Cursed! Blood of the Donnellys

by Keith Ross Leckie

  * * *

  Oh, I banged at that door what seemed a long time, shifting from one bare foot to t’other, before Mr. and Mrs. Whalen comes and I can hear the scuffling as they takes the bars and chairs off the door and opens it. My feet was pretty frozen, all right. Their faces was looking at me, terrified like I were a ghost or something. They knowed what had gone on across the road and didn’t want nothing to do with it, and who could blame them?

  “Can I come in?”

  They looked up the Line toward the Peace Society men, the last few of them still visible on the road, heading north toward the home of Will Donnelly. The Whalens looked across at the flames of the Donnelly farmhouse, then Mrs. Whalen grabbed my arm and pulled me inside and slammed the door.

  No Rest for the Wicked

  Will was lying beside Nora in the upstairs bedroom of their house, his eyes wide open. She had made love to him to take his mind off the deep sadness of his brothers’ killings, to both acknowledge death and celebrate life. And now she slept. The lanterns and candles were extinguished, though a strong moon illuminated the inside of the room. John was sleeping in the little bedroom below, off the kitchen, with their friend and neighbour Martin Hogan. They had talked well into the night about Michael and James, who the killers were and what to do now. Martin was a blacksmith and he was shoeing one of Will’s geldings in the morning so he stayed over. Will remembered that his parents were supposed to go to London tomorrow. John was going to drive them in the buggy to answer the crazy charges against them by Carroll, but the brothers had agreed, with two sons dead, the courts would forgive them if they didn’t appear. The important thing, Will knew, was to face their enemies in Lucan tomorrow and make peace.

  John was as close to Michael as Will and even in his grief, he declared the best course of action for the Donnellys: live and procreate and make peace with their enemies, may they all go to hell. He would be married to Winnifred and have many children and this hopeful endeavour was the right response to what had happened.

  But as Will lay there, he heard the sound of horses walking quietly on the frozen road, slowing down just beyond their picket fence. His eyes opened wide. Suddenly alert, he slid out of bed and went to the window. Outside he could see twenty armed members of the Peace Society, some in disguise and some not. He clearly made out Jim Carroll in uniform and he knew they were in trouble.

  Will ran downstairs and double-locked the front door and put a chair against it. He found his rifle and a pistol in the closet and returned upstairs. With the guns in his hand, he peeked out the bedroom window again. Nora woke up and rolled out of bed beside him, very sleepy, her belly pushing out her nightgown.

  “What is it?” she mumbled.

  Will whispered. “Keep your head down.”

  “Is someone out there?” Starting to awaken now, she wanted to look out the window but he held her down.

  “The Society.”

  “What?”

  Nora was suddenly alert. Will gestured for her to keep away from the window as he peeked outside. He watched as the Peace Society vigilantes, all armed with guns or clubs, stood outside the fence passing bottles of whiskey. Some of them came onto the property and headed over to the barn and Will heard his stallion start to scream. They were beating him or worse. Two of them called out. “FIRE! FIRE! BARN’S BURNING! BETTER COME OUT, BILLY!”

  There was drunken laughter.

  Will was shocked to see all these men so boldly presenting themselves. How reckless, he thought, unless they expect no witnesses to be left alive. The thought chilled him. Then he realized they would already have been to his family’s farmhouse, which was on the way from town.

  “Nora, they’ve come to kill us,” he whispered to his wife. Better she know the truth.

  Out the window, he could see that several of the vigilantes, including John Kennedy, Nora’s brother, had dismounted and were approaching their front door with a shotgun.

  “COME ON OUT, BILLY!” one of them yelled.

  Will determined they would just wait and not show their presence, but he forgot John was sleeping downstairs. John shuffled, groggy and unaware of the danger, toward the front door. He called to the visitors outside.

  “Who is it? What d-d-d-do you want?”

  “Will Donnelly,” came the answer and then Will heard John fumble with the chair at the door.

  “John! Don’t open it!” Will called down to him. But then he heard the iron bolt slide and realized John was opening the door.

  “JOHN! DON’T OPEN THE DOOR!” But it was too late.

  “Yes? He’s…”

  From above, Will saw John Kennedy fire his shotgun at John. It signalled the others and they all started to fire into the doorway from just outside the picket fence.

  The vigilantes kept up their rifle and pistol fire, shooting at the house from a dozen weapons and breaking all the front windows, upstairs and down. When Will fired back twice with the rifle, they all aimed at his broken window and fired. He could only hold himself over Nora down on the floor to protect her from bullets and flying glass as rifle and shotgun fire destroyed the window and frames and ricocheted around the room.

  Then Carroll’s voice rang out. “ALL RIGHT! CEASE FIRE! STOP IT!”

  The gunfire slowly subsided and the night was suddenly silent and still.

  On the floor of their bedroom, Nora and Will were dusted and cut by glass fragments.

  “Are you all right?” Will whispered and Nora nodded. Martin Hogan had crept up the stairs behind them and whispered urgently from the landing. “Keep quiet. They’ll think we’re dead.”

  Carroll then announced to the vigilantes below, “Good work! That’s done. Now we go on to Keefe’s for the next visit.”

  “Keefe’s?” It was the voice of Martin McLaughlin.

  “He’s a Donnelly lover,” Thomas Ryder confirmed.

  Will noted a lack of momentum in the conversation. Other voices chimed in that he did not recognize.

  “I gotta get back to milk the cows.”

  “The wife’ll be having some questions.”

  “I forgot to feed my pigs.”

  McLaughlin’s voice came in again. “Maybe we’ve done enough for one night.”

  But then Nora’s brother John Kennedy spoke and through the shattered window, Nora and Will heard him say with satisfaction, “At least brother-in-law rests easy at last.”

  Nora gasped.

  “What was that?” Jim Carroll asked. The vigilantes below had all heard the sound Nora made in the stillness through the shattered window.

  “The woman’s still alive in there.” It was Martin McLaughlin’s voice. John Kennedy spoke next.

  “We should go in and finish the job.”

  “She’s your sister, John.” McLaughlin again.

  “She’s no sister of mine. She’s made her choice.”

  Will had his arms around Nora. He could feel her try to stand up into the shattered window and shout at them, but he held her tight and whispered, “We’re alive, my love. Don’t.” And finally her struggling subsided and she lay still in his arms.

  “Let’s let it be, John,” Grouchy Ryder said. “Least we got the cripple.” Below was further discussion among the murderers.

  “Do we go on to Keefe’s?” Will heard Jim Carroll ask. “We should finish the job at Keefe’s.”

  “The Donnellys are done. I think I’ve had enough blood tonight, boys,” James Flanagan answered and several more made noises of agreement. Will carefully peeked over the windowsill. Most had taken their masks off, thrown away their hats or now tore off the women’s dresses.

  “All right. We’ve done what was needed,” Carroll told them. “Now listen, all of you. The oath!” All raised their hands. “We of the Peace Society will not speak to anyone about what has happened tonight, including wives, family and friends, and if anyone quest
ions you, you will deny everything. Say it!”

  The Peace Society members with their hands raised spoke in unison: “I will deny everything. On this I swear or may the fires of Hell be my future, so help me God.”

  “Good!” Carroll told them. “Good work tonight, men. Return to your homes with your mouths shut like good Catholics.”

  The Peace Society members mounted up, turned and rode slowly back down the Roman Line, now in twos and threes.

  * * *

  Will raced down the stairs past Martin Hogan with Nora close behind. The front door was open and John’s body had been thrown well back by gunfire and he lay on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood. On his knees, Will folded a towel and put it under his head. There was a sucking chest wound from Kennedy’s shotgun blast and bullet wounds in John’s neck and shoulder. Nora was beside him.

  “Is he dying?” Nora asked and Will nodded to her. She hurried away with purpose.

  “Will…?” John spoke.

  “Oh, Johnny…”

  John was spitting out blood, his breathing raspy.

  “My God, Will, I’m murdered. May God have m-m-m-mercy on my soul. And I’ve lost my glasses. Will?”

  “I’m here.”

  Nora came back with the stub of a holy candle and some holy water. She lit the candle with a match and folded John’s weak hand around it. She wiped the blood from John’s face, applied some of the holy water and prayed in a whisper.

  “Behold, O Lord, this Thy servant, and in Thy loving mercy deliver him. From darkness and doubt, deliver him. By Thy cross and passion, deliver him. We sinners do beseech Thee, oh Lord, if it please Thee to forgive all his sins.”

  “Will? My glasses…”

  Will found the glasses on the floor nearby and wiped the lenses clean of blood on his shirt. He put them on John and it seemed to calm him. His brother grabbed Will’s hand tight.

  “Will…Will…t-t-t-tell her…”

  He stared at the candle light for a moment—eternity was in the bright flame—then his eyes went dull in death.

  * * *

  Oh, God help me, there I were in the back of the Whalens’ wagon making its way down the Roman Line, hid under a couple of musty blankets. Pat Whalen was driving me into London. As I warmed up at the stove, I’d told my story to them and they got more and more upset. And when I tells them about Johannah getting clubbed, they tells me to stop. They did not want to hear it. Since a constable was involved, I should tell it to a judge. It weren’t an easy decision for Whalen to go out on the road that night, but the last thing he and the missus wanted was for the Peace Society men to catch me in their house or they’d a torched it too. So the missus gave me an old coat and boots, and Whalen harnessed up his rig and went to drive me into town. Thing was, when we started down the road, we comes in among the Peace Society men returning back from their exploits! I had a peek out to see who it was, but then Whalen growled at me to keep my head down or we’d all be killed. The horsemen was all riding at a walk spread along over a quarter mile and we felt like young calfs moving quiet through a pack of wolves. I knowed Whalen said not to, but I couldn’t help myself peeking out from under the blanket to see what’s what. Whalen started going fast and we passed several of the mounted vigilantes talking as they ambled their horses down the road. Whalen looked straight ahead and didn’t speak to any of them.

  I heared John Purtell call out, “Whalen? Whalen, where you off to this time of the morning?”

  Whalen ignored them and was driving on but it was Flanagan who spurred his animal to a trot and took hold of the harness to stop Whalen’s rig.

  “The man asked where you were headed, “ Flanagan told Whalen.

  “Going in to London to pick up seed and lumber. Getting an early start.”

  Flanagan guided his roan close beside the wagon and I thought he might pull the blanket off and I froze still underneath. But just then, Carroll rode up.

  “Whalen, you hear about anything?”

  “No, not a thing.”

  “But you know the Donnelly house was burned last night, didn’t you? Just across the Line from you.”

  “Yeah, I guess I saw some flames. Not my business.”

  “Arsonists. That’s who we’re looking for now. Terrible thing.”

  “Yes, terrible.”

  “So keep your eyes peeled, Whalen, and let us know if you see anybody around.”

  “I will, I certainly will.”

  Flanagan stood aside and Whalen pulled away from them. When Whalen was clear, he drove the horse on toward London like he was a chariot driver in one of them Roman races, and me bouncing on the frozen road so’s I almost lost my teeth.

  By dawn that morning, me and Mr. Whalen pulled up outside the judge’s house in London. Even after we left the Peace Society men, Whalen made me stay under the blanket all the way to London. It were the worst ride I ever knew.

  At first the old judge were as angry as a wet tomcat, being wakened up and all.

  “What is it? What can’t wait?”

  “Judge MacPherson, Your Grace, I’m sorry but my name’s Pat Whalen, from out on the Roman Line outside Lucan, and this is Johnny O’Connor.”

  “Yes. What’s that to me?”

  The judge being gruff didn’t bother him and Pat Whalen were strong to make him listen to his story.

  “You’re going to want to hear what this boy has to say, sir.”

  The Light of Day

  With Nora’s help, Will took John and laid him on the kitchen table, as they had Michael and James at the farm, his face and lips white in the absence of life. The house was very cold now with winter winds passing through the shattered windows. Will saddled his two second-best horses—the stallion still recovering from the vigilante beating—and had Hogan ride Nora over to his place, where she would be safe. Then, it was about dawn when Will rode for his parents’ farm.

  Will first saw the smoke a mile away. As he approached, he could see the house was gone and there was a crowd of the curious assembled around the black, smoking ruins. One constable he did not know was on guard. The floor and the roof beams that had collapsed still fed a substantial fire in the centre, but the onlookers tried to get closer.

  Will pulled up, jumped from his horse and ran forward until the flames were scorching his face. The constable pushed him back. Though the floor had burned and collapsed, he stared through the smouldering joists, counting in numb horror the charred black forms, clearly visible in the ruins. There were three where the kitchen had been, and another in the main room and then two others, side by side where the summer kitchen had been—Michael and James, he realized.

  The crowd was pushing forward, intent on seeing what was left of the bodies. The constable, with arms outstretched as if to gather them in, issued a warning.

  “EVERYBODY BACK! DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!”

  One young man went in as close as he could and found a teapot intact in the rubble, still sizzling hot, and lifted it up with his leather gloves and hurried back to the others. Two other men went in as close as they dared. One picked up an axe head, another a blackened knife.

  The constable raised his billy club. “The next one does that will be charged with looting! Now stay back!”

  But then another raced in deeper than the others and clutched a blackened orb with his gloved hands, turned and in triumph tried to make his getaway. He ran away from the constable but came close by Will, who grabbed him by the throat and pressed his pistol to his head. What did he have to lose by pulling the trigger? And much satisfaction to be gained. But instead, Will clubbed him once with the weapon and the man fell stunned to the ground, dropping his prize.

  Will heard the collective gasp from the people around him as they pulled back. “It’s Will Donnelly. Look! It’s him! He’s alive. Will Donnelly.”

  Will bent down to retrieve the blackened objec
t the looter had dropped and found it was, as he feared, a charred human skull. It was impossible to say which one of his people it belonged to. The constable was as shaken as the others and unsure what to do. No more attempts were made by the souvenir hunters.

  “Mr. Donnelly. I’m so sorry,” he said to Will. He was unsure if the constable was repentant for the massacre of his family or the near theft of the skull or his own sad incompetence at guarding the crime site. Will wrapped the skull gently in his handkerchief and laid it on the top step of the front stone staircase, which had survived. Numb, he studied the faces of the onlookers, then he went as close as he could to view what was left of the other bodies. There was very little to show they had once been human.

  As a survivor, Will truly felt in a dream from which he very much wished to awaken, but could not. This nightmare became only more focused as he saw Father Connolly approach on horseback from the south. The priest did not see Will, but dismounted, all his attention on what was left of the farmhouse. He walked closer to the smouldering ruins, his eyes wide as he stared at the charred bodies.

  “Father Connolly,” Will said, and the priest turned to see him for the first time. He stepped back from Will in fear, his hand clutching the crucifix on his neck.

  “No…no…”

  Will saw the guilt in his eyes and then he knew. Moving away from Will, the priest slipped in the snow made slushy by the fire and fell down, his horrified eyes now fixed on Will as he slithered away in the mud, then got to his feet in his now-filthy robes and stumbled off to catch his horse, which had wandered away.

  Will gathered himself to determine the proper course of action now. He instructed the constable to keep everyone away from his family and the ruins of the house until other constables and detectives arrived. The man promised to do so. There was nothing more Will could do for now, so he found the loose reins to his horse, climbed up onto its back and headed for town.

  It was to Fitzhenry he went first. Good old Vincent Fitzhenry, pleased to be retired from so demanding a position as Lucan Town chief constable, but when Will explained the circumstances, he rose to the occasion. In fact, Fitzhenry had just received detailed word of the fire at the farm and a messenger came to him with a telegram from Judge MacPherson in London, whom he knew, to confirm the extraordinary events. Fitzhenry explained to Will, “A dozen constables are on their way, men who’ve never served near Lucan. They might have heard of the Donnellys but never been involved with you.”