by Colin Murphy
‘What the deuce are you waiting for? Let’s be gone!’
He hurried down the steps, forcing himself to walk erect, head high, his strides long and deliberate. He took Annie’s arm and helped her into the ambulance where she took a seat beside Madeleine. Weekes climbed in and sat to the rear, then Boycott entered last, sitting opposite him. One of the local magistrates, Mr Hamilton, who had been given official charge of the final departure, appeared on horseback.
‘Well, Captain, if we’re all ready, shall we proceed?’
Boycott nodded, a shout went up and the ambulance driver flicked the reins. Everyone rocked back and forth at the initial jerk of the vehicle. Madeleine blurted a brief sob, her previously expressed dislike of the place seemingly forgotten. Annie exhaled a long, trembling sigh as she looked back at her home. Her husband glanced sideways at her, placed his hand on her arm and squeezed.
Lough Mask House disappeared from view as they rounded a corner.
‘That’s that,’ was Boycott’s only valediction.
He reached up and pulled at the string to release the canvas flaps, which fell like stage curtains at the conclusion of a drama.
Killing a man was easy if you knew how, Thomas considered, as he lay on the dewy ground beneath the cover of the fir trees. Not in terms of which gun to use or where to plunge a knife, but in the sense of overcoming the burden of morality which society had inflicted on humanity. He simply had to remind himself of the lesson he’d learnt in his youth that morality was a façade, a contrivance of the powerful. Man’s true nature was to be found in the battle for survival. The only moral was that the victor wrote the rules. Men discover this truism often in times of war, when human society’s scabbed face is revealed and a selective morality adopted for expediency’s sake. Where were the cries of ‘thou shalt not kill’ from the priests and politicians then, when war served their narrow ends? Were not the commandments absolute? It made a farce of the slavish observance of Christianity. And because he knew these things, he also knew he would have no hesitation pulling the trigger when the moment came.
The trees above him stood in conical stillness in the placid morning air. He trained his rifle from left to right from the point where the road appeared around a bend to where it disappeared behind a clump of bushes. It would take them a good minute to traverse the distance, an eternity in which to fire a shot, in which to end a man’s life.
That he might also have to kill women and children had troubled him. But experience told him that it was just the old conditioning reasserting itself, the phoney ethics of those who, laughingly, described themselves as civilised men. Luckily he could see through that as easily as one could see through water, although ripples sometimes distorted his view. To do what he had to do was merely a question of detaching himself, removing himself in mind and spirit to a place where brute instinct took charge.
He looked to his left. Next to him was Bull Walsh, a man who appeared permanently detached. He liked Walsh, although he knew the man’s brooding silence unnerved the others. But he seemed to have achieved what Thomas often longed for, a life uncluttered by false dogmas or scruples. He reminded him of the machines he’d seen in factories in America. You put something in one end, it did its job and produced the desired result at the other. It operated without pause and didn’t require any inducements or cajoling. Still, he supposed, to achieve Walsh’s state must have required the experience of some terrible trauma, combined with a life of isolation, removed from human kind. Not a thing Thomas could easily contemplate.
Beyond Walsh lay Martin McGurk, the youngest of the four assassins. His motivation was revenge, pure and simple, and within this extremist Fenian cabal he’d found a convenient cause on which he could piggyback his hatred. Yet he seemed now to be filling the moments of anticipation with prayer, blessing himself often, lips moving in rapid, silent entreaties to his God or his dead wife. He wondered, when the moment arrived, would McGurk would be capable of pulling the trigger?
He looked the other way, past the trunk of a tree, where Doherty was lying, rifle at the ready. Doherty was a good man in many respects: he was decisive, he could think strategically and follow orders without question. But what bothered Thomas was that, in truth, he believed Doherty to be slightly insane. Or could one be slightly insane? Maybe no more than a girl could be slightly pregnant. He didn’t howl at the moon or anything like that. It was just the look that appeared in his eyes on occasion, a lascivious anticipation of killing. Perhaps you needed to be insane to do the job he did.
‘Here they come,’ Doherty whispered as Thomas watched him. He turned his head and saw the first of the Hussars round the corner.
‘Nobody fires until I give the order, got that?’ Doherty said.
Thomas tightened his grip on the rifle. It was time to detach himself.
Owen felt as if his heart was going to explode. He pushed his hand inside his jacket and clutched at it through his shirt, fingers digging into his flesh as though he was trying to wrench it from his chest. He was on his knees, heaving huge breaths, sweat coating his face like an oily balm. In order to approach them unseen it had been necessary to skirt their position, but that had required over a mile of brutal exertion and he was no longer a young man. Although his daily labours had rendered him reasonably fit, the reality was that age had ambushed him as surely as Thomas planned to ambush Boycott. He grabbed the gun from the ground and rose. Should he have to fire, he prayed it would not be at his own brother.
The sound of tramping horses turned his head and across the fields he could identify the hats and plumes of the 19th Hussars bobbing above the bushes that lined the road. In minutes they would pass close to the rise near Holy Well and carnage would ensue. He looked ahead and saw that he still had almost a quarter of a mile to cover before he could reach the trees where Thomas and the others were most likely hidden. He had the sudden calamitous realisation that he had failed. Crossing the space between him and his brother in time was an impossibility, pure and simple.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he cried and began to run.
The road below angled away from the four assassins slightly, affording them a partial view of the rear of the ambulance car. In front and behind it rode ten Hussars, another driving the car. A cart laden with trunks followed at the rear. A civilian rode beside the leading Hussars, but they quickly realised it wasn’t Boycott.
‘The fuckin’ red cross is like a target te aim for,’ Doherty whispered with a chuckle. ‘Anyone got a view of Boycott?’
McGurk shook his head. ‘The flaps are down. He could be anywhere inside.’
‘He’s probably near the back,’ Thomas said.
‘Fuck. Well, there’s nothing for it. We take the lot of them,’ Doherty said. ‘By the time we’ve done shootin’, the canvas will look like a colander. Chances are we’ll hit the bastard. Remember, I’ll take one of the horses upfront. McGurk, you go for the troops. You all know what you have to do. This is it. Everyone, on my word.’
Hamilton, the magistrate, was a little startled at the sight of a girl running towards them through the pale morning light, her skirts covered in mud. She appeared frantic and red-faced and carried a small valise, which bounced and bobbed against her legs as she stumbled along the muddy track. Her free hand clung at her bonnet, which threatened to become dislodged at every step.
‘Captain,’ he said to the officer leading the troop, ‘what’s this?’
The captain, who had been busily surveying the surrounding fields, turned and saw the running figure, causing him to instinctively smack a hand against the butt of his pistol.
‘Stop! Stop! Wait!’ the girl cried out.
The captain raised his arm and yelled an order to halt. The girl staggered along the final few yards until she stood gasping, staring up at them over the horses’ heads.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ the captain snapped.
The girl gulped a couple of more breaths before finding the strength to reply, which came as a despera
te, sobbing plea. ‘Me name is Maggie Cusack. I’m the Boycotts’ maid. I want te go with them!’
‘Hold it!’ Thomas hissed at the others. ‘They’re stopping.’
‘What the fuck? I don’t believe it,’ Doherty whispered. ‘Right where we want them. But what’s going on?’
They watched as a girl appeared from the direction of Ballinrobe. She began to converse with the troops.
‘Do we do it now?’ McGurk asked with a trembling whisper.
‘Let’s see what happens. We might get a shot at Boycott. Be better in the press if we just kill him,’ Doherty replied. ‘Everyone wait.’
One of the Hussars dismounted and conducted the girl by the arm towards the ambulance. They could see one of the flaps being partially drawn back and there seemed to be a lot of talk.
‘Have you a shot? Bull? Thomas?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Not for certain.’
‘Mr Boycott, Mrs Annie, please let me come with ye! Ye’re all I have since me Mam died years ago. Only one brother left and he’s an oul’ drunk. I’ve no one here. I’m all alone. I don’t care if ye’re going to England. I want te come. Ye know I’m a good maid, I’m a hard worker and I promise I won’t let ye down,’ Maggie tripped frantically through all of this in a wash of tears.
‘Out of the question,’ Boycott said. ‘You should have thought of that when you abandoned us for those Land League scoundrels.’
‘But I was afraid! I didn’t know what else te do, Mr Boycott!’
‘Charles! Stop it,’ snapped Annie. ‘I’ve had enough of this…this recrimination. Look at her, for heaven’s sake. You can’t take revenge on an innocent girl. I would have thought you’d have had enough of that!’
Boycott looked around at her and frowned.
‘Sir, I’m uncomfortable stopped out in the open here,’ the watching captain said sharply. ‘I’d like to get moving at your very earliest convenience, sir.’
Boycott heaved a sigh of resignation. ‘Oh very well. But you’ll be on your best behaviour from now on.’
‘Oh thank ye, sir, thank ye!’
He pulled back the flap and began to climb down to allow Maggie to pass. He stood on the track and helped her inside, where she immediately embraced Annie and continued to babble her thanks.
‘Just be quiet, girl! And stop that deuced bawling!’ he barked.
‘Christ, that’s him!’ Doherty almost shouted. ‘Thomas! Bull! Take him now!’
Thomas drew the sight up and fixed it very slightly to Boycott’s left side, knowing the barely perceptible breeze from the lough would carry it all the way to the land agent’s heart. He curled his finger around the trigger and began to squeeze.
‘Nobody move! Drop the guns – now!’
The voice came from behind them and Thomas recognised it the instant the first word had been spoken. He eased the pressure off the trigger and looked over his shoulder.
‘What the fuck?’ Doherty cried out.
Bull Walsh lowered his gun. McGurk almost threw his away as though it was hot.
‘Owen, brother,’ Thomas said calmly, rolling over and sitting up.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Doherty snapped.
‘Throw the guns over here. Now!’
‘Jesus, the state of ye,’ Thomas said, coming to his feet. Owen’s face was bright red, his hair wild, his face and neck coated with sweat. His clothes were mud-spattered and torn from brambles. His breathing was laboured, his hands shaking as they struggled to maintain the shotgun level. It was in this final observation that Thomas saw the chink of hope.
‘I said throw the guns over or I swear to Christ I’ll pull the trigger. At this range, I’ll take at least two of you.’
The others were standing now. They reluctantly tossed the guns towards Owen. Doherty glanced over his shoulder and saw the soldier pulling the canvas flap on the ambulance into place and preparing to depart.
‘They’re getting ready to leave,’ he said bitterly to Thomas. McGurk and Walsh stood immobile beneath the canopy of trees.
But Thomas barely heard Doherty, for he was walking tentatively towards his brother, Owen’s gun pointed squarely at his chest.
‘Nice stalking. Ye got right up to us without a sound. Hold your breath, did ye?’
‘A trick I must have learned from you, Thomas.’
‘Yeah, but have ye learned how te pull the trigger when you’re looking into a man’s eyes? Even if that man’s your own brother? I would, Owen, without blinking. But not you. You could no more shoot me than sprout wings and fly.’
‘Don’t bet on it.’
‘You never made those decisions. You needed me te do it for you. It’s the only reason you’re standing here now.’
‘What the fuck does that mean? Don’t come any closer.’
But Thomas ignored him and continued to take tentative steps, just a few yards away now. He smiled. ‘I want te see, Owen. I want te see in my last breath if you’ve finally found the guts te do what has te be done. Go ahead and shoot. Right here, my heart. You can’t miss.’ He tapped a finger to his breast.
‘Don’t make me, Thomas.’
Thomas stopped with the gun six inches from his chest. ‘Listen te me, I’m goin’ te tell you how te get out of this, because you’re my brother. There are four rifles scattered around your feet. All repeaters, fully loaded. You can easily have one in your hands before any of these boys behind me gets within five yards of ye. Then ye can do as ye please with them – kill them, for all I care.’
‘What the fuck are ye tellin’ him?’ Doherty snarled.
Thomas ignored him. ‘There’s just one problem. First ye have te kill me. Your shotgun only has one cartridge. And if ye don’t use it on me, I swear te Christ I’m goin’ te take it from ye and use it on you. Now. What’s it to be?’
Owen trembled, as much from exhaustion as the tension and dread. He searched within himself to find the strength to do it. It was almost as if Thomas wanted him to fire, wanted some release from the life of bitterness he’d wrought for himself. He met his brother’s eyes and tightened his finger, felt the huge pressure of the trigger resisting as it was squeezed back; just one more tiny morsel of effort and it would click, the spring would snap free and the hammer would explode on to the cartridge, releasing a hundred deadly pellets into his brother’s heart. It just needed that last effort of will to overcome the instinct that lay in his heart, the instinct formed from memories without number of the haunted, starving faces of his family – his mother, his father – and the countless thousands of skeletal creatures who had walked the land of his youth, because within the depths of that ocean of death and suffering, he had witnessed the survival of human compassion and human dignity. To pull the trigger would rob him of his own dignity, destroy the one thing within himself that had emerged unscathed from that terrible time.
He eased the trigger back into place.
‘Boycott’s leavin’!’ McGurk suddenly shouted.
Owen flicked his eyes in McGurk’s direction and in the blink of time it took to do it, Thomas had seized the barrel of the gun and forced it skywards. He launched himself at Owen, the gun between their bodies, four hands twisting and writhing as they sought to wrench it free of the other.
‘Get the fuckin’ rifles!’ Thomas grunted. ‘Get Boycott!’
The others ran forward to seize the weapons just as Owen, his body weakened and racked with pain, felt the shotgun begin to slip from his grip. Grasping at one last desperate thought before he surrendered his grip, he yanked down on the trigger and the deafening explosion of the discharging gun resounded across the landscape.
The Hussars turned as one towards the sound. The captain drew his horse about towards the rise, which was topped by a small copse of fir trees.
‘Probably an early morning hunter,’ the magistrate said.
The captain ignored him. ‘Get moving now! Quickly! Pick it up there, I want us a mile down the road in five minutes! Move, you bloody
galoots!’
The horses took off at a canter. As the ambulance moved past, the captain yelled a reassurance to the Boycotts that all was well, but when the last of the Hussars approached, he ordered six of them to scout around in the direction of the shot. The six men snapped a salute, swung their animals about and leapt the roadside ditch into the field, moving at pace towards the rise.
‘Fuck!’ Doherty shouted as, from behind a tree, he watched the ambulance disappear from view, conveying Boycott beyond danger.
‘Christ,’ Bull Walsh added, virtually his only contribution to the day’s discourse. But Doherty saw that he was pointing at something else – the six mounted Hussars spreading out as they moved across the fields towards their position. He turned back to Thomas, who now stood over his prone brother, his rifle restored to him. He ran across the space and launched a violent kick into Owen’s ribs. Owen screamed and curled into a foetal position, clutching his chest. Thomas instinctively pushed Doherty away.
‘What the fuck are ye doin’?’ Doherty asked. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. We have te get out of here fast. They’re comin’. Everyone split up, meet back at McGurk’s place. You take him with ye. He’s your fuckin’ brother. And, Joyce, he’s a dead man!’
Thomas poked Owen with the rifle. ‘Get up, quick.’
Owen struggled to his feet and Thomas pulled him towards the horses. He pushed Owen up to the fore of the saddle and then mounted himself as the others peeled away and galloped from the trees and from sight. Thomas pressed a pistol into Owen’s side as he seized the reins with his free hand.
‘Christ, Owen. What a fucking mess,’ he said and jabbed the horse with his heels.
There were just two horses at the rear of McGurk’s cottage when Thomas pulled up fifteen minutes later. He dismounted and backed away, not bothering to remove the rifle from its saddle sheath. He pointed the pistol up at his brother.