Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  Owen’s frustration began to boil over. Tadhg was readying himself to leap over the gate. Joe Gaughan grabbed the top rail and squeezed it until the wooden slat cracked.

  ‘No! Tadhg! Joe! Don’t!’

  ‘We have to do something, Dad!’

  Down below, the police had succeeded in wresting three of the women in the front line free. These were manhandled back to the second row of policemen to ensure they didn’t return to the fray. Síomha was still holding firmly to Mary Fitzmorris, her face red, shrieking abuse.

  ‘I know what I’d do,’ Thomas said calmly. He lifted a stone the size of a man’s fist and tossed it up and down.

  ‘Yeah! That’s it!’ Tadhg roared.

  Owen gripped his brother’s wrist and met his eyes with a hard stare.

  ‘No, Thomas.’

  Thomas gritted his teeth. ‘Brother, I’m not a man given to violence. But sometimes…when your wife is–’

  Owen’s face suddenly brightened, and to everyone’s disbelief he said: ‘Wait! You’re right! But if we start throwing rocks we’ll likely as not brain the women. We won’t use rocks. We’ll use something better.’

  He looked to the ground at a large, fresh pile of horse dung. He bent and grabbed two handfuls.

  ‘Síle! Are you ready to get your hands dirty?’

  Síle Gaughan, standing beside her husband, grinned from ear to ear and quickly looked about her feet. She found a dung pile and took two handfuls, then called to the women nearby.

  ‘Girls! Time te do your duty for Ireland!’ And with that she let fly towards the melee below.

  The first handful struck a constable’s back, the second his hat. Owen followed with two more salvos and greater accuracy, striking a constable square in the face.

  ‘Well, lads?’ he asked of Tadhg and Joe. They were momentarily dumbstruck, then quickly moved to action, as did all the women, and within seconds a torrent of horse shit was spattering the constabulary, who tried desperately to shield their faces. But the cannonade of foulness virtually encircled them. Sixty or more of the locals were enthusiastically engaged in the bombardment, expanding the arsenal of projectiles to include cow droppings or sods of turf.

  The serving of notices was abandoned in the hope of escaping the rain of filth. Bent low, arms crossed over their heads, the constables sought cover in a huddle. Sears, his suit tarnished beyond redemption, his face spattered with horse excrement, was near to tears as he tried to shield his head with his satchel. Sergeant Murtagh yelled instructions to retreat. Like some aberrant creation of nature, the crouching body of men began a tortuous shuffle towards the laneway, the mass of legs occasionally tangling and slipping on the mud. The women who had stood centurion watched triumphantly as the constables finally broke and fled en masse. As they scrambled and slipped down the laneway, rhapsodic cheers followed in their wake. The gallery descended and ran to embrace the women, who had taken a few misguided hits themselves, but cared little. Owen fought through the cheering melee to find Síomha, her dress smeared with horse dung, yet laughing wildly. She threw her arms first about Owen, then her son.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ Owen asked as he looked proudly at her.

  ‘Hurt? It’ll take tougher men than them to hurt me.’

  ‘You’ve smelt better!’

  ‘It’s the best smell I’ve smelt in my life.’

  The cottage door opened and out stepped Luke Fitzmorris. He stood with hands on hips and stared at the scene around him. ‘Jesus, look at the state of me yard!’ he roared, then grinned and embraced his wife so enthusiastically he lifted her off her feet. Another cheer rose to the Mayo sky, then all fell to laughing and recounting the battle.

  In the field overlooking the yard, Thomas shook his head with scorn, turned and walked away alone.

  Owen and Tadhg immediately resumed their work on the harvest for the afternoon and were thus engaged when Fr O’Malley’s trap appeared. A well-dressed man of about Owen’s age rode beside him. He had a round face and longish black hair, but an extremely high hairline. He also had a very full beard, which reminded him of Parnell. Instructing Tadhg to continue with the work, Owen hastened up to greet the priest.

  ‘Was there any trouble today?’ Fr O’Malley asked as they alighted.

  Owen hesitated. ‘Well…’

  ‘What happened?’ The priest looked worried.

  Owen glanced at the stranger.

  ‘I’m forgetting my manners. Owen, this is Mr James Redpath. Mr Redpath is a correspondent with the New York Herald and he has a particular interest in our situation.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Joyce.’ His handshake was firm and warm, as was his smile. His American accent reminded Owen of Thomas’s.

  ‘Mr Redpath. Father. Let’s go inside and I’ll bring you up to date.’

  Síomha was off collecting Niamh, whom she had deposited to the care of a neighbour that morning. He hadn’t seen Thomas since the Fitzmorris farm. His bag was gone, but his spare clothing was neatly folded in a corner.

  They sat around the small table and Owen laid out the events of the day, including McGurk’s beating and the subsequent events at the farmyard. The American wrote copious notes of his narrative at a speed that astounded Owen. This was the first time he’d ever met a newspaper correspondent and he was instinctively wary of him. When he reached the climax, the pelting of the constabulary, the priest sat back with a look of bewilderment, then laughed aloud. ‘Ah, God bless Mná na hÉireann.’

  Redpath looked at him quizzically.

  ‘Women of Ireland,’ Fr O’Malley explained and Redpath noted it down, a habit that was beginning to irritate Owen.

  ‘Of course, I’d have preferred completely non-violent action,’ said the priest.

  Owen shrugged. ‘Best I could come up with at the time.’

  ‘Well, nobody was hurt, I suppose.’

  ‘Except the RIC’s pride, I suspect,’ Redpath said.

  ‘May I ask what your interest is in all this?’ asked Owen. ‘It seems a little odd that a New York correspondent would be interested in the events in a small Mayo village.’

  ‘Quite the contrary; in fact, I’m extremely interested.’

  ‘James has written many books and articles about various peoples who have been plagued by injustice. He has campaigned on the anti-slavery issue in his own country and is famous for his outspoken writings on John Brown, the abolitionist. He’s also written in support of women’s rights and many other issues.’

  ‘But why here? Ballinrobe? Neale?’

  ‘If you’ll forgive a measure of immodesty, I have a nose for finding history’s fuses,’ Redpath replied.

  Owen shook his head, unsure of the meaning.

  ‘I suspect what’s going to happen here will be bigger than you imagine.’

  ‘Why? And how could you possibly know what’s going on in our little backwater? I doubt we’re the talk of New York.’

  He laughed. ‘No. At least not yet.’

  The priest leaned in. ‘James was already here to write a book about Michael Davitt and has attended and, indeed, addressed, many Land League meetings.’

  ‘When I arrived in Ireland, I had to confess a lack of knowledge of her history or her current plight. I’m of Scottish and English background and was originally educated to be a Presbyterian minister, so my upbringing would suggest a bias towards the ruling ascendancy. However, in the past year I’ve come to understand the terrible malfeasance of Britain towards her Irish subjects and the evil they’ve supported in the form of landlordism. When Michael Davitt first expounded upon the plan of ostracism that he’d concocted with Parnell, I was fascinated. Fr O’Malley and I have become friends these past months and I asked him to inform me if he intended to put the plan into action. When he told me he intended using it on somebody as prominent as a land agent like Boycott, as opposed to a mere land-grabber, well, naturally, my interest was stimulated.’

  Owen mused a while, then turned to the priest. ‘You knew about the ostracisin
g plan before last Sunday? Before Parnell?’

  ‘I did, Owen. Davitt told me.’

  ‘So why go to Ennis? Why couldn’t you have laid it out yourself?’

  ‘Owen, I can’t hold a candle to the lighthouse that is Mr Parnell. You and the others needed to hear it from him, in person, before you’d begin to believe it might work.’

  Owen could only smile at the priest’s wiliness.

  ‘Well, Mr Redpath, I hope you find something worth writing about.’

  ‘I know I will. Also that it will do no harm to bring your plight to the eyes of the wider world.’

  Owen nodded, but wondered if the world cared a damn about the tribulations of a few tenant farmers in Mayo.

  Síomha returned and was surprised at the sight of guests, but the first thing Owen noticed was that the joyful spirit of earlier had left her eyes. She ushered Niamh from the room and, introductions made, she sat.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  She closed her eyes briefly. ‘The midwife, Mrs Miller, was called to McGurk’s place at noon. Teresa was due in November. She was hit by a truncheon today and the child started to come early. They lost it. A boy. And Teresa lost a lot of blood. They had to get Dr Maguire. He’s over there now. Martin’s all bruised and bloody himself, but they say he’s like a madman, crying one minute then screaming murder the next.’

  ‘Dear God have mercy,’ the priest whispered and blessed himself. ‘I better get over there before Martin does anything rash. But listen, I must speak to everyone tonight, in the church. Especially now. It’s five,’ he said, consulting his pocket watch. ‘Let’s say in four hours. I need you to rouse all your neighbours once again, everyone with a concern in this, in fact. You come an hour early, Owen.’

  ‘What’s this about, Father?’

  ‘It’s about Boycott, of course.’

  Thomas returned soon after the priest and Redpath departed – they had encountered one another on the road and exchanged greetings loaded with curiosity.

  They were all gathered around the table eating a meal of potatoes and turnips. Owen was pouring from a jug of water when he saw Thomas. There were ‘hellos’ all round.

  ‘Uncle Thomas,’ Tadhg smiled.

  ‘Tadhg.’

  ‘We weren’t sure if you’d be eating with us, but there’s plenty,’ Síomha said.

  ‘Sit beside me,’ Niamh said enthusiastically, shuffling up the bench that extended along the gable wall.

  ‘Are you sure? ’Cause I can get food beyond in Conway’s.’

  ‘We wouldn’t hear of it. One of our family eating in a pub like a stranger!’ Síomha fetched another plate.

  He squeezed awkwardly in beside Niamh and found a disproportionate share of the food heaped on his plate. ‘No, no, Síomha, you’re depriving your own.’

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve not got an appetite anyway.’

  ‘How did you get that big scar, Uncle Thomas?’ Niamh asked, her directness sharply altering the trajectory of the conversation.

  Síomha and Owen rounded on her in harmony. ‘Niamh! That’s bold! You know you’re not to ask things like that!’

  Thomas laughed. Niamh was abashed, her head hung low. Tadhg was agog in the hope of an answer, as the scar hinted at far-off adventure.

  ‘Ha! Thank God for the innocence of children. If we were all so honest, the world would be a better place.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Síomha smiled.

  Thomas inclined his head to the child to afford her the best view of the unnatural trough that ran contrary to the lines of his face. Its surface was hardened and dark.

  ‘Run your finger down it.’

  Niamh’s eyes widened as though she’d been granted the Tooth Fairy’s wish. The tip of her index finger could almost fit into the groove as she traced a path from his forehead, jumping the hollow of his eye, down his cheek, all the way to his lip.

  ‘Got it in the American Civil War. But there were so many casualties that day that the surgeon only had enough catgut to stitch the really bad wounds.’

  ‘You fought in the American Civil War?’ Tadhg asked, fascinated.

  ‘That’s enough, everyone. Let Thomas be. There’ll be time enough to hear all his tales. Right now we’re eating.’

  Tadhg and Niamh frowned at their mother and resumed forking the food into their mouths, eyes frequently drifting to their uncle, an action not lost on Owen.

  ‘So how did you spend your day, Thomas?’ Síomha inquired.

  ‘Oh, after all the excitement of this morning, I decided just to get to know the roads and fields round about. I think I upset someone though.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I wandered through some woods and a man with a shotgun told me to be off, that it was private property.’

  ‘You must have crossed the estate. Probably met Boycott’s gamekeeper.’

  ‘Boycott. Your land agent? Not too popular by all accounts?’ Thomas inquired, a mouthful of food hampering his speech.

  ‘Up to a few years ago we had right of way across the estate and could gather windfall from the woods, so everyone had a supply of sticks for the winter,’ Síomha explained.

  Tadhg, eager to impress, took up the tale. ‘Then Boycott brought in a load of rules, banning us from collecting wood, so now we have buy turf. And he also has fines for letting animals stray on to his land. And we’re not allowed–’

  ‘We get your point, son,’ Owen interrupted.

  ‘They never change, do they?’ Thomas gestured with his fork. ‘Landlords, I mean. It was just like this when we were Tadhg and Niamh’s age. If they can find ways to swell your hardship, they will. And they can get away with it because the British government supports them. And it suits the British to keep us in poverty. Maybe they’re going to try and wipe us out altogether again.’

  There was a brief silence. The ‘us’ in Thomas’s little polemic wasn’t lost on Owen. Curious, he thought, as his brother had spent three decades half a world away from Ireland and her politics.

  ‘Thomas, talking of landlords, there’s a meeting in Neale tonight about Boycott. Maybe you’d like to come along, hear what Fr O’Malley – that’s our priest – has to say.’

  Thomas washed the last of his food down with a mouthful of water. ‘Maybe another time, Owen. I was planning to visit that man I mentioned. There’s a chance of some honest work.’

  ‘Oh, who’s that?’ Síomha inquired.

  ‘Just the brother of an Irishman I met in New York. Down Cong way. Told me to look up him up if I needed work.’

  ‘What kind of work?’ Owen asked.

  He shrugged. ‘Not sure. I know he has a store and some land. But I’ve done pretty much everything these past years. So I’m sure I’ll be up to it.’

  ‘Cong? That’s five miles,’ Síomha said.

  ‘Ah it’s only a short step.’

  She looked at Owen, who nodded a little reluctantly.

  ‘You take Anu and the trap. Sure we’re only going up the road to

  Neale.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t ask.’

  ‘You’re not asking, brother, we’ve giving,’ Owen said.

  Thomas smiled and clapped Owen on the shoulder.

  ‘You’re just too good, brother.’

  Boycott suspected something was amiss the moment he laid his foot on the first step of Lough Mask House. A broad trail of what appeared to be dung tarnished the stone. He pushed open the door and saw that the filth stained the width of the hallway floor.

  He looked over his shoulder. ‘What the devil?’ he muttered to Weekes, who displayed a growing apprehension.

  They hurried to the drawing room, easily following the trail and their noses. Within, they were met by the sight of Sergeant Murtagh and three constables, along with David Sears. Annie sat by an open window but rose immediately upon her husband’s appearance.

  ‘What in blazes is going on?’ Boycott demanded in his usual forthright tone as he whipped off his army-style pith helmet.

&
nbsp; Murtagh stepped forward and Boycott and Weekes were struck by the fact that his uniform was barely visible beneath a layer of horse dung. The others were in a similar condition. The smell in the room was near to overpowering.

  ‘I’m afraid that we were subject to…an attack…by the locals and succeeded in serving only three of the notices.’

  Boycott was – and it was a rare moment to observe – utterly speechless.

  Weekes, incredulous, took up the inquiry. ‘You were driven off by people throwing horse manure?’

  ‘Hundreds of them!’ Sears fumed.

  ‘Now, sir, there weren’t hundreds,’ the sergeant cautioned.

  ‘Look at the state of me!’ Sears stood and turned to Boycott. ‘I only have one suit for work. I expect to be fully compensated for this…this humiliation.’

  At the suggestion of expense, Boycott found his voice. ‘You’ll get no such thing! It is you who should compensate me. Look at the state of my house! You and how many? Seventeen? Seventeen constables are incapable of serving notices on a few illiterate country louts! What sort of idiots are you?’

  Murtagh’s teeth were grinding as he strode to Boycott, who recoiled a little at the heightened intensity of the smell. ‘Sir, how dare you insult me and my men when we’ve endured this on your behalf. Short of beating women with truncheons, we were powerless.’

  ‘Use your damn truncheons then!’

  ‘Charles! Language!’

  Boycott swung his eyes about the room as if searching for something or someone to strike, fists clenched in rage.

  ‘Calm yourself, old boy,’ Weekes said, laying a hand on Boycott’s shoulder, which was shrugged off.

  ‘Listen to me, Sergeant, Sears. The Ballinrobe Quarter Sessions are approaching faster than a bolting horse. If the notices are not served before that, they will become legally invalid. So far you have only served three, was it? That leaves eight. At the current rate it will be November before you’ve finished.’

  ‘I’m not serving another notice without more protection! The army or someone,’ Sears yelled.

  ‘You damn coward, it’s only a bit of dung! May the Lord forbid you’ll ever have to face bullets or the thrust of a sword!’