Shanty Irish by Jim Tully Page A

Mithodist—niver—” my grandfather thundered. “I’ll skin her alive first—rather indade were she in her grave.” He crashed his fist on the table. A heavy plate rattled to the floor.
    â€œHitch the bay mare up Dennis—we’ll save the soul ov Mollie.”
    Dennis hurried to the stable. In a short time the horse and buggy awaited grandfather.
    The old man stood on the porch for a minute and watched the night creep down the road. His lips shook.
    â€œAll right, father,” yelled Dennis. Grandfather climbed into the buggy beside his son.
    Neither of them spoke for over a mile. The bay mare trotted swiftly. Dennis said at last, “Even the mare’s in a hurry.”
    â€œShe’s a good horse,” returned my grandfather grimly, “more sense than Moll, she has.” He scraped his heavy boot on the dashboard. “What in the whole world puzzest the girl?” he asked suddenly.
    â€œMaybe the devil,” replied Dennis, “they say he likes to steal the souls of good lookin’ girls.”
    â€œWell it’s not Moll’s that he’ll steal this night … I’ll bash in his skull before he does.”
    The lights of the church could be seen in the distance.
    It was full of country folk in whose hollow souls echoed the myths of Salvation. They called on the Lord for strength to rise washed and dripping in His precious blood.
    They screamed, knelt, expostulated, and rolled on the floor.
    The preacher was a man with fanatic eyes sunk deep in his head. He lived on a farm and preached at two country churches.
    A heavy black mustache hid his mouth. He wore a long tailed coat and leather boots. His energy was dynamic, his voice deep and vibrant. In a section of the world where all men were religious fanatics, he gave other creeds no quarter and asked none himself. He called the Catholic religion rottener than hell.
    His name was anathema in Irish homes.
    The Lawlers, always headstrong, fanatic and opinionated, could never forgive a man as bitter as themselves.
    He walked up and down in front of the Mourners’ Bench, his arms frantically waving. He removed his long coat and threw it across the large Bible. A woman rose from the Mourners’ Bench, perspiration dripping, bonnet hanging down her back, hair falling over her face. She clapped her hands together and screamed, “Only Jesus can satisfy me!”
    â€œThat’s right, Sister—only Jesus can satisfy you—”
    He droned the words.
    â€œOnly Jesus can satisfy me …
    â€œOnly Jesus can satisfy me …
    â€œGlory to God, sister—you are right—only Jesus can satisfy the women of the world.”
    She kissed the minister fervently.
    They all gathered about my Aunt Moll who knelt at the Mourners’ Bench, body swaying back and forth. Her dark hair touched the floor. The minister placed both hands on her head. The young girl sobbed convulsively.
    The minister sobbed with her. Then his heavy voice boomed the first line of a song.
    â€œThere were ninety and nine that safely lay—”
    It was taken up by the entire congregation.
    â€œIn the shelter of the fold ,
    But one was out on the hills away ,
    Far off from the gates of gold ,
    Away on the mountains wild and bare ,
    Away from the tender Shepherd’s care.”
    The next verse was filled with the thunder of hysteria. Male voices, cracked, powerful and weak, sang the words:
    â€œLord thou hast here thy ninety and nine;
    Are they not enough for Thee?”
    But the Shepherd made answer, “One of mine
    Has wandered away from me;
    And although the road be rough and steep
    I go to the desert to find my sheep.”
    The song reached even greater heights:
    â€œBut none of the ransomed ever knew
    How deep were the waters crossed ,
    Nor how dark was the night that the Lord passed through
    Ere he found his sheep that was lost .
    Out in the desert he heard its cry ,
    Sick and helpless and