Cursed! Blood of the Donnellys

by Keith Ross Leckie

  Johannah looked into the flames and said out loud to the night, “It’s starting again, isn’t it.”

  Feud

  Early in the afternoon after the Donnellys’ barn was torched, I were sitting outside the Central Hotel, waiting for my da. News of the fire spread up and down the Roman Line and across town in no time. In truth, lots more was expected to happen.

  Well, it were Will, Michael, Pat and Tom and the two Keefe brothers who came down Main Street just as James Flanagan and several of their boys was coming out of the Central Hotel. I heared Will holler out as they approached.

  “Flanagan! That was you last night.”

  “You sabotaged our rig. You murdered my brother!” Flanagan responded as they come up to each other.

  Michael were furious. “We never touched your goddamned rig.”

  Will backed him up. “It’s true, Flanagan. We never touched it. We wanted a fair race.”

  “You’re a liar!”

  And so with that, Flanagan socked Michael in the face and the fight were on, as simple as that, and me with a ringside seat! It were a pitched battle in the street. Will Donnelly was tall and had them long arms to keep his face out of range for most, and his right hook was pretty deadly. He put down one of Flanagan’s boys and chased t’other away. Michael was shorter but powerful and a couple of three-punch combos to the other fella’s belly would wind the other guy and take him out. I remember Pat Donnelly was wrestling with James’s younger brother, the bartender Pat, swearing to beat the band. The Keefe boys was solid fighters, but James Flanagan knocked one down early on and continued using fists with t’other.

  Tom Donnelly were the most vicious, knocking men down, then kicking them on the ground in the ribs and head as he liked to do. Michael and Will were best with their fists or clubs but Tom and sometimes James Jr. said you punched or clubbed a man simply to get him down on the ground where the real work began, with boots to the ribs and head and privates. I myself didn’t find it so honourable but it were effective if damage was the result you wanted. At least, for the most part, no one brought a gun or a knife to these things. Those weapons was considered dishonourable and also the goal was to hurt and punish your enemy, not to kill him dead.

  Constable Fitzhenry had been keeping an eye on things that morning and he were on the scene of the fight there pretty quick and went wading in to stop it. He could have let them just have their go and made things easier for himself. He was still a big fellow but he were an older man and not as light-footed as he should have been. First he grabbed hold of Will to take him out of the fight, but Tom found a small club and with this he hit the constable from behind on the back of the head. Fitzhenry went down hard and lay senseless in the street. Will yelled at Tom for doing it.

  The melee was over in just a few minutes, much too quick for me far as I were concerned watching from the boardwalk, and the Donnellys were victorious, leaving the Flanagans and their friends senseless, moaning in the street, a couple wounded or in retreat. Tom kicked an unconscious James Flanagan in the head, as he liked to do. I hated that sound. He were a nasty bugger.

  “Tom! Stop it. Let’s go,” I heard Will call out.

  Will, Tom and Michael was on their feet, bloodied but winners. Pat helped Samuel Keefe to his feet. Will checked the senseless Fitzhenry then looked up at me.

  “Johnny! Go get the doctor for Fitzhenry.” And I were up and running on my way.

  * * *

  That night, in the crowded kitchen, the whole family listened closely by candlelight as Michael finished the story of the Main Street battle. John and especially Robert were frustrated they had missed it. Jim, Will, Mike and James took whiskey, and Pat, John and Robert had beer as they toasted to the Donnelly victory. Jenny loved the story of her brothers’ exploits. Only Johannah nursed a dark worry about this conflict. They saw it as a game, but she knew it would only get worse.

  “When we left the Central, there was not one man standing.”

  Jim’s eyes gleamed. “Not one man!”

  Leaning in the doorway, Jenny laughed at her father’s relish of the whole thing.

  Can none of them understand how this will continue? Johannah wondered. She could see the familiar nightmare approaching. Jim should know better than to egg them on. They all should know better.

  Clearly, Jim was delighted and the boys were proud of themselves. Big Tom was using a stone to sharpen two wide-bladed butcher knives at the cutting board while he listened to the others talk.

  “They threw the first punch.”

  “But we threw the last!” Will concluded with satisfaction.

  Jim laughed at this. “You threw the last. That’s rich!”

  Johannah looked at the faces of her men, for whom she felt love and pride and such deep fear.

  “But…it will never be the last, will it?” she said.

  Jim and the brothers turned to look at her.

  “That’s up to them, isn’t it?” Jim responded.

  “No!” she shouted, and the men fell silent. “We have to stop this. You have to stop it, Jim. You know it will only get worse. You promised me a peaceful life here. We had that until you killed Farrell. And it’s coming around again like that unless you go and make peace with the Flanagans. Tell them we’re sorry. Tell them we’ll drop the London route. Tell them we want peace.”

  “Drop the London route?” Will asked her, incredulous.

  “Yes. I was wrong. Tell them it’s theirs. Out of respect for Joe.”

  The men remained silent for a time, musing on Johannah’s words, checking each other’s demeanour, until Jim spoke.

  “It’s important for you to understand, Johannah. If I learned anything…” His voice grew with bitter intensity. “You don’t get peace by being nice to people, saying you’re sorry.” The anger in his words scared her. He turned to her. “Don’t you remember when you convinced me to give myself up? Tell them I’m sorry? First they almost hanged me! Then they locked me away for a lifetime where I learned the most important lesson. You have to fight them.” Jim slammed his fist on the table and the glasses jumped. “It’s just how the world is. You fight them every time they come at you. Fight them with everything you’ve got. That’s when you get respect.” He looked directly at Tom, who had stopped sharpening his knives to listen. Jim’s voice dropped to just above a whisper. “And that’s when you get peace.” Tom stared at him and nodded.

  All the boys were listening. Johannah was shaken by the fury in her husband’s words, which seemed a long way from peace.

  Breaking the tension in the room, Will held up his glass of beer. “Here’s to peace!”

  “But let’s not rush into it,” Patrick suggested, and they all laughed and drank to the toast. All except Johannah.

  * * *

  The next night, after evening Mass, horses arrived out in the churchyard of St. Patrick’s and eight men entered the church and went to the door of Father Connolly’s little study. James Flanagan, bruised, with a black eye, was followed by Jim Carroll, Martin McLaughlin, a couple of Kennedys and the Ryders, father and two sons. They didn’t look as if they had come to pray. Father Connolly rose up from his desk, his bones creaking, and opened his door to the men.

  “Yes? It’s late. What do you want?”

  “Your counsel, Father.” McLaughlin answered. “We have nowhere else to turn.”

  Father Connolly was clearly flattered. “Come in.” James Flanagan explained. “Someone got into our back pasture. They killed two of our best horses! They cut them…” Flanagan could not go on.

  McLaughlin continued for him. “They were opened up with a big knife or axe, their guts spilling out. While they stood in the field! I saw the results. Horrible. They died slowly, in agony.”

  Father Connolly was very aware of the suspicions that the Donnellys had sabotaged the Flanagan coach and killed Joe. He had full reports on the
big fight on Main Street, but this was the first he had heard of the horses.

  Flanagan appeared shaken. “That any man could do that to a horse…”

  “Do you have proof it was the Donnellys?”

  “Who else could it be?” Jim Carroll asked.

  Martin McLaughlin continued. “Our goal is simple, Father. All we want is to stop the Donnellys and have peace in the parish.”

  “Yes. Yes, Father. Peace. Exactly,” Grouchy Ryder agreed.

  “And you want to do this in a lawful manner, of course?” Father Connolly asked them, sliding into his pulpit voice.

  “Yes. Within the law.” McLaughlin said. “What do you advise?”

  “I think what we must do is find a constable to replace Fitzhenry. He is too soft on them. He’s in the hospital in London now. They’re not even sure he’ll recover.”

  Jim Carroll responded. “I can do it, Father. I want to do it.”

  “You?”

  “I have army training. I have studied the law. I know the citizens of Lucan. And I know how the Donnellys work.”

  “Yes. I suppose that would be a good start. We will all sign a petition that Jim Carroll be appointed ‘special constable’ for Lucan.”

  “I’m for that,” said McLaughlin.

  The other men were in agreement.

  “We could go out there tonight,” James Flanagan offered.

  “No. No, you said you wanted to work within the law. Jim Carroll must be sworn in and have legal warrants for his actions. To achieve justice, we must be patient and legal.”

  “Yes, patient and legal,” Ryder repeated.

  Connolly laid down a piece of paper and began to write a simple document. When he was done he read it out loud for any who couldn’t read.

  “We, the good citizens of the town of Lucan, do petition the courts of London, Ontario, to appoint Jim Francis Carroll as the new special constable for this community…”

  Mrs. Thompson’s Cow

  Three days after the street fight in Lucan, James, Michael, Patrick and Tom were at work framing in the new barn over the charred remnants of the old, the sound of their hammers echoing in the still air. Out of respect for Joe Flanagan, the Donnelly stagecoach business had been suspended for the time being. On the porch of the farmhouse, Will was sitting on the railing tuning his fiddle, talking to John and his da, who sat in porch chairs. On a small table between them, John sorted carefully through a pile of invoices. Jim smoked a new clay pipe.

  “…the studding is one-quarter of our income, Da. We can expand the breeding. But you see, John and I think we should diversify.”

  “Where’d you get that five-dollar word?”

  “We should have a variety of b-b-b-businesses,” John told him.

  “I know what it means; I’m not stupid.”

  “Cut our own trees, mill them and use the lumber to put up rental houses on that land in town. Steady income, year-round. And a store. We’ll build and run a big grocery store. Lucan only has two.”

  John was nodding. He showed his father the want ads in the London paper. Johannah came out to listen to the conversation.

  “Look, Da. See? All these people want to rent houses in north London. Lucan is only a few miles more.”

  “This is smart, Jim,” Johannah agreed. “We build a few houses in Lucan, rent them to people, sell them goods from our store…”

  “And d-d-d-drive them into London on our stagecoach every m-m-morning,” John finished.

  Will was the first to see the big open wagon coming north on the Roman Line. There were two horsemen following it. “What’s this now?”

  The entourage pulled into the yard and made a circle in front of the house. In the wagon were three uniformed constables; one was Jim Carroll, driving with his new silver badge shining in the sun. The Donnellys’ neighbour old Jean Thompson, the mother of Maggie, was also in the wagon with them, in her bonnet and skirts. The riders were Martin McLaughlin and James Flanagan.

  Johannah walked a few steps out into the yard, holding a shading hand over her eyes. The three constables got out of the wagon. They carried billy clubs. Carroll had documents in his hand.

  “Well, if it isn’t the young Carroll. What a shiny new badge and uniform you have there,” Johannah told him with a smile.

  “I’m the new special constable for Lucan. I have assault warrants for Tom, Michael and Will.”

  Carroll held out the warrants but Johannah didn’t look at them.

  “Oh, you do? For defending themselves?”

  “They have to come with us. It’s all legal. Also a warrant against Will for the killing of the two Flanagan horses.”

  “You have any evidence?”

  “And also, Mrs. Thompson’s cow has been stolen. We’re searching your place. If we find her, you and your husband will come in too.”

  Mrs. Thompson climbed out of the wagon. Jim Carroll gestured to the horsemen and they dismounted. The three constables stood abreast in the yard, their billy clubs ready.

  Will and Johannah faced them. James, Patrick, Michael and Tom had climbed down from the barn and walked over to the visitors with their various tools in hand. Jim Donnelly had gone in the house and come back outside, casually holding a double-barrelled shotgun in the crook of his arm. The two conscripted constables glanced at each other, looking a little worried, and waited for Carroll’s next move.

  Johannah turned to her neighbour, Jean Thompson. “Are you accusing me, Jean?”

  “Yes, you. Or your boys. She’s a good cow.”

  “Where would we keep her?” Patrick asked. “They’ve burned down our blessed barn!” At this point, Jenny and Robert came out to see what was going on. Jenny crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway.

  “Maybe she’s having tea with us in the parlour,” Johannah added with a sigh. “Jean, you have to stop drinking that blackcurrant wine. It’s making you crazy. Go home. The cow’ll show up.”

  Jenny and others laughed at this but Jean continued defiantly. “I think you got her.”

  “We have a search warrant,” Carroll said and waved another paper.

  Jim came forward, his gun still hanging loose.

  “Then do what you have to do and to hell with you.”

  “These men have been deputized.” Carroll turned to Flanagan and McLaughlin. “Search the house.”

  Flanagan and McLaughlin walked into the house. Almost immediately there was the sound of breaking dishes and a lamp hitting the floor.

  “You’ll pay for that, Carroll,” Johannah told him. She was studying one of the other constables.

  “Isn’t that young Sticky? Sticky Murphy. We used to feed you when your mother couldn’t. You remember?”

  Murphy looked embarrassed in front of the others. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We gave your da a mule so he could make a living. And a few dollars, too. How is he?”

  “He’s good, ma’am. Still has the mule and a few acres.”

  “Good. And now you’re here doing this to us?” Murphy couldn’t look her in the eye. “Arresting me for stealing a cow?”

  Carroll told her, “You talk to me, not him.”

  But the damage was done. Murphy quickly turned to Carroll. “I…I want no part of this, Carroll. You didn’t tell me it’d be like this. This is stupid.”

  Sticky Murphy turned and began to walk back to town.

  Jim Carroll called out to him. “Murphy! MURPHY! Where you going?”

  At this point, Jim and Will approached Carroll and the second constable. Behind them came Tom, Michael, James and Patrick. Each had something—a shovel, an axe, a pitchfork—in their hands. They confronted the two men, their smiles a worry.

  “And who’s this other fella you’ve got here, Carroll?” Will asked him. “O’Leary, isn’t it? From Thamesford. Are you here looking for your
mother?”

  O’Leary responded, “You shut up about my mother!”

  “You mean the one you left back in that poorhouse, back in the old country in Roscrea?”

  O’Leary raised his billy club to Will. “Shut up!”

  The brothers moved closer to O’Leary, weapons ready. Will smiled. “Oh you shouldn’t have raised your club, O’Leary. We’ll have to beat you now.” O’Leary looked terrified. He glanced at Carroll. “Unless…you’re gone in the count of three. One…two…”

  O’Leary backed away from them. Then he turned and ran toward town, following Murphy.

  Tom, Michael and James went into the house and they came out again hauling McLaughlin and Flanagan by the arms and held them there. McLaughlin had a bloody nose.

  “You better take these deputies with you before they do themselves damage,” Will said.

  Patrick joined Robert, Will and John to surround Jim Carroll, now alone and sweating. “You’re a poor judge of men, Carroll,” Will continued, “to add to your other shortcomings.”

  Johannah offered her comments from the porch. “You’re nothing but a blackguard and a rogue, Carroll.”

  Carroll turned toward Johannah, his eyes a little desperate. “There! I’m arresting you for using insulting language to me!”

  Carroll suddenly took out a pistol and pointed it at Johannah, then at Will and the others. They all tensed but no one backed away. Will spread his hands and shook his head looking skyward as if beseeching God.

  “What are you doing, man?”

  “I’ll shoot. I will!”

  Jim calmly raised his shotgun and took a bead on Carroll.

  Will continued. “Yes. You can shoot one or even possibly two of us. But then the others—my da”—he gestured to the shotgun—“will kill you in a blink. You know, best all round, I’d just put that thing away.”

  At that moment a local farmer, John Donovan, came along leading the cow in question.