necessity be the last people to learn anything from the country folk,
and that a London detective would be as much out of his element as "a
salmon on a gravel walk."
Between Ennis and Maryfort we only met two brace of constables on the
road, but we knew there were others with Mr. Hall, of Cluny, at Tulla,
and other places within ten miles of Colonel O'Callaghan's house.
There was a little gathering of people near the chapel at Bearfield,
but in other respects the road was empty till we neared our
destination, when a little crowd set up an Irish howl against us,
followed by a shout of "Long live Parnell." Presently we came to
Lismeehan gates, opened after a good steady look at us by an ancient
retainer, in a grey frieze coat. I was told civilly enough that "the
masther" was at home. Beyond a pretty park, full of well-bred cattle,
lay the "Boycotted" house, tall and grey and grim, in the waning
light. There was no sign of life in it. Under a handsome portico was
the grand entrance, bolted and barred up, with shutters closed. There
was nothing for it but to tug vigorously at the bell. Nobody came to
the door, but around each corner of the house stepped an armed
constable. A moment later a narrow slip of the shutter was moved, and
we became aware first of a fur cap and then of a youthful face, which
ultimately proved to be that of Colonel O'Callaghan's eldest son, home
for the holidays from a great English school, and undergoing the
"hardening" process of spending Christmas in a state of siege.
Presently came a maidservant, neat and trim, and after some wrestling
with bolts the outer door was opened a little way, and our names and
business demanded, after which we entered a great hall, apparently
used as a refectory. Huge logs blazed on the hearth, and the room
looked comfortable enough. We were next ushered into the drawing-room
of Colonel O'Callaghan, who had just come in from herding his cattle
and sheep, and was still girt with a brace of full-sized revolvers.
No whit dismayed by the attack made on him at Tulla, and holding his
foes in very slight estimation, Colonel O'Callaghan is yet subjected
to inconvenience and oppression of an extraordinary kind. The
proximate cause of his being "Boycotted" was his action is serving
four processes himself, because neither love nor money nor threats
would induce a process-server to do his work. The country folk know
quite well the difference between Land League law and the phantom
which remains of the law of the land. The former is instantly
enforced, the latter cannot be carried into effect at all, a fact
which is telling upon its officers with discouraging effect.
Finding his writs could be served by nobody but himself, Colonel
O'Callaghan started early one morning, attended by his escort, served
the four writs himself, and then prepared to hold his own. Pigs were
killed, barrels of flour and other stores were brought in, and the
house provisioned to stand a siege. Recollection of old days in the
Crimea, when Colonel O'Callaghan was in the 62nd Regiment, were
revived under the provisioning process, which was by no means complete
when he was formally "Boycotted," and left with 300 cattle and sheep
upon his hands, with only one man to help him to look after them.
Thirty odd herds, labourers, and other dependents have left Maryfort.
Only three maid-servants, the old man at the gate, and another man now
remain, and even the housemaid, who is Irish and a Roman Catholic,
must be guarded to and from mass, amid the yells of the natives. It
must be remembered that Maryfort is a lonely place, three miles from a
post-office, and three times that distance from a railway station;
that it is no light matter to send in and out for letters and parcels;
and the emissary would, if unarmed, assuredly be stopped, if not
maltreated. This difficulty of getting letters and fresh joints has
been met in the latter case by falling back upon patriarchal customs.
As Colonel O'Callaghan can neither sell his sheep nor buy mutton, he
has taken to consuming his flock, albeit a sheep is a large animal to
kill in a small family, and but for the winter weather the loss would
be very great.
There is another annoyance--the risk of valuable cattle being houghed
or otherwise mutilated; a risk calling for incessant watchfulness.
That it is not of an imaginary nature is demonstrated by the fact that
the tails were cut off of two of Mrs. Westropp's cows a few nights
since, and a threatening letter, savagely coarse and brutal in its
wording, was sent to that lady. There is no doubt about this, for I
have seen the letter, in which reference is made to the cows and
brutal treatment promised to Mrs. Westropp, a widow of small property.
The difficulty concerning letters, which it seems the postmaster at
Callaghan's Mills is not compelled to deliver at Maryfort, is got over
in another way. As we are discussing the question of supply, there
enters to us a lady dressed in walking costume of studied simplicity.
This is the terrible Mrs. O'Callaghan, of whom I had heard wonderful
stories in Clare and Limerick; "And begorra," said one informant,
"it's herself that's a divil of a lady entoirely, and she shoots
rabbuts wid a rifle at three hundred yards and niver misses, and she
tould 'um at the village that she'd as soon shoot one of 'um as a
rabbut, and she is the sisther of Misthress Dick Stacpoole, of
Edenvale. They was the Miss Westropps, your honour, out of county
Limerick, and it is thim as makes their husbands the tyrants that they
are." This account made me wonder at two things--firstly, at the
astounding power of lying and exaggeration displayed by my
interlocutor; and secondly, where the old Irish gallantry towards the
fair sex has gone to. It seems to have gone very far, for one hears
now of ladies being shot at. But, although not impressed with the
truth of the information vouchsafed to me, I expected to see at least
an Irish version of Lady Macbeth, instead of the graceful,
well-dressed, thorough-bred Irish gentlewoman who had just come from a
long walk to the post-office and back. Since the boy who used to carry
the letter bag was frightened away, Mrs. O'Callaghan has taken up his
duties, and, armed with rifle and revolver, performs them daily.
With the case of Miss Ellard, and other ladies, before my eyes, I
cannot blame Mrs. O'Callaghan for going about armed, and maintaining a
defiant attitude towards the people, who really go in bodily fear of
her. There is, as I have observed, nothing to terrify in the look or
voice of Mrs. O'Callaghan, but I gradually gather from her
conversation that it is not all romance about her wonderful shooting.
If not at three hundred, yet at thirty yards she can hit a rabbit
cleverly enough, and actually does go out rabbit shooting "for the
pot" to relieve the monotony of everlasting pig and sheep. Mrs.
O'Callaghan is also nearly as good a shot with the revolver as her
husband, and would certainly not hesitate to use that weapon in
self-defence.
Such is the present _personnel_ of Maryfort at this moment, affording
a sketch of manners reminding one rather of a Huguenot family in
southern France just after receiving the news of St. Bartholomew, than
of any social condition extant in modern Europe.
As we drive out into the darkness and heavily-falling snow there is
some debate touching the lighting of the carriage lamps. It is thought
better not to light up, and to keep firearms handy until we get some
miles from Maryfort.
A howl pierces through the darkness as we pass a clump of houses, and
I remark that my friend's coachman drives very fast by any house on
the road; but nothing occurs till we stop at a "shebeen" to light both
cigars and lamps, for the snowstorm is increasing. Not desiring
refreshment, I give the woman of the house a shilling for a drink for
a man who is sitting by the fire. I explain the nature of the
transaction to him, and wish him a happy new year. The sulky brute
answers me never a word. Probably he knows or suspects where I have
been, and if so would let me lie on the ground under a kicking horse
till an end was made of me rather than stretch forth a hand. He will
not speak now, and I observe that the woman, who has kept a tight hold
on the shilling, has not poured out any whisky, although she has had
the decency to ask me if I wished for any. It is a strange sight, this
sullen silent savage sitting scowling over the fire; but _on se fait à
tout_ in Disturbed Ireland.
LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.
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* * * * *
[Illustration: (foldout Map of Ireland, showing author's route.)]
[Illustration: (foldout detail map of western Ireland, showing author's route.)]
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