Free Bold Sons of Erin by Owen Parry, Ralph Peters Page A

face me. “Oh, nothing romantic about it. No longing for martyrdom in the cookpot. Not that sort of thing at all. But aren’t they the poor, who are beloved of God? The poor for whom Jesus Christ had infinite mercy? The poor whom we are called to love as our brothers?” He shook his head. “Dig up their graves? Worst thing you could do.”
    He sat down across from me and made to light his pipe with a wooden match. For a moment, he remained quiet, concentratingon steadying his hands. I smelled the instant sweetness of fired tobacco.
    “They are devout in their faith,” he resumed. “But I’m afraid their faith is impure. Oh, they believe in the Church, certainly. But half of them still believe in fairies, as well. They cling to the past, to spells instead of medicines. These people need education, not threats. Honest wages, not maltreatment. They must be led into the modern world.”
    He puffed, looking down at the bowl of his pipe, then lifted his eyes to me. “It would be all too convenient to accept their devotions, while ignoring the heathen practices that persist among them. But I, for one, believe that we who have given our lives to the service of Our Lord Jesus Christ must not abandon them to their ignorance. Modern faith is not about bogeymen and pitchforks, after all, but about the challenge of living a life that is pleasing in the eyes of God. And I should not think Him pleased by charms and incantations.”
    Father Wilde feinted a smile. “Many of my fellow seminarians would disagree, Major Jones, but I am not convinced that the faith of the fool is a worthy faith. Nor am I convinced that ceremony without understanding is a valid form of devotion. You will find I differ with Cardinal Newman’s approach to the times as much as I do with your Dr. Pusey’s. Why, I’ve always felt rather sorry for the hounding that sort gave poor, old Colenso. I do believe the fellow meant well. Although I would not defend his mathematics. But you see, I’m hardly the Ultramontane sort your people prefer in a Catholic priest. Don’t you agree, after all, that Protestants rather enjoy a close-minded priest to whom they may condescend, but won’t quite like a fellow who believes God gave us brains so that we might exercise them? I prefer a thoughtful devotion, if you will.”
    At last he managed a smile of some authenticity. “These are challenging days for us Catholics, but days of great spiritual renewal, as well. Especially, in the English-speaking lands. Newman has done us well, in that respect. He simply feels the diffidence before God of the newly converted. Rigor answers his doubts.”
    Like you, I knew the name of Cardinal Newman. A fellow who left the Church of England, where the incense was not thick enough for his nostrils. He led young men astray who were confounded by the pain of modern times. But let that bide.
    “You will do your flock no good by hiding a murder,” I told the priest. “Or two murders.”
    “And do you mean to do them good, Major Jones?”
    A colliery whistle blew, shrill enough to pierce the deepest grave. Twas not the hour for such a blowing. But I knew what it meant. Our period of uninterrupted digging was done. We had been noticed by someone in the valley.
    I rose to my feet. For I was not confident the shabby fellows we had hired for the digging, or even the deputies placed over them, would stand up well against an Irish mob. They would need spine.
    I looked down at the priest, who puffed his pipe and did not think to rise.
    “Where will I find Mrs. Boland?” I asked him. “When the fuss is done, I want to talk to her.”
    “I’m afraid you shan’t be able to do that.”
    “Why not?”
    “She’s disappeared. Hasn’t been seen since her husband died.” He gestured, lightly, toward the woods with his pipe. “We’re all very concerned about her. An unusual person, you know. Odd habits. One of those of whom I spoke, the sort who cling to the old, rural beliefs opposed by the