Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  Becker decided to abandon Boycott temporarily and return to the pursuit of more interesting stories in Galway. He would return to witness any drama that might accompany the conclusion of the expedition, but for now it seemed that the monster he had helped to create was as docile as a lamb and about as newsworthy.

  Thomas pulled himself to the top of Lough Mask Estate’s perimeter wall and listened. But for the pattering of rain on the carpet of autumnal leaves, all was quiet. He could see little through the darkness except for the distant glow of campfires through the trees. The RIC patrol was extremely accommodating in its regularity – having passed five minutes before, it would not return for thirty minutes, which provided ample time. He reached a hand down to Martin McGurk.

  ‘Keep it quiet,’ he whispered.

  Having dropped down the other side, they remained crouching for a few moments.

  ‘Which way?’

  McGurk was nervous. There was a huge difference between writing threatening letters and actually going on a mission that might earn you a bullet. McGurk pointed towards the vague outline of trees.

  ‘The field’s just beyond those trees.’

  Five minutes later they emerged from the copse and heard the low bleating of sheep. McGurk pulled out his knife.

  ‘Make it quick and quiet.’

  ‘I’d prefer if it was Boycott’s throat.’

  ‘Shut up and get on with it,’ Thomas snapped.

  Madeleine Boycott rose from her bed and rubbed her eyes. The clock on her bedroom mantel informed her that it was almost eight-thirty. The light on the curtain suggested a bright Sunday morning had dawned, which pleased her no end, as the weather of recent days had been foul. The presence of soldiers had robbed the woods of their stillness, but as it was Sunday she hoped to find some isolated spot that morning where she could read in peace and pretend briefly that this awful boycotting nightmare didn’t exist.

  She closed her robe about her and pulled back the curtains with a swish. It took a moment to register what she was looking at, then Madeleine screamed and fainted.

  ‘Cut it down, ye fool!’ Sergeant Murtagh yelled at the young constable who had been on sentry duty the previous night.

  The constable drew his pocketknife and cut the rope, allowing the sheep to come crashing to the ground in a bloody heap. Its throat had been cut and it had then been suspended from an oak tree about twenty yards from the rear of the house. A sign dangled from one of its horns with the name ‘Boycott’ scrawled in blood.

  ‘Take it to the camp and say ye killed it.’

  ‘I killed it?’

  ‘Listen, you idiot, it’s bad enough that someone could get this close te the house, but the last thing I need are six hundred men with itchy fuckin’ trigger fingers. Say ye were fed up eating tinned beef and ye fancied some mutton stew. Now, keep your mouth shut and get out of my sight while I try and calm Mrs Boycott.’

  The sergeant walked to the house and admitted himself. He’d been summoned earlier when Mrs Boycott’s niece had seen the animal. By sheer good fortune only the women had witnessed the incident, as Boycott, Weekes and the lad had gone out riding. Despite her distress, Mrs Boycott had the good sense to heed his advice not to inform her husband. He entered the drawing room, which was littered with blankets as it was now doubling as a bedroom. She sat in a corner, red-eyed, twisting her hands in her lap.

  ‘Mrs Boycott. Once more, I want te assure ye this won’t happen again. But I must appeal te ye again te keep a lid on this. I’ve got sixty constables I don’t know out there, all twitching at the snap of a twig. I’m afraid this will make things worse. One thing could lead te another and we could end up with a bloody confrontation.’

  Her voice trembled as she spoke. ‘I can’t take much more of this.’

  He was surprised at her lack of anger. She almost sounded as if she was asking for a sympathetic ear.

  ‘I understand, Mrs Boycott. How’s Miss Boycott?’

  ‘Oh she’s had the most awful fright. I gave her some powders and she’s sleeping. Why did they do that, Sergeant? What was the point?’

  ‘To provoke, Mrs Boycott. Simply that. Do ye intend te inform your husband?’

  Annie gazed through the window. She rarely kept things from him but she knew the sergeant was right. He would explode, demand more police, more soldiers, insist that every tenant be questioned. Their situation would just worsen, if that were possible. She would try to convince Madeleine also of the necessity of sealing her lips.

  ‘No Sergeant. We’ll keep a lid on it, as you put it. That’s probably for the best.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ He nodded and left.

  Annie decided on a course of action. It would require the assistance of Asheton Weekes. She had already made a decision to keep one piece of information from her husband; what matter then if she kept another?

  It being the Lord’s Day, the labourers loitered about the estate, the only diversion being a religious service held for them in the barn, after which a few engaged in foot races against their English protectors. Rumours abounded in the camp that there had been an incursion of some kind during the night and by evening the gossip had evolved into a certainty that a Fenian assault force had travelled from Tipperary and planned to attack as they slept in their tents. Colonel Twentyman believed the reports a fiction, but took the precaution of tripling the sentries, issuing passwords and requesting a further squadron of the 84th Regiment.

  At the Sunday mass in Neale, Fr O’Malley again preached calm and non-violence, declaring that he’d heard from Michael Davitt, just returned from a fund-raising trip to America, and that the great man spoke of them in glowing terms. Every newspaper on the east coast of the US now wrote daily of their boycott and as a result, funds had poured into the Land League’s coffers. The people could be proud that they had shown the world a way to defeat tyranny without the gun. But it would just take one random act of violence for the entire edifice to collapse.

  Outside the church, people gathered as usual to gossip and converse. Fr O’Malley wandered across to Owen and Síomha and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

  ‘Look at this.’ He unfolded a poster, poorly printed, its message clear nonetheless.

  People of Ballinrobe!

  Are you prepared to let the English to invade your town?

  Will you let armed Orangemen rescue Boycott?

  Will you let Gladstone crush you while he

  makes the landlords rich?

  No! No! No!

  Then rise up and take what is rightfully yours by force.

  The soil of Mayo will only be yours

  when you’ve darkened it with English blood!

  God save Ireland!

  ‘Jesus almighty. Where did you get this?’

  ‘I pulled one from a pillar outside this very church this morning. Joe gave me six more that he’d taken down in Ballinrobe last night. It seems our Fenian friends are becoming more active.’

  ‘Thomas,’ Síomha said bleakly.

  ‘Perhaps. But he and his band surely must know the people of Ballinrobe would be slaughtered if they attacked the British Army? I don’t understand their thinking.’

  Owen took the poster and stared at it reflectively.

  ‘I do,’ he said without lifting his gaze.

  ‘What is it, Owen?’ Síomha asked.

  He looked at her and then the priest. ‘Maybe that’s what they want. A slaughter. A blood sacrifice. Everyone in Ireland would be outraged. And in America. The people here would be the martyrs. Ballinrobe, Neale, Lough Mask, they’d become a rallying cry to all of Ireland to mass rebellion. Parnell and Davitt and the League would be swept aside in the stampede for revenge. When you think about it, it makes perfect sense.’

  ‘Perfect madness, more like,’ Síomha said.

  ‘My God. What sort of depraved minds could conceive such a scheme?’

  ‘I can think of one, Father.’

  They drove home across the gently rolling coun
tryside washed by milky winter sunshine, Niamh squashed between them, both reflecting on the terrible vistas of Owen’s speculation. Friendly nods in the direction of a passing patrol of mounted constables were greeted with cold stares. Everyone was a suspect, it seemed.

  ‘There’s that English man from the big house.’ Niamh’s voice roused them from their thoughts and they followed her pointing finger towards the gate of their farmyard.

  Startled, Owen looked at Síomha. ‘What the hell does he want?’

  ‘Mr Joyce. Mrs Joyce,’ Asheton Weekes said, removing his riding cap.

  ‘What do you want?’

  His tone was sharp, deliberately unwelcoming. He had no personal animosity for the man, but also knew that Weekes was unshakably loyal to Boycott.

  ‘May I have a word with you?’

  The horse unhitched and Niamh sent to play, they invited him inside.

  ‘I’m sure you’re used to grander surroundings, Mr Weekes,’ Síomha said as they sat around the table, somewhat discomfited at the poverty of their home in Weekes’s presence.

  ‘I’d offer you a drink, but that would be breaking the boycott.’ Owen smiled at him without warmth.

  Weekes coughed. ‘If I may explain. First of all, Captain Boycott is unaware I’m here. My presence is at the behest of Mrs Boycott.’

  Owen raised his eyebrows. He could recall thinking that Annie Boycott was the one bedrock of sense in their household.

  ‘Mrs Boycott is grateful for your having assisted her nephew and is aware that you are directly involved in…this situation. I must confess I was reluctant to agree to her request. It feels like…like a betrayal. But considering what is at stake…’

  ‘What does she want?’ Síomha asked.

  ‘To know if we might open a dialogue with a view to ending this unpleasantness. Were you to agree to such, she would be willing to broach the subject with her husband. And I assure you, sir, such a gesture displays a great deal of courage on her part, as the Captain is a…a man of fiery temperament.’

  ‘We know,’ Owen said flatly.

  ‘Frankly, Mrs Boycott has no wish to leave here. Until recently she was most happy here and enjoyed good relations with the locals.’

  ‘We’ve no issue with Mrs Boycott – or yourself, for that matter. But we’ve never had any relationship with Captain Boycott, at least nothing better than that of a dog to its master.’

  ‘It will not serve our purposes to trade insults. The issue at stake is rent. If Mrs Boycott could convince her husband to agree to a compromise on the abatement – say fifteen percent – and also to allow rights of way, the gathering of wood and so on and so forth, would you be willing to call off your action?’

  Owen and Síomha looked at each other. They were both old enough to realise that compromise was usually the path to progress, yet they knew immediately they shared the same unspoken view.

  Owen met Weekes’s eye. ‘The answer is no.’

  He emitted a ponderous sigh. ‘May I ask why? And should you not take the proposal to your companions before you decide?’

  ‘They’ll say the same thing.’

  ‘How can you be so certain, sir?’

  ‘Had Boycott offered this originally, we probably would have accepted it. But it’s too late now. This has become bigger than any of us. All of Ireland, in fact half the world, is watching to see if a bunch of peasants in a small village can take on the most powerful empire on earth. This is no longer about the rent, Weekes. Or about me or Boycott. It’s about justice. Because if the boycott succeeds here it can succeed in all the other farms in Mayo and Galway and Cork. Everywhere. In fact it’ll be an inspiration to downtrodden people the world over.’

  ‘You’re losing control of your imagination, sir.’

  ‘You think so? We’ll know soon enough.’

  ‘Please listen to me, I understand your grievances, I know its diffic–’

  ‘But that’s the problem, you don’t understand anything.’

  ‘Mr Joyce, I’ve lived here for many year–’

  ‘Do you know why I’m certain that the others won’t agree to your offer? Because most of them lived through the famine. That’s what you and your countrymen don’t understand. Back then we were almost wiped out. I lost my entire family. So did the others. It’s not something you forget. Ever. Back then the landlords forced us on to the most barren scraps of land so they could still exploit us for rent and use the best land to grow crops for profit. When the blight came our food supply was wiped out. And when we couldn’t pay our rent the landlords evicted us so that they could graze sheep on the land we’d tilled.’

  Weekes coughed with discomfort. ‘Sir, I’ve heard of that tragic time. But the variety of crops now means the danger of famine is greatly reduced.’

  ‘For us maybe, but there are thousands of others on poorer land than this all over Ireland. What about them?’ It was Síomha who posed the question.

  ‘Ever watched a man starve to death, Weekes?’

  He didn’t reply.

  Owen continued: ‘Famine aside, eviction is almost as bad. How are a man and his family to survive by the side of the road? In the middle of winter? That’s what Boycott is threatening. And that’s why his kind must be defeated. The landlords’ power must be broken. What happened thirty years ago must never be allowed to happen again. You say the chances of famine are greatly reduced? If only a tenth of the numbers were to die, that would be more than a hundred thousand. So you see, Weekes, the stakes are much higher than you’ve imagined. Tell Mrs Boycott thank you, but it’s too late.’

  Owen rose sharply to indicate the conversation was at an end. Weekes was taken aback at the abruptness. He looked up at Owen for a moment, then rose wearily. He shook his head and turned away.

  ‘Weekes,’ Owen said to his back.

  He turned around and saw with surprise Owen’s extended hand.

  ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever meet again. I wish you good luck.’

  There was a brief hesitation before Weekes took Owen’s hand. Then he turned and left, the sound of the horse’s hooves fading to nothing as he returned to tell Annie Boycott that her life in Ireland was all but ended.

  CHAPTER 32

  THE LAND AGITATION - BALLINROBE

  Captain Boycott has received a threatening letter signed ‘Rory of the Hills’, threatening him with the fate of Lord Leitrim [who was shot], and calling him ‘a –––– robber’. It was illustrated with a coffin, a gallows, a representation of a man being stabbed with stakes and a death’s head and cross-bones. Fr O’Malley, PP, of Neale, addressed the people today. He asked them to take no notice of the Orangemen and to show no sign of either favour or disfavour while they remained in Mayo. He says that the Orangemen have met with no molestation. But nobody who heard the savage hoots which greeted the arrival of the expedition can doubt that, but for the military, molestation would have been a mild term for the treatment they might have received.

  –The Times, 15 November 1880

  The Press Association Correspondent telegraphs that there is much dissatisfaction felt by the Ulstermen who volunteered to reap Captain Boycott’s crops. It is complained that they received no welcome from the captain.

  –The Nation. 20 November 1880

  15-16 NOVEMBER 1880

  Bull Walsh farmed eighty acres of land in a valley twelve miles to the west of Clonbur, in County Galway. His cottage lay on the slopes between Ben Beg and Bunnacuneen Mountain, and the nearest road was three miles from his door. The land was virtually worthless, so rocky and inaccessible on the steep mountain slopes that nothing edible would grow there, and most of his income came from sheep farming. The property was owned by a Lord Carruthers of Cornwall, though to Walsh’s knowledge His Lordship had never set foot in Ireland, the annual rent of just twelve pounds being collected every March by an Irish land agent by the name of Thaddeus Kinsella, who, in Walsh’s view, would sell his own mother for a shilling. Walsh was required to journey to the coastal town of
Leenaun once a year, where Kinsella would receive his payment in the company of two bodyguards, as Bull Walsh’s sobriquet was well earned, his bulk and near-permanent glower presenting a frightening appearance to even the bravest.

  Beyond that, and by necessity to purchase supplies, he rarely ventured out of his valley. Since his youth he had grown used to his own company and would only tolerate visitors on rare occasions.

  But Bull Walsh also left his isolated valley occasionally to kill people. The last of his victims had been four months ago, when he had stabbed a process-server seven times in the back as he returned from issuing an eviction notice. Before that he had been responsible for the murder of Thaddeus Kinsella’s predecessor, whom he had shot in the head from close range. Despite his verbal reserve and generally uncouth appearance, Walsh possessed a deceptive level of intelligence, but the trauma of the famine years had robbed him of any wish to exploit it beyond his meticulous planning when an assassination was ordered. This, combined with the fact that he lived in the middle of nowhere, had ensured that not once had he been connected with a killing, and to his knowledge the constabulary weren’t even aware of his existence.

  Currently he was host to two fellow freedom fighters. As his guests were engaged in the same war as him, he could just about tolerate their intermittent presence, especially now that they had ceased their attempts to converse with him – and he had offered his cottage as a ‘safe house’, after all.