Land

by Liam O'Flaherty

“I’ve come to a decision,” Neville said.

  The other two men stared at the landowner in surprise. He had a bright red spot at the centre of each cheek.

  “What decision, Captain Butcher?” Lodge said.

  Neville picked up his metal hat with both hands and pulled it down tightly over his skull.

  “I’ve decided to take him at his word,” he said.

  He seized his revolver, broke it, glanced at the loaded chambers and snapped it shut again.

  “Do you mean the prisoner?” Lodge said as he got to his feet.

  Neville strode down to the other end of the table. His heavy field boots made a loud sound on the carpet.

  “Gentlemen,” he said in a tone of great excitement, “I’ve just had a hunch.”

  “What is your hunch, Captain Butcher?” Gregg said.

  “I’m going to kill O’Dwyer this morning,” Neville said solemnly.

  “Really?” said Gregg. “How do you propose to do it?”

  “Let me have four of your men,” Neville said. “I’ll attend to the rest.”

  “Impossible, Captain Butcher,” Lodge interposed. “Even if the fellow genuinely intended to collaborate with us, which I doubt, we couldn’t possibly let you tackle this on your own. You have neither eaten nor slept for several days. You are in no fit state …”

  “Nonsense, Lodge,” Neville said as he slapped the younger officer on the back in a patronising fashion. “This is something you don’t understand. I grant you that I’ve felt damned low during the past few days. Who wouldn’t have felt low in my place? All that is dead and gone now. I have a long-standing account to settle with O’Dwyer and this is my opportunity for closing it. I have always regarded him as my personal enemy. I have no choice but to accept his challenge.”

  He turned to Gregg and added:

  “You look like my sort of man. Let me have four of your fellows.”

  Gregg twirled the ends of his moustaches as he stared suspiciously at the excited landower.

  “What do you mean by saying that you have no choice but to accept O’Dwyer’s challenge?” he said gently.

  Neville started. His small eyes assumed an expression of great cunning. The back of his neck reddened.

  “Did I say that?” he said. “If so, it was a figure of speech, you understand …”

  Gregg continued to stare in silence for a few moments. Then he turned to Lodge.

  “I’d like to hear the prisoner’s story,” he said. “Have him come here.”

  Lodge marched to the door that led into the drawing-room.

  “They may have persuaded him to tell the truth by now,” he said, throwing the door wide open.

  The drawing-room was in great disorder. The furniture had been piled as a barricade against the windows, in which nearly all the glass was broken. A number of constables were now going to and fro wearily, hauling the various articles back to their proper places. The carpet was rolled up in a clumsy heap to one side. Lodge’s boots rang out sharply on the naked floor as he marched down the room towards the library.

  “We of the Constabulary,” Gregg said calmly to Neville, “can’t allow ourselves the luxury of acting on impulse, in a situation of this sort. We have to proceed with extreme caution.”

  Neville began to pace back and forth, with his hands behind his back. The bright patches on his cheeks had grown much larger.

  “I tell you my hunches have never proved wrong,” he said. “I know this fellow Cooney. I’ve kept an eye on him since he came to the village. Knowing he was a Fenian, I felt certain that he’d come in handy one day as an informer. He is the type, you know, fond of drink, good company, petticoats and dancing. He’s good-looking and effeminate. That sort of fellow always has his price.”

  He halted and struck the table a violent blow with his knuckles.

  “I knew that one of the swine would turn traitor sooner or later,” he cried. “One of them always does, when things begin to get really hot.”

  “Here he comes now,” Gregg said in a detached tone.

  Lodge marched into the room ahead of the prisoner and said:

  “We’ve been unable to get anything further out of him so far.”

  The prisoner shuffled along painfully, with a sergeant holding him by the right arm and a constable by the left.

  “Seat him here,” Gregg said, indicating a chair that stood near his own.

  The escort seated the hapless young schoolmaster.

  “You questioned him pretty thoroughly, did you?” Gregg said to the sergeant.

  Sergeant Symes brought his heels together and stood rigidly at attention. He had a huge red neck and a flat face. His nose and ears showed the scars of many wounds. He had been a prizefighter at one time.

  “Beg to report, sir,” he said in a hoarse voice, “that we tried every way we could to make him budge, but he continues to trot out the same story. I never in my life came across such a tough little fellow, sir.”

  “What’s your opinion, sergeant?” said Gregg. “Is he a wrong one?”

  The sergeant glanced at the prisoner for a moment and screwed up his eyes.

  “I’d call it an even-money bet, sir,” he said. “He’s tough, all right.”

  Gregg poured some whisky into a glass, which he offered to the prisoner.

  “Here you are, lad,” he said in a fatherly tone. “You look a if you could do with a little of this.”

  Instead of taking the offered glass, Cooney seized Gregg’s hand and kissed it several times with fervour.

  “For the love and honour of God,” he said in a whining tone, “protect me from them. They did terrible things to me. Don’t let them touch me again.”

  Gregg took away his hand gently and said:

  “Drink this whisky and tell me your story. If you tell me the truth, nobody is going to touch you. Have no fear of that.”

  Neville swore under his breath as he began to pace the floor again.

  “Sheer waste of time,” he muttered. “Every moment counts when the iron is hot.”

  Cooney sobbed aloud for a little while. Then he picked up the glass and swallowed all the whisky.

  “God spare your health,” he said gratefully to Gregg.

  “Out with it now, lad,” Gregg said. “Don’t be afraid. I guarantee you fair treatment, on my honour as a gentleman.”

  Cooney shuddered. His whole face was battered and swollen almost beyond recognition. One eye was completely closed. His hair was matted with blood. His speech was blurred by the distortion of his lips.

  “Three of us are in the plan to hand over Michael O’Dwyer,” he said. “The other two are Tommy De Burgo and Joe Beggs. They sent me to do the talking because I’m known to Captain Butcher. We have O’Dwyer in a house not very far from here. His left leg is broken below the knee. He got thrown from his horse during the cattle drive. Big Bill Flatley is coming after dark to move him. You have until noon to take him. Tommy and Joe are on guard. They’ll be relieved at noon by Peter Cook and Jerry O’Meara, who are now asleep in the house. Here is the plan Tommy made. I’m to be given the reward of three hundred sovereigns now, together with free pardons for the three of us, all signed and sealed. Then Captain Butcher and not more than four policemen are to come with me on a cart that has a crib on it. The tail-board of the crib must be fastened. I must be driving. The five men with me must be standing up in the crib. If everything is all right, I’ll give a certain signal at a certain place. If I get the answering signal at a certain other place the cart will halt. The tail-board will be unfastened and Captain Butcher will come down. Then the tail-board will be fastened tight again, leaving the other four men inside the cart. Captain Butcher will advance with me. Joe Beggs will advance with O’Dwyer from the opposite side. He’ll have O’Dwyer roped down on top of a hand-cart that’s at the house. The four policemen will keep me covered during the advance. Tommy will keep Captain Butcher covered. In that way, there will be no danger of treachery. Then the exchange will be made and both part
ies will retire free and easy. On the other hand, if I don’t give the signal agreed upon, nothing at all will happen.”

  There was silence for a little while. Gregg kept twirling the ends of his moustaches as he looked steadily at Cooney. Now his eyes no longer twinkled. They had become hard.

  “Is that all you feel like telling me, lad?” he said gently.

  “That’s all, sir,” Cooney said. “I’m under oath not to tell any more, for fear there might be treachery. It’s well known that the police get full information from many a poor lad beforehand and then claim the reward for themselves. So …”

  “Who is Tommy De Burgo?” Gregg interrupted.

  “He comes from Sligo,” Cooney said. “He was a bank clerk in that town. Then he got in with moonlighters, through a fondness for drink and devilment. His crowd ‘carded’ an informer one night. They scraped the man’s back so terribly with the cards that he died on the spot. Although Tommy wasn’t there when the deed was done, the police came after him. He ran down here on his keeping and joined O’Dwyer. A few weeks ago, though, when he heard the men that killed the informer were caught and hanged, all four of them, he got mad with himself for becoming an outlaw, since he was wanted no longer. So he thought of this plan for getting to America with a few sovereigns in his pocket.”

  “What about Joe Beggs?” said Gregg.

  “It’s revenge Joe is after, more than the money,” Cooney said. “He is in love with Biddy Sweeney, that had her lovely golden hair shaved for walking out with a policeman a short while back, over in Ballyroche. Joe says she was innocent and that she was reported by another girl out of spite. He asked O’Dwyer to prevent the Committee from condemning her unjustly. When O’Dwyer wouldn’t listen to him …”

  “What about yourself, lad?” Gregg interrupted, leaning towards the prisoner and making his voice still more gentle. “Why are you betraying your leader?”

  Cooney raised his head very slowly and looked into Gregg’s eyes. He started violently. Then he began to tremble.

  “I’m afraid,” he said. “I want to get out of the country. That’s all.”

  Gregg leaned still farther towards the prisoner, who now sat absolutely motionless, as if hypnotised.

  “Why do you insist on Captain Butcher coming with you in the cart?” Gregg said.

  “Because we know him to be a man of his word,” Cooney replied. “He is a hard man, but he never breaks his given word. Ever since he came to Manister, he has never been known to break’ his given word. That’s why we want him and nobody else. We trust him. He has never broken …”

  Gregg suddenly drew back his head and struck the table a violent blow with the flat of his hand.

  “Take him back to the library,” he shouted fiercely. “Give it to him properly this time. Torture the lying little cur until you make him tell the truth. Give it to him.”

  Cooney uttered a piercing shriek and threw himself to the ground at Gregg’s feet. He clasped the District Inspector’s knees tightly in his arms. The escort rushed forward to seize him. Gregg halted them by holding up his right hand. Everybody in the room listened intently as the prisoner began to speak.

  “Don’t do it, sir,” he moaned. “Don’t do it. I can only tell you the truth, no matter what you do. Oh! For the love of God, sir, have mercy on me.”

  Neville uttered an exclamation of disgust and marched around the table. He clicked his heels as he came to a halt beside Gregg.

  “I told you it was a sheer waste of time,” he said angrily.

  Gregg sighed and said to the prisoner, in the same gentle tone as before:

  “All right, lad. You may get up now.”

  As the escort helped the prisoner back into his chair, Gregg got to his feet slowly and turned towards Neville.

  “Well?” Neville said.

  Gregg stared at the landowner in silence for a little while. Then he nodded solemnly.

  Chapter XXXVI

  The black horse trotted quickly for nearly three miles to the north-west from Manister House, along a winding level road that lay abreast of the mountains. Then he slowed down to a laborious walk as he turned sharply to the east and began to climb a long steep hill. Here the surface of the road was deeply pocked and strewn with loose stones. The heavy red wheels of the cart now rocked from side to side continuously. The men standing within the tall green crib had to spread their legs wide and grip the sides with their hands in order to maintain their balance.

  Cooney had his back to the other five, as he leaned against the front wall, with the reins in one hand and a long-handled whip in the other. The peak of his grey cap was drawn down over his injured eye, in order to shield it from the piercing wind. The other eye stared straight ahead with a look of bitter triumph. When the cart was near the top of the hill, he raised the whip above his head to the full length of his arm. He twirled it three times slowly and then cracked it over the horse’s back.

  Neville stood immediately behind Cooney, with his revolver pointed at the schoolmaster’s back. When he saw the signal, he glanced sharply over his right shoulder at the four policemen that stood close together in the rear. They straightened themselves, shuffled their feet nervously and fingered their carbines. Their faces looked tense.

  The call of a curlew was repeated three times, somewhere in front, as the cart reached the summit of the hill. Level ground stretched ahead for a distance of four hundred yards. The narrow road was completely covered with grass, except for two shallow parallel tracks made by the rare vehicles that passed. There was a ramshackle stone fence on either side, about three feet high and partly overgrown with briars. A bog lay to the right. There was a ruined cabin, to which a weed-grown path led from the road in a straight line, a short distance within the bog. To the left the ground was rocky and uneven. Most of it was covered with thick brush-wood. Tall stone mounds, some of them partly sculpted, stood at intervals among the bushes. They had been raised in memory of the dead that were carried along that road to the cemetery.

  Cooney halted the cart when he came abreast of the first memorial mound, about fifty yards from the brow of the hill. He fastened the reins to the top of the crib and turned round.

  “Let down the tail-board now,” he said to the policemen. “This is the place where Captain Butcher comes with me.”

  The policemen glanced at Neville. He nodded. Then two of them unfastened the tail-board and stood it to one side within the crib. Cooney jumped down to the road. He was immediately followed by Neville.

  “Now fasten the tail-board again,” Cooney said to the policemen.

  Neville wheeled and discharged his revolver point blank into the schoolmaster’s side. Then he leaped towards the left and crashed over the top of the stone fence into a bed of tall, withered ferns. Cooney turned almost completely round after being hit. Then he bent forward, put both hands to his left side and fell with his right shoulder to the road. He kicked with his left foot three times. Then he rolled over slowly on to his back and lay still.

  Three of the policemen jumped from the rear of the cart when Neville fired. They followed the landowner over the fence and into the bed of ferns. The fourth man got jostled by a comrade as he was about to jump. He fell to his buttocks on the tail of the cart, with his legs dangling. The horse bolted at that instant. The cart was jerked from beneath the constable. He fell to the road on his back. He got to his feet at once and plunged towards the fence. A volley of shots came from the brush-wood. One of the bullets struck him in the left shoulder. He dropped his carbine to the side of the road and fell forward across the fence. As his comrades pulled him down among the ferns by the head, another bullet pierced his right thigh.

  “Let him lie there for a minute,” Neville growled at the other three men, as they went to aid their wounded comrade.

  He made them take up firing positions in an arc, facing the Fenians, on the edge of the fern-bed.

  “Keep up a steady fire,” he said. “I’m going to flank them. Charge when you hear me shout.”


  He crawled away to the left on his belly as the three men began to answer the Fenian fire with their carbines. He got to his feet after going a short distance through the ferns. He ran forward stooping, at right angles to the road, under cover of a dip in the ground. He bore to the right after going twenty yards. Then he dropped to one knee in the brush as he sighted the Fenians. They were closing rapidly with the policemen, firing from behind the memorial mounds as they advanced. Michael was leading them.

  “Ha!” Neville cried exultantly under his breath. “I have him at last. My hunch was right.”

  The bright patches returned to the centre of his cheeks as he raised his revolver and took careful aim. He fired when his enemy was less than ten yards away. The bullet went through Michael’s brain. He fell like a stone.

  “Charge!” Neville bellowed as he leaped to his feet and tore through the brush. “Charge! Charge! Charge!”

  Three bullets struck him in the armoured waistcoat and one in the right arm without arresting his progress. Then a fifth bullet passed through his mouth and lodged in the back of his neck. He dropped. They came up to him and fired three times into his head.

  Instead of charging, the policemen threw up their hands and began to scream:

  “Don’t kill us, lads. Spare our lives, for the love of God. We’re Irish, too.”

  Chapter XXXVII

  Raoul awoke just as the chapel bell of a convent near his jail began to toll the Angelus. He remained lying on his back, as he had slept, until the last melodious note had faded into silence. Then he turned over on his side, rested his cheek against his palm and waited to hear the hansom cab that passed each morning on its way to meet the early train. He sighed with pleasure as the first faint beat of the horse’s hooves reached him from afar. Then he heard the delicate jingle of small harness bells break in upon the mounting rhythm of the trotting hooves. A little later, there was a dull rumble of wheels as the cab passed over a short wooden bridge. Almost immediately afterwards, the symphony began to diminish in volume. When the hoof beats were again barely audible in the distance, a factory whistle blew a long strident blast, calling its workers to their tasks. He shuddered. The harsh sound of the whistle reminded him of the letter he had received from Elizabeth during the previous evening.