Boycott
Page 60
But the weight of self-reproach was lifted when he spotted Messrs Robinson and Manning at the forefront of the Ulster contingent, easily identifiable by their tam o’shanters. These had been two of the main instigators of, and propagandists for, the expedition. These were the men who had spoken of his beloved County Mayo in such disdainful and malicious terms. He simply could not resist the temptation and as they drew within earshot he turned sharply to the Widow Meehan.
‘Did I not warn you to let the British Army alone?’ he yelled. The unfortunate widow stared back at him open-mouthed.
The priest winked at her and continued: ‘How dare you intimidate Her Majesty’s troops? For shame, Widow Meehan! Be off now and if you dare molest these thousand heroes after their glorious campaign, I’ll make an example of you! Be off!’
The old lady pulled her shawl about her head to conceal her chuckle. Robinson fixed Fr O’Malley with a furious glare, then hastened his step until beyond their sight.
‘You’re a terrible one, Father. Ye nearly gave me a turn,’ she laughed through yellowed, crooked teeth.
‘I am that, Widow, I surely am,’ he smiled.
‘What will we do about Anu?’ Síomha asked, gathering the bowls from the table.
‘The knacker’s going to cut him up, isn’t he?’ Niamh asked.
Owen looked briefly at Tadhg and then Síomha, both of whom frowned. He stretched a comforting arm around Niamh’s shoulders.
‘We can’t leave him out there, petal.’
Niamh nodded sadly and a moment later her eyes brightened. ‘Will we be getting a new horse soon?’
‘We’ll see. Take the bowls outside and rinse them in the basin for your mother. Like a good girl.’
Niamh exhaled deeply through pursed lips, then did as requested.
‘She’s right, though,’ Owen said. ‘There’s a knacker who passes through Ballinrobe on Saturday, pays for dead livestock that can’t be eaten. You’ll have to fetch him tomorrow, Tadhg.’
‘All right, Dad,’ Tadhg muttered.
Despite Boycott’s departure, there was a general air of gloom in the cottage, principally because of the emotional and financial blow from the horse’s death. The future was uncertain, even with Boycott gone. All the tenants had agreed to send their rents directly to Lord Erne, less the abatement they had demanded. He would have little choice but to accept them now. Yet even with the lower rents, the loss of the animal meant a large outlay of cash and they lived such a precarious financial existence already.
‘We’ve visitors,’ Síomha said, peering out into the darkness. Two cars had pulled into the yard and she saw Niamh run across to greet Fr O’Malley.
‘It’s Father O’Malley and Mister Redpath.’
Owen cursed. ‘Jesus, I can’t even afford a drink to offer them.’
Niamh ushered them in and, as though he’d overheard Owen’s grumble, Redpath immediately produced a bottle of whiskey.
‘I thought I’d bring this. It’s a celebration, after all.’
All but Niamh gathered around the table and a toast was given to the success of the boycott.
‘How did it go today?’ Tadhg asked.
The priest grinned. ‘Without a hitch. The road was deserted all the way to Ballinrobe. It was more like a funeral procession. I think they realise what a grand folly the entire thing was, though they’ll never admit that, of course.’
Redpath refilled the glasses, Síomha intervening to prevent too much going into Tadhg’s, much to his annoyance. The American raised his glass.
‘A toast. To you, Father, not just for organising the boycott, but for adding an entirely new word to the English language.’
‘I’ve a feeling we’ll be hearing a lot of that word,’ Síomha said, grinning.
‘I don’t know if that’s a good thing,’ Owen said. ‘Boycott may be gone, but we’ll have this constant reminder and he hardly deserves to be immortalised.’
The priest and Redpath exchanged a brief look.
‘He’s not quite gone, I’m afraid,’ Redpath said.
‘What do you mean?’
Fr O’Malley smiled. ‘Worst-kept secret in Ireland. We were meant to think he’d left, but they’re sneaking him out at dawn. You know what it’s like trying to keep secrets in a small country village, Owen. One of the constables tells his wife, she tells her neighbour and so on. By now, half the press probably know he hasn’t left. Still, I wouldn’t worry. Most people will still be in their beds when he leaves.’
‘In fact, a constable told me,’ Redpath laughed. ‘I’ve already included it in my latest despatch to New York. And talking of departures, I’m afraid I must make mine. I’ve to be up early tomorrow for the expedition’s last leg to Claremorris and then I’m off to Galway for a ship home.’
‘We’ll be sorry to see you go, James, your reports helped get us the attention we needed,’ the priest remarked.
‘It’s thanks to all of you I had something to report. And I’m not finished yet. I intend to make sure that America knows what the people here achieved. I’m certain it will prove an inspiration for countless others.’
Redpath rose, offering his hand to all and a gift of a thruppenny bit to Niamh, positively the largest amount of money she had ever held in her hand. And with that, he drove off into the night.
‘I’d better be off soon myself,’ said the priest. ‘There’s a Land League meeting down at Cong tomorrow. The tenants there are planning to start their own boycott. And then there’s the fund-raising for Parnell’s defence. The work goes on.’
‘I wish I could help, Father,’ said Owen, his despondency returning. ‘But with the loss of the horse, it’s going to take all our time and effort just to survive the winter.’
The priest nodded and patted his friend on the arm. ‘I understand, Owen, if there’s anything I can do–’
‘Why can’t we borrow Uncle Thomas’s horse?’
Four heads turned to look at Niamh, sitting on the floor by the hearth, gleefully shining her thruppence with her sleeve.
Síomha whispered a reply. ‘Your Uncle Thomas has gone away, Niamh, I told you that.’
The child looked up with excited eyes. ‘But I saw him today! And he had his beautiful black horse with him. I’m sure he’d lend us his horse for a little while.’
Owen looked at the priest, then turned on his stool to face her. ‘Niamh, where did you see Thomas?’
‘On my way to school.’
‘Did he speak to you?’
She shook her head, a hint of concern on her face as she looked at the adults’ grim expressions.
‘Where was he, Niamh?’ Síomha asked.
‘I went to the Holy Well to say a prayer for Anu. He was there with Mr McGurk.’
‘McGurk? Did they see you?’ Owen asked with rising trepidation.
Again she shook her head. ‘No. They were looking towards the road. I was behind them. They had those things for looking far away, bin…bin…’
‘Binoculars?’ Fr O’Malley asked.
‘Yes, them. What’s wrong, Dad?’
Owen sat with his back to the table, staring absently across the room, and as the seconds passed he grew ashen-faced.
‘You don’t think…’ The priest’s question hung unfinished in the air.
‘Owen? What?’ Síomha asked.
He rose slowly. ‘Father. Boycott’s leaving when, exactly?’
‘Tomorrow. Early. That’s all I know.’
‘Daddy, did I do something wrong?’ Niamh asked.
‘No, petal. Tadhg. Get your coat and your sister’s. And some blankets.’
‘Why?’
‘Owen, what are you talking about?’ Síomha asked.
‘Tadhg,’ he said with deliberate firmness, ‘do as I say and take Niamh into the bedroom now!’
The youth grunted in annoyance and took Niamh from the room.
Owen turned to the others. ‘They’re going to kill Boycott, I’m certain of it. And everything we’ve done will ha
ve been for nothing. Worse, the army will be back and this time they’ll be using their guns every time they hear a twig snap.’
‘How can you be certain, Owen?’ Síomha asked, trembling as she spoke.
‘They knew Boycott wasn’t leaving today. McGurk’s been swearing vengeance since the day his wife died. Thomas said he’d get around to killing Boycott sooner or later and if I know one thing about Thomas, he’ll keep his promise. We should have seen this coming. Why did the trouble suddenly stop? Because they were waiting for the right moment – the army gone, Boycott on the open road with just a handful of soldiers. The road that runs right below the rise where Niamh saw them.’
‘But you can’t be sure of–’
‘Why the hell else were they up there?’ he almost shouted.
‘Owen’s right,’ Fr O’Malley said. ‘Dear God. And they’ll blame us. They’ll blame the Land League and everyone associated with it. And Parnell’s trial next month…it’ll be the end of him.’
‘And the Land League. And all the other boycotts. The British will introduce coercion and anyone who looks cross-eyed at a landlord will be arrested. Thomas and the others, they’ll get the war they wanted.’
The priest rose sharply. ‘What do we do? Tell the police?’
Tadhg and Niamh entered dressed in their coats, each carrying a blanket and looking concerned at the frantic voices.
‘We can’t, Father.’ A glance in the direction of his children expanded on his reasoning. His brother’s threat echoed in his mind. He didn’t truly believe that Thomas was capable of murdering children, especially his own blood, but he knew without doubt that he had associates capable of anything. And besides, it wasn’t a chance he was prepared to take. ‘And even if the RIC stopped them, news of the attempt would be almost as bad. It could destroy everything.’ He paused a moment. ‘I’ll have to stop them.’
‘No!’ Síomha screamed.
‘Mammy!’ Niamh started to cry.
‘I have to! And you’re going to the church in Neale, you’ll be safe there with Fr O’Malley.’
Síomha grabbed at the collars of his shirt and shook him. ‘You can’t! You’re not even armed! What is God’s name can you do? They’re killers, these people. You’re a fuckin’ farmer!’
‘Dad! What’s going on?’ Tadhg yelled.
Owen clamped his hands on his wife’s wrists and prised her fingers free of his shirt, then looked into her face, glistening with the flood of tears.
‘I have to, Síomha,’ he whispered.
‘No you don’t,’ she sobbed. ‘You can’t solve all the world’s problems. It’s someone else’s turn, for God’s sake.’
Owen let her go and turned away to the children. He hugged them both tightly and looked at his son. ‘Tadhg, go now with Fr O’Malley. I need you to look after your sister and mother.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To see Thomas. There are things we need to have out. Do you understand?’
Tadhg shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, but dutifully took his sister’s hand and walked towards the door.
‘Be careful, Owen,’ the priest said and shook his hand.
‘You too, Father.’
Left alone with Síomha he turned away to fetch her coat, but she pursued him into their bedroom.
‘The sooner you go the better. I don’t have much time.’
‘Tell me again why you have to go!’
He faced her again. ‘It’s bad enough if Boycott is murdered, but if it’s done by my own brother’s hand, it’s a thousand times worse.’
‘Tell the police! Send them a message. Thomas won’t know it was us. With any luck they’ll kill your damned brother in the process!’
‘Don’t say that!’ he shouted.
‘That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why you really won’t tell the police. You don’t want them to kill your precious brother! Even after what he did? After what he threatened?’
Owen shoved her coat against her roughly. ‘It’s not just that. I am afraid for you and the children. But there’s something else…’
‘What?’
‘Thomas said I’d as much guilt on my shoulders as him. There are things I don’t…’ Owen shook his head. ‘I need to know what he meant.’
He began to pull her back towards the front door by the arm.
‘What exactly do you think you’re going to do?’ she cried.
He pulled opened the door and looked out at the others huddled on the priest’s car.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ he said. ‘Please go, Síomha. I love you very much.’ He pulled her close and kissed her softly, then gently ushered her towards the car.
‘Owen. Please come back to me,’ she sobbed and turned reluctantly away.
He watched as the car trundled up the boreen, four white faces against the black of night staring back at him in the yard. And then they were gone.
Owen was left alone in the darkness and experienced a momentary bridge across time to an indistinct memory. His brother’s face lit by the fading embers of a campfire, a small hollow in a mountainside, the icy chill of a winter’s night, their last morsels of food. But the flash left him only with questions. It was like an itch in his mind that he couldn’t quite reach. He snapped from the reverie and hurried back inside, his own troubles discarded.
His troubles, after all, were mere trifles compared to Boycott’s.
CHAPTER 36
BY SPECIAL CALOGRAMS – A national manifesto has been issued by the Irish Land League, calling upon the people to remain firm in their passive resistance to the tyranny of landlords such as Captain Boycott, but to refrain from overt acts of aggression, which would enable the British Government, by a display of military power, to crush the movement. The command given is ‘Let the British display their despotism unheeded.’
–The Southland Times, New Zealand, 24 November 1880
THE EXTENSION OF BOYCOTTISM – The Irish Land League is extending the methods applied to Captain Boycott in such a way as to revolutionize society. Local attorneys who had been serving processes on behalf of their landlord clients have been called to account by agents of the League, and threatened that unless they abandon all such business they will be ostracized.
–Sacramento Daily Union, California, 26 November 1880
A correspondent reports that the Ulstermen left Lough Mask yesterday under a strong escort. There was no demonstration. The Hussars remained to protect Mr Boycott, who will leave on Saturday morning.
–The New York Times, 27 November 1880
27 NOVEMBER 1880
Five minutes of pacing the room, frantic in his thinking, like a caged animal desperate for a means of escape, and yet he could formulate no coherent plan. He was arrogant in his presumption that he had the wherewithal to intervene in his brother’s malevolent designs. What in Christ’s name could he do? Where to start, even?
Suddenly it dawned. There existed a solitary link from their world to his: Martin McGurk, his fellow tenant. He pulled on his jacket and was about to depart when he realised he was completely unarmed and heading into an unknown situation. All he had in terms of weapons were his farm implements, which were mostly too large and cumbersome to be of any use, although he did possess a sharp knife which he used for cutting ropes and the like. He rummaged in a wooden toolbox and produced the sheathed knife, removing it and holding it up before his eyes. In reality he didn’t think he could bring himself to plunge a blade into another man’s flesh, and he was about to throw the weapon down when it occurred to him that the knife might be of some use in terms of its threat value. He weighed it up in his mind a few seconds longer, then pushed the sheathed blade into the inside pocket of his jacket and ran out into the night.
McGurk’s house was just off the road that ran past Lough Mask Estate. Owen trotted along the muddy trail as quickly as he could, but found his age and the squelching ground fighting against him, so that every fifty yards he had to pause for breath. The night sky was almost cloudless,
stars beyond measure and a half-moon lighting his way a little, yet he stumbled ten times before reaching the short track that led up to McGurk’s cottage. If the sky remained this clear, Boycott’s departure in the early hours would be a frosty one in every sense.
He decided not to approach the house directly, but instead scrambled over a wall into a field and crept as silently as he could, bent low, towards the side of the cottage. A few low bushes afforded him some shelter from the curious eyes of anyone who might gaze out through the windows. He peered through a gap in the prickly shrubs.
The cottage seemed quiet, although a dim light glowed from one window and smoke drifted from the chimney. He wasn’t sure what he intended to do now that he was here. He couldn’t simply march up to the front door, ask if his brother was there and then try to talk him out of his plan. At best they’d knock him unconscious until their work was done. More likely they’d leave no witnesses.
Perhaps this entire thing was nonsense. For all he knew, McGurk was sitting quietly in there reflecting on his recent tragedy. He only had a child’s word as evidence that his brother was with McGurk. Perhaps she’d mistaken some other man for Thomas.
Owen pulled back and knelt there, pondering the situation. He realised he was trying to invent an escape clause for himself, hankering for a scenario that had an altogether happier ending. But he knew in his heart he was right. If he didn’t somehow intervene, disaster would surely follow.
Five minutes later he had scrambled through a tangle of undergrowth and emerged at the rear of the cottage. He lay flat on the cold ground and peered over a rock. Four saddled horses stood side by side, tied to a post at the windowless rear wall. They stood motionless, almost like equestrian statues, but possibly sensing his presence, one of them raised its head and snorted. He drew back sharply and listened, but all remained silent.