Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  ‘Shut up talking madness. Ireland is dead to us. Everything we know is gone.’

  ‘Even if every Irishman dies, I’d rather die with my own when it comes, and in my own land.’

  ‘Lie down before they think ye’ve a fever,’ Thomas snapped.

  Owen took a breath, leaned forward and whispered: ‘I owe you my life, Thomas. I love you. God keep you safe.’ He kissed his brother on the forehead. ‘Goodbye.’

  With that he turned and bolted up the steps two at a time with his brother’s voice echoing in the hold behind him.

  ‘Owen! Stop! We’ve pulled away! Owen!’

  Owen bounded on to the deck and looked back at the quay. They were maybe a hundred yards from the berth but only twenty or thirty from the quay wall. He screamed, ‘Look out!’, and ran full tilt towards the rear of the ship until he came to the rail, vaguely aware of a sailor yelling at him. A startled woman screamed an oath and the people at the rail, seeing him careering towards them, parted and revealed a gap. He leapt up, landed a foot on the rail and propelled himself out into space. He hit the water in an enormous splash and its icy claws immediately tore at his body, but he’d felt them before in the mountain lakes and knew he could bear them. He sank like a stone at first, deeper than he’d ever been, the light above almost blinking out, then at last felt the slow reversal of momentum as his buoyancy pulled him up to the brightness. He broke the surface and gasped at the cold and for want of air, his ears instantly filled with a single word, repeated over and over.

  ‘Owen! Owen! Owen!’

  He turned in the water and was surprised to see that the ship was already thirty yards away and receding quickly. On its rear he could read the name ‘Destiny’ and beneath it ‘Westport’. Near to aft, restrained by two sailors, he could see Thomas, hand outstretched as though he might still pull Owen back on board, his mouth working frantically as it called his brother’s name again and again.

  Owen gasped and spluttered at the shock and the foulness of the seawater, never having tasted it before, and felt his limbs going numb. He turned away from his brother’s cries and began to swim for the quay. His swimming skills served him well as he pulled against the icy swell, and within minutes he was desperately trying to find a grip on the slimy rocks along the quay wall. A voice above was crying, ‘Make way, make way!’ and a rope suddenly lashed across his face. He grasped it and wrapped it around his arm.

  ‘Help me, men!’

  The men on the quay heaved and slowly Owen was pulled up to safety. He collapsed, coughing and shivering, on the quay, and someone threw a blanket around his shoulders. He rose, barely hearing the startled comments of the gawping onlookers, and stared after the ship in silence. By now it had passed the wreck and was sailing off into the bay, the figures on it indistinct, ants upon a stick. Yet he fancied he could still see his brother’s face and hear his futile beckoning.

  And with that he fell to his knees and sobbed.

  PART TWO

  ODYSSEY

  The souls by nature pitched too high, by suffering plunged too low.

  –The Mill on the Floss, George Eliot

  CHAPTER 10

  We can see [in Mayo] the miserable denizens of the ninety-four thousand one-roomed huts in each of which families, a half dozen old and young, married and single, lie and rise in presence of each other, and strange is the apathy, the indifference, the neglect of the great body of the Roman Catholic clergy to this degraded condition of their flock.

  –James Daly, editor of The Connaught Telegraph, 1880.

  Fr John O’Malley deservedly enjoyed great popularity for his kindly nature, his devotion to the poor, and jovial disposition. No good cause could fail in winning his whole-hearted advocacy, while he was one with the people in all their trials and hopes, a loyal counsellor and a faithful friend.

  –Michael Davitt

  19 SEPTEMBER 1880

  ‘Curse of Cromwell on ye!’ Fr John O’Malley hurled the Bible with great violence across the room. He looked at the scattering of books from his previous evening’s study, realised he’d absently selected the Bible to pulverise the mouse and then cursed himself silently. As the creature made its escape into the shadows, he rose and went to retrieve the holy book, his middle-aged back creaking painfully as he bent.

  ‘Forgive me, Lord, should have used some pagan tome,’ he whispered and smiled faintly, as though the ache had been sent as penance.

  He shivered against the dismal chill that filled the room. The clock on the mantle that marked the passage of his earthly existence with an infernal ticking told him that it was four-thirty in the morning; he prayed there were no clocks in heaven and that he might indeed one day get there. Conversely, he hoped that day was still some way off; he still had work to do here on the earth.

  The priest reached for the copper teapot that nestled among the remnants of the fire and poured another cup of tea. He sipped it and winced. Mrs Loftus, his housekeeper, had made it the previous evening and by now it was stewed so dark in colour it resembled porter. But at least it was warm.

  The mouse was back, brave little creature. He let it be. It had no choice but to risk its life in the pursuit of whatever crumbs he’d dropped from his table. Eat or die. Much like his flock. Their choices were few, and he held the rising dread in his heart that many would soon be willing to risk life and liberty in pursuit of their basic human needs, and if it came to it, to take life also.

  He sighed and looked around the room. The yellow lamplight painted shapes and shadows and dark recesses that rendered the space wholly altered from the daylight hours. The theological books on his shelves seemed like a row of slanting black columns teetering on the brink of collapse. The clock on the mantle, with its dark body and white face, appeared as some grim, hooded visage. The tall cupboard, one of its doors ajar, black within, summoned memories of his fears as a child, of banshees watching him from the dark places in his bedroom.

  ‘Banshees indeed,’ he scoffed and went to the cupboard, banishing that particular nonsense by reaching inside for the poteen he kept secreted there in a bottle marked ‘Holy Water from Knock.’ It was a minor deception that he hoped the Lord might overlook, as he suspected Mrs Loftus did. He enlivened his tea with a substantial shot and sipped, delighting in its warmth. His indulgence could be taken to be drinking first thing in the morning or having a nip late into the night; he chose the latter interpretation.

  He’d retired at eleven o’clock the previous night, judging that six hours’ sleep ought to serve him sufficiently for the exertions of the long journey to Ennis. Yet he’d barely slept for two, tormented by insubstantial ghouls of fear and uncertainty, and he woke frequently in distress. Finally at around three he’d had enough, rose and dressed, preferring to face the shadows of guilt in wakefulness, on his own terms.

  But the guilt was unrelenting and as he sat there it nagged at him like some old hag. He remained unmoving for a time, his thoughts on his faith and the terrible demons against which he’d been pitted down the years of his priesthood. The demons had names like cynicism, rage and, most discomfiting of all, doubt. He pushed back his chair and walked to the water-speckled window of the parochial house, staring into the night and hoping he’d see the first of the men arrive in readiness for the journey. But only a few minutes had elapsed and nobody would arrive for an hour. He cursed, for he would dearly love the company of any living soul to divert him from his clouded musings. The tip-tip-tip of Lilliputian feet reminded him that his only company was the mouse, which, as he watched, somehow squeezed through the tiny crack beneath the door to the scullery, a feat he would have thought impossible. But the proof was in the seeing.

  Therein lay the nub. If only he could witness some act of revelation, some small, insignificant sign, like a dove on a tree or the wind blowing open the Bible to a particular page or the tealeaves in his cup forming a letter. Anything. But the proof that would be undeniable to his eyes never came. And here, now, thinking about such things sounded lik
e absurdity. Tealeaves and doves, he thought, shaking his head. He might as well run into the night in search of banshees and grogochs.

  He sat again and poured a neat shot of spirit. He knew he shouldn’t, not today, but he’d definitely make it his last, as the men would be here soon. Those same men of the parish of Neale had built the very room in which he sat, had built the whole church – St John the Baptised Church and Calvary – in fact. Five years ago now, and he’d had the honour of laying the foundation stone himself. And on this rock they had built their church.

  God almighty. He felt such a hypocrite.

  They were fine men, and their women likewise. Tough, hardworking people, honest to a fault, astonishingly hospitable given their poverty – God’s own children. Oh, they had their faults, like all people. They could be begrudging of others’ fortune, but he could hardly blame them for that; they’d had centuries in which to practise on their Sassenach masters. And they were a terrible people for gossiping and tattling, men and women alike. And if no scandal existed, by Jesus they’d invent some. He suspected the drink played its part, of course, but considering he was sitting there drinking at five o’clock, he could hardly condemn them on that score.

  But on the whole he loved them dearly, loved them since the day he’d first driven into the village. They’d welcomed him with open arms and he in kind had embraced them as his flock, come to know each and every one. Sunday masses, weddings, christenings, funerals; he’d watched them arrive in the world and overseen their departure, laughed with them and tried to comfort them through the pitiless grief of loss. They had rewarded him by building a new church, stone by stone with their bare hands. As if they hadn’t enough work. And here he sat within the fruit of their effort, struggling with his faith, like a man struggles with a fish on a line, terrified the line will snap, leaving him alone with the knowledge that his life of prayer and devotion has been utterly devoid of meaning.

  He could still recall, as a novice, strolling the grounds of St Patrick’s Seminary in Maynooth, his mind a whirl of conflicting issues. By chance he’d come upon the Reverend Dr Patrick Murray, one of the college’s most revered theologians, who had taken some minutes to listen to the musings and doubts of the young novice, whose faith even then had wavered. He’d reassured him that he could always expect periods of doubt, especially when confronted with a sense of impotence or hopelessness. Jesus himself on the cross had cried ‘Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?’, the great theologian had reminded him: ‘My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?’

  ‘Doubt is part of belief. To question our own thoughts and actions is the very basis of conscience. God does not require us to simply squawk the scripture like a trained parrot. He has given us reason and it would fly in His face to eschew it. But He also gave us His only son, born through divine intervention of human flesh, to guide us along the path of righteousness. Remember that in moments of doubt. Jesus was, is, as real as you or I standing here among the lilac trees. He came upon the earth so that we might see God’s love in human form and in its infinite purity. And He will always be at your side.’ Reverend Murray had patted him on the shoulder, then smiled, and walked away.

  Fr O’Malley reflected on that now. He had to ask himself if he doubted that Christ had existed, or making the assumption that He had, was He the human manifestation of the Supreme Being? Or, God forgive him, was the Supreme Being as nonsensical a concept as the pagan gods of the Romans? The theologian had warned that the greatest challenges to his faith would at times of hopelessness or impotence. And by God he’d had a baptism of fire. As a young novice in County Galway in the last year of the famine, much of his time had been spent standing over the graves of countless parishioners, trying to offer some faint solace to grieving, emaciated families. The famine had brought him to question again and again God’s plan, His intent, His mercy. It seemed to him that God always worked on the side of the man who wielded the bigger club. The weak and helpless seemed beyond His vision. Oh, he’d of course learned that we must endure life’s slings and arrows and our reward lay not in this life but at His side in eternity. But many a time he’d looked at the world around him and considered that if one removed God from the equation, if one adopted for a moment the position that the Supreme Being was a fallacy, then the world would be just as he saw it every day: cruel, unjust and heartless.

  So here he sat, praying for a sign, or even a moment’s clarity that might relieve the trauma of his doubt and help him face his parishioners with an unquestioning confidence, in this, yet another time of desperation. He was gripped with an abrupt, overwhelming sadness and buried his face in his hands. A sob escaped his lips.

  Fr O’Malley wiped at his eyes with a knuckle and sipped his drink. ‘God almighty, what’s wrong with me?’

  It is the hour, he thought, the deep cradle of the night, when we are at our lowest ebb. His ruminations on the famine and his flock’s struggles had conspired to bring him low. That and thoughts of the challenge that lay ahead. Hard enough, given that many of his own cloth, especially the hierarchy, railed against him.

  He glanced across the table at the bundle of letters he’d received from bishops and even a few parish priests, condemning his open support of the Land League. Among them was one from Archdeacon Bartholomew Cavanagh, the parish priest in the village of Knock, not thirty miles away. Just over a year ago, on 21 August 1879, a handful of Archdeacon Cavanagh’s parishioners had been blessed with precisely the kind of sign that he now prayed for, an earthly manifestation of God’s majesty. Three figures, the Blessed Virgin Mary, St Joseph and St John the Evangelist, had appeared on the gable wall of Knock church. He’d visited the shrine since, of course, prayed for hours on throbbing knees, but had been granted no vision, no enlightenment, no balm to soothe his troubled heart.

  Archdeacon Cavanagh had offered to have him as his guest for the night in Knock. He had mixed feelings about the man – on the one hand as pious a soul as one might encounter, on the other an outspoken critic of the Land League, which, prior to the apparition, he had roundly condemned from the altar. He’d accused the League of preparing the country for violent revolution and of being populated by fanatical Fenians. He’d so outraged the people of Mayo that a ‘monster meeting of indignation’ had rallied over twenty thousand to protest. They’d countered that the Archdeacon had been siding with the landlords all along and in effect accused him of being a traitor to the impoverished tenants.

  That evening, Fr O’Malley had steered the conversation away from discussion on the Land League and towards the even more phenomenal apparition, on which subject the Archdeacon was naturally effusive. After the terrible ravages of the past decades, he’d insisted, the Lord had chosen to remind the people of Ireland that they had not been abandoned to His heart. One thing was certain, that in the wake of the apparition, Archdeacon Cavanagh had wrested back the respect of the people. Now, perhaps, his pronouncements on the subject of the Land League might not be met with monster meetings of indignation, but with open ears and hearts. But if that had been his hope, it hadn’t come to pass.

  It confounded Fr O’Malley’s thinking why was the man was so openly hostile to a movement that sought to destroy the great evil of landlordism, and a movement that enjoyed such widespread support among the impoverished faithful? But, of course, he hadn’t been alone in that regard; many of the Catholic hierarchy were behind him. As he had personally discovered the previous October.

  That month he’d had the honour of being invited to chair a Land League meeting in Ballinrobe. He’d felt humbled to share a platform with the likes of the great Michael Davitt, who was his close friend, and one of the key founders, along with Parnell, of the Land League. It was also the first time he’d met James Redpath, the famed American journalist and author who was writing a biography of Davitt. It was from Davitt’s lips that day that he’d first heard the idea of ostracism as a weapon to fight the seemingly unassailable power of the landlords. He’d urged the enthusiastic crowd to treat land-
grabbers as traitors, not just to their fellow farmers but to Ireland itself, to snub them in all things, offer them no succour, leave them outcasts in the community. So social a beast was the human that no man could endure such a circumstance for long.

  His presence at the meeting, however, had brought him a strong rebuke from the hierarchy. And he’d been personally summoned by Archbishop McHale of Tuam, who berated him for his actions. He’d been reminded that his calling directed him to save the souls of his flock, not their livelihoods, a job best left to politicians.

  He had argued his case, much to the consternation of the old man. He had been vaguely threatened with some unstated punishment. But what could they do to him? De-frock him? Transfer him to another village and away from the land issue? Such a place didn’t exist the length of Ireland. So the Archbishop’s threats had fallen on deaf ears. And not just his, but hundreds of other local priests. Most of the senior clergy lived lives remote from the realities of daily existence. One couldn’t simply sermonise on Sunday and have no truck with the people’s grievances the other six days of the week; their capacity to live honest lives was hugely diminished by their perilous situation. If a man steals bread, he transgresses – if you can help destroy the reason the man needs to steal bread in the first place, you are surely doing God’s work.

  But, of course, there was another stone in the hierarchy’s shoe – Charles Stewart Parnell, a man they distrusted deeply. He was a Protestant, first of all, and it surely rankled with them that a man of that faith might hold sway over the Catholic masses. He was also a landlord, albeit a highly just and generous one. And he spoke with a distinct English accent, anathema to their vision of a great Irish statesman.

  In reality it was all about power. The Catholic Church’s power and influence had waned sharply in the wake of the famine. And now comes Parnell and unites the country as rarely seen before. He could well understand why the bishops felt so threatened. Yet at least Mr Parnell had a vision, a cause for which he intended to wield his influence. But it saddened Fr O’Malley that his elders seemed to want their power purely for its own sake, not to guide the paths of their vast congregation. Power for its own sake was a dangerous thing. It had led to terrible corruption and depravity in the Catholic Church down the centuries and probably would again in the future. But for now he was happy to stand side by side with his parishioners in the glow of Parnell’s leadership. This wealthy Protestant landlord would be their guiding light, not the vapid missives from the bishops in their palatial homes.