Liam O'Flaherty: Land

The defile narrowed rapidly. Bleak granite rocks, that glistened in the moonlight, rose high on either side. The grass disappeared. There was only shingle under foot. The ground began to slope gently downwards. The smell of the sea came strongly from in front. Then the land’s end stood out distinctly in the gloom of night. Beyond it lay the void, filled only by the awe-inspiring thunder of the unseen waves.

The leading beasts lowed in terror and tried to turn when they saw the edge of the void close to them. They were gored by the horns of the succeeding ranks and carried sidelong down. They turned over and over as they fell, their death cries re-echoing through the cliff.

All the other beasts leaped gracefully to their doom, sailing through the void as in a dance, with heads erect and tails outstretched.

Neville sat at the end of the dining-room table, with his arms on the elbows of his chair and his fingers laced across his chest. His cloth-bound metal hat lay beside his revolver on the white table-cloth in front of him. He had on his waistcoat of chain mail beneath a brown tweed coat. He stared grimly at the floor between his feet.

A shrill cry of pain, coming from the direction of the library, made him sit erect and turn his head sharply to the left. He listened intently. His eyes narrowed. Deep vertical lines came into the centre of his forehead. He opened his mouth a little. The tip of his tongue came out slowly and rested against his upper lip. He remained in that posture for more than two minutes without movement, waiting in vain for a repetition of the cry. Then he sighed deeply, shuddered and bowed his head once more.

Sub-Inspector Lodge, the commander of the detachment protecting Manister House, sat at the other end of the table with District Inspector Gregg. Lodge was finishing his breakfast. Gregg sipped at a glass of whisky. It was he who had taken Fenton’s place at Clash.

“I couldn’t do a blasted thing,” Lodge said irritably, “beyond returning their fire. I have only a small detachment here, you know, barely sufficient to cover the house properly.”

He pushed aside his empty plate and began to pour fresh tea into his cup. He was a sallow-faced man of slight build and youthful appearance, with high cheek-bones and mobile brown eyes. He looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes. The skin on his face was strained almost to breaking point. He had some difficulty in directing the spout of the tea-pot towards the mouth of the cup.

“I rode over the estate after daylight,” he continued. “I must say that the Fenians were very thorough. A swarm of locusts could not possibly have been more devastating.”

Gregg nodded. He was a big man with twinkling blue eyes, a mottled face, long grey moustaches and a completely bald crown.

“Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,” he said, “but I had my own hands full. I just got to Clash on the seven o’clock train last evening. A few hours later, before I had time to unpack, the Fenians began to give me a hearty Irish welcome. They kept it up most of the night.”

“Throwing cattle over a cliff is a new one on me,” Lodge said.

“It used to be common in my young days,” Gregg said. “The idea is to have the animals carried out to sea and not found again for identification. In that way, the proprietor can whistle for his compensation. You know, of course, that the county only pays when a recognizable portion of the carcass is produced.”

There was another shriek. It was repeated again and again. There was such agony in the high-pitched voice that all three men were now compelled to raise their heads and listen.

“Who is the fellow?” Gregg said to Lodge, when the screaming came to an end.

“Cooney is his name,” Lodge said. “Used to be schoolmaster in this village, before he went off with the Fenians. We caught him sneaking towards the house a couple of hours ago. He offered to betray O’Dwyer into our hands. His story sounded very fishy to me, so I asked my fellows to take him into the library and …”

He was interrupted by Neville, who pushed back his chair with violence and jumped to his feet.

“I’ve come to a decision,” Neville said.

The other two men stared at the landowner in surprise. He had a bright red spot at the centre of each cheek.

“What decision, Captain Butcher?” Lodge said.

Neville picked up his metal hat with both hands and pulled it down tightly over his skull.

“I’ve decided to take him at his word,” he said.

He seized his revolver, broke it, glanced at the loaded chambers and snapped it shut again.

“Do you mean the prisoner?” Lodge said as he got to his feet.

Neville strode down to the other end of the table. His heavy field boots made a loud sound on the carpet.

“Gentlemen,” he said in a tone of great excitement, “I’ve just had a hunch.”

“What is your hunch, Captain Butcher?” Gregg said.

“I’m going to kill O’Dwyer this morning,” Neville said solemnly.

“Really?” said Gregg. “How do you propose to do it?”

“Let me have four of your men,” Neville said. “I’ll attend to the rest.”

“Impossible, Captain Butcher,” Lodge interposed. “Even if the fellow genuinely intended to collaborate with us, which I doubt, we couldn’t possibly let you tackle this on your own. You have neither eaten nor slept for several days. You are in no fit state …”

“Nonsense, Lodge,” Neville said as he slapped the younger officer on the back in a patronising fashion. “This is something you don’t understand. I grant you that I’ve felt damned low during the past few days. Who wouldn’t have felt low in my place? All that is dead and gone now. I have a long-standing account to settle with O’Dwyer and this is my opportunity for closing it. I have always regarded him as my personal enemy. I have no choice but to accept his challenge.”

He turned to Gregg and added:

“You look like my sort of man. Let me have four of your fellows.”

Gregg twirled the ends of his moustaches as he stared suspiciously at the excited landower.

“What do you mean by saying that you have no choice but to accept O’Dwyer’s challenge?” he said gently.

Neville started. His small eyes assumed an expression of great cunning. The back of his neck reddened.

“Did I say that?” he said. “If so, it was a figure of speech, you understand …”

Gregg continued to stare in silence for a few moments. Then he turned to Lodge.

“I’d like to hear the prisoner’s story,” he said. “Have him come here.”

Lodge marched to the door that led into the drawing-room.

“They may have persuaded him to tell the truth by now,” he said, throwing the door wide open.

The drawing-room was in great disorder. The furniture had been piled as a barricade against the windows, in which nearly all the glass was broken. A number of constables were now going to and fro wearily, hauling the various articles back to their proper places. The carpet was rolled up in a clumsy heap to one side. Lodge’s boots rang out sharply on the naked floor as he marched down the room towards the library.

“We of the Constabulary,” Gregg said calmly to Neville, “can’t allow ourselves the luxury of acting on impulse, in a situation of this sort. We have to proceed with extreme caution.”

Neville began to pace back and forth, with his hands behind his back. The bright patches on his cheeks had grown much larger.

“I tell you my hunches have never proved wrong,” he said. “I know this fellow Cooney. I’ve kept an eye on him since he came to the village. Knowing he was a Fenian, I felt certain that he’d come in handy one day as an informer. He is the type, you know, fond of drink, good company, petticoats and dancing. He’s good-looking and effeminate. That sort of fellow always has his price.”