Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  As the night closed in he built the fire again and tried to banish the trembling that racked his entire body, and he experienced the curious duality of profuse sweating while his innards shivered. He’d seen similar symptoms while working in the infirmary, but all of those men had been suffering from typhus or some such ailment and surely he couldn’t be so afflicted out here? He took more quinine but had little knowledge of the drug other than the Matron issuing it for fevered men. Late that night he managed to fall into a horribly disturbed sleep in which he witnessed his dead family rising from the workhouse mass grave, his brother being hanged, and the sensation of him drowning, kicking madly as he was torn away from the light above down into the cold, black depths. He came awake with a terrified gasp and immediately sensed rain on his face. His every nerve was quivering and his hands shook so violently he could barely grasp the logs to maintain the fire. He cursed his lack of foresight for not building some form of shelter, and as the drops of rain intensified he reluctantly conceded that he would have to seek shelter. He heaped every last gathered branch on the fire in the hope it might outlive the rain and then stumbled to a copse of fir trees. There he sat, trembling yet absurdly hot, until the rain abated towards dawn.

  When he finally returned to the ruin, all that remained was a pile of sodden ash. He had no choice now – if he remained here without heat and food, the fever would surely claim him. He would have to abandon the island.

  Once more he found himself without a plan, an aimless wanderer in the wilds of Ireland, except this time he imagined that half of the country was looking to hang him. He could barely think through the burning delirium, and swooned and fell time after time as he returned to the boat. Dim early light stretched across the lough’s troubled waters, for a north wind had roused their ire. But it determined his course, for he had barely the strength to paddle, let alone to fight the elements. With the boat dragged back to the water, he almost fell face down into it but managed at least to keep all but his feet dry. He began to paddle away from the island, allowing the wind to steer his course, although it tossed the tiny craft to and fro, adding to his nausea. Some miles ahead he could see the southern shore, but it seemed so distant, and his body was so impaired that reaching it felt like an impossible task.

  ‘Watch where you’re going, you amadán!’ Thomas shouted at him.

  He looked over his shoulder and his brother was sitting there smiling. He patted Owen on the back. ‘You’re in horseshit now, little brother. Should have come with me, my boat was much bigger.’ He suddenly pointed ahead. ‘Watch the rocks! Jesus, do I have to tell you everything! Paddle more on the left.’

  Owen did as instructed then turned again to Thomas, whose face had become grim.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Owen asked.

  Thomas didn’t reply.

  ‘Why won’t you speak to me? Thomas! Do you want to tell me something?’

  But Thomas sat there, hands gripping the sides of the boat, staring with dead man’s eyes. Owen had to turn away to steer his course and when he looked back again, Thomas had vanished. He began to call out his brother’s name over and over, his futile cries skipping across the choppy waters. His eyes grew suddenly heavy and he sank back into the boat, the paddle slipping into the water. The sky above, which had been a muddy grey, began to glow an intense, bright white.

  A man’s hand was gripping his shoulder, shaking him. He opened his eyes and looked at the face, shrouded in a soupy white fog. The man was saying something but it made no sense, a nonsense of words like the babble of a madman. He felt a slap against his cheek. It was a policeman, he knew that now. They’d known where he’d been all along, had just been biding their time. They were going to hang him. Make him dance to their tune. He tried to grasp the policeman, seize him to make him understand. They had to know the truth. But he found it hard to speak as an immense thirst had swelled his throat. How could he be thirsty in the middle of Lough Mask? It was almost funny. He forced his voice from his lungs with a mighty effort.

  ‘Not me. Rice. Rice killed him…swear…please.’

  But it was pointless. They were lifting him, pulling him from the boat, and he had no fight left. Let them do their worst, he thought. It will be a blessed relief.

  ‘Muireann! Fetch your mother. She’s in the high field. Tell her what’s happened and te come quickly.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him Daddy? Why’s he talking funny?’

  ‘Go now, child, quick as lightning. Go!’

  The little girl fled with childish enthusiasm away from the lakeshore. The man managed to get his hands under the stubble-faced, delirious young man and lift him. Although about the man’s own height, he was considerably thinner and didn’t prove a heavy burden. He carried the youth to his cottage just fifty yards away, and kicked open the door. The cottage was large by the standards of most, with entry into a living area and the hearth directly opposite the front door, and with a room for sleeping to either side. He turned left into his daughter’s room and laid the unfortunate young man down on her straw mattress. He was unsure what to do, as his medical skills were paltry compared to those of his wife, Maebh.

  The youth continued with his incoherent talk, the content of which troubled the man more and more. He hurried to the hearth next door, where he occupied himself building the fire until Maebh burst through the door, panic written on her face, her hair like that of a wild woman.

  ‘Tim! What’s the matter? Who’s been hurt? Muireann said there’s a sick man! Where’s–

  ‘Jesus, Maebh, will ye calm down, woman! He’s in Muireann’s room. I was fishing when I found the boat drifting. Thought it was empty but when I pulled it up there’s this man. Only a lad really. He’s feverish.’

  He led the way into the room, just as Muireann arrived back. ‘Wait there Muireann,’ her mother said.

  They crouched down at either side of the mattress.

  ‘Listen, Maebh. He was ranting…kept saying he hadn’t killed someone. That someone called Rice did it. I’m worried. You know what we heard, about Ballinrobe. Maybe this is…’

  She looked at Owen for a moment, leaned over and placed a hand against his forehead, then pulled back one of his eyelids. Suddenly she sat back sharply on her haunches.

  ‘Mary, Mother of God,’ she whispered.

  ‘Hello,’ a woman said as she pressed a wet cloth against his forehead. ‘Shhh. Don’t try te move.’

  ‘My throat hurts,’ he croaked.

  She held a mug to his lips. He spluttered and coughed and let his head fall back.

  ‘Not surprised yer throat hurts, the blatherin’ ye’ve been doin’ these past days.’

  ‘Where am I?’ He glanced around the small room, lit by an oil lamp and the glow of a fire through a doorway.

  ‘Ye’re in our cottage. On the shore of Lough Mask. This place is known as Kilbeg, in Galway.’

  ‘There was a man…’

  ‘Ye might mean me husband, Tim. He pulled ye from the lough and brought ye here. The fever lasted until noon today and ye’ve slept since. It was bad enough, but I’ve seen worse.’

  ‘What day is it?’

  ‘Three days ye’ve been here. It’s Monday, the first of January 1849, Owen.’

  ‘How…do you know my name?’

  ‘Sure ’tis a wonder half of Connaught doesn’t know yer name, with yer rantin’. Not te mention Thomas and Bridget, Flynn, Rice and a whole crowd of others I can’t recall.’

  Owen turned his head away at the mention of Rice’s name.

  ‘It’s all right, Owen Joyce. Don’t fret.’

  She called out towards the other room. ‘Tim, bring Muireann.’

  A well-built man appeared with a young girl in his arms. The man nodded at Owen as he set the child down.

  ‘Muireann,’ she beckoned, and the excited child skittered to her mother’s side.

  ‘Ye see, Owen Joyce, I already knew ye. From the first moment I laid eyes on ye.’

  He looked around at the
three faces, utterly mystified.

  ‘Ye saved me Muireann here’s life.’

  ‘You’re mistaking me for someon–’

  ‘Tawnyard, isn’t that what you called your hill? It was down the valley from where I used te live.’

  His eyes came wide at the name of his home, but he shook his head, unable to place her in that setting.

  ‘Me name is Maebh Connor.’

  Some faint recollection stirred in the haze of his memory. The woman leaned closer. ‘One day maybe six months ago, it’s hard te tell, I was at me end and so was Muireann. We was starvin’, as were thousands, God knows, and I knew if I didn’t find food Muireann would perish. I was ready te lie down and die, had barely the will te take another step. And then I saw you and I begged ye for food. And I know ye were starvin’ too and ye had a family who needed food as bad as me. Yet ye gave me a fish. And it kept her alive and gave me the will te go on. If I hadn’t chanced upon ye that day, we’d both be dead.’

  Owen drew in a slow, deep breath. The scene was suddenly vivid in his memory. An hour later he’d reached home to find his sister dead. He felt his eyes grow watery and he clenched them shut.

  His conscience began to trouble him. ‘There’s something I have to tell you…’

  ‘It’s all right, Owen. Go back te sleep. Ye’ll feel stronger in the morning and we’ll talk then.’

  She bathed his forehead once more and then they left him alone.

  He sat by the fireside and Tim handed him a mug of tea. They were alone, as Maebh had gone on an errand and a priest from Clonbur was schooling Muireann and a handful of other local children.

  ‘Thank you. For saving my life.’

  Tim smiled. ‘Sure, I only dragged yer boat ashore. Beside such, I owe ye far more, by all accounts.’

  Owen shook his head. ‘I did what anyone would have.’

  ‘Not te my mind. Or Maebh’s.’

  They sat for a while in an awkward silence.

  ‘How did Maebh and Muireann survive?’

  ‘A group of Quakers found her the day after she’d met you and transported her te Westport, where she gained admission te the workhouse. I was working in England on a farm, where I learned about the growing of mangolds, carrots, turnips an’ the like. The farm owner was a very decent man who had heard of the sufferin’ in Ireland, and when I came te be paid he was very generous. I’d been sending money te Maebh but she never got it. I found out later that a postal worker had stolen it. Bastard. It took me weeks te find Maebh and Muireann and I thought they were surely dead. But thanks be te God they were both alive. I’d enough money te get a lease here, six acres, and we’ve been working hard te ready the land for next season ever since.’

  ‘Mr Connor…’

  ‘Tim.’

  ‘Tim, I have to tell you. The RIC are looking for me.’

  ‘Oh I know. For murder.’

  Owen almost dropped his cup.

  Tim smiled. ‘They’re not anymore.’

  ‘What do you…?’

  He sat on a stool on the other side of the hearth. ‘We’d heard about the workhouse. It’s not often there’s a murder like that in Mayo unless it’s of a landlord or such. With all the talking ye did through the fever, well, we can add two and two the same as the next. So I started te ask questions and found out that the police hunt had been called off, wasn’t sure why until yesterday. Well, I tell ye, that set our mind at ease.’

  The door opened and a gust disturbed the fire and set a ball of smoke rising into the room. Maebh closed the door against the chill wind and pulled off her shawl.

  ‘I got it!’ She pulled a sheet newspaper from the folds of her dress and handed it to her husband, who allowed her take his fireside seat. ‘I can’t read, but Tim’s not so bad.’

  Standing before them, Tim unfolded the single-sheet Mayo Telegraph of 30 December. He began to read in a faltering voice, stumbling over the words.

  ‘Cons…tab…ulry call…off mur…der…pursss…’

  Owen’s impatience welled as his excitement grew. ‘I can read,’ he blurted out, embarrassed at his own rudeness. ‘I mean, I can read…well.’

  Tim frowned a little but Maebh gestured for him to hand the sheet over. Owen turned to allow the firelight illuminate the page. He read aloud: ‘Constabulary call off murder pursuit.’ Beneath this a smaller type dramatised the hunt: ‘On Christmas night, he eluded one hundred soldiers, thirty policemen and as many volunteers, yet almost all his cunning was for naught.

  ‘The search for the fugitive from justice Owen Joyce has been suspended as a result of new information that came to the attention of the Ballinrobe Constabulary. Joyce, who had formerly been a staff assistant at Ballinrobe Union Workhouse, had been sought for the murder of another inmate, an idiot called Francis Flynn, and also for the violent assault on the Kitchen and Stores Supervisor, Mr Barnard Rice, who, along with heavy bruising, had sustained burns to his head.

  ‘However, as a result of testimony provided by Dr David Gill MD, of Ballinrobe Union, and that of Matron Margaret Mitchell, the grave charges against Mr Joyce have been dropped.

  ‘Doctor Gill revealed to Sergeant Mulcahy of Ballinrobe RIC that in the course of treating Mr Rice’s wounds, he had been obliged to dose the patient with opium to relieve his pain. On the second day of this treatment and in the presence of Dr Gill and Matron Mitchell, Mr Rice, under the sedating influence of the drug, had repeatedly spoken words that hinted at Mr Joyce’s innocence and a wish to see Joyce hanged. Many of Mr Rice’s other exclamations suggested a perversity of character and could not be reproduced in a publication of decency such as The Mayo Telegraph.

  ‘When questioned by the constabulary, Rice maintained that Joyce had indeed killed Flynn. However, subsequent investigations revealed that Mr Rice had been engaged in the sale of workhouse supplies for personal gain, including precious medicines. A dispensary staff member, Joseph Cullen of Carrownalecka, confessed to having been in league with Rice in the immoral trade and has been arrested. Several workhouse staff testified to Joyce’s character, including Dr Gill and Matron Mitchell, who expressed grave doubts about Joyce’s capacity to commit such violence. In fact she praised Mr Joyce as…’

  Owen coughed and lowered his voice as he hastened through the rest of the paragraph.

  ‘…a young man of compassion, courage and intelligence. Given his ability to evade the combined forces of Her Majesty’s Constabulary, cavalry, infantry and a pack of tracker dogs, we can hardly doubt the fact of his intelligence, at the very least.

  ‘For anonymity’s sake, your correspondent is unable to name the source of the information that will ensue. But a man of high rank in the RIC revealed that under severe questioning and threat of flogging and transportation, Mr Barnard Rice conceded that he had been forced to kill the idiot Francis Flynn in self-defence. He furthermore admitted that his burn injuries had been the result of pressing his head against the fiery oven doors during his struggle with Flynn. He subsequently attempted to attach the blame for the violence to Mr Joyce, against whom he had a bitter grudge, thereby forcing the young man to flee for his life.

  ‘It is only by God the Saviour’s grace that no harm came to Mr Joyce in his escape, at least none of which this correspondent is aware. Had such occurred, a grave injustice would have transpired, which would have weighed heavily on the entire community of Ballinrobe.

  ‘It is believed that in lieu of his full confession, only charges of theft will be preferred on Mr Rice, a decision that many find outrageous.

  ‘At the time of writing, Joyce’s whereabouts remain unknown. Speculation abounds that he evaded the constabulary at Westport Quay and secured transport to the United States of America.’

  Owen lowered the sheet and looked around him at the two smiling faces.

  Maebh at once rose and embraced him. ‘What did that lady say? His compassion and courage? I didn’t need te be told that.’

  Owen looked at the floor.

  ‘Don’t forget intel
ligence,’ Tim said.

  ‘Ah sure, what good is that if ye’ve no soul?’

  ‘All right, woman, no need to snap! I was only singin’ the lad’s praises.’

  ‘It’s a disgrace that louse Rice isn’t hung. Tellin’ such a tale. Ye could ’a been killed.’

  Owen raised his eyes to them. ‘I know why. I have to tell you. He wasn’t burned in the struggle with Flynn. I’m ashamed to say I did it to him. For what he’d done to Flynn. And to me and others. I think the police discovered the monster he was and made him a trade, made him let me off the hook and in turn he was just charged with theft.’

  ‘What did he do?’ Maebh asked softly, but Owen only looked into the flames.

  ‘Doesn’t matter anyhow,’ Tim muttered in the uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Tim, I also stole that boat.’

  Tim shrugged. ‘Sure, I’ll ask around, say I found it driftin’. They’ll think it slipped its rope.’

  ‘I can’t ever thank you both enough. And I’ll be on my way as soon as I’m well.’

  ‘Ye’ll do no such thing,’ Maebh said.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Ye can stay here. Muireann’ll be delighted to have a big brother, especially as she lost the two she had,’ she said matter-of-factly.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sure, we’ve all lost family.’

  Tim crouched down in front of him. ‘We worked it out. Ye should keep yer head low, I’d say, despite being in the clear. Call yourself Owen Connor. My nephew from, where is it? Tawnyard Hill. Nobody round here knows your face from a sheep’s arse. We’ve a lot te do with the season ahead so you’ll certainly earn your keep. Ye’ll have te learn about other plants besides spuds too.’

  ‘Well?’ Maebh asked.

  He felt tears sting the corners of his eyes. ‘Both of you…you remind me of my mother and father,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the floor. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Maebh leaned across and kissed him on the forehead.

  ‘Right then,’ Tim declared, ‘that’s fixed up. I’ve work te do, and so have you, woman.’