Cursed! Blood of the Donnellys

by Keith Ross Leckie

  “He was the one who threatened to kill me,” Jim told Fitzhenry. “We all heard him. I want him charged.”

  Johannah recognized Fitzhenry’s substantial patience was wearing very thin.

  “I’ll have to charge you with something, Jim.”

  “He can’t prove anything. You charge him with making death threats, and also stealing my land while you’re at it!”

  Just then they all became aware of a lone figure approaching them on a donkey along the muddy Roman Line. The rider wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and the clerical collar of a priest. He was about sixty, not a young man, and he wore a pleasant, benign expression as he made his way toward them. The priest brought the donkey to a stop and they all said their respectful greetings to him. Farrell took off his hat.

  The priest smiled and replied, “Good morning to you all. Are you having a difficulty here?”

  Jim started. “This thief…”

  Farrell cut him off, “This maniac has been driving me…”

  “QUIET!” Fitzhenry reasserted his position of authority, embarrassed in front of the cleric. “I’m sorry, Father. It’s a land dispute.”

  “A land dispute. I see. My name is Father John Connolly, originally of Tipperary. I was for many years at Notre-Dame in Montreal. I am now the new priest at St. Patrick’s.”

  “Oh, Father! Welcome!” Johannah exclaimed, stepping forward. “Father O’Brien must be relieved you’ve come. He’s been under the weather in recent months. Thanks be to God.” She turned to glare at Jim and Farrell. “It’ll be a blessing to have a little fresh divine intervention here.”

  Father Connolly seemed perplexed by Johannah’s outspoken interruption and turned back to the men.

  “Well, I’m not sure what your dispute involves but I’ve come to invite you all to my first Mass tomorrow. I have a special message that may inspire you. I do hope you’ll be there. I’ll look for you all.”

  “Yes, certainly, Father,” Farrell responded.

  “Yes, Father. Of course,” Jim told him.

  “Good. Good day, then.”

  “Good day, Father!”

  Johannah took a couple of steps as if to follow him, and with Fitzhenry standing firmly between Jim and Farrell, they all watched as Father Connolly continued his slow journey on up the Roman Line without a backward look.

  “Well, maybe the Father’s special message can work a miracle between you two. In the meantime I’m ordering you both not to speak or be within a hundred feet or even look at each other until after Mass tomorrow or so help me, I’ll arrest you both. Do you agree?”

  Fitzhenry looked each man in the eye and reluctantly, each man nodded. Fitzhenry turned to Johannah.

  “Can you see to that, Johannah?”

  “If I have to lock him in the broom closet.”

  Homily

  At St. Patrick’s Church the next morning, the old pump organ, the only thing saved from the original frame structure when it burned down, was heard playing “Nearer, My God, to Thee” as the last stragglers hurried into the packed sanctuary to attend Father Connolly’s first mass. The Donnelly family found themselves sitting across the aisle from Pat Farrell and his son, Billy. Farrell and Jim exchanged hostile sidelong glances. When the organ stopped, Father Connolly began with a gentle greeting and then had the congregation sing two old hymns back to back, which he led in an enthusiastic tenor. He moved quickly then to his homily, for which there was much anticipation. He began quietly with a sense of candour and sincerity that had all of them leaning forward to listen.

  “Good Catholics of Lucan…I have been sent here among you with a mission from the archdiocese. A mission of peace. Consider the word, ‘peace.’ It is a word synonymous with the teachings of our Lord. With how we are meant to be. With how we are meant by the Divine to carry out our relationships with one another. But here in Biddulph Township, we are not as we are meant to be. Biddulph Township is not a place of peace.” Father Connolly’s voice then rose with conviction. “Biddulph Township has become notorious for its violence and crime. Arson, assault, theft, drunkenness and brawling in the taverns. I am afraid that the hand of God will fall on Biddulph, if you do not repent. The archdiocese wants peace brought to this parish and in this, I will be God’s instrument.”

  Jim smiled and in a low voice said to Johannah, “That’ll keep him busy.”

  She shushed him.

  Father Connolly set his critical gaze on Jim for a moment, distracted by his mumble, then he continued in a calm voice.

  “So it is time for change, and you must change your ways and you will change your ways. I know you will.”

  Father Connolly’s volume rose again with emotion and all were startled by his sudden passion: “In the name of almighty God, don’t you realize, each time you lift a hand against another Catholic…each time you cheat or insult or steal from another Catholic, you hammer the nails deeper into our Lord’s hands and feet? You thrust that cruel spear deeper into his side. Each time you transgress against a brother or sister of the Holy Mother Church, you might as well tear the bloody, beating heart out of the breast of the Christ and throw it in the dirt!”

  The breathless congregation, foremost Johannah and Jim, all sat wide-eyed, listening to this florid imagery. The pews creaked as people shifted uncomfortably and cleared their throats in the silence before Connolly’s eyes narrowed and his voice dropped to begin speaking again.

  “These acts of violence will not be tolerated in my parish. And anyone who perpetrates these acts will be my enemy and the enemy of Jesus Christ. Over the next few days, I hope to visit each one of you and I expect to hear and see a desire for peace, a devotion to the Holy Spirit and obedience to the Holy Mother Church.”

  The congregation stared at him, each man, woman and child feeling the intended fear of God.

  * * *

  After the service, outside the church, Johannah watched from a distance as Pat Farrell hurried to speak to the new priest. John Carroll was with him, their manner obsequious, talking with bowed heads and folded hands. She almost laughed out loud at their inauthentic behaviour but it seemed to please the priest.

  Johannah looked to find Jim chatting in a boisterous manner to the Keefes and Whalens, all of them joking and laughing. It was a bright sunny day and as she watched him, she went back to her confirmation day so many years ago outside St. Patrick’s in Borrisokane, and Jim with his silly faces and walking the cemetery wall, her saving him from the bull. And then the kiss she gave him, which bound their hearts, yet also sent her away. She realized again that as coarse and childish as he was with this Farrell business, and as irreverent on this Sunday morning, with his sad laughing eyes, she loved the man deeply. Couldn’t help herself.

  Her pleasant reverie was interrupted as she saw Father Connolly listening gravely to Farrell as he gestured toward her husband, obviously supplying a long list of sins. Johannah was very aware that even though she and Jim had been awarded their half of the land, since the court ruling many in the community—those who wanted to—saw them as “squatters,” and beneath them. The priest was key to her family’s standing in the community. They would have to work hard to win Father Connolly to their side.

  * * *

  Later that very afternoon, Father Connolly arrived at their farm in a heavy coat, scarf and wide-brimmed hat and climbed off his lowly mount. Their dog, the black mongrel named Butch, ran out and began to bark and growl at him, as was his natural tendency.

  “Go away!”

  The barking and growling continued until Butch grabbed his pant leg under the cassock and pulled. The material tore.

  “He’s here!” Will called out. He had been on lookout for the priest. Johannah then peered out the small kitchen window to witness the altercation.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph…” Johannah said under her breath.

  She stormed out of the house just i
n time to see Connolly take a vicious swing at the dog with his walking stick.

  Connolly started to yell: “Help me! Help me!”

  “Butch! Leave him!” Johannah turned and called back into the house. “Jim! The Father’s here!”

  Jim and a few of the boys came out to see what the barking and yelling was about.

  A whistle from Jim and the dog sat down obediently. Johannah hurried out to the priest.

  “Oh Father, I’m so sorry.” She looked at Jim, urging him to say something.

  “Yes, Father. We’re so sorry.”

  “What a welcome!” the priest said in exasperation. “I’m sure St. Francis himself would have trouble with that cur.”

  “He’s very friendly once he knows you.”

  “My inclination to know him better is not strong.”

  Johannah took the arm of the flustered man.

  “We’re all so sorry. Come inside. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea and mend your trousers.”

  They served Father Connolly tea in their front room. The seven boys all sat crowded against each other, heads bowed as the priest said the blessing, stealing looks at him, a strange visitor to their home. Jim, Johannah and Will sat nearest to him in the cramped room, polite and smiling.

  “In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, bless us, oh Lord, and these Thy gifts which of Thy bounty we are about to receive through Christ our Lord, Amen. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”

  Will led the others to cross themselves properly and say the “Amen” in unison, which pleased their mother. Johannah poured tea for Father Connolly and offered corn biscuits and gooseberry jam. He had taken the pants off in the small bedroom and now sat wrapped in a towel as she carefully mended the torn leg of his pants with black thread. After the initial business with the dog, Johannah was thinking it was going well.

  “Father, we’re so pleased you’ve come to take over St. Patrick’s. As much affection as we had for Father O’Brien, the parish was becoming too much for him at his age.”

  “Yes, he deserves his rest.”

  “Your donkey seems a healthy animal,” Jim continued in a conversational way. “How does she ride?”

  “She is a vexation. I don’t know how Father O’Brien put up with her. I plan to take extra offerings to buy a horse.”

  “We have a couple of animals that could be suitable,” Johannah suggested, glancing at a surprised and shocked Jim, but then didn’t want to press the point so as to look opportunistic.

  “The gift of a horse would be very well received,” Father Connolly said eagerly. She knew this suggestion of a gift would not go down well with Jim and they fell into silence for a moment. She searched for something to say to please the priest and in the giddiness of having his undivided attention a powerful idea just came to her out of the blue.

  “You know, we have sometimes thought our first-born, Will, could make a fine man of the cloth.” She gestured toward Will, who failed to hide his absolute shock at her offering. “He reads and speaks well, has an agile mind. Perhaps you could mentor him for the priesthood…”

  Will and his father exchanged alarmed glances. Johannah purposefully did not look at Will, who was now staring at her and she suspected would sooner have cut off his left arm than submit to training to become a Catholic priest. And yet, for some reason she continued down that path.

  “He does have a nurturing manner and…”

  Father Connolly interrupted her. “I’m sure the idea has some merit but I have come with a more important concern we must address first, Mrs. Donnelly.”

  Will breathed out in relief that his mother’s wild offer was not pursued. Jim and Johannah waited to hear what the priest had to say.

  “I’ve been told that you have certain friends. Protestant friends. A Dr. Davis for one.”

  “Yes. Dr. Davis is a good man.”

  Father Connolly’s voice developed a lecturing tone.

  “A good man, you say? I fear many Catholics have fallen away from their duties, from their obligations concerning the Holy Church. Just because we have come to a new land doesn’t mean we can renege on what is required of us. It is so very important you recognize that all Catholics must be united in our struggle against them.”

  Johannah was puzzled for a moment. “Against ‘them’? Against… Protestants?”

  He stared at her, surprised that it was not crystal clear. “Yes. Of course. Among their many thousands of transgressions against us, I remind you of the martyrdom of the blessed Father Sheehy ninety-two years ago this year in Tipperary. I don’t have to remind you he was executed at the hands of Protestant politicians and clergy. We cannot just go on as if nothing happened!”

  Johannah finished the stitching of the trousers, knotted and bit off the thread. Jim was sorting his way through this.

  “Dr. Davis has delivered most of our children. He saved my wife’s life.”

  The priest turned to him, his eyes burning.

  “You let him deliver your children? They killed the blessed Sheehy. They hanged him and then before he died cut his body into four parts with axes. They sawed off his head and placed it on a stake on the turret at Clonmel where it was ordered to remain for twenty years. We can never allow ourselves to forget.”

  The wide-eyed boys were fascinated by the gory imagery. Jim was listening and nodding slightly. Although the priest’s attention was on Jim, Johannah felt the need to reply. “Yes, but…the Protestants here had nothing to do with that, Father.”

  Her conciliatory response only fuelled the priest’s emotions. He glared at her, then turned back to Jim.

  “Protestants are an abomination to the Holy Church. Do you not remember your history? How they invaded us and murdered us and defiled our women and took our property. We were forbidden to read and write, to say the Mass, to own a gun or a horse, or to vote! We were made slaves in our own land!”

  “Yes! Yes, slaves in our own land! It’s true,” Jim agreed.

  “Yes, Father, terrible things were done,” Johannah said. “But that was all back in Ireland. Surely Jesus himself would want there to be peace between us now…here.”

  Connolly turned his full attention toward her, his shock complete. “Are you saying that you can better interpret the mind of our Lord…than me?”

  “No, no, Father! I only meant…”

  Connolly grabbed the mended pants from Johannah and addressed Jim, a raised finger spearing the air condescendingly to make his point.

  “Donnelly, you must first denounce your Protestant friends. And then you must get this wife of yours under control. And finally…I want to see peace between you and Farrell. You are Catholics, comrades in arms. Save it for the Prots. They rejoice when we are divided. Any more fighting, you and your family will not be welcome in my church!”

  Johannah could see Jim’s face turn against the man. The priest rose and they all rose. As he stepped into the bedroom to put on his pants and button them up, Jim and Johannah’s eyes met in alarm. What manner of priest was this? He returned to face them and offer the final admonishment.

  “You know, at my last parish in Quebec, when I arrived on my home visits, the members of my flock would get down on their knees and kiss my ring.”

  “But you’re only a priest, Father,” Jim told him. “We should save that for at least a bishop, don’t you think?”

  Father Connolly stared at him. He turned and marched out of the house without another word. Jim and Johannah looked at each other again and she took a deep breath, her first, it seemed, in minutes. No question, that had all gone quite badly.

  “Don’t worry about him, Jo,” Jim said with a smile. “He’ll learn to love us yet.”

  On a morning soon after Father Connolly’s visit, Johannah noticed out the kitchen window that Farrell and his son, William, were hoeing potatoes in a small patch close to th
e property line. Nearby, Jim was engaged in taking the harness from his plow horse. They glanced at each other across the fence in passing and then continued with their labours, and it occurred to her as she watched them that, say what you will about Father Connolly, his warning had had a tempering effect on Jim and Pat Farrell both.

  First Blood

  Will Donnelly had sharpened their three double-headed axes at the pedal wheel stone in preparation for a land clearing picnic that Saturday at the farm of a man named Maloney, who lived just off the Roman Line a couple of miles south of them. It was the early summer of 1863. The clearing day was a popular convention among the neighbours, a social time with families very welcome and the wives outdoing themselves with potluck dishes, and Will was excited to see friends from school and one or two girls he liked. He had been to two clearings the summer before. Despite the rigour of the labour, few neighbouring men refused Maloney’s invitation and with each event, goodwill was logged until it was the next family’s turn to have a few acres cleared, or a barn or house erected, at little expense.

  Will knew it was a pleasure for his mother to get out of the house on a fine day. She had told him how she enjoyed watching and hearing the rhythm of the broad saws on the hardwood trees, a strong man on each end, as the long teeth cut deep into a mature trunk the width of a wagon wheel. And there was a sense of security in believing they were all taming the land together, bending it to their purpose. When the saw blade on one side of the trunk met up with the axe cut on the other, a giant oak would crack and shiver and begin to sway, and the warning call sounded—“She’s coming down!”—the crash of the impact muffled by the thick undergrowth. The smaller trees were felled by an axe alone. As the forest was beaten back, with trees falling all over, the warning calls could overlap and the men needed to pay careful attention and be nimble. Men and boys trimmed the branches of the fallen timber and stacked the thick logs in twelve-foot lengths to later be sawed into lumber.