Читать книгу Blood of the Donnellys - David McRae - Страница 8

After we headed out of the Toronto area, drafts gusted in between the door jambs and window frames of our car. Jennifer threw me a warm comforter. I gathered the blanket around me, smiled a thank-you to Jennifer, closed my eyes, and fell asleep. The gentle rocking of the car in the snow squall helped to lull me, but I still heard snatches of conversation between my parents and Jennifer.

“Highway 23, next turn!” Dad said. “Used to be called Cedar Swamp Road a hundred years ago.”

I felt the lurch of the car as it skidded in the rutted drifts lining the highway. The snow was falling more heavily now and the wind had increased steadily. I was too nervous to sleep anymore.

Jennifer poked me. “Welcome back, sleepyhead!” She was trying hard to cheer me up.

“Didn’t miss much, did I?”

“Only about three accidents and an extra ten centimetres of snow!”

I sat up as the car skidded again. Wet snow built up on the wipers and the windshield with each passing swipe.

“Cedar Swamp School’s next on our tour,” Dad joked, trying to take our minds off the weather.

I groaned. He always had the same spiel whenever we came this way to Granddad’s.

“School Section Number 4, built in 1874, and the meeting place for the vigilantes who burned out the Donnellys.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes. Still, Dad’s history lesson did distract us from the storm.

“Today’s February 4, isn’t it?” Jennifer asked. “The anniversary of the Donnelly massacre?”

“You’re right, Jennifer,” Mom said. “You’ve heard this story before, haven’t you, Jason?”

“Yeah, Mom, a million times.”

I watched the blinding snowflakes hurtle toward us. The white wall of snow was hypnotizing me, so I was sure Dad was having a hard time keeping the car on the road.

“James Carroll, the constable from Lucan, led the vigilantes,” Dad said. “They met at the schoolhouse early in the morning of the fourth. Between complaints about the Donnellys and several passes of the liquor jug, they decided the Donnellys had to go.”

“But I’ve never understood why,” I said, needing to keep my mind off the storm.

Mom and Dad looked at each other in surprise. Dad even glanced in his rearview mirror to make sure it was me in the back seat. After a short pause, he launched into the story again. “Jealousy, I gather.”

“Jealousy?” Jennifer said. “I’ve never heard that before.”

Nor had I. I leaned over Mom’s seat to hear Dad better.

“The Irish,” Dad continued, “were all hard workers, hard drinkers, and hard fighters. The Donnellys seemed better at all three than most. They farmed; they worked in logging camps and railway lines; they operated stagecoaches. They prospered in very hard times.”

“But that doesn’t seem to be enough reason to murder them.” I was really awake now.

“It was a brutal life in Lucan in the mid-1800s,” he continued. “There were stories of farm thefts, livestock mutilations, fights, stagecoach feuds, and barn fires. Locals never forgave Jim Donnelly for the murder of Pat Farrell, even though he spent the seven years he was sentenced to in Kingston Penitentiary. While he was away, his wife, Johannah, raised their seven boys and daughter, Jennifer. The boys had to learn to take care of themselves and to look after their mother. They learned to work hard and defend themselves. Their reputations started early.”

“But, Dad,” Jennifer said, “that’s still not enough reason to murder them.”

“Tom!” Mom suddenly cried. “Look out!”

A flurry of blinding snow smothered the windshield as the car bucked a heavy snowdrift. I banged against Mom’s seat and lurched toward Jennifer, grabbing her before she slammed her head into Dad’s headrest. We both fell back against the bench seat.

“Thanks, Jason!” Jennifer whispered.

I grinned. “Watch it, Stilts!”

I knew she really hated that name, but this time I was using it to let her know we were still friends. She took the hint and smiled in return. Pushing myself closer to the window, I peered into the raging storm. Even though it was daytime, the sky shifted from light grey to a more ominous black.

“Jennifer,” I said, “look at those strange clouds!”

She leaned across my chest and stared at the flowing shapes. “They look like galloping horses.”

“Without heads,” Dad said. “Legend, rumour if you will, has it that you can see galloping headless horses in the night sky over the Roman Line every February 4.”

“Wow!” Jennifer and I said at the same time.

As I studied the ghostly clouds drifting across the bleak sky, one of the blackest shapes veered across the hood of the car and momentarily blocked Dad’s view of the road. As the vehicle bounced in the snowdrifts and spun in a full circle, the countryside flashed before our eyes and we hurtled helplessly across the road into the ditch on the opposite side. When the car hit the ditch, a wall of snow covered the back window. Dazed and confused, we all started to talk and move at once.

“Sit still!” Dad ordered. He seldom raised his voice, and when he did, he always got everyone’s attention. Slowly, he opened his door and stepped into a knee-deep drift. “We’re stuck!”

“Stuck! But, Tom —” Mom said, beginning to panic.

“Easy, Ellen,” Dad soothed. “We turned on the Roman Line about two kilometres back. My dad’s place isn’t far. See! There’s Rob Salts’s place, the old Donnelly Homestead. We’re nearly there.”

“What was that shadow?” Jennifer asked, shivering. She had moved from her rear seat.

Dad chuckled. “The Midnight Lady, I imagine.”

“Who?” I gasped.

“Thomas Kelley’s Midnight Lady. According to him, she rides every February 4 on the Roman Line, seeking revenge for the Donnellys.”

“Really?” I’d heard more stories about the Donnellys in one day than ever before in my life, even from Granddad.

“Let’s go, Jason!” Dad said. “We’ll walk to Granddad’s and get his tractor to pull us out. Ellen and Jennifer, you stay here.”

“But, Tom!” Mom protested.

“It’ll be better for you and Jennifer to wait in the car and keep warm,” Dad said. “We’ll be back in a jiffy. I promise.”

Dad and I began walking. Smooth, wind-sculpted snowbanks stretched everywhere I looked. Some tapered into the surrounding open spaces, while others filled the road’s width.

“Dad,” I said after we’d struggled about halfway to Granddad’s, “do you believe those stories you told me?”

“What stories?” he said as he laboured awkwardly through the snow.

I knew he had other things on his mind, but I wanted an answer. Besides, I figured talking about the Donnellys might help us keep our minds off the storm. “Those ghost stories about — never mind.”

Dad turned and faced me, blinking away some swirling snowflakes. “No, I don’t really believe in ghosts. I’ve heard those stories ever since I was your age. Most people around here don’t like to talk about the Donnellys at all. Those that do seem to add to the tales with each telling. Even Rob Salts doesn’t put too much faith in some of the stories he hears.”

“But I thought he was a trance clair ...”

“Clairvoyant,” Dad finished. “That’s right. He’s a professional and has studied the issues extensively. But at the same time he’s quite serious about the history of the Donnelly family and won’t accept anything but the facts. He offers a great tour of his farm. We should go someday this spring.”

Plodding headfirst into the storm, we nearly missed Granddad’s lane. The snow was piled almost as high as the posts marking his laneway. We climbed over the drifts on our hands and knees until we reached my grandparents’ back door. Dad pounded heavily — Granddad was slightly deaf and his eyesight was blurred. After about the fifth bang, we heard footsteps shuffling across the kitchen floor. A loud crash erupted, and Granddad muttered a curse. Soon the flowered lace curtains parted from the window on the back door.

“Who’s there?” Granddad demanded.

“Dad, it’s Jason and me! Open up!”

“I’m not opening to anybody! Not on a day like this!”

We both heard a metallic click.

“Back off and go away!” Granddad barked, pointing his shotgun through the window.

“For heaven’s sake!” A small grey head with a round hair bun at the back peeked over the windowsill. “Put that gun down, you old fool!”

I laughed. Grandma might be tiny, but she sure could make Granddad obey.

“But, Mother!” he protested.

“Mom!” Dad called. “Let us in!”

Grandma glanced through the frosted window, and her eyes bulged. “It’s Tom!” she cried. “And Jason’s with him. Open the door for them.”

“Tom?” he huffed. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

The door jerked open, and we both stumbled in. Grandma hugged me and shook the snow off Dad’s neck and shoulders. After hanging our coats on the rack near the wood-burning stove, she hurried to plug in the electric kettle.

“Not now, Mom!” Dad said. “Ellen and Jennifer are stuck in the drift at the end of the line. Tom and I will just get warm and dry out a bit. Dad, can we borrow your tractor?”

Granddad didn’t answer. Instead he buried himself in the utility closet and muttered a soft curse as his shotgun thudded on the floor. Finally, he emerged with his eyeglasses skewed crookedly over his face, grey tufts of hair spread in every direction, and his scarf drooped around his neck. “Give me a minute to fire the tractor up!” he told us as he tugged on his knee-high winter field boots.

I looked at my dad, who smiled, shook his head, and raised both eyebrows.

“We’ll be back, Mother!” Granddad said. “Keep the kettle warm. Let’s go, Tom! You, too, Jason!”

Dad and I put our coats back on and tumbled down the back stoop and out to the barn. “He sure doesn’t change, does he?” I said to Dad, and we both grinned.

“Wait there!” Granddad ordered. He trudged through the snow blocking the lane to the barn. Dad and I started to follow him when we saw him struggle with the barn door, which was stuck in the snowdrifts. “Stay there!” he commanded, shoving one last time. The door skittered along its roller track, and Granddad toppled through the door but quickly staggered to his feet.

“Granddad!” I called. “Are you all right?”

I relaxed when I heard a string of swear words and saw him angrily brush the snow from his coat collar. Then he climbed onto the tractor, a 1948 Massey-Ferguson, and pulled the choke out to three-quarters full — no more or it would flood, he’d always warn. Next he twisted the key to the on position and pressed the starter. The engine coughed, and a black puff of smoke belched from the exhaust pipe. Then nothing more.

“Come on, old girl!” he coaxed. “Just one more time!”

Again he stamped on the starter button. This time the engine caught and the whole tractor shuddered. He dropped the gear into reverse, and the old tractor lurched out the door, easily cutting through the snow.

“Hop on, boys!” he cackled as he stopped beside us.

Dad and I each grabbed a rear fender and balanced on the hitch tongue. Pushing the choke all the way in and opening the throttle full speed, Granddad headed down the lane to the Roman Line. I had enjoyed rides with Granddad on the back of his tractor since I was barely old enough to crawl onto it. Smelling the musty farm odours and the stale, sweet scent of pipe tobacco that lingered in the folds of his winter coat, I smiled, then chuckled to myself when I sniffed a faint whiff of brandy. Granddad always kept a small “medicine” flask inside his inner coat pocket.

In no time at all Granddad was hooking his drag chain to the front bumper of our car and easing the vehicle out, which was empty. Apparently, Jennifer and Mom had left a note saying they’d gone to Mr. Salts’s farm. I helped Dad clear the snow-crusted windows and check all the doors to make sure none had sprung during the accident.

Satisfied that everything was in good shape, Dad jumped into the driver’s side and turned the ignition. The engine started on the first try. Rolling down the window, he said, “Jason, stay with Granddad and help him gather his chains. I’m going to get your mother and Jennifer.”

“Nice folks, those Saltses!” Granddad puffed as he coiled the chains into the tractor’s tool box. Resting on the rear fender, he took out his flask and winked at me merrily. “Winter chills, boy,” he said, taking a drink.

“Do you believe all those ghost stories about Mr. Salts’s place, Granddad?” I asked. “He seems real weird sometimes!”

“Mind your manners, boy!” Granddad scolded. “Mr. Salts is a good friend of mine. And, yes, I do believe he experiences presences on his farm.”

I rolled my eyes, pretending that I was checking the position of the storm clouds, but I wasn’t fooling Granddad. He knew I didn’t put much stock in the Donnelly hauntings.

“Never mind about that stuff now!” he growled as he took another swig of medicine. “Let’s get back home!”

Soon the whole family was gathered in my grandparents’ kitchen. The old wood stove blasted its warmth around us. Granddad dropped more logs into the wood box and slid into his favourite rocker, while Grandma bustled around the kitchen as she prepared cups of English tea and hot chocolate.

“You’re the best,” Jennifer said as she scooped fluffy marshmallows from the top of her frothing chocolate. “And oatmeal raisin cookies, too. You rock, Grandma!”

Grandma blushed. “Thank you, dear!”

She passed other refreshments to Dad, Mom, and Granddad. “More of your medicine again, dear?”

“Medicine? What medicine?” Granddad grumbled as he stirred an extra teaspoon of sugar into his tea.

He looked at me with annoyance, but I shrugged helplessly. We both smiled. After finishing my hot chocolate, I moved to the opposite side of the kitchen and sat at the long harvest table. The local Lucan paper lay scattered across its polished surface. Idly, I scanned the front page, then stopped at a headline near the bottom of the page.

OLD SCHOOLHOUSE RANSACKED!

Late last night Constable Howard from the Lucan detachment of the Ontario Provincial Police received an anonymous call regarding a possible break-in at the old Biddulph SS 74 School on the Roman Line. The caller, not wishing to be identified, claimed he saw flashlights around the outside of the building. The source then saw shadows enter the darkened schoolhouse.

Creeping closer, the witness saw a small burning firepit in the middle of the dirt floor and heard angry voices rising steadily in serious quarrelling. During a mild scuffle, one of the intruders kicked a burning log into a pile of oily rags. When a larger fire erupted, the informant fled the scene and called the police.

Upon his investigation, Constable Howard did find evidence of an attempted break-in and remnants of a small fire inside the building. After its closure, the school became a private storage shed. According to the owner, none of his property was missing.

Constable Howard attributed the break-in to young midnight frolickers investigating the local myths of midnight ghostly sightings along the Roman Line. Promising regular surveillance, Constable Howard considered the case closed.

“Hey, Granddad!” I called out. “Did you read about this break-in at the schoolhouse?” I leaned back from the table as Jennifer bent over my shoulder to read the article herself.

“Wonder who called it in,” Jennifer said. “Says here they didn’t find anyone. Any clues, Granddad?”

“Some local punks!” Granddad muttered. “Andrew Smith and his gang of bullies, no doubt.”

I glanced at Jennifer. Then we both stared at Granddad as he hunched into his rocking chair and scowled at his steaming cup of tea. We both knew Granddad could be cranky, but we’d never heard him speak so harshly of young people before.

“Now, George,” Grandma cautioned, “you can’t be sure those boys were there. After all, Andrew’s grandparents are quite respected in Lucan, and I’m sure they wouldn’t tolerate that kind of behaviour from their grandson.”

“Him and his gang of White Boys!” Granddad snorted. “Punks, all of them! Strutting around town with white floppy laces in their black boots!”

“George!” Grandma scolded.

“White Boys?” I said questioningly, but Granddad didn’t bother to elaborate.

Grandma sighed. “You’ve started, George, so you might as well finish.”

“Well?” Jennifer prodded. She, too, wanted to know more and waited for Granddad to speak.

“The White Boys,” Granddad began, “was the name of a Catholic secret society that had its origins in Ireland a few centuries ago. The members strongly supported the teachings of the priests and the doctrines of the church. Anyone not fully following the dictates of the pope and the Catholic Church was excluded. Those people became known as Blackfeet and often suffered persecution from the White Boys.”

“Blackfeet?” I mused.

“That’s how you get the name Black Donnellys, Black O’Reillys, or Black O’Tooles,” Granddad said. “Any family not fully supporting the Catholic Church or who fraternized with the Protestants had the name Black attached to them.”

“So the Donnellys weren’t evil?” I asked.

“No,” Granddad said, “I wouldn’t say that. When it came to drinking and fighting, they could beat the best of them. But I also think they weren’t popular because they had friends and did business with everyone in the community, particularly the Protestant Irish.”

Grandma coughed. We knew she wanted Granddad to stop, otherwise he’d go on for hours.