‘Fifteen minutes? You don’t understand how much there is to do. We have a young child.’
Brittas looked at his pocket watch. ‘It’s seven now. I’ll give you till quarter past.’
‘Please, sir. We’ve nowhere to go, nowhere to take our possessions. Don’t you have an ounce of compassion?’ Knox turned around and saw Martha standing, arms folded, on the front step.
‘You have fifteen minutes,’ Brittas repeated.
Knox grabbed his wrist. ‘I’ve been a good friend to your father, haven’t I? I’ve visited him nearly every day, read the newspaper to him. Doesn’t that count for anything?’
Brittas pulled his hand free and looked around for his agent. He didn’t want to answer Knox’s question.
‘Please, sir, I beg you to reconsider…’
But one of the labourers shoved Knox to one side and said, ‘We have orders to tear the place down.’ By this time, Brittas had turned and was heading back to the carriage.
‘We have to clear out what we can,’ Knox said, moving around the room grabbing pots and pans.
‘And do what with it, Michael? We have nowhere to take our things.’
‘In less than fifteen minutes, those men will start to pull this place apart. We need to gather what we can and put it outside.’
‘In this weather?’
‘Either that, or they’ll tear the place up and we’ll lose everything.’
Martha began to cry. Knox took her in his arms. ‘Go to Mackey’s now, Martha. Take James, and whatever corn you can carry.’
She looked up at him, her face smudged with tears. ‘What about all our things?’
‘I’ll do what I can. We can stack our possessions outside, in the lane.’
‘But everything will be ruined.’
‘We have no choice, Martha. If we have to leave some things behind, then so be it. It’s more important that you get James to Father Mackey’s.’
Martha bit her lip and nodded. ‘So where should I start?’
‘You go upstairs and find whatever we can carry to Clonoulty, whatever you think you might need. I’ll start down here.’
Martha went over to the window and peered out at the rain. ‘What kind of animals are those men? Did you tell them we have a child?’
‘I would’ve taken off their boots and licked their feet if I thought it would’ve made a difference.’ Knox was throwing the cutlery into the pots. He looked up and saw Martha still staring out of the window.
‘We have to get going. We’ve only got ten minutes.’
As Martha went upstairs, Knox looked at the dresser, the neatly stacked piles of books and newspapers. Martha was right. Everything they took outside — the bedlinen, candles, coal, firewood, clothes — would be ruined. He had brought this upon them. He had done this to them. Taking up a teapot, Knox hurled it against the wall, watched it smash into a thousand pieces.
An hour later, their worldly possessions were piled up in the lane outside the cottage, a pathetic assortment of kitchen utensils, china, pots, pans, books, clothes, blankets and sheets. Knox had left the belongings there and walked Martha and James to the end of the lane, where the driver of a passing horse and cart had agreed to take them to Clonoulty. Too shocked to talk, they’d embraced quickly and Knox had watched as Martha and James had climbed up next to the driver, wondering when he would see them again. About fifty yards from the cottage he was joined by Tom, who wagged his tail, oblivious to what was happening. The two labourers were discussing what to do and Warburton was overseeing the operation. Lengths of chain and a collection of levers and hooks were laid out in front of them.
The two men fixed one end of a large iron chain to the horses’ harness and attached a hook and a lever to the other end. Then one of them carried this end to the front window and looped it around and through the frame. Knox sank to his knees. Shivering, the dog curled up next to him and started to whine. This was clearly a well-drilled operation. When everything was in place, Warburton appeared with a whip in his hand and cracked it over the horses’ heads. As they bolted forward, some of the front of the cottage came with them. The two men went to inspect the damage and attached the hooks and levers to another part of the wall. This time, when the horses bolted forward, part of the roof came crashing down, brick dust fanning out across the yard. Knox stared at the damage, disbelieving. The only home he’d truly loved, and where he’d spent the happiest years of his life, lay in ruins.
He pictured himself standing at the front door, Martha carrying James, just born, in her arms. More memories: Martha sitting on the back step quietly singing while he hoed the patch of land at the rear; James giggling while the dog poked its wet nose into his face. Knox remembered the bad times, too, but suddenly they didn’t seem so bad. The stink of the first potato blight; a time before when Martha had miscarried their first child. Then, he had been sad, disconsolate even. But this was sheer devastation.
The men had picked up their crowbars and sledgehammers and now set to work on what remained of the cottage. The rain had eased. Knox watched as the last wall was felled. A few minutes later there was nothing left, just a pile of bricks and stones, the thatched roof lying forlornly on top of the rubble.
It took them another five minutes to dismantle the chains and hooks. When everything was cleared away, the two men trudged back to the carriage. Warburton appeared at the gate to assess the damage. He gave Knox a contrite look.
‘For what it’s worth, sir, I’m sorry for what we did.’
Knox waited for the carriage to depart and then there was silence, just the sound of the wind in the branches.
Knox had thought he might be able to rescue some of their possessions but now this idea struck him as hopelessly naive. Where would he take them? If, and when, Martha was settled in Clonoulty, perhaps he could store some of their possessions there but even this, he knew, was unlikely. Soon enough people would learn what had happened and scavengers would turn up; a pan could be exchanged for a bowl of corn, their blankets could be dried and used. The books would be ruined but who wanted to read?
Better to think they had lost everything than cling to false hope. Knox looked at the wet dog, shivering against his legs. What would he do with Tom?
Knox moved a few of the pots and pans, and the blankets and clothes, to the coal shed, which hadn’t been destroyed. Then he took the shovel and dug up the cloth purse in which he’d hidden his last remaining coins. He had also buried the daguerreotypes, and the dead man’s pistol and knife. Holding one of the copperplates in his hand, Knox stared at the silvery image. It struck him, then, that he had not heard from the son, Felix, and that the letter he’d sent to Somerset had ended up at Scotland Yard. Knox supposed it didn’t matter. Nothing would bring back the man, he mused bitterly. And now his own life lay in tatters.
Knox inspected the pistol and realised it was loaded. He held it in hand and curled his finger around the trigger. You have to answer for what you’ve done, Moore. He imagined firing it, the noise and the smell of powder. He felt Tom brush past his ankles and his mind was yanked back to the present. The dog couldn’t come with him. It would make him too conspicuous and he had nothing to feed it. The kindest, most humane thing would be to aim the pistol and fire. Knox knelt down and let the cowering mutt lick his hand. Knox had named the animal after Thomas Davis, who had died a year earlier. At the time, one newspaper had called his death ‘the end of Ireland’s hope’, unaware how prophetic these words would become. What hope would the dog have, left to fend for itself?
Knox stood a step backwards, then raised the pistol and aimed at the mutt’s brown face. Tom started to whine. Sweating, Knox lowered the barrel and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He couldn’t do it; he couldn’t pull the trigger. Unaware of how close he’d come to being shot, the dog stayed contentedly at Knox’s side while he gathered up the daguerreotypes.