by Colin Murphy
‘Jesus almighty! What are ye doin’ sneakin’ up like that?’
‘I’m sorry I startled ye,’ Thomas said and smiled. ‘I thought ye sounded upset.
Was it something in the paper?’
Maggie slammed down the newspaper and spoke more to herself than the stranger. ‘They’re leavin’. And leavin’ me high and dry!’ she snapped and walked away.
Thomas picked up the article.
‘Time is getting short,’ he whispered.
‘Didn’t see you at mass, Joe,’ Owen said as he and Síomha pulled up outside their neighbour’s cottage.
‘What are you, my priest?’
They both chuckled as Joe took Anu’s reins and they climbed down. In his other hand Joe held an antiquated rifle and two bloodied rabbits.
‘I was just returning the pick you lent me,’ Owen said.
‘Is Síle about?’ Síomha asked.
‘Took the boys to visit her sister in Ballinrobe. Thought I’d get a bit of huntin’ in. You won’t mention me missin’ mass te her, now, will ye?’
‘Your secret’s safe,’ she grinned.
Joe beckoned them across the yard. He nodded towards the south. ‘Look.’
In the distance they glimpsed a convoy of Hussars and wagons laden with sacks.
‘Boycott’s corn. The army are moving it to Cong. Probably sell it in Galway.’
‘On Sunday?’ Síomha asked.
‘They know that everyone will be at mass. Less chance of trouble. Boycott’s gone on holiday and left everyone else to tie up his loose ends.’
‘After all Boycott’s work, the Ulstermen cleared the whole thing in two weeks.’ Joe said. ‘They’re good men, good workers I mean,’ he added, his respect evident. He laughed then. ‘You hear that the RIC was ordered to drive Boycott’s cattle to the Claremorris train? Sergeant Murtagh was so mad he was fit for the Connaught asylum. Then when the train got to Dublin, the drovers said they were boycotting the cattle!’
‘There were five thousand at a meeting in Walshtown yesterday. They’re going to boycott thirteen landlords. Soon there won’t be a landlord in Ireland able to do business.’
‘Holy Jaysus, Owen,’ Joe laughed. ‘What have we started?’
‘You should thank Boycott too, boys,’ Síomha said, prompting mystified looks. ‘Well, if he hadn’t been such a cantankerous ould git, none of this would have happened,’ she laughed.
Only a week after they had departed for Dublin, Boycott and his wife drove their carriage secretly back into Lough Mask Estate under escort of eight constables and twenty soldiers. After seven years, just three days of their life here remained and Annie, despite being greatly revived with the break, was filled with a deep melancholy as they pulled to a stop outside the doors to her home.
While in Dublin, they had stayed at the Hamman Hotel and Charles had arranged several meetings with Englishmen of property to inquire into the possibility of a position as their land agent. The fact that his name was by now ubiquitous and that his countrymen saw him as a beacon of resistance to the Land League had helped his cause. As a result, the possibility had arisen of securing a position on an estate in Norfolk, very close to his birthplace, so at least for her husband it would seem like a version of home.
Home to Annie was here in Ireland, on Achill where Mary lay in eternal rest, or on the shores of Lough Mask, a place she had come to love and which she would soon leave behind forever.
Men of Mayo
In the name of the Lough Mask tenants, for the sake of the cause which they are so manfully upholding, you are earnestly entreated to permit the Orangemen and the English army to take themselves away out of your outraged county unmolested and unnoticed.
John O’Malley PP
(Notice posted by Fr O’Malley in Ballinrobe and Neale on 25 November 1880)
‘Right, Mr Boycott, if you could just move a little to your left, that’s it, behind your good lady wife. And Miss Madeleine, if you would mind not moving about? Sergeant Murtagh, isn’t it? Perhaps with your cap on, yes, perfect. And Mr Weekes, could you maybe sit at the front alongside Mr Robinson. William, you go to the top step and you, gentlemen, on the right, please stand on–’
‘Oh for God’s sake, man, get on with it before we freeze to death!’ Boycott shouted at the photographer.
Gerard Wynne normally did weddings and family portraits but had been hired by the proprietor of the Express, Mr Robinson, to record the conclusion of the Boycott Relief Expedition for posterity, or as Robinson had put it ‘to forever capture the spirit of resistance to the forces of terrorism.’
He took one last look through the lens at the twenty people assembled on the steps of Lough Mask House, then dipped under the black hood to adjust the focusing bellows.
‘Right. Remember: don’t smile.’
He held the thermite flash bar up high and pushed the button.
And while all around him held their heads high, Boycott slumped and looked forlornly into the distance.
‘They’ve given us the go-ahead.’
‘Finally,’ Thomas said in reply to Doherty, who sat warming himself by the fire in Bull Walsh’s cottage. He’d just returned from meeting the Commandant in Galway.
Doherty continued. ‘The Land League is claiming their boycott’s a great success. And it’s spreading like a gorse fire in August. There are boycotts all over the country. They think ruining a few landlords will change things. Fuck, we need te get rid of every English bastard on Irish soil. And there’s only one way te do that. The tenant farmers are joining Parnell and Davitt’s side in droves. We’ve got te stop it. Killing Boycott is the perfect way te do it. A few months ago he was a nobody, but now the world is watching the bastard. He’s become a fuckin’ icon te the British establishment. We kill him and the British will introduce coercion. When the farmers see the British trampling them into the ground te protect the rich arses of a few thousand landlords–’
‘We’ll have fifty thousand volunteers in a month,’ Thomas grinned.
Martin McGurk took a step towards Doherty. ‘That’s all great. But he leaves tomorrow. How the fuck do we kill him when he’s surrounded by five hundred soldiers?’
‘Shut up, McGurk,’ Doherty snapped.
‘He’s got a point though, Donal,’ Thomas offered calmly.
With the aid of a tongs, Bull Walsh fished a couple of potatoes from the fire and dropped them at Doherty’s feet. ‘Have them. I’ll get ye a drink.’
Doherty picked up one of the potatoes, its skin scorched black. He tossed it from hand to hand, wiped it clean and took a bite. He then turned to the others as he munched.
‘The expedition leaves tomorrow. But we have information that Boycott won’t be with them, although everyone’s supposed te think he is. The bastards plan te leave a small force behind and then quietly sneak him and his family away at dawn on Saturday. They’re going te use an ambulance wagon as a disguise so that anyone would think it’s just the dregs of the expedition returning te the barracks. There’ll be only twenty soldiers. And here’s the good bit. There’ll be just one wagon, so we’ll know our target exactly.’
‘Clever bastards,’ remarked Thomas.
‘We can’t kill twenty soldiers! How do we get away?’ McGurk asked nervously.
Doherty accepted a drink from Walsh and gulped it down in one go. ‘We use rifles. Thomas and Bull, you’re both good marksmen. We’ll have te find a rise overlooking the road which gives us a good line of sight and has plenty of cover.’
‘I know a place,’ McGurk piped up, suddenly enthused. ‘It’s not a mile from me cottage, near the Holy Well. And there’s trees there. It’s about fifty yards from the road.’
‘Good. You and Thomas scout it tomorrow. If it works, we’ll escape across country on the horses, head south, then split up and meet back here on Sunday.’
‘Hold on. How exactly do we do this?’ Thomas asked.
‘What do ye mean?’
‘If we don’t get Boycott with the f
irst shot the wagon will be down the road like a hare. And what about the soldiers?’
Doherty discarded the last of the potato into the fire and brushed his hands. ‘We all fire together. I’m good enough at that distance te hit one of the horses pulling the wagon, so it won’t be going anywhere fast. McGurk, you’re going for the soldiers, cause panic. If there’s twenty of them, ye can’t miss. Thomas and Bull, like I said, your job is Boycott in the wagon. Get off as many shots as you can.’
Bull Walsh, who was standing quietly with his back to a wall, turned and looked at Thomas, both thinking the same thing. Thomas stood up and stared down at Doherty.
‘Ambulance wagons are covered. You said his family was going with him. How do we know where Boycott is inside?’
Doherty rose now and stared at him. ‘Ye don’t. But it’s a good guess he’ll be near the back, y’know, to help the women and children in, then climb in himself. Or we might get lucky and they’ll leave the rear flap open. Ye might be able te see him.’
‘And if we can’t, we fire anyway?’
Doherty nodded. ‘The women and children might be hit. Beyond our control. This is war, men. These things happen. If anyone’s got a problem with this, let’s hear it.’
He slowly turned and looked around. Silence descended on the room, disturbed only by the occasional crack of a spark from the hearth.
McGurk was the first to speak. ‘The bastards killed me child before he was even born, me wife too. Eye for an eye, is what I say.’
‘Bull?’ Doherty asked.
‘I’ve lost family te them as well. I don’t like lowering myself te their level, but it’s war, like you say.’ Walsh’s voice was barely audible.
‘Thomas?’
Thomas was staring at the floor. He raised his head and looked at the others in turn, then shrugged. ‘Fuck it. As far as I’m concerned, Boycott and his family are just part of the “surplus English population”.’
Doherty went to gather up his greatcoat. ‘Good. We meet early tomorrow at McGurk’s. Everyone travel separately by dark. That’s it, then. I’ll see ye tomorrow. Come Saturday, all those newspapermen will be writing obituaries.’
Owen pulled his coat tightly around him as he stood next to Síomha by Lough Mask’s shore. The mountains to the west had disappeared beneath a murky veil of cloud and a biting wind churned the lough into an expanse of white-peaked waves.
‘There’s a storm coming,’ Síomha said.
‘There is. And the British Government won’t know what hit them.’
She laughed a little and pushed an arm inside his coat around his waist. ‘And you helped to stir up the wind. I’m proud of you.’
He shook his head. ‘I only did my bit. And so did you. Davitt, Parnell, Fr O’Malley – they’re the ones who had the vision to conceive this whole thing. And not a shot fired. The press are saying the Boycott expedition cost twenty thousand pounds. Parnell said yesterday that every one of Boycott’s turnips had cost a shilling to pick. And there are questions being asked in the House of Commons about the cost. It’s the beginning of the end of landlordism.’
‘Questions in the House of Commons,’ Síomha said a little dreamily. She laughed. ‘Mr Gladstone should have known better than to take on the Joyces from Neale.’
‘Yeah. Sure you’d put the fear of God in anyone,’ he joked and took her in his arms. They kissed tenderly as the wind rose around them, tossing Síomha’s hair wildly about their heads.
Síomha looked up at the sight of an empty sack whirling high above them like a kite. She found she had to raise her voice to be heard clearly. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d say that God was sending Boycott a message.’
Owen grinned at her. ‘Yeah, but you do know better.’
A surge of wind caught them, sending Síomha’s shawl sailing out behind her like a flag in a stiff breeze. Owen caught her arm and gasped as the wind took his breath.
‘Jesus, we’d better get everything tied down. This is going to be bad.’
As they hurried back in their cottage, Tadhg arrived along the lane, bent forward, battling against the wind. Owen had to shout to make himself heard above the intensifying screech. ‘Tadhg! Get the car and the plough around the back of the house!’
Anu’s frightened whinnying in the field off to their right caught their attention.
‘What about Anu?’ Síomha asked.
The animal was running about her small enclosure as though desperate for a means of escape. A couple of tall fir trees at the edge of the pen leaned at an angle, their branches aligned with the direction of the gale like a thousand fingers pointing away from the lough. They heard the distinctive cracking sound of a branch giving way and crash to the ground somewhere beyond their sight.
‘I’ll tie her up behind the cottage. She’ll be out of the worst of the wind there.’
Niamh appeared at the door and Síomha scurried to get her safely back inside.
‘Move, Tadhg!’
‘Dad. What’s going to happen to the soldiers in the camp?’ Tadhg roared as his father began to stagger towards Anu’s enclosure.
‘I don’t know. All I can say is, the poor bastards!’
‘Colonel! Sir! The tree! The tree!’
Colonel Twentyman grasped at the private’s arm in an attempt to remain upright.
‘What damn tree, man?’
‘Look, sir!’ he yelled and pointed to the woodland. Through the darkness they could just make out the shape of a towering tree leaning ominously over the tents.
‘Quick, man! Get them out of there now! Move!’
The private set off across the encampment, the gale giving his gait the appearance of a drunk. Colonel Twentyman tottered to the nearest tent, its pegs fighting to retain their purchase in the sodden earth, the glow of fiery braziers within the trembling canvas giving it an unsettling spectral aspect. He burst through the flap, admitting a howling gust. The ten soldiers within were clustered in the centre, sleeping rolls pulled tightly around them.
‘You men! Get up! You and you! Go and help evacuate the men from under the trees. Hurry! The rest of you, rouse everyone and put down more pegs, otherwise the tents will never hold. Move, you bunch of dunderheads!’
The colonel found one of his captains and they careened through the chaotic encampment towards the wood. Men ran wildly about as they evacuated the tents beneath the ominously leaning tree. As they watched, a new sound struggled to be heard above the gale, a slow crunching at first that suddenly accelerated and swelled in intensity.
‘It’s going to go, sir!’
‘Get everyone out! Get everyone out!’ the colonel roared.
Men scampered from the remaining occupied tent, stumbling through the flap, some scrabbling away on hands and knees as the monstrous form of the fifty-foot-high tree surrendered its centuries-old hold on the earth and collapsed in a colossal wave of noise and destruction, flattening three tents entirely and ripping two others to shreds. As its branches settled into the mud, the colonel and captain searched for casualties, but thankfully, the evacuation had succeeded with only minor injuries. Another private fought for the officers’ attention. ‘Colonel! Ten horses have broken loose. What should we do?’
‘Get the hell out of this damn country, that’s what!’
‘Sir?’
‘We can’t search in the storm. We’ll find them in the morning.’ He turned to the captain. ‘In God’s name, what else can happen?’
The captain stood with his mouth open, looking towards the churning night sky.
‘Look, sir,’ he gasped and pointed.
The colonel turned. ‘Good God almighty!’
‘Great God!’ Annie Boycott gasped as she stared skyward through the raging storm, leaves filling the night air like black snowflakes. Her husband, Madeleine and William stood either side of her, the boy’s face alive with excitement.
‘Jeepers!’ the boy yelped.
‘What is it?’ Boycott asked.
‘It’s a tent, Un
cle!’
They watched in astonishment as an entire tent sailed one hundred feet overhead, a burning brazier trapped within the huge inflated canvas, filling the enclosed space with a ghostly yellow light, glowing embers spilling a trail of fleeting stars across the night sky. It floated beyond their view and a moment later the neigh of a horse sounded through the wind’s keening howl. The riderless animal galloped past at full tilt, eyes blind to its destination.
‘I’ve never seen a storm like it.’ Annie observed with disquiet. ‘It’s almost as tho–’
The noise was sudden, grinding and deafening.
‘Look out!’ her husband roared, hurling himself at Annie as a giant, gnarled tree limb came crashing through the glass. Annie and Madeleine screamed as fragmented glass and wood showered the room.
‘My God! Are you all right?’ Boycott yelled, kneeling over his wife.
She nodded, staring in shock at the denuded arm of wood protruding through the shattered window.
‘Madeleine? William?’ Annie asked.
‘Whoooeee!’ William yelped with delighted, trembling enthusiasm.
‘We’re fine, Auntie,’ Madeleine said, brushing down her dress.
Annie met her husband’s eyes as he pulled her up. ‘Charles…thank you.’
He smiled faintly and nodded.
‘Those poor men in the encampment,’ Madeleine reflected.
‘Yes, dear. And the tenants, in those little cottages,’ Annie said.
‘To hell with the tenants,’ Boycott replied.
Owen, Niamh and Síomha lay in the bed listening to the howling wind beyond their thatch, praying the roof would hold. The breeze whistled under the eaves and every door and window rattled incessantly. Added to the cacophony was Anu’s terrified whinnying. The horse had been secured in the corner of the L-shaped rear of the cottage, protecting her from the worst of the gale.
‘Daddy, I’m scared,’ Niamh whispered.