by Colin Murphy
Thomas nodded and half-smiled. ‘Can’t deny that. They don’t seem much different from the police thugs in Pennsylvania.’
Owen picked up a spading fork. ‘Anyway, I see you haven’t forgotten how to use a plough. You might be good for something, after all!’
Thomas grinned and playfully threw a small potato at his brother, which Owen batted away with the fork.
‘Good for something? Watch and learn, brother,’ Thomas said, grasping the plough’s handles. ‘Ye can follow behind and do the woman’s work.’
Owen laughed as Thomas began to shove the implement across the black Mayo earth.
Much to the bewilderment of the constables and Sears, Sergeant Murtagh exploded into laughter upon seeing that the second cottage they visited that morning was also missing its door, simply unable to contain his mirth at the manner in which they’d been outfoxed. They had visited a third cottage but he’d known the outcome even before the building came within sight. So he abandoned their mission and decided to return to tell Boycott the bad news.
As they passed cheering locals on the road, he became increasingly concerned that some violence had befallen Boycott and hastened their pace. The inactivity of the estate brought him near to panic. But, to his immense relief, he found Boycott, his wife and Weekes unmolested. He dispatched Sears back to Ballinrobe under escort, his continuing presence pointless.
‘I want O’Malley arrested, and Joyce, and the rest of the mob,’ Boycott thundered, stomping around the drawing room, outraged at the incursion and smarting at the manner in which he’d been outmanoeuvred.
‘Arrest them for what, sir?’
‘Trespass, of course!’
‘Sir, I cannot arrest over a hundred people.’
‘Arrest the ringleaders.’
‘Captain, as I understand it, no damage was done, nothing stolen or no persons harmed. I’m afraid they will claim they simply came here to speak to certain employees and then left peaceably.’
Weekes, who stood leaning against the huge, teak mantle, shook his head. ‘Surely it is illegal to coerce employees to abandon their work?’
‘Can you prove coercion took place? Besides, given the isolation in which you find yourself, I would rather put my mind to your family’s safety and make arrangements for a larger body of men to remain here in case more violent nationalists decide to take advantage of the situation.’
Annie, who sat near to the fire, a glass of brandy in her trembling hand, lifted her head at the mention of danger. ‘That never occurred to me. I would be grateful for anything you might do to protect my nephew and niece.’
Boycott was silently pacing the floor, as though fuming within like a sealed pot brought to boil. He finally paused to pour himself a measure of spirits.
‘Priests and peasants,’ he muttered.
Annie fixed him with a vexed stare. ‘Well, Charles, it seems the ignorant peasants aren’t quite so ignorant, after all.’
He stared at her and for an instant Murtagh believed the man might strike his wife. Boycott hurled the brandy glass into the hearth, where it shattered and produced a short-lived fireball, causing Annie to emit a startled yelp. He then stormed from the room and the house.
‘I’ll arrange for huts for the constables. You’ll be perfectly safe, Mrs Boycott,’ Murtagh said to ease the tension.
‘Thank you, Sergeant, I would appreciate that,’ Annie said with as much poise as she could muster, although her voice trembled like a poplar in the wind.
Thanks to Thomas’s admirable industry, Owen managed to make up all the harvest time that had been lost through the Boycott business, and during the course of the day he related the morning’s events and explained their strategy to his brother.
‘I hope it works,’ Thomas said as they entered the cottage. ‘I’m sceptical, I have te admit. And even if it gets a reduction in rents it won’t get rid of the landlords forever. But anyway, I’m growing tired of talking politics.’
‘Amen,’ Owen said. ‘Now, let’s eat.’
The evening was convivial and pleasant, spent swapping anecdotes of the missing years, both in Ireland and America. It was a fitting end to the day when they had finally found a tool that might leverage them some small movement against the colossal mass of the landlords’ power. By the time they said their goodnights, Owen had even begun to feel that his niggling suspicions about his brother might be flights of his own imagination.
With Thomas asleep in the next room, he and Síomha made love with as much silence as their intimacies would allow. And then he easily drifted to sleep, for tomorrow was another day. And their work was really just beginning.
As Owen fell to sleep with hope in his heart, Thomas lay awake staring into the darkness, his thoughts on the futility of his brother’s efforts and on his own mission two nights hence, an action that would resound along the corridors of London’s political establishment a thousand times louder than the ostracism of an obscure land agent. Boycott’s name would be forgotten inside a week, but he’d give them cause to remember the name of Thomas Joyce for generations.
‘I’m bothered about a word,’ Redpath said.
Fr O’Malley shifted his gaze from the burning turf to the correspondent. His mood had lightened as the evening had progressed; his unease at the housemaid’s distress and his lapse of control when confronted by Boycott had abated under the force of the American’s enthusiasm for the strategy they’d unloosed. Redpath had spent the day composing a lengthy article on the affair, which he hoped might soon be published in The New York Herald and The Chicago Inter Ocean, both of which had large Irish readerships.
‘I’m sorry, James, I was a mile away.’
‘I said I’m bothered about a word.’
‘What is it?’
‘Well, when the people ostracise a land-grabber we call it social excommunication, but we ought to have an entirely different word to signify ostracism of a landlord or an agent like Boycott. Ostracism won’t do. Many of my readers and even the peasantry would not know its meaning and I can’t think of any other.’
‘No, ostracism won’t do.’ The priest began to tap his forehead as though attempting to knock loose a notion that was trapped in a corner of his mind. Eventually he shrugged.
‘How would it do to call it “to boycott him”?’
‘To boycott,’ Redpath mused. ‘Of course, right before my eyes. Tell your people to call it “boycotting” when the reporters come. I’m going to Dublin, and I’ll ask the young orators of the League to give it that name too. And I’ll use it in my correspondence with the American press.’ He smiled in satisfaction. ‘Father, I think the English language just expanded by one word.’
‘Let’s pray it’s a word that has some meaning.’
CHAPTER 19
Les gais irlandais ont inventé un nouveau mot, ils dissent a present ‘boycotter’ quelqu’un, cela signifie le mettre en interdit.
–Le Figaro, November 1880
[The bright Irish have invented a new word, they are currently saying to ‘boycott’ somebody, meaning to ostracise him.]
24 SEPTEMBER 1880
Charles Boycott had known some form of isolation all his life. He’d grown up in the rectory of St Mary’s Church in Burgh St Peter in Norfolk, his home largely surrounded by inhospitable marshlands, and the church itself was at some remove from its flock, most of whom lived in the village two miles to the east. Not that any of the natural seclusion had troubled him terribly. As a child he’d always been sententious and taciturn, preferring from an early age the company of horses. His family had lived in considerable comfort and their grounds had included extensive stables, a pottery workshop and a large bakery. So the place was usually a bustle, with workmen and women, maids and servants adding constant voice to the murmurs of the countryside. Yet he’d rarely interacted with them or with the commonality round about.
His father, William, had charted a pattern of behaviour for all his children concerning dealings with staff. He addressed al
l males by their surname, without even the bother of a ‘Mr’ to assign them some status. The females he was constrained by convention to address as ‘Mrs’ or ‘Miss’, although he generally avoided female company as one might avoid a man brought low with fever. Yells of ‘illiterate wastrel’, ‘cretin’ and ‘ignorant oaf’ frequently echoed around the rectory’s outbuildings as the man made his inspections. The staff would be branded pilferers and riff-raff, the result of ill-breeding and immoderate and immoral living. Once, a senior baker, nettled at the implication that he’d stolen a loaf, had dared to take issue with the rector. William Boycott, in full view of Charles, had taken a rod to the man and driven him from the bakery and from his job.
Charles began to view this behaviour as normal, and by the time he was seven he had already taken to addressing men fifty years his senior as ‘Jarvis’ and ‘Pilcher’ or just plain ‘You’.
In 1848, at the age of sixteen, Charles had his first true awareness of Ireland as a place existing in reality. He’d barely touched upon the subject in his historical studies, which had consisted of a few lectures about the glory of England’s armies bringing a civilising hand into their backward culture. But in the context of the British Empire, it was an insignificant little island off Her Majesty’s west coast. Then, in his sixteenth year, a man had called seeking donations for the relief of a famine that had sprung up there. He recalled the man had been English, well-dressed, of good breeding, a member of the British Relief Organisation, and had been invited in and served tea and biscuits while he made his case. His father had listened patiently before informing the man that he would serve his nation more surely should he devote his energies to raising funds for the propagation of the faith. The man’s passionate appeal to William Boycott’s softer side revealed only that he had none; the blight was God’s retribution for pursuing a heathen faith at the behest of an anti-Christ in Rome. The man could take himself off, as could the Irish, a race of ungovernable sloths if ever there was one.
As the years had progressed, unfortunately Charles’s studies hadn’t. A more disciplined approach to his education was demanded and it would be found in the confines of first Woolwich and then Blackheath boarding schools, both nestling in the leafy countryside to the east of London. But at Woolwich, Charles soon found himself even more isolated. In adulthood he would only grow to a squat and thickset five feet eight inches, and as a boy his shortness was even more marked. And marked he was, for the bullies were soon ducking him in the pond and emptying inkwells into his pockets. His uncommunicative nature and poor scholastic record had him characterised in the teachers’ eyes as given to idleness, resulting in frequent beatings at their hands. He took to spending his days in silence, a swelling bitterness within, imagining ghastly endings for his oppressors. His rare communications with other students consisted of muttering abuse in their direction. Depression overwhelmed him. Through his mother’s petitions his father had allowed him to move to Blackheath Proprietary School, where much the same pattern ensued, most of his classmates regarding him as something of a country fool. The school was famed for its academic achievement and virtually all its graduating pupils were up to the measure of Oxford or Cambridge. But Charles fell well short of the demands of England’s famed institutions of learning and contented himself with a very modest completion of his education. Besides a basic understanding of the principles of commerce, Charles’ principal acquisition from Blackheath was his abusive tongue; he rarely had a good word for anyone.
On his return to Lough Mask House on that September day in 1880 to witness an invasion of peasants, every nuance and consequence of his upbringing and temperament had surged to the surface. The notion of a horde of Irish Catholic peons stomping about his house, defying him, daring to act above their station, railed against every fibre of his being. He deeply hated the Land League, but until then it had all been somewhat notional and far away. This was different. This was personal. And the rage that it evoked in him kept him tossing in his bed long into the night.
But one thought had steeled his resolve. He had never in his life depended on others. Not once. He had spent much of his childhood alone, and as an adult had first elected to dwell in the wilds of Achill Island and now in the relative isolation of Lough Mask House. Solitude was a part of his being. And by God he’d show the priest and his ruffians just how much isolation he could take.
He came awake with a start in the darkness and for a moment struggled to recognise where he was. He’d been dreaming of his childhood home, elements and characters of which had blended disconcertingly with his life in Ireland. His father had been commending his attitude as they’d stood inside a bloodstained room in the village of Dooagh on Achill. Annie sat in a corner, sobbing into both hands. He’d stormed out and mounted his horse, Ironsides, an animal from his childhood, and begun riding hard, his intended destination Lough Mask House.
The memory of the dream melted away as the reality of his situation dawned. He was deathly tired, having spent the day milking their six cows, then feeding the beef cattle and horses and carrying out innumerable other tasks. He and Weekes had ended the day filthy. He had resolved to teach the others how to do these jobs for he could not succeed in doing everything himself – though, if need be, he would die trying.
The high-pitched cry of an animal pierced the morning stillness and he realised that it was a distressed cow in need of milking.
‘Damn it all.’
He heard Annie’s sleepy voice through the dark. ‘Charles, what’s wrong?’
He hesitated before replying. Her suggestion that he bore some responsibility for their predicament had irked him greatly. But if they were under siege, he couldn’t commence battling with those trapped within the walls.
‘Four-thirty. The cows need milking again.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes. And everyone must learn how to do this so that we can share the tasks.’
He exited the room. Annie moaned in exasperation and fell back on to the pillow.
When Annie awoke two hours later she had to quickly use the chamber pot, her need making her forego the comfort of the downstairs lavatory. The previous evening, she had struggled so long to prepare food in the kitchen’s stifling heat that she’d had to consume large volumes of water or she would surely have fainted. Charles wasn’t the only one discommoded by their situation. And not even a day had passed.
She dressed quickly and hurried below, struck at once by the quiet. Usually the place echoed to the sound of Maggie humming as she went about her duties and the crash of pots from Mrs Loughlin’s kitchen. She stopped in the hall and listened. No voices carried from the stables or fields, no horse hooves trotted past outside, no farm implement clanged in the distance. She sighed and went below to the kitchen again.
How long did one boil an egg? How much tea was added to the pot? Where was the bread? And the milk? The previous evening, in attempting to cook a joint of beef, she had put too much wood in the stove and burned the meat’s exterior, its middle still running red with blood. Madeleine and William had picked at the undercooked beef and the overcooked mush of vegetables, and kindly Mr Weekes had declared it just as he liked it, but Charles had pushed it away, stating that he had no appetite. For so long she’d taken for granted the food produced with such regularity by Mrs Loughlin, considering hers the meagre skills of a peasant. But what countless tips and tricks had she taken with her when she’d been coerced into leaving?
Annie fell into a chair and shook her head at the sight of the pots and plates from the previous evening stacked high in the washing bowl. Sore and weary, she had abandoned all and retired to her bed, but saw the folly of that now. Unless she adapted quickly to the continuous cycle of cooking, washing and other household chores, she would fail her husband and the others.
Or, she wondered, had her husband failed them?
‘What is this?’
‘Porridge.’
‘Where are my eggs? And toast?’
‘I tried to
boil them, but I burned my hand and spilled the pot on the floor.’
‘You expect us to work a farm all day eating peasant food?’
‘It’s the best I could manage.’
‘If we’re to get through this, your best must become better.’
Annie took the bowl from under his nose and casually threw it on the dining room floor where it shattered into an unseemly mess. Boycott looked like he had been slapped across the face. The others sat in shocked silence as Annie helped herself to a serving of porridge from the dish.
‘Have you lost your mind, woman?’
‘No, but I imagine it won’t be long before I’m committed to the lunatics’ ward,’ she said between defiant spoonfuls of bland porridge. ‘Actually, this house already resembles a madhouse!’
‘Madeleine, William! Leave us now!’ Boycott barked.
‘No!’ Annie almost screamed. ‘This concerns everybody!’
‘Now hear me, woman, I have a responsibility to the Earl of Erne and to Her Majesty’s Government to see that these seditious rebels do not succeed. By God, there’s a principle of gargantuan proportions at stake here, don’t you understand?’
‘You and your principles! In all of this you have forgotten your chief principle and chief responsibility!’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Your responsibility to your family and your friend, you stubborn fool! Asheton there, whose loyalty stays his tongue even though it’s evident you compound your troubles every time you exercise yours. Madeleine and William, who would double their efforts to help if you only once paused and granted them a kind word. And I, who have borne years of your wilful pigheadedness and tried my level best to please, beyond any notion of wifely responsibility. And now you expect me to work as a charlady, maidservant, milkmaid and cook and to master all these things overnight. And worse, you expect all of this but also to bear your insults about my failings. How dare you! You are an insensitive brute, Charles Boycott, and unless you change your attitude this moment, you may as well hold your hands up to the priest in surrender, because we refuse to lift a finger further to help you!’