by Colin Murphy
Doherty, the most senior, he disliked, but couldn’t quite nail the reason. Perhaps it was the way he ordered him to do this, get that, have this ready, and such. He had no objection to following orders such as: ‘Kill land agent, Saturday, Leenaun,’ the rest being left to him. But Doherty’s continual commands to do petty things irked him greatly.
Thomas Joyce he liked, on the other hand, not an emotion he would ever openly express, but there it was nonetheless. Again, he wasn’t sure precisely why. Perhaps he saw something of himself in Joyce, who was scarred on the outside and, he was certain, the inside as well. They also shared the skills of horsemanship and marksmanship, Joyce being particularly accurate with a rifle, which he had demonstrated by shooting a falcon from the sky. Despite the limitations in Walsh’s knowledge of people, his basic human instincts also informed him that Joyce secretly hankered for a life less troubled.
‘What time is he coming?’ Thomas asked.
‘The message said “after dark”, which could be anything from six o’clock to eight the next morning.’
‘Fuckin’ great.’
Bull Walsh said nothing. He sat there peeling potatoes and throwing the damp peels on to the turf fire. He liked the way they hissed at first as though struggling against the flames, then eventually dried and supplemented the body of the fire. He looked at the other two, who both appeared unusually nervous. He himself was looking forward to the arrival of the commandant, who was his normal contact. The man operated out of Galway city, a long way away, so his trips to the wilderness were infrequent.
Their heads turned at the sound of a horse approaching at just above walking pace. Doherty lifted his gun and peered through a gap in the sacking that passed for a curtain.
‘It’s all right. It’s him.’
‘What’s his name?’ Thomas asked.
‘Commandant,’ Doherty said. ‘The less you know, the better.’
The horse came to a halt and after a few moments there were three knocks, a pause and then a further three. Doherty admitted the man into the dim light from the fire and the solitary candle. Thomas hadn’t been sure what to expect, but the character that crossed the threshold had enjoyed no remote place in his imagination. He looked more like an office clerk than a Fenian commander, wearing a dark grey greatcoat over a tweed jacket, a shirt and bow tie, his age about forty, though he was prematurely bald. He had narrow eyes and a pointed nose, which supported wire spectacles. He spoke with a Cork accent.
‘Christ, Bull, I know ye like keeping te yourself, boy, but every time I come up here I nearly break me fuckin’ neck.’
Doherty and Walsh had snapped to attention and saluted in military fashion. After a moment’s hesitation, Thomas did the same.
‘Commandant,’ Walsh said simply.
‘At ease. Have ye anythin’ te drink?’
The men relaxed and Walsh produced a bottle of homemade spirits. Bull Walsh possessed no table or proper chairs, so they sat on two rickety old stools and a wooden crate, with Thomas resting his backside against the windowsill.
‘You must be Joyce. I hear good things about ye.’
Thomas nodded faintly.
The man sipped his drink. ‘Right. Te business. Ye’ve been busy in Ballinrobe and thereabouts, I believe.’
‘Yes, sir, as ordered we’ve been keeping the pot simmering,’ Doherty said and produced one of the posters he’d pinned up all over Ballinrobe, urging the people to rebel.
The commandant nodded. ‘What else?’
‘We’ve been generally stirring things up, killing Boycott’s animals, breaking fences, although that sort of thing’s dangerous now with all the security. We’ve been sending the usual threats, digging fake graves, and so on. The man McGurk that I told ye about, he’s been sending Boycott letters calling himself ‘Rory of the Hills’. Some of them have been reported in the papers.’
‘And we stirred up a near-riot when Boycott was in court. The bastard was almost lynched,’ Thomas added.
‘Lucky for you he wasn’t.’
The others exchanged looks of puzzlement. The commandant rose and began to pace the room with his head bowed and then turned back to them.
‘Your orders now are to back off.’
Doherty stood up, his surprise evident. ‘Commandant, we assumed ye were coming te order us te finish the job.’
The man raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and replied in an offhand manner. ‘What you think is of no consequence. This comes from the top. Now, we can’t be certain that Irish blood spilled in Ballinrobe would be enough te provoke a nationwide rebellion. Even if we provoked a battle, the army might only kill a handful. They’ve being showing restraint so far. Under orders from Gladstone. We need something bigger te rouse the whole nation.’
‘Bigger?’
‘We need coercion. The hotheads in Westminster have been demanding extreme coercive measures already. That means raids, arrests, beatings, intimidation. Perfect recruitment incentives. The people will be queuing te join up. And the money will roll in from America. We could mount a full-scale uprising within six months.’
‘But how–’ Doherty began.
‘We leave this boycott to play out. Whatever happens, we can’t lose.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Thomas said.
‘As you know, Davitt and Parnell have persuaded the IRB and Clan na Gael to work alongside parliamentarians, their New Departure shit. Those who oppose this, namely us, have only a fraction of their numbers and we can’t win a war on our own. It’s been decided the priority is te get men like Devoy, the other so-called moderates in the IRB and, most importantly, the people back on our side. If the boycott fails then the New Departure will fail. The IRB – and the people – will see armed insurrection as the only way.’
‘And if Boycott is defeated? You’ll never get the masses to abandon peaceful resistance then,’ Thomas observed.
The clerk-like commander walked over to Thomas, removed his spectacles and began to clean them with a handkerchief.
‘Boycott’s now a household name in England. Their fuckin’ hero. Even if he’s defeated, if he was te die there’d be so much outrage that the British Government would have no choice but te introduce coercion. And you, my friend, your job will be te make sure that’s precisely what happens.’
Four shots rang out in quick succession.
The horde of news correspondents, who were scattered about the encampment, spun as one on their heels towards the sound of gunfire. More shots ensued, followed by upraised voices as the newsmen converged upon the source of the shooting by the lough’s shoreline. As they emerged through the trees, their expressions changed in a blink from a mixture of fear and excitement to outright gloom, as they realised that the salvo came from a group of bored soldiers competing to hit bottles in the water under the supervision of their officers.
The general air of frustration among the correspondents at the lack of incident immediately resumed. No attacks had occurred, no bombs exploded, no one brutally murdered, not even a fence vandalised. As a result, newspapers from Chicago to Sydney reported the fascinating news of the quantity of mangolds harvested by the men from Monaghan and the pyramid of potatoes built by the industry of the Cavan men. The disappearance of several of Boycott’s sheep and the ensuing aroma of mutton stew was reported widely. As was his subsequent anger. When the soldiers and labourers requested some of Boycott’s potatoes to add to their cooking pots, he duly charged them nine pence a stone. But the great enterprise was proceeding nonetheless, and it was hoped that the harvest would be completed within a week.
The only battles fought were those for the use of Ballinrobe’s solitary telegraph line and with the elements, for it had turned bitterly cold again and ice had formed around the shores of Lough Mask. The encampment was one giant quagmire of half-frozen mud, yet the Ulster labourers never ceased their endeavours despite the hardness of the earth.
On a visit to the camp, Redpath learned that the army officers too were beginni
ng to feel that their skills, finely honed on the battlefields of Afghanistan and the plains of Africa, were not being put to any substantial use. One of them privately acknowledged to the American that there was little honour in trying to suppress passive resistance by means of overwhelming military force.
On Monday evening Fr O’Malley was cheered greatly by news that the labourers and tenants on Boycott’s Kildarra Estate had voluntarily joined the boycott. The tenants were demanding a twenty-five percent rent abatement and the labourers had simply walked off his land in unison, ‘forgetting’ to close the gates to his fields as they departed.
Boycott was granted an escort of Hussars to accompany him to Kildarra to round up his cattle herd, which were wandering the roads in the area. The following day, the sight of Boycott and twenty-five Hussars in their dark blue tunics with tall busby headdresses, galloping about the muddy boreens in pursuit of twenty cattle, was the cause of much mirth among the locals, as the soldiers were not skilled in cattle herding and much blundering about ensued, with two Hussars ending up in the mud.
When he had finally secured the cattle in a field and returned to Lough Mask, Boycott decided he’d had enough for the day, although it was only four o’clock. He considered asking Weekes to join him for a drink to debate their prospects, but upon further consideration he decided it might not be a good idea as the man had been decidedly reserved these past days, even appearing to avoid his company. Besides, he had enough on his mind.
He was unaware as he entered his home that he was about to have a great deal more.
CHAPTER 33
Our correspondent also reports that Mrs Boycott is suffering from an unspecified illness, likely brought upon her by as a result of the pressures of the past two months, and has been confined to her room for several days.
–The Nation, 20 November 1880
North Mayo Death Records
First Name: Mary
Surname: Boycott
Religion: Roman Catholic
Date of Death: 26 December 1875
Cause of Death: Menorrhagia (uncertified as no medical attendant at time of death)
Address: Dooagh
District: Achill District
Region: North Mayo
Age: 19
Status: Spinster
Occupation: Farmer’s Daughter
Informant Name: Margaret Gaughan
Informant Address: Dooagh
17 NOVEMBER 1800
Annie Boycott lay on the bed, eyes closed tightly against the world. She could tell it was still light outside as a pinkish glow filtered through the membranes of her eyelids and she could hear the noise of industry beyond the walls. Was there any way she could banish the constant reminders that her life had once again been left in tatters? But this time her hands were unsoiled. This time the doing was all her husband’s.
Five years ago she had seen her only daughter buried, leaving a hollow inside her that could never be filled. But she had survived the grief and guilt and come to accept a virtually loveless marriage, and despite it all found a place on the shores of Lough Mask where she had known some happiness. And once again her life was being demolished, trampled under the feet of a thousand British Army boots.
Annie opened her eyes, raised her arm and looked again at her daughter’s letter, and the faded ink of Mary’s heartfelt plea for forgiveness. In reality Annie knew that she had been asking for not just forgiveness, but rescue, and her mother had failed her. She recalled replying to Mary, telling her that circumstances prevented her from visiting. What a pitiful joke! ‘Circumstances’ was a synonym for Charles Boycott. She had been a coward, afraid of what he might do should she go. She had been afraid of the scandal of divorce, of being left with no means of support, no home, no life. And yet she should have gone. If she truly loved her daughter she should have taken her courage in her hands and gone, no matter what the consequences. The inward shame she felt now was so much greater than she would have had to bear had she allowed her conscience, rather than her husband, to dictate her course. And then, at his behest, to agree never to speak of Mary again. She prayed often that Mary, in whatever wisdom her heavenly host might bestow upon her, would allow her to see beyond her mother’s denial of her existence, to see it for what it was – a means of survival. For the constraints upon wives were such that they could only march in one direction and that was by their husband’s side.
Thank God for the presence of Madeleine and William, whose companionship had brought her a measure of happiness. As too had her life in Mayo. For she had no quarrel with the people here; indeed, she enjoyed their warmth and honesty and good spirits. She loved to chat with the women of Ballinrobe or Neale, who, while treating her with deference, responded openly to her almost as though she were one of their own. The innate disdain for formality was a distinctly Irish characteristic that she adored and Charles detested.
But now all of that was at an end. Two months of isolation had driven her near to madness. Her relationship with Madeleine and William had been skewed into some awkward thing by the unnatural circumstances. Her home had been turned into a barracks and the estate a giant army camp and latrine. She was trapped within the walls for fear of molestation, and butchered animals were left hanging outside their windows. And, worst of all, she could see no end to it. Especially now that her offer of an olive branch had been rejected. It had been a vain hope anyway.
At the outset she had made the instinctive decision to stand by him. It was a natural thing to do, to defend one’s way of life and to demonstrate wifely loyalty despite her misgivings about the righteousness of his position. But now it wasn’t just their home they were defending. They had to bear the burden of defending all of Ireland’s landed gentry. They had become a symbol of resistance, or of tyranny, depending on one’s viewpoint. Her husband’s name had become synonymous with ostracism and was uttered in the streets of London and New York. The world was watching their every move, as though a giant eye hovered in the skies above their home.
There was great irony in the fact that her self-confinement these past days had been reported widely in the press and yet Charles had barely noticed. Since Asheton returned from Joyce’s cottage on Sunday, all her hope had vanished for a future here in Ireland. Once again she must uproot herself and start a new life elsewhere, most likely in England. Yet her husband still stubbornly refused to accept this and clung to his delusional intention to defeat the Land League. He had already lost. He just couldn’t see it.
Somehow, she had to make him see, because now they must begin to look to the future. She had to convince him to take the steps to ensure that they would have a decent home and a decent life elsewhere, where they could live out their declining years in peace. Otherwise she would wither away and die.
But what force did she possess to breach the walls of the prison her husband had built about them? His stubbornness and temper were the stuff of Irish legend. How could she possibly overcome it now after all these years of virtual submission?
She held the only possible means of doing so in her hand. Mary’s letter. The risk she was taking was incalculable considering his threats should she ever mention their daughter’s name again. But she would not deny Mary’s memory a moment longer. She would do now what she had failed to do when Mary had reached out her hand for help and Annie had chosen to ignore it. She softly brushed her lips against her daughter’s thumbprint in the letter’s margin. She would stand up to him, come what may.
He rapped on the door and heard the faintest of whispers from within, then entered, promptly glancing at the drawn curtains and then at his wife, lying fully dressed on the bed, the back of her hand resting across her eyes.
‘Why on earth are you lying here at this hour? Are you ill?’
Without asking, he drew the curtains sharply.
‘Close the curtains, Charles,’ she said with a sigh.
‘But why ar–?’
‘Just close them, for heaven’s sake!’ she snapped, and he complied.
She lifted her head and looked at him. The strain was evident on her husband too. His beard was wild and untrimmed and there were bags under his eyes. His clothes hung loosely against his frame.
‘How long have you been here, Annie?’ he inquired, his tone softer.
‘All day. And for most of the past week. Haven’t you noticed my absence?’
‘Well, I did, of course,’ he stammered, ‘but with all the goings-on I never realised you had become so…so…what precisely is the matter? Have you summoned the doctor?’
‘A doctor can’t help me. You’re the only person in the world who can help.’ Annie sat up now, swung her legs over the edge of the bed and regarded him carefully, just a couple of yards between them.
‘What in heaven’s name do you mean?’ he asked, drawing back his head defensively.
‘Charles. I can’t bear what has happened to our lives. Being shunned, the filth, all the strangers, day and night, the English army camped on our lawn, the latrines, the stench, the–’
He interrupted her sharply. ‘I’ve told you, in one more week they’ll be gone and we’ll have the harvest.’
‘But what else shall we have, Charles? Our lives here are over and you have to begin planning for a new life somewhere else.’
‘I’ll do nothing of the sort! You’re working your mind into a dither, my dear. This will all settle down soon, mark my words.’
Annie laughed aloud at his ability to see a cat and insist it was a dog, a necessary tool for the pigheaded and blindly pertinacious.
‘Don’t you understand, this will never settle down? Never. How have you lived in this country for decades and failed to understand a single thing about these people?’
‘These people? The Irish are noth–’
Suddenly she yelled at him. ‘Don’t start your nonsense about layabouts and liars and that tomfoolery. It wasn’t true the day I met you and it’s still not true. It simply suited your narrow view of the world to believe it so! And frankly, Charles, hearing it for the thousandth time is boring beyond endurance!’