A DAY WITH THE VANDALEUR EVICTORS. SERIES OF PAINFUL SCENES.

Te Aroha News, Volume VI, Issue 302, 26 September 1888, Page 4

A DAY WITH THE VANDALEUR EVICTORS. SERIES OF PAINFUL SCENES.

The following is the account of the. Vandaleur evictions which aroused such rindignation and sympathy : — Six families were visited to day, and five evicted— a fair day's work. Accurately, there were only fforu r evicted, but this will be explained a. little) further on, and I should not be surprised 4f | the exception led to a cross-questioning of Mr Balfour by some members of the House. The force, consisting as usual of infantry, cavalry, and battering-ram team, began early, for the march was a long one — about four miles — but once at • the end of these four miles ttfere was very little further marching, except the march back, for the houses to be evicted were all within a circle of three or four hundred yards radius. The first house the force stopped at was Pat) Carrig's, Tullycrine, on the rood to Ennis. Pat Carrig's house was not barricaded. Was the combination breaking down, or what? "Not at all," says a countryman standing at the house corner ; ! "it's the old man that is sick, and they'll have to carry him out." " Where's the doctor?" Colonel Turner calls out ; and then in a low voice, "If he'sjas ill as they cay, we must leave the poor people alone." But to ascertain the real state of affairs the doctor must be allowed to enter. So a parley began — Pat Carrig, the old man's son, standing on the inside of the closed door, and Colonel Turner, with the regimental doctor and some others, at the outside. "We only want to see the Hick man.said Colonel Turner." "Will you J admit the doctor, and one or two more ?" "Faith, and I will," replies Pat, "but you must not bring any more in wid you." " All right." It was a truce to be honourably observed. Then there's a noise of Pat tugging, panting, and scrambling behind the door, removing the obstructions. He opens it half-way. "Now," he says, "come in. Nobody will interfere with ye. Is that the Sheriff? Walk in. Don't be afraid. Nobody will meddle with ye." There was a delicious touch of humour in this encouraging invitation to the Sheriff, of all people in the world, the very man whom he might not unnaturally wish in a warmer locality than Tullycrine. In a minute or two the landlord's agent approaches the door. "Come in," says Pat ; "come in, Mr Studdert, sure nota soul will interfere with ye." " Leare them alone," exclaimed Colonel Turner, emerging from the house ; " the poor old fellow is too ill to be removed." So Pab and his wife and family and the poor old man have been let off for this time. " Bosh," said a stalwart individual in the crowd ; " they have lugged in the old fellow from some neighbour's house. Th« whole thing is a sham. This kind of thing is often done." This was the opinion, not only of that particular gentleman, but of a considerable number of the Royal Irish Constabulary ; but to quote their own monosyllable, their opinion was "bosh." The poor "old fellow" had been lyine on that very bed upwards of four years. His age was about eighty-eight. I visited him in his hole, for it scarcely deserves a better name — a little hole partitioned off from the main room. He was less a living creature than a corpse in which the spirit still lingered. The expression of relief and gratitude on Pat's face when he saw that he was to have some respite, and that his dying father was not to be turned out upon the roadside, was something to behold. The next house was Thomas Considine's. He owes nearly four years' rent. His annual rent is £9. He never applied to the Land Court, not thinking it worth while. His barricade was of the flimsiest description — a heap of bush stuck in the doorway, through which " Judge Norbery " sea-sawed with his iron head like a knife through butter. There were several squirts of hot water, and the sheriff and another rushed for their shields, but there was no further resistance. The Royal Irish Constabulary quietly entered and as quietly came out again with three men and two girls prisoners. The girls were afe once set at liberty. "You are the correspondent of the "Daily News?" a farmer asks me. "Yes." "Tom Considine wants to give you a paper." "What is it, Mr Considine?" "It's only to show you how my ' rint ' has been raised on me. Look at this. Twenty years ago I paid £4 15s, and enough it was at that, for I worked day and night to keep a roof o'er our heads ; and then, when the rise took place in 1874, they made it double, just nine pounds, and that ruined me. • I went on paying and paying until I could pay no more. God help us, I don't know what to do." I can only tay that I have a black list of cases far worse than Tom Considine's : and now let us move on. John Flannigan's house, the next, is without doors, and the windows are open, and the inmates unprepared to resist. John Flannigan is about to be evicted for a debt of nearly £100, but not even a saucerful of hot water has he for the thousandth re-baptism of the sheriff. "How is this, Miss Flannigan ?" I asked of the tall and comely young lady who *tood in the doorway surveying an R.I.C. from his boots to his curls, with a look of amused disdain. " How ?" she replies ; "wew^ere unprepared. Mr Hilliard (the tenant's lawyer) said that as our eviction notice had been put up in a wrong district we could not be evicted without proper intimation, so we put up no barricades.'' " But then, Miss Flannigan, you have put all your furniture outside." ''Yes; we pet about it as soon as we saw that little army coming. We had no time to do more. We put out the furniture to pre vent its being broken by the Emergency men." An intelligent young lady is Miss Flanagan. As a matter of fact, there has been an illegality in the posting up of a number of these evictions, and the question ie to be argued in Kilrush Court-house next Wednesday. "That little army," says Miss F., "many a victory has been won in India by British armies smaller than 'hat army that has come to turn us out of our own house," and with I thnt Mips Flanagan threw her head bark, ami Inughod at-what she considered to be tbo absurdity of the contrast. One or two of my military friends joined with good I>iimonr in the laughter. Now I don't U» nw where Miss Flanagan read all that. — whether in history book or in the paper. AH I know is that Miss Flanagan was t>ot far wrong, and that I felt real admiration for her ladyship. By this time all the womenkind of the family joined us in the doorway. "Long live the Plan of Campaign !" exclaimed one of them ; " and may the Lord preserve John Dillon and William OBrien! " I am more than half inclined to think that the women of Ireland are the best fellows in the country. What should have been the siege of FlanniVan's fort was all thip while resolving itself into a picnic. " W^eH, I'm blowed !" said a member of the family of Thomas Atkins, as he purveyed the prospect. Let me give a rough and hasty sketch of the scene. Round the house and gardens stood in a wide cordon the troops and the men of the Royal Irish Constabulary. Outside the line and scattered on

the green mounds and hillocks, of which there were many, were groups of country folk, many of them peasants on horseback, some in the saddle, others riding bare ■ backed and with their corduroy trousers dragged over their heavy boots halfway up the calves of their legs. On that ridge stands a double row of peasants on foot. They have their hands in their pockets, and they are as quiet and motionless as if they were in church. On that rising ground is a group of country women, also stock still, and with the hoods of their blue cloaks over their heads. Half a dozen red coats, with fixed bayonets, : intervene between these two groups and the reserved space. Similar bodies of spectators, similarly guarded, are scattered over the field, and here and there the horses of the dismounted Hussars are champing their bits. Right in front of the Flannigan's House is a hay field, one half of it uncut, and in the uncut half other redcoats are wading leisurely. Just look at this easy warrior ! Amidst the sweet grass, which is dappled with wild flowers, lies Thomas on his back at full length, his hands are clasped beneath his head, his rifle is stretched across his chesb, his right foot is balanced on his left knee, and he calmly smokes the pipe of peace. Here, there, everywhere are stretched the redcoats, some leaning on one elbow, others face downwards on both. A warrior of the Berkshires, whom I nod to as I pass him, is contemplatively chewing a straw. It is a picture of idyllic repose. Even the evicted family come leisurely sauntering down to the hayfield. A photographer who has been prowling about all day seizes the psychological moment with tho promptitude of genius. He leads the family captive. He tanes them up to a big haycock and beseeches them to stand for a moment with their backs thereto. He espies a priest. He rushes upon him and annexes him — a good choice of a priest as luck would have it, for the priest was none other than the Rev. Mr Gilligan, who for the crime of having made a speech in a boat on the river Shannon was lately run into Limerick Gaol and fed there for weeks on toke and skilly. The artist placed the priest in the middle. The rest of the group were Mrs Flannigan and Miss Flannigan (to whom I have already introduced the reader), and old Mr Flannigan and his three sons. "Steady!" says the artiet. Now, such is the amiable weakness of human nature that even his reverence, whose thoughts are usually occupied with higher things, felt and fumbled about for an attitude. He leant his elbow against the side of the haycock, and rested his cheek on his forefinger. "Steady !" says the artist ; "Now!" Oft' went the capsule. In an instant he clapped it oi\ again. ''Thank you," said he ; " finished !" Whereupon the priest, and Miss F., and the rest of them looked at each other awkwardly. They sighed, and then they separated carelessly among the spectators. Such was the eviction of the Flannigan family, but what followed was somewhat different. The evicting army calls at Mary 0 Dea's, a short distance off. Mrs ODea owes three years' rent and arrears. She awaits with open door the sheriffs arrival. She is sitting by the fireside, her grey cheek resting on the palm of her hand. Her daughter, a stout, dark-baired, rather bandsome giil, stands in front of the fireplace with her right hand on her hip. At her feet lies a big dog, with his nose on his paws and his eyes winking. The emergency men, entering, put the furniture outside the house, and then came the symbolic performance whichsomehow Ihadneverseen before. A sheriff's man comes in with a bucket of water. With that he extinguishes the fire and Mrs O'Dea's hearth is no longer her own. Inoticed that when the man threw the water on the fire Mrs O'Deaturned round slowly in her seat, and gazed mournfully upon the spot. A splash of water fell upon the dorr, who rose up— not started up, for as it turned out he was old and lame. " Now, then," says the constabulary officer, and the old woman slowly rises and walks away. The daughter follows, and behind her limps the dog. Then we march on. We stop at a namesake's of the last family. Mary O'Dea's door is closed. "Bring up the sledge hammer." A single blow thereof knocks the frail .door open. Out rushes a pale, scared-lookjtig woman with her child on her back secured by a skawl ; an older child clinging to her thin, tattertd dress, trembles with fright. He clutches her skirts, and tries to hide himself. "Be quiet, darlint, they won't hurt ye." But the poor woman is herself trembling with fright. "My rent is only thirty shillings. My name is Mary O'Dea. My husband is dead. I have been doing my best. What will I do? What will I do?" But all of a sudden the sheriff moves off with long quick strides. He seems very ill at ease. I wonder what is the matter with him. "Come away, men, sharp'" They have been " evicting " the wrong house ! "Don't you distress yourself," I said to Mrs O'Dea. " You are not evicted. You see the sheriff has made a mistake. Go back to your house, and try to quiet your children." She turned to go in, and then 1 left her, but the next moment some people came running up to tell us that Mary ODea had fainted on the roadside. Her neighbours carried her in. A scream of terror followed the blow of the sledge hammer on the door, and from first to last in this sorry business the poor woman and her children were in dire distress. So far as I know, not even an apology has been made to Mary O'Dea. It may have been made ; I hope it has been made ; but if I were a Parliamentary member I should put pome questions on the subject. And now comes the last exploit of the day. Another ODea has to be evicted. Johanna ODea the tenant's name is. Her lent is £16. Doors and windows are open. No resistance is to be made. I approach the door, a constabulary officer meets me, "Another dodge," he says. "They have broughtasick child into the house, and they have placed the bed near the fire." " Yes," observed another, " they are trying on their gammon." I walked leisurely into the house. The police were fast crowding into it. In a corner by the fire, and on a straw bed with white linen, lay the sick child, not facing the door, but rather with her back to it. Beside the sick child sat an aged woman, in a blue cloak and big white cap, with a black silk ribbon across it. She was swaying from side to side and gazing into the child's face as she sang in a low tone, as if to soothe the patient. Three or four other women stood with their backs to the hearth silently observing the Royal Irif-h Constabulary as they entered. 1 now caught my first glimpse of the child's face, and noticed the pure white marblelikf look of the very large brow. Within a yard or two of me stood Sheriff Croker, sceptically. I know what was in his mind. "Gammon," he thought. I was jotting down a few notes. On looking up 1 saw tho child's face slowly turning round . "What wonderful eyes, "I thought, all the darker by contrast with the pure white skin— such large, brilliant eyes ! But how strangely vacant! The child's mouth relaxes into a smile, but a smile of feuch utter meaninglessness ! The bruth flashed upon me. " Good God, the child is an idiot!" I was horror-struck. Of the men standing about me some* seemed appalled, and well they might. The sight of that child, with its blank, empty smile, has> burned itself, as it were, into my brain.

I would have given much nob to have seen it, had it nob been for the reflection that my account of it might, perhaps, be of some service in rousing the conscience of the English people to the barbarities that in this unhappy country are porpetrated in their name. " You must take the child out," says a brisk, hard voice. One of the women, bending over the cot, utters a wail of remonstrance. "Come along, get out." So the woman puts one arm round the child's neck, and the other round the helpless body, raises it gently up, while another woman wraps tho child in blankets. The child crios, such a piteous, inarticulate, inhuman cry. T can endure- it no longer, and I rush out of the place. The women walk out with their sad burden. The woman carrying tho child sits down at a corner of an outhouse, the child still wailing in her arms. "Can tho child speak ?" 1 asked, aftor a time. " When we ask her how she is she says, ' 1 am grand.' She very seldom says anything else." The child's name is Bridget. She is six years old. She used to go to school, but about eighteen months ago she became ill from, as the local doctors say, a spinal complaint which at last has reached the brain. She is so weak in health that she is unable to keep her head upright. That was why, when she was taken up in her aunt's arms, her head fell and shook from side to <ude just as if tho neck were disjointed. And poor little Bridget's parents, where are they ? They left the old home when Bridget was ten months old. They left for America, the promised land of the Irish race, that new world of which the aged folk know nothing, except that it lies somewhere in the far west beyond the blue sea which they look upon from the hills of Clare. They went away to make money for their old parents, but nothing has been heard of them for a long time. Bridgot, at any rate, is not conscious of her loss.