Liam O'Flaherty - Land

“You could annihilate these ruffians,” he cried, “cut them to pieces and throw the pieces to your dogs. You could sweep Captain Butcher and all other landlords to the devil. You could even cross the sea into England and chop off Queen Victoria’s head for her impudence in laying claim to sovereignty over you. You could …”

At that moment, Sub-Inspector Lodge raised his hand and called out in an angry tone:

“I command you to stop speaking at once.”

At the same time, one of the sergeants climbed on to the platform.

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” Raoul said.

“Come down from that platform,” the Sub-Inspector said.

“Come along quietly, sir,” the sergeant said, laying his hand on Raoul’s arm.

A confused murmur ran through the crowd as Raoul came down from the platform.

“I arrest you on a charge of making seditious utterances,” the Sub-Inspector said to Raoul at the foot of the platform. “I ask you to come with me quietly into custody.”

Raoul nodded and said pleasantly:

“Of course, Inspector.”

They surrounded him and marched him towards the barracks through the crowd.

“They have taken him,” the people whispered to one another.

At first it seemed that the whole throng had been won over to Raoul’s side. For a few moments, there was no opposition to the murmur of sympathy that rose from end to end of the multitude. Then there was a scream. It came from Hernon, the fisherman. Taken with a fit of mystical frenzy, he ran up to the police cordon, glared at Raoul savagely, beat his bosom with his clenched fists and continued to scream.

“Now where is your dignity?” he cried. “They have taken you, Antichrist, in spite of your power.”

He leaped high into the air and then brought both feet down flat together, like a man doing the dance of the sea-salmon. His eyeballs now protruded and he was foaming at the mouth.

“Oho!” he cried in maniacal glee. “Look at the humbug! King Raoul! The man that was going to teach us dignity! Look at him now and he taken away under guard like a common thief. Antichrist! Free yourself and show us your power. Show us your dignity, you that talk so much about it. Free yourself now, you that …”

He was interrupted by a violent blow from an ash-plant that crashed on to the top of his skull. He went down like an ox under the hammer.

“Up St. George!” cried the man that had delivered the blow. “The Fenians Abu!”

Hundreds of sticks were raised at once. Blows began to fall on all sides amid frenzied shouting. The main body of Constabulary then charged with levelled carbines into the struggling mass. The people fought one another and the Constabulary indiscriminately for a little while. Then they took to headlong flight, all together, as if by prearrangement. They ran back the way they had come, down the square and out on to the road that led east to the church. The police did not follow.

Bartly McNamara climbed on top of a stone wall some distance east of the square and addressed the fugitives.

“Stop running,” he shouted. “There’s nobody after you now. Halt and gather round me.”

Other men added their voices to that of Bartly. In a short while, the whole throng gathered round the little shopkeeper.

“In God’s name,” he said to them, “listen to me. We have been here and there, you and I, during the past few months. It’s little profit we have to show for our travels. Let us go back, then, to him we deserted and let us ask him to forgive us. Let us go to him on our knees and ask him to become our leader once again.”

The people shouted their assent with enthusiasm.

“All right, then,” Bartly said. “Follow me.”

In dead silence, the people marched up the hill behind McNamara. They made no attempt to form ranks or to march in step like soldiers. When the head of the disorderly throng reached the church gate, Father Cornelius came out of the sacristy, wearing his soutane and his biretta.

“Down on your knees and off with your hats,” Bartly said to the people.

The whole throng knelt reverently on the wet road, uncovered their heads and bowed low.

“Take command over us, Father,” they prayed. “Forgive us and take command.”

Father Cornelius climbed to the flat top of the gate-post. He took off his biretta, raised his right hand and made the sign of the Cross on the air above the kneeling people.

Fenton jumped to his feet, thinking he had heard footsteps come along the corridor. After listening intently for a little while, he made a grimace of annoyance. There was only the whistling of the wind, in the chimney and outside among the eaves. He put more coal on the fire. Then he walked around the room for the twentieth time, setting things in order. He pulled the window curtains a little tighter, shifted the sofa and drew the armchair somewhat closer to the fire. As he paused before the mirror to give his uniform a final touch, he became appalled by his appearance. The last few weeks, during which he definitely made up his mind to desert his post without warning, had taken a heavy toll.

“Good God!” he said. “I look positively ill.”

He lowered the lamp in order to conceal his features and the shabbiness of the room. That helped a great deal, in so far as the furniture was concerned. In the gloaming that now prevailed, even the torn elbow of the old armchair took on a romantic look.

He was on the point of sitting down again when he heard the approach of footsteps about which there could be no doubt. They were measured and heavy, like those of a military person. He hurried to the door angrily, thinking it was one of his subordinates come to disturb him at this most inopportune moment.

“What is it now?” he cried, throwing open the door.

To his amazement, a cavalry officer went striding past him into the room without speaking. He was about to ask the meaning of the stranger’s intrusion when he caught the faint scent of a perfume that he recognised. He closed the door and put his back to it.

“Barbara,” he said, “you gave me a frightful shock.”

She laughed and turned round slowly, holding herself stiff and erect. Her bearing was quite as soldierly as that of any man. With the collar of the greatcoat turned up to her chin and the hat pulled far down on her forehead, she really looked the part of a Dragoon captain.

“How did you recognise me?” she said.

“Your perfume,” he said in a tone of annoyance. “Surely this is not the time to attract attention by indulging in masquerade.”

“Don’t you think I’d attract more attention in my usual costume?” she said gaily. “The hotel people would certainly find it rather odd that a married lady should sneak upstairs to your chambers on a wild night like this.”

“Forgive me,” he said, after swallowing his breath with difficulty.

He locked the door and came towards her.

“What’s the matter, Jim?” she said.

“I’ve been waiting so long,” he muttered. “My nerves are on edge.”

She threw her hat on a chair and stretched out her hands towards him.

“Now it is I who am kept waiting,” she said.

“My darling!” he said as he took her in his arms.

This was the moment for which he had longed so ardently. Yet he was tormented by rancour and suspicion, even while the touch of her lips sent a wave of passion surging through his veins. He had expected to find her in a mood of tenderness and sombre exaltation, as on that glorious day in Lord Mongoole’s garden, when she had confessed her love. Instead of that, she was now behaving like a tomboy playing a wild prank. Furthermore, he found her body a little frightening to touch. It seemed to vibrate spasmodically, as if from tiny electric shocks.