The Paradise Tree

by Elena Maria Vidal

  The journey on the ship had been a bitter birth. The storms, the bugs and rats in the crowded steerage, the stench, the vomit from those with sea sickness, the bodies of the dead thrown overboard were all part of a long nightmare that vanished on the breeze of the spring morning when first he saw the shores of North America. The prejudice he had experienced upon his arrival in Canada was almost as bad as anything he had faced in Ireland, although technically there were no penal laws with which to contend. He had trouble in finding employment at first because of his religion, but making his way to Stone Mills, Ontario, where his cousin John lived, he found work as a blacksmith for John’s father-in-law, Mr. Robison.

  “For the love of God, do not tell anyone that you are a Catholic, or you will not succeed,” his cousin warned him soon after his arrival in Canada.

  “Never will I deny my Faith,” was Daniel’s reply, and he fought for it. His Protestant neighbors often heckled him about his religious observances, refusing to believe that there was such a thing as a Catholic Bible. He therefore journeyed the forty miles from Stone Mills to Kingston in order to purchase such a Bible, encountering wolves along the path, which he managed to fend off. The Catholic Bible was seen as a novelty in the area, and many came to see it. As for Daniel, he spent many evenings and Sundays pondering the word of God and reflecting upon the commentaries from the early Church fathers that served as footnotes.

  He had lived like an anchorite of old, denying himself the smallest pleasures, with the exception of an occasional pint of beer at the tavern at Stone Mills. His labors, prayers, and tears had borne fruit. His dream had become a reality. He now owned two hundred acres of former crown land outside of Lansdowne at a place called Long Point, bordered on the north by Singleton Lake, which flowed into Red Horse Lake, with the Gananoque River to the south. The exultation of walking upon his land, upon O’Connor land, was an incomparable joy. He was living in a tent he had hastily erected while the stone cottage was being built. He planned to have it finished by the time the snows fell, so that the new home would be prepared to receive his bride. After years of pilgrimage, he had arrived at a place of rest.

  After purchasing the land, Daniel had difficulty in finding men in Lansdowne willing to work for an Irish Catholic. Many Catholics were becoming Protestant in order to overcome similar obstacles, but Daniel persevered, in spite of the fact that Mass was rarely offered in the vicinity due to the scarcity of priests. He would walk many miles in order to go to confession and receive Holy Communion. However, he needed help in building a barn.

  Father McDonnell, a middle-aged man of Scottish descent, had become an invaluable friend and spiritual advisor during those often dark and difficult years in the new world. The priest of the diocese of Kingston had the grueling task of ministering to a flock scattered throughout the various settlements of the Ontario wilderness. He faithfully rode the circuit, visiting his parishioners wherever they might be found according to an unvarying schedule, heedless of blizzards, wild animals, and primitive or nonexistent roads and trails. Father McDonnell’s parish was in Perth and it was there that Daniel first met him, after having walked the sixty some miles in order to make his Easter duty. Daniel found Father in the log hut that passed for his rectory. The priest was preparing a meager supper, consisting of three herrings. He was roasting one on the end of a stick and gave it to Daniel to eat.

  In the early spring of 1830 he walked upon his land, experiencing once again the wonder and relief that the interminable Canadian winter appeared to be over. He stood beneath the birches and maples near the rocky shores of the lake. The virgin forest and the limpid, pure waters possessed a beauty that seemed to belong to the Blessed Otherworld, long sought after by the ancient Celts. It was as if he had found one of the “thin places” believed in by his forebears, where time and eternity met and mingled. He carefully chose the timber for the barn, and alone he undertook the construction. It was a formidable task, well beyond one man’s capacity, but a farm needed livestock, and the livestock needed shelter. As he was splitting logs, trusting that God would provide him with help, the sound of a horse came to his ears. He leaned upon his ax, observing a fierce-looking man about his own age with a wild beard and bushy brows, a rifle at his side. Daniel was not certain whether the stranger planned to help him or to rob him.

  “Are ye working all alone here, man?” inquired the stranger.

  “Aye,” replied Daniel. “And who might you be, sir?”

  “I am John O’Brien. I live over yonder at Furnace Falls and am employed at the Schofield iron works. So none of the fine folk of Lansdowne are willing to give a hand to a poor papist. Ah, the shame of it all!”

  Daniel’s eyes twinkled. “Am I to be understanding that you’re an Irisher yourself, Mr. O’Brien, and a papist one at that?”

  “A papist I am, honor bright! And one that would not be averse to lending a bit of aid to a compatriot in need. Now whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

  “I am Daniel O’Connor. I’m attempting to build a place of shelter for me pigs. Another pair of arms would be greatly appreciated, for the sooner I can build the barn, the sooner I can build a dwelling for me self.”

  John O’Brien dismounted and Daniel noticed he had a pack of tools on his back. “Then I would be honored to help, Mr. O’Connor.” They shook hands. “Father McDonnell sent word that you were settling on Long Point and I know how difficult it is to get started in this country. Come, let’s to work.”

  Together they erected the barn and then got started on the cottage nearby, clearing the land as they went, while fending off the mosquitoes and black rat snakes and occasionally wolves and bears. Daniel had to shoot a bear when it attacked one day while he was walking in the woods; he later found its cave in the gully not far from his cabin. There were also deer, foxes, badgers, porcupine, opossums, raccoons and sundry water birds, all in quantities that Daniel had never imagined. There were also creatures which he had only read about, such as moose and elk. A dog was necessary to keep the creatures from destroying his newly cultivated garden. He planted an apple tree near the where the house was to be, and plotted the making of an orchard further down the hill. As for the pelts from the game he caught, he traded then for building supplies and a plow.

  John O’Brien would not accept money; rather Daniel helped John with the chores on the O’Brien place. The grueling labor cemented their friendship. All the same, Daniel greatly missed his family. He carried a letter from his mother inside his Bible and had re-read it so many times he had committed it to memory. It was dated August 24, 1824.

  Dear Daniel,

  I received your letter on the 20 Dec. last which found us all in good health—Thanks be to God—as we are at present —only Michael’s wife died on 24 June 1823.

  Poor Roisin! So the cheerful little soul had gradually faded from sorrow and loss. His heart went out to Michael, and he wondered how Owen was taking it. His mother went on to tell how John and Patrick still worked in town; Michael was with her on the farm. “Owen is where you left him,” she wrote, which he took to mean that Owen was at the time of the writing still running about with the secret society, making mischief and hiding in the hills. His sisters she delicately neglected to mention at all; he assumed because she did not want to advertise to the English that she had young daughters, in case the letter should fall into the wrong hands. His mother wrote the way she talked and it was like hearing her voice.

  I generally hear good accounts of the place you are in, and if you encourage John, he is desirous to go, as he was prepared to go last May were it not for want of money as no one would be carried for less than 4 pounds and he required you sent him an account of the wages he could earn, and also what kind of clothing and utensils would be most useful for him to carry, and though they would have continued business, their earnings is no more than 4 shillings a day without meat and drink.

  The time you left us, everything relative to disturbances ceased and no injury befell any of our neighbors
but what you were aware of. The approaching summer after you left us was very scarce as we had a failure in the potatoes, and the harvest of wheat did not exceed 20 shillings per bag. Still for want of employment the Irish in general would perish, were it not for the kindness of England who upon application being made they remitted 160 thousand pounds both by government and private subscription to be laid out in public improvement, which was laid out in roads to give employment to people and many subscriptions by the Irish gentlemen from our town and County is much improved by it. We had a plentiful harvest following. We have had plenty since. Our present harvest is very favorable and the corn nearly ripe at present and all sorts of people employed, but their wages low, and no prospect of any prices, as it is strongly reported our wheat will not exceed 15 shillings per bag, and oats in proportion. Therefore we cannot expect a demand for man’s labor,

  I intended letting you know I sent an answer to your letter soon as it arrived and received no answer. Therefore I take this opportunity of sending this by Dan Donovan who is now going to sail to Quebec to put it in the office there. Charles is bound to Dan to be a tailor and Timothy is bound to Michael Sullivan, Dunmanway.

  Nothing is giving me more trouble than your absence and the few accounts I receive from you. Therefore as soon as this arrives send me an account of the place and our friends in general.

  I remain

  Your dutiful mother,

  Joanna O’Connor

  Daniel could tell from her epistle that the majority of his letters to her had never reached Togher. As the years passed, information about his family came to him mostly from friends and relatives settling in Ontario. He kept waiting for his brother John to come, but instead he heard that both John and Timothy had gone to London, England, and were working as accountants in a big shipbuilding concern. Patrick was in Canada, but working in a mine in Nova Scotia, far away. Margaret was raising her family in Cork, and Michael and Norah were at home with their mother at Togher; Charles was working as a tailor in Dunmanway and planned to join Daniel in Ontario at some later date.

  As for Owen, he seemed to have disappeared, until one day, when Daniel was working on his cottage and he heard a voice behind him.

  “Have you a bite of oatcake about you, sir? ‘Tis famished I am, after wandering through this wilderness searching for Daniel O’Connor, Esquire.”

  Daniel turned about to see Owen’s cheerful florid features and bright eyes. “No oatcakes, but a bit of dried squirrel and hard cider, if you be so inclined,” he replied, as tears of happiness gushed forth. Owen, now a bearded man in his mid-twenties, had many adventures to tell. He had twice narrowly escaped the gallows for his illegal political activities. Furthermore, the soldier-husband of the lady he worked for had returned from the wars and had chased him nearly all the way to Cork City. There he had taken ship with the Peter Robinson settlers, whose fare was paid for in exchange for working on the Rideau Canal in Ontario. He had labored in what amounted to indentured servitude for some years, amid the squalid conditions endured by the canal workers, many of whom died from mosquito-borne illnesses. Owen, however, managed to survive.

  “Owen, you’re a rascal. Why did you not write? I would have sent you some money.”

  “Oh, I wrote, but obviously my letters did not reach you. I decided to come myself as soon as my time was up. Are there plenty of jobs in these parts?”

  “Aye. I am thinking of one Daniel O’Connor who is looking for a hired man to help build the farm and run it when ‘tis built,” said Daniel.

  Owen gratefully accepted and quickly settled in to the pioneer life. He often chatted about everyone at home, but Roisin’s name never crossed his lips. Daniel had considered sending Owen as his representative to meet with Mr. Trainor to discuss a possible marriage with the latter’s daughter, but he decided it was more prudent to go himself, in the company of the priest.

  It was Father McDonnell who had helped Daniel in his search for a suitable wife, promising to introduce him to the daughter of a family named Trainor in Kitley Township, where so many Irish Catholics had settled that they even had a chapel. The Trainors had arrived in Canada from Ireland three years previously and, according to Father McDonnell, were struggling to establish themselves. Peter Trainor, a widower, had likewise asked the priest’s assistance in finding a spouse for his daughter, since the clergyman was acquainted with all the eligible bachelors and spinsters in the region.

  Now in his new fustian suit, riding upon his horse with a rifle at his side, a hound and livestock at home on Long Point, Daniel felt quite eligible indeed. For one thing, it was a novel and thrilling experience as an Irishman to be allowed to openly bear firearms. The white rose bush, lovingly tended in whatever place he found himself, now blossomed happily away on Daniel’s land, and he carried a nosegay of the roses to present to Miss Trainor. He also carried a package of newly churned butter, a traditional symbol of prosperity, as a gift for her family. Eager and frightened all at once, he reflected on the obstacles that with God’s help had been overcome.

  “Peter Trainor is a good man of fine old Leinster stock,” commented Father McDonnell as they trotted along. “His daughter, Brigit, is very young and pretty. He fears to send her out to work among strangers and yet he is hard put to feed her. They have had some setbacks in the three years they have been here. He wants to see her settled by February 1, Saint Brigid’s Day. Two of his sons are with him. His wife died of typhus in one of the famines; his older children remain in Ireland.”

  “Father, might I be inquiring the age of the young lady?”

  “Brigit will be sixteen years old in the spring,” said the priest. “As I told you before, Daniel, I can vouch for her good character. She is said to be a competent cook and housekeeper, too, but you can learn more from Peter Trainor in regard to all that. Peter is a good man but he has endured many bitter trials. He is very protective of Brigit and has been mighty particular in choosing her husband. But fret not, Daniel; I have put in a good word for you. And keep this in mind: Peter Trainor can read only a little and write not at all. His sons and Brigit are likewise almost entirely illiterate. Remember this when you show him the deed to your property.”

  After passing the tiny chapel at Bellamy Pond, they rode through the village of Newboro and then for three or four miles beyond it, until they came to the Trainor farm. It was bordered by low stone walls in the style of many farms in Ireland, and Daniel felt transported to the land of his birth by the layout of the farm, except that the cabin was made of logs. Also, the forest encroached upon the tiny clearing and meager fields, with only one or two haystacks. The field was dotted with stumps, which would likely take years to remove. Daniel wondered how the Trainors and their livestock were going to make it through the winter. They must have been living off the summer bounty of the woodlands, foraging for berries, roots, and nuts, as well as game.

  A sturdy man with white hair, beard and blazing blue green eyes opened the door. In his mid-forties, his was a handsome visage but for the lines etched there, the fruit of years of hardship and inexpressible loss. He eyed Daniel suspiciously.

  “Peter, may I present Mr. Daniel O’Connor,” announced Father McDonnell. “Daniel, this is Mr. Trainor.

  Peter Trainor gave Daniel an abrupt handshake. “Lads!” he called. “See to the horses!” Two young men with ruddy faces, light hair and eyes like their father’s appeared from inside the cabin.

  “These are me sons, James and John,” said Peter. James and John nodded to the priest, while giving Daniel stern, penetrating glances. They took the horses away to the barn.

  “Well, you’re not much to look at,” declared Peter to Daniel, “but I can see that you’re a gentleman. If you are a friend of Father McDonnell’s, then that is enough for me. Come in and let’s have a drink.”

  They entered the smoky interior of the cabin. “Mrs. Hacket, bring the whiskey, if you please!” ordered Peter. A thin, older woman in faded widow’s weeds shuffled forward with a bottle and some
clay mugs. “This is me late cousin’s wife, Widow Hacket. She is with us for the harvest-time. She will be getting our tea today, so Brigit can visit with her intended. Mrs. Hacket, where’s our Brigit?”

  “She is up in the loft, waiting for her hair to dry,” mumbled the woman as she poured the whiskey into the mugs, which she had set on a rough table. “I told her to wash her hair yesterday, but she didn’t heed me. A mind of her own that girl has . . . a mind of her own.” She gestured towards a ladder on the far side of the cabin.

  Peter coughed. “’Tis well, since we must first attend to business. Sit down, gentlemen.” They all sat down on stools around the table. Peter took out a pipe and began to smoke, after first offering the tobacco pouch to his guests. Widow Hacket returned to the hearth, where she stirred a pot of stew and peeked at the bread in the oven, creating a good deal of clatter as she did so.

  “Daniel, show Mr. Trainor the deed to your property,” said Father McDonnell. “It is two hundred acres, is it not?”

  “Aye, Father,” replied Daniel, as he handed Peter the deed. “Lot 2, Concession 8 it is, bordered by the Red Horse Lake and Singleton Lake, near the Gananoque River.”

  “I know the whereabouts of your place,” nodded Peter. His brows furrowed as he silently studied the deed for some minutes before handing it back to Daniel. “So you’re making a farm for yourself, lad?”

  “We have the barn built and the well dug, and will have the stone cottage finished very soon.”

  “What of the livestock?” asked Peter.

  “A cow and a bull, four pigs, and several chickens. I hope to start a flock of sheep in the spring. The barn is full of hay and corn and soon there will be a crop of potatoes, enough to see us through the winter.”