[Illustration: Initial: "The Police"]
During the last few years, the most obviously conspicuous individual in
Ireland is the policeman. Go where you will, if the policeman is not there
before you, the reason is probably to be found in the fact that he has
just been there and will likely return before you leave. In Dublin, Cork,
Limerick, Athlone, Belfast, and other large cities and towns, the police
are seen at every corner, singly, in pairs, and in groups. Fresh-looking
police are going on duty; tired-out police are going home; clean,
well-brushed police are starting to the country on horseback, having heard
reports of rural disturbance; muddy police are coming in on jaunting-cars,
with prisoners from the nearest eviction. Everywhere you meet them; young
policemen, with fresh, rosy complexions; middle-aged policemen, with stern
faces, bearing strong evidence of Irish pugilistic talent; old policemen,
with deeply scarred and weather-beaten countenances, looking forward to
speedy retirement and a moderate pension; they are in the city, in the
village, on the high road, in the by-way, and on the mountain paths. At
every railroad station they are to be seen in pairs, observing those who
arrive and depart, and noting all that may seem suspicious in the
appearance and actions of travellers.
As long as a stranger remains on the common, well-frequented tourist
routes he escapes with a sharp glance of inspection, but let him leave the
courses usually followed by travellers, or go into parts of the country
not often visited by strangers, and he at once becomes an object of
intense suspicion. You are driving along a retired country road; at the
turn of the hill a policeman heaves in sight. He speaks pleasantly, and if
nothing arouses his suspicion, he will pass on and you see him no more;
but if the slightest distrust of you or your business finds lodgment in
his mind, he marks you as a possible victim. He temporarily vanishes; look
round as you proceed on your journey, and you may, by chance, catch a
glimpse of him a mile or two away, peeping over a wall after you, but in
the next village, where you stop for the night, he reappears, and the
local policemen, after his coming, will be sure to observe you with some
degree of attention. Leave your baggage in the public room of the inn and
step out on the street. In comes the policeman, ascertains your name,
takes a mental inventory of your effects, makes a note of the railway and
hotel labels on your trunks, and goes away to report. A sharp detective is
the policeman even in the country districts. He knows articles of American
manufacture at a glance, and needs only to see your satchel to tell
whether it came from America or was made in England. Talk with him, and he
will chat cordially about the weather, the crops, the state of the
markets, but all the time he is trying to make out who you are and what is
your business. His eyes ramble from your hat to your shoes, and by the
time the conversation is ended, he has prepared for the "sargeant" a
report of your personal appearance and apparel. "Hat, English; coat,
London-made; trousers, doubtful; shoes, American; party evidently an Irish
Yankee, who might as well be looked after."
The Irish policeman, or "consthable," as he is familiarly known on his
native sod, is the son of a peasant. Finding life as a laborer or tenant
in either case intolerable, he debated in his own mind the question
whether he should emigrate to America, enlist in the British army, or
apply for a place on the constabulary. The first step was, to him, the
most acceptable, but he lacked the money to go; of the two courses left
open, enlistment in the army was the more pleasant, since in Ireland the
constabulary are almost entirely cut off from association with the people
in a social or friendly way, a general belief prevailing that the Irishman
who enters the police has deserted the cause of his country and entered
the service of her deadliest foe. So the police are avoided by their
former companions, shunned by old friends, and, lastly, what is of some
consequence to a genuine Irishman, are given the cold shoulder by the
ladies. To be sure, the Irishman who enlists in the British army would be
treated in the same way at his old home, but as he usually leaves never to
return, the case is materially different. Chance, or the obligation of
supporting aged parents or a helpless family of young brothers and
sisters, usually determines the question, and the young Irishman enters
the constabulary, thenceforth to be a social leper, for the constable is
hated by his countrymen with a hatred that knows no bounds.
From the day he puts on his neat blue uniform and saucer-like cap, the
constable, in the troubled west coast counties, carries his life in his
hand. Every hedge he scrutinizes with a careful eye; behind it may lurk an
assassin. Every division wall is watched for suspicious indications, his
alertness being quickened by the knowledge that he is guarding his own
life. He is compelled to undertake duties obnoxious to his own feelings
and sense of justice, and to risk life and limb to carry out repugnant
orders. A bad year comes, a tenant is in arrears and cannot pay rent; the
agent determines on an eviction and sends for the police. The constables
arrive in force, but the tenant has anticipated them and collected a crowd
of friends. The hut is closed and barred, while inside are half a score of
men and women, determined to resist as long as resistance is of any avail.
[Illustration: The Police and the Tenants]
As soon as the police appear on the scene, a babel of Irish voices ensues
and fearful curses and imprecations are hurled at all concerned in the
eviction, succeeded by showers of stones from enthusiastic outside
supporters of the cabin's defenders. The constables draw their clubs and
make a rush, striking right and left at the heads of the crowd. A
desperate battle ensues, in which the police are generally victorious,
driving the rabble to a safe distance; then, leaving a portion of the
force to keep them away, the remainder return to effect an entrance to the
hut. A beam, handled by several pairs of strong arms, speedily demolishes
the miserable pretence of a door, then in go the police, to be met with
fists, clubs, stones, showers of boiling water, and other effective and
offensive means of defence. After a stubborn contest the cabin is finally
cleared; the furniture, if there be any, is set out in the road, the
thatched roof torn off and scattered on the ground, the walls levelled,
and the police, battered with sticks and stones, scalded, burned, return
to headquarters with their prisoners. Not infrequently a policeman is
killed on one of these evictionary expeditions, the defence of his slayers
being generally grounded on the statement made in court in one instance of
this kind near Limerick. "We niver intinded fur to kill him at all, but
his shkull was too thin entirely for a consthable, an' broke wid the
batin' he was afther gettin'."
Firearms are not often used in these encounters between the police and the
populace, for such battles always take place in daylight, and although,
when an eviction promises to be of more than usual danger, the police
carry rifles, strict orders are given not to use them save in dire
extremity, and a policeman will be beaten almost to death without
resorting to the use of his gun. On ordinary day-duty the police carry
only a short club or revolver, hidden under the coat; but at night, the
country constables are armed with rifle and bayonet, and patrol the roads
in pairs, one walking on each side and as close as possible to the hedge
or wall.
But in spite of the extraordinary difficulties and unceasing dangers of
his work the constable does his duty with scrupulous exactness, and
instances of treachery to the government among the Irish constabulary are
extremely rare. Indeed, service in the constabulary is much sought for,
and there are always more applicants than vacancies. The physical standard
is so high that the police are the picked men of the country, while the
average grade of intelligence among them is better than among the
peasantry from whose ranks they have come.
Ready as they are to go cheerfully on any service, however laborious or
perilous, there is one task which the constabulary of the west coast hold
in mortal detestation, and that is, an expedition into the mountains to
seize illicit stills and arrest distillers of poteen. Such an enterprise
means days and nights of toilsome climbing, watching, waiting, and spying;
often without result, and generally with a strong probability that when
the spot where the still has been is surrounded, the police thinking they
have the law breakers in a trap, the latter take the alarm, escape by some
unknown path, leaving nothing but "the pot and the smell" as reminiscences
of their presence and employment. The disappointing nature of the duty is
thus one good reason for the dislike felt for it by the constables, but
another is found in the unusual degree of peril attending it, for in the
mountains of Donegal, Mayo, Galway, Clare, and Kerry, the distillers
generally own firearms, know how to use them, and feel no more compunction
for shooting a policeman than for killing a dog. The extremely rugged
character of the Mayo mountains, in particular, offers many opportunities
for the outlaws to practise their craft in safety and secrecy, for, the
whole neighborhood being on the lookout for the enemy, there are always
friends to give the alarm. To hide the still in the ground or in a
convenient cave is the work of very few minutes, after which the
distillers are quite at leisure and turn their attention to shooting at
the police, a job attended with so little risk to themselves and so much
discomfort to the constables that the latter frequently give up the chase
on very slight provocation.
Near Lake Derryclare, in the Connemara district of Galway, and almost
under the shadow of the Twelve Pins, there stands by the wayside a small
rude monument of uncut stones, a mere heap, surmounted by a rough wooden
cross. Such stone heaps as this are common on the west coast, and
originate in the custom of making a family memorial, each member of the
family, or, in some cases, each friend attending the funeral, contributing
a stone to the rude monument. In some neighborhoods, every relative and
friend casts a stone on the common pile whenever he passes the spot, so
the heap is constantly growing. This particular monument in Connemara does
not differ in any important respect from many others, but before it, in
the summer of 1886, there knelt, all day long, an old peasant woman. Every
morning she came from a hut in the glen near by and spent every hour of
daylight in prayer before the wooden cross. It seemed to matter little to
her whether it rained or the sun shone; in sunshine, the hood of her
tattered cloak was thrown back and her white hair exposed, while the rain
compelled her to draw the hood forward, but rain or shine she was always
there, her lips silently moving as the beads slipped through her withered
fingers, nor could any question divert her attention from her devotions.
She never looked up, never took the slightest notice of remarks addressed
to her, nor was she ever heard to speak aloud. Once a week provisions were
sent to her house from the nearest police station; they were left within,
and those who brought them went their way, for she gave them no word of
thanks, no look of gratitude; nor, for many years, had the constables sent
with the allowance made her by the government ventured to compel her to
speak to them.
Her story was told by a Sergeant of Police, and formed a painful
illustration of the poteen trade in the mountains. In the year 1850, while
the country was still suffering from the effects of the "starving time,"
she lived with her husband, Michael O'Malley, and four sons, on a little
farm near Lake Derryclare. Year after year had the crops failed, but the
little family held together, faring, or rather starving, alike. In the
year mentioned, although the country in general was beginning to recover
from the famine, this part of Connemara was still stricken, and the crop
seemed likely again to fail. Starvation stared the hapless family in the
face. The boys were well grown lads, accustomed to the hard life of
peasants, and willing to work if any could be found. All four left home,
the eldest going to Galway, the other three to the sea-shore, where they
found temporary employment in the fisheries. While so engaged, they
learned the secrets of the illicit distiller, and having, in course of
time, managed to procure a small still, they returned home with it, and as
the cabin was in a secluded quarter of a little frequented district, they
persuaded the old man to engage in the enterprise with them. The risk of
detection appeared so small, especially when compared with the profits,
that against the prayers and entreaties of the woman, the still was set up
in a retired spot near by and the manufacture of the poteen begun in as
large quantities as their limited resources would allow. A number of years
passed, and, as their product found a ready sale in the neighborhood, the
O'Malleys prospered as they had never done before, the boys married, and
families grew around them.
The eldest brother, John O'Malley, having gone to Galway, succeeded, by
what he considered a great stroke of good fortune, in obtaining a place on
the constabulary. The family at home knew nothing of him, nor had he
communicated with them, for directly after his enlistment he was sent to
the County Wexford on the opposite side of the island, and completely lost
sight of his old home. Proving intelligent and capable, he was promoted,
made a sergeant, and ordered to the County Galway. Immediately upon his
arrival at his new post, a small village in Connemara, intelligence was
brought of illicit distilling near the Twelve Pins, and O'Malley was
ordered to proceed with a strong party of police to seize the still, and,
if possible, arrest the criminals. The names of the offenders were not
given, but the location of the glen where operations were carried on was
described with such exactness that O'Malley, who knew every foot of ground
in the vicinity, laid such plans as to render escape by the distillers a
practical impossibility. Before dark one evening a party of twelve
mounted constables armed with rifles started from Maume, at the head of
Lough Corrib, travelled all night, and by morning Sergeant O'Malley had so
posted his men round the glen that the arrest of the distillers was
apparently a certainty. In the early dawn, before objects could be
distinctly seen, several men were observed going into the glen, and, at a
given signal, the police closed in on the little shanty where the still
was in operation. A desperate fight ensued, and Sergeant O'Malley was shot
dead by one of his brothers without knowing whose hand pointed the weapon.
Two of the O'Malleys were killed by the police bullets, and a constable
was mortally wounded. Michael and his remaining son were taken alive,
afterwards tried for murder, when for the first time they learned that the
dead Sergeant was their relative. Both were hanged, the singular
circumstances of the crime for which they suffered attracting wide
attention.
Mrs. O'Malley thus beheld herself, at a single blow, deprived of husband
and four sons. For a time she was wildly demented, but the violence passed
away, and as her clouded brain became calm, it was occupied by one idea,
to the exclusion of all others,--prayer for the repose of her dead. The
body of the Sergeant was buried near Maume, but O'Malley and his three
sons were buried together under the cairn in a long disused churchyard
through which the road passed, a churchyard like thousands more in
Ireland, where the grave-stones are hidden by the nettles and weeds.
Thither, with a love stronger than death, goes the poor old woman every
day, and, untiring in her devotion, spends her life reciting the prayers
for the dead.
[Illustration: "Thither goes the poor old women every day"]