that is always the way. You have the right of it there, ma’am. This is but a handful of men now, but it will grow fast.”
“Do you hear that, Sam? There is no way out of this but to make them all more afraid of you than they are of the Whiteboys. And there will be no way to frighten them until you flatten cabins and send a few off to Castlebar in a cart.”
“Jesus but you are a hard woman, Kate.”
“Ireland is hard. I learned how to live in it by watching my father. There was a man to take lessons from. On one side of him was the Protestants and on the other side was the Whiteboys, and all he had in this world when he commenced his progress was a lease on a few hundred acres of bad land that he let to those who could get no better. And what had he to protect it but a whip with a load of lead in the handle.”
“This is no morning to hear about your father,” Cooper said. Shaggy, mountainous form, hairy ears and nostrils, the loaded whip around which legends had clustered.
“You remember my father, don’t you, Tim?”
“I do, ma’am,” Fogarty said reverently. “I do.”
Two of a kind, her father and Fogarty. Tucked somewhere in the thatch of Fogarty’s cabin was a leather sack of silver shillings and gold sovereigns, a bit added to it each year, his eye on some nice bit of land, perhaps part of Cooper’s own land. They hungered for land, as other men for women or whiskey. One of these years, Fogarty would be around, stroking the greasy band of his hat, ready to talk about a long-term lease, bag plump on the desk. Then he could start in business as a middleman. That is how old Mahony, Kate’s father, had started forty years before, when Papists were forbidden by law to own land by outright purchase. They complain about the heretic landlords, but it is their own that sweat them worst. The worst rack-renters are the Papist middlemen. Servants make bad masters.
“There is not even need for Castlebar,” Kate said. “Let the magistrates seize up a few of the likeliest rogues and throw them into Ballina gaol. And if they are too finicky about the selecting, they themselves will be the losers. It works wonders to toss a lad in gaol and hold a whip under his nose.”
“It isn’t forty years ago, Kate. There must be charges now.”
“Are you not yourself the law in Killala now? Is not the Tyrawley Yeomanry the law? Why else did you throw away our sore needed money on red uniforms?”
“That is a different matter altogether,” Cooper said, suddenly stiff. He seemed to rise taller in his chair. “The Tyrawley Yeomanry was founded to hold this barony for our lord the King.”
“Whatever that means,” Kate said acidly.
“Well you know what it means. It is our task to guard these shores against the French, and to protect this barony against rebels.”
Kate suddenly broke into laughter. “Listen to him, Tim. Listen to him.” She seized Fogarty by the arm, as though they were allied in judgement against her husband. “I declare to God that all men are children.”
All save her father.
“You great fool,” she said to Cooper. “What is a Whiteboy if he isn’t a rebel?”
“Not against the Crown,” Cooper said, making an effort at patience. “Have you no ears in your head? Have you not heard about the south of this island and the north of it? The peasants rose up in rebellion against the Crown. They destroyed Wexford. The English had to send over an army to put them down. Thanks be to God there are no United Irishmen in Mayo, there are no rebels. These are only Whiteboys.”
“Only Whiteboys,” Kate echoed contemptuously. “It is Whiteboys and not rebels of Wexford who can send you naked and starving on the roads. It is against you that the Whiteboys are in rebellion, and you have a hundred men who owe you the red coats on their backs.”
Cooper shook his head. “A Whiteboy war in the middle of a rebellion. My God, what a country!”
“Small difference,” Kate said. “Whiteboys
“Do you hear that, Sam? There is no way out of this but to make them all more afraid of you than they are of the Whiteboys. And there will be no way to frighten them until you flatten cabins and send a few off to Castlebar in a cart.”
“Jesus but you are a hard woman, Kate.”
“Ireland is hard. I learned how to live in it by watching my father. There was a man to take lessons from. On one side of him was the Protestants and on the other side was the Whiteboys, and all he had in this world when he commenced his progress was a lease on a few hundred acres of bad land that he let to those who could get no better. And what had he to protect it but a whip with a load of lead in the handle.”
“This is no morning to hear about your father,” Cooper said. Shaggy, mountainous form, hairy ears and nostrils, the loaded whip around which legends had clustered.
“You remember my father, don’t you, Tim?”
“I do, ma’am,” Fogarty said reverently. “I do.”
Two of a kind, her father and Fogarty. Tucked somewhere in the thatch of Fogarty’s cabin was a leather sack of silver shillings and gold sovereigns, a bit added to it each year, his eye on some nice bit of land, perhaps part of Cooper’s own land. They hungered for land, as other men for women or whiskey. One of these years, Fogarty would be around, stroking the greasy band of his hat, ready to talk about a long-term lease, bag plump on the desk. Then he could start in business as a middleman. That is how old Mahony, Kate’s father, had started forty years before, when Papists were forbidden by law to own land by outright purchase. They complain about the heretic landlords, but it is their own that sweat them worst. The worst rack-renters are the Papist middlemen. Servants make bad masters.
“There is not even need for Castlebar,” Kate said. “Let the magistrates seize up a few of the likeliest rogues and throw them into Ballina gaol. And if they are too finicky about the selecting, they themselves will be the losers. It works wonders to toss a lad in gaol and hold a whip under his nose.”
“It isn’t forty years ago, Kate. There must be charges now.”
“Are you not yourself the law in Killala now? Is not the Tyrawley Yeomanry the law? Why else did you throw away our sore needed money on red uniforms?”
“That is a different matter altogether,” Cooper said, suddenly stiff. He seemed to rise taller in his chair. “The Tyrawley Yeomanry was founded to hold this barony for our lord the King.”
“Whatever that means,” Kate said acidly.
“Well you know what it means. It is our task to guard these shores against the French, and to protect this barony against rebels.”
Kate suddenly broke into laughter. “Listen to him, Tim. Listen to him.” She seized Fogarty by the arm, as though they were allied in judgement against her husband. “I declare to God that all men are children.”
All save her father.
“You great fool,” she said to Cooper. “What is a Whiteboy if he isn’t a rebel?”
“Not against the Crown,” Cooper said, making an effort at patience. “Have you no ears in your head? Have you not heard about the south of this island and the north of it? The peasants rose up in rebellion against the Crown. They destroyed Wexford. The English had to send over an army to put them down. Thanks be to God there are no United Irishmen in Mayo, there are no rebels. These are only Whiteboys.”
“Only Whiteboys,” Kate echoed contemptuously. “It is Whiteboys and not rebels of Wexford who can send you naked and starving on the roads. It is against you that the Whiteboys are in rebellion, and you have a hundred men who owe you the red coats on their backs.”
Cooper shook his head. “A Whiteboy war in the middle of a rebellion. My God, what a country!”
“Small difference,” Kate said. “Whiteboys
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