Redemption - Leon Uris [305]
“We’d better get to the cottage before Brigid has a stroke,” Father Cluny said.
At the crossroads the hanging tree outlined itself. “Up there is our fields,” Dary said. Rory could near see his da and Tomas coming down the road and Conor, in smithy apron, all meeting and slipping into Dooley’s for a quick one to face the missus with.
Rory’s knees gave to trembling as he stood before the Larkin cottage. It sprang open and Aunt Brigid, penny-plain as Rory had envisioned, clutched him as a steady stream of tears cascaded down her face.
The meal, of course, had been days in preparation. Rory related Liam’s fine life in New Zealand and what each of his sisters and his brother was about and he assured Brigid the home was devoutly Catholic.
“You know my beloved da, Tomas, and Kilty were not exactly holy men, but they made their peace with God. Conor never did, but you might for yourself, and in his behalf, might you not?” she inquired.
Brigid rattled on about her late husband Colm, finer in death and memory than he had been in life, what with his smelly pipe and smellier dog…God rest his soul…a good man with his acres…but never much for intimacy.
Rory’s poor eyes tried to find every inch of the cottage, the room where they had all been born, up the ladder to the loft where Conor and his da bedded down until they left home.
Rory was overcome, just like so. He needed to be left alone for a half-hour of pure trembling, having no idea how overwhelming the experience would be, or why.
At last the four of them made to the graveyard. Dary held a torch and pointed to each stone.
The first stones were very old, with lettering in Gaelic, and worn flat. Rory ran his hand over one of them and crust crumbled in his fingers.
“That’s your great-great grandfather Ronen, about 1800, between Wolfe Tone and Robert Emmet,” Dary said.
“God, can you imagine. Conor told me about Ronen’s brothers taking him down from the whipping post and spiriting him to Donegal, his bones poking through the flesh from the flogging….”
“Aye,” Brigid said, “he is the patriarch of the Larkins of Ballyutogue along with his wife, Nellanne.”
“The next two are memorials to the families of Cathal and Aidan. Unfortunately none of their bodies made it back here, except Aidan’s.”
“Cathal,” Rory said from memory, “and his wife Siobhan and their four girls all boarded a death ship in 1848 on their way to America. The two youngest girls died a horrible death aboard ship. The others called America their final home, except Cathal, who made his way back here to die. And Aidan was killed fighting to save his cottage and fields. His wife Jenny died in the workhouse and their six kids disappeared forever in a foundling home.”
“You know it well,” Brigid said. “In ’47.”
Reading with his fingers, Rory lit up. “Jaysus, does this say Kilty?”
“Indeed it does,” Brigid said.
“Then this must be his wife Mary and their three wanes.”
“They died of the hunger, and your grandfar, Tomas, dug them under and awaited his own demise only to be saved by Kilty’s miraculous return,” she went on.
“Tomas…Finola…”
“The fine stones and all the restoration work was done through the generosity of your father, Liam, God bless him.”
Brigid’s voice faded into the background. “This is the best-kept plot in Donegal…I put fresh flowers on it from my garden…people come from all over to see these graves….”
Rory took the torch from Dary’s hand as he came to the final stone. Dary led the other two away, retreating to the church.
Rory played the light close, then ran his fingers over the carving, again and again and again.
CONOR LARKIN
SON OF TOMAS AND FINOLA
BORN 1873-DIED 1914
PATRIOT
“I’m here now, Uncle Conor. You knew I’d be. I was too late for the Rising, but there wasn’t much I could have done. It didn’t go too well at first, but memory of it refused to dim. They’re trying to clean the country out and intimidate us one more time.
“So much to tell you about Jeremy and Caroline and me and even Major