THE APOTHEOSIS OF HUGHIE THORNTON
Anna was an epistle to Pogue's entry and my only excuse for dragging
Hughie Thornton into this narrative is that he was a commentary on Anna.
He was only once in our house, but that was an "occasion," and for many
years we dated things that happened about that time as "about," "before"
or "after" "the night Hughie stayed in the pigsty."
We lived in the social cellar; Hughie led a precarious existence in the
_sub-cellar_. He was the beggar-man of several towns, of which Antrim
was the largest. He was a short, thick-set man with a pock-marked face,
eyes like a mouse, eyebrows that looked like well-worn scrubbing
brushes, and a beard cropped close with scissors or a knife. He wore two
coats, two pairs of trousers and several waistcoats--all at the same
time, winter and summer. His old battered hat looked like a crow's nest.
His wardrobe was so elaborately patched that practically nothing at all
of the originals remained; even then patches of his old, withered skin
could be seen at various angles. The thing that attracted my attention
more than anything else about him was his pockets. He had dozens of them
and they were always full of bread crusts, scraps of meat and cooking
utensils, for like a snail he carried his domicile on his back. His
boots looked as if a blacksmith had made them, and for whangs (laces) he
used strong wire.
He was preeminently a citizen of the world. He had not lived in a house
in half a century. A haystack in summer and a pigsty in winter sufficed
him. He had a deep graphophone voice and when he spoke the sound was
like the creaking of a barn door on rusty hinges. When he came to town
he was to us what a circus is to boys of more highly favored
communities. There were several interpretations of Hughie. One was that
he was a "sent back." That is, he had gone to the gates of a less
cumbersome life and Peter or the porter at the other gate had sent him
back to perform some unfulfilled task. Another was that he was a
nobleman of an ancient line who was wandering over the earth in disguise
in search of the Grail. A third, and the most popular one, was that he
was just a common beggar and an unmitigated liar. The second
interpretation was made more plausible by the fact that he rather
enjoyed his reputation as a liar, for wise ones said: "He's jist lettin'
on."
On one of his semi-annual visits to Antrim, Hughie got into a barrel of
trouble. He was charged--rumor charged him--with having blinked a
widow's cow. It was noised abroad that he had been caught in the act of
"skellyin'" at her. The story gathered in volume as it went from mouth
to mouth until it crystallized as a crime in the minds of half a dozen
of our toughest citizens--boys who hankered for excitement as a hungry
stomach hankers for food. He was finally rounded up in a field adjoining
the Mill Row meeting-house and pelted with stones. I was of the
"gallery" that watched the fun. I watched until a track of blood
streaked down Hughie's pock-marked face. Then I ran home and told Anna.
"Ma!" I yelled breathlessly, "they're killin' Hughie Thornton!"
Jamie threw his work down and accompanied Anna over the little garden
patches to the wall that protected the field. Through the gap they went
and found poor Hughie in bad shape. He was crying and he cried like a
brass band. His head and face had been cut in several places and his
face and clothes were red.
They brought him home. A crowd followed and filled Pogue's entry, a
crowd that was about equally divided in sentiment against Hughie and
against the toughs.
I borrowed a can of water from Mrs. McGrath and another from the Gainers
and Anna washed old Hughie's wounds in Jamie's tub. It was a great
operation. Hughie of course refused to divest himself of any clothing,
and as she said afterwards it was like "dhressin' th' woonds of a
haystack."
One of my older brothers came home and cleared the entry, and we sat
down to our stir-about and buttermilk. An extra cup of good hot strong
tea was the finishing touch to the Samaritan act. Jamie had scant
sympathy with the beggar-man. He had always called him hard names in
language not lawful to utter, and even in this critical exigency was not
over tender. Anna saw a human need and tried to supply it.
"Did ye blink th' cow?" Jamie asked as we sat around the candle after
supper.
"Divil a blink," said Hughie.
"What did th' raise a hue-an'-cry fur?" was the next question.
"I was fixin' m' galluses, over Crawford's hedge, whin a gomeral luked
over an' says, says he:
"'Morra, Hughie!'
"'Morra, bhoy!' says I.
"'Luks like snow,' says he (it was in July).
"'Aye,' says I, 'we're goin' t' haave more weather; th' sky's in a bad
art'" (direction).
Anna arose, put her little Sunday shawl around her shoulders, tightened
the strings of her cap under her chin and went out. We gasped with
astonishment! What on earth could she be going out for? She never went
out at night. Everybody came to her. There was something so mysterious
in that sudden exit that we just looked at our guest without
understanding a word he said.
Jamie opened up another line of inquiry.
"Th' say yer a terrible liar, Hughie."
"I am that," Hughie said without the slightest hesitation. "I'm th'
champ'yun liar ov County Anthrim."
"How did ye get th' belt?"
"Aisy, as aisy as tellin' th' thruth."
"That's harder nor ye think."
"So's lyin', Jamie!"
"Tell us how ye won th' champ'yunship."
"Whin I finish this dhraw."
He took a live coal and stoked up the bowl of his old cutty-pipe. The
smacking of his lips could have been heard at the mouth of Pogue's
entry. We waited with breathless interest. When he had finished he
knocked the ashes out on the toe of his brogue and talked for nearly an
hour of the great event in which he covered himself with glory.
It was a fierce encounter according to Hughie, the then champion being a
Ballymena man by the name of Jack Rooney. Jack and a bunch of vagabonds
sat on a stone pile near Ballyclare when Hughie hove in sight. The
beggar-man was at once challenged to divest himself of half his clothes
or enter the contest. He entered, with the result that Ballymena lost
the championship! The concluding round as Hughie recited it was as
follows:
"I dhruv a nail throo th' moon wanst," said Jack.
"Ye did, did ye," said Hughie, "but did ye iver hear ov the maan that
climbed up over th' clouds wid a hammer in his han' an' clinched it on
th' other side?"
"No," said the champion.
"I'm him!" said Hughie.
"I'm bate!" said Jack Rooney, "an' begobs if I wor St. Peether I'd kape
ye outside th' gate till ye tuk it out agin!"
Anna returned with a blanket rolled up under her arm. She gave Hughie
his choice between sleeping in Jamie's corner among the lasts or
occupying the pigsty. He chose the pigsty, but before he retired I
begged Anna to ask him about the Banshee.
"Did ye ever really see a Banshee, Hughie?"
"Is there aanythin' a champ'yun liar haasn't seen?" Jamie interrupted.
"Aye," Hughie said, "'deed there is, he niver seen a maan who'd believe
'im even whin he was tellin' th' thruth!"
"That's broth for your noggin', Jamie," Anna said. Encouraged by Anna,
Hughie came back with a thrust that increased Jamie's sympathy for him.
"I'm undther yer roof an' beholdin' t' yer kindness, but I'd like t' ax
ye a civil quest'yun if I may be so bowld."
"Aye, go on."
"Did ye blow a farmer's brains out in th' famine fur a pint ov milk?"
"It's a lie!" Jamie said, indignantly.
"Well, me bhoy, there must b' quite a wheen, thrainin' fur me belt in
Anthrim!"
"There's something in that, Hughie!"
"Aye, somethin' Hughie Thornton didn't put in it!"
We youngsters were irritated and impatient over what seemed to us
useless palaver about minor details. We wanted the story and wanted it
at once, for we understood that Hughie went to bed with the crows and we
stood in terror lest this huge bundle of pockets with its unearthly
voice should vanish into thin air.
"D'ye know McShane?" he asked.
"Aye, middlin'."
"Ax 'im what Hughie Thornton towld 'im wan night be th' hour ov midnight
an' afther. Ax 'im, I say, an' he'll swear be th' Holy Virgin an' St.
Peether t' it!"
"Jist tell us aanyway, Hughie," Anna urged and the beggar-man proceeded.
"I was be th' oul Quaker graveyard be Moylena wan night whin th' shadows
fell an' bein' more tired than most I slipt in an' lay down be th' big
wall t' slape. I cros't m'self seven times an' says I--'God rest th'
sowls ov all here, an' God prosper th' sowl ov Hughie Thornton.' I wint
t' slape an' slept th' slape ov th' just till twelve be th' clock. I was
shuk out ov slape be a screech that waked th' dead!
"Och, be th' powers, Jamie, me hair stud like th' brisels on O'Hara's
hog. I lukt and what m' eyes lukt upon froze me blood like icicles
hingin' frum th' thatch. It was a woman in a white shift, young an'
beautiful, wid hair stramin' down her back. She sat on th' wall wid her
head in her han's keenin' an' moanin': 'Ochone, ochone!' I thried to
spake but m' tongue cluv t' th' roof ov m' mouth. I thried t' move a
han' but it wudn't budge. M' legs an' feet wor as stiff and shtrait as
th' legs ov thim tongs in yer chimley. Och, but it's th' prackus I was
frum top t' toe! Dead intirely was I but fur th' eyes an' th' wit behint
thim. She ariz an' walked up an' down, back an' fort', up an' down, back
an' fort', keenin' an' cryin' an' wringin' her han's! Maan alive, didn't
she carry on terrible! Purty soon wid a yell she lept into the
graveyard, thin she lept on th' wall, thin I heerd her on th' road,
keenin'; an' iverywhere she wint wor long bars of light like sunbames
streamin' throo th' holes in a barn. Th' keenin' become waker an' waker
till it died down like the cheep ov a willy-wag-tail far off be the ind
ov th' road.
"I got up an' ran like a red shank t' McShane's house. I dundthered at
his doore till he opened it, thin I towld him I'd seen th' Banshee!
"'That bates Bannagher!' says he.
"'It bates th' divil,' says I. 'But whose fur above th' night is what
I'd like t' know.'
"'Oul Misther Chaine,' says he, 'as sure as gun's iron!'"
The narrative stopped abruptly, stopped at McShane's door.
"Did oul Misther Chaine die that night?" Anna asked.
"Ax McShane!" was all the answer he gave and we were sent off to bed.
Hughie was escorted to the pigsty with his blanket and candle. What
Jamie saw on the way to the pigsty made the perspiration stand in big
beads on his furrowed brow. Silhouetted against the sky were several
figures. Some were within a dozen yards, others were farther away. Two
sat on a low wall that divided the Adair and Mulholland gardens. They
were silent and motionless, but there was no mistake about it. He
directed Anna's attention to them and she made light of it. When they
returned to the house Jamie expressed fear for the life of the
beggar-man. Anna whispered something into his ear, for she knew that we
were wide-awake. They went into their room conversing in an undertone.
The thing was so uncanny to me that it was three o'clock next morning
before I went to sleep. As early as six there was an unusual shuffling
and clattering of feet over the cobblestones in Pogue's entry. We knew
everybody in the entry by the sound of their footfall. The clatter was
by the feet of strangers.
I "dunched" my brother, who lay beside me, with my elbow.
"Go an' see if oul Hughie's livin' or dead," I said.
"Ye cudn't kill 'im," he said.
"How d'ye know?"
"I heerd a quare story about 'im last night!"
"Where?"
"In th' barber's shop."
"Is he a feerie?"
"No."
"What is he?"
"Close yer thrap an' lie still!"
Somebody opened the door and walked in.
I slid into my clothes and climbed down. It was Withero. He shook Anna
and Jamie in their bed and asked in a loud voice:
"What's all this palaver about an' oul throllop what niver earned salt
t' 'is pirtas?"
"Go on t' yer stone pile, Willie," Anna said, as she sat up in bed;
"what ye don't know will save docther's bills."
"If I catch m'self thinkin' aanythin' sauncy ov that aul haythen baste
I'll change m' name!" he said, as he turned and left in high dudgeon.
When I got to the pigsty there were several early callers lounging
around. "Jowler" Hainey sat on a big stone near the slit. Mary
McConnaughy stood with her arms akimbo, within a yard of the door, and
Tommy Wilson was peeping into the sty through a knot-hole on the side. I
took my turn at the hole. Hughie had evidently been awakened early. He
was sitting arranging his pockets. Con Mulholland came down the entry
with his gun over his shoulder. He had just returned from his vigil as
night watchman at the Greens and was going the longest way around to his
home.
He leaned his gun against the house side and lit his pipe. Then he
opened the sty door, softly, and said:
"Morra, Hughie."
"Morra, Con," came the answer, in calliope tones from our guest.
"Haave ye a good stock ov tubacca?" Con asked Hughie.
"I cud shtart a pipe shap, Con, fur be th' first strake ov dawn I found
five new pipes an' five half ounces ov tubacca inside th' doore ov th'
sty!"
"Take this bit too. Avic, ye don't come ofen," and he gave him a small
package and took his departure.
Eliza Conlon brought a cup of tea. Without even looking in, she pushed
the little door ajar, laid it just inside, and went away without a word.
Mulholland and Hainey seemed supremely concerned about the weather. From
all they said it was quite evident that each of them had "jist dhrapped
aroun' t' find out what Jamie thought ov th' prospects fur a fine day!"
Old Sandy Somerville came hatless and in his shirt-sleeves, his hands
deep in his pockets and his big watchchain dangling across what Anna
called the "front of his back." Sandy was some quality, too, and owned
three houses.
"Did aany o' ye see my big orange cat?" he asked the callers. Without
waiting for an answer he opened the door of the pigsty and peeped in.
By the time Hughie scrambled out there were a dozen men, women and boys
around the sty. As the beggar-man struggled up through his freight to
his feet the eyes of the crowd were scrutinizing him. Sandy shook hands
with him and wished him a pleasant journey.
Hainey hoped he would live long and prosper. As he expressed the hope he
furtively stuffed into one of Hughie's pockets a small package.
Anna came out and led Hughie into the house for breakfast. The little
crowd moved toward the door. On the doorstep she turned around and said:
"Hughie's goin' t' haave a cup an' a slice an' go. Ye can all see him in
a few minutes. Excuse me if I shut the doore, but Jamie's givin' the
thrush its mornin' bath an' it might fly out."
She gently closed the door and we were again alone with the guest.
"The luck ov God is m' portion here," he said, looking at Anna.
Nothing was more evident. His pockets were taxed to their full capacity
and those who gathered around the table that morning wished that the
"luck of God" would spread a little.
"Th' feeries must haave been t' see ye," Jamie said, eyeing his pockets.
"Aye, gey sauncy feeries, too!"
"Did ye see aany, Hughie?" Anna asked.
"No, but I had a wondtherful dhrame." The announcement was a
disappointment to us. We had dreams of our own and to have right at our
fireside the one man in all the world who _saw_ things and get merely a
dream from him was, to say the least, discouraging.
"I thocht I heer'd th' rat, tap; rat, tap, ov th' Lepracaun--th' feerie
shoemaker.
"'Is that th' Lepracaun?' says I. 'If it is I want m' three wishes.'
'Get thim out,' says he, 'fur I'm gey busy th' night.'
"'Soun' slape th' night an' safe journey th' morra,' says I.
"'Get yer third out or I'm gone,' says he.
"I scratched m' head an' swithered, but divil a third cud I think ov.
Jist as he was goin', 'Oh,' says I, 'I want a pig fur this sty!'
"'Ye'll git him!' says he, an' off he wint."
Here was something, after all, that gave us more excitement than a
Banshee story. We had a sty. We had hoped for years for a pig. We had
been forced often to use some of the sty for fuel, but in good times
Jamie had always replaced the boards. This was a real vision and we were
satisfied. Jamie's faith in Hughie soared high at the time, but a few
months later it fell to zero. Anna with a twinkle in her eye would
remind us of Hughie's prophecy. One day he wiped the vision off the
slate.
"T' h--l wi' Hughie!" he said. "Some night he'll come back an' slape
there, thin we'll haave a pig in th' sty shure!"
As he left our house that morning he was greeted in a most unusual
manner by a score of people who crowded the entry. Men and women
gathered around him. They inspected the wounds. They gave their blessing
in as many varieties as there were people present. The new attitude
toward the beggar baffled us. Generally he was considered a good deal of
a nuisance and something of a fraud, but that morning he was looked upon
as a saint--as one inspired, as one capable of bestowing benedictions on
the young and giving "luck" to the old. Out of their penury and want
they brought gifts of food, tobacco, cloth for patches and needles and
thread. He was overwhelmed and over-burdened, and as his mission of
gathering food for a few weeks was accomplished, he made for the town
head when he left the entry.
The small crowd grew into a big one and he was the center of a throng
as he made his way north. When he reached the town well, Maggie
McKinstry had several small children in waiting and Hughie was asked to
give them a blessing. It was a new atmosphere to him, but he bungled
through it. The more unintelligible his jabbering, the more assured were
the recipients of his power to bless. One of the boys who stoned him was
brought by his father to ask forgiveness.
"God save ye kindly," Hughie said to him. "Th' woonds ye made haave been
turned into blessin's galore!" He came in despised. He went out a saint.
It proved to be Hughie's last visit to Antrim. His going out of life was
a mystery, and as the years went by tradition accorded him an exit not
unlike that of Moses. I was amongst those the current of whose lives
were supposed to have been changed by the touch of his hand on that last
visit. Anna alone knew the secret of his alleged sainthood. She was the
author and publisher of it. That night when she left us with Hughie she
gathered together in 'Liza Conlon's a few "hand-picked" people whose
minds were as an open book to her. She told them that the beggar-man was
of an ancient line, wandering the earth in search of the Holy Grail, but
that as he wandered he was recording in a secret book the deeds of the
poor. She knew exactly how the news would travel and where. One
superstition stoned him and another canonized him.
"Dear," she said to me, many, many years afterwards. "A good thought
will thravel as fast an' as far as a bad wan if it gets th' right
start!"