Liberty

‘Any business we like!’ Tommy Little retorted as the other two went for the swords at their sides.

  Will held up a musket and aimed it directly at the man who had touched my hair.

  ‘Stand away,’ he called. ‘I am a rebel and I have a troop at my back. You walk away from this place and live or stay and we’ll take you down. There’s a firing squad beyond yonder trees with the three of you in their sights.’

  ‘You won’t get away with this,’ Jack growled. ‘You fools were stomped on down south. Informers squealing everywhere like little piggies. Your cause is lost, you Irish dog. You’ve already lost the battle.’

  ‘Walk and I’ll try not to shoot you in the back,’ Will shouted angrily. ‘This is not your woman, not your farm, not your land, not your nation. Now go.’

  The soldiers gave me a surly look and nodded to one another. They were a marching trio and did not have horses with them or muskets, only swords. Foot soldiers. I hoped they would not challenge Will because George had said he was a terrible shot.

  ‘You!’ the tall soldier with the thin moustache levelled a cold stare at me. ‘You’re marked, lassie. You’re one of them and we know that now. We’ll be back and if you are still here, you will end up like Annie O’Neal: in several pieces at the bottom of a dam. You and your father.’

  I gasped, tears springing to my eyes.

  ‘Go hlfreann leat!’ Will shouted and pointed the musket at them.

  ‘Bloody language of savages.’ Tommy Little laughed and the others joined in, and with a jaunty amble, the three men traipsed back down the gravel path toward the front gates. I waited until they were out of earshot before speaking out of the corner of my mouth to Will.

  ‘Will,’ I said, ‘how did you know I was in trouble?’

  ‘Oh, Betsy, love,’ he said leaning down from his saddle toward me, ‘I follow you home every time you come a’riding and stay here long enough to make sure you are all right. I’ve been watching over you and your da very carefully. I would never let anything happen to you.’

  I smiled. Will Boal was a good man.

  ‘Let’s go and get you some clothes and pack your father up. It’s not safe here for you. Tomorrow we ride to Ballynahinch to call our war.’

  I thought about what the redcoats had said about Annie O’Neal. It broke my heart to think of how terrified she must have been in her final moments.

  Inside the house I told Da straight. There was no time for lies anymore, things were dire. This was war.

  ‘Da,’ I said, helping him into his favourite armchair, the one with the elegant cabriole legs, ‘I am helping George and Will to stand against these tyrants to take Ireland back for ourselves.’

  ‘Oh no, no, no, Betsy,’ he said, tears running down his cheeks as he stared at Will as if he was a ghost.

  ‘They murdered Annie O’Neal, Da. They admitted it, and they would have done the same to me whether I was guilty or not.’

  Will stood nervously by the door, kicking his boots against the stone floor, just missing the teetering plant stand.

  ‘Hurry, Betsy,’ he spoke low and sounded afraid. ‘You have to understand English justice, Mr Gray. You are presumed innocent until proven Irish. Just being Irish is crime enough in their eyes, and cause enough to commit atrocities. We need to stand up and reclaim our heritage. Éireann go Brách!’

  ‘They killed Annie?’ Da blabbered. ‘She was your mother’s goddaughter. Did I tell you that?’

  I nodded.

  ‘We’ll pack up everything of value and take you to cousin Mary’s where you’ll be safe during the uprising, Da,’ I said gently.

  He nodded, seeming to finally understand, and rested one hand on the mahogany desk beside him, drumming his fingers nervously against the leather top.

  ‘May the road rise up to meet you, William Boal. You take good care of my daughter. I love her very much. But I’ll stay here. This is my farm. My home. The land of my forefathers. I’ll not be hounded from it. Saol fada chugat,’ my father stammered, struggling with his pronunciation of the old words. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been so long since I spoke it.’

  ‘Never mind, Mr Gray.’ Will grinned. ‘Broken Irish is still way better than clever English and a long life to you too, sir. We are no nation without a language and I for one will fight to keep it alive.’

  My father had not spoken old Irish since my mother had passed away, but in those few moments when he tried to recall those words, I believed that he finally understood what it was that Will, George and I, and all the rest of us in the rebellion, were fighting for.

  The freedom and liberty to be Irish.

  ‘I can’t believe the turnout,’ I said to Agnes.

  The two of us stood on the edge of campus and watched as a swarm of students descended upon the Forum. A sea of white button-up shirts, the uniform of the general male body of the university, surged forward and then stalled as the crowd became denser. The throng was so large it spilled across the road away from the Forum, spreading back all the way to the library. I had my guitar slung over my shoulder because I’d gotten it restrung down at the music department.

  ‘He walked me home last night and met my parents.’ Agnes said, grabbing my arm and nestling into me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jeff,’ she said, melodramatically rolling her eyes. ‘Jeff met Mum and Dad. That’s whole next-level stuff.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I said, looking over my sunglasses at her. ‘Yes. Is that … Yes … I think I hear wedding bells and hang on … what’s that? Oh yes … the sound of squealing babies. A whole nursery of them.’

  ‘I would so marry him,’ she said dreamily. ‘And have his babies.’

  ‘Oh stop it!’ I coughed. ‘You are selling out. Agnes, you are here. That’s really something. My mum would have jumped at the opportunity to go to uni. We’re only here on the shoulders of the women who couldn’t be. Don’t throw it away. It’s such an opportunity. You don’t want to become the little woman who irons the shirts so that her hubby gets to go out into the world and have a stimulating life, do you?’

  ‘Jeff? In an ironed shirt? Never.’ Agnes pouted.

  ‘Be warned.’ I smiled sarcastically. ‘It’s just a ruse to lure you in. All this hippy, laid-back rubbish. The second he lands a job in a law firm the conservative tie-wearer will start emerging. Trust me. That guy is all show. No substance. And he’s such a sexist bloke. He’s so anti-feminist that it nauseates me.’

  ‘Sexist? Surely not.’ She frowned.

  ‘Believe me, Agnes,’ I said. ‘That fellow is about as into the idea of female liberation as a turnip. But forget Jeff for now and focus. We’re here to vote on whether or not to march. The police have refused to issue a permit for a demonstration. That’s why we are actually here today! Not to play “he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not”.’

  ‘You’re too serious sometimes, Fi.’ She scoffed, putting her arm around my waist and hugging me to her side.

  ‘This is serious stuff. If we march, Luke is going to burn his draft notice at Roma Street and Barton reckons there will be television people there. This is our moment to have our voices heard. The kids in America are shouting in the streets and people are listening! We can be the voice of change. We are marching for our boys’ lives.’

  ‘You sound like you’ve been infected by Barton germs.’ Agnes frowned. ‘I think he likes you. Have you been secretly pashing him in the library or something? Fiona the activist! Who’d have thought! You were sitting on the fence last time we talked about it.’

  ‘Barton doesn’t like me!’ I scoffed. ‘He’s too self-absorbed to like anyone else and as for kissing him … well … ha … as if!’ But as I said it I felt a weird sensation in the very lowest part of my belly.

  ‘Seriously, Ag,’ I sighed. ‘Let’s focus on this vote. Man, we could be a part of history here. Don’t you feel it? Having my brother about to carry a gun a
nd be a target changed everything.’

  We went and sat at our usual spot under the Moreton Bay fig, nestled up against its solid trunk. I leaned my guitar against it.

  ‘Walter Leary died,’ I told her.

  ‘What? What?’ she gaped at me.

  I shrugged and nodded.

  ‘It’s weird,’ I said slowly. ‘I’ve spent years hating him and now I feel guilty about it. I actually feel bad for him and his family. He was only twenty.’

  ‘Heavy.’

  ‘I mean, he was only fourteen when he made that horrible comment that started the fight with Murray, which now feels almost petty. Grief can blow things way out of proportion.’

  ‘Dead or not, it was a really shitty thing for him to say to your brother so soon after—’

  ‘But you know what?’ I said, shooing a fly from my face. ‘I forgive him. I know Mum would want me to. She would have if the tables were turned. She was like that. She was the best person. She would have shrugged off his comment and just laughed and said something terribly clever back at him. She was kind and so clever and she had the best comebacks.’

  ‘That’s so nice,’ Agnes said. ‘Your mum sounds great. I wish I’d met her.’

  ‘She would have loved you, Ag. I hate that I’m forgetting little things about her, though. Like the edges of the memories are being sanded away.’

  ‘She sounds like a strong woman and she’d be proud of you standing up and fighting for the rights of your brother and friend. I reckon she’d vote to march, hey?’

  ‘She would.’ I nodded. ‘For sure. And that’s the other reason I changed my mind. Whenever I’m not sure what to do, I just say to myself, “What would Mum have done?”’

  I looked around the Forum at all the kids vying for a good vantage point so that they could see the speakers on the walkway with their megaphones.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for that draft, Walter’s mum would still have her boy. He could have grown up, got married, lived a life, had kids and stuff. But the draft robbed him of that and he didn’t even get to serve his country. It’s so pointless. It could have been my brother or Luke. It still could be.’

  And then I heard Barton’s familiar voice floating out over the sea of people, loud, booming, passionate. The crowd cheered. They were like petrol on his fire and he loved it. After talking about the right to protest and march, the conflict in South-East Asia, civil rights and a general condemnation of conscription, Barton called for a show of hands.

  ‘Raise your hands, people, if you vote to march next week.’

  Hands went up like a giant collective jack-in-the-box. And the students roared their approval and began to chant: ‘March. March. March.’

  I even saw a few of the tutors and lecturers in the crowd with their hands up, too. Watching Barton, I was overcome with a flush of warmth that felt a bit like pride. His passion was contagious. I was really starting to like that about him. He had a fire in his heart and he was sincere. That was what made him stand out and shine. His sincerity and social conscience did not sit quietly, but roared. It was hard not being infected by his enthusiasm.

  ‘Looks like a win for the affirmative,’ Agnes said, beaming.

  ‘Our trickle of discontent has become a flood!’ Barton yelled at the crowd.

  We listened and watched as the crowd cheered; it was an incredible thing to witness. After Barton stopped talking and the crowd began to disperse, I unzipped my guitar and checked the new nylon strings.

  ‘Play me something.’ Agnes smiled, lying on the grass beside me. ‘I love your voice.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ I thought, strumming a chord. ‘I haven’t played this to anyone. It’s an original. A Fiona McKechnie composition. I call it “The Sister Story”.’

  I closed my eyes and let the music carry me into the song and it was welling up from my heart, my core. I sang to the spirits of my mother and grandmother and all those women whose names were in the book at the top of my cupboard. I sang to Agnes, my honorary sister.

  As I played the final chord, I heard a slow clap. I smiled and opened my eyes but was taken aback to see Barton McLeod leaning against the tree trunk, looking at me.

  ‘Wow, Fi!’ he said, nodding his head. ‘You are incredible. How did I not know that we had a Joni Mitchell in our midst? Girl, you need to be on the stage. You need to be singing songs for the revolution.’

  ‘I don’t do audiences well,’ I mumbled, embarrassed.

  ‘Well, I’m impressed.’ He grinned.

  Despite myself I felt a tingle of a thrill at his genuine compliment. ‘Thanks Barton,’ I said.

  ‘What a turnout, hey?’ he said, sweeping an arm about the Forum. ‘There had to be half the entire campus here. Maybe more! Even the teaching staff turned out in some impressive numbers. Nice to have their support! I tell you, we’re the voice of the future.’

  I nodded, still amazed by the reaction to the call up for a march against conscription.

  ‘But, you know,’ he went on, ‘it’s as much a march about the right to march, you know? Because they are trying to shut us down and we have the right to free speech, the right to say, “We are the young people and we are the ones on the frontline and we don’t want to be target practice for the government’s policies.”’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ Agnes said.

  ‘Yeah, I get it now.’ I nodded and put my guitar down. ‘I really do. It might be the law but sometimes laws get it wrong and the politicians kind of need to listen to the people, don’t they? Otherwise nothing will ever change.’

  ‘We have a convert!’ Barton yelled at everyone and no one. ‘Fiona has seen the light.’

  ‘A girl can change her mind.’ I laughed. ‘Sometimes you just need to look at things from a different perspective.’

  I thought about Mr and Mrs Leary, even Laura, and the terrible grief they must have been suffering. I’d been there. I was still there and I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone.

  ‘Do you reckon your boyfriend Luke’s up for it?’ Barton asked, kneeling beside me. ‘I don’t want to force him into this if he really doesn’t want to do it.’

  ‘Oh my gosh.’ I laughed and it came out like a sneeze. ‘Luke’s not my boyfriend!’

  ‘Oh, I thought …’ Barton looked surprised and I might have been imagining it but he seemed a bit relieved. ‘Oh … so you two aren’t …’

  ‘No!’ I said firmly. ‘We’re just friends. Nothing else.’

  Agnes looked at me, then to Barton and then back to me, raising her eyebrow and giving me a cheeky smirk. I gave her a little snappy frown and a shrug that conveyed ‘what?’

  ‘You know what?’ I said, abruptly changing the subject. ‘I was thinking. If we attempted to do something like this in the past … you know like the French Revolution or in Ireland or America or any number of places in the past that needed a good shake up, we’d be facing death – execution or being burned at the stake or something horrific.’

  ‘You’re right, Fi,’ Barton said, taking my hands in his. They were warm and soft. ‘We are really lucky to be able to speak up and march and protest. It’s our right. We can be the change. We can make our governments accountable to us. That’s a gift and I’m going to use it well.’

  ‘Me too!’ I nodded.

  ‘Me too!’ Agnes said and rolled over and put her hands on ours.

  ‘So let’s march for liberty!’ Barton said.

  A week later we were marching. It wasn’t a long distance to cover. The more timid, slightly reluctant students hugged the footpaths so that they were technically not marching, but spectating. Barton led the march like the Captain of the Cavalry, calling into his megaphone to keep our spirits up. He was wearing a huge National Liberation Front flag as a cape like some freedom-of-speech superhero.

  Agnes, Jeff, Luke and I marched along the street as traffic was disrupted and car horns blared, some in
support of our action but more than a few in anger at being inconvenienced. Jeff hummed to himself, keeping ever aloof, while holding Agnes’s hand.

  Luke and I fell behind and let ourselves be swallowed up by the crushing, swelling press of bodies all spilling like sludge through the inner-city streets of Brisbane. I was grateful that the day was cool.

  ‘Barton reckons we’ll run into the coppers at Roma Street,’ Luke said, and I felt a flutter of nerves.

  ‘We don’t have a permit to march so I guess it’s inevitable that we’ll see the boys in blue.’

  I tried to sound full of bravado but a little voice in the back of my head was telling me to go home and hide under my bed until it was all over. Barton had boasted the day before that he’d been arrested eleven times but had never actually been charged with anything other than a traffic violation for causing a traffic jam while marching. He told us this to convince us that there wouldn’t be any serious repercussions if we marched and got taken in by the cops.

  ‘I’m nervous about burning my papers in public, in front of the cops,’ Luke said, and I gave his hand a squeeze.

  ‘You don’t have to do it,’ I said. ‘Barton would totally understand and the march is the important thing. It’s your call, Luke.’

  ‘I can’t pull out now,’ Luke said and I could hear the fear in his voice. ‘To be honest, I’m more than nervous. I’m scared. But at the end of the day I’d still rather go to prison than war. Though neither would be my first choice, hey?’

  I lost sight of Agnes and Jeff. A distant rumble suggested there was thunder approaching and I looked up at the pale blue, almost-white sky and then over my shoulder to the west to see a streak of gunmetal grey approaching.

  Up ahead we heard a commotion and the march seemed to stall and simmer for a few minutes until the message came, shoulder over shoulder, shouted back to us. The police had formed a barrier up near Roma Street Station. I had that feeling in my lower belly that you get when you’re in a car going over a bump at high speed.

  ‘You ready for this?’ I asked Luke breathlessly. ‘I can’t believe I am doing this. My father would kill me if he knew.’