by Jim Tully
“What are ye to do about the boy here?” Old Hughie asked my father.
“He’ll be goin’ to work in the mornin’—in a restaurant—washin’ dishes.”
“It’s not a job for a Tully,” grandfather exclaimed—“but aw—’tis no business o’ mine.” Then stopping suddenly he said to my father: “I’ll see ye later.” And to me—
“Good night, me boy.”
CHAPTER II
THE DAY OF HEROES
OLD Hughie Tully was considered an educated man among the Irish peasants of his period. He could read and write.
My great-grandfather was not so fortunate. England did not allow Irish Catholics to attend school in his youth.
He lived and died in ignorance abysmal.
Five feet high, and nearly half of that across the shoulders, his neck was a mass of muscle and according to my grandfather, “Like steel ropes, be God.”
Reared in a hut on a rain-washed bog, he cursed England and Cromwell, and lifted heavy weights for drinks.
He lived to be nearly one hundred years old. He was finally struck by lightning.
“It took an act of God in his mercy to kill him,” was Grandfather’s comment. “No man could do it, begorra. He could knock a horse down—an’ choke a bear to death. He hit a man with his little finger one time and it bashed in his skull. He hit a Protestant in Cork an’ it broke a preacher’s nose in Dublin.… He was a man he was—he was.”
Old Hughie Tully’s well of memory was filled with drama.
Two months later we again sat in the rear of Coffee’s saloon.
My father had money in plenty. He had finished the ditching contract.
Dressed roughly, the men faced each other.
“How’s the dirt in Van Wert County, Jim?”
“Heavy—like glue—it stuck to the shovels and the scrapers—a hell of a job.”
“Oh, it takes yere old dad to show ye how to throw the dirt. When I first give up the piddlin’ and took to the shovel I could throw a barrel o’ dirt over a house—I could—I could.…”
“Take another drink, Father, an’ ye can throw it over the moon—a house is not a bit high.”
“Ye will have yere joke an’ doubt the word o’ yere old father—but there’s only one man who could ever throw the bog to kape even with me—an’ he was—an’ he was Timothy Walsh of long dead mimory— God rist his hot soul.”
My grandfather gulped his red liquor and looked at me with threatening eyes.
Fearful of so strong a gaze I looked at my empty beer glass.
My father called the bartender. Grandfather continued talking.
“He was a murderer—he was, he was. He killed the meanest man in Ireland—and the fattest. He was the boss ov a hundred men and he made ’em dig like worms. They cursed him an’ he bate thim an’ he sneered, ‘Go on an’ curse, ye scum o’ the earth. See the big belly o’ me, and the big chest—indade ye rascals I’m growin’ fatter on yere curses— Glory be to the Blissed Savior.’
“‘Indade an’ ye are,’ says Timothy Walsh, ‘God bliss ye,’ comin’ up closer to him in the bog, ‘how would ye like to go to heavin—where all the rich belong?’
“‘I’ll go to heavin in me own good time,’ says he, ‘an’ it’s not the likes o’ ye who’ll have divil a word to say about it.’
“‘All right,’ says Timothy, says he, ‘but say yere prayers now— I’m not the one to send ye to yere God—wit’ the poison ov yere soul in yere heart— God ‘ud think ye were a snake an’ condemn ye to crawl over the hills of England foriver.’
“‘Ho, ho, ho,’ says the boss, ‘it’s not to be that ye’d be killin’ me—kill one o’ yere own dirt if ye must have the gore o’ men on yere hands….’
“‘It’s not the gore o’ min I’d be after,’ says Timothy, ‘it’s the gore o’ divils—with a dead piece o’ bog for a heart.’
“Over the bog was comin’ the boss’s son.
“‘Ye better hurry if ye want to see a good man die,’ says Timothy, and with that he give a run an’ a jump—an’ a dagger a foot long went into the heart o’ the meanest an’ the fattest man in Ireland.
“He crumbled up like a sack o’ blood with a hole in it—an’ it poured all red and turned thick on the bog. An’ whin the son came close he saw Timothy with the dagger—long an’ bloody.
“‘An’ I’ll kill ye, too,’ says he, ‘with yere thievin’ dead father an’ ye to take his place. God Almighty damn the soul o’ ye! That ye kin ride in yere fine carriage—an’ run over me while I dig in the bog that ye don’t starve.…’ He ran toward the stalwart young son—an’ the madness was upon him—and the son ran like the English before the Irish at the battle of Fontenoy—an’ Timothy was after him with his father’s blood shinin’ red on the dagger.… ‘Run as far as ye like,’ says he, ‘but I’ll catch ye at last … an’ sind ye to yere father now so lonesome and dead.…’
“An’ they ran by the cottage o’ Mary O’Brien. She was ould and she couldn’t see well—an’ she walked on a crutch—an’ she heard a man stumble an’ fall over in her yeard. An’ a man screamed, ‘O God! O God! O God! Don’t murder me!’ Then she heard blood gurgle an’ the dagger go up an’ down. Then she heard the dead man become quiet—an’ look up at the sky with his dead eyes. Thin Timothy kicked the dead jaws o’ him—until his boot rattled agin’ ’em like stones.
“‘Join yer father, ye braggin’ bastard,’ says he, ‘an’ tell him I sint ye—with yere damned heart empty o’ blood that ye sucked from the poor.’
“An’ Mary O’Brien hid in her house tremblin’ like a frozen dog.”
The bartender poured more red liquor in my grandfather’s glass. I watched his laughter-wrinkled face go stern.
“Tim Walsh came to me father’s house. ‘Shake hands wit’ a murderer,’ says he to the ould man. An’ me father says, ‘Who did ye murder,’ says he, an’ Tim says, ‘Who could I be murderin’? Why, the Blakes—father an’ son.…’
“‘It’s too bad,’ says me father, ‘ye should o’ killed his three brothers.…’
“‘Give me time,’ says Tim Walsh.
“‘Does any one know ye did it?’ asks me father.
“‘Nobody but God—an’ he always winks whin a landlord dies—ye kin aven hear the angils snickerin’ in heaven.…’”
My grandfather lifted his glass and clicked it against that of my father’s.
“Here’s to ye,” he snapped, “an’ to the forever gone an’ weather-beaten and lonely soul o’ Timothy Walsh.”
The old man’s voice crooned soft as dawn on an Irish meadow.
“Tim was only twenty-eight, with a head like a lion’s and shoulders as broad as me father’s an’ a heart that was bigger than all Ireland whin it’s rainin’.…
“‘Stay here with me,’ says me father.
“‘No—it’s to America I’ll be goin’ with me bloody hands an’ me soul unafraid.…’
“Well, they got Timothy … an’ came the day of his trial.
“‘Bring in the witness to identify him,’ says the judge.
“In came Mary O’Brien.
“They stood Timothy among the men—an’ gave her the long rod to lay upon the man’s head she had seen with the dagger.
“Ye niver saw a ghost look so terrible. She was bent double, an’ she had no teeth, an’ her hands were bones. She smoked an ould pipe an’ she snarled. Maybe she wouldn’t know him who had rid the earth o’ the monsters.
“An’ they gave her the rod … an’ all looked quiet as the dead on Ash Wednesday.
“She picked up the rod an’ leveled it around the room. My father screamed, ‘My God, Mary.… Betray not our kind.…’ His words were took up by others, an’ they roared.…
“‘Betray not.… Betray not— Betray not our kind.’ They made of it a song until the constable made the room be still.
“Ye could o’ heard a feather drop. Mary O’Brien looked in ivery face … an’ thin like the old witch that she was—sh
e laid the rod on the head of Timothy Walsh—an’ the judge said: ‘Him shall we hang.’
“In the ould days in Ireland ye wint to the rope sittin’ on yere coffin in a cart. Ye got there an’ ye met Canty, the Hangman … an’ they said that he couldn’t sleep at night for the spirits o’ the min with the strangled necks kept tryin’ to choke him.
“Timothy was ordered to be hung near the spot where he’d killed ould Blake, an’ there were many thousands of people gathered there—for they all loved Timothy.
“The horse died— O’ poison maybe—on the way to the gallows where Timothy sat a-laughin’ on his coffin.
“He took the medal ov the Blissed Virgin from around his neck an’ gave it to me father.… ‘Wear it,’ says he, ‘till I be avenged.’
“‘That I will,’ says my father, ‘till the blood runs like water from the hills.…’
“An’ they could git no other horse to drag the cart. For if ye have a horse to drag a man to death in Ireland, ’tis niver forgiven ye—ye belong to the Informers.
“They wanted Tim to help carry his coffin.
“‘Indade an’ I’ll not carry a bed I don’t want to sleep in …’ an’ four men carried the coffin—an’ Timothy walked behind it.
“Tim’s neck was bigger than a bull’s. Big bunches of muscle thicker than ropes strung it to his head.
“He walked along the road, with his coffin goin’ ahead, the beloved Irish payple cursin’, cheerin’ an’ laughin’ at him o’ the brave heart that was about to die.
“‘We’ll see ye in Heaven,’ yelled Mary O’Brien’s nephew, him o’ the black heart.
“‘Ho, ho,’ says Timothy, ‘not if ye go there, ye dog.… I’ll leave on the wings o’ the angel Gabriel—rather even in Hell with Cromwell than with ye in Heaven.’
“The coffin must have been heavy, for the men changed hands—an’ one was tired.…
“‘Come,’ says a constable to me father, ‘an’ give a hand on Timothy’s coffin.’
“‘Indade,’ says father, ‘I’ll carry the coffin ov no friend before he’s dead—not if ye bury me in it.…’
“It begun to rain, an’ the drops rattled on the coffin like lost wet souls.
“‘Hey, hey, hey,’ says Timothy to me father, ‘the God in his heavin is givin’ the worms a drink.’
“He dropped his big chin on his breast an’ walked like a man in a trance. The raindrops rattled louder … an’ Timothy begin to laugh. A man o’ ice an’ iron he was—wit’ a streak of fire between.
“An’ they says to him at the foot o’ the gallows, ‘Will ye have a holy father confessor, Timothy? …’
“And he looked with flames o’ scorn in his eyes.
“‘Indade an’ it’s niver a praist I’ll—if ye bring him that is nayther man nor woman to me, ye’ll have to hang me agin for murder—which would be a bother to the Holy Mither Church.…’
“An’ they put the coffin down as careful as glass.
“‘Ah, ha, ye bosy,’ says Timothy, ‘don’t break me glass bed … for I must see me way through Hell in that.’
“An’ the crowd came in closer an’ closer … an’ Timothy walked up the gallows … the muscles in his neck bulgin’ like hunks o’ steel.
“Canty, the Hangman, stood—his fingers itchin’ on the rope. ‘Have ye anything to say, before maytin’ yere God,’ says he to Timothy.
“‘Was there iver a time an Irishman had nothin’ to say,’ says Timothy, ‘give me a dagger—ye murderer for England—an’ I’ll say it in yere heart.
“‘Gather round me ye slaves o’ England, an’ an unjust God, ye poltroons—rise in yere might with daggers in yere hands an’ cut the throats of yere masters.…’
“The constables rushed around at him at the words.
“‘Kape yere hands off o’ me—I want to go to Heaven clane.…’ Timothy looked as happy as a praist at his own wedding.
“‘Put the rope around me neck with no traitor’s hand upon me—an’ I ask ye me friends when ye take me away—to let none o’ thim to cut me from the rope.’ (For the rilitives an’ the friends took the body in thim days.)
“They stood Timothy on a cart an’ fastened the rope around his neck. Then a dozen o’ the lowest men in Ireland pulled the cart from under him.
“He threw his neck back. His body went straight like an iron rod—an’ he snapped the rope—an’ he fell to the ground—an’ thin me father an’ a thousand others rushed in. There was sich a battle. Ye could hear the heads crackin’ as far away as London … an’ they took Timothy with the rope draggin’ from his neck … an’ they kicked the coffin to splinters.
“‘Git him agin—over our dead bodies,’ says they, an’ me father stood like a block o’ stone a-knockin’ traitors across the Shannon River twenty-eight miles away … ye could hear their heads hittin’ agin’ the trees on the other shore … an’ they popped like empty paper sacks.…
“An’ they rushes to the cottage o’ Mary O’Brien … an’ there was no one at home but a black cat.
“They shut the doors an’ stood with clubs at the windows.
“‘Burn the house,’ yells they, ‘for the cat is Mary O’Brien!’
“An’ the flames crackled up and spit an’ spit—till soon there was ashes and the bones o’ the cat.
“An’ as they hurried over the hills to hide Timothy, he laughed in me father’s ear, an’ he says, ‘That damned rope scorched me neck,’ says he.”
My grandfather hit the table with his glass. My father looked as one who had heard the tale before.
“It’s licker I want,” said the rugged ex-peddler, “Jim—yere father’s glass is empty.”
The bartender filled the glasses.
My grandfather gave me a knowing look.
“There was min in Ireland in thim days, me lad—better min niver lived—like dogs,” says he.
The glass went toward his mouth with the speed of a bullet. He threw his massive head backward.
“I’d never heard ye say that Granddad was at the burnin’ of the car,” observed my father.
“The hell he wasn’t,” the old man retorted sharply, “he’d have burned the Pope that mornin’.” He motioned for the bartender again.
“Ye see—they was mad.”
My father laughed.
With eyes of wonder I look at both.
“What became of Timothy Walsh?” I asked.
“Ah—that’s the sad thing—that’s why he’s been dead to me so many years … indade it was fine the bolt of lightnin’ hit me blissed father before he knew it.
“Ye see—there was some Scotch in him, an’ he didn’t know it. But they smuggled him here to America, an’ he became converted—an’ inded up a Prisbyterian minister.”
The old man looked at his empty glass dolefully.
“A man with a neck like that.”
CHAPTER III
A BED OF PANSIES
SO poverty-stricken were my mother’s parents that three children remained in Ireland long after the others had come to America.
My mother was a house servant at fifty cents a week before she was twelve years old. Within a year she obtained work with another family at one dollar a week.
My grandmother started a boarding house when my mother, Biddy Lawler, was fourteen. Mother and daughter took care of fifty laborers, cooked three meals a day, made the beds, cared for several small children, and did the washing besides.
In two years they saved fifteen hundred dollars. With this money my grandmother purchased what is still known as the Lawler farm.
Then Biddy Lawler married my father. She moved with him into a log shack in the woods. There they remained three years. Sick with the ague, the mumps, yellow jaundice, and malaria fever, they emerged poorer than on their wedding day.
A woman of imagination, my mother had all the moods of April. Married at sixteen, she was dead at thirty-two.
The mother of eight children in as many years, she had an unconscious sense of dr
ama, and no humor. But even humor would not have saved her. She was one of those sad women who lived by ignorance and died by faith.
Her hair was auburn, beautiful, and very long. She wore it in heavy braids which reached to her knees. Her eyes were large, deep brown, and tragically sad.
Her mouth was puckered always in a childish pout. The lower portion of her face was too strong for the current conception of beauty.
Her younger sister, Moll, had dark hair and dark flashing eyes. She was wistful and stubborn.
They had attempted to join a Protestant church. All the other Lawlers gesticulated wildly over the episode. My mother received the news in rigid silence.
Her pink flesh turned white. I was with her in the yard when my father told of the event. She held my hand till it ached.
Only once, and not until months later did she ever make comment.
The following Christmas, her relatives, a dozen in all, drove over the snow in a bob-sled to spend the day with her.
Moll accompanied them.
With an unyielding sense of Irish drama my mother walked to the sled.
She called them all by name, beginning with her father and mother—saying in turn:
“Father, you can get out— Mother, you can get out—Tom, you can get out—” and so on until she came to Aunt Moll—
“But, Moll—you can’t get out. You can never darken my door.”
She turned defiant, and walked into the house, the long auburn braids of her hair swinging like censors aflame.
A brother followed and pleaded with her. He might as well have talked to a stone on a grave.
He pleaded forgiveness on account of Christ’s Birthday—it would make her children happy—
With mouth set tight, she shook her head.
“You may never see her again,” the brother said.
“I never will!” Her mouth went tight again.
My uncle returned to the sled.
He took his seat near Aunt Moll. She was not much over twenty years old. An Irish colleen type, her features were regular and beautiful. Her eyes were vivid blue.
Many writers describe the Irish as loquacious in anger or war.