Chapter Seven

 

 

May 1846

Ballyross, Ireland

 

Throughout the winter and spring, Board of Works’ supervisor Alfred Browning and his assistant, John Thomas, diligently assigned men to work on a succession of useless projects. The rigid rules were carefully enforced by the two men, who were sticklers for protocol. A minimum of a half a day’s wages would be paid when the work was called off because it was too cold or there was too much snow. But—there was a caveat. Mr. Browning pointed out that the rules stipulated that every worker had to be present at the morning roll call, which meant that the men had to walk miles in freezing rain or snow just to get to the worksite so they could be told to go home.

During the bitter cold months of January and February, the men built a bridge that spanned nothing. The rains of April found them slogging back and forth across the county, paving roads that led to nowhere. Without questioning the lunacy of it, they did what was asked of them and doggedly kept building the “meal roads.” They held their anger when their wages were slow in coming and they went without payment for days, sometimes weeks. And they held their anger when the wages they were paid were scarcely enough to support a family.

As the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months, they found it increasingly more difficult to survive. Wages remained the same, but the cost of food was increasing weekly. Desperate men began selling off their belongings. Some thought it foolhardy to sell spades and cooking pots, but what good was a cooking pot if there was no food to put in it? And what good was a spade if there was no crop to dig?

“Just till the harvest…” became the daily prayer of the men who, day after day, bartered away clothing, bedding, tools—whatever would bring a price—just to feed their families for one more day. Desperate men take comfort where they find it and they told themselves it would soon be time for the harvest. If they could just hang on a little while longer, the potatoes would save them and then the terrible hunger would be behind them and life would go on as it always had.

And so it would—except for the farmers who had eaten their seed or traded it away. For those who had bartered their future to feed their families, this coming spring would be a time of bitterness and recrimination. Every day they would be forced to face their barren fields, a stark reproach reminding them that there would be no potatoes to harvest this year. With no potatoes they would have to continue laboring for the Board of Works—but even that bleak prospect was uncertain. There were rumors that the Works were going to close as soon as the crops came in—a terrifying prospect for men with no potatoes in their fields.

For those farmers like Da, who did plant, it was a benediction from God to see the fields turn pale green as the small potato plants pushed up through the black soil, promising a harvest and an end to the hunger.

Da slowly crawled along the furrows, carefully examining the plants with their tiny purple flowers and large flat green leaves, while Michael and Dermot followed, looking over his shoulder.

“Well?” Michael asked.

“There’s no sign of blight.”

“What if it comes back?” Dermot asked.

“Not two years in a row,” Da said, as sure as he was of anything. “God would not permit it.”

 

July 1846

London, England

 

In the summer of 1846, Lord John Russell, Prime Minister Peel’s successor, made a fateful decision that would irrevocably alter the course of Irish history. He placed Charles Edward Trevelyan in charge of the “Irish Problem.”

Charles Edward Trevelyan came from one of the best and oldest families in England. He was educated at Harrow and went into the Indian Civil Service when he was just twenty. In 1834 he married Hannah More Macaulay, the sister of the poet Macaulay, and together they had three children.

He was tall and strikingly handsome, but beneath that Patrician exterior was a man of rigid beliefs that bordered on the fanatical. He had few hobbies, but he did enjoy reading aloud from the Bible, much to the consternation of those who were forced to listen to his impromptu—and interminable—readings and sermons.

The consummate bureaucrat, he had made himself indispensable and so survived the defeat of the Peel government. His remarkable abilities and tireless effort soon came to the attention of Lord Russell. Under the Peel government, Trevelyan had been the Assistant Secretary of the Treasury and he remained in that title. But now, Lord Russell, trusting in Trevelyan’s judgment and stewardship, relinquished full control of the Irish famine relief efforts to him. It was Trevelyan who would have the final say in granting expenses for public works and other requests for relief monies. At the stroke of a pen, he became, in effect, the de facto head of the Treasury and the one man who would most control the destiny of Ireland.

He was thirty-eight-years-old.

In addition to the Bible, which Trevelyan read daily, he believed in two things without question. The first was a fanatical belief in the economic principles of laissez-faire—an economic doctrine that opposed governmental regulation of commerce beyond the minimum necessary for a free-enterprise system to operate according to its own economic laws. The second belief, and one that would absolve him of the need for compassion and mercy, was that the famine raging in Ireland was nothing more than Divine Retribution.

 

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.”