Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  He refrained from stating that the people could be better employed in the new, modern industries of the Age of Steam and that grazing made the best use of infertile land. But the Irish clung to their patches of rocky soil, he thought, like a mother clings to a deformed or idiot child. It was, to him, an astonishing perversion of patriotism endorsed by their priests. All and sundry seemed to believe that because they were born on a piece of land it should be theirs by birthright. To Becker, this was as alien as a flock of parakeets in Hyde Park. Since time immemorial, almost all farmers in England had been tenants to a wealthy landowner and were happy in their lot. But for the Irish, it seemed, their roots in the land went as deep as those of the mightiest oak.

  The proprietress of the Old Mill now approached Becker with a deferential air. She was a handsome woman in her thirties with a harried deportment as though she was burdened by six tasks, all requiring urgent attention.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, Mr Becker, but a boy’s come with this from the post office.’

  Becker accepted the envelope. ‘Thank you, Mrs Neary, and may I compliment you on the delectable meal. As good as any I might enjoy in Chelsea or the West End.’

  Mrs Neary flushed with pride and hurried away.

  He removed two folded sheets from the envelope bearing the logo of the Electric and International Telegraph Company.

  Becker,

  You are aware that I had expressed my doubts as to the appositeness of your assignment. But it is with some surprise that I can relay the news that your recent submissions, particularly the one pertaining to Boycott, have aroused considerable interest among our readership and in political circles. Word is that The Times editor is kicking himself for not pursuing the angle, but the man deserved a good kicking anyway. Furthermore, letters of support for Boycott have been pouring into the associate publications and there is talk of a fund to send an expedition to assist him. There are rumours that five hundred men loyal to the crown in Ireland’s northern counties are arming themselves for an invasion of Mayo. The Chief Secretary for Ireland, Forster, has openly expressed his fears that Ireland might be on the verge of civil war. I believe the army may soon be dispatched to your locale to quell any trouble.

  I require continuing updates on the situation and in particular, on any developments directly concerning Boycott.

  F. H. Hill, Editor, The Daily News.

  Becker didn’t know whether to feel elated or downcast. He was pleased of course that his reports had been so well received, but by the same token troubled at the escalation of events. But wasn’t that precisely what he’d intended when he’d conceived the notion of Boycott under siege? Rousing his countrymen to action? He could hardly deny it. Yet the thought of war or violence troubled him. Especially the notion that he might have been the spark that ignited the powder keg that was Lough Mask Estate.

  Friday October 29th, 1880

  To the Editor of The Daily Express of Dublin

  With reference to your recent excellent article by Mr Becker on the travails of Mr Boycott and the unwarranted attack on him by the Land League, it seems to me that it would be a most cowardly act indeed to abandon Mr and Mrs Boycott to be starved out. It is also a disgrace that Mr Boycott’s crop should be left to rot in the ground, especially in the light of recent poor harvests. This is a shameful waste and tells us much about the mentality of the Land League’s leaders.

  It is my proposal, therefore, that a fund should be established with the aim of raising £500 which would finance a body of men to travel to Mayo to save Mr Boycott’s crop and bring relief to this heroic gentleman and his family who is standing firm in the face of Land League intimidation. Furthermore, I would be happy to offer my own services as the leader of such an expedition.

  I am, sir, your obedient servant,

  Combination, County Dublin.

  ‘Combination? What sort of an idiotic nom de plume is that?’ Fr O’Malley asked of Redpath as he lowered the newspaper. They were sitting in Gallagher’s bar in Ballinrobe.

  ‘A contact in Dublin told me his real name is Manning. It won’t come as a surprise that he used to be a land agent for the Lucas-Scudamore Estate in Monaghan.’

  ‘Hmm. Manus manum lavat.’

  ‘Eh, Father, my Latin isn’t what it used to be.’

  ‘One hand washes the other.’

  Redpath nodded as he took the paper. ‘And did you see the leading article supporting his call? And all the other letters?’

  ‘This newspaper is the daily gospel for unionists and the landed gentry. They’ve printed countless unjustified attacks on the Land League and Parnell. And Becker’s article was good, I’ll give him that. He’s portrayed Boycott as a symbol of everything the readers of this paper represent.’

  ‘A symbol that’s under attack.’

  ‘But what if it happens? Hundreds of armed men invading Mayo! God help us all.’

  Owen Joyce mechanically picked the potatoes from the handcart and placed them one at a time in the pit. It was necessary to ensure that no diseased potatoes were included, so each had to be examined by sight and touch.

  Síomha watched her husband and Tadhg at work from a short distance away where she was tending to their small crop of cabbages. In the week since Thomas had departed, Owen’s mood had been sullen, his temper short and his appetite almost non-existent. They’d told Tadhg and Niamh that their uncle had to leave for a job in Galway, a lie that had at least purchased them some distance from the terrible events of the previous Monday. Tadhg may have been just sixteen, but the nature of their lives brought a hastened maturity and she could see the doubt in his eyes.

  An hour after Thomas had departed, Síomha had torn to shreds the dress he’d given her, taken the colourful rags to their latrine and dumped them, an act of childish symbolism, but satisfying nonetheless. Of the other gifts, the five pounds had already been donated to Fr O’Malley’s boycott fund. They had allowed the children to retain their gifts to avoid questions.

  Yet after the initial shock had waned, Owen had quickly lapsed into self-recrimination. Síomha had knelt and thanked God that no harm had come to them, trying to put the nightmare behind her. But no words could rouse Owen from his torpor. As she watched him slipping into his familiar proclivity for brooding analysis, she had promoted work as a remedy for all ills. She knew him well, knew he would recall each sentence shared with Thomas and dissect every action taken. Much of this was to be expected, as Thomas was his only brother and they had parted on the worst terms imaginable. But she knew also that her husband’s self-analysis was without focus or purpose.

  He had repeatedly told Síomha that she could be dead because of his inaction, and despite her reassurances that neither of them had seen it coming, the guilt continued to stab at him. Then there was also the disturbed, hateful being that had been unmasked behind his brother’s face. He could barely countenance the idea that he shared the bloodline of such a man. Add to this the awful confirmation of what he had always suspected of his father, that he had killed. It had been just another blow that had served to cast him into a well of despair.

  ‘You’ve put two in here that are half-rotten.’ Tadhg was kneeling over the pit, holding the pair of offending potatoes in his palms.

  ‘Don’t tell me how to fill a pit! You must have put them there yourself, you eejit!’ Owen yelled petulantly.

  Tadhg responded to the unwarranted accusation by rising sharply and flinging the potatoes on to the ground.

  ‘I didn’t put them in! You’re not looking at what you’re doing!’

  Síomha rose quickly and ran across as Owen angrily turned to face his son.

  ‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that!’

  ‘Stad sin anois!’ Síomha shouted as she pushed them apart, her face set in anger. ‘We’ve had enough fighting in this family, don’t you think?’

  Owen fell silent. Tadhg turned to his mother. ‘What fighting?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  A voice calling from the track tu
rned their heads. ‘God bless the work!’ Fr O’Malley was steering his car through the gate.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ Owen whispered with annoyance.

  ‘What sort of talk is that about your priest? And your friend?’ Síomha snapped.

  ‘I’m not up to talking to him.’

  ‘You have to. Come on. Tadhg, get on with the pit.’

  Síomha took Owen’s arm and literally pulled him along as one might a reluctant child. They greeted the priest and entered the cottage. The men sat at the table while Síomha busied herself making tea.

  Fr O’Malley soon sensed the prevailing air. ‘What’s wrong, Owen?’

  ‘Nothing, Father. Everything’s fine.’

  The priest nodded and glanced around. ‘Thomas not about today?’

  Neither replied for a time, then Síomha turned and faced him. ‘I’m afraid Owen and his brother had a falling out, Father. He’s left.’

  ‘I’m doubly sorry to hear that, Owen. But that’s often the way with brothers, or sisters, I’m sad to say. Do you want to discuss it, Owen?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, Father.’

  A notion struck Síomha. Her husband’s despondency had not been eased by his decision to maintain only an inner debate. She had hoped that the distraction of work would help, but the mundane tasks of recent days had not taxed his brain. He needed something more; he needed to involve himself in the boycott again. And, as if on cue, Fr O’Malley raised the subject.

  ‘You haven’t been to the meetings this past week, Owen. We need your help. The other tenants take their lead from you. And there’s trouble brewing. That’s why I’m here. I need you to come to Ballinrobe this afternoon. We have to keep a lid on any potential disorder. I’ve received word that–’

  ‘Father,’ Owen cut in sharply.

  ‘Yes, Owen?’

  ‘I can’t be involved anymore. You’ll have to do without me.’

  The priest set his shoulders back, clearly shocked. ‘But I…but you’re a part of it. What’s happened? Owen?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help. I mean, I’ve too much to do on the farm. Sure I have to have that pit filled today, I can’t be running off to Ballinrobe.’

  Síomha put the copper teapot on the table with a thud.

  ‘Owen, we have to discuss this. Now. Before you drive yourself insane, not to mention the rest of us,’ she said.

  Owen looked at her as though she’d lost her mind, conscious of his brother’s threat to their children. She met his eyes with steely conviction, then turned to the priest.

  ‘Father, Owen wants to make a confession.’

  ‘What?’ Owen almost shouted.

  ‘What confession?’ the priest asked, bewildered.

  ‘No, Father, I mean he wants the sacrament of Confession. Can you do that here?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but why–’

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Owen, you are going to confess everything that’s been troubling you. You are going to tell Father O’Malley everything that’s happened. Everything.’

  ‘But you know what–’

  ‘Father, could you remind Owen about a priest’s duty regarding confession? You would be condemned to eternal flames if you broke your vow of secrecy? Is that right?’

  ‘Well, I’d be excommunicated. Almost as bad. But you’re right, the sacramental seal is inviolable.’

  Owen was silent, clearly still uncomfortable, or perhaps unwilling, to relinquish the bitterness in his heart, and she feared he harboured vengeful intentions. She didn’t allow him to ponder.

  ‘I’ll be helping Tadhg,’ she said, and stomped from the cottage.

  ‘Listen to this one, Charles,’ Annie Boycott said, excitedly lifting The Belfast News Letter from the patchwork of newspapers on the dining room table. She read aloud.

  …I would further like to make the point that vast sums of money are pouring into the country from America, which is funding the opponents of law and order, to wit, the Land League. Ergo a fund to save Mr Boycott’s harvest would indemnify him against his losses. If we don’t act now, the despicable methods employed by the Land League will undoubtedly be repeated, but should all lovers of law and order rally to Mr Boycott’s side and save his crops, the method would be rendered impotent.

  Your obedient servant,

  A Lover of Law and Order

  Her husband listened with mild interest, but not the enthusiasm she had expected, considering he’d set this in motion through his interview with Bernard Becker.

  ‘Here’s another one,’ Weekes said keenly. ‘It’s from the Reverend William Ross.’

  ‘Let’s hear it, Asheton,’ Annie urged.

  Boycott sighed as Weekes read letter after letter of support. When he could bear no more he rose sharply.

  ‘I have to attend the Ballinrobe Petty Sessions hearing. Another deuced waste of time.’

  ‘Charles, I’m puzzled. I thought you’d be delighted with all the publicity, but you don’t seem terribly interested,’ Annie asked.

  ‘Frankly, I find this washing our linen in public a trifle distasteful. All I had hoped for was the Government to send the army to assist with the harvest and also to put the Land League blaggards in their place. I’ve written to the Chief Secretary several times in that regard, but as usual with these deuced civil servants I’ve only had a vague reply stating that they were studying the matter. And now all of this happens…’ He made a sweeping gesture across the mass of newspapers, his face contorted in disgust.

  Annie slapped the table sharply. ‘Really, Charles, all of these people are rallying to your support and you talk of them like they were a scourge. You should be grateful to them. There is no pleasing you, Captain Boycott, sir! None whatsoever!’

  ‘Did they have a fight?’

  She knew she would have to respond honestly to Tadhg or else he would continue to probe and grow more suspicious. She stopped working and looked towards the cottage. They’d been in there an hour.

  ‘Yes, they did, Tadhg.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Oh, things from their past. It’s private.’

  ‘But what could–’

  ‘Tadhg. It’s private. Maybe someday your father will discuss it with you. Until then, leave it be. Besides, you and Lorcan were always at each other’s throats. These things happen.’

  He was unsatisfied, but thankfully asked no more.

  The door to the cottage opened and Fr O’Malley emerged. As she hurried up to him, he sighed and smiled faintly.

  ‘What happened, Father?’

  ‘I cannot discuss matters from the confessional, Síomha, even with you. But you have my sympathies. I don’t know if unburdening himself has helped. Perhaps in time. But he isn’t prepared to resume his…his involvement in the boycott. And on that matter, I must be off.’

  ‘Father, please wait a while.’ She touched his arm and he hesitated, nodded and then feigned annoyance.

  ‘Actually, I must admonish your son, who I observed whispering to young Teresa Kelly during mass last Sunday.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  She found Owen was sitting with his back to the door, elbows on the table, his splayed fingers pressed against his forehead as though trying to support the weight of his troubles. She walked silently across and sat next to him.

  ‘Owen?’

  He didn’t respond, except to clench his hands over his eyes. She looked down at the table then and saw the stain on the wood, an irregular dark blotch, and felt a heave in her breast. She reached out with both hands and pulled at his wrists until he succumbed and allowed her to look at his face. Tears spilled from his eyes, male tears, a sight she had rarely seen past the age of twelve, even in grief. Struck by conflicting emotions of pity and joy, she knew it would trouble him to be seen that way, yet also knew his tears were like waters of redemption, cleansing his troubled soul of the malevolent stain that his brother had left. She ran a hand across the tang
led mop of his hair, but said nothing. He angled his head away, unable to meet her eyes. After some time, she heard him whisper.

  ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d died…my life would be empty now…and I’d have been the cause.’

  ‘I didn’t die. What might have been…we can’t live our lives like that.’

  ‘I know that now. But there’s something else. Something I really did have to confess to Father O’Malley. Thomas. I’ve been wishing I’d killed him that day. I’ve been guilty of murder a hundred times this past week, in my mind. Thirty years I spent hoping that somehow he was alive. And now he’s returned, all I want is him dead. I wasted so much time on him. Jesus Christ almighty. He may be out there somewhere but he’s dead to me now in all the ways that count. And I’m the last of my family. My brothers, sisters, father, mother, all gone.’

  ‘Except you’re not the last.’

  He wiped at his cheeks with his sleeve and turned towards her.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Síomha nodded towards the window. ‘You’ve a son out there. Another in America. A beautiful daughter. They’re your family now. And me.’

  He reached a hand up to touch her face and she took it in both hands.

  ‘You said you wasted all that time thinking about Thomas. Well, now that you know the truth, it’s time you stopped looking into the past and started looking to the future of the family you have now.’

  ‘I’m doing my best for them…’ he protested mildly.

  ‘I don’t mean raising them or schooling them. I mean the sort of world you want them to grow up into. Will it be Thomas’s world or the one you would have? Teach best by example, isn’t that what they say? Show Tadhg bitterness and hatred and that’s what you’ll get in return.’