Vinnie woke up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then grabbed Jim’s hand to shake and rubbed his shoulder in greeting, and whispered so as not to disturb those asleep nearby.

  “I knew you’d come soon, Jim. I told Jo. I knew it.”

  As Vinnie lighted their nub of candle, Jim pulled back from Johannah to look at her, to see her slim body, a little alarmed at her tangled hair and haunted eyes.

  “The babes? You’ve had the babies?”

  “They came early,” Vinnie explained.

  Vinnie picked up a sleeping bundle almost hidden next to him, folding back the thin blanket to show the pale face in the candlelight.

  “Here he is, a strong little thing. Here’s your son.”

  Gently, Jim released Johannah and reached out as Vinnie passed the child over to him. Jim took and held his new son with reverence and stared down into his little face. The boy looked back calmly with interest and made gentle noises to his father.

  Vinnie explained, “There was a Dr. Davis. A Protestant, but he was good and between the two of us, we did the job.”

  Jim remained silent for some moments, staring into the child’s blue eyes. “He’s beautiful.” Then he looked around them in their curtained area. “And just the one, then?”

  Johannah looked up at him as the tears began, “I’m sorry, Jim. I’m so sorry.” She looked away in shame.

  Vinnie explained, “Dr. Davis did all he could for the other.”

  “A girl, was she?”

  “Yes.”

  Jim nodded sadly at this information, then turned his loving attention back to the boy.

  “Well, it’s all right, Jo. It’s all right. Look, he’s a handsome young lad, this one. The identity of the father’s no mystery. He’s beautiful, Jo! What’s his name?”

  Vinnie looked at Johannah, embarrassed. Johannah would not raise her eyes.

  “What? No name? You can’t be calling him, ‘Hey, you!’”

  “We…Johannah thought she should wait for you for the naming,” Vinnie told him convincingly.

  “The doctor was so good to us, Jim,” Johannah raised her eyes to him finally. “Maybe his name…”

  “The Protestant?” Jim frowned about this for a moment. “Oh, I don’t know about that. What’s his name?”

  “Dr. Davis. William Davis.”

  “Well, maybe. William. Will, then. A good, durable name. I’ll think on it. Now, let me show you something.”

  Jim emptied his pockets of the winnings, pound notes and coins piling forward on the mat as he balanced the baby in one arm. He spoke in excited whispers.

  “Sixty-eight pounds! We can buy a hundred acres!”

  She touched the currency and then noticed his bruises in the candlelight, and the missing tooth. “What happened to your face? You weren’t fighting?”

  “No, no. I…fell off a mule.” He moved quickly past the lame ruse. “So when we get out—its only two more weeks and we’re free—we’re going to go west. Lots of land there. There’s too many Irishmen here in Quebec already. And we’ve got enough money for seed and tools, an animal or two and food for a year!”

  Jim looked at the baby again with great satisfaction. Young Will gurgled and smiled up at him.

  “And the next thing to do is save this little one from being a bastard! What do you say, Jo? Will you marry me? You better say yes.”

  Jim took from his pocket a small silver ring and gave it to her. She held it in her hand.

  “Jo?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you. When?”

  “The sooner the better. Vinnie, you can be our best man. And when we leave, you’ll come with us, won’t you? You’re going west anyway. We could use some help to find land and get settled. What do you say?”

  “I guess I could come and stay for a bit. The mountains can get by without me a little longer.” Will had been fussing and now began to cry. Jim noted Johannah made no move to take him.

  “I guess it’s supper time.”

  Jim looked to her expectantly for a moment as Will’s cries became more insistent, but Johannah remained still and Jim began to regard her with concern. Vinnie stepped in.

  “I can take him,” Vinnie held out his hands. He had the bottle of milk ready. But Jim did not surrender the child.

  “Johannah will do it. Won’t you, Jo?” He held Will out to her. “Our son is hungry.”

  Johannah looked at him and at the baby. The baby was crying now for her.

  “Johannah?” Hesitantly, under her husband’s look, she reached out for him. Jim put the child firmly into her arms and his crying eased as for the first time she stared down into his eyes.

  “He’s beautiful, isn’t he, Jo?”

  Johannah studied the child a moment longer.

  “Yes. Yes, he is.”

  “Will is a good name for him if you like it.”

  Will began to cry again with new force, knowing that sustenance was near. Johannah turned her back on them and slipped down the shoulder of her dress to feed her son, pulling her shawl around to shelter him, worried she might not now be able, she had waited so long. The baby—he had a name now, Will—found her breast and in a moment was feeding hungrily as if this was nothing new, as if she had not spurned him, as if all was forgiven. He put up a tiny hand and patted her chest gently, with affection, and suddenly all the grief and guilt was washed away in the flow of milk and she felt such love for this little creature who wanted and needed her and knew she needed him. Johannah’s eyes filled with tears of relief that her milk was still ready, in fact bursting to be taken and she was able to give what was needed and she would never deny it again.

  * * *

  By what they had told Jim, Dr. Davis had been good to his family. But it was hard for him to get his thoughts in tune with it. Help from a Protestant. It made no sense. He caught up with Dr. Davis on his rounds.

  “Johannah told me all you did for them,” Jim said to him. “I’ve never known a Protestant to help Catholics like this. I want you to know how much we appreciate your kindness. You know we’ve named the babe Will.”

  “Yes. Thank you. I’m deeply touched. The lad will be lame, but I can tell he will be strong in other ways.”

  “The strength of his mother. We hope he will be the first of many.”

  “There is no reason to doubt it.”

  “Doctor, Johannah and I are getting married tomorrow and we’d be honoured if you came.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  On a beautiful spring day on Grosse Île, Jim finally stood beside his Johannah in the open field outside the fence above the broad river facing west, holding hands before the priest. The blue-grey surface of the St. Lawrence was visible on both sides of the island from this elevated place. With the river current flowing past, so smooth and steady, Jim had the impression that it was the island that was moving and the river that was still; the island like some great granite vessel moving west, carrying them deeper into the land and the future they would share.

  “Forasmuch as Jim and Johannah have consented together in holy wedlock and have witnessed the same before God and pledged their troth either to the other…”

  Vinnie stood beside Jim as best man, holding little Will. Dr. Davis was beside Johannah. The rows of white crosses stretched out into the distance, an army of silent, benevolent witnesses to their hopefulness.

  “…and by joining hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen. Kiss the bride, man.”

  Jim kissed Johannah with a sudden heat that he realized embarrassed her in front of the priest, but he didn’t give a
damn. Vinnie applauded, then laughed, little Will yowled happily, and the deed was done.

  After the brief ceremony, Dr. Davis congratulated them both and kissed the bride.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking. My home’s in Biddulph Township, six hundred miles west of here. A town called Lucan. My family helped settle it, but there’s lots of Catholics. Lots of land and good soil. When you’re released, why don’t you go there and see if you like it. You can clear a farm, raise a family. I’ll be back in the fall when my stint here is done.”

  “Is it green there?”

  “Green rolling fields. Spring and summer, there’s no greener place on earth.”

  “And churches? Are there Catholic churches there?” Johannah asked.

  “A fine new brick one. St. Patrick’s.”

  “We had a St. Patrick’s in Borrisokane!” Johannah told him.

  “It’s only a couple of years old, quite impressive. I’ve never seen inside, of course.”

  “I’d like to go there,” Johannah said and glanced at Jim. “Lucan, is it?”

  “Yes. You’d be welcomed,” Dr. Davis replied. “You decide what’s best for you.”

  “Thank you,” Jim told him, shaking his hand, still surprised that a Protestant could be a man of honour. He looked the English soldiers nearby in the eye so they understood that even though he was an Irishman, he was good enough for a Protestant doctor to shake his hand.

  A week after the wedding on another sunny early spring day, Jim, Johannah and Vincent were released from quarantine. They stood on the shore of Grosse Île, Jim with his arm around Johannah holding the sleeping Will, Vinnie all full of anticipation, their meagre belongings at their feet, waiting for the longboat that would take them and a dozen others across the broad river to the village of Bearer on the north shore and into the next stage of their lives.

  A Piece of Heaven

  The rough painted sign on the side of the dirt road came to them as a surprise, saying “Welcome to Lucan.”

  “We’re here!” Vinnie announced with weary delight. “We made it!”

  They stopped the pony cart to savour the moment. The Donnellys had been travelling for several weeks now. From Beaupré they had journeyed along the north shore of the river to Quebec City, where they bought a pony and cart and provisions, bread and seed, utensils and farm tools, from friendly hand-gesturing people who spoke no English at all. Vinnie and Jim walked alongside while Johannah and baby Will rode in the cart, to the sound of the creaking cartwheels turning, pots and pans hanging off the side chiming lightly to the vehicle’s ambling progress. Their path was a dirt and gravel road cut through the trees along the huge river, negotiating other coaches and wagons, skirting past the old town of Montreal and then along the north shore of Lake Ontario. They had a small canvas tent for Johannah and the baby, but the weather was often fair enough for them to sleep under the stars and the mild nights reminded Jim of the need to get seeds in the ground. They walked through the busy sprawling town of Toronto, with its multi-storied buildings on Lake Ontario. Then they headed west into rolling countryside. A few days later, their anticipation growing steadily, they passed through the busy inland market town called London.

  “I finally got to London!” Jim declared as they made their way along the Thames River. “I wonder if they have a Bridge and a Tower.” From what they could see passing through the town on Richmond Street, the emulation of the British namesake had a way to go. But their destination still lay miles ahead.

  Richmond Street became a “corduroy” road made of logs laid side by side with sand and gravel on top, leading north from London into Biddulph Township, where the hills had relaxed and they faced a flat plain of forest. The small town of Lucan was in the middle of this township, with clear pasture on each side and buildings up ahead, including the church of which Dr. Davis had spoken.

  “Look, it’s St. Patrick’s. Beautiful!”

  They stopped to admire the church, only three years old, which stood at a crossroads between the far east end of Lucan’s main street and the Roman Line running north and south. It was a substantial yellow brick edifice with four tall, narrow windows of coloured glass on each side. But its most distinctive feature was a sharp, almost needle-like steeple jabbing aggressively toward heaven, visible for miles around.

  “Well, thanks be to God for getting us here safely.”

  “And to your Dr. Davis for directing us here. Our new home, Jo!”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  Their pony cart with Johannah and Will as passengers rolled down busy Main Street among horses and carts and wagons and past several new wooden storefronts: a tavern, a general store, a blacksmith and a hotel with another tavern, outside which two men were arguing. As Jim and Johannah’s cart passed, they began to scuffle and other men pulled them apart. The cart finally stopped outside the post office with a new-looking sign that read “Land Registry Office” and Jim glanced at Johannah with no small degree of excitement.

  “You see that, Jo? Land!”

  Inside the post office and land registry, a map was spread out before Jim, Johannah and Vinnie by the postmaster and town clerk, Mr. Porte, a friendly and deliberate man, thin and almost completely bald, whose mother was from Kilkenny. He had told them a little about the makeup of Lucan, where everyone west of Princess Street was Protestant and connected to the Holy Trinity Anglican Church, and everyone east, in St. Patrick’s parish, was Catholic. Now he had the map out and gestured to the parcels of land around the town.

  “The ones marked in red are for sale.”

  Jim was ready with his money in his hand as he stared at the offerings before him.

  “I’d like it close to town, you see, but not too close. At least a hundred acres. We used to plow that much each year on the estate. Yeah. A hundred acres sounds just right. And some of it cleared would be nice, but I’ll be needing trees, too, to build. And maybe a creek going through it with a pond. What do you think, Jo? A nice deep pond would be fine.”

  Porte studied them through his thick glasses, then pointed to some red markings on the map.

  “All right. This one’s a mile out of town, but it’s only fifty acres.”

  “Not big enough. How much is it?”

  “One thousand pounds.”

  Jim went pale. Johannah looked at him, very worried. Jim stared at the map in silence.

  “Farther out, they get cheaper. Here’s one six miles north of town. Sixty acres. Six hundred pounds.”

  “No, no, I want to see the ten shillings an acre farms I heard about. Where are they?”

  Porte laughed dryly.

  “That was a few years ago, my son. The good land ’round here has all been bought up by the Protestants, the English and Scots. They’ll try to sell you the “Irish land” up north, but it’s no good. There’s no topsoil.”

  “I’ve only got sixty pounds.”

  A sympathetic tone came into Porte’s voice. “You’ll need a mortgage.”

  “We can talk to the bank, Jim,” Johannah suggested.

  Jim’s heart was racing as he tried to control his anger and frustration.

  “I’ll be owing nobody nothing. I’ve been told about the banks. Protestants, all of them! I won’t be under the thumb of those devils in suits. I’ve heard they’ll cheat you every time! I thought the land was cheap, that you bring your family all the way over here and you can buy land at a reasonable price!”

  “It’s been twenty years since there was any land sold that cheaply. Maybe out west on the prairies.”

  “I like the look of the land here. This is where we want to be,” Jim told him. He knew he sounded petulant and was embarrassed again, and Johannah was embarrassed for him and he knew that too.

  Porte studied him for a moment.

  “Well…there is a law. Some people have used it with success,” Porte told him. �
�Says you can squat on land and work it and in time you get to keep it.”

  “Squat?”

  “Yes. You become an official squatter. You find a section of wild land that’s not been improved. Even if it’s owned by someone, they have to work it, improve it, or they lose it. That’s the law here. You move onto it and improve it, clear some of it, plant some of it, and in seven years it becomes yours. A man named Toohey did that with seventy acres on the Granton Road and got his deed last year.”

  Jim was excited by this idea. But he could see Johannah was not.

  “I don’t like the sound of it, Jim. We don’t own the land for seven years? And maybe not even then. Let’s talk to the banks about a mortgage, see what they say.”

  “But if we squat, the land is free and I could use the money I have for more equipment and seed and another animal or two. We just have to be smart about it.”

  Studying the map, he pointed to a hundred-acre parcel four miles from town with “uncleared” handwritten across it.

  “What about this? Uncleared. It has a stream through it.”

  Porte brought out a thick heavy book bound in black cloth and placed it on the counter, then opened it with effort and leafed through to the registration number of the parcel of land indicated on the map.