The latter, mixed with alcohol, was a combustible that brought Scotts and Hardwicks to blows in the street and left a man beaten and bloody in the gutter for not paying his fifty pence to enter the monthly dance. Unemployment was high at Cranston and boredom kept pace.
The streets were paved in broken glass, testimony to the popularity of bottle-smashing. Fresh white houses with brightly painted shutters and well-tended rose gardens were competing with graying, graffiti-trimmed bungalows-and losing. As it was, Cranston appeared to be dying-at once the victim of apathy and violence. The whole estate was poised for the transformation, or at least the drama of the fire and the pomp of the parades. (The name of the estate has been changed, as have the residents' names.) Union Jacks and Red Hands were hoisted above doorways banners of red, white, and blue were stretched from house to house and the mountain of refuse continued to grow in a vacant lot, awaiting that midnight match that, on the eve of the 12th, would transform it from a pile of junk into a blazing bonfire. At Cranston Estate, the Protestant housing project where I was living, preparations began early. For weeks in advance huge banners arched the streets, exhorting everyone to "Remember 1690." Indeed, the people spoke of "King Billy" with such familiarity that it was easy to forget the battle occurred almost three hundred years ago. On the 12th of July, Orangemen and many Protestant followers would take to the streets to celebrate the Battle of the Boyne, where William III of Orange (a Protestant) defeated James II (a Catholic) to take control of Ireland. When I arrived in Belfast in late June, the Red Hand was waving from Protestant doorways to herald the impending Orange Parades. The passions that led O'Neill to bleed for Ulster have survived as well. O'Neill's bloody hand has been preserved through the ages as the Red Hand of Ulster, seen on flags, postage stamps, pendants, and paramilitary banners.
Ulster, but for three counties, is now Northern Ireland. Her account of that summer shows a vicious cycle of everyday brutalization and bigotry, handed down from generation to generation.Īn old Irish legend tells of a boat race where the prize was the kingdom of Ulster and the victor was the first to "touch the shore." O'Neill, seeing his boat slip behind, cut off his hand, flung it ashore, and won the kingdom.
REDHAND EVE ARCHIVE
Find the entire archive online here.) Moir spent the summer living in a Protestant housing estate in Belfast, where she organized a recreation program for the children. (WORLDVIEW magazine ran from 1958-85 and featured articles by political philosophers, scholars, churchmen, statesmen, and writers from across the political spectrum. She is a freelance writer and is on the staff of the Community Crime Prevention Program in Seattle." I again walked forth But lo! the sky Showed flecked with blood, and an alien sun Glared from the north, And there stood on high, Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton! It was by the stream Of the castled Maine, One Autumn eve, in the Teuton’s land, That I dreamed this dream Of the time and reign Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.From WORLDVIEW Magazine: "Patricia Moir traveled through Ireland in 1975 under the auspices of the Chinook Learning Community. Anon stood nigh By my side a man Of princely aspect and port sublime Him queried I- “Oh, my Lord and Khan, What clime is this, and what golden time?” When he-“The clime Is a clime to praise, The clime is Erin’s, the green and bland And it is the time, These be the days, Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.” Then saw I thrones And circling fires, And a Dome rose near me, as by a spell, Whence flowed the tones Of silver lyres, And many voices in wreathèd swell And their thrilling chime Fell on mine ears As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band- “It is now the time These be the years, Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.” I sought the hall, And behold!-a change From light to darkness, from joy to woe! Kings, nobles, all, Looked aghast and strange The minstrel group sate in dumbest show! Had some great crime Wrought this dread amaze, This terror? None seemed to understand ’Twas then the time, We were in the days, Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand. Even in the clime Of resplendent Spain, Beams no such sun upon such a land But it was the time, ’T was in the reign, Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand. I WALKED entranced Through a land of Morn: The sun, with wondrous excess of light, Shone down and glanced Over seas of corn And lustrous gardens aleft and right.
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