Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  He heaved a sigh. ‘Ah sure, he’s a cantankerous oul’ bastard anyway.’ He nodded, albeit reluctantly, and a small triumphal cheer rose from the crowd, their first battle won.

  As Joe walked away with Lavery, Owen turned to the priest. ‘We can’t do this one by one. It’ll take all day. The police will be back soon enough.’

  ‘You’re right. We’ll have to split up.’

  ‘I’ll take the labourers. I know a couple of them.’

  The priest nodded. ‘Leave the house to me.’

  Luke Fitzmorris stepped up. ‘The head stableman is a friend of mine. If Paddy leaves, the others will follow.’

  Owen shouted to the crowd. ‘Anyone who knows Boycott’s farmhands, come with me.’

  The priest looked at Owen as he mustered his troops and grinned at the change that had come about in him. Just a short time ago the man had been torn and uncertain, fearful of grasping the possibilities of his own potential. Now he was fully cognisant of not only his destination but also the road that would take him there. He’d thrown Owen in at the deep end of the lough and he’d come up swimming like a fish.

  Síomha stepped up to her husband. ‘I’ll go with Father O’Malley. I know Maggie, their housemaid. You be careful.’

  Owen smiled, then turned and left the path, heading along the line of the trees to the open farmland on the estate. About thirty of the crowd followed. The priest beckoned the remainder on.

  McCabe, the man from The Connaught Telegraph, trotted up alongside them, a little breathless. ‘Father, what’s going on?’

  ‘Captain Boycott likes to exercise his so-called rights to evict people from their homes. We’re exercising our right to evict Boycott from society.’

  The twenty or so labourers were spread across a number of fields. Half of them were cutting Boycott’s twenty acres of corn, some of which lay in sheaves about the ground waiting for collection in a hand cart. The rest were divided in twos and threes across eight acres of turnips, two of potatoes and seven of mangoldwurzel. The men in the cornfield, who were the nearest, lowered their scythes and began to murmur nervously among each other at the sight of the crowd tramping across the cut stems. Adhering to the principle of safety in numbers, they hurried to each other’s company and, by the time Owen and his band had reached them, were standing in a tight group.

  Owen recognised a man he knew only in passing as Martin Branigan, a tough but honest character. Branigan was a broad-chested man of forty with unkempt black hair, and he wore a defensive scowl. The labourers had grouped themselves loosely behind him.

  ‘Hello, lads,’ Owen called out. ‘One or two of you know me and you all know one of those with me. Most of us are Boycott’s tenants and you probably know that Boycott is planning to evict us. You also know that Boycott’s been overcharging on the rent for years so we can never give ourselves a decent life. It’s the same all over the country. Landlords have their foot on our necks while their henchmen steal the money we’ve earned through our own sweat.’

  ‘What’s yer point, Joyce? We don’t need a history lesson,’ Branigan asked, his scythe clasped in front of him.

  Owen moved to within a couple of yards of the man. ‘It’s got to stop, that’s the point. Starting today. We want you to drop your tools and abandon Boycott. Leave his harvest to rot in the fields unless he agrees to lower rents.’

  Branigan stepped closer. ‘Give up our jobs? Ye’ll need more than your mob here, Joyce, te make me walk away. How am I supposed te live?’

  Owen hadn’t expected this to be easy, but if he wasn’t careful Branigan might be the one rock in the field to break the plough. He looked at the faces of the labourers, their ranks swelling as more hurried over from the adjoining fields. The crowd behind Owen looked uncertain, their faith in the enterprise wilting a little. He didn’t want to coerce the labourers with the threat of ostracising them. He wanted to persuade them. A handcart stood nearby, half-filled with cut corn. He took a couple of strides to it and jumped up.

  ‘Branigan’s right. Yes, you’ll lose your jobs. But there are many of us who stand to lose much more than that. If Boycott continues to do as he pleases we’re not only going to lose our livelihoods but our homes. I’ve a family. Boycott’s going to evict us with the winter coming. The same for Matt O’Toole there, he’s got a young wife. And Francis Cusack. You’ve four children, right, Francis? Two of them only knee-height.’

  ‘That’s right,’ shouted Cusack. ‘I raised me family in that cottage. Been there twenty years. Boycott’s been bleeding me dry since the day he set foot here.’

  One of the other labourers spoke up now. ‘Yeah, but you still have crops ye can sell. We have nothin’ but the pay Boycott gives us.’

  ‘And if you remember the reason you have the pay you deserve is that Father O’Malley stood behind you and encouraged you to strike in August.’ He pointed towards Lough Mask House. ‘Right now, Father O’Malley is up at the house standing up for everyone in this country to get what’s theirs by right. And he’s also organising a fund to help any man or woman who loses their job.’

  ‘Hey, Joyce!’ Branigan shouted and appeared like a dog set back on its haunches, ready to pounce. ‘What’ll ye do if we say no?’

  Cusack pushed his way to the front. ‘Branigan doesn’t speak for all ye, does he?’ There was a murmur of approval from the crowd and one of the older women pointed to a young labourer.

  ‘Mick Burke! I see ye there! Yer mother would be ashamed of ye for standing with Boycott if she were alive!’

  There were a few other comments of a similar nature and a few sharp rejoinders from the labourers. It was beginning to get out of hand. Owen thrust his hands in the air and shouted above them all.

  ‘Listen! We’re not going to force anyone to leave.’ He looked down at Branigan. ‘And Branigan, I’m for sure not going to force you, because first, I wouldn’t stand a chance if I tried, and second, you’re your own man. Nobody tells you what to do. Fair enough. But let me ask you this? How old are you? Forty? Forty-five? You’re old enough to remember the famine and so are most of the rest of you. And you younger men, you’ve heard what it was like. I lost two sisters, a brother, and my mother and father. There isn’t a man or woman here who hasn’t a similar story. We watched the people we loved wither away and die while the landlords exported the food to feed the English and to feed their own greed. Not content with that, they threw us from our homes without pity. They robbed us of our dignity. And they’re still doing it. At this very moment Boycott has his man out serving eviction notices. How many more years will we let them walk us into the earth? How many more years will we let them profit from our sweat? Sooner or later we have to draw a line! If you won’t do this for us or for Father O’Malley, then do it in the memory of the ones you loved and who were left to rot in the famine by these same landlords.’

  He stopped, suddenly aware that he’d been shouting, and lowered the arm that pointed towards Boycott’s house. Silence reigned, and he turned and stepped off the cart. He stood there between the crowd and the labourers, caught in a moment of uncertainty. He turned as Branigan walked across and stood face to face with him. The labourer met Owen’s eyes for a few seconds, then abruptly flung his scythe to the ground, turned, and began to walk through the crowd and out of the field.

  Boycott and Weekes stood by Lough Mask’s shore about a mile from the house, their view of the estate interrupted by woodland.

  ‘This is where Lavery caught that man wandering?’ Boycott asked.

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Poacher most likely. Plenty of game in the woods.’

  Weekes seemed sceptical. ‘He had no traps or other accoutrements.’

  ‘A Fenian scoundrel, you mean?’

  ‘Remember the threats.’

  Boycott nodded. ‘Threats or no threats, I’ll see those rents paid or the defaulters out.’

  A prolonged cheer carrying across the tops of the trees startled them both.

  ‘What the devil w
as that?’

  Weekes shook his head. ‘It came from the fields.’ He turned his ear towards the house. ‘Listen. What’s that?’

  Boycott stood perfectly still and realised he could hear raised voices coming from the direction of his home.

  ‘It sounds like some sort of commotion,’ Weekes offered.

  Within seconds both men were galloping towards the woods.

  The crowd swarmed about the grounds in search of anyone in Boycott’s employ. Fr O’Malley, Redpath, Síomha and ten others climbed the steps to the house and rapped on the door. McCabe, the newspaperman, stood fascinated as the drama played out, his notebook bearing testimony to the events which would soon be read by half the households in Connaught.

  A smartly dressed lad of about twelve opened the door. He seemed alarmed but adopted his bravest face.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Young man, I wish to speak to Captain Boycott.’

  ‘Who are all these people? What do…’

  ‘William! Come away from the door!’

  Fr O’Malley raised his eyes from the boy to see Annie Boycott sweeping along the hall in a fine, multi-pleated blue dress. She threw a protective arm around William.

  ‘Aunt Annie, there are strangers running all about the place.’

  ‘What on earth is this? What’s going on, Father?’

  ‘I’m afraid I need to speak to your servants urgently, Mrs Boycott.’

  ‘Our servants? What business can you have with our servants? Has someone died?’ The alarm in her voice was evident.

  He shook his head. ‘No, but I need to see them immediately.’

  ‘You cannot. You’ll have to wait for my husband. And when he gets here there will be hell itself to pay for this outrageous intrusion. William, quickly, go upstairs to your sister and stay there.’

  ‘But, Aunt…’

  ‘Now!’

  The boy turned and fled. Annie went to close the door, but Fr O’Malley stuck his foot against its base and to her stupefaction, began to force it open. She stepped back with her mouth open, unable to comprehend that those considered their subordinates were forcing their way across her threshold.

  ‘How dare you! Get out of my home!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Boycott. I bear you no personal malice. But we’ve been left with no alternative.’

  The group streamed inside and began to call out to the servants. Síomha met Annie Boycott’s eyes, unable to deny a sense of pity for the woman, despite the depredations her husband had brought upon the tenants. Entering into one’s home by force was a violation she herself would rage against, but it was unavoidable. She lowered her gaze and moved on.

  ‘I’m warning you, when Charles returns he’ll have all of you flogged!’

  Fr O’Malley moved past her and down the steps to the basement as quickly as his bulk would permit, wanting this over and done with. It went against his nature to force his will on anyone and he was regretful that Mrs Boycott was an unintended victim, especially as he knew her to be a good-natured woman who was cursed by a loyalty to her husband and the societal respectabilities of her position.

  On entering the kitchen he saw Maggie Cusack, the housemaid, and stout Mrs Loughlin, the cook, a simple woman in her sixties. Two of his recruits were remonstrating loudly with them.

  ‘Father! This man and woman say we’ve te leave!’ Maggie spluttered tearfully.

  ‘An’ what about me bit o’ cookin’, Father?’ Mrs Loughlin croaked.

  Mrs Loughlin had only been with the Boycott household a year or two, he knew. Maggie, a plain girl in her mid-twenties, had been there years and was probably almost part of the family by now, in a master-pet manner at least. His heart struggled with the weight of what he must ask them to do.

  ‘There’s just three servants, they told us, Father,’ the man said, a shopkeeper from Ballinrobe. ‘There’s a chargirl upstairs.’

  He nodded, placed a hand on Maggie’s shoulder, and addressed her and the cook in a compassionate voice. ‘Maggie, Mrs Loughlin, I know what I’m asking. But I’ll do everything I can to help you find other positions.’

  ‘But why are ye ostra…ostr…’

  ‘Ostracising.’

  ‘Why are ye ostracising Mrs Annie and William and Madeleine? They’ve done nothing wrong!’ Maggie cried.

  ‘I’m sorry, child. They’re unfortunate victims. And you will be too if you stay. Nobody will have anything to do with you. You’ve must leave for your own good.’

  She heaved a sob. ‘I know the Captain is rude and shouts at us, but Mrs Annie and the others have always been good te me!’

  ‘Maggie, dear. You’ll have no life if you stay. No one in town will speak to you. Not even your brother. You’ll be shunned in the streets, the shops, even at mass. Now go and get your things and help Mrs Loughlin with hers. Go on, child.’

  The maid ran away, sobbing.

  ‘What’s to become of us all?’ Mrs Loughlin sniffed, shaking her head.

  Fr O’Malley inwardly begged God’s forgiveness. His confidence in their strategy had been unshakeable, but he realised now that distance had numbed him to the realities, the way a general moves pieces about on a board, uncaring about the horror a slight movement of his hand will bring in the field of battle. He thought then that it was an apt comparison, for it reminded him that at least in this war, no blood would be shed.

  He returned to the entrance hall to find Annie Boycott still remonstrating with Redpath and some tenants, her voice almost strained to hoarseness. Síomha walked by with her arm about an uncomprehending young chargirl’s shoulders.

  Owen arrived, exchanged looks with Síomha, then moved to the priest. ‘The labourers are gone. And the herdsmen. And Luke says the same about the stables. Only horses there now.’

  ‘Good. That’s good news.’

  Escorted by the locals, Maggie and Mrs Loughlin came up the stairs, coats covering their uniforms. Maggie was inconsolable. She suddenly broke free and threw her hand out to Annie Boycott, who grasped it tightly in both of hers.

  ‘Oh I’m sorry, Mrs Annie, ye’ve always been kind te me. Please say goodbye te little William and Madeleine.’

  ‘I will Maggie, I will.’

  Maggie pulled away and left with the rest, a handkerchief pressed against her streaming nose. Annie Boycott rounded on the priest.

  ‘I hope you’re happy! How could you do this to the poor thing? What’s to become of her now? And Mrs Loughlin? You should be ashamed, a man of the cloth!’

  The priest’s voice was subdued. ‘I’d no wish it would come to this, Mrs Boycott. But we’ve been left with no choice. Goodbye.’

  At precisely that moment Boycott stormed through the doorway, his face incandescent with outrage. ‘What the blazes is going on?’ he hollered.

  Annie rushed to him and grasped his arm. ‘They’ve made everyone leave, Charles. The servants, the labourers, the stablemen. Everyone.’

  Boycott turned to Fr O’Malley. ‘How dare you enter my home, you popish idolator!’ He glanced sideways towards Owen. ‘You and your peasant filth! How dare you interfere with my workers! I’ll make you sorry you ever set eyes on me!’

  Fr O’Malley took a step towards him. ‘I’m already at that point, Captain Boycott,’ he said calmly and went to depart.

  ‘I’ll horsewhip you, you Catholic parasite!’

  Boycott swung his riding crop above his head but the priest was surprisingly sharp and grasped Boycott’s descending arm. He came nose to nose with the agent, his mellow aspect replaced, Owen saw, with fury.

  ‘Horsewhipping is just what I’d expect from you, Boycott. A horse can’t hit you back,’ he spat out, and Owen was shocked to see the priest’s rising right hand clenched into a fist. He seized Fr O’Malley by both arms and pulled him towards the doorway. He led him past a startled, breathless Asheton Weekes and joined the departing insurgents as they walked, cheering wildly, towards the exit, a verbal stream of Boycott’s contempt washing past their ears.


  ‘We did it! Let’s see how Boycott does without his “idle peasants”,’ Owen said.

  But Fr O’Malley appeared distracted, gazing absently into the distance.

  ‘Are you all right, Father?’

  After some seconds the priest replied, meditatively: ‘Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites…for ye shall receive the greater damnation.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘God forgive me, Owen, I was going to strike him.’

  Owen didn’t reply.

  They followed the track through the trees, animated with the triumphant locals. Maggie’s sobbing was the only discordant note, her face a mess of tears.

  ‘I pray to God we’ve done the right thing,’ Fr O’Malley said.

  A celebration of their initial success might have seemed appropriate, but the demands of their lives meant it would need to be put in abeyance and, to a man and woman, the people of Ballinrobe and Neale dispersed across the roads and fields to resume their daily toil.

  Fr O’Malley and Redpath returned to the church, where the American would reside as a guest for the duration of whatever transpired over the coming weeks. The correspondent adopted the priest’s living room as his temporary office, setting about expanding on his notes as he sought to give life to that morning’s drama for his readers. The priest spent an hour in contemplative prayer, kneeling alone among the silent, empty pews that just the previous evening had rattled with the certainty of their righteousness.

  Upon their return, Owen, Síomha and Tadhg were all surprised to see Thomas at work alone in the fields, steering Anu through the furrows.

  ‘You’ve been busy,’ Owen said, clambering over the wall.

  Thomas pulled the animal to a stop and wiped his brow.

  ‘Ye’ve been busy yourself. I came back te find a barber minding the cottage and the front door missing! He told me what was going on. Any particular reason ye didn’t want me around?’

  Owen decided a measure of truthfulness was called for. ‘To be honest, Thomas, I knew the RIC would be here and I know you’ve no liking for them.’