I have not had the moral courage to set words on paper other than for my dispatches to Chicago. As to them, my family reports that they are prominently displayed in the Daily News and well received. They congratulate me on my success as a journalist. How could I tell them that my journalistic career does not matter to me anymore. I am too deeply involved in the tragedy and the injustice of Maamtrasna to care about my career. I feel compelled to turn the tide of doom rolling towards those men in Kilmainham Jail in Dublin. Yet I am not wise enough to know what to do nor strong enough to take action.I am back in Connemara interviewing men and women in the valley for my dispatches to the Daily News. I hope to find some clue, some hint of the truth. The people are quite willing to talk to me but not at all willing to tell me what really happened. Bishop Kane and Nora Joyce both had warned me that the truth would never be told. Now I fear that they were right. Yet I must try.
At the end of last month, late in the night, the accused were hustled out of the Galway jail, loaded on a special
train under the railway hotel—where I was sleeping in oblivion—and taken to Dublin. They are locked in Kilmainham Jail, isolated from one another and usually even from counsel. The sudden and secret change of venue was particularly cruel, because the families had been promised visits the following day. I traveled to Dublin immediately. Before I left, I found my carriage driver and told him to take the same passengers back to the valley when they learned that their men had been shipped to Dublin.
There was little to be learned, except that Bolton was trying to turn some of the accused against the rest of them. The fiasco in Galway had convinced him that the “irreproachable” witnesses were quite reproachable. For the valley folk, Dublin was another world, a mysterious, terrifying place from which men rarely returned. The horror deepened.
The indictment would come at the end of October, the trials in November, and the hangings right after Christmas. No time wasted. George Bolton knew that all “right-thinking” people in England and in Ireland were calling for the blood of the murderers.
So I have come back here to search for more evidence. I have picked up a few hints.
An old woman, a Mary Joyce (of the Tony Joyce clan) whispered to me, “Didn’t they have a meeting, about a hundred of them, about what to do with your man?”
And a shifty-eyed young woman said boldly, “Didn’t Breige O’Brien marry your man too soon after her husband died?”
Most of the local people couldn’t answer my questions because they didn’t speak English—or at least pretended they didn’t speak English.
Martin Joyce, a younger brother of Anthony Joyce the informer, a sullen, resentful young man with thick black hair and a hard face, seemed ready to fight me when I met him on the road.
“Why can’t you people leave us alone?” he demanded. “Everyone knows that Johnny Joyce got what he deserved.”
“And the women and children in his family?”
“They weren’t innocents either … .”
“Even Peggy?”
“She was a whore for the Royal Irish Constabulary. No honest woman in the valley mourns her.”
“Don’t people resent Anthony because he informed?”
“They know he had his reasons … . All my brother did was reveal the names of the killers before they killed more people. Mind you, they deserved killing. No one blames Anthony for telling the truth. When the police release him he will be welcome back in the valley.”
Anthony Joyce and his fellow “irreproachables” were being protected by the police over in Outhergard by Loch Corrib.
“And Myles Joyce?”
“Them that knows will tell you that he’s not the saint some people pretend he is. And that wife of his is a slut as them with eyes can plainly see.”
I wanted to hit him. The only reason that he had not fought with me at the beginning of our conversation was that my size intimidated him. Someone ought to teach him to keep a civil tongue in his head, especially about women.
However, I was a professional journalist. I would not permit myself the luxury of an easy fight.
I then visited Little Tom Casey, one of whose cousins was an accused (also called Tom). With his fourteen-year-old son, Tim Casey, acting as translator, he assured me that his cousin Tom had been in bed with his wife all night. Then he added, “They have some that did and some that didn’t.”
He wouldn’t say any more.
I hiked up the valley to the house of Big John Casey,
the most prosperous of the farmers. His large house was whitewashed, the yard in front clean, the outhouses neat and well maintained. The furniture inside was new and comfortable. Big John himself was also neat and clean—dressed in trousers and vest and a white shirt, open at the neck, his hair neatly cut and his chin shaved. He was a charming, genial man, only ready to talk, but not ready to say anything. Yet his strong, square face, his quick smile, and his laughing eyes suggested that he knew he was a cut above the other people in the family and that intelligence and hard work entitled him to respect and admiration.
“There’s been too many murders around here, Ed my lad, too many altogether. Lord Mountmorris up in Mayo, the Hudleys who were agents for the Lord, the Walshes and the Lydons down in Letterfrack only last year. It’s violent country. Until now our valley has been spared, thanks be to God. Now”—he sighed—“don’t we have the worst murders of them all? … And forgive me for not wetting the tea for you as soon as you came … . Since my wife died, God rest her soul, I haven’t been so quick at greeting guests.”
He talked on as we sipped our tea.
“It will take a long time to calm the valley down again. Everyone is in fear. No one knows when the constables will come and take one of us away. The hatred is so thick you could feed the sheep with it.”
“It still seems very quiet and peaceful.”
“Ay, lad, most of the people are good, hardworking men and women. Still there are some violent folk in the valley … . And some with long memories.”
“One less than there was?”
“Well, the Joyces have always been a fighting family.”
“Even Myles Joyce?”
“Och, poor Myles and himself with a young wife … . He’s a quiet man until you stir him up.”
“And themselves members of the secret societies?”
“That’s mostly talk, lad. The Ribbonmen are a grand story, but your men Davitt and Parnell have the right of it, if you ask me.”
“And Anthony Joyce?”
“Well,” he sighed, “’twas a fine story he had to tell wasn’t it? Yet there are those who say you wouldn’t be all that far from wrong if you thought that maybe Anthony had his reasons.”
That comment was typical—elusive, indirect, mysterious. It said nothing but hinted at many things. The implication was that if I knew what everyone in the valley knew, I would understand all that had happened.
Also, he seemed to be saying that the sooner the dead buried their dead, the sooner there would be peace in the valley.
I have a dispatch in my head about the strange attitude of the Maamtrasna people, but it won’t take shape yet.
I now permit myself but one jar a night. I do not want to go home to America a drunk.
Tomorrow I will see Nora and Josie. I dread the meeting. I know she will be suffering terribly and that I will be able to do nothing to help her.
This morning I road up the side of the mountain to Myles Joyce’s home. My heart beat eagerly at the prospect of seeing Nora again, yet I was afraid that I would have nothing to say to her that would give her hope.
Josie met me at the side of the path about a quarter mile from the house.
“Good morning, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she said, curtsying respectfully. “And a grand morning it is, isn’t it?”
I had not noticed, but it was a grand morning, a cool, pleasant, sunny day.
“Good morning, Josephine Philbin,” I said bowing back. “Jesus and Mary be with you.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Patrick be with you,” she responded, still respectful.
I dismounted.
“Would you think someone might spit on me today?”
“Ah, sure you never can tell, can you now?” she said with her wicked grin. “The young women around here are terrible hot tempered.”
In a few years Josie would be a blooming, beautiful young woman like my sister Marie. What hope for her was there in this grim, hate-filled valley?
“How is Nora?”
“Very brave, Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir, and herself sick almost every day.”
“Does she have any hope, Josie?”
“No, sir. She knows that Myles is a dead man. He’ll never come back from Dublin. She lives now for the little one.”
“Oh.”
“Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir, I have nine pounds, eight shillings, and six pence left.” She said, offering me money with her grubby little hand.
“Not at all, Josie. Keep it to take care of Nora … Does she know that you have money to take care of her?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir. She never asks … . Are you sure you don’t want the money back?”
“Absolutely certain, Josie. In fact, I brought some more for you.”
I reached in my pocket and removed four five-pound notes, which I had folded in preparation for my encounter with Josie on the road. I assumed that she would be waiting for me.
“’Tis too much, Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir.” She hesitated to take the money.
“Josie, you’re the only one up here who will take care
of Nora. If you need more money, tell Sergeant Finnucane. He’ll pass the word to me.”
She nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir, Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir. I won’t waste a single pence.”
“If you see a hair ribbon you would like to buy for yourself, you are to do so, understand?”
Tears streamed out of her vast brown eyes and streaked her dirty face.
“I couldn’t do that, sir.”
“You can and you’d better or you will disobey me.”
“Oh, I’d never do that, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she said, her wicked grin replacing the tears. “I’d never disobey you, sir.”
Inside this filthy little urchin there was a mighty soul, loyal, brave, resourceful. God protect her, I prayed silently.
Nora was sitting outside the house on an old chair, peeling a small pile of potatoes—food for a week perhaps. She was obviously pregnant, though gloriously so. Her face was pale and drawn, but she still greeted me with a radiant smile. Her spinning wheel stood besides her.
“Jesus and Mary be with you, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“Jesus and Mary and Patrick be with you, Nora Joyce.”
“This little imp has been pestering you, no doubt … . Do sit down … . Josie, would you run and wet the tea for Mr. Fitzpatrick, please? … Here, I’ll take the book, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
The book was a tattered and very old collection of the plays of Shakespeare.
“Josie is a wonderful girl,” I said as the urchin disappeared into the dark interior of the stone house. “She will flower into a wonderful young woman.”
“At least one with a mind of her own … You seem surprised that I am reading the playwright?”
“Not at all …”
“Of course you are.” She smiled. “We are not all illiterates out here. My father was a great reader, especially this book and the Bible. I still have some of his books. They and my rosary are my treasures these days.”
I could think of nothing to say.
“I hope you are right about Josie,” she continued with a sigh. “There are too many children down at her house. So she adopted me, without asking my leave. I don’t know what would happen to me if she were not here.”
“She is both fearless,” I said, “and fearsome.”
Nora smiled ruefully, “Both traits that I lack. I am told that you have been wandering around the valley trying to discover the truth of what happened the night of the killings.”
“What do they say of me?”
“The people in the valley? Why should you care what they say?”
“Curiosity, I suppose.”
“They say that you’re a nice young Irish American gentleman who does not and cannot possibly understand us … . They all like you, however.”
“They’re right about not understanding them … . Everyone knows what happened that night and yet no one will speak about it.”
She shook her head in disagreement. “Everyone thinks they know the events the night of the murder, but no one does. We all have bits and pieces of the story and we’ve all heard rumors and perhaps passed them on. Yet, if you could compile all the tales in the valley about that terrible night, you would find many contradictions and you’d be no closer to the truth than you are now.”
“Do you know who killed the Joyce family, Nora?”
“Perhaps.”
“Are the killers in jail in Dublin?”
“Perhaps … some of them.”
“And there are others free?”
Her rosary appeared in her hand. Her fingers clenched it. I should take pity on the poor woman.
“Possibly so … Many people think they are.”
“Could you not go to the police and tell them?”
She sighed.
Josie appeared with the “wet” tea and a few slices of warm brown bread.
“Thank you, Josie. I’ll pour for us.”
“You want me to leave you two alone for a while?”
“That’s not necessary, Josie.”
Nonetheless, the waif slipped away.
“You are an educated man, Mr. Fitzpatrick, are you not?” Nora said continuing our discussión.
“I went to St. Ignatius College and read law in my father’s office.”
“Ah, that helps me to understand you. You believe in the rule of law.”
“Well, yes …”
“Out here there are two kinds of law … theirs and ours. Theirs is written down and enforced by police and the courts. Ours, which is much older, is not written and is enforced by the community.”
“Anthony Joyce broke that law.”
“He meant no harm, except to my husband. He will be punished, not violently, but punished just the same.”
She refilled my teacup.
“Would they blame you if you went to the authorities to save your husband’s life?”
“No … All the women would support me. Most of them. Myles is a good man. Everyone knows that, even some of the Anthony Joyces. He never sought a fight and only fought in self-defense. I would do anything to save Myles.”
“Then why don’t you go to the authorities and name the killer?”
“Even in your American law, would they believe a wife who accused someone else without proof?”
“No,” I admitted reluctantly.
“You see, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Are you afraid of the real killer?”
She was silent for a moment.
“Of the men who I think are the killers?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t care what they do to me. My life is over anyway. I want my baby to live. I want Josie to live.”
“They wouldn’t kill Josie!”
“They killed Peggy Joyce, didn’t they?”
It dawned on me at last that fear permeated the valley, more fear of the killers than of the English. Having killed once, they might easily come back and do it again.
“If I could find proof …?
“You won’t find proof, Edward. If you keep searching, your life will be at risk I don’t want to have that on my soul.”
“Was there a meeting in which a hundred people voted to kill John Joyce?”
“Some people had a meeting. I don’t think there were that many people at it, maybe only twenty.”
“Myles wasn’t there?”
“Certainly not. He knew of it, however. Naturally.”
“Anthony Joyce could have guessed the names of some of the killers, if he was at the meeting.”
She absorbed me in her clear blue eyes, hesitated, and then said, “Probably.”
“Was John Joyce active in the secret society?”
“Some of the time. Like most such groups, it is not well organized.”
“Did he steal some of its funds?”
“He may have. He liked to steal, I think.”
“Were Margaret and Peg informers?”
“Only a few fools think so.”
“Other men besides John Joyce wanted Breige O’Brien when her husband died?”
Nora bowed her head and said nothing for a moment.
“It is wicked to discuss such matters … . She was a fine-looking woman. Many men, not all of them without wives of their own, wanted her. Everyone was surprised that she married John Joyce. I have no doubt that she loved him, God have mercy on them all.”
Three motives for murder—personal hatred, politics, and jealousy.
“What will you say about us, Edward Hannigan Fitzpatrick, when you write your story?”
“I will write that there were three possible motives for the murder: personal hatred, politics, and jealousy. I will say that many people in the valley know who the killers are, that they believe some of the accused men are guilty and some are not, that virtually all agree that Myles Joyce has been unfairly accused, and that they have no hope that English justice will be fair.”
She nodded her head “You may certainly say those things without risking yourself here. But say no more.”
“All right.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
She sighed in relief.
“You might add,” she said, “that no one in this valley doubts that English justice will hang innocent men.”
She began to cry, not hysterically, but inconsolably. I was tempted to put my arm around her, which would have been a very bad thing to do. Josie saved me from that temptation by appearing out of nowhere to embrace her aunt.
Nora gradually calmed down, apologized for her grief, and thanked me for my visit.
“You promise me solemnly, Mr. Fitzpatrick, that you will not return to talk to anyone in this valley?”
“Not even you?”
She hesitated.
“You can come to tell me about Myles … . Josie, will you show Mr. Fitzpatrick the way back to the road?”
“Yes, Auntie Nora.”
“What will happen to her, Josie?”
“You mean when Uncle Myles swings?”
I winced.
“Yes.”
“Well, she may die in childbirth. She and the baby may starve during the winter. If she lives, some men will want to marry her. The land is good here and she is beautiful. She will have none of that. Others may kill her.”
The child recited her litany of horror with perfect calm.
“Kill her! Why?”
“Because she knows too much, because she may be the only one in the valley who wants the truth to be told, because they found out that they enjoy killing beautiful women.”
I swore as I road back here to Letterfrack that I would not let that happen. It is a vain oath. What can I, a callow lad, do against a whole valley? Nonetheless, I will try.
I have written my dispatch and brought it to the telegraph office. I assumed that the telegraph operator would relay its contents up to the valley.
I reformulated my oath: I would do everything I could to protect her. Then I prayed for her to God, and Mary and Jesus and to all the saints in heaven, especially the Irish ones.