Liam O'Flaherty: Land

“I told you it was a sheer waste of time,” he said angrily.

Gregg sighed and said to the prisoner, in the same gentle tone as before:

“All right, lad. You may get up now.”

As the escort helped the prisoner back into his chair, Gregg got to his feet slowly and turned towards Neville.

“Well?” Neville said.

Gregg stared at the landowner in silence for a little while. Then he nodded solemnly.

The black horse trotted quickly for nearly three miles to the north-west from Manister House, along a winding level road that lay abreast of the mountains. Then he slowed down to a laborious walk as he turned sharply to the east and began to climb a long steep hill. Here the surface of the road was deeply pocked and strewn with loose stones. The heavy red wheels of the cart now rocked from side to side continuously. The men standing within the tall green crib had to spread their legs wide and grip the sides with their hands in order to maintain their balance.

Cooney had his back to the other five, as he leaned against the front wall, with the reins in one hand and a long-handled whip in the other. The peak of his grey cap was drawn down over his injured eye, in order to shield it from the piercing wind. The other eye stared straight ahead with a look of bitter triumph. When the cart was near the top of the hill, he raised the whip above his head to the full length of his arm. He twirled it three times slowly and then cracked it over the horse’s back.

Neville stood immediately behind Cooney, with his revolver pointed at the schoolmaster’s back. When he saw the signal, he glanced sharply over his right shoulder at the four policemen that stood close together in the rear. They straightened themselves, shuffled their feet nervously and fingered their carbines. Their faces looked tense.

The call of a curlew was repeated three times, somewhere in front, as the cart reached the summit of the hill. Level ground stretched ahead for a distance of four hundred yards. The narrow road was completely covered with grass, except for two shallow parallel tracks made by the rare vehicles that passed. There was a ramshackle stone fence on either side, about three feet high and partly overgrown with briars. A bog lay to the right. There was a ruined cabin, to which a weed-grown path led from the road in a straight line, a short distance within the bog. To the left the ground was rocky and uneven. Most of it was covered with thick brush-wood. Tall stone mounds, some of them partly sculpted, stood at intervals among the bushes. They had been raised in memory of the dead that were carried along that road to the cemetery.

Cooney halted the cart when he came abreast of the first memorial mound, about fifty yards from the brow of the hill. He fastened the reins to the top of the crib and turned round.

“Let down the tail-board now,” he said to the policemen. “This is the place where Captain Butcher comes with me.”

The policemen glanced at Neville. He nodded. Then two of them unfastened the tail-board and stood it to one side within the crib. Cooney jumped down to the road. He was immediately followed by Neville.

“Now fasten the tail-board again,” Cooney said to the policemen.

Neville wheeled and discharged his revolver point blank into the schoolmaster’s side. Then he leaped towards the left and crashed over the top of the stone fence into a bed of tall, withered ferns. Cooney turned almost completely round after being hit. Then he bent forward, put both hands to his left side and fell with his right shoulder to the road. He kicked with his left foot three times. Then he rolled over slowly on to his back and lay still.

Three of the policemen jumped from the rear of the cart when Neville fired. They followed the landowner over the fence and into the bed of ferns. The fourth man got jostled by a comrade as he was about to jump. He fell to his buttocks on the tail of the cart, with his legs dangling. The horse bolted at that instant. The cart was jerked from beneath the constable. He fell to the road on his back. He got to his feet at once and plunged towards the fence. A volley of shots came from the brush-wood. One of the bullets struck him in the left shoulder. He dropped his carbine to the side of the road and fell forward across the fence. As his comrades pulled him down among the ferns by the head, another bullet pierced his right thigh.

“Let him lie there for a minute,” Neville growled at the other three men, as they went to aid their wounded comrade.

He made them take up firing positions in an arc, facing the Fenians, on the edge of the fern-bed.

“Keep up a steady fire,” he said. “I’m going to flank them. Charge when you hear me shout.”

He crawled away to the left on his belly as the three men began to answer the Fenian fire with their carbines. He got to his feet after going a short distance through the ferns. He ran forward stooping, at right angles to the road, under cover of a dip in the ground. He bore to the right after going twenty yards. Then he dropped to one knee in the brush as he sighted the Fenians. They were closing rapidly with the policemen, firing from behind the memorial mounds as they advanced. Michael was leading them.

“Ha!” Neville cried exultantly under his breath. “I have him at last. My hunch was right.”

The bright patches returned to the centre of his cheeks as he raised his revolver and took careful aim. He fired when his enemy was less than ten yards away. The bullet went through Michael’s brain. He fell like a stone.

“Charge!” Neville bellowed as he leaped to his feet and tore through the brush. “Charge! Charge! Charge!”

Three bullets struck him in the armoured waistcoat and one in the right arm without arresting his progress. Then a fifth bullet passed through his mouth and lodged in the back of his neck. He dropped. They came up to him and fired three times into his head.

Instead of charging, the policemen threw up their hands and began to scream:

“Don’t kill us, lads. Spare our lives, for the love of God. We’re Irish, too.”

Raoul awoke just as the chapel bell of a convent near his jail began to toll the Angelus. He remained lying on his back, as he had slept, until the last melodious note had faded into silence. Then he turned over on his side, rested his cheek against his palm and waited to hear the hansom cab that passed each morning on its way to meet the early train. He sighed with pleasure as the first faint beat of the horse’s hooves reached him from afar. Then he heard the delicate jingle of small harness bells break in upon the mounting rhythm of the trotting hooves. A little later, there was a dull rumble of wheels as the cab passed over a short wooden bridge. Almost immediately afterwards, the symphony began to diminish in volume. When the hoof beats were again barely audible in the distance, a factory whistle blew a long strident blast, calling its workers to their tasks. He shuddered. The harsh sound of the whistle reminded him of the letter he had received from Elizabeth during the previous evening.

The warder went down the corridor at half-past six, rapping on each cell door with a heavy key. When the man rapped again five minutes later on the return journey, Raoul swung his legs to the floor. He sat on the side of his cot, still brooding over the letter, until the cell door opened and an old man entered to light the gas. Then he got to his feet, dressed himself and made his bed. At seven he walked in the corridor with the other prisoners, while the basins were being emptied and oakum distributed for the day’s work. Then they locked him in his cell once more. At eight they gave him his breakfast of bread and milk.

After he had eaten, he took out Elizabeth’s letter and began again to read the passage that had disturbed him.