Land

by Liam O'Flaherty

  He was a changed man of late. At the moment when he thought that all was lost, the apparition had put him on his feet again. Instead of being a devilish nuisance, Julia had become his benefactress. There were more customers than ever coming into his shop. People went out of their way in public to greet him and pay him compliments. Father Cornelius was again his intimate friend. Best of all was the conviction, entertained by his wife, and by himself, that Julia was with child. She had developed a healthy appetite during the past fortnight. Her cheeks had begun to fill. Her complexion had the glow of well-being. There was an expression of peace and fulfilment in her beautiful eyes. She had become silent and lazy. Although now a person of great honour in the district, she made no attempt to parade herself. On the contrary, she appeared to have become sated with exaltation. She had been to church only for the purpose of hearing Mass since receiving the message from Our Lady. Neither did she show interest in anything connected with her abnormal experience. She behaved exactly as an expectant young mother should behave, laying in great store of energy for the miracle of life that was being consummated within her womb. So that Bartly was already having drunkening day-dreams, during which he danced a crowing grandson on his knees.

  A group of twenty men, all members of the Committee, waited for him by the door of the Father Matthew Hall. As he approached this group, he nodded towards the platform.

  “So that’s how it is,” he cried indignantly as he took the key of the door from his hip pocket. “So he intends to make a speech. Instead of coming before the Committee and resigning like a gentleman, he wants to make an appeal to the people over our heads. Could anything be more treacherous? He’s going to try pulling the wool over their eyes with his cunning talk.”

  Nobody said anything in answer to this tirade. The group followed him into the hall very hurriedly. They all seemed anxious to get under cover.

  “Are we all here?” Bartly said, after the door had been closed behind the last of them.

  “All our crowd is here,” said Cleary, the retired pig-jobber. “There are only Mr. St. George and Anthony Cooney, the schoolmaster, missing from the whole Committee.”

  The Committee had originally consisted of five members. One of these was a fisherman called Hernon, an extremely devout man that Father Costigan was easily able to use as his secret agent. Acting on the parish priest’s instructions, Hernon soon began to urge that new members be co-opted. He claimed that the Committee’s influence among the people would be broadened by this means. The proposal appeared reasonable to the unsuspecting Raoul. So that eighteen more men, all of them narrow-minded and superstitious, were ultimately added to the original five. When the popular enthusiasm gave way to fear, the nineteen adherents of the parish priest were able to win McNamara and Cleary over to their side. Only one man remained loyal to Raoul. He was Anthony Cooney, a member of the Fenian Society and secretary to the Committee.

  “Where is Cooney?” Bartly said truculently. “Does he think, just because he is secretary, that he can stop us getting rid of Mr. St. George by staying away from here?”

  “There is more to it than that,” said Tom Crampton, the village stonemason.

  He walked over to Bartly and put one hand on the little shopkeeper’s shoulder. Then he looked about him dramatically. He had a long broad back like a woman, together with short stout legs that were deeply bowed. His face was sallow and bloodless, like so many of his trade.

  “I happen to know,” he continued in a tense whisper, “that the schoolmaster has taken to the hills.”

  “Blood in ounce!” said Bartly. “Is that the truth? Has he gone on his keeping?”

  “Devil a word of a lie in it, Bartly,” another man said.

  “Indeed, I’d be glad to see him go,” Crampton said, “only for the two blankets that he took with him. He’s been lodging in my house now for two years, ever since he came to Manister. I never made a penny piece out of him. Far from it. He owes me plenty. It’s only now and again that he would condescend to pay me a few shillings of his board money. Yet he’s such a likeable fellow that I never had the heart to make him fork out the arrears. Poor man! He was great value during the long winter evenings. He would sit in the hearth corner with a jug of ale, telling gorgeous tales of love and war. Don’t be talking, man. He could draw either tears or laughter from a stone with his enchanted words.”

  He paused, looked about him furtively and added in a lower tone:

  “Before going away with the two new blankets, he woke me out of my sleep and gave me a message for the Committee. He repeated it several times, so I would be sure to remember it. He said: ‘Tell the Committee and Father Costigan as well that they have no more power over the people of Manister. It’s the Fenians now that have the power. From now on, the Fenians recognise no authority but their own. They are setting up martial law and everybody must obey them without a word. It will be death for anybody, friend or foe, that lifts a finger to oppose them.’ Having said these woeful words, he made off to the hills with my two new blankets. Ah! God help him! He’s his own worst enemy. In spite of the blankets and what he owes me, I wish him luck.”

  Bartly was dumbfounded by this news. He lost the new-found arrogance that had sat so well on him. It had seemed to him a simple matter to get rid of Raoul and lead the people back to the authority of the Church. The opposition of the Fenians put a different face on things. He was afraid of meeting Clancy’s fate, or even worse.

  “Blood in ounce!” he said. “So the Fenians have gone on their keeping.”

  “O’Dwyer has called them all out, Cleary said. “It’s going to be open war now between themselves and the Government. The people of Manister will be in the middle, battered by both sides, like flannel in the thickening through.”

  “Blood in ounce!” Bartly said. “What are we to do now?”

  Again he wanted to run away and hide, just as on the day of the rebellion, when the armed police came into view.

  “We’ll do what we planned to do,” shouted Hernon, the fisherman. “We’ll force Mr. St. George to resign. Then you and Cleary and myself, the three men that asked St. George to become our leader, will lead the people back to the chapel in procession. There we’ll beg Father Cornelius on bended knees to forgive us and take command as before.”

  Hernon was in “a holy rage.” He was a short and bull-necked man, with a skull that was almost perfectly round, stiff red hair and a freckled face. His little grey eyes were surmounted by huge eyebrows of a whitish colour, which gave him rather a ferocious appearance. He had formerly been a jolly man and very much addicted to drunken roistering. Then he got caught in a hurricane that took his nobby and his crew to the bottom of the ocean. He lashed himself to a raft and promised to lead a holy life if he escaped. That was how he became devout and fierce, instead of being a jolly toper.

  “That’s all very well,” Bartly said, “but the Fenians are going to put a foot in all our plans.”

  “To hell with the Fenians!” said Hernon. “The English Government will soon put them under foot. They deserve the worst that can be given to them, for they are against God. They are excommunicated by bell, book and candle-light. Every honest man will help the English put them down.”

  Many of those present were outraged by this statement. Although opposed to the Fenians, because of panic, the thought of collaborating with the foreign tyrant against Irish patriots filled them with horror.

  “It would only be a black traitor that would help the English to do no matter what to an Irishman patriot,” Cleary said. “I’m for the parish priest and against St. George, but I refuse to become a renegade.”

  “I’m with you,” another man shouted.

  Several other men shouted their approval of Cleary’s words.

  “The Fenians are against God,” Hernon shouted. “They want revolution. The people want peace and lower rents. Down with the Fenians, I say.”

  “Down with the Fenians!” shouted the majority of those present.

 
A violent argument ensued. McNamara ran from one group to another trying to restore order. It was of no avail. Blows seemed imminent. Men were spitting on their ash plants, pulling down their hat brims and flexing their shoulder muscles. Then they heard yelling in the square. Forgetting their quarrel, they all rushed to the door and opened it.

  “Ho! By the Book!” cried Bartly. “Here comes St. George now, riding in his carriage like the Sultan of the bloody Moors.”

  Raoul had crossed the little wooden bridge just as the head of a large throng, coming from the church, debouched into the foot of the square. The throng began to shout on catching sight of him. Most of the people brandished their sticks and reviled him. A small group of young men, however, ran forward and cheered his name. They formed a guard about his carriage with their bodies as he advanced. The hostile majority, although eager to do him violence forthwith, was without resolute leadership. So they merely pressed after him up through the square, shouting their hatred.

  “Antichrist must go!” chanted those opposed to Raoul.

  “Up St. George!” cried the small band of his supporters.

  Raoul sat stiffly erect in his carriage, staring straight ahead, his right hand cupped under his left elbow, the fingers of his left hand caressing the tip of his beard. He was wearing his black hat, black cloak, velvet jacket and buckled shoes. The carriage, although newly painted and upholstered, was more than thirty years old and of a type long since become unfashionable. His dress and the carriage and his proud demeanour seemed to be in perfect harmony with the tragic face of nature and with the howling mob. Ahearn also seemed to have achieved dignity at this moment, as he sat on the high driving seat, straining to hold the agitated horse to a stately walk.

  As the carriage neared the platform, the Constabulary came marching out from the demesne gate at a rapid pace. Sub-Inspector Lodge strode at the head of the column. The crowd became subdued on seeing the armed men. When the carriage halted, there was dead silence except for the rhythmic crash of marching feet.

  Raoul dismounted and ordered Ahearn to drive away. The servant looked in mournful appeal at his master for a moment. Then he suddenly gave the horse its head. The frightened animal set off through the crowd at a mad gallop. There were wild screams from a number of people that were forced to jump hurriedly out of the way. Ahearn flicked several of them neatly on the rump with the end of his long whip, while pretending to lash the horse. He hated them at that moment for being disloyal to his master.

  Raoul climbed on to the platform and looked about him. The bulk of the Constabulary had now come to a halt, in two ranks, on the outskirts of the crowd. They ordered arms and stood alertly to attention. A small force, led by Sub-Inspector Lodge, pressed towards the platform. The people made way for their advance, like water parting before the tall bow of a ship. Raoul waited until the Sub-Inspector and his men had reached the foot of the platform. Then he took off his hat, bowed to the people, leaned slightly against his cane and began to speak.

  “People of Manister,” he said, “you asked me some months ago to become your leader. I accepted. We elected a Committee and gave it full power to rule over the territory occupied by you. Since then we have succeeded in destroying nearly all trace of the English Queen’s authority over that territory. We have imposed our own authority and made our writ run without any difficulty. We have Captain Butcher isolated and on the verge of destruction. We have completely eliminated the espionage system of the enemy. These are great achievements, in so short a time, by people unused to the exercise of power and to the possession of freedom. Alas! Freedom is not a gift that the few can bestow on the many. In order to be free, it is not sufficient for the people to defeat tyranny. Unless they have the souls of free men and unless they are jealous of their dignity, in the way that free men are jealous of it, the defeat of one tyrant merely leads to the seizure of power by another. That is what happened to you. You have withdrawn your allegiance from Captain Butcher and the English Queen, only to bow down in terror before the mumblings of priestcraft. You no longer wish me to remain at your head. You call me Antichrist and demand that I resign. I submit. Base though you are at this moment, you have the right to take away what you bestowed. I bow to your will.”

  He bowed low in all directions. Then he glanced down at two sergeants, who were writing his words in their notebooks. He smiled and turned towards the people once more.

  “I have no right to find fault with your fickleness,” he continued, “because it was my ancestors that made you slaves and taught you the habits of slavery over a period of six hundred years. These habits cannot be changed by the stroke of a magic wand. The soldierly virtues of free men can only be regained by you through torture of soul and body. What are these soldierly virtues? They are loyalty, discipline and dignity. Although I have put dignity last, it is the most important of the three. I put it last because it is the result of the other two. Already a few of you have attained these virtues. I refer to the gallant members of the Fenian Society. If you were all like the Fenians, as brave and resolute as they, you could sweep all enemies from your land at once.”

  He raised his stick and pointed to the Constabulary.

  “You could annihilate these ruffians,” he cried, “cut them to pieces and throw the pieces to your dogs. You could sweep Captain Butcher and all other landlords to the devil. You could even cross the sea into England and chop off Queen Victoria’s head for her impudence in laying claim to sovereignty over you. You could …”

  At that moment, Sub-Inspector Lodge raised his hand and called out in an angry tone:

  “I command you to stop speaking at once.”

  At the same time, one of the sergeants climbed on to the platform.

  “What is the meaning of this interruption?” Raoul said.

  “Come down from that platform,” the Sub-Inspector said.

  “Come along quietly, sir,” the sergeant said, laying his hand on Raoul’s arm.

  A confused murmur ran through the crowd as Raoul came down from the platform.

  “I arrest you on a charge of making seditious utterances,” the Sub-Inspector said to Raoul at the foot of the platform. “I ask you to come with me quietly into custody.”

  Raoul nodded and said pleasantly:

  “Of course, Inspector.”

  They surrounded him and marched him towards the barracks through the crowd.

  “They have taken him,” the people whispered to one another.

  At first it seemed that the whole throng had been won over to Raoul’s side. For a few moments, there was no opposition to the murmur of sympathy that rose from end to end of the multitude. Then there was a scream. It came from Hernon, the fisherman. Taken with a fit of mystical frenzy, he ran up to the police cordon, glared at Raoul savagely, beat his bosom with his clenched fists and continued to scream.

  “Now where is your dignity?” he cried. “They have taken you, Antichrist, in spite of your power.”

  He leaped high into the air and then brought both feet down flat together, like a man doing the dance of the sea-salmon. His eyeballs now protruded and he was foaming at the mouth.

  “Oho!” he cried in maniacal glee. “Look at the humbug! King Raoul! The man that was going to teach us dignity! Look at him now and he taken away under guard like a common thief. Antichrist! Free yourself and show us your power. Show us your dignity, you that talk so much about it. Free yourself now, you that …”

  He was interrupted by a violent blow from an ash-plant that crashed on to the top of his skull. He went down like an ox under the hammer.

  “Up St. George!” cried the man that had delivered the blow. “The Fenians Abu!”

  Hundreds of sticks were raised at once. Blows began to fall on all sides amid frenzied shouting. The main body of Constabulary then charged with levelled carbines into the struggling mass. The people fought one another and the Constabulary indiscriminately for a little while. Then they took to headlong flight, all together, as if by prearrangement. They ra
n back the way they had come, down the square and out on to the road that led east to the church. The police did not follow.

  Bartly McNamara climbed on top of a stone wall some distance east of the square and addressed the fugitives.

  “Stop running,” he shouted. “There’s nobody after you now. Halt and gather round me.”

  Other men added their voices to that of Bartly. In a short while, the whole throng gathered round the little shopkeeper.

  “In God’s name,” he said to them, “listen to me. We have been here and there, you and I, during the past few months. It’s little profit we have to show for our travels. Let us go back, then, to him we deserted and let us ask him to forgive us. Let us go to him on our knees and ask him to become our leader once again.”

  The people shouted their assent with enthusiasm.

  “All right, then,” Bartly said. “Follow me.”

  In dead silence, the people marched up the hill behind McNamara. They made no attempt to form ranks or to march in step like soldiers. When the head of the disorderly throng reached the church gate, Father Cornelius came out of the sacristy, wearing his soutane and his biretta.

  “Down on your knees and off with your hats,” Bartly said to the people.

  The whole throng knelt reverently on the wet road, uncovered their heads and bowed low.

  “Take command over us, Father,” they prayed. “Forgive us and take command.”

  Father Cornelius climbed to the flat top of the gate-post. He took off his biretta, raised his right hand and made the sign of the Cross on the air above the kneeling people.

  Chapter XXX

  Fenton jumped to his feet, thinking he had heard footsteps come along the corridor. After listening intently for a little while, he made a grimace of annoyance. There was only the whistling of the wind, in the chimney and outside among the eaves. He put more coal on the fire. Then he walked around the room for the twentieth time, setting things in order. He pulled the window curtains a little tighter, shifted the sofa and drew the armchair somewhat closer to the fire. As he paused before the mirror to give his uniform a final touch, he became appalled by his appearance. The last few weeks, during which he definitely made up his mind to desert his post without warning, had taken a heavy toll.