by Colin Murphy
He heaved a sigh.
Síomha glanced through the window where she saw Fr O’Malley walking towards his car, disappointment evident in the slump of his shoulders.
‘Father O’Malley’s leaving.’
‘I thought he was long gone.’
‘Well, he’s not gone yet…’ she said with sudden brightness and a hint of sarcasm.
‘You expect me to go with him? Now?’
She stared squarely at him. ‘No time like the present.’
He turned away and felt her eyes boring into his back, then looked at her again.
‘He needs you, Owen.’
He shook his head and for the first time in a week – and although it came through a pretence of irritation – he uttered a clipped laugh.
‘Jesus, you never stop your nagging. I suppose if I don’t go I’ll never hear the end of it.’ He rose with a grunt. ‘Where the hell did I leave my jacket?’
Ballinrobe Courthouse was a fine if rather unspectacular building of two stories of plain stone, topped by an apex into which had been set a clock. The building, on the corner of Market Street and Bridge Street, had originally been built as a market hall, and the odours of that commerce in oats, wool, goats and sheep still lingered within its walls, or so some maintained.
Charles Boycott believed that he was the victim of a gross injustice perpetrated by malicious individuals who had conspired to avoid payment of their rent. He also believed that his refusal to pay Martin Branigan, his former labourer, the wages he claimed he was due was also morally right and that the man was merely seeking to ‘turn the screw’, probably at the behest of the priest. Branigan’s contention, ludicrous in Boycott’s view, was that he was paid by the day and was therefore due three days’ wages up to the Thursday he abandoned his duties. Although the amount was trifling – seven shillings and sixpence – he had refused to pay it on principle.
The District Courtroom was packed on the day and, although he had been conducted safely to the venue under escort of six constables and then admitted covertly by a side entrance, he could sense a swell of hostility within the large courtroom. To his right was a dark wood-panelled structure, which allowed about twenty of the public to view the proceedings. A similar structure stood to the left housing six plaintiffs, waiting to be heard on issues as varied as the underpayment for the sale of five sheep, a woman whose sense of decency had been affronted by the sight of three soldiers swimming in the Robe wearing only long johns (which roused a few titters), and a Protestant man defending himself for ‘breach of the Sabbath’, having been accused by Mr Brownrigg, the Rector of Ballinrobe, of whitewashing his cottage on Sunday. Branigan stood first in line.
The Resident Magistrate, Mr McSheehy, sat in a high bench at the head of the room, a junior magistrate to either side. Below them the court recorder huddled over a table scratching shorthand notes, and a bailiff sat at his side.
Correspondents from The Ballinrobe Chronicle and The Connaught Telegraph stood to the rear of the courthouse recording their own version of events. The gathering was completed by the presence of eight constables, six more than would normally be deemed sufficient to maintain order.
The court bailiff beckoned Branigan to approach the bench, while Boycott stood at by the side of the room. Branigan was sworn in and stood craning his neck up towards the elevated magistrate.
‘Please state your name and petition.’
‘Martin Branigan, your honour.’
‘You may address me as “sir”.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Martin Branigan was a large, tough and proud man, normally intimidated not a whit by any situation or figure of authority. Yet on this day he appeared nervous and deferential, his shoulders slumped, twirling his cap between his fingers, continually dropping his gaze to the floor.
‘My petition, sir, is that Captain Boycott owes me three days’ wages for September the twentieth to September the twenty-second, as I worked those days, but he refuses to pay me.’
The magistrate looked around the court. ‘Is Captain Boycott present?’
Boycott strode across the floor, eyed Branigan with distaste, and swore an oath on the Bible.
‘Captain Boycott, why haven’t you paid this man’s due wages?’
‘Because, sir, the man left his employment without due notice and abandoned my crop to rot.’ He delivered this with customary impatience, as though the reason should be obvious to all but a fool.
‘I did not, sir, that’s a lie,’ Branigan quickly countered.
‘You most certainly did and how dare you accuse me of lying, you scoundrel!’
‘Stop this at once! Neither of you will speak unless I address you. You, Captain, as a magistrate, should know how to conduct yourself.’
Boycott met McSheehy with a cutting glare.
‘What do you say to Captain Boycott’s charge, Mr Branigan?’
‘Sir, if you please, but about sixty people came into the field and well, sir, they frightened me.’
‘Frightened you in what way? And please speak up.’
‘Well, sir, they said I had to leave Boycott’s employment at once and I felt intimidated, sir. There were so many of them.’
There were a few titters from the public gallery, as most people were aware that Branigan was probably the least likely person in Ballinrobe to be intimidated by anyone.
‘Did they threaten you with physical harm?’
‘Not in so many words, sir. But they said it would be safer if I left. I mean, sir, how would you have felt?’
‘Speculation on my reaction in such a situation is irrelevant, Mr Branigan.’ He turned his attention back to Boycott. ‘Captain, if this man was intimidated into leaving, surely you would sympathise with him and pay him his due, as the Christian thing to do.’
Boycott looked as though he had been punched.
‘Sympathise with him, sir? Have you any idea of the condition of my farm since these thugs invaded it?’
‘Yes, Captain, I believe the entire world knows of your situation by now. But, if, as you say, thugs invaded your estate, then surely that supports Mr Branigan’s claim.’
‘Sir. Mr Branigan left of his own accord!’ Boycott was struggling to keep his voice down. ‘He is a Land League sympathiser and deserves not a farthing.’
One of the junior magistrates interrupted proceedings by bringing McSheehy’s attention to a document. Having perused it, the magistrate peered down at Boycott.
‘Captain, did you not testify at the Bessborough Commission that your labourers had been driven off under threat of “ulterior consequence”?’
Boycott opened his mouth to speak but nothing emerged, as though his facial muscles had been momentarily paralysed, then he cracked his cane against the floor.
‘Sir, that submission has no relevance here!’ he shouted.
McSheehy replied in a calm voice. ‘Captain Boycott, this is not the Supreme Court and I shall be the judge of what is and what is not relevant.’
He conferred briefly with his colleagues, made a note in his ledger, then looked down at Boycott and Branigan.
‘I rule in favour of the plaintiff, Mr Branigan. Payment to be made before departing the premises. Next case.’
With that he slammed his gavel down, prompting a cheer from the public gallery. Boycott’s face went deathly pale as Branigan turned to him, his posture suddenly appearing to straighten, his sheepishness vanished. He grinned wickedly at the land agent, an act that inflicted infinitely more injury on Boycott than the judgement.
‘Sir, there’s a bit of a crowd outside. We’d better go out the exit into Bridge Street and take you to the barracks,’ a constable whispered, distracting Boycott from his fury.
‘The barracks? A crowd? What crowd?’
‘You were right, Father, and most of them look fit to kill.’
‘Stop here, Owen, we have to calm things down before anyone gets hurt.’
‘It might be too late for that. How did you know this might
happen?’
The priest was heaving his considerable frame from the trap in Ballinrobe’s Market Street.
‘The postmistress told me.’
‘The postmistress?’
The priest elaborated as they hurried towards the crowd of several hundred.
‘She told me that the journalist Becker received a telegraph in Westport saying that Boycott has organised an armed invasion of Mayo by Orangemen, and that he’s also persuaded the Chief Secretary to send in the army.’
Owen grimaced at the memory of his brother’s prediction of just such an outcome.
‘The postmistress in Westport forwarded Becker’s telegraph here, to warn us, I suppose. It may be all just a rumour, but unfortunately by now half the county’s heard.’
‘Father, aren’t telegraphs private by law?’
‘They are, but you know how these things are. Anyway, never mind that, what in God’s name are we going to do?’
The crowd was all around them now, becoming denser as men and women alike streamed towards the courthouse. So deafening was the chorus of ‘Boycott out!’ and so palpable the anger that they knew their task was all but impossible.
Fr O’Malley forced his way to the front of the courthouse, his hands held aloft, yelling himself to hoarseness in his appeals for calm. Those nearest paid some heed, but the crowd stretched away along the street, far beyond his vocal range.
‘They’re going to invade us, Father!’ someone shouted.
‘They’re sending a mob of Orangemen!’
‘We don’t know that! But if Boycott’s harmed, they’ll have the excuse to do as they please!’
Owen saw a youth he didn’t recognise wielding a fence post.
‘Give me that, you amadán!’ he yelled and wrenched the improvised weapon from the boy’s grasp. He turned to the priest. ‘Look at this! And some of them are carrying stones. I don’t recognise half these men. They’re from all over.’
‘Dear God, Owen, I’m at a loss.’
The sight of Asheton Weekes approaching in Boycott’s landau, a constable at his side, suddenly diverted the crowd’s attention.
‘Is he mad? He’ll be torn to pieces,’ Owen shouted. ‘Come on Father! We have to get to Weekes.’
They battled their way through the crowd, the sight of the priest’s clothing easing their passage. The crowd had surrounded the landau, cutting off Boycott’s means of flight, and the young constable was standing with his revolver pointed skywards, appearing quite terrified. Weekes wrenched at the reins, trying to control the frightened horses. They finally reached the landau and Owen pulled away a man who was trying to dislodge Weekes. He hoisted himself up to the Englishman.
‘Weekes! Help me get the priest up.’
‘To what purpose?’
‘Just do it!’
He and Weekes grasped Fr O’Malley’s arms and pulled, fighting against the swell of bodies. They manoeuvred him into a standing position.
‘Lower the gun, please, constable,’ the priest gasped. The terrified man hesitantly complied.
Owen felt hands claw at his belt and was suddenly wrenched down into the crowd. A stranger squared up to him. ‘Who the fuck d’ye think you are?’
With that he planted a fist on Owen’s mouth, sending him reeling back into the embrace of bodies.
‘Owen!’ Fr O’Malley cried out.
Owen was conscious of several figures throwing themselves to his defence.
‘Hey, keep yer hands off him!’ a familiar voice yelled.
More punches were thrown as he struggled to his feet in time to see his neighbours, Joe Gaughan and Luke Fitzmorris, laying a number of men flat out.
‘Stop! Stop it now!’ Fr O’Malley appealed towards the melee. He turned to the crowd and employed the full volume of his capacious lungs to draw their attention.
‘Everybody! Listen to me! This will not help our cause!’
‘Go back to your holy water font, priest! This is men’s work!’ a voice cried out and Owen saw a scuffle as the heckler was tackled by several Ballinrobe locals.
The sight of a priest had calmed the crowd a little and the noise had dimmed, although there was still considerable tension in the air.
Fr O’Malley resumed. ‘Please listen, I appeal to you, violence here today will be our undoing!’
‘But Boycott’s bringing a thousand Orangemen from the north and they all have guns! We only have sticks!’ a man cried out.
‘And Gladstone’s sending the army to attack us! We have families to protect!’
The priest held his hands aloft. ‘We don’t know if any of this is true. What we do know is that if Boycott is harmed here today we’ll have martial law inside two days. Now, please, for your own good, return to your hom–’
Fr O’Malley’s voice was trampled under the sound of the boots of twenty running constables, led by Sergeant Murtagh, who surrounded the courthouse’s side door, which opened into Bridge Street.
‘It’s Boycott!’ someone cried.
Like a shoal of fish the crowd swirled towards the building and Fr O’Malley was forgotten, which at least freed the landau from the crush. Boycott’s appearance was greeted by a cacophony of booing and hissing. The constables encircled him, batons held aloft, and the group began a tortuously slow journey towards the barracks. Fr O’Malley clambered down and Owen turned to Weekes.
‘They’re taking him to the infantry barracks. Get out of here, Weekes, until this quietens down. Go, now!’
Without any debate, Weekes pulled on the reins and drove the vehicle up Abbey Street and beyond sight. Owen turned his attention back to Boycott, who was skulking behind the constabulary, fearful a missile might strike him, although the only things thrown thus far were colourfully phrased insults. The booing was incessant and the constables struggled to hold the line as the throng heaved along behind them, but they worked themselves free of the crowd, courtesy of several baton swings, and began to run down the slope of Bridge Street towards the river and the barracks beyond, the crowd stumbling after them in pursuit.
‘I hope to sweet Jesus they make it,’ Fr O’Malley said somewhat irreverently.
Owen and the priest began to follow the crowd, the slope of the street affording them a view of the entire scene. Owen saw a troop of mounted infantry emerge from the barracks and form two lines, creating a path into which Boycott and his escort fled. Immediately the soldiers closed ranks and began to retreat from the onward-rushing throng, backing their horses towards the barracks with great skill. Once they were inside, the gates were pulled shut. The crowd surged against them and began to hammer with fists and sticks, a few throwing stones over the wall. They saw a man climb on to the bridge wall to hurl abuse, but a passer-by brushed against his leg and he fell headlong into the Robe. A handful of friends hurried to his aid and pulled him out, freezing but unhurt.
‘I’m terribly troubled, Owen,’ said Fr O’Malley. ‘After all we’ve done to keep violence out of this.’
‘At least no one was hurt, not even Boycott,’ Owen remarked.
‘But for those constables, Owen, I fear they would have torn the man apart.’ He shook his head in sadness.
‘Don’t despair, Father. This was a mob, terrified they’re going to be invaded. Once a mob gets an idea like that in its collective head, it’s impossible to control.’
They turned at the sound of approaching horses to see ten mounted constables escorting what looked like a high-ranking police officer and the magistrate, McSheehy, directly towards the crowd.
‘What now?’ Owen said.
The mounted constabulary ignored them and the few other stragglers, then halted on the bridge at the point where the crowd became too dense for them to proceed.
The senior officer drew his pistol and fired a single shot skywards to draw the crowd’s attention. There were a few screams and yelps of fright, but when it dawned that the shot had not come from the barracks, but from behind them, several hundred faces turned at once. The RIC officer stoo
d in his stirrups and began to yell above their heads.
‘I’m Sub-Inspector McArdle of the RIC. You are all disturbing the peace and will disperse immediately. If you do not, force will be used.’
The silence continued briefly as the changed situation was absorbed. Then a chant started somewhere and began to spread like water spilt on a smooth surface.
‘Boycott out! Boycott out! Boycott out!’
McArdle glanced at the magistrate and nodded. He fired a second and third shot and the chant faded again. McSheehy produced a document and began to read aloud.
Our Sovereign Her Majesty Queen Victoria charges and commands all persons being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves, and peaceably to depart to their habitations, or to their lawful business, upon the pains contained in the act made in the first year of King George, for preventing tumults and riotous assemblies. God Save the Queen!
‘Just what we needed, the Riot Act,’ remarked Owen sardonically.
‘The idiots! “God save the Queen”. It’ll be like a red rag to a bull!’
As if to confirm the priest’s observation, the chanting immediately resumed, interspersed now with evocations of ancient Irish cries of freedom from tyranny.
‘Father, quick, out of the way!’
As Owen pulled the startled priest aside, about fifty cavalry arrived down Bridge Street, having been dispatched from the barracks at the other end of town.
‘They can’t use soldiers! This is a civil matter!’ the priest protested, the anger rising in his throat.
‘They can if they judge themselves under threat. As soon as the crowd gathered outside the barracks–’
‘My God, there could be killing.’
Owen saw a rock curve in an arc from the crowd and strike a constable’s horse. The animal reared, throwing the man to the ground. McArdle quickly fired into the air again but rather than quell the crowd’s rage, his action prompted a torrent of missiles.