Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You know well what I mean.’

  She met his eyes, her voice now barely above a whisper. ‘You told me yourself. Your father was a murderer. He killed that gamekeeper…what was he called…Geraghty?’

  They hadn’t spoken of the subject in ten years. Owen sought to conceal his shame in an indignant yell. ‘I never said he was a murderer!’

  ‘No, but that’s what you believe.’

  ‘I told you it might have been an accident for all I know, there might–’

  Síomha gripped his arm and, for the first time in their quarrel, her face and tone softened and she looked up into his eyes beseechingly. ‘Owen. Where does it end?’

  He looked away and Síomha held his arm more tightly.

  ‘Where does the killing stop? Hundreds of years, you say, we’ve put up with the English. They kill us and we kill them and they kill more of us and the whole thing goes on and on, generation after generation, father to son.’

  ‘It wasn’t us who star–’

  ‘Stop! You’re becoming infected by it. Is this the path you want your own son to follow? Owen, you’re not a man given to violence; if I know anything about you I know that. But I’ve watched you these past years, drifting more and more that way, letting the hatred into you. If you carry on it will be the end of us all.’

  Owen pulled free and walked across the room, his back to her, head tilted up as though the answers lay in the thatch. He exhaled despairingly. ‘What am I to do then? You know yourself that to pay the rent we’ll have to sell almost all the crop. Our choice is either to be homeless or to starve. What would you have me do?’

  ‘Sit down,’ she replied.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sit,’ she repeated, pointing at the table.

  He shook his head and complied as she returned to the cupboard. From an old piece of crockery she pulled a folded sheet of paper and joined him at the table. She opened it as she spoke. ‘Mr Parnell’s going to be in Ennis on Sunday week.’

  Owen uttered a cynical squawk.

  ‘Listen to me! Read it. Read what it says.’

  ‘Síomha, I’ve been to Land League meetings. They’ve been blabbering on for years now. All they do is talk. If we’re ever–’

  ‘Read it!’ She planted her index finger sharply on the poster.

  Men of Ireland, Patriots and All Who Yearn for Freedom!

  Mr Charles Stewart Parnell MP

  President of the Irish Land League

  Will speak on the subjects of

  Landlordism, Rack-renting and the Freedom of Ireland from her Oppressors.

  To abolish landlordism would be to undermine English misgovernment and when we have undermined English misgovernment we will have paved the way for Ireland to take her place amongst the nations of the earth.

  An End to Landlordism!

  Hear the Uncrowned King of Ireland speak from the foot of the Statue of O’Connell, The Liberator.

  The Square, Ennis, Sunday, September 19th 1880

  Owen turned his head away muttering a sceptical ‘uncrowned king of Ireland’, but Síomha sensed his interest. She grabbed at his shoulder and spoke with growing excitement. ‘Isn’t this what you want? An end to landlordism and the likes of Boycott? You’ve got to go and hear what he has to say.’

  ‘Go to Ennis? Are you mad? Have you any idea how far Ennis is?’

  ‘There’s others going.’

  He eyed her suspiciously. ‘Who’s going?’

  ‘Joe Gaughan. Francis Murphy. Lots of them.’

  ‘Where did you get this poster? Where did you hear about the others?’

  ‘Father O’Malley gave me the poster, asked me to speak to you.’

  ‘Jesus! God save this country from priests!’

  Síomha’s brow creased and her nose wrinkled as her ire was roused again. ‘D’anam don diabhal for disrespecting your religion! And besides, Father O’Malley’s more a patriot than any of ye. He’s going too, he’s going to Ennis to hear Mr Parnell.’

  ‘Parnell…’ he sighed again.

  ‘Owen Joyce. For an intelligent man, you really are a fool and a half.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Síomha tapped the poster again. ‘The English are afraid of Parnell, far more than they’ll ever be frightened by the murder of a few landlords. Whenever that happens, they just send more soldiers and make new laws to put us down. But they do fear Parnell because he’s done something that few Irish leaders have ever done. He’s organised us. He’s brought us together. Instead of fighting with each other he’s getting everyone to sing the one song. You talk about your hundreds of years? The reason it’s been so long is that the English have always conquered us by dividing us. But Parnell’s changing that. That’s what terrifies the English and the likes of Boycott.’

  Owen rose and walked to the window again. He stood there staring out at Tadhg, driving the plough and taking out his humiliation with a stick on the unfortunate Anu’s rump. Finally he spoke. ‘Ennis? It must be seventy miles!’

  Síomha smiled for the first time since they’d entered the house. ‘They’re all leaving at five in the morning and Fr O’Malley’s going to say mass on the way. You’ll be in plenty of time. I’ll make you food for the day.’

  Owen laughed lightly, thinking he’d been out-manoeuvred by a woman and a priest.

  ‘All right, all right, woman! I’ll go,’ he said shaking his head. He stared reflectively down at Tadhg again. ‘And Síomha…’

  ‘What?’

  He sighed. ‘Prepare enough food for two.’

  CHAPTER 9

  The starving sick crowd into towns in the hope of securing help. From the town to Westport Quay, on the Workhouse line, the people are lying along the road, or in temporary sheds, constructed of weeds, potato tops, with poor creatures lying beneath them. On the Newport line, the same sickening scenes are to be encountered.

  –The Connaught Telegraph, 1847

  As the ship is towed out, hats are raised, handkerchiefs are waved, and a loud shout of farewell is raised from the shore, and responded to from the ship. It is then, if at any time, that the eyes of the emigrants begin to moisten with regret at the thought that they are looking for the last time at the old country – that country which, although associated principally with the remembrance of sorrow and suffering, is, nevertheless, the country of their fathers, the country of their childhood, and consecrated to their hearts by many a token.

  –Illustrated London News, 5 July 1850

  OCTOBER 1848

  The town of Westport loomed ahead of them, the smoke from its thousand fires rising into the drizzle. The track led them back to the road, but so great were the numbers of fellow wretches walking its course that they were paid scant attention.

  As they approached the town they saw men at work in an expansive field to their right and at first thought them farmers digging a crop. Their illusion was shattered when the workers lifted a lifeless body from a cart and swung the cadaver into a huge pit, where it found company with as many as six or seven others.

  ‘The workhouse dead,’ a croaky female voice informed them. A diminutive old woman in a black shawl concealing a face of loose, wrinkled flesh had paused beside them. ‘They say they bury twenty a day.’

  ‘Twenty?’ Owen asked incredulously.

  ‘Twenty, it’s true. I’m bound for there meself unless…can ye spare a few pennies to save me from the workhouse?’

  ‘We’re as poor as you,’ Thomas answered.

  They rejoined the stream of human wretchedness as it trudged its way into town. A narrow lane split from the road and many parted from the rest here, moving towards the largest building the brothers had ever seen, four stories of cut grey stone and fifty yards in length, with maybe two hundred windows cut into its walls. A man informed them that this was Westport Workhouse, built to house a thousand inmates, but crammed with twice that number, its rooms straining at the seams with misery. Around
its base the indigent homeless thronged, their baleful voices beseeching their masters for pity. The scene was in some ways worse than their encounters with the dead. At least the dead were silent.

  A wall sign told them that they were travelling along Peter Street, a long and steeply sloping thoroughfare that widened at its centre into an open space known as the Octagon. Houses of two stories lined the street, some painted white but with no gap between the buildings, as though they’d been crowded together for want of space. The windows were hung with lace curtains and they occasionally glimpsed a face peering out at the trail of the disaffected and destitute.

  In the Octagon, the clamour of voices, and of horses, sheep and pigs was deafening to ears used only to the hush of the countryside. The brothers had never seen so many people in one small space, had never seen so many buildings huddled so closely together. They walked the streets of Westport with lips parted and eyes wide, such was the strangeness of it all. Owen wondered at the sight of pigs and sheep, how these animals were present in such numbers while most of the people around lived an existence on the edge of starvation. He noted also that men bearing arms guarded each temporary livestock pen. Many of the people in the square were like themselves, penniless and ragged, seeking passage to America, England or some of the more distant, exotic places of which they’d heard. Some sat exhausted on the ground, taking their rest before going to the quayside.

  ‘What now?’ Owen asked.

  ‘We’ll have to spend the night here and try get on a ship tomorrow. Come on.’

  They continued on until they arrived at a bridge across a straight stretch of river, penned in by plunging walls the like of which they’d never seen and lined with trees on either side. Thomas noticed a building on the opposite bank, outside which a number of men in fine clothing and wigs of grey curled hair were standing, black parasols over their heads to protect them from the rain. They were chatting animatedly and appeared to the brothers like a gaggle of women.

  ‘They’re barristers,’ Owen said.

  ‘How do you know?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘I’ve read about them. That’s the courthouse.’

  Thomas turned away and approached a man loitering in the doorway of a tavern. ‘Sir, can you tell me the way to the ships?’

  The man smelt of whiskey but was neatly dressed by their standards at least, wearing the clothes of a tradesman. He eyed them with distaste for a moment, then sighed and pointed. ‘Take the track that follows the curve of the Carrowbeg – that’s the river te yerself. Follow it until it joins the main road. It’ll take ye all the way there.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I hear it’s four pounds and six shillings for a fare te Am-er-i-cay. Have ye got that type of money?’

  Thomas hesitated. ‘Our father’s at the quayside waiting for us with tickets.’

  The man nodded doubtfully. ‘Well, good luck te ye, ye don’t look like ye’ve had any of late.’ He turned and disappeared into the inn.

  Owen took Thomas’s arm sharply. ‘Four pounds six? That’s eight pounds twelve just for tickets? Where are we going to get that kind of money?’

  ‘Let’s go. I’ve an idea.’

  They crossed the bridge and in a laneway found shelter in the deeply recessed doorway of a store that had closed for the evening.

  ‘Wait here, I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To find food.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Just wait here!’ Thomas yelled and took off before his brother could muster a reply.

  Owen sat, shivering, as the evening turned to night, his thoughts on his brother and what mischief he was up to. He rebuked himself then for habitually assuming Thomas was up to no good. Hadn’t Thomas kept them alive thus far? But he couldn’t help but fret. Thomas was gone over two hours and by the time he returned it was dark, the laneway lit only by a dim streetlamp thirty yards away. Owen had been pacing, praying, unable to contemplate the notion of being left alone in this strange town. And then there were hurried footsteps, splashing through puddles.

  ‘Jesus, where have you been? What’s this?’

  Thomas had a large brown paper parcel bound with string, dark spots of rain dappling the wrapping. ‘Get in from the rain, ye eejit!’ he cried.

  He untied the parcel. Despite the darkness Owen could recognise clothing – shirts, pants and heavy jackets.

  ‘Jesus, Thomas, they’ll flog you to death for stealing all this. How did you…?

  ‘I admit I had to steal, but not from a shop. I followed one of those barristers home. They’re all rich, money made sending the likes of us to the gallows. I climbed in a window and took his wallet from his jacket. It was hanging in the hallway and I was gone before anyone saw me. He won’t even know it’s missing ’til tomorrow and by then we’ll be gone. Change your clothes. We can’t arrive in America like scarecrows. And here…’

  He pulled a piece of salted beef from his pocket. The sight of the food adjourned any argument. Owen took the meat and ate greedily as he stripped and pulled on the fresh dry clothes, which felt comforting against his skin.

  ‘How much did you steal?’

  ‘Nearly fifteen pounds. Enough for the tickets, the clothes and food for the journey.’

  ‘Jesus, Thomas, this is wrong. We weren’t raised to be thieves. Our mother–’

  Thomas grabbed him by his collar. ‘We weren’t raised te be downtrodden pigs either. This money will get us to America. Then ye can do a jig with your conscience all ye like. Until then shut up and thank Christ ye’re still alive. Better still, thank me.’

  Owen stared at him and felt regret welling up. ‘I’m sorry, Thomas. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.’

  ‘And don’t you forget it.’

  When the rain eased they returned towards the Octagon, which was a great deal quieter now. In the light of a streetlamp Owen could see that their clothes had a well-worn look about them, but at least they were clean and warm. Thomas led him into a boarding house called The Old Mill, and they ate a bowl of stew accompanied by bread and ale, the first time either of them had tasted it. It was the finest meal they’d had in memory, and they both scraped the bowls clean. When they inquired about lodgings, they were informed that all the rooms were taken, but suspected that the old bat of a proprietress simply didn’t like the look of them. She offered them the use of a shed in the yard for tuppence, which they accepted, and gave them each a blanket.

  The shed smelt of animals, but it was dry and they were grateful for its relative comforts. At first light they purchased bread and bottles of dark ale and breakfasted by the river’s edge before moving to Bridge Street, where they found a store that sold dried foods and biscuits the size of a man’s hand and as hard as bone. With sufficient to last them a month, they set off towards the quay.

  The track to the quay meandered in harmony with the Carrowbeg until their ways parted after half a mile, the river continuing its gentle roll straight to the sea, the path veering south towards the road.

  ‘America lies at the end of this road, Owen.’ Thomas smiled, his humour this morning as bright as he could remember, nurtured by the wonder of the horizon and the food in his belly. Owen’s dread had been building since he’d first opened his eyes to the grey dawn light. His fear now, as they joined the hundreds of others on the road, was palpable, although of precisely what he couldn’t identify. He’d heard that Atlantic crossings were perilous and many died before setting eyes on the New World, but he didn’t believe he feared the journey. Perhaps it was simply the unexplored expanse of the future that perturbed him.

  To the left of the path were fields, and in the distance Croagh Patrick rose majestically towards the breaking cloud, a few shafts of sunlight picking out the white rocks that described its upper heights. To their right was woodland and within its branches Owen could see birds and hear their chatter, a language that was near alien to him by now, yet its sound lightened his heart a
little.

  A mile further on, the road split and most people followed the sloping right-hand path where, above the bobbing heads, they could see several more towering buildings and beyond those the masts of four tall ships. A huge windowless structure with colossal doors bore the name Patten, Smyth & Co., Importers and Exporters, and through one of these doors they could see giant wooden crates which resonated with the sounds of bleating sheep and sacks large enough to hold a jaunting car spilling over with grain. Near the quay, a river of men worked to load these goods on to a ship, using giant counterbalancing machines which brought yet more wonder to the brothers’ eyes and anger to their hearts.

  ‘Look. Enough food for ten thousand and they ship it off te England while the Irish are left te rot. If ye didn’t believe the tales we heard, believe them now, brother.’

  Owen nodded and was about to reply when he froze at the sight of a face not ten yards away. Outside the front door of the company office stood a fine, open-topped carriage and in it sat the girl Owen had observed in near-nakedness just two days previously. Now she wore a long dress of pale yellow, which dipped below her ankles and was adorned with a lace-like frill around her neck. A broad-rimmed bonnet with a white band concealed her long fair hair, and her beauty once again transfixed Owen. She turned her head and immediately their eyes met, her lips parting slightly as recognition struck her. Owen’s heart skipped as he stared back, awaiting her scream and the constables to descend upon them. But she remained silent, simply maintaining eye contact until an older man in a long coat and tall hat, most likely her father, emerged from the office door and climbed up to take the reins. The carriage moved away, back towards the town, but she turned her head again and sought out Owen. She never frowned, never smiled, never cried out; she merely seemed caught in a trance of her own secret thoughts until she rounded the corner and he never laid eyes on her again.