Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  ‘I’m looking forward to puttin’ a bullet in that fuckin’ English bastard,’ Feeney said. Slightly drunk, he was almost drooling at the prospect.

  The other men exchanged a look of apprehension. Thomas stubbed out his cigarette directly onto the table.

  ‘Anyway, Boycott will have to wait his turn,’ said Doherty.

  ‘Why?’ Feeney asked.

  Doherty lifted a Colt revolver from his pack and placed it softly on the table, then looked into Thomas’s face.

  ‘Because we’ve bigger fish to fry.’

  CHAPTER 18

  Meanwhile the people at the Neale assembled. There is a priest there greatly beloved of the people, a man of resolute character and highly educated and although he is naturally conservative, he has unbounded influence over every member of his congregation, from the fact that he neither tolerates outrages by his parishioners on landlords, nor outrages on them by the landlords. He addressed the meeting, praised them for asserting their rights, but urged them, if the constables should come again in force, to offer no resistance.

  –Talks about Ireland, James Redpath

  While Mr Sears, the process-server, was waiting for a stronger constabulary escort to arrive a curious scene was enacted. As if by one sudden impulse, the vast throng rushed towards Lough Mask House.

  –The Connaught Telegraph, 24 September 1880

  23 SEPTEMBER 1880

  Owen came awake to the sound of a horse he knew was not Anu. When he looked out towards the pen, he saw a fine black mare grazing near to his ageing workhorse. Síomha followed him into the living room, where they found Thomas stirring a pot of porridge over a fire of blazing turf. The sun had just risen and the room was a cavern of shadows.

  ‘I thought it’s about time I started earning my keep,’ he smiled at them.

  ‘Who owns the horse?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, that friend in Cong gave me a loan of it. Gave me some work too.’

  Owen raised his eyebrows. ‘Nice friend. Fine animal,’ he said with a hint of scepticism.

  ‘Oh it’s only a loan. Te get back and forth.’

  ‘You found work?’ Síomha asked.

  ‘Loading sacks in a storehouse, that sort of thing. I did Cal’s brother a few favours in New York so he feels in debt a bit. I’ve te go back on Saturday, maybe stay in Cong a week. But he might have something permanent soon. I’ll be out from under your feet before you know it.’

  ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,’ Owen said.

  Over breakfast Thomas offered to help with the harvest, but Owen was keen to have him absent if the police arrived, knowing his brother’s distaste for the RIC. So he struck on the idea, now that Thomas was mobile, of asking him to ride into Ballinrobe for supplies. He also couldn’t shake a nagging suspicion that there was something off-kilter about his brother’s tale of storeroom work. But maybe it was his imagination.

  Sergeant Murtagh sat at the front of a coach normally used for the conveyance of prisoners, which had been loaned by a sympathetic sergeant in Claremorris. Progress was slow due to the weight of men crammed in the canvas-tented body of the vehicle, causing the wheels to sink deep into the rain-sodden road.

  Within the coach, twelve constables and David Sears jostled uncomfortably for buttock space. Behind them three more vehicles followed, carrying thirty-seven men in total. They would deposit the vehicles in the grounds of Lough Mask House before they began, principally for security reasons but also because the sergeant felt obligated to call on Boycott and expound upon the effort that was being made on his behalf.

  He halted the vehicles at the crossroads a few hundred yards before the village of Neale. The road to their right led directly to Lough Mask House and he ordered the trailing vehicles to wait at the spot while his coach made a detour into the village. There had been a minor exodus from Ballinrobe the previous evening and he’d heard word of a meeting organised by Fr O’Malley. He was anxious to discover the nature of the gathering and to forestall any repeat of yesterday’s undignified travesty.

  Although he’d been in south Mayo for years and knew most people hereabouts by name, most of them were at best suspicious of him, a state of affairs he felt to be most unjust. He hadn’t been born in the area, but hailed from Clare. Given the light in which many Irish people viewed the RIC, to wit an extension of the occupying English army, constables were all assigned to places remote from their home as it was believed their own kin might view them as doubly traitorous. And yet he considered himself a patriot. He supported Home Rule, as he believed the English had as little an understanding of the cultural and historical mindset of the average Irishman as he had of the workings of his pocket watch. But try telling the locals he was a patriot and he’d be laughed out of town. These past months the situation had deteriorated to such a degree that he could barely go for a drink without provoking silence on entering a bar. And, almost exclusively, it was down to Charles Boycott. If only the man could display the smallest button of charity or understanding of his tenants’ plight, things might not have swelled to bursting point.

  But he was there to see the law was upheld, and it wasn’t at the citizen’s behest to choose to follow only the laws that suited him. Unfortunately, as it stood, Boycott had the law on his side, which effectively put the RIC also on his side, a situation the sergeant found detestable. His dislike for the land agent had grown at a rate disproportionate to the brief time of their acquaintance.

  The road curved to the right, bringing the body of the village into view – a lean body at that, a scant collection of cottages, a small grocer’s shop, Conway’s pub, and, at the far end on the left, the largest structure, the Catholic church. The village was quiet, he thought, even for such a tiny backwater. A couple of tots sat playing with sticks and chestnuts outside a cottage, their bare feet blackened enough to give the passing glance the impression of shoes. Behind the window of another home sat a young woman he knew by the name of Mary McHugh, dress off her shoulder and an infant at her breast. She held his look as he rolled by, unperturbed by any sense of modesty. He drew near to the church where the priest stood chatting to two old women, their faces shadowed in the hoods of black shawls. He had the driver halt and jumped down.

  ‘Father,’ he tipped the front of his cap. ‘Could I have a word?’

  The women exchanged a whisper and walked away in a huddle.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, Father. I heard word you held a meeting here last night. Tensions are running high right now and I was wondering if it had anything to do with the eviction notices or the Land League.’

  ‘Hmm,’ the priest muttered, clasping his hands before him. ‘You are aware that I have every right to hold a meeting about the Land League if I wish, Sergeant. Thanks to the likes of Daniel O’Connell, the British were forced to concede us that at least.’

  Murtagh’s frustration became evident in his rising tones. ‘Look, Father, I’m trying to avoid bloodshed if I can.’

  ‘Well, I appreciate your good intentions. And as a matter of fact I did hold a meeting last night, and I give you my word as a priest that I spoke in the strongest terms on the subject of violence and urged everyone there to avoid bloodshed at all costs. So I wouldn’t concern yourself too much on that account, Sergeant.’

  The policeman’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Thank you, Father. I’m very relieved to hear that. Good day to you, then.’

  Murtagh climbed back on to the coach, which rattled back the way it had come. When it was out of sight, Fr O’Malley walked to the church door and pounded his fist three times. The doors swung open and the hundred people within quietly spilled out and spread about the grounds. Owen and Redpath walked across to the priest.

  ‘Thank God Mary McHugh warned us he was coming or it could have spoiled the whole party. What possessed him to come into the village?’ Owen wondered.

  Fr O’Malley shrugged. ‘The man seems to think that I’m planning something.’

  Redpath looke
d around at the crowd. ‘Whatever possessed him of that idea?’

  Boycott met the train of coaches fifty yards inside the estate’s gate. He was mounted on Duke and in his shadow rode Asheton Weekes.

  ‘Captain Boycott. We’re on our way to serve the remaining notices. You should know that through the efforts of many officers, we have managed to raise almost fort…’

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Get the hell on with it!’ Boycott snapped and whirled his horse away. He and Weekes were moving into the trees before the sergeant had a chance to respond.

  ‘Christ, I swear I’ll kill that man!’ Murtagh hissed through his teeth.

  He climbed down and cupped his hands around his mouth.

  ‘All right! Everybody down and into formation. Sharp as you can, lads. Let’s get this bloody job over and done with once and for all.’

  ‘I meant to say, Owen, when I was visiting you yesterday I passed a man on the track to your cottage and there was something vaguely familiar about him,’ Fr O’Malley said casually as the crowd lingered around the church.

  Owen chuckled. ‘That would be my brother, Thomas.’

  The priest was startled. ‘Your brother? I never even knew you had a brother!’

  Owen gave the clergyman a brief résumé of his brother’s reappearance after thirty-odd years in America.

  ‘Well, I look forward to getting to know him.’

  ‘Yes, Father. Me too,’ Owen replied, unable to dispel the niggling doubts about his brother that were proliferating inside him like woodworm in a crossbeam.

  The priest studied him a moment, but decided not to pursue it. He turned to the church where Tadhg had scaled to the apex of the entrance passageway, about fifteen feet above them. The youth shook his head. He began to fidget.

  The thirty-seven constables, the sergeant, and David Sears marched northwards past the homes they’d visited the previous day. Fearful of another trap, Murtagh had decided to serve Fitzmorris last. They continued for another hundred yards towards a farm on Lough Mask’s shore.

  ‘What’s this tenant’s name?’

  Sears, praying the Sunday suit he wore would remain untarnished, produced a sheet of paper.

  ‘Joyce.’

  Artists and the like regarded the landscape south of Ballinrobe towards Neale as generally uninteresting. The absence of hills or craggy rock faces deprive it of the wild starkness offered by the Partry or Sheffrey Hills on Lough Mask’s western shore, or the Maumturks in Galway, whose steep boulder-strewn mountains entrap a multitude of mountain loughs and are beloved of poets and captured in countless oils. In fact, the area around Lough Mask Estate undulates only in spots and these high points rise a mere twenty or thirty yards towards the sky. The advantage that this presented for Fr O’Malley was that much of the area could be viewed from a relatively low elevation, such as the church’s entrance apex, where Tadhg now sat, eyes fixed on the west.

  A man drew up on a trap and alighted. His suit was respectable enough, if a little worn. He approached the priest, Owen and Redpath.

  ‘Father, may I ask what’s going on?’

  ‘Who would you be?’

  He stuck out his hand. ‘McCabe. With The Connaught Telegraph. I was told there was some incident regarding eviction notices yesterday and…’

  They were interrupted by a yell from above.

  ‘Father!’ Tadhg was pointing. ‘The flag!’

  His view revealed Luke Fitzmorris atop the rise near his cottage, waving the improvised flag.

  ‘That’s it! Everyone! Now!’

  The crowd cheered and as one made an energetic stride towards Boycott’s home. The sudden exodus astonished McCabe, and as Redpath moved by him he paused in a moment of professional camaraderie.

  ‘I’ll say one thing for you, McCabe. Your timing is perfect.’

  The body of constables strode down the gentle incline of the lane towards Owen Joyce’s cottage. Sergeant Murtagh was disturbed by the complete absence of people, although the men might have elected to absent themselves again. But women and youths old enough to work were also nowhere to be seen. It was as though the land had been swept clean of humanity by some virulent plague. He began to feel the certainty that they would be waylaid at some point, but had determined that if there was a repeat of yesterday’s incident, truncheons would be drawn and arrests made. The policemen reached the Joyce cottage and turned into the yard. A lone man sat on the water trough to the right of the doorway, which was open wide. Murtagh sent a handful of men to scout around the immediate area and set the rest facing the cottage. He took a few steps towards the balding, middle-aged man, who looked vaguely familiar. The individual was smiling contentedly, a sprig of hay between his lips.

  ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ Murtagh asked.

  ‘I might ask the same of you.’

  Murtagh frowned. ‘We’re escorting Mr Sears here, as he is required to serve notice of eviction on Owen Joyce. Is he here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  The man shrugged.

  ‘I know you,’ Murtagh said.

  ‘And I know you. At least I know yer head.’

  ‘What in Christ’s name are you blathering about?’

  ‘Can’t say I’m impressed with your powers of observation, you being a policeman an’ all. I’ve cut yer hair maybe three times this year. Turlough Curran. That’d be of Curran’s Barbershop, Ballinrobe. Sixpence a haircut, tuppence for boys under twelve.’

  The sergeant tried to suppress his irritation. ‘Where is Owen Joyce?’

  ‘Owen had business te attend to elsewhere and I’m looking after his place, te make sure the law is adhered to, and so on.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this.’ The sergeant called out towards the open door. ‘Joyce! Owen Joyce! If you’re present you are required by law to accept a notice of eviction.’

  Nothing stirred. The barber sat idly, arms folded comfortably across his chest.

  Murtagh turned to the others. ‘Right. You are all witnesses to the fact that we tried to serve Joyce in person. Sears, attach the notice to the door and let’s move on.’

  The constables moved aside to allow Sears through their ranks. He fixed a nervous eye on the barber as he fumbled with the notice. He stepped through the cottage entrance to pin the notice to the in-swinging door. He stopped and appeared befuddled, then turned and faced the opposite direction, then looked back the other way again. Finally he kicked the doorframe in frustration and stepped out into the light, a high colour rising to his cheeks, lip quivering.

  ‘There’s no fucking door!’

  The moment the constabulary had departed Lough Mask Estate, a boy of twelve had sprinted ahead to inform Luke Fitzmorris. It mattered little which cottage they chose to serve first; the eight cottiers under threat had that morning removed their front doors and eight witnesses were assigned to make sure the constabulary followed their own rules. Luke Fitzmorris had immediately hastened to the rise and signalled with the flag. It took Fr O’Malley and his followers thirty minutes to reach the estate, by which time Sergeant Murtagh had abandoned his attempt to serve Owen Joyce and was marching towards the next tenant on the list, unaware that he would find that premises also devoid of a tenant and his front door. By the time the hundred spirited residents of Neale marched through Boycott’s front gates, the constabulary were two miles away.

  A few hundred yards ahead, the open land disappeared under towering woodland. They passed the abandoned police vehicles and then a man appeared at the point where the track curved into the trees. He was about sixty, squat and pot-bellied, and Owen recognised him as Boycott’s gamekeeper. He wore well-exercised tweeds and a deerstalker hat with the flaps tied up, and carried a breeched shotgun across the crook of his arm.

  ‘Mary Mother of God, what’s this?’ he uttered in bewilderment at the throng who had disturbed the estate’s serenity.

  The priest stopped, Owen and Redpath to either side, and the crowd spread out behi
nd them as though taking formation for battle.

  ‘I’m Father O’Malley, Parish Priest of Neale.’

  ‘Heard your name. From Clonbur meself. What’s goin’ on, Father?’

  ‘Mr…?’

  ‘Mick Lavery.’

  ‘Mr Lavery. These people would like you to leave Captain Boycott’s employment at once.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you consider yourself a patriot, Mr Lavery?’

  The man lifted his chin. ‘I’m every inch a patriot, Father, me own father fought…’

  ‘Then in the name of Ireland and justice we’re asking you to leave your post.’

  ‘But how in the name of God will me leavin’ me job help Ireland’s cause?’

  There was a bit of a rumpus behind as Joe Gaughan pushed his way through.

  ‘Hello, Mick.’

  Lavery nodded. ‘Joe. What’s this business about at all? I just keep foxes at bay, watch for poachers and the like.’

  ‘Mick, Boycott served me eviction notice yesterday. And his henchmen roughed up McGurk and his wife lost their child. In a few weeks, me and me family are out on our arses without a roof over our heads. That’s unless we make Boycott change his mind.’

  ‘But why do I have te…?’

  ‘The Land League is ostracising Boycott. He’ll have no labour, no staff – he won’t even be able to buy a loaf of bread for ten miles.’

  Owen leaned in. ‘The same goes for anyone who works for him.’

  It took a few moments before the implications dawned on the man. ‘Ye mean I won’t be able…’ He ran a leathery hand across his chin. ‘Doesn’t look like I’ve much choice, does it?’

  ‘It’s up to you, Mr Lavery,’ Fr O’Malley said.

  ‘Well, Mick?’ Joe asked.