Land

by Liam O'Flaherty

  Fenton had not gone far in search of Barbara when he was button-holed by the irascible Major Fitzwilliam, who had been so critical of the Government on the day of the ambush.

  “Splendid!” Fitzwilliam said. “This sort of thing, I mean the invitation to the Constabulary, is exactly the gesture that we needed. Mongoole has done the right thing. The rebels now know that one landowner at least is not timid. More power to him. We must be firm, all of us, in our respective counties. If the government were equally so, things would speedily improve. Why the devil don’t you arrest Parnell?”

  He turned aside to address an aged man that was walking past.

  “Just a moment, Sir James,” he said. “I’d like to have a word with you.”

  Sir James O’Connor-Kelly, the famous barrister, came over with his two granddaughters and nodded to Fenton. The two girls, dressed in identical blue frocks, ogled the handsome District Inspector as he bowed to them stiffly from the hips.

  “Repeat that quotation from Parnell’s speech at Clash,” Fitzwilliam said to Sir James. “I mean those remarks that you told me were seditious just a few minutes ago.”

  “Delighted to repeat them,” Sir James said, “especially to an officer of Constabulary.”

  He glared at Fenton, just as if he considered the District Inspector to be his personal enemy. Though now over eighty, he still looked formidable as a man. A great duellist in his early youth, his face bore three deep scars from having been slashed by sword thrusts.

  “At Clash,” he said, “Parnell made the following seditious statements: ‘I advise you to stick to your farms. Don’t let the English intimidate you by their threats. Let each one of you hold firmly to his plot of ground. Your physical courage is proverbial. Learn discipline and you will be invincible.’”

  “Hear that?” Fitzwilliam cried in triumph to Fenton. “Every word of it is treason. It’s a call to arms. Pure Fenianism.”

  “I quite agree with Fitzwilliam,” Sir James said to Fenton. “Parnell should be put in jail. The whole country is rapidly becoming engulfed by the rebellion. He is chiefly responsible. A gentleman, Mr. Fenton, is always dangerous at the head of a lower-class uprising. St. George is another man that should be put in jail. In my humble opinion, he is quite as dangerous as Parnell. Perhaps even more dangerous, in the long run, because he is far more intelligent. Ideas can do incalculable harm. The evil that they do grows with the years, like an ever-spreading cancer.”

  “St. George is a rotter,” cried Fitzwilliam in a most passionate tone. “I think jail is too good for that renegade. He should be horsewhipped and stoned out of the county.”

  Without making any reply to these remarks, Fenton bowed curtly and walked away. He heard the two old men indignantly criticise his manners as he passed out of earshot. He shrugged his shoulders.

  “I no longer care what people say about me,” he muttered.

  Finding that Barbara had not yet arrived, he took up a position on the outskirts of the crowd to watch for the approach of her carriage. There was a break in the trees that lined the drive some distance away. He fixed his gaze on the strip of gravelled roadway visible at that point.

  Presently he saw Butcher’s pair of black carriage horses go prancing arrogantly past the open space, their forelegs arched high in the acquired movement of the trot. While the spinning yellow wheels followed the horses over the white gravel, he caught a glimpse of Barbara’s head above the dark body of the carriage. A thrill of passionate delight passed through him as he saw her little black straw hat, with a white ostrich plume waving from it, perched gaily on the very brink of her forehead.

  “My love!” he whispered. “Oh! My love!”

  He waited, with wildly beating heart, until the carriage reappeared on the wide courtyard before the castle. The horses slackened pace as they circled a large flower-bed. Then they halted at a flick of the coachman’s whip between two white-stockinged footmen, who stood on either side of the steps leading down into the garden. He rushed forward as she emerged from the carriage. He took up a position at a point that she would have to pass on her way to the host and hostess. As she came walking slowly towards him, down the long flight of broad steps, with her white-gloved hand on Neville’s arm and her melancholy eyes staring into the distance, he thought that he had never seen her look so beautiful.

  “Oh! God!” he whispered. “How I love her!”

  She glanced at him as she went past. Their eyes met. Although her expression did not change and her eyes remained half-closed, he felt certain that she had signalled to him, during the instant that they looked at one another. As a result, he passed at once from the depths of despair to a foolish height of happiness. With his knees trembling, he wandered down to a tiled path that ran parallel with the pool.

  “Great God!” he muttered. “Suppose she really looked at me with tenderness! What then?”

  He kept her in sight as she walked back and forth along the path. Soon his spirits began to sink once more, as the minutes passed and she made no effort to come in search of him. Indeed, she appeared to be unusually gay and talkative, laughing repeatedly as she went from one group to another of her friends, twirling her black lace parasol above her head like a flirtatious girl.

  “It was just an illusion,” he said to himself, as despair again gripped him. “I was deceiving myself. That was all.”

  Then he saw her come. She suddenly broke away from some people and walked towards him rapidly.

  “Jim!” she said in a low voice as she approached.

  He threw back his head, opened his lips and stared at her in rapture. It was the first time that she had ever addressed him by his Christian name and she was looking at him with tenderness. His own eyes grew dim with tears of joy.

  “Do you forgive me?” she said.

  “Barbara!” he whispered hoarsely.

  “I was beastly to you,” she said.

  “Barbara!” he said again.

  “You do forgive me,” she said.

  “There was never anything to forgive,” he said.

  “Walk with me a little way,” she said. “There is something I must tell you. I have a confession to make.”

  They walked in silence along the path for a little way.

  “Do you remember my telling you about a third fire?” she said at length.

  “I remember,” he said.

  “That was a stupid thing to say,” she said with emotion. “It was stupid and cruel. I’m terribly ashamed of myself. That fire is dead, shamefully dead.”

  He halted and turned towards her, drawing himself to his full height and bringing his heels together.

  “For me everything is dead except my love for you,” he cried.

  “I wanted to hurt you,” she said, “because I thought you were afraid of your love for me.”

  “I am no longer afraid,” he said.

  “Jim,” she said, “I want you terribly.”

  “My darling!” he muttered, bending towards her.

  She drew back and he restrained himself.

  “We must be careful,” she whispered. “I’ll come to you as soon as possible. You’ll wait?”

  “Forever,” he said.

  “You do love me,” she said. “Don’t you?”

  “My God!” he said. “Need you ask?”

  “You’ll let nothing stand in the way of our love?” she said.

  “Nothing at all,” he said.

  “It won’t be long,” she said. “I can’t endure this much longer. I’ll come and prove my love. I’ll prove it, Jim.”

  She touched his arm with her gloved hand, looked into his eyes intently and added:

  “Wait for me. It will be as soon as possible.”

  Then she turned and walked away from him. Trembling and with his eyes on the ground, he stood listening to the rustle of her skirts. Then there was only the fragrance of her perfume. He raised his eyes and smiled foolishly.

  “Great God!” he said aloud. “Great thundering God!”
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br />   He heard heavy footsteps come along the path. Raising his eyes, he saw Neville approach. Mr. George Sheehy, the Resident Magistrate in charge of carrying out the evictions, was shuffling along behind the landowner.

  “Do you realise that we have only until to-morrow night before the writs expire?” Neville cried angrily from a distance. “We must get going at once. Didn’t you hear they are organising resistance?”

  “You had better get your men on the march at once,” the Resident Magistrate said. “We are going to be pressed for time, if there is any trouble.”

  Fenton clicked his heels and said gaily:

  “I’ll proceed at once.”

  As he strode away to get the column on the march, he kept smiling happily. Even after he had mounted his horse and taken his place at the head of his men, he smiled as he gave the order to advance.

  He had been carried beyond reach of reality.

  Chapter XXIII

  The column marched due east from Killuragh for a mile at a rapid pace over level road. All the land on either side had been cleared of peasants. There were only droves of cattle and the scattered cabins of their herds in the big stone-walled fields. It was very hot and there was not a single breath of wind. Clouds of white dust hung motionless above the road, like rumpled gauze, behind the marching feet and the turning wheels of the supply carts. The sky was empty, except for an occasional crow that flew silently from tree to tree.

  After they had passed the ruins of a small hamlet, the road turned north and began to rise almost at once. Mountains towered ahead. The men shortened stride. Now they had to put their feet down almost flat against the rough granite surface. Soon the whole column was engulfed by the rolling hills. Only small sections of its dark length were visible at a time, as it twisted back and forth round the sudden curves. The rhythmic crash of feet and the rumble of wheels were joined by the roar of torrents.

  Up here there were great numbers of peasants. Their tiny cabins were scattered among the granite boulders that dotted the wild slopes. Patches of rye and potatoes, now ripening, made a quilt of green and gold against the grey background of the savage earth. Women and children stood in silent groups watching the column from a distance. They were half-naked. Hunger and fear made their faces look nearly as savage as the earth. Stunted animals also watched in silence. There were no men or boys in sight.

  Fenton remained indifferent to his surroundings, or to the purpose of his journey, until the column had advanced nearly half a mile through the hills. Still smiling happily, he rolled from side to side unevenly with the walking movement of his horse, letting the reins dangle. Then an acrid smell roused him from his reverie. He sniffed several times, made a grimace of disgust and looked sharply to his left. There he saw a cabin built against a massive rock, only a few feet away and almost directly overhead. Unlike the other dwellings in the neighbourhood, it was skilfully thatched with woven rye straw. Its walls were newly whitewashed. A little yard, scarcely more than a ledge, was paved with flagstones and scrupulously swept. Both the door and the frame of the solitary window were painted green. Through the open doorway, he could see the cheerful gleam of polished delft ware on the dressers. An old woman sat facing him on a three-legged stool by the western gable. She looked neat like her house. She was wearing a red frieze skirt and black bodice. Her white hair was carefully plaited and tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her face was pale, with high cheekbones, dark blue eyes, thin lips and a beautifully shaped nose. Indeed, all her features were delicately shaped, like a person of good breeding. There was a fire of dried cow dung before her. A large black pot, in which indigo was boiling, hung over the fire by a chain that was attached to an iron bar set in the gable. She had just raised a piece of flannel from the brew on the end of a stick when she saw him look at her. She paused with the stick raised and returned his glance. Both the end of the stick and the piece of flannel were dyed a deep purple. She continued to look at him fixedly. Unlike the other women, who stared at the column from a distance, there was neither fear nor hatred in her eyes. At first they showed surprise. Then they became tender and compassionate. Deeply moved, he turned to his front. Just before his horse rounded a corner, however, he looked at her again. She was still looking at him with tenderness and compassion, as she held the piece of smoking flannel raised above the pot on the end of her stick. Then he lost sight of her. He shuddered and it seemed to him that a veil had been torn from his soul. His new happiness, which had until now merely intoxicated his senses, invaded his soul and drove out hatred. Shame was also driven out and remorse. But above all, he realised that he was now friends with these humble people, whom he had hated for many years simply because he had injured and oppressed them. Throughout his being, he felt a bubbling enthusiasm that he had not known since boyhood. His face shone.

  Some few hundred yards farther ahead, unseen men launched a number of masssive boulders against the centre of the column from the summit of a precipitous slope, that was fan-shaped and hollow towards its base. So that the rocks converged as they rolled and struck together. Some shot into air. Others broke into fragments. The rest formed into a tumbling mass that finally came to rest in a dip of the road. They made a heap ten feet long and six feet high. The column was cut in two.

  Fenton galloped back to the obstacle, dismounted and gave his reins to a constable. After climbing to the summit of the rocks he saw his Head Constable hurrying up the far side.

  “Anybody hurt, Reilly?” he said anxiously.

  Reilly called out after reaching the summit, enquiring if there had been any casualties. Sergeants answered from either side of the heap, saying that all had escaped injury.

  “They broke ranks in time, thank God,” Reilly said, mopping his forehead.

  “Send the auxiliaries from the rear,” Fenton said. “Put them to work at once, removing these stones.”

  Reilly sent a sergeant to the rear for the auxiliaries.

  “They chose their spot well,” Fenton said, pointing up the slope with his riding crop. “Must have somebody intelligent in command of them.”

  The rocks had left clearly defined tracks, running crookedly from the summit in a wide arc to the narrow hollow at the base, like the ribs of an outstretched fan.

  “It’s smart work all right,” Reilly said, staring up the slope. “It will take us an hour to clear the road. O’Dwyer is a smart lad.”

  “You think it’s O’Dwyer?” Fenton said.

  “Who else could it be, sir?” Reilly answered.

  “Dare say you are right,” Fenton said as he climbed down from the heap.

  The Head Constable stared in amazement after his superior. He could not understand how a man, who had been on the verge of panic and cowardice in the tent, could have so suddenly regained control of himself.

  Butcher came running from the rear with his hat in hand. There were beads of perspiration glittering on his bald crown, between the strands of fawn-coloured hair that were drawn across the sallow skin. He halted on widespread legs before the boulders and glared at them.

  “The swine!” he said. “I see their game.”

  “Quite a clever game,” Fenton said with a patronising smile. “Don’t you think so?”

  The two men looked at one another in silence, Fenton smiling and at ease, Butcher in a blind rage.

  “It’s the last blow that counts,” Neville said at length.

  The Resident Magistrate, in whose carriage Neville was riding, now arrived from the rear. He looked frightened. He was a tubby little man with small grey eyes that kept blinking the whole time. His lips were curved in a Cupid’s bow, giving the impression that he was on the point of kissing somebody.

  “Never seen anything like this in twenty-five years as Resident Magistrate,” he said in an awed tone. “Can’t understand it. The peasants used to be so humble and docile.”

  “Peasants, did you say?” Neville barked at him. “Peasants have nothing to do with this. It’s a personal attack on me.”

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p; “Even so,” said the Resident Magistrate, “it’s very disconcerting. I never before saw any sign of organised opposition to the process of law. Everybody was so docile.”

  It took the auxiliaries more than an hour to clear the road. Then the column resumed its march, only to be halted a short distance ahead by a trench dug across the roadway. The auxiliaries filled the trench in twenty minutes. A second trench, much wider and deeper than the first, was encountered after a further short advance, round a sharp turn.

  Butcher again came running from the rear while the auxiliaries were beginning to fill this second trench. He had a revolver in one hand and a gold watch in the other. He brandished the revolver at Fenton, who was sitting his horse by the edge of the pit.

  “Do you know it’s already four o’clock?” he shouted.

  “What of it?” Fenton said calmly.

  “You are making no effort to do your duty,” Neville shouted. “You sit there on your horse like God Almighty, with an insane smile on your face, just as if you were delighted that I’m being turned into ridicule.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Fenton said.

  Several shots rang out at that moment. The bullets went whistling over their heads. The auxiliaries jumped headlong into the trench. Fenton’s horse reared up on his hind legs. Neville ran to the side of the road, shouting like a madman. He began to discharge his revolver in the direction of some crags, from on top of which the unseen opponents had fired. A few of the constables also lost their heads and began to discharge their carbines. The tumult excited the others. Soon the whole column was gripped by panic. There was a sustained rattle of gunfire.

  “You swine!” Neville roared as he refilled the chambers of his revolver. “Why don’t you come out and fight like men?”