Boycott

by Colin Murphy

  Síomha pulled her tighter.

  ‘It’ll be all right. It might blow out soon,’ Owen reassured.

  He’d barely spoken when they were startled by a terrible grinding, followed a moment later by a tremendous crash. Owen was out of the room in seconds, almost colliding with Tadhg, who emerged from the rear bedroom.

  ‘Dad! What was that?’

  Owen was staring at the ceiling above the hearth as Síomha and Niamh crashed into him from behind. Where once their chimney had risen above the thatch was a gaping hole exposed to the rage of the storm.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Síomha screamed. Niamh began to cry.

  ‘Light a lamp, Síomha, quickly, I better go and–’ Owen stopped dead and met Tadhg’s eyes as the dawning realisation struck them both.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Síomha asked.

  ‘Why has Anu stopped whinnying?’ Tadhg asked.

  Father and son turned without a further word and ran from the cottage. Dressed only in long johns and tattered nightshirts, they stumbled barefoot through the blinding darkness. As they turned the corner Owen could just discern the hulk of the animal lying on her side. They fell on their knees in the mud beside the horse.

  ‘Anu!’ the youth cried out.

  The horse had been directly under the collapsing chimney, struck by the full force of innumerable lumps of Mayo stone. The debris lay scattered everywhere. Owen placed a hand on the animal’s nose and she lifted her head as if in thanks, then gave a barely audible whinny and laid her head back against the earth. She was all but dead.

  Owen, his hands covered in the animal’s blood, felt a catch in his throat. He’d toiled for years on end in the fields with the old workhorse his only company. Tadhg was crying openly, oblivious to the stinging rain and buffeting wind. They heard a scream and turned to see Síomha and Niamh approach with a lamp, their coats wrapped about them. Niamh began to wail as the lamplight fell across Anu’s bloodied head.

  ‘Tadhg!’ Owen shouted, shaking his son by the shoulder. ‘Tadhg! Take your sister inside. Go now!’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Just go! Quickly!’

  As the youth hauled Niamh away, Síomha fell to her knees beside her husband. ‘Oh God, Owen! We should have brought her into the house!’

  ‘Hold over the lamp.’

  Síomha moved the lamp above the animal’s head, revealing an ugly, gaping wound above her eyes. Her back and sides were brutally scarred by similar gashes. He ran his hand down the animal’s nose.

  ‘There, girl, there.’

  Then he turned and lifted one of the fallen chimney stones. With both hands he raised it as high as he could above his head, briefly met Síomha’s eyes, and the moment she looked away he brought it down with all the strength he could muster on the animal’s head. He repeated the action twice. Anu gave a couple of brief kicks with her hind legs, but no more sound escaped her before she died. And for that he was thankful.

  The waters of Lough Mask had contrived to grasp a fifteen-foot-long boat from its boathouse mooring and send it crashing against the wall, piercing the structure’s side like a giant spear. Captain Tomkinson, who had briefly been accommodated in the boathouse, studied the strange sight of the boat’s prow protruding through the wall like a giant nose and reflected that had he still been bunking there, he would surely now be lacking his head. He turned and started back towards the encampment in the bright morning sunlight. High in the trees he could see the remnants of a tent, its white canvas shredded to rags. In all they had lost six tents, either flattened by the falling tree or simply carried away whole into the sky. The tent that had taken flight complete with its brazier had been found in a nearby field, a mess of ragged, burnt canvas.

  Twelve horses had fled the fury of the storm, of which eight had been recovered. Most had bolted to the relative sanctuary of the woodlands, but four were lost to them, an unintended gift from the British Army to some impoverished Mayo farmers.

  The captain gazed across the scene of devastation. As far as he could see, not a solitary blade of grass remained. Wooden crates, pots, clothes and army packs lay strewn about the ground. Huge pools of water flooded the spaces between the battered tents and men dragged themselves about wearily as they dismantled the encampment. Lieutenant Colonel Twentyman approached and he saluted sharply.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Deuced mess.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But at least nobody was seriously injured. Or killed.’

  ‘Yes, a small miracle, I’d venture. Issue the order to have everything dismantled by two o’clock. Two tents will remain for the Hussars who will escort Captain Boycott and his family tomorrow. But the sooner we see the back of Mayo, the better.’

  Beyond Lough Mask Estate, hundreds of trees had been uprooted and lay across roads and in fields. Seven of the tenants had lost at least part of their thatch. Joe Gaughan hadn’t been so lucky. He’d seen the entire roof peeled away like the lid of a tin of salted beef. It was the worst storm in living memory.

  For Owen, the loss of the horse was incalculable and left him fraught with worry. Where in God’s name would he find five pounds to replace Anu?

  He stood now in the bright sunlight, the blue sky overhead speckled with clumps of white, fluffy cloud, belying the malevolence of the previous night. He glanced down again at the dead animal, the unfortunate beast’s mouth coated with white foam, then pulled the canvas sheet across her. A man from Ballinrobe would take her away, pay them a few shillings and then turn her into animal feed or some other abomination.

  Despite Niamh’s sadness they had sent her to school – an occupied mind dwelt less upon life’s tribulations, and children were good at moving beyond such things anyway. Fr O’Malley arrived mid-morning and Owen explained what had happened.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the priest commiserated as they prepared to repair the chimney. ‘The church only lost a few slates, thank God.’

  ‘At least we’ll see the back of Boycott today,’ Síomha said.

  ‘Hmm. Even the darkest clouds have a silver lining. But that’s why I’m here, Owen, to ask your help to make sure there’s no trouble.’

  Owen shook his head. ‘Look, Father, I have to get this repaired. I’d love to go, but I’ve so much to do.’

  ‘But after all the effort you’ve put in…’

  ‘To be honest, Father, losing the horse, the damage…my heart wouldn’t be in it,’ he said with a sigh.

  Fr O’Malley nodded, muttered muted farewells and left them to their work.

  Niamh looked down into the water a few yards below at the reflection of the blue sky overhead. The low wall around the Holy Well was covered with a thick green moss, which felt damp beneath her bottom, but she paid it no heed as she was still so upset by Anu’s death. She sniffled and wiped a tear away, then tossed a stone into the well. As it plopped into the water, sending ripples out to the walls, she quickly whispered a prayer that she would see Anu again in heaven.

  She sighed, slid down from the wall and gathered her satchel. She would be late if she didn’t hurry as she still had two miles to walk to school. But the sound of men’s voices gave her pause again, especially as one voice sounded very familiar. She scampered across the uneven ground up a short rise towards some trees and there, about thirty yards away, stood her Uncle Thomas and another man she recognised as Mr McGurk. There were two horses nearby.

  She knew that her father and uncle had a falling out, but people were always having fights and then making up – her mother and father did it every second week – and she wondered if that might be possible, as seeing her uncle again would certainly make up a little for losing their horse.

  Mr McGurk was pointing towards the road and then her Uncle Thomas lifted a pair of binoculars and looked in the same direction. She was just about to call out when they turned away and disappeared into the trees. She briefly considered running after them, but suddenly remembered she was already late and could get into terrible trouble if
she didn’t hurry. She frowned, turned on her heel and ran, and by the time she reached the schoolyard all notion of her uncle had fled from her mind.

  CHAPTER 35

  The Boycott expedition, in which so much public interest has been centred, came today to a peaceful and honourable end. Its promoters can look back with satisfaction at the complete success of their sympathetic enterprise. The Ulstermen come back with characters unblemished and with the grateful thanks of Captain Boycott. The farewell was a fitting dénouement to a strangely vivid social drama. After a sleepless night, the uproar and fury of the storm keeping the men constantly employed in endeavouring to keep the tents from being blown away, the order to break camp was given. At length they marched round to Lough Mask House, headed by Captain Maxwell. Captain Boycott, with his wife, nephew and niece, were waiting on the steps to receive them.

  –The Times. 27 November 1880

  By the end of the week the Boycott episode will have ended. It was an extraordinary affair in more senses than one. The introductory music played up for it in the press by the landlord orchestra was the overture to an exceedingly serious tragedy. The piece itself, when the curtain rose, turned out to be a burlesque extravaganza of a very amusing kind…The most extraordinary preparations were made by the Government for the protection of ‘Boycott’s rescuers’. As for the conduct of the Mayo people, nothing could be better. They have offered no violence to the Orangemen or their protectors; they have in fact left them severely alone.

  –The Nation, 20 & 27 November 1880

  26 NOVEMBER 1880

  Bernard Becker hurried towards the assembled throng in front of Lough Mask House and jostled with ten other newspaper correspondents for a decent position from which he might record any final drama. The low rumble of voices dwindled to naught at the sight of Captain Boycott emerging through the door and pausing on the top step. He was dressed in a tan safari jacket and pants, knee-high boots and a pith helmet, and would have looked quite the country gentleman had his clothes not displayed the scars of toil in the fields. He had also abandoned his customary cane in favour of a sheep hook, a prop, Becker suspected, to convey that he was one with the labourers.

  The expedition leaders and financiers emerged from the crowd of about a hundred people. Captain Maxwell, who among others had spent the previous three weeks as guests of Lord and Lady Ardilaun in the luxurious surroundings of nearby Ashford Castle, led the delegation. Boycott shook his extended hand heartily, the contrast to the day of their arrival evident to all. After a few words exchanged in confidence, Maxwell nodded and accepted a handwritten letter. As he did, five more people emerged from the house. Asheton Weekes descended the steps and began to clasp hands all about him. Annie, Madeleine, William and the maid, Miss Reynolds, gathered around the top step.

  Somewhat theatrically, Becker thought, Maxwell held the letter at arm’s length and began to bellow out the words, as though he was a herald in the Roman forum.

  My Dear Captain Maxwell and Gentlemen:

  As leaders of the Boycott Relief Expedition, I cannot allow you to depart from Lough Mask without expressing my deep and heartfelt gratitude for the generous and timely aid you have one and all rendered me by saving my crops, and for the many sacrifices of comfort and convenience you have endured on my behalf. The difficult and unsolicited task you undertook, and have so fully and ably carried out in the face of many and great difficulties, would to men not possessed of your unflinching determination have proved insurmountable. With you and your worthy band of stalwart labourers, I am compelled, for reasons now well known, to quit with my wife a happy home, where we had hoped, with God’s help, to have spent the remainder of our days. Mrs Boycott joins me in again thanking you all from our hearts for the signal service you have rendered us, believe us, my dear Captain Maxwell and gentlemen,

  Yours very faithfully,

  CC Boycott

  About five seconds of silence ensued, then a great cheer went up for Boycott and his wife, followed by several more for the expedition leaders, the army, the police and so on, and Becker began to think the celebration interminable. But he was quite surprised to observe Boycott, given his normally rigid reserve, mingling freely among the labourers, shaking hands all about, even cracking the occasional smile. It was as though some fundamental shift had occurred within the man, some weight had lifted from his shoulders, which Becker ascribed to his relief that the turbulent months were almost behind him. Further cheers went up for Mrs Boycott, who seemed quite moved and clasped an arm around her niece’s shoulders.

  Someone struck up a chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne’, which was sung with gusto; there was much slapping on the back and more cheering before an officer brought the celebration to a close by ordering a blast of the bugle. Finally the procession got on its way, the labourers and soldiers in the belief that Boycott’s family would soon follow them at the rear of the cavalcade.

  Becker glanced over his shoulder one final time at the land agent and his family standing on the steps of Lough Mask House. Despite Boycott’s good cheer, he couldn’t help feeling that the man looked broken.

  The hundreds of soldiers, labourers, policemen and correspondents trooped off like a giant snake slithering into the woodland, leaving only a handful of constables patrolling the perimeter and two troops of Hussars beyond in the muddied field.

  Annie was immediately struck by a sensation she had almost forgotten, that of the beautiful calm and serenity of their home. Gone was the constant, distant chatter of hundreds of men, the horses clopping about, the hammering, the clang of tools, the yelling of officers. And she was suddenly struck by how unnatural it had all been. She listened, and all she could hear were birds and the gentle lapping of water on the lough shore.

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ her husband said, cracking his sheep hook down on the step, as though putting a full stop at the end of a long sentence that had described the events of the past months. He entered the house, followed by Weekes and the others.

  ‘I’ll be along presently,’ Annie said.

  She began to stroll towards the lough, enjoying the brightness of the day and the calming silence, yet conversely weighed down by melancholy. This was her final day in her home, her last opportunity to open her senses to the beauty of the woodland and the sight of the mountains rising beyond the shimmering waters.

  Had any good come of it all? For the tenants and the Land League, absolutely yes. They had their victory and would undoubtedly enjoy much more success on the road ahead. Her husband, on the other hand, was a man who viewed himself as belonging to the topmost level of society and acted out that self-image to the extreme, yet he’d been driven away by a handful of peasants. Despite rescuing his crops, how could he see it as anything other than a humiliating defeat?

  She reached the shore and sat on a boulder, gazing into the water. In spite of her sadness, she felt that something positive had come from their recent trauma. Her husband would never admit to it, but a change had come about in him as a result of the boycott. As the expedition had made their farewells, she had witnessed something that she would never have believed possible: her husband moved to emotion – well, almost. Oh, he hadn’t made a stirring address, principally, she suspected, because he’d been afraid his own voice might betray his newly born respect for the common labourers. Such a thing would have required too great a lowering of his mask of bombastic ascendancy. But the cheering had moved him sufficiently to go among them, clasping their hands and expressing his gratitude. Formerly he would never have demeaned himself – as he would have viewed it – in such a manner.

  The boycott itself hadn’t brought about the change in him, but it had certainly provided the stimulus; it had forced him to confront the tragedy of their daughter’s short life and in that terrible private battle he had somehow discovered paths around emotional obstacles, around the immovable rocks of his warped and pretentious upbringing.

  She washed her hands in the icy water, then began to walk back to the house. Tear
s stung the corners of her eyes and, strangely, she couldn’t be certain tain if they were as a result of heartache or happiness; perhaps it was possible to experience both at the same instant. They would lose their home and their farm, for certain, but they would find another home, most likely in England, and life would go on. But they had also both gained something. Where before there had been merely a man and a woman, for almost the first time in her life she felt that now, just possibly, there might be a husband and a wife.

  Two thousand boots tramped through the mud and storm debris on the narrow road to Ballinrobe. It was a spectacle as rare in Mayo as the sighting of an elephant, yet the only spectators were a handful of schoolchildren, Niamh among them, who had hurried across the fields to witness the labourers of Cavan and Monaghan, the constabulary, the 84th Regiment, the 1st Dragoons, fifty Army Service Corps wagons, several ambulance cars and a train of news correspondents. The children laughed and hurled a few insults, but that was the worst assault that the cavalcade had to bear.

  Fr O’Malley had taken up a vantage point near to Ballinrobe, watching in the company of an aged widow by the name of Meehan, whose face had more furrows than a ploughed field. They stood behind the low wall outside her single-roomed cottage and watched the cortège approach. He found it difficult to suppress a sense of pride that his request for non-interference with the expedition’s departure had been so completely observed, for the roads were virtually bereft of locals and not a line of newspaper text could be written in reproach of their behaviour.

  ‘All this for one man, Father. Never seen the like in all me days,’ the widow observed in a wheezy, withering voice.

  ‘Well, at least they’re taking him in the right direction. Away from us.’

  As the covered wagons rocked unsteadily past, he wondered which of them contained the land agent. He would dearly love to have been able to look into Boycott’s eyes and let him see the face of one of those who had brought the mighty so low. A moment later he lowered his eyes in shame at having entertained such a wish; he had sinned in taking satisfaction in the misery of another. It was unbecoming, especially for a man of his calling. He quickly muttered an Act of Contrition under his breath.