Cursed! Blood of the Donnellys

by Keith Ross Leckie

  Will was first in line. “There’s not much to her,” he said.

  “There will be soon enough. Next!”

  The brothers each filed past to get a quick look at her tiny face like a small congregation receiving Mass.

  “She’s got no hair.”

  “She’ll have it soon enough.”

  “She looks like a piglet.”

  “All right, that’s enough. Next. “

  “What’s her name, Ma?” John Donnelly asked.

  Johannah had almost succumbed to sleep herself.

  “Jenny is what your father and I want to call her. Her name is Jenny.”

  The boys tried out the name and liked it. As their mother joined the newcomer in sleep, Will gathered his brothers to go and left the Donnelly women to their rest.

  The Trial

  At the summer assizes in the expanding market town of London, Jim sat in the prisoner’s box, on trial for murder. Johannah sat the family as close as she could to him. It was a high-ceilinged room of heavy oak beams, in a primitive Baroque style, with the judge’s dais elevated above the courtroom—a physical confirmation of his supremacy. The room was full of curious onlookers and cozy with the body heat. She sat there in the front row with their seven sons and new infant daughter, Jenny. Young Billy Farrell, son of the deceased, was also there, now one of the family.

  Johannah smiled a little nervously at Father Connolly. They were in God’s hands, he had assured them. Trust in God. Farrell’s friends, John Carroll and Martin McLaughlin, the short, silver, well-to-do farmer who had been at the scene of the fight, were in court. Johannah did not know McLaughlin, nor what to expect of him. James Keefe and Bob Whalen were there with smiles and nods of encouragement.

  The Crown first put Carroll on the stand.

  “Pat Farrell was only defending himself. Donnelly was fixing for that fight from the start.”

  Johannah had expected this. After Carroll, Martin McLaughlin took his turn, his colours quickly becoming apparent.

  “There had been some drinking and Farrell was a little drunk. Donnelly pretended to be, but I think he was pretty sober. I think he was planning the fight.”

  Jim’s expression showed this was a lie.

  Bob Whalen came to the stand for the defence. Judge Bennett was looking through his papers as Whalen offered his story.

  “They’d both been drinking and both had it in for each other for years. Farrell wanted to go at it as much as Jim Donnelly. At the end, Jim was just defending himself. Farrell clubbed him and he was on the ground…”

  The judge interrupted.

  “Wait. Stop. You’re Robert Whalen. You accompanied the defendant in and wanted the reward.”

  “That is so. But I didn’t get nothing. Fitzhenry said…”

  “You’re not an indifferent witness, sir.”

  Whalen, to his credit, pointed to Connolly and McLaughlin.

  “You think these other jokers are, Your Honour?”

  “You are disqualified. The jury will ignore Mr. Whalen’s comments.”

  Bob Whalen was a key witness for the defence and they had just lost him. Maloney was reportedly sick in bed. John Hogan would have testified but he had driven Keefe with his crushed leg to the doctor and had not been a witness to the fight. So the final witness they would depend on was Father Connolly. The priest began in a magnanimous tone.

  “Of course, we all knew about the land dispute between Farrell and Donnelly. I had talked to both men, together and separately, and urged them to make peace, and it did hold for almost three years and then…it ended so tragically.”

  “Did either man express a desire for peace?”

  “Farrell told me he wanted it to end and could live with having lost half his land if it meant peace.”

  “And Jim Donnelly? What did he say about it?”

  “There was no talking to Jim Donnelly. He wanted what he called ‘his land’ back and would hear of nothing else. I was so concerned that on the day of Maloney’s gathering, I had urged Donnelly to stay away. As we now all know, he should have taken my advice.”

  Jim and Johannah sat frozen as they heard Father Connolly turn away from them and support the dead man. Johannah could not believe her ears.

  “When Donnelly arrived, did you try to keep him away from Farrell?”

  “We did everything we could. But Donnelly would not listen. Jim Donnelly was determined to fight that day,” Father Connolly asserted emphatically. “Neither man nor God could stop him.”

  Finished, he left the witness chair. As he returned to his seat, he looked with pity first at Jim and then at Johannah.

  The jury took less than an hour to reach a verdict. The judge had explained they could find Jim not guilty, or guilty of first-degree or second-degree murder or manslaughter. When they returned to the courtroom, the voice of the judge rang out with his question for the foreman. “Have you reached a verdict?”

  The foreman of the jury stood. He was a short man who Johannah had heard managed a hotel in Exeter. He had a long, bushy black moustache, through which he spoke.

  “We have, Your Honour.”

  “How do you find the defendant?”

  “M’lord, we find the defendant guilty of murder in the first degree.”

  John Carroll and Martin McLaughlin both appeared satisfied, but to twist the knife, so did Father Connolly. In most cases where a drunken fight had ended in death and the verdict was guilty, a prison term would result, but Judge Bennett put on the black cap to pass sentence.

  When he spoke, his words shocked the courtroom: “James Donnelly, you are sentenced to be taken to the jail from whence you came, thence on the seventeenth day of October next to the place of execution, there to be hanged by the neck until you are dead.”

  Johannah listened in disbelief and rose to her feet.

  “NO! NO!”

  Will stood up and put a protective arm around his mother. Jim and Johannah locked eyes, helplessly. He then stared at the floor and slowly shook his head. A moment later, the guards took Jim by his shackled arms and led him away.

  * * *

  On Sunday morning, the sanctuary of St. Patrick’s was almost full and all the talk as the people filed in was of Jim Donnelly’s sentencing. It took the deacons several minutes to quiet the congregation to the point where the service could begin. Nevertheless, it was fully underway when Johannah, looking haggard, entered with her eight children and Billy Farrell. Father Connolly was standing with his back to the congregation saying the mass. Half the congregation turned to watch Johannah as Connolly spoke.

  “The grace and peace of God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.”

  The congregation replied distractedly, “Blessed be God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Now every eye turned to watch Johannah Donnelly as she walked up to the altar and knelt with her children just behind the priest, looking at his back as he continued.

  “Lord God almighty, creator of all life, of body and soul, we ask you to bless this water as we use it in faith to forgive our sins.”

  Sunlight streamed through the stained glass window portraying Saint Sebastian, which Father Connolly had commissioned the year before, the arrows protruding from the young saint’s breast. Johannah’s expression was a little wild as she stared up at Connolly.

  “Heal us from all illness and save us from the power of evil…”

  “Father,” she called out.

  The priest stopped speaking. The church was silent and still. Slowly, in shock, Father Connolly turned around.

  “Please talk to them,” Johannah implored.

  “How dare you interrupt the Holy Mass.”

  “Don’t let him die.”

  She had determined she would not cry in front of Father Connolly. “For the children. Plead mercy for him.”
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br />   Connolly’s face reflected the self-righteousness he felt in his heart.

  “I cannot help you. I witnessed the murder. The judgment on your husband is a fair one. May God have mercy on his soul.”

  Johannah was crushed by the priest’s continuing lack of compassion. She stood up but remained where she was. The sanctuary was as silent as the surface of the moon when she turned to face the congregation. She held up a piece of paper.

  “They want to kill my husband. Who will sign this petition to stop them?”

  Father Connolly was speechless for a moment, clearly aghast that this woman would take such liberties in his church. Johannah went to James Keefe with her petition and a sharp pencil.

  “James. Our friend. Will you sign?”

  James took the petition and pencil, quickly read it and was about to sign when Father Connolly finally found his voice, in which there was an angry quaver.

  “I forbid it.”

  James hesitated, did a quick survey of the faces around him, then of the furious priest. He gave the petition back, saying, “I’m sorry, Johannah.” He turned away, his eyes desperately studying the floor. Johannah hesitated, staring at him, then took the petition to the other men in the pews.

  “Bob? Robert?”

  “In God’s name, I forbid it,” Father Connolly repeated more forcefully.

  The Whalens and Hogans reluctantly, in guilt, turned away from her too. Everyone felt the glare of Father Connolly upon them and would not make eye contact with her. Johannah turned to the priest and approached him, her frustration churning into a fury of wild emotions.

  “You said to us that Jim should give himself up. He will find God’s justice, you said. I convinced him you were right. I convinced him to give himself up because of what you said to me.”

  “I will pray for him.”

  Johannah hesitated a moment as his words sunk in. A shadow came over her face. She moved a step closer, her words as bitter as thorns.

  “Save your lying prayers, priest.”

  He stared at her, speechless.

  “You put a noose around his neck!” Johannah continued. “His death will be on your head!”

  The congregation held their collective breath. Johannah turned, gathering her children.

  “Come Will, Robert, James, Michael, Billy, everyone, let’s go…”

  Before leaving the church for good, she stopped at the door and slowly looked around, studying the congregation of Saint Patrick’s, the congregation that had betrayed them. She would never trust a priest again, nor a congregation, nor perhaps even God himself. She shepherded her children from the sanctuary and out onto the steps, slamming the heavy doors behind them.

  Thirteen Steps

  Johannah left the church and instructed Will to look after his siblings in the school playground. Taking with her only baby Jenny, she went to see Dr. Davis, having nowhere else to turn.

  “Come in, come in, Johannah. I just heard about Jim’s conviction.”

  He welcomed her with an arm around her shoulder, guiding her inside into the bright foyer of the generous house. She had saved her tears until then and they came in quiet sobs that made her body tremble.

  “We’ll talk this through, Johannah.”

  He guided her out onto his big veranda and poured tea for her, which sat untouched. He listened, as always sympathetic, anxious to help.

  “You know Jim is a good man.”

  “I do.”

  “He didn’t mean to kill Farrell. It was an unlucky stroke given in drink. I can’t lose him like this. Is there anything you can do?”

  Dr. Davis considered what he had to offer.

  “Well, I was at a dinner in London last year and met the attorney general, who was speaking: Jack Macdonald. Interesting man with some vision. He might see me. I’ll go speak with him in London about Jim’s case. See if there’s something he can do.”

  Johannah stood up, wiping her eyes, and embraced him. “You’ve been so good to us, Dr. Davis.”

  “I was the one who convinced you to come to Lucan, Johannah. I have a responsibility. You have created a good life here for your family. Let’s see if we can salvage it.”

  “Please speak to him as soon as you can. You’re our last hope.”

  * * *

  But there was one other hope for them that Johannah did not want to reveal. She went home and cooked dinner for her children, her spirits apparently recovered from the confrontation with the priest. She read Robinson Crusoe to the boys and put them all to bed. Jenny was being an angel and slept soundly in her crib.

  When the children were asleep, she quietly moved the table and woven rug back to clear a space in the dining room, and on the wooden floor used a charcoal stick to draw a circle within which she could kneel. She stopped to listen and make sure the house was still before she continued. Within that circle she drew straight lines, as Raffy had secretly taught her to do so many years ago, until they made up the five points of the pentagram. She placed Raffy’s smooth river stone in the centre, then wrote Jim’s name on a beeswax candle, which she lit and placed at the northernmost point of the configuration. In a saucer she combined the incense, savouries and musk she had gathered in the woods and dried. With a sharp knife she made a cut at the base of her thumb, as she had once done with Lucy, and added seven drops of her blood to the saucer, then added a splash of raw whiskey and lit the mixture, letting it burn a few moments. She blew the flame out and it began to smoulder, and a thin, acrid blue line of smoke rose up to the ceiling. She took Jim’s shirt and brimmed hat and moved them three times through the plume of incense smoke, speaking the words quietly so the boys would not wake up.

  I hold my hands out to thee, god Dubsag Unig-Ki, patron of Kullabi, to be with my love.

  Ensure life and health are his,

  Let a kindly guardian march on his right,

  Let a kindly spirit march on his left.

  Nin-Anna, the mighty scribe of the underworld, add your pure voice to mine,

  Speak for my love an incantation of protection,

  Unto his body may evil spirits and evil men not draw nigh,

  May they wreak no violence against him. Let him live.

  And may our house be protected from their evil forever!

  The children were all asleep, save one. Will watched and listened to his mother unseen from the shadowed hallway, surveying doors and windows, wondering how the dark forces she summoned to help might manifest themselves. He was apprehensive but not in disagreement with her choice. Whatever was necessary to save Da. As his mother began another verse, two of his brothers were stirring in the big bedroom and he turned away and went in to quiet them and allow his mother to continue her incantations in peace.

  * * *

  On the morning of Jim’s execution, he was served good ham and eggs and found it a curious courtesy for a man who would not have time to digest them in this world. Then he was taken from his cell, shackled hand and foot, and accompanied by the guards and a young priest on his last walk down the hall to the gallows inside the courtyard of the London jail.

  Jim had been incarcerated in a windowless five-by-eight-foot cell at the London jail for the last few months. He was allowed twenty minutes in a side yard to walk, breathe fresh air and see a patch of sky once every other day. Because of some recent violent incidents caused by heightened emotions, the families of condemned prisoners were not allowed visitation rights. Certain letters were allowed and Jim had advised Johannah on the workings of the farm that summer. Barley prices were rising and pork prices encouraged the purchase of another sow. Johannah and Will were managing well without him. And apparently they would have to continue.

  It was a long walk to the gallows courtyard. The priest spoke words of comfort: “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear? Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear n
o evil…”

  Jim raised his shackled hands and made a gesture with one for him to stop.

  “Yes, thank you, Father. I can take it from here. The Church has not been of much help to me recently. If I want a chat with God, I’ll do it myself.”

  The young priest was offended. “As you will.” But he followed at a distance as Jim walked on. It was the time now, Jim mused, to sort himself out, all right. He was deeply sorry he had killed Farrell and put an end to the fine life he and his family had known. He wondered how God might look upon it. He supposed he was about to find out. No one to blame but himself. He wondered now if there was a God, a heaven, a hell. Could it be that it was all a ruse from ancient times so that men like Father Connolly could control the rest of them? It was a thought that had come to him more often of late. Even so, he supposed it was better to live life as if there was a God and be disappointed than to live as if there was no God and be surprised. Jim realized again, disappointed or surprised, he was about to find out.

  * * *

  Johannah sat on the long bench in the empty hallway outside the office of Attorney General John A. Macdonald, staring at the floor, listening to the muffled voices inside, her ears perked to the tone of the conversation. She would glance up at the clock on the wall opposite and then cast her eyes down again to listen. She leaned over and made a circle with her finger on the floor and crossed it five times to make an invisible pentagram. Suddenly there were rapid footsteps and a young clerk opened the door and came out into the hall, scrambling into his coat. He had a single piece of paper in one hand. He looked at her for a second, his eyes wide, then turned and ran down the hallway. Dr. Davis stepped out into the hall and saw her anxious face and his usually grave visage broke into a smile and he nodded. Johannah embraced him, tears rising, then raised her skirts and ran down the hall after the young clerk.

  Located in the old courtyard and built of rough wood, the scaffold was a sturdy structure with enough of a drop to break all but the most obstinate necks. Jim was escorted to the wooden staircase and climbed very slowly, one step of the thirteen at a time, the chains from his shackled feet dragging against the lip of the rough boards as he climbed. At the top of the platform, the hangman studied him seriously to assess his demeanour, or perhaps just the girth of his neck. Jim gave him a smile.