Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  ‘Don’t tell me I’ve work! I know full well I’ve work. Cheek of ye. Get on with ye out of that before I plant me foot in yer behind.’

  Tim laughed and disappeared out the door.

  ‘Rest today. If ye’re well enough ye can start tomorrow.’

  ‘Maybe…maybe as a payment for lodgings…you’d allow me to teach you to read?’ He gestured with the newspaper.

  She was taken aback. ‘Me? Read? Who ever heard of such a thing?’ she laughed as she set about busying herself.

  The paper still aloft, Owen’s eye caught a different article beneath the fold and eagerly began to read.

  TWO HANGED FOR OUGHTY MURDERS

  At Castlebar – In relation to the murders at Oughty, among them the prominent land agent, Robert Peyton Harris, and as we reported previously, the trial of those subsequently found guilty of the crime, the sentences of death were carried out at dawn on Friday the 29th day of December 1848. James Burke of Cregganmore Valley and Padraig Walsh of Glenlaur Valley were dispatched to the next life. May God have mercy on their souls.

  Owen lowered the newspaper and slowly exhaled. So Harris had met a violent end. He experienced a moment of grim satisfaction that some measure of revenge had been exacted on the man, then immediately felt a pang of guilt and a deep measure of sorrow that Walsh and Burke, fanatical nationalists both, had paid for their vengeance with their lives. And yet, but for the will of God, the kindness of others, or sheer chance, The Mayo Telegraph might well be reporting the details of his final moments before they pulled the rope around his neck.

  ‘What’s the matter, Owen?’

  ‘Oh nothing. I was just thinking of my home. And all the things that have happened since I left there.’

  She walked over and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘Well, you’ve a new home now. And your journey’s finally over.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Should the Irish peasantry be tempted to use force against the law and should the refusal to pay rent be supported by an organisation of murderous terrorism, it will be the duty of the Ministry, at whatever cost and however reluctantly, to apply to Parliament for the largest and most efficient repressive authority.

  –Editorial in The Times, 24 August 1880

  MURDEROUS MOLLIE MAGUIRES

  The trial of the murderers of Policeman Yost was made interesting by the complete exposure of the workings of the mysterious order, which under the name of the Mollie Maguires, has done so much mischief in this county, and heretofore so successfully eluded detection. The Detective James McParlan, who occupied the witness stand today, told how he became a member of the order by a sharp piece of strategy. The Mollie Maguires’ real name is The Ancient Order of Hibernians, and branches elsewhere repudiate the lawless acts of the Mollie Maguires. The order has its origin and foundation in Ireland.

  – Special dispatch to The New York Times, Pottsville, Penn., 8 May

  21 SEPTEMBER 1880

  ‘It’s Thomas. Your brother.’

  The man extended a hand and Owen slapped it away. He was little more than a vague form in the descending gloom.

  ‘Jesus, Owen. It’s me. Thomas.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  Owen started for the car, but felt a hand grip his wrist. He froze and tried to catch a glimpse of the man’s eyes, but the shadows were impenetrable.

  ‘Let me go.’

  There was no response except the faintest of laughs. Owen twisted the man’s wrist sharply, brought his free hand across and seized his arm, then jerked it against its natural bend and forced his opponent’s arm behind his back. He shoved him face-up against the church wall.

  ‘Christ, you’ve learned a thing or two,’ the man gasped. ‘Must remember that.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Listen to me, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I’ve had enou–’

  ‘Our mother and father were Michael and Honor Joyce,’ the man grunted. ‘Died in the famine. So did Pat, Sally and Bridget. We lived on Tawnyard Hill. Is that enough?’

  Owen was given pause and relaxed his hold, then quickly tightened it again. ‘Any fool could have found that out.’

  The man yawped in discomfort again. ‘Christ. We walked te Westport. I stole money for tickets. A ship sank in the harbour. We got on board our ship but you jumped off. Are ye happy now? My fucking arm is breaking.’

  Owen released him and stepped back several paces.

  Thomas turned and massaged his upper arm. ‘In a village in Doolough Valley we were surrounded by, what would you call them? The walking dead. Had to run for our lives. What else? You’re a good swimmer and we had a teacher called, what was the fucker’s name, Mull…’

  ‘Mullany.’

  ‘That’s it. Right bastard he was. Liked you, though. You and your brains. Why don’t ye use them now? You nearly uncorked my arm bone.’

  They stood in the pitch dark. Anu whinnied, then the night was utterly still.

  ‘Thomas?’ Owen whispered.

  He laughed. ‘Yeah. Thomas. Look.’

  A moment later a match flared and he held it up to his face, but the effect was only to create a dance of shadows in the yellow light. He stepped closer to Owen.

  ‘Owen, it’s me.’

  Open-mouthed, Owen stared into the unmistakable amber eyes of his brother and noticed a scar running the length of his face. The flame died and a faint sulphuric scent rose to his nostrils.

  ‘Thomas?’ he asked again, belief in his voice accompanied by a rising joy.

  ‘Owen. I’ve come home,’ Thomas said quietly.

  Owen laughed aloud and threw his arms around his brother, who responded in kind. Within their long, unyielding embrace they both felt the spill of tears.

  Owen could not contain the questions as they trotted back along the moonlit track towards Lough Mask.

  ‘Where did you go? Why didn’t you write and tell me you were alive?’

  ‘Whoh, brother! You’ll run the poor old girl into a ditch.’

  ‘I’ve driven this road so often I could do it asleep.’

  He found Thomas’s accent strange. Although he still retained a Mayo brogue, there were hints of exotic tongues having bent his ear, like spices thrown into a familiar broth.

  ‘Never mind me. You’re married! Síomha? Sounds beautiful.’

  ‘She is. And there’s Tadhg, he’s sixteen, and Niamh’s eight. Then there’s Lorcan, followed your path. Went to America.’

  Thomas was slow to reply. ‘My path? Hardly. What does he do?’

  ‘The railways at first but then he got land in Montana. Have you been there? You might even have met him.’

  Thomas laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Montana’s five times the size of Ireland and America’s maybe twenty times the size of Montana.’

  ‘Jesus. I mean, I know that, of course. I’ve seen the maps. But you never think of it like that, I suppose, unless you’ve been there.’ He shook his head and chuckled. ‘I still can’t believe you’re here. I would have sworn you were dead.’

  ‘I still can’t believe you jumped off the ship in Westport. And I was certain you were dead.’

  ‘Well, we both made it somehow.’

  Thomas laughed abruptly. ‘Do ye remember stealing the bread? We almost got caught because you were watching that girl washing her tits.’

  Owen was taken aback at his brother’s coarseness.

  Thomas sensed it and turned to him. ‘Sorry. Twenty years working on railways and in mines with the hardest brutes on earth, ye sorta become rough ’round the edges.’

  ‘Forget it. Just don’t talk like that around Síomha.’

  ‘Jesus, what do ye take me for?’

  ‘Besides, she was washing her hair. But I was looking at her tits.’

  Both of them howled with laughter just as they saw the glow through the cottage window.

  ‘Here we are.’

  Síomha yanked open the door and took a step outside.

  ‘Owe
n! Jesus Almighty? Where have you been? Driving home in the dark! I hope you haven’t whiskey taken as well! I was worried out of my wits.’

  She was gesticulating wildly at the figure that stepped into the overspill of light from the doorway. When a man with coarse stubble and a long scar materialised, she emitted a startled shriek.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Tadhg was suddenly behind his mother, pulling her inside. Niamh called out in alarm.

  ‘Everyone calm down,’ Owen came around the trap and placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. The pair stepped into the cottage.

  Thomas held his hands up, palms forward. ‘I didn’t mean te scare ye. Ye came out so fast–’

  ‘Everyone. This is my brother. This is Thomas.’

  Mother, son and daughter stood side by side, each of them with their mouths open wide as though waiting like infants to be fed.

  Thomas extended his hand. ‘Like your husband said, Mrs Joyce, you’re a beautiful woman. But I wouldn’t like te get on the wrong side of ye.’

  There was a flurry of activity. Síomha issued orders to the children to tidy the place and fetch the whiskey. She vanished to her room briefly and re-emerged in a clean dress and with her hair combed. Throughout it all, Thomas pleaded for no special treatment. He was all charm to Síomha, admonishing her for dressing specially – ‘no matter what she wore her beauty would brighten any room.’ Owen told him to pull back the reins on the sweet talk or he’d be expected to talk like that every day. Niamh and Tadhg sat in awe of the exotic visitor. It was as though a character had stepped from the pages of a book. They had all heard the tale of their father’s brother and had often dreamed of the adventures he might be having in the vast, mysterious expanse of the New World. And now here he was, the phantom of their father’s past come to life.

  Owen studied his brother. He’d grown tall and looked fit for a man of fifty. His hair was black and cut short and his skin was dark and weathered. Sadly, his most striking feature was a deep scar that ran almost from his hairline to his mouth.

  ‘Where’s my pack?’ Thomas asked as they sat around the hearth, Niamh content to squat on the floor nearby, staring at her new-found uncle’s face.

  Tadhg lifted the well-worn pack. ‘Here it is. It’s heavy.’

  Thomas rose and took it from Tadhg’s grip. ‘No, let me.’

  He rummaged in the pack and pulled out a leather pouch the size of a large book.

  ‘I honestly didn’t know Owen here had a family or was even alive when I came back, otherwise I’d have brought some decent gifts…’

  Síomha and Owen began to protest but he hushed them. ‘Listen, I’ve been dragging bits and pieces from all over America for thirty years. Now, let’s see. Ah, yes.’

  Thomas lit up Niamh’s eyes with a gift of a necklace of polished bone beads from a state called Colorado, the work of wild Indians called the Arapaho. Niamh rewarded him with a prolonged embrace, which provoked a hearty chuckle. To Tadhg he gifted an arrow whose shaft was broken mid-way, but whose head was of shiny black obsidian, informing him that he’d broken the arrow removing it from a friend’s flesh, much to Tadhg’s fascination.

  From a shallow metal can that rattled, he removed a piece of rock no larger than a man’s thumb and handed it to Síomha, informing her she was now the possessor of a nugget of gold. He waved away her vociferous protests, telling her it was worth just a few dollars and then only if one separated and smelted the gold. All eyes watched enthralled as Síomha held it up and caught the tiny specks of gold glinting in the lamplight.

  Lastly he produced a flat, rectangular object wrapped of wax paper that he began to unfold with great care, eventually revealing a piece of paper, yellowed, stained and cracked.

  ‘Be careful with it,’ he said as he handed it to Owen.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Open it. Gently.’

  As he unfolded it, Owen was momentarily mystified. Across the top, in heavy but partly obscured lettering, were the words: Grimshaw & Sons Shipping. Passengers’ Contract Ticket.

  He lifted his head, dumbfounded, and stared at Thomas, who smiled.

  ‘It’s really not even mine te give. It’s yours.’

  ‘Our ticket for the ship in Westport in 1848.’

  ‘My God!’ Síomha leaned in to study it. ‘There are your names.’

  ‘I think ye missed your boat,’ Thomas joked.

  ‘Why did you keep it?’

  He shrugged. ‘Only thing I had te remember ye by.’

  Owen choked on his next word and Síomha laid a hand on his arm.

  Tadhg, his attention returned to the arrowhead, disrupted the emotive silence. ‘Uncle, you said you pulled this out of someone. Where did it hit him?’

  Thomas hesitated. He looked at their faces, rose a little and patted his rump. ‘Right in the bum.’

  Niamh began to giggle hysterically.

  Niamh and Tadhg were dispatched to bed under protest. Síomha sat awhile, studying the brothers’ faces. The resemblance was unmistakable, although their eyes were markedly different. Owen’s were dark blue, his brother’s a striking amber. Despite the hour, she was keen to learn about her husband’s mysterious sibling. His shadow had always flitted about their lives, an imagined character remote to them, but his influence on Owen somehow reaching across the decades and the ocean. She was desperate to put some flesh on bones long since thought buried.

  ‘What did you work at all these years?’

  ‘What didn’t I work at, you mean.’ Thomas inclined his head. ‘Let’s see, when I arrived in New York I worked on the docks. Then I took te the railways. They were busy then building tracks all over America. Still are. A few years of that. Worked up in Michigan in the north then did odd jobs: farmhand, factory work…When the Civil War started I was in Illinois. The pay was good and ye got a hundred dollars just te sign up. Sounded great. Most of the poor bas…poor eejits didn’t realise that getting it would cost them their lives, or their legs. Anyway, I had no work then, so I joined up.’

  ‘You were a soldier?’ Owen asked incredulously.

  He nodded. ‘Three years, maybe ten battles. My only injury was a bullet that went right through my arm. I was lucky. Oh and of course, you probably noticed this.’ He turned his face to display the scar in its fullness.

  ‘You’re not going to believe where I got it. The Battle of Westport.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘I swear. It was in Kansas. We charged them at this place called Brush Creek and many of the Confederates were out of ammunition. This huge fella comes at me screaming in an Irish accent. I fired and hit him but he still comes on and swings a sword down like he’s trying to chop my head in two. I just pulled back in time. Though not far enough. A second later a bullet went through his head so I never made his acquaintance.’

  ‘God almighty,’ Síomha whispered.

  ‘Thousands died that day alone. They were the lucky ones. I saw men without legs or arms. This…’ he indicated the scar, ‘…this was only a nick, compared to some. The worst, though, was that it was only then I realised I was fighting Irishmen and I began te wonder what we doing fighting our countrymen in a foreign land. Especially when there were still battles to be fought at home.’

  He sipped his whiskey and looked at Owen.

  ‘After the war I went west. There were rumours of a gold find in a place called Pike’s Peak in the Rocky Mountains. Fortunes were being made every day, we heard. Ye could just pick up gold off the ground. But what we didn’t know was that the main rush had been five years before and the easy gold had long since played out. All that was left was the dregs. I made some money, not much. I certainly didn’t become rich.’

  The three sat there in the soft lamplight, imagination and memory creating a reflective silence.

  ‘Thomas, did you ever settle down. With a girl, I mean?’ Síomha asked.

  He uttered a mirthless sniff. ‘Yes I did. I was married.’

  ‘You were married?’ Owen cou
ld hardly believe it. The unfolding tapestry of his brother’s life was bewildering.

  ‘Yeah. Her name was Eleonora.’

  ‘Eleonora? That’s beautiful,’ whispered Síomha.

  ‘She was Swedish. And she was beautiful. Her name meant “shining light”. And she was that. Golden hair, clear blue eyes…’ He seemed to drift away for a moment at the memory. ‘I met her in Arizona and fell in love in a blink. I had enough money from the prospecting te buy a small ranch, that’s a cattle farm. Well, small there.’

  ‘How small?’

  ‘A thousand acres.’

  ‘A thous–’

  ‘Owen, ye could grow as much in an acre of Mayo soil as ye could in a hundred of Arizona sand. Besides, it was cattle we farmed.’

  ‘Cattle? But did–’

  ‘Will you shut your big gob and let your brother talk about his wife?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Well, we built a house, bought the cattle, had a couple of farmhands. We had te fight off Comanche more than once. They’re native Indians. I must have shot ten of them and they still kept coming. Fierce warriors. And cunning too. But that was something ye had te accept if you wanted te live there. Anyway, we were six months married. We were happy. And then one day Eleonora was riding out te me and the horse takes fright, right before my eyes. Maybe a snake, I don’t know. She landed on a rock and broke her neck. Didn’t suffer at least. She was five months gone with our child.’

  ‘Oh Lord, Thomas, I’m sorry.’

  Síomha reached out and squeezed his arm. Owen stared at him, incredulous of the joy and tragedy that had coloured his brother’s experience.

  Thomas waved a dismissive hand. ‘Hey, listen, that was all a long time ago.’

  ‘What did you do after?’ Owen asked.

  He sighed. ‘Well, I went downhill I have te say. I sold the land and ended up in San Francisco. Jesus, what an insane place; gangs, killings every day, bars, gambling halls, whorehouses…’ He paused and looked at Síomha, fearful he’d offended her, but she just sat unblinking. ‘I took te the drink. Went all the way te the bottom. I think, though, that sometimes ye have te reach the bottom before ye can appreciate what’s good in life. Somehow I resolved te get myself out of there. I decided te head back east. Worked my way across three thousand miles te Pennsylvania, a place called Port Clinton, mining town. That was a…’ He trailed off at the sight of Síomha yawning. ‘I’m sorry, I must be boring you both te tears. Talking all night like this.’