Murder on the Beach 1834 - Irish Faction Fighting

 

Murder on the Beach

1834

It had been a long day. Edward Griffin walked with his father Thomas down the Anascaul to Castlemaine road towards the alehouse. It was their reward for finishing their jobs today – tilling the potato patch, repairing the jingle (again), and catching some fish down at the river’s edge. The often sombre and brooding Slieve Mish Mountains sat away to their left, but today was June 25, and Glanbrack Mountain, the highest peak, was a glorious reddy colour in the midsummer twilight. The road was barely wide enough for two jingles to pass, usually muddy but today not, and the traffic was infrequent. Grassy verges were high enough to shelter away from the ever-present winds off Castlemaine Harbour. Father and son rarely talked on these brief journeys. Plenty of time for that during the day, and what was there to talk about anyway?

They passed Castledrum Mill and entered the alehouse. Thomas and Edward sat in the corner of the small room, next to the newly kindled fire, not to keep warm, but because that was where they always sat. The innkeeper, Thomas MacGillicuddy, immediately brought two red ales. They both drank deeply, washing away the smell of pigs and taste of smoke. Edward was 18 years old, not that that was important. No one ever asked for your age not even in alehouses, and Thomas had proudly introduced his son to the alehouse and innkeeper when he thought he was ready.

But today Edward Griffin was waiting to hear what had happened in Ballybunion the day before. There were rumours that big things were afoot. The fire crackled into life and the two men, alone in the inn, said little. “Id’ll hold, for a while.” Pause. “If ye say. In troth, not long.” The jingle. A cross between a rickety cart and broken-springed carriage. It was always in need of repair. But at least you could fix it up without having to pay more to Edward Rae, the landlord - unlike their house. If Thomas fixed up the roof, or found the pennies to whitewash it, up would go the rent. That’s how it was round these parts. In the silence between the two, the sound of an approaching carriage could be heard. “They’ll be oop by Billy.” “Sha guthine,” Edward replied in Gaelic. “Yes, indeed.” The potatoes, as ever, planted by St Patrick’s Day March 17 (“in by Paddy”) and harvested by July 12, the feast day of William of Orange (“up by Billy”).

Outside there was some commotion. Edward recognised two voices as friends – Timothy Sheehan and Michael Brien. The door of the alehouse opened, and the two men burst in. “Four ales, me good friend. We’re holdin’ a great thirst.” Timothy saw Edward and Thomas. “Boloa irath. Bless all here – I’ve a tale to tell ye.” Edward’s ears pricked – this was what he wanted to hear.

He knew that Timothy had gone with friends to the Ballyeagh Races for St John’s Day the previous day. It’s thirty miles, so they left Monday, stayed Tuesday, and returned today. Thirty miles bouncing about in the back of a cart on Kerry mountain roads – to Tralee, then Abbeydorney, then Ballyduff, and across the Cashen River. And for someone like Timothy Sheehan – all bones, no arse – well, he’d always been ready for an ale or two, but now he’d really earned it. Michael Brien was a short and stumpy – no bumpy cart would bother him.

Timothy took off his frieze coat and began his tale. Edward knew the background already. There was going to be trouble. The Cooleens and the Lawlers. Been going on for a long time. The Lawlers killed Mathias Flaherty – a Cooleen – by a blow to the back of his head in a public house in Causeway, which was Lawler territory. The murderer was arrested - and let off for lack of evidence. No witnesses. That was two years ago, and rumours of revenge had more brewers than any Kerry ale. Last year the Cooleens fought the Lawlers at the races, but they got walloped. The rumours were that this year was going to be different. And the Mulvihills joined with Lawlers to bolster forces.

“There were tousands dare,” Timothy started, drawing in a deep breath and another sip of ale. “Was the Races, see, tousands.”

Each year on St John’s Day the good folks of Ballybunion staged the horse races along Ballyeagh, the long Atlantic beach between the estuary of the Cashen River and old Ballybunion Castle. Riders didn’t win much money – saddles, usually – but people came from all around to erect tents on the beach, sit on the grassy dunes, and watch the horses thunder the three miles down Ballyeagh Strand, the whitecaps and surf of the Atlantic on their left, and the sand dunes, family tents, and hopeful punters on the right. And every year the Cooleens and the Lawlers would fight. This had been going on for generations. Young men grew up hearing tales of how their fathers had fought for the honour of their faction – Cooleens, Lawlers, Mulvihills, Carmodys, Slatterys, Leans, O’Donaghues, Caravats, Shanavests and many more. Fairs, fetes, race days – the battlegrounds were anywhere ale and clan could gather.

Faction fighting was a rite of passage for young men in Kerry. Edward hadn’t yet been called up by his clan leader, but he knew it wouldn’t be long. He already kept a shillelagh under his coat – he needed something to fight off the wild dogs when he walked home alone in the dark from Castledrum. It was big enough to pack a wallop, and small enough to hide under his coat – and made of oak, with a club end. Edward noticed that two shillelaghs rested against the wall, near the fire. They weren’t there when he walked in.

“Ye shoulda seen ‘em dare – the troopers, dey was everywhere, from Tralee, no less, and soldiers, and police – everywhere.” Timothy paused. “And now some of ‘em are dead!”

“What!?” Edward was stunned. Faction fighting was dangerous, thrilling, and bruises were expected. Broken skulls were the stuff of legend. But troopers – dead?

“MacGillicuddy! Two more ales, if ye please.” The ales arrived anon. MacGillicuddy joined the audience.

Timothy told a tale, he did. “The Cooleens gathered along the Cashen at Clanmaurice, and then had to cross the river, in hordes, at New Ferry, in small boats. Then they had to regather and walk up the strand. We saw ‘em comin’, we did. Carryin’ their shillelaghs, cudgels and lots of rocks in cartloads. The Lawlers hid among the tents, and in the dunes, waitin’ for ‘em.”

“Were you a-fightin’ den, Timothy?” asked Edward.

“No, not me. I had young Catherine with me.” Catherine Sheehan was Timothy’s sister. She was only six. “But plenty ‘bout were, and a lot of ‘em were into the whiskey. The priests were rushin’ about, an’ I heered one of ‘em say to a group of Lawlers “ye are doin’ a very bad job, my boys, and ye may suffer for this”.”

Michael, who had been quiet to this point, chipped in.

“I went down to the end of the strand, where the Cooleens was a-gettin’ off the little boats they had, and there was a priest trying to stop the ferrymen from bringing anymores across. They told him they’d give ‘im a thrashin’ if he didn’t shaddup. There were six, maybe seven hundred Cooleens. Paddy Hackert and Sylvester Ahern rode dare horses at the front.”

“An’ Michael Simon Mulvihill was there. An’ O’Sullivan Bird.” Edward knew the names – Lawler champions. This was not going to end well.

Outside it was still light, as it would be for a few more hours yet. Long midsummer days.

Timothy went on, and on. Usually the leaders would make up some story to trigger the fight, but on this day it wasn’t needed – everyone knew what it was about. The Lawlers and Mulvihills were going to get their revenge on the Cooleens for the murder of Mathias Flaherty. The Cooleens marched up the strand but waited about half a mile back to regroup. O’Sullivan Bird carried a shillelagh with two prongs inserted in the end, for added effect. The carts loaded with rocks proved difficult to push up the beach, and the leaders decided they couldn’t attack until their people and the carts were at hand. Eventually they were all ready – men with shillelaghs and cudgels, women carrying rocks in their aprons, some men on horses. A signal was given and they threw off their long coats and all rushed forward – “flailing shillelaghs, hoopin’ and ahollerin” said Timothy.

The Lawlers and Mulvihills were ready. Fr Mahony (“he said he’d gone ‘cos he’d heered there was goin’ to be trouble”) rushed over on horseback to tell the leaders of the Lawlers that this was no good, but it made no difference. The mobs collided violently, “sticks a-wheelin’”, and Fr Mahony barely got out with his life.

“I seen it all,” said Timothy, his voice a mixture of excitement and astonishment. “The crowd jus’ dare for the races – dey took off for the police, jus’ for protectin’. Catherine and me – we bolted up the strand to avoid the shenanigans. After we climbed the dunes we seen it all.”

In the first rush the Cooleens overwhelmed the Lawlers and Mulvihills, forcing them to abandon plans for an ambush as they faced a hail of stones. They retreated about two miles up the beach, and into the fields. They regrouped and found a collection of stones of their own. Meanwhile, on the beach, men lay still, pretending to be dead or unconscious as the advancing Cooleens celebrated an apparently easy victory. Both groups had guns stashed, but none were used. The police did what they could, hauling away any rioters, but not without damage.

“One o’ de police, he went down, like a tree fallin’. Hit by sumtin’”, Timothy continued. “Two other police had to carry him out. The Deputy Magistrate, Hewson, he was dare, on his horse, and he went down tryin’ to stop it. The Deputy Magistrate! Tom Walsh from Ballydonoghue was dare too. He’s a Lawler from way back. He was covered in blood and looked a goner. I seen ‘im get all patched up by his wife – and she sent him back!”

Things looked bad for the Lawlers and Mulvihills. But by retreating they were able to take stock. And the Cooleens started to run out of stones just as the Lawlers found theirs. The tide of battle turned. The Lawlers and Mulvihills forced the Cooleens back, all the way down the strand to the Cashen. Rushing past the dead and senseless lying on the sand, they had the wind at their backs. The fighting was happening everywhere – in the surf, on the beach, in the dunes. Without stones, the men resorted to their sticks, but it was often not a fair fight. One Cooleen was cornered by three Lawlers. He managed to knock out one and was turning for the next when he was clobbered by a woman who had taken off her stocking and filled it with stones.

Cooleens had sent messages back to the ferrymen to cross the river and restock their boats with stones to replenish desperately needed supplies. But things were moving quickly.

“We followed ‘em,” said Timothy. “Dey was panickin’. The Lawlers were in a murderous rage and the Cooleens knew they had to get across dat river fast!”

“And when dey got dare, de boats was on ‘tuther side!” said Michael Brien, calling for another ale. The inn had had a steady stream of locals, and now many others had gathered around to hear Timothy and Michael tell their tale.

Edward knew the river – he had crossed it many times. The crossing was not far from where the river met the sea. The water was usually shallow, unless there was a high tide. You could get out and walk if you had to. But it could be treacherous – if the wind and tide were going different directions, or if your boat was overloaded…

A large number of Cooleens had not joined the group which marched up the strand. They stayed behind on the Clanmaurice side of the river because they thought it would be too dangerous, or to collect much-needed stones to load into the boats. When the ferrymen got the message to restock, it did not take long for the boats to be filled to the brim with stones. Getting back across would be tricky, but manageable. But there wasn’t any room for people to offload the stones.

In the Boolteens alehouse Michael Brien could sense he had a captive audience. He took a long sip of ale and continued.

“The Cooleens bein’ chased by the Lawlers got to the boats, but they was filled up with stones! So they tossed the stones out, and then de Lawlers got dare, and started throwing the stones back at ‘em! So they panicked, and got in the boats, but dare was too many of ‘em! So they jumped out and the Lawlers set on ‘em with dare shillelaghs. In de water!”

The soft crackling of the fire was the only sound in the room.

“So, then, the bodies started floatin’, and the water turned red from all the blood. The Lawlers went in the water with dare shillelaghs, knee deep, knockin’ ‘em down. One man was bein’ dragged out an’ another struck ‘im. He never come up again. I seen seventeen, maybe more, Lawlers murderin’ de poor buggers in de water.”

Timothy called for another ale. MacGillicuddy was immediately swamped by thirsty customers.

“Then,” Timothy Sheehan went on, “then, the riders on their horses rode out to where the people in the boats were sittin’, like ducks in a pond, and they started striking them down. They jumped out, but the water was too deep, and every time they poked their heads up, the Lawlers clobbered ‘em. They drowned, like unwanted pups.”

People had run to Fr Mahony to let him know what was happening, and he and Hewson, the Magistrate, organised the military immediately. When the soldiers arrived the crowd began to disperse. All that could be seen was a lot of bodies, a number of injured men trying to swim across to the Clanmaurice side, and lots of hat and sticks floating in the water.

The women who were not involved suddenly became aware of what had happened “an’ de keenin’ and howlin’ could put de divil in ye,” said Timothy, his voice trembling from the memory of the horror.

“Young Catherine she just stood there, like a statue, starin’.” Catherine had come back from Ballybunion with Timothy. “But I left ‘er with me aunt in Tralee, ‘cos she was just cryin ‘de whole time.”

“They reckon sixteen dead, but dare could be more. I heered of Patrick Lynch, John Lynch, Maurice Sheehy, Daniel Boyle, Thomas Fitzmaurice, Sylvester Ahern – him on de horse, remember, Cornelius Gallivan, Richard Sturdy, Daniel Guerin, and lots more.”

Edward did not know any of them personally. He was relieved there were no Griffins or Sheehans on the list, but he knew there would have been plenty of them present.

The ale was starting to loosen the crowd, and other conversations started up. Someone knew someone who knew someone. Some were angry. Some were still too shocked. The slowly dimming light outside meant it was time to walk back home soon. No doubt, Edward thought, he would hear more from Father Murphy on Sunday. He’d heard lots of sermons on the evils of faction fighting, but this one will carry extra meaning.

Thomas and Edward indicated that they would be heading home, along with Timothy Sheehan and Michael Brien, and most of the alehouse drinkers. Timothy and Michael collected their shillelaghs as they walked towards the door. The four men walked home slowly, warm inside from the ale, each with his own thoughts. There was no conversation – after all, what was there to talk about?