by Colin Murphy
‘Finally, gentlemen, it is in all our interests to avoid inflaming the situation. A war in Mayo is the last thing this country needs.’
Most of the correspondents nodded in acknowledgement, many thinking that from a newsroom point of view, a war was precisely what they needed.
‘Well, gentlemen. Thank you for your attendance.’
As Forster turned to leave, twenty hands shot up at once.
‘I hadn’t planned to take questions. Perhaps one or two.’
In the interests of not appearing biased towards the loyalists, he pointed first to The Freeman’s Journal correspondent. The man stood up. He was a young, intellectual type with spectacles and a well-worn tweed jacket.
‘Sir, is it not the case that the charges brought against Mr Parnell and others relating to conspiracy to shun certain individuals, and the act of sending a large military force into Mayo, are both tactics designed to undermine peaceful attempts to bring justice to the impoverished tenantry?’
There were grunts of protest from some of the others. Forster squared his shoulders and inhaled sharply to convey his outrage at the suggestion.
‘The events you refer to are entirely unconnected. And I would hardly call a riot and the intimidation of Captain Boycott “peaceful”.’
He quickly pointed to the man from The Belfast News Letter. If he expected an easier time from a loyalist, he was sorely mistaken. The Belfast man was of a more experienced mould – middle-aged, rotund, well dressed, and with a fearless countenance.
‘Isn’t it true that it was only when men loyal to Her Majesty organised the Boycott Relief Expedition that the Government decided to act?’
Forster’s voice jumped a notch. ‘That is most certainly not the case! Captain Boycott is not the only one who requested help. We needed time to consider…’
‘In other words, sir, your department dithered so long in offering help that it was left to The Belfast News Letter and its supporters to prompt the Government to action.’
‘That is absolutely outrageous!’ Forster slammed his palm against the lectern. ‘This briefing has ended!’
With that he turned his back on the twenty men who scribbled and scratched their shorthand at a frenetic pace, their thoughts already turning to the following day’s editions.
CHAPTER 28
IRELAND – THE LAND AGITATION
The Boycott expedition is the most exciting topic of the day. It has withdrawn attention from the prosecutions [of Parnell etc] and the agitation, and filled the minds of the public with mingled curiosity, irritation and fear. The refusal of the Government to permit 100 armed men to march through a district so disturbed is generally admitted by fair and reasonable persons to have been wise and necessary, in order to avoid serious breaches of the peace.
–The Times, 9 November 1880
I determined to pay a visit to Captain Boycott’s house and see with my own eyes the true state of affairs at Lough Mask House. In marked contrast to the tasteful furniture of the drawing room into which I was ushered, was the appearance of Captain Boycott. He entered hastily, wearing an old shooting coat, which was bespattered with mud, and apologised for the condition of his attire, explaining that he had been ‘dipping his sheep’.
–Press Association correspondent, 10 November 1880
9-10 NOVEMBER 1880
To Mr Bernard Becker, c/o The Railway Hotel, Eyre Square, Galway Becker,
We’ve received information that the government is sending a thousand troops to Ballinrobe. They’ve also taken other emergency measures involving the police and judiciary. They’ve restricted the numbers of the ‘Orange invasion’ to fifty, but still fear a major confrontation. Westminster is rife with rumours that this could be the spark to start a civil war in Ireland. At least thirty other correspondents from Britain, Europe and the United States have been assigned to Mayo. The government is determined to break what has become known as the ‘boycott’, which they hope will also break the will of the Land League. This entire thing is being watched throughout the empire and beyond. Even the US Presidential Election and Ned Kelly’s forthcoming hanging have taken a back seat. Boycott is the story everyone wants to hear about. Proceed immediately back to Ballinrobe and send daily dispatches. The fact that you have already established a relationship with Boycott should give you an advantage.
FH Hill, Editor, London Daily News. 11.00 a.m. November 9th 1880
‘That’s the third special army train today, full of soldiers and all manner of bits and bobs of equipment. Look at them guns they have, like they’re readyin’ for war. And the feckin’ horses, they’ve covered me station in shit, excuse me language, sir, but I’ll be a week cleaning the place.’
‘That’s quite all right. Thank you.’
Redpath snapped shut his notebook and tipped his cap to the discommoded stationmaster, who wandered off in a private grumble along the platform of Claremorris train station, trying his best to dodge the disembarking soldiers.
Keen to witness the huge influx of troops, the American had travelled the seventeen miles from Neale to Claremorris. Both The New York Herald and The Chicago Inter Ocean had that very morning telegraphed him requesting a detailed update on events surrounding the boycott. Interest in the story in America had snowballed and The Chicago Inter Ocean had, in fact, become the world’s first publication (thanks to a report of his own), to use ‘boycott’ as a noun and verb – Fr O’Malley’s new word had already moved into the vernacular.
Winter had finally broken on Mayo like a wave. The skies above were a blanket of dark grey and cold rain pelted down unremittingly. As he moved along the platform, his ears were assailed by an eclectic mix of English accents so diverse it was hard to credit that they all hailed from the same country. Horses whinnied as they were guided from the boxcars, men carted boxes of ordnance from the train and several covered ambulance coaches were being steered from an open railcar.
He dodged his way towards an officer sheltering under the platform roof and pulled out his notebook. The officer wore a scarlet uniform and stood in stiff military fashion, one hand behind his back, the second fixed rigidly by his side.
Redpath offered a ‘good morning’ and the man briefly flicked his gaze towards him without responding.
‘Sir, forgive my intrusion, my name is James Redpath, correspondent with The Chicago Inter Ocean. Could I trouble you to inquire about the operation?’
The officer turned his head a little. ‘An American?’
‘Yes, sir, I am.’
‘Sir, may I inquire, have you journeyed all the way from Chicago to report on this incident?’ He seemed genuinely curious.
‘Well, I’ve been here on assignment for some months. May I ask the scale of the current operation? Or is that a military secret?’ He smiled in an attempt to weaken the officer’s defences. To his surprise it worked. The officer relaxed and granted him an informal salute.
‘Brevet Lieutenant Colonel Twentyman of the Hussars.’
His accent was clipped, his diction perfect.
‘May I ask, sir, how many troops the operation involves?’
He nodded towards the men milling about under the incessant yelling of their sergeants. ‘Well, sir, we’ve got four troops of the 19th Hussars, roughly four hundred men. Also a detachment of the Army Service Corps. In fact, where is he…?’ He spotted another officer and called out. ‘Major Reynolds!’
The major hurried over and snapped a salute.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Major, this is Mr Redpath, an American newsman.’
Twentyman leaned towards Redpath and said with pride: ‘This is Surgeon Major Reynolds, VC, decorated with Britain’s highest military honour for his service at Rourke’s Drift in the Zulu war.’
The men exchanged greetings.
‘Major Reynolds commands the Hospital Corps. Thank you, Major.’
Twentyman resumed his account. ‘Earlier today, trains arrived with more men, rations, equipment, carts and so on, and this aftern
oon we will be joined by a further four hundred officers and men of the 84th Regiment. A formidable display of Her Majesty’s forces, wouldn’t you say?’ Evidently Twentyman believed he was there to report on the impressiveness of the logistical operation.
Redpath decided to put at least one card on the table. ‘Sir, you’ve brought heavy guns, explosives, cavalry, even famous military heroes. Isn’t it a little excessive to keep thirty unarmed tenant farmers at bay?’
‘Sir, I’m led to believe that the entire local population is working in league to intimidate Captain Boycott.’
‘But they’re unarmed men, women and childr–’
Twentyman’s tone changed sharply. ‘If you’re implying I would order my troops to fire on women and children, I take that as an insult to the honour of Her Majesty’s forces. But if necessary, we will defend an Englishman under siege from seditious reactionaries. And you may write that for your American readers. Good day, sir!’
Twentyman snapped an about-turn and walked away.
Redpath couldn’t help but hope that if the time came, the Lieutenant Colonel would be able to tell the tenants from the reactionaries.
Fr O’Malley, Owen Joyce, Joe Gaughan, Luke Fitzmorris and young Matt O’Toole stood sheltering under a shop’s canopy, watching as the soldiers approached down Bridge Street. Having marched the twelve miles from Claremorris to Ballinrobe, the troops were to a man soaked to the skin, their boots and legs muddied and their faces white with cold. Earlier the five men had watched an equally large battalion arrive and it was becoming hard to believe that the British Government had responded to Boycott’s situation on such an extraordinary scale.
A shout went up from a mounted officer and the troops came to an abrupt halt. Even in the dim light cast by the street’s gas lamps, Owen could see that they were all very young, most no more than twenty. They had the faces of poor men, their uniforms unable to conceal the fact that they came from the homes of labourers or miners, and probably joined the army to escape their own world of poverty. As he watched, he couldn’t help but remember his brother’s prediction, which seemed to be playing out with chilling accuracy: the English, he’d said, would simply send in the army to crush their pathetic boycott. He had to admit that when they’d started this he had never envisioned an invasion of English soldiers, but he hoped to God that the army were never given cause to spill blood.
Down at the barracks entrance they could see some commotion, with a number of officers on horseback exchanging words.
‘What’s goin’ on?’ Joe Gaughan asked.
The foot soldiers were craning their necks to try and ascertain why they’d been halted so close to their temporary home. Finally an officer rode back up and addressed the junior officers, having to shout to make himself heard above the pelting rain.
‘Gentlemen. It appears that the Army Service Corps wagons have neglected to bring the tents or cooking utensils. And both of the barracks are already at capacity.’
A general peal of laughter started to spread among the locals who had assembled to watch the spectacle. The unfortunate, sodden privates did not appreciate their reception and aimed a few choice oaths at their audience before being reprimanded by a superior.
‘Men! Until the tents arrive, you will break out and find shelter wherever you can. Be warned, this does not give you permission to enter private dwellings or premises by force. Fall out!’
The troops turned back towards the town and began to drift aimlessly in groups, each under the command of a sergeant. Within ten minutes they were huddling under canopies, crouching in alleys and standing in doorways. To add to their misery, they now had to endure the catcalls that emanated from several upstairs windows in the street.
‘Have a nice nap now, lads!’
‘Welcome te Mayo!’
‘Jaysus, lads, yis shouldn’t be out in the rain. Ye’ll catch yer death!’
Joe had rigged a tarpaulin over his cart to provide some shelter. As the five men drove down Market Street towards home, looking out at the soldiers’ miserable faces and listening to the chorus of taunts, Fr O’Malley cursed and shook his head.
‘I wish they’d stop that. How many times do I have to tell some people? No provocation. These soldiers look fit to kill.’
They sat silently under the tarpaulin listening to the rain pattering down and the wheels churning a muddy rut beneath. Owen saw the dark shape of the workhouse across a field and wondered about the unfortunates still within its walls. The last time he’d had any direct involvement with the English army had been their pursuit of him when he’d fled that very building on a night almost as cold as this one.
They watched the dark, open countryside drift by. Soon they would all be home and warm in their beds, safe under the thatch they’d laid with their own hands. But Owen could sense what each of them was thinking. The army’s arrival presaged bad times ahead. If the boycott could be broken and Boycott the man backed up with a military force, the day might soon dawn when the evictions would resume and everything they had worked for would be for naught. Their simple cottages would be taken from them and, alongside their wives and children, they would be cast out, huddling under winter skies like those soldiers, until either the workhouse or death claimed them.
‘Y’know, Father, I’ll go along with this, with you and Mr Parnell and Mr Davitt because I trust ye know what ye’re doing.’ It was Luke Fitzgerald who spoke.
‘I’m glad to hear it, Luke.’
Luke looked out into the night reflectively.
‘These fifty men coming from the north, the Protestant workmen, if they come down here and dig Boycott’s spuds, then fine, I’m happy enough to not interfere. But if they come here bent on shedding blood because they know the English army will back them up, then I don’t care how many there are, but I intend te defend me family.’
Joe Gaughan looked over his shoulder. ‘I’m in the same boat, Father. If it’s bloodshed they want, then that’s what they’ll get.’
‘Maybe there’ll be more than fifty. There could be a thousand. But them and the English can’t just come into our county and walk all over us. I don’t care if the English or the Orangemen have guns, I’ll fight them with me pitchfork,’ Matt O’Toole said.
‘And you’ll die with your pitchfork, young Matt.’ The priest sighed despondently. ‘Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that. And you, Owen, what do you say?’
Owen couldn’t deny that the spectre that had once haunted his thoughts, of spilling blood, of war offering a path to justice, the very path his brother had taken, was beginning to stir again at the sight of the English troops. It chilled him even to contemplate the idea that he shared in some way the darkness in his brother’s heart. But he knew he must face the stark possibility that they’d all been deluding themselves with their boycott. And if an English gun threatened his family, what would he do? What choices would remain?
‘Would I kill, you mean? I suppose I’ll find out when the time comes.’
A German man called John Valkenburg ran the Valkenburg Hotel in Ballinrobe’s Market Street with startling efficiency – startling certainly to the locals, who generally adopted a more casual approach to commerce. Mr Valkenburg, by all accounts a most obliging and polite man, also knew how to maximise his returns, offering lower rates when he had empty rooms, doubling prices when demand was high and insisting on a level of punctuality that his Irish staff found baffling.
Maggie Cusack, the Boycotts’ former maidservant, had been granted a position in the hotel thanks to Fr O’Malley putting in a quiet word with Mr Valkenburg. The German had been delighted to take her on, along with two other ex-members of Boycott’s staff, as there had been a recent upsurge in business. In fact, he had never had such an influx of guests, not even in the summer when gentlemen flocked to Ballinrobe to indulge their love of fishing in Lough Mask’s bountiful waters. It was boom time.
He had doubled up all of the rooms and had stratified the guests according to profession, as this seem
ed to his efficient mind the perfectly natural thing to do. So the top floor was filled to capacity with newspaper correspondents, and what a curious caboodle they were – Irish, English, Scottish, an American, a Frenchman and even a fellow German. On the first floor he’d put the military gentlemen, dispatched to the hotel due to the overflow from the town’s two barracks. He appreciated the discipline and efficiency of the military and liked to watch them march about his hotel with their backs straight, riding crops and caps slung under their arms. Numbered among them was the overall commander, Major Coghill, then Colonel Bedingfeld, Lieutenant Colonel Twentyman and Surgeon Major Reynolds. He had crammed a host of other subordinates into the pokier accommodations; three to room, or in some cases, a bed, but at the same price, naturally.
On the ground floor there were only four bedrooms, but he’d turned a parlour and a smoking room into bedrooms, and the extra magistrates of the law occupied these.
Maggie approached Mr Valkenburg through the crowded reception area and handed him a telegraph.
‘Maggie, all rooms done by noon, if you please. There is much preparation for dinner this evening,’ he said, his German accent having been softened by the Mayo air.
Maggie nodded sullenly and turned away. Although he paid the girl more than she had earned in Captain Boycott’s employment, she seemed permanently unhappy and wandered about the hotel with a faraway expression.
The telegraph was from Mr Bernard Becker, another newsman seeking a room. And although Mr Becker had stayed in the hotel recently, Mr Valkenburg could not accommodate him. Luckily he’d come to an arrangement with several townsfolk whereby they would absorb his overflow of guests and he would take a thirty percent commission for the referral. He would put Mr Becker with the Widow Barry, a wonderful woman with a large house who was already fussing over four officers of the Hussars.