A Son of Aran Read online

  Next morning, riding in a coach provided by the seminary, all four set out on a two hour journey that took them from the precincts of Salamanca into the countryside of Valladolid. Seosamh marvelled at the large areas of cultivated valley land interspersed with lofty rock outcrops and rough pasturage.

  ‘There’s as much in one field here as in the whole of Inis Mór,’ he exclaimed.

  Wheat and barley had already been harvested and the ground was being prepared for a further crop. Ploughing on the larger areas was done by heavy tractors pulling ploughs that turned two furrows at a time. On small allotments, the biggest bullocks they had ever seen were used to draw farm implements. Peadar couldn’t help noticing that, in contrast with the method of harnessing a team of horses back home, two bullocks, harnessed together, pulled a plough by means of a long swingle tree laced to their long horns.

  ‘Glór do Dhia (Praise to God),’ he exclaimed, ‘I never thought I’d see the like of that. Wait until I tell Máirtín and the people back in Aran; I’m thinking they won’t believe me.’

  Lines of olive trees, apple orchards, and vines to left and right, were weighed down under ripening fruits. Occasionally a stately house could be seen in the distance, partly hidden within a clump of chestnut or maple trees, and approached by a winding tree- lined avenue.

  ‘What a land of wonderful beauty and richness!’ Peadar remarked.

  Soon they reached the perimeter of the Estat de Tirelle. Boundary walls, breached here and there, gave a view of what lay within. The land was arid and bare. Apple, plum and olive trees, raised withering branches above the encroaching bramble, gorse and briars that invaded the ground between. Fruit remaining on the trees was blighted and shrivelled. They could see no evidence of workers anywhere among the plantations. On the small holdings which they visited, the scene was in sharp contrast. Men stripped to their waists, heads covered in broad straw hats, bent low as they grubbed and scuffled between lines of apple trees and vines, using primitive rakes and hoes. Close to their neat white cottages, women, clad in dark aprons, and white headscarves, propelled themselves on their knees between rows of onions, melons and cucumbers, tilling and weeding with dedication and care. Heads were raised at the approach of the visitors. Fr. Benedictus introduced the trio, explaining that they were rural people from Ireland on a fact-finding tour of the area. He mentioned their interest in the conditions under which Spanish smallholders lived, the crops they grew, and how they disposed of their produce. Problems regarding availability of sufficient land to make their holdings economic, were discussed over long cool drinks of cider and gifts of home baked wheaten bread. A spokesman for the group reiterated their struggle to obtain more land from the adjoining Estat de Tirelle where lack of husbandry and neglect were apparent. They had succeeded in taking possession of a considerable portion of the estate a year earlier, but the need for more land was crucial if their people were to eke out a reasonable standard of living for themselves and their dependants. Their leaders had remonstrated with Carlos de Montmorency but his reaction was hostile. His threats to invoke the law if further incursions were made, resulted in bands of masked men entering the estate at night, driving off his sheep and horses, and plundering what was left of his fruit. A veritable state of war existed, the outcome of which members of the community would only predict. An aged man welcomed the Irish interest in their plight. He recalled hearing about young Irishmen who came to Salamanca to study during his grandfather’s time. During summer vacations some of them came to his place to help with the crops.

  ‘They were such nice boys,’ he said; ‘they told people how they weren’t allowed to study in their own country because an English government resented them becoming educated. He understood that the current owner of Estat de Tirelle had connections in Ireland.

  ‘Our people,’ he said, ‘would appreciate any pressure that the Irish might be able to bring to bear on Carlos de Montmorency in the interests of meeting their demands.’

  They were still speaking when a piercing cry arose at some distance. There followed the sound of gunshots that reechoed through an adjacent copse. A startled riderless horse galloped past them at speed, trailing a broken bridle rein. A cacophony of confused shouting and jeering was borne on the gentle autumn breeze, followed by a lone strident call: ‘Father Benedictus, come quickly; a man has been shot—he is bleeding to death.’

  The priest responded at once. He ran in the direction indicated, followed by Eileen, Peadar, and Seosamh. The crumpled body of a man lay motionless on the green sward, a riding crop still in his hand; men and women crowded around him.

  ‘Back, a little,’ the priest admonished as he placed his stole around his neck and raised his hand in prayer. Whispering an Act of Contrition in the injured man’s ear, he anointed him with holy oils, and blessed him. Feeling for a pulse he said,

  ‘This man is still alive. One of you go immediately for a doctor; others of you come and carry him to the estate house; we’ll see what we can do to staunch his wounds and stem the bleeding until medical help arrives.’

  Some of the crowd clapped and jeered as, reluctantly, four of their partisans bore the inert form of Carlos de Montmorency in silent procession to his mansion.

  On the day following the shooting, Fr. Benedictus announced to his visitors: ‘The doctor has told me that Carlos regained consciousness last night but his condition is still critical. He has no immediate family. I asked that, as you have come a long way to meet him, it might be appropriate for you to visit him briefly. The doctor agrees you may call this afternoon for a short stay. He himself will be on hand in case an emergency arises.’

  ‘What a strange quirk of fate has brought us together in these circumstances!’ Peadar remarked as they entered the estate mansion.

  The former housekeeper had returned when she heard news of the shooting. Meeting them in the high arched portico, she led them into a room where Carlos, the Spanish Captain, lay prone on a long settee, his bandaged head raised above a multi-coloured coverlet. He eyed the group with suspicion as they entered.

  ‘What gives rise to this intrusion?’ he queried weakly. ‘Are you people not satisfied at having reduced me to my present condition without coming to gloat over my misfortune?’

  From the background, Fr. Benedictus explained, ‘Carlos, these people are not your enemies. They have come from Ireland in response to a request from you to initiate dialogue with them. This is Peadar O’Flaherty, his daughter Eileen, and her friend Seosamh, from Aran.’

  A shudder ran through Carlos as he stared unbelievingly at them.

  ‘Am I dreaming?’ he thought. ‘Have I entered a state of mental delusion? This cannot be true.’

  Staring with glazed eyes, he stretched a bandaged hand in their general direction, ‘Will one of you clasp my hand and convince me that I am not hallucinating.’

  It was Eileen who responded. She placed his hand in hers and held it gently. Carlos burst into a bout of uncontrollable sobbing.

  ‘My darling girl,’ he cried, ‘child of my one-time lover. When you were born, how I wanted you for my own! It was not to be—you were not mine—you were the child of Peadar O’ Flaherty, a decent man, whom I wronged many years ago but now meet face to face for the first time. I have no claim on you. Let me look at you; I remember so well your mop of dark ringlets and your chubby baby face. I knew then that you would become a dazzling beauty. How right I was! I searched for you for years without success. I am so happy to find you even at this late stage. Come, kiss my poor disfigured cheek, and make me a happy man.’

  ‘I must ask you to leave now,’ the doctor interrupted. ‘Carlos has lost a lot of blood—we should not tire him. You may come again tomorrow at the same time.’

  ‘May I have a word in private, Father Benedictus!’ Carlos whispered as the others left the room.

  ‘I feel that, for me, the tide is ebbing,’ Carlos told them when they called to see him the next afternoon. ‘The doctor has informed me that I have internal bleedi
ng which he has been unable to staunch. He recommends that I have hospital treatment in Madrid. I do not want to go there—it is far from the only home I have ever known. If I am to die, I prefer to depart life among my beloved groves. Father Benedictus has ministered to my spiritual needs; I will go in peace now that I have met once again the joy of my life. Oh blessed day that sent you to me in such an unexpected and unplanned manner. Hold me, Eileen, while life blood still flows in my withering veins.’

  Quietly the others withdrew to allow them to be alone.

  ‘We can’t stay here much longer if we are to arrive in Bordeaux in time to catch Ó Máille’s next sailing,’ Peadar told the priest, as they shared a meal at a restaurant in the local town. ‘When we came here we never thought that events would take this turn. Since I first laid eyes on Carlos back home in Galway, I harboured a suspicion about him. Later when I learned of his nefarious plan to abduct Eileen and her mother, I must admit I loathed him and his underhand practises. Had the opportunity arisen, I would gladly have thrown him into the tide. When I see him now, a broken man in the prime of life, my feelings towards him have altered; I wish him no ill; if it were in my power to help him I would do so. God rest my mother, when somebody did wrong to us, she would say: ‘Fág ag Dia é(í) (leave him/her to God).’

  The mills of God grind slowly but they grind exceedingly sure. For Carlos the wheel has gone full circle.’

  The long trek back to Bordeaux was something of an anti-climax. Silently they pedalled their bikes along dusty roads, hill and hollow, rough and smooth. Although it was mid-September, the air was warm and heavy with midday temperatures approaching summer highs in sheltered valleys where there was an absence of wind. Wrapped in their individual thoughts, none of the group seemed interested in the diversity of landscape and verdant greenery that evoked much comment on their outward journey.

  Carlos’s parting words were foremost in their minds: ‘My new-found friends, may the Good Lord watch over you and keep you safe from hurt and harm as you return to Ireland. When your craft approaches the islands of Aran please pay a lingering farewell on my behalf to Galway Bay which I loved so well, but into which I will never again steam. Offer a prayer for me over the grave of my beloved Saureen. I hope that my next meeting with her will take place in that home in the sky to which we all aspire.’

  ‘What a change from the arrogant captain that strutted around Galway not so very long ago!’ Peadar thought to himself. ‘For all his wealth and affluence, life has cut him down to size!’

  ‘What a pitiful end the poor man is subjected to!’ Eileen mused, ‘and to think that he and my mother were lovers before I was born! Wasn’t it a strange stroke of fate that brought two people of such uncharacteristic backgrounds together in the first instance, to blossom as it did, into full-blown romance! Wasn’t it still more coincidental that their plan to elope and take me with them was discovered in time by my father! What would have happened to me if they had succeeded? Would I have been brought up in Spain as their natural child? Would I have graced the social scene as the young heiress of Estat de Tirelle? Would I have been happy to fill that role, or would I have pined for Peadar who was both father and mother to me as a child? I reckon I’ll never know. I’m thankful to God that such never happened. I wouldn’t, for all the wealth in Estat de Tirelle, wish to have been denied my life in Aran with Peadar, Seosamh, and my acquaintances and schoolmates.’

  ‘Gee, this cowpoke has taken a great shine to Eileen!’ Seosamh said to himself. ‘He acted like she was his own flesh and blood. He must be filthy rich with all the land he owns. but he doesn’t seem to give a hoot about farming it properly. Some people don’t deserve the good things that are handed down to them without any effort on their part—if he had been born into a family in Aran, he’d have learned to work for his keep. When all is said and done I believe that Aran folk, given that they have to contend with poor soil, wind, bad weather, and storms at sea, are far more content than that buck. Still I don’t wish him ill luck; I’m sorry to see him lying there without a friend in the world to look after him or to say a kind word to him. I’ve learned a lot about peoples’ ways of life on this trip; I’m sure glad Eileen invited me to come.’

  Ó Máille was about to leave port when they arrived on the pier in Bordeaux.

  ‘You boys took your time,’ he said, ‘another hour and we would have been at sea. Stow your gear in the hold and we’ll get under way. On the journey back home you can tell me all about your trip to Spain. I take it they treated you well in Salamanca. On many a winter night as we sat around the hearth fire in the dark, I remember my granduncle, Diarmad, telling about his years down there. All the priests who served on Clare Island during his life time, were ordained outside the country. From listening to him I gained a great knowledge of the continent. That was one reason I took up trading to France—I had heard so much about Bordeaux that, at sixteen years of age, I felt I had already been there; I couldn’t wait for the opportunity to ship out with my father and uncle who ran the route before me. Gráinne Mhaol was queen of the waves in her time. With Gráinne as our model and the boat named after her, we were safe from attack—no pirate or customs patrol would dare to take us on—such was her fame as a navigator.’

  Examination results had arrived for Eileen when they got back from Spain. She had passed the matriculation examination, which gave her access to any course of her choice in the university. An accompanying letter informed her that she had been awarded a scholarship by the department of education which entitled her to free tuition at any of the university colleges. She was puzzled at the absence of any reference to her application for a place in one of the teacher training colleges—perhaps it would come later! She opted to enrol for a degree in languages at University College Galway where she proposed to augment her knowledge of French, and to study Spanish as a second language. Seosamh was pleased that she would still be within range of Aran where she would come frequently to visit. He would resign himself to working the family farm and doing a spot of fishing with his cousins, Tomás and Séimí, in his spare time. Without breaching confidence he told them as much as they should know about his trip to France and Spain:

  ‘It’s a different world out there,’ he said, ‘farms as big as the whole of Aran with no fences between fields, acres and acres of wheat, maize, and tobacco, plantations with row after row of vines laden with grapes, so even in height that you could lay a tablecloth across them; every chateau had the family name at its entrance; we saw lots of Irish names among them. In Bordeaux I felt like I was at home—people on the street were speaking English—a few of those we met even spoke Gaelic. Spain was different. There they have huge groves of apple and plum trees, plantations of olives, and acres of vegetables like we never see in Ireland—courgettes, melons and beans. If I had my freedom I’d pack up and head for one of those countries. There are opportunities to make an easier living there; the climate is warmer and drier than here. If only I didn’t have to remain to help my mother and young brother I’d be off in the morning.’

  Máirtín was pleased to have Peadar back on board the hooker. September was a good month for herring fishing and he was rearing to get started. As they headed out to sea Peadar filled him in on their exploits abroad and said he regretted that Máirtín himself was not with them.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ he said, ‘my arse was like a briar from the hard saddle as we cycled mile after mile in the dust and heat over rough mountain roads but it was great to see the different landscapes, the natural vegetation, and the cultivated areas. You remember Bordeaux and the countryside around it. Spain was different. Being further south it had more olives and other fruits; many of the farms were large but, side by side with the big estates, were lots of small allotments where the majority of the population have to eke out a living for themselves and their families. It reminded me so much of the old landlord and tenant system that applied in Ireland a century ago. Out there the smallholders have become organised; they are forcing th
e estate owners to give them a better deal. One subversive group has taken land away from the owners by force and dared them to take legal action to recoup it. Isn’t it strange that, no matter what country you go to, the burning problem among rural people is lack of sufficient land. How did our forefathers manage at all with the little patches of rocky soil that they had to live on here in Aran?’

  In early October 1952, Eileen left home to commence studies at University College, Galway. The transformation from secondary to third level education was a revelation to her. She mingled with students from all parts of Ireland who, like herself, had chosen the relaxed ambience of Galway in which to pursue their studies. The initial weeks were spent in getting to know one another and in seeking out places of entertainment in the city. Rag week was a riot of mischievous behaviour; students paraded through the streets carrying creative banners, chanting throaty slogans, and disrupting life in the city for a whole day. Shopkeepers, though inwardly swearing at perceived loss of business, tolerated the students’ antics in a spirit of good fun; bystanders enjoyed the colourful pageant and were amused at the bawdy behaviour of some of the marchers. Apart from attendance at lectures, no pressure was imposed on students; it was left to each individual to organise his or her particular study programme. Those who neglected to do this felt the draught when examinations were set. Eileen applied herself conscientiously to her work; she liked the subjects she had chosen and was already gaining the attention of her lecturers. She wrote regularly to Seosamh and, to her delight, he responded in full measure regaling her with escapades of his cousins and himself as they out-manoeuvred Peadar and Máirtín to be first on the fishing grounds when herring or mackerel were running. He invariably ended his letters with the words, ‘Your affectionate soul-mate, Seosamh’.