Land

by Liam O'Flaherty

  They went away next morning for a honeymoon trip of ten days. Clancy was a changed man on his return. He had become sullen, brutal, drunken and insolent. He soon began to give orders in the shop as if he were sole master, although the marriage settlement had expressly stated the contrary. About a fortnight after his return, he and Bartly almost came to blows about the collection of a debt.

  “Understand once and for all,” Clancy said during the quarrel, “that I give orders here in future.”

  “You do no such thing,” Bartly said. “It’s written down that I give orders here as long as I live.”

  Then Clancy took the little man by the throat and said:

  “One word more out of you and it will be your last.”

  Bartly offered no further resistance to his son-in-law. He went to his wife and bemoaned the unexpected outcome of the wedding he had so zealously promoted.

  “Bloody woe!” he said. “I caught a Tartar in that young fellow. Oh! Boy! What a wolf in sheep’s clothing he turned out to be!”

  “Devil mend you!” his wife said spitefully. “I warned you against this marriage. Poor Julia! She looks like a ghost already and she married only a month. That drunkard will be the death of her.”

  Julia herself was entirely to blame for looking “like a ghost” and for all the evil that had come into Clancy’s soul. She loathed her husband with her whole heart after he had taken her. She set out at once to make his life a torment. Night after night, as soon as they were in bed together, she began to goad him with extravagant tales of her relationship with Michael and of the mysterious power that the Fenian leader exercised over women. She hinted that she was still a victim of that mysterious power and that she was unable to banish him from her mind or heart, in spite of constant prayer. This vile attack always drove the foolish Clancy to a white heat of jealousy, which he tried to assuage by making savage love to her. His hatred of O’Dwyer became intense.

  Then Raoul launched “the final assault” against Captain Butcher. The Committee issued an order to the people of Manister.

  “The people are forbidden,” ran the order, “as from this day, to render any service or pay any money to Captain Butcher, or to any member of his household, or to anybody acting on his behalf. The people are likewise forbidden to address Captain Butcher, or any member of his household, or anybody acting on his behalf, either in speech, or in gesture, or in writing. Any infringement of this order will be punished to whatever extent the Commitee considers necessary, such punishment to be carried out by the competent authority duly appointed for that purpose.”

  Clancy rebelled at once against this order.

  “I’ll have none of it,” he shouted that evening at the supper table. “I’m going to supply anybody from Manister House that comes into the shop, even if it happens to be Captain Butcher himself. What’s more, I’m going to bid the time of day to anybody I please. I’m taking no orders from O’Dwyer and St. George.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” Bartly cried in fright.

  On the glorious Sunday of his rebellion, he had allowed himself to be elected treasurer to the Committee. He was present when the order in question was passed unanimously. He clearly understood that he would be placed in an extremely delicate position by the refusal of his son-in-law to obey.

  “I know well what I’m saying,” Clancy said truculently.

  “Do you know what would happen to anybody that dared to disobey?” said Bartly. “Have you any idea at all of what would be done to such a lunatic?”

  “What would be done to him?” Clancy said.

  “He’d get the back torn off him by the cat-o’-nine tails,” Bartly said.

  “There isn’t a scut of a Fenian in the whole county that would dare touch me with the cat,” Clancy cried arrogantly.

  “They have touched better men than you, ’faith,” Bartly said.

  “Be careful what you say,” Clancy said. “I’m in no humour to take any old guff from you.”

  “You fool!” cried Bartly. “It’s not the Fenians alone you’d have to fight, but the whole people of Ireland, if you turned traitor. The National Land League was formed last week, with Parnell and Davitt at the head of it. The entire country has sworn allegiance to the League. There are Committees everywhere now. Anybody that dared raise a hand or a voice against the League …”

  “That’s a lie,” Clancy said. “All the people are not for it, not by a long chalk. The Church is against it. The rich are against it.”

  “The poor are for it, though,” said Bartly, “and they are in the big majority. It’s the poor that always do the fighting. It’s them that will swing the cat, when it has to be swung. The rich won’t save you. The rich and the bishops never save anybody’s skin but their own.”

  “I dare them all,” cried Clancy. “I dare them and I double dare them.”

  Later that night, Julia made certain that Clancy would carry out his threat to disobey.

  “You have to be careful, Jim,” she whispered solicitously when they were in bed together. “Michael is a dangerous man. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word fear and he’ll stop at nothing when he’s roused. I saw him once …”

  “Shut up,” Clancy growled as he threw himself upon her. “I’ll show you who is strong. I’ll show you.”

  On the following afternoon, Andrew Fitzgerald brought a horse to the village forge from Manister House. He asked Matthew Cohan, the blacksmith, to put a set of new shoes on the animal. Cohan paid no attention to the groom. He continued to strike a red-hot bar of iron that he had on the anvil.

  “Did you hear me talking to you, Matt?” the groom said in a louder tone.

  Cohan spat and struck the iron bar another blow with his hammer. He took no notice of the question.

  “Is it trying to insult me you are?” Andrew Fitzgerald cried as he began to pull off his jacket.

  He had been drinking since noon. He got into the habit of drinking alone in his sleeping quarters when Barbara lost interest in him.

  “Come on, then,” he cried, spreading his jacket on the ground as a challenge. “If it’s fight you want, there is my coat spread out before you. Step on it, if you think you are able to take the sway from me.”

  The blacksmith paused and glanced sideways at the jacket, with longing in his eyes. He was a huge fellow, noted in the district for his power as a wrestler and a weight-lifter. His glance shifted slowly from the coat to Andrew’s widespread legs. He shuddered, spat on his palms, cursed under his breath and then brought the sledge-hammer down on the anvil with his whole power.

  This gesture brought a roar of laughter from a crowd that had now gathered.

  “What ails you, Matt?” a man shouted. “Is it how you itch where you can’t scratch?”

  Excited by the roar of the crowd, the horse took off at a gallop towards the demesne gate.

  “Come on,” Andrew shouted, now turning to the jeering people. “Fight me, if there is a man among you. You pack of rebels! I’ll show you what a soldier of the Queen can do.”

  Clancy came running over from McNamara’s shop at that moment.

  “What’s the matter, Andy?” he said to the groom.

  The two of them had recently become cronies, while drinking late at night in the tap-room of Mahon’s hotel.

  “Matt Cohan, the dirty bastard,” the groom said, “refuses to shoe my horse for me.”

  Clancy turned to the blacksmith and said:

  “Is that right, Matt?”

  Cohan looked at Clancy in contempt for a moment. Then he spat and began to strike his bar of iron small blows in rapid succession, while he muttered to himself.

  “You ought to be ashamed, all of you,” Clancy shouted, addressing the crowd. “You are being led astray by a gang of rowdies that will soon be outlawed. Any day now the Government will crack the whip. O’Dwyer and St. George won’t be dictators for very long, I’m telling you. The hangman’s rope is being greased for their necks.”

  Then he
took the groom by the arm and said in a most friendly tone:

  “Come on over to Mahon’s for a wet.”

  As the two men approached the hotel, they were met by Sergeant Geraghty and two constables. One of the constables was leading the runaway horse. He gave the animal to the groom. Then the police advanced on the crowd. The people at once turned their backs and dispersed in silence.

  “Mother of Mercy!” said Bartly, who had watched the whole scene from the doorway of his shop. “He’s done it now, the fool.”

  Armed and masked men came that evening while the family was reciting the rosary. They seized Clancy in the name of the Committee. They blindfolded him in the yard. They took him to a cave on a small island off the coast. There he heard a man, whose voice he did not recognise, describe the incident at the forge in minute detail.

  “Do you admit having made these statements and behaved in this way towards Captain Butcher’s servant?” the man said at the end of his report.

  “I’m proud of all I did and said,” Clancy shouted with bravado.

  “Do you realise that you disobeyed an order of the Manister Committee?” the man continued.

  “I know it full well,” said Clancy.

  “Are you now ready to apologise and to swear that you will obey the Committee’s orders in future?” the man said.

  Clancy had become terribly afraid of the ruthless voice, which was made ghostly by the echo-making walls of the cave. Yet he stamped his foot and continued to behave with bravado.

  “I dare you and I double dare you,” he shouted. “No scut of a Fenian can put fear into me.”

  “Strip him,” said the voice.

  They stripped him to the waist and let his trousers fall down about his ankles, so that his buttocks also were bare. Finally, they tied his hands to an iron bolt that was embedded in the cave wall.

  “You will now be given ten lashes,” the voice said. “When the ten lashes have been delivered, there will be a pause of five minutes. You will again be asked to obey the Committee three times during the pause. If you still refuse to obey the people of Manister, the flogging will continue until you either die or relent.”

  The unknown man then raised his voice and said abruptly: “Begin flogging.”

  There was a sharp report as the nine thongs of the whip struck at the tender white skin on Clancy’s back. The hapless man ground his teeth and tried to brace himself against the savage pain. He failed. Although he was strong and in excellent condition, he surrendered after only seven blows had fallen.

  “I’ll obey,” he screamed as the thongs went hissing through the air to deliver the eighth blow.

  His whole back was covered with blood from rump to shoulder blades. The skin and surface flesh had been torn to ribbons. They made him kneel and take a solemn oath of obedience. They then dressed his wounds and put on his clothes.

  “If you mention anything that happened to-night,” the voice said to him, as he was being taken to the mainland, “you will be shot dead, together with your wife and parents.”

  They abandoned him on the highway, one mile east of the village.

  “Run away home now,” the voice said to him, after having removed the blindfold. “Take care not to look behind you. If you do we’ll shoot.”

  .One of the men had to give him a kick before he moved. He then began to walk at full speed, even though it pained him terribly to move his limbs. He went through the village without glancing towards his home. He was halfway to Clash before he lay down on his stomach by the roadside for a rest. He burst into tears, with his face resting on his crossed arms.

  “They shamed me,” he moaned. “I’ll never again be able to look anybody that knows me in the face.”

  He drank steadily during the remainder of the night and the early morning, at an obscure tavern on the outskirts of Clash. On leaving the tavern, he asked the woman of the house to make the sign of the Cross on his forehead with hot ashes from the hearth. Towards noon of that day, he withdrew some money he had on deposit at the savings bank in Clash and then took the train to Galway.

  Julia got a short letter from him three days later.

  “Fare thee well, dear wife,” he wrote to her from Galway. “When you read these lines, I’ll be on my way to Australia. A great shame was put on me, so that I could never again show my face. May God have mercy on us all and fare thee well.”

  Julia was stricken with remorse, now that her husband had met the fate she planned for him. She sat in the corner of the hearth most of each day, in a state of complete torpor.

  “I’m afraid she’s done for this time,” her mother said to Bartly. “She wouldn’t mind if you hit her on the head with a hammer. There isn’t a word out of her, good or bad. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, she’s that gentle. Lord save us! I’d rather she’d set the house on fire than sit like that.”

  Bartly just shrugged his shoulders.

  “She has me destroyed entirely now,” he said. “The worst that could happen to her would be less than she deserves, for I believe she is the cause of all our bad fortune.”

  The little man was in a truly odious position owing to Clancy’s conduct. Hardly anybody came to the shop. People looked the other way when he met them in public.

  On the morning of the day that Michael and Lettice were getting married, Julia awoke from her torpor. She put on a new black dress, button boots and a heavy veil.

  “Arrah! Where are you going, all dressed up like a great lady?” her mother said to her.

  “None of your business,” Julia said as she bounced out of the house.

  “Oho! God be praised!” her mother said. “You’re back to your old devilment again.”

  Julia went to the church and knelt by the altar rails until the people came to see the wedding. They were angry with her for having come there dressed in black.

  “The spiteful magpie should be tarred and feathered,” they whispered in her hearing, “for trying to put bad luck on the beautiful young creatures that are getting married.”

  Julia was indifferent to their insults. Although her torpor had passed, her senses remained dulled. When Michael and Lettice went to the altar, she stared at them calmly as if they were strangers to her. She noted every detail of their dress and behaviour with womanly curiosity, without feeling chagrin of any sort. She even remained unaffected when Michael took Lettice in his arms and kissed her on the lips. It was only when the people followed the newly married couple out of the church and she was left alone that grief came to her.

  It came with extreme violence. The interior of her body seemed to contract into a ball and to rush up into her throat, seeking exit. Then there was a moment of clarity, during which the agony of being lovelorn was made manifest to her with infinite skill. There was an eternity of suffering in that moment. She was certain that it was her last. Yet she passed from it into a state of exalted happiness. She became weak with delight. Her head dropped on to her shoulder and her arms could not maintain her body upright against the rails. She began to sink slowly to the ground. A mist came before her eyes and she heard the music of trumpets at a distance. Then her head struck against one of the wooden rails and the shock roused her. She resumed her former position hurriedly and looked towards the Statue of the Blessed Virgin. Then the music of the trumpets became loud and she was filled with awe. She passed into a trance during which she saw the statue rise from its pedestal and come towards her. It halted when it was so near that she could reach out and touch it with her hand. The Virgin smiled and her lips moved, as if she were speaking. Julia tried with all her wits to catch the words that Our Lady uttered. It was in vain. The statue began to retreat towards its pedestal. A feeling of infinite loneliness overwhelmed Julia as the Virgin reached her accustomed pedestal and became motionless. Then the mist evaporated.

  Julia began to shout at the top of her voice, giving praise to the Virgin.

  “House of Gold!” she cried. “Tower of Ivory!”

  Pat Rice came running from t
he sacristy, attracted by her cries. He realised at once that she was in communion with the supernatural. He passed through the little wooden gate that led to the aisle and threw himself on his knees beside her. He began to strike his breast with both hands and to repeat her cries.

  “Ark of the Covenant!” they intoned. “Morning Star!”

  When Julia finally became silent through exhaustion, the sacristan leaned close to her and whispered in her ear:

  “What did you see? Tell me everything, now while it’s fresh in your mind.”

  Julia told him all that she had seen and heard.

  “Ah! God forgive you,” the sacristan said to her after he had heard her story. “There was a message, but it was denied to you on account of your sins. God’s mother was trying to speak to you, but your soul wasn’t pure enough.”

  “Ah! Woe!” cried Julia disconsolately. “Is that why I couldn’t understand what she said?”

  “Never mind, woman,” cried the withered old man. “She will speak to us again through you. You must purify yourself by prayer and fasting and penance, in order to be ready for the message when it comes again. We’ll get our group together and come here with you every day, to pray and do penance.”

  Then he bowed down before her, touching the ground with his forehead.

  “You have been chosen,” he cried exultantly. “You are blessed among women. Oh! Heavenly Grandeur! Brightness of all Brightness!”

  As she walked home slowly, Julia kept smiling like a foolish person. She had been transported “into a world of her own” by the sacristan’s words of homage and by his gesture. She believed that she was blessed among women.