The Music Makers

by E. V. Thompson

  ‘I thought this was supposed to be a meeting,’ grunted Tomas Feehan. ‘Whose idea was it to turn it into a ceilidh?’

  Further talk became impossible as voice after voice took up the words of the popular folk-song.

  The singers were well into the last verse when the ale-house door was thrown open and a small grey-haired priest pushed his way inside. He made his way to the centre of the room, holding up his hands for silence. The singing faltered and then broke as men were nudged into an awareness of Father Clery’s arrival.

  Moments later Tommy Donaghue was playing to a silent audience. With eyes tightly closed and a happy faraway expression upon his face he tapped his foot on the chair in time to the tune, unaware that the mood of the room had changed.

  ‘Shut the fool up, someone.’

  Tomas Feehan’s voice boomed out in the room and hands reached out to drag the protesting fiddler from his chair.

  Father Clery looked about him, aware of the puzzled looks of the men who had come here to hear their Member of Parliament.

  ‘Eugene Brennan will not be here tonight.’

  The meeting erupted in protest, and the priest waited until the noise had died away to a disgruntled murmur before he attempted to speak again.

  ‘Before you begin blaming Eugene Brennan you’d best hear me out. He’s not here because … he’s been arrested.’

  There was a moment’s stunned silence and then an angry roar burst from a hundred throats.

  ‘What for? Why has he been arrested?’

  The voice was Dermot McCabe’s.

  Father Clery shouted above the din, ‘He’s been accused of treason. The English are charging him with inciting the country to rebellion.’

  ‘We’ll show them what rebellion means! The country will rise for Brennan. We’ll march on Dublin and set him free.’

  Dermot’s words brought an enthusiastic response.

  ‘We’ll throw the English out of Ireland while we’re about it.’

  Both suggestions received noisy support, but Father Clery waved his arms wildly until the crowd heeded him and quietened down.

  ‘No! That’s just what the English are hoping will happen. They know we are not ready for a rising. We have no weapons, and Dublin is crawling with soldiers.’ The priest had a powerful voice for such a small man and it boomed out in the room. ‘If we take to the roads now, we could destroy the All-Ireland Association for all time.’

  ‘Then what action do we take?’ demanded Dermot. ‘We’re not going to stand back and do nothing.’

  ‘We’ll start by having a collection toward Eugene Brennan’s defence—’

  ‘That’s right, take up a collection. What tune do you want me to play for you this time?’

  There was a shocked silence as, clutching his fiddle, Tommy Donaghue pushed his way through the crowd about the priest and stumbled drunkenly to one knee before him.

  ‘I’m all right … all right,’ the fiddler mumbled as Father Clery caught his arm and prevented him from falling on his face.

  ‘Who is this?’ The priest released his grip as Tommy Donaghue regained his feet and stood swaying before him.

  ‘He’s quite harmless,’ called Patrick Meahey. ‘Tommy Donaghue is just an old fiddler who plays for me in the evenings. Come on, Tommy. Away back in the corner with you.’

  ‘Not until I’ve played something to earn me collection.’

  Tommy Donaghue shook off the landlord’s hand. ‘What will it be – a marching song to carry you to Dublin? I’m your man for that. Many’s the time Tommy Donaghue has set the feet of the Orangemen swinging off on a march through Ulster….’

  Tommy Donaghue beamed stupidly about him, oblivious of the effect of his words on the stunned men who had heard them. The All-Ireland Association had been formed with the object of gaining independence for Ireland but, although it claimed to represent the whole of the country’s people, it was predominantly Catholic, as was every man in the ale-house. The Orangemen mentioned by the drunken fiddler were militant Protestants. Staunch supporters of Protestant supremacy, they had played a major part in putting down the rebellion of 1798. Here, where the fighting had been bloodiest, the events of less than half a century before were still fresh in the mind of every County Wexford man. Many local men had been summarily executed by militiamen from the Protestant north, and hatred for them festered on. Tommy Donaghue had made a monumental drunken blunder.

  ‘Did you hear that? The man’s a Protestant! He must be a spy,’ spluttered Eoin Feehan.

  ‘Nothing of the sort. He’s just a drunken old idiot, that’s all. He means no harm to anyone.’

  Patrick Meahey was alarmed. He knew these men. Knew their tempers when they had been drinking. ‘Throw him outside if he’s offending you – but give me his fiddle first. By tomorrow he’ll have forgotten every word he’s heard tonight and be back playing for all of you.’

  ‘Yes, throw him out,’ agreed Father Clery, and others took up the cry. The fiddle and bow were passed over the heads of the crowd to the landlord of the ale-house, and a feebly protesting Tommy Donaghue was manhandled to the door and pitched headlong out into the night.

  He stayed on his feet for half the width of the rough road before tripping and pitching into a deep ditch, dug to carry away the storm water from Kilmar hill.

  The ale-house door closed to the sound of laughter, and soon only the muffled voices of excited men could be heard from inside.

  But one man had not gone back inside the ale-house with the others. An oblique shaft of dull yellow light fell from a half-curtained window on his heavy boots as he walked quietly to the storm drain. Unnoticed, he looked down into the shadows as Tommy Donaghue grovelled helplessly below him.

  ‘Oh, Mother of God! Where am I? What did they have to do that for? Help! Help me, someone!’

  ‘Tommy Donaghue?’

  ‘Who’s that? Thank the Lord you heard me. Will you help me up, sir? Give me a hand out of here.’

  Two muddy hands were held up pleadingly above the darkness of the ditch, but when the unseen man made no move to help him the fiddler lowered them to rest upon the hard-packed earth at the edge of his deep prison.

  ‘Help me out … please!’

  The heavy boots came a pace nearer. For a few moments the only sound was Tommy Donaghue’s heavy breathing. Then, without any warning, one of the heavy boots was raised above him and before Tommy Donaghue’s befuddled mind signalled the warning it crashed down upon the fingers of his right hand.

  Eoin Feehan let the old man’s scream die away to an agonised sobbing before he opened the door of the ale-house and slipped inside. Tomas Feehan’s firstborn son felt a fierce satisfaction. When Kathie Donaghue was making a fool of him she had boasted that here father was a fiddler and she had no need to beg like a cottier girl. Now she would see how much fiddling could be done by a man with broken fingers. He would see her begging yet, and the thought pleased him.

  The meeting in the ale-house was still in full spate when Liam passed by. The wind had freshened, veering easterly, and he had been down to the water’s edge to put an extra mooring-line on his boat. It was not really necessary, but he knew he would sleep easier should a storm blow up.

  Liam recognised Father Clery’s voice raised in political argument and he smiled. The priest was a little gnome of a man with a cheerful disposition and a generous nature, but politics was his weakness. It was said he would interrupt his blessing on a dying man to straighten out his politics before sending him on his way to a better, albeit non-political, world. Father Clery was in good voice tonight, and as his views coincided with those held by the others in the room he had a noisy and enthusiastic audience.

  Liam was about to pass on his way when he heard another sound that brought him to a halt. It was muffled crying that appeared to come from the deep ditch opposite the ale-house. At first, Liam thought it must be the whimpering of a dog, but as he moved closer he recognised it as the soft crying of a man.

  Peeri
ng into the darkness, Liam could see nothing for a few moments, then there was a movement in the mud at the bottom of the ditch and a dirt-streaked face was raised toward him.

  ‘Help me, sir. For the love of God help me out of here.’

  Tommy Donaghue had been in the ditch for an hour, but the smell of drink was still powerful on his breath and Liam smiled at the drunken man’s predicament.

  ‘Give me your hands and ‘I’ll pull you out.’

  ‘Bless you, sir. But I’ve only one hand to give you. The other is hurting so much I feel sure it’s been broken.’

  Liam took the one hand that was offered to him and, bracing himself, took the weight as Tommy Donaghue’s feet scrambled against the sheer side of the ditch, seeking a foothold. It took three attempts before the fiddler emerged from the ditch and he promptly collapsed to the ground at Liam’s feet.

  Tommy Donaghue stayed on the ground, trying to tuck his injured hand beneath his left armpit. In the light from the alehouse window, Liam could see the fingers crooked and swollen.

  ‘You’d better get that hand seen to quickly. Come along, I’ll take you to Bridie O’Keefe. She’ll straighten out your fingers and set them for you.’

  ‘No, I’ll be all right if you can help me home. My own daughter will tend to me.’

  Liam looked at the man in surprise. He had not seen Tommy Donaghue in the village before and had assumed he was a cottier from the potato fields. Now he looked more closely and saw that beneath the dirt of the ditch this man was better dressed than any cottier.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Up the hill a way. I’ll show you if you just let me rest on your arm.’

  Tommy Donaghue was in great pain from his injured hand and by the time they arrived at the tumbledown cottage it was only Liam’s arm about him that kept him on his feet.

  Kathie answered the knock on the door and she, too, smelled the alcohol on her father’s breath as Liam led him past her. In the restless light of the single candle that lit the room Liam recognised her as the girl who had wanted work on the quay. He led the old man to the blanket-covered pallet in a corner of the room and gently lowered Tommy Donaghue down on to the crude bed.

  ‘I hope you and your friends are proud of yourselves for getting my father in this state,’ Kathie said bitterly. ‘You’d be better putting the money into his pocket if you really appreciated his playing. There’ll come a day when he won’t be able to hold a fiddle because of the drink and you’re doing him no favour by buying it for him. You should be ashamed of yourself—’

  ‘The only favour I’ve done is to pull an old man out of a ditch and bring him home,’ interrupted Liam. ‘As for playing a fiddle, you’d better do something with his hand or I doubt whether he’ll play again.’

  For the first time Kathie noticed the fingers of her father’s right hand protruding at unreal angles. Snatching the candle, she dropped to her knees beside him. Gently lifting up the injured hand to look at it more closely, she gasped at what she saw.

  ‘How did he do this?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose he must have landed on them when he fell in the ditch.’

  ‘I didn’t fall into any ditch. I was thrown there.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ Liam did not believe the drunken old man.

  ‘I don’t know. We were all enjoying ourselves in the ale-house and I heard someone speak of taking up a collection. Then they shouted that they were going to march to Dublin and I offered to lead them, just as I have led the Orangemen on many a march. You remember, Kathie? Me walking down the middle of the road in Belfast and a thousand men with banners marching behind me….’

  Liam’s mouth fell open in disbelief. ‘You spoke of marching with Orangemen at a meeting of the All-Ireland Association? Good God, man! You’re lucky it wasn’t your neck that was broken. The men of County Wexford have little reason to like Orangemen. They made many widows and orphans hereabouts in ninety-eight.’

  ‘But all that happened nearly fifty years ago!’ protested Kathie.

  ‘Kilmar men have long memories. You’d be wise to remember that.’

  ‘How was I to know?’ asked Tommy Donaghue. ‘I was just trying to please them….’ His voice broke as he held up his hand. ‘There was no reason for them to stamp on my fingers. There was no call for them to do that, was there?’

  Liam was sceptical, despite the other man’s very real distress. ‘Stamped on your fingers? Who would do a thing like that to you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I could only see his feet. I put my hands on the edge of the ditch and asked him to pull me out. He stamped on my fingers.’

  Tommy Donaghue’s eyes brimmed with tears and he sank back on the bed. The whole incident was beyond his understanding.

  Liam had been crouching down by the fiddler. Now he stood up and found himself looking down at Kathie’s face. She had been preparing for bed when Liam had knocked on the door and her hair hung long and black about her brown shoulders.

  ‘Who would deliberately hurt an old man?’ she demanded fiercely.

  Liam shook his head. ‘The only person who might have answered that question is your father – and he did not see the man’s face.’

  Kathie smelled as fresh as she had when he had passed close to her on the quay. Being so close to such an attractive girl was a new experience for him and to cover his sudden shyness he spoke more gruffly than usual.

  ‘You’d better do something about those fingers if you want him to play the fiddle again.’

  Kathie nodded. ‘I’ll splint them up now. They will be all right, in time.’

  A long heavy silence descended upon them until Liam said awkwardly, ‘I’ll be going now, then.’

  ‘Thank you, Liam McCabe. My father and I are grateful to you.’

  Liam was startled out of his unaccustomed shyness.

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘Sean Feehan mentioned it when I was working on the quay.’

  It was only a small lie. Sean Feehan had told her – but she had asked him first.

  Liam nodded his head. ‘Sean is the best of a bad family.’ He turned to go but paused at the doorway. ‘Your father won’t be playing his fiddle for a while, but there’s no need for you to go hungry. You can have the job of gutting the McCabe catch every day if you need work.’

  ‘I thought your mother always did that?’ Her eyes were large dark shadows in the shabby ill-lit room.

  ‘So she does, but we need to be getting on with salting fish and she hasn’t time for both.’ Now it was Liam’s turn to tell a lie.

  ‘I thank you, Liam McCabe. You are a kind man.’

  The All-Ireland Association meeting was still in progress. Someone had opened the ale-house door to allow the eye-tingling smoke to escape, and the noise of argument and counter-argument spilled out into the night.

  On impulse, Liam went inside.

  Before his eyes had accepted the smoky yellow light in the room, his arm was firmly gripped by his brother.

  ‘It’s good to see you here, Liam, Have you come to join our Association at last?’

  ‘No, I’m not here to join anything – and I’ll have nothing to do with an organisation that condones the crippling of old men.’

  Liam’s angry voice was loud and the conversations about him died away as men looked at him.

  ‘I’m talking about the old fiddler.’

  Dermot’s face lost its startled expression. ‘Oh, him! We didn’t hurt him, Liam. He was drunk and being a nuisance so we threw him out.’

  ‘You threw him out because he mentioned Orangemen,’ corrected Liam. ‘I thought you were supposed to be the “All-Ireland” Association – or have you changed the name?’

  Liam had the attention of most of the men in the room now and some of them had begun to mutter angrily, but Liam went on, ‘How many times have you told me that the Association is working for a united Ireland, free from English rule? I thought “united” included everyone. Catholics, Prot
estants and Presbyterians. Am I wrong?’

  ‘He was interrupting the meeting.’ Eoin Feehan was flushed and dangerous with drink. ‘And so are you. You’re not a member of the Association. This is a closed meeting.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about it – throw me out and stamp on my fingers, as someone did to the fiddler?’

  ‘No one hurt his fingers, Liam,’ insisted Dermot. ‘He was being a nuisance so he was put out, that was all.’

  ‘No, that wasn’t all. I’ve just helped him to his home. He has two fingers broken on his right hand and he was sober enough to know they were stamped on by someone from this room. If that is your way of uniting Ireland, then I want none of your association.’

  The angry murmuring began again, louder this time, but as Liam glared defiantly about him Father Clery came across the room and took him by the arm.

  ‘Dermot is telling the truth, Liam. I was here when the fiddler was put out. If his fingers are injured, then it happened after he left here. But where are my manners? I’ve been trying to get you to a meeting for years. Now you’re here you’ll at least stay for a drink and I’ll try to persuade you to join our association. We need men like you, Liam. You have a good head on your shoulders and would be a great help on our committee.’

  ‘Thank you, Father. I’ll accept the drink – but I don’t need your talk about the Association. You gave me schooling so I could make something of myself. It won’t come from arguing politics in an ale-house.’

  On the far side of the room, Sean Feehan had lost the taste for his ale. Pushing it away from him, he stood up and left the room without a word to his half-drunk brother. He alone of those in the ale-house had noticed Eoin Feehan return after Tommy Donaghue had been ejected.

  Chapter Three

  The grim high walls of Dublin Jail cut off sunshine and light from the narrow street in front of the prison gates, causing the visitor to shiver involuntarily as he approached. Inside it was even more forbidding. Sallow-faced jailers with noisy rings of heavy keys at their belts looked suspiciously at the intruder into their harsh and secretive world. Reluctantly they swung open the huge barred doors ahead of him.