Once clear of the houses the storm gathered new strength and, head down and leaning into the wind, Liam was upon the would-be wreckers before he saw them. Their fire was not large, but to the captain of a storm-tossed ship, trying desperately to find a haven, it might easily have been mistaken for the Arklow beacon, some miles to the north – and that was exactly what had happened. A large passenger-ship was edging closer in toward the coast.
Beside the fire, two men were standing waving lanterns from side to side with long sweeping movements of their arms, further convincing the stormbound captain that people on shore were aware of his plight and were signalling for him to bring his ship in to safety.
Faces turned toward Liam as he stumbled into the firelight. There must have been at least thirty men, but Liam recognised none of them. From their ragged garb he thought they must be cottiers, starved into desperation.
‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ Liam demanded of the men who stood between him and the dancing flames of the fire.
‘This is none of your business,’ growled one of the men, and his accent was not that of a Kilmar man. ‘Go home and forget you’ve seen anything. What you don’t know about you can’t be blamed for.’
‘There will be no deliberate wrecking on this part of the coast,’ said Liam bluntly. ‘We all live too close to death from the sea without bringing it upon others. Put that fire out.’
As he went to push past the man in front of him, others moved forward to bar Liam’s way and he knew the time for talking was past. Without more ado, Liam swung his fist at the man nearest to him. The wrecker staggered backward to fall amidst the blazing timbers of the fire, scattering the deadly beacon more effectively than Liam might have done.
The fallen man screamed and rolled clear of the fire, his saturated clothing saving him from serious burns. In the sudden confusion, Liam fought his way through the other men and began kicking out the fire as best he could in the strong wind that kept blowing renewed life back into the scorched wood.
His efforts lasted no more than a few seconds before the wreckers fell upon him and dragged him away.
Liam fought desperately, punching and kicking about him, but he did not see the upraised timber above his head. It was brought down as Liam was in mid-punch, and Liam pitched forward on his face, unconscious before he hit the ground. Blood flowed from a deep gash in his head and the rain sent it coursing along half a dozen paths down his face as he lay upon the ground.
To the wreckers it seemed he must be dead, but it did not prevent the man he had knocked in the fire from kicking the prostrate Liam viciously in the ribs with heavy iron-tipped boots and cursing him for his interference.
Fortunately, the vanguard of the fishermen called from the ale-house arrived at that moment and fighting broke out all around the remains of the fire.
The battle did not last for long. As more fishermen reached the scene, the foiled wreckers disengaged themselves and fled into the night.
Out at sea, just beyond the reef, the bewildered captain of the passenger-vessel and his look-outs had watched the shadowy figures battling in front of the fire before it was finally extinguished. Realising that something was seriously amiss, the captain put his ship about, his shouts goading the seamen to unaccustomed speed as the large sailing ship heeled over, every timber groaning, and headed out to sea, missing the waiting reef by less than two fathoms.
‘Someone bring a lantern over here – quickly!’
Dermot kneeled beside the still body of his brother, cradling his blood-soaked head in his arms. When a lantern arrived and was held down toward Liam, Dermot sucked air through his teeth noisily. The wound was serious, and Liam’s pale face was an indication of how much blood he had already lost.
‘One of you run with all speed to the village. Get Bridie O’Keefe to our house and prepare my mother. A couple of you help me to lift Liam up. Come on, hurry! God help us all if it’s a corpse we carry in through the door.’
Chapter Five
Liam lay unconscious on a bed in the McCabe kitchen for six days. Bridie O’Keefe was a frequent visitor to the house, forcing medicine down his throat and applying foul-smelling poultices to the slow-healing wound in his head. As the bruises came out on his body the full extent of the beating he had taken became apparent, but Bridie O’Keefe assured his distraught mother that he had no broken bones.
About the main wound she was not so certain. The old woman shook her ugly head and muttered aloud to herself in the ancient language still used by some of the older folk in more remote corners of Ireland. To Norah McCabe, the old crone expressed confidence that Liam would survive.
‘But I will not say that he will return to us with all his senses,’ she added gloomily. ‘He’s taken a blow hard enough to make a simpleton of the strongest of men.’
Fortunately, the strange old healer’s gloomy prediction proved ill-founded. Liam regained consciousness late in the evening of the sixth day. At first he found it difficult to focus his eyes upon anything. Then the haze in front of them cleared, his bruised brain co-ordinated his senses, and he realised where he was. Turning his head, he saw his mother bending over the peat fire, stirring a fish stew that bubbled noisily in a large black cauldron.
He made three attempts to speak before a hoarse croak escaped from his throat. The painful sound caused Norah McCabe to turn around sharply. When she saw his eyes were open she dropped the ladle she was holding and rushed to her son’s bedside.
‘Liam! Oh, thank God you’ve come through….’
Liam ran the tip of his tongue over his dry lips and gave his mother a weak grin.
Tears sprang into Norah McCabe’s eyes as she laid a hand gently against his face.
‘You’ve had us worried sick, Liam. Dreadfully worried. But the Lord heard me, and I thank Him for it.’
She took her hand away before the tears of relief overwhelmed her and she made a fool of herself. Moving to more familiar ground she said, ‘And now I suppose you’ll be wanting something to eat?’
His mother had to hold him up in the bed in order to feed him, but Liam emptied a full bowl of soup before sinking back gratefully to the comfort of his pillow, his head as noisy as an anvil in a busy smithy.
‘What am I doing down here?’ Liam’s tongue felt thick and lazy, but the words were intelligible.
‘Bridie O’Keefe said I was to keep you in the warm. Besides, Kathie has your room. We’ve been taking turns in sitting up with you all night.’
Events of the past were slowly dropping into place, and the mention of Kathie jogged many memories. The thought of her living under the same roof and sitting by his bedside all night brought a warm feeling of pleasure to Liam. But he also remembered that he had responsibilities.
‘The fishing …? What’s happening?’
‘Hush, now! There’s nothing for you to fret about. You get yourself well again before you begin to worry about any fishing. Tommy Donaghue is helping Dermot with the boat. Sure, he’s a landsman, but he’s willing. He’s learning well, and the exercise is good for his poor fingers.’ Tommy Donaghue’s fingers had healed, but one of them would be permanently crooked and he would never be quite the fiddler he had once been.
‘The two of them are catching enough for us to eat and I’ve been salting some away.’
Liam relaxed. The thought of the little old fiddler out in a boat, fishing, amused him, but he knew Tommy Donaghue was a willing enough worker.
‘Where is Dermot now?’
‘He’s away to a meeting of his association – and Kathie has gone with him.’
‘A woman at an Association meeting?’ It was unheard of in Kilmar.
‘Dermot says there is no rule against it. He has heard that women go to meetings regularly in Dublin.’
‘This isn’t Dublin,’ commented Liam. ‘But I don’t suppose any harm will come from it. If Kathie keeps quiet, she’ll hardly be noticed.’
Norah McCabe gave him a quick smile. ‘Kathie isn’t a
girl to stand by and keep quiet. If she disagrees with what they are saying, she’ll tell them so. Her tongue is often ahead of her thinking; it’s a fault she shares with her father – though I’m saying nothing against either of them. Kathie is a good girl. I don’t know how I’d have managed without her. Tommy has done his best, too, bless him, but he’s a better fiddler than he is a fisherman.’
Liam hardly heard his mother’s comments about Tommy Donaghue. His mind was conjuring up pictures of Kathie standing at Dermot’s side at an Association meeting. The thought made his head ache more than ever, and he was glad when Bridie O’Keefe arrived to cluck over his return to consciousness and give him a draught of evil-tasting medicine that put him back to sleep once more.
The All-Ireland Association meeting was being held by torch-and lantern-light in the clearing behind the old salting-house. It had been called as a routine meeting to give the members details of the progress of the fund to help Eugene Brennan.
The Association members formed a large loose-knit group in the centre of the clearing. Outside the lamp-light, drawn there by curiosity and the lack of anything else to do, were a number of cottiers from inland. They stood in a shadowy silence, the only sound from them an occasional hollow tubercular cough.
Father Clery opened the meeting, and the usual routine was followed until it was time to ask if there was any other business to be brought before the meeting.
‘Yes.’
The voice was Eoin Feehan’s. He stood in the crowd somewhere behind Dermot and Kathie.
‘There is someone here who is not a member of this association. She should be removed before the meeting goes on.’
As Kathie was the only woman present there could be no doubt to whom Eoin Feehan was referring,
‘I have a better idea,’ Dermot called above the buzz of excitement that had been set off by Eoin Feehan’s words. ‘I propose that Kathie Donaghue be made a member of this association.’
Every man attending the meeting turned to look at him, and Dermot defended his proposal.
‘There’s nothing unusual about a woman member. There are any number of them in Dublin – and a few in Wexford Town, so I’ve been told.’
‘That may be so.’ Father Clery cleared his throat noisily. ‘But she would be the first here in Kilmar. Is there a seconder for the motion?’
‘Yes.’ The clear young voice of Sean Feehan rose from where he was standing beside his father and brother. ‘I second the motion.’
‘May I take it you are a dissenter, Eoin Feehan?’ Father Clery asked.
‘He was keen enough to get me here a while ago,’ said Kathie to Dermot in a whisper loud enough to be heard by most of the men attending the meeting. There was a roar of laughter from the fishermen, who were aware of the argument that had taken place on the quay.
Eoin Feehan flushed angrily, and his father, frowning at his younger son’s support for Dermot McCabe, called, ‘And I’m against allowing a Protestant woman to join this association, too. We’ll have a vote on it, if you don’t mind, Father.’
‘Very well. Will all those members against the motion please raise their hands?’
Five men supported the Feehan father and son.
‘Now, those in favour?’
A forest of arms waved above the crowd.
‘Welcome to the All-Ireland Association, Kathie Donaghue.’
‘Heaven help us, we’ll be having children joining us next,’ growled Tomas Feehan and he spat at the ground, not looking at his son Sean.
The younger men of Kilmar crowded about Kathie, offering their noisy congratulations until Father Clery called the meeting to order and announced that they would proceed with Association business.
For another half-hour the meeting continued uneventfully. Father Clery had just ended a stirring speech stressing the need for patience, reiterating Eugene Brennan’s call for restraint in their dealings with the English, when a tall broad-shouldered man stepped from beyond the perimeter of burning torches. Wearing tattered knee-breeches and a buttonless shirt, he carried a soft-brimmed hat respectfully in his hands and walked forward to stand before the Kilmar priest.
‘Excuse me, Father. May I have a word with you?’
‘This is a meeting we are holding here. Will your business wait a while?’
‘No, Father. I would like what I have to say to be heard by everyone here tonight.’
His voice was surprisingly soft for such a big man, and Kathie had to strain to hear him above the fidgeting of the crowd.
‘This is a meeting of the All-Ireland Association?’ Without waiting for a reply, the newcomer continued, ‘Does that name mean what it implies, Father? Or is it just a name given to a fishermen’s association?’
He had said enough to arouse the little priest’s interest. ‘It means exactly what it says. It is an association for every Irishman.’
‘Then will you tell me why you are talking about nothing more important than spending money on posters to hand out in Wexford Town? Eugene Brennan has been put in prison unjustly – no one would argue with you about that – but he is being well fed there. Don’t you know that only a mile or two from here women and children are dying from hunger? Their menfolk have no work and little hope for the future. Does no one care at all about them, Father? Will you leave them out there to die like animals?’
‘Do you deserve any better when you cottiers behave like wild animals?’
Tomas Feehan pushed his way to the front of the crowd and stood facing the tattered man. ‘Your people came here and tried to lure a ship on to the rocks only a week ago. Did you have the same concern for the women and children passengers on board? You weren’t content to let them die on a stormy sea; you tried to wreck the ship and make certain they died. Whatever Father Clery might say, this is an association for responsible men – and to me that means fishermen.’
‘I don’t know anything about this incident you are talking about, so I don’t know whether the men involved were cottiers. It was a terrible thing to have happened, a terrible thing – but so is the great hunger that is upon us. If you were to ask me whether I would kill a fellow-man in order to save the lives of my own children, then I could only answer, in all truthfulness, “Yes, I would”. And I would offer my own life for the same cause. Wouldn’t you, sir?’
Tomas Feehan was man enough to realise that this unknown peasant had destroyed his own argument with his complete honesty and he was grateful when Father Clery came to his rescue.
‘I don’t think I have seen you about Kilmar before. What is your name?’
‘Nathan Brock, Father.’
Father Clery took another careful look at the big man standing before him, eyeing the broad shoulders and bulging arm muscles. ‘Nathan Brock the prizefighter?’
The big cottier acknowledged the question with a quick nod of his head. ‘The same, Father. But I had to give up fighting when I did this.’
He held up his left hand, and the priest saw that the third and fourth fingers were missing.
‘What are you doing here? You are not a County Wexford man.’
‘That’s quite true, Father. I had a small piece of land and a cottage up in the Wicklow mountains, but I was owing rent when the potato crop failed. I was put out by the landlord and my cottage torn down. I was left with a wife and three children and nothing with which to feed, clothe or house them. My youngest, the little girl, died of a chest cough, but I’ve managed to get the others in a poor-house while I look for work and a place where they can join me.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been better for you to stay in Wicklow where you are known, rather than come so far from home?’
Nathan Brock’s impassive face showed a trace of sadness. ‘No. You see, my daughter meant a great deal to me. When she died I was mad with grief. I went looking for my ex-landlord – and I found him. My left hand isn’t what it once was, but there is nothing wrong with my right. I broke a bone or two, so County Wicklow is no place for Nathan Brock for a while.’
‘No, indeed. The law is a remorseless force when it is used to protect the landlords. But come home with me after the meeting. I’ll give you a meal and we will talk some more.’
‘Is that all the members of this Association ever do – talk?’ Kathie pushed her way to the front of the crowd and, after a moment’s hesitation, Dermot followed her.
‘Nathan Brock is quite right. You – every one of you – believe that Ireland begins and ends right here in Kilmar. You come to your meetings and find fine words behind which you can hide. Maybe this is what Eugene Brennan has taught you. I don’t know. But I do know that when I walk out of this village I am still in Ireland and among Irish people. You heard what Nathan Brock said. There are women and children out there dying. What are you going to do about it?’
Kathie glared about her defiantly, but no one answered.
‘All right, I’ll give you a chance to do more than talk. I’m coming round to make a collection to buy food for starving Irish women and Irish children – and I don’t expect anyone to be mean.’
Kathie turned to Nathan Brock. ‘I’ll need something in which to collect the money. Give me your hat.’
The big ex-prizefighter passed his hat to her without a word, and Kathie moved away into the crowd.
‘Dermot McCabe, did you know you were introducing a virago to the Association this night?’ Father Clery rubbed his round chin ruefully. ‘I fear the Association will never be the same again!’
‘There are many who will say it should have changed long ago, Father. There’s a time for talking, and a time for action. Until now we’ve done nothing but talk. Now it’s time to try something else.’
Liam was awakened by the sound of laughter and he heard his mother whisper belatedly for Dermot and Kathie to ‘Be quiet!’ He opened his eyes to see Kathie looking down at him and he smiled.
‘Liam, it’s good to see you with your eyes open again.’ Kathie took one of his hands and drew it to her. ‘I despaired of ever having you look at me again.’
The Music Makers Page 5