Chapter VII: The Result of the Poll

“Electors of Duranmore and West Connemara—for I am not going to call you, for a purpose, gentlemen, which you are not, nor friends, because I see a good many faces below there which belong to my enemies—but Electors of Duranmore and West Connemara. I want you to listen to what I have got to tell you about the way elections have been previously managed in this part of the country, and of how we intend that they shall be managed in future——”

Cheers from the Reds, hisses from the Blues.

“For shame, Maxwell Drewitt!” cried one.

“Siding against your uncle.”

“Is it to the likes of you we’re going to listen, do you think?”

“Go home, boy! out o’ that”

“Home is it?” shouted another; “has he not been turned out of the only one he ever knew?” And at the words Archibald Drewitt turned sick.

“Isn’t it himself ought to be at the ould place now instead of them that owns it?”

“No, it is not,” answered Maxwell Drewitt, whose face was scarlet, but not with pain. “It is not; Archibald Drewitt came into Kincorth fairly. Long may he keep it!”

“Ye wish it, don’t ye Max?” cried some one among the crowd. And then there came shrieks of laughter and cheers and hisses.

“Make it up with him, man; it’s not too late yet.”

“Why didn’t ye quarrel till he married?”

“Why could ye not have let somebody else put in the spake for Pryor?”

“Because I wanted to tell you what nobody else will tell you: because my family affairs have nothing to do with anybody in Duranmore: because I see no reason why I should wear my uncle’s political opinions, if they do not chance to fit me, any more than his clothes. Conservatism is stationary. Liberalism is progressive. Toryism may suit those who have had their way made for them, but those who have to make their way for themselves see that the Whigs have the best of the argument.

“I am now in the same boat with the poorest man amongst you. He wants to rise, so do I; he wants to make money, so do I; he does not want to be ground under the carriage wheels of the upper ten thousand, neither do I. We are all of one mind in this matter; we want butter to our bread, and ham and eggs to our breakfast, and clothes to our backs, and good roofs over our heads, and something to lay by against old age. Here is a man to get what we desire for us. Three cheers for Geoffry Pryor.”

And the people cheered, and the people shouted, while Maxwell Drewitt took breath; and some cried out that it was all true, and others told him to go home—that he was a humbug, and that they would have nothing to do with him.

“Am I a humbug?” he yelled, almost cracking his voice in his efforts to make himself heard. “Am I a humbug? If I am, then humbugging must be a devilishly unprofitable trade. And as long as you have chosen to introduce this subject, I may say that I have given you as good proofs as any man can, that, let my principles seem bad or the reverse in your eyes, I at least have adopted them in sincerity of heart—with integrity of purpose. All of you know that I had not much to give up, but still I have given up the little I had, and stand before you a man who, having relinquished everything for what he conscientiously believes to be the good of his country, has a right to claim from you, at any rate, a calm and impartial hearing.”

“Go on, Max; we’re listening.”

“We’re as quiet as mice in a meal bag.”

“Go on, man. Go on, go on, go on.”

“I know I am not so popular as my uncle,” began Maxwell.

Cries of “Yes, yes, you are.” “No you are not.” “Finish your speech, the schoolmaster could not have laid it off better. Who wrote it for ye, Max?” “Go on, and don’t keep us here all day. Go on, go on.” And the crowd shouted and yelled and laughed, and Maxwell cursed the crowd in his heart while he proceeded.

“I am going on, if you will let me. I was saying that I know I am not so popular as my uncle.”

“We mind that. Ye said it afore.”

“He is a man who deserves all the love and respect you can give him, and I am sorry we should stand this day on opposite sides.”

“Why don’t ye go over till him then? He’s near enough to ye.”

“Why don’t I go over to him? That brings me to the point I was wanting to reach. Let me ask you a few questions, and give you honest answers to them, and then you will see if you can still blame me for deserting the ‘Dirty Blues.’

“Do you want to have a man of family representing you in Parliament? Yes. Then surely Mr. Sache cannot be your member!

“Do you want a gentleman? Mr. Sache can lay no claim to such a distinction!

“Do you want a person clever and fluent, able to lay your grievances before Parliament, and insist on their being redressed? Alas! my fellow-electors, Mr. Sache is no orator!

“Do you want a man of mind, capable of grasping facts, of comprehending the necessities and wishes of his fellows? Mr. Sache is not possessed of a second idea; his only one, and that a very small one indeed, being himself!

“Do you desire to do credit to yourselves by sending a good man, an independent man, a man of talent and character, into the British Senate? If you do, you must never return Mr. Sache!

“Do you want a man—handsome, energetic, fearless? Look at your would-be member, voters of Duranmore—electors of West Connemara—look at your landlords’ nominee! Look at the poor, frightened, incapable creature your tyrants want to compel you to select, and say if I, Maxwell Drewitt, were not right to choose a more energetic leader—one able and willing to battle out your cause against the United Kingdom, and to state your grievances to the world. Look at him, I say, and cheer that poltroon if you dare!”

It was probably the very audacity of this address which had kept his audience silent, for whenever Maxwell Drewitt, with hand stretched out towards Mr. Sache, with finger pointed at him, paused for a moment in his speech, there burst out upon the air such a tumult of laughing, cursing, joking, yelling, cheering, hissing, shouting, that the unfortunate object of the younger Drewitt’s tirade looked wholly stupefied and bewildered.

Lady Emmeline was so delighted that she clapped her little hands together with might and main; she waved her eternal scarf over the heads of the multitude, and flung a bouquet towards Maxwell, which, falling short of the hustings, was caught by a man, who took off his battered and brimless hat, and said, “Thank ye kindly, my lady.”

If anything had been wanting to make Colonel Vervensoe boil over, this would have settled the matter. Absolutely quivering with rage, he shook his fist in young Drewitt’s face, and threatened him with condign punishment on the spot.

“Only lay a finger on me,” said Maxwell, “and I pitch you head foremost into the crowd, who will soon make mincemeat of you. Stand back, sir, stand back!”

“If you say another word, Maxwell, you shall never darken my doors again,” foamed Mr. Drewitt.

“Time enough for you to shut your doors when I show my face at them,” retorted Maxwell. “Be quiet,” he shouted, addressing the electors, “for I have still to tell you how your members have been returned hitherto. By bribery and corruption—by threats and intimidation—by turning the screw on poor men, who had, for the sake of their families, to put pride and self-respect and independence, ay, and common honesty in their pockets. You have been treated like slaves instead of like Irishmen. Why was O’Shane not successful? Because honest men were put out of the way, while rogues voted in their names; because refractory electors were kidnapped and carried off to Arran and Achill, and in one or two cases even to America; because men were made drunk and stripped naked, and left without a stitch to their backs, till the polling was over; because dead men were brought to life again; because tenants were threatened with expulsion; because Government posts were promised to the sons of the shopkeepers and small gentry; because the landlords formed a league against the men who enable them to live; because there was not an atom of honour or honesty amongst the friends and supporters of your taskmasters’ nominee.”

“Maxwell, I command you to be silent!” exclaimed Mr. Drewitt.

“My uncle commands me to be silent,” persisted the young man, “but my conscience commands me to speak. As a boy I saw these things done, and held my peace; as a man I remember what I saw, and choose my side accordingly.

“How does the Earl of Popingham expect to win this election? By intimidation, by dead cats, such as this” (and he dexterously caught one by the tail, and pitched it back in the face of the man who had thrown it at him), “by the strong arm, by the might of rank, and power of money, and the majesty and omnipotence of landlordism. The things which have been done by the Conservatives are almost past my telling. Popingham’s pets are among you now with orders to keep the reds back from the polling booths; they are wearing red rosettes; but you will be able to pick them out for all that when the time comes. As I rode into town this morning a lad told me Marsden had offered him half-a-crown to pelt the reds, but that he was willing to pelt Marsden himself for eighteenpence. Will you have this, fellow-countrymen? It only requires a vigorous effort on your part to free yourselves from the yoke. A long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether, and we will stand a respectable and independent body of electors, with a better man than any lordling’s nominee representing us in Parliament.” And amidst a Babel of cheering, groaning, clapping, and hissing, Maxwell concluded his speech.

“Now, Sache,” whispered Lord Marsden.

“I have not a word to say. I—I couldn’t do it.”

“But you shall do it,” said Mr. Munks. And he and Mr. Drewitt shoved him up to the front of the hustings.

What he said, however, or whether he ever said anything, nobody had the slightest idea. His speech appeared in the county paper, but it was generally supposed that the reporter wrote it himself.

He had the worst of the day’s storm. Imprecations were shouted out against him. He was pelted, insulted, reviled. “How much does the Earl give you?” asked one wag.

“Doesn’t the divil take care of his own, Sache?”

“Why don’t you speak up like a man?”

“Couldn’t they have got anybody betther than you?”

“Abbott wouldn’t do their dirty work any longer.”

“And it’s betther to sup with a cutty than want a spoon.”

“Spake up, man, spake up.”

“They’ll niver pay ye for the job if ye don’t work for yer money.”

“Go out o’ that.”

“Betther be a coward than a corp, Sache.”

“Ye dirty blackguard.”

“Who ate up Dan Joyce’s crock o’ butther?”

“Who counts the very chickens as they’re chipping the shell?”

“Let him alone, can’t ye? What’s the use of pouring water on a drownded rat?”

“Don’t look so scared, Sache; niver howl till ye’re hurt.”

“We won’t hear ye; we’ll bate ye black and blue. Go out o’ that or there won’t be an egg left in Duranmore.”

“How do ye like it?”

“Do like the women: say no and take it” And at every sentence there arose a howl, and then came a shower of dirt and filth of all description.

“I never heard anything to equal this,” said Mr. Pryor to his cousin.

“You’ll have to run the gauntlet in a minute or two,” answered Mr. Waller.

“It’s good for the tailors, that’s one comfort,” observed Maxwell Drewitt.

“We want Pryor: go back and send out Pryor. Take him away, Munks, he’s no credit till ye. I wondher ye’d be seen out with him. We’re run short o’ eggs, and we’ll have to fall to the pavin’ stones next. Take him out o’ that. Pryor, Pryor; three cheers for Pryor, and three more for Butler, and a good one for Waller, and keep your best and longest for Lady Emmeline.”

“Are you going to give me a hearing, my friends?” asked Geoffry Pryor, coming forward as Mr. Sache, who by this time presented a pitiable spectacle, drew back.

“No we’re not. Yes we are. Ye’ll be served worse than he was. Why did ye put on your best coat? ye might as well take it off and give it to me. It ’ud look mighty purty turned up wid yellow. See that now!”

“An there’s a flower for your buttonhole.”

“Have ye nearly done?” he demanded.

“No, we havn’t begun. Why don’t ye go on? Ye’re as bad as Sache.”

“Had you not better hear me first, and then speak yourselves afterwards?”

“No, we hadn’t.”

“Shall I not speak at all?”

“If it’s any pleasure till ye, ye may.” And then the people laughed and cheered and shouted, and Geoffry Pryor went on to tell them how they were an oppressed and injured race; how justice had never been done to them; how the English knew nothing of the way in which the Irish lived; how everything was wrong in the management of the country; how he pledged himself to advocate the poor man’s right; how he would miss no opportunity of letting the English know of their manifold grievances.

“Every labourer is worthy of his hire,” proceeded Mr. Pryor, “and the man who tills the ground should eat of its produce: you ought to have your land at such a rent that you can live off it, and not starve on it. Politically I am a thorough reformer; in religion I am for letting every man go to heaven his own road; and, in conclusion, I can only say, if you return me I shall try to serve you faithfully; if you do not return me I shall try to be content. I would entreat each man among you to vote according to his conscience: not for Sache or Pryor, not for red or blue, but for the right and the principle that is in him. And whatever the result of the contest may be, Mr. Sache,” he added, turning towards his opponent, “I hope we shall be enemies only in public, never in private life; and I should like, though I suppose such a proceeding is not usual on the hustings, to shake hands with you in token that ours is an amiable warfare.”

And Mr. Pryor stretched out his hand to Mr. Sache, who had been, he felt, roughly dealt with. Perfectly stupified, however, with brandy and terror; bespattered from head to foot, with his cheek cut, and one eye closed up, Lord Popingham’s nominee made no movement to take his opponent’s offered hand till he was pushed forward by Mr. Drewitt, who, having lost patience with everybody, was in no very gentle or forbearing mood.

“The show of hands is in favour of the Reds,” he said to Mr. Munks. “We must demand a poll.”

And a poll was demanded accordingly; but the result was the same as the sheriff had declared the show of hands to be, viz., in favour of Geoffry Pryor.

In the days of which I am writing there was no earthly reason why an election should not have lasted for ever. Government had not then put any limit to the period over which the innocent amusement of breaking heads should extend. On the contrary: as there was but one town in each county or portion of a county returning a separate member where votes could be legally polled, government seemed rather to have erred on the side of humouring the popular taste a little too far, than of considering it too little. Those were the palmy days of electioneering; those were the days of delightful uncertainty—of charming fluctuation. You were getting on to-day—you were far behind to-morrow; from hand to hand the political ball went tossing; now the Tories had it—now the Whigs. Now it was all up with the Reds—now the Blues had not a chance. As for trade! nobody even tried to transact any business while the election lasted, unless, indeed, the owners of public-houses and the landlords of hotels.

They took the business of the town and did it. If you had not a pair of shoes in the world, do you think any cobbler in the parish had leisure to attend to your wants? Was the rain pouring in through your roof, or your house falling down; were the spokes in the wheels of your gig rattling like castanets, or every pane of glass in your windows smashed? If you were not a glazier, wheelwright, bricklayer, or slater yourself, why, windows, and wheels, and houses, and roofs must remain as they were till the members were returned—till the free and independent were sober and hungry once again.

It was carnival time—a time not of sweetmeats and bouquets, but of whiskey and fighting, of rotten eggs and blackthorn shillelaghs; a time when family feuds were established that would last rival houses for life, and be handed down as heirlooms to their posterity; when even sober men—sober and discreet—lost their heads and got drunk with political excitement; when wrongs were done that never could be righted subsequently; when words were spoken that never could be forgotten; when insults were uttered that could never be forgiven.

If the elections of those days were relics of the “good old times,” we may fervently thank our stars that such times have passed away for ever.

Canvassing had seemed to Mrs. Drewitt a sufficiently weary season; but what was canvassing to making sure of the promised votes, to keeping the electors up to the mark?

Mr. Drewitt worked himself into a state of frenzy, and he and Colonel Vervensoe and Mr. Munks and Lord Marsden and the Earl of Popingham, and a host of other influential Blues, went about the country like so many madmen, hunting up voters and bringing them to the polling-booth _nolens volens_.

If anything had been wanting to egg the Blues on to greater exertions, Maxwell Drewitt’s speech would have proved a whip powerful enough to lash them to fury.

If Mr. Sache were not returned, every tenant should be ejected—every man who had a vote sent adrift; the cottages should be unroofed; the land might remain untilled; children might starve; women might die! From time immemorial have not the innocent suffered with the guilty? has not the house of Ahab always suffered for the sin of Ahab, from the time of Elijah until now.

Most of the landlords were kindly men—not proud, not uncourteous, not unfeeling; but they were like the rest of us, weak on one point, and that point was politics. There is a savage in most which only requires waking to be dangerous. Spite of all our civilization we are forced at times to admit we must have come originally of a rude stock, that we are closer to Jael, that we are nearer to Jehu than we would willingly confess.

The most delicate taste cannot distinguish between port and sherry in the dark; and in the same manner there is a mental darkness in which the tenderest conscience fails to discern the difference between right and wrong.

That was the state to which politics reduced men in the days of which I am writing; that is the state to which politics would reduce men now but for the extra vigilance of civilization, but for the coolness and calmness of the fourth estate, which will have none of it, which insists on pouring light in on darkness, of calling a spade a spade, let the implement so named be used by peer or peasant.

With the landlords I have mentioned the case was different—the savage was roused in them: blinded by passion, they stood, with the noon-day sun shining on them, in darkness.

It had become a question of might _versus_ right—of lord against serf—of Protestant against Catholic—of “You shall” against “I shall not;” and such a question can never be solved except by the result of the battle of man against man.

I am not advocating one side or another. God knows,—God who knows all things—that though the profession of each was different, there was not, long ago, a turn of the scale in favour of either Whig or Tory. Drewitt of Kincorth would have served his own father with notice to quit had his father voted against Sache. Waller of Eversbeg would have ejected every man on his estate had every man not chanced to want to return Pryor. There was no choice between them. It was war to the knife on both sides: and when war of any kind is being waged, men are not apt to be too particular.

Day by day the fight got fiercer, the combatants angrier. In the race each side strained every nerve for victory: all stratagems were allowed—all tricks were resorted to. It was a Derby where every man was trying to bribe his neighbour’s jockey; where he was slyly trying to loosen his girths, to unbuckle his bridle, to lame the favourite. It was a boat-race where people strove not only to row their best, but endeavoured to prevent others rowing at all. If you can fancy a three-mile heat, with the riders standing in their stirrups and lashing one another back; if you can imagine a rowing-match where, when hard run, the crew rose up and battered their opponents with their oars; if you can picture a battle without any order or regularity; if you can crowd into your mental canvas everything hopelessly unfair, dishonest, brutal, mean, you may perhaps form some idea of Duranmore during the time which elapsed between the nomination and the return.

There was many a purse filled—there was many a spirit broken. Many a man thought of the children at home, and the tract of wretched land that he had done his miserable best to till; thought of how the children would cry for want of their potatoes; thought of the empty pot, of the lonely hill side, of the deserted cabin; and voted against his conscience. His opinions might not be right—more than probable they were all wrong—but they were not more wrong than those held by many of his betters; and his betters were able to vote as they liked, while he had to vote for the man he detested.

“If the masther ’ud just let me be, ma’am,” said one poor fellow to Mrs. Drewitt, “it’s meself ’ud niver go to the poll at all at all. I’d vote for Mr. Pryor if I could; but as it’s not plazing to Mr. Drewitt, I’d rayther not vote for aither.”

He had been artful, this uneducated Irishman: he had thought to get at the soft side of Mr. Drewitt through his wife; and Mrs. Drewitt herself imagined that so reasonable a request might be granted.

“He will never force Byrne to vote against his conscience,” argued Mrs. Drewitt.

Wouldn’t he though? Mr. Drewitt soon showed his wife the reverse of the picture; and the reverse was not pretty.

Byrne should vote or give up his lot.

“Then,” said Byrne, “I will give up my lot; but if I do I’ll vote for Pryor.”

And he did.

After that Mr. Drewitt desired his wife not to allow any of his tenants to speak to her on the subject of the election. He knew she did not go with him in his ideas; that in fact she was getting perfectly bewildered with the strife of contending opinions; for which reasons he bade her send all reluctant voters to him.

“I understand them, and you do not,” he said. “I know how to manage them; and they think they can manage you.” And thus, happily for herself, Mrs. Drewitt was withdrawn from the political arena, and only permitted to look on at the fray.

What a fray it was!

“I have not been in bed for a week,” said Maxwell Drewitt to Mr. Waller, on the morning which was to decide the result.

“Nor have I,” answered the owner of Eversbeg; “but to-day will, I hope, repay us for all.”

That was what the Blues were saying as well. They were sanguine of success also; so sanguine, that Mrs. Munks, and Lady Marsden, and a number of other ladies—Mrs. Drewitt amongst them, by her husband’s special desire—took possession of the Assembly Room, to hear the earliest tidings concerning the winner.

Not to be behind on such an occasion, Lady Emmeline and her staff occupied the opposition benches. She and Colonel Vervensoe had not spoken to one another for a month previously, and it was currently reported that if Mr. Pryor got in he would never speak to her again. If, on the other hand, Mr. Sache were returned, people believed that she would never speak to her husband.

There can be no doubt that the attitude assumed by this lady added greatly to the excitement of the election. In the Hickman family brother was against brother; among the Drewitts uncle and nephew were bitter opponents; but all this was nothing to husband and wife openly supporting different sides.

It was the flavouring to the soup; the sauce to the fish; the lemon to the punch. Without that element the election would have been, to a great extent, like other elections: as it was, in the memory of the oldest inhabitant there had never been such fun in Duranmore.

On the last day of the poll the town presented a perfectly indescribable scene of riot, misery, and contention.

Everything which had made the nomination rather a grand affair, tended to make the final combat wretched and squalid.

The wreaths were faded, the evergreens had turned brown, the arches were partly broken down, the flowers were dead, the banners were torn, the rosettes were crumpled and soiled, the instruments of the respective bands having been used as weapons of offence and defence had come to grief, the leading men on both sides looked worn-out and jaded, the voters had hardly a whole coat among them; they were tired of fighting, they were weary of being dragged hither and thither, they had passed through every known stage of drunkenness, and many of them were by this time in a state of sickly sobriety.

Altogether the ball had lasted too long: the soldiers, the police, the musicians, the voters, the candidates—all were alike exhausted. No one seemed so bright as on the first day, excepting the ladies; and even some of them looked a little drooping.

Not so Lady Emmeline, however: whether she slept well or rouged well it is not for me to say, but the colour in her face was brilliant as the dye of her scarf.

“If we do not win I shall die,” were her parting words to Maxwell Drewitt.

“We shall win,” was his last answer. Every half-hour he despatched a messenger to tell her the state of the poll: every half-hour Geoffry Pryor’s chances seemed to brighten, while the anxiety of the Sacheites increased.

As the day wore on and the excitement became more intense, rioting began, and the fighting and pushing which had hitherto been confined to the neighbourhood of the polling-booth, spread through the crowd, till the row became general.

There could be no mistake about the matter now. The affair was growing serious, the people were getting earnest and dangerous. The Reds were cudgelling the Blues, and the Blues were paying back the Reds with interest. The authorities were beginning to be alarmed. There was a yell for the military, and every soldier settled himself more firmly in his saddle, and gathered up his reins, while he waited for the order to charge. Every spectator was holding his or her breath, waiting for “what next?” when suddenly a piercing scream rang out over the heads of the crowd, and a cry of “Save him!” issued from the windows of the Assembly Room.

For a moment the play of shillelaghs ceased in the centre of the market-place square, and Geoffry Pryor, in the very heart of that surging, seething mass of human beings, could just distinguish two men struggling over a voter.

The fellow’s coat was torn off his back, and Maxwell Drewitt, with his head bare, with clenched teeth, and with his face flushed and furious, was dragging him by one arm, while Mr. Drewitt was tugging him away by the other. The elder and more powerful man seemed to be getting the best of it, when, quick as thought, a stick whizzed through the air and came down on Mr. Drewitt’s skull. He dropped on the instant, and as he dropped there was a rush of the rabble to one side, and right over his body rode a company of hussars.

Then the light left Geoffry Pryor’s eyes; a deathlike sickness came over him, and he fainted away.

The whole scene, which it has taken me so long to describe, was acted out almost in a second; and next moment eager hands were raising the owner of Kincorth from the ground.

“My God, he’s dead!”

“Och, docther, dear, say that the life’s not out of him!”

“Bleed him, docther darlint.”

“For the sake of the blessed Vargin, lift him aisy.”

“Oh, swate father! what is this at all at all?”

“Keep the craythur back. Shure it’s the young wife he married only the other day.”

But Agnes Drewitt would not be kept back. Unmindful of the crowd, heedless of danger or difficulty, she made her way towards the knot collected round her husband.

“Doctor,” she said, “you must bring him back to me. He is not dead: tell me he is not dead.”

“Carry him to my house. I can do nothing here,” was all the answer he made; but he pulled Mrs. Drewitt forcibly from her husband’s side, and keeping her hand in his, followed close behind.

The doctor’s house was not fifty yards distant, but to Agnes Drewitt it seemed fifty miles.

The mob closed up again as they passed through, and, as in some terrible dream, she heard loud shouts and continuous yells and oaths and threats and curses.

Very vaguely it seemed to her as though she had crossed into a frightful eternity in which the tumult of earth was still distinctly audible.

Behind her lay the great battle-field of the contested election, where her husband had fought for what he thought the right so gallantly and so long. To her it was all gone and past: gone with its excitement, its sorrow, its shock, its trouble.

She felt stupified, she felt stunned. As she crossed the threshold of the doctor’s house, she scarcely heard a prolonged howl of anger and disappointment that rent the summer air.

“What’s that?” cried Lady Emmeline, starting up; but next moment she sat back in her seat, clenching her hands together and beating her little foot in impotent rage against the floor.

“It’s lost! it’s all over!” she shrieked out. And she was right. At the eleventh hour every one of the tenants she had promised Mr. Pryor were marched up to the polling-booth by her husband, where they recorded their votes for Mr. Sache.

They turned the fate of the day.

“That settles it!” muttered Ryan, with a fearful oath; and he was right, for Geoffry Pryor was beaten, and the Earl of Popingham’s nominee had won!