Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  ‘I looked everywhere. All I found were a few wild carrots and dog roses. Not enough to feed a sparrow. Then last evening I saw the caravan of carts on the road just below Carrowkennedy, heading for Westport, about a hundred soldiers guarding the carts. Bastards. They stopped for the night. Bedded down. I was only a shout from them, lying in the heather. The wheat was guarded like it was fuckin’ gold, I swear. But the pigs were squealing te wake the dead and that was my chance, because they left them alone te get away from the noise. I got under a cart, reached up and slit a piglet’s throat, pulled it down and hid under the wheels. The pigs squealed a bit louder but all I heard was some bastard shouting for them te shut up. Then I crept back across into the heather.’

  ‘You stole a whole pig?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t carry it. I cut a few shanks off, as much as I could hold and had te leave the rest, worse the luck.’

  ‘Jesus, Thomas.’

  ‘Jesus is right. When they discover the pig gone they’ll come lookin’ and we’ll be on a prison ship to Van Diemen’s Land before the week is out. But it’ll take them time. And that’s why we’ve got to leave. Today. If we head west then north–’

  ‘But how will they know it was you?’

  ‘My only jacket’s covered in pig blood. And they’ve got dogs. They’ll probably be able to follow the trail right to our door.’

  Owen closed his eyes and shook his head. He went to turn away and Thomas stayed him with a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’d have te leave anyway, otherwise we’d starve. Now, at least, we have something in our bellies for the journey.’

  Owen sighed.

  ‘I did it for you, Owen. If I hadn’t, you’d be dead, and I’d be waiting my turn.’

  Owen nodded reluctant acceptance.

  ‘Have as much of that broth as ye can swallow. We can’t take it with us. I’ve cooked what meat’s left and wrapped it in reeds, it’ll keep it from turning for a while. If we can get some dog rose and nettles, we’ll be able te make it.’

  Owen turned away and stepped back inside.

  Thomas stood there alone. The day was growing increasingly cool, and murky clouds over the Atlantic to the west weighed heavily on the landscape. Thomas closed his eyes and tilted his head back as though in desperate prayer to the heavens, but his faith had long since faded and he realised no salvation lay above. Any redemption would have to come from within, from whatever justification his own mind might contrive along the future path of his life.

  He looked down at the ground where he’d knocked the cup of broth. A piece of soggy meat no larger than a thumbnail lay at his feet and he bent and picked it up, turning it between his thumb and forefinger, studying it. He could never in his lifetime, he believed, reveal to his brother the truth about the meat that had saved their lives. And he would never forget the night just past – never, until he breathed his last.

  ‘You can’t take them, ye gobshite. We barely have the strength te carry ourselves, let alone a bunch of books.’

  Owen was kneeling on the floor about to fold a blanket around his few belongings, which included three books he’d been given by their former schoolteacher. One was a weighty tome entitled A Collection of the Myths and Legends of the Culture of Ancient Greece, while the others were both novels: Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe and the fancifully titled Travels into Several Remote Nations of the World, in Four Parts. By Lemuel Gulliver, First a Surgeon, and then a Captain of Several Ships, by Jonathan Swift.

  He was about to protest when Thomas reached down and seized them, shaking his head as he perused the covers. ‘That bastard Mullany was always filling your head with this bullshit. Lot of good they are to us now.’

  Mullany, their schoolteacher, had been hated by most of his sixty students, particularly because of his enthusiastic use of the strap and his fondness for calling the children ‘illiterate Irish potato-diggers’, despite the fact that he was Irish himself. Thomas’s frequent defiance of the man had meant he’d suffered more than most. Owen too had often sported welts, but having been identified early on as one of the brightest of the crop, he and a handful of others had also been the beneficiaries of extra schooling from the teacher. Mullany, born in Mayo, was much travelled and had been educated in philosophy and the classics in Rome. His small collection of books had opened a door to Owen and when he had stepped through he’d discovered a world of infinite possibility that had taken him across horizons far from the valleys of Mayo. There had even been mention by Mullany of a wealthy Catholic merchant in Galway who each year sponsored the further education of a number of boys. There was great hope and optimism altogether. Then they’d awoken that September morning in ’45 to the smell, creeping into their home the way an early morning mist creeps low across a meadow, seeping into their nostrils as they slept, rancid and choking like decaying flesh, but in many ways more repugnant. It had been the smell of the end of his dreams.

  Owen couldn’t count the number of times that being among the teacher’s ‘special’ children had earned him beatings from the other boys. And almost in equal number had been the times that Thomas had waded in to his defence, usually sending the bullies scurrying away. Yet he too had always seemed to resent Owen’s desire for learning, and as Thomas looked at the books now it was almost with relish that he seized the opportunity to be rid of them. He’d always borne a chip on his shoulder as regards Owen’s brightness and here was a chance to assert his position as the one in charge.

  ‘We could sell them,’ Owen offered in dim hope.

  Thomas looked up and seemed to hesitate, about to say something, then turned away and tossed the books into the glowing embers of the hearth. ‘More trouble than they’re worth. Get your stuff. We have te go.’

  Owen watched for a few moments as the corners of the volumes began to blacken and smoke, filling him with an immense sense of loss, and not just for the books. It was as though the door that the schoolteacher had opened had finally and inevitably swung closed.

  An hour later they stood looking up the hill at the cottage that had been their home for most of their lives; they would probably never see it again, nor their family’s resting place.

  ‘We have to go by Drummin graveyard, we have to say goodbye to our mother and Bridget and Pat and Sally,’ Owen was saying, tears in his voice.

  Thomas put a consoling hand on Owen’s shoulder. ‘We can’t go that way. That’s where the soldiers and police are. We’ll walk straight into them. We have to go west to Doolough, then north to Louisburgh, then to Westport. It’s longer but safer.’

  ‘This place. It’s all we’ve ever known. Tawnyard Hill and the valley.’

  Thomas sighed. ‘Fuck it, Owen, all this place has brought us is misery. Let’s go.’

  They turned and began to walk, a tied bundle of their worldly possessions slung over each of their shoulders. Three hours later they sat and rested at a point where the Glennumera River’s hasty waters rushed into Doolough. Then they turned north towards Westport, cast a final look back along the valley to the east, and bade farewell to their childhood forever.

  CHAPTER 6

  Boycott, who I knew personally and met frequently, was a surly, cranky man ready to snap at anybody, friend or foe.

  –Dr Connor Maguire, MD of Claremorris & Ballinrobe

  Boycott was considered a domineering individual, very exacting in his dealings with tenants and workers, and devoid of all sympathy towards the people generally. But he was a courageous and resourceful man, and fought his corner with the true spirit of a plucky Englishman.

  –Michael Davitt, founder of the Irish National Land League

  On June 29, David Feerick, age 29, an agent for the Browne estate of Brownstown was shot ten times at Carnalecka while he was walking home. He said he had passed three men he did not know. They shot him from behind and then came around and shot him in the face and upper body. Each man had a revolver. He did not die until six weeks later.

  –The Ballinrobe Chronicle, 3 July 1880

 
AUGUST 1880

  Captain Charles Boycott pushed back the blankets and swung his feet on to the bedside rug. He glanced over his shoulder at Annie, deep in a contented slumber in their four-poster bed, her still-handsome face pressing lightly into the pillow, pompadour hairstyle confined in a satin net, the loose nightgown failing to hide the slender curve of her form. He was pleased that her forty-six years hadn’t blighted her beauty too greatly, nor had three decades’ exposure to the damp winds of the West of Ireland. He wished the years in Mayo had been as kind to him, he thought, as he ran his hand over a slightly bulging gut and recalled its gurgling disquiet the previous day, when he’d over-indulged in brandy. But he really he couldn’t blame Mayo for that particular, self-inflicted malady.

  He slipped on his soft leather night shoes and walked quietly across to the window. He parted the curtains and was pleased to see the sun’s rising rays touching the tops of the Partry and Maumturk Mountains on the west side of Lough Mask. On Inishmaine Island, which partially obscured his view of the lough’s expanse, he could just make out Inishmaine Abbey, a relic of antiquity, the top of the ruins painted a bright orange by the early light. In a field not two hundred yards away, across the narrow channel of water that separated the island from his lakeshore home, Lough Mask House, he could identify the figure of Francis O’Monaghan toiling away on his harvest. He had to give credit to the man for his early endeavour – though only moral credit, as monetary credit for any of Lord Erne’s tenants was something he would never contemplate, he thought, stroking his full and frizzy grey beard, which extended down almost to his chest. This, Charles Boycott believed, was not because he was in any way unchristian, but precisely the opposite. It was his moral duty to insist that contractual engagements were fulfilled to the letter; to do otherwise was to encourage further abnegation of duty, further idleness among the masses.

  He was jolted from his reverie by the sight of the housemaid, Maggie, crossing the garden below, arms full of turf, an empty-headed smile on her lips as she hummed some old Irish melody. He quickly pulled up the window and leaned out on to the sill.

  ‘Maggie! Stop dithering, girl; hurry up and get that fire going!’

  The girl almost dropped the turf at the unexpected bark from the window.

  ‘Yes, sir, I will, sir,’ she replied with a brief curtsey.

  ‘And when you’ve done the chamber pots, run around and tell that idler McHale that he’s to have Iron Duke saddled and ready in twenty minutes. Quick march, now, girl!’

  As she skittered away he heard Annie’s voice behind him.

  ‘For heaven’s sake Charles, how many times must I ask you? Is it really necessary to yell at the poor girl in such a fashion? And will you please close that window?’

  He pulled the window down and turned to her. ‘Yes, my dear, I’m afraid it is necessary. It’s the only way to get any results out of peasants. That and a firm hand.’

  Annie heaved a weary sigh as she rose and pushed back the blankets. ‘Maggie is not a peasant, Charles, she’s been in our household for six years, since she was fourteen. She’s almost part of the family.’

  He shook his head in exasperation as he stepped behind a screen to dress. ‘She’s an employee, Annie dear. She’s Irish. Catholic. Born in a hovel outside Ballinrobe. By any definition, she’s a peasant.’

  ‘Oh really, please don’t start, Charles. You’ll put me off my breakfast.’

  Mrs Loughlin, the cook, had prepared her normal weekday selection of porridge with salt or honey, scrambled duck eggs, and fresh bread served with preserves. Most mornings Annie limited herself to porridge and tea. Madeleine, her nineteen-year-old niece, was similarly inclined, but her nephew, William, like a typical growing eleven-year-old boy, was devouring his second helping of eggs in huge mouthfuls.

  ‘William, I’m sure your mother didn’t approve of you eating in that fashion.’

  William, whose looks and thick, dark hair reminded her of Charles’s long-dead brother, Arthur, immediately lowered the fork and dropped his eyes in shame. His sister giggled childishly.

  ‘Boys, Aunt Annie. Disgusting creatures.’

  William glared at her. ‘I’m not disgusting!’

  ‘That’s enough, both of you,’ Annie said firmly, then smiled at her nephew to let him know she wasn’t particularly cross.

  In truth, Annie was delighted to have their company. They’d been in Lough Mask House since the beginning of the summer after they’d been made Charles’s legal wards. Tragically, dear, dear Arthur, their father, had been killed on some obscure battlefield when William was still an infant, and when their mother, Isabella, died a slow and wasting death earlier that year from consumption, the responsibility of caring for them had fallen upon her and Charles; it was a responsibility Annie had gladly accepted. Madeleine and William filled a void in her life, in part because they offered her company, and also because they made up, in some small way, for her daughter’s absence and a need to fulfil her motherly instinct. She knew they would both have to depart for schooling purposes in the coming months and she had become so used to their company that she dreaded the day they would leave. But that might be as far away as October and any amount of things could happen between now and then.

  She could hear Charles’s voice now, even before he opened the dining room door, expounding loudly upon his usual topic to Asheton Weekes. Asheton, her husband’s only friend, was now accepted as a permanent resident, it seemed. Although a decade younger than Charles, they’d become friends in the military, Asheton having seen active service abroad. Asheton’s parents had died when he was a young man, as had his only brother, and Annie believed that the military had become a kind of surrogate family for him and that he almost viewed her husband as a father. It had been Charles’s suggestion that Asheton come and live at Lough Mask House when he left the army, although Annie suspected that Charles’s invitation was motivated in part by Asheton’s equine expertise, and in fact Asheton now oversaw the running of the stables. Annie liked Asheton, who was every inch the gentleman and had a gentle, kindly way and an even temper, the diametric opposite to her husband. She occasionally wondered, given their differences of temperament, how their friendship survived. The door opened and her husband went directly to the side table where he began to spoon scrambled eggs on to a plate, not bothering with a greeting.

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself too greatly, Weekes,’ he said. ‘We’ve had this kind of thing before. Last August I believe. It’s that deuced Land League. Since Parnell became their leader he’s been stirring things up. It’s all hot air, I assure you.’

  ‘Good morning all,’ Asheton said with a respectful bow.

  ‘The way of it is, Weekes,’ Boycott said, gesticulating with a slice of toast as he sat opposite his wife, ‘is that the Irish as a race, generally speaking, recognise their place in the world as a people in need of a guiding hand. And England naturally fulfils that role, geographically looking over Ireland’s shoulder since creation, as it were. It’s an established fact that Anglo-Saxons are favoured with a sharper intellectual and spiritual core than the Celts or Picts, particularly the Catholic Celts. Peasants the world over accept the state of affairs that God and nature has ordained, but the likes of Parnell or that troublemaker priest in the village, O’Malley, are always apt to stir disgruntlement.’

  Annie sighed inwardly. Her husband had a way of sucking all the lightness from a room. Madeleine had fallen silent and was idly stirring the porridge in her bowl. The previously animated William looked bored and clearly wished to be excused. Even Asheton appeared weary as he struggled to concentrate on her husband’s tired rhetoric. It was only eight o’clock in the morning, for the love of God.

  ‘The likes of Parnell and that reprehensible terrorist Davitt actually believe we should just walk away and let the peasants run the country. Home Rule? The Irish are no more capable of ruling themselves than…well, it’s like asking horses to run the stable.’

  ‘Charles. Must every meal be acco
mpanied by a political lecture?’

  Boycott lowered his fork and allowed it to clink against the china. ‘My dear, these are important matters. Our very way of life is–’

  ‘I have to resume my studies, Auntie. May I be excused?’ William whispered.

  ‘You may, William.’

  ‘As I was saying, what the Irish as a race crave is discipline,’ he said, slapping the table lightly. ‘Oh they’ll try to hornswoggle their betters. They’ll happily steal the wax from your ear while they whisper words of trust. And if such behaviour is allowed to flourish, there’s no telling where it will end.’

  ‘Please, Charles, that’s enough! I’m getting heartburn.’ Annie said with sufficient force to surprise her husband.

  ‘If you’ll forgive me, Annie, in Charles’s defence, he has been rather provoked this morning,’ Asheton Weekes offered tentatively. ‘What with the note and such.’

  Boycott waved a dismissive hand. ‘Not in the least, I–’

  ‘What note? Is it like the one last year? Where is it?’ Annie asked with concern.

  Boycott pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket and tossed it across the table as though it was of no consequence. Annie unfolded it to reveal a crudely drawn picture of a coffin, with ‘Boycott, R.I.P.’ scrawled across the top and a barely legible line written in pencil: ‘We dimand a 25% abatement of rents now! Or you will pay anuther way. God save Ireland!’

  ‘My God! This is a death threat. You must contact the RIC and get protection.’

  ‘As I was telling Weekes here, this is just another idle threat. The priest O’Malley is filling their heads with this Land League nonsense.’

  ‘Idle threat?’ Annie was genuinely alarmed. ‘What about David Feerick?’