Chapter Twelve

 

 

January 1847

Cork Harbor, Ireland

 

The tall merchant ship, burdened by her heavy cargo, slowly and majestically threaded her way through an armada of ships and fishing curraghs anchored in the bay. Then, seeing a clear shot for the mouth of the harbor, she trimmed her sails and, catching a strong westerly breeze, moved smartly through the rock jetties and out into the wide open sea beyond.

Michael stood on a hill overlooking the harbor intently watching the ship—the fourth one to sail today. For weeks, he’d been hearing unbelievable, if persistent, rumors that ships bound for England were loaded with grain, wheat, and corn and that ships returning were empty. But he didn’t believe them. Ireland was in the grasp of a great hunger, he told himself. Surely the British government would not ship food out of a starving country.

And so he’d come to Cork harbor to see for himself if the rumors were true. To his astonishment, he’d discovered they were. But not just grain, wheat and corn were leaving the country. So, too, were vast quantities of sheep, swine and oxen. For three days he’d kept count of the ships coming and going. Six ships loaded with food cargo sailed out for every ship that came in.

As he watched this latest merchant ship, growing smaller and smaller as it sailed toward the horizon, a thought began to form in his mind. A thought so monstrous in its implication that he didn’t want to give life to it. Nevertheless, from what he’d seen with his own eyes, he was forced to admit the unthinkable: The British government was purposely starving the Irish people.

 

Ballyross, Ireland

 

Early Sunday morning, as the family was getting ready to go to mass, Michael mentioned to his father that he was going to speak to the men after mass and tell them what he had seen in Cork. The older Ranahan, always careful to steer clear of controversy, was fearful for his son’s safety. He took his son by the arm and walked him into the field to talk some sense into him.

“These are treacherous times, Michael,” he said. “Sure there’s nothin’ to be gained by callin’ yerself to the attention of the landlords.”

A resolute Michael, with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets and his eyes fixed on the ground, said nothing. “Ah, you’ve the stubbornness of your Mam,” Da said in exasperation. “And that’s a fact.”

 

When mass was over, the men collected in a field across the road from the church. Michael climbed on a rock and waited for the stragglers to gather round. Behind him, Da paced nervously, head down, muttering to himself.

When the men of the village were all there, Michael began. “I’ve been to Cork harbor and I can tell you they’re takin’ the food out of the country while we starve. The ships leave loaded with grain and all manner of food, but they come back empty. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.”

There was an angry murmur from the crowd. “What can we do about it?” Pat Doyle called out.

“We can stop them,” Michael said.

“That’s daft.” Da shouted, desperate to head off what he knew would come to no good. “How can the likes of us stop those big ships from comin’ and goin’? I ask you that.”

Da was gratified to see several heads nod in approval, but they were mostly the older men. The younger ones, always sullen and angry these days, didn’t want to listen to reason. They glared at him with stone-hard expressions.

“How can we stop them, Michael?” Padric Leahy asked.

“Guns and bullets!” a voice cried out over the crowd.

The men fell into stunned silence as Jerry Fowler pushed his way through the crowd. “Guns and bullets will stop them,” he repeated.

“No,” Michael shouted above a tentative murmur of approval. “It must be a peaceful demonstration.”

“Are you afraid, Michael Ranahan?” Fowler was smiling, but his words were a challenge.

It took all of Michael’s self control not to go after Fowler, but this issue was too important to let the troublemaker sidetrack him. Ignoring Fowler, he addressed the men. “I say we block the quay gates. I say we not let them put our food on those ships—food that should stay here in Ireland to feed us.”

There was an uncertain murmuring among the men as they tried to decide whether Michael or Fowler was right. Then, Bobby Ryan spoke up. “Michael’s right. We’ll do it the peaceable way.” He turned to the men. “What do you say, lads?”

All the pent-up frustration, anger, and fear that had gripped these men for over a year was released in one great howl of support for Michael. For too long they had been shunted aside and treated like dirt by forces they didn’t understand. Now, Michael had given them a reason to act like men again.

Jerry Fowler stood with folded arms, watching Michael with a sly smile on his face.

A fearful Da, standing to the side, watched them as well—Michael, Dermot, Doyle and the other young men, joyously thrusting their fists in the air, and an icy hand clutched his heart.

 

Cork Harbor Quay

 

The men arrived at the quay in a steady, soaking rain. The sun had been up for an hour, but it couldn’t penetrate a thick curtain of metal-gray clouds. The cobble-stoned streets glistened and shadows fell across the hulking gray warehouses surrounding them. It was a cold, forbidding place.

They were fifty strong and they stood hunched against the rain. Michael moved among them offering encouragement to one, sharing a nervous laugh with another.

Pat Doyle, his red hair plastered down by the rain, towered above the crowd. Michael took comfort in his imposing height and brawn. In the past year everyone had lost a fearful amount of weight. So did Pat, but he still looked formidable. Standing beside him, bug-eyed Barry Scanlon looked more terrified than ever. As were they all. Still, they were all here, every last man: Owen Rice, Genie Connor, Tim Finney, newly-wed Bobby Ryan, and old John Lacy, arthritis and all. Even Jerry Fowler was here, still talking guns and violence and revolution with anyone who would listen.

Michael had hoped Fowler would not come. He knew this would have to be a peaceable demonstration if they were to succeed in convincing the government to stop shipping food out of the country. He had never done anything like this before, but he was sure the authorities would listen to reason and he didn’t need the likes of Fowler mucking things up. To make sure the hotheaded Fowler stayed in line, Michael had asked Pat Doyle to keep an eye on him. True to his word, the big man was standing right behind Fowler watching his every move.

The only Ballyross man not here this morning was Da. Michael was glad of that—even if it did make him feel like a hypocrite. Hadn’t he made it clear that this was their fight and that every man must do his part? But Da didn’t see it that way at all. “Tis a reckless thing you, do, Michael Ranahan,” Da had told him. “It’ll cause nothin’ but mischief and I’ll have nothin’ to do with it.”

Michael feigned disapproval, but, secretly, he was glad his father wasn’t coming. He didn’t know what this day would bring, but if there was going to be violence, he didn’t want his father in the middle of it. Besides, he rationalized, he and Dermot were enough to represent the Ranahan clan.

Standing at the front of the crowd and spoiling for a fight was his younger brother and his friends, Billy Moore and Kevin Toomey. The three of them, strutting up and down like bantam cocks, were sharing a laugh about something. Michael shook his head ruefully. To them, this was all just a lark.

The men had made Michael their leader and he’d accepted the role with great reluctance. He believed a leader should be someone who leads, someone who has a plan. But he had no plan except to confront the supply wagons and hopefully, by the sheer force of their numbers, make them turn back. He shivered, partly from the bone-chilling dampness, and partly from the doubts that had kept him awake the whole night.

I’m not up to the task, he’d told himself over and over. Leaders were brave and Michael didn’t consider himself a brave man. He wasn’t even sure what “brave” was. He’d seen men who called themselves “brave” die needlessly. What most called brave, he called foolish. He’d seen a foolish man disemboweled by a bull when he had no business being in the same field with the crazed beast. He’d seen another foolish man drown trying to show he wasn’t afraid to swim a swift flowing river. No, he wasn’t here at Cork Harbor and standing in front of these men because he was brave; he was here because it was something that had to be done. It wasn’t right that food should be taken away from starving people, and someone had to stand up and say so.

Suddenly, the nervous, idle chatter stopped and everyone strained to listen. In the distance they heard the unmistakable the sound of muffled drums.

“Jasus, it sounds like there’s soldiers with them,” Dermot whispered hoarsely.

“Spread out, men,” Michael said.

The men, doing their best to hide their fear, moved apart until they spanned the entire width of the gate leading onto the quay.

Michael peered down the deserted street, trying to see through a steady wall of rain. There was not a soul in sight. When the local tradesmen had seen the men gathering, they’d locked up their shops and pulled down the shades. And now the street was as quiet as a Sunday morning.

The drums grew louder, echoing off the stone-walled buildings. Michael moved up and down the line. “Hold your ground, lads,” he said, trying to sound confident and praying his voice wouldn’t crack. “We have a right to a peaceable demonstration. Remember that.”

“Look— !” Tim Finney pointed toward the top of the street.

Michael turned and saw the first line of soldiers come into view around a corner; their bayonets glistening in the gray light. A stiff-backed army captain led the column from atop a prancing brown gelding. As they drew closer, Michael recognized him. He was the same officer whose horse he’d taken to catch Emily.

Next came the wagons loaded with the food bound for England—one, two—a total of fifteen wagons in all. More soldiers with fixed bayonets flanked the wagons on either side. Two drummers—who couldn’t have been more than sixteen—tapped out a slow-tempo cadence that beat a tattoo of dread in Michael’s heart.

Closer and closer they came. Michael, shivering with excitement and tension, was suddenly and acutely aware of the smallest sound—the nervous shuffling of feet behind him, the creaking of wagon wheels, the hollow clop-clop of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestone. His mouth went dry and he found it hard to swallow. Please God, let me be able to speak when the time comes.

The soldiers were closing with no sign of slowing. For one terrible moment Michael thought they would march right through them without stopping, bayoneting and shooting as they went.

But, then, when the column was just fifty feet away, the captain held up his hand and shouted, “Column, halt!”

He coaxed his horse forward and looked down at Michael with contempt in his eyes. At first he didn’t recognize him, but then he looked more closely and smiled. “Ah, if it isn't the beggar who stole my horse. You’ll not hide behind a woman’s skirt today, lad.”

A line of soldiers had followed the captain and now stood less than twenty feet in front of Michael and the men. Michael looked into their faces. Most were no older than he. Many were younger and they all looked as frightened as he was.

“Stand aside, hooligans,” the captain said with great distain.

“We will not,” Michael answered, surprised at the forcefulness in his voice. “You’ll not ship food out of Ireland while there are people starvin’.”

The captain put his hand on the hilt of his saber. “This is your last warning. Cease and desist or—”

A rock flew from behind Michael and caught the captain on the cheek. His horse reared, throwing him to the ground.

Michael, stunned by this unexpected turn of events, stepped forward to help the fallen captain. As he did so, a frightened soldier, seeing his captain on the ground bleeding, panicked and fired his musket. The round struck a farmer standing between Pat Doyle and Jerry Fowler. The man went down, blood spurting from a gaping wound in his chest.

“No…” Michael yanked the rifle from the soldier’s hands.

Another soldier slammed the butt of his rifle into the side of Michael’s head, driving him to his knees.

Suddenly, a hail of rocks flew into the rank of soldiers. Another shot was fired. Another farmer went down.

The captain, blood flowing down his cheek, was on his feet, saber drawn, yelling, “Cease fire! Cease fire…!”

But the terrified young troops lacked the discipline of seasoned soldiers and another volley of shots exploded into the farmers.

By now the men of Ballyross were in full-scale flight, running and tripping over their fallen comrades. Amidst the chaos, Michael reached down, grabbed a wounded man, and dragged him into an alley as shots whined about his head.

Out of the line of fire, he propped the man up against a wall and tore open the man’s bloody shirt.

“You’ll be all right, lad, you’ll be—”

He stopped talking when he saw the gaping, bloody hole in the man’s chest.

Then, he looked into the man’s face for the first time. Oh, Jasus….

Bobby Ryan stared at Michael with lifeless eyes.

Numbly, Michael crawled to the edge of the alley and stuck his head out. Men he’d known all his life lay dead and dying in the middle of the road. A handful of soldiers moved among the fallen, calling out— “This one’s dead...” “This one’s alive...”

The captain, astride his horse, moved back and forth in front of the gate, directing the wagons as they moved single file onto the quay.

Michael slumped against the wall. “My God…” he whispered to the dead Bobby Ryan. “What have I done? In the name of Christ, what have I done…?”