John Little - The Donnellys: Powder Keg, 1840–1880

The Donnelly family headstone, indicating the family members who were murdered on February 4, 1880. (Photo by author)

Its eleven oclock on Saturday, November 8, 2014. My youngest son, Ben, and his South Muskoka Bears Minor Midget hockey team have just finished their first game of a tournament in St. Marys, Ontario. They won their game and Ben scored a nice goal, so Im happy. But the teams next game isnt until two oclock that afternoon, so were going to be doing a lot of sitting around until an hour or so before the next game. Ben, understandably, wants to hang out with his friends on the team during this interval, which means hes going to park himself at the arena. Consequently, I now find myself alone with three hours on my hands to fill. It occurs to me that Im not that far from the Roman Line, maybe a thirty-minute drive. Ive always wanted to go there, as somewhere on that stretch of roadway sits the property upon which the Donnelly story played out. The infamous Donnelly children were raised on that lot of land and four members of the family were murdered there on a cold February night in 1880.

Despite being taught nothing of this bit of southern Ontario history in school, when I first learned about the Donnellys, their story gripped me like few stories have (before or since). Indeed, some thirty years previously, during my second year of university, a roommate had invited me to spend a weekend at his parents home in Mitchell, Ontario. During the course of meeting his parents, we sat down at the family table to eat. Some small talk was exchanged and then I posed a question that I thought would be a good icebreaker: How far away is Lucan? His father, a lawyer in town, answered, Oh, about half an hour. Not far. Are you interested in going to Lucan? Definitely! I replied enthusiastically. Why? he asked. I understand thats where the Donnellys were killed, I replied. Although my statement was wrong (i.e., the Donnellys were killed within their farmhouse on the Roman Line in Biddulph not Lucan, which is about four and a half miles southwest from where they lived), my enthusiasm was obvious. But then a look fell over the fathers face that immediately let me know I would not be going to Lucan. We dont talk about that here, he said. And the table fell quiet until someone introduced a subject that was evidently far less contentious. I never forgot that, and the fathers attitude only served to further fan the flames of my nascent curiosity.

So now, thirty years later, I find myself driving along Breen Drive, a country road in Biddulph Township, looking to intersect the infamous Roman Line concession road. Just my luck, it starts to rain. As the windshield wipers engage to sweep the water from my windshield, I keep looking left and right like Im going to recognize something; perhaps a big neon arrow with the words Donnelly home here! will present itself. A stop sign looms up ahead, which causes me to slow down and then come to a complete stop. I must be lost. I hit the button to roll down the passenger side window of the truck to see if I can read the road sign that sits on my side of the small intersection. And there it is the Roman Line. I throw the truck in park and step out. This is the road that author Thomas P. Kelley, in his book The Black Donnellys, had said horses were afraid to run along at night after the murders had occurred. An old wives tale to be certain, but such tales have grown into legends that, rightly or wrongly, have become accepted as facts. There is a deep history to this road and I am overtaken by the urge to stand right smack in the middle of it and take in the view. The weather has made it darker than it ought to be for a fall afternoon, but given the roads connection to violence and murder, it seems eerily appropriate. I return to the truck, turn right and now find myself driving along the Roman Line. Ive called ahead to the man who presently owns the old Donnelly property, Robert Salts. Hes a retired schoolteacher who used to give tours on his plot of land; he lives in a house that was constructed on the property by three of the surviving Donnelly brothers back in 1881. The house has been added to over the years but the original building still remains. He had told me that he would be happy to sign a copy of his book about the property (Youre Never Alone) for me, but he isnt feeling up to conducting any more tours. This is fine by me. Im excited just to see the land.

I pull up to the front of Lot 18, and immediately am taken by the fact that it was here, in this exact spot, that a group of twenty (some would claim forty) men came at 12:30 a.m. in the early morning hours of February 4, 1880, with the sole intent of murdering the Donnelly family. Its admittedly creepy, and the house looks creepy too. The dark sky and rain are simply augmenting the uncomfortableness of the experience. I leave the truck and knock on the door of the house and Salts invites me in. Hes a nice person; so is his wife. After some small talk he presents me with a copy of his book and I hand him some cash. I get the feeling that hed rather I leave. Im sure hes given the Donnelly talk thousands of times before and, since hes recently closed his property to tours, hes probably done with it. Im fine with that, as I really just wanted to experience the place where it all went down. I ask if I can take a few photos from the driveway and roadway, to which he graciously consents. I snap away with my iPhone, photographing the exterior of the house and the original Donnelly barn that was built by the brothers of the family sometime in the 1880s and lifted onto a cement base by Bob Donnelly shortly after he acquired the property in 1905. I snap images of the fieldstones that are placed at distinct corners in the lawn beside the present house, said to mark the foundation of where the original Donnelly farmhouse stood. The area just in front of it is where Tom Donnelly, the youngest son, was beaten to death. In the corner of the property are the ruins of what once was the Donnelly schoolhouse a place where the local children came to learn how to read and write. Across the road is nothing, although the Donnellys neighbours used to have homes on the east side of the road. Nothing stands there anymore. The rain picks up, but thats okay. Ive seen enough. Bens game starts in an hour. I get back in my truck and turn it toward St. Marys.