by Colin Murphy
‘Charles, you have to take this seriously. We have to tell the RIC and restrict your movements until they get to the bottom of this.’
Boycott looked at him directly. ‘I’ll do no such thing, Weekes. We’ll go about our business as usual, show them the steel of which we’re made. Make them realize that empty threats won’t absolve them of their responsibilities.’
‘Charles, this isn’t just about you. You have to consider your family’s safety.’
‘Inform the RIC, I agree. The fools might increase the number of constables. But I won’t have my running of the estate upset. It’s business as usual as far as I’m concerned.’
Weekes knew it was pointless to remonstrate further. He shook his head. ‘As you wish, Charles.’
‘Damned Land League is behind this, you know.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘The sooner Parnell is arrested the better.’
Boycott took two strides forward and brought his cane crashing down on the cross, splintering its rotten wood to pieces. He turned and looked at Weekes.
‘We’ll begin serving eviction notices at eight a.m. tomorrow.’
Fr O’Malley stood and looked at the sixteen men crammed around the table in the parochial house, their faces grim and uncertain, yet expectant that he might shine a light on the path ahead. He looked at Owen Joyce, who met his eyes solidly, but he was unsure if the man’s expression spoke of cynicism or support. Perhaps, as usual, Owen himself didn’t know. He swept his gaze around each of them, his own face sombre, as though about to impart some ominous tidings.
‘Gentlemen, I’m sure many of you here still believe that our trip to see Mr Parnell was a fruitless exercise.’
They glanced about at each other, unsure how to respond.
‘Well,’ he continued, ‘at least in one regard, I can guarantee that it was very fruitful.’ He turned away to a cupboard. ‘Because, before we boarded the ferry in Galway, I slipped into a licensed premises and purchased these.’
At that he swung around clutching a bottle of whiskey in either hand, producing a spontaneous burst of laughter.
‘Owen and Mick, would you be so good as to grab some glasses and if there aren’t enough I’m sure Mrs Loftus wouldn’t mind us borrowing a few of her china cups.’
As they set about organising the refreshments, Owen considered that the chubby cleric had lifted the veil of gloom masterfully in a single stroke. Suddenly it was though they had gathered to organise a hurling match rather than discuss the possibility that many might be homeless within days. Glasses clinked and the men chatted a while until Fr O’Malley sat and called them to order.
‘Of course, men, as you all know, there is urgent business at hand. Boycott. What’s to be done?’
‘We hoped you might have some ideas, te be honest, Father,’ said Joe Gaughan.
Another, Peadar Higgins, a tough, weather-worn man of sixty, shook his head. ‘We’ve tried everything except threaten the man. We’ve asked him politely, we’ve explained that the harvest these past years has been brutal. Every man here knows the rents should be half what they are.’
‘Not te mention chargin’ us for gathering wood. The fines. Bannin’ rights of way. We’ve even tried writin’ te Lord Erne, ye drew up the letter yerself, Father,’ Joe said.
‘And look what happened. We asked for a twenty-five percent abatement and Boycott convinced the old man te only give us ten.’
Luke Fitzmorris interrupted the murmur of concurring voices. ‘He thinks we’re dirt. Won’t speak to us unless it’s to insult us.’
Fr O’Malley raised his hands to calm the rising swell. ‘Yes, lads, I agree, he is obstinate and rude, and perhaps the most unreasonable man I’ve ever met. So how can we deal with such a creature?’
Matt O’Toole, the youngest man there, spoke for the first time. ‘Martin McGurk has a few ideas.’
The room fell quiet and O’Toole took a hasty swallow of his drink, looking a little sheepish now, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.
‘Yes,’ said the priest, ‘Martin has plenty of ideas, most of which are against the law and against God’s law. The reason he’s not here this evening, in case you’re wondering, is that I didn’t invite him. Neither did I invite John Lavin or Francis Cusack and a couple of others. I asked you men because I know all of you to be reasonable men, not given easily to flights of temper or violence.’ He glanced at the youthful Matt O’Toole. ‘And while one or two of you are subject to the hastiness of youth, most of you are experienced enough to know that rash decisions taken on the basis of emotion, hatred in particular, have a way of rebounding badly on you. I pray that Martin McGurk comes to his senses before doing anything he regrets.’
Owen looked around. To a man they were hanging on the priest’s every word.
‘But what are–’
The priest interrupted Matt O’Toole with a raised hand.
‘What are we to do? I’ll tell you, men. Mr Parnell provided us with a weapon that will make us more powerful than Boycott can imagine.’
‘You mean to ost…ost…’ Luke Fitzmorris stammered.
‘Ostracise,’ offered Owen.
‘Yeah, to ostracise anyone who takes our farms when we’re evicted. With all due respect, Father, that’s fine longterm. But in the meantime, we’ll be out on our arses, beggin’ yer pardon. Our wives and children will be living by the side of the road. And it could be years before the plan works. How are we supposed to survive?’
The priest shifted his considerable bodyweight on the chair, which creaked in protest, so that he was facing Owen. ‘Why don’t you answer that question, Owen?’
Owen, who had been listening intently to Fitzmorris, was startled by the request. All the faces in the room turned to him. He stared at the priest, who had only briefly discussed the subject with him, but was met by an expression that suggested Owen was his right-hand man. He opened his mouth intent on distancing himself from the limelight, closed it again, sat back into the chair and looked at the expectant faces.
After some consideration, he spoke. ‘We’ll ostracise land grabbers all right, but we start by ostracising Boycott himself.’
‘What?’ said Fitzmorris.
‘Shun Boycott. Treat him like a “leper of old” as Parnell put it.’
‘Sure that old bastard doesn’t care if we don’t speak to him,’ said Gaughan.
Owen exhaled nervously and was spurred on by a nod from Fr O’Malley.
‘Listen,’ he said, warming to his subject and leaning forward, ‘Boycott can’t survive without the people in this parish. He buys his supplies in Ballinrobe. Our people cook his food and tend his horses and wash his sheets. Well, how do you think he’d fare if he woke up one day to find them all gone? Every last one of them. He wouldn’t be served in the grocers or at the dairy. The farrier wouldn’t shoe his horses. His servants would leave him high and dry and I don’t imagine Annie Boycott knows how to boil an egg.’
There was a brief chuckle but he could sense a swell of interest. He glanced again at the priest, who simply smiled and raised his eyebrows. He resumed while he held his audience captive, not wanting doubt to creep into their minds.
‘But most importantly, if we convince his labourers to abandon him altogether he’ll be facing immediate ruin. He’s got, what? A thousand pounds worth of crops still in the ground? What he makes from rents is a pittance. Almost all his money is in the farm on the estate. If he loses the harvest, he’ll be facing bankruptcy.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Matt O’Toole.
‘He’ll be broke,’ Joe Gaughan enlightened.
Fr O’Malley, sensing the enthusiasm, began to pass the whiskey around, a subtle ratification of their newly found purpose. ‘And remember lads, only last month Boycott gave in when his labourers went on strike for more pay.’
‘Which shows how desperate he is to get his crops in,’ added Owen. ‘The fact is, Boycott’s not a farmer, he’s a businessman, and a businessman’s first and last thought
every day is profit. It’s all about money. If we deprive Boycott of his money, he’ll either give in or go under.’
‘And personally I suspect that Boycott’s not quite as tough as he pretends,’ Fr O’Malley remarked with a sagacious air. He continued, ‘I can’t be here tomorrow, unfortunately. But we’ll advise Captain Boycott of his new circumstances on Thursday. So we need to delay him a little. By law, a notice of eviction must be issued to the head of the household. Your good selves. He can’t issue them if you’re not there.’
He removed three large pieces of bright red silky cloth from a drawer and handed them out to Fitzmorris and a couple of the others.
‘Make flags of these. Your farms occupy the highest points around; they can be seen from all over. You see Boycott coming, go to the hill and wave the flag and yell your lungs out. Warn everyone. Then, I want you men to vanish. As I said, if you’re not there, he can’t serve the notices.’
‘Leave our wives te do our fightin’?’ Fitzmorris asked, his pride piqued.
‘There isn’t going to be any fighting, Luke. Remember, that’s why we’re here.’
Fitzmorris nodded, then looked at the unusual red cloth, which was embroidered with a gold pattern. ‘Eh Father, where did you got the cloth for the flags?’
Fr O’Malley looked a little embarrassed. ‘I’ve been meaning to purchase a new chasuble anyway. Besides, Pentecost is a long way away.’
There was some bewildered laughter, then they fell to silence for a few seconds, pondering the permutations of the plan, until Joe Gaughan spoke.
‘Father, the thing is, it all sounds good in theory, but are we going to be able to convince Boycott’s workers and the others to go along? I mean, will they listen to us?’
Fr O’Malley smiled faintly at some notion, a personal joke maybe, then looked up from his drink. ‘They’ll listen to me, Joe. They’ll listen to their priest.’
The meeting broke up thirty minutes later, while there was light enough for them to travel safely to their homes. Owen lingered, as Fr O’Malley had expected he might, and the pair sat in the sudden silence, nursing what remained of their drinks.
‘As I said, Owen, unfortunately I have to travel to Tuam tomorrow to be scolded yet again like a little boy by Archbishop McHale for supporting the Land League. I hope he doesn’t decide to take a birch to me as well.’ He laughed aloud at the notion.
‘Why is the Archbishop so against us?’
‘It’s complicated, but God bless him, the man is ninety and he’s been a great patriot all his life. I believe he just doesn’t like Mr Parnell, among other things. I can handle him. But what really troubles me is that I won’t return until late in the day. I haven’t had any time to organise. I mean, I’ll need to be here to convince everyone in the parish and beyond to follow us. You’ll have to hold the fort yourself, Owen.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes! You saw how they listened to you. They know a leader when they see one.’
Now it was Owen’s turn to laugh aloud. ‘I’m no leader, Father. It’s you they look up to.’
‘How can I put this? I may lead their souls, Owen, but you lead their minds.’
Owen shook his head at the notion of men looking to him for guidance. A thought struck him as he pulled on his jacket and moved towards the door. ‘Tell me, Father, why did you drop me in the middle of this without discussing it with me?’
Fr O’Malley grinned. ‘I was confident you’d have worked out all the details in your head since we talked in Ennis. And as to catching you off guard? Well, I knew if I’d asked you to be my partner in crime, so to speak, you would either have refused or dithered over the notion for days and eventually convinced yourself you weren’t the man for the job. Whereas I knew you to be precisely the man I needed. I decided simply not to give you time to think about it. I was confident you’d do the right thing.’
Owen stared at him and said nothing.
‘Sometimes, Owen,’ the priest continued, ‘it doesn’t serve a man well to think too much. Moderation in all things, as we say.’ And with that he refilled his glass.
‘Good night, Father.’ Owen smiled as he pulled open the door.
He stepped outside and looked along the road north towards Ballinrobe, where a swirl of autumn leaves danced in the rising wind. The sun was gone, but its dying light still lingered sufficiently to see him home if he hurried. At the sound of Anu’s whinny he began to walk around to the trap, hitched to a post by the side of the church. As he walked he couldn’t help but grin, feeling surprisingly heartened by the evening’s events; not just the scheme to ostracise Boycott, but at the turn of events that had set him at the forefront of the plan. He imagined it was the kind of sizzling excitement experienced by the likes of Parnell after an oration, or the nervous thrill an actor feels as the crowd rises to their feet in applause. Such comparisons were ludicrous of course, as he hadn’t earned any applause, but as the priest had pointed out, the others had listened with pricked ears as he’d spoken. He couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride and could hardly wait to tell Síomha about the evening. He also couldn’t help but imagine the two of them entwined naked in each other’s arms in their bed and supposed one swell of excitement led naturally to another, at least for men, he thought with a smile.
Owen stopped sharply as he saw Anu and the trap. The old horse snorted and turned her head towards him, away from the figure of a man standing directly behind her. He heard the man try to calm the animal with a ‘shhh girl’ and by stroking her face.
‘Who’s that?’
The man lifted his head now, but the light was so dim his face was nothing but a haze of darkness.
‘What do you want? Is that you, Martin McGurk?’
‘It’s not,’ came the answer.
‘What are you do–’
‘Take it easy, Owen,’ the man said, ducking beneath Anu’s neck.
Owen stiffened as he approached. ‘How do you know my name? Who are you?’
‘Jesus Christ, Owen,’ the man said as he stepped near enough for Owen to see his face. ‘Do you not know your own brother when you see him?’
CHAPTER 15
Lough Mask, thy beauties free and wild
Have soothed my soul and oft beguiled
My thoughts from earthly care
I love the rocks thy wavelets kiss
Thy solitude is sweet. ’Twere bliss
To dwell forever here.
–‘Lines on Lough Mask’, Mary Pearle, 1915
DECEMBER 1848
He’d had no time to conceive a coherent plan of escape and, besides, he knew little of this district. The hospital building was fifty yards to the south. East was the main road and to the north was Ballinrobe; none offered a viable option.
Owen set off west across the fields, praying his decision might bring him some fortune. He stumbled and staggered through the near complete darkness, tripping over low shrubs and almost colliding with a boulder, the sticky earth sucking greedily at his shoes. He reached a chest-high wall and had to clamber over it, dislodging a stone on the top and almost tumbling head over heels into the next field. He began to lose his sense of direction not one hundred yards into his journey and looked back towards the outline of the workhouse to gain some bearing. At precisely that moment the moon drifted behind a cloud and the world turned black. With no choice he stumbled on, falling repeatedly against jagged rocks, stifling his cries as best he could. Five more minutes and the moon swept free of its veil, revealing another wall just ahead, this one bordering a track. Chest heaving, he paused and tried to gather his wits. To his right he could hear water, but surely not the River Robe, which was further to the north-west. He tried to think. On his arrival at the workhouse he recalled crossing a stream to the south of the town, probably a tributary of the Robe. Unfortunately, this meant that he’d inadvertently strayed to within a stone’s throw of Ballinrobe.
Voices nearby caused him to throw himself flat on the ground. There were men on the track singing
, and from the wavering intonations he guessed they were drunk. He remembered it was Christmas night and the men were probably heading home from a celebration in town. He listened as the words of ‘The Croppy Boy’ rose towards the night sky, a song he’d heard his father sing many times.
And as I mounted the platform high
My aged father was standing by
My aged father did me deny
And the name he gave me was the Croppy Boy
It was in Dungannon this young man died
And in Dungannon his body lies
And you good people that do pass by
Oh shed a tear for the Croppy Boy
It was then that he heard the woman shrieking across the darkness. He gasped and sank lower as the voices of the men fell silent. Across the fields he could see lanterns come alive in the workhouse windows. The confused shouts of men swelled the sound to a chorus and through it all he could define one word, screamed over and over: ‘Murder!’
‘What in the name o’ God?’
‘It’s comin’ from the workhouse, Mick.’
‘Sumthin’s goin’ on, begod.’
‘C’mon. Let’s find out the trouble.’
Owen heard their feet shuffling hastily away. One thing was certain; he had to get away from there or he’d swing as sure as the Croppy Boy of long ago.
There were more shouts on the track as others hurried into town to discover the reason for the commotion. Crouching, he began to move towards the sound of the water. Fifty yards on he came to the stream, which was perhaps ten feet wide, and slid down the steep bank. To his left he could just make out a bridge, and he advanced towards it along the narrow bank, one tentative step at a time. He saw men on the bridge now, clutching lamps, running out of town, perhaps already in search of the outlaw. In the distance he heard a horse running through the dark at a pace beyond all wisdom. He reached the bridge and saw that his narrow foothold had disappeared. Without hesitation he slipped down into the placid stream’s dark flow and gasped as icy tendrils entwined his legs and privates. Tramping boots approached and he quickly ducked down and slipped under the nearer of the bridge’s twin arches. The stream was to his waist now and he had to bend almost double to move under the arch, the satchel on his back scraping along the bridge’s slime-covered underside. The lone set of heavy bootsteps thundered overhead, and he moved out from under the bridge and clambered up on to the far bank. He enjoyed a small stroke of fortune as he saw that the stream meandered into dense woodland and he hastened his step while the moonlight favoured him. He reached the trees and immediately sank to a sitting position against an immense tree trunk. Here he waited while his breathing and his pounding heart slackened. He listened. There were more horses now, their whinnies piercing the still Christmas night air. Indistinct bellows chased each other along the streets of the town. A policeman’s whistle screeched, protracted in its beckoning. It spurred him to action and he rose and moved with as much haste as the light and his outstretched hands would permit, crashing into trees, tumbling through shrubs. He kept the stream close to his path, for it offered his only possible means of escape as crossing open countryside was no longer feasible. And as if to verify the thought, he was stalled in his tracks by the sound of barking, multiple and frenzied, encouraged by the cries of handlers. He had little time left.