In the Time of Famine, Page 7

  Doctors Playfair, Lindley, and Professor Kane hurried down the marble-tiled corridor of the Ministry of the Treasury. They had been summoned by Trevelyan to report on the latest conditions in Ireland and they were apprehensive. They had not yet met Trevelyan personally, but his reputation for impatience and obsessive attention to detail had preceded him.

  “What do you know about this fellow, Trevelyan?” Playfair asked.

  “Good family,” Kane said. “Ambitious. A favorite of the prime minister.”

  Lindley opened the door to the Secretary’s outer office. “Competent, I hear. But somewhat of a cold fish.”

  “Well, I can only hope he is more favorably disposed to the Irish problem than Russell,” Kane added. “Did either of you read his article in the Times?”

  “No,” Playfair answered. “What did it say?”

  “I have it here.” Kane slipped the article out of his valise and read: “‘It must be thoroughly understood that we cannot feed the Irish people. We can at best keep down prices where there is no regular market and prevent established dealers from raising prices beyond the fair price with ordinary profits.’”

  Trevelyan’s obsessive neatness was readily apparent in his modest, Spartan-like, office. The only furniture in the room was a simple desk, a chair for him, a row of filing cabinets, and three straight-back chairs for visitors.

  Trevelyan sat behind his desk reading a report. Without looking up, he said, “Well, gentlemen, what have you to report?”

  Dr. Playfair, who was just about to sit down, raised an eyebrow at the man’s ill-mannered abruptness. Was he so busy that there was no time for the exchange of common pleasantries? “Good day, Mr. Trevelyan,” he said curtly. He opened a folder and read.

  “At the February meeting of the Horticultural Society in London, samples of new potatoes were shown to have unmistakable sign of the blight.”

  Now Trevelyan looked up and fixed an icy stare on Playfair, which these three men would see often in years to come. “Were not those potatoes grown from sets of potatoes which were already diseased?” he asked sharply.

  “Slightly diseased,” Playfair said, uncomfortable under Trevelyan’s steely gaze. “Nevertheless, we are of the opinion that the blight will return and, if it does, it will be more devastating than ever.”

  “What is the basis of your assumption?”

  “To begin with, we are in receipt of numerous reports from diverse districts in Ireland indicating that people have eaten their seed potatoes. We estimate the acreage of planted potatoes to be one-third less than what it was the year before. Even under the best of circumstances, scarcity is inevitable. If, however, there is a total crop failure…” Playfair shrugged and sat back.

  Trevelyan reached for his Bible. “I think Isaiah must have been thinking of Ireland when he wrote”—he found the passage and read—“‘And I will punish the world for their evil, and the wicked for their iniquity; and I will cause the arrogance of the proud to cease, and will lay low the haughtiness of the terrible.’ Chapter thirteen, verse eleven.”

  When none of the stunned men responded, he closed the Bible and put it aside. “I, too, have heard reports,” he continued. “But unlike yours, I have heard that the weather has been favorable and that the plants look strong and healthy. Indeed, many are predicting an abundant harvest.”

  “With all due respect,” Lindley said, “we believe those reports to be overly optimistic.”

  “Really.” Trevelyan dabbed at a speck of dust on the gleaming table. “Nevertheless, this morning, Parliament voted to shut down the Board of Works.”

  “When?” a startled Playfair asked.

  “In a fortnight.” When he saw the stunned expressions on their faces, he added, “Gentlemen, I, too, am a Celt, but I belong to the class of Reformed Cornish Celts, who by long habits of intercourse with the Anglo-Saxons have at least learned to be practical men. Would that all those in Ireland have learned that lesson as well.”

  Kane fell back in his seat, stunned at the madness of what Trevelyan was proposing. “But what if there is a crop failure? What if you—your reports are wrong?”

  Trevelyan folded his hands, as if in prayer. “All the more reason for shutting it down. If we leave the Board of Works in place which, I might add, has become an intolerable burden on the Crown, the people will expect to be fed. The only way to prevent the Irish from becoming habitually dependent on government is to bring the operations to a close. We must stop it now or run the risk of paralyzing all private enterprise and having Ireland on us forever.”

  August 1846

  Ballyross, Ireland

  Michael and the other men in his work gang gathered in front of the Board of Works building and eyed the closed door with growing unease. Yesterday, after they’d finished their work, Tarpy had told them to report here this morning for further instructions. And that made the men anxious. They were accustomed to routine and anything that broke that routine was looked upon with suspicion and fear.

  In the absence of accurate information rumors and doubts flew through the crowd.

  “They’re gonna raise our wages...”

  “The devil’ll fly out your ass before that happens…”

  “I heard we’re to build new cottages for ourselves…”

  “Don’t be daft...”

  “The Protestants are gonna take our jobs on the work gang...”

  “The Prods can have the fecken job …”

  At exactly nine o’clock, the door opened and Supervising Clerk Alfred Browning stepped out. The little man with the bulbous nose looked more sour-faced than usual this morning.

  “Will you look at the gub on him?” Scanlon whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Sure he looks like he’s eaten a pig’s ass for breakfast.”

  “I have an announcement to read,” Browning said. He put his glasses on and looked at the dispatch from London. The announcement itself was brief and there was no need to read it, but he didn’t want to be looking at them when he told them. He studied the paper and, clearing his throat, said, “Effective forthwith, the Board of Works is closed. This is to give you time to go home and prepare for the harvest.”

  For a moment there was absolute silence. Browning took his glasses off and squinted at the crowd, puzzled. Did they not hear me?

  The anger that the men had been suppressing for so long finally erupted. It started softly, hardly perceptible, like wind moaning through the trees. Then, slowly, it grew in intensity, growing louder and louder, until the collective voice of the crowd became a hair-raising shriek of anger and despair. The crowd became a sea of wild, insane eyes, open-mouthed grimaces of anger and agony.

  A terrified Browning took a step back. A huge man with red hair pushed his way to the front of the crowd and came toward him. Others followed. Browning stumbled back toward the safety of his office. He grabbed the doorknob, tried to turn it, but his hand was wet with perspiration and it slipped off.

  Suddenly, they were on him, pressing in on him. The big redheaded man spun him around.

  “What do you mean closed?” he bellowed in the clerk’s face. “How am I to feed me family?”

  Browning was being pushed, jostled by the others. Faces were everywhere. He could smell their sour breaths, feel the heat of their bodies. He began to feel faint.

  “I haven’t been paid in three weeks...”

  They poked him… They pulled at his clothing… “When will I be paid…”

  Faces. Faces everywhere.

  Just when Browning thought he was going to faint and be pummeled to death by this unruly mob, a young man pushed his way through the crowd and pulled the angry men away.

  “Leave him alone,” Michael shouted. “He’s only a clerk for Jasus’ sake.”

  Reluctantly, the scowling men backed off.

  Browning saw his chance. He yanked on the doorknob. Mercifully, the door opened. He rushed inside, slammed it behind him, and threw the bolt.

  Mr. Thomas peeked out from behind a
cabinet wide-eyed with fear. “Are you all right, Mr. Browning?”

  “A cup of tea I think… Mr. Thomas.” Browning fell into a chair, hyperventilating. “A nice cup of tea would be very good indeed…”

  “Straight away, Mr. Browning.”

  Chapter Eight

  From his perch in the pulpit, Father Rafferty anxiously watched the streams of men filing into the pews. The last time they were here they’d been reasonably calm and docile. But now they were angry. And hungry. A bad combination that.

  Doyle rose to his feet. “I’ve had no wages in three weeks,” his booming voice echoed in the tiny church. “How am I to feed the family?” Others growled their support.

  “Now, now, men,” Father Rafferty said in a soothing tone. “Let’s be calm—”

  “Calm?” Martin Duane gripped the back of the pew to keep his hands from shaking. “I’ve a wife and her old Mam to feed.”

  Others rose to voice their complaints and fears. They all had mouths to feed, people to take care of. Father Rafferty sympathized with them. He knew what they were saying was true, but there was nothing he could do for them. “God will provide,” he said, inwardly cringing at the emptiness of his statement. He knew it was not what Martin or the others wanted to hear, but it was all he could offer.

  “Protest!” Scanlon shouted from the back of the church.

  Others took up the cry: “Protest…Protest… Protest…”

  Silently, Father Rafferty thanked God for Scanlon’s suggestion. The men needed to act, to do something physical to prove to themselves that they were doing something. He held his hands up and the crowd became silent. “I think peaceable protest may be the answer, men. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Tomorrow morning, we’ll gather in front of the Board of Works building. Now go home to your families, men. They need you.”

  Father Rafferty breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the men silently file out of the pews. He had no illusions that a protest would change the government’s mind one jot, but at least it mollified the men into thinking that they had some control over their destiny. Then, Michael Ranahan, sitting in the back of the church, stood up and Father Rafferty could see all his efforts at pacification suddenly coming to naught.

  “I don’t know what great fool it was who decided to close the Works,” Michael shouted. “But there’s unfinished business on the western road. What are we gonna do about that open drainage ditch we dug across the road yesterday?”

  The drainage ditch had been yet another useless task. They had been sent to dig a drainage ditch even though there was no possibility of flooding in that area. They’d dug out the ditch, but they had not built a bridge to span it.

  “What has that to do with us?” Doyle asked.

  “For the love of God, it’s five feet wide and at least as deep. We’ve got to close it before someone gets hurt.”

  Doyle laughed bitterly. “You’re daft. Do you expect us to go all the way out there and fill in a ditch for no wages?”

  “I do. Who’s with me?”

  “Let Lord Russell and the goddamned British Parliament do it,” Doyle said, pushing past Michael.

  Soon there was no one left in the church except Father Rafferty and the three Ranahans.

  From his pulpit Father Rafferty eyed Michael suspiciously. “What is it you’re plannin’ to do, Michael Ranahan?” He didn’t trust this young man. He had the look of a revolutionary about him, and he asked too many questions, and he had entirely too much to say about things that were none of his business.

  “Go out there tomorrow and fill in the ditch,” Michael said.

  The priest smiled. “God bless you. That’s a good thing to do.” Once again, his prayers had been answered. He didn’t need this young troublemaker at the protest, riling up the men. The worksite was miles out of town and, God willin’, he’d be gone most of the day.

  “Will you ask the men to come with us, Father?”

  “Sure I can’t ask them to work for no wages.”

  “No, you couldn’t do that, could you.”

  The priest was stung by the tone of sarcasm, but he let it go.

  The next morning, the three Ranahans set out for the worksite. A year ago they could have walked this road for miles and not seen another living soul. But now the road was full of people, entire families on the move. Some had been ejected, others were heading for the larger towns and cities to look for food and shelter. Mixed in with the fleeing homeless were troops of soldiers. Hundreds of them. Some towns had become armed camps as merchants and town officials, fearing the roaming mobs of unemployed men, insisted on military protection.

  The Ranahans were on the road for almost an hour and Dermot had been complaining the entire time. “I don’t know why we’re doin’ this.”

  “For the love of Jasus because it has to be done,” Da said. “Haven’t you been told that?”

  “You want to walk the feet off me and then break me back fillin’ in a ditch that shouldn’t have been dug in the first place. We’re three eejits. That’s what we are.”

  Michael put his arm around his brother. “It’s just over the hill, Dermot. For the love of God will you quit your complainin’.”

  The three turned at the sound of a horse approaching behind them and saw Emily cantering toward them. Michael, remembering the ditch, stepped out into the middle of the roadway to wave her down, and frowned in puzzlement when he saw her suddenly spur Shannon into a gallop. At the last minute he had to jump aside or she would have run him down. A young Cavalry officer was watering his horse by the side of the road. Michael ran over to him.

  “Go after her,” he said, pointing to Emily. “There’s a great ditch in the road up ahead. She must be warned.”

  The young British officer looked at Michael’s tattered clothing with great disdain. “Off with you, beggar.”

  There was no time to argue. Without a word, Michael jumped on the officer’s horse and galloped after Emily. The startled officer fumbled at his holster and finally got his pistol out.

  Suddenly, Dermot was standing in front of him brandishing his spade. “You raise that pistol and I’ll bash your brains out.”

  The officer looked at Dermot, the old man standing next to him, who was also carrying a spade, and a handful of rabble who’d stopped to watch the commotion, and decided that for the moment perhaps discretion was indeed the better part of valor.

  Shannon was fast, but, fortunately, the Cavalry officer’s horse was even faster. Slowly, Michael gained on them. “Stop.” he shouted. “Pull up…”

  A mortified Emily dug her spurs into Shannon’s flanks to coax even more speed out of him. She hadn’t stopped at first because she hadn’t recognized Michael. All she saw was a man in the middle of the road waving his arms. With his shapeless hat and tattered clothing, he looked like any one of the dozens of homeless men she passed on the roads every day.

  Because there had been reports of robberies and attacks on the road, she’d become frightened and spurred Shannon into a gallop. She was almost upon the man before she recognized who he was. Her initial fear quickly subsided, but then she felt foolish for being so skittish and she’d kept going. As she galloped past him, he shouted something at her, but the wind in her ears made it impossible to hear what he was saying.

  Initially, she hadn’t stopped because she’d been embarrassed, but now she couldn’t stop because her pride was on the line. She’d always been competitive, a trait the nuns had tried unsuccessfully to beat out of her. But in any contest—whether a race or a poetry prize—she would not be bested. She prided herself on being an excellent horsewoman and she would not lose a horse race to some tenant farmer. She spurred Shannon and felt a surge of excitement as the horse’s power exploded beneath her.

  The uncovered ditch was just a hundred yards beyond the next rise. Michael dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. He had no spurs, but the well-trained animal responded to his pressure. Slowly, he closed the distance… five-hundred yards…three hundred yards�
��. The crest was just ahead. He’d given up yelling. Apparently, she wasn’t going to stop. He would have to overtake her.

  As they thundered up onto the crest and with clay churning up from the horse’s hoofs, Michael slowly inched up alongside. Shannon heard the other horse coming, put his ears back, and surged forward. The other horse, answering the same instinct, surged forward as well. And now the two horses, sweating, muscles straining, almost neck and neck, ran full out, side by side, neither horse nor rider willing to yield.

  Michael reached out and grabbed Shannon’s bridle. But he was no match for Shannon’s powerful neck muscles. The two horses, caught up in an instinctive desire to win, bumped together, once, twice; thousands of pounds of flesh, colliding against each other, oblivious to the riders on their backs.

  Emily screamed in Michael’s ear, “Let go of my horse, you fool…”

  Michael held on to Shannon’s bridle and kept yanking at it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the gaping ditch just ahead. It was too late. They’d run out of room. The four of them were going into the ditch and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  Then his horse spotted it. Trained to recognize and avoid enemy trenches, the horse pulled up abruptly. Michael catapulted over the horse’s head, but he hung on to Shannon’s bridle and was dragged alone the ground, the thundering hoofs inches from his head. Eventually, the weight of Michael’s body caused Shannon to stumble and slow down. With all the effort he had left, Michael yanked on the reins and the horse pulled up just feet from the ditch.

  “Are you mad?” Emily screamed down at him.

  Michael, exhausted, let go of Shannon and fell face down in the middle of the road. Out of breath, all he could do was point to the ditch. Emily looked and, for the first time, saw what he’d been trying to tell her.