BOYCOTTING.
Frank Jones went back to County Galway, having caught a last glimpse
of his lady-love. But his lady-love could not very well make herself
known to him from the stage as she was occupied at the moment with
Trullo. And as he had left the theatre before her message had been
brought round, he did so with a bitter conviction that everything
between them was over. He felt very angry with her,--no doubt
unreasonably. The lady was about to make a pocketful of money; and
had offered to share it with him. He refused to take any part of
it, and declined altogether to incur any of the responsibilities of
marriage for the present. His father's circumstances too were of such
a nature as to make him almost hopeless for the future. What would he
have had her do? Nevertheless he was very angry with her.
As he made his way westward through Ireland he heard more and more of
the troubles of the country. He had not in fact been gone much more
than a week, but during that week sad things had happened. Boycotting
had commenced, and had already become very prevalent. To boycott
a man, or a house, or a firm, or a class of men, or a trade, or a
flock of sheep, or a drove of oxen, or unfortunately a county hunt,
had become an exact science, and was exactly obeyed. It must be
acknowledged that throughout the south and west of Ireland the
quickness and perfection with which this science was understood
and practised was very much to the credit of the intelligence of
the people. We can understand that boycotting should be studied in
Yorkshire, and practised,--after an experience of many years. Laying
on one side for the moment all ideas as to the honesty and expediency
of the measure, we think that Yorkshire might in half a century
learn how to boycott its neighbours. A Yorkshire man might boycott a
Lancashire man, or Lincoln might boycott Nottingham. It would require
much teaching;--many books would have to be written, and an infinite
amount of heavy slow imperfect practice would follow. But County Mayo
and County Galway rose to the requirements of the art almost in a
night! Gradually we Englishmen learned to know in a dull glimmering
way what they were about; but at the first whisper of the word all
Ireland knew how to ruin itself. This was done readily by people of
the poorer class,--without any gifts of education, and certainly
the immoderate practice of the science displays great national
intelligence.
As Frank Jones passed through Dublin he learned that Morony Castle
had been boycotted; and he was enough of an Irishman to know
immediately what was meant. And he heard, too, while in the train
that the kennels at Ahaseragh had been boycotted. He knew that with
the kennels would be included Black Daly, and with Morony Castle his
unfortunate father. According to the laws on which the practice was
carried on nothing was to be bought from the land of Morony Castle,
and nothing sold to the owners of it. No service was to be done for
the inhabitants, as far as the laws of boycotting might be made to
prevail. He learned from a newspaper he bought in Dublin that the
farm servants had all left the place, and that the maids had been
given to understand that they would encounter the wrath of the new
lords in the land if they made a bed for any Jones to lie upon.
As he went on upon his journey his imagination went to work to
picture to himself the state of his father's life under these
circumstances. But his imagination was soon outstripped by the
information which reached him from fellow-travellers. "Did ye hear
what happened to old Phil Jones down at Morony?" said a passenger,
who got in at Moate, to another who had joined them at Athlone.
"Divil a hear thin."
"Old Phil wanted to get across from Ballyglunin to his own place.
He had been down to Athenry. There was that chap who is always
there with a car. Divil a foot would he stir for Phil. Phil has had
some row with the boys there about his meadows, and he's trying to
prosecute. More fool he. A quiet, aisy-going fellow he used to be.
But it seems he has been stirred now. He has got some man in Galway
jail, and all the country is agin him. Anyways he had to foot it
from Ballyglunin to Headford, and then to send home to Morony for
his own car." In this way did Frank learn that his father had in
truth incurred boycotting severity. He knew well the old man who had
attended the Ballyglunin station with almost a hopeless desire of
getting a fare, and was sure that nothing short of an imperious edict
from the great Landleaguing authorities in the district, would have
driven him to the necessity of repudiating a passenger.
But when he had reached the further station of Ballinasloe he learned
sadder tidings in regard to his friend Tom Daly. Tom Daly had put no
man in prison, and yet the kennels at Ahaseragh had been burned to
the ground. This had occurred only on the preceding day; and he got
the account of what had happened from a hunting man he knew well.
"The hounds were out you know last Saturday week as a finish, and
poor Tom did hope that we might get through without any further
trouble. We met at Ballinamona, and we drew Blake's coverts without
a word. We killed our fox too and then went away to Pulhaddin gorse.
I'll be blest if all the county weren't there. I never saw the boys
swarm about a place so thick. Pulhaddin is the best gorse in the
county. Of course it was no use drawing it; but as we were going away
on the road to Loughrea the crowd was so thick that there was no
riding among them. Ever so many horsemen got into the fields to be
away from the crowd. But Tom wouldn't allow Barney and the hounds to
be driven from the road. I never saw a man look so angry in my life.
You could see the passion that was on him. He never spoke a word,
nor raised a hand, nor touched his horse with his spur; but he got
blacker and blacker, and would go on whether the crowd moved asunder
or not. And he told Barney to follow him with the hounds, which
Barney did, looking back ever and anon at the poor brutes, and giving
his instructions to the whips to see well after that they did not
wander. They threatened Barney scores of times with their sticks, but
he came on, funking awfully, but still doing whatever Tom told him. I
was riding just behind him among the hounds so that I could see all
that took place. At last a ruffian with his shillelagh struck Barney
over the thigh. I had not time to get to him; indeed I doubt whether
I should have done so, but Tom,--; by George, he saw out of the back
of his head. He turned round, and, without touching his horse with
spur or whip, rode right at the ruffian. If they had struck himself,
I think he would have borne it more easily."
"How did it end?"
"They said that the blackguard was hurt, but I saw him escape and get
away over the fence. Then they all set upon Tom, but by G---- it was
glorious to see the way in which he held his own. Out came that cross
of his, four foot and a half long, with a thong as heavy as a flail.
He soon had the road clear around him, and the big black horse you
remember, stood as steady as a statue till he was bidden to move
on. Then when he had the hounds, and Barney Smith and the whips
to himself,--and I was there--we all rode off at a fast trot to
Loughrea."
"And then?"
"We could do nothing but go home; the whole county seemed to be in a
ferment. At Loughrea we went away in our own directions, and poor Tom
with Barney Smith rode home to Ahaseragh. But not a word did he speak
to anyone, even to Barney; nor did Barney dare to speak a word to
him. He trotted all the way to Ahaseragh in moody silence, thinking
of the terrible ill that had been done him. I have known Tom for
twenty years, and I think that if he loves any man he loves me. But
he parted from me that day without a word."
"And then the kennels were set on fire?"
"Before I left Loughrea I heard the report, spread about everywhere,
that Tom Daly had recklessly ridden down three or four more poor
countrymen on the road. I knew then that some mischief would be in
hand. It was altogether untrue that he had hurt anyone. And he was
bound to interfere on behalf of his own servant. But when I heard
this morning that a score of men had been there in the night and had
burned the kennels to the ground, I was not surprised." Such was the
story that Frank Jones heard as to Tom Daly before he got home.
On reaching Ballyglunin he looked out for the carman, but he was not
there. Perhaps the interference with his task had banished him. Frank
went on to Tuam, which increased slightly the distance by road to
Morony. But at Tuam he found that Morony had in truth been boycotted.
He could not get a car for love or money. There were many cars there,
and the men would not explain to him their reasons for declining to
take him home; but they all refused. "We can't do it, Mr. Frank,"
said one man; and that was the nearest approach to an explanation
that was forthcoming. He walked into town and called at various
houses; but it was to no purpose. It was with difficulty that he
found himself allowed to leave his baggage at a grocer's shop, so
strict was the boycotting exacted. And then he too had to walk home
through Headford to Morony Castle.
When he reached the house he first encountered Peter, the butler.
"Faix thin, Mr. Frank," said Peter, "throubles niver comed in 'arnest
till now. Why didn't they allow Mr. Flory just to hould his pace and
say nothing about it to no one?"
"Why has all this been done?" demanded Frank.
"It's that born divil, Pat Carroll," whispered Peter. "I wouldn't be
saying it so that any of the boys or girls should hear me,--not for
my throat's sake. I am the only one of 'em," he added, whispering
still lower than before, "that's doing a ha'porth for the masther.
There are the two young ladies a-working their very fingers off down
to the knuckles. As for me, I've got it all on my shoulders." No
doubt Peter was true to his master in adversity, but he did not allow
the multiplicity of his occupations to interfere with his eloquence.
Then Frank went in and found his father seated alone in his
magistrate's room. "This is bad, father," said Frank, taking him by
the hand.
"Bad! yes, you may call it bad. I am ruined, I suppose. There are
twenty heifers ready for market next week, and I am told that not a
butcher in County Galway will look at one of them."
"Then you must send them on to Westmeath; I suppose the Mullingar
butchers won't boycott you?"
"It's just what they will do."
"Then send them on to Dublin."
"Who's to take them to Dublin?" said the father, in his distress.
"I will if there be no one else. We are not going to be knocked out
of time for want of two or three pairs of hands."
"There are two policemen here to watch the herd at night. They'd cut
the tails off them otherwise as they did over at Ballinrobe last
autumn. To whom am I to consign 'em in Dublin? While I am making new
arrangements of that kind their time will have gone by. There are
five cows should be milked morning and night. Who is to milk them?"
"Who is milking them?"
"Your sisters are doing it, with the aid of an old woman who has come
from Galway. She says she has not long to live, and with the help of
half-a-crown a day cares nothing for the Landleaguers. I wish someone
would pay me half-a-crown a day, and perhaps I should not care."
Then Frank passed on through the house to find his sisters, or Flory
as it might be. He had said not a word to his father in regard to
Florian, fearing to touch upon a subject which, as he well knew, must
be very sore. Had Florian told the truth when the deed was done, Pat
Carroll would have been tried at once, and, whether convicted or
acquitted, the matter would have been over long ago. In those days
Pat Carroll had not become a national or even a county hero. But now
he was able to secure the boycotting of his enemy even as far distant
as Ballyglunin or Tuam. In the kitchen he found Ada and Edith, who
had no comfort in these perilous days except when they could do
everything together. At the present moment they were roasting a
leg of mutton and boiling potatoes, which Frank knew were intended
especially for his own eating.
"Well, my girls, you are busy here," he said.
"Oh, yes, busy!" said Ada, who had put up her face to be kissed so as
not to soil her brother's coat by touching it with her hands. "How is
Rachel?"
"Rachel is pretty well, I believe. We will not talk of Rachel just at
present."
"Is anything wrong," asked Edith.
"We will not talk about her, not now. What is all this that has
happened here?"
"We are just boycotted," said Ada; "that's all."
"And you think that it's the best joke in the world?"
"Think it a joke!" said Edith.
"Why we have to be up every morning at five o'clock," said Ada; "and
at six we are out with the cows."
"It is no joke," said Edith, very seriously. "Papa is broken-hearted
about it. Your coming will be of the greatest comfort to us, if only
because of the pair of hands you bring. And poor Flory!"
"How has it gone with Flory?" he asked. Then Edith told the tale as
it had to be told of Florian, and of what had happened because of the
evidence he had given. He had come forward under the hands of Captain
Yorke Clayton and repeated his whole story, giving it in testimony
before the magistrates. He declared it all exactly as he had done
before in the presence of his father and his sister and Captain
Clayton. And he had sworn to it, and had had his deposition read to
him. He was sharp enough, and understood well what he was doing. The
other two men were brought up to support him,--the old man Terry and
Con Heffernan. They of course had not been present at the examination
of Flory, and were asked,--first one and then the other,--what they
knew of the transactions of the afternoon on which the waters had
been let in on the meadows of Ballintubber. They knew nothing at all,
they said. They "disremembered" whether they had been there on the
occasion, "at all, at all." Yes; they knew that the waters had been
in upon the meadows, and they believed that they were in again still.
They didn't think that the meadows were of much good for this year.
They didn't know who had done it, "at all, at all." People did be
saying that Mr. Florian had done it himself, so as to spite his
father because he had turned Catholic. They couldn't say whether Mr.
Florian could do it alone or not. They thought Mr. Florian and Peter,
the butler, and perhaps one other, might do it amongst them. They
thought that Yorke Clayton might perhaps have been the man to help
him. They didn't know that Yorke Clayton hadn't been in the county
at that time. They wished with all their hearts that he wasn't there
now, because he was the biggest blackguard they had ever heard tell
of.
Such was the story which was now told to Frank of the examination
which took place in consequence of Florian's confession. The results
were that Pat Carroll was in Galway jail, committed to take his trial
at the next assizes in August for the offence which he had committed;
and that Florian had been bound over to give evidence. "What does
Florian do with himself?" his brother asked.
"I am afraid he is frightened," said Ada.
"Of course he is frightened," said her sister. "How should he not
be frightened? These men have been telling him for the last six
months that they would surely murder him if he turned round and gave
evidence against them. Oh, Frank, I fear that I have been wrong in
persuading him to tell the truth."
"Not though his life were sacrificed to-morrow. To have kept the
counsels of such a ruffian as that against his own father would have
been a disgrace to him for ever. Does not my father think of sending
him to England?"
"He says that he has not the money," said Edith.
"Is it so bad as that with him?"
"I am afraid it is very bad,--bad at any rate, for the time coming.
He has not had a shilling of rent for this spring, and he has to pay
the money to Mrs. Pulteney and the others. Poor papa is sorely vexed,
and we do not like to press him. He suggested himself that he would
send Florian over to Mr. Blake's; but we think that Carnlough is not
far enough, and that it would be unfair to impose such a trouble on
another man."
"Could he not send him to Mrs. Pulteney?" Now Mrs. Pulteney was a
sister of Mr. Jones.
"He does not like to ask her," said Edith. "He thinks that Mrs.
Pulteney has not shown herself very kind of late. We are waiting till
you speak to him about it."
"But what does Florian do with himself?" he asked.
"You will see. He does little or nothing, but roams about the house
and talks to Peter. He did not even go to mass last Sunday. He says
that the whole congregation would accuse him of being a liar."
"Does he not know that he has done his duty by the lie he has told?"
"But to go alone among these people!" said Ada.
"And to hear their damnable taunts!" said Edith. "It is very hard
upon him. I think it is papa's idea to keep him here till after the
trial in August, and then, if possible, to send him to England. There
would be the double journey else, and papa thinks that there would be
no real danger till his evidence had been given."
Then Frank went out of the house and walked round the demesne, so
that he might think at his ease of all the troubles of his family.