by Colin Murphy
Today they had the opportunity to hear the great man speak, as would thousands of others, among them a handful of his own flock. He hoped, he prayed, that he could look into their eyes on the return journey and see a new-found spirit, for theirs had been all but quenched these past months thanks to the efforts of Captain Boycott, whose very name made his gut taut with indignation. The name had become a symbol to him of all that was wrong in their country. His calling had put him beyond the capacity to hate, but he was sorely tempted. Never in his life had he met a man so marked by an absence of compassion and so lacking in personality. Never a kindly greeting was offered by him when encountered in the road or the market. Never a ‘thank you’ or a ‘good day’. Or perhaps he reserved these utterances for his own kind, believing the wider Irish population beneath such natural, instinctive exchanges.
He certainly held Fr O’Malley in contempt, which bothered the priest little. Boycott, he believed, viewed him as a rabble-rouser and an agent of the revolutionary. The man also nurtured a deep hatred of the Catholic Church, which the priest believed Boycott saw as a conspiracy to undermine British governance. Fr O’Malley knew all this because the man often spoke openly and loudly on the subject as he wandered Lough Mask Estate among the labourers and servants, usually in the company of Asheton Weekes, who, by contrast, seemed a man of much more considered views. In Fr O’Malley’s mind, Boycott’s very act of talking openly within earshot of the subjects he was deriding said a great deal about his disposition. How could you begin to deal with such a mindset, how could you begin to reason, to deliberate, negotiate and resolve? Ultimately, Fr O’Malley believed, you couldn’t. Somehow, by some means, arms were going to have to be twisted.
He stirred from his meditations at the sound of voices and was shocked to see that it was almost five-thirty and that the first hints of light were already touching the eastern sky. The rain had stopped and just along the road he could see two men approach – Martin McGurk and another. McGurk posed an awkward task. A man in his late twenties but still hampered somewhat by the impulsiveness of youth. A bright enough individual but given to temper and loud pronouncements on the violence he would one day inflict on the likes of Boycott, which the priest could never endorse. And regretfully, McGurk was not alone in his thinking. But Fr O’Malley believed that such action would ultimately be counter-productive, besides the fact that it was contrary to God’s teaching.
So he would have to convince them to follow a different path.
There were others arriving now, five or six approaching on jaunting cars. There would be ten of them in all, please God. But as yet there was no sign of Owen Joyce, he was disappointed to see. And the clock had moved past the appointed hour.
He gathered his coat and the tattered leather satchel, which bore the items he would need to perform a roadside mass, a lunch prepared for him by Mrs Loftus, and the money to finance their tickets on the ferry from Cong to Galway, which he’d borrowed from the funds supplied by the bishop for the purchase of new vestments. He stepped to the door just as one of the men knocked and opened it immediately, startling the man.
‘Good morning, lads, and God bless you all for coming,’ he smiled.
They responded with an almost perfectly harmonious ‘Good morning, Father.’
McGurk spoke. ‘There are three cars, Father, it’ll be a squeeze, but sure it’s only as far as Cong.’
‘Perfectly fine, Martin.’
He looked around at the tired, expectant faces. The group seeming a little sinister in the silent grey light, like a band of men bound for a furtive assault.
‘Anyone else coming?’
‘Owen Joyce was supposed te be here. Must have changed his mind,’ someone said.
Fr O’Malley sighed. If only one had come he had hoped it might be Joyce. He was an intelligent man, more than he knew himself, and a moral man to boot, but one also plagued by doubt. His troubles stemmed not from his faith, however, but the battle that raged between his baser instincts to do violence, his higher intellect, which suggested a better path yet could not find it, and the need to assert his masculinity in the eyes of his family. Furthermore, Fr O’Malley believed that Owen Joyce suspected himself a coward. Far too many men were of the mind that courage could be validated only by lifting a gun.
They climbed on to the three cars, nine of them in all. It was a tight squeeze and he pitied the two unfortunates wedged either side of him as his portly figure, his voluminous backside in particular, made for the prospect of an uncomfortable journey.
‘Apologies, lads, I promise to starve myself next Lent.’
The men chuckled and the driver lifted the short whip to hasten the pony away.
‘Father! Hold a minute,’ came a call from behind them. All the heads turned to see a fourth car approach, and even in the damp, early light, the priest could make out the face of Owen Joyce and beside him his son, Tadhg.
He grinned broadly as they pulled up. ‘I’m glad you came, Owen. And Tadhg too.’
‘I’ll admit I was in two minds.’
‘And what decided you?’
‘Father, if you had to listen to a tongue-lashing from Síomha at half-four in the morning you’d walk through the gates of hell to be free of it.’
All the men laughed, as did the priest. It was good to hear their laughter, such a rarity in these times.
‘Let’s be off, then. We can’t keep Mr Parnell waiting.’
They rode in silence along the bumpy track, the birds awake to their daily hunt for nourishment, chirping as they reaped the harvest of worms brought to the surface by the night’s rainfall. He hoped their own harvest today might be as bountiful.
He returned in mind to the night he’d passed, hours clouded by doubt and a wavering faith. His heart felt surprisingly lighter now, buoyed by the brightening sky, the company of men and the awakening sounds of the earth. Demons, when they came, preferred the lurking hours of darkness and his particular demons had seemed far more ominous in the still silence of the night than they did now. His crisis was not at an end, he knew. But whatever his doubts, he accepted the teachings of Christ as a design for life, and a fine one at that. And did he really need celestial doves or flashes of heavenly light to affirm that his faith was justified? So much better the immanent God who revealed Himself through the actions of the moral and just. He recalled the words of Christ: ‘I am the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father but through me.’ And he would seek his answers by following in the light of His teachings.
A deer ran into their path, stalled and stared at the approaching cars, then turned and darted into the woods. He smiled as he watched it vanish into the shadows.
In the car in front sat Owen Joyce with his son at his side. Another soul troubled by doubt.
One of the proverbs proclaimed: ‘Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.’ He’d never liked that particular notion of a God of fear. He preferred to think of doubt as the beginning of wisdom, for when we doubt, we question, and only by our inquiries do we gain enlightenment.
He prayed dearly that whatever wisdom was gained on this day, on the odyssey that lay ahead, could help him bring some peace and offer some prospect to the men around him, and finally mollify the sense of helplessness and impotence that they’d endured far too long.
CHAPTER 11
Famine has added horrors to the misery previously unbearable. Fathers see those they love slowly expiring for the want of bread. Men, sensitive and proud, are upbraided by their women for seeing them starve without rescue. Around them is plenty; rickyards, in full contempt, stand under their snug thatch, calculating the chances of advancing prices; or, the thrashed grain awaits only the opportunity of conveyance to be taken far away to feed strangers. Do the children of the soil hesitate to see the avarice of man, and do they not resent the inhumanity as treason to our common nature? But a strong arm interposes to hold the maddened infuriates away. Property laws supersede those of Nature. Grain is of more value than blood. And
if they attempt to take of the fatness of the land that belongs to their landlords, death by musketry is a cheap government measure to provide for the wants of a starving and incensed people. This must not be.
–The London Pictorial Times, 10 October 1847
NOVEMBER 1848
The old man raised his eyes and regarded Owen’s trembling form with pity, then reached down to the pile of turf gathered beside the hearth and with a grunt tossed a sod on to the fire, producing a spray of sparks.
He shook his head. ‘Seen thousands jumpin’ on them ships te get out o’ this cursed country. Ye’re the first I ever seen jumpin’ off one te come back.’
Owen stared at him, unable to reply such was the chattering of his teeth, then turned back towards the orange glow of the fire. He was sitting on a stool enshrouded in a rough blanket, naked beneath its coarse material. The kindly old man occupied the position of watchman here on the waterfront and had helped to pull him from the icy waters of Westport Harbour. Luckily his position afforded him the use of a tiny stone hut near the warehouses, to which he’d taken Owen to dry off and regain his senses. That was an hour ago now and yet his body still trembled, perhaps as much from the realisation that he was now truly alone in the world as from the chill.
‘Beef broth, it’s good.’
Owen took the proffered mug and looked into the steaming, thick soup. It smelled exotic to his deprived senses.
‘They pay me with food. Most valuable thing on earth. Sure, tons of it comes through here every day,’ the old man offered by way of explanation.
It tasted wonderful in all respects, warming, flavoursome and filling. As he sipped it he thought of Thomas, probably not yet rounded Clare Island, which guarded the entrance to Clew Bay. He imagined his brother staring back at Ireland as darkness descended, wondering what had possessed Owen. He stifled a sob and lowered his head.
The old man stirred, likely uncomfortable with the scene, and pulled on an old coat. ‘Be back in an hour. Need te do my rounds. You rest and help yourself te the broth.’
Owen was left alone. He sat there motionless, his head by turns whirling with thoughts and then slipping to blankness, the emptiness of burnt bridges and the unknown road ahead. The solitude allowed him the painful release of weeping aloud, letting the tears spill down his face, muttering disjointed incoherencies. The tears abated eventually, as did the shivers, and he rose to check the condition of his clothes, strung up on an old ship’s rope. Despite the warmth of the hut, they were still damp to touch.
The man returned just then, immediately nodding at the clothes. ‘It’ll be morning before they’re fit for wearing. Ye can sleep on the floor if ye like, but ye’ll have te leave then, son. They find I’m keepin’ someone here, I’m as good as out on me arse.’
Owen nodded. ‘I’ll go first thing.’
The man offered Owen a shot of spirits, which caused him to cough and splutter, but he relished the comforting warmth as it slid down his throat. Chuckling, the old man took the poteen back and drank, then sighed as he stared down the neck of the bottle.
‘So, why did ye jump, if ye’ll excuse me pryin’?’
Owen ruminated for a few seconds. ‘I don’t know. I mean, I’m not sure exactly.’
‘Had ye family on the ship?’
‘Just my brother, Thomas.’
‘Was there ill-will between yis?’
‘No…we were just different to each other I suppose, but I loved him. I just couldn’t leave.’
‘Leave what?’
‘Ireland, of course. I know that sounds stupid…I can’t explain…my mother and father and theirs before…even though they’re all gone…I don’t know, I just couldn’t…’ He shook his head dejectedly, his reasons sounding empty and foolish when stated aloud.
‘You know I’ve seen thousands climb on them ships these past years, and everyone spends their last moments staring back thinking exactly what you’re thinking. But…’
‘But none of them were stupid enough to do what I did.’
‘I was going te say none had the guts te do what ye did.’
They fell to silence for a short time.
‘Though sometimes I wonder,’ the old man said then, ‘y’know, about feelin’ tied to a place, to all those dead and gone. I lost me whole family te the fever long ago, God rest them. Sometimes I sit here on me own at night and I get a sense of them and I think I was right te stay. Other times I think all that is just a load of horse’s bollocks.’
Owen sighed and the man patted him on the back. ‘Count yer blessings, son, ye could have been on that other ship today. Terrible sight. Only fifty made it out alive.’ He blessed himself as he turned towards the straw bed in the corner.
‘What happened to the ones who were rescued?’
‘Heard the English took them to the barracks. At least the bastards are good for something,’ said the old man and closed his eyes.
He endured a night of fitful sleep, tortured by images of screaming women and children as the sea swallowed them up, and of Thomas watching them from the deck as his ship sailed past towards America. He opened his eyes to the old man bending over him.
‘Things are beginning te stir. Ye better be going.’
He quickly rose and dressed, and at the man’s insistence took a final mug of broth.
‘Here, take these biscuits.’
‘No I can’t take your last…’
The man pushed the paper packet into his hands. ‘Don’t worry. There’s plenty more where that came from. Take that old blanket as well and this box of matches.’
Owen offered his hand. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Sure, I only did it for a bit o’ company,’ the old man said. ‘They say things aren’t so bad in the east. Maybe you should head that way.’
‘East Mayo?’
‘East Ireland. Dublin, Meath, Wexford. I hear it’s bad enough, but naught te compare with here.’
‘That’s near two hundred miles.’
He shrugged. ‘Other than that, there’s the workhouse,’ he muttered, his tone suddenly grim.
‘I didn’t jump off that ship to end up there.’
‘Well, good luck te ye, wherever ye end up.’
Suddenly alone again, Owen wandered back towards the town, walking against the early morning trickle of dockworkers and emigrants. He felt aimless, uncertain, not knowing what each passing hour would bring, no purpose in sight. He had no money, not a single penny, as Thomas had always kept the pilfered cash on his person. He could find no positive notion among his thoughts but for the fact that he was well fed these past couple of days, although he knew that sooner rather than later, he would have to find food or work were he to survive.
If for no other reason than the old man’s remark that things were not quite so catastrophic in the east, he began to wander that way. He strolled along Altamont Street, with a man-made water channel of some description to his left, and a terrace of houses on his right, their windows still curtained against the early morning light. He passed a building marked ‘Asylum’ and entertained the notion that his actions qualified him to be an inmate.
He reached the edge of town. Beyond were fields, black and pungent with the stench of the blight. He could smell it even here and felt hesitant leaving the confines of the town, as though he was re-entering a landscape that had been cursed from the heavens. But there was nothing for him here except bitter memories. So he began to walk, the defiled earth stretching out to his right as far as he could see. On the other side, some fifty yards away, the Carrowbeg River followed the course of the road. It gave him some mild hope that he might be able to catch a fish in its cold, brown waters, although given the hundreds who tramped this path each day, it was probably as barren of fish as a tree.
He began to meet people along the road, all bound for the port. They stared at him sometimes, probably wondering where the solitary youth was going, walking opposite to the flow of the Carrowbeg and the stream of desperation. It occur
red to him that given his relatively new clothes, some of them might consider him worth accosting for whatever money or food he might have. One or two did ask alms of him, but most of those he met were America-bound and the more fortunate of the Irish. These were the ones who had scraped together the money to pay the ship’s fare, in all likelihood by selling their every possession, whereas most of the poor were so wretched they had to simply wait in their homes while starvation pursued them to the grave.
He saw another body around mid-morning and realised that he was becoming used to such horrors. A man lay on his back near the road, his open, sunken eyes staring blankly at the grey sky. Someone had divested him of his jacket and pants and his bare legs and grey shirt were spattered with the mud of the field. The indignity of such an end had been unthinkable just a few years ago, the Irish being so respectful of their dead. But the effort even of burying the dead was beyond many. Owen could do nothing but bless himself and murmur a brief prayer.
Around midday he passed a weir on the river and, close to it, a footbridge. He tramped through the stinking field to the riverbank and climbed beneath the bridge, which afforded him some level of secrecy from the eyes of the passing hungry. He unwrapped the four oat biscuits the old man had supplied. Each was a dark brown disc about the size of his palm, hard as rock but near impervious to turning bad. He tried to bite into one but almost broke a tooth, cursed, then scampered down to the river and with the biscuit cupped in his palms, allowed the peaty water to soak it. Although softened, the brown water rendered it repulsive to the tongue, but he ate it as he had no choice and it did relieve the rising hunger.