by Colin Murphy
He pulled on the pants and began to don his shirt. ‘It was good. We had lots to catch up on. Anyway, more important things to think about today. Damn! I’ve buttoned my shirt wrong!’
‘What is it?’
‘The buttons are in the wro–’
‘Not that! Did something happen? You didn’t fight, did you?’
He sighed. ‘No. We didn’t fight. It’s just that…’
‘What?’
He yawned. He’d spent most of the night ruminating on his brother’s return and found himself in a turmoil of conflicting emotions. There was joy, of course, and he could barely wait to rekindle their relationship in the days ahead. Against that, he was troubled by a nagging suspicion that something about Thomas’s manner didn’t quite fit. Perhaps it was just the disquieting nature of his tale. Besides, he had little time to mull on such things today.
‘Not now, Síomha. Later. Listen, I’m going to need your help today. And the children’s.’
‘But Niamh’s got school.’
‘Not today. Let me tell you about the meeting.’
Síomha was up and dressing as he spoke. When she was ready she followed Owen outside. They both looked over at the corner where Thomas lay wrapped in a tangle of blankets, snoring lightly. The empty whiskey bottle lay at his side.
Owen picked it up. ‘Half full when I went to bed.’
Síomha shrugged. ‘Let him sleep it off.’
Sergeant Murtagh tried to reassure David Sears by flanking him with eight men either side, yet the process-server repeatedly cast nervous glances into the shadowy cloisters of the woodland.
‘Don’t fret, Mr Sears. There’s nothing they can throw at us we can’t handle. And I wouldn’t be worried just yet.’
‘Why?’
‘We haven’t even left the grounds of Lough Mask House.’
Sears nodded and the sergeant raised his eyes to heaven as they picked up pace.
They marched through the gateway and turned left on to a section of road that ran as straight as an arrow for a mile. As they moved along, the sergeant was a little surprised to see not a soul working in the fields as it was past nine o’clock. He also had to admit to a certain uneasiness as a result of rumours of Fenian activity in the Ballinrobe area. He touched the grip on his service revolver.
They drew near to Joe Gaughan’s cottage, where he halted the group and addressed them. ‘I don’t know all of you, but any of you that know me know that I don’t take kindly to constables crossing the line. In fact, I’ll batter the ears off anyone who does. These are farmers, not thugs and ruffians. Remember that. Right, let’s get on with it.’
They marched up a short, muddy lane to the cottage. Smoke drifted lazily from its chimney and a few chickens pecked about the entrance.
‘Mr Sears?’
Sears emerged from the body of men with his satchel clutched to his chest, the flap open as he rummaged about inside. He extracted the first eviction notice and rapped on the door. There was no response and he knocked more forcefully. The door was finally pulled open by a short, stout-faced woman of about forty. She calmly wiped her hands on a rag as she looked at the mass of dark green uniforms. Sears unfolded the eviction notice in an officious manner. The sight of a middle-aged woman and not a burly farmer had bolstered his confidence.
He began reciting the legal niceties. ‘Under the Landlord and–’
‘And who d’ye think you are?’
‘Now, Mrs Gaughan, the man’s just doing his job,’ said the sergeant, stepping up beside Sears.
Síle Gaughan regarded the sergeant with distaste. ‘Just because you’ve Ireland’s harp on your fancy badge doesn’t make ye any less a traitor.’
He became grim-faced and turned to Sears. ‘Get on with it.’
Sears read: ‘Under the Landlord and Tenant Law Amendment Act 1860 (Ireland), I hereby serve notice of ejectment for non-payment of rent.’
She leaned against the doorframe. ‘You can’t serve that on me. I’m not the head of the household. At least not officially.’
Some of the constables laughed.
‘Is your husband here?’
‘No.’
Sears smirked. ‘Actually, it doesn’t matter anymore. The law now allows me, in the event of the head of the household being absent, to simply attach the notice to the front door of the dwelling.’
Síle Gaughan’s confidence faltered. ‘What? You can’t do that!’
Sears’s grin broadened as he pulled a pin from his pocket. She quickly threw herself against the door, frustrating the server’s attempts to attach the notice. The sergeant nodded to a couple of constables, who quickly stepped inside the house and took her by the arms.
‘How dare ye touch me, ye traitorous pigs! Get your filthy hands off or I’ll have me husband bate the daylights outta ye!’
With the struggling woman removed, Sears pinned the notice to the door and stepped away. Released, Síle Gaughan seized on the first thing to hand, which happened to be a freshly laid egg. She slammed it into a constable’s face, provoking a hearty chuckle from his comrades. Enraged, the constable raised his hand, but Sergeant Murtagh seized his arm mid-swing.
‘Don’t dare, constable. Besides, it improves your complexion. Now, let’s get on with the next one.’
The humiliated constable wiped the egg from his face and, fuming, stomped from the cottage. The group about-faced and marched, military-style, down the lane, the profane execrations of Mrs Gaughan ringing in their ears.
‘I don’t have te go te school?’
‘Not today. I’ve a special job for you.’
Niamh stared excitedly as Owen crouched in front of her.
‘You know the little rise near the Holy Well where Mr Fitzmorris lives?’
She nodded.
‘I want you to watch that hill from our high field. And if you see anyone waving a red flag on the hill, I want you to run back as quick as you can and tell us. Do you understand?’
‘Why is Mr Fitzmorris going te wave a flag?’
‘It doesn’t matter, sweet. But it’s a very special job and only you can do it. And do you see this?’ He held up a farthing and her eyes opened wider. ‘If you keep a good lookout, you get this for your pay.’
Niamh took off towards the field with the enthusiasm of a child on an adventure. Síomha and Tadhg walked up as he watched her depart.
‘What are we going to do, Dad?’
‘We’re going to get in the rest of the turnips. We can’t afford to miss a day’s harvest.’
The next cottage drew no response to repeated knocking. The sergeant peered in the window, but could see only his own reflection in the glass.
‘There’s no smoke,’ one of the others shouted.
He began to call out. ‘Higgins! Peadar Higgins! This is Sergeant Murtagh. If you’re there it’s better for you to come out.’
Besides a flock of crows that took fright from a nearby tree, all remained quiet. Sears turned to the sergeant.
‘You’re a witness that all attempts were made to serve the notice in person?’
The sergeant nodded and Sears pinned the paper to the door.
‘Easy as pie,’ he said with a grin.
As they turned back to the road a young lad sprinted past, giving them a wide berth.
‘Who’s next?’
‘Martin McGurk.’
The sergeant frowned.
‘What?’
‘Trouble.’
Síomha’s back ached from gathering the turnips. She had no fear of hard work, but this was one of the few jobs she detested. Bend, pick, straighten, bend, pick. Hour after hour. Her thoughts of discomfort were interrupted by the sight of Niamh running down the hill like a hare in flight, and replaced with trepidation.
‘Owen!’ she called to her husband and Tadhg, working across the field.
Father and son hastily abandoned their work, Tadhg vaulting the wall, Owen climbing it as fast as his age permitted. The child came to a stumbling halt, p
anting so much she had to bend double.
‘It’s Mrs Fitzmorris…on the hill…waving a red flag and shouting, but I couldn’t hear…what she said,’ Niamh said between heaving breaths.
Owen put his hand to his forehead and spun away, trying to order his thoughts.
‘Dad?’
‘Tadhg. Go up to the road, towards Boycott’s house. Find out what’s happening. Hurry! Go!’
Tadhg wheeled about and ran without a word.
‘Have ye brought half the force with ye, Murtagh? You must be feeling very brave altogether.’
‘Now, Martin. No need for trouble.’
‘Don’t “Martin” me. It’s Mr McGurk te the likes of you.’
Murtagh nodded to Sears, who held up the notice to recite the legalities. Before he got two words out McGurk snatched the paper, scrunched it to a ball and threw it into the mud.
‘Get off my land,’ he said through his teeth. His wife, Teresa, who was heavily pregnant, appeared behind him and tried to calm him, but he shrugged her away.
Murtagh motioned for several constables to close in.
‘This is not your land, Mr McGurk,’ Sears said as he gingerly untangled the crumpled, soiled notice. ‘It’s the property of the Earl of Erne and your rent is overd–’
‘The only thing wrong with my rent is that it’s twice what it should be. Tell that bastard Boycott to come down here and I’ll explain it personally. If he’s man enough.’
‘That’s it, McGurk,’ Murtagh said, standing nose to nose with the farmer. ‘Either accept this eviction notice or Mr Sears will pin it to your door. That will suffice.’
‘Let’s see him try.’
Murtagh nodded to Sears, who hesitated, abject fear on his face, then eased himself towards the door. McGurk blocked his path, and Murtagh and three constables immediately seized him. His wife screamed as he was wrestled away, yelling obscenities. Sears hastily pinned the ragged paper up as McGurk’s wife watched him with loathing.
‘Bastard!’ she spat at him as he retreated into the yard.
McGurk managed to free a hand and land a solid fist on a constable’s nose, drawing blood. His colleagues responded by raining truncheon blows on the farmer. Teresa McGurk’s shrill howling echoed about the farmyard. McGurk collapsed in the mud and the pregnant woman fought to clear a path to him through the tangle of uniforms.
‘That’s enough!’ Murtagh roared, heaving his men away one by one. As he did, one of them swung his baton and inadvertently struck Teresa McGurk on her side. She screamed, then fell wailing to her knees beside her bloodied husband.
‘Do we arrest him, sir?’
Murtagh shook his head. ‘Are we finished, Sears?’
Sears, aghast to be in the midst of such violence, simply nodded.
‘Let’s go, then. Fitzmorris next.’
‘I met Séamus Gaughan running down the road. He says that they served his mother an eviction notice,’ Tadhg panted. ‘Some fella in a suit said Mr Gaughan didn’t have to be there, that he could just pin the notice to the door.’
‘Jesus.’
‘They’re heading towards McGurk’s. Probably then to Mr Fitzmorris.’
‘What’s going on?’ Thomas had wandered out from the cottage, bleary-eyed, his clothes dishevelled.
‘They’ve started serving eviction notices,’ Owen muttered absently, then looked at the others. ‘If they only need to pin them up…’
‘…we can’t stop them,’ Síomha said.
‘We could stop them quick enough with a few guns.’ Tadhg kicked out at a bucket sitting in the yard.
‘No, Tadhg. That would make things worse. Listen to me. Here’s what to do. Go and round up all the women and go to Fitzmorris’s cottage. But none of the husbands. They can’t be seen. We’re going to block their path to the door. The RIC won’t want to be seen attacking women. We’ll make a wall of people they can’t break through. I’ll meet you there.’
Síomha stepped closer to him. ‘You can’t be seen there either.’
‘I’ll stay well out of sight, don’t worry.’
‘You’re going to send women to fight your battles?’ Thomas asked.
Owen turned sharply to his brother. ‘There aren’t going to be any battles.’
He kissed Síomha on the lips. ‘Go. And be careful. Tadhg, I need you to help too, son.’
Tadhg, who had been standing, head down, hands in pockets, nodded reluctantly and hurried away, leaving Owen and his brother alone.
‘Anything I can do to help?’
Owen hesitated. ‘Yeah, you could put Anu in her pen. Look, she’s after dragging the plough arseways around the field.’
‘Leave it to me.’ He smiled at Owen and set off towards the field.
Sergeant Murtagh became aware of a strange babble of voices as they strode up the slope towards the Fitzmorris home. They rounded the curve in the laneway to be greeted by the sight of twenty or more women, arms linked, three rows deep in front of the cottage. He cursed.
The cottage nestled in a hollow in the slope of the hill, the space in front roughly circular and bordered by trees and low walls. More women were approaching across the fields, and he had the sense of entering an arena. As his men trooped up in front of the lines of women, they were assailed by oaths the like of which he’d rarely heard from the women of Ireland.
He walked among his men, the cacophony of hissing and abuse forcing him to lift his voice to be heard. ‘None of you men is to dare use a weapon. Not even a truncheon. The Royal Irish Constabulary does not make a habit of beating women and I’ll have your guts for garters if any of you takes any unprovoked action. Is that understood?’
There were a few reluctant mutters of obedience and he turned to Sears. ‘We’ll dispense with the formalities. They know why we’re here.’
The sergeant strode up to the first line of women. At six feet three inches he towered above them. In the centre stood Mary Fitzmorris, her right arm linked to the woman he recognised as Síomha Joyce.
‘Where’s your husband, Missus?’
Mrs Fitzmorris was a short woman of about fifty, with fiery eyes, her jaw firmly set, and long black hair tied behind her head. ‘He’s not here.’
He lifted his chin and began to shout towards the house. ‘Fitzmorris. Luke Fitzmorris. This is Sergeant Murtagh. If you’re in there, hiding behind these women isn’t going to make things any better. Come out before someone gets hurt.’
Mary Fitzmorris rounded on him bitterly at the slight to her husband’s manhood. ‘My Luke never hid from any man. He’s got more courage than all your big boyos here put together!’
A defiant cheer rose from the lines of women and the spectators.
‘I warn you,’ the sergeant shouted, ‘we are attempting to carry out the law according to Her Majesty’s Government and you are impeding us in our duties and will be subject to arrest and penalties accordingly, which may include prison.’
‘Her Majesty knows where she can shove her law,’ Síomha yelled loud enough for the entire assemblage to hear. This instigated a new round of cheering and abuse, which was less directed at the constabulary and more at British rule and the landlords, Boycott specifically.
Murtagh’s frustration was evident in the rising colour in his cheeks. He wheeled away to his men, who gathered into a tight scrum and strained to hear what he had to say.
Owen stood behind a wooden gate in the Fitzmorris’s horse enclosure, which overlooked the farmyard. Tadhg stood to his left, fists clenched by his sides, feeling shamed at standing by while his mother faced the threat below. Owen had to confess to similar feelings. When the police had marched into the yard, his instinct was to run down and stand between them and the women, but he’d checked himself. It would surely only provoke the kind of violence he needed to avoid. Yet when the sergeant stood facing Síomha, he’d found the opposing natures of his character pulling him apart.
He heard a scuffle behind and saw Joe Gaughan and his wife approaching, the burly farmer
clearly bent on retribution, his wife, Síle, trying to calm him. Owen turned and blocked his path before he reached the gate and in doing so almost slipped in a pile of horse dung.
‘No, Joe, that won’t do any good!’
‘Out of me way, Owen. Those bastards came into me house and one of them was going te hit Síle. They battered the brains out of McGurk. Now I’m going to batter a few brains meself.’
Owen grabbed Joe Gaughan, who was half again as big as him and tried to restrain him. He yelled to Tadhg, who ran to his father’s aid.
‘Joe, listen to me! There are nearly twenty armed men down there. The reason they haven’t touched the weapons is because of the women. If you start something, they will use the weapons and Christ knows what’ll happen. Remember what Fr O’Malley told us, Joe, please!’
Owen felt Joe’s resistance weaken. His shoulders slumped and he looked away.
‘All right, Owen. If you say so. For now I’ll do nothing. But if one of those bastards raises a hand…’
Owen released him and turned back towards the scene below.
Thomas was suddenly by his side. ‘Looks nasty. Could blow up any second, if I know Her Majesty’s henchmen.’
‘Thomas, this isn’t your business.’
His brother pointed with his chin towards the drama. ‘Jesus! Look!’
Owen looked down. The sergeant had formed his men shoulder to shoulder into two lines only a breath from Síomha and the others. He began to yell loudly.
‘This is your final warning! You are obstructing the constabulary in the course of their duties. If you do not step aside you will be forcibly removed and subject to the full rigours of the law.’
A brief silence of expectation descended.
The sergeant abruptly grabbed Mrs Fitzmorris by the shoulders and tried to wrench her from the line. The flanking constables took his lead and began to grapple with the women. Owen saw Síomha’s enraged face disappearing behind the broad shoulders of a constable. Pandemonium descended as the women screamed and hurled abuse, and the watching crowd yelled their outrage.