Liam O'Flaherty - Land

“What in the name of God are those men stealing from me?” he kept saying to himself.

One of these men finally approached Michael and said:

“We have everything taken now.”

Michael looked at Father Francis and said:

“All right, Father. You can be on your way now.”

Father Francis jumped to his feet with startling suddenness and cried:

“I refuse to take part in this monstrous crime.”

“Be on your way, Father,” Michael said.

“I didn’t have to read those documents,” Father Francis cried, “to know what the unfortunate man had done. He himself confessed everything to me several months ago. He told me everything from beginning to end, even worse things for my heart to bear than what was written down in those documents. For he sinned terribly against my flesh and blood. God gave me strength to forgive him. We went on our knees together in this very room. I did penance with him, so he would be sure that I had forgiven him. Otherwise he might not have courage to continue in his repentance. It’s not good for a sinner to feel himself alone. Especially such a sinner. And he did repent. Oh! Indeed, he did. He stopped taking their money, even though money was so important to him. It must have been terribly important to him, or else he wouldn’t have betrayed everything for the few miserable shillings they gave him every week. They threatened him, wanting him to go on working for them, but he refused. That was why they gave you these documents. They want revenge on him for deserting them.”

“That’s enough,” Michael said. “We’re in a hurry. You will be taken to where you choose to go. Follow these men.”

Father Francis looked at Michael reprovingly and said:

“May God forgive you.”

Then he walked towards the back door of the tavern. “Father Francis!” Bodkin cried.

He finally realised what was happening. He tried to grasp the priest by the arm. Flatley forced him back into his chair.

“God have mercy on me!” he said.

Father Francis paused at the back door and said in a loud voice:

“One day you will all regret polluting what was holy, for it is only through love that all ideals can triumph.”

Bodkin collapsed on his chair, overwhelmed by the realisation that Father Francis had been forcibly removed from the house. Flatley put the brandy bottle to the prisoner’s lips. He revived after drinking some more of the spirits.

Anthony Cooney, the schoolmaster, now collected all the documents and put them in an envelope. Then he nodded to Michael.

“You have all read these documents,” Michael said, addressing the Fenians. “Each man is to make their contents public in his district.”

Then he got to his feet and said to Bodkin:

“You have been found guilty of treason and condemned to total isolation for the remainder of your life. The sentence will be carried out as from this instant.”

Addressing the Fenians once more, he cried sharply:

“March out in silence. Make no noise of any kind. Disperse in small groups as arranged. Look sharp, everybody.”

Intoxicated by the second drink of brandy, Bodkin felt arrogant as he watched the men walk hurriedly from the room. He got a false idea of the reason for their departure. He jumped to his feet, spread his legs and beat his chest with his fists.

“I knew ye wouldn’t dare lay hands on me,” he shouted. “I have the whole power of the British Empire at my back. Ho! I’m a proper man for ruffians like ye. I have the whole power of the British …”

His voice was drowned suddenly by a brass band that began to make music with all its instruments as it passed the window outside. By the time its tumult had subsided, he was alone in the room.

“They’re gone,” he said in a whisper. “The cowardly devils didn’t dare lay hands on me.”

He went to the back door, opened it a little and peered along a flagged path, bound by tall whitewashed walls, that ran from the house to the river bank. Two men stared at him from the far end of the path. He closed the door quickly, locked it and put an iron bar across it.

“Isolation?” he said aloud, beginning to feel nervous. “What in the name of God does that mean?”

Then he turned his head to one side and said suspiciously:

“What were those men dragging with them from up above?”

He hurried upstairs. From the head of the landing he could see that the door of the little bedroom occupied by Father Francis was wide open. He walked over to it slowly and peeped into the room.

“God Almighty!” he gasped.

The room was completely empty. Father Francis followed a monastic routine, scrubbing the floor every morning. The bare planks were spotlessly clean. The white-washed walls were also naked and spotless.

“He’s gone, sure enough,” Bodkin muttered. “They took him away.”

It was some time before he could muster enough strength to go downstairs.

“God Almighty!” he kept saying.

On the counter in the tavern room he found the bottle of brandy from which they had given him to drink. He took it over to the table and sat down. He drank copiously, took a deep breath and then drank a good deal more. He got dead drunk almost immediately. He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his hands across the table and smiled broadly

“The whole power of the British Empire!” he said with extreme satisfaction. “Think of that now. The whole power of the British Empire!”

Now there were only stragglers passing the window. Their footsteps sounded hollow and unimportant. The rain had ceased. The sky was beginning to clear.

“Nobody dares touch me,” Bodkin said with a sigh of pleasure, as he leaned forward. “Not while I have the whole power of the British Empire behind me.”

He rested his right cheek on his crossed hands and closed his eyes.

“The whole power of the British Empire!” he whispered as he fell sound asleep.

Two stragglers passed the window in a great hurry. Then there was dead silence.

The people had assembled for the meeting in a large field north of Clash. They stood around a wooden platform, leaving a passage open at one point for the ceremonial arrival of their leaders. There was room for no more than half the crowd on the field itself. Late arrivals were forced to take up position on the mountain slopes that rose sharply on three sides.

Now there was brilliant sunshine. The rain-washed earth shone like a jewelled cloak that offers its stretched out beauty to the eye of God. A few tendrils of the spent clouds lingered, like torn veils, against the granite peaks of the mountains.

Each contingent was massed under the raised banner of its Committee. The green and gold banner of the Manister people was farthest up the slopes, since they were the very last to arrive.

“Bloody woe!” Annie Fitzpatrick said. “We’re stuck up among the furze like wild goats.”

“All the better, Annie,” Lettice said excitedly. “The view is wonderful from here.”

In spite of having walked all the way from Manister in the rain, she felt very happy. Michael had promised to join her at the meeting and take her home afterwards. It was to be her first time alone with him.

“Oh! Lord!” Annie Fitzpatrick said, looking down at the crowd in the field. “The whole of Ireland is here, or a good part of it. That’s a fine thing, too, because the Archbishop ordered them to keep away. They came in spite of him. God help him, he’s a doddering old man that they have to feed with a spoon like an infant. Even so, he had no right to denounce Parnell and Davitt.”

“The Archbishop is sold to the Devil,” an old man shouted.

“I’m afraid you’re right, old man,” Annie said. “The bishops and the rich parish priests are on the side of the landlords. They condemn the Fenians, saying it’s a mortal sin to take an oath on entering a secret society. Oho! Bad cess to them, they don’t condemn the oath that poor boys take when they join the English army. It’s only when our lads take an oath to fight for Ireland that it becomes a sin in the eyes of the Church.”