No one knows how the quarrel between Peter Joyce and Patrick Joseph
Flanagan began. It had been smouldering for years, a steady-going feud,
before it reached its crisis last June.
The Joyces and Flanagans were neighbours, occupying farms of very poor
land on the side of Letterbrack, a damp and lonely hill some miles from
the nearest market town. This fact explains the persistence of the feud.
It is not easy to keep up a quarrel with a man whom you only see once
a month or so. Nor is it possible to concentrate the mind on one
particular enemy if you live in a crowded place. Joyce and Flanagan saw
each other every day. They could not help seeing each other, for their
farms were small. They scarcely ever saw anyone else, because there
were no other farms on the side of the hill. And the feud was a family
affair. Mrs. Joyce and Mrs. Flanagan disliked each other heartily and
never met without using language calculated to embitter the feeling
between them. The young Joyces and the young Flanagans fought fiercely
on their way to and from school.
The war, which has turned Europe upside down and dragged most things
from their familiar moorings, had its effect on the lives of the two
farmers on the side of Letterbrack. They became better off than they had
ever been before. It must not be supposed that they grew rich. According
to the standard of English working men they had always been wretchedly
poor. All that the war did for them was to put a little, a very little,
more money into their pockets. They themselves did not connect their new
prosperity with the war. They did not, indeed, think about the war at
all, bring fully occupied with their work and their private quarrel.
They noticed, without inquiring into causes, that the prices of the
things they sold went up steadily. A lean bullock fetched an amazing sum
at a fair. Young pigs proved unexpectedly profitable. The eggs which the
women carried into town on market days could be exchanged for unusual
quantities of tea. And the rise in prices was almost pure gain to these
farmers. They lived for the most part on the produce of their own land
and bought very little in shops. There came a time when Peter Joyce had
a comfortable sum, about £20 in all, laid by after making provision for
his rent and taxes. He felt entitled to some little indulgence.
An Englishman, when he finds himself in possession of spare cash spends
it on material luxuries for himself and, if he is a good man, for his
family. He buys better food, better clothes, and furniture of a kind not
absolutely necessary, like pianos. An Irishman, in a similar agreeable
position, prefers pleasures of a more spiritual kind. Peter Joyce was
perfectly content to wear a “bawneen” of homemade flannel and a pair of
ragged trousers. He did not want anything better for dinner than boiled
potatoes and fried slices of bacon. He had not the smallest desire to
possess a piano or even an armchair. But he intended, in his own way, to
get solid enjoyment out of his £20.
It was after the children had gone to bed one evening that he discussed
the matter with his wife.
“I’m not sure,” he said, “but it might be as well to settle things up
one way or another with that old reprobate Patrick Joseph Flanagan. It’s
what I’ll have to do sooner or later.”
“Them Flanagans,” said Mrs. Joyce, “is the devil. There isn’t a day
passes but one or other of them has me tormented. If it isn’t her it’s
one of the children, and if, by the grace of God, it isn’t the children
it’s herself.”
“What I’m thinking of,” said Joyce, “is taking the law of him.”
“It’ll cost you something to do that,” said Mrs. Joyce cautiously.
“And if it does, what matter? Haven’t I the money to pay for it?”
“You have,” said Mrs. Joyce. “You have surely. And Flanagan deserves it,
so he does. It’s not once nor twice, but it’s every day I do be saying
there’s something should be done to them Flanagans.”
“There’s more will be done to him than he cares for,” said Joyce grimly.
“Wait till the County Court Judge gets at him. Believe me he’ll be sorry
for himself then.”
Peter Joyce started early next morning. He had an eight-mile walk before
him and he wished to reach the town in good time, being anxious to put
his case into the hands of Mr. Madden, the solicitor, before Mr.
Madden became absorbed in the business of the day. Mr. Madden had the
reputation of being the smartest lawyer in Connaught, and his time was
very fully occupied.
It took Joyce nearly three hours to reach the town and he had ample time
to prepare his case against Flanagan as he went. There was no lack
of material for the lawsuit. A feud of years’ standing provides many
grievances which can fairly be brought into court. Joyce’s difficulty
was to make a choice. He pondered deeply as he walked along the bare
road across the bog. When he reached the door of Mr. Madden’s office
he had a tale of injuries suffered at the hands of the Flanagans which
would, he felt sure, move the judge to vindictive fury.
Mr. Madden was already busy when Joyce was shown unto his room.
“Well,” he said, “who are you and what do you want?”
“My name’s Peter Joyce of Letterbrack, your honour,” said Joyce. “A
decent man with a long weak family, and my father was a decent man
before me, and it’s no fault of mine that I’m here to-day, and going
into court, though there isn’t another gentleman in all Ireland I’d
sooner come to than yourself, Mr. Madden, if so be I had to come to
anyone. And it’s what I’m druv to, for if I wasn’t----”
“What is it?” said Mr. Madden. “Police? Drunk and disorderly?”
“It is not,” said Joyce. “Sure I never was took by the police only
twice, and them times they wouldn’t have meddled with me only for the
spite the sergeant had against me. But he’s gone from the place now,
thanks be to God, and the one that came after him wouldn’t touch me.”
Peter Joyce sank his voice to a whisper.
“It’s how I want to take the law of Patrick Joseph Flanagan,” he said.
“Trespass or assault?” said Mr. Madden.
He was a man of immense experience. He succeeded in carrying on a
large practice because he wasted no time in listening to preliminary
explanations of his clients. Most legal actions in the West of Ireland
are reducible to trespass or assault.
“It’s both the two of them,” said Joyce.
Mr. Madden made a note on a sheet of paper before him. Joyce waited
until he had finished writing. Then he said slowly:
“Trespass and assault and more besides.”
Mr. Madden asked no question. He added to the note he had written
the words “And abusive language.” Abusive language generally follows
trespass and immediately precedes assault.
“Now,” said Mr. Madden, “get on with your story and make it as short as
you can.”
Peter Joyce did his best to make the story short. He succeeded in making
it immensely complicated. There was a boundary wall in the story and
it had been broken down. There was a heifer calf and a number of young
pigs. There was a field of oats trampled and destroyed by the heifer,
and a potato patch ruined beyond hope by the pigs. There was a sheep
torn by a dog, stones thrown at Mrs. Joyce, language that had defiled
the ears of Molly Joyce, an innocent child of twelve years old, and
there was the shooting of a gun at Peter himself.
Joyce was prepared to swear to every item of the indictment. He did
actually swear from time to time, laying his hand solemnly on a large
ledger which stood on Mr. Madden’s desk. Mr. Madden listened until he
had heard enough.
“You haven’t a ghost of a case against Flanagan,” he said. “The judge
won’t listen to a story like that. If you take my advice you’ll go
straight home and make it up with Flanagan. You’ll simply waste your
money if you go into court.”
Mr. Madden, it will be seen, was a man of principle. He made his
living out of other people’s quarrels, but he gave honest advice to his
clients. He was also a man of wide knowledge of West of Ireland farmers.
He knew perfectly well that his advice would not be taken.
“I’ve the money to pay for it,” said Joyce, “and I’ll have the law of
Patrick Joseph Flanagan if it costs me the last penny I own. If your
honour doesn’t like the case sure I can go to someone else.”
Mr. Madden, though a man of principle, was not quixotic.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll manage your case for you; but I warn you
fairly the judge will give it against you.”
“He might not,” said Joyce. “In the latter end he might not.”
“He will,” said Mr. Madden, “unless----”
He was watching Joyce carefully as he spoke. The man’s face had an
expression of cunning and self-satisfaction.
“Unless,” Mr. Madden went on, “you’ve something up your sleeve that you
haven’t told me yet.”
Joyce winked solemnly.
“It’s what it would be hardly worth mentioning to your honour,” he said.
“You’d better mention it all the same,” said Mr. Madden.
“What I was thinking,” said Joyce, “is that if I was to send a pair of
ducks to the judge a couple of days before the case was to come on--fine
ducks we have, as fine as ever was seen.”
“Listen to me,” said Mr. Madden. “You’ve got the very smallest possible
chance of winning your case. But you have a chance. It’s a hundred to
one against you. Still, odd things do happen in courts. But let me tell
you this. I know that judge. I’ve known him for years, and if you try to
bribe him with a pair of ducks he’d give it against you even if you had
the best case in the world instead of the worst. That’s the kind of man
he is.”
Joyce sighed heavily. The ways of the law were proving unexpectedly
difficult and expensive.
“Maybe,” he said, “I could send him two pair of ducks, or two pair and a
half, but that’s the most I can do; and there won’t be a young duck left
about the place if I send him that many.”
“Either you act by my advice,” said Mr. Madden, “or I’ll drop your case.
This isn’t a matter for the local bench of magistrates. If it was them
you were dealing with, ducks might be some use to you. But a County
Court Judge is a different kind of man altogether. He’s a gentleman, and
he’s honest. If you attempt to get at him with ducks or any other kind
of bribe you’ll ruin any chance you have, which isn’t much.”
“That’s a queer thing now, so it is,” said Joyce.
“It’s true all the same,” said Mr. Madden.
“Do you mean to tell me,” said Joyce, “that his honour, the judge, would
go against a man that had done him a good turn in the way of a pair of
ducks or the like?”
“That’s exactly what I do mean,” said Mr. Madden. “No judge would stand
it. And the one who presides over this court would be even angrier than
most of them, so don’t you do it.”
Joyce left Mr. Madden’s office a few minutes later, and tramped home.
In spite of the lawyer’s discouraging view of the case he seemed fairly
well satisfied.
That evening he spoke to his wife.
“How many of them large white dukes have you?” he asked; “how many
that’s fit to eat?”
“There’s no more than six left out of the first clutch,” said Mrs.
Joyce. “There was eleven hatched out, but sure the rats got the rest
of them.” “I’d be glad,” said Joyce, “if you’d fatten them six, and you
needn’t spare the yellow meal. It’ll be worth your while to have them as
good as you can.”
A month later the case of Joyce v. Flanagan came on in the County Court.
Mr. Madden had hammered the original story of the wall, the heifer, the
pigs and the potatoes, into shape. It sounded almost plausible as Mr.
Madden told it in his opening remarks. But he had very little hopes
that it would survive the handling of Mr. Ellis, a young and intelligent
lawyer, who was acting for Flanagan. Joyce cheerfully confirmed
every detail of the story on oath. He was unshaken by Mr. Ellis’
cross-examination, chiefly because the judge constantly interfered with
Mr. Ellis and would not allow him to ask the questions he wanted to ask.
Flanagan and his witnesses did their best, but the judge continued to
make things as difficult as he could for their lawyer. The matter, when
all the evidence was heard, appeared tangled and confused, a result
far beyond Mr. Madden’s best expectations. He had feared that the
truth might emerge with disconcerting plainness. Then an amazing thing
happened. The judge took Joyce’s view of the circumstances and decided in
his favour. Mr. Ellis gasped. Flanagan swore audibly and was silenced by
a policeman. Joyce left the court with a satisfied smile.
“Well,” said Mr. Madden, a little later, “you’ve won, but I’m damned if
I know how it happened. I never went into court with a shakier case.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Joyce, “but it might have been the ducks that
did it. I sent him six, your honour, six, and as fat as any duck ever
you seen.”
“Good Lord!” said Mr. Madden. “After all I said to you--and--but, good
heavens, man! He can’t have got them. If he had----”
“He got them right enough,” said Joyce, “for I left them at the door of
the hotel myself, with a bit of a note, saying as how I hoped he’d take
a favourable view of the case that would be before him to-day, and
I told him what the case was, so as there’d be no mistake--Joyce v.
Flanagan was what I wrote, in a matter of trespass and assault, and
abusive language.”
“Well,” said Mr. Madden, “all I can say is that if I hadn’t seen with my
own eyes what happened in that court to-day I wouldn’t have believed it.
To think that the judge, of all men----”
“It was Flanagan’s name and not my own,” said Joyce, “that I signed
at the bottom of the note. ‘With the respectful compliments of Patrick
Joseph Flanagan, the defendant,’ was what I wrote, like as if it was
from him that the ducks came.”
“I’d never have thought of it,” said Mr. Madden. “Joyce, it’s you and
not me that ought to be a lawyer. Lawyer! That’s nothing. You ought
to be a Member of Parliament. Your talents are wasted, Joyce. Go into
Parliament You’ll be a Cabinet Minister before you die.”