Liam O'Flaherty - Land

“What did you do?” Raoul said.

“What could we do?” said Michael. “We went away again, of course, without doing anything at all.”

“What did you intend to do?” Raoul said.

“I intended to kill Bodkin,” Michael said simply.

“In spite of knowing it was a trap?” said Raoul.

“There are things a man can’t help doing,” Michael said.

Raoul got to his feet, walked around the table and then halted in front of Michael’s chair, over by the window of the study.

“But that was a fortnight ago,” he said. “Where have you been since?”

“We went to the island of Grealish,” Michael said. “We spent most of the time hunting seals, there and on another island near there.”

Raoul suddenly lost his temper. He drew himself to his full height and glared at Michael.

“Does it not occur to you that you owe me an apology?” he said.

Michael returned Raoul’s stare. His eyes glittered.

“No,” he said quietly. “It never occurred to me.”

“Why not?” Raoul cried.

“I have never apologised to any man in my life,” Michael said.

The two men stared at one another in silence for a little while. Then Raoul shrugged his shoulders and began to pace the floor.

“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.”

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.