Liam O'Flaherty: Land

The tumult increased. Finally, there was a violent knocking at the hall door. Then a man cleared his throat and shouted arrogantly.

“Is there anybody at home?” the man said.

“Thank God!” said Elizabeth. “At least he is not dead. That’s Captain Butcher, Raoul. You had better deal with him.”

“I certainly shall,” said Raoul as he moved to the door.

“Father, you mustn’t let him come into the house,” Lettice cried nervously.

Raoul paused with his hand on the door knob and glanced at his daughter over his shoulder.

“For what reason, pray?” he said.

Lettice took a pace forward and put her fingers to a medallion that was suspended from her neck by a silver chain.

“Please, don’t allow him to enter,” she said in a lower tone.

“Stop being hysterical, Lettice,” Raoul said.

He passed out into the hall, closing the door after him violently. He was now very angry with everybody. He got still more angry on catching sight of Annie Fitzpatrick as he moved along the hall. The kitchen door stood ajar and she was peeping at him from around its corner. Her mouth was wide open and the finger-tips of her left hand were pressed down against the teeth of her lower jaw.

“Get back into your kitchen,” Raoul ordered her.

Then he threw open the hall door and stared into the face of Captain Butcher.

“What do you mean by making such an infernal noise?” he cried.

Captain Butcher took off his hat and said rudely:

“The compliments of Captain Butcher.”

“Compliments!” said Raoul. “Indeed! Most extraordinary way to present them. Well?”

Captain Butcher shifted his left foot a little to the rear of his right, as if he were going to bow. Instead of bowing, however, he threw out his chest and raised his chin in a hostile manner.

“Mr. St. George, I presume?” he cried arrogantly.

He was a man of fifty-five, powerfully built and well over six feet in height. His hands and feet were uncommonly large. His jaws protruded and their shape gave the impression that the centre of his face was abnormally hollow. Otherwise, he was well-proportioned and handsome in a brutal sort of way. He appeared to be still in his prime. His small grey eyes, deeply set in his skull like those of a boxer, looked straight ahead with a fixed stare. Hatless, he showed a broad forehead on which there were beads of perspiration. His forehead looked very white in contrast with the dark red colour of his cheeks. His crown was practically bald, except for long strands of hair that were combed across it. He was dressed in brown top boots, cord breeches and a heavy tweed jacket that came halfway down his thighs. The jacket was unbuttoned, showing a vest of chain mail beneath. His hat was also composed of metal, over which dark cloth had been stretched. He carried a revolver in a belt at his waist. He had another revolver in his right hand.

“I am St. George,” Raoul said. “May I know why you called?”

He was now smiling broadly, his sense of humour having been intrigued by Butcher’s odd costume.

“There has been an attempt on my life,” Butcher answered. “The culprit made his escape on to your property. In fact, he must be in your house.”

“What makes you think so?” said Raoul.

“My dog tracked him across the river on to your land,” Butcher said. “Then he …”

He was interrupted by the appearance of a small man with bowed legs and a weazened face, obviously a retired jockey. The little fellow came round the gable of the house from the direction of the kitchen. He was dragging the bloodhound after him on a heavy chain.

“Where the devil are you going, Fleming?” Butcher shouted at the little fellow.

“The kitchen door is locked,” Fleming said, trying to hold the dog and tip his hat to his employer at the same time. “They won’t answer us.”

A tall man carrying a fowling piece also appeared.

“It’s locked, sir,” the tall man said. “We can’t get a word out of them.”

“Damnation!” Butcher shouted. “Get back to the kitchen door, both of you. Stay there. Fire if he attempts to break, Hopkins. I’m entering by the front, now that the proprietor is here to open the door.”

“Very good, sir,” Hopkins replied.

He hurried round the gable at a brisk trot, followed by Fleming and the dog.

“Now, sir,” Butcher continued, turning once more to Raoul, “kindly allow me to search your premises.”

Raoul had ceased to be amused. He was annoyed by the appearance of the servants and the freedom they were taking with his property. He had noticed a third servant some way down the drive. This third man was sitting a chestnut horse, while he held a grey horse by the head. What annoyed Raoul most of all was the use of the word “premises” to describe his house.

“Tell your servants to get off my grounds at once, Captain Butcher,” he said quietly.

“Are you insane, sir?” Butcher cried in a loud voice.

“I find their presence and your insolence intolerable,” Raoul said with great deliberation. “I insist on their leaving at once, with the horses and that brute of a dog.”

“Have I made it clear that there has been an attempt on my life?” Butcher shouted.

“What of it?” said Raoul. “You look large enough and sufficiently well armed to deal with any attack on your life, which I feel to be of somewhat doubtful value, judging by your manners.”

“I warn you, sir …” Butcher began.

“Ah! I see,” Raoul interrupted. “You are now issuing threats, armed with a drawn pistol and accompanied by a dangerous animal. Really, my dear Captain …”

“I know when I am within my rights,” Butcher shouted. “I am a justice of the peace.”

“I happen to be a barrister-at-law,” Raoul retorted. “I venture to suggest that your knowledge of what the law allows is very rudimentary.”

“Do you refuse to let me search your premises?” cried Butcher.

“Get your servants off my grounds and put away that weapon,” Raoul said, “and stop behaving like a boor.”

Butcher stared at Raoul in silence for several moments. There was deep hatred in his little grey eyes. Then he bit his lower lip and called to his servants.

“Murphy, take the horses off these grounds,” he cried. “You, Fleming, take the dog away. You, too, Hopkins. Look sharp, all of you.”

The bloodhound made a great commotion when Fleming was taking him away from the house. A mass of froth trickled from his jaws to the ground while he howled and strained at the leash.

“Do you make a practice of calling on your neighbours with this savage animal, Captain Butcher?” Raoul said.

Butcher thrust his revolver into the pocket of his jacket and cried:

“Damn it, sir, do you see this?”

He drew the left side of his jacket across his metal vest. There was a small hole in the brown cloth, above the region of the heart.

“You see?” he continued in an injured tone. “I would have been shot through the heart, were it not for my vest. As it was, I was thrown from my horse and knocked unconscious for a few minutes. Otherwise I would have caught the ruffian. My servants waited to give me aid instead of pursuing him at once. Damn fools! They lost their heads. I had given them express orders, in case such a situation arose, to pursue the assassin, irrespective of my condition. Too many gentlemen show cowardice, in my opinion, by failing to order their body-servants to pursue the assassin, when a bullet finds its mark on their person. My idea is …”

“I’m not interested in your ideas particularly, Captain Butcher,” Raoul interrupted. “If you insist on searching my house, I implore you to hurry. It’s coming near my meal-time and my cook is easily upset. I’m afraid she is already somewhat upset by the howling of your dog and by all the noise you have made.”