Chapter Five

 

 

November 1845

London, England

 

A gentle drizzle fell on the cobblestones in front of 10 Downing. A carriage pulled up and three solemn-faced men, sprouting large black umbrellas, alighted. The first, Dr. Lyon Playfair, clutching a worn leather valise, was a well-known scientist and chemist. Behind him came Dr. John Lindley, editor of the Gardeners’ Chronicle and Horticultural Gazette. The third man was Professor Robert Kane, a scientist with extensive experience in potato diseases. A constable opened the front door and the three men hurried inside.

Four weeks earlier, as alarming reports on the blight in Ireland started pouring into the Agricultural Ministry, Prime Minister Sir Robert Peel formed a Scientific Commission composed of these three eminent men of science to study the problem. They’d been dispatched to Ireland to study the blight firsthand and now they’d returned to report their findings.

The three men were shown into a large paneled conference room with stained-glass windows. The diffused light coming through the glass gave the room a curiously spiritual ambiance. A moment later, the Prime Minister and his secretary, Anthony Shaw, entered.

Peel was almost fifty-seven, but with his reddish-blond hair, his long aquiline nose, and his large, expressive eyes, he looked much younger. He’d come to prominence in England as Home Secretary after he created London’s Metropolitan Police Force, whose constables the press quickly dubbed “Peelers.”

Peel sat down at the gleaming conference table and fixed his metal-gray eyes on Dr. Playfair who at sixty was the eldest of the three scientists. “You look tired, sir.”

Dr. Playfair nodded in appreciation of the prime minister’s concern. “It was a difficult crossing, Prime Minister. I fear I suffer from mal de mer.”

“I appreciate your efforts in this most important matter. Now, gentlemen, what have you to tell me?”

“Prime Minister”—Playfair began in a grave tone—“a virulent blight of unknown origin has made its appearance in Ireland. From what we can gather, it attacks the potato plant, literally killing it overnight.”

“How much of the country is affected?”

“Half the crop has either been destroyed or is unfit for human consumption. It’s most serious in seventeen of the thirty-two counties.”

“I see.” Peel rose and went to a large globe of the world. He found Ireland, looking tiny and insignificant in proportion to the rest of the world. “What impact will this have on the people?”

“The account is melancholy and cannot be looked upon in other than a most serious light,” Playfair responded. “Simply put, the peasants have nothing to eat.”

Peel turned away from the globe with a frown. “Surely they can eat something other than potatoes?”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Prime Minister,” Professor Kane interjected. “For far too long the Irish peasant has relied on the potato as his sole source of food. Indeed, a grown man eats more than fourteen pounds a day.”

“Good Lord. Can a man survive on potatoes alone?”

“A diet of potatoes mixed with milk or buttermilk provides a nutritionally satisfying diet,” Dr. Lindley explained. “All things considered, the Irish on the whole are a surprisingly healthy people. Still, each year, even in the best of times, the peasants experience hunger. Potatoes don’t store well. By May, the previous year’s crop has been consumed. Until the harvest in October, the peasants must live through what they call the “hungry months” in which they experience famine-like conditions.”

“The potato,” Playfair added, “is easy to grow and plentiful. But, alas, it is a double-edged sword. If the crop fails, as it has now, there is nothing to eat until next year’s crop is harvested.”

Peel clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the room. “How can that be, man? Ireland exports tons of wheat and barley, among other food stuffs.”

“The Irish peasant does not recognize wheat or oats as food per se,” Dr. Lindley explained. “To them it’s a commodity—like wool or lumber. These crops are grown to pay the rent. And therein lies the peasant’s dilemma. If he eats his barley and wheat, he can’t pay his rent and he’ll be turned off the land. With no place to live and no field to plant his potatoes, he will surely die. Simply put, eating his wheat or barley is tantamount to committing suicide.”

Peel returned to the globe and put a long slender finger on Ireland. “How many are we talking about?”

“More than half the population. Close to four million souls.”

Peel spun the globe. “Then it would seem to me that there are only two solutions—either we stop exports from the country or we import more grain.”

A startled Shaw looked up from his note taking. “But sir, Ireland accounts for more than a million pounds sterling in exports every month. Parliament will never stand for stopping exports.”

Peel smiled grimly at his secretary. “Gentlemen, Mr. Shaw is my pragmatic reminder of the realities of the Parliament. Very well, Shaw, then we must act on option two. We’ll import grain. We’ll need to set up a Relief Commission to oversee relief efforts. Next, a sum of money must be advanced to buy food for the destitute. We’ll begin importing Indian corn meal to replace the potatoes—”

“But, Prime Minister,” Shaw protested, “ Corn Laws—”

Peel waved a dismissive hand. “Those damnable Corn Laws were passed to protect English farmers, but all they’ve done is create a stagnant economy. I’ve been after Parliament to repeal them and now maybe they’ll listen to me. It’s clear the remedy for Ireland’s present misfortune is to remove all impediments to the import of food. There must be a total and absolute repeal forever of duties on articles of subsistence.”

Shaw nodded noncommittally. The secretary knew better than to disagree with the prime minister when he’d made up his mind about something. But he also knew that any attempt to repeal the Corn Laws would be met with stiff opposition from Parliament, and he didn’t relish the coming battle.

Peel put his hand on his secretary’s shoulder. “Mr. Shaw,” he said to the three seated men, “is worried about what our Whig friends across the aisle will say. Don’t fret, Shaw. How can they object? The importation of corn meal will not interfere with private enterprise because no trade in Indian corn exists. What’s more, Indian corn has the advantage of being one of the cheapest foods that will keep a man alive.”

Peel visibly brightened. He was a man of action and, as far as he was concerned, now that he had a plan, the problem was as good as solved. He sat back down and smiled contentedly. “The troubles in Ireland may be a blessing in disguise, gentlemen.”

Dr. Playfair, who did not share Peel’s optimism, said, “Prime Minister, will these measures be sufficient?”

“Of course they will, Playfair. Ireland has had crop failures before and she’ll have many more, I warrant. But, with a healthy crop next year Ireland will be right as rain.”

 

December, 1845

Somerville Manor

 

When Lady Eleanor Somerville was still alive, the annual Christmas ball at Somerville Manor had been a much-anticipated event and the highlight of the winter social season. A gracious hostess, she was renowned for her attention to detail. One could count on being served the best food and wine that the continent had to offer. And she always invited interesting people—writers, artists, poets—who could discourse intelligently on the latest in the world of arts and letters. Unlike some of her contemporaries, who held balls and dinners simply to display their wealth and power, she was a person who genuinely liked people, and she made everyone who entered her home feel welcome.

After her death, Lord Somerville stopped the annual tradition and the house remained dark for the next ten seasons. But now that Emily was back, he decided a ball would be the perfect vehicle to reintroduce his daughter to society. He assumed that Emily would take up her mother’s duties as mistress of the house. If nothing else it would give her something to do besides sulk.

He was mistaken. When he proposed this idea to her, Emily adamantly refused, claiming that she was a prisoner in her own home and would not make it appear otherwise.

And so, the enormous task of organizing the ball fell on the shoulders of Nora and the house staff. Somerville was, however, able to gain one concession from his daughter: She would come to the ball and assume the duties of hostess just this one time.

The night of the ball was cold with temperatures near freezing, but at least there was no rain. The long road leading up to the house was lined with liverymen and their carriages. While some drivers stood in small groups, shivering in the cold and sneaking sips of poteen, others crept close to the house to peek through the windows and marvel at the brightly-lit chandeliers, gleaming mirrors, and women in low-cut silk gowns.

Emily, doing her best to look agreeable, stood on the receiving line next to her father and greeted an endless line of guests. She knew none of them, or at least didn’t remember any of them, but everyone, it seemed, remembered her.

An octogenarian, wearing an exquisitely detailed silk gown, was next in line. Lord Somerville bent forward and kissed the old woman’s bejeweled hand. “Lady Breen, may I introduce you to my daughter, Emily.”

“I’m an old family friend,” Lady Breen said, brandishing an oriental fan. “I’ve traveled all the way from Dublin to meet you and I must say, my dear child, you look exactly like your mother. Are you home to assume hostess duties for your father?”

Before Emily could disabuse the old woman of that notion, Somerville hastily led the old woman away to meet the new vicar.

While the guests danced to the music of a string quartet and servants circulated with silver trays filled with flutes of French champagne, Emily was literally backed into a corner, besieged by earnest young men with no other wish than to dance with her or fetch her something to drink. They came in all sizes—tall, short, thin, and fat. And all of them clumsy. One managed to spill champagne on her gown and another to step on her foot before, mercifully, dinner was announced.

The dining room table was set for fifty. Fine English silver and Waterford crystal gleamed in the light of a hundred candles. Lord Somerville sat at one end of the table; Emily at the other.

Seated next to Emily was a tenth-generation landlord, Lord Attwood, a disagreeable old man with small black eyes devoid of emotion. His smile, which he seldom displayed, was more a sneer. His wife, a buxomly woman with a prodigious appetite, was seated opposite him.

Attwood, who had been holding forth about the treachery of the Peel government, intoned, “Mark my words. The government is going to make us pay for this tiresome crop failure.”

Lady Breen peered at him through her lorgnette. “I don’t think tiresome is the word I would use, Lord Attwood. Without their potatoes, what are the peasants to eat?”

“I am told there is plenty of food stuffs in the market place,” Attwood said, popping a medallion of lamb into his mouth.

“My servants tell me that food prices have doubled,” Lady Breen persisted.

Attwood shrugged. “That, madam, is not my concern.”

Major Robert Wicker, an ill-proportioned man with an oversized head and short legs that gave him a dwarf-like appearance, nodded in agreement. “Eviction,” he said, stabbing the air with a fork. “That’s what I say. If they can’t pay the rents, turn them off the land. It’s time these wastrels learned some responsibility.”

Emily smiled at the little man’s hypocrisy. It was common knowledge that Major Wicker had come to own his estates because his drunken father, a failed grain merchant, had won them in a card game. And if rumors of the son’s reckless gambling and drinking were true, Emily was certain the major would lose them just as quickly as his father had acquired them.

“Major Wicker is, as usual, absolutely correct,” chimed in the obsequious Mr. Rowe. “Eviction will rid the land of the surplus Irish population.”

Unlike the other men at the table, Edward Rowe, a fleshy man in his late fifties, was not a landlord. He was something worse—a property manager. For the past fifteen years he had been managing the estates for a wealthy member of the House of Lords who had never set foot in Ireland.

The arrangement between landlord and property manager was simple and efficient. The property manager was paid a percentage of the profits from the land. Thus, it was in his financial interest to make every patch of dirt pay a dividend. And the landlord, who willingly turned a blind eye to underhanded and brutal practices, cared not how he did it.

Landlords were feared. Property managers were feared and despised. Peasants expected to be treated harshly by the upper class, but it was assumed that someone closer to their station would have more compassion. These assumptions were badly misplaced. Rapacious property managers were quicker to eject tenants for late rent payments and more likely to cheat tenants out of monies owed them.

Rowe, a baseborn man who lusted after the good life, was a toady who seized on every opportunity to ingratiate himself with the wealthier landlords. He’d made it his business to find ways to make himself useful to his betters. And he made it his business to know what they fancied. A gift of a Persian rug to Attwood and a case of fine wine for Wicker had put them in his debt. The only one he had not been able to win over was Somerville, who saw Rowe for the sycophant he was.

Rowe had become frantic when he’d discovered he was not on the guest list for the ball. It was unthinkable that he would not attend the most important social event of the season. He went to Attwood and Wicker and pleaded his case. They in turn entreated with Somerville who, against his better judgment, relented. And now the self-satisfied Rowe sat happily among his betters with grease dripping from his chin and discoursing about eviction.

“Where will the peasants go, Mr. Rowe?” Emily asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father frown. He thought such topics unsuitable for young ladies.

“Ship them off to America,” Rowe said.

Wicker shook his massive head. “Too expensive.”

“No more expensive than having them on the land and paying no rent,” Rowe countered gently.

“You gentlemen talk about them as though they were cattle,” Emily said.

“Would that they were,” Rowe mumbled through a mouthful of food. “Then there would be a profit in them.”

Attwood stabbed the air with his fork for emphasis. “It is the landlord’s right to do as he pleases with his land, madam. If he abstains from harsh treatment of his tenants, he confers a favor, an act of kindness. If, on the other hand, he chooses to stand on his rights, the tenants must be taught that they have no power to oppose or resist. My God, good lady, property would have no value and money would no longer be invested in the cultivation of land if it were not acknowledged that it is the landlord’s most sacred right to deal with his property as he wishes.”

“Is that how you see it, Father?” Emily saw his uncomfortable expression and was pleased her question had the desired effect.

“It’s a very complicated matter, my dear,” Somerville said, hoping to end the matter there.

“You mean too complicated for a mere woman to understand?” Emily pressed.

Anger flashed in Somerville’s eyes. “Certainly for a young woman to understand.”

Father and daughter glared at each other across the wide expanse of the table.

“In any event,” Lady Breen said, breaking the tense silence, “it’s a moot point. Surely next year’s harvest will be free of the blight.”

Glasses were raised and there was a chorus of “Hear, hear.”

At that moment, Emily happened to glance at Nora and the other servants. The old woman’s expression was a mask of neutrality. After so many years of servitude and listening to this kind of talk, she was either inured to it or had learned to block it out. But that wasn’t true of the younger servants who stood at rigid attention behind the guests, poised to jump to a raised finger. On their faces she saw undisguised anger and hatred. One girl, not much younger than herself, had tears in her eyes.

Suddenly, Emily felt a great shame for herself and for those seated at the table.

 

Michael lay on his pallet, listening to the sounds of his sleeping family. Earlier in the evening, he’d listened to the thumps and creak of wheels as the carriages made their way down the frost encrusted road from the Manor House. The ball was over and now all was quiet, save for the sounds of breathing.

Suddenly, Dermot whispered in Michael’s ear. “Are you awake?”

“Aye.”

“Come outside then.”

It was a clear, crisp night and the sky was aglow with stars. The milky-white frost crunched under foot as they sat down on the stone wall surrounding the potato field.

For a long time they sat there, content to enjoy the solitude and beauty of the night. Finally, Dermot said abruptly, “Why do you want to leave?”

“I don’t want to become Da.”

“He has his faults true enough, but he’s not a bad sort.”

“He’s a good man. I just don’t want his life.”

“What else is there?” Dermot asked, genuinely befuddled.

“America.”

“But you know nothin’ about it.”

“I do. When I went to Dublin to fetch furniture for Lord Attwood, I met two Americans.” Michael’s eyes lit up at the memory. “One was a captain from Boston who owned his own merchant ship. Dermot, he started out as a cabin boy! The other owned a printing business in some place called Philadelphia. He started out as an apprentice and fifteen years later managed to earn enough to buy the establishment. Can you believe that? They said they were not unusual, Dermot. They said America is a truly wondrous place. It’s place where, if a man works hard, he can own somethin’ and once you own it no one can take it away from you.”

“That was three years ago you were in Dublin.”

“Aye. And it’s taken me that long to save the passage money.”

“When will you go?”

A gentle gust of wind drove the cold through Michael’s threadbare coat. He shivered and pulled it tighter around him. “I was gonna go after this harvest. But there’s no leavin’ now. With no potatoes, life is gonna be hard and dangerous for the family. I’m needed here.”

Dermot clicked his brogues together to knock the frost off them. “Michael, we’ve no food. We’re all gonna die.”

Michael saw the fear in his brother’s eyes. “Don’t be daft. We’ll not die. Not if the family sticks together.” He said it with conviction, to allay his brother’s fears, but he wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

He got up and put his arm around Dermot. “Come on. It’s cold out here and we need to get some sleep.”

 

The next morning, Mam reached into the bin and took out a handful of potatoes. The family watched, silent, tense.

“That’s the last of the lot,” she said.

“Lord, what’s to become of us?” Grandmam wailed.

“We starve, you foolish woman,” Granda said, and added ominously, “When famine comes, we’ll die as the birds do when the frost comes.”

Michael wondered if his granda was pulling her leg or if he was in one of his moods again.

“Don’t be daft,” Da said. “I’ll buy food.”

“With what?” asked Mam.

“The seed money.”

There was a stunned silence as they contemplated the unthinkable—spending the seed money meant there would be no seed for next year’s planting.

Da looked away from his wife’s astonished expression and studied the rough tabletop. “I’ve got to feed the family, haven’t I?” he said quietly. “I’ve got to keep the family together.”

Michael heard his father’s words and suddenly knew what he had to do. The blood drained from his face. He felt light-headed, nauseous, claustrophobic. He jumped up from the table and stumbled out the door.

 

All that morning as Michael worked the fields, he desperately searched his mind for some other way, some other alternative. But by midmorning he had to admit to himself that there was no other way.

Da was in the shed sharpening a plow blade when Michael came in. The old man looked up and continued honing the blade. Since the night Michael had made his announcement about going to America, there had been a strained tension between them that had seen no abatement.

Michael held out a small box covered with dirt.

Da looked at the box. “What’s that then?”

“My passage money.”

Da stood up and rubbed his hands on his trousers. Unable to look his son in the eye, he stared at the box.

“No, Michael. That’s yers. You worked for it.”

Michael shoved the box into Da’s hand. “You have mouths to feed.”

For a long moment father and son faced each other in silence, neither willing to say what they both knew to be a certainty. If Da took the money, Michael’s dream of going to America would be lost and gone forever.

Da’s eyes glistened as he took the box and gently brushed the dirt from it with a calloused hand. “When times are not so hard,” he said quietly, “ I’ll pay you back.”

“Aye. You will.”

But both men knew that would never happen