Irish Legacy

“My love was born in Aberdeen,
the bonniest lad that e’er was seen’
But now he makes our hearts feel sad,
He takes the field with his white cockade.

O’ he’s a ranting, roving lad,
Be tide what may,
I will be wed,
And follow the boy with the white cockade.”

An indigenous cry executed like a hymn haunting loyalist to the British crown. The lament was as vile a sound to some as a hyena on the hunt, a cry of vexatious fulfillment. The song of the White Boys, a secret society named for the masquerade of pallid smocks they proudly fashioned as they attacked their enemies. A society that lived perpetually in the story of every Irelander a society that was supposed to have been abolished along with the hopes and dreams of every impoverished inhabitant of the island.

Dexterously Mr. Barkley facilitated a path for his wife and son through the house and up the creaking stairs when he heard the reminiscent tune outside his home. With his family hidden away in a shallow dark closet his damp clumsy hands forged through the calm façade he had feigned.

The color in the hand he used to detain the opposite wrist from shaking has drained as he tried to fit the skeleton key into the minuscule hole of the hutch that solitarily housed his only defense. When he finally fit the key into the hole he wrenched it right and left several times, trying to unlock the cabinet. Clutching the brass barreled Dragon, he examined the foreign object up and down, unprepared to use it, reluctant to use it, he wiped the condensation from his hands onto his brown trousers, confident that would prepare him to pull the trigger. The gun was not consoling. He thought back to the day he purchased it, the sense of security he had felt just knowing he would have it in his home, he was untouchable. Now as he held it, everything he loved about it at that moment was what he despised about it at this. This was no savior this was a nuisance. The beautifully apparent flintlock that made the gun ornate was now too far out of the way to effectively cock, the heaviness of the body that made it seem sturdy and powerful now made it hard to aim.

He stood in front of the insignificant wooden door, trying to take back control of his body tremors had stolen. His heart like a horse in full stride each beat so individually deafening it was all that could be heard in the room. As his heart galloped his thoughts were paralyzed and he, helpless. Even if attacked he couldn’t react quick enough to discharge his arm, all the adrenaline had left his body in the form of sweat draining from his pores.
         
A knock- and he came too from his fear induced coma. The beating heart stopped and sank to the pit of his stomach. Though violently frightened, this knock put him eerily at ease. Finally he could face them no more waiting, what was to be done, could be done. It also brought on anarchy of questions; if they were going to attack him, would they have knocked? They most certainly would have just broken through the door? They would not attack him at his home with his wife and child? Would they? 
         
With one hand on the latch, cocking his pistol with the other, he kept asking “why are ye’ opening the door?” he did not know what was persuading him to unlatch that copper. Who was this man in possession his lean body? He glanced to the mirror across from him, he recognized the reflection, blonde hair left shaggy around his square face, spectacles resting at the bridge of his nose, “Stop” he begged the man in the mirror, but the man ignored the request and peered out. 
         
The plump, freckled face of his sister’s brother-in-law, James Murphy was his first encounter. A man whose very existence was pure pleasure, a man he had known for much time. Surely he wished him no harm, James wouldn’t wish harm on his worst adversary, if there ever came a day he would have one. And the manner of rubbing the back of his carrot-peeled hair so innocently, his animated smile along with wide truthful green eyes further reassured Barkley they were not there to harm him, and his fear diminished as quickly as it came. The serenity was overwhelming James could barely stand. Letting down his gun in relief the crowd rushed him.

A desperate feeble swine, twirling and kicking he fought but they triumphed securing him to the ground as he discharged the brass abomination into thin air. They drug him outside by his feet to where his barn was inflamed, his animals locked inside. Their anguished pleas for mercy had human resonance, the words “Help me” bellowed from their tortured screams.
         
“Ye’ God-forsaken taig’s” Mr. Barkley screamed.
         
“Ye’ll mind yer tongue” a heated voice cursed him. He felt a tightening around his thin neck from behind, he gasped and fought for air, until finally, black.
         
“Stop!” screamed a solid well fed woman running from the home, “ye’’ll be hung,” Mrs. Barkley cried in horror as she watched them raise her husband’s blonde lifeless head from the ground. A man with such dreadful black hair and whiskers so unmanicured his skin seemed stained of suet straddled above her husband she could feel the pleasure raging through his long black cloak as he leaned into her husband’s face and whispered something in which she did not understand, but a saying she often heard said among the peasants “Tir gan teanga, tir gan anam”, taking the back of Mr. Barkley’s head he held it steady as he opened his mouth and tore out the limp tongue. 

“Grab her!” a voice yelled out in retort to her shouting. Mrs. Barkley was grabbed from behind and her screams suffocated by massive hands that smelt of Rosemary. She tried to yell, she was in horror as the same man who took three of her husband’s fingers and his tongue approached her son who had tried to run. She was helpless she kicked and fought but could not break loose, as her son’s knees buckled to the ground in terror and they simply gained control of him.
         
“Many mothers have had to watch their children die in agony because iv ye’ people” the incarcerator whispered. She could not see his face but there was a sound of regret in his angry voice. As he seized her like a savage, he held her in a sympathetic embrace she could feel him turn away as they approached her son. She could not do the same. She could not turn away from her only child.   
         
The grim reaper pulled out his butcher knife tarnished in her husband’s blood and took it to her son’s leg- with very precise cuts he removed his calf. The unholy torturous scream of that young child would haunt that site forever. 
         
“Kill me, please kill me” she prayed to herself, she could not watch her son be maimed, she also couldn’t bear to look away, she felt closing her eyes was to leave him there alone, if he was going to be tortured she was too.
         
Her prayers were not answered, they did not kill her. The crowd instead bestowed upon her the same courtesy they had showed her husband and son. They cut off her fingers and cut out her tongue.

“Punish our children? Punish them for not speakin’ English? Ye’ sh’ll never speak a word iv English again nor shall ye’ fold yer hands and pray those heretic prayers. Ye’ hurt our children we’ll hurt yers, as Exodus says, in yer Bible as well as ours; life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.” The dark man delivered the verse with the tone of the virtuous and rage of the wicked.

                             
                                                 
This was the scene Dennis Brown had arrived to just as the morning rays were starting to part the cloud covered ground. Barn smoldering, the air lingered with the scent of brimstone slightly overwhelmed by a sweet-musky aroma. The essence of burning flesh is a scent that embraces the nostrils for days and triggers flashbacks for the rest of your life. 

Three bodies of a well to do prosperous family lay dead and tortured in the estate; lined with Killarney Strawberry Trees budding balls of orange, yellow and red, that looked like hanging gum drops and large singing willows whose effect was ironically most calming and tranquil.
         
The most nefarious sight to Brown was that of a young boy, who obviously had lived for sometime after the severing of his calf because it was cloaked with his own shirt. The cause of death determined, in all three cases was strangulation.
         
“Each Croppy from here to th’ Shannon, I shall hang.” Brown said under his breath trying to mask his rage but the breaks in his words and long heavy breaths through his nose revealed his grief for twilights fatal acts.

Dennis Browns very demeanor was displeasure even on his best day. His bitterness towards life was a tribute to his caricature. He had neither tolerance nor a merciful sentiment in his body. What made Brown even more frightening then his manner and broad frame was if your ill-fate awarded you the luxury of penetrating his nourished brows you were confronted with a shallowness in his chicory eyes that had no human essence, eyes that would wake you from dreams. The only moment of peace observed within him was in the way he spoke. The tranquility however did not come in his words but in his voice. If satisfied it was the most consoling sound you would ever hear, like the first whimper of a new born, though, if displeased, if enraged, it would frighten Lucifer himself.         
         
After all the attacks on Landlords, their caretakers and their livestock, this was by far the most gruesome Brown had ever witnessed. The attacks, though some did result in murder, were not torture it was often a gun shot from many yards away. Most violent crimes were subject to cattle or hogs. Nothing he knew of in recent history was as morbid as what he was witness to on this dark sun-drenched morning. 
         
“I positively want this accounted for in every paper from here to London. Forget that to Paris. Let all see these Croppies are no protectors. They are unscrupulous murderers.”
         
“Sir” Brown was interrupted, “there’s a witness, states he witnessed th’ tunes of th’ Levellors here last night.”
         
“It’s hard to deem someone was within distance to hear music av he wasn’t implicated?”
         
“His names’ James Murphy, claims he was to make a delivery to th’ Barclays but rode off when he came in distance to hear the music.”
         
Brown shook his head, “Rode off? Seems like a good fellow.” he sneered and paused, “I’ll obviously need to speak with him.”

Brown walked circles round and round the three deceased bodies as if he were in a trance.

The news of the massacre spread to every corner of the island before the papers could print it. The whole country was in an uproar. Loyalists were afraid to leave their house as well as the Croppies and their supporters. The country which was besieged with a violent past had been quiet for a few years. Until recently when secret societies, that had once been put down had seem to make a comeback, on both sides. But their methods that had once been isolated to just land and animals had started to become more and more godlessly extreme.


                                                                                  II

Robert read the headline span across the Harp of Erin. “Militants, Murder, Madness and Mayhem” he seized the paper and rode as fast as his antique pony would take him.
         
There were more than sixty men posted upon the humble hill Robert sat at the foot of. A few on horses some stationed on high, wooden, manmade posts with muskets, but most hiding in bushes with pikes ready to strike if the signal was given.
         
If the men didn’t recognize Robert there would have been a call of attack, but because Robert was quite well known at the stiller- instead, a series of canorous whistles followed him up the infested hill, warning others, he was a friend. He looked out upon the thigh high grass and bursting bushes which secluded the path on both sides of him he could hear the whistles enclosing in as if he were immersed in a cave of enchanting song. But even a man who knew they were there could not catch a glimpse of the ghosts of the grass.

“Cead mille failte, ma achora!” A voice broke through the steady whistle as he approached the main house. “Welcome ol’ boy- ye’ here far some of the country’s best whisky are ye’?”

“Av I was looking for th’ country’s best, I’d be at Bushmill’s, wouldn’t I now?”

“Ye Dhioul Mick!’ laughed Charles, with his comical grin putting out his hand to greet Robert. “I pray mercy th’ good lord’ll strike ye’ down before the Protestant drink meets yer lips.”

The distillery- Robert cherished it. Just outside Enniscorthy it was abandoned, the whole place desolate but fertile.  A huge estate with hundreds of acres and dozens of buildings the Oak Boys had condensed into just a few upon one lonely hill that stood in the middle of many. The main house they referred to as the Managers House just as any distillery would have, but unlike the lawful stills the main house was where most everything happened the brewing and the bottling. It was a modest two and a half story stone building, the once crimson painted windows and doors had faded to a salmon color where the paint had not chipped away. Compared to the legalized distilleries, the protestant distilleries of Ireland whose enterprise was like a city within itself, it was a backyard brewery but it held the wooden casks and kept its solitude which was the most important thing. 

“I’ve come to bring ye’ this.” 

Charles took the paper bantering Robert, “Ye’re always too serious lad ye’ll grow old before yer time ye’ know.”

Charles was correct Robert’s demeanor was very composed. He entertained an infectious caring nature that afflicted people in his presence to model. He was sinfully handsome, with dark tightly curled locks an uncanny glow to his skin, every feature on his body was perfectly chiseled. He was a genuinely contagious man you couldn’t help but want to be near, but much too serious.   

Charles quietly studied the paper, shaking his head as he read. Robert studied Charles; his ash hair, fair skin. He had an affable exterior as threatening as a buck and like a buck an immense presence that commanded not only loyalty but respect, all without force. His charisma was highly reverenced among people from all over and only helped him win admiration. Robert knew whatever Charles’s reaction it would be the reaction of the rest of the men.

“This is quite dishonorable.” Charles responded calmly.

“Aye” agreed Robert as others gathered around to try and get a peek of the tabloid. Robert read the story out loud recapping the gruesome details of the mutilated family. The room was silent as a few men said a prayer for the departed.

“Ye’ know this has nothing to do with us Robert, and even av we were in a deadly fight; we’d never result to violence.” Robert laughed inside at Charles’s remark. He was a master at the art of contradicting one-self. Robert held him in such high regard he never had the nerve find out if he did this purposely or he was unaware of the bull.

Assuring the group with his honest eyes, “problem isn’t me knowin’, it’s tat others don’t.”

“The entire county knows, we’re here to protect em’, Hearts iv Oak would do no harm to anyone iv em’. The only time the Oakboys ride is when injustice is exuded on our people. We don’t attack landlords especially their families. Th’ paper itself says it’s the Defenders who are responsible. I do belave even the illiterate people in th’ county comprehend that when they read the paper. ”

“’m afraid some would belave there is no difference, White Boys, Right Boys, Oak Boys, Whitefeet, Blackfeet, True Blues, Defenders, all just Catholic radicals, with no difference, one kills, they all kill.”

Charles bit at his nonexistent fingernails, to some this would seem a nervous tick, but Robert knew well, it was only when Charles stopped gnawing there was something to fret. “What do ye’ suppose we do? Everyone knows the Oak Boys run the stiller.”

Robert held his breath as he paced the floor. “suppose,” he paused. He knew his idea would take some convincing of Charles. “I could go to Father John, have him spread the word the Oak Boys had nuttin’ to do with this murder and they never would.”

“Father John Murphy? Aye, he would be as hurt as anyone av the Excisemen turned up this still.” Charles mordantly replied.
         
The nail biting ceased. “Calling upon the Augustinist heretics?” Charles was Catholic, but his faith in the perish was renounced. He found the church corrupt and thought it as criminal and blood thirsty as any monarchy ever and would be as happy as the crown to see it put down. But he knew Robert was right the more people who understood the Oak Boys were separate from the Defenders the safer the still would be, even if it meant enlisting help of the scandalous church. Charles put his thumb nail to his mouth started to bite.

“Av ye’ think speakin’ with him will help then we’ll go to him.”

Robert knew “we’ll” meant he’d be going alone Charles would have no words for Father John Murphy or any clergy for that matter. 

                                                 
                                                                            III


“Top iv th’ morning to ye’” Brown’s words were warmer then the delivery, as James Murphy was escorted to the scene by two officers.
         
“Morning” said Mr. Murphy, shifting his weight from side to side exuding the thin status of his nerves.
         
“My sheriff tells me ye’ were witness to the crime here last night?”
         
“No Sir didn’t see a thing,” he glanced around, “I was on me way to th’ house to make a delivery when I heard th’ song …” he waited to see if Brown was satisfied, if maybe he would finish his sentence for him. Brown just stood there waiting for the conclusion to his alibi, “well it was th’ song iv th’ Whiteboys, so I turned and rode back into town.”
         
“Ye’ ran away?”
         
“Mr…” Murphy’s humiliation stuttered through “Mr. Barclay was acquainted with th’ Peep O’ Boys, there was no need for me to be concerned with their feud.”
         
“Peep O’ Boys eh?”
         
“Yes Sir” answered Murphy cowardly.
         
“Yer saying th’ Levellors attacked a Peep O’ Boy member?” He asked very excitedly.
         
“Yes” answered Murphy getting excited himself that Brown so easily seemed satisfied.
         
Brown got right into Murphy’s face, “and what are ye’?”
         
“Pardon?”
         
Brown screamed into his face “What are ye’?”
         
“I’m a loyalist sir, iv course!”
         
Brown stepped back, nodding his head, eyes searing with rage. “A loyalist who rode off while another loyalist and his family were being mutilated?”  He was trying to compose his anger.
         
He got into Murphy’s face again. “Ye’ stupid Bastoon! Ye’ stupid, stupid blockhead! I’ll tell ye’ one last time, who are ye’ with? Th’ Levellor’s haven’t been seen in years. But th’ Defenders, they have.” He very slowly laid his last question out for Murphy. “Were, ye’ here, last, night?”
         
“Sir, no Sir”
         
Brown clutched Murphy by the shoulder so hard it forced him to his knees. “Grab some rope!”
         
Murphy pleaded as they strung the rope around his thick neck and drug him to a nearby tree, kicking and gasping for breath. They stood him up and threw one end of the rope around a limb. They hoisted his heavy body off the ground and held him in mid-air with no remorse as he kicked and plunged his fingers into his neck trying to free himself from the noose.
         
They took pity one last time and dropped him full force to the ground. As he lay trying to get air into his lungs, another officer rolled him over and landed a club into his stomach.
         
“Where ye’ here?”
         
Murphy nodded, his face the same color as his hair, lying in a fetal position, trying to regain normal breathing. Brown kicked him in the chest, “Sit him up.”
         
“I’ve all but about run out iv patience. Who ye’ with? Who did tis’?”
         
“Th’ Defenders, they planned this, no-one was supposed to die,” Murphy choked out his words.
         
“No-one was to die? Just tortured? Are ye’ maniacs?”
         
“No Sir. Lex talionis. Th’ plan was to bequeath Mr. Barclay the same horror he has shown his tenants far so many years.”
         
“Mr. Barclay cut out parts iv women and children?” Brown asked

Murphy quietly shook his head.
         
“What horror then? I c’nnot imagine anything this man, any man nor their family could have done to deserve such a demise. Don’t spout off verses from the Good Book either, I‘ll not stand for ye’ using the words iv my Lord to justify murder iv any kind.”


James took his time before he began to account the fate of an innocuous boy on this earth only 6 years when he was forced to live a torment that even the most seasoned adults would plead the greatest mercy from. Mattie Swanson’s parents lived and worked the land Barclay managed. He had come upon the youth praying in Gaelic where the boy’s recently departed mother rested. At the flash of this image, fury dominated his soul, there was no negotiating with his demon, it was somber in the body it encompassed and now it was awakened and the corpse that possessed it paid the price reacting as if an exorcism was being performed. Unrecognizable sadistic screams wielding from the depths of his stomach, the vacancy in his eyes was occupied only by righteous anger. Each movement towards the confused boy was besieged by long and over pronounced strides. Hands as steady, there was no second thought about his actions. There was to be no Gaelic spoken on his land, no matter who it was that broke his laws, they would pay the ultimate sacrifice of his station on this land.
         
He ripped the boy off of his knees, “who taught ye’ this prayer?” Mattie, too frightened to answer in his second language, apologized over in over in his native tongue, “Tá brón orm, Tá brón orm”. Barclay’s infuriation intensified, he ripped a small sapling out of ground and started whipping the boy all over his body. Mattie’s only defense was to curl into a tight ball, trying to cover his head. Barclay pried Mattie’s arms off his fragile head and rolled the boy over. He held Mattie’s arms which still held traces of baby-fat to the ground by placing his knees on his forearms. He sat upon the small chest releasing the only remaining breaths the boy had left in him and with his fists of wrath he struck the boy in the head three times, the first blow being so devastating fortunate Mattie passed out before the second blow struck his tiny ravaged body. Barclay thinking Mattie was dead, stood from the boy, straightened his glasses and left him in the high bushes without a glance back at the misery he had created, without an inkling of remorse he left him to rot.  Murphy seemed very sincere about the story as he wiped a single tear from his glossy eyes.
         
“Ye’ a Defender?”

“Yes Sir.” he was all but sure they would finish their hanging now he admitted he was a croppy.
         
“Great, we’ll leave the hanging to the croppies themselves.” Murphy didn’t respond he knew what Brown meant by that comment. Brown slapped Murphy on the back as he walked away with no remorse about the story he had just learned.

Barclay would be targeted Brown was certain of that. Caretakers were driving Catholics out of the county, using the land they harvested as grazing land for cattle, and the secret societies were not having a bit of it they were fighting back. The rumors of Barclays inhumane treatment was spreading fast and Brown’s informants had given him all the information he needed to believe that an attack would happen soon.

Brown traveled to Forkhill where he had no real power, from Mayo where he was the High Sheriff to watch the tactics unfold. Brown did not like the lawlessness of these secret societies. He had been after these underground rebellion groups for some time and he just needed something like this to happen so he could gain support for the tactics he used to put down the societies. Tactics that were causing more of an uproar then the crimes that were committed to warrant them, hanging these rebels or croppies as they were more commonly called, as they “cropped” their hair as opposition to the whig party that was controlling their country. There was no trial, pleas of innocence were ignored and many, many innocent people did die so Brown could continue his hunt.
         



                                                                    IV

Robert had taken the Oak Boy oath 7 years earlier when he was 20. He thought they were an amazing group of people who came to his aid even after he had declined to take part in their organization.
         
Robert moved from a small townland of Armagh with his young pregnant wife during the reign of terror of the Protestant Break-of-Day-Boys at only 18.

He awoke one day to the sound of his young precious wife quietly crying, clutching a letter. He gently peeled her delicate fingers away from the letter. He read the one line, simply it stated:
         
“To Hell or Connogant”
         
“Where’d ye’ get this Mary?” He insisted to his distraught wife, trying not to castigate her. She could do nothing to speak for even a moment instead she slowly lifted one finger and pointed towards the door. Robert about ripped the door from its hinges as he swung it open, revealing a single nail which held the letter.
         
He knew what would come next, if he did not leave from here, now, from the house his grandfather built and the land his family worked for decades, like the dozens before him in the last few weeks who ignored the threats and resisted to be forced from their homes, his home would be raided, torn to shreds, his expecting wife would most certainly be violated and they would leave Robert in a bloody pulp, wandering the country-side homeless and naked, as they torched his home. He had to swallow his pride for the well being of his bride and take her away from harm. 
         
He was willing to leave Armagh but he was not going to Connogant, the couple traveled to Enniscorthy, a hilly town built on The Slaney Lough.  Robert’s uncle ran a small ship for the Dutch East-Indian Trading Company importing as much as the local authorities would turn their head to or be paid off for, unhappily married and converted to protestant, mainly for the good of his business. He had often offered for Robert to come to Wexford after Robert’s father the last sibling of his passed, and promised to help him make a new life. He would help Robert become a well off business man, not something a man in Robert’s position in life would often have the chance to do without betraying his beliefs.

He helped Robert start a store front to sell the merchandise. Under British law, none of this was permitted. No Catholic could have owned a business. The merchandise would have had to be sold to England in turn they would have sold it to Ireland to be sure to make their money and taxes off the merchandise. Catholic or Protestant no-one enjoyed paying the excessive cost of British greed so this small business went on with very little trouble.
         
The only trouble being- Robert had to pay taxes at a cost twice the tax that a Protestant owning the same business would owe. After taxes he lost profits, and with his first two of four children he couldn’t continue with his trade. In confidence he told a neighbor about his misfortune. Unbeknown to Robert his neighbor was a participating member of The-Hearts-of-Oak, a secret society who had once already approached Robert, and when Robert politely objected he heard nothing else about it. Until the night Robert was clandestinely engaged.
         
Mystical moonlight illuminated the fields surrounding the still. A horn blew and out of no-where men appeared, all with springs of Oak worn in their hats. They formed well orchestrated lines in a matter of moments and stood at attention until a single drum beat ricochet across the field and all at once they marched with exact precision to accompaniment of a fife and a drum. At that moment Robert knew no matter the outcome of this night he would be taking an oath.
         
They marched to the home of the Mayor of Enniscorthy over 200 men, in sync, holding torches that made it seem as if it were dusk. Robert was terrified as the mayor opened his door, he didn’t want any amount of blood spilt over his circumstance. When the Mayor stepped outside, Charles dismounted from his gallant horse, which was illegal for Charles to own as per the penal code a Catholic could not own a horse more than 5£.
         
Charles, at this point a young man only in his mid-twenties but a domineering presence approached the Mayor. Though the mayor was a larger man in size he seemed smaller then Charles. Robert was called from the back of the crowd to the front to join the two men. Charles introduced Robert to the mayor as if this was a social visit.
         
“This here is Robert Farrell. I am sure ye’ are familiar with his work, as I see that fine robe ye’ are wearing seems to have been made by some iv his tapestry.”
         
“Yes.” agreed the mayor.
         
“Ye’ may not be aware iv this point,” proclaimed Charles very slyly as he knew the mayor did know the facts that he would point out in his next sentence. “Robert is unjustly paying twice the tax iv other shop owners- on his very street.”

The mayor shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as if this was the first he heard.

“Well,” answered Charles with a snigger, “I do suppose that it is because he is Catholic.”

The mayor became very nervous, “I assure ye’, no matter the reason, I will get this resolved. He shall not pay anymore taxes than anyone else who owns shops on the same street.”
         
“I have conviction ye’ will. I also trust the local authorities, no matter my suspicions of them, will leave the shop alone. Any hardship brought upon this man, his store or family will also fall upon yers.”
         
That was the last Charles said to the mayor, he took the mayor’s non-responsive hand from his side and shook it, turned his back and mounted his horse, he looked down on Robert and gave him a nod. The nod was full of understanding and sympathy, not ego and hubris as he would have expected from a man who lead a rebel group. Robert was astounded, not a fight, not a single heated word, and Charles had resolved the injustice.
         
From that day forward knowing he had a protected business that also opened up Robert to start another trade from his store. A shebeen where he bought poteen from the Oak Boy’s still and sold it at reduced rates. The purpose of this was not to dance in the face of laws that no longer precluded him but, because he now had to pay no taxes which to Catholics were exurbanite if they were to actually be granted the right to produce the liquor. From that, he gained many loyal customers and friends. Among the most devoted
was a man named Arthur, the mayor of Enniscorthy. Another of his best customers was Father John Murphy. 
         
                   

Robert arrived at Father John Murphy’s home the day following his meeting with Charles at the still. Father Murphy was an influential man in the county and most political things happened through him, legal or illicit.
         
Father Murphy’s brawny frame blocked the entire door as he answered it. In his black robe he hovered above Robert who was himself an above average man in height. He was coadjutor-priest of Boolavogue, a small town about 5 miles out of Enniscorthy. His expressions handsome, his radiant eyes exuded gaiety but at times without warning or cause those same cheerful eyes could flash fourth a look of wrath. He combined unwavering heart and will, potency priceless in a leader, a strength that inspired his followers and demanded devotion.
         
“Father.”

“Robert. What do we owe this honor?”

Anxious because it unusual for Father John not to invite Robert in upon his very arrival with absolute exuberance, he continued on with his reason for being there. “Have ye’ read the news about the unfortunate destiny iv the family in Forkhill?”
         
“Aye son, I have” Father Murphy still hovered in the doorway. Robert could hear shuffling behind the priest.
         
“We’re afraid the locals may mistake the Hearts iv Oak with the Defenders and notify the authorities to the still. We’re hoping for yer help to spread the word that the Oak Boys had nuttin’ to do with the Defenders or would ever result to such violent and murderous methods.”
         
The priests’ bloated stance exhaled and he only answered “Son, sometimes these tactics are required.”
         
A priest, saying that murder is necessary? The priest understood by Robert’s sudden uptight posture he was not agreeing with him. He finally stepped aside inviting him in.
         
Robert obliged the priests offer and entered to find who was behind the priest. It was not the clergy he had expected. Another priest stood to greet him along with a red-headed short stubby man.
         
“Robert Farrell, this is Henry McCracken.” said Murphy, “this other fine lad here is James Murphy.”
         
“Pleasure.” said Robert greeting McCracken “My apologies for interrupting Father.”

Father Murphy was delighted with Robert’s assumption, “he is not a priest a’tall. He is dressed to travel the country without being recognized.”
         
Robert just looked at the men inquisitively, he didn’t want to pry.
         
“He's United Irish as well as Mr. Murphy. Interestingly enough, we were just speaking iv this very story.”
         
“Oh?”
         
“Aye” said McCracken, pulling out a chair for Robert, Robert graciously took the seat.
         
“We agree” adjusting the foreign robe, “No club wants to be associated with murder, but we do think all iv Ireland’s clubs would be more influential av we united.”
         
“Who is we?” asked Robert directing his question to Father Murphy but McCracken answered for him “The United Irish.”
         
Robert was hesitant. He had heard rumors the United Irish were aligning themselves in the North with the Defenders he didn’t think they would have any business here.
         
The Oak Boys had no leader per say, and the word of Father Murphy went far in the county but as far as the Oak Boys were concerned nothing went as far as Charles’s reach. Robert tried to read Father Murphy, but as usual he was like trying to get emotion out of piece of coal. There were no hints in his facial expressions, his manner or his speech to tell which way he was leaning.
         
“So I suppose ye’ are here to propose the Oak Boys align with yer cause?”
         
“We have a very well orchestrated and strong club Robert, North Country Men who come by way of Dublin. We have committee’s in many counties, with 12 person commissions who convey instructions from Belfast, which unites the entire country against British occupation. The only way we c’n defeat them is striking at the same time.”
         
“...I suppose the decision is not mine, but I think I hold a common thought among the rest iv the boys, that we are not in need here iv uniting with the likes iv rebel groups and insurgents. The Oak Boys have a relationship with the local authorities we haven’t had an outbreak iv violence in the seven years since I have taken me oath. All the Oak Boys must do is send a letter of injustice and the problem for the most part is taken care iv. I c’nnot see why we would want to disrupt what we have here far a cause not involving us, and to be quite honest, we don’t agree with the violence of those savages.”
         
“Well- Robert-” said James speaking up for the first time of nowhere, “I c’n appreciate yer stance, but as ye’ pointed out the decision is not yers, is it?”
         
Robert held back his outrage at the strangers comment, though his demeanor was that of a very pleasant man there was something rotten about that ripened tomato he did not trust. “Yes I did say that, but my voice has a lot of persuasion…”
         
James began to rebut, but Father Murphy by raising his hand interrupted, stopping the juvenile bickering.
         
“They are saying that the United Irish have joined forces with the French?”
         
“Aye.” Gloated McCraken. “Tone himself is there right now, they have pledged 10,000 men and 50,000 stands.”
         
“I wonder how it is, that the United plan to be victorious, taking up company with infidels?” McCracken stumbled upon some sounds but no words came out to answer Father John’s inquiry. “I also wonder,” father John continued, “av the United Irish have thought about the fact, that requesting an invasion from France is inviting another form iv foreign occupation? Rather than British control iv our country it will be controlled by French Atheist’s? Are the United tolerant of French occupation opposed to British?”
         
“My Father” said Henry, “I assure ye’, the French are here to aid in our independence and gain allies against the throne iv England. No other intentions.”
         
Father John chuckled and blessed the young man, “my child, may ye’ quickly grow wise to the way iv the world. For it is much more colorful then yer fogged views are providing ye’ the pleasure iv.”  He stood, excusing the two men from the meeting. “I will have to agree with Robert, that av the battle were to rage at our doorsteps we would take up arms, but until that day we will have to remain a servant to our peaceful Lord.”
         
The two men stood and bowed to Father John and Robert before they exited the house.

“My son,” he embraced Robert with delight, “I am as a proud father, watching my child grow into a great man.”
         
“Father I mean this with most sincerity, I wouldn’t even give me own father a reduced rate, ye’ll have to find another ignorant lad to give ye’ the cheap whiskey.”