AN IRISH STORY

Dominion, Volume 19, Issue 57, 29 November 1924, Page 18

AN IRISH STORY

THE LONG ARM OF BLACK ANDY

There was a dance that night at the house of Johnny McNamee, of Manormaguire, in celebration of. the marriage of his daughter Bella to Phil Donelly. A- good match for her, it had been, said . the gossips. "What were tho McNamees, anyway, but backward, mountainy •• people, let Johnny hold his head high as he would. And young Phil Donelly was the son of a farmer away out Killacross, a warm man that had put past* him and that had a brave little farm of land to set up the young couple. So there was to be dancing and festivity, plenty of porter for certain, and, it might be, a drop of stronger stuff on which the English gauger had never cast ah eye. Thither came, amid a round dozen guests, more than enough to. fill comfortable the earth-floored kitchen of the McNamees’ house, Black Andy Maguire and his comely daughter Annie, known over a barony as the Roee of Innismore. Black Andy’s own reputation was equally jvidespread, but much less pleasant. If was his heart and his temper as well as his matted hair that had gained him that sobriquet. He was a blacksmith, of the tradition of botchers, who drive nails deep and crooked and pare away a horse’s frog as if slicing cheese. He was a man of vast strength, a man to be feared when sober and fled when drunk. He was a widower, a timid wife having given up the struggle of acting as his help-mate after two years of marriage. Any decency that was in him showed in his relations with his daughter. True, he cowed and threatened her, but he generally kept' his hands off her, and Annie thought herself lucky in his forbearance. She was a gentle creature, who,took after her mother in character as well as appearance, with big brown eyes and a shy, elfin beauty that had impressed itself on the imagination of an imaginative) countryside. Thither came, too, Tom Nixon, the elder son of Robert Nixon of Knockmanawla. The Nixons were, as their name will tell, Protestant, at least in theory, find Tom’s visit would have appeared incredible to a stranger to tho district. He was of a type almost unknown in Ulster, a young man interested neither in politics nor religion. Such a man, unprepared to strike a blow for either side, may expect blows from both, but Tom, because of his goodness at heart, was in his own camp and in the other alike greeted with a certain contemptuous tolerance. Ho came to see Annie Maguire. He was a creature born out of due time, hurling himself against a barrier that had been too strong for generations of his ancestors and that would loom up unshaken before the eyes of generations to come. -' Of late, however, even he had begun to realise that his case was nigh hopeless. The Maguires were by no means devout. Black Andy would have been a black sheep in any flock; his fierceness was untempered by tho maudlin piety sometimes seen in his type. But they were Catholics. Anil. this was Ireland. So it was with sad heart that Tom rode to the festival, to look, as ho expected, for the last time upon the Rose of Innismore. ■ The fun was good, as it had promised. There was soda-bread and butter, large flat biscuits with caraway seeds, dusted with tiny flakes of pink Sugar, pots of stewed tea for such as desired it, bottles of Guinness for. the rest. Two or three of the older men .were led by Johnny McNamee into another room, whence they emerged wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands and with'that happily dazed look that follows a stiff draught of potheen. Little Ned' Corrigan, the fiddler, well warmed with porter, sat on a stool with his back to one or the wings of the open hearth, and, swaying head and body to the beat of the music, set four couples jigging to his capering tune. The place filled with a roar of voices, yelps of excitement from the male jiggers, the slap of heavy feet on the flour, loud laughter and applause of onlookers, and above all the high scream of the fiddle. Black Andy was in his element. He sat on the opposite side of the fire to Ned Corrigan, and punctuated the measures of the dance with approving howls. But, strong as he was, he haa met his match. Man born of woman cannot top up raw potheen with Guinness’s stout with impunity. Black Andy passed from whooping to the music to singing private songs of his own, and presently collapsed in the midst of an uncertain rendering of “Mick McGilligan’s Daughter Mary Anne.” He slipped sidelong from his stool, which was fortunately not much more than a foot high, and after a moment’s swearing and gasping .fell into a stertorous slumber, head propped against the chimney-piece, wide mouth showing yellow fangs—a fearsome sight. Yet few noticed liini save such as tripped over his feet in passing. One who did, who had watched him carefully since lie entered the place, was Tom Nixon. The first dance being over and her father rendered innocuous, he was able now to" approach Annie. She was seated on a bench against the wail, sipping a cup of tea. She looked up at him with troubled eyes and a heightened colour shone in her cheeks.

“I have it here m me pocket. Annfe/* he began somberly. '’The ticket to America.” “Holy God!” said Annie softly, anft yet with the breath of passion and despair. She stared up at the man leaning over her. “Holy God!. When is it ye go, Tom?” “The morrow. On the halt-six train. It’s from Moville I’m sailin’.” The girl shivered as though an ky wind had touched her. Her face seemed to shrivel. .He looked at her keenly and as if. with a certain curiosity as to how she would take fresh stabs of the knife. “Are ye sorry, Annie?” “God 'knows I’m sorry.” “It’s for you I’m going’, and well you know it. Ye could have kept me if ye’d liked. Ye’d only to say the wtrrd.” “Ah, don’t say that now, Tom!” “It’s God’s truth.” “Ah. what could I do?” “An’ even yet,” he went on, “wwsa yet, if ye’d say the word, I’d not go.” “With the ticket in your pocket?” Wonderment and admiration crept into her voice. . “Sure, what odds about the ticket” Me father can well afford to be at the loss of it.” “An’ you off to America an learm him an’ the farm an’ all!”, ■-.? Men who could afford the loss or a ticket to America were not, as a rule, those who bought them. “Ay. Billy’ll have the farm. He’d have it anyway. I’ll not stop without vou, an’ I couldn’t stop with you. We’d get no sort of toleration at all. But me uncle that has a carrier’s business in Manchester would take me. He’s wantin’ a man for the horses. I’l go to him instead of America if ya’d come.” “Tom, I dare Mt. Me father ' Each glanced involuntarily toward Black Andy. That worthy had net changed his posture. But he had ceased to snore. “Ye needn’t say a word to him about it. If I went to Manchester you could folly me, an’ be married . them. He’d not know a thing until it was over. Will ye come, Annie?” She shook her head. “I daren’t. I daren’t.” “An’ that’s your last word — ya daren’t?” he aaxed bitterly. She nodded, tears in her eyes. A new dance had struck up, the fiddle screaming with devilish gaiety. The man pulled out his watch. “Then I’ll go,” he said, heavily. "I have ten miles on the bicycle m the dark an’ five miles to the station tome rrow’s mom. Good-bye, Annie!” “Good-bye!” she answered in a choked voice. He swung around resolutely, and walked to the door. Hand on the latch, he turned for a last sorrowful look at her. “Tom!” she called across the room heedless of who heard her.. But the door had slammed behind him. The rest of that night was for Amra> an evil dream. Around, the merriment never slackened." Once she was forced to join the dance,, with Jim Sweenev, an ardent admirer, whose ponter-laden breath whispered blandishments in her. ear. But she was scarce aware of his presence and mow ed to the measure as in a trance. Aftervrards she declared herself Hl and sat hour after hour, chin in hands, staring straight in fropt of her and seeing naught, in-dumb agony, while the fiddle squealed, eternally, the feet of the dancers, scuffled and banged on the floor and . the elders droned at their crack around the fire. And ever Black Andy lay like a log. Suddenly she was aroused by the voice of the host beside her and started up into consciousness. The place was nearly empty: the turf fire had smouldered into white ashes. The weary face of Ned Corrigan was almost hidden by a mug of porter. “I’ll waken him up for ye, Amne. said Mr. McNamee genially., who, m the phraseology of the police, ws not drunk but had drink taken. FII waken him up for ye.” He stepped across to Black Andy and very gingerly, with an eye.to retreat if needs were, shook him by ) the shoulder. “Wake up, Andy!* he cried. w wskb up. man dear!” Andy did not move and McNamee caught hold of his hand. What followed was a jumbled madness of oaths and exclamations. Mrs. McNamee sent up shriek on shriek. Her husband tottered over to Annie, 'his face blanched and quivering. “Your da’s cold!” he shouted. “Your da’s cold! He’s dead as a stone. He’s dead these six hours an’ more.” “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah, glory be to God! Ah, glory be to God!” came from Mrs. McNamee. , “Howl’ your tongue, woman!” said McNamee savagely and she subsided into terrified moans, Annie rose slowly to her feet and looked at the body of her father. They had not moved it an inch. He lay just as he had lain when she had sent Tom away. And he had been dead then. She looked up at the tin American clock, ticking noisily above the hearth. It was just half-past six. At that very moment the train that bore her lover was steaming out of the .station. Tom had started on his journey to America away from her. Even in death the arm of Black Andy had been long enough to change the lives of two people.