‘Whom are the writs to be served on?’
‘I do not know and I do not care. And nor should you. With luck they will be served on idle beggars who’d sooner shoot as look at you. In all probability, though, they’ll be served on decent God-fearing souls who are in some evil rent-trap; but there is nothing that you or I can do about it, and it will be as well that you start out there tomorrow morning thinking thus! This is not the time for walking Spanish, Matthew!’
Later that evening Hervey sat alone in his room. There was no certainty that the evictions would touch on any at Kilcrea: indeed (as he understood it), Kilcrea was under the jurisdiction of Ballincollig. But the possibility was enough to disquiet him, and there was not a soul in whom he might confide his misgivings. Edmonds had said his piece, there was not another officer of the Sixth within forty miles, and even Canon Verey was away in Dublin. He might with advantage have engaged the wisdom of Serjeant Strange, but his principles would not permit him to unburden himself on the very man in whom he would have to place so much trust the next day. And as for Armstrong … But at least he might engage himself in some purposeful activity. So, in the absence of any troop officers, he passed his instructions direct to Strange (again acting as troop serjeant-major): ‘Muster in marching order at five forty-five, then,’ were his last words at evening stables before retiring to his rooms to write to Horningsham and to Oxford.
By the time he began putting pen to paper, his uncertainties had become a ghastly premonition. If not Kilcrea, then it would be somewhere – somewhere that conscience and duty would confront each other. Or, rather, duty would confront duty, for which might be the truer duty – to the civil power, or to simple justice? (He knew well enough that justice was not always the same as the law.) How might he neatly render unto Caesar?
To John Keble he wrote his thoughts, freely and without reserve. To Elizabeth he penned but a précis of the difficulties – in the abstract – which the military faced in aid of the civil power. And to Henrietta he wrote of the country and the people, a letter which, to his mind, would tell nothing of his turmoil, though to a reader of her percipience the intensity of his prose could tell nothing other.
When at length he finished the letters, near to midnight, he found that, though his limbs were weary, his mind raced, and the notion of retiring to bed was impossible. And so he took Castle Rackrent from his writing-desk, where it had lain unopened since he had brought it from Canon Verey’s, and turned to its preface. He began reading with no great enthusiasm, hoping merely for some distraction from his concerns for the morrow, but in this respect it was a lamentable choice. ‘To those who are totally unacquainted with Ireland, the following Memoirs will perhaps be scarcely intelligible, or probably they may appear perfectly incredible,’ he read, and he wondered how acquainted with Ireland he had a right to claim. ‘When Ireland loses her identity by an union with Great Britain, she will look back with a smile of good-humoured complacency on … her former existence.’ He read it a second time, scarcely believing what he had read the first. But that was indeed what it said. Now, Miss Edgeworth, he would be the first to own, possessed an immeasurably greater acquaintance with the country than did he, but ‘good-humoured complacency’? In the circumstances it seemed a most singular proposition. He put down the book with a sigh: perhaps it was to be, as the author warned, scarcely intelligible.
He turned instead to Sister Maria’s vade-mecum. It, too, had lain at his bedside scarcely opened, the very sight of it a daily challenge to his conscience. The hand, its upright strokes and perfect loops a credit to any medieval scriptorium, reminded him at once of the few days’ peace of mind he had found in her company at the Magdalen convent. ‘Choose a passage of a devotional nature and read it before retiring. Select not more than three elements within it on which to meditate. On waking, recall the subject and, after short preparatory prayers – perhaps including an act of contrition – compose thyself by three “preludes” for the body of the meditation.’ He could not but admire the economy of her English. ‘Prelude One: recall the elements; Two: compose in thy mind’s eye the place, with thine own self a part of it; Third: pray for grace.’ He grew drowsy. Of the body of meditation itself he could read no more, and, turning out the oil-lamp, he closed his eyes and prayed for sleep. Yet, as if St Ignatius spoke to him direct through the pages of Sister Maria’s book, he could only ponder on Miss Edgeworth’s proposition, and whether it might indeed be flawed – fatally flawed.
CHAPTER TEN
IN AID OF THE CIVIL POWER
Trafalgar Day
It was raining hard as fifty men of ‘A’ Troop in their dark blue cloaks, oilskin covers over shakos and carbine locks bound with cloth, formed up in the chill darkness. The horses were restless. They would put up with most things but they did not like rain. In the dim glow of the oil-lamps around the parade square they could be seen backing and fidgeting, bringing curses for their hapless riders from NCOs trying to keep the three ranks straight. Private Johnson had brought Nero to the front of the officers’ mess, and Hervey had mounted as the barracks clock struck the three-quarter hour. Within the minute he was exchanging salutes with Serjeant Strange on the square. It was no morning for excessive formalities: ‘Sub-divisions, to the left turn,’ he ordered immediately, then ‘Walk-march!’ And without further ceremony, except for the orderly trumpeter sounding them out, they marched from the Royal Barracks south and west to Ballinhassig.
It took little but an hour to cover the six miles, and throughout Hervey said not a word, instead turning over and over in his mind Castle Rackrent’s proposition: ‘Ireland … will look back with a smile of good-humoured complacency.’ He wished profoundly that he had studied Sister Maria’s vade mecum with more application, for he sorely felt the need of its method in weighing this notion. He knew he had to do whatever he judged right. That, indeed, was ever the duty of an officer. But where would right be this morning, and how might he know? With the law? The magistrate would, he supposed, be a reliable enough guide in matters of statute. With expediency? Again, the magistrate, as representative of the civil power – of government – might be expected to be the best judge of that. Would it be with justice? In this, however, there could be no higher judge than conscience. There was no counsel but his own, and he could confide now only in more prayer for strength and the wisdom to do his duty. Trafalgar Day – Nelson himself must have prayed at this very hour nine years before.
It was still raining when the troop made its rendezvous with the chairman of the Bench who was sheltering in a mean little inn near the edge of town. It was not many minutes before Hervey learned the worst: that they were to serve immediate eviction warrants on two dozen of Sir Dearnley Lambert’s tenants in Kilcrea. The magistrate, a nervous man in his fifties whose shape suggested he had never known the want of four square meals a day, would give no indication as to how he intended to proceed with the evictions. All he would say was that they must first meet the agent and his ‘crowbar brigade’.
As they trotted north up the rutted and uneven road to Kilcrea, with the first streaks of daylight to help them, Hervey learned the reason for the Ballinhassig magistrate’s jurisdiction. Sir Dearnley Lambert’s estates extended both north and south of that town and were treated therefore as an entity. This, he considered, was a faintly reassuring punctilio: he had at first assumed that it must be because the agent found the Ballinhassig justices more compliant than those from Ballincollig. However, when eventually they made the rendezvous with the agent, Hervey became uneasy again, for though Fitzgerald must have recognized him he made no sign of it, speaking instead, and pointedly so, only to the magistrate. It was proper enough in one respect, for only the magistrate had the power to summon the assistance of the military, and if the agent’s aloofness were uncivil, then so be it (Hervey had hoped never even to see the man again). But it did not bode well.
Twenty yards away, in a huddle under the trees, trying to shelter from the rain which still beat down in the grey d
awn, was a gang of some two dozen men with crowbars and sledgehammers. Just beyond them was a curious-looking waggon, with all manner of pulleys and levers, yoked to two sturdy draught-horses.
‘What do you think is the purpose of that contraption, Serjeant Strange?’
‘I’m no engineer, sir, but pound to a penny it’s not for construction.’
‘I was afraid so,’ he sighed.
Father O’Gavan appeared, striding towards them in a great black cloak, his broad-brimmed hat taking a lashing from the sheets of rain. The crowbar brigade shuffled uncomfortably as he passed, and those with hats removed them. So much for Catholic fellowship, thought Hervey. The magistrate raised his hat, too, though perfunctorily, and Hervey saluted, but the agent sat impassively astride his big grey.
‘Good morning, Mr Gould. What will your intentions be this day?’ asked the priest.
‘Good morning, Father O’Gavan. Twenty-two tenants have been served notice to quit by Sir Dearnley’s agent and they have failed to comply. I have immediate eviction warrants, and they will be evicted forthwith. Peaceably, I hope, but forcibly if necessary.’
‘Now, Mr Gould, you know very well they have nowhere to go. The landlord has forbidden any of his other tenants to take them in. Will you have them sleep and starve in the ditches?’
The magistrate looked about awkwardly, but not the agent, who was eager to begin his business. ‘Your advice would have been better directed to the tenants before now, Father O’Gavan,’ said Fitzgerald defiantly. ‘They’ve had ample warning to quit the estate.’
‘Mr Hervey,’ began the priest, ‘if these evictions are to proceed, then we must at all costs avoid bloodshed. I hope your men will show restraint?’
‘Do you know this officer, Father?’ asked the magistrate with some surprise.
‘Indeed I do: he is a good friend of the village.’
Gould looked uneasy again as Hervey began to speak. ‘Father, my men will show every restraint, but I am obliged by law, as you know, to assist the magistrate if called on to do so.’
‘I am afraid that all have barricaded themselves in their cottages, Mr Gould,’ explained Father O’Gavan. ‘I have tried already to tell them that such resistance is futile, but I have to say that, with nowhere else to go, they believe they have no option but to resist the evictions.’
‘Come on, come on, Gould! Let’s be about it!’ snapped Fitzgerald.
‘Very well,’ stammered the magistrate, ‘let’s be about it. Mr Hervey, please dispose your men so as to protect the agent and his men as they do their duty.’
Hervey would have liked to debate the notion of duty with him, but instead he began disposing the troop as the magistrate had requested. The first cottage to receive the crowbar brigade’s attention was easy prey. A violent assault on the boarded window and barred door gained them rapid entry, followed by the ejection of the occupants, a man and his wife no older than Hervey, and their five children. The eldest, a girl of about eight, clutched a crucifix in the way that Horningsham girls clutched their dolls. As they stood hunched in the downpour, with as desolate a look as ever Hervey had seen, the man mouthed some plea or other to the agent, whereupon one of the foremen stepped forward and struck him on the back of the neck with his blackthorn, felling him head-down in the mud. Hervey’s blood rose at once: he spurred Nero forward, drew his sabre and sent the foreman sprawling with the flat of it before anyone could say a word. How close the man had come to feeling its edge he would never know.
‘You’re too damned quick to draw that sword, mister! It’s an abuse of government property,’ the agent bellowed.
‘I should have been as happy to use my bare fists but I would have done him more harm – and the sword is my own,’ Hervey rasped. And, turning to the magistrate, he issued his own warning: ‘Mr Gould, I am obliged to follow your instructions but I will not stand by and witness an assault.’
‘I think the officer may be correct in law, Mr Fitzgerald: that was an unwise thing for your man to do,’ replied the magistrate hesitantly.
Hervey meanwhile had dismounted and, followed by Strange and Armstrong, began to help the evicted man to his feet. The rest of the family were crying and shaking, Hervey took off his cloak and put it round the three younger children, and Strange’s and Armstrong’s cloaks covered the remaining two and their mother.
‘In God’s name will yer look at that!’ exclaimed the agent, with so much contempt that Magistrate Gould shifted awkwardly in the saddle again, and he defiantly beckoned forward the wheeled contraption.
Its purpose was quickly revealed, and its work did not take long. Two hooks on the ends of ropes were thrown on to the roof, a man clambered up and fixed each to a coign stone, the ropes were tensioned by the pulleys and then, in three strides of the draught-horses, the upper walls were pulled in and the roof collapsed. The crowbar brigade set to work and within a quarter of an hour the cottage was no more.
The troop watched in silence, only Armstrong giving voice to his feelings: ‘This’s no way to treat a dog. Not even the coal-owners stooped to this.’
‘Hold your peace, Serjeant Armstrong,’ said Strange.
Mellow Suffolk again: Hervey would need every ounce of composure before the day was out.
The next cottage proved an altogether more stubborn proposition. Hervey knew well enough that it was Fineen O’Mahoney’s, and that he would not walk out meekly as the others had.
The door and window were firmly barricaded, and the crowbar men could make no impression. ‘Put the hooks on the roof, then; if they won’t come out, we’ll carry ’em out!’ the agent called to his foreman.
‘Don’t be a fool, man,’ shouted Hervey. ‘There’s a family in there, for pity’s sake.’
‘Then he’s the reckless one for not coming out!’ snapped Fitzgerald. ‘Get them hooks on!’
Even above the noise of the rain and the crowbar men’s hubbub Fineen O’Mahoney’s voice could be heard shouting in a manner at once both pleading and defiant: ‘I’ve a sick wife and mo pháistí in here, and a sister. For mercy’s sake leave us!’
A sister – O’Mahoney had but one. Hervey’s stomach tightened. That Caithlin was there put paid to his hope that the O’Mahoneys might be brought out without a fight, for he had intended bringing her from her father’s cottage to try to persuade her brother to quit. And, while the eviction of the first family had been hard enough to bear, they were at least strangers to him: Caithlin’s presence changed everything. ‘Mr Gould, it cannot be lawful to pull a roof down on the heads of a family,’ he shouted.
Fitzgerald glowered at the magistrate, who dithered. It was the due process of law, he replied. ‘But go easy with the roof,’ he called to the agent – as if the idea were even practicable.
‘No!’ shouted Hervey. ‘You will not touch that roof!’
* * *
‘Tell me, Mr Hervey, what then happened as a consequence of your altercation with the agent?’
Matthew Hervey’s sodden uniform clung to him tighter by the minute. The big fire in Major Edmonds’s office had begun to dry the front of his overalls (so long had he been standing at attention recounting the events at Kilcrea), and he struggled hard not to shiver lest it gave his commanding officer the wrong impression. ‘I told Serjeant Armstrong to escort the crowbar brigade clear of the village, sir, and Serjeant Strange to dispose the remainder of the troop to prevent their return.’
‘And what did the magistrate then say?’
‘He kept ordering me to desist; but I repeated, several times, that I would not be a party to injuring women and children, whatever his orders were – sir.’
‘Were those lawful orders, do you consider?’
‘With respect, sir, I am not a lawyer.’
‘No, Mr Hervey, indeed you are not. And if you cannot be sure that they were unlawful orders you had no business disobeying them.’
‘I could not be sure that they were lawful, sir, and in that case I should have thought it reckless to co
nform, especially since there was no threat to life in disobeying – whereas just the contrary was true.’
‘That is veritably a moot point. It does not pass muster with me, and I doubt it would in court. Are you sure that your friendship with these people did not cloud your judgement?’
‘I do not believe so, sir. It would have mattered not to me who was inside that cottage.’
Joseph Edmonds sighed and then swore to himself. ‘Mr Hervey, why are we stationed here in Cork?’
Hervey continued to look directly ahead. ‘In aid of the civil power, sir.’
‘Just so. And on what duty – in the general sense – were you engaged this morning?’
‘Aid to the civil power, sir.’
‘So, Mr Hervey, by your own admission you have failed to do your particular duty and, in that failure, you have set yourself not only against military authority but against the civil as well.’
Hervey assumed the judgement to be rhetorical.
‘Answer me, Mr Hervey!’ barked Edmonds.
‘Sir, that is as Mr Gould and Mr Fitzgerald would see it.’
Edmonds sighed again. ‘In heaven’s name, Mr Hervey, I doubt you will find anyone who sees it any differently. This is not Merrie England; we are beyond the Pale – the arse-end of the realm. Who do you suppose is in the slightest degree interested in the niceties of conscience when there’s rebellion lurking in every hedgerow?’
Hervey remained silent.
Edmonds picked up several sheets of paper on his desk and held them out towards him. ‘Do you know what this represents?’ he demanded. ‘Never have I seen a deposition from a magistrate written so fast: it is a declaration of intent, an example to be made – exemplary punishment and all that!’
Hervey shivered, and was angry that he did so.
‘Do you have anything more to say at this juncture?’ asked Edmonds, shaking his head.
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