“Greetings, sister-in-law,” he said in courtly tones. “I wish you could be meeting me lovely wife-to-be, Miss Ellen MacCarthy of Dunmanway. She shall be joining me and we shall be wed as soon as I am established in a bit of business here. I am a master tailor, now, y’know. Did you get me letter, Dan?”
“Nay, brother, I received no letter.”
Charles’ face fell. “Then you do not know the melancholy news, about our mother. She died, last Lent, on Saint Patrick’s Eve. I hate being the one to bear you such sad tidings.”
The entire forest trembled in the breeze, as Brigit grasped his hand with both of hers. He gently pulled away and began to walk. He did not realize where he was going until he came to the shores of the lake. The water was like glass, and the great blue heron that flew across reflected as if in a mirror. Somewhere a loon laughed. It was a scene from an old Irish fairy tale, and he half expected one of the mythical creatures, half-man, half beast, fowl, or fish, to come rising up out of the weeds from the depths of the clear water. All that filled his mind was the sound of his mother’s voice singing a forgotten lullaby and the picture of her cradling an infant in her arms.
“Chorus angelorum suscipiat . . .” He muttered as the tears flowed. “May the choirs of angels receive thee, and mayest though have eternal rest with Lazarus, who was once poor.” From the peace of the waters and the vastness of the lake and the forests beyond it he glimpsed eternity where his mother was, so far away, and yet within his grasp. Falling to his knees, he wept.
Daniel thought of many things on the December night when his child struggled to be born into the world. He wondered where Owen was, and how he was faring, but he’d had no word of him. He thought of his parents and the home that were now all gone. All his life was now contained within the four walls of the tiny cottage. As he started back with the bucket of milk, he heard a loud shriek. He set the pail down in the snow and ran into the house. He found Brigit white and drenched with perspiration. Widow Hacket was holding the newly expelled infant, who was silent and unmoving.
“Quick, swat its backside,” ordered Daniel. The widow obeyed, the child coughed and kicked then let out a loud cry. Brigit smiled weakly, tears running down her cheeks. The Widow handed the babe to Mrs. O’Brien, who deftly washed and swaddled the tiny, flailing form. The child was a girl; she was gently placed in Daniel’s arms. She was pink and fat with black curling hair.
“A fair and bonny lass,” pronounced the Widow, helping herself to a swig from the whiskey jug, as Mrs. O’Brien tended Brigit.
“Don’t be drinking now, Kitty, wait ‘til she is baptized,” chided Mrs. O’Brien. “John said he would be stopping by and he can join the festivity. He has gone to fetch Peter Trainor and the boys. But poor darling Brigit must sleep first.”
Daniel went to the pitcher of clean water next to the basin on a stool near the bed. He would baptize his daughter immediately, since infants were apt to perish without warning. When she was older, they would take her to the priest and have it recorded.
“Joanna Mary Catharine, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,” he said, as he poured the water over her soft head in three streams. She cried again, and he soothed her before giving her into Brigit’s weary, enfolding arms.
“Your mother lives again in this child, and so does mine,” she smiled happily to him.
"Aye, darling, and all those many who will come after, God willing," replied Daniel. And sitting on the floor by the bed, he watched his wife and child as they fell asleep.
Part II
Brigit’s Lorica
I bind to myself today
The strong virtue of the Invocation of the Trinity:
I believe the Trinity in the Unity
The Creator of the Universe.
I bind to myself today
The virtue of the Incarnation of Christ with His Baptism,
The virtue of His crucifixion with His burial,
The virtue of His Resurrection with His Ascension,
The virtue of His coming on the Judgement Day.
I bind to myself today
The virtue of the love of seraphim,
In the obedience of angels,
In the hope of resurrection unto reward,
In prayers of Patriarchs,
In predictions of Prophets,
In preaching of Apostles,
In faith of Confessors,
In purity of holy Virgins,
In deeds of righteous men.
– From Fáed Fíada, The Deer’s Cry
CHAPTER 6
The Lake
Autumn, 1838
“Silent, O Moyle, be the roar of thy waters.” – From “Song of Fionnuala”
Brigit hated to see Daniel go off to war again, but good could come out of anything, as past experience had showed her again and again. From where she had begun her journey, amid starvation and poverty and her mother dying, she had now come to a wondrous place, a place with timber, fertile fields, and lakes full of fish. Never in her life had she dreamed of such abundance.
“It’s my turn!” exclaimed five-year-old Mick.
“There’s room enough for two,” said Daniel. “Come, lad.” He swung his small son up in the air and onto the stone saddle where seven-year-old Joanna was already riding with great dignity.
Mick waved at Brigit. “I’m riding, Ma!”
“I see you, son! Hang on to your sister!” said Brigit. The fragrant crispness of the pasture, combining the scents of pine, lichen and curling grasses filled her with joy. She never dreamed as a child that someday she would be walking upon her own land with a fine man for a husband and four children, healthy and safe. The trees swayed in the breeze, their colored leaves glimmering in the sun as if sprinkled with gold dust. She wondered what the shortening days would bring. With her prayers she tried to weave a lorica, or shield of protection, around each loved one so that even if they were taken from this world they would pass speedily into Heaven. In the middle of the pasture at Long Point was a round boulder on which was carved in the stone the perfect shape of a saddle.
“Begorrah! The faeries did it,” exclaimed Brigit when she first saw it.
“Nay, woman, there are no faeries in Canada,” Daniel had replied.
“There are. Indeed, there are,” she had insisted. “They followed us here.” Her husband had smiled but said nothing, having quickly found that it was better not to argue with her about such matters.
It had become a daily ritual for the children to scramble upon the Saddle Rock, pretending it was a horse, or better yet, a Pegasus, for the wind sweeping across the meadows gave the impression of flight. Mick put his short, sturdy arms around Joanna’s waist as the breeze ruffled his blonde hair.
“Me, too!” said Katy, who had just turned three.
“Not enough room for you, Katy darling,” laughed Daniel’s brother Charles, lifting Katy into his arms. Daniel often said that with her light hair and green-blue eyes she reminded him of Brigit. Katy’s birth had been followed by baby Mary Ann, plump and fair, whom Brigit kept by her side. Joanna mothered them all like a little hen, with the quiet reliance and prudence she had displayed from toddlerhood. She was a miniature of Daniel’s mother, with black curls and blue eyes.
Daniel looked toward his brother. “We must be going soon.” He had to follow Captain Schofield’s orders to report to the militia. As sergeant he had the difficult task of rallying the local men and making certain they were armed with a day’s provisions. “It will not be easy to explain to our neighbors that they must make ready to fight and perhaps die for the very folk who have been persecuting them for a decade or more.”
“Anyone who thought that Canada would be free from the political controversies of the British Isles has had by now had a sad awakening,” sighed Charles.
The last few years had seen fighting and bloodshed right there in Leeds County. By 1834, the political situation in the county had become a tinderbox ready to explode. A
lthough Roman Catholicism was not proscribed as it had been in the old country, there were laws which favored the established church and the Tory elite. The colonial administration did little to improve the bad roads and foster education in the countryside, while imposing heavy taxes on the struggling farmers. Leeds County had many American settlers who strongly resented such inequities in a system in which they had little or no say. The called themselves the “Friends of Reform.” Many of Daniel’s friends and acquaintances such as the Buells, the Howards, Levi Soper and the innkeeper James Philips were dedicated Reformers. Daniel attended the Reform meetings whenever possible, for he usually found himself in agreement with the Reformers’ plans to work for gradual change which would help all the settlers to be treated as full British subjects.
However, there were those who were determined to put a stop to the cause of Reform, by fair means or foul. Most of the Irish Protestants were dedicated Tories who feared the American influence, and most especially, they did not want Catholics to be treated as equal citizens. In Leeds County they were led by, as Daniel put it, “a mean, deceitful bastard by the name of Ogle Gowan.” Gowan used the Masonic lodges found in just about every village as a rallying point for the Orangemen; they formed gangs who, after a great deal of drinking, would disrupt Reform meetings, attack the homes of notable Reformers, and try to keep Reformers from voting by violence and intimidation.
Brigit often recalled the months of conflict preceding the election in the fall of 1834. They heard stories of Orangemen aggression that made her hair stand on end. In the spring the gangs had moved further afield. Daniel made sugar in March, but feared being long away from the cottage, in spite of having taught Brigit how to shoot. It was already widely known that he himself was a crack shot and so the troublemakers’ knowledge of his mere presence on the farm would be a deterrent. What with the instability Daniel thought it best to make his will; in case anything should happen to him, he told her, her legal right to the land would not be challenged. He had made Brigit his sole heir, leaving all his worldly goods to her “pleasure and discretion,” according to the wording of the will.
The summer of 1834 passed with a great deal of hard work on the farm, and although there was agitation from Orangemen gangs in some places in Leeds County, no one dared set foot on Long Point. October finally rolled around. Daniel rode to Beverley the night before to spend the night at Charles and Eleanor’s, so that he and Charles could brave the hustings together in the morning.
When they returned that evening what a tale they had to tell. Daniel sat back and lit his pipe as Brigit put supper on the table. Charles poured himself a mug of stout from the clay pitcher that Brigit had ready and waiting.
“Nothing would have prepared us for the spectacle which befell our eyes,” said Daniel. “Teams of Orangemen surrounded the hustings, wielding shillelaghs, as well as pen knives and hat pins. They threatened the Reformers, jabbing and striking at those who were trying to vote. And using very salty language, if I don’t say so meself.”
“One poor American yokel had been set upon by the gang,” Charles put in. “They hoisted him up by his pantaloons, which were then used to swing and toss him into a nearby rubbish heap. Most of the Reform voters were too afraid to try to vote. And the sheriff was over yonder was doing nothing to stop the harassments.”
Daniel nodded. “Aye. I observed the sheriff, one Adiel Sherwoood, leaning complacently against the wall of the local Anglican church, conversing with a gentleman who looked like none other than that Orange bastard, Ogle Gowan himself. My, but I felt anger rising within me. I told Charles to follow me.”
“And I did,” said Charles. “We marched towards the polls. The Orangemen howled at us, brandishing their weapons, but Daniel moved forward as if he saw them not. The rabble fell silent.”
Brigit had summoned the children in to supper. They trooped in quietly as they had been taught, the older ones helping the smaller ones to wash and dry their hands at the washstand.
“I can picture it,” she laughed. “I’ve no doubt it was the fearless flash of me own Mr. O’Connor’s eyes, or the fact that his proud bearing gives the impression of great height.”
“Hush, woman!” Daniel said with a twinkle in his eye. “At any rate, they lowered their weapons and made way for the O’Connor brothers. The sheriff and Ogle Gowan stopped talking and watched with interest, as Charles and I climbed the hustings and declared for the Reform candidate. Other Reform voters then surged forward and voted. Then we left for home.” And with that supper proceeded with merriment.
However, word later came to Daniel that although the Reform party carried the day, the election was overturned, since the Tory establishment would brook no dissent. The political difficulties increased as the Orangemen continued to intimidate the Reform party members. One fine day saw Mike O’Kelly at their door.
“Mike O’Kelly, what a surprise it is!” said Daniel.
“‘Tis Michael Kelly, esquire, if you please,” replied Mike, with a sneer. Many Irishers were dropping the “O” in their surnames in order to be socially acceptable. Daniel had heard rumors of Mike abandoning the Catholic Church and becoming a Protestant.
Mike continued: “I have a paper here which says that this land is rightfully mine.” He handed Daniel a piece of parchment, which the latter took and read it carefully.
“It appears to be a deed for Lot 2, Concession 8 granted to one Michael Kelly, esquire, in 1828,” Daniel declared aloud to Brigit, who hovered behind him. “So tell me, Mr. Michael Kelly, esquire, how you came to own this bit of land before I did? And why are you only now recalling the fact?”
“I won this land at a game of whist in ’28. I was so drunk, though, I forgot all about it until last night when me wife was cleaning out an old chest and came upon this deed. Mrs. Kelly can’t read but she saw the seal and so she knew it was something of import and showed it to me.”
Daniel nodded slowly and turned to Brigit. “Well, there it is, Brigit darling, it seems we have been living on Mr., uh, Kelly’s land these many years.”
“Holy Mary!” Brigit exclaimed, crossing herself. Yet as she caught Daniel’s eye she noticed a flicker of humor.
“No worry, Mrs. O’Connor,” said the O’Kelly-that-was. His nose was as red as if he had been quaffing gin for breakfast. “I’m not a man for throwing women and children onto the open road. I’ll be letting Mr. O’Connor here buy this land from me at a fair price. So you can go back to your babes and your spinning and not bother about packing up.”
“Now that is kind of you, sir,” said Daniel, clearing his throat. “But half a moment, if you please. The signature on this deed is that of Mr. Horace Johnston, the registrar. Mr. Johnston died of apoplexy in 1825, if I be remembering correctly. How did you summon him from the grave to sign your deed?”
Mr. Kelly’s mouth dropped open, then clenched tightly in anger.
Brigit stepped forward and, taking Daniel’s arm, faced her former suitor. “Mike O’Kelly, you were not known as ‘Kelly’ back in ’28. Everyone knows that. What kind of half-wits do you take us for? You’d be having us buy our own property from you!”
“This document has been tampered with,” Daniel stated solemnly. “The seal appears to have been cut from another paper and affixed onto this one. And the letters have been redrawn in several places. ‘Tis a fraud. If I were you, Mr. Kelly, I would be taking yourself far away from Long Point before I send one of my lads in the smithy to fetch the magistrate. A good day to you! Now be off!”
Kelly snatched the paper out of Daniel’s hands and turned to leave. “Keep in mind that I am a Tory now, and a member of the Church of England, and you papist scum can rot in the dirt alongside your pigs! But I won’t be forgetting this!” And with that he rode off.
Brigit and Daniel looked at each other and then Brigit started to laugh. She laughed until she had to wipe away tears with her apron. Daniel took her hand. He was smiling, but his brow furrowed as he watched Kelly disappear around the b
end.
“What are you thinking, Mr. O’Connor?” asked Brigit.
“Oh, nothing,” Daniel murmured. “I only fear we have not seen the last of the O’Kelly.
In the political arena, events came to a head in the spring of 1835. After yet another election stolen from the Reform candidates by violence, a Tory horde descended upon the inn of James Philips. The gang took to demolishing the inn, which had been the site of so many Reform gatherings. Mr. Philips took matters into his own hands, grabbing a shillelagh out of the hands of one of the attackers, and cracking a young Tory over the head with it. Tragically, the young man died; Philips was tried and acquitted the following year. After all, he was merely defending his property.
Occasional gazettes were circulated in the neighborhood and since Daniel was among the few literate settlers, he would read them aloud to the local farmers and squatters around the hearth at Long Point. 1836 saw more troubles, as banks failed in Upper Canada, and William Lyon Mackenzie led a revolt outside of Toronto. Daniel feared that the revolt would spread.
“I want reform but I dread violent revolution,” he said to Brigit one night by the fire. “’Tis against all me principles. I know what it is to live in a land of violence. I will do what I have to do to preserve the peace.”
The rebellion grew and it looked as if many Reformers wanted an American form of government. Daniel insisted no good would come of such discord. In late 1837 he joined the militia, and spent the winter in Gananoque training to be a soldier.
“But Mr. O’Connor, you’ll be fighting some of your own friends,” said Brigit as she helped him pack his gear. “Jim Philips, and plenty of the other Reformers, have joined the rebellion. You might have to shoot one of our neighbors.”
“I hope it won’t come to that, Brigit darling,” said Daniel. “Those lads made the choice that seemed best to them. But Revolutions have many masters and spread like wildfire unless they are checked. Look what happened in France. Chaos and thousands of people guillotined. Then there were the wars of Napoleon. I heard all about those when I worked in Sheffield. Lots of people died. The best thing for our family is to live in a peaceful land. We can work out the problems through peaceful means.”
The Paradise Tree Page 10