Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  The sound of rushing water reached his ears – the stream spilling into the Robe. He removed the jacket and folded it into the satchel on his back, then slipped into the stream again. He passed under another low bridge, the noise of the water growing louder with each step. To his left he could make out a large structure and realised it was the cavalry barracks, a building of three stories, lamps ablaze in the windows. A single horse approached and he sought shelter against the bank. The rider crossed the tiny bridge bound for the barracks. He pressed on, lifting his knees high to quicken his progress. As the meeting of the waters drew closer, he felt an increasing pull as the flow gained momentum. He allowed the water to take him fully and felt his feet lifted from the riverbed, gasping as the freezing water enveloped him, frantically paddling to keep his head clear. Experience told him that he just had to bear the pain for a few minutes and his body would adapt.

  The stream carried him over the edge and he fell head first, six feet down into the River Robe. He surfaced and frantically sought purchase at the yielding water, trying to regain control of his direction, fighting against the pull of the river as he sought to reach the temporary haven of a tiny islet in the centre. The Robe’s apparent tranquillity concealed the powerful undercurrents that felt like tendrils eager to wrap themselves about his legs. But he endured, clasping an overhanging branch to pull himself up to the islet’s bank. He caught his breath as he took stock of his position. The small waterfall drowned much of the noise from Ballinrobe, now fully roused. It was not often that on Christmas night they received word that there was a murderer in their midst. He could make out the tall tower of the mill against the night sky, the bridge before it alive with the comings and goings of men with torches and mounted soldiers mustered from the infantry barracks. In the direction of the Robe’s flow was another bridge leading to the cavalry barracks, its single arch tall enough to accommodate a barge. A barracks behind and another ahead. He had little choice but to go with the current. He slipped back into the water and began to paddle, the shock not quite so intense now, but was immediately horrified to witness a troop approach from the barracks gate. They would cross the bridge ahead in moments and a single glance in his direction would mean his end. He began to swim faster, pulling desperately towards the bank. He reached out and grasped at the long grasses. Clumps came free in his hands and he clawed for purchase like a man in the grip of a seizure, until finally he found a hold and wrenched himself up under the bridge, just as the troop clip-clopped overhead. He lay there looking up at the dark curve of the arch, trying to quiet his breathing. He heard military barks and blurted orders and saw the reflection of burning torches in the black river surface as they paraded across the bridge. He froze and listened, staring up at the underside of the structure, where he could see by the torches’ dim reflected light what looked like a hundred fingers of stone pointing accusingly down at him. The tramping diminished and he was about to move again when a strange voice stilled him.

  ‘Fuckin’ ’ell. Christmas night. The only night we get decent grub! And we end up ’ere watching for a bleedin’ murderer. Isn’t that police business?’

  ‘Shut up, Charlie, if the captain ’ears ye, ye’ll be in a right stew.’

  ‘Besides, what do we care? Let them all murder each uvver is what I say. Then we can go bloody ’ome.’

  ‘Didn’t you ’ear? It wasn’t just murder. Sarge said he burned the flesh off some other bloke’s ’ead.’

  ‘Jesus Chroist. It’s like the Dark Ages or summin’.’

  ‘So we’re pitchin’ in to ’elp. So shut your bleedin’ face ’ole. And keep your peepers peeled.’

  ‘’Ere. What if we spot ’im?’

  ‘Easy. We plug ’im. Bang!’

  Immobile for so long, Owen was starting to shake badly. He clenched his arms about himself in an effort to stem the tremors. His teeth began to chatter and he had to bite so hard against his lower lip that he tasted blood. If he didn’t get moving soon he knew he would freeze to death. He’d been there five minutes when a horse approached and a voice barked out.

  ‘You two! They need more men to search the mill. Get moving!’

  Owen exhaled with blessed relief as the pair trotted away. When he was certain they were beyond earshot he began to swing his arms wildly to stimulate warmth. A minute later he slipped back into the water and swam out a few yards, allowing the current to take him. The bag on his back, contrary to being an encumbrance, had trapped some air and gave him buoyancy.

  The Robe curved gently along and he had neither sight nor sound of people on the banks as he moved further from the town. But he knew he couldn’t stay in the water much longer; his entire body felt numb and his limbs protested at every stroke.

  He drifted silently beneath a wooden footbridge but an instant later became aware of the roar of crashing water. It was a waterfall of some kind, which didn’t seem possible in such a flat landscape, but he knew it represented danger and he had to get to the bank quickly. He began to turn and kick, but his limbs were so benumbed and weary that he made no advance against the sweep of the current. The water became choppier and his head began to go under. He gasped and spluttered as panic began to seize him. The clamorous roar of the water was only yards ahead, yet almost invisible in the inky black of the night. Then he was tumbling, wrenched on to his side, rolling over a weir and crashing into a mass of churning white. He went completely under, his body pivoting and whirling in the dark, violent undertow. Finally his head breached the surface and he heaved a series of convulsive breaths. He kicked and clawed at the white water boiling on all sides, then glimpsed an over-hanging tree on his left. He knew if he didn’t catch it he would surely die, for his energy was gone, sapped by the exertion and the cold. He clawed desperately against the currents and at the last moment he threw both hands aloft and grasped at the bare branches. He seized one but felt his body pulled from under him as the river fought to retake him. He reached out with his other hand and grabbed another purchase, then pulled with every ounce of will until he drew himself into the river shallows. His feet found a hold and he clambered, spluttering, on to the muddy bank, where he fell gasping until he passed out.

  He awoke to violent shivers and looked around, but the town was a mile behind now and not a soul was about. As far as he could tell, he was in an open field far from any road. But through the blind pain of the cold he knew that he was far from safety and he must keep moving, an agonising prospect. He pulled the satchel from his back and his benumbed fingers were barely capable of pulling the buckle pin free. Delving inside the watery mess, he located the hard surface of the bottle, pulled it out and removed the cork with his teeth, then drank long and hard. The sudden fiery rush in his throat induced a fit of coughing and dizziness. When it passed he began to beat his arms about him again, then stood with difficulty and massaged his thighs. Had it not been for the cocooning layer of flesh he’d acquired in the workhouse, he was certain he’d be dead. He sought out Rice’s coat, but it was sodden, as was all the food. Nevertheless he dug his fingers in and ate a large handful of the mush of bread. When he’d repacked he got his feet moving and set off along the bank, aware that should his pursuers appear, the river still offered a possible means of removing himself quickly from sight.

  After about an hour of tortured walking, he spied a cottage ahead, nestled in trees by the river’s edge. His first thought was to skirt it, but then an idea occurred to him and he crept up to it slowly, trying to control the chatter of his teeth. As he’d hoped and prayed, by the river’s edge sat two boats. He quietly pulled the smaller and less conspicuous of them towards the river. It was barely eight feet long, but it would suffice. He waded into the water again, peering over his shoulder at the cottage, but it was as silent and dark as a morgue. At knee depth he clambered in and almost upended it, but it righted itself and drifted gently towards the centre of the Robe. He took the single paddle and guided the boat with silent strokes; within moments, the river had taken charge and was c
arrying him away to God alone knew where.

  An hour later his arms ached from paddling, but at least, he thought, he could feel the ache. His legs, by contrast, so long unmoving, seemed not to be there at all. The bank was lined with woodland much of the way and he’d seen no sign of the forces of law. The river meandered wildly and he had no knowledge of his direction. But now he saw the trees begin to diminish and the landscape broaden to open fields. He had to navigate an acute bend, but as he emerged from it he saw, spread out before him in the moonlight, the broad, calm waters of Lough Mask.

  Owen could identify the hulking shapes of two large islands close to the shore, and he rounded these and began moving south about a hundred yards out. As the first hints of dawn began to put form to his surroundings, he saw that the lough offered a multitude of islands, any of which might provide sanctuary. Some seemed half a mile long, others much more diminutive, but he was troubled by their proximity to the shore. Yet he knew he would have to find land soon, necessitated by the growing light and his debilitation.

  One island to the west sat in relative isolation. In the dim early light distances were difficult to measure, but he guessed it was a couple of miles out, too small and remote to be inhabited. He could see the mountains rising to the west, their tops the first to benefit from pale light of the rising sun. The sight of a figure on the mainland, a speck of black moving through a field, determined his choice and he quickly turned the boat’s nose towards the open expanse of the lough.

  He guessed it took him an hour to reach the densely wooded island. He rounded the small piece of land and saw that it was a few hundred yards long, shaped like a spearhead, and through the mostly leafless trees he could see the ruins of a structure of some kind. He guided the boat through the curiously rounded black rocks that speckled the shallows and tried to climb out, but found that his legs refused to comply. It was an unsettling moment. He tried to lift his right leg with his hands and realized he could not sense the grip of his own fingers. He rubbed his thighs to enervate them, but although it restored some sensation it produced only a spasmodic twitch.

  He negotiated the boat about so that his back was to the shore, which was a brief band of grass, speckled with more black rocks. When only a couple of feet away, he turned and hauled himself over the stern, desperate to keep his upper body from becoming soaked again. He dragged himself on to the grass, panting with the effort. Using his hands, he began to lift and bend his legs, rubbing them intermittently, yet it took considerable minutes before he was rewarded with any sensation. He managed to kneel and then crawl, grunting, to a small tree where he hauled himself upright. There he remained in a frozen lurch until he found he could lift his calves and slowly revitalise them.

  He staggered back to the boat and pulled it towards the shrubbery, a task that seemed to take an aeon as he repeatedly collapsed. Supported by a staff, he heaved himself with faltering steps through the stalks of the winter wood, ankle-deep in withered leaves, and after a time emerged in a long and narrow open space, mostly grass, at the centre of which were the toppled ruins of a church from antiquity. The entire island was ringed by a narrow band of trees, shielding its centre from curious eyes. He crossed to the remnants of the building, which was little more than three irregular walls ten feet high. Holy men had sought sanctuary here from persecution long ago, and their efforts might serve a similar purpose long after their bones had turned to dust.

  He sat, leaning back against a wall, hugging himself against the chill. It had been a mercifully mild night and he prayed that the rain would remain prisoner in the clouds for this day at least. But, fatigued as he was, he knew that he couldn’t remain sitting there. He pulled off the satchel and removed the whiskey, careful not to over-indulge. He cursed himself for not taking a second bottle, for his supply was reduced now to little more than a third of a bottle. He ate a few more handfuls of the sodden black bread and some sugar, then looked about.

  What he desperately needed was a fire, but he had no matches or flint and no real idea how to produce a flame without one or the other. It flitted through his mind that Thomas would likely possess the necessary skill. He looked at the satchel and lying beside it was Rice’s jacket. The Robe’s waters still dripped from the sodden material when he lifted it. The outside pockets were empty excepting a single penny, imprinted with the image of a youthful Queen Victoria. He found a buttoned pocket in the inside breast and thrust his fingers into the envelope of fabric. His hand lighted on a small parcel and he was disappointed to withdraw a package of Rice’s cigars, soaked and useless, even if he had desired one. The other pocket brought the reward of a box marked ‘Allumettes’. He turned it over to see the heavenly words ‘50 White Phosphorous Matches.’ Gently sliding back the tiny lid, he saw about ten yellow-tipped matches which appeared relatively dry, the waxed wooden box having afforded them a degree of protection. The following minutes were spent gathering a large pile of tinder and sticks. Arranging the tinder in a corner of the ruin, he knelt and removed one of the precious matches, crouching low over the tinder as he scratched the match against the wall. It barely fizzled with a greenish glow, emitted a pungent smell and turned black. He swore. The matches, although not sodden, were clearly damp. He tried a second time with the same result, cursed loudly, and sat back on his haunches, trying to think. He needed a flame to dry the matches and he needed the matches to provide the flame.

  He was about to despair of ever lighting a fire when a solitary word occurred to him: friction. He picked up a fist-sized stone and began to scrape it against a flat stone from the ruin with as much power as he could muster. After a time he pressed his finger against the larger stone and smiled when he felt the warmth. He continued the action for a while longer, then drew a match across the warm patch. This time it sizzled green, there was a mote of flame, and it faded. He cursed to the heavens. His patience straining, he took two matches, held them together, scratched them across the warm patch of stone, and watched with disbelief as the flame buzzed green then orange and began to roll slowly up the stick. He almost hooted with joy, cupped his palm about it and held it to the tinder. It was leisurely in its passing of the flame to the twigs and Owen feared it might fail to take hold, but after a few nerve-racking moments, the twigs took possession of the flame and the tinder came alive with dancing tongues of orange.

  He spent the next hour collecting a supply of wood and arranging his every possession on the rocks around the fire. The crackling timbers produced a substantial amount of smoke, but a light breeze dispersed it by the time it reached the top of the wall, so he hoped it would not be visible from the mainland nearly two miles distant. He also removed his pants and draped them across a stone, feeling faintly ridiculous as he stood there almost naked. Finally he lay down beside the fire, weary beyond measure, and rested his head against the satchel.

  He spent four days on the island, discovering, courtesy of a rough scratching on a large boulder, that his temporary home was called Devenish Island. His food supply dwindled to almost nothing and his last meal required him to scrape the inside of satchel for the remnants of bread and oats. And, most troubling of all, when he awoke that first day he was seized with a terrible shivering accompanied by a constant flow of snot. It had abated a little when he dressed and softened his misery with whiskey and quinine, but all the time he’d felt a grave fever stalk his every move.

  Many times he’d stood under the cover of the trees watching the eastern shore, expecting the approach of policemen, or even fishermen, but he’d only seen a couple of small craft and none had ventured near his refuge. At times he’d contemplated taking the boat out into the waters and trying to catch some fish, but his hands quivered so much he couldn’t fashion a line or a hook from anything in his possession, and soon abandoned the notion. He was grateful at least to have dry clothes, but his matches were all gone now and should he allow the fire to dwindle to nothing, he would have no means of producing another. The realities had dwelt ever larger in his mind as the f
ood diminished. He would have to leave the island the next day, for all he had left was a lump of sugar the size of an egg and two swallows of whiskey.

  He wondered what had passed in Ballinrobe in the intervening days. Had the stolen boat been reported and had they connected it to him? Surely, if they had, he would have seen a boat patrol wandering the islands. Or perhaps they assumed he’d not lingered, but headed south to Galway or west to the mountains.