by Colin Murphy
Yet here was the confirmation of his fears. Four horses, saddled and ready to leave at a moment’s notice, waiting to convey their masters towards their dark purpose.
Four men. What on earth could he do? Armed only with a knife, he had absolutely no chance of stopping them. But he realised that that was a problem he could rectify: Joe Gaughan had a gun.
Boycott wasn’t due to leave until dawn, which was hours away, yet it occurred to Owen that the sooner he intervened the better, as Holy Well, where Niamh had spotted Thomas, was likely just one potential place of ambush they might have scouted. Besides, he couldn’t be certain of Thomas and his comrades’ plans and, for whatever reason, they might abandon McGurk’s cottage at any moment, so the sooner he got back there the better. He had a vague notion of using the gun to pin them inside or perhaps scattering their horses into the night. Either was a huge risk, but he didn’t see he had any choice.
Fifteen minutes later Owen was still running along the main road that skirted Lough Mask Estate on his way to Joe’s. He was breathless, his heart pounding, and he came to a gasping halt, planting his hands on the estate wall. He couldn’t escape the irony that he’d spent so long striving to bring about Boycott’s downfall and now here he was, stumbling about in the dead of night trying desperately to save the man’s life.
‘Don’t move!’ came a voice from behind him.
‘Back away from the wall,’ a second voice shouted in a Kerry accent.
Startled, he turned and saw two figures standing twenty feet away, handguns levelled in his direction. He groaned and stepped back from the wall. The men approached cautiously and he recognised the familiar flattened shape of their RIC caps.
‘What are ye doin’ here in the middle of the night, eh?’
‘Looked like he was goin’ to climb over the wall into the estate.’
‘I was just resting there, catching my breath,’ Owen offered in explanation, but this simply prompted further suspicion.
‘Sure ye were.’
Suddenly they were on him, the Kerryman seizing his arms and pinning them behind his back while the other stood facing him, grabbing a handful of his hair and forcing his head up, using his free hand to search Owen’s jacket. ‘So where were ye in such a hurry to at this time of night?’ The man searching him asked, his face so close Owen could smell cigarettes on his breath. The constable’s hand inevitably fell on the knife in his inside pocket. ‘What the fuck is this?’
‘It’s not what you think, it’s–’ Before he could finish, the Kerryman drew his truncheon and delivered a fierce blow to Owen’s temple. A buzz exploded in his head as he fell to his knees, though he remained semi-conscious. He was aware of being hauled to his feet and dragged along for what seemed like an eternity, until finally he glimpsed a dim light and found himself pushed through a doorway and then shoved roughly into a chair. An icy splash of water startled him fully awake and he saw the unfamiliar faces of four constables gathered around him in a semi-circle. He groaned and reached a hand up to massage his head.
‘Who are ye? What’s yer name?’ one of them yelled.
He was in some kind of hut with thin mattresses spread out on the floor at one end and a few chairs at the other. They’d sat him in a corner, the door at least fifteen feet away. The chances of making a rush for it were next to naught.
One of the constables slapped him hard across the face.
‘Who are ye, I asked? Ye fuckin’ deaf? What are ye doin’ climbin’ over Captain Boycott’s wall armed with a knife?’
Owen blinked and tried to clear his thoughts. ‘Owen Joyce. I’m a tenant.’
One of the others bent down and studied Owen closely in the dim lamplight. ‘Yeah, I know him. You’re one of the troublemakers, aren’t ye?’
‘Joyce, eh? Answer the question. Why were trying te get into the estate in the middle of the night armed with a knife? Ye Fenian bastard!’
His interrogator kicked out at his shin and sent a biting pain coursing up through the bone. Owen yelled and clasped at the injury with both hands.
‘Ye were planning to kill Captain Boycott, weren’t you? Thought all the army and police were gone. Stupid fucker!’
One of the others restrained him just as the man raised his fist. ‘No Mick, stop! He’s no use unconscious.’
‘Listen please. The knife was in my jacket all day. I use it about the farm. My horse was injured badly during the storm and I was going to borrow a shotgun from Joe Gaughan to put it down. I couldn’t leave the animal like that all night. That’s where I was going when you saw me. I’m telling the truth!’ Owen lied. ‘And besides, Boycott’s already gone, isn’t he?’
‘Quit the act. You should be in the Theatre Royal in Dublin with that act,’ the Kerryman sniggered.
‘What do we do with him?’
‘Keep him here until they’re gone, then take him to Ballinrobe. Right, let’s tie him.’
Owen had to think quickly. ‘Wait! Wait, listen! I know Mr Weekes. He’ll tell you I’m just a tenant. He visited my wife and me in our cottage just a few weeks ago. I’m no Fenian. I swear!’
This seemed to give them pause.
‘Just ask him!’
‘He’ll be asleep. It’s one in the morning,’ his principal interrogator said.
‘I think they’re still clearing out the house,’ the other offered, earning him a frown from his colleague, who clearly wasn’t too inclined to make the effort.
‘Please! He’ll vouch for me!’
One of the constables turned to the others and Owen heard him whisper, ‘What if he’s telling the truth?’ They muttered among themselves until, with a wearisome sigh, one finally agreed to go to the house and report the capture of a possible ‘Fenian assassin’. Owen sat under their gaze for over an hour before the man returned, by which time he was beginning to panic. Dawn was only a couple of hours distant and Boycott would undoubtedly be departing soon.
‘We’re te bring him to the house.’
A gun at his head, he was hauled through the trees past the ominous shape of the ruins of Lough Mask Castle towards the lighted windows of Boycott’s home. A cart stood outside and two Hussars were busy loading trunks on to it. The last time he’d been inside the house, he remembered, was the very day they’d begun the boycott.
He was dragged into the drawing room, where the huge window had been boarded up. They sat him in a chair and another ten agonising minutes passed before the door opened and Weekes entered.
‘Weekes, will you please tell these constables that I’m just a farmer? They think I’m some sort of assassin, for God’s sake. You know I’m no killer!’ Owen pleaded.
Weekes walked towards him and looked down. Constables took up positions either side of him. A third guarded the door.
‘I don’t know anything of the sort.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’ve done everything in your power to bring Charles to ruin. Why would you not go a step further?’
Owen tried to rise but was quickly forced down by the constables.
‘Weekes, whatever our differences, you know I wouldn’t do that!’
‘You are a peasant, Joyce. How could you possibly imagine that I might know anything of your motives?’
‘Weekes. Listen. Don’t try to exact petty revenge!’
‘Petty revenge?’ Weekes chuckled and turned away towards the door. ‘It’s nothing to do with revenge, Joyce. It’s simply a matter of natural justice. Goodbye.’
Owen struggled to rise but was wrestled down by his guards. ‘You sat in my home, Weekes. You came to me with an olive branch, remember? Would you have done that if you believed I was a terrorist? And what might have happened to young William if I hadn’t intervened? Is this how you repay me? What sort of a man are you?’
Weekes had paused at Owen’s outburst, but didn’t turn or offer any response. The constable pulled open the door for him and he stepped out into the hallway.
‘Boycott! Get me Captain
Boycott, Weekes! Maybe he’s more of a man than you are after all,’ Owen almost shouted in his desperation.
Owen saw Weekes pause again for the briefest of moments, then the constable pushed the door shut and he was alone again with his guards.
Minutes ticked by. Owen looked around in search of a clock but the room was bare of adornments. Besides a bureau and some chairs, everything was gone. The walls bore the outlines of the hanging place of paintings, the mantel was empty of ornament, even the rugs were absent. Soon all trace of Boycott’s presence at Lough Mask would have been erased. And unless he found a way out of this, Boycott’s very existence might also be erased.
Another constable entered. ‘We’re te take him back to the hut. Waste of time, this.’
‘No! Listen, get me Boycott, let me talk to him!’
They ignored him and hauled him to his feet under gunpoint. He was beginning to despair when the land agent entered the room and strode across to Owen, his cane tapping the floor.
‘You!’ he sneered.
Owen tried to calm himself. He’d been pondering the very real possibility that he would be left with no option but to tell the truth. This was likely to be his last chance to extract himself from the mess.
‘Boycott. Listen to me. I had no intention of coming near you or harming you. That would go against everything we’ve been doing. I was on my way to borrow a shotgun to put down my horse, like I told the constables.’
Boycott laughed. ‘You must take us for fools, Joyce. What happened, were you perhaps ploughing your fields by starlight when your horse broke its leg? It’s of no consequence anyway. To be perfectly honest, I’m grateful to you. You’ve presented me with the opportunity to repay you and your priest for what you’ve done. I’m sure O’Malley will enjoy visiting you in prison. Thank you again for such a fine parting gift. It will considerably lighten the load of my family’s journey.’
Owen closed his eyes for a moment. Events had just taken an even darker turn. ‘Your family’s still here?’
‘Farewell, Joyce,’ was Boycott’s only reply.
‘Whatever you do to me, Boycott, I beg you to send someone to check my story. Or are you the sort of man who’d leave a horse to a slow, agonising death?’
Boycott paused by the door. He grunted, looked fleetingly at Owen, then turned to the constables. ‘Send a man to his cottage. If he’s telling the truth, finish off the animal. In the meantime, get this peasant out of my house.’
Another hour passed, in which time Owen was transferred back to the hut and tied securely to a chair. Through the hut’s small window, he could just identify the first, faint hints of the dawn. Whatever was going to happen, it would be very soon.
The door opened and a constable entered with Asheton Weekes.
‘Your horse was already dead,’ the Englishman said.
For a moment Owen believed they’d realised his subterfuge.
Then the constable said: ‘I found her behind the cottage. Must have died while ye were here.’
Owen feigned relief, then looked up at them. ‘I was telling the truth. Untie me!’
‘Forget it. You’re off to Ballinrobe Gaol,’ one of the others said through a smirk.
‘What? You know I’m innocent!’ Owen began to struggle at his bonds and one of the constables slapped his head.
‘Stop it!’ Weekes shouted. ‘Release him.’
‘What? But Captain Boycott said we–’
‘Release him now or I’ll inform your commanding officer that you’re conspiring to frame an innocent man. Do it now!’
After much discontented muttering, the bonds were cut.
‘Whatever differences we’ve had, Joyce, I believe you to be an honourable man. And I don’t wish to tarnish my own sense of honour with a cheap act of vengeance. You may leave. I doubt we’ll ever see each other again. Goodbye once more, Joyce.’
Owen nodded at him. ‘Goodbye, Weekes. And thanks.’
Joe Gaughan was alone in his virtually roofless cottage. Most of the thatch had been torn away by the storm and he’d worked until well after dark effecting repairs, but it would take weeks to return the cottage to its former state.
He’d sent his family to stay with his wife’s sister and now lay huddled in the ruin under a sheet of ragged canvas that had landed in his fields the previous night. The former British Army property served as an improvised tent to keep the chill away, allowing him to remain, look after his few possessions and to keep scavenging animals from rummaging after his stores of food and seed. One of those possessions was a single-barrelled, breech-loading shotgun manufactured by W. Richards of Liverpool. It was at least forty years old, a bequest from his father, yet it was maintained in pristine condition. The gun now lay cradled in his arms.
But the predator he could hear stalking his homestead now was no fox, and no visitors came calling at such an ungodly hour. Only scavengers of the human kind. His cottage would be easy prey. Or so they thought. He quietly rose and pushed back the canvas, then crept through the darkness towards the remains of his front door, which lay at an angle, barely supported by one hinge. The man stood in the centre of his yard, bent over, hand on his knees, as though studying something he’d spotted in the mud. He braced the shotgun against his shoulder.
‘Don’t move an inch.’
The man ignored him and stood erect. Joe’s finger instinctively tightened on the trigger.
‘Joe! Thank Christ! I thought there was no one here.’
‘Owen?’
‘Yeah. It’s me. My God. Your roof.’
Joe lowered the gun and hurried out. Owen was still catching his breath.
‘The storm took it like a leaf. What’s going on? Have ye been running?’
Owen took a step forward. ‘Joe, I need to borrow that.’
Joe looked down at the weapon and then at Owen’s dark form.
‘The gun? What for?’
‘My horse was injured in the storm. I thought she might be all right, but… I’ll have to put her down.’
The big farmer nodded. ‘Fair enough. I’ll come with ye and do it. It’s not so easy te kill yer own animal.’
Owen placed a restraining hand on Joe’s arm. ‘No, Joe. I’d prefer to do it myself.’
Joe nodded slowly. ‘Fine. Here.’
As Owen’s hands closed about the cold metal, he looked directly into Joe’s face.
‘Have you any more shells?’ he whispered.
His neighbour didn’t answer for several seconds.
‘More shells? I know ye’re a lousy shot, but even you couldn’t miss a fuckin’ horse at six inches. What in Christ is goin’ on?’
‘I need more shells, Joe.’
‘Owen, are ye in trouble?’
‘Will you please give me the damn shells?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Joe turned away towards the cottage. He returned a few minutes later with two shells.
‘That’s all I have. We’ve been friends for years, Owen. Please tell me what’s goin’ on.’
Owen shook his head. ‘I can’t, Joe. I have to go. Thanks for the gun. I appreciate it.’ He began to walk away through the debris scattered about the yard.
‘Owen. Whatever it is, let me help. You’ve helped me enough in the past.’
‘Thanks, Joe. But this is my business. I have to take care of it.’ He paused near the laneway. ‘There’s one thing. If anything happens, do whatever you can for my family.’
‘You know I will, but I don’t like the sound of–’
But his words went unheard, for Owen had already fled into the fading darkness.
The first slivers of dawn’s light speared the sky behind them to the east as the four men secured their horses in a copse of trees. Thomas emerged from the tree cover and looked around to make sure that their arrival had gone unnoticed, but at this early hour not even the industrious farmers of Mayo had stirred from their beds. The only thing of note he could see nearby was an ancient, moss-covered well. He turned back towa
rds the west, which afforded him a dim view of Lough Mask, and below the rise, not fifty yards distant, lay the road along which Boycott’s entourage would travel.
‘Where’s best?’ Doherty asked.
Thomas led them towards the front of the copse of fir trees. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing to the road a short distance away. ‘We can stay inside the tree line and there’s a perfect view of a hundred yards of road. We can be on the horses and away without them even getting a glimpse of us.’
‘Perfect. You happy, Bull?’
Walsh simply nodded, then began to check his rifle. McGurk brushed roughly past Doherty, irked that his opinion wasn’t requested.
‘Right, then,’ Doherty said. ‘Now all we need is Boycott.’
Weekes looked at the twenty mounted Hussars, who were attempting to align their horses into formation. In their dark, full-length winter greatcoats and cylindrical shako hats, armed with rifles, handguns and swords, they appeared to him quite a threatening force, deterrent enough for any would-be attacker. Two horses had been hitched to the baggage cart and behind it stood the ambulance car, driven by four animals, the driver also a Hussar. The car could carry eight people and was covered in a tall curve of sturdy canvas. It bore the sign of a red cross within a circle on either side.
He looked in and saw that Miss Reynolds, the maid, had already boarded. Beside her sat William, looking a little sad but upholding the family tradition of keeping his head held high. Weekes smiled in at them and looked up at the house to see Annie emerging arm in arm with Madeleine. Finally Charles appeared, stopped on the top step and stared back into the empty hallway, his shoulders slumped. He pulled the key from his pocket and massaged it absently between his thumb and forefinger, then after a moment he grunted something incoherent and pulled the door shut. He locked it, then turned to see Annie and Weekes standing stock-still staring up at him.