Liam O'Flaherty - Land

He took in a deep breath after finishing his speech, which he had obviously learned by rote. Then he mounted the cart, whipped the horse and drove away at a brisk trot.

“That fellow is getting too big for his boots lately,” the sergeant said, giving one of the platform legs a vicious little kick. “I’m going to flatten his ears for him one of these days.”

He walked over to the barracks, which now resembled a small fortress. The windows were sandbagged and there was a thick wall, with firing points, all along the front. Two constables with carbines stood guard behind the wall. About two dozen other constables lounged in a group some distance farther up the square. Several more could be seen walking to and fro within the gate of Butcher’s demesne. All these men were part of a considerable force, that had been sent to Manister House during the past week, to protect Butcher from the Fenians.

Geraghty called one of the constables.

“Go on up to Manister House,” he said after the man had approached, “and notify Sub-Inspector Lodge that Mr. St. George is about to make a speech in the village square. Say that I think Mr. St. George intends to provoke the authorities for reasons of his own, judging by remarks that his servant made. Tell him to come at once, because there is going to be skin and hair flying here shortly, or my name isn’t Patrick Geraghty.”

After the man had gone, the sergeant kicked at a small stone and muttered:

“I’d like to break that Ahearn’s jaw, so I would. Trying to teach me the law, is he?”

Bartly McNamara walked across the square towards the Father Matthew Hall, with his hands clasped underneath the flapping tails of his black broadcloth coat. He held himself jauntily erect. He glanced from side to side in an arrogant manner. His lips were parted in a half-smile of boastful triumph. His watery eyes, that used to be so furtive, looked confident and steady behind his spectacles.

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.”