Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  Only members of the press were allowed on to the platform, but Redpath assured the RIC that Owen was his assistant. Fr O’Malley’s cloth guaranteed his admittance. More soldiers and constabulary jostled for space on the platform, but the overall operation was still officially a civil one, which explained the presence of Mr McSheehy, the Ballinrobe magistrate.

  Among the newsmen present, Owen noticed, was the wealthy owner of The Connaught Telegraph, James Daly, who had unashamedly used the columns of his newspaper to support the Land League’s aims. After some lengthy discussion with McSheehy, Daly had secured permission, on the basis that no inflammatory language was used, to make a brief address to the arriving labourers, as their own leaders had addressed the Orangemen before they’d departed and therefore a balance must be struck.

  The train hissed and hooted to a stop and the stationmaster cried out ‘Clarrrrre-morrrisss’ in a theatrical fashion. At the final grind of the wheels, a silence and a palpable tension descended over the platform and extended beyond the station to the crowd outside. The soldiers stood sharp, while the constables clamped hands on batons.

  The carriage doors were thrown open and a handful of regular passengers alighted, looking about them in some apprehension at the sight of all the weaponry and grim faces. These were hastily directed into the station building. Next came the news correspondents, who quickly took up positions that afforded them a view of the reception.

  Then they came, through several doors, blinking at the light, knapsacks slung across their backs. The first thing that struck Owen was how ordinary they looked. One might have plucked them from any farm in Mayo. They wore workingmen’s clothing, worn and soiled with earth in places, and their faces had the same weather-beaten texture of those he knew who toiled for long hours in the rain, wind and sun. Their faces were also marked with fear. He had no idea what these men had been told to expect, but he suspected it had been greatly exaggerated. After all his fretting, on seeing them now, a collection of ordinary, ragged working folk, he almost had the urge to laugh.

  They were organised into two lines, backs to the train, and Daly was granted his opportunity to address the men (under protest from their leaders Goddard and Manning). He stood facing them, hands on hips, head held high as he looked to his left and right along their lines.

  ‘Men of Cavan and Monaghan. I can see by your faces you are worried. There is no need for this. I assure you that Connaughtmen will not soil their hands with your blood and soon you will return to your homes unharmed. I suspect you have been given a vision of Mayo and the Land League that has put the fear of God into you. But I can assure you that we have nothing but peaceful intent. All we pursue is justice and fairness, as is every man’s right, yours and ours alike. And I believe that when you return home, it will be with an altogether different impression of us than when you arrived.’

  There was utter silence for a time, the labourers giving each other sideways glances. Owen could sense a degree of bewilderment among them. From their point of view they were in a strange land, the heartland of the enemy, and they had no notion what the days ahead might bring.

  One of them turned to Daly. ‘What kind of bastard is this Boycott?’

  Owen was surprised by the question at first, having assumed their loyalty to Boycott would have been secured. But then he remembered that they probably worked for a landlord themselves and many of them were likely as not to be subject to tough conditions and poor reward.

  Daly shook his head. ‘He is not worth all the fuss. He is a self-made martyr. The man has run his farm badly for years and when he got himself into a financial corner, he sounded the alarm bells so that ordinary men like yourselves would hand over your hard-earned money to extricate him. Whatever happens, Boycott will leave Ireland a richer man than when he arrived. Keep that in mind as you break your backs in his fields.’

  Manning insisted on trying to counter Daly’s arguments with a few bellowed statements about ‘Land League lies’ and ‘Fenian usurpers’. In response, cries of: ‘Go back to Ulster!’ and ‘Boycott’s puppets!’ began to sound from outside the station. Before things got out of hand, the men were marched outside to a cacophony of booing. The ranks of the soldiers braced themselves as the labourers grouped behind them, but the crowd restricted themselves to verbal missiles.

  Almost on cue the heavens opened and much grumbling ensued as the cavalcade set off. The people of Claremorris followed to the edge of town but the narrowness of the road prevented them continuing and they returned to the warmth of their homes, leaving the ‘Boycott Brigade’ to tramp through the rain, mud and descending darkness.

  Major Coghill led the cavalcade and behind him rode thirty Hussars, then the mounted constables, also about thirty in number, followed by fifty of their colleagues in carriages. Then came the men of the 76th Regiment on foot, who surrounded the drenched Orangemen to such an extent that the roadside spectators could barely see the tops of their heads above the spiked helmets and raised swords. After these came the ambulance and supply wagons, followed by the mounted Dragoons and then a curious collection of cars, covered carriages, farm carts and lone horses which conveyed the international press corps and various interested locals.

  Women emerged from cottages with babes in their arms and stood gawping at the bizarre spectacle; dogs barked and nipped at the horses’ hooves; farmers paused in their work and shook their heads in bewilderment; and birds took flight from trees at the sound of hundreds of approaching horses.

  Owen sat beside Joe Gaughan on his cart. Redpath and Fr O’Malley were close behind.

  ‘I’ve never seen such an oddball thing in me whole life,’ Joe remarked at the stream of heads bobbing along the road as far as he could see.

  Owen nodded reflectively.

  Halfway through the twelve-mile journey, the cavalcade experienced its only casualty when Major Coghill’s horse suddenly reared up and the officer was thrown with great force against one of Mayo’s innumerable stone walls, shattering his fibia in two places. It took twenty minutes to manoeuvre an ambulance wagon through the massed ranks, by which time the unfortunate major had passed out.

  It was past ten by the time the weary, sodden workers and soldiers trooped into Ballinrobe barracks. Owen and the others watched the procession snake its way inside for a full ten minutes, until finally the gates were pulled shut.

  The priest pulled his coat about him to ward off the chill. He appeared a little disconsolate, standing in the light of the gas lamps, raindrops streaming down his face. ‘I bet that blaggard Boycott is rubbing his hands at the thought he’s beaten us,’ he said.

  Owen shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say that, Father. In fact, I’ve been thinking all the way along the road that the government are playing right into our hands.’

  CHAPTER 31

  Nearly three weeks of painful excitement had made but slight change in Mr. Boycott’s family. His wife and niece live under circumstances which would drive many people mad and the combative land-agent maintains a belligerent attitude, the grey head and slight spare figure bowed, but by no means in submission. On the contrary, never was Mr. Boycott’s attitude more defiant… every feature of his extraordinary situation depicted in my first letter on ‘Disturbed Ireland’ is exaggerated almost to distortion.

  –Bernard H Becker, Special Commissioner of The Daily News, 14 November 1880

  THE LAND AGITATION

  …but absurd as it may appear that a little army – horse, foot, and artillery – should be required to secure the safety of a number of labourers digging potatoes for an unpopular gentleman farmer, the affair has a grave aspect, by which the Government cannot fail to be impressed… it is impossible from the nature of the case to apply all over the country the remedy which may be found effective in defeating Captain Boycott’s persecutors.

  –The Times of London, 12 November 1880

  12-14 NOVEMBER 1880

  ‘My hope was to force Boycott to submit without violence. It would have been a fine symb
ol for all of the other oppressed tenants in Ireland,’ said Fr O’Malley.

  They were gathered at the side of the Ballinrobe to Neale road under a grey morning sky. Síomha and Tadhg stood beside Owen and the priest, and about fifty others loitered about, all keen to witness the labourers’ arrival, and their accompanying escort.

  Owen turned to the priest. ‘We’ll still defeat Boycott. He’ll still be isolated after the soldiers have left. But can’t you see what’s happened, Father? This has gone beyond Boycott. The British Government are involved and the entire world is watching what’s going on in our little parish. And they’ve made one huge blunder.’

  The priest shook his head. Owen pointed to the approaching cavalcade. Necks craned, and children clambered up trees for a better view of proceedings.

  ‘My thinking must be slow this morning, Owen.’

  The enormous procession marched by, mostly watched in silence.

  ‘Look at them, Father,’ Owen continued, ‘hundreds of soldiers, police, labourers from Ulster, horses, wagons, tons of provisions. The logistics must have been tremendous. How much do you think all of this has cost the English taxpayer?’

  A grin touched the corners of Fr O’Malley’s lips. ‘I’ve no idea, Owen, but I imagine it’s a pretty penny.’

  ‘I’d say thousands of pounds. Perhaps ten thousand. To collect a crop worth five hundred. D’ye think that every time tenants boycott a landlord they’re going to spend ten thousand to come to his aid? The British Exchequer would be bankrupt in a year. They’ve shot themselves in the foot!’

  Síomha, who had shared Owen’s thinking as they lay in bed the night before, now added her voice. ‘This is a show they’ve decided to put on for the Land League, Father. But they can only afford one show. When it dawns on the world how much they’ve spent, they’ll be a laughing stock. Far from discouraging other tenants to boycott their landlords, this will encourage them.’

  The priest was smiling openly now. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, but I think you might have a point.’

  ‘And it’s too late for them to back out now. No matter what way they play the game, they lose,’ Síomha added.

  ‘There’s just one thing that could destroy everything,’ Owen said now, his tone more muted.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If someone were to kill Boycott.’

  The cavalcade passed through the gates of the estate and the woodland to the field beyond. A halt was called and the correspondents leapt from their cars, Redpath among them, and hurried towards the front of the cortège, keen to record the moment of arrival.

  They watched in silence as Boycott approached, Weekes by his side. Behind them, lingering near the house, was Annie Boycott, with her niece and nephew. The land agent carried a double-barrelled shotgun, locked in the firing position, and his companion a Winchester rifle. Redpath considered the display of weapons a means of reinforcing the image of a man under siege by violent insurgents. The fact was that since they’d left the road at Neale, they had not encountered a single other human being.

  ‘Captain Boycott, I presume,’ Manning said with great cheer.

  ‘Thank you for coming to my assistance. This is Mr Weekes, my associate.’ Boycott’s greeting was delivered only to the expedition’s leader, and in the most indifferent way imaginable. Introductions complete, he turned on his heel and began to walk back towards the house. The correspondents – from the nationalist press in particular – keenly reported that Boycott had failed to express a solitary word of thanks to the labouring men from Ulster who would rescue him from penury.

  A trifle disappointed at the lack of drama accompanying the arrival of the expedition – violent drama in particular – most of the correspondents resorted to reporting on the vast encampment that had appeared in the grounds, which included five tents erected especially for the labourers. The nationalist correspondents once again gleefully recorded that the harvesting tools had been left at the barracks, which meant that no work could be accomplished that day.

  Redpath strolled across to James Daly, who was laughing openly as about thirty soldiers struggled to keep two distinct factions of labourers apart.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘The Cavan and Monaghan men are at each other’s throats because they have to share tents. Local rivalry or something. With any luck they’ll beat the daylights out of each other.’

  Redpath couldn’t help but grin. Boycott’s great relief expedition might well founder before a single turnip was plucked from the ground. It required the intervention of Colonel Twentyman to negotiate a peace, which involved putting different contingents in separate tents and splitting the workload according to county.

  ‘Hardly an auspicious start to their great war of principle,’ Daly said to Redpath as they walked away.

  ‘How many?’ Annie Boycott asked angrily.

  ‘The officers, six I believe, along with four magistrates and Manning and Goddard.’

  ‘Twelve people? You’ve invited twelve people to dinner without consulting me? My God, Charles, will you ever learn? I simply cannot take much more of this!’

  They sat in fraught silence for a time until finally Annie stood, folded her arms across her chest and glared down at him.

  ‘You’ll have to request an army cook to assist the maid. Otherwise you may cancel the dinner.’

  He went to reply but she cut him off before he managed a solitary word.

  ‘Don’t argue with me, Charles. Just damn well do it!’

  She left him with his mouth hanging open. It was the first occasion in their twenty-six years of marriage he’d heard her swear.

  He hastened to speak to Colonel Twentyman and within ten minutes a burly Yorkshireman with an indecipherable accent was dispatched to assist the maid. He turned out to be highly efficient at his job and in a few hours had prepared a meal of roast beef, gravy, potatoes and carrots, even supplying a pudding made from bread crusts, apples and eggs for dessert, which everyone, excepting Annie, agreed was splendid. Exhausted, she’d sat in virtual silence throughout. She and Madeleine had spent the previous hours washing the floors, scrubbing plates and cutlery, arranging table settings and then hurrying away to make some effort to improve their appearance.

  The men crowded around the table now, sipping brandies, a number of them smoking cigars or cigarettes, and a fog of blue-grey smoke lingered overhead. Annie wasn’t used to people smoking and found that it stung her eyes. By nine o’clock she was fit for bed but felt it would be rude to depart as these men had gone to such trouble to come to their aid.

  ‘Eh Boycott, I hate to raise this subject after that wonderful meal, but I think it’s better on the table, so to speak.’ The speaker was Manning.

  ‘What’s that, Manning?’ Boycott’s apprehension was evident.

  ‘Well, it concerns the labourers’ remuneration.’

  ‘Remuneration? You mean you expect me to pay them?’

  ‘Well, naturally. These men were willing to risk their lives to come to your relief and it was assumed you would pay them, just as you would your own workforce.’

  An uncomfortable silence mingled with the thickening tobacco fumes. Boycott began to tap the table staccato-fashion with his fingers.

  ‘But I thought they would be paid from the relief fund,’ he said at last.

  Goddard joined the fray. ‘The expedition costs have been enormous, I’m afraid, sir, and only succeeded through the generosity of the Express proprietor, Mr Robinson. I’m afraid the fund has reached its limits.’

  Boycott slapped the table lightly. ‘Sir, it is not that I’m ungrateful but I have been under enormous financial strain these past months. Some of my crop has already rotted in the ground. I mean, for heaven’s sake, I didn’t ask for fifty-seven men!’

  Manning sat bolt upright. ‘Well, sir, if you would prefer we shall return to our homes tomorrow!’

  Annie squirmed with embarrassment. ‘Mr Manning, what Charles meant was that he had only allowed for payment
of twenty men. And he’s been under enormous strain.’

  Fifteen faces turned towards Annie.

  Manning relaxed. It would be unseemly to continue the argument with a woman. ‘Of course, madam, I’m sure the matter can be resolved to everyone’s satisfaction at a later date.’

  ‘Now if you will excuse me, I believe I will retire,’ Annie said wearily. ‘There’s been far too much excitement in one day. Goodnight, gentlemen. Madeleine, would you accompany me?’

  The men rose as one as the ladies departed. Once outside, Annie began to cry.

  Overnight, a torrential rainstorm accompanied by high winds did its best to uproot the encampment’s fifty tents. By morning the storm had softened to a light drizzle, a thousand muddy pools now speckling the area that two days previously had been an unblemished meadow. The labourers rose bright and early and were led to their respective fields: Monaghan men to dig mangolds, Cavan men to dig potatoes. At 8 o’clock precisely, the first of Boycott’s potatoes saw the light of day. It was the first work done in the potato field in almost two months.

  Despite the rain, the Ulstermen put their backs into the digging of the crops with the same vigour that would have marked their own harvesting. Eighty soldiers and constables wandered the perimeter and the labourers found it disconcerting to have men in suits observing them from the gate, scribbling notes or producing sketches for The London Illustrated News or Harper’s Weekly. They knew little of the intricacies of newspaper writing, but they were all in agreement that surely there were more interesting stories in the world than reporting on labourers plucking potatoes from the Mayo mud.

  ‘Have ye nothin’ better te be doin’?’ one of them finally shouted at the newsmen, Becker among them. After a few mutterings, the correspondents began to shuffle away.

  The reality was that they actually had little else to be doing, Becker considered. But with editors baying for fresh news and the Fenians having failed to provide the predicted attacks, the sight of the labourers harvesting Boycott’s potatoes was the most exciting event to report. The English public had been fired with the notion of rushing to a fellow Englishman’s rescue. Unfortunately for their editors, this relief was being brought not by men unloading bullets at an encroaching bloodthirsty horde, but by the fifty-seven men rather undramatically wielding shovels against the mud.