The warder went down the corridor at half-past six, rapping on each cell door with a heavy key. When the man rapped again five minutes later on the return journey, Raoul swung his legs to the floor. He sat on the side of his cot, still brooding over the letter, until the cell door opened and an old man entered to light the gas. Then he got to his feet, dressed himself and made his bed. At seven he walked in the corridor with the other prisoners, while the basins were being emptied and oakum distributed for the day’s work. Then they locked him in his cell once more. At eight they gave him his breakfast of bread and milk.
After he had eaten, he took out Elizabeth’s letter and began again to read the passage that had disturbed him.
“Needless to say,” Elizabeth wrote, “Michael’s death was less of a shock to me than it was to Lettice. The dear child has plenty of courage, but she is still somewhat stunned by the terrible blow. She begs to be forgiven for not writing to you this time. She says that you will understand. Poor Michael! He was one of those on whose foreheads tragedy is written for even the least intelligent to read. God forgive me! I hated him at first. I knew instinctively that there never could be peace where he was and that to know him meant to suffer. Later on, though, I came to love him deeply. So that his going is a great loss to me. Of course, one cannot feel sorrow in the ordinary way for one so strong and so certain of his purpose. It would be like a common sparrow mourning a royal eagle, that has fallen in all its glory. The people certainly don’t mourn for him. On the contrary, they feel proud and triumphant, as if they had won a great victory. Perhaps it is that his spirit has passed into them. Raoul, I have never in my life seen anything like his funeral. The whole parish was there. Thousands of other people came from far and near. Yet it was the public emotion, rather than the numbers, that was so impressive. I got completely carried away by the sincere love visible in every eye. I didn’t think our people were capable of it. It seems they are. As I said before, pride was the dominant note. When they wept, it was for our brave little schoolmaster. I find it hard to understand how such a wayward and seemingly weak man could prove to be a hero. Yet there it is. One really knows very little about the human soul. Father Cornelius is a case in point. I had entertained harsh thoughts of him for some time. Now I have completely reversed my opinion. He has behaved wonderfully towards us during our crisis. I was moved to tears by the beautiful sermon he preached in praise of Michael and the schoolmaster. Of course, our cynical Tim Ahearn maintains that Father Cornelius is merely swimming with the tide like a skilful politician, now that the landlords are certain to be defeated, owing to the Americans and the English factory workers supporting Ireland’s cause. Tim always sees the worst side of things. It is true that Father Cornelius, like all of is, has his bad side, if shrewdness is to be considered bad. Yet one must face facts. It requires courage for a priest to come out openly on his altar and preach a sermon in praise of two Fenians that died in action. Coercion is at its height. The Government has sent a battalion of Scottish infantry to Clash, with orders to cow the people at all costs, no matter how brutal their behaviour. The ruffians need little encouragement. The Constabulary are completely discredited, as they have been unable to make a single arrest in connection with Captain Butcher’s death. The Government people are furious at the handsome way the Fenians behaved towards the four policemen they captured, merely taking their military equipment and then turning them loose, after having attended to the wounded man. Tyrants fear disciplined opponents. By the way, Father Cornelius is preparing a tremendous reception for you on your…”
“Damn Father Cornelius!” said Raoul as he put away the letter.
He was very agitated. He sat down and began to pick oakum in an effort to regain his calm. The senseless labour merely irritated him still further. After a while, he threw the pieces of foul rope back into the basket and clasped his hands before his chest. He looked up at the little window. A faint ray of sunshine was creeping along the iron bars. He was overcome by an almost unbearable loneliness.
He threw back his head and cried out with great fervour:
“Oh! How I envy him the way he died!”
Chapter XXXVIII
Raoul was bewildered by the huge throng that awaited him at Clash railway station on his release from jail. As the train came slowly to a halt, three large brass bands played a triumphal march. The music was barely audible above the cheering of an enormous throng that stood in the market place beyond the tall iron railings. The platform was crowded with notable people from all over the county. There were mayors in their robes and chains of office, other public officials wearing ornamented sashes over their morning suits, officers of patriotic societies with beribboned badges pinned to their chests, over thirty priests of all ranks and scores of distinguished private citizens. Lettice and Elizabeth stood at the very front of this multitude, accompanied by the master of ceremonies and by the representatives of the Press. Both were dressed in deep mourning.
As Raoul stepped from the carriage, the important people on the platform uncovered their heads and bowed ceremoniously. The people in the market place threw their hats into the air and redoubled their cheering. Lettice and Elizabeth came forward and embraced Raoul. Then the master of ceremonies took charge. An address of welcome was read in most flowery language by a tall and handsome old parish priest. Several other men also delivered short addresses. Then the party advanced to a large, brightly painted carriage that stood waiting outside the station. Four bob-tailed grey horses, all in splendid condition and carefully groomed, were harnessed to the carriage. Raoul mounted after taking leave of the reception committee. Lettice sat beside him. Elizabeth sat opposite. Preceded by the three brass bands, the carriage advanced at a stately pace towards the town square. A long column of other carriages came after it. The crowd surged along on all sides, singing patriotic songs.
After they had gone a little way, Raoul turned to Elizabeth and said in a tone of annoyance:
“Whose carriage is this?”
Elizabeth was beaming. She obviously enjoyed every bit of the fuss that was being made of her brother.
“Father Cornelius insisted on your having it,” she said. “To-day, he said, you are a guest of the county. This carriage comes from the livery stables here in town. It’s a very good thing, in any case, that Tim Ahearn is not driving us. We would have been disgraced before this vast crowd. You’ve no idea to what extent he has relapsed into his slovenly habits since you went to jail.”
“So I’m a guest of Father Costigan,” said Raoul, putting his fingers to the tip of his beard.
“You are a guest of the people,” Elizabeth said. “They are all grateful to you.”
“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,” Raoul said.
“What’s that?” said Elizabeth.
“They very obviously think that I, too, am dead,” Raoul said, “and therefore no longer a menace to them.”
“Don’t be frivolous, Raoul,” said Elizabeth. “Please raise your hat and bow to these good people who are cheering you.”
“Must I?” said Raoul as he raised his hat and bowed in all directions. “Father Francis didn’t come to meet me, I see.”
“It’s not because he doesn’t love you,” Lettice said. “It’s just that he is very sensitive about appearing in public where there are other priests.”
“Father Francis is very sensitive,” Elizabeth said.
“I understand,” said Raoul. “I thought of him a great deal while I was in jail. He has become very important to me.”
“To all of us,” Lettice said with feeling.
“Good Heavens!” said Raoul. “What is happening now?”
“I beg of you to behave, Raoul,” said Elizabeth anxiously. “This is a further little surprise staged by Father Cornelius.”
The carriage was now passing through the square, abreast of the headless English general. A group of bare-headed young athletes seized the horses, brought them to a halt and began to unfasten the harness. At the same time,
from the direction of the Manister road, Father Cornelius came riding on a magnificent bay hunter. He was followed by a troop of fifty horsemen. He dismounted with a supple grace of a young man when he reached the carriage.
“Mr. St. George,” cried the parish priest in his tremendous bass voice, after he had doffed his hat and made a low bow, “I welcome you on your release from jail, in the name of Manister and of its people. Long may you live to enjoy the reverence that will always be paid to you, as a patriot and a benefactor.”
He came forward to the side of the carriage with outstretched right hand. Raoul hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he uncovered himself and shook hands with Father Cornelius. There was a great roar of applause. Father Cornelius got into the carriage and sat beside Elizabeth. In the meantime, the young athletes had harnessed themselves to the carriage in place of the horses. The march towards Manister began, with the great throng singing and the bands playing triumphal music. Father Cornelius kept raising his hat and bowing, just as if the whole affair were in his own honour. Raoul stared straight in front of him.
The excitement subsided a little after the procession had left the town. Then Father Cornelius turned to Raoul and spoke in his most charming tone.
“When I said just now,” he declared, “that the people would reverence you as a benefactor, it was not an idle phrase. Your method of fighting tyranny has now been adopted by the whole of Ireland.”
He leaned forward a little and continued to speak in a more intimate tone, on a lower key.
“I thought your idea wonderful from the very beginning,” he said, “although I dared not say so in public. My freedom of action is very limited in matters of politics. Priests can only follow their flock. If they try to lead, or to initiate new policies, no matter how good, the enemies of the Church are at once in full cry, claiming that there is a clerical plot to seize temporal power.”
He leaned back again, smiled and said gaily:
“The people have given a name of their own, though, to your invention.”
“Really?” said Raoul with interest. “What is it?”
“They were unhappy about the word ‘isolation,’ ” Father Cornelius said. “It sounded foreign to them. In any case, when they adopted your method of waging war, they modified it considerably, in order that it might conform to the needs of practical politics. Your idea, as you had conceived it, was revolutionary in its method and in its purpose. The people, of course, do not want revolution or extreme measures. They simply want reforms, constitutionally achieved. So they really had to find a new name for it. Then a land agent named Captain Cunningham Boycott, a blustering Englishman employed by Lord Erne, incurred the displeasure of the Land League a few weeks ago. The people at once decided that they had found the proper name. Already it has spread like wild-fire.”
“What is the name?” said Raoul, becoming agitated.
“Boycott,” said Father Cornelius, slapping his thigh.
“Boycott?” cried Raoul in horror.
“Boycott is now the word on everybody’s lips,” cried Father Cornelius, bursting into laughter.
“It’s beastly,” said Raoul. “First of all they geld my idea and deprive it of its power. Then they make it serve their vulgar ambitions in its mutilated state. As a final insult, they baptise it in their own image, by giving it the name of some common lout.”
Father Cornelius had now stopped laughing. He was looking at Raoul with some concern.
“Oh! Come now, Mr. St. George,” he said in an appealing tone. “You must be generous. Great men must always be generous. They owe it as a compensation to less gifted people.”
He made a gesture with his open hands as if he were caressing a globe.
“The word ‘boycott’ has a fullness,” he said, “and a certain good-natured humanity, which is symbolic of this bloodless way to fight tyranny.”
“I spent more than twenty years of my life,” said Raoul bitterly, “trying …”
He stopped speaking as he felt his daughter’s fingers close about his hand. He turned towards her.
“You once told me,” she whispered, “that it is a very fortunate poet who is able to realise even one-millionth part of his dream.”
Father Cornelius tactfully turned to Elizabeth and began to tell her a humorous story about a mutual acquaintance.
“You are the apple of my eye,” Raoul whispered to Lettice as he pressed her hand.
“The important thing is that the people are now united,” Lettice said earnestly. “You always said that unity is the only foundation upon which discipline can be built. No matter how small this beginning may seem to be, our people have begun their march.”
Tears came into Raoul’s eyes as he looked at her gentle loveliness. Her ecstasy of motherhood, now coming to a climax, had already conquered the bitterness of her tragedy. There was only rapture in her eyes.
“You are the apple of my eye,” he repeated.
Still clasping her hand, he looked out upon the land that had again renewed its beauty in the fire of spring. A passionate love of his native earth surged through his blood as he saw the bright shimmer of sunlight on the green leaves of the trees, on the running water of a roadside brook, on the faraway mountain peaks, on the young crops that were thrusting upwards from the black ploughed fields.
Then he recalled how Michael used to look upwards, with unblinking eyes, in reverie.
He felt humbled and exalted before the unending march of life.
Chapter XXXIX
Raoul and Father Francis jumped to their feet as they heard a cry of pain from overhead. Tim Ahearn ran to them on tip-toe along the flagstones from the gable end of the house. The three men listened intently with their heads raised. All they could now hear was the insect tumult of the drowsy summer afternoon about them on the terrace. There was dead silence within the house.
“The doctor and the midwife have been up there for more than an hour,” Tim Ahearn grumbled. “It’s how they must be getting into each other’s way. Either one of them could have done whatever there is to be done long ago.”
Raoul touched Father Francis on the arm and said:
“Let’s finish our game.”
The two men sat down again to the chess table and stared gravely at their embattled pieces on the board. Ahearn scratched his skull beneath his hat as he stood watching them.
Raoul picked up a knight very deliberately, held it poised for some time and then put it down elsewhere with a grunt of triumph.
“Check!” he said.
Ahearn shrugged his shoulders and walked slowly down the terrace.
“How can they play chess at a time like this?” he muttered.
He had just begun once more to prune the rose bushes at the gable end when another cry came from overhead. Now it was the harsh screech of a new-born infant that he heard.
“Praised be God!” he cried joyously, striking his breast, as he ran full tilt back along the terrace.
Raoul and Father Francis upset the chess table as they rose. The three of them ran into the living-room. The infant shrieked again as they hurried across the floor. Then Elizabeth entered from the hall.
“What is it, Lizzie?” Raoul cried excitedly.
Elizabeth’s little face looked very proud and happy. She picked up her skirts and began to march down the room before answering her brother.
“It’s Raoul Francis,” she said after she had taken three or four steps.
Annie Fitzpatrick came into the room and grabbed Ahearn by the arm.
“You have to go to the village for me,” she said as she pushed him towards the door.
“How is herself?” Ahearn whispered.
“How would she be but in the pink of condition?” Annie cried in pretended anger. “Arrah! Sure she’s walking on the stars after bringing a lovely baby boy into the world.”
“Praised be God!” Ahearn kept repeating as he went down the hall.
Raoul and Father Francis stood with their hands on one anot
her’s shoulders. They were both trembling.
“So we have work to do, you and I,” Raoul said.
“So it seems,” Father Francis said. “In God’s name, we have the young generation to train.”
“It will be wonderful work,” Raoul said.
Arm in arm, they went out on to the terrace, babbling about the future like excited children.
Elizabeth sat down at her desk to enter the new birth into the family record. As she dipped her pen into the ink, tears of joy came into her eyes. She had to drop the pen and put her hands to her face, in an effort to contain her emotion.
As she listened with her face covered to the happy talk of the two men on the terrace, it was made manifest to her that all the tragedy and tumult of the past year had been brought to an end by the miracle of birth.
It was also made manifest to her that suffering, which she had feared so much in her barren loneliness, is a dark tournament that must always precede the enjoyment of life’s fullness.
This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
Copyright © 1946 by Liam O’Flaherty
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