by Colin Murphy
‘You heard of it?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘I keep it to remind me. Just in case I ever feel any compassion towards an Englishman. Huh, some chance. That book reminds me what they are and what I have te do. Let me summarise it for you. Here’s what they mean by “The Future Improvement of Society”. Malthus believed that as the population grew, the ability of the earth te sustain it faltered and that God would intervene with famine and pestilence te restore the natural order. That was the basis of the English Government’s policy towards Ireland during the famine. Their Prime Minister, Russell, was a big admirer of Malthus, as were all his cronies. In particular, the man handed the task of organising famine relief, the Assistant Secretary to the Treasury…’
‘Trevelyan.’
‘Thank you, brother. Ye know that much at least. Charles Edward Trevelyan. The greatest mass murderer in history. He’s still alive, you know? He’s number one on my list.’ He drifted off for a moment, staring into space, then snapped back to reality.
‘But where was I? Oh yes, Trevelyan. Ye know that Malthus was actually his teacher in school? And he learned his lessons well. The only problem was that he only applied his economic theory to Ireland. Not te Scotland or India or anywhere else the English had their murderous fingers. He hated us. Like we were dogs. So did they all. They no more cared that we all died than you’d care about killing a nest of rats. One of their great historians came to Ireland during the famine, Kingsley his name was. Do ye know what he wrote? He said he was daunted by the sight of all the human chimpanzees on the road. Chimpanzees. That’s how they thought of us. Animals of a lower order.’
‘You can’t hold the whole English race responsible for the stupidity of a few politicians,’ Síomha said, but Owen nudged her. He wasn’t keen to get into a debate.
‘The government represents the people. Or don’t you believe that? Besides, it wasn’t just them. It was the newspapers, writers, clergy, lawyers; their whole establishment conspired te wipe us out. Trevelyan and Russell said they had te have a “laissez-faire” approach to Ireland. Ye know what that means? It means not interfering with Ireland’s economy. This despite the fact that we were supposed te be part of Britain, part of their economy. They decided te let nature take its course according te the best Malthusian policy. So when the blight struck they saw it as a godsend. Trevelyan actually said about the famine, and I’ll never forget this, he said that the judgment of God sent the calamity to teach the Irish a lesson. Teach us a lesson!
‘One of his first acts when he got the job of famine relief was te stop all relief programmes in case they interfered with trade. That allowed the fuckin’ English merchants te double the price of everything so that other food couldn’t be bought by the Irish.’
‘The merchants were Irish too, Thomas,’ Owen pointed out, unable to resist the temptation.
‘That’s true. And the traitors’ day of reckoning will come too. But the real effect of Trevelyan’s efforts not te interfere with trade was that all the other food in Ireland was exported te keep the landlords rich. Do ye know how much food the English exported from Ireland during the famine? Enough to feed every single person. Not one Irish man, woman or child needed te die. Not one! ’49 was actually a bumper year for corn. Millions were being turned into walking skeletons and the bastards were exporting the food grown in Irish soil before our eyes. On land they’d stolen from us. The English weren’t only exterminating us but had the bonus of getting rich while it happened. Did ye know the same blight hit Scotland? The Highland Potato Famine. There were hundreds of thousands of tenant farmers there just like us. Ye know how many died? Ye could count the number on your fingers and toes. Ye know why? Every man, woman and child was given a daily ration of two pounds of oats.’
Thomas laughed bitterly. He appeared to be distracted, removed from the moment. He was being carried along on the swirling winds of a lifetime’s bitter reflection, talking as much to himself as to them.
‘What ration did Her Majesty’s Government give her other subjects, the Irish? Nothing. Zero. They wanted us te rot inside our own clothes. And ye want more proof it was an extermination? If you accept Malthus’s theories, ye allow the population te starve once it gets too big. The English Government claimed that Ireland’s population had become so big the land couldn’t support it. Which is strange, because Ireland had precisely the same number of people for every acre as England. Did they apply Malthusian theory te their own? Of course not. You know why? They wanted te wipe us out and the famine gave them the perfect weapon. Think of all the bullets it would save them. Civilisation? The English don’t know the meaning of the word.’
‘I know what Trevelyan did. But that was thirty years ago. We can’t keep–’
‘Thirty years? Ye think thirty years is enough to wipe out the murder of two million people? A thousand years wouldn’t be enough. Ye know why? Because there’s never been anyone called to account. There’s never been any justice. Well, we’ll give them justice all right. The only kind they understand. Ye know what the English did? Right in the middle of the famine when things were at their worst? They made Trevelyan a fuckin’ knight for services to Ireland. Their highest honour. That’s English justice.’
‘Thomas. Stop! Tadhg could be home any minute. What are you going to do when he gets here?’ Síomha pleaded tearfully.
‘Shut up. Listen and learn. The problem with you and your band of pacifists is that you don’t know your enemy. If ye did, ye wouldn’t have bothered your arses with your boycott. That bastard would be dead now. You know what Marx called Malthus? The agent of the landed aristocracy. Mountmorres. Erne. Lucan. Boycott. The thousands of others. They’re all devotees of the same Malthusian principles. The same war is still raging. They’re still trying te exterminate us.’
Owen recognised his delusional state for what it was. His brother’s years of hatred had distorted all reason and he was given to making vast leaps of judgement, all of his humanity abandoned as an encumbrance that might temper his need for vengeance. His own fear was also mounting that Tadhg might soon return.
‘I’ll tell ye what’s going to happen with your boycott. The English are going te send in a few hundred troops, put guns te your heads and force ye te pick Boycott’s crops. Then they’re going te evict ye and let ye starve. Ye want te stop them? Kill them before they kill you.’
Owen shook his head at his brother’s repeated mantra of bloodshed as the answer to all ills.
‘Ye shake your head like I don’t know what I’m talking about. After all I’ve said, ye still believe I’m wrong and you’re right?’
‘Let me ask you something that’s been bothering me.’
‘Be my guest.’
‘When you had your ranch, in Colorado or New Mexico, I can’t remember…’
‘What about it?’ He was puzzled by the sudden alteration in the course of the conversation.
‘Why did you have to kill so many natives?’
He shrugged. ‘If we hadn’t they’d have torn us to pieces. They were savages.’
‘But why did they attack in the first place? Was it because you’d taken their land?’
‘We got the land by right from the state government! We put down a claim and got it all legal.’
‘Don’t avoid the question. The white men came and invaded their lands. They’d lived there for thousands of years. You got it legally? Don’t fool yourself. The natives were doing exactly what we’ve been doing for hundreds of years. Fighting for the land that was taken from them. And you were killing them. You were doing exactly what the English did to us. You’re no better than the men you vilify!’
‘Shut your fuckin’ mouth! There’s no comparison. There was so much land millions could have lived there. All we had was a tiny scrap. All I did was defend it. Just as I’m prepared to kill te defend us now.’
‘No matter how you try to justify it, it still sounds hollow.’
A grim smile crept across Thomas’s face.
> ‘Well, let me tell you something before ye judge me, brother. Our father knew what had te be done. He told me as much on his deathbed because he knew you were too fuckin’ weak te do what was needed to survive. You hadn’t the balls for it.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Thomas finally had his brother’s complete attention. Owen felt Síomha’s fingernails dig into his arm.
‘Like father like son, isn’t that how the old saying goes? I kill because I know that’s the only way out of all this. And so did our father. He killed too because he knew that was what had te be done.’
He was talking about Geraghty, the landlord’s gamekeeper when they’d lived on Tawnyard. Owen had always suspected he’d been killed by his father, but had also harboured a hope that he was wrong.
‘You know who I’m talking about. I can see it in your face. Geraghty. Our father, Michael Joyce, gave that bastard exactly what he deserved.’
‘Our father killed Geraghty?’
‘He did. The man was a pig. An agent of the Crown. So he just waited for him one evening and beat the fucker te death with his own gun. Bashed his brains to a pulp.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘What? You don’t believe he killed him?’
‘If he did, it wasn’t like that, there had to be a reason. He wasn’t a killer. He wouldn’t kill anyone just because he worked for the landlord. You’re lying.’
Thomas took a swig of whiskey and lifted the gun, studying it for a few seconds, weighing something up in his mind. Then he grinned.
‘You’re right. Ye got me. It was a little fib. But he did kill him. Geraghty caught me poaching one evening. He had his old musket pointed at my head, promising me I’d be sent to Van Diemen’s Land. Then suddenly our father knocked him out with a branch. He wanted te let Geraghty live. But when I pointed out that we had no choice, that it was either transportation for me or leave no witnesses, he did what had te be done. With Geraghty’s own musket. So ye see, Owen, at least some of the men in our family can make the hard choices when we have to.’
‘It was your fault, then. You got caught and left him with no choice.’
‘He would have done the same for you, Owen, if you’re been caught fishing. Who knows, maybe you’d have ended up the Fenian assassin and I’d be the nice family man? Our circumstances make us what we are, ye wouldn’t argue with that, would you?’
Owen stood up with no thought of the threat of his brother’s gun, fury swelling his heart. Thomas pointed the weapon directly at his chest.
‘You bastard!’ Owen shouted. ‘The difference between me and you is that I would have taken whatever the law threw at me rather than force my father to kill to save me. And worse still, you’ve been using what you made him do to justify your own brutality. Whatever I am now, for good or bad, no circumstances could have made me like you – a bitter, twisted fucking killer blinded by hate. You’re no better than a common murderer! You fucking animal!’
‘Owen!’ Síomha yelled, terrified the situation was going out of control.
Thomas slowly rose and levelled the gun at his brother’s head, a narrow snarl creasing his mouth, breaths hissing through clenched teeth.
‘Whatever you are now? You’re a fuckin’ coward is what you are. And the only reason you’re even alive now and living with your fuckin’ wife and children is because of me. If ye think I should feel guilty, then ye’ve just as much guilt on your shoulders. Let me tell ye the rest of the story about how we survived when we walked te Westport.’
‘What story?’
‘The food we had that kept us alive those few days.’
‘What about it?’
As he asked the question all three of them were distracted by the sound of a car pulling into the yard.
‘Tadhg!’ Síomha stifled a scream and clutched at her husband.
‘Nobody move!’ Thomas hissed and ran to the window.
He watched as Tadhg drove past the cottage towards the pen.
‘What are you going to do?’ Owen asked, dread evident in his voice.
Thomas didn’t answer for several seconds, then backed away to the hearth.
‘I don’t want te hurt him. Get rid of him. You. Síomha.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘He mustn’t find out what’s happened, ye stupid cow. Get rid of him.’
‘And what about us?’ Owen asked. ‘We know you can’t let us go.’
‘Oh but I can. I should kill ye both. But I don’t want to. Wouldn’t help my mission. You’re going te keep your mouths shut. Just tell everyone I went on my own merry way. But if the RIC or the priest or anyone else finds out about me, well, I’d hate te think of the consequences.’
He glanced in the direction of the pen, towards Tadhg.
‘You bastard!’
‘It’s my insurance. If you two open your mouths, well, as I said, this is war, and I’d hate te see your son or daughter become casualties. Now, go and get rid of him. Tell him you’re having a lover’s quarrel, tell him te go squeeze some cailín’s arse, I don’t care, just get rid of him. When he’s gone, saddle my horse and bring it te the door. Your husband here will stay with me as a guarantee. And don’t forget, I’ll use this if I have to. Stay calm, and tell him ye hit your face on the door if he asks about the bruise.’
Síomha squeezed past Owen, meeting his eyes briefly, then exited the cottage. The two brothers stood facing each other.
‘Don’t look at me like that, brother. It’s just the way the cards fell.’
Thomas picked up his knapsack and sat it on the chair. He added the remainder of the whiskey to the bag and closed the straps.
‘Are you going to kill Boycott?’
‘Not just yet. But when the time is right. Might be next week, might be a year. Who knows? But we’ll get them all in the end.’
Owen was silent a moment, then pointed to the wall above the hearth. ‘There’s something I want you to have. There’s a tin behind that loose stone. It’s not a trick, don’t worry.’
Thomas eyed him suspiciously, then backed up and reached for the stone. He pulled it out and revealed a large, partly rusted tin, illustrated with children happily eating biscuits and the title ‘Jacob’s & Co, Superior Biscuits.’
‘Open it.’
Thomas pulled the lid off. There were some coins, half crowns and shillings mostly, a few letters, and a lease agreement.
‘May I?’ Owen asked.
Thomas placed the tin on the table.
Owen removed the aged ticket for America that his brother had returned to him. ‘This. The sign of the “unbreakable bond” you feel with me.’ He lifted the ticket in his two hands and tore it down the centre.
‘No, don–’
‘We were always destined to go on different journeys, Thomas.’
Owen repeated the gesture several times and then threw the pieces at his brother, the fragments of yellowed paper fluttering to the floor like some tainted snowfall. Thomas stared grimly back at him.
‘You might be right, Thomas. Maybe it will take the gun to free us. But what worries me is what fanatics like you will do with my country afterwards.’
Thomas was about to reply when they heard the sound of horse’s hooves outside. He moved to the window, smiled at the sight of his saddled horse and pulled open the door. He gestured at Síomha to come inside.
‘Well?’
‘I told him to go and collect Niamh from school. He argued, but he went.’
Thomas turned his back to the open door and looked at them.
‘Sorry it worked out this way. Don’t worry, you’ll never see me again.’
‘I hope that’s a promise,’ Owen said coldly.
‘Goodbye, Síomha. Goodbye, brother.’
He backed out the door and pulled it shut behind him.
Síomha and Owen locked each other in a long, unyielding embrace.
CHAPTER 26
…he [Boycott] is unquestionably a brave and r
esolute man, but there is too much reason to believe that without his garrison and escort his life would not be worth an hour’s purchase. There are few fairer prospects than that from the steps of his home, Lough Mask House, a comfortable and unpretending edifice. Yet the potatoes will rot in the ground and the cattle will go astray, for not a soul in Ballinrobe dare touch a spade for Mr Boycott. Personally he is protected, but no woman in Ballinrobe would dream of washing him a cravat or making him a loaf. All the people have to say is that they are sorry, but that they “dare not”. Everybody advises him to leave the country; but the answer of the besieged agent is simply this: “I can hardly desert Lord Erne, and, moreover, my own property is sunk in this place.” He cannot sacrifice his occupation and his property. There is very little doubt that this unfortunate gentleman has been selected as a victim whose fate may strike terror into others.
–Bernard H Becker, Special Commissioner of The Daily News, 28 October 1880. Part of an article reproduced in a wide number of prominent publications in Britain, Ireland and beyond.
25 OCTOBER-1 NOVEMBER 1880
Bernard Becker sat in the Old Mill Boarding House dining room, enjoying the final spoonful of a hearty lamb stew. The food had partially restored his spirits but his body still ached from almost a week’s constant travel about the wilds of Mayo. He had developed a thorough dislike of Irish cars, vehicles seemingly of a construction designed to transfer all of the wheels’ impacting over bumps and potholes directly into one’s skeletal frame. But his lassitude was as much of the mind as the body, for his recent experiences had exposed him to vastly opposing views of Ireland’s strife, and by turns he was sympathetic to the Irish peasants and disdainful of their reasoning.
He had been enthralled, depressed and confused in equal measure during a visit to the village of Tiernaur on the north side of Clew Bay. The scenery had mesmerised him: the countless islands of the bay, Croagh Patrick standing watch over it to the south, and a chain of rugged mountains embracing it to the north. All about he had seen evidence of An Gorta Mór, as they called it – the Great Hunger – and of continuing evictions. Numberless tenant farmers had either perished or been banished and their lands let in blocks of several square miles each to Englishmen and Scotsmen, who employed the earth for grazing and grew not a turnip or a potato. It was much more efficient, Becker considered, but expression of such a notion brought a torrent of disapprobation upon his head as countless thousands, he’d been informed, had been left with no means of subsistence.