The Music Makers

by E. V. Thompson

  Norah McCabe thought there was little fear of that now. Her elder son could hardly take his eyes from the girl.

  ‘Can a brother get a word in and say that he’s pleased, too?’ Dermot moved to stand beside Kathie and grinned down at Liam. ‘You’ve been a worry to everyone. Now you’re back with us perhaps we’ll be able to get down to some serious fishing again. Me and Tommy aren’t catching enough to keep Kathie busy for more than an hour a day.’

  Dermot chuckled. ‘You should have been at the Association meeting tonight, Liam. Kathie told them a few home truths. Then she went around and made a collection. Some of the men dug out coins that hadn’t seen the light of day for years.’

  The smile that passed between Dermot and Kathie hurt Liam far more than the throb of the drum that had begun to beat in his head.

  ‘Did no one object to Kathie being there?’

  ‘How could they? She has been voted in as a full member. Tomas and Eoin Feehan opposed her membership, but the vote went overwhelmingly for Kathie.’

  Dermot chuckled again. ‘Mind you, I don’t think they expected her to come up with such a tongue-lashing as she gave them. Father Clery was flabbergasted. You’ll have to come to the next meeting, Liam.’

  ‘Will there be a next time for you?’ Norah McCabe asked the girl.

  ‘Oh yes! There is much the Association can do once its members lose the love of their own voices.’ Kathie tucked Liam’s hand back inside the bedclothes. ‘Dermot is right, Liam. You must come to a meeting when you are completely well. I am sure you could do a lot of good there.’

  Liam smiled weakly; the sound of voices was beginning to tire him. ‘Dermot is the revolutionary in this family. I have to keep my mind on the business.’

  A few minutes later Norah McCabe ushered Dermot and Kathie from the kitchen, and before sleep took him Liam could hear Kathie’s laughter from the next room. It sounded right in the McCabe home, but Liam wished he was well enough to be able to share her happiness.

  Chapter Six

  It was two weeks before Liam was sufficiently recovered to resume his place in the boat. By then Kathie had returned to the old cottage on the hillside above the village and the starving cottiers were begging on the quay in their hundreds. For some days after the attempted wrecking the fishermen of Kilmar had been in no mood to tolerate the inland beggars, but time and the pinched faces of the hungry cottier children eventually sapped the fishermen’s anger.

  In early November the disastrous potato harvest enabled Liam to bring forward his plans to expand his fishing enterprise. He was able to buy a horse and a small cart at a giveaway price from a ruined farmer. He paid for it with what little money he possessed and the promise of a season’s supply of fish for the farmer’s family.

  Soon Liam had Tommy Donaghue making a twice-weekly journey with the horse and cart to Gorey, a small town about seven miles distant. There a trader bought all the fish Liam could provide and gave him a very good price.

  Tommy Donaghue enjoyed his trips to the market town. The slow-plodding horse needed only an occasional flick of the reins to keep him moving, and Tommy was able to exercise his fingers in practice on his fiddle, serenading the birds and the startled animals of the hedgerow.

  Tommy Donaghue had adapted to his new way of life very well. He again spent a couple of evenings a week playing to the customers of Kilmar’s ale-house, but now Patrick Meahey paid him in coin instead of drink. Kathie had made her father insist on this, just as she had persuaded him to work for the McCabes. Tommy Donaghue had raised many objections at first. He was a fiddler, a musician, and musicians could not be expected to do menial work. But Kathie had accepted none of his arguments and, once he had started, he was forced to admit that he quite enjoyed himself. Riding along behind a slow-moving horse gave a man time to think about life. To remember what had been, and to ponder upon the future. It was the future, Kathie’s future, about which he was most concerned. She had reached an age when most girls were already married. Kathie gave no hint that she was ready to settle down yet, but her friendship with the McCabe boys had raised Tommy’s hopes. The trouble was, he did not know which of them she would settle for. The girl spent a lot of time with Dermot, perhaps because he was more her own age, but Tommy Donaghue had never seen her look at him the way she looked at Liam. Yes, he thought it would probably be Liam, and she could not have made a wiser choice. Liam had a good head on his shoulders and would make a fine son. He was also good-looking enough to keep the interest of a young girl.

  These were the thoughts that were going through Tommy Donaghue’s mind as he rode the last couple of miles to Gorey on one of his regular trips, when suddenly a man rose from the tangled grass beside the road and stepped out in front of the horse.

  The startled fiddler heaved on the reins and brought the horse to a halt only inches away from a large man he remembered seeing on a number of occasions about Kilmar.

  ‘What do you think you are doing?’ he asked angrily. ‘You came mighty close to being knocked down by the horse.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ said Nathan Brock easily. ‘But I stopped you because I am in need of a small donation from you.’

  ‘If you’re a robber, then you’ve stopped the wrong man,’ said Tommy Donaghue. ‘I’ve not a penny in my pockets and nothing but salt fish on the can.’

  ‘Salt fish will be manna from heaven for some people I would like you to see,’ replied Nathan Brock. ‘Will you come no more than half a mile out of your way to meet them?’

  ‘The fish doesn’t belong to me.’ Tommy Donaghue was alarmed at the prospect of leaving the main road in the company of this large man. He seemed mild-mannered enough, but Tommy Donaghue had met quiet villains before. ‘Besides, I’m late already.’

  ‘The McCabes are reasonable men … and Gorey won’t run away while you are with me. Are you coming, now?’

  Tommy Donaghue shrugged. He really had no choice. He had put up a token argument, but if Nathan Brock had made up his mind, then he would have to go along with him.

  ‘I’ll lead the way,’ said Nathan Brock. ‘I appreciate your co-operation.’

  It was a long half-mile along a bumpy track that rattled Tommy Donaghue’s teeth and made the asking of questions impossible. The track ended in a mud-hard clearing, around which were built six sod huts. There was a disgusting smell in the air and it took Tommy Donaghue only a few moments to locate its source in heaps of putrid potatoes, liquefying in the small fields around the clearing.

  There was no sound from the mean hovels and there was such a forlorn neglected look about the place that Tommy Donaghue eyed his companion uneasily, wondering why he had brought him here. Without a word, Nathan Brock strode to the door of the first sod house and beckoned for Tommy Donaghue to follow him.

  There were no windows in the building, and it was a moment or two after he had stepped over the threshold before Tommy Donaghue’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom. He immediately wished he could have remained blind to the scene he saw before him. Lying upon dirty rags strewn about the floor of the hut were five people, four children and their mother. Each of them was no more than a skin-covered skeleton with ugly swollen joints.

  ‘The Lord preserve us! Have they all starved to death?’

  ‘Only one of them,’ replied Nathan Brock grimly. ‘The others are still dying.’

  Tommy Donaghue took a step closer to the emaciated bodies, and the eyes of two of the children followed him. The others continued to stare blankly at the turf roof of the hut above them and he could not tell which one of them was dead.

  ‘Why are they so quiet?’ The silence and the unreality of the whole situation caused him to talk in a hoarse whisper. ‘Why aren’t they crying out with pain … hunger … anything?’

  ‘Crying demands strength. I doubt if they have enough energy to both cry and live. And what is crying but a call for help? These people have learned that there is no help for them – or there wasn’t, until you came along.’
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  ‘But the fish doesn’t belong to me….’ Tommy Donaghue’s glance fell on the emaciated bodies and he found himself looking into the eyes of one of the children. ‘How much fish do you want?’

  ‘One small barrel will be enough to put life back into these bodies for a few days.’

  Tommy Donaghue looked at Nathan Brock in consternation. A small barrel contained a large quantity of fish, even for a family as starved as this one.

  ‘There are more cottiers in the other cabins,’ explained Nathan Brock. ‘Many of them children.’

  ‘I’ll get the barrel and start a fire going,’ said Tommy Donaghue. ‘Find me a pot from somewhere and we’ll soon put some life back in these poor souls.’ The old fiddler was clearly shaken at the thought of there being still more people so near to death.

  ‘No, you’ve done your part. Drop off the barrel and I’ll attend to the rest. Go on to Gorey about your business; then return to Kilmar and tell the McCabes what I’ve done. I’ll come in to see them tonight.’

  The big man put a heavy hand upon Tommy Donaghue’s shoulder. ‘You’ll remember what you’ve seen here today, but cottiers are dying from starvation all over Ireland. These were luckier than most, even before you came along. They are at least dying with a roof over their heads.’

  Eugene Brennan’s long-delayed trial was staged without any prior warning to the accused man. Breakfast was brought to the County Wexford MP at the usual time, but only half an hour later a key grated in the heavy cell-lock and a flustered deputy governor entered. He informed Eugene Brennan that his trial had been fixed for that day.

  It was no use arguing that he needed more time to prepare to go into court. He had already been waiting for months. Besides, the deputy governor of the the prison had received his orders direct from the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. He could do nothing but obey them.

  For the same reason, the protests of Eugene Brennan’s barrister were equally unavailing. The judge cut his arguments short and curtly informed him that there had been sufficient time for him to prepare a defence. The trial would proceed as arranged.

  But the unhelpful judge was unable to prevent the barrister from exercising his right to challenge prospective jurors. The procedure brought some angry exchanges between judge and barrister, but the beginning of the trial was delayed sufficiently long enough for the defence to round up most of its witnesses.

  The case lasted for two days and drew to a close with a summing-up by the judge weighted heavily against the man in the dock.

  Now came the proof that Eugene Brennan’s barrister had picked his jurors with more success than he realised. The ‘twelve good men, and true’ retired from the court-room for no longer than twenty minutes before filing back and announcing their verdict.

  They found Eugene Brennan ‘Not guilty’ of the charges against him.

  So unexpected was the acquittal that the prosecution was stunned and the judge furious. But justice had been seen to be done, and Eugene Brennan left the dock a free man.

  His followers were exultant – and there were a great many of them in Dublin. Within minutes the news had spilled into the streets and was being shouted above the street noises of Ireland’s capital city. Workers downed tools and flocked to the law-courts to cheer the good news, and Irish housewives forsook their baking and followed their menfolk.

  By the time the County Wexford MP left the court-building, traffic in the vicinity had been brought to halt by the cheering throng. Not all Dubliners supported Brennan and his All-Ireland Association, but this was more than the acquittal of an innocent man. It was a victory for Ireland in her fight against England. The English Government had ordered Brennan’s arrest and trial. An Irish jury had set him free. Eugene Brennan was the hero of the day.

  It was impossible for the MP to pass through the crowd, and the constabulary could do nothing to make the people move. Eventually, he made a speech from the steps in front of the court-building. It was a rambling, sometimes feeble speech. The voice that of a tired old man overcome by emotion. It did not matter; the cheers would have drowned his words whatever was said. When the applause reached fever pitch, Eugene Brennan went back inside the court-building and was smuggled out of a door at the rear of the cell-block.

  The months spent in prison, followed by the strain of the last two days, had taken their toll on the old politician, and he did not feel he could face the rigours of parliamentary life in London immediately. Yet he knew that if he stayed in Dublin the All-Ireland Association would place him under an even greater strain. They would want to capitalise on his current popularity and have him address committees and meetings and giant outdoor gatherings.

  All Eugene Brennan wanted was to be able to rest and relax for a while. To cast off the burden of his country’s problems and enjoy just being an old man. The feeling would only last for a few weeks. By then he would be ready once more to lead his country out of the union with England.

  Seeking a refuge, Eugene Brennan’s thoughts turned to his lifelong friend, Father Clery, and the peaceful fishing village of Kilmar.

  Chapter Seven

  Kilmar was little more than fifty miles south of Dublin. Eugene Brennan arrived in the late afternoon of a sombre November day, after a tiring ride in his own carriage. But he found little of the peace he was seeking.

  Tommy Donaghue had returned to the fishing village only a few minutes earlier, and Liam had not yet recovered from the initial anger he felt at the news that Nathan Brock had appropriated some of his fish. Father Clery was quickly drawn into the argument, and tempers had not cooled when the old MP arrived on the scene.

  When the excitement caused by the news of Eugene Brennan’s acquittal had died away, the politician asked the cause of the angry scene he had just witnessed. He listened in silence during Tommy Donaghue’s explanation and his description of the appalling state of the cottiers.

  ‘Could you find this place again?’

  ‘I could. And if I got lost my nose would lead me to those cabins.’

  ‘Then climb up with my coachman and guide him there. You had better come with us, Matthew – and you, young man.’ He pointed to Liam and then looked at Kathie, who was standing beside him. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Kathie Donaghue – and a member of your association.’

  Eugene Brennan smiled fleetingly. ‘That singles you out as a girl of sound sense. Come with us. We may have need of you.’

  After making it clear early in the journey that he was not a member of Brennan’s association, Liam said very little. Father Clery, on the other hand, was eager to hear every detail of Eugene Brennan’s remarkable acquittal and the two older men remained deep in conversation until the carriage turned on to the rough track leading to the collection of cottier huts and talk became almost impossible.

  Nathan Brock was in the clearing, squatting before a fire on which stood a huge pot-bellied saucepan exuding steam and a strong smell of boiling fish. Propped up against the wall of a hut on one side of the fire were three children, their heads appearing abnormally large on their skeleton-thin bodies. On the far side of the clearing six newly dug graves of varying sizes, topped by rough-tied wooden crosses, testified to the ex-prizefighter’s industry.

  In answer to a question from Father Clery, Nathan Brock waved wearily toward the nearby huts.

  ‘Go and see for yourself, Father. If I have to dig graves for less than half of those who are left, it will be a miracle.’

  The whole party from the carriage went on a tour of inspection of the huts and Liam returned to the fire shaken by the scenes of suffering and squalor, all thoughts of his missing fish completely forgotten.

  ‘How can such a thing happen?’ he asked of no one in particular. ‘Only a few miles away there are fish in the sea for the taking and beyond Gorey the corn is still stacked in the fields. How is it that people can starve to death in this way?’

  ‘They are starving because the potato has failed and many of these cottiers have never eaten anything e
lse. They wouldn’t know how to set about catching a fish and they have no money to buy any. Besides, all the fishermen in Ireland couldn’t catch enough to keep the cottiers alive. As for the corn, it’s being shipped out of the country to make a profit for the landlords. They have never cared that much for the cottiers.’ Nathan Brock snapped his fingers angrily. ‘Go to Wexford harbour and you’ll see corn being brought in from the countryside guarded by troops to prevent starving cottiers from getting at it.’

  ‘But the whole thing is scandalous. Something must be done to help these people.’

  Nathan Brock shrugged his shoulders. ‘What do you suggest – that everyone follows my example and steals for them? They certainly can’t do very much for themselves. As you will have noticed, there are only women and children here. Their men are in Dublin, or in the north, seeking work. There isn’t a poor-house in this part of Wexford, and the Government in England has yet to be convinced there is a famine in Ireland. For the rest of it you’ll need to speak to your All-Ireland Association friend. He is the one who sits in the Parliament in London and knows what is going on in their minds.’

  Eugene Brennan returned to the fire in time to hear Nathan Brock’s last words.

  ‘Do you know of any more cottiers in a similar plight to these poor people here?’

  ‘I could take you to many who are worse off, but unless you can take food with you it would be better to spare you the agony of watching them die. Three miles from here two cottier families were unable to pay their rents because disease had taken their potato crop. They were dragged from their homes, too weak to stand, and left to die by the side of the road while the landlord’s men put torches to their houses.’

  ‘I can do little about the power of the landlords,’ said Eugene Brennan. ‘But while Irish women and children are dying of starvation I can make damn sure that the conscience of the English Government never rests easy.’