Sitting up one night, in the winter that was on us, my father told us
the story of Muirne from start to finish. It’s well I mind him in the
firelight, a broad-shouldered man, a little stooped, his share of hair
going grey, lines in his forehead, a sad look in his eyes. He was
mending an old sail that night, and I was on my knees beside him in the
name of helping him. My mother and my sisters were spinning frieze.
Seaneen was stretched on his face on the floor, and he in grips of a
book. ’Twas small the heed he gave to the same book, for it’s the
pastime he had, to be tickling the soles of my feet and taking an odd
pinch out of my calves; but as my father stirred out in the story Sean
gave over his trickery, and it is short till he was listening as
interested as anyone. It would be hard not to listen to my father when
he’d tell a story like that by the hearthside. He was a sweet
storyteller. It’s often I’d think there was music in his voice; a low,
deep music like that in the bass of the organ in Tuam Cathedral.
Twenty years are gone, Coilin (says my father), since the night myself
and Coilin Muirne (may God give him grace) and three or four others of
the neighbours were in Neachtan’s public-house in Uachtar Ard. There was
a fair in the town the same day, and we were drinking a glass before
taking the road home on ourselves. There were four or five men in it
from Carrowroe and from the Joyce Country, and six or seven of the
people of the town. There came a stranger in, a thin, black man that
nobody knew. He called for a glass.
“Did ye hear, people,” says he to us, and he drinking with us, “that the
lord is to come home to-night?”
“What business has the devil here?” says someone.
“Bad work he’s up to, as usual,” says the black man. “He has settled to
put seven families out of their holdings.”
“Who’s to be put out?” says one of us.
“Old Thomas O’Drinan from the Glen,--I’m told the poor fellow’s dying,
but it’s on the roadside he’ll die, if God hasn’t him already; a man of
the O’Conaire’s that lives in a cabin on this side of Loch Shindilla;
Manning from Snamh Bo; two in Annaghmaan; a woman at the head of the
Island; and Anthony O’Greelis from Lower Camus.”
“Anthony’s wife is heavy in child,” says Cuimin O’Niadh.
“That won’t save her, the creature,” says the black man. “She’s not the
first woman out of this country that bore her child in a ditch-side of
the road.”
There wasn’t a word out of anyone of us.
“What sort of men are ye?” says the black man,--“ye are not men, at all.
I was born and raised in a countryside, and, my word to you, the men of
that place wouldn’t let the whole English army together throw out seven
families on the road without them knowing the reason why. Are ye afraid
of the man that’s coming here to-night?”
“It’s easy to talk,” said Cuimin, “but what way can we stop the bodach?”
“Murder him this night,” says a voice behind me. Everybody started. I
myself turned round. It was Coilin Muirne that spoke. His two eyes were
blazing in his head, a flame in his cheeks, and his head thrown high.
“A man that spoke that, whatever his name and surname,” says the
stranger. He went hither and gripped Coilin’s hand. “Drink a glass with
me,” says he.
Coilin drank the glass. The others wouldn’t speak.
“It’s time for us to be shortening the road,” says Cuimin, after a
little spell.
We got a move on us. We took the road home. The night was dark. There
was no wish for talk on any of us, at all. When we came to the head of
the street Cuimin stood in the middle of the road.
“Where’s Coilin Muirne?” says he.
We didn’t feel him from us till Cuimin spoke. He wasn’t in the company.
Myself went back to the public-house. Coilin wasn’t in it. I questioned
the pot-boy. He said that Coilin and the black man left the shop
together five minutes after our going. I searched the town. There wasn’t
tale or tidings of Coilin anywhere. I left the town and I followed the
other men. I hoped it might be that he’d be to find before me. He
wasn’t, nor the track of him.
It was very far in the night when we reached Glashaduff bridge. There
was a light in Muirne’s house. Muirne herself was standing in the door.
“God save you, men,” says she, coming over to us. “Is Coilin with you?”
“He isn’t, _muise_,” says I. “He stayed behind us in Uachtar Ard.”
“Did he sell?” says she.
“He did, and well,” says I. “There’s every chance that he’ll stay in the
town till morning. The night’s black and cold in itself. Wouldn’t it be
as well for you to go in and lie down?”
“It’s not worth my while,” says she. “I’ll wait up till he comes. May
God hasten you.”
We departed. There was, as it would be, a load on my heart. I was afraid
that there was something after happening to Coilin. I had ill notions of
that black man.... I lay down on my bed after coming home, but I didn’t
sleep.
The next morning myself and your mother were eating breakfast, when the
latch was lifted from the door, and in comes Cuimin O’Niadh. He could
hardly draw his breath.
“What’s the news with you, man?” says I.
“Bad news,” says he. “The lord was murdered last night. He was got on
the road a mile to the east of Uachtar Ard, and a bullet through his
heart. The soldiers were in Muirne’s house this morning on the track of
Coilin, but he wasn’t there. He hasn’t come home yet. It’s said it was
he murdered the lord. You mind the words he said last night?”
I leaped up, and out the door with me. Down the road, and east to
Muirne’s house. There was no one before me but herself. The furniture of
the house was this way and that way, where the soldiers were searching.
Muirne got up when she saw me in the door.
“Sean O’Conaire,” says she, “for God’s pitiful sake, tell me where’s my
son? You were along with him. Why isn’t he coming home to me?”
“Let you have patience, Muirne,” says I. “I’m going to Uachtar Ard after
him.”
I struck the road. Going in the street of Uachtar Ard, I saw a great
ruck of people. The bridge and the street before the chapel were black
with people. People were making on the spot from every art. But, a thing
that put terror on my heart, there wasn’t a sound out of that terrible
gathering,--only the eyes of every man stuck in a little knot that was
in the right-middle of the crowd. Soldiers that were in that little
knot, black coats and red coats on them, and guns and swords in their
hands; and among the black coats and red coats I saw a country boy, and
bawneens on him. Coilin Muirne that was in it, and he in holds of the
soldiers. The poor boy’s face was as white as my shirt, but he had the
beautiful head of him lifted proudly, and it wasn’t the head of a
coward, that head.
He was brought to the barracks, and that crowd following him. He was
taken to Galway that night. He was put on his trial the next month. It
was sworn that he was in the public-house that night. It was sworn that
the black man was discoursing on the landlords. It was sworn that he
said the lord would be coming that night to throw the people out of
their holdings the next day. It was sworn that Coilin Muirne was
listening attentively to him. It was sworn that Coilin said those words,
“Murder him this night,” when Cuimin O’Niadh said, “What way can we stop
the bodach?” It was sworn that the black man praised him for saying
those words, that he shook hands with him, that they drank a glass
together. It was sworn that Coilin remained in the shop after the going
of the Rossnageeragh people, and that himself and the black man left the
shop together five minutes after that. There came a peeler then, and he
swore he saw Coilin and the black man leaving the town, and that it
wasn’t the Rossnageeragh road they took on themselves, but the Galway
road. At eight o’clock they left the town. At half after eight a shot
was fired at the lord on the Galway road. Another peeler swore he heard
the report of the shot. He swore he ran to the place, and, closing up to
the place, he saw two men running away. A thin man one of them was, and
he dressed like a gentleman would be. A country boy the other man was.
“What kind of clothes was the country boy wearing?” says the lawyer.
“A suit of bawneens,” says the peeler.
“Is that the man you saw?” says the lawyer, stretching his finger
towards Coilin.
“I would say it was.”
“Do you swear it?”
The peeler didn’t speak for a spell.
“Do you swear it?” says the lawyer again.
“I do,” says the peeler. The peeler’s face at that moment was whiter
than the face of Coilin himself.
A share of us swore then that Coilin never fired a shot out of a gun;
that he was a decent, kindly boy that wouldn’t hurt a fly, if he had the
power for it. The parish priest swore that he knew Coilin from the day
he baptized him; that it was his opinion that he never committed a sin,
and that he wouldn’t believe from anyone at all that he would slay a
man. It was no use for us. What good was our testimony against the
testimony of the police? Judgment of death was given on Coilin.
His mother was present all that time. She didn’t speak a word from start
to finish, but her two eyes stuck in the two eyes of her son, and her
two hands knitted under her shawl.
“He won’t be hanged,” says Muirne that night. “God promised me that he
won’t be hanged.”
A couple of days after that we heard that Coilin wouldn’t be hanged,
that it’s how his soul would be spared him on account of him being so
young as he was, but that he’d be kept in gaol for the term of his life.
“He won’t be kept,” says Muirne. “O Jesus,” she would say, “don’t let
them keep my son from me.”
It’s marvellous the patience that woman had, and the trust she had in
the Son of God. It’s marvellous the faith and the hope and the patience
of women.
She went to the parish priest. She said to him that if he’d write to the
people of Dublin, asking them to let Coilin out to her, it’s certain he
would be let out.
“They won’t refuse you, Father,” says she.
The priest said that there would be no use at all in writing, that no
heed would be paid to his letter, but that he himself would go to Dublin
and that he would speak with the great people, and that, maybe, some
good might come out of it. He went. Muirne was full-sure her son would
be home to her by the end of a week or two. She readied the house before
him. She put lime on it herself, inside and outside. She set two
neighbours to put a new thatch on it. She spun the makings of a new suit
of clothes for him; she dyed the wool with her own hands; she brought it
to the weaver, and she made the suit when the frieze came home.
We thought it long while the priest was away. He wrote a couple of times
to the master, but there was nothing new in the letters. He was doing
his best, he said, but he wasn’t succeeding too well. He was going from
person to person, but it’s not much satisfaction anybody was giving him.
It was plain from the priest’s letters that he hadn’t much hope he’d be
able to do anything. None of us had much hope, either. But Muirne didn’t
lose the wonderful trust she had in God.
“The priest will bring my son home with him,” she used say.
There was nothing making her anxious but fear that she wouldn’t have the
new suit ready before Coilin’s coming. But it was finished at last; she
had everything ready, repair on the house, the new suit laid on a chair
before the fire,--and still no word of the priest.
“Isn’t it Coilin will be glad when he sees the comfort I have in the
house,” she would say. “Isn’t it he will look spruce going the road to
Mass of a Sunday, and that suit on him!”
It’s well I mind the evening the priest came home. Muirne was waiting
for him since morning, the house cleaned up, and the table laid.
“Welcome home,” she said, when the priest came in. She was watching the
door, as she would be expecting someone else to come in. But the priest
closed the door after him.
“I thought that it’s with yourself he’d come, Father,” says Muirne.
“But, sure, it’s the way he wouldn’t like to come on the priest’s car.
He was shy like that always, the creature.”
“Oh, poor Muirne,” says the priest, holding her by the two hands, “I
can’t conceal the truth from you. He’s not coming, at all. I didn’t
succeed in doing anything. They wouldn’t listen to me.”
Muirne didn’t say a word. She went over and she sat down before the
fire. The priest followed her and laid his hand on her shoulder.
“Muirne,” says he, like that.
“Let me be, Father, for a little while,” says she. “May God and His
Mother reward you for what you’ve done for me. But leave me to myself
for a while. I thought you’d bring him home to me, and it’s a great blow
on me that he hasn’t come.”
The priest left her to herself. He thought he’d be no help to her till
the pain of that blow would be blunted.
The next day Muirne wasn’t to be found. Tale or tidings no one had of
her. Word nor wisdom we never heard of her till the end of a quarter. A
share of us thought that it’s maybe out of her mind the creature went,
and a lonely death to come on her in the hollow of some mountain, or
drowning in a boghole. The neighbours searched the hills round about,
but her track wasn’t to be seen.
One evening myself was digging potatoes in the garden, when I saw a
solitary woman making on me up the road. A tall, thin woman. Her head
well-set. A great walk under her. “If Muirne ni Fhiannachta is living,”
says I to myself, “it’s she that’s in it.” ’Twas she, and none else.
Down with me to the road.
“Welcome home, Muirne,” says I to her. “Have you any news?”
“I have, then,” says she, “and good news. I went to Galway. I saw the
Governor of the gaol. He said to me that he wouldn’t be able to do a
taste, that it’s the Dublin people would be able to let him out of gaol,
if his letting-out was to be got. I went off to Dublin. O, Lord, isn’t
it many a hard, stony road I walked, isn’t it many a fine town I saw
before I came to Dublin? ‘Isn’t it a great country, Ireland is?’ I used
say to myself every evening when I’d be told I’d have so many miles to
walk before I’d see Dublin. But, great thanks to God and to the Glorious
Virgin, I walked in on the street of Dublin at last, one cold, wet
evening. I found a lodging. The morning of the next day I enquired for
the Castle. I was put on the way. I went there. They wouldn’t let me in
at first, but I was at them till I got leave of talk with some man. He
put me on to another man, a man that was higher than himself. He sent me
to another man. I said to them all I wanted was to see the Lord
Lieutenant of the Queen. I saw him at last. I told him my story. He said
to me that he couldn’t do anything. I gave my curse to the Castle of
Dublin, and out the door with me. I had a pound in my pocket. I went
aboard a ship, and the morning after I was in Liverpool of the English.
I walked the long roads of England from Liverpool to London. When I came
to London I asked knowledge of the Queen’s Castle. I was told. I went
there. They wouldn’t let me in. I went there every day, hoping that I’d
see the Queen coming out. After a week I saw her coming out. There were
soldiers and great people about her. I went over to the Queen before she
went in to her coach. There was a paper, a man in Dublin wrote for me,
in my hand. An officer seized me. The Queen spoke to him, and he freed
me from him. I spoke to the Queen. She didn’t understand me. I stretched
the paper to her. She gave the paper to the officer, and he read it. He
wrote certain words on the paper, and he gave it back to me. The Queen
spoke to another woman that was along with her. The woman drew out a
crown piece and gave it to me. I gave her back the crown piece, and I
said that it’s not silver I wanted, but my son. They laughed. It’s my
opinion they didn’t understand me. I showed them the paper again. The
officer laid his finger on the words he was after writing. I curtseyed
to the Queen and went off with me. A man read for me the words the
officer wrote. It’s what was in it, that they would write to me about
Coilin without delay. I struck the road home then, hoping that, maybe,
there would be a letter before me. Do you think, Sean,” says Muirne,
finishing her story, “has the priest any letter? There wasn’t a letter
at all in the house before me coming out the road; but I’m thinking it’s
to the priest they’d send the letter, for it’s a chance the great people
might know him.”
“I don’t know did any letter come,” says I. “I would say there didn’t,
for if there did the priest would be telling us.”
“It will be here some day yet,” says Muirne. “I’ll go in to the priest,
anyhow, and I’ll tell him my story.”
In the road with her, and up the hill to the priest’s house. I saw her
going home again that night, and the darkness falling. It’s wonderful
how she was giving it to her footsoles, considering what she suffered of
distress and hardship for a quarter.
A week went by. There didn’t come any letter. Another week passed. No
letter came. The third week, and still no letter. It would take tears
out of the grey stones to be looking at Muirne, and the anxiety that was
on her. It would break your heart to see her going in the road to the
priest every morning. We were afraid to speak to her about Coilin. We
had evil notions. The priest had evil notions. He said to us one day
that he heard from another priest in Galway that it’s not more than well
Coilin was, that it’s greatly the prison was preying on his health, that
he was going back daily. That story wasn’t told to Muirne.
One day myself had business with the priest, and I went in to him. We
were conversing in the parlour when we heard a person’s footstep on the
street outside. Never a knock on the house-door, or on the parlour-door,
but in into the room with Muirne ni Fhiannachta, and a letter in her
hand. It’s with trouble she could talk.
“A letter from the Queen, a letter from the Queen!” says she.
The priest took the letter. He opened it. I noticed that his hand was
shaking, and he opening it. There came the colour of death in his face
after reading it. Muirne was standing out opposite him, her two eyes
blazing in her head, her mouth half open.
“What does she say, Father?” says she. “Is she sending him home to me?”
“It’s not from the Queen this letter came, Muirne,” says the priest,
speaking slowly, like as there would be some impediment on him, “but
from the Governor of the gaol in Dublin.”
“And what does he say? Is he sending him home to me?”
The priest didn’t speak for a minute. It seemed to me that he was trying
to mind certain words, and the words, as you would say, going from him.
“Muirne,” says he at last, “he says that poor Coilin died yesterday.”
At the hearing of those words, Muirne burst a-laughing. The like of such
laughter I never heard. That laughter was ringing in my ears for a month
after that. She made a couple of terrible screeches of laughter, and
then she fell in a faint on the floor.
She was fetched home, and she was on her bed for a half year. She was
out of her mind all that time. She came to herself at long last, and no
person at all would think there was a thing the matter with her,--only
the delusion that her son isn’t returned home yet from the fair of
Uachtar Ard. She does be expecting him always, standing or sitting in
the door half the day, and everything ready for his home-coming. She
doesn’t understand that there’s any change on the world since that
night. “That’s the reason, Coilin,” says my father to me, “that she
didn’t know the railway was coming as far as Burnt House. Times she
remembers herself, and she starts keening like you saw her. ’Twas
herself that made yon keen you heard from her. May God comfort her,”
says my father, putting an end to his story.
“And daddy,” says I, “did any letter come from the Queen after that?”
“There didn’t, nor the colour of one.”
“Do you think, daddy, was it Coilin that killed the lord?”
“I know it wasn’t,” says my father. “If it was he’d acknowledge it. I’m
as certain as I’m living this night that it’s the black man killed the
lord. I don’t say that poor Coilin wasn’t present.”
“Was the black man ever caught?” says my sister.
“He wasn’t, _muise_,” says my father. “Little danger on him.”
“Where did he belong, the black man, do you think, daddy?” says I.
“I believe, before God,” says my father, “that it’s a peeler from Dublin
Castle was in it. Cuimin O’Niadh saw a man very like him giving evidence
against another boy in Tuam a year after that.”
“Daddy,” says Seaneen suddenly, “when I’m a man I’ll kill that black
man.”
“God save us,” says my mother.
My father laid his hand on Seaneen’s head.
“Maybe, little son,” says he, “we’ll all be taking tally-ho out of the
black soldiers before the clay will come on us.”
“It’s time for the Rosary,” says my mother.
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