Land

by Liam O'Flaherty

  “Forgive me for losing my temper with you,” he said at length. “I’m showing the same lack of self-control for which I have been cursing you during the past fortnight.”

  He halted again in front of Michael and put his fingers to the tip of his beard.

  “By the way, why did you come back?” he said.

  Michael now looked embarrassed. He even flushed slightly through his tan, averted his eyes and shuffled his feet.

  “I can’t tell you that,” he muttered. “I’d rather you didn’t ask me.”

  “Very well,” Raoul said, returning to his seat behind the table. “What do you want me to do about these?”

  He pointed to the documents.

  “Nothing,” Michael said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Do what you please with them. I have no use for them. I just showed them to you, in order to explain what had happened to me during the past fortnight.”

  “You no longer want to kill Bodkin?” Raoul said.

  “No,” Michael said. “I’m no longer angry with him. He was only a tool.”

  “He incited your father to stage the attack in which Butcher was wounded and his steward killed,” Raoul said. “He procured weapons for the attackers. Then he furnished Butcher with a minute account of the plans. Yet you want no revenge on him.”

  “No,” Michael said. “I only want revenge on Butcher. He alone was responsible.”

  “Bodkin spied on the Fenians for the English Government,” Raoul continued calmly. “He spied on the tenants for the landlords. A loathsome creature. There could not possibly be anybody in the whole country that would pity him. These documents, with which we have been conveniently supplied, are decisive proof of his guilt. Therefore, he is ideal for our purpose.”

  Michael started.

  “What do you mean?” he said angrily.

  “I mean that we are going to isolate this Bodkin,” Raoul said. “We are going to test the efficacy of our weapon against this repulsive target.”

  Michael jumped to his feet, pressed his fists against his thighs and cried in a loud voice:

  “You can’t do it.”

  “Why not?” Raoul said.

  “Because of Father Kelly,” Michael said.

  “Very well,” Raoul said calmly. “Take your documents and go. Our association is at an end.”

  He pushed the little pile of documents away from him across the table slowly with a pencil. Michael took a pace towards the table. Then he halted, shrugged his shoulders and returned to his chair. He sat down, drew his hands down over his face and shook himself.

  “I had to come back,” he said. “My world has changed in the past few months. It could never again be what it was. I’m ready to do whatever you want.”

  “Excellent!” Raoul said in a low voice. “May I have your word of honour that you are going to obey me in future?”

  “I give you my word of honour,” Michael said. “What do you want done with Bodkin?”

  “The soldier, the poet and the monk,” Raoul said, “must be ruthless with their own emotions and indifferent to those of others, when in pursuit of their ideal.”

  Chapter XVII

  The tavern floor was sunk below the street. A narrow channel ran between the house wall and the roadway. The lower part of the window gave on to the wall of the channel. The upper third was obscured by the heavy rain and by the feet of marching men. The rain and the marching feet, hindering the entry of light through the narrow slit of glass, produced an atmosphere of gloomy twilight in the sunken room, even though it was one o’clock of an afternoon in June.

  The marching feet made a living frieze across the top of the window. They did not march in unison, like the feet of soldiers obedient to a single will. Each foot, clad in a hob-nailed boot that was splashed with mud, struck the ground independently of all the others. The flagstones of the tavern floor re-echoed to the tramping. The window shook spasmodically in its frame. A paraffin lamp, hanging by a chain from the ceiling, dangled gently to and fro.

  Now and again they shouted in disorder.

  “Down with the landlords!” they cried. “Pay no rent!”

  Michael Bodkin, the tavern-keeper, sat on a chair in the centre of the room. He was sixty-five years old, a large man fallen grossly into flesh. He had a brick-red complexion and small blue eyes that were slightly bloodshot. There was a bald patch at the top of his skull. A thick fringe of curly grey hair surrounded the bald patch, like an unfinished wreath. He wore trousers, a starched linen shirt with a fixed collar and long woollen stockings. On the right side of his fleshy throat there was a small scar, over which a clot of congealed blood had formed. He shifted his gaze slowly and at long intervals, hither and thither, examining those in the room. His breathing was loud and irregular.

  He had not yet recovered from the physical shock of being seized. Three men rushed into his bedroom upstairs and laid hands on him, while he was putting the finishing touches to his face with the razor. It was then that the blade had slipped and nicked his throat. At first he thought they were robbers. Then he recognised William Flatley and knew that they were Fenians. So his cry for help remained unuttered, and he realised with horror that his secret had been at last discovered. Flatley told him to go downstairs. He wanted to obey, but found that he was unable to move his limbs. Deering and Kelly, who accompanied Flatley, pushed him roughly forward. He collapsed when they touched him. His body hung limp between them, like that of a man newly dead. They cursed and made a seat under his buttocks with their crossed hands. In that way they were able to carry him downstairs, with Flatley supporting his head and shoulders from behind. He was given a nip of brandy after being seated in the tavern room. That enabled him to sit erect without support.

  The room was crowded with members of the Fenian organisation. A schoolmaster named Anthony Cooney was handing round the documents relating to Bodkin’s guilt. All the men read the documents handed to them without any change of expression. Father Kelly was sitting at an oblong deal table, by the wall opposite the counter. He had his arms on the board and his hands were hidden within the sleeves of his jacket. His eyes were closed and his features were contorted, as if by acute pain. Michael sat opposite the priest. He was staring at the ceiling intently.

  What puzzled Bodkin most was the activity of some men, whom he heard go up and down the stairs, carrying things from the house.

  “What in the name of God are those men stealing from me?” he kept saying to himself.

  One of these men finally approached Michael and said:

  “We have everything taken now.”

  Michael looked at Father Francis and said:

  “All right, Father. You can be on your way now.”

  Father Francis jumped to his feet with startling suddenness and cried:

  “I refuse to take part in this monstrous crime.”

  “Be on your way, Father,” Michael said.

  “I didn’t have to read those documents,” Father Francis cried, “to know what the unfortunate man had done. He himself confessed everything to me several months ago. He told me everything from beginning to end, even worse things for my heart to bear than what was written down in those documents. For he sinned terribly against my flesh and blood. God gave me strength to forgive him. We went on our knees together in this very room. I did penance with him, so he would be sure that I had forgiven him. Otherwise he might not have courage to continue in his repentance. It’s not good for a sinner to feel himself alone. Especially such a sinner. And he did repent. Oh! Indeed, he did. He stopped taking their money, even though money was so important to him. It must have been terribly important to him, or else he wouldn’t have betrayed everything for the few miserable shillings they gave him every week. They threatened him, wanting him to go on working for them, but he refused. That was why they gave you these documents. They want revenge on him for deserting them.”

  “That’s enough,” Michael said. “We’re in a hurry. You will be taken to where you choose to go. Follow t
hese men.”

  Father Francis looked at Michael reprovingly and said:

  “May God forgive you.”

  Then he walked towards the back door of the tavern. “Father Francis!” Bodkin cried.

  He finally realised what was happening. He tried to grasp the priest by the arm. Flatley forced him back into his chair.

  “God have mercy on me!” he said.

  Father Francis paused at the back door and said in a loud voice:

  “One day you will all regret polluting what was holy, for it is only through love that all ideals can triumph.”

  Bodkin collapsed on his chair, overwhelmed by the realisation that Father Francis had been forcibly removed from the house. Flatley put the brandy bottle to the prisoner’s lips. He revived after drinking some more of the spirits.

  Anthony Cooney, the schoolmaster, now collected all the documents and put them in an envelope. Then he nodded to Michael.

  “You have all read these documents,” Michael said, addressing the Fenians. “Each man is to make their contents public in his district.”

  Then he got to his feet and said to Bodkin:

  “You have been found guilty of treason and condemned to total isolation for the remainder of your life. The sentence will be carried out as from this instant.”

  Addressing the Fenians once more, he cried sharply:

  “March out in silence. Make no noise of any kind. Disperse in small groups as arranged. Look sharp, everybody.”

  Intoxicated by the second drink of brandy, Bodkin felt arrogant as he watched the men walk hurriedly from the room. He got a false idea of the reason for their departure. He jumped to his feet, spread his legs and beat his chest with his fists.

  “I knew ye wouldn’t dare lay hands on me,” he shouted. “I have the whole power of the British Empire at my back. Ho! I’m a proper man for ruffians like ye. I have the whole power of the British …”

  His voice was drowned suddenly by a brass band that began to make music with all its instruments as it passed the window outside. By the time its tumult had subsided, he was alone in the room.

  “They’re gone,” he said in a whisper. “The cowardly devils didn’t dare lay hands on me.”

  He went to the back door, opened it a little and peered along a flagged path, bound by tall whitewashed walls, that ran from the house to the river bank. Two men stared at him from the far end of the path. He closed the door quickly, locked it and put an iron bar across it.

  “Isolation?” he said aloud, beginning to feel nervous. “What in the name of God does that mean?”

  Then he turned his head to one side and said suspiciously:

  “What were those men dragging with them from up above?”

  He hurried upstairs. From the head of the landing he could see that the door of the little bedroom occupied by Father Francis was wide open. He walked over to it slowly and peeped into the room.

  “God Almighty!” he gasped.

  The room was completely empty. Father Francis followed a monastic routine, scrubbing the floor every morning. The bare planks were spotlessly clean. The white-washed walls were also naked and spotless.

  “He’s gone, sure enough,” Bodkin muttered. “They took him away.”

  It was some time before he could muster enough strength to go downstairs.

  “God Almighty!” he kept saying.

  On the counter in the tavern room he found the bottle of brandy from which they had given him to drink. He took it over to the table and sat down. He drank copiously, took a deep breath and then drank a good deal more. He got dead drunk almost immediately. He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his hands across the table and smiled broadly

  “The whole power of the British Empire!” he said with extreme satisfaction. “Think of that now. The whole power of the British Empire!”

  Now there were only stragglers passing the window. Their footsteps sounded hollow and unimportant. The rain had ceased. The sky was beginning to clear.

  “Nobody dares touch me,” Bodkin said with a sigh of pleasure, as he leaned forward. “Not while I have the whole power of the British Empire behind me.”

  He rested his right cheek on his crossed hands and closed his eyes.

  “The whole power of the British Empire!” he whispered as he fell sound asleep.

  Two stragglers passed the window in a great hurry. Then there was dead silence.

  Chapter XVIII

  The people had assembled for the meeting in a large field north of Clash. They stood around a wooden platform, leaving a passage open at one point for the ceremonial arrival of their leaders. There was room for no more than half the crowd on the field itself. Late arrivals were forced to take up position on the mountain slopes that rose sharply on three sides.

  Now there was brilliant sunshine. The rain-washed earth shone like a jewelled cloak that offers its stretched out beauty to the eye of God. A few tendrils of the spent clouds lingered, like torn veils, against the granite peaks of the mountains.

  Each contingent was massed under the raised banner of its Committee. The green and gold banner of the Manister people was farthest up the slopes, since they were the very last to arrive.

  “Bloody woe!” Annie Fitzpatrick said. “We’re stuck up among the furze like wild goats.”

  “All the better, Annie,” Lettice said excitedly. “The view is wonderful from here.”

  In spite of having walked all the way from Manister in the rain, she felt very happy. Michael had promised to join her at the meeting and take her home afterwards. It was to be her first time alone with him.

  “Oh! Lord!” Annie Fitzpatrick said, looking down at the crowd in the field. “The whole of Ireland is here, or a good part of it. That’s a fine thing, too, because the Archbishop ordered them to keep away. They came in spite of him. God help him, he’s a doddering old man that they have to feed with a spoon like an infant. Even so, he had no right to denounce Parnell and Davitt.”

  “The Archbishop is sold to the Devil,” an old man shouted.

  “I’m afraid you’re right, old man,” Annie said. “The bishops and the rich parish priests are on the side of the landlords. They condemn the Fenians, saying it’s a mortal sin to take an oath on entering a secret society. Oho! Bad cess to them, they don’t condemn the oath that poor boys take when they join the English army. It’s only when our lads take an oath to fight for Ireland that it becomes a sin in the eyes of the Church.”

  “True for you, Annie,” the people shouted. “True for you, alannah.”

  Excited by their encouragement, Annie threw back her heavy shawl and put her hands on her hips.

  “Shame on the Church for denouncing Michael Davitt, the defender of the poor,” she cried. “Didn’t the English persecute him enough, without the bishops taking a hand in the game? The English put arsenic in his food while he was in jail. Now the bishops are poisoning people’s minds against him, just because he is trying to organise the farmers against the landlords. Down with the bloody bishops!”

  There was a wild yell of approval of her words. People who had no idea at all of what she had said joined in the yelling. Then a small boy, perched on a stone wall, put his cupped hands in front of his mouth and shouted that the leaders were on their way from the town.

  “Hurrah!” the people shouted, as those on the slopes caught sight of the procession. “Up, Parnell! Up, Davitt!”

  A large troop of horsemen, followed by a long line of gaily painted carriages, advanced rapidly along the level road from the town to the field. A throng of ragamuffins and children, running full tilt, brought up the rear. A force of Constabulary, to the number of one thousand, and fully armed, were drawn up on the road, on either side of the entrance to the meeting place. They had, no doubt, intended to awe the rebellious multitude by their weapons and their discipline. Instead of that, they merely served as a guard of honour for the arrival of the notables.

  “Hurrah for Parnell! Hurrah for Michael Davitt!” the great thron
g roared as the leaders came through the field to the platform.

  Annie Fitzpatrick was now in an advanced state of mystical hysteria. Trembling from head to foot, she waved her arms above her head and screamed at the top of her voice. Her shawl had fallen to the ground. Her eyeballs protruded. There was froth about her lips. Perspiration ran down her cheeks.

  “Up, Parnell! Up, Davitt!” she chanted with monotonous regularity.

  Lettice was unaffected by the hysteria of the multitude. Even while she looked towards the platform with a look of rapture in her eyes, as Davitt began to speak, she was waiting anxiously to hear the voice of the man she loved.

  “To confiscate the land of a subjugated people,” Davitt cried passionately as he gesticulated with his solitary arm, “and bestow it on adventurers is the first act of uprighteous conquest, the preliminary step to the extermination or servitude of an opponent race. The landlord garrison that England established in this country, centuries ago, is to-day as true to the object of its foundation as when it first cursed our soil.”

  Lettice suddenly felt a touch on her arm. Then she heard Michael whisper her name close to her ear. She turned swiftly and saw him bending over her. He was smiling in a way that made her heart stop beating. He took her by the hand and bade her follow him. They went farther up the slope through the crowd. Soon they were alone and the voice of the speaker down below in the field became indistinct. Then they rounded a shoulder of the mountain and the whole multitude was lost to view. There were only the grey houses of the town far away below, the sparkling sea and the mountains.

  He suddenly took her in his arms against a moss-covered rock and almost shouted at her, with his lips close to her lips:

  “Oh! God! I tried to go away, but I had to come back. I had to come. So help me God, I love you. I had to come back.”

  Then their lips met. She closed her eyes and swooned as the key was turned, admitting her to the fairyland of love.